I spied Mitzi signing autographs outside the store. For the event, she had changed out of her funereal black and donned yet another red suit, this one with sequined lapels. I didn’t have a signature color. I liked to wear hues that reflected my mood. Mitzi pulled a lipstick from her clutch purse and swathed her lips in a color that matched her suit, then checked her image in the window and strutted inside. I surveyed the swelling crowd for her husband, Sam. He stood near the back of the shop talking into his cell phone. Friday was a workday for many, after all.
A minute later, Mitzi moved inside and joined Tito at the center cook station. She placed a bottle of water and a recipe card on the counter and then tucked her clutch into the cubby below. As she rose, she bumped her head on the cook station. She popped to a full stand and, giggling, waved to the audience like a pageant contestant. “I’m fine. Just clumsy. Welcome. I’m so glad you all—”
Lola rushed in appearing frazzled, her silver hair spikier than normal and her breathing staccato. Mitzi offered a nasty glare, but Lola missed the look. She seemed to want to be anywhere but the competition. She caught hold of her daughter by the sales counter. Bailey said something and patted her mother’s shoulder, then ushered her to the station next to Mitzi’s.
I hurried to them and gave Lola a hug. “Go get ’em.”
The mayor strolled in front of the cooking stations while banging the bottom of a saucepan with a wooden spoon. Gong. The group hushed. “Welcome, everyone, to round two. I’m sure you all just attended the memorial for Natalie Mumford, and we’re sorry she is no longer with us, but as we all know, life marches on. And so shall we.” She closed her eyes briefly, as if in prayer, then opened them, faced the contestants, and held out a hand. “Recipe cards, please.” Although each contestant had submitted a list of ingredients yesterday in order for our kitchen to have them on hand, Katie had asked to review each recipe today before the competition started, in case a contestant had omitted an item from his or her list and Katie had to scrounge at the last minute.
“This feels wrong,” Lola murmured.
Bailey frowned. “Mom, don’t weird out. I’m sure you included all your ingredients. You’ve made a Grilled Cheese Tuna Tornado hundreds of times.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
I said, “No one else is going to die, if that’s where you’re headed.” A deputy was stationed in the alley, another on the café patio.
Lola shook her head. “What I’m trying to say is, should I be doing this?”
Mitzi leaned in and muttered, “Feel free to leave. You won’t be missed.”
We ignored her.
“Don’t be nervous, Lola,” I said. “It’s merely a contest. My mother often told me, ‘Winning will never make you better than anyone else.’”
“No, I mean it.” Lola stamped her foot. “Out of respect for Natalie, should I be doing this?”
“No, you shouldn’t,” Mitzi hissed. “In fact, why are you allowed to compete if you’re a suspect in a murder?”
Bailey gasped. So did I. What was that expression: Toads and diamonds? I remembered it from an old French fairy tale by Charles Perrault. The good sister helped a fairy, so the fairy blessed her by making diamonds fall from her mouth whenever she spoke. The bad sister rebuked the fairy, so the fairy cursed her with toads. Mitzi may have looked her best, but she wasn’t at her finest. Did I smell alcohol on her breath?
“Leave, Lola,” Mitzi continued. “Go. Now.”
Bailey growled. “Stop it, you . . . you—”
Lola put her hand on Bailey’s arm. “Honey, don’t.”
“Mother, I’m not going to let her goad you.”
“Don’t worry, darling. Neither am I.” Lola threw her shoulders back. “In fact, Mitzi’s diatribe is having quite the opposite effect. I’m innocent, and I’m staying right here to prove it.” She nudged Bailey. “Join the crowd. You, too, Jenna. And you”—she aimed a finger at Mitzi—“be forewarned. I’m going to win this competition.”
The mayor rapped the saucepan again. Gong. “All right. I’ve delivered your recipe cards to the kitchen. Chef Katie will return with the preparations in a few minutes. This is going to be fun.”
The noise in the shop swelled. Excitement was in the air. I had to admit that I was itching to know what each contestant was going to prepare. Katie hadn’t divulged a word. My mouth was salivating in anticipation.
When Katie delivered the competitors’ ingredients on individual trays, the mayor whistled as loudly as a New Yorker hailing a cab. “Okay, people, here we go. Show your appreciation.”
The audience applauded.
And then, before anyone could stop her, Mitzi grabbed a fistful of shredded cheese, hurled it at Lola, and shrieked, “I will not lose. Do you hear me? Not to you. Not to Natalie. Not to anybody.”
Chapter 13
RHETT AND THE mayor raced forward and corralled Mitzi. Sam bolted from the back of the shop and wedged into the mix. The hunky fireman, like a true hero, leaped from the audience to shield Lola from further harm. Tito, ever ready as a reporter, whipped a recorder from his pocket and started talking into it. No doubt the fracas would make headlines in tomorrow’s paper. What would the title be: A Holey Cheese War? Cheese Catfight? A Cheesy Display of Non-Affection? Was someone in the audience taping the incident on camera? Would we see another YouTube video before midnight?
I rushed to Bailey and linked my arm through hers. Aunt Vera and Katie joined me. Despite the tension in the air, we worked hard to stifle giggles. I mean, really, Mitzi threw cheese in Lola’s face? What could she have been thinking? Luckily, she hadn’t hurled the bowl. We talked among ourselves. Would the mayor suspend the competition? Would she eliminate Mitzi on the spot? More importantly, would Mitzi’s erratic behavior move her higher on the police suspect list in the murder? Lola could benefit.
As if my thoughts of Cinnamon had conjured her out of thin air—I hadn’t seen her in the audience; I’d forgotten she was an ardent grilled cheese fan—she forged to the front of the room while reminding everyone to remain calm. She kept a cool distance from Rhett. They didn’t have the warmest relationship. They used to date, but after the fire at The Grotto, when Cinnamon hadn’t believed Rhett’s account that the previous owner had switched out the valuable artwork, the possibility of friendship was nil.
“Let’s give the contestants some breathing room,” Cinnamon said. “Emotions are running high.”
The audience heeded her advice and took to scanning the shelves for cookbooks and knickknacks.
Cinnamon approached me. “What’re you three smirking about?”
“We were commenting on Mitzi’s instability,” I said.
Cinnamon regarded Mitzi and the other contestants and then lasered me with a glare. “Don’t go jumping to conclusions.”
“I wasn’t. I—” For heaven’s sake, was I stammering? I had a right to my opinion, didn’t I? At least I hadn’t said, “Arrest her,” like Cinnamon’s mother had said to Lola the other day. I tucked a hair behind my ear and said, “If you’ll excuse me, I’ve got customers to attend to.”
A quarter of an hour later, as more people entered the shop to watch what was turning out to be a must-see event, the mayor pronounced Mitzi apologetic and properly cautioned that she would be disqualified if she engaged in any further antics. The mayor then situated Mitzi and Lola at opposite ends of the cooking stations, and the competition resumed.
An hour later, to the surprise of all, Tito Martinez won the votes of the judges with his barbecued chicken grilled cheese. When asked about his recipe, Tito claimed he had been motivated by a recipe in Grady Spear’s The Texas Cowboy Kitchen: Recipes from the Chisholm Club. Tito admitted that Grandma Spear’s Dr Pepper cake recipe, which inspired his addition of Dr Pepper to his barbecue sauce, was to die for. The instant the words to die for exited his mouth, he blanched. He must have realized the inappropriateness of the praise, given the circumstances. Mitzi came in second in this round. Lola and Flora roun
ded out the roster. The librarian and the teacher, though close in points, were cut.
After the competition concluded, the remainder of the afternoon flew by. We sold out of every barbecue cooking book and nearly all of the grilled cheese books. The spatulas with hand-painted handles that we had acquired from a local artist were a hit, too. When we closed the shop, Aunt Vera headed off to a meeting of her tarot-reading buddies, and Bailey, Katie, and I headed to B-B-Q, a lively new restaurant that featured country-western music and specialized in smoked ribs. Katie was nervous leaving, because she had taken on a new assistant chef and was giving him the run of the kitchen.
“Are you comfortable with the hire?” I said.
“All chefs are control freaks,” Katie said with a wink. “What do you think?”
We crossed our fingers, knowing she couldn’t continue to do every shift at the Nook Café.
Around 7:00 P.M., we entered the rowdy restaurant. We weren’t surprised to find it packed to the gills. Music blared from speakers. Dozens of people were line dancing on the sawdust-strewn dance floor. All the tables and stools in the bar, which extended the length of the narrow establishment, were filled. A waitress in cowgirl attire ushered us to a table at the far end of the restaurant. While we waited for our beverages and barbecued potato skin appetizers, the latest version of “Footloose,” one of the all-time great line dances, began to play.
Bailey was never one to pass up dancing. “Party hearty,” she said and prodded us to the floor.
As we joined the group and mirrored their steps—walk, walk, walk, clap—Katie said, “By the way, what was up with Mitzi steaming out of the parking lot? So what if she had a setback today? She’s not out of the competition. There are two more rounds.”
I said, “I think she was upset because Sam left right after the fracas. He didn’t stay until the end. He didn’t stand by his woman.”
“Maybe he had appointments,” Katie offered.
We all did a kick-ball-change and walked forward. Clap.
“If you ask me,” Bailey said, “Mitzi might be too in love with him, if that’s possible. Jealous with a capital J. She doesn’t trust him.”
“Why do you think that is?” I asked as we executed a grapevine step, weaving one foot behind and the other foot in front. Clap. “He seems to be in love with her.”
“Are you sure?” Bailey said. “I was watching this Dr. What’s-his-name the other day on TV.” She flicked her hand, unable to come up with the surname. People to the right of her copied the move and whooped, obviously thinking she was making up a new step. “He was talking about how you can tell if a guy is into you. He touches you in little ways. Your elbow. Your shoulder. If there’s no physical contact, there’s nothing. Oh, and the smile. If the guy is looking at you and his smile is turned up, that matters. If there’s no smile in his eyes, get rid of him.” Bailey brushed her shoulders as if ridding herself of dandruff. Neighboring dancers mimicked her move again. When she realized what they were doing, she winked at us and said, “Watch this.” She did a scissor step.
The others copied her and sang, “Whoop, whoop.”
“I think Sam looks at Mitzi with a smile,” I said as we walked forward. Clap.
Bailey said, “He looks at everyone with a smile. He’s got crinkly eyes.” She demonstrated. “What if he’s snowing her? What if he married Mitzi for her money?”
“How much money are we talking about?” I asked.
“Didn’t you know?” Katie said. “Mitzi comes from San Francisco high society. Have you heard of Pacific Heights?”
Indeed, I had. It was a stretch of real estate populated by billionaires and located in one of the most scenic settings in all of San Francisco. From Alta Plaza, there were breathtaking, panoramic views of the Golden Gate Bridge, the Presidio, Alcatraz, and the bay. Before I met David, I had dated the son of a resident of Pacific Heights. The guy had proven to be a royal jerk. Money doesn’t always foster class.
“When Mitzi’s parents passed away,” Katie continued, “she inherited everything.”
“I knew she was wealthy,” I said, “but I thought her money had come from her personal chef and canning businesses.”
Katie chortled. “Don’t be naïve. Those kinds of businesses can make a person a decent living, but they can’t generate a fortune. Not unless the chef were to become, say, the next Wolfgang Puck.”
“I repeat,” Bailey said. “Did Sam marry Mitzi for her money?”
Katie snuffled. “Mitzi isn’t stupid. She would know if he did.”
“Are you sure?” I said. “Love is a funny thing. In fact, Sam even told me at the memorial that love is blind. He was referring to Ellen and her husband, but still . . .”
“Everyone needs to enter a relationship with eyes wide open,” Katie said. “We all have flaws.”
Bailey laughed. “Some of us more than others. For instance, me.”
Playfully I whacked her wrist. “Don’t even go there.”
“I’m a mess when it comes to choosing the right guy, and you know it.” Bailey did another kick-ball-change and led the pack in a corner turn. Clap.
“You’re no worse than Mitzi,” Katie said. “Did you know she was nearly married to another man, pre-Sam? She was twenty or twenty-one. Her father stepped in and proved the man was a bigamist. He had a wife in Wyoming.”
“Wow. No wonder Mitzi worries about Sam playing around,” I said. Walk, walk, walk, clap. “I think she’s masking her anxiety with a nip or two of something. Did you see her bump her head before the competition? And what about that incident at the grocery store?”
Bailey said, “Do you think she’s carrying a flask in her purse?”
Katie clucked her tongue. “Old man Powers had a lady friend that would stop by. She was so in love with him, but he didn’t feel the same. She started turning up snockered. I think she was nervous, hoping she could reveal her feelings. I never figured out how she was getting so stewed until, one time, I offered to toss out a water bottle she had brought with her, and the woman turned into a tigress. We struggled over that bottle until realization hit me.”
Kick-ball-change, kick-ball-change. Walk, walk, walk.
“That’s it,” I said, in unison with the clap. I was having a duh moment, as my brother would have called it. “What do you bet Mitzi’s water bottle is laced with something stiffer than water?”
“Maybe Sam knows,” Bailey said. “Maybe he threatened to leave her if she didn’t pull herself together, and after that display today, he gave her an ultimatum.”
Katie bobbed her head. Her curls bounced. “What if he was stupid enough to say he’d leave her for Natalie?”
“Yes.” Bailey spanked her hip.
The group of dancers beside her did the same. “Whoop, whoop.”
“That could have made Mitzi mad enough to lash out,” Bailey said.
I nodded. “Mitzi knew Natalie would go outside for a cigarette. She told me so. What if she pulled the fire alarm? What if she was the one who planted the resignation letter in Natalie’s purse to divert suspicion from herself?”
“How would she have gotten hold of it?” Bailey said.
I told them what Keller had said about the Sykeses and Mumfords going to brunch at The Pelican Brief Diner. “They heard your mother fighting with the chef.”
Katie said, “But why would Mitzi kill Natalie in such a public place? With a panini grill? Why not poison Natalie or juice up the car and mow her down? If Mitzi was drunk or even tipsy, she could have claimed it was an accident.”
I gaped at her. “Mitzi drives a Mercedes.”
“What’s that got to do with anything?” Bailey said.
“She’s impulsive, agreed?” I said as we executed a scissor step and a spin. Walk, walk, walk, clap. “What if she was the person who tried to run me off the road?”
“Why would she have done that?” Katie said.
“Because I was the one who found out Pepper saw Mitzi near the murder scene. Maybe Mitzi bla
mes me for having Cinnamon follow up on that lead.”
“Except whoever drove at you did it at seven A.M.,” Katie said.
“Maybe that nightly ritual Mitzi boasts about includes a couple of extra strong snorts,” Bailey said, “and she woke up in a stupor. She took a drive, saw you, had a tizzy fit, and bam!”
When the music ended and the group thinned out, I spied Manga Girl and a handsome Asian man close to her age among those leaving the dance floor. Holding her hand, he guided her to an intimate table. The twosome proceeded to kiss like a couple in a seriously romantic film.
I pointed her out to my pals. “Mitzi seems to be mistaken about the bank teller having a thing for Sam.”
“She’s mistaken about a lot of stuff,” Katie said.
“We’re reaching for answers,” I concluded. “We have nothing on Mitzi. Not yet. Thankfully, Cinnamon Pritchett is on the case.”
“Is she?” Katie asked.
“Yes,” I said, defending Cinnamon. We weren’t full-fledged friends, but I did believe that she, like my father said, wouldn’t rest until justice was served.
“Well, then”—Bailey returned to the table, picked up her wine, and clinked her glass to mine—“let’s shelve any discussion about murder and focus on you.”
“Uh-uh,” I settled onto my chair. “Not now. Not after I got all sweaty on the dance floor.”
“I’m talking about your personal problem, goofy,” Bailey said. “The safety deposit box key. Have you discovered what it goes to?”
Oh, that. “Not yet.”
“You’ve contacted all the banks in San Francisco?”
“Yes. I even went to our local bank. Manga Girl was less than cordial.”
“What about the Chinese lettering on the porcelain cat?” Katie said. “Did you decipher it?”
“Nope.”
As we dug into the potato skins, which were loaded with barbecue sauce, grilled onions, and queso fresco—muy delicioso—we bandied about other phrases David might have written: I love you; I worship you. After a while, the phrases became sillier: I dig you, babe, or Rub my bottom for luck. Giggles are always good for the soul.
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