Movement caught my eye. Willie was trying to wrestle his daughter from Ellen’s arms while at the same time attempting to cover the girl’s ears. When he gained control of her, he stared at his sister-in-law with unveiled hatred and said loudly enough for anyone to hear, “Butt out, Norah.” Clutching his daughter to his chest, he marched away.
Ellen faced her sister, eyes pleading. Norah urged Ellen to run after Willie. Ellen obeyed.
An irrepressible urge to help swelled within me. I raced after Ellen. I could only imagine Rhett’s reaction: Oh no. Here we go again. I reached Ellen seconds after she caught up to her husband.
“Give her to me, Willie,” she shouted.
Willie whirled around. He caught sight of me and snarled. “What are you doing here?” He shook his hand at me.
Ellen said, “Willie. No. Don’t.”
“Stay away from me and my family. I don’t want to warn you again.” He gripped Ellen’s arm, muscled her into the throng, and instantly disappeared.
What had Willie meant by again? Was he admitting that he had tried to run me off the road?
Worried for Ellen, I started to go after them, but Rhett grabbed my arm.
Chapter 16
RHETT SPUN ME toward him and took hold of my shoulders. “Are you okay?”
Before I could answer, he kissed me hard on the mouth. When he released me, I felt as awkward as a schoolgirl in her first play. My mouth went dry. I needed a drink of water something awful. The toes of my right foot, kid you not, wormed their way into the sand. How foolish could an almost-thirtysomething woman act?
“Well, that was nice,” I said. “The kiss, not the scene between the Bryants.”
“I was worried about you. Willie . . .” Rhett ran a finger through a curl of my hair.
“He’s so edgy,” I said. “I was concerned that he might hurt Ellen.”
“I’m sure the new responsibility is getting to him. He’s got a lot to handle with a wife and a kid.”
And extra cash and a new house, I thought cynically.
“Hey, look.” Rhett pointed. “Over there. I see them. They seem fine now.”
Ellen and Willie, clutching his daughter, stood apart from the rest. She was running her hand up and down his arm. Willie nodded passively.
“I’ve been into the Word a couple of times this past week,” Rhett continued. “Willie seems in over his head. He’s always got a ledger or a menu in his hands and a perplexed look on his face. Not everyone is meant to run a business.” Rhett sighed. “Are you calmer now?”
“Yes.” I glanced at Norah, who stood apart from her family. What had gone down between Willie and her? Had she, like Sam, butted in with parental advice, setting the stage for Willie’s overreaction to my intrusion? Maybe she had called Willie controlling when he’d covered his daughter’s ears to protect them from the loud noises.
“Care to try it again?” Rhett said.
“Try what? Oh, the kiss. Yes, but . . .” I balked. But what? Was I scared? Those gorgeous eyes. That delicious mouth. Why was I holding back with him, not only now but also on my run the other day? Six months ago, my therapist in San Francisco had told me I was “fit for duty” and ready to reenter the world. Date. Have fun. Take a chance. When I’d called her to tell her I was moving back to Crystal Cove, she had cheered. I knew what she would advise me to do if she learned about the mystery involving the Lucky Cat statue that had sent me into a tailspin this past week, exactly what my father had advised: seek a local therapist.
“Jenna?” Rhett said.
I popped onto my toes, bussed Rhett on the cheek, and said, “Yes, I want to kiss you again, but we need to go on an official date first, okay?”
“Our picnic—”
“Not official. Happenstance. Call me old school.”
“Okay, Old School, you’re on. How’s Monday night?”
“Why Monday?”
“You’ll see.”
Excited but also feeling like a skittish kitten, I squeezed his hand and ran off. Heaven forbid I stick around and continue the conversation like an adult.
When I arrived home, Tigger, speaking of skittish kittens, pounced on me. His kisses were sweet, but they were no substitute for Rhett’s. The memory of the man’s lips on mine made me, for some crazy reason, crave sugar. I set my tote on the kitchen table and then gathered the ingredients for Mexican wedding cookies. I had learned how to make the sweets a few weeks ago. The recipe only required five ingredients. The treats had quickly become my go-to dessert. After shaping the buttery, nutty dough into crescents, I set the baking pan in the oven.
While I waited for the cookies to bake—they cooked at a low temperature and wouldn’t be ready to roll in powdered sugar for a long while—Tigger yowled, then leaped on the kitchen table and sniffed the book of Chinese characters in my purse.
“Good idea,” I said to him. I pulled out the book and retrieved the repaired Lucky Cat from my bedside table. I leafed through the book, searching for each symbol on the bottom of the statue. The symbols proved to be pretty basic: one meant sun, another meant rise. When I realized the phrase translated to The sun will rise, tears filled my eyes. Whenever things were bad at the office, David would say, The sun will rise; everything will work out. He would make me repeat the phrase, and then as if he were a superhero because he had fixed the problem, he would flex his muscles and grin.
Not this time, I thought. He hadn’t fixed things this time.
The timer on the stove pinged. I hurried over, donned mitts, and removed the cookie pan from the oven. Per instructions, I waited a minute and then, using one of the polka-dotted spatulas I’d brought from the shop, lifted the cookies off and set them on a rack to cool. When I could touch them without scalding my fingertips, I poured a half cup of powdered sugar in a pie pan and rolled each cookie in the white fluff. My fingers grew sticky. As I licked off the sugar, I recalled an admonition my mother used to say: Problems don’t get solved in one quick lick.
Thinking of my mother made me reflect on Bailey’s mother. Was Lola’s problem solved? Was she off the hook for murder? Every time I opened a book, I thought of how Lola, while I was growing up, had encouraged me to stimulate my brain cells. I didn’t want her to go to jail. I loved her dearly. I hadn’t confirmed anything with Cinnamon. Should I call her and bug her at this late hour?
Not on a bet.
“Chicken,” I said as I poured myself a glass of milk. I nabbed a cookie, moved to the window, and pushed back the drapes. Looking out at the ocean, which was barely visible in the pitch-black of night, I stood transfixed as I ran through the events of the day: Mitzi’s meltdown; Ellen’s visit to the shop; Pepper’s assertion that the Mumford sisters would inherit equally. Replaying the scene on the beach between Willie, his wife, and his sister-in-law sent a chill through me. Would Willie have hurt either of the women? Norah seemed to have a strong connection to Ellen. Had she ever been a part of the Bryants’ lives before? The way she had commanded Ellen to hurry after Willie and the way Ellen had obeyed intrigued me. Was Ellen her sister’s pawn? For some reason, I felt protective of Ellen. How could I learn more about Norah?
Frustrated because I had no answer to the questions cycling through my brain, I downed a second cookie, finished my milk, and headed to bed. In the morning, I would go to the Word and see if I could learn more about the Mumford clan.
• • •
EARLY SUNDAY MORNING at an hour when many were usually at church, Mum’s the Word was hopping. A line of customers streamed down the steps and along The Pier. As I drew nearer, I understood the lure. A banner announcing Fifties Day hung above the diner’s door. A black-and-red Ford Meteor sedan with sparkling fins was parked beside the diner. The Everly Brothers’ “Bye Bye Love” played from a jukebox set up outside the front door. Looking closer, I realized all the customers were dressed in 1950s garb.
“Jenna,” a woman called.
Mayor Zeller, dressed in snug jeans and a T-shirt that sported characters from t
he musical Grease, her frizzy hair looped in a rubber band and her face scrubbed clean, invited me to join her.
I popped into line beside her, doing my best to squelch a smile, because I couldn’t ever remember seeing her wear anything other than business attire.
“We’re all supposed to dress up,” the mayor said, which told me I wasn’t much good at hiding my amusement. “Didn’t you get the notice?”
I shook my head.
“Norah Mumford handed out flyers yesterday. Don’t worry. I’m sure the diner will let you in. I’m a nut for old movies and songs from the fifties,” the mayor went on. “Elvis’s ‘Don’t Be Cruel,’ Bill Haley’s ‘Rock Around the Clock,’ and Johnny Mathis’s ‘The Twelfth of Never.’ I swoon.” She patted her chest, then snapped to attention. “Heads up. We’re moving.” A kid hunting for the golden ticket in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory couldn’t have acted more excited. “I’m going to order a big, juicy hamburger. How about you?”
“I’m hoping for breakfast.”
“You’re in luck. They’re serving stacks of dollar-sized pancakes drenched in butter and syrup served with thick slabs of crispy bacon.” The mayor used her hands to describe the meal. “I studied the menu.”
I giggled. “I had no clue you were such a foodie.”
“Always. Why else do you think I came up with the Grill Fest idea all those years ago? Natalie encouraged me to have it. She said she would win, of course. Her ego was intact.”
“I don’t recall her doing special events like this at the Word.”
“Natalie wasn’t interested. She ran a steady place. She’d have an occasional twofer-type promotion, but no galas. She liked consistency, and she liked to rule the roost.” The mayor clicked her tongue between her teeth. “That came out wrong. Natalie was a good soul. But progress takes forward thinkers, like you and your aunt and, well, like all the wonderful businessmen and women in our town. Natalie was a bit of a dinosaur. She believed she knew what was right and who should do what.”
I tilted my head. Did I detect bitterness in the mayor’s tone? Had Natalie told her what to do when it came to the Grill Fest? Had she ordered the mayor to declare her the winner each year—or else?
“I’m excited for the Mumford girls,” the mayor continued, “especially the youngest.” She pointed at Ellen, who stood outside acting as hostess. She was clad in a cute poodle skirt-and-sweater ensemble and looked about twelve years old. “I think she’ll thrive with the changes, now that her sister is staying around.”
“Are you saying that Norah is moving here for good?”
“Absolutely.”
“She’s willing to give up her life back east? What did she do for a living?”
“She was a hospital administrator.”
“Really? That’s a pretty big paycheck to turn down.”
“The work was very depressing. She’s fallen in love with Crystal Cove. What’s not to adore?”
Ellen held up a finger. “One,” she called. “We have a seat at the counter for one. Any takers?”
I peeked at the mayor, wishing I could break free from her gracefully. I was itching to know more about Norah. I would get more gossip from Rosie, the counter waitress, if I sat alone.
“Go ahead, Jenna.” Mayor Zeller pressed me forward. “I can see you’re eager to get going. I totally understand. You’ve got a business to run. Me? It’s my day off. I’m going to di-i-ine.” She dragged the word out with relish.
I waved at Ellen, who guided me inside to the counter while handing me a menu. As we walked, I told her about my success with the Chinese translation.
“I’m so happy to hear that,” she said. “I’m thrilled to have helped. You’ve been such an inspiration to me.”
“I have?”
“You picked yourself up after your husband died. You started a new business. And you won’t take any guff from crusty people like Pepper Pritchett and her cohorts.” She ruffled her pixie-cut hair. “It’s because of you that we’re having a theme day.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You’re always doing themes at The Cookbook Nook. I love the windows in your store. They’re so creative. I tried to talk my mother into this fifties thing last month, but she wouldn’t go for it. Thanks to Norah”—she eyed her sister, who was chatting up customers at the far end of the diner—“I found the courage.”
“Hasn’t Willie been supportive?”
Ellen hesitated. “Of course. Yes. Definitely. But ever since Norah drove in for the memorial, it’s been different.” I felt the urge to ask Ellen about the scene on the beach last night, but customers hailed her. She handed me a menu. “Enjoy your meal.”
As she walked away, I considered what she had just revealed. In the advertising business, every word was chosen specifically to convey a meaning. Ellen said that Norah drove into town. Sure, a couple of days had passed between the murder and the memorial, so Norah had plenty of time to have flown from the East Coast, and, yes, she could have driven from the airport, but I would have said she’d flown in. Where had she been if she had driven in? Taking my reasoning one step further, could Norah have sneaked into Crystal Cove on Wednesday, the day of the murder, via automobile, without Ellen and the others knowing? With the advent of cell phones, identifying a person’s exact location had become much more difficult.
Rosie, vibrant in a purple shirtwaist dress that matched the stripe in her hair, approached me with a water pitcher. “What’ll it be, Jenna jumps jumping jacks?”
“I’m not sure, Rosie raises roosters.”
“Ha! Funny girl. Mnemonics. Aren’t they a great tool?”
I scanned the colorful specials menu. “Seems like another busy day for you.”
“Wish they were all like this.” She poured a glass of water for me. The liquid sloshed over the sides. She mopped it up. “Say, you don’t have need for another waitress at your café, do you?”
“Are you looking for a second job?”
Rosie glanced at Ellen and back at me. “Let’s just say I wouldn’t be averse to a lateral career move, if you catch my drift. Things have been a little lean around here lately. There’s less help. Fewer specials—except for today, of course. Less security.”
“Does a diner require security?”
“All businesses with cash registers do, sugar, even in gentle, peaceful Crystal Cove. Crime is everywhere nowadays.”
I hadn’t felt the need to install an alarm system at the shop. Should I? We had a lot of product, not to mention that there had been two murders in two months. In San Francisco, murder was a frequent occurrence, but I hadn’t known any of the victims in the city personally. Had I somehow brought bad karma with me to Crystal Cove?
Stop it, Jenna. You are not the reason evil exists. And yet—
Rosie rapped her knuckles on the counter. “Willie thinks he can handle every aspect of the business himself, but if I might confide, the poor chump is failing. He’s wound tighter than a spring and barking orders like a drill sergeant. He can’t put in the hours required and take care of his daughter and home. Plus, I think he feels outnumbered, two to one, now that Norah’s come to town.”
“Tell me about Norah,” I said, grateful for the opening in the conversation. “My aunt doesn’t recall her having visited Crystal Cove before.”
“Sure she has.” Rosie placed the water pitcher on the counter and offered me a blue napkin and silverware setting. “Once a year on her sister’s birthday. In and out. Never sightsees.”
“I heard a rumor that she’s moving here for good.”
“It’s true. She’s worried about Ellen now that their mama is gone. She’s very protective of her little chick.”
“Ellen said Norah drove to town. Do you know from where?”
“She was down south in Los Angeles—that’s where her corporate offices are. She was handing in her resignation letter the day her mama died.”
So Norah had an alibi, and what the mayor said was true. Norah had quit her corporate
job to be with her sister. Was that a sweet or calculating gesture?
I glanced at Norah and Ellen, who were standing shoulder-to-shoulder by the entrance of the kitchen. Norah was speaking out of one side of her mouth, looking for all intents and purposes like a conspirator. That made me flash on what Pepper had intimated. Was it possible that the sisters wanted a partnership so badly that they’d offed their mother in order to get their hands on their inheritance?
Chapter 17
ON SUNDAY AFTERNOON, I sat behind the sales counter at The Cookbook Nook, my focus on the computer screen. I was updating our website. When I’d worked at Taylor & Squibb, the pesky tech squad reminded me weekly, if not daily, how important it was to keep up the site. They asked for input, new designs, and announcements. They claimed that attracting those web bots—computer software that searches the Internet for new content and then ranks web pages accordingly—was vital to our company’s growth. Most of The Cookbook Nook’s business came from word of mouth, but we wanted to reach out to find new clients. Because there weren’t that many specialty cookbook stores in the United States and none nearby—sure, a buyer could find recommendations for a cookbook online, or, based on cover art, a buyer could select from a huge assortment of cookbooks at a brick-and-mortar store—we prided ourselves on being the go-to place for cookbook knowledge; therefore, we needed to keep our website not simply current but stellar.
I had chosen to put the Grill Fest front and center on the home page. I was adding photographs that Bailey had taken. From what I’d heard, bots liked rotating photograph galleries better than almost anything else. However, I decided that we shouldn’t post snapshots of Mitzi tossing cheese. Despite the fact that P. T. Barnum had claimed, “There is no such thing as bad publicity,” I felt we might suffer a backlash from Mitzi or her husband if we reminded her of a weak moment. Why roil the waters?
“Hungry?” Katie entered the shop carrying a plate of gooey-looking chicken drumettes, the meaty sides of chicken wings. “I’ve roasted them in two different kinds of sauces. Both are savory.”
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