Inherit the Word (The Cookbook Nook Series)

by Gerber, Daryl Wood

  Although I was full from the pancakes that I’d consumed at the Word, I made room. “Mm, tasty.” I hummed my appreciation. “Love the pesto.”

  “Good, right? I plucked the recipe from this book.” Katie tapped the top book on the stack of cookbooks she had set aside for me to peruse. How to Grill: The Complete Illustrated Book of Barbecue Techniques by the talented Steven Raichlen. “You know who this chef is, right? Cute, gray hair, beard, mustache, glasses.” She mimed the look. The book offered concise and easy ways to grill for the beginner to the pro. “You had the drumette with the walnut-dill pesto sauce. I made an East-meets-West sauce, as well. Zesty-sweet. You could make these in a snap. Read through the—”

  “Uh-uh.” I held up my hand. “I don’t have time. I can’t be a slave to the kitchen. I’ve got to have a life, too, right?”

  Katie gave me a mock-dissatisfied look. “A life? What’s that?”

  I noticed her pained expression. “How’s the assistant chef working out?”

  “Okay. Food’s good. But the staff doesn’t like him.”

  “Then let him go.”

  She sighed. “Yeah, I should.” She set the tray on the counter. “Anything new on your Lucky Cat discoveries?”

  I eyed the wings I hadn’t tasted and debated whether I could handle another morsel. Deciding I couldn’t, I abstained. “Only that the words on the bottom mean ‘The sun will rise.’”

  “Kelly Clarkson has a song with that title.” Katie crooned out the first line.

  “David used to say to me at the beginning of every ad campaign I started: ‘The sun will rise; everything will work out.’ Except it hasn’t worked out. Life hasn’t worked out, and I haven’t found out what that darned key belongs to.”

  Katie patted my hand. “You will. Be patient.”

  “Patience is not my middle name,” I snarled.

  “Don’t I know it.” She lifted the tray. As she bussed it to the hallway, I rued not taking the opportunity to sample the second drumette. Perhaps later.

  Katie paused to chat with Pepper, who surprisingly appeared whenever Katie was setting out a new tray of goodies. I wondered whether the woman watched the shop through binoculars in anticipation. A month ago, I had talked to Aunt Vera about Pepper’s sneaky visits to gobble up our wares. Aunt Vera agreed that Pepper was a bit of a scavenger, but she wouldn’t deny her. She said Pepper fostered a huge beading community, and if even once a day Pepper talked about the food that the café was making, we would sell more food and cookbooks. Many of Pepper’s clientele had become ours and ours had become hers. At that very moment, three beaders, including Flora, stood beside the far wall discussing the pros and cons of the natural-food cookbook selections. One, written by Heidi Swanson, appeared to be their favorite: Super Natural Every Day: Well-Loved Recipes from My Natural Foods Kitchen.

  “Every recipe is packed with veggies and protein,” Flora said loudly enough for all to hear. “How about a tasty chickpea wrap in a whole wheat lavash?”

  Her friends murmured their appreciation.

  “Get this,” Flora went on, proving to be quite the ringleader. “The author is a San Francisco farmers’ market regular and a blogger.”

  “I wonder if we could meet her?” a pal said.

  Knowing I had better things to do than to listen in on their conversation, I returned my attention to revamping our website.

  Seconds later, the front door of the shop burst open, and Bailey, in the cheeriest outfit she had worn in days, raced inside. Her skin, however, looked pale. She skidded on her espadrilles. “You won’t believe it. Willie—” She inhaled sharply.

  “Willie, what?”

  “Willie—” She drew in another breath, clearly out of any reserve air. She held up a finger. Another intake. “Willie—”

  Horrible notions ran rampant through my brain. Willie had hit Ellen. Willie had hurt Norah.

  “C’mon already,” I said. “Out with it.”

  “Willie is missing.”

  “Missing? As in, he left town?”

  “He’s gone.”

  “With his daughter?” Ellen would be heartbroken if Willie ran off with their little girl.

  “I don’t think so. I’m not sure.” Bailey placed her hand on her chest to regain control of her breathing. “I was at the arcade buying these earrings.” She batted a set of silver and beaded baubles.

  I wound my hand in the air—go on.

  “Right. I heard two women talking. One said she saw Willie at the bank yesterday. He was cleaning out his savings. Not one to believe a rumor without substantiated facts, I called the bank and spoke to a new friend of mine. We take Spanish together.”

  “A new friend?” I said, hoping she would elaborate about her secret boyfriend.

  “Friend,” she reiterated. “She is the assistant manager at the bank. She said that Willie had indeed cleaned out his savings. His. Under his name. He and Ellen had separate accounts.”

  “David and I had separate accounts. No big deal.”

  “Yeah, but I was intrigued, so I made my way down to The Pier and asked around. Not inside the diner, mind you. I’m not as daring as you. But the gossip is that no one has seen Willie since early this morning. He is gone with a capital G.”

  “Do you think he fled because he killed Natalie, and he found out Chief Pritchett is closing in on him?”

  A woman gasped. I pivoted. Pepper tossed a drumette into the trash and dashed out the exit. Ten bucks said I knew where she was headed. To call her daughter and set Cinnamon on Willie’s trail. Good.

  • • •

  ON SUNDAY NIGHTS, we closed the shop early, and my aunt, my father, and I enjoyed a family dinner. This week, my aunt had offered to cook at her house. Little did my father and I know until we’d arrived that we would be put to work as sous-chefs. The windows were open; outside, the surf lapped the sand with calming regularity. I glimpsed my aunt’s extensive collection of cookbooks. Only one was open and set into a book holder. Whew.

  I rinsed my hands in the sink and said, “What do I do first?”

  “Pare the pineapple.”

  I flashed on Willie and his Hawaiian shirts and the egotistical way he wore them, flared open so people would admire his handsome physique. Where was the guy? There was one reason for him to have fled—he was guilty. He had killed Natalie because he wanted to get his hands on her money and have full control of Ellen, but Norah’s arrival in town had blown his game plan. Run away, Mr. Gingerbread Man.

  “Jenna, focus.” My aunt pointed to the pork recipe in the cookbook. According to her, the menu she had chosen was simple fare. “Grilling is easy, but it requires your full attention.”

  The meal consisted of rice, beans, plantain bananas, and a pork roast. My father dealt with the beans, which weren’t too difficult to make. We were using canned beans. The original recipe called for soaking fresh beans overnight.

  After I removed the pineapple rind—ouch!—and cored the pineapple, I tackled the rice. I knew in my heart of hearts how iffy rice could turn out. Rice could wind up sticky or as dry as a bone. As I set the lid on top of the mixture to simmer, knowing I had followed the recipe directions to the letter, I was soaring with confidence, but then I skimmed the recipe for the pork marinade and nearly broke out in a cold sweat. The recipe required ten steps and at least twenty ingredients. Breathing like a Lamaze pro, I got the job done. Aunt Vera assisted twice. When it came to the actual grilling, my aunt was right. The dish was challenging. Working with a coal barbecue, which my father had to light—I couldn’t figure out the cone thingy—I quickly learned that the temperature could vary. Not only did I have to baste the roast every twenty minutes, but at times I had to move it to another area on the grill so it wouldn’t scorch. During the process, I was pretty sure I had sweated away five pounds from sheer worry.

  We convened on the patio for the meal. Aunt Vera had set a beautiful table with cornflower blue mats, aqua glasses, and a mixture of blue silk flowers. The whoosh of the oc
ean’s ebb and flow was all we needed as background music.

  Midway through the meal—pieces of the meat wound up too crispy for my taste, though my aunt and father assured me that I was getting pretty good at this cooking stuff—my phone pinged. Bailey had texted me that Willie was still missing.

  My father frowned. “No texts at mealtime. You know that. Turn off your phone.”

  “But it’s about Willie Bryant.”

  “What about him?”

  Aunt Vera said, “Do you think Ellen knew he would flee?”

  “Willie left town?” my father said, clueless.

  “I can’t imagine Ellen knew,” I said. “Where did he go? Why did he leave his little girl?” I had called the diner to make sure he hadn’t run off with his daughter; he hadn’t.

  “How is Ellen holding up?” my aunt said.

  “I haven’t talked to her.”

  “Did you ever question her about, you know, her finances?”

  “What about them?” my father asked as he forked the remainder of his beans into his mouth.

  “Jenna believes the Bryants were struggling financially.”

  I explained about the prickly encounter at the shop when Willie had prompted Ellen to return the books to the shelves. “I’m pretty sure he pinched her.”

  “Are you saying Willie is abusive?” My father’s jaw tensed. In my lifetime, I had seen him take on a few tough guys. I recalled two specific incidents during my teen years: one to protect me at The Pier, the other to protect my sister on the beach. Karate moves had been involved.

  “He’s overbearing, that’s for sure.”

  My aunt gazed at me. “Why does Ellen suffer his boorishness?”

  “She lacks spine,” I said. “According to a few folks, her mother treated her the same way. If Natalie commanded, Ellen obeyed.”

  My father frowned. “Have you been investigating, Jenna?”

  “To clear Lola,” my aunt said, defending me. “Text Bailey back and ask how Ellen’s doing.”

  “Vera,” my father said.

  “I’m worried about Ellen,” she countered. “And find out how her sister is faring as well.”

  “Norah,” I said, an edge to my tone.

  “You don’t like Norah?” my father asked.

  “I’m worried she’s simply a replacement for the other dominant people in Ellen’s life.” I blotted my mouth with a napkin, then texted a message and hit Send. The message whooshed forward.

  My father set his fork down. “Maybe I’m missing something, but Ellen seems to make a good team with Norah. The fifties event they did today was Ellen’s idea, wasn’t it? From everything I’ve heard, the event was a real hit. If Norah helped Ellen turn it into a reality, then perhaps Norah has empowered her sister.”

  I downed a scoop of rice flavored with deglazed white wine and onions, loving the combination, then glanced at my father. “Norah is moving here, Dad. Why would she quit a well-paying position at a hospital to run a diner?”

  “She gave up her job?”

  “According to a waitress at the Word, she turned in a resignation letter the day her mother died.”

  “This waitress,” my father said. “She’s a model of honesty?”

  “I think so.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Jenna, if there’s one thing you are, it’s too trusting. How long have you known the waitress? A day? Two? It takes years, as well as great insight, to know if someone is telling the truth or hornswoggling you.”

  “Hornswoggling?” I gawked at him.

  “You know what I mean.”

  “Are you saying I’m not intuitive?”

  “I’m saying at times you are gullible in a good way, Tootsie Pop.”

  Usually I didn’t mind the nickname my father had given me. Tootsie Rolls were my favorite candy, followed by caramel and dark chocolate. But now, the term felt patronizing. I drummed the tabletop with my fingertips. “In what way can gullible be good?”

  Aunt Vera scrutinized my father, stroking the amulet around her neck with dedication. “Cary . . .”

  My father ignored her. “You’re nice, Jenna, and you believe the best of people.”

  Not lately.

  “And you tell the truth,” he added.

  “I can keep secrets that not even you, Mr. Super Secret Spy, could wrench out of me.”

  Although my father claimed his former line of work was as an analyst, there had been times when my siblings and I had questioned whether he had done more than that—possibly interrogation. Over the years, we had pressed him about his work. When he wasn’t home, we dunned our mother. Where had Dad gone? With whom was he meeting? My brother had been the staunchest challenger.

  Through gritted teeth, my father said, “Let’s readdress the topic of Willie.”

  “Yes, do,” Aunt Vera said. “Dessert?”

  Both my father and I declined.

  Aunt Vera rose and cleared dishes. Telling from her brisk gait, she was happy her magic had helped keep the peace. She was fooling herself. Neither my father nor I was calm.

  I leaned forward and stared him down. “Let me pose a theory. What if Willie fled because he murdered Natalie?”

  “Motive?”

  I explained the inheritance. “He needed cash.”

  “You said he closed his own account not Ellen’s. Why leave before the estate is meted out?” He had a point.

  I said, “What if Ellen, with Norah for backup, denied him any of the inheritance?”

  For five minutes, we went at each other, reviewing the rumors and/or facts, as I knew them. My father would not concede that Willie was the murderer.

  “What if Willie was so stressed by Norah’s influence over her sister that he gave up?” my father said. “Per your own account, he suffered Natalie’s bullying for far too long. Maybe he’d had enough of all Mumford women.”

  “But he left his precious daughter behind.”

  My father rubbed his chin. “Maybe he’s taking a respite. Hiding out for a few days to clear his head. Remember not to judge a man too harshly. Sometimes critical events in a person’s life can alter a person’s fate. You should understand that better than most.” He pushed away from the table and stood. “No matter what, we’re not solving this here and now. I would assume Cinnamon has been alerted.”

  “By her mother, if no one else,” I said.

  My father offered a wry look. “Let’s call it a night, and I’ll walk you home.”

  Minutes later, as I opened my door and bid my father good night, my cell phone rang. I hurried inside. Tigger dove at my ankles. I scooped him up while fishing in my purse. The moment I pulled the cell phone out, it stopped ringing. The readout said Missed Call and offered a number I didn’t recognize. Who would be calling me at 10:00 P.M.?

  Tigger yowled at the top of his lungs.

  “Shush, cat.” I stabbed the voice mail icon. Zero messages.

  I hit Recent and saw the unidentifiable phone number. I pressed the number to automatically redial. I waited through two rings. On the third ring, a voice mail machine answered, and I heard Willie Bryant’s voice instructing me to speak after the beep.

  My insides snagged. Why had Willie called me? Why wasn’t he picking up?

  Chapter 18

  ALL NIGHT LONG I tossed and turned, thinking about Willie and his odd phone call and David and the gold-filled Lucky Cat. Everything will work out. Had David written the Chinese words on the bottom of the statue? If he had, he had been wrong. Everything hadn’t worked out. He’d died. I was alone. And I was left with a puzzle I could not solve.

  At 6:00 A.M. Monday morning, dressed in my pajamas, I bounded into the kitchen and glowered at the mysterious key lying on the table. What kind of key was it? I had exhausted all banks and private mailbox locations in San Francisco as well as Crystal Cove. What else could the key fit? A bus locker? A train station locker? What secrets would I discover once I found the key’s source?

  “Darn it,” I shouted and kicked a kitchen cabinet
. It popped open. I jammed it shut.

  Tigger bolted to the safety of the adjoining living room and skittered beneath the couch. He peered out, eyes wide with fright.

  “Sorry, pal. I’m a goof. C’mere.” I squatted and waited for him to trust me again. “Please. I’m sorry. I’m not just a goof. I’m an ogre. I’m mean and thoughtless and—” He crouch-crawled toward me. “That’s it. Keep coming. I’m not going to hurt you.” He nuzzled me with his head. I scooped him up. “Good boy. I’m getting dressed, and then we’re going on an outing.”

  To soothe my soul, I needed a few answers to Willie Bryant’s puzzle. Why had he called me, of all people, at 10:00 P.M. at night? Had he wanted to confess to murder? Why hadn’t he picked up when I’d called back? Maybe he had lost his nerve. Perhaps he had called Chief Pritchett instead.

  I headed to The Pier. As I neared Mum’s the Word Diner, a pair of teen boys almost nailed me with a Frisbee. I cautiously ducked beneath their game and entered the restaurant. There were no themes today, no special deals, and there were fewer customers than the day before. Ellen perched on a stool by the counter. Sam sat beside her, his arm slung around her shoulders. I surveyed the place for Norah but didn’t see her anywhere.

  I approached Ellen and tapped her back. “Hi, Ellen. Good morning, Sam.”

  Ellen broke free of Sam, spun her knees around, and leaped off the stool. She gripped me in a hug so intense I thought the breath might gush out of me. “Jenna, I’m so glad to see you.”

  I broke free. I needed air if I was going to make it past my thirtieth birthday. And Tigger. I wasn’t sure how he had weathered the squeeze. I peeked into my purse. He peered up at me, as silent as a dormouse but none the worse for wear. I said to Ellen, “I heard that Willie might be missing. Have you heard from him?”

  She shook her head, then tucked her hands beneath the armpits of her heavy sweater.

  Sam stood up and edged toward Ellen. He didn’t look miffed that my arrival had split Ellen and him apart. He seemed truly concerned for her. Fatherly. “I was on the horn all night calling around for him,” he offered. “Mitzi, too, in between her nightly beauty treatments.” He didn’t say the latter with any malice, more as a statement of fact. “I talked to everyone. Hotels. Bars. The police.” He grumbled. “They won’t do anything until an adult has been gone at least forty-eight hours.”