Inherit the Word (The Cookbook Nook Series)

by Gerber, Daryl Wood

  “Even though there’s been a recent”—I hesitated, unable to utter the word murder—“death in the family?”

  Sam frowned. “The deputy who took my call said they were ‘on it,’ as if that’s any consolation.”

  “I checked the gym,” Ellen said. “Sometimes Willie likes to work out late.”

  “It’s hard keeping up those pecs of his.” Sam clicked his tongue against his teeth, clearly not a Willie fan.

  “I contacted the grocery store, too,” Ellen continued, oblivious to Sam’s judgment. “We were out of milk. I thought maybe he went there. He hates for our daughter to go wanting for anything. The owner hadn’t seen him. Where could Willie have gone?”

  “Surfing?”

  Ellen’s eyes widened, as if this was the first anybody had mentioned the notion. “Oh no. What if he got hurt? I hope . . .” She didn’t finish the sentence. Doom seemed to grip her and drag her shoulders down.

  “He hasn’t contacted you in any way?” I asked.

  She shook her head.

  Out with it, Jenna. Speak. “He telephoned me, Ellen.”

  “You?” Her face tinged pink. “Why? When?”

  “At ten last night. I don’t know why. He didn’t leave a message.”

  “Do you think it was a pocket call?” Sam said, referring to the thing that happens when a person forgets to lock his cell phone before inserting it in a pocket. If something bumps the cell phone, the phone might automatically trigger and contact the last name dialed.

  “I don’t know why he would have had my cell phone number in his phone. He’s never called me.” I petted Ellen’s arm. She trembled beneath her sweater. “I was wondering whether Willie, knowing that I’m a friend of Chief Pritchett’s, might have gotten in touch with me to—” I paused.

  “To what?” The ceiling lights of the diner reflected in Ellen’s eyes. She looked so vulnerable.

  “To confess to your mother’s murder.” Although Willie topped my suspect list, it was probably wrong of me to implicate him without proof. Too late.

  Ellen wagged her head back and forth. “No, no, no. He didn’t kill my mother. He couldn’t have.”

  “He might have ended our call and dialed Chief Pritchett instead.”

  “B-b-but”—Ellen stammered—“wouldn’t Miss Pritchett, I mean Chief Pritchett, have contacted me after that? And Sam called the police, and they—” Tears pooled in her eyes. “Poor Willie. He was angry at me. He—” She swallowed hard. “We had an argument. He stormed out of the house.”

  “You fought?” Sam said.

  “We didn’t fight fight. He didn’t put a finger on me.”

  Not where anyone could see, I mused.

  “Why didn’t you confide in me?” Sam persisted.

  “I didn’t want to tell anyone.”

  “What did you argue about?” I asked.

  At that moment, Norah exited the kitchen. She caught sight of the three of us. With stature as regal as a prima ballerina’s, she strode to us and inserted herself between Ellen and Sam. “What’s going on?”

  “Willie,” Ellen said. “I told you he’s missing. He . . . he called Jenna.” She explained as much as I had told her and faced me. “We argued about the diner. He wanted me to sell my half to my sister.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  “He wanted out. He hates this place. He said it was too much work.”

  Norah raised her chin. “I told Ellen I have no interest in being a single owner. We’re partners.”

  “Willie got mad when I said I wouldn’t ask her,” Ellen went on. “He said this place would be our ruin. It’s sucking money like a Hoover.”

  “Are you having financial problems?” I said, thinking of what the waitress had said to me yesterday. They were cutting staff and trimming the menu. How badly off was the diner? Had the Mumford sisters inherited a money pit?

  “No,” Ellen said. “The diner is doing fine. Right, Sam?”

  “It’s been in the black for the last six years in a row,” he said. “The first two years were investment years. Maybe Willie saw those figures and judged the diner’s balances based on that.”

  Ellen sighed. “He’s never had a head for numbers.”

  I recalled Katie saying that in college Willie had cheated in his economics course. I flashed on an image of him at the bank cornering Manga Girl. He had shaken what appeared to be a savings passbook. I’d assumed it was for his personal account. Had he, in reality, been questioning her about the diner’s finances? Had he accused the teller of shorting the diner? Another scenario flitted through my mind, one that matched an occurrence at Taylor & Squibb. What if Willie wasn’t as stupid as everyone seemed to think when it came to economics? What if he had taken money from the diner’s account? Maybe he was bleeding the diner dry. He transferred the cash into his own account and faked the scene at the bank to cover his actions. A third, darker possibility came to mind. What if Natalie found out what Willie was doing and approached him? He killed her, and a week later, he cashed out and split town.

  I said, “My friend heard a rumor that Willie closed an account at the bank.”

  “Is this true, Ellen?” Norah said. Though she typically looked like her sister, she appeared nothing like her now. A hawk would appreciate her feral gaze.

  “I’ve never paid attention to the money side of the business,” Ellen said. “I’ve always been interested in the food and the customers. Mother”—she chewed her lower lip—“told me not to review the books.”

  I said, “I thought you had been doing the ordering since your mother died.”

  “True, but I’ve never written a check for anything. Willie took that over, didn’t he, Sam? You know how the finances work. I mean, you did all the investing for Mother.”

  Sam drew in a deep breath. “Not all of it. I advised her, but she made every withdrawal and every deposit. She paid every bill. She was, as you know, very hands-on.”

  Ellen started to tremble. Her fingers clawed her sleeves. “I’m scared. What if Willie—” She grasped the counter.

  I edged closer. “What if Willie . . . what?”

  “What if Willie is dead?”

  “Why would you jump to that conclusion?” Norah snapped.

  Ellen’s gaze swung between the three of us. “Maybe somebody at the bank saw him withdraw all that cash. Maybe he was robbed. Willie wouldn’t leave home for good. Not without telling me. Not without Bebe. He didn’t pack any bags. He didn’t take his muscle T-shirts and his precious sports paraphernalia.”

  “What paraphernalia?” I said.

  “Baseballs, bats, and gloves signed by famous players like Sosa, McGwire, and Bonds. He’s a collector.”

  Rusty the car repair guy had seen Willie in Die Hard Fan, the sports collectibles store, arguing about a debt. Had Willie left town to avoid his creditor?

  “Willie would never run off without his things,” Ellen went on. “Or our daughter. He wouldn’t leave her. What if he’s”—her gaze flew between us—“been murdered, and the police think I killed him?”

  “Ellen, hush,” her sister said.

  “I’ve got to find him.” Ellen bolted toward the front door.

  Norah ran after her and clutched her shoulders. “Ellen. Stop moving. Stop talking. Now.”

  • • •

  MONDAY MORNINGS AT The Cookbook Nook were rarely busy. Weekend partiers slept in while tourists packed for home. I released Tigger from my purse. He scampered around as if he were the one on holiday. No kids. No adults. And no Bailey. I had given her the day off to browse Crystal Cove. She had been here two months and had never truly explored.

  Tigger ran full bore toward the reading chair, ducked, and disappeared beneath. Seconds later, he reappeared and took off for the vintage kitchen table. Mine, all mine, I imagined the imp thinking.

  I tossed my keys and purse on the sales counter. As I headed for the stockroom to stow my jacket—the morning air was a bit cool—thoughts about Ellen, Norah, and Willie raced thr
ough my mind. Who had done what and when? Was Willie alive? Why wouldn’t he be? What if Ellen was right and he had been attacked after leaving the bank with all that cash? How much cash were we talking about? Were the Crystal Cove police searching for him by now? I dialed the precinct and got a busy signal. Swell.

  I filled Tigger’s water and snack bowls and switched on the remix that Katie had made of cheery food-related songs. “Sweet Potato Pie,” a duet with James Taylor and Ray Charles, was first in the queue. Enlivened by the blare of horns and fabulous guitar, I danced a two-step to the café’s kitchen—Dancing with the Stars, watch out—and fetched myself a cup of espresso from a machine in the café.

  When I returned to the shop and settled onto the stool at the sales counter, I decided, given the lovely quiet, to spruce up the website even more than I had yesterday. As I woke up the computer, I paused when I caught sight of my key ring with the key David had left me added to it. Would pinning down the key’s shape help me figure out what lock it fit?

  The key was silver with a round head, its trunk long and narrow. There were five notches. I typed Safety Deposit Box Key > Image into the search line of an Internet browser page and hit Enter. Pictures of safety deposit box keys surfaced. Though many resembled my key, most had distinct ridges down the center of the key. Mine did not. I typed Bus Station Locker Key into the search line. Some of those looked like toothpicks; others reminded me of bottle openers. I typed Key > Image, and a slew of pictures came up, many of them stock photos or clip art.

  Frustrated to the point of screaming but knowing yelling wouldn’t accomplish anything—it rarely does—I gave up and returned my focus to The Cookbook Nook website.

  In between customers’ arrivals, purchases, and exits, I roamed the shop, taking photographs of displays, then uploading them to the computer and adding them to the site. I inserted extra click-through buttons. I expanded the descriptions for gluten-free, vegetarian, and other specialty cookbooks. Both Bailey and my aunt had suggested those changes. They found customers didn’t quite understand why there were specialty cookbooks. Some believed all cookbooks included vegetarian recipes. Hardly.

  I worked straight through until 4:00 P.M., stopping briefly to put together a Swiss cheese, chopped olive, and mayo sandwich—one of my mother’s favorites. It was easy to make, simple, and gooey. I also treated myself to one of Katie’s afternoon sweets, a double-chocolate brownie. A girl needs her chocolate.

  At 5:00 P.M., I stood to stretch my cramped limbs. At the same time, the front door opened.

  Aunt Vera, dressed in a silver caftan and matching turban, sauntered in. She browsed the shop, then shook a reproachful finger. “What are you doing here by yourself, young lady?”

  I flinched and felt my cheeks flush the way they had whenever the principal in high school had caught me doing something risky. Although I had been a good student, I had savored the challenge of racing into class right after the bell or slamming a locker door just because making loud noises was frowned upon. I didn’t leap off any tall buildings, mind you. I wasn’t that daring. Just full of myself.

  “Well?” Aunt Vera tapped a foot.

  “It’s a work day. I work.”

  “Where’s Bailey?”

  “I gave her the day to play. From the moment she arrived in town, she’s been working nonstop. Without her daily dose of caffeine, she’s sort of on edge. I thought cool breezes and moderate sun would buoy her spirit.”

  “True. But you’re all by yourself, Jenna. Why didn’t you call me?”

  “Because I figured you were busy doing private fortune-telling sessions. I didn’t want to bother you. We’ve had a load of customers. Mostly moms. They bought that new grilled cheese cookbook we got in. Grilled Cheese by Spieler and Giblin.”

  “Yet another two-word title you can appreciate.”

  “I’ve got it memorized.” Grinning, I tapped my head. “Many of the moms bought those new kiddie-food collections, too.” Brightly colored cloth pizzas, fruits, and veggies. Adorable.

  “Bless our young bakers.”

  “When the shop was empty, I devoted myself to the website. I feel like I accomplished a lot.” Being so busy, my mind hadn’t strayed to thoughts of Willie and Ellen and the tragedies surrounding our fair town.

  “Dear girl, I’m getting vibes.” Aunt Vera’s eyes narrowed. She beckoned me to the vintage kitchen table, what we now called our meeting table. “Sit down.”

  “Aunt Vera.”

  “Sit.”

  I obeyed. Tigger leaped onto my lap and peered at my aunt as if he were the one in trouble.

  Aunt Vera swept the skirt of her caftan out of her way and took a seat opposite me. “Your hand, please.”

  Uh-oh. She intended to read my palm. She had read my right hand numerous times before. The lines hadn’t changed. I possessed a strong heart line, good sexual desire, and a head for business. I would travel, but I didn’t have wanderlust. Not bad, considering.

  “You look lovely,” I said. “The silver is perfect with your coloring.”

  “Don’t flatter. Your hand.”

  I offered my hand, palm up. “Have you been telling fortunes all day? Your fingers are warm to the point of hot. Am I one more for the road?”

  “Don’t tease.” She ran a fingertip along the surface of my skin. “You’ve got to relax.”

  “I am relaxed.”

  “No, I mean relax. Take the day off.”

  “Not on a Monday.”

  “Tomorrow the shop is closed. I expect you to take the entire day to have fun. Breathe.”

  As if I were under a spell, I inhaled.

  “Walk on the beach,” Aunt Vera went on.

  I recalled the morning when I had almost been run off the road, and shuddered. “I will. Soon. But not tomorrow.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because we have the continuation of the Grill Fest. Round three. Did you forget? The mayor asked us to remain open.”

  “Jenna, you need to have fun. Live your life.”

  “I am having fun. I went to The Pier this morning.”

  “To do what?”

  Oops. Hoisted by my own petard. I could lie and say I had gone for a quick meal or to play Frisbee, but Aunt Vera, who was still holding my telltale palm, would sense the lie. A polygraph had nothing on her ability to pick up vibrations. “I wanted to check up on Ellen.” I told her what had happened, from Willie’s phone call to Norah’s overprotection of Ellen. “I don’t trust Norah, Aunt Vera. When did she really get to town? Could she have arrived before her mother died? Did she kill Natalie? She’s so assertive.”

  “You’re assertive. I’m assertive. We do not kill to get our way.”

  “What if Norah got rid of Willie so Ellen would be completely free of those who dominated her?”

  “It’s not unheard of, but why are you worrying about other peoples’ lives so much?” My aunt clutched my hand. “You have enough on your plate.”

  “First, I got involved because of Lola. I wanted to make sure she didn’t get railroaded into a conviction, not to mention that Natalie died on our watch, during the contest, right outside our property. I feel responsible. And now, there’s Ellen. I like her. I’m concerned about her. She’s fragile. A victim.”

  “Are you sure she’s not capable of murder? Maybe she’s manipulating everyone. She could be making all that up about Willie and his precious sports paraphernalia.”

  “No. I know for a fact that he buys stuff.” I told her about the car repairman’s account. “You’ve met Ellen. What is your sense of her?”

  Aunt Vera released my hand. She pulled a tarot deck from the pocket of her caftan. “Draw a card.”

  “I don’t need my fortune told.”

  “For Ellen.”

  “I’m allowed to do that?”

  “Consider what you really want to understand about her situation, then ask.”

  I concentrated. “I want to know if she’s guilty.”

  “Sorry, no. You can’t do
that. Ask what role you can play in her life.”

  “Aunt Vera.”

  “Do it.”

  Knowing my aunt wasn’t going to give me a pass on this, I concentrated and then removed a card. Even without Aunt Vera’s translation, I understood what I was looking at. I had pulled the High Priestess.

  Chapter 19

  MY HEART THRUMMED in my ribcage as I stared at the High Priestess tarot card. The priestess sat in front of the gate of Mystery, clad in a gorgeous blue dress. I knew from previous readings what she represents: knowledge, power, and truth. She mediates between light and dark, reality and illusion. The moon beneath her left foot represents her dominion over intuition.

  “You see?” I said. “I’m bound by duty to continue to seek out the truth.”

  Aunt Vera let out a deep sigh.

  “Oh, c’mon. You know I’m right.” Although I didn’t believe everything the cards revealed, I was more than willing to use them to my advantage, and I truly did want to help Ellen.

  Aunt Vera took back the card and shoved it into the deck. “Have you told Chief Pritchett that you got a call from Willie?”

  “Norah said she would do it.”

  “And has she?”

  “How should I know?”

  Aunt Vera ogled me.

  I sighed. “Fine.” I set Tigger on the floor, which didn’t please him—he could have lounged in my lap until dawn—then headed for the telephone on the sales counter. Aunt Vera followed. I had the telephone receiver in my hand when the front door opened.

  Rhett entered looking as rugged as the sailor I had once used in a sea-salt commercial: chiseled cheeks, bright eyes, a bit of a swagger. In a word, delicious. “Ready?”

  “For what?” I said, then realized he had come to take me on a date. I set the receiver in the cradle. “It’s Monday.”

  He aimed his index finger at me. “Give the girl two points.”