“No,” Ellen said.
“Norah stole your coat,” Sam continued, undaunted. “She put that lipstick in the pocket to frame my wife.”
Ellen gasped.
“Or how about another scenario?” Sam said, his voice growing nasty and ominous. “Maybe the two of you killed your mother, and then you both conspired to do away with Willie.”
“Why would they meet him at a motel?” I said. “Why not get rid of him at home?”
“I don’t know. Because . . . because he was running scared. Because . . .” Sam splayed his arms. “None of this makes sense. Natalie dying. Willie dying. Any of it. All I know is that I will not have you accuse my wife of murder. This is not right. No matter how you spin it, I’m”—he sucked air through his nose—“ashamed of you, Ellen.” Without another word, he pivoted and marched toward the kitchen.
Ellen sagged against me. Every ounce of her shook.
Chapter 21
I STEADIED ELLEN and held her at arms’ length. Her eyes grew misty. Customers in The Cookbook Nook started to stare.
“Let’s get you some water.” I ushered Ellen toward the hallway leading to the kitchen, popped a paper cup from the water cooler, and poured her a cupful.
Ellen slugged down the water. “Sam has never turned on me before, Jenna. He’s always been supportive.”
“Of course he’s going to defend Mitzi, first and foremost. He’s her husband.”
“Whenever my mother criticized me”—Ellen hiccupped—“Sam took my side. He’s been like a father.” She began to weep. “I didn’t kill my mother and husband.”
“I know you didn’t,” I said as quarreling thoughts argued in my mind. Had she or hadn’t she? Only her hairdresser knew for sure.
Ellen crumpled the water-cooler cup. “You won’t believe what Mitzi did this morning.”
I said, “She came to the diner, am I right?”
Ellen’s eyes widened.
“She needed to return your coat,” I went on.
“No. That’s not—”
“Mitzi was the one who borrowed it. She wore it to the motel.”
“I didn’t see her with the coat. You’ve got to be mistaken. What I was going to say is Mitzi cornered me in the kitchen and said she was interested in purchasing the diner.”
“She wants to buy you out?” Granted, with Mitzi’s wealth, she could afford to buy a lot of businesses, but why would she want to?
“Mitzi said she thought it would be good for Sam and her to own something together. She said that a couple that cooks together sizzles together.”
From all indications, Mitzi and Sam’s marriage was suffering. Mitzi had self-confidence issues. She worked hard on her looks. She worried that Sam was messing around with other women. She had blown a gasket when she found that ticket in Sam’s pocket. Sam could deny, deny, deny and defend his wife as a knight should defend his ladylove, but why had he lied to Mitzi about the ticket in his pocket?
“I can’t believe this,” Ellen said. “Mitzi—”
“Hush.” I put a finger over my mouth to caution her.
Mitzi and the other grill contestants were returning from the kitchen. Each carried a basket loaded with food items. They took their baskets to the portable cooking stations. Sam trailed the pack, giving Ellen a vile look as he passed.
When the mayor reintroduced the contestants to the audience, a notion came to me. What if it was true, and Mitzi did want to buy the diner? “Ellen, did Mitzi talk to your mother about purchasing the place?”
“I don’t know. Mother never discussed business with me. She confided in Sam.” Ellen sighed. “Willie would’ve been happy to sell. He said the diner would never help us build a nest egg.”
“Didn’t Sam mention yesterday that the diner’s finances are in great shape?”
“Yes, but Willie . . .” Ellen fingered her hair. “You guessed right, Jenna. Willie and I were struggling financially. He didn’t know how to cut back his spending habits. He is . . . was . . . a got-to-have-it-now kind of guy. He was always short on cash.”
“I saw him arguing with a bank teller the other day. Do you know what that was about?”
“He was probably asking for a loan. We have debt.” Ellen gazed at her raggedy fingernails. “I was seriously considering Mitzi’s offer—”
“Until Sam laid into you,” I said.
“I don’t think Mitzi has a clue what owning the diner could do to her marriage.” Ellen’s voice rasped with fatigue. “Ever since Mother died, Willie was angry and on edge. He . . .” The regret was clear. “If Mitzi wants it, I’ll sell it. Good riddance,” Ellen said with finality.
“Don’t talk like that.”
“I can’t be a waitress forever.”
“You’re an owner now. That’s much different. You have authority and prestige. What about your theme days? The scuttlebutt around town is how much fun everyone had at your Fifties Day event. You could do other decade themes. The Gay Nineties, the Roaring Twenties. Mitzi would never come up with these ideas.”
“It’s nice of you to try to cheer me up”—Ellen sniffed—“but it’s not working. I’d better talk to Norah. We have to make plans. For a funeral. For—” She sank into herself. Her eyes filled with tears. “What am I going to tell our little girl? Willie wanted the world for her.” She pulled her coat tightly about her and trudged out of the shop.
I returned to the Grill Fest and watched while Mitzi, her face flushed, dominated the event with her grilled cheese concoction as well as her foodie stories. The sandwich she had fashioned, made on cinnamon-swirl bread with Monterey Jack cheese oozing out the sides, won the votes of every judge based on visual appeal and flavor. By the end of the round, the judges ruled that Lola and Flora would be eliminated, and Tito, thanks to his zesty taco-style grilled cheese, would battle Mitzi for first prize.
• • •
LATER THAT AFTERNOON, The Cookbook Nook cleared of customers, and the contestants and judges—minus Rhett, who had urgent business to attend to at Bait and Switch—convened in the hallway to dine on cream cheese sugar cookies.
I spied Mitzi exiting the ladies’ room. Though she had made it to the finals of the Grill Fest, she didn’t look happy. Where had Sam gone? Had he slipped away before her name was announced? Mitzi teetered but steadied herself using the wall for balance, and then rummaged in her clutch purse. She pulled out a cell phone, dialed, and waited. When she didn’t reach whomever she was calling, she hung up without leaving a message and jammed her cell phone back into her purse. Had she called her husband? Was she imagining him rolling around on a mattress with another woman? Had her suspicions and jealousy turned her into a murderer?
“Hey hey, everyone.” Keller, carrying a sizeable brown ice cream vat on his shoulder, forged into the group. “Cold stuff coming through.”
When Katie, who had been chatting up the mayor, caught sight of Keller, her cheeks flushed peppermint pink. She righted her toque and toyed with a few curls around her face. “Hi, Keller.”
He grinned. “Where do you want this?”
“The usual place.” She hitched a thumb.
“Got it.” Keller strode into the café and made a hard left toward the kitchen.
I sidled up to my pal. “Aha. Your secret is out, and here I thought you made all your own ice cream.”
“Whenever we have a run on a flavor, I call Keller. His ice cream is excellent. Today we ran out of fudge pecan swirl.”
Quietly I sang, “Katie’s got a boyfriend.”
She swatted me.
“Go help him.” I gave her a push.
She resisted. “No. Stop it. He’ll be back.”
And he was, in seconds. He walked with big loping strides. Without a vat of ice cream balanced on his shoulder, he reminded me of a gigantic puppy—big paws, floppy hair, sweet, soulful eyes. “Did I scare the folks away?” He laughed in his charming, yuk-yuk way.
“You didn’t scare everyone away.” Katie tittered.
During t
he time Keller had gone to the kitchen, Lola, Flora, and the mayor had departed. Pepper was doing her best to clandestinely snitch the last few cookies off the tiered tray. Mitzi was having a heated discussion with Tito, who was twirling his keys around his index finger and looking like he wished he could split without being rude. Watching the keys go round and round made me think briefly of the key David had given me. Tito was a reporter. Could my key fit a reporter’s desk? No, David hadn’t been a writer; he had hated writing anything, even a grocery list.
“Where’s your amazing bicycle, Keller?” Katie said, stressing the word amazing.
I was tempted to roll my eyes at her but stopped. Who was I to judge her flirtation skills? I wasn’t very good at the social sport myself. Practice, practice, practice.
“It’s right out there,” Keller said. “Don’t you see it on the sidewalk?” He yuk-yukked again.
Pepper whirled around and gave him the evil eye. “You.” She must have recognized his distinctive laugh. She bounded toward him while jabbing a finger. “How many times have I told you, young man—”
“Not to park my bicycle near your shop,” Keller finished.
“That’s right. It’s an eyesore.”
“Sorry, ma’am.”
“C’mon, Pepper,” I said, using the tone my aunt employed whenever she needed to rein in Pepper. “He’s a capitalist. You like businessmen.”
“Door-to-door high jinks like his reflect badly on the community.”
“They do not. They show the younger generation of Crystal Cove that not everyone needs a four-year degree to be successful.”
“Bah,” Pepper muttered.
Bah yourself, you sourpuss, I wanted to say, wishing I could inject her with a happy serum. Was there a five-ingredient recipe for something like that? Why didn’t Pepper understand how entrepreneurs were good for our town? We had a slew of craftsmen in Crystal Cove: knitters, potters, bakers, and artists. Keller’s mother, although she adored her son, hadn’t been able to help him with college finances, so after high school, Keller had worked days and attended the junior college at night, taking basic economics classes. The day he graduated, he purchased his ice cream–making bicycle. The next week, he opened his alfresco business and became an instant hit. Novelty, as my first boss said, cannot be purchased. Promoting novelty is a requirement of citizenship.
“It’s okay, Jenna,” Keller said. “I don’t need you to fight my battles.” He removed his baseball cap and addressed Pepper. “I’m really sorry if I’m being a nuisance, ma’am. I wanted to stop in and say hi to Chef Katie.”
Katie uttered a teensy peep. Her peppermint-tinted cheeks flushed strawberry red.
“I’ll be moving the bike in three shakes of a lamb’s tail,” he went on. “Thanks so much for understanding. If I can make it up to you, I’d be glad to stop by Beaders of Paradise later this week and bring you your favorite ice cream. What is it, by the way?”
Pepper grew calm, as though someone had put her into a trance. “Dark chocolate,” she said in a soft, girlie voice.
“Done. With an extra dose of chocolate.”
Pepper nodded politely, then exited.
Shocked and thrilled, I glanced over my shoulder, fully expecting to see my aunt stroking her amulet. She wasn’t there. Hmm. Had I somehow inherited her gift of persuasion? Abracadabra. A girl could get used to that kind of mental power.
“Who moves to the next round?” Keller said. “I assume Spa Lady will.”
“Spa who?” I said.
Keller hitched his chin toward Mitzi, who was still lighting into Tito. “About a week ago, I saw her running out of the spa. You know the one.” He did a hula-type move with his hips.
“The Permanent Wave Salon and Spa?” I said. A month ago, I’d had the luck to become personally familiar with the place.
Keller nodded. “That’s it. Spa Lady—what’s her name?”
“Mitzi,” I offered.
“Yeah, she looked so ridiculous. She had on this terry cloth robe and turban.” His fingers drew a coil above his head. “And a blue mask.” He dragged his hand in front of his face.
I’d bet he was great at playing charades: Two words. First syllable.
“She was flagging me down as if her life depended on it. She caught up to me right in front of The Pelican Brief Diner. She wanted ice cream. Rocky road. Tons of almonds. It’s my best seller. I scooped her a cone, but it was a warm day. When chocolate started dripping all over her, she went nutty—forgive the pun—worried that the spa would be mad that she’d soiled their robe, so she rushed into The Pelican Brief Diner to clean herself off.” He shook his head.
“She likes to keep up her appearance,” I said.
“You’re telling me. She’s got a real thing for body stuff, because a couple of days later, I saw her heading into the tanning salon.”
“The Golden D’or.”
Keller tapped his nose as if I had guessed the right charades answer. “That was the day Willie caught up with her.”
“Willie?”
Keller stroked his jaw. “Come to think of it, Willie was steaming. He accused Spa Lady of something. She yelled, ‘How dare you.’ Willie said something back. I could only hear Spa Lady because she was facing my direction. She said, ‘You’re loco!’ Willie made a money gesture.” Keller showed us by rubbing his thumb against his fingers. “Spa Lady hauled back. She almost slapped him, but she didn’t. Like this, you know?” Keller demonstrated.
Katie, who was hanging on his every word, said, “What happened next?”
“Spa Lady huffed and went into The Golden D’or. Willie hesitated for a second, like he was making up his mind whether to go in after her.”
“Did he?” Katie said.
“Yep. He entered. Seconds later, he exited looking pleased with himself.”
I gazed at Mitzi, who had finished with Tito and was leaving the shop. Was Bailey’s assumption correct? Had Willie accused Mitzi of killing Natalie? Had he blackmailed Mitzi and set a meeting at the motel? Was Keller’s eyewitness account of Mitzi and Willie’s confrontation enough for Cinnamon to bring Mitzi in for questioning?
I said, “You need to talk to Chief Pritchett, Keller.”
“Why?”
“What you have to say might pertain to the murder of Willie Bryant.”
“But my ice cream will melt.”
“No buts. It’s your civic duty.” I ushered him to the sales counter and dialed the precinct. When I reached the clerk, she said Cinnamon was out on a call. There had been a crisis at the beach. A Frisbee player had accidentally on purpose hurled a Frisbee into another player’s nose. The clerk asked if I wanted to leave a message. I didn’t.
Instead, I ordered Keller to go to the precinct. I offered to pay for any ice cream sales he might lose. Good soul that he was, he declined my offer.
Chapter 22
AFTER THE SHOP cleared, we removed the portable cooking stations and set the shop back to its normal layout. All the while, I kept hoping Cinnamon Pritchett would call to say, thanks to Keller’s statement, she had finally solved the murders. The call never came.
Toward the end of the afternoon, we had a fresh influx of customers. Product was moving faster than ever: grilling books, gift items, and recipe holders. A few women detained me and asked for my expert advice on cooking a grilled cheese sandwich.
Me? Advice? I panicked. “Um, extra cheese,” I said, riffing. “It’s called a grilled cheese.”
One of the women thought I was the cleverest person in the world. Ha! Fooled her.
When the shop closed, I hurried to Katie and said, “Cooking lessons. Now.” Although we had accommodated the mayor and kept The Cookbook Nook open for the competition, we hadn’t opened the café. It was mine, all mine. “Make me bold, Katie. Confident. No fear. I want to be an expert chef by Thanksgiving. Got me?” When I set my mind to something, I could be relentless.
“You’re on.” Katie nabbed two cookbooks and went to the kitchen.
&n
bsp; Bailey joined us. “I’m in, too. What are we making?”
Katie lodged the cookbooks into a pair of antique bronze book holders on the counter, then handed each of us hairnets, latex gloves, and aprons. “We’re going to attempt eggplant-and-Parmesan soup and a Caesar BLT salad.”
“That’s bold? That’s confident?” I said, donning my kitchen garb.
“It’s delicious and challenging.” Katie gathered eggplants, mushrooms, herbs, and shredded Parmesan from the refrigerator and set them beside one of the many wood butcher blocks. The recipe she was using came from an all-soup book called New England Soup Factory Cookbook: More Than 100 Recipes from the Nation’s Best Purveyor of Fine Soup. From accounts online, there were two Soup Factory restaurants, both located in Massachusetts, both very popular.
Katie named Bailey soup sous-chef; I was put in charge of the salad.
“That will make me fearless?” I said.
Katie chuckled. “Never question the chef. First, you need to learn to wield a knife with flair. Fetch the ingredients for your salad, and then start chopping tomatoes. Use the serrated knife. Bailey, get the white wine, leeks, and homemade stock.”
Bailey saluted. “Aye, aye, O, Captain, my Captain.”
I threw Bailey a sardonic look. “You do know that’s a line from a Whitman poem about Abraham Lincoln’s death, don’t you?”
“Yes, but . . . Oh, for Pete’s sake. I was honoring Katie.” Bailey sashayed to the refrigerator. “Don’t tell my mother, but I like Katie’s food better than my mom’s chef’s food.”
I flashed on the chef whose resignation had ignited a firestorm of resentment between Natalie and Lola. Luckily for him, he had a good alibi for the day Natalie was murdered. I said, “Did you know your mother has threatened to steal Katie away?”
“She wants to steal me?” Katie said, apparently learning for the first time of Lola’s interest. “I won’t go.”
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