The first person I called was my father.
Chapter 27
AFTER PROMISING TO meet Dad for dinner, I returned to The Cookbook Nook and waded through the day. Despite my sorrow, I was able to sell quite a few books. Naturally, my tastes leaned toward anything with a happy ending. No kitchen fiasco tales. No women’s fiction that might make me cry. Customers seemed pleased with my choices. I was also able to move a lot of foodie jigsaw puzzles, mainly because I sat down at the vintage table and put together one after another to occupy my beleaguered brain.
Every so often my aunt, Bailey, or Katie, all of whom I had rounded up immediately to tell the news, would approach me. Aunt Vera would give me a quick hug. Bailey would pat my back without saying a word. Katie brought me homemade Oreo-style cookies and milk.
At closing, the trio corralled me. I felt nervous, as if they were going to pick me over like a pack of female gorillas. They didn’t. My aunt instigated a group hug. As we stood in a cluster, she intoned, “Oh great Creator or Creatress, whichever you might be, may you provide Jenna with comfort during this time of need and give her hope for the future.” She paused, then added, “That’s it.”
I giggled. “That’s it? No amen?”
“You know that’s not my style.”
“No spells? No incantations?”
“Don’t make fun, young lady.”
I broke free and bussed her cheek. “Thank you all for your concern and your love.” Bailey and Katie regarded me dolefully. “Stop it. I’m going to be fine. David is gone. At least now I know why. Solving that mystery will help me move on with my life. I promise. As Jane Austen said, ‘Friendship is certainly the finest balm for the pangs of disappointed love.’”
We hugged again, and I left for dinner.
• • •
I STOOD NEXT to the railing at The Pelican Brief Diner, staring out at the view. The sun, which was sinking into the horizon, gleamed a brilliant orange. Wisps of white clouds hovered high in the dusky blue sky. On the water, paddle boarders poled in a straight line toward The Pier. The picturesque moment should have made me feel calm and peaceful, but it didn’t.
My father sat at the table. Lola nestled beside him. I could feel their gazes drilling holes into my back. After we’d ordered the evening’s special, my father, who was never one to dwell on the negative, asked me how I was doing. That was when I stood and moved to the railing. How much time had passed since he had asked me the question? Two minutes? Five?
“Jenna, please sit,” my father said. He didn’t add, “Eat some fresh-baked bread.” But I knew that was what he wanted. Two years ago, when I’d learned of David’s death, I hadn’t consumed much, and before I knew it, I’d lost fifteen pounds I could ill afford to have lost. Of course, all those pounds came back. My father needn’t worry.
I swiveled and leaned against the railing. “I was surprised by David’s duplicity,” I said as if continuing a conversation. “Not just surprised. Shocked. Horrified. I thought we had this fabulous relationship. We told each other everything. I mean, he knew me to the last detail. I even admitted my greatest fear to him.”
“Which is?” Lola said.
“A silly thing, but I feel so vulnerable whenever I share it. Getting swallowed into the wall like that child in ‘Little Girl Lost.’” I wasn’t much of a television viewer, but every New Year’s Day, my father talked me into watching the Twilight Zone marathon. That particular episode gave me the heebie-jeebies beyond belief. “Why do you think David did what he did?”
Lola said, “I had a client once who did much the same thing. He bilked his investors, which shocked the heck out of all of us because he was a church-going, God-fearing individual, but it turned out he’d been hooked on gambling from a young age. He had hidden the signs and worked his rear end off to make all his payments until he couldn’t keep up any longer. He was about David’s age.”
“I meant why did my husband commit suicide?”
“He went out in a boat,” Dad said. “Maybe he hoped, given time, he could talk himself out of killing himself.” He joined me at the railing and slung an arm around my shoulders.
Lola rose and stood on the other side of me. She tucked an arm around my waist. We made an odd Three Musketeers.
“It’s over now, Tootsie Pop.”
“Is it, Dad? I have the coins.”
“Which I’ll help you distribute. We’ll get right on it next week. It’ll take some time, but we’ll make restitution. Okay?”
Our waiter arrived with our specials, which were beautiful in presentation: salmon seared with crosshatched grill marks topped with a salsa made with large chunks of avocado and mango, all set on a pile of luscious mashed potatoes.
My father guided me back to the table. I ate half my meal and pushed the plate away.
“Is something wrong with your dinner, Jenna?” Lola said.
“No. “
“The recipe came from one of the cookbooks I bought at your store.”
“You stole the recipe?” my father said, playfulness in his tone.
“That’s the whole purpose of cookbooks, isn’t it? To share.”
“There’s a subtle difference.”
Their banter triggered something in my mind. A string of S words slewed together: subtle, share, steal, scheming, sad. Something jolted inside me. I couldn’t stay seated any longer. I bolted to my feet.
“What’s wrong?” Lola said.
“I need to walk. I need—” Emotions clogged my throat. I headed for the front door.
Lola rose. My father did, as well. They escorted me to the street. A cool breeze hit us as we exited the diner. I wrapped my arms around myself. Dad offered his jacket, but I declined. I walked north. They followed. I could feel their concern. I didn’t make eye contact.
After a long silence, I said, “I saw Rhett at the bank this morning, Dad. Did you know he’s taking on a partner?”
“No.” My father was a regular at Bait and Switch. He loved everything about the store, from the fishing lures to the exotic knives.
“Rhett said he had to separate his accounts for the sake of transparency. If only David had been as transparent.”
“He couldn’t be, sweetheart. He was sick. Luckily he kept your accounts separate to protect you from future litigation.”
“But don’t you see?” I swallowed hard. “That means he knew ahead of time what he was doing.” Additional S words joined the ones forming a kick line in my mind: sly, slick. “What if there’s more to discover?”
“You mean like an offshore account?” Lola said.
“Lola, please,” my father said.
“Eyes wide open, Cary. Lots of individuals create these accounts to protect themselves from malpractice suits. The bank routes funds through several corporate entities. An offshore account provides layers of protection. They’re not illegal. All you need in order to get one is your passport, a reference from the bank, samples of your signature, and proof of residence.” Lola nudged me. “Well, Jenna?”
“I honestly don’t know, but I’m going to find out.” One way or another. No more surprises. My cell phone buzzed; I fished it from my purse.
“I didn’t hear your phone ring,” my father said.
“It vibrated. Cinnamon sent me a text. Aunt Vera contacted her and told her about David. She’s sending her condolences.” I pondered what Cinnamon had to be going through, trying to solve two murders while keeping the rest of Crystal Cove safe. Tough job. “It was nice of her to take the time.”
Although I would bet the last thing she wanted to hear were theories from the grieving wife of a suicide victim, perhaps I owed her a visit. We hadn’t spoken since I’d left her a message the other day. Setting a goal made me feel instantly better and more in control of me.
• • •
THERE WERE A few empty spaces in the precinct parking lot. I pulled next to an SUV, my VW bug looking like a pipsqueak beside it, and hurried into the building. The clerk informed me that Cinnamon w
asn’t in. She was—wink, wink—on a date, as if that were a big deal. Maybe it was. I wished I knew more about her. I vowed, starting tomorrow, to make an extra effort to develop our friendship.
As I exited the building, the moose-looking deputy with the huge jaw followed me. “Hey, Jenna, what’s new?”
“Nothing.”
He kept pace while pulling a lighter and a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. He was about to light up when he must have seen my frown. He tucked his paraphernalia away and hitched his jaw at the precinct. “Got word that something was up. Want to share?”
Share, steal, sly, scheme. I countered the onslaught of words with a childish invocation: Rain, rain, go away. Don’t come back another day.
“No, thanks,” I said politely. I wasn’t about to theorize with a guy I didn’t know. Let me rephrase. I did know the Moose. I’d met him when I first met Cinnamon weeks ago, but we hadn’t really chatted. I didn’t know his full name. I didn’t know whether he had a family, a wife or kids. Was he from around here? Could he be trusted? In the long run, these questions mattered. If only I had been so wise years ago. Before David.
Doing my best to get a grip, I said, “Cinnamon and I had discussed grabbing a cup of coffee.”
“Uh-huh. At ten at night?” The Moose was no dummy.
“I had a craving for a white chocolate mocha or a vanilla spice latte.”
“I like them both.” He displayed his left hand. No ring. He was baiting me.
“Yeah, well.” I inched away. “Tell Cinnamon I dropped by.”
“Will do. And if you ever want to talk to me . . .” He let the sentence hang.
I blushed. What was it about bereaved widows that turned guys on? Easy pickings? Not this one. I hurried to my car and sped away.
Home alone in the cottage, with only Tigger for company, the events of the day hit me hard. I felt lost. My stomach was raw, my throat hot. I wanted to cry but tears wouldn’t come. I tried to force them out. Nothing. I growled, and Tigger echoed me.
“I’m not playing, kitty cat.”
He nudged my foot with his nose. I nudged him with my shoe. He rolled onto his back, eager to tussle.
“Sorry, fella. Not now.” I felt the urge to shout, but words escaped me. David, David, David. I slumped into the chair by the kitchen table and eyed the Lucky Cat and David’s gym bag. If only my husband had confided in me. If only he had trusted me. Maybe we could have gotten him help. Maybe we could have worked through the problem and faced the future together. I loved him; there was no doubt. Yes, he had disappointed me, and yes, his decision to end his life would forever haunt me, but I would never stop loving him. I thought of his final letter, and an idea came to me. I fetched a piece of stationery and wrote a note to the detective in charge of David’s case. He probably needed closure as much as I did. One cold case solved.
Unable to sleep, I decided to paint. Though I had made my career as an ad executive, I had always dreamed of being an artist. As was true for many artists, I was good but not great. Even so, painting relaxed me. I set up a blank canvas, chose a bristle brush, pulled my moisture-retaining palette from its drawer, and after removing the lid, dabbed a brush with black paint. Where to begin? I stared at the canvas. I had nothing. Nada. I paced the cottage waiting for inspiration to hit.
Two hours later, I still had nothing. Frustrated and in desperate need of an emotional release, I drew a game of tic-tac-toe. I played knowing I couldn’t win. When I stopped painting and stared at all those Xs and Os, they reminded me of unrequited hugs and kisses, and I lost it. I daubed my brush into red paint and smeared the color over the game. The result was a mess of grungy brown. It wasn’t beautiful, but it was a start. Angry Art, I titled it.
Around 3:00 A.M., I put away my supplies and, crying, collapsed onto the couch.
At 7:00 A.M., I woke, puffy-eyed and ready to punch whoever was pounding on my door.
Chapter 28
AS IF PROPELLED from a cannon, I bolted off the couch. The instant my feet hit the floor, I moaned. My head ached. I was wobbly. I hadn’t had any liquor, and yet I felt as if I had imbibed a bottle of wine all by myself. Grief sucks.
More pounding. My aunt called my name. What was so urgent?
I grabbed my robe and hurried to the door. I peered through the peephole. Aunt Vera stood on the porch looking radiant in a sky blue caftan. She held up a steaming cup of something and a plate of poached eggs on hash. At least she wasn’t demanding I run for safety. No fire. No UFO sightings.
I opened the door. “What?” I said, not too politely.
“Food for the soul.”
“That usually includes sugar.”
“Protein is better for you right now.”
Without asking, Aunt Vera entered and set my breakfast on the kitchen table while noting that she had found the recipe for poached eggs on bacon hash from a beautiful cookbook called The Art of Breakfast: How to Bring B&B Entertaining Home, written by a woman who runs the Maine Innkeeping Academy. Who knew there was such a thing? Next, Aunt Vera pulled a necklace with an ice white quartz pendant from her pocket. “I also brought this. Good vibrations for healing and protection.”
Even though my brain felt foggier than the San Francisco Bay, I could recite what my aunt had taught me through the years. Quartz was the universal crystal, and Crystal Cove, like much of the California coast, was rife with crystals and gemstones; hence, the name. Crystal, my aunt had told me on more than one occasion, could dispel negative energy and purify one’s mental and physical planes.
“Put it on,” she ordered.
“But I’m wearing my mother’s locket.”
“Not right now. I know what’s inside.”
David’s picture.
“When you are ready to replace the photograph with a new love,” she continued, “you can put the locket back on, but for now, do as I say.”
I didn’t know what chants my aunt had recited before coming to the cottage but, as if transfixed, I obeyed. Instantly—I knew it was nuts—I felt better. Lighter. Almost tingly.
Aunt Vera leaned in and kissed both of my cheeks. “A delightful future awaits you. Now, let’s put on our thinking caps and come up with new ideas for the shop. Today is the last day of the Grill Fest. We need inspiration.”
Over breakfast, I told her about my no fear motto in the kitchen. “I don’t want to run the café, mind you. I could never replace Katie, but I want to learn. Everything.” I told her that our clientele should have the same opportunity as I. We needed more cooking classes scheduled on the calendar. At once. In addition to Katie, we would book chefs from the local restaurants and diners, including Rhett.
Once I arrived at The Cookbook Nook, I collected all the how-to books we had in stock. Rachael Ray, known for throwing together quick meals, had penned a cookbook titled My Year in Meals. I browsed it and found easy-to-read, unpretentious recipes, each created because she had decided to write a food diary about her dining habits, similar in style to Julie and Julia. Granted, given the list of ingredients Rachael used, I would have to add food and spices to my cupboards, but I was ready.
To enhance my increasingly upbeat mood, I switched on a mixtape of music. Bobby McFerrin’s charming song “Don’t Worry, Be Happy” was first in the queue. McFerrin didn’t mention food in the lyrics—one of the requirements for the mixtape—but the song came from the movie Cocktail. Close enough, right?
As I set up for the afternoon’s Grill Fest finale, Tigger, who had picked up on my jovial mood, followed me everywhere, prancing and attacking. The tickle of his claws on my exposed toes made me smile. I was alive and I had feelings. Yay for me.
Around 1:30 P.M., Katie showed up with a cookie bar made with peanut butter, crispy rice cereal, and chocolate that rocked my world. My aunt claimed she had predicted Katie’s sugary treats; that was why she had fed me eggs for breakfast. I didn’t believe her for a nanosecond.
Not too soon after the appearance of the goodies, Pepper Pritchett arrived. While mu
nching, she paused in the archway leading to the hall and said, “The music is loud.”
“Yes, I know,” I said.
None of the customers, many of them prospective audience members for the final round of the Grill Fest, seemed to mind. A few were swaying to the beat. Refusing to let Pepper get to me today, maybe not ever again—in addition to learning to be an expert cook, I was intent on creating a happy serum, or at the very least a happy spell, for Pepper—I did my best to grin like the Cheshire cat from Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland. Tigger murmured his approval.
As Pepper moved to her spot at the judges’ table, I wondered about her daughter, Cinnamon, and why she hadn’t returned my call. I went to the sales counter and dialed the precinct. Cinnamon wasn’t in. I was transferred to the Moose, who sounded miffed that I had called, as if I hadn’t trusted him to relay last night’s message. Perhaps he was ticked that I hadn’t swooped in and accepted his offer of coffee. Men.
“I promise, Miss Hart,” he said with an edge, “she will call. When she has time. We have lots of activities going on in town, which means set-tos and accidents.”
Call me crazy, but a smidgen of worry pinched the edges of my mind when he mentioned accidents. “Is Cinnamon okay? I mean, nothing’s happened to her, right?”
The Moose hung up on me. Steamed, I slammed down the receiver. If he’d hoped to make a friend of me, he had ended that chance.
At the same time, Mayor Zeller, wearing a burgundy pantsuit, bustled into the store. “It’s the finals. Are we ready? What a delight this whole event has been.” She faltered. “Minus the sad tragedy of Natalie’s demise, of course.” She waved a hand in front of her face, as if to cool the flush of embarrassment. “Ah, here are the contestants.”
Mitzi walked in looking like a gun-shy deer. Her eyes were pinpoints of angst; her smile thin. Sam was holding on to her arm. Making it to the finals must have really been doing a number on her. Sam released her, and she took up her post by her cooking station. Tito followed, appearing as relaxed as I had ever seen him. No dogged attitude, no swagger. In fact, he was grinning from ear to ear. His visit to the gym must have gone a lot better than mine.
Inherit the Word (The Cookbook Nook Series) Page 25