Fudging the Books (A Cookbook Nook Mystery 4)

by Daryl Wood Gerber

  “Uh-uh,” Katie said. “Way too many pots on the stove. You all go ahead. We”—she indicated the sous-chefs and waitresses—“need to keep this under control.”

  Two tables, set for sixteen diners each, stood by the windows with the ocean view. Alison Foodie, a largish woman with a strong jaw and thick black hair, sat at the head of one table. She paused what she was doing—tapping in a message on her cell phone—and glowered at the screen. She took a sip from a glass of water and started in again. Tap, tap, tap.

  “Alison, look over here,” Tito Martinez ordered. When I first met Tito, he reminded me of an insecure boxer, the four-legged kind: broad face, broad shoulders, short legs, and eager for a confrontation. Now, he was smoother, almost suave. “Look this way.” Bailey had asked him to do a front-page spread about Alison and Coco’s united rise to fame. The story had local roots. Tito was totally on board. “No more business, Alison. C’mon. Smile.”

  Alison dropped her cell phone into her purse and offered a big, toothy grin. Wearing a swatch of a red-patterned tartan—what many in America call a plaid—slung over the shoulders of her sweater, she reminded me of a Scottish warrior.

  Spying Bailey, Alison set her glass aside and scrambled to her feet. She wasn’t much taller than I was, but when she hugged pint-sized Bailey, she seemed to consume her. “Darling, how are you?” Five years ago, when Bailey broke up with fiancé number two—or was it number three?—she crashed on Alison’s floor. Bailey could have stayed with me, of course, but she hadn’t wanted to intrude upon my new, albeit short-lived, marriage. A brief thought about my deceased husband was all I could manage. No more dwelling had recently become my mantra. I pushed the memory aside and strode ahead.

  “Alison,” I said, extending a hand. “Welcome.”

  “What a gig you have,” she said. “Well done, Jenna. Let me make the introductions.” She gestured toward the two people sitting at her table. “Bailey and Jenna, please meet our photographer, Dash Hamada.”

  I bit back a laugh. I heard Bailey swallow a snort, too. Dash—an unusual name for a Japanese man—looked every bit the pirate. He wore a bandana over a head of long black-gray hair. He was wearing a rumpled white shirt, opened at the collar, its sleeves cut off. Multiple tattoos, as Coco had warned us, decorated his arms and the V of skin beneath his neckline. He was paying us no mind. He was aiming a high-end Nikon camera at Coco and then Alison, taking snapshot after snapshot. A photographer’s vest, the kind with a horde of pockets, hung over the back of his chair. He pulled a swatch of silk out of a pocket and polished his lens, shoved it back in the pocket, and resumed shooting.

  Bailey bumped me with an elbow and rasped under her breath, “You’re gawking.”

  “I am not.”

  “Yes, you are.”

  “Dash. Avast, me hearty! Stop what you’re doing,” Alison chided. “Be polite and focus!”

  Dash released the camera—it hung from a strap around his neck—and his mouth curled into a rakish, albeit bordering on menacing, smile. “I’m not Yakuza, ladies, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

  I understood his reference. I happen to know that Yakuza are members of an international organized crime syndicate, most predominantly located in Japan. A couple of years ago, I read Tokyo Vice: An American Reporter on the Police Beat in Japan, a riveting story by an American investigative journalist. My husband had loved true crime.

  Dash added, “I do it for the appreciation of the art.”

  His tattoos were gorgeous and singular. The dragonfish down his right arm was surprisingly intricate. The aging ninja warrior that wrapped around his left bicep was fierce. The word love blazed across his chest.

  Alison said, “Dash—short for Dashiell, his father adored pulp fiction—takes photographs of tattoos, as a hobby.”

  “Not a hobby.”

  “Fine.” She flicked a finger at him. “He’s written a book about the art of tattooing, starting with woodblocks from the eighth century. He focuses on works by Horitaka, Shige, and more. You should see his website. It’s very deep.”

  “Deep, as in lots of pages,” Dash said.

  “He’s very Internet savvy.” Alison smiled at him in a patronizing way. “By the way, he doesn’t mind if you stare.”

  Dash grinned. “I wouldn’t have gotten the tattoos if I didn’t want you to check them out. They all mean something special. This one”—he used his ring-clad pinky to point out the dragon—“represents the fiery danger I had to go through early on in my life. I was an abused child. This one”—he rotated his forearm to reveal a tattoo of an ear floating on top of tight abs—“represents my former line of business. I used to do tattoos and piercing.”

  Alison said, “Some people think when others tat and impale themselves, beyond the norm—you know, a tiny rose tattoo on the ankle or pierced ears—that the person is weird. He or she must have issues. However, Dash sees piercing or tattooing as a personal expression.”

  Dash cocked his head. “It’s a way of showing to the world what you’ve accomplished and experienced. A life story, if you will. You’d be surprised who gets tattoos these days. People from all walks of life. Schoolteachers, lawyers, nurses.”

  Though tattooing was in vogue, I had chosen not to add artwork to my body.

  Dash spread the neckline of his shirt and revealed that there was more to the love tattoo. The word circled a globe. He smirked. “This one doesn’t need an explanation, does it? But enough about me. Have you met Ingrid Lake?” He aimed a forefinger at the lean woman sitting beside him and then resumed taking photographs.

  Ingrid was pretty in a put-together way. Chin-length, smooth blonde hair cupped her face. “Hello,” she whispered. At least I think that’s what she said. Her lips moved; her teeth didn’t budge. Perhaps she had been a ventriloquist at one time in her life, I mused, but then revised the idea. Ventriloquists didn’t move their lips. Maybe her teeth were wired together for dental purposes.

  “C’mon, me lass.” Dash nudged her, his pirate-like brogue thick and leaning toward a British accent. “Speak up.”

  Ingrid blushed through her pale makeup. “Don’t speak pirate-ese to me, Dash.” Even with prodding, her teeth didn’t move. “It’s infantile.”

  “Don’t yerself,” Dash shot back. “I’m here to have fun. And, if I recall, you asked to come along. Look lively.”

  Ingrid toyed with the top button of her frilly blouse.

  “He’s right, Ingrid,” Alison said. “Lighten up. No lemons, only lemonade.” She turned to Bailey and me. “Ingrid is the copyeditor at Foodie Publishing. Very detail oriented.” Alison glanced over her shoulder, making sure she caught Ingrid’s attention. “Perhaps too much so.”

  “I am not,” Ingrid whispered.

  “No T’s uncrossed, no I’s undotted,” Alison said. “And heaven forbid if I or any of my authors use the words I or me improperly in a sentence.”

  “The way we speak exhibits the level of our education,” Ingrid said.

  “To quote your mother,” Alison teased.

  Ingrid sat straighter. “She was a genius.”

  “As are you.”

  Coco planted a hand on one hip. “Aha. So, Ingrid, you’re the one who’s been changing all my cooking directions. I like them to be written in what I call easy prose. Chatty. I don’t want them spruced into perfect English.”

  Ingrid shook her head. “No, that’s not me. I would never change your voice. However, Alison—”

  Alison cleared her throat.

  “I mean Miss Foodie—”

  “No, Ingrid!” Alison cut her off. “I didn’t mean for you to correct yourself. Just don’t speak.”

  Coco’s face clouded over. She rapped Alison’s shoulder. “What is she trying to tell me?”

  “Nothing.”

  “You’re not messing with my voice, are you?”

 
Alison didn’t respond.

  “Are you?” Coco picked up a glass of water from the table.

  Alison eyed it and smirked. “Don’t tell me you intend to throw that at me.”

  “Promise me you’re not changing anything I write”—Coco’s mouth curled in a snarl—“or else.”

  “Or else what? You’ll douse me?”

  “It’s in my contract that you can’t edit without my approval.”

  “Can’t? Can’t?”

  “It’s proprietary.”

  “I’m your publisher. I can do anything I want. Read your contract.”

  “Why you—”

  Tito raised his camera. I whipped my arm up to block his shot.

  Chapter 3

  “STOP!” BAILEY SHOUTED.

  Everyone in the café but Tito froze in place. He clicked his camera in succession. Multiple flashes went off.

  “No, Tito, stop!” I said, as visions of front-page photos reeled in my mind. The Nook Café: A perfect spot for a fight. Or Want to make a splash? Visit the Nook. Argh! Not all publicity was good publicity.

  “Oh, relax,” Coco cried. “We’re not really going at it.” She set the water aside, and she and Alison erupted into giggles. “Gotcha.” She addressed the crowd. “Every one of you, close your mouths. My, oh, my, the looks on your faces. You especially, Ingrid.” She bumped knuckles with Alison. “We were good.”

  “Yes, we were.” Alison grinned. “Practice makes perfect.”

  “Or makes fun,” Ingrid grumbled under her breath. Her pale eyes glinted with malice. Apparently she didn’t like to be an unwitting patsy.

  Neither did I, truth be told. What on earth had Alison and Coco been thinking? Was I just being a fuddy-duddy?

  Dash guffawed. “Way to go, me lasses. You had us all by the throat.”

  I leaned over to Bailey and whispered, “Were you in on this?”

  “Nope. I didn’t have a clue.” Bailey eyed Alison and Coco, who were still high-fiving each other like pranking sorority sisters. “When did you two cook up this stunt?”

  Coco chuckled. “Last night over one too many cocktails. And champagne. I’m such a lightweight when it comes to that.”

  “Ahem,” Alison said. “Only you were drinking.” She yawned and quickly covered her mouth with a hand. “I wasn’t.”

  “That’s because you’re such a party animal,” Coco teased.

  “Hear me roar.” Alison clawed the air and mouthed a growl.

  Ingrid tsked. Her nose flared. She was clearly displeased.

  “I was the designated driver,” Alison said. “I had to get the two of us home in one piece.”

  “Alison is staying with Coco,” Bailey explained.

  “Why aren’t you at your mother’s, Alison?” I asked.

  “I stayed there the night before last, but Ingrid needed a place to sleep. Coco suggested that my mother and Ingrid would get along well. Mom loves to gab because . . .” She cocked her head. “With Dad gone.” Her father had passed away a few years ago. “Coco suggested I crash at her place. That would create a little more space at Mom’s.” Alison eyed Coco. “And I guess it provided us with extra time to cook up a little tomfoolery.” She clapped her hands. “Okay, enough of this hoo-ha. Let’s raise the sails and set to sea. Where’s the grub?” She poked Dash. “Is that enough pirate-ese for you?”

  “Not by a yardarm.” Dash cut a glance to his right. “Hey, scat, cat!” He waved his hand. Tigger appeared on Dash’s chair.

  “Tigger!” I said.

  The cat blinked to feign innocence. Had he been poking around in Dash’s photographer’s vest?

  “No, kitty. Bad kitty.” I nabbed him. “Sorry, Dash.”

  “No worries,” Dash said. “I just don’t want cat nose smudges on my contact prints.”

  Contact prints are strips of photographic images produced from negatives. Back at Taylor & Squibb, the location scout would put together a spread of pictures, in the form of contact sheets, so we could peruse them to determine which location to use.

  “What do you have contact prints of, you sneak?” Alison asked. “We’ve been in town less than five minutes, and Coco hasn’t cooked a thing.”

  Dash’s mouth quirked up on the right. “I’m allowed to take photos on my own, Al.”

  “Of course.” Alison explained to the rest of us, “Dash won’t go anywhere without his latest contact prints, like someone might swipe them from his room. Talk about paranoid.”

  A guarded look passed between them.

  “So what were you shooting?” Alison said.

  “The scenery. Crystal Cove is a vision. Did you see the coastline?” Dash spread his hands as he described the bay. “Deep blue with a fine tinge of green close to the shore. And the mountains? Breathtaking in their simplicity. Don’t get me started about the lighthouse. You know how I love lighthouses.”

  Alison said, “In addition to tattooed bodies, Dash loves to photograph lighthouses as well as monkeys, of all things. The San Francisco Zoo has a fine set of the latter, I’ve been told.”

  “Yep.” Dash nodded. “They’re rascals.”

  Ingrid nudged Alison and whispered loudly enough for all to hear, “I spied him taking photos of pirates.” She made it sound like that was a horrid offense.

  “Yo ho, Dash.” Alison winked. “Got a thing for the mates, do ye?”

  “Yo ho, yourself.” He grinned. “What do you think?”

  Alison assessed him head to toe. She raised an eyebrow.

  Dash blew her a raspberry. “Hardly. I’m photographing wenches, if ye will, the pretty kinds of pirates.”

  “We had a few pirates in full regalia dart into the shop yesterday,” I said. “They broke into a sword fight.”

  Bailey gawped. “Where was I?”

  “In the café kitchen, I think.”

  “And you didn’t tell me?”

  “Oops.” I addressed the rest of the folks. “They scared the wits out of me, until I realized I’d forgotten what day it was.”

  “The beginning of Pirate Week,” Bailey said. “So that’s why we got cracking on the display window.”

  I aimed a finger. Bingo.

  “Pirate Week is a draw,” Dash said. “Quite colorful. I have a mind to do a story about it, maybe sell it to the local papers.”

  Tito, who had been hanging back taking more photographs, said, “Oh no you don’t, you scallywag. Don’t even dare.”

  Dash saluted. “Aye, mate. Just joshing. That’s your arena. No worries.”

  Someone rapped on the café door.

  Pepper Pritchett, a thick woman with a beaky nose, poked her head inside. “Hello. Are you ready for us?” Pepper owned Beaders of Paradise, a beading shop next door. She was one of the first members of the Chocolate Cookbook Club. Prior to a few months ago, she wouldn’t have been caught dead in my presence—she had an ancient beef with my family—but we had mended fences. It hadn’t hurt that I’d cajoled Katie into making some spicy chocolate to win Pepper over. Having Pepper as an ally made working in the same complex so much more enjoyable.

  Gran, a gray-haired but bright-eyed grandmother who owned the finest collection of shawls I’d ever seen, followed Pepper. Bailey’s mother, Lola Bird, who was like my second mother, trailed them.

  “Hello, everyone!” Aunt Vera entered. She was a study in red—red turban, red caftan—red being her color of choice for the month of February.

  Cinnamon Pritchett, Pepper’s daughter and our chief of police, lagged behind the pack, her cell phone pressed to her ear. Cinnamon was a stark contrast to my aunt. Her brown hair was as dark as my aunt’s red hair was bright. Aunt Vera looked like the sun had never kissed her skin; Cinnamon was a tanned, outdoorsy beauty. She, like me, wasn’t much of a cook, but she was a chocolate hound, and like so many of us in the Chocolate Cookb
ook Club, she confessed that she adored looking at chocolate porn—photographs of cookies, cakes, and candy. Whipped cream in a picture was an added bonus. Of the group, Cinnamon owned the largest collection of chocolate-themed cookbooks. With one arm, she balanced a platter covered with a checkered cloth.

  Ending her conversation, Cinnamon pocketed the cell phone and grinned. “I’m ready to taste everything. Where’s Coco?” She lit a path to our guest of honor. After exchanging a few words, she whirled around and unwrapped the platter she was carrying. It held a selection of chocolate cookies and pastries. “Jenna, take a look at these. I made them myself.”

  “Liar.”

  “Truth.” She crossed her heart. “I’ve been taking lessons.”

  “From whom?”

  Cinnamon mimed sealing her lips.

  “No fair,” I said. “Blab.”

  “I’ve been told I’ll suffer a rogue’s death.”

  “Talk!” I knuckled her.

  “Okay.” Cinnamon chuckled. “It was Lola.”

  Lola, a tiny bundle of luscious energy, much like her daughter, fluffed her spiky silver hair and offered a hearty laugh. “I knew you couldn’t keep a secret, Cinnamon.”

  “How could I hold back?” Cinnamon snickered. “You’re such an inspiration. I feel like I’ve made leaps and bounds of progress in the past week. And possibly gained five pounds in the process.” Cinnamon was lean, like me, and exercised regularly. She claimed she had to remain buff to maintain her prominence in a department full of men. I doubted she would ever put on weight. “It’s a recipe out of Lola’s latest cookbook,” she added.

  Lola, who owned The Pelican Brief Diner, had written two books. One focused on fish entrées; the other was dedicated to desserts. Foodie Publishing had put out both. Alison liked helping locals get ahead in their careers.

  “You aren’t trying to outdo me, are you, Lola?” Coco asked.

  “As if I could.”

  “Try one, Jenna.” Cinnamon thrust the platter in my direction.

  I plucked a frothy-looking chocolate cookie from the assortment and popped it into my mouth. “Mmm.” I licked my fingertips. “Meringue?”