Fudging the Books (A Cookbook Nook Mystery 4)

by Daryl Wood Gerber

  “This is not your fault.” I touched her shoulder. “Stop it. Alison is not dead because of you.” Or my karma, I reminded myself. “And Coco didn’t do it.”

  “Are you sure?”

  I wasn’t certain about anything, but I wasn’t about to fan the fire. “Coco did not kill Alison.”

  Bailey plopped into one of the overstuffed reading chairs. “If only Alison hadn’t stayed at Coco’s. She could just as easily have stayed at her mom’s house or a nice hotel. Her company makes a good deal of money.”

  “The killer would have found her at either.”

  Bailey sighed. “So you don’t think this was random?”

  “No.” I thought about what Bailey had said; Foodie Publishing was a thriving business. I recalled Neil racing upstairs exhibiting virtually no remorse for the death of his sister. “Bailey, do you know who will run Foodie Publishing now that Alison is dead? Will it be sold, or will it fold?”

  “I don’t have a clue.”

  “Alison wasn’t married. She had no kids. Could her brother be her heir?”

  “I doubt it. She wasn’t very complimentary about Neil. He’s not serious, a kidder. Didn’t you hear Simon infer last night at Vines that there was no love lost?”

  “If Alison did put him in her will, he would inherit the business. There’s motive.”

  “Wow.” Bailey pitched forward and balanced on the edge of the chair.

  I told her about my encounter with Neil a few minutes ago. “He was glib, like you say, and unmoved.”

  “Neil is always like that.” Bailey batted the air. “Often sarcastic and quick with a joke. Nothing ever fazes him. And yet . . .” She wagged her head. “I can’t imagine he’d want to run the business. He doesn’t seem smart enough. What we really need to know,” Bailey went on, “is whether the business could be sold at a profit. If Alison did include Neil in her will, he could make off like a bandit.”

  Tigger scampered to her and nudged her hand with his head. Bailey scrubbed his ears. “Hi, fella. Thanks for the hugs. I need a pet just like you.”

  “Speaking of pets,” I said, “Tito was just here.”

  Bailey scowled. “That wasn’t nice.”

  “He’s texting you and calling you all the time, and he’s following you around like a lapdog. Does that make you happy?”

  She smiled, albeit the smile was bittersweet. “It doesn’t make me unhappy. I sort of like being fawned over. No man has ever done that for me before. Did you tell him where I was?”

  I nodded. “But he got wind of the murder and shot out of here like a dog hot on the scent of a fox.”

  “A reporter’s job is to write about the scuttlebutt.” Bailey scanned the shop. “Where’s your aunt?”

  “Wow.” I smacked my thigh. “I almost forgot to tell you. Aunt Vera saw Coco at Nature’s Retreat last night around eleven.”

  “That’s wonderful.” Bailey hopped to her feet. “She can establish Coco’s alibi.”

  “Exactly. She went to the precinct to talk to Cinnamon.”

  Bailey whacked my arm. “Coco is innocent. I knew it.”

  “Has Coco told Cinnamon with whom she spent the night?”

  Bailey frowned. “Nope. Isn’t that crazy? She said she wouldn’t ruin his life just because hers was ruined.”

  “So he is married.”

  “That’s my impression.” Bailey squeezed my arm. “But, now, she shouldn’t need to blab, since your aunt can corroborate her whereabouts.”

  “I suppose.”

  “No matter what, we’ll keep after Cinnamon and make sure she finds Alison’s killer, right?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Bailey began to pace again. “I’m starved. Has Katie put any treats out?”

  As if on cue, Katie strode down the breezeway connecting The Cookbook Nook to the café. Her toque stood tall on her head. Her chef’s coat was spanking white and looked freshly pressed. She was carrying a tray of mini chocolate muffins.

  “Perfect timing,” Bailey said. “What do you have?”

  “Chocolate banana muffins,” Katie replied. “Easy to make. Delicious to eat. The recipe is from Coco’s first cookbook.”

  “Perfect. I could use a quick dose of sugar.” I downed two.

  So did Bailey.

  “I’m still hungry,” Bailey mumbled through a mouthful of food. “Jenna, how about a late breakfast at Mum’s the Word?” The Word, which was the abbreviated name for the diner, was known for its comfort food.

  I said, “We can go when Aunt Vera returns.”

  Katie set the tray on the counter and planted her hands on her hips. “What’s wrong with eating at the Nook Café?”

  Bailey said, “We’ll get more gossip if we’re not on our own turf.”

  “Gossip about what?”

  Bailey eyed me. “You haven’t told her?”

  “This is the first I’ve seen her.”

  Bailey filled Katie in about Alison’s murder.

  Tears sprang to Katie’s eyes. “I’m so sorry. I really liked her. I didn’t know her well, of course, but . . .” She dabbed her eyes with the sleeve of her coat. “Shoot. I’m so horrible.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  “I . . .” Katie faltered.

  “Speak,” I ordered.

  “I was considering sending Alison a cookbook idea. Now . . .” Katie covered her mouth. Through split fingers, she said, “You must think I’m a monster for thinking about me at a time like this.”

  “Of course we don’t.” I put my hand on her shoulder. “You’ve got dreams like everyone else. It’s normal.”

  “What can I do to help? Oh, I know.” Katie snapped her fingers. “Alison’s family will need food. I’ll make up some lasagna and some fresh-baked bread.”

  “There’s only her mother and brother,” I said.

  “Even more reason to show up with a meal.” Katie grabbed the tray of goodies and headed back to the café. Over her shoulder she said, “Two people often find a reason to ignore food altogether. They’ll starve if they do. I’ll make a couple of small portions of lasagna. Pasta . . . it’s good for the soul.”

  “Ingrid is staying with them, too,” Bailey called after her.

  Ingrid. I wondered what her next move would be. Would she stay in town for the duration of the investigation, or would she return to San Francisco to look for a new job?

  Thinking of the tight-toothed copyeditor made me once again ponder the future of Foodie Publishing. Would the company close its doors for good, or would it go up for sale? Had Alison put a plan in place, in the event of her death?

  Chapter 8

  NO MATTER HOW hungry Bailey and I were, we had to wait until Aunt Vera returned before we could leave the shop. Granted, my father was still in the stockroom working on the squeaky door. He could stop what he was doing, and he would be fine working the register, but he didn’t know the merchandise in the shop, and Fridays could be a zoo at The Cookbook Nook. Typically, everyone came in at the last minute in desperate need of something special.

  Close to noon, Gran, the eldest member of the Chocolate Cookbook Club, bustled into the store, a mischievous grin on her weathered face. She was fast becoming one of my favorite customers. I couldn’t remember a visit where she didn’t buy at least two items. At the cookbook club event, she had purchased three of Coco’s books, one for each of her daughters-in-law. Ka-ching, as Bailey would say.

  “Jenna!” Gran wriggled her arm. The silver silhouettes of grandchildren on her charm bracelet jangled.

  “Hello. It’s so good to see you. I set aside a book for you.”

  “Wonderful. I heard you have another book that I must have.” Gran pulled a list from her Prada clutch and read, “The Chocolate Diaries.”

  The full title was The Chocolate Diaries: Secrets for a Sweeter Jour
ney on the Rocky Road of Life, a nonfiction book that we had brought in recently. Although it was written a few years ago, the true-life stories, often humorous, were au courant. Dozens of women shared tactics about how to achieve a more satisfying life.

  “My daughter-in-law suggested it.” Gran had moved to town recently. I remembered her first visit with her grandchildren in tow, each chiding her about how many boxes of cookbooks she had brought along in her move. Not only did she collect shawls, she was an avid church bazaar cookbook collector. She claimed she had at least one from every state.

  “Which daughter-in-law?” I asked.

  “Why, the one I’m living with, silly.” Gran winked. “I’m sure there’s one particular story she’ll want me to read. Possibly about being less on the go. She wants me to slow down. Can you imagine? Me?”

  She purchased her book and hurried out the way she had raced in. Never a moment to lose, I’d heard her say on one occasion.

  Bailey sidled up to me. Her stomach grumbled in protest. “It’s nearly twelve o’clock. When will your—”

  Aunt Vera rushed into the shop. She looked quite ragged. Strands of hair flapped about her face. Her forehead was pinched.

  Bailey and I rushed to her.

  “It’s not good news,” Aunt Vera said. “Cinnamon. Pfft. That girl.” She swatted the air. “She simply refuses to believe that my eyewitness account clears Coco.”

  Bailey glowered at me. “I warned you.”

  I hushed her. “Aunt Vera. Go on. Why was Cinnamon skeptical?”

  “She asked if I sat outside the room and stared at the door until dawn.” Aunt Vera grumbled. “Of course, I didn’t, so she said Coco could have slipped into and out of the room without anyone noticing. Nature’s Retreat has rear stairs and a path through the gardens. I’m afraid our chief of police will need more corroboration of Coco’s whereabouts.”

  “From Coco’s lover.”

  “Yes.”

  “And he hasn’t come forward?”

  “Not to my knowledge. Where’s your father?”

  “Still in the stockroom.”

  “He hasn’t fixed the telephone line yet?”

  “I keep hearing the squeaky door opening and closing,” I said. “Bailey and I need to eat lunch. Are you okay running the shop alone?”

  “Absolutely. It’ll take my mind off—” Aunt Vera flitted a hand again and muttered, “That girl. Where are you going?”

  “The Word.”

  “Take flyers about tomorrow’s event.” My aunt strode through the drapes into the stockroom. “Cary . . .”

  I grabbed a batch of flyers, and Bailey and I drove off in my VW. The pirate décor that seemed to have sprung up overnight on Buena Vista Boulevard was fun and frivolous. Flags embellished with skeletons hung from the lampposts. Cutouts of ships or hook hands or tricorn hats adorned the windows of the shops and restaurants.

  Along the coast, just short of The Pier, we heard a boom!

  I tapped the brake. “What was that?”

  Bailey pointed toward the bay. “Cannon fire.”

  An old-fashioned wooden ship with a huge white mainsail adorned with skull and crossbones was anchored in the bay. A string of life rafts looped around the ship. People in pirate outfits were climbing out of the rafts and boarding the vessel. In the last raft stood a bride in a frothy white gown, its train being held up by four young children. Apparently a wedding was kicking into high gear. Fun!

  Minutes later, I halted at the entrance to the parking area at The Pier. A gigantic sign read: Pirates Only, All Others Will Walk the Plank.

  “Will we be ousted for not wearing costumes?” I asked.

  “No,” Bailey said. “Park.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Positive. Look out the window.”

  Throngs of people were making their way across the lot. Only half of them were dressed as pirates.

  I parked and pulled the Children’s Pirate Day flyers from my tote bag and offered half to Bailey. “Start handing these out.”

  As we followed the crowd, Bailey said, “Look at everyone, having fun without a care in the world.”

  “Don’t begrudge them their enjoyment. Not everyone knows about the murder.” I didn’t add, Nor will they be affected. Not like us. Keeping to our plan, I said, “What should we ask at Mum’s the Word?”

  “Did anyone see Coco at Nature’s Retreat after your aunt did?” Bailey shoved a flyer into the hands of a mom pushing a stroller.

  “Good.” I offered a flyer to a father of two.

  “Maybe we should ask if someone can identify Coco’s lover.”

  “How about if we ask if anyone has talked about motive for why Alison was murdered?”

  “Jenna, stop!” Bailey pointed.

  Outside Bait and Switch Fishing and Sport Supply Store, which was a warehouse-sized building at the land’s end of The Pier, stood a thirty-foot temporary wall. Rubbery, multicolored, rock-shaped knobs were attached to the wall. Two people hooked into orange harnesses were scaling the wall while a pair of belayers attended to them from below, anchoring ropes that were looped through pulleys. People had queued up behind a line divider rope to wait for a turn. My boyfriend, Rhett, in a flashy blue-and-red pirate costume, directed the next set of climbers to get fitted up.

  “We’ve got to do this,” Bailey said.

  “You said you were hungry enough to eat two potpies.” The potpie at The Word was one of the best I’d ever eaten. The flaky pastry crust was made with cheddar cheese. Yum.

  “Look at all those people in line. They’re bound to have gossip.” Bailey nudged my arm. “C’mon. Exercise will clear our minds and do us good.”

  Unless I pulled a hamstring. I hadn’t stretched this morning. My muscles felt stiff.

  “You’re in wedge sandals,” I protested. “And I forgot to lug along a pair of tennis shoes, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

  “We’ll go barefoot. Lots of people are doing that.” Bailey prodded me forward. One thing I’d learned over the years: when my pal set her mind on something, she could not be put off. Don’t ask me about the time she decided to enter a hot dog eating contest. Not pretty.

  The moment we joined the line, Bailey asked the couple in front of us a question. The woman paled. She hadn’t heard that there was a murder. Great. Now we were the bearers of bad news. I warned Bailey off our plan, but she wouldn’t be deterred. The people behind us were more stalwart. They hadn’t been anywhere near Nature’s Retreat last night, and they hadn’t been in the vicinity of Fisherman’s Village after the book club disbanded, so they couldn’t offer any insight.

  Near the front of the line, Rhett joined us. He pecked me on the cheek. “What a pleasant surprise. Feeling daring?”

  “I think we’re both in need of a mental break.” I explained why.

  “Wow. I hadn’t heard. I’m so sorry. I remember when Alison used to come to The Grotto with her mother.” He offered a comforting smile. “Between you and me, I think they were sizing up the food and trying to determine what could or couldn’t be duplicated at her mother’s restaurant.” Alison’s mother used to run a thriving restaurant, which, come to think of it, was called Pirate Cove in honor of their colorful Foodie family lineage. Rhett added, “Alison had a special talent for picking out the different flavors.” He shook his head. “What a shame.”

  “What’s even worse,” Bailey said, “Chief Pritchett and her posse might not catch the killer.”

  Rhett raised an eyebrow. “Why do you say that?”

  “I don’t think she’s an Alison Foodie fan.” Bailey cocked a hip. “Say, Rhett, you were tight with Cinnamon once. Do you know why she would have anything against Alison?”

  Rhett’s mouth thinned. He and Cinnamon had dated for a nanosecond before the fire at The Grotto. Let’s just say, the investigation into the arson s
oured their relationship.

  “You do,” Bailey said. “Spill.”

  Rhett tucked his hands beneath his armpits. “Cinnamon and Alison were friends in high school.”

  “Friends?” I said. “Really? They couldn’t seem more different.” In high school, Cinnamon had been a wild child—her term. She hung out with a group of rough kids until my father, at my mother’s insistence, stepped in and became her mentor. With his guidance, she turned her life around.

  “Alison was one of the pack,” Rhett said.

  “Really? The pack?” Over coffee last month, Cinnamon revealed a bit about the pack to me. The group had consisted of six girls. All wore black. All smoked and drank. They pranked other kids. By junior year of high school, one wound up in juvenile detention, one died in a fatal car crash, and one ended up pregnant. Cinnamon hadn’t told me their names; she hadn’t kept touch with any of them.

  “That means Alison had tattoos just like Cinnamon,” I said.

  Bailey gawped. “Cinnamon has tattoos?”

  Rhett grinned. “Yes, but being a gentleman, I won’t say where they’re located.”

  “I’ll pry it out of him,” I promised.

  “No, you won’t. Loose lips sink ships.” Rhett signaled for us to move ahead.

  When we came to another standstill, I said, “Rhett, what happened between Cinnamon and Alison?”

  “I don’t have the full story. Let’s just say that when Cinnamon took the road less traveled, Alison didn’t want to go along. Words were exchanged that neither could retract. They had a knock-down, drag-out battle. Alison lost a tooth; Cinnamon had to chop off her hair. Glue was involved. Time passed, and ultimately, Alison ditched the old life, went to college, found her calling, and moved to the City.” The City was a casual term for San Francisco. “The rest is history.”

  Bailey said, “So because of some stupid teenage stuff, Cinnamon won’t do everything she can to find Alison’s killer?”

  Rhett shook his head. “I didn’t say that.”

  “But you implied it.”

  “She’s a good cop—”