Fudging the Books (A Cookbook Nook Mystery 4)

by Daryl Wood Gerber

  “Do you know who inherits Alison’s estate? Like possibly Neil?”

  She didn’t respond.

  “Do you know whether or not Alison was pregnant? Or whether the argument Alison had with Ingrid Lake—”

  Cinnamon heaved a sigh.

  “Fine,” I said. “Be that way.” Sheesh, I sounded petulant. Moments ago, I was moping about like a teenager, and now I was acting like a two-year-old. Grow up! But, honestly, couldn’t Cinnamon be a little more receptive? I had valid information.

  “Good night, Jenna.” She clicked off.

  I stared at my cell phone with outright anger. So much for our budding friendship. If Cinnamon were standing in my kitchen, I’d give her a piece of my mind. But she wasn’t. All I could do was scream. Tigger yowled his displeasure.

  “Hush,” I muttered.

  I removed the meat loaf from the oven, but my appetite had flown the coop. When the meat loaf cooled, I would store it in the fridge. In the meantime, I baked the cupcakes with lackluster enthusiasm. I would decorate them tomorrow.

  Around midnight, I went to sleep. I left the windows open during the night so I could hear the rain and feel a cool breeze. Despite those attempts to bring calm into my world, I slept fitfully.

  At dawn Sunday morning, the caw of seagulls woke me. The rain had abated, although moisture still hung in the air. I could run if I chose to, which I did. Barefoot. I love the feel of sand beneath my feet. Even wet sand. It makes me feel like I’m communing with the earth.

  A couple of times, I paused to watch a rare sighting, a snowy white egret wading in the shallows of the ocean, stalking its prey. If more humans than just little old me had been around, the egret would have been scared off. Lifting one foot slowly, it moved forward, barely making a ripple. Then bam! It lunged for breakfast—a fish.

  At that same moment, the sun ascended over the crest of the mountains behind me. Sunlight cut through a clump of clouds and highlighted the egret. Perfect for picture taking, if only I had a camera. I’d left my cell phone at the cottage.

  Church bells chimed, signaling that I had spent more time on the beach than I realized. I raced home, showered, and threw on a nifty pair of jeans, a ribbed cotton sweater, and flip-flops. I downed a quickie breakfast of a hard-boiled egg and a handful of grapes and headed to work.

  When Tigger and I entered The Cookbook Nook, we found Bailey dusting shelves. I set Tigger on the floor. Bailey’s American shorthair, Hershey, was yet again nestled in the cozy reading chair. Tigger meowed at Hershey and ran off, daring the cat to join him in a game of catch me if you can. Hershey, who looked like he could lose a pound or two, couldn’t be bothered. Tigger, no matter how hard he tried, was not going to be hired as the cat’s personal trainer.

  “Morning,” Bailey said without glancing my way. She didn’t look like she had slept any better than I had. Her hairdo was spikier than usual. Her makeup looked slapped on.

  “Is everything okay?” I asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Did you have a fight with Tito?”

  “No. We never fight. It’s . . .” She gazed at Hershey.

  I understood the look. Ah, the joys of being a new pet owner.

  Bailey said, “Did you hear from Cinnamon?”

  I recapped our terse conversation.

  “What’s her problem?” Bailey said. “Why is she such a control freak?”

  “Don’t be too hard on her,” I said, having told myself the same thing last night while I applied ice to my post-crying-hissy-fit puffy eyes. “Cinnamon is a woman in a man’s world. She wants respect. And she wants to set the pace.”

  “Pace-schmace,” Bailey muttered. “Did you ask her whether she arrested Coco?”

  “I didn’t get the chance.”

  “Let’s go find out for ourselves. Your aunt is here. We won’t open for another hour.” On Sundays we opened at 10:00 instead of 9:00 A.M. “How about I buy you a morning pastry at Sweet Sensations?” She grabbed her purse. “Vera! I’m taking Jenna out for a quick coffee. We’ll be right back.”

  Before I could argue, Bailey muscled me out the door, and we jogged to Sweet Sensations. Flip-flops, by the way, are not very good for jogging.

  Sun peeked through big pillows of clouds, warming an otherwise cool day, and shone down upon a cluster of people that were huddling outside the candy shop. Everyone seemed to be eyeing treats in the display window. More folks were crowded inside the shop.

  “Is there a sale going on?” I asked Bailey.

  “Got me.”

  When we finally made our way into the pink-on-pink shop—pink-striped wallpaper; pink-and-white checkerboard floor; pink countertops on all the glass cases—we realized what the lure was. Coco was, indeed, free, and she was having a chocolate-tasting party. She had thrown one the last time she released a cookbook, too. Dozens of trays of candy lay on top of the glass cases. Each tray held at least six different kinds of candies: sparkling pink fudge, chocolate-glazed squares, thin bark-like chocolates, two different colored suckers, and, specially for Pirate Week, Pirate’s Booty fudge.

  Coco spotted us and hurried from behind the counter, leaving her assistant, who was a chunky young woman with a fondness for all things Hello Kitty from her sweater to her jewelry, to tend to the customers.

  “Bailey! Jenna! I’m so thrilled to see you.” Coco had poured herself into another va-va-voom dress that fit her figure like a glove, this one 1950s’ style, with a tapered bodice and pleated skirt. Her apron and the skirt beneath flounced as she moved.

  Bailey said, “We’re thrilled to see you, too. You’re not in jail. Obviously, Chief Pritchett doesn’t suspect you any longer.”

  “Isn’t it wonderful?” Coco grabbed our hands and squeezed. “I didn’t think, since Alison’s funeral was so private, that a party was too gauche of me. Do you think it is?”

  What could we say? Her customers didn’t seem to mind. Perhaps the temptation to learn more about the murder intrigued everyone. Maybe they were here simply because Coco made the best chocolate around.

  Bailey withdrew her hand and petted Coco’s shoulder. “It’s fine.”

  “What did Cinnamon say when you went to the precinct?” I asked.

  “Once I explained why I hadn’t wanted to reveal who I was with—you know, to protect him—she was very sympathetic. Well, not sympathetic but considerate.”

  “But this time you told her it was Simon, right?” Bailey asked.

  Coco nodded and beckoned us to follow her to her office at the back of the shop.

  The office was bigger than a bread box, but not much, and it was cluttered to the max. Crates, boxes, and a pair of file cabinets lined the walls. A teensy pink desk stood in the middle of the room. On top of the desk sat piles of papers, magazines, recipe cards, recipe boxes, and containers holding pens in every pink hue imaginable.

  “Welcome to my workroom.” Coco blushed. “It’s nothing like my kitchen, which is pristine. I guess this is where the real pack rat in me comes out. I never get rid of any paper. I know I should streamline and do everything on the computer, but I can’t. Part of my process is writing everything down. You should see how many recipe cards have notes on them. Add more of this; use a little less of this. I tweak until it’s just right. My grandmother and mother did the same thing. How I treasure their recipes.” She pressed a hand to her chest. “Here, let me show you one.” She leafed through a category in the recipe box. “My bunica’s Chocolate Bombs, the recipe Alison made . . .” Her voice caught. She cleared her throat of what had to be overwhelming emotion remembering that night. “Boy, are these sticky.” She rubbed her fingers on her apron and resumed her search. “Hmm.” She screwed up her mouth.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  “That one’s missing. Guess I took it home. I’ll have to look for it there. But, here, look at this one.” Coco plucked a card
from the grouping and twirled it so we could read it. “Vanilla fudge. It’s to die for. See the notes down the side and wrapping around to the other side of the card? My grandmother was adamant that I use cream of tartar. But not too much. At first a quarter teaspoon, but then an eighth, and then my mother revised it to just a pinch. See?” She giggled. “It’s funny, isn’t it? I can hear them speaking to me through these cards.” Coco replaced the recipe card and set aside the box.

  Bailey patted Coco’s shoulder. “We were discussing Chief Pritchett and your alibi.”

  “Oh, right.” Coco pounded her fists together. “The chief said she wouldn’t approach Simon’s wife as long as he came in and backed up my account.”

  “And did he?” Bailey pressed.

  “I don’t know. We haven’t spoken. We thought . . .” Coco licked her lips. “He thought that we should cool it for now.”

  Uh-oh. Maybe that was why I had seen Simon lurking outside her shop last night. He intended to tell her he couldn’t come forward.

  Coco jammed the pointy heel of one shoe into the checkerboard floor. “He’s right, of course. I just miss him. That night . . .” She rolled her eyes in a dreamy way. “It was our first time, our first official date. Well, not official, since it was clandestine.” Coco flamed the same color as her pink dress. “Simon has come into the shop so many times. To sample the wares. He’s such a flirt.”

  I didn’t get that impression. I’d seen Simon in action with Faith Fairchild, trying to keep his distance at all costs. Perhaps out of view from his wife, with Coco in the privacy of her shop . . .

  “I fell hard for him,” Coco went on. “Yes, I know he’s married, but I don’t care. I mean, I do. But I want him and he wants me. We tried not to cross the line, but when he called, how could I say no? The night was . . . magical.” Coco blanched. “I’m sorry, that was crass of me. It was the same night that Alison—” She gasped for breath.

  I gripped her shoulder. “It’s okay. Go on. Simon.”

  “I can’t even describe how I feel around him. He’s like no one I’ve ever met. He knows wine, and he adores people. Have you ever seen him talk to the clientele at Vines? He’s so charismatic. And he reads just about everything, from bird-watching to politics. His wife.” Coco sniffed. “She doesn’t get him at all.”

  “So you said the other day,” Bailey chimed.

  “She’s so bossy.”

  “I’m not sure bossy is how I’d describe her,” I said. “The words self-sufficient and commanding come to mind.”

  “Why do men choose women like their mothers?” Coco asked. “He can’t do enough to please her, either. His sister gets all the praise. And now that she’s had a baby? Argh! He’ll never hear the end of it from his mother. Gloria wouldn’t dare have a baby. It’d hurt her figure. Me? I’d love to have ten babies.” She sighed. “And Simon’s book, the one that Alison is going to publish?”

  Was going to might be a more apt phrase. Who knew what Foodie Publishing would do at this point?

  “Simon told me all about it,” Coco gushed. “It’s wonderful. He draws on the family’s history, his mother’s family in particular. Her grandfather owned a vineyard in the old country. Very Italian.” Coco stabbed the air. “But is his mother impressed that he got a publishing deal? No, she is not! And Gloria . . . don’t get me started. She needs him to do more, to be more.” Coco sucked on her lower lip in a girlish way. “I think that’s why he likes me. I’m not bossy in the least. Sure, I run my own company, but I’m not in-your-face overbearing. We’ve fallen in love and, well”—she fanned her neck—“that’s why he asked me to spend a night at Nature’s Retreat.”

  “When his wife was out of town,” I said, stating the obvious.

  “I know.” Coco pouted. “I shouldn’t have said yes. I should have waited until the divorce is final, but how could I? I adore him.”

  Bailey offered a skeptical look, like a girl who had drunk that same fairy-tale tea but was now immune to the stuff. “Does Gloria know?”

  “She must.”

  I said, “Friday, at the shop, she didn’t seem like she was preparing for a life alone.”

  “You’re wrong. Didn’t you see how she ordered him around? Didn’t you see the looks he was giving her?” Coco shot a finger at me. “I know you did, Jenna. That’s why you told me to go to the precinct.”

  “You have to admit that he seemed quite attentive to her.”

  “It’s all an act. For the public.”

  “Sweetie,” I said and instantly regretted the use of the word. I didn’t mean to be dismissive. “He ran his knuckles down her arm. They made eye contact. There were sparks in that exchange.”

  “He’s leaving her.” Coco slumped into one hip. “You should have seen how attentive he was to me at Nature’s Retreat. We made love and then he ran a bath for me. A bath! No man has ever done that. And he brought me champagne and hand-fed me chocolates . . . that I’d made, of course. It was so romantic.”

  I’ll bet, which convinced me further that this was purely an affair and not a lifelong commitment. No man could romance a woman with that kind of dedication, day in and day out.

  Bailey exchanged a knowing look with me and said, “We’ll have to see, won’t we? But no matter what, you’re innocent. So let’s put our heads together. Who else might have wanted Alison dead?”

  Chapter 16

  COCO, BAILEY, AND I batted around theories for quite a while. We ended our discussion when Coco’s assistant begged for Coco to return to the counter. The crowd had swelled. All were clamoring for more of the Pirate’s Booty fudge. By Valentine’s Day, Sweet Sensations was bound to be overwrought with orders.

  Bailey and I headed back to the shop, and throughout the remainder of the day, we continued theorizing. By the time I entered my aunt’s house for dinner, my mind was awhirl with possibilities.

  “Cupcakes,” I announced as I moved through the foyer of her one-story beach home, past the marble-topped console table, to the hall. Tigger trotted in behind me. He didn’t embrace the outdoors like most cats, but he could make his way from my cottage to my aunt’s without panicking. Quickly he found his favorite velveteen footstool in the adjoining living room and leaped onto it for a nap.

  My aunt exited the kitchen and met me halfway down the hall, arms extended. She bussed me on the cheek then eyed my works of art and smiled. “I think you’re getting the hang of this.”

  “I used a pastry tube fitted with a starburst tip to pipe the chocolate frosting.”

  “Very pretty. Nearly professional.” She chuckled. “However, perhaps you were heavy-handed with the sprinkles.”

  I glanced at the tray of cupcakes and had to agree. “It’s a carryover from yesterday. The kids loved pouring glitter on their creations.”

  Aunt Vera took the tray and jutted her chin toward the back of the house. “Your father and Lola are on the deck. I’ve put out some Caribbean-themed appetizers. All are easy enough for you to make.”

  A crisp wind off the ocean hit me as I opened the exterior door and walked outside. I was glad I’d donned the ribbed sweater and not something flimsier. The sun, a stunning ball of orange, was halfway submerged over the horizon.

  I drew in a deep calming breath. “Hi, Dad. Hi, Lola.”

  The porch was set up in a cozy conversation style, with a wicker settee and a half dozen matching chairs, all facing one another. My father and Lola were sitting on the settee. On the coffee table in front of them sat platters of colorful appetizers, including a spicy dip encircled with chips, shrimp-stuffed mushrooms, and chicken-pineapple kebabs. Aunt Vera could whip up a gourmet meal almost as fast as Katie could. On a side cart stood wineglasses and a bottle of white wine in an icer. My father and Lola each held a glass of wine.

  “Jenna, welcome,” Lola said. She was a vision in a silver sweater, silver leggings, and silver sandals. “You look
peaked.” She rose from the settee and embraced me. “Aren’t you getting any sleep?”

  “Not really. This thing with Alison . . .” I sidled to my father and pecked his cheek.

  “Dear Alison,” Lola murmured. “She was a lovely woman. I had nothing but utmost respect for her. She had a talent. She knew exactly what to pare from the cookbooks she published on my behalf.”

  “That’s what I keep hearing.”

  “Did you know Alison loved to bake? She learned at the age of five. Her mother taught her. She had fond memories of those times.”

  “She told Bailey and me the same thing at the book club event.”

  Lola peered past me. “Where is my daughter?”

  “Present and accounted for!” Bailey clomped through the door, her wedge sandals making a racket on the wooden porch. She carried a bottle of red wine in her hand. “Did you tell them?”

  “Tell us what?” Lola looked from Bailey to me. “Did the police catch the killer?”

  “Not yet,” I said. “But Bailey and I have been batting around ideas about who killed Alison.” Even if Cinnamon didn’t want my help, she couldn’t prevent me from theorizing.

  Bailey set down the wine and removed the cork. She poured herself a glass of merlot and asked if I wanted one. I opted for the white wine, a scrumptiously oaky chardonnay.

  “What theories?” Lola asked. At one time, Lola had practiced law with some of the sharpest, toughest minds in California. She had given up her illustrious career for a simpler life in Crystal Cove and was thrilled with the choice. Otherwise, she never would have wound up with my father.

  Bailey plopped onto a chair, took a sip of her wine, and said, “First of all, Coco is innocent. She’s got a verifiable alibi.”

  “Verifiable,” I inserted, “when he comes forward.”

  “If he hasn’t already,” Bailey said.

  “He, who?” Lola asked.

  “Can’t say.” I mimed zipping my lips.

  Lola looked to Bailey, who also mimed locking her mouth.