Sifting Through Clues

by Daryl Wood Gerber

  “What’s the big deal with all cash?” I asked. “Why does that secure a deal?”

  “No strings attached.” Rhett shrugged. “No banks involved.”

  “There was a rumor that Ivy had something on the previous owner,” Aunt Vera offered.

  I chuckled. “Well, Ivy is the queen of knowing people’s secrets. How did she make enough money to come in with all cash?”

  “Her family is extremely wealthy,” my aunt said. “They—”

  “You’re full of baloney!” Crusibella yelled, louder than before. “You don’t believe in nature.”

  “Yes, I do. You’ve seen how many bonsais I’ve potted.” Ivy sounded whiny. Desperate. She clapped a hand to her chest. “I do it to enhance my soul.”

  “I’m not talking about the trees,” Crusibella scoffed. “I’m talking about the stones. You know nothing about them. What is selenite good for? Beep. Time’s up. It cleanses and recharges the soul and shields a person from outside influences. How about moonstone?”

  “It . . . it . . .” Ivy twisted the hem of her sweater into a knot.

  “Buzz!” Crusibella made a razzing sound. “It can open you up to the universe at large.”

  Ivy stamped her foot so hard that at any moment I expected Tinkerbell and a battalion of fairies to come to her aid. “I’m not required to memorize all these things. I have paperwork to guide me. But I know one thing. If I were you, Crusibella Queensberry, I’d . . . I’d . . .” She shot her hand at her accuser. “I’d wrap my hand around a piece of aventurine and fast. You need calm and balance.”

  Crusibella growled. “You don’t use aventurine for that. You use it to release negativity.”

  “Give me some credit. I’m trying to learn.” Ivy cried. “I’ve been building my base of knowledge, bit by bit, pebble by pebble. In fact, I recently went on a mining adventure. Why? Because you inspired me to. There’s no better way to learn about stones than by getting your hands dirty. Remember saying that to me?” She made the same buzzing sound Crusibella had. “Too late. Time’s up! We’re through here.” She fled through the front door to her silver Mercedes, which was parked on the street.

  Crusibella tore after her. “I offered to pay you ten percent more than the asking price, Ivy. You agreed.”

  “Over a bottle of wine. I was tipsy.”

  “Your word is your bond.” Crusibella raised the flimsy item overhead.

  Aha. Perhaps the contract in question had been written on a cocktail napkin.

  “Read my lips: I’m. Not. Selling. Good night.” Ivy climbed into her car, ground it into gear, and zoomed away.

  Crusibella spotted us, darted into her house, and slammed the door. The dog yapped at a high pitch and then stopped. The ensuing silence was deafening.

  Chapter 3

  “I love the sound of the surf,” Bailey said. “Don’t you?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Before opening the Cookbook Nook, she and I had chosen to speed-walk along Buena Vista Boulevard. It was early and traffic was nil, making it easy to hear the ocean.

  “And I love sunshine and fresh air, too,” Bailey added. “And your cute T-shirt.”

  “Thanks.” Today’s was black and featured a colorful grouping of bookish words: Read, friends, laughter, good times, chat.

  “And I love your studded jeans. And your shoes. Are they Converse? So cute.”

  Although I preferred flip-flops to shoes, I couldn’t take long walks in them. “Boy, are you chipper.”

  “I’m feeling good.” She posed like a vamp. “Do you like my T-shirt?” She had dressed in leggings and a long-sleeved red T-shirt with a bright yellow arrow showing that a baby was inside, as if no one could tell.

  “It’s to the point.”

  Bailey needed her exercise, and I was more than happy to keep her company. Tigger had declined the invitation. He hated when I carried him in the cat sling. I think the bobbing up and down upset his tummy. I’d dropped him at the shop and promised I’d be back soon.

  “Your aunt was right,” Bailey went on. “The town looks so festive with the tents and banners. Book Club Bonanza is a hit.”

  The tents that the city had allowed along the boulevard were canopy-style, sans walls, so they wouldn’t block the view of shops and restaurants. I couldn’t believe the variety of colors. Everything from ecru to orange to neon blue. The Blue Hat Book Club owned the latter. Three ladies wearing blue hats were already setting up for the morning.

  In addition to banners waving overhead, the shops and restaurants had gotten into the spirit of the theme and were featuring the covers of books in their windows.

  When we reached Latte Luck Café, Bailey said, “Look. A cookbook!” She pointed at the display window. “Great choice. Sally’s Cookie Addiction is one of my favorite sweet treats books.”

  “Mine, too.” The full title was Sally’s Cookie Addiction: Irresistible Cookies, Cookie Bars, Shortbread and More. I’d made at least five recipes from it so far. I’d only learned to cook a short while ago, but recently I was taking on quite challenging recipes. Practice makes perfect, my aunt often reminded me.

  In the window of the Pelican Brief Diner was a copy of John Grisham’s novel bearing the same name.

  “How about getting a coffee at the end of the walk?” Bailey suggested.

  “Sure. I’ll need something to warm up.” The fresh air was invigorating but chilly.

  We headed to the north end of the boulevard. The Play Room Toy Store had posted the image of The Toolbox, a children’s book. As expected, Spellbinder Book Shop was featuring mysteries. Not just one—a bunch of them. My favorite cover was Daphne du Maurier’s Rebecca, which was bright red and emblazoned with a gigantic capital R.

  Ivy Beale’s store, Dreamcatcher, which was located next to Spellbinder and was part of a six-store complex, each store painted white and faced with brick, had posted the book cover for Rocks, Minerals, and Gems on its display window. The display itself featured quartz sculptures, gorgeous candles, a trowel and a sieve, and a handful of eye-catching stones. I spied Ivy inside the shop working alongside her stunning dark-haired clerk. I couldn’t remember his name, but he reminded me of the muscle-bound hunk we’d cast in a commercial heralding the Olympics. They were rearranging the centermost glass-and-wood display unit, which held trays of stones. Seashells, candles, geodes, bonsai trees, decorative bookends, and a few metal statues of dragons, chimeras, and gargoyles were wedged between the trays. Seeing Ivy made me think about last night’s set-to between her and Crusibella. I hoped they could work out their issue. I liked both of them.

  “Who knew there were so many books in the world?” Bailey said.

  “I did,” I quipped. “Sadly, too many to read in one lifetime.”

  “If only I’d taken a speed-reading class.”

  “I doubt that would’ve helped.”

  At the north end of town, we crossed the street and headed southward, passing a number of shops, including Great Threads, Sweet Success, Die Hard Fan, Forget Me Not, and Aunt Teek’s, each featuring a book title unique to the goods they sold.

  We slowed when we neared the library tent, which stood on the sidewalk near the statue of the dancing dolphins. Like my aunt had said, it was colorful. While all the other tents sported solid-colored canopies, the library’s canopy was striped. No books were on display this early in the day. All materials had to be removed and stowed each night.

  “Oh, gosh.” I elbowed Bailey. “Look at that. How cute!” I pointed at the dolphins statue. Each dolphin was wearing huge black-rimmed eyeglasses and carrying a satchel that resembled a library card imprinted with date stamps. Fake books peeked out the tops of the satchels. Even at this early hour, tourists had lined up to pose with the dolphins.

  “The woman who runs the Crystal Cove Library has such a great sense of humor,” Bailey said. “I plan to take my child to the library every week just to hear her read.”

  “What a novel idea.”

  Bailey shot me the sti
nk eye.

  I shrugged. “I need food. That’s my excuse for puns, and I’m sticking to it.”

  “Latte Luck, here we come.”

  We waited outside Say Cheese Shoppe for a break in traffic. Showcased in its window was a Cheese Shop Mystery titled To Brie or Not To Brie. On the book’s cover was an image of a beautiful wedding pergola in a gardenlike setting, which made me recall my conversation with Rhett. We had to pin down a place and a date. To be honest, I hoped we would love the Napa venue—problem solved.

  “Ready?” Bailey asked. “After that white Thunderbird.”

  “Hey, there’s your mom,” I said midway across the street. “Want to say hello?”

  Bailey’s mother, Lola Bird, was standing outside her restaurant, the Pelican Brief Diner, with Oren Michaels. He was tapping something on an electronic tablet while chatting. Lola was smiling, enjoying whatever he was saying. A fish tale? I wondered but didn’t give voice to the pun. Not after Bailey’s earlier reaction.

  “Who’s that with her?” Bailey asked.

  “Don’t you know Oren? The fishmonger. He took over his father’s flagging business.”

  Oren had given up his stalled acting career in Los Angeles when his father retired last June at the young age of sixty. Being a man of the sea was not an easy job. Oren had come home to keep the business afloat.

  “He delivers fish to the Nook Café,” I said.

  Bailey nodded. “Aha. He let his curly hair grow long. I didn’t recognize him. It suits him. I think he’s dating Ivy. I saw them the other day at Dreamcatcher. The chemistry was ooh-la-la.”

  Oren caught sight of us and waved. I waved back. He hoisted a canvas creel bag over his shoulder, tapped the brim of his fisherman’s cap to Lola, and sauntered to a red Toyota Tacoma, so new that the license plates weren’t even on yet.

  “Morning, Lola,” I said as we reached her.

  “Good morning, girls.” Like her daughter, she was petite and sported a pixie cut with long side bangs, though her hair was silver and Bailey’s was copperish. Lola slipped her arm through Bailey’s and said, “How’s my grandbaby doing?”

  “As hungry as ever,” Bailey replied.

  “Are you eating enough?”

  Bailey turned in profile. “What does it look like?”

  Lola beamed. “Are you two ready for tonight?” She was a member of the book club, too. “I’m making smoked whitefish tea sandwiches.”

  “I made sinful cupcakes,” I said.

  “I’m bringing sparkling soda laced with white grape juice,” Bailey said, adding, “meh.”

  Lola released her daughter and eyed me. “By the way, Jenna, speaking of white, I saw the most fabulous all-white buffet for an afternoon wedding.” Growing up, Lola had been like my second mother. When my mom passed away a few years ago, Lola had been the first person to console me. Now she was dating my father, and the two couldn’t be more in love. “The menu included white tea sandwiches, elegant vanilla pudding, white chocolate desserts, Ramos gin fizzes, and champagne.”

  I said, “When we get to that point, you can bet I’ll come to you for ideas.”

  “Alert, alert!” Bailey waved her hands. “Mom, they’re going to Napa to check out a garden setting for the ceremony. Here’s hoping they make a decision.” On our walk, I’d told her about our upcoming trip to the wine country. “On the other hand, she’s making me look good as a decision maker, right? I didn’t lollygag.”

  “You were the perfect bride.” Lola winked.

  “Delay, delay, delay.” Bailey wiggled fingers in my face. “I need all the brownie points I can muster.”

  Lola flicked Bailey’s arm. “Stop.”

  Giggling, Bailey said, “We’re getting coffee, Mom. Want to join us?”

  “Heavens, no. I’ve got way too much to do if I want to take off this evening for the book club event. Don’t forget to pick me up.” Lola pivoted and went inside her restaurant. Before the door swung shut, we could hear her giving orders to her staff.

  Bailey and I strolled into Latte Luck Café and purchased a couple of decaf cappuccinos to go. Before heading back to the shop, we spent a few moments watching the baker through a viewing window sifting flour onto a marble countertop and rolling out piecrust. Such an art. Someday I hoped I could do the same with ease. Someday.

  • • •

  The morning whizzed by. So did the afternoon. Book club members streamed in throughout the day. Cookbooks flew off the shelves, as did the book club fiction selections. I had created a steady queue of mystery-themed music to bolster the customers’ joie de vivre, including “Mystery Train” by Bon Jovi and Donna Summer’s “Mystery of Love.” The Beatles’ Magical Mystery Tour earned the most lip-synching. We sold two of the stack-of-books porcelain cookie jars, three teapot cookie jars, and four adorable bookworm salt and pepper sets. I was surprised to see that the colorful classic book-themed aprons sold better than the plain white ones sporting clever sayings.

  The construction paper cookbooks that Bailey had fashioned were a huge hit with children. Tigger, too. He had a blast trolling beneath the kids’ table for ribbon and other craft scraps. Aunt Vera must have given six or seven tarot card readings. Tina, who was a bundle of energy after taking the day off to study, was a blessing to have around, especially when Bailey wilted around three and I ordered her to the storage room to take a nap.

  At six, as Bailey was closing out the register and I was dusting shelves, Tina said, “Boss. Bailey. Vera. Go home. Freshen up. Enjoy the book club. I can finish up here.”

  “Don’t you have a date tonight?” I asked. She and her boyfriend invariably went to dinner on Saturday night.

  “No.” She made a dismissive sound, whipped her long tresses over her shoulders, and shimmied down the hem of her formfitting knit dress. “He’s . . .” She rolled her eyes. “He’s persona non grata at the moment.” She rasped the word grata.

  Uh-oh. What had he done? Did I want to know? Given her current state of snit, I was surprised how well she’d muscled through the day. Maybe during a lull tomorrow, I would ask for details and offer advice . . . if she wanted it.

  “Go!” She shooed us. “I’m fine. Bring me one of your cupcakes tomorrow, Jenna.”

  Bailey had brought clothes to change into as well as the makings for her beverage contribution, so she drove with me to the cottage. I swapped out my T-shirt and jeans for a chocolate brown silk blouse and matching corduroys, and then grabbed the Tupperware container of cupcakes, deposited Tigger on the kitty condo that my father had made for him, switched on some orchestral music—my cat loved Yo-Yo Ma—and told him not to wait up.

  Minutes later, we picked up Lola and headed to Flora Fairchild’s place, the first stop on our progressive dinner.

  Flora lived in a single-story house in the hills. Like most of the other homes in Crystal Cove, it was white with a red-tile roof, but her garden was a riot of color. A narrow, meandering path lined with white, pink, and red azaleas led to the front door. Myriad pots of vibrant pansies crowded the porch.

  At Home Sweet Home, the gift shop Flora owned, she always played music, much like we did at the Cookbook Nook. Tonight was no exception. As we entered her house through the open doorway, I heard the strains of “Funeral March of a Marionette,” known best as the theme for Alfred Hitchcock Presents. Cute.

  Flora noticed us and beckoned us further. “Come this way.” She had dressed in a pretty lavender floral dress, her long braid woven with lilac. “I hope you enjoy everything. There’s food in the dining room.”

  Bailey handed her the sparkling water and grape juice. Flora pecked her on the cheek and whispered her thanks.

  “Your home is beautiful,” I said.

  The place was overflowing with handcrafted items. Colorful quilts lay on the couch in the living room. There were lots of chairs, each a different design. An imaginative throw pillow sat on each. Lit candles of all shapes and sizes adorned the mantel above the fireplace. Collections of teddy bears and snow glo
bes for every season stood on a variety of tables.

  In the dining room, Flora had laid a bright purple cloth on the table. On top was an appetizer spread fit for royalty: shrimp puffs, mini quiches, melon wrapped in prosciutto, and more. At least a dozen women had shown up for the first leg of our journey, including Pepper and Crusibella. Pepper’s pecan-studded cheese appetizer sat on an Italianate serving dish at the far end of the array of food. What I assumed was Crusibella’s cheese platter, a robust arrangement of yellow and white cheeses garnished with fresh fruit, laid beyond that.

  “Flora, this looks magnificent,” I said.

  Everyone agreed. A few wondered how they’d have room for the next course.

  Flora beamed. “Dig in. Plates are over there. I’ll bring beverages to the living room, and then let’s have a twenty-minute discussion of the book. I hope you’ve all read it.”

  I’d finished last night after Rhett left, and I was glad I did. I had no idea whodunit until the climax, although I had winnowed it down to two suspects. Okay, maybe three.

  I inched along the buffet following Crusibella, who was eyeing everything but selecting nothing. She couldn’t possibly be on a diet. Her sleeveless jumpsuit clung to her slim frame.

  “Psst, Jenna.” Pepper sidled up to me. I hadn’t noticed before, but she was a tad disheveled. Her beaded black sweater was uneven at her hips and her hair was mussed. Maybe she’d walked over or perhaps she’d had to park farther down the street. A breeze had kicked up. She hitched her chin in the direction of Crusibella’s cheese platter and whispered, “Told you so.”

  “Don’t worry. Your cheese appetizer looks scrumptious.” To prove it, I jumped the line to that end of the buffet and added a chunk of the pecan and soft cheese to my plate. I nibbled a corner of it and said to Pepper, “It’s yummy. Did you use Stilton?”

  “Yes.” She preened like a peacock.

  “Hello, everyone!” Gran, who lived next door with her daughter-in-law and grandchildren, strolled into the dining room. As always, she looked upscale, clad in hunter green slacks, cream silk blouse, and multicolored Manolo Blahnik sandals. “I won’t stay a minute.” She picked up a slice of cheddar. “I just wanted to—”