He grinned. “If the cover catches my eye, sure. Plus, I knew the name. I’ve been to the restaurant in San Francisco. Mexican flavors with a California twist. What’s not to like?”
I signed his freight bill and bid him goodbye.
At one p.m., Bailey and Brianna left for the day. Throughout the afternoon, Gran and I scrambled to keep up with purchases. Lots of tourists had arrived in town for the start of Food Bowl. By the end of the day, I was beat. I texted Rhett and asked what time he would be heading home. He didn’t respond right away. I didn’t expect him to. He had invited six discerning chefs to taste test the seven-course meal that he would serve tomorrow night. He was relying on them to give him their honest opinions.
Years ago, long before I’d met Rhett, he’d served as the chef at the Grotto, a restaurant that had been situated on the second floor of Fisherman’s Village. When it burned down, due to arson, he left the business and opened a sporting supply store.
“It’s you and me, cat.” I scooped up Tigger and we strolled home, my rollerblade bag looped over my shoulder.
Home was new to both of us. In the spring, Aunt Vera had purchased the California ranch-style house across the street from her house and my cottage, both of which she owned—she’d invested well in the seventies—and she’d presented the house to Rhett and me as an early wedding gift. As much as I’d loved living directly on the beach, I knew that owning a larger house as a couple would be ideal for us. My cottage had been teensy; the house was spacious. Rhett hadn’t moved in yet. He was still living in his cabin in the hills because he felt opening Intime would require crazy hours, and he hadn’t wanted to wake me in the wee hours of the morning. Even after we were married, he didn’t plan to give up the cabin. He enjoyed communing with nature. Mini solo vacations, I assured myself, would be healthy for our relationship.
Rhett and I had agreed on a neutral color scheme for our new home. We hadn’t completed everything yet. The living room, master bedroom, and guest room needed painting, and the two bathrooms needed retiling—the previous owner had loved blue everything—but the kitchen was done, thanks to Keller Landry’s expert craftsmanship. Keller was Katie’s husband, whose occupation as an ice cream entrepreneur couldn’t pay all the bills, especially in cooler months, so he’d taken over his father’s trade and had turned out to be quite adept at woodwork. I loved the beveled cabinetry, granite counters, and massive island he’d installed. A separate crew had put in the hardwood floors.
I stowed my rollerblades in the hall closet, set Tigger on the floor, and queued up some jazz music on my iPhone. “Loud?” I asked the cat.
He mewed.
“Loud it is.”
I switched on the Bluetooth portable speaker so music would blast through the house, and then threw together a platter of salami, Gruyère, and olives, and poured a glass of sauvignon blanc. When I finished my quasi-dinner, I would set to work. Keller was going to do most of the regular painting as well as retile the two bathrooms, but I wanted to paint the master bedroom. I’d envisioned a seascape mural on the wall behind the king-sized bed. If I were diligent, I’d be done in a couple of weeks. Granted, I wouldn’t be painting when I was enjoying Food Bowl events, but I’d accounted for the missed days.
My cell phone jangled. I muted the music, grabbed the phone off the counter where I’d set it beside my purse, and answered.
“Hey,” Rhett said. “Did I disturb you?”
“Nope.” How I loved the sound of his voice, sexy and warm and filled with confidence. The day I’d met him, I’d fallen for him. Of course, I hadn’t let him know that until a long time after, but something about his calm self-assurance had captured my heart instantly. “How is tonight’s run-through going?”
“So far, three courses have passed the smell test.” He chuckled. “What are you doing?”
“Eating dinner and then painting.”
“Nice. You’ve neglected your art for a while.”
That was another thing I loved about Rhett. He thought about my needs, my wants. Oh, he had a healthy ego, but he considered me an equal and was always making sure I took care of myself.
“Not that kind of painting,” I said. When I was younger, I’d dreamed of becoming a famous artist. I’d painted a lot of ballerinas. “I’m tackling the master bedroom mural.”
“What’s that?” Rhett said to someone in the background. “Jenna, sorry, I’ve got to go. Disaster strikes. The minced chicken salad is a bust. Love you.”
“Love you.”
The moment I ended the call, my cell phone rang again. My aunt’s name appeared on the screen. I answered. “What’s up?”
“Are you busy?”
I grinned. No painting for me tonight. “I’m free. Want to have dinner with me?”
“I’ll be right over.”
When I’d lived in the cottage, my aunt had rarely visited. I’d usually gone to her house. Now that I was in a larger home with a four-season palette of plants in the backyard—camellias in the winter, azaleas in the spring, honeysuckle in the summer, and brilliant blue sage in the fall—she enjoyed coming to me.
“I’ll bring wine,” she said.
Quickly, I threw together a chopped salad using the items I’d set on my appetizer platter and added avocado, Roma tomatoes, and cucumber. I topped it with a honey-lemon vinaigrette dressing that I’d made last week, threw a baguette and a round dish of butter into a basket, and filled large goblets with ice water.
The rear patio off the kitchen and adjoining living room faced east and was a perfect place to barbecue or enjoy a cup of coffee or glass of wine. I set the patio table with place mats and place settings and then moseyed to the front porch, which was the ideal location to watch the sun set. A sliver of open space between Aunt Vera’s house and the cottage allowed for a direct view of the ocean.
Fifteen minutes later, my aunt appeared with a bottle of the same sauvignon blanc I’d poured. Like minds, I thought. She’d changed out of her caftan and was wearing flowing silk pants with a royal blue sweater.
“Don’t you look pretty,” I said. “Going on a date later?” My aunt and Deputy Marlon Appleby, a widower, had been seeing each other for quite a while.
“No.”
“Why are you dressed up? Not for me.” I took the wine and led her into the kitchen.
Tigger scampered to her and rubbed his back against the hem of her pants. She scratched his head.
“I was going to have dinner with Z.Z.,” my aunt said, “but it turns out a client is backing out of a deal, so she canceled.”
Our mayor, when not running the town, also sold real estate. Her grown son had gone back to college, and Z.Z. was helping him out financially so he wouldn’t be burdened with enormous debt when he graduated.
“Okay, but that’s not why your forehead is pinched, is it?” I twirled a finger at her face. “You’re worried about Eugene Tinsdale.”
“How did you—” My aunt sat on a stool at the island. “Are you finally tapping into your extrasensory perception?”
“I don’t have ESP, and I never will, but I could tell you were concerned about Eugene at the shop earlier. What’s up?” I opened the wine, poured her a glass, and after setting our salads, bread, and water on a tray, led her to the patio. Before I sat, Tigger swatted me with his tail.
“Sorry, buddy.” I hurried inside, fetched his bowl of tuna, and returned. I set the bowl near the patio table. He chowed down before I even took my seat.
My aunt took a bite of her salad and congratulated me on the homemade dressing.
“Did the meeting you attended earlier have to do with Eugene?” I asked. “I heard he’s thinking of putting the newspaper up for sale.”
“Yes. I met with a banker. They’re not willing to extend him a loan.”
I sipped my wine. “I’m sorry. So, the reading you gave him. Is that the problem? Does he want to know how to proceed?”
“No. He’s worried about Audrey.” His wife of thirty-eight years.
My aunt shook her head. “No.”
“Is her business suffering, too?”
Audrey owned a fine art studio. She taught classes and often took students to the beach to paint en plein air, outdoors. Occasionally, she came into the Nook Café for a bite to eat, although she didn’t venture into the Cookbook Nook. According to a customer who knew Audrey well, Audrey wasn’t much of a cook.
I said, “The testimonials on her website are incredible.” I’d checked Audrey out because I’d considered taking a few art classes to up my game.
“They should be.” My aunt set her fork down. “She’s talented, insightful, and caring. No. Her business is fine. Eugene is worried because she’s not her typical happy-go-lucky self. I went online to see if someone had written something negative about her. You know how cruel people can be on Facebook and the like. Nothing.”
“Perhaps she’s concerned that Eugene is thinking about selling the newspaper. Maybe she’s worried he’ll be underfoot if he retires.”
“Perhaps.”
“Lots of couples need space when one or the other retires,” I said, sounding like a seasoned retiree. I tore off a piece of bread and slathered it with butter—one of my guilty pleasures. A thought occurred to me. I tried to tamp it down but couldn’t. “Um, is it possible Audrey has met someone else?”
“As in a lover?” my aunt gasped. She wasn’t a prude. The notion must have taken her aback.
“You know, maybe she’s fallen for a student or an art dealer.”
“Oh, dear, I hope that’s not it. Eugene and Audrey are the perfect couple. And their daughter Alexa is such a doll. She would be heartbroken if anything happened between her parents. She dotes on them, and they dote on her. You know Alexa, don’t you? Of course you do. She comes into the store.” Aunt Vera sighed. “I remember how eager Alexa was after college to show her parents her worth. When she opened her fitness studio and made it a success in less than a year, she was glowing with confidence.”
“She’s got a great reputation. I’ve taken a couple of group classes. Both Bailey and Tito take private lessons with her.”
Tito had gone to Alexa for years. He said that as a reporter he needed his body to be in tip-top shape in case he needed to chase a story. Bailey had started up recently because she’d wanted her pre-baby body back.
Aunt Vera pushed her plate away.
“Are you sure Eugene doesn’t have a clue about what’s depressing his wife?” I asked. “He should.”
Aunt Vera threw me a stern, judgmental look.
I pressed my lips together. She was right. Who was I to talk? I hadn’t known what my former husband had been up to, not even after he’d done a disappearing act by pretending to be dead—may he now truly rest in peace.
“No,” my aunt said. “Eugene seems clueless, and I believe him.”
“You’ve told me the tarot cards never lie,” I said. “What else did they reveal?”
Aunt Vera moaned.
“Is it that bad?” I asked.
“Intense love or intense hate could be involved.”
I placed my hand on my aunt’s. “Maybe this time the cards are wrong.”
Chapter 3
I woke the next morning weighed down by a feeling of foreboding. I hated whenever that happened. Sure, I could pinpoint the cause. My conversation with my aunt had set me on edge. If I were to admit it to myself, I was a bit of a Pollyanna. I wanted everyone in Crystal Cove to be happy and thrive. I didn’t want anyone to struggle. But life wasn’t like that. I’d struggled, and overcoming those challenges had made me who I was—a strong, confident woman.
Tigger followed me into the kitchen and did a figure eight around my ankles as I brewed a pot of strong coffee. After drinking a cup, I took a brisk walk on the beach. The salt air cleared my head and a refreshing shower energized me. Donning my favorite aqua sweater and jeans and flip-flops, my preferred footwear, did the rest. I left the house feeling empowered.
The moment I arrived at the Cookbook Nook, I sat at the register and sent Cinnamon a text asking her for her wedding planner’s contact information. At least I could start that ball rolling. That would set my mind at ease about the next few months. She responded in less than a minute and warned me: Don’t delay.
Taking her advice, I contacted the wedding planner, and she, like Cinnamon, responded in less than a minute. She could meet tomorrow morning as long as I filled out her questionnaire first. Give a busy woman a job and it gets done, I mused. I responded in the positive and texted Rhett with the appointment information, then I pushed my cell phone aside.
“Good morning!” Bailey trotted in with Brianna and baby items in tow. Dressed in a hooded jacket and slouchy pants, she resembled a Sherpa loaded for a trek up Mount Everest. “You won’t believe it! I found a sitter . . . a nanny . . . a whatever . . . and you’ll never guess who it is.”
“Who?” I rounded the counter and helped her unload the baby’s blanket, play gym, diaper bag, and sit-me-up floor seat—a darling owl-styled chair with eating tray and flipper toys.
“Tina.”
“Our Tina?”
Tina Gump was the twenty-something clerk we’d hired a little over a year and a half ago. She’d quit during the summer so she could attend culinary school full-time. She dreamed of becoming a chef.
“Has she given up on school so soon?” I asked.
“No, she’s taking a full load, but all her classes are in the morning. Her father is still helping her, but she would really like to make some extra spending money. Plus, she loves Brianna, and Brianna loves her. So Tina can attend classes in the morning then take Brianna home for me and, while Brianna naps, Tina can do homework. Win-win. I’m back on full-time three days a week, boss, if you need me, that is.”
“You won’t miss being with your baby?”
“I’ll miss her, but I really do need some me time.” Bailey placed her hand on her chest. “And me time is time spent with you and customers and—” She faltered.
“Adults.”
“Exactly.” Bailey let out a long sigh. “Am I a horrible mother?”
“You are exactly what you’re supposed to be. Your daughter is well-adjusted. Your marriage is fine and dandy. Tina will complement your needs perfectly.”
“If she lasts a few months, at least it will get me over the hump. I’ll even have time to work out without a baby on my hip!” Bailey did an arm-pumping dance with Brianna in her arms. “Alexa, here I come.”
“Baby?” Chef Katie Landry, née Casey, swooped into the shop from the breezeway that connected the Cookbook Nook to the café. “Do I hear a baby?” She hadn’t donned her chef’s jacket over her clothes yet. She was just coming on duty. Her unruly curls bobbed as she took Brianna from Bailey. “Who’s my best girl?” Katie cooed, lavishing the baby’s neck with kisses. “Want to fly?” She held Brianna overhead. The extension made her navy blue dress rise up. “Fly, baby. Fly.”
Brianna wiggled her arms and legs as she giggled with delight.
“Katie, that’s enough. Put her down,” Bailey ordered.
“I won’t drop her.” Katie and I were both tall, but thanks to her work as a chef, she was eons stronger. She pulled Brianna to her chest and kissed her once more before handing her off to Bailey. “She’s so pretty. Who does she get that from? Tito?”
“Ha-ha.” Bailey mock-scowled.
Bailey, Katie, and I had grown up together, although we’d hung out with different crowds during school. Now, we were best of friends.
Bailey set Brianna into the sit-me-up floor seat, told her she’d be right back, and carted the rest of her items into the stockroom.
Katie watched the baby in earnest. I wondered if she was regretting working now that she and Keller were the proud parents of Min-yi, an adorable Korean girl. By the time they’d taken custody, Min-yi had already been crawling. Did Katie worry about missing other milestones? She caught me staring at her and smiled broadly.
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br /> “I’ll be baking muffins today, Jenna,” she said. “Pumpkin with chocolate and shredded coconut. Don’t miss them. It’s a new recipe I’m trying for Thanksgiving. I’ll have them out by ten.” Daily, she set treats for our customers on a tiered tray on the table in the breezeway.
“I can’t wait.”
“And don’t miss today’s lunch special. I’m cooking up a variety of salads and grilled sandwiches as practice for our Food Bowl event. A bacon with macaroni-and-cheese grilled cheese sandwich is on the menu.”
“Heaven help my hips,” Bailey said as she returned from her chore. “Why do you torture me?”
Katie guffawed. “Eat half. Everything in moderation.”
“As if I had that kind of self-control.” Bailey glowered at her.
“Jenna, darling, it’s awful.” Gran hustled in, the tails of her cocoa-colored sweater flapping wildly. “On the street. He . . .” She huffed, clearly out of breath and distraught. “He . . .” She tried again but failed.
“He who?” I put a hand on her shoulder. “What’s wrong?” I peered past her but couldn’t see anyone on the walkway beyond the parking lot.
“Tito,” Gran said.
Bailey whirled around. “What about him? He’s due here in an hour for the magic presentation.”
A long time ago, when Tito had stepped in for a magician who’d taken ill, I’d grown a new appreciation for him. He’d never struck me as the suave and charming type, but he’d been wonderful. So, to launch Food Bowl week at the shop, we’d decided to have a gathering for our customers. Tito was going to make apples and saltshakers and all sorts of foodie-related things disappear.
“Tito and that other reporter,” Gran said. “On the street. They’re going at it.”
“Which reporter?” Bailey asked.
“Kylie O.”
“Oh, no!” Bailey raced out of the store.
Katie said, “I’ve got Brianna, Jenna. Go with her.”
I dashed out.
Running in flip-flops was always a challenge. “Bailey!” I shouted.
My pal might not have lost all the baby weight, but apparently carrying the baby around had given her extra thigh strength. She was shorter than I but outdistancing me by at least six strides.
Shredding the Evidence (A Cookbook Nook Mystery 9) Page 3