Shredding the Evidence (A Cookbook Nook Mystery 9)

by Daryl Wood Gerber

  One could hope.

  • • •

  The rest of the day went smoothly. We sold a number of salt-and-pepper sets, two apple-shaped cookie jars, a couple of foodie jigsaw puzzles, and dozens of books. Food Bowl traffic was a boon. At closing time, I was exhausted, but my day was not yet over.

  I took Tigger home, dressed for dinner, and arrived at Intime at seven p.m.

  Rhett greeted me with a kiss and stepped away. A swizzle of desire swept through me as I took him in, so commanding in his chef’s coat and slacks, his eyes glistening with pride.

  “Well? What do you think?” he asked.

  “Of you? Stunning.”

  “Very funny. You don’t look so bad yourself.”

  I’d worn a simple black sheath and chunky gold jewelry, and I’d pinned one side of my hair back in a flirty way with a decorative clip. “Thank you, kind sir.”

  “What do you think of the restaurant?” Rhett flourished a hand like a TV model.

  He hadn’t wanted me to see the bistro until it was complete. It had taken all my reserve to stay away.

  I turned in place, drinking in the ambiance, and said, “It’s gorgeous.”

  Like his parents’ restaurant in Napa, it was a classic French bistro, its walls lined with mirrors and deep mahogany paneling. Bronze-finished, candelabra-style chandeliers provided a warm glow.

  “Everything I expected,” I went on. “The music is nice, too.” A rendition of “Claire de Lune” was filtering through speakers. “And the aromas are divine. Are you pleased?”

  “Yep.”

  “Do I smell onion soup?”

  “What’s a bistro without a good soupe aux oignons?”

  “Heavy on the melted cheese?”

  “Absolutement.” Rhett kissed his fingertips. “Follow me.” He grabbed a menu and led me to a table draped with a white tablecloth and adorned with a single white rose in a crystal vase. Over his shoulder he said, “Your father and aunt aren’t here yet.”

  “Dad texted. They’re running a half hour behind. Hope that’s okay.”

  “It’s fine.”

  The three of us had agreed to enjoy the first night at Intime by ourselves. No deputy accompanying my aunt and no Lola accompanying my father.

  “Did you come up with a replacement for the minced chicken salad?” I asked as I sat.

  “I did. It’s a secret.” Rhett unfolded my napkin and handed it and the menu to me. “See you in a bit.” He signaled a waitress to bring me a glass of pinot gris and strode toward the kitchen.

  Before Rhett disappeared into the kitchen, Kylie O sashayed into the restaurant. She clasped him on the arm and said something while whisking her long locks over her shoulder in the dramatic way Gran had described. In her tight shimmering blue dress, Kylie reminded me of a mermaid, the wicked kind. Rhett guided her to the table next to mine, set for four. He opened her napkin for her and handed her a menu. Kylie set the menu aside and scanned the restaurant. When she caught sight of me, she grimaced. Why? Because she associated me with Tito? Because I’d witnessed their altercation?

  I smiled broadly. When facing the enemy, disarm with charm, my father would say.

  Kylie didn’t react, and I realized I hadn’t been the target of her disapproval. She was gazing past me toward the front of the restaurant. I swiveled to see who was there. No one had entered. A few people were standing by the pane-glass window, apparently studying the menu. A woman in white ducked out of view, as did a man in black. For a moment I wondered if the man could have been Tito until I remembered he had convinced Bailey that, despite all the tasty temptations that might interfere with her diet, they should take Brianna to Azure Park.

  The front door opened, and Eugene Tinsdale strode into the restaurant, his smile as strained as it was yesterday, although he appeared more robust in an expensive navy suit, white shirt, and bold red tie. His wife, Audrey, and their daughter, Alexa, followed him in—Audrey in a stylish floral frock and Alexa in a black sheath. Both were wearing stud earrings and necklaces; Audrey was carrying a bright pink shawl. Despite the mother and daughter’s thirty-year age difference, they looked similar. Both had styled their short dark hair in feathery wisps around their faces. Both had exotic eyes and high cheekbones. Of course, Alexa, thanks to her profession as a personal trainer, was much more fit than her mother.

  Intime’s hostess, a willowy brunette, guided them to Kylie’s table. Audrey kissed Kylie on the cheek before sitting down. Alexa gave Kylie a hug. Eugene patted her shoulder and took the seat next to her. He spied me and nodded. I responded in kind.

  The waitress showed up with my wine and asked if I needed anything. I told her I was fine and perused the menu, each item explained in detail within parentheses: hors d’oeuvre (minced artichoke tartlet), potage (French onion soup), poisson (blue crabs), entrée (braised lamb shanks), sorbet, salades (salad), fromage (a variety of cheeses), desserts (apple tartin), café (coffee). I couldn’t wait to taste everything. I knew each morsel would be seasonal and top-notch. Quality and consistency mattered most to Rhett.

  “Kylie, tell me about the National Newspaper Association convention,” Audrey said.

  Kylie laughed coyly. “What happens at the NNA stays at the NNA.”

  Eugene’s wife cut him a look.

  “She’s kidding, sweetheart,” Eugene said. “We did what we always do. We addressed business objectives of community newspaper owners, publishers, and staff. We had a few educational sessions and a few peer-sharing activities.”

  Audrey stifled a yawn.

  “What do peer-sharing activities entail?” Alexa asked.

  Kylie said, “I attended one with upper management to help figure out how to create meaningful jobs. That’s the best way to keep employees engaged. You went to that one, too, didn’t you, boss? Cajole employees. Make them feel as if they’re part owner, even if they’re not. Plus, I won an award for best restaurant review.”

  “Right,” Alexa said. “Congrats on that.”

  Eugene signaled their waitress. “A bottle of the Louis Jadot Chassagne-Montrachet, please.”

  That was an expensive wine, I noted, for someone who might be struggling financially. Maybe Eugene wasn’t; perhaps he purely wanted out of the newspaper business.

  “Four glasses,” he added.

  “I’m not drinking,” Kylie said.

  Alexa leaned toward her. “Why not? Are you pregnant?”

  Kylie coughed. “Get real.”

  “You’re looking a little puffy down there,” Alexa teased.

  “Who’s talking smack?” Kylie cuffed Alexa’s arm. “You’re the one who’s put on weight.”

  “As if.”

  “Girls,” Audrey chided.

  Kylie and Alexa sniggered. Audrey rolled her eyes. Eugene studied his menu, staying well clear of the minefield.

  I recalled the friendly-though-heated exchange Bailey had witnessed between Kylie and Alexa at a group pilates class. In our twenties, Bailey and I had taunted each other. Now, in our thirties, we’d stopped hurling personal insults. We didn’t have fragile egos; we’d simply grown up.

  Rhett appeared at my table and set down a plate with two onion tarts. “Catching any good gossip?” he whispered into my neck.

  “Hard not to since we’re all sitting so close.”

  “Ah, the beauty of a French bistro. In France, it is intentional. Everyone likes to know each other’s business.”

  “Liar.”

  “Are you a Francophile?” he kidded. “Non, mademoiselle.”

  I swatted his arm teasingly and lifted one of the tarts. “These aren’t on the menu.”

  “For you, anything. Bon appetit.” Rhett caressed my shoulder and moved on.

  I bit into the tart and nearly swooned. The creaminess of the filling was divine, and the flaky pastry, perfection.

  My father strode into the restaurant and made a beeline for me. “Sorry we’re late.” As always, he looked neat and put together. The blue in his plaid shirt compl
emented his tan skin. He kissed my cheek and sat opposite me. “Your aunt couldn’t decide what to wear.”

  “Don’t blame this on me, Cary Hart.” Aunt Vera slid into her chair. The crepe de chine fabric of her print dress swished against the leather seat. “I was completely dressed when you showed up.”

  “You were not. You needed your earrings. Which took you ten minutes to hunt down,” my father added.

  “It was your car that made us late, little brother.” My aunt whisked her napkin open and set it on her lap. “His tires were low.”

  “It took all of four minutes to add air.”

  “Stop.” I held up a hand. “You’re here. Order a glass of wine. Peruse the menu. I want this evening to be perfect for Rhett. No brother-sister spats.”

  “Comes with the territory.” My father brushed a thatch of his silver hair off his forehead. “Familiarity breeds contempt.” He winked at me.

  “Sorry, dear.” My aunt squeezed my hand. “I suppose we can’t help ourselves.”

  My father adored my aunt, but he was younger by a few years, so at times they could snarl at each other. He once told me they had always vied for their parents’ affection.

  Movement outside the restaurant’s front window caught my eye. Savannah Gregory, a marshmallow of a woman, was peering inside. She was the baker at Latte Luck Café. How I adored her cinnamon buns and nutmeg cookies. She loved browsing the Cookbook Nook for dessert cookbooks. One gem she’d purchased was Layered: Baking, Building, and Styling Spectacular Cakes, in which the author created wonderfully unique combinations, like pink peppercorn cherry or bourbon butterscotch. If only I could bake like that.

  “How’s business, Jenna?” my father asked.

  “We had a bunch of fun today,” I replied. “Tito gave a magic show.”

  Aunt Vera snorted. “He was a stitch. He did this thing with a banana, making it disappear after he’d mushed it. I can’t explain the whole trick, but it was a hoot.”

  My father smirked, less than impressed. A former FBI analyst and currently the owner of Nuts and Bolts, a hardware store, he preferred life to be systematic. He had a sense of humor, but he didn’t tend to appreciate the lighter side of life.

  “What are you looking at, Jenna?” my aunt asked.

  Savannah Gregory was pressing her hands against the window. What was she looking for? She wasn’t dressed for work. She was wearing a frilly long white dress. Even from this distance I could tell she’d been crying.

  “Aunt Vera, Dad.” I rose to my feet. “I’ll be right back.”

  I hurried outside. Savannah must have seen me coming because she changed course abruptly and started shuffling toward Aunt Teek’s, the antique shop next door.

  I caught up to her and said, “Hey, Savannah.”

  She pivoted. Her face was flushed, mouth trembling.

  Choosing to downplay her sadness, I said, “I saw that Alice in Wonderland birthday party cake you were making yesterday at the café. Amazing. Just gazing at the many layers and icing made me gain weight. You are so talented.”

  “Thank you,” she mumbled.

  “Is something wrong?” I touched her arm.

  She flinched and drew into herself, tucking her fleshy arms beneath her ample bosom. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “I saw you outside Intime.” I gestured. “Did someone stand you up?”

  Savannah squeezed her lips together as if she were working hard not to burst into tears.

  “Did you hope for a reservation?” I asked. “I know they were hard to come by.”

  A few tickets had been available online for the event and went like hotcakes. Luckily, Rhett had seen personally to my family’s reservation.

  “No. I couldn’t afford . . .” Savannah shook her head. Curly tendrils of her blonde updo wafted with the movement. “No.”

  “You’re all dressed up.”

  “I’m meeting my mother. Later.”

  Her mother, Shari, owned Latte Luck Café. Unlike Savannah, Shari was slim, trim, and filled with confidence.

  Savannah shivered, even though it wasn’t in the least cold.

  “Was there someone inside Intime you were hoping to talk to? A former boyfriend, perhaps?” Maybe he was one of the diners in the bistro. Or one of the staff.

  “No.”

  Suddenly, it dawned on me that Savannah might have been the person on the receiving end of Kylie O’s disapproving glare.

  I said, “Were you hoping to talk to Kylie?” Maybe Savannah had hoped to ask Kylie to review Latte Luck, but she’d missed nabbing Kylie before she’d entered Intime.

  Savannah didn’t deny it.

  “Want me to fetch her?” I asked. “She ought to be thrilled to tout Latte Luck in the Courier.”

  “No. Please don’t. She’s with her family.”

  “The Tinsdales aren’t her family. They’re friends.”

  “They’re like family,” Savannah said. “She always talks about them. Alexa is like a sister. Audrey is like a mother. Yada-yada.” She blinked, clearly realizing how snarky she’d sounded. “Kylie’s parents were always in absentia and, with no siblings to keep her company, she latched on to the Tinsdales. Now that her parents are dead . . .”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “They died in a helicopter crash when she was a senior in high school.”

  My eyes widened. “You know a lot about her. Are you two friends?”

  “We were. Once. We used to run ten-Ks together,” she murmured.

  Given her size, I found that hard to believe, but said, “I like to run,” in an attempt to bond.

  “I used to, too, until Kylie . . .” Savannah worked her lip between her teeth. “Kylie runs fast. She likes to sprint.” She twisted the toe of her right foot.

  “Pretty shoes,” I said, admiring her ballerina slippers.

  “I can’t wear heels anymore. My feet are ruined. Because of running. That’s why I let myself go.”

  “You look fine.”

  “No, I don’t. I eat too much.”

  I grinned. “Because you’re such a great baker.”

  Savannah blushed at the compliment. “I know I should see a weight specialist, except the doctor will tell me what I already know. Eat less. Work out. I . . .” She didn’t continue.

  I felt awful about the way she was berating herself, but I didn’t know how to console her.

  “I’m not strong. I don’t have self-control. It’s Kylie’s fault.” Savannah peeked over her shoulder. Had she expected Kylie to be listening in? Was she afraid of Kylie’s response? “She was always goading me. Faster. Faster.”

  I flashed on the day before when Kylie and another runner had nearly knocked me down. Kylie had been yelling, “Faster, faster,” to the woman.

  “Kylie forced me to do more than my body could,” Savannah went on. “One time, I tore a calf muscle trying to beat her. It took a year to heal and now”—she outlined her body with one hand—“this is what I have to show for it.”

  “Why did you surrender to Kylie’s wishes?”

  “Because . . .” Savannah chewed her lower lip. “Because . . .” She blinked rapidly.

  Mental slap to forehead. Because Savannah had been in love with Kylie. Maybe she still was.

  I said, “If you tell Kylie how you feel—”

  “No. Never. She hates me. She taunts me. She says I’m weak. And I am. I wish I weren’t, but I am.” Savannah sucked in a breath and lumbered away.

  Chapter 5

  When I returned to the restaurant, my aunt asked, “Is everything okay?”

  I murmured, “Yes,” and steered the conversation toward our respective days.

  Dinner was incredible. My father couldn’t stop raving about the blue crabs in lemon butter. My aunt was partial to the lamb shanks.

  After dessert, when Rhett approached the table to bid us goodbye, he was on cloud nine. Kylie was going to write a five-star review. She and the Tinsdales had loved every morsel. I congratulated him on
a job well done, kissed him good night, and reminded him we were meeting with the wedding planner in the morning at the Cookbook Nook. He promised to be there.

  • • •

  At seven a.m., Tigger and I took a slow run on the beach. I felt sluggish and a bit emotional. As my feet hit the sand, I realized why. I couldn’t stop thinking about Savannah and the bitterness she’d felt toward Kylie. Strolling into my new house, I decided that I’d stop by Latte Luck Café later and check in on her. We weren’t close friends, but I could show that I cared.

  After showering and eating a quickie breakfast of melted Brie on toast slathered with jam, I rode my Schwinn to the shop with Tigger in the basket. Halfway to work, I realized Keller was coming to paint the guest room.

  “Shoot,” I muttered. I didn’t need to let him in, he had a set of keys, but I’d offered to move all the furniture to the center of the room. Oh, well. Best laid plans. Keller was big and strong. He could manage.

  I locked the bicycle in the bike rack near Beaders of Paradise, a charming craft store catty-corner from ours, and strode into the Cookbook Nook. I set my sweet cat on his kitty condo, and then after throwing open a window to let in fresh air, I fetched my folder with the wedding planning notes from the office desk in the stockroom. For months I’d been cutting articles and photos out of magazines and downloading décor tips I’d found online.

  Harmony Bold, the wedding planner who had handled Cinnamon’s wedding, had agreed to meet Rhett and me prior to opening. She did not disappoint when it came to confidence. She breezed in carrying a navy blue portfolio that matched her navy blue sheath. The simple strand of pearls and stud pearl earrings she was wearing suited her perfectly. Her face was serene, her smile beatific. If I’d searched every actress in an online acting directory, I couldn’t have cast a woman who radiated more calm.

  “Where shall we lay out everything?” Harmony asked. Even her voice was free of angst. “We have quite a checklist to go over.”

  I breathed easier knowing that the next few months, under her capable guidance, would go smoothly. On the other hand, Rhett was late. I checked my cell phone. No text message.