At six p.m., after a raucous afternoon of dozens of tourists buying nearly every local restaurant cookbook we’d stocked and twenty-plus children making Bonka-style bird toys—Gran gave me a bird toy for Tigger—I closed up shop, drove my sweet cat home, and dressed for the family dinner.
• • •
Ever since I’d moved back to Crystal Cove, my family met for dinner on Sunday evenings, at my father’s house or my aunt’s house. Tonight, we were sharing our meal in Aunt Vera’s dining room. The weather had cooled, making it too chilly to sit on the verandah facing the ocean. Sometimes, only the immediate family attended our dinners. At other times, the group included friends or significant others. Tonight’s meal was a mix-and-match affair.
My father had arrived solo because Lola had to prepare for Tuesday’s bash at the Pelican Brief Diner. Deputy Appleby was a no-show because he was canvassing people who had dined at Latte Luck Café on Friday morning in the hope that someone had seen more than Viveca or Harmony had. Jake Chapman, one of my father’s dearest friends and the man who had saved my father from drowning over fifty years ago, had joined us; however, he was alone, as well. Although he was dating our mayor, Z.Z. couldn’t take a moment to enjoy a soiree because she felt it was her duty to make the rounds of all the foodie venues. Bailey had shown up, but Tito had opted to stay home with the baby. Sadly, he wasn’t in the mood to be hospitable.
I’d hoped Rhett, now that Intime’s big night was over, would have been able to break free, but he hadn’t. As I was heading out my door to walk to my aunt’s house, he’d sent me a text apologizing. When I’d read it, my heart had wrenched, but I’d texted him that I understood. And I did. Soon, the investors would increase the staff, and all would be right with the world . . . and us.
“You’re looking glum, Jenna.” My father, who’d sneaked up behind me in my aunt’s kitchen, poked me in the rib cage.
“Hey.” I whipped around, potholders on both hands. “Dad, you’re lucky I wasn’t gripping the platter of spaghetti yet, or you could have ended up with spicy meat sauce down the front of your nice shirt and trousers.”
My father held up his hands, palms forward. “Sorry. Never scare the chef. Lola warns me all the time.”
“I’m not the chef. I’m the chef’s helper.” I nodded to my aunt, who was tossing a green salad. “I spooned the sauce onto the spaghetti. That’s all.”
He appraised the platter. “You did a masterful job.” He kissed my cheek, then said, “Hi, Sis. You look pretty in pink.”
“This caftan is maroon,” my aunt said.
“Making sure you’re not colorblind,” Dad joked.
Aunt Vera chortled. “Grab the basket of bread, you goon, and take it to the table. And ask Jake to pour the wine. It’s over there.” She pointed to a bottle of chianti on the counter.
“On it.” My father glanced at me over his shoulder as he neared the door. “Sweetheart, are you sure you’re okay? Your forehead . . .” He twirled a finger.
“I’m worried about Tito. The police haven’t arrested anyone. If he’s their sole viable suspect—”
“Let’s get seated,” my father said, “and we’ll discuss.”
Most of my aunt’s house was decorated with beach-friendly décor—rattans and florals and glass tabletops—but the dining room was upscale. Aunt Vera was never eager to show off her wealth, but when dining, she believed that her guests should be treated like royalty. On the far wall was a built-in hutch with an enviable amount of storage tucked into cased millwork with clever pop-latch doors. The oval mahogany table and oval-backed, white-padded chairs gave the room a subtle but elegant vibe. The white and silver-scrolled chandelier was sheer class, and the Persian silk and wool area rug was top-of-the-line.
After the five of us settled at the table and filled our plates, my father raised his wineglass in a toast. “To Vera, for an exceptional meal.”
I said, “Hear, hear.”
Jake, a lean, wiry man who reminded me of an aging cowboy, said, “Vera, if I weren’t crazy for Z.Z., I’d be pursuing you. A woman who cooks with oregano always wins my heart.”
My aunt flapped her hand. “Jake, you’re a flirt and a liar. Until you fell for Z.Z., your heart always belonged to your beautiful departed wife.”
And one other woman, we’d discovered about a year ago—Jake’s first love.
“Well, you’d be next on my list,” Jake said, his green eyes glinting with charm. He shrugged out of his leather jacket and hung it on the back of his chair.
“Now,” my father said, “let’s talk about—”
The doorbell chimed.
“Expecting anyone?” my father asked.
“No,” my aunt said. “Jenna, would you answer, please? We can make room for one more.”
When I opened the door, I was surprised to see Tina Gump, as leggy as ever in a miniskirt that was barely long enough to be called a skirt. She hoisted a to-go bag from Intime. “This is from Rhett. He wanted me to tell you how sorry he was.”
My heart warmed. “When did you see him?”
“I deliver for the restaurant on Sundays.”
I took the bag from her and smiled. “I knew you were industrious, carrying a full load of classes as well as serving as Brianna’s nanny, but you deliver food, too?”
“I can’t afford new duds unless I have extra cash,” Tina said. “My father is only covering tuition and books.” For years, Tina had been estranged from her father and had turned to her uncle for advice and support. Now, however, she had returned to her roots, and she and her father were forging a new bond. I was happy for her.
“Well, good for you for following your dream,” I said. “I can see school is boosting your confidence.”
Tina grinned, no longer the fearful young woman I’d first met.
“Can you come in for a minute?” I asked.
“A few. Sure. I’d love to see everyone, but then I have to get back to work.” Tina stepped inside.
I ushered her to the dining room.
My aunt hurried from her chair to envelope Tina in a hug. “Don’t you look fabulous?” Aunt Vera tenderly toyed with a tendril of Tina’s wavy hair, which Tina had swooped into a messy updo. “How’s culinary school?”
“Cooking.” Tina winked at my aunt. “Hi, Bailey. Jake. Cary.”
It had taken six months of encouragement until Tina felt comfortable using everyone’s first names. She’d been raised to address people formally, using Miss, Mister, or Missus.
I unpacked the bag Rhett had sent over and removed the aluminum carryout container. “Score!” I shouted. “Rhett sent us onion appetizers. By my count, at least two apiece. Dig in.” I passed the container around the table. Who needed decorum when tasty food was piping hot?
Tina perched on the chair beside Bailey. “How’s Tito doing?”
“That’s what we were going to discuss,” my father said.
Bailey frowned. “He thinks everyone believes he’s guilty.”
“I don’t,” Tina rushed to say. “No way.”
Each person at the table echoed Tina’s sentiment.
Bailey lifted her wineglass but didn’t take a sip. “Have you heard anything from Flora?” she asked me.
“Not a peep.”
“What’s Flora doing?” My father passed the breadbasket around the table.
“I asked her to set up a phone tree to see if anyone . . . anyone,” I stressed, “might have seen Tito on Gardenia Avenue on Friday morning.”
Jake said, “I was on Gardenia on Friday, but I’m sorry to say I didn’t see Tito’s Prius.”
“He wasn’t driving his Prius,” Bailey said. “It was in the shop. He was driving a loaner. A Celica.”
“What color?” Jake asked.
“Dark blue.”
“Broken front headlight?”
Bailey gasped. “Yes. Did you see it? Oh, Jake, please say yes.”
Jake grinned. “Yes.” He crossed his heart.
“Where?” she begged
.
“Parked in front of that two-story Mediterranean with the giant red door.” Jake widened his hands as he mentioned the door. “You know the one I mean. It’s three times the size of a regular door. The owners rent out the house.”
“That’s where the band is staying,” Bailey exclaimed.
“Why were you in the area, Jake?” my father asked.
“I was playing chess with a buddy.”
“Oho, Jake,” my father said. “A new secret revealed. I didn’t know you played chess.” He leaned forward on his arms. “How did I not know that?”
“I took it up recently.”
Jake was extremely smart. He hadn’t gone to college, for a number of sad personal reasons, but when he learned something, he excelled at it.
“Drop by the shop,” my father said. “We’ll play a game or two.” Dad loathed boredom. He needed to keep busy. Chess was one of his passions. I’d never won a match against him. Neither had either of my siblings.
Bailey tapped the dining table. “Enough talking about chess. Jake, when did you see Tito in the Celica?”
“Let’s see.” Jake gazed upward. “I arrived around ten. The Celica wasn’t there then. But when I went outside for a stretch at eleven—I needed some fresh air after getting my clocks cleaned—I saw it.” Jake focused on Bailey and tented his fingers. “It was still there about an hour later when I left.”
Bailey whooped. “That means Tito’s alibi will hold up. He couldn’t have killed Kylie. Oh, Jenna, we have a witness.”
I blew her a celebratory kiss.
“Hold on,” my father said. “Jake, you saw the car, but did you see Tito?”
Bailey said, “He was sitting in the car, listening to a meditation tape.”
Jake pursed his lips. “I saw someone. I can’t specifically say it was Tito.”
“Who else would it have been?” I rasped.
“It was Tito.” Bailey spanked the table. “My Tito. You have to tell the police, Jake.”
“Will do.” Jake saluted, knowing full well how important an alibi was, given his run-in with the law last year.
My father folded his arms. “If that’s the case, if Tito is no longer a suspect, then who else would have wanted Kylie Obendorfer dead?”
“Midge Martin,” Bailey stated.
“I agree.” Tina bobbed her head.
I gaped at her. “How do you know Midge?”
“I deliver food for her restaurant, too. On Saturdays.”
“Why would Midge want Kylie dead?” I asked, hoping to hear a stronger motive than Kylie claiming Midge had filched a recipe and had dubbed it her own.
“Her daughter,” Tina said, and quickly paled. “Oh, my, what have I done? No, no, no. I shouldn’t have . . .” She swatted the air. “I shouldn’t have talked out of school.”
I put a calming hand on her arm. “Whatever you know and, if it’s a fact and not gossip, then you can tell us.”
Tina squirmed in her chair. “Okay, last week”—she whispered, as if speaking louder might make whatever she had to say untrue—“I heard Midge and Kylie quarrelling. Kylie had slipped into the kitchen when I was packing the delivery warming bag. Intime likes me to transport items one at a time. Midge thinks it’s okay for me to do three or four deliveries on my route.”
“Go on,” I encouraged.
“Anyway, Midge and Kylie were arguing about Midge’s daughter, Marigold,” Tina said. “Midge was blaming Kylie for ruining Marigold’s self-esteem. From what I could gather, Kylie had butted in on Marigold’s home economics class a while back. That’s it. That’s all I know. I couldn’t stick around to hear anything else because I had to get going on the deliveries.” Tina rose from her chair. “Like I should now. Bye.”
The Roadrunner couldn’t have fled the house faster.
Chapter 12
Monday morning, Bailey rang me as I was running on the beach. She hadn’t been able to sleep. She’d worried all night about whether the police would believe Jake Chapman’s sighting of Tito. Seeing as she was on pins and needles waiting for the answer and because she wasn’t one hundred percent certain that Jake’s testimony would exonerate her husband, she’d decided to go to Crystal Cove High School and meet with the principal. She wanted to follow up on Tina’s account regarding Midge’s daughter. She believed if she could provide a better motive for Midge, then Cinnamon might haul Midge into the precinct and grill her.
“Will you go with me?” Bailey begged. “Please?”
After eleven a.m., I expected a steady stream of customers at the shop, seeing as that was when the Nook’s six-hours-of-lunch event would commence, but the first couple of hours would be quiet.
“Sure,” I said. How could I refuse?
I ate a quick breakfast, dressed sedately in a white silk blouse, tweed blazer, and beige trousers, and took Tigger to the shop. Gran arrived minutes after I did. Quickly, I explained my mission with Bailey and asked Gran to watch over things. I added that Aunt Vera had texted me; she was already on her way in. She had scheduled an early-morning tarot reading. Gran assured me that the two of them could manage the shop.
Crystal Cove High School was located near Azure Park. Its architecture matched the rest of the town, with its white buildings and red-tiled roofs, but it wasn’t a large campus, serving less than a thousand students. I had wonderful memories from my years there—art classes, acting in a play or two, rooting for the Toreadors, and, yes, attending a few parties.
Principal Baker was the same woman who had overseen my years at high school. She was also the home economics teacher who had guided Katie to her glorious future as a chef. If only I’d have taken a class or two back then.
“You’re here!” Bailey cried as she hopped out of an Uber near the administration office. She grabbed me in a bear hug and released me. “I see you got the outfit memo.” She flourished a hand in front of her clothes: white blouse, beige slacks, tweed jacket. “Have we dressed to impress?”
I smiled. “I decided to up my game to show respect.”
“Me, too. Great minds think alike.” Bailey linked her hand around my elbow and ushered me into the building.
The receptionist, Mrs. Garofalo, the same cherry-cheeked woman who’d sat at the L-shaped oak desk for nearly two decades, greeted us. “Ladies, you look like the Bobsey twins.”
Bailey giggled. “Not on purpose.”
“I used to dress like my best friend, too,” Mrs. Garofalo said. “It was like we had ESP. She still calls me, out of the blue, exactly when I’m thinking of her. It’s nice to have that kind of friend.” She depressed the intercom button on the telephone and announced that we were here.
Principal Baker replied through the speaker, “Send them in.”
After speaking with Bailey, I’d called the school and requested an appointment.
Mrs. Garofalo gestured to the closed door. “Enter at your own risk.” It was her typical quip, one I’d heard her say numerous times. Not to worry. Principal Baker was a pussycat.
“Thank you,” I said, and led the way.
Principal Baker rose from her boxy desk as Bailey and I entered. She’d aged a lot in thirteen years. I figured she was close to my aunt’s age, mid-sixties. Smile lines feathered around her gentle eyes and full mouth. She hadn’t dyed her hair, which was shockingly white. Once thin, she’d grown thicker at the waist.
Photographs of Principal Baker and many prominent people from Crystal Cove hung on the wall behind her desk.
“Welcome, ladies.” She gestured toward slatted chairs opposite the desk. “Come in. Please sit.”
A photograph on the desk caught my eye—Principal Baker beaming with six little girls wearing aprons and holding spatulas in front of an array of cookies.
“Are they your granddaughters?” I asked.
“My pride and joy. They keep me young. How are you both?” she asked.
I replied, “Fine.”
Bailey said, “Not so fine. You might not know this, but I got married, and
now my husband—”
“I heard,” Principal Baker said. “He’s a suspect in a murder. I’m so sorry.”
“He’s innocent,” Bailey said. “Someone can verify his alibi.”
“The person who can,” I said, “should be talking with the police this morning.”
Bailey twirled a hand. “In the meantime, we were wondering if you’d tell us about—” Her voice cracked.
“If you’d tell us about Midge Martin’s daughter, Marigold,” I finished.
“What about her?” Principal Baker folded her hands on her desk.
“A friend of ours,” I began, “overheard Midge Martin arguing with Kylie O—”
“Kylie Obendorfer,” Bailey cut in. “The victim.”
“I knew Kylie tangentially,” Principal Baker said. “Go on.”
“Our friend heard the two women arguing,” I continued. “Midge accused Kylie of ruining her daughter’s self-esteem. Would you happen to know what that was about? Apparently, Kylie had butted in on Marigold’s home economics class. Your class.”
Principal Baker pursed her lips and unfolded her hands. She squared a few items on her desk and then gazed out the window with the view of the schoolyard. When she returned her focus to us, she said, “This is a delicate matter and should not be made public.”
“Of course.” I glanced at Bailey. She agreed, albeit reluctantly.
“First of all, Kylie didn’t butt in on a class,” Principal Baker said. “In September, she was writing an article about a cookie bake-off we were sponsoring. Ten regional teams were competing. Marigold was one of our prized bakers. Something went amiss, and Marigold’s double chocolate chunk cookies exploded in the oven. No one knows what happened. Did one of the other teams sabotage the recipe? Possibly. Nothing could be proven.”
“Kids can be cruel,” I said.
“As for Kylie,” Principal Baker went on, “she didn’t just make fun of Marigold; she taunted her mercilessly in article after article. In addition, Kylie fat-shamed the girl, which made no sense. You see, Marigold was as thin as a rail.”
I didn’t read the foodie section with regularity; I’d missed the tirade. “And the newspaper’s owner allowed this harassment?” I asked.
Shredding the Evidence (A Cookbook Nook Mystery 9) Page 12