“Savannah said something that made me question whether the killer had a peeve against Alexa, and therefore, killed Kylie at the studio.”
“To what end?”
“To ruin Alexa’s business.”
Bailey’s eyes widened.
I stared after Savannah. “Something was off about her.”
“About Alexa?”
“Savannah. She was wearing a ton of makeup. I’ve never seen her with any on.”
“Maybe she woke up with a bad case of acne. I wear a lot of foundation if a zit has reared its ugly head.”
“Okay, so do I,” I conceded. “When will that nasty plague go away, by the way? By the time we reach menopause?”
Bailey laughed. “One can hope.”
“Even so, I don’t apply makeup with as heavy a hand as Savannah,” I went on. “She must have used a palette knife to put it on. Turpentine will be needed to remove it.”
Baily roared. “You’re mean.”
“Being honest. She has such low self-esteem.”
“Like me with this”—Bailey patted her abdomen—“and Midge’s daughter and so many others. It’s almost an epidemic.” She pushed the stroller toward Waffle Wonderland. “I need sugar.”
“Ahem. Sugar isn’t going to help you get rid of the baby bump.”
“Hush your mouth, devil woman!” Bailey pushed faster. Over her shoulder she said, “You know, maybe Savannah never learned how to apply makeup.”
I swiveled and spied Savannah hugging her mother. Shari, who never wore makeup either, toyed with a ringlet around Savannah’s face. Savannah wrenched free. Clearly, she didn’t want to be babied.
Bailey ordered a Belgian waffle dusted with powdered sugar, and we settled at a new café table. “How’s it going with you and Rhett?”
“Over the weekend, he lost his other executive chef.”
“Oh, no. How could you not lead with that?” Bailey offered me a bite of the waffle.
I took it and hummed my approval. “Because it’s not a big deal. The investors are providing funding for two more chefs and a third manager. It’ll all come together.”
Bailey twirled a finger in front of my nose. “You’re acting very calm about it, meaning you are anything but calm.”
“My aunt has told me that worry never solved any problem.”
“Neither does putting one’s head in the sand like an ostrich,” Bailey gibed.
“That’s a myth. Ostriches do not put their heads in sand. They would suffocate.” I held up a finger. “They dig holes in the sand to protect eggs and such, and several times they put their heads in the sand to turn the eggs.”
Bailey guffawed. “Someone has been watching the nature channel while her fiancé has been launching his business.”
“Cut me some slack,” I said. “Rhett and I are good. We love each other. He’ll get it worked out, and then all will be right with the world.”
“Oh, to be a dreamer for a day.” Bailey covered her heart with her hand. “Being a realist is not nearly as much fun.”
I cuffed her on the arm. “Knock it off. Besides, my aunt has bigger problems.”
“With Sasha?”
“No. I think she and Sasha have worked things out. But I heard Appleby’s son Steven—”
“Hold that thought.” Bailey shot a finger at something behind me.
I pivoted. “Why? What—”
“Midge is going into the Shredding food tent.”
“Yeah, so?”
“I want to talk to her.”
“Bailey, cool your heels. We’re personae non gratae with her, and Tito is no longer a suspect.”
“So you say, but you never know with Cinnamon. She might come back around to thinking he is. Until the real killer is behind bars, I won’t sleep.” Bailey bounded to her feet and shoved the stroller, full steam ahead, toward the tent.
Here we go again, I thought, but I didn’t slow down. I was destined to be her wingman, come what may.
The Shredding tent was busy with customers checking out bakers’ racks filled with Midge’s cookbooks, DVDs of her television shows, and jars of her homemade lemon–poppy seed salad dressing. Midge, in her signature lime green jacket, skirted the makeshift counter and nudged a young woman—her daughter Marigold—to one side. “Take a break,” Midge ordered.
Like her mother, Marigold had frizzy hair and a winsome smile, but otherwise she didn’t resemble Midge in the least. Her cheeks were gaunt and her skin pale, most likely from her battle with eating and purging. Her overall carriage was, as Principal Baker had described, somber.
“Ten minutes,” Midge said. “You’re on the clock for your work-study credits.”
“Yes, Mama.” Marigold removed her lime green apron and scurried out of the tent.
Midge asked the customer at the head of the line what she wanted to eat. On the counter sat cups of salads and premade shredded chicken-vegetable sandwiches on whole wheat, rye, or sourdough.
I whispered to Bailey, “If you want to talk to Midge, you’ll have to wait your turn.”
“Fine.” Bailey aligned the stroller behind a gentleman in a running suit.
Stalwart friend, I stood beside her.
Under her breath, Bailey said, “Midge doesn’t look guilty.”
“I’m not sure what guilty looks like anymore.” Over the past few years, I’d faced a number of murderous souls, most of whom had appeared perfectly normal to me.
Midge caught sight of Bailey and me and frowned. Did that make her guilty? Maybe she didn’t want a repeat of yesterday’s encounter at her downtown restaurant. With calm self-assurance, she dealt with the next customer. And the next.
When Bailey and I reached the head of the line, Midge glanced to her right. Was she hoping her daughter would return and take our order?
Forcing a smile, Midge said, “Jenna and Bailey, what a nice surprise.”
Liar, liar. I could see the reluctance as well as hurt in her eyes.
“Ready for lunch?” Midge asked.
Bailey elbowed me, goading me to take the lead.
I glowered at her—wingmen shouldn’t have to steer a conversation. Even so, I leaned forward and, keeping my voice soft, said, “Midge, we were chatting with Katie about what you said regarding the Asian fusion restaurant owner, and she denied it.”
“Denied what?” Midge’s voice rose in a cheery singsong fashion. Her work on television must have taught her how to fake an upbeat mood.
I said, “Katie denied telling you that the chef was going to copy your recipe.”
“Oh, that.” Midge lifted one of the salad cups and, in a bold voice said, “I think you’ll like this, Jenna. Good choice. What else?”
“One of the sandwiches on sourdough,” I replied, playing along, and added sotto voce, “so, we’d like to ask, what were you really doing near Your Wellness on Friday?”
Midge peeked to the left and back at me. “Jenna, honestly, now? I can’t—”
“If you’re innocent, let’s put this behind us.”
“I am innocent. I didn’t—” Midge packaged up the sandwich while continuing to speak in a raspy whisper. “I’m not proud to admit this, but I was spying on my daughter Friday morning.”
“Try again,” Bailey said with a bite. “It was a school day.”
“That’s the point,” Midge said. “She cut school, unlike today, which is a work-study approved day.”
Bailey eyed me. “Why didn’t Principal Baker tell us that?”
“We didn’t ask,” I said.
Midge gawped. “Why were you two talking with the principal?”
“That’s who told us about the scathing articles Kylie wrote in regard to Marigold,” I said, slightly embarrassed, “and we wanted to follow up on it.”
“You had no right,” Midge said.
Bailey squared her shoulders. “Yes, we did. My husband was a suspect in Kylie’s murder. We needed to explore all angles.”
“Was,” Midge said. “Tito was.”
I smiled at her and said, “A minute longer, ma’am. Thanks for understanding.” I refocused on Midge. “It must have upset you the way Kylie maligned your daughter.”
“Kylie was vicious,” Midge hissed. “I think she was jealous of anyone who could cook. Kylie couldn’t. She didn’t have an ounce of talent in her entire body. Over the past year or so, she lashed into me and so many others.”
Like Savannah, I mused.
“To answer your question about why I was outside the Boldine Building,” Midge continued, changing tack, “I was there because my daughter has a new boyfriend.”
“An artist,” I said.
“He’s the grandson of the Boldines,” Midge said. “I knew his grandparents had gone on a cruise. The boy’s mother and his uncle had split town, too—they aren’t foodies. Speculating that the kids might think it was a lark to sneak inside the jewelry store, seeing as they were already truant, I went to do a little reconnaissance. Except they weren’t there. Frustrated but not thwarted, I drove to the young Boldine’s house, which is where I found them. Of course, I can’t tell anyone I was stalking them. If my daughter finds out?” Midge moaned. “We’re already on shaky ground. She blames me for everything Kylie did to her. She thinks Kylie attacked her to get to me. Why Kylie wanted a pound of my flesh is still a mystery, but what she did to my sweet girl . . .” Midge fought tears. “The pain Kylie caused Marigold, making her self-esteem plummet, resulting in an eating disorder? Despicable. Deplorable. I will never forgive her, and I won’t rue her death. But I do have a verifiable alibi.”
“Verifiable?” Bailey said. “Try me.”
I shot her a look to cool it. “What is it, Midge?”
Midge’s eyelids fluttered. “Ever since you came to the restaurant yesterday, I’d wondered about whether someone had seen me outside the boyfriend’s house, so I made a few calls this morning, and I found a neighbor who noticed me peeking in windows. In fact, she’d reported the incident to the police, so I should go to the police and admit—”
“Mom?” Marigold skirted the counter, surprising all of us. “What’s going on? Why do you need to go to the police? What do you need to admit?”
Midge clutched her daughter’s shoulders. “It’s a small matter I need to handle. Start filling orders, sweetheart. We’ll close up in an hour, as planned, and you can return to school.” She cupped her daughter’s chin with her hand. Marigold, like Savannah earlier, wriggled free of her mother’s doting attention.
“I’m sorry, Midge,” I said as I paid for our meals.
“Me, too.”
“I hope you’ll follow through and go to the precinct.”
“I will.”
Silently, I also hoped Midge and her daughter would go to counseling. After David’s death, I’d met with a therapist. Having someone to whom I could air grievances had helped me a lot.
Chapter 15
Outside the Shredding tent, when Bailey and I finished our snacks—I enjoyed the sandwich; she ate the salad—she checked on Brianna in her stroller. “My daughter is down for the count. Want to take a walk?”
“Sure.” I tossed our wrappers into a nearby garbage can. “How about a little window-shopping? Maybe we’ll stop at Spellbinder.” It was the mystery bookshop in town. I needed to replenish my to-be-read pile on the nightstand.
“Sounds good.”
On Buena Vista Boulevard, as we were passing mini San Francisco, Bailey peered upward. I followed her gaze. The windows to Your Wellness were closed.
“Poor Alexa,” Bailey whispered. “I can’t help thinking about what you said. Is it possible someone killed Kylie in order to sabotage Alexa’s business? Or was the killer someone who hated both of them? Is Cinnamon considering that angle?”
“I have no clue.”
“Maybe we should visit Alexa,” Bailey went on, “and give her some moral support.”
“Where would we find her?” I asked. “Clearly, Your Wellness isn’t open.”
“Not necessarily.” Bailey pressed the intercom to the studio. Alexa didn’t answer.
“See? I told you.”
“Maybe she’s just not answering.”
“We can’t get inside without—”
“Catch the door!” Bailey said.
A deliveryman was leaving the building.
I managed to grab hold of the doorframe, told the bewildered man that our friend was expecting us, and allowed Bailey and Brianna to enter first. We took the elevator to the second floor and pressed the studio’s doorbell. And waited. No one answered.
“Okay, this is a bust. When I’m right, I’m right.” I moved to the elevator and pressed the Down button. The doors opened instantly.
“I know where Alexa lives.” Bailey pushed the stroller onto the elevator and hit the number one. “I delivered cookbooks to her last week. She’s living in the hills with her parents for another month until she gets her own place. It’s not far from your father’s house. Let’s go.”
“Bailey—”
“C’mon. Be a sport. An uphill trek will do me good.”
The elevator doors opened. Bailey propelled the stroller forward, full steam ahead, through the foyer and onto the street. She veered right and continued the fast pace. At the dancing dolphins statue, she headed east, up the mountain. By the time we reached the Tinsdales’ ranch-style home, I was perspiring but energized, and Bailey was beaming. Brianna, the darling child, was still asleep.
“Nice flower bed,” I said.
The front yard was rife with red cyclamen, red lobelia, and white chrysanthemums. Little Miss, a red-tinged ornamental grass, created a lovely low border. The grass was perfectly trimmed. Beneath a stately maple tree to the right stood an all-weather bench and table. Through the front window, I could see Audrey, dressed in a paint-splattered smock and black leggings, working on a canvas featuring large-sized poppies.
“Leave it to Audrey to create a masterpiece in her yard, too.” I pressed the doorbell. “I hope I’ll have a green thumb. I’ve never maintained a garden.”
“Maybe we should have called ahead,” Bailey said when no one answered the door. “We’re disturbing them.”
“Too late to think of that. And I hear footsteps.”
Eugene Tinsdale opened the door and smiled warmly. “Jenna, Bailey. What are you two doing here?”
“We were hoping to see Alexa,” Bailey said.
“She’s not here.” Eugene swiveled his head and bellowed, “Audrey, when will Alexa be back?”
Audrey sauntered into the foyer, carrying a palette and an orange-dipped paintbrush. “Hello, girls. Alexa is working out.”
“Not at the studio,” Bailey said. “We went there first.”
“No, no. Alexa is in the park near the junior college.” Audrey aimed the paintbrush to the north. “She won’t be long. She’s doing an hour of pole work.”
“Pole work?” I raised an eyebrow.
Audrey said, “Alexa claims pole dancing increases core and general body strength by using the body itself as resistance.”
Eugene elbowed his wife. “You sound like a convert.”
Audrey blushed and said to us, “I’ve taken up pole dancing. It’s invigorating.”
Eugene said, “As if you need to be more fit.”
Bailey said, “Alexa has been trying to talk me into doing it.”
“Try it,” Audrey said. “It makes me feel sexy.” Her cheeks tinged pink, as if she’d shared too much.
“Why would Alexa opt for the park?” I asked.
“There’s a jungle gym,” Audrey said.
“Yes, but there’s a pole at the studio,” Bailey countered.
“Alexa hasn’t gone . . .” Audrey lowered her chin. “She hasn’t gone inside since . . .”
Since the murder. I nodded, understanding. She could stand outside with her father and watch security lights being installed. Entering was another matter.
“Come in, ladies.” Eugene beckoned us. “Would you like some tea?”
Audrey said, “How rude of me. Yes, come in. It’s so nice of you to be supportive of Alexa. I’ll clean up and meet you in a few. Eugene, put on a pot of water.”
Eugene led Bailey and me to the living room, which was filled with a colorful array of furniture and what I presumed were Audrey’s paintings on the walls. She taught all styles of painting, including surrealism, impressionism, and cubism, but given the works on the wall, she clearly enjoyed pointillism, using a technique of small dots of color applied in patterns to create an image. The artists Seurat, Signac, and van Rysselberghe were obviously her heroes. Seeing the Pacific Ocean and the coastline of Crystal Cove done in the pointillist style by such a talented artist took my breath away.
“Eugene, your wife has a gift,” I said.
“I’ve told her the same, but she won’t accept the compliment. She thinks she’s a hack.” He headed toward the kitchen. “I’ll be right back. English breakfast okay?”
“Great,” I said.
Bailey pushed the stroller next to the sofa and checked on Brianna. “What a snooze-hound. Should I worry that she’s snoring?”
“Baby’s snore,” I said, matter-of-factly, as if I knew everything about babies. They did snore, didn’t they? My cat did.
I roamed the room, eyeing Audrey’s work and other items. Pictures of teenaged Alexa and Kylie at a gymnastics meet. Alexa and Kylie going to what had to be the prom with two very handsome boys. Alexa and Kylie in shorts and T-shirts tapping the bells at the top of a rock climbing wall.
“I see you’re taking it all in, Jenna.” Audrey ambled into the room. She had removed her smock, donned a silk bomber jacket, and had freshened her makeup. “Alexa had been a loner until she met Kylie, and then like that”—she snapped her fingers—“the girls bonded. I remember how they would talk until the wee hours of the night if they had a sleepover.”
“They seem to have enjoyed competing against one another,” I said.
“They did.” Audrey removed four red-and-white Crystal Cove High School yearbooks, each emblazoned with the black Toreador mascot, from the lower shelf of the coffee table. “Alexa and Kylie said that competition made them reach for the stars. Sit, Jenna. Bailey, you, too. Have a look.”
Shredding the Evidence (A Cookbook Nook Mystery 9) Page 15