Shredding the Evidence (A Cookbook Nook Mystery 9)

by Daryl Wood Gerber

  “What’s wrong?” Rhett asked.

  “I was wondering if the killer could have entered Your Wellness through those windows.”

  “How?” Rhett asked. “The exterior is smooth and there’s no fire escape ladder.”

  “That’s because they’ve been removed from most buildings. Bucky told me once that they proved more hazardous than helpful.” I peered harder. “I suppose it’s possible that Viveca, Alexa’s assistant, didn’t see everyone who entered or lingered at the front of the building that morning. She didn’t spot Midge.”

  “Midge Martin?” Rhett asked. “Did she have a motive to want Kylie dead?”

  “Yes.” I explained quickly. “However, long story short, Midge has a verifiable alibi. Whoever killed Kylie went poof.”

  “Poof?”

  “Gone. Vanished into thin air.” I gave him a quick recap of Tito’s magic trick.

  Rhett grinned. “Sorry I missed that one. Sounds fun.”

  I continued to stare at the Boldine Building. “Magic tricks are all about sleight of hand and misdirection. I’m guessing that a murderer thinks like a magician. Get in, get out, and disappear. Remain unseen and, therefore, remain innocent.”

  • • •

  At two a.m., I awoke with a start after a nightmare about falling from the top of one large building after another. In the dream, I recalled thinking that Google Maps might help me learn more about the mini San Francisco structure. So I fetched my laptop computer, climbed back into bed, and opened the browser to Google Maps. I typed in the building’s address and homed in. Closer, closer. I manipulated my view by tilting the image to 3D. The front of the building appeared the same as earlier. All lights off. Security cameras in place. Spotlights illuminating the façade.

  I moved the cursor to provide a view of the rear of the building. Windows were opened at Your Wellness, but, as Rhett and I had noted, there were no ladders to access that floor from either the roof or from the ground. I spotted the two doors Alexa had mentioned at the opposite ends of the structure. A large square Dumpster-style garbage can stood outside each. Could the killer have hidden behind one of the Dumpsters and, when the coast was clear, sneaked in through a door, entered the ductwork, and crawled to the Boldine Building?

  Knowing I could do no more, I closed Google Maps and went back to sleep. Tigger, sensing my distress, curled into my stomach.

  More dreams plagued me. Of scaling and rappelling down mountains.

  I awoke wondering if the killer had been able to reach the building’s rooftop, would he or she have been able to rappel down to Your Wellness using a preset rope and sneak in through the opened windows. I made a mental note to discuss the possibility with Cinnamon. She’d reject me out of hand, of course, wanting no more interference from me, but I’d at least plant the notion in her head.

  Chapter 17

  Wednesday morning was sunny and deliciously warm for the season. In less than an hour I exercised, showered, dressed in a light sweater and capris, and ate a power breakfast of diced hard-boiled egg on avocado toast.

  Keller showed up as I was gathering Tigger. “Hey, hey, Jenna. Beautiful day.”

  “Sure is. What’s on the agenda?” I asked.

  “That’s something we need to discuss. Yesterday evening, on my way out, as I was stowing my tools and stuff in your garage, I discovered some dry rot.”

  I moaned. “That can’t be good.”

  “It’s not. Dry rot, which is also known as brown rot, is caused by fungi, which can ruin wooden structures. When dry rot occurs, the fungi break down cellulose and hemicellulose, the components that give wood strength.”

  “Okay.” I wasn’t a construction person. I’d never paid attention to what went into a house. Given Keller’s propensity for detail, I feared I was about to learn. “Go on.”

  “Dry rot will affect timber that is damp. So, for this reason, removing the source of moisture should be the aim of any dry rot strategy.” Keller slung a thumb into the pocket of his overalls. “If it’s okay with you, I’d like to bring in a specialist and get the area dried out and repaired.”

  “What’s the downside if we don’t?” I asked.

  “The wood will continue to rot, and ultimately the structure will crumble.”

  I rolled my eyes. The gift from my aunt was becoming a money pit. On the other hand, Rhett and I had savings, and we did love the location.

  “Any business or home is an investment that will continue to require upkeep,” Keller said.

  “Do whatever you have to and keep a running tally of costs.”

  He offered a thumbs-up sign.

  When I arrived at the shop, my aunt was already there, sitting at the vintage kitchen table, cradling a baby girl swaddled in a peach blanket. Aunt Vera was tickling the girl under her chin and cooing to her. Nearby stood Deputy Appleby and his daughter, Sasha. Appleby was beaming; Sasha was edgy and fidgeting with her fingers. I silently willed her to relax. The baby wasn’t a china doll. She would survive my aunt’s coddling.

  “Good morning,” I said. “What a beauty she is, Sasha.”

  “All babies are,” Sasha murmured, like an unbiased mother.

  “Not all.” I recalled one poor child I’d met with bug eyes, a pumpkin-sized head, and porcine nose. Kids would not be kind to the boy as he grew up.

  “Jenna,” my aunt said, “we have to disassemble the window display and set up for Thanksgiving.”

  “On it.”

  On my way to the stockroom, I whispered congratulations to Appleby. I considered telling him what I wanted to say to Cinnamon but decided against it. He was enjoying a family moment. I set Tigger on his kitty condo and continued on.

  We kept all our decorative pieces in marked boxes. In the Thanksgiving container, I had stowed a set of Plymouth Pumpkin dinner plates, a Fitz and Floyd horn of plenty cookie jar, a colorful duo of turkey saltshakers and pepper mills, and spools of orange and brown ribbon. The items would instantly beautify our annual window display. In addition, I’d decided somewhere around two a.m., after the Google Maps foray and before falling back to sleep, to create jars or baskets to sell in the shop. Each would contain a recipe and the necessary spices for seasonal dishes like turkey dressing, cookies, and Thanksgiving cider, the latter made with pumpkin pie vodka, cider, soda, and a cinnamon stick.

  I lugged the box out of the stockroom and set it near the round table at the front. Then I fetched an empty carton into which I would deposit the items we’d used in the Food Bowl presentation. At the last, I chose a gorgeous jigsaw puzzle featuring a buggy arriving at an estate on a crisp, orange-toned evening, and swapped it with the puzzle on the vintage table featuring frisky cats in the bakery.

  “Good morning, everyone,” Pepper chimed as she strutted into the shop.

  “You look positively perky,” my aunt said.

  Pepper was dressed in a bright orange beaded sweater over white jeans. “My daughter said I needed to update my wardrobe. She said I’m starting to dress like a fuddy-duddy.”

  “Well, this outfit will silence those objections,” Aunt Vera said.

  “Who is this little gem?” Pepper asked.

  “My daughter’s,” Appleby beamed. Proud grandpa.

  “Hello, little girl.” Pepper peered closely at the baby. “So lovely to meet you. I hope your mama will teach you to crochet and bead.”

  “I’m a klutz with crafts,” Sasha said.

  “I’m an excellent teacher.” Pepper had no qualms about touting her talent. “Stop by the store sometime. I’ll give you a free lesson. Once you’ve crocheted, you’re hooked.” She chuckled, enjoying her own play on words. “Jenna,” she crossed to me, “I need a cookbook for my son-in-law’s mother. She adores anything with nuts.”

  “I’ve got the perfect choice. In a Nutshell: Cooking and Baking with Nuts and Seeds.” I guided her to a shelf near the front of the shop and handed her the book.

  Pepper flipped through the pages. “The pictures are pretty. Have you made a
ny of the recipes?”

  “The triple-ginger almonds are quite tasty.”

  “Done.” Pepper headed to the checkout counter, but stopped to peek down the breezeway. “Any treats from Katie yet?”

  I drew alongside her. “Nope. It’s a little early. Check back around ten.”

  At the far end of the breezeway, a woman in a full-length white dress strode into the café.

  “Say, Pepper, did you see that woman heading into the café? Was it Savannah Gregory?”

  “I think it was. Poor thing,” Pepper said, moving toward the register. “I fear something might have happened to sweet Savannah. Last Friday, I saw her ducking into her own house with a scarf over her face.” She brandished the book. “Ring me up, will you? I don’t need a bag. Just the receipt in case my in-law wants to return it.”

  I did and thanked her for her business.

  Before Pepper left, she said, “You know, Jenna, the free lesson goes for you, too.”

  “As if I have time to crochet.” I chuckled.

  “It’s quite calming. With your fiancé working all those long hours, you might enjoy the allure of a craft.”

  “I paint.”

  “Oh, that’s right. I’ve heard your father extol your talent. Well, keep an open mind. When you’re blocked on the canvas, perhaps crocheting would unblock you. Ta-ta.” She hurried out.

  I trailed her and paused at the breezeway wondering why Savannah might have hidden behind a scarf on Friday. Had she fought with Kylie before strangling her with the ropes of the reformer? Had she obscured her face to prevent someone from seeing scratches on her face? I hadn’t noticed any when we’d chatted briefly at the park, but with all the makeup, how could I have?

  Gran entered the shop while removing her cashmere, shawl-necked cardigan. “My, isn’t everyone here early.” She peeked at the baby and said, “You’re a natural, Vera. She’s sound asleep.”

  My aunt glanced up, a goofy grin on her face. “I’m enjoying every moment.”

  “Ladies,” I said, “if you don’t mind, I’m going to the café for a sec. When I return, I’ll finish the display. If Bailey gets here, tell her where I’ve gone.”

  I didn’t wait for their reply. I scurried along the breezeway and into the café. It was half full, most diners preferring to sit by the windows and take in the view. Outside, the ocean was a brilliant blue with a few whitecaps. Seagulls were having a field day diving into the water to hunt for their meals.

  Savannah was sitting with her mother, Shari, at the far table, her back to me. The white dress Savannah was wearing stretched tautly at the seams. Shari was as slim as always in a silk sweater and skinny jeans.

  A waitress set two cups of tea in front of them and moved on.

  “Jenna.” Shari hailed me. “Lovely to see you. Can you join us?”

  “Why aren’t you dining at Latte Luck?” I asked as I approached.

  “If we eat there, the boss cajoles us to work,” Shari said.

  “Ahem. You’re the boss,” I stated.

  “Exactly. I’m a taskmaster. Dining somewhere else is much more relaxing, and I love the croissants here.” Shari indicated the empty chair. “Sit.”

  “Sure. For a minute.”

  Taking my seat, I gazed at Savannah, who lowered her chin. She was wearing a ton of makeup again, but I couldn’t see any yellow-tinged concealer, like the kind models and actors used to cover blemishes. When working at Taylor & Squibb, our makeup artist had kept plenty of that on hand. Upon closer inspection, however, I did see what Savannah had tried to hide using normal makeup. Raised red welts. Not scratches. Had she run face-first into a beehive?

  “Hi, Savannah,” I said.

  She whispered, “Hello.”

  “Darling,” her mother said, “speak up. And don’t be embarrassed. Jenna understands these things.”

  Tears pooled in Savannah’s eyes. “Mo-om,” she whined.

  Shari clasped her daughter’s hand and smiled warmly. “I’m sure Jenna has had a facial treatment or two.” She addressed me. “My darling daughter went to have one last Friday morning. It went awry.” Shari released her daughter’s hand and frittered her fingers. “Tell her, Savannah.”

  Savannah mumbled, “No.”

  “Savannah reacted horribly to the needles,” Shari said, “and now she’s mortified by how she looks.”

  “Needles?” I asked.

  “Micro needling, to be exact,” Shari said.

  I regarded Savannah again.

  She raised her chin and met my gaze. “Micro needling helps remove scars and acne and rejuvenate the skin. I . . .” Air wheezed out her nose. “I’m embarrassed because I don’t want anyone to think I’m vain, but with my bad diet, and picking at my face, and not drinking enough water, I’ve ruined my skin. So I went to the dermatologist and”—she swiped a hand in front of her face—“this is what happened. I look like a leper.”

  Shari said, “Ah, vanity, thy name is woman.”

  “That’s not the quote,” Savannah chided. “It’s ‘Frailty, thy name is woman.’ Said by Hamlet, speaking about his mother.”

  “I stand corrected. My daughter the would-be English scholar.” Shari offered a sympathetic smile. “The doctor swears Savannah will be fine in a week or so.”

  “It’s her fault,” Savannah said. “Her nurse forgot to tell me not to use any anti-inflammatories before the treatment, so I reacted badly.”

  I said, “When you told me yesterday that you were home Friday morning with a migraine—”

  “I did go straight home after seeing the doctor. I wasn’t lying about that.”

  “You said you baked and watched cooking shows. Was that true?”

  Savannah shook her head. “I couldn’t very well bake through tears.”

  Shari said, “Savannah is at a loss. Her diet plan isn’t working. She can’t exercise because of the pain in her feet.”

  “And baking and icing at Latte Luck isn’t helping me,” Savannah cut in. “I adore sugar. I probably need to change jobs.”

  “Nonsense,” Shari said. “You need someone to help you learn more self-control.”

  I thought about the weight counselor Midge’s daughter, Marigold, might need and wondered whether that kind of doctor would be able to help Savannah, who suffered from nearly the opposite problem.

  “Maybe you could do exercise that doesn’t require putting weight on your feet,” I suggested. “You could talk to Alexa Tinsdale. She could set you up with a regimen using—” I stopped short of saying using the reformer.

  “Alexa,” Shari said. “That’s a brilliant idea. You like her, Savannah.”

  Her daughter nodded glumly.

  I rose to a stand. “Savannah, I hope you’ll tell the police the truth about your visit to the dermatologist.”

  “The police?” Shari’s voice skated upward. “Why would they need to know—”

  “That’s why I wanted to meet for tea, Mom. I’ll fill you in.” Savannah addressed me. “I will. I’ll even have the dermatologist verify what happened. She likes to document everything. Her assistant took photographs. Before and after.” Savannah made a face. “Talk about ugly.”

  I returned to the Cookbook Nook feeling happier for Savannah, certain that she hadn’t killed Kylie.

  Before starting in on the Thanksgiving display, I removed the items from the Food Bowl one. First, I placed the mandoline, grater, and potato peeler into the empty carton. While I did so, I thought about Kylie. With Savannah and Midge exonerated and Tito in the clear, who did that leave as the likeliest murder suspect?

  “There you are,” Bailey said as she pushed through the break in the stockroom drapes. “Where have you been?”

  “Didn’t Gran or my aunt tell you?” I shot a look at Gran, who was organizing the children’s cooking kits. Her face reddened. I said, “Don’t worry about it. My mind is a sieve, too.” To Bailey I said, “I was in the Nook.”

  “You and Rhett cut out early last night.” Bailey knelt beside me,
her capris rising above her knees. She pushed up the sleeves of her long-sleeved Crystal Cove Love, Love, Love T-shirt and said, “Let’s make this stuff disappear.”

  “Poof,” I whispered and sat back on my heels.

  Bailey gazed at me. “What’s with the funky look in your eyes?”

  “Last night, Rhett and I took a long walk. We were on Ocean Boulevard, when we paused behind the Boldine Building.” I told her about the opened windows at Your Wellness. “We didn’t see a fire escape ladder or any other way for the killer to have entered that way.” I added that I’d awakened at two a.m. thinking Google Maps might help me discover another entrance. “Other than rappelling from the roof or crawling through ductwork, no such luck.”

  “Face it,” Bailey said. “We’re not cut out for this deducing stuff. Hopefully, Cinnamon and her team are doing a bang-up job and will resolve this soon.”

  “You know, statistics say that if a murder doesn’t get solved within seventy-two hours, it might not get solved.”

  “Don’t be Debbie Downer. Here. Take this.” Bailey handed me the food processor and its blades. “Be careful. Those are sharp.”

  I stored them in the box and then began wrapping each of the porcelain fruits and vegetables in tissue. “Want to come to my place for dinner tonight?”

  “Absolutely. Can we bring Brianna?”

  “You bet.”

  “What’s on the menu?” she asked.

  “What would you like?”

  She held up a veggie slicer. “Something that hasn’t been shredded.”

  Chapter 18

  When I paint, I often outline my idea on a large sketchpad before I address a canvas. When I’d worked at Taylor & Squibb, in order to visualize the concept, we’d storyboarded our ideas—storyboarding was a graphic way to depict ideas with accompanying words, laid out in sequence.

  After I prepared an antipasto platter, set the chicken shish kebabs to marinate in a spicy red sauce, and decanted a bottle of pinot noir, I decided to go with a mash-up of a sketchpad and storyboard—some pictures, mostly words—to help me visualize the crime scene and come up with other ideas of who might have killed Kylie. I knew it wasn’t my job, but it was plaguing me, and I figured Cinnamon might appreciate my help—might—if her investigation stalled.