By Cook or by Crook (A Five-Ingredient Mystery) (5 page)

“Don’t bother driving all the way here again,” Monique said. “I can drop Val off when I run errands in town.”

He nodded, agreeing more quickly than Val liked. She watched him leave with mixed emotions. Now she wouldn’t have to mince words when she told Monique about Nadia’s murder, but she’d looked forward to riding back with him. Who’d summoned him to town? The fishing buddy who looked like a pirate, or someone else he knew in Bayport?

The heat from the asphalt driveway penetrated the soles of Val’s sandals. “My feet feel like dough baking on a pizza stone. Let’s go inside and talk.”

While her cousin carried shopping bags to the bedroom wing, Val phoned her grandfather from the family room adjacent to the kitchen. She told him she’d located Monique and would hitch a ride back to town with her. No hurry, Granddad told her, he was going out to dinner with a friend. She’d have pressed him for details if she hadn’t been so anxious to talk to her cousin.

Monique collapsed onto the sofa next to Val, slipped off her sandals, and put her feet on the kidney-shaped coffee table. “What’s up?”

“Nadia is—” Words stuck in Val’s throat like muesli without milk. “She’s . . . dead.”

Her cousin’s mouth dropped open. “Dead? A heart attack, or what?”

“She was murdered. Last night. In her house.”

Monique clapped one hand over her mouth and the other over her stomach, looking as if she was fighting nausea. “Murdered in Bayport? I can’t believe it. You think you’re protecting your kids by keeping them out of cities, but no place is safe anymore.”

Shock had narrowed her focus. A murder near her sanctuary. Her children at risk. How long before Monique, the photographer, widened her lens and saw the risk to herself?

Monique stood up and wandered as if in a trance to her retro kitchen. Its knotty pine cabinets and laminated counters belonged on the set of a 1950s sitcom. Nostalgia for the past didn’t interfere with her passion for the latest appliances. Her fingers danced over the surface of the espresso-latte-cappuccino maker. The contraption had enough dials, levers, and buttons for a cockpit. It might even fly. Right now it was revving up, grinding beans.

The coffee fragrance apparently woke Monique from her daze. She leaned against the counter. “It’s terrible about Nadia. Too many maniacs with guns out there.”

Val joined her at the kitchen counter. “Maniacs with guns aren’t the only people who commit murders. You had a grudge against Nadia and made it public. You might end up a suspect.”

Monique flinched as if Val had thrown ice water at her. “You think I killed Nadia?”

“Of course not. I just want to warn you that the police will have questions.”

“I have nothing to hide. I’ll be glad to answer their questions.”

Typical Monique. Whenever they were behind in a tennis match, she showed similar bravado. But Deputy Holtzman made a more formidable opponent than any they’d met on the court. “It won’t be a cakewalk, Monique. The deputy who—” A chirp from the cordless phone on the counter interrupted Val.

Her cousin grabbed the phone. “Hi. . . . Val just told me. Isn’t it awful?” She covered the mouthpiece and whispered, “It’s Yumiko.”

The club’s tennis manager. The news about Nadia had obviously reached the club. While Monique listened to Yumiko, the coffeemaker hissed and burbled. Val imagined the club members hissing and whispering about Nadia’s murder, exchanging theories about the culprit.

Monique nodded with the phone held to her ear. “Of course I’ll play. Everything’s changed now. . . . I can take over as captain next season.... She’s here. I’ll put her on.” Monique handed Val the phone and drifted to the sliding glass door with its view of oak trees and the water beyond.

Val cradled the phone and braced herself for a volley of words. Unlike most second-language speakers, Yumiko talked fast. The more she had to say, the more syllables she dropped. Val had done something similar in her first Spanish class, racing through her oral responses in hopes that the teacher wouldn’t notice whether she’d said
las
or
los
. “Hi, Yumiko.”

“I want to know is it okay to play the team match on Thursday. If we don’t play, we have to forfeit, and this match decides who is league champion. Monique says she will take Nadia’s place. But I don’t like to play if it disrespects Nadia.” Yumiko paused for a quick breath. “What is the right thing to do?”

Val could look in a dozen etiquette books without finding guidance for this situation. Her basic rule would have to suffice. “The right thing is not to tell other people what’s right. Let them decide for themselves. Why don’t we get the whole team together around six on Thursday? We’ll meet in the café and have a little ceremony in honor of Nadia. Then anyone who wants to play can stay for the match. I’ll set out some snacks for the gathering.”

This morning she’d gone to Nadia’s house with creative menus to showcase her catering skills. Now she would make nibbles for a somber memorial to the woman. A lump formed in Val’s throat.

“Good idea to have a ceremony, Val. I will make soothing tea for it. Chatty is here at the club now. I will tell her about the ceremony. I couldn’t reach Althea and Bethany.”

“Leave it to me. I’ll let them know what we’re doing.” Val hung up. She turned to her cousin, still standing motionless in front of the sliding door. “You’ll join the rest of us in a toast to Nadia, won’t you?”

“Of course. Once we get that out of the way, I’m sure we can coax everyone to play the match.”

“Don’t coax. Hang back and let the others reach a consensus on whether to play, okay?”

“Why?”

“Last week, in front of the whole team, you accused Nadia of seducing your husband and said you wouldn’t play for her team anymore. You even wanted the rest of us to quit the team. Now you’re talking about taking over as captain, stepping into her tennis shoes after she’s dead.” Not as bad as dancing on her grave, but close. “Are you listening to me?”

Her cousin gave no sign of it. She jerked the sliding door open. “What’s
he
doing here?”

Chapter 5

Val joined Monique on the patio outside the family room. Nothing moved in the backyard thick with vegetation. “I don’t see anyone out here.”

“Maverick’s tying up at the dock.”

Through the bushes in the backyard, Val glimpsed Monique’s husband on his way from the dock to the garden shed. “I thought he’d taken the children to visit his parents.”

Monique pursed her lips. “He did. He must have left Mike and Mandy with his folks. He knows I hate that. They ply the kids with candy and let them stay up late. If he’s there, at least the kids go to bed on time.”

Her husband emerged from the shed, tossed a canvas bag into his boat, and walked up the path to the house. Lean and compact, with wavy hair falling over his forehead and curling down his neck, Maverick Mott looked more like a playboy than a family man pushing forty . . . usually. Today, though, lines of tension surrounded his mouth and eyes.

He greeted Val and his wife with a nod, the battery that powered his ever-ready smile out of juice. He must have heard about Nadia.

Monique stood planted in front of the sliding door as if barring his entry into the house. “Back so soon? I thought you were spending the week in Philadelphia.”

“You didn’t get my phone message? My guys are way behind schedule at the boatyard. I drove down this morning to help them. The kids will be fine. I’ll go back on the weekend to pick them up. I just zoomed over here to grab a tool.” He fixed his gaze on the runabout he used for commuting between the house and his boatyard across the river.

Monique put her hands on her hips. “A tool? That’s the only reason you came here?”

He stepped closer to her and studied her face like a nearsighted man who’d lost his glasses. “There’s a rumor at the boatyard about Nadia. Do you know anything about it?”

Monique returned her husband’s steady gaze. “Val just told me. Nadia’s dead. Murdered.”

Silence as heavy as the humid air fell over them. Val felt she was watching two actors who’d lost their scripts. How did a married couple discuss the murder of “the other woman”? Preferably without an audience.

“Time for me to leave.” Val reached for the door handle. “Oops. I don’t have a car.”

Maverick perked up. He’d heard a cue. “I can drop you off at the park dock.”

Val was tempted. The water route offered a straight shot to town in contrast to the peninsula road. A five-minute walk from the park dock would take her to the street where she’d left her car. “Monique was going to drop me off when she ran errands.” Val glanced at her cousin.

“Hitch a ride with him.” Monique raised her chin toward Maverick. “I’ll do the errands tomorrow. Right now I’d rather be alone.”

Val opened the sliding door. “I’ll get my bag.” She slipped back inside.

The house smelled of the coffee Monique had brewed but never poured. The phone in the kitchen enticed Val even more than the coffee. She made sure Monique and Maverick couldn’t see her from the patio and pushed the button on Monique’s phone to access the call history. She located the number she wanted, for Maverick’s parents in Philadelphia, and stored it in her own cell phone. Then she returned to the patio.

Monique stood alone, her back to the house. “Maverick’s waiting for you on the dock.”

Val put a hand on her cousin’s shoulder. “I’ll stay if you want me to.”

“Thank you, but I wouldn’t be good company. I need to think about Nadia. Maverick. The kids. All of it.”

“Call me if you want to talk.”

A minute later, Val climbed into the runabout with Maverick and sat in a molded fiberglass seat. He fired up the motor and whooshed away from the dock. Her head snapped back.

He made a wide right turn toward town. “Do you know what happened to Nadia? How she was killed?”

Val knew how to evade those questions. “I don’t think the police have released that information yet.”

He ran his fingers through his thick, sun-streaked hair. “What a nightmare. Monique bad-mouths Nadia at the club, and Nadia’s murdered a few days later. I hope the police arrest the killer soon. Until then, Monique’s in an awkward position.”

Val clenched her teeth so hard she nearly broke a molar. “
You
put her in that position.”

Maverick jerked the wheel. Her accusation must have rattled him. Until today, their conversations had run to the social and superficial.

He used one hand to shield his eyes from the sun. “What happened between Nadia and me meant nothing. It was over. I told Monique that last week. She forgave me.”

“Really?” Val lumped him with all the cheating politicians who interpreted their wives’ stoicism in front of cameras as forgiveness. “She forgave you, and that’s why you left town?”

His grip tightened on the wheel as the boat rocked in the wake of a passing cruiser. He watched the horizon intently. “The kids visit my folks every year when preschool lets out. Monique couldn’t come with us. She had two weddings last weekend. June’s a busy month for photographers.”

Val hunched forward and folded her arms, trying to shield them from the sun. “Did Nadia know your affair with her
meant nothing?
”

He gave her an are-you-nuts look. “I called her from Philadelphia yesterday and said we had to stop seeing each other.”

Too much information. Why make such a point of where he’d called from and when? Val’s skin prickled with sunburn and suspicion. “Nadia was okay with that?” Hard to imagine she’d go gently into jilted lover limbo.

“We both knew it was just a fling.”

“When you called her
from Philadelphia yesterday,
did she tell you what happened the night before?” Val asked.

“The racket burning?” He throttled down as they approached the town dock. “Monique didn’t do it. She dissed Nadia at the club and got it out of her system. No further reprisals needed.”

Val cringed at “further reprisals.” Maverick’s supposed defense of his wife emphasized her motive for murder. “Say that to the police, and Monique might end up in handcuffs. You don’t make her look innocent of revenge by explaining how she’s already taken it.”

Maverick ignored her in favor of the motor, the wheel, and the pier. He maneuvered the runabout alongside the town dock and dropped her off, his face grim.

Val fished out her cell phone on the way to her car. She called the number for Maverick’s parents, grateful that the caller ID on her phone identified her location, but not her name. She had no reason to check on Maverick other than the belief that a man who cheats also lies. Could she catch him in a lie without lying herself?

She spoke fast when a woman answered the phone. “Mrs. Mott? You’re Maverick Mott’s mother, right, the man who restores boats? I have some questions for him and understood he was staying with you.” Misleading, yes, but no outright lies.

“He was here earlier in the week, but left yesterday. He should be back in the boatyard today. In Bayport, Maryland. Do you want the number there?”

“I can look it up. Thanks for your help.” Val clicked off.

So Maverick hadn’t left Philadelphia this morning as he’d implied. Now that she’d uncovered his deceit, what should she do about it? Should she confront him and ask where he’d spent last night? Or tell Monique he’d lied? Neither action appealed to Val. She’d rather eat stinkbugs on a TV reality show than interfere in her cousin’s marriage. But if Maverick lied to the police about where he’d spent the night of the murder, Val wouldn’t hesitate to tell them the truth.

She opened the door to her Saturn and stepped back from its pent-up heat. The car didn’t cool off until she’d driven halfway to the Cool Down Café.

 

 

Val put a pan of oatmeal energy bars in the oven and set the timer for thirty-five minutes. The bars would supplement her dwindling supply of biscotti for tomorrow’s customers. She still hadn’t heard from Bethany. Might as well try her again.

A cheery voice answered the call. “Hi there. This is Bethany O’Shay.”

“Hey, it’s Val. I’m glad I finally reached you. I tried you at home and on your cell.” Bethany was the only person Val knew under the age of thirty who didn’t treat her cell phone like a combination lifeline and security blanket. She probably hadn’t even checked her messages.

“I was at school all day for meetings and classroom cleanup. I’m just leaving now. Tonight is our teacher-staff potluck dinner. Schools out, and we’re partying.” Bethany enunciated every syllable as if Val were one of her first graders.

“I can’t leave the café because I just put something in the oven. I need to talk to you in person. Can you stop by here?” Val heard nothing on the line and wondered if she’d lost the connection. “Are you there?”

“Did you decide you don’t want me as your assistant this summer? You don’t have to break it to me gently. I can handle it.”

“No, that’s not it. I still want you to work at the café. We can talk about your schedule this afternoon.”

Fifteen minutes later, Bethany traipsed into the club in lime high-tops, a tiered skirt in jelly bean colors, and a hot pink top that bunched around her waist. The outfit emphasized her ample size and clashed with her cascade of ginger curls.

She sat on a swivel stool and peered over the snack bar at Val’s mixing bowl. “What are you making?”

“A layered brunch casserole called a strata. You start with cubes of day-old bread, add meat or veggies in the next layer, then a cheese layer, and top it off with eggs and milk.” Val poured the egg-and-milk mixture over the layers. “The flavors blend overnight in the fridge. You bake it the next morning.”

Bethany eyed a carton of empty eggshells next to the casserole dish. “You used a lot of eggs. Aren’t they bad for you?”

Not as bad as the wacky diets Bethany tried. Val covered the casserole and stored it in the fridge. “Each serving will have less than half an egg in it. It won’t kill you.”

“I can’t eat anything like that. I’m on an all-red diet. Today I had berries for breakfast and lunch. I’m sure I’ll get used to it in a few days, but right now I’m a little hungry. I miss bread and meat.”

This latest diet probably wouldn’t last any longer than Bethany’s previous ones. Why did she try one fad diet after another? Maybe her negative body image stemmed from her long tennis partnership with tiny Nadia, eater of seeds, shoots, and leaves. A new wardrobe would help Bethany more than any diet. In simpler styles and quiet colors, she would still look robust, but not overweight.

“You want red, Bethany? I got it.” Val poured her a cranberry juice spritzer and set out a bowl of veggie chips. “The orange ones are sweet potato chips, the red ones are nothing but beets.” Plus fat and salt.

Bethany chewed her lower lip. “Beets are on my diet, but I’m not sure about chips.”

“If you don’t want the beet chips, just leave them.” Fat chance. She would need the stress relief of crunchy food before long. Val walked around the counter, sat on the stool next to Bethany’s, and took a deep breath. “I have some bad news. Nadia—”

“Bad news and Nadia go together. The way she treated me was just beyond belief.”

Bethany had nursed those hurt feelings for more than a week. Maybe Val could apply a salve to them before giving the shock treatment. “People move on and get new tennis partners all the time. You can’t take it personally.”

“Nadia made it personal. She practically accused me of cheating.” Bethany grabbed a handful of mostly red chips. “She claimed I made bad line calls. No one’s ever said that.”

But plenty of people thought it. She often called her opponents’ shots out when other players would have judged them good. Val figured Bethany needed glasses, but this wasn’t the time to suggest an eye exam. “None of that will matter when you hear my news. Nadia’s dead.”

Bethany jerked as if someone had just slapped her. Her green eyes bugged out. “Dead? What happened? An accident?”

“Definitely not an accident. She—”

“Did her house burn down?”

Odd question. “Why would you think that?”

Bethany blinked rapidly. “I heard about the racket burning, and not long ago a couple of houses around here went up in flames.”

Val vaguely remembered some recent arsons. “Her house didn’t burn down. She was found there this morning. The police are treating her death as a murder.”

“Murder? Oh, my God.” Bethany squeezed her eyes shut. Two tears escaped from between her lashes and rolled down her cheeks. She wiped them with the back of her hand and opened her eyes. “But how did it happen? Did a burglar break in and shoot her?”

“The police haven’t revealed the details yet.” The oven timer dinged. Val welcomed the interruption. She had responded to all the questions she cared to answer about Nadia’s death. She walked around the eating bar, removed the pan with the baked oatmeal mixture from the oven, and set it on a trivet. “We’re having a get-together here in memory of Nadia, Thursday at six, before the team match.”

“Yes, we should do that.” Bethany pulled a neatly folded tissue from her skirt pocket and blotted her eyelashes. “Poor Nadia. I just wish we’d been on better terms before she died. She never had a chance to say she was sorry. And I didn’t have the chance to forgive her.”

She looked so forlorn Val wanted to comfort her. “It’s always bad when someone dies, especially if you have unresolved conflicts. Forgive her now. It’s not too late.”

“I get your point. I have to let go of my anger.” She let go of the tissue in her clenched fist.

“Don’t show any anger when you talk to the police. They’ll want to interview us all.”

“I have to talk to the police?” Bethany knocked over her cranberry spritzer. “Should I tell them how Nadia treated me?”

Val grabbed a dishcloth and mopped up the spill. “Just answer their questions with facts. You don’t have to tell them your feelings about the way she treated you.” She rinsed the counter with a clean cloth and refilled Bethany’s drink. “How did you hear about the racket burning?”