Fudging the Books (25 page)

W
HEN BAILEY AND
I returned to The Cookbook Nook, I could barely contain her. Ordering her to sit down fell on deaf ears. Pacing alongside her exhausted me. My father, the voice of reason, was no longer at the shop, but my aunt, who waited out Bailey’s ranting, finally corralled her.

I spied Rhett entering the Nook Café. Alone. Knowing Bailey was in good hands, I hurried through the breezeway and caught up with him at the hostess’s stand. I tapped his elbow. He pivoted and a smile spread across his face. He pecked me on the cheek, letting his lips linger a tad longer than appropriate. I loved it. A warm shiver of deliciousness ran through me.

“Got time for a bite?” Rhett said.

“I can’t. Too much to do, but I was hoping you might join me this afternoon at Sweet Sensations.”

“What’s going on there?”

“Coco’s having a big bash. I want to show my support, seeing as this week has been horrific for her.” I told him about last night’s break-in. He was sympathetic. “Free candy,” I added.

“I’m in. I love her truffles.”

I rubbed his arm and hurried back to the shop, ready to fine-tune the Valentine displays.

With Aunt Vera’s help, we moved the boxes holding the Pirate Week window display items to the stockroom. Tigger traipsed behind me, trying to play with the heels of my flip-flops. I had to be careful not to stomp on him.

“
Psst
, move, Tig-Tig.”

He romped ahead and leaped over my foot, dragging his tail across my toes.

“Stop,” I warned him. “That’s tickle torture!”

Aunt Vera, arms now free, scooped him up and nuzzled under his chin. “Bailey told me all about your encounter with Ingrid Lake.”

“She’s a piece of work.” I looked for a place to set the box that held the toy ship and sighed at the lack of level space. We were accumulating a lot of decorations in addition to a ton of books. Pretty soon, we would have to consider renting a storage space. For the time being, I balanced the box on top of a teetering mass of books, out of harm’s way, and started collecting Valentine-appropriate items.

“Do you believe Ingrid?” Aunt Vera asked.

“She’s told so many lies, I don’t know what to believe.” I scooped up the cupids that Bailey had attached to yarn, and then I fetched a couple of copies of
Deadly Valentine
, the sixth in the Death on Demand mystery series by Carolyn Hart. Her latest books were easier to obtain, but how could I have resisted the title during the season of love, right? I added children’s books to my pile, including the darling
Happy Valentine’s Day, Mouse
, a simplistic board book geared toward babies and not toddlers. Moms would go gaga for that one.

Aunt Vera said, “It made me nervous when you ran off to interrogate Ingrid, Jenna. It made your father anxious, too.”

“But he’s the one who told me to go.”

“Only because he knows he can’t control you.”

“It’s about time he learned that.” I grinned. “Don’t worry, Aunt Vera. I won’t do anything rash. Bailey and I were together, and we did inform the police.”

Aunt Vera muttered what sounded like a harmony blessing.

“Yoo-hoo!” Katie poked her head into the stockroom. “Come out here and see what I’ve created.”

Aunt Vera set Tigger on the floor and patted his rump. He scampered into the main shop. We followed.

Katie flaunted a tray filled with chocolate cookies. “Fresh from the oven. They’re Coco’s Chocolate Cookies. The recipe is right out of her first cookbook. Are you picking up the aroma of nutmeg?” She flapped a hand over the plate to help the scent waft toward me.

The whiff caught me up short and made me zip back to the night Alison died. She had baked cookies flavored with nutmeg. Why did she feel the need to cook after the lavish meal we’d eaten at the book club event? Was she actually hungry? And why did she have so many of Coco’s older recipes open on her computer? Ingrid was adamant that Alison hadn’t been reviewing her work. Had Alison been looking for the perfect recipe to satisfy a craving?

I nabbed a cookie and bit into it. “Hmm.”

“Taste the coffee?” Katie asked. “That’s the secret ingredient.”

Another memory came to me in a flash. When Bailey and I visited Coco at Sweet Sensations on Sunday, Coco went searching for one of her grandmother’s recipes and couldn’t find it. She thought she might have taken it home. Had someone stolen it? Why?

“They contain triple the chocolate,” Katie went on. “A half teaspoon of nutmeg per batch and a tablespoon of brewed coffee.” She pivoted and moved into the breezeway to set up a platter of treats for our customers.

I took a second bite of my cookie and returned to my thoughts about Alison. Had she been flipping between recipes on the computer? The topmost was titled Chocolate Bombs, from Coco’s cookbook
Chocolate To Die For
. The one beneath was Mother’s Chocolate Bombs. Why the altered title? Did it have a different ingredient? While Coco was having her tryst with Simon, was Alison fiddling with Coco’s recipes, tweaking one or two and retitling them so she could include them in
Coco’s next manuscript—was that what publishers called a cookbook? Alison had messed with Dash’s photographs; would she have done the same to her authors’ work?

A dastardly scenario shot through my mind. What if Coco returned home from her date and caught Alison in the act of rewriting? I flashed on the spat Alison and Coco had enacted at the book club event. Coco railed at Alison for making cuts to her material. Was there some truth in the skit they had created?

No, I could not—
would
not—believe Coco was guilty. She was a good person, a friend. And she had clearly spent that night with Simon.

I thought again about the recipes on the computer. Why were there so many layered on top of one another? Coco claimed they were recipes from previous cookbooks. If I returned to her house, maybe I could peer at the computer, and the notion that was niggling at me would come to light.

Quickly, I dialed Coco’s cell phone number, but she didn’t answer. My call rolled into voice mail. Why wasn’t she answering? Perhaps she was too busy preparing for her big bash. I left a message asking her to return the call, and then remembered she never locked the doors to her house.

Bailey sidled up to me and whispered, “You look transfixed. What’s going on in that brain of yours?”

“Why, nothing.”

Bailey sniggered and said, in a Southern accent, “Why, darlin’, I do declare you sound like you were born and bred in the Deep South.
Why, nothing
, indeed! Should I get you a fan to flutter? You’re perspiring.”

“I am not.”

“Are, too. Talk to me.”

“I was just wondering . . .” I replayed my theory.

“Are you saying that Alison changed perfectly good recipes just because she had the power to?”

“No. Maybe. I’m not sure. If I could take a peek at the computer . . .” I flailed a hand.

Bailey clapped me on the shoulder. “Let’s go. I’m sure your aunt can handle sales on her own for a short bit.”

Aunt Vera, who was sorting cash from the register, wasn’t pleased with our plan, especially after our most recent discussion. This time, she refused to let me leave without doing a one-card tarot reading. She didn’t have my father to dissuade her.

Complying with her wishes, I sat at the vintage kitchen table, pushed aside the jigsaw puzzle, and drew a single card—the Sun card, which I knew was not just a
good
card, but a
great
card. It is associated with attained knowledge. The image on the card is of a child holding a red flag, while riding upon a white horse. Overhead, a big yellow sun with a human-type face looks down upon the child, which symbolizes accomplishment. I couldn’t have been happier with the draw.

Aunt Vera’s forehead pinched with frustration. She knew she couldn’t detain me now. She rose from her chair and rubbed her amulet with passion. “Be safe.”

•   •   •

AS EXPECTED, COCO’S
front door was unlocked. Amazingly, she had learned nothing about safety following Alison’s murder.

Bailey entered first and called out, “Coco?” She didn’t answer. Bailey strode to Coco’s bedroom and peeked inside. “Not here. Bed’s made.”

A chill shot through me as I crossed the threshold. I recalled everything about the morning I arrived at Coco’s house, starting with Deputy Appleby acting like a sentry and Cinnamon with her no-nonsense glare. I remembered how pink everything was, from the kitchen to the utensils to the couch and lamps. And then there was Alison, in red, slumped forward on the table, the scissors sticking out of her back, the reflection of everyone in the darkened window beyond her.

Bailey hurried back to me. “Hey.” She touched my arm. “Are you okay?”

“It’s horrible. I don’t know how Coco can sleep here.”

“Some people have more grit.”

“Or nowhere else to go.”

The memory of the night after I learned my husband drowned scudded through me. I went home to the apartment. Alone. The place didn’t smell the same. Food lacked appeal. The cottage was so cold that I had bundled up in two comforters for warmth.

“Jenna.” Bailey had moved into the kitchen and was peering in cabinets and behind doors. “The computer’s not here.”

“Of course it isn’t.” I moaned. What a dolt I was. “The police must have taken it as evidence. We should have realized that before coming here. Shoot.”

Bailey folded her arms over her chest. “Now what?”

“We leave.”

“No, wait. Call her.”

“Coco?”

“Cinnamon. Ask her if she noticed what you noticed.”

I gulped back a laugh. “Yeah, like she’ll tell me.”

“She knows you’re checking things out. She told you to listen and report back.”

“And subsequently rescinded that order.”

“C’mon. Are you chicken?” Bailey clucked. “Cinnamon should be pleased to tell you what she’s doing on behalf of solving the case.”

This plucky attitude . . . this
spunk
 . . . is what I love about Bailey. She assumes she is always right, and most of the time, she is. When she’s not, she bluffs like a champ. Her mother trained her well.

I pulled my cell phone from my pocket and dialed the precinct. The clerk put me through to Cinnamon, who answered after one ring. At least my call didn’t go to voice mail.

“What’s up?” Cinnamon said.

“I . . .” Why was I nervous? She had listened to my theories at the recent book club meeting.
Be bold
.
Speak.

“Jenna, are you there?”

“Yes.” Surely, Cinnamon had found what I was trying to uncover. On the other hand—

“Just spit it out. You called me, remember?”

Man, she sounded like my father. Terse and to the point.

Cinnamon sighed. “Let me help you. I’m assuming you’ve got something to convey about Alison Foodie’s murder, but you don’t know how to tell me. You’re afraid I’ll jump all over you.”

I chuckled. “You’re on the right track.”

“I won’t be mad. Do you want to know why? Because I’ve got nothing.”

“You’ve got Ingrid Lake.” In my present scenario, was it possible that Ingrid was the killer? Why would she have messed with the recipes? “And Dash Hamada.”

“Dash is innocent,” Cinnamon said. “His film is time-stamped an hour before she died, and his host—”

“Sterling,” I cut in.

“Yes. He came home while Dash was developing film. Dash didn’t see him. Given travel time to and from Coco’s house, Dash is off the hook. I’ve released him. I’ve set Ingrid Lake free, too.”

I gaped. “But she lied about her alibi.”

“She lied because she was scared. It happens. As it turns out, witnesses have come forward, corroborating her whereabouts between eleven
P.M.
and two
A.M.
”

“Who?”

Cinnamon clicked her tongue. “A couple that attended a wedding on the pirate ship. After the ceremony, they snuck off to Lovers’ Lane Overlook.”

The overlook near the lighthouse wasn’t really called Lovers’ Lane. It was La Buena Vista, but the nickname took hold because the overlook was
the
place to neck in the dark. I remembered a time, years ago, when David and I sneaked out there.

Cinnamon continued. “The couple remembered seeing a woman fitting Ingrid’s description when they arrived. She was huddled down in Wanda Foodie’s car, crying her eyes out.”

“Because she’d been fired.”

“She was still there when they left a few hours later.”

“Why wouldn’t she say that?”

“Who knows?” Cinnamon paused. “So now who’s on your list? And why?”

Deep breath, Jenna
.
One fact at a time
. “I’m at Coco Chastain’s house. I came to take a peek at Alison Foodie’s laptop.”

“Which we took.”

“I realize that now.” I laid out my theory.

Cinnamon muttered, “I don’t understand why seeing the documents would help you.”

“I thought I might pick up something from one of Alison’s comments.” Whenever I did an ad campaign, I made notes in the margin to remind me about what I needed to tweak or change. Sometimes I doodled grocery or to-do lists. Perhaps Alison had left some kind of note that would reveal why she was baking. Maybe she was doing a compare and contrast on a pair of documents. I told Cinnamon as much.