Inherit the Word (The Cookbook Nook Series) Read online

  And we wondered how rumors got started.

  “I’m not.” I wagged a finger. “No-o-o.” I sure didn’t want Cinnamon Pritchett to get wind of the allegation.

  “Well, in case you are, I’ve got a tidbit. No bigger than a chocolate chip, of course, but it’s something. See, I was riding past The Pelican Brief a week or so ago. Sunday, I think.” Keller hefted the vat of ice cream to his other shoulder. “The Mumfords were here.”

  “As in here here?”

  “Yup. The Sykeses, too.”

  That surprised me. I didn’t think Natalie would have deigned to enter her competition’s restaurant. She’d seemed appalled to learn that Sam had gone there. Had her outrage been for show? Did it matter any longer?

  “It was a brunch day. I remember because, like, the line was down the block.” Keller brushed his bangs off his face again. I wondered why he didn’t simply trim them. “It was a warm day. I decided to take advantage and sold ice cream to the folks standing in line. Even though I had to pedal double-time to keep the ice cream cool, I was doing amazing business.”

  “I’ll bet you were.”

  “I was offering caramel macchiato ice cream. One of my best flavors. The caramel is really rich.”

  I twirled a finger for him to continue.

  Keller grinned. “Right. I do that a lot. Get off track. Not on my bike. With my thoughts. That Mrs. Mumford. I couldn’t believe she was wearing a coat. Sheesh.”

  I twirled my finger a second time.

  He chuckled. “Message received. Anyway, here’s what I saw.” Like a spy in training, he stopped talking as a couple of patrons edged around us to exit the diner. When the door closed, he resumed. “Mrs. Mumford . . . the other one.”

  “There’s only one.” There was, I corrected in my head.

  “Right. Ellen’s last name is Bryant, same as Willie’s, right? I’m such a doofus.” He shook his head. “Natalie, the mother, got all hot and bothered with Lola. I thought it was important because, you know, a week ago, they had a fight on The Pier and then . . .” He let the rest of the sentence hang.

  “What did they argue about?”

  “I don’t know. See, I saw it go down in pantomime, like a Charlie Chaplin movie.”

  The Latina hostess sidled up to us. “I heard something that day.” While fixing the collar of her white midriff shirt, she added, “Hope you don’t mind, but I’ve been listening in on you two.”

  Keller flushed the color of cotton candy.

  The hostess duplicated the spy-in-training move then said, “That was the day Lola caught Natalie having a private tête-à-tête with the chef. Lola was steaming. An hour later, the chef resigned.”

  Had Natalie hung around and fished the torn letter from the garbage can in Lola’s office? Why would she have cared about it?

  “I remember,” the hostess continued, “because yesterday the police came in asking questions. Guess there were other witnesses who talked to them about the set-to already.”

  I was glad to hear that Cinnamon and her crew were on the job.

  “I feel so bad for Mrs. Bird,” the hostess went on. “She was simply trying to protect her turf.”

  “Does Lola know that you spoke to the police?” I said.

  “Sure.”

  I glanced at the exit. Perhaps that was why Lola had been in such a hurry to chat with the mayor. She knew she wasn’t in the clear. Not by a long shot.

  I left the diner, glum from the bad news, and headed to Crystal Cove Bank. Last night, when I realized I needed cash for my car repair, I decided to ask someone at the bank about the mysterious key in my possession. Although I didn’t believe David would have leased a safety deposit box account in town, I didn’t want to overlook the possibility. At David’s memorial—I hadn’t been allowed to have a true funeral without a body—his mother had confided that David had intended to retire with me to Crystal Cove someday. He’d told her how much I loved the area. After that conversation, I had raced to the restroom and sobbed for an hour.

  The bank, which was situated near the main intersection of town, wasn’t busy. Two tellers, three customers. I headed toward the line but paused when I spied Willie Bryant talking to the Asian teller—Manga Girl, as Bailey had dubbed her—the woman whom Sam Sykes had been chatting up the afternoon Natalie died. Willie had cornered the teller by the entrance to the safety deposit box room. He was stabbing his finger at what I assumed was a savings passbook. The teller, clearly frightened, shook her head. Willie repeated the gesture. Tears filled Manga Girl’s eyes. She placed a hand over her mouth and scurried past him. Willie charged after her. Manga Girl raced through a barred door and shut it seconds before Willie caught up to her. Like me, the other customers watched the scenario with wide-eyed interest. Willie booted the door, but the teller didn’t open it.

  Grumbling beneath his breath, Willie trudged toward the exit. The cartoon character Pig-Pen, who is always accompanied by his cloud of dust—or as my mother called it, his cloud of gloom—couldn’t have appeared more annoyed.

  As Willie neared me, I said, “Is everything okay?”

  “What do you care?” He heaved a sigh. As he left the building, letting the glass entry door bang closed behind him, the others in the bank released a collective sigh.

  I picked up a withdrawal slip, then got in line to wait. When it became my turn, as luck would have it, Manga Girl, who had returned to her post at the counter, gestured for me to approach. I was fascinated by the tattooed, aqua-green lizards crawling up both of her arms. Matching colors adorned her eyelids. How could Mitzi possibly think her husband was interested in this woman? On the other hand, many men found an exotic young female intriguing.

  “Three hundred dollars, please.” I pushed the slip toward her along with my ID and ATM card.

  “Enter your pin on the pad.”

  As I punched in my four-digit code, I said, “I’d like to find out if my husband leased a safety deposit box.”

  “He’ll have to come in with you.”

  “He’s—” My chest tightened; my voice snagged. Her request caught me totally off guard. “He can’t. He . . . he passed away.”

  “I am sorry,” she said in a cool, impassive tone, either due to the hint of an Asian accent she retained or because all her emotions had been spent on Willie. She pointed across the room. “You will have to take that up with our manager.”

  “I’ve called other banks. They were able to tell me right away.”

  “The manager is the redhead at the service information desk.”

  “You can’t even tell me whether his name is in the system?”

  “No. That is private. Your name would have to be on the account.”

  “I don’t know if it is.”

  “If you have a certificate of death and your marriage license, you will learn more.”

  I had both, back at the cottage. They were stowed in a metal box with other valuable documents: a police report, our passports, our social security cards. I hadn’t peered at any of them since David’s death. The idea of opening the box filled me with dread.

  Move on, Jenna.

  “It’s none of my business,” I said as the teller pushed my money beneath the glass divider, “but I was wondering why Mr. Bryant was giving you such a hard time.”

  Her gaze turned ice cold. “You are right. It is none of your business.”

  “I’m asking because, when he left, he seemed so upset. Was there a shortage or something? Does he need cash for the memorial to cover the pastor or site fee?”

  “Ma’am.”

  “Privacy. Got it. All I’m saying is that I would be glad to lend his wife Ellen the money if she needs it.”

  “Next.”

  Chapter 11

  I STOOD AT the counter inside Rusty’s Repair Shop waiting to pay, while Rusty, a freckle-faced chatterbox, kept talking and talking. About the weather. About the upcoming Frisbee contest, which he intended to enter. About the paddle boarders.

  “What�
�s up with that? Standing and rowing like one of them guys in Venice, Italy? O sole mio,” Rusty crooned. “No, sir.” He typed the command for print on the computer keyboard. The printer started to whirr, then sputtered. “Dang.” He fiddled with a jammed piece of paper, tugging hard. The paper ripped. He muttered, then opened and closed the back door of the printer. The machine hummed. Satisfied, Rusty started over. “FYI, your VW is in prime shape. There’s no one better in town than me at fixing those beauties.” He buffed his raggedy nails on his denim work shirt.

  “There’s no one but you,” I teased.

  “Yup. I’m a mastermind with machines.”

  Some machines, I mused. I wouldn’t allow him near the printer at The Cookbook Nook.

  “With proper care,” he went on, “this car will last you a long time. Remember, only use synthetic oil. You don’t want any more rattles or pings.”

  “Got that right. I’m not a ping kind of girl.” Saying the word ping drew me up short. I flashed on what the waitress at Mum’s the Word had said about Willie’s alibi on the day of the murder. “You know, from what I hear, Willie Bryant isn’t a ping kind of guy.”

  “Ah, Willie. Sort of obsessed, poor fella.”

  “One of his coworkers said he comes in here for any little noise.”

  “Those Hondas. They’re pretty good cars.”

  “He drives a Honda?”

  “Metallic dark blue. Sharpest one in town.”

  My breath caught in my chest. Could Willie have been the driver behind the wheel of the sedan that almost ran me off the road? Yesterday he saw me questioning Rosie when I ate breakfast at the Word. The day before, he caught me chatting with his wife. Did he think I knew something about Natalie’s murder? Something that would implicate him?

  “Hondas are reliable for the most part,” Rusty went on. “The most common flaw in the 2001 model is transmission failure due to a design flaw. And the 2002? It’s got everything from erratic SRS lights to seat belt latches. Rear tires’ wear and tear is the main complaint on the 2007 models, caused by a faulty rear arm.” He shook his head. “But like I said, Hondas are good overall. Better than a Kia. Don’t get me started on those suckers.”

  Eager to glean more from Rusty, I said, “I heard Willie brought his car in here the day his mother-in-law died. He had some funky sound going on. Did he wait while you repaired it?”

  Rusty scratched the stubble on his chin. “Nah. Wasn’t that day. He was in the day before. I remember ’cause we got talking about the Giants game. The team is pathetic this year. What’s with the pitching staff? It always comes down to pitching. Willie and me? We must’ve talked for an hour at least. He’s got all the statistics in his head. He’s a bright one, Willie is.”

  So he failed economics but he could manage baseball statistics. What did that say about the guy?

  “Guess I was misinformed,” I said as another notion struck me. Had Rosie the waitress gotten her story wrong about the day, or had Willie told her he was at the repair shop to establish an alibi? Maybe Willie thought Rusty, who was somewhat dim except when it came to fixing cars, wouldn’t remember calendar days with such clarity. I wasn’t sure how I could find out, but for Lola’s sake, I had to.

  Rusty hummed then said, “I did see him that day, however.”

  “You did?”

  “Yep. At the collectible shop. You know the one. Die Hard Fan. Right next to the tuxedo store. My daughter’s getting hitched, and me and my boy were getting fitted. Pain in the butt, know what I mean?”

  “What time was that?”

  “Must have been around noon. Willie was having a heated chat with the guy behind the counter. Lots of finger pointing. Pretty sure I heard him say, ‘You’ll be the first to get paid.’”

  My mind raced. I recalled how upset Ellen had been when Willie showed up at The Cookbook Nook later that afternoon. She had mentioned something about him visiting the collectibles store. She’d rummaged in his swimsuit pocket. Had she found an IOU? Had Willie hoped Natalie’s demise would help him settle his debts? Had he left the collectibles store and tracked down Natalie in the alley behind my shop?

  I paid and took the keys from Rusty.

  As I was leaving, Rusty’s assistant entered the shop while wiping his hands on an oil-stained rag. Right behind him entered Cinnamon.

  “Good morning, Chief Pritchett,” I said. “What are you doing here?”

  “I’ve come to question a witness.” She eyed me suspiciously. “What are you doing here?”

  “Picking up my car.” I jangled my keys, thrilled that I had a legitimate reason to be where I was. I didn’t want her thinking I was a snoop, and I wasn’t, really. Not on purpose, anyway. I glanced at Rusty, worried that he might tell her that I had been asking about Willie, but he was lost in another world, intent on clearing a second jammed paper from the weary printer. Lucky me.

  • • •

  AT TEN MINUTES to noon, I closed The Cookbook Nook for two hours, and I attended Natalie Mumford’s memorial with Bailey, Katie, and my family.

  Aunt Vera, who refused to dress in black, wore a paisley caftan that was a tad over-the-top. “Dressing in cheery colors,” she said when my father mentioned her outlandish choice, “is good for the soul, and, my sweet brother, these Mumford girls could use some cheering up.”

  Ellen and her older sister, Norah—who looked strikingly similar to Ellen, right down to her pixie-cut hairstyle and slim form—stood on the top step outside of Mum’s the Word Diner. Willie, clutching his daughter in his arms, hovered to the left of the sisters. Sam and Mitzi Sykes stood beside him. The sight of Mitzi caught me off guard. Even in a black mourning suit, she was radiant. More than radiant. The other day she had appeared younger than her age, but now she seemed late thirties at the most. Had her meltdown at the grocery store and worry about losing her husband prompted her to have work done to her face? Botox or Restylane injections, perhaps? I recalled hiring an aging actress for a Smooth and Luscious skin cream campaign, and everyone on the set nearly shrieked when they saw her. Face pulled tight. Lips ramped up to the size of caterpillars. Ugh. A little work, fine. A total makeover, who needs it? Not that Mitzi looked like that. But at her age, with her looks, why did she keep tweaking?

  Hordes of guests, including Grill Fest contestants, the mayor, Cinnamon and her mother, as well as many townsfolk that I recognized as regulars at The Cookbook Nook, occupied the chairs that had been set in arced rows facing the diner. Rhett spotted me and waved. I responded with a smile.

  Bailey elbowed me. “Psst.” She pointed at the standing-room-only portion of the crowd. “What’s she doing here?”

  I caught sight of Manga Girl and said, “Everyone has come. Natalie was obviously loved or, at the very least, appreciated.”

  “Or everyone wanted the afternoon off.”

  “Don’t be snarky.”

  “Mitzi’s sending daggers the teller’s way.” Bailey hitched her chin.

  I eyed Mitzi. She certainly was looking angrily at someone. Was her target the teller, or was there another woman she suspected of having an affair with her husband?

  A lean, tan man in his forties whom I had dubbed Nature Guy because of his passion for preserving the coastal waters and saving other habitats around Crystal Cove joined Ellen and Norah on the topmost step. As a minister of the Internet-based Collective Life Church, he was allowed to preside over a variety of events. He raised his hands; the assembly hushed.

  “There’s my mom,” Bailey whispered. “I’ll be right back.” She hurried to Lola and threw her arms around her. For a woman who, up until a few years ago, couldn’t spend ten minutes with her mother without carping, as most young women do in their early twenties, Bailey was certainly in full support mode now. Maybe reducing her intake of caffeine was putting her in touch with her feelings. The tableau they formed tugged at my heartstrings.

  Standing by myself—a pair of Aunt Vera’s tarot-reading clients had given up their seats to my aunt and father—I surveyed t
he attendants. I had read enough mystery novels to suspect that the killer was present. Was Willie the culprit, as my gut insisted? Had he killed his mother-in-law so he could get his hands on her money? He was toying with the lacy collar of his daughter’s dress, clearly disinterested in the event. Conversely, Ellen appeared engrossed with what Nature Guy was saying. She clung to her sister’s hand as if it were a lifeline. Norah looked stoic, but I did my best not to judge her; I didn’t know her. Sam’s skin was a wretched color of gray. Mitzi, who had returned her attention to the proceedings, seemed forlorn. Was she for real? Though her eyes were dewy with moisture, I wasn’t convinced she was innocent of murder. Even the most callous person would have had a hard time not tearing up as Nature Guy quoted from one of my favorite songs, “Into Each Life Some Rain Must Fall.”

  When Nature Guy finished the sermon extolling Natalie’s virtues, guests rose and migrated toward two long tables filled with provender from the diner: bite-size sandwiches, cheese and meat platters, and cookies.

  I wasn’t hungry, but I forged ahead with the others. Near the beverages, somebody jostled me into Sam. I said, “Excuse me.”

  “Horrible.” His tone was flat; his gaze, flatter. “It’s just . . . horrible. Iced tea?” He held up a pitcher with his right hand. The action made his watch slide. Its metal band caught the sun’s rays, which reflected directly into my eyes.

  I squinted and ducked to avoid the gleam, then accepted a glass from him and took a sip. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  “The girls will suffer the most. They’ll be heartsick without her.”

  “How long did you know Natalie?”

  “Years.” The single word conveyed a lifetime of regret. “We met the day she arrived in town. I had handled the previous diner owner’s finances. Natalie liked what she saw on the books. I keep concise accounts.”

  “So I’ve heard from my chef. You worked for her former boss.”

  “Mr. Powers. Cagey old coot.” Sam smiled weakly. “Natalie and I became fast friends.”