Inherit the Word (The Cookbook Nook Series) Page 19

  “What’s so unusual about Monday?” Aunt Vera asked.

  Rhett unfastened the buttons of his pea coat. “We’re hitting the town.”

  “Well, it’s about time.” Aunt Vera slotted the tarot deck into her pocket and whispered to me, “The High Priestess is patient.” Then she moved to Rhett. “Where are you off to?”

  “We’re going lamp lighting.”

  “Oh my,” Aunt Vera gasped. “I completely forgot. I’ve got to get cracking.” She hustled behind the counter. “Jenna, where are the scissors? We have paper bags and candles, don’t we? We keep them for emergencies, right?”

  “Bags and candles for what?” I said, thoroughly stymied.

  “You don’t know?” Rhett grinned. “I thought you knew everything that went on in Crystal Cove.”

  “Not yet. What’s going on? What’s lamp lighting?”

  “Stars,” Aunt Vera said. “I’ll punch stars in the bags.” She glanced out the front windows. “Oh no. Pepper is way ahead of me. Go, you two. Have fun.” My aunt shooed me toward the exit.

  I dug in my heels. “What about Tigger?”

  “Too-ra-loo. I’ll take him home.” My aunt scooped the kitten into her arms. “We’ll have our own fun, won’t we, fella?” She nuzzled his nose.

  “I should contact Chief Pritchett,” I said.

  “I’m sure the Mumford girls did as promised.” Aunt Vera gestured for me to leave and began to stroke the amulet around her neck.

  “My car,” I added, glancing toward the parking lot.

  Rhett cocked his head. “If I didn’t know better, Jenna, I’d say you were trying to get out of our date.”

  “No.” I laid my hand on his forearm and something zinged inside me. A good something, filled with desire. I’d had a crush on the sea-salt guy, too. “I want to go with you. Absolutely. My purse.”

  I fetched my tote, slipped on my denim jacket, and returned in a matter of seconds. Grinning, I looped my hand around Rhett’s elbow.

  As he guided me toward the exit, I glanced over my shoulder. My aunt, the kook, smiled smugly. Hocus pocus, I mouthed. Chortling, she released her phoenix amulet and shuffled to the stockroom.

  • • •

  LAMP LIGHTING NIGHT was like spending an evening in an enchanted fairy tale. As Rhett and I strolled along the sidewalk and the sun melted into the horizon, leaving a wash of orange and peach brushstrokes in the sky, little bags of light in front of the shops started to twinkle. Shop owners had cut intricate designs in paper bags and inserted either real or battery-operated candles into the bags. Disneyland at night had nothing on Crystal Cove.

  We greeted couples and families. Most were bundled up; many hummed songs. I heard the strains of “Let It Be” and “Blowin’ in the Wind,” campfire-style songs that filled me with a warm glow.

  A short while into our stroll, Rhett started humming U2’s “All I Want Is You,” which brought back memories of elementary school and a towheaded boy who wanted to kiss me. He had chased me around a tree while singing the song at the top of his lungs.

  I started to laugh, and Rhett said, “What’s so funny? Am I off-key?”

  “No.” I related the story.

  “The kid had good taste.”

  “He had the worst breath.”

  “Should I chew a mint before we kiss?” He hesitated. “Perhaps that was presumptuous of me.”

  “I’m pretty sure we’ll kiss before the night is over.” I wasn’t lying. I felt lighthearted for the first time in eons, and I was definitely attracted to my date. He had a quiet but strong presence. I felt adored by him. “If I recall correctly, my errant young suitor gave me a present that Christmas. I about freaked out when a frog leaped from the box. I think he was going for the frog-turns-into-a-prince metaphor, he being the hopeful frog.”

  “Did it work?”

  “It failed miserably. I had no idea I could scream so loudly.”

  We laughed.

  After a long, comfortable silence, Rhett said, “What was that, back at the store, about you needing to call Cinnamon?” So much for calm. Rhett’s jaw worked back and forth waiting for my answer. I wished I could change Cinnamon’s mind about him, but it wasn’t my fight.

  Not wanting to think about murder, or any crime for that matter, I said, “I don’t want to talk about it, okay?” I switched the topic back to the present. “Who came up with the Lamp Lighting Night theme?”

  “Mayor Zeller, the year after her husband died. She started the event as a night to focus on the future.”

  “You like her. I can tell.”

  “ZZ’s a hoot. She never stops, that woman. She’s always on the go, drumming up ideas to spark the economy. She’s good for Crystal Cove. She makes it a destination place. Hey, look at that.” He pointed at The Pelican Brief Diner. The entryway and front windows were outlined with blinking lights. A sandwich board sign stood in front with words written in chalk: Warm Up Your Night with a Romantic Meal. “Hungry?”

  “Starved.” I could go for my favorite fish sticks.

  Beyond the diner, in front of Play Room Toy Store, I spied Norah, Ellen, and her daughter. They were peering into the plate glass window, and no wonder. The toy store owner always created the most elaborate, good-humored displays. Norah held on to the handle of the stroller. Ellen’s daughter was wiggling a pink baby doll animatedly at something in the window. Seeing the trio made me wonder if Ellen had heard from Willie. She looked pale and drawn. She was rubbing her arms briskly. Given her illness, why hadn’t she worn her coat instead of a sweater? Norah said something; Ellen responded. As they chatted, the conversation with my aunt recycled in my mind. Was Ellen a victim or a manipulator? Did I need to be a high priestess on her behalf, or was she fully in charge of her own destiny?

  As Rhett and I approached the diner’s entrance, a blaze of flashing lights filled the street. Police cars. Three of them. Speeding toward us. No sirens. The first car came to a screeching halt beside the sidewalk, near Ellen. The other two lined up behind the lead car.

  Cinnamon hurried from the passenger side of the lead car and approached Ellen and her family.

  I broke free of Rhett’s hold and raced forward.

  He yelled, “Wait,” but I didn’t stop.

  I pushed through the throng that had gathered around Ellen. She was tucked into herself and moaning. I asked one of the onlookers what was going on.

  “Willie’s dead.”

  A lump formed at the pit of my stomach. I snaked between a knot of onlookers until I reached the front of the group. The glow from the police car’s interior light cast a greenish pall on Ellen’s skin.

  Cinnamon said, “He was found at the motel up the road.”

  Norah wrapped her arm around her sister and pulled her close. “How did you locate us?”

  “My deputy is off tonight. She received an interoffice e-mail, spotted you, and sent me a message. Now, back away, everyone.” Cinnamon raised her hands. “This is official police business.”

  The deputy who reminded me of a moose joined Cinnamon. He carried a handheld device and a digital-writing implement.

  Ellen caught sight of me and called, “Jenna.”

  Cinnamon’s gaze flew to Rhett and back to me. “What are you doing here?”

  “We’re taking in Lamp Lighting Night,” I said.

  Cinnamon’s mouth turned down. If only I could change her mind about Rhett. Start fresh.

  Focus, Jenna.

  “What happened?” I asked.

  “It’s private,” Cinnamon said.

  “Please, Chief Pritchett.” Ellen reached for me. “Let her stay. Willie . . . He called Jenna last night.”

  Cinnamon lasered me with another dismal look. Swell.

  “He didn’t leave a message,” I said hastily. “I don’t know why he called. It was odd, to say the least. What happened?” I moved closer to Ellen. She was shivering. “How did he die?”

  Cinnamon ran her tongue across her teeth. “He was murdered.”

>   Ellen gagged. Her hand flew to her mouth. “I knew it. I knew something horrible had happened.”

  Norah, who seemed as stunned as Ellen, eyed her niece. She crouched beside the girl and plucked the baby doll from her hands. Mean-spirited shrew, I thought, until Norah wiggled the doll in front of the girl’s face to distract her. Norah played keep-away a tad longer, then handed the doll back. She sang the beginnings of “The Alphabet Song.” Picking up where Norah left off, the girl crooned to the doll.

  Norah rose and slung her arm around her sister again. “Willie has been missing since early Sunday.”

  Cinnamon arched an eyebrow. “Why didn’t you report him gone?”

  “Sam called the precinct,” I said. “He was told that the police were ‘on it,’ but warned that missing adult cases are not taken seriously for forty-eight hours.”

  Ellen said, “Do you know who killed my husband? Or why?”

  “No.” Cinnamon assessed Ellen. “He was shot. Do you own a revolver, Mrs. Bryant?”

  Ellen shook her head and clutched the collar of her sweater. She had been shivering before; now, she was downright quaking.

  I felt awful for her. A friend at Taylor & Squibb, a freehand drawing genius, had lost her father to gun violence. Her art grew extremely aggressive. For two years, I begged her to seek help to guide her through the pain and the nightmares. Finally she agreed. She still went to support meetings as far as I knew.

  “Your husband was shot at close range,” Cinnamon went on. “We think it happened before midnight last night.”

  “You only just found his body?” I said.

  “The motel manager called at three P.M. A maid discovered him. We’ve been working the case since then. The coroner thinks he died around nine P.M. last night.”

  “That isn’t possible,” I said. “He called me at ten.”

  “Why did he call?”

  “As I said before, I don’t know. He didn’t leave a message. It had to have been a mistake. Perhaps a pocket call, though I can’t understand why Willie would have entered my cell phone number into his directory. He’s never telephoned me before.”

  Cinnamon addressed Ellen. “Where were you last night?”

  Ellen hesitated. “I was out.”

  “The maid described a woman who looked like you at the motel,” Cinnamon said. Her associate, the Moose, was taking furious notes. “She said the woman was wearing a knee-length black coat. You own a coat like that, don’t you, Mrs. Bryant?”

  “No,” Ellen said. “I mean, yes. I do. I forgot it at the diner.”

  “No way could my sister have killed her husband last night,” Norah blurted out.

  “Why not?” Cinnamon said.

  “She goes to meetings.”

  “What kinds of meetings?”

  “FEW,” Norah said spelling out an acronym. “Future Empowerment of Women.”

  I recalled my earlier estimation of Ellen, wondering why she hadn’t dressed more warmly. She had been wearing the same sweater when I’d seen her at breakfast. Was her coat really in the diner, or was it at the dry cleaner’s to remove blood? Ick. Stop it, Jenna. I didn’t believe Ellen had killed her husband. I truly didn’t.

  Cinnamon regarded Ellen. “Your group meets on Sundays?”

  Ellen nodded. “We convene twice a week, Sundays and Wednesdays, at a different member’s house each time. Last night was at a woman named Yolanda’s house. She’s an ironworker. She sculpts out of her home. There were eight of us.”

  “Everyone at the meeting will vouch for my sister,” Norah said. “She’s been a member for the past year.”

  “How do you know so much about them?” Cinnamon asked.

  “Because I was the one who encouraged her to go.” Norah glanced at her niece and back at Cinnamon. “Let me start at the beginning. Ellen and I hadn’t been in contact for a number of years, ever since our parents divorced. We found each other on a social networking site, and we became friends. She revealed, in some private messages, that her husband was . . .” Norah hesitated. “How should I put it? Cruel.”

  “Did he beat you, Mrs. Bryant?” Cinnamon said.

  “No.” Ellen shook her head. “He—”

  “He bullied her in private,” I cut in. “A pinch here, a poke there.”

  Ellen gawked at me. “You knew?”

  “I had a hunch.”

  “I encouraged my sister to join FEW,” Norah went on. “Willie was against it. I suggested she enroll in classes at the junior college, too. He told me to butt out, but how could I? Ellen doesn’t want to be a waitress the rest of her life.”

  What money was Ellen using to pay for school? I wondered.

  Norah drew her sister closer, and the thought occurred to me that Norah could have been the woman the witness had seen visiting Willie at the motel. Norah and Ellen looked so much alike, the narrow face, the pixie haircut. Had she donned her sister’s coat and murdered her brother-in-law to free her sister from oppression?

  Cinnamon must have noticed the similarity, too, because she said to Norah, “Where were you last night, Miss Mumford?”

  “I was sitting Bebe.” She nodded at Ellen’s daughter. “Around eight-thirty, she was feeling a little under the weather and started throwing up. We went to the emergency medical center. We were there until after ten.”

  A horrible notion made me queasy. Norah’s previous job was in hospital administration. She probably had medical training. Had she deliberately made Bebe sick? Had Norah whisked her niece to the hospital and, afterward, when Bebe was groggy, had she swung by the motel where Willie was staying, left poor Bebe strapped in a car seat, and confronted Willie? Had she killed him and returned to the car in a matter of minutes? No, Willie was alive at 10:00 P.M. The timing of the whole thing made my head spin.

  Timing.

  “When did you arrive in Crystal Cove, Norah?” I said.

  Cinnamon blazoned me with a look. I mirrored her. Questions had to be asked.

  “Thursday, the day before the memorial,” Norah answered. “Late.”

  “Did you take a red-eye from the East Coast?” I was testing her. Would she tell the truth?

  “I wasn’t on the East Coast. I was in Los Angeles.”

  “What were you doing in Los Angeles?”

  “Jenna, cool it,” Cinnamon said.

  “It’s all right,” Norah replied. “I’ll be glad to answer. I was at Hexagon Hospital headquarters.” I knew of the company; it was a huge, nationwide organization. “I flew there to quit my job as administrator of the eastern division.”

  “You were in Los Angeles the day your mother died?” I said.

  “Yes.”

  “Los Angeles isn’t that long a drive from Crystal Cove, is it?”

  Norah tilted her head. “What are you implying?”

  “Did you plan to quit before hearing of your mother’s death?”

  Norah frowned, and then realization hit her. “Are you suggesting that I’m lying about resigning? That I cooked up the alibi so I could drive to Crystal Cove and kill my mother?” She blew out a stream of frustration. “Look, I’ve been planning to quit for months. You can ask my boss. In case you wish to check, she’s been calling me ever since I quit, begging me to reconsider.” Norah pulled her cell phone from her pocket, hit a button, and a list of messages from the same telephone number appeared on the face. Was that why she had stolen to the corner of the Word after the memorial, to return a call to her boss? She had seemed so sneaky, cigarette in hand, stabbing buttons on the phone. Norah turned to Cinnamon. “Are we through here?”

  “No, we’re not,” Cinnamon said, now regarding Norah with suspicion. Perhaps she didn’t appreciate Norah’s testy tone. “Who saw you at the medical center last night?”

  “At least three nurses, a doctor, and a number of patients.”

  “The maid said the woman had short hair,” Cinnamon said.

  “That could describe any number of individuals in town.” Norah rubbed her fingers together as if she
was desperate to get her hands on some calming nicotine.

  I regarded her and her sister. Had they plotted together? Or had Willie, as Ellen theorized at the diner, simply been robbed because he’d had a wad of money on him? I wanted to believe Ellen was innocent.

  “Willie was seen at the bank Saturday,” I said. “Withdrawing a lot of cash.”

  Cinnamon eagle-eyed me. “Who says?”

  “Bailey, who got it straight from her friend, the assistant bank manager. Someone might have seen Willie. Maybe that person followed him to the motel and mugged him.”

  “But why was he at the motel?” Ellen cried.

  Cinnamon frowned. “Mrs. Bryant and Miss Mumford, I would like you to come to the station with me.”

  I knew that particular drill. Get fingerprinted. Be questioned. Feel guilty. In Ellen’s defense, I said, “Do they need a lawyer?”

  Ellen, showing a hint of spine, stepped forward, her chin raised. “Do we?”

  Cinnamon said, “Not yet, but it might be advisable.”

  Chapter 20

  AS NORAH, ELLEN, and Bebe were escorted to police cars, Cinnamon Pritchett sidled to me and whispered that I should go home and keep my distance. From whom? I wasn’t sure. Was she referring to Ellen or Rhett? Sensing that she had meant the latter, I strode to Rhett, looped my arm through his and, rather than go to The Pelican Brief for dinner, invited him back to my place. Like a petulant teen, I made the offer loudly enough for Cinnamon to overhear. She didn’t react. Perhaps I had been mistaken.

  Rhett and I swung by The Cookbook Nook and retrieved my VW, and he followed me to the cottage. Before entering, we stopped at Aunt Vera’s house to pick up Tigger. My aunt, who was decked out and wearing her favorite perfume, gave me a knowing wink. I blushed but winked back, which made her turn crimson. I didn’t have the courage to ask if she was headed out on a date, but I guessed she was.

  Minutes later, Rhett and I entered my cottage. The moment I closed the door and set Tigger on the floor, I felt a pinch of panic. Not because I was worried for my safety. Yes, another murder had occurred in our town, and a killer was most likely on the loose, but this feeling—this sensation—was personal. Something about going on a formal date with Rhett and inviting him into my home afterward made me feel as if I was betraying David. Call me crazy. Dead husband, live man. You choose. And yet my arms started to itch, and I couldn’t stand still. Rhett, who picked up on my anxiety, ran a finger along my arm and suggested we take a stroll along the beach. The fresh air would do me good, he said.