Fudging the Books (18 page)

“Yeah,” Bailey backed me up. “Was Alison intent on pointing out your previous mistakes?”

Ingrid whirled around, fury in her gaze. At the same time, the teakettle started to jiggle and whistle. Ingrid cut a hard glance at the kettle, and then, just as quickly as she had come to a boil, she cooled to a simmer. She retrieved the kettle and poured steaming hot water into the three cups. “Sugar or honey?” she asked over her shoulder.

“Honey,” Bailey said.

“Neither for me,” I replied.

Ingrid squeezed a dollop of honey into one teacup and stirred it with a spoon.

“Well?” Bailey pressed. “Answer me.”

Ingrid clanked the spoon on the rim of the cup. “I have no idea why those recipes were on the computer. I didn’t go to the house. We didn’t talk. They are as much a mystery to me as they are to you.”

Ingrid picked up a single teacup, removed the tea bag, dropped it in the sink, and returned to the living room. Bailey and I did the same. In silence, we sipped tea for a half hour. When Wanda still didn’t waken—she was snoring like a longshoreman—we headed out.

At the door, I turned back to Ingrid. “By the way, I was talking with Neil.”

“Mama’s boy.” She sniffed her dislike.

“He said something that concerned me. You claim you
went home to watch TV the night Alison died, and then you went to Vines. Neil said you borrowed his mother’s car.”

“I did.”

“Well, he didn’t see it in the garage when he got home. At four
A.M.
” I let the time hang in the air. “Where were you?”

Ingrid folded her arms across her chest. “My, my. Small towns. Does everyone around here know everyone else’s business?”

I waited patiently. Bailey, not as tolerant as I, tapped her foot.

“I only sleep a few hours each night,” Ingrid said. “I can’t watch TV all the time. Boring. So I went to Vines. I told you that, but I certainly didn’t want to drink more than a glass of wine, so I drove around.”

“You ordered a whole bottle,” I said, remembering Faith’s energetic and gossipy account.

“It’s cheaper that way if you want a good glass of wine. They corked the rest. I put it in the trunk of the car. Want to see the bottle? It’s in the fridge.” Ingrid stabbed a finger toward the kitchen.

She was feisty; I had to give her that. “Where did you drive?” I asked.

“Up and down the coast.”

“All night long?” Bailey blurted.

“Well past four
A.M.
I find driving clears my mind, important in my line of business. Editing can be quite tedious.”

“Witnesses?” I asked.

“I almost ran into an old guy on a tractor. Around midnight, if that matters.”

Yes, it mattered. A near accident around midnight would provide her with an alibi.

“He came out of nowhere. Just north of The Pier. I honked like crazy. He spun around and nearly did a wheelie. He had a gnarly face.”

Ingrid was referring to Old Jake. He volunteered to sweep the beaches at night. He wasn’t likely to forget an incident like that.

T
HE REMAINDER OF
the day dragged on. I created to-do lists up the wazoo. My aunt told two fortunes. Bailey tried, repeatedly, to get Hershey to sit in her lap, and Tigger attempted to lure Hershey into a game of chase. The cat wasn’t friendly to human or feline. After work, I slogged home, ate leftover meat loaf—it warmed nicely in the microwave—and nearly fell into bed.

The next day, Tuesday, was my day off. Crystal Cove was a resort type of town, and souvenir buyers were at a maximum pretty much every day of the week. We stayed open on weekends; however, in order to keep our sanity, we closed the shop and café on Sunday at dusk, and we closed it one full day a week, as well—Tuesday. When I was at Taylor & Squibb, I had worked twenty-four-seven, with very little time off for good behavior. Once I returned to Crystal Cove, I made a sensible decision not to live like that ever again.

I rose late and went out for a walk, not a run. I was simply too exhausted from Monday’s rash of activity, and I needed energy for the evening’s event—the finale for Pirate Week. Sunlight shone down on me, but I didn’t worry about it
burning my skin. I’d put on a long-sleeved shirt, long linen pants, and a sun hat. An hour later, I returned home and baked easy-to-make chocolate scones.

After pulling the goodies out of the oven to cool, I whipped up a creamy batch of scrambled eggs. I fixed a plate with my meal, poured myself a cup of tea, and moved to the mini patio to dine. Tigger followed, excited to get whatever treats I might add to his bowl. I didn’t disappoint. I had stocked the cupboards with grain-free snacks that he adored.

While I dined on the patio, I dug into
The New Wine Country Cookbook: Recipes from California’s Central Coast
. There were over 120 wine-friendly recipes, but the photographs alone were enough to draw me inside the cover. Over the past few months, I had fallen in love with the stories of how cookbook authors came up with recipes. Often I would lap up the author’s descriptions of the dish.
Zippy
,
zesty
, and
zingy
were some of my favorite adjectives. At times, the way the author laid out the recipe was what grabbed me. Was it easy to understand? Did the author have a sense of humor when relating the steps necessary to complete a complicated dish? Did those words inspire me to take the plunge? These things mattered to my customers and now to me.

After breakfast, I set up an easel on the patio and focused on Bailey’s painting, making more headway than I thought I would. Creativity doesn’t always come when beckoned, so when it does come, I never waste it. I painted for three hours. By the time I quit, my wrists and forearms were sore.

Following lunch, I took a luxurious bath, dried my hair, and concentrated on my costume for the evening. A few items needed pressing. I hate to iron, but one or two days a year, I can manage.

Rhett arrived before dusk. He was dressed in the same debonair red-and-blue pirate’s costume he had worn at the climbing wall. “Wow, me lass,” he said, taking me in his arms and planting a firm kiss on my lips. “Aren’t ye the sleekest beauty on which I’ve ever laid eyes.”

“Ahem. I’m a guy.”

“Oh, right.” He cleared his throat. “Ye make a fine-looking pirate. Nice outfit for a mate.”

“Thank you, me hearty.”

I had visited a used-clothing store to purchase pieces for my costume. For the top half, I’d bought the perfect black velvet jacket, nipped at the waist. I had sewn ecru lace on the cuffs and added gold buttons in two rows down the front. Beneath, I wore a white blouse, fastened at the neck. For the bottom half of the costume, I’d settled for leggings tucked into thigh-high black boots.

I swiveled to let him admire my backside.

He grinned. “Indeed, a fine mate.”

I put on a black tricorn hat that I had adorned with gold trim and a giant black feather, and we were off.

On The Pier, a wealth of people in costumes paraded the boardwalk amid freestanding white canvas sales stalls. At one stall, you could purchase scarves and shawls. At another, you could paw through a treasure trove of glitzy jewelry. Food carts catering to all tastes abounded, as well.

Someone tapped on a microphone.
Thump, thump
.

“Testing!” A woman’s voice radiated through amplifiers.

I swung around and spied Mayor Zeller standing atop a raised stage midway down The Pier. A moderate-sized crowd surrounded her. I grabbed Rhett’s hand and hurried toward the gathering.

“Who among ye has stolen the pot of doubloons?” The mayor shouted in a raspy pirate accent while brandishing one of her latest posters. She looked poured into her brown-toned innkeeper outfit.

Many in the throng waved their hands then laughed uproariously. “Just kidding,” a few quipped.

The mayor said, “I’ll have ye know, we know who ye are. If ye come in now, ye’ll not suffer. If we have to nab ye, ye shall suffer for your crime.”

“Make him walk the plank!” an observer shouted.

“Off with his head!” yelled another.

“Don’t be chiding me.” The mayor wagged a fist and
scanned the throng. “Beware, matey. Beware!” She switched off the microphone and climbed off the stage.

I drew near. “No luck yet, Z.Z.?”

The mayor shook her head. “I’m holding on to hope.”

Rhett and I moved on. Near The Pearl jewelry store, I caught sight of Dash, who looked every bit as flamboyant as Johnny Depp in
Pirates of the Caribbean
. Black braids, black leather jacket, black trousers and boots. He was taking a photograph of Sterling and another handsome guy who was much taller and heftier than the jewelry store owner. Both were poking their heads through holes in a life-sized cutout of a pair of pirates and looking at one another adoringly.

“Hold it. That’s it,” Dash said. “Say cheesecake!”

Just beyond the scene stood two carny guys I had dubbed Mutt and Jeff a few months ago. I still didn’t know their names. Mutt was huge and furry; Jeff was so skinny I wondered how his trousers, sans belt, stayed up. They were eyeing Sterling and his friend with unconcealed disgust.
Who were they to judge?
I mused. Only a few months ago, Mutt had been at Jeff’s throat when he believed Jeff was having an affair with his wife. Love was nothing if not unpredictable.

I glanced back at Dash, wondering about the story Ingrid had told me. Did Alison replace his photos with subpar photos she had taken? Did Dash lose his temper? The dispute happened six months ago. Would Dash have held a grudge this long? Did that give him a second motive for murder, the first being unrequited love? I watched him taking photographs of Sterling and his friend from all angles, and another—less dire—thought occurred to me. Was Dash the gold doubloons thief? The pot had disappeared the night he arrived in town. Directly afterward, photos appeared on the World Wide Web. I recalled Alison saying Dash was Internet savvy; his website was deep and thorough. Could he have managed to create and delete blog after blog for the pure fun of taunting our beloved mayor and Pirate Week–loving crowds in Crystal Cove? On the other hand, everyone on the
boardwalk was taking pictures, and I would bet there were plenty of shrewd Internet users among them.

A swell of people started pushing past us, heading toward the far end of The Pier. Each was chatting excitedly. I spotted Rosie, the waitress from Mum’s the Word Diner, among the throng and hurried to her.

“What’s going on?”

“The pot of gold doubloons turned up.”

“Did the thief hand it over?” Maybe the mayor’s campaign and her announcement a few minutes ago had done the trick.

“Yep. An anonymous caller”—Rosie flapped a hand—“told the mayor to look under the stage. Voilà. There it was! Z.Z.’s ready to award the pot to the winner! I hope it’s me.” Rosie waved her ticket as enthusiastically as the children with the golden tickets in
Charlie and the Chocolate Factory
.

I eyed Rhett. “Do you have a ticket?”

He grinned. “Nope. Can you believe it? I handed them all out at the store and forgot to keep one for myself. Did you get one?”

“What do I need with a fake pot of doubloons?”

“Bragging rights.”

We neared The Theater on The Pier, and the door opened. Loud music, not pirate fare, spilled out. Bucky Winston, a handsome-as-all-get-out fireman—the guy could be the poster boy for volunteers—emerged and waved to Rhett. “Hey, me hearties! You’re late.” Bucky was bare chested beneath his pirate jacket and looked downright devilish. He and Cinnamon had started dating a few months ago; it was Cinnamon’s first serious relationship after the breakup with Rhett. What she hadn’t realized when she fell for Bucky was what good friends he was with Rhett. “Hurry up, you old sea dogs!” Bucky gestured for us to run. “Get your bods in here!”

So much for having the time to see who won the pot of doubloons. It had been recovered. That was all that mattered.

The Theater on The Pier was set up like an old dance hall or saloon. All patrons sat around cocktail tables. The red brocade cushions on the cane-backed chairs matched the other plush décor. Turn-of-the-century-style footlights jutted
up from the apron of the semicircular stage and cast a warm glow across the area.

The stage could hold about ten people, but tonight, there was only a piano, a mustachioed pirate piano player, a singing pirate, and a hornpipe player—a hornpipe is a clarinet-like instrument that was often used on old ships; I knew because we had used a hornpipe player in a Salty Seadog Potato Chips campaign. The singing pirate wasn’t exactly dressed as a pirate. He looked more like an Elvis impersonator in foppish clothes. He peered into the distance at a television monitor situated over the antique bar on which words were scrolling. His huge swoop of dark hair bounced as he sang his heart out to “Suspicious Minds.” The guy wasn’t half bad. His entourage, an aging octet of gaudy pirate wenches with a combined number of face-lifts and breast enhancements enough for the entire female population of Crystal Cove, whooped and hollered their support. Every time he sang the chorus, the wenches joined in.

I nudged Rhett and asked telepathically,
What have we gotten ourselves into?
He chuckled.

“Care to sing?” a slim woman in a corseted getup trilled as she sashayed by us. She was carrying a bowl filled with tickets. “Anyone? Take a number.”

“We’ll pass,” Rhett and I said together.

Bucky steered us to a table where Cinnamon, who had curled and tousled her typically straight hair and looked ravishing in a red dress, one shoulder exposed, sat sipping a glass of water. Rhett and I settled into chairs opposite her. A redheaded waitress, also dressed in a corseted outfit, took our orders.

When she departed, Cinnamon eyed my costume. “Really? You’re a guy?”

“Not exactly.” I explained the inspiration.

“I would have preferred to wear your outfit,” she said. “Why didn’t you cue me in?”

Yeah, right. Like we had communicated a lot lately. I didn’t think now was the time to mention that. Why spoil the mood?

“But darlin’,” Bucky cut in. “You’re yar.”

“
Yar?
” Cinnamon retorted. “Are you comparing me to a sailboat?”

Bucky gently clipped her cheek with his knuckles. “Ye handle well.”

She batted his hand away and blew him a kiss.

I had to admit, I enjoyed seeing her having fun and did my best to put aside the grumblings about how shabbily she had treated me of late.

Our drinks arrived: a glass of wine for me, two Dos Equis, and a nonalcoholic margarita for Cinnamon. I raised a toast. “To you, Cinnamon, and the truth.”

Cinnamon raised a skeptical eyebrow.

“Thank you for believing Coco and exonerating her,” I said.

“Ahh.” She sipped her drink.

“I assume you did it, based on”—I lowered my voice in an effort to keep Coco’s secret confidential—“Simon Butler’s corroboration.”

“Nope. He hasn’t come forward yet,” Cinnamon whispered back. “And he’s not returning calls.”

“Really? Then why—”

“I believe her. For now. Let’s stay positive.”

As composed as Cinnamon seemed, I wondered whether she had solved the case and was simply waiting for more corroborative evidence before making an arrest. She took another sip of her cocktail. I followed suit while thinking about Simon’s wife, Gloria. Had she laid into him because she found out about his dalliance with Coco? Had she forbidden him to offer testimony on Coco’s behalf? Cinnamon’s cryptic words
for now
clanged in my brain. What if
for now
vanished and Coco was once again the main suspect in Alison’s death?

Elvis finished singing and bowed repeatedly as his age-defying female fans whooped it up.

The piano player called out, “Seventeen. Come forward, you lucky landlubber!”

Cinnamon glanced at what turned out to be a ticket jutting from beneath her cocktail napkin and bounded to her feet. “That’s me!”

My aunt had told me Cinnamon sang like an angel. After her rebellious high school years but prior to serving as the chief of police, Cinnamon had appeared in a number of local theater programs.

I turned to Bucky. “What’s she going to sing?”