Chapter 20
A
S 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.
We kicked off our shoes, slipped outside, and walked barefoot in the glow of a hazy moon. The crisp, cool breeze invigorated me. I pointed at a cluster of people playing with a glow-in-the-dark Frisbee by the shore.
“Let’s join them,” I said, eager to make new memories.
Rhett grabbed my hand. “You’re on.”
It never ceased to amaze me how hospitable people were in Crystal Cove. Without hesitation, the group welcomed us into their game. David and I had never encountered such friendly folks in Golden Gate Park. Rhett joined the guys; I teamed up with the women. A couple of times I had to race through the water to fetch a disk. We had a ton of fun. Near the end of the game, I found myself breathing heavily but freely.
When the game disbanded, Rhett and I ambled back to the cottage, arm in arm.
“I’m starved,” he said as he opened the door and allowed me to enter first.
“I have the makings for a grilled cheese sandwich. Havarti melts well, doesn’t it?”
“Like a dream. Do you have honey?”
“For tea.”
“Bacon?”
“A fresh pack.”
“Sit back and relax,” Rhett said. “I’m going to make you a snack you won’t forget.”
Watching him move around my kitchen with such ease made me jealous. I wished my movements were as effortless.
Soon
, I thought. Maybe in a year or two. I was practicing new recipes daily. At times, Rhett had a way of tilting his head forward, as if his brain was locked in supreme concentration. The muscles in his back expanded and contracted as he sliced cheese or grilled bacon.
I set the table and poured each of us a glass of pinot noir. I preferred a light red wine with buttery cheeses.
“Voilà,” he said as he set our plates on the table.
The first bite of my sandwich made me hum with satisfaction. The honey brought out the flavors of both the cheese and the charred-to-a-crisp bacon. “The Grill Fest competitors should be ecstatic that you’re a judge and not one of them,” I said. “The honey is inspired.”
“Salt and sugar. Can’t beat the combo. I’ve even added chocolate in one rendition.” He dug in.
As we ate, we talked about little things. He had played soccer back in high school; I had dabbled in softball. He had skateboarded and snowboarded; I had roller-skated and skied. He liked long treks in the mountains; so did I. Bird-watching was a passion of his. Despite the many hikes I’d taken as a kid, I couldn’t differentiate between a robin redbreast and a wren.
When we finished the meal, Rhett reached for me. He drew me toward him and ran the back of his hand down my cheek and along my jawline.
A quiver of desire spiraled through me until, out of nowhere, I flashed on David’s face. Shoot, shoot, shoot. Now what? With great mental concentration, I hocus-pocused David’s image away.
Rhett leaned in. So did I. We kissed, ever so gently. Then more firmly.
After a long, delicious kiss, I sat back with a grin on my face. “That was—”
Tigger, the imp, pounced into my lap and meowed. He rubbed his head against my chest.
Rhett laughed. “I guess you have a chaperone.”
Tigger pushed off my thighs. He leaped onto the table, hopped across the placemat, and tiptoed toward the repaired Lucky Cat. If I’d been feeling guilty earlier about dating a new man, now I felt downright awkward.
“That figurine looks worse for wear,” Rhett said.
I explained in brief detail how Tigger had decimated the statue. I even told him about the coins and the key. “I don’t know why my husband did what he did, but I’m going to find out. It’s the saying on the bottom that eats at me.
Everything will work out.
When? I’d like to move on, but—”
Rhett rubbed a thumb across the back of my hand. “Everything will work out, for you and your memories, as well as for us. Time is a great healer.”
“What if it’s too soon for us? What if we’re not meant to be together?”
Rhett’s eyes sparkled with intrigue. “Who knows the answers to those age-old questions? We’ll take this one day at a time. You are something special, Jenna, and I want you in my life. I’ve never been so certain, in such a short time, about anything. I will be patient. Go solve this puzzle. Clear your head and your heart.” He kissed my turned-up nose—a Hart family trait—and then helped me do the dishes. A total gentleman, he left without leaning in for another kiss. I closed the door and held on to the doorknob for an extra minute, my fingertips tingling with longing.
• • •
THE NEXT DAY,
Tuesday, I awoke thinking of Rhett. Later, as I made coffee, I thought about Ellen. How had she endured the night at the police precinct? Had Cinnamon pried any more information from her or Norah? Had Cinnamon caught either of them in a lie?
I arrived at The Cookbook Nook with the same questions about the Mumford sisters rattling through my brain.
Bailey emerged from the stockroom. “Morning.” Her eyes were bright; her skin had a healthy glow. She deposited a box of new books on the floor. “Whew. Just one more.” She retreated to the stockroom and returned with the other. She set it beside the first.
“Why so chipper?” I said. “Did you cave and have a cup of coffee?”
“O ye of little faith. I’m still stimulant-free. This”—she drew an imaginary circle to indicate her face—“is the happy glow of contentment in my new city.”
“You found an apartment?”
“A darling place. No more sounds of kitchen staff washing dishes in the diner at two
A.M.
I move in next week.” She grew somber. “Hey, I heard about Willie’s murder. I’m so sorry for Ellen, but his murder has to clear my mom, right?”
“Why?”
“Natalie’s and his murders must be related. What’s the possibility that two individuals from the same family would be killed within a week of each other? My mom has a solid alibi.” Using an X-Acto knife, Bailey slit open one of the boxes. “What if Willie figured out who killed Natalie? What if he decided that, rather than turn in the killer, he could blackmail the fiend? You said Willie had an unpaid debt. He needed money.” She pushed the opened box toward me with her foot and started in on the second.
I pulled open the flaps. “I’m worried for Ellen.”
“Why?”
“She’s got to be considered a suspect.” I explained how Cinnamon had escorted Norah and Ellen to the precinct.
“If you want to find out what’s going on, call the precinct or call Ellen.”
“Or butt out.”
“That’s a third option.”
“Let’s not think about it for right now,” I said. “We’ve got a lot to do before the third round of the Grill Fest starts.” Inside my box was an assortment of dessert cookbooks. One caught my eye:
Sticky, Chewy, Messy, Gooey: Desserts for the Serious Sweet Tooth.
Yum. There was also a cluster of new culinary mysteries. The one about a caterer who cooked gourmet-lite food sounded like fun. “By the way, I’m sorry you had to come in today.”
“
No
problema
. You gave me the day off yesterday, which, in addition to finding my new apartment, turned out to be a glorious day.”
“Why? Did you go paddle boarding?”
“Yes.”
“With Jorge?”
She screwed up her mouth.
“
Verdad, amiga
,” I said. “Truth. Out with it.”
“Aunt Vera!” Bailey shouted.
My aunt popped out from the stockroom. “What?” She gazed at Bailey, who planted her hands on her hips. Aunt Vera bit back a smile. “Busy. Sorry. Can’t talk.” She ducked back into the stockroom.
“Why wouldn’t you tell me?” I rushed to Bailey and removed the X-Acto knife from her hand. “Because I’m your boss?”
“Because you’d tease me.”
Okay, she was right. I would. She was dating a paddle boarder? Really? Did he say,
Hey, dude,
all the time?
“You’ll ask me pointed questions,” she added.
“I will not.”
“Sure, you will. You’re a snoop. You’ll want to know his height, his weight, and the color of his eyes.”
“Well?” I tapped my foot, waiting.
“Six foot two, brown eyes, one ninety. He’s built.” She patted her chest. “You know how I love a man’s physique.”
I did. She could wax poetic about the many Adonises she had met in her lifetime.
“You want to know about his family background?” she said. “Where he went to school?”
“Yes and yes.”
“He didn’t go to college in the States.”
“No?” I did my best to rid my tone of judgment. I failed.
Bailey smirked. “Oh, he’s educated. You know I need a man with a brain, but he’s an émigré. His family lives in Mexico City. He went to university there. He’s going through the United States’ citizenship process.”
“What did he study?”
“Engineering. He’s working as a paddle board instructor to make ends meet. He earns good money. After he is granted citizenship, he’s going to be hired by Lockheed. He’s into physics, specifically aeronautics. Many companies are clamoring for scientists with dual citizenship. Did I tell you Jorge speaks five languages?”
I raised an eyebrow. When exactly did she think she had told me?
“All Latin-based languages,” she went on.
“No English?”
“He’s working on it. He’s so clever.”
Honestly, I was excited for my pal. I had never seen her gush over a man. The “one-night-stand queen,” as she called herself, rarely got involved with anyone for more than a month, and I thought after her last fiasco, with the married man, she would cool her heels for at least a year.
“I want to meet him,” I said.
“And you will. In time. We’ve only been dating a week. We can barely communicate.”
I knuckled her upper arm. “I’m sure you’ve found other ways to connect”—hence the good color in her cheeks and the lilt in her step.
“Indeed. He’s the best kisser.”
I recalled my kiss with Rhett and was about to argue his merits, but I stopped as customers, eager for the Grill Fest to start, entered the shop. “I’m excited for you,” I said. I truly was. “But we’ve got to set up. We’ll talk more later, okay?”
While Bailey and I propped up folding chairs, Rhett, Mayor Zeller, and two of the contestants who had been eliminated last week entered. The baby-faced teacher appeared heartbroken. The long-limbed librarian prodded her pal to perk up. Mayor Zeller told them that next year’s Grill Fest was going to focus on ribs. The teacher cooed with delight and reminded her buddy that both of them were barbecue goddesses.
The four remaining contestants entered the store as we wheeled out the portable cook stations. Lola seemed confident. Flora, equally self-assured, strode in behind her. Pepper and Flora’s beading chums accompanied her; all were chattering Flora’s praise. Tito came in next and paused by the doorway as if expecting the audience to cheer his entrance. No one did.
