Chapter 28
A
S IF PROPELLED
from a cannon, I bolted off the couch. The instant my feet hit the floor, I moaned. My head ached. I was wobbly. I hadn’t had any liquor, and yet I felt as if I had imbibed a bottle of wine all by myself. Grief sucks.
More pounding. My aunt called my name. What was so urgent?
I grabbed my robe and hurried to the door. I peered through the peephole. Aunt Vera stood on the porch looking radiant in a sky blue caftan. She held up a steaming cup of something and a plate of poached eggs on hash. At least she wasn’t demanding I run for safety. No fire. No UFO sightings.
I opened the door. “What?” I said, not too politely.
“Food for the soul.”
“That usually includes sugar.”
“Protein is better for you right now.”
Without asking, Aunt Vera entered and set my breakfast on the kitchen table while noting that she had found the recipe for poached eggs on bacon hash from a beautiful cookbook called
The Art of Breakfast: How to Bring B&B Entertaining Home
, written by a woman who runs the Maine Innkeeping Academy. Who knew there was such a thing? Next, Aunt Vera pulled a necklace with an ice white quartz pendant from her pocket. “I also brought this. Good vibrations for healing and protection.”
Even though my brain felt foggier than the San Francisco Bay, I could recite what my aunt had taught me through the years. Quartz was the universal crystal, and Crystal Cove, like much of the California coast, was rife with crystals and gemstones; hence, the name. Crystal, my aunt had told me on more than one occasion, could dispel negative energy and purify one’s mental and physical planes.
“Put it on,” she ordered.
“But I’m wearing my mother’s locket.”
“Not right now. I know what’s inside.”
David’s picture.
“When you are ready to replace the photograph with a new love,” she continued, “you can put the locket back on, but for now, do as I say.”
I didn’t know what chants my aunt had recited before coming to the cottage but, as if transfixed, I obeyed. Instantly—I knew it was nuts—I felt better. Lighter. Almost tingly.
Aunt Vera leaned in and kissed both of my cheeks. “A delightful future awaits you. Now, let’s put on our thinking caps and come up with new ideas for the shop. Today is the last day of the Grill Fest. We need inspiration.”
Over breakfast, I told her about my
no fear
motto in the kitchen. “I don’t want to run the café, mind you. I could never replace Katie, but I want to learn. Everything.” I told her that our clientele should have the same opportunity as I. We needed more cooking classes scheduled on the calendar. At once. In addition to Katie, we would book chefs from the local restaurants and diners, including Rhett.
Once I arrived at The Cookbook Nook, I collected all the how-to books we had in stock. Rachael Ray, known for throwing together quick meals, had penned a cookbook titled
My Year in Meals.
I browsed it and found easy-to-read, unpretentious recipes, each created because she had decided to write a food diary about her dining habits, similar in style to
Julie and Julia
. Granted, given the list of ingredients Rachael used, I would have to add food and spices to my cupboards, but I was ready.
To enhance my increasingly upbeat mood, I switched on a mixtape of music. Bobby McFerrin’s charming song “Don’t Worry, Be Happy” was first in the queue. McFerrin didn’t mention food in the lyrics—one of the requirements for the mixtape—but the song came from the movie
Cocktail
. Close enough, right?
As I set up for the afternoon’s Grill Fest finale, Tigger, who had picked up on my jovial mood, followed me everywhere, prancing and attacking. The tickle of his claws on my exposed toes made me smile. I was alive and I had feelings. Yay for me.
Around 1:30
P.M.
, Katie showed up with a cookie bar made with peanut butter, crispy rice cereal, and chocolate that rocked my world. My aunt claimed she had predicted Katie’s sugary treats; that was why she had fed me eggs for breakfast. I didn’t believe her for a nanosecond.
Not too soon after the appearance of the goodies, Pepper Pritchett arrived. While munching, she paused in the archway leading to the hall and said, “The music is loud.”
“Yes, I know,” I said.
None of the customers, many of them prospective audience members for the final round of the Grill Fest, seemed to mind. A few were swaying to the beat. Refusing to let Pepper get to me today, maybe not ever again—in addition to learning to be an expert cook, I was intent on creating a happy serum, or at the very least a happy spell, for Pepper—I did my best to grin like the Cheshire cat from
Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland
. Tigger murmured his approval.
As Pepper moved to her spot at the judges’ table, I wondered about her daughter, Cinnamon, and why she hadn’t returned my call. I went to the sales counter and dialed the precinct. Cinnamon wasn’t in. I was transferred to the Moose, who sounded miffed that I had called, as if I hadn’t trusted him to relay last night’s message. Perhaps he was ticked that I hadn’t swooped in and accepted his offer of coffee.
Men
.
“I promise, Miss Hart,” he said with an edge, “she will call. When she has time. We have lots of activities going on in town, which means set-tos and accidents.”
Call me crazy, but a smidgen of worry pinched the edges of my mind when he mentioned accidents. “Is Cinnamon okay? I mean, nothing’s happened to her, right?”
The Moose hung up on me. Steamed, I slammed down the receiver. If he’d hoped to make a friend of me, he had ended that chance.
At the same time, Mayor Zeller, wearing a burgundy pantsuit, bustled into the store. “It’s the finals. Are we ready? What a delight this whole event has been.” She faltered. “Minus the sad tragedy of Natalie’s demise, of course.” She waved a hand in front of her face, as if to cool the flush of embarrassment. “Ah, here are the contestants.”
Mitzi walked in looking like a gun-shy deer. Her eyes were pinpoints of angst; her smile thin. Sam was holding on to her arm. Making it to the finals must have really been doing a number on her. Sam released her, and she took up her post by her cooking station. Tito followed, appearing as relaxed as I had ever seen him. No dogged attitude, no swagger. In fact, he was grinning from ear to ear. His visit to the gym must have gone a lot better than mine.
My aunt leaned in to me. “Tito asked me for a reading yesterday. It was all very positive.”
Rhett trailed the contestants. From his spot at the judges’ table, he gave me a discreet wave. I considered telling him about David, but I didn’t want to spoil my mood. The good news was, however, that I was ready to move on. Two years was long enough to mourn. I stroked the quartz pendant, silently thanking my aunt for her gift.
The event got under way. Mitzi made a classic croque-monsieur, the same sandwich Natalie had planned for the first day of competition, with ham and cheese and a béchamel sauce. Tito, who couldn’t hide his delight that Mitzi was playing it safe, came up with a food truck–style grilled cheese that involved macaroni, cheese, bacon, and peppers. The judges interviewed the contestants and sampled the sandwiches. A half hour later, they made their determination.
The mayor rose to address the audience. “And this year’s Grill Fest winner is”—she paused for effect—“Tito Martinez.”
Wow. I had seen it coming, but
wow
.
“Are you kidding me?” Mitzi spun to her right. She looked ready to deconstruct. “Sam?”
I perused the crowd and didn’t spot him.
“Sam!” Mitzi yelled, clearly panicked.
“Has anyone seen Sam Sykes?” Mayor Zeller asked.
A woman waved her hand. “He left about twenty minutes ago.”
Another woman added, “I saw him entering the Word right before I came here.”
Mitzi moaned. “No, no, no. This is all
her
fault.” She groped beneath her cooking station for her purse. “I’ve got to go.”
“Wait, Mitzi,” the mayor said. “Show a little decorum. Shake Tito’s hand.”
“I . . . I . . .” Mitzi drank in huge gulps of air. “No, I don’t have time.” She dashed to the door.
I raced after her and caught up with her beside her Mercedes. “Mitzi, slow down. I don’t think Sam is having an affair with the bank teller.”
“Of course he’s not.”
“But you said
her.
”
“Not
her,
” she said. “He’s planning to run off with
her.
”
“Her, who?”
“Natalie’s daughter.” Mitzi whipped open the door.
“Ellen?” I said. “No, you’re wrong. Ellen thinks of Sam like a father.”
“As always, you don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Mitzi scrambled into her car and started to pull the door closed. I grabbed the handle. She tugged. Man, she was strong. I released my hold. She ground the car into reverse, then tore out of the parking lot.
Mayor Zeller hurried to me. “What’s going on?”
“Mitzi is jealous. At first, she believed Sam was having an affair with Natalie as well as another woman in town.” I hesitated. Actually, the latter wasn’t confirmed. Flora had provided that tidbit of gossip. What did it matter? “Now, Mitzi thinks that . . .” I paused again. Mitzi hadn’t said Ellen’s name. She’d said I was misguided. Had she meant Norah? What if Norah had come to Crystal Cove to be with Sam? I couldn’t fathom how they could have met. On the Internet, perhaps. Norah said that was how she had reconnected with her sister. Had Natalie found out about Norah and Sam’s relationship? Maybe she’d demanded that Sam end the affair. Maybe Norah didn’t want her mother butting into her business; she rebelled and killed her mother. Willie found out. He threatened Norah and promised to reveal all to Mitzi. In retaliation, Norah killed Willie. No, that wasn’t possible. She had an alibi. She was at the drive-through coffee shop with Bebe. Could she prove it? Would the drive-through person remember her? Did Norah have a receipt for that purchase with a time stamp on it?
I ran into the shop and told my aunt that I was going to the Word. I asked her to get hold of Cinnamon and send her to the diner. A hint of the apprehension that I’d felt earlier resurfaced. Was Cinnamon okay? “And if you can’t find her, call Dad.”
As I sprinted to my VW, the mayor trailed me. “I’m going with you.”
