Stirring the Plot (A Cookbook Nook Mystery) (23 page)

W
HEN
I
ARRIVED
at The Cookbook Nook the next morning, I found another gift. This one was a paperweight in the shape of two infinite hearts with the words
Infinite Love
tooled into the metal. A big orange balloon looped with black ribbon was tied to the paperweight. At the knot of the balloon was a note:
To my love. SA.

Secret Admirer.
Even I could decipher that cryptic message.

I marched into the shop and jiggled the gift. “Does anyone know who is leaving these?”

Bailey and my aunt had beaten me to work and were busy relocating bookshelves to make space for the magic and potion demonstrations. Over fifty people had responded to our flyers and Internet newsletter saying they wanted to attend. The store was going to be packed, but I wouldn’t turn anyone away.

“Got me,” Bailey said. “Just so you know, that wasn’t outside when I came in.”

“Then how could you not have seen who left it?” I didn’t mean to sound snarky, but the phantom gift giver was starting to get on my nerves. I had one mystery to solve. I didn’t need two.

“Are you suggesting I wouldn’t tell you? Puh-leese.” She swatted the balloon. “How very Halloween. It’s sweet.”

“It’s got to stop.”

Bailey pinched me. “Forget about it and help us rearrange the furniture.”

Tito knocked on the door frame.
“Buenos dias, señoritas.”
He strutted into the shop. “I hope I am not too early.”

I whirled around. “The presentation doesn’t start until ten, Tito.”

“Aha, then I have plenty of time to set up.”

“Set up what?”

“I am your magician.” He hoisted a black leather bag. “Your man had to cancel, so he asked me to replace him.”

“You? Do magic?” I didn’t mean to falter, but truth be told, Tito didn’t strike me as the suave and magical type.

“I have hidden talents.” Tito flapped his hand and a bouquet of silk flowers materialized. He offered them to me, head bowed, not making eye contact. “For you. A most beautiful lady.”

Something triggered inside me. I glanced from the flowers to the infinity loop I was holding. Hadn’t it appeared magically, too?
No way.
Tito was not the secret admirer.

He moved past me to Bailey. “For you,
presto
.” He shook his hand and a card popped into it. “Hmmm. No, that is not right.” He chuckled—amusing himself—then flicked the card onto the vintage kitchen table and repeated the move. Up popped a single fake rose.
“Perfecto.”
He pressed it into Bailey’s hand. “A rose by any other name.”

She thrust it back at him. “Thanks, but no thanks.”

“Ah, but you must. It is bad luck to refuse a gift.”

Bailey snarled. “Fine. Sure.” She took the rose and flung it on the sales counter. “Bad luck comes in threes.”

Tito, whose ego was so strong that he could probably endure having his feelings hurt by ten girls at the same time, set his bag of tricks down and rubbed his hands together. “I am here to help.”

Bailey pointed toward the stockroom. “Get the six-foot foldable table.” When Tito disappeared from view, she rolled her eyes at me. “Really? Tito, a magician? Do you think we can make him vanish into thin air?”

I giggled. “Let’s give him a chance. We’ve both agreed that we like his reporting style. Maybe he’ll grow on us. Besides, we made a promise to our customers. Lots of children are coming. They’re expecting a magician. Even a bungling one will do the trick. By the way, you don’t think—” I held up the infinity loop and inclined my head toward the stockroom.

“Tito? Ha! Not likely. If he is, why wouldn’t he just say so?”

“Yeah, you’re right. He’s a bit of a—”

“Braggart.”

“Not to mention he doesn’t have that much romance in his little pinky.” I tossed the infinity loop with the attached balloon onto the sales counter to be dealt with at another time.

“On the other hand,” Bailey went on, “maybe he is the secret admirer, but he’s scared if he admits it, you’ll bite his head off.”

“Yeah, I’m so scary.” I wiggled my fingers in her face and said, “Boo!” followed by, “Get real.”

An hour later, the shop was ready for the crowd. We had stocked a number of magic-titled books on a table, including
The Disney Magic Kitchen Cookbook
and
Magic Foods: Simple Changes You Can Make to Supercharge Your Energy, Lose Weight, and Live
. In addition, we had included kid-related fiction. One that tickled me was a Magic School Bus story called
Food Chain Frenzy
. Kids could learn facts about the ecosystem as well as eating habits. Cool, right? For fans of Maya’s potion lesson, I’d included
The Spice and Herb Bible
, a practical reference guide from a revered spice merchant. For our book club fans—numbers of them had responded to the invitation—I had stocked copies of
The Book Club Cookbook
, which included recipes and food for thought from a variety of books, like hot cocoa and chocolate fondue from the whimsical
Chocolat
. Tasty!

In the breezeway, Katie had set out caramel popcorn balls using the same recipe she had made a few days ago. Each was wrapped in pretty orange cellophane to be given out as gifts to all that attended. She had also baked miniature
magic
cupcakes. Half were double dark chocolate with gold-foil icing adorned with magician hats or canes. The other half were blueberry cupcakes topped with whipped vanilla frosting and decorated with tiny bunnies in tuxes. For a snack, I had feasted on one of the dark chocolate cupcakes. Besides Tootsie Rolls, I adored dark chocolate. Not being proud, I begged Katie for the recipe. I wanted to serve them at my Halloween party. She suggested I use a simple buttercream frosting instead of making the more difficult gold foil. Who was I to argue?

“Tito,” I said. “We’re nearly ready.”

Tito, who stood in the breezeway dining on the sweets, said, “Coming.” He had added a red cape and a magician hat to his ensemble and looked almost handsome. His eyes sparkled with enthusiasm.

I glanced at my watch and hurried to Bailey. “Has anybody heard from Maya?”

“I’m here!” Maya rasped as she raced into the shop carrying her black Burmese cat and what looked like a picnic basket. “Sorry I’m late. My blow dryer went on the fritz. My hair is a shambles. If I hadn’t clipped it up, I would look like I’d been plugged into a light socket.” She unloaded the basket, and the Burmese tried to scramble out of her arms. Coughing, Maya struggled to hold on to him while she pulled a bejeweled leash from her pocket. A tissue and a slip of paper flew out with the leash. She rushed to retrieve them, but the cat wouldn’t comply. “Bootsie, hold still.”

“I’ve got it.” I picked up the fallen items. On the paper was scrawled the number for a Dr. Singh. As I handed the items back to her, I said, “Maya, are you okay?”

“My darned cold is worse. This doctor’s concoction is downright fabulous.” She wrinkled her nose. “Okay, it’s not
that
fabulous. It stinks to the high heavens, but it works. It’s a real cleanser. He makes it in a gorgeous antique mortar and pestle. You’ve got to see him at work some time. Pure artistry.” She wiped her nose, stuffed the tissue and paper back in her pocket, and bustled to the table we had set up for her and Tito. She secured her Burmese to a leg of the table and cooed for him to be a good boy. The cat didn’t look pleased, but he settled down.

I spotted a group of costume-clad children and adults climbing out of a minivan and yelled, “Places, everyone. Aunt Vera, are you ready?”

Dressed in a burgundy caftan and turban, she looked like her old self, rested, restored, and ready to divine the future. She sat down at the vintage table and nodded.

When the crowd swelled to thirty people, Tito brandished his wand. “Welcome to all! For my first trick, I will require an assistant.” He pointed to a towheaded tot who was avidly waving his hand. “Step up, young man.” Tito went through the paces, asking the boy his name and where he was from. Next, he teased the boy, telling him someone must have taken the color from his hair. The boy blushed. With a wave of his hand, Tito produced a dark wig. He plopped it on the boy’s head, stole the kid’s nose, and promptly returned it. The audience laughed and applauded. Tito removed the wig, and the boy sprinted back to his mother. “For my next trick . . .”

Bailey sidled up to me. “Success.” She bumped me with her hip. “Who knew Tito could be so adorable? He reminds me of someone.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know. Someone I met recently.”

“Where?”

She frowned. “If I knew that, I’d probably remember who.”

“Jorge?”

“Not likely.”

“Any movement in that regard? Is he coming to his senses?”

She moaned, “Mothers,” then waved me off:
end of discussion.
I felt bad for her, but what could I do? I wasn’t Cupid. I didn’t have a set of arrows at the ready.

Tito laid out three cups and one polished blue rock on the black cloth. Like a trained con man, he covered the rock and moved the cups around. This time, he asked a freckle-faced girl to help him. The girl hunkered down to make her eyes level with the top of the table, and she stared with deep concentration, as if she might be able to see between the black cloth and the rim of the cups. When asked by Tito, she guessed where the rock was:
Wrong.
She tried again:
Wrong.
She made a third guess:
Wrong.
The other children giggled. Someone called her
stupid
.

I hated that kind of talk and was ready to pull the plug on the magic tricks, but the girl shouted: “Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me.” I applauded her spirit.

Tito quickly jumped in. “Okay, okay. Let me end your torture. You’ve done such a magnificent job, but I’ve tricked you.” He revealed that the rock was not beneath any of the cups, and with deft hands, pulled the rock from the girl’s ear.

The crowd went wild. The girl smiled, all better.

For another fifteen minutes, Tito regaled the growing crowd: losing a bunny and finding a lucky bunny’s foot in its place, lighting up his fingertips, and determining the correct card pulled from a deck. When he was done, although the crowd shouted, “More!” he ceded the floor to Maya. Because he caught her in the middle of applying makeup to her red-chafed nose, he said, “You don’t need makeup, my sweet. You are beautiful as you are.” He hurried to her and magically conjured up the same set of silk flowers he had offered me earlier.

Maya shoved her makeup into her purse and stuck out her tongue. The exchange was so endearing, I wondered whether they had planned it.

“Hello, y’all.” Maya crossed to the table and introduced herself for any that might not know her as she positioned pots of herbs, a beaker, and a cutting board in the center of the table. “Today, I’m going to show you how to make a love potion.” The children erupted into titters; some of the parents covered their children’s ears. Maya grinned. “C’mon. You didn’t really think I was serious, did you? I’m going to teach you how to make a potion that will ward off colds and flus.”

“But you have a cold,” one astute kid blurted out.

“Aha. Good observation. Mine’s on the way out because of this potion.”

Or because she was going on her seventh day of having the cold, I mused. Most colds disappeared between seven and ten days. My doctor often told me to ride it out and shun medicine. I did my best.

Maya snipped herbs from the pots and chopped them on the cutting board. “Now, first, you want to start with a little myrtle and marjoram, both of which you can grow indoors.”

As she proceeded, more people entered the shop. I was pleased to see many choose a few cookbooks and gift items before taking a seat. All took a raffle ticket for the giveaway basket we were offering.

Following the newcomers inside was Mrs. Davies, Pearl’s housekeeper, wearing a black dress with white pinafore. Even clothed as she was, I couldn’t shake how much she reminded me of Alfred Hitchcock. She was clutching the hands of two young girls, one on either side of her.

Out of nowhere, a stark-white dog, off the leash, raced to the front door and barked at the top of its lungs.

Maya snapped to attention. So did a lot of people.

A tremor of fear rippled through me. I knew the superstition about dogs barking at night. Their cry meant death was around the corner. What did the barking signify during the day?

M
RS
. D
AVIES
SCUTTLED
inside with the girls, then she rushed to the door and closed it. “Hope you don’t mind,” she said to the crowd. The dog paced outside as if looking to find a way in. “Girls, are you all right?”

The girls, each dressed like Pippi Longstocking with bright red braids, yellow and blue smock, and red pantaloons, nodded.

Shaking off my fear, I moved to greet them. “Nice costumes, ladies. Mrs. Davies, are these your grandkids?”

“Heavens, no.” The copious folds of her neck wobbled. “I’m their new nanny.”

“Nanny?”

“Trisha fired me. I had to find a job.” She fingered her white pinafore. “I’ve made myself out to be Mary Poppins in no time at all. No magical umbrella, mind you, but we sing songs and generally have fun, don’t we, girls?”

“Yes,” they answered on cue.

“Why did Trisha fire you?”

Mrs. Davies screwed up her mouth. Her hooked nose nearly connected with her lips. She released the girls and gave them each a gentle push. “Go sit, my little ones.” Then she faced me. She lowered her voice and said, “Since the day I arrived from London, Trisha never liked me.”

I thought of my terse exchange with Trisha last night. She had accused Mrs. Davies of being a thief. Supposedly she had swiped one of Pearl’s brooches. Had she also taken the Thorntonite so she could pawn it and send the cash to her needy mother? Did Pearl find out? Would Mrs. Davies have killed Pearl to silence her? Choosing a roundabout way of getting to the truth, I said, “Trisha mentioned that you used to write a column in England.”

Mrs. Davies stiffened. “I knew it! The little sneak saw the articles I kept. Yes, I did write a column. I was quite good.
Dear Mumsie
—that was the name of it. I was nearly a national treasure, one critic said. Much like your
Dear Abby
.”

“Why did you give up a lucrative journalism career to move here? Were you off to see the world? Fleeing an abusive husband? Did you have a run-in with the law?” I winked, trying to soften my delivery.

“How would you—” She smashed her lips together. Her gaze grew steely. “Ahh, I get it. You were fishing. Fine. I might as well confess. Honesty is the best policy, after all.” Through taut lips, she whispered, “Yes, I was in a bit of a bind. I had a penchant for betting the ponies. I was in debt and owed some bad people quite a lot of money. I met the missus in London, when her husband was doing a speaking tour. He was a revered geologist, you know. She took a liking to me, and I to her. During one of our lunches, I revealed that I was in a dicey situation. If I didn’t leave England altogether, I could wind up swimming with the fishes, as your reporters like to say. The missus said everyone deserved a second chance, and she offered me a job. I didn’t mind abandoning my position. I’d had enough of giving advice to sorry folks. My only regret was leaving my mother back there.”

“I heard she’s destitute.”

“Mum? Heavens, no. Who told you—” Mrs. Davies
tsk
ed. “Don’t tell me. Trisha. Wicked girl. Yes, I send money to my mother occasionally, but for the very reason I left England. I like to play the ponies. I never did lose that ghastly habit. Mum does rather well on my behalf.”

“Did you—” How could I ask delicately? I couldn’t. I plowed ahead. “Did you take something from Dr. Thornton to support your habit?”

“You’re asking if I stole Dr. Thornton’s brooch, aren’t you?”

Not exactly. I was thinking more about the Thorntonite.

She sighed. “That Trisha has a filthy mouth. Her mother wanted so much for her.” She shook her head. “Cross my heart, I would never steal from the missus. She was too good. An angel. I would wager Trisha was the culprit. She was always trying to blame others. She might be an A student, but she has an F personality.” Mrs. Davies clicked her tongue. “Her mother will be sorely missed. Now, if you wouldn’t mind, I should attend to my new wards. If that’s all?”

What could I say:
You’re under arrest?
For what? Confessing to a shady past?

As she walked away, I glanced outside for the offensive white dog; like a phantom, he had disappeared. I reopened the door to let in fresh air.

Bailey joined me. “What was that about?”

Before I could answer, Emma rushed past us without saying hello, her red sweater flying open, the tails of the scarf she wore around her neck fluttering with abandon. How had I missed seeing her in the parking lot? She was like a whirlwind of energy.

Bailey murmured, “Huh. How can she afford an Hermès scarf on her salary?”

Emma made a beeline to my aunt and pressed a hand to her chest as though she were out of air. She mouthed something. My aunt shook her head and reached out to her. They gripped hands for a long time. Emma released my aunt, bussed her on the cheek, and hurried back to Bailey and me. “Sorry for rudely running by, but that’s the first time I’ve seen Vera since the car accident.” She twisted the end of the scarf around a finger and released it. “The moment I heard, I went to urgent care, but she had checked out. After that, it’s been like a nightmare at work. Over the last twenty-four hours, more than six dogs ate chocolate and were sicker than sick. Sometimes, I hate Halloween. Pet owners just don’t pay enough attention. Wouldn’t you agree?”

I couldn’t answer. I was too busy gawking at the red, gold, and black Hermès scarf that Bailey had brought to my attention. On several occasions, Pearl had worn a scarf with the same design. She bragged about it being a gift from
him
. I had assumed she meant her husband. Looking back, I suppose the gift could have been from the man she had lusted over until my aunt temporarily won his heart—Greg Giuliani.

Bailey nudged me. “What’s wrong?”

“Huh?” I sputtered. I glanced at Mrs. Davies. Trisha had accused Mrs. Davies of stealing Pearl’s brooch, and Mrs. Davies had blamed Trisha. Were they both wrong? Was Emma the thief? Did Pearl find out and accuse Emma? Was the whole story about Emma being in love with Pearl a ruse to cover up her penchant for stealing?

“Jenna?” Emma said. “Are you okay?”

“The scarf you’re wearing. Was it Pearl’s?”

She fingered it gingerly. “Yes,” she answered with no artifice. “She gave it to me as a gift for being her handmaiden on the night . . . the night . . .” She pressed her lips together, unable to continue.

I felt my cheeks warm with embarrassment as I remembered the gold box Pearl had handed Emma right after inducting her into the Winsome Witches. Dumb me. Talk about jumping to conclusions. I was lethal. Lock me up and throw away the key.

Emma said, “Now, I wear it because . . .” She ran her teeth over her lip. “Well, I actually thought she gave it to me as a token of . . . you know.”

How would anyone ever know? Pearl wasn’t around to refute the story.

*   *   *

FOR DINNER I
ate a fall salad heaped with grilled chicken, pumpkin seeds, and cheddar cheese. Then I decided to be brave and make a batch of double dark chocolate cupcakes—the recipe required ten ingredients, which I was able to manage. Yay, me. I didn’t intend to eat them. I had made a promise to stay away from chocolate sweets after dusk, and I intended to keep that promise, but the aroma would calm me. After setting the cupcakes in the oven, I sat at the kitchen table and opened a new Coffeehouse Mystery by Cleo Coyle. I flipped to the back, as I was inclined to do, and counted the recipes. Over twenty.

“Wow,” I whispered. “This is a cookbook. Here, Tigger. Up.” I patted my lap.

Tigger, who was bounding after a sponge ball, skidded to a stop. He raised his bitty nose and eyed me, long and hard.

“Don’t you want to snuggle?” I said.

He pawed the ball and resumed chasing it.

“Hmph,” I muttered, and then recalled the day Maya dashed into the shop. Her cat had run off. Katie said that cats avoided owners when they were sick. “I didn’t catch Aunt Vera’s cold, Tig-Tig. I don’t even have allergies.”

He ignored me. I didn’t dwell on his rejection. I had received plenty of love in the past week. I could have received more had I been open to Rhett’s advances. I warmed thinking of his touch, his kiss.

You keep thinking like that, Jenna, and before you know it, you’ll be making a phone call you’ll regret. Read!

Would I really regret it? Rhett was entirely delicious. I could imagine long walks on the beach and scrumptious dinners at sunset—

Read!

I refocused on the mystery. Twenty minutes later, I pulled the cupcakes from the oven and drank in the rich scent. My mouth started salivating. It required all my willpower not to take a bite of one.

Knowing fruit would be a better choice for a snack, I fetched an orange from the refrigerator. I opened the drawer next to the stove to look for a serrated knife; I didn’t keep one in the knife block. As I was pushing aside utensils, my hand brushed the flavor injector, and I flashed on the morning we’d found Pearl dead. She’d been injected with something. At the clandestine meeting in my storeroom with Cinnamon and Emma, I’d suggested poison. Cinnamon hadn’t refuted me. I had never asked her what kind. Was the type of poison significant? Would Cinnamon tell me if I asked? She’d revealed that Pearl had been sedated with zolpidem.

I dialed the precinct. Cinnamon was responding to a breaking-and-entering call. The clerk said, “Why don’t you speak with Deputy Appleby?”

Before I could say
no
, she patched me through. “Miss Hart,” the deputy said. “How are you today?”

I bridled. Why did he always sound so arrogant? My aunt enjoyed him. Did I just bring out the worst in him?

“I’m fine, Deputy. I’ve been thinking—”

“Thinking.”
He cut me off. “That’s nice. Thinking is always a good thing to practice.”

I didn’t laugh. I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. “Cinnamon—Chief Pritchett—told me that Pearl Thornton was sedated before she was poisoned.”

“Did she?”

I didn’t add that I had pried that tidbit out of her. I wanted Deputy Appleby to believe Cinnamon had willingly given me insider information. “I wondered if the coroner had determined the type of poison used.”

“Why would you care? Oh, right.” He chuckled. “Because you’ve been
thinking
.”

I pressed my lips together.
Play nice
ran like a litany through my mind. After a quiet beat to tamp down a comeback, I said, “Will you share?”

“It’s the same poison used in Agatha Christie’s
Appointment with Death
.”

“Digitoxin?”

“Aha, you’re a reader.”

“Deputy, I own a bookstore.”

“A culinary bookstore.”

“I’ve been an avid reader my whole life.”

“Me, too.”

Uh-uh. We were not taking a walk down memory lane to find out what we had in common. I didn’t care that Aunt Vera said he might have feelings for me. I was so
not
interested.

“Isn’t digitoxin found in foxglove?” I asked.

“Officially digitalis is a genus of about twenty herbaceous plants known as foxglove or
Digitalis purpurea
.” He pronounced the words like a Latin expert. “The scientific name means fingerlike, as in the flower can be fitted over a fingertip. The term
digitalis
is also used for drug preps that contain glucosides or cardiac glucosides, particularly digoxin. Got it? Okay, bye.”

He hung up, the creep.

But I didn’t care. I had learned something. Foxglove, a pretty purple bell-shaped flower on a stalk, could be found along the coast. I had seen some on my hike with Rhett, which made me think of Edward Wright. He collected and photographed rocks. Did he do the same with flowers? Would he know the chemical properties of foxglove? What if he knew how to extract poison from the plant and revealed that method to Emma? I thought of Maya, who worked with herbs. She crushed them into potions. She had to know about foxglove’s poisonous traits. And then I flashed on Trisha, who admitted she was studying plant physiology at college. I would bet she knew how to extract poisons, too. Granted, she had a verifiable alibi, but what if she or her boyfriend had rigged the cameras at the college to make it seem like she was in the lab at the time of her mother’s murder?