Chapter 12
Each night he added to the pattern of his fancies until drowsiness closed down upon some vivid scene with an oblivious embrace.
—Nick Carraway in F. Scott Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby
I yelped, and Darcy bolted into the living room and cowered by the sofa.
“Silly cat, it’s okay.” I exited the kitchen. “It’s not the murderer coming to kill me. He or she wouldn’t ring the bell.” Zach typically knocked, so it wasn’t him. I peeked through the peephole and said to the cat, “Friend, not foe.” I unlocked the door and greeted Vanna. “Hi.”
“Why aren’t you at Dream Cuisine?” she asked.
“Why aren’t you home in bed after your big soiree?”
“It was so successful, I needed to burn off some energy. I’m here to help you with tomorrow’s orders.”
“In that getup?” She was in a sleeveless aqua sheath and stiletto heels.
“I’ll go barefoot.” She kicked off her heels and made smooching sounds while beckoning Darcy with her fingertips.
“Here, kitty.” She loved cats but didn’t own one.
Too much responsibility. Whenever she stopped in, she engaged in a huge lovefest. Darcy accepted the attention, purring as she scrubbed him behind the ears and under the chin.
“What did you serve tonight?” I asked.
She rose, and Darcy bounded into the barrel of the llama.
“For the appetizer, I served rucolo burrata.” She smiled smugly, adding for my edification, “Arugula with tomato and balsamic dressing. The burrata cheese was exquisite. For the entrée, I offered duck confit with pesto cream or gnocchi al pesto with a basil cream sauce. Two men from the town council attended, as did a few of the elders from the Congregational church and the municipal court judge.” She nodded her head toward the kitchen. “What’s the timer for?”
“Yipes! I almost forgot I’m baking desserts for the Gatsby event to taste test.” I raced to the kitchen, slipped on mitts, and withdrew the orange-drop cookies from the oven. Luckily, they hadn’t burned.
Vanna padded in, closed the door, and went to the sink to wash her hands. Afterward, she threw on an apron and a mesh hat. I kept plenty on hand. “What are they?” She motioned to the baking sheet.
I told her.
“They smell divine. May I?”
“Please.”
She lifted one and nibbled the edge. “Yum. Light yet satisfying. But don’t you want to have something more complex for dessert? Other than the pineapple upside-down cake, of course.”
“We will, but these also have a significance to the era.” I quickly explained their origin story.
She pointed at the bowl resting on the island. “What’s that for?”
“Blood-orange crinkles.”
“Love the name. Very mysterious. What other foods are you considering? My mind has been whirling. What about duchesse potatoes? And crown roast of pork with mushroom dressing?”
“A tad too fancy for the bookstore. Perfect for a sit-down themed dinner, though.”
“Roasted chicken with rosemary was popular. We could do chicken wings similarly.”
“Good idea.”
“And sugar-glazed ham was in.”
“You’ve been doing your homework.”
She smiled at the compliment. “By the way, Tegan texted me on my way over. Holy moly, there’s a ghost living at the Blue Lantern?”
“There are no ghosts at the inn. The bookshelf Patrick removed was resting unsteadily against the wall.”
“And a ghost pushed it over.”
I laughed. “No.”
“Is Tegan concerned about Mother buying another bed-and-breakfast because she’s afraid the place is haunted?”
“Hardly. She’s worried your mother will be in over her head. Where will she find another gem like Helga? Not to mention managing two places can be daunting.”
“Tegan should give it a rest,” Vanna said. “Mother is capable. At worst, she’ll hire an assistant manager.”
“She intends to manage both herself.”
Vanna scoffed. “Ha! She’ll learn soon enough she can’t do that. What if a fire needs to be doused at one while the pipes burst at the other?”
What dire scenarios, I mused but said, “Tegan feels the same.”
Vanna wagged her head. “I’ll have a chat with Mother. Hiring a second-in-command is vital.”
I coughed, knowing her advice would fall on deaf ears, like Tegan’s had.
Noeline’s mind was made up. And she, like her daughters, could be mighty stubborn.
“FYI, Patrick took full blame for the bookshelf mishap. He was talking about caving and bats and began moaning like a ghost when blam”— I clapped my hands—“the thing fell. The timing of it was eerie.”
“Patrick,” Vanna said dismissively as she prepared a cookie sheet for the crinkles. “It’s inappropriate for him to be working at the inn when he’s obviously interested in Tegan.”
I tilted my head. “Why is that inappropriate?”
“Because he’ll drag the work out so he can catch glimpses of her and, therefore, overcharge Mother for his services.”
“He won’t. After all, he could go to the bookstore to see Tegan. Better yet, he could ask her out.”
“Would she say yes?”
“I’m not sure.” I smiled, remembering how comfortable Patrick had looked holding her in his arms. Though she’d been trembling, she hadn’t seemed to mind his embrace.
On the other hand, he was still on my suspect list, and pairing my best friend with a murderer was not the best idea.
“I wouldn’t worry about him price gouging your mother.
He was working steadily both times I saw him today, and his business profile on Yelp has earned rave reviews. ”
I eyed the laptop computer, still open, with my deep-dive notes scrawled on it.
Vanna peeked in that direction. “Oho, what’s this?” She scanned my suspect list. “Do you really think Patrick is the killer?”
“It’s all conjecture.”
“If he is, he’d better not date my sister.”
“Noted.” I appreciated her taking Tegan’s side.
“You know, he has a sketchy past.”
“Really?” My ears perked up.
“Back in high school, he made all sorts of prank calls to a girl he was hot for. She was scared out of her wits.”
“You were in school together?”
“He was a senior. I was a freshman.”
“You knew what he did, yet you were interested in him at one time?”
Her cheeks flushed pink. “I reasoned he was a kid then. Kids make mistakes. But let’s face it. I was attracted because he’s a hunk with a thriving business.” She wrinkled her nose. “However, the raw-food omnivore thing really does turn my stomach.”
Using a two-tablespoon scooper, she plunked twelve mounds of crinkle dough onto the cookie sheet, placed the sheet into the oven, and set a timer.
As she busied herself, I couldn’t help recalling how Jason had taunted Patrick.
Memories of one’s mistakes rarely fade.A mistake sounded way worse than a prank.
What else might Patrick have done as a child?
Bullied someone? Cheated on an exam? Harmed an animal, heaven forbid?
And how had Jason learned of it when I couldn’t dredge it up on the Internet?
Jason was a few years older than Patrick.
I doubted the two had known each other as boys.
“As for Reika,” Vanna said, reviewing my notes, “she’s a gem. Surely, she’s not the killer.”
I told her about the dog and the scream and Reika hedging about her alibi.
“It does sound iffy,” Vanna said. “I never read a book twice if I can help it.”
I smiled.
“Did the neighbor say how the dog bark sounded?” she asked. “They all have distinctive yips.”
“He imitated it, like a throaty bark.” I wondered if Zach had followed up.
“And the scream, was it high-pitched or guttural, like someone yelling in fear or rage?”
“The witness said it was distant but shrill.” I wriggled with unease.
“As for Iggie …” Vanna tapped the island with a fingernail. “He’s a jerk. He has maligned so many of his competitors and ruined their reputations. He even forced a few out of business.”
“That seems like a better reason for him to be dead than Jason.”
“True. Should we box these?” She gestured to the cooled muffins and scones.
“Good idea.”
I fetched some cardstock boxes, and we folded them into containers. I tended to the scones. Vanna managed the muffins.
“You know …” She attached labels to the boxes she’d filled. “I wouldn’t put it past Iggie to have killed a competitor. I mean, from what I heard, his father’s death was suspicious.”
“The coroner labeled it a natural death.”
“Humph.”
I cringed. Was she right? Had Iggie somehow helped his father along to the next world in order to inherit the business?
Vanna smiled. “I’m starting to like being a member of hashtag Allies, no apostrophe, ClueCrew.”
“Stop.”
“It’s making my little gray cells work. Isn’t that what Hercule Poirot says? I’ve never read Agatha Christie’s books, but I’ve seen a couple of the movies. I particularly like the ones starring Ewan McGregor. He’s dishy. But the mustache, ugh.” She wriggled her nose.
I frowned, wondering how I could entice this woman to read more than cookbooks and chefs’ bios.
Maybe having a blind-date-with-a-book event at the shop, where we would wrap books in brown paper so readers wouldn’t know the title or genre of the book they selected, would get her hooked.
Somehow I’d make sure she chose Murder on the Orient Express, The Mysterious Affair at Styles, or The Murder of Roger Ackroyd, so she could get to know the real Poirot.
“Did you know Aunt Marigold, may she rest in peace”— Vanna pressed a hand over her heart—“had a run-in with Iggie years ago? He wanted to buy a bunch of properties on Main Street.”
“He did?”
“Yes. Auntie was firmly against it and went to the town council to protest. Thanks to Finette Fineworthy, who put her foot down—Auntie and Finette collaborated to thwart him— Iggie was forced to set his sights on properties to the east of North Mountain Road, a prospect that didn’t come to fruition, either. ”
His relationship with Finette was even more contentious than I’d imagined. Interesting.
Vanna yawned and covered her mouth with the back of her hand. “My, it’s late. I’ve got to get some sleep. I’ll be back first thing to deliver all of these. You did all the heavy lifting tonight.”