Chapter 23

 

After the ceremony, I dropped Whitney and Lacy at my father’s house. I told them how great it was having them in town, we exchanged hugs, and I hurried home.

Rhett hadn’t arrived yet, so, call me crazy, I made a quick tour around the outside of my cottage. No opened windows. No lurking strangers. No black wreaths.

When I slipped inside, Tigger glanced up from a pillow but didn’t budge. The ball of yarn that Lacy had given him was completely unfurled. “Tired?” I said as I rubbed him under the chin. “Me, too.” But not too tired to see my fiancé.

After removing my jacket and Keds, I padded barefoot to the kitchen still thinking about Maureen and the e-cigarettes and whether Cinnamon would want my head on a platter if I called her with my latest theory.

I opened a bottle of pinot grigio and poured some into two glasses. As I returned the corkscrew to the drawer, I spotted a stack of blank recipe cards and pulled out a few. When I’d worked at Taylor & Squibb, we often storyboarded our ad campaigns using notecards, filling them with graphic images or dialogue to visualize our media plan.

On the topmost card I jotted Emmett Atwater: anger, sketched a string of Christmas lights, and attached it to my refrigerator with a starfish-shaped magnet. On the next card I scrawled Olivia’s name, as well as inheritance and alibi verified yet? I added a rough drawing of the quilt I’d liked at Home Sweet Home. On the third, I half-heartedly wrote Adam Kittridge. Was he a suspect merely because he wanted Jake’s house and no other would do? Gran said he’d studied Jake. Perhaps that was a lie. What if they’d known each other when they were younger, and Adam held a long-standing grudge? He couldn’t have poisoned Jake and Tito because he was in the city visiting his granddaughter, but maybe he’d persuaded Emmett to abet him. I made a note to ask Jake about Adam. I made an additional note to prompt Aunt Vera to do a third-party tarot reading so we could learn more about him. Though she’d be reluctant to do so, she would be the first to say niggling suspicions had to be put to rest.

On a fourth card, I scribbled Raquel Adagio: money. Then I drew a picture of the Blue Mauritius and added the question: Innocent? Cinnamon would have to make that determination, although Raquel’s alibi did sound ridiculously naïve and, therefore, believable.

On a fifth card, I wrote Maureen Adagio: same motive. I added a different image: a black wreath. Was it significant that I’d attributed that to her? What was her alibi?

As I reached for my wine, my cell phone rang. “Please don’t cancel, Rhett,” I murmured, but it wasn’t him. It was an unknown local number. I answered cautiously. “Hello?”

“Jenna, it’s Raquel.”

“Hey, what’s up?” I glimpsed the card I’d written for her and a quiver of fear skittered up my neck. Did she have ESP or was she peeking through a break in my drapes?

“I saw you staring at my sister as you were leaving.”

“No, I wasn’t.”

“Yes, you were, and I’m warning you, don’t even go there.”

Her tone was so accusatory that I eyed the front door to make sure I’d locked it. I had. “Go where?”

“Thinking the same thing you thought about me, that she killed Jake’s friend so she could get her hands on Jake’s stamp. We both know she was there the night he showed it to me, so she heard all about it, but I’m telling you, she didn’t do it.”

“She’s working two jobs, Raquel. The Blue Mauritius would bring a hefty fee and pay off a lot of debts.”

“She doesn’t need money. She makes over three hundred thousand dollars a year.”

I gasped. “Are you kidding? That’s a lot of money.”

“San Francisco socialites pay well to keep healthy.”

“Even well-paid people can wrack up debt,” I countered.

“She doesn’t. Ever. She’s a fanatic about paying cash.”

“A dietician knows science,” I said. “She could have figured out how to make nicotine poison.”

“Ha! That’s where you’re wrong. Reenie failed chemistry. Oh, sure, she knows how to calorie count and assemble nutritious meals, but that’s the extent of her expertise. Heck, she can’t even make a decent salad dressing, and that’s a simple ratio of two to one.”

I had to admit Raquel was making a good case for her sister. Even so, I said, “She vapes. That’s pure nicotine.”

“When she became a dietician, she vowed to rid herself of all vices. Smoking was her biggest one. She tried the gum and the patch, but neither worked. Vaping cuts the edge, she says. She’s given herself until January first to quit that. Please believe me, Jenna. Neither of us is guilty.” Raquel clicked her tongue. “If it makes you feel better, I’ll bring her along when I talk to the police and she’ll give her alibi, too, okay? FYI, at the time of Geoffrey’s death, she was tripping the light fandango with her main squeeze, a district court judge. He was an Eagle Scout. He won’t lie.”

A split second after I ended the call, Rhett knocked on the door. I whipped it open and threw my arms around him. My senses did a happy dance. How I adored the Pierre Cardin cologne he’d dabbed on his neck.

“Missed me, huh?” He offered a cockeyed smile.

“Like crazy.”

He sauntered inside, looking handsome in a light blue sweater over blue jeans. “Did you have fun with your sister?”

“I did. This was a positive trip for both of us.”

“No more sisterly rivalry?”

“I think we’ve outgrown it.” I hoped I had.

I fetched our wine, and we sat on the couch holding hands, being content with silence. Tigger hopped up and wedged between us.

After a long while, Rhett said, “I think we should elope.”

“As if. Aunt Vera would never allow it.”

“We’ve both been married before.”

“To the wrong people. And you eloped the first time. You’re not getting out of an official ceremony. Let’s do this right. Invite friends and family. We can make it small. Intimate. A day to remember.” I didn’t want to get married in a barn, but I wanted something magical. “Okay?”

He released my hand and ran his fingers along my collarbone. “Okay.”

We kissed for a long time. Around midnight, he rose to his feet, prepared to head home. He stopped when he caught sight of the storyboard cards on the refrigerator. “Ahem.” He raised an eyebrow. “Does Cinnamon know you’re, as your father would say, postulating?”

Dad used the term to tease me.

“She does.”

“And she approves?”

“My father wants me in on this. She consented to his wishes.”

“Promise you’ll be careful.”

“Always.”

After he left, I closed the door and a goofy smile graced my face. I couldn’t wait until we would wake up in the same house every day. My future with him was going to be everything it wasn’t with David, open and honest and loving.

 

• • •

 

Tuesday morning, I awoke to the sound of thunder, which surprised me. I didn’t think the storm was due until tomorrow. Dressed in my pajamas, I opened the front door to make sure I’d heard right. I had. The sky was dark gray and filled with bloated clouds. Tigger huddled apprehensively by my ankle.

“Don’t worry, boy,” I cooed. “I won’t let you get wet.”

My aunt walked out of her house looking sunny in a yellow caftan. “Good morning, dear.” She was carrying a stack of caftans as well as turbans.

“Good morning,” I shouted over a second rumble. “What are you doing?”

“Errands. I’m like the postal worker. Rain or shine. I’m taking these to the dry cleaner before everyone is delivering their last-minute pre-holiday items, and then I’m off to the grocery. I have some serious baking to do.” Aunt Vera liked to give home-baked goods to a number of volunteer organizations during the holidays.

She opened the trunk of her Mustang and started shoving her things inside. At the same time, one of the turbans fell to the ground, and the purse that she’d slung over her shoulder slid down her arm.

I jogged over, picked up the turban, and handed it to her. “Why don’t I take everything in for you?”

“Don’t be silly.” She adjusted her purse strap. “I’m not feeble and I’m not a witch. I won’t melt in rain.” She shoved the errant turban in with the others and closed the trunk.

“Then let me come with you. I don’t have a thing to do at the shop. The window display is done. Books were delivered yesterday. It would do me good to take a real day off.”

Her forehead pinched with concern. “Why aren’t you spending it with Rhett? You two haven’t—”

“Don’t worry. We’re as happy as clams. He has a private fishing tour today, even if it rains.” I knuckled her arm. “Come on, say yes.”

“Fine. You’ll drive.” She pulled her car keys from her purse and dangled them in front of my face.

“Your car?” She never let anyone drive the Mustang.

“Yes. I have a terrible cramp in my calf from standing too long yesterday. I should rest it.” She gave me a nudge. “Go. Get dressed.”

Twenty minutes later, as we drove along Buena Vista Boulevard, a procession of antique cars was making its way into town.

“Aren’t they handsome?” my aunt exclaimed. “I particularly like the 1936 Ford with its smooth lines. See it?”

“I’m partial to the Ford Town Sedan. Did you see the elves peeking out the windows?”

“Phooey. I missed that.” She fluttered her hand. “Dear, stop! There’s the dry cleaner.”

I pulled in to a nearby parking spot and hopped out. My aunt took a bit longer than I to climb out of the car. When we had all of her clothes and turbans in tow, we headed into the facility.

Crystal Cove Cleaners was quite large. There were three counters to receive or deliver clothing. Moving racks of clothing soared into the upper rafters of the building. A full-time alterationist sat in a cubby behind a glass partition.

A sprite of a clerk in her uniform of blue blouse and black leggings approached Emmett Atwater, who was standing at the far right counter. She handed him a navy jacket covered in plastic wrap. “Here you are.” To Adam Kittridge, who was standing at the far left counter removing items from a suede jacket, she said, “Be right with you, sir. No need to empty the pockets. I’ll get it for you.” She acknowledged my aunt with a nod. “Hi, Vera.”

Seeing both men in one place made me flash on the cards that I’d affixed to my refrigerator. Were either of them guilty of murder? They seemed so . . . normal. I set my aunt’s clothing on the center counter.

“Hello, Emmett,” my aunt said.

“Good day, ma’am.” He was wearing a crisp white shirt, sea blue tie, and pressed navy pants. His hair was neatly combed. He offered money to the clerk, but she waved him off and pointed to the sign over her head: One free cleaning if it’s for an interview.

“Why are you looking for a job, Emmett?” my aunt asked. “You’re retired.”

“I was, but I can’t remain so. I’m . . .” He drew into himself as if protecting his core. “I’m bankrupt. Coughing up money for my mother’s hospice and paying the legal bills after my wife’s accidental death wiped out our savings. I can’t make ends meet on what I receive from social security.”

My aunt petted his shoulder. “I’m sorry to hear you’re struggling.”

“I tried to get a loan at the bank—”

“But they turned you down,” I said.

“All the banks did.” He licked his lips. “That’s where I was last Wednesday night.”

“Wait a sec.” I held up a warning hand. “That was the night Jake’s friend was killed. Did you lie to the police when you said you were at the movies? You told them you saw It’s a Wonderful Life. You showed them a ticket.”

“Yes.”

“Yes, you did see the movie or yes you lied?”

“Both.”

“Did you lie about seeing my brother-in-law return?”

He muttered, “Yes.”

“To make someone other than you look guilty.”

“I’m not proud of what I did.”

I regarded him skeptically. “Which bank were you at? All of them would have been closed.”

“I . . . I wasn’t at a bank, exactly. I was arranging a loan from”—the color drained from his face—“a private lender.”

“A loan shark.”

“I had to. I had nowhere else to turn. You play the cards you’re dealt. That’s what my wife used to say.” He pressed his lips together. “After I met with him, I went to see the movie. Did I ever identify with George Bailey. I was ready to kill myself. But when the movie ended and I thought about my brother and nephews and how my suicide might affect them, I changed my mind.”

So he did have family.

A single tear slipped down his cheek. He swiped it with the back of his hand. “My wife would be heartbroken if she knew I’d lost everything. I tried to make do as long as I could, but I’m living too long.”

“What about tapping the equity in your house?” I asked.

“We did a reverse mortgage. What a crock. It’s all gone.”

Aunt Vera said, “You need to tell the police everything, Emmett. Have the private lender vouch for you. Clear your name.”

He bobbed his head.

“And then you need to nail this job,” she added. “What is it?”

“Night manager at a grocery store. I was a manager before.”

“Of a major corporation,” she stated.

“Once a manager, always a manager. I’m old. Not a lot of jobs for folks my age.” He offered a pained smile and left.

As the door swung closed, Adam Kittridge made a sorrowful tsking sound. “It’s a shame to see a man humiliated, isn’t it?” He smoothed the front of his black shirt, adjusted the collar of his jacket, and donned his leather gloves. “Such a shame.”

My aunt nodded. “Yes, indeed.”

The clerk pulled a green and pink envelope plus a few other items from the pockets of Adam’s winter coat. She brushed lint and something sparkly off of everything and withdrew a photograph from the items. “Aww. Is this your granddaughter with your wife?” She shook the photo.

“Yes,” he muttered.

“She looks exactly like her.” The clerk displayed the photograph to my aunt and me. “Isn’t she a darling girl?” Adam’s granddaughter and wife were bundled in skiing outfits. “What are their names?”

“Amy and Amy.”

“How sweet is that, naming her after her grandma.” The clerk handed Adam a receipt for his clothing.

“Amy was my wife’s nickname. Her real name was Amelia.”

My heart snagged in my chest. Did he say Amelia? I peered at the photograph again. “She had beautiful eyes,” I said. “Like Elizabeth Taylor’s.”

Adam nodded. “They were the light to her wonderful soul.”

“How long were you married?” my aunt asked.

“Fifty-two years.”

“That’s a milestone.”

I viewed the photograph again and noticed something new. Young Amy’s jaw was strong and noble, like Jake’s and his sister’s. Was it a trick of light? “Where did you take this photo, Adam, at Lake Tahoe?”

“Squaw Valley. For Amy’s fifth birthday.” He retrieved the photograph. “That reminds me. I promised I’d buy her a snow globe.”

“They have beautiful ones at Home Sweet Home,” my aunt said.

“Good suggestion. See you around.”

As he left, I remembered Crusibella’s warning: Beware of dark emanations. Adam was dressed all in black—darker than dark.

To the clerk who was sorting through my aunt’s items, I said, “Quick. Give us our chit.” She did, and I tore to the Mustang.