Fudging the Books

Book 4: A Cookbook Nook Mystery

by Daryl Wood Gerber

Genres: Amateur Sleuth; Cozy Mystery; Female Sleuths

Synopsis

The Agatha Award–winning author of Stirring the Plot returns to the Cookbook Nook in Crystal Cove, California, where February brings Pirate Week, National Chocolate Month—and bitter murder…

Pirate Week is sweeping through Crystal Cove and keeping Jenna Hart and her bookstore, the Cookbook Nook, plenty busy. But she’s not too swamped to also host the local Chocolate Cookbook Club’s meeting—especially because the guest of honor is her friend, candy maker and cookbook author Coco Chastain.

Jenna whips up a delicious event amidst the rowdy festivities, but the mood is soon broken by robberies, simmering tempers, and a dead body—Coco’s editor, Alison. The suspects turn out to be more plentiful than a pot full of gold doubloons, so to prove Coco isn’t responsible for the dastardly deed, Jenna will have to stir up some clues and figure out who’s the real sticky-fingered killer…

INCLUDES RECIPES!

Release date: August 4, 2015

Publisher: Berkley

Print pages: 304

Sample

Acknowledgments

Chapter 1

CHOCOLATE. IS THERE anything not to like—excuse me, love—about chocolate? And it’s February, so it’s National Chocolate Month, which means I can focus The Cookbook Nook’s theme on chocolate. Heaven. I plucked a homemade chocolate-cherry bonbon from a bowl sitting on the sales counter and popped it into my mouth, relishing the burst of flavor. Yum! Definitely not poison.

“Back to work, Jenna,” I whispered.

I was alone in The Cookbook Nook. My aunt had yet to arrive, and Bailey, my best friend in the world and the main sales clerk at the shop, had called saying she was running late, too. I enjoyed mornings in the shop by myself. I could take time to scan the wares and appreciate what I’d been able to build in the past few months.

Back in August, I gave up my cushy job at a swank San Francisco advertising firm and returned home to help my aunt Vera open our culinary bookshop. I am so proud that, with my aunt’s financial backing and my marketing expertise, we have created this must-visit haven for foodies and lovers of cookbooks. The floors are filled with movable bookshelves upon which sit hundreds of cookbooks with tasty titles. On the shelves along the walls are colorful arrays of cooking utensils, salt shakers, pepper mills, aprons, and more. We fashioned the rear corner as a young cooks area, where kids and their parents could sit and read or even do crafts. My aunt, who loves to tell fortunes, set up a vintage kitchen table near the front entrance where she offers occasional readings. She isn’t a seer; she doesn’t have extrasensory powers, but she believes her readings help her friends and clients cope. I’m not a believer, but I would never tell her sharing her passion is out of the question. Sometimes, her predictions come true.

“Work!” I reminded myself.

I moved to the display table, where I had arranged delicious cozy mysteries with some of my favorites by Krista Davis and Jenn McKinlay. I added a new cozy to the grouping, Murder of a Chocolate-Covered Cherry by Denise Swanson. I also added a couple of new books to our permanent supply of food-related fiction: The Chocolate Lovers’ Club and The Loveliest Chocolate Shop in Paris.

“Perfect.”

Next, I gathered a stack of chocolate-themed cookbooks from the sales counter and skirted around the centermost movable bookshelf, while gazing lustfully at the top book—one I intended to take home with me, written by the renowned chocolatier Michael Recchiuti: Chocolate Obsession: Confections and Treats to Create and Savor. Granted, it was not a book for beginners, like me. In fact, one woman who had reviewed the book on Amazon said to do exactly what Recchiuti said or else. Um, okay, perhaps she hadn’t written that as a specific threat, but it was implied. Make sure to buy the higher butterfat butter was one of her suggestions. Also, use the expensive chocolate. Forget about baking with Hershey’s. Now, I adore Hershey’s Kisses and those adorable Hershey’s Miniatures, but even I can tell the difference between an everyday chocolate and Scharffen Berger.

I placed the chocolate books on another display table, stood the Recchiuti book upright with its pages fanned open, and set a pile of books behind it. I laid out other titles, like Crazy About Chocolate: More Than 200 Delicious Recipes to Enjoy and Share—the cover alone with a dozen mouthwatering mini chocolate éclairs would sell that book in a heartbeat—and Absolutely Chocolate: Irresistible Excuses to Indulge—its sinfully all-chocolate cover was great, as well. I had space for a few more titles and hurried back to the stockroom.

When I returned carrying a stack of books that reached my chin, a forty-something woman with sleek black hair, one of our regulars, rapped on the front door, which I’d propped open—I love crisp, fresh air. She wiggled her fingers. “Jenna, are you ready for a few customers?”

It was almost nine. “Sure.”

“Can you help us?” She and two friends made a beeline for the paleo diet section of books. I followed. “Paleo,” she said matter-of-factly. “Can you explain the regime to us?”

Although it wasn’t my preferred way to eat—I savored carbs—I knew the basics. Paleo involved eating the way cavemen did, which meant consuming only things we could hunt, fish, or farm. Sugar-packed cereal and pasta made with white flour were out. P.S. I really like fettuccine Alfredo.

“We’re confused, then,” she said when I finished speaking. “How can this be right?” She held up The Paleo Chocolate Lovers’ Cookbook: 80 Gluten-Free Treats for Breakfast and Dessert. The woman’s forehead and eyes were pinched with concern. “I thought you said sweets were out.”

I smiled, having wondered the same thing. With a little research, I’d made sense of the notion. “None of the recipes include gluten, grain, or dairy. The author, a popular cooking blogger, has created many of the recipes using coconut or ground nuts. With the help of the herbal sweetener stevia, she shows you how to keep the honey and coconut sugar—her preferred sugars—to a minimum.”

“Ooh, I get it.”

“By the way,” I added, “I’ve heard the chocolate pie with raw graham cracker crust is to die for.”

Bailey tore into the shop and skidded on her wedged heels, almost taking down our customers and me. “Sorry.”

“Excuse me,” I said to the ladies. Juggling my pile of books, I scooted Bailey around a stand of bookshelves and whispered, “What’s gotten into you?”

“I did it.”

“Did what?”

Bailey fluffed her fringed hair and batted her baby blues. “As head of the Chocolate Cookbook Club, I declared we are going to celebrate the entire month of February by purchasing a new chocolate-themed cookbook each week.” The book club meets on the first Thursday of every month. “I’ve contacted all thirty members, and everybody is on board. Do the math. Ka-ching!” She mimed opening a cash register then grabbed me by the shoulders, her hands barely able to reach me because of the books I held. I forced myself not to laugh. She was, after all, at a disadvantage being shorter than I was by almost a foot. At five foot eight, I stood taller than most women I knew.

Bailey shimmied me. “C’mon, girlfriend, do a happy dance with me.”

My hair bounced around my shoulders. My tower of books teetered. “Cut it out.”

“Not until you dance.”

I shuffled my feet. “Look, Ma. I’m dancing.”

“You call that dancing?”

“Let me go.”

Bailey giggled but obeyed. “Get this, I talked them into buying Coco’s latest cookbook first. Sweet Sensations: All Things Chocolate, from the Delicious to the Fantabulous.”

Coco Chastain was one of Bailey’s and my good friends. We had known her since high school, although at the time we didn’t hang out. Bailey was in the popular girl group; I floated between the studious and theater group; Coco was part of the art crowd. Now, she was a local chocolatier who owned Sweet Sensations, a delectable candy store. I couldn’t walk by the place without stopping to inhale. Coco, a lusty woman with a curvaceous figure, had been engaged once, but her fiancé left her for a younger, skinnier woman. Boring, as Coco would say. I glanced over my shoulder at my customers. They didn’t seem to mind that Bailey was distracting me.

“Go on,” I said.

“I asked Coco to speak to the group,” Bailey said. “She jumped at the chance. She even offered to invite Alison.”

Alison Foodie, a successful independent publisher in San Francisco who specialized in cookbooks and related nonfiction, was Coco’s publisher. We carried a few of Foodie Publishing’s titles on our shelves. Foodie was Alison’s real surname, Scottish in origin, and not a fictitious name for her business. She originated from Crystal Cove, too. In fact, her family lineage, which was colorful to say the least, dated back to the first settlers. However, up until a couple of years ago, I had never met her. Neither had Coco. Alison was a few years older than we were. Bailey had brought us all together. Bailey and Alison met at a businesswomen’s retreat. When they realized they came from the same town, they became fast friends. Small world.

I said, “Alison will deign to come down from San Francisco?”

“Stop it.” Bailey swatted the air. “You know she’s not a snob.”

Actually, Alison had a wicked sense of humor. She was incredibly smart.

“She doesn’t come back to town often because she’s super busy,” Bailey went on. “She does visit occasionally to check in on her mother.”

“That’s sweet,” I said, though I had to wonder. Alison’s younger brother lived with their mother. Didn’t Alison trust him to tend to her?

“Coco said Alison will give the club the inside scoop on the publishing world. Isn’t that cool?” Bailey clapped her hands.

“Super cool. Maybe she’ll give me an insight to the next best thing in the cookbook world.”

A swish of fur swiped my ankles. I sidestepped and peered at Tigger, my silly kitten. At least I think he was still considered a kitten. He’d wandered into the shop—and into my life—a few months ago. At the time, I’d pegged him at two months old. I had him neutered in November. Ouch, but necessary. As a result, he hadn’t ever sprayed my cottage, and he had retained his kittenish playfulness.

I set the books on a nearby table, scooped him into my arms, and scruffed him under the chin. “What’s up, Tig-Tig?” I’d dubbed him Tigger because, like the Disney character that pounced and trounced, Tigger had done twirls and other fun gyrations that first day to win my heart. “Did silly old Bailey and her loud voice wake you up from your nap?”

Invariably, when we arrived at the shop, Tigger moseyed into his spot beneath the children’s table for a lengthy snooze.

Tigger meowed.

“I am not loud,” Bailey said.

He yowled again, disagreeing with her.

“Are you hungry? Let me check your bowl.” I signaled the three ladies by the paleo section. “I’ll be right back, if you need me.”

Bailey trailed me through the shop to the stockroom. She propped the drape open with a hip and continued her conversation while I refreshed Tigger’s goodies. “I was thinking we should hold tomorrow’s book club meeting in the Nook Café since we’ll have special guests.”

The eatery, an adjunct to The Cookbook Nook and connected by a breezeway, had become a wonderfully profitable side business, thanks to the budding reputation of our inspired chef, Katie Casey, another high school buddy of Bailey’s and mine.

“Katie agreed to close the café,” Bailey went on.

“You already cleared it with her?”

“Yep. She’ll make a tasting from Coco’s latest cookbook,” Bailey went on. “Not just the sweets, but the savory things, too, like the chicken with the luscious chocolate mole sauce.”

“Yum.”

“Or the mixed salad with orange slices dipped in chocolate. And, of course, an assortment of desserts. C’mon. This’ll be fun.” Bailey rapped me on the arm. “Girls’ night out. We’ll help Katie with the cooking.”

“We?” I gulped. “For thirty?”

“With Katie’s supervision.”

Remember, earlier, when I mentioned that Michael Recchiuti’s Chocolate Obsession might be beyond my ability? That is because I’m not a cook. I’m trying to learn. I’ve graduated from making five-ingredient recipes to multiple-ingredient ones. I’ve even tried my hand at cooking entrées as well as desserts. The chocolate cherries on the sales counter? Mine. But creating an entire meal for what could be a possibly hypercritical crowd? My heart started to chug until I channeled Sophie Winston, the event planner from the Domestic Diva Mysteries. She made cooking sound so easy; she always had things prepared way in advance, much of it stored in the freezer. I could do this. I could. Yes, indeed, with a battalion of cooks and Katie’s supervision, a soiree was going to be a snap.

Tigger butted my ankle with his head. He opened his eyes wide, as if offering reassurance.

“Please, pretty please,” Bailey said.

“Okay. We’ll do it.”

“Yeah!”

I fastened a pearl button on my cardigan sweater and moved past Bailey into the shop. More customers had arrived. Many were ogling the aprons. A few were admiring the selection of chocolate-themed fiction. One, a darling older woman, had nestled at the vintage kitchen table to tackle the latest food-themed jigsaw puzzle. We always had one going. Customers loved to piece them together. I think it made them feel like family. I tucked in behind the sales counter.

Bailey joined me. “Do you have a favorite dessert recipe in Coco’s latest?”

“The chocolate-cherry bonbons, which I’ve already made.” I gestured to the batch on the counter. “Try one.”

“Before lunch?”

“Chocolate is good at any time of the day.”

Bailey bit into one. “You made these?”

“Yep.” I polished my fingernails on my sweater.

“Girlfriend, I’m impressed.”

“Thanks.” I opened the cash register drawer and counted ones and fives. “Do me a favor and check again with Katie. Make sure she knew what you were asking.” Sometimes Katie, distracted by the many duties of running a restaurant, would bob her head in answer to any question.

“Will do.” Bailey whooped as she hurried to the café.

At the same time, a shaggy-haired pirate—kid you not, pirate—darted into the shop. He was wearing pantaloons and a red waistcoat. Sword drawn, he crept stealthily behind one of the bookcases at the center of the store.

The customers, including my paleo cookbook hunters, gasped.

Tigger poked his head through the split in the drapes from the stockroom. I waved at him to retreat. He didn’t. He stared bug-eyed at the man.

Seconds after the red pirate hid, a pirate in a blue waistcoat and pantaloons entered, followed by a pair of robust women dressed in ecru blouses topped with lace-up vests and gathered skirts. All of the intruders wore boots; the men wore feathered tricorn hats.

The blue pirate yanked his sword from its scabbard and yelled, “Where are ye, ye whining, yellow-bellied landlubber?”

The red pirate bolted from his hiding spot, sword raised.

The blue pirate lunged. Metal clanged. The red pirate hopped backward onto one of the chairs by the vintage kitchen table. The blue pirate ducked, pivoted, and came up on the other side of his enemy. He thrust the tip of his sword at the red pirate’s throat.

The red pirate dropped his sword and raised his hands.

Chapter 2

“OFF WITH YER head!” the blue pirate said. A tense moment followed. Then the blue pirate laughed and lowered his sword. He offered a hand to the red pirate. “Grab hold, mate.” He helped the red pirate to the floor, and each clapped the other on the shoulder.

“Well done,” the red pirate said.

I stomped toward the pair. “What the heck, you two? What’s going on? You nearly gave me . . . us”—I indicated the crowd—“heart attacks.”

The red pirate grinned. “Lass, have ye forgotten? It’s Pirate Week.”

Forehead smack. I had forgotten what my aunt told me only yesterday—at times I have a short memory span. For the last five years, during the first week of February, the people of Crystal Cove celebrated our pirate heritage. Pirates hadn’t settled the town, but there were plenty of ships that had sailed along the coast of California, and tales were told of thievery and conquest. Heck, the California coast was rich with stories from Zorro to Russian fur-traders to Spanish missionaries. However, in honor of the pirate part of our sketchy heritage, our energetic mayor, always ready to capitalize on a tourism theme, had established Pirate Week, which ran from the first Wednesday in the month to the following Tuesday. Why Wednesday? Because during the winter months, Crystal Cove tourists primarily arrive on Wednesday or Thursday and stay for a week or long weekends.

I recalled asking my aunt why Pirate Week was such a big lure, because pirates were notoriously not nice people. She said the intent of Pirate Week wasn’t for one minute to suggest that real, honest-to-goodness pirates were in any way, shape, or form worth emulating, but the image of swaggering pirateness was fun and exciting and, in her words, harmless. The Pirates of the Caribbean movies were a success because being a pirate looked like a blast.

The blue pirate swaggered toward me. “Milady, truth? Did ye take us seriously?”

“Aye,” I said, kicking in with pirate speak. “I did. The whole lot of us did.”

Some argued that, seeing as International Talk Like a Pirate Day—yes, there is such a day—was celebrated in September, shouldn’t we have Pirate Week in that month? The mayor countered that September in Crystal Cove was already packed with activities. We needed a lure for tourists in February, when the temps were cooler. During Pirate Week, we were encouraged to converse in pirate speak whenever we encountered someone dressed as such. Aunt Vera had not told me that during Pirate Week, participants would show up in costumes and plunder the shop.

The blue pirate grinned and addressed the crowd. “Don’t worry, folks. We were only joshing.”

“However, if ye are interested in seeing more,” one of the robust women said, “come one, come all, to The Pirates of Penzance at The Theater on The Pier.”

For Pirate Week, the mayor had also arranged to have specialty plays, dinner cruises, duels, and more. At the end of the week of events, the mayor would hold a town meeting. She would draw a ticket, and some lucky person would win a pot of gold doubloons. People could pick up their free drawing tickets at any of the shops on the main strip of town or on The Pier.

“The musical,” the blue pirate continued, “is a rollicking comic opera by Gilbert and Sullivan.”

“Good fun with a one-drink minimum,” the red pirate added. “A bargain at any price. And, remember, when we’re not playing, we’re singing.” When a show isn’t in progress, The Theater on The Pier serves as a piano bar.

If you haven’t visited Crystal Cove, it’s a seaside community consisting of three crescent-shaped bays. A range of modest mountains defines the eastern border and traps ocean moisture, blessing our sweet community with a temperate Mediterranean climate. The boulevard that runs parallel to the ocean is rife with shops and restaurants. On the southernmost end of town stands The Pier, which features shops, restaurants, a carousel, some carny games, and a rousing dance hall–style theater. At The Pier, people may also hire boats for sunset or sightseeing cruises and fishing expeditions.

“Farewell, fine maidens.” The blue pirate doffed his hat and made a deep bow. The red pirate copied him. The ladies at the rear of the store giggled.

“Farewell, sweet furry critter,” one of the wenches cried. She wiggled her bright red fingernails in Tigger’s direction. He crept from behind the curtain and ducked behind my ankles.

“And we’re off!” said the red pirate. He and his friend hooked arms with their female companions and headed to the next stop on their get-the-word-out journey.

As Bailey returned and offered a thumbs-up gesture—Katie was on board for tomorrow night—I realized we had to get cracking and put up our Pirate Week display. ASAP. So much to do. Always! Personally, I like being busy. Less time to let my mind dwell on sad memories.

Using poster board—we kept plenty on hand in the stockroom—Bailey and I created a pair of pirate silhouettes. We added cutouts of tricorn hats and eye patches to the silhouettes and set them in the window. In front, we placed a toy galleon that my aunt had purchased expressly for the display—about four feet long and metal, fitted with three masts, a pointed bowsprit, and spanking white sails—and then added a low cutout of blue waves. We dangled a seagull overhead and set out a variety of Caribbean cookbooks, including the tasty Caribbean Potluck written by a pair of sister chefs. And we added the pirate-themed children’s books that my aunt had suggested. When we finished, I posted a banner: Children’s Pirate Day Saturday. For that event, I would have Katie make sugar cookies iced with pirates, skeletons, or skull and crossbones. Perhaps some kind of chocolate-making demonstration with free giveaways of almond- or pistachio-laced chocolate would be a nice treat for the adults.

While Bailey toured the shop looking for a place to hide a rubber goldfish—the first lucky child who found the toy would win a free book—I put together a flyer to distribute to local shops encouraging children to come to the event dressed as pirates. Any child who wore a costume would receive a goodie bag filled with gold foil–wrapped candy. One family would win the grand prize: Dessert for four at the Nook Café.

The rest of the day went off without a hitch. People poured in. Children scoured the shelves, but none found the rubber goldfish. Bailey had hidden it well. Adults were fascinated with the choices of pirate-themed cookbooks. One of the most popular was A Pirate Cookbook: Simple Recipes for Kids, which featured fun recipes like Gangplank Dippers, Chocolate Gunpowder, and Parrot Punch. The author offered darling tips like reminding her readers to wash their hands because pirates were dirty. What parent could resist that?

•   •   •

THURSDAY MORNING ARRIVED as fast as a speeding bullet. Thursday night, even faster.

“It’s time,” Bailey yelled. “Get ready to be chocolatized!”

She nabbed me and led me to the Nook Café kitchen. The aroma was heavenly. My stomach grumbled dramatically.

Bailey slung on an apron and handed me one. “Arrr.” She faced our chef Katie and snarled like a pirate. “What now, oh mighty captain?”

Katie Casey was a jolly soul with bright eyes and an easy laugh. She chortled so hard her toque nearly fell off her curly mop of hair. She righted it and glanced at the pocket watch she always wore pinned to her chef coat. “Jenna, fetch the oranges from the walk-in.”

“Aye, aye, Captain.”

“Not you, too.” Katie frowned, which made her hangdog-shaped eyes turn even more downward, an intentionally comical look. “There’ll be no pirate talk in my kitchen. I run a tight ship.”

“Ho, ho,” Bailey said. “Very funny.”

“Don’t ye mean yo ho?” Katie grinned then twirled a spatula in the air. Chocolate mole sauce ran down the length of the handle and splatted her apron. “Oops!” One of the two sous-chefs Katie had brought in for the event—she had also appointed two of the regular waitresses to help us out—rushed to her aid and offered a wet towel. Katie cleaned up and said, “Keller”—he was her boyfriend—“is totally into this week of pirate events. He’s spending all his time on The Pier vending his ice cream just so he can be close to the action, and he’s forever saying, ‘C’mere, me beauty.’”

“Well, at least he thinks you’re beautiful,” I said.

Katie reddened and tucked a loose hair behind her ear. “Yeah, right. Bailey, what do you think of Jenna’s idea to do chocolate-making demonstrations in the shop?”

Bailey giggled. “You have to ask? You know me and chocolate.” She pressed two fingers together. “We’re tight.”

“As tight as you and Tito?” Katie teased.

Tito Martinez, a local newspaper reporter, was Bailey’s newest boyfriend.

Bailey blushed. “We’re not that tight.”

“Yes, you are.” I nodded. “I’ve seen you two gaze into each other’s eyes.” I hadn’t always been a fan of Tito’s. However, the more I’d gotten to know him over the past few months, the more he had grown on me. As for Bailey, he had won her heart with his sense of humor and his penchant for volunteering for good causes. The fact that he could also, magically, pull a quarter out of her ear at any given moment made her smile. She loved to be surprised.

“We’re not as tight as you and Rhett,” Bailey countered.

Rhett Jackson is my boyfriend, going on a couple of months. We haven’t said I love you or anything like that yet, but whenever I’m with him, the world goes still, in a good way.

“Wipe that silly grin off your face,” Bailey said.

“Why should I?” I would never forget my first glimpse of Rhett. Tousled dark hair, sparkling eyes, and jeans that fit just right. I would also never forget our first kiss. And our first dinner alone at his cabin. He’d farmed out his dog so there would be no intrusions. And our first—

Bailey fanned me with a pot holder. “Wowie! What are you thinking about, girlfriend? Hearts afire! Katie, look at Jenna’s cheeks. They’re red-hot with lust. Get the extinguisher.”

I smirked. “Ha-ha.”

“By the way,” Bailey went on, “have you seen what Rhett has done outside Bait and Switch on The Pier?”

“No, what?”

Bait and Switch Fishing and Sport Supply Store is one of the largest buildings on The Pier. Rhett owns it. Previously he was the chef at The Grotto, a four-star restaurant that used to be located on the second floor of Fisherman’s Village—just upstairs from where The Cookbook Nook and Nook Café are located. The restaurant burned down, but surprisingly no shops below or to the right or left of it were touched. Rumor was that Rhett had started the fire. Rhett swore he didn’t, which turned out to be true. Only recently, our clever chief of police, at my urging, pulled together all the clues and found the previous owner hiding out in New Orleans. As Rhett had asserted all along, the woman had absconded with a horde of priceless art. Not only was she sent to jail, but she had to relinquish the hefty insurance settlement. Mystery solved. Hooray!

Bailey said, “Rhett constructed a rock climbing wall.”

“Why?”

“He’s gung ho about this pirate thing, too.”

Katie grinned. “Keller’s already climbed the wall five times. It seems pirates were adept at climbing up things.”

“Like enemy ships,” I quipped.

Bailey aimed a finger. “We should do it.”

“We?” I said. “As in the three of us?”

Katie grinned. “I wish I could. Too much to do this week.”

“I’ll have to put on tennis shoes,” I said. I preferred flip-flops to just about any other kind of shoe. Not stylish, I know, but comfy. “I’m pretty good at rock climbing.”

“You are?” Katie looked astounded.

“Don’t you remember how I used to go backpacking with my brother?” On a trip to Yosemite, he taught me how to rappel off the top of a mountain. I remember how cautious I was at first. Tiptoeing down the rock wall backward. Worrying that my brother was secretly trying to do me in. Was the belay device threaded right? Would the rope hold my weight? However, within minutes, I was pushing off and whooping with glee. It was a great bonding moment for the two of us.

“Hey, Jenna. Hey, Bailey.” Coco Chastain poked her head into the kitchen. “We’re here. Can I come in?” She didn’t wait for an answer. She hu