Fudging the Books by Daryl Wood Gerber Page A

morning. With the police. My friend Bailey—”
    “Who works at your store?”
    “Yes.”
    “She was at Vines last night.”
    “Right.” I nodded. “With me. Anyway, Coco Chastain called her. Coco found Alison. She called Bailey, and then Bailey called me. Coco—” I heaved a sigh. “Coco said she never locks the doors. The killer walked right in, easy as pie. Coco also called your mother.”
    “Yeah, I know. Mom is the one who told me.” Neil shifted feet. “It sucks.”
    I gawped at him. That was it? The full extent of his compassion was
it
sucks
? I tamped down my own thoughts of murder.
    Neil hitched his thumb toward upstairs. “I gotta go.”
    “To work?”
    “Yeah.”
    I continued to stare, my heart beating in my chest, my hands balled into fists. It took all my reserve not to wallop him. “I’m sorry, but didn’t you call Mr. Butler and tell him that your sister was—”
    “Yeah,” Neil said. “I did.”
    “And he told you to come to work?” That didn’t seem like the Simon I knew, with an easy grin and easier manner.
    “Not
him
, exactly.”
    “Who then?”
    “His wife.”
    “Isn’t she a personal trainer?”
    “Yeah.” Neil scruffed the back of his neck. “But I guess she’s also half owner of Vines.”
    That was news to me.
    “And time off? Today? This week?” Neil kicked the stair. “Nah. It’s not happening. Pirate Week is drawing big-time crowds. We’re short on staff.”
    I recalled Simon telling us last night that he was short a waiter, but that didn’t warrant him or his wife being so callous. Maybe in the slower economy, the wine bistro simply couldn’t afford to cut back. The notion caught me off guard. If something were to happen to Bailey or my aunt, I wasn’t sure what I would do at The Cookbook Nook. I couldn’t run the shop alone. Note to self:
Hire another assistant as backup
.
    “The boss did say she’d let me off for the funeral.” Neil twirled a finger and glanced upward. “Whoop-dee-doo.”
    “How’s your mother holding up?”
    “A mess. Crying in fits and starts and sleeping, which is nothing new . . . the sleeping.” He peeked at his watch. “Look, I really have to run.”
    I reached for him. “Neil, wait, one question.”
    “Can’t. Wine tasting waits for no man.” He wrested from my grasp and trotted upstairs.
    Anger swelled within me a second time. Was he colder than a crypt or simply operating on autopilot? For someone who should be grieving, he was certainly being a diligent employee. And a little glib. I tried to cut him some slack. Men could be so different from women.
    Pivoting to return to the shop, I caught sight of Simon Butler exiting his BMW at the far end of the lot. He loped toward me. His hair was windblown, his cheeks sunburned. A pair of binoculars bounced on his chest.
    I met him beneath the overhang. “Did you hear what happened to Alison Foodie?”
    Simon nodded dolefully. His face contorted into a grimace. “What a tragedy.” He nudged his round-shaped glasses upward on his nose. “Neil called my wife, who called me. I heard Alison was stabbed. What a shame. You were close, right?”
    “Not close, but we were friendly.”
    “Either way, I’m sorry for your loss. What a curveball that’s going to throw into her business.”
    I didn’t blame him for thinking of that; his and many other authors’ dreams of being published would be put on hold. I said, “Her brother Neil just ran upstairs to start work. He seemed quite brittle. I hope you’ll give him some time off to grieve.”
    Simon frowned. “Neil said he didn’t need time. I can’t fault him. As I hinted last night, Alison and he weren’t close. Besides, don’t let Neil with his jovial demeanor snow you. He’s a tough cookie.”
    Harsher words than those were cycling through my mind. Neil was heartless and obtuse and . . .
    I pointed at the binoculars. “Have you been whale watching?”
    “Actually, bird-watching. I go to the beach at this