Fudging the Books by Daryl Wood Gerber Page B

time of year to catch sight of black oystercatchers.”
    “Never heard of them.”
    “They are by far one of the narrowest ranges of birds in the world, breeding only from Alaska to Baja California, and only in winter.” Simon’s face grew animated. “They stay remarkably close to the shoreline, not venturing out farther than a few hundred meters. They’re often joined by black turnstones and surfbirds.”
    I would never understand bird-watching. I could sit still for a few minutes occasionally, but spending hours observing birds as they flitted from limb to limb or traipsed across the fields or stretches of sand? Nope. Not for me. I needed my downtime to be more active, or I wanted my nose to be buried in a book.
    Simon added, “I also had the pleasure of admiring the pirate ship in the harbor. Have you seen it?” He was referring to a multiple-sailed vessel that was offering sunset cruises.
    “I have.”
    “What a beauty. Wow, I love this town. There are so many things to do.”
    I adored Crystal Cove, too, except when a crime occurred.
    “I’d better get a move on.” Holding the binoculars steady so they wouldn’t whack his chest, Simon jogged upstairs.
    I returned to the shop and dealt with a handful ofcustomers, many asking about cookbooks that included a pirate theme. I steered them toward a rare find called
Pirate’s Pantry: Treasured Recipes of Southwest Louisiana
by the Junior League of Lake Charles. Compiled in the second half of the last century, it was a one-stop cookbook, with recipes developed from every part of the melting pot of cultures that made Louisiana distinctive. Simplistic in style, it included crude drawings of swords, treasure maps, and more. It offered a ton of gumbo recipes. I adored gumbo.
    Mid-morning, as a pair of customers exited the shop, Bailey stormed in. She looked decent. Her makeup was fresh and hair combed. But emotions were churning inside her. Her eyes were pinpoints of angst. Her gaze flicked right and left. A hint of perspiration coated her upper lip. The customers peeked worriedly at me; I waved for them to move on. I could handle my usually bubbly assistant.
    “How did it go with Coco?” I asked.
    “She’s been released on her own recognizance, but Chief Pritchett . . .” Bailey plucked at the cuticles on her left hand then screwed up her mouth. “I think she’s got a bug up her you know what for some reason.”
    “Why do you say that?”
    “She’s riding Coco hard.” Bailey mimed cracking the whip. “She asked Coco the same questions over and over, putting a twist on each one, as if to catch Coco in a lie. And yet—”
    I gripped her hand to calm her.
    Bailey pulled free and began to pace. “I get the distinct feeling Cinnamon didn’t care for Alison Foodie.”
    “Why would you say that?”
    “It’s the way Cinnamon says Alison’s name. It comes out as a hiss, and”—Bailey paced between the stockroom and the counter—“it’s as if she’s rushing things.”
    Tigger, who had been hiding from the moment Bailey marched into the shop, zipped into view and meowed his concern.
    I whispered, “It’s okay, Tig-Tig,” and then said, “Go on, Bailey.”
    “It’s as if Cinnamon wants to throw someone—anyone,namely Coco—in jail, pronto, so she can wrap this sucker up and put the case as far behind her as possible.” Bailey stopped pacing and whirled around on the heels of her wedged sandals. “Do you think Alison and Cinnamon knew each other?”
    “They did.” I recalled Cinnamon answering
yes
when I’d asked the question at the crime scene. One word. Clipped off. No elaboration. “Maybe they went to school together. They were about the same age.” What was their history? Was Bailey right to be concerned about a bias on Cinnamon’s part?
    Bailey beat a fist into her palm. “If only I hadn’t put Alison and Coco together. If only I hadn’t asked them to come to town for the book club event.”
    “This is not your fault.” I