Grilling the Subject by Daryl Wood Gerber Page B

me?”
    â€œAs far as I know, they only have Ronald’s word that you were in the area. He saw you running away in your red plaid jacket.” The one my mother had given him on their twentieth anniversary. She had laughed and said it was so brash that it would scare off any old bear in the woods.
    Dad snorted. “Ha! That lets me off the hook. I don’t own that jacket anymore.”
    â€œYou don’t?”
    â€œLola hated it so much, she made me donate it to Goodwill.”
    â€œDad, that’s great. That’s wonderful. I’m going to tell Cinnamon now.”
    â€œDon’t. I’ll be there soon. I’ll tell her myself.”

Chapter 6

    A half hour later, my father pulled up in his Jeep. In my presence, he and Cinnamon discussed his whereabouts and Ronald’s account. My father reiterated what he’d told me about the plaid jacket. Cinnamon asked whether he had a Goodwill donation receipt. He was pretty sure Lola would; she didn’t throw any paper away.
Once an attorney, always an attorney
, he joked. Cinnamon released him on his own recognizance to fetch said receipt. Then she dismissed me.
    Needless to say, I was ticked. How could she not accept Dad’s word? She wanted proof? The nerve. I did not obey the speed limit as I drove home. Okay, I did, but I didn’t want to. I flew into the cottage and slammed the door. Poor Tigger squealed. I apologized profusely and scooped him into my arms. Once I felt his purr against my chest, my pique lessened, and I regained my composure, and I forgave Cinnamon. She was only doing her job and doing it well, like always.
    I showered to rid my body of the stink of the fire, and thenI dealt with choosing an outfit. I wanted to dress in clothing that would raise my spirits. Pink or purple? Per Aunt Vera, purple-aura people are highly psychic. I could use some of that about now. On the other hand, people who have a predominant amount of purple in their aura are seen as mysterious and secretive. A pink-aura person, however, is a natural healer and sensitive to the needs of others. That kind of person hates injustice and strives to make the world a better place. I chose a hot-pink blouse, white capris, and floral sandals and appraised myself in the mirror. Not bad for a woman whose father might be going to prison.
    I fed Tigger and ate a bite myself—toast with honey and tea; not much else sounded good. At 8:30 A.M. , when I was convinced that all would be right with the world, I exited the cottage, and wouldn’t you know, a seagull screeched and nearly knocked me for a loop. In a snap, worry snaked its way back into my psyche. What if Lola didn’t have the receipt? What if Dad was slapped in prison for a crime he didn’t commit? What would it take to prove him innocent? Dang!
    By the time I arrived at The Cookbook Nook, I was worked up again. It didn’t help that word about the blaze and Sylvia Gump’s death had spread. Customers waiting for the shop to open lowered their voices to a whisper when I drew near, but I could hear what they were saying: my father might be guilty of murder.
    I pressed through the group to unlock the door and caught a glimpse of the old-fashioned jail décor rimming the doorway. Shoot! So much for whimsy. Down it would have to come.
    â€œWe’ll be open in a few minutes,” I muttered and entered. As I shut the door, I locked eyes with my aunt Vera, who was sitting at the vintage kitchen table where we always had a culinary jigsaw puzzle going.
    She bolted to her feet but couldn’t rush to me because her heel caught in the hem of her rose-pink caftan. “Drat!” she muttered.
    I moved to help her.
    After we freed the heel, she gazed at me. Fear flickered in her eyes. “Is it true? Is your father a suspect?”
    â€œOh, Jenna, you’re here!” Bailey abandoned her project of setting out wagon train–style glazed cookie jars and rushed to the two