Free Fudging the Books by Daryl Wood Gerber Page A

ours
to grow or blow
—his words. Whenever he couldn’t concoct one of his own adages, he could quote a ton of philosophers verbatim to support his theories.
    Dad set his tool kit on the sales counter and leaned forward on his elbows. “Tell me about Alison. What happened?”
    I gaped. My father rarely liked to bat around ideas when it came to murder. He felt that our police force was one of the best small-sized forces in the state. He had mentored Cinnamon Pritchett in her teens, so he took personal pride in her being a stalwart and perceptive leader.
    “You didn’t hear at the coffee shop?” I asked.
    “Only the fact that she was murdered and the police are investigating. Give me the details.”
    I told him about the crime scene, the unlocked door, the fact that Alison hadn’t swiveled to see the intruder.
    Dad hummed as he pondered something. “Seems like a vengeful thing to do, stabbing. Could it be symbolic? Did Alison stab someone in the back business-wise?”
    “Tit for tat.” Aunt Vera bobbed her head. “That would make sense. Do you know, Jenna?”
    “Maybe an author was angry at her,” my father suggested. “Seems like everyone has a book in them nowadays. Even I do.”
    “You do?” I said.
    “Yeah.” My father buffed the edge of the counter with his hand.
    “It’s with a small press,” Aunt Vera inserted.
    “Small presses put out some of our best cookbooks,” I countered. “Dad, is it about your life in the FBI?” His work had involved ultra-clandestine stuff. My siblings and I never got the full story about what he did. Would we now find out the truth?
    “Heck, no. I can’t go blabbing state secrets.”
    Rats.
    “I’ve written about the beauty of tying a fishing lure and how that relates to life in general.”
    Aunt Vera rolled her eyes.
    I stifled a laugh. “Are you kidding me?”
    “I know.” My father held up a hand. “It’s not your kind of book.”
    How well he knew me. I no longer read literary novels. Now I devour mysteries and thrillers. In my preteen years, I discovered Agatha Christie:
Appointment with Death
,
Murder on the Orient Express
,
Ten Little Indians
. I swear, after reading all of her books, I imagined myself as an amateur sleuth. In addition, I am also a cookbook fiend. But nonfiction? About fishing lures?
Bleh
.
    Dad rubbed the tube of paper on the edge of his chin. “I thought I would have heard from the editor by now, but my critique group—”
    “You have a critique group?”
    “Online,” Aunt Vera offered.
    My father shot her a scathing look. “Nothing wrong with online, Vera. My group and I chat every day.”
    Knock me over with a feather. I needed to spend more time with my father and get to know him—
really
know him. After my mother died, he and I had a falling out, which occurred because my husband died a couple of weeks before, and I was pretty much a loony tune. I couldn’t converse. I hid under the covers. I was not a supportive daughter. Three months of intense therapy guided me back to semi-normal. Moving home to Crystal Cove helped with the rest.
    “I trade chapters with my group,” my father went on. “A few have advised me that it takes time to hear back from an editor. Sometimes a year or more. Which makes me wonder . . .” He drummed the counter with his fingertips. “What if Alison held on to someone’s work for a lengthy time, only to finally pass on it, which upset the author?”
    “That certainly broadens the suspect pool,” Aunt Vera said.
    “Or maybe an author didn’t like the way she was editing his or her work,” my father proposed. “Alison edited the manuscripts, correct?”
    “That is the main reason Coco is a suspect,” I said. “Alison was stabbed in Coco’s house with Coco’s scissors. A number of Coco’s recipes were open on Alison’s computer.”
    “A killer could have brought up the files to frame her.” My father jabbed the tube of paper toward me to make his point. “I’d tell Cinnamon