Inherit the Word (The Cookbook Nook Series) by Daryl Wood Gerber Read Free Book Online Page A

prominent ears and mooselike jaw. “Get statements.”
    As the Moose ordered everyone to line up, Cinnamon marched out the door and headed north on Buena Vista Boulevard, the main drag.
    Bailey gripped my upper arm. “We have to follow them. We have to save my mother.”
    “You heard what Cinnamon said. Don’t worry. Your mother will do fine on her own.” She would. I was certain. Lola Bird was one of the spunkiest women I knew. She was well read. She used words on a regular basis that most people didn’t know existed. If she could defend the neediest of the needy without any assistance, she could defend herself. On the other hand, Lola was like a mother to me. Because Bailey and I had spent so much time together as girls, I had called Lola
Mom
as a teen. She had helped me define my career path.
    “Please,” Bailey said. “I’m begging you. I would do the same for your mother.”
    When my mother died, Lola had let me cry in her arms for a long time. I owed her. Big time.
    • • •
    BAILEY AND I rushed into The Pelican Brief Diner. The place was bustling with customers. The luscious scent of fried foods filled the air. Soothing guitar music filtered through speakers. We were anything but calm.
    The hostess, a perky California-born Latina who was dressed like a sailor, picked up on Bailey’s concern. “Your mom’s in the kitchen.”
    Without missing a beat, Bailey hurried across the sawdust-laden wood floor, past clusters of wooden tables. I followed. Bailey rounded a corner toward the kitchen and caught a wrist bangle in one of the nets filled with fake fish that adorned the walls. As I disentangled her, a foghorn bleated.
    Bailey said, “Did you hear that?”
    How could I not? A sense of foreboding shivered down my spine.
No, no, no
, I thought.
This cannot happen. Lola is innocent.
    I edged ahead of Bailey and entered the kitchen first. Lola stood at a stainless steel prep table dicing tomatoes with a vengeance. A plate filled with the makings of a seafood salad sat before her. Cinnamon Pritchett stood a few feet from Lola, one hand on her revolver. The toe of her hiking boot drilled the floor. Swell.
    Despite the standoff, a female chef and numerous sous-chefs scurried around the kitchen while filling orders. The clatter of voices and dishes was deafening. Many of the staff glanced sideways at Lola.
    A waitress with her hair cinched in a hairnet whisked by and said, “What’s going on?” Lola cut her a scathing look. “None of my business,” the waitress chimed. “Got it.” She continued on her mission of fetching a pair of breadbaskets.
    Bailey and I sidled between Cinnamon and Lola. “She didn’t do it,” we said as if we had rehearsed.
    Perspiration coated Lola’s face. With her ruby lips pressed together, she seemed to be as focused as an Iron Chef in the final moments of competition.
    “Give me the facts, Mrs. Bird,” Cinnamon said.
    “Lola,” Bailey interjected. “Call my mother Lola. No one calls her Mrs. Bird.” Bailey hated her last name. She wished her mother had switched back to her maiden name after her divorce. Bailey would have latched onto the surname Hastings in a flash. Her father, a decent guy who practiced law in San Francisco, would have been upset, but he would have allowed it.
    “I’m waiting, Lola,” Cinnamon said, granting the informality.
    Lola blew out a quick burst of air, then reiterated what she had told Pepper back at the shop. She had gone to the restroom. The door stuck. Yada yada.
    Right as she finished her account, in strode my father, a Cary Grant look-alike, who was, as luck would have it, named Cary. He didn’t have the actor’s charming swagger; he was a former FBI analyst and moved like a military man. He greeted Cinnamon, who nodded respectfully back. The two of them had a unique relationship. A month ago, I was surprised to learn that my father was Cinnamon’s mentor. Her father had bailed on her at birth. In her teens, when she was going off