Final Sentence (19 page)

“Jamie who?”

“You don’t know him? He’s the British chef that made goose fat popular and promotes the Food Revolution.”

I shook my head. I didn’t have a clue.

“Mr. Gorgeous. Tawny hair, dimples. Looks like your Dav—” Katie flushed rhubarb pink. She shook her wet hands over the sink. “I’m so sorry.”

“You can say my husband’s name. I won’t crumple into a mass of tears.” At least, I hoped I wouldn’t. Honestly, I couldn’t fall into a funk whenever someone mentioned David’s name. I forged a smile. “What can I do to assist with the meal?”

“Everything.”

“Ha-ha. Something easy. Not the chicken thighs. I’m afraid I’ll char them.”

“Which reminds me.” Katie reached into her huge brown tote and removed a copy of
Mastering the Art
of French Cooking
, by Julia Child. “For you.”

“Katie, I can’t accept this.” It wasn’t an expensive book—it was still available for sale, in its umpteenth printing—but the book looked used; it had to have sentimental value.

“Nonsense. I have three more copies. Take it. What always impresses me about Julia Child’s recipes is that they work. They’re simple, clear instructions, for even the most elaborate of dishes. They all taste good. I’ve tucked a few of my own recipes, on three-by-five cards, at the back of the book.” In addition, she pulled out a red spiral notepad with my name artistically crafted on the cover and handed it to me. “And I want you to have this, too. Flip it open.”

I obeyed. On the first page Katie had written a list of television shows, complete with airing times and celebrity chef stars’ names.

“You should watch all of these shows and the reruns,” she said.

“I’ve seen a couple.”
Kelsey’s Essentials
and
Rachael Ray’s
Week in a Day.
Both female chefs were perky and inspiring. Desiree’s
Cooking with Des
show was partway down the list.
Throwdown!
was directly beneath. I pointed. “Rhett and I talked about Bobby Flay.”

“You’ll learn a lot from all of these chefs. Their techniques. Their tips. Take notes. And watch some of the specialty shows, you know,
Cupcake Wars
and
Radical Cake Battle
.”

“I’ve actually seen that show. It had a water theme. Desiree was a judge on it.”

“Therefore, you know what not to do . . . like act too cocky. Hoo-boy, some of the contestants are full of themselves.”

“One of the bakers used a chainsaw. Another wielded an axe.”

“Wicked.”

“Not my cuppa.”

“Mine either.” Katie chortled. “Now, find a cookie sheet in the cupboards. I’m sure your father owns one. You’re going to make baking powder biscuits. Simple. Five ingredients or less.”

I was game. I adored biscuits lathered with butter.

When I finished whipping together the flour, baking powder, milk, and butter and I formed the concoction into reasonable-looking mounds of dough, I followed Katie’s direction and prepared the chicken. I liberally coated the chicken thighs with paprika, olive oil, garlic salt, rosemary, and basil—an activity that I found very therapeutic. Afterward, my father lit the wood briquettes and showed me how to oil the grill. A short while later, I set the chicken to roast. Katie cautioned that chicken needed to cook slowly to stay tender. I kept watch like a hawk and flipped the chicken every five minutes. When it was cooked through, I set the pieces on a carving board and covered them with foil—to make them supertender, as Katie had coached.

In the meantime, Aunt Vera and Bailey prepared the table in the dining room. In keeping with my mother’s décor, they placed blue and green swirled mats on the whitewashed farmhouse table and lit blue tapers.

Our first course—avocado and marinated artichokes on top of mache lettuce with a citrus dressing, created by Katie and assembled by me—was to everyone’s liking. I forked a bite of everything into my mouth and savored the blend of flavors. Perfect, if I did say so myself.

“Katie,” Bailey said, “where do you get your recipes?”

“Some from my mother. Some from my grandmother. Both excelled in the kitchen. I have over a thousand three-by-five cards.”

My mouth dropped open. “A thousand, really?”

“I’ll bet your father appreciates your talent,” Dad said.

Katie frowned. “Not really, Cary. He doesn’t have much of an appetite.”

“Because of your mom’s condition?” I asked.

“No.” Katie tapped the tines of her fork on her plate. “I mean, yes, mom’s illness has hit him hard, but he’s a bit of a stickler. I never quite measure up. I’m bright but I’m homely.”

“Katie Casey.” Aunt Vera reproved my friend with a shake of her finger.

“Oh, don’t bother trying to tell me otherwise, Vera. I’m plain. I don’t mind. But my father?
Perfect is as perfect does
. That’s his favorite saying. He doesn’t care much about talent or a sense of humor. Beauty matters.”

I felt sick to my core. As many hours as we had spent together back in high school, how had I not noticed that Katie had suffered emotional abuse?

Katie downed a bite of her salad and gave me a wink. “Enough about me. Bring me up to snuff. I want the scoop.”

“There’s more scoop?” Bailey leaned back in her chair and folded her hands over her stomach.

“Jenna,” my father warned.

“Hush, Cary.” Aunt Vera twisted in her chair to face me. “Do tell us, Jenna.”

“Uh-uh. My house, my rules,” Dad countered.

Without looking at him, Aunt Vera batted the air. “Stop being such a fuddy-duddy. Jenna, dear, what did you find out?”

Bailey nailed me with a shrewd gaze. “Are you doing what you do best?”

“What does she do best?” Katie said.

“Not cook,” I joshed, trying to dispel the tension in the room as I threw Bailey an
ix-nay
on the
oop-scay
look.

Either Bailey didn’t pick up on my overt gesture or she chose to ignore it. “Jenna was a prodigy at Taylor & Squibb,” she went on. “Not only did she come up with the Whirling Dervish Hot Dogs campaign, which was brilliant in its effortlessness . . .”

A people-sized hot dog break dancing with a rock star on a barbecue grill. Big whoop. And yet the ad had earned me a CLIO Award—an award that honored inventive excellence in advertising and communication.

“She also knew how to get the goods on what other ad companies had in the works,” Bailey continued. “She sized up the competition as if she were a professional sleuth. She knew who was developing this, that, and the other, and she also knew who was sleeping with whom. Most of the time.”

“Jenna, is this true?” Aunt Vera said.

I shrugged a shoulder. “People blabbed on social networking sites. I paid attention.”

“And did I mention,” Bailey said, “that Jenna was our ace problem solver? If someone had a hitch in a campaign, they called her.”

My aunt beamed. “She gets her smarts from our side of the family.”

Dad grunted.

“Hoo-boy.” Katie spanked the table. “So back to the investigation.”

“Please don’t call it that,” my father ordered.

“What should we call it?” Aunt Vera said. “Jenna is tracking down suspects and questioning them. Is Cinnamon Pritchett doing that?”

“I’m sure she is,” I rushed to say, not wanting to enrage my father further. I added, “Dad, don’t worry. I’m being careful.”

He leaned forward on his elbows. “Jenna, I told you earlier that I want you to steer clear of this.”

“And do what? Let the police arrest me? Convict me? Would an FBI agent sit idly by if someone accused him of a crime he didn’t commit?”

“You’re not trained.”

“Train me.”

Dad’s eyes narrowed. “You’re sounding defensive.”

“Like Cinnamon was in her teens?”

“No.” He cut a quick glance at my aunt, who shrugged. “Like your sister, Whitney.”

“Good. You’ve always said that Whitney is the brains in the family.”

“I’ve never said—”

“Yes, you have.”

Dad rolled his lip under his teeth, and I glowered at him, even though I was angry with myself. Why couldn’t I bite my tongue? Why was I inciting him to battle with me the way we had when my mother and David died?

Following a long standoff, Aunt Vera said, “Too-ra-loo, Jenna. You don’t need training. Bailey said you were the problem solver at your former job, and that’s exactly why I made you my partner at The Cookbook Nook.”

My father thwacked the table with his palm. “This is nonsense.”

“Now, you listen to me, little brother,” Aunt Vera started.

“Forget it, Aunt Vera. He’s never going to bend.” I shoveled another bite of avocado and mache into my mouth. Not nearly as tasty as the first bite. Perhaps the bitterness creeping up my esophagus wasn’t such a good addition to the dish. I tucked my chin into my chest, unwilling to make direct eye contact with my father.

After a long tense moment, Dad said, “Jenna, your mother—”

“Leave her out of this.”

“Let me finish.” My father snapped his napkin on the table. “I know I will never compare to your mother. I’ll never understand you the way she did. I’ll never find the right words to say.”

“‘I support what you’re doing,’ would be a good start,” I muttered. “Or ‘I believe you’re innocent.’”

Aunt Vera tittered. So did Bailey and Katie.

“How about, ‘You’re smart and you’ve got a good head on your shoulders’?” Dad said.

I peeked at him from beneath my lashes. His amused expression relieved me.

“You are,” he said. “And you know it and I know it. Truce?”

I reached for his hand. He squeezed mine and didn’t release it. “I do expect you to train me,” I said.

“What do you think I’ve been doing all your life, Tootsie Pop? I worry. That’s all. A father’s prerogative. Now, because your aunt won’t have it any other way, tell us everything.”

Aunt Vera, Bailey, and Katie gawked at me. Waiting.

I licked my lips. “Fine, but let’s serve up dinner first. The chicken’s done, right, Katie?”

With everyone pitching in, minutes later we settled at the table with plates of crispy herbed chicken, fresh green beans dredged in melted butter, and flaky, light biscuits.

Bailey took a bite of the chicken. Her eyes widened. “You made this, Jenna? It’s so moist.”

I worked hard not to pat myself on the back for a job well done. “I had a good teacher.”

Katie beamed.

“Maybe you should author a cookbook, Katie,” Bailey said. “I know a literary agent in San Francisco who might help you. I know lots of people in San Francisco.”

A wistful look passed across my friend’s face. Was Bailey ruing her decision to leave the City? Had she left a loved one behind? I couldn’t remember her ever having a long-term relationship. She was, as she preferred to call herself, the one-night-stand queen. She didn’t know why. Maybe because her very first boyfriend had been a
punk-jerk-loser
—her words. Her father, an eminent legal mind and Lola’s ex, was still in Bailey’s life.

Bailey forced a grin. “Back to the matter at hand. Your investigation. Details, please.”

As I broke into my second biscuit, I said, “I think Sabrina Divine killed her sister. She might be in line to inherit Desiree’s millions.”

Dad said, “You should ask—”

“Cinnamon? I don’t think I’ll get an answer. Our illustrious chief doesn’t appreciate that I’m sticking my nose into things.” I told them about the message that Desiree had left on my answering machine and Cinnamon’s response.

Dad grumbled. Aunt Vera wagged a finger to zip it.

“Sabrina lied about Desiree and David having an affair,” I added.

“She did?” Katie hooted.

“She rescinded the rumor,” I said, “which means she could also be lying about her alibi. Supposedly she spent the night with the masseur Mackenzie.”

Katie said, “Mr. Tan and Muscular? The fellow I saw arguing with Desiree? He’s a tad on the egotistical side, don’t you think?”

“A tad?” I snorted.

“Okay, a ton. You know, he took a part-time job at the Permanent Wave Salon and Spa.”

“He did? Why?”

Dad cleared his throat. “I would imagine Desiree’s assets have been frozen. To make ends meet, the man might need a paycheck.”

Aunt Vera plucked a biscuit from the basket. “Have you asked this Mackenzie whether Sabrina’s alibi holds up?”

I shook my head. “I haven’t had the chance. He emerged from the Winnebago once, when Sabrina exited, scowled at J.P., and retreated.”

“J.P.?” Bailey said. “Who’s he? What’s he look like?”

“Mohawk and tattoos,” I said, resorting to verbal shorthand. “J.P. was not only Desiree’s director but her lover. Jealousy could be his motive for murder, if he felt Desiree was cheating on him. But he also seems torn up about her death. Then there’s Anton d’Stang, Desiree’s first sponsor, a well-known restaurateur.”

“Mother mentioned him,” Bailey said. “She told me you figured out that he was stalking Desiree.”

“Stalking?” Katie, Aunt Vera, and Dad said in unison.

I met everyone’s stare. “The day Desiree arrived, Anton was loitering in disguise outside The Cookbook Nook.”

“Mother said he seemed strapped for money, by the way. Digging in his pockets for change to pay for lunch.”

That fostered a variety of opinions. Aunt Vera believed a man that would dress in costume was capable of all sorts of deceit. Katie said she thought Anton might have hounded Desiree for a loan. Bailey suggested he was seeking vengeance.

“But”—I held up my hand—“Anton claims he was with Gigi Goode the night Desiree was murdered, and when Gigi cut my hair, she didn’t deny it.”

“You asked her outright?” my father said.

“I tried. She skirted the conversation and ended our appointment.”

“Guilty guilty guilty,” Bailey chimed.

“On the other hand,” Katie said, “I think the boyfriend-slash-director with the Mohawk might be the killer.”

“J.P.” Bailey beamed as if she had just keyed in the winning answer on a game show.

“Right.” Katie eyed me. “Didn’t he tell you that Desiree received a phone call the night she died, and he went to sleep?” She slapped her thigh. “Hoo-boy, that’s about as nebulous an alibi as saying he was watching TV. Did anyone at the hotel see him? Can anyone corroborate his whereabouts?”