Final Sentence (33 page)

I thought of Katie and the treasure trove she had found hidden in Gigi Goode’s hairstyling kit: her grandfather’s watch, a
fancy-schmancy
pill case, and more. Gigi had denied taking anything of Desiree’s. She was a liar.

“Then Desiree saw Anton,” Sabrina continued. “Talk about a blast from the past. She went off with him to a booth.” She hooked a finger over her shoulder, as if the booth were right behind her. “They acted real cozy. That’s when I saw J.P. stalking her. He sidled up to me at the bar, all angry and bitter. I told him to grow up. Desiree loved him, not Anton, but he didn’t believe me. He settled onto a stool and started calling her on his cell phone. Over and over. A while later, Mackenzie joined me. He said he’d hoped to find Gigi there, but he didn’t. ‘Any port in the storm,’ I joshed. When the drink hit me and I started to feel sleepy, Mac offered to drive me back to the trailer. I said, ‘Sure.’ One thing led to another. I ended up in his trailer, not mine.” She shook her head. “I’m not sure what we did. He must have been good, right? I mean, he’s a hunk. And . . . And . . .” She raised her hand to her mouth and bit into her forefinger as if she wanted to keep herself from screaming. “The next day, when J.P. told me what had happened—”

“He accosted you in the parking lot. He tried to take something from your purse. Did he think you had the sleeping pills? Was he accusing you of drugging Desiree so you could lure her to the beach?”

“What? No.” She choked out a laugh. “J.P. What a joke. I’ve got the goods on him.”

“What do you mean?”

“From the get-go, I didn’t trust him. He breezed into my sister’s life a few months ago claiming to be this
fabuloso
director. I knew a phony when I met one, but I didn’t do anything about it until he started to weasel his way into Des’s life. A work friend was one thing. A brother-in-law would be another.”

“Brother-in-law?”

“Yeah, they recently got engaged. Desiree told me the day we arrived in Crystal Cove. No engagement ring. J.P. can be cheap.” Sabrina brandished her hand. “I was worried that she’d go through with it, so I hired a detective via the Internet, and guess what I found out the morning Desiree was killed? J.P., big surprise, is not who he claims to be.”

“He’s not?”

“He’s one of those identity thief guys. Well, not the way you understand it. He doesn’t steal credit cards and charge up a storm, but he’s not from Florida.”

“Where’s he from?”

“California. See, he worked up a bogus résumé and said he directed all these defunct shows in Florida that some deceased guy named John Paul Hessman did, and he cobbled together a reel. It’s easy to do nowadays with all the film footage on the Web. My boyfriend did it. His actor’s demo reel looks totally legit, but it’s pieced together with bits he did at regional theater.”

“Stay on target . . . J.P.”

“I have proof.” Sabrina rummaged in her purse and withdrew a photograph. “You were right the other day. J.P. tried to get his hands on this. I texted him that I had it. I wasn’t ready to show you because . . . Because I thought I might need something to—”

“Blackmail him with?”

“Look at this dude.” In the snapshot, J.P., teenaged, tanned and half-naked, clad in low-slung denim shorts and flip-flops, posed with a fiery-themed surfboard. “His real name is Jake. He participated in a local surfing competition. To become J.P., he changed his hair and added the tiger and vine tattoos. The whole ball of wax. Downright creepy, if you ask me.”

“He surfs?”

“What California boy doesn’t?”

Was he the surfer that was floating on the ocean when I found Desiree’s body? Was he the surfer that had ogled me the other morning?

I said, “Did you tell Desiree you were investigating J.P.?”

Sabrina shook her head.

“Did you dun him for money? Is that how you have extra cash for all your shopping sprees?”

“How dare you. I earn a salary. I told J.P. I had proof, hoping he would bolt. Get out of our lives. Leave Desiree alone. I was a day late.”

My core vibrated with tension. What if Desiree had found out about
J.P.’s ruse on her own? What if she had threatened to expose him? What if J.P. had stopped her before she could?

Chapter 25

T
HOUGHTS WHIZZED THROUGH
my mind as I entered The Cookbook Nook. If I called Cinnamon, would she take me seriously? Would she arrest J.P.? On what charge, impersonation?

Katie beckoned Rhett to the portable cooking station. “And now,” she said in midspeech, while raising her arms overhead, “I’m thrilled to announce that next week, we’ll have our first guest chef. The one, the incomparable, Rhett Jackson.”

All of the guests applauded, except Tito, who stood off by himself snapping quick photographs of pages in a cookbook. Telling by the size of the book and its location, Tito had snagged a copy of
Fiesta at Rick’s
:
Fabulous Food for Great Times with Friends.
I couldn’t see the feisty reporter having enough friends for a classic Mexican mole fiesta for twenty-four. Was he trying to scale down the enchilada Suizas recipe, a creamy yet spicy chicken combination, so he could palm it off as his own? I’d have to keep my eye on him, the sneak.

Trying not to draw attention to myself, I tiptoed behind the audience.

“Psst.” Bailey signaled me from her spot by the stockroom door. I scurried to her. “Take these.” She offered me her plate of appetizers. “I can’t finish the quesadillas, but they’re delicious. The chorizo makes them zing.”

“Not now.” I skirted around her, hurried into the stockroom to my purse, and fished out my cell phone.

Bailey pivoted and propped her back against the archway. “You found out something. Spill.”

I dialed the precinct and asked for Cinnamon. The clerk informed me she was indisposed.

“Why are you calling her?” Bailey demanded.

I retrieved the business card Cinnamon had given me, stabbed in her mobile number, and reached a recording. Frustrated but not defeated, in a last-ditch effort, I sent her a text message:
Must talk. Urgent.

My aunt entered the stockroom. “Jenna, is everything all right?”

My father arrived on her heels. “What’s gotten into you?”

“She just faced off with Sabrina Divine in the parking lot,” Bailey said. “Is she the killer?”

“No.” I told them about J.P. being an impostor. “That gives him motive. His career would be over if Desiree revealed his secret.”

Aunt Vera clucked. “Would that really matter in Hollywood?”

“A lie is a lie.”

“But Sabrina found out about him, not Desiree,” Bailey argued.

“Call Cinnamon,” my father ordered.

“I already did. I left her a message and texted her.”

“Good girl.”

“But she’s not responding.”

Aunt Vera said, “I know where to find her. Come with me.”

“Vera,” my father cautioned.

“Cary, it’s our civic duty.”

My father protested that telephone and text messages were enough, but my aunt prodded me out of the stockroom.

“Don’t worry about anything here,” Bailey said. “I’ll close up.”

“I’m driving.” I hurried ahead of my aunt across the parking lot. She was a notoriously bad driver. She tended to drift into a meditative state when she got behind the wheel. “Where are we going?”

“The aquarium.”

“Isn’t that where the Coastal Concern is having its meeting?”

“Cinnamon is a strong advocate.”

As I climbed into my VW bug, I spied Sabrina standing at the top of the stairs facing Mackenzie’s trailer door. The door opened. Mackenzie, still wearing his white spa uniform, grinned. Sabrina palmed his chest and pushed past him.

“What’s wrong, dear?” Aunt Vera said as she buckled her seat belt. “Why aren’t you starting the car?”

“Did you see that?” I ground the key in the ignition. The car spluttered to life.

“See what?”

“Sabrina and Mackenzie,” I said, my curiosity revving like the VW’s engine. “Seconds ago, she told me how excited she was to be reuniting with her boyfriend in L.A., but she just plowed into the trailer with Mackenzie.”

“Perhaps she wants to share the good news.”

I drummed the steering wheel. “Am I being stupid? Did Sabrina lie about J.P. to mess with my head? The other day, I wondered whether she and Mackenzie had joined forces.”

“Why would they?”

“Sabrina claimed her sister donated her estate to a homeless women’s charity. What if that was a lie, too?”

• • •

THE CRYSTAL COVE
Coastal Concern, or the Four C’s as the locals dubbed it, met regularly in the Aquarium by the Sea, a beautiful building with floor-to-ceiling windows and a wave-shaped roof. An artist had carved images of seahorses, manta rays, sharks, and more into the stone sections of the edifice. A moat of steadily flowing water and exotic gardens surrounded the site. The widow who had donated the money for the aquarium took great pride in offering exhibits that expanded the mind. Above the front entrance, she had posted her favorite quote by Plutarch: “The mind is not a vessel to be filled
but a fire to be kindled.”

Even at dusk, the aquarium teemed with visitors. My aunt clutched my elbow and guided me past the crowd to the cream-and-aqua-colored auditorium at the rear of the building. At least fifty people occupied the theater’s loge seats. On the raised stage, a man I dubbed Nature Guy—tanned, lean, and brimming with passion for the cause—pounded a gavel on the podium. On the giant-sized movie screen behind him blazed the logo for the Four C’s, a quadruplet of dolphins arcing through gold hoops. If I had been in charge of the ad campaign, I would have added a series of waves below the hoops. Icons of water invariably inspired people.

I spotted Cinnamon Pritchett sitting by herself and started for her, but my aunt tugged my elbow and forced me to settle onto a chair.

“Cinnamon will not take kindly to you foisting your opinion on her before the meeting,” my aunt whispered. “Be patient. No one’s going anywhere. Besides, it’ll do your soul good to know what is going on around our community.”

Our
community. The words brought a smile to my lips. Until now, I hadn’t fully appreciated the fact that I was, indeed, a Crystal Cove resident. If only I could put the horror of Desiree’s death behind me.

Nature Guy started the meeting by saying, “The job of environmental stewardship of the coast is never done.”

For a half hour, he presented slides showing the positive changes to our coastline—the cleanup of the beaches made possible through grants and the growth in some species of fish, thanks to policies that fined polluters. When Nature Guy concluded and opened the floor to questions, I was surprised to find myself applauding louder than most. I couldn’t believe how stirred I was to become part of the solution to preserve the area. A few heated discussions followed, most dealing with a proposed housing development that might erode shores south of Crystal Cove. Nothing was resolved, but Nature Guy promised, with fervor, that the committee would be looking into everything.

“And now,” he said, flashing his pearly whites, “beverages and all-natural cookies will be served on the courtyard abutting the auditorium. Meeting adjourned.”

I hurried from the room, dashed across the patio, past the glorious fountain with streams of water shooting straight into the air, and caught up to Cinnamon by a buffet stocked with sweets, coffee, tea, and water. Not wanting to act as if I were hounding her, I seized a nubby cookie and bit into it. Heavy with honey and quite chewy. A recipe card was available for a dollar donation. I paid the buck and stowed the card in my purse. Between bites, I said, “Fancy meeting you here, Chief Pritchett.”

She offered a wry smile. “Well, well.”

“Say, did you get my text message?” I sounded casual and breezy. If I were in a commercial, a wisp of wind would blow through my hair and prisms of light would gleam in my eyes.

“Sorry, can’t say I did.” Cinnamon retrieved her cell phone from her pocket and glanced at the readout. My message fell at the bottom of a long list of texts. “
Must talk.
Urgent
,” she recited. “That’s certainly cryptic. Does this have anything to do with your interrogating the bartender at the Chill Zone?”

I felt my face flush.

The corners of her mouth curved up. “On one of our previous telephone calls and again at Taste of Heaven, you neglected to mention your
tête-à-tête
with the enchanting Cleopatra.”

I scoffed. “That can’t be her real name.”

“No, it’s Brandy, but she looks like—”

“Cleopatra,” we said together.

A pregnant pause occurred. I tried to assess the impact of my transgression. Cinnamon didn’t seem mad. Heck, I had told her everything I had learned to date, hadn’t I? Perhaps with our in-sync Cleopatra moment, we had connected on a sisters-of-the-world level.