Final Sentence (8 page)

I pinched my thigh to end the pity party and yanked myself back to the present. To the gossip. To the lingering fingerprint ink on my fingertips. To the horror of finding my friend dead. Who did it? The killer had to be someone in her entourage. Who else in our touristy town would have a motive, unless a rabid Desiree Divine fan had come to Crystal Cove? But other than the creepy guy with the tackle box in the parking lot, I hadn’t seen anyone malicious looking hanging around The Cookbook Nook awaiting Desiree’s arrival. That wasn’t to say that I had the best powers of observation. When I was a child, Dad, in his role of FBI analyst, challenged my siblings and me to note the particulars of a street scene: the number of people, the ratio of men to women, the primary color the people wore. My sister did the best. She also aced college, read five nonfiction books a week without fail, and had a home crafting business. Her wares were selling like hotcakes over the Internet. I came in second in what we called the lookie-loo contest only because my hippie-dippie brother could care less. He preferred to gaze at trees or buildings and to listen to ambient sounds.

I shifted in my hardback chair and urged myself to think. Did Desiree’s overworked sister hate her so much she would have killed her? Was Desiree’s edgy, tattooed boyfriend the jealous type? Did the local hairstylist that Desiree had hired hold a grudge against her temporary boss? Why would she?

“Miss Hart.” Cinnamon beckoned me to her office. I wondered for a split second why she had called me Jenna at the crime scene and had allowed me to call her by her first name
,
but I put aside the notion. My bosses at Taylor & Squibb had preferred first names. Familiarity was a national trend. Befriend a person. Put her at ease . . . and possibly off her guard. Formality set the tone for the future.

Pepper tried to enter the office right behind me, but Cinnamon banished her. When she closed the office door, she grilled me. How did I know Desiree? When was the last time I talked to her? Did I suspect any personal trouble? Did I know about the affair with my husband? All standard questions I had heard on television and in movies.

I replied with pat answers and folded my arms, an act of defiance that I convinced myself was an act of strength. I asked if Old Jake had seen anything suspicious; he hadn’t. I mentioned the trowel. At Taylor & Squibb, we always dealt with the snags in a campaign first. Cinnamon shared that the trowel had been wiped clean of prints. I argued that the killer must have snatched the trowel from The Cookbook Nook—
snatched
being the operative word—to frame me. Anyone in town could have stolen it. I asked if I needed an attorney. She assured me that I didn’t . . . yet.

An hour later, following a discussion about Desiree’s rise to fame, her family, and circle of friends, a clerk arrived to tell Cinnamon she had a phone call. The clerk also brought me a glass of water. I was so grateful for the liquid and respite. My throat felt raw, my emotions as gritty as sand.

Cinnamon returned, her mouth grim, her eyes pinpoints of intensity, and I speculated about whether she was as dogged off the job as she was on the job. According to my aunt, she could roller skate and sing like an angel. Had she appeared in any of the local theater productions? The town boasted a modest theater company that put on plays every few months. The well-known actress who had starred in my last ad campaign, the Fountain of Youth Skin Cream series, had traveled to Crystal Cove for a juicy part.

“Miss Hart, are you listening to me?” Cinnamon said with a bite.

I stiffened. She had spoken? Shoot.

“Can you think of anything else, Miss Hart? Anything at all.”

“Um, no. Did you have a distressful phone call?”

“That was your father on the phone.” She hitched a thumb. “Until we have more evidential proof, he suggested that I release you on your own recognizance. I’ve agreed. You are free to go.”

Let’s hear it for Dad. Whatever differences we might have had, he would always act as my advocate.

“Thank you, ma’am.” I felt silly calling someone a few years older than me
ma’am
, but
miss
wasn’t respectful, although I didn’t see a wedding ring, and she certainly wasn’t a
sir
, and I didn’t think it was appropriate to call her
Cinnamon
seeing as she was calling me
Miss Hart
. I guess I could have said:
Chief.
I plucked at the wadded-up tissue that sat in my lap. Yeah, okay, the waterworks had started about midway during the questioning. How puffy did my eyes look? If only I had a jar of Fountain of Youth cream to refresh my skin.

“However, do not leave town,” Cinnamon added.

“Why would I? I just relocated here.” I pressed my lips together, realizing how stupid I sounded. Open mouth, insert both feet. I rose from my chair. “No, of course, I won’t leave. I’ll be here. At your beck and call. And I promise, if I learn anything new, you’ll be the first person I dial. I’m innocent. I did not strangle Desiree.”

Cinnamon eagle-eyed me. “How did you know she was strangled?”

Sheesh. Maybe I needed to wear duct tape across my mouth. “I heard you whispering when you were crouched beside the body.” I tapped my head. “Good ears. My mother always told me it was rude to listen in, but I can’t help myself. You said the word
strangled,
and then something about a bruise on the right side of Desiree’s head.”

I heard a snort and whipped around. Pepper Pritchett stood like a sentry in the doorway to her daughter’s office. How had she opened it so stealthily? I wondered for a second whether she would have killed Desiree to get me in trouble but chided myself for the notion
.
The woman was a sourpuss; that didn’t make her a murderer.

• • •

WHEN I ARRIVED
at The Cookbook Nook with Tigger, I was shocked to discover that Aunt Vera had declared it Opening Day despite the morning’s tragedy. Crowds of people, including sandcastle makers, complete with buckets and shovels, packed the shop. Another dozen customers clustered on the boardwalk and waited for the opportunity to enter.

I ogled my morning exercise outfit and wished I had changed it when I went to the cottage to fetch the kitten, but thought:
What the heck?
Why did I need to wear business attire? Everyone in town, locals and tourists alike, dressed down. And focusing on work would help me keep my mind off, well, everything else. I planted Tigger in the office, refreshed his water, and joined my caftan-clad aunt at the register, where a stream of buyers waited, arms filled with our bargain cookbooks, regularly priced books, utensils, aprons, and Desiree’s cookbook:
Cookies, Cakes, Sweets, and More
. We had preordered fifty copies. Taking in the size of the crowd, I wasn’t sure we would have enough. The closest bookseller who might have a few copies on hand was located in San Jose, a little over an hour away. On the counter beside the books stood a tier of candies. Katie must have made them with recipes gleaned from Desiree’s cookbook: toffee fudge, colorful rock candy, and chocolate peanut butter crisp bonbons. In college, the two of us had downed more than our fair share of rock candy. Our teeth had ached for days and we vowed to cut out all sweets forever.
Right
. My chest tightened from the memory.

“I know we should’ve remained closed, in honor of your friend”—Aunt Vera flaunted a hand at the crowd—“but how could I say no? People begged me to let them inside. Death makes curious bedfellows. And you should see the café. Not a seat available.”

Desiree would have been proud to see folks take such an interest in her—dead or alive. I urged the tears pooling in my eyes not to fall and pressed ahead.

“How’s Katie handling the pressure?” I asked, worried that we weren’t prepared in the café for such an onslaught.

“Like a pro. An Iron Chef couldn’t do better. We hired a couple of very cute sous chefs. We’re still looking for an assistant chef.” Aunt Vera poked the keys on the ancient register to make a sale. Multitasking suited her. Her cheeks radiated with a pretty pink flush, and her eyes sparkled with energy. “By the by, Katie made some delicious fruit-filled mini-cupcakes with the most luscious whipped frosting. She decorated them with little ships. They’re for the taking over there.” She wiggled her bejeweled pinky in the direction of the hallway leading to the café. Cupcakes and more goodies nestled on a table laid with an aqua-checkered tablecloth. I pondered whether we might go bankrupt giving away so much food but pushed the notion aside. Good marketing required drawing in repeat customers. “She’s calling them Katie’s Mateys,” my aunt added. “Isn’t that cute, seeing as we’re located in Fisherman’s Village?”

So cute my head was spinning.

“Ooh, look at this, Mommy,” a child screamed at the back of the store. “A bake set. Can we get it?”

“Yoo-hoo.” A string-bean-shaped customer standing at the far side of the store beckoned a stouter female. “Look at this.” She was holding up the
The Gourmet Cookbook, Volume I
. “The pages are gilded. No photographs, though, only drawings. But the recipes look yummy.”

The other female rushed to her, waving another cookbook. “I found the
Barefoot Contessa Foolproof: Recipes You Can Trust
. I hope her fabulous chicken salad recipe is in it.”

“Girls, look,” a customer shouted to her cluster of pals by the bay window at the front of the store. “Culinary mysteries. Oh, get these cute titles.
To Brie or Not to Brie
,
An Appetite for Murder
, and
A Brew to a Kill.
” She giggled. “Ooh, and there are recipes inside. What fun.”

Why wasn’t anyone using an inside voice? My head started to throb.

Aunt Vera squeezed my arm. “We’re a hit.”

If she was so excited, why did I feel like crawling under a log, or at the very least, a mound of quilts? Because a friend had died. Horribly. And I was the prime suspect. Except I couldn’t have done it. I never could have strangled Desiree, no matter what she might have been guilty of. I wasn’t nearly strong enough. Who was?

“Jenna, what’s wrong?” my aunt said. “Other than the obvious, of course.” Before I could lie and say,
Nothing,
she lifted my chin with her fingertip and pinned me with a concerned gaze. “I’m so sorry about Desiree. I truly am. But life continues to churn. We stop to appreciate what we lost, and we take a deep breath, and we move ahead. We will meet all those we love in the afterlife. This, I know.”

How could she be so sure? “Aunt Vera, I’ve got to ask. What’s the scoop with you and this place? Why didn’t you ever open it for business?”

Aunt Vera settled into one hip. Her mouth curved up. “I loved a man, dear. A chef and my soul mate. We planned to transform this into our special place.”

“Did he . . . die?” My voice caught. I felt ghastly for dredging up such a sad memory, especially today. If only I could turn back the clock a few seconds.

“Worse.” Aunt Vera sniffed. “He left me at the altar.”

“Why?”

“That’s the awful thing. I don’t have a clue. We never talked about it. A month later, he married someone else. A year later, he traveled to the netherworld, and that’s when I . . .” She screwed her finger toward the ceiling.

“You pursued your psychic career.”

“Multiple times I visited the cemetery where he was buried. We never connected.” She fanned the air. “But enough about me.” She gripped me in a hug so fierce I thought the life might be squeezed from me. In the nick of time, she released me and took my face in both of her hands. “Find a smile and your spirit will follow.”

I tried. My face felt like it might crack.

Aunt Vera said, “Look around. This is life. It’s here.”

I found it hard not to be pleased with the activity in the shop. The design, the marketing, and the word-of-mouth had worked. The shop was going to be a success. I had carried out my aunt’s vision and saved myself in the process. Well, saved, if it weren’t for the fact that a local shop owner was accusing me of murder. A frown tugged at the corners of my mouth. As I worked hard to make the corners turn upward, I spied movement outside the shop, across the parking lot. The door to the Winnebago that the masseur and hairstylist shared was opening.

Sabrina, still dressed in the dark clothes I had seen her wearing yesterday, emerged. She teetered on high heels and descended the metal stairs. As she alit on the pavement, a blur of tattooed flesh rushed her—J.P., Desiree’s lover-slash-director, in jeans and a Stanley Kowalski–style wife-beater T-shirt. Sabrina hitched her matching tote higher on her shoulder. J.P. flailed his arms. He was saying something. Sabrina responded and backed up a step. He spoke again. Sabrina’s eyes widened. She jammed a fist into her mouth. Was she only now getting the news about Desiree? No, Chief Pritchett must have contacted her.

J.P. continued to flap his arms and move his mouth. I wished I could listen in on the conversation. Did J.P. know who killed Desiree? Did he murder her and turn her into a sand sculpture? He reached for Sabrina’s purse.

Sabrina screamed and wrenched from his grasp.

People on the sidewalk in front of the store watched in horror.

J.P. lunged for Sabrina and snatched the tote. He dove his hand inside and pulled out something thin and flimsy. A photograph?

At the same time, the door to the Winnebago opened and Mackenzie, the masseur, emerged. He didn’t look anything like he had when I had knocked on the door yesterday. Granted, his karate shirt was open and his bronzed chest gleamed, but his face smoldered with anger, not indifference.

Sabrina slapped J.P. As he reeled backward, she snatched what I assumed was a photograph and stomped away. Her shoulders heaved. Was she crying?

Mackenzie and J.P. exchanged hard glances before J.P. stomped off in the opposite direction.

Desperate to know what the drama was about, I told Aunt Vera I would be right back and hurried after J.P.

Halfway down the block, he barged inside Latte Luck Café. I forged in after him.

• • •