Final Sentence Read online

  “There’s a feisty new amateur sleuth in town and her name is Jenna Hart. With a bodacious cast of characters, a wrenching murder, and a collection of cookbooks to die for, Daryl Wood Gerber’s Final Sentence was a page-turning puzzler of a mystery that I could not put down.”

  —Jenn McKinlay, New York Times bestselling author of the Cupcake Bakery Mysteries

  A crime hiding in the sand . . .

  When I neared within a few feet, I gasped. It was the figure of a naked woman—no, a mermaid—face turned sideways, a sandy hook coming out of her mouth, a clump of seaweed for her hair, and a drizzling of sand for her fingers. Care had been taken, each curve honed.

  I started to giggle nervously. The mermaid reminded me of the painted woman in the movie Goldfinger. She looked so beautiful . . . so serene . . . so still.

  I glanced around. Was the artist nearby, recording on video how people reacted as they passed? Would the treasure-seeking couple rat me out if I touched the mermaid’s tail fin with my toe? Tough. I had to. Curiosity bubbled to boiling point.

  I stretched out my foot and tapped the far end of the sculpture. It didn’t crumble as expected. It resisted. Sand fell away and a flesh-colored toe emerged. Human.

  A shriek gushed out of my mouth.

  Final Sentence

  DARYL WOOD GERBER

  THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

  USA | Canada | UK | Ireland | Australia | New Zealand | India | South Africa | China Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England For more information about the Penguin Group, visit penguin.com.

  FINAL SENTENCE

  A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the author Copyright © 2013 by Daryl Wood Gerber.

  Excerpt from Inherit the Word by Daryl Wood Gerber copyright © 2013 by Daryl Wood Gerber.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  Berkley Prime Crime Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group.

  BERKLEY® PRIME CRIME and the PRIME CRIME logo are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  ISBN: 978-1-10162441-8

  PUBLISHING HISTORY

  Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / July 2013

  Cover illustration by Teresa Fasolino.

  Cover design by Jason Gill.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE: The recipes contained in this book are to be followed exactly as written. The publisher is not responsible for your specific health or allergy needs that may require medical supervision. The publisher is not responsible for any adverse reactions to the recipes contained in this book.

  To my husband, the love of my life.

  You make every day a delicious adventure.

  Acknowledgments

  Seek the lofty by reading, hearing, and seeing great work at some moment every day.

  —Thornton Wilder

  There are so many who have helped me along the way—family, friends, teachers, librarians, and more.

  First and foremost, thank you to my family for loving me and not twirling your finger alongside your head when you think I’m nuts. That would be so embarrassing. Thank you to my dearest friend, Jori Mangers, for being there for me for so many years. Thank you to my first readers. Thank you to author pals Krista Davis, Janet Bolin, Kate Carlisle, and Hannah Dennison. I know you struggle through the same author’s angst that I do; your feedback is invaluable. Thanks to my brainstormers at Plothatchers. Thanks to my blog mates on Mystery Lovers Kitchen and Killer Characters. And thanks to the Sisters in Crime Guppies, a superb online group.

  Thanks to those who have helped make the Cookbook Nook Mysteries a reality: my fabulous editor, Kate Seaver; Katherine Pelz; Joan Matthews; and Kayleigh Clark. I appreciate all your insight and enthusiasm. To my artist, Teresa Fasolino, wow. Once again, you have amazed me. Thank you to my publisher, Berkley Prime Crime, for granting me the opportunity to write about this whole new world of characters. I am so blessed.

  Thank you, librarians, teachers, fans, and/or readers for sharing the world of a cookbook shop owner with your friends. Thank you to my business team. You know who you are!

  And last but not least, thanks to my cookbook shop consultant, a cookbook store owner herself, Christine Myskowski. I will never forget that first moment I walked into Salt and Pepper in Occoquan, Virginia, and felt like I was home.

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Recipes

  Special Excerpt of Inherit the Wind

  Chapter 1

  “AUNT VERA, STOP twirling me,” I yelled.

  But she didn’t. She continued to spin me in a circle. My eyes pinballed in my head. My braids whipped my cheeks—right, left, right, left. I didn’t ordinarily wear braids, but cleaning up a shop that closed thirty years ago, over a year before my birth, was almost as dirty a business as having a garage sale. I had dressed for the occasion: cutoffs and T-shirt, so I wasn’t worried about my clothes.

  “Stop,” I repeated.

  My aunt cackled with glee. “Jenna Starrett Hart, I am so excited.”

  Because I had established myself in the advertising world as Jenna Hart, I had used my maiden name even after my husband and I got married. I decided not to change it to his, which was Harris. Hart . . . Harris. They were too close to mess with.

  “So excited,” she repeated.

  No kidding. The striped walls of the bookshop blurred together; I felt trapped in a kaleidoscope. Chipped walls painted baby blue, olive green, and a weird fleshy pink color flashed around me. Normally, I liked twirling and dancing. I adored music—rock and roll, country, and big Hollywood musical classics. My mother used to play the radio full blast when she drove me to art classes, and we would sing and cardance to our hearts’ content. But I had returned to my childhood town of Crystal Cove less than an hour ago, and I hadn’t found my sea legs yet. Warmer than normal August temperatures weren’t helping my equilibrium.

  “Too-ra-loo,” my aunt sang merrily. Her turban flopped to and fro. Copious strands of beads clacked against her phoenix amulet. Her royal bl
ue caftan flared out around her large frame. “I have such a good feeling about our new venture. Sing with me. Too-ra-loo.”

  “Too-ra-loo,” I croaked as I tried to slow her down by skidding on my heels. Three-dollar flip-flops didn’t win the prize for gaining traction. Why couldn’t I be a tennis shoe person? Except when exercising, I never wore them. “I’m feeling seasick.” The breakfast burrito that I had wolfed down on the short drive south from San Francisco was rebelling.

  “Oh, my, you do look a little pookie.” Without warning, Aunt Vera released me.

  Like a top, I gyrated out of control and landed chest-first against the shop’s ancient oak sales counter. Air spewed out of me. My butter yellow T-shirt inched up over my low-slung cutoffs. I wriggled the T-shirt down and checked my body for broken bones—none as far as I could tell, but my abdominals would ache for days.

  Aunt Vera clapped. She wasn’t a sadist; she was ecstatic. “I’m so glad you said yes.”

  Yes, to moving back to Crystal Cove. Yes, to moving into the cottage beside her seaside home. Yes, to helping her revitalize the aging cookbook shop that resided in the quaint Crystal Cove Fisherman’s Village.

  “Now”—she pushed a plate of oatmeal caramel cookies that sat on the counter toward me, nabbing one for herself—“let’s discuss you.” Aunt Vera had no children; she had adopted me, by default. She nibbled and assessed all five feet, eight inches of me. “Cookie?”

  How could I resist? My aunt excelled as a baker. She had perhaps the largest collection of cookie cookbooks I had ever seen. A favorite I loved to browse was One Girl Cookies. The history of the beloved Brooklyn bakery enthralled me, and the pictures were luscious. I popped a bite-sized cookie into my mouth—the caramel chips added just the right amount of yum—and I brushed what had to be an inch of store dust off my nose. After swallowing, I said, “You meant, let’s discuss my vision, didn’t you?”

  Aunt Vera clucked her tongue, which sent apprehension zinging through me. A week ago, I had sent her a business plan that she had gushed over. Was she changing her mind? Granted, I was not a cook. Far from it. But I was not inept in the kitchen . . . exactly. I wasn’t afraid to boil water. I knew how to make the basics: Jell-O, meatloaf, a cake from a mix. I could read a recipe, and I appreciated the nuances, but my talent ended there. On the plus side, I enjoyed an educated palate. I had tasted everything from fried alligator to raw eel, and I had savored many bottles of fine wine. Perhaps a few too many. Could my blithely carefree aunt finally see my shortcomings? Was she having doubts about me?

  “Aunt Vera, speak.”

  She arched a dyed red eyebrow.

  “What are you sensing?” I said. “Disaster?”

  Aunt Vera spent her days giving psychic readings, hence the turban and caftan getup, not that she could tell people much more about their futures than I could; she didn’t have a direct connect to the other world—no ghosts pals, no spirit guides. On the other hand, the way she looked at me gave me the creeps.

  “Aunt Vera, c’mon. What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing’s wrong.”

  “You’re frowning.”

  “So are you. It’s the dust. Be gone!” She swatted the air. To my surprise, she didn’t add: Bibbidi-bobbidi-boo, like Cinderella’s fairy godmother. I remembered prom night when she had surprised my date and me by arriving with a horse-drawn carriage. She swore she’d conjured the rig out of mice and a pumpkin.

  “Truth, how do you feel about my vision for the shop?” I said.

  “It’s brilliant. You’re a wizard. Problem solved.”

  Phew. Prior to returning to Crystal Cove, I had worked in advertising. Therein lay my talent. Art, conceptualizing, and glib wording. The dancing, singing popcorn campaign for Poppity Pop? Mine. Little bursts of sunshine doing cartwheels above an orange grove to promote the citrus industry? Mine.

  “But I didn’t say, let’s discuss your vision,” Aunt Vera went on. “I said, let’s discuss you. You weren’t thriving in . . .” Her cherub face flushed radish-red. She wasn’t the kind of person to say anything without enhancing the statement with optimism, but words had escaped her lips, so she finished, “In the City.”

  The City, San Francisco, the gem of the West. A city filled with life and laughter and high times. Super if you’re single. Great if you’re married. Not cool if you’re a widow.

  Aunt Vera petted my dusty cheek. “How are you?”

  “Fine. Dandy. Ready to thrive.” Choosing action over pondering life’s losses, I smacked my hands together and said, “I see you have everything we need to start painting.”

  “I followed your list to the letter.” Aunt Vera may have been the owner of Fisherman’s Village, but she made me the manager of the cookbook store. Pushing sixty-five, she didn’t want the added burden. “And surprise, surprise”—she twirled a finger at me—“your father is coming to help.”

  I gulped. Put the past behind, behind, behind. “How is Dad?”

  Aunt Vera sidled behind the cash register, an antique National with honeysuckle inlay, and pushed the buttons like a little kid on an elevator. Ping, ping, ping. She slammed the drawer between each ping.

  I raced to her and gripped her wrists. “Stop.”

  “It’s sticking.”

  “We’ll fix it.” I should have purchased a new digital register, but the antique one looked handsome on the sales counter. I repeated, “How is Dad?”

  “Your father? He’s great. Wonderful. He’s in need of a new project.”

  A little over two years ago—in March, to be exact—my mother and my husband died . . . within days of each other. My husband first. My mother next. She, who was never a smoker but perished from lung cancer, had been the gem and light of my youth. I attended her funeral, but I had to leave the next day to return to San Francisco so I could deal with the details of my husband’s premature demise. I know, I know. I was a horrible, neglectful daughter, and I owed my father better. My pragmatic sister, who lived in Los Angeles, was a saint and stood by Dad’s side. Even my hippie-dippie brother was on hand for Dad more than I was. Since the funerals, Dad and I had spoken a couple of times, but never with the same warmth. Currently, I was off all antidepressants—for three months I had taken the herbal kinds with Latin names I couldn’t pronounce; I stopped when I decided life, even alone, was still worth living—but I still hadn’t found my true smile. I came home to Crystal Cove to see if it was hiding there.

  “You look worried, dear. Please don’t be. He’s not coming until the day before we’re set to open. Besides, forgive and forget, that’s your father’s motto.”

  Since when? I wondered.

  “He’s in good shape. When he’s not running his hardware store or offering his services as a handyman, he’s busy with a food collection project. But he’ll need a new project soon, ergo, The Cookbook Nook.”

  Ergo, me. Dad’s career as an FBI analyst hadn’t padded the coffers; his post-retirement work as an FBI consultant had. However, ten years into his retirement stint, he grew bored with consulting, and in addition to buying Nuts and Bolts, which the previous owner sold for a song, he devoted himself to all sorts of humanitarian projects. A man of his vim and vigor needed to keep busy.

  “His hair isn’t as black as yours any longer,” my aunt went on, “but he’s still got the Hart bright eyes and the Hart wit. He’s standing tall, shoulders back. No osteoporosis for him, no sir.” She demonstrated and saluted.

  Was I slumping? Why was I reading hidden meaning into everything she said? Because I lacked vim and vigor, that’s why. I straightened my spine.

  “There are quite a few women in town who wish to attract my little brother’s eye,” Aunt Vera said, beaming like an older sister should. “But it’s way too early for that. He was devoted to your mother.”

  Theirs had been a love that had set the standard.

  “By the by, your father adores your suggestions for the shop’s design.”

  “He does?” That surprised me. Dad always offered p
ointers. I had settled on a sunset-colored theme of coral and aqua. Aunt Vera suggested we add pale cream seashells. She had already sketched them on the walls. The café that connected at an angle to the shop would be painted a soft peach. I chose a border of pastel boats for the upper rim of the café; it would give just enough splash without being garish.

  “Did I tell you your father walks every morning?” Aunt Vera said. “Same as you.”

  “I run occasionally, too. And ride the bicycle.” The bike I rode, an old relic with a basket and hand bell, had belonged to my mother. In the City, I trekked from my apartment to Golden Gate Park. A challenge but worth it. “Say, you should stroll on the beach with me.” The ocean was a stone’s throw from Aunt Vera’s back porch.

  “Oh, my, no. Exercise and I don’t mix.” My aunt swirled her spacious caftan. “It messes up my chakras.”

  I grinned. “Let’s get to work.”

  We swept and vacuumed the floors, counters, and shelves, and we dusted and stacked the old cookbooks in boxes. Many of the once-beautiful cookbooks could be salvaged, but in my business model, I planned to have lots of fresh new titles. Ours would not be a store where only your mother’s Betty Crocker Cookbook would be sold, though we had plenty on hand. We would also sell books by Ina Garten, José Andrés, and Bobby Flay. I wanted cookbooks that featured recipes that sounded exotic or fun: grilled corn poblano salad with chipotle vinaigrette, tournedos à la béarnaise, beer and bison burgers with pub cheese, brandy black bottom chiffon pie. We would also stock specialty books that dealt with allergies, food restrictions, and sustainability gardening. I had picked up a few rare books, including an original copy of The Physiology of Taste by Brillat-Savarin, the famous cheese maker, and a first edition of The Joy of Cooking by Irma S. Rombauer. The bindings for both were in perfect condition. Dreaming big, bigger, biggest, I intended to feature celebrity chefs as well as local and celebrity cookbook authors. We would have food tastings in the café and perhaps throw a cookout for the town and sit-down dinners for food critics. A few weeks ago, before moving to town, I started generating buzz about The Cookbook Nook. I created a web page. I posted on social networking sites. As I had hoped, locals and tourists were chatting on blogs about The Cookbook Nook.