Final Sentence Page 11

  As I entered the restaurant, I inhaled the luscious aroma of fried foods. How could I learn to make this kind of meal? I wondered. The teenaged hostess, who was dressed in white short shorts, a gingham shirt tied at the waist, deck shoes, and sailor hat asked if I needed help. I shook my head and gazed past her, searching the restaurant for Anton d’Stang. Sawdust lay on the blond wood floors. Nets filled with fake fish hung on the walls. Rustic booths lined the perimeter. Wooden tables and chairs were clustered in the center of the restaurant and on the balcony that overlooked the ocean. Nearly every seat was filled. Lola, a juicy woman with super-short silver hair, a generous spirit, and a belly laugh that could carry across a football field, was talking to someone in a booth.

  When she fluttered her hand flirtatiously in front of her healthy-sized chest, I knew who she was chatting up—Anton d’Stang. Even Lola, in little old Crystal Cove, would have heard of the famous entrepreneur. I weaved through the tables. She caught sight of me and met me halfway.

  “Darling girl.” Lola gripped my shoulders. “Look at you, all grown up. Why, you are the spitting image of your mother, rest her soul. Those gorgeous eyes and lithe body.” She pulled me into a bear hug, pushed me away, and took hold of my chin. “You call me Lola now, understand? We’re adults. Equals. How are you?”

  “Fine. How’s Bailey?” Lola’s super-bright daughter still worked at Taylor & Squibb. During my stint there, Bailey had saved my rear end on many occasions, holding me back when I had wanted to voice a less-than-positive opinion.

  “She’s languishing. She’s so underappreciated. I’ve told her to move home, but does she listen?” Lola sighed. “She said if I saw you, to give you her best. She’s unhappy she couldn’t make your opening. I meant to make it over to The Cookbook Nook for both of us. I truly did, but we have been slammed here. Don’t worry. I’ll visit soon enough. Bailey said I absolutely must buy a copy of Anthony Bourdain’s Medium Raw: A Bloody Valentine yada-yada. The title has so many words that it’s not very catchy. But Bailey says the book is filled with Bourdain’s rise to glory and lots of insider gossip. I adore gossip.” She paused. Her cheeks reddened and her eyes suddenly pooled with tears. “Oh, heavens, how horrible I am, running on so? You.” She gripped me harder. “How are you holding up? It’s tragic what happened. I heard you and Desiree Divine had a long history.” She ushered me toward the table she had departed. “I was just telling Anton how—”

  “Mademoiselle.” Anton d’Stang rose, coffee mug in his left hand. Remainders of a fried fish on sourdough sandwich sat on the plate in front of him. He gave me a quick once-over.

  Something troubled me as I regarded him. Not the fact that he was one of the most dashing men over fifty I had ever met. I was prepared for that; I had seen photographs of him in Bon Appetit and similar magazines.

  “Anton d’Stang,” Lola said. “This is Jenna Hart.”

  “Il est mon plaisir.” Anton extended his right arm.

  As we shook hands, I took note of his strong fingers. I imagined those fingers working their magic in a kitchen. That image morphed into those fingers strangling Desiree’s beautiful neck. The notion made me jolt. I released Anton’s hand and jerked my attention back to his face. He took a sip of his coffee and peered curiously over the rim. A shiver ran down my spine. What was it that bothered me about him, other than his surprise presence in Crystal Cove?

  “Jenna’s a fantastic artist,” Lola continued. “And now I hear she’s a wonder of a businesswoman.” She shook a finger at me. “Don’t look so humble. I’ve heard what you’ve got going on with that café. My, my. I might have to steal that Katie Casey from you. She’s some chef, people say.” She swiveled to face Anton. “Get this. The woman’s first menu included three different entrées, a whitefish tortellini dish, a seaside twist on a Caesar salad, and an open-faced cheddar melt that would knock your socks off.”

  If Lola hadn’t visited The Cookbook Nook herself, how did she know so much about the food in our café? Maybe she had sent a spy. Restaurants, no matter what kind of food they served, had to keep current with competition.

  Lola tweaked Anton’s arm. “Not to mention Miss Casey offered three selections of homemade ice cream, one of which is my all-time favorite, brown sugar pecan.”

  “Katie makes ice cream?” I said. I was a sucker for cold desserts.

  “Haven’t you been tasting your own food?” Lola clucked.

  When would I have had time to do that? I’d barely had a moment to breathe.

  “No wonder you’re stick-thin. Let’s feed you.” Lola beckoned a muscle-bound Nordic waiter as she confided to me, “We have a fresh influx of internationals in Crystal Cove. They enjoy the temperature . . . and the tips.” The waiter pulled to a stop, arms at his side. Lola said, “What’ll it be, Jenna? Your childhood favorite, fish and chips? I don’t think you’ve ever ordered anything else, have you?”

  My heart twinged. For some reason, Lola remembering what I had ordered as a child affected me in a way I couldn’t understand. Suddenly I identified with Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz: There’s no place like home. “Nothing, thanks.”

  As the waiter did a U-turn, I cleared my throat. “Mr. d’Stang—”

  “Your store.” His French accent was strong, his voice commanding. He set his coffee cup on the table. “That was where Desiree was going to sign her new cookbook, non?”

  “Yes, she—”

  “Sadly, she did not have her day in the sun.”

  What did he mean? Was he making an oblique reference to the fact that she had been buried in the sand, never to see the light of day again? Was he admitting to having killed her?

  Lola swatted him with her fingertips. “Of course she did, Anton. Desiree Divine was a celebrity.”

  “That’s right,” I said. “Signing books at our store was not a big deal.”

  “But perhaps it was,” Anton said. “The fate of her television show was in question, was it not?”

  I tilted my head. How did he know so much about Desiree’s circumstances prior to her death? “Why are you here?” I asked.

  “The food is magnifique.” He indicated his nearly finished meal.

  “Not here, in The Pelican Brief Diner. Why are you in Crystal Cove?” Agatha Christie’s Miss Marple, I was not. Subtlety was not my strong suit. A former boss told me that I was a problem solver, and problem solvers had a tendency to be rudely direct. Problem solvers liked clear-cut solutions.

  Anton sucked in his cheeks; his mouth puckered. He looked as if he were mulling over an answer that was distasteful. “I was in San Francisco to meet with my investors. We intend to open a sister restaurant there.”

  “No way,” I said. “Per Desiree, you’re a Francophile who deigned to go as far west as New York, but no farther.”

  Anton ticked a finger beneath the snug collar of his button-down shirt—perhaps his striped Armani tie was knotted too tightly—and he slumped into a teenage-type stance, one hip jutting out. I flinched as I realized what vexed me about him. His posture dipped to the right; he didn’t stand tall.

  “You were there,” I blurted out.

  “Oui, I was in San Francisco.”

  “No, you lingered outside my shop the day Desiree came to town. And I saw you yesterday, too, with binoculars.”

  “Non.”

  “Yes.” Add more facial hair, a knit cap, and extra bulk around the waist, and Anton resembled the guy with the tackle box and the drooping right shoulder who had climbed into the truck that day. Had Desiree known the creep was Anton? “You were in disguise. You were spying on Desiree. Don’t deny it.”

  He sighed. “Oui, I wanted to see her.”

  “Why? There was no love lost between the two of you. You went berserk when she left you for the chance of Hollywood fame.”

  “Non.” His voice was as authoritative as a chef addressing a lazy staff. “You do not understand.”

  “Enlighten her.” Lola pointed for him to sit. When he did, she did. Then I did.


  “Très bien. I wanted to see Desiree, for old times’ sake.”

  “Uh-huh,” Lola said in a sarcastic tone.

  “Why the costume?” I asked.

  “Desiree said she wished never to see me again.”

  “What would she have done if she’d realized it was you?” I said.

  “She promised to cut me”—he glanced down at his nether region—“with a rusty razor.”

  I bit back a smile. That sounded like Desiree. Not that she would have carried through with the threat.

  Anton avoided eye contact with me and twisted a gold ring on his right hand. “As I said, I was in San Francisco to open another Chez Anton. I thought if I could entice Desiree to appear opening night, I could lure the best critics to review the food. The world’s economy demands brilliance from the first public moment. One erreur, and an entire venture washes away like the sand.”

  Again with the beach metaphor, I noted. He was guilty. If only Cinnamon Pritchett were sitting with us, listening to his confession.

  “Desiree owed me,” Anton continued. “I had my girl call hers.”

  I doubted Sabrina relished being referred to as a girl. “But Desiree turned you down, didn’t she?”

  “I never heard a word from anyone.”

  “So you decided to stalk her.”

  “Non.”

  “Anton,” Lola said in a firm, lawyerly voice. “If you wore a disguise and showed up where Desiree was, that could be perceived as stalking. Do you wish to modify your statement?”

  “I was observing her,” he said.

  “I’ll allow the distinction.” Lola nodded. “Jenna, proceed.”

  Suddenly everything was clear to me. “You bided your time. You didn’t think you could get a word in edgewise as long as J.P. Hessman was around. He spelled trouble. So you followed them when they left The Cookbook Nook. You found out where she was staying. Later that night, you called her.”

  “Non.”

  “J.P. said Desiree received a telephone call.”

  Lola cut a sharp look at me. “How would you know that?”

  “I talked to him.”

  “You what?”

  I held up a hand. “Don’t worry, I knew what I was doing.” I didn’t. I was way out of my league, but now, seeing as I was in a public place with a lawyer and lots of witnesses, I felt daring. “Lola, I’m the chief suspect in this murder. I need answers.”

  “Fine. Proceed.”

  I refocused on Anton d’Stang. “I assumed the telephone call came to Desiree on her cell phone. But it didn’t, did it? You called Desiree in her room using one of the hotel telephones.”

  “Non.”

  “Where were you at the time Desiree died?”

  “On a date.”

  That answer surprised me. I had expected Anton to say he was with business associates. “You’re a fast operator.”

  “I met someone special.”

  “Who?”

  “Desiree’s hairdresser.”

  Forgive me, but my mouth fell open.

  “Explain.” Lola tapped a foot.

  “I needed a . . . how do you say it? A trim.” Anton fingered the nape of his neck. “I went into the Permanent Wave Salon and Spa. Gigi and I met. We made a connection. We talked about so many things. Travel. Movies. She asked if I would like to go surfing with her.” His mouth curled up. “I told her impossible. I am from Paris. I have never surfed in my life. I barely know how to swim. But we found common ground in food. I asked her to dinner. She said yes.”

  No, no, no, a voice screamed in my head. I had to agree with the voice. I couldn’t see the debonair Anton d’Stang dating the ginormous, purple-haired Gigi Goode. He was lying. But how could I prove it?

  Chapter 10

  WHEN I RETURNED to The Cookbook Nook, I stopped short inside the front door because a man—Rhett Jackson if I was sizing up his attractive backside correctly—was chatting with Katie in the hallway between the shop and the café. What was he doing there? Had he realized a Mustad hook was missing from his collection after all? If I was lucky, he had a receipt with the killer’s signature on it that I could deliver to the police, and I would finally be rid of the fear of incarceration.

  All of a sudden, Katie roared with laughter. Rhett followed with a deep throaty guffaw, one that, for some reason, made my insides sizzle.

  Stop it, Jenna, I coaxed myself. Be professional. Get the facts.

  Aunt Vera stood at the register, tending to a line of three customers. More patrons crowded the shop. My aunt caught sight of me and wiggled her hand with such enthusiasm that she appeared to have grown ten years younger.

  I signaled three minutes, then strolled down the hall and wedged into the huddle formed by Rhett, Katie, and the snack table. “What’s so funny?”

  “Hoo-boy, is this guy hilarious or what?” Katie slapped my arm. “Get this joke: ‘Give a man a fish and you can feed him for a day. Teach a man to fish and you can get rid of him for a weekend.’”

  “Cute,” I said.

  “I’ve got plenty of them.” Rhett chuckled. “Every day I hear a new one.”

  How about that? So far, I hadn’t heard one joke at The Cookbook Nook. Granted, we had only been open a few days, but perhaps cookbook buyers didn’t tell jokes the same way sports fanatics did. I hoped that wasn’t the case. I needed to laugh.

  Katie said, “Jokes. I never could tell them, but this one, I’ll remember. Thanks, Rhett.”

  She checked her pocket watch. “Whoa. I’ve got to get back to work to prep dinner. Time flies when you’re having a ball.” She offered a flirty wink. “Don’t forget what you promised.”

  I made a quarter turn to Rhett. Seeing him full-face, something caught in my chest. Whereas this morning, he had been clean-shaven, now he had a fine stubble of brown hair covering the lower half of his face. I had the urge to reach up and touch. Luckily I possessed enough self-control not to. Whew. Close call. “So . . . what did you promise Katie?” I asked.

  “To help her teach a cooking class or two.”

  “Is that why you came in to the shop?”

  “Nope.”

  “You found out a hook was missing, after all,” I said, unable to contain my glee.

  “Sorry, no.”

  Rats.

  “I came in for a self-satisfying purpose. I heard the scuttlebutt about the café’s food. A man has to eat. By the way, if you haven’t had the crabmeat soufflé, don’t miss it. And these”—he lifted a cookie from the two-tier Royal Albert dessert stand—“are my new favorite.” A sign beside the stand read: Maple Leaf Rag Cookies.

  “What’s in them?” I lifted one and sniffed. If heaven had a scent . . .

  “Cinnamon, cloves, and raisins.”

  “And maple syrup?”

  “Good guess.”

  We both grinned.

  After a moment, Rhett said, “Katie hinted that you aren’t, um, comfortable in the kitchen.”

  “Comfortable. That’s a kind word.” I felt my cheeks warm. In the future, I would keep my shortcomings to myself. “Guess the secret’s out. I’m a total klutz. I took chemistry in high school, and I do know the difference between a teaspoon and a tablespoon, but, well”—I licked my upper lip—“my mother did all the cooking when I was a kid, and I never got around to learning.” As if I were a little girl flirting on the playground, I folded my arms at the arch of my back. What next? Would I rock to and fro? I dropped my arms to my side, embarrassment brewing inside me, not because I was acting silly, but because I felt guilty for betraying my husband. How in the world could I possibly have eyes for a man other than David?

  Except he was dead. Gone.

  “Jenna?” Rhett said.

  I blinked.

  “A klutz,” he prompted. His gaze was tender.

  “Right.” My throat grew dry. I had to proceed with my life. That was what my therapist told me. I promised her I would. “I’m worried my customers will hold my inability to cook, i.e. klutziness, against me.�
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  “Not a chance.”

  “Are you telling me no one has ever come into Bait and Switch and asked for fishing advice?”

  “Sure they do, and yes, I can offer a few tidbits, but that’s not the crux of what I do. Folks want someone they can talk to and confide in. They want to tell you about their most exciting catch. They want to know the best fishing spot.”

  “Which is . . .”

  “This fabulous little lake tucked into the hills. Prettiest site ever. Surrounded by mountain flowers. Very private.” He swept his hand in front of his face to paint the picture. “The only way to get to it is on foot or on dirt bike. Have you ever ridden a dirt bike?”

  “Never.” A girlfriend in high school spiraled out of control on a dirt bike and shredded the side of her body. Call me chicken and possibly vain, but I wasn’t up for that kind of abuse.

  “You’re missing out on seeing some remote areas around here and experiencing a pleasure beyond what you can dream. Not to mention taking a risk. You enjoy taking risks, don’t you?”

  I did. Years ago.

  Rhett plucked another cookie from the display and bit into it. He hummed his pleasure. “Anyway, back to being able to cook. All I’m saying is if you learn which cookbook has what to offer, you’re doing your job. Take Bobby Flay’s Throwdown! cookbook, for example, the one based on the Food Network’s show. I’m sure you have that book on the shelves, and if you don’t, you should. All you need to know is that the recipes are from the television show. You’ve seen Throwdown!, right?”

  “Yes.” Katie would be pleased to learn that the Food Channel was a go-to TV program when I was too tired to pick up a book. I adored the colorful chef Bobby Flay. On a spur-of-the-moment weekend trip to Las Vegas, David and I had gone to Bobby Flay’s Mesa Grill. The Yucatan chicken tacos with peanut-smoked barbecue sauce we devoured were piquant yet smooth. I said, “Did you see the show where Bobby faced off with national barbecue champ, Butch Lupinetti?”