Final Sentence Read online

  “I’ve watched every episode.” Rhett’s mouth quirked up on one side. “So if you don’t cook, why did you buy The Cookbook Nook?”

  “I didn’t. It’s Aunt Vera’s shop.”

  “Huh. I thought she sold it to you because . . .” His voice drifted to a hush.

  “Because of the chef that left her at the altar?”

  “You know about that?”

  “Not the whole story.”

  Rhett tapped my forearm. “Maybe we should uncover the truth together. I love a good mystery.”

  Excitement sizzled through me. I tried to make light of the feeling, but I couldn’t. Maybe I was too stimulated from all that I had done today. The hunt for the hook. The search for Anton d’Stang. “Are you a reader?”

  “Every chance I get. You?”

  “I read the gamut from cozy mysteries to thrillers. Kate Carlisle and Julie Hyzy to Jamie Freveletti and Lisa Gardner.”

  “Only female authors?”

  I blushed. “No, I read the guys, too. Michael Connelly. Harlan Coben.”

  “And I read cookbooks.”

  “Are the plots any good?” I teased.

  “It depends on who’s cooking up what.”

  I peeked at my watch. My three-minute promise to Aunt Vera was more than up. “I should spot my aunt at the counter.”

  “And I should get going. See you around town.” He downed the remainder of his cookie, wiped his hands on a napkin, and lobbed the napkin into the trash beneath the snack table.

  As we strolled from the hall back to the bookshop, the door to the outside opened. My father entered. A warm breeze followed him inside. His eyes brightened when he spotted us. “Rhett, how are you, son?” He strode to him, hand extended. The two men matched in height and build. They shook heartily.

  “Fine, sir. I was just leaving.”

  “Not on my account.”

  Rhett smiled. “No, sir. I’m in charge of closing up Bait and Switch. By the way, you haven’t stopped by the shop in a dog’s age.”

  “I’ve been too busy.”

  “If that’s the case, you have your priorities out of whack.”

  Dad laughed. “How’s the cabin? No more busted pipes?”

  “No, sir, but you can bet I’ll call you if another one bites the dust. Home ownership is tougher than the pundits tell you.”

  Rhett lived in a cabin? Wow. This guy was so different from anyone I had ever liked. I flinched as the word liked echoed in my mind. Did I like him? Yes. He appeared to be honest, forthright, and he had a sense of humor. Not to mention, he was respectful of my father. My mother would have said he was a keeper. She had never appreciated David. She couldn’t pinpoint why. I didn’t care; I was in my twenties and discarded everything she said. How I missed her and our outings to bookshops and rodeos and strawberry picking.

  Dad buffed Rhett on the shoulder. “I’ll stop by Bait and Switch soon.”

  “I’d enjoy that.” Rhett gave me a wink. “See you around, Jenna,” and he sauntered out of the shop.

  “I like that young man.” My father looped his hand around my arm and steered me toward the sales counter. “No matter what anyone says, I still think he’s innocent.”

  Aunt Vera waltzed from behind the counter, the voluminous folds of her gold-filigreed caftan swishing as she moved. “I agree.”

  I gaped. “Innocent of what?”

  My father scanned the shop. So did my aunt. Did they worry that someone might listen in on us? A gaggle of women, their chatter nonstop, clustered by the fiction books in the bay window. A handsome couple browsed books in the sustainable garden section. No one paid us any attention.

  Aunt Vera said, sotto voce, “Innocent of starting the fire.”

  Of course, the fire. Why hadn’t I put two and two together? “People think he started the fire at The Grotto?” I asked, matching my aunt’s hushed tone.

  Aunt Vera tsked. “Thanks to Pepper Pritchett, rumors spread as fast as the flames. The tenants”—my aunt flapped a hand; bangles clattered—“worried their beloved businesses might go pffft.”

  “But they didn’t,” my father said. “Firemen arrived quickly and doused the flames. Only the restaurant perished.”

  “Bait and Switch seems pretty popular,” I said.

  “Most locals don’t think Rhett did it.” My father paused. “Well, perhaps there are a few who do, but we don’t.” He thumbed between my aunt and himself. “Neither does Lola Bird or any of the other restaurateurs in town.”

  “Why not?”

  “Rhett is a standup guy. And he supplies some of the fish at The Pelican Brief and other local restaurants.”

  I folded my arms. “So he’s a necessary evil.”

  “He’s not evil,” Dad said. “He’s a reliable fisherman, good businessman, and a kind man.”

  “But people won’t hire him as a chef. Why not?”

  Aunt Vera shrugged. “I don’t think he ever asked.”

  “I’m not sure he wants to return to that life,” my father offered.

  I might have been bad at math, but I knew when people’s accounts weren’t adding up. “Okay, you two, out with it. There’s something you’re not telling me.”

  “Poor boy,” Aunt Vera whispered.

  Rhett was somewhere in his midthirties, older than me by at least five years. He wasn’t a boy. And he owned a shop and cabin. I doubted he was poor. Images of Rhett Butler, the fictional antihero who operated outside the limits of society, popped into my mind again. “Explain,” I said. “Does Rhett have a history of run-ins with the law or something?”

  “A few,” Aunt Vera said. “As a youth. But that’s all in the past. At eighteen, he found his passion—cooking. He entered the Culinary Institute of America on a partial scholarship. He put himself through, working odd jobs. He was a wizard with sauces. The owner of The Grotto wanted to raise the restaurant’s quality. She hired Rhett following graduation. And it’s no wonder. Why, Rhett made this one sauce with tomatoes, capers, lemon, garlic, and white pepper that made my mouth zing. I must remind Katie of that one. And Rhett loved coming out to the folks in the restaurant and chatting up his food. He had a way with people. They adored him . . . They still do. He’s a bit of a rogue and a big flirt, you’ve probably noticed.”

  Had I ever.

  Aunt Vera tweaked my chin. “And he’s single.”

  “Uh-uh.” I shook my head emphatically. “Do not even think about fixing me up.”

  “He didn’t do it,” my father said.

  “I don’t care. I mean, I do care, but that’s not the point.” I threw up my hands, palms forward to caution my family backward like evil spirits. “I’m not ready for anything but managing this shop and defending myself against allegations that I might be a murderer.”

  “Cinnamon doesn’t think you’re guilty,” Dad said.

  “Yes, she does.”

  Aunt Vera sighed. “Speaking of innocent, did you track down Anton d’Stang?”

  My father cocked his head. “The restaurateur? Why—”

  “Hush, Cary.”

  “Don’t tell me to hush, Vera. What’s going on?”

  I scanned the shop for a second time. Our customers remained enraptured with their own discussions, not ours. I filled in my family about meeting Anton at the diner. I described the vibes I received from him and how Lola came to my defense.

  “Jenna, I do not want you getting involved,” my father said.

  “But I am involved. I’m suspected of murder.”

  “It’s not safe.”

  “Relax, Dad. All I did was ask some questions.” I continued my account. Anton knew about Desiree’s failed TV ratings, and he showed up at The Cookbook Nook in disguise to spy on Desiree.

  “He admitted that?” my aunt said.

  “Vera, don’t encourage her.”

  She waved at my father to be quiet. He grimaced.

  “Anton d’Stang claimed to be in San Francisco,” I said. “To start another Chez Anton. He ventured t
o Crystal Cove in hopes of convincing Desiree to appear at the opening of the restaurant.” I shared Anton’s veiled references to Desiree being buried under the sand and unable to see the sun again.

  “You have to tell Cinnamon what you’ve learned,” my father said.

  The way he said her name, so informally, made me want to know more about their relationship and why he hadn’t at least mentioned his role as Big Brother when I was growing up, but I didn’t ask. It was none of my business. Let the past stay in the past.

  “First things first,” Aunt Vera said. “Anton claimed to be on a date with Gigi Goode at the time your friend was killed, is that right?”

  I nodded. “Can you imagine? I mean, I can see Gigi dating J.P., but not Anton.”

  “Now, Jenna,” my aunt said. “Don’t judge a book by its cover. Just because a person has tattoos doesn’t mean the person is a match for someone with multiple piercings. You have to analyze their inner souls.”

  “You’re right.” For years, I had offered snap judgments to the public via ten-, fifteen-, and thirty-second television ads. “I guess I’m uptight.”

  “Perhaps a spa day would do you good,” Aunt Vera suggested.

  “As if I have time for that.”

  “How about a teensy makeover?” She finger-combed my hair back behind my ears. “Maybe you should book an appointment with Gigi.”

  “Uh-uh, no.” My father worked his jaw back and forth. “I’m putting my foot down. Young lady, you call Cinnamon Pritchett and tell her what you’ve learned.”

  “It will all be hearsay, Cary, and you know it,” my aunt countered. “Why should your daughter give a partial accounting to the police when, and if, she can provide the whole story?”

  “Yoo-hoo.” I waved. “I’m right here. I can hear you.”

  My father and aunt regarded me.

  Aunt Vera said, “All I’m suggesting is that you corroborate the facts first. If Gigi claims she was with Anton d’Stang, then he’s off the suspect list. Why, you can even arrange a hair appointment today.”

  “It’s Sunday,” my father protested.

  “So?” Aunt Vera folded her hands proudly over her abdomen. “The Permanent Wave is open seven days a week.”

  A pack of women and children entered the shop. The tallest of the women waved at Aunt Vera as she directed her group toward the children’s corner at the rear of the store.

  “Hello, Miss Vera. Hello, Miss Jenna,” the children sang in chorus as they passed us.

  Aunt Vera whispered, “Homeschoolers. The word is out about the Curious Chef products we have in stock. Those kiddie-sized chef’s hats that you ordered, Jenna—the ones that can be personalized? A brilliant idea on your part. And the mothers are digging into the fiction books as frequently as the cookbooks. They adore the culinary mysteries. My faves are those Domestic Diva ones. The protagonist puts on all these fabulous events, and I think there’s a ghost in her house.” She clapped her hands like a mime, making no sound whatsoever. “I have to admit, this whole venture, other than losing your dear friend, has been so much fun. Now, go. Visit Gigi. And remember, a hairstylist is similar to a bartender or even a therapist. They hear all and tell all. Trust me, Gigi will spill her life story to you.” She gave me a nudge.

  I balked. “What about our new hire interviews?”

  “Why do you think I asked your father to stop by? As a former FBI analyst, he’s an expert at separating the wheat from the chaff. At the very least, he can do background checks.”

  “What?” my father said.

  “You need a project, Cary. Leave, Jenna. Get the scoop.” Aunt Vera shooed me. “We’ve got this.”

  “I promise I’ll be back in time to close so you can make your Coastal Concern meeting.”

  Because of her deep spiritual bond with nature, Aunt Vera took an active part in ensuring our coasts remained pure and unsullied.

  “However long it takes,” she said. “Too-ra-loo.”

  Shoving my father’s discontent to the back of my mind, I hurried out of the shop wondering exactly how I was going to convince Gigi Goode to confide in me, her polar opposite, and whether I would have enough time to do so before Chief Pritchett hauled me in and threw away the key.

  Chapter 11

  LIVING IN SAN Francisco had made me forget how much fun Crystal Cove could be and how much people delighted in living there. I drank in the local flavor as I walked to the Permanent Wave Salon and Spa. Surfers with artistically painted surfboards propped on their shoulders paraded down the brick sidewalks. Families hoisted colorful kites or played Frisbee in the two postage-stamp-sized parks between shopping arcades. Tourists posed with the twin silver statues of dancing dolphins that stood at the intersection where the egress out of town met Buena Vista Boulevard, the main drag.

  When I reached my destination, I halted. Perspiration broke out on my upper lip. I swiped it away with my pinky. Never once had I entered a hair salon nervous. I was not married to my hairstyle. I had worn it short, long, and in between. Though I had never colored my hair, during one rebellious moment in college, I had considered throwing in a punk pink stripe. So why was I anxious? Because I was going to outright lie.

  Get a grip, I urged myself. You can do this. I had battled onerous executives in sales meetings. I had gone head-to-head with obstinate clients. I could darned well tell a fib to a hairstylist. And truthfully, I did need a trim. I hadn’t let anyone touch my hair in over six months.

  I approached a cheerful appointment clerk who sported the pink stripe I had considered in my youth. Glittery eyelids, fingernail polish, and a clingy one-piece jumpsuit matched the stripe. Beyond her, through a huge plate glass window, I caught sight of the ocean. White caps danced across the surface. A sailboat scudded through the water at a tilt.

  “Help you?” the clerk said.

  Faking wretchedness while plucking at my stick-straight black hair, I said, “Is Gigi Goode available for a quickie? My aunt recommends her highly. I need a trim something awful.”

  “Let’s see.” The young woman clacked a key on her computer keyboard. “You’re in luck. She has a cancellation.” She perused the salon. “Hmm. She’s not at her station. Let me see if I can track her down and get the okay to book you. Have a seat by the aquarium. There are magazines. Want some cucumber water?”

  I wrinkled my nose at the notion.

  The clerk giggled. “It’s not really cucumber water. Cucumbers floating in the water flavor it. It’s good.”

  “No, I’m fine. Really.” Cucumbers and I weren’t the best of friends. Early in my marriage, I had attempted to make cold cucumber soup. To my horror, David turned out to be allergic to dill. The recipe had asked for two fresh tablespoons of the herb. David’s tongue swelled up, and he was sick all night. Needless to say, the event put me off cooking for a long, long time. Until now, actually.

  The clerk left her post and scuttled in her superhigh heels, tight-kneed à la Bette Midler, to the right. “Gigi,” she called.

  As I strolled toward the large fish tank, Gigi rushed from a room and ran headlong into the clerk. Gigi’s sheer size knocked the clerk backward into a chair on wheels.

  “What?” Gigi’s blue-rimmed eyes flashed with annoyance. She jammed her hands into her apron pockets. “Well?”

  The clerk regained her balance and whispered something to Gigi, who ogled me and nodded once.

  Trying not to appear overly excited about scoring an appointment on such short notice, I studied the fish in the aquarium. Tetra swam in and out of a sunken ship and a grotto fit for Princess Ariel.

  The clerk led me to the dressing room. “Grab a smock and come with me. We’ll get you shampooed.”

  “No consultation first?”

  “Gigi never consults until the hair is wet.”

  Of course she didn’t. That way she ensured the client stuck around. In for a penny, in for a full haircut, I decided. I threw on a smock the color of the ocean and followed the clerk to the washbasins. She introduced me
to a sweet Latina woman, who gave my hair a quick shampoo, added coconut-scented conditioner, rinsed, and led me to Gigi’s station. I sank back into the soft folds of the leather chair and scrutinized myself in the seashell-bordered mirror. People on the street stopped at the window and peered in at me. The impulse to gawp at them and gurgle like a fish swelled within, but I didn’t cave to the urge.

  Gigi lumbered to me, pressed a pump that elevated the chair a foot, and assessed me via the mirror. “I know you. We met the other day at the trailer. You were searching for Desiree.”

  “That’s right. I’m Jenna Hart. I own The Cookbook Nook.”

  “It’s awful about Desiree,” she said. “The whole affair made me so upset. I left my kit with my best scissors in that trailer, can you believe it?”

  That didn’t sound as if it were a major catastrophe. Nothing close to dying anyway.

  “I’ve got to go back when I get a moment to breathe. And you . . .” Gigi ran her fingers through my hair. “She was a good friend, right?”

  “Yes.”

  With tremendous vigor, Gigi rubbed my scalp and my shoulders.

  “Wow,” I said. “That feels great. I didn’t expect a head and neck massage.”

  “Hair always looks better when the face is relaxed. You look tense and some of your hair is coming out in clumps. That’s caused by stress.”

  It wasn’t easy moving to a new town. Opening a store. Finding a friend dead. And being suspected of murder.

  “I’d like to apply some gold oil to your hair. Are you down with that?” Gigi didn’t wait for my response. She squirted liquid from a dark brown bottle into her palm and applied the oil, rubbing strands of hair between her thumb and forefinger. “You’re lucky. You have thick hair. It’s in pretty good condition overall.”

  Minus the clumps.

  “Desiree’s was better,” I said, trying to figure out how I could turn the conversation in the direction of Anton d’Stang. So far my effort sounded ham-fisted.

  “Desiree spent thousands on her hair. That doesn’t mean hers was better than yours, but it was tended, shaped, and sculpted.”