Final Sentence Read online

  “No,” he said.

  “No, it’s not good or, no, you and Desiree didn’t come here?”

  “I don’t know about the food. We went to the Crystal Cove Inn.”

  “And checked in, of course.”

  “Yeah.”

  Except I had called there before giving up my search for Desiree, and the clerk said they hadn’t checked in. J.P. was lying. Again.

  “Actually, we didn’t register right away,” he said. “We went to the courtyard restaurant, the one where you can see the ocean.”

  “A View with a Room?”

  “That’s it. Des said she needed to decompress before tomorrow’s”—he coughed—“today’s soiree.”

  I didn’t have the courage to tell him that Desiree’s fans were flocking like vultures to the store. He hadn’t seemed to notice during his quarrel with Sabrina.

  “Des held high hopes for this new cookbook,” he went on. “The reason she wanted to launch it in August was to promote the upcoming season of our show. Our ratings fell flat last season.”

  I ran my finger along the rim of the coffee cup. “What did you do after you ate?”

  “That’s when we checked in to the hotel. Des was dog-tired. Me, I was wired. I took one of Des’s sleeping pills so I could get some shut-eye, but Des got a call, and she left.”

  “A call from whom?”

  “I don’t know. I asked her, but she wouldn’t say.” He scraped his fingers through his Mohawk. “Man, I should’ve gone with her.”

  “Did you think she was meeting some guy?”

  “Nah.” He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. “Even if she was, it was cool. I trusted her. She loved me.” His defensive pose would have made a prosecuting attorney squeal with excitement. Jealousy was a powerful motive for murder.

  “When did she return?”

  “I don’t have a clue. I fell asleep. When I take a pill, I’m Rip Van Winkle.”

  Call me crazy, but I didn’t believe him.

  Chapter 6

  AS I LEFT the coffee shop, I thought about Desiree’s phone call. Truth or fiction? If it was the truth, who had called her? Did Desiree meet that person and end up walking on the beach, only to be strangled?

  And buried . . .

  A queasy feeling coursed through me. I tamped it down and urged myself to think logically. Desiree’s purse hadn’t been tucked beneath the sand with her, and the deputy hadn’t discovered it with the sand tools. Where was it? Was her cell phone in the purse? Maybe the call list would reveal the killer’s name.

  Eager to find out, I returned to The Cookbook Nook, which was still jammed with people clamoring for Desiree’s recent release, and sneaked into the office at the back. I perched on the corner of the laminate desk and telephoned the precinct. While waiting for the clerk to connect me to Chief Pritchett, I inspected cookbooks that Aunt Vera had set aside for me to take home. To the few she had selected earlier, she had added The Best One-Dish Suppers, Gourmet Meals in Crappy Little Kitchens, Betty Crocker’s Dinner for Two Cook Book, and Mark Bittman’s How to Cook Everything: The Basics, which was a hefty book. “Each recipe is so easy and simple,” Aunt Vera said of the stack, “even a child could manage the dishes. Not that you’re a child. You’re an adult. A mature, responsible adult.” So why didn’t I feel like an adult right now? Why did I feel like stuffing myself into a file cabinet under the heading: To be opened at a later date? A golden oldie that used to rouse my mother to sing, full voice, played through my mind: “Don’t they know it’s the end of the world ’cause you don’t love me anymore?”

  I heard a click through the telephone receiver.

  “Miss Hart,” Cinnamon said. Formal. Brusque. “What’s up?”

  Without stuttering, which pleased me no end, I told her what J.P. had said about the late-night phone call to Desiree.

  Cinnamon said, “What do you think you’re doing? Why are you questioning suspects?”

  “So Mr. Hessman is a suspect?”

  “Right now, everyone is a suspect.”

  Including your mother? I wanted to snipe but kept mum. I did not need to aggravate the chief and have her lock me up simply because she could. Besides, I liked her. She seemed direct and to the point—my kind of people.

  In an unthreatening, composed voice, I said, “Did you happen to find Desiree’s purse?”

  “We did not.”

  “Which means the killer might have taken it.”

  Silence.

  I cleared my throat. “Can you look up her cell phone records?”

  “I’ll put it on my to-do list. I’ve got to go. Thanks for being a concerned citizen.”

  Concerned didn’t do my angst justice. I wanted the chief to like me. Trust me. Believe I was innocent.

  As I hung up, Tigger snuggled up to my ankles. I lifted him and pressed his face against my cheek. “Hey, sweet boy,” I cooed. “What do you think of the activity in the shop?” He purred. “Yes, I agree. Pretty darned overwhelming. So many people. Desiree would have been—” A pang jabbed my heart. Proud. She would have been proud. And she would have teased me and told me none of this would have happened without her. How true. Celebrity did create a draw.

  “Jenna.” Katie paraded into the office, her chef’s toque atilt, her white apron stained with something that I hoped was wine, catsup, or blueberry jam. “Got a sec?” She crooked a finger.

  “I’d better check with Aunt Vera to see if I need to spell her at the cash register.”

  “I already did. And she doesn’t. She’s in seventh heaven.”

  I set Tigger on the floor and followed Katie through the shop and restaurant and outside to the patio that overlooked the ocean. The view captivated me. The roar of the waves crashing against the rocky shore beneath the patio made me catch my breath. My mother used to say that God talked to us through the waves. I never heard His voice, but I was certain she did.

  Katie settled into a chair at one of the wagon-wheel-style tables, removed her hat, and set it in her lap. She folded her hands on top of the table. “I’m sorry about Desiree. You found her, huh? With that . . .” She mimed a hook.

  “How did you hear?”

  “People talk.”

  I flashed on the crime scene. Why had someone hooked Desiree like a prize catch? What was the significance?

  “Finding her was a tough way to start your new life here,” Katie said.

  “Tell me about it.”

  “I heard a rumor . . .” She let the sentence hang.

  I swallowed hard. Pepper said the whole town was gossiping about whether my husband had an affair with Desiree. Was I to be the laughingstock? What a cliché. Best friend wins over roving husband. Would a doctored picture of Desiree in David’s embrace appear on the front cover of rag magazines? No matter what, I would fight the rumor tooth and nail. It wasn’t true. David and I had been madly in love. I felt a thin band of perspiration forming on my upper lip.

  “Someone in town said you might be interested in Desiree’s boyfriend,” Katie continued.

  “What? J.P. No. Why?”

  “Someone saw you together at Latte Luck Café.”

  I shook a hand. “No, no, no.” Man, the rumor mill in Crystal Cove was lightning fast. “I mean, yes, I was there with J.P., but our meeting was nothing like that. Nothing. I saw . . . I followed—”

  “Breathe.”

  In between deep calming breaths, I explained.

  Katie leaned forward, her gaze keen for gossip. “You think J.P. might have killed Desiree?”

  “I don’t know what to think.” Truly, I didn’t. “I’m going to leave it to the police.”

  “That’s all well and good, but if Pepper Pritchett has her way, she’ll railroad you into jail just so she can close down this operation.”

  “What’s her story?” I asked.

  “Haven’t a clue. Forget about her. Now, tell me what you saw. Why did you follow J.P.?”

  I filled her in on the silent drama I’d witnessed bet
ween J.P. and Sabrina. “He denied accosting her, which means he’s a liar. Mackenzie the masseur watched, too. In fact, now that I think of it, he was glowering at the two of them.” I added that Mackenzie and Sabrina had appeared outside the café.

  “Hoo-boy. Do you think Mackenzie has a thing for Sabrina? Maybe Desiree didn’t appreciate her masseur lusting after her little sis.”

  I liked the fact that Katie and I had formed similar theories.

  “Maybe Desiree had a chat with him and told him to back off,” Katie continued, “and the guy lost it.”

  “Except Pepper said she saw two women, not a man and a woman, walking on the beach last night.”

  Katie guffawed. “Pepper Pritchett needs prescription goggles to see the nose in front of her face. Have you seen her Beaders of Paradise shop? There are magnifying glasses everywhere. Changing the subject, I saw Desiree yesterday, when the Winnebagos took up residence in the parking lot. I was walking the staff through the table arrangements. Desiree was engaged in a heated argument with the masseur.”

  “Did you hear what the fight was about?”

  “Desiree said she wasn’t happy with his choice of hairstylist.”

  “Mackenzie hired the hairstylist?”

  “Of his own volition. Guess he got the call that the hairstylist in L.A. wasn’t going to make the grand opening—flu or some such—so he drummed up Gigi Goode.” Katie fiddled with the rim of her chef’s hat. “Gigi is supposed to be fabulous, by the way. At least that’s the scuttlebutt, but whew, she charges an arm and another arm.”

  “I’ll bet she doesn’t ask any more than a hairstylist in Los Angeles.”

  “Yeah, you’re right.” Katie thumped the tabletop with her fingertips. She looked as if she was holding something back.

  I said, “What else is bugging you?”

  “Your pal Desiree was pretty darned rude. I wouldn’t be surprised if a number of the people that worked for her wanted to kill her because of the way she ranted.”

  My first boss at Taylor & Squibb railed at everyone. One day, following a particularly brutal brainstorming session, a lot of us discussed skewering him with his laser pointer.

  Katie rolled her lower lip between her teeth. “I know you were good friends with Desiree, but really, the words that came out of her mouth. No one should treat another person that way.” She clucked her tongue. “She was a shrew.”

  Behaving like a diva was one thing, but a shrew? I stewed, wondering what had been going on in Desiree’s life that might have made her act atrociously. J.P. mentioned that the show’s last season ratings had been flat. Perhaps Desiree worried that her fifteen minutes of fame were nearing an end. I had chosen to terminate my career. I don’t know how I would have felt if I had been forced out and forgotten.

  “Is that all you wanted to discuss?” I said. “The rumor and Desiree’s behavior?”

  “Hoo-boy, are you kidding?” A chuckle tumbled out of Katie. She set her hat snugly back on her head and stood.

  I rose, as well, and couldn’t help but compare the two of us. We stood about the same height, but she had broader shoulders, a broader girth, a broader face, and a broader smile. I had to work on my smile. I considered practicing in front of a mirror.

  She said, “We’ve got business to discuss, too. Are you up to it?”

  “I have to be, don’t I?”

  Katie bobbed her head. Her toque flopped as if it were a marionette with its own personality. “I want to add a few items to the menu.”

  “So soon?”

  She headed back through the restaurant. Busboys and busgirls cleared dishes from the tables by the windows. Near the entrance, a pair of waiters draped tables with white linens. A couple of college-aged waitresses followed and adorned each table with silverware, glasses, and a teensy vase filled with a white daisy.

  “I can tell what tastes our patrons have,” Katie said. “At lunch, we sold out of white fish with a shrimp marinara sauce and, my pasta specialty, heavy on the artichoke hearts and hearts of palm. White wine is most popular in August, so I’ve opted to bring in a couple of cases of Crystala from a local winery of the same name. The wine tastes like Prosecco mixed with ambrosia. Perfect for a hot summer day. Also, some folks are asking about whether we’re going to have cooking classes.”

  “Oh, gee.”

  “Adult classes as well as kid-friendly classes. You might want to take a class yourself.”

  I pictured the stack of cookbooks Aunt Vera had set aside for me. Did I need a class? Couldn’t I teach myself?

  As we rounded the hallway toward the bookstore, Katie said, “Uh-oh.”

  “What?”

  “I think we have to table this discussion.” She pointed.

  Out in the parking lot, Pepper Pritchett, wearing a sleeveless bejeweled sheath, was doing a chicken dance, elbows flapping, feet stomping, between a tow truck and Desiree’s Winnebago.

  I plowed through the dining room and outside.

  Pepper screamed at the tow truck operator. “What do you mean, you can’t budge the trailers?”

  “Ma’am, the tires,” the operator said. “Somebody’s slashed them. If I can’t roll ’em, I can’t tow ’em.”

  Pepper whirled on me and poked her finger. “What are you laughing at?”

  I slapped my chest with my palm. “Me? I’m not laughing. I came to help.”

  Gleeful snorts burst from beyond the Winnebagos.

  “Who’s there?” I yelled.

  A handful of teens in jeans and raggedy T-shirts sprinted from behind the Winnebagos, all of them giggling so hard they had to hold their sides. One, a dystopian girl who reminded me of a fighter in The Hunger Games, thumbed her nose before running off.

  “Why you!” Pepper dashed for the kids but didn’t have a chance in heaven of catching them. Her thick, short legs held her back. Bet she wished she had donned roller skates. “My daughter will nab every one of you hooligans.” She stopped short of the parking lot exit, glowered at me, and marched back to her shop. She blasted inside and slammed the door.

  The weary tow truck operator gazed at me. “Who’s paying my bill?”

  “Don’t look at me,” I said.

  He heaved a sigh and lumbered to his truck.

  A flare caught my eye. Near the tow truck operator’s vehicle, I spied another truck. In the driver’s seat sat a man. Was it the creepy guy with the tackle box? He was peering through binoculars. Glimpsing me, he lowered the glasses, cranked his truck into reverse, and barreled out of the lot. I wasn’t close enough to glean numbers or letters from his license plate. Drat! Who the heck was he?

  At the same time, the door to the Winnebago that housed Desiree’s office squeaked open. Sabrina emerged in a white sheath, sandals, a single strand of pearls, and a clutch purse. Her wavy black hair wafted behind her and shimmered in the sunlight. What happened to the dour colors she usually wore? Was wearing an angelic-looking outfit the way she intended to honor her sister’s death?

  I strode to her and held out my hands. “Sabrina, I am so sorry for your loss.”

  Out of nowhere, she threw herself into my arms. Gasping sobs heaved from her chest. When she recovered, which, yes, might have been a tad on the speedy side, she swiped the tears from her cheeks. “The police called me and then J.P. found me and . . .” She pressed her lips together then exhaled. “I can’t believe Desiree’s dead.”

  As I’d figured, the scuffle in the parking lot had been their first occasion to speak following the murder.

  “Desiree was buried in the sand.” Sabrina shook her head. Her curls whipped right and left. “Buried. It’s so horrible.”

  “What else do you know?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “About the crime scene.”

  “Nothing.”

  “Your sister was strangled.”

  Sabrina’s right hand flew protectively to her throat. “The police never said . . .” She gulped. “Was it symbolic?”

  “What do you mean?”r />
  “Desiree never could keep her mouth shut. She made promises she couldn’t keep. She talked dirt about people. She . . . she—” Sabrina hiccupped.

  Was her panic an act? Was she as cool as a cucumber inside? Perhaps she had chosen to wear white to cover a guilty conscience.

  Stop it, Jenna. Not everyone is guilty.

  After a moment, Sabrina lowered her arm. She pinched the edge of her Prada purse. Her knuckles grew as white as the leather. “The police want me to come to the station.”

  “Before you go, might I ask a question? When J.P. met you this morning, you two struggled. He wanted something from your tote bag.”

  “No, he didn’t.”

  Okay, officially, I had two liars. “You argued.” I remember how she had waged a stalwart defense. Though she was inches shorter than Desiree, was she strong enough to have strangled her sister? I waited for her to amend her statement.

  “He asked me if I called Desiree last night,” she said finally.

  “Was he reaching for your cell phone?”

  “He wasn’t reaching for anything. Sometimes he acts like Desiree’s henchman. As if he has control over me. He wanted me to join him for coffee in your café. He was going for my hand. I pulled away.”

  I raised a skeptical eyebrow. My father said: Tell one lie, you can quickly amend it and offer the truth. Tell two, you’re building a story. Tell three, you’re digging a grave. The thought made me shudder. J.P. had pulled something from Sabrina’s purse. I could have sworn it was a photograph.

  “When J.P. accosted you”—I would not back down with my choice of verbs—“you were coming out of the masseur’s trailer.”

  Sabrina peeked over her shoulder. I don’t think she meant to. But when she swiveled her head back and met my gaze, her face flushed bright pink. “Oh, all right, I’m not proud of it, but yesterday, my boyfriend in Los Angeles called and broke it off with me. Gigi, Desiree’s hairstylist, mentioned this really cool place to go for drinks. The Chill Zone Bar.”

  The Chill Zone was a hotspot that even I, socially single and uninterested in meeting a new man, knew about.