Final Sentence Page 8

“I went there for a drink,” Sabrina said. “I’m not one to cry into my beer, but this guy, my boyfriend—he’s an actor in L.A.—I thought he was the one. You know?”

  “Did Desiree approve of him?”

  “What would I care?” Sabrina flinched. “That was cruel. Of course, I would’ve cared. I craved her approval. Now . . .” She fluttered a hand in front of her face. “It turned out Mackenzie was at the bar, too. He said I seemed tense. He asked me back to the trailer for a shoulder massage. One thing led to another. Like I said, I’m not proud. I . . . I passed out.”

  Something about the way Sabrina kept looking up and to the right bothered me. Most of my advertising staff glanced in that direction when they donned their creative hats. Was Sabrina crafting a story? Was she embarrassed that she had settled for pity sex with Mackenzie?

  “Is that all?” I said.

  “Isn’t that enough? I was out cold while my sister was murdered. Do you know how guilty I feel?”

  Actually, I didn’t. I couldn’t be sure.

  Chapter 7

  BY THE TIME I returned to the shop, the store had emptied of customers. Aunt Vera stood at the register, hand to her chest. Her face glistened with perspiration. Her eyes appeared glazed and spooky.

  “Are you okay?” I said.

  “Yes. All this activity is so exhilarating, I can barely stand it, but yes, yes, yes. And I have four new clients. You don’t mind that I handed out my tarot reading cards, do you?”

  “It’s your shop.”

  “No, dear, it’s ours. Fifty-fifty. Of course, I might sneak an occasional cookbook for my personal collection. I’ll leave notes by the register when I do. Did you see All About Braising: The Art of Uncomplicated Cooking, by the way?” My aunt lifted a book and displayed the cover like a TV model. “Braised endive, simmering in scrumptious juices and spices, and a perfect pot roast.” She kissed her fingertips. “There are sixteen color photos and fifty line drawings. Everything you need.” She tapped her finger on the cover. “I’m taking it home to try out some of the recipes. I’ll pass it along to you.” She set the book down, shuffled away from the register, and scooped up Tigger, who had been weaving between aisles. “Hello, my little mascot,” she said. “Are you being a good boy? Yes, you are. Yes, you are.” She replaced him on the hardwood floor and turned back to me. “Jenna, dear, what was that tête-à-tête with Sabrina in the parking lot? Does the girl have an alibi for last night?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “I’m picking up a vibe.”

  “Now, Aunt Vera . . .”

  “Not that kind. I am spent. Nothing going on in this noggin right now.” She tapped her temple. Her collection of silver and red bangle bracelets clattered. “But I don’t like her. She’s so dour and intense.”

  “With good reason. Sabrina played second fiddle to Desiree for forever.”

  “Well, no longer.”

  Before I could ponder that comment, Pepper barreled into the shop. “Vera!”

  A trio of what I could only describe as incensed crafters followed her inside. The skinniest wore a hand-beaded summer sweater that didn’t enhance her shapeless body, though the beadwork was expertly done. The spark plug–shaped woman with frowsy auburn hair sported countless strings of beads over an outfit that screamed garish. The prettiest of the crew held fast to a sizable beading kit. I actually liked the floral dress she wore. She had donned attractive beaded earrings that drew the whole ensemble together.

  “We want a word with you, Vera.” Pepper lasered me with an evil glare. “You, missy, can keep your distance.”

  Missy? My teeth clamped together. Why did this woman hate me? What had I ever done to her?

  Aunt Vera clucked her tongue. “What now, Pepper?”

  “We’re boycotting your shop.”

  “Fine with me,” my aunt said.

  “Your niece is evil.”

  “Now, wait a sec.” I started for the woman. Aunt Vera put a hand on my arm.

  “Trouble started the moment you arrived in town.” Pepper wagged a finger; her bare triceps jiggled with fury.

  I gaped. “Where is all this venom coming from?”

  “Betrayal is a bitter pill to swallow,” the spark plug–shaped woman said.

  “Henrietta Hutchinson, hush.” Pepper shot the woman a hard look.

  I glanced between them. Hush about what? What didn’t I know? What was I supposed to know?

  Pepper continued. “I overheard your chef talking about you, Jenna Hart. She said you used to be a mean girl in school.”

  “What?” I croaked.

  “Mean girls can be killers.”

  “All right, Pepper.” Aunt Vera stormed toward the beading shop owner and grasped her by the elbow. One thing could be said for my aunt: When she’d had all she could handle, she took action. “Leave, now. I will not have anyone accusing my niece of being a killer. Desiree Divine was one of her best friends. No way in Hades would Jenna ever put a finger on that girl.”

  Pepper jutted her jaw. “We’ll see. I’m having my daughter do a background check on your niece.”

  The worst thing I had ever done was rack up a set of speeding tickets. And sneak dollar bills out of my mother’s purse for the occasional bag of Tootsie Rolls. And yes, I had been a suspect in David’s disappearance until the lead detective ruled his death an unfortunate accident. I had no motive; there was no life insurance policy and David’s investment portfolio was drained. David hadn’t written a will. I had gained nothing other than the few precious tokens we had acquired as a couple. And I hadn’t been anywhere near the boat. The police found only David’s fingerprints on the helm and elsewhere. He was alive one minute, gone the next.

  “Let’s go, beaders.” Pepper trooped past her entourage. In unison, her posse did an about-face and followed. In a parting gesture, the woman in the floral ensemble, who seemed torn about being part of a gang, threw me an over-the-shoulder, perk-up smile.

  As Aunt Vera closed the door, I said, “Why is Pepper set on ruining me?”

  “It’s nothing. Put her out of your mind.”

  “Aunt Vera, I’m not a child, and if I’m going to make a success of myself in Crystal Cove, I need to know everything. I have to be prepared to defend myself. That woman, Hutch-something, said, ‘Betrayal is a bitter pill to swallow.’ Explain.”

  Aunt Vera worked her tongue along her upper teeth. “Way back when, Pepper had a thing for your father.”

  “No.”

  “Yes. Your father had earned his MBA at Stanford. He wanted a summer to play in the sun. And play, he did. He swam, he hiked, he surfed. One day, he met your mother and Pepper at the beach. They were friends.”

  I gaped.

  “They played volleyball as a group. Hitting, spiking, and whatever else they do. Pepper wanted your father in the worst way. She was a handsome woman. She had a shot.”

  I shook my head. No way was Pepper Pritchett ever an attractive woman. On the other hand, her daughter was pretty. Speechless, I twirled a finger indicating my aunt should continue.

  “Your mother won your father’s heart. Pepper never forgave your mother, but more importantly, she never forgave your father for not choosing her.”

  “Pepper married,” I managed to say. “She had a child.”

  “As I told you, Cinnamon grew up without a father. He abandoned Pepper and his daughter the day Cinnamon was born. Your father, being the standup guy he is, offered financial support, but that wasn’t enough for Pepper. She wanted him.”

  “Dad and Pepper never . . . I mean, Cinnamon isn’t my . . .” I couldn’t form the word sister.

  “Heaven forbid.” Aunt Vera waggled her head. “So now you understand why Pepper is as miserable to you as a woman can be. To this day, she feels your mother trapped your father, and if not for you and your siblings, she would have had a chance to win his affection. Mind you, I’m not asking you to cultivate civility with Pepper.”

  I folded my arms on the counter. “That thing the Hutc
h woman said. Did Dad lead Pepper on?”

  “No. And your mother did not betray her either.” Aunt Vera thumped her head. “Pepper is ten beads short of a full strand, if you know what I mean. Put her from your mind.”

  I would try, but somewhere at the back of my brain I worried that Pepper, thanks to her deep-seated feelings, would convince her daughter that I was guilty of murder. To calm myself, I reached under the counter and pulled a Tootsie Roll from my stash. The act of twisting open the little morsel soothed me. When I popped it into my mouth and chewed, I felt my emotions settle down.

  “Jenna.” Katie breezed into the shop carrying a stack of cookbooks. I read a couple of the spines: Slow Cooker Revolution, 1,001 Best Slow-Cooker Recipes, and the Fix-It and Forget-It Cookbook. “I forgot that I pulled these for you. They’re . . .” She swung her gaze from me, to my aunt, and back to me. “What’s wrong? You’re frowning.”

  I polished off my candy and tossed the wrapper into the trash can behind the counter. “Nothing.”

  Katie peeked out the window. “Did that Henrietta Hutchinson say something about the café food? She’s one to talk. She burns everything she cooks. I’ve seen smoke more times than I can count coming from her—”

  “Katie,” I cut her off. “It’s nothing.”

  “No lying, Jenna,” my aunt said. “We cannot start a business on that note.”

  Katie set the books on the counter by the register. “Is it me? You don’t like my cooking? Is that it?”

  “No.” I sputtered. “I mean, yes, I do. I really do. Like it.”

  Her lower lip trembled. “Did you eat the white fish tortellini today, Vera?”

  “Oh, yes, dear. It was scrumptious.” My aunt explained, “Katie brought me a tasting of everything on the lunch menu today. Truly divine. The pasta was so tender it melted in my mouth. I loved the rosemary sauce.”

  “C’mon. What is going on between you two?” Katie folded her arms.

  At Taylor & Squibb, once a week, we had an out with it meeting. No one was allowed to sweep nasty feelings under a rug. The partners believed honesty was the best policy. Until now, I had agreed.

  Katie drilled the floor with her size eleven shoe.

  “Oh, all right,” I said. “Pepper overheard you talking about me. You told someone I was a mean girl in high school.”

  “No. That’s not what I . . . She . . .” Katie grew three shades of pink. Her neck splotched as if she had contracted hives. “I was talking on the telephone to my mother. I was trying to explain who you were. I didn’t use the word mean.”

  “I don’t understand. You needed to describe me to your mom? During high school, I spent days and nights at your house. You went on camping trips with my family. How could your mother forget me?”

  “She has Alzheimer’s,” Katie said. “She forgets everything.”

  “Oh, gosh.” I rushed to her and grabbed her hands. “I’m sorry. She’s so young.”

  “She was diagnosed two years ago. Her age alters a statistic, the doctor said, but there’s nothing we can do.”

  I frowned at my aunt, who bopped one side of her head. How could she have forgotten to notify me about Katie’s mom?

  “I told Mama you hung out with the popular crowd,” Katie went on. “She said, ‘Are you saying she was a mean girl?’ and I said, ‘Not mean, popular.’ Pepper Pritchett has selective hearing. Forgive me?”

  “Of course. How are you handling it all?”

  “I’m good. My father is the one who struggles the most. He . . .” Tears pooled in Katie’s eyes. “Hoo-boy, don’t make me cry. We forge ahead, right?” She released my hands. “Now, about these books I set on the counter. They’re all minimal ingredient books.” The topmost title read: Robin Takes 5: 500 Recipes, 5 Ingredients or Less, by Robin Miller. Sounded easy to me. So did the second: Six Ingredients or Less Cookbook, by Linda Hazen. “These are all great books for a beginner cook, such as yourself. And I jotted down some of my own five-ingredient recipes, as well.” She tapped cards that she had slotted into the 5-5-5 book. “I want you to try herbed chicken and soup.”

  “Isn’t soup difficult?”

  “Not all soup. There’s one in here, my personal favorite. Soup marinara. Hoo-boy, it’s good. With a hunk of bread and a sprinkling of Parmesan cheese. Yum. And I’ve been pondering some shop ideas, too. I think we should have a Share a Recipe night.”

  “Great idea,” Aunt Vera said.

  “And we should consider having a book signing with some of these culinary mystery authors. I think there are a few of them that live in the Western states. We’ll make dishes that they include as recipes. We’ll have a soiree. What do you think, Jenna?”

  I breathed easier. Katie and I were back on solid footing. I didn’t have to consider replacing a great chef and, more importantly, my “new” old friend.

  • • •

  “LISTEN TO THAT, Tigger.” I nuzzled the kitten as we approached the front door of the cottage. “That’s the sound of the sea kissing the shore.” Waves rolled onto the sand and receded. The repetition relaxed me until I flashed on Desiree and David, and reality closed in. Would I ever feel at ease around the ocean again? Could I continue to live so nearby?

  Yes. I had to cope. I would move on. And being near the sea brought me closer to my mother. When she died, Dad arranged for a maritime burial. A friend of my mother’s sang a heartfelt song, a capella. At the end of the service, we all threw a long-stemmed red rose upon the water. How my mother loved red roses.

  “Let’s go. Inside.” I set Tigger on the floor. He scampered ahead. I kicked the door shut with my heel. “I’ve got homework.” I slipped the reusable grocery bag off my shoulder onto the counter in the kitchenette and let the backpack filled with cookbooks slide to the Spanish tile floor.

  Tigger bumped my ankle.

  “Hungry?”

  He cha-cha’d in a circle.

  “Me, too.” I pulled a can of organic cat food from the grocery bag, popped off the lid, and forked half into his bowl. As he wolfed down the food, I unpacked the rest of the groceries and opened one of the cookbooks to the recipe Katie had marked with a Post-it: herbed chicken. With only five ingredients, what could go wrong? I heated the oven, cracked open three jars of new spices—rosemary, basil, and thyme—and a bottle of olive oil. Aunt Vera swore by the clay roaster pot she had purchased for the cottage, making me promise that I would use it as-is, adding no foil or any other kind of liner. I brushed the pot with oil, set the chicken into the pan, and obeying the recipe’s directions, made a mixture of spices. I dashed them on top of the chicken—bam! à la Emeril—added a little water, set the top of the roaster on the lower half, and placed the roaster in the oven. In an hour and fifteen minutes, I was supposed to be eating fall-off-the-bone chicken. My taste buds moistened in anticipation.

  Ready to retreat to the porch and drink in the night air, I poured myself a glass of sauvignon blanc. As I reinserted the cork, I heard a thunk. Tigger yowled. I raced to see what had happened. The kitten leaped off the Ching cabinet and skittered backward.

  “It’s okay, fella. Nothing’s broken.” I righted the gold ceramic Maneki Neko, literally “beckoning cat” in Japanese, that David had bought on one of our shopping outings. The sculpture, a bobtail cat holding its paw upright, was meant to bring good fortune. David had slipped a silver necklace with a key charm around the cat’s neck. He said it was the key to his heart. Because the sculpture was popular in Chinese communities, many made the mistake thinking the Lucky Cat was Chinese—David and myself included. We laughed over our faux pas, which of course, he kept spelling out for me: f-o-u-r P-A-W-S. The memory wrenched my soul. So did the sight of the golden statue on its side. My fortune was bad enough. Was its toppling an omen? If Aunt Vera were with me, she would give me her phoenix amulet and demand I wear it for eternity. She might even spin me around three times while uttering a blessing: “Rise above your misfortune. You are on a path to your perfect destiny.” I had memorized a few of
her inspirational sayings.

  Not wishing to get sucked into bad karma thoughts, I recited my aunt’s mantra in my head and returned to my glass of wine. Before I could take a sip, I heard another crash. I whirled around. Tigger, the imp, had jumped up on the oak table beside my bed and upset a silver picture frame.

  I hurtled across the room and snatched the frame. The picture was of David at the bottom of Bridalveil Falls in Yosemite, his tawny hair windblown, his tanned face tilted upward as he gazed at the head of the falls. He had proposed to me that day. I clutched the frame to my chest and uttered a prayer for him and for me. Afterward, I replaced the picture and scooped up Tigger. “Bad kitty.” His eyes widened. He couldn’t have looked guiltier or more remorseful. A wealth of despair gushed through me. How I missed David. How I ached for Desiree. And how I longed for happiness. I thought I would find it in Crystal Cove, but perhaps I was mistaken. Maybe I was supposed to return to San Francisco and make peace with my future there. “I’m sorry I yelled, Tigger. So sorry.” I hugged him with a fierceness that made him squirm.

  Something bleeped. I startled. Tigger sprang from my arms. I shook a scolding finger. “Don’t climb on anything else. I can’t take the suspense.”

  He meowed. Maybe he was saying, “Try not to choke me next time,” but I took his utterances for an apology and searched for the offending bleep; it came from the oven. The temperature had reached its peak. No worries.

  I slumped into a chair at the tiny kitchen table, scanned the one-room cottage—really surveyed it—and suddenly felt cramped in such close quarters, but I didn’t have the courage to budge, and I certainly didn’t have the pluck to step outside. A murderer could be at large. I was vulnerable in my dreamy cottage by the sea.

  Stop it, Jenna. Think positively. I pondered a quote I had memorized by Helen Keller: “Life is either a daring adventure or nothing.”

  Shaking off my anxiety, I bounded to my feet, slipped the cookbooks from the backpack, and assembled them on the coffee table by the sofa. I wasn’t in the mood to browse their pages, but soon I would. As I stood, I noticed that the light on the answering machine on the table next to my bed was blinking. The machine was old; David and I had bought it when we moved in together. I couldn’t bear to part with the contraption. I would never forget when we recorded the message, my only verbal reminder of David’s voice: You’ve reached David and Jenna. Leave a message after the bleepety-bleep-bleep, he joked. We’ll bleepety-bleep call you back. When David pressed End, he swooped me into a hug and we fell onto the couch laughing. Cell phones had replaced the need for a home answering machine completely—only telemarketers or politicians called on a landline telephone anymore—but Aunt Vera had installed one, so I had hooked up the answering machine.