Final Sentence (10 page)

“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 between 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?”

“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.

“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

B
Y 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.