Final Sentence (13 page)

A peep of sunlight shimmered through the split in the curtains and warmed my body. The cawing of birds inspired hope. Tigger, who had taken to sleeping at my feet, pounced to a sit.

I crawled to meet him nose to nose. “How about a run?” I said.

Tigger hunkered back into a tight wad of fur. He was a dancer, not a runner. I considered getting a dog as a running companion but pushed aside the thought. No use making plans if I was going to be incarcerated. Katie’s words came back to me full force:
If Pepper Pritchett has her way, she’ll railroad you into jail just so she can close down this operation
.

“All right, Tigger. How about, after the run, we have a tasty breakfast?” While browsing one of the culinary mysteries about a cheese shop in Ohio, I learned of a breakfast the protagonist loved—a slice of sourdough slathered with Taleggio cheese and jam—and I knew I had to have it. “Then we’ll do a little sleuthing? Are you game?” That received a meow:
Yes.
What exactly we would investigate was not quite materializing in my foggy brain, but ideas would come. An ad campaign rarely started with more than a germ of an idea.

A chill hung in the air. I donned full-length leggings and a long-sleeved Under Armour shirt, slipped my bare feet into a pair of Pumas, and without applying sunscreen—it was only 6 A
.
M
.
—I set off.

With the trauma of discovering Desiree’s body fresh in my mind, I ran in the opposite direction from yesterday’s outing. About a half a mile south, I left the beach, crossed the main highway, and headed up a dirt road, which was kept clear for emergency vehicles in case of hillside fires.

I maintained a steady pace for a quarter of an hour. Soon, the climb intensified. About a mile along the dirt road, my legs started to cramp up. I stopped for a breather and pivoted to view the ocean. A flock of seagulls circled above the water. One seagull left the pack and plunged into the ocean. The others keened. The image brought to mind a scene in the movie
Finding Nemo,
with all the birds squawking:
Mine, mine.
When the lone seagull reappeared, would the others demand a fair share?

Not far from where the seagulls congregated, I caught sight of a couple of surfers paddling away from the beach. Male or female, I couldn’t be sure. Seeing them made me reflect on the solo surfer from the day before. Could he have been the killer? Could he have planned the dastardly deed so far in advance that he had placed a surfboard at the scene, ready for his escape? Had he dumped the sculpting tools on purpose so the offending trowel would be found and implicate me? What had the killer done with his car? I assumed he met Desiree and drove her to the beach. Why else would she have gone there in the dead of night? Was he a lover, a friend? Was he the person who had telephoned her?

I wished I had asked Cinnamon last night whether she had found Desiree’s cell phone or whether she had been able to review Desiree’s telephone records. Thinking about Cinnamon made me itch. Did she really think I was guilty?

Eager to move ahead, in more ways than one, I pivoted and started up the hill again. I needed an endorphin rush. And I needed to stop thinking . . . dwelling. Scaling the hill made me realize how out of shape I was. I hadn’t gone a quarter mile before I required another breather.

Chest heaving, I swiveled, braced my hands on my knees, and surveyed the strand below. This time I spied The Pier, which jutted near the southernmost end of town. Similar to the Santa Monica Pier, which was recognizable to theatergoers because movie companies regularly used it as a set piece, The Pier featured a carousel, some carney games, a number of shops, and restaurants. In addition, tourists could hire boats for sunset or sightseeing cruises and fishing expeditions. One of the largest shops on The Pier was Bait and Switch Fishing and Sport Supply Store. My father, a fly-fishing and deep-sea fishing aficionado, visited the store often.

I thought of Dad’s personal collection of lures and hooks and flashed on the hook slung through Desiree’s lip. Maybe someone at Bait and Switch had sold something like that recently.

• • •

I ZIPPED HOME,
fed Tigger, downed a delectable helping of toast, cheese, and apricot jam, and I dressed. I tucked Tigger into the basket of my mom’s bicycle—riding a bicycle wearing flip-flops wasn’t the safest idea, but everyone in town did it—and I sped to Bait and Switch.

The barn-shaped shop regularly opened at 5 A
.
M
.
because eager fishermen and tourists wanted to get an early start. I entered with Tigger tucked under my arm and took in the rich green leather and mahogany décor.

“Nice cat,” said a man with tousled dark brown hair and a devilish grin.

I stared—no, gaped. Fisherman’s sweater, jeans that fit just right, tan but not too tan. This was the hunky guy that Desiree said had lingered outside The Cookbook Nook.

“May I help you?” The man reached to nuzzle Tigger’s chin. No wedding ring.

I snorted, something I hadn’t done in years, and instantly felt my face flush.

“Miss?”

“I’m fine,” I said, not lying. I
was
fine. I simply hadn’t felt an attraction to a man in so long. I recognized my social freeze for what it was—pure, unadulterated lust—and pushed it aside, hopefully beneath the man’s radar. I did not need him thinking I was a giddy schoolgirl. Not to mention, I craved information. I was on a quest. I readjusted Tigger, propping one hand under his rump. “Do you work here?”

“I own the place.”

“Perfect. I’m Jenna Hart.”

“Cary’s daughter,” the man said. “Your father talks about you all the time. He says you’re a brilliant artist.”

My father had never said those words to me. Ever.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” he added.

I gazed into what Desiree had called his bedroom eyes. They were the most startling ocean blue. If I were lost at sea, I might drift toward them and be swallowed whole. I pinched my forearm to make me snap out of my daze and said, “You lingered outside The Cookbook Nook the other day.”

“Aha. You caught me out.”

“Why didn’t you come inside?”

“The shop wasn’t open for business yet.”

“What’s your name? I told you mine.”

“Forgive me.” He had a gravelly voice, but it wasn’t gruff. It was downright sexy. “I’m Rhett.”

Uh-oh. That was exactly who he reminded me of. Rhett Butler from
Gone with the Wind
, one of my favorite teen reads. I must have devoured the story a dozen times. Rhett Butler was all swagger, the kind of man who would tease a woman for days to see if she had enough spirit to match his.

“Jenna, are you okay?” Rhett said.

I jerked out of my reverie. How long had I been off in la-la land? I moistened my mouth and said, “Last name?”

“Jackson.”

Phew. Rhett Jackson. Same syllables but completely different. At least, whenever I saw him, I wouldn’t feel compelled to tighten my corset, whip out a fan, and slide into a Southern accent. Putting on my serious face, I said, “Nice to meet you, Rhett.” Juggling Tigger, who motored his disapproval, I extended my arm.

We shook hands. Firm, businesslike. I could offer a viselike grip with the best of them. Rhett’s grip was firm, too, but his hands were soft and recently lotioned.

“A sportsman’s hands can be coarse,” he explained. “I have a special line of manly lotions for that purpose.” His mouth quirked up as he uttered:
manly lotions
. He was teasing. I smiled, too. He gave my hand a minor squeeze and released it. “What brings you here so early in the morning?” He guided me through the store. “We have water sports.” An array of swimsuits, fins, and goggles hung on racks to the right. “And fishing to your heart’s content. Do you fish?”

“As a girl, I went offshore fishing for rock cod with my father a couple of times, although my brother accompanied him more often than I did.”

“There’s always tomorrow.” Rhett gestured to a display of kayaks, canoes, and dinghies. Beyond those were fisherman’s vests, lures, rods, and reels. The aroma of canvas and fish filled the air. When Rhett reached the register, he searched my face. “But you’re not here to talk about fishing, are you?”

My cheeks warmed. “I found the body . . . the victim . . . on the beach,” I said, my voice barely a whisper. “You may have heard that someone—”

“Died. Yes. Desiree Divine was to be your first celebrity at the shop.”

“She was my best friend in college.”

“I’m so sorry.”

Me, too. Through the night, the more I rehashed my conversation with Desiree’s sister, the more I believed that Sabrina had lied about Desiree having an affair with David. I was certain that Desiree had found out about the lie and wanted to clear the air. Why else would she have called me? Sometime before dawn, I determined that I would believe the best of Desiree until proven otherwise. Show me pictures—physical proof—and I would believe, but I wouldn’t rely on one woman’s—one bitter sister’s—say-so.

I jostled Tigger, balancing him onto my left hip. Who knew the little guy could be so heavy? He squirmed. I whispered, “One more minute, buddy.” I eyed Rhett. “Could I ask you a couple of questions?”

“Are they official?”

“Um, no.” I gulped. I didn’t want word getting around that I was misrepresenting myself. “Has someone official been to see you?”

“Nope.”

I relaxed a tad. At least I wasn’t stepping on Cinnamon Pritchett’s toes. Or was I? Would she consider my presence at Bait and Switch intrusive? I had the right to prove myself innocent, didn’t I?

Rhett rounded the register, righting business cards and a jar of pens on the desktop, before settling onto a wooden stool. He folded his arms. “I saw the article in the
Crystal Cove Crier
. It wasn’t a good picture of you. It didn’t do you justice.”

“What picture? What article?” A chilling alliterative headline flashed in front of my eyes:
Cookbook Nook Kook Killed Celebrity Cook
. I imagined lurid pictures sprinkled throughout the article to help visualize the story. Had Pepper Pritchett taken unfavorable candids of me setting up the shop? What if she had gotten her hands on some of the photos Desiree and I had taken during college? The toga party, the lingerie exchange, the Grateful Dead Revival.

“The article about you opening up the shop,” Rhett said. “The picture made you look about seventeen, maybe eighteen. You had pigtails and braces. You appeared to be climbing a brick wall.”

I exhaled. “Oh, that. It’s an old high school photograph. I was dubbed:
Most persevering
.” Aunt Vera must have supplied the photo.

“The article said you don’t cook much. I could teach you.”

“Really? What is your specialty? Beans from a can?”

He chortled. “Actually I used to be a chef.”

“Where?”

“The Grotto.”

A gasp slipped out of me. “That’s the restaurant that burned down.” I remembered hearing about the fire from my aunt. The four-star restaurant had been located on the second floor of Fisherman’s Village, right above our café. The wine bistro, Vines, had taken over the refurbished space. “Why didn’t you pick up a gig somewhere else?”

A cloud of sadness swept across Rhett’s face and, as quickly, vanished. “A change of pace sounded good.” He spanked the counter. The register ca-chinged. No pity parties for this guy. “I bought this place instead. It’s a good business. Great people. An easier life.”

“I’ll say. Restaurant work is demanding. I know a married couple in the City who live and breathe their restaurant, twenty-four-seven.”

“And yet you took on the café.”

“Package deal, my aunt said.” Now, of course, I understood why. My aunt’s fiancé had been a chef. “Besides, Katie Casey is managing it. The café, the food, the hours. It’s her baby.”

“Katie?” He raised a hand in measurement. “Big girl? Ho-ho-ho laugh?”

“That’s her.”

“She likes to jet ski.”

“Really?” I couldn’t picture Katie on a small watercraft with a rooster tail of foam spraying behind her.

“And parasail.”

“No way.” What did her curly hair look like after those adventures?

A customer approached the counter. Rhett said, “Give me a sec,” and rang up the sale of a pair of rods and lures. He knew the customer by name and gave him directions to a local fishing hole.

As the customer exited, I said, “He was gleeful.”

“A happy customer is a returning customer. So what did you want to ask me?”

“I have a question about hooks.”

Rhett’s face grew serious. “I heard something about a hook at the crime scene.”

Given that Katie and probably the rest of Crystal Cove knew the details of the crime scene, I had no reason not to elaborate. I explained how Desiree was buried, her body sculpted to look as if it were a mermaid. “I think the killer wanted it to seem like a big sea fisherman had snared Desiree.”

Rhett’s nose flinched. “Sick.”

“My sentiments exactly. Do you sell something that looks—” I drew an imaginary hook in the air, about five inches long and three inches wide.

“A trolling hook. Sure, we sell Mustads. Let’s check it out.” Rhett said, “Joey.” He flagged down a gawky kid who could have been Ichabod Crane’s double, all Adam’s apple and neck. “Man the register.” Rhett ushered me to the rear of the store. His hand felt warm and firm on my elbow. The scent of him, a mixture of suntan lotion and salt, made my insides quiver.

“Sorry,” Rhett said. “The stockroom is small.”

He wasn’t kidding. The room had no windows and a single exit door, only to be opened
in case of fire
.

Rhett crossed to shelving that held stacks of various-sized boxes, and he lifted a clipboard. He reviewed the top two sheets and shook his head. “All our hooks are accounted for. We started with fifty Mustad hooks at the beginning of the month. We still have fifty. I’ll tell you, however”—he replaced the clipboard on the shelf—“that those hooks could be purchased online. The Internet is my biggest competitor. Especially with no shipping charges.”

“Great,” I muttered. Anybody in the world could have bought the hook. Including me.