Final Sentence (20 page)

“Vera, what do you think?” Bailey said. “I hear you get vibes.”

My father wiggled his fingers overhead. “O-o-ooh. Vera gets vibes.”

“Don’t make fun, Cary,” Aunt Vera said. “I
do
get vibes. ESP, if you will.”

“Hot flashes,” Dad joked.

Aunt Vera folded her arms on the table and glowered at him. “There have been government studies done on mind control.”

“Mind control is one thing. ESP is entirely another.”

“Is it?” Aunt Vera taunted. “How can you be so sure, Cary? What exactly did you do for the FBI? Will you ever reveal your secret? How do I know you weren’t involved in some
Manchurian Candidate
experiment yourself?” The FBI had given my father the job description
analyst
, but there were times when he left home for weeks. Afterward my mother would press him for details. He would claim what he did was hush-hush.

“All right, all right, Vera.” My father held up his hands and laughed. “I concede. You have ESP.”

“Sadly, however, I have no vibes about this murder,” Aunt Vera said.

“Hey, everyone.” Bailey clapped her hands. “I’ve got an idea. I think Jenna should get a massage with the new guy so she can do some reconnaissance. All in favor?”

Katie, Bailey, and my aunt said, “Aye.” Dad grunted.

“What?” I yelped. “No, uh-uh, no way.” Getting a haircut to learn the truth was one thing, but going for a massage? I hadn’t felt a
man’s hands on my body since David died. I couldn’t, could I?

Chapter 13

A
DENSE WALL OF
fog packed the seashore Monday morning. Luckily the gloom didn’t translate into lack of sales. In fact, the weather might have encouraged the passel of families and children to shop rather than head for the beaches to practice their sandcastle skills. Katie’s tasty cranberry chocolate muffins might have had something to do with the size of the swelling crowd, as well.

“Mmmm.” Bailey took a second bite-sized muffin from the tier of goodies, peeled off the wrapper, and popped it into her mouth. “The flavor is divine,” she mumbled between bites. “If I keep eating like this, I’m going to grow into the size of that blueberry girl in
Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory.
” One thing Bailey and I shared in common was our love of books. One day over lunch while at Taylor & Squibb, we realized we had read not only the complete collection of Nancy Drew books but the entire set of Agatha Christie Hercule Poirot mysteries, as well. “Remember the blueberry girl?” Bailey puffed out her cheeks. I laughed.

A few customers who were inspecting the aprons display stopped and gawked at us. Bailey, a bit of an exhibitionist, waved and yelled, “Hi, folks. Once you’re done buying a couple of knickknacks and cookbooks, make your way into the café for a midmorning coffee and pastry. You won’t be disappointed.” She bumped my hip with hers. “By the way, did you see the recent order catalog from Ingram’s?”

Ingram’s was the major book distributor in the world, with over two million titles. We ordered books from other distributors, but Ingram’s supplied our mainstay.

“I found some top-selling cookbooks that we don’t have on the shelves.
The Cook’s Illustrated Cookbook: 2,000 Recipes from 20 Years of America’s Most Trusted Cooking Magazine
and
Guy Fieri Food: Cookin’ It, Livin’ It, Lovin’ It
. You know about Guy Fieri, right?”

“I saw him on the Food Network. He visits diners around America? I love his spiky hair and his
joie de vivre
.”

“He’s a cutie. Also, I noticed
Everyday Food: Great Food Fast
, by Martha Stewart, was on the Ingram’s list. We don’t have any of her cookbooks, and though she’s not my cup of tea, I’m sure she’ll appeal to many of our moms on the go.”

“Does her cookbook have lots of photographs?”

“Plenty.”

Our customers preferred cookbooks with eye-catching pictures. “Write the titles on the order sheet, and we’ll get them.”

The front door opened and a pair of bronzed surfer girls shuffled in and made a beeline to the natural foods cookbook section. Right behind them, a swarm of preschool girls buzzed in, followed by what I assumed were their mothers.

One girl shrieked, “Oh, look, a kitty.” The rest echoed her, and they darted to the children’s corner and pounced on Tigger. Luckily the little guy loved affection. Soon I heard the girls singing, “
But the cat
came back, she wouldn’t stay away, she was sitting on the porch the very next day
”—lyrics I had heard the Muppets sing years ago. Too sweet.

“Jenna, you have a phone call.” Aunt Vera, wearing an ocean-patterned caftan, stood at the sales counter and brandished the telephone receiver.

“Who is it?”

“Chief Pritchett.”

A sinking feeling gripped my insides. Cinnamon must have decided that the answering machine message from Desiree, along with the suspicious trowel and my history, gave her enough evidence to haul me in and book me. I was doomed. Perhaps I should ask her who stood to inherit Desiree’s estate.
A good offense was the best defense
, my father would say.

Anxiety Poppity Pop popping inside me, I hurried to the telephone. Using a steady voice, I said, “Hi, there.” Too casual? Too bad.

“I have the answering machine to return to you,” Cinnamon said. I heard pages moving in the background. Was she leafing through my future arrest record?

“And . . .”

“And I’ve decided there’s nothing I can prove with Miss Divine’s message.”

My shoulders loosened. Another day of freedom. “Do you know that the famous restaurateur Anton d’Stang is in town?”

“I do.”

I was pleased to hear that she was on top of things. “Are you going to question him?”

“Perhaps.”

“Might I ask who stands to inherit Desiree’s money?”

“You may.”

Wow, she was being cryptic. I said, “You won’t tell me?”

“I’m waiting for a call from Miss Divine’s attorney. Good day, Miss Hart.”

I hung up, my stomach snarling into a knot again. No news was typically good news, but in this case, no news stirred my overactive imagination to send me to jail.
Do not pass
Go
.

Bailey hurried toward me wearing a bright turquoise, supertight Cookbook Nook T-shirt. What had she done with her other chic top? “What do you think?” She paraded in a circle, arms out. “We have a pile in the storeroom. Your Aunt Vera ordered them.”

“Let’s lose it,” I said. “Matching T-shirts are too theme park for me.”

Bailey folded her hands in prayer. “Praise the pope. I was hoping you’d say that. Will you tell your aunt?”

“Absolutely. Go change.”

As she clip-clopped in her wedge heels toward the back room—the girl had more shoes than Saks Fifth Avenue’s shoe salon—she said over her shoulder, “By the way, I made an eleven o’clock massage appointment for you at the Permanent Wave Salon and Spa today with Desiree’s former masseur. You’re looking tense.” She hiccupped with laughter as she exited.

At the same time, Katie ran in, her face white with fear. “It’s gone.”

“What’s gone?”

“My heirloom watch.” She tapped the front of her white jacket where she normally pinned the pocket watch.

“Haven’t you switched out jackets since yesterday?”

“No. I mean, yes, of course. I can’t seem to make a meal without making a mess.” She was kidding. We had done a smack-down job of leaving my father’s kitchen spic and span last night, and I hadn’t gotten a splatter of food on me. “But I always unhook the watch,” she went on. “And I methodically pin it to my next uniform. I hung the jacket in the closet in the kitchen.” She pointed toward the café. “Someone stole it.”

“Do you think it was one of the staff?”

“I don’t know. It could have been, I guess. I can’t imagine . . .” She covered her mouth with the back of her hand then lowered it as tears pooled in her eyes. “It was my grandpa’s, on my mother’s side. It means everything to Mama. If she finds out . . .”

I didn’t want to point out that her mother had Alzheimer’s and wouldn’t likely remember tomorrow what someone told her today.

“You’ve got to help me find it,” Katie wailed.

“Find what?” Bailey returned, wearing the silky summer sweater that matched her capris. Much better.

I filled her in.

My aunt moseyed to us. “Is it possible . . .” She left the sentence hanging.

“Is what possible?”

Aunt Vera flapped her hand. “I hate to speak ill, but I saw . . .”

Again with the dangling.

“Saw what?” I prompted.

“The first day Desiree was here, Gigi came into The Cookbook Nook before everyone else. She said she needed to use the bathroom. The one in the Winnebago wasn’t working.” My aunt pointed at the hallway connecting the shop to the café. “She had time to . . . you know . . .”

“But it only went missing now,” Katie said.

“Maybe she came back,” Aunt Vera replied. “Maybe that day she was casing the joint, as they say.”

I thought of the first time I met Gigi in the Winnebago, when I was on the hunt for Desiree and J.P. She wore so much jewelry—beads, bracelets, earrings. And the other day, when I saw her tiptoeing out of the dressing room at the salon. At first, she had acted peeved at the appointment clerk, but in review, Gigi had looked mortified. She shoved her hands into her apron pockets. Had we interrupted her while she was filching someone’s stuff?

The door to the shop opened and Tito Martinez hustled inside, an iPad tucked under his arm, a cell phone in his hand. “Morning, everyone.” He seemed chipper for someone who, the day before, had accused a dead woman of pilfering his ideas. “Thought I’d browse.”

To swipe some recipes for his e-book cookbook? I mused.

Be nice, Jenna.
Everyone in town was free to peruse the shelves, and if someone picked up a tip for a recipe, so be it. The thing that made cookbooks unique was the personality behind the book. The cook, the chef, the voice in the dialogue about each recipe. A recipe box filled with recipes had a story to tell.
The French Laundry Cookbook
, written by the famous chef Thomas Keller, didn’t sell simply because of the recipes; it sold because of the saga. Keller related how he started the famous French Laundry restaurant in Yountville, California, and the pictures he included, starting with the beautifully lit table settings and the pastoral garden photographs, were phenomenal.

Katie plucked my sleeve. “What do you think about Gigi being the culprit?”

“She did your hair, Jenna,” Aunt Vera said. “Did you get a vibe?” Her eyes widened. “Ahh. You did. Speak up.” So much for me having a poker face. My aunt shook her fingers as if summoning otherworldly spirits. “Trust your instincts.”

I told them about Gigi’s guilty reaction as she exited the dressing room at the salon.

Bailey said, “Remember the gal at Taylor & Squibb who kept stealing pens from the stock room? They caught her on a security camera. Does the Permanent Wave have one of those?”

“Who are you talking about?” Tito said, homing in on our private conversation.

“Nobody,” the group responded.

“Don’t kid a kidder. I have supersonic hearing.” Tito drew his fingers up to a point at the tops of his ears. If only I had a dog whistle.

“Who are you?” Bailey cut a look from Tito to me.

“This is Tito Martinez,” I said. “Local reporter for the
Crystal Cove Crier
and wannabe cookbook author.”

“Not wannabe,” Tito said. “I write cookbooks on the side.”

“One,” my aunt said. “You’ve written one. And the recipes are your grandmother’s.”

Katie elbowed Bailey and twirled her finger by her head, signifying the man was loco.

“Fine. Whatever,” Tito said. “You’re talking about Gigi Goode, aren’t you?”

I stepped toward him. “You know Gigi?”

“I know everyone in town. Ev-er-y-one.” Tito carved the air with a finger. “And I’ve thought she was a thief for ages. Want to know why? Because at night, I’d see her cruising the streets, window-shopping supposedly.”

I shifted feet. “We all window-shop.”

“Late at night.
Real
late. And then, get this, the other night, I caught her sizing up a place. It was that Art from the Heart jewelry store. Gigi went inside and she started pawing everything.”

I liked to touch when I shopped, too. That didn’t make me a thief. “Did you see her take anything?”

“Well, no.”

“When was this?”

“Friday at midnight.”

“You’re lying. No stores are open at midnight.”

“The whole arcade was. They were having an all-night supersale. Some stupid promotional thing.”

“Are you sure of the day?” I said. “That was the night Desiree was killed.”

Tito rubbed his formidable chin. “Yep. Gigi was in there for at least a half hour. I was just hanging around, waiting for her to pinch something so I could get the goods on her.”