Final Sentence (22 page)

As I checked out at the reception desk, I scanned the place for Gigi. She wasn’t at her station. When I asked to speak with her, the appointment clerk said Gigi went window-shopping. She loved to do that, the clerk added.

I’ll bet
. I whisked my signature on the credit card receipt, added a hefty tip for Mackenzie, and hurried outside. I caught sight of Gigi veering into the Artiste Arcade across the street from Fisherman’s Village.

Eager to follow but knowing I had responsibilities to attend to first, I made a quick call to The Cookbook Nook. Even from a distance, I saw a trail of people lined up across the Fisherman’s Village parking lot. Bailey answered the telephone and assured me all was in order.

I asked what was up with the stream of customers. Bailey said Katie had made some extraordinarily delicious fish chowder laced with white wine. In addition, numerous members of a women’s book club had dropped in to survey the culinary mysteries. According to one, the group had grown tired of reading nationally bestselling
yawn
books. They wanted books with flavor.

“How was your massage?” Bailey added.

“Informative.”

“Really?”

“I’ll explain when I return.” I ended the conversation and scurried after Gigi.

The Artiste Arcade featured a brick archway adorned with purple morning glory vines. The vines’ scent wasn’t as strong at midday as in the morning, but the fragrance was still enchanting. I strode beneath the arch and halted when I spied Gigi peering into the Adorn Yourself accessory shop. The display window featured floral scarves, dangly earrings, jewelry, and glitzy hair clips. Gigi clung to the strap of her tote bag with both hands as if to keep herself from reaching out. Inside the shop, a customer haggled with a salesclerk.

Taking the direct approach, I strode to Gigi and said, “Hi. Fancy seeing you here.”

She whipped toward me and again reminded me of an intensely focused Olympic shot-putter. We had never stood face-to-face. As tall as I was, she bested me by at least three inches and outweighed me by thirty pounds. One good shove of her palm to my face would send me reeling.

“Are you okay?” I said.

“Um, yes, fine.” Gigi’s pupils narrowed; her mouth ticked up on one side; her foot began to tap. All classic signs of lying. “What do you want?”

“The truth.”

“About?”

“Anton d’Stang.”

She drew her large tote bag closer to her abdomen.

“Anton said you and he spent the evening together the night Desiree was killed.”

“Sure.”

Sure
wasn’t really
yes
.

“Are you in a relationship with him?”

“We had one date.” Her tapping foot picked up speed.

“Are you using him as your alibi to keep your own secret?”

“What do you mean?”

I nodded toward the display window. “Adorn Yourself sells pretty things. I see a couple of handsome watches. Do you need a new watch?”

She seared me with a glare and primed her claws.

I edged away, but I didn’t stop my interrogation. “Desiree found out that you were a thief, didn’t she? You took something of hers. Something that meant a lot to her, like that necklace her parents gave her or perhaps her prized autograph book.” Desiree had been collecting famous chefs’ signatures for years. “She accused you, and you got angry.”

“You’ve got it all wrong.”

“Do I? You stole my chef’s heirloom pocket watch.”

“How do you know—”

“We found it,” I said, taking the blame as much as Katie.

Gigi exhaled. “What a dolt I am. I let slip that I left my hairstylist kit in the Winnebago. Dang. I knew I should have retrieved it by now.” She jutted a hip. “Listen, I didn’t take anything of Desiree’s. Ever.”

“Not a silver pill box. No jewelry?”

“No way, and I promise she had no clue I have a weakness for . . .” She made a pinching gesture. “But you’re right. Anton figured it out. He followed me. He saw me take a wallet. And a bracelet. He took pictures. He blackmailed me and said I had to agree that I was with him that night, or he would let everyone in town know what I do.”

“So you didn’t go on a date with Anton?”

She lengthened her spine. “You already know the answer, don’t you? I mean, I assumed he told you the truth, didn’t he? Isn’t he the one who ratted me out?”

“No.”

“Who then?”

“Tito Martinez, the reporter.”

“How did he know?”

“He saw you at Art from the Heart the night Desiree died.”

“Hey, that’s good news for me, right? That means you know where I was. I’ve got an alibi.”

“Not for the whole time.”

“I didn’t kill Desiree,” she said, her voice taut. “I’ll bet Anton d’Stang did. That’s why he wanted me to lie about us having a date, don’t you think?”

“Is he an artist?”

“What does that have to do with the price of rice in China?”

“You’re an artist.”

“So?”

“The aquarium in the salon.”

Gigi huffed. “Are we playing
Jeopardy
or something? What’s your question?”

“There’s a mermaid in the grotto.”

“Big fat deal.”

“Desiree’s body was enshrined in a mermaid sand sculpture. It wasn’t a gorgeous work of art, but it took talent.”

Gigi’s eyes widened with realization. “Uh-uh. No, ma’am. You will not use the fact that I went to an art college to frame me. I did not kill Desiree. I did not create that mermaid sculpture. Heck, almost every place in Crystal Cove has an ocean theme going. I’m telling you Anton d’Stang killed her. Why else would he need me to corroborate his alibi?
And FYI, he became famous by sculpting gigantic cakes for royalty.”

Chapter 15

“A
RE YOU KIDDING me?” I clutched Gigi’s shoulders. “You’ve got to tell Chief Pritchett.”

“Let me go.” Gigi shuddered beneath my grasp.

I scanned the Artiste Arcade. I didn’t see a soul. Where had all the shoppers gone? Maybe to the beach to check out the sandcastles. The customers and saleslady in the accessories shop, still haggling, paid no attention to us.

Though Gigi wriggled to free herself, I continued to cling to her and said, “Anton d’Stang doesn’t have an alibi.”

“Mine isn’t so hot.”

“But you don’t have motive.”

Gigi rolled her lip between her teeth. “Please, let me go.”

I released her but kept my gaze firm. “The police think I killed Desiree. I didn’t. I need them to know there’s another suspect. You’ve got to tell them.”

A long moment passed before she gave a jerk of her head signifying okay.

I clapped her on the shoulder. “You’re doing the right thing. I—”

“Jenna,” my father called from behind me.

As I swiveled, Gigi rushed away. Given her long stride, she was gone from view in a nanosecond. Would she talk to the police? Should I follow her to the precinct or give her the benefit of the doubt? I didn’t get a choice. My father embraced me.

“Sweetheart.”

“Hey, Dad.”

“I was just at The Cookbook Nook.” He released me. “Actually, I was at the café having lunch. The place is packed. Katie is serving—”

“Chowder.”

“Did you taste it?”

“Not yet.” My stomach grumbled with discontent.

“It’s delicious.”

“Is everything else okay at the store?”

“Absolutely. Your aunt is in her element, giving a tarot reading to one of the customers, and Bailey was holding court with a party of women. That girl”—he tapped his head—“is a brain. Do you think she’ll stick around Crystal Cove?”

“For now.” But the job at The Cookbook Nook wouldn’t captivate her for long.

Dad slung an arm around me. “Walk with me to the hardware store.”

“Can’t. I’ve got boxes upon boxes of new cookbooks to put on shelves.” And hopefully I would receive a phone call from Cinnamon Pritchett, who would tell me her sights were set on Anton d’Stang because Gigi had cleared me of all wrongdoing.

A horn honked. Another horn blared. I swung around and caught sight of a cavalcade of antique cars motoring along Buena Vista. Vehicle occupants hung out the windows and flashed pedestrians the Hawaiian
Shaka
sign, thumbs and pinkies extended. Many sang, “
Don’t worry, be happy
.”

My father mirrored the gesture and chimed, “
Don’t worry, be happy
.” He pulled me close and gave me a squeeze.

“Dad.” I wriggled free wondering who this cuddly alien was beside me, and what had he done with my typically judgmental father?

He slipped his arm through mine. “C’mon. Let’s spend some time together. I’m only going to open the shop for a couple of hours.” One of the benefits of being retired and financially well off was that my father didn’t care if his business made money or not. “You haven’t seen the place since I spruced it up. How can you say no?”

“That’s heading in the opposite direction.”

“It’s located in the next complex.”

Seagulls squawked overhead, chiding me I was pretty sure. At Taylor & Squibb, I’d lived by schedules. Now I really didn’t have a strict schedule, and I had hired capable people at The Cookbook Nook. I needed to learn to relax and drink in the fresh sea air.

“Okay, but just for a brief look-see.”

As we strolled along, my father said, “What was going on back there between you and the hairstylist?”

“Nothing.”

“Don’t kid a kidder.”

“Really. Nothing.”

When we arrived at Nuts and Bolts, my father said, “Here we are. Do you like the new sign above the door?” The sign was made of rough-hewn wood with the store’s name carved in bold block letters and hammer and nail icons burnished into the wood on either end. “I framed it.”

I hesitated. I couldn’t see any difference from the old sign.

“It’s a good four inches wider and taller.”

“Nice,” I lied.

Dad opened the door and switched on lights. “I cleared out excess junk and added a skylight. Sunshine makes everything look better.”

The place, similar to the neighboring shops, was long and narrow. Streamlined shelves, each categorized with labels made from one of those label machines, held multiple boxes of screws, nails, and whatnot. Dad was superorganized. A plaque with a quote that Dad had drilled into our brains at a young age hung on the wall behind the checkout counter:
The primary sign of a well-ordered mind is a man’s ability to remain in one place and linger in his own company
—Seneca.

Dozens of pictures commemorating family adventures lined the wall above the quotation plaque: seashell collecting, offshore fishing, skiing. I especially loved the one of my sister, brother, and me nestled on a cascade of rocks, our faces dirty as all get-out, thanks to a long day of hiking. My siblings and I didn’t have much in common, but we loved to hit the trails.

I settled onto a stool behind one of the counters, rested my feet on a rung, and knitted my hands around my knees thinking, despite the tragic turn of events in the past week, how much I enjoyed being back in Crystal Cove. Being
home.
I reread the plaque with the Seneca quote. The words held a whole new meaning for me.

“Now are you going to talk to me or not?” Dad said.

“About?”

He twirled a finger. “That thing back at the Artiste Arcade between you and the hairstylist.”

I inhaled and released a long breath. “Is Aunt Vera correct? Was interrogation part of your secret FBI life?”

“Don’t sidetrack.” He tapped two fingers on the counter.

“You know what we were discussing at dinner last night? Well, today things turned topsy-turvy.” I explained how Katie figured out Gigi was a thief. I followed up with the points Mackenzie revealed to me during my massage session.

“Just because Desiree and Anton met that night before the murder doesn’t prove Anton killed her.” My father opened the register and counted the cash. “What about the J.P. guy? You said he was at the bar phoning her repeatedly.”

“But Anton blackmailed Gigi, and get this, he was a baker before he owned all his restaurants. A baker of massive cakes. That takes skill. He is talented enough to create the mermaid sculpture.”

Dad slammed the drawer. “Okay, now you’ve got me hooked.”

Hooked?
A frisson of fear raced from my fingertips to my skull. I twisted on the stool and gawked at the family photos.

“What are you staring at?” my father asked.

I stabbed a finger at a photograph of him and me fishing offshore. We had caught a huge rock cod. The hook we used was at least five inches long. “What if . . . what if . . . someone saw that picture of us snaring the rock cod. Like Anton d’Stang. What if he came in here and spied that photo?”

“He’s never been in here.”

“He was in disguise the first day I set eyes on him. Maybe he came here dressed up, too. What if he saw the photograph and got an idea to frame me, so he stole the trowel from the shop, and he . . . he . . .” I flapped my arms. “What if Cinnamon Pritchett sees the photo? She’ll think I was inspired to sculpt Desiree into a fish—”