Final Sentence (23 page)

“A mermaid.”

“And I sank a hook into her mouth because . . . because . . .” I stopped myself. The words coming out of me were saturated with paranoia. I knew in the
sane
part of my brain that no one was going to think I murdered Desiree based on an ages-old photo and a fingerprint-less trowel, but if more evidence mounted up . . .

My father steadied me. “Breathe, Tootsie Pop. Stick to the facts.”

“Cinnamon Pritchett thinks I killed Desiree, Dad.”

“She does not.”

“It’s just like with David, all over again. Water cooler gossip. Town gossip. It’s the same thing. I don’t have an alibi for the night Desiree died.”

“You also don’t have a motive.”

“There’s the rumor about David and Desiree.”

“Which Sabrina rescinded.”

I snapped my fingers. “I know what I’ll do. I’ll take the photo to Cinnamon myself. That’ll prove it means nothing. You’re the one who says, ‘The best defense is a good offense.’” I rushed toward the photograph.

My father tore after me and gripped my shoulders. “Leave it.”

“Dad.”

“Get hold of yourself. Cinnamon will not leap to conclusions.”

There it was again. The tender tone in his voice when he said her name. Curiosity got the better of me. I wrested free of his hold. “Why didn’t you ever tell me you were her mentor?”

“It was on a need-to-know basis.”

“I need to know. Why did you do it? Why her? I get that she had a tough life. Fine. But why you?”

He rubbed his chin, deliberating. “Your mother asked me to.”

“Mom? Why?”

“Your mother was such a special woman.” He smiled. His eyes grew moist. “She couldn’t sit by and watch Cinnamon go down the tubes. She felt, in some screwy way, that Cinnamon’s existence was her fault. She said Cinnamon shouldn’t suffer because of the foibles of the parents. She said Cinnamon’s father, the cad, had done wrong, and I, Mr. Do It by the Book—that’s what your mother called me—should teach the girl otherwise.”

“Didn’t Pepper object?”

“At first. But once she realized there weren’t a lot of people willing to step in . . .” My father moved behind the sales counter and opened and closed a drawer. For no reason. “Pepper loved Cinnamon. She realized something had to be done. Cinnamon and I met once a week, on Saturdays. Over the course of time, I taught her that doing the right thing was what would make her different from her father.”

“Why didn’t you introduce us? Why didn’t you bring her over to our house?” I held up a hand. “Don’t answer. I know why. Pepper wouldn’t allow it. She didn’t want her precious daughter anywhere near Mom, the woman who stole you away.”

My father reached across the counter and grabbed my hand. “Cinnamon will do right by you. I promise.”

• • •

IN THE END,
my father convinced me. I left the photograph on the wall of his hardware store. By the time I returned to The Cookbook Nook, I was calm but thirsty. Mackenzie had advised me to hydrate. Maybe that was my problem; I was parched. I hustled into the store and found Bailey perched on a chair beside the vintage kitchen table. She sat with her arm extended, palm up, to my aunt.

Aunt Vera traced a finger along Bailey’s hand and blinked repeatedly. “You will meet a man in the village,” she intoned as if in a trance—all part of her act. “He will be very tall.”

Bailey snickered. “To me that could be anyone over five feet.”

Aunt Vera gave Bailey a scathing look.

“Sorry, Vera, I know I’m supposed to be serious. Go on.” Bailey caught sight of me and said, “Hey, stranger, welcome back. How was the massage?”

“Shh,” Aunt Vera said. “I need to concentrate.”

Bailey mimed for me to talk anyway.

“Informative.” I kept my paranoid overreaction at the hardware shop to myself. I saw no reason to foster rumors about my mental status.

Bailey tried to withdraw her hand from my aunt’s, but Aunt Vera held on tightly.

Aunt Vera gasped. “This man will hurt you.”

“Hurt her?” I said.

Bailey frowned. “She means he’ll break my heart. Tell him to get in line.” She freed herself, hobbled to a stand, and brushed off her stylish capris and silky peasant blouse. “Every man I’ve ever known has broken my heart, including a brat in kindergarten that trapped me behind the tree in the schoolyard to give me a smooch. Did anybody ever break your heart, Vera?”

It was my turn to say, “Shh.”

Aunt Vera’s face paled. She stood up and tucked a stray hair behind an ear. “Yes, dear, a man broke my heart into a million pieces.” Without another word, she strode to the rear of the shop and disappeared into the office.

“Gee, I’m sorry,” Bailey said. “What happened?”

I explained.

Bailey shook her head. “He left her at the altar and married somebody else? Wow. And then he died. Why?”

“I don’t know.”

“Nothing’s worse than not knowing why.”

Actually, nothing was worse than not knowing where the body of the man you loved ended up. Closure was highly underrated. But I wasn’t about to argue the point. The past was the past.
Movin’ on.
“Where are all the customers?” I said. “Did you scare them away?”

“Haven’t you noticed? Our customer traffic seems to ebb and flow with the café traffic. They come in midmorning and at lunch and dinnertime. Speaking of which, did you eat?”

“Not yet.”

As if on cue, Katie strolled into the shop carrying a tray filled with soup bowls and a basket of aromatic bread. “Hungry?” she asked.

“Famished.” I grasped a spoon and one of the bowls from the tray and nestled at the table. How I relished our midafternoon tastings. “Is this the soup I heard people stood in line for?” I took a bite.

“Nope. It’s a new one I concocted for dinner. Bacon leek with melted Brie.”

“Scrumptious. What’s the spice?”

“Who needs spice when there’s bacon?” Katie chortled. “Glad you like it. When you’re done with that, I set a few lemon cookies in the hallway.”

“Which reminds me,” Bailey said. “We got a stack of new cookie cookbooks today. One is titled
Chewy Gooey Crispy Crunchy Melt-in-Your-Mouth Cookies.
Doesn’t that sound sinful? I especially loved the pictures of the meringues. And
Sticky, Chewy, Messy, Gooey: Desserts for the Serious Sweet Tooth
has a recipe for chocolate chip cookie pizza.”

“Wow,” I said. “To die for.”

“And last but not least,
Sweet Designs: Bake It, Craft It, Style It
, by Amy Atlas.”

“Craft it?”

“Atlas is a home baker and party planner. According to online reviews, she transforms a sugar cookie into something extraordinary.”

I slurped down more of the tasty soup and sighed. “Eating soup and hearing about sweets is way better than a massage.”

“Hoo-boy. I almost forgot. Tell us what you found out from the masseur.” Katie set the tray on the table and settled on a chair opposite me. Tigger bolted into the room and nudged Katie’s ankles. She ripped off a bite of bread and set it on the floor by his nose. He downed it in one bite and begged for more.

Playing bad guy, I said, “Uh-uh, kitty.” Tigger mewled and opened his eyes wide. I stifled a grin. “Nice try.”

“Oh, no!” Katie cried. “No, no, no.” She pointed toward the parking lot.

I swiveled in my seat.
Oh, no!
was an understatement. Pepper, dressed in yet another unflattering gray outfit that made her look like a prison warden ready to lock me up in solitary confinement, pushed her daughter toward the entrance of The Cookbook Nook. Cinnamon appeared resistant but not nearly enough for my liking. Hadn’t Gigi Goode contacted her? Ooh, why had I listened to my father? I should have been proactive. I should have gone to the precinct with the incriminating—albeit ancient—photograph. Dang.

“There you are.” Pepper prodded Cinnamon into the shop and blocked the doorway with her broad frame. Did she think I would try to bolt? How could I hide, in this day and age, without someone locating me by a superultra satellite gizmo?

I stood up and did my best to look innocent yet powerful. If only I didn’t detect the scent of massage oil at the roots of my hair and feel oil clinging to my arms and legs. “Hi, Pepper,” I said. “Don’t you look lovely today? I like the chic silver beading.”

“Don’t mollycoddle me,” Pepper said. “I have conducted a personal investigation into your past.” She plucked a ream of papers from her steel gray tote. “I have dirt.”

“What are you talking about?” I took a step forward. Katie and Bailey flanked me as if they were stalwart troops. Tigger crouched in front of me as if ready to attack Pepper at my command.

“You, missy, demonstrated in San Francisco.”

Again with the
missy?
What was up with that? My insides simmered.

Pepper brandished the papers. “You hit a cop. You’re violent.” She eyeballed her daughter. “I told you she’s capable of murder.”

Quickly I described the demonstration, one that concerned unfair pay for women. The cop—a female—grabbed my
Equal Pay Every Day
sign
.
I reached for the sign. My purse swung ahead of me and whacked the cop on the hip. I apologized, but she wrote up a report. I paid a modest fine. “I’m not capable of murder.”

“Yes, you are,” Pepper said.

“I am not, you wicked—” I stopped short and regarded Cinnamon. Was it really possible that she shared the same DNA with the despicable woman beside her? “Didn’t Gigi Goode come to the station and file a report, Chief?”

“No.”

Swell
.
As fast as I could, I explained how Anton d’Stang, a former king-sized cake maker, had blackmailed Gigi.

“Cinnamon, you can’t believe what she’s saying,” Pepper said. “This is biased information.”

“It is not,” I said. “Anton lied, don’t you see? He created an alibi for himself, and he—”

“That doesn’t make him guilty,” Pepper cut me off.

“But one minor infraction, years ago in my past, and I
am
guilty?”

“Not one,” Pepper countered. “Many.”

I opened my arms. “C’mon, Chief Pritchett. Find Gigi. She works at the Permanent Wave Salon and Spa. Call her.”

Cinnamon held up a finger as she pulled her cell phone off her utility belt. She dialed and told the person she reached to link her to the salon. Soon after, Cinnamon identified herself and asked for Gigi. She listened and offered cryptic responses: “She hasn’t? When was the last time? Yes, please, and her address.” Cinnamon disconnected and stood zombie-like for a moment.

“What?” My stomach knot
ted up.

“Gigi Goode has disappeared. Her coworker thinks she split town.”

Chapter 16

I
LOOKED TO
Katie and Bailey for support. They stood beside the vintage kitchen table, their mouths agape. I whipped my focus to Cinnamon and her miserable mother. “But Gigi can’t have split,” I said. “She’s . . . she’s . . .” The cogs in my brain kicked into high gear. “Wait. What if Gigi hasn’t left town? What if something horrible happened to her? What if the person who killed Desiree murdered Gigi?”

“Oh, no, you don’t.” Pepper shook her fist. “You can’t wangle out of this with
that
.”

“Huh?” I said. Even an English teacher would have a tough time diagramming Pepper’s sentence.

“You have an overly active imagination,” Pepper said.

No, I had a deep-seated desire for everyone to believe I was innocent.

“Mother, please, be quiet.” Cinnamon zeroed in on me. “I will look into this, but for now . . .” She let the sentence hang. She didn’t have to say what I knew was on the tip of her tongue:
Don’t leave town
.

I didn’t tell Katie, Bailey, or my aunt about the massage or tracking down Gigi or anything else, for that matter. I could hardly form thoughts. An hour later, when I couldn’t concentrate on work any longer, I gathered Tigger and left for home. Katie, who was as worried as a mother hen, scuttled from the café and shoved a recipe and a grocery bag of ingredients for homemade chocolate chip cookies into my arms. “Baking will make you feel better,” she said. “Promise. Let it take your mind off things. Turn on the TV. Relax.”

Relax?
I could barely breathe. What had happened to Gigi? Had the killer seen me questioning her? Had she run? Had she come to harm? Was I in danger, too?

• • •

I RUSHED INTO
the cottage and locked the door. Fear morphing into anger, I dumped the grocery bag of goodies noisily on the counter and cursed. How dare Pepper Pritchett invade my shop. How dare she accuse me of murder . . . again. Why were bitter people allowed to exist in this world? I stormed around the place, kicking the feet of chairs and spanking the tops of tables. Tigger followed in my wake, meowing and chuffing. Poor little guy couldn’t ask what was wrong, and I wasn’t in the mood to provide an answer to a cat.