Final Sentence (24 page)

Five minutes into my rant, I found myself back in the kitchen facing the recipe and the bag of ingredients. Would baking truly help me calm down?

Following Katie’s suggestion, I switched on the television and located the Food Network. I couldn’t believe it. Though I rarely watched TV, I had landed on a repeat of the
Radical Cake Battle
show that Desiree had judged. Contestants and their assistants raced around their individual kitchens. Dora the Lady in Red, wielded a chainsaw; Leo the Latin Lover brandished a blowtorch; Macbeth the Gay Blade hacked with an axe. Like I told Katie, not quite my cup of tea, even with Desiree’s appearance. I clicked the dial until I found the Travel Channel and Anthony Bourdain’s
No Reservations.
Bourdain was on a food tour of Greece. While he educated his audience about the wild foods found on the islands, I fetched a mixing bowl, measuring cup, and spoon. Next, I pulled a cube of butter from the refrigerator. Katie had reminded me not to cheat on the recipe; I had to use butter, not oil or lard. As the oven preheated, I measured oats and flour, sugar and butter. I cracked eggs. I added vanilla, chocolate chips, and nuts. By the time I had put all the ingredients into the bowl, I was salivating but my palms were clammy. Not from fear. I had put the killer from my mind. No, I was worried that my cookies would stink. I questioned whether I had added baking soda or baking powder. I tasted the raw batter. Not bad. Memories of myself, as a kid, sneaking tablespoons of batter and my mother rapping my knuckles playfully with a wooden spoon, rushed through me.

Fifteen minutes later, I pulled my first batch of chocolate chip cookies from the oven. Obeying the recipe’s directions to the letter, I let them rest on the cookie sheet for two minutes. Next, I transferred them, using a spatula, to paper towels to cool. Unable to restrain myself, I snatched two.
Hot, hot, hot.
I juggled them between hands, fetched some kibble for Tigger, and retreated to the comfort of my sofa. The kitty sprang into my lap and snuggled into a ball. By this time, Bourdain—Tony to his friends—was sipping ouzo, a licorice-tasting liqueur David used to enjoy. As the show shifted to commercial, I heard a thud.

A shiver skittered along my skin. I seized the television remote, hit the mute button, and listened. The thud hadn’t come from shutters banging; it hadn’t been wood on wood. And it hadn’t sounded like clackety-clack. Old Jake hadn’t just passed by.

I plunked Tigger on the floor and darted to the window. I pushed back the drape. My breath caught in my throat. White powder dusted the pane.
What the heck?
Off in the distance, I spied movement. A tall figure stood on the beach. Man, woman, or dystopian teen, I couldn’t tell. I released the drape and stumbled back a step. Was the lurker a killer, prepared to dispatch me now that Gigi was gone? What had he or she thrown at the cottage? Should I call Aunt Vera and ask her to save me? Was she even home?

Taking charge, I galloped toward the landline telephone. At the same time, my cell phone jangled. I swept it up and stared at the readout:
Whitney
, my sister. Wonderful, winsome Whitney. I stabbed Enter and said, “Hi. I’m so glad you called. There’s a—”

I hurried back to the window and peeked out. Whoever had been standing on the beach was gone. Maybe the figure had been Old Jake, after all, except I couldn’t make out a sand raking machine anywhere. A vehicle that large would be hard to miss, wouldn’t it? And why would he have hurled white powder at my window? I weighed whether to tell Whitney; if I was wrong and the intruder was nothing more than a kid carrying out a prank, she would lord my fear over me for years. “What’s up?” I crooned like a phony.

“Have you heard from Mitchell?”

“Why would I have?” When our mother died, our brother turned to Whitney for solace. It didn’t matter that, growing up, he and I had spent hours going on hikes and exploring creeks or that I had helped him TP the house of the boy that had shoved his head into a toilet. Mitchell had beaten the kid, fair and square, at the science expo. I didn’t blame my brother for throwing me over for Whitney. I had been in a state of disconnect.

“He’s missing.” Whitney sounded panicked. She
never
panicked.

“Maybe he’s doing a supersecret house design. Remember that millionaire he worked for? The guy required that Mitchell live in the house and never make a phone call. He was incommunicado for how long?”

“I’m telling you he’s missing. We’ve been in touch every day for the past month.”

“Why?”

“We’re planning a surprise party for Dad.”

Oh, really? Without including me? Wicked, waspish Whitney. My worry over her panic vanished. A pang of rejection cut through me. “I’m sure—”

The doorbell rang. I nearly leaped out of my skin.

“Is someone at your door?” Whitney shouted. “Maybe it’s Mitchell.”

Or a killer. But would a killer ring the bell? Would my brother visit me out of the blue? “Calm down,” I said, though I was far from composed.

The visitor pounded on the door. “Jenna?” The voice belonged to my father.

“It’s Dad,” I said into the phone and sped to the entrance. Tigger scampered behind me. After peering through the peephole to make sure whoever was on the other side hadn’t duped me by imitating my father’s voice, I whipped open the door. I glanced past my father to see if anyone was lurking beyond him. No one. My fear of immediate danger lessened.

“Where’s Mitchell?” My father pushed past me. “Your sister called.”

“I’m on the phone with her now.” I pointed at the receiver. “Whitney—”

“Don’t spoil the surprise,” she said.

Oh, yeah, like I would. “Why did you call Dad before me?” I asked her.

“Jenna . . .”

I made a face. How I despised my sister’s condescending tone. “Don’t worry. If I have to drive to Napa myself, I’ll find our brother.” First, of course, I would explain to Chief Pritchett where I was going.

My cell phone bleeped. A second call was coming in:
Mitchell.
I felt a momentary elation. He had dialed me before our sister.

I said, “Wait. Mitchell is on the other line.”

“Thank heavens.”

I pressed the Hold then Answer buttons. “Hey, little bro, where are you?”

“In hiding. I couldn’t take any more surprise party calls. You know about that, right?” He didn’t wait for my response. “I needed air. I went to an ashram. You get it, right? Our sister likes to plan ad infinitum.”

I laughed. We chatted for a second, got caught up on his latest house design—a ten-thousand-square-foot ranch house with an overlook of Napa—and blew kisses good-bye. I returned to my sister, assured her that our brother was okay, and promised to call her soon with an update. She didn’t mention Desiree’s murder. I was glad.

Upon ending the call, I found my father pacing the kitchen. “Are you okay?” I asked.

“Wound up.” He ogled the cookies.

“Hungry?”

“Are they any good?”

I nodded with confidence. They weren’t Famous Amos or Mrs. Fields, and they were a tad crispy, but they tasted delicious. I filled a plate with cookies, strode to the couch, and patted the seat beside me. My father sat down, took a treat, and then reached for my hand.

“What are we watching?” he asked.

“Cooking shows.” I cranked up the volume.

Dad bit into a cookie and hummed his appreciation. When the next commercial appeared, he said, “I miss your mother.”

“I’m sure you do.”

“She wouldn’t have overreacted to your sister calling.”

“David wouldn’t have either. He would have said Whitney was the one acting dramatic.”

My father smiled. “How are you doing?”

“Every time I see a ship on the ocean, a piece of me dies.” Raw emotions stuck in my chest. I ordered them to crawl back into their hiding place. “And now, with this whole murder thing and being a suspect? David would have told me to remain aloof, but how can I, huh? Pepper continues to harass me.”

“I’m sorry.”

“After I saw you at the hardware shop, she brought Cinnamon to The Cookbook Nook. Pepper brought up that rally arrest years ago. She vilified me, and now”—I jumped to my feet and jerked a thumb at the rear window—“I’m acting all scared and girlie because I hear creepy noises outside the house, and I see figures on the beach that freak me out, and—”

“Where? When?”

“Right before you showed up. Someone threw something at the window. White powder.”

My father dashed outside. James Bond couldn’t have acted more courageous. He returned seconds later with an empty bag. “Flour,” he said.

“Flour?”

“Baker’s Mix.”

“I’ll bet those hooligans who let out the air of the Winnebago tires did this.”

“The who?”

“Forget it. The wind will clean it off.”

He tossed the empty Baker’s Mix bag into the garbage can by the sink. Remnants of flour billowed upward. Out of nowhere, I envisioned an ominous spirit bursting from the white cloud and scavenging the cottage. The lid closed. The vision vanished.

My father strode back to me. “If it’s any consolation, your sister says that you’re one of the strongest people she has ever met.”

“No way.”

“Way.”

• • •

MY FATHER SPENT
the night on my couch. He claimed he was so tired that he couldn’t drive home, but I knew better. The call from Whitney and my overwrought state had rattled him. On Tuesday morning, as the sun rose and warmed the cottage, I made my father coffee. We nibbled cookies and drank in silence. When he left and I realized the shop was closed, I decided to take our official day off and address my fears.

I secured Tigger in his air-conditioned beach cage and, barefoot, with an easel, canvas, and charcoal pencil in hand, traipsed to the beach—my intent, to sketch the images that plagued me: a raging ocean, a teetering sailboat, and a mermaid-shaped sandcastle. When I finished, I planned to hurl the painting into the water and beg the tide to lure my two-dimensional ship of sadness to another place.

The beach was deserted. Offshore breezes blew horizontally across the ocean. Seagulls greeted me with their shrieks. I placed Tigger’s cage on the sand, erected my easel, and set to work.

The first stroke of black charcoal on white canvas infused me with energy and, with the vitality, came inspiration. I thought of David and how, whenever he caught me painting, he would tiptoe behind me and trace a finger down my spine. It was his way of saying he loved me without interrupting my alpha state of heightened creativity.

As a picture took shape on the page, an image formed in my mind—a memory of the morning Desiree died. The temperature hovered in the sixties. A breeze wafted through the fronds of the palms. I spied the treasure hunters and the lone surfer. Seconds later, I spotted the sand sculpture with Desiree’s body buried beneath.

A fleeting notion made me shift to an earlier moment in my timeline. To the surfer. How long had he been floating, waiting to catch a wave? Some surfers went on what they liked to call dawn patrol, taking to the water before the sun rose. Had he? I had told Cinnamon about the surfer. Had she discovered his identity?

I scanned the ocean. To my surprise, I glimpsed a solitary surfer straddling a surfboard on the water to the north. Where had he come from? He acknowledged me with a gesture akin to saluting. Was it a signal that he saw me . . . he knew me . . . he killed Desiree and Gigi . . . and he was coming after me? Fear jagged my insides. I staggered backward; my heel rammed against Tigger’s cage.

A wave sw
elled behind the surfer. He leaped to a stand on his board.

I sprang to action.

Chapter 17

W
ITH MY PULSE
pounding so hard it throbbed in my ears, I shoved my pencils into my satchel, snatched the easel, canvas, and Tigger in his cage, and bolted from the ocean. Sand etched the bottoms of my feet. Seagulls scudded ahead of me as if leading a brigade. Did the surfer know where I lived? Was he the stranger who had hurled a bag of flour at my window? Did I dare go home?
Halt, Jenna
, I chided myself.
Slow down. Rethink this.
But I couldn’t stop fleeing. The guy was racing toward the shore as fast as a cigarette speedboat.

I glanced at my aunt’s house. Her car was gone. Yesterday she mentioned that she had an early morning meeting with fellow psychics; she must have left. I didn’t know any of the neighbors. How would they react if I landed on their doorstep and begged to come inside?

Down the strand, I spied The Pier. People milled about on the boardwalk. I caught sight of the silver Pier flag glimmering on a pole near Bait and Switch and thought of clear-headed Rhett Jackson. Maybe he could reel me back to earth.

Minutes later, I charged into the huge warehouse out of breath. Customers stopped browsing the sales racks and gawked at me. I skidded to a stop. Carrying Tigger in his cage and all my other gear, I must have looked like I intended to move in. Tough. I scanned the aisles for Rhett, but I didn’t see any sign of him.