Final Sentence (30 page)

“How am I supposed to do that? You think I’m guilty.”

“I’ve never said that.”

“Not directly, but you’ve found planted evidence and you’ve received erroneous witness statements, and on a daily basis, your mother is trolling for more of my so-called shady past. How could you not?”

“I am pursuing other leads.”

“Like what?”

Cinnamon inhaled then exhaled as if she were trying to rein in a retort.

I said, “Don’t you see this whole affair has changed my life? Not only have I lost a good friend, and not only am I trying to prove myself innocent, but I’ve become jumpy. I’m scared to enter my cottage without a full perimeter check. I’m afraid to make eye contact with surfers and sandcastle builders.”

“Because you’re making yourself a target,” Cinnamon cut in. “Which is why I’m asking you nicely, for the last time, to back off. I am doing my job. Do you understand me?”

“Yes.” I bit my lip and drew blood to keep myself from saying another word. As I hung up, however, I realized she hadn’t said categorically that she thought I was innocent.

• • •

I APOLOGIZED TO
my friends for being a lousy date, and I drove to my cottage, fingers drumming the steering wheel. Nervous energy writhed beneath my skin. As I pulled past my aunt’s house, I flared the headlights at the front of the cottage and examined the azaleas and hydrangeas for interlopers. No sign of anything out of the ordinary. I yanked a flashlight—the hefty kind, nearly two feet long and as heavy as a sledgehammer—from beneath the front seat of my VW bug and made a tour of the cottage. I didn’t see a soul. No one on the beach, not even Old Jake driving his tractor.

Feeling a little bit safer, I slipped into the cottage. Tigger scampered to me and danced around my feet. He pawed my bare toes. I scooped him up and tucked him into my neck. “Missed you, too, handsome.” Tears pressed at the corners of my eyes and I moaned. One margarita and I was a weepy mess. Swell. I swiped the waterworks off my face and traipsed to the window. I scanned the beach and wished I felt confident enough to take a late evening stroll. The moon hung high in the sky. A long strand of light cut a path to the window. I couldn’t see anyone roaming the beach, and yet a ripple of panic shimmied down my spine. I checked the window locks and prepared a snack of sliced cheddar cheese. I took the plate and a bottle of sparkling water to the kitchen table, then I fetched a sketch pad and piece of charcoal and I settled into a chair.

Tucking one foot under my rump, I closed my eyes and began an old relaxation technique that my mother taught me. She said free-form sketching was a way to open one’s mind to a deeper creative trove. I drew big swirling lines, letting my hand roam the page with unbridled urges. Five minutes later, I opened my eyes and glimpsed my work. A small squeal escaped my lips. The image I had sketched was a mermaid. I tossed the charcoal on the table and jammed my hand in my mouth.
Please, Jenna, move on
, I coaxed the way my therapist would. I couldn’t relive finding Desiree, day in and day out. I couldn’t continue, over and over, to imagine her blue face and the hook or I would go insane.

Grabbing the plate of cheese and bottle of water, I scuttled to the sofa, seized the television remote controller, and switched on the TV. I thought of Katie and Bailey, both demanding that they come home with me. I had held them at bay.
I’m fine
, I had lied. If only I had said yes to one or both. Why was I so danged independent?

I advanced channels and paused on a repeat of the
Radical Cake Battle
show that Desiree had judged. Was the network replaying it frequently because she had been murdered? Egad. I flipped to another cooking channel and saw chefs arguing about original recipes. I thought briefly of Tito Martinez’s complaint that Desiree had stolen his recipe. Her murder couldn’t be about something so simple, could it? No, Tito was quirky, but he wasn’t a murderer. I switched to another channel and landed on a forensic mystery. The morgue assistant was dissecting a brain. Yuck. No, no, no.

As I searched for a comedy—any comedy—the landline telephone rang. I nearly jumped out of my skin. Who was calling? Was it Anton d’Stang prepared to tell me he was right outside my door? Cue scary music . . .
Here’s Anton!

Refusing to cave to fear, I seized the receiver and yelled, “Hello!”

My aunt said, “Jenna, dear? Are you all right?”

“I . . . I . . . My kitten tackled my leg and—” I eyed Tigger, who was sitting on the floor by the Ching cabinet craning to stare down the ceramic Lucky Cat above, and I felt a twinge in my heart. Bad me
.
How dare I implicate my innocent cat? A teeny inner voice screamed to admit my distress to my aunt, but I couldn’t. I was fine. Dandy. “What’s up?”

“I have a guest at the house.”

I hadn’t noticed a second car in her driveway, but I hadn’t been looking for one.

“He brought a picnic,” my aunt went on.

“Who was crazy enough to bring you food this late? Don’t tell me you conjured up a magic spell to lure that mustachioed manager of the bed-and-breakfast to your doorstep.”

My aunt tittered. “Heavens, no. I have powers, but I would never—” She laughed again. “It’s Rhett Jackson. Looking for you.”

A flush like the rush from a delicious champagne bubbled up inside me. “Really?”

“He said he was thinking about you all day. This morning, you acted upset when you went to visit him. When Rhett ponders a problem, he cooks. Whatever he brought smells divine. Hungry?”

Rhett said something in the background, and before I knew it, he was on the line. “I’m an after-hours eater. A chef’s habit, I’m afraid.”

“You made a picnic?”

“Most restaurants in town aren’t open past nine P
.
M
.
on Tuesdays. I had a craving for ribs and all the fixings. I’ve brought a bottle of pinot noir. Say yes.”

I cradled the phone against my cheek, liking the sound of his voice, treasuring having a man to talk to. Two years had passed since David died. Was it time for me to open my heart to someone new? I didn’t know anything about Rhett, but my father, my aunt, and Katie liked him. Even Tigger had taken to him. Cats were perceptive, right?

“C’mon,” Rhett coaxed. “Be spontaneous. I have a blanket to throw on the floor. I came prepared.”

“Wow, a regular Boy Scout.” I winked at Tigger. “Think he’s a safe bet?” Tigger flicked his tail and meowed. I whispered, “Yeah, me, too.” To Rhett, I said, “Sold.”

In less than sixty seconds, I made my bed, swooped scattered clothing into the laundry bin or closet, dumped my cheese and sparkling water, wiped down the counters in the kitchen, and fluffed the pillows on the sofa. I spritzed a mist of Shalimar over my head. Next, using the remote controller, I flipped the television back to the Food Channel because I had promised Katie I would watch more episodes, except I caught sight of the
Radical Cake Battle
, still in progress with the shaggy blond guy wielding the axe, and I knew I couldn’t bear seeing Desiree again. I hit End, zipped to the stereo system that was perched on the Ching cabinet, slung my iPhone into it, and clicked on an album of Judy Garland’s Greatest Hits. “I Feel a Song Coming On” started playing. I sang along: “
I feel a song coming on, and I’m warning you, it’s a victorious, happy, and glorious new strain
.” Positive feedback. That was exactly what I needed.

Something fluttered at my core when I heard Rhett’s knock on the door. Butterflies, I was pretty sure—totally unfitting for a woman nearing thirty. I peered through the peephole. Rhett gazed back at me with a rakish, disarming grin.

I unbolted the lock and opened the door. Rhett stood there, basket in one hand, wine in the other, a folded blanket draped over his shoulder. I glanced beyond him, at my aunt’s house, and imagined her rubbing that phoenix amulet and uttering an incantation for me to open my mind to new things.
Bibbidi-bobbidi-boo.
I would do my best.

The aroma of spicy ribs and something sweet and savory preceded Rhett into the cottage. He unfurled the blanket and laid it on the floor by the sofa.

“We can put the food here.” I shoved the cookbooks that I had stacked on the coffee table to one side.

Rhett opened the basket and removed glass containers filled with his creations. He set them on the coffee table and popped the lids. The delicious aromas magnified. As he laid out paper plates, napkins, and utensils, Tigger pranced in a circle as if scoping out what morsel he might score from our new visitor. Red pepper ribs? Bacon and cheddar cornbread? Salad with feta cheese, kalamata olives, and onions?

I scuttled to the kitchen and fetched a handful of kibble, set it on a paper plate beside the blanket, and said, “Feast, cat.” Tigger grumbled. I muttered, “Get used to it.” I tapped Rhett’s shoulder. “Thank you.”

“For . . .”

For caring. For watching over me. For somehow sensing that I was shaky and in need of company.

“For bringing food. I’m starved.”

Rhett took in the cottage. “Nice place. You’ve settled in quickly.”

“My aunt’s doing.”

I fetched a pair of bowl-shaped wineglasses. Rhett opened the wine, a pinot noir from the Storrs Winery in the nearby Santa Cruz Mountains, and poured us each a healthy portion.

I sat Indian-style on the blanket. So did Rhett. I tapped the rim of my glass to his. “Cheers.” I inhaled the aroma, then took a sip and swirled the liquid around my tongue as I had learned at wine-tasting classes. “Hints of strawberry and cherry and . . . mint?”

Rhett grinned. “Show-off.”

During dinner, we started out like people who barely knew each other, talking about the basics: what movies we enjoyed—typical man, Rhett was a
Godfather
aficionado; where we had traveled; what music we had listened to growing up—he boasted that he knew the lyrics to every Stones’ song. He knew more than that, I realized, when I caught him mouthing the words to “Zing! Went the Strings of My Heart.”

I finished a rib and tossed it onto the pile of discarded bones forming on a separate paper plate. Rhett laughed.

“What?” My cheeks warmed.

“You can tell a lot about people by the way they eat ribs.”

“How’s that?”

“Do they hold both ends or only one end? Do they grip tightly or extend a pinky?” He demonstrated.

I giggled. “I’m a one-end holder. What does that say about me?”

“You’re neat, but you’re not a control freak and you’re not obsessive.”

“Good to know.”

“You prefer loose ends sewn up.”

“Now you’re putting me on.” I dabbed my mouth with a napkin. “How can you tell that?”

“You finish every bit of meat on the bone. You don’t leave any for someone else to pick over.”

“Not true.” I intentionally ignored a piece of meat on my current bone and tossed the bone onto the pile.

“Cheater,” he said. “You’re trying to deceive me, but you can’t.”

“Oh, really? Are you a modern-day Sherlock Holmes?”

“Aha. The game is afoot. Let’s see.” He surveyed the cottage. “Take your art, for instance. It’s mature and thoughtful. You don’t slap it together. Your oils are akin to Degas or Cézanne, but your pen and charcoal work is similar to Rembrandt’s. It’s feral yet within reason. There might be some anger behind it.”

I cocked my head. “Aunt Vera’s been bending your ear.”

“Nope. I’m an art fiend. Have you been to the Palace of Fine Arts in the City? We should go sometime.”

Was he asking me on a date? The flutter I felt when I opened the door kicked into a flurry. Tornado warnings on the horizon.

I snatched another rib and chewed with vigor. “How do you know so much?” I said between nibbles. “Did you study psychology in college?”

“Never went to college.”

I recalled Aunt Vera’s account. At eighteen, Rhett had gone straight to culinary school. David said a man’s degree established his pedigree. Had I bought into his snobbery? Rhett appeared educated, smart, and worldly. His vocabulary was top-notch. He used what my mother called fifty-cent words—
acerbic
and
feral
. And he was romantic as well as kind. I liked him, a lot, so I made a silent pact to adjust my thinking.

“Aunt Vera told me you grew up in Northern California. Do you have family? Brothers, sisters?”

“Both. They live near my folks.” He didn’t elaborate.

“Why did you take up cooking?”

“I always enjoyed it. I learned from my mother.”

Using one of the wet wipes that Rhett considerately thought to bring, I cleaned my fingers. “Jackson is an interesting last name. Stately. Son of Jack.”

“That’s right. My grandmother tells me we are linked to the Knights of the Round Table. Sir Galahad, to be specific.”

“Does that make you honorable and true?”

“Indeed, milady.”

I winked. “You’re a renaissance man.”

“In all senses of the word. Get this? I even journal.”

I slapped my chest in mock shock.

“A therapist talked me into it.” Rhett’s mouth screwed up at the mention of a therapist. “The fire . . . You heard about the fire?”

I nodded. “Were you there when it started?”

“Your aunt hasn’t told you?”

“Broad strokes.”

“That night, I closed up the kitchen. I rang up the receipts. I locked everything in the safe. Around three A
.
M
.
I got a call. Fire.”

“Arson.”

He nodded. “I raced to the restaurant. Despite warnings, I rushed inside.”

“Why?”

“To save my mother’s recipe box. Stupid, I know. The ceiling was beamed. One burst in two. It fell and knocked me down. I was pinned. A firefighter saved my life. Luckily, the blaze shot upward and didn’t melt through the floor. Only the corner unit was destroyed. I can’t tell you how badly I would have felt if Fisherman’s Village had burned down.”

“You didn’t set the blaze.”

His face darkened. “No. All the artwork—”

“What artwork?”

“The Grotto proudly displayed fine art.”

“It was destroyed?”

“That’s the thing. I’m not sure it was. The owner swears every last piece perished, but when I hobbled through the remains with the fire chief, I noted a few frames were different. You know, in size, shape, and general makeup.”