Cinnamon studied the crowd huddling behind the yellow crime scene tape and refocused on me. “You scraped away sand from the face.”
“A little, to see if”—I urged my legs to keep holding me up—“to see if she was still alive. I thought maybe someone had played a prank. Maybe she was getting air to her mouth through—”
“A straw? A tube?”
I nodded. “She wasn’t breathing. That man came to help. He wanted to uncover her.” I indicated the treasure hunter. The man inched behind his wife, the coward. “I told him not to disturb the evidence. We backed away. You can ask him.”
“I’ll get to him in a minute.” Cinnamon tucked the bullhorn beneath her arm and crouched beside Desiree. Using a fingertip, she brushed away sand from Desiree’s neck. “Strangled,” she whispered, then mentioned something about a blow to the right side of Desiree’s head. She rose and addressed a patrolman. “Get the coroner here ASAP.” She trained her eyes on me. “What else did you notice?”
“There was a surfer out there when I first arrived. He’s gone.”
Cinnamon pulled a pad and pen from her breast pocket and jotted a note. “Can you describe him?”
“He was too far away.” I reexamined the crime scene, my mind growing clear and discriminating. I pinched my leg to force myself to feel, but I couldn’t. Was I separating myself from grief the way I had when I’d heard the news about David? Desiree was murdered. She did not fall off a boat and drown. She was not a mermaid that had washed up on shore. Somebody had murdered her. Sabrina? J.P.? Why? Where had the surfer gone? Why hadn’t he come to shore when I screamed?
“There are no footprints,” I blurted out.
“Sure there are,” Cinnamon said.
“Not around the body, other than mine and the treasure seeker’s prints. Look. There are none from Desiree’s head to the water.”
“Whoa.” Cinnamon held up a hand. “Don’t go all CSI on me.”
“I’m not. All I’m saying is someone cleaned up after making a sand sculpture out of Desiree. Do you think he used a palm frond and escaped through the water?”
“Why do you think it was a he?”
Because a surfer was out in the water and he has disappeared, I wanted to yell, but I backed off. “You said Desiree was strangled. If the killer was a she, she was a big woman. Desiree is . . . was almost six feet tall.”
“Go on.”
“She would have been heavy to carry.” Desiree mentioned seeing a hunky fisherman outside The Cookbook Nook. What if he hadn’t been looking for me? What if he had been stalking her? “What do you think about the fishhook jabbed through her lip?”
Cinnamon took off her baseball cap, swatted it against her leg, and replaced it with a firm tug. She crouched down and reinspected the area, this time paying attention to Desiree’s face and the fishhook. She didn’t touch either. Over her shoulder, she said, “I’m afraid you’re going to be here for quite a bit, Jenna.”
I felt the bottle of water and package of trail mix that Aunt Vera had given me in my pocket, and I shuddered. Had my aunt foreseen this moment? I wasn’t hungry in the least. I wasn’t sure I ever would be again.
“Out of my way,” a woman shrieked from the rear of the crowd.
Cinnamon stood up, leveled a hand to the bill of her cap, and peered beneath. “Mom?”
“She did it. She killed her.” Pepper Pritchett pushed to the front of the crowd and aimed her finger at me. “Jenna Hart is a murderer.”
Chapter 4
I GAPED AT PEPPER, her daughter Cinnamon, and the swelling beach crowd. A sea of faces stared back at me. Waves of blazing August heat rose from the sand, which made all the faces wiggle. Either that, or I was getting woozy.
Pepper poked her finger as if she were trying to jump-start a jammed elevator. “They were friends.” She pointed at me and at Desiree’s body. “Rather, they were friends. They had a spat. It’s the talk of the town.”
“We didn’t have a spat,” I said.
“What was it about?” Cinnamon asked.
“She”—Pepper jutted her thumb at Desiree—“and her husband”—she stabbed an accusatory finger at me—“had an affair.”
“It’s a rumor,” I said. “It’s not true.”
“Rumor, my foot. You had a bur under your saddle to track down Desiree Divine. The whole town buzzed about how you went to all the restaurants and shops under the guise of passing out flyers for your new store, but we know what really happened.”
“I never talked to Desiree. We never fought.”
“I saw two women walking on the beach late last night,” Pepper persisted. “One was Jenna Hart.”
“It couldn’t have been me. I was at home.”
“She’s a sculptor,” Pepper continued. “An artist. She would know how to create this . . . this mermaid.”
“Yes, I sculpt, but I’m primarily a painter. I’ve never built a sandcastle in my life. I haven’t even poured colored sand in a bottle.” I caught sight of my friend’s corpse and the hook lodged in her mouth, and another wave of horror ripped through me. Who could do such a thing? Was the hook significant?
“Jenna Hart had it in for Desiree Divine, Cinn.” Pepper tapped her head. “I heard. I know.”
I willed her finger to morph into a drill bit that would bore holes into her meager brain. Aeration was good for the insane, I had heard. Sadly, my wish didn’t come true. I faced Cinnamon. “Crystal Cove is an artist’s retreat.” On my tour yesterday, I had noted over twenty private art studios. In addition, an art camp in the hills offered intensive four-week sessions, year-round.
“I’m aware,” Cinnamon said.
For the first time since discovering Desiree’s body, I breathed. Truly breathed. Cinnamon believed that I was innocent. The relief lasted only a nanosecond.
“Jenna Hart’s husband died in a beach incident, too,” Pepper said.
I gaped at the nasty woman with her beady, critical eyes. Why did she insist on calling me by my full name? How dare she bring up David’s death at a time like this? “He did not die on the beach. He was on a boat.” A memory of him kissing me good-bye before leaving for what was supposed to be a quick sailing tour of the bay flitted through my mind. “He drowned. The police think he fell over the side, and—”
Pepper harrumphed. “There’s talk you did him in.”
“Lies.”
“They never found his body. Some say you carved him up and fed him to the fish.”
“Only those with Mafia fixations.” I addressed Cinnamon. “No matter what the tabloid magazines published, I did not kill my husband.” Following David’s death, there had been talk. I was the wife. Wasn’t the spouse always guilty? I was never formally accused of anything. “He was an inexperienced seaman,” I said. “Midafternoon, the waves grew fierce. He must have fallen overboard. The police cleared me of all wrongdoing.”
“They never found his body?” Cinnamon asked.
I shook my head. No one would ever grasp the cavity of sadness that David’s death had carved in my heart. I battled fresh tears.
Cinnamon turned to the mass of people. “Has anyone seen Old Jake?”
“Old who?” I asked.
“Jake. He’s the fellow who drives a tractor and rakes the sand every morning. You mentioned palm fronds. I’m thinking Old Jake cleaned up. He does his best to avoid sandcastles. He sees them as children’s treasures. That might explain why there are no footprints around, other than yours and that gentleman and his wife’s.”
“What time does Jake hit this area?” I asked.
“Anytime after midnight.”
“That sets the time of death.”
Cinnamon offered an indulgent smile. “Yes, I’ve thought of that.”
“Maybe he saw somebody with Desiree, either carrying her or dragging her or . . .” I sputtered. “Of course, you’ve considered that, too.” I ran a hand along my collarbone. Houses upon houses stood along the strand. Someone in one of the homes must have seen some
thing. I gazed back at Desiree. Hot emotion swam up my throat. “Her head is positioned to the left.”
Cinnamon peered where I was staring.
“Doesn’t it look like a left-handed person handled the hook?” I drew a hook with my finger and grabbed the imaginary grip with my left hand. “He pulled this way.”
“He or she,” Cinnamon corrected. “Mother, you said you saw two women on the beach. When?”
“Around one or so.”
“Why did you come here?”
“Insomnia, same as always.” Pepper grumbled, “Danged sleeping. Never was much good at it.”
“You walk on the beach alone?” Cinnamon sounded alarmed.
“That’s right.”
“Why haven’t you told me this until now?”
Pepper shrugged. “A woman deserves her secrets.”
“It’s not safe, Mother.”
“Apparently. There are lots of folks who walk, but last night, only the two. Her”—Pepper pointed at me—“and her.” She jabbed her index finger at Desiree.
“You’re positive?” Cinnamon said.
Pepper hesitated. “Well, put that way, I can’t say for sure. I don’t have the best eyes, as you well know. Don’t get me started on the cost of eyeglasses and contacts. But who else could it have been? Both were tall, that’s for sure.”
That ruled out Desiree’s sister, Sabrina. Of course, Pepper Pritchett could have been fabricating the whole scenario. Who knew what she had really seen if, indeed, she’d seen anything? And why was she targeting me? I glanced back at the mermaid sculpture; it wasn’t as refined as I had first gauged. Would a normal person and not an artist have been capable of creating it?
“Stand aside,” a man bellowed. My father. If I didn’t know better, I would have pegged him for someone on the police force. Like Cinnamon, he wore camp shorts, a camp shirt, and an outback-style hat with a broad brim. Using a carved-handle walking stick, he divined people away from his path. “Everyone, step to the right, that’s it. Thank you so much.”
The crowd parted as if my father were Patton ready to announce the end of the war. As he passed them, each said something to him. I heard my name bandied about. Aunt Vera traipsed behind him, gripping her caftan in folds so she wouldn’t trip over the hem.
My father stopped short of the yellow police tape. “Jenna, come here.”
I raced to him and grabbed his hand for courage.
“Hello, Cary,” Cinnamon said. “Good morning, Vera.”
“Are you arresting my daughter?” my father asked.
“Of course she is.” Pepper sounded triumphant.
“Chief Pritchett,” I said, choosing a more respectful address even though she had allowed me the informality of using her first name. “I didn’t do this.”
My father released my hand then cleared his throat. “If you ask me, burying and covering the body with sand took time and planning.”
“Nobody asked you,” Pepper said.
Aunt Vera huddled next to me. “How are you, dear?”
“In shock.” I didn’t want to ask her if she had foreseen Desiree’s death. The notion gave me the heebie-jeebies.
“Arrest her,” Pepper said.
“Mother, hush, please.” Cinnamon addressed my father. “Cary, I’d like to know how you figure this murder was not spontaneous.”
My father planted his walking stick in front of him and grasped the uppermost portion with both hands. “Most people don’t walk around with oversized fishhooks and a pail.”
“A pail?”
My father smiled. “A pail would be useful for carrying water from the ocean to the, um, sculpture, don’t you think? And the killer would need more than his hands. Perhaps a few tools. The sand on Miss Divine is packed firmly. Given the situation, I’d say the culprit planned ahead, perhaps even had these items stowed beneath”—he pivoted and scoured the beach, pointing with his stick—“beneath that bench or that palm tree.”
“For heaven’s sake, Cary,” Pepper said. “Who do you think you are, Hercule Poirot?”
Give the woman ten points. At least she was well-read.
Cinnamon said, “You know he’s a former FBI analyst, Mother. He’s seen his share of dead bodies.”
“On paper.” Pepper sniffed.
“Whether on paper or in person, he knows a few things.” Cinnamon instructed a deputy to search nearer the shore, then shook my father’s hand. “Nice to see you again, sir, although not under these circumstances. What else do you see?”
“You’ve discussed the lack of footprints?”
“Noted.”
I nudged my aunt. “What’s up with Dad and the chief? They seem to know each other pretty well.”
“Cinnamon . . .” Aunt Vera paused. “She didn’t have a father. She grew up with a bit of a chip on her shoulder. She hung out with the wrong crowd, got in trouble.”
“What kind of trouble?”
My aunt dismissed the question with a wave of her hand. “Your father befriended her when she was a teen. At the time, he was participating in the Big Brother program. He took her under his wing. Got her focused on the future. After college, she considered going into social service work in San Francisco to help girls like herself, but then her mother suffered an illness. Not grievous, but it scared Cinnamon. She sought your father’s advice. He supported her decision to return home to Crystal Cove. The police department needed a deputy. She climbed the ranks quickly.” My aunt studied her fingernails. I felt as if there were more she wanted to say, but she didn’t.
I gazed at my father, in quiet consultation with Cinnamon. How could I not have known about his mentor-student relationship with her? What else didn’t I know about him? I regarded Pepper Pritchett, who was staring daggers at my father. She caught me spying and snarled. I was about to tell her to back off, but the deputy returned.
“Chief. I found something beside the palm tree.” He revealed an array of tools.
“Aha.” Pepper pointed. “Look right there. See that trowel? I saw that trowel in Jenna Hart’s display window at the shop. That proves she is the killer.”
Cinnamon whirled on me. “Is that true?”
“No. It can’t be the same,” I said then gulped. The trowel—pie-shaped with a wood handle—did look like one of the antique tools I had used in our display. I said, “Why would the killer leave them there, in plain sight?”
The deputy said, “They were buried. I think Old Jake might have scooped them up with his machine.”
“Arrest her, Cinn.”
Cinnamon drew taller, shoulders back. “Miss Hart, I’d like you to come to the precinct. We’ll get out of the sun, and we can chat some more.”
My parched skin was thankful, but my insides twisted into a knot. Did our competent police chief think I was guilty, after all?
Chapter 5
BIDING MY TIME in the beige Crystal Cove Precinct, sitting in a hardback chair, and sipping lukewarm tea while three sergeants listened to the police chief’s mother trying to convince them that I was a murderer, I pondered how I had arrived there in the first place. Not there, in the precinct, but there—here—this quiet, seaside town. David died and life turned sour. A job that had been riotously fun for the first five years out of college became lackluster, the rewards empty. Out of the blue, my easygoing boss became exacting, even about the most soulless campaigns. I found myself grumping about paying city parking rates with no view of the ocean. I had few real friends. My idea of an adventure was going to a new restaurant, not on a hike. And then Aunt Vera called. Cajoled. Wooed me to Crystal Cove. And my spirit had lightened . . . until now.
I pinched my thigh to end the pity party and yanked myself back to the present. To the gossip. To the lingering fingerprint ink on my fingertips. To the horror of finding my friend dead. Who did it? The killer had to be someone in her entourage. Who else in our touristy town would have a motive, unless a rabid Desiree Divine fan had come to Crystal Cove? But other than the creepy guy with the tackle
box in the parking lot, I hadn’t seen anyone malicious looking hanging around The Cookbook Nook awaiting Desiree’s arrival. That wasn’t to say that I had the best powers of observation. When I was a child, Dad, in his role of FBI analyst, challenged my siblings and me to note the particulars of a street scene: the number of people, the ratio of men to women, the primary color the people wore. My sister did the best. She also aced college, read five nonfiction books a week without fail, and had a home crafting business. Her wares were selling like hotcakes over the Internet. I came in second in what we called the lookie-loo contest only because my hippie-dippie brother could care less. He preferred to gaze at trees or buildings and to listen to ambient sounds.
I shifted in my hardback chair and urged myself to think. Did Desiree’s overworked sister hate her so much she would have killed her? Was Desiree’s edgy, tattooed boyfriend the jealous type? Did the local hairstylist that Desiree had hired hold a grudge against her temporary boss? Why would she?
“Miss Hart.” Cinnamon beckoned me to her office. I wondered for a split second why she had called me Jenna at the crime scene and had allowed me to call her by her first name, but I put aside the notion. My bosses at Taylor & Squibb had preferred first names. Familiarity was a national trend. Befriend a person. Put her at ease . . . and possibly off her guard. Formality set the tone for the future.
Pepper tried to enter the office right behind me, but Cinnamon banished her. When she closed the office door, she grilled me. How did I know Desiree? When was the last time I talked to her? Did I suspect any personal trouble? Did I know about the affair with my husband? All standard questions I had heard on television and in movies.
I replied with pat answers and folded my arms, an act of defiance that I convinced myself was an act of strength. I asked if Old Jake had seen anything suspicious; he hadn’t. I mentioned the trowel. At Taylor & Squibb, we always dealt with the snags in a campaign first. Cinnamon shared that the trowel had been wiped clean of prints. I argued that the killer must have snatched the trowel from The Cookbook Nook—snatched being the operative word—to frame me. Anyone in town could have stolen it. I asked if I needed an attorney. She assured me that I didn’t . . . yet.
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