Final Sentence

by Daryl Wood Gerber

  We shook hands. Firm, businesslike. I could offer a viselike grip with the best of them. Rhett’s grip was firm, too, but his hands were soft and recently lotioned.

  “A sportsman’s hands can be coarse,” he explained. “I have a special line of manly lotions for that purpose.” His mouth quirked up as he uttered: manly lotions. He was teasing. I smiled, too. He gave my hand a minor squeeze and released it. “What brings you here so early in the morning?” He guided me through the store. “We have water sports.” An array of swimsuits, fins, and goggles hung on racks to the right. “And fishing to your heart’s content. Do you fish?”

  “As a girl, I went offshore fishing for rock cod with my father a couple of times, although my brother accompanied him more often than I did.”

  “There’s always tomorrow.” Rhett gestured to a display of kayaks, canoes, and dinghies. Beyond those were fisherman’s vests, lures, rods, and reels. The aroma of canvas and fish filled the air. When Rhett reached the register, he searched my face. “But you’re not here to talk about fishing, are you?”

  My cheeks warmed. “I found the body . . . the victim . . . on the beach,” I said, my voice barely a whisper. “You may have heard that someone—”

  “Died. Yes. Desiree Divine was to be your first celebrity at the shop.”

  “She was my best friend in college.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  Me, too. Through the night, the more I rehashed my conversation with Desiree’s sister, the more I believed that Sabrina had lied about Desiree having an affair with David. I was certain that Desiree had found out about the lie and wanted to clear the air. Why else would she have called me? Sometime before dawn, I determined that I would believe the best of Desiree until proven otherwise. Show me pictures—physical proof—and I would believe, but I wouldn’t rely on one woman’s—one bitter sister’s—say-so.

  I jostled Tigger, balancing him onto my left hip. Who knew the little guy could be so heavy? He squirmed. I whispered, “One more minute, buddy.” I eyed Rhett. “Could I ask you a couple of questions?”

  “Are they official?”

  “Um, no.” I gulped. I didn’t want word getting around that I was misrepresenting myself. “Has someone official been to see you?”

  “Nope.”

  I relaxed a tad. At least I wasn’t stepping on Cinnamon Pritchett’s toes. Or was I? Would she consider my presence at Bait and Switch intrusive? I had the right to prove myself innocent, didn’t I?

  Rhett rounded the register, righting business cards and a jar of pens on the desktop, before settling onto a wooden stool. He folded his arms. “I saw the article in the Crystal Cove Crier. It wasn’t a good picture of you. It didn’t do you justice.”

  “What picture? What article?” A chilling alliterative headline flashed in front of my eyes: Cookbook Nook Kook Killed Celebrity Cook. I imagined lurid pictures sprinkled throughout the article to help visualize the story. Had Pepper Pritchett taken unfavorable candids of me setting up the shop? What if she had gotten her hands on some of the photos Desiree and I had taken during college? The toga party, the lingerie exchange, the Grateful Dead Revival.

  “The article about you opening up the shop,” Rhett said. “The picture made you look about seventeen, maybe eighteen. You had pigtails and braces. You appeared to be climbing a brick wall.”

  I exhaled. “Oh, that. It’s an old high school photograph. I was dubbed: Most persevering.” Aunt Vera must have supplied the photo.

  “The article said you don’t cook much. I could teach you.”

  “Really? What is your specialty? Beans from a can?”

  He chortled. “Actually I used to be a chef.”

  “Where?”

  “The Grotto.”

  A gasp slipped out of me. “That’s the restaurant that burned down.” I remembered hearing about the fire from my aunt. The four-star restaurant had been located on the second floor of Fisherman’s Village, right above our café. The wine bistro, Vines, had taken over the refurbished space. “Why didn’t you pick up a gig somewhere else?”

  A cloud of sadness swept across Rhett’s face and, as quickly, vanished. “A change of pace sounded good.” He spanked the counter. The register ca-chinged. No pity parties for this guy. “I bought this place instead. It’s a good business. Great people. An easier life.”

  “I’ll say. Restaurant work is demanding. I know a married couple in the City who live and breathe their restaurant, twenty-four-seven.”

  “And yet you took on the café.”

  “Package deal, my aunt said.” Now, of course, I understood why. My aunt’s fiancé had been a chef. “Besides, Katie Casey is managing it. The café, the food, the hours. It’s her baby.”

  “Katie?” He raised a hand in measurement. “Big girl? Ho-ho-ho laugh?”

  “That’s her.”

  “She likes to jet ski.”

  “Really?” I couldn’t picture Katie on a small watercraft with a rooster tail of foam spraying behind her.

  “And parasail.”

  “No way.” What did her curly hair look like after those adventures?

  A customer approached the counter. Rhett said, “Give me a sec,” and rang up the sale of a pair of rods and lures. He knew the customer by name and gave him directions to a local fishing hole.

  As the customer exited, I said, “He was gleeful.”

  “A happy customer is a returning customer. So what did you want to ask me?”

  “I have a question about hooks.”

  Rhett’s face grew serious. “I heard something about a hook at the crime scene.”

  Given that Katie and probably the rest of Crystal Cove knew the details of the crime scene, I had no reason not to elaborate. I explained how Desiree was buried, her body sculpted to look as if it were a mermaid. “I think the killer wanted it to seem like a big sea fisherman had snared Desiree.”

  Rhett’s nose flinched. “Sick.”

  “My sentiments exactly. Do you sell something that looks—” I drew an imaginary hook in the air, about five inches long and three inches wide.

  “A trolling hook. Sure, we sell Mustads. Let’s check it out.” Rhett said, “Joey.” He flagged down a gawky kid who could have been Ichabod Crane’s double, all Adam’s apple and neck. “Man the register.” Rhett ushered me to the rear of the store. His hand felt warm and firm on my elbow. The scent of him, a mixture of suntan lotion and salt, made my insides quiver.

  “Sorry,” Rhett said. “The stockroom is small.”

  He wasn’t kidding. The room had no windows and a single exit door, only to be opened in case of fire.

  Rhett crossed to shelving that held stacks of various-sized boxes, and he lifted a clipboard. He reviewed the top two sheets and shook his head. “All our hooks are accounted for. We started with fifty Mustad hooks at the beginning of the month. We still have fifty. I’ll tell you, however”—he replaced the clipboard on the shelf—“that those hooks could be purchased online. The Internet is my biggest competitor. Especially with no shipping charges.”

  “Great,” I muttered. Anybody in the world could have bought the hook. Including me.

  A foghorn pealed, as if signaling my doom.

  Chapter 9

  AN HOUR OR so later, while I moved around The Cookbook Nook dusting shelves, my sense of doom lifted. I found myself humming, something I hadn’t done in a long time. I couldn’t convince myself the mood stemmed from thriving business—the shop didn’t open until 9 A.M.—and I couldn’t chalk up the good vibes to feeling free from persecution. Pepper Pritchett had assigned one of her pals to stand on the boardwalk with a Don’t Shop There sign. And yet, I felt light on my feet. I took a moment to check my face in the antique mirror that Aunt Vera had hung in the teensy hall leading to the office. She’d advised me never to return to the store without a quick peek-a-boo to make sure one’s makeup wasn’t smudged. I was pleased to see a twinkle in my eyes and color in my cheeks. Perhaps, despite the chaotic past week, I was finding m
y sea legs in Crystal Cove.

  I whisked back to my duty of dusting but stopped at a set of cookbooks and called out to Aunt Vera, “Get this retro title: The Pioneer Woman Cooks: Food from My Frontier.”

  She chuckled as she closed the cash register. “That woman has a wagon train of followers.”

  “In this day and age of women’s liberation?”

  “The recipes are incredible. Return-to-the-earth time.”

  “You mean everything is homegrown?”

  “Yep. Pizza, pasta, party food, sweets. She’s got it all, as well as tips on canning.”

  Out of my own self-preservation, I steered clear of the book. I had eons to go before I would arrive at a point where I could plant a home garden and can my own goods, but I made a mental note to promote the cookbook. Plenty of people in Crystal Cove loved their home gardens. “Hey, did I tell you about the dinner I—”

  Someone knocked on the door. I peered outside. Tito Martinez, the local reporter from the Crystal Cove Crier, and three women I didn’t recognize stood on the boardwalk. Tito tapped his watch. I must have lost track of time.

  I raced to the entrance, my tank top rising up and my ruffled skirt fluting out as I ran. I tweaked my clothing back into place before unlocking the bolt. “Good morning and welcome,” I said as I swung open the door and stepped back.

  Tito and the new customers sauntered into the shop. I noticed that the Winnebagos still stood in the parking lot. Contrary to Pepper’s claim, early bird Beaders of Paradise customers didn’t seem to mind. Many had parked on the far side of the lot and were strolling the extra distance.

  “If you need help finding anything, let me know,” I said to our customers. “And Chef Katie has set out a tasting of four types of Danish pastry in the walkway between the store and the café. Cherry, almond, and chocolate cheesecake plus a gluten-free mixed berry selection, if you’re so inclined. Help yourselves.”

  Katie had arrived at the café at 5 A.M. to start her preparations. I worried that she might overwork herself, but she said she had toiled hard hours for her former employer, and she was determined to create the most-talked-about café in town.

  I joined my aunt behind the sales counter.

  “Have you got Mexican cookbooks?” Tito said. He didn’t seem to be looking for any. In fact, he paced in front of the register as if he were a feisty dog eager to bite a postman’s leg. A heavy-looking leather satchel hung over his shoulder. “I have one to show you.”

  Aunt Vera said, “We have a terrific selection of Rick Bayless’s cookbooks.”

  Tito snarled. What was up with that? I’m sure he didn’t know Rick Bayless personally. The guy was a charming, lanky American chef who specialized in Mexican cuisine. I had seen him once on his television show, Mexico: One Plate at a Time. Everything he made that night looked mouthwateringly good, including the Polvorones, a Mexican wedding cookie, although I thought baking and pulverizing the pecans was a bit too much work. For me anyway.

  “What’s the problem, Tito?” my aunt said.

  He patted his satchel. “I have evidence.”

  I gasped. Did he know who killed Desiree? Had he brought some telltale item to us so we could turn it over to the police? I held out my hand. “Let me see.”

  Aunt Vera clasped my arm and gave me a sidelong, rolling-eye look. Clearly she didn’t give the reporter much credence. “Evidence of what?”

  Tito shrugged off his satchel, pawed through it, and pulled out a floppy, tired-looking book. “Eso es,” he said, the Spanish equivalent of voilà. At Taylor & Squibb, I had worked with a handful of creative Latinos who spoke in their native tongue to one another whenever they didn’t want me, the chica, to understand. David had encouraged me to study Spanish to get a leg up. I did.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “My cookbook. My authentic Mexican cookbook.”

  Aunt Vera said, “Re-e-e-ally.”

  “I am a self-published author.”

  “I thought you were a reporter,” I said.

  “A reporter with aspirations and a fine palate. My cookbook is packed with recipes from my abuela.”

  “Your grandmother,” I said.

  Tito bobbed his head. “And I happen to know that Desiree Divine stole a cookie recipe directly from it. Look and compare.”

  As he set his cookbook on the counter, more customers entered. Tito turned the cookbook so my aunt and I could read the title: Authentic Mexican Cookbook. Underneath was a crude drawing of a sombrero and a clay pot. Tito needed help in the creativity department, I mused.

  He flipped open to a dog-eared page. The recipe was for, of all things, Mexican wedding cookies. I counted six ingredients, not nearly as many as Rick Bayless’s version. I could memorize this one. Next, Tito rifled through his satchel, pulled out a copy of Desiree’s cookbook, slapped the book on the counter, and twisted it so it was readable to us. He opened the cookbook to a page marked with a sticky note. “See? Her Mexican wedding cookie is the same as my grandmother’s.”

  I compared recipe to recipe. Desiree’s version had eight ingredients, including a hint of cream of tartar, and a fabulous picture of plated cookies accompanied by a dulce de leche coffee. My mouth started to water. “It’s not the same,” I said.

  “I know she read it,” Tito protested.

  “Where?”

  “Online. I watch statistics for my website. I know where Internet traffic comes from. She stole this recipe from me.” He slammed his fist on the counter.

  Customers in the shop gaped. Thinking quickly, I lifted Desiree’s book and displayed the picture. “He’s so excited,” I told the astonished crowd. “He thinks these cookies look downright smashing.” Smashing, really? When had I become British? “Do you agree?” I didn’t wait for their reaction. I closed the book and lasered Tito with a glare. “You know, Mr. Martinez, given the heat of your anger, one might think you had motive to kill Desiree.”

  “What?” he faltered. “No, I didn’t. I would never . . . not for a recipe . . . but it’s the principle.”

  I truly didn’t think Desiree had seen Tito’s self-pubbed book, and even if she had, why would she have bothered to steal from it? She was schooled by the best. She had cooked for years. I would bet that she had memorized more than ten thousand recipes and more than one of them was for Mexican wedding cookies.

  “Look again.” Tito stabbed the counter. “The ingredients are nearly the same.”

  “Not exactly,” I said.

  “Fine, she tweaked it, that’s all.”

  “Tweaking a recipe is perfectly legitimate,” Aunt Vera said.

  I gasped. “It is?” In marketing, my team and I sought ways to mimic a good campaign without outright stealing it. Advertising wasn’t rocket science, though I had to admit that I wished I had developed the E-trade commercials with all the glib babies. Brilliant.

  “Absolutely it’s acceptable,” Aunt Vera went on. “And by tweaking, I mean that you can, say, add white pepper when a recipe calls for black pepper, and you’ve made it yours.”

  Tito sneered; the cleft in his chin deepened. “He said you would say something like that.”

  “Who said?” I asked.

  “That restaurateur who gave Desiree Divine her first gig. He said she stole recipes all the time.”

  “Anton d’Stang?” I asked.

  “That’s the one.”

  “You called him in Paris?”

  “Didn’t have to. He’s here in town. I saw him at The Pelican Brief Diner. I gave him a free copy of my cookbook in thanks, although I have to say he didn’t seem very appreciative.”

  What was Anton doing in town? He must have had a reason. I couldn’t imagine his presence was coincidence. Had he come to taunt Desiree? To win her back? To kill her? I stopped myself. For all I knew, he could have arrived after her death to pay homage to her.

  Aunt Vera said, “So, Tito, what did you hope to get out of proving Desiree stole a recipe from you? Fame? Fortune? A story?” She nudged me.
“He’s always in it for the story.”

  “Satisfaction.” He snatched Desiree’s cookbook out of my hands, packed up his own book, and stomped from the store.

  “Well, isn’t he testy,” Aunt Vera said as the door slammed closed.

  I didn’t respond, no longer focused on Tito Martinez and his claim that Desiree was a thief. Instead, I was thinking about Anton d’Stang, the man who had lost all objectivity when Desiree announced she was leaving Chez Anton to star in her own television show. The man who broke into her posh apartment and tossed all her belongings out the window and onto the sidewalk. Where was he at the time Desiree was murdered?

  As if reading my mind and sensing my next plan of attack, Tigger curled around my ankles. His tail whisked my calf. “Hey, pal.” I scooped him up and scratched beneath his chin. “Don’t worry. I’ll be careful.”

  “Careful about what?” Aunt Vera looked worried.

  “I have to track down Anton d’Stang.” I explained why. “I know we have some new hires to interview.”

  She took the cat from my hands. “Not until much later. Go.”

  • • •

  I HADN’T VISITED The Pelican Brief Diner since I had returned to town. When I was a girl, our family went there all the time. My sister and I ordered the fish sticks served with tartar sauce. Our brother, who from the age of six wouldn’t eat anything that had a mother or a face, stuck with the picante cole slaw and paprika fries. Dad and Mom ordered the special, no matter what it was.

  The owner, Lola Bird—kid you not; pelican . . . bird—used to be a big-time lawyer in San Francisco. Although she didn’t want to give up being a lawyer, she didn’t want to do the seven-days-a-week, nine-to-midnight thing any longer, so she left the corporate life, returned to her hometown, and bought the diner. She named her restaurant The Pelican Brief, not because her last name was Bird, but because she adored the John Grisham novel with the same title. Like me, she was an avid reader. When I was a girl, every time our family had come into the diner, she’d recommended books to me. Because of Lola, I had read Newbery Medal winners: A Wrinkle in Time, Old Yeller, and Charlotte’s Web. She had introduced me to classics, too: Rebecca and The Secret Garden and The Giving Tree. I can’t remember how many times she had quoted Thornton Wilder: “‘Seek the lofty by reading, hearing, and seeing great work at some moment every day.’”