Signifying mine wasn’t.
“Take a look at these styles.” Gigi pulled a hairstyle card with famous actresses as models from her cabinet. “I like this Jennifer Garner cut with slight layering, razor cut ends, swept bangs, and a curl on the end of the hair. It will suit your face. You’re pretty, and you’ve got her narrow chin and bright eyes.”
I happened to enjoy Jennifer Garner’s spunky work. Maybe I could channel her Alias television personae to help me find Desiree’s killer. “So how did you get the gig with Desiree?”
“Her regular stylist got the flu. Desiree sent Mackenzie—you know, her masseur—up here to find a local. That way she wouldn’t have to pay for another Winnebago.”
“Why didn’t she send Sabrina to hire you?”
“I think Sabrina was going through something at home. Boyfriend woes. Anyway,” Gigi continued, “Mackenzie passed by, saw me through the window, and appreciated my style. How could I say no to a couple of thousand, up front, for two days’ work? One thousand for a test style, which was a wash and blow dry. The second thousand for the event. I planned to add a few extra highlights. Nothing too dramatic. Desiree wanted to look good. Do you know they paid me, even though . . .” Gigi screwed up her mouth.
Even though Desiree died.
“Sorry for your loss.” Gigi combed out my hair, divided it into sections, and using jaw-of-death-shaped clips, secured each section to the top of my head. I stifled a laugh. I looked as if I were a warrior goddess. As Gigi smoothed out a section and snipped off the irregular ends, she said, “You’re pretty compliant.”
“Is that an insult?”
“No, a compliment.” She cut some more. “Desiree was . . . She could be . . . exacting.”
My aunt was right. Talking to a hairstylist was similar to talking to a bartender. We didn’t really make eye contact. We occasionally glanced at each other via the mirror. Chatting in that manner made the conversation less intense, more aloof. And yet private. No one in the shop seemed to be listening in.
“Did Desiree come here?” I asked.
“Oh, no. I only did her hair in the trailer.” Gigi released one of the sections of hair from its jaw-of-death clip. Hair tumbled to my shoulder. “She could be mean.”
“Desiree?”
“She said rude things.”
I flashed on Katie’s comment about Desiree ranting at others on her staff.
“She told me I was heavy. I should consider losing weight.”
Desiree was nothing if not direct. I recalled a time in college when she reduced a girl to tears. She told her that the outfit she bought on a trip to Germany made her look like a two-ton Heidi. I remembered another time when she told me that my art was banal and I needed to dig deeper if I wanted to wow the world. At my insistence, we didn’t speak for two months. In the end, I forgave her. Everybody did.
“But the money was good,” Gigi continued, “and I still have college bills to pay off. Everyone can eat humble pie to pay off a debt, right?”
“Where did you go to college?”
Gigi circled to face me and pulled on the front-most locks of hair. “I went to art school. I wanted to become a watercolor artist. I enjoy painting flowers and birds.” As she continued to shape my hair, she contrasted the styles of Georgia O’Keeffe and John James Audubon. “I was all over the map with my art, never settling on one style. Do you know Andrew Wyeth’s work?”
“I do.”
“Have you ever seen The Fallen Tree?” She pressed a hand to her chest. “Every time I look at that picture, my heart breaks.”
“My personal favorite of his is Wind from the Sea. The movement of the breeze through those sheer curtains. Exquisite realism.”
Gigi’s face lit up. “Are you an artist, too?”
“I am. I paint dancing girls and I do some sculpting.”
“The only thing I can sculpt is hair.”
Using a makeup brush, Gigi swept the snipped hair off my face, and then she hoisted a Super Solano. The drone of the hair dryer made conversation difficult, and we fell into silence. I stewed about how to raise the subject of Anton d’Stang but couldn’t find an opening.
When Gigi finished drying my bangs, she said, as if we had never stopped talking, “It’s hard for artists to make a buck.” She swept my bangs to the side. “Doing hair feels as if I’m cheating, know what I mean? It’s so easy for me.”
“There are plenty of people who can’t do what you do. You’re well respected”—I almost cheered as I saw my opening—“not to mention popular. In fact, I heard there was a guy the other day who came in for a style and ended up asking you out for a date.”
Gigi lasered a look toward the clerk at the front desk.
“She didn’t blab,” I said, sotto voce, girl-to-girl. “The guy told me.”
“Which guy?”
“Anton d’Stang, the restaurateur.”
Gigi’s face soured. “We went out once.” She tugged on the tips of my bangs. Hard. Ouch. “Just once.”
“Not all dates are ideal.”
“He’s a lot older than me.”
“But very handsome. I can see how you’d be attracted. You were, weren’t you?”
“Want spray?” She lifted a metallic silver can.
“No, thanks.” I licked my lips. “Um, Anton said you spent time together the night Desiree died.”
If eyes could shoot flames, Gigi would have ignited my hair with her fiery glance. “I think we’re done. Take a peek.” She shoved a hand mirror at me and spun the chair so fast my head flopped. “Happy?”
What could I say, that I wanted her to redo my hair? I might end up with a mullet. I wasn’t willing to risk it.
• • •
GIVEN MY NEW hairstyle, I had to admit that when I headed back to The Cookbook Nook, I clipped along the sidewalk with a different attitude, sort of cocky and ready to take on any adversary. In my mind, I did a couple of boxing motions. Right uppercut, left hook, one-two-jab-jab-jab. My imaginary foe plunged to the mat.
As I reached the Fisherman’s Village parking lot, I drew up short and stared at Sabrina, who stood with J.P. by the entrance to the office Winnebago. Sabrina was clad in her typical black sheath, her dark hair tied in a severe knot. The two faced each other, his hands holding her upper arms, her head tilted forward. The pose looked supportive, not threatening. How I wished I had learned more about yesterday’s argument.
“Hey, you two.” I strolled toward them.
J.P. locked eyes with me. He did not look happy at my arrival. A second later, he gave Sabrina a peck on the cheek, rubbed her upper arm once in a comforting way, and hurried into a Chevy Camaro. To say he peeled out of the parking lot was an understatement.
“He sure was in a hurry,” I said.
Sabrina wrung the sheer black shawl she held in her hands and watched the Camaro as it swung onto Buena Vista Boulevard. “J.P. is hurting. He wants to get this over with.”
I bet he did. Especially if he killed Desiree.
“At least you weren’t arguing today,” I said.
“We were discussing burial arrangements,” Sabrina said. “J.P. wants to take the hike Desiree planned so we can strew Desiree’s ashes.”
“I’m not sure that’s legal in California.” As far as I knew, a person’s ashes could only be disposed of in a maritime burial. “You might need a license of some sort.”
“I don’t care. We’re going up there.” She pointed to the crest of mountains beyond the Artiste Arcade, a cluster of high-end jewelry and fashion shops across the street from Fisherman’s Village.
“Have the police released her body?”
“Not yet. I don’t know when they will either.”
“Would you like me to ask Chief Pritchett?”
“That woman.” Sabrina slung the shawl around her shoulders and looped it into a knot at the front. “She’s asking so many questions.”
I was pleased to hear that. Maybe Cinnamon Pritchett didn’t think I was guilty, or a
t the very least, she wanted to consider the possibility of my innocence. “That’s her job. You want to see your sister’s murder solved, don’t you?”
“Chief Pritchett asked me about that thing I told you. You know, that Desiree was having an affair with your husband.” Sabrina chewed her lower lip. “I told her I wasn’t sure if it was true.”
I felt as if someone had released the cinch around my ribs and lungs.
“She was sort of curt,” Sabrina continued. “She said that kind of lie made me look suspicious and suggested I was spreading rumors to set you up.”
“Were you?”
“I was so angry that day.” Sabrina toyed with the tails of her shawl. “I hadn’t heard from my boyfriend, and Desiree said I should give him the boot. She said he wasn’t good enough.”
“She thought a lot of you.”
“No, she didn’t. Desiree said I wasn’t merely short, I was short on brains. I wasn’t a good judge of men.” Sabrina sucked back a sob. “She always said things to hurt me. If she wasn’t happy, she didn’t want me to be happy.”
“Desiree wasn’t happy?”
“Not really. I mean, she was in lust with J.P., but he’s not the end-all-be-all. She wanted love. Real love. And the show? I’m sure you heard. It wasn’t doing all that hot in the ratings. These past couple of months, she was getting meaner by the minute. Spiteful. I wanted a week off, but ‘No go,’ she said. Mackenzie wanted a chance at being more than a masseur. Desiree said, ‘No go,’ and called him a hack. J.P. wanted to introduce another cooking show to the network and guess what my cheery sister said?”
No go had been one of Desiree’s catchphrases in college, too. Decisions weren’t always her way or the highway, but close. Her friends—I, included—went along. Her energy was captivating.
“Don’t get me wrong,” Sabrina said. “I wasn’t angry enough to kill my sister. None of us were. We understood Desiree and sort of went with her ebb and flow, but at times . . .” She sighed. “Chief Pritchett is hounding every one of us for info. I wish . . .” Sabrina checked her watch. “Oh, my, I have a hair appointment with Gigi. I had to cancel earlier because that cop summoned me.”
“I just came from the Permanent Wave. I guess I nabbed your appointment.”
“I thought something was different about you.” Sabrina twirled a finger in the direction of my head. “My roots . . . I can’t go to a funeral with . . .” She toyed again with the ends of her shawl, drawing the tips into knots. “Listen, what I was talking about, that was normal, everyday kind of stuff for me and Desiree. I loved her. I miss her. I don’t want you to get the wrong idea. And I’m sorry about telling you that she and your husband—”
“Forget it. Bygones.” I patted her forearm.
She fetched a business card from her purse and handed it to me. “Call me if you learn anything, okay? And I’ll let you know about the funeral hike.”
“Please do.” I tucked her card into the pocket of my ruffled skirt.
As she headed off, I felt something was off about our exchange, but I couldn’t dwell on it because, when I entered The Cookbook Nook, I found my Aunt Vera chatting with none other than my good friend Bailey. As eclectic as always, Bailey wore a colorful sarong, exotic Egyptian goddesslike earrings, and strappy, four-inch wedged sandals to boost her to nearly five-feet-two. Sunlight streaming in the window highlighted Bailey’s prominent cheekbones and made her copper hair, which was the same supershort style as her mother Lola’s, glisten like rare metal. Typical Bailey, she was talking with her hands as well as her mouth.
Upon seeing me, she shrieked with glee. I echoed the scream and raced to her. We embraced as though we hadn’t seen each other in years, when in reality we had gone to lunch in the City less than three weeks before.
“I’m so sorry I missed the opening of your shop,” she said. “And I’m even sorrier to hear the news about the murder. How horrible.”
We chatted briefly about the unfolding drama. She assured me the police would find the real killer. I hoped she was right.
“How long are you staying in town?” I said.
“Forever.” A big-belly rumble rolled out of itty-bitty Bailey.
“Very funny.”
“Truth.” She held up three fingers like a Girl Scout. “Taylor & Squibb isn’t the same without you there, and, well, I quit. I couldn’t take it any longer. I craved the ocean. I need a tan.” Her skin was creamy white. “When I heard about a job opp, I motored down.”
“What job opp?”
“I’m your new cookbook maven.”
“Really? What do you know about cookbooks?”
“Other than the ones I have on my shelves, not a thing, but you know me.” She tapped her head. Bailey had a razor-sharp memory; she was a walking card catalog. At Taylor & Squibb, she had been in charge of monitoring all the campaigns—on air, in magazines, and on the Internet. She didn’t need a computer for any of her work. Information planted in her brain. In a matter of hours, she would have every product at The Cookbook Nook memorized, down to the color of the item and its location. I wouldn’t be surprised if she could load all the cookbooks’ indexes in her brain, as well. “I’ll be a good employee,” Bailey went on. “Loyal and dedicated.”
“The salary isn’t enough.”
“Sure, it is. Mom is letting me live, rent free, above The Pelican Brief. I have a view and meals.”
Aunt Vera said, “Don’t be mad.”
“Never,” I said. “Um . . . Did Dad vet her?”
Aunt Vera nodded. “He did, but first he ran a background check.”
Bailey said, “He did not . . . Did he?”
Aunt Vera chuckled.
I echoed her then said, “Aunt Vera, there’s no need to stick around here. I’ll bring Bailey up to speed. Go to your Coastal Concern meeting.”
“I don’t have to go. It was rescheduled to Wednesday.”
Tigger moseyed out of the back room. Yawning, he brushed my ankles and eyed the newcomer. I scooped him up and said, “Tigger, this is Bailey. Bailey, this is our mascot.”
“Ooh, I love kitties.” She knuckled his chin. From the euphoric look on his face, I worried he might throw me over for her.
Aunt Vera said, “By the by, Jenna, dear, what did you learn from the hairstylist?”
“She wasn’t forthcoming.”
“What a shame.”
“Speaking of forthcoming,” Bailey said, “what was going on out there between you and that gal in black? She was acting very buddy-buddy.”
“Sabrina”—I thumbed toward the parking lot—“is Desiree’s sister.”
“Bet she’ll be coming into a bundle,” Bailey observed.
The comment caught me up short.
“What’s with the frown?” Bailey raised her hands in defense. “A gallows joke isn’t PG around here?”
“No, that’s not it.” I glanced outside. Desiree had to have been worth millions. Did she have a will? Did she die intestate? She didn’t have a husband or children. What if Sabrina stood to inherit Desiree’s fortune?
Chapter 12
I PACED IN FRONT of the sales counter, energy chug-a-lugging through me.
“Jenna Starrett Hart, your aura is as dark as ink.” Aunt Vera gripped my arm. “What is going on?”
I told her my theory.
“Oh, my. This is my fault,” she said. “Your father is right. This has to stop.” She fluttered her fingers and uttered some mumbo-jumbo about scattering my bad juju to the four corners of the earth. “No more talking about murder, do you hear me?” She corralled me toward the front door. “Your father has asked us to dinner, and since my meeting was canceled, I said yes. It’s Sunday. The shop and café are closed for the evening. Katie’s cooking. Let’s go. Bailey, you’re invited, too.”
My aunt’s quasi-magic spell must have worked because I didn’t protest. An hour later, we arrived in caravan at my father’s.
“Bailey, what a pleasant surprise,” Dad crooned. He took my friend by
the hand and escorted her through the house—a beauty of a Mediterranean villa set way up in the hills—and out to the porch, which boasted a spectacular view of the ocean. My mother’s taste for an unpretentious color scheme—white furniture, blue and green throw pillows, sleek silver accents—encouraged guests to pay attention to the environment. Even at this elevation, we could hear the ocean’s steady flow.
“Jenna, guide Katie into the kitchen,” Aunt Vera said as she closed the front door. “Show her where to set the grocery bags.”
“What a gal to offer to cook on her night off,” my father said.
Katie hooted. “Offer? Vera coerced me, but don’t fret. Cooking makes me happy.”
“I hear you’re terrific,” Bailey said. Though Bailey had grown up with us, she had hung out with a different crowd through elementary and high school. Bailey and I bonded at work; she didn’t know Katie well at all. The two hit it off, however, as we drove Tigger back to the cottage and made a grocery run. Katie told jokes; Bailey responded as heartily as a comedy club audience.
I ushered Katie to the kitchen and set down the bag of cheese and accoutrements I was carrying. Katie wanted to start the evening with a goat cheese platter. Even I, she teased, couldn’t mess that up. At the darling Say Cheese Shoppe located near the center of town, we picked up River’s Edge Up in Smoke, a tiny ball of chèvre that was wrapped in a maple leaf and spritzed with bourbon; Cypress Grove’s Purple Haze, which was goat cheese flavored with lavender and fennel; and Cowgirl Creamery’s Pierce Point, a beautiful morsel of lusciousness rolled in dried herbs.
I pulled a rectangular platter from my father’s cabinet, set the cheeses in the center, added dollops of apricot and fig jam, and clustered crostini crackers circuitously throughout. Feeling rather proud of myself, I took the artistic platter to the living room and said, “Voilà.” No one applauded—spoilsports—but as I returned to the kitchen, I heard Aunt Vera, Bailey, and Dad singing my praises.
“Sounds like success,” Katie said as she rinsed lettuce at the sink.
“Yay me.” I fetched the rest of the items from grocery bags and set them on the granite counter. “By the way, I’ve been thinking that I want music playing in the café on cool days.” On warm days, we kept the sliding doors open and allowed the outside in, but on foggy or wintry days, we needed to keep the doors shut.
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