A few customers who were inspecting the aprons display stopped and gawked at us. Bailey, a bit of an exhibitionist, waved and yelled, “Hi, folks. Once you’re done buying a couple of knickknacks and cookbooks, make your way into the café for a midmorning coffee and pastry. You won’t be disappointed.” She bumped my hip with hers. “By the way, did you see the recent order catalog from Ingram’s?”
Ingram’s was the major book distributor in the world, with over two million titles. We ordered books from other distributors, but Ingram’s supplied our mainstay.
“I found some top-selling cookbooks that we don’t have on the shelves. The Cook’s Illustrated Cookbook: 2,000 Recipes from 20 Years of America’s Most Trusted Cooking Magazine and Guy Fieri Food: Cookin’ It, Livin’ It, Lovin’ It. You know about Guy Fieri, right?”
“I saw him on the Food Network. He visits diners around America? I love his spiky hair and his joie de vivre.”
“He’s a cutie. Also, I noticed Everyday Food: Great Food Fast, by Martha Stewart, was on the Ingram’s list. We don’t have any of her cookbooks, and though she’s not my cup of tea, I’m sure she’ll appeal to many of our moms on the go.”
“Does her cookbook have lots of photographs?”
“Plenty.”
Our customers preferred cookbooks with eye-catching pictures. “Write the titles on the order sheet, and we’ll get them.”
The front door opened and a pair of bronzed surfer girls shuffled in and made a beeline to the natural foods cookbook section. Right behind them, a swarm of preschool girls buzzed in, followed by what I assumed were their mothers.
One girl shrieked, “Oh, look, a kitty.” The rest echoed her, and they darted to the children’s corner and pounced on Tigger. Luckily the little guy loved affection. Soon I heard the girls singing, “But the cat came back, she wouldn’t stay away, she was sitting on the porch the very next day”—lyrics I had heard the Muppets sing years ago. Too sweet.
“Jenna, you have a phone call.” Aunt Vera, wearing an ocean-patterned caftan, stood at the sales counter and brandished the telephone receiver.
“Who is it?”
“Chief Pritchett.”
A sinking feeling gripped my insides. Cinnamon must have decided that the answering machine message from Desiree, along with the suspicious trowel and my history, gave her enough evidence to haul me in and book me. I was doomed. Perhaps I should ask her who stood to inherit Desiree’s estate. A good offense was the best defense, my father would say.
Anxiety Poppity Pop popping inside me, I hurried to the telephone. Using a steady voice, I said, “Hi, there.” Too casual? Too bad.
“I have the answering machine to return to you,” Cinnamon said. I heard pages moving in the background. Was she leafing through my future arrest record?
“And . . .”
“And I’ve decided there’s nothing I can prove with Miss Divine’s message.”
My shoulders loosened. Another day of freedom. “Do you know that the famous restaurateur Anton d’Stang is in town?”
“I do.”
I was pleased to hear that she was on top of things. “Are you going to question him?”
“Perhaps.”
“Might I ask who stands to inherit Desiree’s money?”
“You may.”
Wow, she was being cryptic. I said, “You won’t tell me?”
“I’m waiting for a call from Miss Divine’s attorney. Good day, Miss Hart.”
I hung up, my stomach snarling into a knot again. No news was typically good news, but in this case, no news stirred my overactive imagination to send me to jail. Do not pass Go.
Bailey hurried toward me wearing a bright turquoise, supertight Cookbook Nook T-shirt. What had she done with her other chic top? “What do you think?” She paraded in a circle, arms out. “We have a pile in the storeroom. Your Aunt Vera ordered them.”
“Let’s lose it,” I said. “Matching T-shirts are too theme park for me.”
Bailey folded her hands in prayer. “Praise the pope. I was hoping you’d say that. Will you tell your aunt?”
“Absolutely. Go change.”
As she clip-clopped in her wedge heels toward the back room—the girl had more shoes than Saks Fifth Avenue’s shoe salon—she said over her shoulder, “By the way, I made an eleven o’clock massage appointment for you at the Permanent Wave Salon and Spa today with Desiree’s former masseur. You’re looking tense.” She hiccupped with laughter as she exited.
At the same time, Katie ran in, her face white with fear. “It’s gone.”
“What’s gone?”
“My heirloom watch.” She tapped the front of her white jacket where she normally pinned the pocket watch.
“Haven’t you switched out jackets since yesterday?”
“No. I mean, yes, of course. I can’t seem to make a meal without making a mess.” She was kidding. We had done a smack-down job of leaving my father’s kitchen spic and span last night, and I hadn’t gotten a splatter of food on me. “But I always unhook the watch,” she went on. “And I methodically pin it to my next uniform. I hung the jacket in the closet in the kitchen.” She pointed toward the café. “Someone stole it.”
“Do you think it was one of the staff?”
“I don’t know. It could have been, I guess. I can’t imagine . . .” She covered her mouth with the back of her hand then lowered it as tears pooled in her eyes. “It was my grandpa’s, on my mother’s side. It means everything to Mama. If she finds out . . .”
I didn’t want to point out that her mother had Alzheimer’s and wouldn’t likely remember tomorrow what someone told her today.
“You’ve got to help me find it,” Katie wailed.
“Find what?” Bailey returned, wearing the silky summer sweater that matched her capris. Much better.
I filled her in.
My aunt moseyed to us. “Is it possible . . .” She left the sentence hanging.
“Is what possible?”
Aunt Vera flapped her hand. “I hate to speak ill, but I saw . . .”
Again with the dangling.
“Saw what?” I prompted.
“The first day Desiree was here, Gigi came into The Cookbook Nook before everyone else. She said she needed to use the bathroom. The one in the Winnebago wasn’t working.” My aunt pointed at the hallway connecting the shop to the café. “She had time to . . . you know . . .”
“But it only went missing now,” Katie said.
“Maybe she came back,” Aunt Vera replied. “Maybe that day she was casing the joint, as they say.”
I thought of the first time I met Gigi in the Winnebago, when I was on the hunt for Desiree and J.P. She wore so much jewelry—beads, bracelets, earrings. And the other day, when I saw her tiptoeing out of the dressing room at the salon. At first, she had acted peeved at the appointment clerk, but in review, Gigi had looked mortified. She shoved her hands into her apron pockets. Had we interrupted her while she was filching someone’s stuff?
The door to the shop opened and Tito Martinez hustled inside, an iPad tucked under his arm, a cell phone in his hand. “Morning, everyone.” He seemed chipper for someone who, the day before, had accused a dead woman of pilfering his ideas. “Thought I’d browse.”
To swipe some recipes for his e-book cookbook? I mused.
Be nice, Jenna. Everyone in town was free to peruse the shelves, and if someone picked up a tip for a recipe, so be it. The thing that made cookbooks unique was the personality behind the book. The cook, the chef, the voice in the dialogue about each recipe. A recipe box filled with recipes had a story to tell. The French Laundry Cookbook, written by the famous chef Thomas Keller, didn’t sell simply because of the recipes; it sold because of the saga. Keller related how he started the famous French Laundry restaurant in Yountville, California, and the pictures he included, starting with the beautifully lit table settings and the pastoral garden photographs, were phenomenal.
Katie plucked my sleeve. “What do you t
hink about Gigi being the culprit?”
“She did your hair, Jenna,” Aunt Vera said. “Did you get a vibe?” Her eyes widened. “Ahh. You did. Speak up.” So much for me having a poker face. My aunt shook her fingers as if summoning otherworldly spirits. “Trust your instincts.”
I told them about Gigi’s guilty reaction as she exited the dressing room at the salon.
Bailey said, “Remember the gal at Taylor & Squibb who kept stealing pens from the stock room? They caught her on a security camera. Does the Permanent Wave have one of those?”
“Who are you talking about?” Tito said, homing in on our private conversation.
“Nobody,” the group responded.
“Don’t kid a kidder. I have supersonic hearing.” Tito drew his fingers up to a point at the tops of his ears. If only I had a dog whistle.
“Who are you?” Bailey cut a look from Tito to me.
“This is Tito Martinez,” I said. “Local reporter for the Crystal Cove Crier and wannabe cookbook author.”
“Not wannabe,” Tito said. “I write cookbooks on the side.”
“One,” my aunt said. “You’ve written one. And the recipes are your grandmother’s.”
Katie elbowed Bailey and twirled her finger by her head, signifying the man was loco.
“Fine. Whatever,” Tito said. “You’re talking about Gigi Goode, aren’t you?”
I stepped toward him. “You know Gigi?”
“I know everyone in town. Ev-er-y-one.” Tito carved the air with a finger. “And I’ve thought she was a thief for ages. Want to know why? Because at night, I’d see her cruising the streets, window-shopping supposedly.”
I shifted feet. “We all window-shop.”
“Late at night. Real late. And then, get this, the other night, I caught her sizing up a place. It was that Art from the Heart jewelry store. Gigi went inside and she started pawing everything.”
I liked to touch when I shopped, too. That didn’t make me a thief. “Did you see her take anything?”
“Well, no.”
“When was this?”
“Friday at midnight.”
“You’re lying. No stores are open at midnight.”
“The whole arcade was. They were having an all-night supersale. Some stupid promotional thing.”
“Are you sure of the day?” I said. “That was the night Desiree was killed.”
Tito rubbed his formidable chin. “Yep. Gigi was in there for at least a half hour. I was just hanging around, waiting for her to pinch something so I could get the goods on her.”
“Anton d’Stang said he and Gigi spent the evening together. When I asked Gigi—” I halted, peeked around. “Where’s Katie?” Her toque sat on the vintage kitchen table alongside jigsaw puzzle pieces of a fruit basket. Bailey gestured toward the door. “She said she had an errand.”
“At a time like this?” I squawked. Losing her heirloom watch must have really upset her.
“Continue, dear.” Aunt Vera revved her hand at me. “You were saying when you asked Gigi . . .”
“She didn’t corroborate Anton’s story,” I went on. “She kept mute. I understand that a pickpocket might want an alibi, but the only reason Anton would need an alibi was if he killed Desiree himself, right? What did Gigi take?” I turned to Tito for his answer, but he was rushing out of the store as if he were a bloodhound following a scent.
I sank into the chair by the kitchen table and gazed at the puzzle pieces, a mishmash of color, sort of like the array of suspects in Desiree’s murder. Why couldn’t I see the big picture? Last night I believed Sabrina Divine was the culprit, and now I was aiming my sights on Anton d’Stang. Had Anton killed Desiree and used Gigi as his alibi? Gigi wouldn’t come forward if telling the truth would nail her as a thief. On the other hand, Tito hadn’t validated that he had caught Gigi doing anything wrong. Maybe Gigi could deny Tito’s claim while at the same time refute Anton’s alibi.
A little voice in my mind reminded me not to forget about J.P. Hessman. He had no verifiable alibi. And how did Mackenzie whatever-his-last-name-was fit in? Why had Desiree brought him on this particular road trip?
Bailey and Aunt Vera joined me at the table.
“This is good news,” Bailey said as she fitted puzzle pieces together. “You have other suspects. It’s time to go to the police.”
“But I don’t want to get Gigi in trouble. I mean, what if she isn’t a thief?”
“But she is.” Katie burst into the shop and skidded to a halt.
The customers at the back of the store straightened to attention, even the children, which gave Tigger a chance to escape. He dashed to me and leaped into my arms.
“No worries, folks,” I said above their concerns. “Katie bought a lottery ticket.” I cooed to Tigger to calm him. “She gets excited over the simplest things.” I begged my aunt and Bailey to tend to our patrons and herded Katie into the hallway between the shop and the café. “What are you saying?”
“I tiptoed into the masseur’s Winnebago.”
“It was open?”
“Not really. I know how to pick locks.”
Oh, boy. Trouble with a capital T.
Katie hastened to explain. “My former employer was notorious for bolting himself in his bedroom. He couldn’t be left alone. We had a locksmith over nearly every week. I paid attention.” She petted Tigger’s ears. He chugged his appreciation. “Anyway, I found the hairdresser’s kit sitting on top of an autograph book and a couple of Desiree’s cookbooks.”
The kit that Gigi mentioned she had left behind.
“And inside was my grandfather’s watch. Want to know what else I found?”
I did. Every fiber inside me vibrated with curiosity.
“There was an empty billfold and this really fancy-schmancy silver pill box, as well as a diamond-studded tennis bracelet, and a heart-shaped necklace.”
Instinctively, my hand reached for the locket around my neck.
“How could Gigi afford those things on a hairdresser’s salary?” Katie said. “She’s a thief. Just like Tito said. I knew she was guilty. I felt it. In here.” She tapped her chest. “You have to tell Chief Pritchett.”
“And get you arrested for breaking and entering?”
Katie blushed the color of a tasty rosé. “But what if Desiree found out Gigi was a thief and threatened to turn her in? Maybe Gigi killed Desiree to shut her up.”
I hadn’t considered that.
“You need to find out more about Gigi.”
“How would you suggest I do that?”
Chapter 14
THE PERMANENT WAVE Salon and Spa buzzed with chatter. Customers filled the hairstylists’ chairs and the chairs at the washbasins. An older woman perched on a stool at the makeup counter while an exotic younger woman applied chartreuse eye shadow—not a color I would ever allow near my face. Two women and a man huddled by the appointment desk.
As I stood behind them waiting to check in—to coerce me to keep the massage appointment Bailey set up, Katie had bribed me with dark chocolate cupcake pops—I caught sight of the aquarium, and something prickled the edges of my mind. I stared harder. I wasn’t interested in the tetra that swam in figure eights. I fixated on the grotto beneath the water and, more specifically, on the mermaid anchored inside the grotto. The killer had enshrined Desiree’s body within a mermaid sculpture. Was it significant that the salon featured an aquarium with a mermaid? Had the miniature mermaid ignited a salon employee’s deadly imagination?
I cut a look at Gigi, who was working on a client. As if sensing my appraisal, she glanced at me and then the aquarium. Her mouth quirked up at the edges. A cat holding a bird in its mouth couldn’t have looked more culpable.
Before I could march to her and say point-blank, “You killed Desiree,” the appointment clerk with the pink hair said, “Miss Hart, Mackenzie is ready for your massage.”
Mackenzie strolled toward me, arms hanging loosely by his sides. Gone was the antagonism of our first meetin
g. Gone was the angry scowl he had thrown at J.P. the other day. Clad in a white pajama-style outfit, with sunlight streaming through the picture window and highlighting his blond hair, he struck me as handsome and vibrant. The flock of good-looking surfers in town had nothing on him. “Welcome, my friend.” He clasped my hand and smiled.
I bit back a laugh. If I were looking to cast Prince Charming in a Stay Bright toothpaste commercial, this would be the guy. I’d even make a single tooth sparkle.
“Right this way,” he said. “I’ll show you to the therapy room.”
Keeping hold of my hand—so much for me getting a shot at confronting Gigi—Mackenzie opened a solid oak door and ushered me along a hall. A waterfall burbled at the far end. Soothing music played through speakers. The scent of lavender filled the air. Mackenzie directed me into a dark massage room, told me to undress to my comfort level, and slip between the sheets with my face nestled in the massage cradle. He would return in a couple of minutes.
In the semidark, I started to perspire. To say I was nervous was an understatement. Not because I hadn’t experienced a man’s touch for some time, but because I was anxious as all get-out about questioning someone while I was bare naked. What had my pals talked me into?
When Mackenzie’s hands first touched my neck, I flinched.
“Relax. I promise I won’t hurt you,” he said. “But, my friend, I’ve got to tell you, you have knots. I need your muscles to obey. Breathe.”
I tried. I really tried. Mackenzie told me to envision the lull of a mountain lake rippling on the shore and to imagine a breeze whistling through palm fronds, but I knew, and so did Mackenzie, that his words were useless. I was wound tighter than a spring.
He rolled his knuckles down my back and dragged his palms upward to my neck. “So, tell me where you’re from originally.”
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