“Here. Crystal Cove.”
“Family?”
“Dad, sister in L.A., brother in Napa. You?”
“Los Angeles. Born and raised. No siblings. Breathe . . . hold it . . .” He worked his fingers into the hollow of my neck. “Release. Good, my friend.”
I wondered if massage school had taught him to repeat my friend every few sentences to engage a client. It wasn’t working, but I wasn’t a typical client.
“Married?” he asked. “I don’t see a ring on your left hand.”
“My husband died.”
“Wow. Sorry. I . . .” More knuckles. More dragging. Back and forth. “That’s a tragedy.”
Understatement of the decade. But enough about me. “You?” I said. “Married?”
“Nah. I let one get away. Now there’s too much going on in my career.”
A point Sabrina had mentioned came to me. I said, “Did you ever want to do something other than massage?”
“Yeah, sure. Doctor, baker, Indian chief,” he said, quoting the Tinker Tailor nursery rhyme.
I reflected on the word chief. Did Mackenzie have aspirations of running a company? He came from Los Angeles. Had he, like J.P., dreamed of becoming a famous director? Wasn’t that the goal of everyone who lived in L.A.? Had he asked Desiree for the chance? Was that why she had said, No go, because she held fast to the rule that he had to pay his dues? Instead, she gave him the chore of securing a replacement hairstylist, and he resented being her lackey. He lashed out because . . .
No. I was grasping at straws. When I was a child, Dad warned my siblings and me not to pluck an idea out of thin air. We needed facts for any conclusion. That was the FBI way. The truth and nothing but the truth. Black and white. Had he taught Cinnamon the same thing?
I said, “I heard you hired Gigi Goode.”
“Yep.” Mackenzie bent my left arm at the elbow and wedged my wrist against by back. He kneaded my shoulder so hard that I moaned. “Good, my friend. Let it out.”
“Why Gigi?” I bit back another groan.
“I contacted the Better Business Bureau, learned about this salon, and asked who was their best, and then I observed her.”
I recalled Gigi saying he had watched her from the street. “Why didn’t Sabrina handle the problem?”
“I offered. You see, I was pals with Desiree’s regular stylist. A real talent. It was a shame she got sick, but at least she’s not part of the spectacle up here.”
“Spectacle?”
“With the police. Chief Pritchett has this chart going at the precinct. You must have seen it. You’ve been called in, if rumors are true. Push pins, yarn, red flags.”
“I haven’t seen it,” I said, though I was glad to hear Cinnamon was doing her job, even if her chart was a tad colorful. I considered dropping by the precinct to view what she had written on the chart. Perhaps I wasn’t her number one suspect any longer. A girl could dream.
“How’s the pressure, my friend?” Mackenzie asked as he walked around the top of the massage table.
“Good.”
He started in on my other arm. “Massage is so important for a person’s body. Say, you own The Cookbook Nook. You must be a great cook. Think of me as the chef and you’re the meal. I stir up the ingredients, add TLC, set the timer, and in less than an hour, voilà, you’re done.”
“Sounds like a perfect recipe for relaxation.”
“That’s the ticket. Now, shh.”
“In a sec. You’ve got me intrigued. Tell me more about Chief Pritchett.”
Mackenzie kneaded my hand and forearm. “She’s a piece of work. She nearly tackled me, push pins in hand, when I told her I saw Desiree with Anton d’Stang at the Chill Zone Bar.”
“You know who Anton is?” I twisted my head so I could peer at him.
“Everybody does. He’s world famous.”
“Did you see Anton leave the bar with Gigi?”
“Nope. Can’t say I saw Gigi there. But I didn’t stick around for long. I . . .” He hesitated. “I hooked up with someone.”
How gallant of him not to reveal Sabrina’s name.
“My friend, we have to stop talking. You’re not getting the full benefit of your massage.” Mackenzie guided my face back into the cradle, then worked his thumbs up my triceps. “Also, remember to drink lots of water following this session.”
“Will do. But one more thing. Back to you seeing Anton with Desiree.”
“Me, J.P., and everyone else.”
“J.P.?” My voice escalated to way above a tone appropriate for the massage room.
“Shh,” Mackenzie cautioned.
“J.P. said he fell asleep in his hotel room.”
“He may have gone nighty-night at some point, but he was at the Chill Zone, sitting at the bar by himself, giving Desiree and Anton evil glares while making repeated calls on his cell phone. When that didn’t work, he used the pay phone down the hall by the restrooms.”
Was J.P. dialing Desiree, waiting for her to pick up so he could chew her out? Why did he sit on the sidelines? Why didn’t he confront her face-to-face? I said, “Did Desiree see J.P.?”
“Don’t think so. She was pretty into Anton. Now, no more questions.”
• • •
I DIDN’T RELAX through the rest of the massage. How could I? I mean, yes, the deep tissue work Mackenzie did on my legs and feet was incredible; he had great hands. But I kept cycling the conflicting stories through my mind. What if Gigi was a petty thief? Did she kill Desiree to keep her penchant for stealing a secret? Had she convinced Anton d’Stang to lie for her, or vice versa? Anton said he was with Gigi at the time of Desiree’s murder. Did he leave Desiree and go out with Gigi? He didn’t mention having seen Desiree that night. Did he honestly believe no one had noticed them at the Chill Zone? And I couldn’t forget about J.P. He showed up at the bar, too. Did he believe he was invisible? To my surprise, Sabrina’s whereabouts appeared to be solid. Though Mackenzie didn’t mention Sabrina’s name outright, he claimed to have hooked up with a woman. I had seen Sabrina emerging from his Winnebago the next morning. I could do the math.
As I checked out at the reception desk, I scanned the place for Gigi. She wasn’t at her station. When I asked to speak with her, the appointment clerk said Gigi went window-shopping. She loved to do that, the clerk added.
I’ll bet. I whisked my signature on the credit card receipt, added a hefty tip for Mackenzie, and hurried outside. I caught sight of Gigi veering into the Artiste Arcade across the street from Fisherman’s Village.
Eager to follow but knowing I had responsibilities to attend to first, I made a quick call to The Cookbook Nook. Even from a distance, I saw a trail of people lined up across the Fisherman’s Village parking lot. Bailey answered the telephone and assured me all was in order.
I asked what was up with the stream of customers. Bailey said Katie had made some extraordinarily delicious fish chowder laced with white wine. In addition, numerous members of a women’s book club had dropped in to survey the culinary mysteries. According to one, the group had grown tired of reading nationally bestselling yawn books. They wanted books with flavor.
“How was your massage?” Bailey added.
“Informative.”
“Really?”
“I’ll explain when I return.” I ended the conversation and scurried after Gigi.
The Artiste Arcade featured a brick archway adorned with purple morning glory vines. The vines’ scent wasn’t as strong at midday as in the morning, but the fragrance was still enchanting. I strode beneath the arch and halted when I spied Gigi peering into the Adorn Yourself accessory shop. The display window featured floral scarves, dangly earrings, jewelry, and glitzy hair clips. Gigi clung to the strap of her tote bag with both hands as if to keep herself from reaching out. Inside the shop, a customer haggled with a salesclerk.
Taking the direct approach, I strode to Gigi and said, “Hi. Fancy seeing you here.”
She whipped toward me and again r
eminded me of an intensely focused Olympic shot-putter. We had never stood face-to-face. As tall as I was, she bested me by at least three inches and outweighed me by thirty pounds. One good shove of her palm to my face would send me reeling.
“Are you okay?” I said.
“Um, yes, fine.” Gigi’s pupils narrowed; her mouth ticked up on one side; her foot began to tap. All classic signs of lying. “What do you want?”
“The truth.”
“About?”
“Anton d’Stang.”
She drew her large tote bag closer to her abdomen.
“Anton said you and he spent the evening together the night Desiree was killed.”
“Sure.”
Sure wasn’t really yes.
“Are you in a relationship with him?”
“We had one date.” Her tapping foot picked up speed.
“Are you using him as your alibi to keep your own secret?”
“What do you mean?”
I nodded toward the display window. “Adorn Yourself sells pretty things. I see a couple of handsome watches. Do you need a new watch?”
She seared me with a glare and primed her claws.
I edged away, but I didn’t stop my interrogation. “Desiree found out that you were a thief, didn’t she? You took something of hers. Something that meant a lot to her, like that necklace her parents gave her or perhaps her prized autograph book.” Desiree had been collecting famous chefs’ signatures for years. “She accused you, and you got angry.”
“You’ve got it all wrong.”
“Do I? You stole my chef’s heirloom pocket watch.”
“How do you know—”
“We found it,” I said, taking the blame as much as Katie.
Gigi exhaled. “What a dolt I am. I let slip that I left my hairstylist kit in the Winnebago. Dang. I knew I should have retrieved it by now.” She jutted a hip. “Listen, I didn’t take anything of Desiree’s. Ever.”
“Not a silver pill box. No jewelry?”
“No way, and I promise she had no clue I have a weakness for . . .” She made a pinching gesture. “But you’re right. Anton figured it out. He followed me. He saw me take a wallet. And a bracelet. He took pictures. He blackmailed me and said I had to agree that I was with him that night, or he would let everyone in town know what I do.”
“So you didn’t go on a date with Anton?”
She lengthened her spine. “You already know the answer, don’t you? I mean, I assumed he told you the truth, didn’t he? Isn’t he the one who ratted me out?”
“No.”
“Who then?”
“Tito Martinez, the reporter.”
“How did he know?”
“He saw you at Art from the Heart the night Desiree died.”
“Hey, that’s good news for me, right? That means you know where I was. I’ve got an alibi.”
“Not for the whole time.”
“I didn’t kill Desiree,” she said, her voice taut. “I’ll bet Anton d’Stang did. That’s why he wanted me to lie about us having a date, don’t you think?”
“Is he an artist?”
“What does that have to do with the price of rice in China?”
“You’re an artist.”
“So?”
“The aquarium in the salon.”
Gigi huffed. “Are we playing Jeopardy or something? What’s your question?”
“There’s a mermaid in the grotto.”
“Big fat deal.”
“Desiree’s body was enshrined in a mermaid sand sculpture. It wasn’t a gorgeous work of art, but it took talent.”
Gigi’s eyes widened with realization. “Uh-uh. No, ma’am. You will not use the fact that I went to an art college to frame me. I did not kill Desiree. I did not create that mermaid sculpture. Heck, almost every place in Crystal Cove has an ocean theme going. I’m telling you Anton d’Stang killed her. Why else would he need me to corroborate his alibi? And FYI, he became famous by sculpting gigantic cakes for royalty.”
Chapter 15
“ARE YOU KIDDING me?” I clutched Gigi’s shoulders. “You’ve got to tell Chief Pritchett.”
“Let me go.” Gigi shuddered beneath my grasp.
I scanned the Artiste Arcade. I didn’t see a soul. Where had all the shoppers gone? Maybe to the beach to check out the sandcastles. The customers and saleslady in the accessories shop, still haggling, paid no attention to us.
Though Gigi wriggled to free herself, I continued to cling to her and said, “Anton d’Stang doesn’t have an alibi.”
“Mine isn’t so hot.”
“But you don’t have motive.”
Gigi rolled her lip between her teeth. “Please, let me go.”
I released her but kept my gaze firm. “The police think I killed Desiree. I didn’t. I need them to know there’s another suspect. You’ve got to tell them.”
A long moment passed before she gave a jerk of her head signifying okay.
I clapped her on the shoulder. “You’re doing the right thing. I—”
“Jenna,” my father called from behind me.
As I swiveled, Gigi rushed away. Given her long stride, she was gone from view in a nanosecond. Would she talk to the police? Should I follow her to the precinct or give her the benefit of the doubt? I didn’t get a choice. My father embraced me.
“Sweetheart.”
“Hey, Dad.”
“I was just at The Cookbook Nook.” He released me. “Actually, I was at the café having lunch. The place is packed. Katie is serving—”
“Chowder.”
“Did you taste it?”
“Not yet.” My stomach grumbled with discontent.
“It’s delicious.”
“Is everything else okay at the store?”
“Absolutely. Your aunt is in her element, giving a tarot reading to one of the customers, and Bailey was holding court with a party of women. That girl”—he tapped his head—“is a brain. Do you think she’ll stick around Crystal Cove?”
“For now.” But the job at The Cookbook Nook wouldn’t captivate her for long.
Dad slung an arm around me. “Walk with me to the hardware store.”
“Can’t. I’ve got boxes upon boxes of new cookbooks to put on shelves.” And hopefully I would receive a phone call from Cinnamon Pritchett, who would tell me her sights were set on Anton d’Stang because Gigi had cleared me of all wrongdoing.
A horn honked. Another horn blared. I swung around and caught sight of a cavalcade of antique cars motoring along Buena Vista. Vehicle occupants hung out the windows and flashed pedestrians the Hawaiian Shaka sign, thumbs and pinkies extended. Many sang, “Don’t worry, be happy.”
My father mirrored the gesture and chimed, “Don’t worry, be happy.” He pulled me close and gave me a squeeze.
“Dad.” I wriggled free wondering who this cuddly alien was beside me, and what had he done with my typically judgmental father?
He slipped his arm through mine. “C’mon. Let’s spend some time together. I’m only going to open the shop for a couple of hours.” One of the benefits of being retired and financially well off was that my father didn’t care if his business made money or not. “You haven’t seen the place since I spruced it up. How can you say no?”
“That’s heading in the opposite direction.”
“It’s located in the next complex.”
Seagulls squawked overhead, chiding me I was pretty sure. At Taylor & Squibb, I’d lived by schedules. Now I really didn’t have a strict schedule, and I had hired capable people at The Cookbook Nook. I needed to learn to relax and drink in the fresh sea air.
“Okay, but just for a brief look-see.”
As we strolled along, my father said, “What was going on back there between you and the hairstylist?”
“Nothing.”
“Don’t kid a kidder.”
“Really. Nothing.”
When we arrived at Nuts and Bolts, my father said, “Here we are. Do you like the n
ew sign above the door?” The sign was made of rough-hewn wood with the store’s name carved in bold block letters and hammer and nail icons burnished into the wood on either end. “I framed it.”
I hesitated. I couldn’t see any difference from the old sign.
“It’s a good four inches wider and taller.”
“Nice,” I lied.
Dad opened the door and switched on lights. “I cleared out excess junk and added a skylight. Sunshine makes everything look better.”
The place, similar to the neighboring shops, was long and narrow. Streamlined shelves, each categorized with labels made from one of those label machines, held multiple boxes of screws, nails, and whatnot. Dad was superorganized. A plaque with a quote that Dad had drilled into our brains at a young age hung on the wall behind the checkout counter: The primary sign of a well-ordered mind is a man’s ability to remain in one place and linger in his own company—Seneca.
Dozens of pictures commemorating family adventures lined the wall above the quotation plaque: seashell collecting, offshore fishing, skiing. I especially loved the one of my sister, brother, and me nestled on a cascade of rocks, our faces dirty as all get-out, thanks to a long day of hiking. My siblings and I didn’t have much in common, but we loved to hit the trails.
I settled onto a stool behind one of the counters, rested my feet on a rung, and knitted my hands around my knees thinking, despite the tragic turn of events in the past week, how much I enjoyed being back in Crystal Cove. Being home. I reread the plaque with the Seneca quote. The words held a whole new meaning for me.
“Now are you going to talk to me or not?” Dad said.
“About?”
He twirled a finger. “That thing back at the Artiste Arcade between you and the hairstylist.”
I inhaled and released a long breath. “Is Aunt Vera correct? Was interrogation part of your secret FBI life?”
“Don’t sidetrack.” He tapped two fingers on the counter.
“You know what we were discussing at dinner last night? Well, today things turned topsy-turvy.” I explained how Katie figured out Gigi was a thief. I followed up with the points Mackenzie revealed to me during my massage session.
Final Sentence Page 16
