Final Sentence

by Daryl Wood Gerber

  “He’s missing.” Whitney sounded panicked. She never panicked.

  “Maybe he’s doing a supersecret house design. Remember that millionaire he worked for? The guy required that Mitchell live in the house and never make a phone call. He was incommunicado for how long?”

  “I’m telling you he’s missing. We’ve been in touch every day for the past month.”

  “Why?”

  “We’re planning a surprise party for Dad.”

  Oh, really? Without including me? Wicked, waspish Whitney. My worry over her panic vanished. A pang of rejection cut through me. “I’m sure—”

  The doorbell rang. I nearly leaped out of my skin.

  “Is someone at your door?” Whitney shouted. “Maybe it’s Mitchell.”

  Or a killer. But would a killer ring the bell? Would my brother visit me out of the blue? “Calm down,” I said, though I was far from composed.

  The visitor pounded on the door. “Jenna?” The voice belonged to my father.

  “It’s Dad,” I said into the phone and sped to the entrance. Tigger scampered behind me. After peering through the peephole to make sure whoever was on the other side hadn’t duped me by imitating my father’s voice, I whipped open the door. I glanced past my father to see if anyone was lurking beyond him. No one. My fear of immediate danger lessened.

  “Where’s Mitchell?” My father pushed past me. “Your sister called.”

  “I’m on the phone with her now.” I pointed at the receiver. “Whitney—”

  “Don’t spoil the surprise,” she said.

  Oh, yeah, like I would. “Why did you call Dad before me?” I asked her.

  “Jenna . . .”

  I made a face. How I despised my sister’s condescending tone. “Don’t worry. If I have to drive to Napa myself, I’ll find our brother.” First, of course, I would explain to Chief Pritchett where I was going.

  My cell phone bleeped. A second call was coming in: Mitchell. I felt a momentary elation. He had dialed me before our sister.

  I said, “Wait. Mitchell is on the other line.”

  “Thank heavens.”

  I pressed the Hold then Answer buttons. “Hey, little bro, where are you?”

  “In hiding. I couldn’t take any more surprise party calls. You know about that, right?” He didn’t wait for my response. “I needed air. I went to an ashram. You get it, right? Our sister likes to plan ad infinitum.”

  I laughed. We chatted for a second, got caught up on his latest house design—a ten-thousand-square-foot ranch house with an overlook of Napa—and blew kisses good-bye. I returned to my sister, assured her that our brother was okay, and promised to call her soon with an update. She didn’t mention Desiree’s murder. I was glad.

  Upon ending the call, I found my father pacing the kitchen. “Are you okay?” I asked.

  “Wound up.” He ogled the cookies.

  “Hungry?”

  “Are they any good?”

  I nodded with confidence. They weren’t Famous Amos or Mrs. Fields, and they were a tad crispy, but they tasted delicious. I filled a plate with cookies, strode to the couch, and patted the seat beside me. My father sat down, took a treat, and then reached for my hand.

  “What are we watching?” he asked.

  “Cooking shows.” I cranked up the volume.

  Dad bit into a cookie and hummed his appreciation. When the next commercial appeared, he said, “I miss your mother.”

  “I’m sure you do.”

  “She wouldn’t have overreacted to your sister calling.”

  “David wouldn’t have either. He would have said Whitney was the one acting dramatic.”

  My father smiled. “How are you doing?”

  “Every time I see a ship on the ocean, a piece of me dies.” Raw emotions stuck in my chest. I ordered them to crawl back into their hiding place. “And now, with this whole murder thing and being a suspect? David would have told me to remain aloof, but how can I, huh? Pepper continues to harass me.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “After I saw you at the hardware shop, she brought Cinnamon to The Cookbook Nook. Pepper brought up that rally arrest years ago. She vilified me, and now”—I jumped to my feet and jerked a thumb at the rear window—“I’m acting all scared and girlie because I hear creepy noises outside the house, and I see figures on the beach that freak me out, and—”

  “Where? When?”

  “Right before you showed up. Someone threw something at the window. White powder.”

  My father dashed outside. James Bond couldn’t have acted more courageous. He returned seconds later with an empty bag. “Flour,” he said.

  “Flour?”

  “Baker’s Mix.”

  “I’ll bet those hooligans who let out the air of the Winnebago tires did this.”

  “The who?”

  “Forget it. The wind will clean it off.”

  He tossed the empty Baker’s Mix bag into the garbage can by the sink. Remnants of flour billowed upward. Out of nowhere, I envisioned an ominous spirit bursting from the white cloud and scavenging the cottage. The lid closed. The vision vanished.

  My father strode back to me. “If it’s any consolation, your sister says that you’re one of the strongest people she has ever met.”

  “No way.”

  “Way.”

  • • •

  MY FATHER SPENT the night on my couch. He claimed he was so tired that he couldn’t drive home, but I knew better. The call from Whitney and my overwrought state had rattled him. On Tuesday morning, as the sun rose and warmed the cottage, I made my father coffee. We nibbled cookies and drank in silence. When he left and I realized the shop was closed, I decided to take our official day off and address my fears.

  I secured Tigger in his air-conditioned beach cage and, barefoot, with an easel, canvas, and charcoal pencil in hand, traipsed to the beach—my intent, to sketch the images that plagued me: a raging ocean, a teetering sailboat, and a mermaid-shaped sandcastle. When I finished, I planned to hurl the painting into the water and beg the tide to lure my two-dimensional ship of sadness to another place.

  The beach was deserted. Offshore breezes blew horizontally across the ocean. Seagulls greeted me with their shrieks. I placed Tigger’s cage on the sand, erected my easel, and set to work.

  The first stroke of black charcoal on white canvas infused me with energy and, with the vitality, came inspiration. I thought of David and how, whenever he caught me painting, he would tiptoe behind me and trace a finger down my spine. It was his way of saying he loved me without interrupting my alpha state of heightened creativity.

  As a picture took shape on the page, an image formed in my mind—a memory of the morning Desiree died. The temperature hovered in the sixties. A breeze wafted through the fronds of the palms. I spied the treasure hunters and the lone surfer. Seconds later, I spotted the sand sculpture with Desiree’s body buried beneath.

  A fleeting notion made me shift to an earlier moment in my timeline. To the surfer. How long had he been floating, waiting to catch a wave? Some surfers went on what they liked to call dawn patrol, taking to the water before the sun rose. Had he? I had told Cinnamon about the surfer. Had she discovered his identity?

  I scanned the ocean. To my surprise, I glimpsed a solitary surfer straddling a surfboard on the water to the north. Where had he come from? He acknowledged me with a gesture akin to saluting. Was it a signal that he saw me . . . he knew me . . . he killed Desiree and Gigi . . . and he was coming after me? Fear jagged my insides. I staggered backward; my heel rammed against Tigger’s cage.

  A wave swelled behind the surfer. He leaped to a stand on his board.

  I sprang to action.

  Chapter 17

  WITH MY PULSE pounding so hard it throbbed in my ears, I shoved my pencils into my satchel, snatched the easel, canvas, and Tigger in his cage, and bolted from the ocean. Sand etched the bottoms of my feet. Seagulls scudded ahead of me as if leading a brigade. Did the surfer know where
I lived? Was he the stranger who had hurled a bag of flour at my window? Did I dare go home? Halt, Jenna, I chided myself. Slow down. Rethink this. But I couldn’t stop fleeing. The guy was racing toward the shore as fast as a cigarette speedboat.

  I glanced at my aunt’s house. Her car was gone. Yesterday she mentioned that she had an early morning meeting with fellow psychics; she must have left. I didn’t know any of the neighbors. How would they react if I landed on their doorstep and begged to come inside?

  Down the strand, I spied The Pier. People milled about on the boardwalk. I caught sight of the silver Pier flag glimmering on a pole near Bait and Switch and thought of clear-headed Rhett Jackson. Maybe he could reel me back to earth.

  Minutes later, I charged into the huge warehouse out of breath. Customers stopped browsing the sales racks and gawked at me. I skidded to a stop. Carrying Tigger in his cage and all my other gear, I must have looked like I intended to move in. Tough. I scanned the aisles for Rhett, but I didn’t see any sign of him.

  The gangly clerk with the prominent Adam’s apple approached me. “Help you?” His voice had a natural crack to it, as if he hadn’t quite cleared puberty.

  “Rhett,” I gasped out of breath.

  The clerk hitched a thumb. I didn’t see Rhett in the direction he indicated, but I figured he wouldn’t steer me wrong. Dodging bargain-hungry customers, I hustled toward the rear of the store. I stopped short, right before slamming into Rhett, who was scooping up scattered kayak paddles.

  “What happened?” I said.

  “Some teen playing hide-and-seek with a buddy knocked over the entire display.” He struggled to a stand. “What’s up?”

  I felt like a dolt, panting as if I had just seen the scariest movie ever.

  “Jenna.” He searched my face. “Did someone accost you? Are you okay?”

  “It’s . . . It’s nothing.”

  “Bullpuckey.” He relieved me of my bag, the easel, and Tigger’s cage and ushered me to a green leather chair that stood beside a full-length mirror. “Sit down and tell me what happened.”

  “Really, it’s—”

  “Jenna, sit.”

  “I feel silly bothering you.”

  Rhett forced me into the chair and rested the easel and bag beside the mirror. He released Tigger from his confinement. The poor cat lurched into Rhett’s arms. He scruffed Tigger’s chin and said to me, “Talk.”

  “A surfer—”

  “There are a bunch out today. Surf’s great.”

  I explained that there weren’t many surfers in my neck of the beach. “In fact, there was only one.”

  “The guy must be a novice. The surf’s rarely good north of The Pier. What about him?”

  “He—” I halted. Was I putting together a scenario that didn’t add up? Was the lone surfer who had floated on the water the day Desiree died a novice and harmless? How I wished I could rewind the past moment of my life and reenter Bait and Switch as a composed, semisane woman.

  “What about the surfer?” Rhett said.

  “I was worried . . . that he was . . .” I batted the air. “It doesn’t matter. I’m going to leave now.” I tucked a loose strand of hair behind my ear and rose from the chair. I reached for Tigger.

  Rhett handed him over. “Actually, I’m glad you stopped by. I’ve been meaning to call you. Joey—”

  “The young man that greeted me.”

  “That’s the one. Joey Pritchett.”

  “Pritchett?” I cut a look in the kid’s direction. “Is he related to Pepper?”

  “He’s her nephew. Her deceased brother’s kid. He’s a sweet guy.”

  I couldn’t help frowning.

  “Really.” Rhett bobbed his head with understanding. “I know, Pepper’s an acerbic woman. She’s got issues. But Joey’s different. He’s not as bright as his cousin, Cinnamon, but not many kids are. Anyway, Joey discovered that a Mustad hook had been stolen from the shop, after all.”

  “What?” I jostled Tigger. He yowled his displeasure. I calmed him. “Go on.”

  “When you came in the other day, remember how we surveyed the inventory and it appeared intact? Well, a customer came in to buy a hook last night, and Joey discovered an empty box.”

  “You don’t have a record of anyone buying the hook?”

  “Nope. I’m thinking someone filched it.”

  “Gigi,” I muttered.

  “Who?”

  I described Gigi Goode with her purple hair and multiple-studded ears. “She’s a hairstylist in town and a thief. She must have sneaked in here.” I took two paces to the right, pivoted, and returned. “That must be why she split town.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  I told Rhett how Gigi claimed Anton had blackmailed her into corroborating his alibi. “What if that was a ruse? What if Desiree knew about Gigi’s bent for stealing? What if she threatened to turn her in? Gigi is a big gal. She could have overpowered Desiree, and she’s an artist. She could have created the mermaid sand sculpture.”

  “I don’t think I’ve ever seen the woman you’re describing. Hey, Joey.” Rhett beckoned his clerk. To me, he said, “The kid’s got a great memory for faces. He’s a budding photographer.”

  My ears perked up. If Joey had a camera with a telephoto lens, maybe I could take a long-range photo of the surfer and ID him.

  Joey loped to us, a hank of hair covering one eye. “What’s up?”

  “Rhett tells me you’re a pretty good photographer,” I said. “What do you like to take pictures of?”

  “Birds.”

  “Do you have your camera with you?”

  Rhett shot me a questioning look.

  “Nope.” Joey shifted feet. “It’s locked in a safe at home. It cost me the last four summer’s earnings. I only take it out when I’ve got the day off. Why?”

  “Oh, gee, um, because I . . . I love cameras.” I was way past the point of admitting my fear of the lone surfer. “I used to work at an advertising company. Photographers ruled the roost.”

  The kid preened.

  Rhett said, “I think we’re getting off track. Joey, did you see a woman named Gigi Goode come in the shop?” He reiterated my description of Gigi.

  Joey raked the hair off his forehead. “Yeah, I remember her. She and this muscular blond dude came in together. Don’t know their names, but the two of them laughed like goofs. She kept saying she hated being a gofer, and he said he did, too. Guess they were on some kind of errand.”

  “Was it Mackenzie Baxter?” I asked. He had hired Gigi. Maybe they hung out together when he wasn’t with Sabrina.

  Joey bobbed his head. “Could’ve been. She called him Mac. They asked about our guided hikes. I guess their boss—the dictator as the chick, I mean, lady called her—thought a hiking trip would be a good bonding event for her crew.”

  I gazed at Rhett. “Gigi had opportunity to steal the hook.” Which meant that she also might have stolen the trowel from my store window, perhaps on the morning she had pinched Katie’s pocket watch. “We need to call Chief Pritchett right now.”

  Joey said, “Hold up. If you’re talking about that Mustad hook, I was mistaken. It turns out someone stuffed two hooks into one box. I think I got confused when I put things back. You know, we’ve got so much junk, I mean, quality items in the display case.” He jerked his thumb. In the center of the fishing section stood a beautiful hand-carved case with a glass top. On my previous visit, I had noticed the array of shiny hooks inside. “I meant to tell you, Mr. Jackson.”

  Great. Another dead end.

  • • •

  TOTING MY CAT and paraphernalia, I tramped out of Bait and Switch and headed for home. Along the way, my cell phone rang. I answered.

  “Jenna,” my aunt said. “Let’s go to brunch.”

  “Can’t.” Although Tuesday was my only day off, I had housekeeping and laundry to do, as well as figuring out where Gigi had gone. Her disappearance gnawed at me, not to mention that I wanted to finish my paintin
g, toss the canvas out to sea, and be done with the angst, the musing, and the past.

  Aunt Vera said, “Whatever you have to do can wait.”

  “I’ve got Tigger with me.”

  “Drop the kitten at home and meet us at The Pelican Brief Diner.”

  “Us, as in you and—”

  “Your father.”

  Uh-oh. Why did her request sound like an invitation to an intervention? Mine. Had Dad’s concern fueled hers? I was fine. I was coping. I was a suspect in a friend’s murder investigation. No big deal. Ri-i-ight.

  “Thirty minutes,” she said. “Don’t stall.”

  “How can I say no to such a charming summons?”

  She clucked and disconnected.

  As I drew nearer to home, I spied Bailey jogging along the beach. In orange harem pants and matching halter top and carrying a pair of strappy sandals slung over an index finger, she didn’t look like she had started the day prepared to go for a run. If I were a betting woman, I would say my aunt had sent her in search of me. Swell.

  When I reached her, she bent over and rested her hands on her thighs. “Whew. Am I ever out of shape.” She wasn’t. She relished exercise. She studied Tigger in his air-conditioned tote. “Run out of room at the cottage?”

  “He prefers a morning stroll.”

  “Shouldn’t you let him walk, in that case?”

  “He’s not leash-trained.” I cocked a hip. “Have you been hired to wrangle me?”

  “Wrangle you?”

  “Round me up in case I decide to make a run for it.”

  “Why would you think—”

  “My aunt can be pretty persuasive. Or my father appointed you.”

  Bailey stood upright. “They’re worried, and Katie, too.”

  Double-swell. It wasn’t enough that my kin fretted. Now I had extended family to please. I strolled ahead.

  Bailey did a U-turn and kept pace on my right. “Mind if I join you? I’ve been meaning to see your new place. Now is a good time. Hint-hint.”