Final Sentence

by Daryl Wood Gerber

  We entered the cottage, and I said, “Make yourself at home.” I set the easel and canvas against the far wall and released Tigger. “I’ve got to shower.”

  As I let water rinse off sand and salty grit, I heard Bailey puttering around the cottage. Curiosity getting the better of me, I slipped out of the shower, slung a towel around my damp body, and opened the door an inch. Bailey, nibbling on a cookie, stood beside the Ching cabinet, its pocket doors wide open.

  I cleared my throat. “What’re you doing?”

  She jerked upright and did a double take on the cookie. “Hope you don’t mind.”

  “Mi casa es su casa. I baked them.”

  “Really? Not bad.”

  “But I wasn’t talking about your snack.” I gathered a skirt and tank top from the closet. “Are you spying on me?”

  “What? No.”

  “What’s so interesting in the cabinet?”

  “Uh, the porcelain cat,” she stammered.

  I coughed and muttered an under-my-breath, skeptical curse. “That’s on, not in. Truth. What are you really doing, judging the state of everything in my place so you can report back to my aunt and father? ‘Jenna’s paints in the cabinet are all messed up; she’s a slob; she didn’t make her bed. All signs of a distracted mind. It’s definitely time for you to send her to the loony bin.’ Enter guys in white coats.”

  “Whoa.” Bailey held up the universal halt sign. “You’re sounding paranoid. Get a grip.”

  “I’ve got one, but it’s choking the life out of me.”

  “Remember our motto at the office? We will find the humor in every situation.”

  “I’m a suspect in a murder.”

  “That’s downright hysterical.”

  “You’re a sadist.”

  “At times.” She pointed. “Finish getting dressed. I’m starved.”

  I retreated to the bathroom and put on my clothes. Afterward, I twisted my hair and secured it with a tortoiseshell clip, then daubed my cheeks with blush. I added extra moisture to the skin beneath my eyes, but I still looked tired. Short of taking a vacation or getting seventy-two hours of straight, uninterrupted sleep, I couldn’t fix that.

  “By the way, I like the artwork,” Bailey said as I emerged from the bathroom. “You’re maturing. This one”—she indicated the canvas from this morning—“is very raw. If Old Man Taylor knew you could do this kind of work, T&S would be hiring you back as one of their premier artists.”

  I laughed. “Okay, that’s enough. You don’t have to bolster my ego.”

  “Find the humor.”

  “Ha-ha.”

  “So what was going on in your brain when you started painting this one?” She tapped the corner of the canvas.

  “I . . .” Words caught in my chest. Tears formed in the corners of my eyes. Uh-oh.

  “What?” Bailey hustled to me.

  All of sudden, everything that I couldn’t tell Rhett gushed out in one long stream—the need to paint, the memory of finding Desiree, the fear of the surfer.

  Bailey flew to the window and peeped through a crack in the drapes. “I don’t see any surfers on the beach or the ocean.”

  “Of course not. It was over an hour ago. Besides, I’m probably, as you said, paranoid.”

  “Stop that.” She returned to me and gripped me by the shoulders.

  “It’s true. I’m imagining things. Seeing shadows. Hearing creaks.”

  “Repeat after me. I’m in a new place, a new town, with a new career, and new hope. C’mon.”

  I echoed the quasi-mantra.

  “What other people think doesn’t matter,” Bailey added. “Say it.”

  I groaned but followed her lead.

  “Creative visualization.” She poked my forehead with her fingertip. “Repeat.”

  “Creative visualization.”

  Weekly at Taylor & Squibb, a trainer taught positive thinking techniques. At one point, the company forced every employee to read Who Moved My Cheese? subtitled: An Amazing Way to Deal with Change in Your Work and in Your Life. Literally, the book was about mice navigating a maze. Team cooperation, the instructor said, worked.

  “Deep breath.” Bailey inhaled. I copied. She released her breath; so did I. “Great. Now let’s go to lunch. We’ll hash this over with your dad and your aunt. We’ll solve this, okay?”

  Chapter 18

  ON TUESDAY MORNING at 10 A.M., The Pelican Brief Diner was hopping. A splashy array of surfboards and bicycles and a baker’s rack, which held beachgoers’ sand toys and tools, flanked the entryway. In the foyer by the hostess’s stand, over twenty customers waited for tables.

  Bailey dragged me past them and scanned the restaurant. “I see my mom.” She waved.

  Lola, her silver hair matching her silver drape-shouldered blouse, air-kissed us. Typical mother, she made a quick fuss over her daughter’s hair, plucking pieces forward. “There,” she muttered as if she had fixed Bailey for life. “Now, follow me. Jenna, I’ll never get over how tall you are.”

  I had been five-foot-eight since I turned twelve. Kids used to tease me and call me Gigrantress. My sister, Whitney, who wished she were my height, often instigated the taunts. I flashed on the people in Desiree’s life, all as tall as she was except for her sister. I wondered whether I should rule out Sabrina as a murderer because of her size.

  As if conjuring her with my thoughts, I caught sight of Sabrina sitting at a booth by the window. Sunlight streamed through the window and dappled the hair of her tablemate. It wasn’t J.P.; he had dark hair. I diverged from the path Lola cut through the tables to get a better look and spied Mackenzie. Sabrina and he sat tilted forward in their chairs, their hands extended on the table. Their fingertips almost touched. They seemed deep in conversation. Intimate. Had the one-night stand that Sabrina confessed to blossomed into something more?

  “Jenna,” Bailey said.

  I scurried to catch up. Seconds later, we arrived at the table where my father and aunt were seated.

  “You look lovely, dear,” Aunt Vera said.

  My father agreed. “Rested.”

  After my morning panic, I was far from rested, but I wasn’t about to admit that. Bailey and I scooted onto the booth bench opposite them.

  “Everybody, listen up.” Lola thumped the tabletop then recited the specials: jumbo crab cakes with a red pepper sauce, salmon with brown sugar and mustard glaze, Baja fish tacos, heavy on cilantro and red onions, and a California omelet.

  I was so hungry I considered asking for one of everything.

  “I’ll send a waiter over,” Lola said.

  Aunt Vera gripped Lola’s wrist. “Don’t go. Join us.”

  “I can’t, thanks.”

  “Your staff has the place well in hand. C’mon. Say yes.” Aunt Vera fondled the phoenix amulet she wore. “We have lots to discuss with Jenna. Your opinion would be much appreciated.”

  “Well . . . okay.” Moving as if she were under a spell, Lola sidled into the booth beside me.

  “Sure, what’s one more opinion?” I groused.

  “Don’t be a grump.” Bailey beckoned a waiter.

  After we gave the waiter our orders and he poured coffee for all of us, Lola said, “What does Jenna need an opinion on?”

  “She had an incident, didn’t you, dear?” Aunt Vera said.

  “Incident?”

  “Your father told me all about it. Why don’t you share with the rest of us?” My aunt caressed her amulet again.

  Suddenly I felt the urge to blab. Did the amulet really possess mystical powers? If I tore the necklace from my aunt’s neck, could I stifle the impulse? What would be the use? Everyone was staring at me . . . waiting.

  “Fine.” In a flurry, I filled them in about last night’s flour attack, my brother and sister’s drama, my father’s heroic act, this morning’s surfer sighting, and the Mustad hook that Joey thought had gone missing but hadn’t.

  Aunt Vera eyeballed my father. “Did Jenna tell you last night that Gigi Goode
has run away?”

  My father cut me a look.

  “Don’t glower at me,” I said. “The point might have slipped my mind with everything going on. And we aren’t totally sure she fled, but she didn’t show up for work.”

  My father and Lola said, “Oh, my,” in unison.

  “And I can’t remember if I mentioned this to any of you,” I continued, “but Mackenzie, Desiree’s masseur, saw Anton d’Stang with Desiree at the Chill Zone Bar the night she died.”

  “You did tell me that,” my father said. “Anton saw J.P. there, too.”

  Aunt Vera pressed her hand to her chest. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but didn’t J.P. say he took a sleeping pill and went out like a light?”

  I nodded. “Except he lied. He was spying on Desiree and Anton.”

  “How did they look?” Bailey asked.

  I tilted my head. “What do you mean?”

  “Anton and Desiree. The last time he saw her was the day he turned her apartment upside down. How did they act with one another? Civil? Were they friendly? Angry?”

  “Mackenzie didn’t say. He was busy hooking up with Sabrina.”

  “She was there, too?” Bailey said.

  “Sabrina spent the night with Mackenzie in the Winnebago.”

  Aunt Vera clucked her tongue. “Sounds like we live in Peyton Place.”

  I peeked around the edge of our booth and glimpsed Sabrina and Mackenzie. He was checking out a sparkling gold bangle on Sabrina’s arm. The bracelet looked expensive. Was Sabrina spending money she didn’t yet have?

  Bailey craned to see what I was fixated on. “The masseur,” she said. “Does he have a motive to want Desiree dead?”

  “None that I can figure.”

  “Maybe he and Desiree were having an affair, but then he took a liking to the sister,” Bailey said. “What if he convinced Sabrina she was better off if Desiree were dead?”

  I gaped. “And they conspired to kill Desiree?”

  Bailey nodded. “Did you ever find out if Sabrina stands to inherit her sister’s estate?”

  “Cinnamon never got back to me on that.” Not that she ever would.

  Our waiter arrived with our meals, which stalled the conversation. If hums of appreciation could be counted as restaurant ratings, The Pelican Brief earned ten stars all around. Ending my tradition of only ordering fish sticks, I had requested a California omelet, which was filled with avocado, bacon, and cheddar cheese, and topped with a mound of sour cream and green onions. The dish was delectable and decidedly healthier than the cookies I had eaten for dinner and breakfast.

  As the waiter refreshed coffee mugs and water glasses, Lola said, “Let’s not forget Anton d’Stang. He blackmailed Gigi to establish an alibi, and yet we have an eyewitness, your masseur”—she aimed her fork at me—“who saw Anton meet with Desiree the night she was killed. If I were you, I’d have a chat with Anton. You’ll find him at the Nature’s Retreat Hotel.”

  “How would you know that, Mother?” Bailey said.

  “Because I was handing out business cards at the local hotels to drum up business less than a half hour ago, and I saw him in deep conversation with a couple of shady-looking characters.”

  “Shady?” My father scoffed.

  Aunt Vera drummed the table. “Don’t make fun, Cary.”

  “I wasn’t—”

  “Have you forgotten what Lola’s legal practice entails?”

  “I know exactly what kind of practice she has. In fact, I know a lot more about her than you think I know.”

  Oh, really? A few minutes before, when my father and Lola had chimed, “Oh, my,” in unison, they had looked at each other and reddened. Was there something going on between the two of them?

  “Do not assume, Vera, that I am an idiot,” my father said.

  “I never implied—”

  “C’mon, you two.” Lola set down her fork. “Cool your jets.”

  “You stay out of it,” my father barked. Lola bridled. Without breaking eye contact with my aunt, my father pressed ahead. “Vera, we shouldn’t encourage Jenna to go off half-cocked.”

  “Who said anything about sending her off half-cocked?” Aunt Vera squawked.

  “Lola did.”

  “I did no such thing.” Lola spanked the table.

  Like kids caught in a family squabble, Bailey and I excused ourselves to the ladies’ room and scooched out of the booth. However, instead of heading down the rustic hallway, I gripped Bailey’s elbow and steered her toward the front door.

  Bailey dug in her heels. “Whoa. I’m not fond of that look on your face.”

  “What look?”

  “This look.” She squinched her mouth and wrinkled her nose. “Whenever you do that, you’re up to something.”

  “That’s right. We’re going to track down Anton d’Stang.”

  “We? No, ma’am. I can’t. I’ve got a doctor’s appointment.”

  “For what?”

  “Girl stuff.”

  “Well, I’m going to find him.”

  “No, come with me first. Afterwards, we’ll track him down together.”

  “Finding Anton can’t wait. You heard your mom. He’s at the hotel now. He could be long gone if I wait. What if he killed Desiree and, because Gigi wouldn’t confirm his alibi, killed her, too?”

  “Did you hear yourself?” Bailey bleated. “He could be a killer. A double murderer. You can’t face him alone.”

  “But I won’t be alone with him. He’s staying in a public place.”

  I gazed at her mother, my aunt, and my father, each pointing fingers and arguing the finer points of my future. Yes, we could hear them clear across the restaurant. My future. I had to be the one in control of it. Me.

  I said, “I promise I’ll be careful. What could possibly go wrong?”

  Chapter 19

  THE NATURE’S RETREAT Hotel was tucked into a hill above Crystal Cove. Hundreds of California oak trees provided shade. In the foyer and adjacent chat room, as the hotel liked to call its lobby, natural wood set the tone. The designer, a local architect with a big ego, had employed fine wood for all the cabinetry and tables. He had even trimmed the gigantic fireplace in wood, and a waterfall cascaded down slats of teak and pooled into a rock quarry below. Dozens of backpack-toting tourists as well as families with sizable luggage and beach gear milled by the reception desk.

  I spotted Anton d’Stang conversing with two swarthy-skinned men—one skinny, one ponderously obese—near a grouping of green brocade chairs. A roller suitcase stood by Anton’s side. A travel coat was draped over his left forearm. Had he hoped to get out of town before these goons showed up? Mr. Big demanded something. Anton fished in his pocket and withdrew a wad of money. He handed it over and stabbed his finger at his adversary. Mr. Big batted Anton’s hand aside.

  Eager to know what was going on, I raced toward Anton, waving my hand like an enthusiastic foodie fan. “Mr. d’Stang. Mr. d’Stang.” People in the lobby craned their heads to get a look. Perfect. I was making a mini-scene. No way would the goons harm me. To keep my performance strong, I pulled a pad and pen from my tote and flailed them. “May I have your autograph?”

  Anton squinted at his buddies. The skinny one, not nearly as ominous as Mr. Big, elbowed Anton and offered a you-could-get-lucky wink.

  Not a chance, I thought, but I wasn’t going to ruin the charade. “Ple-e-ease?” I shouted.

  “We’re done here, Tony,” Mr. Big said with a New Jersey accent John Travolta would be proud of. “Catch you in Frisco.”

  Frisco? Honestly? Nobody but people from the turn of the twentieth century referred to San Francisco as Frisco. Who were these guys?

  Mr. Big swatted his cohort on the back and pushed him out of the hotel.

  I continued toward Anton. When I reached him, I stowed the pad and pen and said, “We need to talk.”

  “Sorry, chérie. I do not have the time. I have a bus to catch.”

  The sophisticated Anton d’Stang traveled via bu
s? No way. And his pals called him Tony. Maybe he lived a double life. Charming restaurateur by night, low-life by day. I clasped his arm. “Halt,” I ordered. He pulled to free himself. If my father had taught me one thing, it was how FBI guys could be assertive with attitude, so I pretended I was him—without the age, without the silver hair, a young Dad in summer wear and flip-flops. “Don’t move,” I repeated, my voice low and intimidating. This time he obeyed. “Do you know where Gigi Goode is?”

  “It is Tuesday. I assume she is at work.”

  “She’s not. She’s been missing since yesterday.”

  “Pourquoi voulez-vous—” He swiped his hand across his forehead as if to clear his mind of French. “Why ask me?” He shook free of me and backed away; his calves bumped the suitcase. He looked left and right as if he wanted to bolt, but he had no exit. Chairs and I trapped him.

  I took a step toward him. “Gigi disagreed with your version of what happened the night Desiree was killed. Actually, she didn’t disagree. She flat-out refuted it.”

  “She lies.”

  “She said you blackmailed her. She was on her way to the police to give a statement, but she didn’t make it there.”

  “That is not a surprise. The girl is a thief. She fled.”

  “Or somebody wanted her out of the way.”

  Anton blinked. “Not I.”

  I had no way of proving my theory, not without a body. I opted for another approach. “You met Desiree on the night of the murder.”

  “Non.”

  “Oui,” I said like a smart aleck. “You met at the Chill Zone Bar.”

  “Merde.” He slumped forward as if someone had punctured his lungs with a needle and all the air escaped. He wasn’t going to collapse, but he appeared beaten.

  “You were the last person seen with Desiree.”

  “Impossible.”

  I counted points on my fingertips. “You held a grudge against Desiree. You stalked her, wearing a fisherman’s costume. You lied about your alibi. And Gigi recently reminded me, you began your career as a cake artist. You have the skill to shape a mermaid in the sand.”

  “I did not do this,” Anton roared, catching the attention of guests and staff. He lowered his voice. “You must believe me. Desiree and I met that night, it is true. I tried to convince her to . . .” He hesitated.