Final Sentence

by Daryl Wood Gerber

  “To what?”

  “I want my restaurants to go global. I asked Desiree to lend me money. She owed me. I gave her a start. She would be nothing without me.”

  I flinched. Desiree was nothing; she was dead.

  Anton must have realized what he had said. He blanched and rushed to continue. “Desiree said no. She said I did not have the business”—he searched for a word—“acumen.”

  “Enough reason to kill her.”

  “Non. I did not do it. We parted, and she retreated to her room to talk to that imbécile.”

  I flashed on J.P., who had lied about his whereabouts. Had Desiree gone to confront him? Had he lured her to the beach with a promise of reconciliation before killing her?

  I eyed Anton. He looked cagey, as if he was hiding something. During our conversation at The Pelican Brief Diner, he had told Lola and me about the opening of his San Francisco restaurant. Why hadn’t he mentioned greater expansion at that time?

  I said, “You’re full of it. Try again.”

  He spread his arms. “Il est vrai. The truth. Desiree said no. I accepted her response.”

  “I’m not buying it. Those guys you were just talking to . . .” I gestured toward the hotel’s entrance.

  “Thugs,” Anton muttered.

  “You gave them money. Why?” Lola told Bailey that she thought Anton might be hard up for cash. He had dug in his pockets for loose change to pay for his meal at the diner. “Did they expect Desiree’s presence on opening night and, now that she’s dead, pull out of the venture?”

  “Exactement.”

  Something still didn’t ring true. What was I missing? “How did you hook up with Gigi Goode?”

  “May I sit?” Anton asked. “My legs. It is why I limp. The circulation.”

  He didn’t look fit enough to escape. I stepped aside and followed him to a pair of chairs. A bevy of mocha-skinned beauties in skimpy swimsuits shuffled in behind us and nestled in a nearby grouping. One young woman ogled Anton and whispered, “Hermoso.” Handsome. The others agreed with enthusiasm.

  Anton’s mouth curved up as he sat down.

  I perched at the front of my chair. “Gigi,” I repeated. “Why did you choose her? There are dozens of other hairstylists in Crystal Cove.”

  “The day I arrived, when I was in costume, I spied on Desiree. She left your store, and I followed her to the inn. I waited, deliberating. What would I say? How would she react? There was no love between us.” He wove his fingers together. “When I found the courage, I headed for her room.”

  “How did you know which one was hers?”

  “I charmed a maid.” He leered at the beauties; they tittered. “When I reached the room, the door was ajar. I heard two women arguing. I peered inside. Gigi was with her. Desiree maligned Gigi about her hairstyle. It was too frou-frou on top and the ends needed a trim. Gigi offered to take care of it immediately, but Desiree, who did not know the word modeste, flew into a rage. Gigi glared at Desiree, and I felt an instant rapport. When she left, rather than approach Desiree, I followed Gigi to see if I could enlist her services.”

  “To do what?”

  A beach ball bounced between us. A scraggly youth in cutoffs and Croc clogs sprinted to recover the ball. His mortified mother chased after him. “Sorry,” she said as she bounded over my feet.

  Anton stood. “Perhaps we should take this conversation outside.” Without waiting for my approval, he rose and sauntered out the gigantic double French doors to a stone terrace.

  “What about your suitcase?”

  “There is nothing of value inside.” He stopped at the cement balustrade and propped his back against it. Sun baked his cheeks. A gentle breeze ruffled his salt-and-pepper hair.

  To avoid direct sunlight, I remained in the shadow of the overhang; Desiree would have been proud. “Go on. You and Gigi. You wanted to enlist her services for what?”

  “I craved insider information on Desiree.”

  “You decided blackmailing her would be easier than asking for a loan.”

  He shrugged. “I wanted options. Desiree could be heartless. I needed dirt to coerce her to invest.”

  Dirt. Secrets. Items he could threaten to release to scandal magazines.

  Anton pivoted and bent forward with his elbows on the balustrade.

  I needed to watch his eyes. How else could I know if he was lying? I moved into the sunlight. “Go on. Gigi.”

  “Ahh, yes. I followed her. However, before I could approach, she stopped at a grocery store, and voilà, before I knew it, she stole a wallet from a woman’s purse. And then another and another.” He cast a triumphant look at me. “As she crept from cart to cart à la the Pink Panther, I knew I could have her in my pocket, as you say. I approached her. Her face became rouge, such shame. She agreed to do my bidding and drum up dirt. However, when I heard that Desiree had died”—he licked his lips—“when I learned she was assassiné, I assumed I would be a suspect. Why else would I have come to Crystal Cove, non? I needed an alibi. I pursued Gigi. She obliged.”

  “What’s your real alibi?”

  He didn’t answer.

  I said, “Perhaps talking with the police will get you to open up.”

  “I have spoken to them.”

  “I’ll bet you didn’t tell them about needing a loan. You were desperate.”

  “Non.”

  I pulled my cell phone from my tote.

  “Wait.” Anton faced me. “You do not understand.”

  “Enlighten me.”

  “Oui, I am short on cash.”

  “You needed Desiree’s money. Got it.”

  “Non. It is worse. I have a habit.”

  “Drugs?”

  “Mon Dieu, no. Gambling. I am a gambler.” Words gushed out of him. “I cannot control myself. I have wagered my life’s savings. I lost all the money my investors loaned me to expand Chez Anton.”

  “Did those thugs loan you money? Did they come to collect?”

  He gave a curt nod.

  “Maybe they killed Desiree,” I said.

  Anton shook his head. “They would not. They hoped I could convince her to invest.”

  “You planned to rob Peter to pay Paul.” The guy was shrewd. “So if you weren’t with Gigi the night Desiree died, where were you?”

  Anton pressed his lips together.

  I grumbled. Getting complete answers from him was taking longer than it took me to make my disastrous angel food cake back in high school. I aimed a finger at the numbers on my cell phone. “I’m dialing . . .”

  He growled. “I was on the telephone with my thérapeute . . . therapist . . . from midnight until four A.M.”

  “What therapist in his right mind would take a call that late at night?”

  “My doctor is a she, and she lives in France. It is a nine-hour difference.”

  A flock of seagulls cruised over the Nature’s Retreat terrace. Their squawks mimicked the shock I felt. “You want me to believe that you spoke to your therapist for four hours?”

  “We talk that long every day,” he said. “That is how bad I am.”

  And expensive. I did a quick calculation in my head. Maybe he paid her using a barter system. “Did you tell this to the police?”

  “I cannot. If my investors find out I have gambled away their money, they will kill me.”

  “Not a good enough excuse.” I stabbed in the precinct number and held out the cell phone to him. “Ask for Chief Pritchett.”

  Begrudgingly Anton took the phone. As he set an appointment to come in and I contemplated visiting the Chill Zone Bar for corroboration of Anton’s account, my aunt breezed through the terrace archway.

  “Jenna, dear, too-ra-loo,” she warbled. She may have sounded cheery, but I could tell she was stressed to the point of cracking. Her forehead was as wrinkled as a relief map. “Thank the spirits.” She tugged me into a fierce hug. “How thoughtless of us, arguing and leaving you to take matters into your own hands. Bailey told her mother. I worrie
d that you were—”

  “Aunt Vera, let me go. I’m fine.” I twisted free and glanced around. “Oh, no.”

  During the few seconds Aunt Vera had taken hold of me, Anton had fled. He was gone, as in G-O-N-E. My cell phone rested on the balustrade. I scooped it up. The display read: Searching for signal. Anton had pulled a fast one; he hadn’t connected with the precinct at all.

  I tore into the lobby of the hotel. Anton’s suitcase and overcoat were nowhere to be seen. Shoot, shoot, shoot! He didn’t have complications with his legs. He had faked it, exactly as he had faked his fisherman disguise. Had he lied about his gambling problem, too? Was he the killer, after all?

  Chapter 20

  FROM THE HOTEL lobby, I dialed the precinct. The clerk assured me that after she handled the handful of drunk-and-disorderly calls pertaining to the upcoming Sandcastle Festival, she would put me through. I started to explain that a killer might be on the loose, but she clicked Hold too fast.

  “Jenna Starrett Hart, hang up.”

  “But—”

  “No buts,” Aunt Vera said. “You’re coming with me. You need focus.”

  Honestly, I thought I was pretty darned focused when I had tracked down Anton and even more focused now that he was on the run, but my aunt wouldn’t concede.

  She swished her hand over my head and intoned, “Negativity, disperse with the wind,” then practically dragged me to The Cookbook Nook.

  I protested that it was our day off, but Aunt Vera claimed she wanted to go over the shop’s inventory. The first week’s sales had astonished her. She intended to review all the books we had in stock and order more. A store like ours had to keep up to date to lure repeat customers. She reminded me that every week publishers put out new books—cookbooks, nonfiction, women’s fiction, and mysteries. As an aside, she told me she had just finished the entire cupcake bakery mysteries featuring adorable bakers living in Scottsdale. Until last week, she hadn’t known the series existed.

  When we arrived at the shop, I was surprised to catch a whiff of sugar and spice and everything nice. I followed the scent to the café to find Katie, looking like Betty Crocker herself, in a gingham dress and matching apron. “M-m-mm,” I murmured. “What are you cooking?”

  Katie held out a platter filled with Hawaiian-style appetizers, or as she called them, puu puus. “Chicken and Maui onions,” she said of the first. “A kabob of moist chicken marinated in island flavors.”

  Given that I hadn’t eaten more than half of my omelet before darting from The Pelican Brief Diner, I dug in. The pineapple-based morsel made my mouth ping with pleasure. “Yum,” I said.

  “The other choice is a meatball, similar in flavor. Lots of brown sugar and soy sauce.”

  I popped one into my mouth and wished I could consume all of them. “What are these for?”

  “I was thinking we should do themed nights at the restaurant. You know, French, Greek, Hawaiian. You name it.”

  “Great idea,” I said. “For Italian night, we could feature recipes from cookbooks by, say, Mario Batali. Did you see the one entitled Cooking with Italian Grandmothers? It’s luscious. There are stories from Tuscany to Sicily, and the photographs are stupendous.”

  Katie grinned. “Aren’t you becoming the cookbook gourmet.”

  “Yeah, well, a reading and visual gourmet, perhaps.” I had years of learning before I would become a cooking gourmet . . . if ever. “Why aren’t you taking the day off?”

  “Hoo-boy.” She swatted the air. “There’s no rest for me. No, ma’am. Not until we bring on another full-time chef.”

  “Don’t the sous chefs help out?”

  “Sure, but a restaurant is a twenty-four-seven operation, even if it’s not open twenty-four-seven. I have to do the ordering, the taste tests, and whatnot. Don’t worry. I still plan to take the evening off for a glass of wine with my pal.” She knuckled my upper arm.

  Wine . . . Tuesday. I had forgotten. Oops. Luckily I hadn’t made other plans.

  “I’ve got my taste buds set on a crisp pinot grigio,” Katie said.

  “Sounds delicious.”

  “Now, let’s take this platter to the shop, so I can badger your aunt for info.” Katie led the way and added over her shoulder, “There’s a reason she brought you here, and I want to know what it is.”

  “Why would you think—”

  “I’m as woo-woo connected as she is.”

  Aunt Vera caught up with us in the hall between the café and the shop. “I heard that, Miss Casey.”

  Katie plowed past her, holding the platter as if it were a peace offering. “Puu puu?”

  “Do not make fun of my powers.” Aunt Vera selected a meatball.

  “I would never make fun. I’m in total awe.”

  My aunt brandished the meatball on its skewer. “I’ll have you know I’ve been much more spiritually attuned ever since we opened the shop.”

  I gawked. “Aunt Vera, you’re not telling me that we have ghosts, are you? If Dad finds out, he will cart you off to an asylum so fast your head will spin.”

  Katie guffawed. “I get it. That’s an Exorcist reference.”

  “No, it wasn’t. Not intentionally.” I hadn’t read the book nor seen the movie. Never would. Reading about some topics, such as body snatchers and freaky possessed kids, didn’t sit well with me. “Aunt Vera?”

  “Too-ra-loo. I haven’t communed with any ghosts . . . yet.” She downed the meatball and hummed her approval. “I simply feel I have something to live for. Busy-ness is good for the soul.”

  “I wholeheartedly agree.” Katie set the platter on the vintage kitchen table and folded her large frame into one of the chairs. “Now fill me in on the reason you’re both at the shop.”

  “Our darling Jenna has been snooping again,” Aunt Vera said.

  “Clearing my name,” I argued.

  “Putting herself in harm’s way.”

  Katie folded her arms in judgment. “So, what you’re saying, Vera, is you brought her here so you could keep an eye on her.”

  “I never said . . .” Aunt Vera fanned the air. “Okay. Yes. Whatever. I’m worried and so is her father and Lola.”

  “I’m fine,” I assured them.

  Katie thumped the table. “I’m on pins and needles. Spill.”

  I told her about the brunch and Lola’s intel that led me to track down Anton at his hotel and how he revealed he was a gambler, but afterward, he bolted. “If he was innocent, why would he run off, right?” My cell phone rang. The display read: Private caller. I usually didn’t answer those calls—most of them political robo-calls—but something in my gut told me to respond.

  “Miss Hart,” Cinnamon Pritchett said through the receiver.

  “Oh, phew, Anton d’Stang contacted you.”

  “No. Why would he?”

  “Because . . .” I paused. “Why are you calling me then?”

  Cinnamon cleared her throat. “A witness implicating you in Miss Divine’s murder has come forward.”

  I gaped. Please tell me this wasn’t about the idiotic photograph in my father’s hardware store. I had pushed that notion from my mind.

  “You were overheard talking to Mr. Hessman in a café.”

  I started to vibrate, head to toe. My conversation with J. P. was days ago. What had I said? What had been misconstrued? “Who is the witness? What did she say?”

  “My mother heard from a third party that you told Mr. Hessman you were so jealous of Desiree that you wanted to kill her.”

  “Are you kidding me? Yes, I said I was jealous, but I didn’t say—” I blew out a burst of air. My life was turning into a bad game of Telephone. “You do realize your mother has it in for me, don’t you? Way back when, she had a crush on my father. She thinks my mother stole him away from her. She hates both of my siblings and me. You can’t possibly believe her.”

  “I have to follow every clue. That’s my job. My duty.”

  “You follow the rules. I got it. My father set you on the strai
ght and narrow. But this time—”

  Before I could say more, my aunt wrestled the phone from my grasp and said, “Cinnamon Pritchett, this is Vera Hart. You know perfectly well what’s going on. Your mother is muckraking.” I heard Cinnamon respond but couldn’t make out the words. “Listen to me, young lady. If you want to arrest my niece, then arrest her; otherwise, stop harassing her. There’s no way in heaven she killed her friend, and the sooner you get that into your pretty head, the sooner you’ll find the real killer. That is, if Jenna doesn’t beat you to it.” Aunt Vera puffed with pride. “You heard me right. Jenna is an ace problem solver.”

  Katie thwacked my aunt on the arm in support.

  “If you want her, come and get her.” Aunt Vera stabbed the End button and handed the cell phone to me.

  “Aunt Vera—”

  “Don’t thank me, dear. It had to be said.”

  I wasn’t about to thank her. I was pretty sure that, push come to shove, Cinnamon Pritchett wouldn’t allow herself to be browbeaten. In fact, I would bet she was on her way to the shop with handcuffs at the ready. I stared out the window and breathed shallowly in my chest while downing another meatball. I would need sustenance in jail.

  “Let’s go over this one more time,” Aunt Vera said, cutting into my nightmare about a future behind bars. “What do we really know about suspects other than Anton d’Stang?”

  “Gigi Goode.” I ticked my finger. “Motive: to keep Desiree from revealing her proclivity for theft.”

  “J.P. Hessman,” Aunt Vera coached.

  “Motive: jealousy.” I pictured J.P.’s bulging biceps with the writhing tattoos. He was definitely strong enough to kill Desiree and lug her to the beach, but did he have the artistic ability to create a mermaid sculpture? Maybe I was making too much of that skill. Perhaps a hack could have pulled it off.

  “Let’s pin down his alibi.” Aunt Vera shuffled to the cashier’s counter, picked up the telephone, and whistled as she dialed.

  “Who are you calling?” I said.

  “The Crystal Cove Inn.” Aunt Vera asked for the manager. While waiting, she twirled a tendril of red hair. A moment later, someone came on the line and my aunt said she needed information on J.P. Hessman’s comings and goings. “Uh-huh,” she muttered repeatedly. A short while later, she giggled like a schoolgirl and hung up. “Well, the manager—you know him, with the big handlebar mustache? The man is crazy about me.” Judging by her flirty demeanor, she was crazy about him, too. “He tells me that one of his Russian housekeepers—those girls have relocated here in droves, you know. They share a room and expenses. Anyway, one of the girls saw a man with big muscular arms, tattoos, and funky hair”—Aunt Vera used both hands to outline an imaginary Mohawk—“sneaking around the hotel on the night of the murder.”