Final Sentence

by Daryl Wood Gerber

  Which further corroborated Anton’s story, establishing that J.P. was not in bed, as he claimed.

  “The Russian added that she saw Desiree arguing with a young dark-haired woman.”

  “Sabrina,” Katie said.

  I rose to my feet. “I should go to the inn and talk to the housekeeper. Maybe she—”

  A whoop of laughter coming from across the parking lot drew me up short. A pack of teens flew out the front door of Beaders of Paradise. Right behind them charged Pepper wielding a broom.

  I dashed outside to help.

  “How dare you, you urchins,” Pepper screeched.

  The teens, led by the dystopian girl, juggled spools of thread and bags of loose beads as they fled between the Winnebagos and disappeared from sight.

  Pepper whirled on me. “What are you staring at?” she sniped and stomped into her store.

  I would have felt sympathetic and excused her for her rudeness, except that I was still angry at her for reigniting her daughter’s suspicions about me, and a sudden urge to have it out with her overtook me. I hurried to Beaders of Paradise and plowed inside. I let the front door slam shut. The strands of seashell-shaped beads that served as a window shade clacked with riotous scorn. No customers populated the shop. All the better.

  I darted between racks of sparkling beads toward Pepper, who was heading toward the stockroom behind the sales counter. “Who told you that I said I wanted to kill Desiree?” I demanded.

  Pepper wheeled around; her nose flared. “Joey.”

  Her nephew, the kid who clerked for Rhett. The traitor. And here I thought the kid liked me. “Bullpuckey.” I borrowed Rhett’s semi–curse word, liking the way it tripped off my tongue.

  “He was there. He heard you.”

  “He’s lying.”

  “If he were, you wouldn’t be so upset.”

  “Stop. This. Now.” I shook a fist at her.

  Pepper gasped. The space went deadly silent.

  Heat flooded my cheeks. I lowered my fist and clutched my hands in front of me. “Look, Pepper, I’m sorry it didn’t work out between you and my father. I’m sorry your husband left you and your daughter. I’m sorry for everything. But please, can’t you put the past behind you? You are harassing me out of spite. Can’t you forgive and forget?”

  “No. Never.” Pepper jammed the butt end of the broom on the floor. “Leave.”

  As I fled, I heard her weeping.

  Chapter 21

  ITRUDGED INTO THE Cookbook Nook. Katie was nowhere to be seen. Aunt Vera fiddled with the new display of foodie bookmarks, all hanging by their cute tassels. She glanced at me, her face pinched with apprehension. “What happened?”

  “I ran into Pepper’s shop, and I . . . I . . .” I pulled free and flung myself into a chair by the vintage kitchen table. “I wish . . . No, I regret my behavior just now. I wanted to sock her in the nose.”

  “But you didn’t.”

  “No.”

  Aunt Vera inhaled and petted the amulet around her neck. “Not to worry then. I’ll patch things up.”

  “How can you?”

  “That’s not your concern. It’s mine. Pepper is my tenant. My contemporary. I’ll think of something.” Aunt Vera sat in a chair opposite me. “Now, you said you wanted to go to the Crystal Cove Inn and talk to the housekeeper. Might I recommend against that? You don’t want the woman to lose her work visa, do you?”

  “Why would she lose . . .” I paused. “Oh, I get it. She doesn’t have a visa at all. She’s an illegal.”

  “My manager friend didn’t suggest she come forth as a witness because the murder happened elsewhere.”

  “Do you know if the housekeeper can pinpoint what time she saw J.P.?”

  “She wasn’t sure. The next morning, she knocked on his door. No answer. She entered and was shocked to find him passed out on top of the bed, bare naked.”

  “Didn’t he have a Do Not Disturb sign on his door?”

  “Guess not.”

  Unless I could confirm that J.P. met with Desiree after she left the Chill Zone Bar, I had nothing. “I’ll find other witnesses. I’ll question the bartender and the waitresses.”

  “Don’t you think Chief Pritchett has done that?”

  “Even if she has, it never hurts to have a second opinion.” At Taylor & Squibb, my superior demanded a comparative analysis. A client couldn’t be expected to sink millions into a campaign without one. “I was planning on going out for drinks with Katie. Instead of Vines, we’ll go to the Chill Zone Bar.”

  “Great idea, and ask Bailey to join you.”

  “Bailey?”

  Aunt Vera bobbed her chin toward the stockroom. “She came in while you visited Pepper.”

  Visited. Ha!

  “She looks a little blue.”

  Earlier at the diner, Bailey had mentioned a doctor’s appointment. Was something wrong? Was she sick?

  Aunt Vera tapped her heart with her fingertips. “My sixth sense tells me she might be suffering man trouble.”

  • • •

  I LED THE charge into the Chill Zone Bar. Bailey and Katie followed.

  “Hoo-boy, get a load of this place.” Katie twirled in a circle, the skirt of her gingham dress fluting out. “How hip.”

  Rays of blue and purple light filtered through a heavy gauze ceiling. Gray leather barrel-style chairs clustered around dark granite tables. Every few feet stood plastic ice sculptures shaped like stacks of two-foot-square ice cubes. Water cascaded out of the tops of the sculptures and down the sides.

  “I’ve always wanted to come here,” Katie went on, “but I never had the courage.”

  “Why not?” Bailey said. On the way to the bar, I hadn’t found the opportunity to ask her whether anything was bothering her. She didn’t look sad. In fact, she looked radiant, her skin tone rosy, enhanced by the summery orange halter and harem pants she had worn to brunch.

  Katie said, “You know, single women, out on the town. Not what Mama expects of me. Or Papa.” Her eyes widened. “Wow. Take a look at the bar.”

  A stream of men chatted up women. No families. No children.

  “All those selections of rum,” Katie went on. “So much for a glass of wine. I want the jellyfish mojito. According to the description in the cocktail list that the bar posts online, it’s got a real sting to it.” She wended through the chairs and tables to one of the booths along the perimeter of the room.

  Bailey and I followed. We ordered from a waitress in a low-cut, electric blue spandex dress—Katie and I opting for the mojitos and Bailey selecting San Pellegrino water, claiming she was the designated driver. Loud instrumental Caribbean music, heavy on the steel drums and maracas, made it nearly impossible to talk.

  “Hey.” Bailey pointed at the dance floor. “Isn’t that Desiree’s sister?”

  Sabrina swayed with Mackenzie, her head planted on the masseur’s chest, her palms resting on his shoulders.

  “They look pretty intimate, if you ask me,” Katie said.

  She wasn’t kidding. Mackenzie’s right hand massaged Sabrina’s back. At the same time, his left hand cupped her firm rear end. I speculated about the extent of their relationship. Only days before, Sabrina had seemed distraught that her boyfriend had broken up with her. Had Mackenzie made a play for Sabrina, hoping she might inherit her sister’s estate? Had he, as Bailey had suggested earlier, conspired with Sabrina to kill Desiree?

  I scanned the place and spotted the bartender, a woman with Cleopatra’s luscious eyes and asp-like black tendrils trailing down her cheeks. She shimmied a martini shaker with the gusto of a Mix Master. Up for an impromptu interrogation, I excused myself from my friends and made a beeline for the woman. I settled onto a seat between two empty stools and slipped a twenty-dollar bill onto the counter. Rays from the blue lights overhead gave the bartender’s unblemished skin an otherworldly glow.

  “What’ll it be?” she asked.

  “What’s good?”

  “The margarita. It’
s my mother’s recipe.”

  “Perfect.” As she twisted to get the fixings, I said, “Before you go, could I ask you a couple of questions?”

  She eyed the twenty-dollar bill. “Friend or foe?”

  “Curious local.”

  “A local gets three questions, but make them good.”

  Three limited my options, so I started with a couple of statements. “Desiree Divine died last week. She was my friend. She was seen talking with a man for quite a long time.” I described Anton. “Did you catch any of their conversation?”

  “No. Next question.” She put a pinky on the twenty and drew the bill toward her.

  “Did you see Desiree argue with anyone that night and, if so, with whom?”

  “That’s two questions.”

  “It’s one, all phrased within one parenthetical.”

  Cleopatra wrinkled her nose. “What are you, an English teacher?”

  “A recovering advertising exec.”

  Without letting go of the twenty, Cleopatra polished the bar with a dry towel. “Yes, she argued with a couple of people.”

  A couple? I was thinking that if Desiree had left Anton to have it out with J.P., maybe she had caught him before he left the bar. Who was the other? “Can you describe them?”

  “Yes.” She didn’t offer more.

  I glowered at her. “C’mon, not fair. I’m not an attorney.”

  “Maybe you need one.”

  “Very funny. Please describe them.”

  Cleopatra leaned forward and rested her elbows on the bar, a move that emphasized her ample cleavage. “One was a pretty thing, dark and short with eyes as black as arrowheads.” I peeked at Sabrina. The bartender winked, indicating I had hit the mark. “Your friend was ticked off to the max. She met Short Stuff at the door. They wrestled. Your pal pulled something out of Short Stuff’s purse. A bottle of pills, I think. Shortie snatched it back. When your pal was done ranting, she tried to make a call on her cell phone, but apparently it wasn’t charged, so she made a beeline for the telephone down the hall.” Cleopatra tilted her head in that direction. “Later, she met up with that guy with the Mohawk.”

  A chiseled guy farther down the bar said, “Hey, babe, getting thirsty here.”

  Cleopatra tucked the twenty-dollar bill into her bra and mouthed, “Be right back.” She sambaed to the far end of the bar to pour a martini for the customer.

  I blotted the bar in front of me with a cocktail napkin and studied the other customers. A couple of casually dressed men down the bar ogled me. I offered a blasé smile—not interested.

  A flash of light caught my eye. A door in the hall beyond the bar opened. Even from a distance, I made out the figure of a man with a Mohawk exiting the restroom. J.P. In a flash, I realized that the bartender had tried to alert me to his presence. What would J.P. do if he found me nosing around? I hunched forward over the bar and, out of the corner of my eye, glimpsed him heading straight for me. A queasy feeling flooded through me as I spied a tumbler with an inch of weak brown liquid and melted ice on a cardboard Chill Zone coaster to my right. Was it J.P.’s? Shoot.

  Chill out, I urged myself and suddenly erupted in giggles. Chill out. At the Chill Zone Bar. More giggles. J.P. drew nearer. I could make a run for it, but why should I? All I had to do was play innocent. I was a single girl out for a night on the town with her friends.

  Trying to act natural, I slung one leg over the other and gave my hair a shake. Oh, yeah, real natural.

  As J.P. settled into his stool, Cleopatra returned. I ordered a margarita with salt, and overemoting like a ham actor, I did a double take at J.P. “Hey, fancy seeing you here. How are you doing?”

  “I’m cool.”

  Cool. In the Chill Zone Bar. More giggles. Silently, I threatened my lungs with brute force. The giggles subsided. “Buy you another drink?” I pointed at the nearly empty tumbler in front of J.P.

  His world-weary gaze took me in head to toe. He didn’t seem impressed with my performance. If only I had thought to wear an electric blue spandex dress . . . which I did not own and never would.

  “Another Black on the rocks?” the bartender said and winked at J.P. flirtatiously. She offered me a wry glance.

  “Sure.” J.P. said.

  “This is my first time here,” I said like an awestruck tourist. “It’s some place.”

  “It’s okay if you enjoy the dark.”

  “Is this your first time, too?”

  “Nah. I’ve been here a couple of times. The concierge at the inn recommended it.”

  “I’ve wanted to check it out, but I hadn’t found the time until now. Day off,” I added, as if that explained my sudden presence.

  “Cool.”

  The bartender set down our drinks. I pulled a second twenty from my purse and pushed it toward her. She didn’t make change.

  “How are you holding up?” I asked J.P.

  “I’m cool.” He ran his finger around the lip of his tumbler. “Real cool.”

  So much for an extensive vocabulary.

  “Sabrina and Mackenzie are here,” I said. “Did you come with them?”

  “Yeah. We’re the Three Musketeers.” J.P. squinted toward the dance floor. “They’re into each other.”

  “Seems so. I hear they hooked up the night Desiree died. You must have seen them.”

  “Where?”

  “Here.” I licked the rim of my margarita glass and took a sip. The concoction was good. Nice and tart.

  J.P. flinched. “Why would you think—” He glowered at the bartender.

  “She didn’t tell me,” I said, not lying. She and I hadn’t finished our conversation. “Anton d’Stang did.”

  J.P. cut a hard look at me. “That buffoon.”

  “You came here,” I continued.

  “Yeah, so what?”

  “You lied to me about hanging out in your room that night. You said you took one of Desiree’s sleeping pills. But you didn’t, did you?” I stabbed my finger on the bar. “Did you think no one would notice you? If not Anton, then Sabrina or Mackenzie or any number of regulars? Have the police asked you about this?”

  “You’re the first to mention it.”

  “You were jealous.”

  “Dang right I was.” He growled. “Jealous as all get-out. Wouldn’t you have been? Desiree took a phone call and she nearly ran out of the room. Did she think I wouldn’t find out that she was meeting her former lover? The man jump-started her career. Des was feeling insecure with the ratings. Anton’s timing . . .” J.P. lifted his beverage, almost jabbing me with his left elbow, and slugged back the entire drink in one gulp. He slammed the glass on the bar and pushed it away. “Suffice it to say, Des was primed to repeat bad habits. D’Stang was a Svengali. He could mesmerize her. What was I? A two-bit director. I had nothing on him.”

  “You sat at the bar and dialed her repeatedly. She didn’t answer. Why didn’t you confront her?”

  “I wanted to see if she’d text me a lie. That way I’d have proof. Physical proof.”

  “Jealousy is a powerful motive for murder,” I said. “You were drinking. Alcohol can—”

  “I was downing club soda that night. Ask her.” J.P. tilted his head at the bartender. “Five bucks for a lousy club soda. Highway robbery. Anyway, I gave up. I needed to ponder my options.”

  “What options?”

  “If Desiree was going to quit and go back to Anton, I needed to get my résumé in order. Pronto.”

  “Anton didn’t ask Desiree to come back to him. He asked her for a loan.”

  “No lie?”

  “He said when Desiree left him, she was headed back to the room to talk with you.”

  “I . . .” He worked his tongue inside his cheek. “I never saw her. Look, I’m not proud of it, but after I left here, I hit the mini-bar in the room.”

  “So you did drink.”

  “Yeah, I drowned my sorrows, and I passed out.”

  “In the nude.”

  “How do you
know that? Ah, who cares? I paid for my sins the next day. Ask Sabrina. She said I smelled like a still.”

  I flashed on J.P. and Sabrina meeting in the parking lot outside The Cookbook Nook. He had yanked something from her purse. Perhaps Sabrina had taunted him with a less-than-flattering snapshot of him drunk that he wouldn’t have wanted made public.

  J.P. rubbed a hand along the top of his Mohawk. “You have no idea how guilty I feel. If I’d stayed sober, if I hadn’t left the bar, maybe Desiree . . .” He twirled his tumbler, which spun out of control and careened over the bar. The glass shattered in a metal sink. The bartender raced toward our end of the bar. J.P. raised his hands in apology. “Eighty-six me. I’ll pay for the glass.” As Cleopatra cleaned up the mess, J.P. continued. “If you ask me, Anton’s lying. He killed her. I mean, c’mon, why was he in Crystal Cove? For a loan? Give me a break.”

  “He’s a gambler. He claims he’s in debt up to his eyeballs.”

  “Cock-and-bull story.”

  “You think he’s making it all up?” This from a guy who had bald-faced lied to me about where he was the night Desiree was murdered.

  “Anton had issues with Desiree. He couldn’t let her go. He wrote her love letters. When Desiree continued to snub him, he wrote her hate mail.”

  “Do you have any of those?”

  J.P. shook his head. “Desiree burned them.”

  Chapter 22

  WHEN I RETURNED to the booth, the music at the Chill Zone Bar was blasting so loudly I could barely think.