Final Sentence

by Daryl Wood Gerber

  I groaned. “I get it. Wurst . . . sausage. For better or worse, like in marriage vows. Ho-ho.” I slapped my knee with exaggeration. “Okay, we’ve established that you’re not destined to become a stand-up comedian.”

  He chuckled. “I’ve got a million of ’em. Chefs are funny.”

  “Funny . . . odd, you mean.”

  A quiet calm settled between us.

  I took a bite of my salad. The dressing was tongue-tingling good. “What do you like to do on your days off?”

  “Not question suspects like you.”

  I shook a finger. “Okay, Aunt Vera has been blabbing.”

  “She’s worried. She said she was getting vibes that you’re in danger.”

  “What’s new? She picks up vibes at the shop, too.”

  “So do I.”

  I groaned. “Uh-uh, we’re not going there. No hoodoo nonsense out of you.”

  “You think the spiritual world is hoodoo?”

  “I didn’t say—”

  Tigger leaped onto the Ching table and batted the necklace around the Lucky Cat’s neck.

  Spooked, I scrambled to my feet and charged him. “Okay, that’s it, mister.” When I snared him, I surprised myself by saying, “Rhett, let’s take a walk.”

  After we cleaned up the remains of dinner, I grabbed a shawl from the closet, and we headed outside. In the time it took us to eat dinner, people had populated the beach. A couple, linked arm-in-arm, strolled barefoot in the opposite direction. A half-dozen teens played Frisbee with a glow-in-the-dark disk. A family with flashlights wandered the shore gazing at the multiple sandcastles. In two days, the official Sandcastle Festival competition would begin. Hopefully Desiree’s murder would be solved, despite Cinnamon’s warning that the investigation could go on for years, and the people of Crystal Cove would be able to put the horror of the murder behind them and enjoy the festivities.

  Rhett found a seashell and tossed it repeatedly into the air as we ambled side by side. “I love the sea,” he said.

  The moon, which hovered close to the horizon, cast a long swath of light across the water and straight to our feet.

  “I used to love it,” I said. “When I was little, I would play at the beach every day. I thought the moon’s rays followed me wherever I went until . . .” I gazed out at the ocean, the waves gentler at night than at any other time of the day. “After my husband died, spending time on the beach didn’t seem so important. Tragedy always felt a breath away. I came back to Crystal Cove and thought I might discover the joy I used to know, but when I found Desiree—”

  Rhett slung an arm around my shoulder and drew me closer. “Shh.” He kissed the side of my head. “No more negative thoughts tonight. It’s time to concentrate on your future.”

  “My aunt coached you.”

  “She means well, Jenna. She loves you. And I—” He stopped walking and gripped my shoulders. He looked as if he wanted to kiss me but wasn’t sure what my response would be.

  Heck, I wasn’t sure what my reaction would be either.

  Rhett tucked the tip of his finger beneath my chin. “You’re safe with me. I won’t do a thing until you’re ready. Do you understand? Nod if you do.”

  I obeyed.

  Later that night, shards of images peppered my dreams. Desiree, David, surfers, sandcastles. A hook tore a giant mermaid to shreds. A chainsaw, axe, and sledgehammer found their way into the mix. Cash swirled in a frenzy around everything. I woke in a sweat and vowed never to eat spare ribs again. I was lying, of course. The wine was probably the culprit.

  The next morning, as I downed a breakfast of granola and fresh fruit, one question about my nightmare plagued me. Did the images in my nightmare, if pieced together like a jigsaw puzzle, actually paint the answer to murder?

  Chapter 23

  THAT AFTERNOON, WHEN store traffic was at a lull, I nestled into one of the overstuffed chairs with a couple of cookbooks. No one needed me. My aunt was busy at the vintage table giving a zaftig woman a tarot card reading; a woman and her towheaded twins played hide-and-seek with Tigger; and Bailey stood with a younger customer, touting The Food Allergy Mama’s Baking Book, a terrific cookbook with commonplace recipes made with foods every cook ought to have in her cupboard.

  With the memory of last night’s picnic still fresh in my mind, I opened my two books, Bobby Flay’s Grill It! and Steve Raichlen’s Barbecue! Bible: Sauces, Rubs, and Marinades, Bastes, Butters, and Glazes, and compared dry rub recipes. As I read, I caught myself humming “Zing! Went the Strings of My Heart.” I glanced around to see if anyone else had heard me. No one seemed to have. I returned to my humming.

  Minutes later, the front door opened and a man said, “Hey, all.”

  Recognizing Rhett’s voice, I snapped to attention. Had my musings lured him here? Despite my disavowal of the supernatural, my stomach did a delightful somersault at the prospect. I eyed the cookbooks in my lap, and worried that Rhett might get the wrong idea—so what if I was interested in dry rubs all of a sudden?—I clambered out of the chair and deposited the cookbooks by the register. Trying to act nonchalant, I swirled around and rested an elbow on the counter. Corners of the cookbooks poked through my lacy summer sweater. Yow. “Hello, Rhett.”

  “Hi, yourself.” He sauntered toward me carrying a bouquet of daisies.

  “Yoo-hoo.” Katie breezed down the hallway with a plateful of what smelled like snickerdoodle cookies, rich with cinnamon. “Sweets for the sweets,” she announced but stopped when she spied Rhett. Her gaze hopscotched from his face, to the flowers, to me.

  Rhett thrust the daisies at me. “These are for you.”

  When I had awakened this morning, I could still feel the hint of last night’s parting kiss on my forehead. Now, for some crazy reason, I wanted him to grab me in his arms and kiss me full on. Where was a cold shower when I needed one? “Nice,” I said, my tone reserved and ultra-proper.

  Katie whistled under her breath.

  I threw her a snarky look. “The store can always use a bit of sunshine.”

  “No, I meant . . .” Rhett tilted his head and appraised me, a twinkle in his eyes. “Yes, they’re for the store. They need water.”

  “They’re beautiful.” I took the bouquet from him, filled a pitcher from the stockroom with water—making a mental note to have a supply of pretty crystal vases for future bouquets—and I set the flowers on the counter beside the cookbooks. “What brings you here?”

  Rhett jammed his hands into his jeans pockets. “It’s my day off. I was hoping you might go on another date with me.”

  “Another,” Katie said. “Hoo-boy. I knew it. I’m picking up vibes like Vera now.”

  “You are not,” I said.

  “When was your first date?”

  “We haven’t had—”

  “Last night,” my aunt said as she cruised to the counter, her tarot reading complete.

  Bailey left her customer and crowded Aunt Vera. “Which is it?” She eyed my aunt and me.

  Rhett stood so close I detected his tropical suntan lotion scent, the same that lingered in my cottage. Delicious.

  “We had a picnic last night,” I said.

  “A picnic?” Katie teased. “Ooh.”

  “Ooh, yourself.”

  “But you spent the evening with us,” Bailey argued.

  “Yes . . .” I snatched a cookie from Katie’s offering and popped it into my mouth. Soft, buttery, and perfect.

  “Fess up,” Bailey demanded.

  I explained how Rhett had come to check up on me and saved me from having to watch a repeat of Radical Cake Battle.

  Katie snapped her fingers. “I saw that show finally. Mama was viewing it when I got home.”

  Whew. At least the topic had steered away from Rhett and me and, well, us.

  “That was a years-old repeat,” Katie went on. “What a mishmash all of those wannabe chefs made of the water theme. Did you see the lighthouse that the pint-sized woman made? It was tilting as badly as the Towe
r of Pisa. And the Triton King of the Sea one? Or the underwater volcano? I know Radical Cake Battle is an art form, but c’mon. One show does not a chef make. Why do so many of these shows allow complete hacks to compete? They aren’t all tried-and-tested chefs.” She thumped her chest. “Though I should talk. I only had one employer before you gave me my break.”

  “And luckily she did,” Rhett said. “That fish cassoulet with the piping of mustard-laced mashed potatoes that you made for lunch today was downright orgasmic.”

  I gaped.

  “What?” he said. “A man’s got to eat. I . . .” His eyebrow rose as dawning struck. “Oh, that’s not what I meant to say. What I—”

  “It’s okay,” I said, enjoying his stammering. “Everyone who came into the shop around lunchtime said the same thing. Now where are we going on that date?”

  “Well, Katie didn’t make any ice cream today.”

  “Bad Katie,” I joshed. “Bad, bad Katie.”

  Our jolly chef threw her hands up in defense. “Key lime drizzle cake or chocolate truffle deluxe weren’t enough dessert choices, Rhett? You ate both.”

  He grinned a devilish grin that made my knees threaten to give way. “Not when a man has a hankering for freshly made ice cream.”

  • • •

  ENTERING TASTE OF Heaven Ice Cream Parlor always buoyed my spirit. The establishment, adorned with royal-blue-and-white-checkered floors, white counters, and arty canvases of ice cream cones and sundaes hanging on the walls, was downright fun. Loud Beach Boys’ music played nonstop. The owner, a chunky woman with an angelic face, claimed to have dated one of the Beach Boys and nearly made it to the altar with him, but she would never reveal the singer’s name. A jar in the shape of a Little Red Coupe stood on the counter. Each day, the owner encouraged people to entertain a guess as to which singer had been her lover. At five she would pick an entry, say, “Close but no cigar,” and would award a free ice cream cone to whomever’s name she had drawn. The winner need not be present.

  Rhett and I ordered bowls of Chocoholic’s Delight—a combination of chocolate ice cream, chocolate chips, and chunks of chocolate cookies—and we settled at the one remaining French café–style table.

  “So tell me about Tigger,” Rhett said. “When did you get him?”

  “He wandered into the shop the day we started redecorating.”

  “You’ve got a real love affair going.”

  “He’s cute, all right. Do you have pets?”

  “I had a dog. Rufus. A Great Dane. He passed away last year.”

  What could I say? Sorry never quite covered the loss of a furry friend.

  “He was a good companion. Liked to take walks.” Rhett’s eyes grew moist, but he forced a smile. “Never could get him to go kayaking with me.”

  “Gee, big surprise, although I bet you could have enticed him onto a sailboat.”

  “Speaking of sailboats.”

  “You want to know about my husband and how he died,” I blurted out.

  “No.” Rhett shook his head. “It’s none of my business. I was going to ask if you wanted to go sailing sometime.”

  “Shoot,” I muttered.

  “Does that mean no?”

  “No.” I set my spoon down with a clank. “I apologize. Everyone in the world has asked me the same question about David over the past two years. If he was so inexperienced, why did he go out alone?”

  “You don’t have to talk about it unless you feel the need to.”

  My mouth had turned as dry as sandpaper and yet I did want to talk about David. I didn’t want secrets with Rhett. I wanted him to know everything about me, down to my odd fetish for the smell of a new book. “What have you heard so far?”

  “Nada. Not a word.”

  “Not from my Aunt Vera?”

  “She’s as quiet as a clam.” Rhett held up his hand, swearing to his statement.

  “David had taken a few sailing lessons,” I began. “He wanted to try a solo run. He said it was a rite of passage. He needed to prove himself. Jumping out of a perfectly good airplane wasn’t enough.”

  “He did that?”

  “We both did. With instructors strapped to our backs.” I would never forget the blast of air and the gut-gasping thrill of seeing land over thirteen thousand feet below. “But David wanted more thrills. He was a risk taker. He wanted to face swells on the high seas. He had all the right equipment. He was a good swimmer.” Something twinged in my chest. “All I can think is the boat must have rocked hard and he hit his head before falling overboard. I’ll never know what happened.”

  Cascades of female laughter filled the air. I cut a look at the pair of women by the register. Cinnamon tried to steady her companion’s tilting double-decker ice cream cone. “Help,” she cried and laughed harder. Her friend, who was wearing an outfit similar to a policeman’s uniform but clearly unofficial, propped the ice cream up with her fingers.

  The owner skirted around the counter wielding a Tupperware garbage bin. “Let’s dump that one, ladies, and start over.”

  With Cinnamon in such a cheerful mood, an idea came to me. I didn’t want to continue discussing the end of David’s life. Maybe now was as good a time as any to clear the air with our police chief. Without asking Rhett’s permission, I rose from my chair and hailed Cinnamon.

  She signaled to give her a second.

  As I hunkered down in my chair, Rhett stood up, his eyes as hard as rock candy.

  “What’s wrong?” I reached for his hand.

  He stuffed it into his pocket. “I can’t stay.”

  “Why not?”

  He hitched his head toward Cinnamon. “She and I don’t see eye to eye. I keep my distance.”

  “Why?” I was baffled. Just yesterday, when discussing his clerk, Joey, he had paid Cinnamon a compliment.

  A long moment passed. Finally Rhett said, “We were dating when The Grotto burned down.”

  My heart snagged. He and Cinnamon had dated? For how long?

  “She suspected me of the deed.”

  “Didn’t you tell her what you’ve told me?”

  “Sure I did. She could never convince herself I didn’t do it. Let’s just say it put a crimp in our relationship.”

  “But the evidence. The missing art.”

  “Wasn’t enough for her. So much for love and trust.” He pinched his lips together as if deciding whether to say more. He didn’t. He left his ice cream and strode out of the shop. As the door closed, a chime played the first seven notes of “Good Vibrations.”

  The irony was not lost on me. I leaned back in my chair, upset with myself for not knowing more of Rhett’s story before I’d asked Cinnamon to join us. How insensitive could I be? Luckily ice cream was good for two things: to celebrate a joyous occasion or to drown one’s sorrows. I finished mine and his.

  A minute later, Cinnamon and her colleague, whom she introduced as a college intern helping out for the summer, joined me at the table. “Thanks for the invite since there’s no room elsewhere,” Cinnamon said. “Where did Rhett go?”

  I cocked my head. She wasn’t stupid. I could tell by her gaze that she knew she had scared him away. In fact, she looked exultant. “He’s innocent.”

  “Here we go.” Cinnamon sighed. “Now you’re going to fight his battles, too? He’s free. Isn’t that enough?”

  “Freedom from suspicion matters, too.”

  Cinnamon inhaled sharply; her nose thinned.

  “Did you track down Anton d’Stang?” I asked, gearing the topic back to my personal problem. “I told you, I think he killed Desiree. He might have killed Gigi Goode.”

  “He didn’t kill her.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “Because Gigi Goode has returned.”

  I gaped. “She’s not dead?”

  “She’s alive and well.” Cinnamon licked the lemon sorbet that dribbled down the sides of her cone. “She admitted that living in hiding doesn’t suit her. She brought back everything she stole, a
nd she entered a rehab program at the Y in Santa Cruz. In addition, I’ve given her community service, working with some of the local kids.”

  “Then back to Anton. Did you locate him?”

  Cinnamon stood and laid the rest of her cone in Rhett’s empty bowl.

  I rose, as well. “Without a confirmed suspect, suspicions linger.”

  “Yes, they do.”

  There it was, her true opinion, out in the open. She believed I was guilty until proven innocent. Well, I wasn’t going to remain her number one suspect, not as long as I had eyes, ears, and a brain.

  Chapter 24

  FUELED BY ANGER and a chocolate-sugar rush, I jogged back to The Cookbook Nook. Someone had moved the furniture and relocated the bookshelves to the far side of the space. In their place stood tables and chairs from the café and a portable cooking station preset with food and cooking utensils. Judy Garland, singing “Get Happy,” blasted from a CD player. Had someone put that particular song on for my benefit? What had happened to the mix of food-themed songs Katie had created?

  “What’s going on?” I said.

  “Have you forgotten?” Aunt Vera waltzed from chair to chair setting out recipe cards. “At five P.M., less than ten minutes away, we have our first cooking class. Well, our guests won’t actually be cooking yet. We’re waiting for our license. But too-ra-loo, we’re having a tasting.”

  “Katie’s made some deliriously good food.” Bailey followed in my aunt’s wake and placed teensy measuring cups on the chairs. “Each participant will receive a recipe card for deviled eggs with shrimp and dill and a cute measuring cup.” She jiggled one. “We have twenty participants signed up.”

  “And I’m one of them,” a man said.

  I swiveled toward the door. Rhett entered, hair tousled, hands jammed into his jeans pockets. He didn’t scowl at me, which I took as a good sign. Maybe he didn’t hold me accountable for Cinnamon’s presence at the ice cream store. He came over to me and whispered, “I’m sorry about earlier.”