Final Sentence

by Daryl Wood Gerber

  “Me, too. I had no idea. If it makes you feel better, I defended you.”

  “You didn’t have to do that.”

  “I wanted to. I don’t believe in bullying. Cinnamon’s mother might have raised her, but my father was her mentor. She knows to get the facts before rushing to judgment.”

  “She didn’t rush—”

  I put my finger to his lips.

  He kissed my finger, and a delicious shiver ran through me to my toes.

  “Places, everyone.” Aunt Vera clapped her hands. “Our students are arriving.”

  I was surprised to see two of the three women who had accompanied Pepper into the shop the other day—the pretty one who preferred floral patterns, telling by the sundress she wore, and the skinny one who had donned yet another shapeless beaded sweater with capris that made her calves look as thin as pencils. Did they come to make trouble? The nuisance with the frowsy hair was nowhere to be seen, thank heavens. A pair of moms that I recognized, sans children, sat down at one of the tables and praised the recipe card and mini–measuring cup, which they called party favors. I liked that. I wanted our customers to think of our shop as a fun destination. A dozen more people, including my father and the reporter, Tito Martinez, wandered in and took seats. What was Tito doing here? Had he come to give us a nasty write-up?

  Bad, Jenna. Do not always think the worst.

  Katie rushed in with preparations and took her place behind the portable cooking station. “Welcome, everyone.” She introduced herself and held up a cluster of beautiful appetizer cookbooks, including Small Bites and Bite for Bite, tasty little books filled with hundreds of recipes. “Let’s start with something easy tonight. We’ll give you a sampling of what fabulous things you can do with a few simple ingredients. For example, these crispy chorizo quesadillas and serrano-rolled asparagus, or this mini-plate of pasta with melted Brie, onion, and spinach.” She held up display plates. “And we’ll also make my grandmother’s version of deviled eggs. You will find that recipe on your chairs.”

  The crowd oohed.

  “Boring,” Tito said.

  “Shush.” Aunt Vera thwacked him on the shoulder.

  A flash of red in the parking lot caught my eye. Sabrina, wearing a halter dress and clutching a number of shopping bags, ascended the stairs to her trailer.

  “Psst. Come with me.” Bailey grasped my elbow and dragged me outside. “We’ve got to talk.” She shepherded me out of sight from our customers.

  “What’s with all the secrecy? Are you sick? Yesterday you carried a load on your shoulders. I meant to ask you last night when we went out. Does it have to do with the doctor’s appointment?”

  “Forget that. My mother has been investigating on your behalf.”

  “Oh, no. I can’t pay her.”

  “She doesn’t want payment. She loves you like a daughter. More than she loves me.”

  “Whoa. Why the pity party?”

  “I’m not—” Bailey coughed. “It’s nothing.”

  I didn’t believe her. Her eyes looked puffy and swollen. Had she been crying?

  “Back to Mom,” Bailey said. “She did some searching into Sabrina Divine’s life after we trash-talked her at brunch. Love and intrigue always pique my mother’s interest. Anyway, remember how the bartender at the Chill Zone told you Desiree and Sabrina argued, and Desiree waggled a bottle of pills at Sabrina? Turns out, good old Sabrina did a couple of stints in drug rehab, but her visits were kept hush-hush.”

  When I ran into Sabrina the morning I found Desiree dead, she admitted to having passed out the night before. A friend in college had a drug problem. She hadn’t been able to keep current with her classes. She had battled anorexia. In the end, she had given up her career plans to become a lawyer and took a job slinging hash. Had Sabrina settled for being Desiree’s assistant because she couldn’t manage a career of her own?

  “What if Sabrina was relapsing?” Bailey said. “What if Desiree told her to get clean or she’d fire her?”

  A trailer door slammed.

  Sabrina jogged down the stairs, bouncing car keys in her hand. She headed toward Desiree’s white Mercedes and executed a happier-than-happy twirl. I squeezed Bailey’s arm, signaled I would learn the truth, and hurried across the parking lot.

  “Hey, Sabrina, hold up,” I said. “Why the big grin?”

  “My boyfriend in L.A. contacted me.” She tweeted the unlock car door button. “He never wanted to break up with me. The call I received the night . . .” She hesitated, swallowed hard. “That night.” The night her sister died. “It must have been a prank call. He has all sorts of friends—jerks—who don’t like me.”

  “Because of your drug problem?”

  Sabrina jolted to a stop. “Well, aren’t you a primo snoop.”

  I waited.

  “Fine, yes, I used to do drugs. But I gave them up. I’ve been clean for six months. Everybody knows that.”

  “And yet the night your sister was murdered, you went back to the trailer with Mackenzie, and soon after, you passed out. Your words.”

  “I had a drink. I was upset with my boyfriend. I needed to take the edge off.”

  “Desiree saw you at the bar. You argued.”

  “How do you know that?” Sabrina worked her lip between her teeth. “That wicked bartender must have seen us near the ladies’ room.” She slumped into a hip. “Desiree was missing a bottle of sleeping pills. She thought I took them. As if they would give me a high. I told her to stop hounding me.”

  “Did she threaten to fire you?”

  “No.”

  “Maybe she warned you that she would cut you out of her will.”

  Sabrina choked out a laugh. “What will? She gave all her money to charity, didn’t you hear?”

  “Which charity?”

  “Homeless women. Desiree was all about causes.”

  During college Desiree had participated in walks to fight cancer, diabetes, and all sorts of other diseases. “Retrace your steps the night Desiree died.”

  “Why should I? You’re not the police.”

  “Call me a concerned citizen.”

  Sabrina huffed. “I got the phone call from a guy I thought was my boyfriend—the prank phone call—and he dumped me. I felt so betrayed. I loved him so much. I went to the bar for one drink. Gigi claimed the Chill Zone had the best Hurricanes. I felt as if I were caught in one.”

  “You ran into your sister.”

  “Uh-uh, she ran into me. Literally. Bam!” Sabrina smacked her hand against the car. “Desiree’s face went livid when she realized I was there. She accused me of stealing her pills. For your information, I have never stolen a thing in my life. Not one thing.” Tears brimmed in Sabrina’s eyes. “I muscled her down the hall. We exchanged words. I said everybody knew I used to do drugs. Anybody could have stolen that stupid Tiffany’s pill case of hers. Just to make me look bad in her eyes.”

  I thought of Katie and the treasure trove she had found hidden in Gigi Goode’s hairstyling kit: her grandfather’s watch, a fancy-schmancy pill case, and more. Gigi had denied taking anything of Desiree’s. She was a liar.

  “Then Desiree saw Anton,” Sabrina continued. “Talk about a blast from the past. She went off with him to a booth.” She hooked a finger over her shoulder, as if the booth were right behind her. “They acted real cozy. That’s when I saw J.P. stalking her. He sidled up to me at the bar, all angry and bitter. I told him to grow up. Desiree loved him, not Anton, but he didn’t believe me. He settled onto a stool and started calling her on his cell phone. Over and over. A while later, Mackenzie joined me. He said he’d hoped to find Gigi there, but he didn’t. ‘Any port in the storm,’ I joshed. When the drink hit me and I started to feel sleepy, Mac offered to drive me back to the trailer. I said, ‘Sure.’ One thing led to another. I ended up in his trailer, not mine.” She shook her head. “I’m not sure what we did. He must have been good, right? I mean, he’s a hunk. And . . . And . . .” She raised her hand to her mouth and bit i
nto her forefinger as if she wanted to keep herself from screaming. “The next day, when J.P. told me what had happened—”

  “He accosted you in the parking lot. He tried to take something from your purse. Did he think you had the sleeping pills? Was he accusing you of drugging Desiree so you could lure her to the beach?”

  “What? No.” She choked out a laugh. “J.P. What a joke. I’ve got the goods on him.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “From the get-go, I didn’t trust him. He breezed into my sister’s life a few months ago claiming to be this fabuloso director. I knew a phony when I met one, but I didn’t do anything about it until he started to weasel his way into Des’s life. A work friend was one thing. A brother-in-law would be another.”

  “Brother-in-law?”

  “Yeah, they recently got engaged. Desiree told me the day we arrived in Crystal Cove. No engagement ring. J.P. can be cheap.” Sabrina brandished her hand. “I was worried that she’d go through with it, so I hired a detective via the Internet, and guess what I found out the morning Desiree was killed? J.P., big surprise, is not who he claims to be.”

  “He’s not?”

  “He’s one of those identity thief guys. Well, not the way you understand it. He doesn’t steal credit cards and charge up a storm, but he’s not from Florida.”

  “Where’s he from?”

  “California. See, he worked up a bogus résumé and said he directed all these defunct shows in Florida that some deceased guy named John Paul Hessman did, and he cobbled together a reel. It’s easy to do nowadays with all the film footage on the Web. My boyfriend did it. His actor’s demo reel looks totally legit, but it’s pieced together with bits he did at regional theater.”

  “Stay on target . . . J.P.”

  “I have proof.” Sabrina rummaged in her purse and withdrew a photograph. “You were right the other day. J.P. tried to get his hands on this. I texted him that I had it. I wasn’t ready to show you because . . . Because I thought I might need something to—”

  “Blackmail him with?”

  “Look at this dude.” In the snapshot, J.P., teenaged, tanned and half-naked, clad in low-slung denim shorts and flip-flops, posed with a fiery-themed surfboard. “His real name is Jake. He participated in a local surfing competition. To become J.P., he changed his hair and added the tiger and vine tattoos. The whole ball of wax. Downright creepy, if you ask me.”

  “He surfs?”

  “What California boy doesn’t?”

  Was he the surfer that was floating on the ocean when I found Desiree’s body? Was he the surfer that had ogled me the other morning?

  I said, “Did you tell Desiree you were investigating J.P.?”

  Sabrina shook her head.

  “Did you dun him for money? Is that how you have extra cash for all your shopping sprees?”

  “How dare you. I earn a salary. I told J.P. I had proof, hoping he would bolt. Get out of our lives. Leave Desiree alone. I was a day late.”

  My core vibrated with tension. What if Desiree had found out about J.P.’s ruse on her own? What if she had threatened to expose him? What if J.P. had stopped her before she could?

  Chapter 25

  THOUGHTS WHIZZED THROUGH my mind as I entered The Cookbook Nook. If I called Cinnamon, would she take me seriously? Would she arrest J.P.? On what charge, impersonation?

  Katie beckoned Rhett to the portable cooking station. “And now,” she said in midspeech, while raising her arms overhead, “I’m thrilled to announce that next week, we’ll have our first guest chef. The one, the incomparable, Rhett Jackson.”

  All of the guests applauded, except Tito, who stood off by himself snapping quick photographs of pages in a cookbook. Telling by the size of the book and its location, Tito had snagged a copy of Fiesta at Rick’s: Fabulous Food for Great Times with Friends. I couldn’t see the feisty reporter having enough friends for a classic Mexican mole fiesta for twenty-four. Was he trying to scale down the enchilada Suizas recipe, a creamy yet spicy chicken combination, so he could palm it off as his own? I’d have to keep my eye on him, the sneak.

  Trying not to draw attention to myself, I tiptoed behind the audience.

  “Psst.” Bailey signaled me from her spot by the stockroom door. I scurried to her. “Take these.” She offered me her plate of appetizers. “I can’t finish the quesadillas, but they’re delicious. The chorizo makes them zing.”

  “Not now.” I skirted around her, hurried into the stockroom to my purse, and fished out my cell phone.

  Bailey pivoted and propped her back against the archway. “You found out something. Spill.”

  I dialed the precinct and asked for Cinnamon. The clerk informed me she was indisposed.

  “Why are you calling her?” Bailey demanded.

  I retrieved the business card Cinnamon had given me, stabbed in her mobile number, and reached a recording. Frustrated but not defeated, in a last-ditch effort, I sent her a text message: Must talk. Urgent.

  My aunt entered the stockroom. “Jenna, is everything all right?”

  My father arrived on her heels. “What’s gotten into you?”

  “She just faced off with Sabrina Divine in the parking lot,” Bailey said. “Is she the killer?”

  “No.” I told them about J.P. being an impostor. “That gives him motive. His career would be over if Desiree revealed his secret.”

  Aunt Vera clucked. “Would that really matter in Hollywood?”

  “A lie is a lie.”

  “But Sabrina found out about him, not Desiree,” Bailey argued.

  “Call Cinnamon,” my father ordered.

  “I already did. I left her a message and texted her.”

  “Good girl.”

  “But she’s not responding.”

  Aunt Vera said, “I know where to find her. Come with me.”

  “Vera,” my father cautioned.

  “Cary, it’s our civic duty.”

  My father protested that telephone and text messages were enough, but my aunt prodded me out of the stockroom.

  “Don’t worry about anything here,” Bailey said. “I’ll close up.”

  “I’m driving.” I hurried ahead of my aunt across the parking lot. She was a notoriously bad driver. She tended to drift into a meditative state when she got behind the wheel. “Where are we going?”

  “The aquarium.”

  “Isn’t that where the Coastal Concern is having its meeting?”

  “Cinnamon is a strong advocate.”

  As I climbed into my VW bug, I spied Sabrina standing at the top of the stairs facing Mackenzie’s trailer door. The door opened. Mackenzie, still wearing his white spa uniform, grinned. Sabrina palmed his chest and pushed past him.

  “What’s wrong, dear?” Aunt Vera said as she buckled her seat belt. “Why aren’t you starting the car?”

  “Did you see that?” I ground the key in the ignition. The car spluttered to life.

  “See what?”

  “Sabrina and Mackenzie,” I said, my curiosity revving like the VW’s engine. “Seconds ago, she told me how excited she was to be reuniting with her boyfriend in L.A., but she just plowed into the trailer with Mackenzie.”

  “Perhaps she wants to share the good news.”

  I drummed the steering wheel. “Am I being stupid? Did Sabrina lie about J.P. to mess with my head? The other day, I wondered whether she and Mackenzie had joined forces.”

  “Why would they?”

  “Sabrina claimed her sister donated her estate to a homeless women’s charity. What if that was a lie, too?”

  • • •

  THE CRYSTAL COVE Coastal Concern, or the Four C’s as the locals dubbed it, met regularly in the Aquarium by the Sea, a beautiful building with floor-to-ceiling windows and a wave-shaped roof. An artist had carved images of seahorses, manta rays, sharks, and more into the stone sections of the edifice. A moat of steadily flowing water and exotic gardens surrounded the site. The widow who had donated the money for the aquar
ium took great pride in offering exhibits that expanded the mind. Above the front entrance, she had posted her favorite quote by Plutarch: “The mind is not a vessel to be filled but a fire to be kindled.”

  Even at dusk, the aquarium teemed with visitors. My aunt clutched my elbow and guided me past the crowd to the cream-and-aqua-colored auditorium at the rear of the building. At least fifty people occupied the theater’s loge seats. On the raised stage, a man I dubbed Nature Guy—tanned, lean, and brimming with passion for the cause—pounded a gavel on the podium. On the giant-sized movie screen behind him blazed the logo for the Four C’s, a quadruplet of dolphins arcing through gold hoops. If I had been in charge of the ad campaign, I would have added a series of waves below the hoops. Icons of water invariably inspired people.

  I spotted Cinnamon Pritchett sitting by herself and started for her, but my aunt tugged my elbow and forced me to settle onto a chair.

  “Cinnamon will not take kindly to you foisting your opinion on her before the meeting,” my aunt whispered. “Be patient. No one’s going anywhere. Besides, it’ll do your soul good to know what is going on around our community.”

  Our community. The words brought a smile to my lips. Until now, I hadn’t fully appreciated the fact that I was, indeed, a Crystal Cove resident. If only I could put the horror of Desiree’s death behind me.

  Nature Guy started the meeting by saying, “The job of environmental stewardship of the coast is never done.”

  For a half hour, he presented slides showing the positive changes to our coastline—the cleanup of the beaches made possible through grants and the growth in some species of fish, thanks to policies that fined polluters. When Nature Guy concluded and opened the floor to questions, I was surprised to find myself applauding louder than most. I couldn’t believe how stirred I was to become part of the solution to preserve the area. A few heated discussions followed, most dealing with a proposed housing development that might erode shores south of Crystal Cove. Nothing was resolved, but Nature Guy promised, with fervor, that the committee would be looking into everything.