Final Sentence (12 page)

Not wishing to get sucked into bad karma thoughts, I recited my aunt’s mantra in my head and returned to my glass of wine. Before I could take a sip, I heard another crash. I whirled around. Tigger, the imp, had jumped up on the oak table beside my bed and upset a silver picture frame.

I hurtled across the room and snatched the frame. The picture was of David at the bottom of Bridalveil Falls in Yosemite, his tawny hair windblown, his tanned face tilted upward as he gazed at the head of the falls. He had proposed to me that day. I clutched the frame to my chest and uttered a prayer for him and for me. Afterward, I replaced the picture and scooped up Tigger. “Bad kitty.” His eyes widened. He couldn’t have looked guiltier or more remorseful. A wealth of despair gushed through me. How I missed David. How I ached for Desiree. And how I longed for happiness. I thought I would find it in Crystal Cove, but perhaps I was mistaken. Maybe I was supposed to return to San Francisco and make peace with my future there. “I’m sorry I yelled, Tigger. So sorry.” I hugged him with a fierceness that made him squirm.

Something bleeped. I startled. Tigger sprang from my arms. I shook a scolding finger. “Don’t climb on anything else. I can’t take the suspense.”

He meowed. Maybe he was saying, “Try not to choke me next time,” but I took his utterances for an apology and searched for the offending bleep; it came from the oven. The temperature had reached its peak. No worries.

I slumped into a chair at the tiny kitchen table, scanned the one-room cottage—really surveyed it—and suddenly felt cramped in such close quarters, but I didn’t have the courage to budge, and I certainly didn’t have the pluck to step outside. A murderer could be at large. I was vulnerable in my dreamy cottage by the sea.

Stop it, Jenna. Think positively.
I pondered a quote I had memorized by Helen Keller: “Life is either a daring adventure or nothing.”

Shaking off my anxiety, I bounded to my feet, slipped the cookbooks from the backpack, and assembled them on the coffee table by the sofa. I wasn’t in the mood to browse their pages, but soon I would. As I stood, I noticed that the light on the answering machine on the table next to my bed was blinking. The machine was old; David and I had bought it when we moved in together. I couldn’t bear to part with the contraption. I would never forget when we recorded the message, my only verbal reminder of David’s voice:
You’ve reached David and Jenna. Leave a message after the bleepety-bleep-bleep
, he joked.
We’ll bleepety-bleep call you back.
When David pressed End, he swooped me into a hug and we fell onto the couch laughing. Cell phones had replaced the need for a home answering machine completely—only telemarketers or politicians called on a landline telephone anymore—but Aunt Vera had installed one, so I had hooked up the answering machine.

A notion niggled at the edges of my mind. I wouldn’t have paid attention to the answering machine if Tigger hadn’t knocked the photograph aside. Had the kitty pawed the frame on purpose? Who had called? When? I dove for the machine and pressed Play.

The digital voice said: “You have one message.”

The recording followed immediately. “Hey, Jenna, you home?” My lungs snagged in my chest. The voice was Desiree’s. “We need to talk.” She sounded tight and high-pitched, unusual for her. “I heard you were looking for me. I hope . . .” She sucked in a breath of air. “Let’s talk tomorrow. Whatever you do, don’t believe lies.”

The message clicked off. The digital voice said:
Thursday, 10:01 P.M.

My finger hovered over Erase. I didn’t press the button as thoughts zipped through my mind. How had I not heard the telephone ring? I was home at the time of the call. I paused. No, actually, I wasn’t home. I had gone outside for a few minutes to listen to the surf. The roar had been deafening. I would have missed hearing the ring.

A flurry of emotions cascaded through me. Desiree’s message exonerated me of killing her, didn’t it? Why would I kill her before learning what she had to say? If only Tigger were a reliable witness.

A whoosh of wind outside rattled the shutters. Seconds later, I heard another sound, one that sent fear spiraling down to my toes—a twist of metal. Was someone at the front door? Trying to get in? I sped to the window and pushed back the drapes an inch. I peered into the dark. No one stood on the porch. I couldn’t make out a figure hovering in the shadows. I recalled one time, when I was ten and Dad went out of town and my siblings left for camp. Mom and I stayed alone in the house, and I thought I heard an intruder. Acting like a superhero, I whipped open the kitchen door and stormed outside, yelling, “You don’t scare me.” I swear I saw a figure run off, but my mother convinced me I had seen palm fronds waving in the dark. I didn’t feel nearly so brave now. I refused to open that door.

Pulse pounding, I dialed the precinct.

Cinnamon Pritchett answered. “Hello, Jenna.”

Hearing her voice surprised me. Why had she answered? How had she known it was me? And why had she called me Jenna and not Miss Hart? Had I been exonerated? I said, “Hi, um, I expected to reach the clerk.”

“She needed to leave early.”

“I . . . I thought you’d be on your way home by now,” I stammered. I couldn’t bring myself to tell her I was scared of a rattling sound.

“I should have been, however, we had a late afternoon rash of crime. Loads of paperwork. What’s up?”

“Um . . .” If I told her I thought someone was trying to break into my house, would she think I was making the whole thing up to persuade her that I wasn’t a killer? I hadn’t heard another ping, let alone a rattle. Summoning up courage, I told her about the recording. “Desiree sounded scared. You might want to listen.”

“I’ll be right out.”

I sat by the front door holding an umbrella as a weapon until Cinnamon arrived. Before she entered, I returned the umbrella to its proper place in the corner.

Tigger greeted Cinnamon with a samba and an excited spin on his rump. “Cute cat,” she said. “How long have you had him?”

“A few days.”

“Stray?”

“I didn’t steal him.”

“Don’t act so defensive. I love strays. I have two of my own. Donner and Blitzen. I found them on Christmas day. I wasn’t allowed any pets growing up.”

No father and no pets, I mused, and probably not a lot of hugs and kisses from her prickly mother either. Poor, deprived kid.

Cinnamon bent down to pet Tigger and assessed my one-room cottage from that vantage point. “Nice place.”

“All my Aunt Vera’s doing.”

“Old Jake says hello, by the way.” She rose to a stand.

“Old Jake? Why would he say hello to me?”

“He’s a neighbor. He lives on the strand.”

“He does?”

“Raking the sand is volunteer work. He’s a retired millionaire with time on his hands. Anyway, I saw him as I exited my car. He said he drove his machine by your place a bit ago. Saw your light on. You didn’t hear him? Noisy machine. Clackety-clack.”

Geez. Would the rumble of Old Jake’s machine make the shutters and doorknob rattle? I hadn’t thought to look toward the ocean when searching for what I imagined was a prowler. Feeling as stupid as a slug, I said, “Can I pour you a glass of wine?”

“Still on the clock. Whatever you’re cooking smells good.”

“Roast chicken with herbs. I’d offer you some, but . . .” An hour remained on the timer.

“No, thanks. I have a leftover deli sandwich calling me.” She eyed the landline telephone. “Let me hear the offending answering machine message.”

“It exonerates me.”

“I’ll be the judge.”

I replayed the message.

Cinnamon’s pretty face scrunched with concentration. “Miss Divine does sound edgy,” she conceded. “I’m not sure
scared
is the right word.”

“Even so, doesn’t this prove that I wasn’t with her?”

“All it confirms is that she called you well before she was killed, and she warned you not to believe lies.”

“Lies about an affair.”

“That’s not what she said.”

“Doesn’t the message substantiate that I didn’t kill her?”

“Not really. The DA might argue that if Miss Divine didn’t reach you, she might have come here to talk. The two of you had a heated exchange. You lost your temper.”

“I didn’t.
We
didn’t.”

“You lashed out. She ran out to the beach. You followed.”

“Your mother said she saw two women
walking
, not one chasing the other.”

Cinnamon shifted feet. “I forgot to tell you. My mother admitted she made that up.”

“Made it up?” I said. A Kurt Cobain quote flitted through my mind: “Just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they aren’t after you.”

“She didn’t actually say she made it up,” Cinnamon backpedaled. “She said she got her points wrong. The time. The location.”

“Why was she so adamant then?” I sucked in air. “Never mind. I know why.”

“Mother can be difficult.”

That was an understatement, but at least Cinnamon acknowledged the problem.

“Why don’t you believe me?” I said, unable to keep the piteous tone from my voice. “You know I didn’t do this. You know me.”

Cinnamon slid a hand into her shorts pocket. “Not true. I don’t know you. At all.”

“You know my father. He’s been in your life for how many years?”

Cinnamon grew still. “What have you heard?”

“You were going through a rough patch in high school.”

“It was worse than that. I was angry all the time. I smoked. I drank. I skipped school. I was a prankster.”

I flashed on the dystopian teen that had flattened all of the Winnebago tires.

“And I did daredevil stuff. Almost killed myself taking some big air while snowboarding in Lake Tahoe. Guess I had a death wish.” Cinnamon sighed. “Your father stepped in. I can remember our first talk. His finger in my face. His eyes burning holes through mine.”

I knew that look.

“He was strict and curt, but I listened.” She sighed again. “I had to get myself under control. Follow rules. Take responsibility. There was a difference between right and wrong. My father . . . he’d wronged me.” Tigger charged her ankles. She nudged him away. “Your father talked about you guys all the time.”

“Why didn’t you ever visit our house?”

“I’m sure you can guess.”

Her mother’s decree, I imagined.

The distant wash of ocean upon the shore made its way into the silence. The flow, the ebb.

I inhaled and exhaled with its rhythm. “If my father told you about us, then you know I’m responsible. I follow rules. Doesn’t that count for anything?”

“I’m sorry. Your father’s opinion doesn’t clear you. You came to town, and suddenly we have the first murder in a long time.”

I winced. “Wow, that’s exactly what your mother said. She’s been bending your ear, hasn’t she? Fine, haul me in.” Like the dystopian teenager would have, I jutted my wrists at her. “Lock me up and throw away the key, Officer.”

“Don’t tempt me.”

“Did it ever occur to you that I couldn’t have done this crime? First of all, you’re describing a crime of passion, but we know the crime was planned.”

“Do we?”

“The hook, the sculpture. Granted, I’m tall, but I’m not strong enough to overpower someone Desiree’s size.” And yet I had pondered whether Sabrina was capable. I pushed the notion aside and continued. “And I’m not left-handed. That hook was pulled by a left-handed person.”

Cinnamon regarded the carpet as if Desiree’s body and all the evidence lay upon it. When she redirected her gaze to me, her face was solemn and unreadable. “I can’t do this.”

“Do what?”

“Discuss the case with you. I’ll have to take the answering machine as evidence.” She started toward the device.

“No,” I cried and blocked her path then blanched, realizing how guilty I must look. What was I doing barring her from taking whatever she wanted from my cottage? Did I intend to wrestle her to the ground? She was shorter but she was sturdier. And she was a cop.

Rapid-fire, I explained the machine’s importance to me. Listening to David’s voice recording was like a lifeline to sanity.

Cinnamon’s face softened. She pulled a business card from her pocket and handed it to me. “I promise we’ll do our best to preserve your final memory. If you think of anything else, call me.”

Tears flooded my eyes as she knelt and unplugged the answering machine from the wall. After she exited, Tigger’s nuzzl
es couldn’t relieve my soul.

Chapter 8

N
O EERIE NOISES
resonated while I downed my tender chicken dinner or through the rest of the night, and yet I woke up tense, nervous, and certain I was going to be hauled into jail for a murder I didn’t commit. What could I do to resolve one or more of my issues? Get up. Be proactive. I would forge a plan in the same way I would start an ad campaign. What was the target market? What were the hurdles? Where did I begin? Face it, nobody would try to clear me of blame like I would.