Final Sentence (16 page)

“Sorry, no.”

Rats.

“I came in for a self-satisfying purpose. I heard the scuttlebutt about the café’s food. A man has to eat. By the way, if you haven’t had the crabmeat soufflé, don’t miss it. And these”—he lifted a cookie from the two-tier Royal Albert dessert stand—“are my new favorite.” A sign beside the stand read:
Maple Leaf Rag Cookies.

“What’s in them?” I lifted one and sniffed. If heaven had a scent . . .

“Cinnamon, cloves, and raisins.”

“And maple syrup?”

“Good guess.”

We both grinned.

After a moment, Rhett said, “Katie hinted that you aren’t, um, comfortable in the kitchen.”

“Comfortable. That’s a kind word.” I felt my cheeks warm. In the future, I would keep my shortcomings to myself. “Guess the secret’s out. I’m a total klutz. I took chemistry in high school, and I do know the difference between a teaspoon and a tablespoon, but, well”—I licked my upper lip—“my mother did all the cooking when I was a kid, and I never got around to learning.” As if I were a little girl flirting on the playground, I folded my arms at the arch of my back. What next? Would I rock to and fro? I dropped my arms to my side, embarrassment brewing inside me, not because I was acting silly, but because I felt guilty for betraying my husband. How in the world could I possibly have eyes for a man other than David?

Except he was dead. Gone.

“Jenna?” Rhett said.

I blinked.

“A klutz,” he prompted. His gaze was tender.

“Right.” My throat grew dry. I had to proceed with my life. That was what my therapist told me. I promised her I would. “I’m worried my customers will hold my inability to cook,
i.e.
klutziness, against me.”

“Not a chance.”

“Are you telling me no one has ever come into Bait and Switch and asked for fishing advice?”

“Sure they do, and yes, I can offer a few tidbits, but that’s not the crux of what I do. Folks want someone they can talk to and confide in. They want to tell you about their most exciting catch. They want to know the best fishing spot.”

“Which is . . .”

“This fabulous little lake tucked into the hills. Prettiest site ever. Surrounded by mountain flowers. Very private.” He swept his hand in front of his face to paint the picture. “The only way to get to it is on foot or on dirt bike. Have you ever ridden a dirt bike?”

“Never.” A girlfriend in high school spiraled out of control on a dirt bike and shredded the side of her body. Call me chicken and possibly vain, but I wasn’t up for that kind of abuse.

“You’re missing out on seeing some remote areas around here and experiencing a pleasure beyond what you can dream. Not to mention taking a risk. You enjoy taking risks, don’t you?”

I did. Years ago.

Rhett plucked another cookie from the display and bit into it. He hummed his pleasure. “Anyway, back to being able to cook. All I’m saying is if you learn which cookbook has what to offer, you’re doing your job. Take
Bobby Flay’s Throwdown!
cookbook, for example, the one based on the Food Network’s show. I’m sure you have that book on the shelves, and if you don’t, you should. All you need to know is that the recipes are from the television show. You’ve seen
Throwdown!
, right?”

“Yes.” Katie would be pleased to learn that the Food Channel was a go-to TV program when I was too tired to pick up a book. I adored the colorful chef Bobby Flay. On a spur-of-the-moment weekend trip to Las Vegas, David and I had gone to Bobby Flay’s Mesa Grill. The Yucatan chicken tacos with peanut-smoked barbecue sauce we devoured were piquant yet smooth. I said, “Did you see the show where Bobby faced off with national barbecue champ, Butch Lupinetti?”

“I’ve watched every episode.” Rhett’s mouth quirked up on one side. “So if you don’t cook, why did you buy The Cookbook Nook?”

“I didn’t. It’s Aunt Vera’s shop.”

“Huh. I thought she sold it to you because . . .” His voice drifted to a hush.

“Because of the chef that left her at the altar?”

“You know about that?”

“Not the whole story.”

Rhett tapped my forearm. “Maybe we should uncover the truth together. I love a good mystery.”

Excitement sizzled through me. I tried to make light of the feeling, but I couldn’t. Maybe I was too stimulated from all that I had done today. The hunt for the hook. The search for Anton d’Stang. “Are you a reader?”

“Every chance I get. You?”

“I read the gamut from cozy mysteries to thrillers. Kate Carlisle and Julie Hyzy to Jamie Freveletti and Lisa Gardner.”

“Only female authors?”

I blushed. “No, I read the guys, too. Michael Connelly. Harlan Coben.”

“And I read cookbooks.”

“Are the plots any good?” I teased.

“It depends on who’s cooking up what.”

I peeked at my watch. My three-minute promise to Aunt Vera was more than up. “I should spot my aunt at the counter.”

“And I should get going. See you around town.” He downed the remainder of his cookie, wiped his hands on a napkin, and lobbed the napkin into the trash beneath the snack table.

As we strolled from the hall back to the bookshop, the door to the outside opened. My father entered. A warm breeze followed him inside. His eyes brightened when he spotted us. “Rhett, how are you, son?” He strode to him, hand extended. The two men matched in height and build. They shook heartily.

“Fine, sir. I was just leaving.”

“Not on my account.”

Rhett smiled. “No, sir. I’m in charge of closing up Bait and Switch. By the way, you haven’t stopped by the shop in a dog’s age.”

“I’ve been too busy.”

“If that’s the case, you have your priorities out of whack.”

Dad laughed. “How’s the cabin? No more busted pipes?”

“No, sir, but you can bet I’ll call you if another one bites the dust. Home ownership is tougher than the pundits tell you.”

Rhett lived in a cabin? Wow. This guy was so different from anyone I had ever liked. I flinched as the word
liked
echoed in my mind. Did I like him? Yes. He appeared to be honest, forthright, and he had a sense of humor. Not to mention, he was respectful of my father. My mother would have said he was a keeper. She had never appreciated David. She couldn’t pinpoint why. I didn’t care; I was in my twenties and discarded everything she said. How I missed her and our outings to bookshops and rodeos and strawberry picking.

Dad buffed Rhett on the shoulder. “I’ll stop by Bait and Switch soon.”

“I’d enjoy that.” Rhett gave me a wink. “See you around, Jenna,” and he sauntered out of the shop.

“I like that young man.” My father looped his hand around my arm and steered me toward the sales counter. “No matter what anyone says, I still think he’s innocent.”

Aunt Vera waltzed from behind the counter, the voluminous folds of her gold-filigreed caftan swishing as she moved. “I agree.”

I gaped. “Innocent of what?”

My father scanned the shop. So did my aunt. Did they worry that someone might listen in on us? A gaggle of women, their chatter nonstop, clustered by the fiction books in the bay window. A handsome couple browsed books in the sustainable garden section. No one paid us any attention.

Aunt Vera said, sotto voce, “Innocent of starting the fire.”

Of course, the fire. Why hadn’t I put two and two together? “People think he started the fire at The Grotto?” I asked, matching my aunt’s hushed tone.

Aunt Vera
tsk
ed. “Thanks to Pepper Pritchett, rumors spread as fast as the flames. The tenants”—my aunt flapped a hand; bangles clattered—“worried their beloved businesses might go
pffft
.”

“But they didn’t,” my father said. “Firemen arrived quickly and doused the flames. Only the restaurant perished.”

“Bait and Switch seems pretty popular,” I said.

“Most locals don’t think Rhett did it.” My father paused. “Well, perhaps there are a few who do, but we don’t.” He thumbed between my aunt and himself. “Neither does Lola Bird or any of the other restaurateurs in town.”

“Why not?”

“Rhett is a standup guy. And he supplies some of the fish at The Pelican Brief and other local restaurants.”

I folded my arms. “So he’s a necessary evil.”

“He’s not evil,” Dad said. “He’s a reliable fisherman, good businessman, and a kind man.”

“But people won’t hire him as a chef. Why not?”

Aunt Vera shrugged. “I don’t think he ever asked.”

“I’m not sure he wants to return to that life,” my father offered.

I might have been bad at math, but I knew when people’s accounts weren’t adding up. “Okay, you two, out with it. There’s something you’re not telling me.”

“Poor boy,” Aunt Vera whispered.

Rhett was somewhere in his midthirties, older than me by at least five years. He wasn’t a boy. And he owned a shop and cabin. I doubted he was poor. Images of Rhett Butler, the fictional antihero who operated outside the limits of society, popped into my mind again. “Explain,” I said. “Does Rhett have a history of run-ins with the law or something?”

“A few,” Aunt Vera said. “As a youth. But that’s all in the past. At eighteen, he found his passion—cooking. He entered the Culinary Institute of America on a partial scholarship. He put himself through, working odd jobs. He was a wizard with sauces. The owner of The Grotto wanted to raise the restaurant’s quality. She hired Rhett following graduation. And it’s no wonder. Why, Rhett made this one sauce with tomatoes, capers, lemon, garlic, and white pepper that made my mouth zing. I must remind Katie of that one. And Rhett loved coming out to the folks in the restaurant and chatting up his food. He had a way with people. They adored him . . . They still do. He’s a bit of a rogue and a big flirt, you’ve probably noticed.”

Had I ever.

Aunt Vera tweaked my chin. “And he’s single.”

“Uh-uh.” I shook my head emphatically. “Do not even think about fixing me up.”

“He didn’t do it,” my father said.

“I don’t care. I mean, I do care, but that’s not the point.” I threw up my hands, palms forward to caution my family backward like evil spirits. “I’m not ready for anything but managing this shop and defending myself against allegations that I might be a murderer.”

“Cinnamon doesn’t think you’re guilty,” Dad said.

“Yes, she does.”

Aunt Vera sighed. “Speaking of innocent, did you track down Anton d’Stang?”

My father cocked his head. “The restaurateur? Why—”

“Hush, Cary.”

“Don’t tell me to hush, Vera. What’s going on?”

I scanned the shop for a second time. Our customers remained enraptured with their own discussions, not ours. I filled in my family about meeting Anton at the diner. I described the vibes I received from him and how Lola came to my defense.

“Jenna, I do not want you getting involved,” my father said.

“But I am involved. I’m suspected of murder.”

“It’s not safe.”

“Relax, Dad. All I did was ask some questions.” I continued my account. Anton knew about Desiree’s failed TV ratings, and he showed up at The Cookbook Nook in disguise to spy on Desiree.

“He admitted that?” my aunt said.

“Vera, don’t encourage her.”

She waved at my father to be quiet. He grimaced.

“Anton d’Stang claimed to be in San Francisco,” I said. “To start another Chez Anton. He ventured to Crystal Cove in hopes of convincing Desiree to appear at the opening of the restaurant.” I shared Anton’s veiled references to Desiree being buried under the sand and unable to see the sun again.

“You have to tell Cinnamon what you’ve learned,” my father said.

The way he said her name, so informally, made me want to know more about their relationship and why he hadn’t at least mentioned his role as Big Brother when I was growing up, but I didn’t ask. It was none of my business.
Let the past stay in the past.

“First things first,” Aunt Vera said. “Anton claimed to be on a date with Gigi Goode at the time your friend was killed, is that right?”

I nodded. “Can you imagine? I mean, I can see Gigi dating J.P., but not Anton.”

“Now, Jenna,” my aunt said. “Don’t judge a book by its cover. Just because a person has tattoos doesn’t mean the person is a match for someone with multiple piercings. You have to analyze their inner souls.”

“You’re right.” For years, I had offered snap judgments to the public via ten-, fifteen-, and thirty-second television ads. “I guess I’m uptight.”

“Perhaps a spa day would do you good,” Aunt Vera suggested.

“As if I have time for that.”

“How about a teensy makeover?” She finger-combed my hair back behind my ears. “Maybe you should book an appointment with Gigi.”

“Uh-uh, no.” My father worked his jaw back and forth. “I’m putting my foot down. Young lady, you call Cinnamon Pritchett and tell her what you’ve learned.”

“It will all be hearsay, Cary, and you know it,” my aunt countered. “Why should your daughter give a partial accounting to the police when, and if, she can provide the whole story?”

“Yoo-hoo.” I waved. “I’m right here. I can hear you.”

My father and aunt regarded me.

Aunt Vera said, “All I’m suggesting is that you corroborate the facts first. If Gigi claims she was with Anton d’Stang, then he’s off the suspect list. Why, you can even arrange a hair appointment today.”

“It’s Sunday,” my father protested.

“So?” Aunt Vera folded her hands proudly over her abdomen. “The Permanent Wave is open seven days a week.”

A pack of women and children entered the shop. The tallest of the women waved at Aunt Vera as she directed her group toward the children’s corner at the rear of the store.

“Hello, Miss Vera. Hello, Miss Jenna,” the children sang in chorus as they passed us.

Aunt Vera whispered, “Homeschoolers. The word is out about the Curious Chef products we have in stock. Those kiddie-sized chef’s hats that you ordered, Jenna—the ones that can be personalized? A brilliant idea on your part. And the mothers are digging into the fiction books as frequently as the cookbooks. They adore the culinary mysteries. My faves are those Domestic Diva ones. The protagonist puts on all these fabulous events, and I think there’s a ghost in her house.” She clapped her hands like a mime, making no sound whatsoever. “I have to admit, this whole venture, other than losing your dear friend, has been so much fun. Now, go. Visit Gigi. And remember, a hairstylist is similar to a bartender or even a therapist. They hear all and tell all. Trust me, Gigi will spill her life story to you.” She gave me a nudge.