Final Sentence (34 page)

“I’m sorry. I meant to tell you.”

“But we locked horns earlier, so you didn’t. Actually, I’m sort of pleased. You got the bartender thinking. She remembered things she hadn’t thought to tell me before. Her account stirred something in my mind, so I reviewed Desiree Divine’s phone records.”

“You hadn’t done that y—” I stopped short of saying
yet
and sealed my lips. I did not . . . NOT . . . need to aggravate our chief of police. “What did you find out?”

“The phone call that Desiree received the night she died originated from the bar’s pay phone.”

“Aha. J.P. called her and lied about it.”

“Why would you suspect that?”

“He’s a phony.” I told her everything that Sabrina had shared about J.P. Hessman. The fake résumé. The surfer photograph. The engagement to Desiree,
sans
ring. I didn’t add that I thought J.P. might have been the surfer on the ocean the morning I discovered Desiree’s body. Cinnamon could make her own assumption. “If Desiree learned the truth and confronted him—”

“But Desiree isn’t the one who figured out the ruse. Sabrina did and she kept it to herself,” Cinnamon said, reiterating the argument Bailey had made earlier. “No, I am not convinced the killer is J.P. Hessman. However, I am convinced that the mermaid theme matters. And the hook. Why the hook? Speaking of which, I believe you’re off the hook.”

“Truly?” My heart inflated with hope.

“Everything we have is circumstantial, and honestly, I don’t believe you would be going to all this trouble to prove a case otherwise.”

I whipped out my iPhone and held it up. “May I memorialize this moment?”

“Sure.” Cinnamon grinned.

I snapped a picture of her with the fountain and building in the background. “What about your mother and her quest to convict me?”

“I know my mother can be a bulldozer, but she means well.”

I did my best not to snort. Pepper Pritchett did not mean well. She would
never
mean well, because she was downright, well,
mean
. “So we’re back to square one.”

“Not we.”

“You.” I polished off my cookie and brushed crumbs off my hands. “One question.”

“Shoot.”

“Sabrina Divine mentioned that Desiree donated her estate to a homeless women’s shelter. Is that true?”

“Yes.”

“Wow.” Score one for Sabrina. Or lose one. What if she actually knew about Desiree’s bequest before Desiree died? How mad would that have made her? “One more question. Any word from Anton d’Stang?”

Cinnamon frowned.

Oops
. I had overstepped. Without another word, I bade her good night.

• • •

WHEN I ARRIVED
home, I realized I was too keyed up to sleep. A bath, a glass of wine, and a book sounded heavenly, but when I was soaking in the tub, I couldn’t relax; I couldn’t read. What I really needed was a project. I didn’t have the concentration to paint, but I was hungry, having passed on the chorizo quesadillas at The Cookbook Nook. And though I had indulged in a cookie at the Four C’s meeting, I craved sweets.

I climbed out of the tub, dried off and applied a vanilla-scented lotion, and threw on an old college T-shirt and cutoff jeans. In the kitchen, I poured myself a glass of pinot grigio and whipped open
The Joy of Cooking
. I withdrew the three-by-five cards Katie had stowed at the back and spied one with the title:
Savory Cheese Cookies.
Beside the title, Katie had written:
Zesty
. Magically my sweet tooth disappeared. I gauged whether my cupboards and refrigerator held the seven ingredients. They did. Could I swing it? Was making a seven-ingredient recipe that much harder than a five-ingredient recipe?

Tigger, who was delighted that I was roused to do something other than leave my little one-room flat and, thus, ignore him, bolted around the cottage, leaping from the floor to the tops of furniture.

“Cool it, wild thing,” I said, but he didn’t listen. “Fine. You break something, you own it. Your fanny is on the line, you hear me?” I switched on Judy Garland’s
Over the Rainbow: 24 Greatest
Hits
, took a sip of my wine, and set to work. I pulled a bowl and measuring cup from the cabinet, retrieved a set of decorative measuring spoons—the same that we sold at the store—and fetched the ingredients: Cheddar cheese, flour, butter, sugar, baking powder, cayenne pepper, and salt. I set the heat on the oven and began mixing, grating, and whisking.

While listening to “Over the Rainbow,” a notion niggled the edges of my mind. Not about lullabies or blue skies or dreams. About murder. Why? Had something Cinnamon said at the meeting or something Aunt Vera mentioned on the drive home triggered the notion?
Think, Jenna, think. Create a mental storyboard.
Except how could I? My mind was cluttered.

Forcing my mind to go blank, I followed baking instructions to the letter. I rolled out the dough, cut it into squares, and placed them inches apart on the cookie sheet.

As I slid the sheet into the oven, a new thought zinged into my mind. Cinnamon said, “
Why
the hook?” but that wasn’t what was important. The real question was
what
was the hook? What was the motive? What had incited the murderer on that day, at that hour, in that way, to kill Desiree?

The word
hook
had so many meanings. A hook was a snare to catch someone. A hook, in advertising and publishing, was something to attract someone or lure them. A hook in music was a pleasing refrain, one that could be easily remembered. And at sea, a hook was the crest of a wave that was about to break.

Why the hook?

As I waited for the cookies to bake, I decided to address Desiree’s murder suspect list as I would start a day at Taylor & Squibb, by writing down random thoughts about projects. Three to five words each, to stir my imagination. But this time, I would turn that concept on its ear.

I pulled a sketch pad and sharp pencil from the Ching cabinet, sat at the kitchen table, and began in alphabetical order.

Anton d’Stang—talented, powerful, gambler, Svengali, blackmailer. Motive: vengeance?

Gigi Goode—stylist, artist, cagey, strong, big woman. Motive: to keep her penchant for stealing a secret?

J.P. Hessman—phony, director, lover, liar, surfer. Motive: jealousy or self-preservation?

Mackenzie Baxter—handsome, cocky, manipulative, beleaguered employee. Motive: wanted Desiree or Sabrina for himself?

Sabrina Divine—sister, spirited, druggie, needy, second fiddle. Motive: money, spite, or a conspiracy with Mackenzie?

I reviewed the motives while drawing a simplistic storyboard with stick figure characters. One by one the figures met Desiree. At the Winnebagos. At my shop. At the inn. At the Chill Zone Bar, Desiree argued with J.P., fought with Sabrina, and toyed with Anton while Mackenzie and possibly Gigi looked on. One led her to her death. I sketched the beach and stiffened when I realized the last stick figure I had drawn was me, standing over Desiree’s body. I drew a small cartoon bubble and filled in the blank with the words:
I didn’t do it.

I wadded the paper and tossed it on the floor and started a fresh sketch of a mermaid. And then another. And another. I fashioned a hook in each beautiful mouth.

The timer dinged, saving me from myself. Using potholders, I pulled the cheese cookies from the oven.

“Oh, my,” I said.

Tigger cha-cha’d around my feet as if to ask:
What’s up?

“They’re so deliciously golden, I have to text a picture of them to Katie. She’ll be proud.”

Tigger meowed.

“Uh-uh. No cookies. Sorry, pal.” I raised my cell phone and took a couple of photographs at a distance and close up. As I reviewed the photos, gliding my finger across the screen, I bypassed the first snapshot and landed on the picture that I had taken of Cinnamon at the aquarium. Shimmering light behind her highlighted the fountain and edifice.

“What the heck?” I gazed harder. On the aquarium walls, etchings of mermaids, which I hadn’t noticed earlier, swam among the manta rays, sharks, and dolphins. Was that what had stirred me to draw mermaids over and over tonight? I thought of the hook
.
A mermaid was a type of hook; she was a siren, a lure. Had the killer buried Desiree beneath a mermaid sculpture because she had lured him? Had she hooked him with a promise of devotion? Had she then reneged? J.P., Anton, Mackenzie. Had one of the men been so in love with her that he couldn’t let her live if she didn’t choose him?

I raced to retrieve my wadded up storyboard.

Crash!

I whipped around. Tigger jumped off the table beside my bed, peeked at the fallen frame of David, and sprang across the floor. He leaped on top of the Ching cabinet.

“Don’t!” I screamed.

But my wound-up kitten couldn’t stop. He ran headlong into the Lucky Cat. The statue teetered. The necklace swung to and fro. I sprinted. Caught the statue before it toppled. Set it right.

Tigger hurtled to the floor, across the kitchen, and onto the table. He batted the sketches of mermaids.

“Bad kitty,” I said, trying to snatch him. He dodged me and darted beneath the sofa. I crouched to get eye level with him. “What is up with you? Are you mad I won’t spoil you with human food? Are you jealous of the fake cat, or are you trying to tell me something?”

Really, Jenna? The cat is communicating? Get real.

I viewed the mermaid sketches on the table. “Wait a sec,” I whispered. Maybe the cat
was
trying to tell me something. Maybe he thought I wasn’t on the right track and I needed a jolt to my system to wake up. Was the killer a woman instead of a man? Did Sabrina kill her sister? The mermaid was a fantasy creature. Did the mermaid represent the fantastical life that Desiree had created for herself? Had Sabrina been jealous that her sister had won the limelight or had won a man Sabrina loved?

I went one step further. Yesterday, Katie asked if I remembered the pint-sized woman who had crafted a lighthouse cake on the rerun of
Radical Cake Battle
. Could the woman have been Sabrina, perpetuating the seaside theme? I squeezed my eyes together, trying to remember her features. The chef brought to mind a minisized version of Nicole Kidman, complete with red hair and freckles. The total opposite of Sabrina. Not even a talented makeup artist could have changed Sabrina’s look that much, not to mention Sabrina had never given the impression that she’d wanted to become a chef. I was on the wrong track.

Tigger poked his face from beneath the sofa.

“It’s okay,” I said. “Come out. I’m not mad.” I crooked a finger. He tiptoed toward me. I gathered him into my arms and stroked his chin and ears. Tears formed in my eyes. How David would have loved the little guy. Maybe that was what Tigger was doing, trying to commune with my sweet, departed husband. Not wanting to plummet into self-pity, I carried the kitten to the stove. I plucked a cookie from the cookie sheet and took a bite. Surprisingly good and salty. I broke a teensy nibble from the edge and offered it to Tigger. He lapped it up. As he licked my thumb and I finger-combed his fur, something new hit me. Something vital.

Hair
.

One of the hacks, as Katie had referred to the cooks on
Radical Cake Battle
—a fellow that the show had dubbed Macbeth the Gay Blade—had constructed a Triton King of the Sea cake. Triton was a merman, wasn’t he? The Gay Blade had long, oily blond hair. He had wielded an axe in his left hand. The killer was left-handed. So was Anton. Had he changed his look—gone from dark to light, short to long—so he could compete on the show? Anton had fooled me the day Desiree had come to town. I hadn’t recognized him; neither had she. Had he entered the
Radical Cake Battle
as a contestant to prove a point? To show her up or embarrass her? The other day, I was wrong when I’d thought a hack could construct the mermaid sculpture that had surrounded Desiree’s body; the creation had taken skill.

Adrenaline zipping through me, I flipped on the television, brought up the guide, and searched the Food Network channel for the TV show. A series of them would start at 8 P
.
M
.
; none aired now. I switched off the television and ripped out a new sheet of paper from the sketch pad.

I drew an oval and added long, stringy hair, an unkempt beard, and intense eyes. The resulting image looked like a character out of an Elizabethan play. Dirty, feral.
Macbeth
was a play about ambition run amok. How did that fit the scenario with Anton?

I paced the floor, returned to the table, peered again at my drawing, and a flurry of exhilaration rushed through me as I recalled more of the television show. The Gay Blade started out in the same manner as the other contestants, answering questions about himself, talking about the benefactor who was going to make his dreams come true. His career had nowhere to go but up, he said. He didn’t have an accent, but Anton, a refined world traveler, could have managed that. Then the contestants hoisted their tools. The camera focused on each one; the microphone picked up their chatter. As the Gay Blade made violent swipes at his cake, he said,
Fantasy was for children
.
Promises were the lure of a siren
.
Broken promises demanded retribution.
The audience applauded and hooted their support. Soon the Gay Blade set aside his axe and worked with his hands to mold the face, eyes, and mouth of the mermaid. As he did, he said:
I need you to obey me
.

I stopped pacing the cottage. I had heard those commanding words. Mackenzie, Desiree’s masseur, had said the same thing to me when he had kneaded my back into submission.

What was his last name? Baxter. Mackenzie Baxter. Macbeth. Or
Mac B
as the announcer had dubbed him. He was the Gay Blade, not Anton. I flashed on a conversation with Sabrina. She had said Mackenzie asked Desiree for a chance to be more than a masseur, but Desiree had said,
No go.
At the time, I had imagined Mackenzie wanted to become a producer or director. When I met with J.P. at Latte Luck Café, Mackenzie showed up outside and taunted J.P., who snarled and muttered that Mackenzie thought he knew how to cook. He said Mackenzie had picked apart a couple of Desiree’s recipes in her current cookbook, and she got blazing mad.