Final Sentence (21 page)

“Anton d’Stang said he and Gigi spent the evening together. When I asked Gigi—” I halted, peeked around. “Where’s Katie?” Her toque sat on the vintage kitchen table alongside jigsaw puzzle pieces of a fruit basket. Bailey gestured toward the door. “She said she had an errand.”

“At a time like this?” I squawked. Losing her heirloom watch must have really upset her.

“Continue, dear.” Aunt Vera revved her hand at me. “You were saying when you asked Gigi . . .”

“She didn’t corroborate Anton’s story,” I went on. “She kept mute. I understand that a pickpocket might want an alibi, but the only reason Anton would need an alibi was if he killed Desiree himself, right? What did Gigi take?” I turned to Tito for his answer, but he was rushing out of the store as if he were a bloodhound following a scent.

I sank into the chair by the kitchen table and gazed at the puzzle pieces, a mishmash of color, sort of like the array of suspects in Desiree’s murder. Why couldn’t I see the big picture? Last night I believed Sabrina Divine was the culprit, and now I was aiming my sights on Anton d’Stang. Had Anton killed Desiree and used Gigi as his alibi? Gigi wouldn’t come forward if telling the truth would nail her as a thief. On the other hand, Tito hadn’t validated that he had caught Gigi doing anything wrong. Maybe Gigi could deny Tito’s claim while at the same time refute Anton’s alibi.

A little voice in my mind reminded me not to forget about J.P. Hessman. He had no verifiable alibi. And how did Mackenzie whatever-his-last-name-was fit in? Why had Desiree brought him on this particular road trip?

Bailey and Aunt Vera joined me at the table.

“This is good news,” Bailey said as she fitted puzzle pieces together. “You have other suspects. It’s time to go to the police.”

“But I don’t want to get Gigi in trouble. I mean, what if she isn’t a thief?”

“But she is.” Katie burst into the shop and skidded to a halt.

The customers at the back of the store straightened to attention, even the children, which gave Tigger a chance to escape. He dashed to me and leaped into my arms.

“No worries, folks,” I said above their concerns. “Katie bought a lottery ticket.” I cooed to Tigger to calm him. “She gets excited over the simplest things.” I begged my aunt and Bailey to tend to our patrons and herded Katie into the hallway between the shop and the café. “What are you saying?”

“I tiptoed into the masseur’s Winnebago.”

“It was open?”

“Not really. I know how to pick locks.”

Oh, boy. Trouble with a capital T.

Katie hastened to explain. “My former employer was notorious for bolting himself in his bedroom. He couldn’t be left alone. We had a locksmith over nearly every week. I paid attention.” She petted Tigger’s ears. He chugged his appreciation. “Anyway, I found the hairdresser’s kit sitting on top of an autograph book and a couple of Desiree’s cookbooks.”

The kit that Gigi mentioned she had left behind.

“And inside was my grandfather’s watch. Want to know what else I found?”

I did. Every fiber inside me vibrated with curiosity.

“There was an empty billfold and this really fancy-schmancy silver pill box, as well as a diamond-studded tennis bracelet, and a heart-shaped necklace.”

Instinctively, my hand reached for the locket around my neck.

“How could Gigi afford those things on a hairdresser’s salary?” Katie said. “She’s a thief. Just like Tito said. I knew she was guilty. I felt it. In here.” She tapped her chest. “You have to tell Chief Pritchett.”

“And get you arrested for breaking and entering?”

Katie blushed the color of a tasty rosé. “But what if Desiree found out Gigi was a thief and threatened to turn her in? Maybe Gigi killed Desiree to shut her up.”

I hadn’t considered that.

“You need
to find out more about Gigi.”

“How would you suggest I do that?”

Chapter 14

T
HE PERMANENT WAVE
Salon and Spa buzzed with chatter. Customers filled the hairstylists’ chairs and the chairs at the washbasins. An older woman perched on a stool at the makeup counter while an exotic younger woman applied chartreuse eye shadow—not a color I would ever allow near my face. Two women and a man huddled by the appointment desk.

As I stood behind them waiting to check in—to coerce me to keep the massage appointment Bailey set up, Katie had bribed me with dark chocolate cupcake pops—I caught sight of the aquarium, and something prickled the edges of my mind. I stared harder. I wasn’t interested in the tetra that swam in figure eights. I fixated on the grotto beneath the water and, more specifically, on the mermaid anchored inside the grotto. The killer had enshrined Desiree’s body within a mermaid sculpture. Was it significant that the salon featured an aquarium with a mermaid? Had the miniature mermaid ignited a salon employee’s deadly imagination?

I cut a look at Gigi, who was working on a client. As if sensing my appraisal, she glanced at me and then the aquarium. Her mouth quirked up at the edges. A cat holding a bird in its mouth couldn’t have looked more culpable.

Before I could march to her and say point-blank, “You killed Desiree,” the appointment clerk with the pink hair said, “Miss Hart, Mackenzie is ready for your massage.”

Mackenzie strolled toward me, arms hanging loosely by his sides. Gone was the antagonism of our first meeting. Gone was the angry scowl he had thrown at J.P. the other day. Clad in a white pajama-style outfit, with sunlight streaming through the picture window and highlighting his blond hair, he struck me as handsome and vibrant. The flock of good-looking surfers in town had nothing on him. “Welcome, my friend.” He clasped my hand and smiled.

I bit back a laugh. If I were looking to cast Prince Charming in a Stay Bright toothpaste commercial, this would be the guy. I’d even make a single tooth sparkle.

“Right this way,” he said. “I’ll show you to the therapy room.”

Keeping hold of my hand—so much for me getting a shot at confronting Gigi—Mackenzie opened a solid oak door and ushered me along a hall. A waterfall burbled at the far end. Soothing music played through speakers. The scent of lavender filled the air. Mackenzie directed me into a dark massage room, told me to undress to my comfort level, and slip between the sheets with my face nestled in the massage cradle. He would return in a couple of minutes.

In the semidark, I started to perspire. To say I was nervous was an understatement. Not because I hadn’t experienced a man’s touch for some time, but because I was anxious as all get-out about questioning someone while I was bare naked. What had my pals talked me into?

When Mackenzie’s hands first touched my neck, I flinched.

“Relax. I promise I won’t hurt you,” he said. “But, my friend, I’ve got to tell you, you have knots. I need your muscles to obey. Breathe.”

I tried. I really tried. Mackenzie told me to envision the lull of a mountain lake rippling on the shore and to imagine a breeze whistling through palm fronds, but I knew, and so did Mackenzie, that his words were useless. I was wound tighter than a spring.

He rolled his knuckles down my back and dragged his palms upward to my neck. “So, tell me where you’re from originally.”

“Here. Crystal Cove.”

“Family?”

“Dad, sister in L.A., brother in Napa. You?”

“Los Angeles. Born and raised. No siblings. Breathe . . . hold it . . .” He worked his fingers into the hollow of my neck. “Release. Good, my friend.”

I wondered if massage school had taught him to repeat
my friend
every few sentences to engage a client. It wasn’t working, but I wasn’t a typical client.

“Married?” he asked. “I don’t see a ring on your left hand.”

“My husband died.”

“Wow. Sorry. I . . .” More knuckles. More dragging. Back and forth. “That’s a tragedy.”

Understatement of the decade. But enough about me. “You?” I said. “Married?”

“Nah. I let one get away. Now there’s too much going on in my career.”

A point Sabrina had mentioned came to me. I said, “Did you ever want to do something other than massage?”

“Yeah, sure. Doctor, baker, Indian chief,” he said, quoting the
Tinker Tailor
nursery rhyme.

I reflected on the word
chief
. Did Mackenzie have aspirations of running a company? He came from Los Angeles. Had he, like J.P., dreamed of becoming a famous director? Wasn’t that the goal of everyone who lived in L.A.? Had he asked Desiree for the chance? Was that why she had said,
No go,
because she held fast to the rule that he had to pay his dues? Instead, she gave him the chore of securing a replacement hairstylist, and he resented being her lackey. He lashed out because . . .

No. I was grasping at straws. When I was a child, Dad warned my siblings and me not to pluck an idea out of thin air. We needed facts for any conclusion. That was the FBI way. The truth and nothing but the truth. Black and white. Had he taught Cinnamon the same thing?

I said, “I heard you hired Gigi Goode.”

“Yep.” Mackenzie bent my left arm at the elbow and wedged my wrist against by back. He kneaded my shoulder so hard that I moaned. “Good, my friend. Let it out.”

“Why Gigi?” I bit back another groan.

“I contacted the Better Business Bureau, learned about this salon, and asked who was their best, and then I observed her.”

I recalled Gigi saying he had watched her from the street. “Why didn’t Sabrina handle the problem?”

“I offered. You see, I was pals with Desiree’s regular stylist. A real talent. It was a shame she got sick, but at least she’s not part of the spectacle up here.”

“Spectacle?”

“With the police. Chief Pritchett has this chart going at the precinct. You must have seen it. You’ve been called in, if rumors are true. Push pins, yarn, red flags.”

“I haven’t seen it,” I said, though I was glad to hear Cinnamon was doing her job, even if her chart was a tad colorful. I considered dropping by the precinct to view what she had written on the chart. Perhaps I wasn’t her number one suspect any longer. A girl could dream.

“How’s the pressure, my friend?” Mackenzie asked as he walked around the top of the massage table.

“Good.”

He started in on my other arm. “Massage is so important for a person’s body. Say, you own The Cookbook Nook. You must be a great cook. Think of me as the chef and you’re the meal. I stir up the ingredients, add TLC, set the timer, and in less than an hour,
voilà
, you’re done.”

“Sounds like a perfect recipe for relaxation.”

“That’s the ticket. Now, shh.”

“In a sec. You’ve got me intrigued. Tell me more about Chief Pritchett.”

Mackenzie kneaded my hand and forearm. “She’s a piece of work. She nearly tackled me, push pins in hand, when I told her I saw Desiree with Anton d’Stang at the Chill Zone Bar.”

“You know who Anton is?” I twisted my head so I could peer at him.

“Everybody does. He’s world famous.”

“Did you see Anton leave the bar with Gigi?”

“Nope. Can’t say I saw Gigi there. But I didn’t stick around for long. I . . .” He hesitated. “I hooked up with someone.”

How gallant of him not to reveal Sabrina’s name.

“My friend, we have to stop talking. You’re not getting the full benefit of your massage.” Mackenzie guided my face back into the cradle, then worked his thumbs up my triceps. “Also, remember to drink lots of water following this session.”

“Will do. But one more thing. Back to you seeing Anton with Desiree.”

“Me, J.P., and everyone else.”

“J.P.?” My voice escalated to way above a tone appropriate for the massage room.

“Shh,” Mackenzie cautioned.

“J.P. said he fell asleep in his hotel room.”

“He may have gone nighty-night at some point, but he was at the Chill Zone, sitting at the bar by himself, giving Desiree and Anton evil glares while making repeated calls on his cell phone. When that didn’t work, he used the pay phone down the hall by the restrooms.”

Was J.P. dialing Desiree, waiting for her to pick up so he could chew her out? Why did he sit on the sidelines? Why didn’t he confront her face-to-face? I said, “Did Desiree see J.P.?”

“Don’t think so. She was pretty into Anton. Now, no more questions.”

• • •

I DIDN’T RELAX
through the rest of the massage. How could I? I mean, yes, the deep tissue work Mackenzie did on my legs and feet was incredible; he had great hands. But I kept cycling the conflicting stories through my mind. What if Gigi was a petty thief? Did she kill Desiree to keep her penchant for stealing a secret? Had she convinced Anton d’Stang to lie for her, or vice versa? Anton said he was with Gigi at the time of Desiree’s murder. Did he leave Desiree and go out with Gigi? He didn’t mention having seen Desiree that night. Did he honestly believe no one had noticed them at the Chill Zone? And I couldn’t forget about J.P. He showed up at the bar, too. Did he believe he was invisible? To my surprise, Sabrina’s whereabouts appeared to be solid. Though Mackenzie didn’t mention Sabrina’s name outright, he claimed to have hooked up with a woman. I had seen Sabrina emerging from his Winnebago the next morning. I could do the math.