Final Sentence (25 page)

The gangly clerk with the prominent Adam’s apple approached me. “Help you?” His voice had a natural crack to it, as if he hadn’t quite cleared puberty.

“Rhett,” I gasped out of breath.

The clerk hitched a thumb. I didn’t see Rhett in the direction he indicated, but I figured he wouldn’t steer me wrong. Dodging bargain-hungry customers, I hustled toward the rear of the store. I stopped short, right before slamming into Rhett, who was scooping up scattered kayak paddles.

“What happened?” I said.

“Some teen playing hide-and-seek with a buddy knocked over the entire display.” He struggled to a stand. “What’s up?”

I felt like a dolt, panting as if I had just seen the scariest movie ever.

“Jenna.” He searched my face. “Did someone accost you? Are you okay?”

“It’s . . . It’s nothing.”

“Bullpuckey.” He relieved me of my bag, the easel, and Tigger’s cage and ushered me to a green leather chair that stood beside a full-length mirror. “Sit down and tell me what happened.”

“Really, it’s—”

“Jenna, sit.”

“I feel silly bothering you.”

Rhett forced me into the chair and rested the easel and bag beside the mirror. He released Tigger from his confinement. The poor cat lurched into Rhett’s arms. He scruffed Tigger’s chin and said to me, “Talk.”

“A surfer—”

“There are a bunch out today. Surf’s great.”

I explained that there weren’t many surfers in my neck of the beach. “In fact, there was only one.”

“The guy must be a novice. The surf’s rarely good north of The Pier. What about him?”

“He—” I halted. Was I putting together a scenario that didn’t add up? Was the lone surfer who had floated on the water the day Desiree died a novice and harmless? How I wished I could rewind the past moment of my life and reenter Bait and Switch as a composed, semisane woman.

“What about the surfer?” Rhett said.

“I was worried . . . that he was . . .” I batted the air. “It doesn’t matter. I’m going to leave now.” I tucked a loose strand of hair behind my ear and rose from the chair. I reached for Tigger.

Rhett handed him over. “Actually, I’m glad you stopped by. I’ve been meaning to call you. Joey—”

“The young man that greeted me.”

“That’s the one. Joey Pritchett.”

“Pritchett?” I cut a look in the kid’s direction. “Is he related to Pepper?”

“He’s her nephew. Her deceased brother’s kid. He’s a sweet guy.”

I couldn’t help frowning.

“Really.” Rhett bobbed his head with understanding. “I know, Pepper’s an acerbic woman. She’s got issues. But Joey’s different. He’s not as bright as his cousin, Cinnamon, but not many kids are. Anyway, Joey discovered that a Mustad hook had been stolen from the shop, after all.”

“What?” I jostled Tigger. He yowled his displeasure. I calmed him. “Go on.”

“When you came in the other day, remember how we surveyed the inventory and it appeared intact? Well, a customer came in to buy a hook last night, and Joey discovered an empty box.”

“You don’t have a record of anyone buying the hook?”

“Nope. I’m thinking someone filched it.”

“Gigi,” I muttered.

“Who?”

I described Gigi Goode with her purple hair and multiple-studded ears. “She’s a hairstylist in town and a thief. She must have sneaked in here.” I took two paces to the right, pivoted, and returned. “That must be why she split town.”

“What are you talking about?”

I told Rhett how Gigi claimed Anton had blackmailed her into corroborating his alibi. “What if that was a ruse? What if Desiree knew about Gigi’s bent for stealing? What if she threatened to turn her in? Gigi is a big gal. She could have overpowered Desiree, and she’s an artist. She could have created the mermaid sand sculpture.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen the woman you’re describing. Hey, Joey.” Rhett beckoned his clerk. To me, he said, “The kid’s got a great memory for faces. He’s a budding photographer.”

My ears perked up. If Joey had a camera with a telephoto lens, maybe I could take a long-range photo of the surfer and ID him.

Joey loped to us, a hank of hair covering one eye. “What’s up?”

“Rhett tells me you’re a pretty good photographer,” I said. “What do you like to take pictures of?”

“Birds.”

“Do you have your camera with you?”

Rhett shot me a questioning look.

“Nope.” Joey shifted feet. “It’s locked in a safe at home. It cost me the last four summer’s earnings. I only take it out when I’ve got the day off. Why?”

“Oh, gee, um, because I . . . I love cameras.” I was way past the point of admitting my fear of the lone surfer. “I used to work at an advertising company. Photographers ruled the roost.”

The kid preened.

Rhett said, “I think we’re getting off track. Joey, did you see a woman named Gigi Goode come in the shop?” He reiterated my description of Gigi.

Joey raked the hair off his forehead. “Yeah, I remember her. She and this muscular blond dude came in together. Don’t know their names, but the two of them laughed like goofs. She kept saying she hated being a gofer, and he said he did, too. Guess they were on some kind of errand.”

“Was it Mackenzie Baxter?” I asked. He had hired Gigi. Maybe they hung out together when he wasn’t with Sabrina.

Joey bobbed his head. “Could’ve been. She called him Mac. They asked about our guided hikes. I guess their boss—the
dictator
as the chick, I mean, lady called her—thought a hiking trip would be a good bonding event for her crew.”

I gazed at Rhett. “Gigi had opportunity to steal the hook.” Which meant that she also might have stolen the trowel from my store window, perhaps on the morning she had pinched Katie’s pocket watch. “We need to call Chief Pritchett right now.”

Joey said, “Hold up. If you’re talking about that Mustad hook, I was mistaken. It turns out someone stuffed two hooks into one box. I think I got confused when I put things back. You know, we’ve got so much junk, I mean, quality items in the display case.” He jerked his thumb. In the center of the fishing section stood a beautiful hand-carved case with a glass top. On my previous visit, I had noticed the array of shiny hooks inside. “I meant to tell you, Mr. Jackson.”

Great. Another dead end.

• • •

TOTING MY CAT
and paraphernalia, I tramped out of Bait and Switch and headed for home. Along the way, my cell phone rang. I answered.

“Jenna,” my aunt said. “Let’s go to brunch.”

“Can’t.” Although Tuesday was my only day off, I had housekeeping and laundry to do, as well as figuring out where Gigi had gone. Her disappearance gnawed at me, not to mention that I wanted to finish my painting, toss the canvas out to sea, and be done with the angst, the musing, and the past.

Aunt Vera said, “Whatever you have to do can wait.”

“I’ve got Tigger with me.”

“Drop the kitten at home and meet us at The Pelican Brief Diner.”

“Us, as in you and—”

“Your father.”

Uh-oh. Why did her request sound like an invitation to an intervention? Mine. Had Dad’s concern fueled hers? I was fine. I was coping. I was a suspect in a friend’s murder investigation. No big deal. Ri-i-ight.

“Thirty minutes,” she said. “Don’t stall.”

“How can I say no to such a charming summons?”

She clucked and disconnected.

As I drew nearer to home, I spied Bailey jogging along the beach. In orange harem pants and matching halter top and carrying a pair of strappy sandals slung over an index finger, she didn’t look like she had started the day prepared to go for a run. If I were a betting woman, I would say my aunt had sent her in search of me. Swell
.

When I reached her, she bent over and rested her hands on her thighs. “Whew. Am I ever out of shape.” She wasn’t. She relished exercise. She studied Tigger in his air-conditioned tote. “Run out of room at the cottage?”

“He prefers a morning stroll.”

“Shouldn’t you let him walk, in that case?”

“He’s not leash-trained.” I cocked a hip. “Have you been hired to wrangle me?”

“
Wrangle
you?”

“Round me up in case I decide to make a run for it.”

“Why would you think—”

“My aunt can be pretty persuasive. Or my father appointed you.”

Bailey stood upright. “They’re worried, and Katie, too.”

Double-swell
.
It wasn’t enough that my kin fretted. Now I had extended family to please. I strolled ahead.

Bailey did a U-turn and kept pace on my right. “Mind if I join you? I’ve been meaning to see your new place. Now is a good time. Hint-hint.”

We entered the cottage, and I said, “Make yourself at home.” I set the easel and canvas against the far wall and released Tigger. “I’ve got to shower.”

As I let water rinse off sand and salty grit, I heard Bailey puttering around the cottage. Curiosity getting the better of me, I slipped out of the shower, slung a towel around my damp body, and opened the door an inch. Bailey, nibbling on a cookie, stood beside the Ching cabinet, its pocket doors wide open.

I cleared my throat. “What’re you doing?”

She jerked upright and did a double take on the cookie. “Hope you don’t mind.”

“
Mi casa es su casa
. I baked them.”

“Really? Not bad.”

“But I wasn’t talking about your snack.” I gathered a skirt and tank top from the closet. “Are you spying on me?”

“What? No.”

“What’s so interesting in the cabinet?”

“Uh, the porcelain cat,” she stammered.

I coughed and muttered an under-my-breath, skeptical curse. “That’s
on,
not
in.
Truth. What are you really doing, judging the state of everything in my place so you can report back to my aunt and father? ‘Jenna’s paints in the cabinet are all messed up; she’s a slob; she didn’t make her bed. All signs of a distracted mind. It’s definitely time for you to send her to the loony bin.’ Enter guys in white coats.”

“Whoa.” Bailey held up the universal halt sign. “You’re sounding paranoid. Get a grip.”

“I’ve got one, but it’s choking the life out of me.”

“Remember our motto at the office?
We will find the humor
in every situation.
”

“I’m a suspect in a murder.”

“That’s downright hysterical.”

“You’re a sadist.”

“At times.” She pointed. “Finish getting dressed. I’m starved.”

I retreated to the bathroom and put on my clothes. Afterward, I twisted my hair and secured it with a tortoiseshell clip, then daubed my cheeks with blush. I added extra moisture to the skin beneath my eyes, but I still looked tired. Short of taking a vacation or getting seventy-two hours of straight, uninterrupted sleep, I couldn’t fix that.

“By the way, I like the artwork,” Bailey said as I emerged from the bathroom. “You’re maturing. This one”—she indicated the canvas from this morning—“is very raw. If Old Man Taylor knew you could do this kind of work, T&S would be hiring you back as one of their premier artists.”

I laughed. “Okay, that’s enough. You don’t have to bolster my ego.”

“Find the humor.”

“Ha-ha.”

“So what was going on in your brain when you started painting this one?” She tapped the corner of the canvas.

“I . . .” Words caught in my chest. Tears formed in the corners of my eyes. Uh-oh.

“What?” Bailey hustled to me.

All of sudden, everything that I couldn’t tell Rhett gushed out in one long stream—the need to paint, the memory of finding Desiree, the fear of the surfer.

Bailey flew to the window and peeped through a crack in the drapes. “I don’t see any surfers on the beach or the ocean.”

“Of course not. It was over an hour ago. Besides, I’m probably, as you said, paranoid.”

“Stop that.” She returned to me and gripped me by the shoulders.

“It’s true. I’m imagining things. Seeing shadows. Hearing creaks.”

“Repeat after me. I’m in a new place, a new town, with a new career, and new hope. C’mon.”

I echoed the quasi-mantra.

“What other people think doesn’t matter,” Bailey added. “Say it.”

I groaned but followed her lead.

“Creative visualization.” She poked my forehead with her fingertip. “Repeat.”

“Creative visualization.”

Weekly at Taylor & Squibb, a trainer taught positive thinking techniques. At one point, the company forced every employee to read
Who Moved My Cheese?
subtitled:
An Amazing Way to Deal with Change in Your Work and in Your Life.
Literally, the book was about mice navigating a maze. Team cooperation, the instructor said, worked.

“Deep breath.” Bailey inhaled. I copied. She released her breath; so did I. “Great. Now let’s go
to lunch. We’ll hash this over with your dad and your aunt. We’ll solve this, okay?”

Chapter 18

O
N TUESDAY MORNING
at 10 A
.
M
.
, The Pelican Brief Diner was hopping. A splashy array of surfboards and bicycles and a baker’s rack, which held beachgoers’ sand toys and tools, flanked the entryway. In the foyer by the hostess’s stand, over twenty customers waited for tables.