Final Sentence (36 page)

“And nabbed her in the parking lot. You hurled her into the van.”

“She fought, you’ll be glad to know. She came at me fast.”

“You shoved her into the passenger window, which knocked her out.”

“I drove to the beach, carried her to the shore, strangled her, and molded her into one of my beautiful creations.”

I could hear him talking to her throughout:
I need you to obey, my friend.
Obey, obey, obey.
“Wait, you had sand-sculpting tools. You stole the trowel from my store. You preplanned everything.”

Mackenzie leered. “It was a stroke of luck having the sand-sculpting contest in town. I thought making a mermaid was a nice touch. The woman no man can have. An ice princess, like Desiree. The hook was a stroke of genius, don’t you think?”

“About the hook. Where did you get it?”

“Desiree sent Gigi and I to Bait and Switch to do some recon about taking a hike. Turns out, Gigi has an itchy finger. She pinched the hook as well as a few shiny lures.”

“You’re lying. The clerk that works there said all hooks were accounted for.”

“You went looking?” His gaze sharpened. “Clever. But the kid was wrong. Good guy that I am, I slipped into the stockroom and messed up all the hooks to cover for Gigi.”

“You stowed two hooks in one box.”

“Others had three. Some had none. If you were the clerk, wouldn’t you have given up trying to make it right?” He shrugged. “What can I say? I had that job at one time. Doing inventory sucks.”

“Big risk.”

“The risk was worth the reward. That night—that fateful night—I remembered Gigi had hidden the hook in the base of the stylist kit she left in the Winnebago. Adding the hook to my creation, well, it was an innovative idea, don’t you think? I drove back to the trailer with Sabrina, tucked her in for the night, swiped the hook, and returned to the beach. I added the hook and waited beneath a palm tree until I was certain Old Jake had swept up my footprints. The guy was ponderous but a perfectionist, I’ll give him that. Now, enough talking.” Mackenzie began pacing again. Four steps left, four steps right, back and forth, as if he was trying to make a decision. He halted. “It’s time.” He fished in his pocket and retrieved a bottle of pills. “You two are going to take a tandem swim. Jenna.” He aimed a finger at me. “Fetch a glass of water. Be quick about it.”

Was that how he intended to handle us both, by drugging and then drowning us? No way.

Mackenzie resumed pacing. As he passed by, I glimpsed the stack of cookbooks on the coffee table. I dove for them and snatched the top two, a
Cook’s Illustrated
and Mark Bittman’s hefty hardcover,
How to Cook Everything: The Basics
. I swung at Mackenzie’s head. Not an ace in the softball batting department, I connected with his shoulders. He stumbled forward. I flogged him again, attacking his spine, his shoulder, his arm.
Whack, whack, whack.
Beating an old mattress couldn’t have sounded duller.

He scrabbled on hands and knees toward the Ching cabinet. He clawed to a stand and got hold of the Lucky Cat. He hurled it at me. My insides clenched as a memory of David presenting me with the statue flashed before me. In the nick of time, I caught the statue—I wasn’t so bad as an outfielder. I set it aside, and refocused on Mackenzie, aka Macbeth, the messenger of death.

He leered and headed for the redbrick fireplace. I couldn’t let him reach the poker. I snared Chef Anne Burrell’s cookbook and hurled it. The book clocked Mackenzie in the kidneys. He pitched forward. His head slammed into the mantle. He slumped to the ground.

Sabrina didn’t miss a beat. She lunged from the sofa and threw herself on t
op of him. “Call the police,” she yelled as she pounded him, double-fisted, and uttered curse words I hadn’t heard in years.

Chapter 27

C
INNAMON PRITCHETT RESPONDED
in lickety-split time. She marched in, as crisp as her uniform, her mouth grim, her gaze searing. I was relieved to see that her cranky mother was nowhere in site. On Cinnamon’s heels followed paramedics and deputies. Cinnamon ordered them to tend to Mackenzie and mark the crime scene, then she herded Sabrina and me to the kitchen table.

I related the evening’s events.

“How did he get on the
Radical Cake Battle
show?” Cinnamon asked.

“He was raised in a small town on the coast of Oregon,” Sabrina said. Apparently as Mackenzie drove her to the beach, he had regaled her—his captive audience—with his history. “Baking ran in his family. His parents expected the same career path from him. But he wanted something more than running a two-bit, small-town bakery. He was good with tools, so he auditioned for the show and wowed them with his axe work.”

Cinnamon said, “When Desiree reneged, why didn’t he seek out another opportunity?”

“Because Desiree promised him stardom. And . . .” Sabrina licked her lips.

I leaped to my feet and filled a glass with water from the tap. I handed the glass to Sabrina. She drank in gulps.

“And . . .” Cinnamon prompted.

“Because he was in love with her. He wanted her approval.” Sabrina shook her head. Moisture glistened in her eyes. “If only I had caught on. I hate men. All men. My boyfriend, his wicked friends. Mackenzie.” Sabrina ground her teeth. “Poor Desiree. Yes, she was imperious and domineering and she could anger the most patient of people, but she didn’t deserve to die. She could be very loving and generous. She gave money to a women’s shelter, of all things.”

“And not you.” Cinnamon drummed her fingers on the table. Didn’t she believe Sabrina?

“What do I care? The shelter needs the money more than I do. I can get another job, another boyfriend. I can start over.” Sabrina sucked back a sob. “Des . . . can’t . . . ever.” She slurped down the rest of her water and slammed the glass on the table. “I’m pitiful. I should’ve seen . . . I should’ve—”

I petted her shoulder. “You couldn’t have prevented this. Mackenzie Baxter was demented.”

“I know,” she whispered.

I scowled at Cinnamon.

She offered a
just doing her duty
shrug then said, “Read Mackenzie Baxter his rights.”

“I’m free to go?” I said, before realizing I had nowhere to go. I was home.

“You’re innocent. I already told you that.”

“Please alert your mother.”

“No need. My mother has no say over anything in this town ever again.”

Cinnamon’s terse words had to have something to do with the fight I had interrupted earlier when I’d called, but I didn’t have the guts to ask details. Had the argument been about me? Did it matter? Another time, another day.

“Jenna,” my aunt yelled from outside. “What are all the poli
ce cars . . .” Aunt Vera skidded to a halt in the doorway and raised a hand to her chest. “Oh, dear. I knew it. I sensed it.”

Chapter 28

A
S SABRINA DEPARTED
with a deputy, she vowed to inform me when J.P. and she set the burial date for Desiree. She still wanted to take a memorial hike. I promised I would do my best to attend.

The next morning, while sitting on the porch eating my breakfast of toast with Taleggio cheese and jam, the realization hit me that I had stopped enjoying life two years ago. With David gone, I had believed there was nothing left to live for, but I was wrong. I was not yet thirty. I could be happy, right here in Crystal Cove, spending time with family and friends and breathing in the salt air. As I lifted a glass of fresh-squeezed orange juice, I remembered a celebratory date with David at the Fairmont Hotel. We clinked glasses of champagne to commemorate my new job at Taylor & Squibb, and he said:
To your wonderful new life. May it be everything you ever wanted.

I raised my juice glass higher and said, “To my wonderful
new
life.”

After I rinsed my breakfast dishes, I found the courage to call David’s mother and ask how she was doing. Fine, she said. She hoped I liked Crystal Cove. David often told her that I might return to my roots. How had he known?

Around 9 A
.
M
.
, I dressed in the cheeriest outfit I owned and, with Tigger for company, drove to work. Although the Winnebagos had been towed from the parking lot, Pepper Pritchett didn’t look very pleased. She paced in front of Beaders of Paradise, arms locked across her chest, and glared at the string of people—more than one hundred—streaming out of The Cookbook Nook.

I exited my VW bug and searched for a route where I could avoid her detection. I didn’t want her to spoil my upbeat mood. I stopped when I spied my father hustling along the boardwalk toward Pepper. He said something as he moved near. She scowled and shook a fist. He spoke again. She mouthed a few words. Dad responded. How I wished I could be a fly on one of the nearby columns so I could listen in. Dad reached for her. Pepper backed up and lowered her chin. She scuffed the boardwalk with the toe of her sandal. My father uttered what seemed to be a speech. He reached out, and this time, Pepper didn’t resist. He squeezed her arm. She looked up, offered a weak smile, then turned on her heel and marched into her shop.
Too-ra-loo
, as my aunt would say.

I entered The Cookbook Nook, and as I passed the throng of customers, I heard chatter about Aunt Vera having foreseen something terrible happening at my cottage. Had all the people come to have their fortunes read? I spied my aunt at the vintage kitchen table predicting a curly-haired woman’s future, but the queue didn’t lead to her. The line snaked to the back of the store.

Katie swooped toward me with a platter of mini cinnamon rolls. “Coming through.”

I stopped her. “What’s going on?”

“Hoo-boy, do we have a surprise. Your pal Rhett invited Chef Tory Fellows—you know, of Liaison fame—to make an appearance.”

Liaison, a fabulous San Francisco restaurant, had become the training ground for many celebrated chefs. How did Rhett know such a famous guy?

“He’s so handsome,” Katie went on. “Look at me. I’m swooning.” She freed a hand from the platter and fanned herself. “Can you tell I’m swooning? I’m his biggest admirer.”

I couldn’t catch a glimpse of the chef through the throng, but I had seen his photograph in the
Liaison: An Intimate Look
cookbook. He was handsome with an engaging smile.

“If I had only known he was coming,” Katie gushed. “I would have made sure I had the ingredients for cracked pepper crab soup. Did you know that’s what Liaison is known for?”

I didn’t.

“How do I look?” Her toque was atilt, but her face was flushed with sheer bliss.

“Radiant.”

“Yeah, right, if I lost thirty pounds, shrank six inches, and straightened my hair.”

“He’s married, isn’t he?”

“I don’t know. Is he?” Giggling like a schoolgirl, she joined the line of customers.

I scooted around them and caught sight of Chef Tory, who sat behind a table at the rear of the store. A rebellious thatch of blond hair fell across his forehead, making him look like a
bad boy,
the kind mothers warned you about. A stack of
Liaison: An Intimate Look
sat on the floor as well as the tabletop. Rhett, who was standing to the chef’s right and looked equally
bad boy
with that rakish grin of his, chatted up the patrons in line.

“Hey, you.” Bailey approached and bucked me on the shoulder. “Your aunt told us what went down last night. I’m so proud of you.”

I cleared my throat, the fear of last night’s encounter not quite quelled. “Where did we get all of the chef’s books?” Last I counted, we’d only had a couple in the stockroom.