Final Sentence (39 page)

“I suggested we have the fest here,” Bailey said, polishing her fingernails on her silky bodice. “I said, ‘Jenna will think it’s a fabulous idea.’ You do, don’t you? Think it’s a good idea?” She slurped in an excited breath. “We can set up portable cooking stations, like we do for our cooking classes. We can have the kitchen shop down the way provide the tools and grills or sauté pans, depending on a contestant’s preference. Think of the traffic. The cross-promotion. The conflict. The press.”

Last year’s fest had garnered all sorts of media coverage thanks to one contestant—the winner for eight straight years—who had lambasted the runner-up for her grill steak recipe. They had ended up in a spatula fight. Someone had filmed the spectacle, which went viral on
YouTube
.

“And think of all the grilling cookbooks we can stock, like
Simply Grilling: 105 Recipes for Quick and Casual Grilling
,” Bailey said, the title tripping easily off her tongue.

I was familiar with this particular cookbook.

“The author not only gives a clear account of the types of grilling and the utensils needed,” Bailey continued, “but she also includes a recipe for one of my all-time favorite foods, Buffalo Sliders with Blue Cheese Slaw. And the pictures? Family-style adorable.” Bailey had a mind like a steel trap. If I let her, she could probably recite the contents of every book in the shop.

See what I mean about long titles? “What’s this year’s challenge?” I asked.

“Grilled cheese.”

Aunt Vera applauded. “Oh, yum. We’ll serve delectable sandwiches at the Nook Café.” The café was an adjunct to The Cookbook Nook. During the opening month, we hadn’t landed on a name for the café, and then we settled on the obvious. “Folks will flock to us for lunch and dinner. Ca-ching.” My aunt was not interested in money. She had plenty because, years ago, she had invested wisely in the stock market. But she was all about bragging rights. She took great pride in our tasty enterprise.

My friend Bailey on the other hand, was all about dollar signs. “You’re right, Vera.” Back at Taylor & Squibb, Bailey, who had been in charge of monitoring on-air, magazine, and Internet campaigns, would visit my office daily and give me a rundown of our earnings. Not
our
, as in Taylor & Squibb, but
our,
as in ours. Hers and mine. She knew, down to the penny, what we were earning for our holiday bonuses. She needed to know because most of her monthly paycheck went to clothes.

“Meow!” Tigger raced from beneath the cookie preparation table and leaped onto the counter by the register.

“I didn’t do it.” The freckle-faced boy threw his hands in the air, which of course meant he had . . . whatever
it
was.

I hurried to the counter and scooped up Tigger, a new wave of anxiety gushing through me. “Shh, fella. You’re okay. Why are you so jumpy today?” I checked him out, making sure he didn’t have icing in his eyes or ears—he didn’t—and breathed a sigh of relief. I frowned at the boy, whose mother was giving him a quiet talking-to. I imagined pulling a cat’s tail had been one of his crimes. He nodded to her, but I could see he was holding back giggles.

As I set Tigger on the ground and encouraged him to be brave and mingle with the public again, I heard a jangle.

“Phone’s ringing,” Bailey said as she rounded the counter and set down her things.

I rummaged through my purse, which I had stowed on a shelf beneath the antique National cash register, and retrieved my cell phone. The readout said:
Whitney
. Wholesome, wondrous Whitney. My sister was brilliant at most things, but being a home business entrepreneur, she was a little dim when it came to knowing the hours other people kept at work. I asked Bailey to mind the shop, then sneaked to the storage room with my cell phone and pressed Send. “Hey, Sis.”

“Sit down.”

“I can’t. We have a kids’ soiree going on.” Not to mention a café to run and more cookbooks to inventory.

“Jenna Starrett Hart.

Because I had established myself in my previous career as Jenna Hart, I had used my maiden name, even after David and I got married. I decided not to change it. Harris . . . Hart. Too close to mess with.

“Jenna,” my sister barked. She rarely barked.

I settled onto the old hardback chair at the desk. “What’s up?”

“You know I’m here in Crystal Cove.”

“No.” If she was checking up on me after my encounter with a murderer last month, I was going to clock her. I didn’t need a reminder. I had put the past behind me. And I could clock her. I had six inches on her and a lot more hard-earned muscle, especially since I’d returned to a daily routine of running on the beach.

“Yes. I’m at the Seaside Bakery on The Pier getting the cake for Dad’s surprise party tonight. You know it’s tonight, right?”

I would if she would clue me in. To anything. Ever. Luckily I didn’t have plans.

“Anyway, you will never guess who I am looking at right now.”

I groaned. My sister could be such a celebrity hound. “Brad Pitt? George Clooney?” I asked, playing along. Lots of famous people vacationed in Crystal Cove.

“He’s got a surfboard. He’s tan. And he’s dyed his hair, but it’s him. It’s David.”

My breath snagged in my chest. “What?”

“He’s not dead, Jenna. David is alive.”

“He can’t be . . . He isn’t . . .” My husband died in a boating accident. Two years ago.

“I’m going to follow him. I’ll call you back.” The call ended.

The air around me turned to ice. I leaped to my feet and hurried from the stockroom to the sale counter. “Bailey.” I clutched my friend’s wrists. “He’s . . . He’s . . .” I couldn’t catch my breath.

“Spit it out.”

I did. In one quick stream.

“He can’t be. Whitney was wrong,” Bailey assured me. “She didn’t see correctly.”

“Whitney . . .” Well-meaning, warped Whitney. I inhaled. “My sister has supersonic vision. She’s like a hawk. As I kid, I could never win at hide-and-seek. She always knew where I was.”

“She didn’t see him. David is—”

“I have to go. I have to find out for sure.”