He looped a lock of her hair around his finger. “I like it when you’re feisty.”
Desiree smacked his hand away. “J.P., please.”
His face flamed with annoyance.
I swooped into the mix and thrust my hand at him. “Hi, I’m Jenna. Nice tats,” I lied. Why anyone would denigrate his body with needles and ink baffled me. On the other hand, I did appreciate art, and his artist had talent. “What’s with all the lines?” The tiger nestled in the middle of a maze with no exit.
“They’re jungle vines,” J.P. said.
“He has a Tarzan fixation,” Desiree teased.
“I do not. I’m from Florida. I wanted to honor my heritage. We’ve got Everglades and all sorts of wild creatures there.”
Was he including himself among the wildlife? I am man, hear me roar. “So what’s your connection with Desiree?” I asked, other than trying to suck the life out of her.
“I’m her lover.” He sniggered. “And her director. Double-whammy.”
I heard Sabrina snort.
Desiree shot her sister a withering glance. “Jenna, give J.P. and me a private moment, okay?”
I routed through the aisles to the back of the store and settled beside Sabrina, who was leafing through a cocktail book titled: Name Your Poison. “Sisters,” I said, knowing how they could irritate. “My sister says I have water skis for feet.” Like Desiree, I stood six inches taller than my sister, but in a wrestling match, she could take me.
“How do you do it?” Sabrina replaced the book and folded her arms across her chest, cradling the iPad like a protective breastplate.
“Deal with my sister?” I said. “Well, first—”
“No, how do you tolerate Desiree? Why would you want her within fifty miles of you?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“She had an affair with your husband.”
My breath caught in my chest.
“C’mon, you can’t be that naive,” Sabrina said. “She hooked up with all your boyfriends.”
“You’re wrong.”
“Am I?” She fiddled with a gold earring stud. “Ask her.”
I cut a look toward the door, but Desiree was gone.
Chapter 3
I TORE ACROSS THE parking lot and pounded on the door of the office Winnebago. “Desiree? Are you in there?” No answer. I ascended the stairs to the rightmost trailer and knocked.
The masseur opened the door. The flaps of his white karate gi hung open. He polished his glistening abs with his palm and eyed me lustfully. “What’s up, gorgeous?”
I was nothing near gorgeous. I had been lucky enough to get the Hart ski-jump nose and smile, but unlucky enough to get the Hart broad shoulders and what my sister called guy hips. Desiree was the stunning one, and I wanted to see her. “Desiree. Where is she?”
“My name’s Mackenzie Baxter, thanks for asking.” He slung his thumbs under the waistband of his loosely tied pants. “What’s your name?”
“Jenna Hart. Where is she?”
“Not here. What’s the prob, Jenna Hart? If looks could kill.”
I didn’t like his laidback manner, though it was probably a good trait for a masseur. He didn’t rush. He took his time. “She was with J.P.,” I said. “Have you seen him?”
Something flashed in Mackenzie’s eyes. Either he wasn’t fond of J.P. or he didn’t appreciate Desiree hanging out with the guy.
“Did you try Desiree’s cell phone?” A woman the size of an Olympic shot-putter with purple spiked hair tramped from the rear of the Winnebago and, while filing her nails, peered over Mackenzie’s shoulder. “Hiya. I’m Gigi.”
“I know you,” I said. “You work at the Permanent Wave Salon and Spa.” I had driven past the place the day I arrived in town. Gigi worked at a premium stylist spot, right by the front window. Everyone that passed by could see her wizardry.
“Yeah. That’s me, all right. I’m also Desiree’s hairstylist this week.”
“She didn’t bring someone from L.A.?”
“Her regular got sick.” Gigi wore a ton of jewelry, including a combination of bracelets and watches, and at least a dozen earring studs in each ear. Ouch. “OTOH,” she said in shorthand I could decipher: On the other hand, “I’ll bet you can’t reach Desiree by phone. She won’t answer if she’s, you know . . .” She pumped her hips in a lascivious way.
Mackenzie lasered her with a glare.
“So-o-orry.” Gigi dragged out the word, but I could tell she wasn’t sorry. Not in the least.
“If Desiree returns,” I said, “please tell her I need to see her.”
“You and the world.” Mackenzie shut the door in my face. Nice guy.
As I headed down the stairs, I spied Pepper Pritchett glowering at me from in front of Beaders of Paradise. I ignored her.
For the next hour, I scoured the town. I raced along the brick sidewalks, past barrels of bougainvillea, ignoring tourists. J.P. had said he was starved. Maybe Desiree and he went to catch a bite to eat. There were over fifty places to dine or snack in Crystal Cove. I stopped in Latte Luck Café, The Pelican Brief Diner, Taste of Heaven Ice Cream Parlor, and myriad other places. At each I introduced myself and handed out a flyer for the opening of The Cookbook Nook. Why not kill two birds with one stone? I didn’t find Desiree and J.P. in any of them. I called the Crystal Cove Inn, but Desiree hadn’t checked in yet.
Irritated nearly to insanity, I sped back to the shop to rekindle my relationship with my father only to find that he and my aunt had left, whereabouts unknown. Katie had split for the day, as well, so I grabbed Tigger and headed home.
On the way, I stopped at the grocery store. Taking my aunt’s advice, I decided to cook. The first day in the shop, I had landed upon a recipe for guacamole in Bobby Flay’s Mesa Grill Cookbook: Explosive Flavors from the Southwestern Kitchen. I wasn’t nearly ready to tackle all the other items in the hot, spicy, and delectable tome, but I memorized the few ingredients in the guacamole. How hard could mashing together a few items be? I purchased local avocados, jalapeño peppers, limes, red onions, cumin, and fresh cilantro. Aunt Vera had stocked the cottage’s kitchen with basic spices, as well as pots and pans. Afterward, I went to Bubbles Pet Store and Spa and purchased kitty items, including a pricey air-conditioned cat cage so Tigger could join me on the beach without overheating and a darling kitty bowl that said: Kittens are from Heaven. Yes, I intended to spoil him.
Tigger took to his new environment like a champ, bounding and exploring with merry abandon. I did, too. After mashing, dicing, and squeezing—all things I could do rather well, given my annoyed state—I mixed up the concoction and tasted. I added an extra dash of salt and felt smugly satisfied. I had made my first meal in my new place.
I carried a large glass of sauvignon blanc, the guacamole, and a bag of tortilla chips—I didn’t think I had the talent yet to cook cumin-dusted tortillas and not burn down the place—into the art nook that I’d fashioned by the picture window. Whenever I suffered an emotional upset, I focused on my art. I set a canvas on an easel and retrieved a palette of oil paints and a paintbrush from the Ching cabinet. While I drew big angry swirls, Tigger circled my ankles; he refused to get sucked into my dark hole. I wished I could face life with his panache, but I needed to know the truth. Where in the heck was Desiree?
Close to midnight, I strode outside to the porch, leaned against the railing, and listened to the roar of the ocean, which was louder at night than any other time of the day. I stood there for a long time, allowing the crash and boom to pummel my overactive brain into submission. When I returned inside, I forged a battle plan. In the morning, after my walk and breakfast, I would storm Crystal Cove Inn and demand answers from my college pal.
• • •
AROUND 6 A.M., I awoke with a start. Something clacked against the exterior of the cottage. Tigger mewled and skittered around the box sitting on the floor beside my bed. I reached over and nuzzled his neck. “Shh. You’re hearing a shu
tter swinging in the breeze. I’ll fix it later.” My father had taught me a thing or two with a screwdriver and hammer, but I didn’t want to deal with repairs now. I rose, checked myself in the bathroom mirror, and groaned. Puffy eyes, red nose, grim mouth. Late-night pity parties and I didn’t mix.
Forbidding myself to wallow, I fed Tigger some warm milk and kitty kibble and enclosed him in a “safe” area that I created in the kitchen, after which I donned walking clothes and headed out for my stroll.
Morning sun carved a path through the gloomy clouds, giving me hope that today might go better than yesterday. I would learn that Sabrina had made a mistake, Desiree was a true friend, and the opening of The Cookbook Nook would go off without a hitch. I zipped up my navy blue hoodie and traipsed to my aunt’s house. I peeked through the sheer kitchen curtains and spied Aunt Vera. Clad in robe and slippers, her hair fixed with bobby pins in tight curls to her head, she sat at the dining table reading a newspaper.
I rapped on the kitchen door and opened it.
“Good morning, dear,” Aunt Vera said. “You’re up early.”
“Full day ahead.” I didn’t add that I had barely slept a wink worrying about Desiree and what I would say to her when I saw her. “Do you have any sun block?”
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re lying.”
Okay, so maybe I couldn’t maintain a stoic face. Maybe it was the puffy, red-nosed look—a dead giveaway. “It’s nothing, really.”
Aunt Vera shuffled to a cupboard, her vintage gold genie slippers never leaving the floor, and retrieved a few items. She held up a canister of fifty-strength sun block. I allowed her to spritz me. Afterward, she offered me a bottle of water and a snack of homemade trail mix—enough for an army of squirrels. “In case,” she said.
“In case I get stranded on an island?”
She tapped her head as if she knew something I didn’t about my future.
I ignored the shiver that prickled my neck, thanked her for the gifts, tucked them into the deep pockets of my khaki capris, and trotted down the steps to the ocean. A glimpse back at the seaside cottage tugged at my heartstrings. David and I had exchanged our first kiss on the white lattice pergola that nestled to the right of the house. Had he and Desiree—
Stop it, Jenna!
I pressed onward. Palm trees and scrub brush jutted out of the incline that sloped from the main road to the beach. The water, which was green along the sand, grew to a deeper blue about fifteen yards out. Speed walking, with my arms pumping like train axles, I breathed through my nose and out my mouth the way I had learned on a television yoga program. From my aunt’s home, the beach ran north for nearly two miles before ending in a crag of rock upon which perched a lighthouse. I was angry enough with Desiree to make the full loop.
To keep my rekindled fury in check, I opted to admire the handiwork of yesterday’s sandcastle builders. The first was a tunneled sandcastle with dozens of different-shaped turrets.
“Nice,” I mumbled. “But points off for building too close to the shore.” The tide had eroded much of the front wall. Next, I spotted a five-foot-square castle, complete with moat. “Simple, yet elegant.” While I pondered whether I could apply for a judging position in the upcoming sandcastle competition, I heard shouts.
A man and a woman descended a set of stairs that ran from the public parking lot abutting the highway to the beach. He trailed her. Both wore floppy hats. At one point, she yelled something and pointed toward their car. She carried a diviner; the man was empty-handed. He raced back up the stairs and returned with a net bag. He reached his partner at the base of the steps, and the two moved toward the shore.
In the water, a lone surfer in a wetsuit sat on a surfboard waiting patiently for the morning’s first wave. A pang of sorrow swept through me. It shouldn’t have; I knew some surfers didn’t need companionship when surfing. They bonded with the ocean. But seeing him floating solo, with a family of seagulls circling above, painted such a desolate picture and made me think of David. Had he drowned and died instantaneously, or had he suffered?
I stroked the locket that held his photograph and pressed on toward a third sculpture. It was longer, lower, and flatter than the others. When I neared within a few feet, I gasped. It was the figure of a naked woman—no, a mermaid—face turned sideways, a sandy hook coming out of her mouth, a clump of seaweed for her hair, and a drizzling of sand for her fingers. Care had been taken, each curve honed.
I started to giggle nervously. The mermaid reminded me of the painted woman in the movie Goldfinger. She looked so beautiful . . . so serene . . . so still.
I glanced around. Was the artist nearby, recording on video how people reacted as they passed? Would the treasure-seeking couple rat me out if I touched the mermaid’s tail fin with my toe? Tough. I had to. Curiosity bubbled to boiling point.
I stretched out my foot and tapped the far end of the sculpture. It didn’t crumble as expected. It resisted. Sand fell away and a flesh-colored toe emerged. Human.
A shriek gushed out of my mouth.
The couple down the beach swiveled. The man ran toward me shouting, “What’s wrong?”
“A body,” I yelled and swooped toward the mermaid’s head, hoping whoever was buried was still alive. Kneeling, I swept sand away from the mouth. The nose.
A face emerged.
Desiree.
A huge fishhook punctured her lip. Her face was blue, her eyes open yet lifeless.
Stomach roiling, I leaped to a stand. Somebody had murdered Desiree. I wrapped my arms around my body. My shoulders started to shake uncontrollably. How long had she been buried here? The murderer had to have struck after nightfall; otherwise, beachgoers would have seen the attack. Who had done it? Why?
The couple reached me. The woman gagged. The man turned her so she was unable to look then dropped to his knees and started to sweep away sand where I had left off.
“She’s dead.” I clasped his shoulder. “Stop.”
He shrugged me off, intent on his mission.
“Don’t disturb the evidence,” I shouted. “Stop!”
He didn’t.
I punched him. “Did you kill her?”
He twisted at the waist and gawked at me. “What? No.” He slumped, rump on his heels, arms limp.
I covered my mouth with the back of my hand to fight off another scream. She was dead. Desiree was dead. I hadn’t made things right. I hadn’t found out the truth about David and her. I hadn’t—
Sobs wracked my body. Feelings that had overwhelmed me when I had learned about David’s death came at me like a tidal wave. Shock, panic, despair.
“Do you have a cell phone?” I asked. During my walks, I left the danged thing behind. Whenever I cavorted with nature, I wanted the fantasy of living in the days of old, before cell phones, before faxes, before advertising and marriage and death and heartache. “We need to call 911.”
“No,” the man muttered.
“For heaven’s sake,” the woman said. “Give her your iPhone.”
While casting short glances at Desiree’s buried body, the man rummaged in his jeans pocket and withdrew his cell phone.
During the time I spoke to the police, a crowd amassed. The treasure-seeking man organized the throng behind a line he drew in the sand, and then he and his wife joined the assembly, wanting no part of the investigation. They had seen nothing, knew nothing. Gossip buzzed among the onlookers. Parents embraced their children, but they didn’t pivot and march away from the gruesome scene.
I remained in front of the line gaping at Desiree. Shock and grief muddled my vision.
“Stand back, people.” A woman in brown shorts and matching short-sleeve shirt and baseball cap, who brought to mind a well-toned camp counselor, packing a gun, moved toward us shouting through a bullhorn. Two fellows in similar uniforms trailed her. The woman—strong face, alert eyes, midthirties—pulled up alongside me. “Chief Pritchett.” She flashed a badge, quickly p
ocketed it, and gestured to her colleagues, who immediately started unwinding yellow crime scene tape.
I gaped at the chief, surprised that she—Cinnamon Pritchett, if I recalled correctly—could be related to the bitter woman who had stormed into The Cookbook Nook.
“Are you the person that called?” she asked me.
“Yes. I’m Jenna Hart,” I mumbled, my tone numb.
“Vera’s niece?” The chief squinted her eyes, not to block sunlight but to evaluate me. Had her mother given her an unfavorable account? “Call me Cinnamon.”
“Cinnamon,” I repeated.
“Tell me what happened here.” Cinnamon was nothing if not perfunctory. Her bobbed dark hair matched the serious attitude. The development girls in advertising, the young creative souls who would sit in on meetings looking hopeful that we would nurture their ideas into the one, hadn’t looked nearly as intent, purposeful, and dedicated.
“I was taking my morning walk.” I paused. Did the killer know that I walked daily? Had he . . . she . . . wanted me to find Desiree?
“Go on.”
“I power walk. I slowed to view some sandcastles. I was going from one to the next. This one . . . It was so . . . real.” My teeth started to chatter.
Cinnamon said, “Breathe.”
Appreciating her show of support, I told her how I touched the toe, saw flesh, screamed, and dropped to my knees to see if the person was alive. “That’s when . . . that’s when”—I licked my lips—“I realized it was her.”
“You know her?”
“It’s Desiree Divine.”
“The chef?”
“She is . . . was . . . supposed to be our celebrity at the opening of the shop.” The day David died, I phoned his parents, his best friend, and his clients. Would Sabrina want me to do the same for her sister?
“Was Miss Divine an acquaintance? A friend?”
How did I answer that? I thought Desiree and I were friends, but if Sabrina was telling the truth, Desiree had duped me for years. Not knowing gnawed my insides. What else had I been blind to in my past? Had David had other affairs? No, Jenna, stop it. He was faithful. The love of your life.
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