A notion niggled at the edges of my mind. I wouldn’t have paid attention to the answering machine if Tigger hadn’t knocked the photograph aside. Had the kitty pawed the frame on purpose? Who had called? When? I dove for the machine and pressed Play.
The digital voice said: “You have one message.”
The recording followed immediately. “Hey, Jenna, you home?” My lungs snagged in my chest. The voice was Desiree’s. “We need to talk.” She sounded tight and high-pitched, unusual for her. “I heard you were looking for me. I hope . . .” She sucked in a breath of air. “Let’s talk tomorrow. Whatever you do, don’t believe lies.”
The message clicked off. The digital voice said: Thursday, 10:01 P.M.
My finger hovered over Erase. I didn’t press the button as thoughts zipped through my mind. How had I not heard the telephone ring? I was home at the time of the call. I paused. No, actually, I wasn’t home. I had gone outside for a few minutes to listen to the surf. The roar had been deafening. I would have missed hearing the ring.
A flurry of emotions cascaded through me. Desiree’s message exonerated me of killing her, didn’t it? Why would I kill her before learning what she had to say? If only Tigger were a reliable witness.
A whoosh of wind outside rattled the shutters. Seconds later, I heard another sound, one that sent fear spiraling down to my toes—a twist of metal. Was someone at the front door? Trying to get in? I sped to the window and pushed back the drapes an inch. I peered into the dark. No one stood on the porch. I couldn’t make out a figure hovering in the shadows. I recalled one time, when I was ten and Dad went out of town and my siblings left for camp. Mom and I stayed alone in the house, and I thought I heard an intruder. Acting like a superhero, I whipped open the kitchen door and stormed outside, yelling, “You don’t scare me.” I swear I saw a figure run off, but my mother convinced me I had seen palm fronds waving in the dark. I didn’t feel nearly so brave now. I refused to open that door.
Pulse pounding, I dialed the precinct.
Cinnamon Pritchett answered. “Hello, Jenna.”
Hearing her voice surprised me. Why had she answered? How had she known it was me? And why had she called me Jenna and not Miss Hart? Had I been exonerated? I said, “Hi, um, I expected to reach the clerk.”
“She needed to leave early.”
“I . . . I thought you’d be on your way home by now,” I stammered. I couldn’t bring myself to tell her I was scared of a rattling sound.
“I should have been, however, we had a late afternoon rash of crime. Loads of paperwork. What’s up?”
“Um . . .” If I told her I thought someone was trying to break into my house, would she think I was making the whole thing up to persuade her that I wasn’t a killer? I hadn’t heard another ping, let alone a rattle. Summoning up courage, I told her about the recording. “Desiree sounded scared. You might want to listen.”
“I’ll be right out.”
I sat by the front door holding an umbrella as a weapon until Cinnamon arrived. Before she entered, I returned the umbrella to its proper place in the corner.
Tigger greeted Cinnamon with a samba and an excited spin on his rump. “Cute cat,” she said. “How long have you had him?”
“A few days.”
“Stray?”
“I didn’t steal him.”
“Don’t act so defensive. I love strays. I have two of my own. Donner and Blitzen. I found them on Christmas day. I wasn’t allowed any pets growing up.”
No father and no pets, I mused, and probably not a lot of hugs and kisses from her prickly mother either. Poor, deprived kid.
Cinnamon bent down to pet Tigger and assessed my one-room cottage from that vantage point. “Nice place.”
“All my Aunt Vera’s doing.”
“Old Jake says hello, by the way.” She rose to a stand.
“Old Jake? Why would he say hello to me?”
“He’s a neighbor. He lives on the strand.”
“He does?”
“Raking the sand is volunteer work. He’s a retired millionaire with time on his hands. Anyway, I saw him as I exited my car. He said he drove his machine by your place a bit ago. Saw your light on. You didn’t hear him? Noisy machine. Clackety-clack.”
Geez. Would the rumble of Old Jake’s machine make the shutters and doorknob rattle? I hadn’t thought to look toward the ocean when searching for what I imagined was a prowler. Feeling as stupid as a slug, I said, “Can I pour you a glass of wine?”
“Still on the clock. Whatever you’re cooking smells good.”
“Roast chicken with herbs. I’d offer you some, but . . .” An hour remained on the timer.
“No, thanks. I have a leftover deli sandwich calling me.” She eyed the landline telephone. “Let me hear the offending answering machine message.”
“It exonerates me.”
“I’ll be the judge.”
I replayed the message.
Cinnamon’s pretty face scrunched with concentration. “Miss Divine does sound edgy,” she conceded. “I’m not sure scared is the right word.”
“Even so, doesn’t this prove that I wasn’t with her?”
“All it confirms is that she called you well before she was killed, and she warned you not to believe lies.”
“Lies about an affair.”
“That’s not what she said.”
“Doesn’t the message substantiate that I didn’t kill her?”
“Not really. The DA might argue that if Miss Divine didn’t reach you, she might have come here to talk. The two of you had a heated exchange. You lost your temper.”
“I didn’t. We didn’t.”
“You lashed out. She ran out to the beach. You followed.”
“Your mother said she saw two women walking, not one chasing the other.”
Cinnamon shifted feet. “I forgot to tell you. My mother admitted she made that up.”
“Made it up?” I said. A Kurt Cobain quote flitted through my mind: “Just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they aren’t after you.”
“She didn’t actually say she made it up,” Cinnamon backpedaled. “She said she got her points wrong. The time. The location.”
“Why was she so adamant then?” I sucked in air. “Never mind. I know why.”
“Mother can be difficult.”
That was an understatement, but at least Cinnamon acknowledged the problem.
“Why don’t you believe me?” I said, unable to keep the piteous tone from my voice. “You know I didn’t do this. You know me.”
Cinnamon slid a hand into her shorts pocket. “Not true. I don’t know you. At all.”
“You know my father. He’s been in your life for how many years?”
Cinnamon grew still. “What have you heard?”
“You were going through a rough patch in high school.”
“It was worse than that. I was angry all the time. I smoked. I drank. I skipped school. I was a prankster.”
I flashed on the dystopian teen that had flattened all of the Winnebago tires.
“And I did daredevil stuff. Almost killed myself taking some big air while snowboarding in Lake Tahoe. Guess I had a death wish.” Cinnamon sighed. “Your father stepped in. I can remember our first talk. His finger in my face. His eyes burning holes through mine.”
I knew that look.
“He was strict and curt, but I listened.” She sighed again. “I had to get myself under control. Follow rules. Take responsibility. There was a difference between right and wrong. My father . . . he’d wronged me.” Tigger charged her ankles. She nudged him away. “Your father talked about you guys all the time.”
“Why didn’t you ever visit our house?”
“I’m sure you can guess.”
Her mother’s decree, I imagined.
The distant wash of ocean upon the shore made its way into the silence. The flow, the ebb.
I inhaled and exhaled with its rhythm. “If my father told you about us, then you know I�
��m responsible. I follow rules. Doesn’t that count for anything?”
“I’m sorry. Your father’s opinion doesn’t clear you. You came to town, and suddenly we have the first murder in a long time.”
I winced. “Wow, that’s exactly what your mother said. She’s been bending your ear, hasn’t she? Fine, haul me in.” Like the dystopian teenager would have, I jutted my wrists at her. “Lock me up and throw away the key, Officer.”
“Don’t tempt me.”
“Did it ever occur to you that I couldn’t have done this crime? First of all, you’re describing a crime of passion, but we know the crime was planned.”
“Do we?”
“The hook, the sculpture. Granted, I’m tall, but I’m not strong enough to overpower someone Desiree’s size.” And yet I had pondered whether Sabrina was capable. I pushed the notion aside and continued. “And I’m not left-handed. That hook was pulled by a left-handed person.”
Cinnamon regarded the carpet as if Desiree’s body and all the evidence lay upon it. When she redirected her gaze to me, her face was solemn and unreadable. “I can’t do this.”
“Do what?”
“Discuss the case with you. I’ll have to take the answering machine as evidence.” She started toward the device.
“No,” I cried and blocked her path then blanched, realizing how guilty I must look. What was I doing barring her from taking whatever she wanted from my cottage? Did I intend to wrestle her to the ground? She was shorter but she was sturdier. And she was a cop.
Rapid-fire, I explained the machine’s importance to me. Listening to David’s voice recording was like a lifeline to sanity.
Cinnamon’s face softened. She pulled a business card from her pocket and handed it to me. “I promise we’ll do our best to preserve your final memory. If you think of anything else, call me.”
Tears flooded my eyes as she knelt and unplugged the answering machine from the wall. After she exited, Tigger’s nuzzles couldn’t relieve my soul.
Chapter 8
NO EERIE NOISES resonated while I downed my tender chicken dinner or through the rest of the night, and yet I woke up tense, nervous, and certain I was going to be hauled into jail for a murder I didn’t commit. What could I do to resolve one or more of my issues? Get up. Be proactive. I would forge a plan in the same way I would start an ad campaign. What was the target market? What were the hurdles? Where did I begin? Face it, nobody would try to clear me of blame like I would.
A peep of sunlight shimmered through the split in the curtains and warmed my body. The cawing of birds inspired hope. Tigger, who had taken to sleeping at my feet, pounced to a sit.
I crawled to meet him nose to nose. “How about a run?” I said.
Tigger hunkered back into a tight wad of fur. He was a dancer, not a runner. I considered getting a dog as a running companion but pushed aside the thought. No use making plans if I was going to be incarcerated. Katie’s words came back to me full force: If Pepper Pritchett has her way, she’ll railroad you into jail just so she can close down this operation.
“All right, Tigger. How about, after the run, we have a tasty breakfast?” While browsing one of the culinary mysteries about a cheese shop in Ohio, I learned of a breakfast the protagonist loved—a slice of sourdough slathered with Taleggio cheese and jam—and I knew I had to have it. “Then we’ll do a little sleuthing? Are you game?” That received a meow: Yes. What exactly we would investigate was not quite materializing in my foggy brain, but ideas would come. An ad campaign rarely started with more than a germ of an idea.
A chill hung in the air. I donned full-length leggings and a long-sleeved Under Armour shirt, slipped my bare feet into a pair of Pumas, and without applying sunscreen—it was only 6 A.M.—I set off.
With the trauma of discovering Desiree’s body fresh in my mind, I ran in the opposite direction from yesterday’s outing. About a half a mile south, I left the beach, crossed the main highway, and headed up a dirt road, which was kept clear for emergency vehicles in case of hillside fires.
I maintained a steady pace for a quarter of an hour. Soon, the climb intensified. About a mile along the dirt road, my legs started to cramp up. I stopped for a breather and pivoted to view the ocean. A flock of seagulls circled above the water. One seagull left the pack and plunged into the ocean. The others keened. The image brought to mind a scene in the movie Finding Nemo, with all the birds squawking: Mine, mine. When the lone seagull reappeared, would the others demand a fair share?
Not far from where the seagulls congregated, I caught sight of a couple of surfers paddling away from the beach. Male or female, I couldn’t be sure. Seeing them made me reflect on the solo surfer from the day before. Could he have been the killer? Could he have planned the dastardly deed so far in advance that he had placed a surfboard at the scene, ready for his escape? Had he dumped the sculpting tools on purpose so the offending trowel would be found and implicate me? What had the killer done with his car? I assumed he met Desiree and drove her to the beach. Why else would she have gone there in the dead of night? Was he a lover, a friend? Was he the person who had telephoned her?
I wished I had asked Cinnamon last night whether she had found Desiree’s cell phone or whether she had been able to review Desiree’s telephone records. Thinking about Cinnamon made me itch. Did she really think I was guilty?
Eager to move ahead, in more ways than one, I pivoted and started up the hill again. I needed an endorphin rush. And I needed to stop thinking . . . dwelling. Scaling the hill made me realize how out of shape I was. I hadn’t gone a quarter mile before I required another breather.
Chest heaving, I swiveled, braced my hands on my knees, and surveyed the strand below. This time I spied The Pier, which jutted near the southernmost end of town. Similar to the Santa Monica Pier, which was recognizable to theatergoers because movie companies regularly used it as a set piece, The Pier featured a carousel, some carney games, a number of shops, and restaurants. In addition, tourists could hire boats for sunset or sightseeing cruises and fishing expeditions. One of the largest shops on The Pier was Bait and Switch Fishing and Sport Supply Store. My father, a fly-fishing and deep-sea fishing aficionado, visited the store often.
I thought of Dad’s personal collection of lures and hooks and flashed on the hook slung through Desiree’s lip. Maybe someone at Bait and Switch had sold something like that recently.
• • •
I ZIPPED HOME, fed Tigger, downed a delectable helping of toast, cheese, and apricot jam, and I dressed. I tucked Tigger into the basket of my mom’s bicycle—riding a bicycle wearing flip-flops wasn’t the safest idea, but everyone in town did it—and I sped to Bait and Switch.
The barn-shaped shop regularly opened at 5 A.M. because eager fishermen and tourists wanted to get an early start. I entered with Tigger tucked under my arm and took in the rich green leather and mahogany décor.
“Nice cat,” said a man with tousled dark brown hair and a devilish grin.
I stared—no, gaped. Fisherman’s sweater, jeans that fit just right, tan but not too tan. This was the hunky guy that Desiree said had lingered outside The Cookbook Nook.
“May I help you?” The man reached to nuzzle Tigger’s chin. No wedding ring.
I snorted, something I hadn’t done in years, and instantly felt my face flush.
“Miss?”
“I’m fine,” I said, not lying. I was fine. I simply hadn’t felt an attraction to a man in so long. I recognized my social freeze for what it was—pure, unadulterated lust—and pushed it aside, hopefully beneath the man’s radar. I did not need him thinking I was a giddy schoolgirl. Not to mention, I craved information. I was on a quest. I readjusted Tigger, propping one hand under his rump. “Do you work here?”
“I own the place.”
“Perfect. I’m Jenna Hart.”
“Cary’s daughter,” the man said. “Your father talks about you all the time. He says you’re a brilliant artist.”
My father had n
ever said those words to me. Ever.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” he added.
I gazed into what Desiree had called his bedroom eyes. They were the most startling ocean blue. If I were lost at sea, I might drift toward them and be swallowed whole. I pinched my forearm to make me snap out of my daze and said, “You lingered outside The Cookbook Nook the other day.”
“Aha. You caught me out.”
“Why didn’t you come inside?”
“The shop wasn’t open for business yet.”
“What’s your name? I told you mine.”
“Forgive me.” He had a gravelly voice, but it wasn’t gruff. It was downright sexy. “I’m Rhett.”
Uh-oh. That was exactly who he reminded me of. Rhett Butler from Gone with the Wind, one of my favorite teen reads. I must have devoured the story a dozen times. Rhett Butler was all swagger, the kind of man who would tease a woman for days to see if she had enough spirit to match his.
“Jenna, are you okay?” Rhett said.
I jerked out of my reverie. How long had I been off in la-la land? I moistened my mouth and said, “Last name?”
“Jackson.”
Phew. Rhett Jackson. Same syllables but completely different. At least, whenever I saw him, I wouldn’t feel compelled to tighten my corset, whip out a fan, and slide into a Southern accent. Putting on my serious face, I said, “Nice to meet you, Rhett.” Juggling Tigger, who motored his disapproval, I extended my arm.
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