“According to Emily,” Bailey said.
“Right, but before Ava answered, the guys started the brawl, the race got under way, and Ava vanished.”
“Which means she’s guilty.”
“Or it means she didn’t want to be taken hostage, too,” Aunt Vera said reasonably.
I thought about touching base with Ava, yet a little voice in my head—that sounded distinctly like Cinnamon—was warning me to back off. It was not my fight. Dad was free.
“You need to find the diary,” Bailey suggested.
“Me? No, the police do, and they tried, but Ava said it didn’t exist, and Cinnamon believed her, and anyway, Cinnamon dismissed the idea that finding the written word would help.”
“The written word would establish motive,” Bailey said.
“Not necessarily,” my aunt said. “For years, I’ve kept a diary. Believe me, it’s not all true. Some of it is fantastical and filled with my hopes and my dreams.”
I didn’t know what was more astounding to me, to learn that my aunt wrote in a diary or that she was admitting that she wrote in one. She kept the details of her life close to the vest.
“Where do you keep it?” I asked. “Tucked beneath your mattress?” Maybe one day I’d sneak over and . . . No. Nope. Never. I couldn’t invade her space. I treasured her too much. In time, she would tell all.
“Heavens, no. I keep it with me,” Aunt Vera said, “so if I want to jot in it, I can.” She twirled a finger at me like a wand. “And so people like you can’t steal into my house and sneak a peek when I’m not looking.”
Could she read my mind? Yes, I was pretty sure she could. I returned my focus to Ava. What secrets were in her diary? What could it reveal about her and Shane and Sylvia? If I told Cinnamon about my exchange with Ava last night—
Willpower, Jenna. No calling Cinnamon.
To distract myself, I concentrated on the business at hand: organizing shelves, restocking our gift bags, and packaging preorders that customers had made either over the telephone or via our website. By noon, I was ready for a good hearty meal.
As I made my way toward the café to find Katie and ask her what she had to eat, the front door burst open.
Lola bustled inside, hair askew, the flaps of her light-weave sweater twisted about her shimmery silver tank dress. She pressed a hand to her chest and blurted, “D’Ann!”
“She’s not here,” I said.
“I know that.” She drew in huge gulps of air. Had she run to the shop? “She’s at my restaurant. I’m worried about her.”
“Why?” Bailey asked. “Is she stuffing her face? Actresses have to watch their weight. No fried foods. No heavy carbs. The potatoes at the diner are impossible to pass up.”
“No.” Lola glowered at her daughter. “It’s not food. She’s very strict about that. She’s drinking coffee.”
“I’m not following then,” Bailey said.
I wasn’t, either.
“Mom, spit it out,” Bailey ordered.
“She’s—” Lola glanced around. A few customers had trailed her in. Lola corralled us and moved us toward the stockroom. “She’s mumbling to herself, and her eyes . . . they’re wild.”
“Is she on drugs?” Bailey asked.
“I can’t tell. I’ve never been good at determining—” Lola worried her hands together. “I’m afraid she—”
“Might hurt herself?” I cried.
Aunt Vera moaned. “I knew there was something wrong.” She stroked the amulet that was partially hidden beneath her bandana. “I was picking up bad vibes at her tarot reading.”
I recalled how frantic D’Ann had seemed the other day, and yet after the quickie reading, she had left the shop looking triumphant.
“Lola,” my aunt continued, “lead the way. Jenna, you’re coming with us.”
I balked. “D’Ann won’t want me there.”
“Three voices of reason are better than two for an intervention,” Lola said.
“An intervention?” I yelped.
“I agree.” Aunt Vera nabbed my arm, obviously not taking no for an answer. “Bailey, can you manage the shop on your own?”
“You bet I can.”
* * *
The Pelican Brief Diner was one of my favorite places. Sawdust lay on the blond wood floors. Rustic booths lined the perimeter. Tables and chairs filled the center of the restaurant. A balcony, also set with tables, faced the ocean. A week ago, Rhett and I had sat out there enjoying a glass of wine and recapping our respective days. A pang of sadness zipped through me; I missed him. But right now wasn’t about me.
Lola led the charge across the restaurant. She said, “That way,” and surged forward. The hostess asked her if everything was okay, but Lola didn’t slow down.
The place was buzzing with activity. Happy chatter abounded. For the Wild West Extravaganza, the diner was offering a dollar-a-shot whiskey tasting; a passel of men and women had congregated at the rustic bar to the right.
“There she is,” Lola said.
D’Ann, dressed in a cherry-red silk dress, her hair in a knot on top of her head, sat by herself at a table for four. She was gripping a coffee cup and looking for all intents and purposes like the Wells Fargo stagecoach had been robbed with all her money on board. A red clutch purse lay on the table to her right. Beside it was a paperback culinary mystery that I had sold her. Unread. No bookmark. No dog-eared pages. Blithely, I thought if we could encourage her to peruse a few pages, maybe she could find the fun in life again.
Lola motioned for Aunt Vera and me to sit down. Aunt Vera settled onto the seat opposite D’Ann. I chose the chair to the left of her. Lola took the final seat.
D’Ann glanced up. Her cheeks were puffy and tear-stained. Her pupils were pinpoints. Was she high? When I’d worked at Taylor & Squibb, we had hired an actress for a lipstick commercial—a svelte older beauty; you would know her if I gave her initials. She showed up to the shoot as lethargic as a sloth. She could barely remember a line. And she wept, nonstop. It turned out she was addicted to pain pills. We had to send her home and recast. Talk about unhappy clients.
My aunt reached across the table and touched D’Ann’s fingertips.
D’Ann pulled her hands into her lap. Fresh tears pooled in her eyes.
“Tell us what’s going on, dear,” Aunt Vera said.
“I—” D’Ann peered at Lola and then my aunt and me. “There are three of you.”
At least she could count.
“Are you on drugs?” Lola asked.
“What? No!” D’Ann gasped. “Whatever gave you that idea?”
“You look . . .” Lola twirled a finger.
D’Ann pried open her purse, pulled out a compact mirror, popped it open, and examined her face. “Gawd,” she moaned. “No wonder . . .” She blinked at us. “Is that why you’re here? To talk me off the ledge? No, I don’t have a drug problem, and I’m not contemplating suicide.” Using a pinky, she wiped under her eyes, rechecked herself, and clicked the compact closed.
“What’s going on, then?” Aunt Vera asked, her voice stronger, less delicate.
“If you must know, I’m broke. Flat broke.”
I flashed on my Wells Fargo robbery scenario, surprised at how close I’d come to the truth. Maybe I did have psychic abilities. I said. “How could you be? You’re a star.”
“Star!” D’Ann moaned. “My last picture was a bomb, and I didn’t take a salary. I opted for a piece of the gross. Vanity led me to believe it would be a smash hit. It was garbage.” She offered a weak smile. “I came up here to sell the house—it’s my second home—hoping the proceeds would get me out of debt. I had an all-cash buyer lined up, a budding Italian starlet. She was staying at the house last weekend. She wanted to make sure she loved it as much as I do. But then she heard Sylvia’s party and watched me go ape, and she
pulled out of the deal. Finito!” D’Ann brushed her hands together. “I was so angry at Sylvia. She knew . . . knew . . . I was selling. I told her I was in dire straits. She had that party on purpose, the vindictive—”
“And that infuriated you,” I cut in.
“Yes!”
I recalled Gran’s statement. She said D’Ann had warned Sylvia to fix it. Gran believed Sylvia had sold D’Ann paste. At the tarot reading at the shop, D’Ann admitted that Sylvia had sold her inferior goods. I had put D’Ann’s motive on the back burner, but now . . .
I revisited my theory regarding Ava when I’d wondered whether Sylvia’s disturbances might make a difference in sales in the neighborhood, thereby affecting Ava’s livelihood. Had D’Ann suffered the same fate but on a much more personal level? After the neighborhood meeting on Monday night, did D’Ann work herself into a frenzy? Did she think that by killing Sylvia she could get her buyer back and convince the starlet it was okay to purchase the house? Though she was lean, D’Ann would have had the strength to overpower Sylvia. Anyone who has watched her in Sinz of the City would agree.
I said, “D’Ann, you were seen outside your house on the morning Sylvia was killed. You were tossing white things on the ground.”
“So?”
“The person who saw you said it appeared to be a ritual.”
“What are you getting at?”
“Were you performing some act to give you courage to confront Sylvia?”
D’Ann’s gaze flew from me, to my aunt, to Lola, and back to me. “Are you implying that I murdered Sylvia? I didn’t. What that person saw, whoever it was, was me preparing for a spiritual journey to the top of the mountain. Whenever I’m in town and I need rejuvenation, I go there before sunrise.” She stroked her neck as if she were trying to rid it of wrinkles. “I needed to pray for a miracle. Another job. Something to bail myself out of the hole I’d created.
“That morning,” she continued, “I wrote my regrets on a piece of white paper, and, as I always do, I tore up the paper and did a tap dance on the remains. It’s nonsense, I know, but my guru makes me do it every time. It’s a way to cleanse my soul. To make me fresh. To make me sparkle.” She fluttered her hands to illustrate sparkle. “Out with the old, in with the new. You understand, don’t you?” She chopped one hand with the other. “If you’re broke, you don’t sparkle. You appear desperate, and trust me”—she stabbed the table with a finger—“there’s nothing a director hates more than an actress showing up to an audition looking desperate.”
D’Ann met each of our stares. Her lower lip began to quiver. “I promise you, I did not kill Sylvia. I was at the top of the mountain by a quarter to six. I know because that was when the sun rose that morning. It’s true. You’ve got to believe me.” She covered her mouth with her hand and gulped back a sob, and I recalled the first movie I’d ever seen her in called Get Real. To make her costar believe what she was saying, D’Ann had made the exact same gesture. Was she acting now?
Chapter 20
My aunt scooted her chair closer to D’Ann and said, “Jenna, dear, go back to the shop. Lola and I have this covered.”
Did they? Was D’Ann snowing them? I didn’t argue. Once my aunt laid down the law, I obeyed. I wasn’t a pushover, just smart.
I left The Pelican Brief Diner and started toward Fisherman’s Village, but I made a U-turn when I saw my father walking quickly along the sidewalk on the opposite side of the street. I dashed to him. “Dad!”
He didn’t hear me and entered Nuts and Bolts, his hardware store. I hurried after him.
“Dad!” I called out as I raced into the long and narrow shop. As always, it was as neat as a pin. Streamlined shelves, each categorized with labels made from one of those label machines, held multiple boxes of screws, nails, and whatnot. I glanced at the plaque with the Seneca quote hanging on the wall behind the checkout counter: The primary sign of a well-ordered mind is a man’s ability to remain in one place and linger in his own company, and I smiled. Yes, a well-ordered mind; that was what I needed. “Dad!” He had disappeared into the stockroom.
He came out scrubbing the back of his neck. “Hi, Tootsie Pop. What’s up?”
“Congratulations, you’re cleared!”
“I heard.”
“Why aren’t you doing a happy dance then?” I hurried around the counter and embraced him.
“Because it was to be expected, and as you know, I don’t get overly excited about anything.”
Did I ever!
“My highs are not too high; my lows are not too low,” he said. “That’s the FBI way. You should—”
I placed a fingertip on his mouth. “Celebrate. You’re cleared.”
He inhaled, then exhaled and sagged against me. I felt his chest heave, but he didn’t cry. He wouldn’t. We shared a long moment, but when the door to the shop opened and a pair of customers entered, my father pushed me to arm’s length and whispered, “Get back to work. Love you.” He hitched his head, signaling I should split.
I mock-frowned. “Heaven forbid you show a little emotion to those folks.”
He chuckled. “Go. I’ll see you tonight at dinner. And be glad I didn’t ask for an account of David.”
I shot a finger at him. “I’m handling it.”
“Good.”
As I exited, a crowd of people waving American flags nearly plowed into me. I tried the doorknob to Nuts and Bolts so I could retreat inside. Somehow it had locked behind me, and neither my father nor his customers heard me knocking. Swell.
Struck with a minor case of claustrophobia, I clung to the walls of the buildings as I moved with the swarm southward. I heard someone call my name and scanned the throng. Tina, Ronald Gump’s niece, was in the mix. So was Shane, who stood out, not just because he was tall but because his cowboy hat made him that much taller. He waved to me and shouted my name again. I acknowledged him and then ducked into the alcove of Artiste Arcade to wait out the onrush.
* * *
The crowd was following a mini parade on Buena Vista Boulevard that consisted of three cowgirl-attired women, each standing atop a brown-and-white pinto horse. Each of the horses was fitted with a beautiful red, white, and blue flower wreath. Each cowgirl carried an American flag.
Behind the trio materialized a pair of similarly dressed women, also standing atop brown-and-white pintos. Together, they held a banner announcing: Come join in the Amazing Americana Bash at The Pier.
While biding my time, a conversation in the doorway of the Sterling Sylvia jewelry shop caught my attention.
“You don’t want to sell?” a woman asked shrilly. I knew the voice. “Fine. Good day.” Ava, in an exquisite blue suit and Manolo Blahnik heels, was exiting. She hitched her purse higher on her shoulder.
“Wait!” a man yelled.
Ava pivoted and reentered.
I crept to the display window, which was gorgeously decked out with silver necklaces, earrings, candlesticks, and mirrors. Sylvia might have been a miserable woman, but she had such good taste. I peeked past all the lovely choices and spotted Ronald Gump standing next to the sales counter. His skin still appeared ruddy. His bearing seemed stronger. He had hung his cane on a rack by the register.
Ava strode to Ronald and ogled him. A hungry smirk grew on her face. What was going on?
“How much?” Ava asked.
“Five million,” he said.
Ronald and Sylvia’s house was worth around a million and a half dollars. They weren’t talking about that. Was Ronald putting the shop up for sale?
“Five. That’s not a steal like you promised, Ronald.” Ava moved toward Ronald and stopped short. She tilted up her chin and grinned. “On the other hand, I’ve always had a fondness for this place.”
Wow. I could understand Ronald wanting to divest himself of the asset, but why to Ava, Sylvia’s nemesis?
Boldly
Ava ran a finger along Ronald’s jaw. She let it linger on his lips. He didn’t bat it away. Was he interested in her? I wondered again whether he might have killed Sylvia so he could start a new life as a single man. The theory evaporated when he batted Ava’s hand away and turned on his heel. He moved to a glass and mirror étagère at the side of the room and began rearranging a set of silver deer antler–style earring holders. Suddenly, he glanced over his shoulder toward the door.
I ducked to the side, out of sight. Had he seen my reflection in the étagère’s mirror?
I didn’t hear footsteps. He wasn’t moving toward the door. I continued to listen.
Ava laughed. “This is quite an opportunity, Ronald. I feel so privileged that you contacted me.”
He cleared his throat. “You called me.”
“So I did,” Ava said, her tone husky and alluring. Was she making a play for him? Maybe my assumption about why she would have wanted Sylvia dead was faulty. What if she killed Sylvia to clear the way for a union with Sylvia’s husband? Did she write about that in her diary?
Aunt Vera said she always kept her diary close at hand. What if Ava lied to the police about not having a diary because it wasn’t in the house at the time? What if she had stowed it in, say, her briefcase, which, when she’s not carrying it, she typically leaves in her car? Just the facts, ma’am.
I scanned the store for Ava’s briefcase. I didn’t see it sitting on the floor; it wasn’t on top of a display case.
Abandoning my eavesdropping venture, I jogged toward the alley behind Artiste Arcade where there were a few free parking spaces for customers. I wasn’t going to break and enter Ava’s car—I knew my limits—but if the briefcase was there, and if it was open and bulging with real estate material as it usually was, maybe I could peer inside and glimpse the spine of a diary. If so, I would call Cinnamon and suggest she interrogate Ava before Ava could do away with the diary. It was worth a shot.
Ava owns a black Mercedes CLS. She calls it her symbol of success. And there it was. Sun blazed down on the sleek car. I shielded my eyes from the glare and peered through the window into the front seat. The briefcase, as hoped, was sitting on the passenger seat and jam-packed: a wad of flyers; pens; pencils; a large measuring tape coiled into a silver case; an ultra fancy calculator, the kind Realtors use to assess mortgage rates; a wad of business cards held together with a rubber band; and, lo and behold, a red-spined book, about seven inches long, one inch thick. Was it a diary or an appointment calendar?
Grilling the Subject Page 18