Grilling the Subject (20 page)

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?

M
y 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?

“Jenna,” a man said.

I spun around. “Shane.”

He approached quickly, the fancy buttons on his cowboy shirt reflecting the sunlight, his tennis shoes making no sound on the pavement. He looked
off
; his eyes were beady. A thin sheen of perspiration coated his upper lip and forehead. He rubbed it away with a fingertip.

“Fancy seeing you here,” I said, my voice light though my body was tense.

“You heard me calling you,” he said. “On the street. You waved.”

Yes, I'd heard him, but I believed he was calling as a greeting, nothing more.

Furtively, Shane glanced over his shoulder and back at me. Call me crazy, but a frisson of fear skittered down my back. Was he Sylvia's killer, after all? Had he followed me because I was alone? Did he think I knew something that could point
a finger at him? The alley was open at the far end. I could run, but in my sandals I would be no match for Shane with his long, muscular legs. He would catch me in an instant.

“Need something?” I said as calmly as I could muster. I gripped my purse handle while letting the strap fall off my shoulder. As heavy as the purse was, it might pack a wallop.

“Actually, I do.” Shane licked his lips. “It's about Emily.”

Relief coursed through me. “Is she okay? Is she having the baby?”

“No!” he barked, as in
heaven forbid!
He worked his lip between his teeth. “Sorry, that came out wrong. No, she's not having the baby. Not yet. She's . . . it's . . .” He shifted feet. “She's been acting weird.”

“Weird, how?”

“Pacing at night and muttering to herself.”

“Can you make out what she's saying?”

“I think she's saying
clinky jewelry
. What could she mean?”

When I spoke to Emily by the choo-choo train, we discussed the set of cuff links Ava had given Shane.
Cuff links and jewelry
, when slurred together, might sound like
clinky jewelry
. Was Emily worried that the police wouldn't come up with the same theory she had posed to me, that Ava had taken the cuff links to the crime scene to frame Shane? Perhaps Emily feared the police would conclude what I had, that she had taken the cuff links to the site herself. Or maybe, because of the cuff links, she knew that Shane, her beloved, had killed Sylvia, and she couldn't figure out how to turn the father of her unborn child over to authorities.

“Have you asked her what she means?” I said.

“Asked her?”

“I'm not big on relationship advice right now,” I joked, “but most counselors will tell you that you have to talk. Communicate. Make sure—”

“What are you two doing?” Ava shrieked and ran toward us looking mighty ticked off. Her heels slapped the cement.

Uh-oh.

Shane surprised me by saying, “Later,” and he hightailed it to the far end of the alley, veered right, and disappeared.

“Well?” Ava demanded.

“Well, what?” Embarrassment warmed my cheeks. The way Shane ran off, he gave the impression that we had been having a tryst. Would Ava write about me in her diary?

“I . . . Shane . . . we . . . no . . .” I sputtered, and then I had nothing else. No answers. My mouth went dry.

“What do you want, Jenna? Why are you hounding me?”

“I'm . . . I'm not.”

“Were you and Shane collaborating?”

I shook my head. Words. I needed words! “I . . .” So often, I could be glib and quick-witted. Not now. What good was having a thriving career at an advertising agency where slogans popped out of me in the blink of an eye if I couldn't dredge up that talent when I needed it?

“The diary!” I blurted. Truth is powerful, my father tells me.

“You asked about a diary last night.”

“Yes.” I pointed into her car. “Is that it?”

Ava screwed up her mouth. She glanced down the alley after the retreating Shane, and back at me. Her eyes skewered daggers into mine.

“The police asked you if you wrote one,” I said.

“Not true. They asked me if I had a diary in my house.”

Aha! I was right. She had evaded the truth by relying on the use of explicit language. How cagey of her.

“Did Shane tell you about it?” Ava asked.

“No.” I wasn't going to bring up Emily's name.

She huffed. “Yes, I wrote a diary, and yes, there's some incriminating stuff in it.”

What kind of incriminating? I wondered. Like how she would stab Sylvia with a hair stick and light her up in a bonfire?

“I like you, Jenna.” Ava took a step toward me.

I retreated. The door handle scalded my skin through my
blouse. “I like you, too, Ava,” I murmured. Until lately, I really did like her. I loved her energy. I enjoyed whenever she bought a cookbook and hugged it to her chest, so excited to try out a new recipe.

“Do you want to read my diary?” she asked.

Did I? Yes!

“Um, sure,” I mumbled. I didn't want to appear too eager.

“Here you go.” Ava flung open the car door—it hadn't been locked—and grasped the red-spined book. She thrust it at me. “Check out page ninety-two.” I must have blinked because she said, “Don't look surprised. I can memorize entire legal agreements, and I'm very organized. I number my diary pages. I know which one you want to read.”

I opened the book and thumbed to the correct page. She had written: