Final Sentence by Daryl Wood Gerber

couldn’t have been me. I was at home.”
    “She’s a sculptor,” Pepper continued. “An artist. She would know how to create this . . . this mermaid.”
    “Yes, I sculpt, but I’m primarily a painter. I’ve never built a sandcastle in my life. I haven’t even poured colored sand in a bottle.” I caught sight of my friend’s corpse and the hook lodged in her mouth, and another wave of horror ripped through me. Who could do such a thing? Was the hook significant?
    “Jenna Hart had it in for Desiree Divine, Cinn.” Pepper tapped her head. “I heard. I know.”
    I willed her finger to morph into a drill bit that would bore holes into her meager brain. Aeration was good for the insane, I had heard. Sadly, my wish didn’t come true. I faced Cinnamon. “Crystal Cove is an artist’s retreat.” On my tour yesterday, I had noted over twenty private art studios. In addition, an art camp in the hills offered intensive four-week sessions, year-round.
    “I’m aware,” Cinnamon said.
    For the first time since discovering Desiree’s body, I breathed. Truly breathed. Cinnamon believed that I was innocent. The relief lasted only a nanosecond.
    “Jenna Hart’s husband died in a beach incident, too,” Pepper said.
    I gaped at the nasty woman with her beady, critical eyes. Why did she insist on calling me by my full name? How dare she bring up David’s death at a time like this? “He did not die on the beach. He was on a boat.” A memory of him kissing me good-bye before leaving for what was supposed to be a quick sailing tour of the bay flitted through my mind. “He drowned. The police think he fell over the side, and—”
    Pepper harrumphed. “There’s talk you did him in.”
    “Lies.”
    “They never found his body. Some say you carved him up and fed him to the fish.”
    “Only those with Mafia fixations.” I addressed Cinnamon. “No matter what the tabloid magazines published, I did not kill my husband.” Following David’s death, there had been talk. I was the wife. Wasn’t the spouse always guilty? I was never formally accused of anything. “He was an inexperienced seaman,” I said. “Midafternoon, the waves grew fierce. He must have fallen overboard. The police cleared me of all wrongdoing.”
    “They never found his body?” Cinnamon asked.
    I shook my head. No one would ever grasp the cavity of sadness that David’s death had carved in my heart. I battled fresh tears.
    Cinnamon turned to the mass of people. “Has anyone seen Old Jake?”
    “Old who?” I asked.
    “Jake. He’s the fellow who drives a tractor and rakes the sand every morning. You mentioned palm fronds. I’m thinking Old Jake cleaned up. He does his best to avoid sandcastles. He sees them as children’s treasures. That might explain why there are no footprints around, other than yours and that gentleman and his wife’s.”
    “What time does Jake hit this area?” I asked.
    “Anytime after midnight.”
    “That sets the time of death.”
    Cinnamon offered an indulgent smile. “Yes, I’ve thought of that.”
    “Maybe he saw somebody with Desiree, either carrying her or dragging her or . . .” I sputtered. “Of course, you’ve considered that, too.” I ran a hand along my collarbone. Houses upon houses stood along the strand. Someone in one of the homes must have seen something. I gazed back at Desiree. Hot emotion swam up my throat. “Her head is positioned to the left.”
    Cinnamon peered where I was staring.
    “Doesn’t it look like a left-handed person handled the hook?” I drew a hook with my finger and grabbed the imaginary grip with my left hand. “He pulled this way.”
    “He or she,” Cinnamon corrected. “Mother, you said you saw two women on the beach. When?”
    “Around one or so.”
    “Why did you come here?”
    “Insomnia, same as always.” Pepper grumbled, “Danged sleeping. Never was much good at it.”
    “You walk on the beach alone?” Cinnamon sounded alarmed.
    “That’s