right.”
“Why haven’t you told me this until now?”
Pepper shrugged. “A woman deserves her secrets.”
“It’s not safe, Mother.”
“Apparently. There are lots of folks who walk, but last night, only the two. Her”—Pepper pointed at me—“and her.” She jabbed her index finger at Desiree.
“You’re positive?” Cinnamon said.
Pepper hesitated. “Well, put that way, I can’t say for sure. I don’t have the best eyes, as you well know. Don’t get me started on the cost of eyeglasses and contacts. But who else could it have been? Both were tall, that’s for sure.”
That ruled out Desiree’s sister, Sabrina. Of course, Pepper Pritchett could have been fabricating the whole scenario. Who knew what she had really seen if, indeed, she’d seen anything? And why was she targeting me? I glanced back at the mermaid sculpture; it wasn’t as refined as I had first gauged. Would a normal person and not an artist have been capable of creating it?
“Stand aside,” a man bellowed. My father. If I didn’t know better, I would have pegged him for someone on the police force. Like Cinnamon, he wore camp shorts, a camp shirt, and an outback-style hat with a broad brim. Using a carved-handle walking stick, he divined people away from his path. “Everyone, step to the right, that’s it. Thank you so much.”
The crowd parted as if my father were Patton ready to announce the end of the war. As he passed them, each said something to him. I heard my name bandied about. Aunt Vera traipsed behind him, gripping her caftan in folds so she wouldn’t trip over the hem.
My father stopped short of the yellow police tape. “Jenna, come here.”
I raced to him and grabbed his hand for courage.
“Hello, Cary,” Cinnamon said. “Good morning, Vera.”
“Are you arresting my daughter?” my father asked.
“Of course she is.” Pepper sounded triumphant.
“Chief Pritchett,” I said, choosing a more respectful address even though she had allowed me the informality of using her first name. “I didn’t do this.”
My father released my hand then cleared his throat. “If you ask me, burying and covering the body with sand took time and planning.”
“Nobody asked you,” Pepper said.
Aunt Vera huddled next to me. “How are you, dear?”
“In shock.” I didn’t want to ask her if she had foreseen Desiree’s death. The notion gave me the heebie-jeebies.
“Arrest her,” Pepper said.
“Mother, hush, please.” Cinnamon addressed my father. “Cary, I’d like to know how you figure this murder was not spontaneous.”
My father planted his walking stick in front of him and grasped the uppermost portion with both hands. “Most people don’t walk around with oversized fishhooks and a pail.”
“A pail?”
My father smiled. “A pail would be useful for carrying water from the ocean to the, um, sculpture, don’t you think? And the killer would need more than his hands. Perhaps a few tools. The sand on Miss Divine is packed firmly. Given the situation, I’d say the culprit planned ahead, perhaps even had these items stowed beneath”—he pivoted and scoured the beach, pointing with his stick—“beneath that bench or that palm tree.”
“For heaven’s sake, Cary,” Pepper said. “Who do you think you are, Hercule Poirot?”
Give the woman ten points. At least she was well-read.
Cinnamon said, “You know he’s a former FBI analyst, Mother. He’s seen his share of dead bodies.”
“On paper.” Pepper sniffed.
“Whether on paper or in person, he knows a few things.” Cinnamon instructed a deputy to search nearer the shore, then shook my father’s hand. “Nice to see you again, sir, although not under these circumstances. What else do you see?”
“You’ve discussed the lack of footprints?”
“Noted.”
I nudged my aunt. “What’s up with Dad and the chief? They seem to know each other pretty well.”
“Cinnamon . . .” Aunt Vera paused. “She didn’t have a father.
“Why haven’t you told me this until now?”
Pepper shrugged. “A woman deserves her secrets.”
“It’s not safe, Mother.”
“Apparently. There are lots of folks who walk, but last night, only the two. Her”—Pepper pointed at me—“and her.” She jabbed her index finger at Desiree.
“You’re positive?” Cinnamon said.
Pepper hesitated. “Well, put that way, I can’t say for sure. I don’t have the best eyes, as you well know. Don’t get me started on the cost of eyeglasses and contacts. But who else could it have been? Both were tall, that’s for sure.”
That ruled out Desiree’s sister, Sabrina. Of course, Pepper Pritchett could have been fabricating the whole scenario. Who knew what she had really seen if, indeed, she’d seen anything? And why was she targeting me? I glanced back at the mermaid sculpture; it wasn’t as refined as I had first gauged. Would a normal person and not an artist have been capable of creating it?
“Stand aside,” a man bellowed. My father. If I didn’t know better, I would have pegged him for someone on the police force. Like Cinnamon, he wore camp shorts, a camp shirt, and an outback-style hat with a broad brim. Using a carved-handle walking stick, he divined people away from his path. “Everyone, step to the right, that’s it. Thank you so much.”
The crowd parted as if my father were Patton ready to announce the end of the war. As he passed them, each said something to him. I heard my name bandied about. Aunt Vera traipsed behind him, gripping her caftan in folds so she wouldn’t trip over the hem.
My father stopped short of the yellow police tape. “Jenna, come here.”
I raced to him and grabbed his hand for courage.
“Hello, Cary,” Cinnamon said. “Good morning, Vera.”
“Are you arresting my daughter?” my father asked.
“Of course she is.” Pepper sounded triumphant.
“Chief Pritchett,” I said, choosing a more respectful address even though she had allowed me the informality of using her first name. “I didn’t do this.”
My father released my hand then cleared his throat. “If you ask me, burying and covering the body with sand took time and planning.”
“Nobody asked you,” Pepper said.
Aunt Vera huddled next to me. “How are you, dear?”
“In shock.” I didn’t want to ask her if she had foreseen Desiree’s death. The notion gave me the heebie-jeebies.
“Arrest her,” Pepper said.
“Mother, hush, please.” Cinnamon addressed my father. “Cary, I’d like to know how you figure this murder was not spontaneous.”
My father planted his walking stick in front of him and grasped the uppermost portion with both hands. “Most people don’t walk around with oversized fishhooks and a pail.”
“A pail?”
My father smiled. “A pail would be useful for carrying water from the ocean to the, um, sculpture, don’t you think? And the killer would need more than his hands. Perhaps a few tools. The sand on Miss Divine is packed firmly. Given the situation, I’d say the culprit planned ahead, perhaps even had these items stowed beneath”—he pivoted and scoured the beach, pointing with his stick—“beneath that bench or that palm tree.”
“For heaven’s sake, Cary,” Pepper said. “Who do you think you are, Hercule Poirot?”
Give the woman ten points. At least she was well-read.
Cinnamon said, “You know he’s a former FBI analyst, Mother. He’s seen his share of dead bodies.”
“On paper.” Pepper sniffed.
“Whether on paper or in person, he knows a few things.” Cinnamon instructed a deputy to search nearer the shore, then shook my father’s hand. “Nice to see you again, sir, although not under these circumstances. What else do you see?”
“You’ve discussed the lack of footprints?”
“Noted.”
I nudged my aunt. “What’s up with Dad and the chief? They seem to know each other pretty well.”
“Cinnamon . . .” Aunt Vera paused. “She didn’t have a father.
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