Wine and Punishment

by Sarah Fox

  “Yep. And that’s his buddy Greg with him.”

  A short time later, after Rhonda had left, I served Carl and his friend Greg another round of drinks.

  “It’s Sadie, right?” Greg asked. He was taller than Carl, and rounder.

  “That’s right.”

  “I heard about what happened to your ex. I just wanted to say I’m sorry for your loss. Even if he was your ex, it still can’t be easy to know someone who got murdered.”

  Carl nodded his agreement.

  “Thank you.”

  I was surprised by their kindness. This was the first time I’d spoken to them, but the reports I’d heard recently hadn’t given me a particularly positive impression of either man.

  “I heard you two had a disagreement with Eric here at the pub,” I said after a moment, deciding to try to get some information out of them.

  Greg look embarrassed, but Carl just frowned into his lager.

  “We shouldn’t have let it go that far,” Greg said.

  “He started it,” Carl muttered.

  “Started what, exactly?” I asked. “Eric wasn’t the type to start brawls.”

  “It never went that far,” Greg assured me. “We just argued, and he got in a shove or two. He kept going on and on about how he was going to woo you back, how he’d bought you this expensive ring. It all got a bit pompous, if you know what I mean. When we tried to shut him down, he took exception.”

  “He’d had a few drinks by then,” Carl put in.

  “Trying to settle his nerves, I think,” Greg said. “When he first came in, he looked real nervous. I don’t think he was as confident about winning you back as he wanted everyone to think.”

  “So Damien kicked all three of you out?”

  “He asked us to leave, and we did, on our own. It was your ex he had to escort out the door.”

  “What happened then?”

  “What do you mean?” Carl asked. “That was the end of it.”

  I had to wonder if that was really the case, especially since Carl had a history of theft and clearly knew about the ring. “Did you see where Eric went? Did you see anyone else hanging around outside?”

  “Nah,” Carl said before taking a long drink.

  “We didn’t actually see the guy go anywhere,” Greg said. “He was still talking to Damien when we left. We cut across the green and went over to the pool hall on Mulberry Street.”

  “So you have no idea what happened to him after that?”

  “Nope. Sorry. I wish I could finger the killer for the cops, but like I said, we went straight to the pool hall.”

  Disappointed, I thanked the men for the information and headed down to the other end of the bar to serve a couple who’d just arrived.

  Later on, after Damien had arrived, Aunt Gilda showed up with her friend Betty. They claimed a small table near one of the windows, and once I’d served them their drinks—a Huckleberry Gin for Aunt Gilda and a glass of white wine for Betty—I hung around to chat.

  “How was your day at the salon?” I asked both of them.

  “Busy but good,” Gilda replied as Betty nodded her agreement. “You’d think people would be too busy enjoying the festival to be wanting their hair cut or their nails done, but that doesn’t seem to be the case. We hardly had a spare minute between us.”

  “Which is why we’re treating ourselves to drinks and dinner out,” Betty said.

  “We reserved a table at Lumière,” Gilda added.

  “Sounds lovely,” I remarked.

  Lumière was the nicest restaurant in town. Despite that, reservations usually weren’t necessary, but with all the tourists in town for the Autumn Festival, reservations would probably be required all week for anyone who didn’t want to stand in line waiting for a table.

  “You should come join us, if you can get away,” Aunt Gilda said. “Between the pub and the festival, you must have had a busy day too.”

  “I did.” I glanced over at the bar where Damien was busy working the taps. “What time are you heading over to Lumière?”

  “Seven.”

  That was nearly an hour away. “I’ll see how things go here, but I’d love to join you.”

  “Be sure to if you can,” Aunt Gilda said.

  I was about to leave them to their drinks when Betty spoke up. “Did you hear the news, Sadie?”

  “What news?” I asked, wondering if there’d been progress with the murder investigation.

  Aunt Gilda was the one to reply. “About the fire.”

  “Do they know what caused it?”

  Betty raised her wineglass to her lips. “What, but not who.” She took a sip of her drink.

  “Who?” I said with surprise. “You mean the fire was deliberately set?”

  “Seems there’s no doubt about it,” Aunt Gilda said. “The fire was the work of an arsonist.”

  Chapter 12

  “How did you find out?” I asked, still surprised by the news. I’d just assumed the fire was accidental.

  “April O’Hare told us when she was in to get her hair permed this morning,” Aunt Gilda said. “Her husband’s a volunteer firefighter.”

  “Someone used gasoline to start the fire,” Betty picked up the story. “Too bad there aren’t any security cameras in the area. That might have helped identify the arsonist.”

  As much as I wanted to stay and chat some more about the fire, I could see that Damien had his hands full, so I excused myself and returned to the bar to help him out. While I mixed drinks and pulled pints, my thoughts kept straying back to the fire. It was hard to think about anything else, especially since I overheard a couple of patrons discussing the news.

  “Arson and a murder in less than twenty-four hours,” one woman said with a shake of her head before she took a long drink of her India pale ale. “Must be because of all the tourists in town. You never know what kind of riffraff’s gonna show up for the festival.”

  I winced, hoping none of the tourists had overheard, but it didn’t appear as though they had. I didn’t wait around to see what the woman’s companion had to say about the matter. I had my own opinions. If a random tourist had killed Eric, the murderer was either deranged and killed for no reason or they’d botched a robbery. As for the fire, why the heck would a tourist want to burn down the antiques shop? I supposed it was possible that the arsonist had had an unpleasant encounter with the shop’s proprietor earlier that day, or it could have been the work of a pyromaniac, unable to resist starting a fire even while on vacation.

  Those were possibilities, but unlikely ones, in my opinion. The murder suspects on my list were far more viable candidates. But the woman I’d overheard had been right about one thing—it was surprising that the murder and arson had both happened in such a short time frame in a town that rarely saw much in the way of crime. The timing made me wonder—not for the first time—if the two incidents were somehow related, but as I turned that over in my mind, I discounted the theory. As I’d thought the day after the fire, the timing of the two crimes had to be a coincidence.

  After all, Grayson and I had found Eric’s body on this side of Creekside Road. The antiques shop was diagonally all the way across the green and down Hemlock Street. If the arsonist had killed Eric because he’d witnessed the firebug at work, his body most likely would have been closer to the antiques shop. Maybe the arsonist would have tossed his body into the fire in an attempt to destroy evidence of the murder.

  I shuddered at that horrible thought, but quickly recovered, knowing that wasn’t what had happened.

  Shortly before seven o’clock, Aunt Gilda and Betty vacated their table, and I glanced around the pub. It was only moderately busy at the moment, so I figured I could slip out for a short break.

  “Are you coming with us, hon?” Aunt Gilda asked, stopping by the bar before heading for the door.

  “I think so. I should at least be able to join you for appetizers. You go on ahead, though. I’ll be a few more minutes.”

  “We’
ll order those crispy fried shrimp that you love,” Aunt Gilda said over her shoulder as she followed Betty to the door.

  My stomach grumbled in anticipation.

  “If you’re all right here on your own, I’ll take a dinner break,” I said to Damien as he slid a pint of beer across the bar to a waiting patron.

  “I’m sure I can handle things,” he said, his voice and expression deadpan so I couldn’t tell if he was being sarcastic.

  I decided not to worry about it. “I’ve been meaning to ask you about Tuesday night. I heard you were talking to Eric outside after Carl and Greg went on their way.”

  “I was.”

  “Did you notice anyone else around?”

  “No. It was quiet out there at the time.”

  “What did you guys talk about?”

  “I told him getting drunk and causing a scene wasn’t the best way to win you back.” He shot me a sidelong look as he filled a pint glass with Autumn Nights, a beer that combined vanilla with spices like nutmeg and cinnamon. “I figured that was a safe assumption.”

  “It was,” I confirmed. “Although nothing he did or didn’t do was going to win me back.”

  Damien slid the pint glass over to its waiting recipient and accepted cash in return. “By that time, he’d settled down a bit, and he agreed with me. He seemed embarrassed.”

  “What time was that? And did he say where he was going or what he was going to do next?”

  “It was shortly after nine. He said he’d take a walk. He thought the fresh air would help clear his head.”

  “Which way did he go?”

  “West along Creekside Road.”

  In the direction of the Creekside Inn, where he was staying. Perhaps more importantly, if he’d taken a left at Hemlock Street, that would have taken him in the direction of the antiques shop. Still, it didn’t make sense for his body to be so far away from the shop if his death had anything to do with the fire.

  “Aren’t you heading out?” Damien’s voice prodded me out of my thoughts.

  “Right. I won’t be too long.”

  I grabbed my purse from upstairs and locked the cat door so Wimsey—currently lounging on the back of the couch—couldn’t leave the apartment. I didn’t like him being out after dark.

  “I’ll see you later,” I called to him as I headed out the door again.

  He cracked his eyes open as I blew him a kiss, but he’d already closed them again before I had the door shut. I set off on foot, noting that the green was mostly deserted now that darkness was settling over the town, the festivities done for the day.

  Lumière was two doors down from Aunt Gilda’s salon and within a two-minute walk from the Inkwell. When I arrived at the restaurant, it was as busy as I expected it to be, all of the tables occupied and about half a dozen people waiting to be seated. I spotted Gilda and Betty near the back of the dining area, so I bypassed the hostess and wound my way around the other tables to join them. As I passed a table occupied by three women, I noticed one of them glaring at me. My automatic reaction was to turn my head away as heat rushed to my cheeks, but I looked back her way only a second later. By then she was focused on her food and companions.

  I wondered briefly if I’d been mistaken about her giving me the evil eye, but I knew that wasn’t the case. Although I’d never met her, I knew her name was Eleanor Grimes. She was in charge of Shady Creek’s museum, a place I’d yet to visit.

  Shrugging off the incident, I approached my aunt’s table and saw that she and Betty weren’t alone. Harriet Jones was seated at the table with them.

  “Oh, good, you made it,” Aunt Gilda said when she saw me. “The appetizers should be here soon.”

  “Great,” I said as my stomach gave another anticipatory rumble. I pulled out the remaining vacant chair and sat down. “How are you today, Harriet?”

  “Just peachy, now that I’ve got my martini.” She saluted me with her glass. “And I’m looking forward to the next book club meeting.”

  “I’m glad to hear that. It seems like everyone enjoyed themselves.”

  “Even Vera Anderson seemed to relax for a few minutes,” Harriet said after taking a healthy sip of her martini. “Although she still managed to sound hoity-toity whenever she had something to say about the book.”

  “That’s Vera for you,” Betty said.

  “Hoo-yeah. That’s one who will never change.”

  A waitress arrived at our table, bearing platters of crispy fried shrimp and chicken wings. The delicious smells wafted toward me, and my mouth watered. I requested a glass of ice water from the waitress, and as soon as she was gone, we started in on the appetizers.

  “So how were things at the festival today?” Aunt Gilda asked me as I devoured a shrimp.

  “Good,” I said once I’d swallowed.

  “You’re in the tent with the brewery, right?” Betty asked.

  “That’s right.”

  “Then I need to pay you a visit tomorrow, and maybe every day during the festival,” Harriet said. “I’ll take any chance I can get to drink in the sight of that hunk of a brewer, Mr. Blake.”

  I nearly choked on a bite of my second shrimp. Fortunately, the waitress had just set a glass of water in front of me. I grabbed it and took a quick drink, sending the shrimp safely down my esophagus.

  “Of course, I’ll sample your wares too, Sadie.” Harriet clapped me on the back, almost making me choke again. “Two birds with one stone, if you know what I mean.”

  “You’re incorrigible, Harriet,” Betty said as I gulped down more water.

  “I might be old, but that doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy the scenery.”

  “Stopping by the tent won’t guarantee that you’ll see that particular scenery,” I said. “I was there for a few hours today, and Mr. Blake didn’t make an appearance.” Thank goodness, I wanted to add, but didn’t.

  “That’s a shame,” Aunt Gilda said with a pointed look in my direction. “He’s single, isn’t he?”

  “I wouldn’t know,” I replied, trying my best to sound disinterested. “Although Shontelle seems to think he is.”

  “Has she got her eye on him?” Betty asked. “She’s a stunner.”

  “She is,” I agreed. “But no, she’s in a long-distance relationship with a man in Savannah.”

  “A proper southern gentleman, I hope,” Aunt Gilda said.

  “I hope so too.”

  Harriet jabbed my ribs with her bony elbow. “You should find out for sure if Mr. Blake is single. You’d make a good-looking couple.”

  I focused on the shrimp I’d just taken from the platter. “I’m really not interested.”

  “Bad boys not your type? They always were mine. Still are, really.” She let out a cackle of laughter.

  “Bad boy?” I said, forgetting my pretense of disinterest. “Why do you say that?”

  Harriet lowered her voice, although that just took it down to a regular volume. “I heard he has some sort of criminal past.”

  “Really?”

  “I heard that too,” Betty said.

  “But it was Gretchen Dingle who said that,” Gilda reminded her. “You never know if what’s coming out of her mouth is truth or fiction, or some combination of the two.”

  “What kind of criminal past?” I pressed, hoping for more information. If the brewer had a history of violence, that would make him an even more likely suspect for Eric’s murder.

  Harriet polished off her martini. “I have no idea, but if you find out, be sure to let me know. I always love a juicy bit of gossip.”

  I looked to Aunt Gilda and Betty, but they had no details either. By then we’d polished off the appetizers, so I pushed back my chair and told the ladies I’d have to be on my way. I tried to contribute some money for the food, but Aunt Gilda wouldn’t hear of it.

  “You go on back to work, and maybe I’ll pop by the tent for a quick visit tomorrow,” she told me.

  “That would be nice.” I kissed her on the cheek and waved good-bye to
Betty and Harriet.

  On my way to the door, I noticed that Eleanor Grimes and her companions were no longer present, their table now occupied by a young couple. I didn’t know what I’d done to deserve the death glare Eleanor had sent my way, but maybe I was a target simply because I was an outsider, not born and raised in Shady Creek. That seemed to be enough for some people to find fault with.

  When I stepped outside, I shivered and wished I’d thought to bring a coat. I’d need to get into the habit of wearing more layers whenever I headed outdoors. As soon as the sun disappeared these days, I could feel the promise of the approaching winter in the air.

  Fortunately, I didn’t have far to walk, and I set off at a brisk pace, hoping that would help to keep me warm. When I neared Creekside Road, however, my steps slowed. A police car was pulled up against the curb, its flashing lights illuminating the silver sedan parked in front of it. I could see three figures standing near the cars, two in uniform, the third in jeans and a short sleeve T-shirt that exposed the man’s bulging muscles.

  I picked up my pace, hurrying their way. I reached the scene in time to see the male police officer snap handcuffs onto the wrists of the muscular man I’d last seen at the Inkwell.

  “Reggie Stone, you’re under arrest . . .”

  I strained to hear the officer’s next words but couldn’t catch them. When I stepped closer, I realized the officer was reading Stone his rights. His female partner stood a few feet away, saying something into her radio. According to her name tag, she was Officer Rogers. I marched past her and stopped in front of Reggie Stone and the other officer.

  “Did you kill Eric?” My voice wavered as I glared into Stone’s dark eyes.

  All he did was smirk at me.

  Anger coiled its way around me. I was about to ask the question again when Officer Rogers put a hand on my arm.

  “Ma’am, please leave this to us.”

  “He works for the loan shark who was hounding Eric Jensen before his death, right?”

  Rogers appeared surprised for a moment, but then she nodded in recognition. “You’re the victim’s ex. You found his body along with Mr. Blake from the brewery.”