“A Hurricane pinot noir.” I surveyed the crowd.
Rhett was off to one side chatting with Keller and Katie, who had taken the night off from the café to celebrate her husband’s moment in the limelight. Rhett and Keller had dressed similarly, both in white shirt and jeans, but Keller had donned a cowboy hat, making him look as rakish as a good guy in a western. Katie radiated joy in a white dress and glittery earrings.
My dapper father, Bailey’s mother Lola, and my aunt Vera, wearing a luminous caftan that only she could pull off, joined them. Lola, who was an older version of Bailey, with spiky hair, a penchant for colorful jewelry, and a flair for style, instantly launched into conversation, probably weighing in on which restaurants would be serving what delicacies during the festival. My father, his silver hair gleaming in the glow of the lights, listened to her attentively. Rhett bobbed his head as Lola spoke. He owned Intime, a French bistro, and Lola owned the Pelican Brief, which featured fish dishes. Both had opted out of participating at festival venues and had chosen, instead, to offer specialty prix fixe dinners at their respective restaurants. They would leave the fun food, like dipped pretzels, pistachio meatballs, and drunken olives, to the visiting vendors.
I caught Rhett’s eye. He winked at me, sending a delicious shiver down my spine.
“Tito would have loved this,” Bailey said. Her husband, a reporter for the Crystal Cove Courier, had been summoned to Southern California to help with his ailing grandmother.
“How long will he be out of town?” I asked my pal.
“At least a week. I’m a single parent. Oof.” She grunted. “So . . . tell me more about you and Rhett moving in together.”
I’d shared the news the moment I saw her. I hadn’t been able to contain my excitement.
“How will it work out between Tigger and Rook?” Bailey asked.
“Actually, they’re at the house now and having a good old time. Tigger likes to chase Rook, and Rook is all for it. They . . .”
I paused as my attention was drawn to Quade approaching Naomi again. Clad in all black, swaggering like a panther, he looked menacing.
“What are you staring at?” Bailey whispered.
I pointed.
Naomi, who was distracted by a loose thread on the sleeve of her dress, didn’t see Quade coming. He raked his hair with his fingers and tapped her shoulder. She turned and let out an eek.
Keller, like a protective big brother, swooped to her side. He said something to Naomi. She nodded.
Quade shoved Keller in the chest. “Out of my way, hack,” he said loudly enough for all to hear. His words were slurred. Had he been drinking prior to the party? “I was having a private conversation.”
“You’re the hack,” Keller said, unwilling to be cowed. “Stealing everyone’s technique, including mine.”
“Stealing? Did you accuse me of stealing? You’re the thief.”
“I didn’t steal anything. You probably dumped your artwork in a Dumpster because it was so bad.”
Quade hauled back.
In the nick of time, Yardley grabbed his arm. “Cut it out. Both of you.”
Quade tried to wrench free of her grasp but couldn’t. Either Yardley was stronger than she appeared or he was relenting.
“Tonight is a joyous occasion,” she said, releasing him. “Why don’t you fellas mingle?”
Katie trotted to Keller and steered him into the lobby of the inn.
“Wow,” Bailey said, “that was something.”
My gaze remained riveted on Quade. Growling, he tramped past Bailey and me, heading in the direction of the artwork. Did he intend to sabotage it? I started after him, but paused because Destiny, who had left her post at the wine tasting table, cut in front of him.
Flirtatiously, she fluttered the flounce of her black dress and caressed the chain of her ebony perfume bottle necklace. “Hey, Quade, buy you a drink?”
“Can it,” he muttered.
Destiny’s smile turned to a frown of concern. “Is something wrong? Has something upset you?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“C’mon. You know me. I’m a good listener.”
“Babe, don’t you get it? I’m not into you. I never will be.”
“But . . .” she sputtered, her newfound confidence waning.
“Bye-bye,” he said.
If Quade wasn’t so horrid, the two might have made a handsome pair, but he was downright mean. What attracted her to him?
He stomped toward the artwork again, came to a halt and stood, arms folded, head cocked, as if studying it. Even so, I kept a steady eye on him.
“Jenna, my mother is beckoning me,” Bailey said. “I’ll be back in a bit. Can’t wait for the announcement!” She squeezed my arm and scurried to her mother, her dangling earrings tinkling in her haste.
At the same time, Cinnamon Pritchett and her handsome husband Bucky Winston drew near, wine tasting glasses in hand. “Well, well, that was something between Keller and that artist,” Cinnamon said. “I’ve never seen Keller lose his cool like that. Is fatherhood getting to him?”
Bucky threw her a look. Cinnamon returned a saucy smirk.
“I think it might concern his finances,” I said. “It’s hard to be an entrepreneur. He’s hoping his art might open new opportunities for him.”
“And well it might,” Bucky said. “His stuff is good. I like it.”
Cinnamon snorted. “Meet my husband, the fireman art critic.”
Bucky laughed. They had a wonderfully easy relationship.
“Quade, on the other hand,” I said, continuing my line of thought, “rubs people the wrong way. He has a thing for Naomi Genet, the assistant art teacher, except she wants nothing to do with him, so people around her are acting protective.”
“Yardley Alks seems to have the situation under control,” Cinnamon said.
“Want me to freshen your glass, honey?” Bucky asked.
Cinnamon thrust it at him. “Yes, please. Let’s try the Nouveau pinot.”
Bucky sauntered off, stopping to chat with Rhett and my father on his way.
I touched Cinnamon’s arm. “Hey, your mother came into the shop earlier today.”
“What did she have to say for herself?”
“She’s concerned about you because, you know . . .”
“I’m fine.” Cinnamon fingered the collar of her navy jacket. “I’m holding it together.”
“Really?”
“Fake it, you own it.” She forced a smile and tucked the right side of her hair behind her ear. She’d let it grow, which softened her appearance. She no longer resembled a camp counselor. “I will fake it until happiness returns.”
“And Bucky?” I asked.
“He’s not as good as I am at faking it. He wants it to happen ASAP.” Cinnamon frowned. “And if I don’t get pregnant, he wants to adopt. I’m not so sure about that.”
“Katie did and her little girl is adorable.”
“I know. I know.” Cinnamon brandished a hand.
“What has Bucky decided about joining the police force?”
“Ha! I knew he wouldn’t follow through. He did the academy and everything, but in the end, he loves being a fireman. And with all that’s been going on in California, we need guys like him.”
“Do you worry—”
Cinnamon held up a hand. “Don’t. Say. It.” She dropped her arm to her side. “Yes, I worry. But he worries about me, too. We’re both in dangerous professions. We do what we have to, to make this a better world.”
Bucky returned with the wine and handed one to Cinnamon. “I saw Deputy Appleby come in,” he said. “He looks nervous.”
Cinnamon grinned. “Let’s make him welcome. Arty affairs make him uncomfortable. Jenna”—she turned to me—“have a good show.”
As I was making my way to Rhett, I spotted Quade chatting with Sienna Brown near the communal room. Chatting was a stretch. She was aiming an accusatory finger at him, and he was throwing his arms
wide, as if he was clueless to whatever it was she was alleging. Her cheeks were flushed, as were her upper chest and neck, the color appearing that much brighter because she was wearing a white jacquard dress.
Oh, to be a fly flitting about listening in. So many set-tos. So many underlying stories. Bailey’s husband Tito would have had the courage to move closer. Not I.
Movement to the right caught my eye. The guest with the thick mustache who’d hailed Sienna yesterday was making a beeline for her. In his beautifully tailored suit, he didn’t look quite as hip as he had before, but he was dashing. Proceeding at a brisk pace, he brushed something off his shoulders and straightened his gray tie, and then suddenly pulled up short. Why? Because he’d realized Sienna was in a heated conversation? Was he savvy enough not to intrude?
Standing alone, frozen in place, he looked familiar to me. Had I seen him on television or in the newspaper? He wasn’t a reporter. He didn’t have a recorder or pad and pen at the ready. Maybe he was a vintner or an artist, although he didn’t look like an artist. On the other hand, neither did I.
Working his jaw side to side for a moment, the man regrouped and began again, his pace slower, more deliberate. He approached the wine tasting table, and Destiny tried to engage him, but he ignored her. That was when I realized his mark wasn’t Sienna Brown, who had left Quade and was striding along the walkway in the direction of the lobby. No, like Quade earlier, the man seemed to be fixated on Naomi.
Naomi, who was chatting with a patron near the artwork, had her back to the lobby and was oblivious to the man’s searing gaze.
A frisson of fear spiraled up my spine. Quickly, I pulled my cell phone from my evening purse and took a photograph of him. Then I boldly strode toward him. He caught sight of me with my cell phone raised and blanched. I wasn’t scary, but given my height and the few self-defense classes I’d taken, I’d learned to appear somewhat intimidating.
The man veered left, hurried down the walkway, and vanished into the lobby of the inn.
Sensing this guy was a stalker and way worse than Quade, I searched the crowd for Cinnamon. She was nowhere in sight. So I sought out my father. A former FBI analyst, he would know how to pursue this. He was still conversing with Lola and my aunt.
“Hi, everyone,” I said.
“Jenna, dear, are you excited?” my aunt asked. “Five more minutes until you’re introduced.”
“Very excited, but right now, I need to ask Dad a favor.” I showed him my cell phone image. “I think this man might be stalking Naomi Genet. I’ve seen him twice now, yesterday and tonight. When he caught me photographing him, he hightailed it. Can you ask one of your friends”—I cleared my throat for effect—“to identify him?”
My father took my cell phone and shared the photo to his phone.
“Heavens,” Aunt Vera said, her forehead pinched. “I was doing a reading for Naomi the other day. You know how she wanders in from time to time. Her daughter was keen on seeing Tigger. Knowing she had a moment, I offered to do a free reading. I was feeling rusty.”
My aunt, who was my partner at the Cookbook Nook and café, loved to give tarot card and palm readings. Sometimes she charged for them; other times, she didn’t. She was a big believer in the supernatural. Me? Not so much.
“And?” I asked.
“I divined a new man was coming into her life.” Aunt Vera fingered the phoenix amulet she always wore. “Hopefully not a dangerous one.”
My father gave me back my phone and put a hand on my shoulder. “I’ll have an answer inside a day, and I’ll alert Cinnamon.”
“I looked for her before coming to you, but she and Bucky must have gone.”
Dad winked. “I think they took a romantic stroll through the gardens.”
The gardens were down a path beyond the rooms and cabanas and reminded me of something out of a Jane Austen novel, filled with azaleas and crape myrtles.
“Aha. Good for them. In the meantime, I’ll have a chat with Naomi.”
Questions for her cycled through my mind. Why was Quade so intent on pursuing her? And who was the man with the mustache? I found her talking with Yardley near the easels.
Naomi checked her smart watch. “Almost time,” she said to her boss.
Yardley smiled. “I’ll alert Z.Z.”
As Yardley moved away, I drew near. “Hey, Naomi, I have a question for you.”
“Sure.”
“Do you happen to know this man?” I opened the camera app and held up my cell phone.
She took one look at the photograph, gasped, and raced away while stabbing her smart watch.
Chapter 5
When Yardley returned, she asked where Naomi had gone. I started to explain that I’d spooked her but stopped when Z.Z. spoke into the microphone.
“Ladies and gentlemen, it is now my proud honor to introduce Yardley Alks, brilliant art teacher, innovative internet businesswoman, and the inspiration for the Art and Wine Festival poster art competition. Yardley, take the mic.”
As Z.Z. handed off the microphone, she whispered, “Yardley, where’s Naomi?”
“The impending storm has her rattled,” she improvised. “She hates thunder. Would you mind looking for her?”
Z.Z. said, “I’ll send Egan in search.”
“Bless you.” Brandishing a dazzling smile, Yardley turned to the crowd and, speaking slowly and clearly, said, “I hope all of you have had the chance to view the artists’ works. The winner will be announced Sunday at Art in the Sunlight at Azure Park. Meanwhile, let me say, I have had the greatest time getting to know our artists and foster their fine work. As you can see, each is unique, expressing the individual’s vision of Crystal Cove. Bravo to all of you. And now, it is my sincere pleasure to announce the finalists. Would you all make your way to the art display, please?”
I was standing closest and took a spot next to Yardley. The other six weaved through the crowd, Quade lagging behind, grinning to each guest as though trying to schmooze the judging panel.
“They are, in no particular order, Jenna Hart, Flora Fairchild, Keller Landry, Faith Fairchild, Jaime Gutierrez”—the pet store guy—“Candy Kane . . .” The redhead’s name drew a few laughs. “And Quade,” Yardley continued when the laughter died out. “Give them a round of applause.”
The hoots coming from my father, who usually remained subdued, were over the top. Even so, pride swelled within me. My mother, may she rest in peace, had been the artist in the family, but she’d taught me that art came from the heart, and in order to be an artist, one had to paint with abandon and not judge what ended up on the canvas. In all my creative ventures, I’d tried to follow her lead.
“Enjoy the remainder of the festivities,” Yardley said, “and feel free to chat with the artists.”
Over the course of the next half hour, at least ten guests told me how much they’d enjoyed my work. Another twenty offered congratulations.
When I was alone, Rhett sidled over to me and brushed a finger across my forehead. “You look worried. About the weather?”
“No.” I told him about Naomi running off and Z.Z.’s son having gone in search. He’d come up empty.
“Do you have her phone number?”
“Good idea.” I tried calling her, but she didn’t answer. “Do you mind if we go to the concierge and ask about the man with the mustache?”
Rhett offered his arm. “I’m all yours.”
In the lobby we approached a cheerful woman in the inn’s green uniform, standing at the concierge’s podium. Her name tag read Ginny.
I described the man. She said she was pretty sure he was a guest, but she didn’t know his name. He hadn’t asked for directions or reservations so far. Then I asked about Naomi, describing her.
She pointed. “I saw her heading out the front door, valet ticket in hand.”
“The man I described didn’t accost her?”
“No, ma’am. Not that I saw.”
Rhett rubbed my shoulder. “There you go. She must have dri
ven home.”
I breathed easier.
At eight, as Hannah and Destiny were wrapping up the wine tasting, Rhett and I helped Yardley and the others move the art into the communal room, and then we called it a night and headed back to the house.
On the drive, as the clouds opened up and rain poured down in sheets, I checked my cell phone for messages. I’d received a text from Naomi. Sorry I ran off. Had to tend to Nina. Relieved that she was okay, I made a mental note to phone her in the morning to touch base.
When we arrived, we found Tigger and Rook asleep in the bed I’d bought for Rook. Tigger didn’t like storms.
Rhett slung his arm around me and kissed the side of my head. “One big happy family,” he whispered. “Did you eat anything at the party?”
“Barely.”
“Want me to rustle up something?”
“You bet I do.”
Rhett was an incredible chef. In less than a half hour, right after the quickie storm had passed, we were dining on shrimp tossed in a remoulade sauce, toast points topped with avocado and crisp bacon, and a selection of cheese and jams. Divine.
Just past eleven, as I was in bed drifting off in Rhett’s arms, my cell phone rang. I wriggled from his grasp and grabbed the phone off the bedside table. Yardley’s name was illuminated on the screen, and my stomach plummeted. I stabbed Send. “Hello?”
“Did I wake you?” she rasped, out of breath.
“No,” I lied. “What’s up? Is everything okay? Is Naomi—”
“I’m not calling about her. It’s . . .” Yardley sucked back a sob. “It’s Quade. He’s dead.”
“Dead!”
“In his cabana at the inn.”
His cabana? I was puzzled. He was staying at the inn?
Wining and Dying Page 4
