Wining and Dying

by Daryl Wood Gerber

  “It’s cool.” His Adam’s apple rose and fell.

  Z.Z. beamed. “He’s going to become an entrepreneur.”

  “Is that so?” My aunt smiled encouragingly. “Doing what?”

  Egan rubbed his chin with the back of his hand. “I’m thinking about becoming an artists representative.” With his shy demeanor, I couldn’t see that being a good fit for him, but perhaps with grooming, he could grow into the career.

  “Because the festival has inspired you?” I asked.

  “Uh-huh. I love art. All kinds.” His gaze darted evasively to the right. Did he hope he could escape this idle chatter and find people closer to his own age?

  “Ready to go?” Aunt Vera asked Z.Z. “I’m looking forward to learning which wine goes with a strawberry tart.”

  “I’m starved,” Z.Z. said.

  “Hon,” Jake said, “do you mind if I beg off? I’d like to go to the Pier for the shellfish tasting.”

  Z.Z. patted his arm. “Of course not. You’re not going to that unless you go alone.” She said to the group, “I’m allergic.”

  He bussed her cheek and bid us good night. Z.Z., my aunt, and Gran followed in his wake.

  “Bye, sweetie. Have fun,” Z.Z. said over her shoulder to her son.

  Egan lingered.

  “So, being an artists representative sounds interesting,” I said. “Faith Fairchild used to be one. She could give you some pointers. How are you as a salesman?”

  “I think I’ll be pretty good.”

  “Your mother does well with real estate.”

  “Yeah. Mom says . . .” Egan hesitated, studying the tips of his fingers.

  “What does she say?” I prompted.

  “Truth?” He met my gaze and jutted a hip. “Mom’s been driving me nuts the last few days. Always asking where I’m going and when I’ll be home.”

  Okay, I hadn’t been ready for that kind of honest share, although people often did this with me. My aunt said it was because I had an open face and came across as trustworthy. “It’s because she cares.”

  “She’s hovering. I’m feeling caged in.”

  “Have you told her?”

  “And break her heart?”

  “Your mother is one tough cookie,” I confided. “She can take criticism. If she’s crowding you, tell her you need some alone time.” Bailey had had to do the same with her mother a few years ago. Reluctantly, Lola had given her the space she’d needed. Now, the two of them were fast friends.

  “Actually, I took some alone time,” Egan said. “The other night. And . . .” He scratched the back of his neck, stalling.

  “Talk to me.”

  He winced. “I have to confess something.”

  The word confess caught me up. “Confess what?”

  “I was sleeping on the beach the night of the murder. I couldn’t stay at the house any longer. I slipped out the window.”

  “It must have been very cold and wet.”

  “Yeah, it was, but I didn’t mind. I’m mentioning this to you because I know you like Keller, and I know you’ve helped people on the wrong side of the law.” He guffawed. “That’s not what I meant. You’ve helped innocent people prove themselves innocent. Anyway, I know Keller said he was on the beach painting, and well, I saw him.”

  “Really? That’s wonderful.” I touched his shoulder. “You can be his alibi.”

  “Yeah, uh, no.” He inched backward. “Because if I say anything, I’ll hurt my mother’s feelings. She’ll think I’m ungrateful for the roof over my head.”

  “She’s not like that.” I grabbed both his arms. “Egan, you have to talk to the police. A man’s life is at stake.”

  He lowered his head. “Okay, I will.”

  As he shuffled away, hands plunged into the pockets of his oversized jacket, a feeling slithered up the back of my neck. Was he lying about seeing Keller? Why? To give himself an alibi? For—

  No. Egan was no killer. He was simply a young man trying to figure out his future without his mother hovering over him every step of the way. Right?

  Chapter 10

  Feeling hopeful that Keller would be exonerated once Cinnamon heard Egan’s account, I went to sleep with Tigger nestled on the bedspread by my feet and Rook curled on his dog bed next to the window.

  In the middle of the night, Rhett tiptoed into the room. I’d learned early in our relationship that he kept odd hours. At first, when he’d owned Bait and Switch Sporting Supply Store on the Pier, I was shocked to find that he woke at three a.m. so he could catch fresh fish to sell to restaurants or to give early-morning deep sea fishing tours. Now that he owned Intime, he kept quite the opposite hours. He came in sometime between two and three a.m. and crashed for six to eight hours.

  Rook yelped. Rhett shushed him.

  I stirred and turned onto my side, one eye open. “Hey,” I murmured.

  “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

  I patted the bed. “Come talk to me. Good night?”

  “Terrific.” He sat beside me. “Plenty of customers. Only a few snafus.”

  Rook padded to Rhett and settled onto his feet.

  “No fires?” I said, a tinge of panic in my tone. Fire was the fear of any restaurant owner, but more so for Rhett, who’d lost his job as a chef at the Grotto after an arsonist burned the place down.

  “None unless you count the shrimp flambéed with Pernod and garlic or the flambéed crêpes Suzette, all on the menu.” He kissed my temple. “How was your night?”

  I told him about Egan verifying Keller’s alibi.

  “That’s great,” he said. “It means you won’t need to investigate.” He swept a strand of hair off my face.

  “By the way, the wedding planner left a message. She’s found a few other locations that are available this summer, if we’re interested in seeing them.”

  “Absolutely. How about the end of next week? After all this hoopla with the festival dies down.”

  “Perfect.” I yawned. “Will you take Rook on a walk when you get up? There’s only so much game of chase Tigger can play with him.”

  “Sure will.” He kissed me on the lips. “Good night. Sleep tight.”

  • • •

  By nine a.m. Bailey and I were moving at full speed in the shop, Bailey setting out paintbrushes and disposable aprons while I distributed paper plates. I was perspiring profusely and grateful I’d worn a short-sleeve sweater and capris. Bailey had dressed in an adorable paint-splatter print dress. Tigger sat on his cat condo studying us. I could imagine his inner thoughts, Crazy ladies.

  “The kids are coming in less than a half hour,” I said. “What were we thinking scheduling this so early?”

  “We thought parents would appreciate having an early-morning event before the rest of the day got underway.” She stood, arms akimbo, staring at the crafts table. “What’s missing?”

  My aunt swept into the shop in a magenta caftan, her turban under one arm. “Jenna, dear, could I have a word—”

  “Not now, Aunt Vera. Sorry. We’re behind.”

  “Yoo-hoo!” Katie warbled as she emerged from the breezeway pushing a food cart. “Cookies are here! And lots of tubs of icing, all colors.”

  “Perfect,” I said. “Set them in the middle of the table.”

  “Sure thing, but before I do,” she said, “I have some news.” Her eyes were glistening with joy. “Keller is officially exonerated of killing Quade!”

  “Woo-hoo!” I shouted.

  “Hurrah!” Bailey cheered.

  “Z.Z.’s son Egan came forward,” Katie went on. “He was sleeping on the beach, it turns out, but it was so cold and damp and the full moon so glaring that he barely slept a wink, and he saw my adorable husband painting.”

  “Great news.” I did a mental jig, happy that Egan had followed through. Had he spoken to his mother, as well? If not, that was his next challenge.

  “What about the theft of Quade’s painting?” I asked.

  “So far, the police are taking Ke
ller’s word that he didn’t steal it. He’s so relieved that I was hoping he’d feel inspired to paint, but he’s not ready.”

  “He will be. Soon. Buck up.” I clasped her shoulders. “I’m sorry to cut your celebration short, but let’s get cracking for the cookie painting party.”

  “Right-o. Of course.”

  As Katie set the plate of cookies down, I oohed. “How cute. They’re shaped like miniature palettes and crayons.”

  Katie’s eyes gleamed with happiness, then her mouth turned down in a frown. “Hey, Vera. You promised me a reading.”

  My aunt had moved to the vintage table to prepare for tarot readings. She intended to offer one-card readings free to anyone who attended with a child. One-card readings went quickly. A client, or in this case a parent or guardian, would draw one card from the deck, and Aunt Vera would tell them something positive, no matter which card the person had chosen.

  “Come. Be my first.” Aunt Vera fanned the cards. “Pick one.”

  Katie skirted the food cart and selected a card.

  “Which one did you pull?” I asked as I set a cookie on each of the paper plates.

  “The High Priestess.”

  “Oh, good card,” I said. “You’re to listen to your intuition, and—”

  “Jenna, dear,” my aunt chided, her tone crisp. “I do the readings.”

  Uh-oh. Was she upset that I’d cut her off as she’d entered the shop? I tried not to worry about it. “Yes, ma’am. Have fun, Katie.”

  Within twenty minutes, parents, grandparents, and children started to arrive at the shop. The children made a beeline for the craft table. Bailey oversaw them as I pointed out the display table filled with cookie-themed cookbooks I’d set out for the adults, each artful yet fun. One of my favorites was The Cookie Companion: A Decorator’s Guide. The author was a true artist and an incredible resource for color matching and more. Another was The Complete Photo Guide to Cookie Decorating with over five hundred full-color instructional photos. Soon, I was going to attempt a batch on my own with no help from Katie.

  I spotted Naomi and her daughter Nina entering the shop trailing a woman with carrot-orange hair that matched her son’s. Naomi was dressed in a sunny yellow frock, belted at the waist. Nina was wearing a pale pink dress and party shoes.

  I crossed to them and said, “Welcome. What a nice surprise to see you.” Bending at the waist, I braced my hands on my knees and addressed Nina. “Do you want to paint?”

  “I can’t.”

  “She means she doesn’t know how to,” Naomi said. “We’re barely into crayons at this point.”

  “We have a crayon-shaped cookie, Nina,” I said and held out a hand. “Want to see?”

  Nina pressed her lips together. Naomi gave her a nudge. Guardedly, Nina put her hand in mine, and I guided her to the table.

  Seating her beside another girl, I said, “Bailey, give Nina a hand. She’s a beginner.”

  Bailey bent forward so she could meet Nina eye to eye. “I can help with that, young lady. I was a beginner once myself.”

  I turned back to Naomi. “How are you holding up?”

  “Honestly? I haven’t been able to sleep a wink. With Quade dead and Christopher out there. Lurking.”

  “You haven’t contacted him?”

  “No. I can’t. I . . .” She toyed with the belt of her dress. “Do you think it’s possible he killed Quade?”

  “Why would you think that?”

  “You said he was following me. Maybe he, like you, suspected Quade was Nina’s father, and he got jealous, but he needn’t have been because—” She jammed her fist against her mouth.

  “Because Christopher is the father,” I finished.

  Naomi bobbed her head. “I’m afraid of what he’ll do when he finds out. Will he try to take Nina away from me? Will he sue me in court? I can’t afford an attorney.”

  The door to the shop opened and Cinnamon Pritchett entered with Detective Appleby, both in uniform. My aunt approached them, doing her best not to kiss her beloved while he was on duty. “Help you?” she asked.

  Cinnamon said, “We’ve got this, Vera.”

  They weaved through the crowd of customers until they reached us. Appleby removed his hat. So did Cinnamon. She ignored me and faced Naomi.

  “Ma’am, you may have heard that the artist named Quade was murdered.”

  “Yes, Jenna told me. It’s so s-sad.” Naomi’s voice quavered.

  “You were seen outside his room at the inn that night.”

  I stiffened. Had Cinnamon specifically come into the shop after Naomi? How had she known she was here, or had she lucked upon her?

  “That’s not true,” Naomi said, her voice thin. “I wasn’t there. I was home. With my daughter.”

  “Ma’am, we found a scrap of paper, what appears to be the remnant of a note, on the floor of the crime scene. The initial N is on it. Did you enter the deceased’s cabana and leave a note?”

  “No!” Naomi turned to me for help.

  I said, “Chief—”

  Cinnamon held up a hand. “Back away, Jenna. Ma’am, I’d like you to come with me to the precinct.” She could be coldly officious when on duty. It was one of her worst traits.

  Appleby, looking as stony as a statue, kept mum.

  I gazed at my aunt, who was standing behind Cinnamon and Appleby, looking helplessly at me, hands splayed.

  Beyond her, I caught a glimpse of movement outside the shop. Christopher George, in a dark blue sweater over jeans, was standing beside a Mercedes in the parking lot, staring in the direction of the shop. The driver’s door was ajar. Had he steered the police in Naomi’s direction? Had he put the scrap of paper with the initial N in the crime scene? He pompously grazed his shoulders with his fingertips, and then pushed up his sleeves.

  Suddenly, I felt protective of Naomi. She was an innocent, doing her best to start over. Despite my conversation with Rhett about not needing to investigate, I knew at that moment that I would do whatever it took to help my new friend.

  “My daughter,” Naomi rasped.

  “She may come with us,” Cinnamon said. “We’ll have one of our people tend to her while you and I chat.”

  Chat. Yeah. Not. Cinnamon would grill her. I hoped Naomi wasn’t lying. Even if she weren’t, how could she prove her alibi if she’d been home alone with merely a three-year-old to vouch for her?

  Cinnamon and Appleby left with Naomi and Nina, and I went to the craft table, trying to quell my angst.

  I drew up short when I glimpsed the boy with carrot-orange hair dueling with Tigger using a paintbrush dipped in red icing. Tigger’s paws swiped left and right to fend off the attack.

  The animated exchange made me think of the crime scene. Were there any defensive wounds on Quade’s hand, or had he been too out of it to defend himself? Quade had texted Yardley that he hadn’t felt well. The text had ended with the name Naomi. Had she drugged him to make certain he couldn’t fight back and then killed him?

  • • •

  The cookie painting event was a success. We sold all of the cookbooks on the display table and a couple of children’s aprons, to boot. After Bailey and I cleaned up the mess and I washed Tigger’s feet within an inch of his fur, I dialed the precinct and asked for Cinnamon. She answered sweetly, which astonished me. Too often she sounded like she wanted to snap my head off.

  I started tentatively. “Um, I was calling—”

  “To find out if I’d released Naomi Genet.”

  “Yes.”

  “I did. It turned out the witness was not reliable.”

  “Who was the witness?” I asked, expecting her to say Christopher George.

  “A waitress at the inn. As it turned out, Miss Genet wasn’t the right height and she had the wrong hair. We did a lineup.”

  “A lineup!” I squawked. “You didn’t tell Naomi you were bringing her to the station for that. You invited her for a chat. You persuaded her to accompany you under false pretenses.”

&nbs
p; “Cool your heels, Jenna. To our surprise, the witness showed up at the same time.”

  “Uh-huh.” I grumbled loudly enough for her to hear. “What about the scrap of paper with the initial N on it?”

  “It turned out it wasn’t her handwriting.” Cinnamon chuckled. “Jenna, relax. Miss Genet is merrily on her way to Azure Park to take charge of the Art Institute display. Happy?”

  “Ecstatic.”

  She chortled again.

  “Since you’re in such a jovial mood,” I said, “would you answer one more question for me?”

  “No.”

  “C’mon. After all, I did help you solve the last murder in Crystal Cove.”

  “Jenna . . .” Cinnamon took a sip of something. “I mean this with all the love in my heart, back off.”

  “But—”

  “Keller is innocent. Exonerated.”

  “Yes, but I’m worried for Naomi. What if her husband thought Quade was the father of the child and—”

  “Hold it. What husband? She didn’t mention a husband.”

  Quickly, I filled her in about Naomi running away from Christopher Michael George and changing her name.

  “I know that guy,” Cinnamon said. “I’ve tuned in on one of his talks. He’s here? In town?”

  “Yup. I thought he might have been the one who’d witnessed Naomi outside Quade’s cabana.”

  I could hear the clacking of a keyboard. She was typing something.

  “He’s staying at the Crystal Cove Inn,” I added.

  “Got it. I’ll be in touch.”

  “Hold on!” I cried. “I want to ask another question. The wadded-up papers. What was on them?”

  “For criminy sake.”

  “Please,” I begged.

  “A few sketches.”

  “By Quade?”

  “By Naomi Genet. Of her daughter. Bye.”

  “Wait. Last one. Yardley Alks said Quade wasn’t feeling well. Did you check her cell phone records to corroborate that?”

  “Of course.”