Wining and Dying

by Daryl Wood Gerber

  A few more in the crowd oohed.

  “That’s it, folks. That’s all I’ve got to share, but I know the shop has set out lots of cookbooks helping you with these artistic tips.” She made a grand sweeping gesture with one hand. “Any questions?”

  She responded to a few and then ended the event.

  Enthusiastically, the attendees sprang to their feet and roamed the shop gathering cookbooks and more. For over an hour, Gran, Bailey, and I were busy ringing up sales.

  As the shop began to clear, I caught sight of the elderly woman in the purple dress chatting with Gran. She was going on and on about how wonderful Katie was and how adorable our shop was. Gran’s nose was twitching as mine had, and a notion niggled at the back of my brain. At the soiree on Monday night, I’d seen Christopher George brushing off his shoulders as the youngish woman had. He’d made the same gesture when spying on Naomi the day Cinnamon took her to the precinct. Did he have dandruff? Did he use a special shampoo to treat his ailment? Was it possible that I’d detected the scent of his shampoo at the crime scene?

  Bailey sidled up to me. “What’s caught your attention?”

  I explained.

  “Let’s check it out.”

  I frowned. “How?”

  “We’ll go to the Crystal Cove Inn. A double sawbuck might loosen a housekeeper’s tongue.”

  “As in a twenty-dollar bill? Who’s been binge-watching reruns of The Sopranos?” I joked.

  She raised a hand. “C’mon. You’ve picked up the scent of what might solve this murder.”

  I groaned at her pun.

  Bailey slung her arm through mine. “Ve-era!” she sang.

  My aunt had returned to the shop in the middle of Katie’s presentation. I hadn’t had time to ask her how it had gone with Deputy Appleby at lunch. She didn’t look forlorn, which was a good sign.

  “Jenna and I are going to grab a coffee,” Bailey said.

  “Why are you lying?” I whispered.

  “You don’t want her to worry, do you? Besides, it’s not a lie if we go to Latte Luck first.”

  I faltered, but I didn’t resist. Bailey could be a force.

  Minutes later, we purchased two lattes to go at the café, and then drove to the inn. Leaving our lattes in the car, I led the way to the concierge desk, my insides jittery from nerves, not from caffeine. Ginny with the perky smile was on duty.

  “Hi, Ginny,” I said. “We’re looking for a guest. Christopher George.”

  “I know who he is this time.” She beamed, pleased with herself. “But you missed him. He went to Azure Park.”

  “He’s staying in the main building, isn’t he?” I asked cagily.

  “Oh, no, ma’am. He’s secured one of the cabanas. Only the best for him.” She propped her elbows on her podium to lean closer. “At least, that’s what he likes to say.” She winked.

  “Only the best,” I echoed. “I’m going to show my friend the grounds, if that’s all right.”

  “Be my guest.”

  As I led Bailey through the foyer and out the double doors to the grassy expanse, she said, “I was here the other night.”

  “I know, silly, but I want to go to the cabanas.”

  We strode down the walkway, past the wing of rooms, and turned left toward the cabanas.

  “Jenna, look!” Bailey rasped. “Just as I’d hoped. A housekeeper. C’mon.”

  The forty-something woman, dressed in a green uniform of buttoned jacket, trousers, and sneakers, her hair tied in a bandana, was stocking a cart parked outside cabana three. The door to the unit was ajar.

  “Good day, Lucia,” Bailey said to the housekeeper, reading the woman’s name tag. “Could you help us?”

  “What do you need?” the housekeeper asked in a slight Eastern European accent.

  “Mr. George’s room. He forgot to give me the unit number.”

  “Two doors down. Seven.”

  “Thank you.”

  “But he’s not there.”

  “Oh, no, I missed him?” Bailey gasped dramatically, utilizing the acting lessons she’d taken in college. “He was supposed to give me a bottle of the shampoo he uses. He said he had two. Would you mind . . .”

  “I cannot.”

  Bailey had stowed the twenty-dollar bill in her pocket. She fetched it and pressed it to her chest. “Please. I have terrible dandruff.” She brushed her shoulders. “He vowed it would solve the problem.”

  The housekeeper glanced right and left before snatching the bill from Bailey. She let us in to Christopher George’s room. “One minute. No more.”

  “No more. Thank you!”

  Bailey entered first. I followed.

  “Nice digs,” she said, gazing at the expansive room.

  I whispered, “Unless you die in one.”

  She blanched.

  “Sorry,” I said. “No need for gallows humor.”

  The layout was similar to the cabana Quade had stayed in. The living room was well-appointed. There was an adjoining kitchen area and a door to the right, leading to what I presumed was the bedroom. Decorative pillows lay on the floor. There was a used coffee cup by the Keurig machine. The housekeeper hadn’t yet attended to the room.

  Bailey went into the bathroom first. I trailed her, knowing what we were doing was illegal and if caught, Cinnamon would slam us both in jail—simply to prove a point—but I needed answers. For Naomi’s sake. I inhaled, catching the scent of tar, and peered into the shower. No shampoo bottle.

  “Not in here,” I said.

  “Not on the shelf under the sink or in his toiletry or shaving kit.” Bailey swiveled, looking for other places it could be.

  “What kind of cologne does he use?” I asked.

  “Molton something. Never heard of it.”

  “Molton Brown Russian Leather?”

  “Mm-hm.”

  “David used that for a while. It sort of smells like rare books and horses.”

  That could have been the scent I’d picked up in Quade’s cabana, I supposed. I caught sight of the garbage can. Grabbing a tissue from a box on the counter, I gingerly pawed through the garbage, finding wads of paper, an abandoned crossword puzzle, and more. I scored when I discovered an empty bottle of Tara’s Tar shampoo at the bottom. “Gotcha!” I took a picture of it with my camera and pocketed the tissue. “Let’s go.”

  At the door, I halted as another thought occurred to me. Would Christopher George have had the opportunity to poison Quade earlier that day? Perhaps during a meeting about the forgeries? “Bailey, quick, look for a vial of arsenic.”

  “No!” She beckoned with her hand. “Let’s go.”

  “Please.”

  “What are you expecting to find? A bottle marked with crossbones? C’mon, Jenna. We came, we found, we conquered. We leave. Now.”

  She was right. I peeked out the door. The housekeeper named Lucia was nowhere in sight.

  As we were heading along the walkway to the lobby, I saw a man striding toward us. Not just any man. Christopher George. Heck, no! What happened to going to Azure Park? My heart hammered the inside of my chest.

  I said to Bailey, whose eyes were as wide as saucers, “Act cool.” I forced a phony smile. “Mr. George.”

  “Miss Hart,” he said. “What a surprise. And—” He gestured to Bailey.

  “Bailey. Bird. Martinez.” Her voice was thin and breathy. She fidgeted with the lace yoke of her sweater.

  “Christopher George,” he said in response. “What are you two doing here?”

  I said, “We came to see Sienna Brown.”

  He hooked his thumb over his shoulder. “She’s at the front desk. I just saw her. Why did you think she’d be out here?”

  “A housekeeper told us.”

  “Mm-hm.” His eyes narrowed and his mustache twitched with suspicion. “By the way, did you sic the police on me a second time, Jenna? I know you’re close to Naomi. I’ve seen you chatting with her. Often.” His steely gaze drilled into me. “At the park, at your sh
op, and on other occasions.”

  The hair at the base of my neck stood on end. How long had he been spying on Naomi? How long? I’d felt eyes on me at other times but didn’t want to acknowledge the sensation.

  “I’d like you to back off,” he said, his voice crisp.

  “Back off?” I asked innocently.

  “She doesn’t need you as a friend.”

  “I told you—”

  “Naomi is my wife. I will choose her friends.”

  Bailey inhaled sharply. She’d dated a man way back when who’d been just as overbearing.

  I stared down Christopher George. “Sir, forgive me, but I have it on good authority that Naomi doesn’t want you as a husband. Does she need to file for a restraining order? If I were you, I’d keep my distance.”

  “Do not tell me what to do.”

  “No, sir, I wouldn’t dare. But the court will.”

  Bailey edged closer to me. I could feel her fear, but I didn’t dare glance in her direction. This was between Christopher George and me. Plus, I worried that if I made eye contact with her, she might blab about our foray into his cabana.

  Christopher harrumphed and lifted his chin. “By the way, as for murdering that guy Quade . . . I didn’t do it. I have a rock-solid alibi.”

  “Oh, yeah? What is it?”

  “I was in my room here at the inn.”

  “Did you order room service?”

  “No.”

  “Any witnesses?”

  “No. I was watching CNN. Want me to tell you what they were discussing?” He smirked. “Or is it enough that I’ve already told the police?”

  Chapter 17

  To play out our lie of seeking Sienna, we stopped at the concierge’s desk and asked about her, but as it turned out, she was making rounds of the inn. I said I’d touch base with her another time, and we left.

  On the drive back to work, Bailey apologized repeatedly for coercing me to go to the inn. I told her I was glad we’d gleaned a clue I could share with Cinnamon—I’d have to figure how, of course, without incriminating the two of us—and I assured her I was fine with what had gone down.

  However, when we walked into the shop, I felt my energy take a dive, and Bailey sensed it.

  “Tea!” she said, taking my empty latte cup from me. “Coming right up.” She disappeared into the stockroom.

  My aunt approached. “Where have you been? You drove off. You don’t need a car to go to Latte Luck.”

  I confessed everything.

  She clasped my arm. “Jenna, dear, please don’t pursue this. Let Cinnamon do her job.”

  “Uh-huh,” I said dully, worried that I might have made things worse for Naomi.

  “Call Cinnamon. Tell her what you found.”

  My stomach clenched.

  “Tell her as much as you can.” She winked and stroked her phoenix amulet, encouraging me to follow her suggestion.

  “What happened between you and Deputy Appleby?” I asked, stalling.

  “That’ll keep. Go.” She gave me a gentle shove.

  I dialed Cinnamon and left a cryptic message, mentioning the tar shampoo angle without saying I’d found a discarded bottle of the shampoo in Christopher George’s trash. Then I took the tea that Bailey brought me and sat at the vintage table. As I fiddled with the jigsaw puzzle, sipping tea and fitting pieces of the cheeseboard into position, I thought about Naomi’s estranged husband. Would watching TV hold up as an alibi?

  A few minutes later, my aunt sat down at the table. “So . . .” she began, “Marlon does want to retire but not quite yet. Perhaps in two or three years, when the babies are older and might actually remember him.”

  “Did you convince him of that?”

  “No, he came upon the notion by himself.” She put a few of the wineglass pieces together. “Actually, he was miffed. He thought Cinnamon was pressuring him by bringing that new guy in for an interview. He went back after lunch to have a chat with her.”

  “Do you think she did it on purpose, to push his buttons? To force him to decide?”

  My aunt grinned. “I do, indeed. She is one smart cookie.”

  The afternoon sped by with customers coming and going in a steady stream. The most popular cookbook was The Modern Art Cookbook, which explored an array of artworks of food and eating, opening a window into the lives of artists like Matisse, Hockney, and Picasso in the kitchen. I’d set aside a copy for myself.

  By five thirty, after I put in an order for two dozen more of that particular cookbook, I prompted my aunt, Bailey, and Gran to finish up. We would close exactly at six so those of us attending specialty events could go home and freshen up.

  Tigger, looking as exhausted as I felt, was more than happy to settle in the house, and Rook was ecstatic to a point of collision that the cat had come home, skidding into the furniture as well as me. Rhett had texted me that he’d visited the dog around two, but even so, Rook acted as if he’d believed we’d abandoned him for good.

  I fed them both, took a shower, ending with a cold blast of water to wake me up, and then fixed my hair and makeup, slipped into my favorite black sheath and its jacket, added my mother’s heart-shaped locket and a pair of sexy sandals, and headed out. I couldn’t wait to see what Rhett had prepared at Intime for the Art of French Food event.

  Buena Vista Boulevard was bustling with good vibrations. Locals and tourists had crowded outside all the restaurants that were offering art festival prix fixe dinners. The strands of lights that the town had strung across the street from building to building cast a lovely glow. Numerous caricature artists had set up easels and chairs along the sidewalk. People were lined up for those opportunities, too.

  I entered Intime feeling light on my feet and totally in love with my community and Rhett, not necessarily in that order. Bailey and her mother, who had both dressed in jewel-necked silk rompers, were standing with my father, waiting to be seated.

  “There she is, Cary,” Lola exclaimed and rushed to give me a hug. “Don’t you look fabulous.”

  “As do you and your daughter.”

  “Can you believe it? We need to talk about wardrobe selections in the future so we don’t match.” She released me and grabbed my hand to lead me to my father and Bailey. “Rhett said it’ll be a minute. Look at the place. Brimming over with positivity.” Lowering her voice, she said, “You’d never know there had been a murder in town days ago.”

  I glimpsed Bailey. Had she mentioned to her mother and my father about our afternoon adventure? Should I prepare myself for one of Dad’s stern lectures?

  “Lola, thank you, by the way, for doing all you did for Keller. Katie is so relieved that he’s off the hook.”

  She smirked. “As if Keller would hurt a fly. However, I have to say that the evidence did not look good for a while. Be thankful Z.Z.’s son came forward.”

  “I am.” An image of Egan on the Pier Thursday night flashed in my mind. I hoped he wouldn’t break his mother’s heart.

  “Jenna,” Dad said, kissing my cheek. “How’s business?”

  “Super. The festival has to be one of the best attended events Crystal Cove has ever had.”

  “I’d say. Sienna Brown was telling me that the inn has sold out completely.”

  “Sienna?” I asked, a tremor in my tone. “Why were you chatting with her?”

  “She walked in right before us with a friend.”

  I scanned the restaurant and saw Sienna sitting at a table near the window. Like all the tables, hers was draped with a white tablecloth and set with a single white rose in a crystal vase and a small candle. Her dinner companion was about the same age, same build, with similar taste. They were admiring each other’s bracelets.

  “Aren’t the aromas heavenly, Jenna?” Bailey asked.

  “Divine.”

  As Rhett’s parents had for their restaurant in Napa Valley, he had chosen to make Intime resemble a classic French bistro, paneled with deep mahogany and mirrors hanging on all the walls to catch the reflection
of the light from the candelabra-style chandeliers. The strains of an instrumental version of “La Vie en Rose” played softly through speakers. The scent of onions and melted cheese and fresh-baked bread stirred my senses. I was hungry!

  Rhett, looking dapper in tan jacket and ecru shirt over chocolate brown slacks, strode from the kitchen to where we were standing and kissed my check. “Hello, beautiful.” His warm hand at the base of my spine sent a tingle of delight down to my toes.

  “Great turnout,” I said.

  “Wait until you see the carte de jour.”

  He grabbed specialty prix fixe menus and guided us to our table. “Here we are.” He seated me first. Lola sat opposite me, and Bailey and Dad flanked me. Handing us the elegantly printed menus, he said, “You have choices for each course. I’ll send our finest server over to take your beverage order. Enjoy the evening.”

  I loved how he spoke formally but warmly to his guests. He was in his element and it showed in his sparkling eyes.

  Our server arrived in less than a minute. My father asked her about a few of the chardonnays on the list. She said her favorite label was the Soberanes from the Santa Lucia Highlands. Its wine exhibited bright ripe fruits along with a rich, crisp finish. Dad ordered a bottle and four glasses.

  As I perused the menu, a woman’s laugh cut through the hushed tones. I swiveled to look for the source. Sienna’s friend was clasping a hand to her chest, roaring with clear abandon. She stopped abruptly as if realizing how loud she’d been and stifled an impish grin, then she leaned forward to inspect Sienna’s glimmering pendant.

  “That Sienna,” Lola said. “She’s interesting, don’t you think?”

  I turned back. “How so?”

  “She has such a rich history. Moving around the country as a navy brat, becoming a fine horsewoman and one of the top fencers in the country until she fizzled under the pressure.”

  She was a fencer? How fascinating. That meant she knew how to wield a sharp weapon.

  The server returned with our wine and uncorked it using a classic sommelier-style corkscrew. She poured a taste for my father, who deferred to Lola. She took a sip and approved.

  While the server poured, Lola continued, “And to top it off, Sienna never realized she was as wealthy as all get-out. Her mother, rest her soul, was superior at keeping a secret.”