Wining and Dying

by Daryl Wood Gerber

  “You said the doctor thought it might have been made by a purse,” Bailey sipped her wine.

  “Or a backpack.”

  “What about a shaving kit?” she asked. “Christopher George’s had two buckles on it.”

  “Good thought.”

  “How do you know that?” Katie glanced between us.

  “You don’t want to know,” I whispered conspiratorially, “or we’ll have to—” I stopped short, the words catching in my throat.

  “Christopher George is your main suspect?” Katie asked, missing my faux pas. She took a palette knife as Orah had demonstrated and scraped her paint to create the texturing for the background.

  “Yes.” I told them about the scent I’d detected when bathing Rook. “It smelled just like Tara’s Tar shampoo, the odor I’m sure I detected at the crime scene. Then there’s Sienna Brown,” I continued. “She entered the crime scene. She washed dishes. She might be pregnant with Quade’s child. Plus, she might have paid him hush money to keep the fact that she’s a petty thief quiet.”

  “No way. She’s a thief?” Katie gaped. “How’d you figure that out?”

  “Flora.”

  “Those Fairchild sisters sure do glean a lot of gossip.”

  I proceeded to tell them how Cinnamon hinted that Sienna’s alibi was in question.

  “Guilty,” Bailey whispered.

  “All right, everyone, listen up.” Orah explained how we should create the stems of the flowers. “Dripping is a technique. Gravity won’t cause the paint to run downward, but if you add a dab of water, like so”—she demonstrated on her canvas—“this is what happens. For these stems, we’ll start the drips in the middle and upper third of the canvas.”

  We each tried to follow her instructions. My drips came out pretty good. Katie muttered that hers looked like a five-year-old had done them.

  “Do you still suspect Naomi?” Bailey asked.

  I mentally reviewed the suspect-motive list I’d created. Because Naomi was a mother, a doting mother, I couldn’t see her as a killer. “I don’t think so.”

  Katie tucked a stray curly hair behind her ear. “Keller’s been driving me crazy wondering when Cinnamon will solve this case. He feels like she’ll change her mind and charge him.”

  “She won’t. Promise. But, you know, there’s something else that has been bugging me.” I told them about going to the pier for Watercolors and Wine the other night and seeing Egan Zeller giving money to that guy. “What if he and Quade had some kind of arrangement?”

  Bailey scoffed. “Okay, now you’re being ridiculous. Z.Z.’s son?”

  “Out of the blue, he gave an alibi for Keller. What if he was lying to create an alibi for himself?”

  Katie gripped my arm. “No! Shh! If he lied, then Keller won’t have a witness putting him on the beach that night. Please, don’t tell Cinnamon this theory. Please.”

  “Do you think Egan is dealing drugs?” Bailey asked. “Did Quade use drugs?”

  Katie moaned. “Stop.”

  “Egan said he wanted to become an artists representative,” I replied. “What if he had an agreement to represent Quade but came to realize Quade was dealing in forgeries? What if he’d already brokered a deal for one and worried that the deal could blow his entire future to smithereens?”

  Bailey said, “That doesn’t explain the exchange of money with the guy on the Pier.”

  “Stop!” Katie barked and covered her mouth, surprised at her outburst.

  Orah swooped up behind us and peeked over our shoulders. “Okay, ladies, I see you’ve got the backgrounds down and a couple of stems. Want to add a few more?”

  I winked at her. “Don’t rush us. Brilliance takes inspiration.”

  Orah giggled. “Good point, Jenna. Have a fun time. If you need help, let me know.” She sauntered to her canvas on the stage and resumed the lesson, this time showing how to form the underpinnings of the flower petals.

  “What about Destiny?” Bailey asked, moving on. “She dated Quade a while back. She was hounding him at the soiree the night he was killed.”

  “I don’t think she was hounding him,” I said. “She was trying to build up confidence to ask him out.”

  “And he rebuffed her. A woman scorned . . .” she said, echoing my words to Cinnamon about Sienna.

  Chapter 20

  I woke to the sound of church bells, Rook’s nose next to my face, and Tigger digging into the comforter by my feet. I rolled over to give Rhett a hug and was alarmed not to see him in bed. “Where is he, boy?” I asked Rook.

  The dog yawned.

  I slipped out of bed, threw on my silk robe, and padded to the kitchen. “Rhett!” I yelled.

  He didn’t answer. He wasn’t in the yard. I opened the front door and peered at the beach. I didn’t see him taking a walk. Panicking ever so slightly, I checked my cell phone.

  He’d sent a text message: Kitchen fire. Out. Safe. But have to deal with insurance adjuster.

  I responded: Why didn’t you call me?

  He replied: Didn’t want to wake you.

  Me: What was the issue?

  Him: Grease in the vent. Typical. Not a big deal. Love you.

  I replied in kind and made a pot of coffee, extra-strong. While it brewed, I gazed at the painting of flowers that I’d done at Palette. I’d set it on the red Ching two-door cabinet that held my art supplies. It was nice but not my best work. I wasn’t sure if I’d keep working on it or simply paint over it and start fresh. Inspiration wasn’t grabbing me, certainly not when I had to get to the shop. I’d agreed to open and tend the register by myself for the first two hours.

  After feeding the pets, drinking a cup of coffee, and downing a power shake made with bananas, strawberries, Greek yogurt, and protein powder, I tossed on a floral shift, ecru bolero cardigan, an imperial jaspar goddess bracelet that my aunt had given me to inspire serenity and strength, my jade-colored cross-body purse, and sassy sandals—I wanted to look my best at the finals presentation this afternoon. Then I switched on music for Rook, told him to be a good boy and avoid skunks, and drove with Tigger to work.

  As I was distributing cash into the slots of the register, my cell phone rang. Not Rhett. It was Harmony Bold, the wedding planner.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said without preamble. “I did not see your text about touching base with Destiny Dacourt regarding vineyard locations. I’m not sure how it escaped me.”

  “It’s okay. I’ve lost texts, too. It’s amazing these newfangled contraptions work at all. I saw her the other night and mentioned you’d be in touch.”

  Harmony chuckled. “You know, Destiny and I worked together before. She helped me land CC Vineyard for the Naylors. What an extravaganza that was!” The Naylors were one of the founding families of Crystal Cove in the 1850s. The town wasn’t officially established until the 1880s. Last December, their daughter had married the son of one of the other founding families. Talk of the upcoming nuptials had dominated the Crystal Cove Courier’s front page for weeks. “At the time, CC Vineyard was booked for two solid years, but miraculously a window of opportunity opened.”

  “If Destiny can pull those kinds of strings, then she’s got superpowers.”

  “I’ll call her this afternoon, or at the latest tomorrow. And I’ve got four sites, not two, for you and Rhett to see next weekend.”

  “Perfect.”

  A few minutes shy of eleven a.m., Gran scuttled in with her three adorable granddaughters. She always took Sundays off. Tigger scurried to greet them. All of them were dressed up. Gran, as she often did, was wearing a classic silk blouse and linen trousers. The girls were in party dresses. The youngest kept swishing the skirt of her dress to and fro. Tigger thought it was a game and pranced around her ankles.

  “Is everything okay, Jenna?” Gran asked.

  “Super. We’ve already had a dozen-plus customers, thanks to the festival traffic.”

  “Wonderful.”

  “I can’t wait to see the poster art f
inals,” the eldest granddaughter said.

  Gran squeezed the girl fondly. “She’s a budding artist. You should see her pen-and-ink drawings.”

  “That’s how I started,” I said. I had loved to sketch, and my mother had encouraged it, claiming sketching helped an artist learn perspective. “Bring your work in someday,” I added. “I’d love to see it.”

  “Um, okay,” she said shyly.

  “We’re going next door for tea before we head to Azure Park,” Gran said.

  I leaned down to meet the three girls, eye to eye. “Do you like chocolate?”

  They all nodded.

  “Then make sure Chef Katie brings you her famous chocolate scones, and if your grandma will allow it, a double-chocolate hot chocolate with chocolate-dusted whipped cream.”

  The youngest hopped from one foot to the other in anticipation. “Let’s go, Gran.”

  And off they went.

  Aunt Vera swept in, the train of her royal blue caftan wafting in her wake.

  “Aren’t you dressed up,” I said. “What’s the occasion?”

  “I thought I should dress for dinner in case we had a barrage of customers this afternoon.”

  Our family ate dinner together on Sundays whenever we could. The number of attendees varied. Tonight’s dinner would be at my father’s house. I couldn’t wait until Rhett and I hosted our first one. We agreed it would be after we’d taken our vows.

  “You look pretty,” she said, assessing my outfit. “Perfect for this afternoon’s ceremony.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I think Lola and your father will attend. I’m sorry I can’t be there.”

  I clasped her arm. “Knowing you’re there in spirit is enough for me. Trust me, I know I won’t win, but I’d like to place.”

  “Sweetheart, you made the finals. You’ve already placed.” She offered a supportive smile.

  For the next hour, we attended to business. Twice, customers requested to see Chef Katie to ask her a question about plating. She was more than happy to oblige. During a lull, I went to the kitchen and inquired whether she’d like to give some group lessons. It would be a way for her to boost her income. She said she’d consider it, but with Min-yi, she might not have time.

  At noon, I said to my aunt, “I’m off.”

  “Too-ra-loo!” she trilled.

  I strolled to Azure Park, drinking in the sunshine but aware that a bank of storm clouds loomed on the horizon. Tomorrow could get quite wet.

  When I arrived at the venue, I couldn’t believe the throngs passing beneath the arch of crisscrossed silver bars and ribbons. Moving slowly so I didn’t bump into anyone, I listened to the cheery chatter. One woman had found the perfect gift for her daughter-in-law. Another had learned how to refurbish her old bedroom furniture. A mother with a six- or seven-year-old child asked what the child’s favorite thing was so far. The answer: making origami.

  “Jenna,” Cinnamon said, drawing me to a halt in front of Holy Guacamole. She and Bucky each held a taco and a memento drink glass. Not wine. Cinnamon was in her uniform. So was Bucky. Neither would drink while on duty.

  “Lunch break?” I asked.

  “Catching a quick hour together. This week, it’s been hard to find time.”

  “Tell me about it.” I wondered if Rhett had gone home to sleep yet.

  “Then it’s back to the precinct. I’ve got a load of paperwork to finish. Hey, I viewed your artwork again.” Cinnamon hooked her thumb toward the south end of the park. “It’s quite good. Your father boasts about your talent, and I happen to agree.”

  I swelled with pride. “Thank you. A compliment from you means a lot.” I didn’t know why I craved her approval, but I did. I supposed it was because over the past few years we’d become friends; not to mention, my father had mentored her during her acting-out phase in high school—her father was out of the picture by then—which sort of made her family.

  “Good luck,” she said. “Hope you win.”

  “I won’t, but it’s nice to be included in the finals. By the way, did you find whoever attacked Naomi and Destiny?”

  “Not so far.”

  “And how’s the other—” I clipped off the rest of my thought.

  Cinnamon grimaced. A deep crease formed between her eyebrows. “The other investigation going?” she finished for me.

  “I didn’t—”

  She held up a hand. “Jenna, Jenna, Jenna, when will you understand that I want you to butt out?”

  “Never,” I said with a sly smile.

  “That’s the way.” Bucky gave me a thumbs-up. “Don’t let her bully you.”

  Cinnamon blew a raspberry and guided her beloved away.

  Pressing on, I passed many well-wishers before arriving at the Art Institute booth. Yardley was supervising while three judges, two elderly men and a middle-aged woman, each pinned with an official ribbon, examined the art. Yardley, though petite, appeared commanding in her tailored knee-length white dress, hands folded in front of her and shoulders squared.

  The female judge, who sported thick-rimmed glasses, was standing with her nose inches from my painting. The thin redheaded man was using a photograph loupe to examine the finer points of Keller’s work. The other man, the chief judge I presumed, given his age and officious bearing, was talking on his cell phone. He ended the call, snapped his fingers, and signaled to the others that it was time to make a determination. Quickly, the three of them huddled beyond the easels.

  Someone tapped me on the shoulder. I turned and smiled when I saw Naomi, pretty in pink—well, almost pretty. She’d done what she could to cover her bruise with makeup, but the square imprint was still evident.

  I clasped her elbow. “How are you feeling? Should you be up and about?” I searched for Christopher George in the crowd but didn’t see him.

  “I wouldn’t have missed this for the world. Chief Pritchett was just here. I don’t think she likes me very much.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “She kept staring at me and whispering to her husband.”

  “She was probably as concerned as I am that you’re not in the hospital.”

  “I heard Destiny was hurt, too. She was released before I was. Did she describe”—Naomi worked her lip between her teeth—“who attacked her? Could it have been the same person?”

  “Destiny was as clueless as you, though she was pretty positive it was a man.”

  “Christopher,” Naomi said under her breath. “He—”

  “Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention!” Z.Z. Zeller announced through a microphone from the main stage. “Welcome to the final day of Crystal Cove’s fabulous Fifth Annual Art and Wine Festival.”

  Applause rang out from the crowd.

  “I’d like to direct your attention to the South Stage at the other end of the park. The judges are making their final decisions regarding the poster art competition, and in less than three minutes they will present their awards.”

  Wayne, the model of ease and grace in white shirt and gray linen pants, was chatting with Yardley and Sienna near the stage. Sienna, in contrast, looked like the wind had blown her to the event, her hair askew, the folds of her billowy floral dress twisted. Her tote, a heavy leather style, seemed to be the single thing anchoring her to the ground. Nearby, my father, Lola, and Bailey were huddled together with Katie, who had taken off work for two hours, her daughter Min-yi, and Keller. Katie gazed lovingly at her husband. He fidgeted from foot to foot. His mother Eleanor, standing on his right and clad in her Taste of Heaven uniform, put a firm hand on his shoulder to calm him.

  My cell phone buzzed in my purse. I pulled it out. Rhett had texted: I’m parking. Overslept alarm. Am I too late?

  I typed back: Moments to go.

  He responded: I’ll make it.

  “And after that,” Z.Z. continued, “we’ll announce the wine tasting awards on the East Stage.” She gestured to the other temporary stage. I couldn’t see through the crowd, but I imagined
Hannah, her husband Alan Baldini, and Destiny—if she’d been released from Mercy—and others were convening nearby.

  The judges climbed the steps to the temporary stage. A banner was slung across the front hyping the 5th Annual Art and Wine Festival Poster Competition Finals. A draped table holding three colored glass, swirl-style trophies stood beside the microphone.

  The officious judge stepped up to the microphone and tested it. It crackled, signaling that it was on. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said in a distinctly British accent, “it is my proud pleasure to introduce you to the finalists in the Poster Art Competition. Naomi Genet, winner of last year’s competition, would you please join us on stage? Give her a big hand, folks.”

  Naomi grabbed hold of my arm. “I can’t. Not looking like this.”

  “You look lovely,” I said, “and from a distance, no one will be able to see your bruise. Go! You deserve the recognition.”

  Courageously, she climbed the stairs to the stage.

  “Next, Yardley Alks,” the head judge continued. “Owner of the Art Institute. She has been instrumental in seeing that all of our artists—” He balked and turned to Yardley standing beside the stairs. “Forgive me, folks. My sincere apologies. Would you please join me for a moment of silence to honor one of the artists, Quade, who met with an untimely death this week?”

  In an instant the mass of people near the stage quieted. The judge allowed the silence for about thirty seconds and resumed.

  “Where was I? Oh, yes, Yardley Alks has been instrumental for this program. She oversaw it last year and then again this year. Thank you for all your hard work.”

  The audience applauded, and Yardley climbed up the stairs and stood next to Naomi.

  “I think we can all agree that the works this year were marvelous,” he said. “Over two hundred participants . . .” He droned on about the requirements to enter and the subsequent use of the winning work. He raved about Naomi’s art, which had been featured on this year’s poster. Finally, he said, “And now, without much ado”—he picked up a trophy from the table—“third place goes to . . .” He consulted a card. “To Faith Fairchild.”