Murder at the Fortune Teller's Table

by Janet Finsilver

  She took the plastic wrap off of mine as I held it. “Please, this can go on the living room table.”

  I nodded and headed in that direction, Martha and Mary behind me, passing a couple of kids going the other direction in the hallway dressed in what my mom would call their Sunday best. In the parlor, Adrasteia stood at the table where Auntie and Summer had been found. The Book of Secrets lay open on it. Off to my right, a long table held even more food. A rich mixture of aromas spread through the parlor.

  “Welcome,” Adrasteia said. “I know Despina is pleased all of you were able to come.”

  “We’re glad to be here,” Mary replied. “And I was so happy to hear about the Book of Secrets being returned to the family.”

  “It is back where it belongs.” She turned to me. “My sister and I thank you again for finding it for us.”

  “I’m happy I saw it and knew what it was. Despina probably helped me to be at the right place at the right time.”

  Adrasteia gestured at the book. “We do not share our formulas or our spells with people not of the immediate family.”

  Spells? Was there more to Auntie than we knew? Phil had hinted as much.

  Adrasteia continued on. “However, there is much more in it. The back shows the owners of the book and their family lineage. Many people here are related or know people in the old country, and we wanted them to have a chance to see it.”

  I peered at the open back cover. The handwriting varied from generation to generation. Some entries flowed with circles and loops; others were traced with spidery lines. One had bold, dark print that stood out from the others. I moved aside as an elderly man with a cane came up next to me and bent down low to be able to read the book.

  Adrasteia said, “There is room on the coffee table for your offering.”

  I carried the cheese platter into the living room and set it down at the designated place. Martha and Mary came with me. The photos that had been on the table had been grouped on one side. People of all ages filled the room, and all of the couches and chairs were in use.

  A woman carrying a tray with shot glasses on it approached the three of us. She held it out. Red liquid glimmered in the glasses, and a pile of biscotti cookies sat on a plate in the center.

  A voice at my elbow said, “One of the traditions.”

  I turned to find Phil.

  “The glasses contain wine. You dip the biscotti into the wine and eat it. The biscotti are plain, with a touch of anise.”

  He proceeded to demonstrate as he took a glass, put the end of the long pastry in the liquid, and ate the piece he had dipped into the glass. The three of us followed suit. The softened biscotti dissolved in my mouth, the red wine masking any of its flavor.

  Phil immersed part of his cookie again. “Depending on the family’s tradition, sometimes they serve bourbon.”

  The shot glasses held only enough wine for three tastes. We put the glasses down and wandered around the room, looking at the photographs on the walls. Despina as a young girl, arm in arm with a young man on her wedding day, one of the same man in military clothes . . . one after another, the photos provided a visual history.

  Phil stood next to me and pointed to the last one. “That was Despina’s husband. He died in the war. They had no children.”

  A new row started with the picture I’d seen earlier of her holding the Book of Secrets, with her sisters on either side. A number of other photos of people of various ages reminded me of our family pictures with aunts, uncles, and cousins.

  I gazed around the room. There was warmth in the smiles and quiet voices. A sense of positiveness and good feeling pervaded the room. An occasional flash of sadness could be seen, but the gathering was more a celebration, a sharing and remembering of happy times. Because of the sisters’ belief that Despina’s spirit remained with us for forty days after her death, it was an opportunity to be with her a final time. I didn’t understand much of what was said because the majority of it was in Greek.

  “Let’s go back to the parlor,” Mary said. “I’d like to try some of the food people brought.”

  I went along with the others. If a table could talk—and maybe in this house it could—this one would be groaning. Every inch was occupied by bowls, platters, and dishes. People came and went, helping themselves to a spoonful of this and a helping of that.

  Fotini now stood next to the book, and her sister watched over the table, taking away empty containers and adding new offerings. I guessed one of the sisters would be guarding the book at all times, both to protect their secrets and to be sure nothing happened to their family heirloom again.

  Adrasteia addressed the group. “Please, everyone, eat. You have all brought such lovely food to share. There’s more in the kitchen. You’re welcome to go in there as well. Thank you for your generosity.”

  I saw something that looked like stuffed leaves. “Phil, you’re the expert here. Can you tell me what that is”—I pointed to the dish I’d been examining—“and some of the other things?”

  “With pleasure.” He looked at the food I’d indicated. “Those are dolmas, grape leaves usually stuffed with ground lamb and spices. The dish next to them is moussaka; the main ingredients are eggplant and ground beef topped with cheese.”

  I thought I could name what was next to the moussaka. “That looks like macaroni and cheese.”

  Phil looked at me with an expression of feigned indignation. “That is Greek pastichio!” Then he laughed. “Yes, macaroni and cheese. It often has meat in it, but this one doesn’t.”

  We got plates and filled them. I loved events where I could have a sampling of many different foods, most, if not all of them, home-cooked. I’d take a potluck over a fancy meal in a restaurant any day. We found a corner and began tasting.

  As I ate, I realized I’d have to leave soon to get to the festival. “Mary, I’ll be leaving shortly. Can you take my cheese platter home with you, and I’ll pick it up later?”

  “Sure, honey. Happy to do it,” she replied.

  I took a bite of a dolma and glanced around the room.

  I froze.

  What on earth was Anthony doing here? What connection could he have with Auntie?

  Anthony came over to the table and filled a plate with food, a somber look on his face.

  I decided I’d see if I could find out why he was here.

  I walked up next to him and added another spoonful of moussaka to my plate. “Hi, Anthony. I didn’t realize you knew Auntie.”

  “I did. We’d been . . . working on a project together.” He stabbed a dolma with his fork and lifted it onto his plate.

  How far could I push this? He hadn’t volunteered what they were doing together and had sounded hesitant to share. Well, polite wasn’t important where finding a murderer was concerned.

  “What was the project?”

  Blunt, but if he answered, it might lead somewhere.

  “It’s something I’d rather not talk about.”

  Okay. No new path there. A safer topic then.

  “Are you working the event today?”

  “Yes. I can only stay a little while.”

  “Same here. There’s a nice picture of Auntie over in the shrine you might like to see.”

  “Yes, I would. Where is it?”

  He followed me over to the corner of the room, where Auntie’s photo resided in the shrine.

  Anthony looked at the portrait, sadness filling his eyes. “Auntie was a good woman, and she had so much wisdom. She was of the old country but willing to work with new ideas. She was a very special person.”

  I nodded and waited. Maybe he’d say something more.

  His hands clenched. “I’m responsible for her death and Summer’s.”

  Chapter 27

  I just about choked on the bite of moussaka I’d taken. “How so?” “A lot of the homeless people I work with have drug problems. I was trying to find a way to shift them off their addictions. Hemlock has been used for medicinal purposes for centuri
es. It’s a sedative and antispasmodic. Auntie and I were trying to find something of a homeopathic nature to help them. Also, some of my hospice patients wanted alternatives to what they were taking.”

  “So Auntie was using hemlock in her formulas?”

  “Yes, at my urging. I went out and picked it for her.” He shook his head. “I wish I’d never brought it into her life.”

  “Did she ever make something you actually gave to someone?”

  “No. She was getting close, gathering a lot of information, looking at results online. She was way savvier about the Internet than anyone knew. Not a techie, but she was always looking for ways to learn more and connect with others. We hadn’t been working together long, but I took her to a couple of computer classes.” He gazed at her picture, then turned his head away. “I wish I’d never asked for her help.”

  “Anthony, you don’t know you’re responsible for their deaths.”

  He turned back to her photo. “I believe I am. She wasn’t working with hemlock until we talked. It does look like other herbs, and she was beginning to have problems with her sight.” Anthony balled his fists. “I wish, I wish, I wish.”

  On one hand, I felt for him. On the other, he was still on the list for having a reason to murder Auntie, Summer, and Martha to keep Diane and Ken’s marriage from being disclosed. He’d introduced hemlock into Auntie’s home. He knew it was there and where it was. She trusted him. He could’ve laced the tea with it.

  I lightly touched his arm. “I’m sorry, Anthony.”

  “So many times in life you wish you could go back and change something.” He shook his head again. “It doesn’t work that way.”

  I looked at my watch. “I need to go. I have to get to the festival.”

  “I do too,” he said and turned away from the shrine. “Maybe I’ll see you later at Wine and Flowers.”

  “Maybe.”

  I said good-bye to Phil, Mary, and Martha and thanked the sisters for having me. I went to my Jeep and headed for the inn, wondering what Anthony’s role was in all of this.

  I entered the work area.

  Helen was packing up the treats she’d made for the event. “They’re almost ready to go.”

  “Okay. I’m going to change and head to the botanical gardens. I have the first shift at one.”

  “Did you and the Sentinels have fun at Corrigan’s place?”

  “Did we ever. Fabulous food and lots of fun naming llamas.”

  Helen laughed. “Sounds like there’s a story there. I look forward to hearing about it sometime.”

  “Are you going to make it to Wine and Flowers?”

  “Yes. I’m taking Tommy and Allie. We plan on going to Phil’s dance lesson at two-thirty.”

  “I’ll see you there.”

  Once in my rooms, I changed into tan slacks and a white blouse. I chose a lightweight navy nylon jacket with the company logo and REDWOOD COVE BED-AND-BREAKFAST embroidered on one shoulder. I picked up the manila envelope stuffed with brochures I’d prepared earlier and went to load the car with Helen’s brownies. She had packed them in boxes with a generous supply of napkins. They went in my Jeep, along with a small cart.

  I drove to the gardens and parked in the vendor lot, unpacked, and began to walk toward the designated area. On my previous visit, I’d been sidetracked by the attack and hadn’t made it to the site, but I’d gotten close enough that I felt comfortable I’d be able to find it.

  Tank and Anthony were standing with a group of men at the entrance to the visitors’ parking lot and appeared to be receiving instructions from a short man in a black cap. Cars started to pull in, and the group dispersed, I assumed to go to their designated areas. It was a relief knowing the two of them had an alibi for the attack on me. I wondered where Daisy was.

  I checked in at the counter in the visitors’ center and went out through the patio. Ken, Sue Ellen, Edie, and John were seated at the same table they’d been at after the attack on me. A sense of déjà vu was followed by a chill and goose bumps. I avoided eye contact and pulled my cart past them. My next memory flash of yesterday happened as I rounded the corner and viewed the plant version of Winnie the Pooh.

  I walked by the stationary animals, wishing they could talk and tell me what they’d seen yesterday. I shuddered as I passed the donkey’s sign and the empty space where he’d resided. I was glad Eeyore was stabled in the shed. I certainly hadn’t expected to take a wild ride in a donkey.

  The slow-moving creek, with its gently swirling water, looked benevolent, not the scene of my near drowning. A duck, with half a dozen yellow, furry balls of fluff following her, floated by.

  It was like nature’s way of saying, “Really? Something bad happened here? Are you sure you didn’t just imagine it?”

  I wished it wasn’t real, that it had never happened. I felt the vivid memories would be with me for a while.

  My area wasn’t far away. I left the scene and pushed the unpleasantness to the back of my mind. Rounding a corner and stepping into a sunny meadow filled with flowers and seeing Andy behind a table with mounds of cheese in front of him suddenly made that possible.

  He waved, and I walked over to him. An array of cheeses filled the tabletop. The colors ranged from blue-veined to bright orange to creamy white and were formed in wedges, mounds, and slices. Each had a handwritten label and short description.

  “Beautiful display, Andy.”

  “Thanks. I orchestrated it, but the farmers did the work of putting it together. Six places are represented. Their cheeses are all different, so they complement each other but don’t compete.”

  I looked at my watch. “I’d better get set up myself. They’ll be letting people in shortly.”

  “Catch you later,” Andy said.

  A few tables down, I saw Daniel’s tall frame, his shoulder-length ebony hair swinging gently as he moved along the table.

  “Hi!” I said and pulled my cart behind the display area.

  A crew had put up the tables in the morning, and a volunteer group for the inns had decorated with a blue-green cloth reminiscent of ocean colors. Several abalone shells acting as paperweights flashed their iridescent rainbows. Daniel had weighted down the Ridley House brochures with one and a list detailing the events in the area for the next two months with another. I’d been sent a copy of the activities and looked forward to hearing Daniel’s description of them. A rack had information for the other participating inns.

  We’d been told by the group who organized the display, Lodgings of Redwood Cove, that our pamphlets would be out all day. The people manning the booth would have theirs on the front of the table while they were there. I unpacked the treats and put out my brochures.

  Daniel took a brownie and bit into it. “Another fabulous Helen creation,” he said and took another bite.

  “She says her baking business is doing really well.”

  “It’s no surprise. Put her cooking skills together with her confectionary artwork, and it’s a winner. She’ll have a waiting list.”

  I spied a few people coming down the path and stopping to sample some cheese. “It appears Wine and Flowers is officially open.” A few tables down, Scott was talking with several people wearing vests designating them as volunteers. He glanced in my direction and waved. I waved back.

  The next hour went quickly, and I learned a lot as Daniel talked about the Crab Fest, the Mushroom Walk, and many other events. Being in a town dedicated to attracting tourists had some real pluses. I served treats and filled paper cups of water from a pitcher. A young man and woman came up and stepped behind the display. They greeted us and said they were the next shift.

  Each hour, different food was served by the people manning the table. I packed up what was left of ours and rolled the cart into the grass a few feet behind where we’d been standing.

  “Do you think it’s okay to leave this here for a while?” I asked Daniel.

  “Sure. It’s out of the way.”

  The man putting out pa
mphlets turned to me. “Definitely no problem for us.”

  “Thanks.”

  Daniel put our brochures in the two empty spaces in the rack created by the newcomers removing their information and putting it on display.

  “Are you going to see Phil?” Daniel asked.

  “I wouldn’t miss it. Do you know where his table is?”

  “I do. It’s in Sunflower Park. Follow me.”

  The stroll to our next destination was leisurely, as well as tasty. Local restaurants had samples of food from soups to entrées to desserts. Next to each food table was another one with local red and white wines. A musical group performed in each of the settings. A short walk on a path led to the next venue. Depending on the size of the area, six tables or a dozen might be set up.

  In one of the larger areas, the Silver Sentinels were spread out at various booths that matched their interests. Gertie was in a deep discussion with a woman at a table heaped with fresh vegetables, while Ivan and Rudy were under a restaurant’s banner that said THE BIG FISH.

  A sign saying SUNFLOWER PARK let us know we’d arrived at our destination. Phil and a woman manned a table on the far side. Several people with small pours in their wineglasses were in earnest conversation with Phil. Helen, Tommy, and Allie stood at the table next to them with what looked like mini burgers on paper plates.

  “What are those?” I asked when I reached them.

  “Pork sliders.” Tommy finished his in a larger than normal bite.

  Helen frowned. “Tommy, you know how to eat properly.”

  “Sorry, Mom. It’s just so good!”

  “You should try them,” Helen said. “The buns are freshly baked at the Redwood Cove Delectables restaurant.”

  Breakfast was a while back, and that sounded like a good idea. However, before I could get one, I heard a small band play a couple of notes of a song I recognized, “Never on Sunday.”

  Phil nodded in their direction, changed the jacket he’d been wearing for a brightly patterned vest, and joined them. The band began playing, and wild, wonderful Greek music filled the air. Phil went into motion, swirling his arms and tapping his feet. People gathered around him, clapping vigorously.