Photograph by Kevin Brookfield
About the Author
Cricket McRae’s interest in traditional colonial skills is reflected in her contemporary Home Crafting Mysteries. Set in the Pacific Northwest, they feature everything from soap making to food preservation, spinning to cheese making. For recipes and more information about Cricket, go to her website, www.cricketmcrae.com, or her blog, www.hearthcricket.com.
Wined and Died: A Home Crafting Mystery © 2011 by Cricket McRae.
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First e-book edition © 2011
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Acknowledgments
Thanks once more to family and friends who encourage me at every stage of creating a novel. Special thanks to Kevin for putting up with me as deadlines approach and for setting up a cozy place in his recording studio where I can escape. My writing buddies Mark and Bob are consistently on my side while at the same time keeping me in line. The folks in various writing organizations—Sisters in Crime, Mystery Writers of America, and Northern Colorado Writers—provide more inspiration than they know. And I’m so grateful for the skilled support of the team at Midnight Ink: Terri Bischoff, Connie Hill, Lisa Novak, Courtney Colton, and Donna Burch.
Amy Lockwood and Bob Binckes introduced me to their homemade mead fermented with champagne yeast. If it weren’t for them I’d never have known honey wine could be so crisp and dry. Dr. Jane Bock, writer and forensic botanist extraordinaire, offered advice on herbs and wild and poisonous plants. Jenny Luper at the Redstone Meadery in Boulder, Colorado showed me how a meadery functions and answered myriad questions with patience and expertise. Paul Slaughter provided vital information regarding the ins and outs of a psychotherapy practice. As always, I take full blame for anything I got wrong.
In vino veritas
(in wine is truth)
—Pliny, the Elder
“Sophie Mae, what does it mean to know someone in the biblical sense?”
Erin’s question caught me mid-swallow. I snorted and spluttered while waving back Barr’s attempt to rescue me from death by vanilla latte. Finally I managed to stop coughing long enough to say, “What ?”
My housemate’s eleven-year-old daughter sat back on the sofa and considered me with gray eyes that were far too wise in her elfin face. “Wow. It must be good.”
I reached for a tissue and dabbed at my eyes. “Where did you hear that?” Somehow I doubted the outdated phrase had suddenly become part of the normal sixth-grade vernacular.
She opened her mouth. Hesitated. Closed it.
Alarm bells clanged in my head. “Erin, what have you been up to?”
“It’s okay. You don’t have to tell me. I’ll just look it up on the Internet.” She stood.
“No!” Who knew what sites searching the phrase “to know in the biblical sense” would take her to, whatever parental control software was on her computer.
Erin stopped. Smiled. Waited.
I waffled, mentally scrambling for what to tell her.
Barr had moved over by the fireplace and watched our little exchange with an amused curve to his lips. Now he weighed in. “It means to have sex.”
Her face fell. “Oh. Is that all? I thought it might be something interesting.” She turned toward the hallway that led to her bedroom.
“Not so fast.” I cleared my throat and sipped my latte, savoring the sweet, tepid liquid. Barr and Erin had stopped at Beans R Us on the way home from school and picked up my favorite. “I still want to know where you heard it.”
Barr was right. I’d overreacted when she’d asked the question, but the little imp had so smoothly sidestepped my question that my curiosity now insisted on an answer. An answer that would no doubt be just as boring as the one she’d just heard from Barr. I hoped.
She sighed and flopped back down on the sofa. “It was on one of the tapes.”
My face squinched in confusion. “Tapes?”
“The ones Barr got at Granny’s Attic on Sunday. There’s a lady talking about someone who knows a bunch of people in the biblical sense.”
Ohmygod.
_____
Two days earlier I’d agreed to take a break from filling orders for Winding Road Bath Products and get out of the house for the afternoon. It was a rare sunny spring Saturday in Cadyville. First a brisk bike ride along the path by the river, then lunch at the River Otter Diner, followed by a search for the perfect bargain at Granny’s Attic Thrift.
My housemate, Meghan Bly, was spending the week in New Jersey with her long-distance beau, and my new husband and I had taken over responsibility for her daughter while she was on vacation.
At the thrift store Barr had discovered a cardboard box filled with a dozen or so mini-cassettes. I’d peered inside. “You’re kidding, right?”
Barr glanced up at me. “Remember the Morton case the judge threw out because the department’s digital recorder didn’t catch the whole confession?”
“Yeah …”
“That won’t happen again. Ever since then, I’ve used the department’s recorder plus my personal cassette recorder. Getting harder to find this size of tape anymore, though. These look to be in good shape. I’ll just record over them.”
I left him to it. Barr was one of two detectives on the tiny Cadyville police force. That particular case had involved a drug dealer at the local high school. The guy had gotten off with a stern talking to instead of the deserved jail time. No wonder he wanted those tapes.
I hadn’t thought about it again.
Until now.
_____
“Where are they?” I asked Erin.
She looked out the window at the light mist smudging the afternoon air. Mumbled something.
“Excuse me?”
“In my room.”
“Bug, those aren’t yours. They’re for Barr’s work. You had no right to take them, forget actually listening to th
em.” I stood.
Practically leaping to her feet, she said, “I’ll get them.”
Nuh-uh. Too cooperative. I followed her to her room.
Erin was a great kid, and honest, too. But she was also smart as the dickens, and growing increasingly bored by school. Meghan had been considering the middle school counselor’s suggestion that Erin skip a grade, but questioned whether it would be beneficial in the long run. In the meantime, we encouraged Erin to develop interests outside of her usual schoolwork. So far she’d tried playing the guitar, learning tennis, and studying for Junior Jeopardy. Nothing had stuck.
When Barr and I got married, we renovated the house I had shared with Meghan and Erin for several years. Now there was a tiny, top floor apartment for us newlyweds, and new bedrooms on the main floor for the Bly girls. I followed Erin down the short hallway to hers. Gone were the puffy purple comforter and pile of stuffed animals that had populated her childhood bed for years, replaced by the expanse of a log cabin quilt in shades of blue that her great-grandmother had given her. The walls and ceiling were the palest indigo. Built-in bookshelves and shadow boxes displaying her considerable collection of bookmarks had replaced pastel prints of kittens and puppies.
Her desk overlooked the backyard gardens and chicken pen. The cardboard box sat on the chair, Barr’s mini-cassette recorder on top. She handed it to me without meeting my eyes.
I ejected the tape from the recorder and turned it over. 36B was handwritten on the label in pencil. Not a bra size, I hoped. I counted eleven tapes in the box. The first one had no label at all. Neither did the next one. Then I found one marked 42R. Huh. The others were blank, until I dug out the last tape: 228T. What were these things?
“Did you listen to all of them?” I asked, arranging the cases so they all faced the same way.
“Most of them don’t have anything on them. The one you took out of the player was the first one with someone talking. I didn’t get to the other ones with the numbers and letters on them.” She didn’t sound happy to have missed out, either.
I looked up to see Erin eyeing the box. “What possessed you to listen to these in the first place?”
She shrugged. “I thought they might have ideas.”
Oh, Lord. “Ideas for what?”
“For my book.”
“Your book.”
A nod. “I’ve decided to write a book.” She pointed to a red spiral notebook on the desk. “I’m taking lots of notes.”
“What kind of a book?”
“That’s what I’m trying to figure out.” The duh was implied.
“Well, if anyone can do it, you can. But those tapes are out. You’ll just have to get ideas like everyone else.”
“How’s that?”
“Using your powers of observation,” I said. Even I could detect the lofty note in my voice. Like I knew how to write a book.
“That’s what I was doing.” Sullen.
“Yes. Well.” Not much more I could say to that. Thing was, I didn’t want her “observing” anything inappropriate for a tween girl.
“But—”
“No buts. You should be doing your homework.”
She glared at me.
“Don’t give me a hard time just because your mom isn’t here.”
“Fine.” She turned her back to me and started jerking books and papers out of her backpack.
As I passed by Barr in the living room on my way up to our digs, I hissed at him. “I thought you took these upstairs.”
“I left them in the entryway so I’d be sure to take them to work with me.” Utterly unapologetic.
I stopped at the foot of the stairs. “Then why didn’t you?”
“Didn’t see them.”
“Right.”
“Probably because they’d already migrated to the Bug’s room.”
Oh. “Good point.”
Upstairs in our tidy sitting room, I considered the small tape player. Why would anyone talk about their sex life on tape? And what else had Erin heard? The thought made me cringe.
Nothing to do but find out for myself. I grabbed the three marked cases and Barr’s recorder and headed down to my basement workroom.
The fragrance of meat slowly braising in the oven tantalized my senses as I made my way through the kitchen and down the narrow wooden staircase. In my workroom, I placed the box of tapes on the main work island and went to take stock of my outstanding orders as well as my current inventory. It looked like bath melts would be the best bet for this work session. They were simple to make so I could multitask without fear of messing up some delicate process, and quick, so I wouldn’t be too long.
After gathering the ingredients and equipment to make the melts, I popped cassette 36B—the one Erin had been listening to—into the player. I pushed play and began to measure hazelnut expeller oil and mango butter into a stockpot.
Sure enough, a woman on the tape began speaking about recent acts of sexual congress. But I detected air quotes around the phrase “known in the biblical sense,” and paused in my work to listen more closely.
“I advised the client that Internet dating was probably a bad idea for someone who is a self-professed sex addict,” the woman’s voice continued in a wry tone.
Great. Meghan would love that her daughter had listened to this. Maybe I should forget to mention Erin’s mild foray into smut—at least while Meghan was gone. If she found out later, I could deal with it then. Old news is weak news.
But “client”? These weren’t true confessions. Sure enough, as I listened, it soon became clear these were a therapist’s verbal notes. Notes about a very private client session. How on earth had they turned up at the thrift store? I should just stop, call the therapist, and arrange to get the tapes back to her.
Except I didn’t know who she was. And my guilt over what Erin might have heard overrode my guilt about invading a therapy client’s privacy. I had a vested interest in Erin’s well being, and that trumped an unidentified voice talking about people I didn’t even know.
With growing relief I listened to the remaining comments about the sex addict. The therapist was short on detail and long on possible treatment options. None of it was graphic enough for me to worry about Erin’s tender sensibilities—or her mother’s. As I mixed citric acid and baking soda together in a two-gallon tub, the voice stopped and the tape whirred on, silent. I removed it and replaced it in the tiny plastic case.
Eyed the second tape.
I shouldn’t. I really shouldn’t. But what if Erin had fudged the truth? What if she’d listened to more than one?
228T was a minefield of vicarious pain relayed in the dispassionate monotone of a woman trying to figure out how to help her clients. First there were the notes about the strained relationship between two jealous sisters.
“Despite weekly sessions, I have yet to convince these women that since their mother died last year, continued competition for her affection is pointless.”
I set out row upon row of molds and filled them with the salt mixture while learning the doctor’s thoughts on how to treat a depressed teenager.
“The parents are urging medication, but the depression stems from his weight issues. I dislike treating the symptoms with drugs when the root of the problem is so evident.”
As I listened, a hollow feeling settled into the pit of my stomach. Any curiosity or titillation had vanished. I had to admit that I liked the therapist’s practical approach. As I poured the scented oils over the salt mixture in the molds, she began talking about a recent widower’s grief.
“Seeking out professional help to get through the admittedly horrific processing of such a loss is admirable. He seems to be willing to let time do its job.”
As someone who had suffered a similar loss, I knew exactly what she meant. I continued to fill the molds to the top as the voice spoke of a woman’s debilitating terror of dogs and a man who’d recently been diagnosed with terminal cancer.
Finally it was over. It didn’t seem lik
e Erin could have stumbled into anything but the sadness of other people. That was enough, but manageable.
One left. 42R. In for a penny, in for a pound.
The woman’s shaking voice blared from the tiny speaker. Fear had displaced her earlier dispassion. I slid onto a stool, chin on one hand, listening hard.
“Today the client informed me murder is the only viable solution.”
My hand crept over my lips, and I felt my eyes go wide.
“Murder made to look like an accident or natural causes, so no suspicion will arise and no investigation will ensue. I cannot tell whether client is serious or pulling my chain like before. It doesn’t matter. I can’t take the chance. I explained that I’d have to adhere to the Statement of Understanding we agreed upon at the beginning of our sessions. That I’ll be contacting the police. I think I’d better call the members of the Swenson family and warn them against one of their own, as well.” A pause. The next words were lower but oozed stress. “The client didn’t like it when I stated my intention to contact the authorities. Laughed at me for taking it seriously, and then slammed out the door, saying I’d regret it if I told anyone about our session. I need to talk to one of my colleagues about this.”
Then, silence.
I waited.
Nothing. I sped through the tape, checking, straining to hear something that wasn’t there.
I rewound it. Listened again. Confirmed that I’d heard right.
Murder.
Okay, wait a minute, Sophie Mae. The therapist said she’d contact the authorities and warn the victim. There was no reason to get all het up about it.
It had nothing to do with me.
Glancing at the clock, I was shocked to find how much time had gone by. Quickly, I finished pouring the last dozen bath melts and cleaned up. As I began to stack the cassettes back in their cardboard box, I spied something white against the brown cardboard. A thin strip of paper.
A debit card receipt, it turned out, printed in faded blue ink. And at the bottom: Thank you for shopping with us, Elizabeth Moser.
Up in the kitchen I put potatoes on to boil and dug the phone book out of its drawer. Elizabeth Moser was listed. She lived on Avenue A, not too far away. Was she the therapist on the tape? It didn’t say in the phone book, just gave her name. I flipped to the yellow pages. No Elizabeth Moser under either Physicians or Psychotherapists.
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