Wined and Died: A Home Crafting Mystery

by Cricket McRae.

  If she wasn’t the therapist, she might know who the person on the tape was. On the other hand, the receipt could have come from anywhere. Maybe it had nothing to do with the case.

  Case? Now why did I have to go and think that?

  No, Sophie Mae. No case.

  _____

  Barr leaned back in his chair and patted his stomach. “That dinner was delicious.”

  “Yeah,” Erin said, and reached for another helping of mashed potatoes. At almost twelve years old, her ire was blessedly short lived.

  I smiled. “There’s carrot cake for dessert.”

  She returned the spoonful of potatoes to the serving bowl before it reached her plate. “With cream cheese frosting?”

  I nodded.

  “Yum!”

  We were sitting around the butcher-block table in the kitchen amidst the ruins of a beef roast, mashed potatoes, and green beans. Pedestrian comfort food but good stuff. Brodie, Erin’s old Pembroke Welsh corgi, lay with his head on her foot, angling for a tidbit.

  “Can I eat my cake in my bedroom?” Erin asked.

  “May I eat my cake in my bedroom,” I corrected.

  “Fine by me.” She grinned.

  “Smart aleck. Why?”

  “History project’s due at the end of the week.”

  “Well, don’t make a habit of it.”

  “Okay.” She took her plate to the sink while I cut a piece of cake. She left, and I slid back into my seat.

  As soon as I heard music coming from her room, I leaned over the table toward Barr and whispered, “I need to talk to you.”

  “Can it wait? I need to go back to the office for a while.”

  I sat back. “You got a call?”

  “No, nothing like that. Just have to catch up on a few things. I assumed you’d be working tonight anyway.”

  My lip quirked in regret. “Well, for a little while at least. I’m sorry I’ve been so busy lately. My new employee starts tomorrow. In just a few days we’ll have more time together in the evenings, I promise.”

  In the beginning, Barr’s work schedule had strained our relationship. Then the department had hired another detective, dramatically decreasing his overtime hours. Seven months into our marriage, a prime business opportunity had been dumped in my lap: a regional chain of natural food stores had decided to carry my entire line of Winding Road Bath Products. So just when the slow season should have been on the horizon, I was working like crazy to fill all their new orders in addition to those of my regular wholesale clients and Internet retail customers.

  I smiled at my husband. “Hard to complain about business being good.”

  Barr blinked. “What? Oh. Of course. I don’t mind.” Not exactly what a new bride wants to hear, but I didn’t think it was personal.

  “You seem distracted lately.”

  He pushed his chair back and stood. “Work stuff.”

  “That’s vague.” I reached for the carrot cake and a plate. “How much do you want?” At least I could find out if any therapists had contacted the department about violent clients while Barr had his dessert.

  But he shook his head. “None for me. I’m full.” And he turned and walked out of the kitchen.

  Oh, dear. Barr Ambrose had just turned down my carrot cake. Not good.

  Not good at all.

  With Barr gone and Erin working away on her history project, I tried to put the tapes out of my mind and busy myself with processing Winding Road Internet orders from the last few days. But it was slow going since I kept staring at the computer screen and running the therapist’s words over and over in my mind.

  She’d mentioned warning the Swenson family. I didn’t know any of them that well, but they owned the Grendel Meadery located northeast of Cadyville. I’d tasted their honey wine a few times in local restaurants but had never purchased a bottle. Quentin Swenson was the pharmacist at Kringle’s Drugs. I knew him from the few prescriptions he’d filled for us over the years: bald, pasty, with an endless supply of cheerful yet meaningless chatter to ease the minds of the potentially ill folks he served on a daily basis. I knew his wife, Iris, better. She was a quilter and a new member of the recently reformed Cadyville Regional Artists Cooperative, or CRAC.

  And another Swenson managed A Fine Body, the local wine shop. He’d helped me select wine for Meghan’s birthday party a couple years before. I couldn’t remember his name, but I certainly remembered the effect of his intense good looks on my solar plexus.

  Ahem. That was before I’d met Barr, of course.

  I thought there were a couple sisters, too, probably with different last names now. And there had been an article in the Cadyville Eye a while back about them. I ran an online search of the newspaper archives and found it. Nothing scandalous: over three years ago Grendel Meadery had successfully expanded into the international market. Which turned out to be Canada, specifically British Columbia, only a hundred miles or so north. The rest of the article went on to talk about how popular their mead was with the Canucks.

  Booorring.

  The Grendel website played hard on the Beowulf theme, gave a bit of information about mead, and served as a sales portal for shipping retail all over the United States and into Canada. It mentioned that it was a family-run business, but offered no details about the Swensons themselves.

  I took a break and went up to check on Erin. She’d finished her homework for the night and was in bed reading. I gave her a goodnight hug and went in the kitchen. Forking carrot cake into my mouth with one hand, I looked up Swenson in the phone book. Dorothy, Glenwood, Quentin, and Willa were listed.

  Back downstairs I drank tea and processed orders for another half an hour, until the front door opened and closed above. After a few moments, it became obvious Barr wasn’t coming downstairs. He used to always announce his arrival home, but lately he’d been distant, standoffish. I tried to quash the icky feeling that thought gave me and quickly turned off my computer. The orders could darn well wait.

  The bedside lamp in Erin’s room was still on, but she’d fallen asleep. Brodie lay sprawled on his back on the quilt. His eyes opened to glittering slits when I walked in, then squeezed closed. I scratched his belly, turned off the light, checked the door locks, and headed up to our apartment.

  _____

  “Do you know what this is?” I stood in our bedroom doorway and held up the cassette marked 42R.

  From the bed, Barr glanced up at me over the top of his laptop screen. “None of your business?”

  I entered the room and tossed the tape on the bed, along with the player. “Absolutely. But you know what else?”

  He tapped a couple of keys and flipped the computer closed. The light from the bedside lamp accented a streak of gray at his temple and threw his curly chest hair into stark relief. Sexy, despite his obvious exhaustion.

  “Do tell.” He patted the mattress beside him.

  I moved to perch on the side of the bed. “It’s a psychotherapist’s notes about her client sessions.”

  His lips twitched. “So they’re really not any of your business.”

  I wiggled across him to my side of the bed and propped myself against the headboard. He reached for the recorder.

  “Wait.”

  His hand froze.

  “You’ve got to hear this.”

  “Nuh-uh.” His chin swung back and forth. “No.” But he withdrew his hand.

  “Oh, hush. I tried to tell you about this before you left for the station. Just listen.” I pushed play.

  Barr sighed. Gave me a look. But his eyes narrowed in concentration as he listened to the short recording. When it was over, he asked, “Is that it?”

  “That’s it.”

  “And …”

  “And someone said they were going to kill someone and make it look like an accident. This therapist must have reported it. Do you remember anything like that?”

  His head tipped to one side. “No one contacted us about this.”

  “Are you sure? M
aybe a cadet or patrolman took the report.”

  “Possible murder? Robin and I would both have heard immediately.” Robin being Detective Robin Lane.

  “Uh-oh,” I said.

  “Any idea who this therapist is? The one talking on the tape?”

  “I found a receipt with the name Elizabeth Moser at the bottom of the box, but she’s not listed in the yellow pages. The only listing is residential.”

  The laptop opened again. His tongue crept out to his lower lip as his fingers danced across the keyboard. Clickety click. “She has a website.”

  Right. Who needed the yellow pages anymore? I snuggled closer to get a better look. Sure enough, Elizabeth Moser’s website revealed her as Cadyville’s newest and most innovative psychotherapist. Lots of testimonials attested to that, and Elizabeth herself went on and on about it. Yet there didn’t seem to be any specifics regarding why she was considered—or considered herself

  to be—particularly innovative. Mostly, she just seemed new to the game.

  Her face smiled out from the corner of the web page, sincere and helpful and surely no older than forty. Light brown hair streaked with blond and parted in the middle fell to her shoulders. Brown eyes. Freckles. A small gap between her front teeth.

  “Looks like she works out of the old Blackwell house over on Sixth Street,” he said. “Do you have a pen?”

  Dutifully, I wrote down the phone number he recited. “First thing tomorrow I’ll give her a call and get these back to her.”

  “Guess I’m out the four dollars.” Actual regret in his voice.

  “Buck up. I’ll buy you some brand-new tapes for your little toy here.”

  “Mmmph.”

  I shrugged and rolled off the bed. “Maybe I can find out whether she really considered this Swenson character to be a threat to someone.” I slipped into a pair of sleeping shorts and a T-shirt.

  “You’re going to tell her you listened to the tapes.” It wasn’t a question.

  “We’ll see.”

  “She did sound like she planned to contact the department. Maybe it turned out to be a misunderstanding.”

  “Maybe. I’ll be right back.”

  Down the hall, I washed my face and brushed my teeth. After listening to the tapes, I felt a kind of camaraderie with Elizabeth. That quake in her voice. She sounded so scared. What kind of misunderstanding created that kind of fear?

  Back in the bedroom I crawled under the sheet and Barr turned out the light and wrapped his lanky form around me. Elizabeth Moser’s voice followed me into my dreams.

  _____

  At eight o’clock the next morning Erin was on her way to school, red notebook sticking out of her backpack, and Barr was tucking into a second helping of Dutch baby. I’d awakened with a sense of anticipation, knowing soon I’d be talking with Elizabeth Moser. I hoped she wouldn’t be too upset that I’d listened to the tapes. Of course, it wasn’t my fault she’d donated them to Granny’s Attic.

  In fact, I’d listened to 42R several times that morning already.

  I transcribed the words while Barr was in the shower, even though I knew what she’d said by heart. I’d also checked the other unmarked tapes to see if there was anything on them. Just in case. But they were blank.

  Glancing at the clock again, I asked Barr, “What time do you think she gets into the office?” I’d considered calling the number listed as her residence in the phone book but decided this was a professional matter.

  He gave a one-shouldered shrug. “Try her now.”

  That was all I needed. I grabbed the phone and punched in the number.

  “Blackwell Healing Center. How can I help you?”

  “Elizabeth Moser, please.”

  Silence.

  “Hello?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I’m sorry, but Ms. Moser is no longer here.”

  “In the Blackwell Building?”

  “Well, yes—”

  “So she’s moved?”

  “Not exactly, ma’am. I’m afraid she’s recently deceased.”

  “Were you a client?” the receptionist asked.

  “Um, no.” My heart was pounding so hard I could hardly hear her. I’d been listening to a dead woman on those tapes. “Can you tell me how she died?” I finally managed to stammer out.

  “It was a massive coronary.”

  “A heart attack?”

  Barr put down his fork and watched me, the cold pancake in front of him forgotten.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “When?”

  “It was about a month ago.”

  I was so flummoxed I didn’t know what else to ask. “Okay. Thank you.” Lame. “Goodbye.”

  “Goodbye, ma’am.”

  “Wait!”

  “Yes?”

  “What’s your name?”

  “My name?”

  “Yes. In case I have more questions.”

  “Bonnie Parr. I’m the receptionist for the four psychotherapists here.”

  “I see. Thank you again.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  I hung up and sat down at the table. “You heard?”

  “Elizabeth Moser is dead,” Barr said.

  “Uh-huh. Didn’t she look a little young to have a heart attack? In that picture on her website?”

  His shoulder rose and fell again—he looked utterly exhausted. “Maybe the picture isn’t current.”

  “I wonder when she recorded those notes. And why she didn’t contact the police like she said she was going to.”

  “Sophie Mae …”

  “Seriously. Maybe she was going to talk to you guys and then had a heart attack and died before she could give you the heads-up on a possible murder.”

  “No.”

  “Barr—”

  “Don’t do this.”

  “Maybe she had a chance to warn the Swensons, though. I wonder how I could find out?”

  He ran both palms over his face and sighed.

  The phone rang. I got up and answered it, still distracted.

  “What’s wrong, Sophie Mae?” It was Erin’s mother and our housemate, Meghan Bly.

  “What? Oh, hi.”

  “You sound funny. Is Erin okay?”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake. She’s fine. Stop being such a worrywart, will you?” I heard the snap in my tone. “Sorry. I ran into a little snafu this morning, is all. Are you and Kelly having a good time?”

  A pause as she no doubt considered whether to continue questioning me. She decided against it. “We’re having a great time. It’s crazy wonderful spending this much time together. And last night we went into New York for dinner, and he took me to Times Square. That’s why I wasn’t able to call until this morning.”

  “No problem.” I grinned to myself. My best friend sounded almost giddy. I wished to heck Kelly would move out to Cadyville so they could really be together.

  “What have you guys been up to?” she asked.

  “Er …” Elizabeth Moser’s tapes loomed large in my mind. I scrambled to come up with something else to talk about. “Um, my new helper starts this afternoon.”

  Meghan laughed. “You don’t sound too sure about that.”

  “Oh, I’m sure. Her name is Penny, and now that her kids are off

  at college she wants to go back to work part-time. Give her something to do and some extra money.”

  Silence.

  “Meghan?”

  “I know all that, Sophie Mae. I was there when you hired her.”

  “Oh, well, of course you were. I guess I’m so excited to have some help that I forgot.”

  “Sophie Mae.”

  “Yes?”

  “What’s going on?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Erin’s a better liar than that.”

  “There’s a lot happening right now, and I’m distracted with this new wholesale contract. Sorry if I repeated information you already knew, or if I seem flustered. I have to leave soon for Caladia Acres with a gift basket Tootie ordered. Ther
e’s a lady there who’s turning one hundred today.”

  “I’m sorry. Of course you’re busy. I just wanted to check in. I’ll call again tonight when Erin is there.”

  “Talk to you then. I’m glad you’re having such a good time. Say ‘hey’ to Kelly from Barr and me.”

  “Will do.”

  Punching off the cordless handset, I turned to find Barr watching me with an amused expression on his face.

  “What?” I asked.

  “You didn’t tell her about the tapes.”

  I flipped my hand in the air. “Nothing to tell, at least not yet.”

  “At least not yet,” he repeated.

  “You are going to look into this, aren’t you?” I asked. “Detectives have to follow-up on murder threats, right?”

  “If there was one.”

  “You heard it!”

  “That’s not a murder threat. That’s a psychotherapist making verbal notes about a patient.”

  “A patient who said he … she? … was going to kill someone. Same thing.”

  He shook his head. “It’s not the same thing at all. It’s hearsay. The tape could never be used as evidence.”

  I sank into a chair. “And Elizabeth Moser is dead, so she can’t support it.”

  “Bingo.”

  “But what if someone gets hurt?”

  “I’m sorry, hon. We’re working on getting some serious bad guys right now. I’m way too busy to investigate the fantasies of a lunatic.” He stood and stretched, his fingertips brushing the ceiling. Then he stooped, and I tipped my head back so he could plant a nice big smacker on my lips. At least we weren’t to the goodbye-peck-on-the-cheek stage of the marriage yet.

  “How do you know it’s a lunatic?” I hoped he wasn’t referring to me.

  “Because nobody in their right mind would tell a therapist they were going to kill someone. Elizabeth Moser must have decided the threat was empty, or she would have filed a report with us.” He tossed the last words over his shoulder as he exited the kitchen, the box of tapes under his arm.