Wined and Died: A Home Crafting Mystery

by Cricket McRae.

  “Trying to figure out how I’m going to get all my work done.”

  “When’s Mom getting home?”

  I looked at my watch. “A couple hours.”

  “I’m going to take these eggs over to Mrs. Gray, then.”

  “Say hi to her from me.”

  Erin left by my workroom door. I watched her cross the alley and go into Mavis Gray’s backyard. Four more dollars in her pocket. I wondered how much money she’d squirreled away since the hens had started laying.

  So, still thinking hypothetically, once Cabot poisoned the mead that Quentin—and probably Elizabeth—drank, how did she get them to drink it?

  I pulled up Elizabeth’s website on my computer. Her freckled face smiled out at me as I called Barr. He actually answered his cell.

  “Hey, it’s me. Did you get the warrants?” I asked.

  “The one for the meadery, yes. The toxicology report came back positive for poison hemlock in Quentin’s system. The pictures you took at the meadery helped, and I don’t know if you noticed, but I also borrowed that book on poisonous plants. The judge signed off on it right away.”

  “How about the other one?”

  “There’s no certain link between Moser and Quentin Swenson. Even though I played the tape, the judge was on the fence. See, while the letters and numbers on the tapes seem to indicate dates, there’s no proof that it’s actually Elizabeth Moser speaking.”

  I stared at Elizabeth’s face as we spoke. Her voice and words were as clear in my mind as the first time I’d heard them. Who else would be saying those things about clients?

  “So I took the tape to the lab when I dropped off Victoria’s tea for analysis,” Barr said. “They’ll determine whether or not the recording has been altered, and then we can have a friend or relative identify the voice.”

  “But the tape would still be hearsay,” I said.

  “Right. Since Moser didn’t record the actual client session, and we don’t hear the client threaten a member of the Swenson family. We only hear the therapist relate what the client said. But we’re only talking about a warrant here, not an indictment. It should be enough to get us in the door now that Quentin Swenson’s death is a definite homicide. Especially since he died in much the same way Elizabeth Moser did.”

  My brain hurt as I tried to wrap it around the technicalities. “How long will it take?”

  “Depends on how quickly the lab works and how fast we can get an identification.” His voice lowered to a murmur. “Listen, I have to go now. The team is interrogating Grendel delivery drivers today, trying to figure out how Normal used the trucks to move marijuana. Wish us luck.”

  “Good luck, Detective Ambrose. I hope you nail the old son

  of a—”

  The door to the alley opened.

  “Well, anyway—good luck.”

  Erin came in as I was hanging up. “She sure does talk a lot.”

  I laughed. “Mrs. Gray is very social, is all.”

  She waved a five dollar bill. “She tipped me.”

  “Bug—”

  “Said it was for delivering the eggs to her door.”

  But I was distracted. The more I thought about that mead in Elizabeth’s closet, the more I wanted to make sure it was still there. Mrs. Deveaux had said the sister from Yakima had been coming up on the weekends, and today was Saturday. There wasn’t a lot left in the house; what if she planned to clear it all out?

  Upstairs, the front door opened and Meghan called, “Anybody home?”

  “Mom!” Erin flew up the steps.

  I found mother and daughter hugging in the foyer. With their dark curls and slight builds they looked like clones.

  Shuffling to join them, I said, “Welcome back! You’re early.”

  “Caught an earlier flight out of Chicago.” Meghan’s gray eyes narrowed over Erin’s shoulder. “What happened to your foot?”

  “Sophie Mae sprained her ankle,” Erin answered for me. “Running away from a big scary guy.”

  Meghan opened her mouth, but I cut her off. “And how do you know that?” I asked Erin.

  Her eyes opened wide, and she bit her bottom lip.

  I glanced up at Meghan then back at her daughter, who looked the picture of innocence. “In fact, there are a lot of things you seem to know that maybe you shouldn’t.”

  Blink blink.

  Meghan smiled.

  I didn’t. “Spill, you little imp.”

  She stubbed her toe into the ground. “Mom …”

  “Sounds to me like you have something to explain,” Meghan said, arching one perfect eyebrow.

  Erin’s sigh was long-winded and dramatic. “Heater vent.”

  “What?”

  “I can hear you talk in your bedroom through the heater vent. Always could. It’s just that you didn’t used to talk much when you were up there by yourself. And when you did, it wasn’t very interesting.”

  Meghan tried to stifle a laugh.

  Oh, good God. I closed my eyes and covered them with my hand. What all had she heard? Had she sneaked out of her bedroom and listened when we thought she was asleep? Here I was all worried about her hearing something inappropriate in Elizabeth Moser’s notes, and for all I knew she’d listened to Barr and me having sex.

  Not that we were that loud. Usually.

  Welcome home, Meghan.

  I lowered my hand to my mouth and met my housemate’s gaze. She started to giggle.

  Erin joined her. Such camaraderie between the generations.

  “You really think it’s funny?” I asked.

  Meghan sobered. “Might as well. Can’t do anything about it now. But maybe we should soundproof that vent somehow. In the meantime, young lady …” She looked down at her daughter’s upturned face. “You are expressly forbidden to listen at that vent. If you do, there will be some real trouble in it for you.”

  Erin pouted but nodded her agreement.

  While Meghan hauled her luggage in with Erin’s help, I went upstairs and dug a pair of loose sandals out of the closet. I’d been wearing my ducky slippers around the house, but now I needed something suitable for public consumption.

  Back in the foyer, Erin was tearing the wrapping off a box. She pulled out a bag of salt water taffy from New Jersey.

  “Cool! What else did you get me?”

  “Don’t get greedy,” Meghan said. “I’m saving the rest for your birthday tomorrow.”

  “I guess I can wait.”

  “Put those in the kitchen. You’re not eating them all at once.”

  “Okay.” The word was mangled by the piece of taffy already in her mouth.

  “I need to borrow your car,” I said, gathering my tote bag and holding out my hand for the keys. “Erin can help you unpack, and you guys can catch up.”

  Meghan’s eyebrows knotted. “Where do you need to be in such an all-fired hurry? And why do you need to drive my car?”

  “I bet she’s going to go investigate another murder,” Erin crowed, happy to out me.

  My housemate’s shoulders dropped, “oh, no” all over her face.

  “Your car is an automatic, so I can drive it with my bum ankle. I’m just going over to look at someone’s fiber stash.” It wasn’t exactly a lie, merely a little truth-fudging.

  Unsuccessful, though, because Meghan shook her head. “You’re not taking time out in the middle of the day for that. I could tell something was going on while I was gone.” She dropped the keys in my hand. “Be careful of your ankle. And don’t get hurt.”

  I gave her another quick hug. “Thanks.”

  As I limped out the door I heard her say, “Well, Bug, since you seem to know everything, you might as well fill me in.”

  _____

  Not sure which house Mrs. Deveaux lived in, I parked in front of Elizabeth’s, got out and stood in the middle of the sidewalk. It took nearly a minute for her to come out of the house on the right. Her short gray hair was even wilder than the last time I’d seen her.

 
; “Hello,” I said.

  “Mrs. Ambrose.” Sharp eyes flashed behind the tortoiseshell frames.

  “Do you happen to know if Elizabeth’s sister has disposed of the rest of her things?”

  Her head inclined a fraction. “Some of them.”

  “I suppose I should call her directly.”

  “No need. She’s inside.” And with that, Mrs. Charles Deveaux stomped back into her own house.

  Elizabeth’s front door was open a crack, and swung open at my touch. Voices drifted out from the rear bedroom.

  “Hello?”

  Ruth Black’s head popped around the door frame. “Sophie Mae! Come on in. Did you change your mind?”

  “Change my mind about what?”

  I followed her into the room I’d seen through the window and found the floor strewn with all manner of yarns and roving, silk “handkerchiefs” ready to spin, and a big blue vase with an elaborate bouquet of drop spindles jutting out of it.

  “About taking some of this lovely wool and cotton off of Jenna’s hands. Jenna Moser, this is Sophie Mae Ambrose. She’s the one who gave me your phone number.”

  Jenna looked an awful lot like the picture of Elizabeth Moser on her website. Deep frown lines at the sides of her mouth and smaller eyes, but definitely her sister.

  “Hi,” I said.

  Her head bobbed once, like a robin plucking a worm from the ground. “You were a friend of Elizabeth’s? I confess, I never understood her silly fascination with making yarn when you can simply buy it.”

  I glanced at Ruth, who was carefully avoiding my eye. “I’m afraid I never met your sister.”

  Jenna frowned.

  “Her neighbor happened to tell me you wanted to find someone to take this stuff, and I immediately thought of Ruth.”

  “One woman’s junk is another woman’s treasure,” Ruth said.

  The bottles of mead were still on the shelf in the closet.

  I continued. “The same neighbor told me you were in here. When do you think the house will go on the market?”

  Jenna gave me a knowing wink. “So that’s it. You’re interested in the house.”

  “Maybe,” I said.

  Ruth’s head whipped around, but she stayed quiet.

  “The realtor is listing it the first of the week. If you want to get a jump on the competition, give me your name now, and I’ll give you first right of refusal.”

  “Let me think about it,” I said, already thinking hard.

  The mead would likely be gone by the end of the day. Not only was it possibly the only evidence that Elizabeth had been murdered, but it could be downright dangerous. But I couldn’t just take it out of the house.

  Or could I? I made a decision.

  “Oh, look.” I pointed. “Mead. I love mead.”

  “What is it?” Jenna asked, craning her head to read the label.

  “Honey wine. I’ll be happy to take this off your hands. I’ll pay you, of course.”

  Ruth watched me. I could tell she knew something was up, but she didn’t say anything.

  Jenna fluttered her fingers dismissively. “Just take them.”

  Maybe she was trying to get on the good side of a potential home buyer, but I didn’t care. I carefully lifted each bottle with my fingertips and put them in my tote bag.

  “Sophie Mae,” Ruth said. “Did you notice that one of the bottles has been opened?”

  I gave her a hard look then peered inside my tote. “I believe you’re mistaken, Ruth.”

  Her eyebrows raised three millimeters but she didn’t protest, willing to play along for now. Bless her heart.

  “Okay, then. I just thought I’d drop by and see how things are going. Places to go and things to do now, though. Nice to meet you, Jenna.” I waved and sailed out the door, slowing to my recent halting limp as soon as I hit the living room.

  Ruth came up behind me and put her hand under my elbow, echoing the way I supported Tootie when we walked together. “You are going to tell me what that was all about,” she said once we were on the front walk.

  “The whole story,” I said. “Later. I promise.”

  “All right, then.” She let go of my arm, and I got into Meghan’s Volvo. “I’ll look forward to it.”

  _____

  I drove to the police station, steeling myself for a reprimand. I’d no doubt screwed up the chain of evidence on the mead, though that might be mitigated by Ruth as my witness. What choice did I have, though? Barr couldn’t get a search warrant before Jenna Moser threw the mead away—or worse, drank it. I’d considered telling her the whole story, but it seemed cruel to bring up the idea of her sister being murdered until there was some hard evidence to back me up. And even if I had told her the story, would it have changed the provenance of the honey wine? Should I have forced her to bring the mead to the station herself? Would she have?

  Too many nights with too little sleep. I couldn’t trust whether I’d made the right call or not.

  At least I’d handled the bottles very carefully, so the authorities could recover any fingerprints. Which might be a moot point because Elizabeth had been cremated and didn’t have any fingerprints anymore. Or fingers. But maybe she was in the system someplace. I could always hope.

  Barr wasn’t at the station. The multi-jurisdictional team must have been questioning truck drivers at another facility. I didn’t ask the cadet at the front counter, though, because I probably wasn’t supposed to know anything about the drug investigation.

  Great. Now what?

  “Sophie Mae?”

  I turned to find my husband’s partner, Detective Robin Lane, coming in the door. A state trooper followed close on her heels.

  “Thank God,” I said. “I need a favor.”

  She tossed her gorgeous mane of dark red hair. “I thought your husband was the guy you went to for favors.”

  No need to be snotty. “He’s not here. I need you to log in two pieces of potential evidence.”

  That got her attention. “Evidence of what?”

  “Of murder. You’re working with him on the Swenson homicide, aren’t you?”

  “Of course.”

  “And you found a bottle of mead next to Quentin’s body, which later contained poison hemlock, right?”

  Her face screwed up. “You sure seem to know an awful lot about the case.”

  I ignored her. “Well, these—” I pulled the bottles of mead out of my tote bag and set them on the counter. “—may also contain poison hemlock. In fact, Barr tried to get a search warrant for them this morning.”

  “So how do you happen to have them?” she asked, petite nostrils flaring.

  “I asked the owner for them. She gave them to me. In front of a witness. And I brought them straight here.”

  The state trooper had been listening in silence. Now she turned to him. Her voice took on a sexy undertone. “Give me a minute?”

  “Sure.” He said the word like it was an intimate sweet nothing.

  Oh, brother.

  She tipped her head to one side and considered me. “Why didn’t you wait for the warrant to come through?”

  “Because the judge wanted more evidence. Because the woman I think this stuff killed has a sister who was clearing out her house. If it’s evidence I didn’t want to lose it altogether, and I didn’t want anyone to get hurt if it contains a toxic substance.”

  She dialed her phone. “Barr, your wife is here. I think you should talk to her.” She handed her phone to me and said, “I’ll go get a couple evidence bags.”

  Robin agreed to take the mead to the crime lab. She wasn’t even cranky about it, a fact I put down to her recently falling in love. Give it three or four months and the old difficult Detective Lane would be back on the prowl.

  I just hoped she continued to prowl in Cadyville. She wasn’t the easiest person to take, but she was smart and effective. Barr and she had ironed out the kinks in their working relationship, and breaking in a new partner all over again would be a pain.
r />   Speaking of new partners, Penny had left a message on my voicemail saying she wouldn’t be able to come to work that afternoon. Something about a spur-of-the-moment, Saturday afternoon barbecue. She was kind enough to invite me to attend, though.

  All my worries about letting her go vanished with that message. In fact, I wasn’t going to wait one more second. Even though I rarely talked on my phone in the car, I hit the callback button as I drove. Five rings later, she picked up.

  “Hi, Sophie Mae! Will you be able to make our little party?”

  “I’m afraid not,” I said through gritted teeth. “See, Penny, I have a business to run. I have orders to fill.”

  “But it’s Saturday.”

  “Not in my world. In my world there are no Saturdays until the work is done, and then that Saturday may come on a Tuesday.”

  Silence on the other end of the line.

  “Penny, I’m very sorry, but I’m afraid we’re going to have to revisit our arrangement.” I chose my words carefully. “It’s not really working out that well for you, is it?”

  I heard a big whoosh of air. “Oh, honey, you are so clever to see that. I just didn’t know how to tell you, but I don’t have as much time as I thought I did.”

  No kidding.

  “Well, let’s go ahead and cancel your work schedule. That’ll free you up for the important things in your life.” Like tending to your adult son’s every whim.

  “That is so sweet of you to understand,” she said, completely missing my sarcasm.

  Just as well. Hiring Penny had been enough of a fiasco. No need to burn bridges.

  “You enjoy your barbecue now,” I said.

  “You’re sure you can’t come?”

  “Positive. Thanks anyway. I’ll send you a check for the time you put in this past week.”

  As I severed the connection with my erstwhile employee, I pulled into a parking spot across the street from the Blackwell Building. Still in the car, I speed-dialed Cyan Waters’ number.

  She picked right up. “Hey, Sophie Mae.”

  “Hey. How was prom?”

  “Like, awesome.”

  “Like, excellent.”

  “Did you need me to come in today?”

  Now that was an employee.