He swung around and zeroed in on me. “No, the bird’s in its crate. I lost my gauntlet. Who are you?”
“It’s me, Jenna.”
“Sorry.” He fanned a hand. “The glow from the torchlights behind you obscured your features.”
The lights weren’t very bright. Maybe he was strung out with angst. Over the past year, before his mother passed away, he had come into the shop often to buy her gifts and knew me pretty well.
I said, “Alan, moments ago you were wearing your gauntlet. On the beach. Maybe you dropped it there, or maybe you put it down when you stowed your crow in its cage.”
“That’s my main glove. I’ve got that one. My backup one is missing. The last time I saw it was the day . . . the day . . .” Tears pooled in his eyes. He curbed them with a knuckle. “When you were there.”
The day Nick was murdered.
“Alan, keep calm,” I said, though I was feeling anything but calm. Had he worn the gauntlet so his fingerprints wouldn’t show on the winepress handle? Was he afraid the police would discover the glove with Nick’s blood on it? “I’m sure you’ll find it. Why did you ask Hannah if she’d seen it?”
“I thought maybe I’d dropped it in the vineyard or something. Her workmen might have—” His voice crackled with tension. “I don’t know.”
A customer approached Hannah.
As she dealt with the transaction, I said, “Alan, the day Nick died, Bailey and I heard you two arguing. Nick said it was a brotherly disagreement. I heard him yell, ‘Over my dead body.’ That made you so mad that you quit.”
Alan sagged. “I didn’t quit. I would never quit.”
Hmm. That was what Nick had said.
“Tell me about the quarrel, Alan.”
He glanced over his shoulder. Hannah was still involved with her customer. “I told Nick I was in love with someone and wanted to date her, and he got worried. He didn’t think I should ever marry because of . . . the accident.”
“You were hit by a lacrosse stick.”
“That’s right.”
“What did it do to you?”
“Gave me a swelled head.” Alan attempted a humorous smirk, but it made him look malicious. “In all seriousness, I used to get angry and have outbursts, and . . .” He worked his tongue inside his mouth. “And other stuff.”
Other stuff is certainly vague, I mused.
“The doctors can’t fix the problem,” he admitted.
“What do you do for the anger?”
“I take medicine. It helps. I haven’t lost my temper about anything in a long time.”
“Except at Nick.”
“That’s different. Brothers . . .” He flapped a hand, like Nick had. “Working with birds of prey helps. It gives me focus. That’s why I became a falconer. I own a lot of birds, but I primarily bring Crow to the fair.”
“That’s his name?” I said. “Crow?”
“Isn’t that utter nonsense?” Hannah rejoined the conversation. “Naming a bird Crow. Honestly, Alan.” She clucked her tongue with disdain, but her eyes sparkled with amusement as she greeted a pair of customers and guided them to the wine-tasting bar.
“What do you do at the vineyard, Alan?” I asked.
“I balance the books and pay bills and such. I’m good with numbers. The blow didn’t take that away from me. Although that won’t change things in regard to the trust.”
“What trust?”
“With Nick dead, everything goes into the Baldini Family Trust. Given my condition, my father didn’t think I was the best person to manage the estate long-term. Nick knows . . .” He faltered. “He knew that I didn’t have the brawn for physical work, so he put me in charge of bookkeeping. The foreman, Frank, and a few others do the heavy lifting. I suppose the trust will hire someone to take up where Nick left off. An attorney rang me, but I haven’t phoned him back.”
I mulled over that information for a moment. If he didn’t inherit outright, then he didn’t have a financial motive to want his brother dead, did he? “Alan, when we overheard you guys arguing, Nick threatened to reveal your history. Did he mean he’d tell the woman you had your eye on about your outbursts?”
“Sometimes Nick flew off the handle and said I was unsteady, but I’m not, and he knew it. Truthfully, I don’t think he approved of the, um . . .”
“Woman you fell in love with?” I asked.
“You’re in love, Alan?” Hannah asked, joining our conversation again.
“Yeah. I—”
“With whom?”
Alan scuffed his toe on the burlap carpet.
“Any woman would be lucky to have you,” Hannah said, her eyes twinkling with impishness.
Alan’s neck turned splotchy. He licked his lips self-consciously.
“Sorry,” Hannah said, clearly realizing she’d embarrassed him. “I’ve got to attend to another customer. I’ll be right back.”
Had Nick and Alan fallen for the same woman? Maybe Nick told Alan to back off because he wanted her for himself. Did that drive Alan wild with jealousy? No, despite my earlier musings, I couldn’t see him lashing out at his brother. He was docile and frail and downright sweet. After their set-to, he had coaxed his bird to taunt Nick with swooping antics. Would a killer do that?
I said, “The police said you pranked Nick that night by lacing the well with frogs.”
“Yeah, we were always goading each other.”
“Maybe he hid your missing glove,” I suggested.
“I hadn’t considered that.”
“Where did you find all the frogs that night?”
“I . . .” He faltered. “I bought them. At a pet store.” His eyelids fluttered. Was he lying? “When I was putting the frogs in the well, I saw Hannah in the field. She was on her property, but she could probably vouch for me.”
“Are you sure it was her?”
“Positive. I’d know her anywhere. Five eight. Slim figure. She was wearing black, but she always wears black. And she had on a broad-brimmed hat.”
“You saw all that in the dark?”
“Yeah, I’m good with shapes. Besides, she sneezed. She’s got allergies.” He shrugged. “I have to admit, wearing the floppy hat at night was sort of odd, but she can be goofy, you know?” His voice had a dreamy quality, and I suddenly understood why he had grown embarrassed a moment ago.
“Alan, are you in love with Hannah? Is that why you and Nick were going at it?”
He lowered his chin and didn’t respond.
“Are you lying about having seen her in the vineyard?”
“No way.”
“To give her an alibi?”
His mouth drew thin. “She was there. It was around six o’clock. She was sprinting. Her grandmother keeps her on a tight schedule. Ask her.”
I pivoted to do so, but Hannah had disappeared. So had the customer. I peered down the boardwalk and saw Sean Beaufort strolling toward his booth.
“Hey, Sean. Did you see Hannah Storm pass your way?”
He spun around, shielded his eyes from the torchlight, and shook his head.
When I turned back to address Alan, he had vanished, as well.
• • •
Later that night, settled at home for the evening, I threw together a quick meal of stir-fried shrimp—I often keep shrimp on hand in the freezer—artichoke hearts, baby tomatoes, chives from my miniature herb garden, and kalamata olives. In less than ten minutes, I was dining like royalty. Tigger finished munching kibble and quickly decided that the area between the kitchen table and the living room window was a racetrack. He darted back and forth a dozen or more times.
“What’s going on with you, kitty?”
All of a sudden, he became motionless. A statue. His nose twitched.
“What’s wrong?”
He eyeballed the living room window and hissed. He never hisses.
Heart pounding, I set my fork on my plate, muted the album of Judy Garland classics that I was listening to, flicked on the exterior lights tha
t my father had installed on the cottage a few months ago, and seized the poker from the fireplace tool set. I peered out the bay window and stiffened. A figure in black was dashing toward the ocean, away from the cottage. Alan said Hannah always wore black. Come to think of it, I couldn’t remember seeing her in any other color. The figure looked about the same size as her, but lots of people were about her size, including me. And lots of people wore black.
Even with the glow of exterior lights, I couldn’t nail down whether the figure was man or woman, and I sure as heck wasn’t going outside to find out.
Instead, I dashed to my cell phone and dialed 911.
Within two minutes, Marlon Appleby showed up at my door clad in street clothes—plaid shirt, jeans, and tennis shoes. His shirt wasn’t tucked in.
“That was fast, Deputy.”
“Let’s just say I was the closest responding policeman.”
I glanced past him. His Jeep was parked by my aunt’s house. Were they . . . ? Had they . . . ? I felt my cheeks flush.
“What’s up?” He scrubbed his five-o’clock shadow.
I filled him in.
Keeping calm—was he ever not calm?—he inspected the outside of the cottage. It took him a few minutes to complete the tour.
When he returned, he said he couldn’t make out any discernible footprints. “It was probably a beach bum or a peeping Tom. They’re usually harmless. Looking for food in the trash or searching for bottles they can recycle for cash. Lock up and go to sleep.”
“Yes, sir.”
He touched my shoulder. “If you need anything or have another fright, I’ll be right next door.”
Well, that answered my question. Yes, they were and they had. My cheeks burned hotter than I could have imagined.
Chapter 12
On Friday morning I ate a fruit-protein smoothie, fixed a button on my Maid Marian costume, donned the outfit as well as the garland—I was getting adept at sticking in hatpins—and hurried to the Cookbook Nook with Tigger. I wanted to make sure things were set up properly before I left for my pottery class with Rhett. Tina and Bailey had beaten me to the shop and were busy at the crafts table getting ready for the onslaught of kids who would be coming in for the watercolor painting class. Bailey was teaching it. A few months ago, on a balmy day off, I’d taught her the salt technique. She had taken to it like a pro.
Today, however, she wanted to concentrate on fairies because they fit the Renaissance Fair theme. She had preprinted drawings of fairies that the children could paint. Before the paint dried, the children could sprinkle on salt. When the art was finished, the salt would glimmer in certain light. Perfect for fairies’ wings, Bailey said. I suggested she put an array of our unique saltshakers near the table. Maybe parents would purchase one for their budding artists. We still had a couple of silver-plated guardian dragon saltshakers, three adorable wooden beer mug shakers, and a half dozen metal pheasant shakers. All of the thimble-style shakers with depictions of the Middle Ages had sold out the first day. I hadn’t considered purchasing any fairy-themed shakers and made a mental note to do so for our next Renaissance Fair event.
Needing a snack before I set to work, I joined Katie in the breezeway. She was putting out slim slices of room-temperature meat pie. The aroma was incredible.
I took one and mumbled between bites, “Yum. I really like the carrots, onions, and herbs. What are you calling this?”
Katie pointed to her handwritten sign: Heathen Cakes.
“Cake? But it’s pie.”
“It’s a long story, but the term cake comes from the old phrase ‘Let them eat cake,’ which really wasn’t referring to cake, as in a sweet confection, but to flat bread, or a poor man’s food. This pie is a peasant dish, hence the word cake ascribed to it.”
“Whatever the origin,” I said, “our customers will love it.”
“I hope so, and now I’m off to the fair,” she said. “Reynaldo will be in charge of the café.”
“How’s he working out?” I asked.
“Like a dream.”
“A very handsome dream.”
“Yes, he’s a bit distracting. Not to me. I’m in love with Keller. But the waitstaff is definitely googly-eyed about him.” She flapped the air. “I don’t care as long as he keeps turning out great food.” She strode to the front door. “Too-ra-loo.”
“Oh, no, you don’t, Katie,” my aunt cried. “You may not steal my line, you varlet.” She skirted around the sales counter but had to halt when the folds of her mauve caftan snagged on the corner.
Katie blew her a saucy kiss and exited. Aunt Vera pulled free and hurried after her.
I caught up to my aunt before she could depart. “Hold on a second.”
“What do you need, dear?”
We stood near the entrance. A customer passed us and nodded hello.
“I wanted to ask you about those tarot readings you gave to Alan and Hannah.”
“The first was to Hannah, the next to Alan. Actually the first was to Melody”—Aunt Vera used a finger to reorder the names—“but she ran off.”
“Right. Do you remember if Alan was hovering about, as if he were trying to listen in on Hannah’s reading?”
“Come to think of it, yes.” She adjusted the strand of her knotted lariat-style necklace, which had skewed toward her left arm. “How did you know?”
“I think he has a crush on her.”
“How sweet.”
“Maybe he wanted to overhear if love was coming into her life.”
My aunt frowned. “Her reading certainly didn’t imply that. Nor did his. Now, Jenna”—she pursed her lips—“you and I both know a reading doesn’t determine one’s fate.”
“Yes, of course.”
“If he’s in love with her, he has to tell her.”
“I think she might be in love with him, too—that is, if I’m any good at reading the signs.”
“Wouldn’t that be marvelous? Not that you can read signs. I’m sure, given time, that you will, but wouldn’t it be lovely for the two of them to find one another?” My aunt folded her hands together.
Bailey poked me in the ribs. “What are you two chatting about?”
I was delighted to see how cheery she looked in a lemon yellow sundress. Maybe her mood was brightening. “Good morning, sunshine.”
Bailey flicked her dangly sunflower earrings. “It’s okay, isn’t it, not wearing a Ren Fair costume?”
“You look darling and rested.”
My aunt said, “To answer your question, Bailey, Jenna thinks Alan Baldini might be in love with Hannah Storm.”
Bailey’s eyes widened. “You don’t think he killed Nick over that, do you?”
My aunt gasped. “Was Nick in love with Hannah?”
“I don’t think so,” I said.
“Nick had his eye on someone,” Bailey said. “Do you know if Hannah is seeing anyone, Vera?”
“I wouldn’t have a clue. She certainly didn’t mention it at her reading.”
I said, “Nick claimed the woman whose heart he wanted to win wasn’t free, and if Hannah isn’t in a committed relationship—and I got the feeling she wasn’t by the way she was flirting with Alan—then that would rule her out.”
My aunt nodded. “Dolly, by obvious elimination, is out of the equation.” She wiggled a finger in front of my face. “What’s going on in that brain?”
“I had the fleeting notion that Nick might have set his sights on Melody Beaufort, but seeing as they’d recently met . . .”
“Love happens in a flash.” My aunt flicked her fingers like fireworks igniting—pow, pow, pow. “It did for me the first time, and even for you, Bailey Bird.”
Bailey gave my aunt the stink eye. “No, it didn’t. Not the first time. Ugh. Talk about a disaster. And if you’re referring to Tito, ahem”—she cleared her throat—“if you’ll recall, I couldn’t stand him.”
“Until he stood in for our magician,” I said. “It didn’t hurt that he was sending you secret meme
ntoes to win your heart.”
Bailey nodded. “Yeah, he’s a quirky guy, but he’s my quirky guy.”
My aunt eyed me. “Tell me, Jenna, how long was it before you knew you loved Rhett?”
“An instant. But I was single.”
“Except you weren’t.”
I screwed up my mouth, ready for a retort, but let it go. At the time, I had believed that I was a widow, but then David resurfaced in my life. Now he was gone forever. The memory of the two of us when we were happy brought tears to my eyes.
• • •
I barely arrived at the Pier in time for the ten o’clock pottery lesson. Parking had been rough. Melody and Sean, who were in costume standing by the register, greeted me as I entered. I waved hello and headed for Rhett, who was already there, along with four other students. Each was sitting at a pottery wheel station at the rear of the tent. Rhett had saved a spot for me. I wove in between the display tables and the steamer trunk and settled onto a stool beside him. His skin was shaven; the shirt of his Robin Hood costume appeared freshly washed. I drank in his musky scent as he pecked my cheek.
“Good morning,” I said.
He set his mouth close to my ear and whispered, “Good morning, love. I dreamed about you.”
“I hope it was a good dream.”
“You kept playing hard to get. I was exhausted after chasing you.”
I smirked. “I don’t play hard to get and you know it. Are you sure it wasn’t the other way around, me chasing you?”
“I think we should discuss our dilemma and how to end it.”
“Do ye now?” I said coyly, falling into fair-speak.
“Aye, I do. Over a very romantic dinner.”
“I shall wait with bated breath.”
“Hi-ho, everyone,” Melody said and clapped her hands. “Let us begin.” She righted the apron that covered her dress, which was gold but different from the one she’d worn the other day—no hint of burgundy lace or inserts, its skirt adorned by a sheer ecru lace overlay. “Welcome to Beaufort’s Beautiful Pottery. I’m Melody Beaufort.” She circled the area, making eye contact with each student. “How many of you have taken a pottery course before?”
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