She dragged her tongue along her upper lip, deliberating. “Did you find out if it was from Dolly’s collection?”
“Yes, it was.” I didn’t add that Hannah had purchased it and lost it on the verandah at Baldini Vineyards. “Did you want to tell me something else about the bead?”
“No, I don’t think so.” She tapped her chin with a fingertip. “Aha! I remember now. We were discussing Nick. Well, not really discussing him, but the fact that he was . . .” She hesitated.
“Murdered.”
She surveyed the parking lot, and though the three parked cars were vacant, she lowered her voice. “You know I don’t like to talk out of school, but . . .” She wasn’t much of a gossip even if some of her fellow beaders, like Flora, were. “That afternoon, I caught Sean and Melody bickering. At my house. I’d come to bring them lasagna. I thought they might like something homemade. I knocked and called out when I entered, but they must not have heard me because they kept at it. They were in the backyard. I could see them through the kitchen window.”
“What were they fighting about?”
“Camping.”
“Camping?” I repeated.
“Sean said he needed to protect Melody because if Nick found out—”
“Found out what?”
“I don’t know. Melody shouted, ‘He won’t!’ Sean said something I couldn’t make out. That’s when Melody announced she was going for a walk on the beach.”
“In her fair costume?”
Pepper shook her head. “No, Sean was dressed in his handsome blue one, but she had changed into short-shorts and a tank top. She flew out the back gate. Sean made his way toward the kitchen. Feeling guilty for listening in, I zipped out the front. I didn’t want either of them thinking I was spying on them.”
“Camping,” I repeated.
She bobbed her head. “All I could conclude was that perhaps they were transient—you know, living house to house through the Airbnb program—and Sean feared that if Nick found out, he might decide their credit wasn’t good and deny them their stall at the fair. Nick wasn’t that way, of course, but Sean couldn’t have known that, being new to the circuit.”
“Transient,” I repeated.
“Moving over and over can be quite stressful. It creates hiccups in a loving relationship. Believe me, I know from experience. My husband and I were quite the travelers, but when Cinnamon was born . . .” She let the sentence linger. Cinnamon’s father, the rat fink, left the day she was born. Pepper flitted a hand. “It’s best to leave the past in the past.”
As I entered the Cookbook Nook, it dawned on me that perhaps Pepper might be wrong in her conclusion. What if the word camping meant something else, like Ren Camp, which was highly important to Nick. He had oodles of photos on his Facebook page about his experiences. Was it possible that, way back when, he had met Melody at Ren Camp? Was there a secret that might hurt Melody if Nick put two and two together? When he’d confronted her the other day, he’d said: Dost thee not recognize me, meaning he did recognize her. Or was he mistaken? She had rebuffed him.
Curiosity nagging at me, I settled beside the computer, woke it up, and clicked on the Internet browser icon.
Aunt Vera exited the storage room while adjusting the silver turban on her head. “Phooey. I can’t get this darned hat to stay on straight. Help me out.” She offered me two long hatpins.
I obliged and said, “There. All set.”
“Thank you.” She pecked my cheek and edged past me to open the register.
I brought up Nick’s Facebook page, selected Photos, and waited while it loaded.
“Hello! I’m here!” Tina entered the shop and did a twirl, which made the skirt of her red polka-dot wrap dress flare out. No Renaissance costume for her today. “What do you see in my future, Vera?”
My aunt clucked her tongue. “You know that’s not how I operate.”
“True, but I keep thinking that if I ask, you might fine-tune that intuitive mind.”
“I don’t need to fine-tune it. I have ESP.”
“Tosh.” Tina scrunched her nose. “You do not. No one does.”
“Yes, I do.” My aunt frowned. She hates when people question her ability.
I was wise to keep my mouth shut. I considered her highly intuitive, but ESP? Does anyone truly have that?
“I want love, Vera.” Tina tucked her purse beneath the register. “And I want my career, and I want to come into a ton of money.”
“Then you’d better work hard for all three. Those do not fall from the sky.” My aunt headed toward the café. “I’ll be back shortly. Want a coffee, anyone?”
“No, thanks,” Tina and I replied.
When the photos loaded, I clicked on Albums > See All and selected the very first Ren Camp album. I scoured the pictures, searching for images of fair-haired girls with cute turned-up noses. I saw lots of photographs of Nick. He had been an impish kid with an easy smile. There were plenty of snapshots of other children in costume. About half were dressed as royalty, and the other half as common folk. There were a few jesters and magicians, too. I didn’t see Melody anywhere in the mix. I chose the next year’s Ren Camp album and repeated the process.
“Want me to vacuum?” Tina asked.
“Sure, and tell me what we have planned for the kids’ table today. I can’t remember.”
She twirled a finger in my face. “This morning, boys and girls are coming in to learn how to sew potholders. I’m teaching. Katie is providing homemade apple cider. It could get messy. This afternoon—”
“Forget the vacuuming and put out a plastic floor mat.”
“Will do.”
Bailey flounced in, her skin glowing and eyes bright. She stowed her purse beneath the counter with the rest of ours and tugged her turquoise sweater over her white jeans.
“You look happy,” I said.
“Tito and I met Alan on the Pier for breakfast. We were too excited to wait any longer to finalize plans. The wedding is a go. Alan has already contacted Chef Guy.”
“I’m glad you’re feeling more positive.”
“I’m over the moon. Now, if only the police would solve Nick’s murder . . .” She peered over my shoulder at the computer screen and poked me with her finger. “You’ve learned something new, haven’t you?”
“Nothing that has come to fruition.” While browsing more albums online, I told her about the spat Pepper overheard.
“Hey, maybe Nick didn’t upload all his photos. Remember how many albums he had in his kitchen? If we could peruse them, maybe—”
“That’s it.” I swiveled on the stool. “What if Melody went to the vineyard to remove images of herself as a girl?”
“And Nick found her rooting through his stuff and demanded an explanation, so she lashed out.”
“She could have been the person Alan saw fleeing across the fields. She’s about the same size as Hannah. At dusk, a floppy hat would have been enough of a disguise.”
Bailey agreed. “But what motive could she have to kill Nick?”
“Maybe she’s in the witness protection program, living under an assumed name. Maybe she didn’t always go by Melody Beaufort.”
“Well, that’s a given.” Bailey rolled her eyes. “She wasn’t married back then.”
“Maybe she wasn’t named Melody ever, and that was why Nick was pressing her. He felt he knew her.”
“If she really had something to hide, why would she come to Crystal Cove and risk being discovered?”
“That could have been her husband’s idea,” I said. “To grow the business. Melody was discussing the problem with him when Pepper happened upon them.”
Tina exited the storage room carrying a rolled-up plastic mat.
I sidled past Bailey and said, “Tina, let me and Bailey do that. You man the register.”
“Sure.” She dropped it on the floor with a thud.
“I saw Melody on the Pier,” Bailey said, taking one side of the mat while I gripped the other. We unr
olled the unwieldy thing and arranged it on the floor. “Waiting in line for the Shakespeare spoof to start. Sean wasn’t with her. Go talk to her.”
“I’ll tell Cinnamon.”
“Tell her what? You have nothing.”
Together we slid the mat beneath the crafts table and stools.
“What if Sean has joined Melody?” I said, dusting off my hands. “He’s so protective.”
“Someone has to operate their stall. He’ll be there. C’mon. I’m dying to know the truth.”
The word dying sent a chill through me. “If you’re so eager, you question her.”
“As if. I don’t have your style or your innate ability to get people to confide in you.”
I made smooching noises and said, “Kiss my grits.”
“Plus, you’re dressed in your costume. You’ll blend in.”
I threw her the evil eye. “You, my wicked friend, are a fawning, flap-mouthed flirt-gill.”
Minutes later, as I drove out of the parking lot, I could still hear her laughing.
Chapter 16
During Ren Fair, the Theater on the Pier players put on a Shakespeare spoof, Omelette: Chef of Denmark, an over-the-top parody of Hamlet, three times a day. I’d heard great things about it from some of our customers but hadn’t had a chance to take it in yet. I arrived at the theater right as the audience line started to move. It wasn’t a long line. The early-morning show didn’t draw the largest crowds. Melody was near the back, dressed in yet another gold gown, this one fitted with a gorgeous satin corset. She was sipping from a to-go cup of coffee.
I drew near and my heart began to hammer. What was I doing? How had Bailey talked me into this? Nervous laughter burbled inside of me. Who was I kidding? Bailey hadn’t talked me into anything. I wanted the truth as much as she did.
“Good morrow, Melody.”
“Good morrow.” She dabbed her nose and eyes with a vintage handkerchief edged with crocheted lace. Had she been crying? Maybe, like Hannah, she was suffering from pollen allergies. The wind had kicked up.
“Might I join you?” I asked.
“Sure.” She jammed the handkerchief into the pocket of her gown and tossed her coffee cup into a nearby trash can.
“Where’s your husband?”
“At our booth. Saturday is a big day at these fairs.”
I adjusted my crocheted purse on my shoulder. “Have you been selling like gangbusters?”
“Yes. It’s been a boon. We’ve covered six months’ rent in a week.”
“Missive!” a man announced.
Melody swiveled her head.
I followed her gaze.
The messenger in the royal blue costume sprinted from Shakespeare’s Poetic Inspirations and tore past us waving a scroll. I hoped he was getting lots of hefty tips for his efforts.
The line started to proceed into the theater.
I kept pace with Melody. “I’ve never seen this show. Have you?”
“A few times. It’s quite fun.”
“What’s it about?”
“Two teams of authors, Danes and Scots, come to the Globe Theater to compete for the chance to provide the plot for Shakespeare’s next play. Shakespeare, himself, will decide.” Melody’s mouth quirked up on one side. “Will he love the Danish concept, or will the Scottish team foil them?”
“Who wins?” I asked, taking two single-page playbills from an usher and handing one to Melody.
“I’ll never tell.” She winked.
The Theater on the Pier was set up like an old saloon. Patrons sat at cocktail tables. The cane-backed chairs featured red plush brocade to match the drapes on the stage. Wall sconces and chandeliers provided ambient lighting. Old-fashioned scallop footlights jutted up from the apron of the semicircular stage. The light emanating from them cast a warm glow.
“How quaint is this!” Melody exclaimed.
I led the way to a table for two. “You should come when they do karaoke night.” The last time I’d attended, I learned that Cinnamon Pritchett could belt out a song like a cabaret pro. I settled into a chair and pulled the hurricane candle on the table closer so we could peruse the playbill. “Do you rent a stall at a lot of Renaissance fairs, Melody?”
“I’ve done a few.”
I, she said, not we. Hmm. Was that significant? I said, “Nick Baldini sure knew how to put one of these together, didn’t he?”
“He did, indeed.” Melody’s voice caught. “I can’t imagine who might’ve wanted him dead. He seemed like a nice guy.”
“Seemed? I thought you knew him.”
She cut me a cautious look. “No.” She faltered. “We met the day before the fair started.”
“Isn’t that odd?” I feigned casualness. “A friend of mine heard the two of you chatting, and she said your exchange sounded intimate. I told her you were most likely playacting, but she—”
“We were,” Melody said hastily, not letting me finish my sentence. “Like I said, we barely knew each other. He was King Henry VIII, and the king—”
A waitress arrived with two glasses of water and stated there was a one-drink minimum.
I said, “I’ll take coffee.”
Melody said, “The same. With cream.” When the waitress departed, Melody dipped her finger into her water glass and then touched her right eye with her pinky, as if trying to remove an eyelash.
“What about the king?” I asked.
“King Henry VIII is a bit of a rogue, so he repeatedly makes a play for maidens while the fair is in session. The maidens are expected to snub him at all times.”
“Is that so? I had no clue.”
The waitress returned with our coffees and cream and packets of sugar. Melody doctored her coffee and we sat in companionable silence for a moment, sipping our drinks while reviewing the playbills.
After a moment, I said, “You know I could’ve sworn you knew Nick. I saw a piece of your pottery in his kitchen.”
“He purchased one.”
“Actually there were two in his kitchen—the piece he purchased and a vase holding a rose.”
“Maybe he bought two. Sean could tell you.”
“Maybe,” I murmured.
“I was never at his house.”
Hmm. The lady doth protest too much, I mused. And too quickly. “I didn’t say you had been.”
She sipped her coffee and watched me over the rim of her cup.
I added cream to my coffee and stirred it. “Melody, I have to admit . . .” I couldn’t finish the sentence. Why not? In business, I’ve always been direct, but right now, being blunt didn’t feel like the right tactic. Melody reminded me of a doll in a china shop, brittle and ready to topple at any second.
“C’mon. Out with it, you varlet,” she teased. “I don’t bite. Admit what?”
I took a deep breath. “I was wondering whether the scene my friend witnessed was more than playacting.”
Her gaze narrowed. So much for good-natured banter. The rapid rise and fall of her cleavage revealed how tense she was. “What are you insinuating?”
“Did Nick hit on you?”
“No!” she cried. “He wouldn’t. He was kind and sweet and roman—” She bit off the word.
“Romantic,” I finished, repeating what his foreman had said.
Melody blushed.
My thoughts flew back to the evening when Nick and Melody and the others were making the fair-speak video. The messenger had raced into the tent and handed Melody a missive. At the time, I’d believed Sean had sent her a darling love letter, but looking back, maybe he hadn’t. He’d snatched it from her and dragged her from the tent.
Okay, dragged might be a little dramatic.
“Melody, the night before the fair began, a courier from the poetry booth brought you a scroll. Did Nick send it to you?”
She didn’t respond.
The overhead lights and wall sconces dimmed. The illumination from the footlights increased.
Under my breath I said, “Your husband wasn’t ple
ased that you’d received it. He tore it from your hands.” Come to think of it, he hadn’t been pleased when the messenger had appeared in their tent during our pottery lesson, either.
Melody’s lip started to tremble. She scrambled to her feet. “I’m not feeling well. I need to leave. Stay. Enjoy the show.”
No way. I threw a twenty-dollar bill on the table for cover charge and pursued her out of the theater.
Sunlight blazed down on us. Hordes of happy people crowded the boardwalk. A trio of minstrels were playing guitars and singing “The Star of the County Down,” a sprightly tune about the maid they had met at a fair. Their lilting tone was a stark contrast to the hasty pace of Melody’s escape. Rossini’s “William Tell Overture” would have been more appropriate.
“Melody, wait!” I shouted above the music.
“Leave me be.” She trotted ahead.
“I canst,” I replied, matching her medieval tone. If she was going to play a role, then I would, too. “Dost thee need the latrine?”
“Ye are a churlish, earth-vexing dewberry.” She covered her mouth with her hand.
I kept after her, squinting against the glare. “Halt, and let me have my say.”
“Never.”
“Melody, stop!” I dropped the awkward language. “C’mon, talk to me. Pepper heard you and Sean arguing about Nick.”
That drew her up short. She whipped around near Ye Old Toy Shoppe. “When?” she asked. A hank of hair fanned her face and stuck to her lipstick. She plucked it from her mouth and cast it over her shoulder.
Two moppets raced from the store carrying marionettes and bumped into Melody. Their mothers ordered them to apologize. They refused and ran off.
“The day Nick was murdered,” I said. “You were in her backyard. She’d come to bring you dinner. She entered and called to you. Neither of you heard her, I guess. You were discussing a secret that Nick shouldn’t find out.”
“I have no secrets.” Melody whisked out her handkerchief and blew her nose.
My breath caught in my chest. Was she the one Alan had heard sneeze that night? “Where were you the night Nick died?” I asked.
“How dare you ask for my alibi.” She jammed the handkerchief into her pocket and defiantly lifted her chin. “I hardly knew the man.”
Pressing the Issue Page 17
