The truck turned over smoothly, and I blew out my breath. At least my transportation was working normally again.
I drove down the alley and turned the corner onto Main Street. People milled in the park and ogled the remains of the cow. I wrinkled my nose. Even when reduced to ashes, the stupid cow attracted crowds. I don’t believe in magic powers, but mentally I willed the gawkers out of the park and into my museum.
At the edge of downtown, I turned into the parking lot of a brick building twined with grapevines. A miniature “educational” vineyard grew beside the parking lot. A few orange and brown and amber leaves clung to the low vines trained along wires. Past the educational vineyard, San Benedetto’s real vineyards spread across the flat-as-a-pancake landscape.
A snowman made of metal wine barrel hoops greeted visitors at the entry to the Bureau. A wreath dripping with miniature wine bottles hung from the arched wooden door.
I walked inside. A dozen middle-aged men and women bellied up to the tasting bar. A man with wispy white hair and a Visitors Bureau apron poured. He kept casting nervous glances at the open office door.
“… knows you were an almost-Olympic archer.” My mother’s voice cascaded from the open door. “That doesn’t mean you killed the man.”
I hustled past round tables filled with wine paraphernalia—cork screws and pewter wine aerators and Kiss My Glass T-shirts—and stepped inside Penny’s office, closing the door behind me.
Penny, a roundish woman in a Christmas sweater and green Christmas-light earrings, shot me a grateful look. “Maddie! What are you doing here?” Her eyes widened with feigned surprise.
Somehow she’d managed to call me without my mother knowing. Clever.
“I came by for more winery maps,” I said. “Hi, Mom.”
“Madelyn,” my mother said stiffly. She plucked at the white pashmina scarf encircling the collar of her camel-colored pea coat.
“What’s going on?” I asked. “I heard something about archery.”
Penny exhaled heavily. “As I was explaining to your mother, I have no reason to want Bill dead.”
“Of course you don’t,” my mother said.
“I don’t.” Penny stared over her reading glasses.
“I’m quite certain you didn’t kill him,” my mom said. “You care about San Benedetto too much. But the investigation will go much quicker if everyone simply lays their motives and whereabouts for last night on the table.”
“You’re only trying to get me to confess,” Penny said. “But I have nothing to confess to. Maddie, tell her.”
The two women glared at me.
“I don’t … um … Were you really an Olympic archer?” I asked.
“Almost.” The corners of Penny’s mouth turned down. “I learned to shoot when I was in scouts and never stopped, but I didn’t make the cut. And I certainly didn’t assault the Christmas Cow. It’s our second biggest attraction next to the wineries!”
Only for one month of the year, I thought sourly. My paranormal museum was second biggest the other eleven months.
“Our bureau paid for a special wine and cow promotion,” Penny continued, her frown deepening. “It sounded better when our marketing consultant came up with the idea.”
“You were at the planning meetings for the Christmas Cow,” my mother said. “And there was definite tension between you and Bill. Why?”
“There’s no tension.” Penny shook her head. “Or there was no tension. Bill was a principled man. Even when I disagreed with him, I respected his thinking. He followed the rules. And there was nothing I disagreed with him enough to kill him over.”
“But someone did,” I said.
“It must have been a terrible accident,” Penny said. “I almost feel sorry for whoever shot him. They’ll carry that guilt to their grave.” A tall stack of brochures slipped sideways and she made an unsuccessful grab for them. A dozen glossy brochures scattered across the tiled floor.
I bent and picked them up. “Maybe it was an accident. But there’s a chance it was deliberate—someone could have taken advantage of the chaos.” Which meant they’d have to have known when the attack was scheduled to happen. Someone on the inside of the gingerbread gang? I shook my head. An accident did seem more likely.
“If you’re looking for suspects,” Penny said, “don’t look at me. There are plenty of better candidates.”
“Oh?” I asked. “Who?”
“Try Dean, for starters.”
“Dean Pinkerton?” my mom asked.
“You heard about the squabble over Dean selling raw milk?”
My mother nodded.
“Well, guess who was behind the lobbying to shut him down?”
“Bill Eldrich?” I said. “Why would he care if someone was selling raw milk?”
“Rules.” Penny sighed. “I only hope they didn’t get him killed.”
four
I leaned against my truck, enjoying the warmth from the engine. A cold breeze fluttered the dried leaves on the grapevines. Three tore free and whispered across the Wine and Visitors Bureau parking lot.
“I know you said you don’t think Penny was involved in Mr. Eldrich’s death,” I said to my mother. “After all, she’s … Penny. But could she have done it?”
“Simply because she likes grape-cluster earrings doesn’t mean she’s incapable of murder.” My mother resettled her pashmina beneath the collar of her pea coat. “But no, I don’t believe she committed the crime. All the attackers were fairly spry.”
“Then why—?”
“Because I want to know why Bill annoyed Penny. And because she’s got her ear to the ground. She did give us that tip on Dean Pinkerton. Now let’s go talk to Dieter.”
“Adele’s working on him.”
“Their relationship is new. I wouldn’t want our investigation to put pressure on it. No, we’ll talk to him.”
Mulish, I folded my arms across my chest. “I’m not investigating, and you shouldn’t either. Mom, let the police handle this.”
“Don’t be silly. Now are you coming or not?”
“Not.” If I encouraged her, she’d only get herself into more trouble. I climbed into the pickup. “I’ve got to get back to the museum. And Detective Slate …” I turned the key in the ignition.
Nothing happened.
I turned the key again.
“Problem?” my mom asked.
“My truck’s not starting.” I knew I should have taken it to the garage first thing, even though it was working this morning.
She gave me a long look. “I thought you were going to take it to the garage first thing?”
“I was. But then I slept late, and …” My stomach rumbled.
She checked her slim gold watch. “Then it looks like you’re fated to come with me to the taqueria.”
I brightened. “Taqueria?”
“It’s Thursday. Dieter will be there.”
I slid from the truck and shut the door. “How do you know where Dieter will be on Thursdays?”
“I keep my ear to the ground too. Dieter’s installing a new water heater in the kitchen.”
As long as there was a burrito in my near future, I didn’t care what he was installing. “Fine.” I got into my mom’s Lincoln and she piloted the car into downtown San Benedetto.
“I know it’s superstitious of me,” she said, “but I always thought you’d be safe in your father’s truck. He loved it and you so much, part of me thinks if he’s anywhere, he’s watching over you in that truck.”
“It hasn’t been very lucky lately,” I pointed out. But a part of me had thought the same thing. Clearly, I’d been wrong.
We drove past the park. The crowd gaping at the cow’s metal frame had, if anything, grown.
“I knew I should have pushed harder not to build the cow this year,” my mother
fretted. She shook her head, her squash-blossom earrings swaying. Her face was drawn, and I bit my lip, studying her.
“How could you have stopped it?” I asked. “It’s tradition.”
“That’s what Bill Eldrich said. And nearly everyone in Ladies Aid, plus their husbands. It makes me wonder if the cow is what’s really cursed.”
My mother didn’t believe in curses any more than I did. The attack at the cow must have hit her harder than she’d let on.
We drove past the museum. Three people, blowing into their hands, waited in line outside the door, and my heart leaped. “There’s a line in front of the museum!”
“Of course there is, dear. It’s your museum, after all. Why wouldn’t people stand in line for your Christmas display?”
“Thanks for that, but—”
“The Sacramento paper did list you as the second most unusual Christmas attraction in the area.”
Second to the Christmas Cow, naturally. “It’s a small paper, and stop changing the subject.”
“Changing the subject from what, dear?” she asked innocently.
I twisted in my seat. Yes, they were definitely lined up for the museum and not Mason’s motorcycle shop.
A biker with a death wish whipped in front of my mother’s car, and she stepped hard on the brake. I gasped, clutching the door handle.
My mother tsked. “People really need to be more careful.”
Gripping the dash, I watched as the biker parked in front of Mason’s shop. Motorcycles were Mason’s life. He’d tried to teach me to ride but the bike had terrified me, made me feel out of control. It was just one more reason why we were not compatible.
“Does Leo want a burrito?” my mother asked, diverting me.
“Oh, right.” I dug my cell phone from my pocket and called him.
“Paranormal Museum,” he said, breathless.
“Hi, I just drove past on the way to the taqueria, and I saw the line outside. Should I double back now and help, or do you want me to pick up a burrito for you first?”
“It’s cool here. Carnitas burrito, black beans, hot salsa, and a side of that green sauce for my chips.”
“Got it. See you soon.” I didn’t need to write it down. It was Leo’s regular order. “I guess we’re going to the taqueria,” I said to my mom.
She smiled.
It wasn’t quite noon when we breezed inside the restaurant, so the line along the glass counter was short. The cramped space smelled of meat and cheese and frying onions. My mouth watered.
My mother hailed the owner behind the counter, a middle-aged Hispanic woman with freckles and short waves of dark hair. “Good morning, Marta.”
Marta smiled sympathetically. “Fran, how are you doing? Terrible news about Bill.”
“Tragic,” my mother said. “Is Dieter around?”
Marta motioned us behind the counter and toward the open kitchen door. She turned to a customer, then turned back. “Be careful, Fran. They say bad things come in threes.”
My mom nodded, grim, and passed through the red-tiled entryway.
There was no way Dieter was going to tell my mother anything. But I followed her into the tiled kitchen because I’d never been in there before, and I was all about new kitchen experiences. Since most of the cooking was done up front, by the counter, I was curious about what was kept in the back.
Two industrial-sized refrigerators lined one wall. A young woman stacked plates in the dishwasher. Dieter lay on his back beside a rusted water heater. His T-shirt had ridden up, exposing a tanned washboard stomach. He wrenched out a pipe.
“Hello, Dieter,” my mom said.
He jerked upright and sprang to his feet, tugging down his shirt. “Mrs. Kosloski. Hi. What are you doing here? Is there a problem with the drainage at the house?”
“It’s working like a dream. I need to know if there was anyone who picked last night as the night the Christmas Cow would be set on fire.”
Dieter splayed his hand across the chest of his ripped tee. “Mrs. Kosloski, you know I can’t talk about my clients.”
“A man’s been killed,” I said. “Don’t you want to help solve that crime without getting the police involved?”
He glanced at me and shook his shaggy head. “I’m sorry, but how do I know this won’t get back to the police?”
My mother straightened. “Madelyn is not a narc.”
My mouth tightened. I so totally was a narc. This was a murder investigation!
Dieter’s schoolboy expression turned sorrowful. “Can’t risk it. Client confidentiality.”
“What a shame.” My mother fingered her silver necklace. “I was hoping I wouldn’t have to tell Adele about …”
He paled. “Mrs. Kosloski. You wouldn’t.”
“I’d prefer not to.”
Tell Adele about what? My gaze ping-ponged between them.
“Please,” he said.
“The names?”
His shoulders slumped. “One name. But you can’t tell the cops.”
My mother smiled. “Of course not. Unless, of course, he’s guilty of murder.”
“She,” Dieter said. “Belle Rodale.”
I felt the blood drain from my face. Belle, the mother of Mason’s child. The woman we’d broken up over after she’d returned to his life.
“Thank you, Dieter,” my mom said. “We’ll keep this between us.”
Numb, I followed her from the taqueria. “Belle. We can’t …”
How could I interrogate my ex-boyfriend’s once and present girlfriend?
“Mom, we can’t talk to her about this.”
“I understand this is awkward for you, Madelyn. But we’re all adults, and you broke up with Mason for a reason.”
Because he’d discovered he had a kid, and the kid and his mother were living out of a van. Of course he’d invited them to move into his house. And then I’d become an interloper; his son deserved a shot at an intact family. But I’d never really explained all that to my mom.
She crossed the street and I trailed after her.
“What do you know about this young woman?” she asked, brisk.
“She’s working at the hair salon.” Which apparently my mom already knew, because we were currently beelining for the squat, cinder-block building. The phone rang in my jacket pocket, and I pulled it out.
Leo.
I rolled my eyes toward the gray sky. Augh, I’d forgotten the burritos. “Hi, Leo. Sorry, we got a bit delayed.”
“It’s okay, the crowd’s slowed down. But there’s a newspaper reporter here asking about the cowbells.”
My mom strode ahead of me.
“Can you talk to him?” I asked. “You know the story of the bells. It’s on the placard.”
“Are you sure?” he asked.
“Yeah. They’re only cowbells. See if you can promote some of the other holiday exhibits.”
“Sure thing.” He hung up.
I hurried after my mom. If she was going to interrogate poor Belle, I had to run interference. “What do you have over Dieter?” I asked, catching up to her.
“I shouldn’t say, and you don’t want to know.”
“Adele’s my friend—”
“And I wouldn’t keep a secret that might hurt her. Trust me.”
Uncertain, I gnawed my bottom lip. I did trust my mother. Usually. I grabbed the glass door to the salon. “Let me do the talking in there.”
My mom’s cornflower-blue eyes widened with surprise. “Are you sure?”
No. Heck, no. “Yeah, I’m sure.”
I opened the door, and my mom breezed inside.
Hair chemical fumes burned my nostrils, and I blinked rapidly. Half the chairs were filled—two women getting haircuts, another with her hair in strips of silver foil, and two more imprisoned beneath h
air dryers. All the ladies, wrapped in black plastic capes, fell silent and stared. At least I think they were silent. All I could hear was the roar of hair dryers.
Belle’s long auburn hair was done up in a loose bun. Wisps of hair fell artfully past her slender neck. She wore a pink apron over her jeans and T-shirt. Adjusting the settings on one of the dryers, she glanced up and saw me, and her expression wavered. She pasted on a smile. “Hi! I’ll be right with you.” She fiddled some more with the dryer, then walked toward us and stopped beside the cashier’s desk. “Have you got an appointment?”
“Um,” I said, “no. Belle, have you got a minute? It’s important.”
“Important enough to bring your mother?” she asked, the lines around her eyes deepening.
“It’s important,” I repeated.
Another stylist looked up from her work on the silver foil. “I’ve got you.”
Belle angled her chin toward a curtained exit. “This way.”
We brushed through the pink curtains and into a dingy kitchen area. Belle leaned one hip against the sink. “What’s going on?”
I swallowed, heart pounding. Just get it over with. “Word on the street is that you won this year’s Christmas Cow bet.”
Her expression shuttered. “Did Dieter tell you that?”
“No,” I lied. “Who knows how these things get out? So, is it true then?”
She compressed her lips. “No offense, but I don’t think my finances are any of your business.”
“No,” I said. “I guess they aren’t. But …”
“But what?”
But someone was killed last night. And where were you at the time of the murder? Oh yeah, with my ex-boyfriend. No, this wasn’t weird. Not. At. All.
“Look, I know this is awkward,” she continued. “This is a small town, and we’re going to keep bumping into each other. And I appreciate the way you stepped out of Mason’s life when things were challenging for us. And you’ve stayed out.”
“Belle—”
“But Mason isn’t your problem.”
My cheeks burned. “That’s not why I’m here.”
Deja Moo Page 4
