Pressed to Death

by Kirsten Weiss

  Adele set her jaw. “No, I’ll stay with you. After all, it isn’t as if I had anything to do with this.” She brushed back her curtain of black hair, sounding less than convincing.

  Yes, we’d be having a chat later. Not that I was investigating the crime, but Adele had reacted too strongly to Romeo’s death. I wanted to know why.

  We waited, not saying much. My mother rejoined us.

  “What was that about?” I asked. Sirens wailed in the distance.

  She gave a quick shake of her head, lips pressed together.

  There was definitely something going on here. I shifted my weight, not liking this at all. It was one thing for me to discover a dead body, another to suspect my mom was keeping information from me. Sure, it was probably just Ladies Aid business, but since the murder victim had accused me of a crime, I was feeling paranoid.

  Detective Laurel Hammer strode through the tents, her lips curled. “I should have known it was you.”

  I wilted. Honestly, the hair-burning thing had not been my fault.

  “Where’s the body?” she asked.

  I pointed at the vat. “The grapes were all piled beneath the dump truck, so I was using a rake to distribute them, and I saw an arm and thought he might be hurt, so I pulled some of the grapes away and took his pulse, and I think he’s dead.” I drew a breath. “That’s when I called 911.”

  She mounted the steps to the vat and looked inside. “So you touched the body and interfered with the crime scene.”

  “I didn’t know it was a ‘body’ until I touched it. He could have been hurt.”

  “Oh,” she said, “he’s hurt all right.”

  I touched my throat. “You mean he’s alive?” Where was that ambulance? The paramedics?

  “No, you idiot, he’s dead.”

  My mother stiffened. “This is, of course, a tense situation. I’m sure if we all behave professionally, the crime scene will be processed more smoothly.”

  I stared at her. The crime scene will be processed more smoothly? Had she heard that on TV?

  To my amazement, the detective flushed. She clomped down the steps in her heavy boots. “All right,” she said. “You found the body. Then what?”

  “I called 911.”

  “Whose dump truck is that?”

  “I presume it’s the truck rented by the Wine and Visitors Bureau,” my mother said.

  “Presume?”

  “We hired our contractor, Mr. Finkielkraut, to bring a load of grapes to the festival for the stomp. He said he’d have to rent a truck.”

  “And what were they doing when you found the body?” The detective jerked her head toward the Nakamotos.

  “Adele and her father arrived soon after my mom,” I said. “I don’t know where they were before that.”

  “I was arranging my booth for the Fox and Fennel,” Adele said. “Then I met Daddy at the Haunted Vine booth, and we came over here to check out the grape stomp and see if Maddie needed help.”

  “So what’s your beef with Paganini?” Laurel asked.

  Adele squeaked. “What?”

  “My daughter doesn’t have any so-called beef with the man,” Mr. Nakamoto said. “Just because she was suspected of one crime doesn’t mean you can pin her with every murder in San Benedetto.”

  Eyes narrowed, Laurel studied Adele. “I heard you cursing him in the Shop and Go yesterday.”

  What? Adele hadn’t said anything to me about that, and we saw each other nearly every day.

  “I didn’t … I don’t …” Adele straightened. “You shouldn’t eavesdrop.”

  “Life’s full of unpleasant realities,” Laurel said. “I heard you wish him dead.”

  “Not dead. I said I wished his stupid Death Bistro would … Oh, here.” She dug into her purse and whipped out a folded sheet of paper, handing it to the detective.

  Laurel unfolded it. Her blond eyebrows rose. “A Death Bistro?”

  “Romeo wanted to rent out the Fox and Fennel for a private party. He didn’t tell me it was for a Death Bistro, or that he was going to post flyers all over town.”

  “What on earth’s a Death Bistro?” my mother asked.

  “According to the flyer, they get together and talk about death or something. It’s bad enough that my tea room is next door to a paranormal museum—”

  “Hey!” I said. The museum was San Benedetto’s second-biggest tourist attraction! Plus, Adele was the one who’d convinced me to take it over.

  My friend placed a hand on my arm. “No offense, Maddie. But after that body was found in the museum last winter—”

  “In your tea room!”

  “Let’s agree to disagree,” she said.

  I crossed my arms.

  “You have no idea how I felt when I saw this flyer saying there would be a Death Bistro at my tea room,” she went on. “My tea room is an elegant and restful dining experience. No one dies in my tea room!”

  “Well,” I said, “there was that one—”

  “It’s got a skull and crossbones on it! Have I mentioned they’re posted all over town?”

  Laurel folded the flyer and slid it into the pocket of her navy-blue blazer. “So Paganini’s in some sort of death cult?” she asked.

  “Whatever,” Adele said. “It’s in the flyer. And now I’m stuck with them at my tea room.”

  “Can I see the flyer?” I was a little disappointed Paganini hadn’t approached me at the museum. But in fairness, we weren’t set up for group dining, and the Halloween season was busy enough.

  “No,” Laurel said.

  Adele reached into her bag and pulled out another one. “I’ve got lots. This one was at the Wok and Bowl.”

  The Wok and Bowl was popular, so no matter how quickly Adele had ripped the flyer off the wall, lots of people might have seen it. I shook myself. Didn’t matter. I had bigger fish to fry, like my table at the … The blood drained from my face. “Leo. I’ve got to tell him what’s happened.”

  “You won’t say a word to anyone,” Laurel said.

  “But someone’s got to tell Leo. Romeo Paganini is his father.”

  “Leo, the kid at your museum?” Laurel asked.

  I nodded.

  “The police will take care of it,” she said. “Got it, Kosloski? You’re not going to play private detective on this one.”

  “Of course not!” My face heated. The murders—two of them—last winter had been bad enough. Why would anyone think I’d want to get involved in this? Adele hadn’t killed anyone over this Death Bistro. I bit the inside of my cheek. And just because I’d found the body, and my mom was acting weird, it didn’t mean either of us were involved.

  A tall, elegant black man, flanked by four uniformed officers, strode down the wide dirt walk toward us. He unbuttoned his charcoal-gray blazer and flashed his badge. I swallowed. Detective Slate.

  “What’s going on?” he asked Laurel.

  She pointed to the grape vat. “Kosloski found a dead man in the vat. Name’s Romeo Paganini. He had a run-in with both her and her friend, Nakamoto.”

  “It wasn’t a run-in,” Adele said.

  “I’ve never met him before,” I put in. “I told you, I bought the grape press from my collector, Herb.”

  Detective Slate rubbed his temple. “Herb Linden? The loon who hates cops? Great.”

  “I wouldn’t say he hates cops.” I wasn’t going to argue about the loon part.

  Slate glanced at the uniformed policemen. “You four, secure the scene.”

  Two EMTs jogged toward the police. Laurel pointed at the grape vat and they clambered inside. She jabbed a finger at me. “I don’t want you talking to anybody about this but the cops. Clear?” She strode away to join the EMTs.

  “Why don’t you tell me what happened?” The detective’s gold-flecked eyes seemed to look right i
nside me, as they always did. I took a step back.

  A curse floated from the vat.

  I explained about finding the body.

  The EMTs clambered out, their black slacks damp around the cuffs. One caught Slate’s eye and shook his head.

  The detective nodded at him. “What’s this about a grape press?” he asked me.

  “I bought a haunted grape press from Herb. He bought it from Paganini’s wife. He gave me a copy of the receipt, signed by Mrs. Paganini. But her husband apparently complained to the police that the press was stolen.”

  A thought occurred to me. Romeo Paganini had told Laurel I had the press, but how had he known? Laurel hadn’t seemed to know about Herb—who’d bought the press and sold it to me—until I’d told her. So how had Paganini tracked the press to me? Had he seen it on display in the tent? But that would mean he’d been on the grounds before the Harvest Festival opened for business. He owned a winery … maybe he had a booth or tent at the fair?

  Slate turned to Adele. “Miss Nakamoto?”

  My friend examined her nails. “A … group he’s in, called the Death Bistro, is renting out my tea shop for a private party. I didn’t like the flyers he was posting. That was all.”

  “Hardly a reason for homicide,” her father said. “Adele and I walked over here together, by which time Maddie had already called 911.”

  “No one’s talking about homicide,” Slate said. “We don’t know yet how the man died.”

  “But it’s unlikely he crawled beneath a pile of grapes to do it,” I said.

  Slate’s forehead wrinkled.

  “Sorry,” I muttered. It was none of my business.

  “Mrs. Kosloski?” The detective turned to my mother.

  “The Ladies Aid Society manages the grape stomp,” my mom said. “It’s one of our most important fundraisers. I came here this morning with Madelyn to make sure everything was in order, and we found the dump truck parked by the vat. Everything else happened as Madelyn said.”

  “Any idea where the driver is?” the handsome detective asked.

  “Nooooo.” A crease formed between my mom’s brows. An engine roared and she canted her head.

  I followed her gaze. A dump truck trundled up the wide dirt road, halting outside the ring of truncated wine barrels. A head of spiky brown hair popped out the open window and I smothered a groan. Dieter Finkielkraut, my ex-contractor.

  “Dudes! Where do you want these grapes?” he shouted.

  Adele covered her face with her hands. “I can’t believe this is happening.”

  Detective Slate strode to the truck and hopped onto the running board. He said something, and Dieter shook his head. Slate pointed and hopped off the truck. Dieter reversed into a spot beside a tent and parked.

  “Mom, how many loads of grapes were you expecting this morning?” I asked.

  She frowned at the vat, then at the first dump truck. “Only one.”

  “And Dieter was bringing them?”

  She sighed. “He owed me a favor.”

  “If that’s the load of grapes you ordered, then where did the grapes in the vat come from?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Where did the other truck come from, for that matter?”

  “I don’t know that either.”

  Dieter wouldn’t have just dumped a load of grapes and ditched a truck. If he’d had to make two trips, he would have made two trips with the same vehicle. Which meant the dump truck beside the vat wasn’t the one my mom had arranged. Curious.

  I shook my head. Wasn’t my business. I wasn’t investigating.

  “And why put the body in the vat?” I said to no one.

  “That,” my mother said, “is an excellent question.”

  The phone rang in my pocket. Startled, I pulled it from my hoodie. Mason. We’d been dating for several months, and loving him had been the best part of coming home to San Benedetto. In spite of cops wrapping yellow police tape around a grape vat, my heart gave a little jump.

  I answered the phone. “Mason. I’m glad you called.”

  There was a brief pause. “You sound kind of stressed. Problem at the festival?” His voice was a low rumble.

  I laughed hollowly. “You can say that. I found a dead body in the big wine vat for grape stomping. The police are here now.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “I wish I were.”

  “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine. Just a little shaken.”

  Slate came back over to us. “Okay. You can go. We may have more questions for you later, but I know where to find you. And Maddie? This time, let the police handle the investigation.”

  I did not dignify that with a response. “Mason, I’ve got to go,” I whispered into the phone.

  “Do you need me there?”

  I smiled. “Thanks, but I’ll be okay.”

  “Let me know if that changes.” Another pause. “You’re not going to get involved, are you?”

  “No! I mean, no, of course not.” Was he joking?

  “All right. Call me. Bye.”

  “Bye.” I hung up.

  My mother cleared her throat. “Detective, the festival opens in less than three short hours. I’d like to move the half barrels to another location so we can go ahead with the stomp.”

  Slate shook his head. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Kosloski, but we won’t know if they’re a part of the crime scene until we get a chance to examine them.”

  My mother drew breath to speak, then clamped her lips into a taut line. “Of course. Thank you, Detective.” She gripped my arm. “Maddie, we need new barrels. Fast.”

  “I’ve got a few back at my winery,” Mr. Nakamoto said. “I can call around and see if I can collect more.”

  My mother grasped his hands. “You’re a lifesaver. Thank you, Roy. Madelyn? We need to talk.” She strode toward the row of tents.

  Sweating, I waved to Adele and her father and hurried after her.

  My mother pulled me into a narrow gap between two tents, their canvas sides brushing our shoulders. “This investigation—”

  “I’m not going to interfere!”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Oh yes you are, Madelyn.”

  four

  I gaped at my mother.

  She gazed back at me, her blue eyes cool and calm, not a strand of silver-flecked hair out of place, blouse and jeans crisp. No, my mother had not been replaced by an extraterrestrial clone. Not even an alien would iron her jeans.

  A gust of warm breeze ruffled the tent sides, brushing against the sleeve of my thin hoodie.

  “I’m sorry.” I rubbed my chin. “I must have heard you wrong. I thought you said you wanted me to investigate Mr. Paganini’s death.”

  Looking past my shoulder, she drew me further into the cool shadow between the tents. “Madelyn, you have to,” she said in a low voice. “Detective Hammer is going to fixate on you, given Romeo’s accusations about his grape press.” Her lips pressed together. “I wish you hadn’t set her hair on fire.”

  “For Pete’s sake, I didn’t set her hair on fire! There was a fire. A spark somehow caught in her hair. I had nothing to do with it.”

  “That’s as it may be, but in her mind, you ruined a lovely hairstyle. Now, Eliza Bigelow is going to ask you to investigate, and you need to agree.”

  I blew out my breath. None of this tracked. Even if Laurel had it out for me, she wasn’t the only cop in the precinct. And what was Ladies Aid’s interest in the murder? “But Mom, why?”

  “I think she’s projecting some sort of frustrations—”

  “I meant, why would Ladies Aid ask me to investigate?”

  The canvas tents rustled, whispering, and she glanced behind her. “The grape stomp is the most important fundraiser we do, as you know. It’s one of our few events that bring
in money from donors outside San Benedetto.”

  “So move the stomp to another part of the festival. Problem solved.”

  My mother shook her head, her turquoise earrings swinging. “There’s more to it than that.”

  “Do you think Mrs. Gale had something to do with this?” I asked. “It was almost as if she knew something was wrong with the stomp.” Nice grape stomp. A shame if something happened to it.

  “Of course not. Look, I know I’m asking a lot, but I’ll make it worth your while, both for you and Adele.”

  “Adele? What does she have to do with this?”

  “Nothing, as far as I know. But there’s more going on than meets the eye.”

  “What aren’t you telling me?”

  My mother broke into a smile and waved. “Over here!”

  Eliza Bigelow and Betsy Kendle stalked toward us, accompanied by three other women in similar powder-blue tees. They filtered into the narrow space, looking like a gang of determined blue fairies.

  A shiver traced a line up my spine and I hunched my shoulders, trying to make myself smaller.

  “What have you got for us?” In front, Mrs. Bigelow tossed her head, but her short gray hair remained frozen in place. Sweat gleamed in the creases of her neck.

  “The police are treating the current area as part of a crime scene,” my mother said. “So Roy Nakamoto, with the other vintners, is gathering new stomping barrels. I would guess they’ll be here within two hours. We can move them to the area beside the food tables. Maddie was just on her way to inform the Visitors Bureau about changing the signage.”

  “It’s too late to change the festival maps, though,” Mrs. Bigelow said.

  “That’s unfortunate,” my mother agreed. “But the new spot beside the dining area will attract walk-through traffic. Everyone ends up at the food tables.”

  Mrs. Bigelow’s lips pinched. “What about the stands? We can’t just put the stomping barrels on the ground.”

  My mother paled. She hadn’t thought of that. “I’m confident our contractor will be able to build some simple stands in time for the stomp,” she said, rallying. “It doesn’t start until this afternoon.”