Pressed to Death

by Kirsten Weiss

  “Who’s your contractor?”

  “Dieter Finkielkraut.”

  “Finkielkraut.” Mrs. Bigelow’s hazel eyes narrowed. “Is he the one who looks like a bum?”

  “Most contractors of my acquaintance dress casually on the job,” my mother said. “Their work is not conducive to business attire.”

  “Hmph. Well, it sounds as if you’ve got things under control,” Mrs. Bigelow said grudgingly.

  “But I’ll need help to make sure this goes off without a hitch.” My mother smiled, sharklike, and nodded at the other women. “If I may borrow some of the ladies?”

  “They’re very busy,” the Ladies Aid president said.

  “We’re dealing with an emergency none of us could have foreseen,” my mother said. She angled her chin down, looking up through her lashes. “I would hope we could all come together to ensure the success of our fundraiser. Cooperation is, after all, what Ladies Aid is about.”

  Was I imagining it or were there weird undercurrents in the cow-scented air?

  A rotund woman in stretch pants stepped forward. “I’ve got time. I’d be happy to—”

  Mrs. Bigelow shot her a look and she fell back, staring at the straw-strewn ground.

  Another ripple of uneasiness shivered my skin. I edged closer to a tent. Would anyone notice if I slithered beneath the canvas and escaped?

  “There is rather a lot to do,” my mom said. “We’ll need to put flyers up around the fairground about the shift in venue for the stomp. One of us must inform the other booths about the change, in case people ask them. Someone will have to manage and possibly assist Mr. Finkielkraut with the grapes …”

  Several of the Ladies Aid ladies perked up, eyes gleaming. There would always be women attracted to bad boys.

  “And I’m sure as the morning goes on, other issues will arise,” my mother continued. “This is, after all, a sudden change. But I’m confident if we all come together, we can have a successful fundraiser in spite of this terrible tragedy.”

  Mrs. Bigelow looked like she’d choked on a lemon. “Fine. Take whoever volunteers.”

  Half the women edged toward my mom.

  The president’s nostrils flared and she stomped away.

  My mother clapped her hands. “All right, ladies, we’ve got a grape stomp to save.” She marched them off.

  These were strange days at Ladies Aid. I rubbed the back of my neck. And then I remembered I had my own disaster to avert and hurried in the opposite direction, to the Wine and Visitors Bureau tent. Thankfully, the director of the Visitors Bureau was inside, her hair a storm cloud of gray. She stood beside the haunted grape press, frowning at an open envelope in her hand.

  “Hi, Penny.”

  She looked up and stuffed the envelope into the pocket of her pale green slacks, adjusted the collar of her semi-sheer blouse. Its pattern of twisting grapes echoed the faux grapevines I’d wrapped around the haunted press.

  Removing the glasses from her nose, she let them drop to her chest, where they dangled from a beaded chain. “Maddie? Is everything all right? I heard there was an accident on the grounds, but the police are keeping everyone away from the site. No one is telling me anything, aside from the fact that the grape stomp area will be out of bounds for at least the rest of the day.”

  I edged toward a table laden with rows of empty glasses. It was too early in the day for wine, but I suddenly, desperately, wanted a glass. “I’m afraid a man was found dead. Romeo Paganini.”

  Penny clapped her wrinkled hands to her mouth. “Romeo? But he’s got a tasting tent! Are you sure? ”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Sorry.” She raked a hand through her graying hair. “Obviously there’s more at stake here than a tent at the festival. This is awful. Poor Jocelyn.”

  “Jocelyn?”

  “His wife. Second wife.” She frowned. “And his first wife died only a year ago. What a tragedy. And why am I babbling about this? Oh, because the festival is falling apart, and I’m on the board.”

  “I don’t think it’s falling apart. The Ladies Aid Society thinks it can move the grape stomp to that empty area beside the food tables.”

  “That might work,” Penny said. “But we’ve already printed out the maps.”

  “My mother plans to post flyers with info about the change. It’s all happening pretty fast, but you know Ladies Aid.”

  “The D-Day planners had nothing on your mother. Still, I’d better track down the other board members and help get this organized.” Walking behind a table, Penny reached beneath the white tablecloth and grabbed her purse.

  A man strode inside the tent. He stopped, bent, and knocked a bit of straw off the cuffs of his jeans, then smoothed the front of his tweed vest and tie. He looked like the quintessential California hipster—young, blond, and blue-eyed. A ginormous handlebar moustache and trimmed blond beard masked his even features. “Penny! Just the lady I wanted to see.”

  She jerked upright, her expression frozen. “Chuck. I told you we can’t distribute maps to your winery. We can only hand out the official map sponsored by Wine and Visitors Bureau members.”

  He waved a hand. “That’s fine. I get it. Actually, I was hoping I could get some of your maps to distribute at my tasting table.”

  “Why?” Penny asked.

  I tilted my head. Penny was usually pretty free with the maps.

  “People come to taste here because San Benedetto’s got a cluster of wineries. But you already know that.” He winked. “The map helps me out even if I’m not on it. Handing it out is a gesture of goodwill. Plus, I can put an X on the map where my winery is located.”

  Squaring her jaw, Penny scrounged beneath one of the tables for another box. “Fine.”

  Glancing at me, he smiled. “Sorry, I didn’t introduce myself. I’m Chuck Wollmer. CW Vineyards.” He held out his hand, and I gripped it.

  “Maddie Kosloski. I own the Paranormal Museum.”

  “I love that place. What you’ve done with it was brilliant—the web cam, the art gallery …”

  “I wanted fresh exhibits so people would return.”

  “Genius.”

  “Thanks. But it was more a desperation move.”

  “Necessity is the mother of invention.”

  Penny handed him a stack of maps. “If I find these in a dumpster—”

  He pressed his palm to his chest. “Please. I don’t trash paper. I recycle.”

  “Chuck …” Penny stared at him over her glasses.

  “Kidding! Just kidding.” He gazed, rueful, at the maps and turned to me. “Ever thought of working in a winery? I could use someone with guerrilla marketing chops.”

  “I think I’ve got my hands full with the museum.”

  “A consultancy?”

  “The only time I like telling people what to do,” I said, “is when I have the authority to make them do it.”

  “Deep waters, Kosloski. Deep waters.” Grinning, he exited the tent.

  Penny shook her head. “He’s incorrigible. Was there anything else, Maddie?”

  “Well, before you go, Mr. Paganini’s son works for me at the museum.”

  Penny clapped her hands to her mouth. “The poor boy!”

  “He was going to run the museum today while I managed my table, but under the circumstances, I’m sure he’ll want to take the day off. And that leaves me a man short. Could someone from the Wine and Visitors Bureau watch my table? All they have to do is hand out discount coupons, and that can be done from the tasting table.”

  The corners of her mouth drifted upward, her eyes narrowing. “I’m sure we can come to some arrangement.”

  “Thanks.” I headed toward the tent’s entrance.

  “But we’ll need something in return.”

  Slowly, I turned to her. “Something?”

>   “As you’ve probably heard, this month the Ladies Aid Society is running their annual haunted house, sponsored in part by the Wine and Visitors Bureau.”

  “Ye-es.”

  “They’ve agreed to do a Haunted San Benedetto exhibit at the house, and I think this theme fits perfectly with your museum, don’t you? If you put something together for us, you could even include some brochures and discount coupons for your business in the display.”

  “You want me to throw together a haunted exhibit? Sure. No problem.” The Ladies Aid haunted house was three weeks away. It was one of my mother’s favorite events, aside from the Christmas Cow, and I thought it might be fun to work with her. I grabbed the discount coupons off the table and thrust them at Penny. “Whoever’s running the tastings can give these away.”

  “Excellent. I’ll inform the president of Ladies Aid that you’re on board for the haunted house.”

  “Thanks. You’re a lifesaver.”

  Her eyes darkened. “Oh, no. Thank you.”

  Skin prickling, I paused in the entryway to the tent. Something didn’t feel right, but finding Paganini’s body had shaken me. Sinister threats were not seeping from beneath every wine barrel. I could throw together a Haunted San Benedetto table standing on my head. In fact, I could just take the stuff from the table I had in the wine tent right now and use it at the haunted house. It was Leo I worried about. Did he know what had happened to his father?

  I hurried to the parking lot, pulling off my hoodie and wrapping it around my waist. The sun sat higher in the sky now, warming my bare shoulders.

  Stopping beside a Camaro, I smacked my forehead. My mom had driven us here. I had no wheels.

  On the far side of the dirt parking area, Dieter climbed into the dump truck.

  I raced toward him. “Dieter! Hey!”

  He paused, one muscular, denim-clad leg swinging out the door. His brown eyes crinkled, sparkling against his bronzed skin. “If it isn’t the Mad Kosloski. What’s up?”

  “Can you give me a lift to the Paranormal Museum?” I panted, winded from my sprint. I needed to start working out.

  “You need a ride? Sure, Mad Dog. Hop in.”

  I hated that nickname, but hitchhikers can’t be choosers. Forcing a smile, I hurried around the side of the cab and clambered in, thudding the heavy door shut behind me. My jeans squeaked on the plasticy, canvas-looking seats. I took in the wide white steering wheel with its finger grips, the clock ticking away on the dashboard. “Thanks. Um, does my mom know you’re leaving?”

  He grimaced. “Don’t worry. She’s already talked to me about building new platforms and cutting barrels for grape stomping. It’ll be easier for me to do the work at my workshop. My supplies are all there.”

  “You’ve got a workshop?”

  “Of course. A little bird told me you found a body at the festival,” he said. “Who was it?”

  I hesitated. Laurel had told me to keep it quiet. She’d also threatened me with arrest over an innocent grape press transaction. “Romeo Paganini.” My heart squeezed. Poor Leo. I knew too well what it meant to lose a father. At least I’d been an adult when my father had passed. Leo wasn’t out of his teens, and his mother was gone too.

  Dieter whistled. “A big time winery owner? That’s going to be news.”

  “Did you recognize that other dump truck? The one parked by the wine vat?”

  “Hey, I had nothing to do with that. I was supposed to bring a load of grapes from the Visitors Bureau at eight, and I followed my orders.”

  “From the Visitors Bureau?”

  “Yeah, they collected the rejects for the grape stomp.” He started the truck. “None of the juice from the stomp actually goes to making wine, you know.”

  I’d grown up in San Benedetto and knew the sad realities of grape stomping. Pressing grapes by foot might have been traditional, but it also violated all sorts of California health codes. “So did you recognize the truck?” I asked again.

  “Nope. I’m guessing it’s from one of the wineries—leased for the harvest is my bet.”

  Springs creaking, we jounced in time to the parking lot’s potholes. “Why leased?” I asked.

  “It would have a winery logo on the side otherwise.”

  That made sense. Dieter wasn’t as goofy as he acted.

  “Was Romeo one of your bookmaking clients?” I asked.

  “Are you kidding? Running a winery is enough of a gamble.”

  Rows of vines flashed past. “The police are going to tell his son.” I hoped Detective Slate did it and not Laurel.

  “I guessed.” He shook his head. “This isn’t going to be easy.”

  No. Not easy.

  Brutal.

  “So,” he said, “how many bodies have you found this year? Three?”

  Or maybe he was that goofy. I sighed. “And what little bird told you I found the body?”

  “Adele.” His eyes softened, dreamy. “Are you going to investigate this death?”

  “No! And I didn’t … Why would you ask that?”

  “No reason.”

  Suspicious, I bit the inside of my lip. Dieter ran a side business taking bets on odd things, like if and when the San Benedetto Christmas Cow would get torched. The only year he’d lost big was when someone had driven into the cow with an RV. Not even Dieter had factored destruction-by-RV into his calculations.

  Dieter grimaced. “Except I heard it looks like murder.”

  five

  Dieter dropped me off in front of the Paranormal Museum. I gazed at its wide windows. My Tackiest Museum in San Benedetto “award” leaned in one corner. Orange and black streamers twisted along the sills. A sizable crowd milled inside, killing time until the Harvest Festival opened and the wine tasting began. Most wineries didn’t start serving until noon, eleven thirty at the earliest.

  Leo stood at the register, his black jeans and T-shirt now mourning garb.

  Taking a deep breath, I walked inside. A pyramid of pumpkins sat wedged between the counter and the door.

  Leo glanced up, his eyes pink. “Hi, Mad. Good crowd.” His voice was dull, listless.

  An ache speared my chest. I closed the door behind me and reached up to mute the bell.

  He knew.

  On the glass counter, GD lashed his tail. I edged out of the black cat’s reach. GD knew enough not to claw the customers—he had an uncanny sense of who funded his eating habits. But the fact that I bought the kibble mattered not a whit.

  “Thanks for keeping the museum open,” I said.

  Leo lifted a brow. “That’s what you’re paying me for.”

  “Yes, but … I assume the police have spoken with you.”

  “Yeah. They told me you found Romeo.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  He studied the counter. “What are you doing here? Aren’t you supposed to be managing the booth at the festival?”

  “The Visitors Bureau is taking it over for me.”

  “Out of the goodness of their hearts?”

  “Not exactly, but I thought you’d want to take the rest of the day off.”

  “No. It doesn’t matter.”

  “It matters to me. Whatever you need, Leo, just let me know.”

  “Thanks, but I don’t need anything. And I haven’t needed anything from my father for a long time.”

  “Even if you and your father weren’t on the best terms, this still … I lost my dad not that long ago. I know what it’s like.” At his death, the universe had shifted beneath my feet. “You can go home, take the rest of the day off.”

  Leo’s neck corded. “I’m only surprised someone didn’t kill him sooner. I’ve thought about doing it myself plenty of times.”

  I gazed into his eyes, which were puffy and bloodshot. He didn’t mean it. “I hope you didn’t tell that to the police.”


  He raised a dark brow. “I’m angry, not stupid.”

  “Have you spoken with anyone else in the, um, family?”

  “I can’t talk to Jocelyn,” he said flatly. “She’s a psycho.” He drew a butcher knife from beneath the counter and set it beside the register. The blade glittered beneath the overhead lamps. “So about those decorations, did you want to carve some jack-o’-lanterns? We’ve got plenty of pumpkins.”

  “No, they’ll rot before Halloween. We’d have to carve one every day. Where did you get that knife?”

  He shrugged. “Tea room. Hey, when the cops came by, they asked about that grape press. I told them if you said your collector bought it from Jocelyn, he bought it from Jocelyn. She probably sold it to piss Romeo off. He cared more about wine-making than he did about her, or anyone else.” The boy’s chest hitched.

  The four stages of grief theory may be debunked, but at least three tangled in Leo’s eyes—denial, depression, anger. His pain weighted my shoulders. “Look, the festival’s covered, and I’m here,” I said. “Why don’t you take the day off—”

  His face reddened. “I don’t need to.”

  I raised my hands in a defensive gesture. “Whatever you want is fine by me. But the offer stands. With pay.”

  He rubbed a hand through his hair, blew out his breath. “I don’t know.”

  “Go, before I come to my senses. You know I’m a natural cheapskate.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “All right then.” He slithered from behind the counter. “See you tomorrow.”

  “Only if you’re up to it.”

  He slouched out the door and I took his place.

  Shooting me a look of contempt, GD sprang to the floor and stalked away, tail high.

  “What? I was being nice!”

  The museum and gallery were busy, too busy for me to think much about the murder. A middle-aged woman with blue streaks in her dark hair bought a cheerfully painted Ouija board from the gallery. A group of college kids relieved me of several Paranormal Museum T-shirts and shot glasses. And an elderly man with stooped shoulders bought an EMF detector, suitable for hunting ghosts or checking out how much energy really was coming out of your microwave. I’d tested mine. The answer was unsettling, but at least my garage apartment was specter-free.