Time to change the subject. Drawing the new Fox and Fennel menu from my messenger bag, I passed it to Harper. “Have you seen Adele’s new menu?” I sipped my beer, bitter with a hint of pumpkin. Autumn was awesome for foodies.
Harper bent her head, reading. A line appeared between her brows and she craned closer to the paper menu.
“They were going like hotcakes at the Fox and Fennel festival booth,” Adele said, preening.
Harper’s lips quivered. “I can see why. These are, uh, different.”
“Do you like them?” Adele asked. “I wanted to evoke the romance and mystery of tea, using lush descriptive phrases.”
“Lush? These are pornographic,” Harper said. “No wonder people were snatching them up.”
Adele sucked in her cheeks. “What are you talking about?”
“Rooiboos Ecstasy,” Harper read. “Nirvana in a cup. Sip this intense, cinnamon-infused red tea. Let it roll across your tongue and pierce the clouds that veil your core.”
I coughed into my beer, splattering foam across the polished, wooden table.
“I don’t see what’s wrong with that,” Adele said.
“Apple Ginseng,” Harper quoted. “This forbidden fruit, a symbol for knowledge, temptation, and immortality, is mixed with a blend of exotic white ginseng and a hint of oolong for a tart, enticing, and nectarous mouthful.” She fanned herself with the menu. “Is ‘nectarous’ an actual word?”
“Yes, it is,” Adele snapped. “How old are you?”
“We need to find you a new boyfriend,” Harper said. “Stat.”
“I don’t see what my current romantic drought has to do with my new tea menu.”
Picking up the menu, I skimmed down the page. Cacao Mint, an ambrosial eruption of sumptuous chocolate and exhilarating mint. The natural serotonin-boosting power of cacao will heat your spirits. If sex really did sell, then Adele was onto a gold mine. “And here I’ve been wasting my time on sweet nothings. I can just read your menu to Mason to get him in the mood.”
“You two are infantile.” Adele snatched the menu from my hands. “Laugh all you want, but my business coach assured me this language would sell.”
“Your business coach?” I asked.
Her cheeks pinked. “The business owner who thinks she knows everything is the business owner who goes bankrupt. Yes, I have a coach.” Adele bent her head and studied the menu. Dropping it to the table, she cradled her head in her hands and groaned. “Oh, God. You’re right. What have I done?”
“Authored the hottest tea menu in California,” Harper said.
“How could I have missed this?” Adele asked. “It’s, it’s—”
“Spicy? Succulent? Stirring?” I waggled my brows and Adele burst into laughter.
“This is a disaster! Why am I laughing?”
“Because it’s funny,” Harper said, “and it’s not a disaster. You did say the menus were popular.”
Adele groaned. “I spent so much on these. Do you have any idea how much it will cost to print new menus?”
“Why not keep them and see how it goes?” I asked.
“My parents will read these!”
“So, dish,” Harper said, angling herself toward me. “How are things going with the dreamy Mason Hjelm?”
I sighed, warming. “Great. He’s thoughtful, he’s funny, and he listens.” I’d gotten lucky with Mason, and part of me wished I’d blown off girls’ night for a whirl of passion in his apartment. But girls’ night was sacred. Mason and I spent a lot of time together—which I loved—but I needed to tend to my friendships. They mattered.
Harper grinned. “So have you gone for a ride on his motorcycle yet?”
I opened my mouth to reply, then closed it, eyes narrowing. She knew darn well motorcycles scared me. “That is never going to happen.”
“Take a chance,” Harper said. “You might like it.”
But I worried I was already taking too many.
six
I stepped out of my pickup and onto the hard-packed dirt of the festival parking lot. Turning, I grabbed a cardboard box off the passenger’s seat and shut the door with my hip. The box pressed into my stomach, wrinkling my Paranormal Museum T-shirt.
The morning sun beat down on the white tents behind the high metal fence. I stared, remembering. Romeo’s face, stained with grape juice. His unseeing eyes. The cold neck. And in spite of the warm morning sun, goose bumps shivered my flesh. It was hard to imagine the corpse had once been Leo’s father.
Eyes swollen, Leo had arrived at the Paranormal Museum early in the morning, insisting he wanted to work. I wasn’t sure it was a great idea, but it was Leo’s choice.
I checked my watch. An hour to go until festival opening. A male security guard stood at the festival gates, his black Security T-shirt stretched across his broad chest, the sun glinting off his bald head. Expressionless, he watched me approach.
I showed him my pass.
He nodded, and I scuttled inside.
I wandered the empty paths, past vacant tents and festival games. My thoughts returned to the murdered vintner. Why would my mother insist I stick my nose into a police investigation? And what had Cora Gale meant when she’d kind-of-sort-of threatened the grape stomp?
Pausing in front of the giant grape vat, I shifted the box in my arms. Yellow police tape wrapped it like a Christmas bow.
Why had Romeo told the police I’d stolen the grape press when his wife’s signature was on the sales receipt? Finding the answers to these questions wouldn’t really be interfering in a murder investigation. After all, I’d been accused of theft—I had every right to learn why. And the police could hardly complain if I grilled my mother. She’d uncharacteristically failed to return any of my calls last night. Besides, Paganini’s son worked for me. It would be unnatural for us not to discuss his father’s death.
I moved on, making my way to the Wine and Visitors Bureau tent. It was empty, rows of wine glasses lined up on white tablecloths, plastic grapes twining the picket fencing.
My haunted grape press stood in the center of the tent. I trailed my hand over its round metal wheel. The wooden barrel was tall and narrow, which enabled it to fit easily in my three-room museum. It was an ideal exhibit. So ideal, I hadn’t grilled Herb as much as I should have on the details of the sale—or the curse. Or maybe I hadn’t pushed because the story of the long-ago murder-suicide was familiar and depressing.
Initially, Herb hadn’t mentioned the curse. He’d just said the “angry ghost” of the killer had attached to the grape press. So which was it? Haunted by an angry ghost or, as Mrs. Paganini had apparently said, cursed? I wasn’t sure if I believed in either one, but I needed to get the story straight for when the press was displayed in the museum.
Detective Laurel Hammer strode into the tent, her blue pinstripe suit creased to a knife’s blade. Two uniformed policemen flanked her. An honor guard. She jerked her chin toward the grape press. “That’s the one.”
The policemen lifted it between them.
“What? Wait! What’s going on?” I asked.
“It’s evidence,” she said, wrenching free the sign that explained the press’s haunted history. She slapped it against my chest and I caught it with one hand.
“How is the grape press evidence?” I asked. “It wasn’t anywhere near the scene of the crime.”
She closed the distance between us, forcing me to step back. “Because the person who found the murder victim in a vat of grapes is the same person the victim accused of stealing this very grape press. Oddly enough, that makes it evidence.”
“But—”
“I’ll write you a receipt.”
I drew a slow breath. Shouting wasn’t going to win me any points, and I needed that grape press. “Can’t you take it later today? It’s our feature attraction.”
“No. Als
o oddly enough, murder investigations do not await the pleasure of paranormal museum owners.” Turning on her booted heel, Laurel followed the cops out of the tent.
Fuming, I stomped to the Paranormal Museum table. We were low on brochures and coupons, but whoever had watched my table yesterday had cleaned up. The remaining materials lay fanned out on the smooth black tablecloth. Movements jerky, I added more brochures and coupons from my box, then shoved the box beneath the table with my foot.
Laurel couldn’t really believe I’d murder someone over a grape press, could she? Cracking my knuckles, I paced the tent. My brain ran in circles, an out-of-control hamster wheel. Stupid Laurel. Stupid grape press. I needed a way to divert myself until the festival opened, a way that did not involve fantasies about strangling police detectives.
Should I check out the new site of the grape stomp? I frowned, not liking the idea. Someone from Ladies Aid would just rope me into helping with the latest disaster.
Yesterday, Penny mentioned that Paganini had a tasting tent. I puzzled over the map of the festival grounds and located it, not far from the food area. Which was where the new grape stomp had been set up.
I jammed the map in the back pocket of my jeans. Oh well. I might as well kill two birds with one stone—check out Paganini’s tent and do my daughterly duty. I had low hopes of cracking the case in the wine tent, but my mom was expecting something from me. It was time to put my investigative “process” into action.
I walked down the wide, straw-covered paths. Other sweating souls strode past, carrying boxes, plastic wine grapes, cases of wine. A bead of sweat trickled down my spine. It was just past ten o’clock and already steamy. The day would be hot. I hoped those tents had ventilation, since I’d be stuck inside one.
At the Trivia Vineyards tent, I stopped and gaped. A trompe l’oeil of an Italian-looking scene covered the entrance. Painted Italian cypresses framed rows of fallen Roman columns and grapevines. Two real cypresses in clay pots stood beside the entry, adding to the illusion.
I walked inside. Faux-Roman columns lined the tent behind the tasting tables. Miniature cypresses clustered in the corners. High, round tables covered in white cloths dotted the space.
A woman half-leaned, half-sat against a rough-edged marble slab balanced atop sawhorses and lined with empty wineglasses. The light filtering through the canvas gleamed off her mid-length blond hair, mussed as if she’d just tumbled out of bed. Her eyes were red-rimmed. Her loose black tunic skimmed over her trim figure and she wore matching, wide-legged slacks. A gold, tasseled bolero necklace hung around her fair neck. An open bottle sat on the table beside her. She gripped a glass filled with burgundy-colored liquid.
Glancing at me, she took another gulp of wine. “You need something?”
“I’m Maddie Kosloski,” I said. “From the Paranormal Museum. I was just—”
“That damn grape press. Of course. I’ve told the police I sold it to that Herb person, the collector. As far as I’m concerned, it’s all yours.”
“Then you’re Mrs. Paganini?”
She snorted. “My mother-in-law was Mrs. Paganini. I’m Jocelyn.”
“Nice to meet you.” I extended my hand and she took it, her grip cool and firm. What the hell was she doing here now, the day after her husband was killed? Leo had said his stepmom was psycho, and I’d assumed it was teenage hyperbole. But was she … off ? Or was she just struggling through the best she could? “I’m sorry it’s under such terrible circumstances. My condolences for your loss.”
“Thanks.” She swallowed, looked away. “Wine?”
It was a little early, but I wanted to talk to her and my blood was still pounding over the confiscated grape press. “Sure.”
She poured, splashing droplets of red on the white tablecloth. “It’s our Trivia cab. A full-bodied, fruity wine with hints of cocoa and cinnamon.” She hiccupped.
“Why the name ‘Trivia’?” I asked.
She sighed. “Everybody asks that. It was Romeo’s idea, to name the winery after the Roman goddess Trivia.” Her voice broke.
I averted my gaze, done playing detective. This wasn’t a game. A man had been murdered, and lives would change. “I’m sorry. I should go.”
“No, please don’t.” She touched my hand. “When I’m alone, I think. Today, I’d rather not.”
I sipped the wine, unsure how to respond. The flavors were rich, complex—plum and cocoa and yes, a hint of cinnamon. Trivia Vineyards produced good wine. Seriously good.
“Thanks for clearing up the grape press confusion with the police,” I said. “Unfortunately, they confiscated it this morning anyway.”
Her delicate brows puckered. “What? Why?”
“I’m not sure. I guess they’re looking at anything connected to your husband.”
“That press. It’s brought nothing but bad luck.”
“Oh?”
She didn’t respond, turning the goblet in her hand.
“I don’t suppose you know any more about the history of the press?” I asked. “Herb told me it was associated with a murder-suicide.” I grit my teeth, heat blooming across my cheeks. Idiot. Now wasn’t the time for a casual chat about an old murder. Not with the widow of yesterday’s victim.
“I don’t know anything about the ghost story aside from that,” she said. “But the press did come from the original winery. Constantino Vineyards? It was part of the estate when we bought it.” She shook her head.
“It sounds like your vineyard has an interesting history.”
She smiled faintly. “We have grapevines over a century old. That’s the only history I care about. I never understood Romeo’s fascination with the macabre, with death and curses.”
“A friend of mine mentioned the Death Bistro he was involved in.”
She wiped the corner of one eye with her knuckle. “I guess I never understood that either. I always thought it was healthy if couples had different interests. I’m not so sure anymore.”
“If this wine is anything to go by, you both knew your viticulture. You don’t make wine like this without some passion behind it.”
“The vineyard is business. And business may be the one interest a couple shouldn’t share.” Her chin trembled.
“Are you sure you want to be here today?” I asked in a low voice.
She stared into her wine glass. “What you really mean is, why am I in the family wine tent, drinking before lunch?”
“People deal with loss in different ways.” I set my glass on an empty table. “I’m not judging.”
“Leo will.” She banged her glass on the bar. There was a crack. The half-full goblet tilted and crashed to the marble, its stem broken. Jocelyn leapt backward, swearing.
Red wine spread across the marble. I grabbed a cloth napkin and blotted at the mess.
“Cheap glasses.” She laughed, shaky. “Romeo wanted higher quality goblets, but I said …” She looked away, blinking rapidly.
I grabbed another napkin and scooped up the broken glass.
The tent flap rustled behind me and I turned. Two familiar-looking men walked inside. After a moment, I pulled up the name of one of them: Chuck Wollmer, who I’d met the day before in the Visitors Bureau tent. With his hipster, beach-blond good looks, he was a study in contrasts to his companion—who proved to be none other than the cadaverous man I’d seen at the Nakamoto house last night, when Adele had been so upset. They both wore jeans and white button-down shirts with the creases that only a professional laundry service can buy. Chuck had accessorized with a blue and tan striped tie that matched his camel-colored vest.
Squinting at me, Chuck stroked his beard.
Tall, dark, and creepy’s gaze traveled, lingering, from my tennis shoes to the top of my head.
I crossed my arms over my chest.
“Hi, Chuck,” Jocelyn said. “This is Maddie, from the Para
normal Museum.”
“Of course,” Chuck said. “We met yesterday. Lovely old grape press you’ve got.” He grasped both the widow’s hands between his. “Jocelyn. How are you?”
Mr. Mortuary focused on the widow. I’d been dismissed. But I continued to stare at him. I’d gone from never laying eyes on him in my life to seeing him twice in twenty-four hours. Weird. No, suspicious.
Jocelyn pulled free of Chuck’s grasp. “Fine.”
He shook his head. “I can’t imagine what you’re going through. Let me help you. If there’s anything I can do to relieve your burden, I’m here.”
“I may take you up on that,” she said. “There’s so much to do. I’m meeting with our financial advisor today.”
He tsked. “You can’t trust financial advisors. All they want is your money in a fund so they can earn their commission.”
I stiffened. Harper was not like that. She cared about her clients and understood the needs of the local vintners.
Jocelyn shrugged. “Maybe. I’ll hear what she has to say.”
I stood there, awkward, not part of the conversation but not wanting to leave. Jocelyn was hurting, and halfway to drunk. But I wasn’t sure if I should protect her or protect Leo from her.
Chuck gave me a significant look. “I got this.”
Reaching into my messenger bag, I drew out my card and laid it beside the glass. “I’m working in the Wine and Visitors Bureau tent today,” I told Jocelyn. “If there’s anything you need, or if you just want to talk, that’s where you can find me.”
“People always say, ‘if there’s anything you need,’ but they don’t mean it.”
“They mean it,” I said. “They just don’t know how to help. We used to bring each other frozen casseroles and potato salads, comfort food, but that’s become passé.”
She smiled, wan. “Thanks. I’ll stop by your tent later, okay?”
I handed Dr. Death a card, too, hoping he’d give me one in return.
He didn’t.
“I’m Maddie Kosloski.”
“So your card says.”
I could no longer ignore the brush-off. I was being well and truly dissed. Unable to figure out a way to gracefully stay, I nodded and left. My investigatory process had left me with more questions than answers.
Pressed to Death Page 6
