Pressed to Death

by Kirsten Weiss

  Leo looked up from his seat behind the counter, his black hair falling into his eyes. He laid down his sci-fi novel beside GD, who was curled on the counter around a half-eaten stuffed mouse.

  No customers wandered the room, admiring the haunted photos and glass display cases. The rocking chair in the corner swayed, empty.

  I stopped midstride. “Tell me it hasn’t been this slow all day.” I leaned the fencing against the counter. “And where did the toy mouse come from?”

  “I picked it up for GD this morning. He got bored with it after he chewed its head off. And the museum cleared out right before you walked in. We sold a ton of souvenirs, as well as a bunch of the Halloween stuff from the gallery.”

  “GD thanks you, and define ‘ton.’”

  “GD thanks no one. He’s a cat.” Leo reached beneath the counter and slid a binder across it to me.

  I ran my finger down the column of tic marks in the gallery ledger and whistled. “October has gotten off to a good start.” But October was only one month. We needed to do better. I’d been toying with the idea of selling things through the website. But I’d need a web designer for that sort of update, and I didn’t have the money.

  “What’s with the picket fence?” he asked.

  “Invisible haunted grape press.”

  A furrow appeared between his dark brows.

  “Invisible and incorporeal grape press. Long story. I’ll close up.” I nodded to the tip jar. “It’s all yours.”

  He reached for the cash. GD raised his head and growled, ears flat against his head.

  “Don’t worry.” I scooped the cat off the counter and set him onto the floor before he could react. “You’ll still get fed.”

  Taking a swipe at my shoelaces, GD streaked into the Fortune Telling Room.

  Leo stuffed the bills into the pocket of his black jeans. “GD saw a bunch of ghosts today. I’ll buy him some catnip as a reward.”

  Now there was an idea, mellowing the cat with psychotropics. “Good idea. Thanks.”

  Flipping the sign in the window to Closed, I locked the door behind Leo. Cool silence descended, and tension I hadn’t realized I’d been carrying released. Alone at last.

  I phoned my mom. The call went to voicemail. It was my third attempt to find out exactly why my mother wanted me to investigate Romeo’s death.

  Pensive, I checked out the gallery space. I’d recently had to replace its floor, so the checkerboard linoleum in here gleamed compared to the rest of the museum. The entire gallery sparkled beneath the Edison-style light bulbs hanging from the ceiling. Square, ebony-painted bookshelves for this month’s exhibit—Americana-style Halloween Art—lined the two smaller walls. Brightly painted Ouija boards decorated the long wall, facing the windows. For those who couldn’t afford the original paintings, prints sat on low black pedestals. Other black pedestals of varying heights displayed the less-breakable works—carved wooden cats, ghosts, and witches.

  I lusted after one of the original paintings: a Halloween scene, haunts peeking from the windows of a spooky gray Victorian in a pumpkin patch. But I also wanted one of the Ouija boards, purple and red with a staring eye in the center and dancing devils in the corners. I could afford neither, so I’d have to enjoy them while they were in my gallery.

  Bouncing on my heels, I noted the empty spaces on the shelves and made notes. I’d need to collect new merchandise from my storage facility, otherwise known as Adele’s office.

  That duty done, I returned to the main room and opened the secret door to the tea shop. We both closed at five today, and Adele might need a lift home.

  “—conflate the Fox and Fennel with your Bistro of Death! That wasn’t part of the agreement.” Adele braced her hands on the pale granite counter and leaned forward. An army of metal tea canisters gleamed in rows behind her.

  I edged inside the tea room. The overhead lights gave the cream-colored floor tiles a warm evening glow, and dark bamboo, which was inlaid horizontally into the walls, softened the polished modern effect.

  Adele wore a pink, Jackie Kennedy-style suit and a mulish look, her black hair in a tight bun. I knew there’d be a discreet hairnet over it—Adele was a stickler for rules when working in her tea shop.

  A tall strawberry-blonde glared back at my friend. The woman wore button-up boots, jeans, and a gray blouse with mutton-chop sleeves and a high lace collar. Her hair was piled high on her head, loose, wanton, a modern-day Gibson Girl.

  “What’s the big deal?” The blonde sat on one of the metal barstools. “You share space with a paranormal museum.”

  “I do not share space with it. The Paranormal Museum just happens to be next door.”

  “There’s a secret passage between them!” She motioned to me closing the bookcase.

  “Only so the Paranormal Museum clients can access my bathroom.”

  “Look, it’s called the Death Bistro, and it’s always been called the Death Bistro. I can’t exactly change the flyers.” The woman brandished a sheet of paper decorated with a skull and crossbones.

  “Why do you have to put them up at all?” Adele wailed. “Can’t you find another place for your death thing?”

  The blonde flushed, her voice rising. “No, I can’t! The word has already gone out. The Death Bistro matters to people, especially now, when …” Her breath hitched, her face contorting.

  Clearing my throat, I sidled to the counter. “Hi, Adele. I came to see if you needed a ride home.”

  Adele shot me a desperate look. “Maddie, I’m so glad you’re here. This is Elthia Jaros from the Death Bistro.”

  Elthia drew a long, shuddering breath. She tossed her head. “We don’t have enough time to move the Bistro, and we had a verbal agreement.”

  “You and Romeo didn’t tell me about—”

  “Romeo?” Elthia’s face crumpled, her full lips trembling.

  “Uh, Adele,” I said, soothing. “Why don’t you get us some tea? I know I could use some.”

  “Right.” Adele scooted into the kitchen.

  “You and Romeo were friends?” I asked the woman.

  “Yes. For years. I just can’t believe …” Elthia drew her lips into a taut, quivering line.

  “I’m so sorry for your loss.” I drew back a cushioned chair at one of the tables. To my relief, she followed my lead and came to sit across from me.

  She sniffed. “He was a good man.”

  “You two were both members of the Death Bistro?” I asked.

  She nodded. “Founding members. Contrary to what your friend thinks, the Bistro’s not morbid. It’s more of a momento mori. By remembering death, we remind ourselves how important it is to live. But we also help people deal with grieving. It can be cathartic, uplifting.”

  “And now with Romeo gone, the next Bistro is even more important,” I said.

  Tea cups clattered in the kitchen.

  “Exactly.”

  “I didn’t know Romeo,” I said. “What was he like?” Would my mom expect me to report this investigatory conversation to her? Did I have to file reports?

  “Warm, funny, intelligent.” Elthia bit her lip, shaking her head. “I can’t believe someone killed him. It’s just … insulting!”

  I thought I understood what she meant. Murder was the ultimate insult, a denial of the victim’s right to live.

  “I suppose,” I said, “that when you have money you’re bound to make enemies, no matter how good a person you are.”

  “His only real enemies were his family. Leo.” She shuddered. “That boy is dark.”

  “Dark?”

  “I suppose everyone thinks he’s just a misunderstood teen. But he actually threatened his father once.”

  “Threatened?” I asked, disbelieving.

  She shook her head.

  “Leo works for me,” I said mildly, “and he seems
like a pretty normal teen. I have a hard time believing he could have been involved in his father’s death.”

  “Who else could be responsible?” Her fingernails bit into her palms. “It’s usually the family, isn’t it?”

  It was usually the spouse, but Jocelyn’s grief this morning had seemed genuine. “Romeo owned a winery,” I said. “Maybe a disgruntled employee?”

  “Absolutely not.” Elthia crossed her arms over her chest. “He was respected by the workers.”

  “What about other businesses?”

  “Competitors? He wasn’t involved in any dirty deals, if that’s what you mean.”

  I wasn’t sure what I meant, or what sorts of “dirty deals” a winery could be involved in. Watering down the wine?

  “Romeo did well for himself,” Elthia continued, “but I wouldn’t call him rich. You know the old joke—how do you make a million dollars with a winery?”

  I nodded. Start with two million dollars.

  “Romeo worked hard,” she said. “He bought the old Constantino vineyard when its vines were half dead. He rebuilt it from the ground up and put everything he had into it. He wasn’t some rich dilettante.”

  That I could believe. The Trivia wine I’d sampled had been top notch. But San Benedetto was a town of farmers who’d become vintners. Too far inland to attract the upper crust, we nevertheless produced superlative reds. A few so-called dilettantes had moved in, mainly retirees looking for the glamour of owning a winery. They were amateurs but nice folks, willing to get their hands dirty and willing to learn. But Romeo’s wine had not been produced by an amateur.

  “I suppose it helped having a wife who’s a professor of viticulture,” I said.

  “She only teaches at a community college.” Elthia’s lips curled.

  I sat back, the chair creaking beneath me. And what was wrong with a community college?

  Adele bustled into the tea room carrying a bamboo tray. “I thought an herbal blend would be appropriate. A mix of chamomile, lemon grass, lemon myrtle, and spearmint.” She laid the sleek modern teapot on the table and set out three curving bone-colored cups on matching saucers. Drawing a chair, she sat beside us and folded her hands on the tablecloth. “Now about your Bistro of Death—”

  “Death Bistro,” Elthia said, her eyes glinting.

  I grabbed the teapot and poured a cup for Elthia, then for myself.

  “Whatever. Wouldn’t you rather have it in the Paranormal Museum?”

  My hand dipped, tea dribbling onto the white tablecloth. “What?”

  “It’s not a change of location,” Adele said. “The museum is right next door, and people can enter through the Fox and Fennel.”

  “Um, I’m not set up to serve tea,” I said.

  “Of course not,” Adele said. “I’ll provide the tea. We can set a table up in your main room.”

  “But … I have a cat!” I could not host a tea and get ready for the haunted house and deal with the biggest sales month in the supernatural world. Ugh. And I was supposed to meet with Ladies Aid about the haunted house in less than an hour.

  “You’ll love GD Cat,” Adele said to Elthia. “Did you know he sees dead people?”

  “I’ve heard cats are more sensitive,” Elthia murmured. “Maddie, could we hold the Bistro in your museum?”

  “The space may be cramped,” I warned.

  “It’s a small group,” Elthia said. “I don’t expect more than a dozen people.”

  I could fit a dozen people.

  “Pleeease,” Adele said. “It would be the perfect solution. It won’t cause any real mix-ups. Plus, it will be a good promotion for the museum.”

  Well, maybe. I didn’t see how I was going to make much money out of it if they were slugging down Adele’s tea and crumpets. But no publicity is bad publicity, and Adele and I would work something out. “Why not?” I said. “When is it?”

  “This Thursday,” Elthia said.

  “What?!” My head rocked backward. “That’s in four days!”

  “You won’t have to do a thing,” Adele said. “I’ll take care of the table setup, food, and cleanup. Elthia will promote it with a big thank you to the Paranormal Museum.”

  I don’t like short notice. Short notice gave me less time to plan for emergencies. But I could do this. “Fine.” After all, I had a ghost hunter group that explored the museum after-hours on a monthly basis. I pasted on a smile. “The Death Bistro sounds fun.”

  Someone hammered on the tea room door. Frowning, Adele rose and opened it.

  Three women in powder-blue T-shirts stalked in. My mother slunk in behind them. The president of Ladies Aid pointed a pudgy finger at me.

  I flinched, icy tentacles rippling up my spine.

  “We need to talk.”

  eight

  Two gray-haired women took up posts beside the tea room’s front door. They clicked the bolt shut.

  “I think we should hold this conversation in private,” the Ladies Aid president said. “Don’t you?” Mrs. Bigelow gazed pointedly at Elthia.

  Elthia gulped down her tea and leapt from her chair. “I’m done here.”

  One of the blue ladies released Elthia, locking the door behind her.

  Eliza Bigelow sat in Elthia’s chair and shifted the tea things to the center of the table. “A new set up and Earl Grey, Miss Nakamoto.”

  Behind her, my mother hovered, awkward. My mother was never awkward.

  “Yes, ma’am.” Adele loaded the tea pot and cups onto the tray. Taking the half-full cup from my hand, she scuttled into the kitchen.

  “Now.” Mrs. Bigelow tilted her head down and lasered me with a steel-cutting gaze. “I understand you’ve taken charge of the Haunted San Benedetto display at our haunted house. What exactly do you have in mind?”

  “In mind?” My insides crumpled like an aluminum can. I glanced at my mother.

  She examined her fingernails.

  “Did you see our museum’s display inside the Visitors Bureau tent?” I asked.

  “I certainly hope you’re not planning on repeating that,” Mrs. Bigelow said. “Haunted houses are supposed to be frightening.”

  “No one told me the size of the space I’d be decorating,” I said, stalling.

  “You’ll have the last room in the tour, the downstairs parlor,” Mrs. Bigelow said. “It’s approximately ten feet by twelve. Of course, you’ll bring the grape press, but I do hope you can flesh out its story a bit more. Perhaps you can build a scene recreating the murder-suicide.”

  The idea left me cold, and I wasn’t sure why. Historical murder and mayhem was a central theme in my Paranormal Museum. But this murder-suicide felt different, for some reason. “The police have the, erm, grape press.”

  Mrs. Bigelow’s eyes glittered. “That shouldn’t be a problem. We’ve got a cop. I’ll look into it.”

  I blinked. Ladies Aid owned a cop? What were they? The Mafia?

  “Your grape press won’t take the entire space,” she went on. “I’m envisioning multiple scenes for Haunted San Benedetto, which draw people through to the exit. And there had better be screaming.”

  “You mean … in the exhibit?” Screaming? What was I supposed to do? Hide behind a wing chair and howl? I caught my mother’s eye.

  She shook her head, lips crimped tight.

  Adele hustled into the room and laid out a new tea setting, cups rattling in their saucers. She backed away, flattening herself against the false bookcase.

  “I mean, you need to scare the paying guests,” Bigelow said. “Is anything in your museum actually frightening?”

  “There’s the McBride murder,” I offered. “I could rig a swaying noose.”

  “And when lightning flashes, a shadow of the hanged man will appear on the wall.” Bigelow added cream to her tea and swirled it, her spoon clinking against the cup.
“Excellent idea. Ladies, write that down.”

  A woman beside the door whipped a notepad from the rear pocket of her jeans and a pen from behind her ear. She scribbled something on the pad.

  Flashing lightning? Mysterious shadows? I didn’t know how to do that!

  “What about the third exhibit?” Bigelow frowned at the tea stain on the white tablecloth.

  “The third exhibit.” My mind had gone blank. It was worse than the fifth grade spelling bee. I’d known how to spell ‘revision,’ but all those staring eyes, waiting, expectant.

  My mother cleared her throat. “The Paranormal Museum is, of course, known to be haunted.”

  “And not very frightening,” Bigelow said.

  “But séances are,” my mother said. “Madelyn could bring in some of those items and set up a spooky Ouija board scene.”

  “I could arrange mannequins wearing ghost-hunting equipment around it,” I said. “Maybe set up a video screen with our feed of the museum at night.”

  “Why would you have a feed of the museum at night?” Bigelow asked.

  “So people can check in for ghostly activity. It’s not that different from the Christmas Cow feed, where people watch to see if they can catch the cow going up in flames.”

  Her grip tightened on her teacup. “The repeated arson attacks on the San Benedetto Christmas Cow are no joking matter. Do you have any idea how many hours go into constructing that display?”

  “Lots?” I asked.

  “Hundreds.”

  “The feed is rather eerie though,” my mother said. “A flickering green screen, mesmerizing, and then one of your volunteers could hide among the ghost-hunter mannequins and lunge for a guest. It could be terrifying.”

  Bigelow’s eyes narrowed. She drummed her pink talons on the table. “Very well. Ghost hunters from the museum it is. You are aware, of course, that the haunted house is being held at CW Vineyards?”

  I nodded.

  “Miss Nakamoto?”

  High heels dragging, Adele slunk to the table. “Yes?”

  “I’ve decided to have a volunteer appreciation tea on Halloween for all those who contributed to the haunted house. We’ll hold it at the Fox and Fennel. It will be called a Witches’ Tea, in honor of the day, though of course will be scheduled for the evening.”