Pressed to Death

by Kirsten Weiss

  Of course. That way they could all avoid giving out candy to trick-or-treaters.

  “I presume you do not have the space reserved for another event?” Bigelow asked.

  “N-no,” Adele stammered.

  “Excellent. Mrs. Kosloski, our volunteer coordinator, will work with you on the details. I expect something elegant, even if we are all wearing pointed hats. Do you understand?”

  Adele snapped to attention. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “You may go.”

  Adele fled into the kitchen.

  “Now, Miss Kosloski, what do you intend to do about Cora Gale?”

  My mouth went dry. “Cora Gale?”

  “Yes, Cora Gale! She clearly was the one responsible for sabotaging our grape stomp.”

  “You mean, you think she killed Romeo Paganini?”

  “That’s what I said, isn’t it?”

  “But why?”

  “To ruin our Harvest Festival, of course. She knows that the grape stomp is our most important fundraiser of the year.”

  “Killing someone seems a little excessive,” I said.

  “Does it?” Bigelow leaned across the table, her lips pursed. “Does it, Miss Kosloski?”

  Behind her, my mom shook her head frantically.

  “Why would Mrs. Gale want to sabotage the Harvest Festival?” This was ridiculous. I knew Mrs. Gale. I mean, we weren’t best buddies, but she was a decent enough person. She was no killer.

  Bigelow sipped her tea. “There’s been a schism in Ladies Aid. Cora felt that society had changed. She believed we should continue with our charitable works but that our time together should focus more on …” Her upper lip curled. “Female empowerment.”

  “And so she’s killing people?” I asked, disbelieving.

  “And so she resigned as president last month, left Ladies Aid, and took a chunk of our membership with her, including Romeo Paganini’s wife, Jocelyn. The two likely conspired, killing two birds with one stone—Romeo and our grape stomp.”

  “But still, why take out the grape stomp?” I asked. I should have paid more attention to my mom’s moanings about Ladies Aid politics. Who knew the organization could be so high drama?

  “Because there isn’t enough room in San Benedetto for two charitable societies such as ours. She wants the whole pie.”

  I wouldn’t mind a whole pie myself right now. But Mrs. Gale as murderer? “Have you told the police your theory?” I asked carefully.

  “I have. That fool of a detective did not take me seriously. I will have words with his captain. We cannot allow Cora to interfere further. Since the police are useless in this matter, I expect you to prove she was the culprit.”

  “But—”

  “You’ve done it before. You can do it again. Now, how are you going to tackle this problem?”

  What had my mom gotten me into? “Oh,” I said, “I’ve got a process.”

  “Well, what is it?”

  I glanced at the locked door. “It’s secret.”

  “Hmph. I suppose that makes sense.” Bigelow rose. “You have until this Thursday to install your Haunted San Benedetto exhibit at the haunted house.”

  “Thursday?!” I grasped the table, dizzy. I had to host the Death Bistro. “But that’s in four days! Halloween isn’t for another three weeks!”

  “Didn’t anyone tell you? The haunted house was so successful last year, we’re holding it the last three weekends in October. Our first showing will be this Thursday night.” She swept out of the tea room.

  I sputtered. “Thursday? This Thursday? I can’t … Mom, you’ve got to explain—”

  She grasped my arm. “I can’t protect you,” she whispered, then hurried after Bigelow and her lackeys. The door snicked shut behind them.

  Protect me from what? What the Hades was going on? And why did I feel like I’d just survived an interview with the Godfather?

  Adele slunk from the kitchen. “Are they gone?”

  “A fat lot of help you were. Coward.”

  “Are you kidding? Ladies Aid can make or break a business. They practically run this town.”

  “So the Fox and Fennel is too good for the Death Bistro, but a Witches’ Tea is all right with you.”

  “There’s a skull and crossbones on the Death Bistro flyer. That’s a poison warning! Besides, this is Ladies Aid. Their tea will be the height of sophistication.”

  “And you’re too chicken to say no.”

  “There is that,” Adele said. “But I’ve got to protect my business. It’s still a baby. Innocent, fragile.”

  That I understood. What I didn’t get was how my mother could have thrown in with this lunacy. And she’d been so meek! That was the unkindest cut of all.

  I groaned. “How am I going to decorate an entire room in a haunted house by Thursday?” At least I wouldn’t need to be there running things on Thursday night, because I definitely wanted to check out the upcoming Death Bistro.

  “And you’ve got a murder to solve.”

  “You heard that, did you?”

  “I eavesdropped. Only for your own protection,” Adele said hastily.

  “I’m not happy about my so-called investigation.” I crossed my arms over my chest. “Crime-solving is what the police are for.”

  “The police won’t stop Mrs. Bigelow from ruining Cora Gale’s reputation. And didn’t you hear what I said about Ladies Aid? You can’t go back on your word to their president. She’ll ruin you.”

  “Ladies Aid tried to take out the Paranormal Museum once before, and they failed.”

  “That was different. Mrs. Gale was in charge then. Mrs. Bigelow is a whole other kettle of piranhas.”

  “She’s nuts.” And somehow, Ladies Aid had fallen in with her delusion. There was no way someone would commit murder just to sabotage a silly grape stomp. Was there?

  On a whim, I cut through the tea room to the back alley and jogged up the concrete staircase leading to Mason’s apartment. I rapped on the fortress-like metal security door. Waited. Knocked again. Waited.

  Digging my cell phone from the pocket of my jeans, I called.

  He didn’t pick up.

  Disappointment weighted my gut, and I blew out my breath. Wait, was he meeting with his ex tonight? He hadn’t mentioned a time or date. Not that it mattered. Well, I couldn’t expect him to be at my beck and call. I trudged down the steps and into the tea room.

  Adele had cleared the table and sat in a booth with a laptop open before her, its bluish glow lighting her face. Her pink leather purse sat beside her on the seat. “Witches, witches, witches’ tea, witches and tea,” she muttered.

  “Found anything useful?”

  She raked her fingers through her black hair. They tangled in her bun and she yanked her hair free, scattering a band, bobby pins, and a delicate hair net. “If I’m stuck doing a Witches’ Tea for Ladies Aid, I’m going to have to come up with some Halloween tea blends. I may as well create them now.”

  “Maybe you can just take some of your existing blends and reword the names so they sound more magical?”

  She clutched her hands to her chest. “Would you?”

  “Sorry, you’re on your own. I’ve got to plan a room at a haunted house. By Thursday. And I don’t even know what the room looks like yet.” I’d need to make an appointment with CW Vineyards to get into the house. It had been a while since I’d done a tasting there, but I vaguely remembered a gray-painted Gothic.

  And then there was my “investigation.” Mrs. Gale couldn’t have anything to do with the murder, but there was bad blood between her and Ladies Aid. Detective Slate was a good cop, and I trusted him. But my mother was behaving oddly and seemed somehow involved in whatever was going on. I needed to figure out what was up. And since I really didn’t want to grill the grieving son and widow of the victim, talking
to Mrs. Gale seemed a decent third choice.

  “I need help.” Adele clutched my wrist. “I’m no writer, and I don’t know anything about witches. You run a paranormal museum. You must have some ideas.”

  “Harper.”

  “What about Harper?”

  I bit my lower lip. Harper lived a secret life as a strega, an Italian folk witch, and I wasn’t sure how much Adele knew. A reputation for witchcraft wouldn’t mix with Harper’s rational, financial planner persona. “I know today’s Sunday, but this is an emergency,” I finally said. “We need Harper.”

  Adele whipped her cell phone from her pink leather purse. “You’re right. She’s not as close to the situation. She’ll have a better perspective.” She dialed. “Harper? It’s an emergency—” She scowled. “No, I haven’t been arrested … No, Mad hasn’t been arrested either. It’s Ladies Aid! Look, can you meet Mad and me at the Book Cellar in, say, thirty minutes?” She relaxed against the booth. “Great. Thanks.” She dropped her phone in her purse. “She’ll meet us there.”

  Locking our shops, we strolled down the street, passing window shoppers and diners lounging in sidewalk cafés. The temperature had dropped to a temperate seventy-something and a breeze whispered against my bare arms. People gripe that California doesn’t have seasons. It’s true you have to head into the mountains to see fall color, but you can’t beat the weather.

  We ambled inside the Book Cellar, a combination first-floor bookstore and basement wine bar. I itched to peruse its carpeted aisles for a new mystery novel, preferably something set in a charming English village. But Adele clacked down the wide stairs to the cellar, and I followed. A hostess led us past dark wood tables sunk in low shadows, faux wine barrels set into stone walls.

  Harper waited in a booth, a glass of red wine on the table before her. “I hope you don’t mind …” She struggled out of her black motorcycle jacket. “I ordered a bruschetta plate.” Her plain white T-shirt gleamed against her olive skin.

  I didn’t need more calories, but this was a crisis. “Did you order any Gorgonzola and honey bruschetta?”

  “Of course. And your favorite, Adele, the Brie and green apple.”

  We ordered wine before the hostess could escape—we’d been here often enough that we knew what we wanted—and sank into the booth.

  “I figured you and Mason would be out tonight,” Harper said.

  “I’m not sure where he is.” Ignoring a twinge of worry, I shifted my gaze to the menu. If Mason was out with his old girlfriend, so what? He’d told me about it, and I trusted him.

  “So,” Harper said. “Ladies Aid.”

  I told her everything. “My mother seems to be in some sort of thrall to the new president.”

  “That doesn’t sound like your mom.” A furrow appeared between Harper’s brows.

  “I know. When I had problems with Ladies Aid earlier this year, my mom was one hundred percent Team Maddie. But she as good as told me I was on my own with this one.”

  “They can’t honestly think someone committed murder just to mess with their grape stomp?” Harper asked.

  “This is worse than just murder,” Adele said. “I have to come up with a witchy tea menu for them.”

  Harper’s expression flickered. “Oh?”

  “I thought we could help her rewrite some of her erotic tea descriptions and make them sound more magical,” I said.

  “I brought menus.” Adele dug into her pink purse and handed them out.

  A waiter stopped by, deposited drinks on our table, and whizzed away.

  “Well, you can change the name of your Black Rapture to Black Magic,” Harper said.

  “Oh! Perfect!” Adele made a note on her menu.

  We drank wine and brainstormed haunted tea names, and some of my tension slipped away. By the time the bruschetta plate was reduced to crumbs, we had five haunted-sounding tea blends.

  Adele leaned against the soft leather booth and took another sip of her Cabernet. “I think that does it.”

  “Now we need someone who understands special effects and can help Maddie with her room at the haunted house,” Harper said.

  “Oh, I’ve already got that handled,” Adele said. “Dieter.”

  “Dieter’s a contractor,” I said. “I need someone who can help me make a shadow of a hanged man appear on a wall.”

  Adele nodded. “Dieter can do that. He spent a year with a roaming carnival. They had a haunted house and everything.”

  Harper wet her lips. “Dieter is a man of many parts.”

  Was there a way I could talk Dieter into doing it at a discounted rate? Even though this month had started off strong, over the course of the year the museum hadn’t exactly made money hand over fist. “All right,” I said. “I’m desperate. I’ll call him.”

  “Why not do it now?” Adele pulled her phone from her purse and dialed. “Dieter? We’ve got an emergency.”

  I winced. Now there was no way he’d knock down the price.

  “Are you working on the Ladies Aid haunted house …? You are? Maddie’s got a room and she’s going to need a little help … Yes … Yes …” Adele pinked. “Thanks. Maybe you should just talk to her.”

  Wetting my lips, I took the phone. “Hi, Dieter.”

  “So what’s the emergency?” he asked.

  “I wouldn’t call it an emergency,” I hedged. “It’s the haunted house. I’m responsible for one of the rooms, and Ladies Aid wants a shadow of a hanged man to appear on the wall.”

  “Just appear? Or be there all the time?”

  “I’ll take whatever I can get.”

  “I could do something with lightning flashes. Yeah. I can do it. No problem.”

  “Er, how much?”

  “That depends. Is Adele going to be there?”

  “Probably not,” I admitted, glancing at her.

  “But you two are good friends.”

  “Ye-es.”

  “Did you tell her I saved you from that runaway car?”

  “It was going less than five miles per hour!”

  “You could have been crushed.”

  “Come on, Dieter.” I glanced at Adele, who was studying her nails. “You don’t need me for that. What’s your price?”

  We haggled, and I hung up. “Well, that makes my life easier.”

  “All set?” Adele asked.

  “The lighting effects are. I need rope for a noose—my mother should have some in her garage.”

  “The life of a museum curator,” Harper said.

  “Soon I’ll be traveling the world, Indiana Jonesing my way through haunted castles in search of occult relics.”

  They stared at me.

  “Or I’ll be setting up a ghost-hunter display for the haunted house. Good thing Monday and Tuesday are my days off.”

  “Harper, you’re the only one who’s not haunted,” Adele said. “I’ve got my magic teas, Maddie’s got the museum. What are you going to do for Halloween?”

  “Well, I’m not taking you trick-or-treating.”

  “Ha.” Adele threw a wadded napkin at Harper. “Ha, ha.”

  They bickered, good natured, and I plotted my next steps on the back of a napkin. Solve the crime? I had a host of leads—the widow, the son, and now Cora. Ghost-detecting tech for the Haunted San Benedetto display? Easy peasy. Mannequins? No idea. A cheap video screen to hook up to the Internet?

  “Does CW Vineyards even have Wi-Fi?” I gnawed my pen.

  “What does that have to do with a concert in Murphy’s?” Adele said.

  “Oh.” I folded the napkin and jammed it in my pocket. “We’re talking about a concert in Murphy’s now? Sorry.” And I still had to flesh out my haunted and/or invisible grape press story, which meant a call to the Historical Association. Finding time to look into Romeo’s death for my mom wasn’t going to b
e easy.

  It was time to cowgirl up and be a detective. Now I just needed to figure out how.

  nine

  The sun was on its way to brunch when I dragged myself from bed and stumbled to my kitchen. One diet soda and two poached eggs on toast later, I stood at the sink, gripping the 1950s-era counter. Through the floral-print curtains, sunlight splintered off the unforgiving lines of my aunt’s ranch house across the drive.

  I gulped orange juice and mentally organized my day. First up: an appointment at CW Vineyards to view the haunted house.

  My cell phone rang.

  Mason! Following the ringing, I scrambled through the nautical-themed living room. The phone vibrated on a bookshelf, shimmying toward a brass telescope in a battered leather case.

  My heart nosedived. Not Mason. I didn’t recognize the number.

  “Hello?” I plopped onto the soft gray-blue couch.

  “It’s Leo. Uh, I know the museum’s closed today, but I heard we were doing the Ladies Aid haunted house.”

  “Ye-es.”

  “Do you need any help?”

  “I’m headed over there—”

  “Great! I’ll come along.”

  I’d planned to say I was headed over soon and didn’t need anything, but something in his voice stopped me.

  “That would be great. What’s your address?” Leo’s mother had died a year ago, and while he was old enough to live on his own, he was also young enough not to be prepared for it. Was he in his mother’s house? Given his strained relationship with his father, I was fairly certain he hadn’t been living with Romeo and Jocelyn.

  Leo gave me directions to a house in a quiet neighborhood.

  “Why don’t I pick you up in an hour?” I asked.

  “You’re the boss.”

  We hung up.

  I dressed in jeans and a lightweight black blouse. Grabbing my messenger bag off the couch, I trotted down the steps of my garage apartment to my truck. Window down, I drove into town. The warm morning air billowed my blouse, tossed my hair, and freedom tingled through my veins.