“I think we’ve got it all,” I said.
He released his end of the tape. It retracted, rattling across the wood floor, snapping into its container and whipping my thumb.
“Ow.”
“Sorry,” he said, coloring. “I guess I could have walked it to you.”
“I’m feeling a little tense myself. We’ve got a lot of space to haunt.”
“We can hang the noose over the banister,” he said.
“That would be authentic, assuming anyone can get past all those wine barrels to rig one.” In the nineteenth-century McBride murder, the victim had indeed been hanged from a landing banister.
“I think I can do it,” he said.
“Or we can just get a ladder and attach it from this side,” I said. My mother would have a ladder if Dieter didn’t. “The problem is, a hanging noose doesn’t take up any space. I’m going to have to fill the rest of the room with a fake paranormal museum.” I didn’t want to take too much stuff from the actual museum. But people paid good ticket money for the haunted house, so I couldn’t skimp on my exhibits.
“What about the creepy dolls you took to the Harvest Festival?” Leo asked. “What happened to the extras?”
“Good idea,” I said. “They’re in the back of my closet at home.” I wasn’t sure why I hadn’t gotten rid of them yet, except I hated throwing stuff away. And I kept finding myself glad I had them. “The invisible grape press will take up another five or six square feet, but that still leaves a lot of space.”
“Can we keep the tables that are already here?” he asked.
“I’ll ask. We could use them to display the dolls.” A bunch of scary-looking dolls plus the grape press, noose, and ghost hunter exhibit just might be enough.
“Okay.” I scribbled on my yellow pad. “Here’s what I think we need. Three mannequins dressed for ghost hunting—my mom might be able to help there—plus ghost-hunting equipment.”
“Which we sell at the museum.”
“Right. And I can get a noose from my mom. There’s bound to be some good rope in her garage, no pun intended. But we’ll need tablecloths—can you stop by the party supply store and buy some cheap black-plastic table coverings?” I dug my wallet out of my bag and handed him some cash.
“What about the grape press? Are you going to be able to get it back from the cops?”
I leaned against a window sill. “I’ll head to the police department today and check. But let’s plan on using the invisible grape press.”
“I can set up the monitor so people can watch the museum’s web cam, but does this place even have an Internet connection?”
“Chuck should know. I’ll ask.” If I was going to snoop on my mother’s behalf—was I?—this would make a good excuse to talk to Chuck. He seemed to know Jocelyn well. Maybe he had some insights into who might have killed Romeo.
Explaining about how the divider would be used, I handed Leo my notebook and crooked diagram. “Can you sketch out the room with the displays? Traffic’s going to flow from the stairs, around the room, and then out the front door.”
“Got it.”
“Thanks.” I jogged upstairs to find Chuck.
Poking my head through the open doors, I finally located him, surrounded by a gaggle of elderly Ladies Aid ladies twittering about the placement of a guillotine. Looking haunted, Chuck violently smoothed his moustache, his eyes darting around the cramped room.
I knocked on the open door. “Chuck, I have a question—”
“Of course!” He sprang from the group. “Excuse me, ladies. Duty calls.” Hustling me down the hallway, he half-shoved me into the haunted library. He shut the door and leaned his muscular form against it, his shoulders sagging. “Salvation.”
I grinned. “A bigger job than you expected?”
“You have no idea.” He wiped a hank of blond hair from his unlined brow. “But the publicity is worth it.”
“That’s what I keep telling myself. I’d like to set up a monitor downstairs and run our live webcam of the museum at night. Does this building have Wi-Fi or an Internet connection?”
“Sorry, no. What if you just ran a video loop? You know, a recording?”
“That’s not a bad idea.” Leo could manage that for sure. “And can we use some of the tables in the tasting area?”
“Sure.”
“Thanks. How did you get suckered into this?”
“I volunteered when Jocelyn was still a part of the organization.” Chuck frowned. “At least I think I did. It’s hard to say no to Ladies Aid.”
“It’s a great space for a haunted house. And Jocelyn? How do you two know each other?” I wasn’t investigating. Just making small talk.
“The way most vintners know each other, I suppose. It’s a small town. Winery owners have to stick together.”
“But you’re not a member of the Wine and Visitors Bureau?”
“Not enough bang for my buck there, I’m afraid.”
“Terrible about Romeo.”
“Why do I feel like I’m being interrogated?”
My cheeks warmed. “The police are managing the investigation, but I’m worried about Leo. This has hit him hard.”
“And the angry-young-man shtick won’t win him any points with the police.” Chuck smiled, wry. “He’s a teenager. Bad attitude is in the DNA. The cops must know that.”
“Who do you think would have wanted to kill his father?”
Chuck rubbed his knuckles against his jaw. “To tell you the truth, Romeo was a bit of a lady’s man, so any number of jealous husbands would have.”
“Really? Any husbands in particular?”
“I couldn’t say. And as you said, the police are handling it.” He walked out.
Chagrined, I wandered to the library window. Outside, Leo leaned against my truck, his arms folded over his chest. Jocelyn was speaking to him, her posture rigid. I understood the tension between Leo and his stepmom. But there seemed to have been something between Chuck and Jocelyn, and I wasn’t sure if it was romance or anger. Was Romeo the only lady’s man in the mix?
ten
I sat, parked, in front of the brick police station, clutching the wide metal steering wheel. Jocelyn had told the cops the grape press hadn’t been stolen. I still didn’t see why they needed to keep it—the press hadn’t been anywhere near the crime scene. But Detective Hammer delighted in making my life difficult.
Sliding from the truck, I put a quarter in the meter. The station’s architecture was early American slaughterhouse style, squat and mournful and designed to depress. My feet dragged as I walked up its concrete steps and pushed open the front door.
The reception area was painted the same sickly green as the interior of my old high school. High school had not been good to me.
Repressing a shudder, I strode to the window and smiled at the beefy uniformed officer behind the thick glass. “Hi, I’m Maddie Kosloski. Is Detective Slate available?”
He licked powdered sugar and yellow filling off his thumb. “I’ll check.” Picking up the receiver, he swiveled away from me and made a call, his voice low. He nodded, hung up. “Someone will be here shortly.”
“Someone?” I clutched my messenger bag. Not Laurel. Please, not Laurel.
He pointed to a plastic chair. “You can wait there.”
“Thanks.” I slithered into the chair, bag in my lap. And waited. Checked my watch. Wondered if I should run outside and put another quarter in the meter. Waited. I rose, clearing my throat, and jerked my thumb toward the door. “I’m just going to—”
Laurel strode into the waiting room and crooked a finger. “Come with me.”
Swallowing, I followed her into a hallway. No jacket today, and the sleeves of her blouse were rolled past her elbow. I couldn’t blame her. The station was airless.
We passed rows of cub
icles. She opened the door to a windowed conference room and bowed, mocking.
“Thanks.” I walked inside.
She closed the glass door behind us. The conference room windows needed a cleaning, their miniblinds bent and dusty.
“So. Laurel,” I said.
“Detective Hammer.”
“Sorry. Hammer. Detective Hammer.”
“What do you want with Detective Slate?”
I shoved my hands in the pockets of my jeans. “I wanted to know if I could get the grape press back by Thursday for the haunted house.”
A fly crawled up the pockmarked blue wall.
“You’re turning the Paranormal Museum into a haunted house? Isn’t that redundant?”
I hugged my messenger bag to my stomach. “No, I got roped into doing a Haunted San Benedetto room for the Ladies Aid haunted house and charity fundraiser. It’s for a good cause. Have you heard about it?”
“No,” she said, impassive.
“Really? They do the haunted house every year,” I babbled. “This year, they’re raising money to fund a mobile library for the old folks homes in the area.”
“I mean, no, you can’t have the press.”
My stomach knotted. “Oh.”
She smiled. “We found blood on it.”
“Bl … What?” Blood? But the press hadn’t been at the grape vat, and Romeo couldn’t have been killed by the grape press. It was too big for someone to pick up and bash into his head. “I didn’t get much chance to examine the body,” I said, “but I doubt someone pressed him to death.”
“Stabbed. Got any haunted daggers in that museum of yours?”
My head swam. I had exactly five, arranged in a fan-shape and inside a shadowbox. “Maybe,” I squeaked.
Her smile broadened, teeth gleaming. “Maybe we should take a look at those knives.”
The door swung open behind her. Detective Slate leaned inside, his blue suit rumpled. His amber-flecked eyes caught mine and I sucked in my breath, that odd hook catching beneath my chest.
He glanced at Laurel and canted his head toward the hall. “Got a minute?”
Lips pressed tight, she followed him outside. They closed the door behind them and spoke in voices too low for me to hear. And I was trying.
Laurel’s expression fossilized. She nodded.
He walked down the hall, and I sagged against the table, heaviness weighting my chest.
Laurel opened the door. “You can go.”
Scurrying past her, I speed-walked out of the police station. A green envelope was wedged beneath my truck’s windshield wiper. Wrenching it free, I cursed. A ticket. I knew I should have put more coins in the meter. I opened the envelope and read the fine, letting more curses fly.
I drove, fuming, to a local taqueria and parked beside a Lexus. The owner, who looked all of fifteen, sat against the bumper, gnoshing on a burrito. I forced myself to calm down, unsure what I was more upset about—the ticket or the bloodstains on the grape press. What I needed wasn’t comfort food, it was someone to thrash things out with. I called Mason.
He picked up on the fourth ring. “Hey.”
“Hi, Mason. I’m on a burrito quest. Want anything from the taqueria?”
“Um, no. But thanks.”
I waited for him to say more.
He didn’t.
“Have you got a minute? You won’t believe—”
“Mad, I can’t talk right now.”
I stilled. “Oh. Sorry. I’ll let you go.”
“No, wait. I need to talk to you, but not right now.”
“Is something wrong?”
“Not wrong.” He blew out his breath. “Look, I’ll call you soon. Okay?”
“Sure.” I gnawed the inside of my cheek. I didn’t believe him.
“Mad?”
“Yeah?”
“I just wanted to say … I love you.”
I leaned against the headrest. “I love you too.”
It was the first time he’d said the words. For months I’d been biting my tongue, trying not to be the first to speak. I should have been elated by his confession. But the timing was off. The whole conversation was off.
“I’ll call you soon.” He hung up.
I stared out the windshield. A woman pushed a stroller in the park across the street.
Had reconnecting with his ex rekindled old memories? I sighed. Of course it had. But if that was the case, why would he tell me he loved me? Out of guilt? My gaze clouded. No. There was no way Mason would cheat on me. That wasn’t who Mason was, and shame prickled my chest for even considering he’d cheated. I trusted him. And the past was just that, the past, a ghost, and it only existed if we wanted it to.
Appetite gone, I walked into the taqueria and stood in line at the counter. The scents of grilled pork and beef steamed the air. Women in white aprons worked behind the glass, assembling burritos. Soon I was at the register, a young man in an apron smiling, expectant.
“A grilled veggie burrito, refried beans, hot salsa, and a diet cola.” The heck with those last ten pounds. It had been a stressful day. “And a nachos with everything.”
I paid and the cashier handed me my soda. Turning, I stopped short before my nose smacked into a crisp white dress shirt. I craned my neck.
The vampire from Adele’s house looked down at me, his cadaverous yet oddly attractive face unperturbed, his dark eyes expressionless.
“Excuse me.” He edged past, to the counter.
Who was this guy? I lingered, standing, when there was an empty red Formica table waiting three steps away. We got plenty of tourists, so San Benedetto wasn’t one of those small towns where strangers were rare enough to ogle. But this guy kept turning up in the oddest places, and in my new role as Maddie Kosloski, PI, I wanted to know why.
I sipped my soda, checking the receipt for my number though I’d already memorized it (thirty-two).
Vampire Guy turned from the counter and scanned the room, looking for a place to wait.
Stepping forward, I smiled. “Hi, aren’t you a friend of Chuck’s? We met at the Harvest Festival. I’m Maddie Kosloski.”
He raised a fine brow. “Did we?”
“So what brings you to San Benedetto?”
“Wine.”
Either this man had no social skills or he was cagey.
“Number thirty-TWO,” an aproned woman bellowed from behind the counter.
“Well, you’ve come to the right place.” I adjusted the collar of my black blouse, which had grown mysteriously tight. “We have some excellent ancient-vine zins.”
“Indeed.”
“THIRTY-TWO!”
“Isn’t that your number?” he asked.
“Why do you say that?”
“I was right behind you, and I’m thirty-three.”
Tingling swept the back of my neck. “Oh. Right.” I grabbed my paper bag off the counter. “Well, it was nice seeing you again.”
“Mmm.”
Swallowing, I edged away, taking a free newspaper from the rack on my way out.
Vampire Guy, one, Maddie Kosloski PI, zero. I might have to rethink my investigation process. It only worked if people actually talked to me. But at least I had nachos.
Glum, I walked to the park and across its patchwork of brown and green lawn. I sat on a hay bale dusted with autumn leaves and spread my food beside me. Heard but unseen, the creek trickled, sluggish, in the hollow.
I shook out the newspaper. The body at the Harvest Festival on Saturday was front page news: Local Vintner Found Stabbed to Death in Harvest Festival Vat. That explained why Laurel had let me know the victim had been stabbed—it wasn’t a secret. And I was willing to bet that fact didn’t make Detective Slate happy.
Laying the newspaper across my lap, I dragged a nacho through some beans an
d sour cream and took a bite. Heaven.
Leo had been right. As the spouse, Jocelyn made the best suspect. She’d even implied she had a motive, telling me Romeo had “taken everything” from her? Did she want to get caught? Or had she snapped? And assuming Romeo had been killed elsewhere and dumped, how could she have lifted his body into the dump truck? And why use a dump truck at all if he’d been killed near my grape press in the Visitors Bureau tent?
I bit into the burrito, swiping with a napkin at the veggie juices that trickled down my chin. Why had Mason told me he loved me? The not-knowing thrummed through my veins, an uneven electric current, setting me on edge.
Seeking distraction from that line of thought, I flipped the page. Ladies Aid and the Dairy Association were looking for volunteers for this year’s Christmas Cow. I shook my head. What sort of odds would Dieter be taking on the cow’s survival?
I made it through half my burrito and all the nachos and waddled to my truck. Though I’d left the windows down, the truck was an oven. The steering wheel seared my fingertips. I grabbed a dishcloth from the glove compartment and covered the wheel, then drove out of the parking lot. I had a list of things to do and questions to be answered. I needed to talk to Cora Gale. I was fairly certain she hadn’t killed Romeo, but she might have some good intel. But first, I had to talk to Mom.
My truck tires crunched on the loose gravel in my mother’s driveway. Tall, golden, decorative grasses clumped beneath twisted oaks. A knot at the base of my neck released. I was home.
My parents had bought the sprawling ranch house when they’d married and land was cheap. Now, developments encroached, tract houses shoving against the property lines. She’d had offers to buy it, but I doubted she’d ever leave. Too many happy memories.
A blue Prius sat parked beside my mom’s Lincoln. I wedged between the Prius and an oak tree and hopped out, dried leaves crackling beneath my sneakers. Slinging my messenger bag over one shoulder, I strolled up the brick path to the front door and let myself inside.
Voices drifted from the living room, to the right. “It’s a big risk,” a woman said.
Pressed to Death Page 11
