Leo swiveled. He stared, then stalked toward me.
Chuck strolled to Jocelyn and laid a hand on her shoulder.
She shook her head. “I can’t! Not now!” She hurried across the lawn, plunging into rows of yellowing grapevines.
Breathing hard, Leo leapt up the porch steps. “The tablecloths are what you wanted? I kept the receipt.”
“Great.” I eyed Chuck.
He eyed me right back, stroked his beard, and disappeared into the barn.
“And I’ll need that receipt,” I said. “How’s the video of the museum at night coming?”
“It’s done,” he said. “Want to see?”
I followed him behind the divider into the Haunted San Benedetto room. Dieter had vanished, I presumed to do more work on the not-falling wine barrels.
Footsteps clattered down the stairs. Chattering women passed by on the other side of the divider, and the screen door slammed. I imagined Dieter crouching behind a barrel, hiding from the Ladies Aid Blue Shirts.
Leo showed me the video setup. The darkened museum, tinted green, flickered into view on the computer screen.
“Cool,” I said.
“I’m doing a five-minute video loop of those orbs from last month.”
“That’ll be perfect.” Ghost hunters believed orbs were ghostly apparitions. Rational Maddie said they were just dust molecules catching the light. But they could move in unexpected ways that made irrational Maddie wonder. In spite of the Paranormal Museum’s cheerful, haunted ice-cream parlor appearance, it had a weird aura. And there were times, alone in the museum at night, when the hair lifted on the back of my neck and I wondered if I really was alone.
Leo checked his phone. “Hey, I’ve got to go. Will you be okay?”
“Sure. We’re nearly done.” All I had to do was dress the mannequins, arrange the creepy dolls, put out the photo and sign card for the McBride exhibit, and set up the invisible, cursed, and haunted grape press. I eyed the fragments of picket fence on the hardwood floor. Dieter had put it together the first time. I had taken it apart. How hard could it be to reassemble?
Thirty minutes later, I sucked my throbbing thumb and glared at the fence’s metal locking mechanisms. The pickets were not cooperating. I drew a deep breath, and some of the pain faded from my thumb. At least it wasn’t bleeding. I wasn’t sure when I’d gotten my last tetanus shot.
The front screen door slammed. Someone ran behind the divider and pounded up the steps.
I knelt beside the fence. Dieter had built it to snap into place. I could figure this out. Two of the sides had already locked together. Picking up a third, I inserted the metal hinge into the opposite doodad. Sides one and two separated, clattering to the floor.
“Dammit,” I muttered.
Something creaked in the loft above me.
I could keep fighting the fence, or I could swallow my pride and ask Dieter for help. “Dieter?” Craning my neck, I walked closer to the loft.
Two of the wine barrels above me quivered.
One corner of my mouth quirked upward. He’d gotten his not-falling wine barrels rigged after all. The top barrel toppled toward the banister.
“Nice—” The barrel tumbled over the railing, plummeted toward me.
Time slowed. My vision telescoped, taking in the knots in the wood, the tarnished metal bands.
I dove sideways.
The barrel crashed to the floor. There was a second bang, and pain arced through my foot.
I shrieked, loosing a baker’s dozen of curses. Grabbing my foot, I rolled on the floor, eyes watering, my toes a line of fire. “DIETER!”
Footsteps thundered on the front porch. The screen door banged open and Dieter raced through the entry to my horrible, haunted room.
He took in the splintered barrel and his eyes widened. “Holy crap! What happened?”
“Your barrel rigging failed. You should have warned me you were testing it.”
“I never rigged it!” He knelt beside me. “Are you hurt?”
I bit back tears. “It landed on my foot.”
“You’re lucky it was empty. You could have been badly hurt.”
“I am badly hurt.” I winced. “My foot. Ow, ow, ow.”
Silver- and gray-haired women in blue shirts poured down the stairs. They clustered around me, exclaiming like a flock of startled birds.
“Did any of you go into the loft?” Dieter asked.
They all denied it.
The crowd parted, falling silent, and the president of Ladies Aid stepped forward.
Mrs. Bigelow fixing me with a freezing look. “What. Did. You. Do?”
twelve
I sat on the tailgate of my pickup, one shoe off, my feet dangling. My toes were still attached, swollen, a Pinot color.
Gently, Dieter pressed an ice pack beneath them.
I hissed, jerking my foot away.
“I think you’ve got some breakage, babe.” Whipping a rag from his back pocket, he wrapped it around the pack and tried again.
I sighed. Cold good. “I’m fine. The barrel hit me on the bounce.” My foot throbbed, but the ice pack eased the pain.
He shook his head, his expression doubtful.
I growled low in my throat. “Why did that barrel fall?”
“Mad, it wasn’t my fault. I didn’t touch the barrels when I was in the loft, and I hadn’t even started putting together the rigging.”
Chuck strode out of the tasting room, deep in conversation with Mrs. Bigelow.
Dieter shot me a pleading look. “Please, Maddie. It wasn’t me. You know I’m safety conscious.”
“Says the guy who thinks jumping off a balcony is a good idea.” But my anger subsided. Even if it was his fault, it hadn’t been intentional. Dieter was careful.
“Mad, there’s no way that barrel could have just fallen over. I was in the loft earlier, and I checked to make sure everything up there was stable. Barring an earthquake, they shouldn’t have moved.”
Chuck and Mrs. Bigelow stalked toward us, her pewter hair gleaming in the sunlight.
“What are you saying?” I whispered.
“I’m saying that was no accident.”
“We have insurance, of course,” Bigelow bellowed. “However, I’m not sure it covers our volunteers before the haunted house opens.”
“Forget the insurance,” Chuck said. “If she needs to go to the hospital—”
“For a broken toe?” Bigelow snorted. “All they can do is tape it to the toe beside it.”
“How are you feeling?” Chuck asked me, stroking his beard.
“I’ll live.”
“Maybe you should get x-rays,” Dieter said.
Mrs. Bigelow glared.
Dieter looked at me and made a face, his shoulders caving inward.
“I’ll give it a day,” I said. Our family had always been of the only-go-to-the-doctor-if-it-might-be-fatal school of philosophy. Leaning back, I stared at a puffy, white cloud. Oh, God, that ice pack felt good.
Chuck’s handlebar moustache twitched. “How do you think it happened?”
“I thought I heard someone in the loft,” I said. “Maybe they accidentally bumped a barrel.” I wanted to believe it—that someone made a mistake and wasn’t willing to own up to it. But could it have been intentional? I had a hard time believing anyone took my inept investigation seriously enough to want to silence me.
Bigelow’s eyes flashed. “None of my volunteers were in that loft. I gave them strict instructions to avoid that space. The only person with reason to be there was Mr. Finkielkraut.”
Dieter yelped in protest.
“Dieter was outside when the barrel fell,” I said.
A man drifted from the barn. Tall. Dark. Vampiric. Not sparkling. “What’s he doing here?” I asked.
�
�Who?” Mrs. Bigelow turned to follow my gaze. “It’s not our business to question Mr. Wollmer’s guests.”
Chuck straightened, frowning. “Excuse me.” He walked toward the mystery man.
Seriously, who was that guy? Had he flown up to the loft to drop a wine barrel on me? With his vampiric super strength, it would have been easy. I knew it wasn’t nice to blame a stranger for the town’s problems, but it was so easy, especially if he was a supernatural ghoul in disguise.
Dieter snapped his fingers in front of my face. “Earth to Maddie. You sure you didn’t get hit on the head?”
“Of course she didn’t get hit on the head,” Mrs. Bigelow said.
“I want to go home.” I blinked. I hadn’t planned on saying that aloud.
“Then go,” she said. “You have until Thursday afternoon to finish your display.”
Except I didn’t. Today was my last day off for the week. “Maybe Leo can finish up.” I looked around and realized my phone was in the Haunted San Benedetto room with my messenger bag. “Dieter, can you grab my bag for me? I need to call Leo.”
“Why?” Mrs. Bigelow asked. “He’s lurking about somewhere. I saw him near the barn five minutes ago.”
“Are you sure?” I asked.
“Of course I’m sure.”
Huh. I’d thought he left. “I still need my phone. I’m not exactly mobile.”
“I’ll get your bag.” Handing me the ice pack, Dieter loped toward the tasting room.
Bigelow shook her head. “I hope you’re more effective with your investigation than you are with your decorating. I will have words with your mother.”
I thought that Haunted San Benedetto was coming along pretty well. I just needed to dress the mannequins, set out the creepy dolls, display the materials for the hanging murder … And I was sure there was something I’d forgotten. I needed my list. “Where is my mother? I thought she’d be here.” And it shamed me to admit it, but right then I wouldn’t have minded some motherly TLC.
“She’s not working this event.”
“What? But she’s always worked the haunted house.”
Mrs. Bigelow thrust her shoulders back. “It was simply too close to the Harvest Festival for her to effectively manage both.” Swiveling on her sensible heel, she marched into the tasting room.
Angry heat pulsed in my toes. Bending, I touched the ice pack to the top of my foot.
Dieter ran down the porch steps and across the lawn. He handed me my messenger bag. “I’ll be right back.” He raced back and disappeared inside. The screen door banged behind him.
Gingerly, I slid off the tailgate and put weight on my foot. A dull throb arced up my leg, and my jaw clenched. I limped in a circle, testing my weight.
Although it would be a godsend if Leo was still around to help Dieter, I scratched my cheek with the damp ice pack, uneasy at the idea. When you find a body in a grape vat, it’s hard not to be paranoid. If Leo was still on the grounds, it meant he’d had the opportunity to tip the barrel.
I frowned down at my swollen foot. No. No way. I could see him losing his temper, hurting someone in a fit of anger. But I couldn’t picture him plotting a murder, sneaking up the stairway, watching and waiting until I was in the right position.
Leo hadn’t done this.
I called him.
He picked up on the third ring. “What’s up?”
“Is there any chance you can come back here? I’ve had a minor accident and need some help finishing the job.”
There was a pause. “Sure. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
Had I imagined that hesitation? “Where—”
He hung up.
I exhaled sharply and regarded my sock and sneaker lying on the open tailgate. The thought of jamming my foot into either did not appeal. Slinging my messenger bag over one shoulder, I hobbled across the gravel drive and up the porch steps into the tasting room.
The fallen barrel lay on its side, against the makeshift wooden divider. A table had been overturned, and I righted it, adjusting the black cloth. The picket fence pieces rested where I’d left them on the floor. I’d leave the fence to Leo and Dieter.
I pulled the creepy dolls from the cardboard box and arranged them on two round tables.
The screen door banged, and Leo strolled through the divider and into the room.
“Hey. What’s going on?”
I nodded to the barrel. “It fell from the landing, hit my foot.”
“For real?” His brown eyes widened, and he yanked up his sagging black jeans. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, but I’m limping. Can you help me? I just want to finish up and go home.”
“Yeah, sure.”
Together, we disassembled and clothed the mannequins. I arranged the brochures, signage, and haunted photos, and Leo snapped the fence into place. I hung my Invisible Haunted Grape Press sign from one of the pickets.
I sat on the overturned wine barrel, my injured foot extended. “Thanks for returning, Leo. I hope I didn’t mess up your plans.”
“Nah.” He checked his watch. “It’s okay, but if we’re done, I’ve gotta motor.”
I looked around. With sunlight streaming through its wide windows, the room didn’t feel spooky. I imagined it at night, lightning flashing and the greenish video flickering. It would work. “We’re good. I’ll see you Thursday.”
He nodded and jogged out.
My stomach rumbled, and my foot throbbed in response—which was a weird response but beyond my control. Digging my cell phone out of my bag, I called Harper.
“Harper Caldarelli.”
“It’s me. You doing anything for lunch?”
She hesitated. “Did something happen?”
“I’m not sure.” I gazed at the loft, thoughtful.
Someone rattled down the stairs and Dieter bounded into the room. “Hey, Mad—”
I pointed to the phone. He pointed to the wine barrel. I got up, leaning on my good leg, while he hefted the barrel onto his shoulder.
“Can you come by my office?” Harper asked.
“I’ll be there in fifteen minutes,” I said.
“See ya.” She hung up.
Dieter shifted his weight. “I really don’t see how that barrel came down by itself,” he said in a low voice. “They’re all stacked in tight rows, but the barrel beneath the one that fell is out of place.”
“Maybe that’s why the top barrel fell.”
“Or maybe someone nudged the barrels and doesn’t want to admit it.”
The skin on the back of my neck crawled. “You think a volunteer went back there for some reason?”
“I don’t know why they would. Like Bigelow said, they’re all busy with their own rooms upstairs. The only person with any reason to go in that loft is me, and maybe Chuck since he owns the place.”
“Dieter, if you were taking odds on me solving the murder—and I’m not saying you are—how many people might have already placed bets?”
“Lots.” He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing.
My eyes narrowed. Uh oh. There really was a bet on me. “Define ‘lots.’”
“The usual gamblers. You’re sort of the new Christmas Cow.”
“Dieter!” My fingers curled. If I was faster on my feet, I’d have lunged for his throat.
“I mean, as an interesting local bet.”
“Who?”
“Some of the Ladies Aid husbands, and husbands from the splinter group as well.” His chin dipped toward his broad chest. “If I’ve put you in the killer’s crosshairs, I’ll never forgive myself.”
I scrubbed my face with my hands. “So basically everybody in San Benedetto but the cops and the kids know about my so-called investigation.”
Dieter straightened, indignant. “Of course not the kids. You have to be twenty-one t
o gamble.” He grimaced. “And Maddie …”
I scowled at him.
“Your mother’s down for fifty.”
Harper’s office was on the first floor of a 1960s-era building. Minus a shoe, I limped into the receptionist’s room. A small fountain trickled beside a bamboo plant on a high counter.
Harper’s secretary, Sal, stood behind the reception desk and stared at the closed door to Harper’s office. The furrows in her lined face deepened, thick makeup caking the creases.
“Hi, Sal. I’m here to see Harper.”
Wrenching her gaze from the polished wood door, Sal bit her full lip. “Um. Sorry. What?”
Harper’s secretary might look like a cuddly blond grandma, but she had a mind like a steel trap. It wasn’t like her to space out. “I’m here to have lunch with Harper,” I said. “Is everything okay?”
“I’m not sure.” Bracing her elbows on the counter, Sal dropped her voice to a whisper. “The police are here.”
“One of Harper’s clients died recently. Maybe they’re looking for his financial information.”
“I know, Romeo Paganini. I can’t believe someone killed him. Such a handsome man. We were getting things together for his wife, and then—”
The office door opened and Harper walked out, her expression grim, her dark hair bound up in a bun. She walked to the reception desk, her heels clacking on the hardwood floor. Her charcoal-colored shoes matched her pinstriped pantsuit. “Sal, can you pull Mr. Paganini’s files, please?”
Laurel and Detective Slate followed her into the reception area. Next to Harper, they looked shabby in spite of their navy business suits. My two best friends were fashion plates, and Harper’s outfit had that too-expensive-for-you vibe.
Slate nodded to me. “Miss Kosloski.”
“Hi.” I leaned against the counter and tucked my shoeless foot behind the other, hoping he wouldn’t notice.
“What happened to your foot?” His gaze met mine.
Harper leaned across the counter and held a low conversation with her receptionist.
“I think I might have broken a toe,” I said. “Once I got the shoe off, I couldn’t put it back on again.”
Sal hustled into a back room.
Pressed to Death Page 14
