Pressed to Death

by Kirsten Weiss

  “Too bad,” Laurel said, unsympathetic.

  “Well, if you’re up for it,” Slate said, “could you come by and take that grape press off our hands?”

  “Off your hands? Yes!” I straightened, bumping my toe on the floor. Pain rocketed up my leg. I gritted my teeth and swallowed hard. “Does that mean it’s not evidence? I thought there were blood stains.”

  He snorted. “Yeah, and they’re decades old. They’ve got nothing to do with what happened at the festival last weekend.”

  “That’s great news. Decades old? Did you do an analysis on the blood?”

  “Not personally.”

  “How old were the stains?”

  “Too old for us to figure out much more. I can tell you that the blood was human, from both a male and a female. We weren’t able to pick up a blood type or DNA. It was too contaminated after all this time. So can you get the press? People are complaining.”

  Male and female? That would jibe with the murder-suicide story, even if the police hadn’t been able to nail down the age of the bloodstains. “I’ll pick it up as soon as I can.” My ribs squeezed. “Wait, what did you mean, people are complaining?”

  He motioned, dismissive. “Word got out it’s cursed. Now the department’s imagining everything from oppressive atmospheres to evil whispers. It’s ridiculous, I know. But I’d rather get it out of the station so they can focus on police work.”

  “Evil whispers? What sorts of evil whispers?”

  “Forget it,” he said. “Cops are a superstitious bunch.”

  “That makes sense.” Harper stared at a watercolor landscape on the wall. “Cops tend to be more psychically aware.”

  “Excuse me?” Laurel asked.

  Harper’s olive skin blushed rose. “I misspoke. I just mean they have to be more aware of their surroundings.”

  Laurel crossed her arms over her blue blazer. “You’re right, we do. And we’re pretty good at sensing when someone isn’t telling us the whole truth.”

  “I’ve told you everything I know,” Harper said. “Mr. Paganini didn’t tell me he was moving his account. I only found out about the transfer when you informed me. It must have been a recent decision, because the paperwork hasn’t made its way through the system.”

  “He must have been dissatisfied with something you did,” Laurel said. “Or didn’t do.”

  Harper’s lips thinned. “Apparently. At heart, he was a conservative investor, and we worked together to create a conservative investment plan. That plan’s remained on track. Are you sure he was moving it and not just opening a second account with a different advisor? That’s one way people like to diversify their risk.”

  “We’re sure,” Detective Slate said. “It may be nothing, but we had to ask.”

  They were playing good cop bad cop! I hoped Harper didn’t fall for their ploy. She was a good advisor and she cared about her clients. She’d never act against their best interests.

  Sal emerged from the back room, a thick file in hand. She moved to hand it to Harper but Laurel intercepted her, grabbing the file.

  “If we have any questions,” Laurel said, “we’ll call.”

  Harper nodded, and we watched in silence as the cops made their way out the door.

  “I don’t think they’re going to find anything in there,” Sal said.

  Harper bit her lower lip.

  “Harper?” I asked.

  “Let’s get some lunch.” She disappeared into her office and reemerged moments later, a shiny gray purse slung over her shoulder. “We’ll be back in an hour, Sal.” She strode out the door.

  I hopped after her. “Uh, Harper? Can you slow up?”

  She turned onto the brick sidewalk, her brow wrinkling, and looked down. “What happened to your foot?”

  “You really were out of it in there. An empty wine barrel dropped on my foot, and I couldn’t get my shoe back on.”

  “That looks bad. Have you seen a doctor?”

  “Not yet. I think it’s just a broken toe.”

  Harper pointed to a green-painted bench on a wide strip of grass. “Sit. There’s a taco truck not far from here. I’ll grab us some burritos so you don’t have to move.”

  I sagged. “Would you?”

  “Put your hand on my shoulder if you need to.”

  I didn’t, walking on my heel behind her. Lowering myself to the bench, I breathed a sigh.

  “Veggie burrito, refried beans, hot salsa and everything on it?” she asked.

  I nodded.

  She strode down the street, disappearing around a corner.

  I leaned against the bench, enjoying the warmth of the sun on my face and the people-watching. A woman bumped a stroller across a crack in the sidewalk. An elderly woman walked a Scottie dog, stopping at every lamppost. A young couple ambled past, holding hands.

  My heart pinched, and I checked my phone. Nothing from Mason. Should I call him? No. He said he’d call, and I didn’t want to act as worried as I was starting to feel.

  A shadow fell across me, and I looked up. The woman from the Death Bistro stood in front of the bench, her blue eyes crinkled in a frown. A coil of reddish-blond hair fell from her loose bun, trailing against her neck. A cameo pulled tight the high collar of her gray, puff-sleeved blouse. Her long black skirt and boots seemed to absorb the sunlight.

  Augh, what was her name again? Elvira? Elmira? Elthia! “Hi, Elthia,” I said, proud I’d recalled her name.

  “I’m glad I caught you. I was at the museum, but it’s closed,” she said accusingly.

  “We’re closed every Monday and Tuesday.”

  “But our Bistro is on Thursday!”

  My shoulders tightened. “I’m sure Adele has your tea well in hand.”

  “It’s not the tea I’m worried about, it’s the space. It might be a larger crowd than expected after … after Romeo …” Her eyes welled with tears. She pulled a delicate handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed beneath her nose.

  “I’m meeting with his wife tonight. Should I ask if she or any of their mutual friends are planning to attend?”

  “Jocelyn? She won’t come. She never understood the Bistro or Romeo’s passion for wine making. To her, it was just a business.”

  Jocelyn had admitted as much to me, and I nodded. “And you? Are you a fellow wino?”

  “Guilty.” She smiled. “My family owns a tiny winery. Duck Ridge?”

  I nodded. I’d heard of it.

  “Well, I’m no vintner. I chose to be an artist instead. But I understood the mindset.” She smiled, reminiscent. “My father’s got the wine bug.”

  “Should I invite Jocelyn?”

  Elthia’s delicate nostrils flared. “Under the circumstances, I don’t think it would be appropriate, do you? She is a suspect in his murder.”

  “Are you certain?”

  “She hated him!” Elthia bit her bottom lip, her cheeks pinking, and I wondered if she and Romeo been more than friends.

  Wiping the back of her crooked index finger beneath her eye, Elthia sniffed. “I shouldn’t have said that. Sorry.”

  “But you must have some reason to think it. Why did she hate him?”

  “Everyone knew she wanted children, and he didn’t.” Elthia’s brows pulled down. “After Leo, one was enough for him.”

  “A divorce would have been easier than murder,” I said.

  Her face tightened. “And give up all that money? Besides, Jocelyn’s biological clock is closing in on its sell-by date. Unless she’s got someone on a string, it’ll soon be too late for her.”

  Leo had lost his father. Jocelyn wanted a child. The answer seemed obvious to me, but from what I’d seen of those two, they wouldn’t be turning to each other for comfort any time soon.

  “It wouldn’t surprise me if she was trying outside her marriage,”
Elthia said. “If you know what I mean.”

  “Cheating on Romeo?” I’d sensed a strange undercurrent between Jocelyn and Chuck. Had I imagined it?

  Lips pursed, Elthia unclasped a pocket watch dangling from her belt. “I’m sorry. This is … Thinking about Romeo’s murder is bringing out the worst in me. I’ve said things I shouldn’t. Look, I’ve got some time now. We can go over the layout for my tea at the museum.”

  Harper strode down the sidewalk, a large white paper bag in one hand, a carrier box with two sodas in the other. I nodded toward her. “Sorry. I’m meeting a friend for lunch.”

  Elthia smiled and waved at Harper.

  I canted my head. They knew each other?

  Smiling, Harper walked across the grass. “Elthia! How are you?”

  “Do you want me to be polite or tell you the truth?” Elthia barked a harsh laugh. “You know about Romeo?”

  “Yes,” Harper said. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”

  “You’ve heard that we’ve shifted the Death Bistro to the Paranormal Museum?”

  “I got the email,” Harper said. “I’ll be there.”

  “Great. So when can we go over the site?” Elthia asked me.

  “Anytime tomorrow,” I said. “I’ll be at the museum all day.”

  Elthia nodded. “I’ll stop by in the morning. Bye Harper, Maddie.” She strode down the brick sidewalk. A foil wrapper drifted across her path and she bent, picking it up. She dropped it in a nearby wastebasket.

  I eyed Harper. “You’re a member of the Death Bistro?”

  She reached into the sack and handed me a foil-wrapped burrito. “For the last four months now.”

  “You do realize Adele went bonkers when she found out she was playing host to the Bistro of Death.”

  “Um, yeah.”

  “You didn’t recommend them to Adele’s tea room, did you?”

  She winced. “I might have suggested it. I didn’t think Adele was going to react that way.”

  “Oh, boy. She’s going to find out, and when she does—”

  Harper blew out a noisy breath. “It’s good money. I thought I was doing her a favor! Believe it or not, the Death Bistro members are big spenders. Besides, Adele’s tea room is next door to a Paranormal Museum. She needs to lighten up.”

  “But the skull and crossbones!”

  “I know.” She groaned. “I’d totally forgotten about our new logo. But I don’t think anyone will see that flyer and assume Adele is serving up poisons.”

  “Adele’s going to think you manipulated her into playing hostess.”

  “I didn’t mean to, I swear.” Harper sat down beside me, her expression shifting. “Sometimes I wish I had the skill to manipulate people. My clients can have a tough time discussing money, making financial decisions. The answers seem obvious to me, but getting them to believe they need to change is an exercise in psychology.”

  “Are you talking about Romeo now?”

  “I didn’t say that,” she said quickly.

  “I saw your face when Sal said the police wouldn’t find anything in that file. What gives?”

  “You know I can’t tell you,” she said. “I didn’t even tell the cops. Though I admit that’s because Laurel was so nasty. I’d rather they read it for themselves.”

  “Read what?”

  She shook her head. “Sorry, Mad. Client confidentiality.”

  “Your client is dead.”

  “But his son and widow aren’t, and what’s in that file affects them.”

  “Fair enough.” When it came to financial planning, Harper was a straight arrow. If she’d decided not to tell me, her lips were sealed.

  Adele could be outrageous and self-centered, but I somehow felt closer to her than to the milder, more sensible Harper. Had I put this distance between us, or had Harper? I knew about Harper’s secret life as an Italian-style witch, but it still felt as if she was holding back, keeping a part of herself separate. And that was her right.

  She handed me the soda, put the sack on the bench, and rubbed her hands together. Her eyes glinted like emeralds. “Now let’s do some Reiki on that toe.” She put my foot in her lap and raised her hands above it.

  “You know,” I said, “if you need to talk about anything witch-related, I’m interested.”

  She raised a brow, skeptical.

  “I do run a paranormal museum,” I said. “I’ve even researched stregas.”

  She closed her eyes. “My mother was a strega. I’m not sure what I am.”

  “I thought you were following in her footsteps?”

  “I tried, but the old ways just seem superstitious. They don’t fit me. I’ve been figuring out my own path.”

  “How?”

  “Dreams, intuition, experimentation.”

  “Why don’t you tell Adele about your witchy background?”

  Her eyes flew open. “No.”

  “She wouldn’t judge you.”

  “Probably not, but I’m trying to keep that life separate. If my other side became public, my financial practice would be ruined.”

  “I understand keeping it a secret from your financial planning clients. But isn’t it hard to keep it from friends?”

  “Keeping this hidden is about the hardest thing I’ve ever done. But I don’t know how I can tell Adele now. Secrets and lies are like spider webs. The more you struggle, the tighter they knot.”

  thirteen

  San Benedetto slumbered at the dark end of a dusty twilight. I drove, my truck’s headlights casting long shadows, grapevines flaring into existence and vanishing behind me.

  Mason hadn’t called. The thought he might be avoiding me sickened my stomach. But if he was avoiding me, why had he said he loved me?

  In the distance, low mountains turned to cobalt waves. They rolled toward me, a tidal wave threatening to crush the town.

  I pressed the brake, slowing at an intersection, and my toe throbbed.

  Either my toe wasn’t broken or there was something to that Reiki business, because I was wearing both my sneakers again. For my meeting with Romeo’s widow, I’d changed out of my jeans and T-shirt into a pair of nicer jeans and a silky, cream-colored blouse. But my swollen toe put heels off limits, especially for a meeting with a potential murderess. I didn’t get the sense Jocelyn was a killer, but the spouse was always the prime suspect for a reason. Just in case, I wanted to be able to at least attempt to run.

  My headlights swept across a sign for Trivia Vineyards. I turned down a long gravel driveway, passing too close beneath an oak. Its branches scraped the top of my truck. Wincing, I veered left and paid more attention to the bumpy road.

  It sounded like Jocelyn controlled Leo’s money. If she was a solid, intelligent person, putting her in charge of Leo’s finances had been a smart idea. Harper had told me too many horror stories of people who’d blown through their windfalls within a year, too inexperienced to manage the sudden wealth. Leo was only nineteen. But if this was the case, it also gave her an even bigger motive for murder—she would get her own share of Romeo’s estate plus a controlling interest over Leo’s.

  Tuscan cypresses spiked the roadside, leading to a castle worthy of the Borgias. Lit with spotlights, its crenellated battlements of honey-colored stone gleamed like teeth. I let my pickup drift to a halt beside a turret. I’d been in the winery before, but never inside the main house. I wasn’t sure where on the property Jocelyn lived.

  A banner fluttered above a closed drawbridge. Short of using a battering ram and/or grappling hooks, I wasn’t getting in through that entrance. I edged the truck forward, searching for a secondary driveway that would lead to the house. Had I missed it in the darkness? Driving in a slow circle around the empty parking lot, I noticed a glow of light from the side of the castle and edged closer. A set of steps led up to a smaller, open door. Ligh
t flooded from within, illuminating a raised path and a mailbox was set into the wall.

  Of course Jocelyn lived inside the castle. If I had a castle, I’d live in it too. In fact, I had a full-on case of castle envy.

  I needed to get out of my aunt’s garage apartment.

  And into Mason’s?

  I shook my head. Where had that come from? The idea wasn’t totally out there, but under the circumstances … I wasn’t even sure what the circumstances were, and that was the problem. Maybe it was time I swallowed my pride and tried calling again?

  I checked my watch. It was after seven-thirty, and I was late for my meeting with Jocelyn. I’d call him afterward.

  Sliding from the truck, I landed on my good foot and tested the ground with my other. My foot felt tender, but I could walk on it with only a slight limp.

  A gust of wind tossed my hair. I shivered, tightening my safari jacket, feeling exposed. My footsteps crunched, loud on the loose gravel, silencing the chirps of nearby crickets. I’d spent plenty of time in rural areas, so I was comfortable with dark and quiet. But my scalp prickled.

  Scanning the battlements for ghouls and hidden archers, I hobbled across the drive. A walkway made of that same honey-colored stone and lined with geraniums in terra-cotta pots led to steps and an arched door. Tarnished nail heads studded its wooden beams. Suddenly I wanted to be behind its protective weight.

  The door stood ajar. A stream of cool air flowed outside, lifting the hair on my neck. Through the crack, a red tile floor; high, arched ceilings; oriental rugs; a leather couch. A soft-looking throw lay draped across the couch’s back. Someone had set a low coffee table with two empty wine glasses, a bottle, and a plate of something sugary piled high.

  The skin between my shoulder blades heated, and I glanced behind me. Nothing moved in the darkened vineyard.

  I shrugged. Letting the AC escape seemed foolish, but Jocelyn had probably left the door open so I’d find her more easily. With a home like this, I doubted she was too concerned about electric bills.

  I rapped on the door, nudging it open. “Jocelyn?”

  A wall of silence descended.

  Edging backward, I found a doorbell, pressed it. A chime echoed, and I waited. She knew I was coming. I was even on the fashionably late side.