“No.”
She shifted a plate with a scone and a tiny pot of jam onto the counter.
“Thanks,” I said.
“You’re welcome. I spoke with Dieter.”
“Oh? Did he have any insights?”
“Not really, but he said the odds are shifting in your favor.”
“The odds?”
“Good thing I got in on the action early.”
I groaned and buried my head in my hands. “Not you too?” My head jerked up. “Wait. Are you betting for or against me?”
Her eyes widened. “For you, of course! Public feeling is that now that you’re more of a suspect, you’ll be compelled to solve the crime.”
“It’s not a joke, Adele.”
Her expression stilled. “I know.” Her voice dropped. “It’s horrible. Things like this … didn’t used to happen here. It doesn’t feel like San Benedetto’s changed, but it has, hasn’t it?”
“I don’t know.” I rubbed my jaw, thinking of that decades-old murder-suicide. “There have always been evil, selfish people. These murders weren’t random violence, I don’t think. It didn’t seem like Jocelyn’s home had been ransacked, like in a burglary. This has to be connected to her husband’s death. And that must have been personal. A mugger wouldn’t have dumped Romeo’s body in the grape vat, would he?”
“You’re saying because these killings are personal, it’s not the same as a rise in crime like gang violence or home invasions?” Adele shook her head. “I’d like to believe that, but murder is murder. And we’ve seen too many killings this year. The police aren’t—”
“It’s not fair to blame the police. They can’t stop crimes before they happen, only do their best to solve them after the fact.”
“Well, they thought I was a killer once. You need to figure this out yourself. You can’t trust the police to do it for you.” Picking up the empty tray, she clacked from the room.
The bookcase swung shut behind her.
GD meowed.
“I haven’t forgotten your breakfast.” And I had no illusions about the cat snuggling up to me last night. He’d been looking for body heat, pure and simple.
I fed him, flipped the sign in the window to Open, and returned to the counter to contemplate my computer screen and sip tea. Adele had mixed up something dark with cocoa and cinnamon. I imagined the description: an arousing brew of serotonin-boosting cocoa to get you in the mood for … I bit into the scone. Apricot and coconut, a pad of butter melting into the crust. My eyes rolled to the ceiling. Heaven.
I should dust. I should do accounts. I should check the inventory. Instead, I searched the Internet for news about Trivia Vineyards and the grape press. First stop, their website, where I learned that the Roman goddess Trivia was also Hecate, Greek goddess of death and magic. Romeo’s interest in death hadn’t begun with the Death Bistro. It seemed to be long-standing.
The Paganinis had bought the old Constantino Vineyards five years ago. According to the website, the vineyard had been abandoned for a short period during the early 1920s. Another local farmer had bought it, producing grapes for shipping during and after Prohibition.
Although the website made it sound as if Prohibition was the reason why the winery had briefly closed, local legend said that it was the murder-suicide. Which was true?
I searched the web for info on the murder-suicide and found an article typed into a genealogy website.
October 8, 1922
The remains of Miss Alcina Constantino and Luigi Rotta were discovered in a burnt cottage on the grounds of the Constantino Vineyards in an apparent murder-suicide. A vineyard worker stated the belief that Rotta had made advances to Miss Constantino. It is believed that she spurned Rotta, and he killed her, then killed himself. Miss Constantino is survived by her father, Mr. Gian Constantino.
And that was it. I searched for another thirty minutes and turned up a link to the first article on the genealogy website. If I wanted more, it was going to cost me.
Blowing out my breath, I called the Historical Association. They’d done research for me before—for a fee.
The nice lady on the phone agreed to play Girl Friday again. “Will that be all?” she asked after taking down the information.
“No. Can you also see what you can find on the father, Gian Constantino?”
“Of course,” she said. “You know, there is another source.”
“Oh?” I rapped my pen on the counter. I had a good idea what she was going to suggest.
“Since you’re looking at the 1920s, it might be in the police archives. As you may know, crime-scene photography was coming into its own back then. You might even find some photos.”
“That’s a good idea,” I said, wooden. “Thanks.” Giving her my credit card number, I hung up. I did not want to return to the police station and risk another run-in with Laurel. But I did have to go there to get the grape press. I checked my watch. It was only ten o’clock—too early on a Wednesday to expect many visitors to the museum.
Slinging my messenger bag over one shoulder, I opened the bookcase and stuck my head inside the tea room. Adele stood behind the long counter, straightening the metal tins on the shelves. One of her minions, a slim girl with a long blond ponytail, laid out cutlery on the white-draped tabletops.
I cleared my throat. “Adele? I need to run to the police station.”
She looked up, her eyes widening. “They didn’t ask you in for more questioning? I’ll call my lawyer.” Reaching into the pocket of her white apron, she whisked out a phone.
“No. Nothing like that. They want me to collect the grape press. Things are kind of slow right now. If I leave the bookcase open, can you take tickets if any customers stop by?”
She pressed her lips together and nodded. “How long will you be?”
“I just need to get the grape press. If anything, er, happens to delay me, I’ll call you.”
She shook her phone at me. “And this time, no talking to the police without a lawyer!”
I nodded meekly. “And can I borrow your dolly?”
She angled her head toward the hallway that led to the alley. “You know where it is.”
“Thanks.” Scuttling to her storage room, I wheeled the dolly into the alley and levered it into the back of my truck. Now that I’d committed, I wanted to get this over with.
I drove down the narrow alley, careful not to look up at Mason’s window. Ribbons of fog drifted across the blue sky. On the sleepy streets, café owners set sandwich boards on the brick sidewalks. Shopkeepers propped open their doors. A city worker adjusted a fallen hay bale at the harvest display in the park.
I found an open spot in front of the brick police station and put an extra quarter in the meter, then one more, just in case. One parking ticket this month was more than enough.
Heart pounding, I dragged the dolly up the steps to the front door. A uniformed officer on his way out held the door for me. Chivalry was not dead. I thanked him and wheeled the dolly through the awful, sickly green foyer and to the front desk.
The balding desk officer sucked a bit of yellow pastry off his thick thumb. Powdered sugar dusted his neat gray moustache. He smiled, adding an extra chin. “How can I help you today?”
I straightened the dolly. “My name is Maddie Kosloski. Detective Slate asked me to pick up a grape press he’d taken as evidence.”
Paling, the officer tugged at the collar of his blue uniform. “The grape press? Just a moment.” He picked up the phone and turned from me, muttering.
I leaned on the dolly and tried to look like I hadn’t been in police custody the night before. It wasn’t as if they’d arrested me. They’d only interrogated me for hours and made it clear I was a suspect.
The desk officer swiveled back to me, his chair squeaking beneath his bulk. “Someone will be here shortly. You can wait ther
e.” He motioned to the uncomfortable-looking plastic chairs.
“Thanks.” I wheeled the dolly to the chairs and sat down. My toe gave a sudden throb.
A thin, uniformed officer with wisps of hair side-combed across his head emerged from a long hallway. The desk officer pointed to me, and the thin man approached.
“You’re Miss Kosloski?”
Nodding, I rose.
“May I see some identification, please?”
I rummaged in my wallet handed him my driver’s license.
He inspected it, holding it inches from his nose, his gaze ping-ponging between me and the ID. Finally he handed it back. “I have some paperwork for you to fill out.”
He led me to another desk and sidled behind it, pulling a clipboard from a drawer. “Here. Sign at the red X’s.”
I filled out the forms, shifting my weight, impatient.
When I finished, he reviewed the paperwork and nodded. “This way, please.”
He led me down a hallway painted ick green, stopping outside a wooden door. Shoulders drawing together, he angled his head. “In there.”
I opened the door to a closet. A mop and bucket leaned against a rack of cleaning supplies, running to the ceiling. My grape press sat, centered, on the dingy linoleum floor.
“This is your evidence room?” Shouldn’t it be in a basement, somewhere harder to get to? I thought there’d be gates and locks and guards, like on TV.
“Our evidence room is in the basement. Your grape press isn’t evidence.”
“Then what—?” I clamped my jaw shut. Don’t argue. Just take the press and go. I wheeled the dolly close to the press and sat it upright. Grasping the top of it, I rocked it toward the dolly. The blasted thing was heavier than it looked. There was a way to remove the metal bands around the barrel and take it apart, but I was too stupid to figure out how to put it back together again. My chin lowered to my chest. And people expected me to figure out a murder? I couldn’t even puzzle out a grape press.
“A little help?” I asked.
He shook his head, stepping into the hall. “I’m not touching that thing.”
“Why not?”
His cheek twitched, a nervous tic. “That press is your problem, not mine.”
Chivalry might not be dead, but it was on life support. Wrestling the press onto the dolly, I wheeled it from the closet.
The officer skipped back as if afraid I might clip him. “You know the way out.” He hurried in the opposite direction. A door slammed.
Seriously?
I wheeled the press down the long hallway. A policewoman stepped into the hall. Her mouth made an O, and she darted into an office, shutting the door. Two officers pressed against the walls as I passed.
In the entry, I bumped and scraped the dolly against the front door, knocking a largish splinter of doorframe to the linoleum. Hell.
Pretending the damage to city property hadn’t occurred, I wheeled the press to the top of the steps and grimaced. Stairs.
I walked down the steps backward, careful the press didn’t bump off the dolly. At the sidewalk, I heaved a sigh and wheeled the grape press to the back of the truck.
And then I saw my mistake.
My truck bed was several feet off the ground. Before, it had taken Leo and I together to load the press into my truck. Today I was alone, and frustration hardened my gut.
“Damn it!”
“That’s a quarter for the swear jar,” a masculine voice said from behind me.
I turned.
Detective Slate stood on the sidewalk, smiling. His blue suit jacket was open, and I caught a glimpse of a shoulder holster against his white button-down shirt.
“Thanks for picking up the press,” he said. “The station was getting antsy.”
“I can’t believe this. Everyone treated me like I was carrying a vial of Ebola virus. What exactly is everyone so freaked out about?”
“The people who handled it complained about coldness, said they got a bad feeling when they got near it. One technician said she heard a man’s scream.”
A man’s scream? That was disturbing.
Slate smiled, and my heart lightened in response. “They’re letting their imaginations run away with them,” he said.
“Probably.”
He arched a brow. “Probably? You don’t really believe in that stuff, do you?”
“I’m starting to lose faith in the rational world. But who doesn’t like a good ghost story? Though I’ve been having trouble getting the facts on this tale.” I rested my hand on the handle. “I don’t suppose you’d mind taking a look at the police archives about the case?”
“You mean there actually is a case?”
I unfolded my notes from the back pocket of my jeans and told him about the murder-suicide. “I haven’t been able to find anything online aside from one short article. The Historical Association suggested there might be something in the police archives.”
He took the notepaper from me. “Sure. The last goose chase you sent me on helped solve a nineteenth-century cold case. I’m game. Need some help getting that press into your truck?”
“Yes. Thank you!” I lowered the tailgate.
He bent, reaching for the grape press.
“Careful, it’s—”
He lifted it, grunting.
“Heavy,” I finished, scrambling to help him slide it into the truck.
His hand brushed mine, and a shiver of awareness rippled my skin.
Ignoring it, I crawled into the truck bed and tied down the press with a length of rope.
“Can you hand me the dolly?” I asked.
He didn’t respond, gazing past me, his stare distant, amber eyes dull.
“Detective Slate? Are you all right?”
He shook himself. “Sorry. What?”
“The dolly. Would you mind …?”
“Sure.” He handed me the dolly, and I tied that down as well so it wouldn’t slide into the press.
“You come prepared,” he said.
“I come with a truck. Thanks again.” I hopped out, landing on my good foot, and closed the tailgate.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
“Yeah. My foot’s just a little—”
“I wasn’t talking about your foot. It was a rough crime scene last night.”
I looked at my tennis shoes. “Yeah. I’m sorry. I wish I could have been more helpful.”
“You were.” He stepped onto the sidewalk. “If you think of anything else, call me.”
“I will.” I got into my pickup and backed into the wide street.
He stood in front of the station, watching. I turned the corner and he disappeared from view.
My shoulders relaxed. I’d managed to avoid Laurel and collect the press, and now I had new, spooky tales of terror at the police station to include with my grape press display.
A smile tugged at the corner of my mouth. I also had a good excuse to see Mason. There was no way I was getting the grape press into the museum on my own.
My throat tightened. Did I really need an excuse to see him? He was my boyfriend. We loved each other. I missed him. And if I needed a pretext to spend time with him, then we had a problem.
Pulling into an empty spot on the street, I hopped out, glancing at the museum’s window. No tourists examined the display cases. No buyers wandered the gallery aisles. This state of affairs was bad for ticket sales, but no customers meant I had time to find Mason and get help unloading the grape press.
I hobbled next door to the motorcycle shop. A teal and chrome Harley gleamed in the window. I stopped short in the doorway.
Mason stood in front of the counter, his muscles straining against his black T-shirt as he cradled a sobbing young woman in his arms.
fifteen
Mason pressed his li
ps to the top of the woman’s head. Her long blond hair tangled across his brawny chest, her arms wrapped around his waist. The scene was straight off the cover of an ’80s romance novel, and the air whooshed from my lungs.
I backed out the door of the shop and leaned, nauseated, against my truck. There could be an innocent explanation. After all, he’d kissed the top of her head, not her lips.
Unseeing, I stared at the museum window. Maybe the woman had just gotten some bad news. I should walk back inside and find out what the hell was going on. But a part of me didn’t want to know.
Unlatching my tailgate, I limped into the Fox and Fennel, my movements stiff. Women gossiped at the tables, the heady scent of fruit and cinnamon scones filling the air. I waited at the counter while Adele rang up a bill and handed change to a waitress.
My friend turned to me. “How did it …?” Her brow furrowed. “Maddie, are you all right? What happened?”
“I’m fine,” I croaked.
“You’re white as a sheet. The police didn’t threaten you, did they? That Laurel was always a bully! I knew I should have gone with you.”
“The police were fine. I’m fine. The grape press is in my truck out front. Can one of your waiters help me bring it inside?”
“I’ll ask Jorge. Are you sure you’re okay?”
I stretched my lips into a smile. Mason wanted space, and it had something to do with that woman, who had to be his old girlfriend. Or could I be leaping to conclusions? Maybe she was a random stranger who’d just … lost someone in a motorcycle accident? “Great,” I lied. “And guess what—the grape press may be even more haunted than we thought.”
“Oh,” she said. “Good.” She whisked into the kitchen and emerged with a burly young man wearing an apron over his Fox and Fennel T-shirt.
“Hi, Jorge,” I said.
He nodded. “Maddie. What have you got?”
“Out here.”
He followed me outside, and together we maneuvered the grape press onto the dolly.
Back bowed, he wheeled it into the museum. “Where do you want it?” he asked, his voice dull.
Pressed to Death Page 17
