Pressed to Death

by Kirsten Weiss

  GD raised his head from his spot on the haunted rocking chair. His ears swiveled toward us, curious.

  I pointed at the center of the room. “There’s fine.” I’d keep the press as an exhibit in the museum until I had to take it to the haunted house tomorrow.

  Jorge worked the dolly out from beneath it. “You want me to put the dolly back in the storeroom?”

  “That would be great, thanks.”

  He straightened his shoulders and wheeled the empty dolly through the bookcase door. It snicked shut behind him. The black crepe-paper bunting swayed in the breeze.

  GD stretched and leapt from the chair in a smooth motion, then wandered toward the grape press. Three feet away from it, he arched his back, hissing, his fur standing on end.

  “So it is haunted?” I asked.

  He backed away, growling.

  I swallowed, my scalp prickling. I’d never seen GD retreat like that, hadn’t known it was part of the cat’s repertoire. Could he smell the old bloodstains?

  The bell above the front door jingled and a couple, silver-haired tourists in resort wear, walked into the museum. I sold them tickets and answered their questions about nearby wineries, pointing them out on a Visitors Bureau map.

  Green eyes saucer-like, GD hunched beneath the gently swaying rocking chair, staring.

  The couple walked to the grape press. “What’s this?” the woman asked.

  “Oh!” My signage for the exhibit was at the haunted house. “An antique grape press.”

  Flicking anxious glances at GD, I gave them a rundown of its haunted history. When I finished, the guests moved off to examine the glass display cases. I hurried to the computer and printed up a new sign for the press on thick, off-white paper.

  GD whisked into the Fortune Telling Room, and my muscles loosened. The grape press didn’t bother me, but GD’s behavior was starting to creep me out.

  Sitting on my chair behind the counter, I stared at the computer screen, my brain a blank. I couldn’t ignore the signs any longer. Something was wrong between Mason and I. My throat closed. If all it took was one old girlfriend to bust us up, then we couldn’t have been on a solid foundation.

  The front door opened and Elthia breezed in. The puffed sleeve of her high-collared black blouse caught on the latch. She paused to untangle herself, her pinstriped skirt swaying about her knees. She touched a finger to her red-gold hair, piled high on her head. “Is now a good time to chat about the Death Bistro?” She clacked toward me in her button-up boots, her smile taut, her blue eyes glittering.

  I’m not the most sensitive person, but even I could feel the tension vibrating off her. She was the answer to my stop-thinking-about-Mason prayers.

  “I can’t think of a better time,” I said.

  “At least we don’t have to worry about Jocelyn coming.” Elthia gave a strangled laugh. “She’s dead.”

  “Where did you hear that?”

  “It’s in the papers. The Death Bistro phone tree is buzzing. First Romeo …” Her mouth quivered, her eyes welling with tears.

  I rose and came around the counter. “Why don’t you sit down?” I motioned to my tall chair behind the register. “I’ll get us some tea.” I hustled to the bookcase, opened it, and flagged down a young, dark-haired waiter. “Two cups of tea.”

  “What kind?” he asked. “Would you like to see our menu?”

  “Just … Whatever’s at the top of it. Can you bring it to the museum?”

  “Sure.”

  “Thanks.” I shut the bookcase and returned to Elthia.

  GD sat in her lap, his paws on her chest. She ruffled his fur, drawing deep, shuddering breaths.

  “I see you’ve met GD,” I said.

  “Your ghost detector.”

  I rested my hand on the glass counter. “You and Romeo were more than just partners in the Death Bistro, weren’t you?”

  She burst into sobs. Digging a lace handkerchief from her sleeve, she blotted her eyes. “Is it that obvious?”

  “It’s obvious you’re hurting.”

  “I know it was wrong and stupid. God, I hate myself. But he was so … Romeo.”

  “Everyone says he was a charmer.”

  “It was more than that.” She clutched my wrist, dislodging GD. “Do you think Jocelyn knew?”

  The cat leapt to the floor and took a swipe at my shoelaces before darting into the Fortune Telling Room.

  “I told myself it was okay,” Elthia went on, “because Jocelyn was having an affair too. But that’s crap, isn’t it?”

  I hesitated. “You mean you no longer think she was having an affair?”

  “No. Maybe. It’s just that Romeo despised Chuck Wollmer so much, and he never would tell me why. But Chuck and Jocelyn were friends, and I thought …” She hiccupped. “Can you believe I was jealous that he might be jealous? Of his wife?”

  I smiled, bitter. “I might know a thing or two about unreasonable emotions.”

  “Oh, God. Do you think the police will suspect me?”

  “Have they spoken to you?”

  “No. I’m being irrational. Sorry.” She drew a ragged breath. “I came here to talk about the Death Bistro, not cry on your shoulder. And we barely know each other. This is so embarrassing.”

  I shook my head. “The Death Bistro is tomorrow night. How many people are you expecting?”

  The tourist couple ambled out of the Fortune Telling Room and into the gallery.

  She sniffed. “Eighteen now.”

  “Eighteen!” I eyed the room with its display cases and grape press and rocking chair in the corner. Even with the grape press moved to the haunted house, I couldn’t imagine eighteen people around tables in the main room. “That will be … cozy.”

  The bookcase creaked open and the waiter walked in, balancing a bamboo tray. “Where do you want me to put your tea?”

  “Here on the counter.” I took the tray from him. “Can you get Adele? Tell her it’s Death Bistro business.”

  He nodded and bustled out.

  “I’m sure she’ll have some ideas for table arrangements,” I said.

  “Dieter told me you were investigating the murders,” Elthia said.

  “He did?” Dieter!!! Even though I knew the contractor wouldn’t blab to the cops, one of his clients might.

  “I didn’t kill anyone,” she said.

  “Okay.” Was that the real reason she’d come here, playing true confessions?

  “But Romeo was tense about something for the last six weeks or so. At the time, I thought he was keeping quiet about the problem—whatever it was—because it had to do with his wife. He knew I didn’t like hearing about her.” Pink stained Elthia’s cheeks.

  “Maybe you should tell this to Detective Slate.”

  “But now I wonder if it wasn’t something else. I mean, someone killed Jocelyn, and it obviously wasn’t Romeo.”

  I tried to look wise. “And you don’t have any idea what he was stressed about?”

  Her lips turned down. “No. If we were as close as I’d thought, he would have told me, wouldn’t he? How could I have deluded myself so badly? Me! The other woman. It’s such a cliché.”

  “Maybe he thought it would upset you?”

  “Maybe.” She cradled her teacup between both hands, staring into its depths. “He knew I’m a sensitive.”

  The bookcase opened and Adele strode in, a clipboard beneath her arm. She stopped in front of the counter and smoothed the front of her apron. “Right. How many people?”

  “Eighteen,” Elthia said.

  Adele flipped past two pages and stopped at a sketch involving circles inside a square. She folded the extra pages under the top of the clipboard and laid it on the counter, pushing it toward Elthia. “Here’s how we’ll organize the tables. Would you prefer black or white tablecloths?�
��

  “Black.”

  “The museum is overstuffed with death-themed decor,” Adele said. “I thought something simple for the tables—just flameless candles and the table settings, which as you know are white. The stark black and white will provide an elegant and calming effect in the midst of all …” She motioned at the display cases, the empty rocking chair, the black streamers. “This.”

  “We’ll have printed materials,” Elthia said. “I was thinking—”

  “They’ll go on the counter so people can pick them up as they enter and exit. Given the size of the room, we simply can’t expand the size of the tables, and extraneous items will make them too cluttered.”

  Elthia blinked. “Okay.”

  “Excellent.” Adele picked up the clipboard. Removing two sheets of paper from the back, she handed them to Elthia. “Given the price point we agreed on earlier, I’ve developed two menu options. Which do you prefer?”

  Elthia studied them, her brow wrinkling. “Could we combine some items from Menu A with Menu B?”

  “No.”

  Elthia heaved a sigh. “Menu B then.”

  “Excellent choice. Sign here.” Adele pointed and handed her a pen. Elthia signed, and Adele turned to me. “The Death Bistro starts at seven. The museum closes at five. My staff will be here at five fifteen to begin the setup. Is there anything else?”

  Elthia and I looked at each other, uncertain.

  “No?” I asked.

  “Good.” Adele turned on her heel and clacked out of the room. The bookcase closed behind her.

  “That was efficient,” Elthia said.

  “Adele’s kind of amazing that way. Um, about GD Cat—”

  “He can stay.”

  I blew out my breath, relieved. The last time I’d tried to dislodge GD from the museum, he’d marked a trail of bloody scratches up my arms. I still had the scars.

  Elthia looked around. “I’m glad we moved the Death Bistro here. The museum is much more deathy than the tea shop.” Her gaze landed on the grape press and she sucked in her breath. “Is that Romeo’s?”

  “It’s from his vineyard, yes. Jocelyn sold it to me.”

  Sliding from the chair, Elthia walked to the press, her palms extended. She halted a foot away and closed her eyes.

  The tourist couple emerged from the gallery, the silver-haired woman clutching a black cat teapot to her chest. They halted in the entryway, watching Elthia.

  “Death.” Elthia moaned. “Pain, so much pain. And regret.” Opening her eyes, she shuddered. “I’ll tell you what I told Romeo. Get rid of this grape press. It’s got something awful attached to it.”

  “My collector, er, bound it,” I said.

  “Well, he didn’t do a very good job. Get rid of this press.”

  I wasn’t selling my press. Not after everything I’d gone through.

  “Can I buy this teapot?” the female tourist asked.

  “Yes, of course!” I hurried to her and took the pot. “Right over here.” Guiding them to the cash register, I wrapped the teapot in tissue and rang it up, keeping an eye on Elthia. She edged around the grape press, waving her hands in the air and muttering beneath her breath.

  The woman leaned across the counter toward me. “Is she a witch?” she whispered.

  “She told me she was a sensitive.”

  The woman clapped her hands together. “Oh, how interesting!”

  That was one word for it. I put the teapot in a box and bagged it, handing it to the woman.

  “Do you do Tarot readings?” the woman asked.

  I blinked. I had once, at a party, just for fun. My readings had turned out to be weirdly accurate. I’d chalked it up to the universe playing a colossal joke, since I’m basically the anti-psychic. “Um, no, we don’t.”

  “You should. This is the perfect place for it!” She waved, and she and her husband left.

  Elthia shook her head. “We can’t have this grape press here tomorrow night.”

  “I’ll remove it.” And take it directly to the haunted house.

  Elthia and I went over more details, and then she left me to my thoughts. Quick as desire, they turned to Mason. That woman he’d been holding had to be his ex, and he’d been avoiding me. I couldn’t deny it any longer. There was more between them than time. But Mason wasn’t the sort of guy to get entangled with one woman while he was with another.

  “This is ridiculous.” I picked up my cell phone and called … Leo.

  “Do you want me to come in today?” he asked, breathless.

  “Are you sure you don’t mind?” I asked. “It’s kind of last minute.”

  “Is it busy in there?”

  GD hopped onto the counter.

  “Not really.”

  “I could do more decorating,” he offered.

  “And you could research the murder-suicide associated with the grape press. I searched online but couldn’t find anything. The Historical Association is on the case, but maybe you can turn something up.”

  “I’ll be there in twenty.”

  Twenty-five minutes later, Leo strode through the door, his expression slack and brandishing a newspaper. “Did you hear about Jocelyn?”

  “I did. I’m sorry.”

  He stared at the checkerboard floor and clutched his black T-shirt, bunching it at his stomach. “I’m not. I wish I could be sorry, but I can’t feel anything.” His voice was strained.

  That I did not believe. He was feeling too much and didn’t know how to handle it. “Leo, you’ve got to stop saying things like this. Even if they’re true—and I don’t think they are—it makes you sound awful.”

  “I don’t care what people think. At least I’m not a hypocrite.”

  Once, not so long ago, I’d been an angsty teenager. I tried to remember what it was like, and failed. “Do you care what the police think?”

  “I didn’t do this.”

  “I know. But neither did Adele, and she was once arrested for murder.”

  “And released. I don’t know,” he muttered. “Maybe spending some time in jail would be interesting.”

  “No,” I said sharply, “it wouldn’t. Look, I can only imagine how overwhelming this must be. What can I do?”

  “Nothing.”

  This conversation was getting me nowhere. “All right. But for now, can I take your lunch order?”

  “Carnitas burrito, black beans, hot salsa, everything on it.”

  “Great. I’ll be back at …” I checked my watch. Wow, it was nearly noon. “Back in thirty minutes.”

  I hobbled to the local taqueria, collected our food, and returned to the museum.

  We noshed at the counter, GD weaving around my ankles and hoping I’d drop something.

  I tried to pick Leo’s brain about the murders, anything his father might have mentioned about the grape press.

  He answered in unhelpful monosyllables. Honestly, I wouldn’t go back to my teen years for anything.

  Chucking my trash in the bin, I hurried outside to my pickup.

  Mason stood on the sidewalk watching a battered van drive away. Raking a hand through his shaggy blond hair, he turned to me. His arctic eyes warmed. “Maddie!”

  My heart pounded, blood rushing to my head. How could he act like nothing was wrong? My lungs constricted. I couldn’t do this. “Sorry, gotta go. I’ll talk to you later!” Smiling, I waved, jumped in my truck, and drove down the street.

  I winced, gripping the wheel, and glided to a stop behind a blue Passat. I’d chickened out. I should turn around, go talk to him. But when the Passat pulled forward, I kept driving, out of town and into the vineyards. Maybe I was the one who needed space? I needed to calm down, get my head clear, and then listen to whatever it was Mason had to say.

  I cranked my window down and inhaled the warm autumnal a
ir. This was my favorite season in San Benedetto—stunning weather, the excitement of harvest, pumpkin pies. But today the world seemed flat, joyless.

  Turning right at the sign for Plot 42 Vineyards, I piloted my truck down the gravel road to Adele’s family winery. Mr. Nakamoto had been involved in security for the festival, so he might have an idea about how someone had driven a dump truck full of grapes and a body into the grounds. Unless Romeo had already been inside, waiting for someone? But why mess with hiding his body beneath all those grapes? Dump trucks are noisy, and the killer risked attracting attention. If I was the killer, I’d just drag the body between some tents and be done with it.

  A silver Lexus approached me from the other direction. It came zipping down the narrow track too fast, its rear antenna a shark fin cutting the billows of dust. I edged further to the right, slowing. The Lexus blasted past, showering my truck with gravel. The driver, impassive behind dark sunglasses, glanced my way. The vampire!

  Too late, I cranked up my window to shield myself from the dust and only trapped it in the cab.

  I coughed, choking. Stupid vampire.

  I parked beneath a weeping willow, beside a picnic table on a lush green lawn. The door to the tasting room, set inside an old barn twined with grapevines, stood open. In purple chalk, a sandwich board proclaimed Yes, We’re Open! Orange and yellow chrysanthemums lined the walk.

  I limped up the winding brick path. Plucking a purple grape from the vines clutching the barn, I popped it in my mouth. It burst on my tongue, heady with sweetness. Inside the barn, I shivered, wishing I’d brought my museum hoodie for the cool interior.

  Wearing his black Haunted Vine apron, Mr. Nakamoto stood behind the long tasting bar. His diminutive wife was facing him, wrenching a cork from a bottle. She looked like an older, furious version of Adele, her dark brows drawn in a scowl.

  “It’s more than a business,” she said, her voice sharp. “It’s our life!”

  He smoothed a hand over his gray hair, which was thinning at the top. “You can’t deny the numbers—”

  “Oh, numbers! What about our family? Your daughter?”

  Cheeks warming, I backed away. They hadn’t seen me, and this was a private family argument. A stone turned beneath my heel and I stumbled sideways. The pebble skittered, loud, across the brick. They looked toward the open barn doors.