Pressed to Death

by Kirsten Weiss

  “Hi,” I said. “I was just looking for Mr. Nakamoto.”

  “You’ve found him,” Mrs. Nakamoto snarled. Slamming the black bottle on the counter, she stalked from the barn, rubbing her hands on her Haunted Vine apron.

  I pointed over my shoulder at my truck. “I can come back later.”

  “Nonsense.” Mr. Nakamoto smiled thinly, looking past me. “What can I do for you?”

  I’d known Adele’s father since I was a kid and there was no use going at this sideways, especially when he clearly wanted to run after his wife. “It’s about the security for the festival grounds. How could someone have gotten a dump truck full of grapes in there before it opened?”

  “We checked the locks,” he replied. “None had been damaged. Which means either the person who drove that truck was a skilled lockpick, or they had a key.”

  A bird buzzed me, settling on a beam over the door. I edged back into the barn, out of range. Rows of barrels stacked on their sides lay along one wall. Racks of Haunted Vine-themed souvenirs and a table piled with Haunted Vine and Plot 42 T-shirts stood in the center of the barn.

  “And who had keys?” I asked.

  Untying his apron, he tugged it over his head. “Just myself and Romeo. Is that all?”

  Footsteps padded on the path behind me.

  “Yeah. Thanks.”

  “Any time.” He hurried past me, bumping shoulders with his fellow vintner, Chuck Wollmer.

  “Sorry,” Mr. Nakamoto panted.

  “Whoa there,” Chuck said, laughing. “You got a minute, Roy?”

  “Not now. Sorry.” Mr. Nakamoto sped off in the direction his wife had taken, into the vineyard.

  Chuck tugged on his beard, his handlebar moustache twitching. Buried in a wreath of blond facial hair, his lips looked soft and pink. “What was that about?”

  It was none of his business, or mine for that matter. “We’re all upset about Jocelyn’s death.”

  “I read about it in the paper this morning,” he said. “It’s hard to believe. Was it suicide, do you think?”

  “Why do you think it was suicide?”

  “She was devastated by Romeo’s death.”

  Devastated enough to kill herself ? “I, uh, found the body.”

  “So the rumors are true. You’re investigating the crime.”

  “Just because Dieter says I’m investigating,” I said hotly, “doesn’t mean I’m investigating.”

  “Actually, it was that obnoxious woman from Ladies Aid.”

  “Which one?”

  Chuck smiled. “They can be a handful, can’t they? I almost regret having agreed to host their haunted house.”

  “Why did you?”

  He shrugged. “I needed the publicity. Running a vineyard is easy. Selling the wine is another story.”

  I eyed him. If he’d been having an affair with Jocelyn, he sure didn’t seem broken up by her death. “Assuming it was murder,” I said, “who do you think could have killed her?”

  “Why ask me?”

  “Sorry, I thought you were friends. You seemed close.”

  He shook his head. “Romeo and I were … Well, I won’t say we were friends, but we were comrades in arms. He was a tremendous help when I started CW Vineyards, giving me all sorts of time and advice. After he died, well, I figured I owed him. The least I could do was help Jocelyn.”

  “Oh?”

  “You know what it’s like after someone in the family dies. There’s all sorts of things to deal with. And she had the vineyard to manage as well.” Chuck colored. “And, well, she does know her viticulture.”

  “So she was giving you growing advice on the side.”

  “Here and there.” He gazed at the stacked barrels. “It’s hard to believe—back-to-back murders in a place like this. I moved to the countryside to get away from big city crime and hassles.”

  “In fairness, San Benedetto is still a safe town. I walk alone at night and no one’s ever bothered me.”

  “Maybe you should rethink that. I admit, I’m having second thoughts about my move.” He shook his head. “San Benedetto has its charms, but I’m not sure it’s worth it.”

  “Because of the murders?”

  His lips thinned. “They’ve changed things. For everyone.”

  I exhaled slowly. The murders had left a taint, and there was only one way to free ourselves from its weight. Find the killer, bring him to justice.

  sixteen

  I sat in my truck beneath the weeping willow and regarded the Nakamoto barn. Fluffy white clouds scudded across the blue sky.

  A bead of sweat trickled down my back and I leaned closer to the open window, unsure where to go next. If I was a real detective—or at least one of the detectives on TV—I’d return to the scene of the crime. Jocelyn had said there’d been sabotage at the winery, and I should explore that. But if I was the killer, common wisdom held, I might return to the scene of the crime too. I’d already given the police enough reason to suspect my motives.

  Besides, I wasn’t a real detective. I didn’t even play one on TV.

  My cell phone buzzed in my messenger bag. I extracted it from its pocket. A message from my mother glowed on the screen. She’d recently discovered texting, and she used whole words and grammatically correct sentences like an irate schoolteacher:

  Madelyn, I took some pictures at the crime scene and thought they might be of help. I’m sorry I forgot to give them to you earlier. Your mother.

  I checked the attachments. Somehow, my mom had found time to shoot these photos. A picture of the grape vat, its sides shining in the sun. Romeo’s body glimpsed beneath the grapes. The dump truck, tailgate down. Some shots of the ground—had she been trying to document footprints? Sheesh.

  What was my mother’s angle in this mess? The excuses she’d given me hadn’t rung true, and this sure wasn’t about winning her bet with Dieter.

  I gritted my teeth. Time to cowgirl up. I revved the engine and drove. Ignoring the Closed sign on the sandwich board by the entrance, I turned down the gravel drive to Trivia Vineyards. The Italian cypresses made pointed shadows on the ground. Rows of vines the color of Mardi Gras fanned from the road, rippling away from me. I glanced at the trail of dust in my rear view mirror.

  The winery’s sandcastle doors stood shut, its narrow windows casting a dead stare over the empty parking lot. Trivia might be closed for tastings, but it was a working vineyard. And you don’t just walk away from a farm, not during harvest season. The grapes would need to be crushed, the stems removed, the grapes macerated to add color, flavor, and tannin to the wine. There should be workers here. This was farm country, and the harvest stopped for no one, not even the police.

  Stepping from my truck, I limped toward a Tuscan-looking barn, a two-story stone building with a sloping roofline and tiles the color of dried blood. Behind it, a narrow road led to a dirt parking area littered with pickups and battered cars.

  I found an unlocked wooden door and walked inside a wide room. It was cool, dimly lit, and smelled of red wine vinegar on an old sponge. Steel fermentation vats scraped the peaked ceiling. A commercial fan rattled above me.

  Something metallic clanked.

  Uneasy, I licked my lips. “Hello?”

  A bulky man in jeans and a plaid shirt emerged from between two of the vats, grease smudging his pockmarked cheek. He wiped his broad hands on an oily cloth. “Winery’s closed.”

  “I know,” I said. He had no reason to talk to me. Being upfront was my best chance at getting information. “I’m Maddie Kosloski. I found Jocelyn last night. She’d invited me here to tell me about the sabotage and some other things that were bothering her at the winery. She never got the chance. I thought you might know something about the problems.”

  A pulse beat in his jaw. “Even if I did, why would I tell you?”

 
That was a stumper. “Because I want to help?”

  “We’ve got cops for that, honey.”

  “Riiight.”

  “This part of the winery is off limits. You need to go.”

  Another man emerged from the vats. Dieter. He tucked a greasy rag into the pocket of his paint-spattered overalls, looked up, and grinned. “Mad Kosloski! You here to update us on your investigation?”

  I crossed my arms over my chest. “Wouldn’t that be cheating?”

  His eyes widened in faux-sincerity. “The more accurate the odds, the more fair it is to all involved.”

  “What are you doing here?” I asked.

  Dieter jerked his head at the vats. “Problem with one of the valves. What are you doing here?”

  “I came to ask about sabotage that apparently occurred at Trivia,” I said. “Jocelyn invited me over last night to discuss it.”

  Dieter whistled, his expression shifting to sympathy. “You found her body, too? That’s rough.”

  I nodded.

  He turned to the other man. “The papers didn’t say anything about sabotage. What happened?”

  The man cut a glance to me and Dieter shrugged. “She’s cool, Jake. You can tell her.”

  The workman frowned. “Someone turned the taps on the cellar casks. By the time we discovered it, half a million dollars of wine had drained onto the floor.”

  My jaw dropped. Half a million dollars? That would have been devastating. “When did this happen?”

  “We discovered the loss on Friday night. Romeo was so angry he lost all his English. He took off in the truck we’d leased for the harvest.”

  “Did he suspect who was responsible?”

  “I guess so. We figured it was that punk kid of his, Leo. He’d been here earlier that day.”

  Leo had been working at the museum on Friday, from after lunch until he left around six. “Do you know what time it happened?”

  “Late afternoon, early evening, your guess is as good as mine.”

  “I have a hard time believing Leo would have done something like that,” I said.

  “He might not have realized how bad the damage would be. And it’s the easiest kind of sabotage. Just turn a tap and let the wine flow.” Jake’s skin darkened. “All that work, all that grape, gone.”

  Scrounging in my messenger bag, I pulled out my cell phone and brought up one of my mother’s pictures of the crime scene. “The truck that Romeo took on Friday night—was this it?” I showed him the photo of the dump truck.

  He nodded. “Looks like it.”

  “Thanks.” So Romeo had torn off in the truck, furious about the loss, and wound up dead. If he’d gone looking for the saboteur, could his murder have been self-defense? Even if Leo hadn’t drained all the wine onto the floor, if his father had thought he’d done it, and gone after him at his home … it was possible. And then Leo had taken his father’s dump truck and his key to the festival grounds and dumped the body in the vat?

  But Jocelyn’s death couldn’t have been self-defense. That was murder, plain and simple. Had she confronted Leo and he’d silenced her?

  No. I couldn’t believe it. Maybe Detective Slate was right and I was refusing to see the obvious with Leo. But my instincts hadn’t led me astray yet. I didn’t think they were wrong about Mason either. I needed to stop avoiding him and deal.

  “Who else was at the winery around that time?” I asked.

  “Don’t ask me. It wasn’t my job to count heads. I was busy talking to the guy from Duck Ridge. We’re—we were—talking about collaborating on a limited edition red blend.”

  “A blend?” I assessed the man, his grizzled cheeks, casual jeans. “Wait, what do you—?”

  “I’m the vineyard manager.” He smiled, wry. “It’s not as glamorous a job as it sounds.”

  “Was that the only sabotage you experienced?” I asked.

  The manager laughed, mirthless. “Isn’t it enough?”

  “Did Jocelyn and Leo have any enemies?”

  He shook his head. “Don’t know. We didn’t have that kind of relationship. I just work here. For now, at least.”

  The air conditioner rattled.

  I gazed at the metal vats. All that work. All that wine. “What happens to Trivia now?” I asked.

  “Hell if I know. I guess the kid gets it. If he’s got any brains, he’ll sell.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  Jake cocked a brow. “You think Leo knows how to manage a winery?”

  My cheeks warmed. No, I didn’t.

  A door closed somewhere.

  “Well, thanks,” I said.

  “Thanks for what?” Laurel asked from behind me.

  I gasped, pivoting.

  Planting her hands on her hips, she nudged open her black blazer, exposing the gun holstered at her hip. A badge glinted on one side of her belt.

  Detective Slate stood next to her. “I’d be interested to know that as well,” he said.

  “I thought I’d dropped my … pepper spray in the parking lot last night,” I lied. “I just returned to see if anyone had found it.” Behind my back, I crossed my fingers. As lies went, this one was on shaky ground.

  “Pepper spray?” Laurel’s voice whip-cracked. “Or mace?”

  “Mad definitely said pepper spray,” Dieter said, giving me a warning look. “But I didn’t notice any. Did you, Jake?”

  The other man shrugged. “Nope.”

  “You should have asked us,” Detective Slate said. “We searched the lot.”

  “I don’t suppose you found it,” I said.

  “No,” Slate said. “You should get the kind that attaches to your key chain. It’s harder to lose, and you’re more likely to have it at hand if something happens. You can buy it at Red’s, downtown.”

  “Thanks.” It looked like Jake and Dieter were going to cover for me. “I’ll do that. Thanks.” Stomach knotting, I sidled out of the winery and race-hobbled to my truck.

  I drove down the winding drive. In spite of my run-in with the cops, my trip to Trivia Vineyards had been worth it. I’d learned the truck that had dumped Romeo’s body had been his own. He’d been enraged over the loss of half a million dollars’ worth of wine. And he’d probably gone after the culprit, or the person he thought was the culprit. I really, really hoped it wasn’t Leo.

  The breeze from the window tossed my hair. I checked the dash clock. I needed to relieve Leo at the museum.

  But first, I stopped at Red’s. I’d lied my butt off at Trivia Vineyards, and at least I could make my deception half true by picking up pepper spray.

  Red’s sold pseudo-military supplies and martial arts equipment. The Asian man behind the counter turned out to be the owner, Red. He tried to upsell me on camo pants, but I stuck with the pepper spray.

  Clipping the faux-leather case to my key chain, I wore it out the door and drove to the museum, parking in the alley.

  I walked down the bamboo-lined hall into the tea room. Women scarfed afternoon tea cakes stacked on modern-looking, tiered white ceramic plates. The Fox and Fennel smelled of pumpkin and cinnamon, and in spite of everything, my mouth watered. Working next door to what amounted to a dine-in bakery could be torture. Delightful, decadent torture. Clenching my jaw, I breezed through the bookcase door and into the Paranormal Museum.

  Mrs. Gale whirled on me, her loose black pants and tunic flaring, a carving knife raised shoulder level.

  I shrieked, fumbling for my pepper spray. “Don’t do it!”

  “Oh, goddess!” She dropped the knife and it clattered to the floor.

  Leo hurried in from the gallery, a black pumpkin with gold stripes cradled in his arms. “What happened?”

  I clutched my chest and leaned against the bookcase, shutting it with my weight. “‘Oh, goddess’? Are you Wiccan now?”

&nbs
p; Mrs. Gale bent and picked up the knife. “Certainly not! I’m simply exploring the goddess archetypes.”

  “What are you doing here?” I asked.

  “I came to see you, and then Leo explained the problem with the pumpkins.”

  “Problem?” I asked.

  “If we carve them, they go rotten in a day.” Leo laid the pumpkin beside the cash register. “But just having plain old pumpkins lying around is lame. We’re a paranormal museum.”

  “So I suggested non-violent alternatives,” Mrs. Gale said. “And then it seemed more fun to help than leave him with instructions. It’s been ages since I’ve decorated for Halloween. Now that my kids are gone, it just isn’t the same. My son used to build amazing haunted scenes in our front yard. I’m afraid my place is a disappointment now at Halloween.”

  “I can help you decorate your house,” Leo said.

  “You would?” she asked.

  He shrugged. “There aren’t many kids trick-or-treating in my neighborhood. I can shut the house without worrying about getting egged. Besides, you helped me decorate the pumpkins. It’s only fair.”

  I smiled. Maybe Leo had found some parental-type supervision on his own.

  Mrs. Gale clapped her hands together, her rings clacking. “That would be marvelous! Why don’t you come by this weekend and we can discuss ideas for the yard?”

  They agreed on a time, and I tucked my messenger bag beneath the counter. I had to admit it, the pumpkins were eye-catching. A row of miniature ones, painted with a sinister code of gold rectangles, lined the windowsill. Larger white pumpkins decorated with brass upholstery tacks sat in a pyramid. They added a touch of elegance to the museum.

  “So if you weren’t using the carving knife,” I said, “what do you have a carving knife for?”

  Leo shrugged one shoulder. “I forgot to return it to the Fox and Fennel the other day.”

  “And then I knocked it to the floor,” Mrs. Gale said. “You startled me just as I was picking it up.”

  Mystery solved. “You said you came here to see me?” I asked Mrs. Gale.