Pressed to Death

by Kirsten Weiss

  I shook my head. Corrupting a cop was one thing, but murder? Could someone in Ladies Aid possibly …? And my mother! This put a whole new slant on why she’d gotten me involved in the investigation. I took a deep breath. It wasn’t possible. Just another case of my imagination—

  “Maddie? Are you okay?”

  I shook myself.

  Detective Slate loomed over me, his face creased with concern.

  “Lemon bars!” I stabbed my finger at them. “How could you?”

  He blinked. “Do you want one?”

  “No. And I’ll find my own way out of the police station, thank you very much.”

  I turned and headed left.

  “The exit’s to the right,” he called.

  Turning, I hobbled in the opposite direction. Were lemon bars the new street drug? Did they lure its victims with their sunshiny innocence, and then hook them with sweet and sour decadence?

  Manila folder pressed to my chest, I stumbled from the police station.

  I had to face facts.

  My mother was dealing.

  I drove through the vineyards and mulled the lemon bar connection. There was probably an innocent explanation. But there was definitely something weird about those bars.

  A massive new gate rose at the entry to CW Vineyards. Shiny with fresh paint, it stood open, and I turned down the gravel track.

  I bumped past the colonnade of almond trees, slowing to a halt in the packed parking lot of the Gothic haunted house. Women in blue T-shirts buzzed around, their gray caps of hair no doubt concealing devious plots. On the south side of the lawn, the barn’s tall doors were shut fast.

  I should have asked Leo to come set up the grape press and final electronics. But sending him into this lion’s den of matronly mafiosa hardly seemed fair. I was the boss, and I would take the risks.

  Slithering out of the truck, I limped to the rear and unlocked the tailgate, sliding out the dolly. I maneuvered the grape press to the edge and hefted it onto the ground. My vision blurred, and I clutched the press’s circular handle. Was it my imagination, or had my life gone south ever since the press had entered, stage left? Maybe it was cursed.

  Oh, what was I thinking? The only person I had to blame for the current chaos in my life was myself. Jamming the dolly beneath the press, I rolled it to the porch steps and bumped it up and inside.

  A narrow-faced woman gripped a clipboard and gazed at me over her spectacles. “And you are?”

  I flinched. Name, rank, and serial number only. And if I could avoid giving out my name, I would. “Paranormal Museum. Here to finalize the preparation for the Haunted San Benedetto room.”

  She consulted her clipboard. “Ah, yes. Miss Kosloski.”

  She knew my name! Ladies Aid was worse than the NSA.

  The woman pointed with her pen to one of the openings beside the divider. “Through there.”

  I scuttled through the entrance to my Haunted San Benedetto room, rolling the dolly before me. The room looked pretty much as I’d left it. Blank-faced mannequins surrounding the table with the ghost-hunting equipment and TV monitor. The fencing for the grape press stood hooked in a square, defending empty space.

  I shoved the fence aside, put the grape press where it belonged, and lifted the fence over the press.

  Whisking the Invisible Haunted Grape Press sign from its hook, I rummaged in my bag. The original Haunted Grape Press placard was buried beneath a wad of receipts from the taqueria. I hung it on the fence and hobbled to the electronics table.

  Footsteps and women’s laughter tumbled down the stairs.

  I froze, hoping no one would peek around the hanging divider wall and find me. What had I gotten myself into? More to the point, what had my mother gotten herself into?

  “What are those things?” a masculine voice asked.

  “Augh!” I jumped, turned, landed on my bad foot, and groaned.

  Chuck grinned through his elaborate facial hair. He tucked his tie beneath his tweed vest. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you.”

  “Why would I be scared? Just because San Benedetto is in the grip of a conspiracy, and I’m in a haunted house, and there’s a killer on the loose? Is there a basement here? Because if there is, I think I’ll go investigate, alone, and twist my ankle on the way down the steps.”

  He angled his head. “Bad day?”

  I began to agree, but my problems paled in comparison to Leo’s. And poor Jocelyn. At least no one was trying to kill me, but if that was my low bar for happiness, then my attitude needed adjusting. I changed the subject. “How’s the other setup going?”

  “I’ve been assured all will be ready when we open at seven,” he said. “I find it hard to believe, but at this point, things are out of my hands.”

  “You’re a risk-taker.”

  “What do you mean by that?” he asked.

  “Putting your tasting room in the hands of Ladies Aid for the haunted house.”

  He shrugged. “Oh, right. Well, it’s Ladies Aid, isn’t it? It’s not like I’m joining forces with the mob.”

  “I wouldn’t bet on it,” I muttered.

  “What?”

  “Nothing. I’d better get back to the electronics. Do you know who’s going to be in charge of the actual event? I’d like to show them how to turn the equipment on and off.”

  Chuck looked around the room. “I think Betsy Kendle is the lady you’re looking for. I saw her upstairs earlier.”

  My stomach plunged. It would have to be the dragon lady’s second in command. “I’ll check there. Thanks.”

  Chuck shambled off.

  I approached the ghost-hunter table. The mannequins regarded me, their gazes critical.

  Ignoring them, I tackled the monitor setup. After a few misfires with the tangle of cables and remote controls, I set the video to replay the five minute loop.

  Satisfied, I surveyed the room. The video screen flickered, and the mannequins watched, diverted. The grape press stood, in all its haunted glory, in the center of the room. At the far side, above the display about the McBride murder, the noose swung morosely from the balcony.

  I did a double take. Swung? Why was it swinging? No one should have been up on that balcony—not after I’d nearly gotten flattened by an empty wine barrel. Had Chuck reached up and jiggled the noose on his way out? Uneasy, I hurried to the stairs, keeping a wary eye on the barrels above.

  On the second floor, I searched for Betsy and found her in the haunted library. She teetered on a stepladder, stringing spider webs between bookshelves. Cadaverous portraits frowned down at us. Yellow police tape marked the shape of a body on the wooden floor.

  Something brushed the top of my head and I darted sideways, sucking in my breath.

  Betsy twisted on the stepladder and laughed, her cornflower-blue eyes twinkling. “Gotcha!”

  Feeling foolish, I brushed the fake spiderweb away. “And in broad daylight. Nicely done.”

  She clapped her pudgy hands together, delighted, and I felt silly. There was nothing menacing about Betsy, even if she was part of the Ladies Aid crew. I’d once again let my imagination run wild.

  “And the eyes in the portraits glow red,” she said. “Did you need something?”

  I explained about the electronics. Dutifully, she followed me downstairs and watched me demonstrate.

  “It seems simple enough,” she said. “I’ll make sure they’re turned on before start time and off when we pack your room away for the night. I’m glad you kept things simple. If I had to rehang cobwebs every afternoon, I’d go mad.”

  I lifted the tablecloth. “There are some spare batteries down here.”

  “Got it.” She walked beneath the noose to the McBride display and touched a finger to the photo of the victims. “Who would have thought a small town like San Benedetto would have so much horror in i
ts history?”

  My gaze flicked to the loft. “Not to mention its present.”

  “Oh.” Her expression turned serious. “Jocelyn and Romeo. Have you gotten any farther on your investigation?”

  “I really can’t say,” I said, playing it cool.

  She winked. “I understand. I’ll tell the committee you’re closing in.”

  “There’s a murder committee?”

  She laughed. “Heavens, no. The external affairs committee.”

  “Of course,” I murmured.

  “Your mother has called in a lot of markers for you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Not everyone approves of your museum, or your … activities. Your mother’s always been your champion.” Her eyes glinted. “It would be a shame to let her down. You know how organizations can be. Some people might take a failure the wrong way.”

  I gulped. No, that didn’t sound like a threat. No, not at all.

  eighteen

  Bamboo tea tray in her arms, Adele walked through the open bookcase. She stopped short, brown eyes widening. A coil of black hair slipped from her chignon to her shoulder, twining around the strap of her crisp apron. “You!”

  Harper waggled her fingers. “Hi, Adele.”

  “You’re not …” She looked about the museum. Small, circular tables covered in black cloths clustered about the room. In the center of each table stood a flameless candle amidst mini pumpkins and autumn leaves.

  Elthia, in a long skirt and black, high-necked Victorian blouse, greeted a couple in black denim at the door.

  GD surveyed his kingdom from atop a bronze skull.

  Adele swallowed. “Harper, tell me you’re not a member of this Bistro of Death.”

  “No.” Harper crossed her legs sheathed in tight designer jeans. Her olive-colored V-neck shirt made her skin look golden. “I’m a member of the Death Bistro.”

  I edged backward, putting more counter between myself and the coming explosion.

  “YOU were the one responsible for those flyers!”

  Harper raised her hands in a warding gesture. “That wasn’t me, though I did suggest your tea room for our meeting. The Fox and Fennel is fantastic, Adele, and the atmosphere is so much more elegant than that health food store we’ve been using.”

  Adele raised her chin. “Of course it is.” Laying down the tray, she arranged its contents—small plates of mini scones and cookies—on one of the tables. “But really, Harper, a Death Bistro? People will think you’re …” She looked around for eavesdroppers and lowered her voice to a whisper. “Weird.”

  “We all die,” Harper said. “The only choice we have in the matter is how we deal with it.”

  Adele blew out her breath. “Fine. I’m happy to cater future Death Bistros, as long as they’re in the Paranormal Museum. Besides, I’d think you’d prefer to be in here, among all the momento moris.”

  Elthia turned and walked to us. “Did I hear ‘momento mori’? Have you got any from the Victorian era?”

  I pointed to a shadowbox on the opposite wall. “A fan made of hair, from Philadelphia, 1853. Believed to be haunted by the hair’s owner.”

  Shuddering, Adele busied herself at the other tables, laying out pastries.

  “This entire museum is a momento mori,” Harper said. “There are memories of death in every corner.”

  “We should have thought of moving the Bistro here earlier,” Elthia said.

  The bell above the door tinkled, and Elthia whipped around. “Chuck!” She bustled over to him.

  “How long has this Bistro been going on?” I asked Harper.

  “About six months.”

  “And you just talk about death?”

  “You’ll see. You’re staying, aren’t you?”

  I might have gone upstairs to hang out with Mason while the party went on. But not tonight. Mason still hadn’t returned my calls. His apartment lights were on, but I couldn’t bring myself to knock on his door.

  I forced a smile. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

  Her gaze softened, looked past me. “You’re afraid of what you’ll find if you push, aren’t you?”

  I blinked. Was she talking about Mason or my so-called murder investigation?

  She shook her head. “Sorry, I was drifting for a moment. How’s your investigation going?”

  “A reliable source informed me I’m getting dangerously close to interfering in a police case. It seems that’s illegal.”

  “A reliable source?”

  “Detective Slate.”

  Harper sighed. “He could put me in handcuffs any time.”

  “Not funny.”

  “No, I guess it isn’t.” She straightened off the counter. “For a moment there, back in my office, I thought they might cart me off for interrogation.”

  “Have they come back to you with more questions?”

  “No,” she said, her tone repressive.

  A woman emerged from the gallery. “Are those Ouija boards for sale?”

  “They are! I’ll be right there.” I hustled toward the gallery, but Chuck touched my arm.

  “Hey,” he said.

  “Hi.” I edged toward the potential sale. “What are you doing here? I thought you’d be at the haunted house.”

  He laughed. “Are you kidding? I couldn’t wait to get away from it. At this point, if something goes wrong, I don’t want to know.”

  Ouija-board lady caught my eye.

  “Excuse me,” I said. “I need to help a customer.” Hurrying into the gallery, I got caught in a discussion of the history of Ouija boards and the American spiritualist movement. I knew more about either topic than was healthy. But I’d entered a brave new world of corpses, runaway boyfriends, and Death Bistros.

  I returned to the main room to ring up the board, and Detective Laurel Hammer strode through the front door. Pulling a wallet from the pocket of her blue blazer, she flashed her badge at Elthia.

  The Death Bistro hostess reared away and clutched her chest, as if Laurel had presented her with a viper.

  Laurel grabbed a chair from a table and moved it against a wall. Running her hand through her short blond hair, she sat.

  GD strolled in from the Fortune Telling Room and stopped, one paw raised, ears swiveling. Spotting Laurel, he lowered his body closer to the ground.

  I scooped him up and set him on the counter beside a plate of tea things, then sat behind the register.

  Torn, the cat shifted his gaze between Laurel and the shreds of roast beef dangling from one of the sandwiches.

  Elthia went to stand behind an empty chair at one of the tables. She rapped a teaspoon against a teacup. “Everyone? I’d like to start, if it’s okay.”

  Guests made their way to the tables. Chair legs scraped against the linoleum floor.

  My eyes widened. Wearing a peach-colored tunic, Mrs. Gale sat at one of the tables. What was the renegade from Ladies Aid doing here?

  Elthia rattled through Death Bistro business—collecting fees for the night, their new website. “And next month, Harper Caldarelli will discuss advanced health care directives.” She looked down at the table, her fingertips pressing into the black fabric. “And of course, Romeo. We’ll need to vote in a new president. It seems strange, so soon after he’s gone. It’s as if we’re erasing his memory.”

  The group burst into denials.

  “He understood better than anyone that we need to make the most of our finite lives,” a dark-haired young woman said. “We mourn him, and we move through the loss. We can’t pretend it didn’t happen.”

  I cleared my throat. “Especially since Romeo’s wasn’t an ordinary death. It was murder.”

  Elthia gestured toward me. “This is Maddie, our hostess for tonight and the owner of the Paranormal Museum. She discovered Romeo’s bod
y. I can only imagine how shocking it must have been.”

  Murmurs of sympathy drifted around the tables.

  Elthia resumed her seat. “And she’s right. How he died can’t help but color our reactions.”

  The conversation veered into weird-and-terrible-deaths-I-have-known.

  I jiggled my leg, trying to think of ways to bring the conversation back to Romeo. But this wasn’t my party. If I wanted to learn more about Romeo’s death, I’d have to be patient.

  GD butted my hand. I offered him a morsel of roast beef from the tiny sandwich. The cat sniffed, considering, then nipped it from my fingers.

  “I can’t believe someone killed him,” the dark-haired woman said.

  An opening at last. “You all knew Romeo,” I said. “Who might have done this? Did anyone have a grudge against him?”

  Laurel drew a notepad from the inside pocket of her blazer.

  Elthia’s grip on her teacup tightened, her knuckles whitening. “You can’t be suggesting one of us—”

  “Of course none of you,” I said. “But did he say anything? Was he worried or stressed out?”

  “Everyone loved Romeo,” Elthia said.

  Grimacing, a burly thirty-something scratched his beard, the red-gold of a sunset. “That’s not entirely true.”

  Elthia went rigid. “Of course it is!”

  “I ran into him in the hardware store a couple weeks back,” the redhead said. “He took a phone call. I don’t know who he was talking to, but he seemed pretty tense.”

  Laurel made a note.

  “What did he say?” I asked.

  He rubbed the back of his thick neck. “I can’t remember exactly. Something about money and keeping your grubby hands off my winery.”

  “Was he talking to a man or a woman?” Peeling a watercress leaf from a shred of roast beef, I handed the meat to the cat.

  He shrugged. “I couldn’t tell, but it sounded like something was going on with his business.”