Pressed to Death

by Kirsten Weiss

  “Excellent! I’ll see you soon.” She hung up.

  I drummed my fingers on the counter. A journal sounded promising. I was making progress on the real story behind the grape press. But I needed to focus on the modern murders. It was time to turn the screws.

  Gritting my teeth, I dug a phone number out of my wallet and dialed Mrs. Bigelow.

  “Yes?” the Ladies Aid president snapped.

  “This is Maddie—”

  “I know who it is. Have you something to report?”

  “Yes. Someone tried to kill me last night. I’m done with the investigation.”

  There was a pause. “I see.”

  “Unless you have some actual information I can use to move the investigation forward, that is. I think you’re the kind of woman who knows the people around here well. There aren’t a whole lot of local secrets you don’t know, are there?”

  The pause lengthened. “Romeo and Jocelyn were having marital problems.”

  “What sort of problems?”

  “Jocelyn knew about his affair with that oddly dressed woman—”

  “Elthia?”

  “Just so. When Romeo was killed, I was certain Jocelyn had something to do with it.”

  “And now Jocelyn’s dead.”

  “Indeed. Either she had an accomplice who killed her to keep her quiet, or I was wrong.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me this sooner?”

  “I do not engage in idle gossip.”

  “You told me Mrs. Gale was responsible for Romeo’s death.”

  Mrs. Bigelow hesitated. “I’m sorry to say that I wanted her to be guilty. I was angry, and she was on the scene, so to speak. But I hope I’m honorable enough to admit when I’m wrong. I think you’re an honorable person, too, and I’m glad you’re investigating. I rather liked Romeo,” she said, wistful.

  “Did you know him well?”

  “No, but he was quite charming, in a European sort of way. Let’s just say we had a moment, and leave it at that.”

  My brows skyrocketed. A moment? “What else can you tell me about Romeo?”

  The retired couple emerged from the gallery and wandered to the bookcase. The man pressed on one of the book spines, frowned.

  “Romeo and I were friendly acquaintances, no more,” Mrs. Bigelow said. “Ladies Aid interacts with most of the vintners one way or another. On my part, that interaction was only on a superficial basis. I do not care for alcohol.”

  “But?”

  “But there was something odd going on with him. Unfortunately, I cannot say more as I do not know any more. I suggest you ask your friend Miss Nakamoto about it.”

  “What does Adele have to do with this?”

  “That is an excellent question. Oh, and by the way, you have to remove your grape press from the haunted house. It’s too haunted.”

  I stared at the brass skull, high on a shelf. It needed dusting. “Too haunted? How can a grape press be too haunted?”

  “Excuse me?” The retiree pointed at the bookcase. “How does this open?”

  I covered the mouthpiece with my hand. “Lower left corner. Press the spine that says Open.”

  “… quite another thing when adults burst into tears,” Mrs. Bigelow finished.

  “Sorry, what? Who burst into tears?”

  The retirees found the proper book and the case swung open. Looking pleased, they strolled into the tea shop.

  “Some ridiculous woman. Said she was a sensitive, whatever that means. But she disturbed the other guests, and I’m afraid word is getting around. We don’t want that kind of haunted house.”

  “What kind?”

  “The haunted kind. I thought you could replace the exhibit with that silly invisible grape press. You know, that thing you had at the festival?”

  “But who was the woman? Do you know her name?” Elthia had said she was a sensitive, but she’d been at the Death Bistro last night, not the haunted house.

  “How on earth can I be expected to know the name of every tourist who wanders through our haunted house? I’m not psychic.”

  Or sensitive, apparently. “All right, I’ll change the exhibit.”

  “The haunted house opens at seven.” She hung up.

  And tonight the museum closed at six, leaving me just enough time to remove the grape press and swap the signs.

  The display had actually made someone cry? GD had reacted to the press, but it couldn’t be that horrifying. The blood stains weren’t even visible, unless you were a cop.

  I banged my hand on the counter. “I’m an idiot!”

  GD leapt onto the rocking chair, setting it nodding in agreement.

  “It wasn’t a murder-suicide at all! It was a double murder.”

  twenty

  I drummed my fingers on the counter. The sunlight streaming through the blinds glinted off the glass, highlighting the dust. I grabbed a spray bottle and paper towel from beneath the counter and wiped it down.

  Harriet hadn’t said what time she’d stop by, and I slid from my chair, pacing. Would Gian Constantino’s journal prove my theory? Was the old grape press crime truly a double murder and not a murder-suicide?

  GD growled from the rocking chair.

  “You’re right,” I said. “I have to keep focused on the present-day murders.” Throwing the paper towel into the wastebasket, I called Mrs. Gale.

  She answered, breathless. “Hello?”

  “Hi, Cora. This is Maddie Kosloski.”

  “Oh! Hello, dear. The Death Bistro last night was lovely. Thank you for hosting.”

  “You’re welcome. I wonder if you can help me? After you left last night, someone attacked me in the museum.”

  “What? Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine, but I think someone from the Death Bistro might have snuck into the tea room and lain in wait.” Lain? Laid? “Did you notice anyone?”

  “No, although I thought Elthia was behaving rather oddly.”

  Losing your lover can do that to a woman. My heart clenched and I stared out the window, willing Mason to walk past. Had I lost him?

  I thrust that thought aside. “I heard that Jocelyn had defected from Ladies Aid to join your Rebelles group. How close were you two?”

  Mrs. Gale sighed. “Now I wish we’d been closer. She was clearly a troubled woman. I should have made a greater effort to reach out to her.”

  “Oh?” Using the flat of my hand, I rolled a pencil along the glass counter.

  “As you may have heard, there was trouble in that marriage. I was rather surprised to hear Elthia suggest last night that the Paganinis’ vineyard was doing well. Many months, Jocelyn had to dip into her own salary as a professor to help cover the bills.”

  “So the loss of all that wine last week—”

  “Must have been devastating. She loved viticulture, and she was dedicated to wine making. But she was losing patience with Romeo’s insistence on quality at all costs. He demanded the very best staff and equipment. But those things all cost money that neither of them had. However, in the weeks leading up to their deaths, something seemed to change. I sensed a cautious, no … a conflicted hope in Jocelyn.”

  “Conflicted?”

  “I don’t know how to describe it. Although her mood had improved, there seemed to be some cloud of guilt around her. I should have pressed her more. Perhaps then I could have helped.”

  “Why do you think someone would kill them?”

  “That I don’t know. I’m sorry I can’t be of more help, and I’m sorry you’re involved in this.”

  So was I, but it was too late to back out now. We said our goodbyes and I called my mother.

  “Madelyn! How are you?”

  “When I found Jocelyn, she had lemon bars on her table.”

  “What? So?”

  �
��Lemon bars! Stop protecting Ladies Aid. Jocelyn’s dead, and she had your lemon bars.”

  “I think you’re being a teensy bit melodramatic. If you had your sister’s talent for singing, you could join her on the stage. Did you hear the news about her new contract? She’s—”

  “Look, Mom, I don’t know what’s going on, but there were Ladies Aid lemon bars in a murder victim’s house. Who might have delivered them?”

  “Do you really think someone from Ladies Aid killed Jocelyn?”

  “Mommmmm …” I buried my head in my hand. Now I sounded like a whiny teenager. “What’s the source of the lemon bars?”

  “Mrs. Salvatore. She’s a dear, but she’s ancient. We’ve all been trying to get her recipe, but she refuses to share. And a breeze could knock her over. She couldn’t have hurt Jocelyn. Are you certain they were her lemon bars?”

  “No. I didn’t exactly have time to conduct an analysis.”

  “Sarcasm does not become you,” she said. “Were they squares or rectangles?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Squares or rectangles?”

  I thought back. “Squares.”

  “Then they weren’t our bars. Mrs. Salvatore cuts hers into rectangles.”

  “And Detective Slate?”

  She hesitated. “It isn’t what you think.”

  “So those were Ladies Aid lemon bars on his desk!”

  “They were Mrs. Salvatore’s lemon bars.”

  The bell over the door jingled. A portly twenty-something in a comic book hero T-shirt slouched into the museum.

  I sold him a ticket and he meandered to the far wall, staring at the haunted photos.

  “Why did he have Mrs. Salvatore’s lemon bars?”

  “It’s got nothing to do with your investigation.”

  “Whatever it is, I’ll keep it to myself.”

  My mother blew out her breath. “One of the neighbors complained about the state of Mrs. Salvatore’s lawn. As I said, she’s rather fragile, so I’m afraid she’s let it run to seed. It’s embarrassing, but Detective Slate mowed it for her.”

  “Why is that embarrassing?”

  “Because I should have taken care of it myself. She’s a member of Ladies Aid, after all, and if we can’t rally around to help one of our own members, then what good are we? Ever since Cora … Well, that’s neither here nor there. At any rate, as a thank you, Mrs. Salvatore asked me to deliver a box to Detective Slate, which I was happy to do. He, also, wished his good deed to remain private. Please don’t say anything.”

  “Then who’s the cop that Eliza Bigelow has in her pocket?”

  Comic Book Guy glanced over his shoulder at me.

  I swiveled in my seat, avoiding his gaze.

  “Really, Madeline. I could hardly tell you that.”

  “Why not?”

  “It would be unethical.”

  “Bribing the police is unethical,” I hissed.

  Comic Book Guy sidled into the Fortune Telling Room, and I relaxed.

  “They’re just lemon bars, darling. You know, that bakery on San Benedetto Avenue sells square lemon bars. They’re not as good as Mrs. Salvatore’s, but they’re a close second. Perhaps Jocelyn bought them there?”

  Great. Was I supposed to go to the bakery with a photo of Jocelyn to confirm it? My stomach rumbled. Why was I griping? I love bakeries! “I’ll check it out,” I said.

  I hung up and searched for Jocelyn Paganini online. The community college website had a brief biography and a photo. I printed out her photo and read the bio. The latter consisted mainly of a list of professional accreditations. I whistled. She’d been a Master of Wine? There were only about three hundred of those in the world.

  A few customers trickled in, and I sold them tickets. One bought an American primitive Ouija board—they really were popular. Could I convince the artist to let us continue selling her boards after the exhibit ended? Oooh! Or even design a special edition Paranormal Museum Ouija board?

  The bell above the door tinkled and Harriet walked inside. Her lightweight, floral-patterned blouse stuck damply to her ample curves. She smoothed the front of her khaki skirt, shifting the manila envelope beneath her arm. She paused and adjusted her spectacles, ruffling her white hair.

  I slid from my chair and walked around the counter. “Harriet, thanks for coming by.”

  She waved her hand, dismissive. “As much as I enjoy the Historical Association house, it’s nice to get out and about.” She leaned forward, and I smelled peppermint schnapps. “Sometimes I wonder if that old house we’re in is haunted.”

  “Really?” I asked.

  “Haunted by the past, my dear.” She handed me the packet. “Such a sad story. I’d read, of course, that poor Mr. Constantino was a broken man after his daughter’s death. Everyone knows that’s why his vineyard fell apart. After he sold it, he ended up in a sanatorium. But after reading his journal, I wonder if perhaps the death left him a bit unhinged?” She tapped her head with a gnarled finger. “You do bring me the most interesting research projects. I’m ashamed to say that when I cataloged the journal all those years ago, I merely skimmed it. You forced me to read it more closely.” She shook her head. “What a tragedy. I can’t imagine what it would be like to lose a child. The poor man was wracked with guilt for being unable to save his daughter.”

  I opened the envelope and tipped its contents onto the glass counter. Old black-and-white photographs. Sheets of typing paper. A battered notebook with a thick green cardboard cover.

  “May I browse your museum?” she asked.

  “Please, be my guest.”

  She wandered to the haunted rocking chair, stooping to pet GD. “Delightful animal.” She clucked and moved into the Fortune Telling Room.

  GD shot me a satisfied look and yawned.

  “That’s just one opinion.” I examined a photo: a group of workers in rough, old-timey clothing grinning around the grape press. So my grape press had indeed belonged to the Constantinos.

  I flipped over the photo of the workers. The only notation on the back was a date: 1919. Was Gian, Alcina’s father, or Luigi Rotta, her supposed killer, in the photo?

  I rifled past a shot of an old barn to a formal portrait of Alcina Constantino. She’d been a doe-eyed beauty, her dark hair finger-waved back from her delicate profile.

  Laying the police photos on the counter, I scrutinized the burnt cottage. My heart beat faster. “Of course it isn’t here,” I muttered. “It couldn’t be.”

  GD dropped from the rocking chair and strolled across the linoleum floor. He stopped beside my chair and gazed up, unblinking.

  I opened the antique notebook, dated 1921. It was more a ledger than a journal—lists of expenses and sales. As farmers went, Gian had been prosperous. The first two years of Prohibition had been good to him, and he’d shipped zinfandel grapes to home brewers across the country at exorbitant prices. I flipped through the pages. Amounts owed and paid, the payday rolls … Luigi was one of the lower-paid farm workers. An expansion of the vineyard … Interesting for a student of historical viticulture, but why had Harriet found this so fascinating?

  Three-fourths of the way through, the handwriting changed, grew shakier. I checked the dates and drew in a breath. There’d been a two-week gap between the prior entry and the beginning of the shaky writing.

  Alcina had died during that gap.

  I turned the page. Someone had covered it in scrawls of black ink, as if trying to blot out the writing beneath. The next three pages were the same—a mass of black scribbling. And then two pages filled with shaky writing: My fault my fault my fault my fault.

  Flesh pebbling, I thumbed through the rest of the book. The pages were blank.

  I read Harriet’s cover sheet. The Constantino Vineyards began operations in 1895, when young Gian and his wife emigrated to California. Th
ey built a wine production facility in 1899. Gian’s wife died giving birth to Alcina in 1901. The vineyard prospered until 1922. After the tragic murder of Alcina by her would-be suitor, Luigi Rotta, the winery fell into disuse. Gian sold the land to a local farmer in 1926 and died one year later.

  According to Harriet’s report, local legend about the relationship between Alcina and Luigi varied. One version had it that Alcina had spurned Luigi. In the other, her father had refused to allow his daughter to associate with a lowly farm worker.

  I smoothed a photocopied newspaper clipping from Harriet dated October 10, 1922. It included a photo of an old barn, which I presumed belonged to the Constantinos, but otherwise provided no new information.

  “Well?”

  My hand jerked, scattering papers and photos to the floor.

  Harriet bent to pick them up. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you. History can be riveting, can’t it? Your museum has certainly piqued my interest in the nineteenth-century spiritualist movement.”

  I hustled around the counter and knelt beside her. “I’ll get those.”

  “Nonsense. I’m not helpless, you know. Not yet, at least.”

  I swept up the photos. “That local legend about the romance—”

  “Ah, yes. I’m sorry I had to resort to historical gossip, but the whole affair is shrouded in mystery.” She winked, straightening. “That suggests a scandal hushed up, does it not?”

  I rose. “You think Alcina didn’t rebuff Luigi’s advances?”

  “You didn’t get a chance to go through all the documents, I see.”

  “No.”

  “I did find one other newspaper article, which I think you will find intriguing. If I may?” She held out her hand.

  I gave her the stack of materials, and she shuffled through the papers and photos.

  “Read this.” She handed me a photocopied newspaper article.

  AN ENGAGEMENT ANNOUNCEMENT.

  Mr. Gian Constantino, of San Benedetto, announces the engagement of his daughter, Miss Alcina Constantino, to Paul Harris Wesson, of Lodi, California. Miss Constantino is well known as a soloist at Our Lady of Mercy Catholic Church. Mr. Wesson is a graduate of the University of Redlands, California. He is taking graduate work at Harvard in business. Upon the completion of his studies, Mr. Wesson plans to join the Constantino vineyards.