Murder Most Fermented

by Christine E. Blum

  Midway down the runway toward the western end of the airport a small prop plane was starting up. We parked just behind it in front of a hangar.

  “Come on, we’ve got no time to waste if we want to enjoy the full beauty of this sunset,” Jack said, coaxing the dogs out of their crates in the back of his truck. “You remember Neil, Halsey? He took you on your first CARA training drop.”

  “How could I forget?” I said, waving to Neil who had started up the plane for us.

  After Jack had loaded the dogs onto the plane, he and Neil went through a preflight check. Which gave me time to reminisce about the first time I’d flown with Jack. It was our makeup date after a rocky start, and he definitely wanted to make an impression. He told me a little about what to expect, but left out some key parts, like we were both going to be lowered from a helicopter into the forest and create confusing scents for dog and handler teams that were on a tracking mission. It’s not so much that I’m afraid of heights, I’m more afraid of surprises. He hadn’t told me what we were doing until I was strapped to him and we jumped out the door. He did atone with a beautiful picnic lunch of bread, cheeses, and a lovely Pinot Gris from Alsace. But it would have been nice to know in advance.

  Just like today.

  I took the copilot seat, strapped in, and put on my headset. Jack communicated with the tower and we taxied to our takeoff position, which was facing the western sunset.

  “Okay, Halsey, time to go house hunting,” Jack said as we leveled off and headed up the coast. It was a clear evening and we were flying low enough to get a really good look at the privileged Malibu proprietors and their manses.

  There are no tall buildings in the ’Bu as they call it. So the view was of white sandy beaches that were pretty much empty at this hour. As we flew over the Santa Monica pier and its giant Ferris wheel, we headed north parallel to Pacific Coast Highway. After we passed the sign declaring MALIBU, 27 MILES OF SCENIC BEAUTY, the homes below got impressively more majestic.

  “Which one is Sting’s again?” I asked, surveying the multi-leveled, multi-styled ocean front homes. Cape Cod this was not but I was enjoying myself imagining the possibilities all the same. The next extra eight million dollars I have is going to one of these. Better make it ten million, I know I’ll have to remodel.

  “Would you look at that sky? This just never gets old,” Jack said, taking in a breath. Jack has a lot of Zen-like qualities and he really does appreciate nature in all its forms. He also has an amazing ability to fall asleep, even if just for five minutes anywhere. This is SO annoying and I’m SO jealous.

  When we landed in Santa Barbara, my mind started running through all the wonderful restaurants that I’d read about. Were we going to The Lark, trendy but also serving delicious farm and ocean specialties? Or maybe he’d opted for artisanal Italian at Olio e Limone. He could also be kicking it old school with the 1920s hillside El Encanto for a romantic dinner on the terrace.

  Or not.

  The person who met us to claim the dogs had us follow him to the parking lot. There, in addition to his truck was parked an old Harley-Davidson motorcycle. He put his dogs in the truck and handed Jack the keys and two helmets.

  “Just leave the bike back here and take the keys and helmets into the office. They’ll hold them for me.”

  Jack thanked the man and turned to me grinning from ear to ear.

  “Oh no, Mr. Jack Thorton, I am not getting on that thing. Because number one, I am wearing a dress in case you hadn’t noticed.”

  “I’d noticed.”

  “And two, I am not pulling up to a nice restaurant on a beat-up old bike, it’s worse than the truck.”

  * * *

  It didn’t take us long to get to the center of town, and from the little I could see behind Jack’s massive back, we were not heading toward the coast. I held onto him with one arm while I used the other in a futile effort to keep my dress from blowing up. From the honks we kept hearing, I intuited that I had not been successful.

  I was still so mad at him that I pretty much buried my face into his back and gave him nips now and then to remind him that Halsey was not amused. When we finally stopped, I looked down to the ground and saw that we were sitting atop a weedy, cracked pavement. The bike suddenly tilted drastically to port side and I would have fallen to the ground if Jack hadn’t caught me. I guess this was where we were dining tonight.

  As we walked up to the turquoise blue and white shack Jack tried to explain.

  “This may look like a roadside taco stand but I can assure you it’s not. And if you don’t believe me, you can ask Julia Child, she discovered this hole-in-the-wall and was their biggest fan.”

  “Um, pretty sure I won’t be able to ask her. . . .”

  We walked in past the griddle, grill, and menu boards to where a woman was pounding masa into balls and then flattening it in a tortilla press. Jack explained to the grumbling crowd that we were meeting friends. We passed through the other end and into the “dining room.” (Picture plastic chairs and simple tables under the same turquoise trim and white tent-like room.)

  “There he is,” Jack said, pointing to a table in the back corner.

  There sat quite a peculiar man waving to us and gesturing to what seemed to be an array of everything that was on the menu. The man was wearing a suit, white shirt, and bow tie and looked like he belonged here about as much an astronaut would. He was short and round and wore his meager hair in an Albert Einstein firework.

  Maybe he rode in on a motorcycle too....

  Jack steered me to the table and whispered, “You’re going to love him.” Then he turned back to the man.

  “Halsey, let me introduce you to Mr. Frederick Ott, friend, genius, and early California historian.”

  “Mr. Jack tends to err on the side of hyperbole, I am certainly no genius. But I am charmed to be dining with such a lovely lady, do sit down,” he said in an accent that wasn’t quite German.

  “Very nice to meet you, Mr. Ott; do you share Jack’s interesting taste in restaurants?”

  “Please call me Frederick, and don’t judge a book by its cover. My wife and I have been making a pilgrimage up here for almost twenty years, kind of ironic for an old Swiss, no? I am lucky today as I just happen to be in Santa Barbara for an estate appraisal.”

  “Thank you for ordering for us, everything looks divine. And I brought a little something to accompany the meal,” Jack said, producing a bottle of Bistro Classic Paso Robles Zinfandel.

  Surprise number four, but this one I like.

  “I won’t be drinking, since I’m driving and flying, but you two please enjoy.”

  Next out of Jack’s pocket came a votive candle that he lit while giving me a wink.

  “Lovely, let’s eat first before the food gets cold and then we can discuss this fascinating piece of parchment that Jack tells me you plucked from the ground.”

  We spent the next thirty minutes feasting on dishes I couldn’t pronounce and certainly had never tasted before. I think my favorite was something called Lomita Suizo, grilled marinated pork with melted cheese between two corn tortillas and topped with the freshest pico de gallo I’d ever had. The tortillas melted in your mouth.

  I quit after that and before the men did, so Frederick thought it was time that I showed him the deed while he ate. I had loaded all the photos I’d taken on my iPhone and took him through a slide show of the front, back, and close-ups of the document.

  He didn’t say a thing for the longest time. When he had taken his last bite, he thoroughly wiped his mouth and hands with a wad of napkins from the dispenser on the table.

  “And Jack tells me you also found a ring,” he finally said. “May I possibly see some photos?”

  I complied, and once again he carefully studied them. “This ring, is it very heavy?”

  “I would say that it feels like the weight of about half a roll of quarters, if that makes sense.”

  “Perfectly.”

  “Do you have any ideas
, Frederick?” Jack asked.

  “Hmmm,” he said, closing his eyes to think. “First off I’d say it’s a safe bet the two items will either validate each other or prove them to be imposters. The provenance will be critical.”

  “This is a signet ring, correct?” I asked.

  “Undoubtedly. It was historically used as a seal and featured a unique family crest, emblem, or monogram. Often passed from father to son and so on, the ring was used to sign legal or important documents. By dipping the ring into melted wax, it left a distinct seal that was considered to be more official than a signature. The ring was designed in mirrored image to ensure it came out properly when leaving its mark.”

  “So this ring is clearly an antique?” I asked.

  “Nothing is clear in the world of antiquity, dear Halsey, until it is proven.”

  Okay, that’s the second time today that I’ve been told this. How does the saying go? Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it.

  “I understand. If, hypothetically, the ring was authenticated, what would you guess is the age of it?”

  “Victorian, I’d say late 1800s. Were there any other interesting aspects to the ring that you noted when you examined it, Halsey?”

  “There was an inscription on the inner side of the band, it read ‘Memento Mori.’ ”

  I studied his face for a change of expression. After a few moments he nodded slowly.

  “Anything else?”

  “Not that I saw, but I really haven’t had the time to give it a full inspection. I’d planned to do so this weekend.”

  “It is my strongest recommendation that you don’t touch the item again until you find a jewelry expert who can handle it correctly.”

  “Okay, you’re scaring me now. It has a curse, doesn’t it?”

  Even Jack looked a little concerned and moved in closer.

  “I have no idea, but I strongly suspect that this is indeed a poison locket signet ring.”

  Why couldn’t I have found a Buffalo head nickel like everyone else does?

  * * *

  It was close to midnight when Jack and I arrived back at the homestead. The plan was formed that we would take Bardot for a quick constitutional around the block, then crash, sleep in, and enjoy a lazy Sunday morning. This date was getting better for me.

  Unfortunately, in the darkness we hadn’t noticed the black and white parked across the street until we heard two car doors open. I looked in that direction and saw Augie and a uniformed officer approaching.

  Am I ever going to get a break? And I don’t mean a Kit Kat bar.

  “Did I not tell you to stay close to home, Halsey?” Augie looked at his watch with a sour face.

  “I have. What are you now, the curfew enforcement police? I know I don’t look it, but I’m pretty sure that I’m over twenty-one.”

  I was going for “pleasantly haughty.”

  We’d stopped at a bar on the way back to the airport in Santa Barbara and Frederick had talked me into doing tequila shots with him. That old Swiss can hold his liquor, he must have learned to drink as a boy from a rescue Saint Bernard with a mini keg tied around his neck in the Alps. In either case, I was a tad “in my cups.”

  “Officer Cruz and I are here to escort you to the station,” Augie replied with cold eyes.

  “Hey, hey, that’s not necessary,” Jack intervened. “I’m the one responsible for keeping her out so late, take me to the station.”

  Just when I thought that the situation couldn’t get any more ridiculous, guess who joined the party?

  “If you guys gonna talk outside all night and wake up the street, then I’d better put on coffee,” Marisol said from her doorstep waving us in.

  “Sorry, Auntie,” Augie said when we were all situated in Marisol’s living room.

  I’d been in her inner sanctum sanctorum once or twice before, but at this time of night it all looked like Grandma’s cozy sitting room.

  You don’t fool me, Marisol.

  Over a worn in but comfortable-looking sofa sat an afghan blanket that appeared to have been crocheted by loving hands. Photos of happy family events over the years lined the wall and souvenirs from trips to Disneyland took the top shelf of a wooden cabinet.

  The room’s illumination came primarily from her large, newest model TV that looked impressive but would certainly draw no red flags to the uninitiated. I on the other hand, knew that this was the headquarters for “spy central.” In an emergency, she used that screen to access spy cameras her godson had installed for her around her house and who knows whom else’s. I watched as Office Cruz took in the room and saw evidence pointing to what Augie had certainly told him, “I have a dear, old Auntie Marisol.”

  Augie assumed position on the master club chair.

  “We now have an ID on the body from the gardens,” he began.

  Marisol didn’t even feign an effort to go make coffee when she heard this. She pulled the ottoman away from Augie’s chair and plunked herself down for story time.

  “Her name is Abigail Rose,” he continued. “She went missing about a year ago, at the time she was ninety and suffering from dementia. We did a thorough search and when nothing turned up, we concluded that she’d probably wandered off and soon after died.”

  “I remember her,” Marisol said, “crusty old thing, always getting into everybody’s business.”

  All four of us looked at her and stared with disbelief.

  “A fox always smells her own hole.” I thought I’d said only in my head. From the looks I now got, apparently not.

  “How tragic,” Jack said. “I hope that she didn’t die alone.”

  “There was at least one other person with her at the time around her death,” Officer Cruz said and then paused to let the suspense build, “the one who buried her up on the hill.”

  “Halsey, I looked through our records; you must recall that Mrs. Rose disappeared shortly after you moved into your house.”

  “I remember people talking about it, but I’d never even seen her. That was her house on the other side of Paula’s, right? That’s almost a block away from me.”

  “You and your dog seem to get around fine all over the neighborhood,” he said.

  “Please, Augie, you’re being ridiculous. If you recall at the time, you all were busy falsely accusing me of killing someone else. I’m really a great multi-tasker but double murders in the same week is way above my pay grade.”

  In situations of fear, anger, or just plain rudeness, I tend to err on the sarcastic side.

  “Maybe so, but you should know from experience that this puts you right back on the squad’s radar,” Augie informed me. “Again, stay close to home while we work the evidence and until we get the autopsy report.”

  “I guess eloping to Cuba will have to wait,” I said to Jack. He looked at me with wide, hopeful eyes, and I realized that from now on I should carry a sign that says “sarcasm” to flash at moments like this.

  Chapter 6

  Wine Club was held at Paula’s this time around. And as she boasted, it was going to feature guest speakers.

  We met in the backyard of her house, where there was ample comfortable seating and tables under a light canopy to diffuse the sun. Beyond the patio and grill area, an extraordinary panoply of nature’s bounty waited to be enjoyed.

  I must have counted five fruit trees, all in full blossom or ready for picking. I noticed a banana tree in the back corner, weighted down with bunches of ripening green fruit, naturally prepackaged for portability. And in the other back corner, I think I’ll dub it “the back 40,” were rows of fruits and vegetables growing on vines.

  “Did you say that you have several plots up on the hill as well?” I asked Paula while surveying her own yard.

  “Yes,” she said, giggling as we all settled in comfortably around the table.

  “Paula’s one of those plant freaks,” said Peggy, teasing her. “All this fresh healthy food, what’s a girl got to do to get a Twinkie aroun
d here?”

  “Well, for one thing, I don’t think that it would pair well with this Sea Smoke ‘Botella’ Pinot Noir I’m pouring,” said Paula.

  “Yum, I taste fresh earth, blueberries, and licorice,” Sally said, not prepared to wait for everyone to toast.

  “Sounds delish,” said Penelope. “How do you lot know so much about wines? In the pubs back home, it’s pretty much down to three choices, red, white, or a pint.”

  “We go through a lot of hit or miss; if it’s good we take our time and savor the taste, if it’s just so-so, we tend to drink it more quickly. And it has nothing to do with price,” I explained.

  “Over time our palates seem to have gotten in sync,” Sally added.

  “So have our periods,” Aimee said, arriving a tad late.

  We all laughed and then those her statement still applied to started doing the math.

  “Here’s a glass for you, Aimee. Peggy, please take an endive leaf filled with salmon mousse and pass the tray,” Paula directed.

  “I like this wine, I’m getting currants, cherry, and smoke,” Aimee concluded.

  I thought it tasted like the soothing of a warm bath after a long day of skiing, but what do I know?

  “Halsey, before I bring out our guest speakers, do you have any news for us on your garden findings?” Paula was in charge today it seemed.

  “Wait,” interrupted Aimee. “I actually have an announcement to make.”

  “How dramatic,” Sally said. “Does it concern the regularity of our bowel movements? Because it is widely known in the medical journals that women who—”

  “Stop!” Peggy shouted. “We can do without the scatological theories.”

  Okay, I’m going to have to look that up.

  “No, it has nothing to do with any of, um, those things. You guys know that since Halsey helped us build a website and do promotions for Chill Out that business has really picked up. So much so that I’ve been able to hire two more people.”

  We all stood up and applauded as Aimee did her customary crying. It was a happy cry.

  “Soooo,” she continued, “this gives me a chance to get more experience in the food industry. Tomorrow I start a six-week baking and pastry class. I really want to be able to add healthy but also delicious items to our shop’s menu.”