Wining and Dying

by Daryl Wood Gerber

  “The one with the single name,” Bailey said. “Quade. He did the mural on the side of the junior college. With all the sea creatures.”

  “Jenna, did you know?” Aunt Vera asked.

  “Yes. I didn’t want to ruin your upbeat mood.”

  My aunt clucked her tongue with dismay. “Murdered.”

  “Stabbed in one of the cabanas at the Crystal Cove Inn,” I said. “Yardley Alks found him.”

  “How do you know so much?” she asked.

  “She phoned me.”

  My aunt raised an eyebrow. “Why you?”

  “Because she knew I’d had experience finding, you know . . .” I twirled a hand, not uttering the words dead bodies. “But don’t worry,” I hastened to add, “Rhett went with me and we dialed 911 right away. Cinnamon showed up. So did Marlon.”

  “Ah. That’s why he went out so late last night.”

  My aunt and Deputy Appleby had eloped last year in Las Vegas. No one quite understood why, at their age, they’d wanted to marry rather than live together, but they were blissfully in love. Appleby had moved into my aunt’s house on the beach. His daughter had been supportive; his son, from whom he’d been alienated, was coming around.

  “He didn’t say anything to you?” I asked.

  “No, and he was out of the house before I awoke. Go on.”

  “Someone stabbed Quade.” I paused. “With one of Keller’s art tools.”

  “No,” they gasped in unison.

  “Although the police might want that kept secret for now. I think the killer planted it to implicate Keller.”

  “Why do such a thing?” Aunt Vera asked.

  “Keller and Quade have been squabbling lately. The killer probably thought the feud and the fact that they were sort of rivals, both using mixed media in their artwork, would be enough to incriminate him.”

  “Did Cinnamon say that?” Bailey asked as she disappeared into the stockroom and returned with the sit-me-up, owl-themed floor seat for Brianna. The baby was the spitting image of Bailey with short spiky hair and had an affinity for colorful outfits, today’s matching her mother’s red-and-turquoise getup.

  “I’m sure she’s keeping an open mind,” I said. “She didn’t go right out and arrest him, if that’s what you mean.” At least I hoped she hadn’t. “I should check in on Katie.” I started toward the breezeway.

  “Don’t go yet, Sunshine,” my father said as he entered the shop with Lola. Both were dressed in white shirts and jeans, though Lola looked way more stylish, her jeans studded with silver stars and her blouse formfitting.

  “Why are you here?” I asked.

  Lola crossed to Brianna and unbuckled her from her stroller. “Hello, sweet thing,” she cooed, lavishing her granddaughter with kisses.

  “You sent me on a mission,” my father said, “and I always complete a mission. The man in the photo you showed me is Christopher Michael George. A self-help guru from Silicon Valley. He runs the Believe You Can Foundation.” He scrolled to an internet page on his cell phone and showed me the screen.

  “I know him.” Lola rose with Brianna in her arms. “He’s hugely popular. I’ve seen him interviewed on a number of the daytime talk shows. His talks are all about believing you can find love and a sense of self.”

  “Oh, him,” my aunt said. “I’ve seen him. He’s covered virtually every topic under the sun.”

  “Mm-hm,” Lola said. “He’s witty, albeit pompous, if you ask me. He’s also a collector of fine art.”

  “That might explain why he’s in town,” my father said. “The festival.”

  “But why was he pursuing Naomi?” I asked.

  “Because she’s pretty,” my aunt suggested.

  “More than pretty,” Bailey said. “Naomi is—”

  “Hello-o!” Gran, aka Gracie Goldsmith, breezed in, her cheeks rosy from sun exposure despite the broad-brimmed hat she was wearing. Having an extensive knowledge of cookbooks, she had offered to work part-time as Tina was making her career switch. “What’s this about Naomi?”

  Aunt Vera tsked. “Gracie, you have the ears of an elephant.”

  Gran chuckled. “I’ve been told that many times.”

  Bailey said, “Jenna is worried that a man might be stalking Naomi.”

  “Interesting.” Gran stored her purse beneath the register. “Minutes ago I saw her at Azure Park with her adorable little girl. They were browsing the various Art in the Sunlight festival booths. A man was ogling her.”

  “Are you sure?” my father asked.

  “Yes. I have to admit I was worried on Naomi’s behalf until she and her daughter met up with a group of women, their play group, I think, at Squiggles.”

  “Is this him, Gracie?” My father flashed his cell phone in her direction.

  “Yes. Oh, my!” Gran pressed a hand to her chest. “There he is.”

  “Who?” I asked.

  “The ogler. With the mustache. He’s entering the Nook Café.”

  I whirled around and saw Christopher Michael George striding through the café’s door. As before, he was striking yet casual, in dark gray corduroys, a striped shirt, and a light gray sweater slung around his shoulders.

  Not wasting a moment, I hurried down the breezeway and into the café. The place was busy. Nearly all the tables were filled. The hostess was seating Mr. George at a table by the window with a view of the ocean. He was being quite chatty with her.

  “I’ve got your six,” my father said from behind me.

  I glanced over my shoulder. Dad’s gaze was humorless. I knew he did not approve of me barging ahead. On the other hand, he had not grabbed my arm and held me back.

  “Mr. George,” I said as I drew near to his table. The hostess had returned to her post. “I’m the owner of the café, Jenna Hart.” I extended my hand.

  “Is there a problem?” He set aside his menu. His eyes were dark but warm, exactly the kind of eyes that would draw in viewers.

  “This is my father, Cary Hart.”

  “Christopher George,” he replied. “Everyone calls me Christopher. Never Mr. George.”

  “Big fan,” my father said, lying through his teeth.

  “Really?” Christopher asked. “Which seminar is your favorite?”

  “The one on confidence.”

  “There are three.”

  “All of them,” Dad tried.

  Christopher George smirked. “Haven’t seen any, have you?”

  Dad snickered. “Not a one.”

  “Sir,” I said.

  “Christopher. Please.” He directed his attention back to me.

  “Yes, Christopher, forgive me, but I spotted you last night at the soiree at the Crystal Cove Inn, and I didn’t get the chance to say hello.”

  His warm eyes cooled. “You’re the one who took a photograph of me.”

  I nodded.

  “Are you a fan, too?” he asked.

  “No, sir. I was one of the artists last night. I was taking photos of everyone at the party and hoped to greet each personally.”

  “Uh-huh,” he said skeptically.

  “You were particularly interested in the assistant art teacher, Naomi Genet.”

  Christopher squared the edges of his menu with the place mat. “Is that what she’s calling herself these days?”

  “You know her?”

  “As a matter of fact, I do. Or should I say I did?”

  My father pulled out a chair and motioned for me to sit, and then he sat beside me.

  The waitress swung by the table, saying, “I’ll be right back.”

  Christopher said, “Don’t bother. I’ll be leaving in a sec.” He nudged the small vase holding a daisy to one side, leaned forward on his elbows, and folded his hands. “She’s my wife. She disappeared three years ago.”

  I frowned. Naomi had told me that her husband had died.

  “I was heartbroken,” Christopher added.

  “I presume you asked the police for help,” my father said, mirroring Christopher
’s pose, his tone light but his gaze direct.

  “Of course.”

  Naomi hadn’t elaborated about her past, and I hadn’t pressed because I’d never appreciated when people had questioned me about David, my husband who had supposedly died in a mysterious boating accident until I’d discovered that he hadn’t. When he’d turned up alive, I’d been shocked. When he’d revealed his deceit, it had broken my heart. When he’d died of real causes a short while later, I’d let the memory of the two of us fade. But not once had I ever lied about him being my husband. What had made Naomi leave Christopher George? Had he—

  “Foul play was not suspected,” he went on. “There was no body. No crime scene.”

  I winced, flashing on Quade, dead in the cabana.

  “And then, a month after she left, she sent me a note of goodbye. Through the mail. No explanation. No mention of reconciliation. The police verified that she’d written the note and closed the case. I employed a private detective agency,” he added. “For six months. They came up empty. Ultimately, I gave up. People who don’t want to be found have plenty of ways to stay off the grid. However”—he raised his head to meet our gazes, tears gracing his eyelashes—“when I saw posters for the festival with last year’s winning entry, I couldn’t believe my eyes. I recognized my wife’s style as well as her distinctive initials, NG. Of course, when she was married to me, she was known as Nancy George.”

  Nancy. Naomi did not look like a Nancy.

  I said, “Sir, you were stalking her last night and then again at Azure Park this morning.”

  “I wasn’t stalking her. I’d seen the program for the festival. I’d expected she’d be at the inn on opening night, seeing as that was where they were honoring the new competitors. Congrats, by the way.”

  I thanked him.

  “I was hoping to get a word with her,” he continued, “but she ran off. As for this morning, it was a fluke. I went to see the van Gogh on stilts paint Starry Night on the LED screen.”

  “There’s a van Gogh on stilts?” I asked.

  Christopher splayed his hands. “Look, all I want to do is talk to my wife. Find out why she ran away.”

  My father coughed.

  “I didn’t abuse her, sir. I never laid a hand on her.”

  “There are many kinds of abuse,” Dad said.

  I picked up a spoon and traced circles on the tablecloth. “She told me she’d moved to Crystal Cove to start over with her daughter.”

  Christopher’s mouth dropped open. “The child is hers? How old is she?”

  I swallowed hard. “Three years.” It suddenly occurred to me that Naomi might have left Silicon Valley because she’d been pregnant with another man’s child. Quade’s perhaps? We didn’t know much about him. Had he presumed the child was his? Was that why he had been hounding Naomi? Had she killed him to stop his endless pursuit?

  Christopher rubbed the back of his neck. “Is it mine?”

  Mentally, I smacked my forehead. Yes, that could be a possibility, too. Duh! “I have no idea,” I said lamely. “Sir, you’re an art collector, I hear.”

  “I dabble.”

  “Is the name Quade familiar to you?”

  I could feel my father staring at me, but I couldn’t take a moment to explain that I was fishing, trying to find some connection between Christopher and Quade. Had Naomi met Quade through her husband’s business contacts? Had Christopher George come to town to have it out with Quade?

  “No. Doesn’t ring a bell.” Christopher aimed his finger at me. “Wait. Isn’t he one of the finalists for this year’s poster art competition?”

  He’d used the present tense, as if he didn’t know Quade was dead. Was he being cagey or truthful?

  The door to the café opened and Cinnamon Pritchett, in full uniform, her hat firmly on her head, and Foster, the fresh-faced female officer who’d accompanied her last night, entered. Cinnamon caught sight of me and I reddened, feeling guilty for merely talking to Christopher George. But neither he nor I were the targets of Cinnamon’s visit. She and the officer made a hard left toward the café’s kitchen. To talk to Katie?

  Not without me being present. My café. My kitchen. I touched my father’s arm. “I’ve got to go.”

  Christopher started to rise.

  “Sir, please stay,” I said. “Have a meal on the house. Dad, will you make sure that happens?” I bussed his cheek and got to my feet.

  Christopher settled into his chair. “Would you please tell me where I can find Naomi? All I want to do is talk.”

  “I’ll have to ask her,” I said. “You’re staying at the inn under your own name?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll do what I can.”

  When I entered the kitchen, my heart sank. Keller was sitting at the chef’s table with his daughter Min-yi, who had the most beautiful jet-black hair and dark eyes. He often brought her to visit her mother in the mornings. His ice cream business didn’t pick up until late afternoon. Both were wearing overalls and nibbling grilled cheese sandwiches.

  “Keller Landry,” Cinnamon said officiously, “I have a warrant to search your house.”

  “Wh-why?” he stammered.

  “We have it on good authority that a painting of Quade’s has gone missing, and word is that you might have stolen it.”

  “No way!” Keller’s voice rattled.

  Katie, in her white chef’s coat and toque, rushed to her husband’s side and looped her hand around his elbow. “Who told you such a lie, Chief?”

  “We got an anonymous tip.”

  “Anonymous?” Katie hissed. “What kind of coward sends an anonymous tip?”

  “Why would I steal his work?” Keller rose to his feet and opened his hands.

  “Apparently you were jealous of his talent,” Cinnamon answered.

  “Not so!”

  Min-yi squealed.

  “Sorry, sweetheart.” Keller kissed her. “Daddy’s a little upset.” Lowering his voice, he said, “Chief, my art is every bit as good as Quade’s. Better, even.”

  “If you haven’t stolen it, Mr. Landry, then there’s nothing to worry about.”

  “Can’t you call me Keller?” he pleaded. “I mean, c’mon, you buy double scoops of my chocolate pistachio ice cream.”

  Cinnamon stiffened. “Mr. Landry—”

  “Jenna, do something!” Katie cried.

  What could I do? This was police business.

  “Go with him,” Katie said. “In my stead. I can’t leave here. We have forty charity donors coming for a specialty luncheon.”

  “Jenna, no,” Cinnamon cautioned.

  “I won’t get in the way,” I stated, “and I can see to Min-yi, if necessary.”

  “Min-yi can stay here,” Katie said.

  “Then I’ll be emotional support for Mr. Landry,” I tried. “Please, Chief.”

  Cinnamon sighed. “Fine. Let’s go.”

  Chapter 7

  Katie and Keller lived in a modest two-bedroom house in the hills, surrounded by a gorgeous array of white azaleas. The place belonged to Katie’s uncle, but ever the adventurer, he’d decided to take a worldwide sailing trip and had rented it to Katie and Keller for a song. Cinnamon made Keller and me stand outside while she and her officer, both wearing Latex gloves, inspected the premises.

  “I didn’t do this, Jenna,” Keller said, pulling dead blooms from an azalea.

  “I know.”

  “Why would I take Quade’s work? So I could copy it? I don’t even like his work.”

  Birds twittered merrily in nearby trees even though we fell into a gloomy silence.

  Twenty minutes later, the garage door opened. Cinnamon stepped into the sunlight. “Mr. Landry, please join us.”

  Keller had turned the garage into his studio, which consisted of a workbench, a wall fitted with a peg board to hold tools, padlocked storage cupboards, and an easel upon which stood an oversized canvas—Keller’s work in progress, I presumed. In addition, Keller’s tricked-out ice cream bik
e, fitted with a freezer at the rear, stood by the window.

  Keller shuffled inside, visibly shaking. “Yes, Chief?”

  “Can you explain this?” She signaled the officer to remove the oversized canvas from the easel.

  Beneath stood another canvas. Quade’s Morning.

  I gasped.

  “Chief, I don’t know—” Keller sputtered. “I didn’t put that there. I don’t even know where Quade lives. How would I have been able to steal it?”

  “Chief,” I said, doing my best to calm my fear, “wouldn’t he have hidden it better if he had truly stolen it?”

  “There aren’t many places to hide it,” she said. “There are only two closets and a few cabinets in the house. We found no hidden compartments beneath the flooring. What better place than to hide it in plain sight?”

  Keller moaned. “Why would I steal it?”

  “As I said earlier, Mr. Landry, because you were jealous, which is probably your motive for killing him.”

  “He’s dead?” Keller gawked at me.

  I said, “He was stabbed last night with one of your—”

  “Jenna!” Cinnamon exhaled sharply. “Mr. Landry, he was stabbed with one of your art tools. A burin.”

  “No way. It couldn’t have been one of mine. I’m meticulous about my tools. I put them back in their cases, and I keep them under lock and key.”

  “Where?”

  “I’ll show you.” Keller grabbed a ring of keys off the pegboard of tools, strode to the rightmost cabinet, and unlocked the padlock.

  “Mr. Landry, is that where you always keep your keys?” Cinnamon asked.

  “Well, y-yeah,” he stammered.

  “Pretty easy for a thief to find them.”

  “We use padlocks because of our daughter. We don’t want her to get into anything.”

  “She’s not even two,” Cinnamon said wryly. “I doubt she could reach that cabinet.”

  Keller said, “It’s more for us. We’re parents-in-training. You must have noticed that all the cupboards inside have been baby-proofed.” He opened the door and brandished a hand. “So, you can see my tools are right—” A hiss escaped his lips. “I . . . I can’t believe it. My tool kit isn’t here.”

  “As a matter of fact,” Cinnamon said, “I knew it wasn’t. We found the remainder of the kit in the communal room at the Crystal Cove Inn.”