Wining and Dying

by Daryl Wood Gerber

  “But I didn’t leave my tools there. I wouldn’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because, as I said, I keep them here. Whatever you found can’t be mine.” He gazed into the cupboard as if willing his tool kit to magically materialize.

  “The initials KL are on the handle of the burin.”

  Keller winced. “Someone must have broken into my garage. Must have stolen my—”

  Foster snorted.

  Keller glowered at her and refocused on Cinnamon. “Chief, I didn’t do this. I have an alibi.”

  “Mr. Landry, I haven’t even told you where or when this happened.”

  “Keller,” I said gently, “where were you last night at—”

  “Jenna, stop. I’ll ask the questions.” Cinnamon’s glare was steely.

  I blanched.

  “Where were you last night between the hours of nine and eleven p.m., Mr. Landry?”

  Keller scratched the back of his neck. “On the beach. Painting.”

  “It was dark,” she stated. “And wet.”

  “Ma’am, it may’ve been wet after the rain, but it was bright. The moon was full. I go there a lot to clear my head. I took Katie home after the soiree, paid the sitter, and then set off.”

  “With this painting?” She gestured to the oversized work in progress that the officer had set at the foot of the easel.

  “No, ma’am, the one in the bed of my truck.”

  “Show me.”

  Keller had parked his truck at the end of the driveway. I’d pulled up behind him in my VW.

  Keller trudged to the truck, opened the tailgate, which had a storage compartment to hold his paint supplies, and removed a wide waterproof-covered container. He slid it onto the tailgate, unzipped the cover, and removed the contents, which was a three-by-four canvas featuring a partial image of the Pier.

  “Did anyone see you on the beach?” Cinnamon asked.

  “I remember spotting a few people, but they won’t remember me. See, they were wrapped in blankets and totally focused on what they were doing.”

  “Which was?”

  “Scouring the area with a dowsing tool.”

  Crystal Cove had some avid dowsers who would search for jewelry and coins dropped by beachgoers. Most came out at sunrise. A few daring souls bared the elements at night.

  “Chief?” I raised my hand as if I was in school.

  Cinnamon scowled, clearly peeved by my presence. “What?”

  “Might I ask who gave you the tip about the missing artwork? It wasn’t really anonymous, was it?”

  She hesitated then conceded, “Yardley Alks.”

  I tilted my head. Had Yardley, who claimed she was Quade’s mentor, put the artwork in Keller’s garage and then alerted the police? To what end? To throw suspicion off herself for killing Quade? No, I couldn’t believe it. Yardley wasn’t a killer.

  “Who else do you suspect of murdering Quade, Chief?” I asked.

  “I believe I’ve found my guy. We have the weapon, the stolen art, and the motive.”

  “I’m being framed!” Keller cried. “The killer must have known where I keep my tools, and . . . and . . .” He fought for breath.

  “Chief,” I said, a theory springing to mind, “what if Quade stole Keller’s tools and put his art in his garage to mess with him—to prank him—but before the prank played out, Quade was killed, using the very same tools? It was common knowledge that he wasn’t happy with Keller. He deemed him his competition. Both worked with mixed media. He was constantly harassing Keller about his work.”

  “Constantly?” Cinnamon folded her arms. “Sounds like motive.”

  “That’s not what I meant,” I said hastily.

  “Look, Jenna, I have spoken with a number of people who believe Mr. Landry had it in for Quade.”

  “Like who?” I asked. “The other competitors?” Flora and Faith were gossips. Had Candy or Jaime said something?

  Cinnamon turned to Keller. “Mr. Landry—”

  “Chocolate pistachio!” he blurted.

  “Keller.” Cinnamon softened her voice, leading me to believe that she, too, didn’t think him capable of murder. “I’d like you to come into the precinct for questioning.”

  “Now?”

  “Now.”

  “Do I need a lawyer?”

  “For the moment, no. If you come willingly, it will go much easier for you.”

  By the look on Keller’s face, I was certain he didn’t believe her.

  • • •

  I drove back to Fisherman’s Village, parked, and rushed through the café into the kitchen. Bailey was sitting at the chef’s table with Min-yi, who had fallen asleep on the banquette. Katie was busy supervising her staff as they served up the lunches of crispy duck salad, white fish sliders, and shrimp pizza for the forty charity donors.

  Bailey said, “Mom took Brianna for a walk and then she’s going to give her to Tina so I could come here, sans child, to bolster Katie.”

  At the mention of her name, Katie caught sight of me and hurried over. Wiping her hands on her apron, she whispered, “Keller phoned me. He said he might have forgotten and left his tool kit in the communal room because he’s been so tired.”

  I’d been afraid of something like that. He hadn’t been robbed. On the other hand, someone had stolen Quade’s painting and had planted it in Keller’s garage.

  “I told him not to say anything else,” Katie added. “Not until—”

  “Not until Mom gets there,” Bailey cut in. “She’s going to represent him until she finds him a suitable defense attorney.” Before opening the Pelican Brief Diner, Lola Bird had worked as a lawyer. During her lucrative career, she had challenged some of the state’s staunchest attorneys.

  “We can’t afford an attorney,” Katie said.

  I rested a hand on her arm. “Don’t worry. My aunt will cover the payments.”

  Although Aunt Vera and I had brought Katie and Bailey in as limited partners a while ago, that minimal amount of extra earnings, above and beyond salary, wouldn’t help pay for an attorney. My aunt, who had made a load of money thanks to keen investments in the seventies, could afford to pay for the lawyer and would do so willingly. She adored Katie.

  “Who do you think set Keller up?” Bailey asked.

  On the drive back to Fisherman’s Village, I’d tried to come up with suspects, but I couldn’t fathom who might want to make Keller the patsy for the crime. Yardley Alks? Why, for heaven’s sake?

  “Katie,” I said, “who might have access to your house?”

  “Anybody here, I suppose. I hang the house keys on the loop over there.” She indicated the dressing room at the back of the kitchen. “But I can’t imagine anyone that works here has it in for my husband.”

  The dressing room was not easily accessible for a customer dining at the café. What about one of the workmen? I wondered. We often had a technician on-site to fix an appliance or a painter touching up the walls in the café.

  “What about one of your uncle’s friends?” I asked.

  Katie frowned. “He had one. She died. That’s why he’s sailing around the world.”

  I said, “I had no idea. I’m so sorry.”

  “He wasn’t in love with her, but they were quite close. Both geeks. Both loners.”

  Bailey said, “Did your uncle employ a housekeeper?”

  Katie bit back a sob. “As if! You should have seen the place before we moved in. Dust bunnies abounded.”

  Bailey mouthed, Do something.

  I slung an arm around Katie’s shoulder and said, “Don’t worry. We’re going to find out the truth. Keller is not guilty.”

  Chapter 8

  Bailey and I returned to the Cookbook Nook. While she helped Gran unpack a new shipment of The Great Cook: Essential Techniques and Inspired Flavors to Make Every Dish Better, by James Briscione, a terrific cookbook that I referred to often for learning about everything from sautéing to setting up a pantry, I moved to the children’s tabl
e to organize tomorrow’s cookie art event.

  First, I gathered palettes and art supplies from the stock room. Tigger trailed me, his tail a question mark. “I do it every year, fella.” Next, I gathered a set of cookbooks that adults who attended with the children might enjoy. One featured a silver frame around a plate of pasta, which made me flash on Keller, so vulnerable, so scared, swearing he’d been framed. Who would do that to one of the nicest guys in the world? He loved his family. He would do anything for a friend in need.

  I paused. Had my earlier theory been correct? Had Quade, as a prank, hidden his art at Keller’s, intending to call him out on it? But before he could, he was killed?

  “Jenna?” my aunt said, sneaking up behind me. “You look lost in thought.”

  I turned. “It’s so sad. Cinnamon has brought Keller in for questioning in the Quade murder.”

  “I heard.”

  “He . . .” I paused. Saying Quade’s name, which could have been either a first or last name, caught me off guard. Which was it?

  “He what?” my aunt asked.

  “He didn’t do it, of course.”

  “Of course. On that note, I heard that one of Naomi Genet’s works went missing a few days ago.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “The receptionist at the Art Institute. She’s a client.” My aunt plucked at the folds of her caftan. “Is it possible someone is stealing art around town? Someone who doesn’t want the festival to be a success? I haven’t mentioned it to Z.Z. I don’t want her to suspect anyone out of hand.”

  “Do you think the thief could be one of the festival participants?” I asked. Tigger nudged my ankle. I bent to tickle his neck.

  “I don’t know what to think, but it does seem suspicious that there have been a rash of thefts within days of people arriving.”

  “Two stolen paintings is hardly a rash.” I picked Tigger up by the scruff and cradled him. His purring helped calm my unsettled nerves. “Why steal Quade’s art? Why steal Naomi’s?”

  Bailey and Gran joined me and my aunt, the four of us creating a conference circle.

  Bailey said, “Did I hear that right? Another piece of art has gone missing?”

  “One of Naomi’s pieces. Stolen from her house,” my aunt replied.

  “When was it stolen?” I asked.

  “Naomi couldn’t put a date on it. She believes it must have been recently, but she couldn’t recall the last time she’d gone through her work. She noticed because Shari Gregory asked her to hang a piece in Latte Luck Café.” Shari enjoyed featuring local artists’ work.

  “Jenna,” Bailey said, “we should track down Naomi and get the scoop. We need to suss out whether the thief is one person. For Katie and Keller’s sake.”

  “Good idea.” I set Tigger on the floor and faced my aunt.

  “Go.” She flapped a hand. “Gracie and I have things under control now that the hoopla has died down. Don’t be long, however. We’ll all need to chip in, in order to close up quickly so we can attend the Wearable Art event tonight.”

  • • •

  The Art Institute was located in the hills, not far from the Crystal Cove Inn. Whenever I visited, I felt a sense of peace. The one-story building was tucked into a cove of trees, which gave it a sort of secret haven look. Perhaps that was why Naomi had sought a job here, to escape the real world and hide from her past.

  I opened the heavy oak door and allowed my pal to go in first.

  “I’ve never been here,” Bailey whispered, acting as if we’d entered a holy shrine. “It’s beautiful.”

  Art hung on all the walls of the foyer, except for the glass wall behind the receptionist’s art deco rosewood desk. Classrooms were down the corridor to the left. Conference rooms were to the right. Through the glass behind the receptionist’s desk, I saw Yardley sitting in the equally arty business office. She was facing a computer, her back to us. The screen was lit; the cursor was moving.

  The receptionist, a stout middle-aged woman, set aside the ARTNews magazine she was reading and regarded us, her brow furrowed. “Help you?”

  “Yes, please. I’m Jenna Hart. You’re a client of my aunt’s.”

  Her brown eyes grew warm. “Dear Vera. She gave me the most wonderful tarot card reading this morning. She said I’d find a world of inspiration in the near future.”

  “Are you a painter?” I asked.

  “No, I’m a poet, and do you know, suddenly I’m feeling as creative as I’ve ever felt.”

  “Good for you.” I didn’t know much about tarot except what I’d heard my aunt convey. I knew the images on the cards and their basic meanings. “Is Naomi Genet here?”

  “She’s teaching.”

  “When will the class be over?”

  “In two minutes. You can wait there.” The receptionist pointed to a pair of arty but uncomfortable-looking chairs.

  “May we browse?” I asked.

  “Please do. If you need any literature, Mrs. Alks has created a pamphlet explaining each of the pieces.”

  “Thanks.”

  In college, I’d minored in art history, so I guided Bailey to two of the works that I recognized, copies of Diego Rivera’s most famous paintings. His style featured large characters with simplified lines and luscious colors. As we were moving on to another famous reprint, teenaged students wearing or slipping on backpacks suddenly flooded the foyer, each chatting in a lively fashion.

  “Can we go in?” I asked the receptionist.

  “Please do.”

  Bailey and I weaved through the throng until we reached a room where students were exiting. I peeked inside. Sunlight streamed through the windows on the far side of the room. Easels fitted with sketch paper stood haphazardly about the room. Naomi was wiping off a chalkboard behind a sturdy desk.

  “Naomi,” I said.

  She turned, her face flushed, her hair loose around her face. “Oh, Jenna and Bailey. Hi. Nice to see you.”

  I glanced over my shoulder. No students had made a U-turn and were headed this way. We had a moment of privacy. “May we come in?”

  “Sure. Class just let out, but you probably deduced that.” She set the eraser aside and smoothed the front of her checkered apron. “What brings you this way?”

  “You.”

  “Me?”

  “We heard you’re missing a piece of art.”

  “How did you hear about it?”

  “The receptionist here”—Bailey hooked her thumb over her shoulder—“told Jenna’s aunt, who told us.”

  Naomi’s eyes misted over. “I think it was stolen. I reported it to the police, but theft isn’t high on the department’s priority list, I gather.”

  “When did it go missing?” I asked.

  “I’m not sure. It was in a closet with the rest of my work. I was going through it all because Shari Gregory asked me and a few other artists if we wanted to display one of our works at Latte Luck Café during the festival. It was a great opportunity.”

  “Which piece was stolen?” I asked.

  “A sixteen-by-twenty acrylic of the ocean on a stormy day. Lots of blue upon blue with swipes of black and gray.”

  It sounded similar to Quade’s newest work, I noted.

  “I suppose I shouldn’t miss it,” Naomi went on. “My daughter never liked it. She wanted me to paint something sunnier. I gave Shari another piece.”

  “I haven’t been in Latte Luck for a few days,” I said. “Which painting is yours?”

  “The gardens behind the Crystal Cove Inn at sunset. It’s lovely yet docile. Nina approved.”

  “Do you have a clue who might have stolen the painting?”

  “No.” Naomi frowned.

  “Where did you say you store your art?”

  “At my house. It’s probably my fault it’s gone. I might have left the door open. I have a tendency to do that. I’m such a scatterbrain sometimes.” She swept her hair over her shoulders. “The police didn’t find prints or anything like that. Nothing to go on. I
figure whoever stole it either liked my work or will try to sell it elsewhere.”

  I said, “Your signature will be on it.”

  “You mean my initials? I suppose so. Although the thief might be able to claim they’re his or hers.”

  “Right,” I murmured. “Especially someone named, say, Nancy George?”

  “How did you . . .” She sputtered. “How did you find out . . .”

  “I met your husband, Christopher George, the man I thought was stalking you the other night.”

  “Where? How?”

  “He showed up at the Nook Café. He wants to talk to you.”

  “No.” She covered her mouth with her hand.

  “He’s staying at the Crystal Cove Inn,” Bailey added. On the drive to the institute, I’d told her about my conversation with Naomi’s husband.

  I said, “When I showed you his picture, Naomi, you ran.”

  She peeked at the door. Was she pondering running now?

  I pressed on. “So I asked my father to do me a favor and figure out who the man was. I was worried.”

  “He . . .” Her eyelids fluttered.

  I held out a hand. “You ran away from him. You changed your name. Why?”

  She breathed high in her chest. Her face turned ashen.

  “Sit,” Bailey said. “Do you need water?”

  “No, I . . .” Naomi settled into the chair behind the desk.

  “Did he hurt you?” I asked, concerned.

  Naomi shook her head but the shake turned into a nod. “Yes. Once. He knew I was running away. He grabbed my arm. Yanked it from the socket. He apologized. He said he thought I was going to fall down the stairs. He was lying.” Her lower lip trembled. “I shook free and continued to run. Out of the house and into an Uber waiting for me outside the gate.”

  “Why did you need to escape?” I put a hand on her shoulder.

  She shivered. “He was so controlling and mistrustful. Everywhere I went, his security people followed me. They kept an eye on me even when I slept.”

  “He has security people?” Bailey asked. “Why?”

  “Because he has a lot of followers,” Naomi said. “Some aren’t stable. He’s received death threats. In fact, that’s the reason he gave me for keeping an eye on me, but I knew better.”