Wining and Dying

by Daryl Wood Gerber

“Because she’s the one who gave you the tip about the art in Keller’s garage.”

  Cinnamon huffed, her exasperation clear. “Mrs. Alks was talking at great length to her husband, who happened to be in New York at the time. She is not a suspect. Since we’re playing twenty questions, it’s my turn. Have you gotten your investigator’s license yet? Oh, no? Big shock.” She let loose with a scornful laugh.

  “You’re hilarious.”

  “I’m not kidding.”

  Cinnamon and I had been friends for a long time now; she tolerated when I overstepped, and I ignored when she dismissed me out of hand.

  “I have a theory,” I went on, seeing as she hadn’t ended the call. “You said there were no defensive wounds on Quade’s hands.”

  “No, I did not.”

  “But there weren’t, were there?”

  She grumbled.

  “What if the killer drugged him and then stabbed him? Or”—I recalled smelling the scent of tar or cologne at the crime scene—“better yet, what if the killer poisoned him earlier, but it didn’t work, so the killer returned and stabbed him? What poisons might smell like tar?”

  “None, but . . .” Her voice trailed off. She was holding something back.

  “But what?”

  “We found arsenic in his system.”

  “That could explain why he’d texted Yardley about not feeling well.”

  “Yes.”

  “So my assumption could be correct. The killer might have laced something Quade ate or drank with the poison, and then left. When the killer came back, he or she expected Quade to be dead, only to discover he was still alive.”

  “Why did the killer come back?” she asked.

  “Because—”

  She hung up. She didn’t want to hear any other theories.

  Chapter 11

  Bailey took a lunch break with me, and we strolled to Azure Park to check out Art in the Sunlight. The sun was shining. The salty aroma of the ocean hung in the air. Most people we passed were wearing shorts or short-sleeved tops.

  On the way I brainstormed with her, telling her everything I’d mentioned to Cinnamon and then some. I needed fresh eyes on my thoughts.

  “This Christopher George sounds like a creep,” she said.

  “He’s definitely a force to be reckoned with.”

  As we rounded the bend and Azure Park came into view, I gasped. “Wow! It’s amazing.”

  Last week the park had looked like it usually did, trees and greenery and an unadorned event stage. For the festival, the park had been transformed into a spectacle. A massive arch of crisscrossed silver bars strung with colorful ribbons formed the entryway. A banner with the words Art in the Sunlight, celebrating Crystal Cove’s 5th Annual Art and Wine Festival was slung from one side of the arch to the other.

  As we strolled beyond the arch, the strains of rivaling music—kids songs to the west, rock and roll to the east—assaulted us.

  “Whewie,” Bailey said. “It’s loud.”

  “It’s lively, for sure.”

  Signs at the entry listed the names of the myriad sponsors of the décor, including restaurants like the Pelican Brief, Intime, and Mum’s the Word. Crystal Cove Realty had subsidized the construction of booths. The Crystal Cove Inn as well as Nature’s Retreat had funded the Kids Art Zone. And Recology of Crystal Cove, an eco-centric group, had paid for the reimagining of the event stage at the north end of the park, where most of the major announcements for the festival, other than those given at individual venues, would be broadcast. Booths rented by artists, crafters, food providers, vintners, and art-themed carney game sites stood along each side of the park, leaving the center free for visitors to convene at a variety of white weather-resistant tables.

  On Monday night, Yardley had reminded the competitors that the Art Institute booth would be located at the south end of the park.

  As Bailey and I headed in that direction, I drank in the rest of the activities. A group of dancers in big cat-themed unitards at Kids Zone were jiving to the music “The Lion Sleeps Tonight.” Children and adults were standing in a semicircle applauding in time to the music.

  Across the way, a man on stilts and dressed like van Gogh, as Christopher George had described, was pacing in front of a twenty-foot-wide LED scoreboard-type screen painting The Starry Night, over and over as the image would appear and disappear. A crowd stood nearby, fascinated.

  At the Paint Your Selfie booth, a young woman in a getup covered with cartoonish faces was putting out easels and paints. In front of the booth stood a pushcart and two chairs, one chair for the face-painting artist and the other for her subject. Children with adults stood in line. A few kids were examining the poster board filled with the artist’s design ideas, which included cats, dogs, princesses, fairies, and superheroes.

  Ding, ding, ding rang out as we passed a carney balloon game with paintbrush-shaped darts as the missiles. “We have a winner!” the man in charge yelled. A teenage blonde squealed with delight.

  “Wow,” Bailey said. “Look at that.” She indicated the Sliver of Silver jewelry booth, where an artist was demonstrating how to hammer silver. Wham went the head of the mallet. “I’d be afraid I’d whack my thumb.”

  “Me, too.” I’d tried a jewelry class a couple of years ago when I’d lived in San Francisco. I’d ended up with calluses and some ugly earrings.

  At the Art Institute booth, a number of people had queued up to view the paintings mounted on easels. A temporary stage, named the South Stage, equipped with microphone and speakers had been constructed next to the booth, to be used at Sunday’s finale celebration.

  Naomi, who had donned a floppy sunhat adorned with a yellow bow to match her dress, was chatting with a frizzy-haired woman. She handed the woman a business card. I searched for Yardley but didn’t see her. The seven finalist paintings were on easels in a semicircle, as they had been at the soiree, so a viewer could see all in one sweeping glance. I had to admit that Keller’s Humanity was really good, but Quade’s Night Sky, even though it wasn’t as good as his first submission, was spectacular. The world had lost a talent. My heart snagged, remembering my last image of Quade, nude on the couch. Who had killed him? Why?

  “Hi, Jenna. Hi, Bailey,” Naomi said as the frizzy-haired woman moved on. “What are you doing here?”

  “Taking a lunch break,” I said.

  “Try the fish tostadas at Holy Guacamole.” She motioned to the right. “They’re really good.”

  I drew near. “Hey, I spoke to Chief Pritchett. I’m so glad the witness made a mistake.”

  Naomi heaved a sigh. “Me, too.”

  “Where’s Nina?”

  “With a friend for the afternoon. I have to oversee this booth. Yardley was going to manage it, but a pressing issue persuaded her to return to the institute.”

  “I hope it’s nothing serious,” I said.

  “No. Simply a matter that had to get settled.”

  Bailey said, “It’s good to have friends to help out, isn’t it?”

  “You have no idea.” Naomi adjusted her sunhat, which had listed a smidge.

  “Oh, but I do,” Bailey said. “If I hadn’t hired Tina as a part-time nanny for Brianna, I’m not sure what I would have done.”

  “I should look for a part-time sitter,” Naomi said, “but I do so much work out of my home, it seems senseless.”

  “By the way, Naomi,” I said, “you have an amazing Etsy presence.” I’d checked it out after she’d mentioned her stained-glass collection. In addition, she’d turned many of her artworks into prints, greeting cards, and tea towels. “I imagine maintaining it requires nonstop attention.”

  “Constant, but it’s been fabulous for me. I’m thinking of adding mugs and such, but they’re more costly to ship.” She aimed a finger at me. “You should think about having an Etsy presence, Jenna. Your work is quite commercial.”

  “I don’t have enough work to even consider it,” I said. “And mine is nothing compared to yours. You
have such flair.” She used broad, impressionistic strokes and bold colors.

  She blushed.

  Bailey said, “Don’t you need a sitter when you teach at the institute, Naomi?”

  “I’m there two days a week. My friend sits Nina whenever I need her to. She’s a homemaker and has a daughter the same age.”

  “How perfect.” Bailey rolled her eyes at me. “My friends all work.”

  I knuckled her arm.

  Naomi gestured to the art on the easels. “Jenna, I meant it when I said your work is quite commercial. It’s pleasing to the eye.”

  “But it doesn’t compare to Quade’s.”

  “Each is unique,” she said judiciously.

  Two more event goers entered the booth.

  “We’ll let you get back to chatting up the customers, Naomi,” I said. “Bailey and I had better grab our lunches and return to the shop.”

  “Have fun.”

  As we exited the booth, Bailey said, “She’s nice, isn’t she?”

  “Yes.”

  Bailey tilted her head. “But . . . ? You hesitated. What aren’t you telling me?”

  “I forgot to tell you earlier that she didn’t cue in Cinnamon about running away from her husband.”

  “Maybe she wants to put the past behind her.”

  “Or she doesn’t want Cinnamon to check into her past.” I really wanted Naomi to be innocent, so why hadn’t she come clean to the police?

  We stopped at Holy Guacamole, waited in the eager line of customers, and ordered two tostadas in a cup, extra guacamole. It was scrumptious, with exactly the right amount of spice. While eating our lunch, we sauntered around the park, checking out all the booths. My favorite was the Potter’s Wheel. The artist was selling whimsical animal sculptures as well as pen holders and business card holders. At Bailey’s favorite, Art Fusion, which sold beautiful dichroic glass jewelry, she purchased a stunning pair of shimmering blue drop earrings.

  “Hey, there’s Keller,” Bailey said as she was swapping out the new earrings with the ones she’d worn to work. “Pedaling his ice cream contraption. Want a scoop?”

  “You bet.”

  We hurried to him and ordered two scoops of the day’s special pecan caramel swirl in a cup. He climbed off the bicycle and started to prepare our order.

  “How are you doing?” I asked

  “Okay. Katie’s worried about me, but she shouldn’t be.”

  I narrowed my gaze.

  “Okay, she should be,” he admitted, “but I’ll be fine. I’ll paint again. Soon.”

  “Like the inside of my house?”

  He offered one of his yuk-yuk laughs. “Yeah, that might inspire me. Next week soon enough?”

  “Perfect.”

  As Bailey and I walked back to work, she said between bites of ice cream, “Tell me more about Yardley Alks.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “You said Quade texted her on the night of the murder. Why?”

  “Because he wasn’t feeling well.”

  “Got that. But why her? She’s married. They weren’t having an affair, were they?”

  “No way. Yardley is a straight arrow. And I told you Cinnamon has ruled her out as a suspect because she was on a long-distance call with her husband. Not to mention she’s quite petite. I can’t imagine her having the strength to kill Quade.”

  “But if Quade was incapacitated, as you theorized to our chief of police, which she must have appreciated . . . not.” Bailey cocked her hip with attitude. “If Yardley drugged him, then she could have killed him.”

  I recalled Yardley and Quade on the last night of the workshop. Learning that Morning was missing had upset Yardley. Later, when she’d confronted him about hitting on Naomi and steered him to a private corner to chat, she’d been angry, too. Her eyes had blazed with fury. Had Bailey landed on something? Had Yardley and Quade had more than a teacher-student relationship? Had they been lovers? Would Yardley have killed him to bury that secret?

  If Cinnamon’s timeline for the murder was off . . .

  “Bailey, I want to speak with Yardley.”

  “Jenna,” she said cautiously. “Cinnamon won’t be happy.”

  “I need to clarify something. C’mon. Yardley phoned me when she discovered the body. Me. That puts me in the center of things. I’ll tell Cinnamon anything I learn. Scout’s honor.”

  Reluctantly, Bailey agreed.

  I texted my aunt to say Bailey and I would be late getting back to the shop. She replied that all was calm. Gracie had arrived and the two of them could handle everything. But she added that she really did need to talk to me when I returned. Worry coursed through me. I promised I’d make the time.

  • • •

  As I pulled the VW into a parking space at the Art Institute, I caught sight of Yardley in a pastel blue pant suit, slightly hunched, scurrying to a car while glancing repeatedly over her shoulder, as if she didn’t want to be seen leaving. I ducked down in my seat and ordered Bailey to hide as well.

  “Why?” my pal rasped while obeying.

  “Yardley is getting into her car. Something’s not right.”

  When Yardley pulled out of the lot in a silver Prius, I shoved the Beetle into gear and followed at a reasonable distance.

  “Where do you think she’s going?” Bailey asked, easing higher in her seat.

  “No idea, but she’s acting cagey.”

  When Yardley pulled onto Poinsettia and parked in front of a narrow two-story building with a fumigation tent wadded in front, as if ready for pick up, I knew where we’d come. Quade’s townhome. I told Bailey.

  “The plot thickens,” she said.

  Yardley climbed out of the Prius and hurried up the slate path to the porch. Keys in hand, she slotted one into the front door and twisted. The door opened.

  “Why does she have his key?” Bailey asked.

  “That’s what we’re going to find out.” I clambered out of the car and jogged to the porch. Bailey trailed me. “Yardley,” I called.

  She startled and wheeled around, hand shielding her eyes from the sun. “What are you doing here?”

  “I’d like to ask you the same thing.”

  “I . . .” She peeked over her shoulder into the loft and back at me. “The police found a black book in Quade’s items at the cabana.”

  “What kind of black book?”

  “They aren’t sure. It’s in code. I came here”—Yardley licked her lips—“to find the key.”

  “Speaking of keys,” Bailey said, folding her arms, “why do you have a key to his place? Were you and he having an affair?”

  “What? Don’t be absurd!” Yardley’s cheeks flamed red. “How could you possibly think . . .” She breathed sharply through her nose. “If you must know, I’m his mother.”

  “His mother?” I gawped. “You’re too young to be his mother.”

  “I was sixteen when I had him. Come inside. I’ll explain everything.”

  Earnestness oozed out of her. I didn’t think she was dangerous. Besides, Bailey and I were two against one. I liked our odds. I suggested Yardley enter first. We followed and she closed the door. The scent of oil paint and paint thinner permeated the place.

  Yardley flipped on a light switch and the four-pronged chandelier overhead illuminated.

  Bailey gasped. I understood her reaction. Numerous paintings hung on the two walls of the foyer. Some were traditional. Others were mixed media. All were exceptional.

  “Man, he was talented,” Bailey murmured.

  Yardley agreed. “His talent is . . . was mind-boggling. He was preparing to have a solo exhibit later this year.”

  Beyond the foyer was the living room, outfitted with spartan furniture. Build-it-yourself Ikea items, if I were to guess. To the left of the foyer, a staircase led to a loft above the living room. I could see pedestals holding metal sculptures at the railing and paintings hanging on the walls. To the right of the foyer, a hall led to the rest of the modest unit.

/>   Yardley said, “Like I was saying, I had Quade at sixteen. I’ve told the police this.”

  “You have?”

  “Yes, when they questioned me. In high school, I made a huge mistake with a boy who turned out to be a scam artist. He ran so fast when I told him I was knocked up. My parents forced me to put the baby up for adoption, but I always wondered how he was faring, so I posted my profile on Ancestry dot com. Quade found me two years ago and reached out.”

  “Does your husband know about your relationship?” I asked.

  “He does now. I told him the night . . .” Tears pressed at the corners of her eyes.

  “The night Quade was killed,” I finished.

  “Mm-hm.” She nodded numbly. “The last day of the workshop, Quade made me promise to reveal everything. He was adamant. Two years was long enough, he said.”

  That could explain their heated exchange after Quade had made a pass at Naomi as well as the lengthy chat Yardley had had with her husband on the night of the murder.

  “Quade wanted to get to know his stepfather. He was growing impatient with me, and now, he never will.” Yardley stowed her key ring in the pocket of her jacket. “Wayne and I couldn’t have children. He was sterile. So, to protect his feelings, I kept my secret all these years. Not to mention, I didn’t want him to be ashamed of me for being careless as a teen. Wayne can be quite proper. But Quade hated sneaking about behind Wayne’s back.”

  Yardley ambled into the living room. Bailey and I followed. Quade had tried his hand at art deco, post-impressionism, cubism, and contemporary. He’d turned out a few abstract metal tabletop-sized sculptures as well.

  “Do the police think the black book they found could help solve his murder?” I asked.

  “They were cryptic.” She orbited the room, opening drawers and sorting through the array of art books Quade had owned, an eclectic collection including Klee, de Kooning, Picasso, and more.

  Not finding what she’d hoped to, she tramped down the narrow hall. We trailed her.

  “Did Quade text you the night he died because you were his closest kin?” I asked.

  “Yes. How I wished I’d rushed over.”

  As we entered the white-on-white kitchen, which was cluttered with unwashed dishes in the sink as well as on the stove top, I flashed on something that had bothered me at the crime scene. The clean dishes in the cabana. Sienna had washed them, but Yardley had remarked on them. Now I understood why. She’d known the kind of housekeeper her son was.