I gestured at the shelves lining the walls. “There you’ll find raw ingredients like clays, butters, oatmeal, essential oils, colorants, and packaging materials. The cupboards in the main room contain bulk quantities of oils, salts, soap bases, and lye.”
She looked alarmed. “Lye?”
“Well, yes. To make soap.”
“I thought you just melted it and poured it into molds.”
“That’s exactly what you do for melt-and-pour. And we make some of that, using some unusual soap bases like emu, hemp, shea butter, and aloe vera. But I also make soap the old-fashioned way—using a few modern tools and standardized ingredients, of course—and that means combining lye with oils. The chemical reaction is called saponification.”
“And it’s safe?”
“The soap is, after it’s cured, of course. In fact it’s superior in many ways. The pH is lower than most commercial soaps, and it still contains the natural emollient glycerin. Most commercial processes eliminate that glycerin. The lye itself is quite dangerous, though. But don’t worry. I’m the only one around here who works with it.”
“Well, okay.” Still doubtful, but she’d get used to the idea.
I gave her a light yellow chef’s apron covered with stylized depictions of roosters to cover her clothes, then showed her how to take the bath melts out of the molds, package them in clear cellophane bags, and then tie on labels. As she got started I hovered for a while, watching. Finally she put down the mold she held and waved her hand at me.
“Sophie Mae, go on and do whatever you need to do. Don’t you worry about me. I’ve raised two sons and a husband—I think I can handle this.”
“You raised a husband?” I slid off the stool, taking her at her word. She was no kid, and I didn’t need to monitor her every move.
“Honey, you don’t know the half of it. You haven’t been married long enough, but you’ll find out.”
I didn’t mention that Barr was my second husband, or that my first one had died of lymphoma. We’d been together eight years, and I’d never felt like I had to mommy him.
“Okay, I’ll leave you to it. Cyan will be here in a few hours.”
Penny sniffed. “That poor girl.”
I paused. “Why do you say that?”
“I worry about both those girls. Because of their dad, and all.”
Cyan’s mom, Rhea, had introduced me to Penny. I hadn’t received the impression they were terribly close, but maybe I was wrong.
“Their dad?”
Her nostrils flared. “He’s having an affair.”
“Oh, no. That’s awful. What’s Rhea going to do?”
She waved a label in the air. “Oh, she doesn’t know about it.”
Wait a minute. “Then how did you find out?”
“I was driving by and saw him go into a room at the Lucky 2 Motel.” The look of gratification that crossed her face was truly disturbing.
“You do know he got laid off from Boeing, right? Now he’s working for an electrician. Did he have his tools?” I asked.
She shrugged.
“Was he driving a company truck? Did you actually see a woman with him?”
“He was at the Lucky 2 Motel.” Penny’s big eyes bored into mine. “Poor Rhea. And those poor girls. Things like this can really derail a teenaged girl, you know. Cause them to do things that would make you shudder.”
Oh, for Pete’s sake.
Unsettled, I went into the storeroom and spent the next two hours working on paperwork and updating my website. Occasionally I wandered out to check on Penny’s progress. She was slow but steady, barely making it through half the melts in the time it would have taken me to pack up that bunch and another. But everything went slowly as you started, right? I had to give her time.
As I considered diving in to help, Cyan opened the basement door that led to the backyard and alley.
“You have perfect timing.” I waved at the bath melts, cellophane bags, strings, and tags. “You know Penny, don’t you?”
“Sure!” she said, shucking off her light jacket and donning her own brown-and-pink paisley apron.
And she knew the drill on Winding Road production, too. I left Penny’s training in Cyan’s younger but capable hands and went upstairs.
Sounds from Erin’s room indicated she’d arrived home from school without my realizing it. I went down the hallway and stopped in the doorway. She was changing into a pair of tennis shoes.
“What’s up?” I asked.
“Taking eggs over to Bette. She asked for some when we had extra.”
“Well, that’s four dollars in your pocket.”
She finished tying and stood. “If you guys would let me get a real flock, I could really make some money. Four hens don’t lay enough.”
“You know we aren’t allowed to have more than four chickens inside the city limits.”
“Well, that’s just stupid.”
I let that go without comment.
“You should come with me,” Erin said.
“To Bette’s? She only lives two blocks away. Take Brodie.”
The little dog yipped at the mention of his name.
“I will. But then we could go downtown and get ice cream.” She waggled her eyebrows like Groucho Marx, whom she’d probably never even heard of.
“You’re really taking advantage of your mother being gone, aren’t you?” Meghan was hell on junk food.
She grinned and nodded. “Wouldn’t you be?”
I considered. The Cadyville Pie Shop made the best ice cream around. And it was three doors down from A Fine Body. Maybe I’d stop in and get a nice bottle of wine for dinner with Barr tonight.
“Deal,” I said.
“Yay!”
Brodie wagged his tailless behind in approval.
“Go get his leash,” I said, and headed upstairs to change my own shoes.
After dropping the eggs at our neighbor’s, we walked the five blocks down to First Street, Cadyville’s main drag. Ice cream came first: peach for Erin, chocolate-peanut butter for me, and a small dish of vanilla for Brodie. We found a bench overlooking the water and licked and slurped at our cones while watching three cormorants march up and down a cedar log lodged in the spring-swollen river. Then, wiping sticky fingers on paper napkins, we made our way back up the wooden steps to street level and began walking.
“I’m going to duck in here. It’ll just take me a minute,” I said when we were in front of the wine shop.
Erin bent down and scratched behind her corgi’s velvet ears. “Okay. I’ll stay outside with Brodie.”
Inside the doorway, I paused. Off to the right, a huge display from Grendel Meadery took up a quarter of the space. Beyond, rows and rows of bottles marched down cherrywood shelves just below eye level. Scripted signs hanging from the ceiling identified groups of specific grape varieties. Others indicated countries of origin, and another announced a collection of wines from local Washington state wineries. Frosted bulbs above spotlighted the signs and glinted off the many bottles. The effect was elegant and inviting at the same time.
From the direction of the cash register on my left, I heard, “Can I help you find anything?”
The speaker approached. I immediately recognized Glenwood Swenson from my previous forays into A Fine Body. Tootie was right—he was about my age. Also mouthwateringly good looking. His dark hair swept back to reveal a pronounced widow’s peak dipping into the middle of his forehead. Sapphire blue eyes smiled at me from under dark, arching eyebrows, and an aquiline nose offset his full mouth. He wore jeans and a black T-shirt that echoed every muscle in his body.
I stumbled over my response. “J … just looking for something to drink.” Duh, Sophie Mae. “Some wine to drink, I mean.”
No kidding.
Glenwood must have been used to women turning into blithering idiots around him, because he smoothly stepped in. “Is this intended for a dinner or another occasion?”
“Dinner,” I managed. Erin was watching m
e through the window.
“And what will be served?”
“Um.” Quickly my mind flicked through the possibilities. “Dungeness crab soaked in pepper butter,” I said. “And artichokes served with garlic aioli. Rhubarb tart for dessert.”
His smile was brilliant, all blinding white teeth and delight. “Sounds absolutely wonderful. Are you the cook?”
I nodded.
He glanced down at my left hand. “Lucky guy, your husband.”
I looked down, too. “Yeah.”
Erin was now pressed up to the window, both hands shielding her eyes from the sun’s glare against the glass. I tried to ignore her.
“Come with me,” Glenwood said. He led me to the back of the store and selected a bottle of wine from the bins on the back wall. “This Chardonnay goes nicely with seafood and garlic. It’s dry, but with a buttery undertone.”
I caught a glimpse of the price tag. My swallow was audible. Holy cow. “Maybe something a little less expensive?” I tried not to squeak.
He considered me. “Have you thought about serving mead? There are so many kinds, and it pairs with food as well as wine or beer. And,” he winked, “I happen to carry every kind of Grendel Mead. I have one in mind for your menu.”
I followed him to the extensive mead display. The meadery’s logo was simply the word “Grendel” in a dark purple, Old English font on a pale gold background. Above was a stylized version of Beowulf’s monster. The bottles were all dark blue and had swing-tops with metal bales holding down the rubber gaskets, which gave them an artisan feel. Each was sealed with a clear shrink-wrap band just like the ones I used for my Winding Road oatmeal-milk bath.
Glenwood handed me one. “Sage blossom sparkling mead.”
“Sage blossom? I thought mead was mead.”
“Oh, no. There are many varieties. Sparkling like champagne, or still like wine. Sweet, dry, fruity, or spicy. Some are fermented with grapes and are called pyments. If you add apples, it’s called a cyser. Mead flavored with other fruits are melomels, and if you use spices or herbs, then the mead is called a methaglin. A bracket, sometimes called a braggot, is made with malt and has a hint of hoppiness, like beer.”
“Good heavens,” I said, reeling from all the terms. “I had no idea.”
He pointed to the bottle in my hand. “That’s a methaglin, which Grendel specializes in. It’s force-carbonated, so it’s fizzy like champagne, but brewed with a relatively low amount of honey so it’s dry. The sage blossoms give it a subtle depth, and we throw in a few oak cubes to round that out.”
“So you’re involved with Grendel Meadery?” I asked.
He nodded. “My whole family is.”
“Always have been,” said a voice from behind him.
Glenwood turned. A white-haired woman in a wheelchair had entered the shop through a rear doorway. The woman pushing her chair towered above us all, her black hair pulled back from a bottom-of-the-ocean pale face in a severe bun. Her bright, dark eyes reminded me of the crows that frequented our yard.
The older woman spoke again, and my attention jerked from her attendant back to her. “My husband and I started the meadery in the late 1950s. It’s been a family business ever since.” Her white pageboy framed green eyes like mine, set above a large nose and stern lips. Heavily powdered skin hung in crepe-like folds around her neck. She held her chin high, as if she was daring me to question her.
“You must be Dorothy Swenson, then.”
“I am.” The words were abrupt, but she looked gratified that I knew who she was. She motioned with her hand, and the tall woman pushed her chair farther into the shop, reaching behind her to close the door.
I stepped forward and held out my hand. “Sophie Mae Ambrose. It’s very nice to meet you.”
She nodded as if to say, “Of course it is.” Her palm was cool, the skin papery.
I shook it gently. “That must have been quite an enterprise then. This was practically the Wild West. I imagine you had some educating to do among the locals.”
She sniffed. “Still do. But we ship all over the place now, so the Philistines in this little town are irrelevant.”
Yow.
Glenwood flushed. “Grandmother …”
She ignored him. “I’m calling a family meeting this evening. Eight o’clock.”
Ooh, a family meeting. Wonder what that was all about? Could they be discussing the warning a psychotherapist named Moser had delivered to their family?
Then I mentally shook my head. Of course not. If Elizabeth had contacted them, it would have been a month ago at least. They wouldn’t have a family meeting about it now.
Unless it was another family meeting about the same thing?
Stop it, Sophie Mae.
Glenwood looked an apology at me. “Excuse me for just a moment?”
“Of course.”
Dorothy’s attendant appeared unfazed by the whole exchange. Even bored by it. When I managed to catch her eye, she looked right through me.
I moved to a table of Chateau Ste. Michelle wines, pretending to be absorbed in a Riesling label while listening hard.
“I have a date,” Glenwood protested in a low voice.
Surprise, surprise. I wondered whether he had a steady girlfriend or spread his charms around. Or both. With those looks he had to be a player.
“Reschedule it,” Dorothy said.
“But—”
“I expect you to be there with everyone else. No excuses.” I glanced over to see the fierce glare she directed at her grandson.
After a few beats he ducked his head. “All right. I’ll be there.” Resigned.
“Naturally.”
The door behind them opened again, and another woman entered the shop. Her own widow’s peak reflected a close family resemblance. This must be either Victoria or Willa. Given the streaks of white hair that outlined her face, my guess was the former. She wore a white peasant blouse over a long denim skirt and Birkenstocks. Their voices lowered when she joined the confab.
“Glenwood! Customer!” Dorothy barked the words out in a loud, imperious tone. I almost dropped a bottle of Merlot.
He scurried past me—also a customer, I wanted to point out—to a woman wearing heels and a lot of glitter at neck and earlobes. As he went by, he smiled uncertainly. Suddenly he didn’t seem as good-looking as I had first thought.
Erin still stood by the window with Brodie at her feet. I could tell she was starting to get impatient.
I moved to a rack of Chilean wines very near Dorothy. “I’ve met your other grandson,” I said, all casual as I examined a Car-menere. “Quentin? Over at the pharmacy.”
The newcomer showed surprise that I had spoken to her grandmother. Dorothy looked irritated, but answered. “Yes. He chose another profession, but he’s still on the board of directors.”
“Mead making sounds like a fascinating enterprise.” Lame.
The attendant turned black bird eyes on me.
“I’m Victoria Swenson,” said the other woman. “You should come out to Grendel and take a tour.”
I introduced myself. Another handshake, firm and with a smile this time.
Dorothy waved her hand in the air, dismissing the idea. For the first time the tall woman spoke, her mellifluous voice at odds with her severe appearance. “Tours are on Mondays, Tuesdays, and Wednesdays at one thirty and three o’clock.”
“Bah,” Dorothy said.
“Um, thank you,” I said to the attendant.
She nodded her acknowledgment.
“Dog! No!”
Why was I the only one who jumped at Dorothy’s sharp words? Were they all just used to it? I turned to see Erin in the open doorway with Brodie straining toward me on his short leash.
“Be out in a second,” I called. She retreated to the sidewalk.
Dorothy frowned and held up a bony finger. “Dogs simply cannot be allowed in a store like this.”
“Of course not,” I said. Not that it was her store to dictate such
things. Poor Glenwood.
She held my gaze for a moment then gave one decisive inclination of her chin. It rose again. “Cabot! Home!”
At least this time I didn’t jump. Dorothy was a woman of few words, but those were primarily loud imperatives directed at those around her. I was half-relieved to see Cabot swivel the chair and push her charge through to the back of the store without another word. If Dorothy had remained much longer, I wouldn’t have been surprised to hear her shout, “Buy! Leave!”
Victoria turned back to me after her grandmother’s exit. “She’s something, isn’t she?”
A noncommittal smile seemed the best response.
“Grandmother despises the tours out at the meadery. Feels it gives our secrets away. But Glen does a good job, and we generally have quite a few people. Especially on the weekends.”
“Glenwood gives the tours?”
“Either him or Willa, my sister. But they were his idea in the first place. Speaking of the meadery, I need to get back. It was lovely meeting you.”
“Likewise.”
I watched as she left. Her walk was stilted, but familiar. She moved like Tootie. Victoria Swenson was in considerable physical pain. Was she in mental pain as well? Had she been Elizabeth’s client? I eyed Glenwood as he finished with his well-to-do customer. Or perhaps it had been the baby of the family, the one Dorothy had no qualms about humiliating in public.
Outside, Erin sat on the curb writing madly in her red notebook. Brodie lay beside her, chin on paws, brown eyes rolled up to watch passersby.
I hurried to the register with the bottle of sage blossom mead Glenwood had suggested, as well as an orange blossom mead that promised to be “brut dry.”
“Your grandmother seems like a strong woman. Does she own part of the store?”
He wrapped the bottles in a paper bag and shoved it toward me. “No.”
“And Cabot is her …?”
“She’s been mother’s companion for over fifteen years.”
“Hired companion?”
Glenwood took my proffered bill. “Well, she’s not doing it out of the goodness of her heart. Luckily, she’s also a nurse, so as Grandmother’s health fails she can continue to look after her.”
The prospect of his grandmother’s failing health didn’t seem to bother him that much.
Wined and Died: A Home Crafting Mystery Page 5