Wined and Died: A Home Crafting Mystery

by Cricket McRae.

  _____

  Upstairs I found Erin in her bedroom, working away on her computer.

  “Homework?” I asked.

  She shook her head. “Typing up my notes from today.”

  “Erin.” I moved into the room and sat on her bed.

  The clickety clack of keys stopped, and she swiveled in her chair. “Don’t tell me to stop. I’m not going to stop.”

  I held up my palms. “Stop what? Writing your book?”

  “Following your investigation.”

  “Bug, there’s nothing to investigate. After hearing the tape, we were worried that someone might be in danger. But the therapist never followed through and told anyone about her suspicions.”

  “That’s because she died.”

  “Maybe,” I conceded. “But see, now Barr knows, so the police have been informed even if it wasn’t exactly through official channels. And the Swenson family knows now, too.”

  She frowned. “Did you tell that gardening lady today? When I was with Victoria?”

  “Yes. She’ll tell the rest of the family. Erin, we’ve done our due diligence. In fact, we’ve done more than we probably should have since none of this was ever our business to deal with in the first place.” She opened her mouth to protest, but I kept speaking. “Now you can take whatever you want from your notes and write a story or make up a good ending, but any real-life investigating is over. Got it?”

  “I guess.” But she looked unconvinced. “The thing is, no one knows who the bad person is yet. Telling people there’s a bad person isn’t enough.”

  It seemed Erin knew everything I’d told Barr. Meghan was going to kill me.

  “It’ll have to be.” I stood. “Someone in that family probably knows who Elizabeth Moser was talking about. They’ll either deal with it among themselves, or will call the police.”

  Erin looked annoyed.

  “And you can make up the rest of your book,” I said. “It’s fiction, right?”

  “It’s not about the book anymore! What if someone gets hurt? I wish Barr could do something. I mean, he’s a real detective, with a real badge.”

  Leaning down, I gave her a big hug. “I know, honey. But his hands are tied. Nothing illegal has happened.”

  “That’s a lousy answer,” she mumbled against my shoulder.

  I sighed. She was right.

  _____

  The phone rang as I entered the kitchen. No doubt Meghan calling from New Jersey.

  Great.

  Grabbing up the receiver, I forced cheeriness into my “Hello!”

  “Well, you do sound happy, Sophie Mae,” was the dulcet reply.

  Whew. Not Meghan. My mother.

  “Hi, Anna Belle.”

  “Oh-ho, now you don’t sound so happy. Who did you think was calling?”

  “Meghan,” I answered truthfully. “I’m afraid I’m really falling down on the job with Erin while she’s gone.”

  “Oh, I’m sure that’s not true. What happened?”

  So I told my mother about the tapes, about Erin listening to them and wanting to write a book, and about how I had tried to control her exposure. About Barr’s distraction and refusal to get involved. About the dead therapist, the Swensons, and the meadery.

  “And now I’ve run into a big fat dead end. Splat.”

  She laughed. “You have had a busy couple of days, haven’t you? But it sounds like you’ve done everything you could. And that clever girl of Meghan’s—it’s wonderful that she wants to write a book, for heaven’s sake. She’s growing up, and that involves pushing some boundaries. By allowing her to be involved a little bit, you’ve shown her that you respect and trust her. By limiting her participation and being up front about it, you’re letting her know you’re still in charge. I can’t think Meghan would have handled the situation any better.”

  “Meghan wouldn’t have been in this situation in the first place,” I grumped. “She’s blissfully immune to the forces that seem to draw me into these … investigations.”

  “Oh, poo. This could just have easily have happened to her. You’re doing very well with Erin. You’ll make a very good mother.”

  Wait. What?

  Though the subject had certainly come up, I honestly didn’t know whether Barr felt strongly about having children or not. I had to admit, the thought had crossed my mind a few times during the last week.

  “Sophie Mae? Are you there?”

  “I’m here.”

  “So when are you going to give your father and me a grandchild?”

  “You did not just say that to me, did you? I mean, it’s so cliché.”

  “Cliché schmliche. When are you getting pregnant?”

  Oh, God. “Barr and I had a couple of conversations about having a baby early on, but they’ve fallen by the wayside.”

  She hesitated, then said, “Is everything all right with you two? You said something about him being distracted lately.”

  “I’m sure it’s just work,” I said.

  Another pause. “You’re still newlyweds. You have a whole long life ahead. But I can tell you right now that you need to tend to your marriage right from the beginning. Don’t take anything for granted, and don’t let anything—including work—drive a wedge between you. Distance can become a habit, and it’s very hard to overcome once it’s established.”

  “Sounds like you’re speaking from experience.”

  “You know darn well I am. But things are different now, since you found out what happened to Bobby Lee.”

  The previous year I had traveled back to Spring Creek, Colorado, to track down the truth about my brother’s suicide.

  “I’m glad,” I said.

  “In fact, the other night—”

  “Sorry, Anna Belle. Gotta go.”

  After I narrowly escaped hearing about my parents’ rekindled sex life, I made myself a cup of strong black tea with honey and settled at the kitchen table to think. Downstairs, Cyan was working late to make up for coming to work late, but Penny was long gone.

  It had only been two days, but I already had a bad feeling about my new employee. She didn’t show interest in her tasks or in learning more about handmade bath products. Rather, she seemed to view coming to work as a chance to get out of the house and socialize a bit. Also, it bothered me that on her very first day she’d been willing to up and leave to take her twenty-something son two blocks to a gas station. Either he was helpless to a spectacular degree, or she was willing to mommy him to the grave. Maybe both.

  Even with the new contract, Winding Road didn’t make enough money that I could afford to keep an inefficient employee. Right now Cyan was finishing the job I’d expected Penny to complete, and the task I’d planned for her—filling jars with Peppermint Sugar Glow—would have to wait until the next day.

  Erin’s insistence that we should keep trying to figure out the threat to the Swenson family bothered me—partly because I agreed with her, and partly because I wanted her to drop it. The thing was, I understood why she didn’t want to. It didn’t help that I had no idea what else we could do.

  At least my mother’s encouraging words about how I’d handled Erin’s involvement in the Swenson situation made me feel better. Maybe Meghan would see it the same way.

  Maybe.

  I took another sip of tea, relishing the tannic acid sliding down my throat.

  Did I want to have a baby?

  The thought was terrifying, yet full of exciting possibilities. And now that my mother had come right out and asked about it, I was going to worry at it like a sore tooth.

  Thanks a lot, Anna Belle.

  And what was going on with Barr? The long work hours, his preoccupation at home, the disinterest in finding out who Elizabeth Moser was talking about on the tapes, even small changes in his eating habits. The night before I’d awakened to find him sitting up against the headboard, staring into the dark. When I asked what was wrong, he said it was nothing and then laid back down. I didn’t think he’d gone right to s
leep.

  What was worrying him? Did it have to do with us? Me?

  “Can I go over to Zoe’s? Her mom’s invited me for dinner.” Erin stood in the doorway.

  “I didn’t hear the phone,” I said.

  She twiddled her fingers in front of her. “Ever hear of e-mail? You know, what I really need is my own cell phone. Then my friends and I can text.”

  “Tell it to your mom,” I said. Total cop-out, but oh, well. “Is your homework done?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Okay. Be back by eight.”

  She came into the kitchen and gave me a hug. It surprised me, since she had been backing off the hugs, and I’d just imposed one on her in her room.

  “Thanks for letting me come to the meadery and take notes and stuff. It was fun.”

  I squeezed her back. “You’re a strange kid, you know that?”

  “Takes one to know one.” She grinned and moved toward the front door. “Seeya.” I heard it open, and then the latch snicked shut. Zoe lived in the next block, so at least Erin could walk.

  And she’d be gone for dinner. Barr and I would be alone. Something romantic was in order. In my mind I ticked off what we had in the refrigerator. Eggs, of course. Always plenty of those. A chunk of gruyere cheese. Whipping cream. And in the backyard, the asparagus was ready for the first harvest, as were a variety of delicate salad greens. So: an asparagus and gruyere soufflé with a light salad, followed by dark chocolate mousse.

  And rather than wine, mead—the drink of love. The sparkling orange blossom mead I’d picked up at A Fine Body promised to be dry and crisp. Perfect.

  But first, a quick trip over to Caladia Acres to give Tootie the tea for her arthritis. I’d catch her up on the little I’d learned about Elizabeth and the Swenson family, and then buzz back home to make dinner and dig out the fancy china and candles.

  _____

  I melted dark chocolate and whipped egg whites and then heavy cream. Strong coffee joined the chocolate, along with a good measure of Grand Marnier and a little vanilla. With slow care, I folded in the fluffy egg whites and cream, filled dessert dishes and set them in the fridge to chill.

  Now for the garden produce. I had just grabbed a sharp knife and a basket when Barr came in the front door. I dropped everything and met him in the foyer, throwing my arms around him with a grin. “Hi.”

  He gave me a big smack on the lips. “Hi.”

  “Welcome home. Erin’s gone to Zoe’s, and I’m making us a romantic dinner.”

  He looked stricken. “Oh, no.”

  Crap. I dropped my arms and took a step back. “‘Oh, no’ what?”

  “I’m sorry, hon. I just dropped by to tell you I won’t be home for dinner.”

  “Great. More paperwork?”

  “No.” Something in his tone.

  I waited.

  “Quentin Swenson is dead.”

  I opened my mouth. Shut my mouth. Opened it again. “What happened?”

  “The paramedics say it looks like a heart attack, and the medical examiner is on her way. But given what we know about the possible threat to a Swenson, we’re treating this as a homicide from the get-go.”

  I sagged against the wall. “Oh, Barr. I just talked to him this morning, at Kringle’s.”

  He looked alarmed. “What did you talk about?”

  “I asked for a recommendation for a therapist, trying to find out whether he knew Elizabeth Moser.”

  Some of the alarm faded. “Could be worse. But dammit, Sophie Mae, I wish you’d stayed out of this.”

  “Hold it! There was no ‘this’ to stay out of. You said so yourself. Well, now you’ve got a dead body on your hands. I hope you’re happy.”

  He didn’t say anything. Just looked at me.

  I sighed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it.”

  He walked over and kissed me on the forehead. “Yeah, you did. At least a little. And I don’t blame you.”

  “No, I—”

  “I have to go. Don’t wait up.”

  The door shut quietly behind him. I stared at it for what seemed like a long time before I started to cry.

  _____

  By the time Erin got home from Zoe’s, all the Peppermint Sugar Glow was packaged and almost all of the chocolate mousse was gone.

  “Did you guys have dessert?” I asked.

  “Nah.”

  “Here. I saved you some.” I thrust the last dessert dish at her.

  She peered in the refrigerator. “Where’s the rest?”

  “I, um, ate it.”

  “All of it?”

  “Yes, all of it,” I snapped.

  “Jeez, sorry.” She looked at me more closely. “What’s the matter?”

  Oh, God. I didn’t want to tell her. But she was going to find out. This was horrible.

  “Bug, I’ve got some bad news.”

  “Somebody died, didn’t they?” She breathed the words.

  I nodded.

  “Who?”

  “Quentin Swenson. Looks like a heart attack.”

  She looked skeptical. “Like the therapist’s?” She blew a raspberry. “Do you think it was a heart attack?”

  Oh, how I hoped it was. “I don’t know.”

  “Is that where Barr is?”

  I nodded again. “He feels pretty awful.”

  “I bet.” She seemed to be taking the news a lot better than I was. “Hey, don’t feel bad. You were right. You did everything you could.”

  I fought back tears.

  “Oh, Sophie Mae, don’t cry.” Her arms went around me for the third time that day. “Were you guys friends or something?”

  “Not really,” I snuffled into the windbreaker she hadn’t had a chance to take off yet. “I just knew him from the drugstore.”

  The phone rang. I turned to pick it up.

  Erin shouldered me aside. “It’s Mom. I’ll take care of it.”

  With amazement and gratitude, I listened to my eleven, almost-twelve-year-old charge chat with her mother about the meadery tour, what she’d done over at Zoe’s that evening, and how she was writing a book. They hadn’t talked for a couple of days, and it was a long conversation.

  At the end, Erin’s eyes cut my way before she said, “She can’t come to the phone right now. Do you want her to call you later?” She listened. “Okay. Talk to you tomorrow, then. I love you, too.” And she hung up.

  “There. Now you have some recovery time before you have to come clean with Mom and tell her what you’ve been up to.”

  “What we’ve been up to,” I corrected.

  “Yeah. That. Maybe you should leave me out.”

  I laughed. “Nice try.”

  Barr didn’t get home until almost two AM. He told me it looked like Quentin had died of heart failure, but what had caused it was still up in the air. There would be an autopsy and, because of Barr’s suspicions, a full toxicology report. That would take a few days, though.

  “If you find Quentin was poisoned, do you think you’ll want to look at Elizabeth Moser’s death again?” I asked. We were lying in bed in the dark.

  “I already made inquiries. She was cremated. Short of a confession, there’s little to investigate.”

  “Who found Quentin?”

  Barr said, “His wife.”

  “Oh, no. Poor Iris.”

  “She came home from work and thought he was taking a nap on the sofa. When she couldn’t rouse him for dinner, she discovered he’d died. But you’ll be interested to know we found an open bottle of Grendel mead next to an empty glass on the coffee table. The lab techs will take a thorough look at it.”

  I propped up on one elbow and leaned over him. “I saw two bottles of Grendel mead in Elizabeth Moser’s closet this morning.”

  A pause, then I heard my husband’s carefully controlled voice. “What?”

  “I know, I know. But I’ve felt all along that Elizabeth’s death wasn’t natural. Given what we heard on that tape—you still have the tapes, don’t you?”


  “Yes, dear. Tucked away safe and sound.”

  “Good. So anyway, her death was suspicious from the get-go, but I didn’t know enough about her to be positive. So I went over to her house today. I found out her sister is taking care of her estate, and get this—Elizabeth has a fabulous stash of yarn in her closet.”

  He sighed. “You went in her house.”

  “Of course not. I looked in her window. The neighbor can verify that.”

  “Great.”

  “Barr, she had mead in there. You need to get a hold of it and test it along with Quentin’s mead.”

  “I don’t have enough probable cause to get a warrant yet.”

  “Barr!”

  I felt rather than saw the shrug. “Wait for the lab results on Quentin’s mead. In the meantime, can we get a little shuteye?”

  Lying back down, I stared hard at the night. “Penny told me something today about Quentin. Apparently there’s a lawsuit against him because some girl died after receiving the wrong prescription. Did anyone tell you that tonight?”

  My answer was a snore.

  _____

  The next morning began with a severe caffeine deficit and didn’t get much better. It hadn’t been so easy for me to get to sleep after Barr had dropped off the night before. I kept wondering whether I should have warned Quentin directly about Elizabeth Moser’s notes, rather than leaving it to his sisters. And I wanted to shake Barr awake and tell him about my trip to the meadery. But I figured he needed his sleep more than I needed to unburden myself.

  He entered the kitchen looking more haggard than ever. Freshly showered, his brown eyes were red-rimmed from lack of sleep. His string tie—this one a hunk of polished turquoise—was slightly askew against his cream-colored shirt. I stood, still in bathrobe and ducky slippers, and adjusted it.

  “Thanks.” He ruffled my bed head and smiled.

  “Breakfast is ready.” I gestured vaguely toward the table.

  Erin sat at the table, munching away and flipping through her social studies textbook.

  “No time. Got to get to the cop shop.”

  I opened the cupboard and retrieved our biggest travel mug. I handed it to him and asked, “Was there really a civil case against Quentin? About a girl who died after taking the wrong medication?”