Pressing the Issue

by Daryl Wood Gerber

  “You do whatever you want, Bailey,” I said.

  “Yes, dear,” my aunt said, rallying. “It’s your day.”

  “Tito and I were thinking that it might bring positive karma to the vineyard if something joyful happened there.”

  Can a place that has suffered a murder heal? I wondered. Yes. A killing had occurred right outside the Nook Café’s kitchen door, yet the shop and café were thriving.

  “That sounds reasonable,” I said. “Doesn’t it, Aunt Vera?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Bailey, did Alan tell you to contact whoever is in charge of the Baldini Family Trust?”

  “I didn’t speak with him. I left a message. The family has a trust?” Bailey’s eyes widened. “Argh. An executor will put the kibosh on everything.”

  “Not necessarily. A trust is designed to make unbiased financial decisions on behalf of the estate.”

  “Hold it.” Aunt Vera wagged a hand. “If Alan doesn’t inherit outright, then he can’t have a motive to want Nick dead.”

  “Whew!” Bailey flicked imaginary worry sweat off her brow. “That takes a load off of my mind. I like Alan.”

  I wasn’t sure I agreed with my aunt’s logic. Money isn’t always the reason for murder. Jealousy might rank right up there for Alan if he believed Nick had his eye on Hannah, but seeing Bailey and my aunt looking so relieved made me think twice about offering an opinion.

  “Jenna, my love.” Gran, a vivacious silver-haired woman who has the most extensive cookbook collection I have ever seen and a healthy bank account to fund it, sidled up to me. “I could use your help, dear.”

  I excused myself from Bailey and my aunt. “Good day, Gran.”

  Gran’s real name is Gracie, which she hates. After her adult son died suddenly, she relocated to Crystal Cove to help her daughter-in-law with the children. The daughter-in-law told the story a tad differently. She hadn’t wanted Gran to spend the rest of her years alone in the bitterly cold Northeast.

  “Is your family with you?” I laced my hand around the crook of her arm.

  “Not on this excursion. I need some me time.” She offered an impish grin and steered me to the front of the store. “I’m trying to decide which of the fiction books I want to dive into. I was thinking about reading those noir novels you have on hand about Crispen Guest. Would I like them?”

  I had added a few not so cozy mysteries to the mix this week because fairgoers often enjoyed darker material. Crispen Guest was a disgraced former-knight-turned-detective in the Middle Ages. I’d read the series and had fallen in love with him. He reminded me of an edgy but approachable swashbuckler.

  “You read across genres,” I said. “If you don’t like the books, bring them back and I’ll give you a full refund.”

  “Deal.” She gathered up a set of three.

  “There aren’t any recipes in them,” I teased.

  “Ah, but there might be a recipe for being entertained, and that, my love, is always my goal.” She tweaked my cheek.

  “By the way, I love the pendant you made.” I circled a finger toward her jewelry.

  She caressed her new Celtic pendant necklace, which went beautifully with her stylish linen dress. “Thank you. Dolly is an excellent instructor, although she was a bit tart with one of the students. You might suggest she harness her temper.”

  I recalled how Dolly had demolished the shelf in her store and winced. “Will do.”

  “Also, between you and me,” Gran lowered her voice, “she was gushing about Nick and telling us how much she loved him, but one of the women told me, confidentially, that she’d heard Dolly and Nick going at it a time or two.” Gran coughed out a laugh. “That very same woman, if you can believe it, then had the gall to brazenly ask Dolly if she had an alibi for the night. I sputtered in amazement, of course.” She put a hand on my arm. “As you know, blunt is not my style.”

  I did.

  Gran pressed a hand to her chest. “Dolly didn’t bat an eyelash. She said she was home that night fashioning wreaths.”

  “She said the same to me.”

  “Aye, there’s the rub.”

  “How so?”

  “I live close to her, and I was walking my dog around the time of the murder, and I didn’t see any lights on at her house. Not a one. Now, perhaps there’s a room in the back where she works; therefore, the lights would be dim if she was conserving energy. I can’t be certain. Would you know?”

  “I haven’t a clue.”

  “If you want the opinion of an old woman like me—”

  “I do.”

  “Tumultuous relationships often wind up in bad straits.”

  As Gran ambled to the sales counter, my gaze swung to Dolly. She was focused on beading, her head bowed. What had her relationship with Nick been like? Had he ever hurt her? I couldn’t imagine. To me, he seemed like such a kind soul. On the other hand, people had witnessed him having a number of confrontations this week. Had Dolly ever hit him? Why had she lied about being home alone? Maybe she went to Nick’s and, incensed by a jealous rage, slugged him with the winepress. Did I honestly believe that was possible? Right now, she appeared calm and in control, but I’d read somewhere that cold-blooded killers were skillful at hiding their emotions.

  “Hi-ho, sister.” My father strolled into the shop with Lola on one arm and a toolbox slung over the other. “Hello, daughter.” They made a handsome couple, he in his purple apothecary costume and Lola in her matching purple-and-white queen’s costume complete with silver crown.

  My aunt greeted them each with a hug.

  “Vera, I’ve come to repair the shelving in the storage room and, Jenna, I’ve come to give you this.” Dad set his toolbox on the floor and popped outside. When he reentered, he was carrying an elaborate three-level kitty condo, complete with a carpeted living space, ramps, and sisal rope toys.

  My mouth dropped open. “Wow! Did you build it, Dad?”

  “With my very own hands.” He set it on the floor. “Your aunt said your little guy has been having quite a go with his claws lately.”

  “Tina told me,” Aunt Vera said quickly, her cheeks reddening.

  “I don’t care who blabbed, I love it.”

  My father threw open his arms for a hug, which made me laugh. Who was this warm and cuddly man? As a girl, sitting on his knee was akin to riding a sawhorse—totally lacking in warmth.

  I stepped into his embrace and pecked his cheek. “Thank you.”

  “If it works out well”—he stroked my hair—“I’ll build you another for your cottage.” He released me.

  “Really?”

  “Cross my heart. Now, lead the way to the storage room. Your aunt said a few shelves were toppling. The dowels aren’t secure. Lola, I’ll be back soon.”

  “Have a blast,” she said.

  He hoisted his toolbox and pushed through the drapes.

  I set the kitty condo by the children’s table and encouraged Tigger to come out from beneath a stool. At first he was reluctant to investigate. When he began to frolic, I joined my father.

  I switched on additional lights in the storage room. “Better?”

  “Much.” He opened his toolbox.

  “Are you having fun at the fair?”

  “You bet. I’ve never participated in the past, and for the life of me I can’t fathom why not. Acting like an entirely different person is quite entertaining. The costume doth make the man. Now”—he surveyed the area—“which shelves do you need me to fix?”

  The word fix gave me pause. I pictured the note on Nick’s computer: Fix it. What had he needed to fix?

  “Ah, here we are.” Dad faced a set of bookshelves with one shelf clearly askew. He removed a set of pliers and a pin hammer from his kit. Then he unloaded the cookbooks from the shelf and, using the pliers, plucked out the offending dowel. He replaced it with a fresh one and tapped it in place with the hammer. After returning the books to their spots, he concentrated on another shelf.

  “Dad,
did you help Nick Baldini with any repairs?”

  “Why do you ask?” He wagged the pliers at my nose. “No, let me guess, you’re investigating, aren’t you? Haven’t you learned—”

  “I’m not investigating. I’m postulating.”

  “Postulating.” He snorted.

  “Cinnamon is doing a good job, I’m sure, and I believe she’ll solve the crime, but Bailey is still contemplating getting married there, and since I saw and heard things the night Nick died—”

  “Has Bailey considered the bad karma?”

  “She thinks solving the case will erase it.”

  He brandished the pliers. “You’re scrunching your nose. You disagree?”

  “I’m not sure what I think, but I won’t tell her she can’t. It’s her wedding.”

  He rested the hand with the pliers on one hip. “Go on. What did you see that has you badgering me for answers?”

  “I’m not badgering. Whitney badgers.” Whitney is my oh-so-perfect sister who lives in Los Angeles with her oh-so-perfect daughters and husband. “I’m asking nicely. Prudently.”

  He snorted again.

  “Did Nick hire you for any future projects?” I asked. “He had a note that said Fix it on his computer.”

  “I’ve repaired things at the vineyard in the past, but I haven’t done so in over a year. Maybe he had a problem with his computer.” Dad pivoted and resumed replacing dowels, one at a time. “Perhaps he meant he needed to fix a relationship.”

  With Dolly? I wondered.

  My father added, “Maybe he meant he needed to rig something so it would have the ending he desired, like a bet or a transaction.”

  A gust of air swept into the storage room as Mayor Zeller poked her head through the drapes.

  “Jenna, there you are.” She stepped in. “Sorry to bother you. Hello, Cary.”

  “Z.Z.” My father nodded. “Nice to see you.”

  “I recently listened to your voice mail, Jenna,” Z.Z. said. “I apologize that it’s taken me so long to respond. However, seeing as I was at the café setting up a dinner reservation, I thought I’d track you down rather than call. What’s up? Have you discovered something more about Nick? I know you’ve been investigating.”

  “What? No, I haven’t.”

  “Hannah said you were asking questions.”

  My father let out a stream of air. “She’s not investigating, Z.Z. She’s postulating.”

  I threw him a caustic look. “Very funny.”

  “She’s concerned,” the mayor said. “I admire that about her. Don’t you, Cary?”

  How I wanted to hug her, but I maintained my dignity. “I do have a question,” I said. “About Nick and Melody Beaufort.”

  “Melody?” Z.Z. flapped a hand. “I told you the other day that I don’t know much about her. You can’t possibly think that sweet girl had anything to do with Nick’s death.”

  “She’s hardly a girl,” I said. “Pepper said she’s close to forty.”

  “True.”

  “As I said before, someone overheard Nick and Melody bickering. I’m curious to know whether that was part of their scripted fair exchange?”

  “Lots of characters make up their own storylines. What was the disagreement about?”

  “Nick asked if Melody recognized him. She called him a rogue and madder than a hatter.”

  “That sounds like shtick to me,” Z.Z. said.

  “Did it go any further?” my father asked.

  “Flora didn’t say so.”

  “Flora.” Z.Z. tsked. “I wouldn’t think twice about anything she said. She probably padded the story when she related it to you. She always wants to be the center of attention.”

  I nodded. Flora does have a penchant for elaborating. “You said you hadn’t met Melody before this fair.”

  “Melody and many others. There are regulars, of course, but each year we have newcomers. Like every other vendor, the Beauforts filled out a contract for their space. We ran a background check. It was clean.” The mayor lifted a book from the pile that my father had removed to repair a shelf and recited the title. “The Craft Beer Bites Cookbook: 100 Recipes for Sliders, Skewers, Mini Desserts, and More—All Made with Beer. Is this any good, Jenna? You know how I love my beer.”

  “That came in yesterday, so I haven’t had time to flip through it, but all the reviews are great. Some of the recipes have a number of ingredients.”

  “Pshaw. I don’t mind a long list. That gives me a reason to make a grocery store run.” She tucked the cookbook under her arm. “Now, back to Nick. If you want my frank opinion, I’m afraid that Alan did his brother in.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  “You know about his past, the bop to the head. He hasn’t been quite right since. He gets emotional. In fact, after we taped the instructional video, Alan exchanged words with Nick. ‘You are not the boss of me,’ and such. And did I tell you about my meeting with the estate’s attorney? Not a meeting. We ran into each other at the fair. He was telling me that Alan has taken Nick to task many times in his office. Once, he slugged Nick in the throat.”

  I gasped. “Why?”

  “Because Nick referred to Alan as the baby in the family. It was petty, of course, but Alan didn’t take kindly to the insult.”

  I recalled Alan glowering at Nick as Rhett and I were leaving the fair-speak taping. His gaze had sent a shiver down my spine. “Bailey and I overheard the two of them having a falling-out on the day Nick was killed,” I said. “Alan quit.”

  “Quit?” the mayor asked.

  “Apparently, Nick paid him as an employee.”

  Z.Z. raised an eyebrow. “Isn’t he a half owner?”

  “He doesn’t inherit outright, even though Nick is dead. The vineyard goes into a trust. Didn’t the attorney mention that to you? After the accident, that’s how their father set up the estate. He was worried that Alan’s injury might worsen.”

  Dad pulled another dowel from his toolbox. “I’ve had lots of interactions with Alan. He’s a decent guy. He didn’t do it.”

  I snapped my fingers. “Hey, Dad, maybe fix it meant Nick wanted to mend the relationship with Alan after their blowup.”

  He wagged the pliers at me. “Good guess.”

  “Z.Z.,” I said, “Alan has a pretty solid alibi. Hannah Storm saw him in the vineyard at the time of the murder. Cinnamon corroborated that. She said he was pranking his brother by putting frogs in the well. She found lots of . . .” I hesitated.

  “What’s wrong?” the mayor asked. “Your face turned sour.”

  “What if Hannah is lying? I told her Alan had seen her in the field, and she said he couldn’t have. She was with her grandmother in the house. I asked if her grandmother could verify that. Hannah faltered. She said her grandmother had fallen asleep. That’s when she added that she’d seen Alan. Maybe they’re both lying. Alan could have dumped the frogs into the well at another time.”

  Z.Z. said, “Why don’t you ask Alan again? See if he’ll amend his story.”

  Dad grumbled. “Why don’t you call Cinnamon, instead, and let her figure it out?”

  Chapter 14

  I murmured assurances to my father that I would do just that—far be it from me to anger the kitty condo master—and exited the storage room with the mayor. After she purchased her book and departed, I honored my father’s wish and dialed Cinnamon. She was not available because she was handling a petty theft. I left a message about Alan and Hannah and did my best to convince her that I wasn’t sticking my nose into her investigation. Would she believe me? Probably not, but a girl could dream.

  Bailey approached the sales counter and rested her elbows on it. “I spoke with Alan and asked him to meet me here.”

  “I encouraged her to,” Lola said as she strode to the sales counter with two mini meat pasties in hand. “If you don’t ask, you’ll never know. Better to do so in person.” She offered one of the pasties to Bailey, who accepted it and downed it quickly.

  “And?”
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  “He’s on his way.”

  Pleased to see that Tigger was enamored with his ultrafancy scratching pole, I let him be and shifted to the display window. A marionette was out of place. One of the children from the morning’s session must have played with it. Bailey and Lola followed me.

  I hitched my head toward the rear of the store. “How’s Dolly’s workshop going?”

  “She’s putting on a good face,” Lola said, “but I can see she’s sad.”

  Bailey agreed. “I think she’s happy with the turnout, however. Nearly everyone has asked for her business card as well as the location of her stall on the Pier.”

  Lola hooked her thumb over her shoulder. “Jenna, is it okay if I check on your father? We have plans to meet another couple for dinner, but I don’t want to disturb his concentration.”

  “You won’t. Dad can do repairs with his eyes closed.” As she departed, I said to Bailey, “Would you mind organizing the books on the front table? They’ve toppled over.”

  “Will do.”

  I returned to the checkout counter and asked Tina how sales were going.

  “Swimmingly.” She pulled up an Excel program on the computer and showed me the list of transactions for the day. “I think the Renaissance Fair has been the biggest draw for Crystal Cove this year.”

  “It does seem to be a favorite,” I said.

  “Did I tell you that I saw a terrific swordfight yesterday? Between a man and a woman. Both were dressed as pirates. I was amazed by how much power the woman had and how crafty she was. She swung that sword—whoosh, whoosh.” Tina mimed the action, nearly taking me out. “She even did a flip before felling him.”

  I glanced at Dolly and wondered how crafty she might have been. Had she slipped into Nick’s house after Hannah met with him? Maybe she stole Alan’s gauntlet so she’d leave no prints on the murder weapon. Would a raid of her home turn up vital evidence?

  “Bailey,” a man said from the front of the shop.

  I spotted Alan in his falconer’s costume, sans hat and glove, heading toward me.

  “Over there, Alan.” I pointed. “You walked right past her.”

  Bailey stole up behind him and tapped him on the back. “I know I’m short, but are you blind?” She scooted around him and planted her hands on her hips.