Dying on the Vine

by Marla Cooper

  “Well, luckily you kept it cool,” Brody said. “Why were you acting like we’re up to something? All we’re doing is transporting oversized office supplies.”

  “I know,” I said. “I’m just nervous. Sorry.”

  “Sheesh,” he responded. “If we’re going to prove you’re innocent, you’re going to have to stop acting so guilty.”

  We got the whiteboard into the spare office and closed the door behind us. Even though the room was dank, windowless, and probably last painted around the time of the Second World War, it was perfectly suited for our purposes.

  “Okay,” said Brody, opening up the package of pens. “What color marker should we start with?”

  “Green. No, blue. Wait, on TV they always start with the victim. In red.”

  He took the cap off a marker and scribbled the word “Victim” on the left side of the board. “Babs Norton.” Under that, he added for clarity: “Wedding planner.”

  “You don’t have to put that. We know who she is.”

  Brody’s marker froze in midair. “Look, do you want me to help, or not?”

  “I do, but—”

  “But what?” Brody put his hands on his hips and stared at me.

  I bit my lip. “Can I write it?”

  “Why? What’s wrong with the way I did it?”

  “It’s not wrong.” I wrinkled my nose and pointed at the board. “It’s just—your handwriting’s really messy.”

  “It is not!” he said, incredulous.

  “Here, just give it to me.”

  He replaced the cap on the marker and threw it at me. “I can’t believe you’re calling me out for bad penmanship.”

  “Sorry,” I said, “just because it’s a murder board doesn’t mean it can’t look nice.”

  I rubbed off the words he’d written with the sleeve of my sweater and started again. In my tidiest handwriting, I wrote Babs’ name in all caps on the left side of the board. We wrote out bullet points under her name—well, I wrote out the bullets while Brody offered a few suggestions and pretended to pout.

  “This is great,” I said. “Now, suspects.”

  I uncapped the black marker and drew several columns to the right of Babs’ name.

  “I suppose we should start with Margot,” Brody said.

  “Margot Norton,” I said, writing her name at the top of the next column. Just to be thorough, I wrote the words “Babs’ sister” under Margot’s name. “Okay, what’ve we got?”

  Brody crossed his arms in front of his chest. “Well, they’re sisters. Sometimes that’s all the motive you need.”

  I thought of all the sisters I’d worked with over the years. He had a point. Under her name I wrote the words “Motive: guilt by siblingry.”

  “That’s not a word,” Brody said.

  “You’re just mad because I won’t let you write. Now, if they really did own real estate together, that’s a huge motive.”

  “It depends on how it was set up,” Brody said. “If they were tenants in common, it would go to whoever Babs named as her heir, but if they were joint tenants with right of survivorship, then yeah, it would immediately go to Margot.”

  I looked at him, surprised. “What are you, some sort of real estate lawyer?”

  “What?” he said. “I know things.”

  “I underestimated you, Brody Marx. Continue.”

  “Now, if they were joint tenants, then it all depends on who her beneficiaries were. Did she have any children?”

  I thought for a second. “Not that I know of.”

  “Then it’s possible it would all go to Margot.”

  Under Margot’s name I wrote:

  • Owned real estate together?

  • Beneficiary of the will?

  • Possible drinking problem?

  I turned back to Brody. “So how do we find out more about Margot? Do you think they’ll make Babs’ will public?”

  “Not right away. It’s not like in those movies where everyone gathers in the library for the reading of the will with lots of old white men in suits.”

  “Too bad. That would certainly be handy. What about real estate records?”

  “They don’t read those aloud in the library, either.”

  “I know, smarty-pants, but couldn’t we go down to the courthouse and look them up?”

  “Probably. Maybe. I don’t know. I’m sure you can if you know what to look for.”

  “Or maybe there’s an easier way,” I said, mulling over the building where Babs’ office was located.

  “What’s that?”

  “Pay a visit to Babs’ office building and have a talk with the office manager.”

  “Are you sure they even owned the building? How do you know she didn’t rent that space?”

  “Either way, it seems like talking to the office manager would be the easiest way to find out. Besides, who knows what I might learn that isn’t in the public record?”

  “Okay, fair point,” Brody said. “But what are you going to do? Go in and flash your fake police badge or something? The building manager isn’t going to tell you anything.”

  “Not if I come right out and ask.” A thought was forming at the back of my mind. “But say I were to casually inquire?”

  “How are you going to do that?” Brody furrowed his brows in an expression that could best be described as “dubious.”

  I crossed my arms and smiled. “Let’s just say it might be time for me and Laurel to consider a new office.”

  “So you’re going to pretend you’re a potential renter?”

  “Why not? And if it doesn’t work, we can still try the records office.”

  “I guess it couldn’t hurt.” Brody gestured to the board. “Who’s next?”

  “We have to consider the possibility that it was Stefan.” I wrote his name on the board next to Margot’s.

  Brody mulled my words for a moment. “I wouldn’t put it past him, but what’s the motive?”

  “I don’t know,” I admitted. “It seems pretty stupid to me because I’m not sure there can be a ‘Weddings by Babs’ without, you know, Babs. Which means he’s basically out of a job. It would have had to have been something pretty major.”

  “Or it was a crime of passion.”

  “True. She couldn’t have been easy to work for.” I tapped my chin with the marker while I thought out loud. “They could have gotten into an argument, and she could have threatened to fire him. And we know he has a temper.”

  “Yeah,” Brody said. “There are any number of things that could have set him off.”

  “Besides,” I added, “on crime shows, it’s always the husband who did it, and he was like her work husband.”

  I jotted some points under his name:

  • Access to the victim

  • Motive: crime of passion

  • Hot-tempered

  I drew a tidy line between Margot’s column and Stefan’s column to keep them apart. “Who else?”

  “One of her clients?”

  I shuddered a little. “I suppose it could happen, but that kind of freaks me out a little bit.”

  “Sorry, but you of all people know how emotional people can get about their weddings.”

  Over on the right side of the board, I started a new list to help us brainstorm. Under the heading of “Other Possibilities” I wrote the words “Unhappy clients.”

  “There’s just one problem,” I said, staring at the list.

  “What’s that?”

  “I don’t know who any of her clients are—or were. And I doubt I could get Stefan to tell me.”

  “Just tell him you’re hoping to sign a few more couples in time for wedding season,” Brody said with a smirk.

  “Ha. Yeah, I’m sure that would go over well.”

  “What about Haley and Christopher?” Brody said.

  “What? No!” I said. “I didn’t mean them!”

  “Yeah, but they qualify, don’t they?”

  “Technically, yeah, but I don’t
see it. They weren’t mad or anything. They were just ready to move on.”

  “All right,” he said. I was glad he was dropping it. It would be hard to plan a wedding for someone who I thought was capable of murder.

  We stared at the list, unsure what to do next.

  “Sheesh,” I said. “It could be anybody. Jealous ex…”

  “A disgruntled vendor…,” Brody said.

  “A random intruder…,” I added, writing all three possibilities on my list.

  “Mafia hit?” Brody said.

  I shot Brody a quizzical look. “Why do you think it was the Mafia?”

  “I don’t! I thought we were brainstorming.”

  We sat in silence for a moment. I was forgetting something. I stared at the board, trying to capture the thought dodging around the back of my mind. Was there another suspect we should put on the board? Some evidence that we needed to add? “Pictures!”

  “Pictures?” Brody asked.

  “Yeah, there are always pictures of the suspects on the murder board.”

  Brody looked puzzled. “Why? We know what everyone looks like.”

  “C’mon, if something’s worth doing, it’s worth doing right.”

  Brody sighed. “Okay, fine, I’ll print you up some pictures to put on here.”

  I jumped up and hugged my friend around the neck. “You’re the best, Brody.”

  He wriggled out of my grasp, laughing. “And you’re a control freak.”

  CHAPTER 10

  It seemed like Margot and Stefan were my two best leads if I was going to find out what happened to Babs, but I didn’t even know where to start with Stefan; he wasn’t going to let me anywhere near him. So the next morning I set to work on my plan to find out more about the sisters’ deepest, darkest, most real-estate-oriented secrets.

  With housing prices booming in San Francisco, real estate was serious business. And if what Danielle said was true, Margot might well have had a major financial motive to want Babs out of the picture.

  Step one? Make sure I wouldn’t run into Stefan. I assumed the office he’d shared with Babs was out of commission, but I had no doubt that if I ran into him there he’d accuse me of returning to the scene of the crime.

  After picking up a cheap burner phone from Walgreens with sixty prepaid minutes—I’d learned my lesson about caller ID—I had Laurel call him, pretending to be a newly engaged bride who wanted to come into his office for a consultation.

  Stefan was accepting new clients, but he told Laurel they’d have to meet somewhere else, since his office was “being renovated.” He didn’t mention that the renovation involved fingerprint dust and crime scene tape.

  He suggested they meet at a Starbucks of Laurel’s choosing, and Laurel promised to check with her fake fiancé and call back later to set up the consultation.

  The coast was clear.

  Step two was to make an appointment with Linda, the property manager whose number I’d gotten off the sign hanging outside of Babs’ building. She said I could come by the next morning, which gave me plenty of time before my afternoon appointment at Higgins Estate Winery.

  Step three, pick out an outfit that says, I really am here to rent an office space and not just ply you with questions. I flipped through the hangers in my closet. Green dress that makes my eyes pop? Gray slacks and heels? What had I worn when I rented my office space? Realizing I was overthinking it, I grabbed a skirt and blouse that would also be appropriate for my meeting with Lucas Higgins and set them out with my favorite pair of heels.

  There’d be no sneaking in this time. When I arrived at Babs’ building the next morning, I pressed the button next to the front door and waited until I was buzzed in, then strode through the lead-glass doors that still had bright blue painter’s tape on them indicating their recent repair.

  A moment later, I heard the click of heels on marble and turned to greet the businesslike blonde who was descending the staircase. “You must be Linda.”

  “And you must be Kelsey,” she said, sticking out her hand. “Nice to meet you.”

  “Likewise,” I said as we shook hands.

  “You were looking for something under a thousand square feet, right? I have a couple of options I can show you upstairs.”

  She walked over to an ornate doorway and pressed a button on the wall, sending gears whirring as they lowered the century-old birdcage elevator to meet us.

  “Nice,” I said, pretending I’d never seen the decorative metalwork. “Is that art nouveau?”

  “It is,” Linda said. “All original. Isn’t it beautiful?”

  “It’s lovely,” I said as she slid the doors open and we climbed on board. “How old is the building?”

  “Built in 1909, a couple years after the Great Earthquake. They just don’t make them like this anymore.”

  “Whoever owns it sure must be proud of it.…” I let the statement hang in the air for a second to see how she’d respond.

  “You’re right about that. It’s been in the same family for decades.” The elevator groaned to a halt, and Linda opened the door once again.

  “Oh, yeah?” I exited the elevator and looked around the landing. “Lucky family. I think I read an article about them. Wasn’t their name Norton or something?”

  “Yes, that’s right,” she said as I followed her down the hall. There was one question answered. Not that it told me much, but at least I was on the right track.

  “Now, this office,” she said, taking the keys from her pocket and opening a door, “doesn’t face the street, but it gets plenty of natural light.”

  I nodded thoughtfully, looking around the empty room and pretending I was trying to figure out where my furniture would go. What I was really wondering was how I could get her to divulge more information about the Nortons’ real estate holdings.

  I walked from the reception area into what would theoretically be my office if any of this were real. Nice, spacious, beautiful wainscoting. Not bad at all. If only I really were office-shopping. “Does it have a bathroom?”

  “There’s a shared bathroom, down the hall.”

  I managed to look concerned. “Hmm, that might be a problem.”

  “These old buildings have their charm, but they don’t always have every modern amenity. Most people end up loving it, despite its quirks.”

  “I don’t suppose the owners would consider adding a bathroom into the layout?” I gestured to a small room that was theoretically expendable. “Maybe in here?”

  “I don’t know. Ms. Norton doesn’t usually—” She stopped herself. “Well, I don’t really know. Let’s just say things are in a little bit of flux around here.”

  Well, there was one question answered. The building was definitely owned by a Ms. Norton. But which Ms. Norton was she referring to?

  “In flux?” I said. “Anything I should be concerned about? I mean, as a potential renter?”

  She shook her head. “Oh, no, nothing like that. It’s just that there’s been a death in the family. It was unexpected.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. But … well, I hate to even bring this up, but is there going to be a change in ownership? I only ask that because if I signed a lease and then the building was sold…”

  “I’m not sure, but I don’t think so.” She was waffling, but I couldn’t blame her.

  “Well, I don’t know if I’d feel comfortable signing a lease right now if the building is changing hands.” I still hadn’t figured out a way to come right out and ask who would inherit Babs’ portion, but I was definitely making headway.

  Linda paused. “I really don’t think so, but hold on a second. Let me see if I can get you some answers.”

  Linda pulled a walkie-talkie from a case clipped to her belt and pressed the button on the side. “This is Linda. Can you meet us down in 4B?”

  A staticky voice came over the line. “4B. Copy. Give me just a minute.”

  My skin prickled with adrenaline, starting at my fingertips and working its way up m
y arms. Was it my imagination, or did the voice sound familiar? I waved my arms to get Linda’s attention. “That’s not necessary,” I whispered. “Really. I hate to bother anyone.”

  Linda pressed the button again. “Copy that. Over.” She replaced the receiver into her belt clip and smiled warmly. “Oh, it’s really no trouble. She’s right upstairs.”

  Who? Who was right upstairs? I couldn’t be sure, but it had sounded like Margot’s voice on the other end. Dang it. I hadn’t expected to run into her. What ever happened to just owning a building and letting the building manager do her job?

  I starting edging toward the door. The flaw in my plan was now apparent. I’d thought I could sneak in, snoop around, and sneak back out again without anyone being the wiser.

  I wanted to make a break for it, but Linda was pointing out the lovely crown molding, and a discussion about crown molding isn’t something that can be rushed.

  “Hey, about that bathroom,” I said. “Can I borrow it?”

  “Sure, it’s right this way. I’ll show you.” Darn it! Did I really look like I needed an escort? I was hoping she’d just point the way and I could make a break for it, but she probably wanted to enumerate the many fine properties of the copper plumbing.

  She pulled out her key ring once again and unlocked the door, holding it open for me. Not only had I not been able to escape, but this unexpected visit to the little girls’ room was actually wasting valuable seconds. I went inside and shut the door, then stood there for the very minimum amount of time I thought it might have taken to use the facilities. Then I ran the water for a few seconds in what I hoped would be a convincing piece of theater in case Linda could hear me from the other side of the door.

  I came back out to find Linda waiting—alone, thank God.

  I checked the time on my phone, then pointed at it in the universal symbol for having somewhere else to be. “I’m sorry, Linda, I hadn’t realized how late it had gotten. How about if I call you later? Do you have a card?”

  “Sure,” she said, looking confused and maybe a little disappointed. It wasn’t her fault I wasn’t going to take the office, but of course I couldn’t tell her that. She offered me a card, then pressed the elevator call button, once again sending the gears into a whir.