by Jen Carter
Where does Janelle live? Does she work during the day?
I sat up and pretended to read another page of the handbook. And another. Then I leaned over again and checked my phone, keeping it hidden in my purse.
He had answered.
She doesn’t work unless you consider Pilates and Botox treatments work. Do you want her exact address? I can get it from Angelia.
I texted back, yes please.
After another two pages of pretend reading, I checked my phone again.
He had sent the address. I had an unexpected afternoon activity.
***
Janelle’s neighborhood was beautiful. She wasn’t right on the coast—she lived inland where there was more room for the four thousand-square-foot homes that sprung up all along the hills in the last twenty years. The home was still only ten minutes from the beach, and I bet it had amazing views from the inside.
I walked up to the Italian Renaissance-inspired house and knocked. It was just after four in the afternoon. Hopefully she wasn’t out getting Botox or doing Pilates.
The door opened, and a haggard Janelle stood behind it. Purple circles lined her eyes, and her auburn hair hadn’t been brushed for at least a day or two. She looked at me, no expression of recognition crossing her face.
“Hi Janelle,” I said, trying to smile and sound friendly. “My name is Jill. We met this weekend up at the winery.”
“Oh, hi Jill,” she said absently. There was still no hint of recognition on her face.
“I know this is a very difficult time for you. I was just wondering if I could ask you a couple of questions about the weekend. Would that be okay?”
“Are you with the police? Do you work for that Bitts guy? Or was it Pitts?” Her eyes grew big and she gasped. Her hand flew to her chest. “You’re not with that hateful reporter, are you?”
I shook my head. “Oh no. I don’t work with the detective or the reporter. I work for the D’Angelo winery. My grandfather owns it. I’ve just seen a couple strange things around the winery since the accident, and I was hoping you could help me piece together some of it.”
A flicker of recognition crossed her face. “You’re the ex-fiancée.”
I nodded.
Janelle opened the door wider, inviting me in, and then closed it behind me. I took in the entryway and formal living room: the white furniture, the wall of windows showcasing the inland hills, and the grand piano filling one corner of the room.
“You have a beautiful home,” I said.
“Thank you. Let’s go into the kitchen.” She led the way toward the back of the house. Like the living room, the kitchen had a wall of windows, though back there the windows showcased a different view of the hills. The white theme from the living room continued into the kitchen with the cabinets and marble counters. Dark blue and gray abstract art punctuated the white walls.
She motioned toward a stool at the breakfast bar, and I sat down as she opened a cabinet over the far counter. “Tea?” she asked, pulling down two mugs.
“Thank you, that would be great.”
She filled a teapot silently. I thought about launching into my story but decided to wait until she finished with the tea.
She turned around, blinking away tears and asking, “So what can I help you with?”
There was just something about her that made me sad. Overwhelmingly sad. Sadder than when I was around Angelia, which seemed odd since Angelia was Marlo’s daughter.
Janelle couldn’t have had a hand in Marlo’s death. I was certain.
No, no. I couldn’t rule anyone out. Gut feelings weren’t enough. If I really wanted to find out what happened, I had to put my emotions—and the emotions of others—aside.
Still, there was something about Janelle that made me want to lay all my cards on the table.
“We know now that what happened to Marlo wasn’t an accident, right?” I asked.
She walked toward the breakfast bar and nodded. “I heard that, yes. I didn’t have anything to do with it.”
“I know.” I tried to sound honest and sympathetic. “You were at Snapdragon sleeping while it happened.”
She nodded. Then she shook her head. “If only I hadn’t fallen asleep. If only I hadn’t had so much wine, this wouldn’t have happened.” She shook her head again. “I’ve never passed out from drinking like that. Imagine, falling asleep on a bench. Really, how could that have happened?”
I thought about the sleep aids that the Berkes had bought and wondered if Janelle had taken any of them—either knowingly or unknowingly. Tempted as I was to say something about them, I kept it to myself.
“After the accident, after the police left, I found a hair clip in the wine vat. It was black, it had feathers in it, and it was covered in rhinestones. Do you know if Marlo owned anything like that?”
Janelle placed her hands on the counter and hung her head. Her shoulders shook.
“We thought it was funny,” she whispered.
The teapot on the stove began to steam. Janelle walked to it and turned off the burner.
“What was funny?” I asked.
With her back to me, she poured water into the two mugs and then dropped teabags into them. “I can’t really explain it any more. We had a lot to drink, and everything I remember is blurred. It’s not funny now—not at all—but at the time it seemed funny.”
She walked back to the counter and set down the mugs, one in front of me and one in front of her.
“We finished wine tasting late in the afternoon,” she continued. “Then we went back to the inn to rest before dinner. But first we wanted to nosh on the cheeses and sweets that the owners put out every afternoon. On our way through the lobby to the dining room, we saw one of those two hippie ladies take a big, ridiculous clip out of her hair and put it behind the desk. It was so ugly, and for whatever reason, we thought that we should take it. I know, it sounds so dumb now, but it made perfect sense to us after having so much wine. So I distracted the old hippie by telling her that there were flies all over her cheese, and then Marlo went behind the desk and swiped the hair clip. She wore it to dinner that night.”
I sipped the hot tea. It burned my tongue and was stronger than I was used to, but I tried not to react. I held the mug to my lips and blew on it, processing Janelle’s story.
“You thought the clip was ugly, so you decided to take it?” Echoes of Angelia saying her mom was a mean girl rang through my mind.
Janelle nodded. Then she stared off, gazing through the wall of windows to the hills.
With a shaky breath and without having touched her tea, she said, “Since the accident, I’ve been thinking about this a lot. About our behavior, about our reputation, about everything, and how it all led to this.” She paused, still focusing on the hills. “No one ever loved Marlo. I know it sounds cliché. But it’s true. Her dad wanted a boy, and she was obviously not a boy. Her mom couldn’t have any other children after Marlo was born. I don’t know why, and I guess it doesn’t matter. But her dad resented her mom for it, and then her mom turned around and resented Marlo. Angelia’s dad died when Angelia was two, leaving Marlo to fend for the two of them on her own. By then, she was pretty hardened. When she met Alex, she probably married him more out of need than anything else. It wasn’t long before Alex realized this, but by then, he loved Angelia so much that he couldn’t leave. It became Alex and Angelia against Marlo—most of the time. Then they divorced after Angelia graduated from high school, and the Alex and Angelia duo only got stronger.”
Alex had denied having a strong bond with Angelia when I spoke to him, but I kept that to myself.
Janelle continued. “My husband works sixteen hours a day, and we decided when we were in our twenties that we wouldn’t have kids. That seemed fine way back when I was young and pretty. You know, when my husband wanted to bring me to schmooze with him at corporate events and whisk me away on tropical vacations. But I’m no longer an asset to him. Over the hill and childless, I’m pretty much alone.
Marlo and I found each other, and in our misery, we teamed up to make ourselves feel better however we could. We were so dead inside that being mean to others was nearly the only way we found joy.”
She brushed tears off her cheeks with the back of her hand.
“Angelia didn’t want us to come to her bachelorette party,” she said after a pause. “And why would she? Maybe if we were friends with her—and I do think that moms can be friends with their adult children—it would have been different. But we weren’t friends with her. We were just being self-centered and difficult, insisting that we come. It seemed like another good way to assert ourselves over others, stomping them down to pull ourselves up. And we insisted on going to OV for the party because it would rankle Alex. Then there was you. The ex-fiancée drama made it all the more interesting.”
Whoa.
“So,” I said slowly, “steeling the hair clip, ruining the batch of wine, being loud about the tour—that was all just part of how you and Marlo bonded.”
Janelle held her mug in both hands but still didn’t drink from it. She nodded.
I understood. It was hard to understand—and impossible to condone—but I did understand. Heartbreak and strife manifests itself in different ways. Some people handle it better than others. Marlo and Janelle obviously did not handle it well at all.
“Do you think that Alex could have done this to her?” I asked.
Janelle shook her head. “I don’t think so. He loved Angelia too much. And even though Marlo and Angelia didn’t get along, Angelia still cared about her mom. Hurting Marlo would hurt Angelia. Alex couldn’t do that.”
I sipped my still-scalding tea and decided to go for it. “Was Marlo blackmailing him?”
Janelle closed her eyes. She finally took a sip of her tea. In a croaky voice, her answer came, simple as could be.
“Yes.”
EIGHTEEN
Friday afternoon I sat in my car down the street from Janelle’s house—just as I had the day before. The memorial service was over, and Janelle had invited the mourners back to her home for a reception. To ensure I wasn’t the first inside, I decided to wait until I saw a couple more cars pull up.
To pass some time, I read Lucy Argyle’s latest article in the Temecula Sunrise Newspaper.
Boycott Otto Viti This Weekend
No breaks have been made in the case of Marlo Jennings’ death. While law enforcement continues to believe her drowning in a vat of Pinot Noir at D’Angelo Winery was not an accident, they’ve failed to make any arrests.
Tragedies such as these are rare in Temecula, and they are unprecedented in the enclave of Otto Viti.
Will this affect this weekend’s crush festival? Shop owners don’t seem worried.
“No,” said Amy Chase of Books and Brew.
“No,” said Lorena Garcia of OV Marketplace.
“No,” said Livy Green of Mortar and Pestle.
When pressed to expand on their comments, no shop owner cared to defend their position.
But should this affect this weekend’s crush?
I say yes. Yes, it should.
I for one don’t think attending crush is a good idea, not with the dismissive attitudes of the police and shop owners. These signs of pomposity—perhaps even entitlement to the economic gains of crush despite the morbid events of last week—MUST not go unchecked.
Stay home this weekend, friends. Drink wine with your loved ones around the dinner table, but don’t drink wine coming from Otto Viti vendors—and definitely don’t go drink wine in Otto Viti. Do not contribute to trivializing MURDER.
I shook my head and sighed, closing the internet browser on my phone. Why did Lucy Argyle hate OV so much?
A tap on the driver’s side window startled me. I jerked toward the sound and saw Toby next to my car.
My goodness, I was jumpy.
I grabbed my purse and dropped both my car keys and my phone into it. Then I opened the door.
“Hey Toby,” I said as I stepped out.
“Shane saw you sitting here as we drove up, and he told me to come grab you. He’s already going inside with Angelia.”
I nodded and closed the door. “Thanks. I got here a couple minutes ago and didn’t want to be the first one inside.”
“I don’t blame you.”
We walked up the hill toward Janelle’s house. Normally, I was pretty comfortable with silence, especially with people like Toby who were quiet, but I found myself searching for something to say. Perhaps the circumstances made me feel awkward. Something was making me feel awkward.
“New shirt?” I asked, nodding toward the navy blue button-down he was wearing.
“What?”
“Did you get a new shirt?” I said. “At the bachelor party, you said the white one you were wearing was your only nice one. But this one is nice, too.”
“Oh.” Toby kept his eyes on the sidewalk. “Yeah, I got a new one for the memorial.”
We lapsed into silence for a couple more steps. Again, I felt the urge to say something.
“It was nice of Janelle to offer her home for this,” I said.
“Yeah,” Toby answered. “It was either here or our place, and our apartment is just too small.”
An elderly couple coming from the other direction reached the driveway the same time as us. Toby and I said hello and paused, waiting for them to proceed first. In the presence of others, I no longer felt compelled to find some other conversation starter—and thank goodness because I had already exhausted all my ideas.
The elderly man pulled open the front door, inviting his wife to enter, and then he continued to hold it for Toby and me. Inside, the house was no less stunning than the day before. About ten other people were there, some congregating around a table of hors d’oeuvres by the piano, others taking in the art on the walls. Shane and Angelia stood at the far end of the formal living room, staring out the enormous windows. They turned as I approached them.
I gave Angelia a hug but skipped Shane.
“It was a lovely service,” I said to her.
She nodded, offering a half smile—not one of the strange, forced ones I remembered from the bachelorette party.
I felt a hand on my shoulder and craned my neck to see Janelle standing behind me. I hugged her as well.
“Thank you for inviting us into your home,” I said.
She looked more like the Janelle I first saw at the bachelorette party than the Janelle I met with yesterday. Perhaps it was because of her hair and makeup; perhaps it was because she moved with purpose as the hostess of the reception. She pointed over her shoulder toward the kitchen and said, “There’s a martini bar set up back there. We also have an assortment of beers, juices, and waters. There’s a table near the piano with a display of cheeses and fruits, and the catering staff should be coming around soon with hors d’oeuvres. Please make yourself comfortable.”
“Thank you,” Shane said.
And then Janelle was off to welcome another group of mourners.
We lapsed into silence as Toby joined us, already holding a mini-plate of cheese and grapes. I thought about asking if Shane and Toby’s parents had flown in for the memorial service but decided against it. I didn’t know what kind of relationship they had with Marlo—or Angelia, for that matter. If they were there, I’d see them at some point.
Aside from Janelle who was repeating her spiel to three very tall men wearing perfectly tailored black suits, no one else seemed to be talking. Her voice, though low, echoed in the otherwise-silent, spacious room. I wondered if anyone might play the piano to fill the dead air. I wished Holly were there. She’d play the piano and take some of the nervous tension out of the room.
I had an idea. It was probably a dumb idea, but a dumb idea was better than awkward silence.
“Listen,” I said. “I know this might be strange, but tomorrow Otto Viti is having a big festival for fall crush.” I cringed inwardly as I heard the words coming out of my mouth. Was I going to do this? “The whole street
gets into it and does games and food samples—stuff like that. There’s a lot of music and chaos in general. If you want to, you know, just get away from here for an afternoon. . .” I couldn’t find a way to finish the sentence. “It’s all done by tickets—like a carnival—and I have a bunch you could have.”
Seriously, it must have been a huge faux pas to invite Angelia back to the place of her mother’s death. And yet, I did it anyway, unable to stop myself. Stella would be horrified.
But Angelia and Shane both nodded, apparently not offended.
“I know it might be too soon,” I added. “I just. . .”
I didn’t know how to finish the thought.
Angelia reached out and squeezed my arm gently. “That’s very kind of you.” She glanced at Shane. “We’ll talk about it tonight.” Then she said, “I’m going to see if Janelle needs any help.”
As she walked away, I surveyed the room. A few more people had joined the reception, most of whom were gathered around the cheese table. I spotted Alex sitting alone on a couch nursing a martini.
“If you’ll excuse me,” I said to Shane and Toby, “I’m going to say hello to someone.” I didn’t say who—I didn’t want to risk Shane asking why I’d want to talk to Alex.
I had decided after speaking with Janelle the day before to take the innocent until proven guilty approach with Alex, even though I thought my theory about him wanting to silence Marlo was pretty good. Either way, I needed to be direct and get more information from him.
I sat down in an armchair facing the couch, just on the other side of a white apothecary coffee table. Alex looked up.
“Hello,” I said. “I’m Jill—we met a couple days ago when I came by your classr—”
He didn’t let me finish. “Hi Jill. How are you.” It wasn’t a question. He sipped his drink.
“I’m doing okay,” I said. A woman dressed in a white long sleeved shirt, black vest, and matching bow tie came by with mini skewers of caprese. She bent down slightly, offering the tray to each of us. I took one, but Alex shook his head.