Must Be Murder

by Jen Carter

  I considered this. “That does make sense. I don’t think the couples celebrating their thirtieth wedding anniversaries or the groups of middle-aged housewives on a girls’ weekend would do that. And I wouldn’t put it past Shane’s friends to scale a wall to get a better view of the area.”

  “There was other stuff left in the rooms—a shoe, some cologne, a comb—stuff like that. I know for sure those items came from the bachelor party. If the shirts from the roof don’t belong to the gentlemen, just bring them back to me. I’ll put them in the lost and found.”

  I chuckled. “Okay. Shirts from the roof—that’s not a phrase I thought I’d ever hear coming from you.”

  Morrie also chuckled. “Life in Otto Viti is pretty quiet, but I guess we should still expect the unexpected from time to time.”

  No kidding.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  The festival was underway. The streets were filled with people wandering around, eating food and determining the next spots where they wanted to use their tickets for wine tasting. Some had festival maps that marked the specialties of different shops, and some were checking the itinerary of events. We did three grape stomping competitions throughout the day, and no one wanted to miss signing up for one of those. Many guests were laden with bags, no doubt filled with art work, jars of gourmet dips and spreads, or crafty souvenirs they had just made.

  I spotted Stella a time or two walking around with her boys, handing out balloons to the families with young children and directing them to West Park where the really cool kids’ events were happening. Hudson and Thatcher already had their faces painted like their favorite wild animals—and that was probably the greatest advertisement for the fun down at the park.

  Aldo’s table of wine tasters was perpetually busier than Holly’s and mine. I didn’t think we were too bad at entertaining guests, but we couldn’t compete with Aldo’s Italian accent or infectious laugh. And I didn’t want to. There was only one Aldo.

  He only left his table once—and that was just for a moment. I caught a glimpse of Eduardo out of the corner of my eye as he spoke with a group of festival guests, pointing to a yellow flier like the ones that had been put up to advertise the neighborhood watch. Was he really telling people that he wanted to start a neighborhood watch? The man simply didn’t understand the concept of wrong time, wrong place. I was pouring wine for a newlywed couple who was telling me how they met on an over-forty dating website, so I signaled to Holly, who had just said goodbye to a group of three women who might have been triplets. She looked at Eduardo and clucked, but before she could go tell him to stop, Aldo walked by us, holding up his hands and saying, I’ll take care of it. I couldn’t hear what he said to Eduardo, but his words were accompanied by a smile and a pat on the back. Eduardo nodded, bowed out of the conversation, and disappeared down the street toward Deseo. Aldo brought the group back to his wine station, probably offering them some free tastes, winking at Holly and me on the way.

  And there it was—my grandfather standing up to his oldest friend. Good for him.

  It didn’t seem like Lucy Argyle’s articles had much impact on the festival. Either people didn’t read her articles, or they didn’t want to lose money on the tickets they had bought in advance. The reason didn’t matter to me. People were there, and that’s what mattered. I didn’t hear any talk of Marlo’s death among wine tasters at D’Angelo either. Everyone was more interested in the actual wine, and that was a-okay with me.

  Somewhere in mid-afternoon, I glimpsed Shane walking down the street with his brother and some friends. The friends looked younger, and I didn’t recognize any of them from the bachelor party. I guessed they were Toby’s friends.

  Shane waved as they approached our wine tasting set up on the patio. I was in the middle of describing our latest Cabernet Franc to a group of Australian backpackers making their way down the coast toward Mexico, but Holly’s table was open, so she invited the guys over to her. Just as the backpackers wandered away, I heard a voice behind me.

  “Hey,” Shane said.

  I turned and saw that he had left the rest of the guys at Holly’s table and snuck up behind me.

  Ugh, I hated when people did that.

  “Hey, so you decided to come,” I said. Where’s Angelia? Is she here?”

  Shane shook his head. “She wanted some quiet time to herself, so Toby and I thought we’d come up here and get out of her hair.”

  “Good idea. Want to taste some wine? Or have you had your fill from Holly?” I slid a tasting menu across the table to him. “If you’ve already tried the whites, we have a great Pinot Noir to get you started on the reds.” I pulled a clean wine glass from my stock under the tablecloth and set it upright in front of Shane. “Did you buy festival tickets? Because I still have those free ones I can give you.” I poured the Pinot Noir into the glass and nudged it closer to him.

  “No, we didn’t get tickets. Your winery was our first stop.” He sipped the wine and nodded at the glass. “This is good.”

  “Thanks. The tickets are in the back office. I’ll go grab them. Oh! Actually, you should come with me. You and your buddies left some stuff at Vendemmia last weekend, and I told the owner that I’d get it back to you. It’s all in Jason’s office right now.”

  Shane finished the Pinot Noir and set down his wine glass. “Oh, okay. Thanks.”

  I looked at the nearly-full crate of used wine glasses at my feet. “Now is a good time for me to swap these out for clean ones, too.” I leaned over and picked up the wine glass carrying case, and then I turned toward the tasting room. As I passed Holly, I caught her eye and signaled with a sideways head flick for her to watch my table. She nodded.

  “Your party must have been the most interesting event that Vendemmia has ever seen,” I said to Shane over my shoulder. “What kind of wacky stunts were you attempting on the roof?”

  I paused a couple feet from the tasting room door as a group of festival goers crossed in front of me.

  “What?” Shane asked, stopping alongside me.

  “The roof. Vendemmia’s owner found shirts on the roof after you left. Well, his gutter-cleaning guy found the shirts.”

  Jason emerged from the tasting room, phone glued to his ear, and held the door open so I could walk through with my crate.

  “Thanks, brother-in-law,” I said softly. And then once inside, I said over my shoulder, “Why were you guys taking off your shirts, anyway? Were you wrestling? Was the winner whoever didn’t fall off the side?”

  When no answer came, I looked behind me and discovered that I was standing in the middle of the tasting room by myself.

  Strange. Where the heck had Shane gone?

  I’d never understand that guy. He was just as flaky as ever.

  I continued on toward the back where we washed glasses, left the crate of used ones on the counter and grabbed a crate of clean ones. If Shane was still outside when I returned, I’d make a second trip back for the bachelor party stuff.

  On my way back through the tasting room, I paused at the wall of barrels displaying Renaissance sonnets. My favorite poem seemed to jump at me, even though it was the last one on the bottom row. Lilies that fester smell far worse than weeds, Shakespeare reminded me. Lilies that fester smell far worse than weeds.

  Alex was cleared. The Berkes were probably cleared. Was the killer a festering lily? Was he or she slipping by us because a seemingly-innocent exterior was hiding a sordid, cruel, murderous interior?

  What was I missing? What was I taking for granted?

  I bet it was right in front of me.

  I continued outside, this time opening the door using my back.

  No one was at Holly’s table. So much for handing off the bachelor party bag during the festival.

  “Hey,” I said, walking up to her. “Where’d Toby and the rest of them go?”

  She pointed to the crowd in the street. “Somewhere over there. They finished their tastings and left.”

  I made a face, scanning t
he crowd. “Did Shane leave with them?”

  “Who?”

  I stared at my sister. Sometimes I didn’t know if she was trying to be funny or if she really was oblivious to a whole chunk of reality passing right in front of her. She stared back earnestly, waiting for me to clarify.

  She must have missed Shane entirely.

  “Oh, nothing,” I said. I carried the crate of glasses back to my table and set them down. Straightening up, I asked Holly, “Hey, did you talk to Stella yet about this evening? Are you busy, or can you come down to Carlsbad with me?”

  Holly looked apologetic. She said, “I did talk to her. She needs my help revamping the grapevine wreath making for tomorrow. Sorry. Next time you screw up at work and have to make an emergency trip back to Carlsbad, I promise I’ll come.”

  “Oh, thanks.”

  “At least you have an excuse not to help Stella with wreath stuff. You know she’d ask you if your job wasn’t on the line.”

  “My job isn’t on the line.” I paused. “Well, I don’t think my job is on the line. I think it’ll take more than one screw-up for that.”

  “It’s a good thing that you know your nouns and verbs, English teacher.”

  Oh well. It would have been nice to have some company, but I couldn’t complain. If I connected the dots, it probably was my fault that the wreath making needed to be revamped. If I had actually checked to see if Katie was setting it up Stella-style that morning as my older sister had requested, it wouldn’t have needed a makeover this evening, and Holly could have come with me. But I hadn’t wanted a confrontation with Katie. So I’d just keep quiet.

  A group of wine tasters moseyed over to Holly’s table, and she greeted them with a smile and a wine menu. I double checked to see if I needed to restock any wine. Just as I turned to ask Aldo if he needed any wine restocked, some swirly, bright colors caught my eye, and I realized the Berke sisters were approaching. They each had bags under their eyes, but aside from that, they looked pretty good under the circumstances.

  I couldn’t tell from their expressions if they were happy, relieved, mad, or upset. Their blank looks indicated tiredness and nothing else, really. I braced myself. Hopefully we weren’t about to have a scene in front the festival goers, but with the Berkes, I never knew.

  “Hello, ladies,” I said. “Are you okay?” I tried for a kind and compassionate tone without sounding overly dramatic. I hoped I pulled it off.

  Katia walked around the table and gave me a hug. That was a surprise. Then Carolina walked around the other side of the table and also gave me a hug. That was an even bigger surprise.

  “We just want to thank you,” Katia said. “Thank you for watching Snapdragon last night and getting that evidence to Detective Fitts so we could come home.”

  “And for sending the lawyer over,” Carolina added. “And for taking care of Snapdragon this morning.”

  Whew. They hadn’t found anything to complain about in all this. Nothing to do with me at least—not yet. I thought about telling them that Jason, Amy, and Jules helped with the lawyer and breakfast, but I didn’t know if they’d be mad that I told anyone else what had happened. I didn’t want to risk it.

  “You’d do the same for me,” I said. I wasn’t sure if they actually would, but it seemed like the right thing to say. Maybe in the future, after this experience, they would. “Is everything going to be okay now? Are you all cleared?”

  The sisters exchanged looks as they drifted to the other side of the table. I reached down, grabbed two clean glasses, and poured a taste of Vermentino in each. Whether or not the sisters planned on tasting wine today didn’t matter. They probably needed it.

  “Hopefully,” Carolina said. “It seems that Detective Fitts has turned his sights to someone else.”

  I leaned across the table as each sister took a glass and sipped the wine. “What makes you say that? Did he mention something to you?”

  Katia put her glass on the table and said, “Nothing specific. Just that he was going to do some paperwork and then he had to speak with Marlo’s daughter again.”

  I nodded. That sounded like Fitts. He was so good at dropping tidbits of information without really offering answers. I poured Chardonnay in the sisters’ now-empty glasses. “When was this? Just a little bit ago?”

  They nodded.

  “I don’t know how long paperwork takes, but I’m guessing he’s on his way to Carlsbad by now. Or soon,” Carolina said.

  I smiled at the Berkes as they sipped the Chardonnay. So, Fitts thought Shane might know something, and he was going down to question Angelia again. Interesting.

  The sound of my name drew me from my musings.

  “Jill D’Angelo?”

  I looked at the woman who had walked up behind the sisters and had forced herself between them.

  Lucy Argyle.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Dread clenched my stomach. Yes, I had wanted to talk to Lucy before the festival. But now I was in festival mode—well, mostly festival mode, despite Shane and the Berke sisters—and I wasn’t in the mood for a confrontation.

  That’s what she wanted, wasn’t it? A confrontation? After the articles she had written about Otto Viti already, she couldn’t possibly want anything else.

  “Yes? May I help you?” I asked Lucy with as much professionalism I could muster.

  “You!” Carolina spat. “You’re the one who wrote those ugly articles about Otto Viti. What are you doing here?”

  “Yeah, what are you doing here?” Katia echoed. “We don’t want to talk to you. We’ve already told you countless times: no comment.”

  “I’m not here to talk to you,” Lucy said brightly, though the tone of her voice didn’t match the fake, tightly-stretched smile spanning her face. “I’m here to talk with Miss D’Angelo.”

  I looked at the sisters. Their eyes warned me not to talk with Lucy.

  “Katia, Carolina, I think this will only take a moment. Would you like to taste our red wines?” I held my arm out toward Holly’s table where only one visitor was sipping and chatting with her. “I know Holly would love to pour you some Pinot Noir.”

  The sisters picked up their glasses, squinting at the reporter menacingly, and then shuffled over to Holly’s table.

  “Don’t tell her anything,” Carolina said loudly.

  I didn’t respond, but I smiled after the sisters as they walked away. The extra moment gave me a chance to compose myself—just a tad.

  When I turned back to Lucy, her tight smile had morphed into a quizzical expression—like she was ready to launch into a list of hard-hitting questions. I spoke before she could.

  “Why have you been writing such mean articles about Otto Viti?” I asked. I tried to keep my voice even and low, without accusation or frustration. I may have missed the mark, but at least I tried.

  “I’m just doing my job,” she answered.

  “It seems that you had some sort of bone to pick with OV before any of this happened, and then Marlo Jennings’ death gave you a chance to pounce on us.”

  Lucy smiled sweetly. “You must be misunderstanding my intentions.”

  I pursed my lips and nodded. Sure. “What do you want then?” I didn’t bother trying to hide the frustration in my voice.

  She laid both hands on the table and leaned forward.

  “Who killed Marlo Jennings?”

  I nearly laughed. “How would I know?”

  “You’re close to Shane Albert, the fiancé of the deceased’s daughter. I have a new source who indicates Shane might have told you what happened.”

  I rolled my eyes. “A new source. Now you’re just making things up. Like you did in those articles. You couldn’t have a source that told you that. In fact, if you did, I’d think that person might be trying to lead you in the wrong direction because—” I stopped before finishing the sentence. I laid my hands on the table and leaned forward, mirroring Lucy’s posture. My eyes narrowed. “Who is this source?”

  Lucy leaned back and l
aughed. She flipped her blonde hair over her shoulder. “What, do you think I’d rat out my sources? Never.” She cocked her head and planted her hands on her hips. “I’d have no credibility then, would I?” She turned and sashayed away.

  I stared after her, struck dumb. Who was that source? Could a source like that actually exist?

  When my wits returned, I considered chasing after Lucy but dismissed the idea. A trio of women who looked like they already had a wee-bit too much wine was walking up to my table, tickets in hand. I smiled at them and grabbed three clean wine glasses from beneath the table.

  ***

  I checked the time on my phone. It was nearly four o’clock, just before the last wine stomping competition. Not long after that, we’d start cleaning up for the day. The crowd was thinning, but there were still plenty of festival latecomers who looked fresh-faced and excited to try new wines, eat gourmet treats, and buy beautiful art.

  I sensed Holly approaching. She had the wine stomping sign-up in hand and was counting the participants.

  “How many for this one?” I asked.

  “Nine teams,” she said, still studying the paper. “And the sign-up period already closed. Want to be number ten? The last one to compete?”

  I shook my head. “Nope, I’ve stomped enough grapes in my day. It’s all yours.”

  “No, thanks. I’m too tired.” She turned toward Aldo who was saying goodbye to his latest group of wine tasters. “Nonno,” she called, “Do you want to stomp grapes, just for fun? There’s one spot left for the last competition.”

  Aldo’s face lit up. “Oh yeah? Okay, sure. Why not?”

  “It starts in five minutes,” Holly said.

  He nodded and wiped his hands on a towel draped over his shoulder before walking toward us.

  To me, Holly said, “I’ll stay here and pour wine. Can you walk with Aldo to make sure no one distracts him on the way?”

  “Of course.”

  The wine stomps were held in the courtyard right next to our winery, so there wasn’t far to go. But people were always stopping Aldo for a chat—especially visitors who had been coming to OV for years—and he was likely to get there faster with an escort.