On the way to my car, I spotted Raymond crouching in the vegetable garden. Someone else was with him: a woman in a sunhat, ecru linen shorts, and a white linen shirt with the sleeves rolled up. They were inspecting the tops of carrots. I yelled to him, “Raymond, I’m going to town. Need anything?”
He popped up, looking like a wide-eyed meerkat on the alert. The woman did the same. It was Paula Ives. She looked better than I had ever seen her. Her cheeks were tinged pink from the sun, and her eyes glistened with excitement. One could almost say she was pretty.
I drew near. “What are you doing?”
Raymond grinned. “Showing Miss Ives which vegetables are ready for picking.”
“Miss Ives? Honestly.” Paula swatted him with a trowel.
Raymond blushed. “Paula.”
“Raymond has made me fall in love with Napa Valley and gardening and, well, everything.” She threw her arms wide. “In fact, I’m thinking I’ll do something like you have, Mimi. Not open a restaurant, of course, since I’m only a fair cook, but maybe I’ll open a B and B. I can manage a business rather well.” She laughed in a thin, almost choked way, as if she hadn’t laughed in years. “That’ll slay my father, don’t you think? Me, owning my own business.”
The word slay caught me off guard and made me glance at Paula’s forearms, which were surprisingly muscular. I wondered again whether she, even though she was a slip of a girl at the time, had pushed her mother down the stairs so she could be Daddy’s girl. Those arms were also strong enough to have hoisted a patio chair and smashed Bryan in the head. Did she kill him to win her father’s favor by avenging the family on his behalf? Her alibi of sleeping in the library seemed tenuous at best. Somehow, though, I couldn’t reconcile the giddy woman before me with a killer.
“Mimi!” a woman cried.
I turned around and saw Jo running toward me, waving a sheet of paper.
“You won’t believe what I—” She skidded to a stop and fixed her gaze on Paula. “Oh, it’s you.”
“Oh, it’s you,” Paula parroted, not in a mean way—more like she was trying out Jo’s voice.
Jo crumpled the paper in her fist. “What are you doing?”
“Learning to garden,” Paula said. She winked at Raymond, who blushed again. Had he developed a crush on her? Was she pretending to be interested in him and gardening so we would all have a more positive opinion of her?
“I’ll be back soon,” I said to Raymond. “Bye, Paula. Sunblock!” I warned, and then I grabbed Jo’s elbow and steered her toward the employee parking lot.
“Where are you off to?” she asked.
“Town. We broke a mirror.”
She gasped. “That’s—”
“Don’t say it. Why did you crumple that paper?”
She smoothed the wad and waved the paper beneath my nose. “My jeweler friend had Nachum Abrams’s telephone number. She deals with him, too. Nachum is a big deal. Anyway, I called Nachum, and after I explained my query, he told me point blank that he did not speak with David Ives that morning.” She knuckled my arm. “Is that the best? We’ve got him. He killed Bryan Baker. Go to town. I’ll call Tyson.”
“You’ll risk incurring his wrath?”
“You’re rubbing off on me. I’m becoming daring.”
“Warning!” I opened and closed my hands like an alert signal. “Be prepared for sparks to fly!”
“Don’t worry. He’ll be doing cartwheels when he gets this info.”
The image of Tyson Daly doing cartwheels brought a smile to my face.
*
Yountville, named after George Calvert Yount, who established the first vineyard in Napa Valley, was upscale and colorful and home to the famous French Laundry restaurant as well as a number of other well-known establishments. The town always drew a crowd, and today was no exception; it was buzzing with activity. Swarms of people strolled along the main boulevard. Traffic was thick, as cars proceeded slowly so the passengers could drink in the avant-garde artwork that decorated the area, which included a huge basket of tomatoes, a life-size version of a previous mayor, and a field of stone mushrooms.
All the metered parking spots were taken, so I hunted for a few minutes until I found a space a couple of blocks away. Sunshine blazed down on my head as I made my way back to Fruit of the Vine Artworks on foot. I silently heard Heather admonishing me for not applying sunblock but reasoned that I wouldn’t be in the sun for long and pressed on.
As I was passing the high-end jewelry store next to Willow’s shop, a woman called, “Mimi!”
Past Fruit of the Vine Artworks was an artisanal cheese shop. In front I spied Kaya Hill—the lawyer I had intended to call if I’d needed representation—a beautiful American Indian of the Hopi tribe who had moved with her husband to Napa ten years ago. She was sitting at a hardwood bistro-style table with a blond man. She waved at me. The man swung around, anchored his arm over the back of the chair, and smiled. Lyle. Why was he meeting with Kaya? Especially since he and Angelica had just gotten married. Short honeymoon, I thought snarkily. Maybe after telling me his alibi, he felt the need for a defense attorney because he knew gems were missing from his safe. Perhaps prior to our meeting, he’d never imagined Tyson would put two and two together, but once I pointed out the obvious, he realized how guilty those missing gems would make him look.
A jug of iced tea stood on the table, as did a sizeable cheese platter. Lyle picked up a tumbler decorated with a sprig of mint and peered menacingly over the rim of his glass at me. A frisson of fear shot through me. If looks could kill . . .
“Join us?” Kaya asked.
“Can’t. On an errand.”
“Let’s catch up soon.”
I shouted, “Will do,” and turned back toward Fruit of the Vine.
Its display window was gorgeous. The glass had been painted with a stencil of white flowers, clouds, and teapots. In the display nook stood a beautiful oak table set with scrolled candlesticks that formed a heart, yellow paisley place settings, and golden goblets. On the walls flanking the nook hung a selection of red, blue, or green mirrors and miniature oil paintings in gold frames.
Inside the doorway, I stopped and tried to collect myself. My heart was racing. Slowly, in a Zen-like manner, I drank in the rest of the shop, which was a compilation of stall-type areas, each defined by a vine-covered wire barrier. In the center of the shop stood a massive floor-to-ceiling sculpture of a grapevine. The walls, like those of the display nook, held a variety of watercolor paintings and oil paintings. In addition, there were tables filled with smaller pieces of art and display cases holding jewelry.
Willow was standing behind the antique sales counter finishing a transaction with a customer. She wiggled her fingers at me and then splayed her hand, signaling five minutes.
I roamed the shop looking for a replacement mirror. I hesitated by a starburst-shaped mirror, but it didn’t measure up to the one that had broken. I wouldn’t replace it with an inferior facsimile. I moved on and audibly gasped with pleasure when I spied a three-foot-wide, tealeaf-shaped mirror outlined with hundreds of tiny glass tiles, faceted beads, and patterned metal. Nearby was a similarly sized rectangular mirror bordered with a mosaic of iridescent glass. Both were beautiful. Neither was cheap.
Willow, who was wearing a form-fitting burgundy dress and another pair of outrageously high heels—ouch was all I could think—joined me. Her dangling silver earrings clinked merrily. “Mimi, darling, I’m so glad you came in.”
“Your place is fabulous.”
“I told you I have an eye for quality.”
“Is any of this art your own?”
“Are you joking? I hide all mine in my workshop. The world will never see it.” She slipped a hand around my elbow and drew me close, like we were best buddies. “By the way, did you see the artwork Jo selected from the charity art class? It’s incredible. Quite impressionistic.”
“No, I haven’t yet.” Again I hoped it wasn’t some mash-up of Picasso and Pollock.
“Things have been incredibly hectic.”
“Well, it’s in the library and looks fabulous. I love the green and blue tones. They go well with the furniture. The artist loves Monet, as you do, so we thought that would be the best one to choose. Come this way.” Willow beckoned me to another section of the store. “Before you start shopping, I wanted you to see my favorite spot. Occasionally I give art lessons here. Would you care to join a class?”
“I’m not sure I could find the time. Besides, art has never been my strong suit unless it involves food. I’m great with a squeeze bottle and tongs.”
“You’re being modest.”
“I assure you, I’m not.”
We laughed.
Near the rear of the store, Willow had set up a small area with easels and a couple of tables. All sorts of art supplies were arranged on shelving: stacked canvases, paint brushes, oil paint, watercolor paint, clay, pencils, X-ACTO knives, and dozens of empty wine bottles. She even had a blowtorch and a Jenkins kiln.
“Come on. Say you’ll give it some thought. I see you eyeing the kiln.”
“I tried to do pottery in high school,” I admitted, the memory still fresh in my mind. What a fiasco! “Most everything came out at a tilt. Even the urn I attempted was out of whack. Heck, as a girl, I flunked Mr. Potato Head 101.”
“Forget pottery.” Her laugh was as melodious as her voice. “Let’s do something fun like melting wine bottles. There’s no right or wrong. You can come to one of the parties I host. They all involve wine, and”—she elbowed me—“we all know art gets better, or at least easier, after a glass or two of wine. We become less judgmental, you know what I mean? Hey, I’ll even order food from your bistro for snacks. Think about it.”
“I will.”
“Superb. Now, let me show you those vases I mentioned.” Willow ushered me to a stall that featured vases. Releasing my arm, she gestured like a display model to a grouping of tiny three-inch-high vases, each a different color. “Wouldn’t they be perfect in the bistro? Notice the delicate patterns. Each one is hand-blown and unique.”
“Mmm.” How could I be diplomatic? They were pretty, but I didn’t need them. “I like the crystal vases we have.”
“Of course, crystal is elegant, but color is so important to one’s appetite. Neutral tones do nothing to get the juices flowing. I’ve done a lot of study on this.” She picked up a green-toned vase. “Green, I’ve learned, arouses the appetite. It is a color that is associated with health and well-being.” She set it down and lifted a yellow vase. “Yellow is a cheery color, don’t you think? It simply makes people happy.”
Not me. Food presented on yellow plates spoiled my appetite. A hint of yellow was okay, like a floral yellow border on bone china. But bold yellow anything? Granted, maybe I could serve brunch or a sandwich on yellow, but not an elegant entrée.
Willow motioned to the next two. “According to research, orange stimulates the brain, which increases mental activity and often makes the stomach churn.” She winked. “That would make people order up a mound of food, right? And red, of course, increases the heart rate, which”—she giggled—“stimulates the hormones. Think about all the luscious desserts you’d sell simply because diners are getting . . .” Her mouth quirked up sassily on one side. “Need I say more?”
“I really didn’t stop in to buy vases. I want to find a mirror.”
Willow pressed a hand to her chest. “Heavens. Did you break one?”
“No,” I lied. I was becoming quite adept at lying lately, but I didn’t want her talking to me about bad luck. “I like mirrors around the restaurant. You must have noticed. They reflect the light in the chandeliers and give a feeling of spaciousness.”
“You know, I heard a myth about mirrors. They have magical powers, including the power to see the future. Some say breaking a mirror would end its powers, and therefore, the soul would flee the body and hard luck would be brought upon the one whose reflection it last held.”
A quiver of worry flitted through me. Was everyone a scholar about mirrors except me? Why hadn’t I heard all these ancient tales? Was I wrong to hang so many in the bistro? The notion of someone entering the bistro and deliberately rigging the mirror to fall flashed in my mind. I nudged it aside.
“It sort of sounds like something out of Grimm’s fairy tales, don’t you think?” Willow spun in a circle, tapping a fingertip on her chin while perusing the shop. “Okay, ix-nay on the vases. The customer is always right. Mirrors. Hmm.” She opened her arms, gesturing to the entire shop. “As you can see, we have quite a selection of mirrors. Aha! I know what I’d like to show you. This way. There is one in particular that I think you’ll love.”
Once again, she took hold of me and led me to a stall where each item had been made out of melted, reshaped wine bottles.
“Are these products of your students?” I asked.
“Are you kidding? No, these are quite professional.” She lifted a piece that had been fashioned with a mirror in the center. A sentiment was etched onto the lower rim: Love fully before love leaves. “The artist is an art teacher by day at Napa Valley College.” Willow plucked a colorful business card from a bronze cardholder and handed it to me. “She said a student of hers inspired the words she etched. I love that, don’t you? Student inspiring teacher.”
“Nice.”
“It’s like the perfect balance. If I were the teacher and you the student, who knows what we might be able to offer each other.” She gave my arm a little squeeze and edged to the other side of me. “But back to the story at hand. It seems the student fell in love with a man who was quite a rover. He could never make a commitment and broke the woman’s heart. Isn’t that sad?” Willow gazed at me, her eyes misty with emotion. “My artist—the teacher—decided to etch the saying into her mirror, and every day, from that day on, she has looked in the mirror and reminded herself to protect her heart. I’m with her, aren’t you? The world is full of rovers.”
Why was Willow telling me this? Did she know the history of every piece of artwork in her shop and relate it to customers, or was she targeting me because—my heart did a hiccup—she was suggesting that Nash had strayed and that was why their marriage had fallen apart?
I flashed on the multitude of pretty women who had said hello to him at the jazz festival and had a sinking feeling.
The door to the shop opened. A chime over the door tinkled.
“I’ll be right with you,” Willow called.
“That’s okay. I’m browsing,” a man said.
Recognizing the voice, I turned and saw Lyle running a finger along the side of a picture frame. He smiled at me. There was no warmth in it.
“Mimi, are you all right?” Willow asked. “Do you need to sit down? You look pale.”
“I’m fine,” I whispered.
“How about a little tea? I’ll brew you a cup of Tazo Refresh tea. That always perks me up. I’ll be right back.”
“Don’t go,” I said quickly. “I’m ready to make my selections. Then I have to split. Big night tonight.”
I heard the door chime again. Lyle was exiting. He yelled, “Thanks a lot,” on his way out. The moment he was gone, I breathed easier. Had he entered simply to unnerve me? If so, it had worked.
Chapter 19
I succumbed to buying two mirrors: the tea-leaf-shaped mirror with glass tiles for the bistro and the wine-bottle mirror for my cottage. The sentiment on the latter, I realized, reminded me of my time with Derrick. Though duped by him in the end, until the day I discovered his deceit, I had loved him fully. I hoped to love like that again.
As I was exiting the shop, a parking spot opened up in front. Rather than haul the mirrors a couple of blocks, I hurried back inside, set them down, and begged Willow to protect the spot outside. She fluttered her fingers and said she would be more than happy to comply.
On the walk to where I had parked, I kept my eyes peeled for signs of Lyle. I didn’t see him anywhere. Maybe I was making too much of his appearance at
the shop, and perhaps I had it all wrong as far as his meeting with the attorney, but that didn’t mean I wouldn’t remain vigilant.
Minutes later, I pulled my Jeep in front of Fruit of the Vine Artworks and, with Willow’s help, stowed the mirrors in the trunk. When I slammed the hatch, I spotted David Ives exiting the neighboring jewelry store with a bag in hand. He spied me, called my name, and sauntered in my direction. Willow pecked me on both cheeks and returned inside her shop.
“Did you hear the news?” I said.
“About?”
“Your son and Angelica eloped.”
David’s gaze turned dark. “That boy. He never did learn patience.”
“I’m sure he’s pleased that Angelica is coming into money.”
“Why?”
“Lyle’s business—your business, I imagine—is struggling. Didn’t he tell you he has a number of bridge loans that need to be paid off?”
“We operate independently. What he does with the Los Angeles store doesn’t affect the San Francisco store.” He rummaged in his pocket for car keys and pulled out a set.
“What did you buy?” I indicated the gift bag.
He smiled. “A long time ago, I purchased a necklace for my wife. I had it shortened for Paula. She prefers a higher neckline than her mother did. Yours is pretty.” He defined the shape of the stone in my pendant with his index finger.
Automatically I touched it. “My father gave it to me.”
“Very nice. Simple. It hangs well,” he said like a veteran jeweler. “Paula . . .” He fell silent for a minute, as if working through conflicting emotions. “Paula has been through so much. Ever since her mother died, she’s had a tough time of it. I hope having this necklace will make her feel good about herself. She and I can be at odds, as you’ve no doubt witnessed, but I adore her. A token to remind her of her mother might do her good.”
A Deadly Éclair Page 19