Around one o’clock, my stomach growled, and I realized I was also food-free. I’d planned on grabbing a bite at the festival—Funnel cakes! Hot dogs! Drippy nachos!—and hadn’t packed a lunch.
The door swung open and a blond Viking in jeans strode inside, his mane of blond hair wrapped in a ponytail. His black T-shirt strained across his brawny chest “Hey, Mad.”
My heart skipped a beat. “Mason.”
Leaning across the counter, he brushed a kiss across my cheek.
I shivered from the scratch of his five o’clock shadow across my skin. We worked next door to each other, and sometimes I worried we saw each other too much. But the sight of him never got boring, and my body reacted to his presence, my blood fizzing.
Stepping away from the counter, he gave me a look, his arctic-blue eyes serious. “You okay?”
Was I okay? Finding the body had been unnerving. My mother and Adele’s behavior had been disturbing. And Leo … My heart lurched.
On the bright side, I wasn’t dead beneath a pile of grapes. “I’m fine.”
“Whose body was it?” He watched a pair of tourists in matching, striped sweaters vanish into the Fortune Telling Room.
“Did you know Romeo Paganini?”
He shook his head. “Name sounds familiar.”
“He owns—owned—a winery, Trivia Vineyards.”
“Trivia?”
“It’s not easy coming up with an original name in the world of wine.”
“I’ll take your word for it,” he said. “And it was his body you found?”
Two middle-aged women in black tracksuits exited the gallery.
I nodded and smiled at them. “Mmm hmm.”
“This isn’t the best place to talk,” Mason said. “And there’s something I’d like to ask you. Can I take you to lunch?”
“I wish you could, but Leo is Romeo’s son. I gave him the day off.”
Mason’s brow wrinkled. “Who’s managing your display at the festival?”
“The Wine and Visitors Bureau.”
“And what did you have to promise in exchange?”
“Just a display at the Ladies Aid haunted house. No biggie.”
He quirked a brow. “Dinner tonight?”
Regretful, I scrubbed my hand over my face. “It’s Saturday.” Adele and I, along with our friend Harper, had a standing girls’ night out at the local microbrewery.
“How could I forget?” He pursed his lips and I ached to kiss them. “Do you want me to bring lunch in?”
“Would you?”
The tracksuit ladies moved into the Fortune Telling Room.
“For you? Anything.” His voice was a low rumble. He leaned across the counter, cupping my chin. His lips brushed mine, and my knees weakened.
“Hssst!”
I jerked away, looked around. We were still alone. Not even the cat was in sight.
“Hssst!” The fake bookshelf between the museum and the tea room stood ajar. A balding head, glasses glinting in the overhead light, nose twitching, edged out of the gap. “Is the coast clear?”
“Herb.” I folded my arms over my chest.
“Your collector?” Mason asked. “I was starting to think he was an urban legend.”
I growled in response.
Herb-of-the-potentially-stolen-grape-press slunk inside the museum and straightened his brown bow tie. His beigy clothing sagged on his narrow frame. “The cops came to my house. Mother was very upset.”
“Did you talk to them?” I asked.
“Of course not! You know I don’t talk to police.”
“I’ll pick up lunch and let you two talk,” Mason said. “Chinese?”
“You know what I like.”
He leered, and my cheeks warmed at the double meaning.
Sketching a wave, Mason left, and I forced myself not to ogle his departing backside as the door swung shut.
“Now, about Dion Fortune’s scrying mirror,” Herb said. “Since we’re friends, I can drop the price to five thousand.”
I whirled on the collector. “Romeo Paganini told the police that I stole that grape press.”
“You?” Herb’s eyes widened behind his thick lenses. “What do you have to do with it?”
“I bought it from you! The police think the press is stolen goods.”
Herb straightened. “I do not deal in stolen goods. You know me better than that.”
In truth, I didn’t know him well at all, a situation that had suited us both until now.
“Who sold you that grape press?” I asked.
“You saw the receipt. Mrs. Paganini sold it to me.”
“Are you sure it was Mrs. Paganini?”
His face pinched. “Of course I’m sure. Jocelyn Paganini, professor of viticulture at San Benedetto Community College. I looked her up on the college website before I went to her house. Everything’s in order. What are you in such a stew about?”
“Did she contact you, or did you contact her about the press?”
“She contacted me. Said the thing was cursed, and she wanted to get rid of it.”
“Tell me more about the history of the press.”
“If you’re worried about the curse, I performed a binding spell. The press is now relatively harmless, though I wouldn’t let young lovers handle it.”
I rolled my eyes. As if young lovers would embrace over a grape press!
“If the cops think the press is stolen,” Herb continued, “all they need to do is ask Mrs. Paganini. I gave you a copy of the signed receipt. It seems like a lot of fuss over nothing.”
“A lot of fuss? Romeo Paganini’s dead, and I found his body, after being accused of stealing his property.”
Herb’s mouth opened. He closed it, Adam’s apple bobbing, and swallowed. “Bye.” He skittered through the bookcase. It closed behind him before I could react.
Cursing, I hurried after him, pressing the false book spine that unlatched the door. The case swung open and I ran into the tea room.
Women sat around tables covered by crisp white cloths. Customers lounged on soft white couches and lined up at the tea room counter, its frontage covered in misty, mint-green tiles. Behind it on wooden shelves stood tea blends in shiny metal canisters.
A metallic door clanged shut, fluttering the gauzy curtains at the front windows.
I hurried down the wide bamboo hall, past the bathrooms to the alleyway exit.
Thrusting the metal door open, I leaned outside. A battered yellow VW Bug revved its engine and sped off in a cloud of exhaust.
I returned to the museum, pressing my lips together. The cops would track Herb down eventually. After all, they knew where he lived (with his mother).
I drove up the dirt and gravel driveway to Adele’s family vineyard. My window was down, the balmy air caressing my bare arm. I’d misspent my prior career in countries where pollution had burned my throat, twisted my gut, hung heavy in my clothing and hair at the end of the day. Since returning to California, I’d developed a mania for fresh air. Good thing, since my vintage pickup didn’t have AC. I’d inherited the truck from my father, and I’d come to love sitting up high on the roads, the purr of its engine, its broad seats.
Above me, light from nearby Sacramento tinted the night sky purple, but there was no moon and the stars sparkled. On my left, twinkle lights twined around the barn that Adele’s parents had converted into a tasting room. More lights glowed from the windows of their nearby two-story, white-painted Victorian. It was a larger version of Adele’s, on the opposite side of the vineyard.
Parking my red truck beneath an oak, I walked past picnic tables and across the soft lawn to the house.
A feminine voice—Adele’s—floated from her parents’ Victorian. Something in the tone, a tension, stopped me on the porch steps, hand on the railing.
“But I thought you loved it!”
A lower voice, a man’s, answered, too low for me to hear.
“Well,” she replied, “I don’t appreciate these high-pressure tactics.”
I checked my watch beneath the porch light. Eight o’clock. Right on time. Feeling awkward, I rang the bell.
The voices stopped, and heels clicked across a wooden floor.
Adele flung open the door and pasted on a smile. “Maddie! Perfect timing.” She grabbed a turquoise-colored purse and jacket off a nearby coat tree.
Behind her in the high-ceilinged foyer, her father spoke to a strange man, tall and emaciated and pale as a vampire. The man glanced toward me, his chill, dark eyes not registering a flicker of awareness at my presence. I waggled my fingers at Mr. Nakamoto, but Adele’s gray-haired father didn’t seem to notice me either.
Adele stepped onto the porch, closing the door behind her. Since the festival, she’d changed into a blue tulip skirt and a cream-colored, sleeveless top.
“How are you doing?” I asked.
“Fine,” she said, her tone clipped.
“My truck’s under the tree.”
“Thanks for coming to get me,” she said. “My car was supposed to be repaired by now.”
“Was supposed to be?”
She minced across the thick lawn in her three-inch heels. “There was a delay in getting a replacement part. Don’t worry, Daddy will drive me to the tea room tomorrow morning.”
“How did your booth at the festival go?”
“It was a huge success. People snapped up my new menus. Oh, here. You haven’t seen them yet, have you?” Opening her purse, she handed me a long piece of thick paper.
I squinted. “It’s too dark to read here. I’ll look at it once we get to the Bell and Brew.” I opened the driver’s door and slid the menu into my messenger bag on the seat, then got in. Adele climbed into the passenger side, adjusting her skirt.
“I’m sorry I missed your booth,” I said. “Hopefully I’ll be able to get to the festival tomorrow for another tasting of Haunted Vine.” It was her family’s new label, and I’d already tasted plenty, but bellying up to a bar and swishing wine was fun.
Her hand tensed on the handle. She slammed the door, setting my ears ringing. “That would be nice.”
Adele was upset about something, but she’d let me know what was wrong when she was ready.
Silent, we drove into downtown San Benedetto, and I parked in a half-empty lot beside a brick bank. The Harvest Festival might flood us with tourists during the day, but they didn’t spend the night. San Benedetto had returned to its sleepy, roll-up-the-sidewalks self.
Adele pointed at the bank. “Did you know the bank was constructed in the 1920s? It was built to last. This town has character because of institutions like that one, and especially because of the vineyards. We’re one of the few places in America with grapevines over one hundred years old, zinfandels that weren’t destroyed during Prohibition.” Her dark eyes flashed in the light from the iron street lamps.
“I know,” I said, puzzled. Everyone who grew up in San Benedetto knew its history. It shaped too much of our present. “I like San Benedetto too.”
“Of course, change is inevitable,” she continued, “but aren’t some things worth preserving? Aren’t the things that make San Benedetto special worth keeping?”
“Yes, they are.” Opening the door, I hopped to the pavement, swinging my messenger bag over one shoulder.
She stepped out of the truck. “I knew you’d agree.”
“Is something bothering you, Adele?”
“No!” She stalked across the parking lot, heels clicking on the pavement.
I hurried to follow.
A silver-haired man walking a terrier crossed our path. He tipped his hat and nodded, and I smiled. The dog tugged at its leash, straining to sniff a narrow tree trunk.
We walked through the swinging glass doors of the microbrewery. A wall of Joan Jett hammered us, and I took an involuntary step back.
Harper half rose from a booth near the back and waved, flipping her long, near-black hair over her shoulder. We made our way through the dim restaurant, past the giant copper vat and the bikers and cowboys bellied up to the bar.
Looking like a green-eyed Penelope Cruz, Harper scooted across the red Naugahyde booth. Her black knit top skimmed her curves, and I instinctually knew it was expensive.
I slid in beside her.
She slid her beer mug closer. “With all the Harvest Festival madness, I wasn’t sure the two of you were going to make it.”
“Did you get to the festival?” I asked.
“Not yet,” she said. “I’m planning to head over tomorrow. How did it go?”
“Um …” I glanced at Adele, unfolding a napkin.
“Maddie found Romeo Paganini in the giant vat at the grape stomp,” Adele said. “Ladies Aid had to shift the stomp to another part of the festival grounds. And I need a drink.”
Harper blinked. “What?”
Adele caught a waiter’s eye and he bustled over.
“Yes?” he asked, his gaze lingering on Harper. Men couldn’t help themselves around her, and I’d gotten used to playing the Invisible Woman in her presence.
“A pumpkin ale,” Adele said.
“Same for me,” I said.
“What do you mean you found Romeo Paganini?” Harper asked.
“I didn’t say anything,” the waiter said.
“Sorry, not you,” Harper said. “I’m fine.”
He nodded, shot Harper a last doe-eyed look, and bustled away.
“What did you mean about Romeo?” Harper repeated.
“He’s dead.” I told her about finding him.
Paling, she slumped against the booth. “Romeo Paganini? But … I know him. He’s a client of mine. He can’t be dead!”
“A client?” I asked. As a successful financial planner, Harper worked with many of the local winery owners, including Adele’s father.
Adele stared at the table, frowning.
“Good God.” Harper raked a hand through her luxurious hair. “I’ll need to call his wife tomorrow.”
“You know Mrs. Paganini?”
She nodded. “Are you sure it was Romeo?”
“I’m sure.”
“But how did he get inside a grape vat?”
“There was a dump truck nearby,” I said. “He may have been killed elsewhere and then dumped in the festival vat.”
“Killed?” Harper’s eyes widened. “He was murdered?”
“I don’t see how else he could have got in that vat,” I said.
Adele jerked to life. “We need to figure this out.”
I shook my head. “I’m sure the police will—”
Adele laughed, high and tinny. “I’m not. Not after they threw me in jail for a crime I didn’t commit. We don’t have time to wait for them.”
“Why not?” I asked. What was going on? First my mother, now Adele, wanted us to play amateur detective. And when Adele said “we,” I was pretty sure she meant me.
“Harper, Maddie needs our help. I bet she doesn’t even have a process.”
“A process?”
“For investigating,” Adele said.
“I do too,” I said. “I’ll just do what I did last time.”
“Which is?” Adele raised a brow.
“Talk to people.”
“And?”
“And think about what they tell me.”
“You see? Hopeless!” Adele pinioned Harper with a stare. “Since you were Mr. Paganini’s financial advisor, you must know if there were any monetary motives for his murder.”
“That information is confidential,” Harper said gently.
“But he must have had life insurance,” I said slo
wly. “I know you won’t work with people who are parents unless they’ve got insurance, and Leo was Paganini’s son.” Which meant Leo would have some sort of safety net now that his father was gone.
Where kids were involved, Harper had strong feelings about life insurance. She was an orphan, and her parents hadn’t had anything in place when they’d died. She’d been left in the care of her grandmother, and life hadn’t been easy.
The aproned waiter speeded back to our table, placing our beer mugs on pumpkin-decorated paper coasters. “Can I get you something to eat?”
“Beer-battered artichoke hearts,” I said.
“And wings,” Harper added.
He nodded and left.
“Well?” Adele asked.
“I’m sure the police will investigate the financial angle,” Harper said.
Adele pointed at Harper. “Ah ha! So there is a financial angle!”
Harper colored. “I didn’t say that.”
“But Romeo’s first wife,” Adele continued, “Leo’s mother, died last year. Is his new wife the insurance beneficiary, or his son? Leo’s what? Nineteen? Twenty?”
I leaned across the table and nudged Adele’s hand. “Is there a reason for you to be accused of the murder? Why are you worried?”
Adele jerked away. “Of course not! I barely knew the man. Besides, you discovered the body, not me. I’m worried about you.”
I wanted to believe it. On second thought, no, I didn’t, because that would mean the police seriously suspected me.
Harper angled her head, her eyes narrowing. She wasn’t buying it either. “Is Laurel Hammer involved in the investigation?” she asked.
“It looks that way.” My stomach knotted. The only way Detective Hammer liked me was as a suspect, but I just couldn’t believe a personal grudge would color her police work. I’d seen her in action in a crisis, and she’d been all business, impressive.
Harper glanced at Adele. “But Laurel’s not the only investigating officer. She can’t do anything without evidence, and there can’t be anything implicating Maddie. She’s innocent.”
“What does that have to do with anything?” Adele asked. “I was innocent too.”
Pressed to Death Page 5