I had twenty minutes until the festival opening, leaving me plenty of time to stop at the wine stomp.
Darn it.
I followed the scent of funnel cakes and pulled pork to a wide cluster of picnic tables surrounded by tents and food trucks. Mouth watering, I strode past.
A gang of blue-shirted women scuttled around halved wine barrels on low risers. The Ladies Aid president, Mrs. Bigelow, barked orders, looking more than ever like our ex-Attorney General.
Dieter, in stained painter’s overalls and a tank top, hammered a riser leg into place. His bronzed muscles gleamed with sweat. He flipped the riser over and set it on the ground. Jumping on top, he shifted his lean hips as if riding a surfboard. “I think we got it, Mrs. K,” he called.
My mother strode forward, her fresh jeans pressed, the collar of her white blouse standing at attention. “Thank you, Dieter. It might have made it through the day again, but I didn’t like the way it was wobbling.”
He puffed out his chest. “You were right to ask me to double check. It could have been dangerous.”
I wended through the rows of stomping barrels. “Hi, Mom, Dieter. How’s it going?”
“Pretty well,” my mother said, “in spite of the last moment change of venue. Dieter came through like a champion yesterday, as did all the volunteers from Ladies Aid.”
A gray-haired lady in the ubiquitous powder-blue T-shirt tottered forward and nudged my arm. “I think this is an even better location than the last one.”
A woman cleared her throat behind us.
We turned.
Eliza Bigelow stood there, her eyes narrowed, her red-lipsticked mouth pinched.
The elderly woman gave a little jump. “Oh! I forgot I have to …” She hurried away.
“Miss Kosloski,” Mrs. Bigelow said, “am I to understand that we’ll be working together?”
“Um …” My mind tumbled. Working together? She didn’t expect me to be her co-detective did she?
My mother nudged me. “Halloween,” she muttered.
“Oh! Yes,” I said. “The haunted house. Looking forward to it.”
“Excellent. A delegation will stop by the tea shop tonight to coordinate.”
“Tonight?” I yelped. I’d be working at the festival all day and had planned a nice quiet night with Mason and a pizza.
“Miss Nakamoto has agreed to keep the tea shop open late this evening, under the circumstances,” Mrs. Bigelow said.
“She has?” What did Adele have to do with it?
“We’ll see you at six.” She nodded and strode off, pointing at two Ladies Aid volunteers. “You there! Do you call that a straight line? Those barrels look like they’ve been arranged by drunks!”
“She’s very, er, decisive,” I said.
My mother sighed. “She’s a determined and effective manager. But enough about my problems. How are you?”
“The police confiscated my haunted grape press.”
“But that’s your key exhibit!”
“I know. Now all that’s left is the sign. It’s a haunted, invisible grape press.” I straightened. Oh, hey. Idea! An invisible grape press!
“They can’t believe either you or that grape press had anything to do with Romeo’s death.”
“Like you said, Laurel’s getting back at me because of her hair.”
“I hope that’s all it is.” My mom’s chin dipped. “Have you made any progress on the investigation?”
“Not really. All I know is that Romeo had life insurance, and his widow is getting drunk in the Trivia Winery tent.”
“And you left the poor woman alone? Madelyn!”
“Of course not. I left her with her friend Chuck.”
“I’d better go talk to her. I remember how … well.” She blinked, and I looked away, thinking of my late father.
I cleared my throat. “She says she told the police that she sold the press to Herb. And she also mentioned that Romeo was obsessed with death, which I could have figured out from that Death Bistro business.”
“Oh yes, I remember Adele mentioning it.”
“Adele felt she’d been tricked into hosting the event and the Death Bistro could damage her brand. Not that that’s a motive for murder.”
“Of course not. No one can possibly think Adele was involved.”
“Mom, why did you ask me to investigate?”
Two gray-haired women in powder-blue tees walked past, carrying a crate of grapes. Dieter leapt forward and lifted it from their arms.
“Oh, thank you, young man,” one said, tittering.
“This isn’t a good place to talk,” my mom hissed. “Later.”
“But—”
“Later.” She strode after Dieter.
“Wait!” I trotted after her. “I need Dieter at the Wine and Visitors Bureau tent.”
He dumped the crate of grapes into a stomping barrel.
“Give me ten minutes,” she said, “and I’ll send him over.”
“Thanks.” I checked my watch and hurried to my tent. I had an invisible grape press to create.
seven
“Will you take our picture?” Inside the stuffy tent, a giggling teenage girl handed me her camera. She mugged with two of her pig-tailed friends by the invisible grape press. Ahem, the haunted invisible grape press.
“Sure!” I forced a smile, not because I wasn’t happy to snap a picture but because my smile muscles had been in overdrive all day. It might take a lot fewer muscles to smile than frown, but my cheeks were sore.
Dieter had come through, hastily painting an Invisible Grape Press sign and hanging it over the tent entrance. The Bureau had allowed us to scavenge two of their picket fence sections, and Dieter had built a small, square, fenced-off area. I’d hung my old haunted grape press tag from a picket and scrawled along the top, It’s Invisible! It was attracting a surprising amount of visitors.
After shooting a few pictures, I handed the girls their camera. They ran from the tent, narrowly avoiding a collision with an elderly couple. The couple headed for the wine tasting at the rear of the tent.
Penny thrust a wine glass into my hand. Her fluffy gray hair had gone wild from the heat, her reading glasses barely keeping its strands in place. “Here. You need it.” Grape-cluster earrings dangled from her ears and she wore a shimmery purple blouse and jeans.
I took a swallow. Oh, yum, ancient vine zinfandel. Many of our vineyards had vines over one hundred years old, and these created more complex flavors. “My favorite. Thanks.”
“You done good, kid,” Penny said. “The invisible grape press was a stroke of genius.”
“Stroke of desperation.”
“But you’re still doing the haunted house.”
“Of course!”
Mason ambled into the tent, caught my eye, and broke into a wide smile.
My pulse accelerated.
Hugging me around the waist, he picked me up and twirled me.
I shrieked. “My wine!”
He set me down and pressed a chaste kiss on the cheek, his face rough against mine. The light touch inflamed me even more. I inhaled his scent: musk and motorcycle oil.
Face upturned, I pulled away, clutching the wine goblet in both hands. Miraculously, it hadn’t spilled. “What are you doing here?” I asked, breathless.
“I closed early. Most folks are at the festival anyway, and I wanted to see you. How are things going?”
“Good. The police confiscated my grape press, but Dieter helped me make an invisible haunted grape press display. I think it’s more popular than the original.”
His blue eyes sparkled. “Very P. T. Barnum.”
“I do have a few actual haunted exhibits on my table, so people won’t think the museum is all smoke and mirrors.” I motioned toward my table with the burnt dolls and eerie photo
s.
“Have you had a chance to enjoy the festival? It closes in an hour.” One blond brow arched in invitation.
“Not yet, but I think I can sneak out.” After all, the Visitors Bureau watched my table the first day in exchange for me taking over their display at the haunted house. I figured they still owed me. To Penny’s credit, she did too.
“I’ll just shift your coupons and brochures to the tasting table,” she said. “Don’t worry, we’ll take care of everything. Have fun.”
As giddy as the schoolgirls, I strolled out of the tent with Mason.
He draped his muscular arm over my shoulder. “So what do you think? Carnival games?”
I nodded, and my stomach rumbled. “And I’m dying for a funnel cake.” All I needed was one funnel cake and I’d call the festival a success.
We wove through happy festival-goers to the food area, where Mason bought me a funnel cake—heaven!—and we stopped to watch the final grape stomp. Laughing stompers bent double, gripping the sides of their barrels and furiously stamping up and down. Their partners swept grape skins and gush from the spigot holes as juice drained into the glass measuring vials.
Someone blew a whistle and they stopped, grinning and sweating. My mother, wearing a judge’s ribbon, walked up the aisle with a clipboard, scrutinizing the level of the grape juice in the vials.
I bit into the funnel cake. I think I’d read somewhere that it was about a million calories, but this was the Harvest Festival. I’d worry tomorrow about those extra ten pounds I’d been trying to lose. Besides, I’d been on my feet all day. That must have burned a ton of calories.
My mother stepped up to a microphone. “And the winners are Lucy Riesling and Ethel Merlot!”
Bare legs and hands stained with grape juice, two barefoot women in bandannas and 1950s-style skirts scrambled to the microphone. Cheering, they collected their blue ribbons from my mother.
We applauded.
“Your mom is good at this,” Mason said.
“She’s good at pretty much everything. It’s a lot to live up to.” But I was proud of her. She’d mourned my father’s death, but she hadn’t stopped living.
“Come on,” he said. “I want to get to the shooting gallery.”
“Really?” I said. “It’s not boring for you compared to a real range?” Mason was ex-military and went to ranges for target practice at least twice a month.
“I can’t win my girl a prize at a real range.” He grasped my hand and tugged me forward.
Laughing, I let him pull me, leaving a trail of powdered sugar in my wake. We stopped before a shooting booth shaded by a red-and-white-striped awning. Rows of plastic animals glided on tracks in front of a yellow backdrop. Mason paid the barker and ruthlessly slaughtered an entire plastic African savanna.
He pointed.
The barker handed him a bear. “Vet?”
Mason grunted an assent.
“Afghanistan or Iraq?” the barker asked.
“Both.”
“Helmand,” the barker said. “Semper fi.”
They nodded to each other, and I wondered what memories each were recalling. Mason didn’t talk much about his time in the military. I listened hard when he did.
“For you.” Mason held out the bear.
I nodded toward a wailing girl in a red dress, a dropped ice cream cone melting on the straw-covered ground beneath her feet. Her pink-faced mother rubbed her back and spoke in a low voice. “Thanks,” I said, “but I think her need is greater.”
Breaking into a smile, he nodded and walked to the mother. She looked up, surprised, and he handed her the bear. She gave it to her daughter and the tears evaporated.
“Nicely done,” I said, taking his hand.
“It was your idea.” He squeezed me close. “We make a good team.”
We ambled through the carnival area.
“Mad,” he said, “there’s something I wanted to talk to you about.”
“Oh?”
He stopped short, staring ahead, his brow furrowed.
Detective Slate ambled toward us. He’d slung his suit jacket over one shoulder, the top button of his shirt undone, blue tie loose. His dark skin gleamed like mahogany in the sun.
Catching sight of us, he slowed. His gaze dropped to our linked hands.
A tingling swept the back of my neck. “Hello, Detective.”
He nodded. “Miss Kosloski.”
“How are things going with the investigation?” I asked.
“You know I can’t talk about that.”
“You took Maddie’s grape press display,” Mason said. “Any idea when she’s getting it back?”
“Hopefully soon,” he said. “Mrs. Paganini has assured us it’s not stolen property.”
Mason’s broad shoulders tightened. “Then why can’t she have it now?”
“Because it may have some bearing on the investigation into Mr. Paganini’s death. Enjoy your day.” He strolled away.
Jaw clenched, Mason stared after him.
“Thanks for trying,” I said.
“I wasn’t much help.”
“Honestly, the cops did me a favor. The invisible grape press got a lot more attention than the haunted grape press ever would have. So, what did you want to talk to me about?”
Color rose in his cheeks. “I got a call from an old girlfriend the other day.”
“How old?”
He grinned. “Old enough. She’s in town and wanted to meet up. I haven’t seen her in years—not since I deployed.”
“So will you see her?”
“It feels a little awkward.”
I squeezed his hand and my insides quivered. “Because of me? Don’t worry about it. I trust you.” And I did trust him. Mason was solid in every way. Betrayal wasn’t in his DNA.
He rubbed his jaw.
“Do you want to see her again?” I asked.
“I do, but not because there’s anything left between us. The thing is, I was kind of wild before I joined up—selfish, arrogant. I didn’t treat her well, and I owe her an apology.”
“Ah.” I visualized a younger Mason, with his bad-boy looks and minus the battle scars. I could imagine what a terror he might have once been, though it was a far cry from the man he’d become.
“Yeah. I’m surprised she wants to see me at all.”
“Look,” I said, “if you feel you need to apologize, then do what you need to do. I trust you. But thanks for letting me know.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure.”
One corner of his mouth tilted upward. “Thanks.”
“For not throwing a jealous tantrum? You’re setting the bar too low.”
“Trust me, Mad, I set the bar pretty high.”
Inside the tent, I stuffed the remains of my festival exhibit into my messenger bag. The festival-goers were gone and the big take-down had begun, the sound of drills and metal-on-metal ringing through the grounds. Visitors Bureau volunteers folded up the tables, stuffing plastic grapes into cardboard boxes.
Mason carried sections of picket fence from my invisible grape press display to my pickup. At the tailgate, he gave me a bone-melting kiss goodbye and drove off on his Harley.
I reached in my bag for my keys. They weren’t in their pocket. Heart seizing, I scrabbled in my bag, finally dumping the contents on the hood of my truck.
No keys.
I trotted back to the Visitors Bureau tent.
Penny grinned, dangling a set of keys from her fingers. “Looking for these?”
I slumped. “Thank God. If I’d dropped them somewhere in the fairgrounds …”
“One of us would have given you a ride.” She handed them to me and clapped me on the shoulder. “Now go have fun with that handsome boyfriend!”
I hurried to
the parking lot. My handsome boyfriend and I weren’t seeing each other tonight after all—not with Ladies Aid on the march. The sky had darkened to a misty twilight. In the parking lot, I paused and squinted, searching for my truck key.
Something crunched, faint.
“Maddie, look out!”
Dieter grabbed my arm and yanked me sideways. A Buick hit the side of my thigh, rolled past, and crashed into the gate. The metal fence rippled, quivering, but stood.
“What?” I clutched my chest to keep my heart from bursting free. “Who? Is someone inside?”
“Wait here.” He trotted to the Buick and peered through the open window. “Empty. Someone didn’t set their parking brake.” He frowned. “Shouldn’t have needed to here. The ground is pretty flat.”
“Yeah.” I rubbed my thigh, breathing hard. It could have been an accident, but was it?
“Hey, did it hit you? Are you sure you’re okay?”
“It just brushed me. I’m fine.” The keys dug into my palms.
“I can drive you into town. Should I call Adele?”
“Adele.” I pursed my lips. Dieter was so obvious. I didn’t know why he didn’t just ask my friend out.
“Or your mom. Or Adele.”
“You’re hopeless. But really, I’m okay. What are we going to do about that car?”
“I’ll tell security. Don’t worry about it.”
“Thanks.” Getting into my truck, I drove, alone, to the Paranormal Museum. The twilight softened the angles of Main Street’s brick and adobe buildings. My safety-conscious mom had told me that the most common accident at fairs was vehicular. Someone had just forgotten to set their brake. Yeah.
My scalp prickled. Or not. But why would someone aim a Buick at me? No one knew my mom had ordered me to investigate Romeo’s murder, except for Mrs. Bigelow, but we hadn’t had a chance to discuss my so-called investigation yet. And so far, it had been pretty weak. But if someone had attempted murder by Buick … My jaw clenched. All bets were off.
Pulling into a spot in front of the museum, I grabbed my stuff and trudged inside.
Pressed to Death Page 7