“But worth it,” my mother said. “Things can’t go on like this.”
“I understand what Ladies Aid means to you. I went through it too, after …” The speaker cleared her throat. “But now, when I look back, I realize I was trying to fill a hole with something that had no meaning.”
Fill a hole? Were they talking about their Ladies Aid shenanigans or something more private? My cheeks burned. And was I stooping to spying on my own mother?
“Like everything else,” my mother said, “it has the meaning we give it. Intellectually, I know what you’re saying, but I’m just not willing to let it go. Not yet.”
I shifted. Enough. I didn’t need to skulk. Slamming the door, I walked into the living room and rocked back on my heels. Cora Gale was sitting on my mother’s best sofa, sipping a cup of tea.
“Hi, Mom. Hi, Mrs. Gale.”
Mrs. Gale tensed on the pale green couch, her shoulders rising to her ears. Then they dropped, the lines of her blue tunic flowing around her hips. She tossed her head of loose gray hair. “Maddie, dear. How nice to see you again.”
My mother frowned. “What are you doing here, Madelyn?” In her faded denim top and white jeans, she almost vanished into the background of the living room. Part shabby chic, part country kitsch, the pastel furniture was so pale it looked white in certain lighting. The walls were painted a vanilla pudding color. Distressed wood beams crossed the ceiling.
“I need rope for a noose and mannequins,” I said. “I was told you could set me up.”
Cora laughed. “For a noose? You’re not plotting a murder, are you?”
“The Visitors Bureau drafted me into working on the haunted house,” I said.
A shadow crossed Cora’s face. “I’m sorry to hear it, dear.”
“Why? Do you expect something to go wrong, like at the grape stomp?”
“I should hope not, but with Ladies—”
“Madelyn,” my mother said, shooting Cora a repressive look, “there’s rope in the garage. The mannequins—how many do you need?”
“Three. Preferably female. Oh, and I need some clothing for them too.”
She flipped her hand in a shooing motion. “There’s a bag of clothing for the secondhand store by the garage door. Take what you need.”
“Thanks.” I flopped into a soft wing chair. “I don’t suppose you can tell me anything about Romeo Paganini?”
My mother shook her head. “Madelyn—”
“Because I’m afraid the wrong person may be blamed for the crime,” I said.
“Not you,” Cora said.
“No,” I said, “I don’t think so. I mean, why would the police think I killed Romeo?”
“Then I don’t believe the investigation is something you want to get involved in,” Cora said.
“Neither do I, but I seem to be involved whether I like it or not. The police found bloodstains on the grape press that Romeo accused me of stealing from him. And since I found the body …” I trailed off.
“Bloodstains?” my mother asked. “Does that mean Romeo was killed inside the Wine and Visitors Bureau tent?”
“Possibly.” I thought about it some more. He’d been stabbed. The blood could have splattered. The police believed he was killed late Friday night. What had he been doing inside the festival grounds at that hour? And if he’d been killed in the tent, why bother moving the body into the grape vat? Unless someone who was working in the Visitors Bureau tent had killed him and moved the body to divert suspicion. But the setup for the tent was finished late Friday afternoon. The festival grounds had been closed to everyone sometime after that. No one had good reason to be inside that tent.
“Romeo could have gone inside the tent to repossess the grape press,” I said.
“And then someone followed him in and killed him?” my mother asked.
We sat in silence, pondering that.
“So, Mrs. Gale. What are you doing here?” I asked.
She flushed. “Oh. Just tea with an old friend.”
“Not that old.” My mother laughed, unconvincing.
My eyes narrowed. They were terrible liars.
The doorbell rang, and Cora’s teacup rattled in its saucer. She set it on the low coffee table. “You don’t think—”
“Probably someone selling magazine subscriptions,” my mother said. “Wait here.” She strode from the living room.
The front door snicked open. “Betsy!” my mother shrieked. “What a surprise!”
Cora bolted from the couch, looked around wildly, and dove behind it.
I gaped, marveling at her sixty-something agility. “Um …”
“Shhh,” she hissed from behind the sofa.
“Do you have guests?” Betsy’s voice caroled through the hallway.
“Only Madelyn.”
“Oh? Your daughter’s here? What luck!”
Lurching from my comfy chair, I grabbed Cora’s blue purse from the coffee table and handed it to her over the sofa.
“Thank you,” she mouthed.
I dropped onto the sofa and spread my arms along its pale green back.
Betsy Kendle strode into the living room. Mouth tight, my mother trailed behind her.
“There you are.” Betsy’s round face wreathed in a smile. Cradling a white bakery box beneath one arm, she tugged down the hem of her Ladies Aid T-shirt with the other. “You left the haunted house so quickly, I didn’t get a chance to tell you that you’re invited to our Witches’ Tea for the volunteers. You may not be a member of Ladies Aid—yet—but you’re still a volunteer.”
“Thanks!” Were they prospecting for new members? I couldn’t imagine a more horrifying fate.
Something thumped behind me.
“What was that?” Betsy asked.
“What was what?” my mother said.
“That thump.”
“Probably an animal on the roof,” my mother said.
“Those darn raccoons. I hope you locked your garbage cans.” Betsy wagged a plump finger at me. “Come to the tea, and be sure to bring your witch’s hat!”
“Oh, I will!” Because who doesn’t own a witch’s hat? Seriously. I’ve got two, one with LED lights.
She turned to my mother. “Did you get a new car?”
“New car?” My mother canted her head, lips pursed.
“The Prius out front,” Betsy said.
“Oh, that! A friend is letting me test-drive it.”
“Cora Gale has a car like that.”
My mom cast down her gaze, demure, and toyed with her silver squash-blossom necklace. “A male friend. Shall I take those from you?” She nodded toward the box.
“Oh! Yes.” Betsy’s voice hardened. “Now, you understand where to make the delivery?”
My mother reached for the box. “Yes.”
Betsy stepped backward, the box out of reach. “And you know what your contact looks like?”
My mom made another unsuccessful grab. “I do.”
“This is an important asset,” Betsy said. “He can’t be compromised. If anything goes bad—”
“I know, I know! Sanitize!” My mom snatched the box from her hands and set it on an end table. “Thank you, Betsy. Madelyn and I will both be attending the Witches’ Tea, and I’ve no doubt the haunted house will be the success it is every year.”
Contacts? Assets? Had Ladies Aid gone rogue? What was my mother into?
“More so, I hope,” Betsy said. “Bye!” She waggled her fingers at me, and my mother ushered her out. The front door clicked shut.
“Is she gone?” Cora whispered.
I craned my neck, looking over the sofa back. She crouched, her blue tunic puddling on the sisal carpet. I shrugged.
My mother returned to the living room. “Clear! She’s gone.”
Cora clambered to her
feet. Sighing, she smoothed the front of her tunic. “Deliveries, Fran?”
“It’s just this once,” my mom said.
“That’s how it begins,” Cora said. “You need to get out now, before it’s too late.”
“We’ve already discussed this, and you know my intentions.”
“I don’t,” I said. “What’s going on?”
Cora grasped my arm, her eyes widening. “Wait a minute. Betsy said she saw you at the haunted house. You don’t think she followed you here?”
“No.”
“Why would she come all the way over here to make a delivery?” Cora asked. “She’s supposed to be tormenting the volunteers at CW Vineyards.”
“Because she’s Eliza Bigelow’s second in command,” my mom said, “which means she does double the work.”
Cora paled. “Or Eliza suspects!”
“Suspects what?” I asked.
“I need to go,” Cora said. “I knew coming here was too risky.” She hurried away, pivoted, trotted behind the couch, and grabbed her purse. “Bye, Maddie. So nice seeing you again, dear.” She rushed out. The front door slammed.
I lifted my brows. “Mom?”
“The rope’s in the garage.” Turning on her heel, she whisked the white box from the end table and strode into the kitchen.
I trotted after her. “What’s in the box?”
“Nothing you need to concern yourself with.” My mother laid the box on the gray granite island.
“Because it sounded a lot like Betsy is your … handler. What’s the big secret? Has Ladies Aid gone to the dark side? And why did Cora threaten the grape stomp at the Harvest Festival?”
“She did no such thing.”
“Yes, she did. I was there.”
“No, she didn’t.” My mom walked to the distressed cupboard, with its missing cabinet doors, and grabbed a red coffee mug from a shelf. “Oh for heaven’s sake, Madelyn. You always had the most fertile imagination. I remember when you were a little girl, and—”
“You’re not going to distract me with memories of childhood. What’s in the box?”
“Lemon bars, if you must know.”
“Oh really?” Sliding the box closer, I lifted the lid.
My breath caught. Perfect rows of sunshine-yellow squares dusted with powdered sugar glistened inside the box, their lemony scent light in the air. In spite of my full stomach, my mouth watered. “They really are lemon bars.”
“Well, what did you think? That I’m dealing narcotics?”
“Then what was with all the talk about contacts and assets and sanitizing?”
She filled the mug with water and stuck it in the microwave. “If you must know, we deliver them to our elderly members who don’t get out so much.”
“Mmm … lemon bars.” I reached for one, and she smacked my hand away. “Ow.”
“And that’s what she meant by sanitize! I can’t deliver germy lemon bars. Go get your rope.”
Shaking the pain from my hand, I stomped to the garage and rummaged for the rope. All that fuss over lemon bars? There had to be more to the situation—Cora’s panicked disapproval, the general air of menace … Or my imagination really had carried me away. Maybe the Mason situation was a case of much ado about nothing too. Maybe I’d imagined the strain in his voice, the sense that something was wrong.
But I doubted it.
eleven
In theory, Tuesday was my day off, but when you’re self-employed, there’s no such thing. So there I sat on Tuesday morning, parked in front of my museum. The windows of Mason’s motorcycle store were dark, a Closed sign in the window. I checked my watch. His place should have been open by now. Tightening my lightweight, army-green safari jacket around me, I glanced up at the windows to his apartment. The blinds were drawn.
He hadn’t called.
I smoothed the thighs of my jeans. In fairness, I hadn’t called him either, though I’d itched to do it. But Mason had said he’d call. We were in each other’s pockets so much that I wanted to honor that.
I bit the inside of my cheek. The darkened shop left me troubled. I drew out my phone, dialed.
Voicemail.
“Hi, Mason. I’m just calling to check in. It’s Tuesday morning. Your shop’s closed, and I hope everything’s all right. Please call when you get the chance.”
Dissatisfied, I hung up. He’d said he’d call. I didn’t want to be clingy, but I didn’t like that closed shop.
Unlocking the door to the museum, I walked inside, scooping up the mail piled behind the door. While GD munched kibble, I rifled through the envelopes. There was only one bill—from the utility company. I laid it atop the other unpaid bills on the shelf beneath the cash register. The pile of envelopes cascaded sideways.
Shrugging out of my jacket, I hung it on the hook behind the counter and checked my watch. I had two hours before my appointment with Dieter at the haunted house. Sighing, I edged a pumpkin aside and spread the checkbook binder across the counter. The cat meowed at me from the checkerboard floor, his bowl empty.
“You’ve already eaten, and at least one of us in this partnership is going to be fit.”
Turning his back on me, GD licked his paws.
I puzzled over the code for the grape press purchase. Was the last digit a five or a six? The black cat leapt onto the glass counter and walked across the open binder, butting his head against my hand. Absently, I scratched behind his ears. He whipped his head, his teeth nipping my palm. It was only a warning shot, and I shoved him away. He yawned, turned, and sat on one of the unpaid bills.
I tugged it from beneath his furry butt. “Thanks.”
Getting my calculator from under the counter, I calculated Leo’s payroll, checked the tables to figure his employment tax. Someday, maybe I’d earn enough to hire an accountant.
Purring, GD stretched, crumpling the papers.
“Oh, come on!”
He bolted to his feet, back arched, hissing.
I followed his gaze to the window, and a shadow crossed in front of the closed blinds. The doorknob rattled.
GD growled low in his throat.
Sliding off the tall chair, I walked around the counter and peeked through the blinds on the door.
Detective Laurel Hammer glared through the slats, her blue eyes blazing.
My hands fell to my sides. Why hadn’t I paid attention to GD? I still wasn’t sure about the cat’s ghost detecting abilities, but his Laurel awareness skills were dead on.
But Laurel had caught me, fair and square. I unlocked the door and let her inside my museum.
GD dropped from the counter and streaked into the gallery.
“Detective Hammer. What can I do for you?”
She shoved the sleeve of her tan linen jacket past her elbow, exposing the blue coil of a tattoo. Her mouth twisted in a bone-chilling smile. “I’d like to see those knives.”
“Sure,” I ground out. She had to know my knives had nothing to do with the murder. Except there had been blood on the grape press, and the murdered owner of said press had accused me of stealing it, and I had found the body.
I swallowed. Maybe my true-hearted innocence wasn’t so obvious.
“Over here.” Leading her to the far wall, I pointed to a set of knives arranged in a fan pattern inside a wood-and-glass shadowbox.
She blinked. “Those are throwing knives.”
“From a circus. The knife thrower accidentally killed his assistant during a show. At least, the jury thought it was an accident.”
“I can’t believe people pay to see this garbage.”
A shadow slunk along the checkerboard floor, and I twitched. GD Cat prowled toward the detective, his belly low to the ground. He bounded atop a shelf and wound his way past haunted articles, ears flat against his head.
Wary, I tracked GD’s pr
ogress. “The knives are supposed to be cursed, or at least they were before Herb bound them.”
“Bound them?” Her lips curled in a sneer. “You don’t actually believe this stuff.”
“I suspect curses are in the eye of the beholder.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“If you think something’s cursed or bad luck, you start to attribute every bad thing that happens to the curse. You might even subconsciously start causing bad things to happen.”
“So you admit it’s all fake.”
“I didn’t say that. Lighten up. It’s almost Halloween.” I motioned to the black streamers draped from the corners of the room like bunting. “Haven’t you ever seen something you can’t explain?”
“Yeah, the way people tend to drop dead in your vicinity, and it’s never your fault.”
GD crept along the high shelf, his green eyes fixed on the back of Laurel’s head. He hunched, ready to spring.
“GD!” I pointed at him. “Off!”
Pulling his mouth back in a snarl, he leapt to the floor, his sneak attack spoiled.
I didn’t understand GD’s beef with Laurel. She’d not only helped save his life once but also delighted in making mine a living hell. But there’s no accounting for cats.
Glancing at GD, the detective lifted the shadowbox from the wall. “The knives are evidence.”
“Seriously?”
“Do you think I’m joking?”
My shoulders slumped. Between the haunted house and Laurel’s depredations, my museum exhibits were dwindling.
The cat leapt onto the haunted rocking chair and washed his paws. His green eyes glinted.
I showed Laurel out. Keeping a wary eye on GD, I finished writing Leo’s paycheck and checked my watch. Only an hour had passed, but time seemed to bend when Laurel was involved.
Stretching, I walked outside, blinking in the sunshine. Mason’s shop was still closed. The blinds in his upstairs apartment were open.
My hand drifted to the phone in the pocket of my jeans, but I clenched my fist and shoved it in my jacket pocket. I’d left a message. He’d call. After all, Mason had asked for space. I needed to give it to him.
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