Wait? Space? Had he asked for space?
Restless, I paced, my limbs tingling. I was making myself nuts thinking about Mason. What I needed was a distraction, and after Laurel’s visit, playing Nancy Drew didn’t seem like such a bad idea.
I drove to the Wine and Visitors Bureau and parked in the lot beside the small “educational” vineyard. Its grape leaves had faded to yellows and purples and browns. More vines twined up the Visitors Bureau itself, dried leaves rattling against the low brick walls and creeping over the peaked roof.
Inside, I walked past the wine barrel in the lobby and veered left at a placard advertising the haunted house: Thursdays through Sundays from 7 p.m. to 11 p.m.! Sponsored by the Ladies Aid Society in cooperation with the Wine and Visitors Bureau!
A smaller, yellow flyer advertised a yoga retreat sponsored by the San Benedetto Rebelles. San Benedetto wasn’t a hotbed for Civil War reenactors, and California had fought with the Union. Was this Mrs. Gale’s splinter group? I scanned down. Yep, her name was listed as a contact at the bottom of the flyer. I tried to picture my mom at a yoga retreat, failed. No wonder she’d stuck with Ladies Aid.
The clock above the long wooden bar read ten o’clock, too early for tastings. I wound past wine barrels stacked with Kiss My Glass T-shirts and corkscrews and purple wine goblets. At an open office door, I rapped on the frame.
Penny looked up from her desk, her reading glasses low on her nose.
I nodded at her Keep Calm and Drink Wine apron. “Are you running the tastings today?”
She sighed, dropping a sheaf of papers on the desk, and tucked a lock of fuzzy gray hair behind one ear. “Our volunteer fell ill. Don’t tell me there’s anyone out there?”
“Nope. You’re in the clear.”
“Thank goodness. What can I do for you?” Her expression shifted to alarm. “You’re not backing out of the haunted house? There’s no way we can throw anything together in the time we’ve got now.”
“No, I think I’ve got the Haunted San Benedetto exhibit under control. I just wanted to ask about our tent at the festival last weekend. Could someone have gotten into it after hours on Friday?” If Romeo’s blood was on the grape press, he’d been inside that tent.
Twin lines appeared between her brows. “I don’t see why anyone would. Why do you ask?”
“It seemed like someone shifted my display around after I left Friday afternoon,” I lied.
“None of the volunteers would do that, I assure you! They were under strict instructions to leave your exhibits alone.”
“I was thinking more of Romeo Paganini. Could he have gone inside the tent at some point?”
She shifted a stack of brochures on her desk. “He was on the festival committee, so he’d had every right to go inside any tent he wished. But I don’t remember seeing him. He was busy setting up his own tent.”
“He was on the committee?”
She looked down at her plump hands, folded on the desk. “Romeo was very involved in San Benedetto’s wine community. He was passionate, knowledgeable, and caring. His death was a great loss.”
It sounded like a prepared statement. “Could he have gotten inside the festival grounds after hours?”
She stared over her glasses at me, her lips pursed. “So it’s true. You are investigating.”
“No. No. Of course not. That would be ridiculous. But there have been some questions about my grape press, and I’m trying to figure out a timeline.”
Penny canted her head and didn’t say anything for a long moment. “I have the deepest respect for your mother.”
“Um. So do I?” Oh, crud. There was only one reason to bring up my mother. How many people knew she and Mrs. Bigelow had asked me to investigate? Or was there another, darker reason? “Penny, about my mom—”
She rifled through the papers. “He had a key.”
“Excuse me?”
“Romeo had a key to the festival grounds. As I said, he was on the committee.”
So he could have gotten into the Wine and Visitors Bureau tent after hours. My stomach twisted. Had he been killed there and bled on the grape press? I tugged at the collar of my T-shirt. What were the odds the press would be attached to a murder-suicide from the 1920s and a present-day homicide? Could it really be cursed?
Coincidence. That was all. “What time on Friday night did everyone go home?”
“As you should know, we closed the festival grounds to everyone at eight o’clock sharp.”
That was probably in my information packet. But since I’d finished my setup by five thirty, I hadn’t paid attention to that particular deadline. “And everyone actually left? No one lingered behind?”
“Not as far as I know. We swept the area to ensure no one was accidentally locked inside like last year.”
“Who was locked in last year?”
“Mrs. Featherstone. She tried to squeeze out through the fence and got stuck, and …” She shook her head. “It was rather a disaster, though I do believe it inspired her to lose weight. Today she’s in fantastic shape.”
I sucked in my gut. “So someone could have hidden and stayed behind.”
“I suppose so, but as I said, Romeo had a key, so he wouldn’t have had any need to sneak around.”
“Would he have had any reason to meet someone there after hours?”
Penny smoothed the front of her apron. “If he did, it was for personal reasons and not festival business. You see, I was on the committee as well. I’d have known.”
“Did you have a key to the festival grounds?”
She colored. “I hope you don’t consider me a suspect!”
“I can’t imagine a reason you’d want to kill anyone.”
“Romeo was the only person on the committee with a key,” she said, mollified. “The head of the security team also had one, and he wore it on his person. I believe he kept it on one of those key chains that clips to your belt.”
“You were on the committee with Romeo. You knew him well?”
She bobbled her head, indecisive. “Yes and no. I knew him from the committee and his work with the wine community, of course. He was a tremendous supporter of the Wine and Visitors Bureau. But aside from the occasional wine event, I didn’t know him socially. He was a lovely person, you understand, but he wasn’t a farmer.”
And that was the divide. San Benedetto was originally populated by farmers who grew grapes and made wine. Now newcomers were trickling in—amateur vintners and wealthy retirees—a little more elegant, more refined, less earthy. But Romeo was neither amateur nor retiree. Judging by his wine, he’d been a pro.
“Why would someone have wanted to kill him?” I asked.
“I have no idea. There were rumors, of course.”
I leaned my hip against the desk. “What sort of rumors?”
“That he lived up to his name. You know what men can be like.”
I stiffened. Not all men were like that. Not Mason. He was a good man, and I trusted him, and I was not going to call him even if my cell phone was burning a hole in my safari jacket pocket.
“And also …” She bit her lower lip.
“Yes?”
“I shouldn’t.”
“You should.”
“It’s all rumor.”
“I live for rumors.”
“Well, I’ve heard there’s big money moving in San Benedetto.”
“Big money? Like the mob?” No matter how Mafia-like Ladies Aid had become, I didn’t exactly associate them with high finance.
“No, no. An international wine conglomerate, looking to invest. Our wines have always been as good as our better-known neighbors’. We’ve only suffered from a lack of marketing clout.”
That, and the fact that San Benedetto was hot as Hades in the summer and flat as a pancake all year round. Also, when the wind blew from the south we
got a heavy dose of Eau de Cow. It tended to put a damper on the bachelorette-party vineyard limo tours.
“An international corporation could put our region on the map,” she continued.
“That doesn’t sound like a bad thing. Why would it get Romeo killed?”
“It wouldn’t, I guess. It’s just … The vintners are being very hush hush. The only reason I know anything is I overheard two of them muttering about it at a meeting.”
“Who?”
“I can’t remember. But I think the vintners are afraid outside investment by a conglomerate of that size will dilute the San Benedetto brand.”
“Did you ask Romeo about it?”
“He would have been the last person to ask. Romeo was determined to keep the business family-owned. He’d never dilute his family’s ownership with an outside investor.”
“Who was the festival’s head of security?”
“You know him. He’s your friend’s father, Roy Nakamoto.”
I shuffled back a step, bumping into a stack of boxes. “Mr. Nakamoto?” Why hadn’t I known that? Oh yeah, because I’d been too focused on my own booth, and Adele found security gauche.
“The festival is run by volunteers,” Penny reminded me. “As the committee’s head of security, Roy made sure the grounds were opened in the morning and locked up at night. He hired a professional security company to deal with safety and security issues.”
“Was he the only person who had keys to the grounds?”
“I really have no idea what the arrangements were. We trusted him to manage things.”
“Who else was on the festival committee?”
She rattled off a list of names, mainly vineyard owners.
I dutifully noted them down. “Well, if you think of anything—”
“I’ll let you know.”
I left the Visitors Bureau. In the parking lot, I stopped beside the entrance to the educational vineyard and checked my phone.
Mason hadn’t called, and I checked for a signal. All five bars were glowing. My phone was working fine.
The grape leaves rustled in the still air.
Scalp prickling, I looked up. I was alone.
My phone rang and I fumbled, catching it before it could hit the pavement. Breathless, I put it to my ear. “Hello?”
“Maddie? I’m at CW Vineyards. Where are you?” Dieter’s voice crackled, irate.
I checked my watch. I wasn’t late. What had put him in such a mood? “I’m at the Visitors Bureau, just a few minutes away.”
“Well, hurry up, will you?” His voice lowered to a whisper. “The Blue Shirts are killing my Zen.”
I pulled up beside Dieter’s rusty blue pickup. Its bed was filled with tool boxes and ladders, ropes and saw horses. For a moment I simply sat and gazed at the two-story Gothic tasting room. A tabby cat looked up from its spot on the porch and stared back. What would it would be like to live in a home with that much space? Delightful, I guessed, until it came time to clean.
Making a pack mule of myself, I slung my messenger bag over one shoulder, the rope over the other, and hauled the box of creepy dolls from the back of my truck. Across the lawn, the barn door stood open. A curtain fluttered in the Gothic cottage beside it.
I trudged up the steps of the tasting room, nudging the door open with my hip. To the left of the stairs, a new wooden divider hung from the ceiling, splitting the tasting area in two. Yellow arrows taped on the hardwood floor directed people from the stairs through the gap and into the Haunted San Benedetto room. Another arrow directed people from the room, through the gap by the front door.
Inside “my” room, black plastic tablecloths covered the high round tables. A cheap-looking TV sat on a table against one wall. Around it clustered three naked female mannequins.
Something thunked behind me. I jumped, whirling.
Grinning, Dieter brushed his hands on his paint-spattered overalls. The stains matched those on his white T-shirt. A hole near the shoulder exposed his bronzed skin. “Scare you?”
“Did you …? How did you …?” I looked around, up. The only possible place Dieter could have come from was the loft ten feet above us, stacked with wine barrels.
“I’ve been practicing Parkour.” He flexed a bronzed arm. “Pretty cool, eh? I am one with my environment.”
“You jumped off the balcony?! Are you trying to kill yourself ? I’ve already had one dead body to deal with. If you break your neck in my haunted room, the police will arrest me for sure.”
“So what’s with the naked ladies?” He jerked his head of spiky brown hair at the mannequins.
“They’re ghost hunters. I’ve got clothing for them in the back of the truck.”
“Mmm. Dress-up. I’ll help.” He zipped out the door. Laying my things on the hardwood floor, I followed him outside. He hopped into my truck bed and grabbed a stuffed plastic garbage bag. “This it?”
“Yeah. Have you seen Leo or my mother?” I didn’t trust my tech skills with the TV setup.
“I saw your mom at her house this morning. She sent me over here with the mannequins. Your Goth kid was here when I got here. He arranged them.”
“He’s not Goth,” I said. “He just likes to wear black.”
“Whatever. I haven’t seen him lately. He’s probably hiding from the Blue Shirts.” He dropped to the ground. “I thought I was free of this nightmare, and then I was ordered back because someone”—he glared at me—“had the bright idea of rigging the wine barrels in the loft to look like they’re falling.”
“That wasn’t my idea. The way those barrels are jammed up against the banister, I just wanted to make sure they don’t fall. And why don’t you just say no?”
“To Ladies Aid? Are you kidding? I get more than half my work from their members.”
“Coward.”
He flashed his teeth. “I’ve got to admit, the falling barrels are going to be cool. I’m rigging a cable and pulley system …”
I stopped paying attention and reached inside the truck for a section of picket fence. Dieter’s explanation would make no sense to me, and I had enough information battling for space in my brain. Nodding and making encouraging sounds at breaks in his monologue, I followed him inside.
“It’s going to be awesome,” he said. “Kids will leave damp spots on the floor.”
“You’re amazing, Dieter. I also need to hang a noose over the balcony. Since you’re headed up there, can you find a good spot for it?” I tossed him the rope.
“How low do you want the noose to hang?”
“Low enough for people to notice, but too high for them to get tangled in it or swing from. Er, do you know how to make a hangman’s noose?”
“Doesn’t everybody?” He dashed up the stairs. A few moments later he squeezed between the stacked wine barrels in the loft and dangled one end of the rope over the banister. “This high?”
“Higher.”
“This high?”
“A little lower.”
“This high?”
“Perfect.” We were back where we’d started, but if I didn’t order him around a bit, he’d think I didn’t care.
Returning to my truck, I grabbed more picket fencing and hefted it inside. A noose swayed eerily from the loft railing.
Dieter bounded down the stairs and admired his handiwork, hands on his lean hips. “What do you think?”
“Very authentic.” I pulled ghost hunting equipment from my messenger bag and laid the electronics on the table beside the TV.
“What’s this?” Dieter picked up a squat, cylindrical device with colored lights and an antenna sticking from the top.
“A REM-Pod. It picks up electromagnetic signals.” Which meant the nearby TV would send it into overdrive. But the flashing lights and random screeching noises it made should startle the guests.
He squinted at it. “Portable.”
“That’s kind of the point.”
“I mean, someone might steal it.”
“Oh.” And it wasn’t cheap, either.
“Let me think about it,” Dieter said. “I might be able to rig something to clamp it to the table without damaging it.”
“Thanks. Have you figured out how to make the shadow thing?”
He tossed his head. “You mean the shadow of a body swinging from your noose? That’s easy. It’s fixing the front gate that’s making me crazy.”
“What’s wrong with the front gate?”
“Chuck needed to replace it at the last minute, but the new gate doesn’t fit right, and the guys who installed it messed up the hinges. So how’s the murder investigation going?”
“Ask the police.”
“I don’t care about their investigation. I want to know what Mad Dog thinks.”
“I’m not …” I hated that nickname! Suspicion tickled my spine and I crossed my arms. “Wait a minute. Why do you want to know?”
“Just curious.”
“Why? Have you got odds on me solving it?” I joked.
“If I did—and I’m not saying I do—you couldn’t place a bet on yourself. Conflict of interest. It’s why they threw Pete Rose out of baseball.”
I lowered my brows, unsure if he was ribbing me or not. “You’re a paragon of virtue.”
“So, seriously, how’s it going?”
“If I were investigating—and I’m not saying I am—the field of suspects is limited. You know anything I should know?”
“I couldn’t interfere.”
“Right. Conflict of interest.” I glanced out the window.
Leo stormed out of the cottage by the barn, jaw set, dark hair mussed.
Jocelyn trotted after him, waving her arms.
He stopped, turned, and said something, his neck corded.
She stepped back, one hand to her chest.
I wavered at the window, torn between rescue and discretion.
Chuck Wollmer stepped from the cottage and shouted something.
Leo needed a rescue. “Be right back,” I said to Dieter.
I walked onto the porch and waved. “Leo! Great job in here! Thanks!”
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