twenty-two
Not that night.
Not all the next day.
Sunday arrived, and the setting sun slanted through the blinds, illuminating everything that was wrong with my museum. The floor in the main room looked shabby next to the new linoleum in the gallery. The photo frames lining the walls were cheap, battered. The brass skull needed polishing. But I’d known this would never be a high-class establishment. That was part of its paranormal charm.
And no customer likes a mournful museum curator. So I sat in my long-legged chair and smiled at the milling customers.
The wall phone rang, and I pounced on it. “Paranormal Museum, this is Mad—”
“You promised to pick up that grape press on Friday!” Mrs. Bigelow shouted.
I winced, holding the phone away from my ear. The museum was busy, tourists clotting the rooms thanks to the haunted house.
“Sorry,” I said. “Something came up.”
“I did not accept excuses from my children, and I assume your mother does not accept them from you.”
“Mrs.—”
She hung up.
I checked my watch, flipped the sign to Closed. It was past five o’clock. Time to shoo out the crowd and leave.
They trickled from the museum, their arms loaded with goodies. I sold three coffee mugs, a painting of a pumpkin patch, and a Ouija board. Normally, the sales would make me cackle with capitalist glee. Today I just shoved the money in the register and slammed it shut. Thank God the day was over.
I locked up after the last of the customers and checked the cat’s food bowl. A quick search assured me GD hadn’t escaped into the tea room (he was sleeping on top of the spirit cabinet). I whisked a broom around the linoleum floor and escaped.
I pulled out of the alley and braked to a stop, sinking my head onto the steering wheel. That damned grape press. I needed to get it from the haunted house.
But I didn’t like being shouted at by Mrs. Bigelow. Mason hadn’t called. And I was exhausted.
“Screw it.” Bigelow could wait one more day.
I drove home, settling in with a delivery pizza and a bottle of wine.
Past midnight, I stumbled into bed, trying not to think of Mason. Each time my thoughts wandered in his direction, the muscles in my neck and shoulders bunched. So I pondered the murders instead.
Did the police know about the vineyard deal? From what little I’d heard about Romeo, he didn’t seem the type to sell. But the sabotage at his vineyard had cost him dearly, which would have increased the pressure on him to take the deal. Had that been the motivation for the sabotage, or was it more personal?
Assuming Romeo had been asked to be part of the deal, there were plenty of suspects who’d have wanted him to sell. Other vintners. Jocelyn, perhaps, but she was dead and out of the running as a murder suspect. Leo? With his father and Jocelyn dead, he could sell out, do whatever he wanted with the money.
I wasn’t sure if Elthia had a dog in this particular hunt. But her family owned a small vineyard. What if they wanted to sell out, and she, being Romeo’s mistress, knew he was scotching the deal?
I rolled over, and the bed creaked beneath me. Moonlight streamed through the window and made eerie silhouettes of the oak branches outside.
And speaking of vineyard owners, what about Chuck and the vampire, Pryce? I’d seen them with Jocelyn in the wine tent—sealing the deal once Romeo was dead? If Jocelyn had been ready to sell, how would her death have affected the deal?
Frustrated, I fisted my hands in the warm sheets. There were too many suspects with too many motives. Please, please, let the killer not be Leo.
My thoughts tumbled to the grape press mystery. If Romeo’s murder had been a crime of finance, Alcina and Luigi’s murders appeared to be crimes of passion.
Or were they? Back in 1922, air travel was in its infancy. Poor roads made cross-country travel by car a long and bumpy proposition. Alcina’s fiancé couldn’t have committed the crime and made it back to Harvard a week later for his wedding. But someone had moved and set fire to those bodies.
I had a dark suspicion who the killer was, but I feared it would take a séance to prove it.
I rolled over, knocking a pillow to the floor.
And what if I was wrong about Romeo’s murder being a crime motivated by money? He’d been having an affair with Elthia, and love made a depressing motive for murder. Just ask poor, long-dead Alcina.
Past and present crimes jumbled together. I fell into an uneasy sleep and dreamed of grape vats and vineyards and vampires.
Eyes gritty, I dragged myself from bed late on Monday. The night had brought me clarity, and I knew now what I had to do.
I showered and dressed in beige drawstring slacks and an army-green tank top. Then I called Mason.
“Maddie, it’s good to hear from you.”
His voice was a warm rumble, and I squeezed my eyes shut. “Hi, Mason. How are things going?”
“Yesterday I took Jordan and Anabelle to Old Town Sacramento. We stuffed ourselves on fudge.”
In spite of myself, I smiled. It was hard to imagine Mason of the rippling muscles as a chocoholic. “Are you free for coffee this afternoon?” My mouth went dry. It felt like I was asking for a first date.
“When and where?”
I considered the Fox and Fennel, but we needed privacy. “Three o’clock? The Wok and Bowl?” A 1950s-themed bowling alley and Chinese restaurant, the Wok and Bowl brewed rocking java. Plus, it was noisy, so no one would overhear our conversation.
“I’ll be there.” He paused. “It felt strange going out without you yesterday.”
My throat constricted. “You need time with your family. I’ll see you this afternoon.”
We hung up, and I blew out my breath. Next up: present-day murder investigation. I called Dieter.
“Yeah?” On his end of the line, a circular saw screamed, winding to silence.
“It’s Maddie, I needed to—”
“I’m at your mom’s house.”
Even better. “I’ll be right over.”
I drove to my mother’s ranch-style home and parked beside Dieter’s truck. A bead of sweat trickled down my neck and I lifted my hair, knotting it into a bun. The circular saw shrieked, cutting the cloudless sky.
I crunched across fallen leaves, following the noise to the back yard. Waiting a respectful distance away, I watched Dieter cut through a redwood plank. Sawdust swirled in the balmy air. It filmed his goggles, drifted to rest in his spiky brown hair. One end of the board thunked to the concrete patio.
Turning off the saw, he stepped back, rubbing his palms on the front of his overalls. He raised his goggles to the top of his head. “What’s up, Mad?”
I stepped out from behind a camellia bush. “What are you doing?”
The sliding glass door scraped back. My mother, neat in a silky blouse and pressed jeans, stepped onto the patio. “He’s helping with my new low-water garden. What brings you here this morning?”
“Dieter, you mentioned you repaired the gate at Chuck’s vineyard. What happened to the old one?”
“Chuck told me one of his workers hit it. He must have hit it pretty damned hard, because the thing was off its hinges and busted into eight pieces. Why?”
“Just curious.” I turned on my mother. “Mom, what’s really going on with Ladies Aid?”
She raised a brow. “Really going on? I don’t know what you mean.”
“You’re up to something,” I said.
“Madelyn, I explained to you about the lemon bars—”
“Lemon bars?” Dieter asked.
“Then why did you insist I investigate Romeo’s murder?”
She toyed with the silver squash-blossom necklace at her throat. “I was worried about Cora. I knew Eliza would blame her for Romeo’s death and thought it would ease her mind if she knew you were in her corner. Oh! Did I tell you? Your brother Shane got a promotion!”
“Huh.” Bringing up my brother was a cheap attempt to divert me. There was more to this story.
“He wasn’t clear on what the promotion was, exactly,” she said, “but I’m sure we’ll know soon.”
“No doubt.” I folded my arms over my chest.
Dieter slung a two-by-four over his shoulder. “What’s with the lemon bars?”
“They’re addictive,” I said.
“I have some in the kitchen,” my mother said. “Would you like some?”
“I wouldn’t start if I were you,” I said. “Highly addictive.”
His gaze ping-ponged between the two of us. He shifted his weight. “Um, maybe later, Mrs. Kosloski. So how’s the investigation going, Mad?” he asked, trying to look disinterested.
“You’ll have to wait and see, just like all the other bettors.” I lowered my head and stared at my mother.
“I don’t actually bet,” Dieter said. “I simply facilitate—”
“Whatever.” I flapped my hand at him. “I’m off to crime-solve.”
I stomped to my truck. Maybe I shouldn’t have tackled my mother in front of Dieter.
Meh, she wouldn’t have come clean even if we’d talked in private.
Levering myself into the cab of my truck, I slammed the door. A light breeze wafted through the open window, rustling the oak branches above me. I leaned my head against the rest. I was getting closer, but I still had zero proof to back up my suspicions.
There was one stop I hadn’t made, and even though my stomach fluttered with nerves, I was looking forward to it. I drove into town and glided along San Benedetto Avenue. Parking on the street, I hopped out and fed the meter.
Green-and-white-striped awnings fluttered above the pastry-filled windows of Sugar Hall Bakery. I walked inside, my skin shivering in the air conditioning. The scents of baking flour, sugar, and butter tangled in the cool air. Heaven.
Like my museum, the bakery had a checkerboard floor. Unlike my museum, their glass cases were filled with a dizzying array of pastries.
I stepped up to the gleaming counter. An aproned man with salt-and-pepper hair dealt change to a plump elderly woman. She lifted a white box from the counter and tottered off.
He adjusted his paper hat. “Can I help you?” he asked in a Slavic-sounding accent.
“I hear you’ve got fantastic lemon bars.”
He grinned, showing off a gold tooth. “The best in San Benedetto. How many would you like?”
“A dozen?” I could hardly grease the wheels by ordering just one bar.
I followed him along the counter to the lemon bars, gold and sugar-dusted and perfectly square. Those looked like Jocelyn’s all right. “My friend, Jocelyn, raved about them,” I said, throwing a note of what I hoped was sadness into my voice.
“Mrs. Paganini was one of our best clients.” He shook his head, loading lemon bars into the white bakery box. “Tragedy. A real tragedy.”
“Had you seen her recently?”
His eyes narrowed. “Why do you want to know?”
“I was at her house the night she died, and she had some lemon squares on the coffee table. I thought—”
“YOU!” He snapped the lid of the box in place and glared at me across the counter.
“Me?”
“You are the woman who is trying to solve the crime. I tell you nothing!”
“But why?”
“I make bet with Dieter. No help! Take your lemon bars and go!” He stomped to the register and rang me up, punching the buttons.
Dieter and his stupid bet! I gripped my wallet, clutching it to my chest and feeling like I’d been caught with my hand in the cookie jar. (That happened a lot when I was growing up.)
Gulping, I paid and scuttled back to my truck with the lemon bars. The baker hadn’t confirmed Jocelyn had bought the bars the day of her death. But she had been a customer, and these looked like the same bars. Ladies Aid was off the hook.
Sitting in the truck, I found Elthia’s phone number in my wallet, dialed.
“Hello?” she asked, her tone cautious.
“Elthia, this is Maddie Kosloski.”
“Oh! What … What do you want?”
“I’d like to meet.”
“I’m super busy right now.”
“We can do it later, if it’s more convenient.”
“No, I don’t think so.”
Well, it had been worth a shot. “You told me Leo had once threatened Romeo.”
“I don’t remember saying anything of the sort.”
“Well, you did. Now, what exactly did Leo threaten Romeo with? And please think carefully before answering. It’s important.”
She hesitated. “I may have only thought Leo threatened Romeo. You know they had a tense relationship.”
“Leo is a teenager whose father left his mother and married another woman. Of course he had issues. But that’s a long way from a real threat.”
“I don’t know why you’re defending him. He’s an angry young man who happens to benefit from the deaths of both his father and Jocelyn. If he looks guilty, don’t blame me.” She hung up.
Elthia was lying. I thought I knew why.