ten

Sunday passed, Ursula reading chocolate dregs and tarot cards, filling the museum to the top of its black crown molding with customers. The museum was closed on Mondays, a day I’d normally spend taking inventory or doing marketing. But I was too restless to do that kind of work today. I was still trying to make sense of the stampede at the vigil.

Sun sparkled off the Formica counters in my fifties-era kitchen as I poured over the newspaper article, looking for clues.

The firecrackers had been set off behind the picnic table where the stereo speakers had been placed. At the edge of the crowd and just above the embankment to the creek, the table and speakers had provided a good hiding spot for the prankster.

But had it been a prankster? I bounced my heel on the base rung of my chair. Or were the firecrackers somehow connected to Atticus’s murder? Sam had been lurking by the gazebo. Maybe he hadn’t been willing to let bygones be bygones after all.

I rubbed the back of my hand and smoothed the paper on the kitchen table. My hand and calf ached from getting stepped on. And my neck still hadn’t recovered. But I was okay, and no one had been seriously injured at the park. It could have been so much worse.

My cell phone rang. Distracted by the streaks of black newspaper ink on my fingers, I answered without checking the caller ID. “Hello?”

“Madelyn, this is your mother. Is it true you were at the vigil Saturday night?”

“Yeah, but I’m okay.” I rubbed my palms clean on the thighs of my jeans. I was a little surprised my mother hadn’t been at the park herself. As president of the Ladies Aid society, she was ubiquitous at public events. But I was glad she’d passed on this one.

“And you were the one who discovered Mr. Reine’s body?”

I winced. “Where did you hear that?”

“So, it’s true!”

“Well, yes, but—”

“This is all my fault.”

I leaned back in my kitchen chair. It wobbled alarmingly. “Your fault? Why? Do you know something about Reign Chocolate?”

“Not really. If you must know, they’ve been rather standoffish when it comes to community events.”

“That surprises me. They advertise that they source their ingredients locally. Except for the cocoa beans.”

“That’s not the same as—You are investigating this, aren’t you?”

“I wouldn’t say investigating.” I rose and set my lunch plate in the sink. “But I did find Atticus’s body, and—”

“I know I’ve encouraged you in the past—you were so lost when you returned to California—but I was wrong. You need to leave this to Jason. He’s such a lovely man. I was thinking of inviting him over to dinner. Do you think it’s too soon?”

“No, it’s—wait. What? You were wrong?” My mother was never wrong. Or at least she never admitted it.

“It’s bad enough that your brother works in those awful countries. Every day I check the news to see if someone’s tried to blow up his embassy. My heart can’t take worrying about you being in jeopardy too.”

I leaned one hip against the counter. “Mom—”

“No, I mean it. I realize forbidding you will only encourage you to do it anyway. I simply want you to think about the risks. I’d like to have grandchildren someday, and since your brother and sister show no sign of procreating, that leaves you. You could have been killed at that vigil.”

I squirmed. “It was just some stupid kids with firecrackers.” My mom had been casting long, weepy, and creepy gazes my way ever since we’d gotten into a dangerous situation last winter. I hoped she got over it soon.

“How are things going with Jason, by the way?” she asked.

My face heated. It hadn’t taken long for her to cycle back from procreation to my boyfriend. “I’m not talking about my love life with you.”

“I don’t see why not,” she said. “It’s a perfectly innocent question. Now, he doesn’t have any children from his prior marriage, does he?”

“Mom!” This was getting way too personal, and no, he didn’t.

“What?”

I drew a deep breath and crossed my ink-stained fingers. “I’m not investigating. I’m just keeping my ear to the ground, like anyone would. I know I’m no private detective.”

“You could be a detective, don’t get me wrong. You’re quite clever. I’d just prefer you to stay alive. Jason too, of course, but that’s different. He’s a professional, and he’s armed.”

I almost asked her about any gossip she’d heard on the gang at Reign, but then I remembered I wasn’t investigating. “Well, I’m okay. Thanks for calling.”

“Have you spoken with Harper lately?”

“Harper?” I asked, surprised. “We met for girls’ night on Friday. Why?”

“Oh, no reason. Just curious. Let me know about that dinner with Jason. Bye!”

“Bye.” Perplexed and a little deflated, I stared at the phone. My mother usually had her finger on the pulse of all the local gossip. Too bad I couldn’t pick her brain without admitting I was investigating. What I needed was an alternate source.

I escaped to my laptop and the wide, wonderful world of social media. Lola Emerson-Malke was plastered all over the Internet. She had social accounts on every platform I knew about, and probably some I didn’t.

She’d posted photos of the vigil—pre-riot—and I scanned them for clues. There were lots of artful shots of candlelit faces and close-ups of somber mourners, but none of Orson.

My mouth twisted. Leaving her husband out of the shots seemed kind of weird. If she was keeping up the social media for business purposes, Orson, as the last surviving chocolate maker, should be featured.

I scanned through several vigil pics of India, her expression bleak. If India was faking her mourning, she was a damned good actress.

Something rapped the kitchen window, and I looked up, startled. A small brown bird pecked the glass, cocked its head, and flew off. Lost in thought, I stared past the blue curtains.

I shook it off and checked the social media accounts of my other suspects. Reign Chocolate’s accounts hadn’t been updated since Atticus’s death, and there were no clues as to his murder on the site that I could find.

For the heck of it, I checked up on my friends. Adele’s accounts were filled with the usual tea and scone recipes and tasteful photos of tea sets and flowers.

Harper … My brows lifted. Harper had gotten active lately on social media, posting pictures of clients and charity work she was involved in. I whistled. She was involved in a lot of charity work. Good for her. She’d been private in the past, for fear that her interest in Italian witchcraft would be discovered. I was a little surprised to see her stepping out online now. I bit the inside of my cheek. Had I imagined a change in her? If something was up, she’d tell me. Right?

I should post more about the museum. Maybe I should get myself online more? After all, it was only an online persona. It wasn’t real.

I looked out the kitchen window again. The fog had cleared, and blue sky framed my aunt’s two-story house next door. Vineyards and orchards stretched as far as the eye can see, which was pretty far. San Benedetto was so flat, you could watch your dog run away for a week.

Good thing I owned a cat then, though GD would take issue at being labeled a possession. In his opinion, I was staff.

I sighed. Enough messing around online. It wasn’t getting me anywhere, and it was high time I got out of my apartment. I really needed to visit to Penny at the Wine and Visitors Bureau and find out if she had any intel on the chocolate company.

Grabbing my purse and a lightweight blue jacket, I walked downstairs to my truck and drove into town.

The Wine and Visitors Bureau was in a gabled building on the outskirts of downtown. Vines, just starting to bud, climbed its brick walls. I parked in the lot beside the educational vineyard.

Like my museum, the Visitors Bureau was closed Mondays. But I knew Penny would be in her office. I walked to the side door and gave it an experimental tug. It creaked open, and Penny plowed into me.

“Ooof!”

We bounced off each other.

“Sorry,” we said in unison.

She touched her curly gray hair and brushed the ample frontage of her black cardigan. It was embroidered with tiny bunches of grapes and wine bottles. “Hello, Maddie. I hear your chocolate exhibit is not to be missed. Something about a fortune-teller?”

“I’m glad to know you heard about it.” I rubbed the back of my neck. “She’ll be at the museum every weekend this month.”

Penny’s brow furrowed. “Weekends are my busiest time, but I wonder if I can escape for a chocolate reading? And speaking of escapes, no offense, but I’m in something of a hurry.” Her gaze traveled from my head to my toes, taking in my neat white blouse, jeans, and open-toed black shoes. “Unless you want to be my plus-one and come to lunch with me? I really don’t enjoy these things. I’m just not the networking type.”

“What things?”

“Lola Emerson-Malke is having a tea at her house. If she had any public spirit, she would have held it at the Fox and Fennel.” She sniffed. “Unless Adele is catering it at Lola’s and I hadn’t heard?”

“I don’t think so.” Surely Adele would have mentioned that.

“Too bad. So, would you like to be my plus-one?”

My cheese sandwich hadn’t exactly been filling …“Sure. I’d love to come.”

“I’ll drive.”

We piled into her Honda. Cardboard boxes jammed the rear seat, forcing my passenger seat forward. I hunched, uncomfortable, my knees scraping the glove compartment.

We roared onto the road, and I hastily buckled my seat belt.

“Sorry about the boxes,” Penny said. “I hope you can fit all right.” She zipped out to pass an asparagus truck and I smothered a yelp.

A yellow VW bug roared toward us. Horn bleating, Penny swerved back into our lane.

I caught a glimpse of the VW’s driver, Herb, shaking his fist as we flashed past.

“I’m glad you stopped by the Visitors Bureau,” she said.

I gulped. “Oh?”

Her hands clenched the wheel. “It’s this murder. It brings back such terrible memories.”

Of a body Penny had discovered. I bit my bottom lip. I’d been there when she’d found that body. It hadn’t been a good day.

Her voice quavered. “Perhaps I’m being silly in my old age. San Benedetto always seemed like such a safe and quiet place. Now … I’m not so sure. This has to stop, Maddie.”

Guilt twisted inside me. But I wasn’t responsible for what had happened at Reign. So why was my heart pounding, sweat beading my hairline? Was it remorse, or fear of becoming road kill?

“You heard I discovered Atticus’s body?” I asked.

“I had not heard that. Does your mother know you’re looking into this?”

“Who says I am?”

Penny shot me a look. “Because you’re always in the thick of it, aren’t you?”

I slumped in my seat. “I’d rather she didn’t know. She’ll just worry.”

“You can’t blame her for that.”

“No.” I sighed. “I guess I can’t.”

“But I confess, I’m glad you’re taking an interest. You were so decisive when …” She swallowed.

When she’d found that body. I’d felt more panicked than decisive that day, but I was glad she thought so.

Penny cleared her throat. “Of course, we have a wonderful police force.”

“Of course,” I said quickly.

“But there’s nothing like small town gossip, is there? So let’s see if I can clear anything up.” She tapped her chin with one pudgy finger. “Some people think our new chocolatiers are a little too chic for San Benedetto, but I’m thrilled they’re here. As much as I love our, shall we say, natural farm atmosphere, we can use a little modernization.”

“I’ve heard the grumbles too,” I admitted. “Mainly about how expensive their chocolate is. But I don’t think it makes a motive for murder.”

“Certainly not!” The Honda drifted left and Penny bumped along the yellow median. “But those chocolate makers …” She crimped her lips together.

My hand tightened on the car’s grab bar. “What about them?” I squeaked.

“Oh, it’s probably nothing.”

“Penny …”

“I did hear they were tardy with some of their payments to one of the farmers,” she said rapidly. “He’s a bit of a crank, though. Frankly, I’m only surprised he didn’t demand payment up front.”

I studied her profile. Why did I get the feeling that this wasn’t what she’d initially been about to say? “Which farmer?” I asked.

“Oh, I can’t remember. Not a vintner.”

“You remembered he was a crank.”

She turned down a long driveway. “He’s eighty-five. Trust me, he’s no killer.”

“Maybe not, but you should tell the police.”

“Hmph.”

Trellised grapevines lined the yard in front of a two-story Victorian. The house gleamed white, its red-tile roof a counterpoint to the cloudless sky. A timber-frame extension with a vaulted ceiling and lots of windows had been added to the front of the house. The extension’s double doors were thrown open to reveal a dining area. Women mingled inside, and also in the small vineyard.

Penny parked behind a row of cars, and we crunched down the gravel path to the gathering.

Lola, in black leggings, knee-high suede boots, and a loose camel-colored turtleneck, emerged from the dining area. She snapped a picture of a trio of women with her phone, then glanced toward us and waved. “Penny, hello!”

“Hello, Lola. Maddie is my plus-one,” Penny replied, motioning to me. “She runs the Paranormal Museum.”

“Of course, we know each other.” Lola smiled warmly. “I’m glad you came. I should have thought to invite you, since you’re an associate member of the Visitors Bureau, like us. Here.” She squeezed between Penny and me and snapped a selfie. She glanced at the screen. “Cute!”

“I’m very sorry for your loss,” Penny said stiffly. “What happened at the vigil was inexcusable.”

“Ah.” Lola released us. “I guess this event seems a little disrespectful, all things considered. But Atticus and I had planned this networking tea for weeks.”

“You and Atticus?” I asked.

“I helped him with marketing,” she said. “Well, I have to support Orson any way I can. So it didn’t seem right to cancel today’s event. And since we’re going forward …” She brandished her phone. “What’s the point of having an event if you don’t post photos, right?”

“That’s an extension, isn’t it?” I nodded toward the dining area jutting from the front of the Victorian.

“It is.” Lola beamed. “We wanted more space, especially for the kitchen and dining room, but we wanted to keep the Victorian feel. The renovation was featured in California Dwellings.”

“How did your interview go with Feast California?” I asked.

She sighed. “It was fun, in spite of the circumstances. They brought a photographer, and I think we may go on the cover.” She leaned closer. “That’s another reason I planned this tea for today. We had to rake the gravel before the magazine photo shoot, and I thought I’d take advantage of how nice everything looks.”

Penny edged toward the open doors to the dining area and the rough wooden dining table inside.

“Do the police have any idea who set off the firecrackers?” I asked Lola in a low voice.

“None. Or if they do, they’re not telling me.” Lola’s expression darkened. “I told them who to look at, but I don’t think they believed me.”

My breath hitched. “You know who was responsible?”

Lola glanced around at the milling women. None were close enough to overhear. “You probably noticed the other day how oddly Tilde was behaving.”

“You think Tilde set off the firecrackers?”

“She walked away from the gazebo right before the firecrackers went off. I was taking pictures.” She scanned through her photos. “Look.” She handed me the phone. On its screen was a blurry shot of Tilde, walking past the picnic table with its sound equipment.

“Would you email me that?” I asked. That photo was going straight to Jason.

“Sure. What’s your addy?”

I gave her the museum’s address, and she typed it in with her thumbs.

“But why would Tilde disrupt the vigil?” I asked.

“She was practically stalking Atticus,” Lola said, not looking up from her phone. “Tilde’s horribly jealous of whatever her cousin India has—including her husband.”

Now that was interesting. Could Atticus’s murder have been a crime of passion? “Can I use your bathroom?” I asked.

“Of course.” She gave me directions to the downstairs bath.

Careful to wipe my feet on the mat, I walked inside the Victorian. Lola and Orson must have knocked out some of the interior walls too, because the living room was open and spacious. I found the guest bathroom easily, beside the stairs.

No one was around, the soft chatter coming from the dining area now hidden around a corner. Lola and Orson were suspects. I might not get this chance again. Heart pounding, I tiptoed up the stairs to a long hallway and tried a door.

Locked.

Rats. My gaze darted up and down the hallway.

I wasn’t sure what I was looking for, but I tried another door. It opened onto the master bedroom. White walls. A gray carpet. Antique furniture painted in pinks, deep blues, and grays.

A door stood open in the opposite wall. It was probably the master bath and not the office I’d hoped for, but I tiptoed toward it anyway, glancing at the bureau as I passed. I didn’t see any incriminating evidence.

A board creaked in the hallway.

I froze, breath stopped in my chest.

I stood like that, taking shallow, quiet breaths for I don’t know how long. But I must have imagined the noise. It didn’t repeat itself, and no one strode inside shouting j’accuse!

The door did indeed lead to a bathroom, and I paused in the entry. There was a fireplace besides the giant claw-foot bathtub. Stifling a sigh of envy, I went to the mirrored medicine cabinets and opened them. They were filled with expensive-looking indigo bottles of organic tinctures and lotions. I plucked an orange plastic pill bottle from a shelf. Lola had a prescription for Valium.

Ugh. Now I felt like the worst kind of snoop.

Pulse racing, I returned downstairs without being spotted and rejoined the garden party.

“Find it all right?” Lola asked.

“Maddie?” My mother stood before us, the sunlight glinting off the silver threads in her hair. She wore crisp white slacks and a blue denim shirt tucked beneath a belt studded with turquoise. Her jaw hung open. It snapped shut.

I flinched.

“How unexpected,” my mother said in a strangled voice. “I was hoping to talk to you, dear. Hello, Lola. Would you excuse us for a moment?” She grasped my elbow and steered me toward a peach tree. “What are you doing here?” she hissed, her blue eyes snapping with annoyance.

My spine stiffened. “Penny invited me.”

“I’ll just bet she did.” My mother’s face pinched. “You have no business investigating that man’s murder.”

“We were just talking—”

“You were interrogating.”

“Actually, Lola was doing most of the talking.”

She angled her head, her squash-blossom earrings dancing. “You said you wouldn’t.”

“I said I wasn’t.” And I hadn’t been, at the time. “Honestly, we were just talking.”

“There’s no just talking with you when murder’s involved.”

“Lola told me that Tilde, India’s cousin, was obsessed with Atticus. Do you think it could be true?”

My mother’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t even try to make me an accessory to whatever it is you’re doing.”

“Hi, Fran.” Penny, holding a plate full of finger sandwiches, waddled up to us. “What’s new at Ladies Aid?”

My mother rattled off their latest list of fundraisers. “Can I count on you?” she asked Penny, but she stared hard at me.

“All excellent causes,” Penny said. “Of course I’m in. Maddie? What about you?”

“I’m in too,” I said, my stomach sinking. If I knew my mother, I was in up to my neck. I edged away. “Well, I’ll see you later.”

“Oh, no, Maddie.” My mother’s smile didn’t touch her eyes. “I’m not done with you yet.”