Wining and Dying Page 12

“Yardley Alks had a fainting incident. She’s fine.” I refocused on Pepper. “Are you guessing about your daughter’s condition?”

  “She was glowing this morning when we met for coffee.”

  “Glowing, schmo-ing,” my aunt said. “I glow after exercise. Don’t spread rumors.”

  Pepper huffed. “Fine. But I’ll bet I’m right.”

  Cinnamon would have told me, wouldn’t she, given our conversation about getting pregnant at the soiree the other night?

  One of the customers bought a love potion necklace for her daughter, and Bailey bought a self-reliance one for Tina. Then Pepper, satisfied with her sales, left the shop, and the customers returned to view the salt and pepper shakers.

  Before I went to them, I needed answers. “Gran. Aunt Vera.” I gathered them into a huddle. “What is going on?”

  “What I wanted to tell you earlier, dear,” Aunt Vera said, “was that we didn’t learn anything from Sienna last night.”

  “But”—Gran cut in—“on my way to work, I saw her starting to enter a doctor’s office. An ob-gyn’s office. But she released the handle and went immediately next door to the pharmacy. I phoned your aunt and looped her in.”

  “Now, Gracie,” Aunt Vera said, “be honest. You aren’t certain it was an ob-gyn’s office. You said you were standing quite a distance away and your eyesight—”

  “My eyesight is fine. I was wearing my glasses.”

  “But Sienna is too old to have children,” my aunt argued.

  “She’s forty-two,” Gran countered. “That’s not too old.”

  “Do you think she’s pregnant?” I asked.

  “No.” Aunt Vera shook her head.

  “Plenty of women get pregnant in their forties nowadays,” Gran said.

  “Not someone single and as levelheaded as Sienna. Besides, a woman does not need to be pregnant to go into an ob-gyn’s office.”

  Gran sniffed and turned to me. “Have you noticed that Sienna has been putting on weight?”

  “Gracie, please,” my aunt said sharply. “Don’t rumormonger like the Fairchild sisters.”

  “Vera, you said it yourself last night. She was wearing that duster coat to cover the fact she was a tad plump. Sienna has always prided herself on her trim figure.”

  “And that’s it?” I asked. “That’s the news you were going to tell me?”

  “Gracie thought it might be worth the telling.”

  I grinned. “Got it. I’ll put it in my hopper.”

  “Add one more thing for your hopper.” Gran poked my arm. “While I was with my granddaughter at the Paint Your Selfie booth at Azure Park . . .” She wriggled with delight. “By the way, what an adorable idea. Each of the children paint their faces on canvases. Picasso was never so inspired. Anyway . . .” She frowned. “Where was I?”

  “My hopper,” I said.

  “Right. There I was, idly spending an hour with my granddaughter, when I spied that man with the mustache once again lurking. By the Art Institute booth.”

  I stiffened. “Christopher George?”

  “Mm-hm. Watching Naomi circumspectly. He gave me the creeps, but he didn’t do a thing. After a long moment, he turned heel and left.”

  My aunt prodded Gran. “See to those customers, Gracie.” To me she said, “Jenna, wipe that concerned look off your face and relax your forehead. Naomi is—”

  “This look is because you said you needed to speak to me and—”

  “Oh, dear, you thought I had some personal news to convey?” She kissed my cheek. “I’m as healthy as an ox. Never you fret.” She rubbed her phoenix amulet. “I’ll live to one hundred.”

  She knew I did worry, having lost my mother to cancer.

  Leaving her to take over the register and Gran to handle the sale of salt shakers, I carried a few copies of Fire & Wine: 75 Smoke-Infused Recipes from the Grill with Perfect Wine Pairings to the display table. Summer was coming up and this book would entice men and women shoppers alike. I couldn’t wait to try the maple chipotle cedar-grilled salmon. One reviewer had enjoyed the cookbook so much she’d begged the author to write another one with two hundred and ninety additional recipes to make a full year of deliciousness.

  “What’s going through your mind?” Bailey asked, standing a copy of the cookbook on the table, pages spread open.

  “I suggested Cinnamon question Christopher George again.”

  “Funny you should mention him. I’ve been wondering whether he might have made contact with Quade, separate from his connection with Naomi. Perhaps he introduced himself as an art collector purely wanting to chat with an up-and-coming artist, but upon discovering a virtual gold mine in forgeries, he decided to horn in on Quade’s operation.”

  “Wow, that had not crossed my mind.”

  Chapter 13

  Rhett had taken the night off so the two of us could enjoy Watercolors and Wine on the Pier, an event that would feature art exhibits and demonstration tents, plein air painting, and lots of wine venues. Because the air was cool, I’d dressed in a warm navy blue sweater and jeans, and though I preferred to wear sandals whenever I could, my toes couldn’t handle the chill, so I’d donned my favorite tennis shoes. They didn’t match my cross-body purse, but I wasn’t a fashion horse. I didn’t care.

  With my hand looped around the crook of Rhett’s elbow, we sauntered beneath the arch of pastel balloons separating the parking lot from the Pier and instantly started admiring the variety of ocean-themed watercolors displayed along the boardwalk. Most of the vendor sites were protected by blue-striped awnings; a few were not. Down the center of the boardwalk stood an array of café-style tables and chairs. Many were filled with patrons, but there were a smattering of free seats.

  At the Baldini Vineyards site, Rhett bought a hearty zinfandel for himself and a pinot noir for me, each poured into a memento wineglass, and then the two of us continued to walk and enjoy the art. We would sit when we purchased an appetizer-style dinner.

  At one artist’s display, Rhett whispered in my ear, “Your work is eons better than his.”

  “I don’t do watercolors. I’m an acrylics and oils girl.”

  “Even so.”

  “With watercolors, unlike acrylics and oils, you can’t cover up your mistakes. What he does is harder, in my humble opinion.”

  “Okay, don’t accept my compliment,” he teased.

  “Keep them coming, pal. I love them.”

  We walked farther and stopped outside a demo tent to observe two high school–aged kids taking a lesson on how to create a unique effect using salt on top of watercolors. It glistened.

  “There are so many techniques,” Rhett whispered.

  “That’s what makes art so special. Like books, movies, and music, art features a variety of genres and styles.”

  He kissed my cheek. “Hey, there’s Jake and Z.Z. exiting Mum’s the Word. Let’s say hello.”

  Mum’s was a very popular diner. Its meat loaf was renowned, and their grilled cheese choices delicious.

  We strolled to them and commented on the lovely evening. Z.Z. was as bundled up as I was. Jake, on the other hand, was in a button-down shirt, sleeves rolled up. Having spent most of his early years living hand to mouth and sleeping on the sand, he had become inured to cooler temperatures.

  “Did you partake of the Make Your Own Art pizza?” Rhett asked, pointing to the sign in Mum’s window.

  “We did,” Jake said. “I made pepperoni on pepperoni. It made quite a statement.”

  Z.Z. elbowed him. We all laughed.

  “How do you think the festival is going?” I asked.

  Z.Z. beamed. “Better than I expected. Other than, you know . . .”

  “Quade,” I murmured.

  Sadness and concern filled her gaze. “Another murder. It’s horrific.”

  “Is Chief Pritchett close to finding the killer?” Jake asked.

  “You know Cinnamon,” Z.Z. said. “She keeps her discoveries close to the vest.”

  I didn’t
offer my thoughts on who’d done it. “At least Keller is in the clear, thanks to your son, Z.Z.”

  “Egan.” She sighed. “I had no idea he was feeling pent up enough to sleep on the beach. We’ve chatted, but we have more to talk about, I’m sure. Motherhood isn’t easy. Especially being a single mother.”

  I thought of Naomi, a single mother struggling to keep her daughter as well as her own secret identity safe. Was she at risk? Would Christopher George harm her or haul her into court?

  “Egan’s here somewhere.” Z.Z. pivoted. “There he—” She stopped short.

  I peered in the same direction she was staring and saw Egan at the far end of the pier accepting a paper bag from a man in a raggedy shirt and torn jeans, a backpack slung over one arm. In return, Egan gave the man money. I stroked Rhett’s arm and hitched my chin toward Egan. I could tell by Rhett’s frown that he had seen the shady exchange and was as concerned as I was. I turned back to Z.Z., but she and Jake had slipped away.

  “I hope he’s not disappointing his mother,” Rhett said.

  “I think her abrupt departure says it all.”

  “Jenna!” a woman yelled.

  I turned to see Destiny, in her safari-style wine tour garb, leading a group of two elderly couples along the boardwalk.

  “Want to join us?” Her polished wine tour guide voice was filled with confidence. “We’re chatting up all the small-batch wineries on the Pier.” She winked. “I happen to know many of them well, so they’re letting us in on their secrets.”

  “What do you think, Rhett?” I asked. “Shall we?”

  He whispered in my ear, “Can we leave whenever we want?”

  I chuckled, then said to Destiny, “Sure, we’ll tag along for a bit. Did my wedding planner contact you?”

  “No.”

  “She will.”

  I looped my hand around Rhett’s elbow and we mingled with the group.

  “In California, wine styles are as diverse as terroir,” Destiny said, continuing whatever spiel she’d been uttering before inviting us to the party. “Ranging from delicious sparkling wines to world-class pinot noirs to inky Syrahs and intense cabs. At Vast Horizons”—she gestured to a vintner’s setup, protected by a blue-striped awning—“which is one of my favorite small-batch wineries, they do everything biodynamically.”

  She greeted the bearded server, who was handsome enough to make the “50 Most Handsome Men” list in People magazine.

  The server grinned. “Nice necklace, Des.”

  Destiny caressed the rose-colored handblown glass pendant. “You like it? I bought it from the woman who runs Beaders of Paradise. It’s filled with a love potion. Want me to get your girlfriend one?”

  “Don’t have a girlfriend.”

  “Really?” she flirted, batting her eyelashes.

  “I have three,” he said.

  “You’re a tease.” Destiny giggled.

  If only she’d had this kind of confidence with Quade the other night, I mused.

  “All right, I’ll get you three, if you’ll offer a healthy pour of your chard to each of my friends.” She said over her shoulder, “This chardonnay is the best in all of California, in my humble opinion.”

  The server filled Rhett’s and my memento glasses and four more wineglasses nearly to the brim.

  Destiny lifted ours and handed them to Rhett and me. “He’s the actual vintner,” she whispered. “We’re old friends.” To the others she said, “Pony up to the bar.”

  The couples did as told and started chatting with the server.

  I took a sip of the wine. “Yum. Oaky, with notes of nuts and melons.”

  “What do you think, Rhett?” Destiny asked.

  He tasted it. “It’d go well with crispy-skinned salmon.”

  “Mmm, sounds delish. I love a man who can pair wines with food.”

  Rhett rolled his eyes.

  “Now, Jenna, why will your wedding planner be calling me?”

  “Our wedding venue canceled. The fire in Napa . . .” I paused. “It’s a long story. We’d still like to get married—”

  “In this century,” Rhett joshed.

  I elbowed him. “This year. We were thinking a vineyard might be nice.”

  “Quade and I—” Destiny hesitated. Her eyes moistened.

  I said gently, “I know you two dated. My aunt told me.”

  “We didn’t merely date. We’d gotten to the point where we were talking about a vineyard wedding. We both agreed that it would be one of the most romantic things ever. Picture a beautiful white arch and the aroma of grapes maturing on the vine.” Destiny painted the image in the air. “I’ll be on the lookout for you. By the way, I heard the police think your friend Naomi Genet might be the killer. Why would they think that? Did they find some piece of evidence linking her to the crime?”

  “She’s not a suspect,” I said, not responding to the question about the evidence. “They’ve released her. They don’t know who did it.”

  “But my fiancée is trying to beat them to the answer,” Rhett quipped.

  “I am not.” I swatted his arm.

  “You have in the past,” Destiny said. “You’re getting quite the reputation. Do you have any clues?”

  I flashed on the forgeries and Christopher George’s interaction with Quade, and the black book filled with codes, but said, “None.” It wasn’t a lie. I had none that would jell.

  Destiny said, “If I hear anything, I’ll be sure to contact you.”

  “Contact the police,” I said. “They’ll solve this.”

  After the next small-batch stop, Rhett said, “I’m starved.”

  I begged off continuing with Destiny and her group. She totally understood but made us promise that the two of us would take one of her all-day wine tasting excursions soon.

  Then we moseyed to a vendor that was selling gourmet crackers, a selection of cheeses, and a flute of crudités with spicy chipotle dipping sauce, and purchased enough for a light dinner.

  “Will this be enough for you?” Rhett asked after he set his food and wine on a café table and pulled out my chair.

  I sat. “Yes. Ample. My appetite isn’t very big tonight, though this mini spread looks amazing.” I couldn’t wait to try the dipping sauce.

  “Are you worried about something?” He took a sip of wine.

  “Other than the fact that another murder occurred in our fair town? And Naomi’s husband is stalking her? And Yardley had a panic attack? And Quade was a forger? And it’s possible Cinnamon is pregnant again?”

  Rhett clasped my free hand. “Is that what you’re edgy about? Cinnamon?”

  “No. Sort of. If she is and she didn’t tell me—”

  “Everyone’s allowed a secret here and there.”

  “Like Sienna?”

  Rhett released my hand and paired a wedge of brie cheese with a cracker. “What secret might she be hiding?”

  I told him about Gran’s revelation.

  “Isn’t Sienna in her forties?” He slipped the appetizer into his mouth.

  “Honestly? As if a woman in her forties is over the hill? Women do get pregnant later in life.”

  Rhett swallowed and battled a smirky grin. “I apologize. I’m a dinosaur. So what secret might she be hiding? You know she was first on the scene at the cabana, so that’s old news.”

  That pulled me up short. Because of Yardley’s call to me, I’d put her at the crime scene first, but Sienna admitted that she’d gone into the cabana before then and, believing Quade to be asleep, washed the dishes. Had she made up that excuse on the spot? Would a murderer wash dishes? For all I knew, Quade could have washed the dishes himself, except his townhome made it clear that he didn’t do dishes. Apparently it was beneath him. I flashed on the impassioned private conversation Quade had had with Sienna at the workshop as well as the one at the opening night event. Had their set-tos been about her being pregnant?

  Rhett twirled a finger in front of my face. “What’s cycling through that overly ac
tive brain of yours?”

  “I was wondering if Quade got Sienna pregnant and she killed him to . . .” I shook my head. “No, that doesn’t make sense. She wouldn’t kill the father of her baby, unless—”

  “Unless he’d forced himself on her.”

  “Right, but stabbing . . .” I shuddered. “It isn’t usually a woman’s MO.”

  “She was certainly strong enough.” Rhett swirled the wine in his glass. “I saw her riding her horse in the forest the other day when I was walking Rook, and something startled the horse. The brute reared up, but she controlled it. No problem.”

  “If Quade was poisoned first, then strength might not have been required to kill him.” I dipped a stalk of celery in the sauce and bit into it, relishing the combination of flavors.

  “What other motive might Sienna have had?” Rhett asked.

  “What if Quade made promises to her that he refused to keep, like marrying her and supporting the baby?”

  “Sienna has plenty of money.” Rhett leaned back in his chair, one hand holding the base of his wineglass.

  “True. According to my aunt, Sienna has an interesting history. Her father was in the navy and the family relocated a lot. You’d think a navy brat would hate to travel,” I went on, “but apparently Sienna loved it so much that in college she pursued a degree in hospitality with dreams of running a European villa.”

  “A villa?”

  “Yep. But when her mother got sick, she settled in Crystal Cove to be with her during her final days. When her mother died, that was when she learned that her maternal grandmother had been an heiress”—I raised a finger—“a fact her mother had kept from her, to keep her normal.” I leaned forward, folding my arms on the table. “Sienna inherited everything and with her newfound wealth bought the inn.”

  “Stuff of legends.” Rhett raised his wineglass in a toast.

  “Funny how vague Quade’s history was, but I’d figured that was by design.” I took another bite of celery. “That he’d made it up to give himself a mystical allure. When I found out that he was the son of a scam artist and Yardley—”

  “Wait, what? You’ve been holding out on me.”

  “You’ve been working late hours.” I filled him in about Yardley being Quade’s birth mother.