Pressing the Issue Read online

  Alan’s face tinged crimson. “Sorry. Why did you want to see me?”

  “I hope you don’t think I’m crass, but—”

  “Oh, Alan.” Dolly propelled herself off her stool and threw herself at him. She clutched him in a bear hug. Tears sprang from her eyes and spilled down her cheeks. “Where have you been? I haven’t seen you.”

  Tigger paused on the ramp of his new playhouse, either fascinated or stupefied by Dolly’s outburst, I wasn’t sure which.

  “Why haven’t you returned my calls?” Dolly gushed. “What are your plans for the funeral? You’ve got to let me help.”

  Alan wriggled to free himself but couldn’t. She had pinned his arms to his sides and wasn’t willing to release him. He raised his chin as if he couldn’t breathe.

  Realizing Dolly was oblivious while in the throes of anguish, I leaped to Alan’s rescue and gently pried her off of him. “Dolly, give him a little space.”

  “Oh, yes, of course. I didn’t mean . . .” She stepped away and laced her fingers together. “It’s just that I want to help. I miss your brother so much.”

  Alan cleared his throat. “I don’t know when the police will release his body, Dolly.”

  “Will you bury him in the family plot?” she asked.

  “Of course. Beside Mom and Pop.”

  “At any rate, you could have a memorial service,” she suggested. “There are so many of us who need to mourn him.”

  “You can do so privately,” Alan suggested.

  I got the strange feeling that Dolly craved to do something publicly so she could show how much she had adored Nick. Maybe I was being snarky.

  “Besides,” Alan went on, “I don’t know who to invite.”

  Aunt Vera entered the shop via the breezeway. “We’ll help you with that, Alan.”

  He ran his fingers through his hair, clearly relieved. “Thanks. I appreciate that.” He swung his head left and right as if trying to take in everyone who had surrounded him.

  “Dolly, dear, come with me.” My aunt guided her back to the crafts table while crooning calming words to her and promising another tarot reading.

  When she was out of range, Alan exhaled. “Now, Bailey, why would I think you’re crass?”

  “What if we still want to hold our wedding at your vineyard?”

  “Honestly? I think that would be terrific.” He rested a hand on her shoulder. “Nick would, too, I’m sure of it. He’d been talking about your wedding for weeks. He had some surprises planned. He had grown very fond of you.”

  Bailey blushed with the compliment.

  “But aren’t you worried about bad mojo?” Alan asked.

  “I was, but I’m not anymore.”

  Amazing how the setback of losing not just one venue but any venue could change one’s mind, I mused.

  “The way I see it,” she went on, “if I make a good memory on the premises, then the bad memories can fade. Not quickly, of course. We’ll all miss Nick for a long time, but think about it. My good memories could open the door for more happy couples to hold weddings there, which would benefit you and enhance the vineyard’s, um, mojo.” She glanced at me, aware she was blathering.

  I smiled like an indulgent parent.

  Alan said, “I must warn you that I don’t know much about these things, so I’ll have to hire someone to help me out.”

  I said, “I’ll bet Hannah Storm would be willing to help you.”

  “Why Hannah?”

  “She has always wanted to hold weddings at her vineyard, but her grandmother wouldn’t let her.”

  “That’s a great idea.” Bailey squeezed his arm.

  “About Hannah,” I said, glancing over my shoulder to see if my father was close to emerging from the storage room; he wasn’t. “Have you told her how you feel?”

  “How I . . .” Alan gulped. “No.”

  “I think she likes you, as well.”

  His face brightened.

  “By the way,” I continued, “she said she saw you in the field the night Nick died, but that she wasn’t there, as you claimed. She was in her house looking out the window.”

  Alan scratched his ear. “I could have sworn it was her. Guess I was wrong. But the fact she saw me is good, right? That confirms my alibi.”

  “Unless you’re covering for each other.”

  “I’m not . . . I wouldn’t . . .” he sputtered. “I heard someone, Jenna. I truly did.”

  “You heard someone? You said you saw Hannah. Were you trying to give her an alibi because you glimpsed her leaving your house?”

  “No. I did see someone in the field. Wearing a hat.” He outlined his head with a finger. “But . . .” He lowered his chin and drummed his fingers on his thigh. Then he looked up. “I have a confession.”

  My stomach did a flip-flop. Bailey glanced at me, her face pinched with worry. I sensed someone creeping up behind me and caught a whiff of floral perfume. Tina. Apparently, she wanted the skinny. Could I blame her?

  “Go on, Alan,” I said.

  “You know about my accident.”

  “You got hit with a lacrosse stick. It affected your brain. You have outbursts.”

  “Right. Well, ever since that day, I can’t see faces.”

  Bailey said, “So you’re blind?”

  “No, I have prosopagnosia”—the word spilled off Alan’s tongue—“or what is known as face blindness. Adults who have the condition as a result of a brain trauma, like me, can be retrained to use other clues to identify people. I use shapes and sizes, and I’m good with voices. For example, I know that your voice, Jenna, is lower and calmer than Bailey’s and”—he plucked his hair—“Bailey’s hair is spiky like Hannah’s. Your aunt wears a turban. These things help me.”

  “So why did you walk past me a second ago?” Bailey asked.

  “I realize you’re short, but at a distance, Jenna can look about the same height as you. I can tell height when I’m close to you and measuring you against me, and with that garland on Jenna’s head, her hair looked sort of spiky.”

  “Alan,” I said, “I’m afraid this means you can’t corroborate where Hannah was.”

  “I guess not, but I saw someone in the field. I swear. The person was running and breathing hard.”

  “Who knew about your illness, Alan?” I asked.

  “Nick, but he kept it quiet. That’s why we were going at each other when you overheard us. I told him I was in love with Hannah. He said I couldn’t marry her.”

  ‘“Over my dead body’ were the words he used,” Bailey said.

  “Because she’s the competition,” I added.

  Alan sighed. “I told him we’re rivals, not enemies. He scoffed at me. He said—and I’m paraphrasing—‘You don’t know anything about her and what her family did.’ I said, ‘Her family? Don’t you mean our family? We diverted water from a well long ago.’ He screamed, ‘No, we didn’t!’ I’d heard Hannah tell the tale, so I said, ‘We forced the Storm family to invest in transportation of water.’ Nick said, ‘That’s a lie that her grandmother concocted.’” Alan ran a finger beneath the collar of his shirt. “To hear him tell it, Hannah’s grandmother lived and breathed for her husband. When he died, she dreamed up all sorts of crazy stories. I told Nick that Hannah was nothing like her grandmother. He wouldn’t agree. Plus, he was concerned that my illness might turn worse, and that I shouldn’t marry. Ever. ‘Why saddle someone with that?’ he asked me more than a dozen times.”

  “That’s why he threatened to tell the history,” I said. “Your history.”

  “He hoped I’d back down because I didn’t want people to make fun of me, but I didn’t care.” Alan brandished a hand in front of his face. “It’s disconcerting that I’m this way, but now that you know, it’s sort of freeing.”

  “I’ll bet,” I said.

  Alan faced Bailey. “Call me and we’ll set up an appointment. You’ll come to the vineyard, and we’ll go over everything. I’ll have Chef Guy there, if you want, and I’ll get
a wedding planner who can deal with all the stuff Nick was going to handle.”

  “Ask Hannah,” I suggested again.

  “Maybe I will.” Alan trudged out of the shop.

  When he was gone, I corralled Bailey and Tina. “Do you know what this means?”

  They nodded.

  “There was someone else fleeing through the vineyard,” I murmured. “But who?”

  I felt like someone was studying me and turned to scan the shop. When I realized Dolly was staring daggers in my direction, a shiver swizzled through me.

  Chapter 15

  To my surprise, Dolly didn’t confront me. In fact, as she left, she thanked me profusely for allowing her to lead the beading clinic. Rationally, I decided to table whatever that weird look was that she’d thrown me. Perhaps hearing Hannah’s name had rattled her.

  Even so, when I arrived home with Tigger, I checked all my doors and windows—being security-conscious was becoming second nature—and I telephoned Rhett. I didn’t reveal everything I’d learned from Alan and the mayor, and I didn’t mention the unsettling gaze from Dolly. I didn’t want him to worry about me. Heck, I didn’t want to worry about me. The more I reminded myself that everything was normal, the more I believed it. Of course, as a girl, I’d also believed that ducking under my bedspread meant my parents couldn’t see me. I asked Rhett if we could meet for early-morning coffee, but he couldn’t. He had arranged to take a group on an ocean fishing trip. I made him promise to come to Aunt Vera’s for dinner on Sunday evening. Our family had a standing Sunday dinner date. He agreed and blew me a kiss before signing off.

  After I hung up, I whipped up what I decided to call a pan pasty—a pasty without the crust. I made it by using less than ten ingredients, which included ground turkey, potatoes, veggies, herbs, and a dash of Parmesan cheese. Easy comfort food. Simple for me to make. While it baked, I listened to Judy Garland singing Gershwin tunes and dabbled on one of my paintings in progress. Whenever I am distressed—and I was definitely bothered by not knowing who had killed Nick—painting helps me unwind. I was gifting this particular piece of art, which was an image of my sister, brother, and me frolicking on the beach as kids, to my father as a surprise for his birthday.

  Mid-brushstroke, I heard a rustling and a thunk-thunk-thunk coming from the bedroom. My pulse kicked up a notch. Was someone trying to get into the cottage through the window? I seized the fireplace poker for the second time in two days and crept to the bedroom door. I released the breath I was holding when I realized that Tigger, the sneak, was rummaging through my vintage colonial sewing kit. I must have left one leaf open when I’d fixed the button on my costume.

  Thunk-thunk. My rambunctious cat was tossing out spool after spool of thread.

  “Tigger, stop.”

  He froze, his paw in the air and his eyes as big as saucers.

  I replaced the poker and hurried to him. “You scared me, you little devil. I thought we had an intruder. I—” I balked. Did I truly believe Nick’s killer would come after me because I’d asked a few questions? On the other hand, someone had lingered outside my cottage the night before. Coincidence?

  Anchoring my fingers beneath his front legs, I lifted Tigger out of the box. His purring vibrated down my arms. I snuggled him close to my body, more for my comfort than his. “What is eating you? Is it me? Are you picking up on my angst?”

  I’d meant to call the veterinarian and had forgotten. Now, I didn’t hesitate. I picked up the telephone on the nightstand—I have a landline because my aunt insists upon it—and dialed the vet’s office. An after-hours answering service picked up. The woman, who had a kind, elderly voice, asked if I had an emergency, which I didn’t. I explained that my cat was getting into all kinds of trouble and asked her to please have the vet return my call.

  The woman chortled. “How old is your cat?”

  “Close to two.”

  “Ah, the terrible twos.”

  “Do you mean cats are like babies?” I asked.

  “No, but they’re into everything all the time, like babies. Whenever my cats act up, I’ve called the behavior the terrible twos. FYI, the behavior might last a good fifteen years if you don’t get a scratching post and a variety of kitty-safe toys.”

  I thanked her for her advice, and after hanging up, texted my father. I begged him to build me another kitty condo pronto.

  With Tigger on my lap—he was being darling kitty so long as I scratched him—I ate a portion of the casserole and read a few chapters of the hat shop mystery that I’d brought home from the store. When I crashed into bed, Tigger hunkered on the comforter near my feet.

  I drifted to sleep with three thoughts: Alan was in the clear; I hoped Hannah was telling the truth; and I couldn’t point a finger at Dolly without knowing more. So she had stared nastily at me. Big deal.

  • • •

  When I awoke Saturday morning, I checked my cell phone first thing. Cinnamon had not contacted me. Had I honestly expected her to?

  On my way into the shop, I caught sight of Nick’s foreman, Frank Nelson, a weathered seventy-year-old who had worked for the Baldini family for years. He was descending the stairs from Surf and Sea, a surf shop on the second floor of Fisherman’s Village. Brilliant morning sunlight highlighted his salt-and-pepper hair. His yellow swim trunks made his muscular legs look dark tan. His black Speedo swim T-shirt clung to his taut torso. He was carrying a neon orange surfboard under one arm. Frank was a regular at Surf and Sea and bopped around like an eternal teenager. How he had the energy to surf after a six-day workweek amazed me.

  We locked gazes and he heaved a sigh.

  “Hey, Jenna.”

  “Good morning, Frank. Give me a sec.” Tigger was wriggling in my arms. I crossed to the Cookbook Nook, opened the door, set him on the floor, and returned to greet Frank properly. “Beautiful day.”

  “Indeed, it is. I like your Maid Marian costume.”

  “Thanks. I’m afraid I have to resort to Fabreeze for the underarms.”

  “Everyone has to by now.”

  “How did people ever live without washing machines and air-conditioning?” I joked.

  “Got me.”

  I nodded at his surfboard. “Are you going surfing?”

  “Sort of. The boys and I are meeting on the water to pay tribute to Nick.” His face grew grim. “I still can’t believe he’s dead. The police say they’re making headway on the case, but I don’t know. They asked me and my crew for our alibis and ruled us out.”

  “All of you?”

  “Uh-huh. We were in the cellar checking out last year’s harvest. We do that every April. We must have tapped a hundred barrels that afternoon and evening.” He switched his surfboard to his other arm. “I don’t know who else the police have questioned. Word is that you and Bailey found Nick.”

  I nodded. “We were with our boyfriends.”

  “It was bad, huh?”

  “It wasn’t pretty.” Tears threatened to spring from my eyes. I tamped them down.

  “Alan said whoever killed Nick whacked him with that winepress. That’s sick.” He scrubbed his hair with his fingertips.

  Cinnamon wouldn’t be pleased to know that Alan had shared that tidbit. It still hadn’t appeared in the news.

  “I remember Nick joking around with the one he bought,” Frank went on. “He suggested we make them ourselves and sell them in the tasting room. He said we’d probably clear more profit from them than the wine.”

  “Is the vineyard in financial trouble?”

  “Nah, Nick was kidding. He was a real joker. As a matter of fact, we’re on an upswing. The latest crop is going to be killer.” Frank wriggled his nose. “Sorry. Bad choice of words.”

  “Gallows humor, whether intended or accidental, always seems to crop up after a death, doesn’t it?”

  “Yeah.”

  Silence fell between us. Frank shifted feet like he was eager to end the chat.

  “Frank, before you head to the beach, answer me one
question. Did Nick mention that he wanted to sell the winery?”

  “No way. It’s a family business. A legacy. Every year, whether the meteorological gods complied, he had high hopes for a great return. Always positive, that guy. A real romantic. The world lost a good soul when he died.”

  “Yes, it did.”

  After another brief silence, Frank saluted and said, “Nice seeing you, Jenna. If you don’t mind, I’m going to head down.” He hustled along the corridor between the café and Beaders of Paradise to the stairway leading to the beach.

  As he vanished from view, a woman said, “Morning, Jenna.”

  I spun around. Pepper locked her smart car and strode toward me, her gait sprightly. The Bohemian fuscia-colored frock she was wearing swirled around her calves. I bit back a laugh wondering when the lumbering sourpuss I used to know as Pepper had morphed into this amiable, life-loving person.

  “Good morning,” I said.

  “Isn’t it a beautiful day?”

  “Indeed.” If not for the fact that I’d been discussing Nick’s murder with his foreman. On to better subjects, Jenna. “Say, I hear you’re dating the haberdashery guy.”

  Pepper’s cheeks flamed crimson. “Who told you?”

  “Dolly might have let it slip.”

  “Mold-warp,” Pepper mumbled, then a grin spread across her face and her cheeks tinged pink. “It’s true. I am. He’s such a delightful man. We have so much in common. We like the same books and the same food. He’s even done some beading.”

  “Has he really?”

  “For his teenage nieces. They love jewelry. Isn’t that sweet?” Jauntily, she started toward her shop.

  As she did, I recalled our chat the other day, when she had uncharacteristically grown quiet. “Pepper.” I caught up to her. “The other day you were fidgety, like you wanted to say something more.”

  She tilted her head. “Which day was that?”

  “When I showed you the bead I’d found at Nick’s house.”