Wining and Dying Read online

  Is Sienna as good? I wondered.

  “Bon appetit,” the server said and left.

  We raised our glasses and toasted the festival.

  “You know, Sienna is a regular at the Pelican Brief,” Lola said.

  My father brushed the back of her hand with a fingertip. “Isn’t everyone?”

  “Oh, you.” She knew he was teasing her. “She loves our honeyed fish fry.”

  “So do I.” Dad grinned. “I’m starting to like Sienna more and more.”

  “She and her friend seem enamored with each other’s jewelry,” Bailey noted.

  “Probably because it’s something new.” Lola sipped her wine. “Each week for the past few weeks, Sienna seems to have been wearing a new piece. A bracelet. A ring. Earrings. If I didn’t know better, I’d think she was robbing the jewelry store.”

  I gawked at her.

  “Joking,” she added. “Though each thing she’s worn has been something I’ve seen in the window at Sterling’s.”

  Across the street from Fisherman’s Village was Artiste Arcade, a collection of high-end stores including Adorn Yourself, my favorite accessory shop, and Sterling’s, once known as Sterling Sylvia’s until Sylvia was forced to sell. The arcade featured a brick archway adorned with purple morning glory vines.

  “Well”—my father took a sip of wine—“I’m sure Sienna can afford whatever they sell. Not to worry. Now, what are you all having?”

  “I’m torn between the French onion tart and the asparagus Gruyere tart,” I said.

  Bailey raised a hand. “I’m going for the chicken Provençal and crème brûlée for dessert. You might have to wheel me home.”

  “Boeuf bourguignon for me.” Dad set his menu aside.

  Lola didn’t answer. She was staring in Sienna’s direction.

  “What’s wrong, Lola?” I asked.

  “Why does she need so much jewelry?”

  Dad frowned at her. “Because she’s a woman.”

  Lola batted his arm. “Be serious. She’s not dating anyone. When she goes out, she’s with a girlfriend.”

  “It’s possible she prefers women,” Dad suggested.

  “No, she’s been married and has had beaus.”

  “Mom, girlfriends covet what other girlfriends have,” Bailey said. “It’s one-upmanship.”

  “True. I’m being inane.” Lola returned to studying the menu. “Profiteroles with chocolate sauce.”

  “Anything else?” My father eyed her wryly.

  “Whatever you’re having.”

  She gazed at him with such love that my heart swelled. I couldn’t believe how lucky my father was to have married her.

  We ordered and chatted about the festival. When our appetizers came, we grew quiet. After downing the asparagus Gruyere tart in a matter of bites and relishing every mouthful, I needed to go to the ladies’ room.

  Upon entering, I saw Sienna standing at the mirror applying lipstick.

  “Hello, Jenna,” she said. “You stopped in to see me earlier?”

  Apparently, the concierge delivered the message. “Yes.” How could I ask her about her relationship with Quade? I drew alongside her at the mirror and pulled my lipstick from my purse. “It was nothing important. A few weeks ago, you’d mentioned that you’d like to find a cookbook for Hawaiian food. You want to throw a luau at the inn.”

  “Good memory.”

  “I may have landed on the perfect one.” I really had done the research but had forgotten to follow up with her. I dabbed lipstick on my lower lip and pressed my lips together. “Come in and I’ll show you some preview pages. Let’s see if you’d like me to order it.”

  She looked at me askance. “You drove up to the inn to tell me that? You could have phoned.”

  “I also wanted to show Bailey the grounds. She didn’t tour them the other night. You’ve really done marvelous things with the gardens.”

  “They are spectacular, aren’t they?” She leaned forward to get a closer look at her face. “I found a great landscaper.”

  “You look lovely, by the way,” I said. “Nice necklace.”

  She stood taller and pinched it between two fingers. “This old thing? It’s been in the family for years.”

  “Your friend was paying particular interest to it.”

  Sienna smiled but the smile didn’t reach her eyes. “Were you spying on us?”

  “Don’t be silly. Your friend’s laugh”—I put my lipstick back in my purse—“is quite distinctive.”

  “Aha. Yes, it is.” Sienna relaxed and offered a wink. “She’s as blind as a bat, though. She’s seen me wear this dozens of times.”

  “How are you holding up? Are ghoulish customers still on the hunt for a room at the inn?”

  She tilted her head. “I’m not following.”

  “The other night at the Wearable Art event you said—”

  “Oh, yes, I remember now.” She tapped her temple as the memory formed. “Yes, we have a steady stream of customers. I don’t think there’s one free room except—” She gripped the edge of the counter to steady herself. “Except, of course, the cabana.”

  “The police haven’t released it?” I hadn’t noticed crime scene tape across cabana five’s door earlier.

  “They have, but I don’t feel it’s right to . . .” She twirled her tube of lipstick. “You know.”

  “I was wondering . . .” I pulled a comb from my purse, stalling.

  “About?”

  “About you and Quade.”

  “What about us?”

  “You were arguing that night.”

  “No, we weren’t.”

  “Well, then, let’s call it a heated conversation. Was it about his black book? His ledger?”

  Her gaze narrowed.

  “Did he threaten to reveal something about you if you didn’t pay him hush money?” I continued, knowing I was overstepping and unable to help myself. I blamed the wine.

  “Honestly, Jenna!” Her gaze turned steely. She dropped her lipstick into her silver clutch lying on the counter and folded her arms across her chest, which, given her stance, did make it look like she was with child. “My dealings with Quade don’t concern you in the least. Keller is exonerated, so why you would persist in a quasi-investigation—”

  “Naomi Genet!” I blurted, my insides aching with the need to know the truth.

  “What about her?”

  “I want this to be over for her sake.”

  “She wasn’t in love with him,” Sienna hissed. “She’s not brokenhearted that he’s dead. I certainly never saw any interest on her part.”

  So, she had been paying attention.

  “No, you’re right,” I conceded. “But I want to learn the truth because her fate seems to be linked to his.”

  Sienna clucked her tongue. “Ridiculous. No one’s fate is linked to anyone else’s. Ever. We each stand alone. For eternity. Now, I’ll take my leave.” She tucked her clutch under her arm and turned on her heel.

  Pausing at the door, she glowered at me over her shoulder. “For your information, I have met with the police. I am not a suspect in Quade’s murder. They have determined that he was asleep or passed out when I went into the cabana. The ME has determined he was killed between ten and eleven, for which I have a verifiable alibi. I was in my residential unit at the inn within minutes after I’d finished doing my rounds, approximately ten p.m., and did not emerge until later, after you arrived. I ordered chamomile tea from room service. They can corroborate my whereabouts. Ask Chief Pritchett if you need confirmation. I know you two are close.”

  Chapter 18

  During the rest of dinner, I glimpsed over my shoulder at Sienna. She didn’t seem bothered by my intrusion in the least. In fact, she continued to entertain her friend with stories that made the woman laugh riotously. I noticed Rhett standing near the hostess desk, staring in their direction once or twice, probably wishing he could shush them.

  I’d expected to hear an earful about their behavior wh
en he arrived home at three a.m., but I didn’t. He was elated by the turnout, ecstatic about the kudos he’d received from patrons, and thrilled that my father had thoroughly enjoyed himself. He and Dad got along rather well, but he knew my father could be a food critic. We snuggled for about ten minutes, and then both fell asleep.

  The next morning, Bailey romped into the store pushing the stroller, the flaps of her aqua striped cardigan wafting. “The DIY Craft Fair and Small-Batch Wines event takes place on Buena Vista Boulevard today.” She went into the storage room. “We should get a lot of foot traffic from it.” She returned to the shop, set Brianna in her owl-themed floor seat, made sure Tigger didn’t scuttle into the girl’s lap, and then joined me at the sales counter. “Festival planners must have worked well into the wee hours erecting all the blue-and-white awnings. The street has been closed off and it’s transformed with colorful banners, venues, and carts.”

  I’d seen as much on my way in. Small-batch wineries were stationed at the south end of the boulevard, near Fisherman’s Village, and the craft booths, demo booths, and foodie carts were positioned between stores to the north, none blocking entrances to any of the regular shops. Loads of people were already wandering the area.

  “I saw a bouncy house with slides by the dolphins,” Bailey went on. “How I would love to do that! I adore bouncy houses. But it’s for kiddies.”

  At the crossroad, where Buena Vista Boulevard met Seaview, the road that wound up the mountain and ultimately turned into an egress out of town, stood a statue of a pair of dancing dolphins. It was a popular tourist spot for photographs.

  “And get this,” Bailey continued, “the bouncy house is in the shape of a giant octopus.”

  “How cool!”

  She added, “When we have our break later, why don’t you, Brianna, and I take a stroll and drink it all in?”

  “Sounds perfect.”

  We had not planned any events for Saturday morning because we didn’t want to draw attention away from the festival happenings on the boulevard. To support today’s theme, I had stocked a number of DIY books, not cookbooks, like Martha Stewart’s Encyclopedia of Crafts: An A-to-Z Guide with Detailed Instructions and Endless Inspiration and The Complete Candle Making Recipes for Beginners to the Expert. I didn’t want to compete with whatever DIY manuals Pepper was selling at Beaders of Paradise, but having a few selections to accompany a cookbook purchase would be nice for our customers. Many hostesses enjoyed making place mats or candles for their special dinners.

  An hour before noon, when the crowd left to venture onto Buena Vista Boulevard in search of lunch or a snack, I grabbed my ultra-light down jacket, threw it on over my crew-neck sweater, and told my aunt that Bailey, Brianna, and I would be back soon.

  “No shenanigans,” she warned.

  “We’re simply in search of a good time.” I gave her a hug, scrubbed Tigger under the chin, and we left.

  I couldn’t believe the number of people milling about. Azure Park had been crowded the other day, but the festival throng had doubled since then. The boulevard was shoulder-to-shoulder people. A stream of folks was heading toward the south, where the small-batch wines were the focus. Bailey and I had agreed that we would abstain today; we needed to keep our wits about us.

  “I’m loving the art-themed music,” Bailey said as she checked on Brianna’s blanket and hat to make sure she was warm.

  “It’s colorful.”

  Through speakers that were located every forty to fifty yards, a new rock song rang out. The first song we’d heard, “Vincent” by Don McLean, was melodic and mournful. The next, “Andy Warhol” by David Bowie, was rousing the crowd.

  We passed a variety of artisans, including basket weavers, wind chime makers, and copper foil designers.

  At Repurposed Bicycle, the artist had used bicycle parts to make some amazingly different art. The bike chain bookends caught my eye. They were so unique. The modestly priced bottle openers made with chains and cogs were a big seller, too.

  “Isn’t it amazing what’s considered art?” Bailey asked.

  “I’m astounded.”

  We stopped at a small booth named Open Your Imagination, where a woman from Carmel-by-the-Sea was showing how to install a fairy garden of succulents in a wide-mouthed pot. Bailey picked up one of the fairy figurines that were for sale and held it in front of Brianna’s face. “Isn’t she pretty? Look at her blue wings.” Brianna reached for the fairy. Bailey said, “No, baby girl. Not a chance. When you’re older.” She said to me, “I can’t wait to teach her how to plant and dream.”

  “You’re a good mom.” I shivered. The sun was out but the temperature was only in the fifties. “Hey, I’m hungry and cold. How about a cup of lentil and chicken soup?”

  “Sounds great.”

  I purchased two to-go cups from Soup’s On, a regular festival vendor, and we continued walking.

  At the furniture maker venue named Minimalist, a long-haired man was showing onlookers how to turn old scrolled legs of a desk into feet for a chair.

  At Get It Off Your Chest, a pair of female artists were demonstrating how to paint an ordinary three-drawer dresser after it had been stripped of its veneer and repainted white. Currently, they were painting branches of cherry blossom trees on the front, turning the dresser into something gorgeous.

  “Jenna!” a woman warbled.

  Faith Fairchild, wearing wildly colorful leggings and a neon green top, was standing alongside Candy Kane, who was manning a pushcart similar to Pepper’s that featured her jewelry: Kane’s Korals.

  I moseyed to them. “Pretty,” I said, admiring Candy’s work. Earrings hung on decorative gold trees. Necklaces and bracelets were displayed on a T-type stand. I was particularly fond of a silver and coral rope-style bracelet. “Do you carve and polish the coral yourself?”

  “Mm-hm.” She was a shy woman with a wispy voice. During our workshops she hadn’t said more than ten words. I couldn’t imagine her killing a flea, let alone Quade.

  “Isn’t she fabulous?” Faith lifted a pair of hand-carved earrings that resembled leaves and held them up to her ears. “Bailey, these would look gorgeous on you.”

  Bailey never could resist earrings or an artful sales pitch. She bought the pair, and I reflected that if Faith didn’t make it as an artist, she might mull over going back to being an artists representative.

  “Good choice,” Faith said, adding, “Flora wants to talk to you, Jenna. If you have a moment.”

  “What about?”

  “I don’t have a clue.” She plucked her spiky, lime-green-tinted hair. “As if she tells me anything.”

  Candy slipped Bailey’s purchase into a coral-colored mesh bag and handed it to her. Bailey tucked her purchase into the pouch on Brianna’s stroller and we moved on.

  “Hey, is that the pet store the other artist in the competition owns?” Bailey asked. “Jaime something?”

  Next to Nuts and Bolts, the hardware shop my father bought after he retired from the FBI, was a new shop I hadn’t been aware of until now, Exotic Pets. The window was covered with Save the Rainforest stickers and peace signs and exceptional pictures of lizards, geckos, and iguanas in their habitats, which made me smile. My aunt was right. Jaime Gutierrez, like Candy Kane, wouldn’t hurt a soul. He was all about preserving life.

  As we strolled on, I questioned the way my mind worked, reading murderous intentions into everyone’s behavior when there were none. But someone had murdered Quade. How was Cinnamon fairing with her investigation?

  I spotted Flora standing in front of her shop beside a kiosk-style cart filled with homemade candles. Before opening Home Sweet Home, she had started out selling candles.

  Nudging Bailey in that direction, I strolled to Flora and lifted a tall candle. Decorated with red-white-and-green-striped wax ribbons, it screamed Christmas. “This is amazing, Flora.”

  “Check out this one,” Bailey said, lifting a candle, similar in style, done in black, green, turquoise, and red. “Ex
quisite.”

  “I take special orders,” Flora said, her voice burbling with enthusiasm. “A person can choose the colors to go with their décor.”

  “Smart,” I said. “Hey, your sister said you wanted to see me.”

  “Yes.” Flora lowered her voice. “I saw you last night at Intime.”

  “I didn’t see you there.”

  “I was with my brother, toward the front, to the right. It was a lovely menu. Rhett outdid himself.”

  “Thank you. He’d be pleased to hear that.”

  “I mention it because I saw you follow Sienna into the ladies’ room.”

  “I didn’t follow her. She was there when I entered.”

  “Oh, my mistake,” Flora said quickly. “When she came rushing out, I thought you’d embarrassed her by asking about her necklace.”

  “Why would she have been embarrassed?” Bailey asked, intrigued.

  Flora leaned in. “I’m pretty sure she stole it.”

  “Flora,” I said in the same tone my aunt would use when reprimanding anyone for spreading rumors.

  “It’s the truth. She’s got sticky fingers.”

  “C’mon.” I tsked.

  “She’s stolen from my shop. Little things, knickknacks, nothing she needs. Of course, whenever I press her, she takes umbrage. You know how it is.”

  Actually, I didn’t. I’d never caught anyone swiping something from the Cookbook Nook. Was I too naïve for words?

  “My mother thought Sienna had bought the jewelry at Sterling’s,” Bailey said.

  “Oh, it came from Sterling’s all right,” Flora said, “but I don’t think she bought it.”

  This was a serious accusation. Was Sienna a thief? Had Quade known? Was that what they’d argued about? Had he threatened to tell the police about her proclivity? Yardley thought he might have given Sienna a piece of art in exchange for the room, but what if he hadn’t given her anything? What if Sienna had paid him hush money as well as free room nights at the inn to buy his silence? Perhaps her being pregnant—if she was pregnant—had nothing to do with him.

  I said, “Flora, if—” My cell phone buzzed in my jacket pocket. I pulled it free and checked the readout. Yardley had texted: Naomi was attacked. She’s at Mercy. Please come.