Wining and Dying Page 17

  I typed: On my way.

  “We’ve got to run,” I said.

  “What’s wrong?” Flora looked as panicked as I felt.

  “Naomi. She’s in the hospital.”

  “Oh, no.”

  Bailey and I hurried back to the shop. I told my aunt what had happened and then I hopped into the VW and sped to Mercy Urgent Care.

  As it had been the other day, the emergency area was buzzing with activity. I searched for Yardley among the crowd but didn’t see her. My cell phone buzzed again. Yardley had texted Room 101.

  I walked-ran down the corridor to the room and rapped on the partially closed door. “It’s me, Jenna.”

  “Come in,” Yardley said.

  Naomi, dressed in the standard blue hospital gown, eyes closed, was lying in bed, her arms and bandaged hands above the sheet and cotton blanket.

  Yardley was standing on the far side of the hospital bed. Her husband Wayne stood with his arm around her. Yardley was as white as her sweater and ready to crack. Wayne, tan and clad in a Wild Blue Yonder T-shirt that clung to his muscular chest, reminded me of an intrepid adventurer, able to handle any stressful situation.

  “You know Wayne,” Yardley whispered.

  I nodded hello.

  Yardley beckoned me to the bedside. “Naomi is lucid but drifting in and out.”

  On the hospital bed table was a plastic cup with straw and a clear packet holding what I assumed were Naomi’s personal items: a wallet, cell phone, and pink potion necklace like the ones Pepper had been selling. Pink for confidence, I recalled. Yardley must have told her about it or gifted it to her.

  I stared at Naomi’s face, inspecting the square-shaped bruise on her cheek that had been salved with ointment, and my insides flinched ever so slightly. “Ow,” I whispered.

  “She was struck this morning outside her house,” Yardley continued. “She—”

  Naomi opened her eyes. “Hi, Jenna.” Her voice was thin and weak.

  “What happened?” I asked.

  “Someone knocked,” she said with effort. “Before dawn. I peered out the peephole. It was too dark to see anyone. I heard footsteps. Thinking the intruder was headed to my daughter’s window, I grabbed the baseball bat I keep by the door. The next thing I knew, I was on the ground.”

  “Given the buckle imprint on her cheek,” Yardley said, “the doctor thinks she was hit with some kind of purse or backpack. She wasn’t robbed or . . .” Yardley didn’t finish, but I knew what she meant. Raped.

  Naomi licked her lips. “Water.”

  Yardley offered her the plastic cup fitted with a straw. Naomi took a long pull of liquid and handed it back.

  “Was it Christopher?” I asked.

  Naomi murmured, “I don’t know. The footsteps . . . were heavy.”

  “Did you see anything?” I asked. “Smell anything?”

  “Nothing. When my head cleared, I heard Nina crying. Inside. I couldn’t”—she bit back tears—“get to her. My arms ached and my hands . . .”

  I glanced at her bandaged hands.

  “She couldn’t even crawl,” Yardley finished. “Luckily, she had her cell phone on her. She dialed 911 and the EMTs contacted me.”

  I petted Naomi’s shoulder.

  “She’s going to be fine,” Yardley said. “Nothing broken.”

  “And I’ll be at the poster competition tomorrow when the winner’s announced,” Naomi promised.

  “We’ll see.” Fondly, Yardley brushed a strand of hair off Naomi’s face. “We’ll see.”

  “Where is Nina?” I asked.

  “With my friend,” Naomi rasped.

  “The one with the daughter the same age?”

  “Yes.”

  “The EMTs brought Nina along,” Yardley said, “but I didn’t think this was the proper place for a child.”

  “You’re too good to me.” Naomi cleared her throat.

  Yardley handed her the water cup again.

  For a moment, I pondered whether Naomi had faked the incident for sympathy and to take suspicion off herself regarding Quade. Keeping her identity a secret was a strong motive for murder, and her alibi for the night of the murder—being home with her daughter, a three-year-old who wouldn’t be able to corroborate her story—was weak. But looking at the injury on her face and the bandages on her arms and hands, I couldn’t imagine her doing such a thing to herself.

  We chatted for a while about the festival and such, and then her eyelids fluttered and she drifted to sleep. I had to get back to work but told Yardley to call me if there was any change. She looped her arm around her husband’s back and promised she would.

  On the way down the hall, I was surprised to see a nurse wheeling Destiny on a gurney. I hurried to them and drew alongside. Destiny’s forehead, like Naomi’s cheek, had a square bruise on it. Her left eye was turning purple. There were also scratches, unbandaged, on her arms. I said to the nurse, “I know her. Are you taking her to a room?”

  “We’re full up with festivalgoers. I have to position her outside one that’s being cleaned.”

  When they pulled to a stop, I said, “Destiny?”

  She squinted, not recognizing me.

  “It’s Jenna Hart. What happened?”

  “Someone rang my doorbell around seven. I think it was then. I’m not sure of the time. I didn’t see anyone but heard . . . footsteps.” The words came out slowly and slurred. The emergency team must have given her medicine for the pain. “I took a candlestick. My mother’s. Big. Heavy.” Her cadence was stilted. “The moment I stepped outside, someone whacked me. Hard. Something swung into my face. I bumped into the wall and—”

  “Ma’am,” the nurse said, “she needs her rest.”

  “Yes, but another woman was attacked the same way. Naomi Genet, room one-oh-one. If it was the same assailant, shouldn’t we alert the police?”

  The nurse hesitated.

  “Destiny. Were you robbed?” I asked.

  “No.”

  “Do you know if it was a man or woman?”

  “I think it was a man.”

  It sounded like Destiny had been assaulted by the same person who’d attacked Naomi.

  “When I came to, I heard my dog barking like crazy. I had to get to him. I crawled inside.” Her hands were scraped. “He licked me, so I knew he wasn’t hurt. Then I phoned 911.”

  I addressed the nurse. “Will she be okay?”

  “She didn’t suffer a concussion.”

  “I’ll be at the finals for the wine tasting,” Destiny rasped. “Tell Hannah.”

  “I’ll do better than that. I’ll text her right now.” I did and then I dialed the precinct and asked for Cinnamon, only to be told she was at the hospital.

  “Jenna!” a woman called.

  I knew the voice and turned. Cinnamon was striding toward me. Appleby followed.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked as she took note of Destiny.

  “Naomi Genet was attacked. I came to see her and subsequently learned Destiny Dacourt had been assaulted, too. In the same way. Struck with a heavy object that probably has a square-shaped buckle. Neither was robbed or . . .”

  “Which room is Miss Genet in?” Cinnamon asked.

  “One-oh-one, but she’s asleep.”

  Cinnamon said to Appleby, “This week keeps getting better. First the murder, then the hit-and-run and the bar fight, and now this?” She told him to go to Naomi’s room.

  As he walked away, a theory came to me. “I asked Naomi if she thought Christopher George did this. She wasn’t sure.”

  “Why would he attack her?”

  “Because she left him.”

  “Why would he harm Miss Dacourt?”

  “So it wouldn’t look like Naomi was his primary victim. She’s been present at many of the functions this week. You talked to him again. Did you find out when he first met Quade? What their relationship was?”

  “Jenna, I got your message about the tar shampoo. Let me do my job.”

&
nbsp; “He claims he has a rock-solid alibi for the night Quade was murdered.”

  Her eyes glinted with annoyance. “You asked him—”

  “He said he was in his room. No room service. No witnesses. Watching CNN. Sounds weak to me. You should find out his alibi for this morning. To rule him out. Or here’s another thought.” I raised a finger as a second idea came to me. “What if Sienna Brown hurt Naomi, knowing Quade liked her, and hurt Destiny because she’d dated him at one time? A woman scorned. Plus . . .” I said what Flora Fairchild had shared about Sienna and added my two cents about the initials HM in Quade’s ledger standing for hush money. “Except Sienna swears she has a verifiable alibi, too. She was in her residential unit at the inn and ordered chamomile tea.”

  “Actually . . .” Cinnamon paused.

  “What?” I hung on her unspoken thought.

  “Actually, her alibi is in doubt. The tea was left outside the room. The hospitality person did not see her.” Cinnamon smiled tightly. “Thank you, Jenna. You can go now.”

  At least this time she hadn’t ordered me to leave before hearing me out.

  Chapter 19

  On my way to my VW, I dialed Hannah. She was horrified to read my text about Destiny and said she would drop everything and visit her at Mercy Urgent Care. I told her not to worry. Destiny was clearheaded and a fighter.

  Despite my assurances to Bailey and my aunt that I was unshaken by the latest turn of events, for the remainder of the afternoon I slogged through chores, selling books and reviewing preorders, trying not to dwell on the fact that not only was a murderer still on the loose but now someone was attacking women. I tried to seek comfort knowing that Cinnamon and her people would catch the culprit or culprits, but when?

  Around three p.m., when Katie brought chocolate mousse mini cupcakes out as a treat—I ate two!—I found a second wind and sat at the register to create a suspect list. I wrote the names of those I deemed the likeliest suspects at the top of the list.

  Christopher George. Motive: jealousy and/or financial gain, but I really couldn’t see him risking his entire empire to take over a forgery gig. On the other hand, he was obviously besotted with Naomi. Did he really have a solid alibi? Cinnamon didn’t refute it.

  The scent of tar or cologne or whatever I’d detected at the crime scene continued to plague me.

  Sienna Brown. Motive: to hide the secret about her thievery and/or her pregnancy. The first seemed the more likely of the two. Was that why she was so cagey at Intime? Also, she was a skilled fencer. She knew how to wield a sharp weapon.

  Naomi Genet. Motive: to keep her whereabouts secret. But would she really risk going to jail and losing her daughter? Wouldn’t it have been likelier that she would pack up and run? She’d reinvented herself once. She could do it again.

  Who else? I tapped my pen on the pad of paper. Destiny? Quade had rebuffed her, but I imagined she would have wanted him alive so she could continue to try to win his heart. Yardley? No, she was Quade’s mother and was clearly heartbroken. Z.Z.’s son Egan? Had he lied about sleeping on the beach and seeing Keller? What would his motive for murder have been? And then it came to me.

  I revised what I’d written for Christopher George and applied it to Egan.

  Egan Zeller. Motive: desire to be artists representative. Had he secretly become Quade’s representative and brokered a deal, only to find out the art was a forgery, which infuriated him, knowing something like that could ruin his entire career? Or perhaps the driving need to get out from under his mother’s wing by owning and selling the forgeries had propelled him to commit murder.

  At a quarter past four, I realized I was flagging, my brain was mush, and I needed to go home if I was going to regroup for the girls’ night out evening at Palette. Bailey asked if she could leave early, too. My aunt and Gran were more than happy to man the fort.

  To my shock, when I got home I found Rook curled on the floor in the kitchen, reeking and covered with dirt. I groaned. “What have you been doing, young man?”

  I set Tigger on the floor. Wanting nothing to do with the smelly dog, he bounded onto his kitty condo.

  “Did you go out the doggie door and find a skunk in the backyard, big guy?” How I hoped Rook hadn’t overpowered the critter and brought it inside. I did a quick search of the house and, finding nothing, returned to the kitchen. Rook, still curled up, raised his head, his eyes pitiful. “I know you’re sorry, fella. It’s okay. But you’re getting a shower.” I pointed. Rook didn’t budge. He’d never been bathed at this house. “Ahem. I’m the boss today. Let’s go. On your feet.”

  He blinked.

  “Fine.” I attached a leash to his collar, grabbed the dog shampoo from under the sink—Rhett had thought to include all of Rook’s items when he’d brought some of his clothes and toiletries earlier this week—and led the dog to the master bathroom. I turned on the shower to warm it up, then grabbed the anti-seborrheic shampoo and, stripping down to my bra and underwear, stepped into the shower, pulling Rook with me.

  Tigger leaped onto the bathroom counter and scrutinized us from afar.

  Planning ahead for exactly this purpose, we had installed a sprayer showerhead in addition to the overhead one. I soaked Rook, then turned off the water, poured a big dollop of his shampoo into my hand, and rubbed it all over his fur. The tarlike aroma invaded my nose and I was reminded of the scent of Christopher George’s shampoo. Both scents smelled like the odor I’d detected at the crime scene. I was sure of it.

  I shook free of the memory and sprayed the dog with water until all the shampoo was gone. “Stay,” I ordered and got out of the shower, closing the door.

  He shimmied as much water as he could from his body. Droplets pelleted the shower’s walls and glass door.

  I fetched two towels for the brute from the cabinet—Rhett had also brought the dog’s towels—and slipped back into the shower. I rubbed him down, inhaling as I did to make sure I’d gotten rid of the stinky odor. When he was good as new, I kissed his nose, unhooked the leash, and opened the shower door. “You’re free!”

  He jumped out as if escaping jail.

  I mopped up the hair he’d shed, took my own shower, and then dressed for Palette.

  • • •

  Bailey and Katie had arrived before me. Bailey had dressed in a multicolored short-sleeved shirt and capris. Katie had donned an ancient college T-shirt over jeans. I’d thrown on a blouse I’d purchased at Anthropologie with a paint-splatter design. If I accidentally got paint on it, as I had the first time I’d gone to Palette, who would know?

  In rhythm to the Michael Bublé song being piped through the speakers, I cha-cha’d to where they were selecting aprons.

  “Brianna is wonderful,” Bailey said, mid-conversation. “And Min-yi?”

  “Eleanor is babysitting her tonight. How she adores her granddaughter.” Katie beamed.

  “Sorry I’m late,” I cut in. “Talking babies?”

  “Of course,” Bailey said. “But we’ll put that on pause. Why are you late?”

  “When I got home, the dog—” I explained Rook’s adventure and subsequent bath. “I’ll get us each a glass of wine. What do you prefer?”

  “Red,” they both said.

  “On it.”

  Palette was a colorful but narrow space with four rows of tables set with canvases on tabletop easels, brushes, palette knives, paint, and palettes. Aprons and cubbies for personal items were on the right side of the room. At the back was the food and wine counter. The place offered a few gourmet appetizers plus finger-food snacks, like nachos and popcorn. I purchased three glasses of Hurricane Vineyard pinot noir—Hannah had made an exclusive deal with Palette as well as a few other locations in town—and three cheese plates with rosemary sea salt crackers and gherkins. After grabbing a few napkins, I carried the treats to my pals, who’d taken three spots in the row closest to the door.

  A few newcomers entered and a breeze followed them in. I shivered.

  “When everyone�
�s here,” Katie said, “it’ll get warmer.”

  “Hope so.”

  “Hello, artists!” Orah, the owner and instructor, a thirty-something woman with startling blue eyes and wavy red hair, hailed us from the small stage on the side of the room where a canvas was set on an easel. “I’m Orah, spelled O-R-A-H. It means light. Yes, my mother was living in a commune when I was born. Where else would I get such a ridiculous name?”

  The class of twenty laughed.

  “I’ll be your instructor for the evening.” Orah was wearing a mauve peasant dress and long feathery earrings. “Today, we’re going to tackle flowers. How many of you are artists?”

  A few raised their hands.

  Katie nudged my elbow. “Arm up.”

  “No. She knows.” I wriggled away, doing my best to stay perky even though thoughts of Naomi and Destiny being attacked and Cinnamon mentioning all the other crimes that had occurred in our fair town was running roughshod through my brain.

  “That’s okay,” Orah said. “We’re here to have fun. If it’s your first time or your tenth time, this is all about trying something new and encouraging the inner artist in you to rise to the occasion. Are you ready?” She raised a paintbrush and a glass of wine. “Salud!”

  Katie, Bailey, and I toasted.

  “I needed this,” Katie said.

  For the next ten minutes, Orah gave her spiel, showing us a painting named Perfect Posy by Varaluz that we were going to try to copy or not copy, depending on our artistic talents. The painting was simple in structure, with vibrantly colored large and small flowers on a grayish background. Orah started by showing us how to cover the canvas in white and grays to create the background. “Layering,” she said, “is key.”

  As the three of us followed her guidance, dipping our brushes in paint and swiping the brushes across our canvases, Bailey said to me, “How’s Naomi?”

  “I’m sure she’s fine, but her face . . .”

  “What happened to Naomi?” Katie’s eyes widened.

  I explained. “Destiny was attacked, too. She has the same square-shaped welt on her face. I hope Cinnamon can match the bruise to a buckle.”