Pressing the Issue Read online

  “I saw ugly tomatoes like these at Nick Baldini’s, sitting in a bowl above his kitchen sink. I’m wondering whether Pepper or Melody gave them to him. Melody is renting Pepper’s house so—”

  “No, no, no.” Charlene brandished the knife. “I doubt Melody gave Nick anything but backtalk.” She rewrapped the remaining cheese and returned it to the refrigerated case. “I saw him flirting with her out on the sidewalk before she came in the other day. She clearly wanted to slap him.” Charlene shook her head. “Uh-uh. There was no love lost there, believe you me.”

  Chapter 19

  I trotted back to the Cookbook Nook to fetch Tigger and spotted Pepper entering Beaders of Paradise. Curious whether Cinnamon had questioned her about the telephone message from Nick, I hurried after her. I flew inside the shop before the door closed.

  “Hi, Pepper!”

  Though I’m not a beader, I love her shop. I didn’t always. The first time I’d entered, the strands of seashell-shaped beads that served as a window shade attacked me. Now I find them as charming as the racks filled with string and twine and the jars and boxes packed with colorful beads.

  She whipped around. “I’m not staying, Jenna. I’ve come to pick up more product. Can you return—”

  “I’m not buying. I wanted to ask you a quick question. I heard Nick telephoned your house the night he died.”

  “This is the first I’ve learned of it.” She reached into a closet and removed three plastic cartons of beads.

  “Your daughter didn’t tell you? Your tenant told her—”

  “Cinnamon and I are not on speaking terms.”

  “But you’re staying in her house.”

  “Which is why we’re not on speaking terms. Familiarity breeds contempt.” She set the containers on the counter and retrieved five spools of wire. “Apparently, my daughter doesn’t like the way I keep the kitchen. What’s wrong with leaving a few dishes in the sink? I rinse them.”

  “That means you don’t know . . .” I balked.

  “Don’t know what?”

  Heaven forbid I spill the beans about Cinnamon’s engagement. “You should speak with her,” I said feebly.

  She harrumphed under her breath.

  I pressed on. “Back to the phone call. Apparently, Nick left you a message about the napkin rings you’re making for Bailey.”

  “Made,” she said. “That I made for Bailey. They’re done. And why would he contact me? We talked about them the day before he died. I’d promised to bring them Sunday—” She shook her head. “Today,” she revised. “Maybe the police are mistaking it for a call he made to me the day before?”

  “No, Melody Beaufort said Nick left you a message, but she erased it.”

  Pepper finger-combed her hair. “Why would she do that? She wasn’t supposed to be answering my telephone. She and her husband both have cell phones. I’ll ask her about it, although I suppose it doesn’t matter. Nick is . . .” She sighed. “If you’re wondering where the napkin rings are, they’re in the guest room at my house. That’s where I store all my completed projects. Bailey can ask the Beauforts for them if she’s eager to see them. They’re quite pretty. Some of my best work.” She lifted the boxes of beads.

  “One other thing,” I said as I exited the shop before her. “Did you give Nick some of your ugly tomatoes?”

  “No. All I promised were napkin rings.”

  “He had some on his counter.”

  “Dolly could have given them to him. She raises ugly tomatoes, as well.”

  As Pepper hustled to her smart car, my thoughts flew to Dolly. Did she visit Nick that night and lose her mind when she saw Hannah leaving, or better yet, did she enter the house and spot the distinctive second piece of Melody’s pottery and suspect Nick of having not one but two affairs?

  My cell phone rang. It was Rhett.

  “On my way,” I said the moment I answered. “Ten minutes.” I lifted Tigger and hurried in my VW to the Pier.

  After parking in a spot with a sign that read Twenty Minutes Only and cranking down the window so Tigger had fresh air, I hustled toward Rhett’s sporting goods store. Before heading inside, I paused. Would Hannah and Dolly still be in their stalls? Should I—

  No. Not tonight. I didn’t have time to question anyone. Besides, Cinnamon might have already questioned them, and if I overstepped, she would cry like the Queen of Hearts, “Off with your head!” How I wished she would communicate with me. Why hadn’t she? Maybe she didn’t like the way I kept a kitchen, either.

  • • •

  Rhett and I sat on the rattan love seat on the lanai of my aunt’s house. He was sipping wine. I was chowing down on cheese.

  “Stop tapping your foot, Jenna,” Dad ordered. He was seated in one of the many floral-cushioned chairs. Lola stood behind him gently rubbing his neck.

  “I didn’t realize I was.” I stilled my legs and set my fourth slice of cheddar on a cocktail napkin. Neither the gorgeous setting sun nor the sound of the surf lapping the sand was doing anything to calm my overly active mind. On the drive over, Rhett and I had talked about persons of interest.

  “More wine anyone?” Aunt Vera, wearing an exquisite silver-filigreed violet caftan, floated across the porch offering more sauvignon blanc to any takers. After she poured the last drop, she perched on the edge of a chair.

  “Do you like the Up in Smoke chèvre, Dad?”

  “It’s fine.” He stabbed a fingertip on the arm of his chair. “Care to tell me what’s going on? What has you riled up?”

  Rhett snickered. I batted his thigh with the back of my hand.

  “I’ll tell you what’s bothering her, Cary.” My aunt settled back in her chair and sorted the bangles on her wrists. “She’s concerned about solving Nick’s murder so Bailey and I and everyone else in this town can find peace.”

  “Here we go,” my father said.

  I glowered at him. “Solving the crime will help the vibes at Baldini Vineyards, Dad, so when Bailey and Tito get married—”

  “Vibes.” My father wiggled his fingers.

  “Ignore him,” Aunt Vera said. “Go on, Jenna.”

  Lola squeezed my father’s shoulders.

  “Ouch,” he muttered.

  “Cut Jenna some slack, darling. If she has theories about Nick’s murder, I want to hear what she has to say.”

  Dad winked at me, and I realized he was simply doing what he did best—trying to get a rise out of me and everyone else.

  I relaxed a tad and set my glass of wine on the rattan coffee table. “Okay, first, I know the police are doing their job. They’ve questioned a lot of people, including Nick’s foreman and crew, all of whom have alibis. But I still feel that the prime suspects are Dolly, Hannah, Alan, and Melody Beaufort. Each have alibis, but they are tenuous.”

  “Melody Beaufort?” my father asked. “Isn’t she new to town?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why would she want to kill Nick?”

  Aunt Vera twirled a hand. “Give us your reasoning for each, dear.”

  I nodded. “Let me start with Dolly. She said she was home making garlands, but Gran—she’s one of our customers—lives near to Dolly. She was walking her dog about the time of the murder, and she didn’t see any lights on at Dolly’s house. Why would Dolly lie?” I splayed my hands. “Because she was furious that Nick had dumped her, so she went to confront him that night, and when she saw Hannah leaving—”

  “Hannah was at Nick’s house?” Lola settled into a chair and leaned forward, elbows on her knees, fingers laced beneath her chin. “How do you know?”

  “She told me. She went to apologize for arguing with him in public. She said they parted on good terms.” I paused. If she’d lied about seeing Alan, however, she might have fibbed about her meeting with Nick. On the other hand, she said the foreman, the housekeeper, her grandmother, and her grandmother’s nurse saw her when she arrived home. Wouldn’t one or all of them have noticed if she’d had blood on her clothing? How I wanted to belie
ve she was innocent. Truth be told, I wanted to believe Dolly was innocent, too.

  “Continue,” Lola said. Prior to owning the Pelican Brief, she had worked as a defense lawyer. A few years ago, she had given up the practice. I always appreciated when she listened to me as if I were a worthy adversary.

  “Maybe Nick let Dolly in,” I continued, “and they rehashed the reason for the breakup. Maybe Dolly was satisfied, but when she saw a vase that Melody gave Nick as a gift—”

  “How do you know she gave him a gift?” Dad asked.

  “Actually, I don’t, but I think she did. Even if she didn’t, Dolly could have assumed”—as I had—“and she lost it. Rumor has it, when Nick broke up with Dolly, she destroyed a shelf in her shop with a baseball bat.”

  “That doesn’t surprise me,” my aunt said. “I’ve witnessed her temper firsthand. About six months ago, a salesman came into her shop and offered her subpar goods. She was not a happy camper.”

  “Did she hit him with a baseball bat?” my father challenged.

  “No, but she let him have a mouthful.”

  “A mouthful is not—”

  Lola waved a hand to quiet my father. “Jenna, tell us more about Hannah.”

  Rhett stroked my back and murmured, “You’ve got them hooked.”

  “We can hear you, young man,” my father sniped.

  “Not so young,” Rhett countered.

  My father threw him a menacing look; Rhett offered a huge, devil-may-care grin. The two of them had become good friends; both liked sparring.

  I explained how Hannah had lied about being able to see Alan from the second-floor window.

  “How do you know she lied?” Lola asked.

  “It’s boarded up and the wood doesn’t look new.”

  “There’s more than one window with that particular view of the Baldini property,” Rhett said.

  “Where? I didn’t see one.”

  Rhett stabbed the air above his head. “In the turret. The corner tower.”

  “But wouldn’t that be considered the third floor?” I asked.

  “Sure, but calling it the second floor”—he joggled his hand—“might be a reasonable mistake.”

  I shifted in my seat. “Hannah said she was with her grandmother, who is an invalid. Why would Mrs. Storm be on the third floor? Do they have an elevator?”

  “She’s not an invalid,” my father argued. “Where did you hear that?”

  “Aunt Vera said she has osteoporosis.”

  “Perhaps she climbs stairs to strengthen her legs,” my father said. “Did you ever consider that? Moving on.” He brandished a finger. “Who’s next on your list?”

  I filled the group in about Melody and Nick’s public spat. I added that Pepper had overheard Melody and her husband arguing about keeping a secret from Nick.

  “A secret,” my aunt repeated.

  “Is Sean Beaufort a person of interest?” Lola asked.

  I worked my tongue inside my cheek. “I suppose he should be, if he were a jealous man, but Melody repeatedly made it clear that she was not interested in Nick. Charlene, at Say Cheese, saw Melody nearly slap Nick.”

  “Sean is a cool guy,” Rhett said. “Over the course of the past few days, I’ve had a few conversations with him.”

  “Cool guys have been known to kill,” Lola countered.

  “Nice women, too,” my aunt said. “Jenna, you mentioned that Nick had a second piece of Melody’s pottery. Are you sure about that?”

  “Yes. I saw it the night—” My voice cracked, the memory of finding him so fresh that it stung. “The night he died. I asked Melody about it, but she swore she didn’t give it to him.”

  My father gawked. “You asked her?”

  “What about Alan Baldini?” Aunt Vera cut in. “He has a lot to gain from his brother’s death. Do you think he made up the thing about having face blindness?” She rose to her feet and asked, “Who wants more wine?” She didn’t wait for an answer and retreated into the house for a fresh bottle.

  “Alan has face blindness?” Lola sounded astonished. “I don’t understand why he would fib about that. It wouldn’t support his alibi. More importantly, how often does he take the crow to the field? Hannah might have based her story on his schedule.”

  “He was there last night,” I said.

  “How do you know?” My father lurched to his feet, his voice gravelly with anger. “Were you spying on him?”

  “No!”

  “Jenna, tell the truth.”

  I tried to melt into the back of the love seat.

  “That’s it. I’ve heard enough!” Dad snapped. “You are taking risks you shouldn’t take, young lady.”

  “I was with Bailey.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Tell it to the judge.” He barreled down the rear stairs. “I’m going for a walk on the beach. Lola, are you joining me?”

  “Yes, darling.” She threw me a supportive look. “Don’t worry. I’ll calm him down.” She raced to catch up to him.

  “I’m still here, fair maiden.” Rhett lifted my hair and kissed my neck. “Run the rest by me.”

  A shiver of desire coursed through me. Rhett laughed, knowing the affect he was having.

  “You rogue,” I chided. “That reminds me . . .” I dug into my tote bag and pulled out the DVD the mayor had given me.

  “What’s that?”

  “A token of appreciation for helping out with the instructional video.” I handed it to him. “Care to watch the two of us on film?”

  “Using what? Neither of us brought our computers, and your aunt doesn’t have a system.”

  “The mayor also posted it online.” I fetched my cell phone, opened the Internet browser, and entered the link the mayor had cited. I pressed Play.

  While watching the actors mingle, I said, “Hmm. How did Alan capture all of this if he can’t see faces?”

  “I would imagine he follows shapes and sounds.”

  “That makes sense. He did say he could determine who someone was by certain attributes like a haircut or headwear.”

  On-screen, Melody hurried up to an older frizzy-haired woman in lavender who was approaching Nick, aka Henry VIII. Seeing him alive tugged at my heartstrings.

  Rhett tapped the cell phone screen. “Who’s that woman in lavender?”

  “I have no idea.”

  Melody gripped the woman’s arm. “Nay, Mother, do not attack. Verily, I say he is not the scoundrel.”

  The older woman shot a finger at Nick. “By my faith, should I learn otherwise . . .” She glowered at him and did a U-turn.

  Nick lingered near Melody and leaned in. He said something so softly that I couldn’t pick it up. Melody lowered her chin and shook her head.

  “Does she look scared to you?” Rhett asked.

  “Scared?”

  “Rewind it. Look at her eyes.”

  I rewound the video feed, switched up the volume, and hit Play.

  Nick’s voice was still faint, but we could make out, “Come now, Shannon, admit it.”

  Rhett was right. Melody’s eyes glistened with fear. She glanced over her shoulder and back at Nick. “Stop,” she urged in a whisper.

  “’Tis I,” Nick said, thumping his chest proudly, as Henry VIII might do. “You must remember me.”

  I paused the recording. “Why did he call her Shannon?”

  “Maybe it’s a name she gave herself for the fair, to keep the acting exercise separate from her identity as a potter? Keep going.”

  I pressed Play again. Nick gently swept Melody’s hair to one side. He uttered a one-syllable word I couldn’t make out. “What did he say?”

  Melody batted Nick’s hand and inched away.

  “Wasn’t that about the time her husband arrived?” Rhett asked.

  “I think he came in a bit later.”

  “Even so, maybe Sean should be a suspect after all. What if he saw Nick hitting on Melody during the filming and he got jealous? I sure would be after observing that interplay.”


  I nodded. “I’ve been wondering if the missive the messenger brought in was from Nick and not Sean.”

  “What missive?”

  “Don’t you remember? Like the one you gave me.” I related the scenario up to the point when Sean removed the scroll from Melody’s hand.

  The film skewed—an unprofessional, funky cut—and a new scene started. I wondered who had done the editing. Not Alan, if he couldn’t discern faces. Maybe the mayor.

  Rhett and I watched until the end. Neither he nor I appeared comfortable in our roles, which made us laugh.

  “A career as an actor is not in my future,” he teased.

  “Mine, either.”

  When the video ended, I was still wondering about Nick having called Melody Shannon. Others said “Melody” throughout the taping. Was Melody her real name? Maybe she had reinvented herself, which was why she had no social media footprint.

  In the search bar on my cell phone’s Internet browser, I typed in Shannon Beaufort. Two profiles with that name materialized for Facebook, but neither of the profile pictures matched Melody.

  “Do you know what her maiden name was?” Rhett took a sip of wine and set his glass on the coffee table.

  “No clue.” I opened Beaufort’s Beautiful Pottery website and scoured the biographies for Sean and Melody. He was purely the money guy; Melody was the artist. There was no mention of their lives prior to starting the pottery business, nor any mention of her taking pottery classes in Columbus, Ohio, as she’d hinted to Charlene.

  Who was Melody Beaufort? Why the secrecy? Why was I suspicious? Maybe Nick had been mistaken about her identity, and that was why she had rebuffed him.

  I revisited the main Internet browser page, typed in Beaufort’s Beautiful Pottery, and noticed a few links to reviews on Yelp. I selected one link after another. All raved about Melody’s work. A headshot of the reviewer accompanied each review. I paused on one review written by a woman who looked similar to Melody, except she had dark hair. I recalled that Melody had dark roots. Had she bleached her hair to clandestinely review her own product? Was that the secret she needed to hide? Killing someone to conceal such an innocent ploy didn’t seem reasonable.