Pressing the Issue Read online

  “Oops.” Tina blushed. “Guess I missed her slipping past me.”

  “You’re eating cheesecake?” I said to my aunt.

  “I’m addicted. Have you had these?” She waved her treat near my face. “Devilish. Want me to fetch you one?”

  “I need lunch before I down a straight dose of sugar.”

  “Katie’s setting out some mini meat pies right now.”

  “Perfect.” The pan pasty had filled me up for the morning, but it wasn’t enough to keep me going all day. I headed in that direction.

  “How is Dolly?” Aunt Vera asked.

  “Yes, how is she?” Tina gazed at me earnestly. “She seemed distraught.”

  I halted. “She’ll survive. She’s determined to move to Los Angeles.” On the drive back, Dolly had raved about Santa Monica. She had visited the area last year for a beading conference and had fallen in love with it.

  “Heavens,” Aunt Vera said. “It’s all my fault for not giving her a better reading.”

  “It has nothing to do with you,” I chided. “She needs a fresh start. Losing Nick has put a hole in her heart and a damper on her self-esteem. She wants to take a risk.”

  “A risk . . .” My aunt pulled a deck of tarot cards from her pocket. She shuffled them and chose three cards—what she liked to call a quickie tarot spread. Rather than lay them out on the counter, she studied them and reinserted them into the deck. “I do see a bit of derring-do in her future. Good. All positive. She has my blessing,” she said, Dolly’s disloyalty forgiven and forgotten. “I’ll be right back.” She ambled in the direction of the storage room, taking a moment at the kitty condo to give Tigger a kiss on the nose.

  I continued toward the breezeway.

  As my aunt pushed through the drapes, she added over her shoulder, “There’s nothing quite as stimulating as taking a risk and building a new life. You of all people should know that, Jenna.”

  The words building a new life gave me pause. At the pottery class Rhett and I took, in response to something the matronly student had said, Melody claimed she had built a new life for herself. Why had she needed to? The classmate pressed Melody about her training. Melody hesitated, forehead pinched, as she groped for words to describe her third professor. What she had come up with was brilliant but complicated. What did complicated mean? Was he the reason she had left town and changed her name?

  I sprinted to the computer and clicked on the Internet browser icon. A whirring symbol appeared. The modem was searching for a signal.

  Tina peered at the display screen. “What are you doing, investigating?”

  “Go back to work,” I ordered.

  “Can’t. You’re in my way,” she sassed.

  “Help the customers, then, you goofball.”

  “Goofball. Ha-ha. I like that. My uncle used to call me that.” She tittered and left me alone.

  The Internet gods complied and provided a signal. I typed Melody Shannon into the search bar. Like Melody Beaufort, she didn’t have a Facebook profile or any other kind of profile online, but I was able to drum up images of her with dark hair, which meant she must have had a profile at one time, and friends or acquaintances had tagged her along the way. She appeared in group photos at Clearlight Art School of Ohio, as well as a fund-raiser for the local art community. In one, she was beaming and holding a crystal trophy consisting of two symmetrical shapes set on a walnut pedestal.

  I zoomed in and read the inscription: First Place ~ Ceramics; Ohio’s Future Artists. Melody was standing beside a distinguished man with salt-and-pepper hair and a square jaw—not Sean. He wasn’t looking at the camera, however. He was gazing longingly at her. I read the caption: Melody Shannon celebrating with Professor J. Daniel Loveland.

  Another photo featured Melody, Sean, and Professor Loveland. Sean’s obviously irritated gaze wasn’t trained on Melody; it was fixed on the professor. The caption read: Professor J. Daniel Loveland, Melody Shannon, and her fiancé, Professor Sean Ballantyne.

  Ballantyne? Not Beaufort. Sean had changed his name, too. Why? And why wasn’t the fact that he had been a professor stated in his biography on their website?

  I thought of what Tina had said about her former teacher. The powers that be had caught him with his hand in the proverbial cookie jar. Did Professor Loveland make a move on Melody? Did he force himself on her? Is that why she fled the state? Had Sean given up his career to help his wife escape the professor’s advances? Was that why he’d changed his name?

  I typed in J. Daniel Loveland and found a few articles relating to him. He had worked at several small colleges before heading up Clearlight Art School of Ohio. His LinkedIn profile read: Experienced art teacher with a history of working in the arts and crafts industry. Skilled in ceramics. Nothing overt there.

  I delved further and gasped when I came upon a front-page article in the Columbus Dispatch dated ten years ago:

  Professor J. Daniel Loveland found dead at the age of 52. The medical examiner discovered significant traces of arsenic in his bloodstream. The professor was undergoing no course of therapy that would require such heavy doses. The police are looking for an unidentified brunette female who was the last person to have visited his office, according to the art school’s superintendent.

  Melody’s name wasn’t mentioned. Was she the unidentified brunette in question? Did she kill the professor? Was that why she had fled Ohio?

  To double-check my theory, I did another search for Sean Ballantyne. Lo and behold, he quit his professorship at Ohio State University the day Loveland died.

  Did Nick figure out Melody’s secret? Did she believe he would expose her? I couldn’t imagine he would have. He’d loved her.

  I picked up the telephone and dialed Cinnamon at the precinct. I’d given Deputy Appleby a theory at the vineyard, but this was much bigger, and Cinnamon needed to hear it. The clerk informed me that the chief was taking a free day with her intended and couldn’t be disturbed. I tried Cinnamon’s cell phone. It rolled into voice mail.

  “Dang!” I muttered.

  “What’s got you in a tizzy?” Bailey asked as she rushed into the shop carrying a to-go cup. A thin white film of milk lined her upper lip. I tapped my lip to let her know. She wiped off the milk and set down the cup. “Talk to me. You slammed down the phone so hard I thought it might crack.”

  I filled her in on my search and the added frustration of not being able to speak to Cinnamon.

  “Temper, temper. The chief is allowed to have a life.”

  “Well said, Bailey Bird.” Pepper strutted into the shop carrying a beribboned blue-and-silver box—Beaders of Paradise signature colors. “I gave my daughter ten wedding sites to peruse.”

  “You?” Bailey said.

  “I’m well versed in the venues for weddings around here. I was once a bride.”

  Ages ago, and not a happy one, I mused, but held my tongue. My irritation was not with Pepper. Truth be told, it wasn’t with her daughter, either. I craved answers.

  “Did you suggest Baldini Vineyards, Mrs. Pritchett?” Alan asked as he strode into the shop. Apparently he had excellent hearing if he’d caught the thread of our conversation before entering the shop. “Nice beads, by the way.”

  I tilted my head, confused. He could distinguish beads but not faces? Were they in black and white? I definitely needed to learn more about face blindness.

  Pepper fondled the septet of strands she’d donned over her crimson sheath. “Why, thank you, Alan. And no, I didn’t mention your vineyard. I didn’t think you would care to—”

  “I definitely want to, Mrs. Pritchett. To honor Nick. He would want me to carry on the tradition. We’ll hold a few weddings for special folks. Have your daughter call me.” He sidled past Pepper to Bailey. “Ready for our meeting?”

  “Wait a second,” Pepper said. “I have a gift for you, Bailey.” She held out the box. “These are the napkin rings that Nick requisitioned.”

  Bailey accepted them reluctantly. “That’s so consider
ate of you.”

  “Don’t thank me. Nick paid for them. Open it up.”

  Bailey glanced sideways at me, her angst evident. I gave her an encouraging thumbs-up. Slowly she unlaced the ribbons, lifted off the silver box top, and dug through a flurry of silver tissue paper. When she pulled out a napkin ring, she inhaled sharply. “Pepper, these are truly . . . beautiful.”

  I agreed. Pepper had woven tiny gold beads into a cluster of larger red and mossy green beads, all fitted together with three gold rings.

  Bailey’s eyes moistened. “Thank you. They’re perfect.”

  Pepper beamed. “Nick was very specific. He had an eye for beauty, that man.” She placed a hand at the base of her throat. “He wanted your wedding to be everything you hoped it would be. He said he wanted to have a wedding like yours”—her voice caught—“too.”

  Was she going to cry? I hadn’t known Pepper long, but I couldn’t remember her giving in to sentiment. I slung an arm around her. She wriggled from my grasp and veered toward the front of the shop under the pretext of looking for a new book.

  Hannah strolled into the shop, the gold earrings she was wearing jingling merrily. “Hi, all. What’s going on? Are you getting welled up because the fair is almost over?”

  “No,” Bailey said and fanned the air, close to tears herself.

  “Heads up. When you go to shut down your stall, be prepared for dust.” Hannah brushed off the thighs of her blue jeans and tugged on the hem of the crisp white shirt. “Remind me about the mess next year, Jenna, and ask me if I still want to participate.” She chuckled and shot a finger at me. “Can you help me? I need a few recommendations for Central Coast wine books that I can sell at the vineyard. I don’t want to compete with you, of course, so give me suggestions for a few titles that you don’t carry, or I can buy them from you and mark them up. I don’t care. I’m thinking of opening up the vineyard to tastings. Nana has always been against them, but we need to curry favor with the locals and tourists if we’re going to remain viable.”

  “Feeling competitive, Hannah?” Alan said, emerging from behind Bailey, where he’d hidden the moment Hannah entered.

  She pivoted. “Hey, Alan. I didn’t see you there.” She blushed. “Um, no, not overly competitive. We won’t do weddings and such. Private tastings is all I have in mind. Maybe three or four times a year. By the way, you didn’t stop by for tea.”

  “I’m sorry. I meant to. I haven’t . . .” Alan quit talking and edged toward her, his nostrils flaring in a happy way. “Say, I need a wedding planner to help out with Bailey’s wedding. Do you know anyone who might be interested?”

  “Let’s put our thinking caps on.” She slipped her arm through his and guided him into the breezeway, where Katie was setting out mini quiches.

  Bailey hip-bumped me. “You’re grinning like the Cheshire cat.”

  I giggled. “I’m happy to see the two of them bonding.” My stomach rumbled.

  “Hungry?”

  “I’m craving a mini pie, but I don’t want to disturb Alan and Hannah’s budding romance.”

  Bailey chuckled. “Guess I’ll have my meeting with Alan a little later.”

  “And I’ll give Hannah book suggestions later, as well,” I said. “It’s sweet, don’t you think?”

  “Love is in the air.”

  “Excuse me, Jenna?” a man said.

  I turned and spied Sean tramping into the shop carrying one of our gift bags and an aqua blue bag. He was wearing a T-shirt and khaki shorts and looked rather miffed. At me? At his wife? At the world? I had the urge to call him by his former name but nipped that impulse.

  “Afternoon, Sean. What brings you in?” I asked.

  “Here.” He thrust the aqua blue bag at me. “You forgot to pick up your pottery creations. We’re heading out soon. Melody is packing up at the Pier. I’m in charge of the house.”

  I accepted the bag, but I didn’t open it, reluctant to display the pottery Rhett and I had made in front of a discerning crowd. Who knew how it had turned out after being fired in the kiln? “Thank you. That was sweet of you.” I stowed the bag behind the sales counter.

  “Also, I need to return something.” He rummaged in the Cookbook Nook gift bag and withdrew the swan salt and pepper shakers he had purchased. The neck on the pepper shaker had broken. “I didn’t drop it or mishandle it. I’d like a refund.”

  “I’m sorry. This rarely happens, but when it does, of course we offer a refund.” I took the pair from him. “Would you like me to find out if we have another set for you?”

  “No, that’s all right. Melody wasn’t enamored with them anyway.” Sean sneezed and withdrew a tissue from his pocket.

  “Still suffering from allergies?”

  He nodded as he blew his nose.

  “Have you tried Coricidin?” I asked. “It’s the one thing that works for me. That and Dymista. It’s a spray.”

  I noticed a sharp movement to my left. Alan had pulled up short, pausing at the entrance from the breezeway into the shop. His hand was on Hannah’s arm, holding her back. His ear was craned in my direction. No, not mine. In Sean’s direction.

  Quickly, I pulled cash from the register and handed it to Sean. “Here you go. No harm, no foul. If you see anything else you like—”

  “No time.”

  “Well, it’s been lovely having you in town. I hope you’ll come back next year. Please tell your wife it was a delight to take a pottery class with her.”

  “Will do.” He offered a winning smile and exited.

  I disposed of the used gift bag and set the broken swan pieces on a shelf behind the register, and then scurried around the counter to Alan and Hannah. He was standing stock-still in the arch of the breezeway. “Alan, are you all right?”

  “Who was that?” he asked, his voice shaky.

  “Sean Beaufort. You might remember him from the fair-speak instructional taping.”

  “Was he one of the players?”

  “No, he’s Melody’s husband.”

  “He’s the person I heard in the field.”

  “Are you sure?” I asked. “Because I’ve been wondering whether you saw . . . I mean heard . . . Melody.”

  Hannah said, “Why would you think that?”

  “It’s a long story, but I believe she might be on the lam for killing a man, and I think she might have murdered Nick to protect the secret.”

  “No.” Hannah’s hand flew to her chest.

  Bailey drew near. “How would Nick have found out about it? Melody just met him.”

  “As it turns out, they knew each other years ago when she was known as Melody Shannon.”

  Alan gawked. “Meds? Melody Beaufort is Meds?” He scrubbed his jaw. “Wow.”

  “You knew her, too?” I asked.

  “Sure. I went to Ren Camp. She was the queen three years in a row. She and Nick were boyfriend and girlfriend until her family left town. She must have been fourteen then. Nick kept in touch with her for a long time, but sometime after college she went off the grid. Man, Nick pined for her.” He shook his head. “No way Melody would’ve killed him.”

  I said, “She’s the same size as Hannah.”

  “So is Sean,” Bailey said. “About as tall as you.” She held a hand up as if to measure me.

  I flashed on Pepper talking about the Beauforts the day they moved into her house; she said they seemed perfectly matched. “Alan, why are you so sure it was Sean?”

  “Remember how I thought it was Hannah because I heard someone sneeze? It was his sneeze I heard. Plus he smells like clay. I didn’t recall that scent until now.”

  I put a hand on Alan’s arm. “Is it possible that the person who killed Nick stole your gauntlet from the hat-and-coat rack in the utility room?”

  “Gosh, you’re right.” He smacked his thigh. “That’s where I left it. Crow did a number on it. I had to rinse it off and leave it there to dry.”

  I added, “I think the killer also put on a sunhat to wear as a disguise.”
/>
  Alan drew in a deep breath. “How can we prove it?”

  Bailey said, “Jenna, have you forgotten that both Sean and Melody have alibis? They were together at the time of the murder.”

  “Not necessarily,” I said. “Sean claimed he was with her, but Melody ran off and didn’t hear him say that, so she didn’t confirm it. Maybe he was lying to give himself an alibi. I need to talk to her.”

  Bailey hitched her thumb toward the door. “Sean said he’s going to Pepper’s house to finish up. Melody should be alone in their stall. Let’s go.”

  I asked Tina to close up shop, fetched Tigger and my purse, and was hurrying out the door with Bailey when the idea of taking Melody a gift came to me. If I had a reason to visit, she might not get spooked. I snatched a bag, decorative tissue paper, and a pair of long-necked salt and pepper shakers—they weren’t swans, but they would have to do—and raced to my VW.

  Chapter 23

  When we arrived at the Pier, the sun was setting and the parking lot was half full. The entrance to the fair was still adorned with drapery, but the barker wasn’t greeting fairgoers. He was bidding them adieu.

  Bailey and I, with Tigger in tow—it was too warm to leave him in the car—hurried ahead. The crowd had dwindled to a handful of people, mostly exiting vendors.

  As we neared Beaufort’s Beautiful Pottery, Bailey clasped my arm. “Hold up.” She pulled me into Hannah’s empty stall. “Did you see that?”

  “What?”

  “Sean just entered their tent.”

  “Shoot.”

  “Melody must have called him for help. Stay here.” Bailey put a hand on my shoulder. “I’ll slip past and see what he’s up to. At the end of the center aisle, I’ll make a U-turn and hurry back.”

  “No, don’t—”

  I reached for her. Too late. She escaped my grasp and sped past the Beauforts’ stall. Sneakily, she glimpsed to her right before barreling ahead as if she were a woman on a highly important mission.

  Two minutes later she returned, chest heaving from the exertion. “Sean is withdrawing cash from their steamer trunk. Melody is packing the remaining pottery in bubble wrap. By the way, the Pier is like a ghost town. The Beauforts might be the last to leave, though Mum’s the Word is teeming with customers.”