Wining and Dying Page 24

  Hannah jumped on that. “Do the police consider him a suspect?”

  Destiny leaned forward, intrigued. “Why would he have killed Quade?”

  “Jealousy,” I replied. “Seeing as Quade was interested in Naomi. Plus, he might have had his heart set on selling the David Smith forgeries,” I improvised, having come to agree with Naomi that the notion of her husband killing for the forgeries and risking his reputation seemed far-fetched. “I thought George had deduced what Quade was doing and might have wanted to horn in on his operation, but it turns out George didn’t kill him. He has a firm alibi for that night.” I stirred another spoonful of sugar into my tea but didn’t drink.

  “For a brief time, the police thought George might have been the one to have attacked you and Naomi with something like a backpack”—I cut a look in the direction of her knapsack—“but that morning he was on a Zoom call with three board members.” I peered at her forehead. “Your bruise is healing nicely, by the way.”

  Destiny folded her arms and lasered me with a look. “Why are you really here, Jenna?”

  Chapter 26

  Hannah opened her mouth to speak.

  I held up a hand to stop her. “We’re here to discuss wedding locations.”

  “Cut the crap!” Destiny snapped. “You’ve been glancing at my knapsack off and on. Why?”

  Lightning flashed outside. The dog mewled. Bailey started to rise. I waved for her to sit. Thunder rumbled. The storm was close. At the same time, my cell phone buzzed in my pocket. Was Cinnamon texting that she was nearby?

  “Well?” Destiny asked impatiently.

  “Did you attack Naomi because Quade was in love with her?” I dared to ask.

  Hannah moaned. “No, Jenna. Don’t.”

  “Men can be such fools,” Destiny rasped.

  “Why did you steal her painting?” I asked.

  Her mouth curled into a snarl. “I thought you’d noticed that on your way in. So, you know her work?”

  “She described it to me. Why did you take it?”

  “Originally? To throw darts at. But then it grew on me. It’s good. She’s talented. And pretty. And—” A tear slipped down Destiny’s cheek. She swiped it away.

  “What happened, Destiny? When did things go south between you and Quade?”

  “Two years ago. One year ago. Six months ago.” She flailed a hand. “We were on a crazy roller coaster. In and out of love, over and over. I went to talk to him Saturday morning, to celebrate his upcoming win, but when I saw his painting, I knew he’d lose. It was too pale, too meh. I suggested he start fresh. I gave him the idea to make it darker, moodier.”

  More like the painting she’d stolen from Naomi, I noted.

  “He hated me offering an opinion, of course. ‘Nobody will dictate what I should or shouldn’t paint,’” Destiny said, mimicking Quade’s haughty tone. “But I was certain his first painting would lose to Keller’s.”

  As I’d imagined.

  “You went back the next day, Sunday,” I said. The inn’s housekeeper had spotted her, despite Hannah’s account of a ping locator placing Destiny at home all day. “You stole it and planted it at Keller’s, and then sent an anonymous text to Yardley Alks to get Keller in trouble.”

  “Keller,” she scoffed. “He made Quade nervous. Made him question his talent. That was one of the reasons Quade fell for Naomi. She liked his work. She praised it. He believed she was his muse. What a crock!” She slapped the table. “How quickly he forgot that I’d been his muse once upon a time.”

  “On Monday night, at the wine tasting event after our workshop, when he brushed you off,” I said, “you ran to the communal room. Was that when you stole Keller’s burin?”

  “His what?”

  “The tool with the six-inch shaft and wooden handle.”

  Destiny shot to her feet. So did I. Hannah and Bailey gasped.

  Stabbing a finger into her palm, Destiny said, “Yes, I took it. I wanted to convince Quade to kill Keller.”

  To convince Quade to do the deed? Whoa. I hadn’t seen that coming.

  “But that night, I went to the attic where I keep my mother’s things—I was missing her something awful—and she told me Quade needed to die, or I’d never be able to move on with my life. She said he would never love me.”

  Her mother talks to her from beyond the grave? Holy moly!

  Gently, I said, “That’s when you came up with the idea of poisoning him.”

  “By adding arsenic to a glass of wine,” Bailey added, matching my tone.

  Hannah made a muffled sound. Her face pinched with sorrow.

  “Your one challenge was how to get him to drink it,” I said. “That’s when you hit upon the plan to leave a note from Naomi.”

  Destiny didn’t utter a sound.

  “You left the note and wine in his room Tuesday while he was at the opening night soiree,” I went on. “What I don’t get is why you didn’t poison him earlier and be done with it?”

  She raised her chin. “I thought I’d give him one more chance. At the soiree. I reasoned I could always go back and remove the glass if he realized I was the love of his life, but then—”

  “But then he denounced you in public, saying he’d never be into you. That reminded you of how your father had treated your mother.”

  Her shoulders began to shake. Her lower lip trembled.

  “So you left the poison in place, but when you went back later to get the glass, you realized he was still alive.”

  “My father died from the arsenic!” she shrieked. “Why didn’t Quade?”

  Hannah keened. Bailey and I exchanged a look. Had Destiny just admitted to killing her father, too?

  “He was a monster,” she hissed. “He beat me whenever I didn’t win. He . . . he was a frustrated athlete. He’d wanted to go pro. For football. But he wasn’t good enough. Not good enough,” she stressed. “Therefore, I had to be.”

  “Oh, Destiny,” Hannah said. “How horrible.”

  “My teammates never saw where he hurt me. He was discreet. But when I shattered my ankle, and he rejected me”—she smacked one hand against the other—“that was the end. I’d had it.”

  “Didn’t the police suspect you killed him?” I asked.

  “No.” Destiny scoffed. “They never deemed it a murder. I laced the coffee that he kept cold in the refrigerator. The cops never tested the container because Dad washed the container before he died. Arsenic doesn’t work immediately like other poisons.” Her cheek ticked with tension. “When I went back to the cabana to get the wineglass—I was wearing gloves so I wouldn’t leave fingerprints—Quade looked dead and very peaceful, so I bent to give him one last kiss goodbye, and he roused.”

  “Omigosh,” Hannah whispered.

  “He said he’d never love me. He said he would always love Naomi. That . . . That was when I lost it. I remembered I had Keller’s tool in my purse. I pulled it out and jabbed it into Quade’s chest. He didn’t cry out. The poison had weakened him. He coughed and tucked into a ball. And then I panicked.”

  Then? My mouth fell open. Then?

  “You left the burin,” I said. “To frame Keller.”

  “No. To frame Naomi. I saw the note I’d left and I decided she should take the fall. I wiped off the tool. Then I wadded up the sketches of her daughter that I’d stolen from her tote—I didn’t know if Quade was the father, but I suspected he might be—and I tossed them around the room, like he might have been angry with her.”

  Exactly as I’d theorized earlier.

  I said, “Then you washed the wineglass to remove any trace of arsenic.”

  “Mm-hm.”

  “And you left a scrap of paper with the letter N on it,” Bailey said. “Any more and the police might have been able to compare the handwriting to yours.”

  Destiny squinted at Bailey. “Yes.”

  “Blood must have splattered your clothes,” I stated.

  “I threw on a complimentary robe, waited until the coast was
clear, raced to the pool area to avoid going through the lobby, and then on to the parking lot.”

  “Clever,” Bailey said.

  Hannah’s eyes were wider than saucers. She said, “Destiny, you need to confess everything to the police.”

  Destiny regarded the three us, then mumbled, “I can’t . . .” She wheezed, as if deflated, and slumped against the island. “I can’t . . .” She moaned and bent forward. Was she going to be sick?

  Hannah rushed to help her.

  In a flash, Destiny jolted upright, holding a wine bottle from the wine rack in hand. She grabbed Hannah around the neck and cracked the bottle against the edge of the counter. Red wine splattered everywhere. Pinot bolted to his feet.

  Destiny aimed the sharp bottleneck at Hannah’s throat.

  “Destiny, no!” I cried.

  “I can’t go to prison.”

  Don’t worry about that, I thought. You’ll wind up in an asylum.

  Pinot dashed to his owner, feet slip-sliding on the kitchen runner.

  “Lie down, mutt,” she ordered. The dog obeyed.

  With her eyes, Hannah pleaded for help.

  Bailey whispered, “Jenna?”

  “Destiny,” I said as calmly as I could with my heart pounding in my rib cage like a jackhammer. “Chief Pritchett is on her way. I notified her before coming here.”

  Destiny barked out a laugh. “Ha! You’re like the boy who cries wolf, Jenna. You’ve seen one too many dead bodies. She didn’t believe you this time, don’t you get it?” She nudged Hannah at the back of her knees. “Move. To the front door.” She warned the dog not to budge. “Jenna and Bailey, you stay, too!”

  As if.

  I jammed my heel onto the runner and yanked it toward my other foot. Like the dog, Destiny reeled, trying to gain purchase. Her arms flailed. The neck of the wine bottle flew out of her hand. Hannah lurched left. Bailey caught her before she collided with the island. Destiny toppled backward. Her shoulders hit the tile floor first and then her head struck with a smack.

  “Jenna!” a voice yelled from the great room.

  Cinnamon. About time.

  Chapter 27

  Needless to say, Cinnamon was not happy with us, but in particular me. I had to listen to her diatribe for a good ten minutes while Appleby, Ferguson, and Foster tended to Destiny, Bailey, and Hannah. She vowed to lock me up the next time I interfered with one of her cases. I was relieved she didn’t plan to this time.

  My father was so upset with me he didn’t talk to me for two days. He didn’t care that Bailey and I had gone to help Hannah. He didn’t care that I’d figured out the timeline around the murder and the art thefts.

  Rhett, on the other hand, babied me for twenty-four hours, after which he sat me down and said if I really wanted to marry him, I had to be more careful. He winked after his quasi-lecture.

  Bailey begged off work for a couple of days. Seeing Hannah with a bottle next to her throat had thrown her for a loop. She wanted to play with Brianna, listen to good music, and eat a bunch of bonbons. All three, I told her, were better than climbing in bed and pulling the covers over her head.

  On Thursday, as my aunt and I were preparing the shop for Cinco de Mayo, Flora and Faith sauntered into the store, arm in arm, Flora in a tasteful burgundy sweater dress, Faith in a form-fitting pink yoga getup.

  “We’re celebrating and going to the Nook for tea!” Faith trilled, releasing her sister’s arm.

  My aunt smiled. “What are you celebrating?”

  “Yardley Alks has hired me to market all of her late son’s work. She wants the proceeds to go to an art student fund she has created.”

  “I thought you were retiring from being an artists rep,” Aunt Vera said.

  “I’ve decided it suits me. I love artists. Love, love, love them.” Faith spread her arms wide. “But first, Egan Zeller—I’ve hired him to assist me, by the way—is tracking down any of the forgeries Quade might have sold. Yardley wants us to repay the unwary buyers for their initial expense and subsequent suffering.”

  I said, “I’m glad you’ll give Egan a chance.”

  “He’s a bright boy,” Faith said. “And Flora vouches for him.”

  “Vera,” Flora said, “do you remember when Egan used to help me at Christmas with all the wrapping? He was so sweet.”

  “Speaking of Yardley,” Faith said, “she told me Naomi Genet is moving back to San Jose. She got a teaching job in the art department at the university.”

  Naomi had called me and told me the same. She was not going to reunite with her husband, but they would go to counseling, and she would allow him visitation rights. I’d told her to be safe and reminded her that Crystal Cove would always welcome her back with open arms.

  “Oh, Sis, look!” Flora pointed a finger. “There’s that cookbook I was telling you about.” She guided Faith to the display table where I’d set a stack of the Salsas and Moles cookbook.

  My aunt leaned in to me and whispered, “I’ll bet Z.Z. put them up to hiring her son.”

  “Actually,” I said, “she was thinking of hiring him herself, to help with the festivals.”

  “Well, any way the young man can get experience to add to his resume is a good thing.”

  “Hello-o,” Gran said as she swooped into the shop, a to-go coffee in hand, a sombrero on her head, and an oversized tote bag on her shoulder. “Sorry I’m late. I got to chatting.”

  I burst out laughing. “Why the hat?”

  “Olé!” She flung it onto the sales counter. “This place needs more decorations. My husband and I often took cruises to the Caribbean and South America so I have lots of goodies to add.” She started pulling colorful items from her purse. A serape. A pair of maracas. “As I said, I got to chatting when I was at Latte Luck. I ran into Edith McNary. She told me”—Gran lowered her voice—“that she and Sienna agreed if Sienna gets into therapy and returns everything she’s ever stolen from Sterling’s, she will not press charges. Edith is such a darling, don’t you think, Vera?”

  “A darling,” my aunt echoed.

  “By the time Sienna’s stint is over, that baby will be due. Edith didn’t want Sienna to have to give up the child. She believes in redemption.” Gran hung the serape next to the vintage corn-and-chili-pepper aprons I’d stocked for this week’s event. “This looks nice here, don’t you think?”

  “Perfect,” I said, enjoying her buoyant energy.

  “Hi, everyone,” Katie crooned as she emerged from the breezeway. “I need a taster.”

  My aunt, Gran, and I swarmed her. I’d skipped breakfast, too eager to put the finishing touches on the shop.

  “These are mantecadas,” she said, holding out a plate of mini pastel muffins. “A Mexican sweet bread with a hint of orange zest.”

  I took one, peeled off the cupcake wrapper, and bit into it. “Yum!”

  “About Keller,” Katie continued, as if that was a normal segue. Her chin began to tremble.

  I clasped her elbow and guided her to the puzzle table. She set the plate of goodies down.

  “About Keller,” I said. “Go on.”

  “He’s going to continue his art.”

  “He should, now that he’s the official winner of the poster art competition.”

  “But he’s going to give up his ice cream business and take over Taste of Heaven. His mother wants to retire.”

  My mouth dropped open. “Wow! That’s huge news.”

  “He loves the place. He knows it inside and out. And it will give him a steady income.”

  “Is Eleanor okay?” I asked. “She’s not that old.”

  “She’s in her sixties and says her back is killing her. The shop makes plenty of money. She can afford to retire on her portion of the income.” Katie twisted the plate of mantecadas.

  Uh-oh. She had that look I remembered from childhood, a look that meant she didn’t want to say whatever was coming next. I gulped. “You’re not quitting, are you? I mean, you can if you want to be a full-time mother fo
r Min-yi, but . . .” My stomach knotted up.

  “No, I’m not quitting. We’re going to find a nanny.”

  “That’s great.”

  Katie’s eyes misted with tears. “Do you think she’ll hate me for the rest of her life?”

  Aha. Now I understood her angst. “Gosh, no. You will be giving her a gift, showing her that she, too, can have a career doing what she loves if she wants. You’ll make it work. Taste of Heaven isn’t open for dinner, so Keller will be home nights. If you want, you could do the same. If Reynaldo is ready. We’ll make it work.”

  Katie threw her arms around me. “Thank you. I love you.”

  “Love you, too. Now, go make more of these mantecadas. I’m hungry and these aren’t going to last long.”

  She scrambled to her feet, hugged me again, and hurried back to the café.

  I ambled to the sales counter, where my aunt was sorting receipts. “This has been a remarkable day and it’s not even ten a.m. First, Faith and Flora. Then Katie.” I told her the news.

  “When it rains, it pours.”

  “I hope it’s not going to rain again,” Pepper said as she entered the store with her daughter. “Please tell me it isn’t. The surf shop’s roof leaked in the last storm.” The surf shop was above Beaders of Paradise. “If they hadn’t been on top of things with buckets and such, that rain could have done worse than drizzled down the wall into my place. Crafts and water do not mix.”

  “Don’t be the prophet of doom, Mother,” Cinnamon said. She was in uniform, not smiling, all business. “Go. Talk to Vera. But make it quick. I only have a half hour for coffee before my shift begins.”

  Pepper split from her daughter and steered my aunt to the children’s corner, probably to discuss water damage, seeing as Aunt Vera owned Fisherman’s Village.

  “Hey,” I said casually to Cinnamon. “It’s been an unusual morning. Every person who has come in has had some tidbit to share. Do you have anything to add? I feel like Tito should be here taking notes so he can put it all in the Courier.”

  “I’m not pregnant, if that’s what you’re trying to find out.”

  “And if you were, I wouldn’t put that in the newspaper.” I grinned.