Pressing the Issue Read online

  “She might not know.”

  “Surely her daughter would keep her informed.”

  “Not necessarily.”

  “Who was killed?” Flora crumpled the napkin.

  “Nick Baldini.”

  “Mercy.” Flora grimaced. “He was so engaging and funny.” She paused, a little hum escaping her mouth.

  “What?”

  “Come to think of it, I saw him arguing with a woman yesterday. The one who makes the long-necked pottery.”

  “Melody Beaufort?”

  “That’s the one. Such a pretty thing. As delicate as a lily. She’s fascinated by my fairy gardens. She wanders over whenever there’s a lull. Our stalls aren’t far from one another.” She tossed the used napkin into the trash by the sales counter. “I know Z.Z. wants all the vendors to get involved in authentic playacting, but this quarrel between Nick and Melody seemed real. It was filled with emotion. Nick’s face was red. Melody’s tone was biting.”

  “What did they say to each other?”

  “I have no idea. I blotted the incident from my mind. Fairies don’t take kindly to negativity. They need peaceful environments filled with beautiful flowers like gardenias and heather and honeysuckle. Did you know fairies adore shiny objects?”

  Like a crow, I reflected.

  “Flora,” I said leadingly, trying to keep her on track. “The argument?”

  “As I said, it might have been in jest. They both used fair-speak. Melody said, ‘Let go of me, rogue.’”

  “Nick was holding on to her?”

  “Yes. By the wrist. He said, ‘Verily, you are a strong wench. Dost thee not recognize me?’”

  “You claimed you didn’t hear what they said.”

  “What I meant was that I didn’t comprehend it. Melody responded by saying, ‘Me-thinks thee art madder than a hatter.’” Flora gestured dramatically with each portrayal. “If they were pretending, they were doing a good job. You don’t think she could have had anything to do with his death, do you?”

  “I won’t rule anyone out right now.”

  “Yes, of course. You can’t.” She sucked back a sob. “If you want some fairy dust for Bailey, stop by my booth. I’ll give it to you for free. We must keep our spirits positive and call upon all who can restore sanity. Fairies are delighted to help heal.” Falling into fair-speak, she said, “I shall take my leave to meditate.” She bustled out of the shop and veered right toward Home Sweet Home, which was located less than half a block away.

  As I glided the bookshelves into position and anchored their wheels, I recalled how tenderly Nick had acted toward Melody the night before the fair started, removing a ribbon that had clung to her face. I also remembered how they had interacted during the fair-speak video. Had they met that day, or had they known each other previously? She lived in San Francisco.

  I halted, realizing that wasn’t exactly true. Sean mentioned they had moved all over the map. Where had they resided before? Nick was a local. He was born here. I doubted Melody was from around here, or else Pepper—also a local—would have mentioned something.

  Could Melody be the woman Nick had fallen for? He said that the lady in question wasn’t in love with him yet. Was he trying to woo her away from her husband? Maybe that was what their altercation had been about. Had he overstepped his bounds? Did she warn him to stop his advances? When he didn’t, did she lash out? Did her husband?

  “Dear”—Aunt Vera exited the storage room, having donned a royal blue turban decorated with a fashionable gem—“call Bailey, please, and tell her I’ll be over soon. A positive tarot card reading should bring her comfort. I’m going to fetch a cup of tea before I leave.”

  I dialed my pal, but she didn’t answer. Lola didn’t answer her cell phone, either. I resorted to texting both of them, and received a quick response: I’m okay. Don’t worry. Your aunt doesn’t need to come. I replied: As if that will stop her and added a slew of OXOXOX.

  After returning my cell phone to my purse, I nestled on the stool by the cash register and initiated an Internet search on the desktop computer. Melody’s relationship to Nick was bothering me.

  Aunt Vera appeared with a to-go cup stuffed into a corrugated paper sleeve. “What are you up to?”

  “I wanted to see if Melody Beaufort and Nick might have met before the fair.” I told her about the argument Flora had witnessed.

  “Nick was very active on Facebook,” my aunt said. “He posted tons of photos about the fair. You could start there. See if a picture of her shows up.”

  I brought up Nick’s profile and was astounded by how many digital albums he had catalogued in his photographs: family and friends and Renaissance Fairs dating back to the 1990s.

  I clicked on the Renaissance Fair 2015 album. There were tons of pictures. Nick’s Henry VIII costume that year was a forbidding black emblazoned with gold. For Renaissance Fair 2016, the king’s costume was forest green with red trim. For Renaissance Fair 2017, he had worn a gold getup trimmed with blue. I didn’t see any photos of Melody but hadn’t expected to. Sean said they hadn’t attended a Renaissance Fair in a long time.

  “Click that album.” My aunt pointed to one titled Ren Camp, 1992. “Let me see him when he was a young man.” She sucked back a sob.

  Over the years, Nick had taught lots of children how to playact for the Renaissance Fair. There were pictures of him teaching swordplay as well as the art of juggling. In every shot, children’s faces were lit with delight.

  Aunt Vera laid a hand on her chest. “That man. What a gem he was. Last year he expanded camps to eight weeks instead of four. He did them all for free. He never asked for a dime of reimbursement. How he loved this event!”

  I typed Melody Beaufort into the Facebook search bar and found profiles for Melody Toomey, who went to Beaufort High in North Carolina, and Melody Gonzo, who worked at the Beaufort Medical Clinic, but no profile for Melody Beaufort. I typed in M. Beaufort and repeated the search. Nothing.

  Using Google, I typed in Beaufort’s Beautiful Pottery and landed on their website. Scanning the site, I discovered myriad pictures of Melody’s pottery work, but there wasn’t a single picture of her or her husband. That didn’t surprise me. The art was what they were selling, not themselves. The About Melody page was brief and gave no indication of where she was born or had lived:

  Based in San Francisco, California, Melody Beaufort believes that the best handmade pottery—art—encourages communication between people. While training to be a potter, she learned about many styles of ceramics. She developed a keen interest in crystalline glaze because it was different from any other type of pottery. She loves to experiment with contemporary-shaped vases. She is always trying to produce more exciting combinations. The colors of the sea call to her.

  Surprisingly, there was no mention of Melody Beaufort anywhere else on the Internet. I didn’t find a lawyer, hairdresser, or even soccer mom with the name. The Melody Makers Band was quite popular at old folks’ homes. Melody Martini was a noted psychologist specializing in autism. The Merry Little Melody Trio played ukuleles at children’s parties. But no Melody Beaufort. Odd.

  I tapped the countertop. “She’s a ghost.”

  “Honestly, Jenna.” My aunt clucked her tongue. “Simply because she doesn’t engage in social media doesn’t mean there’s anything amiss. I’m not on the Internet.” Aunt Vera didn’t think it served a purpose. She admitted she was a bit of a fuddy-duddy about it, but she treasured her privacy. She had no interest in reading anyone’s tweets or viewing their adorable photographs. Apparently, the man who died a year after jilting her at the altar to marry another woman had felt the same. Months ago, I’d conducted an Internet search trying to learn something—anything—about him and had come up as empty for him as I had for Melody.

  “Ahem,” a man said from behind me.

  I pivoted and blanched.

  Deputy Marlon Appleby, clad in a handsome green-on-brown hunter’s costume complete with bow and quiver of arrows, leaned f
orward on his elbows and eyeballed the computer. His smile twisted into a frown. “What are you doing, Jenna?”

  I stabbed the F4 key. The screen defaulted to the Launchpad view. “Ordering supplies,” I lied.

  He raised an eyebrow. “Vera, are you ready for me to escort you to the Pier?”

  “Let me fetch my purse,” she replied. “First, we have a stop to make on the way. All right?”

  He nodded. Anything my aunt wanted to do was fine by him.

  “Taking the day off, Deputy?” I asked.

  “Indeed.”

  “Don’t you have a murder to solve?”

  “The rest of the force is working on it. Don’t you worry.”

  “Have you or your cohorts questioned Alan Baldini?”

  “Like I said, we’re on it.” He pointed to the computer screen. “And a word to the wise, Jenna, my boss won’t be pleased that you are investigating. In fact, it would upset her greatly.”

  I offered a sly wink. “Then let’s keep it our secret.”

  Chapter 7

  By midmorning, Nick Baldini’s murder was no longer a secret. Reporters from as far north as San Jose and as far south as Monterey, having caught wind of my presence at the crime scene, showed up at the shop requesting—demanding—an interview. As a group, the reporters trapped me behind the sales counter. For ten straight minutes, they pummeled me with questions, like how I felt about finding yet another body and how well I knew Nick. I repeatedly stated No comment. When Tina came to my rescue and shooed them out of the store—she could be fearsome with a ginger cat in one arm and a broom in the other—I was grateful beyond compare. I hoped word would get to Cinnamon and her deputies about how tight-lipped I had been. I could use a few brownie points.

  Soon after they departed, Rhett surprised me by showing up in his Robin Hood costume to escort me to the fair for lunch.

  “But I’m driving myself,” I said. Rhett had texted earlier to tell me that Bait and Switch was two salespeople short today, so he only had an hour to spare. I would need to drive myself back to the shop.

  “Truth?” he said. “I wanted a kiss.”

  “How can I refuse?”

  We exchanged a lovely one and talked briefly about reporters waylaying him like they had me. Afterward, I asked him if he’d mind if I completed a few tasks before we left because I’d fallen behind. He didn’t.

  I suggested he help himself to a buttery scone that Katie had set out, and then I finished arranging copies of Medieval Celebrations: Your Guide to Planning and Hosting Spectacular Feasts, Parties, Weddings, and Renaissance, which was a fascinating book filled with historical references and a calendar of medieval holidays. I added sets of gothic dragon salt and pepper holders made of gray cold-cast resin to the display. I knew they would draw our customers’ attention.

  When I finished my chores, I changed into my Maid Marian costume and followed Rhett in my VW to the Pier. Yet again, the parking lot was filled to the gills. I parked on the main road, as many other fairgoers had opted to do, and met him in the lot where he, being a shop owner, had a permanent spot.

  We strolled past Bait and Switch and paused to watch a swordfight that was in progress on the open-air event stage. One swordsman, a noble knight in a black uniform bearing the king’s emblem on his chest, was hurling insults at his opponent.

  “Ye artless, baseless cutpurse. Ye shall pay for thy transgression.”

  The opponent, clad in dark pantaloons and purple chemise with an impressive leather baldric to hold his sword, retorted: “Fie on thee, ye craven, dog-hearted coxcomb. I’ll have none of it.”

  “Zounds,” the noble knight bellowed. “Ye are besotted by my wife, thou fawning, fat-kidneyed tosspot.”

  “Verily, I’ve never met the wench, ye errant, earth-vexing varlet.”

  Indeed, the opponent had met the wife, and the audience knew it because she was comically shadowing every move he made as if to hide from her husband. One little girl in the crowd pointed and screamed at the top of her lungs for the opponent to take heed. The knight lunged; the opponent swiveled and dove at him. When the two connected, I shuddered because an image of Nick facing his opponent sailed through my mind—except he hadn’t faced him; his assailant had struck him in the back of the head.

  Rhett pressed me at the small of my back. “Let’s move on.”

  A few yards later, when I spotted the tent bearing a sign that read Enter Ye for an Instructional Fair-Speak Demonstration, my breath caught in my chest. That had to be where fairgoers could view the movie.

  “Are you okay?” Rhett asked.

  I pointed. “I can’t imagine the mayor will keep the venue open, can you? People will see Nick alive and be distraught.”

  “Maybe seeing him having fun will be a good thing,” Rhett murmured. “A fitting tribute.”

  I spotted Mayor Zeller on the steps of Mum’s the Word. She was talking into a cell phone. I waved to her.

  When she caught sight of us, she ended the call and trotted down the steps, the folds of her innkeeper costume flapping in the breeze. She clutched my hand. “Jenna, it’s so horrible. Nick. Dead. I can’t believe it. He was the spirit of these fairs. He gave them life.”

  “I’m so sorry for your loss,” I said.

  “Our loss.” She flailed an arm. “The whole town’s loss.”

  “About the video . . .” I hooked my thumb over my shoulder.

  Her eyes grew misty. “I considered closing the venue, but I couldn’t. Everyone is viewing the film. I think many are paying their respects in this way. It’s an homage.”

  Rhett elbowed me. “Like I said.”

  “Who killed him?” Z.Z. asked. “Somebody diabolical, to be sure.”

  “To be sure,” I repeated. “The police are investigating. I think they’re looking into Nick’s brother.”

  “There’s no way Alan would do such a thing.” She spanked a hand against her palm. “He is a docile young man without an ounce of guile in him. He and Nick were very close.”

  “You and Nick were close, as well.”

  “As close as two people who were often at odds can be.”

  “Often at odds?”

  Her eyes lit up, though tears pooled in the corners. “That man was as feisty and stubborn as a mule. He had so many opinions about how this affair was to be run. We locked horns many times.”

  I licked my lips. “Z.Z., speaking of locking horns, do you happen to know much about Melody Beaufort?”

  “Melody? Why?”

  “Flora saw Nick and her exchanging words yesterday. I can’t find out anything about her on the Internet.”

  Rhett gave me a sidelong glance.

  “I was wondering if Melody and Nick might have known each other before. Is she from California, or did she reside in Crystal Cove at one point? Her husband told me they’ve lived in lots of places.”

  Z.Z. screwed up her mouth. Her forehead creased. “I believe she relocated from the Midwest, but don’t quote me on that. Melody made a reference to taking classes at an art school in Ohio. We were chatting about the benefits of higher education and how she wished she’d earned her college degree. She dropped out after two years. I told her artists don’t necessarily fit into a mold. My son didn’t.” Mayor Zeller had lost her daughter at the age of two. The onus fell on her son to follow in Z.Z.’s footsteps and pursue law. He wound up dropping out of UC Santa Cruz in his sophomore year and now lives in an artists’ commune in Idaho. The mayor’s cell phone jangled. She scanned the readout and said, “Sorry, we’ve got a crisis. I must run. A goat from the petting zoo is on the loose. Oy. These festivals are going to be the death of me.” She balked when she realized what she’d said. “I didn’t mean . . . I . . .”

  I squeezed her hand. “Go.”

  “Yoo-hoo, Jenna!” Pepper hailed us from the end of the cut-through leading to North Street. “Come see my wares.”

  I said to Rhett, “Do you mind?”

  “Of course not.”

  Pepper’s b
eadery shop was situated next to Thistle Thy Fancy. Upon entering the stall, I was astounded by how many beads she had toted to the venue. Were there any left at Beaders of Paradise? Each of the four antique tables held countless trays. Racks filled with colorful twine, wire, and string lined the enclosure’s walls.

  “Come, see.” Pepper, looking almost fetching in a cream smock over a flamingo pink dress, gestured to us to enter further. “These are beads for a French hood.” She motioned to strings of fake pearls hanging on a bent hook stand. She added that a French hood was characterized by a rounded shape rather than a gabled hood, and was worn over a coif. “This assortment”—she showed me display boxes with sixty-four divisions filled with sparkling crystal beads and charms, as well as metal spacers, eye pins, and ear hooks to construct earrings—“are for jewelry makers. Don’t you love the silver lutes?”

  “Everything is beautiful, Pepper.”

  “Take a look at this.” She continued on, pointing out chains and silk ropes. “I’m not giving any classes, like the others. I have to split my time between here and the shop, but I’ve done quite well with sales.”

  I glanced over my shoulder at Rhett. He grinned. Pepper was certainly chatty. Maybe spending time at her daughter’s house was doing her a world of good in the interaction department. At times she could be terse, bordering on rude.

  “I’ve taken photos on my iPhone that I can share on a couple of Internet sites.” Clandestinely, she removed her phone from the pocket of her costume and surveyed the area—to make sure the fair “authenticity police” weren’t hovering nearby, I imagined. “I must keep it low. Z.Z. doesn’t like it if I enter the present.”

  As she swiped the screen and showed me her photographs, I recalled the picture on my cell phone of the bead that the crow plucked off Nick’s verandah.

  Acting as furtively as she, I fetched my cell phone from my purse and opened up my camera app. I chose the photograph that I wanted and dragged my fingers along the screen to zoom in on the bead. I displayed the result to her. “Pepper, I don’t see this gold-and-green bead among your items. Do you carry something like this in your shop?”