Deadly Crush

Book 2: CeCe Barton Mystery

by Maddie Day

Genres: Amateur Sleuth; Culinary Cozy Mysteries; Animal Cozy Mysteries

Synopsis

It’s the beginning of a new year, and for widowed single mom and recent L.A. transplant to California wine country, Cece Barton, that means green hillsides, flowing streams from winter rains, pruned vineyards—and a murder to solve . . .

After a mostly stress-free Christmas with her college-age daughter, and despite enjoying a current budding romance with fellow newcomer, Benjamin Cohen, it’s time for Cece to focus on Vino y Vida, the Colinas wine bar she manages. Electrical work and an outdoor security camera are needed, and she’s hired local electrician Karl Meier to do the job, along with the help of his nephew Ian. But she regrets her choice when she witnesses Karl needlessy berating Ian in her presence. On top of that, Karl leers at her, then presents her with an inflated bill before the work is complete. Still, she’s shocked when she gets a call from Karl’s ex-wife, Josie, that she’s found Karl . . . crushed to death beneath the lift in her automotive shop.

Cece convinces Josie to call the police, even though Josie is terrified. After all, Karl was an abusive husband, was threatening her, and she has no alibi. With Josie’s future on the line, and maybe her own, Cece starts her own investigation. From the customers Karl cheated to the other women he harassed, she finds there’s no lack of suspects—other than the shelter kittens to whom he was an uncharacteristically sweet volunteer. With a bouquet of motives and unanswered questions, Cece is going to need the help of her twin, Allie, who owns a nearby B & B, as she dives into Karl’s past—before the killer catches up with her, and the lights go out for good . . .

Release date: November 26, 2024

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 272

Sample

I drummed my fingers on the bar, about to panic.

January in the Alexander Valley north of San Francisco wasn’t particularly warm. Today wasn’t sunny, either, counter to most out-of-staters’ image of California. A winter rain was forecast for later. I needed the lights and heat on, ASAP. Fifteen minutes before the Vino y Vida wine bar opened at one o’clock was no time for the electricity to still be off.

“What’s wrong with you, Ian?” electrician Karl Meier snarled at his helper, who stood on a six-foot ladder. “I told you how to wrap that junction.”

Karl’s nephew, a skinny blond twenty-something with three piercings in each ear, ignored the verbal abuse and snipped off the piece of black electrical tape he’d been using.

I hoped the young guy knew what he was doing. Karl, neither skinny nor blond, had been the only electrician who responded to my queries for someone who could do the work.

I’d been the Vino y Vida manager here in the town of Colinas for almost a year, and our bottom line was healthy. It was about time for some upgrades to this popular destination housed in one of the antique adobe buildings that formed a cluster adjoining the historical museum. I wanted to start my low-level renovation by swapping out the old pendant—and petulant—light fixtures for new ones.

But Karl and Ian had arrived late. Their work proceeded slower than fine wine aging in oak barrels. Stocky, dark-haired Karl spent more time harassing the kid than working. The electrician didn’t attempt to keep his voice down and he stepped outside for phone conversations half a dozen times. What ever happened to the work ethic, not to mention common kindness?

Despite the weather, or maybe because of it, I already had folks milling around on the sidewalk in front. They peered in the windows, eager to hoist a glass of one of the area’s excellent vintages. The Alexander Valley here in northern Sonoma County was Napa’s less well-known little sister. Many said our wines were better than Napa’s, and I had to agree.

“Karl, I need to open.” I crossed my arms over my chest. “And I can’t function very well without electricity. I told you the job had to be finished before one o’clock.”

He whirled. His already small eyes squinted and his mouth looked like he’d tasted something disgusting. But, as if he realized he’d been addressed by someone he needed to stay on good terms with in order to be paid for his work, he smoothed his expression.

“We’re doing our best, Ms. Bart on.” Karl spoke through his smile. “I’m sorry for the delay. Everything always takes longer in an old building, as I’m sure you’re aware. Poor quality previous work, et cetera, et cetera. We’ll be finished soon, and I know you’ll be happy with the job.”

I’d have been a lot happier if they’d been out of here half an hour ago. I’d uncorked and tasted today’s wines, which were lined up on the bar. Glasses were sparkling and ready to go. The baskets of pretzels and rice crackers were filled. My card reader was fired up and ready, except running on a phone signal, not Wi-Fi. My starting cash was ready in the cash drawer. The too-quiet, too-cool air smelled of wine. It looked like I was going to have to open without power.

Karl turned away. “I’m tired of your incompetence, kid. Get down,” he ordered Ian, his voice terse and tense. “I’ll finish it the right way. Go get the rest of the lights out of their boxes. I assume you can do that without screwing up like you usually do.”

Ian shrugged. Once down from the ladder and facing away from his uncle, he gave me a quick “What can you do?” look. He had the same small, deep blue eyes under a prominent brow as his uncle.

I felt bad for him. I should have listened to Jo Jarvin, my friend and the mechanic I used for Blue, my 1966 Mustang convertible. I’d called her earlier about dropping off my car this afternoon.

“You hired Karl?” Jo had asked, her voice rising. “Cece, I divorced the jerk for a reason.”

“He was the only electrician around who was available.”

“The man is a massive piece of, um, trash. He turns on the charm in public but insults and berates those he’s ostensibly close to. Good luck, is all I can say.”

Luck was all I could hope for at this point. That, and the wine bar lights working when we flipped the switch.

The guys were still working at two o’clock when my employee Mooncat Smith joined me behind the bar for her shift. I insisted they finish in the bar area first and clean up so I could pour and serve, but two of the tables were still off limits. Despite the weather, I’d seated several parties on the patio outside overlooking the Russian River. Both were groups of young people who said they didn’t mind the cold, damp air.

“This isn’t good,” Mooncat murmured. The statuesque seventy-year-old had a fuchsia-colored ribbon woven into her long steel-gray braid, a ribbon that matched her flowing silk tunic, and she smelled faintly of lavender. She gazed at Karl’s back as he reached up from the ladder to attach the last light.

“It isn’t,” I agreed. “And it’ll be the last time I hire him to do any work in here.”

“You told them we opened at one, I assume.” She tied on one of our maroon half aprons.

“I did.”

Karl twisted to look down at Ian, barking out an order and holding his hand out for a tool. Mooncat blinked.

“Don’t tell me you hired Karl Meier.” Her expression was grim.

“I’m afraid I did. Why, do you know him?”

A group of older women pushed through the door and approached the bar.

“I’ll tell you later,” Mooncat said in a low voice. “Just don’t ask me to be nice to him.”

“I promise. Can you check on the folks outside, please?” I smiled at the newcomers. “Welcome to Vino y Vida. Here’s what we’re pouring today.” I described the Pedroncelli zinfandel and the other wines from valley vineyards as I wondered what Mooncat knew about Karl.

“What’s the Winter Wine Road?” a white-haired woman asked. “We saw the poster.”

“It’s a fun event this weekend,” I said. “Each person needs to buy a ticket, then you visit all the participating Alexander Valley wineries and take selfies. The first vineyard you go to gives you a glass for the day and a wine tote bag.”

“Do they have buses or shuttles?” a trim blond woman asked.

“No, but the ticket for a designated driver is minimal,” I said. “In fact, they won’t accept big groups.”

“There’s only four of us,” another one said. “We’re all in a book group in Massachusetts.”

“This trip must be a nice change of pace for you all.” I thought of my friend Cam Flaherty, a farmer in the northeastern part of that state, who had given me tips about investigating a murder when I’d met her a little over a year ago at Christmastime. “And of weather.”

“I’ll say.” The first woman tossed her head. “Although it’s chilly here today, but at least it isn’t snowing. Is your wine bar on the Winter Road?”

“No, but we’ll be open all weekend.”

In fact, my fraternal twin, Alicia, a longtime Colinas resident and successful real estate agent, told me to expect a lot of the overflow from the event. Allie said folks who didn’t get enough tasting or who couldn’t—or didn’t want to—score tickets would stop in here for more wine. Extra business was fine with me.

I was glad for the tip. This was my first winter managing the wine bar, a job I’d started last spring after selling my house in Pasadena and moving up here to be closer to Allie and her family. I’d bought a sweet cottage, had a great next-door neighbor, and had made some friends. Plus, I loved hanging out with my twin nephews, Arthur and Franklin.

I’d also acquired a beau of sorts, the good-looking and mysterious Benjamin Cohen. He was as busy as I was, but we enjoyed each other’s company and tried to carve out regular time to spend together.

Right now it was time to explain and pour local vintages.

By two thirty Karl approached me. Ian had carried out the ladder and toolbox and came back to sweep up bits of wire and detritus that the pair had left on the floor. He’d asked me for a rag to wipe off the tables they’d been working above.

“You’re all set.” Karl handed me a scribbled piece of paper. “Here’s your invoice.”

I stared at it but kept my hands on the bar. “I’d like a digital invoice. You have my email.” What kind of business owner handwrote a bill on what looked like a piece of scrap paper? “Also, you haven’t turned the power back on and tested the lights. Please do so before you leave.”

He glowered for a moment before heading into the back room where the electrical box was. A second later, the cooler hummed into action. By the time I finished pouring a glass of a crisp unoaked chardonnay and set it on the polished redwood slab that was our bar, all the hanging lights glowed. Nothing shorted out or flickered. The guy might be a jerk, and a slow-moving one, but he seemed to know his profession.

He stepped back in. “Satisfied?”

“Thank you.” I wasn’t about to say more than that.

Mooncat approached, holding a tray of empty glasses. She set it down, her mouth pressed into a tense line.

“Hey there, Martha.” Karl shifted into what he must think was his charm mode.

Uh-oh. He was aiming for trouble if he addressed her as Martha. Her parents had saddled her with the name, which she’d legally changed to Mooncat the day she turned eighteen. I knew she hated it.

“How’s that niece of yours?” he asked.

“She’s fine, as long as you stay away from her, Charlie.” Her voice dripped with disdain. “And away from here, as far as I’m concerned.”

Charlie?

He held up both palms. “Hey, hey, now. It was a simple question.”

“Goodbye, Karl,” I said.

Mooncat watched him leave. “That dude is so not my favorite person. He’s bad news, Cece. Like, ultra-super ratso bad news.”

I pulled Blue into the lot at JJ’s Automotive at a little after five. The engine of my beloved ride was running rough. With such an old car, I always wanted to have problems attended to sooner rather than later.

Mooncat said she would hold down the fort at the wine bar while I ran the car over to JJ’s at the edge of town. I’d have to hustle to walk back to Vino y Vida, but I could use more steps for the day, since I’d driven to work.

The sight of a bunch of very old cars in pristine condition always warmed my heart. Lined up along the side of the lot today were an early sixties VW Bug next to a late fifties Volvo sedan, both with rounded corners and tops. A long, big-finned black Cadillac was snuggled up to a turquoise-and-white Buick. The red ’48 Chevy pickup that Jo drove to jump-start customers’ dead batteries and pick up supplies was parked on the other side. I parked my vintage ride next to the Beetle.

“Hey, girl.” Jo appeared in the open bay door, wiping her hands on a red rag. Her short platinum hair poked up all which way, as usual, and she wore her everyday uniform of work boots and dark blue work pants with a heavy metal band T-shirt. Today’s featured Iron Maiden, with a long-sleeved waffle-weave shirt underneath for warmth.

“Hey, yourself.” I handed her my spare car key, which I kept on a purple Alicia Halstead Properties key chain, one of Allie’s giveaways. “Blue’s feeling a little under the weather. Can you doctor her back to health?”

“You know it.”

A golden retriever moseyed up, yawning.

“Hey, Ouro,” I said, stroking his smooth head. “Were you having a siesta?”

“His life is one big siesta, punctuated with meals and the occasional burst of ball chasing.” Jo gave the dog a fond look and stroked his head. She glanced up. “You want me to look at Blue now, or are you leaving her?”

“I need to get back to work. I’ll leave her.”

“Any sense of what the problem is?” Jo asked.

“Maybe the timing is off? I’m not sure. The engine sounds rough, and it’s probably overdue for an oil change.”

“But you haven’t noticed leaks.”

“No, thank goodness.” A crack in the engine block would spell doom for my old girl.

“I’ll do my usual once-over.” Jo tilted her head. “Want a ride back?”

“I’d love one. Thanks.”

“Give me a minute to close up.”

I nodded. I’d rather hitch a ride in that glorious red truck than trudge in the twilight. I’d forgotten about the still-early sunset. The impending rain hadn’t happened yet, but the clouds made the end of the day gloomy.

Jo disappeared into the back office. I gazed around the shop, which smelled of oil and rubber, exactly how a classic-car repair shop should smell. A big red tool cabinet held drawers full of wrenches, gauges, screwdrivers, and who knew what else. Shelves held oil filters and other small parts in their boxes. Larger tools hung from hooks on the wall. New tires in several sizes marched on end along a rack high on the wall.

A hydraulic lift filled the center of the shop. Now fully lowered to only a couple of inches above the smooth concrete floor, its four extensions stuck out like arms and legs in Vs. I’d seen Jo drive a car over the arms and position it. She used a lever on the wall to control the lift. She raised it until it almost carried the weight of the car, then squatted to make sure each arm support was where it needed to be to balance the vehicle evenly.

“Nobody wants a vintage automobile sliding off this thing,” she’d said. “Me, least of all.”

My mechanic only worked on cars with what she called analog engines—those made before computers were part of the package. Pistons and valves, spark plugs and a carburetor, plus a radiator and a few belts were pretty much all a vehicle needed, in Jo’s opinion. And mine.

In a place like California, where undercarriages didn’t rust out from salt applied to winter roads, vintage cars were plentiful. Given a competent caretaker like Jo, they could run forever.

I sometimes thought, if my life hadn’t gone differently, I might have liked being a mechanic of simple combustion engines myself. But I’d dropped out of college to marry Greg. Daughter Zoe, now a sophomore at University of California, Davis, came along immediately after. I followed Greg’s career instead of finding one of my own until his imploded. After his death eleven years ago, my sense of being a failure kept me from pursuing any meaningful work until now.

Jo, reemerging from the office door, interrupted my reveries. “Ready to roll?” A weathered canvas knapsack was slung over one shoulder as she closed the bay and turned the handle to lock the door. “Ourinho, vem ca. Vamos para casa.”

The dog trotted up and climbed into the middle of the red truck’s wide bench seat. Jo’s late mother had been from the Azores, and I was used to the Portuguese my friend sometimes sprinkled into her speech.

“Had your least favorite person in the bar today,” I murmured as I clicked shut my lap belt, a safety feature Jo had added.

She shot me an alarmed glance.

“Yes, I know you warned me about Karl,” I said.

Ouro gave a sharp bark.

“It’s okay, buddy.” Jo laid her hand on his head, then fired up the truck, which she always kept well tuned. “Ouro did not like my ex one bit. I should have listened to the dog from the beginning. He’s a better judge of character than I am.”

“That’s pretty common, isn’t it? I’ve heard dogs can tell what a person is like on a basic level.”

“This one sure can.”

“Anyway,” I went on as the truck bumped over a pothole. “Karl and his helper were late and slow, but they seem to have done good work.”

“He does know electrical systems.” She pulled onto Manzanita, the main drag in town. “I have to give him that.”

“But he’s not much of a businessperson, and he was totally mean to his assistant.”

“Also no surprise.” She slowed for a stop sign, double-clutching to downshift. “Would you hire him again?”

“No way.”

Two women traipsed into Vino y Vida at seven thirty that evening. Both looked taller than my five foot eight. One furled an umbrella, while the other shoved back the hood on a blue rain jacket. The predicted precipitation had begun shortly after Jo dropped me back at the wine bar. The fresh air the women swept in with them smelled like rain.

“Welcome to Vino y Vida,” I called out from behind the bar and pointed. “We have coat hooks around the corner there.” The wine bar included a small hallway that kept the doors to the restrooms discreetly out of sight, and I’d hung a line of hooks for coats, with a shelf above for hats.

A moment later they slid onto stools facing me. I blinked. These two women, about fifty, had nearly identical faces. One wore a blue fleece hoodie, the other a green fleece zip-up. Both had a hairline low on their brow, deep-set brown eyes, and locks as thick as mine. Green-fleece’s dark hair, shot through with silver, was pulled back into a silver clip. The other woman’s hair was cut to a half inch below her ears and had been professionally lightened and streaked. None of those differences could hide their similarity.

“I’m Cece Barton. Here’s what we’re pouring tonight.” I gestured toward the whiteboard behind me, which listed Riesling, the unoaked chardonnay, a local petite syrah, a lovely zinfandel, and a dessert wine. “Have you been here before?”

The one in blue smiled. “No, oddly enough, considering how much we love wine. I’m Zara Choate, and this is my sister, Tara Pulanski.” Zara pronounced her name to rhyme with “are a” but Tara sounded identical to “terra.”

“And yes, we’re identical twins,” Tara said. “In case you hadn’t noticed.”

“Nice to meet you both.” I returned the smile. “I’m a twin myself, but my sister Allie and I are fraternal.”

“Allie Halstead?” Zara asked.

“The same,” I said. “Pretty much everyone knows her.”

“I haven’t seen you around town, though.” Tara studied me.

“I moved here less than a year ago.”

“Cats are all that matters to her.” Zara elbowed her sister. “Do you have any, Cece?”

“I do. Two. Are you a veterinarian?” I asked Tara.

“No. I’m the director of Colinas Cat Rescue. I hope yours are rescues.”

“Both are, but they weren’t adopted from your facility.” Mittens, in fact, had adopted my nephews last winter at the weekly Colinas farmers market, but poor Arthur was so allergic they had to make a home in their shed for the kitty. When I moved north a few months later, I offered to take her. Both Arthur and Franklin knew they were always welcome to come over and play with the cat and with my kitty, Martin, whom I brought with me from Pasadena. “I’ve thought of calling to see if you need help at the shelter. Do you take volunteers?”

“Always,” Tara said. “Thank you.”

“Great. I’ll be in touch.” I’d been studying Zara. “Haven’t I seen you at church?”

“Manzanita Congregational?” she asked. “Absolutely. Now I realize why you look familiar.”

“I attend worship services most Sundays, but I usually don’t stay for fellowship, and I’m not involved in any committees or Sunday school.”

“That’s okay. All are welcome.”

“I appreciate that. Now, what would you both like to sip tonight?” I asked.

I poured the petite syrah for Tara and a Riesling for. . .