Pressed to Death

Book 2: A Perfectly Proper Paranormal Museum Mystery

by Kirsten Weiss

Genres: Cozy Mystery; Animal Cozy Mysteries; Humorous gen fiction; Cozy Mystery; paranormal cozy mystery; halloween

Synopsis

Paranormal museum owner Maddie Kosloski has the perfect exhibit for the harvest festival—a haunted grape press. But when she's accused of stealing the press, and her accuser is murdered, all eyes turn to Maddie. Knowing the perils of amateur sleuthing as she does, Maddie is reluctant to get involved . . . until her mother insists she investigate.

Does her mom have a secret agenda? Or is she somehow connected to the murder? Facing down danger and her own overactive imagination, Maddie must unearth the killer before she becomes the next ghost to haunt her museum.

Release date: June 15, 2020

Publisher: misterio press

Print pages: 338

Sample

one

 

I was going to jail.

Worse, my arch nemesis would be the one to drag me from my own paranormal museum.

“I do not traffic in stolen goods.” My voice cracked on the final word. You’d think my innocence would go without saying, but Detective Laurel Hammer’s loathing for me was irrational.

So I was saying it. I crossed my arms, defiant. The photos of executed murderers watched, impassive, from the museum’s glossy white walls.

GD, the museum’s ghost detecting cat, hopped off the haunted rocking chair in the corner. He landed, silent, on the checkerboard floor and cocked his sleek black head.

Blue eyes crackling, the detective planted her hands on the glass counter and loomed over the tip jar. Looming—of the tall and blond, beautiful and terrifying variety—was Laurel’s signature move.

I edged away, dropping my arms to my sides. Unable to meet her gaze, I focused on her manicure, pale pink and elegant.

“Mr. Paganini says otherwise.” She blew a wisp of short, side swept hair out of her eyes. “He reported his antique grape press stolen from his winery, and said it was in your possession.”

I shivered, tugging my black Paranormal Museum hoodie closer around my matching tank top. The museum was freezing, and I turned to the thermostat to escape her glower. The seven-a.m. sun slanted through the blinds. I winced at the morning light as I pretended to adjust the heat. It was going to be another warm autumn day in California’s Central Valley. There was no sense in turning down the AC.

“I bought the press from Herb Linden,” I said. “My collector. I have a copy of the receipt.”

I never should have done business with a man who lived with his mother and worked out of the trunk of a VW. But paranormal museum curators had to take what they could get. I’d taken over the museum less than a year ago. It wasn’t the only paranormal museum in the country, but I was determined to make it the best. Or at least make a decent living off it. That wouldn’t be possible from jail. What was the penalty for trafficking in stolen goods?

“Stolen is stolen.” Laurel gazed at me coldly.

“It’s not stolen! Look around you. Do you see anything in this museum worth going to jail for?” I motioned to the glass-enclosed shelves filled with haunted objects. Below the room’s shiny black molding hung a rogues’ gallery of haunted photos. Two doors, set in the wall to the right of the cash register, led to the Fortune Telling Room and my gallery space, which was currently packed with Halloween-themed art. A false bookcase was embedded in the opposite wall. Push the correct book and it swung open to the Fox and Fennel tearoom, owned by my friend Adele (and, most importantly, to our shared bathroom).

Laurel’s lip curled. “This isn’t a museum, it’s a con game.”

“Con game?” I sputtered. I might be uncertain about the existence of the paranormal, but I believed in my museum. It was fun, spooky, and had an ounce of historical relevance. I drew a deep breath. Obviously, rational discourse wasn’t working. I needed to take a different tact.

Flattery. “Actually, Laurel, if it weren’t for you, the museum might not exist at all. I don’t think I ever got a chance to thank you for helping me out with that fire last winter. We’ve completely remodeled the—”

“Stop trying to butter me up.” The detective barred her teeth. “If your collector stole that grape press—”

“He didn’t. Look, the receipt is right here.” I drew a thick binder from beneath the cash register and flipped through the pages. Swiveling the open binder, I pushed it across the counter toward her.

Laurel glanced at it. “Doesn’t mean a thing. I’ll need to confiscate the grape press until this gets sorted out.”

My mouth went dry. This had to be a mistake. “Laurel, please—”

“Detective Hammer!”

“I can’t give it to you. It’s not here.”

“You sold it? Do you know what the penalty is for selling stolen goods?”

“It’s not stolen! And I didn’t sell it. It’s part of my exhibit at the Harvest Fair.” And also the only wine-themed haunted object I had.

October was high season for us in San Benedetto. Although sort of a cow town, San Benedetto was also known for its vineyards, and lately we were gaining a reputation for our zinfandels. In the fall, we not only had pumpkin patches and apple picking, but a harvest festival—put on by the Wine and Visitors Bureau—that brought in tourists from miles around. The highlight, naturally, was wine, with tastings promoting local vineyards. This was my first time participating, and I wanted my Paranormal Museum display to shine. After the wineries, the museum was the second-most-important tourist attraction in the area. Of course, there was also the giant straw Christmas cow that someone torched every winter holiday. But it was fall, so the cow didn’t count. My display at the Harvest Fair was small potatoes, yet I needed it to be a success if I wanted to lure tourists to the museum.

“Then I’ll just go confiscate it at the festival,” Laurel said.

Green eyes narrowed, GD Cat prowled behind her. The ghost detecting cat had taken a dislike to the detective ever since she’d helped save his life. Cats. Go figure.

Casually, I draped my hand over the counter and made shooing motions. “You can’t. The festival’s not open yet.” Ha!

“I’m sure I can get inside.”

GD Cat hunched, preparing to pounce.

Sweat dotted my brow. Cosmic forces were clashing—Laurel and GD—and I was fairly certain I’d be the one blasted to smithereens. I hissed at the cat, “Go away!”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Laurel snarled.

I hurried around the counter and scooped up GD, depositing him on a rocking chair.

“Herb may be odd, but I know he wouldn’t do anything underhanded,” I said. “Besides, the receipt is signed by Paganini’s wife. Provenance is important in my line of work.” Provenance helped me keep the paranormal stories behind the objects straight. And I liked saying “provenance.” It made me feel like a real museum curator.

Laurel snorted.

GD slunk from the chair, ears flat against his ebony head, and stalked toward her.

I edged between Laurel and the cat. “The festival only lasts for two days. Can I bring you the grape press on Sunday?”

“Why don’t I just arrest you today?” Laurel reached behind her back and pulled out a pair of handcuffs.

“But … the festival!”

“You can’t keep stolen goods until it’s convenient for you to return them.”

“I’m telling you, it’s not stolen! That’s the receipt.”

The cat growled behind my ankles.

“Oh well, if you’re telling me, then I guess I can just forget police procedure and let you keep the item.”

“Would you?” I held my breath. Maybe Laurel had forgiven me after all.

“No.”

My cell phone rang, and I snatched it up. “Hello?”

“Madelyn, this is your mother.”

“Yes.” I eyeballed GD. The cat licked his paws, indifferent. “Your name shows up on my cell phone screen.”

“Are you ready to go?”

“Um …”

“Good, because I’m here.” My mother breezed through the door, setting the bell above it tinkling. Country-chic, she wore white jeans and a blue denim blouse. Her favorite turquoise earrings swung from her ears, and the matching silver squash-blossom necklace encircled her neck.

Tucking her phone into the pocket of her linen blazer, she stopped short. The overhead lights glinted off the silver threads in her pixie-cut hair. “Detective Hammer, what a lovely surprise. Will you be assisting us at the festival today?”

“No, I’m on duty,” Laurel said.

“Oh? I was sure I heard that the police would be sending someone to help. After all, Ladies Aid funds the policeman’s ball, and the Harvest Fair grape stomp is our most important fundraiser.” My mother was heavily involved in organizing and promoting the grape stomp.

Laurel blanched.

“But since you’re on duty,” my mom went on, “what brings you to San Benedetto’s third biggest tourist attraction?”

“Second biggest,” I corrected.

“Third,” she said, “after the Christmas Cow.”

“The cow isn’t even built yet,” I retorted. “And Laurel’s here because Mr. Paganini told the police that the haunted grape press I bought was stolen.”

My mother blinked. “Not the grape press in your display at the festival?”

“That’s the one.”

“But you have a receipt, don’t you?”

“It doesn’t matter if she has a receipt,” Laurel said. “If the guy who sold it to her stole it, it’s stolen property.”

“This all sounds like a simple misunderstanding.” My mom turned to me. “Dear, we really must go. The festival starts in less than four hours. There’s tons of work to do.”

“Leo’s not here yet.” Leo was my new part-time employee. I had an employee! The museum was at that awkward adolescent stage—on the verge of growth. Hiring an employee, even if he was only part-time, was a big risk. If my projections were wrong and more help didn’t result in more money, well, I was screwed. And I was responsible for Leo now, making sure he had his pay on time to buy food. It was mildly terrifying.

My mother frowned. “A bit late, isn’t he?”

“Nope, early. He usually doesn’t get here until nine. He’s doing me a favor, coming in at seven to decorate.” I wanted to put up Halloween decorations before the harvest festival crowds migrated to the museum.

“You’re not going anywhere until this is resolved.” Laurel banged her fist on the glass counter, rattling the tip jar.

Startled, GD Cat flattened his ears against his head.

The front bell jingled, and Leo sloped into the museum. He ran a hand through his dyed-black hair, his watch catching on his silver skull earring. Wincing, he disentangled himself. “Hey. I’m here.”

My mother’s lips pursed, and I knew what she was thinking. Was a heavy metal T-shirt and jeans appropriate for my newest employee? But casual wear was another awesome bonus to working in a paranormal museum.

“Hi, Leo. Thanks for coming in at this hour.” I pointed toward the Fortune Telling Room. “The Halloween stuff is in the spirit cabinet.”

“Cool.” He scooped up GD, stroking his ebony fur. To my surprise, the cat settled into his arms. “What’s with Johnny Law?”

“Just a misunderstanding. She thinks I stole your father’s grape press,” I said.

“Why would she think that?” Leo asked.

“Because Mr. Paganini told me so,” the detective said.

Leo rolled his eyes. “And you believed him? He’s a congenital liar.”

My mother laid a hand on his shoulder. “You shouldn’t say that about your father, dear.”

“Because it’s true?”

“This seems like a waste of valuable police resources,” my mom said, turning to Laurel. “I’ll speak with Romeo and have this cleared up by the afternoon. Why don’t we come by the police station then?”

“Who’s we?” Laurel asked.

“Myself and Romeo Paganini, of course. I’m sure it would be easier for you if we resolved this ourselves rather than wasting your time with paperwork.”

“Good luck with that.” Shoulders hunched, Leo walked into the Fortune Telling Room.

“This afternoon, then?” My mother tucked her arms in mine and drew me from the museum. “By the way,” she called over her shoulder to Laurel, “I love your new haircut—attractive and professional!”

I tensed, half-expecting the detective to tackle me to the brick sidewalk. But we made it unscathed to my mother’s butter-colored Lincoln, parallel parked in the shade of a plum tree. I slipped into the passenger seat beside her and we drove off.

The air conditioning blasted, teasing strands of my hair. I glanced over my shoulder. No blue lights pursued us, and I relaxed.

“Thanks, Mom. You’re a lifesaver. I didn’t think Laurel would let me go. She holds a grudge.”

My mother gripped the wheel more tightly and shook her head. “You shouldn’t have set her hair on fire, dear.”

“I didn’t set it on fire.” It had been an accident. “And it just sort of smoldered.” And it wasn’t as if I’d forced Laurel to run into the burning museum. In fact, it had been kind of a heroic moment on her part, so I didn’t get the hair obsession. It would grow back.

“She had such lovely long blond hair.” My mother sighed. “Now, why would Romeo say you stole his vintage grape press?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “Herb bought the press from his wife. Maybe he’s regretting the sale and is trying to get it back through the police instead of just asking me.”

“Is it valuable?” my mom asked.

I pushed up the sleeves of my museum hoodie. I’d become a walking billboard, but when you own a business, that’s par for the course. “I wouldn’t call it valuable,” I said. I’d paid a thousand bucks for it, which was a huge expenditure for the museum. But wine was a big deal in San Benedetto. A haunted grape press was perfect for the museum.

We glided through town, past its hundred-year-old brick and stucco buildings, past the park, its fountain decorated with pumpkins and cornstalks, and beneath the adobe welcome arch on Main Street. Soon we were driving past vineyards, their leaves green with tints of orange and purple.

In the distance, white tents rose above the vines, and I grinned. I’d always loved Harvest Festival. By this time of year, the sweltering Central California summer had given way to temperate, mid-eighties bliss. And it was the start to the holiday season. Soon there’d be Halloween, then Thanksgiving and pumpkin pie, then the ill-fated Christmas Cow. And for the first time in years, I’d be home with my family. Or at least with my mom. My overachieving siblings would be scattered across the globe doing remarkable things. But hey, I was curator of the Paranormal Museum, and I could enjoy a real American holiday with all the sugary trimmings.

 

 

two

 

My mother steered the Lincoln down a wide road and into a dirt parking lot. Hastily erected metal fencing ringed the festival grounds. A female guard in a black Security T-shirt sat on a metal folding chair by the pedestrian gate.

Opening the glove box, my mother extracted her pass. “I presume you have yours?”

“Of course.” Wait, did I? I’d been in such a hurry to get out of the museum … Frantic, I dug in my hoodie pocket and extracted a laminated pass on a lanyard. I blew out my breath.

The guard glanced at our passes and waved us through the gate. I followed my mom past the pumpkin cannon and a row of kids’ games—pumpkin ring toss, bobbing for apples, and one of those photo setups where you stick your head through a plywood painting of an overweight scarecrow.

My mom strode past a kid-sized hay maze. A bigger corn maze for adults had been set up on the far side of the fair. I couldn’t wait to get lost in it with my boyfriend, Mason.

“So how is the grape press haunted?” my mom asked.

“Murder-suicide,” I said.

She stared.

“Hey, happy spirits don’t stick around to haunt grape presses,” I pointed out.

Since I’d taken over the museum, I’d seen some odd things. My logical brain said there was a rational explanation. But a part of me wondered, and the wondering was fun. And the more I studied the paranormal, the more intrigued I became.

“I could have guessed that,” she said. “But what does a murder-suicide have to do with a grape press. Unless …” Her blue eyes widened in horror. “No one was pressed to death, were they?”

“Good gad, no. It’s not that big of a grape press. The killer worked in the vineyards and used the press. He was spurned by the vineyard owner’s daughter, and he killed her and then himself.”

“How delightfully ghastly. Did I tell you?” my mother asked. “I got an email from Melanie. She’s singing at La Scala next summer!”

I hunched my shoulders. My sister, Melanie, was an opera singer, and my brother worked overseas in the State Department. I loved them to pieces, but constantly hearing about their triumphs got demoralizing.

“Oh, hey, there’s Adele’s spot,” I said, anxious to change the subject.

I hurried down the path to a small white marquee, my mother trailing after me. My friend Adele Nakamoto paced inside it, her kelly-green heels kicking up straw. A matching bag swung over one arm. Need I say her Jackie Kennedy-style suit matched as well? She had plenty of room to maneuver, because aside from her, the tent was empty. A plastic sign above it read Fox and Fennel Tearoom.

“Hi, Adele!”

She whirled and grasped my shoulders. “Have you seen Steve?”

“I don’t even know who he is.”

“He’s got all my supplies. She clawed a hand through her shiny black hair, loosing strands from her chignon.

“It’s still early,” I said.

“He’s not,” Adele said. “He was supposed to be here thirty minutes ago. I’ve got to set up the tables, put out my new menus … Did I tell you I have new menus? I do, and they cost me a fortune, and so did this booth, and if Steve doesn’t get here in time I will die. I’ve been calling and calling and he hasn’t been answering. What if he’s dead?”

“Why would he be dead?” I asked. Adele had been accused of murder last winter, and she’d gotten a little quick to jump to the “maybe-he’s-dead” conclusion whenever someone wasn’t where they were supposed to be. Last week I’d been a teensy fifteen minutes late for our regular girls’ night out and she’d called my mother, Leo, and my brother in Moscow. I’m more careful about checking my phone battery now.

Adele’s brow crumpled. “I knew things were going too well.”

“Don’t panic yet,” I said. “He’s not that late. And he’s definitely not dead.”

“You don’t know that,” she said darkly. “And you don’t understand. They’re not just new menus, it’s a new menu, with new tea blends. We’re doing tastings! Iced, of course. Or they would be iced if the ice was here.”

“He’ll be here,” I said.

“Then why isn’t he answering his phone?”

“He’s probably not answering because he’s on his way and can’t answer the phone while driving,” my mom offered soothingly. “You know how sticky the police have gotten about that.”

“Or he’s dead,” Adele said.

“Will your family also have a marquee this year?” my mom asked. Adele’s family owned a winery called the Plot 42 Vineyard, and they’d introduced a new label, Haunted Vine, this year.

“With a name like Haunted Vine, Daddy couldn’t resist having a tent again,” Adele said. “He’s with the other tasting tents in Section C.”

“Look,” I said, “if this Steve person doesn’t show in thirty minutes, come find me. I’m sure we can scare up an extra table and tablecloth for you. Hey, who’s managing your tearoom while you’re here?”

“Jorge.” She wrung her hands. “I hope he’s managing all right.”

“He seems a capable young man,” my mom said.

“He found the perfect printer for my menus. Which I don’t have!” Adele wailed and stomped off.

I looked after her. We were best friends, but she was in full drama queen mode. Best to let her be.

“Well, shall we see your exhibit?” my mom asked.

“Yeah. It’s over here.” I led her through a row of booths to one of the larger canvas tents. Women in purple Visitors Bureau T-shirts bustled around it. Two were hanging a wooden sign over the tent’s entrance: Wine and Visitors Bureau and Haunted Museum.

I sighed. The museum wasn’t haunted, it was paranormal. Oh well. I was lucky the Visitors Bureau was letting me share tent space. Brushing beneath the flap, I held it open for my mother.

At the back of the tent, wine glasses were lined up in neat rows on long tables. The white tablecloths were tucked behind picket fences, bolted to the sides. Plastic grapevines twined through the slats. Cases of wine, I knew, hid beneath the tables. Many of the wineries would have their own booths, but the Visitors Bureau ran tastings on behalf of certain members.

In the center of the tent sat the antique grape press—a dark wooden barrel. A round metal crank at the top lowered a wooden lid to squish any hapless grapes. A placard hung from the crank, explaining its history and haunting. Beneath the text, an arrow pointed toward the Paranormal Museum display on the right side of the tent. A black cloth draped my table. On the rear corner of it sat a miniature trunk with a few of our burnt vintage dolls, who’d lived in the museum’s Creepy Doll Room before it caught on fire and we turned it into a gallery. They were seriously freaky, with burnt hair and soot-covered faces, and I’d been happy to pack them away in my apartment. A haunted photograph of accused murderess Cora McBride held down the opposite side, next to other spooky photos.

“What do you need to do to finish setting up?” my mother asked.

In answer, I walked behind the table. Opening the box, I laid out a stack of brochures, a map that included the museum and key wineries, and some discount coupons. I arranged them in fan patterns. “Done.”

“All right,” she said. “Let’s check out my grape stomp.”

I grinned. “Your grape stomp?”

One corner of her mouth angled upward. “The Ladies Aid stomp. Did I tell you we took online signups this year? We have more participants than ever. I think we may reach our goal of funding a mobile library.”

“That’s awesome, Mom.”

We wended through the tents to a clearing with low wooden platforms covered in purple plastic. Wine barrels, cut in half to make oversized buckets with a spigot in the side, stood atop the platforms and weighted the plastic sheeting. A giant grape vat, the size of an above-ground swimming pool, stood off to one side. Backed against the massive vat sat a dump truck, its bed tilted, tailgate open.

A middle-aged woman strode across the straw-covered ground. Her loose, sleeveless tunic and pants flapped about her limbs, her silvery hair in a short ponytail. A coral prayer bead necklace with a red tassel dangled around her neck. Her nose was sharp as a blade, her face expressionless. She stopped in front of my mother. “Frances.”

My mother nodded. “Cora.”

I did a double take. This was the president of the Ladies Aid Society? The last time we’d met, she’d been armored in a chic suit and pearls, her hair in tight, marcelled waves. Now she was dressed like one of those freewheeling goddess types. “Hi, Mrs. Gale.”

She smiled at me. “Hello, dear. I see you’re exhibiting with the Visitors Bureau. What a lovely idea.”

“Thanks.”

She turned back to my mother and her face congealed. “And you. Nice grape stomp you’ve got here. It would be a shame if something happened to it.”

A chill rippled the back of my neck.

My mother raised an imperial brow.

Cora looked like she might say something more, but she stalked away.

“What did she mean?” I laughed, unsettled. “That sounded like a mob threat.”

“Never mind. What’s that dump truck still doing here?” My mom walked to the giant vat and peered over the side, clicking her tongue.

I followed and peered over her shoulder. The grapes were piled on one side of the vat, beneath the dump truck’s open gate.

My mom braced her fists on her hips. “Oh dear. I was certain I ordered more grapes, but that doesn’t look like near enough grapes for the vat and the smaller barrel stomps. And I can’t believe he just dumped the grapes and left. I thought our driver was more responsible.” She blew out her breath. “Someone will need to distribute the grapes more evenly. Maddie, get in there and move those grapes.”

“But … I’m not dressed for grapes.” Seriously. I wasn’t. I mean, I wasn’t dressed for tea at the Savoy either, but grape guts are messy.

“Use the rake.” She grabbed a rake leaning against the set of stairs leading to the vat and handed it to me. “I’ve got to get this truck moved.” She strode into the tent area.

I looked at the rake, looked at the vat. Well, I’d promised to help. Climbing the steps, I leaned in and made a swipe at the grapes. The rake’s tip clawed ineffectually at the pile.

Seeing purple stains in my future, I rolled up my jeans and clambered inside. A mountain of grapes sloped along the opposite side of the vat. Tentative, I raked at the top layer. A couple of bunches rolled down the pile. I was going to have to get more aggressive, and if grapes were damaged, so be it. They were all fated for stomping anyway.

I swung the rake with abandon, ripping at the pile. More grape clusters cascaded downward, spreading along the wooden vat floor. Sweat trickled down my spine.

The rake tines caught on a knotted pile of grapes. I tugged.

The grape mountain shifted sideways, and I skittered back, stepped on a grape, and slid, grabbing the side of the vat for balance. Cursing, I examined my once-white tennis shoes. Why hadn’t I just taken them off?

I scraped the bottom of my shoe on a bare spot on the floor, leaving a purple smear, and looked up.

A hairy arm was protruding from the pile of grapes.

 

 

 

three

 

Shocked, I stared at the arm. “Oh God.” Tossing the rake aside, I waded through the fruit, praying the arm was attached to a live body. I tossed aside thick purple bunches. Yes, the masculine arm was connected to a shoulder, the shoulder was connected to a neck. It reminded me of that children’s song about bones, and a hysterical giggle escaped my throat.

“Mom!” I shrieked, and then wondered why my first instinct was to shout for mommy. “Mom!”

I tossed aside another bunch of grapes. A man’s face, splotched purple, stared out at me. Black hair, chiseled cheekbones, and deep-set brown eyes, wide and blank.

Gulping, I touched two fingers beneath his jaw, hoping for a pulse. Not finding one, I shifted position, pressed harder. I swore. Fumbling in the pockets of my hoodie, I dug out my cell phone and called 911.

“Madelyn, what are you shouting about?” my mother asked from behind me. “And I gave you the rake. You’re supposed to move the grapes, not stomp all over them.”

“There’s been …” My voice failed, throat thickening, and I coughed. “There’s been an accident.”

The dispatcher came on the line.

“I’m at the Harvest Festival, in the grape stomping section. I’ve found a body.”

“A body?” my mother yelped.

I waded to her.

“You’re at the Harvest Festival,” the dispatcher said, “and you’ve found a body?”

“In the large grape vat.”

“Are you certain he’s deceased?”

“I’m not certain of anything right now, but his eyes are open and there’s no pulse. Please send help.”

“Help is on the way. Who am I speaking with?”

“Madelyn Kosloski.”

“Okay, Madelyn. Just stay where you are and don’t touch the body.”

Too late for that. I hung up and hung my head. In San Benedetto, everyone comes when you called 911: police, fire, ambulance. I should have just called the police station, but I didn’t have their number memorized.

My mother stared at the body and then glanced quickly away. “You’re soaked in grape juice,” she said.

I looked down. Calves splattered in purple. Shoes ruined.

Shaking her head, she helped me out of the vat. “Never mind the stains,” she said. “It isn’t important. Madelyn, do you know who that is?”

“No.” Legs wobbly, I sat on the steps leading up to the vat. Since my return to my hometown, I’d gotten to know a lot of folks. But the dead man wasn’t one of them.

She sighed and pulled her cell phone from her purse. “That’s Romeo Paganini.”

My stomach dropped to my grapey toes. “Oh … no.” Romeo Paganini. The man who’d accused me of stealing his stupid grape press.

“Steve finally arrived, with Daddy.” Adele minced toward us on her expensive green heels. “My booth is saved.”

Her father, a silver-haired Asian man in khakis and a pressed white sports shirt, ambled beside her. “Good morning, Maddie, Fran. I hope you’re both coming to my booth for a tasting.”

My mother smiled, nodded, and turned away, muttering into her phone.

Adele stopped short. “Why are your legs purple?”

“I found a man in the vat, under the grapes.” I jerked a shaky thumb over my shoulder. “The police are on their way.”

Adele’s eyes widened. “Police? Under the grapes? Is he dead?”

Mr. Nakamoto trotted past me, up the steps. Bracing his hands along the top of the vat, he looked inside and drew a sharp breath. “Romeo.”

“Romeo?! Romeo Paganini?” Adele pushed past, shoving me sideways.

I stumbled off the steps, landing on my feet.

“I didn’t do it!” Adele clapped her hands to her mouth.

Her father looped his arm over her shoulders. “Of course you didn’t. No one will think you did.” But he shot me a worried look. Though the real killer in Adele’s case had been found, she flinched whenever she heard a siren. Still, this seemed like an overreaction, even for Adele. What was her connection to Romeo? It was a question I didn’t want to ask in public.

My mom tucked her phone into her purse. “I suspect the police will want to fingerprint the vat. We should probably move away from it.”

I nodded, relieved someone else was taking charge. Anyone else. The first murder mystery I’d been involved in had nearly gotten me killed. The police could manage this one.

Two stout, post-middle-aged women in jeans strode across the yard. Their sensible shoes crackled in the strewn hay. Over the hearts of their powder-blue tees were embroidered the words Ladies Aid Society.

“Tell me you’re joking.” The gray-haired woman raked an age-spotted hand through her hair, cut short and businesslike. Her lips pursed, reminding me of Janet Reno.

“I’m afraid not,” my mother said. “The police are on their way.”

“This was your responsibility, Fran.”

“It wasn’t as if I put the body in the vat,” my mother said.

How had the body got there? I wondered. Had it been put in and then the grapes were dumped on top? Or had the body gone into the dump truck with the grapes, been driven here, and then dumped? I shook my head. That was a problem for the police. I wasn’t investigating.

“You were supposed to take care of this,” the gray-haired woman snapped. Her companion, a round-faced blonde with cornflower-blue eyes, stared at a nearby tent.

“I am taking care of it,” my mother said. “The police are on their way. And I’m afraid I forgot my manners. Eliza, this is my daughter, Madelyn, the museum curator. Madelyn, this is Eliza Bigelow, the current president of the Ladies Aid Society.”

Wait. Cora Gale wasn’t the president anymore? And had I imagined it, or had my mom stressed the word current?

My mother’s cheeks pinked. “And, of course, Betsy Kendle.” She motioned toward the silent blonde. Betsy Kendle glanced at me and smiled, her pale brows drawn down.

Mrs. Bigelow took a deep breath, blew it out. “All right. I guess I can’t blame you for this.” She sounded disappointed. “Who’s the stiff?”

“Romeo Paganini.”

“Paganini …” Mrs. Bigelow’s pale eyes narrowed. “Isn’t his wife …?”

“Yes,” my mom said.

The Ladies Aid president’s nostrils flared. “You know what this means.”

My mom bowed her head. “I’m afraid I do.”

“What does it mean?” I asked.

“It means,” my mother said, “that there’s a hole in our community. A man is dead.”

“And so is our grape stomp,” Mrs. Bigelow said. “We can’t have a stomp surrounded by police tape. We’ll have to move the smaller stomping barrels to another section of the festival.”

“There’s space by the petting zoo,” the blonde offered, timorous.

“Don’t be daft,” Mrs. Bigelow said. “All those smelly animals and kids? We’ll need a different space. Fran, a word.” She strode a few yards away and stood, waiting. My mother followed, meek, her shoulders nearly grazing her ears.

“Terrifying,” Mr. Nakamoto muttered.

“I know,” I said. “I can’t believe I found another body. San Benedetto used to be such a nice, peaceful town.”

“I wasn’t talking about the body,” he said, his expression grim.

“Do we have to wait for the police?” Adele asked. “After all, we didn’t find the body.”

“But I did touch the side of the grape vat,” her father said. “You go. I’ll stay.”

Adele set her jaw. “No, I’ll stay with you. After all, it isn’t as if I had anything to do with this.” She brushed back her curtain of black hair, sounding less than convincing.

Yes, we’d be having a chat later. Not that I was investigating the crime, but Adele had reacted too strongly to Romeo’s death. I wanted to know why.

We waited, not saying much. My mother rejoined us.

“What was that about?” I asked. Sirens wailed in the distance.

She gave a quick shake of her head, lips pressed together.

There was definitely something going on here. I shifted my weight, not liking this at all. It was one thing for me to discover a dead body, another to suspect my mom was keeping information from me. Sure, it was probably just Ladies Aid business, but since the murder victim had accused me of a crime, I was feeling paranoid.

Detective Laurel Hammer strode through the tents, her lips curled. “I should have known it was you.”

I wilted. Honestly, the hair-burning thing had not been my fault.

“Where’s the body?” she asked.

I pointed at the vat. “The grapes were all piled beneath the dump truck, so I was using a rake to distribute them, and I saw an arm and thought he might be hurt, so I pulled some of the grapes away and took his pulse, and I think he’s dead.” I drew a breath. “That’s when I called 911.”

She mounted the steps to the vat and looked inside. “So you touched the body and interfered with the crime scene.”

“I didn’t know it was a ‘body’ until I touched it. He could have been hurt.”

“Oh,” she said, “he’s hurt all right.”

I touched my throat. “You mean he’s alive?” Where was that ambulance? The paramedics?

“No, you idiot, he’s dead.”

My mother stiffened. “This is, of course, a tense situation. I’m sure if we all behave professionally, the crime scene will be processed more smoothly.”

I stared at her. The crime scene will be processed more smoothly? Had she heard that on TV?

To my amazement, the detective flushed. She clomped down the steps in her heavy boots. “All right,” she said. “You found the body. Then what?”

“I called 911.”

“Who’s dump truck is that?”

“I presume it was the truck rented by the Wine and Visitors Bureau,” my mother said.

“Presumed?”

“We hired our contractor, Mr. Finkielkraut, to bring a load of grapes to the festival for the stomp. He said he’d have to rent a truck.”

“And what were they doing when you found the body?” The detective jerked her head toward the Nakamotos.

“Adele and her father arrived soon after my mom,” I said. “I don’t know where they were before that.”

“I was arranging my booth for the Fox and Fennel,” Adele said. “Then I met Daddy at the Haunted Vine booth, and we came over here to check out the grape stomp and see if Maddie needed help.”

“So what’s your beef with Paganini?” Laurel asked.

Adele squeaked. “What?”

“My daughter doesn’t have any so-called beef with the man,” Mr. Nakamoto said. “Just because she was suspected of one crime doesn’t mean you can pin her with every murder in San Benedetto.”

Eyes narrowed, Laurel studied Adele. “I heard you cursing him in the Shop and Go yesterday.”

I straightened. What? Adele hadn’t said anything to me about that, and we saw each other nearly every day.

“I didn’t … I don’t …” Adele straightened. “You shouldn’t eavesdrop.”

“Life’s full of unpleasant realities,” Laurel said. “I heard you wish him dead.”

“Not dead. I said I wished his stupid Death Bistro would … Oh, here.” She dug into her purse and whipped out a folded sheet of paper, handing it to the detective.

Laurel unfolded it. Her blond eyebrows rose. “A Death Bistro?”

“Romeo wanted to rent out the Fox and Fennel for a private party. He didn’t tell me it was for a Death Bistro, or that he was going to post flyers all over town.”

“What on earth’s a Death Bistro?” my mother asked.

“According to the flyer, they get together and talk about death or something. It’s bad enough that my tearoom is next door to a paranormal museum—”

“Hey!” I said. The museum was San Benedetto’s second-biggest tourist attraction! Plus, Adele was the one who’d convinced me to take it over.

My friend placed a hand on my arm. “No offense, Maddie. But after that body was found in the museum last winter—”

“In your tearoom!”

“Let’s agree to disagree,” she said.

I crossed my arms.

“You have no idea how I felt when I saw this flyer saying there would be a Death Bistro at my tearoom,” she went on. “My tearoom is an elegant and restful dining experience. No one dies in my tearoom!”

“Well,” I said, “there was that one—”

“It’s got a skull and crossbones on it! Have I mentioned they’re posted all over town?”

Laurel folded the flyer and slid it into the pocket of her navy-blue blazer. “So Paganini’s in some sort of death cult?” she asked.

“Whatever,” Adele said. “It’s in the flyer. And now I’m stuck with them at my tearoom.”

“Can I see the flyer?” I was a little disappointed Paganini hadn’t approached me at the museum. But in fairness, we weren’t set up for group dining, and the Halloween season was busy enough.

“No,” Laurel said.

Adele reached into her bag and pulled out another one. “I’ve got lots. This one was at the Wok and Bowl.”

The Wok and Bowl was popular, so no matter how quickly Adele had ripped the flyer off the wall, lots of people might have seen it. I shook myself. Didn’t matter. I had bigger fish to fry, like my table at the … The blood drained from my face. “Leo. I’ve got to tell him what’s happened.”

“You won’t say a word to anyone,” Laurel said.

“But someone’s got to tell Leo. Romeo Paganini is his father.”

“Leo, the kid at your museum?” Laurel asked.

I nodded.

“The police will take care of it,” she said. “Got it, Kosloski? You’re not going to play private detective on this one.”

“Of course not!” My face heated. The murders—two of them—last winter had been bad enough. Why would anyone think I’d want to get involved in this? Adele hadn’t killed anyone over this Death Bistro. I bit the inside of my cheek. And just because I’d found the body, and my mom was acting weird, it didn’t mean either of us were involved.

A tall, elegant black man, flanked by four uniformed officers, strode down the wide dirt walk toward us. He unbuttoned his charcoal-gray blazer and flashed his badge. I swallowed. Detective Slate.

“What’s going on?” he asked Laurel.

She pointed to the grape vat. “Kosloski found a dead man in the vat. Name’s Romeo Paganini. He had a run-in with both her and her friend, Nakamoto.”

“It wasn’t a run-in,” Adele said.

“I’ve never met him before,” I put in. “I told you, I bought the grape press from my collector, Herb.”

Detective Slate rubbed his temple. “Herb Linden? The loon who hates cops? Great.”

“I wouldn’t say he hates cops.” I wasn’t going to argue about the loon part.

Slate glanced at the uniformed policemen. “You four, secure the scene.”

Two EMTs jogged toward the police. Laurel pointed at the grape vat and they clambered inside. She jabbed a finger at me. “I don’t want you talking to anybody about this but the cops. Clear?” She strode to join the EMTs.

“Why don’t you tell me what happened?” The detective’s gold-flecked eyes seemed to look right inside me, as they always did. I took a step back.

A curse floated from the vat.

I explained about finding the body.

The EMTs clambered out, their black slacks damp around the cuffs. One caught Slate’s eye and shook his head.

The detective nodded at him. “What’s this about a grape press?” he asked me.

“I bought a haunted grape press from Herb. He bought it from Paganini’s wife. He gave me a copy of the receipt, signed by Mrs. Paganini. But her husband apparently complained to the police that the press was stolen.”

A thought occurred to me. Romeo Paganini had told Laurel I had the press, but how had he known? Laurel hadn’t seemed to know about Herb – who’d bought the press and sold it to me – until I’d told her. So how had Paganini tracked the press to me? Had he seen it on display in the tent? But that would mean he’d been on the grounds before the Harvest Festival opened for business. He owned a winery … maybe he had a booth or tent at the fair?

Slate turned to Adele. “Miss Nakamoto?”

My friend examined her nails. “A … group he’s in, called the Death Bistro, is renting out my tea shop for a private party. I didn’t like the flyers he was posting. That was all.”

“Hardly a reason for homicide,” her father said. “Adele and I walked over here together, by which time Maddie had already called 911.”

“No one’s talking about homicide,” Slate said. “We don’t know yet how the man died.”

“But it’s unlikely he crawled beneath a pile of grapes to do it,” I said.

Slate’s forehead wrinkled.

“Sorry,” I muttered. It was none of my business.

“Mrs. Kosloski?” The detective turned to my mother.

“The Ladies Aid Society manages the grape stomp,” my mom said. “It’s one of our most important fundraisers. I came here this morning with Madelyn to make sure everything was in order, and we found the dump truck parked by the vat. Everything else happened as Madelyn said.”

“Any idea where the driver is?” the handsome detective asked.

“Nooooo.” A crease formed between my mom’s brows. An engine roared and she canted her head.

I followed her gaze. A dump truck trundled up the wide dirt road, halting outside the ring of truncated wine barrels. A head of spiky brown hair popped out the open window and I smothered a groan. Dieter Finkielkraut, my ex-contractor.

“Dudes! Where do you want these grapes?” he shouted.

Adele covered her face with her hands. “I can’t believe this is happening.”

Detective Slate strode to the truck and hopped onto the running board. He said something, and Dieter shook his head. Slate pointed and hopped off the truck. Dieter reversed into a spot beside a tent and parked.

“Mom, how many loads of grapes were you expecting this morning?” I asked.

She frowned at the vat, the first dump truck. “Only one.”

“And Dieter was bringing them?”

She sighed. “He owed me a favor.”

“If that’s the load of grapes you ordered, then where did the grapes in the vat come from?”

“I don’t know.”

“Where did the other truck come from, for that matter?”

“I don’t know that either.”

Dieter wouldn’t have just dumped a load of grapes and ditched a truck. If he’d had to make two trips, he would have made two trips with the same vehicle. Which meant the dump truck beside the vat wasn’t the one my mom had arranged. Curious.

I shook my head. Wasn’t my business. I wasn’t investigating.

“And why put the body in the vat?” I said to no one.

“That,” my mother said, “is an excellent question.”

The phone rang in my pocket. Startled, I pulled it from my hoodie. Mason. We’d been dating for several months and loving him had been the best part of coming home to San Benedetto. In spite of cops wrapping yellow police tape being around a grape vat, my heart gave a little jump.

I answered the phone. “Mason. I’m glad you called.”

There was a brief pause. “You sound kind of stressed. Problem at the festival?” His voice was a low rumble.

I laughed hollowly. “You can say that. I found a dead body in the big wine vat for grape stomping. The police are here now.”

“You’re kidding.”

“I wish I were.”

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. Just a little shaken.”

Slate came back over to us. “Okay. You can go. We may have more questions for you later, but I know where to find you. And Maddie? This time, let the police handle the investigation.”

I did not dignify that with a response. “Mason, I’ve got to go,” I whispered into the phone.

“Do you need me there?”

I smiled. “Thanks, but I’ll be okay.”

“Let me know if that changes.” Another pause. “You’re not going to get involved, are you?”

“No! I mean, no, of course not.” Was he joking?

“All right. Call me. Bye.”

“Bye.” I hung up.

My mother cleared her throat. “Detective, the festival opens in less than three short hours. I’d like to move the half barrels to another location so we can go ahead with the stomp.”

Slate shook his head. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Kosloski, but we won’t know if they’re a part of the crime scene until we get a chance to examine them.”

My mother drew breath to speak, then clamped her lips into a taut line. “Of course. Thank you, Detective.” She gripped my arm. “Maddie, we need new barrels. Fast.”

“I’ve got a few back at my winery,” Mr. Nakamoto said. “I can call around and see if I can collect more.”

My mother grasped his hands. “You’re a lifesaver. Thank you, Roy. Madelyn? We need to talk.” She strode towards the row of tents.

Sweating, I waved to Adele and her father and hurried after her.

My mother pulled me into a narrow gap between two tents, their canvas sides brushing our shoulders. “This investigation—”

“I’m not going to interfere!”

Her eyes narrowed. “Oh yes you are, Madelyn.”