Pressed to Death Read online

  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 Tea Room.

  “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 tea room 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 sign-ups 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 down the purple 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 suppose
d 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.”