Murder Most Fermented Page 2

  “Hawaii” was her name for the divorced man who now lived by himself and always sported tropical print loose shirts. Underneath hung an ever-increasing belly.

  “How long has this been going on?”

  “Couple of weeks now; you should see what he does to her,” Marisol replied, stepping down from my stoop.

  “How do you always know these things??”

  She was gone. One of Marisol’s trademarks was her ability to vanish into thin air.

  “Morning!” Sally greeted me while checking her step counter and breathing from her diaphragm. “Beautiful day like this makes me happier than a New York rat with a stuffed-crust pizza.”

  If I hadn’t lingered another minute, I could have snuck inside the back gate under the radar. I was not ready to face my public yet, I wanted to shower and spend some time revisiting my newly found treasure.

  “Hi, I was just getting my paper—”

  Behind Sally approached two more Rose Avenue denizens.

  “She’s got me speed walking, says it’s great exercise first thing in the morning. I can think of a far more pleasurable way to work out, and it doesn’t involve getting out of bed.”

  “Tom,” Aimee shrieked, giving her boyfriend’s arm a love punch. They were festooned with so much digital gadgetry that it was a wonder they could walk at all.

  “Glad to see you both,” said Sally. “I’m doing Wine Club this afternoon. To celebrate the start of summer I’m pouring icy cold Crossbarn Rosé of Pinot Noir.”

  “Can I come?” Tom asked.

  “NO,” all three of us said in unison.

  We were punctuated by a car horn and looked to the street where Penelope had stopped.

  “Hello, luvs, what’s up?” she asked in her cheery English accent.

  “Wine Club at Sally’s, four o’clock,” we all shouted again.

  The cars were backing up behind Penelope.

  “See you then. Halsey, what on earth have you done to your knees?”

  I was about to make up a story when a gentle tap of a car horn behind her sent Penelope waving and driving off.

  “There’s Peggy,” Sally said, looking down the sidewalk across the street. “I’m going to remind her that she’s bringing her crab-stuffed deviled eggs this afternoon.”

  Geez, I’m going to need a nap.

  * * *

  I shut the door, hoping that Bardot and I would finally get some peace and quiet at home in our little slice of paradise. I walked through the “great room” that spans the entire length of the house and includes a large dining and living room area, and went out the back French doors to retrieve my wagon. It was sitting where I’d left it on the other side of the gate.

  One of the reasons I bought this house was that the garage had been converted to a small living space that, because I’m on a corner, can also be accessed from a door facing the side street. Which made it a perfect place for my office because it afforded me the ability to have distance between my work and personal life. Just outside the office and in the middle of my backyard is the pool, where Bardot the Diving Dog was born. Here’s briefly how that came about: the day I moved into the house I was concerned that Bardot, still a puppy, would freak out if she fell into the pool. While at Whole Foods picking up some amazing produce, I saw a card from a guy touting his dog training skills. I called the number and he came by that afternoon. Jack, that’s his name, had just barely stepped into the pool when Bardot jumped in after him, spun around in wild swimming circles, and shimmied up out from the side of the pool, thinking that this was indeed the life.

  A bit later Jack wanted to do some laps and tossed me his watch to make swimming easier. Of course I missed it and the heavy timekeeper sank in the deepest end of the pool. SPLASH! All I could make out was the tip of a yellow tail disappearing under the surface. Moments later Bardot emerged with her quarry and proudly ran up the steps of the pool to examine her prize. Needless to say, Jack and I were gaping like lizards basking in the hot sun. Bardot was soon thinking that she was “all that and a bag of chips” and has worked diving into all sorts of situations. Including once diving into a public fountain to retrieve the coins.

  We’re not great in public.

  I headed to the office while Bardot did a swan dive into the pool. I grabbed a Vitamin Water out of the mini fridge and took a refreshing gulp. Not wanting to waste any time preparing breakfast, I grabbed a jar of almond butter and a handful of peeled carrots and sat down at my desk. The first thing I did was to photograph the box from all sides as well as the contents. I carefully removed the document, afraid that from its old age anything could cause it to tear or just disintegrate. I wanted to handle it as little as possible, so I took a photo of both sides and then returned it to the velvet fabric. I placed both between two pieces of mailing cardboard and then stored it flat in a padded envelope. I may have gone a little overboard, but this was a deed and I could be coming into oil.

  I may have to change my name to Elly May Clampett.. . .

  With my desk lamp, I could get a much better view of the ring lying on the bottom layer of the box. If the dates are correct on the deed, then this ring could be over one hundred years old and very valuable. This needed to be handled with delicate care, but I wanted to get a better look at the ring. I could barely make out the engraved symbols on the sides, and I wondered if a name was also engraved somewhere. I grabbed the long-nose tweezers that I use to extract that tiny shred of paper that prevents the printer to function and grabbed the antique magnifying glass I’d pilfered from my dad’s office as a kid to burn bugs in the summer.

  I was just about to start my examination when the street door to my office opened.

  “Hey, honey,” Jack said. “What you got there?”

  I looked at the six four man with his shaved head and nicely trimmed beard that had walked in. He was dressed for dog training in long shorts, hiking boots, and a pocketed belt that held treats, various kinds of collars, and the necessary blue doggie bags. He looked cute and despite a rocky start, I was happy to have him as my boyfriend. I call him my amber-eyed redwood.

  Bardot, hearing her second-best friend, came running in soaking wet and slid into me on the wood floors, looking like a cartoon cow on ice. Jack snapped his fingers once and Bardot awkwardly righted herself and sat at attention. The ring went flying and the magnifying glass had fallen to the floor and cracked.

  Oh crap, now I’m cursed for sure.

  “Wow, that’s some story. Remind me how these things always happen to you?” Jack asked after hearing about my dead body discovery and the procurement of the artifacts I’d been studying.

  “Why I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, Mr. Thornton,” I said in my best Scarlett O’Hara accent. “I do declare, I was found innocent of all charges.”

  “You should probably talk to old Mr. Ott; he’s a historian and chronicler of early California. Their house is like a museum. I’m headed over there this afternoon, I’ve been working with a pair of whippets they were given in exchange for an appraisal. Sweet dogs but pretty lively for a couple of seventy-year-olds.”

  “If I live that long, I have a feeling that this is much worse than breaking a ten-foot mirror.” I sighed while on my hands and knees looking for the ring.

  “It’s a piece of glass, there’s no bad luck in breaking that,” he said, grinning and planting a kiss on my cheek. “See you Saturday; we’ll have a wonderful dinner.”

  Bardot had remained statue still until the moment Jack left. She eyed me for a split second and then rolled on her back that she proceeded to scratch with serpentine wiggles. Leaving swirls of pool water in her wake.

  I found the ring and looked at its inner side for any more clues. It was engraved with the Latin words “Memento Mori,” a quick online search informed me that this means, “Remember you will die.”

  I just shouldn’t have gotten out of bed this morning.

  Chapter 3

  “I hear it’s going to be three stories,” I hea
rd Sally say as I walked onto her back patio for Wine Club. The usual suspects were there along with the newcomer that I’d heard about.

  “I hope I won’t be ruining your palates by contributing a couple bottles of Elgin Ridge Chardonnay, I thought that the summer fruit tastes would complement the Rosé,” I said as I plopped down into Sally’s last unoccupied wicker chair.

  “There she is,” said Peggy, “I hear that you’re not a garden virgin anymore.”

  “Honey, the ship has sailed for anything that has ‘Halsey’ and ‘virgin’ in the same sentence,” I said.

  Peggy looks like everybody’s favorite grandma. White-haired and fleeced in the winter, and hair under a baseball cap and madras sporting in the summer, she is someone you always want to hug. But as we learned last year, this sweet woman who is inching nearer and nearer to ninety has a past that included spying for the CIA. No, seriously, she did.

  Sally decanted the wines and took a quick taste of each to make sure they were servable. At least that is how she’s explained her actions in the past. Penelope helped distribute the filled glasses.

  “I see you’ve cleaned up your knees, Halsey, but you still look like a girl who’d gotten into a row at the schoolyard.”

  “It’s kind of a macabre story, which I’ll get to after we’ve all imbibed a few fluid ounces,” I replied, piquing everyone’s interest.

  Penelope is from England so we often find ourselves asking her to translate her indigenous words or phrases. In this case we’d already learned that “row” meant fight.

  She’d moved to Rose Avenue late last year after accepting a sought-after curator position at a respected museum in town. Now the youngest in our group at twenty-eight, she brought both a degree of sophistication to the Wine Club along with a raucous appetite for fun and adventure.

  “That looks sore,” said Aimee, “want me to go get you some Bactine spray?”

  “She’s got some, it’s in that glass she’s holding,” Peggy retorted in a jovial mood.

  Aimee has gone through a lot of struggles in the year that I’ve known her, but it appears that she’s close to coming out the other side. Her boyfriend from high school, Tom, was on his way to becoming a doctor when his mother was diagnosed with cancer. He had to take time off to care for her, leaving Aimee as the sole breadwinner. As advertised by her pink Polo shirt with the words “Chill Out” embroidered on it, Aimee owns and operates a small frozen yogurt shop nearby. She’s in her early thirties and still has the wide-eyed innocence of a child, along with cherubic cheeks that change color like a mood ring. Now that Tom was back and well along in completing his residency, Aimee can relax a little and that respite shows. She’s much less fidgety and has stopped crying as much at the least little thing. Like if she accidentally steps on a snail.

  “Halsey, say ‘hello’ to Paula, our newest member. I don’t know what we were thinking not inviting her to join from the get-go. Sometimes my brain’s as useless as pedals on a wheelchair,” said Sally with one of her typical quirky expressions.

  “Hi, Paula, so glad you could join us,” I said, looking at an earthy momma in her seventies wearing a purple-dyed hemp vest that battled for attention with her rampaging red hair.

  Paula gave me a wide grin that turned everything around her from dusky grays to sunflower yellow.

  “I am so happy to be included,” she said, hoisting a grapevine-made basket onto her lap. “I made some pesto for us from basil I grew at the co-op, and picked a bunch of apricots from my tree.”

  “Perfect, this will go great with my theme today, which is the start of summer. I’ve got some grilled pineapple skewers, bruschetta with fresh tomatoes and peach chutney, shrimp satay, and of course, Peggy’s crab deviled eggs.”

  Sally is my best friend here; she is a tall, lean, golden-brown woman in her early sixties, with angular features and elegant long fingers that look like they should be holding a paintbrush in front of an easel overlooking a scenic panorama. Her white hair serves to add a halo around her long neck and jawline. Her lovely oval face and broad smile exude a warm and nurturing aura. Not surprising for a retired nurse, but don’t be taken aback at her reaction if someone messes with her. This caregiver has balls.

  “Why were you talking about stories when I walked in,” I asked, sucking the crab out of an egg white.

  My mother taught me better....

  “We were talking about the teardown over on the next corner. I spoke to the developer when I was on my walk, and he said that the remodel will have five bedrooms and a basement,” Sally explained.

  “That’s going to be one ugly monster of a house,” Aimee said, shaking her head. “It’s greed is what it is, that kind of building does not belong here.”

  “Yes, it worries me that these impersonal behemoth structures are cropping up more and more,” said Sally.

  “Lots of changes and remodeling going on these days,” said Paula, kind of far off. “My new neighbor, a really nice young man, moved in about a month ago. He is doing renovations and also putting in a basement!”

  “But I thought that with all the earthquakes we have, putting in a basement was a dangerous luxury,” I questioned.

  I’d moved on to the pineapple and forced myself to resist slurping all the juice out first.

  “Apparently that is an urban myth. One of Tom’s resident friends has one and he says that a basement gives your home the safest level of protection from earthquakes because you have a much stronger foundation for the whole house,” Aimee clarified.

  “Wow, I want one,” said Penelope, thinking.

  “Well, here’s what I heard,” Peggy said with intrigue.

  We all leaned in to her.

  “You need to have a city-licensed engineer come in first to test and make a soil report before any construction can happen. In the case of the new development we’re talking about, I heard from May who lives across the street that they did a pass with their own engineer first, and he suspects that there’s oil just about four hundred feet down.”

  “Just under that one lot?” I asked.

  “Don’t know, whole thing might be turned into an oil derrick,” Peggy answered.

  Upon hearing this, I choked on my generous sip of Rosé of Pinot Noir, sending its crisp finish with hints of citrus and sea breeze straight up my nose.

  Everyone took a moment to ponder what Peggy had said and to dream about what to do with all the money they would make as oil baronesses.

  “You were going to tell us how you hurt your knees, honey,” Aimee reminded me.

  Like Pavlov’s dogs, that was the stimulus the Wine Club girls needed, and they were soon gathered around me. After all there was a dead body involved.

  “And Peggy’s news is the perfect segue,” I said.

  “The girls gave me a garden plot up on the hill for my birthday,” I explained to Paula.

  Her face immediately animated. “I have four plots up there; I grow sweet peas, kale, rhubarb, Brussels sprouts, melons, squash, pineapple, asparagus, and the basil we are enjoying today!”

  Okay, right now she looks like she too sprouted from the earth.

  “Go on, sugar, tell us your story,” Peggy urged.

  So I did, leaving out the part about keeping the ring and deed from the detective. Let them think that he has all the evidence. This was a respectable occasion after all, and I’d planned on telling Sally and Peggy later in private.

  “Holy dingleberries,” Sally said.

  So now they’ve been blessed????

  “Does this mean that you could own all the oil under Rose Avenue?” Sally continued.

  “I don’t know. I have a more pressing issue at the moment, which is convincing the cops that I had nothing to do with the body that Bardot dug up.”

  “I was thinking you meant ancient bones, are they sure it was a human body?” Peggy asked.

  “I saw a hand with bits of flesh still visible.” I grimaced.

  “Ewwwwww,” Aimee said, teary.

&nbs
p; “I wonder how long a body can be buried and still not be totally decomposed,” Peggy mused.

  “Easy enough to find out,” Sally said, firing up her smartphone.

  “People find bones all the time when working in the gardens,” Paula said. “That whole area was farmland, I’m sure cattle and horse carcasses are all over the place.”

  “But they don’t have hands last I checked.” Penelope seemed a bit amused by all this.

  “Everything hinges on the autopsy results. That’ll tell how this person died, and more. Until then my fate is in limbo.”

  Everyone looked shocked.

  “I think that we have the deed to the mineral rights under our house. I’ll have to have my husband Max check,” said Paula, eying me a little differently now.

  “You don’t really think that the deed is valid after all those years? I’m sure it has been superseded twenty times over by now,” I said.

  “I’m real curious about that ring, figuring out the symbols and engravings on that might tell us a whole different story,” Penelope mused.

  “So what’s the plan, Halsey? Tell us what you think we need to do to solve this like you did last time.”

  “That was way different, Aimee,” I said, but my wheels were already spinning.

  I glanced over at Peggy and could tell that she was doing the same thing.

  “Peggy, you floored me with that story of possible oil under the construction site, do you think that you could follow up on that?”

  “Sure, and I’ll interrogate, er, quiz May more thoroughly.”

  “Sally, do you think that you can get more scoop on the developer, if he thinks he’s discovered oil, he might be involved somehow, either with the deed or the body. Did you get his name?” I asked.

  “Better, I’ve got his card right here,” she said, pulling it out of her back pocket. “Howard T. Platz, it has his cell number too. I’ll keep chatting with him.”

  The rest of the girls were watching me intently.

  “Great, Penelope, if I get you photos of the ring, do you think that you could do some research on your museum’s database?”