Murder Most Fermented Read online

  “Good God, of course, and I can access it remotely as well.”

  I was grateful for her youth and natural born tech savvy.

  “Aimee,” I said and saw her sit up tall, happy to not be the last team member picked.

  “Do you think that during quiet times at your yogurt shop you could do some online research on the history of Rose Avenue and the surrounding area? I’ll email you a copy of the deed as well.”

  “Absolutely, it will be nice to have something to occupy my brain besides sprinkles and freezer levels.”

  I was mentally trying to come up with something for Paula, but I’d just met her and had no idea what she could do besides grow everything imaginable.

  That’s when it hit me.

  “And Paula, if you would like to help, I wonder if you could get access to records of the last four or five people who have owned my plot? I’ll get you the number.”

  “I know exactly which one is yours, I’ve had my plots for over thirty years, and I know just who to ask,” she said, visibly pleased to be a part of this squad.

  “Awesome, meanwhile I’m going to do some checking on the cigar box and see if that turns up any clues. Shall we have a last toast to our plan?”

  We all raised our glasses, but before I could say anything else, Paula interrupted me.

  “Excuse me, I just thought of something. My husband Max is a member of the local historical society and a few years back he and some others did a whole study on the origins of Rose Avenue.”

  “I never knew that. I’d love a copy,” Sally said still holding her glass in midair.

  “I don’t know that they kept any. See, they were never able to complete their research. They’d been looking into the story about one of the original landowners being murdered by three ‘desperadoes’ but they kept coming to dead ends. Either the files were missing or they were under seal,” Paula explained.

  “Wow, do I smell a connection here?” asked Peggy.

  “That’s a jump over a very wide creek,” said Sally.

  “Either way, you should talk to Max. But let me test the waters first. For the longest time he refused to talk about the study.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  “During the time he was working on it a whole string of bad things kept happening to him. First his spare tire was stolen from his truck; next he tripped over an uneven pavement and sprained his ankle. When a dead crow fell from the sky and landed on him in the backyard, he’d had enough and called it quits. All this happened in the same week.”

  “So does he think he was being haunted by the desperadoes’ ghosts?” Peggy asked, skeptical.

  “That’s exactly what he thinks.”

  Ay caramba.

  Chapter 4

  I woke up groggy from a tad too much “Bactine” I’d consumed at Wine Club. I did not want to get out of bed this Saturday morning. The dark and cool cocoon I construct for myself each night was doing its job, and when I tried to sit up, I realized that part of the baggy T-shirt I slept in was weighted down under the body fast asleep next to me.

  This is a sign.

  I plopped back down, but unfortunately the seal had been broken. I started running through the things I had to do today and knew I’d better get at it.

  “Bardot, wake up!”

  The lump next to me did not budge. I tried to pull my shirt out from under but got nowhere. The movement caused Bardot to roll further onto it, now on her back with her legs relaxed at her sides. There was no time for this today.

  “Bardot! Wake up! I have to get going.”

  No response. I put my head down next to hers and staccato-whispered, “Do . . . YOU . . . want . . . your . . . BREAKFAST???”

  With that she bolted out of bed, her paws not touching the floor until she was halfway down the hall. I wish that I could be motivated by something so simple.

  I had two tasks I needed to accomplish today before I could enjoy a relaxing dinner with Jack. First was to get to the weekly Farmers’ Market. Besides securing some of the best produce around, I wanted to talk to a couple of the old timers with a vegetable stand that may know something about the lima bean fields that used to blanket the hill.

  I grabbed my market bag, saw that Bardot had scarfed down her food and was stretched out in the morning sun for a postprandial nap, and I headed out. I gasped when I opened the front door and saw Marisol once again perched on my stoop.

  “Geez, Marisol, I’m going to have to start charging you rent!”

  “Shh, I’m watching that guy.”

  “Hawaii?”

  “No, that one down the street, he’s knocking on doors. Sat in his car for the longest time talking on the phone and smoking damn cigarettes.”

  I looked in that direction and spotted a skinny man wearing a straw derby with a black band walk up to a house. He was carrying a worn leather satchel briefcase. I looked back at Marisol and noticed that she was wearing a baseball cap and sunglasses.

  “You’re trying to pretend you’re me, aren’t you? You want people to think that I’m the neighborhood snoop, not you!”

  “I am not,” she whispered defiantly. “And keep your voice down, it’s Saturday morning, people are trying to sleep.”

  “You think I don’t know what day it is?? I hereby ban you from coming within five feet of my front porch ever again!”

  We watched as the man was invited into the house he had approached. I escorted Marisol back to her house leaving no room for argument and told her to do her job and find out who this guy is and what he wants. I saw a glint appear in her eye that told me that she liked this assignment.

  * * *

  The Farmers’ Market takes over the land surrounding the community center each Saturday and offers everything from produce to freshly caught fish and seafood, flowers and plants, cheeses, specialty honeys and vinegars and oils, and baked goods. There is always a heightened air of excitement when shoppers discover that the first produce of that season is out. Today, this year’s peaches were making their debut.

  I was offered a sample as I entered the outdoor row of stalls. It tasted so tangy and sweet and sunny that I had to close my eyes for a second to savor the experience. For some reason that’s when I thought about halving them, filling the holes left by the pits with brown sugar and Bourbon, and grilling them.

  Do I really need to have alcohol on everything?

  The market is truly a family affair and when I watched one toddler riding in a wagon his dad was pulling, my knees started to sting all over again. To not think about it, I busied myself with picking up the staples for the week: avocados, berries, Santa Barbara mussels, and those yummy peaches. Which is where I ran into Sally.

  “I thought about calling you so we could carpool, Halsey, but I’ve got a tuna boat full of errands to run after this. What’s that basket behind you, are those any riper?” Sally asked the merchant.

  “No worries. I have a full day too, and in fact this errand has a dual purpose.”

  I spotted one of the old farmers sitting way in the back of the stall. He was rubbing his hands together to warm them in the morning’s cool sea air.

  “Excuse me, sir, you look like you could use a cup of coffee,” I said to him.

  “Boy could I, but I’ve got to get my old bones working first. I’m getting too old for farmin’ and all.”

  “How about my friend and I treat you and in exchange ask you a few questions about the early days of farming in Mar Vista?”

  “Have breakfast with beautiful girls like you two? Heck, I should be the one treating.” He grinned.

  As Sally went behind the produce table and the farmer pulled up a crate for her to sit on, I headed to the tented food court. I ordered a large coffee for him and two cups of fresh watermelon juice for Sally and myself. It is such a treat; the key is to ask them to use very little ice so you get more juice. I always feign a toothache. . . .

  To no surprise, when I returned Sally had the farmer recounting all kinds of tales.
r />   “Curtis was just telling me about how Mar Vista was still very much the Wild West well into the ’50s,” Sally told me.

  We all took a moment to enjoy sips of our drinks.

  “My dad grew lima beans and celery up on the hill, people hunted with rifles and bows and arrows, raised poultry, and rode horses up until I was grown and getting ready to ship off to Korea.”

  “Wow, I can hardly imagine Rose Avenue as rural farmland,” I said. “And you took over the business after you returned from the war?” I asked.

  “Hah, that’s a good one. No way, I’d seen enough of land ownership’s bad side as a kid and tried to get as far away from it as I could. Moved to Chicago where we had some relatives.”

  I looked at Sally who had the same questioning look on her face as I guessed I did.

  “Are you referring to crop blights, not enough water, poor soil? That kind of thing?” Sally asked. I suspected that this market was as close as she’d ever been to a farm.

  “None of that, the land around here was ideal for growing almost anything. I’m talking about the fighting and backstabbing. Literally. When the Mar Vista pioneers weren’t buying land they were selling liquor during Prohibition, running houses of ill repute, and killing each other over the silliest of things.”

  I let that sink in while he took the final draw from his coffee cup. I noticed his cracked, stained hands and knew that Curtis hadn’t stayed away for long. There was no point in bringing it up, as it would only serve to illuminate his lack of resolve.

  “What do you know about Anderson Rose?” I asked, seeing that he was now anxious to get to work selling his harvest.

  “Well, now you’re talking the big leagues. He was one of the landowners; of course we didn’t associate with those highfalutin boys. I remember that he had a dairy; everybody raved about his milk.”

  “Did he do any drilling or mining, do you know?” Sally had picked up the line of questioning.

  “They were all into that, hoping they’d find the Texas tea. That’s mostly what they fought over. Funny thing is, if oil had actually been found, there wouldn’t be a Mar Vista today. Nobody wants to live around derricks.”

  He stood up and I knew we were done. We both thanked him and headed to our cars.

  “Oh yeah, one more thing,” he called out to us. “Rose Avenue was named for Anderson Rose.”

  Of course it was.

  When I got back to the house, I was relieved not to see any sign of Marisol. I wasn’t fooled into thinking that she got the message. She was probably just busy wiring some unsuspecting neighbor’s house with surveillance cameras.

  I joke not.

  I noticed a bunch of papers tucked under my doormat. In addition to tree trimmers, upholsterers, and maid service advertisements, there was a group of more official-looking flyers on heavier paper stock.

  I grabbed the lot and went inside. I had about an hour before my next errand, so I made myself a cup of tea, and Bardot and I went out back, her to the pool and me to a chaise. I took a lovely sip of my Lady Grey tea with just the right amount of milk and sugar. The marine layer was burning off and the sun was spotlighting everything in Technicolor. All was right with the world.

  I opened one of the fancy flyers.

  Mr. Bobby Snyder, Esq., Mineral Rights Agent Do you know if you own the rights to the precious five hundred feet under your home? “Mineral rights” refers to subsurface rights to any mineral, such as natural gas and oil. However, it also includes all minerals found beneath the land’s surface, such as gold, diamonds, quartz, and copper.

  Oil and minerals have been found in your area!

  Call today for a consultation, and let your house pay for itself.

  Seriously? I made a mental note to follow up with Aimee and her research on the deed.

  * * *

  Bardot, Penelope, and I walked down the hill of the Santa Monica airport complex to the area dedicated for the afternoon’s Flea Market. Since she was relatively new to the neighborhood, I’d suspected that she hadn’t yet been to one and being an art lover, she’d appreciate it. Not that this market held a trove of objets d’art. It was a bit of everything; Indian fabric pants, shawls and dresses, pet hair pick up devices, frogs carved in marble, copper, wood, etc., advertising and brand name memorabilia, even a place that sold steamed corn on a stick.

  But I was there to find old cigar tins.

  “This is so much fun, Halsey, thank you for inviting me. I’m used to the British ones, but it is exciting to see all this Americana.” Penelope beamed. “Ooh look, are those things all salt and pepper shakers?” she asked, pointing to a table of Bob’s Big Boy Burger figurines.

  “I’m afraid so,” I said, eyeing another table of taxidermy freaks of the animal kingdom. When Bardot started to pull me toward the two-headed rabbit, I suggested that we turn down another path.

  We walked past a stand selling ’70s’ Polaroid cameras, tape decks, and projectors. “Good God you Americans save everything, don’t you?”

  “An overstuffed garage or attic, it’s our ‘get rich quick’ scheme. Speaking of, did you get a flyer today from a mineral rights lawyer or agent?”

  “You must mean Bobby Snyder, yes? He actually paid me a visit this morning. He’s a funny chap, wears a straw bowler.”

  “Ha-ha funny or peculiar?” I asked.

  “The latter, and he believes that we’re all going to be massively rich.”

  The vendors were organized by theme, and we had come into the general area where I’d hoped to find cigar items. Here, they were selling pricey vintage items: old Coca-Cola wooden crates and boxes, porcelain advertising signs, and luggage from the 1900s.

  “So strange, I’ve never heard anyone talk about oil or mineral rights since I moved here, and now it seems to be cropping up all over the place. I think I’ll call Mr. Snyder tomorrow and find out just what sort of consulting he does,” I said.

  All of a sudden Bardot jumped four feet in the air and tried to cling to me. Instead, she knocked both of us down to the ground. I looked over to an array of very old toys and spied the culprit. Bardot had stuck her nose where it didn’t belong and had accidentally freed one of the creepiest jack-in-the-box clowns I’d ever seen. Its eyes were meant to look like daisies or some other flower with blue petals all around them. But it came off as some kind of mutant Smurf with vitiligo.

  Why did it have to be clowns?

  From the ground, I saw that a few yards ahead was indeed a blanket upon which sat a display of cigar tins and boxes. Penelope helped me to my feet and we headed over to it. I located the photo on my phone of the old “La Union” tin that I’d dug up and approached the vendor.

  Boy, I can’t wait to sit down to a nice dinner.

  The “provenance” of my cigar tin I learned, dated back to the late 1800s or early 1900s. Despite the Spanish name for the cigars, our expert suspected that this item’s country of origin was most likely England where he knew that tobacconists of the time sold such cigars.

  “Every answer seems to prompt a whole new set of questions,” I said to Penelope after we’d thanked the tin seller and were heading back home.

  “That’s the nature of the beast when it comes to antiques, luv. Which reminds me, I have an associate at the museum who specializes in rare and historical jewelry. I’d be happy to have him take a look at the ring you found.”

  “That would be awesome. Didn’t you get the photos of the ring I sent you?”

  “Yes, I did. But he’ll want to see the real thing, test the metal, really examine the engravings.”

  How does she know I’ve still got the ring? I told them I turned everything over. “I’ll get it to you. Okay?”

  “Lovely.”

  It really wasn’t “okay” or “lovely.” I hated to let it out of my sight, but I really didn’t have a good enough reason to say no.

  Chapter 5

  “What do you mean, ‘we have to run an errand first,’ and why are there still dogs in your truck?”
I asked in a little more of a whine than I would have liked.

  “Relax, honey, we will be sitting at a romantic candlelit table for two in no time. Besides, I’m delivering the dogs for a CARA rescue, so it’s for a good cause,” Jack calmly explained.

  I’d best explain. Jack is a certified dog search and rescue instructor with CARA, the Canine Rescue Association. He runs field trials in the Santa Monica Mountains with handler and dog teams, preparing them for the real thing. Like when a hiker has fallen into a rock crevice or a small plane has gone down. He has worked with Bardot and claims that she’s a natural, something that I was skeptical of until she actually saved my life. I’ll tell you about it sometime.

  Technically he’s on call 24/7, and since I’ve known Jack, he has assisted in ten successful rescues, people in all kinds of bad situations. So, yes, this is a good thing.

  I calmed myself, a little. I was still disappointed. After a tough day, I’d decided to do it up for tonight; I thought that I might start with a martini, just to get my groove back. Heck, I’d even put on a dress. But before you think that I looked like Cinderella going to the ball, I’ll set you straight. I chose a blue and white sleeveless floral number along with a denim fitted jacket. Gladiator sandals completed the ensemble. To his credit, Jack had changed into a green and white striped button-down and crisp beige linen pants, so the evening did show some promise.

  “I still don’t like showing up to a nice restaurant in this huge truck,” I said, my temper softening.

  “Don’t worry, Halsey, we won’t be.”

  “What do you mean, and why are we turning into the Santa Monica airport?”

  “The errand, remember?”

  “You didn’t tell me that the errand involved air travel!”

  “Well, now you know,” he said, laughing.

  We pulled up to an electric gate on the south side of the runway and Jack reached out and punched in a key code. A moment later, the gate swung open and we proceeded onto the runway area. The sun was waning and casting a striation of vermillion and orange colors across the horizon.

  This is actually the perfect time for a plane ride.