Homicide in Hardcover

“Don’t you dare change the subject. What’d he say?”

I gave her the short version as we walked.

“Do you honestly believe he’s got something to show you besides his etchings?”

“Ew.” But I’d had the same thought. “I guess I’ll find out Monday. I made a date to meet him.”

“A date?” She groaned. “What did we discuss last night?”

I frowned. “Fashion?”

“No, smartass.” She stopped walking and whispered hotly, “We talked about how you shouldn’t be investigating Abraham’s death by yourself because you could piss off a killer. Remember?”

“Vaguely.”

“We discussed how that was not a good idea. And this guy Enrico could be a killer.” She took a sip of wine. “And then I called your clothes atrocious and you got miffed. Any of this ring a bell?”

I took a sip of wine. “I recall the atrocious part.”

She rolled her eyes. “Good, because that was really the key point of the discussion.”

“Thanks a lot.” I pulled her along with me to keep strolling. “Look, I’m not investigating anything. I’m just meeting with a colleague who could someday throw some business my way.”

“That is so much crap.”

“I’m serious. That’s all I’m going to do. Could you please relax?”

“I’ll relax when Abraham’s killer is behind bars.”

“Me, too.” I took another sip of wine and motioned toward the door. “Austin just walked in.”

She whipped around so she wouldn’t be caught gazing longingly at my tall, handsome older brother, the one she’d been in love with since third grade. “So what?”

I laughed. “As long as you don’t deal with those deep dark feelings inside, you’ve got no business criticizing anything I do.”

She pointed her finger at me and gave it a shake. “I have every right in the world to try and talk you out of getting yourself killed.”

I put the wineglass down on a nearby table and pulled Robin into a hug. “Thank you. I appreciate it.”

When I stepped back, I saw her eyes filled with tears.

I sighed. “I absolutely promise I’ll be careful-”

“You’d better be.”

“-if you’ll do me a favor.”

She sniffled. “What?”

“Go talk to Austin. He’s staring right at you.”

“Shut up.”

“He is,” I said.

“Shit.”

“There’s a good attitude.” I gri

I spent the next hour helping my mother supervise the kitchen staff to keep the tables filled with food to feed the hundreds of people who’d stopped by to console and commiserate. I didn’t mind putting in kitchen time since I figured it would keep me out of trouble for a while. And the sprawling commune kitchen was a warm and familiar environment for me.

All through my childhood, Mom and Dad were in charge of managing food and wine for the commune. Dad still ran the winery, but Mom was semiretired from the kitchen except on special occasions like this one. With six kids, she was a natural organizer and, more important, a first-class manipulator.

My parents’ experience in food management dated back to the days when they used to travel to Grateful Dead shows in a big old UPS truck that Dad had outfitted and sectioned off into three rooms: bedroom, bathroom and kitchenette.

At the time, Dad was still out of favor with Grandfather, so he and Mom needed a way to support themselves on the road. They decided to call upon their God-given talents and created a business called Vino y Green-oh. We kids thought it was the dumbest name ever, but Deadheads and fellow campers loved it. They painted the name on the side of the truck in rainbow colors. Dad offered wine tastings at one dollar a glass and Mom made fresh green salads she sold for two dollars each, including a roll and butter.

They hooked up with several other entrepreneurs in the food trade and created a “restaurant row” in the Dead show campgrounds and parking lots. Their friends Barbara and Dexter ran a popular eatery out of their RV called Spuds ’n’ Suds. Their operation was a little more complicated, requiring a deep fryer and ice for the keg.

“We need more taquitos at the Mexican station,” Mom called from the doorway.

“I’ve got a bunch ready,” Carmen, one of the cooks, answered.

“I’ll take care of it,” I said, and lifted the large cookie sheet stacked with corn tortillas rolled tightly around shredded beef, cheese and salsa.

“Don’t forget the avocado sauce,” Carmen yelled.

“Got it,” I said as I balanced the bowl of creamy green sauce on top of the pile of taquitos and headed for the dining room-and nearly collided with two men.

“There you are,” Derek said. “When are you-”

“Brooklyn,” Ian interrupted. “I’m glad I ran into you. I’ve got-”

“Guys, let me put this down,” I said, straining from the weight of several hundred beef taquitos. “I’ll be right back.”

But they weren’t about to let me escape. They both followed me to the Mexican station, where I gratefully exchanged my full cookie sheet for the empty one on the table.

“Okay, so much for my break from reality,” I said, smiling back and forth from one ridiculously good-looking man to the other. “What do you guys want?”

“I’ll need a word with you, Ms. Wainwright.”

“Hey, plenty of me to go around,” I said, laughing as I turned and stared into the grim brown eyes of Inspector Jaglow.

Chapter 10

Oh, bugger, what did the police want with me? I shot a look at Derek, but he avoided my distressed gaze, turning away to chat up the closest woman available, who happened to be Mary Ellen Prescott, the manicurist at the Dharma co-op beauty salon my mother operated with a few of the commune women. He would soon find out that Mary Ellen was not a member of our commune but a shameless, serial proselytizer for the Church of the True Blood of Ogun. Served him right for ignoring me in my hour of need.

Semifrantic now, I turned to Ian and was dismayed to realize that in the few seconds it had taken me to observe Derek’s betrayal, Ian had seen his chance and completely disappeared.

Suffice it to say, this was another lesson learned the hard way. Men were good for one thing only. Killing spiders. Other than that, I was on my own. It was sad, though. Where was the chivalry of yesteryear?

Inspector Jaglow coughed discreetly.

I could claim a need to use the bathroom, then sneak through the kitchen, detour out the mudroom door and be gone in seconds. There were back roads and switchbacks and hollows up here in Sonoma I could disappear into, where a hotshot City cop like Jaglow would never find me.

“Ms. Wainwright?” he said again. “This won’t take long.”

I sighed, gave him a wan smile and gestured for him to lead the way. Without a word, he crossed the room and exited through the wide double doors. I tried not to hyperventilate as he took the walkway around to the back, across the wide, blacktop parking lot. There were plenty of people in the hall, but nobody was out here, no witnesses to see me forced into a car or led into the woods to be brutally interrogated.

I’d never realized it before this moment, but I didn’t trust the police. Here I was, completely i

“Over here,” Jaglow said, pointing to the far corner of the lot.

That was when I saw Inspector Lee standing by a picnic table under a giant oak tree at the edge of the lot. She wore a heavy black wool coat and flat shoes. Despite the extra weight of the coat, she still looked pathetically thin. I knew I wasn’t the fashion maven Robin was, but I ached to do a makeover on the inspector.

She watched us approach and I noticed she was smoking a cigarette. That was a surprise. Of course, I wasn’t about to discuss the commune’s recently initiated no-smoking policy. I figured it was bogus anyway since Guru Bob had been sneaking out to light up behind the winery barn for years.