Absence of Mallets, page 16
“Thanks, sweetie.”
I thought the time was just about right, so I stood, held up my wineglass, and gazed at my best friend since first grade. “Jane, you amaze us all. Thank you for this wonderful evening. You’ve brought a new level of excellence and beauty to the Gables and to Lighthouse Cove. Your mother would be so proud of you.”
She looked at me and shook her head. “You’re determined to make me cry, aren’t you?”
I smiled. “Is it working?”
“Yes, damn you.” She dabbed at her eyes with her napkin, and everyone laughed. Then we all toasted her by clinking our wineglasses and drinking heartily.
“I see that it’s come to that time of the evening when we do our best to make Jane cry,” Emily said in her soft Scottish brogue. Gus helped push her chair back, and they both stood up. Emily took a deep breath. “So I would like to take this opportunity to announce my engagement to this darling man, Gus Peratti.”
“About damn time,” her brother, Niall, shouted and raised his glass.
“How does Mrs. Rawley feel about this?” Lizzie asked. Mrs. Rawley was the ghost that haunted their home.
“She’s blissfully happy,” Emily said.
Everyone cheered again and laughed as Gus grabbed her in a classic swoony kiss.
And as predicted, my romantic friend, Jane, burst into more happy tears. But she wasn’t alone this time as my girlfriends and I dabbed our own eyes at the joyous news.
Chapter Nine
The next day was Sunday. Mac, Chloe, and I piled into Eric’s SUV and drove inland through the forest, winding around dangerous curves for an hour until we reached the edge of the Anderson Valley wine country.
We were still a few miles from the town of Navarro when I remembered to ask Eric about the lighthouse. My mind was really slipping, I thought. I had too much going on.
“Did your patrol find anything when they went by the lighthouse yesterday?”
“I’ve been meaning to tell you what happened,” Eric said. “I apologize, because the short answer is no. By the time they got there, everyone had already left the scene.”
I scowled. “Rats.”
“I will disclose that Ginny got the message to me right away,” he said. “I wanted to make sure you knew.”
“Ginny’s great,” I said.
“Yeah, she is. But the rest of us were held up by a little fracas at the high school.”
“A fracas?” I smiled at the old-fashioned word. “I like it.”
“Well, I didn’t like what I saw at the school. It wasn’t our kids, but the visiting team had a couple of hooligans who were here to make trouble.”
Hooligans, I thought. Another excellent word.
“What happened?” Mac asked.
“They were actually fighting among themselves,” Eric said. “Our team just sat back and shook their heads. But then the visitors started to turn on our guys, and we hurried in to break it up. We called the parents of the fighters to come get them. I wasn’t going to let them get back on the team bus and drive off into the sunset. First of all, because they would’ve kept fighting. And second, I wanted some accountability from the parents. So we ended up staying for several hours.”
“Doesn’t that sound like fun?” I said.
“Bet those parents weren’t too happy to make that drive,” Chloe said.
“No, they weren’t. We made it clear that the other team would not be invited here again, and Coach Wilkins is calling the county organization to complain about them.”
“Good,” Mac said.
“Those kids aren’t the only visiting hooligans,” I grumbled.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean those freaking writers. They’re nothing but trouble. They invaded the lighthouse again, and I really can’t wait for them to get out of town.”
“It won’t be long now,” Mac said, squeezing my knee in sympathy.
True, I thought. Unless one of them had killed Linda. Then they’d be sticking around for a while, in a jail cell.
I hated to complain about them again, especially because I knew that Mac was starting to take it personally. He blamed himself for bringing them to town, but it wasn’t his fault that they were behaving like grown-up hooligans.
“I’ve got to get over to the lighthouse tomorrow. I’ll take Wade with me. We’ll do another walk-through and make sure they haven’t damaged anything inside the building.”
“Just what are you expecting to find?” Eric asked in his best police-chief tone.
“With these people, I wouldn’t be surprised to find graffiti all over the place.”
“Really?” Chloe asked.
I scowled. “No. But I still want to make sure.”
I forced myself to relax and take in the beauty around us. It only took some deep breaths and a few minutes of gazing at the rolling green hills covered in grapevines to chill me out.
A few minutes later, Eric turned into a long driveway and parked near a beautiful glass-walled building. It was Bella Rosso, Uncle Pete’s vineyard and winery. It never failed to bring a happy smile to my face. The views from the tasting room were spectacular, and today the weather contributed, with breezy blue skies covering the valley and the dark green mountains in the distance.
My father and his beloved Belinda greeted us at the door leading into the rustically elegant tasting room. They had first met right here, soon after Uncle Pete hired her as his new winemaker. She had worked in some of the greatest winehouses in Bordeaux before coming back to California and settling in the Anderson Valley.
“Dad,” I whispered. “You look great.”
“I’m feeling pretty great these days.” A while ago he had been living in an RV parked in my driveway. Then he bought a boat and lived on it until he met Belinda. Recently he had moved out to Uncle Pete’s ranch house to help with the ongoing construction of the winery and to see Belinda more often. “We’re in the middle of building a small room off the main barrel room to house the concrete casks.”
These concrete barrels were the latest thing in wine fermentation and aging. Shaped like big eggs, they were about seven feet tall and six feet in diameter at their widest point. On our last visit, Belinda had explained that concrete was ideal because it was a neutral material as well as being semiporous. This allowed for micro-oxygenation similar to a wood barrel, but without the added oaky flavor.
That made sense, even to a science-free brain like mine.
Belinda gave each of us a big squeezing hug. “It’s so good to see you. I love it when you visit. It makes your dad so happy.”
Uncle Pete came in a minute later, and there were more hugs.
After a few minutes of catching up on all the goings-on in our lives, Belinda said, “We thought we’d take a walk around the vineyards to show you our latest plantings, then we’ll have a little lunch.”
“Sounds wonderful,” I said.
While we walked, we talked about Homefront and the progress we had made over the last month. “Dad, you won’t believe how many houses we’ve been able to build in such a short time. It’s heartening to see things coming together to make it happen so quickly.”
I was determined not to mention Linda’s murder. I knew it would upset Dad, and I wanted this visit to be carefree and enjoyable for him and for all of us.
I told them about my construction class, and Chloe talked about the latest excitement on her TV show. She made Dad shed a tear when she announced that she would finally be able to move to Lighthouse Cove next month. She would still commute to Hollywood about ten days a month or so, but she would live most of the time with Eric.
I took a quick glance at Eric. He looked awfully pleased as well.
Belinda gave Chloe a big hug. “I’m so glad it’s happening at last.”
“Me, too. My schedule has been completely whacko for months, but it’s starting to calm down, and I’m going to make it happen.”
“Yay!” I said.
“With that good news,” Belinda said, “Let’s have a celebratory barrel tasting and then lunch.”
I loved barrel tastings. Every time I visited Uncle Pete, I gave thanks to the wine gods for allowing my uncle to grow grapes and make wine. And for allowing me to indulge in the rich, fruity deliciousness of Pete’s award-winning Pinot Noirs and Cabernets. And straight from the barrel with the help of a little tool they called a “wine thief,” which made it so easy.
Lunch was lovely and relaxed. Belinda and her crew filled the table with platters of caprese salad with creamy Burrata and fresh basil; a pasta salad with a Greek twist that had tomatoes, cucumbers, bell pepper, Kalamata olives, and chunks of feta; and a charcuterie board with every kind of sliced meat you could imagine, along with ramekins of fig jam, peach preserves, and honeycomb. There were tangy cornichons, dried fruits, and whole salted pecans, as well as six different kinds of cheeses, from hard Manchego to warm Brie.
Another platter held everything to make our own tacos, along with a stack of homemade tamales and mini quesadillas filled with champagne grapes and Camembert.
“Uncle Pete, you’ve outdone yourself,” Chloe said. “Everything is wonderful.”
“Huh?” he said. “Did you think I fixed all this food?”
“Then who did?” Chloe asked.
Belinda laughed. “Don’t look at me. I can barely cook cold cereal.”
“Don’t let her fool you,” Dad said fondly. “She cooks great cold cereal.”
We all laughed, then I asked, “So who puts all this together for you?”
“This spread was put together by one of Belinda’s assistants. He usually works his magic in the barrel room, but I think he was born to be a chef.”
I wouldn’t disagree. The food was amazing. And then there was dessert. Hot fudge sundaes with homemade ice cream.
“Is this Rafe’s ice cream?” I asked.
“You bet,” Belinda said. “Isn’t it the greatest?”
“I would have to agree,” Eric said.
It came as no surprise when Chloe and I both asked for second helpings. This had always been our favorite dessert, so we were in heaven. I was getting full and sleepy, and I wondered briefly how my stomach would fare on that winding, curvy ride home. But this dessert, along with the company, was totally worth it.
* * *
* * *
A while later, Dad, Belinda, and Uncle Pete walked with us to the car.
“I hope you can get into town sometime soon,” I said. “I really want you to see how much the village has grown. I feel so good about this project.”
“Me, too,” Chloe said. “Of course, Mac and Eric are the miracle workers who made all the pieces come together.”
“We had a lot of help,” Mac said.
“It’s a remarkable achievement all around,” Pete said. He nudged Eric, and the two men walked across the parking lot, talking about something.
Dad glanced at Belinda. “We can probably get away sometime next week. I’m anxious to see how much it’s changed since the last time we were there.”
“You saw it in the beginning when the first few houses were going up,” I said. “Now it’s becoming a thriving village.”
“We’ll put our heads together,” Belinda said, “pick a date, and give you a call.”
“Good.”
There were more hugs all around. Then we climbed back into Eric’s SUV and hit the road.
As we started to head west, I asked, “What did Uncle Pete want to talk about?”
“He was in town last week for a meeting at the wine bar.”
“He came into town?” I glanced at Chloe. “Did you know that?”
“He was only here for the meeting with his staff,” Eric said. “But while he was here, he heard about Linda Rutledge. He wanted to ask me what happened and whether or not Shannon was involved.”
“Why me?” I asked, hating to sound so defensive.
“Shannon, you know why,” Chloe said.
“I guess I do, but it’s not fair.”
Mac slipped his arm around my shoulder.
Eric met my gaze in the rearview mirror. “I don’t like it any more than you do. I wish I could do something to prevent it. I know it can be really painful.”
I thought of Linda again and had to suck in a breath. “This time it really hurts.”
Chloe turned around in her seat and patted my knee. “Maybe you could look at it the way Marigold sees it. As a gift.”
“How can that be a gift?” I wondered, trying to keep from whining.
“Because you not only find dead bodies,” Mac pointed out. “You also try to find justice for them.”
I blinked.
“Good point,” Eric said. “I’ll be happy if it never happens again. But if it does, I want you to know ahead of time that I admire your persistence in tracking down the people responsible for the crime.”
I stared at his eyes in the mirror. “I really appreciate you saying that, Eric.”
“But,” he added, scowling at me in the rearview mirror, “I’d appreciate it even more if you didn’t always try to face down some crazy whacked-out killer all by yourself.”
“I’d go along with that,” Mac said mildly, giving me a light squeeze.
I laid my head on his shoulder. “I’m right there with you.”
* * *
* * *
I showed up at the lighthouse at six thirty the next morning. I had called Wade the night before and asked him to meet me, and naturally, he was already there waiting for me. I joined him at the lighthouse door. “Sorry to get you up so early, but I really need to check on things.”
“No problem,” he said genially. “I’m usually up and out around this time anyway.” We both had keys to the door, so he opened it, and I stepped inside.
The cavernous structure looked the same as usual at first glance. It was an impressive sight to stare up at that circular iron staircase that ascended well over 120 feet to the lantern room.
“Looks okay so far,” Wade said. “You want to go all the way up?”
“Yeah. Sorry. I just don’t trust the people who’ve been breaking in here lately.”
We both knew who I was referring to.
“Didn’t think we’d be getting this much exercise this morning,” he said, and swept his arm upward. “After you.”
I took the first step. “Here goes.”
We climbed twenty steps up to the chained-off landing where the circular iron steps began. We both slipped under the chain.
“It’s not like we put up any great barriers to get in here,” he murmured.
“Just a dozen warning signs and a locked door,” I said cynically. “Who would pay attention to those?”
“Apparently, not these people.”
The iron staircase was steep and narrow, and as I moved up, I used my flashlight to make some quick checks of the spots where I knew there was some weakness. Despite that, the staircase was still remarkably strong after so many years.
There were several landings with space enough to accommodate two or three visitors who wanted to take a quick break from the staircase and look at the view from the window. Beneath each window was an old wooden bench for anyone who needed to rest. I checked to make sure that the wood hadn’t been damaged or destroyed, then continued up to the next landing.
At the top, the wooden door that led out to the catwalk was damaged. Someone had jammed the lock and jabbed at the old splintered wood until it gave way.
I shook my head, almost speechless. “This makes me so angry. What gives them the right to destroy things?”
“They feel entitled,” Wade said. “Probably think that because they paid money to attend the retreat, it gives them the right to do whatever they want.”
“Yeah. That’s kind of sick.”
“It sure is.” He swung the door open to check the damage. “We were going to have to replace this door anyway.”
“I know, but that’s no excuse,” I said. “Let’s check the lens room. If they damaged the lantern room or the Fresnel lens in any way, I’ll have them arrested.”
* * *
* * *
I arrived at the community center thirty minutes later and quickly began to set up everything for us to start hanging drywall. I had changed our start time to nine o’clock, and since the memorial service for Linda would take place at eleven o’clock, I was determined to get at least a good hour of work done before we had to leave.
Wade and I hadn’t found any damage to the lens or lantern room. In fact, it didn’t look like anyone had been in there since he and I did our last walk-through.
We decided that the writers must’ve stopped at the catwalk and simply hung out there, enjoying the view. If so, it was a good decision on their part, because I’d been deadly serious about trying to have them thrown in jail if they’d gone any farther.
Just thinking about it made my muscles tighten, and I had to force myself to shake it off and get back to the work of finishing this partition wall.
The first thing I did was nail a three-foot-long two-by-four to the middle of the frame. I made sure it was perfectly level, because I planned to use it to steady and level the large sheets of drywall before sliding them up to the ceiling and screwing them down. Later, I would remove the two-by-four from this side of the wall and nail it to the other side.
As with so many handy tricks, I had learned this one from my father. It was especially helpful when I was the only one hanging drywall. But even with another helper around, it still made the work easier.
I laid out all of the tools we would need for the job. I checked my power drill to make sure I had the right drill bit.
A lot of people nailed their drywall sheets, but I had always used screws. I’d seen too many nails pop up after a while and it wasn’t pretty. Basically, it ruined the look of the finished wall. Screws tended to stay put.
