Authors: Christine DeSmet
* * *
We sailed over the Sturgeon Bay Canal Bridge, sliding through a red light without anybody stopping me.
In another fifteen minutes we’d turned off Highway 57 and were traveling down the narrow, blacktopped country lane belonging to the Prevost Winery and vineyards. Because it was north of where my market sat, we didn’t see the burned area yet.
I didn’t see Grandpa’s SUV in the parking lot. With relief, I assumed he’d probably gone to Ava’s Autumn Harvest after all. But I felt compelled to warn Mike. I got out.
A bright red Mustang convertible with its top down sat near the sidewalk. I groaned. I was sure it was Fontana’s car.
Lucky Harbor raced off.
Dillon said, “Don’t worry. I’ll get him. He always circles buildings looking for animals to flush.”
I shivered. The last time Lucky Harbor circled a building lickety-split, it had been the Eagle Bluff Lighthouse outside Fishers’ Harbor where he’d discovered my grandpa’s friend Lloyd Mueller dead. Lloyd had been pushed off the tower. Later, Lucky Harbor showed up to help save me from the killer.
Shaking off the memory, I focused on finding Michael Prevost. In addition to the attractive, two-story stone building, there was an old farmhouse Mike had fixed up with tan vinyl siding. Behind it was a white barn used for a machine shed. Around us, the rolling hills were striped with rows of grapevines, many with leaves starting to turn autumn colors. On a far slope several workers picked grapes. I also saw Jonas Coppens’s sheep grazing in a couple of rows to feast on weeds and old grape leaves.
Inside the winery, to my surprise, Fontana Dahlgren stood behind the cash register ringing up a customer. I sniffed the air; it had the taint from Fontana’s distinctive homemade, spicy perfume that reminded me of hot, mulled cider boiled with lilies perhaps, or lavender.
Once the customer had moved on, I said, “Did you close your roadside market?”
“No. I put out a sign for people to come here today. Mike’s letting me sell my products here.”
“Is Mike around?”
“Not at the moment. He left me in charge.”
She fluffed her red hair, which I begrudgingly had to admit was gorgeous. Her face was flawless, too. A dress in autumn gold fit just right.
Fontana looked me up and down. I was wearing a white T-shirt and denim shorts and still had on my heavy work shoes with the steel toes. My ponytail was half undone because of the wild ride in the truck with the wind whipping in the windows.
Fontana reached behind the counter, then handed me a small lavender-colored bag. “Free samples. Nail file. New goat milk soap I made yesterday. It’ll help take some of the red out of your complexion.”
Ignoring her jab, I accepted the bag and looked inside, then coughed from the pungent aromas of those lilies and maybe pickling spice. “Made from Jonas’s goats?”
She nodded.
“My dad caught you trying to break into Jonas’s roadside chapel the other day.”
Her freckles faded. “I was thinking Adele’s fudge recipe was hidden in there.”
“Nice comeback, but that chapel isn’t that old.”
“The recipe can be anywhere. Maybe it was stolen from that church long ago and hidden somewhere else.”
“Pardon me while I call Michael.” I took out my phone.
“He said he had an errand to do in his back forty somewhere. He went off in his truck.”
I put my phone away, but I wondered what else she could tell me. “So, you two are an item?”
She flipped her red hair off her shoulders. “He cares about me.”
“No, you care about him helping you escape the blame for Cherry’s death. A whole busload of people saw you arguing with Cherry the day he died.”
Her gasp told me a lot. “Keep your voice down. I already gave my story to the sheriff.”
Leaning over the counter, I asked, “Did you have anything to do with Cherry’s death?”
Her gaze flickered about, but I couldn’t tell if the action was from guilt or pure embarrassment. “What is wrong with you?” she hissed. “I’m scared to go into any church, and I’m certainly not going to go
down
into a church basement. That direction is Hell.” She pointed down to the floor. “There’s fire down there.”
“It’s interesting that you would mention a fire. Did you set the fire next to my market?”
One of her hands covered her gasp this time. “I just gave you a gift and you treat me this way?”
“Did Mike kill Cherry? You were with Cherry. You had to be there.” She blinked hard while I continued. “Did you have a tryst at the schoolhouse, then drive off? You drove Mike’s car, and he drove off in Cherry’s. Right? I suppose Mike is off in the back forty hiding Cherry’s car?”
As I said the words, a realization that felt like a bucket of ice being tossed down my back startled me. “Did you kill Cherry in his car? Is that why the car had to disappear? There’s blood in it? Who helped you? Who dragged the body into the church and put it in the basement?”
With her hands shaking, Fontana fumbled for her cell phone from a designer purse sitting behind the counter. “I’m calling the sheriff.”
“Go ahead. He enjoys talking with me.”
I walked out of the winery on rubbery legs, incensed and still carrying the obnoxious lavender bag in one hand. My conscience scolded me to remember Dillon’s words about my obsession with the case. But I felt certain Fontana was hiding something. She was neglecting her own roadside market and cozying up to Mike for some reason.
I had little time to think it over, though, because in the parking lot Dillon was smack dab in the middle of an argument between Michael Prevost and my grandfather. My grandpa was pointing dangerously into the air with his Buck knife.
Chapter 18
G
randpa had the knife in one hand while the six-pack loaded with fudge dangled off the other hand. He was railing at Mike about the way he’d treated my grandmother.
Dillon had both arms out, trying to motion them to back off.
Grandpa hollered at Mike, “You bastard. Taking advantage of a good woman like that.”
Mike’s face wrinkled in red rage. “She willingly took every drink I gave her. Sophie is a lush.”
Grandpa lunged around Dillon and almost caught Mike’s arm with the dangerous Buck knife.
I filched in the lavender bag and within a blink was spraying Fontana’s awful spicy perfume at everybody as if it were pepper spray.
Lucky Harbor started barking at our feet, making us jump.
Grandpa halted to sneeze three times. He lowered the knife, replaced it in its sheath, then handed the knife and the fudge to Mike.
Mike said, “What the hell is this for?”
Grandpa sneezed again. “It’s a gift. That’s my old knife. I always give my enemies a gift. To butter them up. And to forgive them for being assholes.”
Dillon smirked.
I wasn’t sure what to say or do. Grandpa was not himself.
Amid batting at the perfume in the air, Mike handed the
knife back. “Thanks, but you keep the knife. I’ll keep the fudge, gladly. You know your granddaughter was always good in my classes. Ava, sorry about everything with your grandmother.”
Grandpa waggled a finger at Mike. “You’re covering up something, Mike. Why was my wife drinking too much?”
“Sophie asked me for advice about going to Chicago.”
I asked, “Why?”
“I mentioned I was going to Chicago soon to visit wine stores. Your grandmother said she wanted to look into some family ghost.”
Grandpa harrumphed. “You’re making this up. You got her drunk and then she started seeing things.”
Mike said, “No. She talked about the ghosts first, then started slamming wine.” Grandpa stalked away to his SUV, then drove off.
Lucky Harbor sneezed, then raced around the corner of the stone winery building again. He stopped to peer back at me, then disappeared. I refused to think lightning could strike twice. The dog must have found a cat or woodchuck that interested him.
Mike was about to walk away, and I tried to hold back my questions, I really did, because Dillon was standing there, but I was bursting. “Wait. Mike, did you or Fontana set the fire? Did you have anything to do with Cherry’s death?”
Dillon groaned.
Mike took a moment, creating suspicion in my mind. “No. I . . . I just don’t want Fontana taking the fall for it. She’s . . . fragile.”
Dillon said, “Listen, what you do in your spare time isn’t my business, but she was with Cherry last Saturday night.”
I said to Mike, “And you were out in your car and hit John and my manager from behind. Maybe you hit one of them on the head from behind in the church later.”
Mike blinked. “Your manager?”
“The Hollywood kind of manager. They drove on instead of confronting you because my manager is from a place where gang members might be in the car behind you. You don’t mess with people.”
“Unlike your grandfather.” Mike held up the six-pack of fudge.
Dillon asked, “So, Mike, what gives? Did you follow them? Why were you headed in that direction, the opposite way from your property?”
I asked, “Did you go to the church in Namur that night?”
“Stop, both of you.” He clutched the fudge to his chest. “I didn’t go to Saint Mary of the Snows. I went to see Jonas that night.”
“That late?”
“It’s not like we’re old people. Heck, it wasn’t even past midnight at that time. I thought maybe Jonas and I could find a compromise about the chemicals. I should have brought him your fudge.”
I ignored his limp smile. “So you talked?”
“We didn’t talk. There was somebody else at his house.”
“Who?”
Sweat popped onto his forehead again. “A woman. I saw her through the window.”
“Jonas didn’t see your lights as you came in the driveway?”
“Well, my one headlight was out. I shut off my lights as I coasted closer because I was curious. I could tell there was a woman in the living room with him.”
“Who?” I asked.
“I already told the sheriff.”
Dillon said, “Tell us.”
Mike’s face grew redder. “Kjersta Dahlgren was there. Jonas was kissing her.”
* * *
Dillon whistled for Lucky Harbor. The dog came but kept flicking his head toward the corner of the winery. Mike lingered at his doorway, watching us. I wondered if he was concerned we might go behind the winery for a look at what was attracting the dog.
When I mentioned Lucky Harbor’s behavior to Dillon as we drove away from the winery, he lifted up the lavender bag sitting on the console between us. “Probably someone shot down by this perfume. It put a stop to the fight in everybody, including me, in an instant.”
“Fontana doesn’t know what she’s doing. She’s like my contest chef Kelsey King this past summer trying to make fudge with fungi. Dangerous.”
Dillon said, “What’s dangerous is your grandmother drinking so much. Does she believe in ghosts?”
“She believes in guardian angels and the Holy Spirit. She’s a staunch Catholic. She believes Sister Adele Brise really did see the Blessed Virgin in the woods near here.”
“Where was that exactly?”
“Southwest of here along the bay.”
“Has she mentioned going to Chicago before? To find this ghost in your family?”
“Never. This is very strange of her, Dillon.”
“I wonder why Chicago. Any connection to Sister Adele?”
“Not that I know of. A good question, though.”
“I’m learning from the best. What or who is in Chicago that would tell her about ghosts?”
“I haven’t a clue.”
On the way to Ava’s Autumn Harvest, we stopped alongside Highway 57 as soon as we saw the scorched grass. Grandpa was right. It looked as if a small bomb had been dropped. We got out of the truck for a closer look. Lucky Harbor immediately set to work with his nose, snuffling and sneezing. Fencing wire had been cut in one area to let the fire pumper trucks through to douse the fire before it reached nearby cedars and maples or spread farther into the Dahlgren orchard.
Oddly enough, I smelled Fontana’s perfume intermingled with the lingering taint from the grass fire. “I’m going to have to shower. We smell awful.”
Dillon said, “Lucky Harbor, too.”
The dog was rolling around in a patch of blackened grass. Before I let him in the backseat, I spread an old towel across it.
We drove around the corner onto Highway C. I parked in the grass next to the stone barn. This side had been untouched by the fire.
My mother looked worried as she came out of the stone barn. She had a broom in her hand. As I drew within a couple of yards of her, she puckered up. “What’s that smell?”
“Fontana’s perfume.” I held up the lavender bag. “Want some?”
“Sure. I’ll spray it around the porch at home to keep the skunks from nesting under there.”
She took the bag from me and I grabbed her broom. “Mom, you go home. I think Grandpa’s at the farm showering. He was fighting the fire and got mixed up in that perfume, too.”
Florine gave Dillon her evil-eye look. “You’ll keep watch over my daughter? And keep your hands in your pockets and not on her?”
I burst out laughing.
She gave in to a smile herself, then headed toward her Holstein-motif minivan.
I said to Dillon, “She’s getting used to you.”
“Not quite a vote of confidence yet, but that was progress.”
There weren’t any customers. The scorched ground was probably scaring them off. I locked up.
I wandered over to the Dahlgrens’ large garden, a field really, behind the house. Pumpkins needed picking. Some plump, ripe tomatoes were on the verge of rotting on the ground. I was sure several restaurants could use them. The garden shed had yellow tape across its doors, though, indicating I couldn’t get access to the tools. Or shouldn’t, anyway.
“Why don’t we get the word out to friends and neighbors that we’re going to pick this garden for Kjersta and Daniel? Let’s try for tomorrow night. Wednesdays are always quiet.” Thursdays were when the tourists started threading into the county for their long weekends.
“Sounds good.”
Dillon turned to go back to the truck, but I headed to the house.
Dillon caught up with me, grabbing an arm. “Oh no you don’t. You’re addicted to yellow crime scene tape. You have to stop this.” But he let go of me.