It took several minutes before the color returned to April’s cheeks enough to ease my fear that she wasn’t about to pass out, despite her reassurances that she was okay.
She ran her fingers through her hair. “I’m just tired. I haven’t slept, and I guess everything’s just catching up with me.”
It seemed logical. I was rather tired myself, but I still needed to figure out a recipe, and I had a date.
“Plus, I got a call from Clayton’s personal assistant. He wants to discuss funeral arrangements.”
“I don’t want to sound rude, but isn’t there someone else? I mean, you haven’t seen him in eight years. Surely, he made other arrangements.”
“I don’t know. He didn’t have any close family.” She heaved a sigh and hoisted herself up. “He’s dead. Helping to get him buried is the least I can do.”
Outside, we made plans to meet and discuss everything the next day. Before we parted, April leaned close. “Did you know Leroy’s mother was British?”
“No idea. I wonder if he is too.”
“You think you know someone and then . . . you learn something new about them.”
“I wonder if his father’s British.”
“I don’t think he grew up with his dad around. At least he always talks about it being just him and his mom.”
We said our goodbyes, and I elicited her promise to call if she needed anything.
For a few seconds, I wondered if I should follow her, just to make sure she made it home safely. Was that too much? I trusted her. It’s not like she’d been drinking. By the time I made up my mind, April had pulled out of the parking lot and was halfway down the street.
One glance at my watch told me that I didn’t have much time and better get back. I had a chocolate cake and four dozen thumbprint cookies to make for Trooper Bob’s daughter’s party.
* * *
I never baked before moving to New Bison, but since coming here and finding Aunt Octavia’s recipes, I found it enjoyable. Mixing flour, sugar, eggs, and butter together and getting something yummy was somehow comforting. It was magical. Almost all of those ingredients tasted horrible if you ate them one by one. Even the dark baking chocolate and cocoa were bitter. However, mix them together and heat, and something truly amazing happened. Every time I pulled a cake from the oven, I was awed. I created that. Today was no different. The kitchen smelled chocolatey and sweet. If Baby were here, he’d be licking his lips, barely able to contain himself while saliva dripped from the corners of his mouth.
Thinking about Baby put a smile on my face. I had no idea how that dog stole my heart after only a few months. My smile was short-lived. My big boy was sick . . . lovesick. People didn’t die from a broken heart in real life, but losing someone you cared about changed you. From everything I’d heard, my dad had once been a happy, carefree, extremely funny man when he met my mom. After she died, something inside him died too. I thought of the super serious career-military man who barely cracked a smile. Laughing was completely out of the question. When was the last time I’d actually heard the Admiral laugh? I racked my brain but couldn’t remember ever hearing him just let loose with a good belly laugh. That settled things. I can’t let that happen to Baby.
I put the cakes on a baking rack to cool, wiped my hands, and searched through my recent calls for the number for Daisy’s owner. It didn’t take long to get to a number I didn’t recognize as a friend.
I pushed Call before I could think myself out of it.
“Hello.”
“Hello, is this Mrs. Castleton? Sybil Castleton?”
“Speaking.”
Her voice sounded cold, but I ignored it. After all, this was for Baby. “Mrs. Castleton, this is Madison Montgomery, Baby’s owner.”
“Yes. Madison, dear, how are you? And how’s that great big hunk of a mastiff, Baby?”
Her voice suddenly oozed sugary sweet and phony. I rolled my eyes. Don’t call me dear. “Baby’s been rather sad. He really liked Daisy.”
“I just knew those two would hit it off. The moment I saw him, I just knew he was the ideal candidate to sire Daisy’s litter.”
I took a deep breath and gritted my teeth. “I’m sure you’re right. When did you say Daisy’s next heat cycle was?”
“Oh . . . I don’t really know. Let me see, sweetie.”
Red flag number 412. I may not have been involved with dogs and breeding long, but every breeder who had females knew exactly when they went into heat. “Do you remember when she was in heat last?” And don’t call me sweetie.
“Umm . . . well, no. I don’t really handle that.”
Red flag number 413. How do you not handle that? Okay, maybe I am being too critical because I don’t like her. Maybe she has someone who manages those things. “Okaaay, is there someone else I should talk to?”
“Umm . . . well, there was . . . but . . . he’s not . . . I mean, I just don’t know. Maybe I should call you back. Yeah, I think that would be best. I’ll get in touch with . . . with my . . . hmm—”
“Breeder?”
“Yes. That’s the word I was looking for. I’ll get in touch with my breeder and call you back real soon, sweetie.”
If she calls me sweetie one more time I’m going to . . . I unclenched my jaw. “Great. Do you need my phone number?” Or my name, so you can use it rather than these stupid terms of endearment that mean absolutely nothing.
“No, I have everything I need. Thanks for calling, dear.”
I hung up and took several deep breaths to loosen the furl of my brow. It’s all for Baby. I’m doing this for Baby. I rubbed my temples and tried to shake it off. The Sybil Castleton I spoke to was different than the one I’d talked to earlier. She sounded vague and confused. I certainly don’t remember her using all of those “sweeties” and “dears” before.
I got a text from Michael. He was finishing up at the clinic, and he and Baby would be here shortly.
Yikes. Where had the time gone. I pulled off my apron and hurried upstairs to get ready.
I hopped in the shower and washed off the rest of the chocolate cake and frosting.
I went simple—in a form-fitting, pastel-striped jersey dress by Sergio Hudson, with gold sandals—so I could focus on my hair and makeup. By the time I was finished, I had a look that would work regardless of where we went in New Bison. In the three months that I’d been in New Bison and dating Michael Portman, I’d learned to be flexible in my attire. This outfit would be appropriate for walking on the beach, sitting at a burger joint, or eating coq au vin at La Petite Maison, the only French restaurant in New Bison. Michael appreciated good food, but he wasn’t fussy. Regardless, he would appreciate the way the dress hugged my curves, and I would enjoy being with him.
I heard him and Baby in the kitchen and yelled, “Don’t touch that cake. It’s for a customer.”
When I entered the kitchen, he was poised above the cake with a huge knife.
“Stop!”
He turned around and hid the knife behind his back. “I didn’t touch it.”
“I have to take that to a customer tomorrow. Please tell me you didn’t cut it.”
He ogled me. “You look amazing.”
“Don’t change the subject.” I crossed my arms and waited. “Back away from the cake.”
He stepped to the side and grinned.
I examined the cake and couldn’t see any damage.
“I was just going to take a small sliver. You could stitch it together and your customer would never be the wiser.”
“Dr. Portman, you may be able to stitch up a cat or dog after surgery, but you can’t stitch a cake back together, no matter how small of a sliver you take out.”
“Never mind the cake. I think I’ve found something else I’d like to nibble.” He pulled me close and spent a few passionate moments heating up the kitchen. “Are you sure you want to go out tonight? Maybe we should stay in.”
I chuckled and pulled away. “Oh no you don’t. I’m starving.”
Baby sniffed his food dish and then walked over to his dog bed and climbed in.
“How is he?” I asked. “Did you run the blood work?”
“Everything came out fine.” He spoke about red and white blood cell counts, platelets, and a lot of other medical mumbo jumbo.
“I have no idea what any of that means,” I said when he stopped to take a breath.
“It means he’s perfectly healthy.”
“Then what’s wrong with him?”
“Nothing as far as I can tell. He’s perfect. He’s healthy. Of course, you’re welcome to get a second opinion. I could recommend—”
I took his face in my hands and gazed into his eyes. “I don’t need a second opinion. I trust you.”
He nodded, and his shoulders relaxed. “I know you’re just concerned about Baby, but he’s fine . . . physically.”
I took a deep breath and glanced at Baby. “Physically? What are you saying?”
“I’m saying there’s nothing physically wrong with him. So, maybe his problem isn’t physical. Maybe it’s emotional. Maybe he’s depressed.” He glanced at Baby. “I researched his symptoms, and I even called my C.O. He said dogs can exhibit behavior consistent with depression in humans.”
“You called your commanding officer? From the Army?”
“Yeah. I was an animal care specialist. My C.O. knew more about animals than anyone I’ve known either before or since.”
“Did he have any recommendations?”
“Antidepressants.”
I frowned. “I don’t like the idea of pills. Surely, there’s something else?”
“Diet. Exercise. The usual.” He shrugged. “I’ll keep looking. I promise. I care about Baby too.”
“I know you do. Let’s go eat, and we can talk about it.”
I led Baby up to my bedroom. He climbed in bed, and I turned the television to his favorite show, a British sitcom, Absolutely Fabulous, or Ab Fab.
One of the things I found most surprising about this area in Southwest Michigan was the number of wineries. Neither Michael nor I were wine connoisseurs, but I was new to the area, and he was helping me get acquainted with it by showing me all of its attractions. The Spring Festival was taking advantage of the wineries by having a wine tasting and competition. The location rotated each year. This year, New Bison Vineyard was hosting the event. It was a working vineyard with a restaurant. Tonight, we headed to dinner at the restaurant. After dinner, we could explore the tents and sample the local wines.
* * *
New Bison Vineyard and Restaurant was a fully functioning winery surrounded by acres of grapevines tied in rows. Spring was too early for fruit, but the canes were pruned and tied to supports in preparation for the growing season. There was a massive tent and signs directing the Spring Festival attendees to a gravel lot down the road, where they could park and take a shuttle back to the vineyard. We had reservations at the restaurant and ignored the signs.
A barricade across the narrow dirt driveway stopped everyone who attempted to enter the winery. The young freckle-faced New Bison policeman who always reminded me of Opie from The Andy Griffith Show approached the car with a clipboard.
He smiled when he recognized me. “Hi there, Miss Montgomery. You folks eating dinner?”
Michael assured him we had reservations. He confirmed that our names were indeed on the list before removing the barricade and permitting us to pass through.
“Did you have to undergo a background check to get to park near the building?” I said.
He laughed. “Nope, but I know people.”
“Really? What did you have to promise them?”
“Me? Nothing. But I might need a few dozen thumbprint cookies.”
“Done.” I smiled. “Who knew cookies could be used as currency in these parts?”
A large red farmhouse sat near the back of the property. We pulled into a parking space and inhaled the earthy scent. The view of the lush green fields, with row after row of vines, and the red farmhouse, was picturesque. I stopped, pulled out my phone, and snapped a photo before making our way inside. #NewBisonVineyard #WineFoodAndFun #OneLucky-Girl
The lobby featured a large bar arranged for wine tasting and purchases. We turned toward the right and gave the hostess our names. She crossed us off the list, grabbed two menus, and led us to a table near the window where we could look out onto the fields.
The dining room was small, with only enough space for twenty tables. All twenty were occupied. Several of the guests recognized Michael and waved. I must have frowned.
“Does it bother you?” Michael said. “Living in a small town?”
I shook my head. “I miss having access to more shops and restaurants, but I kind of like it here. It reminds me of being on a military base.”
“How? There are thousands of people on a military base.”
“True, but there’s only one Admiral Montgomery. So, even though I didn’t know all of the sailors, they all knew me . . . or at least they knew my dad.”
“I can’t wait to meet Admiral Montgomery.”
“Are you kidding? You’re joking, right?”
“No. I want to meet the man who raised you. Don’t you think he’d approve? What’s not to like?”
I thought for a few minutes. “He’ll like that you’re a veteran, although he won’t be impressed by the fact that you’re Army instead of Navy. He’ll like that you’re stable and have a good job.”
“Well, that’s something. Will I need to salute when we meet?”
“Only if you want to earn brownie points. He likes that sort of thing.”
“I was joking. Geez! I mean, did he like your ex . . . Elliott?”
“Not really. He thought Elliott had a weak handshake, soft hands, and he hated that he had highlights in his hair.” I stared at him. “Does it matter what he thinks?”
“Yes. I want your father to like me.”
“Why? As long as I like you, that’s all that matters.”
He leaned across the table and kissed me. “Then, I’m glad you like me.”
The waiter came and brought bread and water. He gave us the daily specials and waited for our orders. I couldn’t make up my mind between the braised short ribs and the rainbow trout. So, Michael ordered one, and I ordered the other. That was one of the things I loved about him. He didn’t mind that I had trouble making decisions. He used it to his advantage.
Orders placed, I glanced around the room. “Is that Mayor Abernathy over there having dinner with Marjorie Rivers?”
He followed my gaze. “Looks like it. Seems odd for the previous mayor’s ex-wife and the current mayor to be dining together, doesn’t it?”
“Technically, she’s not his ex-wife. She’s his . . . widow?”
“Don’t look now, but Chris Russell’s here with Candy Hurston at nine o’clock.”
I took a sip of water and glanced to my left. “This could get pretty ugly if they get into a fight here in the restaurant. Why do you suppose they’re all here?”
“The wine tasting is a big event. Folks come from all over to see which wine is crowned Best of the Region. For people who are into wines, the judges are well-known. Besides, for a town this size, the Spring Festival’s a big deal. Pretty much everyone will be here. There’s not much else to do.”
“Leroy even convinced April to come to the tasting. She needs to get out of the house.”
“Like I said, everyone comes to the festival, even if they don’t drink.” He reached inside his jacket and pulled out one of the brochures that had been passed around the city like lollipops for weeks.
I hadn’t paid much attention to anything other than the baking contest. I took the brochure he handed me and looked at the section on wines. The names were foreign to me, but I recognized the impressive-looking medals that the judges wore draped around their necks. Apparently, winning here at the Spring Festival would qualify you to advance to the next level of judging for a more prominent award and so on.
“I had no idea the festival and the wine competition were such big events. No wonder Mayor Abernathy was so concerned about the Spring Festival being successful.” I told Michael about my day and all of the information I’d discovered.
“Let me get this straight. Clayton Davenport and the mayor had an argument. You think Davenport was blackmailing Mayor Abernathy? But why? Clayton Davenport was rich. He didn’t need money, and Jackson Abernathy certainly doesn’t have any. Well, not compared to Davenport.”
“I don’t think Davenport was blackmailing Abernathy for money. I think there was something else that he wanted.”
“What?”
“I don’t know, but when we figure out what it was, then we should be able to figure out who murdered Davenport.”
