Page 74 of Christmas Mittens Murder

“She does.” Narini’s cheeks turned pink. “She’s a visionary, Cece. She knows what’s going to help the environment and therefore all of us.” She glanced down at her belly. “And our future.”

I now saw a bulge I hadn’t noticed before. Narini was pregnant. Maybe halfway along, with at least a few months to go before she gave birth, maybe more. Allie thought she and Thea were a couple. Married? Maybe. And about to be parents, likely thanks to a sperm donor.

What the olive grower wasn’t was suspicious of me. But if she loved Thea and thought Val was threatening her and thereby their family’s future, Narini could have used those strong arms and hands to remove the threat.

Chapter Ten

Despite striking out, information-wise, downtown, my plan all along had been to end up at the historical complex to see if I might learn anything from the location. I planned to try to talk to a few folks and maybe grab a glass of wine at Vino y Vida, too, if it was even open.

Zoe and I had toured the museum one of the first times we’d come to visit, but she’d been little, and it was so long ago I didn’t remember much about it. I supposed Greg must have been with us at first, too. The wine bar and the shops were much newer, and I’d never shopped in them. When I’d visited Colinas more recently, it had been all about connecting the three cousins and hanging out with my twin and her husband. I hadn’t done any touristing or wine bar hopping, either.

The Colinas History Museum looked normal from this end, except for a sign on the door reading, “Closed due to circumstances beyond our control. Open Saturday usual hours.” Murder was the definition of being beyond one’s control—except for the killer’s. I wondered if Otto ran the museum and worked in it in addition to his tasks as the complex manager, or if someone else was in charge of the displays. Either way, I didn’t blame whoever it was for closing up for the day.

As I rounded the building to the small cluster of businesses stretching along the Russian River, I slowed my step. Beyond the wine bar and to the left, overlooking the water, was a long rectangular bocce court filled with sand. I’d seen two couples playing on Wednesday but hadn’t paid it much attention. Yellow police tape now stretched in a five-foot perimeter all the way around the court. Yellow cones with diagonal black stripes warned people away from approaching the area.

I took several more steps. A young woman in the khaki shirt and dark olive pants of the county sheriff’s department moved toward me.

“No farther than the door of the wine bar, please, ma’am.” Her hair was pulled back in a long braid hanging down her back. She kept one hand on her heavy service belt, and she held her other arm loose but ready at her side. I would have known she was a cop even without the uniform.

“Are the bookstore and the art gallery closed?” I asked.

“Yes, ma’am, for the time being.”

“Too bad. I’d planned to Christmas shop in both places.” I smiled and tried to step around her, to see what she’d do. She moved in the same direction.

“We expect they’ll be allowed to reopen by tomorrow, if not sooner.” The officer was an imperturbable Buddhist boulder blocking the way.

I lowered my voice to a low confidential tone. “So, what happened here?”

“You have a good day, ma’am.” She stood her ground.

I pivoted toward the wine bar and barely refrained from saluting. I shook my head. This sleuthing business was giving me an irreverent attitude that wasn’t a bit like me.

Chapter Eleven

The inside of Vino y Vida was empty except for a remarkable woman who stood behind the bar, except “stood” wasn’t the right word. She moved her hips to a catchy song that sounded African playing loud on the speakers. Statuesque in height and build, she’d wound a gray braid around her head, a braid festooned with purple ribbon. A purple-and-green cotton tunic would be nearly knee-length on anyone else. On her it barely grazed her thighs. A dozen bangles adorned each wrist.

“Welcome,” she called. “Come on in. We’re open, except nobody knows it.” She reached over and turned down the music.

“Thanks.” I approached the bar and slid onto a stool. “What are you pouring today?”

“Anything and everything. What do you have a taste for?”

“Mmm. I haven’t eaten lunch yet. Maybe light and bubbly?” The pain au chocolat didn’t count as lunch, not in my book.

“I have a local vinho verde. It’s light and, while not bubbly exactly, it’s sparkly.”

“I’d love to try it. I had a Portuguese friend when I lived in Japan, of all places, and he introduced me to vinho verde.” The name meant “green wine,” which didn’t sound appetizing, but it was delicious.

She set a full stemmed glass in front of me, then splashed more wine into a glass below the countertop. Up close I could see the lines in her tanned face. I thought she must be close to seventy years old, and I was delighted she wore what she wished and moved how it felt good to her—the heck with what anyone thought. I approved.

She lifted a straight-sided juice glass full of the pale wine and said, “Saúde.”

I returned the cheers and took a sip. “My name is Cece Barton.”

“I’m Mooncat.”

A unique name.

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