Page 75 of Christmas Mittens Murder

“And you can’t tell the boss I’m having a nip of wine,” she added before I could ask about her name.

“Who’s the boss?” Here I went again, faking innocence. Too late now.

“I meant it literally, Cece.” Her expression grew somber, and her eyes dragged at the corners. “You can’t tell her, because she’s dead.”

I gave a slow nod. “Is she the woman who was murdered a couple of days ago?”

“She is. Valencia Harper. Did you ever hear a prettier first name?”

“It’s beautiful,” I said.

“How did you know Val was the victim?” Mooncat sniffed and swiped at a tear.

At least one person was grieving for Val.

“They haven’t released her name yet,” she added.

“I was in here for a glass Wednesday afternoon and met her. My sister read the news on a local action page.”

“It’s such a loss.”

“I’m sorry, Mooncat. Were you good friends with her?”

“Not really. She and I weren’t close, per se, but she was a fair boss, and anyway, nobody deserves to be murdered.”

“True.” I thought of the police tape a few yards away. “Was Val killed here in the complex?”

“Yes.” She set her elbows on the bar and leaned toward me. “On the bocce court,” she whispered.

“After she closed up here that night?”

“It must have been. What’s worse, Cece, is they used one of her own handicrafts.” Mooncat’s eyes looked haunted. “She was cracked over the head with a bocce ball inside a handmade freakin’ mitten and then left to die.” She shuddered and pulled a pair of black mittens up from under the counter, as Val had done only two days earlier.

“How horrible,” I said. The image of a person swinging one of those stretchy mittens holding a two-pound weight over their head and onto Val’s skull was worth a shudder. “Poor Val.”

“Can you believe it?”

“She tried to sell me her mittens. They’re certainly stretchy enough to fit a bocce ball inside.” And the long cuff would be easy to grip.

Mooncat gave a slow nod as she replaced the pair out of sight.

I made a flash decision. “Val had argued with my twin sister. The county sheriff’s detective thinks Allie might have killed her, which is more ludicrous than snow falling on the Santa Monica pier. You worked for Val. Can you think of anyone who hated her, who might have needed her out of their lives?”

“You’re asking if I know who Val’s enemies were?”

“Yes.” I might sit through a rehash of Rafael, Otto, or Thea. With any luck she’d know of a person I hadn’t heard of yet.

“Other than her ex-husband, I assume?”

“I’ve heard about Otto. I actually met him this morning.”

“She has a baby brother she adored, but he holds a grudge against her, or maybe it was the other way around. And I saw a spat between Val and her next-in-command at the garden club, Thea Robinet.” Mooncat swiped at the counter. She straightened a couple of open wine bottles. She took a sip from her juice glass.

I waited.

“Also, an olive farmer in the valley has butted heads with Val more than once,” she murmured. “I’m not clear on why. Narini was in here with Thea that time. She was irate and all up in Val’s business.”

“What’s Narini’s last name?” In Gourmet Provisions, Narini had been arranging Raj Orchards bottles, but maybe she had a different surname. I didn’t know if it was her farm or her family’s, or if she only worked there.

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