Page 73 of Christmas Mittens Murder

It was time to see if I could discover how Val was killed, with what, where, and at what time. Our parents had played Clue with Allie and me when we were young. Funny how a motive was never discussed in the game and all the crimes featured the same suspect pool. I wasn’t going to be able to rely on one of the six old standbys, though I’d always chosen Professor Plum as my alter ego. Allie wanted to be Miss Scarlett, which was totally in character.

I searched for “Colinas homicide.” Odd. There had been a few murders over the decades, but Val’s wasn’t top and center. It wasn’t in the list at all.

I added “Valencia Torres Harper.” Still zip. Perhaps the news wasn’t public yet, but that seemed unlikely. I tried “Murder Colinas Historical Complex.” That was the key. I leaned in and read.

Longtime Colinas resident found dead outside the Vino y Vida wine bar by a passerby walking a dog early Thursday morning. Foul play is suspected. Authorities are withholding the identity of the victim pending notification of next of kin. Any witnesses to an altercation or suspicious movements in the vicinity on Wednesday night or in the early hours of Thursday morning are urged to contact the Sonoma County Sheriff at the following number.

It gave the number and continued for another paragraph.

“Colinas residents should exercise all due caution, but we have every confidence in our Sonoma County law enforcement officers to swiftly apprehend the criminal,” said Colinas mayor Malia Guttierez. “Our thoughts and prayers are with the victim’s family.”

I sat back. The fact that Rafael was Val’s brother seemed common knowledge. Apparently the police hadn’t been able to locate him, or maybe he wasn’t ready to have the news made public yet. It could be that he was on leave from the high school. Or maybe Val had other kin the police wanted to inform, relatives from whom she wasn’t estranged.

On second reading, I confirmed the article didn’t specify how Val died.

I closed the computer. I always needed more steps in my day. It was time for me to get moving.

Chapter Nine

After I pulled open the door to Valley Savings and Loan, I stood there. The bank was housed in a century-old stone building that had originally been a general store. Tellers still worked behind plexiglass barriers to protect them from unmasked customers spewing virus particles. In their green shirts, they were busy taking deposits, cashing checks, and carrying out all the other business of a trusted local bank. A green-blazered bank officer in a glass-walled office bent over paperwork with two women.

I turned and made my way back out. I didn’t know how to do this detective thing in person. I couldn’t imagine confronting a teller and asking them if they knew who killed Val Harper. It wasn’t the right question, but I had no idea what the right one would be.

A little farther down and across the boulevard sat Bowen’s Apothecary, a classic family-run drugstore and pharmacy. I considered crossing over. Nope. Cam might know which words to use. Detective Quan surely would understand how to inquire, and people didn’t have the option of refusing him. For me, it was one more chalk mark in the Fail column. I didn’t enjoy the feeling, but I was used to it.

I made my way across the side street and found myself back at Exchange Bakery and Gourmet Provisions. I might not know what questions to ask, but I sure knew how to sink my teeth into a chocolate-filled croissant. My cereal-and-banana breakfast with my nephews felt like a long time ago.

When I’d lived in Japan as a young mother with Greg and toddler Zoe, I had no job other than housewife and mom. I’d learned, to my surprise, Japanese bakeries excelled at French pastries. I ate plenty of delicious Japanese food, but there was one small coffee shop I would walk to with my daughter in her stroller. The owners fawned over my little blond gaijin girl, and we would hang out for an hour. I’d sip coffee, she’d have a chocolate milk, and we’d snack and look at books. If she fell asleep on the way there, I was rewarded with precious adult time to myself to read and think. And I always ordered a pain au chocolat.

The bakery counter here had a line. I poked around over on the provisions side to wait out the customers. In front of the area displaying gourmet oils and vinegars, a woman with a mass of curly dark hair cascading down her back pulled bottles out of a box and rearranged what already sat on the shelf to accommodate them.

I peeked over her shoulder. The company label on the olive oil bottles read Raj Orchards.

“I recently heard about this olive oil.” I stepped to her side, then saw her T-shirt’s insignia: Raj Orchards Fine Olive Products.

“It’s the best.” She smiled. “Hi. I’m Narini.” She extended an elbow, which I bumped with mine.

“Cece.” I gazed at the bottles. One kind was flavored with garlic. Another with habanero peppers. A third featured Mediterranean herbs such as basil, oregano, and rosemary. And one label claimed the oil was sand- and mineral-filtered and triple cold pressed by a farmer standing on her head. Not really, but the words described a complicated process I couldn’t comprehend. I checked the prices and managed not to choke out loud at seventeen bucks for a slim bottle holding under thirteen ounces.

On the other hand, I was presented with the chance to quiz a person associated with Thea.

“My sister, Allie, says she often stops at your stand at the farmers’ market on Sundays,” I said.

“Allie’s great. I haven’t seen you around before.”

“I’m up here for the holidays.” I watched Narini’s hands as she arranged the last bottles. Her brown forearms were muscular, and her clipped nails were stained around the edges, maybe from working with olives.

“You live in the city or in SoCal?” She faced me, a tiny jewel sparkling in the side of her slender nose.

“Pasadena.” I picked up one of the garlic-infused bottles and pretended to study it. “I met a friend of yours yesterday. Thea Robinet?”

Narini tilted her head. “Thea’s my friend.”

“I heard she and Val Harper, may she rest in peace, had a lot of conflict having to do with the garden club.”

“They disagreed about the club’s direction going forward, yes.” She narrowed her eyes at me. “Why do you ask?”

I swallowed. I didn’t want to blow this. “I met another visitor to town who’s really interested in permaculture and sustainability. She has a farm back east, and . . .” I ran out of words. I shrugged and tried to smile. “I guess I mean to say, I think Thea has a point.”

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