Wine and Punishment Page 5

  The sun had been up long enough now to take the edge off the chill in the air, so I dropped my sweater off inside before starting to unload all the pumpkins and gourds. Damien emerged from the shed and gave us a hand with the task, and soon the old grist mill looked far more ready for the Autumn Festival than it had earlier that morning. I still needed to get an autumn wreath for the door, and Mel’s scarecrow wouldn’t be ready for another day or two, but we definitely had some fall spirit going on now.

  I placed one last gourd in the old red wheelbarrow that sat on the lawn, now almost overflowing with autumn bounty, and returned to the truck once more. The remaining pumpkins and gourds would go inside the Inkwell once I cleaned off the worst of the dirt. For the time being, we left them on the lawn around the back of the mill.

  By then, it was nearly noon, and two tour buses had already arrived in town, disgorging gaggles of leaf peepers, some of whom would hopefully make their way over to the Inkwell for a drink and a light lunch once they’d checked out the shops around the village green.

  At the moment, the Inkwell was without a cook—the one who’d worked at the pub under the previous ownership had moved away before I took over the business—so the only food items we had on offer were premade meat and veggie pies that only had to be heated up, and a large vat of soup, prepared and delivered each day by the local delicatessen. I had plans to make the Inkwell’s menu more enticing, but I hadn’t yet found a suitable cook.

  As I was about to head inside, I noticed the delicatessen’s truck heading for the mill, so I dashed inside to retrieve the rolling cart I used to transport heavy items across the footbridge. Once the delivery was complete and the large pot of soup was keeping warm on the stove in the Inkwell’s kitchen, I hurried upstairs to change for the workday.

  I didn’t require Mel or Damien to dress up for work. They usually showed up in jeans, and that was fine with me. I often did the same, but sometimes taking my attire one step above casual helped me to feel like I fit into my new role as a business owner. And I needed to feel that way, because some days the thought of everything I’d taken on scared the heck out of me.

  Once in my apartment, I traded my jeans and T-shirt for a gray jersey knit dress with long sleeves. I added black tights, a necklace, and one of my favorite pairs of fall boots, and then I was on my way downstairs again.

  “Damien had to go to a dentist appointment,” Mel informed me when I returned to the pub, “but he’ll be back later to do some more work on the catapult before his shift starts.”

  “Sounds good. I seriously wouldn’t know what to do without the two of you.”

  “Preparing for the festival always takes a team effort,” she assured me as I put a fresh pot of coffee on to brew. “Did you hear about the fight?”

  “Fight?” I turned around. “What fight?”

  “I should have mentioned it first thing, but I forgot after hearing your news.”

  “A fight here at the Inkwell?”

  She nodded. “Nothing serious. Damien tossed the guys out before it escalated, but Eric got into a shoving match with Carl Miller and Greg Wilmer.”

  I gaped at her in surprise before I managed to find my voice. “Eric? He isn’t—wasn’t—a fighter.”

  “He’d had a few drinks. He seemed nervous when he first showed up. I figured maybe he was worried about how you’d react to him being here.”

  “He was right to be worried.” As soon as I said the words, I felt bad for speaking that way now that Eric was dead, even if the statement was a true one.

  Fortunately, Mel didn’t seem to think I was too harsh, and continued on with her tale.

  “After he’d had a few beers, he started arguing with Carl and Greg—I don’t know what about—and when the pushing and shoving started, Damien escorted them from the premises.”

  Maybe that helped to explain Eric’s death. Had he wandered down the road, drunk, and stumbled into the path of an oncoming vehicle?

  I pushed down a sudden surge of guilt. If I’d stayed behind to talk to Eric instead of going to Gilda’s birthday dinner, maybe he wouldn’t have had so many drinks. Even if he hadn’t liked what I would have said to him, he might have left the Inkwell rather than hanging around in my establishment to drink away his sorrows.

  With those thoughts fermenting in my mind, I gladly headed for the front door, eager to open for business and hopefully keep myself distracted by work. When I stepped outside to flip the sign on the door, four women in their fifties were crossing the footbridge, carrying several shopping bags each. My spirits were still low from the day’s earlier events, but I made sure I didn’t let that show, greeting the women cheerily and holding the door open as they passed into the pub.

  I was going to follow them inside but stopped when I heard a familiar voice call out my name. Aunt Gilda was hurrying across the footbridge in her high heels, so I let the door fall shut and met her on the flagstone path. As soon as I reached her, she opened her arms and enfolded me in her embrace.

  “Oh, honey, I’m so sorry about what happened.”

  My eyes grew damp as I rested my head against her shoulder, grateful for the comforting hug. She patted my back and then held me out at arm’s length.

  “How are you holding up?” she asked as she scrutinized my face.

  I blinked back threatening tears, not wanting to cry again. “I’m managing.”

  “What in heaven’s name happened? You didn’t say in your message how Eric died.”

  “That’s because I don’t know.”

  She hooked her arm through mine, and we slowly made our way along the path toward the pub as I gave her the few details I had to share. When we reached the door, we stopped and I stroked Wimsey’s fur as he closed his blue eyes and purred away on his perch.

  “It was awful to see him like that,” I said, wrapping up my story. “I didn’t love him anymore, but I never wanted him to die.”

  Gilda squeezed my arm. “Of course, you didn’t, honey.”

  I glanced at the pub’s door. “Do you have time for a coffee?”

  She checked the delicate gold watch on her wrist. “I’ve got another client in five minutes, but if you need me here I can cancel.”

  “No, that’s all right. I have to work anyway, and I’ll be fine.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Absolutely,” I said with more confidence than I felt.

  She pulled me into another hug. “I’ll see you tonight for the book club, but you call me if you need me before then.”

  “Thank you, Aunt Gilda.”

  After giving me a kiss on the cheek, she set off toward the bridge again. I allowed myself to bury my face in Wimsey’s silky fur for a moment, but I didn’t linger any longer than that, instead heading back inside to get to work. Several more tourists arrived over the next half hour or so, and Mel and I kept busy serving drinks, bowls of soup, and meat and veggie pies. A few locals trickled in as well, and I steeled myself for the questions I knew I’d soon face. One thing I’d learned since moving to Shady Creek was that news traveled quickly through the small town. Anyone who didn’t already know that my ex-boyfriend had been found dead down the road would hear the story from other patrons within minutes of arriving at the Inkwell.

  Somehow I managed to stay composed as I was asked time and time again for specifics on what had happened. I only provided the barest of details, and I told everyone who asked that I didn’t know how Eric had died. That was the truth, after all.

  Of course, Eric’s death wasn’t the only hot topic of conversation among the locals. There was also the fire at the antiques shop to discuss. From the sound of things, Shady Creek rarely saw so much drama in such a short span of time.

  “Do you think the two incidents could be related?” Susan Purdy, one of the Inkwell’s regulars, asked as she sat at the bar. She was nursing a glass of the Malt in Our Stars, one of the first cocktails I’d created after buying the pub. It was made with Scotch, ginger ale, and lemon.

 
“I don’t see how they could be,” I said as I pulled a pint for another patron. I slid the full glass across the bar and accepted money from the man before he crossed the room to join his friends at a table. “We found Eric at the edge of the Spirit Hill Brewery property, and the fire was all the way across the green and down the road a bit.”

  “That’s true.” Susan took a sip of her drink. “It’s just so unusual for Shady Creek to have two major events like that in less than twenty-four hours. I guess it’s a coincidence.”

  “It must be,” I agreed. “Have you heard anything about the fire? Was anyone hurt? Do they know how it started?”

  “No word yet on how it started, but luckily no one was hurt. There wasn’t anyone in the building at the time, and none of the firefighters were harmed.”

  “That’s good,” I said with relief.

  Susan left her perch on the stool to go and chat with a group near the middle of the pub. Moments later a new patron claimed her vacated seat.

  “Evening,” I greeted the man. “What can I get you?”

  “Scotch. Neat,” he requested in a gruff voice.

  “Coming right up.”

  As I fetched the appropriate bottle from one of the shelves behind the bar, I tried to put a name to the man’s face but came up empty. He seemed only vaguely familiar to me, and I wondered if he simply reminded me of someone else. I was pretty sure I’d never seen him in Shady Creek before. He had an imposing figure, tall and bulging with muscles, and his dark, beady eyes sent a hum of unease through me.

  “Do you live here in Shady Creek?” I asked as I served him his drink, deciding to find out if I could place him in my memory.

  “No.”

  He didn’t look at me when he spoke, and his response was so abrupt as to warn me that he wasn’t interested in conversation. At least, I thought he wasn’t interested until he spoke up moments after finishing off his drink.

  “I hear it was your ex who died down the road.”

  “That’s right.” The unease he’d instilled in me grew stronger.

  He had his beady eyes fixed on me, and they held no warmth, only cold calculation. He held up his glass to indicate that he wanted another Scotch. I poured him one, and once he’d downed half of it in one go, he spoke again.

  “Was he staying with you?”

  “No.” My internal alarm bells clanged. “Why do you ask?”

  “No reason.” He flashed what I suspected was meant to be a friendly smile, but to me it seemed predatory and chilling.

  I held back a shudder and tried once again to figure out why he struck me as familiar. I still couldn’t place him.

  “Where are you from?” I tried to keep the question casual.

  His expression, not open to begin with, closed off even more. “Here and there.”

  His accent was far more telling than his answer. Maybe he hadn’t always lived in Boston, but he’d definitely spent enough time there to sound like it was his hometown.

  He slapped a couple of bills on the bar, downed the rest of his drink, and got up, turning his back on me without another word. I tracked him with my eyes as he navigated his bulky frame around several tables and left the Inkwell.

  Although I let out a sigh of relief when the door shut behind him, I couldn’t shake the chill he’d left tickling at my spine.

  Chapter 6

  After the day I’d had, I was particularly grateful that I had something to look forward to that evening. I’d been excited about hosting book clubs at the pub ever since I first came up with the idea, and although the day’s events had dampened my spirits, they hadn’t completely overshadowed my enthusiasm.

  Before the members of the romance book club arrived, I flicked on the lights in one of the two smaller rooms off to the side of the main part of the pub. I’d dubbed this one the Christie room, after one of my all-time favorite mystery authors. It had a couple of tables and regular chairs at the back of the room, but there were also some comfy armchairs and side tables clustered around the woodstove.

  Framed posters from movies based on Agatha Christie classics like Death on the Nile and Murder on the Orient Express adorned the walls, while my collection of Christie novels lined the rustic bookshelves. My favorite piece of décor was the portrait of Dame Agatha that hung above an antique table where a vintage typewriter sat. Aunt Gilda had found the oil painting at a flea market in the summer and had given it to me as a gift when I’d taken over the pub. It was perfect for the Inkwell, and I liked to think there was a glint of approval in Agatha’s eyes as she gazed out over the room named in her honor.

  On busy nights when no book clubs were scheduled, I opened up the Christie room and its neighbor—the Stewart room, named after Mary Stewart—for overflow, but on nights like this one, the Christie room was reserved for the club.

  Since the sun had gone down, the autumn chill had returned to the air, and I didn’t mind one bit. The cool evening gave me the perfect excuse to use the woodstove, making the Christie room even cozier. By the time I had a cheerful blaze going, it was almost time for the book club to start. As I got up from the hearth and brushed off my knees, a plump woman with long and slightly wild gray hair poked her head into the room.

  “Oh, there you are, Sadie.”

  “Hi, Alma,” I greeted. “Come on in.”

  Alma Potts, one of the Inkwell’s regulars and an avid reader of the romance genre, had volunteered to chair the book club.

  “So these are our digs for the evening?” she said, entering the room, a hum of conversation from the main room drifting in behind her. When she spotted the fire, her face lit up. “Oh, that’s a nice touch. It’s chilly outside. The fire makes it nice and cozy in here.”

  “That’s what I was hoping.”

  Before either of us had a chance to say more, Shontelle appeared in the doorway, quickly followed by Aunt Gilda and Rhonda. While the other women greeted each other, Shontelle pulled me aside and gave me a quick hug.

  “I was so shocked when I got your message. I’d heard from Sofie Talbot earlier that a man had died, but I had no idea it was Eric.”

  “It’s still so hard to believe, but at the same time I can’t get rid of the memory of him lying there covered in blood.”

  “And you still don’t know what happened to him?”

  I shook my head as a wave of laughter came from the other women. We turned toward them as Alma fished her dog-eared copy of Caught Looking, by Jody Holford, out of her large patchwork tote bag. From now on, the members would take turns choosing the book of the month, but for the first meeting I’d done the honors, with input from Alma.

  “I’m sure looking forward to discussing this gem.” Alma fanned herself with the book. “I do love hunky baseball players, and the one in this story is sizzling hot.”

  The other women murmured their agreement.

  “How about I get drinks for everyone who wants one, and then you can all get started,” I suggested.

  “I’m trying one of the themed cocktails I haven’t tasted yet,” Shontelle said, snatching up one of the menus lying on the nearest table.

  The other club members picked up their own copies to study, and it didn’t take long for the orders to come in.

  “I have to try the Happily Ever After,” Aunt Gilda decided. “Awfully appropriate for a romance book club meeting, don’t you think?” she said to the room at large.

  Shontelle and Rhonda agreed enough to order the same cocktail, while Alma requested a Huckleberry Gin, made with gin, soda, and huckleberry syrup. I was about to head back to the bar to mix the drinks when the remaining two club members arrived.

  “Oh, good, you’re here,” Alma said to them. “We can get started in a minute then.”

  Vera Anderson, owner of a local boutique, was followed into the Christie room by Harriet Jones, the oldest member of the book club. I didn’t know her exact age, but I was pretty sure it was north of seventy. She wasn’t your typical senior citizen, though, as I’d been quick to learn.


  “I’ll need a drink first,” Harriet said, waving her copy of the book. “I’m going to need something to cool me down when we talk about this steamy hero.”

  “You’ve got that right,” Shontelle agreed.

  A couple of the other ladies giggled as I handed one of the menus to Harriet.

  Vera Anderson ran her eyes down another copy of the menu before dropping it onto the nearest table. “I’ll have a glass of pinot gris.”

  Her nose in the air—where it always seemed to be—Vera claimed one of the armchairs and leaned over to talk quietly to Alma seated in the chair next to her.

  “I’m feeling daring,” Harriet said, drawing my attention away from Vera. “I’ll try the Lovecraft.”

  I beamed at her. “You’ll be the first person to do so, aside from the staff here. It’s our newest addition to the menu.”

  “What can I say? I’ve always been a trailblazer.”

  Shontelle took Harriet’s arm and led her over to the armchairs.

  I’d taken an instant liking to Harriet when I’d met her a few weeks earlier while browsing the selection of novels at Primrose Books. Vera Anderson was another story, however. The few times I’d crossed paths with her, she always seemed condescending and critical of those around her, but so far, I’d managed to shrug off her attitude. I wasn’t participating in the book club myself, so I didn’t have to spend any real time with her.

  After assuring the club that I’d have their drinks shortly, I left them to chat and returned to the bar. Mel’s shift had ended earlier, so Damien was the one who helped me mix the drinks. I managed to fit all of them on one tray and returned to the Christie room with them.

  “Sadie, you poor thing,” Alma said. “I didn’t realize the man found dead this morning was someone you knew. I gather he was your ex, but still, it must have been awful for you.”

  “A terrible shock,” Rhonda agreed.