Wining and Dying
Crystal Cove is buzzing with the launch of its fifth annual Art and Wine Festival, when local wineries are paired with local artists to show off their latest creations. Jenna’s thrilled to be showing one of her own amateur paintings at the fair, but her excitement quickly fades when an up-and-coming artist is murdered. What’s more, all the evidence points to a good friend of Jenna’s as the culprit, and she’ll have to use all her wits to prove his innocence before he paints himself into a corner.
Certain that her friend is being framed, Jenna tries to blend in as she starts digging into an array of colorful suspects, including a tech guru with a penchant for stalking women, the mayor’s wayward son, and an older art instructor who might have been closer to the victim than anyone would have guessed. Jenna will have to wine and dine her way through all the clues before she can see the full picture and put the real killer behind bars—all the while avoiding her own brush with death . . .
Title Page

Copyright
Wining and Dying
Daryl Wood Gerber
Beyond the Page Books
are published by
Beyond the Page Publishing
www.beyondthepagepub.com
Copyright © 2021 by Daryl Wood Gerber.
Cover design by Dar Albert, Wicked Smart Designs
ISBN: 978-1-954717-05-3
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this book. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented without the express written permission of both the copyright holder and the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Recipes
Books by Daryl Wood Gerber
About the Author
Dedication
Thank you from the bottom of my heart to Krista Davis and Hannah Dennison.
You have been a wonderful, supportive friends on this
challenging but rewarding creative journey.
Acknowledgments
“You have to keep your bottom on the chair and stick it out. Otherwise, if you start getting in the habit of walking away when you’re stuck, you’ll never get it done.”
—Roald Dahl
I have been truly blessed to have the support and input of so many as I pursue my creative journey.
Thank you to my family and friends for all your encouragement. Thank you to my talented author friends, Hannah Dennison and Krista Davis, for your words of wisdom. Thank you to my Plothatcher pals: Janet (Ginger Bolton), Kaye George, Marilyn Levinson (Allison Brook), Peg Cochran, Janet Koch (Laura Alden), and Krista Davis. It’s hard to keep all your aliases straight, but you are a wonderful pool of talent and a terrific wealth of ideas, jokes, stories, and fun! I adore you.
Thank you to the members of the Facebook fan-based group Delicious Mysteries, which I cohost with authors Krista Davis, Lucy Burdette, and Amanda Flower. I love how willing you are to read ARCs, post reviews, and help all of us promote whenever possible. Authors need fans like you. You keep us on our toes.
Thanks to those who have helped make this tenth book in the Cookbook Nook Mystery series come to fruition: my publishers, Bill Harris and Jessica Faust at Beyond the Page; my agent, John Talbot; and my cover artist, Dar Albert. Thanks to my biggest supporter, Kimberley Greene. Thanks to Madeira James for maintaining constant quality on my website. Thanks to my virtual assistant, Christina Higgins, for your novel ideas. Honestly, without all of you, I don’t know what I would do. Cry a little more often, I fear.
Thank you to a delightful reader, Nicole Williams, for allowing me to cast her husband Christopher in this book.
Last but not least, thank you librarians, teachers, and readers for sharing the delicious world of a cookbook nook owner in a fictional coastal town in California with your friends. I hope you enjoy this next installment.
Cast of Characters in the Cookbook Nook Mysteries
Alan Baldini, owner of Baldini Vineyards and Hannah’s husband
Bailey Bird Martinez, Jenna’s best friend
Brianna Martinez, Baily’s daughter, almost a year old
Bucky Winston, Cinnamon’s husband
Cinnamon Pritchett, chief of police
Cary Hart, Jenna’s father
Eleanor Landry, Keller’s mother, owner of Taste of Heaven
Flora Fairchild, shop owner
Gran, Gracie Goldsmith, works at Cookbook Nook
Jake (Old Jake) Chapman, friend
Jenna Hart
Katie Casey Landry, aka Chef Katie
Keller Landry, Katie’s husband
Lola Bird, Bailey’s mother and owner of Pelican Brief
Marlon Appleby, deputy
Min-Yi, Katie’s daughter, almost fifteen months old
Pepper Pritchett, Cinnamon’s mother and owner of Beaders of Paradise
Rhett Jackson, Jenna’s fiancé and owner of Intime
Tina Gump, culinary student and Brianna’s nanny
Tito Martinez, reporter and Bailey’s husband
Vera Hart, Jenna’s aunt
Zoey “Z.Z.” Zeller, mayor and realtor
Additional Cast of Characters
in
Wining and Dying
Candy Kane, artist
Christopher George, tech company owner
Destiny Dacourt, wine rep
Egan Zeller, Z.Z.’s twenty-something son
Ferguson, skinny male cop
Foster, fresh-faced female cop
Ginny, the concierge at Crystal Cove Inn
Hannah Storm, Hurricane Vineyards owner
Harmony Bold, wedding planner
Jaime Gutierrez, artist
Naomi Genet, artist and part-time teacher
Orah, owner and painting instructor at Palette
Quade, artist
Sienna Brown, owner of Crystal Cove Inn
Wayne Alks, Yardley’s husband
Yardley Alks, teacher and internet art guru
Chapter 1
Crack! Clatter! I heard the sound of something falling and glass breaking. Then my cat yowled.
“Tigger!” I raced from the master b
edroom, cell phone in hand. “Buddy, are you okay?” I skidded to a stop in the living room and my insides snagged. Not for my ginger cat. He was fine and sitting at the top of the kitty condo looking down at me, mortified. “What happened?”
He mewed.
“I can see that,” I muttered. The painting I’d been working on for the Crystal Cove 5th Annual Art and Wine Festival competition was lying facedown on the floor. The easel it had been propped upon had tipped over and broken the west window. “Dang it.”
Tigger mewed again.
“Don’t worry. I’m not mad at you.” How could I be? He was the most adorable cat in the world. And accidents happened. But I was angry at the universe. I mean, honestly, what else could go wrong?
“Jenna, are you there?” asked my wedding planner, the source of my other woe. Her voice crackled through the cell phone. “Are you okay? It sounded as if glass broke. Is there an intruder? Do you need me to call—”
“I’m fine. It’s not an intruder. It was my cat.” I spotted a ball of yarn near the window. Tigger must have been chasing it and run into a leg of the easel.
“I’m glad to hear you’re okay. Now, back to what we were talking about before we were interrupted . . .”
I combed hair off my face, tugged my aqua sweater over my jeans, and shuffled to the canvas. Lifting it by the corners, I inspected the painting. Luckily, the oils had dried completely. I worked in thin layers and not impasto, using blobs of paint. I placed it on a chair at the dining room table and then sat at one of the other chairs and signaled for Tigger to come to me. He did. To calm myself as well as him, I stroked his head.
“Go on,” I said.
“Regarding the cancellation . . .” Harmony Bold had been arranging Rhett’s and my wedding for a number of months. Everything had been going smoothly until she’d phoned minutes ago to tell me the site for our nuptials in June had to bow out. The recent fire in Napa Valley hadn’t hurt the inn, but the beautiful gardens were buried in ash and wouldn’t recover for a very long time. If Rhett and I were determined to get married at that particular venue, we’d have to wait an entire year. “What do you want me to do?”
“I don’t know.” I checked my watch. I would be late for my art workshop if I didn’t leave in one minute. “I don’t have time to brainstorm ideas. Let me consult Rhett and we’ll figure something out, okay?”
“There are plenty of lovely inns up and down California. I’m sure I can find you another place that you’ll be happy with.”
“By June?”
She cleared her throat. “I can do it. If not, by December at the latest.”
“Do what you can.” I willed the tension in my shoulders to ease. I had my wedding dress and I had my man. The rest would be icing on the cake. I ended the call, made sure Tigger’s food and water bowls were set, and hopped into my VW Beetle.
At the top of the mountain above Crystal Cove stood the Crystal Cove Inn, a charming place that like most buildings in town was painted white, with a red tile roof. Calling it an inn was an understatement. It boasted two wings of rooms as well as a dozen private cabanas and exquisite grounds. With its coveted views of the ocean and the town below, the inn was consistently full.
I parked in the lot, grabbed my artwork from the backseat, and traipsed into the lobby. The spicy scent of apple cider greeted me, as did the aroma of a crackling fire. Crystal Cove was blessed with Mediterranean temperatures, and in April the weather was usually mild, but a storm was forecast for tomorrow, not great for a festival’s opening night. The weatherman wasn’t entirely sure the storm would hit us. A crisp wind current could send it south. Festival planners were probably crossing their fingers and toes. Given the number of guests sitting on the stone hearth of the fireplace, it was the in spot. A few patrons were sitting in the wing-backed chairs reading books.
To my right, a group of folks wearing last year’s festival T-shirts had gathered around the concierge desk, no doubt looking for somewhere to dine. The festival didn’t officially start until tomorrow night, Tuesday, but Crystal Cove was a tourist destination. Many festivalgoers had arrived over the weekend.
I walked through the lobby’s archway leading to the grassy expanse outside.
“Jenna,” a woman trilled. “Over here!”
Yardley Alks, owner of the Art Institute, waved to me from beneath the covered walkway that led to the private rooms, communal rooms, and cabanas. I strolled toward her, inhaling the heavenly scent of jasmine hanging from the walkway’s eaves.
A petite woman in her forties with a sunny disposition, Yardley was in charge of the workshop I was attending with the other finalists. “The rest aren’t here yet,” she said, pushing a strand of shoulder-length tawny hair behind her ear. “Let me revise that. Keller is, but none of the others.”
Over two hundred artists had entered to win the yearly art competition that would put the winner’s art on next year’s festival poster. Seven of us had made the final cut. All were taking part in the workshop. Yardley, a reputed art teacher, was on hand to give us suggestions as to how to make our work shine. The judging panel would announce the winner Sunday afternoon at Azure Park. I was so nervous I could barely breathe.
Yes, I owned the Cookbook Nook, a culinary bookshop, and yes, operating the shop and the Nook Café was a full-time, satisfying job, but prior to becoming a businesswoman, I’d entertained dreams of becoming an artist, so I’d entered the competition on a lark. To my complete surprise, I had been chosen as one of the finalists.
“The door to the workshop is open,” Yardley said. She had negotiated with the inn’s owner to provide a communal room where the artists could paint as well as store the tools of our trade. “Easels are set on the verandah. I’ll be right there.”
The verandah, at the far end of the grassy expanse, provided a beautiful view of the ocean. Tonight, it was lit up by bright floodlights.
I spotted two women my age setting up a wine tasting on the grassy expanse, both of whom I recognized. “Hi, Hannah,” I called to the raven-haired one. “Have fun tonight.”
“You’ll be joining us later. See you then.” Hannah Storm owned Hurricane Vineyard. “But shh. It’s a secret.”
During the festival, over one hundred artists and crafters as well as twenty Santa Cruz Mountain and Central Coast wineries would show their wares. In addition, locally made artisan foods would be featured at booths and restaurants throughout the town. Last’s years basil olives were a huge sensation. A specialty Kids Zone at Azure Park would feature music while promoting craft projects designed for children. The festival promised a rollicking good time, and I anticipated it each year.
I hitched my art satchel higher on my shoulder and strode down the walkway to the communal room. The door to the room was open. Like the verandah, the room was brightly lit. Yardley believed we needed to see all the flaws of our art. Tonight, however, she’d planned for us to finish our work outdoors, drinking in the evening air for inspiration.
“Hey, hey, Jenna.” Keller Landry, an ice cream entrepreneur and part-time handyman, turned to greet me. In his plaid shirt and narrow-legged jeans, he looked even leaner than usual. Had he lost weight? He swept the thatch of brown hair that invariably fell down his forehead to one side. “Just got off the phone with Katie.” Keller was married to my good friend, who was the chef at the Nook Café. “She says you’re full up on reservations for the night.”
“Good to hear.” I’d left work at five so I could make tonight’s workshop. My aunt, who was co-owner of our thriving business, told me she would handle any emergencies, as if we’d have any. I needed to spruce up the display window tomorrow on my day off, but other than that, we’d been running as smoothly as clockwork for the past few months. No snags. No hiccups.
“Katie said she put one of the specials in a to-go box for me,” Keller went on. “Chicken basil parmigiana.”
“Lucky you.” I’d visited Katie in the kitchen earlier and had tasted it. Major yum. “Coming outside?”
“Sure thing.”
I removed my paints and brushes from my satchel, set the satchel in a cubby, tucked my work back under my arm, and followed him. Though we could leave all our tools in the communal room—it would be locked every night—I liked having my materials with me in case I wanted to tweak something on my canvas at home.
Keller set his work on one of the easels on the verandah and took off the cloth covering.
“Wow,” I said, eyeing his work as I set mine on an easel. “That’s getting better and better. I love it. Have you named it?”
“I’m calling it Humanity.” Keller enjoyed working with mixed media, which could include anything from paint to paper to pencils, glues, crayons and glitter. Then there were the more obscure media, as I liked to think of them, like hardware items, buttons, beeswax, or even pages from an old book. Everything became a potential item to add to one’s mixed-media art.
Using red, green, and blue paint, silver glitter, and strips of beeswax, Keller had created a masterpiece of a raging ocean. Within the waves, in India ink, he had written a quote by Mahatma Gandhi: You must not lose faith in humanity. Humanity is an ocean. If a few drops of the ocean are dirty, the ocean does not become dirty.
“How did you get the writing so even?” I asked.
He pulled a tapered burin, an etching tool with a six-inch blade, from a set of tools Katie had given to him as a birthday gift. “This tip”—he tested it with his finger—“can fix anything.”
“Looks sharp.”
“Sharper than sharp. But . . .” He regarded his work and sighed forlornly. “It’s missing something.”
The kitchen sink? I thought wryly.
“I’m thinking of adding an origami fish, but that seems trite.” He sighed again. It was almost a moan.
“Are you okay?” I scrutinized him more closely. His skin was lax and his eyes were bloodshot.
“Me?”
“There’s nobody else here.”
“Truth is, I’m struggling.”
“With?”
“Selling ice cream is, you know, limited, and being a handyman isn’t really stirring my creative juices.”