The floor was a classic black-and-white checkerboard, though the white had been scuffed enough to turn it grayish. The walls were mint green to match the faux leather booths. The white Formica tables matched the counter. The glass dessert display was filled with every kind of pie you could possibly imagine from classic marionberry to Southern-style sweet-potato merengue. Behind the counter was an old-fashioned milkshake machine that was clearly still in use. The air was perfumed with a myriad of scents from maple syrup and pancakes to fried chicken with an undertone of burned coffee and dried ketchup.
The waitress poured our requested cups of coffee, confirmed that we wanted nothing else, and sauntered away, her strawberry-blond ponytail swinging cheerfully. I made sure she was far enough from the table before continuing the conversation.
“Listen, we don’t want to out you or anything, but we have some important questions for you about August Nixon.”
“Fine.” She took a delicate sip of coffee, every inch the lady of the manor despite her appearance. “Ask away.”
I nodded and sipped my own coffee before nearly spitting it out. In a state known for its coffee obsession, some restaurants sure hadn’t got the memo. I subtly pushed the mug away. No way was I drinking that swill. Maybe I’d have pie instead. The cardamom rhubarb with bourbon crust looked tasty.
“The night of the murder, I noticed two empty wine glasses on Mr. Nixon’s desk. One of them had lipstick on it. A very particular shade of lipstick.” I gave her mouth a pointed look. She touched her lower lip self-consciously. “In addition, there was an appointment noted in his calendar with a Mrs. A. His son confirmed that you, Mrs. Archer, are a patron of the museum and frequently met with Mr. Nixon.”
“Fine. It was me. I met with August at seven o’clock the night he died. But he was very much alive when I left.”
“When was that?” Cheryl asked. She’d pulled out a notebook from goodness knew where and was jotting down notes. I’d turn her into a proper investigator yet.
“Just after seven thirty. I had a dinner appointment at eight and didn’t want to miss it.”
“Half an hour. That’s not very long for a glass of wine,” I mused.
She gave an aggravated sigh. “The truth is, I barely touched my wine. If the glass was empty, August likely finished it off. I was too upset to drink.”
I lifted an eyebrow. “Do tell.”
She stiffened. “I don’t think it’s any of your business.”
“No,” I agreed. “But then neither is the fact you like to spend Friday nights in a low-class joint like the Wino, but I do happen to know about it.” There may or may not have been a slight edge of warning in my tone. Would I really rat her out? Probably not, but she didn’t know that, and I wasn’t above making threats if it meant saving my friend.
Glennis ground her teeth. “Fine,” she spat. “If you must know, I was there to inform August that I could no longer function as patron of the Flavel House. I was withdrawing my financial support.”
“Why?” Cheryl blurted, eyes wide. “It must be an amazing tax write-off.” Trust Cheryl to be practical about such things.
“It is,” Glennis admitted. “But lately...” She swallowed, her fingers strumming nervously on the table, though she seemed unaware of it. “Lately things have taken a bit of a downturn. The company is struggling. It’s temporary, but I need to put money into the business. Besides which, I’d heard some...unsavory rumors.”
“Unsavory rumors? About August Nixon?” There may have been a slight bit of sarcasm in my tone.
“Yes.” She stared into her mug. “You must understand, I have no proof of this, but if what I heard is true...well, it doesn’t look good at all.”
“What?” Cheryl and I blurted out.
“I assume by now you know of August’s gambling debts?”
We both nodded.
“According to my sources, he was in a bind to pay those debts quickly and quietly...or else.” She drew a finger across her throat. “You get my meaning.”
We did.
“August Nixon has been stealing from the museum for months.”
Chapter 14Perception is Everything
“GOOD GRIEF.” NINA PAUSED in the middle of organizing one of her wine displays to stare at me. After we’d parted ways with Mrs. Archer, Cheryl and I headed straight to Sip. “How on earth did he think he could get away with it?”
“That’s the million-dollar question,” I agreed. “Glennis Archer didn’t know the details, so I desperately need to talk to Roger Collins now. Surely he knows something.” I had promised Glennis that I wouldn’t get her involved or let anyone know where Cheryl and I had found her, but to my mind, that didn’t include Nina. Naturally, I told her everything.
“That would explain a lot,” Nina admitted as she placed a final bottle on the shelf and folded up her stepladder.
“What do you mean?” Cheryl asked before I could.
“People are funny. They’re creatures of habit. And when it comes to wine, those habits are usually formed not only by their taste buds, but by their finances and perceptions.”
“Okay, I get the first two. But perceptions?” I asked.
She set a bottle of wine on the bar. It was a lovely pinot noir with a twenty-dollar label. I knew for a fact it was delicious, with flavors of vanilla, pomegranate, and berries. I didn’t prefer the mineral taste, but that was a light undertone, barely noticeable.
“This is a good wine,” Nina said. “Solid. Not too pricey. In fact, it’s one of the better pinots I sell. Now you, Viola, are a woman with a solid palate who
