A Saucy Murder: A Sonoma Wine Country Cozy Mystery (14 page)

“Still, that doesn’t make her a killer,” Emma answered.

“No, but she’s not sympathetic. And nothing rules it out. You said your daughter’s following up on this with someone who worked with Lexie Buchanon at the Honorage Spa?” Steve asked.

Emma nodded.

“Good,” Steve said. “Now, what about the sister?  The unstable twin. Surely she had an axe to grind. Sibling rivalry?  Definitely a known cause for murder going all the way back to Cain and Abel in the Bible.”

Emma considered that for a minute. Cain and Abel did provide compelling historic precedent.

She nodded. “I agree. It could. But nothing points there. She’s clearly devastated by her sister’s death. I’ve seen her. I don’t think she’s faking. And what did she have to gain?  Everything she had she owed to her sister. Alive not dead.”  Emma paused. “Last night, I got the feeling she’s carrying some sort of torch for Sacha Kuragin, the bass. He was all over Natasha at the fundraiser. But he certainly wasn’t in love with her. Sacha is only in love with himself. So was Vera jealous enough about that to kill her sister, her sole source of support and the only reason Sacha ever gave her the time of day?”  Emma shook her head. “It doesn’t add up.”

“What about this Sergio character, the celebrity chef?” Steve asked. “Jealous lover?  Desperate for money?  I don’t buy the theory that the Mafia killed Natasha Vasiliev to get back at him. But who knows?  Anyway, is anyone following up on that?”

“Can’t we just go to the police with Sergio’s story?  Shouldn’t
they
follow up on it?” Emma asked.

Steve looked at her skeptically. “First of all, the police want to believe they already have the killers, right?  And second, put the police on him and this Sergio guy will clam up. Or worse, go missing. I say, someone should talk to him informally. He was in love with Natasha Vasiliev. He had every reason to be jealous. Let’s hear what he has to say. Sound him out. Do you know anyone who could do that?”

Much to her own surprise, Emma answered, “Me. I know Sergio. I’ll do it.”

When Emma got home there was a message on her land line from Julie.

“Mom, it’s your loving daughter. I’m sorry about the house dust comment. Piers is furious with me. He says you’re like Nancy Pelosi compared to his Mom when it comes to getting out of the house. Except, I told him, Nancy Pelosi is in the House which I thought was very funny. Anyway, we both want you to come over for dinner tonight. Harry has been asking when he can see you. Besides, with all that’s gone on, Piers and I don’t think you should be spending time alone. Piers’ll pick you up at 6:00 on his way home.”

Emma figured the Piers pickup was Julie’s way of ensuring Emma didn’t back out. Emma had half a mind to do just that after the house dust comment. But she missed Harry. She looked at her watch. It was already 5:00. Piers would be there soon.

Emma walked into her kitchen, filled her teakettle with water and set it on her Viking range – perfect for testing recipes. Then she pulled her favorite Marimekko mug off the open wood shelving and placed it on the butcher block counter. Julie originally chose Persian Crème granite for the counters, but Emma nixed it as not in character with the old historic home.

The tea kettle had just begun to whistle when she saw Piers’ silver Porsche Carrera glide under the flowering white magnolia tree that shaded the small yard between her front porch and Julie’s office. Piers was early. She’d barely had time to catch her breath.

She turned off the stove, grabbed her purse and parka off the coat rack in the hall, and raced out the front door, waving at Piers as she locked up. Then she ran down the front stairs to the car and settled into the soft leather interior.

I could get used to this, she thought as Piers drove away. He had even turned on an oldies station for her. Or maybe he actually liked Otis Redding. She closed her eyes and let
Try a Little Tenderness
roll over her.

“Sorry Julie’s so hard on you sometimes, Emma. The house dust comment was really out of line.” 

The sound of Piers’ voice jarred her. She’d dozed off.

“I know you know how much she loves you. And values your opinion about everything,” he continued.

Valued her opinion?  That was a stretch, Emma thought. She squeezed her eyes more tightly shut and listened to the music.

“You’ve been her rock, what with all the Andy troubles. I think,” Piers hesitated, “I think her, well, her abrasiveness for want of a better word, is all part of her defense mechanism. You know how deeply she was hurt. First the divorce. Now the conviction.”

Emma tried not to open her eyes. This wasn’t a discussion she wanted to have with Piers.

“Anyway, she doesn’t mean it,” he continued. “She doesn’t mean to hurt you is all I meant to say.”

Emma tried to keep concentrating on Otis Redding’s bittersweet lyrics.

“I know,” she said. Then all of a sudden Emma felt tears leaking out of the corners of her eyes. Why did that song always make her cry?

“Oh Emma,” Piers looked over at her. “I didn’t mean. I’m sorry. This is terrible.”

Emma sat up and wiped her eyes. “No. It’s not you, Piers. It’s not what
you
said. It’s that
song
. It always makes me cry.”

Piers hand went straight to the radio button. “I apologize.”  He clicked it off.

Emma wanted to tell him, no!  She loved the song. But what was the point?

“Anyway,” he added, “while I have you alone in the car, I wanted to mention something about Jack Russo. I know Julie’s been giving you a hard time about him. But honestly, I just think she’s jealous. I mean, since Andy left, you’ve never had anybody else in your life and it’s going to take her some time to get used to it. That’s all.”

Emma ignored the “never had anybody else in your life” part. It was what she’d always wanted Julie to believe. In the twenty-five plus years since Andy left, of course there’d been others. Just not anybody Julie knew about. There was the hunky contractor who redid her bathroom after the pipe burst. Awfully good with his hands. But a no go from the start. It was the summer Julie was with Andy’s parents in Maine.  She didn’t need to know.

And, later, there was the old college classmate whose wife abruptly left. And then just as abruptly returned. Julie was on her high school semester in Italy. At the time Emma thought her heart would break. In hindsight, it was just one more bullet dodged.

“Piers,” Emma finally replied, “let’s get one thing straight. Jack Russo is
not
in my life!  We had coffee together. He asked me to the Ormon thing. We’re going to the Opera Friday.”  Darn!  She wished she hadn’t said that.

“Opening night?” Piers asked. “You know how much that costs?”

“No,” she answered. “And I don’t care. I mean, seriously Piers, I wouldn’t even call him a friend. He’s an acquaintance, of sorts.”

“OK,” Piers shrugged his shoulders. “All I want to add is this. Speaking objectively, more objectively than Julie, he is nice enough personally. If you’re on his side. He’s smart. Maybe savvy is a better word. But I’ll warn you, if you cross him, he can be a very difficult man. He’s aggressive and determined to have his way. All the time. Of course, that’s not necessarily a bad thing. And sure, he’s Italian. Apparently he even likes opera. But despite the Harvard education,” he hesitated, “well, he just doesn’t seem like our type. Maybe what I’m saying is, Julie and I just don’t get what you see in him, that’s all. Of course,” he added, “that’s your business, not ours.”

Darn right, Emma thought. She answered, instead, “Piers, what I’m trying to tell you is that you’re right. He’s
not
my type. I don’t see
anything
in him. But that doesn’t mean I can’t go to the Opera with him.”

By then they’d pulled into the driveway of Piers and Julie’s elegant, 5000 square foot mansard roofed mini Versailles on elegant Silver Creek Road. It had a huge pool, sat on two acres of lawns and gardens, and was surrounded by vineyards. Yes, Piers had done well for her daughter, Emma noted as she opened the car door. And she liked Piers. So she decided not to end the ride on a strident note.

“Piers,” she touched his shoulder before he got out of the car. “I just want you to know that I appreciate the fact that you and Julie always look out for me.  I couldn’t ask for better children.”

The minute she passed through Julie’s front door, Harry threw himself at her.

“Nonnie, Nonnie!  Yay, Nonnie’s here,” he shouted. “Come on. Let’s play Go Fish in the living room.”

That was reward enough for coming to dinner with nothing but house dust on the soles of her shoes.

Go Fish it was. For an hour. Along with a glass of wine and some local goat cheese. Emma played with her grandson, sipped the wine, savored the cheese and figured that if the Big D came that night, she’d die happy.

Then the phone rang. Emma heard Julie’s voice. Something in her tone activated Emma’s antennae. Her reaction was justified by the look on Julie’s face the minute she walked into the living room.

“I’m sorry, Mom, but,” she began.

Emma knew immediately what was coming. If only by now she’d been able to convey to her daughter that it was OK. She really didn’t care anymore. In fact, it was all sort of amusing in a zany Fox sitcom sort of way. Her completely mismatched marriage to a philandering felon. It really didn’t matter.

Or did Julie want it to matter?  Emma considered this for a moment. How could Julie not want it to matter?  How could she think that something so hurtful
did
not
matter?

“Dad’s coming over,” Julie explained. “He wants to see Harry. I told him you were here. Of course, that only made him want to come more. Like if he didn’t, he’d miss out on something. Is that OK?”

“Of course,” Emma answered. “It’s fine.”

“Sure?” Julie asked.

“Sure.”

Twenty minutes later, Andy arrived.

“Emma, so good to see you,” he greeted her with a hug. “My don’t you look well?  By the way, I saw you on the news. I almost called. But I thought, everyone will be calling her. Then Julie explained that those poor Roma, the ones the police have been trying to pin Natasha Vasiliev’s murder on, were people you know. It’s terrible how the police have scapegoated those Roma, isn’t it?” 

Emma had noted that, since his conviction, Andy had become an expert on scapegoats. .

“I read all about it in the paper,” Andy continued, becoming more and more agitated as he spoke. He turned to Piers. “How can they hold those people?  They have no proof. It’s obvious they were framed. The real killer probably poisoned Natasha Vasiliev
before
the dinner. Otherwise, how did she have time to digest the poison?”

Emma and Piers exchanged amused looks. Apparently Andy was now a toxicology expert as well.

“What kind of poison was it, anyway?  Have they done the final toxicology report?” Andy asked.

“It’s due Tuesday,” Emma answered.

Andy shook his head as if to say what bozos. “Anyway, it doesn’t take a toxicology report to see that the killer poisoned Natasha Vasiliev, then took the ring off the body after she died, and planted it in that poor Roma’s trailer.”

“What about the stolen stuff in Tonio’s trash?” Piers asked.

“Allegedly in his trash,” Emma corrected him.

“Trash, smash,” Andy dismissed it. “Don’t you see?  This was premeditated. The killer stole the stuff and hid it in Tonio’s trash. The same person probably alerted the police to it. All to frame those poor defenseless Roma.”  Andy was in tears now. He took out a Kleenex and wiped his eyes. “It makes me sick just to think about it.” 

Andy checked his watch and looked at Julie. “By the way, when are we eating?  I have to pick something up at Target on the way home. And
this
,” he pointed to his ankle bracelet, “goes off at eight o’clock. If I’m not home, the darned thing calls my probation officer and snitches on me. Is there time for dinner?  Or should I just munch on this cheese and paté?”

“Better load up on the cheese and paté, Dad,” Julie answered. “Dinner won’t be ready for at least a half hour.”

Half an hour later, Andy waved good-bye from the front door. “Sorry I have to run. Great to see everybody. Especially you, my little munchkin.” He reached down to give Harry a hug. “Handsome, isn’t he?” he said to Piers. “Kinda looks like me, don’t you think?”

It wasn’t till they’d finished eating and Piers took Harry upstairs for his bath that Julie motioned her mother into the kitchen to discuss her day at the Honorage Spa.

“I found a few things out,” she began. “Piers doesn’t buy any of it. He still thinks the Roma did it. But even allowing for Dad’s paranoia, there might be some truth in what he said.”

Emma nodded. “Go on.”

“Here’s what I learned today. First of all, Oleg, my well informed masseur at the Honorage Spa, adored my eyewitness account of Lexie’s drunken show last night. He hates Lexie more than I knew. Going way back to when she first worked at the Honorage. I mean, Oleg used words to describe Lexie like conniving, scheming, stop at nothing to get her way. By the way, she grew up in Connecticut. Oleg thinks she left under some kind of cloud.”

Emma remembered the shoplifting charges the free legal services clinic had dug up. She kept that to herself for the moment and nodded.  

Julie continued. “Right after the Honorage hired Lexie as a masseuse, she bragged that she’d snag a rich husband and quit her job in three months flat. Well, you can imagine how Oleg reacted to
that.
He’s worked at the Honorage for twenty years looking for a rich sugar daddy without a bite.”

“
Then
,” she continued, “Barry Buchanon cancelled his regular appointment with Vera Vasiliev, Natasha’s twin sister. Vera had worked at the Honorage since she and Natasha moved to California three years ago when Natasha won an Ormon Rising Young Star Fellowship. By the way, Oleg says Vera’s the best for deep tissue. I believe him after wrestling with her at Jardin last night. So that’s when Lexie started doing Barry and figured she’d just got her chance to marry a billionaire.” 

“She had, right?” Emma asked.

“Not exactly,” Julie replied. “According to Oleg, Lexie didn’t know that Vera Vasiliev had already made other plans for Barry’s nuptial bliss. A few months before, when
Vera
started doing him, strictly massage, Vera discovered that Barry
loved
opera. So she set him up with her twin sister, Natasha, hoping Natasha would marry rich Barry, who would pay off their debts and kick start Natasha’s career. Who needed an Ormon Fellowship with Barry footing the bill?  For a while Vera’s plan for her sister seemed to work. Barry fell head over heels in love with Natasha.” 

“Onassis and Callas,” Emma sighed, “like the rich Greek tycoon and his mistress, the ill fated diva.” 

“Right,” Julie nodded. “But then, just when Vera thought her sister had sealed the deal and would marry Barry Buchanon, something unexpected happened. At one of Barry’s parties, Natasha met…”

“Sergio, our handsome celebrity chef,” Emma completed the sentence. “And
Natasha
fell head over heels in love.”