A Vintage To Die For (Violet Vineyard Murder Mysteries Book 2) (8 page)

Hunter let Samson and Marjory leave at 2:40. The pair was unusually quiet as they said their goodbyes, but I was in no mood for conversation anyway. I settled at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee, alone. I was still sitting there, staring down into the cold coffee, when Hunter came up from the cellar and joined me.

He refused another cup of coffee and dropped into the chair across from me. “Dirty business,” he said, looking worn down and ragged. “But we’re done with the cellar. Midge will be here tomorrow to drain the tank.”

I nodded and felt my own shoulders sag. I’d have to call my insurance agent, I realized. And it had been less than a year since I’d submitted a six-figure claim to pay for the damage done when a murderer had rampaged through my cellar with an ax.

“Guess I better get going,” Hunt said, though he made no move to rise. A long moment of silence passed before he looked up at me. I sensed a question in his eyes. A longing.

I broke eye contact as the blood rushed to my face. Hunter and I had been intimate in the past, but that had been more than a year before. His gaze made me feel awkward and even more uncertain about the status of our relationship. Earlier, when we had been dancing, it had all seemed so right, but now…I couldn’t explain it. Maybe I was just too overwhelmed by the night’s events, but that old uncertainty had crept back in.

“It’s getting late,” I said, feeling like a complete coward. I glanced at the clock over the filthy stovetop.

“Right,” he said, his eyes shutting down, going flat and remote.

That look hurt. It seemed to solidify the gap that had grown between us. I knew I didn’t want that, but I didn’t have the words.

Hunter stood abruptly and headed for the door, his manner as brusque as his movements. He opened the door and looked back. “The cellar is padlocked. We’ll finish with it in the morning and I’ll be out of your hair.” The way he said that made me feel even more miserable. “Lock up tight tonight,” he added and he was gone, the door clicking softly closed behind him.

I sat there for a long time after that, thinking about Hunter and me. But in the end it was just too much for my beleaguered mind. I made the circuit of the house, checking that the windows and doors were all locked, and went upstairs. I washed my face, brushed my teeth, and fell into bed at 4:45.

Chapter 9

I awoke two hours
after I had fallen asleep. I burrowed under the covers and squeezed my eyes closed tight, but it was no use. I tossed and turned fitfully for another hour before I finally gave up with a groan at 7:30.

One glance in the mirror over the sink was enough to make me cringe. Every line and wrinkle on my face was highlighted and exaggerated by too little sleep. I had dark circles under my eyes and a dry, papery look to my skin. And I felt just as bad as I looked. Bone-tired and depressed. The walking dead.

I felt marginally better after a shower. I put on khaki slacks and a sweater and headed downstairs.

The shambolic condition of the kitchen sucked the wind out of my already drooping sails. Even after three hours of cleaning, there was still a leaning stack of dirty dishes piled beside the sink, the floor needed to be mopped, and the stove sanitized. I poured ground coffee into my old 1920’s percolator, a chrome globe with red handles, and turned it on, then crossed to the windows to take in the morning view. That view usually revitalizes me with its sweep and beauty but it had the opposite effect that morning. The view of the slumbering valley was beautiful - the first tracers of the sun’s golden light peeking over the mountain behind me, streaking across the valley while the steep upper slopes were still cloaked in darkness - it was the view closer to home that made me want to curl up and cry.

The back yard was a mess. Trampled grass, a sagging tent, scattered napkins, and paper trash. The tables were cluttered with dirty dishes and empty glasses. I was about to turn away when Victor’s truck rolled down the gravel drive and headed for the brand new barn I’d had constructed after the old one was burned down last year. There were two other men in the cab of the truck with him. All three climbed out and Victor led the two men into the barn.

By the time the three reemerged with plastic bags, a rake, and a shovel, I had poured myself a cup of coffee and filled a thermos for them. I carried the thermos and three cups outside and put them on the least cluttered of the tables under the tent.

Victor led the men over. Despite the chill in the morning air, Victor was wearing shorts and a t-shirt with a faded surf logo on the breast. His hair had grown back since the fire that had destroyed my ancient Mustang Convertible and my barn, and he wore it long to cover the puckered red burn scars on his neck and shoulders. Other than that, he had made a full recovery from what I had feared, at the time, were catastrophic injuries.

The other two men were dressed for the weather in flannel shirts and jeans.

“Good morning, Mrs. de Montagne,” the older of the two said as he took the steaming cup from me. “Thank you.” He was well past fifty and stout with a deep sunburn on the back of his neck. His companion was much younger, tall and slender, with a shy look. He nodded his thanks as he too took a cup.

I looked at Victor. “I appreciate you coming in on Sunday,” I said.

“The sacrifices I make,” he said wistfully. “A slave to my job.”

“I’ll pay you for the day,” I said.

“You got that right,” he replied as he took a sip of the coffee.  He looked around at the mess. “We’ll get this cleaned up first thing.”

“Great,” I said. “And I’ll finish in the kitchen. The chef said he’d be back today to clean up, but I’m not sure if he’ll keep his word.”

“Charlie Nitti?” He asked with raised eyebrows and a sneaky grin. “Oh,
he’ll
be here. You couldn’t keep him away with a shotgun, though you might try if you don’t want to be a grandma.”

I gave him a frown. “Why am I always the last to know?” I asked. I often thought Victor knew my daughter better than I did. I guess that’s not surprising. Victor had first come to work for me part time when he was fifteen years old and Jessica was eight. They had practically grown up together. They shared a sibling-like bond, complete with secret rituals and wordless conversations made up of sly looks and grimaces.

It could get really annoying.

“First to nag, last to know,” Victor replied.

“You’re fired,” I told him as I turned back to the house.

“I couldn’t be so lucky.”

“Keep pushing and you might hit the jackpot…” I said over my shoulder.

I was walking across the patio, under the arbor that supported the green tendrils of the wisteria vines, when a pair of Sheriff’s cruisers came around the corner of the house and parked on the gravel near the wine cellar door. Midge Tidwell climbed out of the driver’s seat of the first car, a cell phone jammed to her ear, though it’s illegal to drive and talk on a phone in California. Police rarely follow the rules, I thought sourly and probably a little unfairly, but I had gotten a ticket for the same infraction less than six months before.

I headed for the patrol cars.

Midge ended the call and stowed the phone in her pants pocket as I came to a halt in front of her. Two deputies I recognized from the night before got out of the second cruiser. They nodded at me, but stayed by the car, talking in low tones.

“We need to drain and empty the tank,” Midge said in lieu of a hello. She stepped to the back of the patrol car and I followed. Her khaki uniform was neatly pressed and clung tightly to her tall, lean form. With her lithe movements, tight haircut, and pointed chin, she reminded me of a greyhound. She popped the patrol car’s trunk and hauled out a folded white plastic tarp. She dropped it on the grass then took out a shiny four foot square aluminum sieve. It looked heavy but she handled it easily enough, and her companions didn’t step forward and offer to help.

“I’ll get the hose hooked up,” I said. “You can set that up on the slope over there,” I pointed to the edge of the yard, just twenty feet away, where the bare rocky slope of tallus began, sloping steeply down to a ragged cleft in the hill that separated my vineyard from the rows Kevin Harlan had planted next door. “I don’t want to use my pumps, considering what’s been in the tank,” I told her. “That spot is low enough gravity will carry the free run wine, but you’ll have to shovel the must out of the bottom of the tank. I’ll have Victor bring the compost wagon over from the barn. You can shovel it into that.” I looked at her two male companions and raised my voice so they could hear, “I warn you, the must is going to be wet and heavy.”

“Do you have something we can press the must with?” she asked. As a cop in Napa she was probably very familiar with the wine making process. Pressing the must would make the shoveling easier for the deputies, but I shook my head no.

“We use a rubber bladder for that,” I explained. It was a simple process to drop the bladder into the tank, close the lid, then fill the bladder with air to gently press the must and extract some of the remaining wine. “But I really don’t want to use it. I’d never get it clean enough to meet the FDA requirements.” The stainless steel tank could be sterilized, but plastic was too porous for that to be effective. And I was not going to contaminate my production equipment. I couldn’t afford to.

Midge didn’t argue, merely nodded as her eyes drifted over my rows of vines, lingering on the spot where Kevin Harlan had been found murdered. She shook her head and looked at me sidelong.

“I’m getting used to finding bodies up here,” she said, just as unfriendly as ever, echoing her snarky comment of the night before.

I tried not to let it get to me. I liked Midge and was sorry that our relationship had taken such an ugly turn last year. But it wasn’t my fault, and I wasn’t going to apologize. I made no reply.

“If you want, I can get the deputies to bag up the skins and stems,” she said grudgingly, the first tiny crack in her surly demeanor. “You can compost them when we’re done. I'm not hauling that mess down to the lab.”

I shook my head. I didn’t want the stems and skins for compost. It was just too gruesome to contemplate. Like using graveyard soil in your vegetable garden.

“I’ll get the hose,” I repeated and turned away. I went into the cellar and crossed to the workbench, Midge trailing behind me.

Jessica hadn’t been exaggerating about the number of tools taken into evidence the night before; every implement with an edge was missing. The pegboard was almost naked, but the 3” black hose we use to pump the crushed wine into the press pan for settling prior to racking was coiled in its place. It was heavy, but I carried it to the tank and stooped down to connect it to the racking port. The clamps were a pain, but I managed it. I’d have to discard the hose after the tank was drained. Two hundred bucks gone. It was too bad I couldn’t discard my memories of Dimitri’s body hanging over the top of the tank so easily.

“How well did you know Mr. Pappos?” Midge asked as I got the hose snugged down.

“Not very well,” I replied. I stood, made sure the hose's oversized nozzle was closed, then flipped open the valve at the bottom of the tank. The hose was heavy and as awkward as a boa constrictor, but Midge offered no help as I dragged it across the floor, out the door and snaked it across the lawn.

“From the statements last night it seems like everyone hated him,” Midge said as she stooped to grab the tarp and the sieve.

“Dimitri was very opinionated,” I said and left it at that.

The hose didn’t reach the tallus slope, only made it as far as the middle of my side yard, but there was no help for it.

Midge spread the tarp and placed the sieve at the near end. She took up the hose and worked the nozzle open. Grape juice squirted out in a rush, splattering her uniform blouse and splashing across her face. She gagged and dropped the hose. Pale-pink juice gushed across the yard in a thick stream until I stooped and closed the valve.

Midge was soaked and glaring at me. Her buddies back at the patrol car tried to hide their smirks as wine dripped off her chin. “You can go,” she finally said to me through her teeth.

I went, but only as far as the kitchen, after stopping under the awning to ask Victor to bring over the wagon.

I washed cutlery in the sink as the overloaded dishwasher churned away on a load of plates and glassware, but the cutlery was just an excuse to watch the three police officers work. By the time they got the hang of the hose, they were all dappled with grape juice, stems, and skins.

Jessica came downstairs at
11:00. The caterer, Charlie, arrived a moment later. I left them in the kitchen and went to my office-cubby in the tasting room to call my insurance agent, Steven Hearst Junior, and ruin his day.

I had been a customer of Steven’s father, Steve Senior, for twenty years. Steve Senior was a burly Napa Valley native with a beefy handshake, a skin-tight crew cut, and a willingness to chop through the red tape for his customers
.
His son was anemic and penny pinching.

“Two claims in eleven months,” he said doubtfully. “And that figure you gave me. I mean, this was grape juice, not wine, right?”

“It was a product with a cost of production and an expected return,” I said sharply. I had done my research during our last wrangling match the year before; I knew the exact wording of my policy.

“I’m just telling you what the company’s going to tell me,” he said defensively.

“Maybe I should take my business elsewhere.”

“Actually, they might insist you do just that,” he said, his tone brightening perceptibly.

“Steven,”
I said warningly, and that was all I needed to say. I was as good at scolding other people’s children as I was my own.

“All right. I’ll type it up and get it in today,” he said. “But I make no promises…”

“Do that,” I said and hung up.

Charlie and Jessica were hard at work, boxing the caterer’s clean plates and clearing and loading the dishwasher. I pitched in, moving boxes to the door and stacking them. Their giggles and glances during the process made me smile at first, but the cloying scent of young love soon made me want to throw up. Does that make me a shrew? So be it. I was happy to exit the kitchen when a large truck with ‘Star Crossed Vineyard’ stenciled on the side pulled up out back and Blake Becker climbed down. He went to the rear of the truck, rolled up the door and took down a moving dolly.

I was surprised to see Blake, though he did have an appointment to pick up fifty cases of the Reserve cabernet. I mean, his partner had died just the night before. And I was afraid he had made a wasted trip. Midge and her crew of two would probably not appreciate the activity in the cellar while it was still a crime scene.

I dried my hands and exited the kitchen. Blake waved at me and started my way, but I held a hand up at him and crossed the lawn to where Midge was pawing through a massive pile of tangled stems, skins, and seeds with rubber-gloved hands. She was sweating, her uniform wet with as much perspiration as wine juice. Her partners looked no better, exhausted from shoveling the heavy must.

I tried not to think of all the bottles the wine now soaking into my yard would have filled - it seemed trivial when weighed against a man’s life - but I couldn’t help it.

Blake had ignored my hand gesture and followed me down. I hooked a thumb at him and told Midge, “Blake’s here to collect the cased wine at the front of the cellar. If that’s all right?”

Midge thought about it for a moment, then nodded. “We’re done in there. Just stay away from the tank.” I had started to turn away when she stopped me. “Ever seen this before?” She asked as she plucked something from the tarp and held it up between two fingers. It was a long and twisted piece of what looked like unraveling string with crosspieces of something dark and matted woven into it. I looked like a rope ladder with only a single rope. I ducked down for a close look and saw that the ‘rungs’ of the ladder were actually feathers and tiny bones knotted into a ‘string’ of woven hair. I jerked back, disgusted and a little unsettled. There was something sinister about the ugly thing.