Dead on the Vine: (Violet Vineyard Murder Mysteries #1 (A Cozy Mystery)) (41 page)

“I am so sorry, Alexandra,” I said as I sat beside her and squeezed her hand.

Jessica came into the room. “What happened? I heard Dimitri has been hurt?” she asked, looking from me to Alexandra in bewilderment.

“He's dead,” Alexandra said in the same little-girl voice she had used when she spoke to Samson. “Dead,” she repeated. “Murdered.”

Jessica looked at me. The look on my face must have frozen out any other questions she had.

I stood and released Alexandra’s hand. “Fix Alexandra a scotch and sit with her,” I said. “I have to talk to the guests.”

Jessica is an elementary school teacher, long on patience and sympathy; she needed no prodding. She nodded and turned to the bar as I left the room.

I felt like a witch for abandoning Alexandra; I could have sent Jessica outside to corral the guests while I sat with the widow, but my mind was too confused and swirling, I was afraid I would not have been much comfort to her. What I had seen in the cellar was so shocking I was still having trouble assimilating it. Dimitri dead and Samson pawing at the body, covered in the dead man’s blood. Could Samson have? Would he have?

No! I had known Samson for more than twenty years; he was a grouchy hothead with a sharp tongue, but he was no murderer.

God, I hoped I was right.

The waiters and cooks were huddled in the kitchen as I passed through. The conversation stopped and all eyes turned to me, but I paid them no mind. I continued out the back door and across the patio.

My eyes shot out across the valley, now cloaked in an inky darkness alleviated only by the tiny twinkling lights of homes, businesses, and wineries. With the cloudless night sky above illuminated by millions of stars, it was hard to determine where the world ended and the heavens began. It was almost impossible for me to believe there had been a murder committed amidst such beauty.

Most of my guests were clustered near the wine cellar door. Every one of them looked more curious than frightened. And they were all whispering. A few of them had gotten a glimpse of the crime scene before I had slammed the door closed and they were regaling the others with gruesome details. No one seemed to be considering the fact that there was a murderer in their midst. They sipped their wine and speculated as if this was a TV drama staged for their amusement. Their attitude infuriated me after what I had just seen, but I tried to keep my temper in check as I raised my voice and spoke.

“Please, everyone, back to the tent. Sheriff Drake has asked that everyone sit down and wait for the police to arrive.”

“So, he really is dead?” Armand Rivincita, asked, his voice edged with more than curiosity. He sounded deflated, and he looked pale and shaken. I wondered instantly why he was so affected, but I had little time to consider it before I was bombarded with questions and accusations from all sides.

“Did Samson kill him?”

“Did Marjory?

“I bet it was Angela!”

“Samson was strangling him!” someone shouted from the back of the crowd. “I saw it!”

“I saw blood. I think he shot Dimitri!” someone else called out.

“Ding-dong the witch is dead!” a half drunk voice added from the back of the mob. A few people tittered while most looked mortified.

“Please, sit down! A man is dead!” I shouted angrily. This wasn't some kind of joke. I didn’t like Dimitri either, but respect for the dead was something every person should understand without scolding.

The voices died, but I got a few baleful looks. People started drifting off to the tent. I turned back toward the cellar door and almost jumped out of my sandals when I found Jorge McCullers standing directly behind me.

“You seen Angela?” he asked, his eyes panning over the departing crowd. There was grass clinging to Jorge’s clothes and his face was wrinkled from sleep. “I must have dozed off while I was waiting for the cab. What's going on back here?” he said, waving a hand at the people under the tent, most of them whispering again and shooting looks at the two of us. But I wasn’t paying attention to them. My eyes had fixed on Jorge's right hand.

It was covered in blood.

My heart lurched in my chest and I took a startled step back, my eyes pinned to his bloody hand. Angela had accused Dimitri of ruining her less than thirty minutes ago...

Jorge saw me looking at his hand. He looked at it too then held it up, slick with blood.

“Nose bleed,” he said. “High blood pressure. Drinking makes it worse.”

I nodded dumbly and took another step away from him. My feet seemed to stick to the grass, my legs felt leaden. There was more blood on Jorge’s shirt. A splash of it blotted his jeans.

“What’s going on?” he asked again. “Why are you looking at me that way?”

“Wait under the tent, Jorge,” I said, my voice compressed to a thin squeak. The sound of a siren reached me. And then another. “The police are coming,” I said and bolted past him. I crossed the lawn, jerked open the cellar door and ducked inside.

Hunter had Marjory seated on the chair at Samson’s hopelessly cluttered desk. Samson was on the other side of the room, far from the tanks and the still dangling Dimitri, leaning against the destemmer, a sulky look on his face.

“I did not kill him,” he said loudly, his voice echoing off the stone walls, though I’m not sure if he was talking to me or to Hunter. “But I am not sorry he is dead,” he added defiantly.

“Wonderful,” I said and his pout deepened. Only Samson would be crass enough to make that kind of statement just moments after being found hovering over the body of a murdered man. I made a slashing motion at my throat to shut him up then realized how horrible that gesture was at that moment.

“Claire, you can wait outside with the rest,” Hunter said, catching the gesture and frowning with distaste.

I shook my head. “I’m not going anywhere until I talk to you.” I hesitated to say more in front of Marjory and Samson.

“Claire,” he said just that single word, but his chilly tone made me bristle.

“Hunter,” I said just as coldly.
“Now!”

Hunter turned to Marjory. “Stay right here and no talking to Samson. I want your stories one on one.”

“It’s not a story—” Marjory began, but Hunt held up a warning finger and she stopped talking. Her face was wet with tears, her clothes sopping with grape juice. I had never seen her look so dejected and ill at ease. Marjory was never at a loss for words. In fact, she usually said the
worst possible thing
at the
worst possible moment.
And, while I had often wished she’d just shut up, I was saddened to see her reduced to this forlorn, dejected lady in a wet dress.

I pointed Hunter at a spot beyond a small mountain of stacked cardboard cases of wine, back into the cellar, and headed that way. He followed me into the cave without further protest.

The temperature dropped as we walked a twisting path through stacks of more cased wine and thirty-gallon glass carboys filled with cabernet waiting to be bottled. It was dim back there, lit only by a single row of bulbs mounted high in the vaulted ceiling.

I stopped in the middle of the carboys, well short of the rows of oak barrels filled with aging wine, and far out of earshot of Marjory and Samson. I didn’t prevaricate or waste time.

“I saw Jorge out back. He has blood on his clothes and his hands.”

Hunter blew out a long breath and his shoulder sagged. “Fantastic,” he said then added, “Stay here.” He turned his back on me and strode out of the cave and out of the cellar, banging the door closed behind him.

As he walked away I saw his gun was back in his hand.

To read more you can purchase ‘A Vintage to Die For’ on Amazon.com.