Dead on the Vine: (Violet Vineyard Murder Mysteries #1 (A Cozy Mystery)) (6 page)

“Rain check,” he said. “Now, Jessica?”

“I’ll get her,” I said, glad to leave him behind.

I walked through the dining room furnished in antique English barley twist furniture, and through the sitting room, where a sheet of plastic was taped over the broken picture window. I seethed internally as I looked at the glass scattered over the floor, but tried to calm myself before heading up to Jessica’s room. Whatever she might decide, Stanley had been in my home, on my property, for the last time. If I saw him again, I’d do him great bodily harm. I made a mental note to call a glazier and have the window replaced. A thousand dollars down the drain.

Jessica was lying across her bed reading from a piece of notebook paper and crying when I pushed through her door. She stuffed the letter under her bosom as I came in, and looked guiltily at me. She tried on a wan smile that didn’t work with the tears. 

“Hey, mom,” she said and the thoughts of Stanley and Jessica’s torturous love affair were banished by that starburst of love only a mother can understand. She was such a good person, caring, thoughtful, considerate. I was very lucky in so many ways, but her choice in men was as bad as my own. How many nights had we sat up dissecting Stanley down to the last greasy particle only to have Jessica go back to him the next day? But what could I do? I was her mother, not her jailer.

“The detective wants to speak with you,” I told her, crossing the room and reaching down to smooth her hair. She pulled away and stared up at me with startled eyes.

“Me?” she asked. “Why? I don’t know anything. I was asleep.” She sat up on the edge of the bed, slipping the letter into her front pocket. It was probably a note from Stanley, the window smasher. “What does he want?” She seemed far more alarmed than was appropriate. She shoved hair out of her eyes and tugged at her wrinkled T-shirt. She looked haggard, no makeup, tangled hair, but still incredibly attractive. I wished she was less so, her life might have been a little less complicated.

“He’s talking to everyone,” I said, trying not to sound exasperated. “Just come down and talk to him so he can leave. And when he’s gone, we need to talk,” I added with emphasis.

“About what?”  

“Stanley, my window, et cetera. You better get cleaned up and get downstairs. The detective is waiting.” I turned and walked away, leaving her door open behind me. Already I was feeling guilty for my brusqueness. It’s so difficult to walk the line between mother and friend. But, I think the broken window had pushed us across that boundary and deep into nagging mother territory. Hey, I might not be as imperturbable as June Cleaver, but I bet June couldn’t make an excellent cabernet sauvignon!

Priest was sitting at the dining room table when I came down stairs, chewing on something while he scribbled in his notebook. He stopped chewing as I breezed past him.

“Jessica will be right down,” I told him, and headed into the kitchen.

The first thing I noticed was a small piece of cheese and sausage missing from one of the tomatoes. Instantly, I saw red, realizing what Priest had been chewing on. I had the insane urge to grab the tomato, take it into the dining room and mash it right in his face! Instead I took a deep breath and poured another glass of wine. It wasn’t worth getting worked up about it, I told myself, but I couldn’t help it. I thought of mentioning it to Ben, but it would just sound petty. Better to let it go and make sure I never had the jerk in my home again.

Victor and the workers came in as I finished my third glass of wine.

“Smells great, Claire,” Victor said as he passed me on the way to the tasting room. The three Mexican men were close behind him.

“Two minutes,” I replied. I got out dishes and silverware and opened another bottle of wine. From the dining room I heard a murmur of conversation then strained laughter from Jessica. Priest was turning on the charm, sharing something funny on this most unfunny of days. That darkened my mood even more. He was just the type of man I didn’t want Jessica involved with.

‘Well, we’ll never see him again,’ I thought thankfully. Little did I know that I would be seeing a lot more of Doug Priest than I cared to.

The police left around 5:30 after promising to send an hourly patrol by the property for the next few nights. Samson wanted to stay the night, but I didn’t need his grousing and complaining. He went home in a huff. Victor, after making a dozen calls to find a replacement, trudged off to a pool tournament with the reluctance of the truly grieving. He plays on a team called The Diablos Rojos with several men who work for Cab Creek Cellars. If I hadn’t felt it necessary to talk to Jessica and get our living situation ironed out, I would have been there with him, drinking ice-cold beer. I could have used the distraction.

Jessica and I made dinner together that night, something we normally enjoy more than the actual eating. We both love to cook, and more than once our dinners have devolved into a competition of who could come up with the most bizarre, but still edible, dishes. And I was still finding dried tentacles of spaghetti hidden behind cookbooks or stuck to the walls of my kitchen from an evening two months ago when dinner had turned into what we now call the ‘Infamous Pasta Rumble.’  I had accepted defeat when she threatened me with a ladle-full of cold tomato sauce cocked like a catapult and aimed at my head. But that night after Kevin’s murder was devoid of laughter and fun. Neither of us spoke more than ‘Pass the—‘ or ‘Where’s the—.‘

I put together salads with cold chicken breast while Jessica mixed up red wine vinaigrette with herbs. I caught her dabbing at her eyes more than once, but said nothing. I assumed she was upset over Stanley. After all, she had been a senior in high school when Kevin began his work next door and barely knew him. Still, Jessica had seen our neighbor dead, hanging on the vines covered in blood and gore. That was certainly excuse enough for tears. I thought about letting her off the hook about Stanley, but I just couldn’t. I felt compelled to discuss it now while plastic sheeting still hung where my window used to be.

We ate in the kitchen. At least I ate. Jessica just shoved her food around the plate. I struggled with how to begin, but could think of no segue or smooth opening gambit. Finally, I just blurted it out.

“I intend to press charges against Stanley,” I informed Jessica. “I’m not letting him get away with this.”

“I’ll pay for the window, mom,” Jessica said without looking up from her plate. She speared a piece of chicken, ferried it half way to her mouth and then put it back on the plate.

“He’ll pay for the window,” I corrected. “And he’ll do it in jail.”

“Stanley wasn’t angry at you. He was pissed off at me. Just let me handle it.”

“Well, my window wasn’t angry at anyone. And I’ve had enough of Stanley,” I folded my napkin and took a sip of wine. “I’m not going to tell you how to live your life,” I began and Jessica snorted a disbelieving laugh. “I’m not,” I repeated indignantly, “But I don’t want him here again. Ever.”

“We agree on that much, anyway,” Jessica said, poking at her lettuce. “I broke up with Stanley a month ago.” She wiped a slow trickle of tears and put her fork down. “I’ve had enough,” she said. “I’m not really hungry.” That was an understatement; she hadn’t eaten anything. She started to stand, but I stopped her.

“Sit with me for a minute,” I said. She dropped back in her chair and I proceeded with caution, unwilling to drop the subject. “You’ve broken up before,” I gently reminded her. “But you always take him back.”

Jessica shook he head. “Not this time. I don’t love Stanley,” she said, voice thick with the tears. “I—I, God, I can’t talk about this right now.” She shoved back her chair, but made no move to rise.

“I understand,” I told her, reaching for her hand. I gave it a squeeze. “You and Stanley have been together for six years. That’s not an easy thing to walk away from.”

Jessica pulled her hand away and hugged herself. She shook her head. “It’s not Stanley,” she said. “It’s—” she shivered and hugged tighter, hunching her shoulders so that her hair fell around her face.

“Is it Kevin?” I asked, scooting my chair around the table, closer to her. “I know. It’s awful. I can’t believe it myself,” and that’s when my own tears started. All the events of the day finally gang-tackled me and I was weeping into my plate. I grabbed my napkin and tried to mop them up.

Jessica’s shoulders shook, and I could hear her choking back sobs. She huddled even tighter in her own embrace.

“I know, baby,” I said and put my hand on her shoulder. “I even feel sorry for Laurel.”

Jessica’s shoulders went as taut as the grape trellis wires in the vineyard. “You don’t understand,” she whispered. She pulled away from me. “You can’t.”

“But I do, babe,” I said. “Kevin was a very sweet man. Someone we saw every day. But we’ll survive.” Jessica looked up at me and her expression was so pitiful that my heart almost broke with love for her. I could see how much the murder was affecting her. But maybe it was more than that? Maybe it was fear? I know that I was feeling the first nibbles of worry in the pit of my stomach as night drew on. I almost wished that I had let Samson stay over. Almost.

Jessica stood, still clutching herself, eyes downcast. “I can’t do this,” she said in a tearful voice. “I’m sorry, mom, I just can’t,” she turned away from me and started to leave.

“Jessica,” I said. “You can talk to me. I understand.” I began but Jessica was walking away, down the dark hall, shoulders slumped. I stood and started to follow her.

“Jessica,” I called to her as she reached the foot of the stairs, “come back.”

She stopped and shook her head. “Mom, please.”

“Jessica—“

“Damn it!” she screamed. She shoved her hair out of her eyes and knotted her fingers in it, clutching her temples with her palms. “Just leave me alone,” she yelled. “Please, for once, just leave me alone. For once, just mind your own business!” She ran up the stairs while I stood there with my jaw hanging slack.

Her words hit me as hard as a kick in the stomach. Jessica and I have always been friends, always shared our troubles and our tears. Never had I seen her as dejected as she was at that moment, and yet she was shunning me. I started to follow, but stopped on the second step. What would I say? My hurt feelings were already turning to anger. I’d just make things worse.

Reluctantly, I went back to the kitchen and cleared the table, nursing my bruised ego and worrying about my daughter. I felt like stomping upstairs and reminding Jessica that she was living in my house. If she wanted to be left alone she should move out. But I didn’t want to fight with her, I wanted to help. But she had made it clear she didn’t want my help. Very clear.

“Oh, Christ!” I gasped, feeling another kick to the gut as a thought hit me. Maybe Jessica was pregnant? That would explain her moodiness in the past two weeks and her tears tonight.

No! There had to be something else. Anything else. Please! I was jumping to conclusions, but the thought lingered.

When the dishes were loaded in the dishwasher, I lit a cigarette, poured the last drops from the bottle of wine and went into the living room, trying to ignore the broken window. Trying to forget my injured feelings. Trying to rid my mind of the nagging image of my daughter pregnant with a future prison inmate’s child. It didn’t work.

I finished my cigarette, set the alarm and double-checked the padlock and chain Victor had rigged on the inside of the wine cellar door. I drew the line at getting the revolver from my bedside table. I tossed the wine bottle in the recycle bin before heading upstairs to bed. The light was off in Jessica’s room. In the darkened hall outside her door I felt the first shivers of fear. Had I locked all the doors? Would someone climb through the plastic sheeting covering the living room window? I tried to put that out of my mind, but found myself listening to every creak and groan of the house, to the rustle of the wind slipping through the almond trees outside.

After washing up and brushing my teeth, I undressed in the dark bedroom and slipped into a pair of sweat pants and a raggedy old T-shirt. I don’t shop at Victoria’s Secret anymore. The older I get the more comfort means and the less fashion makes sense. If I had a lover, I ruefully thought, I might feel differently. 

Still anxious, I went from window to window on the second floor, drawing aside the drapes to look out over empty fields, trees and rocky slopes bathed in the watery light of a quarter-moon. The south side of the house was quiet. All the lights were off at the Harlan’s. I wondered if Laurel was asleep, or if she had gone to stay with friends or family. I honestly hoped she was doing okay.

I crawled into bed, pulled the purple coverlet up tight to my chin and stared at the ceiling, thinking of Kevin. Sleep was hard to come by that night. I finally dozed off around 3:00 A.M., but was back up the next morning at 6:00, as usual.

I was tired and grouchy, and my mouth tasted like stale wine and cigarettes. Victor was in the vineyard with the three men from the day before, thinning the flower clusters. I made a pot of coffee and lit a cigarette, wincing at the sunlight flowing in through the kitchen window. I was on my second cup when I heard Samson’s jeep pull up. I didn’t bother to go say good morning - I was too tired. I’d see him later. I wanted to taste the 2008 Vintner’s Reserve that we were bottling this week.

The 2008 Reserve was a special bottling of five-hundred cases reserved from the initial bottling of the 2008, which had been completed six months before. At that time Samson and I had selected the finest barrels for longer aging, a first for Violet. In years past, we had been too desperate for operating capital to reserve any wine. I was confident that our decision would pay off, but nervous too. Thinking of the bottling reminded me that I had to check on my cork and capsule order, which was two days late. The capsules are the foil wrappers that cover the cork and the neck of the wine bottle. I had ordered a pale violet with embossed grapes and I was anxious to see them. I made a note on my pad and picked up the newspaper.

The news wasn’t good. Kevin’s picture was on page one. I quickly flipped to the agricultural section. The article about Kevin wouldn’t tell me anything new, and I just didn’t want to read it.

The Agricultural page didn’t brighten my mood. The problem of the Glassy Winged Sharp Shooter, a pest that carries Pierce’s disease, was growing. Having lived through the re-planting of 50% of my vines after Phylloxera (an aphid that attacks rootstock) infected my vines in the 1990’s, the thought of another catastrophe made me shudder. The article stated that the federal government was promising twenty-three million in funds to help control the disease, but that didn’t make me feel much better. I needed to do some research and find out how I could combat this threat without spraying chemicals. I’m not an organic grower, but I try to be environmentally conscious.

Jessica trudged off to the daycare center at 6:20. She looked tired. Neither of us mentioned the previous night, but there was a tension between us that made me sad and reminded me of those tough teenage years.

I went down to the cellar where  Samson was racking the 2009 vintage from thirty-gallon, heavily toasted French oak barrels into twenty-gallon American oak barrels with a milder flavor. We rack the cabernet (draining off the wine while leaving the grape solids, sediments and spent yeast cultures behind) several times between secondary fermentation and bottling. When I joined Samson, he had the smaller barrel drawn up on a dolly, a clear plastic hose with an aspirator connecting it to the larger French barrel. Two glasses and a wine thief (a clear glass tube used to draw wine off the top of a barrel for tasting) were sitting on top of the thirty-gallon barrel. A dot of red at the bottom of one glass let me know that he had started without me.

“Oversleep, de Montagne?” He grouchily asked without looking up. “Or is today a holiday I am not aware of?”

“It was a long night,” I said without explanation.

Samson used the thief to draw off a sample of the Cabernet and place it in the clean glass. I took the glass and held it up to the light. The wine had a rich color, and a silky texture. I could see some sediment, but we were a long way from fining the wine, a process in which we add a small amount of clay called Bentonite which bonds with the sediment and spent yeast cultures and carries them to the bottom of the barrel. I stuck my nose in the bell of the glass and took a long whiff. The smell of berries was even more pronounced, undercut by aromas of tobacco and citrus. 2009 was shaping up to be almost as good a vintage as the 2008, which had been a banner year for Violet.

I took a sip, slurping it in quickly so that the wine hit my entire palate at once, then held the wine on my tongue as I sucked air across it, almost gargling. Not very lady-like, I know, but it is the best way to taste. You’re supposed to spit the wine out, but I rarely follow that protocol unless I’m sampling a lot of wine. The wine was full bodied on the tongue with the strong tannins of an immature red. I emptied the glass.

“Good, eh?” He asked, peering at me from under wiry gray brows. “I think we will have no problem selling this, yes?”

“It’s fantastic, Samson,” I agreed, knowing how important praise was to my old friend. I had commented once, five or six years ago, that I thought a batch of cabernet from the lower slope had a grassy quality and he had sulked for days. That didn’t change my opinion, and he eventually agreed with me, grumbling under his breath about the ‘uneducated American palate.’ 

“I think it will do,” he said, pleased and struggling not to show it. “Not so good as the 2008, but,” he shrugged, “I think it will sell.” He adjusted the hose lower in the barrel, keeping the end just below the surface of the wine so that the sediment was left behind.

I put my glass down on the barrel. “What about the 2008 Reserve? I wanted to try it this morning.”

“I tasted it yesterday,” Samson said with a sly grin. “It is the best we ever make.”

“You didn’t wait for me?” I teased. “You know what they say about drinking alone.”

“I know what I say; that it is more wine for me.” Samson drew the hose out of the barrel and tapped the wood facing with his knuckle. “I will rack the rest into a carboy,” he said. The carboys are five gallon glass bottles used primarily in the racking process, but also for secondary fermentation at some wineries. “I bottled four and a half liters for you,” he said, nodding at the front of the cellar. Six bottles, sans labels, but capped in violet foil with the words 2008 V.R. handwritten in gold marker were sitting on his dusty desk beside an antique hand-operated corking machine so splattered with wine juice that its lever was sticky-black. I had worn my hands and forearms out on that corker the first year Violet Vineyard sold wine, when Victor and I boxed only forty cases and Samson was still working full-time at Sonoma Valley Winery. That had been an ordeal of late nights and little sleep. The following year, with four times as much wine to be bottled, I had purchased a used Monoblock corker and filler using every bit of profit from the first year, though we had still done the labeling by hand. Four years ago I invested in the rest of the Monoblock line by buying a bottle sterilizer, pump and labeler. My life got a lot easier but my bank account still hadn’t recovered.

“I just want a taste, Samson. Do I look like I need a drink that badly?” I laughed.

“For your lunch with the ladies,” he reminded. “Tell the lovely Marjory that I send my compliments,” he grinned as he wound the hose into a loop. Marjory is one of the Grande Dames of Napa Valley, and a friend who I can barely stand at times due to her endless gossip and snotty remarks. In other words, she makes me laugh at people I like and then I feel guilty about it. Marjory is active in the Vintners’ Association, an avid supporter of a dozen charities and the object of Samson’s romantic daydreams.

“Damn it!” I had completely forgotten about the Lunch, a monthly get-together organized by Marjory and attended by most of her female friends, the majority of whom I detest. But I work with many of them on charity events or wine-related activities and they never bat an eye at the rising price of Violet Cabernet. Oh the suffering I endure for a buck! “I’ll take four bottles. You can put the others in my cellar.

“Yes, your Highness,” Samson said and bowed. I ignored him. He’d probably drink the bottles himself.

I looked at my watch, and muttered “Damn it,” again. I had two hours to get dressed and make it to Bistral in Napa, a new bistro that everyone was raving about. I wondered if they had a good burger?

“I would be glad to take your place,” Samson offered, “or perhaps I could just entertain Marjory?”

“I’ll give her your regards,” I assured him. “Dirty old man.”

“I am like the wines I make,” Samson boasted as I grabbed four bottles. “I get better the older I grow!”

Samson wheeled the dolly with the freshly filled barrel back into the far reaches of the cellar as I climbed the stairs to my kitchen. Leaving the hand-lettered bottles on the kitchen table, I went upstairs to change, wondering if I should skip the Lunch. In my current state, short on sleep and long on problems, I didn’t think I’d be very good company. But I did want to hear what the ladies thought of the 2008.

I took a pale blue summer dress from the closet and a straw hat to save me the trouble of doing my hair. I slipped on sandals and in less than forty-five minutes I was behind the wheel of my Mustang, which I affectionately call Sally after the old Wilson Pickett song, whipping down the Mayacamas Mountain road with the top down, taking in the scenery at seventy miles an hour.