Dead on the Vine: (Violet Vineyard Murder Mysteries #1 (A Cozy Mystery)) (7 page)

One thing I can say for the town of Napa is that despite the influx of tourists and wineries it has maintained its small town charm, if you can overlook the traffic jams. Trees line the streets, fronting small antique shops, trendy restaurants and restored office buildings dating from the early part of the century. Half a dozen bridges cross the landscaped Napa River, and the whistle of a paddle-wheeled steamboat often fills the air. A great spot for a day-trip, or to settle down and enjoy what’s left of small-town California. If you have the money.

Bistral was a new California-French (whatever that means) restaurant located on the ground floor of the Napa Register Building, one of the oldest and best preserved structures in the First Street District of Napa. I parked at a meter and checked myself over in the rearview mirror to make sure I didn’t have bugs stuck in my teeth. My hair was a mess. I gave it a quick finger-comb and plopped the straw hat down on top of it.

There was quite a bit of foot traffic on the sidewalk, mostly pale tourists sporting the bright pink of new sunburns. They all seemed to be smiling. They’d probably already had one too many trips to the tasting table. There weren’t many cars on the street, but it was Wednesday, so most of the locals were at work in San Francisco.

Leaving one bottle of my cabernet under the front seat, I took the other three and headed inside. Marjory drank enough wine as it was, I didn’t intend to encourage her by bringing in four bottles. Besides, there would be only seven of us today. And the City of Napa would not appreciate seven drunk ladies crashing through the Historic District.

Bistral was a bright, airy place with lots of potted plants, high ceilings and wrought iron furniture. Paintings by local artists adorned the walls, complete with discreet and exorbitant price tags. The restaurant was full of chattering, smiling people oohing and aahing over the food. Most were tourists and business people in suits and ties. I spotted my table, a group of women in sundresses picking at green salads.

Marjory spotted me and waved. I waved back and shook my head at the maître d’ as he returned from seating a pair of serious-faced gentlemen in matching gray suits and drab ties. The ladies looked happy to see me, probably because I was carrying three bottles of wine. By the end of the lunch they’d have a low-grade buzz and the conversation would turn catty. And that’s when my stomach would begin to churn. God, I hated these things!

“Hello, ladies!” I said, pulling out my chair and sitting down beside Marjory Brennan, a plump, melodramatic brunette who wears too much makeup and enough jewelry to send her to the bottom of the ocean. She’s constantly rolling her eyes and talking with her hands. She isn’t bad looking, but I honestly didn’t see what Samson was so enthralled with. Marjory had been married to a lawyer in San Francisco who had won a huge settlement on a copyright infringement case and been served divorce papers that evening while celebrating with his mistress. After the final decree, Marjory moved back to Napa and bought a home surrounded by Zinfandel and Chardonnay vines. I have to admit that her snobbery gets on my nerves, but she’s a laugh waiting to happen, especially when she’s had a few glasses of wine.  

I said hello to everyone and accepted a quick kiss on the cheek from Marjory, accompanied by an overdose of Obsession cologne. All of the ladies at the Lunch are cut from the same expensive and gaudy cloth. They look elegant and sophisticated, but with a searching quality that makes me wonder if they are really happy. Most of them are married or divorced from very successful men, but the money they have presents as many problems as it solves. When you don’t need to make a living, or even lift a finger to feed or clothe yourself or your children, it leaves too much time for introspection. And that leads to self-pity or elitism. Sometimes both. That’s one of the reasons I’m glad I’m kept too busy for social games or nitpicking. I listen and smile in the right places, then go home, put on jeans and a T-shirt, get dirty in the garden and have a cold beer with the men. Most of the ladies at the table find my lifestyle incomprehensible, but indulge me. Probably because my last name is de Montagne, even if only by marriage. Did I mention they were snobs?

“Oh, how wonderful!” Marjory gushed as I set the bottles on the table. “Is this the 2008 Reserve you’ve been going on and on about?” she asked, greedily reaching for the nearest bottle.

“Yes. Hope you like it.” I replied as I spread my napkin in my lap. “I think it’s our best.”

“And how much will it be selling for?” Marjory asked, holding the bottle up to the light. Leave it to her to get right to the bottom line.

“Six-fifty a case, less to my friends.” I smiled. “So put your orders in now.”

“I’ll take four cases,” she said. “You can have Samson deliver it,” she added with a wink. I made a gagging motion and Marjory laughed her ear-puncturing cackle.

“Samson is quite the man,” Marjory informed me. 

“Speaking of quite a man, I heard about what happened to that delightful Harlan boy.” Janice Brighton said softly. Janice was the newest member of the group, and the nicest of the bunch. I wondered how long she would last with these piranhas?

“Oh, God!” Marjory sighed, rolling her eyes to the ceiling. “That was a man! What a waste!” I cringed. I had known Kevin’s murder would be a hot topic, but I wasn’t ready to talk about it. Especially not with these she-devils.

“I’m sure he’d agree,” I said, my sarcasm lost on Marjory.

“Tell us what happened,” Marjory demanded. “All the details.” She shoved a horde of gold bangles up her fleshy forearms and plopped her elbows on the table.

Briefly I explained what I had seen in the vineyard, without graphic descriptions. There were many oohs and ahs and shaking heads, and I would swear I even saw a tear glimmer in Marjory’s eye. By the time I was finished the waiter had opened the first bottle and poured.

“I suppose Laurel inherits,” Marjory said.

“You think money was the motive?” Linda Tate asked. Linda is a bleached blonde with a pinched look about the mouth and deep-set black eyes. While some women grow old gracefully, gathering dignity and poise, Linda had merely grown bitter as grape pumice. She eyed every twenty-something woman in a short skirt with equal parts envy and hostility. Linda had married my sixth grade boyfriend, Dave Tate, who had run to fat and taken to smoking repulsive cigars in the years since he became a Vice President at Stalwart Distillers.

“There are better reasons to kill a man,” Marjory said with a wink at me.

“I wouldn’t be surprised if
that woman
did it.” Brenda Perry, wife of Napa’s premiere pediatrician Dr. Lincoln Perry, hissed from the far end of the table. “There’s something missing in that woman, and not just her underwear.”

Marjory laughed, having already drained her wineglass. “You’re just saying that because she slapped Lincoln’s face at the Founder’s Day Dance.” Part of the reason Marjory is so much fun is that she never hesitates to make a comment like that, it’s also part of the reason I avoid her as much as possible. I can’t help but laugh at her cruel remarks, but the laughter always leaves a shameful taste in my mouth.

Brenda flushed and set her wineglass down so hard it sloshed red splatters on the tablecloth. “You don’t know anything about it, Marjory, but when did that ever stop you from talking?”

“Touché!” Marjory exclaimed with a shrill cackle. She refilled her glass, stopping just short of the rim. “I only wish Lincoln had socked her in the mouth.”

“He should have,” Brenda grumbled.

“She’s always been nice to me,” Janice said with a shrug.

“Lucifer would be sweet to you!” Marjory announced after gulping down half her wine. “He wouldn’t have a choice. You’d kill him with kindness.”

“I hear she was a lesbian,” Linda Tate said, looking significantly around the table. “In college.”

“If she is, she hides it well!” Marjory said with good humor. “She’s slept with half the men in the valley. If you believe the rumors, which I always do. Hell, I start most of them!”

“I said she
was
a lesbian, Marjory. Back in college,” Linda replied snottily, leaning aside to let the waiter remove her salad plate.

“You’re either a lesbian or you’re not, it’s not something you dabble in,” Marjory said. “You mean she’s bisexual.”

“I meant what I said,” Linda replied stiffly. “But maybe you know more about it than I do?”

Marjory laughed loud and long. I couldn’t help but smile and the rest of the ladies joined in. Thankfully, the subject was dropped right there.

The conversation moved on to Janice’s upcoming trip to Europe. She briefly outlined the itinerary as we drooled. I’ve been to Europe before, but Roger had been with me, flirting with every hostess and hatcheck girl, so some of the charm had been lost. It sounded like Janice and Gerald would have a much better time.

The conversation drifted. Wine prices. The outcome of the last Wine Auction. And finally the Wine Train, a restored steam train that offers gourmet dinner and lunch excursions and stops at wineries along its route for tastings. The hue and cry, meetings and accusations over the Wine Train had died down years ago, but there was still no shortage of people who found the noise, the traffic problems and the tourists too much to bear. Personally, though I have never taken a trip on the rails, I find the train charming.

The lunch went on as usual. All of the women praised my wine and drank too much of it. I must admit that the cabernet was fantastic. One of the downsides of owning a vineyard that produces only thirty-five hundred cases of wine a year is that I very rarely get to drink any of it. Partly because the demand for it is so high and I don’t want to turn people away and partly because I can’t afford it!

As we were finishing desert, I was surprised to see Ben Stoltze, Detective Priest and two men in expensive suits enter the restaurant. Bistral didn’t seem like the kind of place Ben would choose. It was too pretentious for him. I pictured him taking his meals at one of the local cafés or more likely at one of the fast-food chains.

Ben saw me and waved, which drew Priest’s attention to our table. He favored me with an arrogant grin that made me want to wash his mouth out with soap. The four men sat down and ordered as our waiter began to clear the refuse, and the ladies dug into their purses to pay the tab.

“And how is dear, dear, Samson?’  Marjory asked. “Still as spry as ever?” She gave extra emphasis to the
‘spry’
, adding innuendo that couldn’t be missed. Marjory was a bit tipsy. Her face was flushed and her eyes had the glassy-sheen of a bear in heat.

“He’s fine,” I replied. “He sends his regards.”

“I bet he does!” Marjory replied with a half-drunk laugh. “Give him
my
regards,
” she added. “And the key to my bedroom!” That cracked her up, and she had to hurriedly swallow some wine to clear her throat. I hoped she wasn’t planning on driving herself home.

We had the usual hugging session as we all dropped bills on the table. I did a quick mental count, and saw that the waiter was going to end up with about a dollar tip, so I lingered until it was just Marjory, Janice and I, then slipped a twenty under my plate.

“You are coming to my
fete
Saturday, aren’t you?” Marjory asked, looking me right in the eye, leaving me no room to maneuver. I had been putting off RSVP’ing until I could think of an excuse. Now my chance was gone.

“Of course,” I said, swallowing my dread. Marjory would have what she considered the cream of society at her party, which meant boredom accompanied by two-hundred people I didn’t want to see. And the obligatory string quartet.

“And, Claire, you’ll bring that darling old gentleman with you?” She lifted her eyebrows and grinned crookedly. A remnant of salad was stuck in her teeth.

“He wouldn’t miss it,” I assured her. “But I take no responsibility for his actions.”

“I’ll be responsible for
those,”
she assured me, weaving slightly as she picked up her Gucci bag. “Just make sure he’s there.”

Janice excused herself and headed for the bathroom. Marjory walked with me to the front of the restaurant where we paused for final farewells. I hugged her and was about to leave when Ben Stoltze walked over.

“Good afternoon ladies,” He said. Ben was wearing a gray suit with a rumpled red silk tie held down by his 4-H pin. He smiled apologetically as he spoke to me.

“Can I have a moment, Claire?”

“Take more than a moment, Ben,” Marjory admonished in a voice too loud for the emptying restaurant. “Do it right.” She roared laughter, letting everyone know how drunk she was. She took one step back and then one forward, eyes out of focus.

I flushed, and Ben looked uncomfortable. Our eyes met briefly, and I swear his ears turned bright pink before he hurriedly looked away. ‘God, how cute!’ I thought and blushed a little redder.

“Come along Marjory,” Janice Brighton appeared, giving Ben and me a long-suffering smile. “I’ll drive you home.” She took Marjory’s elbow and guided her toward the door.

“Ver’ nice of you,” Marjory said, looking at a spot two feet above Janice’s head. “’Need a nap.” She laughed again, said a loud, breezy goodbye to all the restaurant’s patrons, and staggered outside, Janice holding on for dear life.