Deadly Offer (15 page)

Andrea pushed past her into the room. She glanced wildly around until she spotted a rumpled heap on the floor.

“Oh my God,” she whispered, running to the prostrate form of Michael Contento. She wrapped her arms around him in an embrace. “Margo!” she screamed, her voice echoing off the tasting room’s walls. “Margo, what the hell happened?”

———

The Mission Inn was a small, chef-owned restaurant tucked away from busy roads, halfway between St. Adina and Wyattville. The waiter showed Miles and Darby to a corner table bathed in the soft glow of antique candle sconces flickering from the walls. Miles waited for Darby to sit down, and then helped to push in her chair.

“You look absolutely stunning,” he said, in a quiet, almost bashful way. “That dress …”

“Thank you.” Darby had seen the raw silk sheath as soon as she entered the boutique, the emerald green color calling to her like a siren song.

She handed Miles the wine list and watched him peruse it, his face wearing an uncharacteristic frown.

“I keep hoping to see Selena’s wines but once again, they aren’t listed,” he said. “Maybe that will be something the new owner will pursue when this murder investigation is over. I suppose nothing much will happen on the sale of the property until that is resolved, right?”

“I think you’re correct, Miles. I can’t imagine a sale occurring until the person who killed Selena is caught. Why would anyone purchase a property with such a dark cloud over it?”

“Any progress?”

Darby nodded. “Now that the funeral is over, Detective Nardone seems to be intent on making headway. I told you about Fritz Kohler. We know he was at Carson Creek that afternoon and that he had a prior relationship with Selena.”

“And he told you he was chosen to purchase the property?”

“Yes. According to him, all he wanted to do was help Selena.” She made a skeptical face.

“I gather you don’t believe dear Mr. Kohler.”

“Well, we know he’s not telling the truth about going back to the property at four fifteen. That receipt from the drugstore proves he was there. So it’s not hard to think he could be lying about his offer, too. Selena could very well have told him to get lost.”

“Meaning he was not going to get the vineyard.”

“Exactly.”

“And you think he might have been motivated to kill her because of a long-simmering grudge, coupled with anger and frustration over not being able to buy Carson Creek?”

“Well said, Miles.” She took a sip of water. “Then there is Vivian Allen, who has her pop star sister, Veronica, for a backer. She claims to have had a very friendly relationship with Selena, and says that Selena promised her the vineyard.”

“Blast! Did Selena promise them all the bloody vineyard?”

Darby couldn’t help but smile at Miles’ outburst. “Either she was stringing them along, or not everyone is telling the truth.”

“Okay, so if she told Vivian that she was getting Carson Creek, why would she have killed Selena?”

“I don’t know. Someone like Fritz could have snapped, but that doesn’t seem like Vivian. I suppose she could have thought she was helping Selena by giving her an overdose of beta blockers.”

“A mercy killing?”

“Perhaps. And then we have the Contento family. None of them have made a secret of their desire to own Carson Creek. Between Andrea, who claims to have been so close with Selena for years, and Michael, who acts like he admired Selena, plus Tim and Margo—there are quite a few suspects. I guess the whole family was annoyed when she hired Dan Stewart out from under their noses.”

“This whole thing with Barton blowing up the place baffles me. Do you think that is tied in with her murder as well?”

“Detective Nardone says it’s not Barton’s style, but that he could
have been working with someone else. I find that intriguing, but until we see some kind of link between him and one of the other suspects, it’s just a hunch.”

Miles fished in his jacket pocket and pulled out his phone. “Speaking of hunches, I’ve got the story for you on the wine futures trading. It mentions Tim Contento and a few other people, several of whom were fined.” He touched the screen to find the story and continued. “Turns out they were betting on the popularity of cult wines, and one or two local vineyards were involved.”

Now it was Darby’s turn to ask the questions. “Cult wines? Sounds satanic!”

Miles laughed. “You can be absolutely adorable, do you know that?”

She felt her cheeks redden. “Let’s have your explanation before I take a look at the story.”

“Okay. Cult wines are the unknowns that become classics almost overnight. With enough spin and excitement, a wine can be eagerly anticipated before it is even bottled, so much so that collectors are willing to shell out money for cases and cases of the stuff, betting that when it is released to the public, the bottles will sell for more.”

“I don’t see anything illegal in that. How did Tim Contento get in trouble?”

“Turns out one of the wines his club advertised didn’t exist, for one thing.” He handed her the touch screen. “It was a small vineyard in Sonoma called Sleepy Spaniel. Production problems caused them to miss a harvest so they couldn’t deliver on their promises of a spectacular Syrah, but that didn’t keep the blokes who set up the deal from pocketing the money after they substituted the bottles.”

“Sounds like fraud.” Darby scanned the story, looking for information. She caught her breath when she saw one of the names.
Harrison Wainfield
.

“Wainfield was implicated in this,” she said, keeping her voice low. “That could have cost him his real estate license.”

Miles peered over his shoulder. “You know him?”

“I’ve met him. He’s the Contento’s real estate broker. I think he wanted to get the Carson Creek listing as well.” She scanned the story. “What kind of money did the investors lose?”

“Several thousand dollars each. Not big money, but enough to get feathers riled enough that they took the wine club to court.”

“It sounds like the club paid damages to the Sleepy Spaniel investors.”

“That’s right. Of course, the damages were in excess of what they’d originally invested. The club paid out fifty thousand dollars, all told. It’s unclear who ended up footing that bill.”

Darby looked into Miles’ eyes. “That is one piece of information I would love to know.”

Miles gave her a quick grin. “Then I shall do my best to find out.”

———

Andrea Contento held her stepdaughter’s shoulders with both hands and gave her a hard shake. “Margo, listen! You’ve got to tell me what happened!”

The distraught woman nodded and made an effort to speak.

“Dad said he wanted to talk with me about something. I was in the office so I came to find him. He was—he was slumped in the chair, holding his chest. I ran to him and he said something and fell forward onto the floor.”

Andrea wrung her hands. The tears would come, later, but now she was focused on trying to understand the chain of events leading to her husband’s inert body lying four feet away.

She cocked her head. The ambulance was approaching, and they were using their sirens.

“What did he say?”

“I don’t know! A few words, they didn’t make sense.” She hung her head and Andrea knew she was near hysteria.

“Listen to me, Margo; you need to pull it together and think because it could be important. What did he say?”

“Something about Ahab,” she whispered.

“Ahab? As in
Moby Dick
?”

Margo bobbed her head wildly. “Ahab. Ahab’s life.”

Andrea exhaled. She felt the ridiculous urge to laugh out loud.
Melville.
How typical of her scholarly husband to reference literature with what might have been his very last breath.

She released her grip on Margo’s shoulders and pulled her into an embrace. As the paramedics burst into the room to work on Michael Contento’s body, Andrea continued to hold the sobbing woman, stroking her hair and comforting her as she had done many times and many years earlier.

———

The apartment door was locked. It was a small, one-bedroom place tacked on the back of a commercial building that sold computers in one office and offered dance lessons in a tiny studio, the kind of place that looked more like an afterthought than a home.
This is where Christophe Barton had schemed to blow up Carson Creek,
Vivian Allen realized, hoping the locked door would open.
Here in this depressing little ramshackle apartment.
She rattled the door knob in frustration. There was no other entrance and she did not have the strength to break in. She spun on her heel to leave.

The back of the building was littered with trash, some of which had probably belonged to Barton.
I’m desperate, but I’m not about to start rooting through garbage
. She spied a broken kitchen chair among the debris, along with several empty wine bottles. She recognized the Contento Family Vineyards label and smirked.

The western side of the apartment was visible from the street, and there Vivian spotted a slightly opened casement window. She stopped. Perhaps this was her way in. The window was small, but Vivian was a slim woman and she sensed she could wriggle through.

She marched back to the debris pile and grabbed the chair. It was missing a back cushion but all four legs and the seat itself appeared sturdy and intact. She carried it to the window and stepped gingerly on top. Her height was an asset and she could easily reach the window. So far, so good.

The window screen yielded with a simple push, clattering to the floor of the apartment. Vivian squirmed into the open space, relieved to see a ratty couch positioned just below. She pulled her lower body through and rolled onto the couch. A small cloud of dust rose as she landed.

The apartment had definitely been searched. Drawers were ajar, books pulled from the shelves, and even the kitchen cabinets, stocked with canned goods and boxes of packaged foods, appeared to have been inspected. Vivian surveyed the small space and the even smaller bedroom, wrinkling her nose at the poster of a nude woman that covered the grimy wall.

There was a stack of papers on a small table in the main room and Vivian leafed through them.
I don’t know what I’m looking for
, she thought,
but I suppose I’ll know when I find it.
She was about to leave when she heard a sound.

She glanced wildly at the apartment door. A few letters lay on the floor and through the side window she saw the retreating figure of a postal carrier.
Mail,
she thought.
They are still delivering his mail.

She scooped up the envelopes and scanned them hurriedly. Bills, all of them, from various providers, including the gas and electric companies, cable, and American Cellular …

His cell phone! Vivian ripped open the envelope and scanned the list of calls. Sure enough, there were four or five to her number. Her heart thumped. She had to destroy this before it gave the police any ideas.

She clutched the bill and envelope in her hand, casting about for a match with which to burn them. A few peeks into his kitchen drawers yielded nothing. Maybe Christophe Barton was a non-smoker. Or maybe he’d used his last matchbook to light his pipe bomb.

Vivian tried to chuckle but the apartment was starting to give her the creeps. She noticed that the door had one of those cheap locks that did not require a key, so exiting through the window would not be necessary. She unlocked the knob and pulled open the door. There, wearing a patient look on her face, stood short little Detective Nardone.

“Hello Ms. Allen,” she said pleasantly. “Any mail for me?”

Fourteen

“So, what do you
think of this dessert wine?” Miles scraped his plate with a spoon, taking a last scoop of pumpkin cheesecake, and then sat back with a sigh. “That dessert was delicious. Absolutely sinful. Why is it that I couldn’t get you to eat more than one bite?”

“I was totally stuffed from my risotto, that’s why.” She’d tried the restaurant’s renowned venison and chestnut risotto and had not been disappointed with the earthy, mingled flavors. She took another sip of the cool white wine and let it linger on her palate.

“Stone fruits and honeysuckle,” she said approvingly, “transitioning to apricot and hazelnut. I’m guessing it’s a Sauvignon Blanc from Matanzas Creek?”

Miles sat back with an amazed look on his face. “Absolutely correct.” He grinned. “I totally forgot about your amazing taste buds. Have you astounded any of the local winemakers with your prowess?”

“No. Between spending time with ET and Carlos, and worrying about Doug­—”

“I know, there hasn’t been any time for that sort of thing.” His eyes lost their merry look. “Have you had any news from the Sunset Beach Police Department?”

Darby pulled out her phone and checked the display. “I called the station and they said someone would contact me,” she said. “But so far, no one has.”

“Try them again,” Miles urged. “I don’t mind, and maybe we’ll find something out.”

Darby found the last call she’d made to Hawaii and tried again. The same voice answered, and once again Darby relayed her request to report a missing person.

The dispatcher was taking down Doug’s name when she stopped. “Henderson, you say? I think we just located the guy.”

Darby felt her body temperature chill. “Is he okay?”

The woman hesitated. “He is now,” she finally said. “He was beaten up pretty badly and for a day or two we didn’t know who he was. Whoever mugged him took his identification and the poor guy couldn’t say much until this afternoon.” She paused. “I’m sure Officer Haina will be in touch with you, but at least you know Mr. Henderson is in the hospital and he’s going to be okay.”

“Is there a number where I can reach Doug?”

“I’d prefer to let Officer Haina speak with you first, but I promise to tell him that you are anxious for a call.”

Darby thanked the dispatcher and hung up. After telling Miles what she had learned, she took a long drink of water and exhaled. Doug was alive. That was the important thing.

Miles put his hand over hers. It was warm, and she felt currents of heat radiating up her arm and through her midsection. She looked into his eyes. Slowly he leaned across the table and gave her a tender kiss.

“It’s going to be alright,” he said softly. “I promise.”

———

Detective Nardone looked like a bulldog, Vivian decided. A tenacious little bitch of a dog, the kind that would bite you in the backside if it had half a chance. She watched as the petite woman pursed her lips and looked back over the cell phone records of Christophe Barton.

“So,” the detective began, taking a sip of coffee and placing the Styrofoam cup back on the scarred wooden table. “I certainly appreciate your agreeing to come down here to explain these calls to me, Ms. Allen. It’s always nice when we can get some cooperation on these kinds of things.”

Vivian inclined her head but said nothing.
Let’s see where your questions go
, she thought,
and we’ll see how cooperative I’ll be.

“Can you explain to me why you were receiving calls from Christophe Barton?” The detective’s eyebrows were raised so high they were becoming one with her coiffure.

“He called me and said he understood I was interested in buying Carson Creek. I asked him who he was, and he told me he worked at Contento. He hinted that he knew some kind of inside track that would get me the vineyard, and I told him that I wasn’t interested.”

“Why was that?”

“Because I was already meeting with Selena Thompson and I felt I was building a good rapport with her. I didn’t need whatever kind of help he was offering.”

“Did you ask him what his type of ‘help’ was?”

“No.” She paused. “Not that time.”

The detective indicated the next call on the list. “Two days later—that would be one week ago—he called again.”

Vivian nodded. “He asked me whether I had a signed contract. I said it wasn’t any of his business, and hung up.”

“It sounds as if his calls were becoming harassment.” There was sympathy in the detective’s voice, but Vivian wasn’t falling for it.

“Just annoying,” she said.

“Did you think of calling the Contento family and complaining?”

“No. He was like a pesky fly. Annoying, but not worth my time.” She glanced at her watch. “Detective, I’m late for an appointment with my sister. Can we wrap this up?”

“Certainly.” Detective Nardone consulted the list. “The third call was last Tuesday. Please tell me what happened.”

“Christophe Barton called again. This time I didn’t answer, so he left a message.”

“Do you still have that message?”

She shook her head. “No. But he sounded—different.”

“How so?”

“More insistent. He said he needed me to call him, so that we could talk about the vineyard.”

“Did he say anything else?”

She nodded. “He said, ‘I’ve got information about Carson Creek that you’ll want to hear.’ So I called him and told him to leave me alone.”

“And what happened?”

“He said I would be sorry that I hadn’t cooperated, and I hung up.”

Detective Nardone made a steeple of her fingers. “The last time he called you was Thursday morning, the day Selena Thompson died.”

Vivian bobbed her head. “He said he was planning something big and if I wanted in, he would guarantee that I’d get the property.”

“What do you think he meant?”

She shivered. “How can I guess what some sick person was talking about? Maybe he thought that by blowing the place up, he was accomplishing something.” She shrugged.

“And finally, the text message, which you received at three a.m. on Monday morning.”

“Yeah, I didn’t notice when it was sent, but that’s when the buzzing woke me up.”

“And that was the ‘Our plan is in motion,’ message, correct?”

She nodded.

“It certainly seems like Mr. Barton considered you a partner in his endeavors to destroy Carson Creek.”

“Then he was delusional, because I was nothing of the sort.” Vivian Allen stood. “I really must go now.”

Detective Nardone rose to her feet. “Thank you for coming by, Ms. Allen. Given your cooperation, I think we can forget your little incident of breaking and entering.”

Vivian Allen shot the woman a look. “Thank you,” she mumbled, and hurried out of the room.

———

Darby and Miles returned to Carson Creek, relieved to know that Doug Henderson was safe, but puzzled by the sedan parked in the driveway.

“It’s Detective Nardone’s car,” Darby observed, coming around the front of the farmhouse. “What could possibly have happened now?”

“Just looking for your time,” quipped the detective, emerging from the old barn in a brisk walk. Darby marveled at the woman’s range of hearing. She hadn’t spoken very loudly and the detective had been at least twenty yards away. “I’m hoping we can talk about those offers on the vineyard Selena received.”

Darby nodded. “I have them in a file inside. Come in, and I’ll make us some coffee.”

“Thank you.” Detective Nardone seemed preoccupied, as if only a part of her were present in the conversation.

Miles glanced at Darby before opening the door of the farmhouse. “Do you mind if I stay awhile, Detective? I may have information that could prove useful.”

Nancy Nardone climbed onto the top step, her face grim.

“By all means,” she said. “Let’s make it a party.”

Darby shot Miles a look and he raised his eyebrows. They led the detective into the dining room and Darby hurried to put on a pot of coffee.

“Fritz Kohler,” began Detective Nardone, pulling out his offer to purchase Carson Creek Estate & Winery. “Owns a successful yoga spa business. Knew Selena Thompson ten years ago as the owner of Off the Beaten Track Biking. In fact, they were more than acquaintances—they were on-again-off-again lovers with an explosive relationship that at times grew so physical Ms. Thompson phoned the authorities.” She paused and looked up from the paper. “Twice.”

“Do we have any evidence that they kept in touch over the past decade?” Darby wondered out loud.

“No. But we do know that Mr. Kohler became interested in purchasing this property about two weeks ago. He says the first face-to-face encounter he had with Selena was on the day she was killed. He drove up here around one-thirty that afternoon, passing Dan Stewart on the road, and although he told you he had a nice little chat with Selena in which she promised him the vineyard, he now says they didn’t speak.”

“He’s changed his story!”

“Apparently so.” Detective Nardone glanced down at the paper in her hand and continued. “At 4:15 he paid for a prescription for metoprolol at the Save-All Pharmacy in St. Adina. Mr. Kohler takes this drug to control high blood pressure and has for approximately a year. He then went back to Carson Creek to see Selena. According to what he told me yesterday, he spoke to Selena in the old barn—what they use for storage and such—and he admits that the conversation grew pretty heated. Selena told him he was not going to be getting the vineyard and that she’d chosen someone else. He maintains that when he left, she was alive and that he had nothing to do with putting metoprolol in her wine.”

She paused, shuffling the papers. “Now, Vivian Allen claims that she was on track to purchase the vineyard and that every interaction she had with Selena was positive. However, she began receiving phone calls from Christophe Barton approximately ten days ago, with offers from him to help her obtain the vineyard. These calls became increasingly threatening, culminating in a text message she received the night Barton died.”

“How strange! Why was Barton trying to get her involved in his activities?”

“I’m thinking blackmail. Vivian does not seem to know about the prior sabotage at Carson Creek—no one but Dan, Selena, and Barton himself knew about that—but I think that Barton found out about Veronica and sensed a business opportunity. All he had to do was implicate Vivian in some way, and then he would wring hush money out of her sister.” She smoothed the paper with a hand. “Vivian was one of the few people who knew about Selena’s illness. She may have even spoken with her about specific medications, including metoprolol. The question is: why would Vivian kill Selena if she believed that she had been chosen to buy the vineyard?” She pursed her lips. “Perhaps Selena’s murder had nothing to do with the vineyard. It’s possible Selena voiced to Vivian her desire to be pain free, and Vivian thought she’d help her along with an overdose.”

Darby glanced at Miles. He rose and went into the kitchen for the coffee pot. “Where was Vivian when the poisoning took place?”

“She says she was at her hotel room in Wyattville. I’ve checked with the hotel staff and no one can verify that she was actually in the hotel.”

“So she does not have an alibi.” Darby pictured the tall redhead entering the farmhouse kitchen and adding the chemical to the bottle of wine.

“Correct.”

“Okay, so who’s next?”

“Harrison Wainfield. He represents the Contento family as their real estate agent, and yet Fritz Kohler told me Wainfield was also willing to put in his offer. The guy’s trying to make a buck any way he can.”

Miles returned with the coffee and poured a cup for Detective Nardone. “I’m sure you’ve heard about the wine futures scandal Tim Contento and Wainfield were involved in. Perhaps he’s trying to recoup his losses from that?”

She nodded and took a sip of coffee. “There’s a good chance Wainfield needs money. Whatever was paid to settle that lawsuit was a drop in the bucket for Tim Contento, but that wouldn’t be the case with Wainfield. He may make large commissions when he sells property, but he appears to live way beyond his means.” She plunked her mug onto the table. “Here’s my question: how would killing Selena improve Wainfield’s financial picture?”

“Perhaps he sensed that the vineyard was going to someone other than his clients the Contentos,” Darby began. “He had no way to control the sale with Selena alive, but with her dead, the Contentos could shine as the helpful neighbors and have a shot at getting the property.”

“Possibly.” Detective Nardone glanced at her watch. “It’s getting late. I’d better head out.”

“Why not finish with the list of suspects?” Darby asked. “Miles and I don’t mind.”

The detective raised an eyebrow. “I would think you’d have better things to do than listen to me try to figure out this case, but fine, I’m glad to use the two of you as a sounding board. Goodness knows my department can always use extra help.” She picked up the last offer. “The Contento family—Tim, Margo, and Andrea—none of whom have solid alibis for that Thursday. Tim was in the fields, then back and forth to town for errands. Ditto Andrea Contento, except that she was working in the kitchen with a few short trips here and there.”

She took another sip of coffee and ran a hand through her graying hair. “Margo was away on a business trip to Seattle. She flew into Ventano County Airport early afternoon—one o’clock—on an earlier flight than originally scheduled. Christophe Barton picked her up at six o’clock that evening and she claims she spent the intervening five hours shopping.” Detective Barton raised her eyebrows at Miles and Darby. “Of course, we can’t ask Barton to corroborate her story, and she has no purchases to show for all that shopping.” She gave a long exhale. “Margo could have easily rented a car, driven here, and added metoprolol to Selena’s wine. Any one of them could. Andrea and Tim could have added it that morning, knowing Selena would drink it in the afternoon.”

“And Michael Contento?” asked Darby. “Have you eliminated him as a suspect?”

“At this point we have, yeah,” Detective Nardone said drily. “And here’s the reason. Michael Contento is dead.”