Deadly Offer (18 page)

Once she had the numbers memorized, Sophie refolded the paper and put it back on the dresser. She moved silently toward the
bathroom door and pulled it open.

The vanity held a polka-dotted makeup case, a toothbrush and toothpaste, contact lens solution and a plastic contact lens case. A nightshirt and robe were draped on the edge of the tub, and a quick look in the wastebasket showed nothing of interest. Sophie peeked inside the makeup case. Another lipstick, blush, mascara, and some moisturizer—nothing out of the ordinary.

Disappointed, Sophie backed out of the bathroom, turned off the little lamp, and crept back down the hallway. She was nearly down the stairs when she heard the noise of the front door opening. Somehow she managed to jump noiselessly down the stairs and position herself in the hallway as if she’d been waiting there.

“What are you doing here?” Margo Contento tossed a slouchy pocketbook onto a nearby bench and gave Sophie a puzzled look.

“I was looking for my dad.” It was the first thing Sophie thought
of, and she hoped it sounded plausible.

“Your dad? Why would he be here? Isn’t he starting to harvest?” Margo had started to walk toward the kitchen, giving Sophie the chance to peer into her pocketbook. Beside a pink wallet was an orange-capped plastic bottle. Sophie nearly gasped.

“I don’t know,” she said, a little too loudly. “I thought he might have come over, you know, because of your dad.”

At the kitchen threshold, Margo Contento stopped. Her back stiffened. She turned slowly around.

“I’m sorry about that,” Sophie said. “I mean, I’m sorry that Michael died. I liked him.”

The corner of Margo’s mouth twitched. “Thanks.” She frowned. “Do you need a ride home?”

“No. I’m going to walk down the hill and call my dad.”

“Okay. I’ll see you later, Sophie.” She resumed her path into the kitchen and Sophie heard the clatter of a cabinet door opening. Gingerly she tiptoed to the bulging leather pocketbook and grabbed the prescription bottle.

It took her only a second to read two of the words typed on the label.

Beta blocker.

Sophie Stewart dropped the pills into the purse. With shaking hands she opened the door of the Contento’s house and took off, running, until she’d reached the safety of the woods and her backpack.

———

Harrison Wainfield sat at the desk in his office, checking e-mails, when one from Ann Johnson caught his eye. She’d sent it only minutes ago:
Heard about the arrest of the yoga guy
.
Is Carson Creek still available?
Wainfield gave an exasperated sigh. Why in the world was she asking him about Carson Creek? Didn’t Ann know he didn’t have that listing? He shook his head in irritation. She really was out to lunch.

He was about to delete the e-mail when the words “yoga guy” registered. Fritz Kohler had been arrested? Quickly he scanned the on-line edition of the
Wyattville Tribune
, reading the news with disbelief. Kohler was a suspect in the murder of Selena Thompson. He swore and slammed his hand upon the table.
There goes that sale! He won’t be buying a vineyard if he’s going to jail.

Wainfield sat back in his chair, his heart thudding in his chest. According to the article, Kohler had known Selena before she’d moved to the valley, and had been charged twice for assaulting her.

He took several deep breaths, and when he felt calmer, shut down his computer.

You can never tell about a person,
Wainfield thought. Kohler had seemed so controlled and together. And yet even controlled people could snap.

He gave his goatee a few strokes. Most people would think poison was a woman’s weapon—clean, easy, and no strength required. A man choosing to murder via poison seemed strange. Or was it strategic? Kohler could have thought it all out as well as anyone. His mind raced. Maybe the loss of Fritz Kohler as a client could turn out to be a very good thing after all.

———

Darby Farr hung up the phone with ET and sighed. He’d been saddened at the news of Michael Contento’s death, and then shocked at Fritz Kohler’s arrest, but relieved that there would finally be some closure around his sister’s death. “I’ll call Carlos and tell him,” he promised. “And I imagine we will want you to offer the vineyard to the Contentos and Vivian Allen, if she is still interested.” He’d paused. “You know, I don’t really care what happens to Carson Creek, but I keep thinking of Dan Stewart and his daughter. I’d like the new owner of the vineyard to treat them well.”

Darby asked ET to call her with Carlos’ feedback. “Or ask him to get in touch with me if he’d like to discuss it,” she offered. Darby then filled him in on Doug’s situation, and asked him to alert Claudia to withdraw the bungalow from the market.

“Do one more thing for me?” she asked ET. “Ask Claudia to drop off a bag of Sugar Babies at Doug’s house. The biggest bag she can find.”

“No problem.” ET was quiet a moment. “Thank goodness your neighbor is safe. He will want to see you when he returns to California, and we need you here at the office as well. I will make sure Carlos calls you, and then I think you should pack your bags and return to Mission Beach.”

Sitting at the dining room table at Carson Creek, Darby pondered ET’s advice now that their conversation was through. She was
ready to be home, and knew her real estate work needed her, but she had the nagging feeling she had unfinished business at the vineyard.
Selena’s killer
, she thought.
I don’t believe Fritz Kohler is guilty.

She felt the brush of fur against her legs and looked down to see Jasper, his amber eyes gazing up at her. Stroking his soft coat, she reflected on what she knew about Selena’s murder. Everything was a jumble—nothing made sense.
Maybe if I write it down,
she thought.
Maybe then I’ll see some sort of pattern.

She found the little notebook she’d used once before in Selena’s kitchen drawer. Settling back at the table, she began a list of the facts she knew:

1. Selena drowned in her hot tub while drinking a glass of wine.

2. Residue from the wine bottle showed its contents had been spiked with the beta-blocking drug metoprolol.

3. Selena suffered from hypertension.

4. Selena was reading a novel that described the way she had died.

Darby paused. Was that really all she knew? She sighed. There was the evidence about Fritz Kohler: he’d gone to the pharmacy, filled a prescription for metoprolol, and come to Carson Creek, where he’d spoken to Selena.

Had someone else been watching their interchange? She thought back to Michael Contento’s reaction at the news of Selena’s murder. Had the old vintner seen something on one of his walks? Had he seen someone else at Carson Creek?

The ring of her cell phone brought her out of her reverie. She looked down at the screen.
Miles Porter
. She made her voice calm as she answered the phone.

———

Finding the location of the address written on the scrap of paper had not been as difficult as Sophie Stewart imagined. After her heart-pounding experience at Contento Family Vineyards, she’d taken the bus to the library, where her search on one of the computers had given her two possible choices: a factory in San Francisco, and a small house in Ventano.

Getting to the house in Ventano would be an issue. It was a long bus ride, and she really had no clue as to what part of the city it was in. Sophie loved a mystery, but she had no desire to wander into a strange neighborhood as the afternoon sunlight waned.

Perhaps she could find a phone number. She tried a few different ways, finally coming up with a directory that gave the information, and scrawled down the number. At least she could try to find out who lived there.

The library had a no cell phone rule, so Sophie packed up to leave. Passing by the circulation desk, she spotted a display encouraging library patrons to read the classics. She paused and glanced at the titles.
Pride and Prejudice, The Great Gatsby, Animal Farm
, and others were arranged around the table. Behind
To Kill a Mockingbird
was a worn copy of
Moby Dick
.

Sophie picked up the book. On an impulse she returned to the computer to do one more search.

———

Miles Porter thanked Darby for the message about Doug. “It’s great to hear that he is safe,” he said, with real feeling in his voice. “I’ve yet to meet the man, but I know you value his friendship.”

Darby’s heart did a little leap. Miles had said, “yet to meet” Doug. Did that mean he was hoping for a future that included meeting her friends? She pictured his face, the hard angles, his cropped hair and kind hazel eyes …

“I’m sure you’ve heard about Fritz Kohler.”

“Yes, I read about it on the wire. What does this mean for the sale of Carson Creek?”

“It means I can move forward with offering the property to Vivian and the Contentos. I spoke with ET, and I think he and Carlos are ready to wash their hands of the vineyard.” She paused. “It’s time for me to go home, but I can’t shake the feeling that Detective Nardone has arrested the wrong person.”

Darby expected Miles to remind her that she was a realtor, not a detective, and that surely the police knew their jobs. Instead he paused and said thoughtfully, “You possess a kind of special sense for this kind of work. If your instincts are telling you something is off, I’d put my money on you.”

Emotion welled up in Darby and she struggled to keep her tone light. “That’s probably one of the nicest things anyone has ever said to me,” she admitted. “You really know how to charm a girl.”

“Do I? Then I daresay this will mean even more.” He paused. “I love you, Darby. I know you may not be ready to hear me say it, but nevertheless I must. I love you.”

She swallowed and said in a soft voice, “I don’t know what to say.”

“You could tell me that you love me back,” he offered, without any bitterness in his voice. “And I’m confident that one day soon you’ll say exactly that. And you know what? I’ve decided that I’m prepared to wait for that day. It’s not going to be easy, but there you have it.” He waited a beat and then cleared his throat. In a different tone he said, “Now, I’ve gotten a little writing assignment here in San Francisco that’s going to keep me busy until the weekend. Are you perfectly safe there, or should I show up with my considerable brute strength and debonair charm and keep you company?”

Darby smiled. “I’m fine.” She knew for certain it was the truth, at least for the moment.

Seventeen

Dan Stewart wiped the
sweat from his brow and regarded the steel vats holding Carson Creek’s pinot noir grapes. Amazingly, the harvesting was going along smoothly. No machinery had broken down, no swarms of bees had attacked, and although the day was unseasonably warm, progress had been substantial. The men were focused and fast, so determined to complete the harvesting in record time that they had offered to pick until the sun went down. Dan Stewart had been touched at their kindness to the memory of Selena.

He looked up now as Darby Farr strode across the driveway, a smile on her face as she regarded the piles of glossy purple grapes.

“How’s it going?” She flicked her hair over her shoulders. “Has it been a productive day?”

“Tremendous. I think the curse on Carson Creek died with Christophe Barton.” He frowned, thinking of Selena, wishing she could witness the harvest. Her delight last year had been contagious. He felt the familiar pain in his gut over her death. Would it ever get easier?

Dan swept a hand over the gleaming vats. “We’re not done yet—in fact, the pickers are going to work with me until dark—but we’ve made great headway.” He mopped his brow with his shirtsleeve. “I’d like to wrap it up tomorrow, and if we keep going at this pace, it’s possible.” He gave a grimace. “With all that’s been happening here, I’ve seen very little of that teenage girl of mine. I don’t like that.”

“What’s she up to while you’re here now?”

“Hanging out with friends, I guess. She said she has plans for dinner and a study session at another kid’s house, so that’s good. Still, I don’t like to think she’s running around on her own.”

“She’s a good kid, Dan. I’m sure you have nothing to worry about.”

“Thanks. She is a good kid, I know that, but she’s all I’ve got and I do worry about her.” He sighed. “One night’s not going to make a difference, I know. It’s not like she’s going to put herself into any unsafe situations or anything.”

“That’s right.” She glanced at her watch. “I’m trying to reach Carlos because I think he and ET are ready for me to offer the vineyard to Vivian and the Contentos.” She paused. “May I tell both the parties that you are interested in continuing on as winemaker?”

He looked at the vats of grapes and nodded. It was a crazy job, but one he loved. “Absolutely.”

———

The ornate building housing the bank in Ventano sported a large poster announcing the Valley Wine Auction. Vivian Allen stopped to look it over, noting the date so that she could attend.
I won’t own my vineyard then, but hopefully I’ll be close
, she thought. She pulled open the heavy door of the building and nearly collided with Andrea Contento.

“You’re Andrea, aren’t you?” Vivian could see fine lines around the woman’s eyes and bluish shadows beneath them. “I’m sorry about the loss of your husband.”

“Thank you.” Andrea looked away for a moment.

Vivian hesitated. “I’m Vivian Allen. I’m glad to run into you, although I wish the circumstances were happier. You’re the one who asked Mr. Deschaines to call me, right? I wanted to thank you.”

Andrea gave the redhead a tired nod. “Yes, you’re correct. Dominic
is an old and dear friend. When I heard he was thinking of selling Deschaines Cellars, I thought of you.”

“The vineyard sounds lovely,” Vivian said. “I’m going to meet Mr. Deschaines and take a look tomorrow. I love Carson Creek, but there’s too much sadness for me.” Her words trailed off.

Andrea nodded again, looking off to the side. “I know, believe me, I know.” She gave Vivian a direct look. “I’m sure you realize that I have an interest in your deciding not to bid on Carson Creek.”

“Of course,” Vivian answered smoothly. “I get it. But if I can purchase Deschaines Cellars before he hires an agent, I’ll get a better deal. So this benefits me as well.”

Andrea gave the ghost of a smile. “Exactly.” She extended her hand. “Good luck, Vivian.”

“Thank you.” Vivian watched the widow glide out of the bank and thought,
I’ll see you again, Andrea Contento. You’ll see.

———

The phone line for the house on Redwood Street was continually busy and Sophie Stewart was becoming frustrated. She dialed again, expecting to hear the familiar and annoying signal, when to her surprise it rang through.

A male voice answered. “Hello?”

Sophie listened to the static on the line, momentarily at a loss for words. She then remembered the lines she had practiced. In a clear voice she said that she was calling from Contento Family Vineyards.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” the guy said, his words muffled and faint. “You’re looking for Jim.”

“Jim?” The reception was terrible and Sophie felt like she was shouting.

“Yeah, Jim. He’s staying here while his place gets repainted.” More words followed but they were garbled. “He’s gone to the vineyard to have dinner with his sister. Try him there.”

“Okay, thanks.” Sophie hung up, relieved to have the connection terminated. Who the heck was Jim? She could swear that was the name she’d heard, and yet “Tim” was what made sense. Was it possible she’d misheard? She flashed to the game “Telephone,” a childhood diversion she and her friends had once loved. After relaying a message around a circle, the end result would be markedly different from the original words, in frequently hysterical ways. She grinned. It was definitely possible—and highly probable—that he’d said “Tim” and she’d just heard it wrong.

The house on Redwood was a temporary address for Tim Contento, a place to crash while his house was repainted. As Sophie walked away from the Wyattville Public Library, she thought about the fact that what one heard was not always accurate.

Your ears could play tricks on you.

———

Darby hung up the phone with Carlos and dialed Contento Family Vineyards. The clear voice of Margo Contento answered and Darby explained the call.

“I’d love to speak with you about buying Carson Creek, Darby, but there’s so much happening here that I’ll have to squeeze you in. Do you mind meeting me somewhere? I have an appointment in downtown St. Adina that shouldn’t take long. Can you meet me in half an hour?”

Darby looked at her watch. “Sure. Where is convenient?”

“There’s an old mission just outside of town. Do you know it?”

“No.”

Margo gave directions while Darby listened. “It’s a quiet, peace
ful place,” she said. “We’re working on funding its restoration through
the wine auction. I think you’ll like seeing it.”

Darby hung up. With all that was happening, no wonder Margo
Contento craved peace and quiet. She took a quick check of her messages. Claudia Jones from the office had called ten minutes earlier. Fearing there was something wrong with ET, Darby quickly dialed.

Claudia’s voice was reassuring.

“No, no, nothing is wrong here. ET is sad, naturally, but time will make things easier. The Henderson bungalow is off the market and I explained to the young couple what happened. They completely understand. In fact, I showed them another property and it looks like they may bite on that one.”

Darby could not resist a smile at Claudia’s use of a fishing metaphor to describe her clients. She fought the urge to respond, “I hope you hook them.”

“That’s great. Anything else?”

Claudia paused. “Yes, actually, the reason I called is that you had a visitor this morning. A Mr. Kenji Miyazaki from Gen—”

Darby could tell Claudia was having trouble pronouncing the company’s name. “Genkei Pharmaceuticals.” She pictured this Mr. Miyazaki, imagining a frail, elderly gentleman in a tailored suit. “That’s odd that he came all this way to see me.”
Especially after my e-mail to him,
she thought but did not say
.

“He was competing in a hang-gliding competition,” Claudia offered. “Out at Point Loma.”

“Hang-gliding?”

“Yes. Apparently he’s quite good—he has a shot at winning the whole thing, I guess. And he is very handsome, too! I don’t know if you’ve ever dated a Japanese man, but this guy is adorable. I didn’t see a ring, either.”

Darby was astonished. “He’s a vice president of the company, right?”

“
Senior
vice president,” she said, sounding like a proud mother. “Beautiful straight teeth, gorgeous suit, and lovely manners. And of course, Ken’s English is flawless. It ought to be! He went to Harvard, after all.”

Ken?
Darby was trying hard to reconcile the image she’d formed of Kenji Miyazaki with the new and improved version put forth by her employee.

“Did this amazing creature say why he wanted to see me?”

“Yes,” Claudia said. “He has information about your family.” She hesitated. “Your
Japanese
family.”

Darby thanked her and hung up the phone. Who was this Kenji Miyazaki and what kind of information did he possess? She shoved her phone in her pocketbook and sighed. Obviously she was going to have to talk with this mystery man at some point.

She grabbed her pocketbook and let Jasper outside into the late afternoon sun. Thoughts of her business in San Diego, Doug Henderson’s condition, and even ET and Carlos were put on the back burner as she jumped into her sports car and started the engine.

Darby was headed to the Mission.

———

Harrison Wainfield cradled the bottle of Sleepy Spaniel Syrah in his hand, feeling the heft of the glass. This was the wine that had started it all, the one that Selena Thompson had said was a runaway favorite. “It’s a vineyard that’s just getting better and better,” she’d insisted, a glass of Syrah in her hand. They were on the patio at Contento Family Vineyards—she, Tim, Harrison, and Margo. Andrea and Michael were in the kitchen, putting the finishing touches on dinner. It had been a scorcher of a day—late July, or August—and the women were wearing sundresses and sandals. “Plums, blackberry,” Selena had gushed. “It has such a wonderful smoky finish. Can’t you just imagine pairing it with food coming off the grill?”

Wainfield could imagine it, that was the problem, and he’d fallen for her charming predictions as he sipped more and more of the captivating wine. Later, while he and Tim smoked a joint as they walked among the vines, Harrison convinced the Contento heir to snap up some futures on the Sleepy Spaniel winery. Not that the sales job had been too difficult. That summer Tim Contento would have gone along with anything Selena said. He was entranced by her vivacious spirit and voluptuous body, and no doubt was enjoying the afternoon hot tubs at Carson Creek in more than a neighborly fashion.

Of course, there had been other investors—plenty more. Ventano Valley was full of people who had money to risk and loved the idea of taking a chance. “There is a saying about making an investment in the wine business,” Michael Contento used to say. “To make a small fortune, start with a large one.” Indeed, most of the investors in their newly formed wine club had large enough fortunes that they could afford to gamble on a fresh, exciting wine.

All except one.

Nicole Franchi was an assistant winemaker at a new winery located on the grounds of a historic equestrian center in St. Adina. She was cute, young, and easily influenced, a friend of Tim’s from the Valley Wine Auction committee. Perhaps to impress him, she raised a substantial amount of capital to invest in Sleepy Spaniel’s production—and, when the whole thing went south, lost it all.

“Nicole is pretty pissed off,” Harrison Wainfield remembered Tim saying. “She’s threatened to go to the press.”

Wainfield had felt the prickly beginnings of panic. “She can’t do that,” he said. “You have to stop her.”

“And how do you suggest I do that?” asked Tim. “Any bright ideas?”

Wainfield shrugged helplessly. He was out of bright ideas.

Now he fingered the bottle of Sleepy Spaniel, wondering what had happened to Nicole Franchi. She’d been fired from her job at the new winery shortly after news of the scandal broke. Wainfield suspected she’d left the area after Tim had mandated that no one else in the valley hire her.

He grabbed the bottle of Syrah by the neck and brandished it like a club. It would be easy to smash on the back porch, but what was the point of that? The time for anger was long past, and the only one he really blamed had already been punished. Instead he found an opener in the drawer, pulled out the cork, and poured himself a glass.

———

The Karmann Ghia’s tires crunched the sand surrounding the Mission San Francisco Ventano. Darby parked in the nearly empty lot and came outside into the late afternoon sun. She looked across the dusty stretch to a long, white adobe building, punctuated on one end by a handsome, although crumbling, chapel. Her eye followed a series of arches, some intact and some in disrepair, curving down from the roofline, providing a shaded corridor that had no doubt sheltered hundreds of Franciscan monks. A bell tower—or the remains of one—reached heavenward from one end of the chapel. A pile of rubble on the other end indicated there may have been twin bell towers, but that was a long time ago.

Darby looked around for Margo, noticing that the lot’s sole car appeared to be empty. She raised her face toward the sun for a moment, enjoying the warmth and the mission’s silence. The place was practically deserted, a far cry from other historical sites Darby had visited, where gift shops, ice cream vendors, and hordes of tourists were the norm.

She decided to start her tour of the old mission without Margo and began crossing the lot. Straggly weeds managed to poke up through the sand, their pale green leaves covered with a thin layer of dust. Her feet made a muffled sound, barely noticeable against the stillness, which was starting to feel less serene with every step. Darby glanced around, pulled out her cell phone, and called Nancy Nardone.

The detective’s curt message played and Darby left an equally brief response, stating where she was and why. Years of meeting real estate clients in strange places had taught her to be cautious and to pay attention to her surroundings. As a woman in law enforcement, Detective Nardone would understand.

Darby surveyed the buildings looming before her.