Death By the Glass #2 (17 page)

“Not at all.”

He pressed a pinch of tobacco into the bowl and returned to his armchair. Sharon leaned forward, squeezing her hands together as if to wring the truth from her guest by force of will.

“So,” he said, stopping to give his full attention to lighting the pipe. “Why come to us? You could talk to Eliot. He knew Nathan as well as we did.”

“Because I want to know everything about the night he died,” said Sunny. “There may be some clue in his behavior, something he said. You were the last people to spend any time with him, other than Nick Ambrosi, the bartender who drove him home.”

“This sounds like a conversation better had with the police,” said Pel, “and we’ve already had it. Twice, to be accurate.”

“It’s nothing official. I’m just like you, a friend of those involved who wants to understand what happened.”

They were silent. Pel puffed on his pipe, staring at the ceiling.

“Let’s hear what she would like to know,” said Sharon gently. “We don’t have to answer. I don’t see what harm it can do.”

“Go ahead,” said Pel.

Sunny ranked the list of questions in her head. Knowing she might not have the opportunity to ask them all, she set the most
important on top. “For starters,” she said, “what kind of trouble did you have with his girlfriends?”

Sharon glanced at Pel for reassurance, then leaned toward Sunny. She gave her an introductory smile, then addressed the topic with unabashed enthusiasm, like a witness describing a dramatic accident. “Nathan was a very generous man. He had the habit of reaching out to people and helping them, giving them money, finding them jobs, letting them stay at his house, and they would then expect that assistance to continue indefinitely. When he eventually got tired of supporting them, they would come to us, hoping, I assume, that we would intervene on their behalf and persuade him to rekindle the friendship, romance, employment situation, or what have you. Generally we are talking about a romance of one sort or another. As you know, no friend can change a man’s heart, even if they wanted to. The worst was that waitress at the restaurant. I knew she was trouble from the moment I laid eyes on her. She’s still around. Delilah? What was her name?”

Sunny looked anxiously at Pel.

“Dahlia,” said Pel, exhaling a nicely formed smoke ring. “Like the flower.”

“Yes, that’s right. I scolded Nathan for getting involved with a girl who worked for him, not to mention one who was half his age. It always leads to trouble, and sure enough.”

“She wasn’t anywhere near half his age,” said Pel, winking at Sunny.

“Age was not the issue. She was dreadful regardless,” said Sharon. “You would think she would have found another job after they split up, but she was around more than ever. She waited on us the night Nathan died, which I found excruciating. Nathan hardly seemed to notice. A pretty girl, but with self-esteem
problems. Personally, I felt sorry for her with the garish tattoos and crazy hair. All pleas for attention. Nathan broke it off with her after a very short time, I’m glad to say, but she never got the picture. She practically stalked him. I suggested he get a restraining order. It was his own fault. He would never end it cleanly. They went back and forth for months.”

“Sharon, please, surely that’s enough. I don’t see what gossip has to do with Nathan’s death,” said Pel.

“It isn’t gossip,” said Sharon. “We were there.”

“The definition of gossip is not the dissemination of speculative information, it is the dissemination of information that is none of your affair in the first place,” said Pel. “I’ll add that I don’t think you’re being at all fair to Dahlia. I didn’t care for the art direction, but she seemed a nice enough person to me, intelligent, and clearly in love with him, though I can’t imagine what a girl that young could see in a man who gets the Tuesday discount at the cinema. We must remember that Nathan was not known for his fidelity and good manners, especially when it came to matters involving the fairer sex.”

“You’re as bad as he was,” said Sharon, scoffing. “You can’t see beyond the bosom.”

Sharon excused herself to make tea when the kettle whistled. Silence settled over the room with her departure. Pel, who seemed in no hurry to speak, puffed on his pipe, gradually surrounding himself with a haze of fragrant smoke. The thick Berber carpet underfoot seemed to suck up every sound, leaving them suspended in a conversational void that gradually intensified until it extracted even the saliva from Sunny’s mouth. Her mind scurried from topic to topic, scavenging for an appropriate segue to Remy Castels. She settled on waiting for Sharon to return with the tea before she said anything more. Pel scratched his head
with three crisp, audible strokes. Her stomach responded with a long, loud groan, like a sailboat creaking in its mooring. At last, having failed to uncover a less direct approach and despairing of Sharon’s speedy return, she said, “Do you know Remy Castels, the sommelier at Vinifera?”

“Yes. Do you?”

“Not very well. Would you say he’s trustworthy?”

“You mean as a sommelier?”

“I mean in general.”

Pel considered. “I can’t say I’ve had enough dealings with him to make a judgment one way or the other. He certainly knows his wine. That cellar at Vinifera is packed with more gems than the queen’s castle.”

“How much did Nathan have to do with that?”

“Nathan certainly helped, but Remy took Osborne Wines to a new level. He has connections in France that made it possible for Nathan to do things no one else could do. He brought in wines that nobody else had, made exclusive deals. Remy went a long way toward making Osborne Wines what it is today.”

Sharon emerged from the direction of the kitchen bearing a tray with a teapot and cups. Pel stood to take it from her and she went back for another, this one loaded with cream, sugar, and a plate of cookies.

“What did I miss?” said Sharon.

“We were just talking about Remy Castels,” said Sunny.

“Oh, that horrible man!” cried Sharon with a high, zealous laugh. “Pel and I both loathe him, don’t we.”

“I wouldn’t say I loathe him,” said Pel. “I wouldn’t say I know him well enough to use such a strong term. I’m not drawn to him.”

“Well, I loathe him enough for both of us,” said Sharon, whose personality had undergone a transformation not dissimilar
to that of her appearance since the night before. It was as if she had worn a suitably demure persona to match her evening dress, and now that casual attire was the order, her manner had relaxed accordingly.

“Don’t get me started on him,” she said, arranging the teacups.

“Yes, let’s don’t,” said Pel. He put his pipe aside in a little brass stand on the end table next to his chair.

“I never liked him from the day I met him,” said Sharon. “I remember when Nathan introduced him to us. He was so delighted. Nathan thought Remy was a genius.”

“When was that?”

“He hired him to take over as the sommelier at Denby’s, so it was probably about six, maybe seven years ago. It would have been around the time we bought this property.”

“What is it about him that you don’t like?” asked Sunny.

“What do I like about him is a better question. You’ve met him?”

“Yes, several times.”

“And? What did you think?”

“He seemed reserved. Hard to get to know. And very protective of his wine cellar,” said Sunny.

“You can say that again. He’d keep the whole place under lock and key if he could. He forgets who is working for whom. Once he got the flu and wouldn’t let anyone use the keys to the alcoves except Nathan. All week long, Nathan practically lived in the cellar, running bottles back and forth for the waiters.”

“Why do you suppose he is so distrustful?” asked Sunny. “Does he think the wait staff would steal from the restaurant?”

“I think he is more concerned about having his very meticulously arranged world intruded upon,” said Pel. “That someone
might handle a wine that ought not to be moved. That some mistake might be made. So much of the stock at Vinifera isn’t on the menu. Remy is the only one who would know what to charge for it, for example. But I think his fears are largely less rational. The thought that someone might put a Meritage in with the Merlot is enough to make his hair curl.”

Sharon poured the tea and handed it around. “You’re right, there,” she said. “He is a total control freak.”

She used the term uneasily. It was probably a semi-recent import from the vocabulary of one of her daughters. They sipped their tea. Sunny said, “Let’s go back to Saturday night. You’re at dinner with Nathan. What was it like? Did he seem himself?”

“It was great fun, like always,” said Sharon wistfully. “I’m glad we have it to remember him by. Now that Nathan is beyond hearing, I think it’s okay to tell you that I have never cared overly for the food at Vinifera. I like a restaurant’s menu to be either more elaborate or more simple. Somehow they seem to strike the middle ground and lose the advantages of both. We eat there because of Nathan and Eliot. That said, our meal was very good and the company and wine excellent.”

“Did he say or do anything out of the ordinary?”

Sharon doctored her tea and sipped, considering. “Not that I recall. He was in good spirits, very jovial. Nathan knew how to have a good time. As I mentioned earlier, that woman Dahlia waited on us, but even that was merely uncomfortable. It was a good night.”

“He didn’t seem tired or sick?”

“Not at all,” Sharon said. “It was late by the time we left, and he stayed on. There was nothing about his behavior to suggest he was having any kind of health problem. His death came as a complete shock.”

“That’s true, he wasn’t sick,” said Pel, “but Nathan was hardly a specimen of good health. He looked and acted like what he was, a man at the end of a life of rampant excess. Everyone else stopped that business after college. He kept on, and it eventually killed him.”

“Do you remember your conversation that night?” asked Sunny. “What you talked about over dinner?”

“I don’t think we spoke of anything in particular,” said Pel. “Nothing noteworthy that I can remember. It was a long dinner. Andre sent out a number of dishes for us to try. We talked about the food, what we liked and didn’t like and why. We talked about the wine. Nathan had an incomparable passion for wine, and he spoke very well on the topic. He knew everything there was to know about wine and loved to share the information. He would tell us about whatever we were drinking, where it came from, who made it. That would inevitably segue into a story about a visit to the château—he especially loved French wines—and one of his romantic conquests. You know, some highly embellished tale of how the wine maker’s wife slipped into his room in a white silk gown and dared him to ravish her. Other than that, we talked about our girls, a few mutual friends, Sharon’s trip to Prague.”

“I went to do Christmas shopping,” said Sharon. “They make marvelous glassware.”

“Then we went home,” said Pel.

“What was he doing when you left?”

“Standing at the bar, talking to Remy, as far as I remember.”

“Was he drunk?”

“Not drunk, but not sober either. We had cocktails before dinner, and a bottle of wine, and Remy came around several times with wines he thought we would like to taste.”

“He didn’t mention any troubles he might be having?” asked Sunny.

“If there had been anything odd about that night, we would have told the police,” said Sharon. “It was just an ordinary dinner. We do it every other week or so.”

Sunny nodded. “So he didn’t seem worried or anxious?”

“Not that I noticed,” said Pel. “I’d say he seemed quite relaxed.”

“What about enemies? Was there anyone angry at him, who hated him, or who had threatened him?”

“The police asked us that too,” said Sharon. “As far as I know, everyone loved Nathan. He was a hoot to be around, always cheerful.”

“But you said Dahlia had issues with him, and there were others.”

“Yes, I suppose that’s true. I never think of estranged lovers as enemies. I still think you’re looking for something that isn’t there. Nathan seemed fine. There were no problems in his life as far as I know. And while I don’t particularly like Dahlia, I hardly blame her for his death.”

“What about people who stood to benefit by his death?”

“Your friend would be at the top of the list,” said Pel. “Andre must have been torn between joy and sorrow when he heard. He would have been out of a job in a heartbeat if it were up to Nathan.”

Sunny frowned. The people who frequented expensive restaurants talked about chefs in that proprietary way other people talked about celebrities, as if they actually knew what was going on in their lives or had any business doing so. “If that’s the case, why did Eliot want to keep him on? If it caused so many bad feelings, why not replace him? Certainly Andre could find another post.”

“It’s anybody’s guess. Mine is that Andre embodies what Eliot imagines a chef ought to be,” said Pel. “You might say he personifies the spirit of Vinifera, or you could be less kind and say he fits with the decor.”

Sunny felt a surge of anger in defense of Andre, which she decided not to indulge. “Surely there were others who stood to gain more directly. Nathan was a wealthy man. Someone is going to inherit all that, aren’t they?”

“We’ll find out soon enough. They’re reading the will tomorrow,” said Pel. “Not that it affects us.”

He glanced at the grandfather clock and Sunny put down her teacup. The interview was over. As they said their good-byes, the Rastburns assured Sunny they would phone if they thought of any significant detail about Nathan’s last night. Sunny felt confident they would not. They didn’t seem in the least suspicious about his death, and she imagined they would not give her visit a second thought.

It was about to be one
of those magic twilights that made Sunny want to put on a down jacket and a stocking hat, grab a bottle of home-brew No Cal Red, climb a mountain, wait for night, and get to know the stars. A sliver of moon as white as porcelain sat on top of Rattlesnake Ridge already, and Sunny felt the pull of Mount St. Helena.