Murder Uncorked

Her shoe got bogged down in some mud, and she had to yank to pull her foot out, losing her shoe in the greenish muck. “Damn!” Her foot covered in mud, her arms scratched up, and mosquito bites rising along her neck, she was foolishly looking for some phantom juvenile delinquent who got his
cojones
off spying on unsuspecting women. Could it get any worse? It would definitely be worse if Derek found her like this.

But even worse than that was when her bare foot brushed against something that didn’t feel like a prickly bush. It tickled, but not in the way a bush should. She looked down and saw a hand. She screamed as her eyes followed the hand deeper into the bushes. There was the body of a man with thick grape vines pulled tautly around his neck, his brown eyes bulging out of his purplish face. His dark, longish hair covered in mud. He wore a green shirt, and across the right side of his chest on the shirt was his name—Gabriel Asanti. With a flash of recognition, Nikki knew she just met the winemaker . . .

Dedication

In memory of my loving Grandmother Clara,
the kindest person I’ve ever known,
who always believed in me.

Acknowledgements

There are so many people who have helped me in this process of not only creating
Murder Uncorked
, but also the Wine Lover’s Mystery series. I’m certain that I will miss someone here and I apologize. I could go on for pages to acknowledge everyone who has helped me in writing this book and subsequently the series. I generously thank Quelene Slattery for all her expertise on wine, Terry Beswick for showing me around wine country, Bob from Grape Connections, Bob Hurley, Sergeant Davis, Holly Jacobs, Don McQuinn, Glenda Burgess, Elizabeth Lyon, and Karen at the Glen Ellen Inn. I also have to express the utmost gratitude to Emily Cotler and the team at Wax, Theresa Meyers at Blue Moon and to the
best
writing coach in the world—Mike Sirota and the gang, Paul, Mark, Ed, and Angela. This series would not be possible without the constant support from my first reader and red-liner, my wonderful mother-in-law Sue Vosseller. To Jessica Faust—agent extraordinaire, who patiently waited for the manuscript, and my gracious editor Samantha Mandor. I am grateful to have you both. Last of all I want to acknowledge my family—my children Alex, Anthony, and Kaitlin who left me alone to write (most of the time); also my husband John who used to throw away rejection letters so that I wouldn’t get discouraged. I want to acknowledge the two people in my life who taught me tenacity, patience, and how to go after my dreams without ever giving up—my parents Dal and Nina Scott, who have supported me and my dreams in every way possible. I love you both. Thank you.

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MURDER UNCORKED

A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the author

PRINTING HISTORY
Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / October 2005

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Chapter 1

Nikki Sands hated her job almost as much as she hated her past. She straightened her crisp white blouse and put on her best smile. She approached the couple at the table she was serving, and couldn’t help but notice the woman watching her with that unmistakable glint of self-importance that judged Nikki to be nothing but the peon who was waiting on them. The woman had a glamour-girl theme about her, but that hair needed a good hairdresser. Hadn’t she heard that frizzy platinum blonde was passé? Not to mention the Pat Benatar smoldering-eye-makeup look.

“Tell me about your wine list. What do you recommend as a good red?” the man asked her. His look, compared to his date’s, was all-the-way chic. Dark blond hair with exactly the right amount of wave to it, mesmerizing ocean-blue eyes, high cheekbones, a golden tan, and a few fine lines gave him the right amount of that rugged-man look. Nikki couldn’t help thinking that Casanova was luscious.

“I’m partial to this nice Medoc-Grand Cru Classe. It’s an excellent choice,” she said, pointing to one of the more expensive wines on the list. “The Bordeaux blend is smooth, and there’s a hint of fruit to it, so it’s not too dry.” If she’d had the money, the stylish Bordeaux would’ve been her first choice. The Medoc wines dated all the way back to Napoleon, and since that time had remained as some of the best out there. “But if you prefer something lighter, a good Red Zinfandel would be nice. We have a small production wine from Napa from the Downing Vineyards. It’s right here.” Nikki’s finger moved to the red zin. Glancing down at the man, her stomach lurched. He smiled up at her. “The Fly by Night Zinfandel,” she said.

“I think we’ll go with the Medoc,” the man replied with an approving smile.

Nikki walked back to the bar to order the drinks from her pal and bartender, Maurice. She winced when an instrumental version of “Stormy Weather” started playing over the stereo system.

“What is it, doll?” Maurice asked. “You don’t like the oldies but goodies?”

“Are you kidding? I love them. What I can’t stand is that this place is supposed to be so upscale, yet we have to pipe in music on a system. I think management should really go all out and get a pianist in here.”

“They’re too cheap,” Maurice replied.

They both laughed, knowing that was the reality. Nikki glanced around to make sure their manager, Steve, wasn’t lurking. Nikki loved music of all kinds. She compartmentalized areas of her life by listening to music and songs. Stressful times, happy times, the handful of boyfriends, life in Los Angeles, and life in Tennessee, even her mother—all of them were associated with their own song, and each of them conjured up memories when she listened.

Nikki noticed that the woman from the table she was waiting got up to go to the powder room, Manolo Blahnik pumps click-clacking as she sauntered across the hardwood floor. She caught up with Nikki at the bar.

“Do us right, hon. I’d like tonight to be special, because I don’t want this one getting away.” She lowered her voice and leaned into Nikki, who got a whiff of her strong gardenia-scented perfume. “Tone down the wine expertise for me, okay?” The overblown blonde winked at Nikki, then proceeded into the rest room, coming back out after a few moments with her collagen-plumped lips painted raspberry-pink.

Something was wrong with this picture, but it wasn’t up to Nikki to make a judgment call. Lately, she’d been attempting to try something very anti-L.A. The concept of not judging others—something she found
exceedingly
difficult to do, especially in this case.

However, after that out-of-place comment and the trip to the bathroom to do the lacquer thing on those lips, Nikki shamefully threw her new practice out the window and made her first—okay, maybe third—judgment call of the evening. She dubbed the woman “The Bimbo.” What was that asking her to tone down the wine advice about anyway? She was supposed to make suggestions about wines. It was part of her job.

The Bimbo wore something that resembled a Band-Aid across her chest, with a skirt so tight and short that her date looked to be guaranteed to get a return on his dinner investment in the next few hours.

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