One Foot in the Grape

TERROIR IN THE SHADOWS . . .

Joyeux Winery was midrow on the first aisle. The winery flag, a golden fleur-de-lis on a background of royal blue and burgundy, fluttered on the roof. The booths were covered with temporary weatherproof curtains to protect the contents between now and the festival. I pushed the corner open with my shoulder and turned to enter the tent, box first. The curtain closed behind me, leaving me in the dark. With my hands full, I couldn't grab the flashlight on my keys and I crept to the tables just ahead of me. As I felt the edge of the table with my thigh, something exploded against the back of my head. The pain was blinding, and I could hear glass breaking as the world tipped away from under my feet. I dropped the box, grabbed the edge of the table and landed on my knees. Through the roar in my ears, I heard a soft laugh. I tried to concentrate, but my eyes closed. A shove into my shoulder ripped the table from my grip and I fell to the ground.

Just before the world went black I heard a soft whisper. “Just like a bad penny, always turning up in the wrong place. Bad, bad Penny.”

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ONE FOOT IN THE GRAPE

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

Copyright © 2015 by Carlene O'Neil.

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eBook ISBN: 978-0-698-15433-9

PUBLISHING HISTORY

Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / May 2015

Cover illustration by Robert Crawford.

Cover design by Danielle Abbiate.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

I'd like to thank Dawn Dowdle, my agent, for your help and belief in this book. When the call came in, your excitement matched my own. Also, thank you to my editor, Robin Barletta, for taking this book and giving it such a great home.

Finally, love and thanks to my family and friends who gave me encouragement and support along the way. You knew I could do it long before I did, and I'm grateful.

A
SIMPLE
house rule, ignored once, and I end up with a dead body on my hands. Actually more than one, but I'm getting ahead of myself.

The rule is, never answer the front door. I learned growing up it was usually a tourist. The house, with its stone walls and copper roof aged to a green patina, drew visitors toting cameras. While my aunt loved guests at the winery, she protected our privacy at home, and had planted screen trees years ago. Now, I don't get many visitors, and I like it that way. The house is invisible from the street, flanked by my vineyards, rows of lush green soldiers standing tall and straight, shoulder to shoulder. Visitors have to manage the drive through my grape barricade. The occasional knock on the door first thing Saturday morning means someone has gone the distance. More often than not it's an attempt to sell me something, usually magazine subscriptions or membership to a church that doesn't let you drink.

I don't have time for magazines, and I wouldn't join a church that doesn't let me drink. After all, I own a winery. Until recently the knocking went unanswered. My niece Hayley, new to the household, didn't know the rules.

“Antonia Martinelli's here.” She lifted her eyebrows and disappeared down the hall.

Terrific. I'd rather buy magazines.

Antonia's a distant relative, my aunt Monique's cousin. They'd been close and, toward the end, Antonia had made it easier for my aunt and ultimately easier for me. I was grateful to her, although, to be honest, she'd never been one of my favorite people. When I was young she'd sneak up and grab us for playing in her vineyards. Used to spook the hell out of me.

The tap of her cane down the hall announced her arrival before Antonia stepped into the room. Her silver hair was swept up. It glinted in the morning sun as she stepped over Nanook, my malamute. As she passed by the faintest scent of lavender tickled my nose. She stopped at the armchair that held my gray tabby, Petite Syrah.

“Move.” Antonia pointed the cane toward the floor.

Syrah opened her green eyes, rolled to the edge of the seat and, with a surprisingly loud thump, landed on the ground and walked to the door with as much dignity as she could muster.

“Penelope, that cat is overweight, and why would you let it up on the furniture? I hope I don't get cat hair all over me.”

Good. Maybe she wouldn't sit and I could get back to my quiet Saturday morning. Too bad I had on my standard weekend sweatsuit. White. Antonia's ability to reduce me to the awkward teen I'd once been wasn't helped by my resembling
the Michelin tire man. I stayed seated on the couch, gathered my own dignity, and turned to face her.

“Hi, Antonia. Want coffee?”

She looked at the clock on my desk, then at her wristwatch, as if to confirm the time. “No. I had mine hours ago.”

She eyed the photos on the side table and picked up the one closest to her. It was a black and white of her and my aunt as teens in the vineyards. Knee-deep in grapes, they smiled into the camera.

“I remember when this was taken. We were so young then.” She set the picture down and turned to me. “I can see Monique in you. You've got the blonde hair and you've inherited your aunt's good skin, but you've aged.”

Gee, thanks. “I haven't lived here for twenty years.”

“What are you now, forty?”

“No. I'm still in my midthirties.” Okay, late thirties.

She eyed my legs, curled up under me. “You get your height from Monique too. Enjoy it while you can. Soon you'll start to shrink.”

Wow. The church folk were looking pretty good right about now.

“Your aunt would be glad you've decided to keep the winery. Glad you decided to quit the city and come home.”

“Me too.” Six months earlier I hadn't been so sure. Antonia didn't need to know my return to Cypress Cove was prompted by my getting fired.

Antonia was once again focused on the picture and seemed lost in thought. She'd always looked the same to me, with her silver hair and black dresses. What could she want? She'd never come by before, not since I'd been back.

Something was different. She'd always exuded confidence,
but now she sat with her foot tapping, and she twisted a ring on her finger. There was a slight tremble in her hands as she folded and pressed them to her lap.

“Antonia?”

She looked away. “You're probably wondering why I'm here. The truth is, I need a favor.”

Okay, this was a switch. Antonia never needed anything from anybody.

“Someone is sabotaging the wines at Martinelli. I want you to help me find out who it is.” She got up and walked to the window. “Don't suggest I talk with my children. The damage is being done by someone with access to the barrels.” She reached out to hold on to the windowsill. “It could very well be one of them.”

While I searched for an appropriate response, Antonia turned to face me. “First time I've ever seen you speechless. Say something, for heaven's sake.”

I took a second. “What makes you think someone is sabotaging you?”

“Martinelli Winery doesn't make the kind of mistakes I'm finding. Last year there were a couple of bad barrels. This year there are dozens.”

I relaxed and leaned back on the couch. “Wait a minute, Antonia. I've only been back at the winery for a short time, but I grew up in this business. Some years are just better than others.”

Antonia moved over to the French doors and looked out at the grapes, full and ripe in the autumn sun. “You aren't listening. One barrel is fine, another ruined. One is excellent, the next rancid. It's random. It's deliberate.”

I saw her point. Problems happened to an entire crop, not random barrels.

“You need to go to the police.”

“I don't want the publicity. It's bad enough people think our standards are slipping. If my customers suspect we won't be able to deliver our orders, they'll start pulling deliveries. I want you to help me.” She paused. “Monique would want it too.”

It wasn't fair for her to use my aunt as leverage, although I had to agree with her. Martinelli Winery was a mainstay of the wine industry in this part of California.

“Even if I agreed, why me?”

“I can't. If my family or employees are responsible they're already watching me. No one will notice you, a neighbor and fellow vintner. Frankly, you're the best choice I had.”

“I won't let that go to my head. What would you want me to do?”

“Listen. Watch. Find out who the culprit is and tell me.” Antonia looked at my desk, completely free of papers or work, and even I could see the light layer of dust. My camera and closed laptop were the only items on its surface. “Actually, I'm surprised you aren't more curious. After all, didn't you do that type of thing at the paper?”

I nodded. “Investigative photojournalism.”

“There. You see? You must like prying. You should be used to watching people. Asking questions.”

It's true. I'd worked for the
San Francisco Press
and been paid to do what I do best: stick my nose into other people's business.

That ended six months ago, when my editor wanted to digitally add spectators to a photo I took at a riot. I refused,
assuming we were in the business of accurately reporting the news. I guess I was pretty vocal about it and, in the end, my boss and I reached an agreement. He agreed I could refuse to alter my work, and I agreed I was fired.

I rode my indignation right out of there and into every other paper for miles around. It didn't take long to realize computer software had changed photojournalism forever. Selling papers was more important than accuracy. Beyond that, I'd been labeled as rigid and inflexible, somebody difficult to work with.

Antonia waited patiently for an answer, which wasn't like her. It was strange the wines were in the barrels before the problems turned up. It didn't make sense. I'd begun to pick at the puzzle, trying to make the pieces fit.

Okay, I admit it. I'm nosy, I'm intrusive and, yes, I was curious. “Before I agree to help you, is there anything else you can tell me?”

Antonia took a deep breath. “About six months ago I began to notice little items missing around the main winery. Things out of place, paperwork moved, that kind of thing. At first I didn't think much about it. Then about a month ago, someone broke into the winery office.”

“Did they take anything of value?”

“A few hundred dollars and the account ledger, but that was it. Then last week a noise woke me around midnight. It came from the attic. I put on my robe and went out into the hall, but by the time I got to the stairway the house was quiet again. When I went up there the following morning, things weren't as I'd left them, but it was impossible to tell if anything was missing.”

“Do you think it has something to do with the ruined wine?”

“I don't know.” The hand that held the cane trembled slightly, but her voice was strong and her gaze steady.
“Martinelli Winery is the legacy of my family. If someone's trying to hurt it, or its reputation, I will stop them.”

I believed her. If I didn't help her, she'd pursue it without me.

“Okay, let's see what we can find out. On our own.” I stood and looked at her.

“Excellent, Penelope.” Antonia breathed deeply. Her shoulders relaxed. “Where do we start?”

“Please call me Penny.”

“You've been Penelope to me your entire life. I'm too old to start calling you something else.”

Right. “Who has access to the house, the winery?”

“I've thought of that. You know Marvin.”

“Your manager.”

“Yes. He's often at the house, usually in the library and kitchen.”

I was surprised. “The kitchen? He eats with the family?”

Antonia sniffed. “Of course not. He's allowed to come to the kitchen and have the cook fix him a tray to take back to his apartment. Certainly on most days he comes to the house for one reason or another.”

She turned to look out the window. “I believe you know Todd. He's in charge of the tasting room. Then there are my three children. Do you remember them?”

“Not really. I went to public schools.”

“True, they were gone most of the time. Francesca is a few years older than you, and then there's my son, Stephen.”

“Stephen must be about my age, but I don't know if I'd recognize him. I remember Chantal, though.” Chantal was Antonia's youngest, and she'd stolen a boyfriend from every girl in town, including me.

“Why would they do something to hurt the winery?”

Antonia stamped her cane. Even with a rubber tip, that was going to leave a mark. “That's what I want you to find out.”

Good point. “Okay, that's five people. Does anyone else have access to both the winery office and the house?”

“Of course. Two of my children are married and I also have servants and part-time help at the winery.”

“Let's start with the servants. Do they live in?”

“No.” She turned to face the window and I had to strain to hear her next words. “No one but the family. And Marvin.”

“So, if we assume the same person ransacked both the winery office and the attic—a big assumption, I understand—then for the moment we can focus our efforts on the people with access to the house at night.” I looked at her. “Are you sure you don't want to tell the police about this?”

“Penelope, we've just established that someone intimately involved in the winery is trying to destroy it. Best case, it appears one of my employees is responsible. Going to the police, and the publicity that would ensue, is the very last thing I want.”

There were steps in the hall and Hayley came through the doorway. “I'm heading to the office and wanted to say good-bye.”

Antonia looked up from across the room, her brows creased. “Did you hear our conversation?”

“This is Hayley's home, Antonia. She's a grown woman and I won't allow you to speak to her that way.”

I looked at Antonia and realized I was no longer intimidated by her. “I didn't ask you here. You came on your own. If you no longer want my help, then that's fine too.”

Antonia raised her brow and paused. “Very well. You can
discuss the issue here, but please remember it's a private matter.”

No kidding. I rolled my eyes at Hayley.

Antonia moved toward Hayley. “I'll walk to the office with you. I want to ask Connor when he plans on bringing in the rest of the harvest. Perhaps we can coordinate the temporary workers so neither of us gets behind.”

Connor was the reason for any success my winery enjoyed. He'd had offers to manage other wineries, but stayed with my aunt because she gave him complete control of the vineyards, which is how it should be. He decided all of the day-to-day operations, from hiring the seasonal help to actually turning the grapes into wine. Connor came with an added bonus: he was great with tourists and visitors. I'd offered him the same arrangement when I'd returned to the winery and was grateful every day that he'd accepted.