A Sunny McCoskey Napa Valley Mystery 4: Lethal Vintage

by Nadia Gordon

  “I’m ready for it to roll off my tongue for good,” said Monty. “We’ve eaten this three times in as many weeks.”

  “That sounds like an invitation,” said Wade. “Dinner at Monty’s next Sunday.”

  Monty acquiesced. “Fine, I’ll cook next time. We can do a roast chicken or pork loin with fennel pollen. I staked out a great new patch of wild fennel over the weekend. Easy access. No fence, no rabid dogs, no exhaust fumes. It’s a good hundred yards from the road. Tall as my head.”

  “We should go big this year and package up a bunch to sell at the farmers’ market,” said Rivka.

  “How big can you go with fennel pollen?” said Monty. “It takes a grocery bag full of flowers to make a spoonful of the stuff.”

  “So we do small packages. Everyone was asking me for more last year.” Rivka looked at Sunny for support and her eyes lingered on her friend’s face. “You got some color. Did you go biking?”

  “I went to a pool party yesterday.”

  “And you’re still wearing your swimsuit? That must have been some party.”

  Sunny looked down at the bikini and gauzy cover-up she was wearing. She’d forgotten. “Long story.”

  Rivka’s eyes lit up. “I’ll bet! Come on, dish. I want details. I need to live vicariously. I slept and pulled weeds most of the weekend.”

  “A pool party,” said Monty. “That’s so L.A. Were there cabana boys?”

  “It wasn’t a party exactly,” said Sunny. “Just people over for a swim and lunch. No cabana boys, but they had just about everything else, including a full-time private chef and a kitchen that looked like something out of a design magazine and a huge Rothko in the living room. The real thing. Not to mention some pretty crazy wines. They must have pulled the cork on about three thousand dollars’ worth of wine by the time the night was over, which was the least of what happened. I’m wiped out.” For a moment she was tempted to leave it at that. A pool party at some rich friend’s luxurious wine country getaway. Simple.

  “And?” said Rivka. “There’s more, I can tell.”

  “Not until after dinner,” said Sunny. “I’m afraid it has a very unhappy ending.”

  “The old McCoskey knack for unhappy endings,” said Monty. “Remind me not to invite you to my wedding. People have an uncanny tendency to drop dead when you’re around.”

  “I’ve noticed,” she said.

  The conversation went on without her. When they’d finished eating, Wade said, “Now I want to hear why Sunny is all sunburned and silent, if she’ll tell us.”

  Sunny nodded.

  “If we’re in for a long one, we have to clear the dishes first,” said Rivka. “I can’t concentrate with a plate of chicken bones staring at me.”

  When the table was cleared and their wineglasses filled, they settled into the living room, where Sunny told the basics of what had happened, starting with Anna Wilson’s phone call Saturday morning inviting her over and ending with the gathering in the living room she’d just come from, in which Sergeant Harvey had suggested that none of them leave town or discuss details of the case until the initial investigation was complete. She left Andre Morales out of it, and skipped Sergeant Harvey’s theory that Anna had been dead before the fall. A stunned silence followed.

  “I thought I was joking,” said Monty, removing his spectacles to polish them on a little cloth he took from his wallet. “You are definitely off the guest list.”

  Rivka gave Monty a look. “It has nothing to do with Sunny.”

  “Au contraire,” said Wade. “It has everything to do with Sunny. This girl knew she was in danger. She said as much, right, Sun?”

  “I guess so. It depends. She said she didn’t know who her boyfriend was anymore, it was over, and she just wanted to get out of there. But a few hours later she was kissing him like everything was fine, and a couple hours after that they were fighting up a storm. At the time, it seemed like the usual ‘he loves me, he loves me not’ stuff to me. But none of that may have anything to do with her death, anyway. They don’t even know how she died yet.”

  “They say they don’t,” said Monty. “I’ll bet they know exactly how she died. They want the killer to slip up and reveal something only he would know.”

  “If she wanted a shoulder to cry on, she had this girl Jordan on the premises already,” said Wade. “You guys hadn’t talked in years. She’s up there at the country house sweating bullets for whatever reason. She reads in the paper that her old pal McCoskey recently kicked the stuffing out of the most dangerous killer to come through town in decades. That’s just the sort of friend a girl likes to have around when she’s in the soup.” Wade picked up a cookie from a plate Rivka put in front of him and aimed it at Sunny. “I say you were called in as reinforcements. This girl was scared. And for good reason, it turns out.”

  “And I let her down. Not only did I fail to help, I did absolutely nothing but drink her wine, eat her food, and go to sleep when she needed me. I heard enough to know there was some major domestic strife taking place upstairs and I did absolutely nothing.”

  “If you really think the boyfriend killed her, I’m glad you didn’t go up there and get in the middle of it,” said Rivka, getting up and going into the kitchen. She put water on to boil and came back. “In fact, if she weren’t dead, rest her soul, I’d be cussing her out right now. She knew the guy. She knew he was dangerous. And she pulled you into it without so much as a warning. A good friend goes to the movie you want to see instead of the one she wants to see. A good friend does not ask you to stand between her and her homicidal boyfriend. Please. Who is this person?”

  “You’re assuming he killed her,” said Sunny. “We don’t know that. I assumed she OD’d, but the police are not treating it like an accidental death.”

  “Like I said,” said Monty, “they know exactly what happened, but they don’t want to show their hand.”

  “I still say it’s not your job to straighten out somebody’s life just because you knew them years ago,” said Rivka, “and it was crummy of her to pull you into it in the first place. I don’t get why you hung around.”

  “I kept asking myself that. It was just like the old days. I felt responsible for her. Like, as the sensible one, I should try to make sure everything was okay. Besides, she creates this aura of exclusivity—you feel privileged to be there. And it was hot and the pool was beautiful and they were serving good food and wine. Then after a while I was too sloppy to drive and I figured I might as well relax. I just wish I’d done something. Even just call the police before it was too late.”

  “It sounds like she made it her business to take risks,” said Rivka. “Are you supposed to bodily prevent her from smoking and drinking and doing drugs? She’s a grown-up. She had a noisy fight with her boyfriend that ended in tears. Happens every day. Who died and made you her guardian angel? Oh, sorry. Strike that. I just mean you shouldn’t feel guilty for not saving her from herself.”

  “Yes, but everyone needs help sometimes. If I’d gone up there to see what was going on, she might be alive.”

  “And if a butterfly in the Amazon had flapped its wings a little harder, maybe it wouldn’t have happened at all,” said Rivka. “You can’t hold yourself responsible for this. No matter what happened to her, there is no guarantee you could have saved her even if you’d broken down the door like freakin’ Batgirl. You might even have gotten yourself killed. Who knows.”

  “You’re getting off track,” said Monty. “Batgirl wouldn’t break down a door and McCoskey herself said the cops are not treating this like an accident. Ergo, suspicious death, as in murder. This is not about what McCoskey might have done. It’s not that cute. This is murder. Somebody at the nice little pool party decided to off the hostess. Who? Sun, run through the guest list again.”

  “I bet it takes weeks for them to figure out what happened,” said Wade. “It will take days just to figure out what drugs she was on, if any, right, Sun?”

  “I suppose so. I don
’t know why this stuff keeps happening to me.”

  “Competence,” said Wade. “That’s one of the ironies of life. The more competent you are, the more trouble you attract because people come to you for help.”

  “The guest list,” said Monty.

  “Me. Anna Wilson. Oliver Seth,” said Sunny. “That’s Anna’s boyfriend.”

  “He’s the guy who owned the house.”

  “Right.”

  “Person of interest number one,” said Monty. “What’s he like? Fat, old, and hairy in all the wrong places, no doubt.”

  “Hardly. Young, thin, good looking. But not nice. Cold. And I’d say he has a temper.”

  “Like I said, person of interest numero uno. Next.”

  The kettle whistled and Rivka went to make tea. Wade interrupted to continue his line of thinking. “I’ve been noticing lately that irony explains some of the more puzzling truths in life. Only the good die young. Ironic. The wealthy are notoriously cheap. Ironic. The gentlest guys are the great big dudes with biceps like tree trunks. Ironic. Revolutionaries eventually start to act like dictators. Ironic. It goes on and on.” He searched their faces for encouragement, got none, and continued anyway. “What if the core nature of the universe isn’t love, as the movies would have it, but irony? It is the one sure way to keep things balanced. If one side gets too dominant, it flips over and becomes its opposite. If God has a sense of humor—and you don’t have to look very far to see that must be the case—then irony is the ideal way to jerk the rug out from under the bullies. It’s a great way to mess with people. You can search and strive and fight and scratch your way along for thirty years looking for a treasure, and you’ll only find it when you give up and decide treasure is worthless, anyway. Irony. The great cosmic equalizer.”

  “Skord, you are making my head hurt,” said Monty.

  Rivka returned with a teapot and honey and went back for cups and spoons. Monty followed her and returned carrying a white pastry box tied with a pink silk ribbon. “Ironically, considering I don’t even like dessert,” he said, “I was down at the Ferry Building in the city today and brought back one of those chocolate cakes with the marshmallow puddle on top. No frosting, no pain. Anyone have room?”

  “Always,” said Rivka.

  “We can circle back to the irony angle,” said Sunny, looking at Wade dubiously. “I like Monty’s approach. I need to think this through.”

  “Exactly,” said Monty, heading back to the kitchen. He returned with a knife, plates, and forks. “Who’s next?”

  “Franco Bertinotti, the winemaker at Oliver Seth’s winery. He and Seth seemed to be friends as well as employer and employee. He’s about a century older than Anna’s friend Jordan, but he kept holding her hand. He was holding her hand when we were all together in the living room this afternoon.”

  “Stranger things have happened,” said Wade.

  “Here’s one of them,” said Sunny. “She was also snuggled up in the hot tub with Keith Lachlan and the Guamanian princess.”

  “Ménage à trois?” said Rivka, gasping.

  “At least,” said Sunny. “Things were definitely getting interesting when I got out.”

  “Good thing you left,” said Wade, looking askance.

  “You lost me with the Guamanian princess,” said Monty.

  “Oliver’s lawyer, Keith Lachlan, has a girlfriend, Marissa, who comes from Guam. She arrived at Oliver’s house late last night. Not a real princess, or at least she wasn’t wearing her tiara, and she certainly didn’t kill anybody. She couldn’t overpower a turnip. Tiny little thing with wrists like celery sticks. Next. Molly Seth, Oliver’s sister, was there with her boyfriend, a guy named Jared. Bollinger, I think. Who turned out to be some kind of ex-boyfriend of Anna’s, but she didn’t know it.”

  “Anna?” said Monty.

  “No, Molly,” said Sunny. “Hello, pay attention. How could Anna not know her own ex-boyfriend?”

  “Right. Back up a second. What about this Lachlan guy? How’s he look?”

  “Big guy. Huge, actually. Like six-four or -five. Caribbean originally but seemed pretty Americanized. He and Seth are always together, apparently. He went back to San Francisco late last night, before Anna died.”

  “How do you know?” asked Rivka.

  “I heard Marissa tell Franco he left right after they got out of the hot tub. I heard Anna and Oliver fighting long after that, so he couldn’t have killed her. And there was another guy staying at the house, a British artist named Troy Stevens. A friend, or rather ex-boyfriend, of Anna’s.”

  “He’s famous,” said Monty. “I’ve heard of him.”

  “I think he’s still in love with her.”

  “She’s got her boyfriend and two exes in the same house,” said Rivka. “Sounds messy. Anyone else?”

  “Just the people who work there. A woman named Cynthia Meyers who is Oliver’s private chef—good cook—and the gardener who found Anna. His name is Mike Sayudo. He was in the living room today before the police let us go, but I didn’t meet him.” Sunny poured herself a cup of tea and stirred in a spoonful of honey. “I’m sure there are other people who work there, probably plenty of them. It must take a dozen people to maintain that place. But it was the weekend and those were the only two around.”

  “As far as you know,” said Monty. “Who knows who may have been in that house after dark. I’m sure there are plenty of places to hide.”

  And bedrooms, thought Sunny. She had decided to leave Andre Morales off the list of suspects. It was just too embarrassing to go into right now.

  “Don’t talk like that,” said Rivka. “You’ll give her nightmares. And me.”

  “I guess we can’t entirely discount the idea of some random or even not-so-random person showing up,” said Sunny. “But it seems doubtful to me. That place would be hard to break into. There’s a security gate and surveillance cameras everywhere. Besides, it would be a very odd coincidence, since Anna already felt she was in danger. No, I would assume the obvious—that Seth killed her—except he’s too smart. He wouldn’t push his girlfriend out a window after a big fight and then hang around while the police try to decide what happened. The guy has more brains than that.”

  “Anybody can lose his temper,” said Rivka. “Maybe he snapped.”

  “Maybe. In any case, the police will get the security tapes and the lab reports and track down what happened and who’s responsible. I’m inclined to think it was one of the guys at the party. Seth. Franco. The artist. Jared Bollinger. Like you said, it was a messy situation. Drugs, alcohol, and who knows what kind of grudges or jealousies were brewing. Knowing what happened won’t bring Anna back, but at least they won’t get away with it.”

  “Sounds like you’re planning to stay out of it,” said Wade. “I’m glad to hear that.”

  “Why wouldn’t she?” said Monty. “Sun doesn’t know anything more about what happened than anyone else, she’s not in any danger, and nobody she knows stands to be accused. For once, it’s not her problem.” He handed Sunny a slice of cake.

  “I have no desire to get any more involved than I already am,” said Sunny. “I’m going home after I finish this piece of cake and I’m going to have a good cry and a bath and try to forget this weekend ever happened.”

  Rivka frowned and looked around. “I hate to be the one to break the bad news, but you guys are overlooking one small detail. Sunny is not only involved in this girl’s death; if she turns out to have been murdered, Sunny could be a suspect. From the way you tell it, it sounds like you were in exactly the wrong place at precisely the wrong time without anyone to corroborate your story.”

  “You’re right,” said Monty, eyes wide behind his glasses. “No alibi. I never thought of that.”

  Sunny looked at Rivka and reached for her cup of tea. Monty’s marshmallow chocolate cake had suddenly become too sticky to swallow.

  8

  Home by ten, asleep by ten-thirty, up at five, at work by five-thirty, just like a n
ormal day. Sunny McCoskey sat in her office at the back of the restaurant, reviewing the new menu before printing it out on the restaurant’s special stationery with the letterpress logo. Someone knocked at the back door.

  “It’s open!”

  The screen door banged and an instant later Ted the fish guy stuck his bushy mustache into the office. He was pulling a dolly behind him with a cooler bungeed to it.

  “Usual place?”

  “Usual place.”

  He came back and handed her a clipboard with an invoice on it. She read. “Forty filets of fresh salmon?”

  “Beautiful stuff.”

  “But forty filets? As in sides? That’s, like, eighty pounds? That’s, like, a week’s supply, if it lasted that long.”

  “I wondered what you were doing with it. Can’t take it back now. You’re my last stop.” He flipped through the clipboard papers and pointed to the order for forty filets of salmon.

  “It’s a mistake. We never order that much. Can’t you call around and see if somebody will take half of it off my hands?”

  “No time. But if anybody calls looking for more, I’ll send them your way.”

  She sighed. “How did this happen?”

  “You got me. I just catch it, clean it, ice it, serenade it, and deliver it before the coffee gets cold. Ordering is up to you all.”

  “Right. Okay. Well, we’ll be serving salmon today, I guess.”

  “Not a bad idea.”

  Sunny shook her head. Eighty pounds of fresh salmon. They’d have today and tomorrow to sell it. By tomorrow night it would be over, at least as far as the restaurant was concerned. They could divide what was left among the staff. She looked at the menu in front of her. It was going to need some changes. Salmon carpaccio followed by filet of salmon followed by planked salmon, poached salmon, salmon ravioli, salmon mousse, and salmon soufflé.

  Rivka arrived an hour later. She came into the office pushing her old beach cruiser and leaned it against Sunny’s. On warm days like this, they both rode their bikes to the restaurant. Rivka was wearing what she always wore to work, rain or shine. Today the jeans were black and the tank top was red, presumably chosen to match the swooping blue and red swallows she had tattooed on the back of each arm.