A Sunny McCoskey Napa Valley Mystery 4: Lethal Vintage

by Nadia Gordon

  “I don’t have any,” said Sunny. “I was asleep until the police woke me in the morning.”

  “You heard nothing in the night?”

  “I heard Oliver and Anna fighting.”

  “We all heard that.”

  “The next thing I knew, it was morning and we were being asked to talk to the police.”

  “And there was your boyfriend, appeared out of thin air,” said Franco.

  “Yes.”

  “He didn’t tell you he would be there that night.”

  “No.”

  “That must have been unpleasant.” He put a hand on her knee as though in commiseration and stood up. He went over to the pool and dove in, swimming with the easy, confident stroke of a practiced swimmer.

  Sunny glanced toward the pool. “Have you known him long?”

  “I just met him on Saturday, like you.”

  “Oh, really? I thought you must have known each other longer. You seem very relaxed together.”

  “He called me out of the blue. I didn’t have anything else to do, so I came up for the day. I think this business with Anna has made us all feel a little lonely. Whatever happened with you and your boyfriend? Did you patch things up?”

  “We’re working on it.”

  “I’m sure it was just a big misunderstanding.”

  “That’s what Andre said.” Sunny hesitated a moment. “Did you see yesterday’s paper?”

  “Who didn’t? I feel sorry for Anna’s mother. It’s not bad enough her daughter is dead, they have to run that kind of story to make it sound sensational.”

  “You mean the whole sex and drugs business.”

  “It’s ridiculous. So we were having a good time. I don’t care what people think, but I feel bad for Sylvia.”

  “Some sex party, anyway,” said Sunny. “If I believe Andre’s story, nobody actually had illicit sex that night except Molly and Jared, and how illicit is sex between two single, consenting adults?”

  Jordan blushed and put her sunglasses back on. Sunny wondered what had embarrassed her. She knows something I don’t, thought Sunny. I’m being naive to think nothing happened between Marissa and Andre that night. Of course something happened, and Jordan knows it.

  The sun dipped into the haze along the horizon and the light turned a richer shade of gold. One of the horses held up its head and nickered, and she could just hear the far-off soft sound of it. Franco pulled himself out of the pool and stood dripping in front of them. A pool attendant handed him a towel, which he used to scrub his hair and wrap around his waist. He resumed his forty-five-degree incline and glass of Pinot Rosé.

  “What did I miss?”

  “Did you see yesterday’s paper?” said Sunny. “We were just saying how ironic it was that nobody actually had sex at the big sex party.”

  “Well, some of us didn’t.” He gave Jordan a look and she ignored him but looked uncomfortable. Maybe they got together that night, thought Sunny. But Franco went to bed long before the others. In the hot tub, Jordan had been warming up for à ménage a trois with Keith and Marissa, but Keith went home soon after Sunny left and Marissa ended up with Andre. Unless…Sunny felt sick. What if they had simply transferred their affection from Keith to Andre? Voilà, a real sex party.

  “What about Marissa?” said Sunny. “What does she do? For a living, I mean.”

  “She’s a party planner,” said Jordan.

  “What a charming euphemism for what she does!” said Franco. “I suppose that makes me Bacchus.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Ms. Lin is a purveyor of exotic people and the exotic substances that make them go,” said Franco.

  “You mean she’s a drug dealer.”

  “She is not a drug dealer,” said Jordan. “She hosts dance parties in the city. She’s been doing it for years.”

  “But if you need some assistance enjoying one of her danceparties, she can help you,” said Franco.

  Sunny turned to Jordan. “Why do you think Oliver killed her?”

  “He’s a control freak. Anna was the one thing he couldn’t control. They’d been fighting. She was going to leave him. I’m not saying he planned anything. I think he lost his temper and that was it.”

  “Did he have a violent temper?”

  “Every man that powerful does.”

  “As tragic and important as all this business with Oliver is,” said Franco, “it is not why I wanted to see you. I have another motive, in addition to enjoying your company, of course. In most places in Italy, particularly the south, and everywhere in Sicily, a little restaurant like yours would be required to pay a substantial retainer to the local business organization. It could never grow without it, or even survive.” He looked at her with blue eyes made bluer by the surrounding tan skin. “I knew a little fish restaurant in a cove next to the famous point called Scylla. You know it from the story? It is an ancient myth. On one side is the Scylla monster on the cliff, on the other the Charybdis whirlpool that eats up the ships. It is a real place in Sicily. This little restaurant did not want to pay the membership fee that was requested of them. It was shortsighted thinking. In the end, they could not keep their staff, they never had a good relationship with the suppliers, customers didn’t come. The owner was forced to close up shop and move away to escape his debts. They found him some weeks later in the trunk of a rented car. The next owner made a partnership with the local powers and, boom, huge success. He retires, comes back to see the operation whenever he likes, life is good. I was thinking of this story in relation to your situation.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Because I can see that you are tired, and that your business is not growing, but I have the impression that you are talented and you work hard. Fortunately and also unfortunately, there is no higher power here so far.”

  “You mean Mafia.”

  “Those that run things. But in any case you could still take the lesson from Scylla and Charybdis. You could make a powerful partnership in order to expand, so that someday you might not have to work every day. Your employees would be happy then. There would be more business, more opportunity to move up, more money for everyone. You would be happy.”

  “My employees are happy now.”

  “Don’t be defensive. I’m only trying to help you by suggesting that if an opportunity should come your way, you might be wise to consider it.”

  “If one should, I will.”

  “Good. Now, why don’t you go into the spa over there and buy yourself a swimsuit so I don’t have to look at denim and a man’s work boots on such a beautiful woman. This is how a woman’s foot should look.”

  He leaned over and lifted Jordan’s leg by the ankle, holding it to display the freshly painted nails and high sandal. She laughed and lifted it away.

  Sunny shook her head and pulled herself up from the lounge chair. “Thanks, but I need to get going. You’re staying here at the hotel?”

  “For the moment,” said Franco. “Why don’t you join me tomorrow for lunch?”

  “I’ll be at the restaurant all day.”

  “Then we will come to you. I would like to try this restaurant everyone is talking about.”

  “Is everyone talking about it?”

  “Some people, my dear. And after that, I will attend to the last of my wine business at Taurus Rising and then, with the authorities’ and Oliver’s blessing, I go back to Roma at the end of the week to resume my affairs there.”

  13

  Wade Skord sat on his back porch in his work clothes. His face and arms were covered in a powdery film of dust, the same that tinged his jeans and white T-shirt rusty red. Terra-cotta stripes marked creases around the armpits and wherever he’d leaned against a piece of machinery.

  “Half man, half mud,” said Sunny.

  “Tractor duty,” said Wade, unlacing his boots. Sunny went inside and came back with two glasses of ice water. They sat on the deck and watched the sky turn pink. Rivka’s yellow blip of a car appeared at the
top of the hill and inched its way down the slope toward the house, red dust billowing up behind. Rivka and her new boyfriend got out.

  “I can’t believe she got all that boy in that little car,” said Wade. “He must have been bent in half.” He excused himself to take a shower. Rivka and Jason, her new crush, joined Sunny on the deck. He was a Jamaican transplant with wide shoulders, narrow hips, and hair like a dandelion who could sell just about anything he dragged to the farmers’ market on Friday mornings. Last year it was wildcrafted blackberries and watercress. This year his stand was mostly selling Bob Marley T-shirts and Jamaican jerk spices and curry powders. Sunny watched Rivka. She was clearly under his spell. Who could blame her? He was charming, handsome, and had a body that “rocked the house,” as Rivka said.

  It was nearly dark when Monty arrived a few minutes later. “Forty bucks to have a car detailed,” he said, slamming the car door, “and look at it. That dust works its way into every crevice and nothing can get it out.” He stomped up the porch stairs, brushing his sleeves and trousers. “What kind of lunatic would live all the way out here with the raccoons?”

  “Our dear friend Wade?” said Rivka.

  “I rest my case,” said Monty.

  They carried groceries inside and Jason got started cooking. Wade came out of the bedroom smelling like soap, wearing clean jeans and a plaid shirt. His gray head of cowlicks was still wet and had been combed neat but was already beginning to break free.

  “Sun,” he said.

  “Skord.”

  “Taste of the evil brew?”

  “How evil?”

  He sauntered over to the cardboard box that served as the wine cabinet. Wade’s house was randomly but more or less evenly divided between rural spartan and wine country luxury. Half rustic cabin, with splintering wood and an ancient potbellied stove, it also had plank floors any New York loft dweller would die for, million-dollar views, and the occasional piece of Italian modernism just when you least expected it. The house, like the man, was a jumble of non sequiturs and juxtaposed opposites. From her spot near the butcher block where Rivka was cubing potatoes, Sunny could see the entire house except the office and the bathroom. Wade raised his nose and glanced toward the kitchen. The air was already filled with the spicy aroma of garlic, onions, and curry sizzling in olive oil. He held up a bottle.

  “Fresh Pinot Noir. Central Otago, New Zealand. Mailman brought it.”

  “New World exotic. I’m in.”

  “You see the paper tonight?” said Rivka.

  Sunny shook her head.

  “Apparently Oliver Seth had his computer encrypted. They just cracked the code and there were a bunch of e-mails to some woman he was seeing.”

  “It said that in the newspaper?”

  “Yep.”

  “They find anything else?”

  “It said it would take a while to go through everything.”

  Wade poured and handed glasses around. “To the newest cook at Skord Mountain.”

  Jason picked up a glass to acknowledge the toast, then turned back to a spitting skillet. Rivka went over and peeked around his elbow. “Isn’t your heat a little high?”

  “You got to fry curry hot so it sits right in the belly. We’re under control out here. Go relax.”

  Sunny took a drink of the pomegranate-red wine. It had a pleasantly astringent taste that woke her up after the long day. “I found out something else today, too,” she said. “I went to see Franco Bertinotti, the guy who—”

  “That’s the guy I met,” interrupted Monty. “So he got ahold of you. Good. I gave him your number. Interesting guy. Turns out he had a hand in a couple of my favorite Barolos going way back.”

  “Why didn’t you give him my cell number?”

  “He said he needed to reach you right away, before he left town. You don’t answer your cell at work, and nobody picks up the office phone when you’re open.”

  “So call the main restaurant number. It’s in the phone book. The bat phone is for family.”

  “I’ll make a note, Frau Diva. Since when is it so hard to escape your fans? He wanted a quick way to reach you and I gave it to him.”

  “Who is this guy?” said Rivka.

  “He called today during lunch rush. The winemaker who works for Oliver Seth. Sicilian, lives in Rome. I went to see him tonight and he told me that Anna had marks on her throat and mouth. Or at least that’s what the police told him. I think there’s a chance they could have been lying, trying to trip him up if he was guilty, but I think she must have had some kind of marks on her somewhere.”

  “What kind of marks?”

  “I’m not sure. Bruises, I assume. On her mouth it was an abrasion. She was suffocated or strangled.”

  “And we still have no idea who did it,” said Rivka.

  “No, but something will turn up. I’ve been thinking about something Steve said. ‘There’s always physical evidence, it’s just a matter of how much.’ Anna was intoxicated, tired, maybe even asleep when it happened. It would have been relatively easy to come into her room and smother her without much noise or struggle. But she didn’t just slip lightly into the great beyond. She was murdered. It was a violent act. If you were planning to do such a thing, wouldn’t you take a few precautions?”

  “Such as?” said Monty.

  “Let’s say it was me. I know I’m stronger than she is, and I have the advantage because I’m the aggressor. But she still might scream before I could cover her mouth. And I don’t want her to scratch me and get my DNA under her fingernails. If you smother someone, even if she’s asleep or drugged, there could still be a fight.” Sunny looked around the group. “If you were planning to overpower and suffocate someone in a houseful of people without anyone knowing, what would you bring with you?”

  “A gag,” said Rivka.

  “Gloves,” said Wade.

  “Wouldn’t you just knock them out?” said Monty. “Otherwise they might overpower you and get away.”

  “Too risky, too messy,” said Sunny. “And in this case, not necessary. That’s where the opportunity comes in. With all the wine and God knows what else that was in Anna’s system, I think just about anyone could have overpowered her, especially if they got to her when she was asleep and prevented her from breathing. It would have been a fairly easy job. If you smash someone over the head, you’re bound to do it too hard, in which case you’re going to get blood everywhere, or not hard enough, in which case you’re in even bigger trouble.”

  “The whole thing is so disgusting if you really think about it,” said Rivka. “Can you imagine holding someone down and not letting them breathe until they died? It turns my stomach.”

  “It’s called burking,” said Wade. “Very tidy. You get somebody drunk, wait for them to pass out, and then hold your hand over their mouth and nose. Fast, simple, clean.”

  “So our guy wasn’t so clever,” said Sunny. “He put something over or in her mouth that did some damage and he left some bruises.”

  Jason came at them brandishing a spatula. “Hey, hey, hey. Enough of this talk or you are going to ruin my supper. We’re a happy occasion here. We’ve got good food, good wine. Enough of this murder business. You’re going to spoil my curry with all this bad talk.”

  “Duct tape!” said Monty. “They always use duct tape to cover the person’s mouth.”

  “Exactly,” said Sunny. “And duct tape could leave an abrasion on her mouth when you take it off.”

  “Jason is right,” said Wade. “All this talk about suffocating helpless victims is depressing. Can’t it wait until after dinner?”

  “Just one more minute,” said Sunny. “I’m getting to the point. Let’s go through it from the beginning. You get what you need from somewhere on the estate. Garage, kitchen, whatever. Maybe you even brought it with you, who knows. So let’s say you get something to use as a gag or to cover her mouth—maybe Monty’s duct tape—and you wear gloves so you don’t leave any fingerprints or get scratched. You suffocate
Anna in her sleep and push her body out the window, where you hope her death may be construed as an accident. Maybe you do it so it will take longer to find her, presuming, as the murderer might, that she will be found sooner in bed than she would outside. Whatever the reason, now you just have to dispose of the evidence. It’s four in the morning, maybe five. You don’t have much time. You’ve got a ball of used duct tape, a pair of rubber gloves, and who knows what else to get rid of. You can’t leave that stuff around because it could have your DNA on it. What do you do with it? You can’t risk leaving the property—you might be seen or caught by the security camera at the gate. The police will check all the obvious places like trash cans and under the bed. You can’t flush rubber gloves and duct tape—what if they get stuck? You have to find a safe hiding place without making any noise. Somewhere so safe the cops can tear the house apart and not find it.”

  “Where?” said Rikva.

  “That’s the question. And more important, is it still there?”

  “Of course not,” said Monty.

  “Why ‘of course’?” said Sunny. “If you hide it well enough to keep it from the cops during their big scavenger hunt, why risk moving it later and being seen?”

  “If you put a curse on my curry with all your death talk, I’m not cooking for you people ever again,” said Jason loudly from the kitchen. “That’s it. No more curry. No jerk chicken. No plantains, no ackee and saltfish.”

  “You could bury it,” said Monty.

  “And leave a fresh pile of dirt?” said Sunny. “The police know to look for that kind of thing. I thought of the compost heap down at the garden, but I’m sure they went through there as well.”

  “You could eat it, like they do with drugs,” said Monty.

  “Who could eat a rubber glove?” said Rivka.

  “You could put it, uh, where the sun don’t shine,” said Monty.

  “You’re lucky the police didn’t pursue this line of thinking over the weekend,” said Rivka. “Could have made for some interesting searches.”

  “In theory, I guess that could work,” said Sunny. “If a person was in a desperate frame of mind.”