A Sunny McCoskey Napa Valley Mystery 4: Lethal Vintage

by Nadia Gordon

  “Marvelous,” said Franco. “Where did you learn to cook?”

  “Right here,” said Rivka. “I learned everything I know from Sunny.” She turned slightly so that Franco might have the opportunity to notice the tattoo on her upper arm.

  “What is this?” he said, taking the bait. “What have you put here?”

  Rivka modeled the swooping red and blue swallows on either arm. Franco and Keith took turns admiring them.

  “I’ve had them for years,” said Rivka, “but I just started a new one. It’s not finished yet.” She leaned down and pulled aside her shirt to reveal the top half of a mermaid reclining across her shoulder blade. The two men examined it with interest. Sunny pulled two wineglasses from her jacket pockets and splashed a taste into each, wiped the neck of the bottle and a corner of the table with a fresh napkin, and slipped it back in her pocket together with Keith’s BlackBerry. Rivka stood up and Sunny handed her a glass.

  “To Anna,” said Sunny, looking at each of them. They touched glasses and drank.

  “I have a small dessert coming in just a moment,” said Sunny, putting the glass down. “Would you like a port or an Armagnac to finish? Bertrand has a favorite port that tastes especially delicious with the fig tart.”

  “Whatever you recommend,” said Franco. “We are in your hands.”

  * * *

  Back in the kitchen, Sunny slid the BlackBerry into Rivka’s back pocket.

  “You speak crackberry, right? It’s Keith’s. Find the Web address for Oliver’s data. You’ve got about four minutes. I’ll try to put it back while they’re occupied with the port and dessert.”

  “I wondered what you were up to,” Rivka said, and ducked into the office. Sunny grabbed Bertrand on his way past.

  “Dig up one of our best ports. Something old and expensive that will make them feel obligated to drink it. And trot out the bottle so they know. See if you can get them talking about wine or whatever seems to interest them. Turn on the Frenchy charm. I want these guys to fall in love with us.”

  “I’ll do my best,” said Bertrand dryly. “So, are these guys critics or family?”

  “Something like that. I’ll explain later. Just make sure they’re not sitting around talking to each other.”

  He went back down the cellar stairs to find a good port and Sunny went to work preparing a dessert sampler with three of her favorites, including a honey cake with fromage blanc, a tiny flourless dark-chocolate bomb with a swipe of raspberry purée, and the promised fig tart with its buttery crust and showstopper ice cream. When it was ready, Rivka still hadn’t emerged from the office. Sunny looked in.

  “Did you find anything?”

  “Maybe.” She finished making a note on a sheet of paper and handed the device to Sunny. “Let’s hope so.”

  Sunny put the dessert plate on the zinc bar and watched the waiter deliver it to the table. Soon after, Bertrand presented a bottle of Taylor’s as if he were handling a sacred object and filled two small glasses with the deep purple wine. Keith and Franco seemed in no hurry. Sunny spoke to their waiter, a guy who spent winters in Baja surfing and living in his van and came back to work the extra shift Sunny added each summer.

  “Did they order coffee?”

  “Two espressos macchiato.”

  “Good. I’ll take them over. Oh, and these guys don’t get a check.”

  “You’re going to comp them? You do realize they ordered a nickel’s worth of wine before you got here.”

  “I know, I know. I don’t really have a choice. We have to give these guys the serious VIP treatment.”

  “Who are they?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to find out.” She watched him walk away. “Maybe I can bill Steve Harvey,” Sunny muttered to herself.

  She fired the two shots and put a fresh napkin in her pocket, willing calmness and her hands to stop trembling. At the table, Franco had just loaded a forkful of tart and ice cream in his mouth. Bertrand was holding forth on his best topic and Keith was listening intently. Sunny put the two espressos down and tidied the table, removing an empty glass, wiping a few crumbs, and replacing a dirty napkin with a clean one. At the same time, she deposited Keith’s phone underneath it.

  “People like the idea of old wines, but mostly they want instant gratification,” said Bertrand. “They want to buy the wine and drink it now, so even your big, expensive Cabs are mostly built to drink sooner rather than ten or twenty or thirty years down the line. They’ll age well for maybe five years and after that they start to come apart. Winemakers today need Robert Parker to be able to open the bottle on the day it’s released and give it a ninety-five. That bottle of wine is not designed to improve with age. Conversely, the Cabernet that’s going to age like a great Bordeaux is generally not at its drinking best when it’s young. You can’t have your Cab and drink it, too.”

  “But you can have your port and your tart and espresso,” said Sunny, taking Bertrand’s place. The sommelier gave them a nod and glided off toward his NASCAR president, the bottle of Taylor’s clutched before him in offering.

  “I can’t wait to tell Oliver that the only thing smoother than his Andre Morales is Andre’s Sunny McCoskey,” said Franco, looking up at her. “He’ll wonder why Morales kept such a secret from us. And I think I know. He doesn’t like the competition. But the secret is out now, and I will make sure it is known. We must find a place for you in the new arrangement, or something else at least as good.”

  “The new arrangement?”

  “The Vinifera expansion or the new restaurant or whatever they decide to do, assuming they actually come to an agreement.”

  “They will,” said Keith. “Morales drives a hard bargain, but we’ve just about got him nailed down.”

  Sunny smiled wanly and said nothing.

  “My dear, this has been a most decadent afternoon,” said Franco. “I am completely sated and revived thanks to your remarkable abilities. But even the good things must end eventually, and I am beginning to feel guilty that we have left our friend Mr. Seth to return to an empty house after the day’s ordeal. We need to go and entertain him. Show him that all life is not ended, even if it seems that way at the moment.”

  “I’d like you to be my guests today,” said Sunny.

  “Nonsense.”

  “I insist. It would be my pleasure.”

  “In that case,” said Franco, “we have no choice but to accept your generosity.” He reached inside the jacket hanging from the back of his chair and pulled out a wallet and a slender golden pen. He extracted a business card and wrote his mobile number on the back of it before handing it to her.

  “But I warn you,” said Franco. “I plan to make it up to you.”

  * * *

  “Andre said Oliver was a friend,” said Sunny, fuming in the back office. “He’s not a friend. He’s the VC he’s been primping for all these months.”

  “I can’t believe he never told you,” said Rivka.

  “I’m beginning to see a pattern,” said Sunny. “I think if I confronted him about this, he would just say he didn’t want to bother me about it or he was going to tell me but never got the chance or something like that. Just like his explanation of that morning I found him with Marissa, and not contacting me afterward. It’s not about doing the right thing, it’s about doing whatever he wants and wiggling out of it afterward.”

  “He’s not true blue,” said Rivka.

  “No matter how much I want him to be,” said Sunny.

  “It’s a shame.”

  “You’re telling me.” Sunny let out a sigh. “That much hotness is a terrible thing to waste.”

  “I hear you.”

  She sighed again. “Well, damn. I have to forget about it for now. I’ll deal with it later. We have bigger fish to fry. Did you find anything?”

  “Who knows? BlackBerrys don’t cache much browser history. But there were a few interesting Web sites and FTP addresses on there. I wrote them down.”

  Sunny e
xamined the list. “None of these include Taurian or Oliver’s name, but I guess what we’re looking for might not. What are these numbers?”

  “IP addresses. It’s a way to access a server without a domain name. All Web sites have an IP address. Not all of them have a domain name.”

  Sunny put the list in her jeans pocket. “My laptop is gone and I don’t think we should do it at your place.”

  “They have computers at the library.”

  Sunny looked doubtful. “This could take a while.”

  “My house, then.”

  Sunny nodded. She went out to the kitchen. The dishwashers were hard at work, Bertrand was restocking supplies, and the last of the waitstaff was sitting at the bar finishing lunch. Between the portrait left on her truck, the smashed window, Anna’s service, and the visit from Franco and Keith, it had been a long, nerve-jangling day.

  “Bert, could you lock up tonight? Rivka and I have a little errand to run that can’t wait.”

  “Way,” said Bertrand, sounding half Parisian and half Valley Girl. “No problem. Bring me a macaroon.”

  Sunny turned to Rivka. “Vamanos.”

  * * *

  “Why does Bertrand want me to bring him a macaroon?” asked Sunny, starting the truck and pulling out of Wildside’s parking lot.

  “I told him I was going to Yountville tonight to the new bakery before it closes.”

  “Why?” asked Sunny suspiciously.

  “Because that was my after-work plan before you started stealing BlackBerrys.”

  “Because…”

  “Because I wanted a cookie.”

  Sunny looked at her. “We have a whole shelf of the best cookies in town at the restaurant.”

  Rivka raised her eyebrows. “But not those cookies. I’m doing recon. If you set up shop and start selling fancy cookie treats in my town, it’s like calling me out. I have to respond.”

  “Yountville isn’t your town.”

  “It’s close enough. I just want to see what all the fuss is about. Besides, Jason likes their macaroons.”

  “Ah, now I get it.”

  They pulled up at Rivka’s place and went in. Sunny locked the door behind them and Rivka closed the blinds. While the computer booted up, Sunny put the teakettle on to boil.

  “We hit the numbered addresses first, right?” said Rivka. “If any of this is of interest, I think that’s where it will be.” She typed in the first set of numbers with Sunny looking over her shoulder. A gray box popped up asking for a user name and password.

  “Here we go again. User name Oliver Seth. And we go with the usual password, right?”

  “Right.”

  Rivka typed Europa01 and hit Enter.

  “Denied. Any other ideas?”

  “Too many. Let’s try the other address before we start a guessing game.”

  Rivka typed the second set of numbers and another gray box popped up. She entered Oliver’s name and password and hit Enter again. An instant later a directory appeared. Sunny looked around the room reflexively. No one could see in. They were alone, the windows covered, the door locked.

  “Now what?” asked Rivka.

  “We look for the camera footage from Saturday night.”

  Rivka rummaged through a sea of folders and files. Sunny made tea and waited.

  “I think I’ve got something,” said Rivka at last. “It’s loading.”

  The something turned out to be grainy black-and-white footage of the master bedroom, shown on a screen the size of a sticky note.

  “Look at the time. That’s from the morning,” said Sunny.

  “Hang on, I think I get it now. They’re in half-hour increments. What time do you want?”

  “Just look at the very end of whatever got uploaded from that day. I went to bed around one or one-thirty. Oliver said it backs everything up at two each night. The police unplugged the system the next morning, so everything after that is lost for good.”

  Rivka chose another file. This one showed the master bedroom in darkness. Rivka scrolled forward. Anna walked across the screen and turned on a lamp beside the bed. Oliver came in after her.

  “This is so strange,” said Sunny. “This can’t be more than a few hours before she died.”

  “They’re fighting,” said Rivka. “Look at her face. She’s screaming at him.”

  “Isn’t there any sound?”

  “No sound.”

  Rivka scrolled forward again. They watched breathlessly as Oliver Seth walked over to Anna and pulled her to him, wrenching her arm as she struggled to pull away, her face defiant.

  “I’ll bet that’s how she got the bruises on her wrists,” said Sunny.

  On the tiny screen, Oliver let her go and turned away. Anna walked out of the frame toward the window and Oliver followed. Rivka scrolled ahead until they saw Oliver walk back across the frame toward the door.

  “That’s it. That’s the end of what the camera recorded in that room.”

  “Two o’clock.”

  “Yeah,” said Rivka, looking at her with wide eyes. “That could be it. That could be the murder right here. Anna is still over by the window somewhere when Oliver leaves.”

  “Except I heard her crying much later. Like around four in the morning.”

  “How do you know it was her crying?”

  “That is a very good point,” said Sunny. “I can’t believe I didn’t think of that. I don’t actually know it was her. It definitely sounded like a woman, so I assumed it was Anna. But it might have been someone else.”

  “Like someone who came in and found her dead,” said Rivka.

  “Let’s watch it again.” Sunny reached over and clicked on Play. She hit Pause as Oliver walked out of the room.

  “Look at his face,” said Sunny. “What is he feeling right there?”

  Rivka looked more closely. “I can’t tell. He looks serious.”

  “That’s what I mean. He looks stern but otherwise totally composed. He’s walking out after a disastrous blowup with the woman he loves and he looks like a guy with a toothpick leaving a business lunch.”

  “Let’s keep going,” said Rivka. “There are a bunch of other cameras to go through.”

  Most of the cameras showed dark, empty rooms. In one bedroom, Jared Bollinger pulled on his clothes and helped Molly get dressed, buttoning up her shirt between passionate embraces.

  “What time is that?”

  “One-thirty.”

  “Impressive. They were already in a lather an hour earlier.”

  Later, the same camera showed Marissa Lin applying some kind of cream to Andre Morales’s face.

  “Speaking of lather,” said Rivka.

  “At least he was telling the truth,” said Sunny.

  “He said a hot Guamanian princess gave him a facial in her underwear?”

  “Well, not exactly.”

  They watched Andre pull Marissa to him and kiss her.

  “Looks platonic to me,” said Rivka. “I grab Monty like that all the time.”

  “Let’s just get through this,” said Sunny. “I’m beyond exhausted.”

  “There are only two cameras left.”

  One of them was aimed at the kitchen. Cynthia Meyers stood at the stove, stirring a pot.

  “Is she really cooking at, what, one-thirty in the morning?” said Sunny.

  “Yup. One forty-seven, to be exact.”

  “What could she be making at that hour?”

  “A pie,” said Rivka.

  “How do you know?”

  “Look at the counter. That’s a pie dish.”

  They watched Andre Morales come into the kitchen with a towel around his waist.

  “What a show-off,” said Rivka. “He is so in love with himself. Put on a shirt!”

  He spoke to Cynthia. She nodded and walked out of the frame. Andre stirred the pot on the stove, tasted the mixture, and added a few drops from a bottle on the counter.

  “Vanilla?” asked Rivka.

  “Looks like it.
What’s he doing now?”

  Andre walked over to the sink and opened the cabinet underneath. He took out a box, pulled two rubber gloves out of the top, and put it back.

  “I think I’m going to be sick,” said Sunny.

  “There is no way he killed her,” said Rivka.

  “No, definitely not. But what is he doing with rubber gloves at that hour?”

  The footage ended and Rivka turned around to face Sunny.

  “Maybe he’s exfoliating her?”

  The last camera showed the gate at the bottom of the hill. They watched a dark screen. Rivka scrolled to the end.

  “Nothing.”

  Sunny thought for a moment. “Wait, let’s go back and look earlier. Like starting around midnight.”

  Rivka loaded the earlier footage and they scrolled through it.

  “Nothing in that one, either,” said Rivka.

  “Let’s keep going,” said Sunny. “I want to make sure we don’t miss anything. What time is this?”

  Rivka kept scrolling. “Quarter after one.”

  “Wait, something’s happening,” said Sunny.

  A light appeared and Andre pulled up to the gate on his motorcycle. He buzzed the intercom, the gate opened, and he drove through. Rivka scrolled through the remaining footage.

  “That’s it,” said Rivka. “Just Andre arriving at one seventeen. Is that what you were looking for?”

  “No. Keith Lachlan left after I got out of the hot tub and went to bed. They said very soon after. That would be about one in the morning.”

  “We covered everything from midnight to two.”

  “Exactly. Why don’t we see his car leave?”

  Sunny took out her phone and dialed Sergeant Harvey’s number. She got voice mail. “Steve, I need to talk to you right away. It’s important. Give me a call tonight if you can. It doesn’t matter what time.”

  Rivka looked at Sunny. “I have a very bad feeling about all this.”

  18

  Rivka didn’t want to sleep alone. Sunny dropped her at Jason’s house, promised she would go straight to Wade’s, and drove to her place, anyway. She sat in the truck outside, brooding. Two thoughts bothered her. One was the idea of someone—could it have been anyone other than Keith Lachlan?—creeping silently into her house—how?—and her bedroom, where she lay oblivious and entirely vulnerable. The other was Anna snuggled up to Oliver in the hot tub with Keith across from her, sandwiched between Marissa and Jordan. Not long afterward, Keith purported to leave, but he didn’t drive down the hill and out the gate, at least not immediately. By morning, he was gone, so he must have left sometime after two. Why the delay?