Burgundy and Bodies
Wine Valley Mystery Book 1
Sandra Woffington
Sandra Woffington
Copyrighted Material
Burgundy and Bodies Copyright © 2019
Book design and layout copyright © 2019
This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are
either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is strictly coincidental.
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from Sandra Woffington.
sandrawoffington.com.
1st Edition
ISBN-13: 978-1-944650-05-6 (ebook)
ISBN-13: 978-1-944650-06-3 (paperback)
Books In The Wine Valley Mystery Series
Titles and Release Dates
Merlot and Murder: The Beginning (FREE)
Burgundy and Bodies, Book 1 (May 2, 2019)
Pinot Noir and Poison, Book 2 (May 9, 2019)
Syrah and Swingers, Book 3 (May 23, 2019)
Rose and Rocks, Book 4 (June 27, 2019)
Grenache and Graves, Book 5 (July 25, 2019)
Shiraz and Slaughter, Book 6 Aug. 2019)
Pinot Grigio and Pesticide, Book 7 (Sept. 2019)
Gamay Noir and Ghouls, Book 8 (Oct. 2019)
Claret and Carnage, Book 9 (Nov. 2019)
Viognier and Venom, Book 10 (Dec. 2019)
More murder, mystery, and mayhem to come . . .
Other Books By the author
WARRIORS & WATCHERS SAGA SERIES
Epic Mythological Fantasy
Seven ancient gates of evil will open, unless a quirky group of teens become warriors.
“Original and consistently entertaining from cover to cover.” Midwest Book Review
Evil Speaks (Reader’s Favorite 5-Star Review)
Evil Hears (to be released in 2019)
Evil Sees
Evil Touches
Evil Feeds
Evil Deeds
Evil Desires
______
STAND ALONE HISTORICAL ROMANCE
Unveiling
What would you sacrifice to fulfill your destiny?
Stay Up To Date
In appreciation of each and every reader, I created a Facebook group called Woffington's Reading Warriors: Mystery, Murder, Magic & More specifically for readers to join together and share their interests, discuss books, and to communicate directly with me and fellow Reading Warriors!
I post updates, previews, new releases, insider information, and awesome offers in this group.
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Come for the Mystery—Stay for the Magic!
Acknowledgments
If you love this series, it is because of my fan ARC Readers and the pros on my team.
Thanks for your energy, your belief in me, and your support!
ARC READING WARRIORS
Lisa Oster
Donna Hopson
Julie Bawden-Davis
Dara Stotesbury
PROS
Editor: Beth
Cover Artist: Judy
Marketer: Jynafer
To Bob,
It took all those years to find you—
but you are the love of my life!
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Author’s Note
Pinot Noir and Poison
Books In The Wine Valley Mystery Series
Other Books By the Author
Stay Up To Date
1
Anne Martin strolled along the moonlit path that snaked beside Goldrush Creek between Eugene’s house and hers. The oaks and sycamores produced an earthy scent, a perfume of wild pleasure. The chaparral and sagebrush and tall scrub grass brushed against her arms or caught the sole of her shoe when she squeezed by narrow points in the path, but she welcomed their touch.
Life had finally taken a turn for the better.
She’d made nothing but mistakes for the past decade. But today had brought a new opportunity. Maybe her last chance to get it right.
A twig snapped behind her.
Anne spun around. “Is anyone there?” She listened intently but heard only the gentle babbling eddies of water swirling at the shoreline or insects chirping or the water lapping as it rushed down river.
Anne walked on. She laughed, remembering how she had flirted so openly at the poker table. All in good fun. The men loved her playfulness, all but Kenneth. Maybe she was free of his hold on her at last.
Another twig snapped. Closer.
Right behind her.
Anne spun around. “What are you doing here? Did you follow me?”
A jagged rock flew at Anne’s blond curls and smashed against her skull.
The force whipped her body around and she plummeted to the ground. She landed on her back. It knocked the wind from her lungs.
Anne moaned and reached out for help with one hand as the other reached up to feel her wound. Her fingertips felt moisture. She pulled her hand away. In the moonlight, she saw dark liquid—blood.
Arms dove under her armpits and tightened around her torso. Someone dragged her—she hoped to safety. A shoe slipped from her foot.
Splash!
In a single movement, the dark figure spun her onto her stomach, and she landed half in and half out of Goldrush Creek.
Anne tried to lift her head, but a hand pressed it down. Her face sank into the gooey mud. Her arms flailed uselessly, like a beautiful white swan with broken wings.
In a final flap and flutter, her arms fell to her sides, and her life spilled into the creek and floated downstream.
2
Darkness—it creeps in, even on sun-drenched mornings in Wine Valley.
Dr. Kenneth Grant parked his red Porsche Boxster and hopped out, full of excitement despite the wee morning hour. He hustled to get to Anne’s single-story yellow cottage, a pristine abode that sat among the chaparral at the edge of Goldrush Creek, which meandered along the southerly end of Wine Valley. He lived atop a hill with a view of the valley but few sounds of nature, other than predatory birds, like red hawks that swooped down to pluck up live prey. But here, peaceful rippling sounds of the creek and the morning tweets of songbirds promised to set the world right again.
He knocked on the door with one hand, while, in the other, he toted a white bag from Sugarland Express Bakery. “Anne! Are you there? I brought breakfast.” He knocked again and waited. “Raspberry Danish! Your favorite. I’m sorry about last night! You know how I get. Anne?”
The truth is, he barely remembered last night. He fell off the wagon. After he left the poker game at Eugene’s house, he stopped by a liquor store, picked up a bottle, and drank until he passed out.
He pulled out his cell phone and tried to call Anne. It rang.
>
He turned his head. He thought he heard a faint ring in the distance. He set one foot before the other, marching off in the direction of Goldrush Creek, an offshoot of a river that ran southwest from Riverside and through Wine Valley, veered west, and eventually spilled into the vast Pacific Ocean.
Kenneth hugged the path, redialing Anne each time the phone switched over to voice mail. The rings became louder, and his heart raced faster with each ring. He quickened his steps.
The path wove along the creek between Eugene’s house and Anne’s house. For a split second, his mind erupted in rage as the possibility crossed his mind that he’d find Anne with Eugene. But reason intervened: he could never hear Anne’s phone ring from Eugene’s house. It was too far away.
The ringing shattered the calm morning from some tangled, wild place between the two houses.
Kenneth squeezed past a stretch of trees where the path narrowed. A tree trunk caught his sleeve, as if to stop him from finding her.
It was close, the ringing. Like he’d find Anne in the next room. Wild grasses stuck through his socks and pricked at his ankles.
The phone rang. Clear. Finite.
But Anne could not answer.
He turned the corner.
Anne’s body lay face down. Her chest and head rested in a shallow eddy. Her legs sprawled out on the bank.
Kenneth threw down the bakery bag and raced to her side. He put his fingers gently against her cold throat.
Gone. Dead.
He swiped a hand over her soft, blond curls, as he’d done so many times before.
Dirty creek water wicked up her blue blouse and soiled her lifeless torso. He wanted to drag her out of the water to safety. Instead, he dragged himself away and fought the urge to vomit. He’d seen plenty of dead bodies in med school and after, but not Anne’s. Not pretty Anne’s.
Kenneth’s hands shook violently as he struggled to punch in 9-1-1. When the dispatcher answered, he could only utter, “She’d dead. Anne’s dead.” He gave the location and waited for help.
Detective Max Pride King arrived first. Blonde, blue-eyed, twenty-six, and well-built, he would pass for a surfer, if not for his navy blue tactical pants and blue polo shirt with the gold Wine Valley Police Department logo. In the week that Max had taken off to mourn his father’s death and arrange for the funeral, it seemed like his entire world had turned upside down. He understood why his father had complained, “I hate change.”
The station had moved from its humble beginnings on Stagecoach Street to the new civic center plaza and City Hall a block up and on a hill. The architects had given it the façade of an upscale Spanish adobe mission, including clock and bell tower. He also had a new boss: Captain Jayda Banks, his former lieutenant and partner. That part he liked immensely, although Jayda’s first words as captain were, “Max, if you think I nagged you about your diet—that ain’t nothin’ compared to how I’ll come up your grill if you slip up under my command. You hear me? No monkey business.” Her tone was softer than her word choice, but Max knew she meant it.
Jayda took her career seriously, a career his father, Chief David King, had nurtured, and she would not let anyone, even his son, jeopardize her focus or duty. Max gave her an “Understood, Captain. I won’t let you down,” which he thoroughly meant.
Max never wished for a new dead body to arrive on his doorstep, but he desperately needed to get back to work to pull his head out of the pit of grief. This case gave him that opportunity.
Max instructed Dr. Grant to remain by the trees. As he combed the ground and neared the victim, Max remained acutely vigilant so as not to disturb any evidence. He knelt down and felt for a pulse, even though he had no doubt about the conclusion. Dead. He used his shoulder mic to call it in.
In no time, the site crawled with a C.S.I. team dispatched by the county Forensic Services Bureau and the medical examiner, who worked with the coroner to identify both the victim and the cause of death. The woodsy scene swarmed with people establishing a perimeter. Others set up a search grid. Others snapped pictures or collected evidence.
Max walked over to Dr. Grant. He obtained the basics of name and contact information, Grant’s relationship to the victim, and the rudimentary details of discovery. Then Max got down to business. He’d just made detective, and his last case had ended with three dead bodies. This time, he hoped for an arrest. Justice for the girl in the creek. “When did you last see Anne Martin alive?”
The doctor’s voice cracked as he spoke. “I can’t believe she’s…I just saw her last night. We played poker at Eugene’s. He lives just around the bank, along the path.”
“Who else was there?”
“Eugene, of course, and his daughter, Cynthia, and Shane Drake, a local pharmacist, Deon Walker, a friend of Anne’s from the hospital—but Deon left early. Lee Chen also came, but he left early too. And Chief Goldsby was there.”
Max stopped writing the moment he heard the name of the chief of police. Goldsby had it in for him—the son of the former chief of police, David King. But he had a job to do. He set his pen against his notebook. “Did Anne have any enemies, anyone who would want to hurt her?”
The doctor cringed. His face contorted. He paced in a small circle. “No. Anne was a kind woman. She was my Marilyn Monroe, you know. I mean her personality. Anne is…was…she was so beautiful but fragile.”
“Fragile how?”
The doctor pursed his lips. Max had seen it before—no one wanted to rat out a friend, even if he or she was dead, and even if it meant solving a crime. “She’s dead, Dr. Grant, and the only chance I have of finding who did this, if there is foul play, is if you tell me as much as you can about her.”
“Anne was a compulsive gambler. She owed money to the casino.”
“How much?”
Dr. Grant rubbed his face as if to wake himself up from a bad dream, but he could not wipe away his bloodshot eyes or the bags beneath them. He had freshly-shaved cheeks and a smoker’s face: hollow eyes and lips tinged yellow. “Can I smoke?”
“No. You’ll have to wait. How much did she owe the casino?”
“She stopped talking to me about it, but I think about twenty grand. I’d given her loans before, and she always paid me back, but about nine months ago, when she asked me to help her out again, I cut her off. I thought it would help. I thought she’d stop, get help. But I know better. You can’t stop an addict who doesn’t want to stop.”
“This might be an accident. We don’t know yet. Besides, casinos don’t usually murder their clients, especially those making payments. But I’ll check it out.” Max wondered if Anne had taken a loan from someone less friendly, but even if true, she’d be beaten up, not murdered. The dead don’t pay up. “You said you called her cell phone this morning, and it led you here. Where is it? Did you pick it up?”
“No. I know better.” Dr. Grant rang Anne’s number, and Max followed the sound but instructed Grant, “Wait here.”
Max found the phone along the edge where the scrub brush met the path. He moved some long grass aside and bagged the phone. That was when he spotted something else near the edge of the path. He bagged it too: a cigar clipper. And a flat black shoe. Max judged the distance between where Anne lay and the creek. Anne’s lifeless body only wore one shoe, and despite the hard ground, he could make out a long scuff mark. Most likely, she’d been dragged.
A chill raised the hair on his arms. This was no accident.
“Max!” called Angelo.
Max closed his notepad and stuffed it in his back pocket. He shouted, “Dr. Grant, you can go for now, but stop by the station and give us a formal statement.”
Grant assured he would, and Max strolled over to the M.E.
Angelo, a stocky man, fiftyish, with silver-gray hair, gave Max a preliminary report. “Blunt force trauma, most likely that rock sitting near her head.”
“Her shoe and phone landed over there.”
“She has mud in her nostrils, which suggests someone pushed her
face down. I won’t know more until I get her back to the shop.”
Max had gotten used to Angelo referring to the Bureau of Forensic Services lab, or B.F.S. as “the shop.” He had come by it honestly. His father, an Italian immigrant, had opened an auto repair shop that specialized in foreign cars. Angelo worked there until he began his residency as a forensic pathologist. In a way, Max figured he probably saw each body as a broken car, one he had to diagnose—not to repair but to answer a difficult question: “How did it break and when?” It was Max’s job to determine the “who.”
Max eyed the landscape. His brain assembled the clues and reconstructed the crime: Anne’s cell phone had landed near the path, which meant it had to either fly out of her hand—or that was where the blunt force trauma occurred—and she was dragged to the water—during which time, her shoe fell off. Someone pushed her head down into the soft silt and held it there until her life spilled into the creek. If she fell and hit her head, her shoe and phone would have been near her body.
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