by Nadia Gordon
“I don’t think it’s too difficult to imagine an explanation.”
“Such as?”
“You’re really concerned about all this. Nathan would be flattered.”
His smug manner was beginning to irritate her. “If you have a theory, I’d love to hear it,” she said.
“Well, let’s see,” he said, sitting back down. “Let’s say somebody’s wife comes by for a little shag time around the witching hour. That certainly was not an unusual occurrence chez Osborne. She lets herself in and finds him keeled over. She’s fond of him, maybe even in love with him, and she sits down on the coffee table and begins to cry. Being one of Nathan’s lovers and therefore statistically inclined to be extremely fond of the juice, she takes a swig or two out of the bottle next to her. Finally after she’s had a good sob, she realizes she can’t tell anyone she’s found him, can’t call the police, unless she wants to see her name in the newspaper next to his. She has to leave, and remove any sign that she’s been there. She’s upset, so she’s not thinking straight. She takes off her sweater and steps on it to erase her footsteps and wipe her fingerprints off the keypad and door handle. After that, all she has to do is go home, keep her mouth shut, and wait for someone else to find him. Only in all the fuss she forgets she’s still holding the bottle of wine, but she doesn’t want to go back in, so she just takes it with her and gets rid of it.”
“That is a very detailed theory,” said Sunny.
Eliot chuckled. “Overactive imagination.”
“So you’re assuming she didn’t drop the bottle that was broken.”
“Right. Nathan dropped it.”
“Would she drink from a bottle of wine that was in front of a dead man? And take it with her? That’s very risky.”
“You mean, she might think the wine killed him?”
“She might wonder.”
“I don’t think so. She would have thought the same thing we all did, that he had a heart attack. But what do I know? I’m not omnipotent. Maybe there was no woman. Maybe it was the plumber. Or a burglar.”
“A burglar with the pass code.”
“An inside job. The pass code wasn’t a big secret. Everyone at Vinifera knew it. Listen, none of this matters because I don’t know what happened. I wasn’t there. I do know that there are all kinds of ways to explain things that go missing, and none of them change the fact that Nathan had a heart attack. One black sock vanishes every time I do laundry, but it doesn’t mean someone is trying to poison me. Just because a bottle of wine is missing doesn’t mean there was anything nefarious about Nathan’s death, or that I appreciate being grilled about it, for that matter, which I certainly don’t. Now if you don’t mind, I’d like to get to my dinner engagement.”
He left and Sunny paid the bill, then jogged across the street to the parking lot. She got in the truck and waited. She figured the Rastburns wouldn’t be too hard to identify, assuming she hadn’t missed them already. It was cold in the truck and she pulled the sleeves of her jacket down over her hands, shivering as she sat and watched the entrance to Vinifera. What was left of her toasty wine buzz dissipated swiftly, leaving her feeling drained and increasingly grouchy. If she didn’t eat something soon the whole evening could go south in a low blood sugar and fatigue–induced collapse. Unless of course she drank more wine. There was a thermos on the floor of the passenger side from the morning. She reached across and poured what was left into the lid that served as a cup. It had started out as strong black coffee with a splash of Merlot the way she liked it, but now it was cold and gritty. She opened the door and poured it out, then settled back into her vigil.
Eliot had looked like a man under a tremendous burden, but he’d lost his best friend and business partner, and was running Vinifera with a police investigation going on. She must have seemed insensitive with her questions.
A burgundy sedan pulled into the Vinifera parking lot and a man got out. He went around to the passenger side to open the door. Anniversary, possibly birthday manners, thought Sunny, and the car is a rental. Not likely to be locals, not my target couple. Another car pulled in, but she decided the couple who got out looked too young to be longtime friends of Eliot and Nathan. The next several arrivals seemed safe to eliminate for various reasons—two businessmen, a wine-maker type on his own probably going to meet friends, a trio of thirty-something girlfriends, a couple with a teenage daughter, an Asian couple. Rastburn hardly sounded Asian. She was on the point of concluding that the Rastburns had already arrived before she got there when a Land Rover pulled in and an elegantly dressed couple of about Eliot’s age got out. The woman walked gingerly across the blacktop in modest heels, her long evening jacket skimming the pavement. Her companion, dressed conservatively in a navy dinner jacket and neatly pressed tan trousers, took her arm protectively. His height and posture accentuated a trim, athletic build. Sunny got out of the truck.
They were nearly at the door to the restaurant when she reached them.
“Excuse me, Mr. and Mrs. Rastburn?” she called out.
Mr. Rastburn let go of his wife’s arm and turned around sharply. His body language was relaxed but his face looked tense. He eyed Sunny with an aquiline fierceness that made her uneasy, assessing her as if she had already failed in his esteem somehow and would have trouble making it up. His eyes were the pale hazel of beach pebbles and his fair complexion was lightly freckled with copper spots the same color as his hair, which he wore short, in the style of military officers and airline pilots. His face was oval as opposed to round, and his long forehead and the deep vertical line between his eyebrows gave him the intense look of a raptor. Mrs. Rastburn was breezy. She seemed to glide. Her silvery blond hair was cut in a blunt bob just below her ears and a shimmery gloss of pink brushed her lips. A diamond pendant sparkled at her throat, and the matching earrings set off her blue eyes, which must have been magnificent in her youth and were still striking. She had a fragile beauty as she looked from Sunny to her husband and back again.
“I’m sorry, have we met?” asked Mr. Rastburn.
“No, not yet. I’m Sonya McCoskey. I’m a friend of Nathan Osborne’s. Or at least I was.”
“How did you know to find us here?” he said.
Sunny felt her eyes flick to the left, hunting for an answer. She didn’t want to outright lie, but she was willing to stretch the truth as far as she could. “I ate here earlier and I happened to notice your name in the reservation book when I was talking with the hostess. I’d heard you mentioned so many times I wanted to meet you.” Sunny paused. “You had dinner with him the night he died, didn’t you?”
“I don’t remember him mentioning you,” Mr. Rastburn said, “but it was nice to meet you.” He put his hand on his wife’s elbow to guide her toward the restaurant.
“I was just hoping I could talk with you about that last dinner. I’d just like to hear a little more about his last few hours. I don’t know why exactly, but it’s important to me.”
That at least was true. Pel didn’t reply right away. Sunny watched him study her, deciding what kind of person was accosting them in a parking lot and what she really wanted. She had the impression he was tempted to hand her a dollar and walk away.
“I think it would help me, help us, deal with his death,” said Sunny, “if we could talk with other people who were close to him, share a few memories. I have a restaurant in St. Helena, Wildside, and some of my staff have been pretty upset. There’s a need to process the experience. He was an important part of the restaurant community even for those who didn’t know him directly.”
Sharon Rastburn’s tentative expression warmed to a tender look of compassion. She reached out a bejeweled slender hand to Sunny.
“We can understand that, can’t we, Pel,” she said, looking back at her husband. “It’s been a terrible shock for everyone. Why don’t you come in and we can all have a drink together. You must know Eliot, too? We’ll all raise a glass in Nathan’s honor. He’d like that.”
Sun
ny froze. It wouldn’t do to walk in with the Rastburns and run right into Eliot.
Pel looked at his wife. “I don’t think that’s such a good idea,” he said. “Not tonight. There’s been enough mourning in my opinion for today. I personally would like to leave behind this morbid talk for a few hours.”
“Pel, I don’t see what . . .”
“Sharon, I think not. Listen, Miss . . . ? I’m sorry—”
“McCoskey,” said Sunny. “Sonya McCoskey.”
“Ms. McCoskey, my wife and I have had several very tiring days. Why don’t you give me your number and we will phone you with an appropriate time and place to meet later in the week. My wife is right, Nathan’s death has been difficult to accept. Tonight we do not wish to discuss it. I’m sure you understand.”
Sunny, feeling tremendously relieved, assured them that she did. She patted her pockets as though a pen might materialize where she knew there was none. A moment later Mr. Rastburn produced a gold pen and a business card from his coat pocket and Sunny wrote her name and number on the back.
“We’ll telephone you tomorrow or the next day,” said Pel.
“I’d appreciate that. Enjoy your dinner.”
They parted and Sunny walked back to the truck, wondering if Pel was the kind of man who would type her name into a search engine before he called, and decided that he was. What he would find would only set his mind at ease. There was nothing to suggest she was a crazed stalker. Her online persona was almost exclusively culinary, except for the page an ex-boyfriend had posted a few years ago with pictures and notes about a camping trip to the High Sierra.
She sat in the truck with her hand on the keys. It was still relatively early and she had a great deal to think about. The question was where. Home was an option of course, but it wasn’t calling to her. A swim sounded nice, but the drive was a motivational challenge even though it was all of about ten minutes down to the gym. She looked at her watch. Rivka would be getting home from yoga about now. If she called ahead, whatever Rivka was making for dinner would be ready right about the time she got there. That plan won points for efficiency.
Sunny stared at the entrance to Vinifera, held in place by inertia. After a moment Nick Ambrosi came outside wearing his long white apron tied low on his hips. He took a pack of cigarettes out of his shirt pocket and lit one, leaning against the wall beside the door. He smoked with obvious relish. She hoped he couldn’t see her sitting in the truck in the dark, but he only looked up at the stars. He’d smoked most of the cigarette when a woman came out to join him. Sunny recognized the spiky hair immediately. Dahlia swayed her hips like a hula dancer and Nick nodded, chuckling. He handed her his cigarette and she took three long drags, staring out at the night, smiling at what he was saying. When she was done she flicked the butt into the parking lot and turned to Nick, putting her arms around his neck and looking up at him. Like someone waking from a daydream, he seized her head in both hands and kissed her full on the mouth. A moment later they parted and she went inside. Nick paced for a moment, hands on his hips. He raked his fingers through his hair, then went in after her.
14
In her office early the next morning, Sunny felt alert and energized. She’d chosen the quiet of home, a hot shower, and bed over the companionship and probing questions of a dinner at Rivka’s. Dinner was a perfect cup of hot cocoa, her winter obsession, made with milk, cream, sugar, and loamy Scharffen Berger powder. She’d slept hard and dreamed of an accusing face, distorted and menacing, and Dahlia’s pornographically writhing hips.
Sitting at her cluttered desk, she waited until exactly eight o’clock before she dialed the number for the police station. She was transferred to Steve Harvey’s desk, and a female voice said, “Sergeant Harvey’s desk, Officer Dervich speaking.”
Sunny identified herself and they exchanged polite greetings. She explained that Steve had suggested she phone about the bottle of wine found at Nathan Osborne’s home, specifically the color of the topping foil.
“He left a note on his desk this morning, asking me to look into that. Luckily we still had it in evidence. It’s green with a gold M stamped in the top.”
“Are you sure?”
“I looked at it myself just a few minutes ago.”
“We’re talking about the bottle of wine that was broken, the one with the cork still in it, right?” asked Sunny.
“That’s right. The neck of the bottle broke off in one piece. The cork and foil were still in place because it hadn’t been opened. The foil was definitely green. Is that significant to you for some reason?”
“I had a theory, but it sounds like it was wrong,” said Sunny.
“What kind of a theory?”
“Oh, I just had an idea about where that wine could have come from, but I was wrong. Thanks for checking. Any word on the wine he was drinking and where that bottle went?”
There was silence on the other end of the line. Finally Officer Dervich said, “I’m afraid I’ll have to refer you to Sergeant Harvey with any further questions.”
Sunny thanked her and hung up. When she looked up, Rivka was leaning against the doorjamb, watching her and eating gingersnaps out of a plastic container.
“Who was that?” she asked.
“Are you going to eat all of those?” said Sunny, eyeing the container.
“They’re last week’s. You said you were going to talk to Steve yesterday and then butt out.”
“And I did talk to him.”
“But you didn’t butt out. Don’t you remember a certain traumatic incident that I spent about a grand on therapy trying to process? And how you promised never to get involved in that kind of thing again?”
“Yeah, I remember,” said Sunny. “I think it had something to do with one of my best friends not being tried for murder.”
“Point taken, but no one needs rescuing now. How about giving Wildside some of your attention for a change? We haven’t done any of the stuff we talked about at New Year’s. The garden is still a mess, the back fence needs replacing, we haven’t gone out to see the suppliers, and racks in the walk-in need to be rebuilt.”
“We still have plenty of year left.”
Rivka let out an exasperated sigh and flopped down on the couch. “If you won’t give it up, at least fill me in. What’s all this business about foil?”
Sunny came around from behind her desk and moved aside a stack of cookbooks so she could sit down on a café chair next to the couch. She was about to explain when her mobile phone vibrated against the desktop, caller unidentified.
“It’s too early for the telemarketers.” She picked up and Pel Rastburn greeted her in the polished tone of a lifelong executive.
“Ms. McCoskey, I wanted to let you know that my wife and I have discussed the request you made last night and we would like to invite you to lunch with us today, or at your convenience.”
Sunny thanked him and explained the difficulty of being away from work at lunch time.
“Then you could come for tea this afternoon if you like, around four o’clock.”
“Perfect.”
She took down directions to their house and hung up. Evidently they hadn’t mentioned her name to Eliot, who would certainly have taken the opportunity to tell them she’d never even met Nathan.
Rivka raised her eyebrows. “Okay, spill.”
Sunny looked at the clock. “Let’s get on it. I’ll explain while we work.”
They dug into the morning prep routine. Between making sure the day’s beets were roasted, trays of vegetables were caramelizing, and potatoes and celery root were well on their way to a rendezvous with the food mill and more butter than anyone cared to admit, and checking deliveries of produce, wine, cedar planks, and salmon, it was well after nine before Sunny had a chance to say anything more about Nathan Osborne. Finally she recounted what she’d learned the previous day, including how Remy had accused Nathan of forging the wine, and what Eliot had said about Andre wanting to buy into the business.
“The green foil this morning was a setback,” Sunny said.
“Because . . .” asked Rivka.
“Because the phony Marceline has red foil. The Grand Cru should be topped with green foil according to Monty, not red. But the bottles I saw in the cellar at Vinifera had red foil, even though the label said Grand Cru. There were two bottles missing from that case. We know where one went. I presumed the other was on the floor at Nathan’s. I figured it had to be the other bogus bottle.”
“But it turned out to be the real thing.”
“Right.”
“So what does that mean?”
“It means that somebody didn’t get to drink a seven-hundred-dollar bottle of wine. Beyond that, I’m not exactly sure,” said Sunny.
Rivka ran a bulb of fennel across a mandoline meditatively while Sunny prepared a tray of winter squash and slid it into the oven. She tossed a handful of walnuts in a saucepan with butter, sugar, and spices, thinking. Finally she said, “If we choose to believe Dahlia, then we know that Nathan took possession of one of the forged bottles last week. That bottle eventually made its way from him to Dahlia to Andre and me. It stands to reason that Nathan might have taken a second bottle. He knew where they were kept, and he didn’t actually get to drink the one he took home for his breakup dinner with Dahlia. So let’s imagine that he opens forged bottle number two, pours himself a glass or two or three, has his heart attack, and dies. Then the mysterious stranger lets himself in, smashes the unopened bottle, and removes the open one.”
“And why would they do that?”
Sunny removed the walnuts and set them aside to cool, then loaded the saucepan with another batch. “The smashing, I think it is safe to assume, occurs unintentionally. I don’t see why someone would set out to do it. It doesn’t seem to serve any purpose and it lends suspicion to what would otherwise be a perfect murder, in the sense of not appearing to be murder at all.” She flipped the walnuts in the pan with a deft flick of the wrist.
“So the real bottle gets broken by accident.”
