Pairing a Deception

by Nadine Nettmann

  “Do I have to say it like you did? All those fancy steps?”

  “Of course not. Do it as you normally do.”

  “I don’t think there’s any normal way I do anything, but here we go.” He held up the second glass, imitating the way I swirled the wine. He took a long drink, swallowed, and kept smacking his lips together followed by his tongue on the roof of his mouth. “I think this is a red wine.”

  Ben erupted into chuckles.

  “Okay,” said Walt. “Shh. I need to concentrate.” He took another sip, swishing the wine around so that his lips moved up and down like a rabbit until he swallowed. “I’ve had this before.”

  “Yes, you have,” said Ben.

  “Hey, peanut gallery, pipe down,” I replied.

  Ben smiled and visually zipped his mouth shut with his hand.

  Walt took one more sip. “This is a Syrah. Actually, a Shiraz from Australia.” He put the glass down and turned to me. “Let’s see what the ringer here has to say.”

  “Not a ringer. I told you I had an unfair advantage.” I tasted the wine as I tried not to let Walt’s conclusion sway me. It had flavors of blackberry, plum, and raisin along with a high level of alcohol. “I agree with Walt that it’s a Syrah, but I don’t think it’s from Australia.” There was a different quality than I was used to from a Shiraz, yet the alcohol was high enough to be from a hot region. “I think this is from here in Santa Barbara. And I’m going to take it a step further. This is a 2015 vintage.” I thought about it again for a moment. It was still a newer wine, yet 2017 was too recent and 2016 just didn’t seem right. “Yep. 2015 Syrah from Santa Barbara, quality level good.” I looked at Ben. “Okay, tell us.”

  “It’s a Syrah,” replied Ben. “From Ballard Canyon here in Santa Barbara. I don’t remember the year, sorry. But 2015 sounds about right.”

  “Where does that leave us on our little bet then?” asked Walt.

  “Come on,” I replied. “Clearly I won.”

  “I would say it’s a draw,” replied Ben.

  I looked at both of them. “Seriously?”

  “Well, I did know it was a Syrah. I thought it was from Australia so I said Shiraz, but I still got the grape right. You’ve gotta give me that,” said Walt.

  “Yes, but still. We had a deal.” I didn’t want to take away Walt’s pride, but I also wanted to know about the lady in the lobby.

  “Okay,” said Walt with a laugh. “I’ll tell you what you want to know and you’ll still pour a little heavy for me on Sunday. In the name of wine and friendship.”

  “Deal.” I waited for the answer, but Walt just continued to swirl his glass. I wanted to tap my fingers on the table as the time passed, but I clenched them to keep them quiet.

  He finally looked up. “The lady in question.”

  “Jocelyn Rivers,” I interjected.

  “No, not that one. The woman in the lobby. She came in just as we were leaving. In fact, Ben here held the door open for her.”

  “Oh, I remember her. Yep, held the door. I’m quite the gentleman,” said Ben. “Even when I’ve been drinking.”

  “I would say more so when you’ve been drinking,” replied Walt. “We watched her talk to Jocelyn while we waited for our cab.”

  Adrenaline surged through me, a tickling sensation down my arms. “How long did they talk?”

  “Not sure,” said Ben. “Our cab arrived pretty quick.”

  “Who was she?” I said, nearly on the edge of my seat.

  Walt drank the rest of his Grüner and put the empty glass on the table. “I don’t know.”

  The hope drained out of me like wine from a cracked barrel. Nothing to be saved. Time and promise, all gone. “Seriously? We did that whole blind tasting duel and you didn’t even have the info for me? Forget the heavy pours on Sunday.”

  “However,” said Walt. “I would know her if I saw her again. She’s definitely still here.”

  “How do you know she’s here?”

  “She had a festival pass,” added Ben. “I’ll point her out if I see her again, but who knows.” He picked up Walt’s Syrah and took a drink. “Why do you want to know?”

  “Let’s just call it a project,” I replied. “In case we’re not together the next time you see her, what did she look like?”

  Ben pointed to the glass of red wine.

  “That’s not helpful,” I said. “I’m not up for another round of blind tasting.” I wasn’t into playing games and I wanted to save my palate for the Champagne seminar.

  “What my friend Ben here is trying to say is that she had red hair. But I think his reference to the Syrah is not quite accurate. Her hair was more the color of Beaujolais.”

  “Beaujolais, yes. I like that description more.” Ben pointed at Walt. “What he said.”

  “Thanks,” I said, not only appreciating the clue, but also the detail. It was a very poetic way to describe someone, referencing the color of a lighter red wine from France.

  “My pleasure.” Walt winked. “Are you sure you’re not pouring anything today?”

  “No, only Sunday.”

  “Are you hosting any more seminars?” asked Ben.

  I had forgotten it was even a possibility. Although I had done well on stage, my mind was on the mysterious redhead, though I wasn’t going to say that. Besides, Hudson was back. “No, just attending events the rest of the day. The Champagne one next, which starts soon, in fact.” I stood up. “Are you both going?”

  “We’ll see you there in a few minutes. Gotta finish my wine.” Walt looked for his glass, then stared at Ben. The Syrah was nearly gone.

  I hoped Walt wouldn’t ask for too much wine on Sunday. I didn’t want to get in trouble with the festival, but at least I had a clue.

  I entered the New Sierra Hotel as a memory flowed into my mind like the stream of bubbles reaching the top of the Champagne glass. The woman in line at the opening ceremonies had red hair. She might be the same one that Walt and Ben mentioned and I needed to find her.

  fifteen

  pairing suggestion: sekt—mosel, germany

  A sparkling white wine made in the traditional method used for Champagne.

  Champagne seminars were extremely popular at festivals and the Whittier Ballroom was filling up quickly. I scanned the rows, noticing a few people with red hair, but none that could be described as the color of Beaujolais. And then there she was—the lady from the opening ceremonies with hair that fit Walt’s description. She was in the fifth row and even had empty seats nearby.

  “Is one of those available?” I asked over the first few people to the red-haired lady.

  She looked up without any recognition in her face. “Of course.”

  I shuffled into the row and sat down next to her. “It’s good to see you again.”

  She tilted her head, her green eyes taking me in. “Have we met?”

  “Just once. I’m Katie Stillwell.” I put out my hand.

  She shook it as she continued to stare with disbelief. “Anita Walcott. Remind me again how we’ve met? I may have imbibed a little. I love bubbles.” She motioned to the glasses in front of her, all six of them halfway empty.

  “In the line yesterday, at the opening ceremonies. It was brief. But I have a question for you—”

  “Oh, yes!” she exclaimed in a very loud voice. “You were studying.”

  I nodded as a pang of guilt shot through me. I hadn’t looked at my flashcards since.

  “Welcome, everyone, to the Champagne and sparkling wine seminar,” said Hudson from the stage. “Now, as you may or may not know, it’s only called Champagne if it’s from the Champagne region of France. If it’s from anywhere else, it’s called sparkling wine. Even if it’s still in France. So today we have two Champagnes and four sparkling wines ranging from Extra Brut, which has very little sugar, then Dry, which defi
nitely has some sweetness, and up to Demi-sec, which is quite sweet. Ah, I can tell by some of the reactions here that people are looking forward to the sweet ones, but let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

  Hudson continued talking, but I took the opportunity to question Anita. “Did you hear Jocelyn Rivers passed away?”

  “Who?”

  “A festival guest. She had dark hair just past her shoulders and was wearing a black cocktail dress last night.”

  Anita’s eyes grew wide. “You’re kidding! What happened?”

  “Didn’t you speak with her in the lobby last night?” I asked, ignoring the question. “I think I saw you guys talk, after she waved at you.” The last part of my statement was a risk, but I was willing to take it.

  “Oh, I didn’t know her. I met her at the opening ceremonies. I thought it was sweet that she waved at me, but other than that, I didn’t know her.”

  The comment was not one I was expecting to hear. “You didn’t?”

  “Sorry, I just met her yesterday.” Anita put her hand to her chest. “But wait, she died?”

  “She passed away early this morning at the Lancaster,” I replied, leaving out the fact that she was murdered.

  “That’s terrible! You know, I saw police cars over there, but I figured it was just a hotel issue. Poor dear.”

  “Isn’t this great?” said Hudson from the stage. “Should I start singing ‘Tiny Bubbles’?”

  “Yes!” yelled an attendee in a different row.

  I noticed everyone around us was sipping the first Champagne. I picked up mine and tasted it. The flavor was elegant and subtle, but overshadowed by the fact that Anita didn’t know Jocelyn.

  Anita downed the rest of her glass. “So good,” she said.

  “Agreed.”

  Hudson lifted the next one. “This second Champagne we’re enjoying today is from Reims. The soil in the Champagne region is chalk, so if you get the opportunity to visit, be sure to go on a cellar tour. The long tunnels were carved by Romans centuries ago and you can still see the marks from the tools on the chalk walls. Anyway, I’m getting ahead of myself. Let’s all enjoy.” Hudson drank the glass, as did the rest of the audience.

  I wanted to ask Anita more questions, but I needed to bide my time. I took a sip and smiled. “Do you like it?”

  “Oh yes,” said Anita as she finished the glass. “I love bubbles. They make me happy.”

  I nodded, eager to take advantage of the gap in Hudson’s presentation. “Hey, what did you talk about in the lobby?”

  “With who?”

  “Jocelyn. She came over to talk to you last night.”

  “Did she?”

  “She did,” I replied. “I watched her.” A nervous knot formed in my stomach. This was the only lead I had. If I was wrong, I was stuck.

  “Oh, that,” Anita finally said as she motioned with her hand to dismiss the incident. “That was just a quick hi and then she went to the restroom. We didn’t talk.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Positive.” She smiled.

  “And you didn’t know her? She said you were an old friend.”

  Anita laughed. “If old friend means a few hours, then shoot, we were old friends.” She nudged me. “Heck, you and I are old friends, too!”

  sixteen

  pairing suggestion: chardonnay —adelaide hills, australia

  Aged in oak, these elegant wines are often overshadowed by mass-produced ones.

  When the seminar ended, Anita stood up and shuffled out of the row. I wanted to ask her more questions as I followed, but I didn’t even know what to ask at that point. She said she didn’t know Jocelyn and they didn’t talk, but I had learned a lot about people from my years working in restaurants. The wave Jocelyn did was not a greeting to someone she just met. There was more to it, but I couldn’t keep calling Anita’s bluff. That wouldn’t get me anywhere.

  “That was fun!” said Anita as we reached the exit. “See you later, right?”

  “Definitely,” I replied. “Maybe we can even get drinks tonight.”

  “Count me in. That would be superb.” She gave a little wave as she walked away.

  I leaned against the wall outside the ballroom, trying to think of what to do next, but I was distracted by a pacing figure. It was the nervous woman Dean and I encountered on the lawn. She was in a dark gray pantsuit and her long brown cascading curls were again pulled halfway up on her head like the day before, but her disposition seemed to be much worse. She looked like she was on the brink of tears. Had something happened or was she upset about the death? Did she know Jocelyn?

  “Hey, are you okay?” I asked as I approached.

  “Me?” Her voice went up with her breath. “Yes, I think so. Why?” She put her hand to the side of her face, her energy still nervous and jumpy.

  “Sorry, I should have mentioned that we met yesterday. Outside on the lawn.”

  “Oh yes, that’s right.” She glanced around as if she had forgotten something. “Isn’t there a seminar going on right now? I’m late. I should go.”

  “Are you okay?” I repeated one last time before she left.

  “No.” Tears formed in her eyes. “I don’t like this. I just heard someone died this morning.” She leaned closer. “Murdered,” she whispered. “I want to go home. I don’t like knowing a killer is on the loose.”

  “Wait, how did you hear it was murder?”

  She put her hand to her mouth, as if she was biting her knuckles. “The other hotel had police cars,” she said through her fingers. “Then in the last seminar, the people near me said a woman was murdered. What’s happening?”

  “It could be an isolated incident and have nothing to do with the festival.” Even as I said it, I wasn’t really sure. I didn’t want to tell her that the body was found outside the festival emcee’s door.

  She looked at me. “Still, it happened here. I’m terrified. This is supposed to be a happy event and now someone’s dead. I don’t feel safe.”

  “Don’t think of it that way. Focus on the wine and food. In fact,” I said as I motioned to the nearby Stanley Ballroom, “let’s go get a seat for the next seminar.” I knew Hudson was hosting one, but I didn’t mind which one we attended as long as she calmed down and felt better.

  “I did want to go to the Rosé seminar, but that starts right now, and …” She pointed to the door and then shook her head. “Never mind, I need something stronger. Bar?”

  I wasn’t in the mood for a drink, but I didn’t want to leave her on her own. “Sure.”

  We walked toward the hotel bar and I realized I didn’t even know who she was. “Sorry, I didn’t catch your name. I’m Katie Stillwell.”

  “Isabella Bernee.” She smiled, but her eyes still darted around nervously, as if she was looking for the killer in every corner. In a way, I was too, though I was still interested in finding Jocelyn’s real identity.

  The bar was dark, even though it was daytime, because the whole room was covered with black marble, a stark change from the cozy antique bar at the Lancaster.

  “Where would you like to sit?” I motioned to the tables. Nearly all of them were empty.

  “Right at the counter,” Isabella said as she walked to the far corner near the wall, pulled out a stool, and leaned on the cushioned edge of the bar.

  I took the seat next to her as she looked around, her position giving her a view of the entire room, whereas I had my back to the place. She was like a scared animal, ready to jump up and run at any moment.

  “Do you want me to choose a wine?”

  “No,” she exhaled. She focused her attention on the bottles on the back wall as the bartender waited. “I’ll have a whiskey sour.”

  “One whiskey sour,” said the bartender. “How about you?”

  “Just water.”

  “Please.
” She put her hand on my arm. “I don’t want to drink alone.”

  “Okay.” I paused as I thought about what to order. “A German Riesling.” They were lower in alcohol than most of the other wines on the menu.

  Isabella let out a huge sigh, as if she was already relaxing, though nothing had really changed. A killer was still out there.

  “Are you feeling better now?”

  “No. Never. I was nervous about coming here already. I’m not a fan of crowds, and now this.”

  The bartender arrived with our orders.

  Isabella lifted her glass and took a long drink. “Who was she?” she finally whispered.

  “Who?”

  “The woman who died.”

  I hesitated. I honestly didn’t know anymore, but I could at least go with the name I had. The fake name. “Jocelyn Rivers.”

  Isabella’s eyes grew wide with fear. “Jocelyn Rivers?”

  “Yes. Did you know her?”

  She put her hands to her face. “I talked to her. Yesterday.” She lowered her palms onto the bar and took a deep breath, as if trying to calm herself.

  “What did she look like?” I wanted to make sure she was talking about the Jocelyn who died and not the Jocie I met a few hours ago.

  “I don’t know, dark hair. Tall. She apologized for spilling wine on me at the seminar.”

  “Did she say anything else?”

  Isabella bit her nails with her free hand while the other one grasped the whiskey sour. “We chatted briefly. She was having trouble. Something about wanting to connect with an old friend here, but was being ignored.”

  “Hudson? Anita?” I interjected but immediately regretted it. I needed to focus and not give all of my clues away.

  “I don’t know. She didn’t say a name.” Isabella drank more of her whiskey sour. “Should I be worried?”

  “Worried about what?”

  “The killer.” Isabella knocked her glass, grabbing it as it tipped over, a splash of whiskey landing on my sleeve. “Sorry.”

  “It’s okay.” I dabbed at the spill and returned my focus to her. “I don’t think you need to be concerned. You should focus on the festival.”