"All the time," Gabby confirmed. "In fact, I overheard Mark threaten him just a couple of days ago."
I had to admit, now my inner seventies diva detective was perking up a bit too. "Really? What did he say?" I asked.
"It was right after we flew in for the festival, on Friday. Tyler wanted to film a segment at his flagship restaurant while we were all in wine country. Total puff piece. Blatant self-promotion, but you know…whatever Tyler wants." She frowned. "Or wanted," she corrected herself again.
"So what happened with his partner, Mark?" I prompted.
Her eyes went wide, and she shrugged again. "Search me! But the two seemed at each other's throats the entire time. Tyler was so preoccupied that we had to shoot the segment, like, fifteen times before he could get his lines right."
"And you said you overheard a threat?"
"Yeah, just as we were leaving. Alec and I were packing up to drive to the hotel, and I passed by the back office. Mark and Tyler were arguing about something, and Mark said that if Tyler didn't fix it, Mark was cutting him out."
"Fix what?" Ava asked.
But Gabby just did more blinking, her eyelashes fluttering like dark little butterflies. "Beats me. I don't stoop to eavesdropping. All I know is Mark was mad as I've ever seen him, and now Tyler's dead."
I had to admit, that was interesting timing.
CHAPTER THREE
"So what do we think of Gabby's story?" I asked Ava as we trekked back to her car.
"I think Gabby's colder than her gazpacho," Ava decided.
I tried to stifle a laugh. "She didn't seem to be too broken up about Tyler's death, did she?"
"She also didn't have an alibi," Ava pointed out.
"Or motive," I countered.
"True," Ava admitted as we got back into her GTO. "Unless…" she said.
"Unless?"
"Unless she plans to propose the same thing to the network that she did to you."
"That she could step into Tyler's shoes?" I thought about that for a second. "You may be right—especially if she really did have the cooking chops and Tyler just had the catchphrases."
"So, Gabby overhears Mark argue with Tyler," Ava said as she backed out of the parking space. "And she takes the opportunity to kill him at the crowded festival, then blame the business partner while she steps into the starring role and becomes the solo host of Eat Up. "
"That's possible," I mused. "But I'd be curious to know what Tyler and his business partner argued about the day before he died. What do you think 'fix it' could have been referring to?"
Ava shook her head. "Just about anything, I guess."
I pulled my phone out of my purse, googling Tyler's Place in Sonoma. An address in downtown off E. Napa came up, along with a pretty decent Yelp rating. Nothing there that immediately screamed in need of fixing.
"Is there a phone number listed?" Ava asked, glancing over at me.
I nodded. "The police are saying Jean Luc argued with Tyler before he died. But if we could give them the name of someone else who also fought with Tyler, you think it might help Jean Luc?"
"I think it can't hurt," Ava responded.
I took a deep breath and dialed the number for Tyler's Place, getting a recording that said they didn't open for dinner until five and to leave a message.
"Hi! This is Emmy Oak from Oak Valley Vineyards," I said at the tone. "I, uh, spoke with Tyler yesterday about possibly stocking our wine in your restaurants."
Ava shot me a look from behind the wheel. I did an innocent palms-up thing. Okay, so it was a little white lie, but really, Tyler had seemed to like the wine. Who knows—maybe he would have ordered some?
"Uh, anyway," I continued, "I'd appreciate it if you could give me a call back when you're free." I quickly rattled off my number before hanging up.
"Possibly stocking your wine, huh?" Ava teased. "Maybe you should have gone for broke and said he already ordered it."
"Just drive," I mumbled, giving her a playful swat on the arm.
* * *
By the time we got back to Oak Valley Vineyards, guests were already starting to arrive for day two of our festival. I felt a bubble of hope lift in my chest at how many cars were parked in the lot—almost as many as the previous day. Though, as we got out of Ava's GTO and began walking up the stone pathway to the festival grounds, I realized that at least half the bodies in attendance were not ticket holding foodies but press. I spotted a woman in a blazer and microphone with our local NBC affiliate's logo on it giving a narrative to a cameraman in front of the tasting room entrance. Bradley Wu had Eddie cornered near the stage, peppering him with questions that had my winery manager visibly sweating. And several other people had cell phones out, taking pictures of everything from the culinary booths to the vineyard, fingers furiously typing up headlines that I feared would be all over both social media and legitimate news outlets in moments.
"This isn't good," Ava said beside me, stating the obvious.
"Aren't they trespassing or something?" I asked, glancing around for any sign of Hector, who might be able to shoo them off the property.
"Possibly. But do you want to go viral as being an unwelcoming winery as well as deadly?"
"It's a lose-lose, isn't it?" I said, feeling all bubbles of hope die with a resounding pop.
"Cheer up. Maybe the reporters will try the Pinot Noir and get hooked."
I shook my head. "You have a lot more optimism than I do."
"You're still in training." She gave my arm a comforting squeeze before heading off to man the Silver Girl booth.
I took a deep, fortifying breath and made my way to the stage to rescue Eddie from Bradley Wu's clutches. Bradley had forgone the tweed today in deference to the heat, but he'd compensated with a loud, paisley printed shirt that stretched over his rotund belly. Standing next to Eddie, who was dressed in a double breasted seersucker suit in lilac, the two made quite a fashion statement. I only hoped the clothes were the only statements being made.
"…so you don't deny that Jean Luc has a difficult streak," I heard Bradley ask Eddie as I approached.
"No!" Eddie blinked at the reporter. "Wait, yes! I do deny. I mean, he's not difficult."
"But you just admitted that he yelled at you for moving his corkscrew."
"Well, really, what's a yell ? He was loud, and he wasn't happy, but—"
"And he called you incompetent."
"I-I may have provoked him a bit—"
"And threatened you with bodily harm?"
"N-now, I'm sure it was just a saying. You know, 'touch my barware again and I'll feed you to the goats.' Haven't we all heard that figure of speech?" Eddie pulled a checked handkerchief from the pocket of his suit and moved to mop the fine sheen of sweat that had collected on his brow. He must have seen me approach, as his shoulders sagged in relief. "Emmy! You're here."
"Eddie," I greeted him then turned my attention to the vulture beside him. "Bradley."
"Emmy Oak, just the woman I wanted to see." Bradley's eyes twinkled with glee, like I was the main course after his Eddie appetizer. "I just must ask you about this terribly tragic occurrence."
While every instinct I had wanted to tell Bradley to waddle himself right back down our oak lined drive, Ava's words echoed in my head, and I pasted a smile on my face, doing my best to play nice to the press. "What is it you wanted to know?"
Bradley pulled out this phone, presumably to record my words for all posterity in the cloud. "Can I get a quote from you on the tragic demise of one culinary legendary Tyler Daniels on the grounds of your winery?"
"It's tragic," I said.
Bradley's smile faltered for a second. "Yes, I just said that. What are your thoughts?"
"I think it's tragic?"
I thought I heard Eddie shift beside me. Or possibly he was trying to sidle away unnoticed, which would be quite a feat for a two-hundred-pound man in head-to-toe lilac seersucker.
Bradley cleared his throat. "Okay, well, what about the rumor t
hat your wine steward—"
"Sommelier," I corrected automatically. I knew from experience that Jean Luc preferred that term. It probably stemmed from the fact that he preferred the French anything to American.
"Yes," Bradley agreed. "Your sommelier, Jean Luc, is being questioned in the death."
"That's quite a rumor," I told him.
"But is it true?" Bradley pressed.
" I'm not questioning him."
"But are the police?"
"You'd have to ask them."
"Come now, Emmy," Bradley said, sending me a smile that was practically predatory. "You know how many nice reviews I've given your Petite Sirah. Surely you can give me a little something in return…hmmm?"
I pulled in a long breath. As much as I hated it, he was right—he had given us some good press, even using the words heavenly and divine in the same article about a recent luncheon I'd catered. While I was dreading the column he was currently cooking up, I knew that Sonoma was a small community, and making an enemy of a syndicated food columnist was a mistake I could not afford to make.
"Fine," I relented.
Bradley moved his phone in closer. Eddie, I noticed, had all but disappeared. Smart man.
"Tell me," Bradley prompted. "Is Jean Luc guilty of murder?"
"No," I said empathically. "It's all a big misunderstanding. I'm saddened by the tragic loss of Tyler Daniels, but I can assure you that no one connected to Oak Valley Vineyards had anything to do with his death."
Bradley looked slightly disappointed for a moment. Then his eyes focused on something just beyond me, and that twinkling lit them again.
"I see," he drawled. "Then, I wonder—why are the police hauling off your sommelier now?"
My heart jumped in my chest as I spun around, just in time to catch the scene Bradley had witnessed through the windows of the tasting room. I spied at least three uniformed officers gently guiding Jean Luc away from the bar—along with one plainclothes detective I recognized only too well.
Grant.
"Uh, excuse me…" I mumbled to Bradley, barely giving him a backwards glance as I jogged toward the tasting room doors. I caught up with the group just as Grant ushered Jean Luc down the short hallway that connected the tasting room to the kitchen.
"What's going on?" I demanded.
Five pairs of eyes turned my way—four accusatory and one so full of fear that I had to stop myself from throwing my arms around Jean Luc.
Grant stepped forward first, looming over me, clad in worn jeans, black boots, and a button-down shirt that pulled tightly against his broad frame. His expression was unreadable. Even the golden flecks in his eyes were at a standstill, giving nothing away.
"We need to ask Jean Luc a few questions," he said simply.
"Emmy, please, tell zee police I do not know what zay are talking about," Jean Luc pleaded, his mustache twitching with every syllable.
I looked from Jean Luc to Grant, the tension between them almost palpable.
"Can we go somewhere private? My office, perhaps?" I suggested, hoping to avoid a scene.
Grant gave me a curt nod, gesturing for Jean Luc to walk the short distance down the hallway ahead of him before following. Grant mumbled something to the uniformed officers, and they opted to wait in the hallway, leaving the three of us alone in my office as Grant closed the door.
"Have a seat," he told Jean Luc. Clearly an order, not a suggestion.
My sommelier did, sinking into one of the chairs opposite my desk. He had the expression of a kid about to get a strong talking to in the principal's office. Facing Cop Mode Grant, I was feeling a little antsy myself.
"What sort of questions do you have?" I asked, sounding bolder than I felt as I took a defensive position standing behind Jean Luc's chair.
Grant leaned casually against my desk, crossing both arms over his chest. "ME was able to pull the bullet that killed Tyler. A 9mm."
"Any way to trace it?" I asked.
"We're working on a striation match. If there's a record of bullets with similar patterns in the database, we can match them to the same weapon." He paused. While he'd been addressing me this whole time, I could see his eyes on Jean Luc. If I had to guess, he was watching for any small hint of reaction.
"What does that have to do with Jean Luc?" I asked, feeling like there was something he was holding back.
"Zay think the gun is mine!" Jean Luc shouted out, his accent thick with distress.
"What?" I barked out. "That's crazy. You don't own a gun." I paused. "Do you?"
"A Ruger SR9c 9mm is registered to a Jean Luc Gasteon, purchased six years ago at a trade show in Pomona." Grant leveled my sommelier with a stare.
Jean Luc looked from me to Grant, his eyes misting. "I-I told zee policia man. Yes, I did own a gun. I bought this gun for protection when I lived in Los Angeles. It's dangerous there, mon amie !"
Apparently it was dangerous here in wine country too.
"Where is your gun now?" I asked him.
"I-I put it in a case before I move. I keep it under my bed. I have not taken it out since I arrive in Sonoma."
"You're sure?" I asked.
" Oui , oui !" He nodded vigorously. "I never take it out of its case. I swear!"
I turned to Grant, who had been silent during our exchange. "Then that bullet didn't come from Jean Luc's gun."
Grant breathed slowly, his eyes never leaving Jean Luc. "How long have you known Tyler Daniels?"
"A long time. Seven, eight years. Maybe more." Jean Luc seemed to calm down a bit at the change of subject.
"You worked for him previously, correct?"
Jean Luc nodded. "Yes. I tended bar at his restaurant in LA when it first opened."
"Tyler's Place," I supplied.
Jean Luc nodded. " Oui . Though, Tyler was just starting his TV career then, so he was not so famous yet, you know."
"How long did you work there?" Grant asked.
Jean Luc licked his lips, his mustache doing a little dance. "I do not know. Eh…maybe two years. Not so long."
"Why did you leave?" Grant asked, the question coming out more like a demand. The unspoken accusation in his tone had me taking a step closer to Jean Luc and putting a protective hand on his shoulder as he answered.
"I, well, I moved on."
"It had nothing to do with you being fired?"
"Fired!" Jean Luc shouted, his eyebrows hunkering down in a deep frown. "Who tells you zees?"
"Ashley Daniels," Grant supplied. "She and Tyler were married then, weren't they?"
"Yes," Jean Luc admitted. "But it's not true. I quit. Tyler, he was—how do you say?—difficult to work with. Demanding. He yells a lot."
"It's his trademark," I explained to Grant. "It's how he earned his reputation in the celebu-chef world on Kitchen Showdown ."
But Grant's eyes only flickered to me with the briefest of interest before focusing in on Jean Luc again.
"So there was bad blood between you two?" Grant clarified.
"No!" Jean Luc shook his head so hard his dark hair flopped onto his forehead. "No, we parted ways. Zat is all."
"Parted ways a long time ago," I added for emphasis. "Jean Luc has worked here for at least five years, right?" I asked, turning to him for confirmation.
He did more nodding, displacing more shiny black hairs. " Oui . At least."
"And how much contact did you have with Tyler in that time?" Grant pressed.
"None! Why would I? I promise you, when I call him to come work Emmy's event, it eez the first I talk to Tyler in years. I hadn't even seen him before today."
Grant stared at Jean Luc, his eyes narrowed as if trying to decide if he believed him.
"Look, even if he was difficult to work with, that was years ago," I pointed out. "What reason would Jean Luc possibly have to want Tyler dead now?"
Grant's eyes flickered up to meet mine. "That's a good question." Then his gaze settled on his prey again. "What did you and Tyler argue about yesterday?"
Jean Luc paused, seeming to sink into the chair more, his slight frame shrinking before my eyes. "It was nothing," he said so softly it was almost a whisper.
"Witnesses overhead you threatening him."
Jean Luc sucked in a deep breath, but he remained silent.
I felt my heart squeeze. Clearly he was holding something back. While I knew he was innocent, I also knew this did not look good.
"I'm sure it was a figure of speech," I piped up on his behalf. "People say things when they're heated. It doesn't make them killers."
Grant grunted noncommittally, his gaze still on the man shrinking in his chair before my very eyes.
"Was there anything else?" I challenged Grant.
He sucked in a slow breath, and I could see a whole host of thoughts running through the golden flecks in his eyes, but the only one he apparently decided to voice was, "Not at the moment."
"Then, if you'll excuse us, we have a hundred thirsty guests and no sommelier on duty," I told him, hearing a lot more bravado in the statement than I felt. Honestly, in the confined space with Grant, I felt a little like I was poking a caged lion. But at this point it was either poke or let him devour Jean Luc.
Luckily, Grant let it go, giving me a curt, impersonal nod before opening the door to my office and stalking out into the corridor, the waiting uniformed officers a quick step behind him.
I let an audible sigh of relief as soon as he left, and I could feel the tension draining from Jean Luc as well. While I itched to dig into exactly what he'd said to Tyler the day before, I wasn't lying when I'd said someone needed to be at the bar pouring.
"I'm so sorry, Emmy," Jean Luc said, his voice sounding small and pitiful. I ached to scoop him up in a fierce hug, but I knew his sense of pride would only take more injury if I did.
Instead, I shook my head. "No need to apologize. You've done nothing wrong. Of that I am sure." I sent him the most reassuring smile I could muster, having just been on the business end of Bad Cop.
He smiled back, hinting at some of his usual flair. " Merci . But I will understand if you do not want me to stay on for the festival—"
"Nonsense," I said, quickly shutting that down. Both because I had absolute faith in Jean Luc and because I had zero faith in Eddie's abilities to fill his void. "Take a moment to freshen up, and then your public awaits, Monsieur."
Victim in the Vineyard Page 4
