Plum Gone: A Sonoma Wine Country Cozy Mystery (Sonoma Wine Country Cozy Mysteries Book 2)

by A. J. Carton

  Walking back home after the rally, Emma saw Jack hailing her from the other side of Blissburg Avenue. He sprinted across the street to join her.

  “Wow,” he said. “This place is jumpin’. Never seen anything like that before – not here in Blissburg. Reminds me of Nam.”

  “Nam,” Emma repeated, thinking to herself that the Viet Nam War was another part of their past she and Jack had never discussed. “So, what did you do during the war?” she asked.

  “After I graduated from college, I got drafted!” he replied. “Whaddaya think I did? I wasn’t goin’ to medical school. Or the seminary,” he snorted. “Though a lot of my Harvard classmates did get outta the draft that way.”

  “What about the Peace Corps?” Emma asked. Her ex husband, Andy Bodreau, had sat out the war building fish ponds in Togo. A stint that translated into one badly flooded apartment early in their marriage when his oversized fish tank cracked in an earthquake.

  “You know, Emma,” Jack answered. “It sounds crazy, now. But I was twenty-one (I skipped a grade in grammar school) and all my buddies back in Providence were signin’ up. Signin’ up. We’re talkin’ volunteering to fight that war. Well,” he shook his head. “I sure wasn’t doin’ that. But I wasn’t gonna run, either. When I got drafted, I went. They sent me north, behind enemy lines.”

  He stopped talking and chuckled. “When I got my orders, they showed me a map. And this guy put a little red pin on it and said, ‘you’re goin’ here.’ And I said, ‘no I’m not. That pin is in Cambodia. This here is called the Viet Nam War, remember? Look at a real map. That ain’t Viet Nam.’ And he says, ‘Don’t give me none of your Harvard lip, boy. You are goin’ exactly where I tell you to!’”

  Jack shook his head at Emma. “Oh boy! That’s when I knew I wasn’t cut out for the army. I was sixty-three days in a foxhole somewhere in Cambodia. Long enough to make me hate every frickin’ day of that war. I counted them off with a rock in the dirt. I didn’t shower for fifty-eight days. I was scared stiff all sixty-three. Then my commanding officer taps me on the shoulder one day. ‘Russo,’ he says. ‘You’re goin’ home. Tomorrow. On a helicopter with the stiffs from the MASH unit.’ I said, ‘What? You’re messin’ with me.’ He said, ‘Shut up and pack your stuff.’”

  “Actually,” Jack corrected himself, “he didn’t say ‘stuff,’ he used another word. An hour later, I was sitting in a chopper with body bags piled five feet high like so many cords of wood, and a gunner next to me firing rounds out of the open door.” Jack shuddered involuntarily. “Next thing I knew, I was eatin’ a plate of pasta in my mother’s living room – my dad was already dead. That night, I proposed to Fran. And resolved that no one was ever again tellin’ me what to do.”

  “What happened?” Emma asked. “Why’d they let you go?”

  Jack laughed. “The Olympics. The coach was Ma’s cousin. They drafted me for the Olympic team. And the rest, as they say, is history.”

  They walked a little further without speaking, while Emma digested what Jack had just said. She never ceased to wonder at how different their past lives were – he serving in the army while she was protesting the war on the Berkeley campus.

  It was Jack who broke the silence.

  “So, Emma,” he said. “Did you sign that petition?”

  She glanced sideways at him. Wondering if he were serious.

  “No,” she scoffed. “How could I with Piers representing Curt Randall in the deal?” She shook her finger at Jack. “Not because I wasn’t tempted to, mind you. Clean water’s important. Do you want Chinese growers polluting our water table?”

  Jack frowned. “Look, Emma. As far as I’m concerned, Curt Randall can sell his plum ranch to anyone he dang well pleases. And don’t get me wrong. I’m not sayin’ I’d sell Luther Burbank’s trees to the Chinese. I honestly don’t know what I’d do if I were in Curt’s shoes. The point is, I’m not in his shoes. So I’m sure as heck not gonna judge him for what he decides to do. And you can bet your life I’ll defend his right to do whatever he wants with his property.”

  With that, Jack touched his forehead with the fingers of his right hand mimicking a salute. “See you Wednesday? Lunch at Willie’s?” he said. But before he turned to walk back towards the plaza, he seemed to think of something.

  “By the way,” he squinted at Emma with a puzzled look. “Did you happen to notice who was standing on the bandstand today talkin’ to the guy with the bull horn and no underwear?”

  Emma shook her head.

  “Rob Peters,” Jack replied with a shrug. “Whaddaya make of that?”

  Emma cocked her head to one side. “Who?” The name didn’t mean anything to her.

  “You know,” Jack answered. “Curt’s nephew. The heir. The one who’ll lose a fortune if all Curt’s money goes to the dogs.”

  Emma raised her finger to her lips and looked over her shoulder. “Shhhh! Jack! You’re not supposed to know about that.”

  “Yeah. OK.” Jack waved her concern away with his hand. “But don’t you think that’s kind of …funny. I mean, I’ve watched Peters in action plenty of times on the Historic Preservation Commission. I’ve never seen him vote a project down. He’s the one vote every developer in the county can count on. What I’m sayin’ is, Rob Peters has no problem with the Chinese buying his uncle’s ranch so long as the sale proceeds end up in his pocket one day. So,” Jack shrugged, “what’s goin’ on? Why’s he suddenly on the side of the plum suckers? I think I’ll poke around a little and find that out.”

  Jack turned on his heel and headed in the direction of the plaza. Emma continued home. As she walked along Blissburg Avenue, it crossed Emma’s mind that Jack had not finished explaining about his son. She wondered when they might have the opportunity to address that sad topic again.

  Chapter 9: Tuesday – Look Who’s Coming to Lunch

  The morning after the clean water rally, Emma had an 11:30 a.m. appointment with Peppino Pieri to work on her cookbook What a Pair! She wondered what the old vintner would choose for her spaghetti Trapanese, one of Jack’s favorite recipes. Trapanese, or Sicilian pesto sauce, originated in Trapani, Sicily where Jack’s family traced its roots. Instead of the more traditional pine nuts, this Sicilian version of pesto consisted of crushed almonds along with crushed ripe cherry tomatoes.

  The other two menus she would discuss with Peppino that morning were based on Bolognese specialties: turkey with white truffles and veal roast with rosemary and thyme. She guessed the Sicilian dish might require a bold red. The two Bolognese dishes perhaps a white. Emma looked forward to exchanging ideas with Peppino, her new wine mentor.

  First, however, she had to prepare the turkey and the Trapanese. She’d cooked the veal roast the night before.

  By 8:00 a.m. Emma had finished her coffee and dressed. Then, donning her new favorite Loretta Caponi apron with an artichoke embroidered on the front pocket, she began to cook. The apron was a Christmas present from Jack - though Emma guessed that this Rolls Royce of kitchen linens must have been suggested by Cara, his daughter. The height of good taste, but utterly impersonal. Emma supposed that was the way Cara wanted it.

  She set to work whirling two cups of cherry tomatoes in the blender for the pesto. Then she added basil, crushed garlic, toasted almonds, salt, olive oil and red pepper flakes, and whirled it again. After refrigerating the sauce, she began working on the turkey breasts.

  Filetti di tacchino con truffi was a trickier recipe than the pesto. It consisted of turkey breasts cooked in white wine with Parmesan cheese, prosciutto and white truffles. Emma’s grandmother was celebrated for this dish that she served to her very best customers. More recently, Emma had sampled it in Bologna while researching her first cookbook.

  Promptly at 11:00 a.m., when everything was ready, she packed up the tasting dishes and drove to the Buchanon’s estate where Peppino would pair the food with the perfect Buchanon wines.

  Emma’s weekly meetings with Peppino took place in the family kitchen of Bar
ry and Lexie Buchanon’s home. Every time Emma went there, she remembered last year’s fateful City Opera fundraiser. The night the world of Opera’s favorite soprano, Natasha Vasiliev, was murdered. The night that first destroyed and later clinched Emma’s reputation as a food writer. The night she first met Jack Russo, the man who’d saved her life.

  Like many of Sonoma County’s most important estates, the Buchanon Estate and Vineyard was located about a mile off Silver Creek Road. The well-maintained drive wound up the side of a hill covered in grape vines, secured by three coded security gates the last of which was a stunning sculpture in the shape of metal clouds. They parted when the right numbers were keyed into the security pad.

  Emma’s heart skipped a beat every time she opened that last gate. In fact, everything about the Buchanon Estate seemed magical to her. From the sculptures, to the ancient redwood groves that separated the main house from its complex of guest houses, to the man-made brook and cascade of swimming pools that descended the hill at the rear of the house.

  Emma had no sooner parked her car in one of the guest parking spaces, when Lexie Buchanon, herself, appeared at the front door with Morena, the Buchanons’ live-in helper. The Buchanons always seemed to anticipate the arrival of guests. Emma invariably found at least one of them standing on the front porch ready to greet her when she arrived at the home. She assumed that some sort of elaborate security system must alert them, in advance.

  “We’ll help you get your stuff in, Emma,” Lexie called jogging down the steps with Morena in tow.

  Lexie’s petite, taut figure was complemented by her aubergine cashmere sweat pants and a thin ash rose silk tank top. Lexie stays in perfect shape, Emma thought, reminding herself that the thirty-something had been a personal trainer and masseuse before she married one of her customers, the seventy-something Barry Buchanon.

  And despite rumors that Lexie was a gold digger and sometimes abusive boss, over the past year Emma had seen the young woman’s good side. Her generosity to those less fortunate in the Blissburg community. Her unexpected acts of thoughtfulness exemplified by her lending a well-manicured hand carrying in the lunch that day. In fact, after Emma singlehandedly solved Natasha Vasiliev’s murder clearing Lexie as a prime suspect, Lexie had adopted her as a kind of surrogate mother.

  They’d become so close that over the past month Emma’s weekly food pairing sessions with Peppino had evolved from informal tastings for two at the Buchanons’ kitchen counter to sit down events - often for as many as eight or ten guests. The transformation began with Lexie and her yoga instructor - it seemed that Emma’s weekly wine tasting coincided precisely with the end of Lexie’s lesson – and had recently included Barry Buchanon himself and anyone else who happened to be visiting him at the vineyard that day.

  Emma didn’t really mind. She always tested a full six-serving recipe of each of the dishes she would pair that day for her cookbook. There was no reason the extra food should go to waste.

  Emma loaded Lexie and Morena’s arms with plastic containers of veal, turkey and pasta sauce. Then the three of them climbed the few steps to the front porch and entered the Buchanons’ home.

  “You got my text, didn’t you?” Lexie asked as they entered the sleek stainless steel and marble kitchen. They deposited the containers next to an enormous wooden bowl Morena had filled with tomatoes and local salad greens.

  Emma nodded. Something about the cookbook. A meeting after lunch to schedule a photo shoot.

  “Yeah,” she replied. “I texted you back. I’m free all afternoon.”

  “Yummy,” Lexie opened the container of Trapanese and inhaled. “So…” she paused, looked thoughtful for a minute and said, “We’ll pick out a date for the shoot and brainstorm locations. Barry’s thinking some photos of the three of us toasting, like, one of your entrees over by the pool. And maybe Barry cutting grapes. And some shots of Barry and me sitting down with friends to dinner…”

  “For the cookbook, right?” Emma cut in. “You mean photos of you and Barry eating the dishes paired with the wine we feature in the book? Like the Barefoot Contessa does.” She thought a moment. “Isn’t that a little premature. I mean, we haven’t even…”

  Lexie was shaking her head. “No. Not for the cookbook, Emma. These are publicity shots. You know, like for your web page, Facebook, that kind of thing.”

  “Facebook,” Emma shook her head. “I’m not on Facebook. I don’t want to be on Facebook. And I don’t have a web page. It’s just not, you know, me.”

  “What?” Lexie laughed. “You have to be on Facebook, Emma. You wrote a book. You’re a brand, for gosh sakes. You mean you’re not using social media for marketing? That’s crazy!”

  Brand indeed! The thought made Emma cringe.

  “Thanks, Lexie,” she replied. “But honestly, I’m doing just fine marketing without Facebook. I’m too old for social media. Too private. It’s not my bag.”

  “Nonsense,” Lexie answered. “Our PR consultant will insist you market What a Pair! on Facebook. And on a web page.”

  Lexie appeared to have forgotten that Buchanon Vineyard’s PR person was none other than Julie Larkin, Emma’s daughter. Julie had been pestering Emma to get on Facebook and Twitter all year.

  Lexie’s face assumed a determined look. “That’s it. You are opening a Facebook account today. Right after lunch. No ifs, ands, or buts. Oh,” she added, “BTW, did I mention who is coming today?”

  “No.” Emma replied, glad to change the subject from Facebook. “But no worries. I made plenty of food. Pesto for eight,” she added filling a pot with water to boil the pasta. “Veal and turkey for six. With Morena’s yummy salad, we’re all set.”

  Lexie wrinkled her nose. “The guys from HoCo are coming. Again. Frankly, I’ve had it up to here with those sexist pigs.” She made a sideways chop with her hand across her neck. “All they talk about is business and women’s big,” she pointed to her chest. “Excepting, of course, that hunk who looks like a movie star. I’m not fed up with him.” She made a large “o” with her mouth and licked her lips before resuming her righteous feminist rant. “But what does Barry care about the objectification of women? You know Barry. Give him a whiff of money and he’s stoked. And, believe me, from what I can see, the Chinese reek of money. We’re talkin’ megabucks. Even more than Barry.” She added, “Did I tell you? Summer bailed.”

  Summer, Emma knew, was Lexie’s yoga instructor and a local political activist. Emma guessed she provided Lexie with her feminist sound bites. Emma remembered seeing Summer in the plaza passing out “Save the Plums” petitions after the rally the day before. No surprise she was boycotting the Chinese.

  “And you know Peppino,” Lexie continued. “He refuses to be in the same room with anyone from HoCo. Barry’s so mad about how Peppino’s treating them, he’s ready to fire the dear old man.” She rolled her eyes. “As if that’s gonna happen. Barry knows as much about making wine as I do about...”

  Lexie’s voice trailed off as she searched for a way to finish the sentence.

  “So that’ll be,” Emma cut in, performing a quick tally in her head, “seven of us.” She glanced at the food on the counter. “We have more than enough.” Then she added. “If we eat at 12:30, Peppino and I will have plenty of time to decide on the wines.”

  Which they did. But when she and Peppino sampled the Trapanese in the breakfast room a few minutes later, to Emma’s dismay the old man merely shrugged. Clearly the Sicilian pesto was not the Tuscan winemaker’s thing.

  “I prefer my pesto with pine nuts,” he dismissed it. “As for a wine,” he threw his hands up in a gesture that said, Who cares? Anything will do for this slop. Then quickly selected Buchanon’s Piccina made with mostly Sangiovese – Blood of Jove - grapes.”

  The veal and turkey, however, elicited groans of pleasure from the old man.

  To Emma’s surprise, Peppino selected ‘Squisito, a Buchanon Pinot Noir for the turkey. And Buchanon’s Philosophe, a Dry Creek Valley Grenache
, Syrah, Mourvedre blend, for the veal. Half an hour later, Peppino took his leave.

  “Em-ma,” he said. “You will have to excuse me. I’m sure Signora Alessandra has told you that I will not be joining you for lunch today. I Visigotti ,” he shrugged.

  Emma nodded. “You mean the barbarians…Seriously, Peppino, the Chinese are hardly that.”

  “Si, si,” Peppino sighed. “I know. They are an advanced civilization that predates the Etruscan rustics and the Roman thugs. But wine! Dio mio,” he cried. “At least leave the wine to us.”

  Emma laughed. “Think of it as payback, Peppino. After all, didn’t Marco Polo steal their noodles?”

  But Emma could tell the old man was not amused by her joke. Wine, to Peppino Pieri, was quite simply not a laughing matter. He turned to leave, his face not even brightening with a smile.

  When Emma returned to the kitchen to add the pasta to the pot, she found it already cooked. Barry, it seemed, had engaged a catering service to help serve lunch by the pool that day. No less than three uniformed wait staff in the kitchen drained pasta, heated the turkey breasts and sorted starched Provencal linens, white faience plates and crystal. Soon a second catering truck appeared in the service driveway with goodies: lunch rolls; celery root remoulade; potato salad; watermelon salad with hot house tomatoes, basil and feta cheese; and a delectable array of tarts from the Plaza Bakery downtown.

  The simple “tasting lunch” had been transformed into a feast, laid out on hand painted French platters. Emma’s veal dish was sliced and served cold. The truffled turkey breasts laid out warmed to perfection.

  Just before the preparations were complete, Lexie showed up in a skimpy Nan Lepore sundress and four-inch sling back heels. Minutes later, Barry appeared with his four Chinese guests. They were exactly the same four businessmen Emma and Jack had observed at dinner two nights before.

  Emma glanced at her reflection in the French door windows and wished, for the first time in months, that she’d selected something dressier than blue jeans and a baggy T-shirt to wear.