A Vintage To Die For (Violet Vineyard Murder Mysteries Book 2)

by Harvey, JM

  “The caterers are about to leave. The police are searching their van right now.”

  “Their van?” I asked.

  Jessica nodded. “They searched all the cars, mine and yours included.

  “What about Dimitri? Have they…”

  Jessica shivered and clenched her arms across her chest. “They took him away a few minutes ago. Midge Tidwell and another deputy are going through the cellar right now. They’ve boxed up a lot of stuff.”

  I sat bolt straight at that. The cellar is my baby, murder scene or not. “Boxed up what?”

  “A bunch of harvesting knives and clippers. Saws. Limb cutters.”

  I settled back in my chair. I wasn’t happy about it - the lack of tools was going to make the end of season cleanup of the vines impossible - but I could see little room for argument. I’d have to beg, borrow, or buy what we needed.

  I changed the subject. “You’ve been seeing a lot of Blake lately,” I said, and there was that well-worn scolding edge to my tone, a tone she had been hearing since she was in junior high. It’s funny, in a sad way, that no cataclysmic event, not even a murder in my home, could eradicate my need to meddle in my daughter’s affairs.

  Jessica’s lips compressed and she gave me a look of annoyance just as familiar to me. “Blake and I have been working out the details of your agreement with Star Crossed,” she said. “Transferring account information and past pricing lists. And you’re very welcome,” she cut me off with a snide little snap.

  “He’s a handsome man,” I said unapologetically. “And the way you two were giggling when you came back with the ice…”

  “Mom!” she gasped. “Blake is almost as old as you are!”

  “Which is two days younger than dirt,” I replied dryly, but I was relieved to hear it. Jessica’s choices in men had been less than stellar over the years; I didn’t think I could handle another bout of that kind of drama.

  “I ran into Blake and he offered to help carry the ice. That’s all.”

  Good to hear. I was about to change the subject back to the murder when the catering crews’ head chef, Charlie Nitti, stuck his head through the door. He looked tired and rumpled, with a shock of thick black hair hanging down in his youthful face. He appeared far too young to be a chef. And far too good looking - like a model in an underwear ad. Not that I look at underwear ads… He glanced at Jessica, flashed a brilliant smile, and then looked at me and put a more sober expression on his face.

  “They police have told us to leave everything as-is, Mrs. de Montagne,” he said. “The kitchen is a mess, but I’ll be back tomorrow to clean up.”

  I nodded. He shot Jessica a lingering glance before he ducked out the door and was gone.

  Jessica’s eyes stayed on the door long after he had disappeared, a slightly dreamy look on her face.

  “He’s hot,” I said and her head snapped my way.

  “Mom!”

  I leaned forward in my chair. “Tell me,” I said. I was reminded it had been Jessica who had recommended the caterers…and now I had a good idea why. I assumed he was the person that she had been ‘talking to in the side yard’ when Alexandra had screamed.

  “Charlie is a nice guy,” she said, a schoolgirl smile spreading across her face. “We met years ago at UC, but I didn’t really know him until he catered Gloria’s wedding. We hit it off and…” she shrugged and tilted the smile at me. “You wondered why I was giggling when we brought the ice,” she added. “I was talking to Charlie when Blake came around the side of the house.”

  “Talking? The way you were blushing, I’d guess you were doing more than talking. While I was paying him by the hour,” I said jokingly.

  Jessica laughed and so did I. It felt good. The first easing of tension since Alexandra had yelled ‘Murderer!’

  And then Hunter ruined it.

  “Not much laughter out here, ladies,” he said as he came through the door and flopped down on the bench beside Jessica. I didn’t know if that was meant as reproach or not; it was hard to tell from his deadpan delivery, but it annoyed me anyway. He rubbed his face with his hands and then looked at me with weary eyes. “Hell of a party, Claire.”

  I had no reply for that. Victor came in at that moment, dressed in his party best, a yellow guyabara shirt, faded jeans and a pair of beaten-up boat shoes. He dropped down on the bench on the other side of Jess.

  “Samson’s out back threatening to leave,” he said to Hunter. “He wants to take Marjory home.”

  “He’ll be lucky if I don’t take them both to jail,” Hunter replied with a bone-deep sigh.

  “You can’t believe they—” I began but Hunter held up a hand.

  “If I believed they killed him they’d be in jail.”

  “I don’t think Jorge killed—” Victor said, but Hunter cut him off as well.

  “I don’t believe it either,” Hunter said. “McCullers is a jackass when he drinks, though he’s never done anything violent. But…” he shrugged as he left that hanging there.

  “The blood,” I said and Hunter nodded.

  “And Angela’s assault on Blake,” he added.

  “Assault,” I said doubtfully. “She threw a glass.”

  “Blake is calling it assault,” Hunter replied. “He says he’ll press charges. Angela would be in jail along with Jorge if I knew where she was.”

  “Angela’s gone?” I asked.

  Hunt nodded. “Jorge says he fell asleep in the front yard. He says when he woke up she was gone. She probably took a cab home,” he said. “Or to the nearest bar.”

  “Hunt?” Deputy Midge Tidwell yelled down the hallway from the kitchen.

  “In here!” Hunter yelled back and Victor, Jess, and I all jumped.

  Midge popped into the doorway. She had a brown paper bag in her hand. “Got a second?” she asked and beckoned for Hunter to come out into the hallway.

  Hunter groaned. “Just tell me,” he said. “I’m too tired for secrets.”

  Midge gave the three of us a skeptical look – one that lingered on me for a long moment– then shook her head. “This is important,” she said. “I think—”

  “Spill it, Midge,” Hunter said.

  Midge didn’t like it, but she did what she was told. “I found a hook-billed knife in Angela Zorn’s car.” She held up the bag. “There’s fresh blood on it. And we found a yellow slicker jacket and rubber gloves in the basement, behind some machinery. They’re covered in blood, too.” She looked at me, the hint of an accusation in her eyes. “The slicker is a woman’s, size medium.”

  “Good work, Midge,” Hunter said.

  Midge nodded stiffly, gave me one more look, then turned and disappeared back down the hallway.

  “The slicker’s mine,” I said to Hunter. “For the crush. Manning the destemmer is messy. And I don’t appreciate the look Midge gave—”

  “Afraid you might be a suspect?” he asked with a narrow smile.

  “I know Midge doesn’t like me,” I said, but that just sounded petulant and I knew it. It was embarrassing. But I couldn’t stop. “She’d be happy if I was the murderer.”

  Hunter laughed. “You were with me when Dimitri died,” he said. “Remember?”

  “Yes,” I said, unmollified. “And I’ve got the bruised toes to prove it.”

  Hunter stood up, stretched his back and groaned, then headed for the door. He paused on the threshold. “I’m done with you three,” he said then looked at me, “but the rest of the crime scene team and I are going to be here for a while.”

  I stood. “I’ll make coffee and put together some food for your men.” I wondered how much chicken was left. Probably a lot. There had been too much drama for much eating to be done.

  “I appreciate that, Claire,” he said and was gone.

  “Jorge arrested for murderer?” Jessica said as she too stood. “That’s ridiculous.”

  Victor didn’t rise and he didn’t say anything, but I could see the wheels turning behind his eyes. Jorge wasn’t exactly
a friend of Victor’s, but Jorge’s accusations about police harassment of Latinos would have hit home with my foreman. California might be an ultraliberal state, but its track record on race relations wasn’t exactly stellar. But I knew Hunter was no bigot, and St. Helena was not Los Angeles. And Jorge was a drunken idiot, even if I did like him.

  And he just might be the murderer.

  I headed for my disaster of a kitchen, Jessica trailing in my wake.

  The last police car left Violet at 3:30AM. I was still awake, and the kitchen was only half-cleaned. Charlie had said he would be back tomorrow, but the work had kept my hands and my mind busy as police officers and the coroner’s men paraded through my kitchen and the cellar below.

  I had made seven pots of coffee in that time period and three times as many chicken sandwiches. Victor and Jessica had helped, but Victor had been morose and silent. He left at midnight, just a half hour before Jessica climbed the stairs to what she refers to as ‘her room’ and I refer to as the ‘guest room.’

  Hunter let Samson and Marjory leave at 2:40. The pair was unusually quiet as they said their goodbyes, but I was in no mood for conversation anyway. I settled at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee, alone. I was still sitting there, staring down into the cold coffee, when Hunter came up from the cellar and joined me.

  He refused another cup of coffee and dropped into the chair across from me. “Dirty business,” he said, looking worn down and ragged. “But we’re done with the cellar. Midge will be here tomorrow to drain the tank.”

  I nodded and felt my own shoulders sag. I’d have to call my insurance agent, I realized. And it had been less than a year since I’d submitted a six-figure claim to pay for the damage done when a murderer had rampaged through my cellar with an ax.

  “Guess I better get going,” Hunt said, though he made no move to rise. A long moment of silence passed before he looked up at me. I sensed a question in his eyes. A longing.

  I broke eye contact as the blood rushed to my face. Hunter and I had been intimate in the past, but that had been more than a year before. His gaze made me feel awkward and even more uncertain about the status of our relationship. Earlier, when we had been dancing, it had all seemed so right, but now…I couldn’t explain it. Maybe I was just too overwhelmed by the night’s events, but that old uncertainty had crept back in.

  “It’s getting late,” I said, feeling like a complete coward. I glanced at the clock over the filthy stovetop.

  “Right,” he said, his eyes shutting down, going flat and remote.

  That look hurt. It seemed to solidify the gap that had grown between us. I knew I didn’t want that, but I didn’t have the words.

  Hunter stood abruptly and headed for the door, his manner as brusque as his movements. He opened the door and looked back. “The cellar is padlocked. We’ll finish with it in the morning and I’ll be out of your hair.” The way he said that made me feel even more miserable. “Lock up tight tonight,” he added and he was gone, the door clicking softly closed behind him.

  I sat there for a long time after that, thinking about Hunter and me. But in the end it was just too much for my beleaguered mind. I made the circuit of the house, checking that the windows and doors were all locked, and went upstairs. I washed my face, brushed my teeth, and fell into bed at 4:45.

  Chapter 9

  I awoke two hours after I had fallen asleep. I burrowed under the covers and squeezed my eyes closed tight, but it was no use. I tossed and turned fitfully for another hour before I finally gave up with a groan at 7:30.

  One glance in the mirror over the sink was enough to make me cringe. Every line and wrinkle on my face was highlighted and exaggerated by too little sleep. I had dark circles under my eyes and a dry, papery look to my skin. And I felt just as bad as I looked. Bone-tired and depressed. The walking dead.

  I felt marginally better after a shower. I put on khaki slacks and a sweater and headed downstairs.

  The shambolic condition of the kitchen sucked the wind out of my already drooping sails. Even after three hours of cleaning, there was still a leaning stack of dirty dishes piled beside the sink, the floor needed to be mopped, and the stove sanitized. I poured ground coffee into my old 1920’s percolator, a chrome globe with red handles, and turned it on, then crossed to the windows to take in the morning view. That view usually revitalizes me with its sweep and beauty but it had the opposite effect that morning. The view of the slumbering valley was beautiful - the first tracers of the sun’s golden light peeking over the mountain behind me, streaking across the valley while the steep upper slopes were still cloaked in darkness - it was the view closer to home that made me want to curl up and cry.

  The back yard was a mess. Trampled grass, a sagging tent, scattered napkins, and paper trash. The tables were cluttered with dirty dishes and empty glasses. I was about to turn away when Victor’s truck rolled down the gravel drive and headed for the brand new barn I’d had constructed after the old one was burned down last year. There were two other men in the cab of the truck with him. All three climbed out and Victor led the two men into the barn.

  By the time the three reemerged with plastic bags, a rake, and a shovel, I had poured myself a cup of coffee and filled a thermos for them. I carried the thermos and three cups outside and put them on the least cluttered of the tables under the tent.

  Victor led the men over. Despite the chill in the morning air, Victor was wearing shorts and a t-shirt with a faded surf logo on the breast. His hair had grown back since the fire that had destroyed my ancient Mustang Convertible and my barn, and he wore it long to cover the puckered red burn scars on his neck and shoulders. Other than that, he had made a full recovery from what I had feared, at the time, were catastrophic injuries.

  The other two men were dressed for the weather in flannel shirts and jeans.

  “Good morning, Mrs. de Montagne,” the older of the two said as he took the steaming cup from me. “Thank you.” He was well past fifty and stout with a deep sunburn on the back of his neck. His companion was much younger, tall and slender, with a shy look. He nodded his thanks as he too took a cup.

  I looked at Victor. “I appreciate you coming in on Sunday,” I said.

  “The sacrifices I make,” he said wistfully. “A slave to my job.”

  “I’ll pay you for the day,” I said.

  “You got that right,” he replied as he took a sip of the coffee. He looked around at the mess. “We’ll get this cleaned up first thing.”

  “Great,” I said. “And I’ll finish in the kitchen. The chef said he’d be back today to clean up, but I’m not sure if he’ll keep his word.”

  “Charlie Nitti?” He asked with raised eyebrows and a sneaky grin. “Oh, he’ll be here. You couldn’t keep him away with a shotgun, though you might try if you don’t want to be a grandma.”

  I gave him a frown. “Why am I always the last to know?” I asked. I often thought Victor knew my daughter better than I did. I guess that’s not surprising. Victor had first come to work for me part time when he was fifteen years old and Jessica was eight. They had practically grown up together. They shared a sibling-like bond, complete with secret rituals and wordless conversations made up of sly looks and grimaces.

  It could get really annoying.

  “First to nag, last to know,” Victor replied.

  “You’re fired,” I told him as I turned back to the house.

  “I couldn’t be so lucky.”

  “Keep pushing and you might hit the jackpot…” I said over my shoulder.

  I was walking across the patio, under the arbor that supported the green tendrils of the wisteria vines, when a pair of Sheriff’s cruisers came around the corner of the house and parked on the gravel near the wine cellar door. Midge Tidwell climbed out of the driver’s seat of the first car, a cell phone jammed to her ear, though it’s illegal to drive and talk on a phone in California. Police rarely follow the rules, I thought sourly and probably a little unfairly, but I had gotten a tick
et for the same infraction less than six months before.

  I headed for the patrol cars.

  Midge ended the call and stowed the phone in her pants pocket as I came to a halt in front of her. Two deputies I recognized from the night before got out of the second cruiser. They nodded at me, but stayed by the car, talking in low tones.

  “We need to drain and empty the tank,” Midge said in lieu of a hello. She stepped to the back of the patrol car and I followed. Her khaki uniform was neatly pressed and clung tightly to her tall, lean form. With her lithe movements, tight haircut, and pointed chin, she reminded me of a greyhound. She popped the patrol car’s trunk and hauled out a folded white plastic tarp. She dropped it on the grass then took out a shiny four foot square aluminum sieve. It looked heavy but she handled it easily enough, and her companions didn’t step forward and offer to help.

  “I’ll get the hose hooked up,” I said. “You can set that up on the slope over there,” I pointed to the edge of the yard, just twenty feet away, where the bare rocky slope of tallus began, sloping steeply down to a ragged cleft in the hill that separated my vineyard from the rows Kevin Harlan had planted next door. “I don’t want to use my pumps, considering what’s been in the tank,” I told her. “That spot is low enough gravity will carry the free run wine, but you’ll have to shovel the must out of the bottom of the tank. I’ll have Victor bring the compost wagon over from the barn. You can shovel it into that.” I looked at her two male companions and raised my voice so they could hear, “I warn you, the must is going to be wet and heavy.”

  “Do you have something we can press the must with?” she asked. As a cop in Napa she was probably very familiar with the wine making process. Pressing the must would make the shoveling easier for the deputies, but I shook my head no.

  “We use a rubber bladder for that,” I explained. It was a simple process to drop the bladder into the tank, close the lid, then fill the bladder with air to gently press the must and extract some of the remaining wine. “But I really don’t want to use it. I’d never get it clean enough to meet the FDA requirements.” The stainless steel tank could be sterilized, but plastic was too porous for that to be effective. And I was not going to contaminate my production equipment. I couldn’t afford to.