by Penny Warner
Satisfied she would be supervised and safe—I’d noticed a female rent-a-cop patrolling the festivities—I headed for the exit, passing the concession area manned by students from the local high school. The smell of succulent hot dogs reminded me I was getting hungry.
Once in the parking lot, I got in my car and started the engine. A red pickup truck that had obviously picked up a lot of stuff over the years, judging by all the scrapes, dents, and peeling paint, pulled up next to me. The name lettered on the truck was Montoya Management. The doors opened, lighting up the inside. I immediately recognized the driver as Javier, the manager of the Purple Grape Winery. The passenger was none other than Allison, whom I assumed was the Christophers’ housemaid.
They climbed out of the truck, not noticing me, slammed their respective doors, and walked into the bingo hall without exchanging a word. They reminded me of a long-married couple with little left to say, yet they seemed so mismatched. Allison was sexy and fashionable, while Javier was worn and rumpled. Tonight she was dressed in black short-shorts, a sparkly white tank top, and red three-inch peep-toe heels. Surely these two weren’t together in the romantic sense. Of course, my mother always said opposites attract. Perhaps that was Mom’s attraction to Larry O’Gara. She was polished, while he was rough around the edges. She was civilian, while he still looked military. She had kept herself looking healthy and attractive, while he…had not.
Recalling the two women gossiping at the mud baths about the party tomorrow and the dinner tonight, I began to wonder if the bingo hall might be more fun. I really didn’t look forward to meeting these neighbors. But dinner would be a good chance to go over the details and ensure a smooth event tomorrow night. Once I had this wine-tasting party under my belt—bingo! Who knew how many more winery-related events I’d be asked to plan and host?
Before I could start fantasizing about a possible gala for Francis Ford Coppola, the door to the hall reopened and a woman stepped out.
Allison.
She was with another man, not Javier. Gray haired, thin to the point of being bony, dressed in slacks and a polo shirt, the man escorted Allison to a nearby bench. They sat down and lit up cigarettes. Then Allison proceeded to flirt with the old man, giggling at his words, leaning into him, touching his arm. Fascinated, I watched until the two finished their smokes, then reentered the hall, Allison’s arm tucked in his.
My goodness. What was that about?
Chapter 4
PARTY-PLANNING TIP #4
If your dieting guests are worried about getting fat while drinking wine, tell them there are only eighty calories in a four-ounce glass. They can work that off just by walking home from the party. However, it’s the accompanying cheese and crackers that may put the weight on over time.
I pulled up to the parking lot of the California Culinary College at the appointed time of seven, just as the sun touched the horizon, and parked in the nearly full parking lot. High on a small hill, the towering pastry-colored brick building looked more like a fortress than a cooking school. The slanting hillside in front was lush with herbs and vegetables, available for the students to plunder for their gourmet experiments in the kitchen. I’d read up on the famous campus, where wannabe chefs came from all over the world to learn how to prepare sauces, use spices, and sauté other salivary stimulants. Wine, naturally, was a large part of the experience, and the college offered patrons a variety of wines in “tasting theaters” and at “flavor discovery bars.”
The college also invited diners and food enthusiasts to sample the students’ creations. The place was so popular, reservations were required well in advance. Since Rob was friends with Gina, who taught at the school, he was able to snag a small private room for our preparty gathering.
I climbed the steps, stepped through the outdoor patio area, and entered the main building through an arched wooden doorway. The dining area was already full of foodies who were listening to their waiters describe various menu choices or tasting flights of wine or answering trivia questions provided on each table in the form of flash cards. But it was the large, buzzing kitchen, viewable from nearly any spot in the room, that captured my attention immediately…Diners at their tables could watch the student chefs prepare menu items with words like “confit,” “chicory,” “endive,” and “duck-fat fingerlings.”
I spotted Rocco and Gina through the glass surrounding the kitchen and wound my way to the entry on the far side. Standing on the periphery of the ginormous kitchen, I watched half a dozen chefs, men and women, old and young, all wearing white jackets and toques. They were rushing around their stainless-steel cooking stations, stirring, swishing, and occasionally swearing, all while preparing plates of edible art. Good thing the room was soundproof, I thought, or patrons would get an earful in addition to a mouthful.
Rocco was in his element. Hunched over a plate of unidentifiable morsels, he was doing what he did best—freaking out.
“They’re ruined!” he cried as I approached, throwing his hands in the air.
Next to him stood Gina, busily repairing the ruined globs of Happy Mouths. What appeared to be mini-dough-encrusted baked Brie bites were leaking molten cheese. The puff pastries seemed to be imploding. Gina, in her impeccable whites, was calmly stuffing tiny shrimp into the bottoms of the pastries and setting the repaired bites on round water crackers. I was sure these puffy cheesy shrimpy things would still be wonderful, but Rocco, sporting a Jackson Pollock–stained apron, was a mess.
“They’re beyond repair!” he yelled at his sister, who ignored him, something she probably regularly did, knowing his temperament.
Rocco snatched his chef’s hat from his balding head and threw it on the counter. “They’re hideous! They’re a disaster! They’re—”
“Rocco!” I interrupted his emo tirade from the sidelines. “Calm down! They’ll be fine. Look—Gina is fixing them. And when she’s done stuffing them with shrimp, they’re going to be even better.”
Rocco, near tears, blinked several times as he watched his sister work. Indeed, I felt sure the appetizers would be masterpieces once she was done with them.
Gina shot me a “thank you for shutting him up” look and finished the last of the repairs. I had to admit, she was a genius. So was Rocco, but without his sister’s patience and problem-solving skills. When Rocco made a mistake, the world was coming to an end—and so was his career—which of course never happened. Too bad he couldn’t be more like Gina when it came to dealing with food flare-ups and flops.
“Rocco,” I said, “put your hat back on and go check on the wines and the table settings. Make sure everything is ready. And you might want to wash your face. You’ve got a little something…” I gestured, wiping invisible food from my cheek.
He left the room rubbing his face and holding his toque in his hand.
“You okay, Gina?” I asked.
“I’m fine, Presley. Everything’s under control. And thanks for dealing with Rocco. God, he’s such a drama queen. Every time I work with him, I swear it will be the last.” She stood back from her work. “Okay, these are ready—and they don’t look half bad. Bring on the guests.”
She was finished not a moment too soon. I caught a glimpse of Rob and Marie entering the restaurant, leading two other couples, whom I assumed were the Madeiras and the Briens. I waved when they spotted me; then they continued toward the private room, chatting along the way. I guessed by looking at the women that the older one was the husky-voiced one I’d heard at the mud baths, who appeared to be with a dark-haired, mustached man. Claudette and Nick Madeira. They had to be in their sixties and were twenty pounds overweight from having enjoyed the good life for those sixty-plus years.
The other two were at least twenty years younger—ex-governor Dennis Brien and his blond-highlighted wife, KJ. They had remained svelte, probably from playing golf, tennis, and whatever else rich people do in their spare time. Both men were in suits, as was Rob, while the women wore cocktail dresses and lots and lots of jewelry.
I felt frumpy in my simple black dress, more like I was going to a funeral than a party.
I ducked out the kitchen door and followed them to the private room.
Rob introduced us and we all shook hands. The men’s grips were large, firm, and warm, the women’s slim, soft, and cool. After the three couples were seated, Rob and Marie between them, me opposite Rob, he stood and made a brief announcement explaining the purpose of our preparty get-together.
“Welcome, everyone,” he said. “Thanks for joining us the night before the big event tomorrow. We wanted to thank you for helping with the party and make sure that you’re all comfortable with the plans.”
The men listened attentively. Claudette, however, frequently looked at her diamond watch, while KJ, Dennis’s young wife, kept stealing glances at the distinguished-looking Nick Madeira. I wondered if there was some special meaning behind those glimpses—both were certainly attractive people, and each married to someone else—but I forced myself to stay focused on the topic at hand.
“We’re serving the Purple Grape’s new merlot tonight, the same one we’ll be pouring tomorrow,” Rob said, indicating the freshly filled glasses of wine in front of each guest. Everyone lifted their glasses, inhaled the bouquet, and took a sip, swishing it in their mouths. I followed suit, exactly as Rocco had taught me. Tasted good to me.
“Plus, you’ll be tasting some of the amuse-bouches that chefs Gina and Rocco Ghirenghelli have prepared from Gina’s new book. You may recognize Rocco from his own local TV show, Bay Café.”
The guests stared at Rob blankly, bored, unimpressed, or possibly already intoxicated, the way they were downing the wine. Still, he continued his spiel, offering information on the party food, the activities, parking and traffic control, and the guest list.
“Hear, hear!” Nick Madeira said, ringing his now empty wineglass with his spoon, no doubt hoping Rob was finished.
Rob raised his glass. “Nick, Dennis, thanks for coming,” he said, ignoring their arm candy. “You know how important this event is for all of us. We’ve got to keep our boutique wineries competitive with Napology. Angus McLaughlin is doing his best to take over the entire valley. If we get the word out, market our wines aggressively, and keep the prices reasonable, I’m sure we can continue to compete with him. Otherwise we’ll go the way of independent bookstores, coffee shops, and mom-and-pop businesses.”
Nick Madeira cleared his throat and said, “Yeah, but now that we’ve got all these ‘green’ rules and regulations, we’re losing money by the buttload. And if we can’t use pesticides, we’ll have another invasion of the glassy-winged sharpshooter or European grapevine moth that’ll wipe out next harvest.”
“Nick’s right, Rob,” Dennis said after taking more than just a sip of his wine. He leaned back in his chair, assuming an air of fiefdom probably left over from his years as governor. “I sure hope you didn’t invite that green witch, JoAnne Douglas, to the party tomorrow. She turns everything into her own environmental agenda. We won’t last if we have to meet all her nitpicky demands.” He washed down his words with another gulp of wine.
“I didn’t invite her,” Rob said, “or anyone from Nap-opoly.”
“Nap-opoly?” I asked, interrupting.
Rob shook his head. “Sorry. That’s what we call Angus’s venture. He’s the CEO of Napology Corporation, but it’s more like a monopoly. He offers large-scale productions of cheap wines that we can’t compete with. And he’s buying up all the small wineries around here, taking advantage of the economic downturn.” To Nick and Dennis he said, “McLaughlin wouldn’t come even if I asked him. He’s a recluse, hiding away in that cabin behind his winery, making his employees do his dirty work. I wouldn’t be surprised if JoAnne Douglas was on his payroll.”
Dennis swallowed the wine in his mouth and sputtered, “No way! You know JoAnne and Angus hate each other. One works for green, aka the environment, and the other works for green, aka money.” The men chuckled.
Gina brought out the first tray of small bites. “This is Olive Oil and Truffle Tapenade,” she explained, pointing to a toasty-looking thing. “This one is Mascarpone Puffs with Ragout. And this is Snow Crab Cocktail Claws.” She set the platter on the table. Claudette was the first to serve herself, using a small pair of tongs that had been placed beside her plate.
Rob poured more wine, and the men’s talk turned to wine technology—metal screw tips versus traditional corkage, whimsical versus arty wine labels, the pros and cons of selling their products on Craigslist. Meanwhile the women complained about their mud baths (too hot), their massages (too rough), and their facials (too drying). I had a feeling nothing pleased these indulged trophy wives.
By the time the next course of appetizers was served—Cheddar and Apricot Fritters, Shrimp Cakes with Blood Oranges, and Caramelized Polenta-Stuffed Mushrooms—Claudette and KJ were giggling from all the wine they’d been drinking, and the men were in a heated discussion about different kinds of pesticides. Only Marie Christopher and I were disengaged from the conversations—me thinking about the upcoming party, and Marie gazing into her wineglass, lost in her own world. She seemed to be hypnotized by the spirits in the glass, completely under their spell.
An hour and a half later we’d finished the last of the appetizers. I was stuffed. To my horror, Gina entered with yet another tray, this one filled with bite-sized desserts. In spite of the offer of coffee, Rob poured another round for his guests and raised his glass in a toast.
“To Gina and Rocco, for their outstanding gourmet treats this evening. To my neighbors, the Madeiras and the Briens, for being such great friends. And to Presley Parker, for planning our special event tomorrow. I wish you all great success!”
Before I could bring the wine to my lips, I heard a glass shatter on the floor behind me. Startled, I turned in the direction of the sound. My first thought was that Gina had dropped something. But it wasn’t Gina who stood in the doorway with glass shards at her feet. It was a woman I’d not seen before. It was hard to guess her age—maybe somewhere in her late thirties or early forties. She had wild-looking strawberry blond hair that formed an A-frame around her freckly face. She wore no makeup other than a swash of clownish red lipstick along her thin lips. Her outfit was almost grungy—faded, ill-fitting denim jeans, a dirt-streaked lime green T-shirt that read “Drink Green Wine,” and dirty, well-worn athletic shoes.
Rob stood, his eyes wide, his hands fisted.
“I’m sorry, JoAnne,” he said, his face beginning to flush, “but this is a private party. You need to leave.”
JoAnne’s freckled face hardened. “I knew you were up to something, Christopher. That’s why I followed you here. I’ve been listening at the door. You’re planning to go through with that party tomorrow at your winery!”
The woman might have been petite—she couldn’t have been much over five feet tall, but her arms were thick and her hands large. Her curly hair made her angry face look even more intense. So this was the infamous JoAnne Douglas I’d heard about. In spite of the small package, she seemed to pack an explosive personality. No wonder Rob was concerned about her interference.
She narrowed her small green eyes. The lines in her tanned, leathery face deepened. “I know what you’re up to,” she spat. “You’re going to try to convince everyone to vote against Measure W. Well, it won’t work, because there isn’t going to be a party.”
No party? Now I was getting concerned.
For a moment, everyone appeared to be frozen to their spots. Then Rob, his face twisted in anger, his jaw tight, said, “I asked you to leave, JoAnne. This is a private party. If you don’t go, I’ll call the manager and the police. And as for the party tomorrow, there’s nothing you can do to stop it. We’re quite within our rights to host the event.”
“Excuse me…,” I said, standing up and moving toward JoAnne with a “we come in peace” outreach of my hand, hoping to dissolve the tension.
“Who the hell are you?” JoAnne said with a sneer.
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br /> I hesitated. If I told her the truth—that I was the event planner—I might become the brunt of her tongue-lashing instead of Rob. At last I said, “I’m Presley Parker. I’m working for the Christophers.” One revelation at a time, I thought, when dealing with a woman at her breaking point.
“Well, shut your trap, Prissy Parker. This doesn’t concern you. And if you work for the Christophers, I pity you. They’re not exactly generous when it comes to employee paychecks. Just ask Javier…or Allison.” She shot Rob an evil grin when she said “Allison,” and I wondered what was behind it. Unfortunately I didn’t have time to ponder. The war of words between Rob and JoAnne was in full battle mode.
“JoAnne,” Rob said. “The event tomorrow has nothing to do with the measure. We’re not going to cut down any trees or displace any deer or poison any creeks. We’re just celebrating our latest wine and want to publicize it. Presley, here, has planned the event for us, and in fact, a portion of the profits will go to support AA. Now, for the last time, please leave or—”
“You lying pig!” JoAnne was now shouting. “You and your pals here are ruining the Napa Valley, spreading your polluted vineyards to the streams and wetlands and destroying the water quality for everyone. I’ve been fighting for years to protect the wildlife habitat and stop the land erosion, but you newbies have no concern for the environment, as long as you can expand your fences and your fortunes. Your so-called boutique wineries are no better than those jerks at Napology who want to take over the whole county.”
Nick Madeira cleared his throat and spoke up. “Listen, JoAnne, we’re on your side with the environment. Yes, big wineries like Napology are the ones ruining the valley, but not us little guys. They’re the ones buying up and consolidating all the smaller vineyards that are suffering in this lousy economy. They’re the ones you should be after, not us.”
“He’s right, JoAnne,” ex-governor Dennis Brien slurred more than said. “Yes, I’ll admit, I want to defeat Measure W, but only because it’s too extreme and it really won’t help wildlife, or improve the water, or stop further erosion.” He sounded every bit the politician as he spoke, and I wondered how sincere he was. I glanced at his wife, KJ, who sat wide-eyed, intently listening. Claudette, meanwhile, had a tiny smile on her face and seemed to be enjoying the drama.
