by Penny Warner
I checked my watch. Too early for dinner—unless you were part of the bingo set, maybe. Not too early for a glass of wine. At least, not today. If I could have started drinking when the body was found this morning, I would have.
“You were great back there, Mom!” I said, giving her arm a squeeze as I drove us out of the Douglas Family Winery drive. “That little fainting spell—brilliant! Thanks to you, I found out a little more about JoAnne Douglas.”
My mother actually blushed. “I learned it from watching Murder, She Wrote. One time Jessica Fletcher pretended to need a glass of water, and when the suspect left the room to get it, she snooped around and found some valuable evidence.”
“Well, instead of getting her out of the room, you got us into the room. I’ll have to try that trick myself sometime.”
“Where are we going next?” Mother asked, suddenly full of energy.
I looked at her. “You’re not too tired?”
“Not now. This is fun.” She pulled down the passenger visor and checked her teeth and lipstick in the small mirror.
“Well, I was thinking we’d drop in on the Purple Grape’s two neighbors and see how they’re coping with the news. You up for that?”
“Bring it!” Mom said, closing the visor.
Bring it? Where had that come from? Was I creating a monster, dragging my mother around the valley looking for suspects in a murder? What the hell. She’d turned me into a party planner. I could turn her into an amateur sleuth.
The two neighbors’ wineries flanked the Purple Grape. The Madeiras’ Castello de Vino was on the left and the Briens’ Governor’s Mansion Winery was on the right. And they were as different from each other as Marie was from her sister, Allison. While the Christophers’ home resembled an Italian villa, the Madeiras’ place looked like a stone castle, something out of Transylvanian horror films, the kind that Nick Madeira was known for producing. As for the Briens’ winery, it stood like a mini-replica of the state capitol building in Sacramento. No surprise there.
I pulled into the stone driveway that led to the medieval castle. My first thought, looking at the sprawling structure, was Great place for a party! Medieval theme, obviously, with knights and maidens, bowls of wassail and giant turkey legs, maybe some horses and a little jousting.
Good God. What was I thinking?
We headed for the winery entrance and stepped through arched doorways into the past. Stone walls in the tasting room were lined with costumes of kings and queens, armored knights and fair maidens, along with crossbows and chain mail, swords and shields, and family crests. The dim lighting from the high wrought-iron sconces transported me immediately to the Dark Ages. A long wooden bar—maybe twenty feet—ran from one side of the tasting room to the other, manned by pourers wearing anachronistic Castello de Vino T-shirts. About a dozen people in normal clothing had bellied up to the bar and were enjoying the latest pour. After drinking all that water, my mother excused herself to use the facilities. I squeezed in between a group of young women and an older couple and looked over the printed list of today’s samples.
“Would you like to taste our newest sangiovese?” a cute guy in a T-shirt covered with a coat-of-arms-emblazoned vest asked. Blond short hair, lightly freckled face, muscular arms, about thirty, I guessed. His name tag read, “Joe Van Houten.”
“Sure,” I said.
“It’s five dollars for three tastings,” he said. “And you get to keep the commemorative glass.”
I shelled out five bucks while Joe poured a couple of ounces into a wineglass inscribed, “Wassail,” which he explained was Middle English for “good health.” I inhaled the bouquet like Rocco had taught me, then tasted the cool liquid, all the while glancing around for Nick or his wife—what was her name? Claudia? Claudette.
Joe Van Houten looked at me expectantly after I put the glass down.
“Good!” I said, forgetting all the vocabulary words Rocco had tried to implant in my brain. “Uh…fruity,” I added.
Joe grinned politely. I was sure he saw right through me. I deflected with a question. “Is Nick or Claudette around?”
“You know the owners? I’d be glad to let them know you’re here. What’s your name?”
I leaned into the bar and turned on the charm. “That would be great. I’m Presley Parker,” I said, reaching out a hand. Joe shook it, said, “Nice to meet you,” then picked up a phone hidden under the bar. I spotted Mother returning from the restroom, a small bag in her hand.
“Did you buy something?” I asked her.
“They have a delightful little gift shop right near the restrooms!” Mother said. Leave it to her to find a gift shop everywhere she went, including Alcatraz, the de Young Museum, and the Winchester Mystery House. She opened the bag and pulled out a set of wine charms—tiny pewter images of grapes, leaves, a wine bottle, a goblet, a wheel of cheese, and a corkscrew—one for each of six guests to personalize their wineglasses.
“Adorable!” I said. “But you don’t drink. And you can’t have alcohol at your care facility, even for a party.”
“I know,” she said. “They’re for you. I thought you might be able to use them at one of your future parties.”
“Mother! How sweet. Thank you.”
I heard someone clear his throat behind me and turned around.
“Nick! I mean, Mr. Madeira. Hi. Presley Parker from the other night. And this is my mother, Veronica.”
“Nick is fine,” he said, reaching out to shake our hands. Instead of the usual medieval costume, Nick wore slacks, a white button-down shirt, and a tie decorated with grapes. “Good to see you again, Ms. Parker. Any news from the police?”
“Call me Presley. No, nothing. I’ve tried phoning Marie but my calls go straight to voice mail. We were just on our way to the Purple Grape to check on her and thought we’d stop by, see if you’d heard anything first.”
“Unfortunately, no,” he said, glancing around at the crowd. There was a moment of silence; then Nick abruptly changed the subject. “Would you like a tour while you’re here? My wife and I are thinking of hosting a Renaissance fair party in the summer. Maybe you’d be interested in planning it for us?”
“Sure,” I said, thinking perhaps his request was in poor taste, considering the recent events. But I was here to find out any information I could.
Nick began the tour by pointing out the wall decorations. “We bought the winery from a man named Colonel Thomas Allen from Nashville. He modeled the building after a fourteenth-century Tuscan castle. I thought it was spectacular and asked the owner if I could use it for some background shots for one of my horror films. When I learned he was selling, I had to have it.”
“It’s open to the public?” Mother asked, admiring a portrait of the colonel.
“Yes. We give tours that include barrel tastings, a carriage ride through the vineyard, and a display of vintage winemaking equipment used by the colonel.” He looked up at the colonel fondly.
“Fascinating,” Mother said. “I can see why the place was hard to resist.”
Nick smiled at her compliment. “The site used to be a stagecoach stop, back in the day. People came here from San Francisco to enjoy the hot springs and spend some time in the country. It wasn’t long before some of the California emigrants noticed the resemblance to the wine regions of the Mediterranean area and began buying up land.”
Nick led us past the gift shop and restrooms, into another spacious room with a full-sized knight-in-armor outfit standing in the corner. “There are over a hundred rooms in the castle, including an honest-to-goodness torture chamber with an antique iron maiden and rack.”
Mother gasped. “Oh dear!”
“Don’t worry,” Nick said, smiling as if he’d heard this reaction many times. “These days we use it just for show. Although sometimes I’m tempted to bring my wife down here and test out some of the equipment.” He laughed at his own joke.
Mother shot me a look that said, “Here’s your killer, Presley.”
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br /> “There are seven levels,” Nick continued, leading us on to the next stone-walled room. “Four underground. We’ve got five towers with battlements, a working drawbridge that leads to the vineyard, and a moat that runs around the castle. You’ll also see frescoes on the castle walls, and wrought-iron sconces that have been treated with acid to make them look ancient. Keep your eyes open and you’ll even spot a few gargoyles guarding the place from the towers. And maybe even a ghost or two.”
I shuddered. “Where’s the torture chamber?”
“Underground, along with tunnels and wine chambers—it’s a real maze down there, and if you don’t know your way around, you may never be seen again.” He laughed again at his joke. Or was it a joke? I wondered.
The castle reminded me of the Winchester Mystery House, where I’d recently held a séance party and brought the dead Mrs. Winchester back to life. This place would indeed be a perfect party setting.
“It must cost a fortune to keep this place going,” Mother said.
“True, but we’re lucky to get about a hundred thousand paying visitors a year, so that helps pay the bills. And we’ve won a few gold medals for our sangiovese wines, which are selling well.”
“Can we see the torture chamber?” I persisted ghoulishly, my eyes wide with anticipation.
“Sorry. It’s being renovated,” Nick said. “We bought a few more devices at an auction in Europe last year and they’re being installed. But how would you like to taste my newly bottled reserve? It’s not available to the public yet.”
I nodded, maybe a little too enthusiastically, and we followed Nick back to a private tasting room with a small dark wood bar and stools for eight of his no-doubt closest friends. At the back wall hung an oil portrait of Nick in medieval knight costume, next to a portrait of his wife, Claudette, dressed as a Renaissance lady.
Speak of the devil. Just as Nick finished pouring me a glass of his personal stash, Claudette stuck her head in the door.
“I thought I’d find you here,” she said. Recognizing me, she stepped in, wearing white tennis shorts and matching top, and reached out her hand. “Hello, Ms. Parker. What are you doing here?”
“Hello, Claudette. You remember my mother, Veronica?” I said, introducing my mother. “We just stopped by to see if you’d heard anything from Rob or Marie.”
She shook her highlighted blond hair. Her diamond drop earrings swayed. “Nothing. We’re just devastated for them both.”
Funny. Neither one of them looked devastated. Nick was back to business, showing off his castle, and Claudette had apparently been dealing with her devastation by playing tennis.
“I haven’t heard from them either. Not since Rob was headed for the police station for questioning. Marie isn’t answering her phone.”
“Oh dear,” Claudette said, checking her diamond watch absently. “Well, I suppose Kyle is doing what he can to help Rob.”
“If you want my opinion, he’d be better off without that jerk,” Nick mumbled, then chugged his glass of wine in one swallow.
Surprised at his sudden vehemence, I asked, “You don’t think Kyle is a good attorney?”
“Well, he thinks he is. And apparently he’s doing well,” Nick said, “at least, judging by all the money he’s been flashing around. I just wonder if he has Rob’s best interest at heart.”
“Why do you say that?” I asked.
Nick poured himself another glass and took a sip. “He worked for JoAnne for a while, helping her with her lawsuits, threatening to sue the wineries that didn’t meet her standards—including ours.”
“That does seem like a conflict of interest,” I said.
“It would have been, except Kyle suddenly quit working for her and started offering his services to the smaller wineries, saying he’d represent them against the lawsuits. He lost most of the cases, but somehow he still seemed to profit from his so-called efforts.”
That was odd. Kyle had worked for JoAnne, then suddenly stopped and began working for the people she’d been suing? Was there more money in defending clients than prosecuting them? Or was there another reason he had jumped the fence?
“The guy’s an ambulance chaser,” Claudette said. “He follows the money. JoAnne’s business had declined over the years and I don’t think she could afford to pay him as much as she had in the past. There’ve been rumors she was selling her wines under new labels to increase her sales, but no one could prove anything.”
I’d heard the same rumor at the bingo hall. Does hearing a rumor twice make it a fact? Not necessarily, but it sure makes it a clue.
“Thanks for the wine, Nick,” I said, reluctantly finishing off the last sip.
“How did you like it?” he asked.
I’d dreaded the question. “Yummy!” I wanted to say. Instead, I confessed, “I don’t know a lot about wine—like all those terms you wine connoisseurs use. I wish I were savvier. My caterer tried to teach me but I flunked Wine 101.”
“It’s easy, really. Here, I’ll teach you some basics—at least enough to fake it. How’s that?”
“He’s very good at faking it,” Claudette said under her breath. Nick didn’t seem to hear; nor did Mother. Had she really said that? I wondered.
Nick poured me another half glass of wine. “First, look at it. Is it clear? A nice color?”
I stared at the glass of wine as if it might tell me my future. “Yeah, no floaties,” I said. “It’s kind of a reddish, purplish brown color.” I wanted to say it was the color of dried blood, but that didn’t seem appropriate.
“Good. Now smell it. Intense or delicate?”
I inhaled the aroma. “Intense?” I asked rather than said, not sure.
“Excellent. Now the most important part. Take a sip and tell me about the taste.”
Remembering Rocco’s instructions, I took a small sip, held it on my tongue for a few seconds, and swallowed. “Tastes good. Very smooth.”
“Perfect. When you’re hosting your next wine-tasting event, here’s another secret. Contrary to popular belief, red wines should be chilled and white wines should be served at room temperature.”
“I thought it was the opposite,” Mother said.
“So do most people,” Claudette said. “But Nick loves to prove them wrong—and argue the point. In a minute he’ll tell you his wine cures heart disease, reduces lung cancer, lowers cholesterol, and probably prevents leprosy.”
Nick shot her a look. “I never said it cured anything, Claudette. And very funny about the leprosy. But there are health benefits. That’s been proven.”
“What about spitting?” Mother asked out of the blue. I couldn’t imagine my mother spitting!
“Believe it or not, spitting is considered proper, as long as you spit into the provided bucket and not on someone next to you.” Nick laughed.
I checked my watch. I hoped Brad would be back soon. And I was eager to look in on Marie and find out what was up with Rob. I set my unfinished wineglass down.
“Speaking of Rob, do either of you have any idea who might have killed JoAnne?” I asked.
“No idea,” Nick said, swirling his glass of wine. “An ugly way to die,” he added.
“I don’t know who killed her, but I can’t pretend I’ll miss her,” Claudette said. “Nick and I suspected she’d done something to our crop after we didn’t sign her petition, but we can’t prove it.”
“What do you mean ‘did something’?” I asked her.
“Nothing,” Nick answered for her after shooting his wife a daggered look. “Claudette gets these wild ideas. She wanted to have our vines analyzed to see if they’d been tampered with.”
“He wouldn’t let me do it,” Claudette said, pouting. “But we weren’t the only ones who didn’t get along with her. And it’s obvious that someone was trying to send a message.”
“You mean like ‘hoist on her own petard’ kind of thing?” Nick asked, eyeing her.
Claudette shrugged. “I don’t know. If I knew what the message w
as, I might know who killed her. But using a corkscrew to make a point? I’m just saying.”
Claudette could be right, I thought, but what was the message—besides “screw you”?
Chapter 12
PARTY-PLANNING TIP #12
Swishing the wine around in your mouth before you swallow is another option for your wine-tasting guests. While it seems uncouth, swishing the liquid around your tongue and palate allows your taste buds to detect the subtle flavors of the wine. But try not to make too much noise…
The ex-governor’s “house,” on the other side of the Purple Grape, was a carbon copy of the Sacramento capitol building, except on a smaller scale. The paved circular driveway surrounded a lavish fountain featuring stone carvings of twisted vines and plump grapes. The home itself was framed by towering palm trees, fronted by Roman columns, and topped by a classic dome—just like the capitol. Beyond the mansion I saw acres of precisely planted vineyards, as far as the eye could see. I wondered how many bottles of wine the acreage could produce. That thought made me thirsty again.
I squeezed my MINI into an end spot in the crowded lot. Apparently the Governor’s Mansion Winery was also open for tastings today, in spite of the murder next door. Maybe that had been the draw. I helped Mother out of the car and we climbed the steps of the arched entrance.
“Hmmm,” Mother said, staring up at the stunning concrete structure. “A blend of Greek Revival and Roman-Corinthian. See the pilasters, Presley? The columns, the colonnade windows, the cupolas? Simple, classic, and elegant.”
I had no idea what pilasters, colonnade windows, and cupolas were but decided not to ask. I wasn’t here for a lesson on Greek-Corinthian architecture—or whatever. I led Mother inside, where wine sippers talked and mingled and sipped their wine. We were greeted by a young man and young woman, both wearing black slacks, black loafers, and black shirts emblazoned with the California bear flag and bearing the words “Governor’s Mansion Winery.” The girl handed us a printed price sheet with today’s selections—apparently there’s not a lot of free wine in Napa anymore—then indicated the two serving bars on either side of the room.
