by Penny Warner
Odd, I thought. Larry had said most of the players pick a seat and stay with it, thinking it might be bad luck to move. Apparently Allison didn’t believe in this superstition.
“You can’t stand there,” came a voice next to me. I turned to see the female security guard looming beside me. Her name tag read: “Karna.”
“What?” I asked.
“No observing,” she said, her hands on her big leather belt. I looked for a gun, but there was nothing more threatening than a flashlight. Typical rent-a-cop. “You have to play or you can’t stay. Those are the rules.”
“Really?” I said, surprised an innocent game like bingo didn’t allow onlookers. “You think we’re counting Ping-Pong balls or something?”
She pressed her lips together, showing me that she meant business—and that she didn’t have a sense of humor.
I looked at Brad. He shrugged, pulled out his wallet, and headed over to the ticket desk to buy us in. I followed him, giving Karna a last glance, and searched for an empty spot where Brad and I could sit. I spied some room next to a gray-haired couple who were munching on corn chips between marking their sheets. Sitting down, I waved to Brad to join me, and he sauntered over with our game sheets and daubers in hand.
“How much did that set you back?” I asked when he squeezed into his seat between two women across from me.
“More than dinner,” he grumbled. I knew he didn’t want to play and was doing me a favor. I owed him.
“Hey, maybe you’ll win,” I said, marking all the free spots on the sheet I’d be playing next.
“I’d better,” he said.
The gray-haired man next to me sneaked a glance at us, no doubt wondering why we were two hours late and without our own daubers, bingo carriers, or lucky charms. I smiled at him, hoping a little flirtatious look would melt his seeming consternation. He leered back at me, displaying a row of crooked, yellowed teeth. Dirty old man.
“Come here often?” I asked him, thinking I might as well try to make Brad jealous.
“Shhhh!”
The old man had just shushed me!
Brad stifled a grin and shook his head.
After a few more called number-letter combinations, the old guy yelled, “Bingo!”
“Hey,” I said to him. “I brought you luck!”
The woman sitting across from him smiled. “Don’t pay no attention to Ralph. He takes his bingo a little too seriously. I’m Mary, his long-suffering wife. You’re new here, aren’tcha?”
I nodded. “My second time. Brad’s a virgin.”
The old man shot me another leering look.
“A bingo virgin,” I explained to him. He didn’t seem to get it.
The roving bingo payoff guy came over, took Ralph’s sheet, handed it to another player for verification, then paid the man his two hundred and fifty dollars. A handful of people around him congratulated him. He nodded grumpily.
When the excitement died down, I said to Mary, “Does he often win?”
“About once a month,” she said, ripping up her losing bingo sheet and tossing it in the nearby trash. “Considering we’re here twice a week, that ain’t so good.”
Bingo—I’d found a regular. Maybe Mary knew something about JoAnne Douglas. “I suppose you heard about the recent…death.”
“Murder, you mean,” she corrected me. “Everyone’s heard about it. Poor thing. I mean, she wasn’t the most popular gal in town, but nobody deserves to be tapped like that.”
I stifled a grin at her language. “Do you happen to know her assistant? A young woman named Natalie Mattos?”
“Sure, I know Nat. She’s a great gal. How she put up with JoAnne, I’ll never know.”
This place truly was a wealth of information. “Any chance you could tell me how to find her, now that the winery has closed?”
“I heard she’s already found another job,” Mary said.
That was quick. “Really? Where?”
“She got hired by the Napa Valley Wine Train. She’s probably there now, doing the night shift.”
Chapter 16
PARTY-PLANNING TIP #16
Selecting the right corkscrew for your party is almost as important as choosing the wine. The lever style is one of the easiest to use. You simply clamp it onto the wine bottle and it does the work for you. However, it can be expensive (thirty to one hundred and fifty dollars) and therefore may not be affordable as a party favor.
“Thanks, Mary!” I said, then pulled out my iPhone. I did a search for the Napa Valley Wine Train and checked the details for the evening event. Sure enough, there was a five thirty p.m. train that was due back around nine thirty. We still had time to meet the train after bingo.
“Brad!” I whispered to him, after realizing I might be able to talk to Natalie soon.
Brad didn’t answer, too busy marking up his sheet while playing the current bingo game. I’d lost interest in winning. I had other things on my mind. Like finding out who murdered JoAnne Douglas—and talking to Natalie.
Brad reached over and daubed several of my squares for me. After a few minutes, someone called “Bingo!”
“Presley!” I heard my name called. Mother. Uh-oh. She’d spotted me. “Hi, Mom.”
“What are you doing here?” she asked, her eyes wide as I walked over to her table. I didn’t know if that meant she was surprised, delighted, or horrified that I’d shown up unexpectedly.
“Brad and I were in the neighborhood and thought we’d play a few games, then take you home. How’s it going? Won anything yet?”
“No, but Larry won again!” She beamed as she patted his arm.
Larry grinned and blushed. “She’s my lucky charm,” he said, placing his other hand on hers.
This time she grinned and blushed. These two were acting like a pair of teenagers.
“I’d better get back,” I said. “Another game is about to start.”
“Good luck, honey!” Mom said.
Larry whipped out a five-dollar bill and handed it to me. “Here. Go buy yourself a soda and candy bar. On me.”
I thanked him, realizing that sharing the wealth was part of the bingo culture. And after all the wine I’d drunk with the truck food, a coffee sounded just right.
I bought two lattes and set them down in between Brad’s place and mine, just as the bingo caller announced the next game, this one called the Kite.
“Thanks,” Brad said.
I turned to the old guy next to me. “What’s the Kite?” I asked him. He shushed me again.
“Ignore him,” Mary said. “That’s what I do, after fifty-odd years of marriage. In the Kite, you have to get a block of four in any corner, with a diagonal line in three additional spaces, including the free space, to win. It looks like a kite with a tail.”
Whatever happened to good, old-fashioned, five-in-a-row bingo? I wondered as I looked at the multiple possibilities on my sheet. About the time I thought I might have a winning card, someone yelled, “Bingo!”
This game sucked.
I stood up, tossed my sheet in the trash as if it were contaminated, and headed back to my seat. Brad was hunched over his bingo sheet like a prisoner guarding his food. This guy was getting bingo fever!
I sat down, but instead of filling in the free squares on my bingo sheet, I wrote down questions I had for Natalie so I’d be prepared when we chatted. When the last game finally ended, Brad and I waited outside for Mother and Larry.
Two smokers sat on a bench several feet away from the entrance to the hall. We kept our distance while scanning the people as they left the building. I spotted Allison exiting, accompanied by the elderly gentleman she’d been sitting next to during the games. He was using a walker and she had her hand on his shoulder.
“Allison!” I called. She turned around and saw me, looking startled. “Could I talk to you a second?”
Allison sighed, glanced at the man, then said, “I’ll catch up with you, Delbert.” He nodded and moseyed on to his car, a new white Cadillac pa
rked in a handicapped spot up front.
“What’s up?” She pulled out a cigarette, lit it, and squinted as the smoke encircled her head. “Getting into bingo?”
I ignored her and asked, “Have you heard anything more…about the murder?”
She shook her head and blew smoke away from me. “You?”
“No,” I said, then began weaving a lie as I continued. “But I talked to Dennis Brien and he mentioned getting an urgent message from you earlier today. Something about wanting him to call you? I wondered if that was about JoAnne.”
Allison blinked rapidly several times. I knew that blink. I’d taught “Blinking and Eye Movement” as part of my abnormal psychology curriculum, under the topic “micro-expressions.” Allison had just micro-expressed a combination of surprise and concern.
She took another puff on her cigarette—a stalling technique often used when someone is about to lie. “Oh, that. I wanted to ask him about a special wine I’d ordered from his winery.”
“That was urgent?” I asked.
“Yes, I wanted to give it to a friend for his birthday.”
“You wanted to give your friend a wine from Dennis’s winery, not the Purple Grape?”
Allison gave me a harsh look. “Yes, if it’s any of your business. It was a special occasion. Rob’s wines are fine, but Dennis has some really great ones.” She sucked another drag, dropped her cigarette onto the pavement, and stamped it out. “Any more questions? Otherwise, I need to get to the hospital. They say my sister tried to commit suicide, but she’s denying it and so they’re releasing her tonight.”
“Yes, I heard.” I wondered why Allison was here playing bingo instead of already at the hospital waiting for Marie. “I hope she’s all right.”
“She’ll be fine. I’ll take good care of her. So you’ll be leaving us in the morning?” she stated more than asked.
“Uh, only if Marie doesn’t need me for anything.”
“Like I said, I’ll take good care of her. Good night, Presley.”
I watched as Allison headed for the white Cadillac still sitting in the parking lot. She leaned into the driver’s window, said something, then gave Delbert a kiss on the cheek. He backed out, and she walked to her car, parked a few yards away, got in, and drove off.
Larry and Mother appeared in the doorway. “Oh, there you are, Presley,” Mother said. “Did you have fun?”
“Yeah, it was great. Listen, Mom, I need to stop somewhere on the way back to the Christophers’ place. Is that all right?”
“Sure, dear.” She turned to Larry, leaned in and gave him a peck on the cheek, and said good night.
“I’ll sit in the back,” I said as we reached the MINI. I bent down and squeezed my five-foot-ten-inch frame into the tiny backseat, tucking my legs. I felt like a fetus, all curled up.
“Comfortable, dear?” Mother asked. “You could be driving my Cadillac, you know. It’s just sitting there.”
“I’m fine, Mother.”
I gave Brad directions to the Napa Wine Train station, using my iPhone GPS. Along the way Mother related her evening, which was mostly gossip about who was having an affair with whom, which vintners were about to go under, and what to do about the food truck situation. By the time she was done tattling, it sounded as if everyone in Napa was having an affair. Must be the wine, I thought, wondering if JoAnne had had an affair with someone that had gone very wrong. She wasn’t especially attractive, but that wouldn’t keep her from finding a man.
Had someone broken her heart?
A few minutes later we arrived at the McKinstry Street station, where the gold, green, and maroon train was just pulling in. According to the details I’d found online, each car had a different name and theme, with its own kitchen, menu, and atmosphere. Train service began in 1864 when San Francisco millionaire Sam Brannan transported visitors to his spa resort. It soon became part of the Southern Pacific Railroad, bringing agricultural development to the Napa Valley. Train service was discontinued in the 1930s, but after preservationists got involved, the train was renovated and turned into a tourist attraction in 1989.
While we sat in the car waiting for the passengers to detrain, I read Brad and Mom some of the Wine Train details. “The three-hour trip goes from Napa to St. Helena and back, and guests enjoy lunch or dinner along with wine tasting. It stops along the way at several wineries too. Sounds wonderful!”
“Is that a hint?” Brad said, reading my mind.
Before I could answer, I spotted Natalie stepping down from a train car. A young guy with long hair and a motorcycle jacket appeared to be waiting for her in the parking lot.
“Natalie?” I called, squeezing myself out of the car
“Yeah?” she said, looking up.
“Presley Parker,” I said. “We met at the Douglas Family Winery earlier?”
“Oh yeah, sure. You were the one asking about JoAnne…” She lowered her voice. “So any luck finding out who killed JoAnne?”
“Not yet,” I said. “But I wondered if I could talk to you for a minute. I have a couple more questions I think you might be able to answer.”
Natalie glanced at the guy on the motorcycle, who stared at her blankly. His leather jacket read, “Devil’s Playground.” “Uh, yeah, sure. What’s up?”
Natalie looked much different out of her winery uniform and now dressed as a retro train conductor, in a gray suit, short skirt, and wine-colored tie. Her long hair was loose and fell halfway down her back, and her nails were painted black.
“You said you’ve been working for JoAnne for the past year or so, right?”
“Yeah. Like I said, I heard she needed a pourer and I applied for the job when I couldn’t get anything else in the business.”
“Did you ever hear her talk about Rob Christopher?”
“Pretty much all the time.”
“Really? What did she say?”
“Oh, you know. The Purple Grape was killing the environment. Rob didn’t know what he was doing. Rob and Marie were out to get her. The Purple Grape was selling wine on the Internet at cut-rate prices. Things like that.”
Hmmm. Wasn’t that what JoAnne was supposedly doing—selling her wines on the Internet at lower prices?
“Did she say how Rob was out to get her?”
“Not really. Personally, I thought he was a nice guy. Kinda cute too, for an older guy.” She giggled, then glanced at the parking lot. “Don’t tell Will. Anyway, JoAnne really had it in for Rob, but I don’t know why.”
“Did you ever talk to Rob about her accusations?”
“No way,” Natalie said. “That would have been consorting with the enemy. I’m sure I would have been fired for that.”
“So you can’t think of any reason why she had it in for him more than anyone else?”
“Nothing. No, wait—I do remember something. JoAnne said Rob was planning to switch to screw caps, instead of using corks.”
I frowned. “Was that really an issue?”
A beep sounded from the parking lot. Natalie glanced over and waved to someone. I assumed it was her boyfriend, growing impatient. “Oh, you don’t know the wine industry. The old-school vintners think wines should only be corked. But the new school wants to use screw tops. It’s a quality-versus-style argument.”
“What’s the difference?”
“JoAnne said the screw caps affected the Mediterranean cork industry. That’s where most of the cork is grown. She said losing the cork forests could threaten ecosystems.”
“Interesting. I thought they were just considered tacky.”
“I know, right? But vintners who switched to screw caps said they did it because they had problems with cork taint.”
“Cork taint?”
“Yeah, it’s a kind of mold that ruins the wine. You don’t get it with screw caps. But then screw caps are made from nonrenewable material.” She shook her head. “You can’t win in this business.”
“Wow. All these battles in the war of the wines,” I said. It mad
e sense that old-school JoAnne would be a corker while new-school Rob would be a screw capper. Was the corkscrew used to kill JoAnne some symbolic message? It had certainly screwed Rob.
The guy on the motorcycle raced his engine, signaling to Natalie that her time was up. She took a step toward him, indicating she was ready to go. I followed.
“Thanks, Natalie,” I said. “Is there some way I can contact you if I have more questions?”
She lifted her skirt a little, hopped on the back of the bike, put on her helmet, and wrapped her arms around Will. “You can reach me at natloveswine at yahoo dot com.”
“That’s easy to remember,” I said, and pulled out a Killer Parties business card. “Here’s my card. Call me if you think of anything else. I appreciate your help.”
“Sure,” she said. She took my card and tucked it into her mini–shoulder bag, just before the two roared off into the night.
“What did she say?” Brad asked as I burrowed my way back into the rear seat.
“I’m not sure,” I said. Before I could add anything, Mother gave a brief history of the Napa Wine Train. I don’t know why I needed the Internet for background information when I had Mother.
We pulled up to the Purple Grape and followed the garden lighting to the front of the house. I used the key Rob had given me and I switched on the hall light as we entered the dark foyer. Obviously Allison and Marie weren’t home from the hospital yet. I escorted Mother to her room, then joined Brad in our room next to hers.
I changed into my PJs, while Brad just dropped his clothes; then we snuggled into bed. He switched on the TV to catch the ten o’clock news. JoAnne’s death and Rob’s arrest were the lead stories, but thankfully there was no mention of Marie’s so-called suicide attempt. The reporter, a young African American man, gave a brief history of JoAnne’s life, mentioning the “many controversies she’d been engaged in ‘trying make a better tomorrow for the Napa Valley.’”
