by Penny Warner
“Funny! So what’s the real story?” I took another sip.
“The company is owned by Fred Franzia, a relative of Ernest Gallo. He runs Bronco Wines, the fourth-largest wine producer in the country.”
“You’re kidding!” I took another swallow under the guise of “tasting” it.
Brad took a sip and licked his lips. “Truth is, Franzia had a lot of grapes, which made Two-Buck Chuck cheap to produce. Now the wine has this whole cult following.”
“I’ll bet the people in Napa don’t like him undercutting the price so drastically.”
“No doubt. He owns something like thirty square miles of vineyards and produces a bunch of other cheap brands, like Napa Ridge, Red Truck, Fat Cat.”
“I love Red Truck! The label is so cute!”
“You buy wines because of the labels?” He looked at me as if I’d lost my mind.
“Sometimes,” I said defensively. “I got a great one from Target called Mommy Juice that I gave to a friend with a new baby, figuring she’d need it. And one I found online called Bored Housewife. Gave that one to another friend who’d just gotten married. They make great gifts. And they cost more than two dollars, I can tell you that.”
Brad shook his head and returned to the kitchen to magically change ordinary ingredients into a tasty pasta ragout. “By the way, I heard from Luke,” he said, as the smell of simmering garlic overcame the bouquet of the wine.
I sat up, eager to hear the news. “What did our detective friend say?”
“Not much, I’m afraid. The Napa cops claim to have solid evidence that Rob killed JoAnne, but they’re keeping it close to the vest. Sounds like they have an airtight case. They’re probably going to proceed with murder one, Luke said.”
“Oh God.” I sank down, disappointed, and worried about how this would affect Marie.
My cell phone rang.
“Hello?”
“Presley? This is Kyle. So glad you called. I’d love to meet with you. Are you free tonight? I know a nice little bar downtown where we could get a drink.”
Kyle. I’d nearly forgotten about him.
“Oh, hi, Kyle. Thanks for returning my call. I can’t make it tonight, but how about first thing tomorrow morning?”
“Sounds good. We can have coffee. So what’s this promising news you have regarding Rob’s case?”
“I don’t want to discuss it over the phone, Kyle. I’ll talk to you tomorrow. Where’s your office located?”
“Why don’t we meet at From the Ground Up, near the police station? My treat.” This guy was awfully eager to hook up.
“Actually, I’d prefer somewhere more private, like your office. This is pretty sensitive information.”
He paused a moment, then said, “Sure, I understand. All right. Come to my office. I’m at 1984 Main Street in downtown Napa. See you tomorrow. Around nine?”
“Perfect,” I said. “By the way, how’s Rob doing?”
“He’s hanging in there. We’ll chat more tomorrow.”
“Okay,” I said, and hung up.
I turned to Brad, who’d been watching me from the kitchen.
“You have a date?”
“Not a date. A meeting. That guy is a sleazeball.”
“So what are you going to tell him?”
“Like I said, I’ll think of something.”
Brad hoisted cooked pasta onto two plates, covered it with chunky red sauce, added a slice of fresh sourdough bread on the side, and set the plates on the table.
“Seriously, Presley. You need to be careful. Someone murdered JoAnne. And if it wasn’t Rob, the killer is probably still running around the Napa Valley. That includes Kyle Bennett.”
“I know. I’ve learned from experience not to be too trusting. Believe me, I’ll be careful.” I stabbed my fork into the steaming pasta, twirled it around, and brought it to my mouth, savoring the garlicky flavor. Yum. I washed it down with a gulp of Chuck. “Delicious!”
“Thanks. Got the recipe from one of those cooking shows. Just wait until dessert…” His eyes sparkled and he took a sip of wine.
“Something chocolate, I hope?”
“Yes, but you’ll have to win it in a game I have planned. I’ll give you a clue,” he said, emphasizing the last word. “You’re going to be Miss Scarlet. I’ll be Professor Plum. And there’s an edible rope involved…”
Chapter 19
PARTY-PLANNING TIP #19
If you want to offer your guests the total wine experience—and you don’t own your own large winery—consider purchasing a WinePod. Grow a few grapes in your yard (or buy some); then use your home-winery gizmo to crush, ferment, and serve your wine. The price, however—two thousand dollars—could go a long way toward buying nearly a hundred cases of Two-Buck Chuck instead.
By the time I reached Napa early the next morning, I still had no real plan for my meeting with Kyle Bennett. My ADHD kept me from focusing on the task, and instead my mind wandered back to the short list of suspects I’d developed. But by the time I pulled up to his street, I knew one thing—Kyle would be a great source of information, perhaps more so than the bingo players, given his job. I just hoped I didn’t have to Mace him if he tried anything. Mainly because I didn’t have any Mace.
But I did have one of the souvenir corkscrews in my purse that I’d passed out as party favors, just in case.
I parked, then double-checked the address he’d given me to make sure I was in the right place. I didn’t know what I’d been expecting, but certainly not the rundown two-story Victorian mansion squeezed between two modern three-story buildings. This shabby place was Kyle’s law office?
I stepped over a crack in the crooked stone path, which was outlined with weeds that had been mowed down but not removed. The white house paint on the exterior walls was peeling and the door had black scuff marks at the bottom, as if it had been kicked. To my surprise, the door was wide open.
I stepped inside and realized that the mansion had been divided into small offices. I found Kyle’s door with a brass plate that read “Law Offices” and rang the bell. After several seconds, his door opened.
“Presley!” Kyle greeted me as if I were his long-lost love. “Come in, come in. Excuse the place. I don’t spend much time here—it’s just temporary. I’m waiting for my new office building to be finished. But you wanted privacy and that’s what you’ll get here.”
He ushered me inside to a small room. A cluttered desk took up much of the space, stacked with what looked like mail, notepads, and legal forms. Apparently Kyle didn’t have a secretary, at least not from what I gathered. The walls were cheap paneling, bare of pictures or posters, and the hardwood floors were nicked and scratched and hadn’t seen wax or a cleaning in months, if not years.
Overall, not much of a law office. But like he’d said, it was temporary.
Kyle gestured toward a garage-sale chair, then unbuttoned his suit jacket, hiked up a pant leg, and sat on the corner of his desk, just like in his Web site picture. I looked up at him as he grinned down at me. The power seating was obvious.
“Now, what have you got that’s so important to Rob’s case?” he asked. “I could sure use something solid, I’ll tell you that.”
“Well, I just don’t think Rob did it,” I said simply.
He blinked a few times, shaking his head as if he didn’t understand me. “That’s it? You don’t think he did it?”
“No, of course not,” I said, brushing invisible lint off my black jeans. “I have my reasons.”
“Like what? Because I’m going to need some heavy-duty evidence, not just your opinion.”
I held up a finger, beginning my countdown. “First of all, motive. There’s no logical reason for Rob to kill JoAnne.”
“What about their constant arguments and her threats against him?”
“Circumstantial.” I’d learned that word from watching Perry Mason reruns. I held up another finger. “Second, opportunity. It seems like nearly everyone had the chance to kill JoAn
ne at that party, not just Rob.”
Kyle’s shoulders sank. “I suppose, but he manned the table off and on where they found JoAnne. He could have spotted her, hit her over the head with a wine bottle, stabbed her with the cheese knife, then stuck in the corkscrew and gone on with the party.”
“So could Allison, or Javier, or anyone else who happened to stand behind that table anytime during the evening.”
Kyle ran his hands through his moussed hair, obviously beginning to realize I was full of crap. I noticed he was wearing an expensive diamond ring.
“Finally,” I pressed on, “method. The weapon came from his own antique corkscrew collection. If Rob wanted to get away with murder, he isn’t going to incriminate himself by using something that points to him. Especially when there were all those cheese knives and Killer Parties corkscrews lying on the tables for anyone to grab.”
Kyle sighed. “Presley, the cops think he was trying to make a point.”
“What, that he’s guilty?”
Kyle jumped up from the corner of the desk, essentially dismissing me. “No, that she tried to screw him, so he screwed her.” He sighed. “Is that all you’ve got, Presley? I was hoping—”
I was losing him—and I couldn’t leave without accomplishing what I came for—information. In a panic, I blurted, “I know who did it.”
He raised a suspicious eyebrow. “You know who did it?” he repeated.
“Yes,” I said, looking up at him standing over me. “I can’t prove it yet, of course. But I’m close.”
“Uh-huh,” he said. He crossed his arms, clearly tired of my antics.
I quickly redirected the conversation. “You worked for JoAnne for a while, right?”
“Yes?” he said, his knuckles tightening and turning white.
“Why did you stop?”
“Because she was going off the deep end with her fanatical ideas. I want to save the Napa Valley as much as anyone, but she was becoming deranged.”
“That’s what I keep hearing from people in town. That’s why I think someone else at the party that night killed her. Someone who, for some reason, wanted to make it look like Rob did it.”
“You’re saying you think someone framed him?” Kyle said, frowning.
I heard a sound at his office door. Distracted, I turned around and watched the mail slot open. Several envelopes cascaded onto the floor.
Kyle swooped down and scooped up the pile. He riffled through the envelopes, then paused at one. His eyes narrowed as he slit open a plain white legal-sized envelope. Instead of removing the contents, he peered inside, pressed his lips together, turned the envelope facedown on the mail pile, and set it on his desk.
Hmmm.
“Uh…where were we?” he asked, sitting back down on the desk corner. “Oh yes, you were saying something about Rob being framed.”
I started coughing.
He leaned over. “Are you all right, Presley?”
I coughed again. “Could you”—cough—“get me”—cough—“some water?” The trick had worked for my mother—why not me?
“Certainly.” He hopped off the desk and went into a back room. When I heard water running, I snatched the opened envelope. No return address other than the stamped words “Napatite Company.”
I thought about stuffing the thing in my purse but didn’t want to be arrested for mail theft.
I didn’t have much time. Kyle would be back in an instant with a glass of water.
To stall, I called out, “Could I have ice please?” hoping that would take him longer. Still fake coughing, I looked inside the envelope to see what had caused a reaction in Kyle.
Oh my God.
“Here you go,” Kyle said, appearing from behind the corner. My back was to him.
Startled, I dropped the envelope. It fell to the floor and floated under the desk.
Uh-oh.
“Thank you,” I said, taking the water with trembling hands. I sipped it, miraculously curing my cough, and handed the glass back to Kyle. “Sorry about that. Allergies.”
Kyla nodded, eyeing me strangely. Had he seen me reading the contents of the envelope?
“Well, I have to be going,” I said, and abruptly rose. Reaching down for my purse, I caught a glimpse of one corner of the envelope. There was no way I could retrieve it now.
“All right. Uh, let me know if you find the killer—and the evidence to support that.”
I laughed nervously. “Yeah, I guess I think I’m Nancy Drew, huh?” I laughed again, louder this time, in an effort to show him how silly I was being. “Oh, by the way, do you happen to know Natalie Mattos?” Of course, he had to know her, if he’d worked for JoAnne.
His eyes widened in a flash of recognition before he shook his head. “I…don’t think so. Is she a suspect?”
Odd response, I thought. “No. She works—worked—for JoAnne. I thought you might know her, since you used to represent JoAnne.”
Kyle clapped his hand on his forehead. “Oh yes, now I know who you’re talking about. Nice young girl. Pretty. All that dark hair. Cute figure. Smart too. She knows a lot about wine. Do you think she did it?”
The guy needed acting lessons if he wanted to be a good liar. I wondered how he came across in a court of law. “No, no. I just wondered if you could tell me anything about her.”
“Why?”
“I met her the other night…at bingo.” I decided not to mention visiting JoAnne’s winery.
Kyle looked away when he said, “Not really. Only saw her a couple of times.”
From the way he’d described her, I got the feeling she’d made a big impression on him. Was he hiding something?
I headed for the door, then had a second thought about the envelope I’d accidentally dropped under the desk. Napatite Company—was that another of Angus McLaughlin’s properties, under the umbrella of Napology?
“Sorry, one last question,” I said again, feeling like Columbo with his endless “last questions.” All I needed was a trench coat and a cigar.
“Yes?” He looked truly impatient now. Time to leave.
“Do you know Angus McLaughlin very well? His name keeps coming up.”
“No. I mean, everyone knows who he is. He’s been buying up all the wineries that are in default. But I don’t know him personally.”
“Did JoAnne know him?”
“I doubt it,” he said. “Why, you think he might have had something to do with JoAnne’s death?”
I shrugged.
“What reason would he have? Sure, they were at odds over the environmental issues, but if Angus McLaughlin wants something, he just buys it.”
“Did he ever try to buy Rob’s winery?”
Kyle looked at the door, as if visualizing me on the other side. “I don’t know. They’ve always been competitors. I think they went to school together. Angus has done better than Rob in terms of business success, but physically, the years have been a little kinder to Rob than Angus. He’s not in great shape.”
“I heard a rumor that Marie’s sister, Allison, was married to Angus for a short time. Is that true?”
“That’s the rumor, although she doesn’t talk about it, and it was years ago. I heard she married him right after Marie married Rob—I think she had a crush on Rob. But then she got into drugs and Angus divorced her. Unfortunately for Allison, that was before he made all his money.”
“Ouch. That must have hurt,” I said, intrigued at this juicy information.
“No doubt,” Kyle said. “The Christophers were saints to take her in, after she got out of jail and rehab. But now I don’t know what’s going to happen to her.”
My question was: What was going to happen to Rob with Kyle as his lawyer?
I started the car, stunned by something I had learned at Kyle’s office that he hadn’t told me. Inside the envelope that Kyle had opened was a personal check from Angus McLaughlin.
For ten thousand dollars.
No wonder peeking inside had caused my hands to shake a
nd the envelope to drop. I’m sure it was something I wasn’t supposed to see.
I drove off, certain that Kyle would come chasing me down the street when he noticed the envelope was missing. I hoped he’d spot it on the floor and just figure a gust of wind blew it off the desk. Otherwise, he’d know I’d been snooping—and think I’d stolen it.
And maybe kill me? Maybe—if he was hiding some kind of shady business relationship with McLaughlin. After all, he denied knowing the guy when obviously he did.
I had to find a safe place to think until I figured a few things out. The Christophers’ winery was only a few miles away. I wanted to check on Marie anyway, and ask Allison a few questions. I sped away, reaching the Purple Grape in record time.
The crime scene tape still encircled the party area when I arrived. Grabbing my purse, I hopped out of the MINI, followed the path to the front door, and knocked. No answer. I knocked again and rang the bell. Still no answer. Granted, it was a large home, but surely if someone was inside, they’d have heard me ringing and pounding.
A chill suddenly ran down my back.
Oh God. What if Marie had tried to commit suicide again?
I pounded on the door, rang the bell until my thumb hurt, then remembered—I still had the key! I jammed it into the lock, turned the handle, and let myself in.
“Marie? Allison?” I shouted their names several more times.
The house was deadly silent.
I raced down the hall to Marie’s room. Empty.
Growing more frantic, I searched the other rooms, then knocked on the door of Allison’s “suite” at the back of the house.
No answer.
I tried the handle. It was locked.
I peered through the window. All I could see were strewn clothes, entertainment magazines, and food cartons, but no sign of Allison.
I wasn’t particularly surprised that Allison wasn’t around, but where had Marie disappeared to?
I returned to the kitchen and saw no signs of a struggle or anything unusual. Aside from Allison’s messy place, the rest of the house was perfect. I checked for a note or some sign Marie had gone out—missing car keys, missing purse—but I found her handbag where she kept it on a small stand in the hallway, her keys inside.
