He arched an eyebrow. “Jackson won’t mind?”
I shook my head. “We’ve already talked about it. We both knew it was coming.”
“You are good friends. Better than I deserve.”
Instead of focusing on Simon’s flaws, I thought about all the times over the past few years that he’d been there for Jackson and me, with the murder investigations and incarcerations, and his help with lawyers and support. “It’s fine, Simon, really. I’m going over to Jackson’s now, so I can take him with me.”
Simon blew out a breath. “Good, thanks, Willow. That’s a relief.”
I put Zeke down on the area rug and pushed his bone toward him. He grabbed it and began to happily chew, his tail wagging. “So are we all set for this afternoon?”
Simon nodded. “Ivy has the tasting-room setup handled, and the dining room, while Amy’s managing the B and B.” The bed-and-breakfast, behind the tasting room, was a quaint clapboard house painted sea-foam green with bright white shutters, containing four bedroom suites.
The B and B had been up and running when Simon and David had taken over the vineyard and was a good moneymaker, especially after a complete interior and exterior renovation. Wine lovers enjoyed staying on-site, with the wine, the walks, and being in nature.
I told Simon about running into David and Ivy outside. “She’s a real piece of work, isn’t she? David seems miserable.”
“They’re always like that. The whole family has been fighting for years. He argues with her and his family, and Ivy fights with him and Amy.” Simon pushed off the desk and came over to me. “Don’t worry, Willow, no one is going to kill anyone.”
“What are you talking about?”
He put his arm around me. Simon had always been demonstrative, and fortunately Jackson didn’t mind. “C’mon, friend, it’s been over a year since your last case. You haven’t been able to play detective since that murder in your medicinal herb garden. Are you sure that you don’t want something to investigate?”
I shook my head. “You are nuts. I was just reporting what happened.”
He smirked at me. “Whatever you say.”
“If that’s all, I’m going to go home and get ready.”
“Don’t forget your new little buddy.” Simon picked up Zeke and his bone, patted his little head, and handed him to me. “I put all his stuff in that bag by the door—his dog bed, his blanket, his special puppy food and treats, bones and toys, you know, the works.”
The duffel bag was big and heavy, but I managed to hold Zeke and his bone and put it over my shoulder.
Simon waved to us as we went out the door. “Have fun, you two.”
• • •
I decided to stop by to see Jackson and introduce him to Zeke before I headed back to Nature’s Way. Less than five minutes later we arrived at his two-hundred-year-old house, on a generous two-and-a-half-acre lot, seven minutes east of Greenport.
I found him out back repairing the paddock for the horses, while volunteers buzzed around him, tending to rescued animals in the paddock and in the adjacent barn, including donkeys, goats, pigs, birds, opossums, raccoons, and two turkeys.
Rescue dogs and cats were placed in temporary foster homes with volunteers until they were adopted. Jackson put photos and bios of available animals on a website, and potential pet parents had to fill out an extensive application with information about themselves, their vet, and personal references. If the applicant looked promising, Jackson or one of his volunteers conducted a phone interview and a home visit before any adoption.
Unfortunately, animals had often been injured, abused, or abandoned, and when necessary, Jackson worked with the local vets to treat them and raised money from the community to care for them. Recently, he’d received a New York State grant that would fund his refuge through the end of next year and enable improvements to the paddock and the barn and the addition of more fencing out in the field for the larger animals.
I’d also been able to contribute quite a bit, and regularly, thanks to my profits from Aunt Claire’s Fresh Face herbal antiaging cream. The money took the pressure off Jackson, but fund-raising was a fact of life. Tomorrow night, we were hosting a dinner at Nature’s Way where dishes would be paired with Simon’s wines to benefit the sanctuary.
Healthwise, Jackson was feeling good. The back injury he’d sustained on the job from a slip on black ice, which resulted in his retirement, was no longer an issue, and he credited me with his recovery. Really, it was a combination of my natural cures and therapies such as massage and acupuncture from my in-store practitioners and good friends, Allie and Hector.
One problem for Jackson, though, was Simon’s new vineyard next door and the resulting noise from tour buses, limos, and visitors. Jackson also didn’t like Simon’s frequent pop-ins. While Jackson tolerated and even liked Simon, he could only take him in small doses. Simon could be charming and helpful but also selfish and self-centered. Often, he was oblivious of the effect his actions had on others, such as chatting up Jackson when he had work to do.
I waved to Jackson and pointed to Zeke. He shrugged, knowing what had happened. “Bring him over to meet the boys.” Qigong, and two dachshunds we’d rescued together named Columbo and Rockford, spotted me and scurried over to the bottom edge of the paddock that Jackson had reinforced with chicken wire so that they’d stay inside and safe. I met them there and patted their heads, while their little tails went back and forth like metronomes.
Jackson stepped out of the paddock and came over to us. He had on his usual working clothes—flannel shirt, jeans, and boots—and looked hunky and handsome with his short-cropped hair, scruffy beard, and piercing blue eyes.
“Hi, honey; hi, Zeke.” He gave me a kiss and scratched Zeke behind the ears, which he loved. “So, Simon couldn’t handle having a dog. Did you say, ‘I told you so’?”
I shook my head. “No, I was nice. He felt kind of bad about it, I think. Both he and Cassie are super-busy right now.”
“Unfortunately, I hear that all the time. Best to put Zeke inside the paddock and introduce him to the boys. Neutral ground and all that.”
“Good idea.” I followed Jackson through the gate. Curious, of course, our dogs scampered over. I put Zeke down on the ground and he immediately rolled onto his back submissively so they could examine him from nose to tail. “Qigong, Rockford, Columbo. Say hi to Zeke, guys.”
Dogs are pack animals, so I had no doubt that once they got used to each other Zeke would be happier here with all of us, rather than on his own, alone. His tail was already wagging back and forth.
Zeke stood up and the dogs sniffed him all over again. Finally, they decided he was A-OK, and all four of them began to explore the paddock together. After overhearing the fight between Ivy and David, I couldn’t help but think that it would be nice if people could be as accepting as dogs are.
chapter two
Two hours later, at eleven thirty, I headed back to Pure in my mint-green Prius, while Merrily, my chef at Nature’s Way, and Lily Bryan followed in the yellow-and-lime-green Nature’s Way van with giant sunflowers on each side. We’d packed the van with all the ingredients Merrily would need to make dishes on the spot, along with some that were already prepared. Jackson would arrive later when the cocktail party started at one o’clock.
Pure was the perfect venue for a party. The main area below Simon’s office felt expansive and was impressive, with floor-to-ceiling windows on the side that faced the back lawn, a high beamed ceiling, a black bar with silver trim, polished hardwood floors, elegant black tables with white tablecloths, and a large black Steinway piano in the corner, where the pianist was warming up.
We lugged the boxes into the kitchen, which was behind the bar, while I texted Simon to let him know that I was here. He replied with a “thumbs-up” emoticon.
We went back and forth to the van several more times until we finally had all the boxes and supplies in the kitchen, which was a chef’s dream—new, modern, with all the
gadgets and shiny appliances you could ever need. Simon had spared no expense since he had planned from the outset to host events at Pure to raise its profile in the wine community.
Merrily and Lily quickly went to work and spent the next hour and a half preparing several choices of amuse-bouche—bite-size hors d’oeuvres—and the appetizers that would follow. Meanwhile, I focused on the dining room. The tables had been set, but I wanted to add little pumpkins to each table, and pots of locally grown yellow, orange, and pink mums to add fall flavor.
I’d just about finished when Jackson arrived with the first wave of guests, who oohed and aahed at the room and the view. They headed for the bar, or the servers Ivy had hired who were circulating with glasses of Pure wine while classical music was played on the piano. Other servers offered tasty amuse-bouche, including broiled oysters with lime butter, shrimp seviche with mint and mango, and cream-cheese pancakes with smoked salmon.
Jackson looked handsome in a crisp aqua-blue dress shirt, black cords, and boots. It had only been a few hours, but I felt so happy to see him again, the same way I’d felt when we first started dating. That’s something.
“You look nice.” He gave me a quick kiss. I’d changed into a black cotton turtleneck and a long gray skirt, with a brown vegan belt and vegan boots. I resembled my late aunt Claire, and like her I was tall and slender with long blond hair, high cheekbones, and good teeth. The teeth of the tiger, my aunt would always say.
“You do, too,” I said, handing him a seltzer with lime. Jackson had been a member of AA for over ten years now. He’d realized he had a drinking problem after his back injury on the job and had luckily sought help and recovered. “How are the dogs doing?”
“Like they’ve been together forever. How are things here?”
Before I could answer, Nora Evans, the editor of Wine Lovers magazine, pushed past us, wearing a long magenta cape over a burgundy-colored dress, and thigh-high boots, along with Ramsey Black, the head of the East End Wine Council. The three other judges, including one from the New York Wine Council, followed them to the bar.
I quickly texted Simon to tell him that the judges had arrived, and he emerged from his office and hurried downstairs. Moments later, David Farmer and Gerald Parker, the assistant winemaker, exited the tasting room.
But Gerald was scowling. In his late thirties, Gerald had a mop of blond hair and an athletic build and was dressed casually in jeans, a Henley shirt, and flip-flops. He came from Oregon and had moved here to take a job at Vista View Vineyards, now renamed Pure. He said something to David, who reacted by storming off to the bar.
Simon went over to calm David down, then walked over to Nora Evans and the other judges and introduced himself. They chatted for a few minutes, and then Simon led them back to meet David. Crisis averted.
But only temporarily, because Ivy and her identical twin sister entered the main area from the tasting room. Both women were striking, with cupid-shaped faces, pert features, and big blue eyes. Ivy had changed into a sleeveless satin trompe l’oeil designer dress with a cropped pink popover top and a gray skirt with a flared hem, her hair twisted up into a French braid.
I’d learned about high-end clothes when I’d lived with Simon in L.A. He liked to buy them for me, and I didn’t mind wearing them then. Now, I dressed more like Amy, who wore a simple but pretty halter dress with a beige, red, navy, and turquoise Southwest print, smocked bodice, and skater skirt, under a comfy-looking denim coat. Her makeup was minimal, except for bright red lipstick, and her hair was up in a loose ponytail.
The two women were arguing. “I wear what I like,” Amy said. “I’m sick of you trying to control me, and my money.”
“If it wasn’t for me, you wouldn’t have any money left. Now smile, Nora Evans is here.”
“There you go, trying to control me again. Stop it!”
Simon left David and the judges and scurried across the floor to break up the fight by separating the two. He took Ivy over to meet Nora, and Amy went to the far end of the bar.
“Simon’s going to wear himself out breaking up fights,” Jackson said.
“If he doesn’t keep the peace, the event will be a big bust. They need Nora Evans to enjoy herself, and to love Falling Leaves, Pure’s entry in the competition.”
Several other vineyard owners moved in for introductions, including Camille and Carter Crocker of Crocker Cellars, Derek Mortimer of St. Ives Estate Vineyards, Harrison Jones of Wave Crest, and Carla Olsen of Sisterhood Wines. Maybe they were here to charm Nora Evans, spy on the competition, or also get some face time with Ramsey Black, who had moved in to chat with Ivy.
Slender, tall, and lanky, and an aficionado of handmade Savile Row suits, Ramsey Black had been an easy choice to be head of the East End Wine Council because he came from a region in southern France that produced wine similar to ours. With his vast knowledge of wine and winemaking, even though he was only in his early thirties, and his flare for promotion—it had been his idea to team up with Wine Lovers magazine for the competition—he was widely liked and respected.
“Wonder what that’s about?” Jackson said, and nodded to Ivy and Ramsey, who had taken her hand and was whispering in her ear as she smiled and giggled like a little girl.
“Me, too,” I said. “But it may indicate that Ivy’s marriage is in trouble. That and the argument she and David had this morning that I happened to overhear.”
“Sure you weren’t eavesdropping?”
“Me? No way.” I gave Jackson a Cheshire-cat grin.
The group by the bar chatted for a few moments more, and then David led them to the tasting room. Simon spotted us and waved us over.
But before we could join him, a short, bald man with glasses hurried up. He and Simon had a brief conversation, and then the man walked off, not looking too happy.
“Who was that?” I said when Simon walked up to us.
Simon made a face. “Leonard Sims, the former owner. He keeps hassling me about selling. He wants the place back, now that he’s flush again.”
“That’s not going to happen, is it?” I said.
“Are you kidding? No way. Listen, David and Ivy are giving Nora, the editor of Wine Lovers, and the other judges a guided tour of the barn and our winemaking process, and a tasting of Falling Leaves. Thought you’d want to come.”
All the servers were circulating, and people were chatting, enjoying the selection of amuse-bouche and glasses of wine. Merrily’s appetizers would come out next. I could take a quick break.
“We’re good.” I took Jackson’s hand. “Let’s go.”
• • •
After a tour of the winemaking operation, we turned to the tasting room. As opposed to the main space, this room was all wood—the walls, the floors, and the barrels of wine. Simon had added seven large canvases of local nautical and farming scenes in wooden frames by Richard Fiedler, a favorite local artist, which added to the rustic ambience.
Once we’d gathered at the large circular mahogany bar, David uncorked a bottle of the vintage that would be entered in the contest, a pinot noir named Falling Leaves. The tension and anticipation in the room were palpable as David poured a glass each for Nora Evans, Ramsey Black, and the three other judges.
They sniffed, they sipped, they savored, then Nora Evans pronounced, “Your best yet, David.”
“Agreed, well done, David,” Black said, smiling. “C’est magnifique!”
The rest of the judges smiled and gave it a thumbs-up.
David burst into a big grin, and Simon slapped him on the back. “That’s my boy! Way to go, David!”
But Gerald Parker, the assistant winemaker, sulked. The scowl he’d had on his face earlier had turned into a frown. He threw David a nasty look, but quickly assumed a neutral facial expression once he noticed that I was looking at him. He obviously wasn’t happy about being demoted from head winemaker under the previous owner, Leonard Sims, to David’s lowly assistant.
The other vineyard owners, including Ca
rla Olsen, Derek Mortimer, and Camille and Carter Crocker, weren’t happy about Evans’s opinion of the vintage either—although our friend Harrison Jones of Wave Crest seemed pleased for David and Simon—but they all plastered on fake smiles. Next, we were all given a taste of the vintage. I had to agree that it was good. I was no expert, but it seemed crisp and clean and tasted, if this was possible, like fall and was indeed evocative of falling leaves.
Once the tasting was over, Evans and Black needed to go to another event, so David and Simon escorted them and the other judges to the door. When the two returned, both of them felt like celebrating and went over to the bar along with Ivy, Amy, and Gerald to ask that bottles of Falling Leaves be opened so everyone could enjoy it.
As I walked past to check in with Merrily and Lily on the ETA for the appetizers, David and Gerald were arguing again.
“I am sick and tired of you taking credit for my work,” Gerald said, downing a glass of wine, and promptly grabbing another from a passing waiter.
“You’re drunk, Gerald,” Simon said. “Time to go.”
Instead, Gerald stepped closer and poked David in the chest. “Not until you admit that Falling Leaves was my creation.”
“Not true,” David said, pushing him away. “And why don’t you try showing some gratitude instead of this poor-me act.”
“For what?”
“For the fact that Simon, Ivy, and I kept you on when Sims sold to us, when it would have been really easy to get rid of you.”
“But we still can,” Ivy said. “So don’t push it, Gerald. You’re lucky you have a job.”
“I had an unbreakable contract, and you know that. So cut the bull.”
“Try to calm down, Gerry, please,” Amy said.
“Don’t start, Amy, or you either,” he said, giving Ivy a nasty look. “My contract isn’t up until next month, and you can’t do a damn thing about me until then.”
Dandelion Dead Page 2
