A Saucy Murder: A Sonoma Wine Country Cozy Mystery

by A. J. Carton

  Julie wrinkled her nose. “Ewww! Why didn’t the cupcakes kill him?”

  Emma threw up her hands. “Probably because they cooked the cupcakes and the poison vaporized at high temperature. They should have mixed the poison with some caviar and served it with blinis instead.”

  Emma laughed at her own joke. Then she noticed the alarmed look on Julie’s face.

  “What? I heard that in the Russian history course I took last year at the Foundation for Senior Studies. Don’t worry. I’m not the murderer.”

  Chapter 21: Thursday Night - Smudge

  Julie and Emma stopped at Zah’s for a pizza before Julie dropped Emma home.

  “By the way,” Julie asked after the waiter had brought them each a glass of Zin, “did Lexie say anything that actually supports your poisoned blini theory?”

  Emma shook her head. “No. Not really. In fact she acted surprised about the caviar. Even though she’s the one Vera gave the Beluga blini to. Lexie says that Barry must have given Vera the Beluga. She says that she and Barry were the only people eating caviar that night. Lexie said she brought him a plate of special hors d’oeuvres. Including Beluga from their private stash. And a glass of their special reserve wine. Not the junk they were serving at the fundraiser. Her words. Lexie confirmed exactly what Sergio said. Barry would not spring for caviar, even though a couple of people apparently suggested it.”

  “Except that you said Vera gave Lexie some,” Julie added.

  “Or thought she did,” Emma shrugged. “Yes. From Barry, according to Lexie.”

  “Could Lexie be covering her tracks?” Julie asked.

  Emma shrugged. “If Barry gave Vera the caviar, maybe he’s the killer. Has anyone focused on him? I surely haven’t.”

  Julie covered her face with her hands. “I feel like we’re back where we started.”

  The television over the bar caught Emma’s attention. One of the news shows was playing a clip of Steve, from the free legal services clinic, standing outside the jail with a crowd of Roma Rights advocates. They looked angry.

  “I hope the Roma Rights confrontation doesn’t get ugly,” Emma commented. “The Roma have been living in California for years. Despite what Piers said, they’re very peaceful. They do their thing. Fly under the radar. There’s never been any trouble; but this kind of publicity could change that.” She shuddered. “Julie, we have to figure out who really killed Natasha. It’s the only way the police are going to let Carmen and Tonio go.”

  Julie nodded. Then she thought of something. “Oh, I almost forgot. I talked to Vera. I told her we wanted her to review the press release. She agreed to, but…,” Julie hesitated.

  “What?” Emma asked.

  “Well,” Julie continued, “the only time she can get together tomorrow is at her house at 9:00 a.m. The problem is, I have a parent teacher meeting at Harry’s preschool at 9:00. And Piers has a court appearance in Santa Rosa. Barry told me tonight that he really wants Vera to review the press release and his remarks at the ceremony. Given the bad blood there’s been lately between Vera and Lexie, Barry wants to make sure there’s no trouble on Opening Night. He’s added some complimentary language about Vera to his speech to try to smooth things over. About what a big support she was to Natasha since their parents died.”

  “Both of their parents died?” Emma asked.

  “Yeah,” Julie nodded. “I guess poor Vera really was Natasha’s sole support for years. Until Barry Buchanon came along.”

  “Wow,” Emma sighed. “They had tough lives.”

  Julie nodded. “Barry is putting Vera on the archive board. Assuming she can patch things up with Lexie, of course. Barry thinks she can. He said Lexie and Vera were friends when they worked together at the Honorage Spa. Before Barry Buchanon entered their lives. He says he’d like to make things right for Vera. Of course, she’ll get Natasha’s estate. Recording rights, etc. But Barry says he wants to give her something she can do, now that Natasha’s gone. Something to remember her sister by.”

  “Hope it works,” Emma mused.

  “The point is, Mom, I can’t go see Vera with you at 9:00 a.m. And Barry’s asked me to make sure she reviews his written remarks and the graphics for the commemorative program. So,” Julie shot her mother a pleading look. “Do you mind going alone? Just drop off the stuff. Then you can ask her whatever it was you wanted to know. Tell her to call me on my cell with any revisions to Barry’s remarks.”

  Emma felt her shoulders tense. She’d promised Steve she’d ask Vera about her visit with Carmen the morning after the fundraiser. Now, for some reason, she didn’t want to go alone.

  “I don’t know…” She hesitated. “I guess something about how she grabbed Lexie by the throat at Jardin scared me,” she explained. “I mean, what if she doesn’t like the remarks. Is she gonna fly into a rage and grab me by the throat?”

  The minute Emma said it, she knew how silly she sounded.

  “Not exactly the same as throttling someone who trashed the memory of your dead twin sister and only living relative,” Julie said. “After all, that’s what Lexie did. It was really out of line.”

  “You’re right,” Emma agreed. “Sure. I can go by myself. Where does Vera live?”

  “I’ll text you the address,” Julie said.

  They’d finished the pizza. A few minutes later, Julie dropped her mother off at home.

  Emma climbed the stairs to her front porch. By the time she’d opened the door, Julie had texted her Vera’s address: “362 Morningside Drive”. It was close by. One of the luxury townhouses in the brand new complex next to the post office. Emma wondered if Barry Buchanon had bought that for Natasha as well.

  Emma was changing into her fleece muumuu to get into bed when she remembered her pedicure. She glanced down at her hands. The manicure looked OK, she noted. So far, she’d only chipped the Pearl Blush polish off the tip of her right index finger opening the door to Julie’s car. But the toes? She winced. That would be another matter.

  Emma took off her shirt and underwear, and pulled the fleece muumuu down over her head. Then she sat down on her bed and unlaced her Nikes. The minute she pulled off her shoes, she realized that her turquoise toenails were stuck to her dinosaur socks. If she pulled the socks off, most of the polish would surely come with them.

  She closed her eyes, pulled off the first sock, opened her eyes, looked at her toes and thought, maybe not so bad. The smudged turquoise blue and white pattern looked kind of Pollock. Assuming he had a turquoise blue phase. She pulled off the second sock. The toes looked the same. She looked again and shook her head. Who was she fooling? Her toenails looked ridiculous. She’d stop at CVS the next morning, pick up more polish, and touch up her toes.

  Chapter 22: Friday Morning - Russian I Spy

  Emma woke up the next morning to the sound of pounding. At first, she thought maybe it was Julie, trying to get in. Then she realized it was rain. Hallelujah! It was September. Blissburg hadn’t seen rain since May. The river was so dry you couldn’t even swim in it during the recent autumn heat wave. The city was threatening water rationing if rain didn’t come soon.

  The hammering got louder. Emma thought, too bad the storm hit on Opening Night. There’d be rain all the way to San Francisco. Everyone’s fancy shoes and pretend-to-be-fake furs would get wet. When it rained in Blissburg, the sky dumped buckets of water. Like some god had turned on a giant fire hose. If the storm continued, the front yard would be a swamp by late afternoon.

  Emma got out of bed and checked her cell phone. It was already 8:30. She’d overslept. She barely had time for coffee before her appointment with Vera to drop off the stuff. Which reminded her. Where was the stuff Julie was supposed to drop off? She’d promised to deliver the press release, a copy of Barry’s remarks and the program on her way to Harry’s preschool.

  Emma ran downstairs and checked the front porch. Sure enough, Julie had deposited a brown manila envelope at her front door. It was wrapped in two plastic bags against the rain
. Inside the bags, on top of the envelope, she’d even attached detailed directions to Vera’s townhouse, signed with a big heart and a lot of Xs and Os. Emma shook her head. Julie really was a dear under all those quills.

  But Emma couldn’t ponder that for long. She needed coffee. Strong coffee. Fast. There was no way she was facing the mercurial Russian twin without bracing herself with that!

  While the coffee was brewing, Emma quickly dressed. For Julie’s sake she decided to try to look professional. She found her black slacks in her bedroom closet. Then she noticed the beige silk sweater from Julie draped on the back of a chair. She hadn’t washed it since she wore it the night of the fundraiser. What if Vera noticed, she thought. And it reminded the poor girl of Natasha’s death?

  Emma put on the sweater anyway. Natasha had died one week before. To the day. Everything must still remind Vera of her twin sister’s death. Emma stepped into her old Tods and looked in the mirror. What on earth, she wondered, was that huge spot of pasta sauce doing smack on the front of her sweater? Emma ripped it off and threw on the vintage Missoni top lying on the old painted trunk at the foot of her bed.

  Then she raced back downstairs to grab some coffee, gulping it down without even stopping to eat a biscotti. She’d have to get breakfast after the Vera visit. By 8:50 she was in the car congratulating herself on her fast getaway.

  Vera’s townhouse was located deep inside one of Blissburg’s new developments. This one was named Aria! Fitting, Emma thought as she drove a few blocks up Blissburg Avenue past the post office. By then, the rain poured down in such thick gray sheets she almost missed the complex’s discreet sign. She turned into a narrow drive lined with drought resistant shrubs.

  Once inside the drive, Julie’s instructions told her to turn right, continue on a curving lane for three blocks, turn left and then make a quick right onto Morningside Drive. By now it was raining so hard Emma couldn’t even make out the numbers on the townhouse doors. In desperation she parked the car and got out to study the house fronts on foot.

  By the time she located number 300 on a gate down a path that had turned into a river of mud, she was sopping wet. She dashed back to the car, drove a hundred yards and re-parked the car by the curb. The rain had not let up. In her haste to leave her house, she forgot to bring an umbrella. Her ultra thin fuchsia parka was soaked through.

  Undaunted, however, Emma grabbed her purse, stuffed the plastic wrapped papers inside and stepped out of the car. Then she made a dash for a covered porch from which she could reconnoiter, jumping puddles as she went and hoping not to become one more senior statistic.

  “She never got back on her feet after she broke her hip,” a voice in her head mocked her. “Then the bed sores got infected and the pneumonia set in.”

  “Oh, shut up,” she spoke the words out loud. And surprised herself by thinking next, maybe I will sleep with that arrogant cafone! Maybe it would be something to look forward to.

  But she quickly reminded herself that Jack, the arrogant cafone, had never even actually made a pass at her. Still mourning his wife. The thought only made her madder. Pathetic old goat! For a split second, she remembered the agony of watching Mary, her best friend, die. What was it like for Jack watching his wife of forty years die, she wondered? She chased the thought away. Too painful. TMI.

  When Emma finally reached the covered porch, to her relief she saw that the number on a nearby door read 362. She wiped some of the rain off her face, removed her soaking wet jacket, slicked back her sopping wet hair with her hands, and reached for the bell.

  Vera answered. She was dressed in what looked like a Japanese kimono transformed into an elegant tunic. Vera wore it over tailored green pants the color of her eyes. Emma couldn’t help wondering if the outfit had once belonged to Natasha. It fit Vera perfectly, its v-neckline exposing her impressive cleavage. Unfortunately, Emma noted, the outfit did nothing to hide the poor girl’s thick neck, or to soften her horse like features.

  “Thank you for coming, Emma,” Vera said leaning forward to give Emma a hug. Then, apparently noting how wet Emma was, she backed up a few paces.

  Emma lifted her shoulders apologetically and pointed to her jacket. “Where should I put this? It’s sopping wet.”

  “No problem,” Vera replied, taking the parka and disappearing, for a moment, down a hall and into another room.

  Seconds later, she reappeared and motioned Emma into the living room.

  “What a beautiful home you have,” Emma exclaimed walking from the elegant marble foyer of the townhouse into a cathedral living room. From its two story high windows, Emma observed a breathtaking view of the adjacent wild life preserve set against a backdrop of miles of rolling vineyards. Even in the pouring rain, the effect was spectacular. She added, “I had no idea these townhouses had such amazing views.”

  Vera smiled. “Only a few of them do.”

  Then Emma watched the young woman’s eyes tear up.

  “Barry bought this. For Natasha,” Vera explained before covering her face with her hands and quietly beginning to sob.

  Emma started to reach for the girl’s shoulder.

  But Vera quickly pulled herself together. “I’m sure I don’t need to tell you, Emma. He loved her so much. They were made for each other. It was obvious,” she shook her head sadly. “Everyone knew.”

  Emma nodded uncertainly.

  “Of course,” Vera continued, “I was a sort of beneficiary of,” she hesitated, “of Barry’s generosity, if you will. I lived here. And Natasha visited me often. I was her sister, it was natural. I had a beautiful home. She had a…a fitting place where they could meet. And now,” she broke down again. “Look who has it all.” She gestured around the lavish home. “What do I want with it? Natasha’s gone.” She sobbed silently again.

  After taking a few seconds to collect herself, Vera changed the subject. “Look. You didn’t come to listen to me cry. Here,” she motioned to a plush purple decorator sofa arranged in front of a marble coffee table to take advantage of the view. “Sit down. You were kind enough to bring the papers. I’ll look at them quickly. I’m sure they’re fine. Then I’ll give them back to you and you can go. That way I don’t have to bother Julie with another call.” She grinned her goofy, toothy grin. “I know this is a busy morning for everyone, what with Opening Night. I have a hair appointment at 10:00, and the nails, and makeup.”

  Emma had removed the papers from her purse and just sat down on the couch when Vera’s cell phone rang. She had set the phone on the coffee table, as though she were expecting a call.

  Vera glanced down at it. Emma, who was already seated in front of the coffee table, was close enough to see the name that appeared on the cell phone’s face.

  “Sacha,” it read.

  Vera quickly bent down and grabbed the phone off the table. “Excuse me,” she said. “I have to take this call.”

  “Hello,” she answered, quickly walking away into an adjoining room. Before Vera closed the door, Emma heard one side of a rapid exchange in Russian.

  The call lasted quite a while. So long, in fact, that Emma wondered if Vera might miss her hair appointment. At first, all Emma heard through the closed door was the soft murmur of Vera’s voice.

  Emma waited, her eyes first absorbing the extraordinary view. Slowly, however, her gaze shifted to the contents of the large room. It was beautifully, if somewhat sparsely, furnished. Not to Emma’s taste which ran more to the personal, informal, handmade.

  The furnishings of the townhouse were the opposite. Expensive, mass produced time share. The parquet floors were covered in thick grey wool carpets. And the contemporary Louis XIV style side chairs, tables, and buffet had all obviously been selected by a decorator from the same line out of a high end catalogue. There was nothing personal about the place at all. Except, Emma noted, for the Steinway grand piano and some photographs.

  Emma stood and walked over to the piano on whose closed lid the photos were displayed. There were four of them, lovi
ngly framed in ornate silver. The first was of a radiant Natasha and Vera standing with their arms around each other in front of Carnegie Hall in New York. Natasha’s name was clearly visible on the theater’s marquee. The photo was obviously taken recently. No doubt during Natasha’s critically acclaimed, sold out debut the previous spring.

  The second photo was of Natasha and Vera as teenagers. It was worn and faded. In it the twins, dressed in bathing suits, stood arm in arm on a beach. The photo looked like it was taken somewhere in Russia.

  The third was some sort of family photo. Two little girls in pigtails stood with six adults of various ages behind a dining room table. The photograph was so faded and creased, it was hard to recognize anybody in it. Emma guessed, however, that the girls were the twins and that two of the adults were their parents, along with some other relatives.

  The final picture was of a serious young man and a beautiful smiling woman. The black and white photo was obviously taken in a studio somewhere long ago. Emma guessed the two young people were Vera and Natasha’s parents. The photograph, which had been blown up well beyond its original size, sat on top of the piano behind a small vase of fresh roses. The effect was something like a shrine.

  Emma had picked up the photograph to study it more closely, and was replacing it on the piano, when she heard Vera’s voice rise in the adjoining room. She quickly returned to the couch and sat down. Soon Vera’s voice got so loud, she was shouting. Of course, she spoke in Russian, so Emma had no idea what the shouting was about. Whatever it was, the argument lasted a long, long time, until finally Emma heard a crash. As though Vera had thrown the phone against a wall. After that came the heart wrenching sounds of sobbing.

  Emma checked her phone. It was already 9:40.

  About five minutes later, Vera emerged from the adjoining room. She had dried her eyes and looked composed, but she was still sniffling.