Also available by Nancy J. Parra
The Perfect Proposals Mysteries
Newlywed Dead
Bodice of Evidence
Engaged in Murder
The Baker’s Treat Mysteries
Flourless to Stop Him
Murder Gone A-Rye
Gluten for Punishment
A Case of Syrah, Syrah
A WINE COUNTRY MYSTERY
Nancy J. Parra
NEW YORK
This is a work of fiction. All of the names, characters, organizations, places, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to real or actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
PUBLISHER’S NOTE: The recipes contained in this book are to be followed exactly as written. The publisher is not responsible for your specific health or allergy needs that may require medical supervision. The publisher is not responsible for any adverse reaction to the recipes contained in this book.
Copyright © 2017 by Nancy J. Parra
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Crooked Lane Books, an imprint of The Quick Brown Fox & Company LLC.
Crooked Lane Books and its logo are trademarks of The Quick Brown Fox & Company LLC.
Library of Congress Catalog-in-Publication data available upon request.
ISBN (hardcover): 978-1-68331-433-2
ISBN (ePub): 978-1-68331-434-9
ISBN (ePDF): 978-1-68331-435-6
Cover illustration by Jesse Reisch
www.crookedlanebooks.com
Crooked Lane Books
34 West 27th St., 10th Floor
New York, NY 10001
First Edition: December 2017
For my mom
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
A Case of Syrah, Syrah Wine and Food Pairings
Grilled Lamb Chops
Grilled Eggplant
Spicy Chocolate Chili Cookies
Looking for a Cheese to Pair With Your Syrah?
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1
“Taylor, your cat is on my car again.” Aunt Jemma’s tone told me that she was in a mood.
“She’s a cat,” I explained as I got up from the kitchen table where I was working on my laptop. “She loves to sun on the roof of your convertible. Besides, you love her.”
“I also love the new finish on my car,” Aunt Jemma scolded. “I don’t want cat paws on it.”
I pushed out the screen door and snagged my orange-and-white-striped cat, Clementine, from the warm roof. “Aunt Jemma’s on a tear,” I said as I kissed and cuddled my kitty. “She must have broken up with her latest boyfriend.”
Clemmie settled into my arms for a quick hug, then leaped down as I entered the kitchen again. She slinked away to find a nice box in the hall closet. Since she was a fan of hiding in small spaces, I kept a few empty boxes for her around the house. Some she used; others she ignored until I started to fill them with other things. Then she pushed those things out and climbed in. It was a game she liked to play with me. For example, she knew she shouldn’t be on Aunt Jemma’s convertible but loved to sneak up there anyway. She was a cat. She did what she wanted. I admired her for it.
“Your car is rescued,” I said as I made a cup of tea. Aunt Jemma and I lived in Sonoma, California. She owned a small winery with a midcentury modern home settled on the top of a hill. Grapevines—zinfandel, to be exact—surrounded the house. I stayed in the pool house in the back. Beyond the pool house was a small building where the winery offered wine tastings, a place to picnic, a bocce ball field, and a gazebo for small weddings and parties.
Aunt Jemma had made a killing in the dot-com boom of the nineties and bought the little winery because she loved the drama and prestige of being a proprietor. What little she’d known about wine making hadn’t mattered because she’d hired Juan Martinez to make the wine. Juan’s family had been making wine in Sonoma County for a hundred years.
“What are your plans for the day?” I asked and sat down at the table. This house had been remodeled to an open concept with vaulted ceilings. There was a huge fireplace in the middle of the house. Spanish-tile floors appeared in the kitchen, while wood ran throughout the rest of the sprawling four bedrooms. My favorite part was the atrium patio adjacent to the living room. Floor-to-ceiling windows acted as the living room walls, and there were redwoods sheltering the patio from the sun. When you sat on the patio, you looked out over the vineyard toward the rolling hills.
Right now though, I didn’t have time to sit on the patio dreaming. I was busy planning out my first Wine Country Tour.
“I have lunch with the ladies at the club,” Aunt Jemma said airily. She was a tall, thin woman who loved to play up her hippy roots with flowing bohemian clothing. She kept her long gray hair pulled back in a loose braid. “I thought you were going to yoga with your friend Holly.”
I glanced at the time. “Darn, I’m going to be late.” I closed my laptop and grabbed my yoga bag near the door. Luckily I’d dressed for yoga an hour before. Today I wore black capris-cut yoga pants and a flowery T-shirt. I slipped my feet into all-purpose fitness shoes.
“Don’t forget there’s a wine-tasting group coming by at two. It’s supposed to be two busloads of seniors, and Cristal is going to need help.”
“I’ll be back by two,” I said and left the house. Cristal Bennet was a young sommelier who worked days at the winery and evenings at one of the pricier restaurants in town. Wineries in the area were mostly sprawling farms, and the two-lane road to town was narrow and winding. I recently had traded my Mini Cooper for a 1970s VW van. The van had been painted green and reminded me of the Mystery Machine. But the engine was solid, and the inside could comfortably carry seven passengers plus the driver, which made it the perfect vehicle to haul my little tour groups.
I’d grown up in Sonoma but moved out after high school. For most of my twenties, I’d been working in San Francisco as a high-powered advertising executive. Then Aunt Jemma had had a heart attack. My mom had died early of heart disease, and Aunt Jemma was my only living relative, so I’d given up my job to move back to Sonoma with her and ensure that she remained healthy and active. Which, apparently, she was. At sixty-five, she got around more than I did. I often wondered if her heart attack hadn’t been a health scare at all but a way to get me to move closer. I wouldn’t have put it past her.
I’d been living out on the vineyard for six months now, and I was restless. Aunt Jemma didn’t really need me, but every time I mentioned going back to advertising, her chest would hurt. I loved the winery, but it wasn’t my passion. I might have liked to be a sommelier, but I didn’t have the nose needed for being a wine expert. I could fake it, but I was a straightforward kind of person who loved people—I wasn’t much into faking things. So instead of advertising, I had dreamed up my own small business
. Taylor O’Brian Presents “Off the Beaten Path” Wine Country Tours. My premise was that I would take guests to some of the hidden gems in Sonoma County. There were a lot of them, like the Henry farmhouse, full of Californian art; the Witches Brew Winery, which catered to pagans; and Sonny’s Open-Air Winery, which featured the work of plein air artists and other paintings.
As far as I was concerned, there was a real need for niche-market wine tours. There was more to Sonoma County than the endless ornate, Tuscan-looking wine-tasting houses that dotted the main roads, attracting tourists.
Why, even Aunt Jemma’s winery was niche. It was called Sookie’s Vineyard because it was supposed to be haunted by a spirit named Sookie. Aunt Jemma held séances out in the yard once a month and hosted psychics and psychic fairs. “It adds to the charm,” she declared.
Also she said that it had been her favorite psychic, Sara Goodwyn, who’d told her that a heart attack loomed on her horizon and that I needed to come out to stay with her. The story always made me roll my eyes in secret.
Truth was, I had not been having a great time in San Francisco. It was too big for me, too impersonal. I’d also broken up with my longtime boyfriend, Mark. We’d been dating since high school. He’d texted me that we should start seeing other people, and within a week he was engaged.
I pretended that it was no big deal, but my heart was broken. He’d gotten married a few months ago while I hid at my aunt’s house, licking my wounds.
My new business venture had finally pulled me out of my gloominess. I loved to make a plan, set goals, and see them through. Putting together my first tour had taken work, but I was nearly ready. Tomorrow was the big day.
I arrived late at the studio, Divine Yoga. I grabbed my stuff, then entered the building. I quickly put my shoes and purse into a cubby and entered the largest classroom.
“We’re starting with our feet up against the wall,” the teacher said. She gave me a look that told me she wasn’t happy that I was late. “You’ll need a bolster, two blankets, and a sandbag.”
Holly was in the corner with her feet up against the wall, a sandbag across the soles of her feet. “I saved you a space,” she whispered.
“Thanks!” I unrolled my mat and wiggled into place. “How’re things?”
“No talking!” The instructor came over to stand by us as she continued her lesson. Yoga started slow, but before long we were stretching and twisting in crazy poses that limbered my body and helped drive out the blues that dogged me.
Holly Petree, my best friend since elementary school, looked amazing. Her thick brown hair was pulled back in a high ponytail. She had a lean dancer’s body, and the cropped pants and bra top showed off the lines of her muscles.
I was more normal. At five-foot-six, I had the stocky bones of my pioneer ancestors. My hair was a wild mix of every color—I had some fine blonde streaks framing my face, while the rest of my color was a mix of dark brown, thick black, and a few strands of curly, coppery red. All in all, it made a mass of brindle-colored waves. Those waves were currently tamed with a headband and ponytail, although a few bits had pulled free from their moorings. Especially after doing my seventh downward-facing dog.
We finished the class with a few moments of relaxation poses. Some of the older ladies began to snore while I worked at getting my breathing under control. The instructor, Laura Scott, rang a bell and called the class to a close.
“People, let’s all try to get here a few minutes prior to class,” Laura chided. I knew she was talking about me since I had been the last person to arrive. “It’s better for your practice if you come in focused and unrushed.”
“Where were you?” Holly asked as she sat cross-legged on her mat.
“I forgot the time,” I said.
“You do that a lot.”
“I was double-checking all the plans for tomorrow’s tour. My first tour group—I want to get it right.”
“Taylor,” Laura called. She seemed all calm and nice during the classes but was actually high-strung and easily irked outside of class. Right now she was none too pleased with me. “If you’re late again, I will have to ban you from class.”
“What?” I sat up straight. “I pay for this class.”
“So do my other students, and they don’t need your negative energy. If you’re late again, you will not be allowed in.” Her tone was sharp.
“I promise I won’t be late again.”
“You said that last time.”
“But I paid in advance.”
“Any advanced payments will be refunded,” Laura said, her tone rising an octave. “Since you were late yet again, I can’t trust you to keep your word. I thought I could, but you are proving me wrong.”
“That’s a little harsh, don’t you think?”
“Not considering we’re doing business together. I certainly hope your tardiness is not indicative of the way you run your tour business. I expect everything to go smoothly for my team tomorrow. I’ve put a lot of money into you and your start-up. At this point, it’s too late to pull out of our excursion, so I’m going to do my best to trust you to arrive on time and do what I paid you for. Trust me, you don’t want to let me down. I have connections in this community.” She sent me a superior look. “Namaste,” she said shortly and walked away with her back as straight as a poker.
“Wow, almost kicked out of yoga class,” Holly said with a semistraight face. “You are such an outlaw.”
“She’s a jerk,” I said. “I’m not the only one who has been late before. Besides, she doesn’t own the studio. She’s just here to teach this class. Let’s take a class with one of the other instructors.”
“I agree. It seems Laura doesn’t like you much,” Holly said as we rolled up our mats and slid them in our bags.
“Do you know that Laura runs a yoga teacher mentoring business out of her home? Apparently she makes a living teaching other yoga teachers how to expand their businesses. You would think that a yoga teacher—a mentor—would be more chill.”
“It’s weird how uptight she really is. I’ve heard some of the other yoga instructors talking. The way she talked to you right now is better than how she deals with her staff. I hear they call her a petty dictator behind her back.”
“How does she stay in business?”
“Apparently people like her authority and can’t wait to take her mastermind class.”
“I don’t get it. If she’s such a mastermind, why does she teach this little local class?”
“To keep her skills up, I imagine,” Holly said as we took our shoes out of the cubbies and headed toward the door.
“Well, she needs to work on her personal skills,” I said right before I noticed Laura was behind the desk as we walked by. I sent her an insincere smile. “Have a nice day!”
Holly and I had a good laugh when we left the building. “Oh, boy, did she give you the look.”
“I guess I do have to find a new yoga class now.”
Holly put her arm through mine. “Come on, I’ll buy you a smoothie, and you can tell me all about your first tour.”
I glanced at my watch. “As long as I’m back at the winery by two. There are two buses full of seniors scheduled to come in for an afternoon of wine tasting and bocce ball.”
“I bet Cristal will love that.”
“She loves waiting on seniors. They’re like little kids—you never know what will come out of their mouths after the second glass of wine.”
“Tasting is done in flights of five, right?”
“Yes, we generally offer ten wines and let them choose five.”
“Five white and five red?” Holly said.
“That’s pretty standard,” I agreed. “Aunt Jemma and Juan have two originals from the petite sirah and zinfandel grown on the farm and then three blends.”
“And the white?”
“All tastes of Pettigrew’s next door. Mary Pettigrew is ninety-seven years old and has shut down her wine tasting. I still see her on her daily walks th
rough the vineyard.”
“Is she still making wine?”
“She loves the vines. They’ve been in her family for over one hundred years. But she doesn’t do anything with them anymore. She lets Juan harvest the grapes. I think he is set to purchase the place once she dies.”
“That means he may not be working for your aunt for very long,” Holly pointed out as we walked into the coffee shop three doors down.
“Aunt Jemma has it in her mind that I’ll take up wine making,” I said. We both ordered green tea smoothies, picked up our drinks, and went outside to sit on the patio.
“You, make wine?”
“Is that so crazy?” I asked. “You know Aunt Jemma’s been grooming me ever since the psychic predicted I would take over the winery.”
“But you don’t want to be a wine maker, do you?” Holly asked between sips. The tea had matcha in it to give it a powerful antioxidant.
“No, I want to do tours, but I figure the more I know about wineries, the better my tours will be.”
“You always did love to plan a good party. Are you starting with a Meetup group?”
I’d thought about doing that. In fact, many people did run guided tours as Meetup groups where people met in one area, and the tour guide took them from place to place. Technically it was illegal to charge a tour fee. A Meetup was for people to find other groups of people and do things they liked to do together. But around wine country, there were a lot of people who charged the groups they led and used it as a small business.
“No, I’m not doing a Meetup,” I said and sipped the green stuff, feeling healthier by the minute. “I’m doing an actual tour group. I’ve got the VW wagon, and I’m applying the logo and decals today.”
“Logo?”
“Taylor O’Brian Presents ‘Off the Beaten Path’ Wine Country Tours.” I splayed my hand out as if writing a headline in the air.
“That’s a mouthful,” Holly said.
“It tested well with audiences,” I said, hearkening back to my advertising days.
“You tested the name?”
“Of course,” I said and drew my eyebrows together. “Things don’t go well if you don’t use a name that tests well. People liked ‘Off the Beaten Path’ Wine Tours. I added my name to make it more personal. I think over time it’ll be shortened to Taylor’s. But for now it tells everyone who and what I am.”
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