Killer Among the Vines (Wine & Dine Mysteries Book 7)

by Gemma Halliday

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  KILLER AMONG THE VINES

  Wine & Dine Mysteries book #7

  by

  GEMMA HALLIDAY

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  Copyright © 2021 by Gemma Halliday

  http://www.gemmahalliday.com

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  RECIPES

  FREE BOOK OFFER

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  BOOKS BY GEMMA HALLIDAY

  SNEAK PEEK

  Dedicated to Grandpa.

  Wish you were here to read it. I hope it would make you laugh.

  CHAPTER ONE

  "Emmy, I'm telling you there is a thief among us!" My mother stabbed the air with her fork for emphasis, a long spinach noodle falling off the end and onto her plate.

  I shook my head in the near-empty dining room of the Sonoma Acres assisted living facility. "Mom, I don't think anyone is stealing from you."

  "Not me. Mrs. Borstein." Mom frowned, her artfully plucked eyebrows pulling together beneath her bangs. We both shared the same blue eyes and golden blonde hair, though hers was liberally shot with silvery grey these days. "Haven't you been listening?"

  I had to admit, my mind might have wandered once or twice during dinner. Not that I wasn't totally enthralled with Mom's tales of Dorothy Chapman's bunions and the way ninety-year-old Mr. Horowitz was flirting with the new widow who had just moved into 4B. But I'd tried a new recipe out that day, and I was savoring each bite, thinking I'd almost gotten it right—but not quite yet. It was a copycat of the Walnut Mushroom Au Gratin that had been my mom's favorite dish at the Good Earth restaurant. She'd taken me to lunch there at least once a week when I was a kid. They'd long since closed most of their locations, and I'd thought it would be a nice treat to recreate a culinary memory for her. While the spinach noodles and crunchy water chestnuts reminded me of the restaurant version, something about the sauce was a little tangier than the original. Maybe I'd added too much sherry.

  "Emmy?"

  "Hmm?" I slurped a noodle, sauce smacking me in the chin.

  "I said Mrs. Borstein's photo did not just get up and walk out on its own." Mom twirled more noodles on her fork.

  "What photo?" I asked, taking a sip from my wineglass. Along with the pasta dish, I'd pulled from our cellar a bottle of our Zinfandel. A little taste of home from our family run winery.

  "It was of Mrs. Borstein's grandnephew. And someone took it."

  "Why would anyone want a photo of Mrs. Borstein's nephew?"

  "Grandnephew. And I don't know why." She shrugged. "Maybe they have a thing for redheads."

  "If he's that hot, why haven't you hooked me up?" I teased.

  Mom shot me a look. "My point is the photo is missing."

  "Mom, Mrs. Borstein is eighty-three and has cataracts. Isn't it possible that she might have just misplaced the photo herself?"

  But Mom was undeterred, shaking her head so hard that her blonde hair shimmied across her shoulders. "No, Mrs. Borstein has looked everywhere for it. And it's not the only thing that's gone missing here!"

  "Did she lose a picture of her dog too?" I joked.

  "Mabel Marston said her needlepoint pillow went missing last week."

  "Has she checked the lost and found?" I asked, taking another sip.

  Mom set her fork down on her plate with a clatter and shot me a look. "You're not taking me seriously, are you?"

  "Whatever gave you that idea?" I smiled at her and blinked my eyes innocently.

  "Come on, Emmy. I've got dementia—I'm not stupid."

  I choked back a bittersweet laugh at the feistiness in my mom's voice. While it was true early onset dementia had her in an assisted living facility much too young, one thing the disease had not robbed her of was a sense of humor. While we'd certainly had bad days where she barely recognized her own daughter, there were good days—like today—where she could laugh about the tragedy that was stealing her mind away from her so young. I'll admit, it was harder for me to find humor in it, but for her sake, I tried not to show it.

  "Okay, okay," I conceded, setting my wineglass down. "So who do you—and Mrs. Borstein and Mabel Marston—think is the mastermind behind these thefts?"

  She shook her head, her pink lips going into a thin line. "I don't know."

  "The staff?" I asked.

  Mom picked up her fork again. "I'd hate to think so."

  "So, maybe another resident?"

  "Maybe," Mom said, shrugging her shoulders. Now that we were pointing fingers, some of the certainty seemed to be waning. "Or maybe a visitor? Someone who came to see one of the residents?"

  "Or maybe a cat burglar, sneaking over the azaleas at night to steal away with personal knickknacks and fancy bedding."

  "You're mocking me again, aren't you?" Mom gave me the same narrowed eyed look I'd gotten with every less than stellar report card throughout my childhood.

  "I wouldn't dare," I replied, shoving a big bite of noodles into my mouth to cover up the lie.

  "Anyway, I was thinking maybe you could mention it to your boyfriend."

  I froze mid-chew. "Boyfriend?"

  Mom nodded, not making eye contact. "That policeman."

  I finally regained control of my jaw and finished my bite. I swallowed before answering. "You've been talking to Conchita." Who was our house manager at Oak Valley Vineyards as well as self-appointed den mother to all. And apparently chief gossip.

  "Well, I have to! My own daughter doesn't tell me she's dating someone new."

  "We're not dating," I argued. "Well, okay, yes, we've dated. Some. A few times. But he's not my boyfriend."

  Truth was, it was hard to categorize exactly what Grant was.

  Detective Christopher Grant was a detective in the Sonoma County Sheriff's Office VCI unit—violent crimes investigations. Which meant his world consisted of hardened criminals, calloused actions, and all things from the seedier side of life. He'd moved to Wine Country from San Francisco after he'd been involved in a shoo
ting. After an internal affairs investigation, no charges had been brought against Grant, but it had been highly suggested he transfer for a change of scenery. Ordered, even. Grant had never really told me much about the incident, but I had a feeling that "no charges" and "innocent" were not exactly the same thing.

  Our paths had first crossed in his professional capacity when there'd been a death at my winery, though more often these days they crossed for reasons of a more personal nature. And while I was greatly enjoying all of those personal encounters, I wasn't sure how long I expected them to last or if they'd ever progress to a point where we'd be ready for a label as commitment assuming as "boyfriend."

  "Well, Conchita tells me that you have been spending a lot of time with him lately," Mom pressed.

  I shrugged. "I've spent some time with him."

  "Conchita says it's a lot."

  "Conchita has a tendency to exaggerate." And a big mouth.

  "You know she's just looking out for you," my mom said.

  I sighed. I did. When Mom had gotten sick, Conchita had wasted no time stepping into the role of mother hen. Which, while it was sometimes a little more intrusive into my personal life than I might have liked, it was also a welcomed comfort more often than not. So it was hard to be mad at her.

  "So, when do I get to meet this hot cop of yours?" Mom said, waggling her eyebrows up and down.

  Hard, but not impossible.

  "He's not mine," I protested.

  "Conchita says he's handsome," Mom prodded.

  I couldn't help a grin as I pictured his square jaw, dark eyes dancing with little golden flecks, and broad shoulders. "He is."

  Mom's face broke into a big smile. "And you like him."

  The goofy grin on my face made it hard to deny that one. "Yes, I like him," I admitted.

  Mom opened her mouth to interrogate more, but I ran right over her.

  "But," I cautioned, "we're not that serious."

  She shut her mouth, the frown reappearing. "Oh."

  She looked so disappointed, my guilt riddled heart added, "At least not yet."

  She tilted her head from side to side, mentally weighing that statement. "Okay, well, see where it goes. Maybe it will get serious at some point."

  "Maybe," I hedged.

  "You know, your father had to work hard to win me over," she said, shoveling more of the creamy noodles into her mouth.

  "Really?" I asked. As far back as I ever remembered, Mom and Dad had been adorably in love. She'd been devastated when he'd passed away when I was twelve and had never looked at another man since, as far as I knew.

  "Oh yeah. The first time I met him, I thought he was a stalker. Followed me home from work, and I almost called the police."

  "I'm glad you didn't."

  "So was he," she said with a laugh. "Anyway, give your detective time. Maybe he'll grow on you."

  That was honestly what I was afraid of. That he'd grow on me so much I'd wish he was more the settling down type than he was. But I just nodded. "Maybe."

  "So how are the Sirah grapes coming along this year?" Mom asked, switching gears. Thankfully.

  "Well," I told her honestly, "we've had a little root rot with all the rain this year, but Hector's confident he's got it under control." Hector was our vineyard manager, Conchita's husband, and a long-time fixture at the winery who had taught me everything I knew about grapes.

  Mom gave me a wide grin. "You've become quite the vintner, Emmy."

  I laughed. While I'd grown up at the winery, it had never been my dream to run it. In my early twenties I'd left home to study at the CIA—just not that CIA. The Culinary Institute of America, though the LA Times had once called my food "to die for." I'd dreamt of one day opening my own restaurant, but when Mom had gotten sick and the winery had been in trouble, those dreams had taken a back seat. I'd come home to assume control over the operations at Oak Valley Vineyards, and while I did sometimes miss the idea of commanding a large kitchen full of chefs and getting that glowing review in Zagat, I'd never regretted the decision. Oak Valley was home, and it was where I belonged. And, as Mom had said, my vintner skills were improving.

  "Did I tell you I hired on a security guard?" I said, licking cheesy gooey deliciousness off my fork.

  "Oh?" Mom asked.

  I nodded. "Thought it might be a good idea. You know, after the unpleasantness last year." Unfortunately, Grant had been to my winery on more than one occasion in a professional capacity. Something I did not want a repeat of.

  "Can you afford that?" Mom asked, crunching down on a walnut.

  Barely. But I didn't want to worry her, so I just nodded. "Sure."

  "So business has been good?" Mom asked.

  I bit my lip. "We're surviving," I said, feeling guilty for lying to her.

  With the recent pandemic having shut down wineries in Sonoma for months, our bottom line was sinking lower and lower this year. Much lower and it would be below water.

  But, again, not something I wanted to worry Mom with.

  "I have an appointment with Gene Schultz tomorrow," I told her. "My accountant. He's looking at some funding options for us." He'd been able to get panels of investors to back us through hard times before, and I was hoping he could pull it off again.

  Mom nodded. "That's sounds promising."

  "Things will pick up," I told her with false optimism. "They always do in the spring."

  "Right. Wedding season is coming up, isn't it?"

  I nodded. "We have a few bookings already."

  "The winery really is the most picturesque place to get married. I'm sure you'll be swamped soon."

  "From your lips to brides' ears," I said, raising my glass in a toast.

  "Anyway, did I tell you what happened to Mrs. Borstein?" Mom asked, her eyes alight with the thrill of good gossip.

  I felt my heart clench the way it always did when one of her good moments lulled me into forgetting a bad one was right around the corner. "Yes," I said softly. "You did."

  "I did?" A look of confusion crossed her features.

  I nodded. "That she misplaced a photograph of her nephew."

  "Oh." She got a far-off look in her eyes, as if trying to conjure up the memory of ten minutes ago that was lost already.

  We sat in silence for a beat before she shook her head and picked up her fork again. "Anyway, it wasn't misplaced. It was stolen. Might be something you could mention to your cop friend."

  I swallowed down the lump in my throat and nodded. "Sure. I'll tell him." I gave her a smile that I was sure didn't reach my eyes. What can I say? I was a vintner, not an actress.

  * * *

  It was dark by the time we finished off the last of the pasta and the bottle of Oak Valley Vineyards Zin. I'd just shoved the empty casserole dish I'd brought dinner in into the front passenger seat of my Jeep, when my phone rang. I glanced down at the readout before answering, seeing the name of Bill Buckley, the security guard I'd recently hired, flash across the screen. I swiped to take the call.

  "Hello?" I answered.

  "Ms. Oak, it's Bill," he said, his voice sounding a little breathless.

  "Everything okay, Bill?" I asked.

  "Yeah. Probably."

  "Probably?" I asked, concern setting in immediately.

  "The silent alarm was tripped in the south vineyard."

  "What tripped it?" I asked, hearing urgency seep into my voice as I turned my car on and backed out of the parking lot.

  "I'm on my way to check it out now," he said. "But it's probably nothing. Just deer."

  Which was likely. We'd had problems with deer in the past at Oak Valley, and despite new fencing, they were constant pests.

  On the other hand, we'd also had intruders on the grounds, who we'd mistakenly dismissed as deer, so I wasn't as quick as Bill was to think the best.

  "I'm just leaving town now," I told him, pulling onto the main road. "I'll be there in twenty minutes."

  Which was a lie. I made it in fifteen, going just slightl
y over the speed limit the entire way. By the time I finally pulled up the winding, tree-lined drive to the winery and parked in the lot in front of the main building, my mind had had plenty of opportunity to conjure up all sorts of worst case scenarios. "Possibly deer" had turned into a whole gang of thieves, breaking in and making off with every vintage bottle in our cellar. I left my casserole dish in the car, sprinting toward the main winery doors and rushing into the tasting room.

  My Sommelier, Jean Luc, and my winery manager, Eddie Bliss, were the only two people in the room, standing at the bar beside the large picture window that looked out onto the dark vineyard. They were a study in opposites, Jean Luc's tall thin frame a contrast to Eddie's stout, portly one. The Frenchman was dressed in his usual dark slacks and white dress shirt, looking both understated and elegant at the same time. While Eddie was awash with color—his maroon jacket accentuated by a bright turquoise ascot that matched the loud flowers on his bell-bottomed pants. I wasn't sure if he was the epitome of style or trying out for clown college. Both men looked up as I entered the room.

  "Emmy, we were just debating which glass to use with Bordeaux—" Eddie started.

  But I cut him off with a wave of my hands. "Where's Buckley?"

  "Buckley?" Jean Luc asked in his thick French accent, his lips contorting into a frown beneath his sleek black mustache.

  "Bill Buckley. The security guard," I said. "He called and said an alarm was tripped."

  Jean Luc's eyebrow pulled down in a frown. "Zees eez the first I hear of it."

  "Oh my!" Eddie said, his hand going to his mouth.

  "You haven't seen him?" I asked.

  They both shook their heads. "No," Eddie answered. "Not since earlier when he clocked in."

  I felt myself frowning to match Jean Luc's expression. "He didn't say anything to you about the alarm?"

  They both shook their heads again.

  "Where did it go off?" Eddie asked.

  "South vineyard," I said, pulling my phone from my pocket and dialing Buckley's number. "Bill said he was going to check it out."