A Sunny McCoskey Napa Valley Mystery 2: Death by the Glass

by Nadia Gordon

  “We do that here,” said Andre. “The expediter tastes practically everything that goes out.”

  “Not every plate,” said Dahlia.

  “Not everything on every plate, but he spot-checks throughout the night,” said Andre. He looked at Remy, who’d just brought out a bottle of golden Château d’Yquem Sauternes to general approval.

  “Who sent that out, Nathan?” asked Andre.

  “No, it is compliments of Eliot,” said Remy.

  “Eliot sent out a bottle of Château d’Yquem? The same guy who suggested we charge people for extra bread? What’s the occasion? Is he feeling okay?”

  “I don’t ask questions, I just pull the cork and pour,” said Remy, his intonation only very slightly flavored by a French accent.

  Andre drained his glass and held it out for a splash of the sweet dessert wine. “Where is Nathan tonight? I didn’t see him.”

  “I don’t know. He never showed up,” said Remy.

  “I thought tonight was unusually peaceful,” said Dahlia.

  “Maybe he’s finally decided to leave us alone and go live at some other restaurant,” said one of the guys down the table.

  The bartender, Nick, who Sunny had seen on the telephone that afternoon, had been sitting quietly at the end of the table for some time. Now he said, “He never called for his car, either. It’s still out there where I parked it last night.”

  “That’s odd,” said Dahlia. “He never stays home all day. Did anyone try to reach him?”

  “Eliot called, but there was no answer,” Nick said.

  “He never answers his phone,” said Andre.

  “He’s probably hung over,” said Nick. “He was feeling pretty good when I took him home.”

  “If Nathan Osborne stayed home every time he was hung over, we’d never see him,” said Andre.

  “Who is Nathan Osborne?” asked Sunny.

  “One of the owners of the restaurant,” said Andre. “The guy with all the special tubs in the walk-in. He got a DUI a few years ago, so now he won’t drive his car if he’s had anything to drink, which is good, except that it means somebody here has to drive him home practically every night, which is bad.”

  “The guy needs a chauffeur,” said Nick.

  “Why does he need a chauffeur when he has you?” said Remy.

  “Pipe down, Frenchy,” said Nick, reaching for a glass of wine that had been sitting on the table, unclaimed, for some time.

  “Wait, I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” said Dahlia, stopping his hand in mid-air.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Give me that.” She stuck her fingers in the glass and removed what looked like pine needles, evidently from the tree they were sitting under, and dumped the wine out on the ground.

  “I was going to drink that,” said Nick.

  “I know. Did you see what was in it?”

  “Your fingers, for one thing. And a little roughage. It’s good for you.”

  “Not that roughage. That’s a yew tree,” she said, pointing up. “The Celts called it the Tree of Death.”

  “Dahlia is our resident Wicca priestess,” said Andre.

  “I’m not a priestess,” said Dahlia. “And I’m pretty sure I don’t deride your beliefs, at least not to your face.”

  “I am not deriding anything. You’re so touchy,” said Andre.

  “That’s three, you know,” said Dahlia.

  “What’s three?” Sunny asked.

  “Three bad signs in a row. The Champagne, the poison mushrooms, and now the yew tree.”

  “Not that again. You can hardly count a twig in a glass as a bad sign,” said Nick. “I’m sure the tree didn’t intend to kill.”

  “Still. It’s not a good sign.”

  “The mark of evil is upon us,” Nick said darkly and leaned over to repeat the word evil in Dahlia’s ear. “The end is near,” he hissed, reaching for a bottle on the table and refilling his glass.

  Sunny looked at her watch. Indeed, the end was near. It was getting late and she had to be at work early in the morning. She looked at Rivka. “I think I’m going to head home.”

  “Me too,” said Rivka.

  “You’re leaving?” said Andre.

  “I have to be at the restaurant at seven tomorrow,” said Sunny.

  “Wait a second,” said Andre. “I’ll walk you out. I just have to get my stuff.”

  Rivka pinched Sunny’s elbow. Sunny ignored her. Across the table, Nick and Dahlia were bickering. Nick had Dahlia’s arm twisted behind her back and was trying to bend her over his lap as if for a spanking.

  “This is the only way to purge the evil curse on our heads!” said Nick, struggling to contain the squealing Dahlia. “We must beat a pagan virgin with a willow switch gathered by moonlight!”

  Remy snorted. “At least she’s a pagan.”

  Dahlia’s jeans were low-cut, riding just above the cleft of her bottom. As they wrestled, most of her back was exposed, displaying a large, blue butterfly tattoo that disappeared into her jeans.

  “Nice ink,” said Rivka when Dahlia sprung free, red faced.

  “You like it?” she said. “I just got it a few months ago.”

  The talk turned to body art and the long wait for the best artists. A few minutes later, Andre reappeared. “Listas?” he said.

  “I think I’m going to stay for a little while longer,” said Rivka.

  “I’m lista,” said Sunny, not looking at Rivka.

  They walked through the empty restaurant in silence. The only person in sight was a man in a suit behind the bar, pouring himself a glass of wine. Andre detoured to talk to him.

  “Eliot, you’re here late,” said Andre.

  “Figured I’d pour myself a little nightcap.” He held up a bottle of red wine and looked from Andre to Sunny and back again, taking in the scene with what appeared to be familiar amusement.

  “Eliot Denby, this is Sunny McCoskey,” said Andre.

  “Nice work tonight,” said Eliot, shaking Sunny’s hand. “Join me?” he asked, turning the bottle toward Andre.

  Andre examined it, nodding approvingly. “Breaking out the quality beverage, I see.”

  “Owner’s privileges. Pull up a glass, you two,” said Eliot.

  “Tempting, but I think we’re going to keep moving. Monday morning comes early.”

  They said goodnight and walked out.

  “Eliot is the other owner,” said Andre softly when they were out of earshot. “Good guy. Stays in his office where he belongs.”

  A moment later they stood outside in the parking lot, each with keys in hand.

  “You’re headed home,” said Andre.

  “Looks that way,” said Sunny.

  “It’s still pretty early.”

  “It’s past midnight.”

  “The night is young.”

  “Is it?”

  He smiled at her. “Is sleep really that important?”

  She smiled back, thinking about the question. Yes, and no.

  “How about you give me one hour of your sleep,” he said, reaching for her hand. He turned it over and ran his thumb across the calluses on her palm. “You can have it back tomorrow. We didn’t get a chance to finish our conversation.”

  “We could meet tomorrow,” she said.

  “I’m here until midnight every night. Tomorrow won’t be any different.”

  She looked at him. How important was a good night’s sleep?

  “Okay, here’s the situation,” he said. “I have a bottle of wine at home that I’ve been keeping for a special night. I say we open it tonight.”

  She’d woken up at six that morning to go mushrooming. She’d spent hours crawling all over steep, wet, muddy slopes and had barely made it home in time to shower, take care of what needed attention at Wildside, and get to Vinifera. Then there was the disaster with the false morels, and the rush to re-create the sauce. She’d met dozens of people, and had at least four glasses of wine over the course of almost as many hours. The
last thing in the world she wanted was another glass of wine. Quiet and solitude and sleep sounded more appealing than almost anything else. Almost.

  He was still looking at her.

  “One hour,” she said.

  4

  There was no lying to Rivka Chavez. In a glance, Rivka took in the rumpled hair, the dazed look and rosy cheeks, the outfit that hadn’t been changed, and no doubt knew somebody hadn’t made it home last night. Rivka looked highly amused and smiled broadly without saying anything. Preparing some kind of smart-ass remark, no doubt, thought Sunny.

  “Don’t say it,” said Sunny, giving her the no-paparazzi hand and looking away so Rivka couldn’t see her blush.

  “What? I was just going to ask why you’re late,” said Rivka, still grinning.

  “I overslept.”

  “It looks more like you underslept. Anyone I know?”

  “No comment.”

  Sunny looked around the kitchen. Her head was fuzzy with the lack of sleep and she was having trouble staying focused. It was a chore just to decide what to do first. She looked at her watch. Whatever it was, she’d better do it quickly or they’d never be ready for lunch.

  Rivka went back to dicing onions, her knife moving with expert speed. “So, where’d you stay last night?”

  “I think you know,” said Sunny. She went into the office and came back a moment later, tying an apron around her hips.

  Rivka smiled and went back to chopping. “What’s his place like?”

  Sunny pretended to be occupied with a stock list. “Nice. Nicer than mine. The guy has better taste in lamps than I do.”

  “Uh-oh. Is that a problem? He’s not a closeted interior decorator, I hope. He doesn’t seem the type.”

  “I think he just likes his house to look good. Perfectionist.”

  “So, what happened?”

  “We decided to go for a ride on his motorcycle.”

  “He rides a motorcycle? Qué macho,” said Rivka. “Harley or crotch rocket?”

  “Neither. Some kind of old BMW,” said Sunny.

  “You ever ride before?”

  “Not really.”

  “Did you have a helmet?”

  “He had one for me.”

  “He carries a spare lid for his bitch,” said Rivka in her rapper voice.

  “He keeps an extra helmet on hand, in case a friend needs a lift,” said Sunny.

  “Was it fun?”

  She abandoned the stock list and went over to the counter where Rivka was working and leaned against it. “He rides really well. Just right. Fast enough, but polite. Not trying to prove anything.”

  Rivka looked at her. “You are all glowy.”

  “I know.”

  “Come on, spill a few details. You’re dying to tell.”

  “I know. But I can’t.”

  “So you’re just going to stand there, bursting at the seams?” said Rivka.

  “Yeah. What can I tell you? It was a great night.”

  Rivka nodded. “Okay, just tell me one thing that you liked about him. Something specific, but not anatomical. It’s too early for that kind of talk.”

  “Just when I was about to get anatomical.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “Not really. What kind of detail are you looking for?”

  “I’m just trying to understand what kind of shack-up we are dealing with,” said Rivka. “I mean, was it a Barry White scene, with the smooth moves and candlelight, or did you stay up all night swapping recipes, or what?”

  “We did not stay up all night swapping recipes.”

  “Then give me the moment when you first thought, Jesus H. Christ, I can’t wait to get a piece of that.”

  Sunny laughed. “I’ve definitely got one of those. He wears these leather biking pants over his jeans and they have zippers that go from the hem to the waist on the outside of each leg. So we’re standing in the kitchen at his place and it’s a little awkward because, you know, what the hell are we doing standing in his kitchen at one in the morning, and he reaches down and unzips one side, and then the other, and then steps out of his leather pants. It was like a tough-guy burlesque. I thought I would pass out.”

  “What about you? Did you have leathers too, or was he just going to let you get the big nasty road rash?”

  “He had a pair for me. He had a second set of everything stuffed in the paniers. Pants, jacket, gloves. It was all way too big for me. Not sexy.”

  “You never know. Maybe he’s into the tomboy look.”

  Sunny went over to the espresso maker and steamed a pitcher of milk. “You want anything?”

  “Cappuccino, per favore.”

  She fired two shots of espresso. “You know, on days like today I’m really glad I don’t have to operate heavy machinery. I don’t think I could handle anything more complicated than cooking right now. A day of cooking sounds just perfect.”

  “Oh, good. You don’t feel awake enough to drive a forklift, but you’re ready to play with fire and knives.”

  “I still have all ten fingers after all these years,” said Sunny.

  She walked to the back window and stood sipping her coffee, looking out at the vineyard that ran up to the kitchen garden. The soil between the rows was black with the recent rain, and the vines stood bare, with a few canes stretching nakedly skyward. Howell Mountain sat to the east, a mixture of wooded green slopes and rusty rock outcroppings. The holidays had been lonely and she had a hunger for the comfort of a new romance. No, that wasn’t quite right. She had a hunger for the comfort of an old romance, but the only way to get there was to start with the uncertainty of a new one.

  “Looks like it’s going to rain again,” said Sunny.

  Lunch was over and Wildside was closed when Sunny heard footsteps crunching down the gravel path to the back door. Probably Monty Lenstrom stopping by for an afternoon gab. Or one of the restaurant’s suppliers running late dropping off an order, or maybe Rivka coming back for something she forgot. Sunny listened from the office, expecting to hear someone come in and announce themselves. Instead, there was a loud knock.

  She went to the door and opened it to find Sergeant Steve Harvey and an officer she didn’t recognize standing outside. Steve shook her hand and introduced his companion as Officer Katelyn Dervich, a new recruit who was making the rounds with him. The presence of Officer Dervich, and Steve’s businesslike expression, told her this was not a social call. Officer Dervich stood with her shoulders squared and her black hair pulled back in a ponytail, doing her best to appear competent to handle whatever the situation might throw her way. She looked young and tiny beside Sergeant Harvey, who was big, blond, muscular, thirty-five years old, maybe a little older. He had his arms folded across his chest, making his biceps look extra bulky. Sunny had crossed paths with Steve before, when she helped clear her friend Wade of a murder, but she hadn’t seen much of him in a few months other than to run into him occasionally at Bismark’s, the café downtown.

  “We’ve just come from spending the morning over at Vinifera,” Steve said. He watched her face.

  She nodded, not sure what he could be getting at. Why would they have spent the morning at Vinifera? She waited for him to go on.

  The wait lasted longer than she expected, and after a moment she gathered that what he had to say was more involved than he cared to go into standing in the doorway.

  “Why don’t you come in and we can talk in my office,” she said.

  They followed her through a doorway off the kitchen into a cluttered room soaking up the last of the afternoon light.

  “Land of chaos,” said Sunny, moving her mountain bike out of the way and pushing aside stacks of cookbooks and mail so the two officers could sit down.

  When they were settled, Steve said, “Do you know Nathan Osborne?”

  “I don’t know him personally, but I know who he is.”

  Steve raised his eyebrows slightly. He was leaning forward with his forearms on his knees and his fingers i
nterlaced. He lifted his thumbs, inviting her to elaborate.

  “I’ve never met him, but I know that he’s one of Vinifera’s owners. As a matter of fact, I heard his name for the first time last night. I was over at Vinifera cooking for Night of Five Stars.”

  Steve nodded. “Well, I’m afraid I have some bad news. They found Nathan Osborne this morning in his home at about eleven-thirty. He’d been deceased for a day or so already.”

  This was the last thing she expected to hear, and she wasn’t sure what to say. For a moment, she said nothing.

  “The cause of death appears to have been cardiac arrest,” said Steve, “but we won’t be sure until the coroner’s report comes back tomorrow or the next day.”

  “Cardiac arrest. How old was he?” she asked.

  “Fifty-eight,” said Steve.

  “That’s pretty young for a heart attack.”

  “I guess it depends. Depends on your health, diet, how much you exercise, stress level, family history.”

  “They must be pretty shook up over at Vinifera,” said Sunny.

  “Like you’d expect,” said Steve. “It’s always a shock to have someone die suddenly. No one so far has indicated an awareness that he had heart trouble or any other serious illness, so it was completely unexpected.”

  She looked out the window, considering the news. He didn’t show up for Night of Five Stars because he was already dead. She thought about everyone gathered around the table for family meal last night, and Andre asking where Nathan was. It gave her a chill to think of it.

  “Well,” she said, “that’s a terribly sad piece of news.”

  She looked from Officer Dervich to Sergeant Harvey with anticipation. They weren’t here just to keep her informed of affairs at Vinifera, no matter how grave. She wondered when they were going to get to it.

  Sergeant Harvey seemed to think it was time. “We understand you cooked at Vinifera last night,” he said, despite the fact that she had already stated as much.

  “I did. It was Night of Five Stars,” said Sunny. “They bring five different chefs together. Each of us prepares one course.”

  “Okay, so you’re working this Night of Five Stars thing last night,” said Steve. “Did anything out of the ordinary occur?”

  That was it, the mushrooms. They were here because of the false morels. Was it possible that Nathan Osborne got hold of some? And if he did, would they have been toxic enough to kill him? She thought for a moment, remembering last night and choosing her words carefully.