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

by Nadia Gordon

  “I’m definitely curious. It’s my job. I just wonder why you are.”

  “Because the more I learn about Nathan Osborne’s death, the more I wonder if there wasn’t some foul play involved. Don’t you?”

  Steve stared at her intently. “That depends. What exactly have you learned?”

  “Nothing you don’t know already.”

  He nodded.

  She rationalized not sharing everything she knew with Steve by telling herself that she wasn’t actually lying, she was only delaying telling what may or may not be the truth. What she knew about the wine might not mean anything.

  Steve gave her the short version of his community reassurance speech. She’d heard it before. He went on about how they were looking into all aspects of the case, being very thorough. If there was anything to find, not to worry, they would find it.

  “So you’re still working on the case,” said Sunny.

  Steve looked off toward the craggy bluffs of Mount St. Helena to the north, squinting. “We’re certainly ready to follow up on any new leads.”

  “So you’ve stopped working on the case.”

  Steve shook his head, smiling. “Cut me a little slack, McCoskey. The coroner’s report says the guy had a heart attack in the privacy of his own home and died, just like Mother Nature intended. End of story. Dying is not a crime. Who exactly am I supposed to investigate?”

  “Couldn’t the coroner be wrong? He’s human like the rest of us. Maybe he made a mistake,” said Sunny. “Maybe he missed something.”

  “She hasn’t been wrong in about twenty years,” said Steve.

  “Sorry, she. She hasn’t made any mistakes as far as you know. It’s not like Nathan is going to stand up and point out any oversights.”

  “What is it that you think she missed?” said Steve. “I know you’ve butchered your share of animals, but I don’t exactly think that makes you an expert in forensic medicine.”

  Sunny frowned. “I don’t think of it that way. Anyway, I don’t know what she could have missed. I just think the whole thing is sort of fishy. I don’t buy the heart attack. It’s too convenient.”

  “Too convenient for who?”

  “Well, the murderer, for one.”

  “Look, Sunny, there is no murderer. There was no murder. Nathan Osborne died of a heart attack. I already asked the coroner for a more detailed report than usual, given the circumstances of Osborne’s death and considering there were no witnesses. We requested that they look for anything unusual, such as any signs of trauma or injury, and that they check for indications of mushroom poisoning specifically. The team that worked on him is very experienced, very thorough. If the coroner says Nathan Osborne died of complications resulting from massive heart failure stemming from the fact that he took lousy care of himself for about sixty years, I’m prepared to accept that and I don’t see why you aren’t.”

  “I’m not saying he didn’t have a heart attack,” said Sunny.

  “What are you saying?”

  “Just that perhaps a bit more poking around might be warranted.”

  Harvey didn’t reply. His face was stern and hard to read. They watched Zuma make her rounds, dutifully sniffing the base of each tree and bush in the front yards abutting the sidewalk.

  “You can’t tell me you don’t think there’s a connection between Osborne’s death and whoever broke into his house that night,” said Sunny. “Especially since there was no open bottle around anywhere. That just doesn’t make sense.”

  Harvey nodded. She couldn’t tell if he was agreeing with her or nodding to some thought of his own.

  “Sounds like you’re pretty well informed,” he said, crossing his arms over his chest and stepping his feet apart. “If you have any information you’d like to share with me, I’m all ears.”

  “What I have is mostly questions,” she said. “Like what color the foil was on the bottle that was broken.”

  “The foil?”

  “The topping foil. You know, the stuff that protects the cork. I was wondering if it was red or green.”

  “Christmas is over, McCoskey. I have no idea what color the foil was on the bottle. Why?”

  “I was just curious.”

  “That’s a very specific thing to be curious about,” said Steve.

  “I just wondered if it was the wine I thought it was. Could you check?”

  Steve chuckled stiffly. “I don’t think examining the color of topping foil is a good use of my time, even in Napa. Besides, I’m not sure we kept that stuff.”

  “You mean you might not have?” said Sunny incredulously.

  “It’s possible. After the death warrant is issued we don’t have to keep the physical evidence around. We’d be up to our necks in garbage if we kept everything from every scene where somebody died.”

  “Well, could you check anyway? As a special favor for me?”

  “I’d be more motivated if I knew why you wanted to know.”

  “I have a theory I’d like to confirm.”

  “Which is?”

  “Too half-baked to come out with. But if I’m right, it might mean something.”

  “You’re a cryptic one, McCoskey.” He whistled to the dog, who froze in her tracks, looked back at him with apparent enthusiasm, and came running full bore. Steve greeted her with more pats and rubs while her tail whacked his legs. “Give me a call tomorrow and remind me. I’ll go over and have a look if it’s really that important.”

  “It might be.”

  “And if it will keep you from stalking me on my days off.”

  “It might.”

  He opened the door and got the dog situated, then closed it again. She barked and he put his open hand on the window to silence her. He looked back at Sunny. “Why don’t you just tell me what this is all about. You obviously have something on your mind.”

  “If it comes to anything you’ll be the first to know,” she said.

  They walked around to the other side of the truck and Steve got in. Sunny lingered by the door and he rolled down the window.

  “Did you notice how nobody seems to be too upset about Osborne’s death?” she said.

  “Single guy, plenty of bad habits.”

  “Still, it’s strange. Didn’t he have any close friends or family?”

  “No family has turned up yet, but it seems he had his share of friends. More than most, you might say.”

  “Such as?”

  “The guy who takes care of the wine at Vinifera, for one.”

  “You mean Remy Castels?”

  “Him, and Eliot Denby. They knew each other for years, ran a couple of businesses together. And there was that couple he had dinner with the night he died.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “I thought you knew everything, McCoskey. Your sources didn’t come through on that one?”

  “Very funny.”

  He grinned, obviously enjoying his remark. “The Rastburns. Pel and Sharon. Wine transplants from South Africa.”

  “What about a girlfriend?”

  “There are some women in the picture, but nobody I’d call a girlfriend. More like friends, but the kind wealthy bachelors have.”

  Steve pointed and Sunny turned to look. The last of a fiery sunset lit the sky. The ridge to the west was already in deep shadow. It would be dark in a few minutes.

  “One more thing,” she said. “Did you happen to check around to see who might benefit from Osborne’s death?”

  “Yep.”

  “And?”

  “Plenty of folks, particularly the IRS, but they’re usually pretty patient. If they started getting proactive we’d all be in trouble.”

  “Just the rich ones. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  “Can’t wait.”

  He started the engine and she went back to the sidewalk. Steve lifted his hand to her as he drove away.

  13

  St. Helena came and went as Sunny drove south on Highway 29, and with it her chance to go home. It was not so muc
h a conscious decision to pay Eliot Denby a visit as it was the force of momentum carrying her forward, whether she liked it or not. She scrolled through the incoming calls on her mobile while she drove into the deepening twilight, hoping the number would still be there. He’d called on Saturday morning to see that she had everything she needed for Night of Five Stars. There was only one number she didn’t recognize. She tried it and a moment later Eliot picked up sounding frazzled. She explained that she’d like to stop by the restaurant to talk with him if he could spare a moment.

  “Talk about what?” he asked.

  “I’d rather explain in person if that’s okay,” said Sunny.

  “Nothing serious, I hope. It’s not about the mushrooms, is it?”

  “No, nothing like that. It’s just that what I’d like to discuss is somewhat, well, delicate, and I think it will be easier face-to-face.”

  “I see. Then we’ll meet by all means. Tell Sofie at the host desk when you’re here and she can come get me.”

  Getting in and out of Vinifera without Andre knowing about it would be tricky. He would know if Nick knew, and it would be nearly impossible to get past Nick unseen if he was behind the bar. There would be no way to go up the stairs and along the catwalk to Eliot’s office without catching Nick’s attention.

  “I can be there in about ten minutes,” said Sunny. “Any chance I could buy you a drink across the street?”

  “You mean Bouchon? What’s the story, you don’t want to come in?”

  “It might be simpler to meet there.”

  “Sounds more complicated to me, but suit yourself. I’m easy. I’ll be at the bar in ten.”

  It was more like twenty, not that she minded. Eliot took off his jacket and adjusted the cuff links on his pale pink shirt before he shook her hand. He hadn’t shaved and a growth of beard darkened his cheeks, making him look slightly seedy and very masculine, as in a glossy Italian magazine advertisement. He was handsome if a bit gaunt, close to sixty, with a smile that snapped on and off like a light and a slender build that suited the well-tailored clothes he wore. His black hair was neatly styled and distinguished by a sprinkle of gray at the temples. He looked at his watch as he sat down, no doubt allotting a certain number of minutes to their meeting, thought Sunny. She was drinking a glass of Bonny Doon Le Cigare Volant. He ordered the same.

  “So, Ms. McCoskey, what can I do for you?” he said with subtle but evident annoyance.

  Sunny thanked him for meeting her on such short notice, then got right to the point. “I know you and Nathan Osborne were friends as well as business partners, so this may be a difficult question, but are you at all bothered by the circumstances of his death?”

  Eliot scowled. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

  “I mean, do you believe he died of natural causes like the police say?”

  “Why shouldn’t I? It wasn’t anything to do with the mushrooms, if that’s what you’re thinking. They checked and it wasn’t that, thank god.”

  “No, it’s not the mushrooms that bother me.”

  “What then?” He lifted his wineglass and chimed it against hers before he drank. “The coroner confirmed that Nathan died of a heart attack. Didn’t anyone tell you?”

  “They told me. It just doesn’t make sense, not entirely.”

  “What about it doesn’t make sense?”

  “Well, for one thing, isn’t it kind of sudden? He didn’t have a history of heart disease, did he?”

  “I don’t think he was ever diagnosed, but just because you don’t know you have a problem doesn’t mean you don’t have one. He fit the profile perfectly. All you had to do was look at him and you could see he was a heart attack waiting to happen. They might have been able to do something about it if he’d gone to the damn doctor, but he never went. In the thirty-eight years that I knew him, he never so much as set foot in a doctor’s office. He knew what they’d say, and he wasn’t about to quit doing the things he loved.”

  Eliot stopped, contemplating some point. He took pains tasting his wine, swirling and sniffing and examining the color assiduously as if a roomful of producers were awaiting his pronouncement. After a moment he said, “That’s Nathan for you. He wouldn’t listen to anybody about anything. Always thought he knew best. Anybody could see that he was overweight, drank way too much, and probably had a cholesterol count that would bring a healthy horse to its knees. I wouldn’t blink if someone told me Nathan had diabetes, an enlarged prostate, emphysema, gout, and who knows what else.”

  Sunny nodded encouragement to keep Eliot talking.

  “I tried to get him to exercise for years. Decades, actually. The last time I saw him break a sweat over anything more strenuous than a heavy meal, I was studying for finals and smoking reefer. He’d golf now and then, but that was about it, riding around in a cart. You didn’t know him, did you?”

  “No, I never even saw him. What was he like?”

  “Like Falstaff,” he said with a cagey smile, “only not as fun to have around. Is that what you wanted to talk to me about?”

  “More or less. I just thought you might have some insight into his character that would help explain how this could have happened. Nobody seems to have known him very well. It’s sort of sad that there weren’t more people close to him.”

  Eliot looked at her sternly. “That’s ridiculous, plenty of people knew him. And it’s not sad. In fact, it’s disrespectful to pity him, he wouldn’t have wanted it, especially from a stranger. Nathan died exactly as he would have wished. Well, that may not be entirely true. He probably would have wanted a more exotic death if he could have chosen, like falling out of a hot air balloon onto the front lawn at Beringer. But at least it was quick, painless, and unanticipated. Nathan lived the way he wanted to the very end, consequences be damned. He didn’t want to live a moderate life, and believe me, he wouldn’t have wanted to endure illness and old age. You might even say death did him a favor. It was merciful. We all wish he could have lived longer, but better too soon than too late in my view, and I’m reasonably certain Nathan would have agreed. It could have been much worse. He died well fed, at home, with his toes dipped in Château Marceline, for god’s sake.”

  That silenced them. Sunny stole a look at his face as he stared vacantly across the room, avoiding her glance. It was a challenge to reconcile the man in front of her with the elegant figure she’d met on Sunday afternoon. His appearance now was decidedly frayed, even disheveled. His skin had a wan, sleepless hue, and there was a sadness about his eyes, accentuated by the purplish tint of the skin underneath. He seemed to be taking Nathan’s death hard. He sighed and, as he did so, made a soft, involuntary whimper that he tried to cover by clearing his throat. She watched him turn away and wipe the corner of his eye brusquely with the edge of his hand. There was little she could do to assuage his sadness, other than silently give him permission to feel it. She was suddenly awash in remorse for having barged in on his evening, hitting him with a list of questions perfectly suited to pique his grief. The emotion welled up in her, too, encouraged by the wine on an empty stomach.

  “You two were close,” she said softly.

  “At times. A friendship that lasts as long as ours had ebbs and flows. He was like family, with all the good and bad that kind of closeness implies. You shouldn’t let yourself get too upset about it,” he said, turning on his smile long enough to punctuate the admonition with the outward sign of goodwill. “He lived better than just about anybody. I suppose it might look like a sad life to you, coming into it when you did, and his experience at Vinifera was not ideal. He never got along with Andre, and their bickering had alienated most of the staff. I think people felt they had to take sides. I have some guilt about that. I’m the one who insisted on keeping Andre, even though he was actively turning the staff against Nathan. It was a bad situation for both of them. I would have cut Andre in as a partner if it weren’t for Nathan. And Nathan wasn’t about to let himself get bought out.”

  “You tried?�
��

  “Andre did. At this point, Vinifera is more Andre’s vision than either mine or Nathan’s. He’s always wanted to own a piece of it.”

  “But Nathan wouldn’t do it.”

  “Nathan said there wasn’t enough profit to support three partners.”

  “And Andre knew that?”

  “Definitely. They fought about it more or less constantly. It’s all moot now, I guess. With Nathan gone, Andre will be able to become a partner. I’ve always believed a chef should have a stake in the business, no pun intended. In any case, the point is that Vinifera was a small part of Nathan’s life, which was otherwise full of successes and friendships. And girlfriends. I could never keep track. Nathan had plenty of people outside Vinifera who cared for him. I’m having dinner with two of them tonight, Pel and Sharon Rastburn. The four of us have been friends longer than Andre Morales has been alive.” He checked his watch. “In fact, I’d better get going or they’ll be waiting for me.”

  Eliot stood to go. There were still several questions Sunny wanted to ask. And she wanted to think of a way to get Eliot to introduce her to the Rastburns, the couple Nathan had dinner with the night he died. She swallowed a mouthful of fermented courage and forged ahead.

  “One more thing,” she said. “What do you make of the bottle of wine that was broken?”

  “What about it?”

  “How do you think it got there?”

  “Isn’t it obvious? Nathan dropped it when he began to have chest pains.”

  “But Nick said he could tell that Nathan had been on the floor already when it was dropped. He could tell by the splash marks.”

  “Nick Ambrosi, bartender, is now Nick Ambrosi, crime scene analyst? I politely submit that Nick has so idea what he’s talking about.”

  “What about the missing bottle?”

  “You’re just full of questions.”

  “Do you have a theory?”

  “I don’t think it’s too difficult to imagine an explanation.”

  “Such as?”

  “You’re really concerned about all this. Nathan would be flattered.”

  His smug manner was beginning to irritate her. “If you have a theory, I’d love to hear it,” she said.