by Emma Belmont
The Witch Who Tasted Murder
Pixie Point Bay Book 5
Emma Belmont
Contents
EMMA ONLINE
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
Sneak Peek
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Copyright
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1
If only Maris Seaver’s guests knew what she had to endure for the sake of wine. It was too warm; it was crowded; and it was loud. Somehow the idyllic scene she’d envisioned for the fall harvest of Alegra Winery’s Zinfandel crop had not included heavy machinery. Her companion, Rosamel Alegra, had to raise her voice to be heard above the din.
“These were on the vine not thirty minutes ago,” the young woman said, pointing to one of the many large plastic containers. It was heaped high and overflowing with long bunches of dusky purple grapes.
Maris guessed that Rosamel was in her late twenties. Olive skinned and short, she wore her long and tightly curled hair in a dark cascade around her shoulders and down her back.
Where she was pointing, a forklift raised the container up some twenty feet in the air, then rolled over to park next to a machine that looked like an enormous cigar. It had to be ten feet long, with a V-shaped hopper at the top. As they watched, the operator rotated the full container in midair, tipping its juicy contents into the big metal V. Hundreds of bunches of grapes, along with some leaves and stems, fell into the machine. Although some of the fruit managed to escape by clinging to the container before falling to the floor, no one paused to pick it up. The forklift was already backing away for the next batch. The pace was almost manic.
Rosamel leaned in and put her mouth near Maris’s ear. “That’s the crusher,” she said.
A couple of men in rubber aprons and boots quickly adjusted the location of the enormous metal pan underneath it. Though the aroma of freshly picked fruit was thick, the wide waterfall of juice that now splashed into the pan filled the air with a new scent that was sweet and spicy at the same time.
“Amazing,” Maris said, almost shouting. “From the vineyard to juice in under an hour.”
Rosamel nodded. “Let’s step outside.” She pointed to the front of the cement room and headed that way.
Maris followed her through the cavernous opening into the dirt yard just beyond. Outside, the vineyard proper was only yards away. Acres upon acres of vines spread out in every direction. On what had to be one of the last warm days of the season, the sun blazed down from a powder blue sky to the heated soil.
As she and Rosamel neared the immaculate rows of plants, the young woman came to a stop and turned back to the winery. The bustle of the harvest was finally far enough away to talk.
“We do the sorting out here,” she said, pointing to a conveyor belt.
A half-dozen men and women stood on either side of it, hands and arms flying, picking out mostly twigs and clumps of leaves, but also the occasional cluster of grapes. They simply tossed the unwanted material to the ground. The fruit that made it through sorting was dumped by the conveyor belt into one of the large containers at the end. On the other end of the belt, a small tractor brought over a long cart full of stacked crates. As Maris watched, the forklift went to work again, lifting each crate and dumping it on the moving belt.
“It’s not what you thought,” Rosamel said. “Is it.”
Maris had to laugh. “Not quite.” Images of plump peasants in bare feet who were happily stomping grapes in giant wooden vats would have to be banished.
“It’s a business,” the young woman said.
“And quite a successful one,” Maris observed, “judging by the number of employees.” There had to be twenty or thirty people sorting and crushing. She gazed out to the rolling vineyard with its lush green plants as far as the eye could see. Who knows how many more people were in the fields?
Now it was Rosamel’s turn to laugh. “A lot of these wonderful folks are volunteers.”
Maris frowned and looked at her, and then at the sorters. They were sweaty and filthy and working a mile a minute. “You’re kidding.”
Rosamel shook her head, smiling. “Nope. It’s a time-honored tradition. We’ll be feeding them and I can guarantee you that the wine will flow.” She nodded toward the conveyor belt. “We’ve got volunteers who’ve been with us for ten years running.” The young woman crooked up one dark eyebrow. “It helps when you win awards.”
“Ah,” Maris said, nodding. In essence, that was also why she was here. Alegra Winery had been producing gold medal winners since their first release ten years ago. She had made them a staple at the B&B, her go-to wine, which was the reason for her visit today. She bought by the case. “It would seem that nothing succeeds like success.”
Yet something about Rosamel and the winery’s amazing achievements felt like more than know-how and elbow grease. If Maris wasn’t mistaken, something a bit magical might be at work as well.
Rosamel lowered her voice. “We even have a buyer for this year’s releases.”
Maris regarded her. “A buyer?”
The young woman nodded, her mass of dark curls bobbing. “He wants the entire release.”
Maris stared at her. “Wait. Are you saying he wants to buy everything?” She glanced at the conveyor belt and all the containers waiting to be poured onto it. “And it has yet to be made into wine?”
Rosamel grinned at her. “You’ve got it.”
“Every varietal?” Maris asked, still trying to wrap her head around a purchase of that size. She gestured to the scene in front of them and then the surrounding vines.
“The entire release,” Rosamel confirmed.
Maris’s eyebrows rose as she went through the numbers in her head. Hundreds, maybe thousands, of bottles of wine that were yet to be made were already spoken for. It had to be hundreds of thousands of dollars worth of wine.
“A single buyer wants it all?” Maris asked, still a bit incredulous. “Even if you drink a bottle every…”
Rosamel shook her head quickly. “Oh no. I’m sure he’ll sample it, of course. But it’s an investment. He’ll sit on it for…who knows how long.” She lifted her shoulders and hands. “Ten years? Twenty? Fifty?” She crossed her arms over her chest, watching the volunteers sorting. Another giant container of grapes was dumped on the belt. “He’ll let go of a few cases here, a few cases there, a few at auction.”
“Wow,” Maris said. It was like buying artwork, or maybe stocks.
“It’s an investment,” Rosamel said again, “and a smart one, even if I do say so myself.” She gave Maris a little elbow. “But don’t worry. I’m going to set aside your usual purchase at your usual price. The deal hasn’t been cinched yet.”
Maris’s eyes widened. “Thank you. I appreciate that.”
The young woman nodded t
o her. “You’re very welcome. We local folk gotta stick together.” She glanced back to the winery. “Speaking of which, shall we go back to the tasting room? I’m sure today’s purchase will be ready by now.”
As they headed back toward the crushing room, Maris said, “Thank you very much for the tour as well—especially at this busy time of year. It’s been incredibly interesting.”
Rosamel waved a hand. “My busy time is over, thank goodness. Now that the harvest is almost all in, it’s up to my father to make the wine. He’s the one who’ll–”
Despite the cacophony of the machinery, loud voices rose above it. When Maris looked over, a young man at the crusher was being grabbed from behind by an older man, who had him by the collar.
“Oh no,” Rosamel muttered, heading in their direction.
2
Maris quickly followed Rosamel as she trotted over to the two tall men, even as the other workers backed away. The forklift operator pulled up short of the crusher in order to keep from hitting the older man, who was dragging the younger one backward. Without another trough of grapes to crush, someone turned off the loud machine.
“Harlan!” Rosamel shouted.
The younger of the two men looked over at her immediately, followed by a glare from the older man. “She knows your name?” he demanded.
Not only tall but obviously fit, Maris had no doubt that the bearded younger man could have easily deflected his attacker, and yet he didn’t. In fact, it seemed he was taking care not to hurt the older man. As Rosamel neared them, he simply peeled the older man’s fingers from the back of his collar.
“Harlan,” Rosamel said, “what are you doing here?”
The young bearded man put his arm across the older man’s chest, holding him back. “Isn’t it obvious?” he said, smiling at her. “I’m helping with the harvest.”
“You’re what?” both she and the older man said.
“We have our own harvest!” the man shouted, and Maris heard just the tinge of a German accent. “What is the matter with you?” He slapped the back of Harlan’s head, making Maris blink. One of the workers gasped. Rosamel shrieked just a tiny bit and covered her mouth.
But Harlan seemed not to have noticed as he continued to smile at her. “Rosamel, I’d like you to meet my father, Friedrich Krone.” Harlan looked over his shoulder. “Father, this is Rosamel Alegra.”
Some of the surrounding workers repeated the man’s last name in hushed whispers—and Maris knew why. Friedrich Krone was the owner of the nearby Crown Winery, the first winery established in the region. Though Maris had heard of him, she’d never seen him. But as she gazed at the two men now, she could see the resemblance. Though Friedrich was thicker around the middle and only wore a mustache, she could see traces of his auburn hair among the white. It was exactly the same color as Harlan’s. Both men were equally tall, but they clearly shared another characteristic, the ice blue eyes.
“Your father?” Rosamel said, looking between the two men.
Maris heard the conveyor belt outside fall silent, as some of the volunteers peeked inside the crushing room. Rosamel stared open mouthed at Friedrich, as he gaped back at her.
Harlan looked over his shoulder. “It’d be polite to say hello.”
His father’s mouth turned down as he scowled at his son. But when he glanced back at Rosamel, his brows slowly rose. “All these months,” he said, as understanding seemed to dawn. “Now I see why you have been sneaking around.”
Despite her olive skin, Rosamel decidedly blushed. Then she glared at Harlan. “Why didn’t you tell me you were volunteering?”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Friedrich yelled. The older man grabbed him by the collar again. “Volunteering for the enemy,” he grumbled, tugging him backward.
The enemy, Maris thought. For decades Crown Winery had enjoyed an uncontested pre-eminence in the area. But not only had their holdings been dwarfed by those of Alegra, their sales had as well. Although Maris hated to see one of the older businesses in the area falling behind and fading away, she had to admit that she liked the Alegra wines more. Not only that, but she had the comfort of her guests and the reputation of her B&B to consider. As with all things related to her property, she had to give it her best effort. No one had ever complained that the wine she served at the evening wine and cheese was too good.
Friedrich tugged on his son’s collar. This time Harlan didn’t resist. As he walked backward, he gave Rosamel one more smile and a little shrug. But in return, she gave him a bleak and pained look. As father and son disappeared around the corner, Maris found herself watching Rosamel, along with everyone else. It took her a few moments to realize she had their undivided attention.
The young woman cleared her throat. “The grapes aren’t going to crush themselves,” she said, her voice strained.
Although several of the outside volunteers exchanged looks, someone started the conveyor belt again. The forklift operator continued on to the crusher, and someone turned it on. Maris quickly covered her ears.
Rosamel turned to her and shouted, “Let’s go see about your wine.”
3
As Maris followed Rosamel back into the winery, she couldn’t help but wonder about Harlan Krone and his helping a rival winery at harvest time. His father had obviously been upset, and both he and Rosamel had clearly been surprised. Though Maris would have liked to have questioned the young woman about him, her quick stride, stiff back, and sudden silence made it clear she wasn’t in the mood for talk. As they made their way back up the arched brick tunnel, Maris almost had to trot to keep up. Though they passed other winery employees as they emerged from the branching passages, Rosamel didn’t greet them as she had earlier. Instead, she seemed to be trying to melt the floor with her glare.
“Thank you for the behind-the-scenes peek,” Maris finally said. “It was very kind of you to take the time.”
As though she’d just remembered that Maris was there, Rosamel jumped a little but recovered quickly. “Totally my pleasure,” she said, mustering a smile. “It’s busy, but that’s what makes it a good time for a tour. Otherwise we’d just be looking at barrels.”
Back in the wine tasting room, the crowd had grown considerably. Several of the staff in their long-sleeve, button-down winery shirts, were busy pouring samples for the happy visitors. Plenty of snacks were on hand as well: pretzel sticks next to jars of mustard; slices of cheese next to water crackers; bagel chips accompanied by a lox and whipped cream cheese spread. In her twenty-five years in the hospitality business, Maris had visited many tasting rooms, but Alegra Winery’s was particularly generous. Certainly they could afford it, but Maris also knew that it paid off in two ways. Not only was the tasting room known for its food, it helped the visitors not to imbibe on an empty stomach.
Of course, the star attractions of the room were the long wooden tasting counters. The tops, built on wine barrels, gleamed with a high polish. There was, however, no place to sit, undoubtedly by design.
“Here we go,” the young woman said as they approached the large counter at the end of the room. Two cases of wine marked with Maris’s name sat just in front of it. “Your wine is ready.” Rosamel rounded the end of the counter to stand behind it. “I’ll have someone take that to your car. But before that, what can I pour for you?”
“Try the chardonnay,” said someone at the counter next to her.
Maris turned and recognized the young man, though they hadn’t had much opportunity to talk. “Mr. Gorian,” Maris said smiling. “How nice to see you here.”
Tall, blonde, blue-eyed, and immaculately groomed, Charles Gorian was the image of young success. Maris put his age at thirty and his wealth somewhere in the hundreds of millions. Today’s gray suit with royal blue shirt and matching tie were as dapper and well tailored as yesterday’s. No doubt his fire-engine red Bentley SUV was parked outside. Although Maris had recognized his Rolex, she’d never known that Bentley even made an SUV.
Rosamel put a white
wine glass on the counter in front of Maris. “Charlie, I didn’t know that you knew Maris.”
Charlie flashed his brilliant white smile. “We’ve only just met. I’m staying at her lovely B&B.” He raised his wine glass to Maris. “And please call me Charlie.”
“How kind of you to say, Charlie,” Maris said, as Rosamel poured the chardonnay. She pointedly looked at his glass. “You’ve already discovered one of the treasures of Pixie Point Bay.”
Charlie laughed a little, a warm and pleasant sound. “Oh I discovered Alegra Winery some time ago.” He swirled the wine in his glass, brought it to his nose, and inhaled deeply. “It’s the reason I’m visiting the area.” He took a sip, swishing it around in his mouth before swallowing. Then he eyed his glass. “The 2015? I didn’t think there was any left?”
Rosamel took on an overly cagey look, and shifted her eyes from side to side before regarding him. “If you’re interested, I might know a guy who knows a guy.”
Charlie laughed. “I need to know that guy.” He lifted a tote bag from the floor near his feet. “In fact, I’ve brought that guy a little gift.” He set his glass down and, with a bit of a flourish, brought out…a bottle of wine.
Maris cocked her head at it. Charlie had brought a gift of wine to a winery? Wouldn’t that be the last thing that–
“Oh my goodness,” Rosamel gasped. “I can’t believe it.”
