by Emma Belmont
Maris looked at her, and then at Charlie, who seemed as pleased as Rosamel was surprised. He grinned back at her, his blue eyes sparkling. “Think he’ll like it?”
Maris took a closer look at the bottle. Dusty in spots, its label was yellowed with age as well as stained. The red foil covering the cork was wrinkled. But then she saw the year of the vintage: 1947. Her eyebrows rose.
“Father is going to go absolutely nuts,” Rosamel gushed. “A Cheval Blanc 1947 St-Emilion? I don’t think he’s ever seen one.”
Charlie nodded. “Good. Because today he’s going to taste one.”
Rosamel’s mouth dropped open. “You’re going to open it?”
“A little gift,” the young man said. “From me to the finest vintner I’ve ever met, not to mention the man’s amazing palate. I can’t think of anyone who’d appreciate it more.”
A winery employee came up behind Charlie. “Mr. Gorian,” the man said. “Mr. Alegra will see you now.”
Charlie downed the rest of his glass. “Excellent.” He put the aged bottle back in the tote bag. “Good to see you, Maris.” He winked at Rosamel. “I’ll be back.”
As they watched him depart, Rosamel gave a low whistle. “That’s going to knock Father’s socks off.”
“I take it that’s a well known wine?” Maris asked.
Rosamel took a deep breath. “I’d say legendary. At auction, it’d easily go for a cool $25,000.”
Maris had to do a double take. “That bottle? The one he’s just carrying around in a tote bag?”
“Yep,” the young woman answered, still watching Charlie as he disappeared through a door at the other end of the room. “A rare and exceptional Bordeaux, to say the least.” She moved Maris’s glass closer to her. “I’d say he’s really intent on getting the new release, as if I didn’t already know that.”
Maris stared at her. “Charlie Gorian is your wine investor?”
“Yep,” Rosamel replied.
“He’s so young,” Maris whispered.
“Started tasting and collecting when he was in college,” Rosamel said. She fetched a notepad and pencil from a small wooden box on the counter. “Wine is how he made his millions.”
Maris took the tasting notes pad, but paused. “He made his fortune in wine?” She picked up her glass. “I didn’t know such a thing was possible.”
Rosamel smiled and gave her a little shrug. “I guess it is now.”
As Maris tasted the chardonnay, she made a few notes. It had a citrusy flavor that was on the bright side. She could easily imagine it paired with a semi-soft and mild goat cheese. When she finished, she said to Rosamel, “Charlie was right. That was most definitely worth tasting. Really wonderful.”
“Thank you,” Rosamel said. “A gold medal winner that year.”
Maris had already noted from the young woman’s conversation with Charlie that this particular vintage was no longer available, but it was nice to taste just for the sake of comparison.
Rosamel leaned in. “I might be able to find you a bottle,” she whispered.
Maris smiled at her. “That would be terrific.”
Rosamel nodded. “I’ll be right back.” She pulled over a tray of pretzel sticks and mustard before she turned and headed to the other end of the counter and then out through a back door.
As Maris dipped a pretzel into the brown mustard, so full of seeds that the pretzel could stand in it, her cell phone rang. She fetched it from her purse and saw that Cookie was calling. Sometimes the chef of the B&B would add something to Maris’s shopping list while she was out. But since the wine and cheese hour was Maris’s purview, Cookie rarely had any requests when it came to the wine. Maris frowned a little as she answered.
“Cookie,” Maris said into the phone, “I didn’t leave the trash in the hallway, did I?”
“No,” said the chef. “I wouldn’t have called about trash.” There was a pause. “It’s Claribel.”
Maris went still. The lighthouse, also affectionately known as the Old Girl, was a magical being whose name was Claribel. In her hundred-plus years of service, her beam had never once failed. Even the fire in the conical tower hadn’t stopped her.
“What happened?” Maris asked, already finding her keys.
“She’s blinking,” Cookie told her. “In a southerly direction.”
Blinking, Maris thought. The only time she’d seen that was when she’d been at an art gala in the Towne Plaza. An art critic had later been found murdered. Here at the winery, there was no direct line of sight to the lighthouse, nor did Maris think the beam would be visible at this distance.
“She’s blinking?” Maris asked. “Here?”
“Yes,” Cookie said. “I was out in the greenhouse and saw the beam go on and off. I just wanted to make sure you were all right.” There was silence again. “So, are you?”
“Oh yes,” Maris quickly assured her. “Just tasting wine and making notes.” She glanced around the room. The happy visitors were enjoying the wine and food, and nothing seemed at all amiss. “Everything here is fine.”
“All right,” Cookie said, sounding relieved. “Just make sure it stays that way.”
Maris smiled. “Will do. I’ll be leaving soon.”
“Good,” the chef said. “I’ll see you for lunch.”
As Maris hung up, she thought about the crushing room. Though father and son had certainly been at odds, Claribel wouldn’t have signaled for that. No, her warnings were about life or death. Maris glanced around the tasting room again. Everyone here seemed happy. She gazed out one of the windows. A wink from the Old Girl toward the south covered a lot of ground.
“Everything all right?” Rosamel asked.
Maris turned to find that the young woman had reappeared carrying two bottles of wine. She set them down on the counter. But before Maris could say anything, the same man who’d come to fetch Charlie ran into the tasting room and directly to Rosamel. Most of the conversations in the room stopped as he dashed past them.
Rosamel frowned and stared at him. “What is it?”
The man was breathing hard and tried to swallow. “It’s Dominic,” he gasped.
Rosamel stared at him. “Father?”
The man nodded repeatedly, his face pale and sweaty. “Yes, yes, your father.” He tried to swallow again and Maris almost poured him some wine. He grasped the edge of the counter with both hands, and looked Rosamel in the eye. “In Cellar 14. I think he’s dead.”
4
As Rosamel sprinted through the tasting room, Maris ran after her. They hurtled down into the arched brick corridors of the winery’s vast and labyrinthine storage rooms. Chamber after chamber of barrels and bottles, stacked floor to ceiling, flew past until Maris finally saw the room numbers—twelve, thirteen, fourteen. Rosamel came to such an abrupt stop that Maris nearly ran into her back.
“Father?” the young woman gasped.
Over her shoulder, Maris could see the man. He was sprawled face down on the stone floor with what looked like a wound to the back of his head. Without thinking, Maris pushed past her into the room and then put a restraining arm in front of her.
“Stay here,” she said.
Maris ran to Dominic Alegra’s side, knelt, and put two fingers to his neck, just under the jaw.
Nothing.
She moved her hand slightly, and tried again.
“Father?” Rosamel whispered.
Maris tried one more time, repositioning her fingers, but there was no pulse. Nor was he breathing. The only thing she felt was her stomach plummeting. Dominic Alegra was dead.
Careful not to disturb the body—and averting her eyes from the back of his head—Maris stood and backed away. When she turned to Rosamel, the young woman’s hands were clasped over her mouth and her big watery eyes stared into hers.
Maris slowly shook her head.
“No!” Rosamel shrieked, and started toward the body with her arms outstretched. “Father!”
But Maris easily intercepted her.
“Rosamel,” she said, “don’t look. Please.” She held the shorter woman back, even as she burst into sobs. “I’m sorry,” Maris said, hugging her.
For several moments, it was all that Maris could do not to sob herself. Such a sudden death was a shock to the system, and the last thing she would have anticipated. But as Rosamel’s whole body shuddered with the intense crying and gasping for breath, Maris did her best to comfort her. Only then did she finally realize where they were: underground.
A freezing cold shiver of fear shot down her back.
She’d run after the young woman without thinking. They’d run down countless corridors, turning this way and that. It hadn’t occurred to her that they were going beneath the surface of the ground. There wasn’t a window for many yards in any direction.
Maris kicked herself. Of course wine was stored in subterranean cellars. That’s where the temperature was cool and stable. But it was also where her claustrophobia kicked in.
She broke out in a sweat.
It’s not an elevator, she said to herself. It’s not an elevator.
Being trapped in one for hours had created her fear of enclosed spaces—all those years ago. Since then, she’d managed to pick and choose the places that might trigger a response, mostly choosing to stay away. Now was definitely not the time for a full-blown claustrophobia attack.
Rubbing the young woman’s back, she said, “Rosamel, we need to call the police.”
But the poor thing couldn’t stop sobbing. Maris wasn’t even sure that she’d been heard, but she could hardly blame her. The death of her father was dreadful in itself, but the scene in the cellar was unnerving. But as Maris waited for the young woman’s weeping to subside, a familiar anxiety began to build in her chest. If she hadn’t been steadily working on searching through the B&B’s basement, she’d likely have run from the room already. She was doing well but she couldn’t wait forever.
“Rosamel,” she said gently, grasping her by the shoulders and separating from her. “Listen to me. We need to call the police because…I think your father might have been killed.”
The young woman’s eyes widened and she stared at her. “Killed?” she managed to say through her tears. She swiped at her eyes and looked over to where her father lay.
Maris turned her away from the sight. “Yes,” she said firmly. Rosamel was bringing her crying under control. “We need to get the police here as quickly as possible.”
“Killed?” she said, as though the word didn’t make any sense.
“I hope I’m wrong,” Maris told her. “But if I’m not, then every second counts. We’ve got to call the police.”
“The police,” Rosamel echoed. She sniffed and swiped at her eyes again, as she took her cell phone from her back pocket. “No service.” She looked up at Maris. “Not down here.”
“Then we have to go up,” Maris said, guiding her toward the door. Only then did she realize that two winery employees stood just outside the doorway, both wide-eyed and staring at the body: a young woman that Maris didn’t recognize and the pasty-faced man who had come to tell Rosamel what he’d found. “Everyone out,” Maris said to him. “Clear everyone out of the cellars.” To the woman she said, “Call the police. Tell them there’s been a murder.”
5
Maris waited on a bench next to the large circular drive of the winery. The mid-morning sun was a brilliant, bright yellow, and a light breeze wafted through the colorful plantings that lined the curved sidewalk. The mission style architecture of the winery gave it a rustic and historic feel, with its terra cotta walls, red tile roofs, and even a bell tower. But Maris knew that it had been designed from the ground up with every modern convenience and the latest technology, including a state-of-the-art restaurant that was often used to host wedding receptions and corporate events.
Arms stretched out along the bench’s back, she closed her eyes and lifted her face to the sky, soaking up the warm rays. The experience of light and air helped to dispel the last of the lingering tension from her brush with an unexpected enclosed space. She took in a deep breath that carried with it a hint of lavender from the flower borders, and Maris used it to focus. In moments, the authorities would arrive and she would lead them back down to the cellar. Now was her chance to replenish the feeling of being outside and without bounds. As though she could store it, she inhaled deeply again and slowly let the breath go—just as a siren in the distance alerted her to Mac’s arrival.
Slowly she opened her eyes. The sheriff’s white SUV turned the corner into the circular drive, followed by the coroner’s van. The siren died and Maris stood up, smoothing out her skirt. Both of the vehicles parked at the top of the circle, directly in front of her. She could already see the sheriff’s surprised look.
“Maris,” he said, as he got out. “I didn’t expect you here.”
Sheriff Daniel “Mac” McKenna was tall and moved with the easy grace of an athlete. His slate gray eyes focused on her as he came around the car.
“I didn’t expect to be greeting you here either,” she said, smiling. “But here we are.”
He mounted the curb and stood in front of her. As usual, his khaki and brown uniform was perfectly pressed, and the gold sheriff’s badge glittered on the breast pocket.
He smiled back at her. “Here we are indeed.” He glanced at the winery. “Buying wine?”
She nodded. “Exactly. I was here making my usual purchase for the B&B, and also getting a tour of the harvest operations.”
“Did you discover the body?”
“No. One of the employees did. I just happened to be with the deceased’s daughter when she got the news.”
The coroner joined them, a man that Maris recognized but had never met. His young male assistant trailed behind.
“Mr. Voight,” Mac said to the coroner. “May I introduce Maris Seaver? She’s the owner of the Pixie Point Bay Lighthouse and B&B.”
Voight looked to be in his early fifties, his jet black hair graying only a little at the temples, but with deep furrows in his forehead and around his mouth. His piercing dark eyes appraised her.
Although Maris smiled and held out her hand, the man ignored it. “No, you may not,” he said to Mac. “I understand there’s a body.”
Maris’s smile vanished and she dropped her hand. Mac gave the man a raised eyebrow, and the assistant in back of the coroner rolled his eyes.
“You understand correctly,” the sheriff replied coolly. “Maris will be showing us the way.”
The coroner looked at her, his expression bland. “Then show us.”
Feeling heat rise to her cheeks, Maris turned on her heel and strode off, not bothering to see if they were following. Mac trotted to get ahead of her and opened the front door to the winery. She led them directly into the tasting room, where a few visitors were still milling and being served by the winery staff. As though she were leading a parade, Maris marched through, with Mac once again opening the door in front of her that led to the cellars. The floor immediately began to slope downward, but she ignored that and focused instead on her anger. She heard the footsteps behind her echoing from the vault of arched bricks as she silently seethed and counted off the cellar numbers. Finally at number fourteen, she simply stepped aside and gestured to the interior.
Mac gave her a little smile as they entered. Mr. Voight followed him, staring straight ahead. His assistant gave her a sheepish grin, before disappearing inside. She followed, a few paces behind.
“Maris,” Mac said, as the coroner bent over Dominic Alegra. “Has the body been disturbed?”
She shook her head. “Not to my knowledge. Rosamel and I rushed…down here as soon as she received word.”
Though she’d stumbled on the word ‘down’, she was determined not to dwell on it. Instead she focused on the coroner and his assistant. While Voight crouched next to the body, the young man took something that looked like an oversized digital thermometer from the toolbox he had opened.
“Blunt force trauma
to the back of the head,” Voight said.
At that moment, there was a noise behind Maris. She turned to see the forensics team enter—the same two women who had investigated Reggie Atkinson’s death. They politely nodded to her as they went by.
“Estimate for the time of death?” Mac asked the coroner.
He looked up from his notepad. His assistant showed him the digital readout, and the coroner noted it down. He scribbled something quick. “One to two hours.” He looked up at the sheriff and pointed to the back of Dominic’s head. “I’ll know more after the autopsy, but I can tell you right now that wound appears to be concave.”
“Curved inward?” Mac said, stepping closer for a look.
The coroner indicated the rows upon rows of bottles.
As the various investigators went about their jobs, Maris unfortunately had a moment to reflect. She’d moved further into the cellar than she’d realized. Silently, she took a small step backward, then another. Though the room was cavernous, it was darker than she remembered. Though she called up the memory of being outside and the smell of lavender, it didn’t do much to alleviate the slowly rising tide of uneasiness that was beginning in the pit of her stomach.
Maris was thinking of excusing herself when the older of the two forensic investigators said, “Sheriff, take a look at this.”
She motioned him over to a red stain on the floor. Maris grimaced at it as Mac crouched down, examining it closely. “What is it?”
“Wine,” the investigator said, and Maris breathed a sigh of relief. “Not too surprising given the surroundings, but this spill is fresh.”
She had gestured to the large wooden shelves that surrounded the entire room. Each one was filled with dark green bottles that sat in holders at a slant. In fact, as she took a moment to try and calmly observe, she saw that the room extended at least a hundred feet to the right, with many rows of similar shelves retreating into the distance, under more dim lights.
Dominic Allegra was lying near a couple of upright barrels that were in the middle of a clear expanse on the stone floor. Unlike the rest of the cellar, bright modern lighting hung from the ceiling casting a wide spotlight around him. There were four wine glasses on the one barrel, and a clipboard with paper on the other, as though they were used as tables. Though the rising anxiety of the enclosed space had begun to tighten in her chest, Maris looked at the four glasses, each of which had just a hint of red wine in its bottom.
