by Emma Belmont
“No worries,” Charlie said. He grabbed his clothes off the chair and tossed them on his open suitcase. “Would you care to have a seat?”
The sheriff put the fingerprint kit on the dresser. “No, thanks,” he said, taking out his notepad.
“I’m fine,” Maris said.
Charlie stood as well. “You said you had some bad news?” He looked between the two of them, his brow creased.
“Yes,” Mac said. “Earlier today, Dominic Alegra was found dead.”
As usual, Mac had provided the minimum of information and Maris also noted how closely he was watching Charlie. But the young man’s reaction amounted to…nothing. Instead, he simply looked at Mac, and then at her, his face blank.
But as she watched, his brows slowly drew together.
“Dominic,” Charlie said, nodding slowly and just once. “Alegra,” he said, drawing out the syllables. His eyebrows flew up, and he staggered back a pace. “Dominic Alegra?” The color drained from his face. “Dominic Alegra?”
Before he fell down, Mac quickly stepped forward, took him by the arm, and sat him down in the chair. Maris went to the bathroom, filled a glass with some water, and brought it back.
“Impossible,” the young man muttered. His blue eyes searched Mac’s face. “But that can’t be.” Though Maris held out the water to him, he didn’t seem to see it. “Is this some sort of joke?” he demanded. He shot to his feet, but teetered. “If this is some kind of joke–”
“I can assure you, Mr. Gorian,” Mac said sternly, “I did not drive out here for the sake of a joke. Dominic Alegra is dead.”
Like a marionette whose strings had been cut, he sat right back down.
“Drink this,” Maris told him.
He blinked up at her, and then down at the glass. He took it in both shaking hands, and managed to drink some. Then he set the trembling glass in his lap. He shook his head and stared down into the water.
“I can’t believe this,” he whispered. “I was just with him.” Then he jerked his head up, staring at her. “What happened?”
Maris looked at Mac, who said, “He died under suspicious circumstances. But you say you were with him?”
“Suspicious…?” Charlie whispered.
“What time was that?” Mac asked.
The young man stared at him. “I don’t know,” he said faintly, then cleared his throat. “It was this morning. I had an appointment at ten, but he was running late.” He thought for a moment, then looked at Maris, pointing at her. “You were there. I saw you in the tasting room.” He looked at the sheriff. “She was there.”
“Right,” Maris said to Mac. “But I didn’t note the time.”
“It had to be a little after ten,” Charlie said. “I didn’t have to wait long.”
Mac jotted down a note. “What was the nature of your meeting?”
“I was there to buy wine,” he said, his voice a bit more firm. “We were finalizing the deal.”
“And did you?” Mac ask.
“Finalize the deal?” the young man asked. Then his face fell. “Only on a handshake.”
“Tell me about your meeting,” Mac said. “Be as detailed as you can.”
Charlie took a deep breath. “Well, I went down to the cellar—I don’t remember which one—and met him there. He was logging some observations when I came in.” Charlie paused for a moment, then nodded to himself. “I talked about purchasing this year’s release and we went back and forth on price.” He shrugged. “But not much. We both knew what it was worth. After we shook on it, I brought out the 47 St-Emilion.” He smiled a little at Maris. “I showed it to you in the tasting room.”
“Yes, you did,” Maris agreed. “Did you open it?”
Charlie scoffed. “He could hardly wait.” Then he grinned a bit sheepishly. “Well, really, neither of us could.” He paused again, as if savoring that moment. “It was exquisite. We’d just had our first sip when Friedrich Krone barged in.”
“Friedrich Krone?” Mac asked.
“The owner of Crown Winery,” Charlie told him. “He was spitting mad about something.”
Maris recalled how upset Rosamel had been about him in the crushing room.
“And then what happened?” Mac asked.
Charlie shook his head and shrugged. “He saw the 47 St-Emilion and stopped in his tracks. It’s a once-in-a-lifetime bottle. We all knew it.” Then he looked from Mac to Maris and back again. “But let me tell you what an amazing man Dom was. He actually offered Friedrich a glass.” He looked at them both again. “Can you believe it?” It sounded like Charlie was the one who couldn’t believe it. “It was an amazing moment. Everything I’d ever heard about it was right.” He smiled sadly as he gazed down at his glass of water. “I’m glad Dom got to taste it.”
“And where is that bottle now?” Mac asked.
Charlie gazed up at him, with a little smirk. “He let Friedrich take the last of it.” He shook his head slowly. “What a class act, what an amazing vintner, and what an incredible palate.”
“So Friedrich Krone barges in on your meeting,” the sheriff said, “apparently angry about something, but then has a glass of wine and leaves with the bottle?”
Charlie nodded. “That’s what a 47 St-Emilion will do to you.” Mac frowned a little as he made a note, which Charlie apparently saw. “Ask Friedrich. He’ll tell you the exact same thing.” He glanced at Maris and then back to the sheriff. “If there’s one thing that vintners can come together about, it’s wine.”
“How much longer were you there?” Mac asked.
“Not long at all,” Charlie said. “We were done, the St-Emilion was gone, and Dom was busy. I left a few minutes after Friedrich.”
“And about what time was that?” the sheriff said.
Charlie paused for a few moments before grimacing and shaking his head. “I really don’t know. I’m not very good with time.”
Mac nodded. “When you left the winery, where did you go?”
The young man looked at his bed. “I came right here,” he said. “I think that big guy in the overalls saw me.”
“That would be Bear,” Maris said. “Bear Orsino is our handyman,” she said to Mac.
Charlie sat back in the chair. “I still can’t believe it.”
“Just one more thing,” Mac said, putting away his notepad. He picked up the fingerprint kit he’d set on the dresser. “I’ll need to get your fingerprints.”
Now the young man sat forward again. “Mine?”
Mac nodded, removing the card and pad. “Just standard operating procedure, Mr. Gorian. If you don’t mind, that is?” When Charlie shook his head, Mac set the card on the dresser. “If you could come stand here, please.”
For the next few minutes, Charlie watched in seeming disbelief as the sheriff took his prints. When he was done, Mac gave him a business card with the usual request for any more information.
“Also, if you could stay in the vicinity until I’ve completed my investigation,” Mac said, “that’d be appreciated.”
Maris already knew that Charlie was booked for an extended weekend.
“I can do that,” Charlie said, but then paused. “As long as it’s not too long?”
Mac nodded. “That’s my goal.”
8
Back downstairs, Maris said, “Mac, if you have a moment, would you care to join me for a cup of coffee in the back?” She glanced at the ceiling and lowered her voice. “It’s more private.”
“Sure,” the sheriff said. “That sounds good.”
“I’ll meet you out there,” she said, smiling.
In the kitchen, she filled a cup from the vacuum carafe, put it on a saucer, and skipped the creamer and sugar. Mac took his coffee black. When she came out onto the porch, he took the coffee from her.
“Smells great,” he said. “Thanks.” He took a sip. “Ah, perfect as always.” He turned to the herb garden where Bear was helping Cookie bring a tray of small plantings from the greenhouse to her garden. “I s
ee you’ve made an addition,” he said pointing to the greenhouse. “Looks good.”
“Thank you,” Maris said. “All the credit goes to Bear. He built it from the ground up—literally from the paving stones of the floor to that nice hatch opening near the top.”
“A talented man,” Mac said. “It really seems to match the historic buildings.”
“He does so much of the maintenance and fixing,” Maris said, “that I think it’s seeped into his bones. Cookie mentioned having one, and the next thing we knew, it was done.”
“Hmm,” the sheriff said, gazing at it. “I’m going to keep that in mind. My property isn’t historic but a good handyman is hard to find.”
Mac had hardly ever mentioned his personal life. Maris didn’t even know where he lived. “Well, I can highly recommend Bear.”
The sheriff gazed at her. “Of course your handyman and the greenhouse aren’t the private conversation that you wanted to have.”
“Right,” Maris said. Though she’d be happy to stand at the railing all day chatting with him, she also wanted to add what she’d observed. “When Rosamel was giving me a tour this morning, I saw Friedrich Krone too.”
“Oh?” Mac said, taking another sip.
“While she was showing me the crushing room, he exchanged angry words with a young man there. Then he grabbed the guy, who was his son, and hauled him away. I had the distinct impression that Rosamel and Harlan knew each other. Afterwards, she was quite upset.”
“What were the Krones doing in the Alegra crushing room?” the sheriff asked.
“It looked to me like Harlan had pitched in with the various volunteers there to help with the harvest.”
Mac frowned, turning away from the garden. “Isn’t it harvest time at their winery too?”
Maris nodded. “That’s exactly what Friedrich told him before he grabbed him by the collar and dragged him away.”
Mac was silent for a few moments. “I think that dovetails pretty well with what we just heard from Mr. Gorian.” He took another sip of coffee. “It would seem he was still irate when he went down to the cellar.”
“But, from what Charlie said, I don’t think anything was resolved,” Maris noted. “It didn’t sound like there’d been an argument, or even a discussion.” Then an idea occurred to her. “I wonder if he came back later.”
“Good question,” Mac said, finishing the coffee. “One that I’ll put to Mr. Krone when I see him.” He set the cup back in its saucer. “I have a question for you as well.”
“Shoot,” she said, wondering if there was anything that she’d left out. But a strange look came over Mac’s face. He stared at his feet for a moment before he looked at her and continued. “I was wondering if we might have lunch sometime.” He held up a hand. “Unrelated to any investigation.”
Maris felt a small zinging thrill shoot up her spine. With his mysterious gray eyes, salt and pepper hair, and broad shoulders, Mac was easily the best catch in Pixie Point Bay, and likely far beyond.
“I think that would be wonderful,” she said, all smiles.
But before they could talk about a date or a time, the chime of his cell phone interrupted the moment. He took it from his utility belt, as Maris took his cup and saucer from him.
“McKenna,” he said, then listened. He glanced out at the ocean, then nodded. “Got it. On my way,” he said. “ETA in twenty-five.”
Maris smiled at him. “Duty calls.”
He nodded. “It literally does.” He clicked the phone back into its holder, and smiled at her. “But we’ve got a plan for lunch, details to be determined. Agreed?”
“Agreed,” she said, feeling that little zing again. “And I won’t let you forget it.”
9
After Mac saw himself out, Maris turned back to the view of the garden and the bay beyond it, already looking forward to their lunch date. She smiled as she reached down to pick up Mac’s saucer and cup, only to see it vanish.
Maris froze.
The inner vision of her magical talent—precognition—took over.
At first alarmed by her ability, she’d eventually accepted it and now even looked forward to it, particularly when there was a murder case. She took in a slow breath and waited as an image coalesced.
The vineyard of Alegra Winery swam into view, much as she had seen it today, the rows of vines stretching across the sunny landscape. But rather than the many volunteers harvesting among them, Maris saw Rosamel—by herself. The young woman looked down at the ground and seemed to be wandering, perhaps lost in thought. Though it made sense, given the loss of her father, it didn’t appear to Maris to reveal much about the man’s murder. As she pursed her lips to consider it, the vision winked out.
“Huh,” she muttered, as the cup and saucer reappeared. “Rosamel alone among the vines.”
That’s not where Dom had been killed, but was it a clue to the murderer’s motive? Their identity? Even their location? As usual, the brief view of the future left more questions than it answered. But at this point, Maris knew to simply trust it. It would eventually come in handy.
As she picked up the chinaware, she thought of lunch again—but not with Mac. She realized she was hungry, so she headed out into the garden.
“Hey, you two,” Maris said to Cookie and Bear.
The diminutive older chef looked up from where she was compacting the soil around a new plant. Ruth “Cookie” Calderon had been the chef at the Pixie Point Bay lighthouse and B&B for decades. Though her shoulder length hair was now more salt than pepper, it seemed that her love of gardening and cooking must be keeping her young. As far as Maris knew, she’d never missed making the breakfast buffet and her garden seemed to be growing by leaps and bounds.
“How was the winery?” she asked, brushing the hair from her face with the back of her gloved hand.
“Um, not too good,” Maris replied. She recounted the tour of the harvest, the tasting room, and finally the discovery of the body.
“How dreadful,” Cookie said lowly. She shook her head and grimaced. “Poor Rosamel. It has to be awful for her.”
“She was devastated,” Maris agreed. “But I think it’s actually a good thing for her to have the harvest to deal with.”
“Keeps her busy,” Cookie agreed.
“Is that why the sheriff was here?” Bear asked.
A head taller than most men, he was easily two heads taller than either herself or Cookie. He wore his hair cropped short but sported a full beard, kept nicely trimmed. While Maris’s gift was precognition, and Cookie’s was making potions, Bear was a shape-shifter.
As usual, he was wearing a short-sleeve white t-shirt under the blue bib overalls that stretched around his bulging middle. In one hand he held Cookie’s trowel, and in the other was a new planting in a small pot. Both seemed like miniatures in his big hands.
“Yes,” Maris told him. “I’m afraid so. It turns out that our guest, Charlie Gorian, is a wine investor and was meeting with Dominic before he died.”
A man of few words, Bear only responded with, “Hmm.”
But to Maris, that seemed to size up the situation pretty well. There were simply too many unknowns at this point. Charlie had seen Dom this morning, but so had Friedrich Krone—and that only accounted for three of the wine glasses.
“Exactly,” she agreed. She regarded the two of them. “But as horrible as Dominic’s death is, I actually didn’t come here to talk about the winery. I’m going to head into town and pick up lunch. Any ideas?”
Cookie looked up at her big companion. “How about if you make the call this time, Bear?”
“Me?” he said, as he touched the trowel to the front of his bib making dirt fall from it. His bushy eyebrows arched high.
“Why not?” Maris asked, grinning at him.
“It isn’t always up to us,” Cookie said. She put her hand out for the trowel, which he gave back to her. “The sooner Maris leaves, the sooner we eat.” She held out her other hand for the plant, which he a
lso handed to her. She took them both and moved over a foot before beginning to dig a small hole.
For a moment, Bear watched her and stroked his beard. Then it was as though a light came on behind his eyes. “Delia’s Smokehouse,” he said. “It has been awhile.”
Maris nodded. “Great choice,” she said, turning back to the house. “We have menus inside.”
“The crab sandwich,” he said, stopping her.
Maris turned back to him, smiling. “Crab sandwich for the big man,” she said. “Cookie?”
Without looking up, the gardener simply said, “Same.”
“Me three,” Maris said, nodding. “I’ll be back in a jif.”
10
Though Delia’s Smokehouse had undergone a name change since Maris’s childhood, the woody exterior with its many windows remained the same. To her it had always seemed like a cross between a log cabin and a classic diner. But the one thing that she could always count on was the luscious, smoky aroma that emanated from it. Maris smiled as she stepped inside.
There was a good lunch crowd today. The simple wood chairs that flanked the long, roughly hewn plank tables were almost all full. Even the counter at the left only had a few stools available. At the far right a couple of lunch-goers were circling the wood and steel salad bar, filling their plates. Above the big room hung a giant wagon wheel lit with electric candles.
“Well, I’ll be peppered,” Eugene Burnside said, coming to the hostess podium with some menus. “Maris Seaver. It’s been a month of Sundays, hasn’t it?”
Likely in his late seventies, Eugene’s round face certainly didn’t show it. His rotund form moved easily as well, like a man decades younger, and bright red suspenders held his pants in place. With his white mustache curving up and his hazel eyes smiling, Maris decided it wasn’t his looks that belied his age. It was his attitude. Eugene had to be the most positive person she’d ever met.
She grinned back at him. “It sure feels that way. How are you, Eugene?”
“Busier than a one-armed paper hanger, enjoying my daughter’s cooking a bit too much, and awful glad to see you.” He handed her a menu. “How about you?”
