by Emma Belmont
Every head swiveled to her, almost as one, as though they were at a tennis match. But she addressed her first remark to the sheriff. “It would appear that Crown Winery has been digging diagonal wells into the water table below Alegra Winery.”
Rosamel stiffened, her wide eyes staring at Maris. If the young woman was worrying about her magic ability coming to light, she needn’t have. There was no need to reveal it. But the fact that it was happening needed to be addressed.
Friedrich’s fist pounded the table. “The water was stolen from my property in the first place.”
Harlan placed his big hand on his father’s arm. “Dad,” was all he said. But when Friedrich tried to shake him off, Maris watched as the young man slowly tightened his grip. “That’s enough.” When his father finally looked at him, Harlan let go. He gazed up at Mac. “I’ll be looking into that.”
“I think you’ll find,” Rosamel said to him, “that your water loss is due to the Pixie Point Petal flower farms adjoining your property. Their rapidly increasing acreage is putting a dent in the water table.”
“When it comes to water rights,” Mac said, “you’re going to need to get a USGS survey.”
Harlan nodded. “I’m already working on it.”
“But really, Mr. Krone,” Maris said to Friedrich. “It wasn’t the water that had you boiling mad that day when I was visiting Alegra Winery.”
The older man jutted out his lower lip, crossed his arms over his chest, and glared at the table. While Maris simply looked at him, perfectly willing to wait him out, his son turned to him.
“Just tell them the truth, Dad,” he said quietly. “It’ll be all right.”
But Friedrich only pursed his lips.
“You couldn’t have been that mad at Dominic Alegra,” Maris said. “After all, you shared a glass of wine with him.”
“Hmph,” Friedrich said. Then he glared at her. But when Harlan elbowed him, he said, “I had no issue with the man himself.”
“Then what had you mad that day?” Mac asked.
“Him!” Friedrich shouted, jerking a thumb at his son.
Mac motioned for him to keep the volume down. “We can all hear you, Mr. Krone.”
“He’s been sneaking away from our winery for months,” the older man spat. “I’m sick of it.”
“In fact,” Maris said, “he was at Alegra that morning.” Rosamel exchanged a look with Maris, while Friedrich glared at her. “What were you discussing with Dominic when Charlie arrived and saw the two of you together?”
Harlan looked at Charlie, who smiled sheepishly and shrugged.
Friedrich and Rosamel, however, both whipped their heads around to stare at the younger Krone.
“You were with my father?” Rosamel said, leaning forward and putting both of her hands flat on the table. “That morning?” She stared at Maris, who nodded, and then back at Harlan. “And you didn’t tell me?”
“Conspiring with him,” Friedrich said, his voice tight. His eyes quickly shut, and his jaw muscles clenched. Maris even thought she heard his teeth grinding. “How could you?”
Harlan ignored him and gazed back at Rosamel. Impossibly, he was even smiling. “I asked him for your hand in marriage.”
Friedrich’s eyes snapped open and blinked several times before he stared open-mouthed at his son.
Rosamel sat back hard in her chair, her jaw dropped almost to her chest.
Mac’s eyebrows shot up and he exchanged a look with Maris, who only grinned.
“Wow,” Charlie whispered.
Harlan continued to smile at Rosamel. “We’ve been secretly seeing each other since the summer. Finally, I knew I’d met my forever girl. So I popped the question, and she said yes.” Maris glanced at Rosamel to see her flushing a deep red. “We were going to elope. We knew that neither of our parents was going to be pleased.” Harlan reached out both his hands across the table, and Rosamel immediately took them. “But I saw how much it bothered you that your father didn’t know. So I went to him, man to man, and simply told him the truth. And you know what?” Rosamel could only shake her head. “He was happy for us.” Harlan squeezed her hands. “That’s how much he loved you.”
Rosamel burst into tears. “Oh my god,” she gasped. She had to cover her face with her hands. “Oh my god.”
Harlan looked up at Maris, his eyes misty too. “We were toasting the engagement when Charlie arrived.”
Maris fetched a box of tissues from the sideboard and set it in front of Rosamel.
“Thank you,” she sniffed.
When Maris resumed her position, she and Mac both turned their gazes toward Charlie. The young wine investor was smiling at Harlan, and then realized with a start that they were looking at him. He cleared his throat.
“The special wine that you uncorked for my guests the other night,” Maris said to him. “The 1971 Clos St. Denis Grand Cru?”
“Another rare Bordeaux?” Friedrich said.
“I never leave home without them,” Charlie said to him, grinning. He looked at Maris. “I think everyone enjoyed it.”
Maris regarded him. “They enjoyed something, but it wasn’t a 1971 Clos St. Denis Grand Cru because, according to my research, Domaine Ponsot didn’t start bottling it until 1982.”
Still smiling, Charlie shook his head. “There are many Bordeaux wineries, many varietals, and many vintages. It’s easy to get confused. I can assure you that we did indeed taste the 1971 Grand Cru—from my private collection.”
“I can assure you,” Maris said, her tone light, “that I haven’t made a mistake.”
To that, Charlie only shrugged, as though he preferred not to argue.
Mac picked up the manila folder. “All of the fingerprints from the cellar have come back.” He glanced down at the top sheet. “Mr. Alegra’s prints were there, along with both the Krones, and also Mr. Gorian’s.”
“Of course,” Charlie said, glancing at Harlan and Friedrich. “I guess we were all drinking wine there.”
“Ah,” the sheriff said. “But here is where the needle in the needle factory comes in. The crime scene investigation unit first paid particular attention to any bottles in the cellar that were free of dust. That actually eliminated the majority of the collection down there.”
“It’s there to age,” Rosamel said. “They should all have some amount of dust.”
“Exactly,” Mac agreed. “But a few did not.”
“Dom might have been examining them,” Harlan suggested. “Or maybe showing them.”
“But probably not cleaning them,” the sheriff said.
Harlan nodded to that, and Friedrich snorted. “You shouldn’t touch them. He would have known that.”
Mac looked back at the papers in the folder. “But for the bottles that were relatively free of dust, the team used a high intensity light to examine them in place without disturbing them. Only one had sediment floating in the wine.” The sheriff gazed around the table. “It was almost entirely free of dust, and the sediment had been disturbed because the bottle had been moved.”
“The murder weapon,” Maris said.
“Right,” Mac said. “It had been wiped clean. No traces of hair or blood.”
Rosamel flinched, and Harlan held out a hand, which she took.
“So no fingerprints either,” Friedrich said. “Even though you found the weapon.”
The sheriff held up one finger. “Except for one. In the curved bottom of the bottle, right in the center, there was a partial thumb print.”
Charlie started to stand, but Mac went to his chair and put a hand on his shoulder. “Please remain seated, Mr. Gorian.”
“I think everyone here,” Maris began, “acknowledges Dominic’s incredible palate, even you, Charlie.” Though he looked at her, he didn’t say anything. “In fact, his sense of taste was so good, that he knew your 1947 St-Emilion was a fake. That’s why he spit it out.”
“A fake?” Friedrich whispered. Then he grimaced. “No wonder he let me take it.” He gl
anced at Mac. “I saved the bottle.”
“Dominic had you figured out,” Maris said. “Didn’t he Charlie?” His smile was gone now. “And then you had to protect your investment.”
In answer, he only shrugged again.
Mac took him by the arm and helped him to stand. “Wine fraud is a multi-million dollar business,” the sheriff said, as he took the handcuffs from his utility belt. “But you won’t be going to jail for fraud, Mr. Gorian. You are under arrest for the murder of Dominic Alegra.”
28
At the Alegra Winery tasting room, Maris watched Rosamel pour. The large pink solitaire of her engagement ring sparkled, even under the recessed lights.
“Hey, Boss,” said one of the servers. “We’re running low on napkins and olives.”
Rosamel nodded toward the exit. “In the storeroom, at the back, on the right for the napkins. Next to the door on the second shelf for the olives.”
No sooner did the server leave, than another employee showed up. “Boss, there’s someone on the phone about the barrels.”
Rosamel finished pouring. “Get a name and number and tell them I’ll call them back within the hour.”
As yet another employee showed up with a question, Maris had a moment to think back on Mojo’s tarot clue: The Magician. He was a man of magic, to be sure, but he was also known as a trickster. In fact, in the most sinister of modern interpretations, you could call him a con man. That title suited Charlie Gorian to a tee. He’d taken them all in.
Mojo’s Ouija clue of “wine” had been spot on as well. Yes, the murder had taken place in a winery, and the murder weapon had been a wine bottle, but it turned out that the motive for the murder had been wine as well. She had to smile to herself and silently thanked the little cat, although she’d be even more appreciative for a little more detail in the future.
Eventually, Rosamel seemed to get a break. As the young woman slid the glass over, Maris accepted it with a smile. “It seems you’ve really taken over the reins. Good for you.”
Dom’s funeral had only been a few days ago, and Maris had decided to wait to pick up her wine since the B&B was stocked for the time being. But it seemed that the shock of her father’s death was waning, no doubt aided by the busyness of the harvest season.
“Well, there’s been a little help in that department,” Rosamel said. Her face lit up as she nodded to something behind Maris. She turned to find Harlan, in an Alegra Winery shirt, approaching them. “He’s been wanting to take over vintner duties for years.”
He quickly went behind the counter and gave his fiancé a peck on the cheek. There had to be almost a two foot difference in height between them, and yet Maris had never seen a couple more well suited to one another.
“Maris,” he said, “it’s good to see you. I hope my partner here is treating you well.”
“Partner?” she said, eying the shirt. “In life, or in business?”
He put his arm around Rosamel’s shoulders. “Both. We’re thinking of merging the two wineries eventually.”
“Really,” Maris said. “Is your father on board with that?”
Harlan grinned. “Not yet, but he will be. He just needs a little time.”
“He’s a good man,” Rosamel added. “But change is hard.”
Maris nodded. “Agreed, on both counts.” She lifted her glass. “May I be the first to toast your new adventure?”
Harlan quickly poured two more glasses. “By all means,” he said.
With grins all around, Maris clinked her glass to theirs. “To the Alegra Crown Winery. May its magical wine-making never end.”
“To the Alegra Crown Winery,” the happy couple said.
As Maris sipped her wine, she decided it was easily the very best she’d ever tasted.
Sneak Peek
The Witch Who Saved the Bay
Excerpt
CHAPTER ONE
Maris Seaver lifted her sign as high as she could. “Go away, not this bay!” she chanted, along with the rest of the crowd. “Go away, not this bay!”
Although the weather at the Pixie Point Bay Pier was as clear and temperate as ever, the mood of the protestors was decidedly foul. No fishermen dropped their lines into the pristine waters, and no one was perusing the catch of the day. Instead the long wharf was filled with the townspeople of Pixie Point Bay. As Maris started her second loop, she neared the reason for the protest: the two representatives of North American Petroleum.
The oil company had long made known its desire to place an oil derrick in the bay. Maris could remember Aunt Glenda and Cookie talking about it at mealtime when she was a child. It seemed inconceivable to her that anyone would want to mar the beauty of such a picturesque scene. But it wasn’t the drilling platform itself that had bothered Glenda, it was the possibility of an oil spill.
Imagine all the marine life gone, she’d said. If it goes, we go.
Her somber and worried tone had stuck with Maris all these years because, in the end, her aunt had been right. The longer that Maris lived here, the more she understood just how intertwined their lives were with the bay: from the fresh seafood for which the area was known, to the fishing economy, not to mention the tourism and visiting ships. Without all those boats, would there even be reason for a lighthouse?
Even if there’s never a spill, Cookie had said, it’d be ugly. Can you imagine waking up to that every morning in your backyard?
The longtime chef of the B&B had nailed it. Maris couldn’t imagine it—or wouldn’t.
“Please everyone,” Audrey Graisser said through her megaphone. “Please, just let us have our say. This is a discussion, not a war.”
In her mid-twenties, Audrey carried herself well. She wore her coppery red hair long, and her bright blue eyes always seemed to smile. She was dressed in a well-fitting gray business suit with a short skirt that showed off her pretty legs and figure. Though she seemed young for such a weighty job, Maris guessed she hadn’t been picked for her vast experience. Her upbeat attitude and fresh face were completely winning. Despite understanding how cynical NAP had been when choosing her as a representative, Maris couldn’t help but like her.
Though Audrey’s companion was twice her age, he was equally charming. Joseph Toler, Esq., was no doubt on hand to make sure everything was done in compliance with regulations. He seemed to be able to recite them chapter and verse. His brunette hair was trimmed short and graying only at the sideburns. He smiled as much as Audrey, even surrounded by protestors, though his sea green eyes were alert. Like her, he was in business attire, but casual and without a tie.
He waved a hand above his head. “Please everyone,” he shouted, “we’d just like to report on the EIR.”
The environmental impact report, Maris thought. Everyone in town now knew what EIR meant. Audrey and Joseph had been here for a few days already, canvasing the businesses door-to-door, and trying to drum up support. Judging by today’s rally, they’d had little success.
“Pipe down,” a familiar voice called out. “Pipe down.”
Maris turned to see Slick standing on top of a wooden fish crate. The salty old seaman was waving his yellow slicker’s hat. Despite the circumstances, she had to smile. Slick was a fixture on the pier. Day in and day out for decades, he kept the town supplied with the freshest and most varied seafood in this part of the world. As far as Maris was concerned, his long gray beard and leathery face only added to his charm. He’d been involved with her aunt, and now the two of them looked out for one another.
All around her his call for quiet was echoed. A few people murmured his name. When it came to the pier and the bay, Slick’s word carried a lot of weight. As the chanting subsided, he said, “Let’s not start a mutiny before the ship has set sail.” Maris had to smirk.
He stepped down from the crate and held out a hand to Audrey, helping her to step up and take his place.
“Thank you, Captain Duff,” she said, no longer using the megaphone. She handed it to Joseph. “And thank you all
for being here.” She smiled at many of the individuals she’d already met, including Maris. Both of the NAP representatives were staying at her B&B. “As many of you know, North American Petroleum is committed to the health and beauty of the bay.”
Next to Maris, Howard Scry snorted, and she nodded her agreement to him. Owner of the Main Street Market, Howard bore an uncanny resemblance to Albert Einstein, only reinforced by the fact that he was a retired physics professor. “Beauty of the bay,” he muttered, his white mustache twitching from side to side. “In a pig’s eye.”
Audrey breezily ignored the other similar rumblings from the crowd. “To that end, we have completed two independent EIRs.” She waved a sheaf of papers in the air. “Copies of these are available right now.” She indicated Joseph who began circulating through the crowd to hand them out. “Each of these companies has completed months of research and independently reported that any impact on the ecosystem of Pixie Point Bay would be nil.”
Maris took a copy of the reports from Joseph as he passed by, as did Howard.
“Only if absolutely nothing went wrong,” said Ryan Quigg. The young red head of Irish descent was not only the owner of the town’s tackle shop, he was an avid fisherman. He was at the pier every morning. “What’s the impact when there’s a spill?”
“Yeah,” someone else said. “What happens then?”
Audrey nodded. “I hear you. A spill would be a catastrophe. No doubt.” She raised her voice a notch. “But let me remind you of North American Petroleum’s track record.” She made a circle with her finger and thumb. “Zero accidents.” She paused for a moment. “Let me say that again. Zero. None. We’re the company—and the only company I might add—with a perfect track record.”
Though there were some shaking heads, no one contradicted her.
