Dead on the Vine: (Violet Vineyard Murder Mysteries #1 (A Cozy Mystery)) (40 page)

“Shut up, Jorge,” Angela snapped. She looked at Hunter. “We came in my car, but we'll take a cab home.” She gulped the last of her wine then sat there, her eyes glued to her empty glass, a brooding frown on her face.

Jorge went quiet as well, but his face was twisted into an angry knot. And so was Hunter’s.

Tension made my stomach clench. I touched Hunter's hand and he shot me a look that was all hard edges. I smiled and the look softened. He took my hand and squeezed it, then sipped his Diet Coke and let the moment pass.

Never again, I swore to myself. No more parties. I picked up my fork and tried to enjoy the food, but my appetite was gone.

And the drama was far from over.

“This cabernet is incredible, Claire,” Blake Becker said as he came up behind me.

That brought Angela’s head up sharply. Her bloodshot eyes narrowed to slits. “You back-stabbing little creep,” she said without preamble, “I'm sending a truck for my wine tomorrow and I want an accounting of every bottle or you'll hear from my attorney.”

Blake blinked a half dozen times. He shook his head. “We had this discussion, Angela. You signed a contract. We have the right—”

“To run me out of business!” Angela said, drawing curious looks from the people at the tables that bounded ours. “That interview is ruining me!”

“Dimitri’s interview was unfortunate, but it wasn’t a personal attack,” Blake said, a phrase that sounded well-used. “It's his integrity that helps us sell wine at the highest prices possible. Distributors and restaurant owners trust him. They—”

“Wasn’t personal! I know why you're doing this! Armand Rivincita has been trying to buy my vines for two years and, with your help, he just might get them at a foreclosure auction!” Jorge put a hand on her forearm but she jerked free.

Blake laughed at that, but the chuckle was forced. “Armand is a great customer and a great friend, but I have nothing to do with what he buys or doesn't. I sell his wine, that's all I—”

Angela was done listening; she snatched up her empty glass, shot out of her chair and threw the glass at Blake. It went over my right shoulder, splattering my dress with a drizzle of wine drops, then collided with Blake's forehead with a wooden ‘Thunk!’

Blake went over backward, a dazed expression in his eyes. But she wasn't done with him; she snatched up a butter knife and was cocking her arm to throw it when Hunter grabbed her wrist. But she didn’t want to let it go. In the struggle for it, Angela clipped the table’s wobbly leg and it toppled, spilling halibut, chicken, wine glasses, dishes, and cutlery onto the grass.

I was too stunned to do anything but stare as Hunter finally wrested the knife out of her hand. He tucked the dull blade into his back pocket, but he didn’t let go of Angela, who was staring daggers at Blake.

Everyone was looking now, and I couldn’t blame them. My first crush party was turning into a battle royale. All we needed was some costumes and a wrestling ring.

Blake got slowly to his feet, his hand on his forehead. Star Crossed’s executive staff was having a very rough day.

“Are you all right?” I asked, as I stood and glanced at the lump fast rising on his forehead. Another ice towel was going to be needed.

“I'm fine,” he said, looking around at the faces turned his way, obviously embarrassed. He tried on a smile. “No harm done.” But his knees looked wobbly and his eyes were unfocused.

Jorge was the only one still seated. Nonchalantly, he took up his empty glass and filled it. He was taking a swallow when Hunter barked at him.

“Jorge! It's time for you to call a cab.”

“Yup,” Jorge said, and grinned. “I guess it is.” He finished the wine and stood. “Come on, Angela, let's get out of here.” He glanced at me and hesitated, a flush climbing his cheeks. “I’m sorry about dumping all that crap at your party, Claire,” he said.

I nodded and gave him a tentative smile. I had known Jorge a long time. I didn’t want any hard feelings - even if he had acted like a jerk.

Angela said nothing as she turned hard on her heel and stalked across the lawn, her head held high, her gait steady despite the gallon of wine she had consumed. Jorge trailed in her wake, waving sheepishly at friends and neighbors.

I watched
them go, then turned to Blake

“Let’s get some ice for your head,” I told him as I took his elbow. I led him to the house, though I was starting to think of it as the infirmary.

Chapter 6

Dimitri was still lying
on the sofa with Alexandra in attendance. They were locked in a whispered conversation, so I led Blake to the tasting room and fetched another tea towel and wrapped it around a handful of ice.

Blake sat on a bench at one of the two rustic-looking tables. They aren’t very comfortable, which is exactly the point. Give a tourist a cozy sofa, a glass of wine, and a beautiful view and they’ll stay for hours. Blake took the compress and sat with his back to the table, leaning back against it. He closed his eyes, the cloth pressed to his forehead. I headed for the hall door.

“Damn that man,” he said, his eyes pinched closed. “His mouth is going to run us straight out of business.”

I hesitated in the doorway, unable to resist the urge to pry. “The comments he made did seem a little shortsighted,” I said diplomatically.

Blake snorted. “The arrogant bastard was actually proud of the piece!” he said, lowering the towel to glare up at me. “But that's the last interview he’ll ever give. If I see him even
reading
a newspaper, I'll shoot him.” He clasped the ice to his head, the corner of the cloth dangling down, covering his eyes.

I had nothing to say to that, so I left him there and returned to the party.

The sun was settling over the ocean far to the west. Waiters were clearing the dishes and lighting the candles I had placed on every table. Victor turned up the stereo and I turned on the Japanese lanterns he had hung from bamboo poles. People drifted out onto the grass, most of the woman barefoot, and began to dance, while others settled down to some serious drinking under the tent.

At the fringe of the party, Hunter was talking to Armand Rivincita, who was probably trying to get the inside scoop on the confrontation between Blake and Angela. The two men made quite a pair. They were the handsomest men at the party, both tall and slim with great eyes, though Hunter was dark and Armand fair. Hunter's faded jeans, white shirt, and twenty year old Timex were a stark contrast to Armand's pressed black slacks, blue silk shirt, and gold Rolex. Hunt’s attire was much more to my liking. I'm not much for men who spend more time in front of the mirror than I do.

I approached them and hooked my arm through Hunt's. He smiled down at me and Armand gave me a wink.

“The belle of the ball,” Armand said. “Your Vintner's Reserve is outstanding.”  He raised his glass in a toast.

“That means a lot coming from you, Armand,” I said, genuinely pleased. Despite Angela's harsh remarks, I liked Armand. He, too, was a newcomer to the valley, having been here for just over two years, but he brought a lot of prestige with him. Italian by birth, he had made a ton of money and built himself a winegrowing empire in Mendoza, the largest wine producing province in Argentina. He had had the vision to purchase a series of rundown rural farms and replant them with Malbec vines and, in the span of ten years, had turned them into a corporate vineyard worth several million dollars. He had then sold his holdings and set his eyes on California.

Many growers in the area had not been pleased with his arrival or his almost immediate acquisition of a half a dozen small, struggling wineries in Calistoga, Napa, and Sonoma, but I made no judgments. I was sorry to see the smaller winemakers go, but Armand only bought what was for sale. If it hadn’t been him it would have been some corporation, or worse, a bank foreclosure. Land prices, taxes, and the cost of production were just too high for many of the small growers to make a profit. A fact my wavering bank account could attest to.

Over the last two years, Armand’s wine knowledge, his friendliness, and his European manners had won over many of his early detractors. And landed him quite a few female admirers as well. He was far too young and far too suave for me, but I would have had to be dead not to notice him.

But I had a man of my own. Well, sort of. I looked up at Hunt and tugged his arm. “I want to dance,” I said.

Hunter grimaced. “I have three left feet.”

“Then I'll lead,” I replied and dragged him away. I waved at Armand and he gave me another wink.

Sinatra's 'Fly Me to the Moon' was playing, one of my all-time favorites. I tucked my head against Hunter's chest and his arms went around my waist. He was right, he wasn't a dancer, but I didn’t care. I had a mild wine-buzz going and the cool night air was perfect for cuddling close. I didn't even mind when he stepped on my toes. Again and again.

The next song up was ‘Blue In Green.’ And then Ella’s ‘I Got a Man.’ All in all, I made Hunter stay on the dance floor for a half-dozen songs, unwilling to part with him. As we swayed under the darkening sky, I forgot all about Marjory, Angela, Blake, and Dimitri. I even forgot about the ugliness last year that had driven a wedge between me and Hunter. I savored the moment, his closeness, and the music.

Maybe it was the wine, but I decided at that moment that I wasn’t going to let Hunt drift out of my life again. Life was too short to hold a grudge.

But not everyone at the party felt that way.

The first shrill scream caused me to flinch and my head to come up, more in confusion than concern. ‘What next?’ was my immediate thought. Who had decided to punch who? Or had someone brained someone with a wine bottle? Around me, the other dancers’ movements slowed as well, but no one looked all that concerned.

The second scream stopped the party cold. It was high and tight and shrill, filled with fear and horror, but the single bellowed word was clear enough; “Murderers!”

It had come from my cellar!

I didn’t hesitate or stop to think; I tore myself out of Hunter's embrace, raced across the lawn, jerked open the cellar door and bolted inside. I took only two steps before I stopped dead in my tracks.

Alexandra Pappos was standing in the doorway at the top of the cellar stairs, her lips stretched in a silent 'O', the index finger of her right hand pointing down toward the four fermentation tanks where my cabernet undergoes its primary fermentation process. Samson and Marjory were crouched atop the stainless steel catwalk that circled the shortest of the three tanks, a used six-foot tall, fifteen hundred liter Letina I had purchased just this past winter at an estate auction. The tank’s lid was open to allow heat to escape during the fermentation process, and Marjory and Samson were struggling with something floating on the surface of the wine.

What the heck was Samson doing? The only reason to be on top of the catwalk was to punch down the cap of skins and stems into the juice below, but Marjory and Samson weren't pushing the cap
down,
they were trying to wrestle something large and cumbersome
out,
something that was already half hanging over the lip of the tank. It took me a full three seconds to realize that the something was the limp body of Dimitri Pappos.

Samson and Marjory were covered in stems and skins, their clothes wet with the pale-pink juice of the crushed grapes. But Samson wasn't just wet from grape juice. His shirt was covered in crimson splatters, and so was Dimitri's. But Dimitri was long past caring. I could see - even from that distance - that his throat had been cut in a ragged line. There was more blood on the side of the tank and a puddle of it beneath the ladder.

My lungs forgot how to work and my stomach clenched as I gaped up at Samson, Marjory, and Dimitri in horror. “Not again,” I whispered in a dry, husky voice, but no one heard me, the words drowned out by Alexandra.

“Murderers!” she screamed again as Hunter squeezed past me into the cellar. I could sense a crowd growing behind me, pressing toward the door. Instinctively, I turned and pulled the door closed, blocking the view.

“Stop right there, Samson!” Hunter bellowed, moving toward the tank. And that's when I saw the gun in Hunt's hand. It was aimed up at my aging winemaker.

“Let him go, Samson,” Hunter said as Samson continued to pull on the inert form of the dead wine steward, dangerously overbalancing himself. “And get down from their Marjory.”

“He is ruining the wine!” Samson yelled down, still gripping Dimitri under the shoulders. “The blood!”

“I won't tell you again,” Hunter yelled back, taking a step closer.

Marjory came down the ladder and turned to face Hunter, her hands rising to shoulder height. For once in her life she seemed at a loss for words, but that didn’t last long.

“We found him like that, Hunter,” she said, her usually shrill voice subdued and trembling. “We were trying to help! We’re not—”

“Murderers,” Alexandra said again, but she was no longer screaming. The single word was spoken in a dull lifeless tone as she slowly descended the steps, her gait jerky like a marionette with too-tight strings. She stopped at the bottom of the steps, her eyes on Dimitri’s body. Tears were streaking her face and her shoulders were shaking.

Suddenly, Blake Becker appeared in the doorway at the top of the steps, his expression one of bewilderment. Behind him I could see more faces and white aprons as the cooks crowded in for a look.

“Close that door!” I barked up at Blake. He nodded, but he didn’t back into the hallway as I had intended; he came out on the landing and closed the door behind him. The wet tea towel was hanging from his right hand, dripping water on the steps in a slow patter. The knot on his forehead had swollen to golf ball size.

“Is that Dimitri?” he asked.

No one answered him.

Samson released Dimitri and stood, wine dripping from his clothing. “He is dead,” he said to Hunter. “And bleeding. The wine will be ruined. I—”

“Shut up about the wine!” I demanded. “And get down here!” I pointed at the floor at my feet.

Samson's face instantly set in hard, obstinate lines, but he slowly came down the ladder, leaving Dimitri hanging over the lip of the tank, his arms extending down, grape juice dripping from his dead fingers. I tried not to look at his face, but I couldn't help it. His eyes were open and his jaw was sagging. He seemed to be looking right at me.

I shuddered and tore my eyes away, the half-eaten halibut rising in my throat.

This was not the first time I had seen a murder victim up close – just last year I had found my neighbor, Kevin Harlan, dead in my vineyard, his head caved in by a brutal beating - but it wasn’t any easier the second time around. I had to fight hard to keep from vomiting, breathing fast and ragged through my nose, the musty-yeasty smell of the crushed grapes almost overwhelming me.

Samson stopped at the foot of the ladder and looked up at Dimitri. “The wine—”

He stopped mid-sentence as Hunter holstered his gun and brushed past him. Hunter climbed the ladder and felt for a pulse, but we all knew he wouldn’t find one. It was obvious Dimitri was dead.

Hunt came slowly back down the ladder.

“Is he—?” Alexandra whispered, drifting slowly toward the tank where her husband lay dead.

Hunter nodded. “I'm afraid so.” He looked at me. “Claire, please take Mrs. Pappos upstairs.” He dug his cell phone from his front pocket. “And tell everyone at the party to stop drinking and sit down. No one leaves until we get statements from them all.”

I started toward Alexandra, but she kept coming my way. She didn’t stop when I held my hand out to her; she didn’t even seem to see me, she went to Samson and stopped, facing him, close enough to touch.

“Is a vendetta so sweet that you would do this to me? That you would make a widow of me?” she asked him. Her voice was small and uncertain, almost like a little girl's. The tears continued to track through her makeup, blurring her features.

Samson's shook his head. “I did not kill him,” he said. “I found him like this, Alexandra.” He added another few words in Greek, a language of which I only knew the curse words - thanks to Samson’s constant use of them - but Alexandra understood what he said. Her tears intensified and her shoulders began to heave. I wanted to go to her, to console her, but I remained frozen. The situation was so grim that I didn’t know what to do.

Hunter got me unstuck. “Claire…” he said.

I nodded, went to the widow and put my arm across her shoulders. I turned her away from Samson and her dead husband and guided her to the stairs. Blake was standing at the bottom by then, looking up at Dimitri, a hollow look in his eyes.

“Ruined,” he whispered to himself. “I'm ruined.” He sounded as if he could barely breathe.

“Blake,” I snapped. “Quit gawking and come back upstairs.” Between Samson worrying about a few hundred gallons of wine and Blake worrying about his business, I was fast losing faith in my fellow human beings. 

Blake looked at Alexandra and flushed. He nodded. “Sorry,” he said as we went past him. He looked back up at Dimitri. “God, I am sorry,” he said, then turned and followed us up the stairs.

The two chefs and a trio of waiters were crowded into the hall. I gave them a glare and said, “Go back to the kitchen and wait there, the police will be here soon.” I must have sounded pretty rough, because they didn’t linger. They scattered like ducks, racing to get out of my path.

I took Alexandra to the living room and sat her on the sofa where just a short time ago Dimitri had been complaining. The bloody tea towel was lying over the arm of the sofa, the ice having melted. I picked it up and tucked into the pocket of my dress in a sodden mass.