Dead on the Vine: (Violet Vineyard Murder Mysteries #1 (A Cozy Mystery)) (9 page)

After a change of clothes, I went down to the cellar. Samson was sitting at his desk, making notes in his spiky Greek scrawl. He looked up as I reached the bottom of the stairs, then back at the notebook. Beside the desk was a clear plastic bag filled with a couple of thousand new corks, and by the door was a stack of cardboard boxes for the bottles that would hold the 2008 Vintner’s Reserve. The bottling machinery was set up in a row, all of it connected by the narrow conveyor called a worm. The line is mostly used equipment, but in remarkably good shape, probably because of Samson’s constant maintenance and cleaning. The bottle washer is the newest piece, bought with the profits from 2006. It uses a sterilizing solution to rinse the bottles then pumps inert gas into the bottles to keep the wine from oxidizing. The filler machine is next in line, a tall machine with twelve rotating nozzles and clamps to hold the bottles in place, then comes the corker, and finally my pride and joy, a model SH-ADH labeler. The labeler is capable of labeling three-thousand bottles an hour, but since the rest of the line can only fill and cork five-hundred bottles an hour, it’s never been run at full throttle. The whole line takes up only twenty feet of the stone floor, but would be the center of the frenzy when we began bottling.

“No labels?” I asked, stepping over to the boxes and beginning to count.

“This afternoon.” Samson said, his attention still on the notebook. “They promised, but what does that mean? Nothing. But the capsules and corks are here. The capsule color is
awful
. I am
sick
of everything purple, de Montagne.”

One of the foil capsules was lying on his desk and he picked it up and handed it to me. I loved them. Violet and gold. I handed it back to him without comment, avoiding a discussion that would go nowhere.

“I guess I could get the labeler and the cork hopper filled,” I said unenthusiastically as I finished counting the empty bottles. There were 6,000 bottles total, enough for the tiny five-hundred case run we were making of the Reserve.

“I already did that,” Samson replied while giving me the evil eye. “But I thank you for
all
your help.”

“How many men are we going to need?” I asked, ignoring his sarcasm. I’m used to it.

“None, I think. Tommy and three of his friends have volunteered,” Samson replied, pushing the notebook away and swiveling toward me. Tommy was Samson’s newest protégé, a graduate student at UC Davis who worshipped the old winemaker. And Samson likes to be worshipped. He’s had a dozen young people like Tommy follow in his footsteps over the years. Many of them have gone on to great success, thanks in part to Samson’s tutelage.

“And how many bottles did you promise them to get these ‘volunteers?’”  I asked, thinking that it would be cheaper, but less fun for Samson, to hire experienced men at an hourly rate.

“Three bottles each, so a case for all.” Samson replied. He picked up his stub of cigar and popped it in his mouth. “A bargain. They know what is to be done. And they care for wine.”

“Fine with me, as long as they care as much about bottling it as they do drinking it. When do you want to start?”

“I told Tommy to be here tomorrow. Even without the labels, we can get done a lot. We will be ready to ship on Monday, next.”

“Sounds good. We need the money.”

Samson nodded and chewed his cigar.

“Marjory sends her regards,” I told Samson, rolling my eyes to let him know what I thought about that. He grinned around the cigar like the old letch he is.

“You had a good lunch?” He asked, “Did they like the wine?”

“Yes. They loved it. Especially Marjory. She was half-drunk when she left.”

Samson clicked his tongue and rolled his eyes. “I like a woman who has fun. Maybe I take her a bottle or two?” he said. “Maybe three? Wine is the life-blood of romance!”

“You have no shame, Samson.”

“Shame is for the young, I don’t waste time with it. And Marjory…” he rolled his eyes toward heaven, “she is a woman!”

“And you’re a dirty old man.”

“I was a dirty young man, so it is a wonder that I am a dirty old one? You are jealous. You need to get rid of that Roger,” Samson said and spat at the floor. “He is worthless.”

I heard the door into the kitchen open and Jessica came down the stairs.

“Samson, could you get the thief for me?” I asked as I crossed to the sink in the far corner of the cellar.

“Ready to be thrilled?” I called to Jessica.

“Sure,” she tried a smile that had as many watts as a nightlight. “Hey Samson,” she called down the cellar corridor as I gathered three dirty glasses. I seem to be the only one who washes glasses. Every time I want a taste I have to pick through Victor and Samson’s dirty dishes. Sometimes I feel more like their mother than their boss.

“Hello, Princess,” Samson called out to Jessica, his voice echoing off the cold stone walls. Even from a distance I could see his smile. My parents died when Jessica was six, and Samson never had children, so he has been like a grandfather to her. 

“You will like this wine! It is our best yet, I think.”

Samson inserted the thief into an opened cask, then winked at Jessica, as he drew off a half a glass of wine and deposited it directly into his mouth with a much-practiced movement. I wondered how much of our wine disappeared that way?

“No glass for me, de Montagne!” He shouted, his voice echoing off the walls. “I am no amateur!” A bead of red juice dribbled down his whiskery chin.

“Wipe your chin and use a glass,” I told him. I held out two of the glasses and he half-filled each one. I passed one to Jessica and then handed Samson the empty glass.

Jessica held the glass to her nose and closed her eyes as she inhaled. 

“Berries and citrus,” she said “Maybe some tobacco. Great nose.” She held the glass up to the light coming down from the overhead fixture and stared intently into the deep red fluid. She took a dainty sip and sucked air in across her tongue in a long slurp, exploding the flavors across her palate. Samson and I watched, our own glasses untouched. “Wide on the palate. A great finish, smoky and smooth.” She took the last swallow and held her glass out for more.

“It’s fabulous. Reminds me of the ’84 Landoun,” she said, referring to one of my favorite vintages.

Samson was beaming. I sniffed and tasted the wine as Jessica started on her second half-glass. Samson and I knew it was good, but I don’t think either of us would get tired of hearing people say it. Especially when it was someone who had a real appreciation for the work and the craft of winemaking.

“Ahhh,” Samson said. “You should have no trouble selling this, eh Princess?” He asked Jessica with a wink. “They will kiss your feet to taste a drop!” Samson was in an excellent mood, and I wondered how much wine he had already drunk. Jessica returned his smile with a genuine one of her own, seeming to come out of her funk a little.

“Another glass?” Samson asked me as he reached for the thief and his own glass.

“Not for me,” I replied with a shake of the head.

“I’ll have another, Sam,” Jessica said. “Maybe two!” She laughed. Samson’s good humor could be as infectious as his bad humor was oppressive.

“Maybe we empty the barrel!” Samson said. “Maybe two!”

“Save some for the customers,” I warned. “Don’t drink all the profit.”

“Such a worrier, your mother,” I heard Samson say as I walked upstairs. “But she knows her wine!”

Jessica said something in reply that I didn’t hear, and then I was closing the door behind me, still smiling.

Dressed in an old pair of jeans and a denim shirt, I joined Victor in the vineyard. Victor had two of the men tilling the aisles with a gas powered Rototiller while he and the other men were filling the free-standing fuel oil heaters we use on cold nights. The heaters look like rusty tin chimneys on top of rustier buckets. They stand at the end of every other row, even when not in use. In California we used to use wood-burning smudge pots, but pollution concerns in the 1980’s forced a change for the better and the smudge pots were outlawed, though the idea of burning fuel oil still makes me wince at the environmental cost. I hadn’t watched the weather forecast this morning, which is unusual for me because in the wine business you live and die by the weather, but they must have called for a cold night. The vineyard sits on an alluvial fan of volcanic rock that is covered by a thin layer of topsoil, so frost is a real worry in the spring.

As I walked down the row, enjoying the sunshine on my face and the mixed aromas of wisteria, pine trees, grape flowers and freshly turned soil, I noticed a Sheriff’s cruiser pull up in Laurel’s driveway. As I watched, Priest climbed out. He waved at me and I made a face and kept walking. He disappeared inside the house. I guessed he was there with follow up questions for Laurel. Or maybe to make a pass at the widow? I wouldn’t put it past the greasy little preppy.

I stopped by Victor and watched him pour a quart of fuel oil into the heater. He stood and stretched, grimacing, hands on his lower back.

“I guess they’re predicting a freeze?” I asked, casting my eyes over the neat rows of green vines.

“Yeah. You sleep in today?” Victor asked with an easy smile. “I didn’t think you
ever
missed the weather.”

I shrugged a reply.

“There’s only a slight chance, but better safe than…  By the way, what’s for dinner?”

“Spaghetti a la Claire,” I said, turning my face up to the sun and closing my eyes, the low-grade buzz from the wine making me drowsy. It really was a beautiful day. I could almost feel good about pulling weeds. Almost.

“Easy on the garlic,” Victor said. “Last time I ate your spaghetti people avoided me for days.”

“You’re sure it was your breath and not your personality?” 

“One can only hope,” he replied with a grin. “Put lots of olives in for me, ma’am.”

“Don’t call me ma’am, it makes me feel ancient,” I said, turning and heading to the garden, wishing for another glass of wine and a cigarette to go with it.

“Ancient? Well…” he grinned and paused a half-beat. “I’ll let that one go without comment.”

“A wise move. It’d be pretty embarrassing to get your butt whipped in front of the men,” I called over my shoulder.

“Woo-hoo, a tough lady!” Victor shouted after me. “And remember, easy on the garlic. For the sake of my social life!”

I spent three hours kneeling in the dirt, the afternoon sun burning my back through my blouse, and only got done half the work I’d intended. But the lettuces looked better without weeds haloing them, and the peppers that had been looking wilted enjoyed a drink from the hose, so I was feeling pretty self-satisfied as I gathered green peppers, onions, tomatoes and a handful of basil, oregano and thyme for dinner. As an afterthought I grabbed a sprig of fresh mint. About a gallon of iced tea sounded like heaven, I was so hot.

I had enjoyed the work outside, but I enjoyed being back in my air-conditioned kitchen even more. The temperature had climbed into the low nineties, unseasonably hot for the spring, and I needed a break. Victor was still setting up the fuel oil heaters, but the hired laborers were not in sight. I guessed Victor had sent them in to clean up the production line for tomorrow.

It took me an hour to put together the tomato sauce, and to put flour, water, butter and yeast in the bread machine. With dinner on the way, I lit a cigarette and settled down at the table with iced tea and decidedly girlish thoughts.  

I opened the paper and tried to read, but my mind was somewhere else. Mainly on Ben Stoltze. Unseemly for a married woman, but I couldn’t help it. I was looking forward to our lunch, but I was apprehensive too. After all, I was a married woman. It was just lunch, I reminded myself, but I couldn’t deny my attraction for Ben, and that made me feel guilty. Why? I don’t know. I didn’t owe Roger anything. I guess it was just that I’d played the long-suffering wife so long that I had started to believe it was my destiny. But I desperately needed change!

Jessica came in, interrupting my daydreaming. She informed me that she wasn’t hungry, then took a Neapolitan ice cream sandwich out of the refrigerator and unwrapped it. I didn’t argue. If she chose to eat garbage, so be it. She went up to her room, and I lit another cigarette and poured another glass of iced tea. I was still upset about our argument the night before, but at the same time I was wondering how to smooth things over.

The glazier rang the bell then stood disinterestedly staring at the sky and scratching a sunburned forearm while I inspected his work. I had no idea what I was supposed to be seeing, but the window looked like it had before Stanley broke it, so I was satisfied. The glazier took a fat check, offered no thanks, and drove away in his truck, country music blaring. I went back to the kitchen. A thousand dollars down the drain, and I didn’t think Stanley was going to pay me back.

I put water on to boil for the spaghetti and stirred the tomato sauce. The kitchen smelled like a trattoria, and my salivary glands were working overtime. The water had just started to bubble when Samson and Victor came in through the cellar door arguing.

“Fining is not necessary, ever. Americans think wine with body should be fined, and I do it. For sales. But it is not necessary! Never,” Samson was insisting, shaking his head on his skinny neck. This was an old argument, and one you’d think they’d be tired of, but you’d be wrong. He and Victor picked at each other endlessly over this and a dozen other topics, each of them holding on to his own opinions like a life raft in a raging sea.

“What about whites?” Victor asked, giving me a wink.

“Do we make whites? No. So what do I care? I’m talking of our wine, and I say fining is not necessary!” Samson clamped his hands over his ears as Victor was about to reply. “Enough! I am hungry!”

“Well, open a bottle of wine and sit down,” I cut in, stirring the pasta around in the hot water. “Dinner in ten minutes, if Victor slices the bread.”

“I do not trust him with a knife!” Samson bellowed. “He will stab me in the back! Fining!” He stepped to the counter where I had two unopened bottles of Beaujolais. Samson haughtily pushed them aside. “We drink well tonight, de Montagne!” He informed me as he placed two bottles of Violet Vineyard 2006 cabernet (from my private cellar) on the counter and reached for a corkscrew. Samson is tremendously generous with
my
wine. “You can’t pass the cheap stuff off on us!”

I groaned, but their good humor was infectious. Tonight, the night before bottling, was the perfect night to celebrate.

“How about we kick your ass at Spades after dinner?” Victor asked while he sliced the bread.

“Only if you two promise not to gang up on me,” I laughed. “I’m getting sick of losing.” Neither of them cared who won as long as I didn’t. We’d been playing for five years and I had yet to win a game. But I was ever hopeful.

Victor grinned. “Then learn how to play.”

It was going to be a long night.

Victor, Samson, and I had too much dinner and too many glasses of wine. We stayed up playing cards and groaning over our stuffed bellies until midnight. I lost as usual, cheated by my employees. Neither of them was fit to drive, so I put Samson in the guestroom and Victor on the sofa downstairs. Both men had enough clothes and toiletries at my place to see them through the next day.

Before going to bed, I glanced out the bedroom window as I had the night before. The vineyard was empty, thank God. The sky was cloudless and there didn’t seem to be any wind. A perfect night for a frost. The fuel oil heaters rumbled-roared at the heads of the rows, and I was glad we had set them out. I was about to let the curtain drop, yawning wide enough to unhinge my jaw, when I noticed that Priest’s police car was parked behind the Harlan house out of sight from the road. All of the barn’s lights were off. If I had been a small-minded person I would have thought evil things about Priest and Laurel. Okay, so I am a small-minded person. There was only one reason I could think of for Priest to stay overnight, and it wasn’t friendly concern for the widow. Well, those two deserved each other.