A Saucy Murder: A Sonoma Wine Country Cozy Mystery (2 page)

Emma pulled in front of the house and took out her keys, climbing three steps to the old fashioned wrap-around front porch. Then she let herself into the tiny front hall, tossing her bag onto one of the enormous easy chairs in the living room that she’d had specially covered in hand woven fabrics Mary bought from a coop in Mexico. Everything else in the house she’d brought from the San Francisco condo she sold. The handmade Moroccan rugs in natural-but-colorful colors.  The wooden farmhouse dining table. The painted dressers. Julie called it her mother’s hippy look; but Emma thought that really wasn’t fair.

She sighed as she climbed the stairs to her second floor bedroom. Much as she loved her new home, she was Julie and Piers’ tenant now. Never in her wildest dreams had Emma ever thought it would come to that. She was proud of being independent all those years, raising Julie as a single working mom.

But now she was successful, she reminded herself. And happy, right?  The yellow farmhouse was one of the oldest buildings in Blissburg, having once belonged to a legendary Wild West mountain man. All of which appealed to Emma. To her love of California, her love of history. Making her feel unique despite her just-like-any-other-divorced-single-mother-trying-get-by life story.

Upstairs in her bedroom, Emma eyed the second hand Ungaro skirt that Julie had nixed the day before as too flowery for a City Opera fundraiser. It was vintage Ungaro, for heaven’s sake. How, Emma wondered, had she raised a daughter whose closet had the color palate of a UPS store?

“Neutral. When in doubt, go neutral,” was Julie’s advice. Everything Julie owned was gray, putty or black. Like the woman Emma hated in that TV show,
House of Cards
.

Emma pulled out her black wool Banana Republic slacks and glanced longingly at the thrift store Missoni sweater in orange, purple, black and gold. That definitely would not pass the Julie fashion police. Instead, dropping her Gap sweat pants and T onto the floor, she chose a beige J. Crew silk pullover that Julie and Piers had given her for Christmas the year before. Surely the fashion police would not complain about that. Then she grabbed the ancient Hermes scarf that Andy, Julie’s father, gave her for their third anniversary. It had come as a romantic surprise. Now she smiled when she remembered wearing it, and nothing else, to bed the night he gave it to her.

It was only later that she recognized the guilt gift for what it was. But that was water long under the bridge. Or was it tears?  Where had all those tears gone, anyway, Emma asked herself?  She was so much happier now without him. Why hadn’t she just collected all those tears in vats to water the roses?  At least they’d have gone to good use.

Once dressed, Emma looked at herself in the full-length bathroom mirror. Lately, she found herself avoiding mirrors. That evening, she was pleasantly surprised.

Those big Hermes scarves really didn’t go out of style, she noted. Nor did the Tods pumps, thank goodness. They’d cost a fortune, even on sale, but boy were they comfortable if you had a bunion. Since she’d cut her gray hair short, she had no worries in the coiffure department. Her hair always looked the same. She dug an old cosmetic case out of a drawer under the bathroom sink and dabbed on some mascara and eye shadow to highlight her pale blue eyes.

She examined the full effect for a few seconds. Jewelry. She realized that with the Opera crowd she needed to wear jewelry. Her plain gold button earrings would do. The ones she bought on the Ponte Vecchio in Florence on the Italy vacation she took to research the cookbook. And the big apple green jade graduation gift ring, from one of her father’s Chinese immigrant clients, was perfect. She rarely had the occasion to wear it. (“Wouldn’t it make more sense to charge them a reasonable fee, dear, so they could skip the gifts?” her mother had asked when the ring arrived. Her father had hated to charge his trouble-ridden clients.) 

The ring matched the scarf perfectly. For the first time in months, Emma took the time to study herself critically in the mirror. To her surprise, she looked fine. Maybe Julie was right. At her age, simple was better. As for her identity?  She shrugged. If she didn’t have one by now, she figured she never would.

Cocktails for Opera in the Vineyard began promptly at 6:30. Emma arrived five minutes early and stationed herself at her post behind a copy of her book.

In fact, Emma was not a natural when it came to cocktail parties – a trait her ex husband had rarely failed to point out during their marriage. Small talk eluded her. She wanted sagas, life stories. And who in the noise and crush of a cocktail party had time for that?   

Of course, she had learned years ago to answer “great” to the question “How are you?”  And “fabulous” to all queries about her daughter. But really, what was the point of saying “great” when you weren’t? Except that no one but your best friends really wanted to hear about it. Now, it seemed things really were great, except for the Big D, and who wanted to talk about that?  In fact, Emma suspected that one of the reasons cocktail parties were popular was so older people like her could forget about the Big D for awhile.

Seconds after she arrived at her post, Piers stopped by to give her a hug. Underneath all his bravado and bluster he really was the perfect son-in-law. He was six feet tall, impeccably dressed, with a face, though Julie denied it, vaguely reminiscent of Leonardo di Caprio. What was not to like? 

Sure, he was a spoiled only child who liked to be waited on hand and foot. And sure, he had a quick bratty temper when he didn’t get his way. But Julie managed to handle that. Particularly when, as the only son of a midwestern grocery chain multi-millionaire, he had an impressive trust fund in addition to his own highly successful law practice. He worked hard. He could afford to be waited on hand and foot. And not by Julie.

Shortly after Piers, Julie stopped by to thank Emma for lining up Carmen. “Lexie Buchanon is thrilled. Good going, Mom. And by the way, you look great tonight. Piers said he didn’t recognize you when you walked in.”

Next Puss Carleton, a transplanted Bostonian who owned the chicest of the thirty odd antique stores in Blissburg, sauntered up to the silent auction table and began to leaf through
Dining with the Stars
. Julie was one of Puss in Boots’ best customers; Emma often accompanied her daughter on her trips to Puss in Boots in search of the perfect two hundred year old Provencal country farmhouse kitchen table, or the not too ornate American Chippendale dining room chairs. Julie was a wonk when it came to antiques. And Emma often stood in line with Puss at Little Pete’s gourmet grocery where Puss never recognized her. Now, leafing through the cookbook, Puss noticed the photo of Emma on the back cover leaf and glanced at Emma seated behind the table.

“You work for Julie Larkin, don’t you?  You’re her secretary, right?” Puss asked.

Emma felt her chest constrict. Since moving to Blissburg, she admitted that, despite her success with the cookbook, she spent way too much time tagging along with her busy daughter. Or helping out with her grandson, Harry.

“No,” she finally replied. Then added with a smirk, “I’m the au pair.”

“Au pair,” Puss thought for a moment. “My daughter in Boston has been looking all over for someone just like you. Older, responsible, someone she doesn’t have to care for like a third child. What agency are you with?”

Emma paused for a moment. “Catholic Charities.”  With any luck that would be way off Puss’s map.

Puss grimaced. Then she looked down her upturned WASP nose and asked, “Do you have to be Catholic?  I mean to use the service?”

“I’m afraid so,” Emma nodded, looking appropriately apologetic.

“Too bad,” Puss sucked in her bottom lip.

“I know,” Emma agreed.

Puss was still holding the copy of the cookbook she’d picked up. “You must be quite a cook. Lucky Larkin family.
Dining with the Stars
,” she repeated the title out loud. “Whatever gave you the idea to write this?” she asked.

“Actually,” Emma began, “my grandmother was an opera singer who came to San Francisco from Bologna at the turn of the century to perform with the Opera. There was almost no northern Italian cooking in San Francisco at the time, just southern red sauce joints. She was such a good cook that when she stopped singing, she opened a restaurant that was mostly patronized by the opera stars when they came to town. You know, Gigli, Pinza, Chaliapin. And composers like…” 

Too late Emma realized that she’d lost Puss Carleton to their hostess, Mrs. Lexie Buchanon, who was walking by.

When Emma abruptly stopped talking Puss called over her shoulder, “Love your vintage Hermes.”

“TMI” Emma muttered under her breath, vowing to stick to yes, no, great and fabulous from then on. She quickly changed her plan when she realized that Mrs. Lexie Buchanon, all 98 pounds of trapped energy and raked blond hair, was making a bee line past Puss to her table.

“Hi, I’m Lexie Buchanon,” she introduced herself. “And you’re Julie’s mom.”  She stared at the cookbook sitting in front of Emma on the silent auction table. “So that’s your yummy spaghetti sauce Sergio serves at his restaurant.”

Emma nodded.

“Wow.”  She grabbed the electronic bidding device by Emma’s cookbook. “Let's get this silent auction started. What’s the minimum?”

“$1000,” Emma blushed. It was an absurd amount for dinner for six people cooked by an amateur. “But I don’t think…”

“Nonsense,” Lexie interrupted. “I’ll start it at $3000.”  She hit the enter button. “That sauce of yours is worth its weight in gold!  By the way, the gypsy Julie hired?  I haven’t met her but one of my friends who just had her cards done says she’s fabulous.”

“I’m so glad,” Emma replied.

“Vera Vasiliev at the Honorage Spa suggested the idea to me a couple of days ago,” Lexie explained. “You know, because of that gypsy in the opera. Anyway, Vera knows a lot about opera ‘cause her twin sister is Natasha Vasiliev. That soprano everyone thinks is sooo gorgeous.” 

Lexie wrinkled her nose when she spoke, implying that she did not agree.

“My husband, Barry, salivates every time he sees her,” she continued with a shrug. “Personally, I think she looks unhealthy, don’t you?  Kind of like a sack of flour with buck teeth. But you know as well as I do. Whatever it takes to get men to the opera. Anyway, thanks to you we got Carmen.” The young woman rolled her eyes and smirked. “Is that really her name?” Then she added, “My friend said that Carmen told her everything about herself, past, present and future. Things not even her best friends knew. After that, about ten people took Carmen’s card. I’d have had her read mine. Except I know too many people here. It would be uncomfortable, if you know what I mean.”

While Lexie spoke, Emma caught sight of a short, thin, dark skinned woman circulating among the guests gathered in the garden where the silent auction was in progress. It was Carmen. She was dressed in a long black skirt and white peasant blouse with a multicolored shawl. Her long black hair was combed back into a tight bun secured at the nape of her neck by a large tortoise shell comb. She held a basket decorated with red and green silk ribbons in one hand. With the other she waved to Emma who waved back. Then Emma motioned to Carmen to meet Mrs. Buchanon.

“Mrs. Buchanon,” Emma began.

“It’s Lexie, please,” the young woman smiled.

“I want you to meet Carmen. Carmen, Mrs. Buchanon. I mean Lexie,” Emma corrected herself. “Lexie heard you did a fabulous job reading cards just now for one of her friends.”

As they spoke, a young woman approached them holding a small plate.

“A Beluga blini from Barry. They’re yummy,” the woman added handing the plate to Lexie.”

Lexie took the plate. “Beluga. My favorite.” 

Lexie then introduced the young woman to Carmen and Emma. It was Vera Vasiliev, a masseuse at the nearby Honorage Spa. The same spa where, according to all the gossip, Lexie was employed when she met Barry Buchanon.

“Vera suggested the fortune teller,” Lexie explained to Carmen. “She’s Natasha Vasiliev’s twin sister. But of course, you already knew that. You’re a psychic,” she laughed. “And I guess you already know that Natasha Vasiliev is singing
Trattoria
on Opening Night.”

“
Trovatore
,” Vera corrected her. “The opera about the gypsy who tries to avenge her mother’s murder by kidnapping the Count’s infant son and throwing him into her mother’s funeral pyre. Except that in her excitement she throws her own infant son into the fire instead.” Vera sighed dramatically and shook her head, visibly moved. “Such a tragedy!”

Carmen grimaced. “What happens to the gypsy?”

“She raises the noble infant as her own son,” Vera replied. “He becomes the troubadour, translated into Italian as
Il Trovatore
– the title of the opera
.
Later, the troubadour and his real brother vie for the love of the same woman, Leonora. Of course, they don’t know they are brothers.” The young woman’s face grew sad. “Naturally, the two real lovers, Leonora and the troubadour, die in the end.”

At that, everyone listening nodded gravely.  It was Grand Opera, after all.

Vera’s face suddenly brightened and she continued. “It’s Natasha’s debut with City Opera as Leonora. She’s been rehearsing for months.” She leaned forward as though to impart a secret. “Massimo, the conductor, has her sing that difficult garden aria lying on her back. That will be a first,” she laughed. “Or will it?  Anyway, Natasha’s singing the aria tonight, right after dinner. Standing up, of course.”

At that very moment, Natasha Vasiliev, herself, appeared along with Chiara Bruno, her understudy for the lead role of Leonora. The dazzling blond Natasha had dished herself up lavishly that night in a tight green silk tube dress that matched her eyes and fit her curves like the sheath of a scimitar. The dress’s neckline, held at the shoulders by two brilliant diamond clasps, plunged in a generous V all the way to her navel, exposing the two half moons of her breasts.

“Did I hear someone say Beluga?” Natasha licked her full glossy lips.

She and her twin sister, Vera, exchanged a warm hug.

There was no doubt Natasha and Vera were twins, Emma noted. Both possessed regal posture and voluptuous figures. Both were green-eyed blonds. But somewhere the resemblance cruelly disintegrated. Where Natasha had the fragile beauty of a fawn, Vera’s only slightly thicker features reminded one more of a dray horse. Her neck was just enough thicker and her long nose cascaded just too far over her perpetually downturned mouth for her ever to be considered beautiful. And to think, Emma observed, Natasha got the voice of an angel as well. Sometimes life really wasn’t fair.

Natasha turned to Chiara, “I don’t know why I always get the flutters before these donor concerts. I never get them on stage.”

As if on cue, the famous Russian bass, Alexis Kuragin, joined them. He carried a bottle of vodka in each fist. He was scheduled to sing during dinner, so Emma was surprised to note that he was already roaring drunk. He elbowed his way next to Natasha, emptying the last of one of the bottles of vodka into Natasha’s sparkling water, and bumping Lexie who spilled her glass of red wine all over her dress.

“Russian courage for my little Russian song bird,” the famous singer winked, unaware of the mess he had made.

Lexie dropped her plate of caviar blinis and the gorgeous clutch she was carrying onto a nearby table, and grabbed a cocktail napkin to wipe off her dress. Emma noted that Lexie’s clutch was made of vivid burgundy leather encrusted with multi-colored jewels. The perfect complement to her elegant, if skimpy, mother of pearl silk dress. The ex-masseuse had certainly acquired exquisite taste, Emma noted.

Lexie glared at the bass singer. “I’ll never get these stains out!”  When she leaned over to grab her purse off the table, she whispered in Emma’s ear, “Russian boors!”  Then she stormed off in the direction of the house.

The Russian bass was too engrossed in Natasha to notice. “I know you get nervous singing for donors, Natasha. At least you don’t have to sing this one on your back!” he said.

Natasha covered her mouth with her hand and gasped. “Shame on you!”

Chiara giggled. “He’s right. It’s hard singing lying down. I’m just hoping you don’t get sick. I’m not sure I could do it.”

The bass singer laughed. “Why Chiara, you’d kill for that job. Bottoms up, as they say,” he added sloshing a finger of vodka from the second bottle into Chiara’s glass before weaving unsteadily through the crowd filling glasses and knocking over chairs as he passed.

Natasha and Vera exchanged worried glances. Then Natasha hurriedly emptied her glass before asking her sister to bring her some water.

Emma looked around for more Beluga caviar. But as far as she could tell, the Russians had scarfed it all up. The only waiters she saw carried water chestnuts wrapped in bacon. The plate Lexie left was empty.

Emma turned her attention back to the soprano and her understudy, who vied to see whose cards Carmen would read first.

“Natasha, you go,” Chiara insisted.

“No, you.”  Natasha waved her hand theatrically at Chiara. Emma couldn’t help noticing the ring on Natasha’s finger. The emerald, the size of a robin’s egg, was exactly the color of Natasha’s eyes. It was set in a nest of pave diamonds.

Chiara relented. She turned to Carmen, took a deep breath and closed her eyes. “OK. This better be good!”