A Vintage To Die For (Violet Vineyard Murder Mysteries Book 2) (18 page)

At 4:00PM, Victor came back to the cellar.

“What’s for supper?” he asked.

“Pizza?” I replied.

“Pizza Hut or Domino’s?” he said and I made a face.

“de Montagne Hut,” I replied. “If you’ll get a ball of dough out of the freezer.”

“Before I do that, is there going to be any meat on this pizza? I’m not moving for vegetables.”

“I have Italian sausage from Terassio’s in the fridge,” I told him.

He shot to his feet, gave me a salute, and headed up the steps.

“And take a shower!” I yelled at his back.

“Nag, nag, nag,” he said as he disappeared inside.

I took a shower myself then went out on the patio to watch the sun arcing down toward the horizon. Victor joined me twenty minutes later, a beer in his hand. My last beer, if I was not mistaken.

“You need beer,” he said, confirming my suspicions.

“There’s two cases in the cellar left over from the party,” I said. “If you want more, go get it.”

He made no move to comply, just sat there sipping his beer and looking over the rows.

“You heard from Samson since this morning?” he asked, and I shook my head.

“Heard anything else about Angela from Hunter?”

I shook my head again. “I don’t think either of them want to talk to me.”

He took another swallow of beer. “It’ll work out,” he said, but neither of us really believed it. We had gone through something very similar to this just last year - and it had not been the police who solved that case, it had been me, but not before a number of people had died. And now more people were dying. Three so far.

And then I had a thought. Samson might not be willing to talk to me, but maybe Alexandra Pappos would…if I could get her away from Samson, maybe she could explain what was going on. But I had no idea where she lived or what her phone number was.

But I did know someone who might tell me. Maybe.

I took my phone out of my purse and dialed the Sheriff’s office in Napa. But I didn’t ask for Hunter when the receptionist answered. “May I speak to Midge Tidwell?”

“One moment,” he said without asking who I was or what I wanted. Ten seconds later Midge Tidwell picked up the line.

“Sheriff’s office, Deputy Tidwell speaking,” she said, sounding harried and unfriendly, just like usual.

“Hello Midge, this is Claire de Montagne,” I told her.

She said nothing for so long I thought she might have hung up on me.

“If this is about Samson, I can’t help you, Mrs. de Montagne,” she said warily.

“It’s not about Samson,” I said. “I was wondering if you have Alexandra Pappos’ phone number?”

Another long silence. “Why?” she finally asked.

I had already lied to her once, so I didn’t hesitate to continue. “I wanted to check on her. See if there is anything I can do. I hate to think of her alone at this awful time.” Victor sitting across from me rolled his eyes and put his index fingers behind his head like Devil’s horns, but I ignored him.

Another long silence. I was preparing to dig my heels in and spread the lies even thicker when she replied.

“555-7746,” she said. “And you didn’t get it from me.”

“Thank you,” I said, but I was speaking into a dead line.

“Liar, liar, pants on fire,” Victor said as I dialed Alexandra.

She answered on the second ring. “This is Alexandra.”

“This is Claire de Montagne,” I told her.

“Claire,” she said, her voice dropping to a whisper. “I am so sorry for all the trouble I have brought into your home.”

“You’re not the problem,” I told her. “Samson is. Is he there?”

“Yes, but he will not speak to you. You must not think he meant it when he said he quit. He was angry. Tomorrow he will forget all of that and be back at work.”

I wanted to believe that, but I wasn’t so sure. “Could you meet me for a drink?” I asked her. “Now?”

“Of course!” She didn’t seem surprised by the invitation; in fact she sounded thrilled. She was probably sick of her father already.

Father, I thought. The word seemed so strange when applied to Samson. One more secret he had kept from me. One more lie of omission.

“There’s a little place called Shaky’s down in the valley. It’s kind of hard to find—”

“I have been there,” she said. “Samson had me pick him up there on Sunday.”

So that was why his old Jeep wasn’t in his driveway or at the StarVista Motel. It made sense for him to stash it there if he was planning on running; Shaky was the closest thing to a friend Samson had, outside of me, Victor, and Jess.

“Twenty minutes?” I said and she agreed.

Victor raised his eyebrows as I stowed my phone. “Am I invited?” he asked.

I shook my head. “Lock up for me?” I asked as I grabbed my purse and stood.

He shook his head. “I’ll wait for you,” he said. “I can’t wait to hear what she has to say.”

I was almost at the Jeep when he yelled at me, “And I still expect that pizza!”

Chapter 19

Shaky’s was a popular
burger joint back when I was in high school. It was then, and still is, a slouch-shouldered, paintless old house almost hidden in a grove of ancient pecan trees, situated just off the Silverado Trail at the foot of the Mayacamas Mountains. It has a half dozen rickety tables, a splintery old counter lined with rusty metal stools, and a juke box that steals more quarters than it plays records. Its owner, Shaky, is a grumpy and vulgar old man whose chief asset is that he hasn't raised his prices in twenty years. I love the place, and Shaky. What can I say? I have a soft spot for grumpy old men. And so did Alexandra, apparently. Her Mercedes was parked out front and she was parked on a stool in the otherwise empty bar, laughing at something Shaky had just said, when I arrived.

Shaky is balding and stooped like a question mark. His wispy hair is white at the top and nicotine yellow at the edges. He was leaning across the counter, resting on his bony elbows. He looked up when I came through the door.

“Falcone!” he bawled. “Hot dang, two women in one night. Hey! That reminds me of a story—”

“If you tell it, you might get slapped,” I warned him, giving him and Alexandra a warm smile.

“Fun-killer Falcone,” he said, reminding me both of my teenage years and of Jorge, who had used that nickname only the day before, less than twenty-four hours before he was killed. Shaky saw my smile falter and he flushed red to his pointy ear tips. But you couldn’t keep him down for long. He reached below the bar and came out with an open bottle of Stag’s Leap cabernet. “Maybe a glass of the chuck will loosen you up,” he said as he filled a juice glass and pushed it across the bar. “Drink up. The first one is on the house.”

I dropped onto a stool beside Alexandra. I really didn’t want a glass of wine, but Stag’s Leap is a longtime favorite of mine, and I didn’t want to be rude...

Shaky filled his own glass and took a huge gulp. If he kept up like that, one of his customers would be pouring him into his bed in the room out back - an occurrence not unusual at Shaky’s Bar and Grill.

“Alexandra and I have been talking about Greece,” Shaky said. “I was at the Port of Piraus a few times when I was in the Navy.”

“Did ships still have sails back then?” I asked, getting even for the fun-killer crack.

“We used oars,” he said with a laugh. “Sails came later. Anyway, Alexandra says this place I used to go to, the Naughty Sailor, is still there. They had this girl who could—”

“Shaky,” I said in a warning tone.

He threw up his hands. “What? I ain’t even
close
to the dirty part of the story yet!”

“I’m stopping you before you get there.”

“Ah, jeez,” he said and rolled his eyes at the ceiling. “I was young back then,” he added wistfully.

The door opened behind us and two men came in, one broad and built low to the ground with a ruddy complexion and a feed cap perched on his head, the other tall and dark skinned, so thin he looked like a stiff breeze could blow him away. I recognized them both. I had known Tim Williams, the short one, for most of my life. His family grew vegetables on a massive farm down in the flatlands. The tall man, Goodwin Tyler, had come from Senegal less than a decade ago. He farmed a ten acre tract abutting Tim’s property. Goodwin’s small plot was certified organic and focused on small crops of heirloom vegetables for the San Francisco foodies. He made a good profit, from what I understood. His heirloom tomatoes, known as Blue Belles for their deep purple color, were a favorite of mine - and just about impossible to get unless you were a neighbor who was not too proud to beg. I was never that proud.

Tim and Goodwin waved, but stopped at the far end of the bar and took stools there. Shaky drifted that way, pausing en route to fill a pair of beer mugs at the tap.

“Did I ever tell you guys about the Naughty Sailor in Greece?” I heard him saying as I turned to face Alexandra.

She had changed clothes since this morning. She was dressed in a neat gabardine skirt and a red cashmere sweater that set off her dark complexion and made her look somehow even more exotic. But the crows feet around her eyes and mouth had deepened since I saw her last, and her hands had a tremble she concealed by gripping her wineglass very tightly.

“Thanks for coming,” I told her.

“I should thank you,” she said in her flawless English. “For your kindness to my father over these many years. He speaks very highly of you,”

“I bet,” I said a little sarcastically. “Samson doesn’t have anything good to say about anyone.”

She didn’t argue the point. I took a sip of wine and prepared myself to shove my nose into her business, but she beat me to the punch by sticking hers into mine.

“Samson does not seem to like your husband, Roger, very much, but I want you to know Roger was very kind to me yesterday morning. I found him very amusing. And quite handsome.” There was a question in her tone, and while I wasn’t going to open up and air my emotional laundry, I thought a little tit-for-tat might make the questions I planned to ask her easier to deliver.

“Handsome and amusing sums him up pretty well,” I said. “He’s…” I trailed off. I wanted to be as kind as I could, but I was having a hard time finding something good to say about my soon-to-be ex-husband. “He’s a free spirit. He didn’t want to be tied down with children.”

Alexandra frowned. She looked into her glass as she spoke. She had barely touched her wine. “Dimitri was also opposed to children,” she said. “And that is why this all began.”

That was all the opening I needed, but I proceeded cautiously, eschewing my usual bluntness. “Were you and Samson close when you were growing up?” I asked.

She nodded. “Very. In Greece, family is everything. My mother died when I was three years old, so he was both my father and my mother.”

“That must have been hard,” I said. It was hard for me to imagine, considering my own experience with my volatile winemaker.

She nodded again and took a tiny sip of her wine. And that’s the point where I abandoned subtlety. I had come here for answers.

“But he shot Dimitri on your wedding day?” I asked undiplomatically.

She seemed unsurprised by the question. She put her glass down and clasped her hands in her lap. “Yes. He was opposed to the marriage.”

Well that seemed obvious, but I kept that observation to myself. “Why?” I asked.

Alexandra didn't immediately reply. Her eyes dropped away from mine. It was obvious by the intense way she was looking at the splintery bar top she was either considering where to start the story, or whether to tell me anything at all. I didn’t press; I waited.

“Greece is a very different place than America,” she began. “And even more so thirty years ago.” She paused to take a swallow of wine, emptying the glass. “I was young and a bit wild. My mother was of the Tsiganoi people,” she looked up at me, “What some people call gypsies. Did you know that?”

“I didn’t even know Samson had been married. He doesn’t say much about his personal life,” I said, suddenly realizing how true that was. I knew all about his work in the wine industry, from his youth in the vineyards in his native country to his apprenticeship in France and his arrival in Napa more than twenty years ago, but he never spoke of family or friends or even of the towns and cities he had lived in before he settled in the Valley.

“She was a beautiful woman. My father loved her very much. Enough to risk the scorn of his own father.

“He didn’t approve?”

She shook her head and I saw anger flash across her face, though it was quickly gone. “The Tsiganoi are considered untouchable.
Were.
Things have changed for the better in some ways, but not as much as they should. My grandfather - Samson’s father - never accepted me, though his wife was kind.”

I nodded along as she poured herself more wine from the bottle Shaky had left on the counter. “My grandfather was a very cruel man, especially after my grandmother died. He called me gyftoi and said he wished I was dead. And that is why I ran away.”

“How old were you?”

“Fifteen,” she said, then added at my look of shock, “It was a different time, a different place. Most girls were married or betrothed by that age. But there would be no wedding for me, a Gypsy. So I went to Agia Varvara, the village where my mother’s people lived. But things were not as I thought they would be. They despised my Greek blood as much as my grandfather had hated the Tsiganoi. But they took me in. I lived with them for two years. And then I met a boy whose family was still living the old way, moving from place to place, playing songs and telling fortunes…” she trailed off and a smile lifted her face and lit up her eyes as she remembered her first love.

“His name was Sotis Saleas, and he was very handsome and blond like a northern Italian. He was sick with leukemia, but I did not care. He was very sweet. And he played the guitar…” she lifted her hands toward the ceiling and waggled her fingers. “He was beautiful, so pale and thin, like an angel. We were married and I left Agia Varvara with him and his family.” Her smile faltered and she took another sip of wine, then blotted her lips with a paper napkin.

From the end of the bar came a loud eruption of laughter from Tim and Goodwin.

“I swear it’s true!” Shaky said. “They were out to here!” I didn’t turn to see what was out to where and Alexandra didn’t even seem to hear them.

“The best year of my life was with Sotis. We had a child,” she said, and her eyes met mine again, but it was a fleeting glance. “He was perfect, a beautiful little boy who looked just like his father. We named him Sotis as well. Life was good. Not perfect but good. His family never accepted me or the baby. They were good, honest people, but I was a Gadjo to them. An outsider. But Sotis and I were happy…”
she stopped and her smile disappeared. Tears glimmered in her eyes. “And then Sotis was killed.”

Her story was holding me so raptly that a startled, “My God, how awful!” leapt out of my mouth and the laughter of the three men at the end of the bar died. I lowered my voice and asked, “How?”

“It was an accident. We were the last wagon in the caravan. We should not have been on such a large road, but we were anxious to make the next town and set up the show for that night. A lorry hit us at an intersection,” she said, her words coming slowly. A single tear scrolled down her face, streaking her makeup.

“Sotis died there on that highway and I was taken to the hospital in the next town.” She stopped there for a moment and dabbed her eyes. “With his leukemia, we both knew our time together might be brief, but I had hoped for years, and got little more than months.”

“What about you? And your son? Were you badly injured?”

“Our baby was unharmed, but both my legs were broken and one of my lungs had collapsed. I was in a coma for three weeks. When I awoke Sotis’ people had moved on. They were probably happy to be rid of me. But my father, Samson, was there by my bedside.”

“And your son?” I asked a little breathlessly.

Another tear, and then another, slid down her face and her chin trembled. “The hospital said the other gypsies had taken him with them. No one really cared. Not for a gypsy baby.”

I said nothing; I was incapable of words. As a mother myself I could imagine how devastating that would be.

“I returned to Greece, but I never gave up hope I would be reunited with Sotis. We hired a detective, Samson and I, but the Saleas moved often and left little trace. It was almost five years later the detective found the clan in a little village in Italy, outside Palermo.

“Samson and I flew to Palermo and raced to the camp ground where the detectives had located them. We caught them as they were leaving. And my child was there, with them. Six years old by then, but I recognized him.” She paused, her gaze focused on the bartop again, but I knew her mind was focused thirty years in the past.

The silence lasted so long, and I was so caught up in the story, I had to prompt her. “You took him home? To Greece?”

“Yes,” she whispered, her complexion suddenly waxy-gray. She had aged ten years in as many seconds. “Dimitri and I were dating by then. I had hoped for a happy family, the three of us, but I was a fool. My son believed I had abandoned him. I had thrown him away. And he would not believe otherwise, no matter how much I explained.” She paused again. “He was hard and angry. Six years old and he never cried or laughed. If I tried to hug him he would curse and punch and kick. He hated me. And he hated Dimitri even more. The two of them fought endlessly.”

“What about Samson?”

She thought about that for a moment. “Perhaps he cared for Samson in some strange way,” she said as if she had never considered the possibility before. “He would sometimes be quiet when he was with Samson. But just as often he was not.” She sighed and shook her head. “I think, maybe, he just hated Samson less.”

“My God,” I murmured. I’m sure my jaw was hanging to my breastbone.

Heavy tears broke free of her lashes and spilled down her face. Shaky looked our way, saw the tears and turned away fast. Typical male in the face of female tears, but I was happy for it at that moment.

Alexandra dug in her purse for more tissue. “I loved him anyway. I took him to doctors and I put him in a special school. Year after year I tried to show him I loved him. None of it did any good. He stole and he fought and he cursed everyone. He was arrested many times. When he was twelve, he spent a year in a reform school, but it only made him worse. And then he began to set fires.” She took a deep, shuddering breath. “He died in a fire he set. At a theatre in town. The roof collapsed and twenty-seven people died, including my son. The survivors said he was laughing as the roof came down on top of him. The bodies were so badly burned they were never identified. We buried them together in a single grave.”