A Vintage To Die For (Violet Vineyard Murder Mysteries Book 2) (6 page)

Jessica came into the room. “What happened? I heard Dimitri has been hurt?” she asked, looking from me to Alexandra in bewilderment.

“He's dead,” Alexandra said in the same little-girl voice she had used when she spoke to Samson. “Dead,” she repeated. “Murdered.”

Jessica looked at me. The look on my face must have frozen out any other questions she had.

I stood and released Alexandra’s hand. “Fix Alexandra a scotch and sit with her,” I said. “I have to talk to the guests.”

Jessica is an elementary school teacher, long on patience and sympathy; she needed no prodding. She nodded and turned to the bar as I left the room.

I felt like a witch for abandoning Alexandra; I could have sent Jessica outside to corral the guests while I sat with the widow, but my mind was too confused and swirling; I was afraid I would not have been much comfort to her. What I had seen in the cellar was so shocking I was still having trouble assimilating it. Dimitri dead and Samson pawing at the body, covered in the dead man’s blood. Could Samson have? Would he have?

No! I had known Samson for more than twenty years; he was a grouchy hothead with a sharp tongue, but he was no murderer.

God, I hoped I was right.

The waiters and cooks were huddled in the kitchen as I passed through. The conversation stopped and all eyes turned to me, but I paid them no mind. I continued out the back door and across the patio.

My eyes shot out across the valley, now cloaked in an inky darkness alleviated only by the tiny twinkling lights of homes, businesses, and wineries. With the cloudless night sky above illuminated by millions of stars, it was hard to determine where the world ended and the heavens began. It was almost impossible for me to believe there had been a murder committed amidst such beauty.

Most of my guests were clustered near the wine cellar door. Every one of them looked more curious than frightened. And they were all whispering. A few of them had gotten a glimpse of the crime scene before I had slammed the door closed and they were regaling the others with gruesome details. No one seemed to be considering the fact that there was a murderer in their midst. They sipped their wine and speculated as if this was a TV drama staged for their amusement. Their attitude infuriated me after what I had just seen, but I tried to keep my temper in check as I raised my voice and spoke.

“Please, everyone, back to the tent. Sheriff Drake has asked that everyone sit down and wait for the police to arrive.”

“So, he really is dead?” Armand Rivincita, asked, his voice edged with more than curiosity. He sounded deflated, and he looked pale and shaken. I wondered instantly why he was so affected, but I had little time to consider it before I was bombarded with questions and accusations from all sides.

“Did Samson kill him?”

“Did Marjory?

“I bet it was Angela!”

“Samson was strangling him!” someone shouted from the back of the crowd. “I saw it!”

“I saw blood. I think he shot Dimitri!” someone else called out.

“Ding-dong, the witch is dead!” a half drunk voice added from the back of the mob. A few people tittered, while most looked mortified.

“Please, sit down! A man is dead!” I shouted angrily. This wasn't some kind of joke. I didn’t like Dimitri either, but respect for the dead was something every person should understand without scolding.

The voices died, but I got a few baleful looks. People started drifting off to the tent. I turned back toward the cellar door and almost jumped out of my sandals when I found Jorge McCullers standing directly behind me.

“You seen Angela?” he asked, his eyes panning over the departing crowd. There was grass clinging to Jorge’s clothes and his face was wrinkled from sleep. “I must have dozed off while I was waiting for the cab. What's going on back here?” he said, waving a hand at the people under the tent, most of them whispering again and shooting looks at the two of us. I wasn’t paying attention to them. My eyes had fixed on Jorge's right hand.

It was covered in blood.

My heart lurched in my chest and I took a startled step back, my eyes pinned to his bloody hand. Angela had accused Dimitri of ruining her less than thirty minutes ago...

Jorge saw me looking at his hand. He looked at it too then held it up, slick with blood.

“Nose bleed,” he said. “High blood pressure. Drinking makes it worse.”

I nodded dumbly and took another step away from him. My feet seemed to stick to the grass, my legs leaden. There was more blood on Jorge’s shirt. A splash of it blotted his jeans.

“What’s going on?” he asked again. “Why are you looking at me that way?”

“Wait under the tent, Jorge,” I said, my voice compressed to a thin squeak. The sound of a siren reached me. And then another. “The police are coming,” I said and bolted past him. I crossed the lawn, jerked open the cellar door and ducked inside.

Hunter had Marjory seated on the chair at Samson’s hopelessly cluttered desk. Samson was on the other side of the room, far from the tanks and the still dangling Dimitri, leaning against the destemmer, a sulky look on his face.

“I did not kill him,” he said loudly, his voice echoing off the stone walls, though I’m not sure if he was talking to me or to Hunter. “But I am not sorry he is dead,” he added defiantly.

“Wonderful,” I said and his pout deepened. Only Samson would be crass enough to make that kind of statement just moments after being found hovering over the body of a murdered man. I made a slashing motion at my throat to shut him up then realized how horrible that gesture was at that moment.

“Claire, you can wait outside with the rest,” Hunter said, catching the gesture and frowning with distaste.

I shook my head. “I’m not going anywhere until I talk to you.” I hesitated to say more in front of Marjory and Samson.

“Claire,” he said just that single word, but his chilly tone made me bristle.

“Hunter,” I said just as coldly.
“Now!”

Hunter turned to Marjory. “Stay right here and no talking to Samson. I want your stories one on one.”

“It’s not a story—” Marjory began, but Hunt held up a warning finger and she stopped talking. Her face was wet with tears, her clothes sopping with grape juice. I had never seen her look so dejected and ill at ease. Marjory was never at a loss for words. In fact, she usually said the
worst possible thing
at the
worst possible moment.
And, while I had often wished she’d just shut up, I was saddened to see her reduced to this forlorn, dejected lady in a wet dress.

I pointed Hunter at a spot beyond a small mountain of stacked cardboard cases of wine, back into the cellar, and headed that way. He followed me into the cave without further protest.

The temperature dropped as we walked a twisting path through stacks of more cased wine and thirty-gallon glass carboys filled with cabernet waiting to be bottled. It was dim back there, lit only by a single row of bulbs mounted high in the vaulted ceiling.

I stopped in the middle of the carboys, well short of the rows of oak barrels filled with aging wine, and far out of earshot of Marjory and Samson. I didn’t prevaricate or waste time.

“I saw Jorge out back. He has blood on his clothes and his hands.”

Hunter blew out a long breath and his shoulder sagged. “Fantastic,” he said then added, “Stay here.” He turned his back on me and strode out of the cave and out of the cellar, banging the door closed behind him.

As he walked away I saw his gun was back in his hand.

Chapter 7

Hunter had told me
to stay put, but I wasn't much for taking orders. Especially from men. It was my home and my party, after all. And hanging out in the cellar with a corpse was more than I was willing to bear. I let him get out the door then quickly trailed him across the cellar.

Marjory was still sitting in Samson’s desk chair, her hands in her lap, her damp dress clinging in unflattering folds. I gave her a smile. How I managed it in that situation I’ll never know, except that there are very few people I love as much as Marjory. Crass, opinionated, overbearing, violent Marjory. My best friend. It hurt to see her so crestfallen and overwhelmed.

It was too bad Samson showed none of that emotion. My old winemaker was still standing by the destemmer, scowling up at Dimitri dangling over the lip of the tank. He looked over when I came into sight. He pointed up at the body.

“I found him this way, de Montagne,” he said gruffly.

“I know that, Samson.”

“I would have shot him like a dog, not drowned him in my cabernet,” he continued as he looked back up into Dimitri’s face. The dead man’s eyes were still open. Blood dripped from his ruined throat. “That he would have deserved.”

“Tell us how you really feel, Samson,” Marjory said and gave a sharp peal of hysterical laughter. It died as quickly as it came, and her eyes fell to her lap. Samson seemed not to notice his girlfriend was on the edge of a nervous breakdown.

“I did not like him when he was alive, and I like him only slightly better now,” he said. “The man was no good. He deserved—”

“Samson!” I snapped and his eyes left Dimitri to give me a pop-eyed glare. “The man’s wife is upstairs in hysterics. And so is your girlfriend,” I pointed at Marjory. “Get over there and comfort her before I kick your skinny butt!” I didn’t wait to see if he complied; I jerked the door open and stomped out onto the back lawn.

I didn’t have to look for Hunter or Jorge; they were standing in the middle of the lawn, facing each other like gunfighters in an old western movie, though Hunter was the only one with a gun in his hand. Jorge had one finger hooked around the neck of a jug of my cabernet. Half of the partygoers had drifted out onto the grass and had formed a rough semicircle around the two men like high school kids anticipating a fight.

“Put the wine down, Jorge, and come inside with me,” Hunter said, his gun hanging loose at his side.

But Jorge wasn't going to come along quietly. He gave Hunter a sloppy grin, took a swallow from the neck of the jug and turned to face the crowd, showing his back to Hunter.

“There's been a crime committed! Round up the Mexicans!” Jorge shouted at the top of his lungs. He was far drunker than he had been just thirty minutes before. “Lock up the women and hide the liquor!” he laughed and a few people joined in, but it was an uncomfortable titter, more anxiety than mirth.

In the distance, the sirens were still wailing, much closer now. It sounded like every cop car in the Valley was racing up the mountain road toward Violet, but Hunter was on his own for the moment.

Hunter tried to be reasonable. “You have blood on your clothes, Jorge,” he pointed out as he tucked his gun back into its holster. He took handcuffs out of the leather pouch attached to his belt and opened a bracelet.

Jorge looked at the cuffs, took another big swallow of wine, bent slowly and placed the jug on the grass at his feet. “Think you can take me one-on-one, Sheriff?” Jorge asked as he raised his fists and bent his knees in a classic fighter's pose. He tried a shuffle-step, jabbing the air with his fists, shadow-boxing, but he staggered and almost fell. That didn’t dissuade him. “Come and get it, peckerwood! I been wanting a piece of you for a
loooong
time.”

“Put your hands down, Jorge. A ten year old girl could kick your butt right now,” Hunter replied.

“Where's she at?” Jorge asked, darting a comical look over each shoulder. “I'll take the both of you, right here, right now.” He laughed some more, took a shambling step forward, and threw a looping right at Hunter’s chin.

Hunter side-stepped the punch and Jorge went around in a complete circle. Somehow he managed to keep his feet under him.

“Quit moving,” he said, turning to face Hunter once again. “Fight fair.” He threw another punch with the same success. The blow came within a foot of Hunter's nose and then Jorge was pirouetting again. But he only made it halfway through the circle this time before Hunter booted him in the seat of the pants.

The kick wasn't much more than a shove, but that was all it took to send Jorge face first into the grass.

Hunter was on top of him in a split second. He had the cuffs fastened behind Jorge's back as quickly as a rodeo rider bulldogging a calf.

“You fight like a girl!” Jorge yelled. “Kicking me when my back was turned!” But he didn’t sound angry, he was laughing. He rolled over and sat up. He looked forlornly at the wine jug sitting on the grass. “Let me get another pull off that bottle, would you, Hunt? It’s awful cold in the drunk tank.”

Hunter ignored the request. He looked out at the amused crowd. “Back to your seats,” he said tersely. “My men will be here shortly to take your statements and then you can go home.”

As if on cue, the first deputy, Midge Tidwell, came around the corner of the house, her gun in her hand. Two male deputies appeared right behind her. The men went toward Hunter, but Midge stopped beside me.

Midge was dressed in a khaki uniform, the grape-cluster logo of the town of St. Helena emblazoned on her sleeve. Her tightly curled hair was cut close to her head, and the uniform was stiffly starched. And so was her personality. Despite that, I liked her. But her opinion of me was a little more complicated. I had delivered some very bad news to her last year and her philosophy had been to shoot the messenger. And judging by the withering look she gave me, she still wasn’t over it.

“Where’s the body?” she asked, looking straight at me. I was a little taken aback by her tone and not so subtle implication that if there was a body around I’d be the one to ask.

I pointed at the cellar. She looked that way then turned back and gave me a tight smile. “Seems like everyone comes here to die.”

That was unfair, but not inaccurate. Two people had died on my property the year before, but I was still stung. I’m usually not at a loss for words, a fact that often gets me in hot water, but at that moment nothing pithy came to my lips. And Midge was done with me anyway. She crossed the lawn to the cellar door and disappeared inside.

The two officers who had followed Midge around the corner had been joined by a half dozen more. One of them was escorting Jorge, probably to a squad car and a trip downtown, while the others were clustered around Hunter. He was speaking in low tones and his men were doing a lot of nodding. They broke up like football players leaving the huddle, four of them heading for the guests, while one headed for the cellar to join Midge, and another went past me into the kitchen.

Hunter came over. “I’m going to ask you to go inside and wait for me. Sit with Mrs. Pappos. And stay there this time.”

I nodded and turned to comply. I had made only three steps before his voice stopped me.

“But no amateur sleuthing. Don’t ask her any questions. I want to talk to her first.”

I was stung again, but I was getting used to it. I merely nodded again and went across the patio to the back door.

The deputy who had entered my house was talking to the wait staff and chefs in the kitchen. They were seated on kitchen chairs, hunched forward as the deputy asked his questions in a clipped, officious tone. The kitchen itself was a disaster area. Dirty plates and splattered pots and pans were piled on the counters and filled the sink. The floor was littered with debris and the cabinets were streaked with spills and splatters. I tried not to notice it as I passed through and headed down the hallway toward the living room.

“Claire.” Blake Becker shouted at me as I passed the tasting room, startling me so badly I jumped straight out of my sandals.

“What’s going on out there?” he asked as he came to the door, his height and bulk blocking it completely. He had the damp tea towel clamped to his head, though the ice was long gone.

“Hunter just arrested Jorge McCullers,” I said as I jammed my feet back into the sandals.

“Jorge? Why?”

“He has blood on his clothes,” I said. “And he and Angela are pretty angry with you and Dimitri.” It seemed obvious enough.

Blake frowned and his ruddy cheeks flushed. “Angela’s Zinfandel isn’t meeting the customer’s expectations,” he said. “That has nothing to do with Dimitri or me. She should be angry at Jorge. The way her west slope is trellised is the real issue. The drainage is bad. Way too much water retention. And the clusters were underpruned. She’s increased her tonnage by thirty percent over the last four years, but the quality has taken a hit.”

What he said made sense. An abundance of fruit wasn’t the goal in winemaking. Quality was all that mattered, and quality came from limiting the fruit the vines produced and the amount of water they received. Vines loaded down with fat and happy grapes make great jelly, but they’re poor stock for premium wine. But I made no reply to his comments about Angela.

“There’s a police officer in the kitchen who will probably want a statement from you,” I told him. He nodded, the rag still clasped to his head.

I continued down the hall to find Alexandra still on the sofa beside Jessica. The widow had a tumbler of amber liquid clenched in hands clamped between her knees. She wasn’t crying, but she looked drained - pale and shivering. A ghost of the vibrant woman who had come to my party just an hour before.

Both she and Jessica looked up at me expectantly. I had no idea what to say, so I stuck to the facts, though I decided not to mention the arrest of Jorge.

“Hunter will be with you shortly, Alexandra.” She nodded and I struggled for more words. “The police are with Dimitri now.” She nodded again and Jessica squeezed her forearm reassuringly. I didn’t know what to do with myself, so I crossed to the bar and poured a splash of scotch I didn’t really want into a lowball glass. I sat down on the sofa beside Alexandra.

“I never thought he would do it,” Alexandra said, then went silent. A silence that dragged and dragged for at least ten seconds as I fought my conscience.

Hunter had told me not to ask questions…

But I was going to do it anyway.

“Who?” I asked, dreading the answer.

Alexandra looked at me and cocked her head like I was a slightly dense child. “Samson,” she said. “I never thought he would do it.”

Again I went silent for a moment. But I couldn’t let it go. “I don’t think Samson did anything,” I told her. “He’s no killer.”

“You don’t know him,” she said abruptly, but not unkindly. She nodded as if to herself. “You are not a Greek.” She took a sip of her drink, lowered the glass, and said a single word as if it explained everything; “Vendetta.” Her eyes were red and swollen in her deathly-white face.

I waited for her to explain, but nothing else came. “Vendetta?” I asked. “I know Dimitri and Samson didn’t like each other, but…” I trailed off.

“It is my fault. What can you do when men will kill for you…” She turned one hand over, palm up and made a helpless gesture. “It is a curse. A curse on all three of us.”

“A curse?” I said, my confusion deepening. I looked at Jessica and raised my eyebrows. Jessica shook her head almost imperceptibly. She was clueless too.

“I thought time had taken the sting from the wound,” Alexandra said. “The invitation to your party. I thought it was…” Fresh tears interrupted whatever she had to say. Jessica pressed a clean tissue into her hand, but Alexandra did not use it.

“What did you see when you came into the cellar?” I asked her, dreading her reply. “Did you actually see Samson kill—”

“Mrs. Pappos,” Hunter said from the doorway, startling me so badly that I sloshed scotch across my dress. “I need to speak with you.” he looked at Jessica and me and pointedly added, “Alone.” His gaze lingered on me as I rose and headed for the door and I wondered how much he had overheard.

I didn’t have to wonder long.

“And then I’ll want to talk to you, Claire,” he said with a frosty edge to his voice.

He had heard everything.