A Vintage To Die For (Violet Vineyard Murder Mysteries Book 2) (7 page)

Chapter 8

I sat in my
tasting room for two hours, occupying the office chair that sits in front of my ancient computer, the most comfortable spot in the room. Blake Becker was with me for the first hour, but our conversation was desultory. He tried to get more facts out of me about Jorge and Samson, but I was done talking. I had already dug a deep enough hole with Hunter. And that's why I was doing as instructed and keeping silent and out of sight as my guests were interrogated out back, and my cellar was searched by a team of County deputies.

Samson appeared in the doorway at one point, Marjory at his shoulder. Samson was wearing only boxer shorts, a sleeveless T-shirt and black socks that rose to his knees, an outfit that showed off his scrawny physique. I had seen scarecrows with more flesh on their bones. Marjory was wrapped in a sheet, looking like an oversized mummy. Her makeup was gone and her hair a snarled mess. She said nothing; she didn’t even look up at me, but Samson had a lot to say, as usual.

“They took my clothes!” he yelled, glaring at me as if it were my fault. “My sweater and shoes!” he waved a hand at his drooping ensemble. “They have left me naked!”

I almost laughed, and I could see Blake smirking under the damp tea towel he was still holding to his head.

“You have spare clothes in the guest bedroom,” I pointed out and then looked over his shoulder at Marjory. “And I can get you something to wear, if you want, Marjory?” I knew nothing I had would fit her, but we’d manage something.

She shook her head without lifting it. “I want to go home,” was all she said. The sorrowful tone of her voice knocked the legs out from under what little humor the situation had held. But Samson wasn’t listening to Marjory.

“My sweater,” he said. “Almost brand new! And the shoes were barely broken in!”

“The sweater was a rat’s nest and the shoes cost five dollars twenty years ago,” I replied. “You have clothes upstairs. Go put some pants on and quit acting like an idiot.”

“Idiot? Now you call me names?” He drew himself up to his full height and his t-shirt rose as well, baring a hairy patch of old-man belly. I could have done without that. He turned away. “Come, Marjory, I can stand no more of this!” He stomped off, and I heard him pounding up the stairs to the spare room where he and Victor kept clothes and other essentials. Samson often slept over. The old man liked his wine.

Hunter appeared in the doorway a moment later. He took Blake away, holding up a finger at me when I started to ask a question.

“Stay put,” was all he said, his voice a little less chilly than it had been two hours before when he caught me grilling Alexandra about what she saw in the basement.

I stayed put, fidgeting and bored and wondering what was going on in my cellar, but I was actually more than happy to be sequestered. I had no desire to speak to any of my guests, who would undoubtedly have a million questions about what had happened in the cellar.

Jessica joined Blake and me not long after Hunter left. She looked exhausted -dark circles had built under her eyes and her complexion was as pale as a specter - but she seemed calm enough. I hate to admit the terrible experiences we had all endured when Kevin Harlan was murdered had had an upside. The events, as awful as they were for Jess, had seemed to mature her almost overnight. That old Jessica would have fallen apart by now, but the new one took a seat across from me on one of the tasting benches, and gave me a wan but undaunted smile.

“What’s going on out there?” I asked, and she shrugged.

“They asked me a lot of questions, but I didn’t know anything.” She looked down at her lap and I saw a line of color climb her neck. “I was talking to…” she hesitated before continuing, “I was in the side yard when Alexandra started screaming.” She didn’t lift her eyes.

My motherly suspicions got the better of me. It was obvious she was leaving something, or someone, out of her story. I remembered her coming around the corner of the house, flushed and a little rumpled, with Blake Becker just a few hours ago and my suspicions began to crackle into little angry flames. I’d kill him!

Jessica lifted her head and said, “Almost everyone is gone.”

I had surmised that by the number of cars I had heard start and accelerate away from my front yard over the last two hours.

“The caterers are about to leave. The police are searching their van right now.”

“Their van?” I asked.

Jessica nodded. “They searched all the cars, mine and yours included.

“What about Dimitri? Have they…”

Jessica shivered and clenched her arms across her chest. “They took him away a few minutes ago. Midge Tidwell and another deputy are going through the cellar right now. They’ve boxed up a lot of stuff.”

I sat bolt straight at that. The cellar is my baby, murder scene or not. “Boxed up what?”

“A bunch of harvesting knives and clippers. Saws. Limb cutters.”

I settled back in my chair. I wasn’t happy about it - the lack of tools was going to make the end of season cleanup of the vines impossible - but I could see little room for argument. I’d have to beg, borrow, or buy what we needed.

I changed the subject. “You’ve been seeing a lot of Blake lately,” I said, and there was that well-worn scolding edge to my tone, a tone she had been hearing since she was in junior high. It’s funny, in a sad way, that no cataclysmic event, not even a murder in my home, could eradicate my need to meddle in my daughter’s affairs.

Jessica’s lips compressed and she gave me a look of annoyance just as familiar to me. “Blake and I have been working out the details of
your
agreement with Star Crossed,” she said. “Transferring account information and past pricing lists. And you’re very welcome,” she cut me off with a snide little snap.

“He’s a handsome man,” I said unapologetically. “And the way you two were giggling when you came back with the ice…”

“Mom!” she gasped. “Blake is almost as old as you are!”

“Which is two days younger than dirt,” I replied dryly, but I was relieved to hear it. Jessica’s choices in men had been less than stellar over the years; I didn’t think I could handle another bout of that kind of drama.

“I ran into Blake and he offered to help carry the ice. That’s all.”

Good to hear. I was about to change the subject back to the murder when the catering crews’ head chef, Charlie Nitti, stuck his head through the door. He looked tired and rumpled, with a shock of thick black hair hanging down in his youthful face. He appeared far too young to be a chef. And far too good looking - like a model in an underwear ad. Not that I look at underwear ads… He glanced at Jessica, flashed a brilliant smile, and then looked at me and put a more sober expression on his face.

“They police have told us to leave everything as-is, Mrs. de Montagne,” he said. “The kitchen is a mess, but I’ll be back tomorrow to clean up.”

I nodded. He shot Jessica a lingering glance before he ducked out the door and was gone.

Jessica’s eyes stayed on the door long after he had disappeared, a slightly dreamy look on her face.

“He’s hot,” I said and her head snapped my way.

“Mom!”

I leaned forward in my chair. “Tell me,” I said. I was reminded it had been Jessica who had recommended the caterers…and now I had a good idea why. I assumed he was the person that she had been ‘talking to in the side yard’ when Alexandra had screamed.

“Charlie is a nice guy,” she said, a schoolgirl smile spreading across her face. “We met years ago at UC, but I didn’t really know him until he catered Gloria’s wedding. We hit it off and…” she shrugged and tilted the smile at me. “You wondered why I was giggling when we brought the ice,” she added. “I was talking to Charlie when Blake came around the side of the house.”

“Talking? The way you were blushing, I’d guess you were doing more than talking. While
I
was paying him by the hour,” I said jokingly.

Jessica laughed and so did I. It felt good. The first easing of tension since Alexandra had yelled ‘Murderer!’

And then Hunter ruined it.

“Not much laughter out here, ladies,” he said as he came through the door and flopped down on the bench beside Jessica. I didn’t know if that was meant as reproach or not; it was hard to tell from his deadpan delivery, but it annoyed me anyway. He rubbed his face with his hands and then looked at me with weary eyes. “Hell of a party, Claire.”

I had no reply for that. Victor came in at that moment, dressed in his party best, a yellow guyabara shirt, faded jeans and a pair of beaten-up boat shoes. He dropped down on the bench on the other side of Jess.

“Samson’s out back threatening to leave,” he said to Hunter. “He wants to take Marjory home.”

“He’ll be lucky if I don’t take them both to jail,” Hunter replied with a bone-deep sigh.

“You can’t believe they—” I began but Hunter held up a hand.

“If I believed they killed him they’d be in jail.”

“I don’t think Jorge killed—” Victor said, but Hunter cut him off as well.

“I don’t believe it either,” Hunter said. “McCullers is a jackass when he drinks, though he’s never done anything violent. But…” he shrugged as he left that hanging there.

“The blood,” I said and Hunter nodded.

“And Angela’s assault on Blake,” he added.

“Assault,” I said doubtfully. “She threw a glass.”

“Blake is calling it assault,” Hunter replied. “He says he’ll press charges. Angela would be in jail along with Jorge if I knew where she was.”

“Angela’s gone?” I asked.

Hunt nodded. “Jorge says he fell asleep in the front yard. He says when he woke up she was gone. She probably took a cab home,” he said. “Or to the nearest bar.”

“Hunt?” Deputy Midge Tidwell yelled down the hallway from the kitchen.

“In here!” Hunter yelled back and Victor, Jess, and I all jumped.

Midge popped into the doorway. She had a brown paper bag in her hand. “Got a second?” she asked and beckoned for Hunter to come out into the hallway.

Hunter groaned. “Just tell me,” he said. “I’m too tired for secrets.”

Midge gave the three of us a skeptical look – one that lingered on me for a long moment– then shook her head. “This is important,” she said. “I think—”

“Spill it, Midge,” Hunter said.

Midge didn’t like it, but she did what she was told. “I found a hook-billed knife in Angela Zorn’s car.” She held up the bag. “There’s fresh blood on it. And we found a yellow slicker jacket and rubber gloves in the basement, behind some machinery. They’re covered in blood, too.” She looked at me, the hint of an accusation in her eyes. “The slicker is a woman’s, size medium.”

“Good work, Midge,” Hunter said.

Midge nodded stiffly, gave me one more look, then turned and disappeared back down the hallway.

“The slicker’s mine,” I said to Hunter. “For the crush. Manning the destemmer is messy. And I don’t appreciate the look Midge gave—”

“Afraid you might be a suspect?” he asked with a narrow smile.

“I know Midge doesn’t like me,” I said, but that just sounded petulant and I knew it. It was embarrassing. But I couldn’t stop. “She’d be happy if I
was
the murderer.”

Hunter laughed. “You were with me when Dimitri died,” he said. “Remember?”

“Yes,” I said, unmollified. “And I’ve got the bruised toes to prove it.”

Hunter stood up, stretched his back and groaned, then headed for the door. He paused on the threshold. “I’m done with you three,” he said then looked at me, “but the rest of the crime scene team and I are going to be here for a while.”

I stood. “I’ll make coffee and put together some food for your men.” I wondered how much chicken was left. Probably a lot. There had been too much drama for much eating to be done.

“I appreciate that, Claire,” he said and was gone.

“Jorge arrested for murderer?” Jessica said as she too stood. “That’s ridiculous.”

Victor didn’t rise and he didn’t say anything, but I could see the wheels turning behind his eyes. Jorge wasn’t exactly a friend of Victor’s, but Jorge’s accusations about police harassment of Latinos would have hit home with my foreman. California might be an ultraliberal state, but its track record on race relations wasn’t exactly stellar. But I knew Hunter was no bigot, and St. Helena was not Los Angeles. And Jorge was a drunken idiot, even if I did like him.

And he just might
be
the murderer.

I headed for my disaster of a kitchen, Jessica trailing in my wake.

The
last police car
left Violet at 3:30AM. I was still awake, and the kitchen was only half-cleaned. Charlie had said he would be back tomorrow, but the work had kept my hands and my mind busy as police officers and the coroner’s men paraded through my kitchen and the cellar below.

I had made seven pots of coffee in that time period and three times as many chicken sandwiches. Victor and Jessica had helped, but Victor had been morose and silent. He left at midnight, just a half hour before Jessica climbed the stairs to what she refers to as ‘her room’ and I refer to as the ‘guest room.’