How to Dine on Killer Wine: A Party-Planning Mystery (3 page)

He lent her a hand to help her out. She blushed—I thought she might swoon—and fell instantly in love. I recognized the symptoms.

“Yes, you must be Rob. Thanks so much for putting us up at your beautiful home.” I took in the sprawling single-level house, from the red-tiled roof and wrought-iron fence to the circular fountain surrounded by four marble statues of children wearing crowns of grapes and holding goblets. The place was breathtaking—the perfect party setting. I almost swooned myself at the thought that we’d be staying in such an incredible home. As I started to open the trunk to retrieve my small suitcase, I heard someone call, “Rob!”

A woman came running toward us from the home. She also wore jeans, and a champagne-colored knit top. Her dark hair was swept up and caught by clips. On her feet were slip-on black leather flats—Clarks or
Rockports—simple, practical, comfortable. But unlike Rob, the look on her face wasn’t at all pleasant.

“Oh, here comes my wife now,” Rob said. “I’ll introduce you.” But his smile turned to a frown as she approached. “Marie? What’s wrong?”

Marie’s flushed cheeks and her wild brown eyes made me tense up. Uh-oh. All was not well in Napa’s Camelot. It probably had something to do with the upcoming event. Such was my party karma.

“It’s that witch JoAnne,” she said, breathless from the short run to my car. Even in her early forties, I doubted this trim, attractive woman was out of shape. No doubt stress was causing her to hyperventilate.

Rob sighed; his shoulders drooped. “What’s she done now?”

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw two other people appear in the doorway of the house. A woman—blond, younger looking, in tan shorts, a tight tank top, and leather sandals—was leaning against the doorjamb, her arms crossed in front of her midriff. I wondered if this was the JoAnne they were talking about. Next to her stood a man, nice looking, thirtysomething, dressed in a black suit in spite of the warm spring weather. I couldn’t make out his shoes from this distance, only that they were black and probably expensive, judging by the suit.

I thought I saw a look pass between the two of them.

“She says we have to cancel the party!” Marie cried. “God, I hate that woman!”

“What?” Rob said, shaking his head. “She can’t do that. There’s no way—”

“Yes, she can!” Marie said, cutting him off. “She’s
threatening to call the police! After all the work we’ve done to make this place a success, she’s doing her best to ruin us!”

Great. The party hadn’t started and already the cops were involved. I had a feeling the fizz in this event was already starting to go flat.

“Can she do that?” I asked Rob, alarmed at the possibility of having planned a party for nothing. It wasn’t so much the money—I was sure he’d pay me my customary party-cancellation fee. It was more the event itself. I’d hoped to make a big splash in Napa and branch out, with more parties in the world-famous wine country.

Rob ran a hand through his graying hair. “I highly doubt it. She’s called the police so many times, she’s become the witch who cried wolf. Don’t worry,” he added in an ominous tone. “I’ll handle her.”

Although Rob looked the part of the genteel lord of the manor, I sensed a fire underneath that cool exterior.

“Marie,” Rob said, taking charge, “go back in the house. Make sure Allison is finished preparing the extra rooms for our guests.” I looked over at the thin blond woman in the doorway, who must have been Allison, not the JoAnne they’d been speaking about. Marie bit her lip and headed back to the house. When she reached Allison, she said something to her before they stepped back and closed the door, leaving the man alone on the porch. He headed our way.

I looked at Rob, who’d been watching the women, his brow furrowed. After they disappeared, he turned to me, assuming his previously pleasant expression. “Well, let’s get you two ladies settled, shall we? Then we can begin working on the finishing touches for our big event tomorrow.”

The suited man approached. “Need any help?” he said to Rob, but he was grinning at me.

“No thanks, Kyle. Javier will take care of things. I’ll talk to you later.”

The man named Kyle nodded, shook hands with Rob, and walked to his silver BMW parked nearby. He gave me a last, almost leering look before he opened the door and entered his car.

What was up with this guy?

Rob signaled a short Hispanic man standing near the three-car garage, next to two large buildings. I hadn’t noticed him when we’d arrived, distracted by the picturesque winery. Dressed in baggy jeans, a plaid shirt, and a wide-brimmed straw hat, the man set down the sprayer he’d been holding and walked over.

“Javier, would you take the bags for these lovely ladies and put them in the guest rooms, please?”

Javier, his leathery skin tanned to a deep russet color, nodded silently. He picked up my mother’s oversized, expensive YSL suitcase and my compact, sale-priced Target bag and toted them toward the side of the house, where I guessed there was another, less grand entrance.

I checked my Mickey Mouse watch: a little after ten o’clock. I looked forward to working on decorating the garden area, setting up the games, arranging the serving tables, and generally planning the logistics of the party. I’d been out to the Purple Grape only once before, more than a month ago, and although I’d taken pictures and made sketches, I knew I’d find things I’d overlooked that could cause a wrinkle in the final plans.

“Follow me,” Rob said, no sign of the problem with JoAnne in his happy expression. He motioned us toward the front entrance. “You can both freshen up, if you like, and then I’d be happy to give your mother a tour of the place.”

“I’d love that,” Mother said as she followed Rob along the garden path.

I eyed the area as we passed through, trying to picture the setup. Serving tables on the mosaic slate patio. Lights strung across the grape arbor that shaded the entryway. Real and fake grapes decorating the fountain, the front door, and the outdoor furniture.

“You might enjoy a mud bath or spa treatment this afternoon,” Rob said as we followed him through the door into the tiled entrance, “before we head over to the culinary college. I’m sure there will be plenty of time to relax.”

The Christophers had created a house suitable for
an issue of
Tuscany Home Digest
. Rob led us past the main living area, which featured two large brown leather couches separated by a stone coffee table that was covered with a sheet of glass. Chunky leather chairs decorated with plush pillows in warm shades of red, orange, and brown filled in the large space by the fireplace. Everything was so pristine, I felt as if I were in the lobby of an exclusive hotel rather than someone’s home.

Rob led us down the tiled hallway, which was flanked by cream-colored walls and lined with wrought-iron lighting fixtures interspersed with glass display cases. Inside the cases were wine-related memorabilia, everything from vintage wine corks neatly set in rows, to prestigious wine labels from around the world, including a Rothschild—the only one I recognized in my limited upscale wine experience.

I stopped in front of the last display in the hallway. “These are amazing!” I said to Rob, who was a few steps ahead of me. He and Mother turned back.

“Ah, yes. My antique wine screws. Aren’t they interesting? These are from the Old West.”

I studied the memorabilia through the glass, marveling at the intricate details of the handles. Several, large enough for big cowboy hands, were made from gnarled wood that had been polished to a sheen. Others sported ornate keys and western ranch symbols and horns from bulls and steers.

“They drank wine in the Old West?” I asked, remembering the western movies I’d watched as a kid with one of my dads. “I thought they only drank whiskey.”

“Oh, sure they did. Back then people took pride in their wine paraphernalia and their ability to open wines. Not like today, where you’ve got your electric Rabbit wine openers that even a toddler can use. I’ve got antique levers, screw pulls, twisters, double-prongs, waiter-style—you name it.”

“I’ve never opened a bottle of wine,” my mother said. She grinned. “Someone is always there to open it for me. That’s what I call a wine opener.”

“Funny, Mother,” I said to her, rolling my eyes.

“I’m serious, dear,” she said, and continued down the hall after Rob.

I had no doubt she was telling the truth.

Rob stopped in front of an open door. “This is your room, Presley. Yours is next door, Veronica. You’ll be sharing a bathroom between the rooms. I hope that’s all right.”

“Of course,” Mother said, stepping into the room I’d been assigned. I knew it was mine because my suitcase sat on top of a hope chest next to the window. The room was as impeccably decorated as the rest of the house, but in dark wine hues instead of brown leather. The fluffy comforter, heavy drapes, and woven area rug over the tile floor were all the same deep purple shade.

On the walls were framed prints of the Napa Valley Mustard Festival, featuring bright fields of yellow flowers with multicolored hot-air balloons in the background and glasses of wine in the foreground. The half dozen satin pillows on the bed matched the mustard yellow in the poster exactly, a color scheme I would never have imagined—purple and yellow?—yet it worked perfectly. Back at my Treasure Island condo, not one piece
of furniture matched another, let alone shared the same or a complementary color. And the prints on my walls ran to noir movie posters like
The Maltese Falcon
, while my “collections” amounted to random displays of old birthday cards, Nancy Drew books, and cat fur. That’s how much I knew about decorating. But I knew money when I saw it. The Christophers had plenty.

Rob stepped inside and opened the door to the shared bathroom. “This is—”

He stopped abruptly, his hand still on the knob. Voices were coming from the other side of the bathroom door that led to Mother’s suite.

“You’re going to get in trouble!” said a muffled angry male voice.

A female voice countered with something I couldn’t make out through the door, but from the tone, she too sounded angry.

Rob rushed through the bathroom and opened the other door leading to Mother’s room. “What’s going on in here?” he demanded.

I peered in and recognized Allison. She stood facing us, her arms crossed, her face flushed. Javier stood with his back to me, holding his straw hat in his hand.

“Allison!” Rob continued. “You should have been finished preparing the rooms by now. And Javier, why aren’t you back at work? What are you doing here?”

“He’s helping me,” Allison said, glaring at Javier, her jaw set. She shot a look at Rob. “We were just fluffing the pillows, like you asked.” Her tone clearly suggested an attitude—it was hardly the way an employee might speak to her boss. At least, I’d assumed she was an employee.

“
Perdóneme, señor
…I…I was just…on my way,” Javier stammered, gripping his hat in both hands as if it might shield him from injury. He shuffled out, head down, passing Allison without giving her a glance.

Allison tossed an odd smile to Rob—more like a smirk—then spun around and left the room without shutting the door behind her.

“Sorry about that,” Rob said. “We’re all under a lot of stress with this party. I’ve got the Green Grape people breathing down my neck, JoAnne threatening to call the police, and Napology trying to buy me out. And we haven’t had the best harvest the past couple of years. As for Allison”—he nearly spat out her name—“she hasn’t been with us long. I suppose it’s taking her time to learn everything.” Rob shook his head.

“No problem,” I said.

“And Javier,” Rob went on. “I know he’s worried about work. He was managing several of the boutique wineries in the area, but many of them have been absorbed by Napology.” He took a deep breath, sighed, then put on his happy face again. “Anyway, sorry to vent. Just wanted to explain. Marie and I are both so glad to have you doing the party. Once we debut our new, competitively priced merlot, I think business will really take off.”

“Of course,” I said. I thought about my own crew and their occasional squabbles. Dee was a theater prima donna, happiest in the spotlight, while Berk saw himself as a cinema artiste. It was a combination that often created a lot of drama. Duncan and Berk shared an office, so naturally they had their little spats, mostly during the competitive computer games they played.
Rocco had his own cooking show on local TV, so calling him a temperamental chef was putting it mildly. Luckily Brad got along with everyone—sometimes too well. Women found him charming—especially Marianne, the director of the Treasure Island Development Association, to name one. She seemed to find ample opportunities to flirt with him. As for me, my only beef was an occasional sarcastic interchange with Lieutenant Luke Melvin, a detective with the San Francisco Police Department—who also happened to be Brad’s best friend.