One Foot in the Grape (9 page)

“T
O
fully appreciate the bouquet, twirl the glass several times. This allows the undertones of fruit, in this case pear, to rise from the glass.” Connor held the glass up to the light. “Also, notice the faint amber hue of this wine. This is caused by using more of the Cabernet grapes.”

I poured a glass from the bottle in front of me, picking up where Connor had left off. “In this Syrah, on the other hand, you can see the difference in the color, which is a clear, true burgundy.”

On the first Tuesday evening of every month, Connor and I teach wine-tasting classes in town at the Cypress Cove Civic Center. The class is just an overview of what many consider an art and a lifelong study, but it helps when trying to distinguish between different labels and vintages. The tourists enjoy it, and it keeps our labels fresh in their minds when they return home and wander down the wine aisles in their local markets. In any
event, Connor and I enjoy sharing our knowledge. The evenings can be fun.

When tasting, you're supposed to refrain from drinking the entire taste. You empty the remainder in the vessel provided and move on to the next selection. In classes given on wine appreciation at the college, I've actually seen that happen.

Here, though, you have a roomful of tourists on vacation. They don't grasp we often have six or seven bottles to taste and, by the third or fourth glass, they don't care. Sometimes you get large parties. Those are the most fun. Tonight it was the Ferrari Club, which had driven the coastal route up from Los Angeles. Twice yearly they came and took over the town for a long weekend. You could tell when those weekends occurred just by the number of times you saw the familiar black horse rearing up, the Ferrari logo, emblazoned on every imaginable piece of clothing.

Halfway through the tasting, Stephen Martinelli appeared in the back of the room. The Martinellis frequently gave classes at the civic center as well. Todd had run the classes, and I wondered who would take over. Stephen must have been checking on when they were scheduled next. He looked up and I caught his eye. I waved briefly and got a slight nod in return.

How did Veronica let him walk around dressed like that? This evening's ensemble consisted of a drab green sport coat and weird pink tie combination.

I nodded to Connor to continue, scooted off the platform and weaved through the Ferrari Club members. Stephen saw me as I worked my way toward him, but that didn't stop him from trying to leave. I caught up to him just as he was about to depart through the fire exit. He would rather set off the alarm than talk to me. Great.

“Hi, Stephen. Got a minute?” I wedged in between him and the door.

“Uh, sure.” He glanced around the room. His hands were in his pockets, and as he shifted his weight from side to side, I was struck again by how someone as vital as Antonia could have produced someone so, well, bland. Maybe that was why he wore those ghastly color combinations. Otherwise, he would have completely matched the brown wall behind him. Actually the wall had more color. And more personality.

“Good group tonight.” That's me. Master conversationalist.

“Uh, yes, it looked like it was.” Silence.

Well, that was fun. Let's try that again. “Did Martinelli have a seminar today too?”

“No. We had one scheduled for tomorrow, but the person teaching was supposed to be Todd . . .”

Silence. He wiped his brow and avoided my gaze.

“Stephen, do you mind if we talk about last night?”

“I guess not, but I don't know what there is to say. I thought at this point the police would be looking into that.”

“They are, but I have some thoughts on it and I'd really like to get your input.” For results, when I can't think of a lie, flattery runs a close second.

“Uh, do you mind if we sit down over there?”

I didn't mind. Stephen had turned milky pale and was sweating. Better to sit down now than scoop him up after he swooned at my feet. We sat on the bench around the fireplace, which was burning low and steady, just enough to take the chill out of the cool night air. Not that Stephen was cold. He immediately removed his jacket and placed it between us on the bench.

“So, Stephen, tell me about Chantal and Todd.”

My directness appeared to catch him off guard.

“Hum, I don't think . . . Why do you . . .”

I was out of patience. “Come on. Spit it out.”

“Well, I'm not sure what to tell you. Since you've brought it up, I guess you've heard Chantal was interested in Todd.” He wiped his forehead.

“Yes, and I also know he rejected her. That must have been quite a shock for someone like Chantal. I'm sure she isn't used to being rejected.”

Stephen eyes grew wide. “You can't possibly think Chantal had anything to do with last night. Chantal wouldn't hurt anybody.”

“It isn't always easy to know what people will do when they're upset. I heard you weren't very happy either. Didn't like the hired help rejecting your favorite sister, did you?”

“That's crazy.” He wiped his brow.

Boy, was he sweating
.
“Is it? From what I saw last night, Chantal's certainly drinking again. Was she more upset about Todd than you might know? It wouldn't be the first time a broken heart was motive enough to kill.”

I didn't like using Chantal's problems as an inducement to get to Stephen. It felt rotten, but I wasn't here to win a popularity contest. I was no expert on looking into murders, but I was a first-class information-getter. You take a deep breath, find the soft spot in people, then press.

Stephen took a ragged breath. “I'm telling you, Chantal wouldn't hurt anyone. Anyone but herself, that is. She didn't have anything to do with last night.”

“How can you be so sure? You said you saw Chantal go into the breakfast room and then you and Veronica went upstairs.”

“Yes. But while Veronica was taking her bath, I went back down to see how Chantal was.”

“How come you didn't say that last night?”

“Veronica thinks I protect Chantal too much.”

“Do you?”

Stephen looked away. “Sometimes.”

“So, what happened when you came back downstairs?”

“I wanted to stop her from drinking any more than she already had. She was at the table, crying. I helped her up the stairs and into her room. Then I went back to the west wing. Veronica didn't even know I was gone.”

“But Marvin said he saw Veronica in the kitchen. She said she made tea.”

“She made it before that, while I took my shower.”

Inwardly I groaned. Chantal would have had time to go out the door of the breakfast room, meet Todd, kill him and get back before Stephen returned downstairs. Veronica would have had time before she came up, when Stephen was in the shower. Finally, if Veronica's baths were anything like mine, Stephen had easily had as long as he needed to kill Todd and return to help Chantal up the stairs.

Did Todd have a prearranged meeting with someone at the tanks? Why then? Did he hear something, or follow someone? This wasn't getting me anywhere. “While you were downstairs, did anyone else see you?”

“I don't know. I was only concerned with getting Chantal to her room before Antonia saw what a mess she was.”

“I take it your mother doesn't like seeing Chantal when she's been drinking.”

Stephen gave a mirthless laugh. “She threatened to put
Chantal back into the hospital for another drying-out session if she didn't pull herself together. With the festival this weekend she's keeping an eye on her.”

“Sometimes protecting someone isn't the best thing for them,” I said in a quiet voice. “Maybe treatment would be good for Chantal in the long run.”

Stephen sighed and rubbed his eyes. “Maybe, but she's been in there so many times and it hasn't helped so far. I just want to protect her, and my mother, from more disappointment.”

“How many times has Chantal been in?”

“Eight or nine times over the years. Her first was when she was only eighteen. That's when I met Veronica.”

“Veronica worked in a treatment center?” I didn't mean to sound shocked, but I'd always found Veronica wound just a little too tight. I couldn't see her as a calming influence on patients being treated for chemical dependency. Stephen's next words validated my skepticism.

“No. Veronica's worked in various departments in the hospital, but never in the drug treatment facility. She was a nurse and now she volunteers, mostly in the office.”

Now that Chantal wasn't the topic, he'd relaxed a bit.

“So you met at the hospital. How?”

“I went into the hospital cafeteria for coffee, and we got to talking. One thing led to another. We married soon after.”

I waited for details, but that was all he had to offer. He didn't smile at the memory and didn't strike me as a man overly in love with his wife.

“So, that's it, then.” Yawn.

It was as if Stephen read my thoughts. “Veronica and I have
a perfectly good marriage. Oh, I know it may seem tedious compared to some, but it suits us.”

That, I believed. I couldn't imagine the girls lined up to be married to Stephen, even for the chance to be the next matron of Martinelli Winery, and Stephen had elevated a nervous, high-strung woman to the level of society doyenne. In some circles, this marriage had more going for it than most.

“Back to last night. Did you see anyone else while you were downstairs?”

“No, but I heard Francesca and Brice talking from behind the library door.”

“Were they talking to each other, or on their phones?”

I got a small shrug. “I'm afraid I couldn't say. If I had to guess, I'd say they were probably on their phones.”

Although I didn't say anything, I knew it was possible they weren't in there at all. People have played taped conversations behind closed doors before. I read Agatha Christie.

“If you're going to suspect anyone in the family, though, I'd think she'd be your first choice.” Stephen's voice sounded confident.

“Francesca? Why?”

“Todd's mother owned about a hundred acres of grapes not far from here. She didn't harvest on her own but sold the crop outright to the surrounding wineries.”

“Nothing you've said so far makes me think Francesca had a reason to want Todd dead.”

“I haven't finished. Three years ago, Francesca went to her with an offer to buy the property. She refused. Somehow Francesca put the squeeze on the surrounding wineries to stop buying her harvest.”

“How do you know this?”

“There are rumors. Stories.”

“So how would Francesca get the wineries to stop buying the crop?”

“Who knows? Francesca's an attorney. Her specialty is real estate law. You go back in California history far enough and you can find everything here was once owned by someone else. A well-placed threat here or there might have worked wonders. But with Francesca, you never know. She can be vicious and very creative.”

“So, what happened next?”

“Like I said, the wineries wouldn't buy the contract for the harvest. It rotted in the fields. Todd's mother didn't have the reserves to suffer that kind of catastrophe. She was forced to sell.”

I looked at Stephen closely. He was enjoying this narrative. His shoulders were back and his voice steady. “And . . .”

“Haven't you guessed?” Stephen's smile was grim, not reaching his eyes. “The property was purchased by my lovely sister. Make no mistake, she will have her own winery. Even if she has to steal it.”

“I
HATE
to admit it, but Antonia's right. You're too fat and officially on a diet.” I struggled to move out from under Syrah. Having been threatened with diets before, she settled into the warm spot and promptly went back to sleep. No crying for breakfast, which meant Hayley had fed her. I walked into the kitchen where Hayley and Connor sat with coffee.

I yawned. “Did you eat?”

Connor nodded. “Leftover key lime pie.”

“Oh, goodie. Glad I asked.”

Outside the fog was damp and thick. Mornings were like that in Cypress Cove. One day the sky was crystal blue, the next, you could only snuggle under the comforter and wait for a break in the chill morning air.

I walked to the window. “I wonder if this will burn off later.”

“Connor started a fire,” Hayley said.

“Thanks.”

He nodded at me. He never sat still long enough to be cold. Or to gain weight. I, on the other hand, had no problem sitting still for long periods of time, preferably with a good book, which was probably why I couldn't eat key lime pie for breakfast.

Hayley put her coffee down. “Come on, Nanook. Let's go for a walk.”

They bounced down the back steps and disappeared into the fog.

“I'm going up to Martinelli this morning,” Connor said. “One of their tractors quit and they want to borrow one of ours. Do you want me to bring anything else up to the booth while I'm there?”

I pulled a mug out of the cabinet. “I have some prints of Martinelli Winery that Antonia hasn't seen. The ones I took the other night. Let me get them and some coffee and I'll go with you.”

Connor studied me over the rim of his cup. “I saw you grill Stephen last night after the tasting. He sure was trying to get away. If there was a fire, he would have been right in line to be first out the emergency exit.”

“Fat chance of a fire with him around. He's such a wet blanket, I'd throw him on the flames. Put it out in no time.” I carried my cup over to the window. “And I didn't ‘grill' him. I just wanted his take on what happened. According to him, there's no way Chantal had anything to do with Todd's death.”

“I can't see her being the one either.”

“Imagine my surprise. You wouldn't be defending Chantal out of appreciation for her more obvious charms, now, would you?”

Connor grinned. “She is quite ‘charming,' isn't she?”

I rolled my eyes.

“I just can't see her going through everything required to kill him. First of all, she'd been drinking pretty heavily . . .”

“Unless she was pretending. It was a clear liquid. For all we know it was water, not vodka, she was slugging back all night long.”

He looked at me. “You just aren't going to give her the benefit of the doubt, are you?”

“I need to balance out your urge to rush to her rescue.”

“I'm not rushing . . .” He stopped. “I'm not going to win this one. Let me just say I'm sure she was drinking.”

“How?”

“Because she gave me a hug good-bye. I smelled the vodka on her breath.”

The pit of my stomach twisted, and I threw my hands in the air. “Fine, whatever. She was drinking. And I couldn't care less who you hug.”

Connor watched me. “Well, just so long as you don't care.”

I walked to the coffeepot and imagined the kind of hugs Chantal was likely to give. Not a lot of daylight would show between her and anyone she grabbed on to. I poured myself some coffee and when I could continue the conversation, I returned to the table.

“So. It's unlikely she would have been able to carry out any plan to murder Todd, even if she'd wanted to.”

Connor nodded. “She'd have to meet him at the crusher up on the platform, then hit him on the head and push him in. And on top of that, to actually turn it on . . .”

An unwelcome memory of that night filled me, and the room started to tilt.

Connor stood to grab my arm. “Sorry. That wasn't what you needed first thing this morning.”

“It's still so fresh in my mind. I'm sure it'll get better with time.” I tried to believe my own words. “Actually, I know what you're saying about Chantal and, at the moment, I can't see her responsible either. Unrequited love, though, is right up there as a reason why people get killed. She isn't coming off the list yet.”

Connor took a sip of coffee. “I'll tell you who should be at the top of your list. Francesca. That woman is chiseled out of solid ice.”

I told him about my trip to Layton.

“So she didn't graduate from there. Maybe she went somewhere else. If she doesn't have her degree at all, would she kill Todd if he found out about it?”

“Maybe, and there's more to it.” I repeated what I'd heard about Todd's family's vineyard.

“Todd must have held a grudge against Francesca for forcing his mother to sell, especially since he would have been the one to inherit.”

“It was clear at the MCWGA he was furious with her, but that doesn't explain why Todd was the one who turned up dead, unless he threatened Francesca somehow, or he found a way to get the land back.”

Connor walked to the sink. “Look, you probably don't want to hear this, but I'm going to say it anyway. Someone out there's a murderer, either because they have something to hide, or something to lose. They aren't going to be crazy about you nosing around.”

“I'll be careful.”

He lifted his brow.

“I mean it. I'll try not to let my nose get me into too much trouble.”

He hesitated then nodded. He moved to the fireplace and used the fire poker to push the burning wood to the back.

I felt taken care of. A guardian angel in blue jeans. When I lived in the city, every spare moment was spent at the paper. I think I'd been lonely and hadn't realized it.

It was nice he was here. Someone looking out for me. It'd been a long time.

*   *   *

ALTHOUGH
Antonia kept several full-time staff, it was Veronica who answered our knock at the Martinelli home some time later.

“Come in. Come in.” Veronica's hand held the door and the other fiddled with the ever-present pearls. She wore a neutral sweater set with a matching wool skirt. Who wore pantyhose and heels just to be around the house? Veronica must be working hard to convince Antonia she was ready to step into those matriarchal shoes. In all fairness, though, it was tougher to run a winery than most people realized. If Veronica was this committed to the winery and the Martinelli family, she deserved some credit.

She was a chatty little thing as she led us into the library.

Antonia sat at the desk, going over papers. “Good morning.” Antonia put her pen down. “Would you like some coffee?”

As Veronica turned to get us some, Connor and I declined.

I walked over to the desk. “Here, Antonia.” I handed her the photos. “I took these the other day. I think they're
probably some of the best photos I've ever taken of your winery.”

Antonia peered at the photos. “The shrubs are all overgrown. They're a mess.”

“That's part of why I like these pictures so much. It makes the whole place look rooted, older.”

Antonia handed the pictures back to me. “The gardeners are here today. You should have waited.”

Who's the photographer anyway? “Well, I like them.” I took them from her and put them back in my bag.

Connor looked amused. “I have the tractor out on the trailer, if Marvin can help unload it.”

“Of course. I'll walk down with you to find him. Veronica, stay and keep Penelope company.” She sounded like she was talking to the family pet.

“Certainly, Mother.” Veronica nodded as Antonia led Connor through the glass doors and into the morning fog.

Veronica perched on the edge of the couch, ankles crossed, but her foot tapped on the floor and she picked at a button on her sweater. This was not a woman used to relaxing. She was a bundle of nerves.

“I love this room.” The walls were covered in peach silk that complemented the cream brocade furnishings. Fresh-cut flowers in Waterford vases rested on gleaming cherrywood side tables. Along the walls, between the sparkling windows, cherrywood bookcases ran floor to ceiling. A ladder on a ceiling track made access to the top shelves convenient. I wondered if anyone had ever taken a flying leap at it to sail around the room. Certainly not the eager-to-please woman sitting across from me.

“It is beautiful, isn't it?” Veronica sprang up. “Would you like to see the family portraits I recently had framed?”

Veronica carried on about old wedding photos and various uncles and aunts. Yawn. I listened to her prattle on about long-dead members of her husband's family and wondered how to bring the conversation around to more recent events.

Veronica solved the problem for me. “The police were here again early this morning, asking the family all sorts of personal questions. I certainly can't believe they actually suspect one of us had anything to do with this nasty business.”

“Actually, it seems reasonable for the police to interview the family first. You were all here at the time, and the reality is most homicides are committed by people the victim knew.”

Veronica reached for a spent blossom in a vase. “I suppose, but after all this family has done for the community, it seems reasonable to expect some special consideration. And as for the notion someone in this family had something to do with that business”—she gestured toward the back windows—“why, that's just ridiculous! Surely the police must realize it was someone who wandered onto the property, probably looking for something to steal. If they surprised Todd, he could have fallen into the crusher.”

“Perhaps, but would someone who wandered onto the property know how to work the crusher?”

“That machine is easy to turn on. You don't need to be strong. I've seen Antonia work it a hundred times.”

Veronica caught my glance and stopped, her hand once again on the pearls. “That sounded terrible. I didn't mean to insinuate Antonia had anything to do with this.” She was pale and seemed to shrink beneath her sweater set.

“I know that. In the end, what matters is how everything looks to the police.”

“You're right. I'm sure it will all work out, but still, please don't repeat what I said. It sounded terrible.”

“Of course Antonia knows how to work the crusher. Everyone who lives on a winery probably knows how to run that machine.”

“Yes, yes. Of course you're right. During crush, everyone in the household is pulled in to help.”

I wasn't going to point out she'd brought the likely list of suspects right back to where she'd tried so hard to avoid: the immediate family.

*   *   *

I
left Veronica a short time later to walk the grounds. Since Antonia had given her implicit instructions to keep me company, she'd been reluctant to let me go, but she'd poured herself a cup of coffee, and I wouldn't be able to take high-strung Veronica in the throes of a caffeine fit.

The police, no doubt, have a system to figure things out when solving a murder. I'm sure they have a formula or a profile they use. Without anything to go on beyond my gut, I was going with my theory that Francesca did it. Nonscientific, but there it was. She was the obvious one to want Todd dead. He might have confronted her about how she ended up with his mother's land, the land that was supposed to be his. Todd was agitated when he came to see me. I wish now I'd pushed him harder to tell me what was wrong. Then, there was that whole thing about her not graduating from Layton. Just one more thing that didn't add up about her.

I made my way through the side yard, toward the back of the property. Gardeners worked in the beds around the house and winery buildings; the bushes and shrubs were all trimmed back, neat and orderly, just as Antonia preferred.

Fog danced around my legs as I walked across the newly mowed lawn, toward the path down to the festival grounds. I passed the storage buildings but stopped at the winery office. Antonia had sent Marvin to help Connor unload the tractor in the front of the house. I nodded at one of the gardeners, who pushed a wheelbarrow of trimmings past me. When he'd turned the corner, I paused at the office window and peered in.

Paperwork and a ceramic coffee cup, white with the words “Viva Las Vegas”
in red, sat on the desk. Beyond the office was a doorway that led to a small apartment. There was an unmade bed and I could see a corner of the kitchen, dishes piled in the sink.

I turned my attention back to the desk. Invoices and a letter opener, a couple of receipts and what looked like a racing form.

I really needed to get better at reading upside down.

I swiveled to look back at the house. Sure enough, you could see most of each room from this window. I would have tried the door but Veronica stood at the back windows watching me, so I waved and continued toward the path down the hill. Below me stood the main exhibit tents of soft white muslin, each topped with the flag of the winery sponsoring that tent. The colors looked muted in the misty gray.