A Vintage To Die For (Violet Vineyard Murder Mysteries Book 2) (10 page)

“Pancho Villa rides again!” Jorge shouted at me, and I couldn’t help but laugh. It reminded me so much of high school, when Jorge was the life of every party. But as he neared me I saw the broken veins in his face and the hitch in his gait and it wasn’t funny anymore. At some point the party music stops, and you either get off with the rest of your friends or you grab another bottle and continue the party solo. Jorge had chosen the latter, and it showed.

He stopped in front of me and leaned against the fender of the Jeep, breathing hard. He was still wearing the same jeans from the party, but his shirt was gone. He looked pale and cold in his white undershirt.

“What are you doing here?” he asked.

I hesitated, but then told him, keeping it short. “Angela called me. She was upset about Blake. She seemed depressed so I came by to check on her.”

Jorge gave me a sly grin when I spoke Blake’s name. “I don’t think we’re going to have to worry about Blake Becker for much longer.”

“Why?” That grin made me nervous. “I hope you’re not planning on doing anything crazy.”

Jorge opened his mouth to say something and then seemed to think better of it. His smile slipped away and he shrugged. “Let’s just say that when I get done with him he'll be happy to give us our wine back.”

I didn’t want to hear any more of this. I fished my keys out of my bag. “I’m glad they let you go,” I told him, and that was the truth.

“They had to,” he replied. “They tested the blood on my clothes and it didn’t match Dimitri’s blood type. It was mine, just like I said.”

“And the knife?”

He shook his head. “Planted. My prints weren’t on it.” He eyed me from under his wild gray eyebrows and winked. “But the killer’s prints aren’t on it either,” he added, his tone begging me to question what he meant.

“How do you know that?” A cool breeze came through the almond trees, rippling the leaves. Jorge hunched his shoulders against it, but he didn’t lose the smile.

“Because I
know
who killed him,” Jorge said and gave me another wink.

“Who?” I asked, leaning forward as the breeze intensified into a gust. I shivered, but I don’t know if it was the cold or what Jorge was saying that caused it.

“That’s the million dollar question,” he said. “At least a million.”

“Did you tell Hunter?” I asked, but I already knew the answer. Jorge had no love for the police; he had made that clear.

Jorge lost the smile. “I got nothing to say to Hunter Drake. He spent more than one night in the drunk tank himself,” he added snidely. “A born-again boozehound is still a boozehound.”

“If you know who did it, you have to tell the police, Jorge,” I said.

He laughed. “Fun-killer Falcone,” he said, using my maiden name and dredging up a taunt from high school. “First the teacher’s pet and now the Sheriff’s pet.”

I didn’t join in on the laughter. I hadn’t found his little pun on my name funny thirty years ago and it was even less amusing now. He saw the anger in my face and his smile died.

“Sorry, Claire,” he said.

I let it go, but I wasn’t going to let him off the hook for withholding evidence. “You need to tell Hunter what you know,” I told him.

Jorge shook his head. “I know he’s your boyfriend, Claire, but the guy’s a real bas—” he saw my look of annoyance deepen and changed course, “a real jerk. He never gives anyone an even break. And it’s going to bite him in the butt this time. He should have played nice with me and I would have played nice with him.”

“A man was murdered,” I reminded him. I didn’t correct him about Hunter being my boyfriend. I wasn’t going to discuss my love life with Jorge McCullers.

“And no one deserved it more,” Jorge said. He looked toward the house. “God, I need a drink.”

Suddenly, I was sick and tired of Jorge. I didn’t know what the truth of any of this was, but I was certain it had nothing to do with me. I was just the unfortunate fool who had hosted a party for a murderer. I jerked the door of the Jeep open.

“Angela’s in the living room,” I said rudely. “I’m sure she’ll fix you a drink.”

“Claire—” he began, but I banged the door closed on whatever he had to say. He eased off the fender as I started the Jeep.

“Claire—” he said again as I let out the clutch and went past him. I didn’t look back, but I should have.

It was the last time I would see him alive.

I
drove back up
the highway, passing spectacular views of the mountainous terrain above and the sprawling green expanse of the valley below, views I normally slowed for and enjoyed, but I saw none of them that day. My sleep-deprived mind was a jumble of thoughts and worries. And I am ashamed to admit Dimitri’s death was not at the forefront. Angela’s accusations had shaken me. I didn’t know who to believe - her or Blake - but I was determined to find out. My livelihood depended on selling wine for a fair price. I’d leave Dimitri’s murder to Hunter and the Sheriff’s Department.

Unfortunately, the facts behind Dimitri’s murder were about to crash right through my life like a wrecking ball ripped off its chain.

Chapter 11

I arrived back at
Violet to an empty house and a deserted vineyard. Victor had left a note that he was taking the awning back to the supplier we had rented it from. He had also gathered up a few of the chairs and tables we had borrowed from friends and neighbors and was taking them back to their rightful homes. The note said he would not be back that day, though those errands would not keep him busy until 5:00PM.

Victor being AWOL didn’t surprise me. After the long sleepless nights during the harvest and crush, he was probably sick of the sight of the vines - and of me - but I was surprised Samson hadn’t arrived. Samson never misses work, though I sometimes wish he would.

I dug out my cell phone and called Samson’s cell. Voicemail. I left him a message.

It was almost lunch time, but I wasn’t hungry. Instead I went to the cellar and hunted around until I found an old pair of short-handled trimmers so heavily rusted they were almost impossible to open. I sprayed them down with WD-40 and worked the handles until they grudgingly came unstuck, then took them to the grinding wheel. As a vineyard owner I’ve sharpened everything from axes to steak knives, so I made short work of the process and headed out into the rows.

Victor had made some progress in the vines that morning, trimming away the dead wood and broken canes caused by the rushed harvest, but there was a lot left to do. And that wasn’t the only task far from completion. I really needed to inspect the rootstock we had planted two years before. It was time to begin grafting cabernet vines to that stock, an effort that wouldn’t pay off for several years, but just might lift my bank account out of the red. I also needed to till under the clover we had planted between the rows. The clover helps reduce the amount of water the grapes receive, but it was superfluous at that point of the year. All of that would take more energy and focus than I had that day, so I took up where Victor had left off and went to work.

I kept looking toward the cellar to see if Samson had arrived.

At 2:00PM, the UPS driver arrived. I supervised the loading of ten cases of wine I was shipping to the SeaSider Restaurant in San Francisco, then signed the manifest. After he left, I tried Samson again. No answer.

I called again at 2:30, and again at 3:00 and 3:30. Each call went to voicemail. I was getting more worried by the hour. It wasn’t like Samson to miss work or ignore my calls. I felt sure something was wrong. And with one murder already, I had every right to be concerned.

At 4:00PM I grabbed my keys, jumped in the Jeep, and headed down the narrow mountain road toward St. Helena, driving a little too fast for the winding curves where steep cliffs often dropped off into the valley below. Once again I barely noticed the beauty surrounding me – from the wild scrub and the majestic dark ridges of the mountains to the neat, sinuous rows of vines that clung to the rolling foothills below.

As I reached the Silverado Trail, I tried Samson's number once again, risking another ticket for not knowing how to use the hands-free option on my phone. Again, there was no reply.

I drove even faster.

Samson’s
home is on
Edwards Street in St. Helena, just a couple of blocks from the quaint boutiques, antique stores, gift shops, and restaurants that line Main Street, and not very far from the old Masonic lodge my grandfather had belonged to - now a clothing store catering to the shorts and t-shirt crowd. I took Silver Trail to Deer Park in order to avoid Main Street as much as possible. They call Main Street the 'St. Helena Highway' on Google maps, but it is to a highway what a logjam is to the flume ride at Six Flags Amusement Park. Tourists often pack the sidewalks and overflow the street-side parking and cars dawdle at the lights. But it wasn't that bad on a Monday; it only took me ten minutes to go two blocks. I turned down Hunt Street and took a right on Edwards.

Edwards is a tree-lined street of small bungalows and prairie style homes built between the late 1800s and the 1930s. Most of the homes are brightly painted in white or yellow or green and their yards are lush and dense with plantings of eucalyptus, hibiscus, and thick green hedges, but Samson’s home is as drab and dated as his wardrobe, while his lawn is as precise and bleak as his personality - a postage stamp of green bounded by a gray picket fence. The lawn fronts a small, gray two bedroom home with a narrow front porch and a front door painted, you guessed it, gray. A one-car garage sat at the end of a driveway so clean it looked as if it had never been parked on. I turned the Jeep in, parked, and climbed out.

Despite the chill of the morning, it had turned into a warm day for fall, close to ninety degrees down here in the Valley. Edwards Street, though lined with cars, was somnolent and silent under the midday sun, not a person in sight. The only sounds that Monday were the plaintive wail of the Wine Train that plies the Napa Valley - separating tourists from their money, the whir of insects in the flowering shrubs next door, and the sound of a sprinkler system hissing across the street, filling the gutter with a steady stream despite the watering restrictions which are an omnipresent part of California these days.

I went through the gate and up the front steps, into the shade of the porch. I knocked but got no answer, so I stood on tiptoe and peered through the front door glass into a living room straight out of 1968. The sofa and chairs were low and thin-cushioned, and the coffee table and end tables were fake mahogany perched on long skinny legs. The TV was an old console model with a stereo built in. I think my parents had one just like it when I was in junior high. The only adornment on the walls was a lithograph of Mary with the Sacred Heart of Jesus at her breast.

I had a key and I didn’t hesitate to use it.

“Samson!” I yelled as I came through the door.

I heard a shuffling noise and then a door opening at the back of the house.

“Samson!” I yelled again, going from concerned to angry in a nanosecond. I banged the front door closed behind me and headed briskly toward the kitchen. If he had been hiding here all day avoiding my calls he was going to get an earful.

The kitchen was empty, the back door hanging ajar. He was running from me!

I hurried to the door and jerked it all the way open. “Samson, what are you—”

The yard was empty, but I caught a glimpse of someone running around the corner of the house - not enough to recognize the person, but enough to tell it wasn’t Samson.

I froze. My first thought was I had interrupted a burglary in progress. A sensible person would have felt fear at that, but in that instant it only made me furious. Perhaps it was the unreality of the situation, the beautiful day, and the quiet street that masked the potential danger, but I didn’t pause to consider my actions - I went after them on the run, my purse pounding me in the kidney with every step.

I reached the driveway and caught another glimpse of someone making the corner at the front of the house at top speed. Someone tall with blond hair. I pounded after them, but when I reached the front yard it was empty, so I kept running all the way to the curb out front.

“Stop!” I yelled, but I was screaming down a deserted street. There was not a person in sight - just twin rows of cars and trucks parked bumper-to-bumper, their windshields and chrome reflecting the sun’s brilliant glare. And then a van parked at the end of the block roared to life and I was running again. But I wasn’t going to catch them. I was still fifty feet away when the van lunged out of its spot and the driver stomped the gas. It squealed around the corner onto Hunt Street without stopping, but not before I caught a glimpse of a green and blue logo stenciled on the door. The logo of Star Crossed Wine Cellars & Auctions.

Blake! But why was he here? Inside Samson’s house? But was it even Blake? All I had seen was a glimpse of blond hair. But the van was a Star Crossed—

A car horn gave a short ‘bleep’ behind me and I jumped three feet in the air, letting out a bleep of my own. An aging Cadillac with two elderly women was behind me, their heads barely peeking over the dash. I waved at them in apology as I stepped out of the way, but they only scowled at me and continued slowly down the street. They paused at the spot the van had just vacated and started to back in. I heard the screech of bending metal and a tinkle of glass.

The run had me breathing hard as I turned and retraced my steps. I entered Samson’s home more cautiously this time, though Blake, or whoever had been in the kitchen, was obviously gone. But now I was frightened of what I might find. My heart was pounding as I made a quick run through the house, all one thousand square feet of it, and ended up back in the living room. No Samson and no more burglars. My heart rate slowed, but not to normal levels; it was still thudding loudly in my chest.

I went back through the house again, looking for whatever the thief had taken, starting in the living room and passing through the dining room, though there was no dining table or chairs or sideboard, just a rolltop desk, a half dozen old wooden file cabinets and row of bookshelves weighted down with two tons of wine reference books and old Wine Spectator magazines. My eyes got stuck on the bookcase. The stacks of magazines were crooked and the spines of the books were not aligned. Samson is as obsessive-compulsive about his living space as he is slovenly in his appearance. I turned to the desk and noticed the top drawer was open a quarter-inch. I pulled it out and found papers jumbled together, mixed in with pens and rubber bands spilled from their tray.

I slid the drawer closed and moved on to the tiny kitchen, clean and white and empty except for a Formica-topped table and chairs straight out of an old Sears catalog. I checked the back door. There were scratches on the lock plate, but no sign of forced entry. I did a slow turn in the middle of the room looking for signs of disturbance. Several of the cabinets were ajar, their contents neat, but not as neat as Samson would have left them. I turned back and went down the narrow hallway. There were two bedrooms and a bathroom off the hall. One bedroom contained a neatly made bed, a dresser and an end table, all devoid of anything personal. The other bedroom was filled with more bookshelves that looked as if they had been shuffled through. I went back to the living room and stood there for a minute, listening to the background hum of the empty house, not really looking at anything.

The sound of my cell phone ringing startled me so bad I almost screamed. I dug it out, hoping it was Samson, but it was Hunter.

“Where are you?” he asked without a hello.

“Samson's,” I said. “He didn't—”

“Is he there?” he interrupted.

“No. That's what I'm here look—”

“Where is he, Claire?” he asked impatiently.

“What's going on, Hunter?” His abrupt manner was making me even more anxious.

“Where is he?” Hunter snapped at me. “Don’t jerk me around, Claire, I'm not in the mood. This is serious.”

“Don't jerk you around?” I snapped right back. Was this the same Hunter who had been dancing with me the other night? The man I was actually considering letting back into my life? No one talks to me like that without getting an earful. “I don't know where Samson is,” I said through gritted teeth. “He didn’t come to work and he isn’t answering his phone. And I just caught Blake Becker searching his home. He was in the kitchen—”

“Hold on,” Hunter said and I heard buttons being pushed. A moment later he was talking to someone else. “Send a car over to the Xenos house. Possible burglary.” He came back to me. “You saw Becker inside the house?” he asked abruptly. “Did he take anything?”

“I didn’t really
see
him, but I chased him and he took off in a van with a Star Crossed logo on the door.”

“But you don’t know for sure that it was Blake?” He asked. “You just saw some guy run out of Samson’s place, jump into a Star Crossed van and take off?”

I hesitated. “Well, I didn’t actually
see
him jump into the van. When I got to the street I didn’t see anyone. But a minute later the van started up and took off. Fast. Very fast…” I trailed off.

Hunter sighed. “So you don’t know that the van had anything to do with the guy in Samson’s kitchen?”

“I doubt it was a coincidence,” I said, though I could see how transparent my theory had become even as I defended it.

Hunter was happy to point out just how ridiculous I was. “Lots of restaurants down there,” he said dryly. “And parking is bad. Lots of people complaining about the residential streets being used by commercial trucks.”

“Hunter, don’t—”

He continued, talking right over me. “Star Crossed delivers to and picks up wine from customers all over the Valley, Claire. And there are a lot of wine shops and restaurants down there.”

My teeth gnashed. “There was someone in the house when I got here.
And
the house has been searched,” I said, sticking to the one irrefutable point of my story.

Hunter was silent for a long moment.

“Hunter—”

“Midge and I searched the house this morning,” he told me.

A startled “What?” blasted out of my mouth, sounding huge in the stillness of the empty house. “Why? What did you find?”

Another lengthy pause made me want to crawl through the phone and shake the information out of him.