Dandelion Dead (30 page)

“We found a way around that,” Jackson said.

The crowd clapped as the band ended a song. Simon said, “Did you know that they've done research at Heriot-Watt University that shows that certain types of music improved the taste of wine up to sixty percent? Want to enjoy cabernet sauvignon, then tune in to powerful and heavy music like the Rolling Stones and the Who. Prefer chardonnay? Play zingy and refreshing sounds like Blondie and Tina Turner. Merlot? Try Otis Redding and Lionel Richie.”

“It sounds fascinating,” Jackson said. “I guess if you're all set here, we could go outside and check things out.”

But he spoke too soon because Tony came hustling down the stairs. “Simon? David got another text. He wants you to come up.”

We followed Simon up the stairs to his office. David, his face drawn and pale, was now sitting up on the
couch and staring at his phone. “They did it again.” He turned the phone to show us an image of a skull and the words
Pull out of the
Wine Lovers
contest or you die!

“I can't take much more of this. You gotta do something!”

Jackson and I looked at each other, then I said, “David, we found out who is doing this to you—the texts and the e-mails, at least.”

“We know this is tough to hear,” Jackson said. “But we think it's either Kurt or your father.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Jackson examined the photo I'd taken of the Farmer's Vineyard sign and spotted something being stored in the barn. When we checked it out, we found a new sign that had been stashed there, the same one that was in the background of the photo you were sent Friday night and didn't recognize. We think they put the old sign back up, and the new one in the barn, once they realized what they'd done, so it couldn't be traced.

“We sent the evidence to the police,” Jackson said. “So they're going to want to talk to your father and brother.”

“But they're here,” David said. “I spotted them outside a few minutes ago. I don't know, though. Are they the ones who've been attacking me this week? Did they kill Amy?”

“We're not sure about anything but the texts and e-mails,” Jackson said. “That doesn't mean that they have or haven't done anything else to harm you.”

“That little punk.” David tried to push himself up from the couch. “I'll kill him!”

•  •  •

After we searched the grounds,
the crowds, the offices, the bathrooms, and the tasting room, we went out back to the barn. When we walked inside, small groups of people were wandering around, checking out the equipment and the bottled wines. And Kurt and Walter were hunched over a wine barrel, extracting samples with a syringe and putting them into glass containers. They were so engrossed in what they were doing that they didn't hear David walk up behind them.

“Is that enough?” Kurt said.

“This is not right,” Walter said. “It isn't fair to your brother.”

“We need an edge. Suck it up, Dad.”

“I can't believe you two,” David said.

Startled, Kurt turned back to look at him, and as he did, the syringe dribbled “futures” wine all over the floor, while his father dropped the glass container on the floor, shattering it.

“This is really low, even for you, Kurt.”

“I can explain.”

“Oh, yeah? Can you explain this?” David showed them the skull and warning. “What were you doing, trying to throw me off my game?” He pointed to his arm. “Did you do this, too?”

“No, man,” Kurt said. “It was just the messages, and Dad had nothing to do with it.”

“There he is,” Detective Koren said as he entered the room with Detective Coyle and two patrolmen. “Kurt Farmer. You're under arrest.”

“You called the cops on me?” Kurt frowned at his brother. “That's low, man.”

“No, what you've done is low, despicable, really.”

“It is,” I said.

“How did you know he was here?” Jackson said.

“We tracked the messages to his phone and his phone to this location. It's called police work, Spade,” Detective Koren said.

“Plus we got a tip with photos by fax,” Detective Coyle said, looking pleased with himself.

“Shut up, Coyle,” Detective Koren said, putting the cuffs on Kurt. “Let's go.”

•  •  •

Named for owner Charles Attwater's
ancestral home in Southwold, Suffolk, UK, Southwold Hall had been constructed between 1849 and 1855 on a bluff over Long Island Sound. Attwater made his fortune as a shipbuilder, whaling-fleet owner, and bank owner. The hall was the family residence, and several generations of the family lived there until the 1990s, when it fell into disrepair. In 2000, the Southwold Hall Foundation was formed to refurbish, preserve, and maintain the home for the community. Now a noted historical landmark, it was used for cultural events and educational programs, along with weddings and other celebrations.

The hall was impressive, built in the Italianate style using stone cut from the glacial deposits on the land, which are unusual for sandy eastern Long Island. The exterior resembled the rocks found on our local Sound
beaches, gray, white, brown, and beige, with bright white wood trim, and an expansive gray stone walkway and lavish plantings that led to the door. As we pulled in Sunday night, a little before seven o'clock, and drove around back to park, every window on the top and bottom floors was ablaze.

We could have walked, but since I had chosen a strapless royal-blue evening gown with a sweetheart bodice and beaded silver lace in a flower pattern, paired with gunmetal strappy high-heeled sandals, matching clutch, opera-length gloves, and sparkly cobalt rhinestone earrings, it really wasn't an option.

Jackson wore a vintage gray pinstripe suit, complete with vest, pressed white shirt, black tie, pocket square, and wing-tip shoes. When it came to dressing up, I always preferred to go vintage, and Jackson had grown to like it a lot, too.

“I have to say, you are really working that dress, hon,” Jackson said as we reached the walkway. “It really hugs your curves, especially in the hips. But really, Willow, you look beautiful. You always do.”

“Thank you, kind sir, and you look fab, too. Love the suit. We match.”

He took my hand. “We certainly do.” He reached inside his jacket and pulled out a box. “And I have something else for you.”

“What? But we haven't talked about this lately.”

“This isn't that. But we both know that it's coming.” Jackson handed me the box. “Open it.”

Inside I found a cool retro cocktail ring. “It's perfect for my outfit.”

“I know, that's why I picked it up. It's green prehnite
and sterling silver.” He slipped it on. “Think of it as a placeholder.”

“I love it.” I kissed him. “And I love you.”

“I love you, too.” He took my hand and gestured to the entrance. “Shall we go in?”

“Yes, let's go to the ball.”

Jackson opened the door and we stepped into the foyer, which had been painted a lemon yellow, with white trim, and had refinished hardwood floors, three large mirrors on the wall, an elaborate gold chandelier, a Steinway piano, and carpeted stairs that led to the second floor.

We joined the line to enter the ballroom, and when we reached the double doors, an attendant took our tickets and gave us programs. The tickets weren't cheap—$150 per—but we wanted to support Simon and also thought it would be a fun event. Of course, this was months ago, before the events of the past week.

The spacious three-thousand-square-foot ballroom had also been restored to its original grandeur, with a travertine floor, embellished European plasterwork, and a hand-painted ceiling, with four crystal chandeliers, two mahogany bars, two fireplaces, and banquette seating near the entrance.

For the event, the organizers had added a stage for the jazz band and the
Wine Lovers
magazine judging, and four wine-tasting stations featuring all the vintages in contention for the prize. In the crowd I spotted the Crockers, Ramsey Black, Derek Mortimer, Harrison Jones, Carla Olsen, Gerald Parker, and Leonard Sims.

David and Simon entered with Tony a few minutes
later and headed over to join us. David and Simon looked like twins in well-tailored black suits, except for David's cast—and that he hadn't bothered to shave—while Tony had made an effort by donning black pants, a green shirt, and a black blazer. But no tie.

“Hi, you two,” Simon said. “You look great. Love the coordination with the shades of gray.”

I held out my hand to show them the ring. “Look what Jackson just gave me. Isn't it pretty?”

Simon grinned. “Willow, Jackson, is this what I think it is?”

“Think of it as an appetizer,” Jackson said. “Main course to come.”

“Okay, got it. Cool.”

“So are you two excited?” I said. “Pretty soon, you'll know what Nora decided.”

“Excited, nervous, anxious—the trifecta,” Simon said.

“My stomach is in knots,” David said. “We worked really hard on that vintage. I hope it pays off.”

“Let's talk about something else,” Simon said. “They won't announce it for another two hours.”

“Any word from Shawn about Lily?”

“Yes, Shawn told me that Lily is home at the Bryans' as of five o'clock. He's back in New York, but before he left, he heard some news from another lawyer about Kurt Farmer. Seems he's sticking with his story. He admits to sending the messages but not the attacks. He said he was just trying to scare David into dropping out and coming back to the family business. It was like you said: once he realized that the new sign was in the photos he'd sent, he hid it in the barn. Walter didn't know
anything about it. They're keeping him overnight and then they'll have a bail hearing.”

“They do have poison hemlock on the property,” I said. “I saw it.”

“That must be new,” David said. “We never had it before.”

“It's behind the barn.”

“Even though that's true,” Simon said. “He's not budging.”

“I just can't believe that he would do this to me,” David said. “I mean, don't get me wrong, I'm relieved that the messages have stopped, it was completely unnerving, but I'm also really angry at my brother for what he did.”

“Sometimes people want to win so badly that they lose sight of everything else,” Jackson said.

“Like whoever is behind the attacks on you and whoever killed Amy,” I said.

“I know, but I want to thank you for figuring this out. Sorry about before at the house. I know that you two are only trying to help.”

“No problem,” Jackson said.

“And we're still working on the rest of it,” I said. “We haven't given up.”

“Thanks, but for tonight, I just want to forget about all of that and try to enjoy ourselves. I need a drink.”

“With painkillers?” I said. “You need to be careful.”

“Don't worry, I will be. Tony, let's go.” David went over to one of the tasting bars with Tony.

“Where's Ivy?” I said.

“Out in the foyer, talking to one of the judges,” Simon said. “Ms. Sara Fletcher, PhD, is here. She just
stopped in the ladies' room. Wait, there she is.” He smiled and waved her over. “Sara's really great, isn't she?”

“Yes, she is, and she knows her poison plants, too.”

“Good going, Simon,” Jackson said. “Sara could be really great for you.”

“I think so, too. We've been talking on the phone since we met, and I really like her. She's unpretentious, easygoing, supersmart, and really funny, and not at all affected by my TV career and who I know or my money, not to mention that she's a knockout.”

“Can't ask for much more than that,” Jackson said.

Sara walked up to us, smiled, and said, “Hi, you two, it's so good to see you both again.” She looked absolutely terrific in a black velvet V-neck gown, which worked perfectly with her shoulder-length blond hair and her distinctive glasses.

“You, too, Sara,” I said.

“Glad you could come,” Jackson said.

“You look beautiful, Sara,” Simon said. “That dress is amazing on you.”

She gave him a dazzling smile. “Thanks, Simon. You look great, too. I like that suit.”

“Uh-oh,” Simon said. “Here's trouble.”

Ivy, in a vibrant red sleeveless, formfitting, most-likely-designer gown marched over to us, an angry look on her face. When she reached us, she said, “We've got trouble.”

“Nice dress, Ivy,” Simon said.

“Focus, Simon. I just talked to one of the judges, and she said that some of them are leaning toward Crocker Cellars for the win.”

Simon sucked in a breath. “This can't be happening. Is it final? That's their decision, really?”

“No, Simon,” Ivy said, frustrated. “There are five judges. I know Ramsey is for us, and I think two others. But I'm worried about Nora and the judge from the New York Wine Council.”

“So it's three for us, and two against. We're still good. Stop freaking out, Ivy.”

“I don't like loose ends.”

“When we saw Nora yesterday, at Crocker Cellars, she seemed to be saying that you had it,” I said. “But still, she visited Crockers and Wave Crest, and last night we saw her talking to Kurt Farmer in Harry's Half Shell. She has to make the rounds and make nice, but it doesn't mean that she's going to vote for them.”

“I guess that's true,” Ivy said. “Where's David?”

“Over there,” Simon said. “At the bar.”

She stomped off.

“Nice lady,” Sara said.

“That's no lady, that's my partner.”

•  •  •

We were here to enjoy
ourselves, so after Ivy went over to speak to her husband, David, and Simon took Sara with them to talk to the judges to try to get the scoop, Jackson and I danced to a few numbers by the band, beginning with “All of Me,” one of our favorites. Aunt Claire had taught me how to dance with a partner when I was a teenager, and I'd taught Jackson, so we drew the attention of the crowd as we danced and even received applause at the end of the songs. Afterward,
we went to the wine bar, where I had a glass of cabernet sauvignon and Jackson had a seltzer.