Plum Gone: A Sonoma Wine Country Cozy Mystery (Sonoma Wine Country Cozy Mysteries Book 2) (3 page)

Saturday night was Date Night.  Not Emma and Jack’s date night, Emma mused as she drove her silver Prius up the winding path to Piers and Julie’s estate. Their home was located about a quarter of a mile off Silver Creek Road, the chic address heading east out of Blissburg dotted with dot com vineyards and mansions. Piers had bought the estate for himself and Julie with money from a trust fund he’d inherited from his grandfather. He maintained it with his lucrative wine country law practice.

No
, Emma thought to herself as she parked in front of Piers’ mini Versailles.
Saturday Date Night belongs to Julie and Piers.

The young couple had bought their faux French chateau, complete with meadow, garden and swimming pool, five years before. When Harry was born and Piers and Julie fled San Francisco to open the boutique law office and raise their son in beautiful Sonoma County. A year later, Julie opened a PR firm specializing in wineries. Both their businesses were thriving. Though Emma thought they were too busy for everyone’s good. Not that she’d ever say so to anyone but Jack.

Nonetheless, every Saturday night since she’d moved to Blissburg, she volunteered to babysit her grandson. She readily admitted that Date Night was no sacrifice at all. In fact, it was Emma’s favorite night of the week.

Surprisingly, Emma discovered Jack felt that way, too. Shortly after moving to Blissburg, he’d also volunteered to babysit his grandsons on Saturday nights. He drove his navy blue Tesla along the scenic route from his home in Blissburg to his daughter’s winery in Calistoga texting Emma before leaving home. Later, when the little ones were asleep, they rehashed their evenings over the phone - like teenagers.

Piers greeted Emma brusquely at the door even before she rang the bell. He’d obviously been waiting for her. “Julie’s still in the shower. Can we talk a minute in the living room? Harry’s in the middle of that jungle puzzle you bought him. By the way,” a smile finally lit up his blue-eyed patrician face. Piers had always reminded Emma of someone in a Ralph Lauren ad. “He’s done it about twenty times. It’s rated for eight year olds and he’s only five.”

At the mention of his son, Piers’ customary good nature finally broke through. Despite his sometimes quick temper, Emma’s fair, All-American son-in-law possessed the openness and easy confidence of someone to whom everything had always come easily – success, friends, money.

It was an ease and openness that Emma knew her daughter lacked. For Julie, life was a battle she had to win, not a farm-to-table, gourmet picnic laid at her feet on a sunny day. And no wonder. Piers was the adorable and adored only son of millionaires whose forbearers made a fortune in a Midwestern grocery store chain. In parts of Nebraska, Piers’ last name, Larkin, was a household word.

Julie, on the other hand, had been an ugly duckling through most of high school. An ugly duckling whose father, Emma often reminded herself, all but abandoned her at the age of six. Julie fought her way to the top of every class with hard work. All the way to Stanford, on a scholarship, where to everyone’s surprise – including Emma’s – she blossomed into a darkly beautiful swan.  And, two weeks after Piers’ law school graduation, married her Stanford schoolmate, Piers Larkin.

“Glad Harry liked the puzzle so much,” Emma replied, following Piers into their decorator, antique-filled living room. She hoped Piers would hold on to his good mood if she kept the conversation focused on his son.

The ploy didn’t work. By the time she’d sat down, Piers’ sunny smile had soured into a scowl.

“I talked to Steve Zimmer this afternoon,” he said. “After I talked to you, I called him about the Randall lawsuit. Our reply is due; and I figured – I hoped under the circumstances, that we could work something out short of litigation.”

Emma cut in, “Steve has no control over the police taking Mr. Randall…”

Piers didn’t let her finish. “Of course not, Emma. I know that. But the bottom line is that Randall didn’t murder Gomez. He’s out on bail and sooner or later the police will drop the charges. All I was asking was that Steve give us a chance to fix whatever complaints he has about my client’s Coachella farming operation without litigation. Curt will cooperate. I’ve convinced him. He’s too old and too sick to fight.”

Emma opened her mouth to protest that she had no control over Steve, but Piers interrupted, pointing a finger at her as though in warning.

“As I told you before, Emma,” he continued, “Steve is the one who dreamt this lawsuit up in the first place and convinced Gomez to change jobs so he could file it. It appears that Gomez was trying to get his cousin, a fellow named Jose Diaz, to join in. His cousin worked at Randall Enterprises as a fruit picker before going to work at the Sonoma ranch. But Diaz didn’t want to join the lawsuit. The two had argued about it a couple of days before Gomez was murdered. According to Curt, they came to blows. On Curt’s property. Curt suspects it was because Gomez was trying to blackmail his cousin into cooperating. Something about a smuggling ring bringing illegals over the border. Curt’s foreman called the police. Steve knows it, too.”

Emma sucked in her breath. “What are you saying, Piers? That you think Gomez’s cousin killed him?”

“Not my words, Emma,” Piers smirked. “But there’s more. Gomez’s cousin also told my client that Gomez had been sticking his nose in other places it didn’t belong. Specifically, up the skirt of another worker’s wife down in Coachella. That, according to Diaz, had been going on a while. The woman’s husband found out and threatened to kill Gomez if he didn’t back off.”

Emma winced. “Doesn’t prove anything, Piers,” she said.

“My point,” Piers continued, “is that Santiago Gomez was not well liked by a lot of people besides Curt Randall. I suspect the police will find, upon further investigation – and there will be further investigation, Emma – that Santiago Gomez wasn’t welcome in a lot of places. That’s for the police to investigate, of course. But Curt Randall has the resources to give them help.”

Emma nodded. She suspected Piers had already lined up a whole team of San Francisco’s top criminal defense attorneys and private investigators to assist the local police to do their work.

“Moreover,” Piers added, “I can almost guarantee that when the truth is known, far from picking old Curt Randall’s pockets clean, the Gomez family will have had their name dragged through a lot of mud. Is that really what your boss, Steve Zimmer, wants for a grieving widow and her children? Instead of a private settlement of the employment grievances that I can convince the old man to deliver? If, I repeat, if Steve convinces us that any kind of bad labor practices ever existed at Randall’s Coachella farm.”

“What do you mean?” Emma started to inquire.

“This is what I mean,” Piers continued. “You convince Steve not to file that wrongful death claim. And I’ll finalize the plum ranch deal. After that closes with the Chinese, Randall is ready to pay off the Gomez family and sell the Coachella farms – as soon as I can switch the trust beneficiary for Randall’s estate to that animal shelter he supports in Petaluma.” Piers snorted. “It’ll be the richest animal shelter in the world when the old man dies, but that is not my call.”

“Animal shelter?” Emma had asked. “Doesn’t Randall have relatives?”

“Just one nephew on his wife’s side,” Piers replied. “A fellow named Rob Peters. When
he
finds out Curt is changing his will, he’ll go ballistic. Again, not my call.”

“Piers, look,” Emma began. As far as she could tell, Piers assumed she had more influence over Steve Zimmer than was the case. “I don’t…”

But Piers interrupted her again. “Don’t tell me you don’t know what I’m talking about, Emma. When I talked to Steve yesterday about his plans, he told me he was filing a wrongful death claim for millions of dollars against Curt Randall on behalf of Gomez’s widow and children. He also told me that you, Emma…”

Piers had raised his voice. Emma’s agreeable, well-mannered son-in-law was actually shouting at her.

“…have known all about Steve’s plans. In fact, he said that you and he are meeting Monday morning to ‘discuss strategy.’ His words not mine. Whose side are you on?”

Before Emma could offer a word of explanation, Harry burst into the room.

“Nonnie! Nonnie’s here!” The little boy flung himself into his grandmother’s arms. “Come see the puzzle. The jungle puzzle you gave me. It’s all done. I did it for you.”

Harry grabbed Emma’s arm and dragged her out of the living room.

To her dismay, Piers called after her, “To be continued.”

A few minutes later, Emma’s daughter, Julie, found Emma and Harry admiring his puzzle in the breakfast room. If she knew anything about the Gomez matter, Julie hid it. More likely, Emma told herself, Piers hadn’t mentioned it to Julie.

Unlike Steve, her boss, Emma’s son-in-law, Piers, was a mediator by nature. A peacemaker at heart. Always looking to resolve a conflict
before
anyone litigated. To unruffle feathers and think of a solution out of the box. Maybe, Emma thought, it was a life skill he learned early as the only child of two rich, headstrong, overeducated parents. It was probably why, now, he specialized in trusts and estates. Locking up family fortunes so heirs would not have to argue about them later.

“Please Mom, take some,” Julie insisted a few minutes later, offering her mother a steaming plate of leftover
beouf Bourgignon
while they watched Harry devour a chicken quesadilla. He was already tall for his age, Emma noted, and growing like a reed.

“If I know you,” Julie added, “all you’ve had since breakfast is a few spoonfuls of yogurt.”

Emma nodded. She couldn’t help noticing Julie had gained a few pounds. Her face had filled out. Not that she didn’t look adorable in her skintight jeans and Prada sweater.

Living in Sonoma County, food capital of Northern California or possibly the world, Julie had recently taken on cooking the way she took on everything – competitively. Determined to know it all and be the best. Where, Emma often wondered, had she got that trait? Certainly not from her mother who ran from competition like a house on fire. Or her father, Andy Bodreau, who refused to play by anyone else’s rules. 

“Rules, shmules,” she remembered him saying early in their marriage when another couple tried to teach them to play bridge. “Rules are for dummies.”
So much for the white-collar criminal with the ankle thingie
, Emma thought.
How did I miss those signals?

Julie passed Emma a hand painted Deruda plate full of rich brown cubes of beef simmered for hours in a thick vegetable gravy. “Try this. I’m done with the Contessa,” Julie laughed, dipping the serving spoon into a navy blue ceramic stew pot and licking off some sauce. “I’ve decided to work my way through
Mastering the Art
.”

“
Of French Cooking,
” Emma added under her breath. Only her daughter would take on Julie Childs’ tome in the 21
st
century. Most people Emma knew were content to watch the cooking diva’s reruns on Netflix for a laugh and a good drool.

Emma stared at her plate and raised her eyebrows. “Looks like you actually did all seven steps this time,” she noted. Even she, an accomplished cook and food writer, skipped the seventh step of Julia’s
beouf Bourgignon
.

Julie nodded. “Do it right, or don’t do it at all. Passed the whole thing through a sieve.”

“Wow,” Emma exclaimed after taking a bite. “This really
is
good. But you’re wrong about skipping lunch. I had pea shoot salad at The Trough.”

Emma didn’t mention that she’d had lunch with Jack. Mentioning Jack’s name still seemed to put her daughter on edge.

Julie rolled her eyes. “With Jack?” she grimaced. Despite Jack’s having saved Emma’s life – or maybe because of it – Julie always appeared to resent Jack’s close relationship with her mother.

“Don’t worry. We’re just friends,” Emma assured her daughter wondering why everyone seemed to assume there was more.

“Speaking of Jack,” Julie added as though trying to sound off-hand. Harry had finished his quesadilla and returned to the living room to play with his dad. “Do we really have to go to that dinner party he’s planned with his daughter next weekend? I mean, what’s that about? The one time I met the woman – at Little Pete’s Gourmet Grocery – she was buying healthy food for her dad. What? Does she run his life?”

Emma nodded. As far as she could tell, Jack’s daughter
did
run his life.

“Anyway,” Julie continued, “she looked like kind of a pill. Can’t imagine this ‘get together’ is going to be fun. Besides, with you there, who’s going to babysit Harry? He’s not used to anyone else, Mom.”

Emma nodded again. That was for sure. 

“Look, honey,” she said. “I don’t really get the point of this dinner, either. But Jack did make a $5000 donation to City Opera to get my home cooked meal at the auction. It’s kind of
his
call. I think the best thing is for us to go along with it. Though, I agree, Cara seems a bit overbearing.”
Not to mention, intimidating
, Emma added to herself.