However, the customers seemed to eat it up, which was currently illustrated by the way Daisy was grinning ear to ear.
"Please, my good man!" Daisy set her glass on the bar.
Jean Luc filled it again. Then once finished, he gave her an elegant bow before moving on to refill the glasses of the Hawaiian shirt clad couple.
Daisy took a generous sip from her glass. Or gulp, depending on how liberally you wanted to measure. "Well, this makes being forced to stay in town an extra night a little more palatable," she said, licking a stray droplet off her lips.
"I assume the police asked you to stay as well?" I asked.
She nodded, shrugging her shoulders in a way that made her boa look as if it had come to life. "Ridiculous. As if I'd have anything to do with that bore Costello or his models. I mean, his designs put one to sleep, no?"
"You do have very different esthetics," I said, choosing my words carefully.
"Ha!" She let out a bark of laughter. "That's putting it mildly, my dear." She paused to watch Jean Luc as he moved to the next table. "He's cute. Single?"
"Very," I said. As far as I knew, Jean Luc's one and only love was wine.
"Interesting." She waggled her eyebrows up and down at me, and I noticed they, too, were dyed pink.
"Did you know Gia well?" I asked, changing the subject.
"Hmm?" She pried her eyes from my sommelier, turning her attention back to me. "Oh, Gia? Uh, yes. I mean, the San Francisco fashion scene isn't like New York. We're a close-knit community."
"So you worked with her?"
She shrugged. "I'm sure I've worked with most of Hughie's models at one point or another."
I wasn't sure if she was being purposely evasive or just didn't care. "Costello mentioned Gia being difficult to work with."
"Did he?" She laughed again. "Well, that's hilarious. I mean, a crab apple like Costello calling someone else a diva."
"I get the feeling you don't like Costello much," I said, watching her take another generous sip from her glass.
"Well then, that would make you one perceptive little lady," she told me. "No. I don't like Costello. In fact, I loathe the man."
Those were pretty strong words. "Any particular reason?" I couldn't help asking.
"Besides his stifling, awful garments?" she said, getting in another dig. "Yes. He has no ethics whatsoever. He's so intimidated by a strong female designer who celebrates a woman's body like I do that he's tried to sabotage me."
"Sabotage?" Another strong word. "Really?" I asked.
She nodded vigorously, the boa slipping off one shoulder to droop onto the empty barstool beside her. "Yes, really! He stole from me!"
I frowned. "What did he steal?" I asked, wondering how much of that was reality and how much was the Petite Sirah talking.
"Ruby earrings."
Now she had my attention. That sounded very much like a missing emerald. "Go on," I prompted.
Not that she needed much prompting. She seemed more than eager to share, leaning in toward me as if relaying some delicious gossip. "It was at the spring show. At the Palace of Fine Arts? Costello was there purely as a spectator, but I was unveiling my line. Big deal. All the top buyers were there." She paused. Sipping again.
"What happened?"
"Well, I had these large gemstone earrings made for each of my models. Heart shaped, a good two inches across each. You see, they corresponded with the months—twelve girls, twelve gems, each one dressed in an outfit that represented their month's color. It was all thematically coordinated."
"It sounds very beautiful."
"Well it would have been, if my July had had her ruby earrings! They went missing right before the show."
"And you think Costello stole them?"
She nodded. "Yes! Deliberately to sabotage me. My July had to walk down the runway with bare ears! Ruined the entire show." She sniffed indignantly before reaching for her glass, which was rapidly being depleted.
"What makes you think Costello was behind the theft?"
"Well, who else would do it?" she asked, looking at me like that was a silly question. "It's not like the Bloomingdale's buyer has anything personal against me, right?"
"I mean, what makes you think they weren't taken for their monetary value by someone wanting to steal the gems?" I clarified.
"Oh." She cleared her throat. "Well, they wouldn't have returned the jewelry, now, would they?"
"Wait—are you saying the earrings were returned?"
"Yes. Didn't I say that? As my assistant was putting everything away after the show, there were the ruby earrings—right where they were supposed to be with all the other sets. So, there you have it! Costello must have taken them deliberately to ruin my show." Having clearly proven her point in her mind, she downed the rest of her Sirah and set the glass on the bar with a definitive clunk.
I blinked at her, trying to process what she'd told me. While at first I'd thought maybe her rubies and Ava's emerald were connected, the more she talked the more I wondered if maybe she hadn't just misplaced the earrings herself. While quirky and eccentric were hallmarks of creativity, I wasn't sure they always lent themselves to organization. At least, if the way she'd just told that story was any indication.
"You're sure the earrings weren't just misplaced temporarily?" I asked. "Maybe put away in the wrong case?"
She scoffed. "No, they were not. It was intentional sabotage, I tell you. That man has had it in for me ever since I won designer of the year at the San Francisco Fashion Awards and he got bubkus." She grinned. "Which shows how much creativity his old lady styles have—bubkus." She giggled.
While his pieces weren't necessarily on the cutting edge, I didn't think they were terrible and found myself defending them. "His finale gown was lovely," I said.
"Yes, well, Gia could have made anything look lovely." She paused. "Poor thing," Daisy's eyes misted and she shook her head. "She was so beautiful. What a terrible waste."
A sentiment I'd had myself.
"Of course, it does fill me with some glee that Costello now has several pieces to refit." She tried to get Jean Luc's attention to refill her empty glass, but he didn't see her. Or very effectively pretended not to.
"Oh?" I asked her, moving behind the bar to refill her glass myself.
"Uh, yes. Well, as you know, Gia was his closer in almost every show he did. His big finale pieces are all tailored to her measurements. And that man does like to tailor pieces within an inch of their life," she added, watching me pull a bottle of wine from behind the counter and pour a generous helping into her glass.
"Surely he can find another model of her size?" I asked.
"Size? Yes. Specific measurements? Oh no." She wagged her index finger at me with one hand, reaching for the glass with the other. "Unlike your off-the-racks stuff, the clothes that walk a runway are custom fitted. Every seam! I'm sure Costello is just itching to get back to The City to start tearing his finale gowns apart." She giggled again, sounding more like a vindictive teen than a woman old enough to be sporting white hair.
It occurred to me that maybe Daisy wasn't just tipsy on Sirah but possibly a little toward the unbalanced end of eccentric as well. A woman had been strangled to death, and she was giggling about how inconvenient outfit alterations would be. I wasn't sure if Costello had really had anything to do with the ruby earrings that had gone missing, but in Daisy's mind it was clear the two were locked in a serious feud.
I suddenly wondered just how far Daisy would go to get back at Costello. As far as killing his signature model?
"Did you go backstage with your models after the show?" I asked in what I hoped was a casual tone.
"Hmm?" Daisy asked, clearly lost in her own thoughts again. "What was that?"
"I wondered if you accompanied your models backstage after the fashion show at the Links? Or did you go directly to the reception?"
"Oh no," she said, shaking her head. "No, I went with the models. I can't relax until I know my garments
are all tucked away neatly."
"So you were backstage?" I clarified.
She nodded, sipping again. "Mm-hmm. I helped Amanda get out of her jumper, then made sure that Marcus had all the gloves and hats collected. Diana got her zipper caught in her hair taking off her dress, and that took a while to get undone."
I wasn't sure if it was intentional, but she was ticking off names as if giving me the list of people who could alibi her out. I followed her narrative, mentally trying to pinpoint exactly where she might have been when Gia had died.
"Anyway, it was almost as chaotic after the show as it was before." She waved her hand in the air. "Trust me, I got to that rosé in the lounge as soon as I could."
"When was that?" I asked.
"When?"
"Yes. What time?"
"Well, I…I don't wear a watch." She held up her bony wrist, which was adorned with a few jelly bracelets from the 1980s but no timepiece. "But I'm sure Fabio could tell you."
"Fabio?" I asked, trying to place the name.
"Costello's little boy toy. He was the first person I saw at the reception. Poor thing. Sitting all alone. If I had a treat that tasty, I certainly wouldn't leave him to his own devices. Not among the country club set, if you know what I mean." She cackled at her joke, even though I was hazy on the exact punch line.
"Are you saying you spotted Costello's boyfriend alone at the reception?" I clarified. "Costello wasn't with him?"
"Yes." She blinked at me. "Why?"
Because Costello had sworn he was with Fabio when Gia was murdered.
"No reason," I lied. I gave her big smile, refilling her drink.
* * *
By the time I'd given Daisy Dot a quick tour of the grounds, including the south vineyard, where we had picnic tables set up for outdoor events during these mild summer months, and The Cave, our cellar where our old vintages were stored, she was looking distinctly unsteady on her feet and, by her own admission, ready for a nap. I politely suggested she call an Uber and helped her into the back of the beige sedan before waving her off down the winding drive with the backdrop of a brilliant sunset behind her.
Not that she seemed awake enough to appreciate it. Her head slumped on the seat cushions the moment she got inside the car. Luckily, she had purchased her case of wine before the Sirah had gotten the best of her, and once her Uber's taillights were a thing of the past, I made my way to the large barn that had been converted to house our storage and bottling facility to see about getting it delivered to her hotel.
As I entered, I found my winery manager, Eddie Bliss, leaning casually against a barrel, chatting with Jean Luc.
Eddie had come to work for me after a long career as a househusband to his partner, Curtis, and his actual managerial skills had left something to be desired. In fact, what Eddie had known about the wine business, I could fit into a thimble. A small one. For mice. But his perpetually cheerful countenance seemed to make up for what he lacked in actual knowledge, at least as far as customers were concerned. And to his credit, he was willing to work for what I could afford to pay—which was not much.
Jean Luc grabbed a bottle of Pinot Noir from the shelf behind Eddie, muttering something half in French and half in English.
"That's a very nice way to insult me." Eddie laughed, causing his pudgy face to light up. Eddie was a shade over 5'6" tall, his ears were two sizes too big for his face, and he was dressed today in herringbone shorts, complete with white linen shirt and Italian leather boat shoes.
"Excusez-moi," Jean Luc replied. "But you are mistaken once again, mon amie. France eez, in fact, zee best place in the world for an 'oliday."
"I'm sure France is all well and good," Eddie countered. "But America has a lot to offer. Hawaii, the Grand Canyon, Niagara Falls."
"An island, a hole in the ground, and some water." Jean Luc shook his head. "Zey cannot rival zee French Riviera and zee Eiffel Tower."
"A big metal pole?" Eddie teased.
"A big metal…" Jean Luc's mouth opened and closed with indignation. His cheeks were starting to flush when he caught sight of me. "Emmy, tells zees man why zee Eiffel Tower eez a modern marvel!"
I put my hands up in the surrender position. "Sorry, boys. I'm not getting involved." Plus, since I could barely afford a trip to the Vegas version of the Eiffel Tower, let alone the French Riviera, I was hardly qualified to argue.
"I thought you were off today, Eddie," I commented, turning my attention to him.
"Actually, I have a meeting with an influencer off-site." He stood as tall as his stout frame would allow, straightening his shirt that was presently testing the laws of physics across his plump belly.
I cocked an eyebrow. "An influencer?"
"You know, those people online who are so amazing that everyone wants to be them and wear what they wear and go where they go—"
"Like France!" Jean Luc cut in.
But Eddie ignored him. "—and they earn zillions of dollars documenting it all on social media."
My other eyebrow cocked. "Zillions?"
He waved me off. "Depends on how many followers they have."
I shook my head. "Okay, I know what an influencer is," I told him. "What I don't know is why you are meeting one."
"Aurora Dawn is in town, and I want to take her a couple of bottles of our wares in the hope she'll send a few Insta posts into the world of the uninfluenced."
While his lingo might be slightly off kilter, the idea wasn't half bad. "It might not hurt to expand our online presence a little."
"Honey, Aurora could expand it a lot," Eddie told me.
"I was just giving 'im a bottle of Pinot Noir for her," explained Jean Luc.
"Good idea. Why not take along a bottle of the Petit Sirah as well?" I said, nodding toward an open case. "Daisy Dot seemed to like that one."
"The designer?" Eddie asked, his eyes lighting up. "Was she here?"
"You just missed her," Jean Luc said with a sniff. "Lucky you."
"Oh." Eddie's face fell. "Speaking of which, I heard what happened at the fashion show. How's Ava holding up?"
"She's okay," I said, stretching the truth a little. I quickly filled him in on the broad strokes of the last twenty-four hours.
"Poor thing." Eddie shook his head when I was done. "I assume Grant is involved?"
"He is. And I'm sure he'll clear it all up in no time," I said with more confidence than I felt.
"Does that mean that he'll be around here just a bit more often?" he asked with a glint in his eye.
"I don't see why he would. The murder didn't take place here." Thank goodness. We'd already been down that road. More than once.
Eddie's chest deflated like I'd popped his favorite balloon. "Well, that's just disappointing."
Jean Luc shook his head and moved to a case of wine bottles that had just been labeled. He returned with a bottle of Chardonnay and a bottle of Petite Sirah.
"If zee influencer eez not impressed with zeez, then she doesn't know her wine," he commented, handing the bottles to Eddie.
"I'm sure she'll love them," Eddie remarked, tucking the bottles under his arm.
I was about to tell him to keep the bottles cool, when Jean Luc beat me to it. He huffed, snatching the bottles back, and then stepped away, muttering something about finding a bag.
"Tell her to make sure that our label is facing the camera," I instructed Eddie.
He tutted. "I cannot tell a woman with over half a million followers how to take a photo."
"Half a million?" I turned, calling to Jean Luc over my shoulder. "Maybe you should throw in a bottle of Zin too."
"We don't have zat many bottles," he yelled back.
"Even better. If it's in high demand, you can up the price." Eddie grinned.
I had to admit, he might be catching on to this winery manager thing after all.
I left Eddie to Jean Luc's capable hands as he bagged up the wines for Eddie's influencer and readied Daisy's case of Petite Sirah for delivery, and I made m
y way across the meadow to the main buildings that housed my office.
I'd only just sat down behind my computer when a text buzzed in on my phone. I checked the readout. Grant.
Busy tonight?
I was glad I was alone in my office so no one saw the goofy grin I could feel spreading across my cheeks as I typed back a reply.
Not particularly. Why?
I didn't have to wait long for his response to buzz in.
Dinner?
I glanced at my computer screen—dark. As it had been all day. I'd fully meant to put some time in on the inventory reports for this month and start working on the budget for the upcoming harvesting season, but somehow the day had gotten away from me. Besides, I did have to eat eventually.
What did you have in mind?
Meet me at The Vine? Half hour?
I looked down at my jeans and plain T-shirt. Definitely not dinner date with a hot cop attire.
Give me 45 min.
CHAPTER SIX
Forty-eight minutes later (but who was counting), I walked into The Vine, a quaint restaurant just outside of downtown with a menu catering toward seasonal California cuisine and an atmosphere that was just swanky enough to bring a casual dinner into romantic date territory. I'd settled on a pair of black skinny dress pants and a cream colored, off-the-shoulder top in a light fabric that skimmed my curves in a flattering way. Black strappy heels gave me a few extra inches and a boost of confidence, and I'd completed the ensemble with simple silver teardrop earrings, which had been a gift from Ava, and an extra swipe of eyeliner and mascara. I was hoping the overall effect was chic without looking like I'd put too much effort into it.
Grant had beaten me to the restaurant and was sitting at a table near the window, sipping something dark and probably alcoholic from a short glass. He caught my eye as I entered, waving me over to bypass the hostess stand.
"Hey," he said, rising from his seat to plant a quick peck on my cheek. "Glad you could meet on short notice."
"Me too," I told him, trying to keep the blush from my face at the touch of his lips on my skin. I cleared my throat as he pulled a chair out for me. "Busy day?"
Fashion, Rosé & Foul Play (Wine & Dine Mysteries Book 6) Page 6