Murder at the Wine Tasting

by Liz Turner

Roy’s voice answered. “Whatever it is you think I did, I did not.”

  “Liar. You think Ms. Dolly will be happy to know what you've done?”

  Roy was silent for a long time, and Margie held her breath, hoping to hear more. He was silent for so long that Margie couldn’t stand it any longer. She knocked on the door, loudly, pushing her way in. The woman, still looking angry, was one of the maids. She was dressed in a gray housekeeper’s dress. She looked to be about thirty. Her eyes looked like fire she was so mad.

  “Hello, Roy,” Margie said with a cheerfulness she didn’t feel. “Think you could run an errand for me, my friend? We’re all out of vinegar, and we desperately need it for dinner.”

  Roy, his face impassive, nodded. Roy was short and stocky and looked to be in his mid to late fifties. He had salt-and-pepper hair much like Margie’s father, and he stood with his shoulders pressed back. His suit was perfect down to every detail, his posture just as rigid. “Of course, I’ll get it right away for you, Margie. Right away.” He pushed past the maid without even a glance, smiling politely as he slid past Margie and out of the door. “White distilled vinegar, Margie?”

  “Yes please,” she answered, her breath catching as he brushed by. “Thank you.”

  Her breath caught as she watched Roy walk away. What had those two been talking about? Perhaps the maid thought Roy was the killer?

  Or did she mean something completely different?

  Margie swung back to her cabin, dialing Ray’s number, one she had memorized long ago. He picked up on the third ring. Probably digging through the mounds of papers on his desk to find the phone. “Officer Ray Brighton, Bristol PD.”

  “Hey Ray, it’s Margie. Have you looked into Roy yet?”

  “Roy who?”

  “The head of the cleaning staff, Roy Cleaments.”

  Ray made some noises over the phone, clearly flipping through notes. “I have, why do you ask?”

  “I just heard him and one of the maids arguing.” She laid out the scene as best as she could over the phone, her hands shaking a little. “Now, they could have been talking about anything, but I figured it was worth a call.”

  A grunt. “I’ll check a little deeper into it, Margie. Thanks for the heads up.”

  She went back to the kitchen, hoping that no one else could hear her heart thundering uncomfortably loud inside her ribcage.

  Roy returned with the vinegar as quickly as Margie hoped, and she got the kids started on the mint sauce just in time for dinner. They scrambled to get everything plated, but guests didn’t seem to notice that the dinner was a whole six minutes late. Everyone was cheerful with wine and seemed to have completely forgotten the death in the dining room a few days before. It was just as well; people with wine and good friends often forgot to watch their tongues.

  So Margie mingled with the guests, chatting amiably with everyone as she delivered plates of food to each of the guests. They cheered her skills, everyone digging hungrily into their meals. Everyone very pointedly ignored the two empty chairs where Kevin and Lady would have sat.

  There were more guests than the first night Margie served, and they filled up several tables. The number of guests seemed to be growing each day, and no one seemed interested in leaving. In fact, a few of the first days’ guests made the trek up here just for her dinners and the wine without staying the night, a fact that made her flush with pleasure. She toasted with some of the guests and continued to make her rounds, listening in on conversations without seeming like she was.

  “Have you heard that Mrs. Bryer and her husband now are sleeping in separate rooms?” Someone whispered, their voice louder than they intended. The woman who spoke wobbled on her feet a little, downing yet another glass of the winery’s dessert ice-wines.

  A man’s voice answered. “Not that you can blame her; Mr. Bryer hasn’t exactly been discreet with his choice of mistresses.”

  Margie sighed; this was nothing of interest to her. No, it was time to keep moving.

  “She lost all of it, all of her money. That’s why she’s been so desperately chasing the widower Brown...”

  “They said they sent their oldest boy to camp for the winter, but I hear he was really in a rehabilitation camp. For a pill addiction...”

  “Did you see? Only two months after her husband passed away, and she’s already wearing colors and dating some young...”

  But none of it was anything Margie wanted to hear. Whispered conversation after whispered conversation was nothing but gossip, only half of which was true. She sighed. Perhaps this assignment was going to be harder than she thought.

  After all the dinner plates were cleared away, and the dessert pastries fresh from Dolly’s bakery were served, Margie retired to the kitchen, revelling in the silence.

  She promised Ray, but she didn’t intend to give up every free moment in pursuit of answers. She made herself a whole pot of decaf, and pulled her chair closer to the window, staring out across the vast wintery landscape in front of her. It looked like some kind of painting out here, the moonlight reflecting silver off of the mostly undisturbed snow drifts. Margie stared out across the deep blacks of the evergreen pines trees that stood like silhouetted sentinels against the night sky. She would miss this place. Miss the snow and the Christmas tree scent.

  Margie wished desperately that there was some piece of this place she could bring to the Caribbean with her. But there was nothing, and no one, to bring along for the ride. No, this was something she was going to have to do alone, and it made her feel incredibly small under the big, starry sky.

  Without wanting to, her mind flashed back to watching the love on Dolly’s face as she rubbed her distended belly. She could remember how shaky and excited Camelia’s handwriting was when she had scrawled a little note to tell Margie about their child. She remembered the look in Ray’s eyes when he talked about his the family he got to go home to.

  She sighed heavily, her shoulders drooping. Why do I feel this way now? Do I only want it because it is something I can no longer have? Or is it something else? She didn’t know. All she knew is that her career was still so completely important to her. The thought of giving it up was unbelievably painful. It had taken so much time and effort and work. And yet, here she was, jealous of something that, until this very moment, she had never wanted.

  What a world. Nearly laughing at herself, Margie stood up to grab another mug of decaf when someone cleared their throat. She jumped a little, then frowned at herself. John is allowed access to the kitchens too. He stood in the doorway looking awkward as though he wasn’t expecting her to be there.

  Smiling, Margie refilled her mug. “Would you like any? It’s decaffeinated.”

  “That would be great, Margie. Thank you.” John glanced around the kitchen which was in near darkness. “What are you doing here all by your lonesome?”

  “Thinking,” she answered absently, sitting down and turning her attention back outside. The sky had clouded over again during the day, and now tiny bits of snow fell, hissing against the warm glass of the kitchen window. “I guess I’m just nervous about leaving.”

  John frowned for a second and sipped his coffee. “That’s right, your internship starts in a couple of weeks. Are you going to miss Bristol?”

  She stared out at the snow falling. “Yes. I’ll miss the Christmas trees and my friends.”

  John sat down on a stool a little too close to Margie for her liking, so she shifted away. Whether he saw it as rude no longer mattered to her; she’d been quite plain about how she felt about his intentions. If he noticed, he said nothing but continued to sip his coffee.

  “Your friends, like the police officer who dropped you off the other night?”

  Margie’s brow furrowed, a frown pulling at the corners of her mouth. He had seen Ray drop her off? “Yes, he is one. He and his wife, Camelia. Dolly too. I have quite a few friends in Bristol.”

  “Oh, he has a wife,” John said, his smile returning in force. “Well then, I suppose tha
t’s alright.”

  Margie took a deep breath, trying to calm her heart’s wild beating. Why did he have to say such things? Especially when she was feeling so incredibly lonely and tired. She prayed that he would lose interest and wander off; his flirting was getting too pointed to ignore much longer.

  “You know, there will be tons of people in Bristol that will miss you too,” he said, quietly. When she turned to look at him, his pretty blue eyes were lit up.

  Margie frowned. “John...”

  He held up his hand. “I know what you’re going to say, Margie. I’m not trying to push you into anything. I just keep hoping you’ll notice me some day soon. Hopefully before you leave.” He looked down at his coffee, the mug squeezed so tightly in his hands that his knuckles were white in the low lighting.

  Margie felt a little guilty then; she knew she would never be able to return his feelings, no matter what. It made her feel like he was throwing his heart away. She wanted to feel something for him if only to ease his suffering a little. He seemed like such a nice person. But even if she did have feelings for him why would she give up her career when I’m so close?

  But there was a small part of her, a part that was growing ever larger at the sight of his hunched shoulders and the sad look on his pretty face, that wanted to try. She patted his arm and said, as gently as she could manage, “I’m sorry, John.”

  She stood, putting her mug in the sink before returning to her cabin.

  Chapter 8

  John didn't show up for work the next day. Margie had a pretty good idea of why; she hoped that she hadn’t driven him off completely and he would come back. She missed his even temper and constant presence. He was good at his job; Margie needed his ability to keep everyone calm and on schedule.

  A few of the kids asked about him, and she told them all that John was sick. Most of the girls looked disappointed, but Margie pointedly ignored that particular reaction. She kept the kitchen going as well as she was able, managing to bring out all the dishes on time and well plated. She was so busy that she didn’t have much time to mingle, but she’d learned a little from the conversations she had overheard.

  Luckily for her, the next day was Sunday, her day off. Finally! What a week this had been. Margie wasn’t sure she could handle the next two weeks if this were how they were all going to go.

  She woke up early in the morning and made her way to Camelia and Ray’s new house. It was a darling little three bedroom over at the edge of Market Street, near where the school and train station were. The house was decked in old weeping willows that hung in front of the house like curtains in front of a window. The house was two stories and painted a very cheerful yellow with navy blue shutters. It was beautiful and serene and absolutely perfect. The kind of house Margie would pick if she ever chose to lay down roots.

  Camelia was home alone; Ray would be at the precinct for another two hours. He didn’t usually work seven days a week unless there was a murder case resting on his desk. Ray would work until he dropped. Or at least, he did until he’d married Camelia. He’d lost some of his hyper-focus on work in the last few months. It was good for him, Margie was sure. And good for his new family.

  “Margie!” Camelia, looking glowing, as usual, threw open the door and hugged Margie hard. Margie could feel tears threatening at the edges of her eyes. She didn’t realise until this very second how much she’d missed her best friend. How would she ever live without her in the tropics?

  “Oh my goodness, Cammy, you look absolutely radiant.” Margie held out a pink gift bag, and Camelia grabbed it from her, hugging Margie hard again.

  “Come in, come in, come in. Let me show you the house!” She took her by the hand and dragged her hard into the front room. It was a quaint little house. Margie pulled off her jacket and ran her eyes over the room, well lit space. It was cheerful with its pale, floral wallpaper and warm hardwoods. There were carpeted stairs going up to the second floor. A tall grandfather clock stood like a guardian over the entryway, its solemn, quiet ticking counting the seconds. “So here’s the hallway and the dining room and here is the living room and...”

  Once Camelia started talking, there was no stopping her, so Margie just allowed her to ramble on. She talked about how the couches were leather and given as a present from Camelia’s overbearing father. The paint colors she picked out herself, the house was built in 1957. No, the carpet was brand new, and yes, the farm-style sink was original. There were three bedrooms, one decked out all in green for the new baby.

  Margie got a warm feeling of being right at home in the colorful, warm space, Camelia must have sold off all the furniture they’d had living together. To be fair, it was old and most of it not very baby friendly. But it still seemed a little sad that the furniture they had collected over the seven years they lived together could have been thrown away so easily.

  She shook the feeling off, making appreciative noises at all the rooms. It’s not like Margie could have kept the furniture, anyway; she would have had nowhere to put any of it. Camelia was nearly glowing, her fingers fluttering over her swollen stomach. “Don’t you love it, Margie?” She gestured around at the unpacked boxes. “Well, except for this.”

  “You’ll get moved in eventually, Cammy,” Margie said, laughing. “Maybe.”

  Camelia smacked her arm, laughing too.

  So they sat in her kitchen, catching up after months of being apart. Camelia showed her photos of the wedding Margie had unfortunately missed. Margie watched all the photos of smiling faces flip by as Camelia pointed out every little detail of the ceremony. She was happy for her friend, but a big piece of her heart felt left out; like she could never make up for everything she was missing out on because of her drive to be successful.

  After pouring through her wedding album, Camelia dug into the pink bag Margie had brought. It was filled with presents of chocolates and a collection of small gifts that Margie had managed to collect for the baby.

  They discussed names for a few moments, guilt dragging down at the edges of Margie’s smile. She missed the wedding, and she would miss the birth too. How long would it be before she could visit?

  “Oh Margie, we’re so proud of you, you know.” Camelia brushed her fingers gently over Margie’s hand. “You certainly showed the whole world, didn’t you! A female chef; we’re just tickled pink that you made it.” Her grin seemed genuine enough, but Margie wondered if Camelia was secretly upset with her for missing so many important things.

  “I am happy that I made it through school, but I feel like I’m missing so much going on in your life,” she admitted, her heart twisting a little in her chest. “I wish I could be both here and there.”

  “Oh, don’t be so dramatic. We know how important cooking is to you. We knew you’d be leaving. I will miss you, dear, but it’s nice to know you’ll be following your dreams. Come now, don’t you want some coffee?”

  “Decaf?”

  Camelia rolled her eyes, pressing her hands against her belly. “For a little while longer. I hear you have been helping Ray with the Withers case.”

  Margie made a face as the kitchen filled with the scent of brewing coffee. “I have. Just like old times. One last hurrah before I fly out in a couple of weeks.”

  Camelia’s face drooped. “Poor Lady.”

  Margie nodded, fiddling with a piece of paper she found on the table. She decided to change the subject. “It’s a good thing Ray doesn’t keep the house as poorly as he keeps up with his desk at work.” She shivered, twin looks of disgust crossing both their features.

  “Oh, Margie, I would never let him. I’d like to see him try.”

  They continued to talk, covering everything from Dolly’s winery to Margie’s stint at school to the changes around their small town. They chatted and chatted and drank coffee and laughed.

  “Camelia?” Ray’s voice spilled from the front door. “Are you here?”

  “Yes, Ray, Margie and I are in the kitchen.”

  Ray’s tall form
filled the doorway into the little kitchen, making the tiny room feel even smaller. His face lit up to see them both together, a huge smile on his face. “How are you, Margie?” Bending at the waist, Ray pressed his lips to Camelia’s in a brief, but very intimate, display of affection. Margie glanced away, her stomach clenching.

  “I’m doing just fine, Ray. You both have a lovely house.”

  “Thank you! Do you have anything more for me on the case?” Ever the working police officer, Ray was.

  Margie scooted her chair over, making more room at the little table for Ray. Camelia poured him a mug of coffee and handed it to him, smiling as she sat back down.

  “I might have, at that,” she answered as Ray took a seat, taking a long pull from his mug. “I suppose Roy checked out?”

  “You didn’t hear?” Ray shook his head, his deep brown hair falling into his eyes a little. It was getting so long. “Turns out that Roy was forcing the maids to go on...” He cleared his throat. “dates with him to keep their jobs. At least the pretty ones, anyway; Dolly has fired him and replaced him with one of the older women who was apparently doing most of his job, anyway.”

  Margie’s eyes widened, and she nearly spit out her coffee. “Well, that certainly explains the conversation I overheard, doesn’t it!”

  Camelia looked shocked. “What a slimeball,” she said, her nose crinkling in disgust. “People are horrible.”

  Margie smiled at the two of them, her heart lifting a little reunion. “Not all of them, Cammy. Not all.”

  “So, anything new for me?”

  Margie shrugged. “Heard one of the older Welsh matriarchs talking about how Kevin owed Carol’s husband a lot of money before he passed away, and there were whispers that poison is a woman’s weapon. I can’t say for sure, but it seems worth looking into.”

  Ray nodded, and Camelia looked stunned. “Carol Ramone, the old widow?”

  “She was certainly there that evening.”

  Margie nodded. “I don’t think it was Carol; she’s a good humored woman with quite the temper, but she’s always handled her problems the old fashioned way. Do you remember that time she took a cane to the back of Leroy Jenson’s knees for cutting in front of her in line a few years back?”