by Nadia Gordon
Monty ran his hands over the mottled skin of his domed head and resettled his glasses. “Hang on, hang on. We have to go back again to that night at Sunny’s place. Andre was there to hook up. Cynthia was there to stop Sunny from blabbing. Keith, you were there to see what Cynthia was up to. How did Harvey happen to be there? Did he get Keith’s nine-one-one?”
“He got my messages from earlier that night,” said Sunny. “He came by to see if I was home and he saw Keith lurking around outside. Then he heard gunfire and saw Keith storm the door, so he shot him.”
“That guy is one hell of a cop,” said Wade.
“I don’t know about that,” said Sunny. “He told me he saw the pie Cynthia made in the freezer that Sunday morning and didn’t think anything of it.”
“So?”
“Meringue in the freezer? If that’s not fishy, I don’t know what is.”
“Come on, he can’t know everything,” said Wade.
“All I’m saying is he’d catch a lot more murderers if he learned a little something about cooking,” said Sunny.
Annabelle came over and settled gracefully next to Monty in her peach silk dress with its butterfly sleeves and wide sash. A cascade of tiny gold discs dangled from each ear. “That was a marvelous feast,” she said, taking up Monty’s glass.
“Did you actually eat?” asked Rivka.
“Of course!”
“Human portions, or are you still doing the calorie-restriction thing?”
Annabelle shook her head slowly. “No more starvation rations for me. Monty convinced me the extra years weren’t worth the grief.”
“They get tacked on the end of your life when you’re already half dead, anyway,” said Monty. “Who needs that? Carpe diem. Besides, if we drink enough red wine, the resveratrol will keep us young.”
“I’ll drink to that,” said Wade. “Speaking of toasts, isn’t it about time we made one?”
Monty held up a hand to silence him. “Later. I want to finish this other business first. Annabelle and I were going through the whole Anna Wilson affair last night, and I need a few more things cleared up before we get off track with all the wedding stuff. For example, I still don’t understand how Cynthia managed to break into Sunny’s house and take her picture without waking her the night she left the note on the truck. Or even why she would go to the trouble. You didn’t have anything on her at that point, did you?”
“No, but it didn’t matter because it wasn’t Cynthia, and they didn’t break in,” said Sunny. “Remember when I ran out of gas coming home from Wade’s house and Molly Seth stopped to help me? She had Mike Sayudo, the gardener who found Anna’s body, make a copy of my key when he went to get the truck.”
“But why?”
“She was trying to protect her brother. I think she was worried he might have actually killed Anna. She wanted to make sure I kept my mouth shut if I found out anything about him. Steve told me all about it just a couple of days ago.”
Annabelle wore a knowing smile. “When Monty told me this story, I knew immediately it had to be either the sister or the cook.”
“What makes you say that?” asked Sunny.
“Women are territorial. A long time ago, before I met Monty, I dated a guy who had a housekeeper who’d been doing his laundry, making his bed, and fixing his dinner for twenty years. Once she locked me out of the house and tried to pretend it was an accident. Finally I told him he should propose to her and get on with his life.”
“That is such baloney. You told me you thought the artist did it!” said Monty.
“No, I told you he was third on my list. I said the sister or the cook or else the jilted artist lover.”
“Troy? Hardly,” said Franco. “I think in general he would prefer Molly’s friend Jared Bollinger, from what I hear.”
“He’s gay? Since when?” asked Sunny.
Franco waved a hand. “These things are not always as clear-cut as one imagines.”
“Maybe we should introduce him to Bertrand,” said Sunny. “They’d make a perfect couple.”
“Matchmaking,” said Rivka. “Now, that’s a nice, safe hobby. I like it. I like it better than waiting for crazy people with guns to come and kill you in the middle of the night.”
Sunny looked at Wade. “That reminds me of something I’ve been meaning to tell you. You’ll never guess who was in the restaurant the other day. Bertrand was atwitter.”
“Who?”
“The president of NASCAR.”
“Mike?” said Wade. “Good, I told him lunch at your place was a sure bet.”
“You know him?”
“Don’t look so surprised. Even we vulgar plebs have our connections.”
“The important thing,” said Monty, looking at Sunny, “is that the bad guy—I mean, bad girl—is behind bars. Our tranquil valley is free of malice and violence once again.”
“As far as we know,” said Sunny.
“Ever the pessimist,” said Monty. “You’ll be out hunting for the next bloodthirsty maniac tonight as soon as everyone else is in bed.”
“No chance,” said Sunny. “All I want to do from now on is cook. Just cook. I want to cook at the restaurant. I want to cook at home. I may even travel somewhere and cook.”
“I’m so glad to hear you say that,” said Monty. “For weeks I’ve been wanting to ask you to cater the wedding, but I was afraid you’d say you’re too busy. But now it sounds like you’d like nothing better!”
Sunny gave Rivka a resigned smile and told Monty, “I would be honored.”
* * *
It was dark when Rivka and Sunny carried out sheets of peach tart warm from the kitchen and served it with homemade burnt caramel ice cream. The band had packed up and Wade had gone to his station wagon for his guitar, which he now strummed softly, sitting on a chair under an olive tree.
Headlights swung across the table of friends in the deepening night and a few minutes later Andre Morales crunched toward them across the gravel. Sunny watched him make his way past the garden with Mount St. Helena as a backdrop. He kissed Sunny and Annabelle on the cheek and shook hands with Monty. The party fell silent, with half a dozen conversations suddenly hitting a lull as if by prior agreement. In the quiet, Andre nudged Sunny up from the table. They strolled toward the vineyard, admiring the spray of stars in the velvety blue sky. Sunny looked back and saw Rivka’s boyfriend and Keith Lachlan knock knuckles and heard their big, throaty laughs. At the long table, Monty and Annabelle were squeezed together, hands intertwined, their faces lit by candles burned low.
“So you think we can get through this?” Andre said, squeezing her hand.
“I warn you,” said Sunny sternly, “I will not be charmed.”
“I’m not trying to be charming. I’m trying to reopen negotiations. Someone once told me everything is negotiable.”
Sunny narrowed her eyes. “Some things are nonnegotiable.”
“Right. Well, then, forget negotiation. Why don’t you just tell me what you want and I’ll agree to it.”
“I think I’m going to need some time to consider that offer,” said Sunny, turning back to the party.
They rejoined the others just in time to drink another toast, the final toast, to Monty and Annabelle, the beautiful night, good friends, the peace and tranquillity of the valley. Tonight Sunny would sleep with her windows open and her door unlocked, as if none of it had ever happened.
Acknowledgments
Purists will note that one cannot see Mount Tamalpais from the steps of the Mission San Rafael in Northern California. A large and not terribly handsome building has been constructed in front of the chapel, entirely blocking the view. From the street above, Mount Tam rises up like a great maternal guardian, bottom-heavy and protective. It felt good to restore, if only in fiction, what must have been an inspiring setting.
Some books take longer to write than others. My editor, Jay Schaefer, showed superhuman patience in waiting for this one. For that and many other kind gestures
over the past decade and more, he has my gratitude, as well as my friendship.
The people closest to me did much to make the writing of this book possible, chief among them Judy B. and Randy Brown, who lent continuous encouragement, read manuscripts, offered advice, babysat, and let me ravage their refrigerator with merciless frequency. I also depended on the ever-capable and delightfully cheerful Nai, her sidekick Mimi, and that adjacent triumvirate of good company, Rachel, Ted, and Savannah. For inspiration, there is no one like Ivan, whose fresh perspective on the world is a constant source of pleasure, unless it is the Good Twin, even in absentia.
A number of friends with expertise in food, wine, and good living (lucky them!) read manuscript versions of Lethal Vintage, generously offering not only their time but their valuable opinions and insights. These included Jonathan Waters, Suzanne Groth Jones, Rebecca Carter Harrach, Adam Browning, Andy Demsky, Lisa and Jerry Niess, David Strada, David Polinsky, and Andrew Stern. I would like to thank them for their contributions, and point out that any errors or oversights that remain are mine despite their guidance, not due to it.
—NG
About the Author
NADIA GORDON is the author of three earlier novels in the Sunny McCoskey Napa Valley Mystery series, Sharpshooter, Death by the Glass, and Murder Alfresco. She has served as a judge for the Edgar Awards and is a national board member for Sisters in Crime. She lives in the San Francisco Bay Area.
Copyright
Copyright © 2009 by Chronicle Books LLC.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher.
Though Napa Valley and the adjacent regions are full of characters, none of them are in this book. This is a work of fiction. Names, places, persons, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual people, places, or events is entirely coincidental.
Gordon, Nadia.
Lethal vintage : a Sunny McCoskey Napa Valley mystery / Nadia Gordon.
eISBN: 978-1-4521-0349-5
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available.
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