The Case of the Voracious Vintner

by Tara Lain

  Table of Contents

  Blurb

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Author’s Note

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter Thirty-four

  More from Tara Lain

  Readers love Tara Lain

  About the Author

  By Tara Lain

  Visit Dreamspinner Press

  Copyright

  The Case of the Voracious Vintner

  By Tara Lain

  A Middlemark Mystery

  Where Bo Marchand comes from, gay men are just confirmed bachelors who never found the right girl. But now Bo’s a successful winemaker on the central coast of California, supporting his whole damned Georgia family, and all he really wants is the beautiful, slightly mysterious Jeremy Aames.

  Jeremy’s vineyard is under threat from Ernest Ottersen, the voracious winemaker who seems to know all Jeremy’s blending secrets and manages to grab all his customers. Bo tries to help Jeremy and even provides a phony alibi for Jeremy when Ottersen turns up dead in Jeremy’s tasting room. But it’s clear Jeremy isn’t who he claims, and Bo must decide if it’s worth tossing over his established life for a man who doesn’t seem to trust anyone. Then Jeremy gets kidnapped, some of the conservative winemakers turn out to be kinky sex fiends, and the list of murderers keeps dwindling down to Jeremy. Bo has to choose between hopping on his white horse or climbing back in his peach-pie-lined closet.

  To my honey, who shares everything with me, including the fun of the central coast wineries. Here’s to us!

  Acknowledgments

  SPECIAL THANKS to Lynn West for guiding me through the rocky shoals of a romantic cozyish mystery.

  Author’s Note

  OVER THE years I’ve spent some very fun times visiting the wineries of California, both the famous Napa and Sonoma wineries and the lesser-known but fantastic central coast vineyards. In this book I’ve had fun taking my readers with me as I revisit some of these special places—and weave in a healthy dose of mystery.

  Chapter One

  BO MARCHAND sipped the delicious wine provided by their host for the evening, Jeremy Aames, owner of Hill Top Wineries. It took all Bo’s self-control not to sigh just thinking about Jeremy.

  Bo glanced quickly around the big restaurant and wine tasting area, which was packed with the members of the Central Coast Vintners’ Association, but there was no sign of their host. He was probably overseeing the kitchen. Hill Top was one of the few wineries that served a full menu, which made it popular for their vintners’ meetings. Still, Jeremy not being present might be good since the glorious Jeremy made Bo drool, and that could be damned bad for his illustrious image if his fellow winemakers caught on. He’d worked hard to be a leader in his industry despite his youth. No giving that away. He’d paid too high a price.

  He made one more survey of the room from his seemingly relaxed position near the wall. No Jeremy, but quite another target for his attention. Standing next to the wine tasting bar, deep in conversation with two men Bo didn’t know, stood Ernest Ottersen, the central coast’s new golden boy—or he would have been if his hair wasn’t black as midnight. Same color as his heart, most people said. Bo took a sip of his cabernet franc and forced his eyes away from the snake.

  Genevieve Renders separated herself from the boisterous crowd and sashayed to the corner where Bo had sequestered himself, all the better to gaze at the object of his affection without interference—if he could find him.

  “Why are you being so antisocial? Come drink with us. The guys need your opinions.”

  He pushed away from the wall. “Sorry, darlin’, I didn’t mean to be an outsider. After that spread Jeremy provided, I’m just full as a tick and needed a little lay-by.”

  She snorted. “Where do you get those expressions?”

  “Deep in the heart of Georgia, darlin’, you know that.”

  “California’s gain, dear.” She took his arm and pulled him to the largest group of arguers, made up of her husband, Randy—a name which suited him; Ezra Hamilton, the deacon of the local born-again church and mighty proud to be it; his wife, Marybeth, maybe not quite as reborn as Ezra; and Fernando Puente, owner of one of the largest wineries in the Paso Robles area—and he never let you forget it.

  Randy stuck out an arm and gathered Bo in closer. “Here’s the man. You gotta help us out here, Bo. Ezra and Ferdinand”—the name Randy insisted on calling Fernando—“had been saying that Ottersen’s bound to win top prizes for central coast wines this year. Hell, he’s aced half the contracts with Napa since he opened.” His words sounded slightly slurred. For a vintner, he couldn’t hold his alcohol, but at the same time, Ottersen made people so mad they could chew barbed wire and spit out a fence, so drinking too much went with the territory.

  Bo smiled tightly. “I know no more than any of y’all and have just as much to lose. Sorry.” That wasn’t entirely true, since Bo’s growing methods separated him from the pack somewhat, but still. Ottersen threatened them all. Especially Jeremy Aames, it seemed.

  Bo took a quick glance around, trying to spot Jeremy. Since he had two or three inches of height on even the tallest guys in the room, it gave him a decent vantage point, but no luck.

  Ezra said stiffly, “I notice Ottersen is talking to strangers. He must be getting the message that none of the other vintners like him.”

  Bo noticed movement near the far wall, glanced up, and had to control the slam of his heart as Jeremy Aames walked out of the kitchen with that easy grin of his, talking to a young guy who seemed to be his assistant.

  Marybeth followed Bo’s eyes. “Not sure what Jeremy has to smile about. Hell, Ottersen’s taking the biggest toll on his profits.”

  Bo’s lips turned up on their own. “Jeremy always smiles.”

  A waiter hurried out of the kitchen, grabbed Jeremy’s arm, and he rushed back through the door with the assistant in tow.

  Ezra raised an eyebrow. “All those gay boys smile a lot.”

  Bo glared at him, but not much got in the way of Ezra’s righteousness.

  Marybeth slapped his shoulder. “Ezra, when will you learn to be PC?”

  “Never. PC’s for Democrats.” He raised his wineglass and drained it.

  Bo wouldn’t have minded giving Ezra a fist to the jaw but had no right. He’d never declared himself out of the closet, partly because it might really give his mother the heart attack she was always claiming was imminent, to say nothing of the collapse of his sisters’ imagined social standing. He kept saying when he had a relationship, he’d come out, no matter what it cost him, but not coming out meant it was doubly hard to meet someone since gay men assumed he was straight. It a
lso meant women still thought he was fair game—with a lot of encouragement from his mother. Vicious damned cycle for a twenty-six-year-old man, but in his family, gay men were still “confirmed bachelors who hadn’t met the right woman.”

  Ezra glared at the spot where Jeremy had disappeared into the kitchen. “Ottersen’ll wipe that smile off Aames’s face soon. Apparently, he’s already reverse engineered Aames’s latest vintage and snapped up a big contract that Jeremy was counting on from Shields’ brokerage.”

  Bo frowned. “He just unveiled that blend. No one could have reverse engineered it that fast.”

  “Yeah, well, those are the facts.” Ezra’s smile was nasty.

  Bo’s hand clenched into a fist, but Gen squeezed his arm, a little too close to her chest. “How’s the family, dear?”

  He dragged his eyes away from Ezra before he laid him out. Ezra was an asshole, but he had a lot of power among the other vintners. No use getting Jeremy in more hot water. He forced a smile. “Well, thank you.” He gently extricated his limb on the excuse of checking his watch and sipping his wine.

  “Your mother’s health?”

  He wanted to say Way better than she thinks it is, but that wasn’t fair. “Mama’s doing fine, thank you, Gen.” He stepped back. “Excuse me, please. I’m seeking a rest stop.”

  She flashed teeth. “You’re so cute.”

  Ezra grabbed Bo’s arm. “You’re still heading the dry farming committee, right?”

  “Yes.” He glanced at Ezra’s firm grip, but the man didn’t take hints easily.

  “You’ve got to keep Ottersen and his cronies off that committee. He doesn’t need any additional advantages.”

  Bo shrugged himself free. “I can’t do that, Ezra. If he applies for an open seat and is voted in, I can’t keep him off.” Bo smiled. “But we don’t happen to have an opening at the present moment in time.”

  “Excellent.” He smiled big and nasty.

  “Excuse me.” Bo walked away from the group and threaded his way through the crowd, trying to look focused on his goal since he knew most everyone in the room and they all had something to say to him. He walked down the hall toward the kitchen and peeked in. Controlled chaos reigned inside. Cooks and waiters loaded hors d’oeuvre plates to carry out to the picky guests.

  Jeremy Aames had only come to the valley a little over a year before when he bought one of the smaller wineries from a retiring old-timer. Jeremy had made a name for himself not only by enhancing some of the winery’s blends right away, but by adding a very creative kitchen that gave his tasting room enough cachet to compete with full-scale restaurants, at least for lunch.

  Since Bo’s winery was the only other in the area that served serious food, people had assumed they’d be vicious competitors, but so far Jeremy had coexisted with Bo quite comfortably, recommending Bo’s Marchand Wines almost as liberally as he promoted his own brand. As a result Bo returned the favor, and they sent business back and forth so patrons never got bored.

  Bo glanced around the kitchen. Jeremy’s cute young assistant directed waiters around like a five-foot-six-inch general, but Bo didn’t see Jeremy. Bo sometimes wondered if the assistant was more than an assistant. That thought made his stomach clench. He stretched his neck to the side so he could peer into the corner of the kitchen. Come on, just one glance.

  “Bo, is there something you need?”

  The soft voice came from behind Bo, and he froze and then turned slowly. “Uh, hello there.” Dear god of wine, what a beauty. Jeremy would have been handsome no matter what—his beautiful bone structure and wide blue eyes assured that. But on top of nature’s gifts, Jeremy had chosen to grow his dark blond hair past his shoulders, where it hung in a thick curtain that made Bo want to sink his fingers into it. Like Brad Pitt in Legends of the Fall, the hair took a great-looking man and made him a myth.

  A grin spread itself across Jeremy’s sweet face like maple syrup on pancakes. “Hi.” For an instant they just stared at each other, Jeremy looking up since, like most people, he was a few inches shorter than Bo. Then Jeremy took a breath. “Can I be of help?”

  Don’t sound like an idiot. “Just spying. Looking for insider tips.” Bo was told that his dimples were an unfair advantage, so he used them.

  Jeremy laughed, just a ha or two. “I’m sure there’s not one thing I can teach you, Mr. Marchand.”

  Oh, he’s so wrong.

  Jeremy’s pretty face sobered. “But I sure understand. These days we all need every competitive advantage we can get.”

  Bo frowned. “He’s takin’ a toll on your business, I hear.”

  Jeremy nodded. “He’s copied every vintage and bought up vineyards near me so his blends taste as much like mine as possible.”

  “Damn the bastard!”

  Jeremy glanced up, startled. “Thank you.” He shook his head. “I’m told he’s installing a kitchen.”

  Bo nodded. “I’ve heard tell.”

  Jeremy smiled, but it still looked sad. “I’m glad your dry farming protects you. He can’t duplicate your unique flavors.”

  “At least not this year.” Bo stared at the polished concrete floors. “Maybe we can do something to stop him, or at least slow him down.”

  “Really?” Jeremy looked skeptical. “He seems to have an awfully big bankroll or backers with deep pockets.”

  “Yes, but if we put our heads together, we just might find a plan.” The more the idea wormed into his brain, the better it sounded.

  “Uh, are you talking about all the other owners, or, uh, just you and me?” He glanced up quickly, then away.

  “Trying to get this whole herd of cats movin’ in the same direction would be harder than pickin’ fleas off a sheepdog. I think a smaller ship can turn more quickly, if you’ll forgive the mixing of metaphors.”

  Jeremy stared at Bo for a long count, then started to laugh. “When would you like to plan trying to get this canine in the water?”

  “I could give you my phone number. We could text.”

  Jeremy held out his hand and wiggled his fingers. “Gimme.”

  Bo tried to not look as excited as he was while he handed over his phone and watched Jeremy type in numbers. Jeremy handed it back. “Text me yours, okay?”

  Since no words were coming out of his dry throat, Bo nodded as he took the phone and glanced at the number.

  A crash sounded from inside the kitchen. Jeremy looked over his shoulder, wide-eyed. “I better get in there before they burn down the place.” He glanced back at Bo. “Can’t wait to hear from you.” He cleared his throat. “Uh, about your ideas for countering Ottersen.”

  Bo watched him disappear through the swinging door.

  Oh my heavens, did I just find a way to spend time with Jeremy Aames?

  BARELY FEELING the chill of the February evening, Bo floated out of his car and through the kitchen door of his family home. Well, now it was the family home. When he’d left Georgia to start the winery, he’d been independent. Then everything changed. The ranch house Bo had bought for its open concept and huge bedrooms now groaned under the occupancy of his mother, two sisters, aunt, uncle, and grandfather. Their opinions took up as much space as their bodies. More. He released air between his teeth. But he loved them.

  Trying to hold on to his elation, he walked quietly through the kitchen and into the long hall that bypassed the vaulted great room, open dining room, and kitchen, where whoever was still awake would likely be clustered.

  Halfway down the hall, the floorboard squeaked—a move worthy of a murder mystery—and his mother’s voice called, “Bo, darlin’, is that you?”

  Could he pretend he didn’t hear?

  “Bo?” His sister Blanche’s head popped around the corner. “Hi, dear.”

  “Oh, hi.”

  “We’re just having a quick glass of wine before bedtime. Come join us, darlin’.”

  Caught. “Sure. Coming.” Daydreaming about Jeremy had to wait. He followed Blanche back into the great room, a space
he’d loved more before his mom tried to turn it into Tara. It had started out all slate and stone and distressed wood. Now the couch was covered with flowered chintz, white sheer curtains hung beneath velvet drapes, and ceramic angels decorated the end tables. “Evening, Mama.” He walked over to where his mother sat in her floral dressing gown—Mama did love flowers—rocking in her favorite chair, sipping her beloved white zinfandel, and kissed her on the cheek.

  He always added a mental footnote to the gods of wine, Dionysus maybe, that he didn’t produce the white zin; they bought it at the supermarket.

  He nodded at Bettina, his oldest sister, divorced and living back with Mama, which meant she lived with him. Her red hair contrasted with the brown of Blanche, him, and their mama. Bettina looked more like their dad, who’d passed on four years before, throwing care for the family onto Bo’s shoulders, though he’d only been twenty-two, one year out of college and nine months into his life’s dream of owning a winery. Boom, instant head of family. Both his sisters were older, but according to the gospel of his family, sisters weren’t in line for the honor of supporting everyone who shared a particle of your DNA. That was a man’s job.

  Stepping to the sideboard, he poured himself a glass of real zinfandel, the red kind for which the central coast was known. He didn’t need more wine that evening, but they’d all rag him for being unsocial if he declined. He settled into the chair opposite his mom, resigned to be social. “So what did you all do this evening, darlin’s?”

  Bettina got a funny expression. Kind of guilty. “We went to a gathering of the Junior League.”

  “Ah, doing good for the community.” He took a sip.

  Blanche giggled. “Oh yes, we did lots of good for our community.”

  “What are you two up to?” He glanced back and forth between the sisters.

  Bettina tossed back a drink. “Three, darlin’, make that three.”

  He turned to his mother. “Mama, what are you planning?”