The Case of the Voracious Vintner

by Tara Lain

RJ frowned. “She really wanted to know every detail of the business. She asked to see your books!”

  “What?” What the hell was she up to?

  “I told her I didn’t have access to that information. I didn’t tell her I wouldn’t give it to her if I did.” He flashed the solid sunshine smile that made Marchand as much money as their best vintage. Well, almost.

  “Thank you, RJ. You’re worth your weight in gold.”

  RJ dumped the broken glass into the trash as Bo looked out the window. The Honda was gone. Good, because family murder was frowned upon in the state of California.

  “So why the hell were you in the hospital?”

  Bo sat to give RJ a highly expurgated version of the previous night’s events, while still trying to figure out what the hell he was going to do about his family.

  An hour later he sat back in the tasting room, saying hi to some of their best customers after checking in with his vineyard supervisor and marketing person. Blanche had cut a wide swathe in only a few hours. Fortunately his staff knew him well enough that they had taken her with a half a salt shaker, but still, they hadn’t wanted to tell a member of his family she was full of shit. Why did she do it? Why the sudden power grab, and above all, why had she starting snooping into his business? Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, the world was tilting on its axis.

  Everything Blaise and Llewellyn had told him played through his mind. No evidence about Ottersen. Jeremy’s background couldn’t be verified. And— “RJ?”

  RJ polished glasses behind the tasting bar, having just served a couple sitting out on their deck admiring the view. Most guests sat outside, since Marchand had a unique site with the best overlook of the rolling hills of the wine country and the ocean far beyond.

  “Um-hm?”

  “Have you ever heard anything about a Dionysian society or a Dionysian group of some kind here in the central coast wine country?”

  The pause was brief but very pregnant. “Uh, you mean like the festival we did?”

  Bo looked up at RJ, who seemed to be carefully inspecting the nonexistent spots on the glasses. Bo nodded. “Sort of. Same name. But I heard a rumor that there’s some kind of group with similar roots in the Dionysian mysteries or some such fable somewhere around here.”

  “Where’d you hear that?”

  “Gee, I don’t exactly remember. Maybe somebody said something at the festival since it happened to be by the same name.” Bo carefully kept his voice casual and his eyes averted, because RJ seemed much too alert.

  “Um, not sure. Maybe. Like at the same time as you. Someone asked me at the festival, I think. Asked where we got the idea. I said I didn’t know.”

  Bo smiled. “Right.”

  “Where did you get the idea?” That was a question he really seemed to want answered.

  “Oddly, I think it was from Professor Lewis.”

  “Our Professor Lewis?”

  “Yes. I think he mentioned that he was studying the Dionysian mysteries, and Jeremy and I wanted a wine-related excuse for an event. The historic Dionysian festivals of Greece happened to be in March, so we chose it.”

  “Oh. So that was the only reason?” Again, the question seemed more important than it should have been.

  “Yes. As far as I know.”

  “So you’re not, like a, uh, fan of Dionysus?”

  “Fan?”

  “You know, like, a worshipper or something?”

  Bo pressed a hand against his chest and adopted his thickest Southern drawl. “Good Lord, RJ, I’m a Georgia Baptist. One word of Dionysus and my mama would die in her grave on the spot.” He laughed and RJ joined in, but his expression remained quizzical, like maybe Bo was lying and really was a follower of Dionysus. Okay, let’s add a bit more uncertainty. “Of course, I guess anyone who’s been called to start a winery since they were a child must be a secret disciple of Dionysus on some level, don’t you think?”

  RJ laughed, but the smile never touched his gorgeous eyes.

  “GIVE ME another one?”

  The bartender, Russ, stared at Jeremy through narrowed eyes. “You’ve had way more than usual.”

  “Need another one.” Jeremy pointed at the empty shot glass. “I took an Uber over.” Not a hundred percent true, but Russ was a good guy. He’d help a friend out.

  “What’s a matter, kid? You got troubles?” Russ filled the shot glass with beautiful, life-giving amber liquid.

  “Yeah. Troubles.” He grabbed the glass, sniffed it, stuck his tongue in for a moment’s evaluation of the scotch whisky, then slugged it back since it did, after all, taste like medicine. Not at all like beautiful, complex, wonderful wine. Damn. Oh God, he loved wine and he’d miss it so much. He’d miss his vines and all the fun mixing and blending to achieve complex and brilliant tastes that startled and soothed the tongue.

  And—shit, I’ll miss Bo.

  “Gonna miss Bo, Russ. He’s my good friend who tries to take care of me, even though it’s too hard to do and he shouldn’t even try, but he does anyway.”

  Funny how the big, handsome Southern gentleman had wheedled his way into Jeremy’s no-access heart. The idea of walking—no, running—away and never seeing him, never talking to him again, never sharing the joy of wine or the joy of sex…. He sighed. The joy of Bo.

  “Haven’t seen you in here for a bit, Jeremy.” Russ wiped the bar in front of him and slowly slid a cup of coffee toward Jeremy.

  “Oh, subtle. So subtle.” He snorted, but he picked up the cup and blew in it, making little waves in the dark liquid. “Yeah, I been busy.”

  “With your friend Bo?”

  “Some.” Jeremy looked up. “Oh, but not like that. He’s not gay, but he’s my friend. Not like that. Dammit.” He half giggled, half snorted.

  This place, the low-key Backstreet Bar, was the closest to a gay bar the area had, and when he’d first moved to the area, Jeremy had spent a couple of evenings a month there looking for friends with a benefit or two. Then he got a good look at Bo Marchand and changed his idea of friendship.

  “I gather from your mood today that your busyness ain’t happening anymore.”

  Jeremy let his head drop to his arms. “Right.”

  A warm body slid onto the seat next to Jeremy, causing him to raise his head and slide his arms closer to his coffee. Russ glanced at the person and said, “What’ll you have?”

  “Do you have white wine?” The voice was soft and light.

  Jeremy had to turn his head. What guy ordered white wine in the Backstreet Bar when the wine country was next door?

  The man had dark hair and, as he turned with a smile, his light green eyes made Jeremy’s heart leap. He said, “Hi. I’m Sean.”

  “Jeremy.”

  “Can I buy you a drink, Jeremy?”

  Russ slid a cloth between them. “He’s not drinking. Want more coffee, Jeremy?”

  “Hit me with a double, Sam.”

  Sean leaned in, and the breath from his pink lips touched Jeremy’s ear. “We could go somewhere else where the bartenders aren’t so high-handed.”

  Tempting. Damned tempting. “Thanks, but Russ is high-handed on my side. I better stick with caffeine.” Still, his head felt stuffed with cotton.

  Sean looked disappointed, but he smiled and sipped his wine. “So what do you do, Jeremy?”

  “Uh, I make wine.”

  He pressed a hand to his chest. “You do? Oh my, I just love wine.”

  The words leaped onto his lips. “Seriously. Then why are you drinking that crap?” He slapped a hand to his mouth as Russ gave him the evil eye from a few steps down the bar.

  Sean laughed charmingly. “Because I hate whiskey and beer and I needed an excuse to buy you a drink, so any white wine in a storm.”

  That was cute. “Okay. Forgiven.” He sipped coffee and tried not to wish it were stronger. Plus the damned stuff was going straight to his bladder. “Would you save my seat? I need the men’s room.” Behind him, the bar had filled up.

  “I’ll fi
ght off all comers.” Sean grinned, and Jeremy turned on his stool and elbowed through the throng of those trying to get Russ’s attention. A guy pushed past, and Sean’s voice rose above the din. “Sorry. This is saved.”

  Somebody said, “Aw, come on.”

  “No. I swore on my mother’s life.”

  Jeremy chuckled as he made it to the far wall and pulled open the men’s room door. A couple of guys waited, but it was otherwise an oasis of calm. He propped his butt against the wall and tried to think of something besides needing to pee while his turn came.

  The world was full of cute guys like Sean. Why have I been ignoring them in favor of a closeted mama’s boy? Man, that, the meaning of life, and the source of world peace were the questions. Still, just thinking about pushing Sean or someone like him up against the wall made Jeremy’s stomach turn, and that wasn’t just the whiskey talking. Face it, dumbass, you’ve got heart involvement going here. Something you swore you could live without. But Bo got to every one of Jeremy’s heartstrings. He loved wine. Was as passionate about it as Jeremy. Super easy on the eyes and charming as a snake in Eden, the bastard was still shy and self-effacing. And most of all, Bo cared—for people and, it seemed, for Jeremy. He couldn’t exactly say no one had ever given a shit about him in his life, but close. Jeremy’s mom had cared a lot for herself and a little for him. Enough to have left him that money he’d had to steal to finally get. And his grandfather? Yes, he cared, but somehow the love always seemed tentative. After all, he was Jeremy’s father’s father. Sayings about acorns and trees came to mind.

  “You’re up, man.”

  A guy pushed away from the urinal, weaving a little, and Jeremy finally whipped it out, his appendage a little fuller than normal just from thinking about Bo. He finished in relief, washed, and pushed back into the crowd. Stop thinking about Bo. There lies madness. He couldn’t make wise decisions while his heart yearned to stay right here where Bo was. Hell, he couldn’t make wise decisions at this moment anyway. A little more coffee and he should be ready to drive. Thank God for Russ.

  Jeremy slid back on the stool, getting the stink eye from several potential claimants.

  Sean did that hand-against-the-chest gesture again. “You have no idea what I’ve had to battle for you.”

  “In that case, I at least owe you another glass of craptastic wine.” He waved a hand at Russ. “Hey, Russ, another round. How come you don’t serve my wine here?”

  “Don’t own the place. I would if I did, believe me, buddy.” He warmed up Jeremy’s cup and poured more into Sean’s glass from a bottle of cheap commercial white.

  Jeremy tossed some bills on the table and sipped the bitter brew that would allow him to get home.

  Sean leaned in. “Shall we finish this and go to your place?”

  Whoa. Not quite the speed he’d anticipated on the come-on. “Can’t. Lots of people there.” He neglected to mention the people were the police.

  “Umm. Well, I’m a visitor, but my hotel’s not too far away.” He smiled slowly. “Or we could rent a hotel room around here.”

  Jeremy held up a hand but smiled to soften the blow. “Sorry. I’ve just got to finish sobering up, and then I need to get home.”

  “Where the people are?” Sean raised an eyebrow, and his smile lost just a touch of its warmth.

  “Yes, sadly. Those people are expecting me. But why don’t you visit my winery while you’re in town? It’s not far, I can give you some really good award-winning wine, and we can go from there.” The missing information was Jeremy wouldn’t be there.

  “Ooh, can we go now?”

  Jeremy snorted. “Uh, it’s really late, and about the people I mentioned?”

  “Oh right.” Man, this dude looked disappointed.

  “Seriously, all you have to do is sit here for three minutes after I go, and you’ll have more than your share of companionship.” Jeremy patted Sean’s slim shoulder. Hmm. Harder-bodied than he’d imagined. Probably a city guy who worked out in the gym all the time. Jeremy took another big mouthful of the now lukewarm coffee.

  Sean stuck out his lower lip. “But I want you.” Leaning closer, he whispered, “Seriously, don’t you know how drop-dead gorgeous you are? You look just like—”

  Jeremy nodded. “Yeah, yeah, Legends of the Fall and all that. I gotta go. Good to meet you.” He slid off the stool, his feet hit the floor, and his knees wobbled. Shit! The more coffee he drank, the drunker he got. He waved at Russ, checked his pocket for the phone in case he needed to call Uber after he hit the air, and took off across the room. The door looked a long way away.

  Fighting through bodies and a growing fog that just wouldn’t lift, he got to the entrance, pushed opened the door, and—

  —the stone of the floor rose up to meet him.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  THE BANGING echoed through Jeremy’s brain like someone pounded on him with a mallet. Shit. Just getting his eyes to open constituted an act of bravery.

  Wham. Wham.

  He managed to lift the heavy lids and was greeted by sunshine barely creeping into his own fucking living room.

  Wham. Wham. The front door shuddered from a fist outside.

  Flopping his feet to the ground from his couch, he pulled himself to sitting and almost puked. “Hang on. Give me a damned minute!” Ouch. Do not yell again. He pressed his hand against his temple.

  At least the banging stopped.

  Oh man, how did this happen? He was well on his way to sober when he left the bar. He swallowed and grimaced. The awful taste in his mouth spoke volumes about something a fuckload lot stronger than the coffee he’d been consuming. Rohypnol? Who? Not Russ. The guy had lots of opportunities to drug Jeremy over the last year and never had. Probably Sean. But why? And how the hell did I get home?

  Wham!

  “Okay. Coming.” He staggered to his feet, almost vomited again, but managed to lurch to the door and open it.

  O’Hara stared at him, a stormy expression on his cop’s face. “You’ve redefined the term ‘Looking like shit.’”

  “Good morning to you too.” Jeremy pressed a hand to his mouth. “I gotta barf. Come on in.” He ran to the bathroom, hearing footsteps clomping into his living room behind him. After tossing practically no food and a whole lot of sour liquid, he wiped his mouth, peed, washed up, brushed his teeth, and plodded back to the living room, where he flopped onto the couch.

  O’Hara had taken the most comfortable chair. “You must have tied one on.”

  Jeremy nodded. “Did but was drugged.”

  “What?”

  “I went to a bar I go to sometimes, drank too much but was nearly sober when this guy started talking to me. I was drinking coffee, but I went to the john. He must have slipped me Rohypnol.”

  O’Hara raised an eyebrow. “For a regular guy, you sure attract crap.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “How did you get here?”

  “That’s what’s most weird. I’ve got no idea. Is my car outside?”

  “Yes.”

  “Curiouser and curiouser. I don’t feel like I was, you know, violated.” He shivered. “I guess the guy from the bar could have checked my wallet—” He patted his hip. “—which I have, by the way.” He pulled it out and started looking through it. Nothing seemed to be missing. “So maybe this guy drugs me, figured out where I live, and somehow found my car and drove me home, dragged me in here and didn’t bother to fuck me or even rob me after slipping me a mickey, and then called a cab to take him back to the bar or to his hotel—stop me when I’ve exceeded the bounds of credulity.”

  “Yeah. Way back there.”

  Jeremy put his wallet back in his pocket. “My only other theory is the bartender—Russ saw what this guy was doing, stopped him, brought me home in my car, then called somebody to get him. He’s a good guy. But I don’t know why he wouldn’t have just dragged me to the couch in the office and let me sleep it off.”

  “I believe we’ll be asking him.
Would he have known where you live?”

  “Driver’s license, I guess.” Jeremy wiped a hand over the back of his clammy neck. “So why are you here?”

  “For permission to search your house.”

  “What? Why?”

  “It’s possible whoever attacked Bo Marchand could have come in here.”

  “Seems unlikely. Nothing’s been disturbed or left out of place.”

  “Still, we’d like to.”

  If O’Hara carried a sign saying he didn’t trust Jeremy, it couldn’t be more obvious. Wise man, our O’Hara. Jeremy’s fake credentials could stand up to pretty intense scrutiny, so few worries there. But still, cops had instincts. No point asking if O’Hara planned to get a warrant if Jeremy refused. Why give him more reasons to be suspicious? “No, I don’t mind. I just need to get cleaned up and get to work.”

  “We’ll try to stay out of your way.”

  Right. Jeremy nodded, lay back on the couch, and watched the police making their damned selves at home. Yes, he hated this. He’d spent a year being ridiculously private, and now here they were. Try to look relaxed. At least they didn’t have much to confuse them. He’d kept his life as spartan as possible.

  “Going somewhere?” O’Hara stood at the end of the hall looking into the living room holding Jeremy’s escape bag, the duffel he kept packed with essentials he’d need if he had to leave in a hurry—like now. It contained jeans, sweatshirts, sneakers, a windbreaker of special importance, and a warm jacket, but nothing incriminating. Money and fake IDs—make that faker IDs—he kept in a metal box in the woods behind his house.

  Jeremy shrugged. “I was planning a weekend in Big Sur.” He sighed loudly. “Before I lost my last contract. I just didn’t have the heart to unpack.”

  O’Hara crossed to the chair beside the couch and sat. “So this guy Ottersen on your list of people who dislike you has really done a number on your business, I understand.”

  “Who told you that?”

  O’Hara glanced at his notebook, but Jeremy held up his hand.

  “Right. Who didn’t tell you that? Yes, he’s managed to gyp me out of a lot of contracts. He seems to be able to copy my blends about five minutes after I develop them and offers them to my customers at prices that have to be losing him money.”