I shook my head, loath to admit how well it had worked.
"You know," Dana said, running her fingers around the rim of her mimosa glass. "If what The Informer printed about Frost is really true, that means he can't be Alia's father after all."
I blinked at her. "That's right!" I paused, letting that info sink in. "If his accident was during the first Fast and Dangerous movie, he couldn't very well have seduced Vida Altor during the second one, could he?"
Dana shook her head. "Which means when Alia tried to coerce him into the part of the Dragon Queen, he knew full well she wasn't his daughter."
"So why did he agree?" I wondered.
"Appearances, dahling," Marco said, licking orange juice off his index finger. "If he'd told her the truth, his secret would have been out. I mean, would you trust Alia with your darkest secret?"
I thought about all the half truths, full lies, and outright blackmail she'd engaged in. "No," I decided. "I definitely would not."
"I guess he felt giving her the part was the lesser of two evils." Dana shrugged.
"Poor girl," Mom said, shaking her head. "Having to find out something like that from the Informer."
"Well, it wasn't like Frost was up for father of the year," Marco pointed out. "If her dad is still out there, maybe he's someone she might actually want to connect with someday."
"That's looking on the bright side," Ricky said, toasting him with his mimosa.
"Thank you." Marco toasted back. "I'm all about bright sides, honey."
"What I want to know is what's happening with the Lord of the Throne movie now?" Mrs. Rosenblatt asked. "I was talking with some Bobbits at the bar last night, and they said production was shut down again."
Dana nodded. "It is. Elora sent us all home."
"What a shame." Mom put her hand on Dana's arm. "I know this was a big role for you."
"Well, it still could be," Dana told her. "Elora said they're going to try to find a way to use the footage we've already shot." She grinned. "The memo she sent out to the cast said, and I quote, 'I've paid for a movie and I'm getting one.'"
"But how?" I asked, thinking of the books I'd read. "I mean, you've only shot half the script."
"True, but Elora said she was bringing on an expert consultant about the Lord worlds to rewrite the script in way that makes sense with the scenes we already have in the can."
"Oh, Ravensberg is going to love that," I mumbled, heavy on the sarcasm.
"Actually," Dana said, grinning, "he really is. Because he's the expert paid consultant."
"No!" I clunked my glass down on the table.
"Yes!"' she countered. "I mean, it may end up being less Lord of the Throne and more Real Housewives of Medieval Beach considering what he has to work with, but Elora's determined to get it in the theater by this summer."
"I guess he's getting what he wanted all along—creative control and cash." Considering the man had saved my life, I thought he deserved both.
"Well, as fun as this has been—thank you, Ricky," Marco said, nodding toward the actor. "We have a plane to LA to catch." He stood and pointed at Mrs. Rosenblatt. "And I know you still haven't finished packing, my dear."
"And how would you know that?" she demanded.
"It's simple," he told her. "You brought as much luggage as Rose took on the Titanic. Unless you're leaving half of it here, you haven't had time to finish packing."
"Don't judge me," Mrs. Rosenblatt said. "I'm not a bare essentials kind of woman."
"Come on." Marco extended his hand. "I'll help you. You'll need someone to sit on the suitcase so it will close."
"Everyone's a comedian," Mrs. Rosenblatt grumbled.
My mother kissed me on the cheek, and they pushed each other out onto the pathway that led to the office and down the road to the Big Moose.
"We should be heading out, too," Ramirez said, pulling me to my feet. "I know someone else who needs to finish packing."
"Hey, I packed light!" Ish.
"Not a problem," Ricky said. "We've got to go pick up the key at the real estate agent's office anyway."
Dana pulled me into a hug. "Thanks, Mads."
"For what? I didn't do much," I said.
"Don't say that. You were here for me. That's everything. And because of me, you almost…"
"Don't." I shook my head. "Don't say that. We can talk about it when you get back home. Or never."
"I vote for never." She wiped away a tear and squeezed my hand. "Thank you."
We said our good-byes and see-you-in-LAs, and Ramirez and I made our way back to the next bungalow over. As we climbed up the porch steps, he reached for my hand. "Ready to go home, babe?"
I smiled up at him. "I've never been so ready for anything in my life."
He settled his dark eyes on me. "You've been hard to get alone lately."
I shrugged. "Back attcha."
"Huh." His gaze swept over my body, making me tingle in interesting places. "When does that flight leave again?"
The image of Ramirez in a Speedo on a tropical beach sprang to mind again, warming me from head to toe. Only, we were a long way from a tropical beach, and I doubt he'd packed a Speedo. But a California king bed and a whole lot of nothing would be an acceptable substitute…
I slid my arms around his waist and smiled up at him. "We have exactly one hour."
"Hmmm," he said in mock thought. "How to spend an hour in Moose Haven?"
"I've got an idea," I offered coyly.
"Please tell me it doesn't involve souvenir shops," he said.
I stood on my tiptoes and whispered in his ear. "It involves intense cardio followed by a steamy shower. Not necessarily in that order."
His slow smile practically melted my clothes off right there. "Maybe we can catch a later flight."
* * * * *
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* * * * *
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Gemma Halliday is the #1 Amazon, New York Times & USA Today bestselling author of several mystery series, suspense novels, and young adult books. Gemma's books have received numerous awards, including a Golden Heart, two National Reader's Choice awards, three RITA nominations, and a RONE award for best mystery. She currently lives in the San Francisco Bay Area with her large, loud, and loving family.
To learn more about Gemma, visit her online at http://www.gemmahalliday.com
Connect with Gemma on Facebook at:
http://www.facebook.com/gemmahallidayauthor
From her first discovery of Nancy Drew, USA Today bestselling author Kelly Rey has had a lifelong love for mystery and tales of things that go bump in the night, especially those with a twist of humor. Through many years of working in the court reporting and closed captioning fields, writing has remained a constant. If she's not in front of a keyboard, she can be found reading, working out or avoiding housework. She's a member of Sisters in Crime and lives in the Northeast with her husband and a menagerie of very spoiled pets.
Kelly Rey is the author of the Jamie Winters Mysteries, as well as the co-author of the Sherlock Holmes/Marty Hudson Mysteries.
To learn more about Kelly Rey, visit her online at: http://www.kellyreyauthor.com
* * * * *
BOOKS BY GEMMA HALLIDAY
High Heels Mysteries:
Spying in High Heels
Killer in High Heels
Undercover in High Heels
Christmas in High Heels (short story)
Alibi in High Heels
Mayhem in High Heels
Honeymoon in High Heels (novella)
Sweetheart in High Heels (short story)
Fearless in High Heels
Danger in High Heels
Homicide in High Heels
Deadly in High Heels
Suspect in High Heels
Peril in High
Heels
Jeopardy in High Heels – coming soon!
Wine & Dine Mysteries:
A Sip Before Dying
Chocolate Covered Death
Victim in the Vineyard
Marriage, Merlot & Murder
Death in Wine Country
Fashion, Rosé & Foul Play
Hollywood Headlines Mysteries:
Hollywood Scandals
Hollywood Secrets
Hollywood Confessions
Hollywood Holiday (short story)
Hollywood Deception
Hollywood Homicide
Hollywood Revenge
Jamie Bond Mysteries:
Unbreakable Bond
Secret Bond
Bond Bombshell (short story)
Lethal Bond
Dangerous Bond
Bond Ambition (short story)
Fatal Bond
Deadly Bond
Marty Hudson Mysteries:
Sherlock Holmes and the Case of the Brash Blonde
Sherlock Holmes and the Case of the Disappearing Diva
Tahoe Tessie Mysteries:
Luck Be A Lady
Hey Big Spender
Baby It's Cold Outside (short story)
Anna Smith & Nick Dade Thrillers:
Play Dead
Young Adult Books:
Deadly Cool
Social Suicide
Wicked Games – coming soon!
Other Works:
Viva Las Vegas
A High Heels Haunting (novella)
Watching You (short story)
Confessions of a Bombshell Bandit (short story)
The Missing Laughing Leprechaun (short story in the Pushing Up Daisies collection)
* * * * *
SNEAK PEEK
of the first
Wine & Dine Mystery
A SIP BEFORE DYING
by
GEMMA HALLIDAY
CHAPTER ONE
My best friend was waiting for me outside Silver Girl, her jewelry boutique in downtown Sonoma, when I pulled up in my Jeep. Ava Barnett: blonde, bubbly, and as perpetually optimistic as a woman who worked the tourist trade could be. She was dressed today in a flowy floral dress that just skirted her perfectly tanned ankles above boho-style sandals and pink painted toenails. We were both about a size eight, though Ava was on the lithe, athletic side of eight, and I was on the generous, enjoys-her-chocolate side of eight. She floated into my passenger seat on a cloud of peachy lotion and patchouli incense, and I instantly felt my spirits lift as I tried to downplay how rotten that Friday had turned out for me.
"How's things?" she asked, chucking her overnight bag into the back seat of the Wrangler.
I shrugged, tucking some of my flyaways back into my ponytail. While Ava's hair shone, humidity or cloudless sky, my own blonde locks were a fickle bunch. I had my good days, but depending on the weather, they could kink up like Shirley Temple or frizz like Bozo the Clown. Today they were somewhere at a half-Bozo, hence the ponytail to rein them in. "Things are fine," I answered, determined to put on a happy face.
She grinned at me, showing off a row of white teeth with an endearingly chic gap between the front two. "Liar."
I couldn't help the corners of my mouth turning up as well. Joined at the hip since high school, we were more like sisters than best friends. Ava knew me well enough to see through any attempt at downplay.
"Okay, honestly? Things kinda sucked today," I told her.
"Really?" Her big brown eyes turned sympathetic.
I nodded. "Like a Hoover."
"Is it your mom?" she asked.
I bit my lip, feeling a whole new wave of suckatude wash over me at the mention of my mother. But I shut off that emotional faucet before it could completely ruin our planned girls' night. I shook my head. "No, today it was Gene. He was pulling his seesaw act again."
Ava had already heard on multiple occasions how Gene Schulz, my financial consultant, played seesaw with his left and right hands, swinging them up and down alternately as he pictured my winery's financial health. The left hand represented debt, and it always ended up at the highest point when the seesaw gesture stopped. Today's game had ended with the right hand falling even lower than in the past. That was the hand that represented assets—in other words, Oak Valley Vineyard and everything I held dear in this world. All I had inherited after my father passed and Mom's beautiful personality had begun to disintegrate.
The assets in question amounted to just over ten acres of vines and a majestic oak-lined driveway that led to a cluster of low Spanish-style buildings that comprised our winery, my own small cottage, and "the cave," as my namesake, Grandma Emmeline, used to call the wine cellar. Down there in the cool dark was my barreled and bottled stock in trade: Pinot Noir, Chardonnay, Pinot Blanc, Zinfandel, and a few cases of a small run Petite Sirah.
According to Gene, the whole shebang was worth about half a million dollars less than the outstanding debt. We were hanging on by a fraying thread, and I knew only too well that a couple of sexy big commercial wineries were hovering like vultures, waiting to get Oak Valley Vineyard for a song when it went belly-up. Which they fully expected it to do.
Truth be told, sometimes I thought Gene did too.
In my darkest moments after my mom's diagnosis, I'll admit, I had half expected that as well. While I'd excelled at culinary school and spent several years as a personal chef in Los Angeles, the knowledge I had about running a winery could fit in a fortune cookie. Like generations before me, I'd grown up on the land and had a fair understanding of the crops. But I'd been a teenager when I'd left to strike out my own path. Little did I know that at age twenty-nine, that path would end up leading me right back to Sonoma—only now it was up to me to preserve what my family had worked so hard for.
And as long as I was at the helm, belly-up was not an option.
"So what did Seesaw Gene have to say?" Ava asked.
"He said we'll be lucky to break even this year." I tried to keep my eyes on the road as I pulled out. "We're servicing the debt, and we've never defaulted, knock on wood"—I rapped my knuckles on the faux wood center console—"but we're just scraping by."
"Hey, you're getting by! That's not a bad thing."
I shot her a grin. What did I tell you—Miss Optimism, right?
"Unfortunately, getting by will only last so long." I paused, digging deep for a little enthusiasm. "So, we need to kick it up a notch."
Ava arched one delicate blonde eyebrow at me. "Which is where I come in?"
I nodded. "This weekend, you are my social wheel greaser, mood lifter, and all around hostess with the mostest." I sent her a sympathetic glance. "Sorry, you'll be run ragged, girl."
If she dreaded it, she didn't show it, just giving me another breezy smile. "What are friends for?"
"Have I mentioned lately how much I love you?"
Ave laughed. "Say it with a bottle of your 2012 Blanc, and I'm yours."
"Done," I promised.
The following day was the first event in my grand plan to revive Oak Valley Vineyard, our unofficial re-launch. My aim was to show the local enthusiasts that, while we put out wine to rival any of the big boys in town, we were also a charming venue for parties, weddings, and retreats. And the food wasn't half bad either.
"So, what's on the agenda tonight?" Ava asked.
"Well, I think we should start with that 2012 bottle."
"I concur!"
"And then I'm thinking it's a Thelma & Louise night."
"Wow, we're at T&L level?" Ava patted my shoulder. "Must have been a really bad meeting with Gene."
I nodded. "We're gonna need comfort food too." Friday night was no time to count calories.
Ava raised her eyebrow my way again. "Pizza?"
I laughed. "I was thinking more like bacon wrapped scallops. With bacon Brussels. And chocolate dipped bacon." I did mention I was on the generous side of a size 8.
Ava shrugged. "Okay, you're the boss."
"Tomorrow I'm the boss," I corrected her. "Tonight all I want is some Geena Davis and a girl's night."
"That," Ava said, "I can do."
CHAPTER TWO
The following morning I was up before dawn, walking Conchita, my house manager, and the three local day servers I'd hired for the event through the finer points of my Spanish Style Paella recipe at an improvised fireplace of loose bricks at the edge of the vineyard.
We had a private tasting slated for that afternoon, after which I'd be serving a Spanish meal, all cooked outdoors on wood fires, like the Valencians of the Orange Blossom Coast did at seaside picnics—or at least that was what I would be telling my guests in order to add a European flair to the evening. I planned to serve the meal family-style, outdoors on rustic-chic wooden tables under the trees, and paired with an ice-cold pitcher of sangria at each table made of our Zinfandel, club soda, a splash of brandy, and a pinch of sugar.
"I think we should prepare all the components of the paella in advance, before final assembly," I mused out loud to Conchita. "Brown the meats and have the sofrito bubbling away."
Conchita nodded, her salt-and-pepper hair bobbing up and down in the loose bun at the back of her plump neck. She'd been at the winery as long as I could remember, and I almost thought of her as a second mother. Though, with her envious dark tan and Hispanic heritage, she looked the polar opposite of my blue-eyed, bought-sunscreen-in-bulk self. Conchita was married to Hector Villarreal, our vineyard manager, who'd been a fixture at Oak Valley Vineyard since boyhood. I'd learned a lot about the vines from him growing up, and I'd even been the flower girl when he married Conchita. While some might refer to the couple as staff, to me they were family. Some days they almost felt like all the family I had left.
I ignored that downer, though, as Conchita and I worked side by side, adding a splash of oil to a hot pan, along with a finely chopped mixture of onion and seeded tomato, some sweet peppers, and a hint of crushed garlic and parsley. I seasoned it with salt and pepper and a few threads of fragrant saffron then fried it until the sofrito—or fry-up—began to form a paste.
Peril in High Heels (High Heels Mysteries Book 11) Page 25