10 Suspect in High Heels

by Gemma Halliday

  I glanced at Chas, greeting his billionairess wife with air kisses—the scene so far removed from cost-of-living conscious farmworkers that it could have been a different planet.

  She must have read my thoughts, as Jenny immediately jumped to Chas's defense. "Oh, Chas helps out whenever he can. In fact, he even got Vivienne to get me a job at Price Digital."

  I gave her a reassuring smile. "That sounds very generous of him," I told her.

  Jenny relaxed. "Yes, well, that's Chas."

  I spied Conchita hailing me from the doorway to the kitchen.

  "It was lovely to see you again, but if you'll excuse me, duty calls." I gave Jenny a quick hug and threaded my way through the growing crowd.

  Outside, clouds of fragrant steam rose from the paelleras as they were transferred to the six tables, to rest under white cloths. The flamenco guitarist I'd hired began playing a soft, inviting song that lured more guests outside, and I trotted up and down beside the filling tables, handing out bowls of cut lemons and making sure everyone was served a generous portion of the meal.

  At the Price-Pennington table, Ava sat between Jenny and Chas, who appeared in godlike sculptural profile, closely examining my best buddy's crescent moon pendant—or perhaps the bosom beneath it. David sat on the other side of Chas, scowling their direction, though whether it was directly in relation to his stepfather or at life in general, I couldn't tell. Alison was commenting on the bottle of Petite Sirah Jean Luc had pulled from our private reserve especially for Vivienne, and Jenny was looking distinctly uncomfortable in her surroundings. I wondered at her reasons for being in attendance—if it had been Vivienne's idea or Chas's.

  I watched as Chas tossed back a glass of the Sirah like it was water, then reached for a refill. The pitcher of ice-cold sangria hadn't been touched. I made a mental note to ready another bottle from the cellar in case Chas flattened the first one before his wife could take a ladylike sip or two.

  I worked the tables as the afternoon wore on, making sure my guests were happy. I heard plenty of compliments and was pleased to see that a few of my picnic invitees had taken photos of gorgeous paellas, hopefully to share on their social media pages and tag me as the creator.

  As soon as I was sure the guests were satisfied, I snuck a glass of sangria and nibbled on a leg of chicken. The afternoon light was beginning to turn gold as the flan y fruta was served.

  That was when Bradley Wu waddled up to embrace me. His tweed jacket always has a faint fragrance of Turkish tobacco. Brad was a syndicated food columnist with a large online following. The man had incredible taste buds and a vocabulary to match. He once described the history of wine country as, What began as a low-budget black and white spaghetti western, evolved into a technicolor widescreen blockbuster with an all-star cast and several self-indulgent musical numbers…

  I could only hope he saw my current offerings as Oscar-worthy dramas and not B-movie musicals.

  "Emmy, darling!" he hailed me, throwing air kisses at both my cheeks. "I gorged on your creation, and to compensate, I shall be counting calories all next week. But not all the guests have a full appreciation of your achievement. Would you believe, just a few minutes ago, a very ignorant lady referred to your paella as 'seafood rice.' What a philistine insult to a cultural monument! This paella is the culminating triumph of the baroque imagination, as expressed in the culinary arts." He sighed.

  I couldn't help but smile. "I'm so pleased you enjoyed it," I said. "Have a sit down and a sip of my Petite Sirah—it'll tan your tongue into belt leather."

  "That, I shall look forward to with great pleasure!" He kissed my hand and went back to his table under the trees.

  I spent the rest of the afternoon mingling, chatting with guests, and making sure glasses were never empty. As the sun began to sink below the trees in a watercolor painting of pink, oranges, and delicate purples, guests started to trickle toward the driveway, making their way back to town or, in the case of those who had really enjoyed the tasting, calling cars to safely transport them home.

  I watched Vivienne and her entourage readying to leave. Vivienne swayed unsteadily on her heels, Alison supporting her with one arm. I noted that Jenny was with them now, taking over the role as designated driver and slipping into the front of the car.

  "I hope you enjoyed yourselves," I told Vivienne as I approached.

  She nodded, her cheeks slightly flushed. "Quite. The winery is lovely, Emmy," she said, sweeping her arms toward the growing vines.

  "Thank you," I told her sincerely. "I hope you keep us in mind for your next event."

  She nodded. "Oh, be sure that I will," she said as David held the passenger door open for her. "Hector tells me the Sirah is in limited supply?"

  I nodded. "Yes, but Hector's been growing more of that varietal, so we'll be making more limited batches."

  She nodded. "Good to know."

  It wasn't exactly an order, but I took it as interest.

  She got into her seat, slightly less than graciously, and I watched David get into the back seat without so much as a look my direction. If I had to guess, he'd long ago hit his limit of small talk with his mother's crowd.

  I waved goodbye to Jenny as I watched the car slide away down the avenue into the gathering dusk.

  I found Ava in the kitchen, her heels on the floor beside her as she nibbled bits of leftover flan.

  "They gone yet?" she asked.

  I nodded. "The lingerers are leaving now. I think Vivienne might have been the last holdout. But," I added hopefully, "she seemed to have enjoyed herself."

  Ava held her hand up to slap me a high five. "Nicely done!"

  "I couldn't have done it without you," I told her.

  "That's true." Ava nodded. "I'm exhausted. How do you think it went?"

  I crossed my fingers. "So far so good. I guess we'll really know when booking orders start coming in."

  "I saw Bradley scarfing paella like it was going out of style," she said, scooping a bit of caramel up with her index finger. "I hope that means he's planning a good review."

  "Ditto." I peeked into the almost empty pan and dipped a finger full of caramel myself. "How did things go at the Price-Pennington table?"

  "Now there's a stoic bunch." Ava rolled her eyes. "Lots of pleasantries and small talk. Tennis, bridge, the latest gossip from the club, repeat."

  "Any of it about the Sirah?"

  Ava nodded. "Chas certainly seemed to like it. I think he was getting a bit tipsy as he told me about his golf handicap," she added.

  "The wine wasn't the only thing he seemed to like." I shot her a grin.

  "He's a married man, Emmy."

  "Who had a healthy appreciation for your cleavage."

  "He was admiring my pendant," Ava protested.

  "Sure."

  Ava gave me a friendly punch in the shoulder. "Please. You know I'm not into the country club set. He's not my type."

  I raised an eyebrow her way. "That's not what you said when he pulled up in the sports car."

  "Okay, okay. I'll admit, he's hot."

  "Even I would admit that," I said, ignoring how long it had been since I'd been with a hot guy.

  "But he's so pretentious. Every other word was a name drop. I swear the conversation was specifically designed to make me feel intimidated by his enormous…"

  My other eyebrow rose.

  "…ego," she finished with a sweet smile.

  I laughed. "Well, as long as his wife had a good time—"

  "And books her next corporate event here," Ava cut in.

  "—and buys a few cases of Sirah, that's all that matters."

  "I'm sure she did, and I hope she will," Ava told me, licking her finger.

  I left Ava in the kitchen and made my way to the tasting bar, where I helped Jean Luc with the remains of the party. An hour later, we had the big cleanup done, and the day caterers had been paid, thanked, and tipped for their hard work. Conchita had put away the last of the heavy cast-iron pans, and Hector had d
oused the outside fires.

  I made my rounds, locking doors, turning out lights, and shutting the main buildings down for the evening. I bid Jean Luc good night and closed the tasting room, then made my way to the cave to secure the cellar.

  I was just about to throw the big toggle switch that controlled all the lights, when something caught my eye. A broken wineglass sat on the red clay tiles across the room, where rows of oak barrels stood under sandstone arches. I frowned. No one was supposed to be drinking down here. I crossed the room, my heels clacking on the floor as I passed the foot of an old vertical hundred-gallon barrel once used for aging Zinfandel.

  Just on the other side, I spied the guilty party. Slumped on the floor sat the drunken blond godling, Chas Pennington. I swallowed down annoyance at the idea Chas thought he could help himself to our private reserves. Especially after guzzling the Petite Sirah as he had.

  "Mr. Pennington?" I called. "We need to get you up now."

  No response.

  "Mr. Pennington?" I said louder. I leaned forward and jostled his shoulder, causing his head to loll backward.

  I stifled a gasp as his face turned toward mine. His eyes were wide open, staring at the ceiling in an unseeing gaze, his lips blue, his skin ice cold.

  Chas Pennington wasn't dead drunk…he was just dead.

  A SIP BEFORE DYING

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