Decanting a Murder

by Nadine Nettmann

  Jeff looked surprised. “Really? You’d want to do that?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s hard work.”

  I shrugged. “So is everything in life.”

  Jeff studied me for a second. “If you want to, you should come help us here. You can do one day, or even a few days if you want.”

  “Seriously? I’d love to help.” I waved my hand in the air toward the entire property. “The morning fog, the grapes waiting patiently on the vine until I pick them and place them in the basket, on their way to become wine. There’s a whole romantic side to it, you know?”

  “I love the way you talk about wine. Most of the people here treat it as a job. You’re unique. Then again, maybe you’d feel the same way after doing it for a little while. Once it becomes routine, it loses its magic.”

  “No, I don’t think so.” I looked at a large cluster of grapes in front of me, the sunlight bouncing off their skins. “I don’t think I would ever get tired of anything that involves wine. I love the whole process.”

  Jeff leaned on the pole holding up the wires for the vines and stared at me. “You’re really something. It’s refreshing to meet someone who is so into wine.”

  Heat rushed to my cheeks. “Thanks. And you? Is this a job for you, or is it more?”

  He winked. “It’s always something more.” He bent down and picked up a fallen grape. He held it between his pointer and thumb. “Alone, this is a grape. No different from any other grape.” He pointed to a bunch hanging from the vine. “But together, they create wine. Wine that will be enjoyed by people, families, friends. Wine that will create memories, you know?”

  “I do.”

  Jeff dropped the grape out of his hand and it rolled in the dirt. “One day I’m going to have my own winery. It’s going to be really something, you’ll see.” He smiled. “So tell me, Katie, what was the bottle that did it? What was the bottle that got you into wine?”

  I smiled. “How do you know it was a certain bottle? How do you know it wasn’t simply a fascination with wine?”

  “It’s always a bottle. Some special bottle that opened your eyes to the wine world and how unique a glass of fermented grape juice could be. You ask anyone who works with wine and they’ll tell you the bottle that did it. Even if you already had a fascination with wine.” He winked. “So what was the bottle?”

  I hesitated. “I don’t think it was a bottle.”

  “No? Okay then, what bottle do you think of fondly? What bottle brings back a rush of memories? Humor me and share.”

  I laughed and glanced down at my feet, kicking a small clump of dirt with my shoe. “Okay,” I looked back up at Jeff. “My uncle came to visit us when I was fourteen, and he opened a bottle of 1969 Chateau Margaux. As he poured it, he talked about the vineyards in Bordeaux and the history of the area. The consistency of the soil near the banks of the river, the way the morning sun touched the vines. The glass of wine came alive in my hand and I’ve never looked back.”

  Jeff nodded slowly, his eyes fixated on me. “I love that. That’s … perfect.” He moved a step closer to me. “I actually have a bottle of 1969 Chateau Margaux.”

  My mouth dropped open. “You don’t!”

  “I do. I have a large collection from over the years and a few bottles from Chateau Margaux, including a ’69.”

  The memories of that first bottle flooded into my mind and I could remember every moment, every taste, every aspect. I was back at the kitchen table with my uncle and mom, carefully holding my glass the same way my uncle held his. I swirled when he did and sipped when he did. My mom had been too sick to drink the wine, but she asked me to describe everything I could taste. I talked about the wine for as long as I could, the smile on my mom’s face the brightest I had seen in years. It was one of my last memories of her.

  “Hey, you okay?”

  “Sorry.” I shook my head and looked at Jeff. “Just remembering.”

  “Listen,” Jeff said, “do you want to come over tonight and share the bottle with me? I’d love to open it with someone who would appreciate it.”

  “I have work tonight.”

  “After work then?” The breeze shifted direction, sending scents of the neighboring vineyard toward me.

  “Um, I can’t.”

  “You have a boyfriend?”

  “Ah, no. It’s that I need…” I paused, uncertain of how to answer. “I need to take care of Tessa.”

  Jeff’s attention focused behind me. I turned around. Dean was on his cell phone in the distance, pacing back and forth by the car.

  “Detective Dean is back,” said Jeff in a slow voice.

  “Yeah, we came together.”

  Jeff paused as he studied me. “Why?”

  “To investigate the murder.”

  Jeff looked surprised. “You’re helping him with this? I thought you were a sommelier. Does it also stand for detective?”

  “Aren’t they one and the same?” I let a small laugh escape from my lips, but Jeff didn’t react. “No, it’s that I need to.” I waited. “For Tessa.”

  “Is she okay?”

  “Why wouldn’t she be?”

  Jeff shrugged. “You were worried last night. I wanted to make sure.”

  “She’ll be fine, I think. Once I get everything sorted out.” I took a deep breath. “Once I make sure that they no longer think she was involved.”

  “Well, if you’re as passionate about that as you are about wine, you’ll have no problem.”

  I studied Jeff’s face. His attention was solely on me and not on the work he was supposed to be doing. “Thank you.”

  “For what?”

  “For not assuming she’s guilty. I wish I could say the same for everyone else.”

  “People like to get the quick fix,” said Jeff. “If there’s someone they can blame, they will, so they can get on with their lives.” He looked intently at me. “If you want to prove Tessa is innocent, I’m sure that you’ll do it.”

  “Thanks.”

  Jeff glanced over my shoulder again and then at the vines in front of him. “I think your friend is ready for you, and I should probably get back to work.”

  I looked back at Dean, who stood at the squad car, driver’s door open. “Yeah, that’s my ride. Did you need to talk with him about anything before he leaves?”

  “Nope. We talked enough last night. Gave me a lot of flack for walking over the crime scene when I tried to get Mark out of the tank. So much for trying to save a life.”

  “Sorry about that.”

  “It’s fine.” Jeff looked at the leaves on the vine closest to him and tapped one with his hand. “Everyone has a job to do.” He reached into his back pocket and took out his cell phone. “Wait, let me get your number. I’ll call you when we’re starting the harvest. Probably in the next two weeks.”

  “I”—I paused—“don’t usually give out my phone number.”

  “Oh.” His eyes met mine and he slowly put his phone back in his pocket. “Okay.”

  “But wait, I do want to help with the harvest.”

  “Okay, so what do you want me to do? Should I send you a telegram?” A small smile grew on Jeff’s face.

  I gave him my cell number.

  “Great,” said Jeff as he took his phone back out and entered the digits. “I’ll call you in a day or so and let you know the exact date. It’ll be fun. Then we can run together afterward and maybe drink some good wine.” He put his phone back in his pocket. “And let me know if you change your mind about that ’69 Chateau Margaux.”

  A wave of uncertainty flooded through me. “Sounds good. Talk soon.” I stepped backward.

  “Good luck with the case.”

  “Thanks. I’ll need it.”

  “Nah. You have a good head on your shoulders. I’m sure you’ll do fine.”


  “I hope so,” I replied as I headed to Dean’s car. “If I can figure out what I’m missing.”

  fourteen

  pairing suggestion: zinfandel—paso robles, ca

  A rich and jammy wine filled with promise and intrigue.

  -

  Dean was still focused on Jeff when I reached his squad car.

  “Ready?” I said as I smiled at him.

  He looked at me, his return smile void of emotion. “Ready.”

  There was an uncomfortable level of silence as we headed down the gravel driveway.

  “Well,” I said, “that was productive.”

  Dean glanced over at me. “How so? Seb didn’t see Tessa.”

  “Yeah, that part wasn’t good.” I took a deep breath. “But I think Alan gave us an Easter egg there with the financial status of the winery.”

  “I’ll look into the money more,” said Dean. “A winery on the verge of bankruptcy could give a lot of people a motive.”

  “And Vanessa said the vultures are already moving in.”

  “When did she say that?”

  “Oh, sorry. When I saw her late last night.”

  Dean stopped the car in the middle of the driveway and looked at me. “When last night?”

  “After you took Tessa to the station, I went back to the winery.”

  “You didn’t tell me this.”

  “Sorry, I forgot. Although I kind of did at the coffee shop, because I said I went to find Seb to see if he had seen Tessa leave, but he hadn’t.”

  Dean leaned on the steering wheel. “Wait, why did you want to find Seb last night?”

  “As you took Tessa away, she yelled through the window to ask Seb.”

  “Yes, I remember that.”

  “So I went to ask Seb, but when I found him, he had no idea what she meant. Same as today. Didn’t give any additional information. When I was leaving, that’s when I saw Vanessa.”

  “Tell me more about that.” He put the car in park and stared at me.

  “She was crying—understandable given the situation.”

  “Where was she crying?”

  I motioned toward the lawn. “Over there. I saw her and I offered my condolences. That’s when she said the vultures were already moving in.”

  “Interesting.” Dean returned his focus straight ahead and started driving. “Alan said there were offers. Maybe people made offers last night, once they found out Mark was dead.”

  I sat up. “The fight. That had to have been what the fight was about last night with Vanessa and Garrett. Because she said something about not understanding the need for urgency and he said that he would be asking even if Mark wasn’t dead, or something like that. I bet he was trying to get her to sell the winery to him.”

  Dean nodded. “That could be more of a motive for Garrett. It’s easier to cheat a widow than a solid couple.”

  “This is good. Other possibilities are coming to light. I mean, possibilities other than Tessa.”

  “There’s still a lot more to figure out, Katie.”

  I shrugged. “Yes, but it will happen. I know it.” I stared at the passing vineyards until Dean eventually pulled into the station and parked the car. “Thanks for letting me come with you.”

  “You’re welcome. You sticking around?”

  “No, I’ve got to get back to the city for work.”

  “Wait,” said Dean as I reached for the door handle.

  I stopped. “What?”

  He shifted in his seat before meeting my eyes. “I don’t know how to say this so I’m just going to say it. I didn’t get a good feeling when you were talking to Jeff.”

  “What do you mean? We talked about grapes and wine. You were on your phone.”

  “I know, I know,” said Dean. “But I get a weird vibe from him. I think he’s up to no good.”

  “Jeff ? He’s nice.” I shook my head. “Is this a weird guy thing? Did you see him taking my number? It was about helping with the harvest, which would be good for my career. You know, getting to know more about the grape-growing process, getting hands-on experience with a harvest.”

  Dean’s face grew softer as he looked at me. “I’m saying I want you to be careful.”

  “Okay. I’ll be careful.” I paused for a moment. “But keep in mind that I was talking to Jeff at the party when the murder happened. He’s not part of this.”

  “Okay, but I’ve been on the force for eleven years and sometimes you get a gut feeling that you have to trust.”

  “I’m a cop’s daughter. I get gut feelings, too.” I kept back the fact that my gut had been giving me a bad sign since the moment I first arrived at Frontier.

  My journey back to San Francisco began the same as my other drives, but as I continued on Highway 29, I noticed a black truck rapidly approaching from behind. I waited for it to pass me, but it stayed a moderate length in the distance. I watched it for a few more seconds and then turned up the music, a deep sense of melancholy overcoming me as vineyards no longer graced my view.

  When I turned onto I-80, the truck trailed behind me in the same lane. A wave of unease began in my stomach. I changed lanes and the truck did as well. What was going on?

  I transitioned back to the slow lane and the truck didn’t follow. I started to relax.

  The truck pulled up beside me and I glanced at the driver, but the dark-tinted windows hid its occupant.

  I increased my speed, but the truck kept its pace with me. That’s when I felt the impact.

  My Jeep swerved to the right as the noise of metal against metal permeated my car, followed by the high-pitched squeal of tires and other vehicles honking. I yanked the wheel to the left to avoid going off the highway as the truck moved away. My heart raced and I shuddered as my ears replayed the intense crushing sound so loudly, I wasn’t sure if it was still going on.

  I took my foot off the gas to prepare to pull to the side, but the truck slammed into me again. The force jolted my hands and the car shook as the Jeep’s passenger side tires edged onto the dirt shoulder. My breath caught in my throat and I pulled the wheel to get back on the pavement. Still the truck pushed, my hands vibrating with every bump.

  Dirt flew in the air as all four tires were shoved off the road. I tried to brake, but that only allowed the truck to maneuver my car closer to the embankment.

  Adrenaline riveted through me and I jammed my foot on the gas pedal, trying to get ahead of the truck. The truck matched my speed.

  I had one last chance.

  I slammed on the brakes as hard as I could.

  The force of the sudden stop threw me forward, my face lunging toward the steering wheel. The seatbelt yanked me back, my head banging back against the seat as the truck broke free, its black body careening into the distance.

  Although my head was spinning, I looked for the license plate as the truck sped away. There was a blank space where the white square should have been.

  Cars flew past but no one stopped to check on the damaged Jeep on the side of the road. My hand shook as I turned off the Jeep’s engine, the eerie silence broken only by my pounding heartbeat.

  When I felt I could stand without collapsing, I forced my door open and inspected the damage. The entire left side of my vehicle was crunched, and the dark green paint was down to the metal in several sections. Perfectly drivable, but cosmetically pathetic.

  My first hit and run. Lovely.

  I returned to the driver’s seat and closed the door, grateful that it still worked. My breathing was rapid and I tried to take bigger breaths, each one deeper and calmer, until both my air intake and my pulse were at acceptable levels. When I was calm enough to safely drive, I restarted the car.

  My hands were still trembling when I reached my two-story apartment building in the Inner Sunset area, only a few blocks away from Golden Gate Park.
>
  As usual, every parking space in the area was already taken and although there was a garage on the right-hand side of the building reserved for the one tenant who paid more, I was not that tenant. I circled the block twice, but the only curb missing a car was the section in front of the stairs and it was painted red.

  I stared up at the building as I debated what to do. The two-story art deco building hadn’t been touched since the 1940s except for a lick of cream paint about fifteen years ago, which was now starting to peel.

  My eyes drifted back to the empty curb. I knew that if I left my car there for even a few minutes, parking enforcement would be ready with a ticket. Whenever I parked at an expired meter or double parked on my block, the enforcement arrived minutes later even if I hadn’t seen them for days. It was as if they sensed me thinking about it. We had played this game repeatedly over the last four years but I was currently winning—although there had been numerous close calls where I managed to get into my car and drive away before the officer was able to start the citation process, I had only been ticketed twice.

  I drove around the block once more, but it was clear that the curb was my only option. I needed to shower and change before I headed to work and I was running out of time.

  I parked at the red curb with my emergency flashers on and ran up the stairs. Within fifteen minutes, I had showered and pulled my wet hair back into a bun for work. I ran back out to the curb, a small piece of paper flapping in the wind on the car. Great, a ticket. The parking enforcement had won after all.

  I removed it from the window and got into my car, unfolding the paper before I started the engine. My heart started to pound.

  Stop looking into Frontier, or next time you drive the road to Napa, it won’t be a warning.

  fifteen

  pairing suggestion: beaujolais—morgon, france

  A light red wine that is best when chilled.

  -

  I arrived at the parking lot of Trentino Restaurant with a few minutes to spare before my 3:00 p.m. clock-in time. I smoothed my white blouse and buttoned the coat of my fitted black suit, then adjusted my bun to make sure my hair was in place before I opened the door and walked through the restaurant.