A Perfectly Purloined Pinot (Nikki Sands' Mysteries)

by Michele Scott

  The potbellied, kind of greasy-haired guy turned to the pool, mouth open. “Oh dude, I am so sorry man. I didn’t see you. I am really sorry. Hey man, you know what, I got one of the villas here. You need to come down to the villa and have drinks with us tonight. I’ll make it up to you, dude.”

  Nikki wasn’t sure how Simon was going to react. He could go all drama king and start yelling at the Villa Man, or he might actually take him up on the offer. She was crossing her fingers for drama king.

  “It’s okay,” the drenched Simon replied. “I needed to cool off anyway.”

  Damn. Nikki took another sip on the margarita and then grabbed a handful of chips. So much for the entertainment factor. Simon climbed out and shook Villa Man’s hand. She couldn’t hear the introductions, but it appeared as if Simon was making a new friend. She did catch the end of the conversation because Villa Man wanted to be sure that everyone knew about his villa. “I’m serious, dude, bring the family down. I’m having lobster brought down to the villa and my friend Timmy over there . . .” he pointed to the tattoo guy, “he and his woman will be there, and my woman will be there. It’s gonna be a blast. You seriously need to come and check out the villa.”

  Nikki rolled her eyes. What a blowhard.

  Simon nodded his head and then walked back over and slunk back down on the chaise. She giggled. Oh boy those margaritas were a tad strong. “So hey, dude, why don’t you come on down to the villa and hang out with me, Villa Man, and we’ll like get super wasted and you can grab my hot chick’s ass and we’ll have lobster in the villa.” She tried stifling her laughter.

  Simon turned to her and first he just stared for a few seconds. She could feel it even though he had his designer shades on, and then he burst out laughing. “Oh my God, I know, and you can do shooters with my buddy Tattoo Timmy who looks like Eminem in the villa. Ooh and we might all get in the private infinity pool in the villa, because he told me that the villa had its own private infinity pool.”

  “Oooh, Villa Man is so special.”

  That was enough to send them into a fit of laughter.

  “We are really bad, you know,” Nikki said.

  “So bad that we’re good,” Simon replied. “Oh lookie now, I think this has to be Villa Man’s GF.”

  “Wow.” Nikki felt naked for her. The petite, bodacious, platinum haired blonde slunk up next to Villa Man, who was probably old enough to be her father, and stood on her tiptoes to give him a kiss on the cheek. Villa Man smacked her bare ass, which simply had a g-string in between her cheeks. Nikki shivered. “Oooh.”

  “Right? Like really ooh, gross, so not right, um, wow, wow, wow. I need a shot.”

  “No you don’t. You’ll be hung over by the time we go to dinner tonight.”

  “I will not. I’m Irish.”

  “Irish. Smirish. Whatever. I’m cutting you off. Besides, this show is way too good. We don’t need alcohol.”

  “True.” He patted her hand. “So what do you think Derek is getting you for Christmas?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t think he should get me anything. This vacation is more than enough.”

  “Aren’t you so sweet and full of shit? We both know that you want something more.”

  “I don’t. Oh, except maybe a villa.”

  They both started laughing again. “I love you, Snow White.”

  “I love you, too, Si.”

  “I just know this is going to be the best Christmas yet,” Simon said.

  “I think so too. I mean look at us. We’re in paradise with the people we love. I mean, what could go wrong? Everything is perfect.”

  Gourmet Guacamole and the Perfect Margarita:

  A little sun, an icy cold margarita, some fresh homemade guacamole, and a best friend by the pool. What more could a girl want? Besides a hot guy to wait on her. Well, Nikki does have that too. It would appear that everything is as perfect as our Girl Friday would think. However, if you’re a Nikki Sands fan then you know danger is lurking around the corner, and it may turn out she’s going to need more than a Perfect Margarita to get through the holidays. Might as well take a cue from our amateur sleuth and get out the tequila and avocados! Delicious guacamole and chips, and pair that with the perfect margarita! Now, find yourself a little Spanish guitar music, download onto the iPod, and get your fiesta on.

  Guacamole

  6 garlic cloves

  6 medium-large (2 1/2 pounds) ripe avocados

  4 medium ripe tomatoes

  1/2 cup (loosely packed) coarsely chopped fresh cilantro (thick bottom stems cut off)

  2 tablespoons fresh lime juice, plus a little more if necessary

  Salt and pepper

  Garnishes, Chips and Bread

  3/4 cup (about 3 ounces) Mexican queso fresco or queso añejo or other garnishing cheese like salted pressed farmer’s cheese, firm goat cheese, mild feta or romano, finely crumbled or grated

  3/4 cup (about 3 ounces) toasted pumpkin seeds

  3/4 cup sliced “nacho ring” pickled jalapeños (half of an 11-ounce can)

  3/4 cup (about 2 ounces) coarsely crumbled chicharrón (Mexican crisp-fried pork rind)

  OR 1/2 cup crumbled, crisp-fried bacon (you’ll need to start with 2 to 3 medium-thick bacon slices)

  1 1/2 to 2 pounds large, sturdy chips (preferably homemade or from a local tortilla factory) or small (2- to 3-inch) tostadas.

  OR 2 baguettes (about 1 pound each), diagonally sliced 1/2-inch thick, brushed with olive oil and toasted on a grill or under a broiler

  DIRECTIONS

  In a small dry skillet over medium heat, roast the unpeeled garlic until it is soft and blackened in spots, 10 to 15 minutes. Cool, then slip off the papery skins and finely chop. Cut around each avocado from stem to blossom end and back up again, then twist the halves apart. Dislodge the pit and scoop the avocado flesh into a large bowl. Chop tomatoes. Add the garlic, cilantro, tomatoes, and lime. Coarsely mash everything together. Taste and season with salt, usually about 1 teaspoon. Scoop into its serving bowl and cover with plastic wrap directly on the surface of the guacamole. Refrigerate until you are ready to serve.

  Perfect Margarita

  Makes 4 generous drinks

  1 cup tequila, preferably a young silver or reposado 100% agave tequila—look for widely distributed ones like El Tesoro, Cuervo Tradicional, and Herradura, or search out the distinctive small production tequilas like Chamucos or Suave Patria

  1/2 cup Cointreau or other orange liqueur

  1/3 cup fresh lime juice, plus a little extra for moistening the rim of the glasses

  A little sugar if necessary

  About 1/3 cup coarse (Kosher) salt for crusting the rim of the glasses

  About 3 cups medium ice cubes

  DIRECTIONS

  In a small pitcher, combine the tequila, orange liqueur and lime. Taste and decide if you think the mixture needs to be a little sweeter or a little tangier (keep in mind that it will taste a little tangier once it’s been shaken). Add a bit more lime or a touch of sugar, if necessary.

  Spread out the salt onto a small plate. Moisten the rim of four 6-ounce martini glasses with a little lime juice (if you have a cut lime, even an already-squeezed one, moisten the rims by running it around them). One by one, turn the glasses over and dip them lightly in the salt, creating a thin, even crust all around the rim.

  Pour half of the margarita mixture into a cocktail shaker and add half of the ice cubes. Shake vigorously for about 15 seconds (this is important to achieve the perfect strength—some of the ice needs to melt into the margarita—and the right degree of frostiness). Strain into the prepared glasses, then repeat with the remaining margarita mixture. Relax and enjoy.

  An excerpt from the debut novel in a new mystery series by Michele Scott:

  THE GREY TIER: A DEAD CELEB MYSTERY.

  Available on Amazon

  http://www.amazon.com/Grey-Tier-Celeb-Mystery-ebook/dp/B007R98NYM/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1335677517&sr=8-1

  CHAPTER ONE


  My name is Evie Preston and I hang out with dead rock stars. Oh, and the occasional dead movie star or two. I know, weird, huh? Trust me, I think so, too! I’ve learned quite a bit about those who live on the other side over the past few months. For instance, they aren’t all ghostly and transparent-like. Oh no. The ones I see tend to be in full-color 3-D except for when they exert, ah…certain energies. Then they go a bit hazy. I will get to that later. Oh, and they prefer to be called spirits.

  I know, I sound completely insane, right? Like “commit me” insane. But honestly, I am not crazy. Okay, maybe a little bit, and believe me, the first time I saw Bob Marley in my place (technically not my place, not even close to being my place, but I’ll get to that) in the Hollywood hills getting high and singing ‘Buffalo Soldier,’ I thought I was either dreaming, hallucinating from a bad meal at Denny’s, or, yes, completely nuts. None of that was the case. Bob is a very real, very dead guy who likes to hang out with me, along with a handful of other deceased, famous rock musicians (and a few who never quite made the charts, one of whom I’m currently developing some feelings for. But more about him later, too. So, not only do I hang out with dead rock stars, I also think I am in love with one or, at least, in lust…which makes me totally screwed up. But I am not crazy. I swear.

  Before I go any further, though, I need to go back a few months to the day after my twenty-eighth birthday in Brady, Texas—the heart of Texas—seriously as the town is the closest city to the geographical center of the state: Population 5,500. The signs were everywhere. Signs, that is, to get the hell out of dodge.

  I was at Mrs. Betty LaRue’s place which smelled of fresh laundry, home cooking, and mothballs. She was comforting me over the dismal turnout of my Mary Kay presentation, which she’d kindly hosted—my latest attempt at becoming an entrepreneur.

  We were drinking apple-cranberry tea, her Lhasa Apso, Princess, curled in a ball under Betty’s chair, and my dog (of indeterminate breed…possibly part-coyote, part-lab, maybe a dash of border collie in there), Mama Cass, lay across my feet. I loved how Betty always let me bring Cass in the house. My dog went everywhere with me, but not everyone is as gracious about her as Betty.

  “I really thought this would go much better,” I said, bringing the warm tea to my lips.

  Betty smiled, the fine lines in her eighty-something-year old face creasing deeper into her skin, “Oh honey, I don’t know what happened to my girls today. I am so sorry. I thought there’d be at least ten of us. They all love my snickerdoodles. But you know how some of us old gals get; we forget things.” She twirled a yellow-white wisp of curled hair around her finger. The rest of it was pulled up into a loose bun (or chignon as Mama calls it). She’d obviously been in to see my mother that morning for her weekly hair appointment.

  I nodded. “It’s okay, Betty. Thanks for hosting anyway, and the cookies were delicious. Three isn’t such a bad turnout.” Thing was, only Betty bought anything. Her friends Margaret and Hazel only came for the cookies and samples. “And I made about ten dollars, so that will buy me a couple of meals. You’ll love that anti-wrinkle cream.”

  Betty ran a hand over her face and laughed sweetly. “Child, there is nothing gonna work on this here face at this stage. And I’m proud of these lines. I earned them.”

  I laughed back. “So you only bought the cream because you felt sorry for me?” Cass’s ears perked up and she lifted her head, which I bent over to scratch.

  Betty sighed. “Evie Preston, I have known you since you started kicking up a fuss in your mama’s belly,” She winked at me. “I have watched you try so hard to be exactly what your mama and daddy wanted you to be, especially after all that bad business. And there was that little faux pas with—” she paused briefly, “What was his name?” She brought the cup to her lips, her hand shaking ever so slightly. I sighed, knowing exactly what bad business she was referring to. As for the faux pas, he was the star quarterback my senior year and the lucky recipient of my virginity. Sadly, he was also the jerk who then decided to share the news with the entire town. Thank God my mother was able to intercept that little tidbit before it could reach my father’s ears.

  But as far as the bad business, neither of us wanted to go there.

  Betty waved her free hand carelessly in the air as if to brush the painful thoughts away. “But I know you wanted to be a good Texas girl and marry a good Texas boy and have babies and run a family like your folks did, but not because you really wanted it.” She shook a finger at me. “But because your parents wanted that. However, dear girl, then you got real lucky, didn’t you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You got a God-given talent.” She tried to set the tea cup down on the side table. I reached over and took it, setting it down for her. She beamed at me. “Thank you, honey.”

  I looked down at my dog, now licking my toes that were sticking out of the only pair of high-heeled sandals I owned. “No, I don’t, Betty. I know I’m good, but there are a lot of good musicians out there.” Now I was twirling the ends of my hair, but there was no way my mother or even myself would ever put it up into a chignon. It was stick straight, long—just past my shoulders, dark brown, and baby fine but silky, which is good, I suppose--the silky part, anyway. The closest I ever get to pinning my hair up is a ponytail. Everything else just slips through the hair ties.

  Betty waved her hand again. “Nonsense!” Placing her hands on the sides of her chair, she pushed herself up and ambled over to the white-bricked mantle. She grabbed an envelope, brought it back, and handed it to me.

  “What’s this?” I asked.

  “Your birthday was yesterday, wasn’t it?”

  “You remembered?”

  She frowned. “I may be old but I don’t forget my favorite people’s birthdays.”

  “I’m one of your favorite people?” I mused.

  “Oh Baby Girl, you know you are. You got spunk. Had it since you came out ass-backward showing the world what you thought of it.” She was referring to my breech birth.

  “Thank you. I think.” I couldn’t help smiling. Betty was the only one I knew who spoke the truth without holding back. She didn’t tip-toe around stuff. Very different from my family. Tip-toeing was what we did best.

  “Open it! I don’t have all day. It’s about time for my nap.”

  I tore open the envelope and found a check inside for five thousand dollars made out to me. I gasped. “Betty! What…” Cass jumped up, her huge ears pricked forward, tail wagging, watching me like a hawk. “It’s okay, girl.” She lay back down.

  “I was twenty-eight once too, you know, and I had dreams, big dreams.” Her blue eyes glazed over for a moment. “I wanted to be a movie star, and I could have, too. I was damn good, like you are at what you do, and I was once beautiful, believe it or not.” She winked at me, but there were tears in her eyes. I knew about Betty’s dreams from long ago. I also knew that there was a part of her life that hadn’t been so good, and it was that part, which had changed the course of her life. If only I had known her back then, but I hadn’t been alive yet. I could have made it easier for her. Although, it had been decades since the trauma she’d endured had passed leaving a large scar on her heart, I could still help in a small way. I laid my hand on top of hers. Ten seconds later, her tears were gone and the scar from the past was lessened and she continued.

  “But then my folks, like yours, had other ideas and I decided to play by their rules. Now, I don’t regret it . . . maybe I do a little. Thing is, Evie, you can sing like a nightingale and you can play the guitar like nobody’s business. You need to get the hell out of this town before you wind up like every other girl here—knocked up, changing dirty diapers, and cleaning up after some idiot male who spends his nights with a beer in one hand and a TV remote in the other.”

  I frowned. I’d already seen almost every girl from my high school graduating class living out the life Betty had just described. The lucky ones skipped town and went to college. I hadn’t been quit
e that lucky for a variety of reasons. I could have. I had the grades and the desire, but life had other ideas. On the positive side, which is where I like to go, I at least had not had the misfortune of marrying some guy who didn’t appreciate me, expected his dinner on the table when he got home from his shift at the Walmart or the chemical factory, and wanted his wife and children to obey, just because he said so.

  “It’s amazing it hasn’t happened to you already,” she continued. “My guess is you were either smart enough to use birth control, smart enough to not date one of the goof-offs in this town, or scared to death by your daddy’s brimstone and fire sermons.”

  “Pretty much all of the above, but still, I can’t accept this.” I held the check up.

  “Yes, you can, and you will. Go live your life, Evie Preston. Pack up that van of yours, your guitar, Mama Cass, and head west. You sing your heart out in every bar, every café, every church—I don’t care where you go, but go and sing. I know one thing: you have what it takes to be a star. Forget all about them cosmetics you’re trying to pawn…”

  “Mary Kay,” I interrupted. “It is a really good line. Mama swears by it.”

  She frowned and waved that hand at me. “Just forget it no matter what, because you and I both know that won’t get you nowhere. That kind of thing is for people like Shirley Swan up the road trying to make an extra buck to take care of those four kids of hers. Not for you. Take the money, cut your losses, and run. Go live your dream, child. You gotta stop living for your mama and daddy. You didn’t cause what happened and you can’t ever change it.” She shook her head vehemently. “Now your parents, they have to get on with their lives, honey, and if they don’t, I hate to see you waste yours. Go on and live life. Do it for me. Go live my dream. Humor an old woman. Please?” Her blue eyes watered and the creases around them crinkled as she choked back emotion. “You go do this for Betty La Rue.” She shook a bent finger at me.