by Penny Warner
“What? They’re not keeping her on a 5150?”
“I guess not.”
“Should we wait around and give her a lift?”
“I offered, but she said her sister would be coming by to take her home.” We headed for the hospital exit. “Who were you talking to?”
“Luke.”
“Great!” I said, smiling at the thought of my frenemy. I wasn’t a big fan of the San Francisco homicide detective, but at the moment he might be of use. “I was going to ask you to call him. Do you think he can find out more about Rob’s arrest and what they have on him?”
“He says he’ll do his best. He knows Kelly. Doesn’t particularly like him—thinks he’s a cocky SOB. But he’ll try to find out what’s going on.”
“Cocky?” I said, nearly laughing. “That’s the pot calling the kettle black. No one’s cockier than Detective Luke Melvin.”
“Funny. He thinks the same of you,” Brad said as we headed for the SUV.
“Me? You’ve got to be kidding. Cocky? I don’t think so!”
Brad opened the car door, gave me a boost up, then got into the driver’s seat and started the engine. I quietly steamed at Luke Melvin’s comment about me, until my mind drifted back to the murder.
Brad finally broke the silence after we pulled up the driveway of the Purple Grape. “So have you made one of your party-planning-slash-suspects lists yet?” he asked. I hated it when he read my mind.
“Working on it.”
Once inside the house, I checked on Mom and found a note she’d left saying Larry had picked her up and taken her to the evening bingo session. I’d nearly forgotten about it, with all that had happened. I hoped nothing went wrong, but couldn’t help worrying, knowing Mom and her increasing eccentricities.
I returned to the kitchen and sat at the tiled table, while Brad pulled some leftover amuse-bouches from the refrigerator and set them in the center of the table. I opened my purse and pulled out one of the party forms I kept with me in case of an emergency party-planning request. You never knew when someone might want to throw a Bunco Brunch or a White Trash Bash.
I filled in the blanks, including the latest information I’d learned.
Under “Host” I wrote “Rob and Marie Christopher, winery owners.” Then I added another category—“Victim”—and jotted down “JoAnne Douglas, radical environmentalist and winery owner.”
Moving down to the guest list, I added the word “Suspects” and wrote down “Allison, Javier, Nick and Claudette Madeira, and Dennis and KJ Brien.”
“Not much in the way of a list,” Brad said, reading the names upside down.
“Watch out or I’ll add your name,” I said.
“I’m innocent, I tell ya,” he said, then leaned over and kissed me in a not-so-innocent way.
“Stop! You’re distracting me.” I tried to suppress a smile and look serious, but it wasn’t easy after a kiss like that.
Under “Occasion,” I scribbled “Wine-tasting to publicize the release of a new wine,” then added—“and the murder of JoAnne Douglas.” For “Time” I put “7:00 to 10:00 pm Saturday night/AKA Opportunity—before, during, or after the party.”
Nothing like nailing down the time frame. I took a soggy crab puff from the plate and amused my bouche with it, while I wrote “Crime Scene” next to the word “Place.” I added “Garden at the Purple Grape Winery, under a serving table.”
I paused for a moment and popped in another small bite of food. Under a serving table? What a strange place to kill someone. Had the murderer moved her there? If so, when? And how, without being caught?
Under “Party Details” I put “JoAnne Douglas sneaked into the party with a can of green paint and was stabbed with a cheese knife and antique corkscrew.”
Bizarre. Why? In other words, what was the motive?
That was the Big Question.
“Looking for a motive?” Brad asked, a bit of chocolate mousse at the side of his mouth.
I nodded. “As usual, I’ve got more questions than answers, but it’s a start,” I said. Being a linear thinker, I tended to do things in an orderly way. I’d learned from a teacher who helped me with my ADHD that making lists was one way to organize my thoughts.
Thinking of motive, I went on. “JoAnne had a lot of enemies who didn’t like the way she was trying to enforce her political and environmental agenda. But was that enough to get her killed?”
Brad shrugged. “Remember what I told you: Look at the victim first, then the crime scene, then the suspects.” Distracted by his mouth, I wanted to lick the chocolate off his lips.
He was right, as usual. I’d have to do more research on JoAnne and find out if she might have been killed for reasons other than her green beliefs.
My first thought was: Question Natalie, JoAnne’s employee.
I’d learned from experience that people behind the scenes often knew more than anyone else. Natalie was definitely behind the scenes.
“Why don’t you draw a picture of the crime scene?” Brad suggested.
“Good idea,” I said, and turned the form over. I sketched the table, then drew JoAnne’s outline underneath. She’d been lying on her back with the corkscrew sticking out of her chest, her legs bent.
“Don’t forget the missing shoe,” Brad added, looking over the drawing.
I drew one shoe on her foot, and the other one off to the side, with the words, “Found under Rob and Marie’s bed.” Next I added the cheese-knife handle sticking out of the flower bed. To round out the scene, I drew a couple of bottles of wine, some glasses, a few grapey decorations, and two Killer Parties–embossed wine openers on top of the table.
I sat back and studied the scene.
“Well, now you’ve got plenty of clues. But what’s missing from the picture?” Brad asked.
“What do you mean? I’ve drawn the shoe and the cheese knife and the paint.” I pointed to the two clues on the drawing.
“No, I mean, what can’t we see. That’s just as important as what you can see.”
I frowned at him, completely baffled. “You mean, something’s missing? I can’t really see what I can’t see,” I argued.
He smiled.
“Tell me!” I said, growing frustrated.
“I don’t know,” he said. “I’m just saying, sometimes it’s what you don’t see that tells you more.”
I looked at my drawing again.
A thought came to me. “How about the person standing behind the table pouring the wine?”
Brad raised an eyebrow.
“It could have been Rob. Or Marie. Or Allison. Or Javier. But none of them stayed at one table for long. They kept circulating, getting more bottles of wine, cleaning up used glasses.”
“What if you gave each one a motive?” Brad suggested.
“Okay. Rob had apparently been arguing with JoAnne over the direction of his winery. Maybe he’d discovered her sneaking into the party and…” I shrugged. “Marie didn’t like JoAnne and seemed to think she was a threat to their winery. Her sister Allison just seemed indifferent to everyone. But if she has a gambling problem or she’s back on drugs, that could be an issue. I’m not sure how it would relate to JoAnne’s death, unless she was being blackmailed or something.”
“You think Javier belongs on that list?” Brad asked.
“He and Allison were at the bingo hall together. And I’ve seen them talking together several times, arguing, acting kind of weird. But they certainly don’t seem like a couple. Javier’s been losing management jobs. Maybe JoAnne’s threats to the Purple Grape caused him to kill her to protect his job?”
“That seems a bit of a stretch.”
I sighed.
“What about the neighbors?” he said.
Ex-governor Dennis Brien and his young wife, KJ. Hollywood mogul Nick and his wife, Claudette. Both couples had had issues with JoAnne. Claudette had suspected she’d done something to her and Nick’s crop. And KJ had hinted that JoAnne was jealous of Dennis’s politi
cal influence.
Claudette seemed to imply that something was not right in Camelot with her shining knight, Nick. Was he cheating on her? Or was it something else? And I’d almost forgotten the note Dennis had received from Allison, urgently asking him to call her. What was that about?
Just when I thought I had a complete list of suspects, I realized I’d left off Kyle Bennett, the attorney. But was he really a suspect? I added his name, even though I couldn’t come up with a solid motive for him. He had worked for JoAnne but had left her employment—why?—and gone to work for the smaller vineyards, helping them protect their properties. Now he was representing Rob on a murder rap. Was ambulance chasing the worst of his crimes?
It all led back to the victim: JoAnne Douglas, just like Brad said. Had she annoyed one too many people? Stepped on one too many toes? Been a pest to someone who wanted to rid the county of her radical agenda?
Or had JoAnne discovered something about the killer and was murdered to keep her quiet?
Whatever it was, I needed to know more about JoAnne Douglas.
Chapter 15
PARTY-PLANNING TIP #15
Hosting a wine-tasting party? Accessorize, accessorize, accessorize! You can shop online for such swag as wine charms (to help guests keep track of their drinks), bottle stoppers (toss away that ill-fitting cork), personalized corkscrews (to honor a special guest), or DIY photo coasters (featuring laminated snapshots of the guests from previous parties). Then send them home with the guests as party favors!
I stood up from the table. “I have to talk to Natalie Mattos.”
“Who’s Natalie Mattos?” Brad asked.
“JoAnne’s assistant. I met her this afternoon when I stopped by JoAnne’s winery. She has to know more about JoAnne that will help me understand the woman. I feel like there’s a piece missing from all this.”
Brad looked at the clock in the kitchen. “It’s getting late, Presley. If she works at the winery, she’s probably gone. You can see her tomorrow.”
He was right. Prodded by my ADHD, I wanted to do everything right now, but chances were that Natalie was gone for the day. I’d have better luck finding her tomorrow—if she returned to JoAnne’s winery. If not, then what?
“When is your mother due back?” Brad asked, clearing the leftovers from the table.
“Around nine. Why? You want to play bingo?”
He laughed. “No, I’ve got a better idea. Hope you’re hungry.”
I’d been so preoccupied, I didn’t realize I wasn’t just hungry, but starving.
“Sounds great. What did you have in mind? French Laundry? Tra Vigne? Mustards Grill?” I practically drooled as I listed some of the world-famous gourmet restaurants in the Napa area. I’d always wanted to dine at one but couldn’t afford their gourmet prices. Besides, I’d heard the French Laundry was booked months in advance.
“Not quite,” Brad said, smiling mysteriously. “Let’s take your car. I don’t think the place would appreciate a Crime Scene Cleaners truck on the premises.”
Intrigued, I led the way to my MINI and offered the keys to Brad. He squeezed into the driver’s seat and I took the passenger side. Ten minutes later we pulled up to what looked like a parking lot filled with a dozen aluminum-sided trucks and a couple of Airstream trailers, all parked in a circle like a wagon train on the prairie.
But these weren’t covered wagons. These were food trucks.
“Wow,” I said, getting out of the car and taking in the sight and the smells. “What’s with all the chuck wagons?”
“Time to eat,” Brad said, and took my hand. We walked up to the first truck, painted bright green and yellow and sporting a lighted awning. A line of hungry people holding glasses of wine stood waiting in lines at the open windows.
I glanced ahead at the next truck, and the next. The place was jam-packed with food options. “What is this place?”
“Gourmet Food Truck Night,” Brad said simply. “It’s held next to the Oxbow Public Market on the first Friday of every month, but it’s been so popular, they’ve recently expanded to Sunday nights. It runs from six until midnight.”
“Oh my God, it’s like a huge block party!” I read the clever names on the trucks—“Who Let the Dog Out?” hot dogs, “What the Duck?” barbecue, “Phat Wraps,” and “Creative Cupcakes.” People sitting at picnic tables and on portable chairs noshed on fish tacos, dim sum, oysters, Indian food, Vienna sausages—something for every taste. I wished I’d brought Zantac for dessert—I’d need it after chowing down on all the foods I suddenly wanted to try.
“I heard the dumplings from Dim Sum Charlie’s are the best,” Brad said. “And the ribs at the Flying Pig. Plus the Chocolate Velvet Cupcakes are killer.”
We decided to split up and buy different foods to share. Brad headed for the ribs, while I stood in line for the dumplings. He beat me and found two seats at a long table, shared by a friendly group of partiers. I sat down opposite him with an overflowing plate of dim sum. Unable to wait any longer, I took a bite of the dumpling; it melted in my mouth. While enjoying the spicy, sensuous pleasure, I listened to the violin quartet play classical music in the background. In spite of the cool night, I was toasty, thanks to portable heaters nearby.
This place was hog heaven.
I glanced at the woman sitting next to me—middle-aged, brown hair cut short and sensibly—sitting across from a man with graying hair and glasses. She was eating what could only be described as escargot lollipops—snails on sticks covered in puff pastry. They smelled of garlic and actually looked tasty. But no way was I going to find out.
“Come here often?” I asked her, since we were sitting elbow to elbow.
She swallowed the food in her mouth and nodded. “Every chance we get. It’s so much fun. We see our neighbors, have something great to eat, listen to the music, and just enjoy the ambiance of Napa. This your first time?”
“Yes, it’s wonderful,” I said. “I’m Presley Parker, by the way, and this is Brad Matthews.” We air-shook hands, thanks to messy fingers.
The woman offered us two glasses of wine in plastic cups. “I’m Julie Obregar.”
“Nice to meet you. And thanks for the wine.”
“How do you like those dumplings?” she asked, nodding her head toward the lumps on our plates.
“They’re to die for,” I said, remembering the bite I’d just had.
“Wait till you have a cupcake,” she said. “Death by chocolate.”
“I’ve heard.” I shot Brad a look. He smiled, his face dotted with barbecue sauce.
“I wish they would do this more often,” Julie said, “but the city has been threatening to shut the trucks down. I don’t know why. Everything’s been cleared by the health department, there’s no alcohol sold on the premises, and people dispose of their trash, but so far, the city won’t give. This may be the last one.”
“That’s awful,” I said, having now acquired a taste for Food Truck Dumplings. I’d heard we were getting some food trucks in San Francisco and hoped they were as good as these.
“It is when you consider the fact that downtown Napa needs all the help it can get. They put in the Riverwalk and filled the area with restaurants, but meanwhile many of the shops are closing and the outdoor mall looks like a ghost town.”
“So why the crackdown on food trucks?” I asked. “You’d think the city would love the business.”
“Tell me about it,” Julie said, rolling her eyes. “According to the food trucks Facebook page, the city wants them to buy special permits that will cost up to ten thousand dollars. Plus they need to add ramps to the restrooms to comply with the American with Disabilities Act. And the American Beverage Committee says unpermitted BYOB has to stop. It’s all because someone complained about these code violations.”
“Can’t the citizens do something about it?”
“We’re trying. We’ve got our Facebook page—Save the Napa Food Trucks. It’s really brought our community together. But it only took one ann
oying party pooper to ruin everything.”
My ears pricked up. “What do you mean, one party pooper?” I asked.
Julie took a swallow of her wine. “Oh, there’s this local vintner who’s been causing all the trouble.”
In spite of the outdoor heaters, I shivered.
“But maybe things will change now,” she added.
“How so?” I asked.
“The woman was killed last night.”
Oh my God. Joanne Douglas.
“Wow,” I said, once Brad and I were back in the car. “JoAnne keeps looking worse and worse. She was trying to shut down the food trucks? No wonder Julie called her the most hated woman in the wine country. It’s as if she went out of her way to cause friction and annoy people—and get herself killed.”
“Sounds like a mental case to me,” Brad said.
“I don’t know. Something must have caused all that bitterness. I still think there’s a piece missing.”
“You always want to psychoanalyze everyone, Presley.”
“That’s because all behavior is motivated,” I said. “I taught that in Psych 101. There’s got to be something behind all of her anger, and I’m hoping her assistant Natalie will tell me what it is. That is, if Natalie is still working at the winery. If she’s not, I’m screwed.” I thought for a moment. “Unless…”
Brad shot me a look. “Uh-oh. What are you thinking?”
“Bingo!”
“Bingo? No way. Poker’s my game, not Ping-Pong balls and oversized markers.”
“Think about it, Brad. The bingo hall is the best place to get information around here. If Natalie isn’t at the winery anymore, I might be able to find out where to locate her. There’s still an hour before the games are over.”
Brad raised a suspicious eyebrow.
“Besides, I want to check on Mom, make sure she’s all right, what with all that’s happened around here. Then we can take her home instead of relying on Larry.”
“All right,” Brad said, “but if you get a bingo, I get ten percent.”
“Deal!”
We pulled into the lot, which was packed, as usual. Entering the hall, I did a quick search for Mother. I spotted her sitting next to Larry, engrossed in the current game. Helen and Constance occupied their usual seats nearby. Brad and I stood on the sidelines to keep from distracting the players—although I had a feeling not even an earthquake would stop these people from marking the next called number—and I spent a few minutes looking for Allison. Not surprisingly, I found her, but she wasn’t in her usual place. This time she sat next to an elderly man in the middle of the room.