How to Dine on Killer Wine: A Party-Planning Mystery

by Penny Warner

  “A latte, please. Nonfat. Decaf. Grande. One shot. With a little caramel on top. Hold the whipped cream.” I smiled at him, enjoying the irritation I was probably causing.

  “Sorry, they don’t call it ‘grande’ here,” he said sarcastically. “They call it medium, like they should.” He turned his attention to the barista, a girl with piercings in her eyebrow, lip, and nose, and a tattoo around her neck. I shivered from the perceived pain.

  Spotting a couple of free stools at the front window, I headed over and sat on one and saved the other for Kyle, knowing he liked to perch. At least if he tried to kill me, anyone walking by would be a witness. Although I didn’t have any hard evidence—unless getting a payment from Napology for a hit worked—I certainly hadn’t ruled him out.

  He returned with what looked like two espressos and set them down on the narrow counter in front of us.

  “Perfect,” I said, not giving him the satisfaction of getting annoyed that he’d deliberately screwed up my order. “This should keep me going for a few minutes.” I added sugar and cream to the tiny cup and took a sip.

  Ignoring his coffee, he faced me. “Hand it over,” he said. Where was the flirtatious nice guy who’d come on to me at the party?

  “I don’t have it,” I said, and took another sip of the hot drink, knowing I’d just jumped into hot water.

  His face grew bright red and I thought he might be experiencing sunstroke. “What do you mean, you don’t have it?”

  “I don’t have it. It fell under your desk. I assume it’s still there.”

  He ground his jaw, then said, “I don’t believe you.”

  “Go see for yourself. I’m not into stealing U.S. mail, but I do want to know why you have a check from Napology. Are you working for Angus McLaughlin? Or is he sending you checks for ten thousand dollars because you’re such an honest lawyer?”

  “That’s none of your damn business,” he said, not finding my sarcasm amusing.

  “It is if there’s a conflict of interest. You could be disbarred for representing people with opposing agendas. And if your clients include JoAnne Douglas and Rob Christopher and Angus McLaughlin, I’m sure there’s a conflict.”

  Kyle’s eyes darted around the café. “Shhh! Keep your voice down. People know me in this town.”

  Only because your mug is on every bench, I thought. “Then I want answers, Kyle. The truth. Are you working for Napology?”

  “No.” He shifted on the stool. “Well, not exactly, that is. I’ve been doing a little work for Angus. But nothing that directly conflicts with anything else.”

  “Really? Isn’t McLaughlin trying to buy out wineries that are suffering in this economy? Like the Purple Grape?”

  “That’s not a direct conflict.”

  To the letter of the law, spoken like a lawyer.

  “And what about JoAnne? You were working for her too, at least until recently.”

  “I admit I was helping her protect the environment. Pro bono, I might add. But that had nothing to do with my other clients.”

  “No you weren’t. She was paying. When she couldn’t afford you anymore, you stopped working for her.”

  “That’s not true. I told you. It was because she’d become a nutcase.”

  I sipped my espresso and thought for a moment. “So what exactly do you do for Napology?”

  He glanced away, his espresso still untouched. “That’s attorney-client privilege. Even you should understand that.”

  Since I was already out on a limb, I decided to shake the tree a little with another wild question.

  “What about the will…?” I took another dramatic, lingering sip of my espresso. It needed more sugar and cream and caramel, but I refused to make a face. Instead, I watched his face closely.

  He winced. Not much of a bingo player…er, poker player.

  “The Christophers’ will is confidential. I can’t discuss it.”

  Ah-ha! “That’s okay. I know all about it,” I bluffed. “Marie told me everything. I wonder what the cops will think.”

  “Look, Presley, I only did what I was told. Rob and Marie asked me to change their will a couple of weeks ago. Originally it was their idea to leave everything to Allison if anything happened to them. But they wrote her out.”

  “Does Allison know?”

  “Of course not. I would never reveal that kind of information. But apparently they told you.”

  “Are you sure you wouldn’t tell Allison?” I asked again.

  “I said no.”

  It was time to turn the corkscrew and dig a little deeper. “Were you having an affair with Allison?”

  He pulled back. “Good God, no! That woman is a…,” he sputtered, unable to find the right word.

  I snorted. “Well, you might be the only one who wasn’t fooling around with her.”

  “Tell me about it. That woman is a geezer freak.”

  Geezer freak?

  “Did you know Allison was selling Purple Grape wines to local restaurants at a discount, using fake labels? And doing it right under Rob and Marie’s noses?”

  “No, although I wouldn’t put it past her.”

  Speaking of making money on the sly, I still didn’t know why Kyle had a check for ten thousand dollars. The rumor around the bingo hall was that Angus McLaughlin was buying up wineries that were losing money and going into foreclosure. Was Kyle in on that in some way?

  Another light went on. “You said you’ve been helping the smaller wineries go green while staying solvent,” I said. “Yet several of the wineries you’ve represented have gone under. Have you been working with Angus McLaughlin in some way, with your insider information? Is that why he’s paying you?”

  Kyle worked his tight lips.

  “Oh my God, that’s it, isn’t it? You’re not only spying; you’re double-dipping.”

  Kyle reared up and grabbed my arm forcefully. “Shut up!” he said, then remembered where he was, looked around, and relaxed his grip.

  “Is everything all right?” said a college kid with a brown apron. He had a rag in his hand for cleaning tables.

  I looked at Kyle pointedly.

  He sat back down on his stool. “Yes, we’re fine.”

  “Ma’am?” the young guy asked me to make sure.

  “I think so,” I said, still looking at Kyle. “Although I think his espresso is cold. Could you heat it up for him?”

  “Sure,” the guy said, and took the full cup.

  “He’ll be back,” I said to Kyle, a reminder to keep his paws off me.

  He stood up again. “I think we’re done here.”

  “What are you going to do about getting the charges dropped against Rob?”

  He ignored my question and stormed out, just as the bewildered café guy brought a fresh hot espresso.

  “Can I get that to go?” I asked, sweetly. “And could you put some whipped cream and sugar and caramel in it?”

  As the barista returned to the coffee counter to remake the drink and retrieve a to-go cup, I watched Kyle walk down the street toward the police station.

  I was fairly certain Kyle had been reporting information about troubled wineries to Angus McLaughlin, while collecting money from those wineries at the same time. No wonder he had the cash for all those billboards and TV spots, and those expensive suits and shoes, not to mention the car. That dump of an office he supposedly rented had to be a front. I wondered where his real office was—at Napology?

  But what reason did he have to kill JoAnne? Had she found out about his illegal activities and fired him? Or was she blackmailing him?

  And what about Javier Montoya? What reason would Kyle have to kill the manager of the Purple Grape? Because Javier found out the truth about him and threatened to expose him?

  Blackmail was a pretty common reason for murder. Especially if you were a lawyer trying to build up your reputation and your bank account.

  If only I’d heard the ring of my cell phone when Javier had called—I might have all the ans
wers.

  What was he going to tell me before he was murdered?

  Chapter 23

  PARTY-PLANNING TIP #23

  Be wary of serving counterfeit wines at your tasting party. To spot a fake, check the cork to see if the vintage is printed on it, look for a label that is “too perfect,” and make sure there is a USA strip label on the bottle if it’s imported. You can have your wine authenticated by a service if you suspect “foul pour.”

  Distracted by the recent events, I’d forgotten to call Brad back again. On my walk to the police station, I tried his number; no answer. I left a message asking him to call again when he was free.

  There was no sign of Kyle when I arrived at the station. I wondered if he’d gone to the jail to see about getting Rob released. I asked for Detective Kelly, but the sergeant manning the front office said he was out. I hoped he was also at the jail freeing Rob.

  I sat in my car for a moment, thinking about Allison and Kyle, who were now my two primary suspects, since their names kept bubbling up like fizzy champagne. If JoAnne had been blackmailing them—Allison for having an affair with Rob and undercutting Rob and Marie’s sales, Kyle for conflict of interest and double-dipping—either of them might have wanted to stop her permanently.

  Since both were at the party, either one could have set up Rob to take the fall. Why? I wasn’t sure. Maybe Rob had discovered their secrets too. As for Allison, that would bring her one step closer to taking over the winery. All she had to do was get rid of Marie and she’d have bingo. And she could easily have put something in her drink.

  As for Kyle, framing Rob would take the heat off him and make him look like a saintly lawyer when representing Rob. Kyle could also control the way the case was presented, ultimately screwing over his helpless client.

  It was a win-win for both Allison and Kyle.

  Maybe they had done it together.

  But I was leaning toward Allison. By killing JoAnne and framing Rob, then helping Marie “commit suicide,” everything would be hers. She could stop selling wine on the side and, at the same time, not have to worry about JoAnne and her Green Grape group hassling her. Nor would she have to find herself an aging sugar daddy to keep herself in designer shoes and handbags.

  Something told me Allison was the favored suspect, but I had no physical evidence, only circumstantial—a letter from Rob regretting their brief affair, invoices proving she was selling wine on the side. What was in that will?

  I thought back to the crime scene.

  JoAnne’s body was found under one of the pouring tables with a can of green paint nearby. Why? Was she going to lunge out at an opportune moment and douse the party guests with green slime?

  The cheese knife—with Rob’s fingerprints—had been inserted into the ground to look like a sprinkler head. Seriously? It wouldn’t go undiscovered for long. Why not hide it better?

  The antique corkscrew was used to finish the job. But why? The knife was enough to kill her. Why use one of Rob’s corkscrews and not use one of the Killer Parties corkscrews that lay on the table?

  How had the shoe come off, and why had Rob hidden it under his and Marie’s bed? If he didn’t kill her, how had his fingerprints gotten on the shoe?

  I needed to know more about JoAnne, Kyle, and Allison. And I knew just the person who could tell me how to uncover more information.

  I punched a number on my phone. “Duncan?” I said, after he answered my call.

  “Pres, wassup?”

  “I need your help again.”

  “What is it this time? Need someone’s phone located? Some GPS coordinates? The file they keep on you at the CIA?”

  “Jeez, I hope they don’t have a file on me,” I said. “No, I need to find information about a couple of people on the Internet. I’ve already Googled and Facebooked them and tried everything else. Is there anything else I can do?”

  “You tried ZabaSearch? You could try Pipl—they search for stuff that’s not so easy to find through Google. If that doesn’t do it, you can try Wink, Spock, ZoomInfo, PeekYou, YoName. And the obits are always a good source for dead people.”

  “Goodness. This will take me all day. Thanks, Duncan.” I hung up and tried the various sites he’d mentioned using my laptop. Nothing came up for JoAnne, except her obituary, which had been published in the local paper this morning.

  JoAnne Douglas, 39, died unexpectedly on Saturday. Owner of the Douglas Family Winery, JoAnne was an advocate for no growth in the Napa Valley and belonged to the Green Grape Association, a grassroots organization that helps businesses become more environmentally sound. Preceded in death by her mother, Josephine, and her father, Albert, she leaves behind her seven cats: Azrael, Figaro, Fritz, Krazy Kat, Macavity, Mehitabel, and Pyewacket. No services pending. Please send donations to the Green Grape Association of Napa Valley and the ASPCA.

  Seven cats? Maybe she wasn’t all bad. Just a little off center.

  I did a search for the Green Grape Association. A Web site came up, espousing the importance of “going green,” and a link to “ten simple ways you can eliminate your carbon footprint.” At the bottom, in a very tiny font, was the name of the Web master: “Napatite Company.”

  Where had I seen that before?

  Oh my God. On the envelope containing that check for ten thousand dollars. And Angus McLaughlin.

  I did a search for Napatite Company. Several businesses appeared, including Kyle Bennett, Attorney at Law, the Napa County Bingo Hall…and Napology.

  Was Angus McLaughlin behind all of those businesses? It sounded as if he owned not only half the wineries in the valley, but several other companies as well.

  It was time to pay the reclusive man a visit.

  Napology Corporation looms large in the Napa Valley. The headquarters are situated on a hillside halfway between Napa and St. Helena. I remembered passing the sprawling, ultramodern plantation when Mother and I had gone for our mud baths but had thought nothing of it at the time. The estate posted signs announcing weekend tastings, accompanied by “live music, cheese on the patio, and a spectacular view of the valley.”

  I drove up the long driveway lined with rosebushes and parked in the mostly deserted lot. Apparently the place wasn’t open for wine tasting during the week. I wondered if Angus McLaughlin would be around—and what ruse I’d use to question him.

  Locating what appeared to be the front door to the winery, I knocked and waited. No answer. Standing back, I searched for another entry but saw nothing that would give me access to the winery.

  I stepped around the side of the curved building, which seemed more like a modern art museum than a home or winery. A garden path lined with topiaries in the shape of zoo animals led to the back, where a wrought-iron gate kept curious tourists and nosy party planners from trespassing onto private property.

  Oddly, a small cabin-like dwelling sat at the back beyond the swimming pool, looking completely out of place in this futuristic setting. I spotted a gardener tending to more rosebushes nearby and walked over. He was short and dark skinned, wearing a straw hat, short-sleeved plaid shirt, jeans, and gloves, and snipping at the bushes.

  “Excuse me,” I said, “I’m here to see Angus McLaughlin and I’m not sure where to go.”

  “You the temp he’s expecting? He’s in his office.” The man pointed with the cutting shears to the rustic-looking cabin inside the gate.

  The temp? Perfect.

  I looked in the direction he pointed. “That’s his office?” I asked, surprised.

  “Yes.” The gardener smiled, revealing a gold-capped tooth. “Mrs. McLaughlin designed the winery, but Mr. McLaughlin built his office like a cabin. It’s a replica of the one he owns in Montana.”

  “Ah, so they compromised,” I said. “How do I get in the gate?”

  The gardener pulled out a key card from his pocket and swiped it through a metal lock.

  “Thank you!” I said, hoping I wouldn’t be responsible for the man getting fired for letting me in under false pre
tenses.

  When I reached the door of the log-style cabin, I knocked and heard a booming “Come in!” from inside. Hesitating for a second, I opened the door.

  “Come on, come on!” the voice came again. “You’re late.”

  What a pompous ass, I thought. How long could I play along with this ruse without smacking him? I’d find out soon enough.

  “Yes, sir,” I said, slowly approaching his massive oak desk, which was roughly carved and notched and stretched nearly six feet across. Two large green leather chairs faced the desk, both resting on top of a white fur pelt. The heads of several animals—deer, boar, and coyote—appeared to lunge from oval plaques on the surrounding walls. Another wall held the hunter’s rifle and gun collection in a locked case.

  Uh-oh. Who was I about to confront?

  “Your desk is over there.” The big man pointed with a diamond-ring-studded pinky finger to a smaller desk in the corner. The desk, topped with a computer, faced out, toward McLaughlin.

  I glanced at the desk, then back at the man. He was round faced, with a red and splotchy complexion, a bulbous boxer-type nose, and thinning gray hair greased back. Gold rings covered his fingers, matching a gold bracelet and gold chain around his neck. The gray silk shirt he wore was open enough to allow curly gray chest hairs to peek out. Sitting behind his desk, he could have been stark naked from the waist down, for all I knew. Where had that thought come from?

  “Uh, yes, sir,” I said again, not quite sure what he expected me to do. Go sit down and start typing?

  “The temp agency said you type eighty words a minute. That true? ’Cause I need someone who’s competent this time.”

  “I’ll do my best, sir,” I said, standing at attention like a good little employee. I hoped the real temp didn’t show up anytime soon. This opportunity was golden.

  “Well, get to work, then. I need you to retype those forms on the desk and make the corrections I indicated.”

  I sat down at the desk and moved the pile to my right, as if preparing to do his bidding. Instead, I opened up Word and searched the files for anything that might look interesting.