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

by Penny Warner

  Maybe she’s in the bathroom, I thought. I dashed over; the door was open but the room was empty.

  Could she have gone with Allison on the wild-goose chase I’d arranged? Or was she wandering the winery again, possibly disoriented? Maybe wounded?

  Or even floating in a barrel of wine, like Javier? I shivered at the thought.

  I searched the rest of the house, calling her name, but found no sign of her. The only place I hadn’t searched was Allison’s room. I ran down the hall and tried her door.

  Locked.

  I tried the knob again. No use. It wasn’t going to give just because I tried again. I had to get in there, if not to make sure Marie wasn’t inside, then to find the evidence I needed to prove Allison was the killer.

  I remembered seeing a sliding glass door that led from the living area of the house to the backyard patio. I raced down the hall, opened the sliding door, and sped outside and over to Allison’s room. There were two windows, about three by four feet, that looked out from her room, but they were covered with lavender curtains that prevented me from seeing inside. I remembered seeing a bureau under one of the windows. The left? Or the right?

  I looked around for something to stand on and something else to break the window. What was a broken window at this point? If I had to explain, I could always say I was worried Marie was inside and possibly in danger. Locating a stone statue the size of a toddler—of a cherub holding a bunch of grapes—I yanked it up from its spot on the patio and hefted it over to the window. I set it down, then found a wrought-iron chair sitting next to a tiled café table and carried it over.

  Stepping carefully onto the chair, I leaned down and hoisted the statue up. Though it was the size of a toddler, the thing weighed a ton. I closed my eyes, turned my head, and swung the statue into the window. Glass went flying, reminding me instantly of the smashed display case. This wasn’t the first time glass had been shattered recently at the Purple Grape. And shattered glass was the main reason I was now breaking into Allison’s room. Literally.

  I dropped the statue, removed my Mary Jane and used the bottom to scrape off any broken glass that remained on the windowsill. After slipping the shoe back on, I lifted my leg over the sill as gingerly as I could, pushing aside the curtains as if they were heavy cobwebs. I climbed through and stepped onto the top of the bureau, then brought in my other leg. Squatting down, I swiped off the broken glass from the bureau with my shoe. Moments later I was standing on the floor in Allison’s room.

  No Marie.

  I zipped over to the closet where I’d hidden myself earlier. No Marie there either.

  Kneeling down, I shuffled through all the shoes that rested in boxes on the floor. Coming up empty, I pulled down the boxes from the top of the closet and examined them. No party shoes here either.

  I was about to check the last box when a shaft of light came from the bedroom door.

  The door was open.

  I started and whirled around.

  Allison stood in the doorway. She was staring at the broken window, the pieces of glass on the floor around the bureau, her face livid with rage.

  Then she looked at me.

  “What the hell are you doing in my room!” she screamed. In her hand, something silver glinted.

  Caught off guard, I tried to think of a good excuse for breaking her window, climbing in, and going through her closet.

  Yeah, right.

  “Uh…,” was all I could manage. My heart was beating faster than a ticking time bomb. Finally I said, “I was looking for Marie…She’s missing…”

  “And you thought she might be in my closet?” She stared at me in disbelief, one hand on her hip, the other tightly gripping the shiny object. A corkscrew? A small knife? A glass shard? Just about anything could be used as a weapon in the wrong hands.

  I grabbed one of the stiletto shoes from the box I still held and gripped it like a hammer. A single black Prada with a three-inch heel was all I had to defend myself. I might have been able to kill a spider with it, but not much else.

  Then it dawned on me. The shoe in my hand belonged to the pair that Allison had worn to the party.

  “I panicked when I couldn’t find her,” I said, stalling. I flipped the shoe over and checked the sole.

  At the same time, Allison took a step forward. Reflexively, I looked down at her shoes.

  Plum-colored Kate Spade flats that complemented her pink top and white shorts.

  They looked just like the ones Marie had worn to the party. I remembered how perfectly they’d matched Marie’s plum outfit.

  “You have shoes exactly like Marie’s?” I said, puzzled.

  Allison frowned as if I’d truly lost my mind.

  “Those.” I pointed to the ones on her feet and felt the hairs on my arms stand up.

  “They’re Marie’s, not mine. We wear the same size. But what has this got to do with anything? You broke into my room to steal God knows what and you’re asking about shoes. I’m calling the police.” She tossed the shiny object on her bed.

  Her room key. It was attached to one of my wine-opener key chains.

  She reached for something in her pocket.

  I tensed up again.

  She pulled out her cell phone.

  “Wait!” I said, dropping the shoe I held in my hand. “I need to see those shoes!”

  “What is wrong with you, Presley? I’m beginning to think you’re the murderer, the way you’re behaving!”

  “Please, Allison! Just take off your shoes and let me see them.”

  Without releasing her cell phone, she kicked off one of the flats.

  I reached down and retrieved it, then turned it over. The sole sparkled in the light coming through the doorway.

  Not exactly diamonds on the soles of her shoes.

  More like bits of broken glass.

  Before I could say the name out loud, a shadow suddenly blocked the shaft of light.

  My mouth went dry. My heart thudded against my chest.

  Marie stood in the doorway.

  She held a bottle of wine over her head.

  Chapter 26

  PARTY-PLANNING TIP #26

  Believe it or not, a wine bottle is specially designed to preserve wine. See the dimples (punts) on the bottom, remnants of the glass-blowing days? They help collect sediments, strengthen and make the bottle sturdy, and make the volume look bigger to impress (or fool?) the purchaser. In other words, “The wine in this bottle may appear to be more than it really is…”

  Before I could react, Marie brought down the heavy wine bottle, striking Allison’s head. Allison slumped to the ground like a marionette cut from its strings.

  “Marie! What are you doing?” I screamed. Deep down, I knew exactly what she was doing—trying to kill her sister.

  And I was next.

  So it was Marie who had murdered JoAnne Douglas and Javier Montoya. The pieces of glass on the bottom of her shoes—the shoes Allison wore today and the ones Marie wore to the party—meant Marie was the one who’d broken the protective glass panel, taken the corkscrew, and stabbed JoAnne. I didn’t know why exactly—to get even with her cheating husband by framing him for the murder?

  Marie looked down at Allison’s body, then up at me. She had such a calm, pleased look on her face, I almost didn’t believe what she’d just done.

  “Marie, you’re ill,” I said, trying to sound sympathetic instead of totally panicked, which was how I actually felt. “You need to rest. This has all been very traumatic for you. Let me call your doctor.”

  “Don’t worry, Presley. I’m not ill or tired or suicidal. I just want to put an end to all this and get on with my life. And you’ve done a lot to help me reach that goal by suspecting Allison of murdering JoAnne.”

  I didn’t move, not wanting to provoke her. The most important thing I’d learned in the field of abnormal psychology was to let people talk. Not only would it keep me alive awhile longer, but it would allow Marie to vent. Maybe that would be enough to
dissipate her rage.

  “Why, Marie? Why did you kill JoAnne Douglas? Because she was threatening your vineyard?”

  She held the wine bottle with both hands as she spoke. “That was part of the reason. JoAnne was such a pest to everyone in the county, not just us. But God, I hated that woman. She was always threatening the Purple Grape, trying to close it down, get rid of us. I’m sure she was jealous of all that I had. And then when I found out that she had gotten Allison to sell our wines online at a cheap price—that was the final straw. Dammit, I worked hard to make the winery a success. She just inherited her winery. The wine community needed to be rid of her. And killing her also gave me the opportunity to get even with Rob”—tears sprang to her eyes—“for cheating on the sanctity of our marriage.”

  I wondered if she knew about the letter I’d found in Allison’s shoe box.

  “With my own sister,” she continued. “So when I accidentally discovered JoAnne hiding under the party table, ready to ruin our special event by throwing green paint at our guests, I got the idea to kill one bird—JoAnne the wine pest—and destroy the other—Rob the cheating husband.”

  “So you planted the corkscrew at the scene,” I said, confirming what I’d guessed.

  She nodded. “I broke the glass on his collection with one of your corkscrews, Presley, then got that antique screw with the big handle from the case and replaced it with yours so it would look like Rob did it. When I got back to the pouring table, I grabbed a bottle”—she hefted the one in her hands—“ducked down, and hit her over the head. While she lay there unconscious, I tried to stab her with the corkscrew, but it wouldn’t go in, so I grabbed a cheese knife. That did the trick. Then I jabbed in the corkscrew to make a point, wiped both clean, and went back to pouring wine as if nothing had happened.”

  Recalling Rob’s letter to Allison, I said, “But Rob loved you. If he cheated on you, I’m sure he regrets it.”

  “Maybe. But I couldn’t forgive him. Neither of them. I took in my sister when she needed a place to live and gave her a job, and that’s how she repaid me—by sleeping with my husband, not to mention nearly every other man in the county. She’s always been jealous of me and what I have, but when she took something I loved and ruined it, I’d had enough.”

  “But you didn’t frame her. You framed your own husband,” I said, while glancing out of the corner of my eye for something to defend myself with. No doubt Marie had used a wine bottle to hit Javier over the head too, before she drowned him. Unlike on TV, where bottles seem to shatter easily, this one was as solid and dangerous as a rock.

  “Oh, but I didn’t want to kill Rob. That would have been too quick and easy. I wanted him to suffer for years in jail. After he was arrested, I planned to get Allison arrested for the murder of Javier and for trying to kill me.”

  Still puzzled, I frowned, all the while alert to her every move. “But how?”

  “My suicide attempt? I made it look like someone actually tried to kill me. And Allison was the most obvious suspect. But everyone seemed to miss the clues, in spite of the fact that I tried to make it clear. So I had to come up with a new plan.” She glanced at Allison lying lifeless on the floor. “The way I see it now, you broke into Allison’s room…she attacked you…and you hit her over the head with the wine bottle.”

  “Like you did Javier?”

  “Poor Javier. He saw me cleaning the broken glass from the hallway that night. And that was fine, except later, he caught me putting my medication in Allison’s medicine cabinet to frame her for attempting to murder me. I told him to keep his mouth shut, but I didn’t trust him. So I called him into the storage building and asked him to retrieve my ring, which had ‘fallen’ into the wine vat. While he was leaning in, I hit him over the head with a wine bottle and pushed him under so he’d drown. Then I dropped the ring in so it would look like he’d been caught with some of my jewelry.”

  I sensed my time was about up. I thought about trying to make a run for it, but Marie stood between me and the door—and she held a mean-looking bottle of merlot in her hands. Plus, I didn’t see any way to defend myself if she came at me, other than a good old-fashioned catfight.

  Marie’s eyes narrowed. She raised the bottle, ready to pounce like a panther.

  Just as she started to lunge, she suddenly screamed. Twisting around, she lost her balance and fell to the floor. The bottle dropped from her hand and onto the tile floor, where it burst and shattered, flooding the area with purple liquid.

  I looked down in horror, trying to figure out what had happened.

  Allison, her eyes wide but still lying on the floor, had Marie by the ankle and was digging her sharp, fashionable nails into her sister’s leg.

  Marie screamed again as she tried to shake her leg free of Allison’s clawed grip. The two struggled, Marie on top of Allison, biting and scratching and pulling her hair. A regular girl fight. I ran around the scuffle to Allison’s bed, yanked off the wine-themed coverlet, threw it over both of them, and fell on top of it.

  Allison’s head poked out at the side of the coverlet. I rolled a little, focusing my weight on Marie’s body, allowing Allison to slither out. She pushed herself to a wobbly standing position.

  “Grab some belts or something!” I yelled.

  Allison went to her closet and returned with two belts, while Marie continued to flail and scream beneath the cover.

  “Help me roll her up!”

  Allison knelt down on one side and tucked the coverlet under Marie, while I slid off and began rolling her body up like a mummy. The kicking subsided and the screaming became muffled.

  “The belts!” I said, lying on top of the encased Marie.

  She took one and cinched it around Marie’s legs, then did the same at the top of Marie’s head.

  I sat up on the floor next to Marie, puffing, exhausted from trying to hold her down. I could hear Marie sobbing quietly from under the cover, no longer struggling.

  “Hand me my phone,” I said breathlessly. While Allison sat down and rubbed the back of her head, I called 911. She probably had a concussion and would need medical attention. While waiting for the Napa police, I called Brad. I heard a phone ringing in the distance.

  “Brad?” I yelled, pulling the phone from my ear.

  “Presley?” he hollered back.

  “Down here!” I headed for the door. “In Allison’s room.”

  Brad appeared in the hallway in his jeans and a blue T-shirt, then entered the room and took in the scene. He glanced first at me, then spotted Allison on the bed, and finally saw the burrito-wrapped body of Marie.

  “What’s going on?”

  “Long story,” I said, collapsing on the bed next to Allison.

  “Who’s in the cocoon?”

  “Marie.”

  “You’re kidding me.”

  “Afraid not.”

  “But I thought…,” he started to say.

  Allison looked at me. “You thought it was me, didn’t you, Presley?”

  I pressed my lips together. “Sort of. I mean, you were the one who seemed jealous of Marie, not the other way around. But apparently she found out about your little dalliance with her husband and couldn’t handle it.”

  “So she killed JoAnne?” Allison said, the pieces coming together for her.

  I told her what Marie had confessed a few minutes before Allison regained consciousness and grabbed Marie’s ankle.

  “Wow,” Allison said, her body deflating like a balloon. “I never knew she hated me that much. And I never told her about Rob and me…I wonder how she found out.”

  I heard sirens.

  Moments later someone called, “Police!”

  “Down here!” I called back.

  Detective Kelly appeared at the door with three officers.

  He surveyed the room and nodded toward the form on the floor. She looked like a giant party popper. “What have we here?”

  “Your murderer,” I said.

  “Really? Who’s in there
?” he asked.

  “Marie Christopher. She killed JoAnne and Javier and tried to kill Allison. I was next on her list. But thanks to Allison…” I shot her a thank-you look. She nodded.

  Detective Kelly signaled the other officers to take over. While two officers unrolled Marie, a third stood ready with cuffs and a Taser. EMTs arrived moments later to check on Allison. It wasn’t long before Marie was taken into custody, read her rights, and led out of the room. As she passed by me, her head down, her hands behind her back, she looked like a broken woman.

  Meanwhile Allison was placed on a gurney. She was covered in bites, scratches, and bruises and had a lump on the back of her head.

  “Wait!” I said as the EMTs started to wheel her away to the ambulance. “Allison?”

  She looked up at me, tired and depressed, not like the perky, flirtatious woman she usually was.

  She sighed. “Yeah?”

  “Thanks.”

  “For what?”

  “You saved my life back there.”

  “Hey, I saved my own life. I’m sure she would have finished the job if she’d known I’d come to.”

  As the paramedics pushed Allison down the hall, I wondered if this would be a new beginning for her. Or would she continue to lie, cheat, and steal, as she had for so many years? No doubt she’d be leaving the Purple Grape, now that her sister was headed for prison and her brother-in-law was returning. But she still had her bingo games and her sugar-daddy connections at the hall. I had a feeling she’d bounce back quickly.

  After one of the EMTs checked a couple of minor cuts on my ankle from when the wine bottle shattered, Brad, Detective Kelly, and I went to the kitchen, where the detective took my statement. I explained how the shoes led to the killer—that when Marie had broken the glass and taken the corkscrew, she’d picked up pieces of broken glass on the soles of her shoes. Her attack on Allison would pretty much cinch it for her.

  “Will you be releasing Rob now?” I asked, wondering how he would take the news that his wife was a murderer.

  “Soon,” the detective said. “Good thing, since he would have needed a new lawyer.”

  “What?”