Table of Contents
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Title Page
Copyright Page
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
After Hours Pasta
A Taste of Death
Her shoe got bogged down in some mud, and she had to yank to pull her foot out, losing her shoe in the greenish muck. “Damn!” Her foot covered in mud, her arms scratched up, and mosquito bites rising along her neck, she was foolishly looking for some phantom juvenile delinquent who got his cojones off spying on unsuspecting women. Could it get any worse? It would definitely be worse if Derek found her like this.
But even worse than that was when her bare foot brushed against something that didn’t feel like a prickly bush. It tickled, but not in the way a bush should. She looked down and saw a hand. She screamed as her eyes followed the hand deeper into the bushes. There was the body of a man with thick grape vines pulled tautly around his neck, his brown eyes bulging out of his purplish face. His dark, longish hair covered in mud. He wore a green shirt, and across the right side of his chest on the shirt was his name—Gabriel Asanti. With a flash of recognition, Nikki knew she just met the winemaker . . .
Dedication
In memory of my loving Grandmother Clara,
the kindest person I’ve ever known,
who always believed in me.
Acknowledgements
There are so many people who have helped me in this process of not only creating Murder Uncorked, but also the Wine Lover’s Mystery series. I’m certain that I will miss someone here and I apologize. I could go on for pages to acknowledge everyone who has helped me in writing this book and subsequently the series. I generously thank Quelene Slattery for all her expertise on wine, Terry Beswick for showing me around wine country, Bob from Grape Connections, Bob Hurley, Sergeant Davis, Holly Jacobs, Don McQuinn, Glenda Burgess, Elizabeth Lyon, and Karen at the Glen Ellen Inn. I also have to express the utmost gratitude to Emily Cotler and the team at Wax, Theresa Meyers at Blue Moon and to the best writing coach in the world—Mike Sirota and the gang, Paul, Mark, Ed, and Angela. This series would not be possible without the constant support from my first reader and red-liner, my wonderful mother-in-law Sue Vosseller. To Jessica Faust—agent extraordinaire, who patiently waited for the manuscript, and my gracious editor Samantha Mandor. I am grateful to have you both. Last of all I want to acknowledge my family—my children Alex, Anthony, and Kaitlin who left me alone to write (most of the time); also my husband John who used to throw away rejection letters so that I wouldn’t get discouraged. I want to acknowledge the two people in my life who taught me tenacity, patience, and how to go after my dreams without ever giving up—my parents Dal and Nina Scott, who have supported me and my dreams in every way possible. I love you both. Thank you.
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MURDER UNCORKED
A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the author
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Copyright © 2005 by Michele Scott.
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Chapter 1
Nikki Sands hated her job almost as much as she hated her past. She straightened her crisp white blouse and put on her best smile. She approached the couple at the table she was serving, and couldn’t help but notice the woman watching her with that unmistakable glint of self-importance that judged Nikki to be nothing but the peon who was waiting on them. The woman had a glamour-girl theme about her, but that hair needed a good hairdresser. Hadn’t she heard that frizzy platinum blonde was passé? Not to mention the Pat Benatar smoldering-eye-makeup look.
“Tell me about your wine list. What do you recommend as a good red?” the man asked her. His look, compared to his date’s, was all-the-way chic. Dark blond hair with exactly the right amount of wave to it, mesmerizing ocean-blue eyes, high cheekbones, a golden tan, and a few fine lines gave him the right amount of that rugged-man look. Nikki couldn’t help thinking that Casanova was luscious.
“I’m partial to this nice Medoc-Grand Cru Classe. It’s an excellent choice,” she said, pointing to one of the more expensive wines on the list. “The Bordeaux blend is smooth, and there’s a hint of fruit to it, so it’s not too dry.” If she’d had the money, the stylish Bordeaux would’ve been her first choice. The Medoc wines dated all the way back to Napoleon, and since that time had remained as some of the best out there. “But if you prefer something lighter, a good Red Zinfandel would be nice. We have a small production wine from Napa from the Downing Vineyards. It’s right here.” Nikki’s finger moved to the red zin. Glancing down at the man, her stomach lurched. He smiled up at her. “The Fly by Night Zinfandel,” she said.
“I think we’ll go with the Medoc,
” the man replied with an approving smile.
Nikki walked back to the bar to order the drinks from her pal and bartender, Maurice. She winced when an instrumental version of “Stormy Weather” started playing over the stereo system.
“What is it, doll?” Maurice asked. “You don’t like the oldies but goodies?”
“Are you kidding? I love them. What I can’t stand is that this place is supposed to be so upscale, yet we have to pipe in music on a system. I think management should really go all out and get a pianist in here.”
“They’re too cheap,” Maurice replied.
They both laughed, knowing that was the reality. Nikki glanced around to make sure their manager, Steve, wasn’t lurking. Nikki loved music of all kinds. She compartmentalized areas of her life by listening to music and songs. Stressful times, happy times, the handful of boyfriends, life in Los Angeles, and life in Tennessee, even her mother—all of them were associated with their own song, and each of them conjured up memories when she listened.
Nikki noticed that the woman from the table she was waiting got up to go to the powder room, Manolo Blahnik pumps click-clacking as she sauntered across the hardwood floor. She caught up with Nikki at the bar.
“Do us right, hon. I’d like tonight to be special, because I don’t want this one getting away.” She lowered her voice and leaned into Nikki, who got a whiff of her strong gardenia-scented perfume. “Tone down the wine expertise for me, okay?” The overblown blonde winked at Nikki, then proceeded into the rest room, coming back out after a few moments with her collagen-plumped lips painted raspberry-pink.
Something was wrong with this picture, but it wasn’t up to Nikki to make a judgment call. Lately, she’d been attempting to try something very anti-L.A. The concept of not judging others—something she found exceedingly difficult to do, especially in this case.
However, after that out-of-place comment and the trip to the bathroom to do the lacquer thing on those lips, Nikki shamefully threw her new practice out the window and made her first—okay, maybe third—judgment call of the evening. She dubbed the woman “The Bimbo.” What was that asking her to tone down the wine advice about anyway? She was supposed to make suggestions about wines. It was part of her job.
The Bimbo wore something that resembled a Band-Aid across her chest, with a skirt so tight and short that her date looked to be guaranteed to get a return on his dinner investment in the next few hours.
Nikki’s stomach knotted, noticing the way The Bimbo stared at her, as if she were so much better than Nikki, just because she could snag some rich guy. Although her night job was far from glamorous, Nikki was an aspiring actress, after all—a profession, which seemed to garner notice from some men. But, at that moment the thought of being an aspiring actress-cum-waitress made her feel slightly queasy. She’d checked the mirror before coming to work, and there were signs of age that wise women referred to as “the signs of a life well lived.” Nikki called them what they were: crow’s feet. And crow’s feet were the death of every aspiring actress.
The pesky wrinkles aside, Nikki felt pretty good about her looks. She still maintained her natural blonde hair, which she wore just past her shoulders, and she thought her eyes were her best feature. They were kind of a mix between green, gray, and blue, depending on what she was wearing. The handful of boyfriends Nikki had in the past always told her that she was beautiful, even sexy. She was comfortable with her looks, but she didn’t think of herself as a sexpot by any means. Besides, all those compliments had come from men who were hopeful to get a little booty and shake as paybacks to their endearments and attention. Most of the men she’d dated had turned out to be no good . . . But this was no time to think about rotten men. There was wine to be poured.
Nikki filled Casanova’s glass with a tasting of the velvety red potion. He swirled, smelled, sipped, swished, and swallowed. “Excellent,” he said. “It’s got a different flavor to it. I can taste the berry, but . . .” He looked up at her.
Nikki glanced at The Bimbo, who at that moment looked like a cat about to pounce on her prey. Nikki smiled sweetly. The hell with it. “You’re right, the berry is a currant, but it also has a very smoky blend, with tobacco and fatty flavors,” she replied, while filling both of their glasses.
“It does.”
“Fatty?” The Bimbo asked.
“She’s talking about a bacon-type fat. It’s not put into the wines, but it has to do with the fermentation process, as well as the age of the wood in which the wine gets barreled.”
“Fascinating.” The Bimbo looked up at Nikki. She was vibing some serious daggers. “I see you don’t serve foie gras?”
“Actually, we do,” Nikki replied. “But it’s not always available. May I suggest the escargot? It’s excellent. The chef does it in a puff pastry shell with a white wine and garlic sauce. It would also complement your wine.”
The Bimbo batted her false eyelashes and waved her hand in front of her nose. “I don’t like snails. I find them repulsive.”
Sure, but you’ll eat a poor little duck’s liver.
Casanova didn’t look like he had much empathy for his date. This was getting amusing. Nikki stifled a smile.
“I’m certain there must be something on the menu you’d like,” he chuckled.
“I wanted foie gras,” she whined. “I don’t know if I really want to eat here. It’s not like the service has been spectacular.” She looked Nikki up and down, finally glaring at her.
“I think the service is excellent,” Casanova said mildly.
“Why don’t you take another moment to decide, and I’ll be right back. I might add that, if you’d care for oysters, we are serving them tonight, and they are divine, and we have a lovely Pinot Grigio to complement them with.”
“Super,” The Bimbo replied, her voice laced with sarcasm. “While you’re back there, can you bring me a scotch and water? I’m not much of a wine drinker.”
Boy, this woman was scoring points with Casanova. Was she the same gal who only moments ago asked Nikki not to blow it for her? Her man had plunked down a mean chunk of change on a superb bottle of wine. Now, because she wasn’t getting her duck liver, she needed to make a scene. Nikki figured that from a man’s point of view, she must be good in bed, because why else would anyone put up with that?
Nikki walked to the bar and ordered The Bimbo’s drink.
“Hey, gorgeous, back so soon? Looks like you’ve got your hands full over there tonight.” Maurice nodded in the direction of Casanova and The Bimbo’s table.
“What else is new?”
“You tell me. How’s the acting going?”
“Honestly? It doesn’t seem to be going anywhere. It would appear I’m past my prime at thirty-four,” she said. “Since the few shows I did as Detective Sydney Martini bombed so badly, I don’t know, Maurice. Maybe it’s time for a career change. I don’t think I can handle working here forever.”
Maurice picked up a butter knife and feigned stabbing himself in the heart. “Oh, my apple dumpling, how those words hurt.”
Nikki waved a hand at him and giggled. She and Maurice did have a wonderful friendship, one they’d built over the past three years since she’d started work at the Chez la Mer. He was thirty years her senior and always a good listener. Nikki thought of him as the father she’d never had. “Face it, you love it here. You’ve been here for what, ten years?”
“Twelve,” he replied.
“Twelve. Okay. But bartending is like being a psychologist. Sure, people place orders, but I’ve watched you, and I know how great you are with people. They talk to you. With me, it’s a rare smile and plenty of orders. If it isn’t just so, then I’m the fall guy.”
“Excuse me,” The Bimbo sang out over the din, “Yoohoo.”
Maurice handed her the drink. “I could put a little magic in there, if you know what I mean.” He slyly took out a bottle of eyedrops from his shirt pocket. “She’d leave him high and dry and have to head for the drug store, for
a box of Imodium AD.”
“Nah, that’s okay. That’d be bad karma, and I’ve racked up plenty of that already. I can handle her.” Nikki placed the drink on her tray and walked back over to the table.
“It’s about time. Did you enjoy your chat with the bartender?” The Bimbo asked her.
“Sabrina,” the man chided gently. “She’s doing her job.”
Nikki smiled at him. The Bimbo cleared her throat, as if Nikki were committing a crime by smiling at her date. “I apologize. Consider it on the house,” Nikki said, setting down the drink. But as she did, the woman shifted and started to stand. The drink spilled all over her short skirt.
The Bimbo gasped, her eyes wide with shock from the cold drink seeping down her scantily clad body. “You idiot! Are you totally incompetent? What the hell is wrong with you? This is a freaking Versace. You know Versace?” She rolled her eyes at Nikki. “Why am I bothering to say this to someone who buys her clothes at Wal-Mart?”
That hurt. Especially since she’d bought her shirt at Target, which she pronounced “Tarjay.” Don’t go there. Don’t tell her what she really is. Don’t . . .
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