Full Bodied Murder

by Christine E. Blum

  The mood at Joe and Sally’s Christmas party was nothing but festive.

  We’d cried and talked out poor Cassie and her problems for hours and hours in the last two days. We’d circled around Carl, who was truly in shock. He decided to go to Arizona to be with his son, and planned to stay for a month. Time heals all wounds. And we’d been assured that Cassie would be getting the help that she needs.

  It turned out that Cassie came from a long line of grifters; the gypsy life was in her blood. As was her inherited mental disease. When she met Carl, she tried to put that all behind her, he was the only one she’d married.

  I’d had an inkling of something when I first met her. She tried so hard to be sweet and giving, but if that caused the spotlight to move off of her and onto you, she would quickly course correct. Some things I just couldn’t explain to myself at the time. Her abrupt departure from Wine Club when Rosa’s dogs were mentioned, her knife skills that she exhibited every time she brought food to our meetings.

  She rarely let Carl out of her sight and controlled which of his belongings could be set in any room but his sealed off study. Yet with that amount of control, she claimed to not know what was on his camera, even though she was an expert at using it, and she pretended to be oblivious to any financial issues.

  Finally, she was the only one who didn’t get some kind of warning from the alleged murderer.

  At the first Wine Club after her arrest, Peggy suggested after we’d consumed three bottles of a robust Shiraz from Beckman vineyards, that we each tell our favorite Cassie story.

  Such a shame, there was so much to love about her.

  I was standing near the bar, of course, talking to Joe and Tom when Aimee joined us with news.

  “I just talked to Ali Baba, he’s back home, he sounds really happy!” Aimee told us.

  “Probably thanks to the whacky tabacky,” Peggy said, joining us.

  “Aw, he’s a good guy, I’m so glad Jack was able to talk him into giving up Ray and Inez’s big shipment,” Sally said. “Joe would you get me one of those kebob thingies that are going around? Sauce on the side please!”

  “What’s the latest on Musso?” Aimee asked.

  “I talked to him and then Augie yesterday. He’s got to pay down his tax debt and do some community service, but since he helped with the video that we now know shows Cassie, that may be it,” I said.

  “Now he’s got to heal his broken heart. I guess Rosa was already dipping back into drugs when he asked her to marry him, and she wouldn’t even think of putting him through that,” Aimee said.

  “He’s a good guy, and don’t think that Tala is in the clear, I still have some friends in certain places,” Peggy said, winking.

  At the other end of the room, I spotted Marisol and two of her daughters. It was funny to see her acting kind of shy, I guess she is just most comfortable peering from behind drapes or spying with her network of planted nanny cams.

  I heard the doorbell and saw Jack walk in. I had hoped that he’d had time to change from dog training; everyone had dressed up for the occasion.

  He didn’t disappoint.

  He had on creamy chocolate cords, a cashmere Glen plaid cardigan over a white shirt, and a green striped bow tie. And dress shoes.

  This I had never seen.

  “Wow, if I beg you, will you dress up like this all the time?” I asked, kissing him.

  “Kinda fun every once in a while. Dinner later? I’ve got a surprise place in mind.”

  “You always do.”

  We heard the clinking of a glass and Sally took the floor.

  “Joe and I want to thank you all for coming and wish you the merriest of holidays. We are so blessed to have such lovely friends and we cherish you all. Cheers!”

  We raised our glasses, drank, and were about to go back to our conversations when Peggy stepped up to the floor and made an even louder noise with her glass.

  “There is one more bit of business to take care of. As many of you know, some of the ladies here partake in what we affectionately call the Rose Avenue Wine Club.”

  “Yeah.” Aimee clapped.

  “Well, today we want to welcome our newest member.”

  Peggy held up a silver miniature flask like the one I’d received upon joining. It was engraved with the words, ROSE AVENUE WINE CLUB.

  “Marisol, please come up an accept your membership gift.”

  Now everyone applauded. I saw Marisol consider a quick dash for the door, but both her daughters grabbed her and escorted her up to receive her gift. She was beet red and my heart was bursting. I thought about how lucky I was to have her as a neighbor, one who saved my life, no less. Then I remembered that I still needed to sweep my house for bugs and hidden cameras that she’d probably planted.

  “Gosh, look at all these empty bottles,” Sally said, eyeing the counter of her bar.

  “Don’t worry, tomorrow’s trash day,” I said.

  What the Rose Avenue Wine Club Drank

  2008 “Quady North Steelhead Run Vineyard” Applegate Valley Viognier

  2010 “Bodegas Montecillo Rioja Reserva” Tempranillo from Rioja, Spain

  2012 “Vina Bujanda Crianza” Tempranillo from Rioja, Spain

  Emilio Lustau “Solera Reserva los Arcos” Dry Amontillado Sherry

  Croft “Ruby Port” Red Blend from Portugal

  2015 “Miraval Rose” Rosé from Provence, France

  2014 “Tiefenbrunner Pinot Bianco” Pinot Blanc from Trentino-Alto Adige, Italy

  2013 “Valle Reale Trebbiano d’Abruzzo” from Trentino-Alto Adige, Italy

  2013 Henry Fessy “Chateau des Labourons Fleurie” Gamay from Beaujolais, France

  2012 Rosenblum Cellars Zinfandel California “Désirée Chocolate Dessert Wine”

  2010 “Gavalas Xenoloo” Megalochori Santorini, Greece

  2009 Hughes Cameron “Cabernet Sauvignon” Napa, Stag Leap District, California

  The Rose Avenue Wine Club Glossary of Wine Terms

  A

  AERATION:

  The process of letting a wine “breathe” in the open air, or swirling wine in a glass.

  RAWC: “I’m not waiting, it’ll swirl enough going down my throat.”

  AFTERTASTE:

  The taste or flavors that linger in the mouth after the wine is tasted, spit or swallowed.

  RAWC: “That’s what we do, taste after taste after taste . . .”

  ASTRINGENT:

  Describes a rough, harsh, puckery feel in the mouth, usually from tannin or high acidity, that red wines (and a few whites) have.

  RAWC: “Sounds like the Brie is overripe, just toss it and move on to the English cheddar.”

  B

  BACKBONE: Used to denote those wines that are full-bodied, well-structured, and balanced by a desirable level of acidity.

  RAWC: “What you need to live on Rose Avenue.”

  BIG: Describes wines with massive flavors that fill your tongue and mouth.

  RAWC: “The contribution we make to recycling each week.”

  C

  CHEWY TANNINS: Wine with this characteristic dries out the mouth interior so that you “chew” the tannins out of your mouth.

  RAWC: “Sally’s bowling name.”

  CRISP: Used to describe a simple white wine. RAWC: “Better buy extra; these wines go down easy.”

  D

  DECANTATION: Pouring of wine into a decanter to separate the sediment from the wine.

  RAWC: “What’s a little dirt among friends?”

  DENSE: Bold red wines with a multitude of flavors and characteristics.

  RAWC: “Time to break out the stinky cheeses.”

  E

  EARTHY: Wine with aromas and flavor of earth, such as forest floor or mushrooms.

  RAWC: “Manly.”

  F

  FAT: A wine with massive taste that may overwhelm.

  RAWC: “Who? Oh you mean the wine.”

  FLAMBOYANT: Wine with an abundance of fruit.

&nb
sp; RAWC: “If you’ve got it, flaunt it.”

  FOOD FRIENDLY: Wine that tastes best when drunk with food.

  RAWC: “This is why we’ve got two hands, right?”

  H

  HARD: Tannic tasting without charm or smoothness.

  RAWC: “Keep it for another week, it will mellow with age.”

  HINT OF . . . : Often not so subtle flavor profile.

  RAWC: “Sometimes you need to drink several glasses to find the hint.”

  L

  LIVELY: Used to describe a young wine with fruity acidity.

  RAWC: “Our discussions about murder and murderers.”

  LONG: Describes a quality wine with excellent flavors that linger in the mouth.

  RAWC: “The length of Marisol’s spying capabilities.”

  M

  MELLOW: Wine properly aged to soften and smooth drinking.

  RAWC: “Not in our lexicon!”

  N

  NOBLE: A clearly superior wine in all respects.

  RAWC: “We like to pronounce it ‘no bull’ as in what’s required at Wine Club.”

  O

  OAKED: Wine flavors and aromas outside the grapes that are imparted by the oak wine barrels they are stored in.

  RAWC: “Is that Eau de Oaked fragrance you’re wearing?”

  OPULENT: Wines that are rich, smooth, and bold.

  RAWC: “I’d rather be rich, smooth, and bold than poor, crusty, and mealy mouthed.”

  P

  PIQUANT: Pleasing fruit flavor and tangy acid balanced wine.

  RAWC: “Piquant? Of course you can.”

  PLONK: An inexpensive bottle of wine.

  RAWC: “The cheap stuff. Serve it last.”

  R

  RICH: French term for a very sweet wine.

  RAWC: “I hope somebody brought the dark chocolate.”

  S

  SILKY: Refers to red wines that are creamy and velvety.

  RAWC: “I could drink this all day.” “You are.”

  SPLIT: A wine bottle that holds one-fourth of a typical bottle.

  RAWC: “Want to split a couple of bottles of wine?”

  T

  TANNIC: Refers to red wines that haven’t aged enough and are harsh tasting.

  RAWC: “You know what would make this wine better? Fruit. Sangria time.”

  TART: Young wines that are overly acidic and tannic.

  RAWC: “Makes your lips pucker, but not in a good way.”

  TASTING FLIGHT: A selection of wines presented for sampling only.

  RAWC: “Where’s he going with my wine? I wasn’t finished.”

  U

  UNCTUOUS: Wines layered with rich, lush, and soft fruity flavors.

  RAWC: “I’m unctuous to open another bottle.”

  Acknowledgments

  To my agent, Sharon Belcastro, and the exceedingly talented Ella Marie Shupe. Thank you for shepherding me to a path that welcomes humorous mystery. Thanks to John Scognamiglio and all the great people at Kensington Publishing. It has been a delight.

  And to my wonderfully encouraging friends Diane, Grace, Mark, Joellen, Aimee, Dorine, Sue and Lee, Dana, Christina, Pat, Nancy, Linda, Ofelia, and Betty. I owe each of you a bottle of fine wine.

  Oh and Bardot, there’ll be an extra bone in your bowl tonight.

  Please turn the page for an

  exciting sneak peek of the next

  Rose Avenue Wine Club mystery

  MURDER

  MOST

  FERMENTED

  Coming soon wherever

  print and e-books are sold!

  Chapter 1

  “DIRT?”

  I said to my yellow Lab, Bardot, while we were trudging up the hill.

  “For my birthday they got me dirt?”

  As the incline sharpened so did the weight of the wagon I was pulling behind me, loaded with shovels and claws and other garden accoutrements that had been included with this oh-so-thoughtful, gift.

  Nothing about this early morning trip was pleasant until I had an idea. Slowly and without her noticing, I tied the end of Bardot’s leash to the handle of the wagon. She couldn’t have cared less because the promise of open space and critters filled her with excitement from her nose to her caudal vertebrae.

  I prepared myself and took in some deep breaths from my diaphragm.

  “SQUIRREL!” I yelled and then lowered myself into the wagon like a Luge racer starting down the track.

  We reached the top in no time but here was the problem, Bardot hadn’t found the squirrel yet. Which meant that we kept on going. She veered right and ran to the only thing better than a squirrel, people. To her excitement, she’d found not just adults but a team of four- and five-year-old little leaguers. When she stopped to be adored, I had two choices: do nothing and be convicted of manslaughter, or do a self-imposed wipeout to stop the momentum of the wagon. I chose the latter and was dumped out onto the dirt road. A bright yellow kneeling pad with a smiling frog on it landed appropriately across my face. The group, assured that I was okay when I sat up, quickly went back to the Bardot lovefest.

  Oh, she’s working it all right.

  This might be a good point to stop and bring you up to speed.

  I am Halsey, which is actually a truncated moniker for Annie Elizabeth Hall, the name on my birth certificate. You can see why I needed a nickname shortly after being weaned. My parents were not playing some kind of cruel joke on me. They just weren’t big Woody Allen fans. After that, they did a pretty good job of raising me.

  I have my own company writing code and designing websites; a job that allowed me to pack up my toys and move to a Los Angeles beach community after my marriage and life in New York City went up in smoke. That was just over a year ago and boy, have things changed.

  You’ve met Bardot, she’s an American Field Lab versus an English Lab; she’s smaller, much leaner, and built with a Ferrari engine. She is hardwired to run through caustically thorny brambles and crash into pond ice to retrieve whatever form of fowl you have shot out of the sky. Since I am not a hunter, and the only ice that can be found three miles from the beach is crushed in a margarita, she has developed other skills. The highlight? She can dive underwater. Deep underwater. Try twelve feet underwater. Which actually saved my life once. But that’s a story for later.

  Now to the “they,” I refer to the ones who celebrated the anniversary of my birth with a gift of dirt. I am proud to be part of this coterie of oenophiles who call themselves the “Rose Avenue Wine Club,” because well, we all live on Rose Avenue and we all enjoy a touch of the grape. Our members range in age from thirty-two to eighty-seven and are an all-female cast of characters that imbibe shamelessly and say whatever comes to mind. Everyone has a story and last year the group created a new one through crime and murder that now binds us together for life.

  More on that later.

  I’m not really being fair when I call my gift “dirt.” I don’t want to appear ungrateful, it really was very thoughtful on many levels and ties me more deeply to my new life in Mar Vista, California.

  At the top and Eastside of Rose Avenue sits a hill that in the 1930s and ’40s was home to truck farms, producing vegetables to take to market. A particularly rich area for agriculture, Mar Vista historically played host to fields and fields of lima beans giving rise to the title, “Lima Bean Belt of the Nation.”

  The open land is still preserved today despite continuous offers from drooling developers, and is home to a local little league and a community garden offering six acres of fifteen-by-fifteen-foot plots of incredibly rich soil that seems to defy even the least adept of horticulturists.

  My gift is making more and more sense.

  I am told that, like any apartment in New York that has running water, people wait for the owners of these plots to die in order to pounce on the coveted patches of soil. That makes my share, which was not the result of a recent death but the final settlement of a probate, all the more special.

  When it was time fo
r the young boys of summer to take to the field and when most of the gardeners had dispersed, I righted my wagon, gathered the last modicum of dignity I possessed and consulted my map for the plot’s location. I had skinned knees and elbows making this thirty-something look more like an over-grown middle grader.

  * * *

  The shade provided welcome relief as I plopped down beside my garden to be. I was pleasantly surprised to find that the soil had been turned over; with the drought I had fully expected to see a dry crust from a long time of neglect. I wasn’t planning to accomplish much today, this was basically a scouting mission to give me enough to do some substantive online research. You see my plan was to grow grapes.

  “Someday this will all be ‘Halsey Vineyards,’ Bardot.”

  She looked around wondering if any of the words in that sentence were euphemisms for “critter.” My chore for the day was to start to aerate the soil to get it ready to accept and nurture the vines. This wasn’t going to happen overnight, but at least I’d feel like I’d accomplished something.

  I chose the shovel with the more tapered head and went to work. The goal was to loosen as much of the old soil as possible. Grapevine root systems like to run deep. This got Bardot curious, she’d never seen me do this kind of activity before. With each toss of the dirt she peered into the hole, hoping for anything that moved.

  Sure enough, after working a section for a bit, I hit something more than dirt. Something that made a clanging sound when the shovel made contact with it.