He brushed my arm. “Are you okay?”
“I’m worried about Chef C. I’m sure you could see she isn’t well. Losing her sister has set her adrift, and with Tyson thinking she might be guilty of murder…” I twisted in my seat. “She didn’t do it.”
“Of course she didn’t.”
We passed the town of St. Helena, every shop on the thoroughfare busy with foot traffic, and continued on.
“Are we heading to Healdsburg?” I asked.
“Not quite that far. So, tell me, have you put any thought into who might have killed Renee? Do you have a suspect in mind?”
I glanced sideways at him.
“C’mon,” he said. “I know you. You’ve got theories.”
“Why would you think—”
“Because you’re the most caring woman I know. Plus, you’re observant, and the sister of the victim is staying in your home, not to mention that your bistro must be bedlam without her in attendance.”
“I’m doing pretty well on my own.”
He grinned. “That wasn’t meant as a slight. You are not only the chef; you’re also the chief bottle washer. Plus, need I remind you that you have a festival on the grounds? If you solve this, your life can return to normal.”
I leaned back in my seat, pleased by how well he could read me. Was that a sign that we belonged together? “Okay,” I said. “If I were a betting woman, I’d say Renee’s husband Rusty killed her.”
“Why?”
“Renee wanted out of the egg-farming business. Maybe Rusty did, too, and decided that he could helm the festivals all by his lonesome.”
“He’s taken charge?”
“He sure has.”
“Are they a money earner?”
“They might be. I watched Rusty with the crowds yesterday. He seemed to be in his element.”
“Here we are.” Nash pulled to a stop near the entrance to Castello di Amorosa.
“You’ve got to be kidding,” I said. “We’re going wine tasting here?”
“I thought you could use a let-your-hair-down day.” He rubbed his knuckles along my cheekbone. “You’re tough, but let’s face it, seeing another dead body can’t have done you any emotional favors.”
Castello di Amorosa featured a huge castle at the top of its hill. Though it was a favorite tourist spot, I’d never been inside. Fourth-generation vintner Dario Sattui had built the castle and had made sure that it was faithful to the architecture of the twelfth- and thirteenth-century time period. It even had a moat, a drawbridge, defense towers, and notably one of the best underground wine caves in Napa Valley. A banner welcoming Crush Week enthusiasts spanned the entrance. Streams of people were tramping up the steep driveway. Signs mentioned that the two-level parking lot was full.
Nash made a U-turn and parked on the main road like others were doing. He exited the vehicle, dashed to my side to open my door, and offered his hand.
“Why, thank you, kind sir.”
“You are welcome, my lady.
“Are we going to mingle with all these people?” I stepped out of the car and brushed the seat belt wrinkles from my blouse.
“We have a private tour.” With his hand resting on my lower back, he guided me up the hill. “By the way, I didn’t have the heart to tell Camille, but we’ll have plenty to eat.”
I smiled. “The picnic will keep.”
“Wait until you see the knight’s chamber and the torture chamber inside the castle.”
“There really is a torture chamber?”
“Yep.”
“I’d heard about it but thought it was a rumor. Will I be freaked out? I’ve been known to jump into a date’s lap at scary movies.”
“You? Scared?” He wrapped an arm around my waist, guiding me over a few bumpy spots on the path. “I don’t buy it.”
“It happened once. The summer between my junior and senior year in high school. During a midnight showing of The Shining with Jack Nicholson. I was expecting a comedy. Wasn’t he known for his comedies?”
Nash laughed and drew me closer. “This is going to be fun. Boo!”
I mock-scowled at him. “Is the wine any good?”
“We’ll see.”
Chapter 9
We roamed the exterior grounds for thirty minutes, drinking in the incredible blue sky and evergreen views of the valley and neighboring vineyards, like Sterling, Paoletti, and Frank Family, to name a few, before we headed toward the drawbridge entrance to start our tour.
For the next few hours, Nash and I tabled any discussion about Camille or the murder. The castle tour was intriguing. The details Sattui had included in the architecture were rich and authentic. The grand dining room with its tapestries was incredible. The torture chamber, complete with an Iron Maiden with spikes that would impale its victim when closed, was chilling to visit. As forewarned, Nash—the imp—poked me in the ribs numerous times to scare me. I jumped on cue.
At the end of our tour, we sat in the brick-lined tasting room, arms propped on the counter, elbows touching, and listened as our tour guide introduced us to five different wines. She paired cheese with each tasting. My favorite pairing was the Chianti with Mimolette, a nutty orange cheese originally made at the request of Louis XIV who had wanted a French cheese to replace the popular, non-French Edam. The high acidity of the Chianti made the flavors of the cheese pop.
When our tour guide excused herself for a moment, I said, “Truth, Nash.” I set my wine glass on the counter. “Why did you bring me here?”
“Besides spending time with the most beautiful woman I know?”
“I think you have an ulterior motive.”
He ran a finger along my wrist. “Are you a mind reader?”
“I wish.” If only I could read the mind of Renee’s killer, I thought, and pushed the notion aside. I was with Nash. On a date. Focus on the present, my mother would say. “The wine is good, the tour was fun, I’m enjoying the company, but this is not what I had in mind when I said we should go wine tasting. What is it about this area that interests you? It is the area and not the wine—as good as it was—right?”
“Nailed.” He squeezed my hand. “Yes. I’m looking to purchase a patch of land nearby on behalf of Nouvelle Vie Vineyards so we can start growing Merlot grapes.”
“Hasn’t Merlot wine become persona non grata, especially after the character in that Sideways movie panned it?”
“It’s making a comeback, and I love it. It’s smooth and goes with everything, including fish. It’s one of the primary grapes used in making Bordeaux wines.” For the next few minutes, he outlined his plan. He intended to make the Merlot using the “international style,” utilizing late harvesting to get the ripest grapes, which produced inky-colored wines with velvety tannins, rich with intense fruit flavors.
I listened, enthralled, loving how he talked about wine. His eyes lit up; his smile broadened. He clearly enjoyed what he did.
“Did my mother put you up to this?” I asked.
“She approved the plan.”
“And where is this prime piece of property? Next door?”
“See? You are psychic.”
“Aha. That’s why we roamed the exterior of the castle for a half hour before entering. You wanted to take a peek at the property from above.”
“No one can fool you.” He pecked my cheek.
“Did you like what you saw?”
“Indeed I did.”
We sipped for a wee bit longer. Afterward, we returned to his SUV and drove to the nearby winery with the land that was for sale.
For the next hour, we hobnobbed with a delightful elderly woman who had grown tired of running a vineyard. Her boys had married and moved away. They had no interest in making wine. They were interested in making money. Only money. Over the past three years, she had allowed her land to grow fallow. By the end of the hour, Nash and the woman had a handshake agreement. Nash’s realtor, who happened to be Jorianne’s father, would write up a contract.
We climb
ed into the Acadia as the sun was disappearing over the Mayacamas Mountain Range to the west.
“How about taking our picnic to my place for dinner?” I asked.
“What about that ham sandwich you promised me?”
“I’ll make it for you on our next date.”
Listening to one of his favorite artists, Bobby McFerrin, we battled traffic to Nouvelle Vie. “Don’t Worry, Be Happy” continued to play in my mind as we entered my cottage.
“Camille!” I called in case she was in a state of undress.
She didn’t answer. I caught sight of a note lying on the kitchen table. She had written it on a sheet of my cream-and-gold stationery.
Dear Mimi,
I consulted with Jorianne, and she found me a room at the inn. I think this is best for now. Thank you for your support. I hope you understand.
~ Fondly, Camille
I displayed it to Nash. “What do you think I should do?”
He shrugged. “She’s an adult.”
“With a stubborn streak.” I grabbed my cell phone, dialed the inn, and asked for Camille’s room. The receptionist said Camille had put a DO NOT DISTURB request on all calls. I hung up and gawked at Nash. “She asked for privacy. I should go over there and—”
“Now who’s being stubborn?” He removed the cell phone from my grip and kissed me. “Let’s eat. You’re hungry.”
“Don’t handle me.”
“Don’t mollycoddle her.”
The water in the fish tank burbled. I spun around. Cagney and Lacey were watching us.
I laughed. “You’re right. I need food and a gallon of water. I’m parched after all the wine.”
Nash set my cell phone on the counter, fetched two crystal goblets from the cupboard, and filled them with ice water while I set out green paisley mats, matching napkins, and two white bone china plates.
“Simple for a simple meal,” I said. “Okay with you?”
“Anything you do is okay with me.”
Chef C had created an amazing sauce for the sandwiches. It tasted like a mixture of mustard, honey, and rosemary with a hint of something else. Nutmeg, I decided. The flavors made the sliced turkey shine. I opened the door to the patio, and we sat in companionable silence, the only sounds that disturbed the moment being the crunch of the savory sweet potato chips and the waning chirruping of critters that were heading to bed for the night.
After our meal, I made tea. I carried the mugs to the kitchen table and noticed Nash staring at something to his right. “What’s caught your eye?”
He swiveled in his chair and hooked one arm over the back. “That dry-erase board looks pretty darned empty.”
I kept a dry-erase board on an easel in my kitchen so I could work out menus for the bistro ahead of our Monday morning tastings. I’d wiped it clean the night before, after Camille had drifted off. “What are you suggesting?”
“In June, you used it to compile a list of suspects when Bryan died. Why not do so now?”
“I told you on our drive, I don’t know anything, and Tyson—”
“Will appreciate your input.”
“In your dreams!” I cried. Tyson hadn’t responded to my earlier message. It was too late to call him.
Nash moved to the dry-erase board and picked up the marker. “C’mon. Granted, the sheriff’s department is a large, capable organization, but it’s stretched thin because of Crush Week. You saw how many black-and-whites were on the road today. Drunk drivers and fender benders are keeping the authorities plenty busy.” He offered the marker to me. “Go on. Jot down your thoughts and talk me through them. Start with Rusty Wells.”
Goaded into action, I joined him at the board and wrote Rusty’s name. Beside it I added possible motives: angry about divorce, jealous about Donovan, and money.
“Why would money be his motive?” Nash asked. “Did Renee have a life insurance policy?”
I reiterated the theory I’d shared on the drive to the winery—that Rusty might have wanted to get out of the egg-farming business as much as Renee had.
“Does he have an alibi?” Nash asked.
“It’s bogus.” I tapped the marker on the board. “But if he can’t corroborate his own, then he can’t confirm the one he provided for Camille, either.”
“That’s not good.” Nash rose and slipped behind me. He lifted my hair and kissed the nape of my neck.
I shivered in a good way and said, “Don’t distract me.”
“You love it.”
I murmured that I did and redirected my gaze to the board.
“Who else?” he asked. “Maybe someone on the festival staff was angry with her.”
“You’d know better than I would on that point. You were a volunteer.”
“I can’t think of a soul who didn’t like Renee. She was on top of things. She made sure people stayed hydrated and fed. And she was witty and funny.”
“She wasn’t always good-humored,” I countered. “In fact, she was quite condescending to Allie O’Malley.”
“You’re right. I remember the two of them going at it. Write down Allie’s name.”
I hesitated. “I’m not sure I should.”
“Why not?”
“Because the more I see her, the less I think she’s capable of murder. She seems too fragile. No, that’s not the word. She seems”—I wiggled the marker until I landed on—“demoralized. Beaten down.”
“Sometimes the downtrodden are the first to fight.”
“But even she’s smart enough to know that she couldn’t regain her business if Renee were dead. Not without a court battle.” I paused. “Except that’s not exactly true.”
“It’s not?”
“When she argued with Rusty, she told him Renee’s word was her bond, and that made the contract invalid.”
“She argued with Rusty?”
“Yes.”
“Does she have an alibi?”
“I don’t know.” Reluctantly I wrote Allie’s name on the board with her motive: festival control; money. “She’s on Tyson’s radar.”
“Good. Who else?” He started to rub my shoulders. “Donovan Coleman is innocent. He has a solid alibi.”
“Right.”
I wrote Parker Price’s name on the board.
“Why him?” Nash asked.
“I got a weird vibe from him yesterday. He and Rusty were exchanging barbs. Something he said made me wonder whether he’d had an affair with Renee. He said they hadn’t known each other well, but that could have been a lie.”
“Why would he kill her if he was having an affair with her?”
“Maybe she threatened to tell Felicity.”
Nash nodded. “Go on.”
“Right after that, Rusty, in true one-upmanship style, insinuated there might have been something between himself and Felicity.”
“Men are pigs.”
“Not you.”
“Not me.” He massaged my neck, working his deliciously strong thumbs along my spine.
“Come to think of it, Renee and Felicity had a tense chat the day you were volunteering. There was an undercurrent I couldn’t quite put my finger on. Maybe Felicity thought Parker was cheating with Renee.”
“Better write her name on the board. A woman might want to kill her competition.”
I obeyed and added the possible motives. For Parker: to end an affair or protect the secret. For Felicity: jealousy.
Hookups. Affairs. Rumors. What was the truth? After I set down the marker, I spun around. “Thanks for the massage. It—”
A flurry of feelings welled up inside me as I drank in his face. Unable to help myself, I threw my arms around his neck and kissed him. He encircled me with his arms and drew me closer.
After a long time, he released me and retreated a step. “Whoa. Talk about out of the blue. Well, not entirely out of the blue. We’d talked about a kiss after the ham sandwich, but then we didn’t have the ham sandwich, and I thought…” He scratched his head. “Maybe I should leave before
we, you know.” He waggled a finger between us. His mouth quirked up on one side. “Because I want to, but you…”
We hadn’t you know yet because I wasn’t ready. My husband had only been dead sixteen months. Nash had understood my struggle and was giving me space. Was I ready now? I was attracted to him, that was for sure, but, no, I wasn’t ready yet. I couldn’t give myself freely while worrying about Camille and her predicament.
“Soon,” I said, my voice thick with unspoken emotions.
“Promise?”
“Yes, now go.” I gave him a playful peck and pushed him toward the door. “Get out of here. No more thinking about murder and mayhem.”
“Or kissing.”
“Definitely no more thinking about kissing.”
He swung open the door and stepped outside. He hesitated on the doorstep and turned back. His face grew serious. “I had a great time today, Mimi.”
“Me, too.”
“I love sharing Napa with you.”
My cheeks warmed. Oh, man, I was toast.
“One more thing…” He clasped my hand and drew me out to the landing. He cupped my chin and gazed at me for a long, intense moment. “At some point, we should discuss us.” Before I could respond, he kissed me gently and said, “G’night,” and then trotted along the path toward the parking lot, waving until he was out of sight.
Dreamily I pivoted to reenter my place but froze when I heard something rustle around the side. “Raymond?” I called. Our dedicated gardener often went hunting at night for creepy-crawly things that might damage the garden plants. When he didn’t answer, I said, “Nash?” thinking maybe he had skirted around the cottage to surprise me. He’d had so much fun scaring me in the torture chamber.
Silence.
My heart snagged in my chest. Dang, I hated feeling edgy. I’d been fearless when I lived in San Francisco. After the few run-ins I’d experienced in Nouvelle Vie in June, however, I wasn’t as confident.
I hurried inside and started to swing the door shut. A split second before it closed, Scoundrel bounded inside.
A Soufflé of Suspicion Page 10