A Case of Syrah, Syrah

by Nancy J. Parra

  “Usually,” I said. “I give a discount if they prepay. Laura chose not to go that route.”

  “So you didn’t get paid.” It was more statement than question.

  “I got a third down payment, but no, I didn’t get the rest of the money. Laura died before she could pay me.”

  “That had to make you angry,” he said. “Is that why you went to see Dan? To ask for the money?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Just checking,” he said and sat up straight. “Have a nice day, Taylor.”

  Right, like that was going to help things. I used my phone to dig up the contact information to my identity-theft insurance company. I walked out of the police station and made a phone call on my way to the van. I had a nice talk with Priti about my problem, and she assured me that they’d handle everything for me. I got into my van and saw that I needed to get going. My clients would be arriving at the winery in fifteen minutes.

  This tour group was from the Sunshine Senior Assisted Living Center. I kept my tour groups small for a reason. It was more personal, I thought, and allowed me to have more one-on-one time with every member of the group.

  I pulled into the winery parking lot as the ladies were disembarking from the home’s minibus. It only took me a minute to put my van into park and reach for my tour clipboard. “Welcome, ladies,” I said. “I hope you wore your walking shoes. We have an outdoor sculpture tour today.”

  “Oh, we’re ready for the exercise,” the first woman said.

  I glanced at my clipboard. “Are you Irene?”

  “That’s me,” she said. Irene wore a turquoise tracksuit, and her blue-gray hair was caught up in a short ponytail. “Thanks for hosting us today.”

  “It’s my pleasure,” I said. “Let’s do a roll call as we get into my van.”

  “Oh, I thought you had that fun and funky old VW bus.”

  “I did, but it’s out of service for the week,” I said.

  “I hope nothing is terribly wrong.”

  “Oh, no, it’s being inspected.” I was coy with my answer as I didn’t want to freak anyone out.

  “Are you the one who found that dead girl the other day?” the second woman, who identified herself as Debbie, asked. She was shorter with a shock of white hair and a lovely tan.

  “I’m sorry?” I said.

  “The dead girl at Quarryhill,” she said and turned to the third woman off the van, who wore yoga pants, an athletic jacket, and a fanny pack around her waist. “Isn’t that what you said, Shelly? Our tour girl was the one who found the dead body?”

  “Yes,” Shelly said. “It was you, right? We’re so excited to see if you find any dead bodies on our tour.”

  “We love a good crime to solve,” Debbie said.

  “Yes, I found her,” I admitted with a small smile, “but I hope to never have that experience again.”

  “Darn, I was so looking forward to something of interest,” Shelly said.

  I shook my head. “Come on, ladies. Let’s get into the minivan and buckled up. Di Rosa is waiting for us.”

  Along the way, I told some local stories about the art movements in California, both past and present. I came to learn that Debbie and Shelly ran the cozy-mystery book club for the senior center. Irene, Mary, Gladys, and Barb were also members—which was why the ladies hadn’t canceled today’s tour. They wanted to know all about how I had found Laura and who I thought had killed her. The ladies quizzed me more than the cops had.

  “But seriously, who do you think killed Laura and why?” Debbie asked one more time as I pulled up to the parking lot of the museum site. I parked and turned around.

  “All I can say is that I didn’t do it,” I said. “Now, ladies, I’ve got your tickets to get in. They’ll take us from the parking lot to the farm in a trolley, and we’ll walk from there. I’ll open some wine during the ride and pour you each a glass. We’ll have an hour to view the outdoor sculptures. After that, I’ll serve more wine and tapas before we head over to the winery for our picnic.”

  “What do we do if we find a dead body?” Shelly asked.

  “You won’t find a dead body,” I reassured her.

  “Unless one of us dies,” Debbie chuckled.

  “Please don’t die,” I said. “I’ve got enough problems without that.”

  “Well, we’ll do our best not to die, honey,” Mary said. “But we’re old, so we don’t make promises.” She laughed at my expression of horror.

  “Stop,” Debbie said. “You’re going to make her afraid to tour with people over fifty.”

  “How old was the yoga teacher?” Shelly asked.

  “I’m not sure,” I said. “She looked like she was in her early fifties.”

  “See, I told you she was going to get paranoid about older people,” Debbie said with a grin.

  The ladies turned out to be full of stories from their glory days. We walked the grounds, looking at a sculpture of a glass house made from bottles and another of a man lying on his side.

  “This would be a great place to find a dead body,” Mary said.

  “Stop,” I protested.

  “No, really, who do you think did it?”

  “It couldn’t have been anyone in the group,” I said. “Surely the killer would have had blood on their clothing. No one but Dan and I had any blood on them, and that’s because we ran down to check on her.”

  “In books, the sleuth goes over every person. Let’s do that. You said there were three yoga teachers there.”

  “Yes,” I said as we dodged a peacock and walked toward a red metal sculpture. “Emma, Rashida, and Juliet.”

  “What connection did they have to Laura?”

  “They all took her mastermind classes and spread the word.”

  “So they were her evangelists,” Mary said. “One of them could’ve done it. For that matter, all three could have and then alibied each other.”

  “Ooh, that’s good,” Debbie said. “One could have stabbed her, the other twisted the screw, and the third tossed her down the hill. Then they all cleaned up and covered for each other. I mean, who would suspect yoga teachers?”

  “What could Laura have possibly done to make them so angry?” I had to ask.

  “Maybe she was a tyrant and they were too scared to leave,” Debbie suggested.

  “Maybe she was blackmailing them,” Irene piped up.

  “What could she possibly have on them to blackmail them with?” Shelly asked.

  I thought about the list of identity information. Laura would have gotten their social security numbers because they worked for her. Maybe she was collecting the identities of all her seminar attendees and selling them on the black market. No, I shook my head and dismissed the thought as farfetched. “You know, Rashida had on a Windbreaker when we started the hike, and it was missing when we ended the hike.”

  “Oh, Rashida could have used the Windbreaker to keep arterial spray off of her when she plunged the corkscrew in and twisted.”

  “Now that’s gruesome,” I said.

  “She could have had a lot of built up rage,” Shelly said. “I know I did right after my divorce. Hey, did Rashida just get divorced?”

  “I have no idea,” I said. I supposed I needed to ask her. “Ladies, let’s keep walking,” I said as we approached another piece of art. “I’m sure that Sheriff Hennessey has the investigation well in hand.”

  “What about Sally?” Shelly said. “She seems like the least likely suspect. Sometimes the least likely suspect turns out to be the killer. You know how they always say the serial killer next door seemed like such a nice man?”

  “Oh, so she’s less likely than me to have killed Laura?” I teased.

  “Less likely than the others in the group,” Shelly said with a blush. “We know you didn’t do it.”

  “How do you know that?”

  That stopped them short for a moment. I laughed. “I did not do it.”

  They all laughed with relief on their faces. I shook my head.
Who knew that old people could be so morbid? I started thinking about all three yoga teachers taking part in the murder and then alibiing each other. If that were the case, someone would crack sooner or later. Right?

  Chapter 11

  Tour complete, I thought long and hard about what the seniors had said. It was a quick decision to call Rashida. Unfortunately, I got her voice mail. “Hello, Rashida, it’s Taylor O’Brian. I was calling with a question. If you could call me back today that would be great.”

  I had a few minutes before I was supposed to have a phone meeting with my Google friend over tracing the e-mails Laura received. Maybe if I went to the yoga studio, I could talk to Rashida or one of the other two ladies. Holly had told me that the yoga classes had continued as a way of keeping the community together after Laura’s death.

  The car ride there was filled with dodging crazy traffic. I arrived just as a class was starting. I could see them gathering in the biggest studio. I got out and went inside.

  “Excuse me,” I said to the receptionist. “Is Rashida teaching today?”

  “She called in sick,” the receptionist said. “We have Tandy, our substitute from Turtles Yoga, filling in for her today. Wait—aren’t you Taylor O’Brian?”

  “Yes,” I said and stepped back, expecting her to kick me out.

  “Did you want to talk to Sally or Juliet? They’re both here and were on your tour.”

  Surprised, I nodded. “Sure.”

  “Hang on, and I’ll get them for you.”

  Five minutes later, I wondered if I should just leave. Why was Rashida not answering her phone? Maybe if she was sick, she was sleeping. I could go and see if she needed anything. I had no idea where she lived, but one of the other ladies might tell me.

  “Taylor?” Juliet said as she stepped inside the lobby. “Is everything okay?”

  “Sure,” I said and gave her a hello hug. “How are you?”

  “Well, things have been a little nuts,” she said and stood a foot away and studied me awkwardly. After a few moments of silence, we both started talking at the same time. “What brings you here?”

  “I wanted to ask about Rashida.”

  “Oh,” Juliet said and gave an awkward laugh. “Go ahead.”

  “I came to see Rashida,” I said. “I know you three went down the hill together that day.”

  “Yes, we did,” Juliet said. “We didn’t see anything.”

  “I saw in a photo that Rashida had a Windbreaker-type jacket on at the start of the hike, but she didn’t have it by the end. Do you know what happened to it?”

  “Oh, gosh, I don’t remember a jacket. Sorry,” she said and pursed her lips.

  “Someone suggested that the coat might have been used to prevent the killer from being covered in blood.”

  “Oh, that’s terrible,” Juliet said and covered her mouth. “Who would do that? Poor Rashida—to think that her jacket might have been used by a killer. Wait, do the police think this really happened?”

  “Oh, no,” I said. “It wasn’t the police.”

  “I see, so it was you who was speculating how the jacket was used?”

  “I—”

  “Do you have any evidence that it was used?” Her eyes narrowed.

  “No—”

  “And you came here to do what? Confront Rashida?” Her chin went up, and her hands curled on her hips.

  “I—”

  “I think you should leave.”

  “Right,” I said and let my mouth form a thin line. “For the record, I wasn’t pointing any fingers. I just wanted—”

  “To pin the murder on one of us,” she said. “Well, our alibis are tight. If I were you, I’d let the police do their job. Good-bye, Taylor.” She turned on her heel and left in a big huff.

  I winced and thanked the receptionist on the way out. She sent me a puzzled look, but I decided I’d done enough talking for now. Whatever had happened to Rashida’s jacket, it was clear that Juliet wasn’t about to change her alibi. Which meant that most likely the ladies were as innocent as I was.

  Without any evidence, there wasn’t any reason to think otherwise.

  I sighed and got into my car in time to call my Google friend. “Hey, Mike,” I said. “What did you learn about the source of the e-mails threatening Laura?”

  “I followed them as deep as I could,” he said, sounding disappointed. “There’s no proof they’re not just what they seem to be—random e-mails. Sorry I couldn’t come up with anything more definitive.”

  “It’s okay,” I said. “I appreciate that you tried. I’ll owe you dinner next time I’m in town.”

  “Sure thing,” he said, and I could hear the grin in his voice. “Take care, Taylor.”

  “You too,” I said and hung up. So the threats turned out to be a dead end. If Laura had a single stalker, he was too good to leave an electronic trail.

  * * *

  “Here’s to your first successful tour.” Aunt Jemma raised a glass of wine to toast me. We sat with Holly out on the patio of the winery later that night and watched the stars come out. Clemmie sneaked around under our chairs, while Millie sat at my feet chewing a rope bone. I had to admit that the puppy was doing very well with her potty training. It really helped that we spent a lot of time outside at the winery.

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “And they weren’t concerned by the murder?” Holly asked.

  “Apparently it was precisely because of the murder that they wanted to see me. The ladies like to think of their book club as a detective agency.”

  “Like I said, murder tours is a good marketing hook,” Holly said.

  “No, thank you,” I said. “I’m not willing to go down that gimmicky alley. I like what I’m doing. There are so many hidden gems in Sonoma County. How’s the art gallery going?”

  Holly shrugged. “The latest exhibition hasn’t been that great. I don’t understand it. Hanson’s work is pure eclectic northern Californian art. People usually line up for that kind of thing, but I think I’ve sold one piece in the last three weeks.”

  “Maybe you need to find a different marketing hook,” I teased.

  “First I need to restore my identity,” Holly said. “I learned today that someone in Georgia tried to take a mortgage out in my name.”

  “How can they do that?” Aunt Jemma asked.

  “All they need are fake identity papers and collateral,” Holly said.

  “Wait, you said almost took out a mortgage. What stopped them?” I asked.

  “The mortgage company saw the flag on my credit report and stopped. They called my bank and discovered I was still in California. My bank contacted me.”

  “Good save,” Aunt Jemma said. “What would’ve happened if they’d succeeded?”

  “I guess I’d have to go to court to get my name back and the mortgage terminated.”

  “Court fees are expensive. Wow,” I said. “Did you call Patrick?”

  “Yes, thanks,” she said with a smile and sipped her wine. “He gave me the name of this guy in northern San Francisco who specializes in identity theft. I can’t believe that dating site got hacked like that. I was stupid and should have never posted that information. Still, I don’t know how the thief got my social security number.”

  “Did you know that Laura had your info on a memory card, along with mine and several other people?” I took a sip of wine.

  “No, I didn’t.” Holly drew her eyebrows together. “What was she doing with my information?”

  “I suspect she got mine when I did some advertising work for her. It’s how we first met.”

  “Wait—I did some contract work for her as well,” she said. “Dan asked me to redo their logo. I don’t usually do things like that, but the extra money was good. Or so I thought.”

  “Does Sheriff Hennessey think that Laura was selling the information?” Aunt Jemma asked.

  “Why else would she have a memory card on her at our tour? She had to have been planning to meet someone and give
it to them,” I said.

  “Why not e-mail them?” Holly asked.

  “Using the card means the government can’t track the information back to Laura’s IP address,” I replied.

  “Why do you think she was selling our information?” Aunt Jemma asked. “I thought her business was going well.”

  “It was,” I said, “but apparently for the wrong reasons.”

  “So whoever she met might have killed her.”

  “I don’t know,” I said and pursed my lips. “If they killed her, why didn’t they take the SD card?”

  “Maybe they couldn’t find it. Or maybe she changed her mind and couldn’t go through with the sale.” Holly took a gulp of wine.

  “But your identity was stolen. So she had to have gone through with the sale.”

  “No, remember, I got a notice from the online dating website that they’d had a breach. My identity might’ve been stolen even before Laura got a hold of it.”

  “Or maybe she wasn’t selling the information at all,” Aunt Jemma mused.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean that the SD card may not mean anything,” Aunt Jemma said. “She might have been transferring information from one computer to the next and forgot it was in her pocket. We simply don’t know.”

  “But Sheriff Hennessey thought it was identity theft,” I said.

  “I’m playing the devil’s advocate,” Aunt Jemma said.

  Holly sighed. “I hate that I’m going through this and you’re still a person of interest.”

  “But at least today’s tour was a success,” Aunt Jemma said. “When’s your next one?”

  “Tomorrow. It’s a group of writers in from the crime fiction conference in Oakland.”

  “That should be fun.”

  “I’m sensing a theme here,” Holly teased.

  “The one after that is a family reunion,” I pointed out. “So no theme, just coincidence.”

  There was the sound of glass breaking, and we all stood and looked at each other. Then more glass broke even closer to us. “What was that?” Aunt Jemma asked.

  “Are Juan or Julio around?” I opened the patio door, and we went into the house. Millie ran by me, but I was quick enough to grab her. If there was broken glass in the house, I didn’t want her paws in it.