A Sunny McCoskey Napa Valley Mystery 2: Death by the Glass

by Nadia Gordon

  She closed the door behind them and leaned against her desk. Steve remained standing. “Well?” she asked.

  “Normally it takes at least three days to get results on this kind of request, but I was able to pull some strings and get ours priority.”

  She nodded. “And?”

  His eyes sparkled fiercely. “Negative. There was nothing in that glass that wasn’t supposed to be there.”

  “I don’t believe it! Is it possible they made a mistake?”

  “They didn’t, but I did. I hate to admit it, but you just about had me convinced. Now the guys in Sacramento think I’ve got an overactive imagination, and I have one hell of an interesting report to write.”

  “I’m sorry, Steve. I thought for sure that was it. Everything seemed to fit so well.”

  Steve shook his head. “No, there was nothing. I should have known. It was all conjecture. There is no evidence that Nathan was murdered.”

  She stared out the window at a row of olive trees flanking the parking lot. “Well, that’s it then.”

  He gave her a curt nod. She followed him out.

  “Bye, Sunny. See ya, Chavez,” he said.

  “Bye, Steve.”

  Rivka watched him close the door behind him, then turned to Sunny. “Well?”

  “Negative.”

  A trio of chits had stacked up at the dessert station. Sunny went to work on them, grateful for busy hands.

  Steve’s news was a shock, but it didn’t take long to realize what it really meant. By the time the restaurant closed, Sunny knew what she needed to do. It was easy enough to reach Sharon Rastburn, who had no difficulty remembering that Nathan had requested his usual after-dinner brandy on Saturday night from Remy Castels. She believed, but was not certain, that Dahlia Zimmerman had brought the drink to the table.

  “And you didn’t join him?” asked Sunny.

  “We did not. We’d had a good deal of wine with dinner and the last thing I wanted was more alcohol. And we’re not really brandy people.”

  “And Nathan, would you say he was drunk at that point?”

  “Not drunk, but he was pleasantly tipsy.”

  Sunny said casually, “It’s such a special drink. Do you think he could really appreciate it at the end of the night like that?”

  “Hardly. But he wouldn’t savor it anyway. Nathan was not a sipper. He knocked the whole glass back in one go.”

  “So he would drink it like a shot?”

  “Exactly. Usually with an espresso chaser. It wasn’t just the flavor he liked about that particular Armagnac, though I’m sure that was part of it. It was the tradition. It was a tribute to his origins. He liked the fact that it had been aging in a barrel in France for as long as he’d been alive.”

  Sunny hung up the phone and stared at the wall of cookbooks in her office. There was just enough time to catch Monty before he left work.

  The parking lot at Foley’s Wine was mostly empty. Inside, Monty Lenstrom was busy with a customer. Bill Foley wandered over to welcome Sunny, tickling her nose with a beardy kiss.

  “What brings you to these parts, McCoskey?” he said gruffly, as though “these parts” referred to the Indian-ravaged plains of western Wyoming.

  “The usual.”

  “Lenstrom?”

  She nodded.

  “He has all the luck.”

  Sunny patrolled the bins and racks while she waited for Monty. The sight of each familiar label hefted an old memory to the surface, an evening or an era.

  “Sunny!” said Monty, coming over. “I’m glad you’re here. I have something to show you.”

  They went around back to one of the tasting rooms.

  “This just arrived.” He put two bottles of 1998 Marceline on the table. “You see how they’re packaged differently? I can swap the labels, but the foil is still different.”

  “Actually, it’s amazing there aren’t more distinctions,” said Sunny. “Essentially, all I have to do is swap the labels and nobody but the experts can tell the difference.”

  “The system, like most systems, relies upon the honesty and good intentions of the participants. And the fact that if the seller gets caught they’re out of business and into jail.”

  Sunny nodded. “You don’t think the foil colors could be different for a very old bottle? Maybe they changed it back in the sixties?”

  “I don’t think so. Nothing else has changed in fifty years. Michel Verlan has been the winemaker at Marceline since he inherited the job from his father. His son runs the place now, but they are very much in agreement on maintaining a strict traditionalism. You get mavericks when there’s no history. When you have a legacy to protect, you get traditionalists. They’re standing on the authentic article. Their job is to keep doing it exactly the way their family has for five hundred years. Change could only jeopardize that legacy.”

  “I want to do a little test,” said Sunny. “We have to go into the stockroom to do it.”

  Once they were there, she told him to stand still and close his eyes. Then she hunted around for a bottle of Bandol Rouge and one of Green and Red Zinfandel, hiding them behind her back in case he peeked.

  “Don’t open your eyes,” she warned.

  “I won’t. What’s the surprise? Are you going to hand me a kitten?”

  “A kitten?”

  “As long as it’s not a snake.”

  “It is not a kitten or a snake. I’d think it’s fairly obvious it’s going to be wine since we’re in the stockroom. But now that I know you want a kitten, I’ll see what I can do. Maybe for your birthday.”

  “That’s nice of you.”

  “Now imagine we’re just sitting down to dinner and we’ve cracked open a bottle of Bandol Rouge. You’re serving.”

  She put the bottle of Green and Red in his hands and he did what she’d done in Eliot’s office. He put his thumb in the punt and held the bottle from the bottom.

  “I’m pretending, right? Or is this the test?”

  “This is the test. Do you notice anything?”

  “Well, this isn’t Bandol Rouge.”

  “How can you tell?”

  “Because the punt is too shallow. I’ve served it a thousand times. The bottle always has a nice, deep punt. This is probably a California wine.”

  “Very good. You can open your eyes now. You weren’t cheating?”

  “No. I love this kind of game. Did Andre serve you a bogus glass of Bandol too?”

  “It’s a long story, but I had the same reaction as you. I’ve served that wine so many times, and I always hold it by the punt. It’s easy because it’s so deep. It’s also very smooth inside, which is distinctive too. The punt on the Green and Red I handed you is sort of scored. I’ll fill you in, but first, what can you tell me about Francis Darroze Bas-Armagnac, specifically Domaine de Mahu 1944?”

  “I can tell you that you have very good taste in Armagnac.”

  “What else?”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “Everything.”

  “Well, Francis Darroze is generally considered the best négociant of Armagnac.”

  “Which means?”

  “Okay, let’s back up. First the difference between Cognac and Armagnac. Cognac is French brandy that comes from the Cognac region and is twice distilled. Armagnac is French brandy that comes from the Armagnac region and is distilled only once. Cognacs are generally made by big companies and are blended for a consistent flavor. That means they’ll use a variety of vintages, and those vintages may be made from grapes grown here and there in the region. Armagnac is usually produced by some little guy and done by vintage and estate so you know that you have a brandy made with the grapes of this particular piece of land in this particular year. That means you can get a sense of goût de terroir, just like with vintage estate wine. Still gets me all tingly. There’s something incredibly exciting about knowing that an Armagnac is the specific production of this little corner of Gascony at this particular moment. I love that.”
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  “From the home of the Three Musketeers and more duck fat than anyone likes to admit,” Sunny said.

  “True. The Gascons love their duck. Anyway, so the big difference between wine and brandy, other than the fact that brandy has been distilled, is that it’s aged in the barrel the whole time. You’d normally age a Cabernet Sauvignon for a year on French oak, then put it in a bottle and let it mature from there. With Armagnac, it only develops flavor and color in the barrel. Once you bottle it, it’s over. It’s frozen in time after that. So instead of buying a few cases of Armagnac and sticking them in my cellar, I might call up Francis Darroze and say, ‘Pull a bottle off of the 1944 barrel.’ He does that, writes ‘Mise en bouteille this month and this year’ and ships it to me. Once the barrel is empty, that’s it for that vintage.”

  “So the labels are handwritten.”

  “Usually just the note about when they were bottled. You’ve got the vintage on the front with the place where the grapes came from, then the month and year it was bottled on the back. The négociant goes around to the farmers in the area and finds out what they’ve got tucked away in barrels in the barn. Stuff grandpa made sixty years ago. He buys the lot of it and acts as the distributor.”

  “It’s like vins de garage.”

  “Exactly. Les garagistes d’Armagnac. When you by a bottle of VSOP Cognac, it’s been blended and colored for consistency of flavor, color, and style. Nicely predictable, but not so nice for exploring. The vintage estate Armagnacs are entirely unique. The quality depends on the quality of the harvest that year, just like with wine, and when it gets pulled off the barrel.”

  “And Domaine de Mahu?”

  “I don’t know it specifically, but we’re talking about a very small region. You could go there and take a picture of the particular vines that made your brandy.” Monty’s eyes twinkled at the thought. “I would imagine the supplies of 1944 are extremely limited, given what was going on in the region at that time. Armagnac is much more like history in a bottle than wine is, actually, since you can age the stuff in the barrel more or less indefinitely. And once you bottle it, it keeps forever.”

  “Okay, what if you chucked back a glass of the stuff?” asked Sunny. “Would you taste anything other than alcohol fumes?”

  “What a waste! You’d suck up some nice exhaust through the nasal passage’s back door, but that’s about it. It’s really meant to be sipped. Armagnac is a digestif. You drink it after dinner to settle your stomach, savor the moment after a fine meal, and promote conversation. Now what’s this all about?”

  Sunny checked her watch. “It has to do with the Nathan Osborne discussion, as you probably guessed, but I don’t have time to explain now. I’ll fill you in later.”

  “Oh, fine. Pick my brain and abandon me.”

  “I’m not trying to be coy. I have a hunch. If I’m going to get to the bottom of this, I’d better hurry.”

  PART THREE

  The Last Supper

  20

  Sunny knew where she would find Nick Ambrosi. No bartender worth his margarita salt would give up a weekend shift once he’d earned it. They made more money on Friday and Saturday nights than the rest of the week combined. Since Nick was top dog behind the bar at Vinifera, he was sure to be working. The big question was how Sunny was going to get in and out of there without an awkward exchange with Eliot or Andre. She’d already crashed Eliot’s party once today, and she was due back at ten to meet Andre for their long-awaited second date. She was turning up so often the staff at Vinifera was going to start wondering if she needed a job.

  She could hardly believe her luck when she pulled into Vinifera. Nick Ambrosi was standing outside, smoking a cigarette. She fought the urge to run over to him before he could go back inside. She’d use the casual approach. There was an old pack of smokes in the glove compartment, used to prove to herself that she could smoke if she wanted to, but didn’t want to. She grabbed them and walked over. Nick grinned when he saw her.

  “Mind if I join you?”

  “Please. You’re early for your date.”

  “And you’re well informed, as always.”

  “I try.”

  Sunny lit the smoke. It was a shame to use up one of the few nicotine allotments she allowed herself these days, especially when she wasn’t even in the mood. “There’s something I wanted to ask you.”

  Nick nodded as though he wasn’t surprised.

  “A small thing,” she said. “I was thinking about Nathan again. How long does it take to drive to his place from here? I mean, how long do you think it took you to drive him home Saturday night?”

  “About half an hour, maybe more. Why?”

  “That’s sort of a burden, isn’t it? At the end of a busy night?”

  “It wasn’t exactly a pleasure, but it’s not that big of a deal. We took turns. I only did it once every couple of weeks.” He looked across the parking lot at a stretch of vineyard. “You didn’t have to drive down here to ask me that. You could have called Andre or anyone. Or waited until you’re back here in a few hours. You could have asked me then. What did you really want to talk to me about?”

  She fastened her eyes on Nick. “You’re right. There’s more.” She took a drag on the cigarette, letting the nicotine go to work. “Late on Saturday night, Remy Castels took an order from Nathan Osborne for a glass of Armagnac.”

  A flicker of something, she wasn’t sure what, passed over Nick’s face. He recovered quickly, resuming a bemused expression. He didn’t say anything.

  “Do you remember?” she asked.

  “Nathan always has a glass of his Armagnac after dinner.”

  “His Armagnac?”

  “We keep a private bottle of 1944 Francis Darroze Bas-Armagnac behind the bar for him. That was his drink. Made the year he was born. That’s how he ended every meal. It’s insanely expensive stuff.”

  “Did you pour it, or did Remy?”

  Nick’s eyes widened slightly, surprised at the question. “I’m pretty sure I did. Why?”

  “I’m just trying to picture it. So Remy takes the order and walks over to the bar. You pour the drink from a bottle you keep right there, yes?”

  “It’s behind the bar.”

  “But you don’t have to go anywhere to get it.”

  “No. Sunny, what’s this about?”

  “Bear with me. What happens next? Does Remy take it to Nathan?”

  Nick rolled his eyes. “I feel like I should be in a room with a bare bulb. Yes, Remy takes it to him. No, wait, I’m pretty sure Dahlia took it to him.”

  “If she didn’t put in the order, how did she know to pick it up?”

  “It’s pretty obvious what it is. It was late and most of the tables were empty. You can spot that snifter a mile away. She knew whose it was.”

  “So she spots the snifter and knows its Nathan’s Armagnac. She comes by the bar, picks up the drink, and walks over to the table with it. Do you remember where they were sitting?”

  “They were sitting at Nathan’s usual table, the corner booth. He was like a mobster. He liked to sit where he could see the door.”

  “Dahlia would be facing you when she picked up the drink, and facing him when she turned around to take it to him.”

  “Yeah, I guess so.”

  Sunny took one last hit, then stepped on the edge of her cigarette and slipped the butt in her pocket. She exhaled. “I’d like to take a look at that bottle.”

  Nick laughed nervously. “So would I. I’ve actually been meaning to mention it to Eliot. Somebody swiped it after Nathan died.”

  “The bottle is gone?” she exclaimed, forgetting to temper her reaction. “Do you know when it was taken?”

  “Not exactly. It was there Saturday night and not there Monday afternoon. Remy asked about it after the police left on Monday, and when I looked for it, it was gone.”

  “Any idea who might have taken it?”

  “It’s hard to say. We keep the really expensive stuff in a locked cab
inet behind the bar, but it’s not exactly one hundred percent secure.”

  “Was the lock broken?”

  “No, it wasn’t broken,” he said, “but it wouldn’t have to be. It’s only locked at night after we close, and several people have keys. There’s also a key in the register. I might have even left the key in the lock. It’s possible. I don’t really think it’s necessary to lock up the good booze. That was Remy’s idea, not mine. Personally, I think it conveys a sense of distrust to the employees. Who’s going to steal from behind the bar other than one of our own people? Nobody is going to break in for a bunch of open bottles of alcohol.”

  “Somebody did, apparently.”

  He looked away. “I need to get back. Are you coming in?”

  She shook her head. “I have to get going. I’ll be back at ten.”

  “When you’ll tell me what this is all about.”

  “I will.” She sighed. “A favor? Don’t mention this conversation to anyone?”

  “No problem.”

  Back at home, the light outside Sunny’s house did a good job of blinding her and a bad job of lighting the front yard, but she could see well enough to identify purslane among the other weeds. She could almost identify it by touch alone. It had a robust, plump feel, almost like a succulent. Sunny pulled up enough for a large salad and went inside. If all else fails, forage for weeds. There was nothing in the refrigerator and she didn’t want to go out. She needed to think.

  Based on what she knew about Vinifera and what Nick had said, it would have been difficult but not necessarily impossible for someone, especially Nick himself, to slip a lethal concoction into Nathan’s drink. With a little sleight of hand, Dahlia could have done it. Or Nick could be lying—he was obviously hiding something.

  Regardless of who did it, it would have been extremely risky. The tall mirror behind the bar, the stairway leading to the upstairs seating, the catwalk to the offices, and the open floor plan all made for maximum visibility in the restaurant. It would have been next to impossible to be sure no one was watching at any given moment. How much easier to stop at the bar at the end of the night on Friday, dose the bottle only Nathan drank from, then get rid of it after service the next night. Or they could have done it at the beginning of the Saturday shift, when no one was around. It would be so easy, especially if they knew Nathan would be coming in with the Rastburns that night. Remy and Dahlia would both know that the Rastburns never joined Nathan in his Armagnac. The fact that the bottle was missing shouted confirmation of this theory. Whether the poison was in the glass or in the bottle didn’t really matter.