by Emma Belmont
“What?” William said. “But…”
Charlie shook his head. “Smell is a huge part of taste. Don’t bias your palate with a pre-existing aroma, no matter how much you like it.”
William’s wife Sarah stood up. “Dibs on the shower,” she said, making everyone laugh.
Charlie returned his empty plate to the tray on the sideboard before turning to Cookie. “Thank you for the lovely breakfast.” Then he turned to the rest of the group. “I’ll see you at sunset.”
15
As Cookie rinsed, Maris loaded the dishwasher.
“Another smash hit buffet,” Maris told the chef. “And that was nice of you to put out Delia’s hot sauces.”
“I think they were a nice compliment,” Cookie said. “And that was very generous of Charlie.” She passed Maris a plate. “The other guests seemed very excited about some tasting tips.”
Maris slotted the plate into a spot next to some others. “It was,” she agreed, but couldn’t help but frown. “I think it’s going to be…fun.”
Cookie eyed her. “You say ‘fun’ like you’re going to have a front row seat at a medieval inquisition for witches.”
Maris grimaced a bit. “No, I think it’ll be fun for the guests.”
The diminutive chef handed her the forks. “But not for you.”
“It’s not that it won’t be fun,” Maris said quickly, but stopped herself. She loaded the utensils and put her damp hands on her hips. “You know what it is?” Cookie was about to hand her a serving spoon but paused. “It’s the fact that he’s a wine expert—and I’m not.”
Cookie waved the serving spoon as though she could move aside Maris’s doubt. “Tosh. It’s just for an evening. Let him be the expert. You’re the host, and a very good one at that.” She gestured around the kitchen. “This isn’t a winery, and people don’t stay here for wine tastings. They’re here for hospitality.” She handed Maris the serving spoon. “They’re here for comfort and relaxation. Giving that to them is our job.”
As Maris resumed loading the dishwasher, they were both quiet for some time. She thought of the many hundreds of Wine Downs she’d hosted over the decades. She’d never studied wine, just followed her instincts. But having an expert look over your shoulder…
“You’ve never seen my red velvet crepes,” Cookie said.
Maris blinked at her. “I’m sorry. Your what?” She took the rinsed bowl that the chef offered to her.
“My red velvet crepes filled with strawberries, sour cream, cardamon, and ginger.”
“Wow,” Maris said, holding the bowl. “No, I think I’d remember.”
Cookie nodded. “I think you would. But there’s a reason I don’t make them any more.”
They sounded amazing, and probably looked it too. “Why not?” Maris loaded the bowl, filling the dishwasher to capacity.
“Because I made them to impress people, to show off. Do you know that there’s a theme my buffets follow now?”
Maris thought back, not only on this morning’s offerings, but the various breakfasts over the last number of months. For the life of her, though, she couldn’t see a common denominator.
“Comfort food,” Cookie said, drying off her hands. “Good ingredients, made well. Nothing flashy. Just tasty and filling. Because it’s not about me. It’s about our guests.”
Maris smiled at the older woman. It had never occurred to her that Cookie would, of course, be capable of all kinds of meals. There were certainly hints of it in the buffet from time to time. But the food was mostly on the simple side, and what people away from home might appreciate to start their day.
Cookie put the dishwasher soap in the dispenser and closed the door. “It’s the same with the evening meal,” she said, pushing the start button. “Because that’s what the Wine Down really is—enough for a meal. How do you pick the food?”
Maris spread her hands. “I pair it with a couple of wines, and try not to overwhelm the cheeseboard with too much variety. That never works. All it does is confuse the tastebuds.”
Cookie grinned at her. “Exactly. You could throw a million things at them. Impress them with all sorts of rare wines or pungent cheeses. You must have come across a few.”
Maris nodded. “At this point? Yeah, I imagine there’s very little I haven’t seen.”
Cookie regarded her for a few moments. “Right. So tonight?”
Maris smiled. “It’s about the guests, as always. All of them, including the wine investor.” She put a hand on Cookie’s shoulder. “And it’ll be fun. It really will be.”
Cookie winked at her. “Glad to hear it.”
By the time they were done with the cleanup, everyone had left. But rather than begin tidying the rooms, Maris was curious. She was no wine expert, nor did she need to be, but it never hurt to learn a little. The tour of the winery, the fact that Charlie intended to buy the entire release, and that people invested in wine for a living were all new to her.
Back in her room, she booted up her little used laptop. As she searched for wine investing, an entire world of wine auctions and catalogs opened up. One click led to another until she was visiting auction houses in New York and London, or wineries in Australia and Napa, and gala events in Beijing. It looked like you could actually get a degree in wine making, and there were even world championships for sommeliers.
“Amazing,” she muttered.
She was just about to power down the computer, when another intriguing thought occurred to her. She searched for the 1947 St-Emilion. It came up immediately, mostly at auction sites. The Chateau Cheval Blanc 1947 St-Emilion was the Bordeaux wine against which all others were measured. Ironically, the great postwar wine had almost not come into being. During a bout of hellishly hot weather, the fermentation had ‘stuck.’ But the vintner stood in line daily in order to buy blocks of ice to get it going again. Though it hadn’t been his intention, he’d created one of the most memorable and sought-after wines in the world. To his credit, he’d never tried to claim it was anything more than what it was—a deliriously happy accident.
Maris looked at various images of the rare wine. “History in a bottle,” she said.
Again, one click led to another as she dove down the rabbit hole of French wines, only to emerge an hour later. Head swimming, she finally closed the computer. That was enough for one day—actually, more like one month. It was time to get some cleaning done at the B&B.
16
Maris spent the rest of the day playing catch-up with her B&B chores. Cookie had already finished her duties and was out in the garden working solo. As Maris shifted into high gear, she dusted all the furniture downstairs and vacuumed the floors. Occasionally she answered the phone and took reservations as well.
In the middle of the day, the leftover crab sandwich was a lifesaver—and she wolfed it down. Then it was time to do the upstairs. Cookie had already taken care of the bathrooms, making sure fresh towels and ample toiletries were available. Maris saw to turning down the beds of the five guests, and also emptying the trash.
In Charlie’s room, she saw the Crown Winery box of magnums that Friedrich had brought. It was on the floor where Bear had left it. She paused for a moment, looking at it, but not because of the upcoming evening’s wine and cheese. Instead her thoughts drifted again to yesterday, when she’d seen the young wine investor in the tasting room at Alegra Winery. He’d been excited to be bringing his gift to Dom. Then, according to his interview with Mac, Dominic Alegra had shared it with an angry Friedrich Krone. Assuming that was true, it accounted for three glasses, not four.
Who else had been there?
She frowned as she took the collected trash downstairs. Neither Charlie nor Friedrich had mentioned seeing someone other than Dom. As she came down the back stairs and into the hallway, she noticed the long, dark shadows inching their way across the floor. The sun was sinking and the entire day seemed as though it’d simply slipped away. She was tired from all the cleaning—thank goodness it didn’t have to b
e done every day—but she hadn’t realized how late it’d gotten.
But as she passed the parlor for probably the fiftieth time that day, she had to stop. Mojo was on the Ouija board.
“Finally,” she said lowly. “It’s about time.”
By the time she quietly came to the side of the pudgy little black cat, he’d already taken a seat and gone still. Although his body was amazingly motionless and his glittering orange eyes had taken on the usual thousand-yard stare, his ears cocked in every direction. Like small and fur-lined antennae, they rotated in near circles as he seemed to actually hear something that she couldn’t. Maris glanced at the image of the woman on the corner of the board, her hands reaching forward even as a floating head behind her seemed to be saying something into her ear.
Could Mojo actually be hearing the voices of the spirits? It would be like Aunt Glenda to rescue a cat with magical abilities. She crossed her arms and watched him but didn’t have to wait long. Without looking down, he placed a paw directly on the planchette.
He started with the letter W.
“W,” Maris said quietly. “Wine?”
With a little flick of his leg, he moved the plastic disc over the nearby “I” in the first row.
“You have got to be kidding me,” she whispered.
Then, almost as far as he could reach and remain sitting, he pushed the transparent plastic over the “N” at the left of the board.
Maris put both hands on her hips.
As expected, he finished by moving the planchette over the “E” before stopping. Then he blinked his big eyes and looked up at her.
“Seriously, Mojo?” she said, exasperated. “Wine? Couldn’t you narrow it down a little? Wine was everywhere.”
In answer, he simply shook out his fur, and jumped lightly to the floor. He looked over at the board and then at her, and gave his tiny, tinny harmonica-like meow. Then he bounced out of the room.
“Wine?” she said again. Of course the murder involved wine. It took place at a winery. Dom had been surrounded by it. He made it. He’d been drinking it. She threw her hands in the air and shook her head. “Wine,” she muttered.
As she stepped into the hallway she saw her fluffy cat disappearing into their bedroom. “Thanks,” she called out after him.
But really, thanks for what? His clues were often inscrutable, but this one was downright obvious. She put a hand to her chin as she thought. Perhaps the letters stood for something, like an acronym.
The sound of tires crunching on the gravel at the front of the house’s long driveway drew her attention that way. Charlie’s red Bentley had just pulled up.
17
Through the front door’s leaded window, Maris could see Charlie carrying a large cardboard box that looked full—not only of wines but also groceries. She hurried forward and opened the door just before he got there.
“Great timing,” he said, grinning at her.
“Goodness,” she said. “What’s all this?” She closed the door behind him.
He headed down the hall. “Well, if you don’t mind, I’d like to skip the cheeseboard and use my go-to palate cleansers.” He ducked into the kitchen and put the box on the big butcher block. “If that’d be okay with you, of course.”
Maris spread her hands. “Absolutely. I don’t mind at all.” She peeked into the box. Tucked among the bottles of wine were bags of pita chips, a couple of pineapples, and celery. She was already learning something. “Interesting.” She stood back. “What can I do to help?”
“Not a thing,” he said, doffing his jacket and tossing it over one of the stools. “But please have a seat.” Although the hostess in her wanted to jump in and do something, her feet and back ached from the hectic cleaning day. When she hesitated, he added, “Please, I insist. This is actually a fun part for me.”
In her head, Maris heard Cookie’s voice telling her to slow down and she almost had to smile to herself. The chef’s constant reminders to stop her Type A+ personality behavior in order to save herself from the type of heart attack that had killed both her aunt and mother must have sunk in—at least a little.
She pulled out one of the stools. “I’d be delighted to watch someone else do all the work.” As she took a seat, she exhaled a little. It felt good to sit.
Charlie turned toward the many cabinets. “Where are the platters and big bowls?” he asked.
“The door at the end, on the second shelf.”
He went and opened that cabinet. “Perfect,” he said, lifting the top one. But as he tilted the large glass platter toward him, a small tinkling bell sounded, followed by a skittering sound. A little, lattice work, purple and yellow plastic ball rolled off, flew past his head, over his shoulder, and landed on the tile floor.
“Oh no,” Maris muttered. Its little bell jingled merrily as it rolled to her feet. But rather than pick it up, she jumped up and went to Charlie. “Here,” she said, taking the platter from him. “Let me wash this.”
It was Charlie who went to the butcher block and crouched to pick up the ball, making it tinkle again. “What’s this?” he said.
A tiny, tinny meow answered him. As though summoned by the sound of his toy, Mojo bounced quickly into the room and trotted over to Charlie.
Maris inwardly cringed. How Mojo got his toys into such places she didn’t know. But it seemed there was nowhere, not even in their kitchen, where he couldn’t hide them. He had to have the largest stash of toys of any cat in the western hemisphere, and yet she’d never stumbled across it. She quickly rinsed water over the platter and soaped the sponge.
“Who is this?” Charlie said, still crouching.
Maris half-turned from the sink. “That would be Mojo, and you’ve found one of his toys.” One of his many toys, she added mentally.
“Isn’t he a beauty,” Charlie said, giving him the ball and stroking his back. Mojo immediately dropped the ball and purred. “And friendly.” He stroked his back again. “Hi there, Mojo.”
By the time Maris was done washing and drying the platter, Mojo had clearly made another conquest. She took a bowl from the cabinet as well. Once it was clean she set it on the butcher block next to the platter. “Here you go.”
With a final scratch behind the ears, he stood. “Thanks,” he said, as he went to the sink and washed his hands. Then he fetched the celery and pineapples.
“Have you been working here all day?” he asked. “I’ll bet owning a B&B is a lot of work.”
As she took her seat at the butcher block again, she rested her elbows on it. “It comes and goes. Sometimes it can get a bit hectic, other times it’s pretty quiet.”
“Does it change with the seasons?”
Maris thought about it for a moment. “You now, I’m not sure. I haven’t been here all that long, and the seasons don’t particularly change a lot.”
“Ah,” Charlie said, smiling, as he carefully cleaned the celery. “The beauty of the Middle Kingdom. It’s always a pleasant day here.”
Maris laughed a little. “Exactly,” she said. “How long have you been visiting?”
He smirked a little as he began to rinse the pineapple. “Since Dominic started winning medals.” He paused, his expression sobering, and he looked down into the sink. “What an amazing vintner he was.”
Maris recalled what Eugene had said. “Well, we can always hope that Rosamel decides to carry on with the family tradition.”
Charlie gave her a little smile. “That’s right.” He nodded. “There’s always hope.” He brought the celery and pineapple to the butcher block and began slicing them.
Maris glanced at the floor and saw that Mojo was watching as well. Perhaps it intrigued her little cat to see someone other than Cookie or herself cooking or prepping. But as Maris returned her attention to Charlie, watching him artfully arranging the strange little assortment of food, she found herself relaxing. The tension began to drain from her shoulders and neck. It was strangely satisfying to see someone else getting together the ingredients
for the Wine Down, and his touch was sure and deft.
“I’d guess this isn’t your first time,” Maris said, elbow on butcher block and resting her chin in her hand.
Charlie shook his head as he smiled. “I grew up in the kitchen. Everything I know, my mom taught me.”
“Was she a cook?”
“I think nowadays she’d be called a domestic technician,” he said, arranging the pineapple on the platter. “She was at home full-time. My brother and I were a bit of a handful.”
“Really,” Maris said, looking at the perfectly groomed young man. “That’s hard to imagine.”
He smirked as he eyed the platter. “Well, maybe my brother more than me.” He opened a bag of pita chips, and poured some out. “But all credit to her. She raised two boys who finished college.”
It sounded to Maris as though the father hadn’t been in the picture. She knew what that was like. Her own father had died in a car accident when she was away at school.
Charlie stood back and regarded the food: celery pieces to one side, pineapple sections to the other, and pita chips in the middle. “That’ll do it.”
Maris stood and indicated the platter. “To the dining room?”
Charlie nodded. “If you don’t mind.” He put the large bowl in the box with the wines and picked it up. “I’ll bring these.”
The sound of the front door opening caught Maris’s attention. As she and Charlie exited into the hallway, both the Palmers and Keltons arrived home. The foursome had been talking and laughing, but Sarah’s eyes immediately went to the box of bottles.
Maris grinned at them. “Great timing.”
18
As Maris set down the tray on the dining table, Charlie unpacked the box at the sideboard, and the two couples followed them in.
“I’ve been looking forward to this all day,” Sarah said.