A Sunny McCoskey Napa Valley Mystery 2: Death by the Glass Page 13

  Rivka thought about it. “They were hoping to sneak in and replace the fake bottle with the real one, only they didn’t plan on finding Nathan dead.”

  “Exactly,” said Sunny, removing the second batch of walnuts and tossing more in the pan.

  “If that’s the case, Remy has to be lying about Nathan forging the wines,” said Rivka.

  “That’s what I’m thinking. He has to be lying. How convenient is it to be able to blame the dead guy? It’s ideal. Only the dead guy has no reason to commit the fraud. If Nathan was behind the forged wine, he wouldn’t have been running around taking bottles home with him, that would be a waste of time and valuable counterfeiting profits. Would he go to all the trouble and risk of doctoring up a case of wine, then drink a couple of bottles himself when he could drink any wine in Vinifera’s cellar or Osborne Wines’ warehouse? Remy said Nathan was out of control, drinking all the time, and a chronic liar who forgot what was real and what wasn’t. I don’t buy it. You can’t run two businesses of that magnitude if you’re totally out of control. I can barely run this place, and I think I have a pretty solid grip on reality.”

  “Except when it comes to Andre,” Rivka said.

  “Stick to the subject,” Sunny replied.

  “Wildside is so small you have to do everything yourself. Nathan probably only handled big-picture stuff and could get by being bombed.”

  “Even the big-picture stuff gets out of control if you’re drunk all day. If we accept that Nathan perpetrated the fraud, I don’t think we can also accept that he forgot he’d done so. Replacing those labels was the work of someone meticulous, refined, and obsessed with detail.”

  “Remy.”

  Sunny threw in more walnuts. “It fits. Since Remy and Osborne are the only two who could profit by selling fake wine to the wine club, I’m prepared to bet that Remy forged that wine himself unbeknownst to Nathan. When he realized Nathan had taken a bottle home, he decided he had to break into his house to get it back before Nathan sobered up and figured it out.”

  “Because if Nathan found out and fired him, Remy wouldn’t be able to get a job serving grape juice at a Taco Bell.”

  “He could go to jail.”

  “So he probably assumes you’ll get this far in your thinking eventually. Don’t you think that might make him a little edgy?” Rivka said.

  “I’d say he’s already about as close to the edge as a person can get without going over,” said Sunny. “I’ve been wondering if he’s going to stick around. I bet a beach blanket in Rio is sounding pretty good to him right about now.”

  Rivka looked at her. “You expecting a really big crowd for lunch?”

  “Not especially, why?”

  “You just candied enough walnuts for every frisée salad north of Los Angeles.”

  There was just barely time after lunch service for Sunny to change into jeans and a clean T-shirt and race up-Valley to the Rastburns’. The directions said to turn at the sign marked “No wineries this road,” a narrow lane that ran straight west through bottomland vineyard. Just visible at the end was the terra-cotta roof of a terra-cotta home mostly shielded by a grand eucalyptus. Sunny pulled up in front of the house and got out. Off to the right, an assortment of Defenders and Four-Runners with the Rastburns’ galloping Morgan motif stenciled on the doors were parked under a carport, a vine-clad shelter that looked more suitable for a bacchanalian feast than a fleet of four-wheel drives. To the east, vineyards filled the view for a hundred and eighty degrees. The house sat back invitingly from the drive, sheltered by rosemary and lavender hedges with cedar trees overhanging the western edge of the garden and Diamond Mountain for a backdrop. It was all more Tuscan than anything she’d seen in Tuscany. Napa was getting just a little big for its knickers, Sunny thought. Pel Rastburn opened the front door as she reached the landing.

  “Ms. McCoskey, welcome. You found it without any trouble, I hope?”

  “None at all. Please, call me Sonya.”

  Pel was dressed in jeans and a plaid shirt, tucked in tidily and finished with a smooth leather belt. Sunny followed him into the living room, where Sharon Rastburn appeared as they were settling into seats. She seemed greatly invigorated by the passage of a day, her smile much more youthful than the night before and her cheeks touched with a blush of color to match her pink turtleneck. She sat down in an armchair between them and said it would be just a moment for tea. A grandfather clock ticked from the wall behind them. Sunny glanced at a side table loaded with family photographs showing a trio of handsome blond daughters at various ages. Sharon gave Pel a meaningful glance and he cleared his throat.

  “Ms. McCoskey,” he said. “I’m afraid I must apologize for my manner last night. I assumed you were one of Nathan’s lady friends. We’ve had some trouble in that department in the past and I do not wish to make any further associations.” He smiled at Sharon. “Over dinner, my wife assured me that she has comprehensive knowledge of Nathan’s romantic affiliations and you are not among them.”

  “That’s true,” said Sunny. “I never dated Nathan.” She paused, considering how to continue. Coming clean would not be easy, but the world, or at least the wine country, was too small to start complicating it with lies.

  “Since we’re apologizing,” she said, “I think I owe you one as well. I said I was a friend of Nathan’s. I’m not. To be perfectly honest, I never met him. But I am a friend of Andre Morales.”

  They stared. “The cook?” said Sharon.

  “Yes. And because of that friendship, I’ve learned some things that have made me wonder if the police have taken all the possibilities into consideration regarding Nathan’s death.”

  “What do you mean by that?” said Pel.

  “She means she thinks Nathan was killed,” said Sharon breathlessly.

  “I wouldn’t state it that categorically,” said Sunny. “I’d just feel better if I knew a bit more about his last night.”

  “What makes you think somebody would want to hurt Nathan?” said Pel.

  “I can’t tell you everything,” said Sunny carefully. “There may be other crimes involved, and I don’t want to make trouble for anyone, especially if I’m wrong.”

  “That’s very convenient for you,” said Pel. “We invite you, a complete stranger, into our home, and you tell us you are in fact not a friend of Nathan’s, and yet you can’t tell us why you misrepresented yourself, or why you want to worry my wife and me by introducing the hunch, and I suspect that is all it is, that our dearest friend was murdered.”

  “I know it sounds strange,” said Sunny. “I assure you I have only Nathan’s interests—the interests of Nathan’s friends—at heart.”

  “What about your interests?” said Pel.

  “If Nathan was killed, it’s not exactly wise to let the murderer continue to go about their business like nothing happened—especially if it has to do with the restaurant business, which is my business. Others could be at risk. I don’t think all the facts have come out yet, and I’d like to know all there is to know.”

  “A purist,” said Pel, skeptically. He stood up and walked across the room to a Japanese cabinet with stair-step drawers and removed a pipe and a pouch of tobacco. He turned to Sunny, holding up the pipe. “Will it bother you?”

  “Not at all.”

  He pressed a pinch of tobacco into the bowl and returned to his armchair. Sharon leaned forward, squeezing her hands together as if to wring the truth from her guest by force of will.

  “So,” he said, stopping to give his full attention to lighting the pipe. “Why come to us? You could talk to Eliot. He knew Nathan as well as we did.”

  “Because I want to know everything about the night he died,” said Sunny. “There may be some clue in his behavior, something he said. You were the last people to spend any time with him, other than Nick Ambrosi, the bartender who drove him home.”

  “This sounds like a conversation better had with the police,” said Pel, “and we’ve already had it. Twice, to
be accurate.”

  “It’s nothing official. I’m just like you, a friend of those involved who wants to understand what happened.”

  They were silent. Pel puffed on his pipe, staring at the ceiling.

  “Let’s hear what she would like to know,” said Sharon gently. “We don’t have to answer. I don’t see what harm it can do.”

  “Go ahead,” said Pel.

  Sunny ranked the list of questions in her head. Knowing she might not have the opportunity to ask them all, she set the most important on top. “For starters,” she said, “what kind of trouble did you have with his girlfriends?”

  Sharon glanced at Pel for reassurance, then leaned toward Sunny. She gave her an introductory smile, then addressed the topic with unabashed enthusiasm, like a witness describing a dramatic accident. “Nathan was a very generous man. He had the habit of reaching out to people and helping them, giving them money, finding them jobs, letting them stay at his house, and they would then expect that assistance to continue indefinitely. When he eventually got tired of supporting them, they would come to us, hoping, I assume, that we would intervene on their behalf and persuade him to rekindle the friendship, romance, employment situation, or what have you. Generally we are talking about a romance of one sort or another. As you know, no friend can change a man’s heart, even if they wanted to. The worst was that waitress at the restaurant. I knew she was trouble from the moment I laid eyes on her. She’s still around. Delilah? What was her name?”

  Sunny looked anxiously at Pel.

  “Dahlia,” said Pel, exhaling a nicely formed smoke ring. “Like the flower.”

  “Yes, that’s right. I scolded Nathan for getting involved with a girl who worked for him, not to mention one who was half his age. It always leads to trouble, and sure enough.”

  “She wasn’t anywhere near half his age,” said Pel, winking at Sunny.

  “Age was not the issue. She was dreadful regardless,” said Sharon. “You would think she would have found another job after they split up, but she was around more than ever. She waited on us the night Nathan died, which I found excruciating. Nathan hardly seemed to notice. A pretty girl, but with self-esteem problems. Personally, I felt sorry for her with the garish tattoos and crazy hair. All pleas for attention. Nathan broke it off with her after a very short time, I’m glad to say, but she never got the picture. She practically stalked him. I suggested he get a restraining order. It was his own fault. He would never end it cleanly. They went back and forth for months.”

  “Sharon, please, surely that’s enough. I don’t see what gossip has to do with Nathan’s death,” said Pel.

  “It isn’t gossip,” said Sharon. “We were there.”

  “The definition of gossip is not the dissemination of speculative information, it is the dissemination of information that is none of your affair in the first place,” said Pel. “I’ll add that I don’t think you’re being at all fair to Dahlia. I didn’t care for the art direction, but she seemed a nice enough person to me, intelligent, and clearly in love with him, though I can’t imagine what a girl that young could see in a man who gets the Tuesday discount at the cinema. We must remember that Nathan was not known for his fidelity and good manners, especially when it came to matters involving the fairer sex.”

  “You’re as bad as he was,” said Sharon, scoffing. “You can’t see beyond the bosom.”

  Sharon excused herself to make tea when the kettle whistled. Silence settled over the room with her departure. Pel, who seemed in no hurry to speak, puffed on his pipe, gradually surrounding himself with a haze of fragrant smoke. The thick Berber carpet underfoot seemed to suck up every sound, leaving them suspended in a conversational void that gradually intensified until it extracted even the saliva from Sunny’s mouth. Her mind scurried from topic to topic, scavenging for an appropriate segue to Remy Castels. She settled on waiting for Sharon to return with the tea before she said anything more. Pel scratched his head with three crisp, audible strokes. Her stomach responded with a long, loud groan, like a sailboat creaking in its mooring. At last, having failed to uncover a less direct approach and despairing of Sharon’s speedy return, she said, “Do you know Remy Castels, the sommelier at Vinifera?”

  “Yes. Do you?”

  “Not very well. Would you say he’s trustworthy?”

  “You mean as a sommelier?”

  “I mean in general.”

  Pel considered. “I can’t say I’ve had enough dealings with him to make a judgment one way or the other. He certainly knows his wine. That cellar at Vinifera is packed with more gems than the queen’s castle.”

  “How much did Nathan have to do with that?”

  “Nathan certainly helped, but Remy took Osborne Wines to a new level. He has connections in France that made it possible for Nathan to do things no one else could do. He brought in wines that nobody else had, made exclusive deals. Remy went a long way toward making Osborne Wines what it is today.”

  Sharon emerged from the direction of the kitchen bearing a tray with a teapot and cups. Pel stood to take it from her and she went back for another, this one loaded with cream, sugar, and a plate of cookies.

  “What did I miss?” said Sharon.

  “We were just talking about Remy Castels,” said Sunny.

  “Oh, that horrible man!” cried Sharon with a high, zealous laugh. “Pel and I both loathe him, don’t we.”

  “I wouldn’t say I loathe him,” said Pel. “I wouldn’t say I know him well enough to use such a strong term. I’m not drawn to him.”

  “Well, I loathe him enough for both of us,” said Sharon, whose personality had undergone a transformation not dissimilar to that of her appearance since the night before. It was as if she had worn a suitably demure persona to match her evening dress, and now that casual attire was the order, her manner had relaxed accordingly.

  “Don’t get me started on him,” she said, arranging the teacups.

  “Yes, let’s don’t,” said Pel. He put his pipe aside in a little brass stand on the end table next to his chair.

  “I never liked him from the day I met him,” said Sharon. “I remember when Nathan introduced him to us. He was so delighted. Nathan thought Remy was a genius.”

  “When was that?”

  “He hired him to take over as the sommelier at Denby’s, so it was probably about six, maybe seven years ago. It would have been around the time we bought this property.”

  “What is it about him that you don’t like?” asked Sunny.

  “What do I like about him is a better question. You’ve met him?”

  “Yes, several times.”

  “And? What did you think?”

  “He seemed reserved. Hard to get to know. And very protective of his wine cellar,” said Sunny.

  “You can say that again. He’d keep the whole place under lock and key if he could. He forgets who is working for whom. Once he got the flu and wouldn’t let anyone use the keys to the alcoves except Nathan. All week long, Nathan practically lived in the cellar, running bottles back and forth for the waiters.”

  “Why do you suppose he is so distrustful?” asked Sunny. “Does he think the wait staff would steal from the restaurant?”

  “I think he is more concerned about having his very meticulously arranged world intruded upon,” said Pel. “That someone might handle a wine that ought not to be moved. That some mistake might be made. So much of the stock at Vinifera isn’t on the menu. Remy is the only one who would know what to charge for it, for example. But I think his fears are largely less rational. The thought that someone might put a Meritage in with the Merlot is enough to make his hair curl.”

  Sharon poured the tea and handed it around. “You’re right, there,” she said. “He is a total control freak.”

  She used the term uneasily. It was probably a semi-recent import from the vocabulary of one of her daughters. They sipped their tea. Sunny said, “Let’s go back to Saturday night. You’re at dinner with Nathan. What was it like? Di
d he seem himself?”

  “It was great fun, like always,” said Sharon wistfully. “I’m glad we have it to remember him by. Now that Nathan is beyond hearing, I think it’s okay to tell you that I have never cared overly for the food at Vinifera. I like a restaurant’s menu to be either more elaborate or more simple. Somehow they seem to strike the middle ground and lose the advantages of both. We eat there because of Nathan and Eliot. That said, our meal was very good and the company and wine excellent.”

  “Did he say or do anything out of the ordinary?”

  Sharon doctored her tea and sipped, considering. “Not that I recall. He was in good spirits, very jovial. Nathan knew how to have a good time. As I mentioned earlier, that woman Dahlia waited on us, but even that was merely uncomfortable. It was a good night.”

  “He didn’t seem tired or sick?”

  “Not at all,” Sharon said. “It was late by the time we left, and he stayed on. There was nothing about his behavior to suggest he was having any kind of health problem. His death came as a complete shock.”

  “That’s true, he wasn’t sick,” said Pel, “but Nathan was hardly a specimen of good health. He looked and acted like what he was, a man at the end of a life of rampant excess. Everyone else stopped that business after college. He kept on, and it eventually killed him.”

  “Do you remember your conversation that night?” asked Sunny. “What you talked about over dinner?”

  “I don’t think we spoke of anything in particular,” said Pel. “Nothing noteworthy that I can remember. It was a long dinner. Andre sent out a number of dishes for us to try. We talked about the food, what we liked and didn’t like and why. We talked about the wine. Nathan had an incomparable passion for wine, and he spoke very well on the topic. He knew everything there was to know about wine and loved to share the information. He would tell us about whatever we were drinking, where it came from, who made it. That would inevitably segue into a story about a visit to the château—he especially loved French wines—and one of his romantic conquests. You know, some highly embellished tale of how the wine maker’s wife slipped into his room in a white silk gown and dared him to ravish her. Other than that, we talked about our girls, a few mutual friends, Sharon’s trip to Prague.”