How to Dine on Killer Wine: A Party-Planning Mystery Read online

  “What about Brad? You shacking up with him at the winery—in front of your mother?”

  My mother was no prude. She’d had a series of love affairs in between marrying five husbands. In fact, even now as her Alzheimer’s had slowly progressed, she seemed to be getting more…amorous. Apparently she had an endless supply of paramours.

  I wasn’t a thing like my mother in that department. I’d had one long relationship with one of the professors at San Francisco State, where I’d taught abnormal psychology. But I dumped him when I found out he’d been cheating on me with a cliché—one of his students. When the university dumped me—budget cuts—and I moved to the island, I met Brad. He was the only other guy I’d really been with since then. And I was taking that relationship very slowly.

  “Hmm,” I said. “That could be awkward. I was planning to sneak him into my room. But maybe you should get him a room too, just in case.”

  “I’m on it!” As an underemployed actress, Dee spoke mostly in exclamation points. “This is going to be so off the hook!”

  With the party only a month away, much of the preliminary work had been done, but I still had lots to do. I pulled out the Killer Parties planning sheet I’d been working on and read over the entries under the who, what, when, where, and why sections. That was the fun part—brainstorming ideas to match the theme and then watching it all come to life.

  Ahhh, a wine-tasting party in Napa, an “adventure” for my mother, and a romantic weekend with Brad. I couldn’t wait to get my party on.

  I spent the next few weeks juggling the wine-tasting plans with several other parties I’d been hired to do, including a Come as Your Favorite Author party—a fund-raiser for the San Francisco Library—and a Red Hat Funvention for a group of women who wore red hats and purple outfits and liked to party. By the end of the month I was more than ready for a peaceful break in the serene wine country.

  Early Friday morning I picked up my mother at her care facility. Although the party wasn’t until Saturday, I’d been invited to join the Christophers and Rocco and Gina for a pre-party thank-you dinner at the California Culinary College and meet a couple of their neighbors. Brad couldn’t make it, so I’d asked if my mother could join us.

  “Oh, Presley dear, I’m so looking forward to this,” she said after I stuffed her large designer suitcase into the mini-backseat of my MINI Cooper. I pulled up the directions on my iPhone GPS, we fastened our seat belts, and off we went for what I hoped would be a tasty and relaxing evening, with lots and lots of wine.

  The forty-plus-mile drive passed quickly, thanks to my mother’s tour-guide lecture about the Napa Valley. As a native San Franciscan, she knew the history of nearly every place within a three-hour radius. The breathtaking view of mustard fields and perfectly aligned vineyards offered eye candy, along with rolling hills, fields of wildflowers, and wineries in every style of architecture, from modern to medieval. My mouth watered just thinking about the bottles of wine those vineyards produced.

  “Presley?” I heard my mother say, and retreated from the recesses of my brain. “Are you listening to me? You were such a distractible child with your ADHD, and you haven’t changed.”

  “I was listening, Mother,” I lied. “You were talking about the history of Napa.” I’d heard the speech before during the several trips we’d made over the years when she hosted her own parties there. My mother, the grande dame of San Francisco café society, had planned events for such resident luminaries as the Smothers Brothers, Pat Paulsen, and Francis Ford Coppola.

  “So as I was saying,” she continued, “when Prohibition came along, it hurt the industry terribly.”

  While she talked on, I thought about the evening ahead. Although Rob and Marie had meant for it to be a thank-you evening, I figured it would give me a chance to go over last-minute changes and nail down final details, as well as make sure they’d be donating a percentage of the money they raised selling wine at the event. I’d chosen Alcoholics Anonymous, since my second stepfather had died of the disease and it seemed appropriate.

  But most of all, I looked forward to another preview of Gina’s amuse-bouches. Everything sounded better in French. Merlot, cabernet, chardonnay…

  “…then many of the wineries shut down,” I caught Mother saying. “But after the Second World War, they picked up again, and that was the beginning of those big monopolies like Napology that now churn out huge quantities for less money.”

  Rocco had mentioned something about how the large wineries were changing the valley, causing rumblings from the smaller boutique wineries as well as environmental groups. “Rob said there have been protests,” Rocco had told me, “from a group called the Green Grape Association. They’ve been complaining about all the special events, the noise and traffic, the crowds and litter. They claim these events are harming the environment.”

  “Are they protesting smaller wineries like Rob’s?” I’d asked, thinking of the Purple Grape.

  “They’re going after any winery that isn’t green enough to suit them.”

  Rocco had mentioned a woman named JoAnne Douglas, president of the Green Grape Association. He said Rob had called her a “fanatic for her radical methods” in trying to stem growth in the valley. Needless to say, although she owned a neighboring winery, she had not been invited to the party like the other neighbors.

  “…and today,” Mother said, interrupting my thoughts again, “more than five million people visit the three hundred wineries here.”

  The personal audio tour stopped when we pulled up to the Purple Grape estate. Mother was finally speechless—thank God—as she gazed at the Tuscan-style mansion nestled in the Napa hills and surrounded by rows of vineyards.

  “My goodness,” she whispered. “We’re staying here? I feel like I’m in Italy.”

  Before I could comment, a tall, good-looking man in jeans and a blue madras camp shirt appeared at the double front doors a few yards from the circular driveway. His casual attire didn’t fit the setting, but I was relieved, since I’d also worn jeans—black—with a red Killer Parties logo T-shirt and my favorite black Mary Janes. Mother, of course, had dressed as if a trip to the country were a formal affair, in a yellow pantsuit, matching pumps, and a lacy wrap.

  The man smiled pleasantly and waved, then started toward us, following a stone path that wound through an impeccably landscaped flower garden. Noting his graying temples and his lean but muscular physical shape, I guessed him to be a young fortysomething. Out of habit, I checked his shoes as he reached the car. Brown leather Ferragamo loafers. Italian to match the villa?

  “Welcome to the Purple Grape!” he said, opening my mother’s car door. “You must be Presley,” he said to me, “and this must be your charming mother, Veronica.”

  He lent her a hand to help her out. She blushed—I thought she might swoon—and fell instantly in love. I recognized the symptoms.

  “Yes, you must be Rob. Thanks so much for putting us up at your beautiful home.” I took in the sprawling single-level house, from the red-tiled roof and wrought-iron fence to the circular fountain surrounded by four marble statues of children wearing crowns of grapes and holding goblets. The place was breathtaking—the perfect party setting. I almost swooned myself at the thought that we’d be staying in such an incredible home. As I started to open the trunk to retrieve my small suitcase, I heard someone call, “Rob!”

  A woman came running toward us from the home. She also wore jeans, and a champagne-colored knit top. Her dark hair was swept up and caught by clips. On her feet were slip-on black leather flats—Clarks or Rockports—simple, practical, comfortable. But unlike Rob, the look on her face wasn’t at all pleasant.

  “Oh, here comes my wife now,” Rob said. “I’ll introduce you.” But his smile turned to a frown as she approached. “Marie? What’s wrong?”

  Marie’s flushed cheeks and her wild brown eyes made me tense up. Uh-oh. All was not well in Napa’s Camelot. It probably had something to do with the upcoming event.
Such was my party karma.

  “It’s that witch JoAnne,” she said, breathless from the short run to my car. Even in her early forties, I doubted this trim, attractive woman was out of shape. No doubt stress was causing her to hyperventilate.

  Rob sighed; his shoulders drooped. “What’s she done now?”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw two other people appear in the doorway of the house. A woman—blond, younger looking, in tan shorts, a tight tank top, and leather sandals—was leaning against the doorjamb, her arms crossed in front of her midriff. I wondered if this was the JoAnne they were talking about. Next to her stood a man, nice looking, thirtysomething, dressed in a black suit in spite of the warm spring weather. I couldn’t make out his shoes from this distance, only that they were black and probably expensive, judging by the suit.

  I thought I saw a look pass between the two of them.

  “She says we have to cancel the party!” Marie cried. “God, I hate that woman!”

  “What?” Rob said, shaking his head. “She can’t do that. There’s no way—”

  “Yes, she can!” Marie said, cutting him off. “She’s threatening to call the police! After all the work we’ve done to make this place a success, she’s doing her best to ruin us!”

  Great. The party hadn’t started and already the cops were involved. I had a feeling the fizz in this event was already starting to go flat.

  Chapter 2

  PARTY-PLANNING TIP #2

  You can fake your way through a wine tasting and look like a connoisseur if you know just a few secrets. For example, when pouring wine, fill the glass one-third full, but when pouring champagne, the glass should be two-thirds full. This will make you look like an expert.

  “Can she do that?” I asked Rob, alarmed at the possibility of having planned a party for nothing. It wasn’t so much the money—I was sure he’d pay me my customary party-cancellation fee. It was more the event itself. I’d hoped to make a big splash in Napa and branch out, with more parties in the world-famous wine country.

  Rob ran a hand through his graying hair. “I highly doubt it. She’s called the police so many times, she’s become the witch who cried wolf. Don’t worry,” he added in an ominous tone. “I’ll handle her.”

  Although Rob looked the part of the genteel lord of the manor, I sensed a fire underneath that cool exterior.

  “Marie,” Rob said, taking charge, “go back in the house. Make sure Allison is finished preparing the extra rooms for our guests.” I looked over at the thin blond woman in the doorway, who must have been Allison, not the JoAnne they’d been speaking about. Marie bit her lip and headed back to the house. When she reached Allison, she said something to her before they stepped back and closed the door, leaving the man alone on the porch. He headed our way.

  I looked at Rob, who’d been watching the women, his brow furrowed. After they disappeared, he turned to me, assuming his previously pleasant expression. “Well, let’s get you two ladies settled, shall we? Then we can begin working on the finishing touches for our big event tomorrow.”

  The suited man approached. “Need any help?” he said to Rob, but he was grinning at me.

  “No thanks, Kyle. Javier will take care of things. I’ll talk to you later.”

  The man named Kyle nodded, shook hands with Rob, and walked to his silver BMW parked nearby. He gave me a last, almost leering look before he opened the door and entered his car.

  What was up with this guy?

  Rob signaled a short Hispanic man standing near the three-car garage, next to two large buildings. I hadn’t noticed him when we’d arrived, distracted by the picturesque winery. Dressed in baggy jeans, a plaid shirt, and a wide-brimmed straw hat, the man set down the sprayer he’d been holding and walked over.

  “Javier, would you take the bags for these lovely ladies and put them in the guest rooms, please?”

  Javier, his leathery skin tanned to a deep russet color, nodded silently. He picked up my mother’s oversized, expensive YSL suitcase and my compact, sale-priced Target bag and toted them toward the side of the house, where I guessed there was another, less grand entrance.

  I checked my Mickey Mouse watch: a little after ten o’clock. I looked forward to working on decorating the garden area, setting up the games, arranging the serving tables, and generally planning the logistics of the party. I’d been out to the Purple Grape only once before, more than a month ago, and although I’d taken pictures and made sketches, I knew I’d find things I’d overlooked that could cause a wrinkle in the final plans.

  “Follow me,” Rob said, no sign of the problem with JoAnne in his happy expression. He motioned us toward the front entrance. “You can both freshen up, if you like, and then I’d be happy to give your mother a tour of the place.”

  “I’d love that,” Mother said as she followed Rob along the garden path.

  I eyed the area as we passed through, trying to picture the setup. Serving tables on the mosaic slate patio. Lights strung across the grape arbor that shaded the entryway. Real and fake grapes decorating the fountain, the front door, and the outdoor furniture.

  “You might enjoy a mud bath or spa treatment this afternoon,” Rob said as we followed him through the door into the tiled entrance, “before we head over to the culinary college. I’m sure there will be plenty of time to relax.”

  The Christophers had created a house suitable for an issue of Tuscany Home Digest. Rob led us past the main living area, which featured two large brown leather couches separated by a stone coffee table that was covered with a sheet of glass. Chunky leather chairs decorated with plush pillows in warm shades of red, orange, and brown filled in the large space by the fireplace. Everything was so pristine, I felt as if I were in the lobby of an exclusive hotel rather than someone’s home.

  Rob led us down the tiled hallway, which was flanked by cream-colored walls and lined with wrought-iron lighting fixtures interspersed with glass display cases. Inside the cases were wine-related memorabilia, everything from vintage wine corks neatly set in rows, to prestigious wine labels from around the world, including a Rothschild—the only one I recognized in my limited upscale wine experience.

  I stopped in front of the last display in the hallway. “These are amazing!” I said to Rob, who was a few steps ahead of me. He and Mother turned back.

  “Ah, yes. My antique wine screws. Aren’t they interesting? These are from the Old West.”

  I studied the memorabilia through the glass, marveling at the intricate details of the handles. Several, large enough for big cowboy hands, were made from gnarled wood that had been polished to a sheen. Others sported ornate keys and western ranch symbols and horns from bulls and steers.

  “They drank wine in the Old West?” I asked, remembering the western movies I’d watched as a kid with one of my dads. “I thought they only drank whiskey.”

  “Oh, sure they did. Back then people took pride in their wine paraphernalia and their ability to open wines. Not like today, where you’ve got your electric Rabbit wine openers that even a toddler can use. I’ve got antique levers, screw pulls, twisters, double-prongs, waiter-style—you name it.”

  “I’ve never opened a bottle of wine,” my mother said. She grinned. “Someone is always there to open it for me. That’s what I call a wine opener.”

  “Funny, Mother,” I said to her, rolling my eyes.

  “I’m serious, dear,” she said, and continued down the hall after Rob.

  I had no doubt she was telling the truth.

  Rob stopped in front of an open door. “This is your room, Presley. Yours is next door, Veronica. You’ll be sharing a bathroom between the rooms. I hope that’s all right.”

  “Of course,” Mother said, stepping into the room I’d been assigned. I knew it was mine because my suitcase sat on top of a hope chest next to the window. The room was as impeccably decorated as the rest of the house, but in dark wine hues instead of brown leather. The fluffy comforter, heavy drapes, and woven area rug over the t
ile floor were all the same deep purple shade.

  On the walls were framed prints of the Napa Valley Mustard Festival, featuring bright fields of yellow flowers with multicolored hot-air balloons in the background and glasses of wine in the foreground. The half dozen satin pillows on the bed matched the mustard yellow in the poster exactly, a color scheme I would never have imagined—purple and yellow?—yet it worked perfectly. Back at my Treasure Island condo, not one piece of furniture matched another, let alone shared the same or a complementary color. And the prints on my walls ran to noir movie posters like The Maltese Falcon, while my “collections” amounted to random displays of old birthday cards, Nancy Drew books, and cat fur. That’s how much I knew about decorating. But I knew money when I saw it. The Christophers had plenty.

  Rob stepped inside and opened the door to the shared bathroom. “This is—”

  He stopped abruptly, his hand still on the knob. Voices were coming from the other side of the bathroom door that led to Mother’s suite.

  “You’re going to get in trouble!” said a muffled angry male voice.

  A female voice countered with something I couldn’t make out through the door, but from the tone, she too sounded angry.

  Rob rushed through the bathroom and opened the other door leading to Mother’s room. “What’s going on in here?” he demanded.

  I peered in and recognized Allison. She stood facing us, her arms crossed, her face flushed. Javier stood with his back to me, holding his straw hat in his hand.

  “Allison!” Rob continued. “You should have been finished preparing the rooms by now. And Javier, why aren’t you back at work? What are you doing here?”

  “He’s helping me,” Allison said, glaring at Javier, her jaw set. She shot a look at Rob. “We were just fluffing the pillows, like you asked.” Her tone clearly suggested an attitude—it was hardly the way an employee might speak to her boss. At least, I’d assumed she was an employee.