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A Pairing to Die For
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Praise for the Colorado Wine Mysteries
“Killer Chardonnay offers a wonderful blend of suspense and humor. You’ll raise your glass to Parker Valentine, the charming sleuth at the center of this twisty and satisfying mystery. A most delightful debut!”
—Cynthia Kuhn, author of the Agatha Award–winning Lila Maclean Academic Mysteries
“Parker Valentine . . . will steal your heart and pair it with a smooth mystery in this sparkling debut. A wine rack full of suspects won’t stop the determined sleuth and vintner from bottling up a killer and saving her dream. Killer Chardonnay has legs!”
—Leslie Budewitz, Agatha Award–winning author of the Spice Shop Mysteries
“Killer Chardonnay is an engaging mystery filled with wine knowledge, romance, and a gutsy protagonist. Kate Lansing is a delightful new voice in the mystery genre, and I can’t wait to read the next one in this series.”
—Nadine Nettmann, author of the Anthony, Agatha, Lefty, and Mary Higgins Clark award–nominated Sommelier Mystery series
“Lansing’s brisk style and her heroine’s efficient approach make her debut a treat.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“Kate Lansing has created a delightful cast of characters coupled with some scrumptious-sounding wines and foods. . . . A killer start to the series!”
—Fresh Fiction
“A solid start to an enjoyable series, especially if you are a fan of the foodie vibe created in this story or a lover of winery mysteries!”
—The Genre Minx
“Likeable characters, engrossing mystery, and excellent storytelling make Killer Chardonnay a killer cozy series debut.”
—The Book Decoder
“Killer Chardonnay is an easy, lighthearted, enjoyable cozy mystery that is just the beginning to what I’m sure is going to be a fantastic series.”
—Coffee Books Life
“I absolutely loved this book; the setting of Boulder, Colorado, could not be more perfect. . . . I enjoyed the storyline [and] the side romances, with clues and red herrings thrown in that kept me guessing.”
—Cindy’s Book Stacks
Titles by Kate Lansing
Killer Chardonnay
A Pairing to Die For
BERKLEY PRIME CRIME
Published by Berkley
An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC
penguinrandomhouse.com
Copyright © 2021 by Kate Lansing
Penguin Random House supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin Random House to continue to publish books for every reader.
BERKLEY and the BERKLEY & B colophon are registered trademarks and BERKLEY PRIME CRIME is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.
Ebook ISBN: 9780593100219
First Edition: January 2021
Cover art by Samantha Dion Baker
Cover design by Farjana Yasmin
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
PUBLISHER’S NOTE: The recipes contained in this book are to be followed exactly as written. The publisher is not responsible for your specific health or allergy needs that may require medical supervision. The publisher is not responsible for any adverse reactions to the recipes contained in this book.
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Contents
Cover
Praise for the Colorado Wine Mysteries
Titles by Kate Lansing
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Recipes and Wine Pairings
Acknowledgments
About the Author
To my parents, the pair who first introduced me to the magic and mystery of books
Chapter
One
I should have brought flowers. A pacifying bouquet of lilies, hydrangeas, and daisies. Instead, foolishly, I brought wine, and left myself open to a world of criticism from my boyfriend’s judgy family. Because the wine isn’t merely some label I picked up at the corner store—pricey enough to impress but not so much to blow my budget—it’s my own craftsmanship.
“Colorado wines will never be as flavorful as Napa’s,” Camilla, the matriarch, says in a superior voice.
She purses her lips in disapproval. With her perfectly styled coiffure and Jackie cardigan, she hails from an era of class and sophistication that apparently doesn’t extend to present conversation.
“Everyone is entitled to their own opinion,” I say, my cheeks aching from the forced smile on my face.
“My wife is right,” Gary chimes in from across the rustic wooden table, his cable-knit sweater the same shade of burgundy as the pinot we’re tasting. “If you had done your research, Napa would have been the smarter choice.”
“Perhaps,” I say. “But I love Boulder, and the market is just getting going here. It gives me the opportunity to carve a niche for my business.” Which I’ve already done, I want to add.
My winery, Vino Valentine, is thriving. I can hardly keep up with demand thanks to a rave review from a popular food-and-wine blogger, monthly VIP parties, and, most recently, supplying varietals to the hip new establishment we’re dining at now.
And while I don’t own my own vineyard, the grapes I order from growers on the Western Slope of the Rocky Mountains are chock-full of flavor. The higher altitude yields a deeper pigmentation and a more concentrated sugar content, making the fruit—in my humble opinion—ideal for winemaking.
Gary sniffs at his glass surreptitiously and says, his tone veering on mansplaining, “Red wine really ought to be aged in oak.”
“Agreed,” I say, and add, with relish, “which is why I aged it in oak for six months before moving it to steel.”
Gary shoots me a look of utter distrust, clearly one of those people who doesn’t believe what he can’t see—or rather, taste—and Camilla not so subtly checks the gold-plated watch on her wrist.
I remind myself that I’m doing this for Reid, my boyfriend extraordinaire. I was honored he asked me to come tonight and more than a little curious to meet the family he hasn’t spoken to in more than a year. That is, until Camilla pierced me with an icy stare and asked where I got my cute dress—the word cute sounding like an insult—and Gary’s gaze drifted a few degrees south of my face.
And now I’m on my own for this tête-à-tête with his parents since we’re dining at Reid’s restaurant, Spoons, where h
e’s both the owner and executive chef. He claimed his sous chefs would be able to handle most of the cooking tonight, but then, as soon as we were seated, he dashed back to the kitchen to help with something or other. And his older brothers are conveniently MIA, one having stepped away from the table to take a “very important” business call and the other running late.
I take a large gulp of wine and desperately scan the spacious room for a neutral conversation topic, anything that might turn around this disaster of a dinner.
The chatter of happier tables rises around us, their carefree laughter filling me with envy. Spoons has been packed since it opened last month, and tonight is no exception. The decor is upscale with musical influences—glass lanterns painted with staves, old records that have been fashioned into coasters, trumpets repurposed into sconces, and a stage where local acoustic bands play on Friday nights.
“So are you going to do any hiking while you’re in town?” I finally venture.
Colorado is known for outdoor sports—hiking, biking, and climbing in the summer, and skiing, snowboarding, and snowshoeing in the winter. The mountains are the perfect canvas for whatever alfresco adventure you want to try.
Camilla primly adjusts her cardigan. “I’m not sure we’ll have time.”
“Well, if you change your mind, I’d be happy to go with you,” I say, perking up. “Chautauqua Park is especially beautiful right now with the fall leaves changing color, and you’d get an up-close view of the Flatirons.”
The Flatirons are majestic geological formations overlooking Boulder, giant slabs of slanted rock that look like they’ve been expelled from the mountainous backdrop. Gazing at them always gives me a sense of perspective: that my troubles are small in the grand scheme of things. I could use that reminder now.
Gary tilts his head and sniffs at his wine again, apparently not deeming my offer worth responding to. It’s okay, though, because Camilla answers for both of them.
“We don’t hike,” she snaps, attracting the attention of a neighboring table.
Thoroughly reprimanded, I stare at my place setting: navy napkin with copper flatware nestled on top and a simple white bread plate, my half-eaten roll forgotten.
Hurt, anger, and, worst of all, shame course through my veins and thrum loudly in my ears. My face flushes with heat.
Winemaking is littered with pitfalls—sluggish fermentation, stressed yeast, unbalanced sulfites. Most of the time, if you catch the problem early enough, you can course-correct by adjusting the temperature or adding fresh yeast. If only real life were as easy to correct.
I wanted so badly to help Reid heal whatever is broken in his family, and, fine, I’ll admit, maybe dazzle them with my wit and charm. But instead, I’m only making things worse.
Luckily, Reid’s older brother Tristan chooses that moment to show up. “Sorry I’m late. The last session ran long.” Tristan just so happens to be in town for an anesthesiology conference and managed to squeeze in time for this family dinner.
He drapes his suit jacket over the back of his chair and takes a seat next to his father. He could be Reid’s twin—they have the same build and thick sandy-blond hair, although Reid inherited his mother’s green eyes while Tristan got his father’s brown ones. The top few buttons of his shirt are undone, a leather cord necklace peeking out, giving him a suave yet relaxed demeanor.
“Duty calls, son,” Gary says, clapping Tristan on the back. I wonder if anyone else would receive that sort of response to being almost an hour late.
I reach my hand across the table. “Parker Valentine. Nice to meet you.”
Tristan’s smile holds a hint of mischief as he takes my hand. “Where are we in the interrogation?” he asks, pouring himself a generous glass of pinot.
“We weren’t interrogating her,” Camilla says. “We’re simply trying to get to know the girl.”
Reid’s oldest brother, Ben, returns from his phone call, his client apparently appeased for the moment. He tugs at the tie around his neck, his shoulders so tense they might as well be attached to his ears. He has more wrinkles at the corners of his eyes and thinner hair than his brothers, but he clearly keeps himself in just as good shape.
This family certainly lucked out in the gene department. I’m not sure how I ever thought I could impress them. Or convince them of anything, let alone that Reid is deserving of their support, even if they don’t see his profession as being as important as, say, a lawyer or a doctor.
Ben flashes me an encouraging smile and eyes Gary, eyebrow cocked. “Did you swear her in before you started questioning?”
Ben followed in his father’s footsteps, working in corporate law at one of the top firms in the country, as both parents proudly told me. When he heard about this little family reunion, he decided to tag along to see his youngest brother in action. Only, he isn’t seeing much more than the screen of his phone.
“We were talking about my business,” I say, wringing my napkin in my lap. “Which isn’t fair since this night should really be about Reid.”
As if on cue, Reid appears with a steaming plate of food in each hand and one more balanced on his forearm. Even though we’ve been dating for nearly four months, his handsome features still take my breath away. Cocksure grin, expertly mussed hair, strong arms lined with silvery scars from oven burns, and eyes that flash with a hint of danger. His chin is covered in scruff from the beard he insists on growing for football season. Not that I’m complaining, mind you. It adds to his intoxicating devil-may-care attitude.
But the best part: he can cook.
Reid deposits plates around the table and my mouth instantly starts watering. The dishes are from the seasonal menu, vetted by yours truly. Butternut squash soup topped with chopped dates and crispy prosciutto. Stuffed pumpkin ravioli in a rich sage and butter sauce. Perfectly grilled flank steak drizzled with roasted salsa verde.
Holy carne asada, Batman.
Reid lingers at my side after relinquishing the last dish, lightly brushing my hair behind my shoulder, the simple touch of his fingers against my skin sending a jolt of electricity snaking down my spine. To the outsider, he may seem like his usual cool self, impossible to rattle, but I know him well enough to recognize the nerves. The extra fidgeting, the furtive glances toward his parents, the inability to stay seated.
“How’s everything going?” Reid asks.
“Great,” I say a little too loudly, clapping my hands for reinforcement. “Just great.”
Camilla and Gary look at me like I’m nuts, which isn’t a completely outlandish deduction. I mean, honestly, why did I clap?
“Look at our little bro,” Tristan says, gesturing from Reid to our surroundings. “You’ve come a long way from making mystery hot cocoa.”
“And mud pies in the backyard,” Ben adds.
Reid sinks into the chair at my side and gently squeezes my knee beneath the table. “Hard to beat Connecticut soil, but I tried.”
I feel a rush of gratitude toward Reid. Perhaps we’ll be able to salvage this dinner, after all.
But then Oscar Flores, one of Reid’s sous chefs, arrives with yet another plate. He sets it in the middle of the table and says with a flourish, “Scallops seared with saffron and lemon, on the house.”
Oscar is an old friend of Reid’s from culinary school who recently moved back to Boulder to be closer to his family. He has chin-length black hair he keeps tucked behind his ears, rich brown skin, and eyes framed by these long, dark lashes that make him a very eligible bachelor.
He’s a fantastic chef in his own right but has this rather pesky habit of talking back in the kitchen and experimenting with tried-and-true recipes. While Reid sees these quirks as an asset—always striving to make his food the best it can be—other chefs aren’t as understanding. Which is why Oscar’s stuck working as a glorified line cook.
An awkward silence falls over the table,
so complete it’s almost as if we’re absorbing the sounds around us. The tension grows until it’s as palpable as tannins in a full-bodied cab.
Eyebrows furrowed, I study each person in turn, trying to figure out what I’m missing.
Gary tightens his grip on his wineglass, his face twisted into a scowl, and Tristan’s smile turns almost predatory. The only one seemingly unaffected is Ben, but that could be because his attention is once again on the screen of his phone.
Camilla eyes Oscar from head to toe, not hiding her disdain. “I didn’t realize you were working here.”
Of course Oscar would know the Wallace clan, having been good friends with Reid for the past decade, but the level of undisguised animosity is baffling.
I spare him a pitying glance, selfishly enjoying the momentary relief from the spotlight.
Oscar chuckles nervously and tugs at the neck of his chef’s coat. “Reid can’t seem to shake me.”
“As hard as I keep trying.” Reid winks and, in an attempt to diffuse the tension, says, “Let’s eat. The scallops are best fresh from the skillet.”
Oscar takes one step backward, then another, and when no one protests, makes a hasty retreat. He glances over his shoulder at our table, a strangely hopeful gleam in his eyes, before pushing the door open at the back of the restaurant and disappearing into the kitchen.
The mood slowly returns to normal. And by normal, I mean charged with skepticism.
While Reid doles out the heavenly morsels, I give myself a silent pep talk. If there’s one thing I can talk about unabashedly, it’s wine.
“The scallops pair best with the Mount Sanitas White,” I say, pouring several tasters of my trademark white blend from the second bottle on the table. “It’s a lighter blend, especially perfect after a day of hiking. Not that you hike,” I add hurriedly to Camilla and Gary. “Just, you know . . .” I trail off and clear my throat.
Camilla and Gary make a show of daintily slicing into their scallops, Tristan maneuvers his silverware with the exacting precision of a doctor, and Ben attacks his plate with gusto.