Killer Chardonnay Read online

“Of course I do.”

  “Right. Well, the grapes are from Palisade,” I say, fiddling with my necklace.

  I don’t own my own vineyard and instead order grapes from growers outside of Grand Junction. Which means if Gaskel doesn’t like my wine, it’s because I didn’t do the fruit justice, didn’t manage to extract the full flavor profile. In short, it’s all on me.

  I continue, “In addition to peaches, there are hints of melon, honeysuckle, and an oaky finish.”

  “We’ll see about that.” Gaskel takes a sip with the trademark gurgle of an expert.

  I hold my breath as he swishes the wine around in his mouth. The moment stretches on to an eternity. My stomach flips as I study his stoic face, scarcely daring to move.

  In the background, my winery is a flurry of motion. Absently, I notice the man of the Wine-Tossing Incident has returned to his table, now in an undershirt, his cream-colored sweater resting on the windowsill, blotched with pink. Thankfully, he and his counterpart seem to be behaving.

  I refocus on the distinguished figure before me, honored Gaskel deigned to show up for my opening. Honestly, I don’t even know how he heard about it, although apparently, he has his ways.

  From the hottest places in town to the hidden gems, there’s a mystique to how Gaskel selects which establishments to feature on his website. Some say it’s a new way of preparing food or wine that attracts him, others surmise it’s the promise of a free dessert, but I’ve always figured he must follow his stomach. Regardless, his presence could be huge for my business. Or an utter disaster. Gaskel is notoriously hard to please.

  He swallows with a shudder and dumps the remaining wine into a decorative vase. A vase not meant for disposing of wine, hence the daisies.

  I wince but then force myself to smile, recalling the thousands of devoted subscribers who regularly read his blog and follow his recommendations. The daisies are a necessary casualty.

  Gaskel taps a note into the tablet before him, his jaw clenched into a frown. That can’t be a good sign.

  “Can I get you a taste of something else?” I ask with more than a hint of desperation. “The Mount Sanitas White or the Pearl Street Pinot?”

  The names of my wines pay homage to the locale. The most popular parks, streets, and even the mascot of the local college in Boulder. It seemed like a good idea at the time. Now they just sound silly rolling off my tongue.

  “I’ll just cleanse my palate first.” Gaskel bites into a cracker, crumbs sticking to his silvering hipster goatee, a stark contrast to his otherwise meticulous appearance. He glances around my winery, his disapproval palpable.

  I try to squelch the panic rising in my chest. Maybe his tastings always take forever. Maybe the fact that he’s taking so long is actually a good sign. Maybe I can sneak a peek at his tablet.

  No, that’s a horrible idea.

  Gaskel looks from side to side, craning his neck so intensely that I worry for his fitted collared shirt. At first I think he’s checking out the ambience, but then I notice the way his eyes nervously flit about, landing on nothing in particular.

  “Is everything okay? You seem distracted.”

  “Fine,” he says gruffly. “Just waiting for someone.”

  “What do they look like?” I ask eagerly. “I can help keep an eye out for you.”

  “No,” he says a little too quickly. He coughs and stands up abruptly, a light sheen of sweat breaking out on his forehead. “Where’s your bathroom?”

  “In the back and to the left.” I purse my lips in concern as he stumbles. I didn’t realize he’d had that much to drink but his rosé-red face says otherwise. He steadies himself and continues.

  The bright screen of Gaskel’s tablet catches my eye. In his hurry, he forgot to close it. I refrain from snooping only by straightening the tasting menus for the umpteenth time and realigning the open wine bottles behind the hard maple countertop.

  Chatter and laughter waft from tables. Sage’s voice rings out above all the others. She catches my eye and raises her glass to me with a wink. She’s out in full force, maintaining a conspicuously loud running commentary on how amazing I and my wine are, in case anyone needs extra convincing (her words, not mine).

  Her compliments are sweet, and beyond the call of duty. But they mean nothing if my wine isn’t up to snuff.

  Surely one peek at Gaskel’s tablet wouldn’t hurt . . .

  I glance at the restroom; he’s still in there with the door shut. Carefully, I lean over the bar, curiosity winning over logic. Even upside down, I can see his notes are acerbic. The words sour, bitter, and amateur leap off the screen.

  I clench my hands into tight fists, outraged. Then I remember the harsh truth about this business: taste is subjective. What’s well balanced and buttery to one person could taste like vinegar to someone else.

  My face flushes in shame. Why did I think I could do this?

  “Say cheese,” my brother’s voice says at my side. I nearly jump out of my suede ankle boots as Liam snaps a picture of me.

  Stars dance in my vision from the flash. “No offense, but this really isn’t a moment I want captured on film.”

  “I’ve gotta document my little sis’s big day,” he says, snapping another picture with his vintage Nikon camera. A bag of extra lenses and accessories is slung over his lanky frame. “Besides, I need the practice.”

  I shouldn’t be surprised that Liam somehow manages to make this about him. He notoriously flits from hobby to hobby, his most recent interest being photography.

  “Seriously, cut it out,” I hiss at him in annoyance. “Gaskel will be back any minute.” Unless he decided to slip out the back.

  Liam slouches onto a stool. His friend follows suit.

  I learned the hard way that my brother’s friends were off-limits. That doesn’t stop me from eyeing this one’s expertly mussed sandy-blond hair and the thin scars etched up his toned forearms.

  “Parker Valentine,” I say, reaching out my hand. His grip is strong in mine and his fingers are rough, like he uses them for hard labor every day. He holds on a second too long.

  He has broad shoulders, at least a day’s worth of scruff on his chin, and a confident demeanor. “Reid Wallace.” His lips flinch into a frown as he reads the tasting menu. This guy definitely needs to loosen up.

  “What kind of wine do you enjoy?”

  Reid cocks his head to the side as if in challenge. “Surprise me.”

  “And I have yet to meet a drink I don’t like,” Liam says, needlessly. He attempts an artsy close-up shot of the signature Vino Valentine labels I spent months perfecting, crisscrossing grapevines punctuated by the sun.

  I study Reid’s indie-band T-shirt and slate-green eyes. “The Campy Cab,” I finally say. I pour them each a taster, trying to instill confidence in my voice. “Smoky and fruit-forward with just a hint of tobacco. Pairs especially well with s’mores.”

  Anita carefully sets a tray of empty stemware on the counter, a strand of hair escaping her ponytail. She tucks it behind her ear and nods toward Gaskel’s empty barstool.

  “How’s it going with the fancy critic?” she asks.

  “Okay,” I answer vaguely, adding Gaskel’s glass to the collection destined for the dishwasher.

  “I bet it’s going better than you think.” Her cheeks are glowing with the sheen of naïveté. “I already sold a case of the cab to the group of guys, and the couple in the corner bought a bottle of the Ski Lodge Cherry.” Anita dashes off to package the recently sold wine.

  Hope balloons in my chest and I feel a surge of determination to convince Gaskel to give my wine another chance. By any means necessary. I’ll grovel if I must.

  I pour a sample of the Mile High Merlot and then idle near the bathroom door, glancing at the grapevine clock hanging over the hallway table. Gaskel has to be done soon.

  A custo
mer with dark brown curly hair and a prominent nose fidgets in line behind me and I become even more aware of the time. In fact, the longer I wait, the more worried I get, especially when I remember the way Gaskel’s chest heaved when he stood up.

  I knock on the door. “Mr. Brown?”

  No answer.

  “Mr. Brown?” I try again, the hair at the nape of my neck rising. “I’m coming in, sir.”

  I try the doorknob and find it unlocked. My unease grows as I slowly push the door open.

  I gasp, bringing my hand to my chest. There’s a shattering of glass and, faintly, I realize I’ve dropped the merlot. Burgundy wine dribbles over the Tuscan-tiled floor.

  And there’s Gaskel.

  His ego would take a major hit if he knew he’d been discovered in such a messy state. He’s sprawled ungracefully on the floor, his legs bent at awkward angles. It looks like he’d almost made it to the toilet before he threw up, vomit all over his face and starched shirt. One hand cradles the expensive watch strapped to his other wrist. A piece of paper sticks out of his front pocket like a flag of surrender, and his eyes stare glassily at the ceiling.

  There’s a stillness emanating from his body. Somehow, I know he’s dead.

  Chapter

  Three

  I practically sprint from the bathroom, nudging past the guy still waiting outside.

  My vision blurs from the blood pounding in my head. I hunch over a large floor vase in the hallway, clutching the ceramic edges while my stomach churns.

  I can’t believe what I just saw. Can’t even begin to process what happened.

  I force myself to take deep yoga breaths—in through my nose, out through my mouth—until, finally, reason returns.

  The police. I need to call the police.

  Fumbling for my phone, I manage to dial 911, my fingers tingly from adrenaline.

  My head spins from the surrealism of the situation. I almost feel like I’m watching myself from above: a panicky, freaked-out winemaker scrambling to do the right thing.

  The operator is calm and soothing when she answers, “Boulder, 911. Where is your emergency?”

  Tripping over my words, I eventually manage to rattle off the address.

  “What is the nature of your emergency?”

  “I don’t know what happened, but there’s a man here, a critic, he’s—” I swallow and whisper, “Dead.” The word is foreign in my mouth.

  “Is anyone else in danger?”

  I peer toward the bathroom with a shudder. “I don’t think so.” Still, goose bumps prickle my arms.

  “Officers are on their way.”

  She keeps me on the phone while, blindly, I return to the tasting room.

  You would never know something catastrophic occurred for how normal everything seems. Patrons are still settled around oak-barrel tables, merrily imbibing and enjoying a lazy summer weekend afternoon.

  Until the authorities arrive.

  Then a fearful hush falls over my winery. Necks crane to see what’s going on, the force of curiosity too strong to deny.

  Safe to say, this is not the grand opening I envisioned.

  I perch behind the tasting counter, clutching my head with both hands, while a police officer and an EMT barricade themselves in the bathroom. I stubbornly cling to hope even as a shiver runs up my spine, the image of Gaskel’s body branded in my mind.

  No one is allowed to leave the premises. My hard-earned customers clump together, their impatience growing steadily. Ever the helpful assistant, Anita flits through the room like a butterfly, her long ponytail swinging behind her, checking to see if she can get anyone anything. I make a mental note to give her a raise as soon as I can afford it. If I ever can.

  I feel the eyes of Liam and Sage fixed on me in concern, but I ignore them. I just need a minute to process all of this.

  The bell over the door jingles and a man in a navy suit makes his way toward us. His eyes are clear instead of bloodshot and he’s considerably more built now, but I still recognize him from eons ago.

  “Eli Fuller?”

  “Parker?” he asks with equal astonishment.

  I haven’t seen Eli since high school graduation. He was four rows in front of me, F coming well before V alphabetically, but I remember the Birkenstock sandals he wore all the time, even with his cap and gown.

  I stand to greet him. “What are you doing here?”

  “I’m a detective now.” He flashes his badge with pride. His hair is clean cut and slicked back, a far cry from the shaggy style he used to sport. “I need to ask you a few questions.”

  All I can do is nod, taken aback that the renowned stoner of the Boulder Cineplex somehow became a detective.

  “You discovered Mr. Brown, correct?” Eli starts, pulling a tiny pad of paper from his jacket pocket.

  “Yes, he’d been in the restroom a long time,” I manage to stammer. “I went to check on him.”

  “Did he seem nervous or act unusual?”

  “I’m not sure. This was the first time we’d met.” I hesitate, thinking back to our brief interaction. “He was looking around and said he was waiting for someone, but no one ever showed.”

  “Can you describe the events leading up to when you found him?”

  “He got here around four thirty, sat down, and took a sip of wine followed by a bite of a cracker to cleanse his palate. The next thing I knew he was sweating, red in the face, and staggering toward the restroom. I figured he had more to drink than I thought, but then . . .” I trail off.

  “Which wine did he try?”

  “The Chautauqua Chardonnay.” I point to the bottle, sitting unassumingly behind the counter. “Usually a tasting would start with a lighter white, but I didn’t know how many chances I’d get to impress him.”

  Eli continues, “Did you see anyone tamper with his drink?”

  “It went straight from my hands to his glass.” My mouth goes tannin-dry as I connect the dots. “Why are you asking so many questions about his wine?”

  “I can’t answer that.” His eyes flick to mine and a jolt of fear courses through my body.

  I lean against the barstool for support, reveling in the touch of cool metal against my palms. “Did he—” I swallow and lower my voice to a whisper. “Was it poison?”

  “We won’t know for sure until we get the coroner’s report.” But it’s clear that’s exactly what he thinks.

  I push my bangs off my forehead and blink back tears. That’s when a terrible thought enters my mind. One I almost can’t acknowledge in case it proves to be true. Fighting back the bile rising in my throat, I force myself to confront the awful possibility.

  Could I be responsible for Gaskel’s death?

  Did I mess up the fermentation process or was the bottle infected with some new deadly strain of cork taint? But I was so meticulous, testing the temperature and acidity every step of the way. Moreover, other people tasted from that same bottle and are still standing. I gnaw on my bottom lip, perplexed.

  I’m so preoccupied, I barely register Eli’s next question. “Do you know of anyone who would want to harm Mr. Brown?”

  There’s a snort behind me. I’d forgotten that Reid was at the bar, too. “Only every restaurant owner in the Denver area,” he interjects. “Did you ever read the guy’s blog?”

  “What’s this about a blog?” Eli asks.

  Reid finishes the last bit of his wine, seemingly unconcerned that someone has recently died from drinking my craftsmanship. “Gaskel Brown trashes almost every restaurant he goes to,” he says. “Do you know how many people would love to get back at him?” The scars on Reid’s arms combined with his nonchalant attitude mark him as a bad boy.

  “Are you one of those people?” Eli asks evenly, his stance turning predatory.

  “Definitely not,” Reid responds. There’s someth
ing incomprehensible in his expression, almost like irony, but it’s gone a moment later. “He gave me a rave review.”

  I frown, wondering exactly who my brother’s friend is.

  Eli relaxes his shoulders and returns his focus to me. “Where is the glass Mr. Brown was drinking from?”

  “Probably about halfway through the rinse cycle.” The color drains from my face. “I had just gotten him a fresh one. I didn’t want any remnants of the chardonnay in the glass since he didn’t seem to like it.”

  “How do you know he didn’t like the chardonnay?”

  I cross my arms over my chest, not wanting to admit to my snooping. “I, uh, could just tell.”

  “That’ll be all for now,” Eli says, jotting down one last note. “I’ll let you know if I have any other questions.”

  “Can you do me a favor, for old time’s sake?” I ask, although honestly I was never close with Eli. We navigated in different circles, only briefly commingling at the occasional house party or show at Red Rocks.

  He raises one eyebrow at me. “That depends on the favor.”

  “This is my first day of business and I don’t want to scare anyone away. Is there any way you can keep the whole poison thing to yourself?”

  His gaze softens. “I’ll do what I can.” Then he continues, “But this is an open homicide investigation.”

  The words hang in the air between us, thick and heavy like the sediment at the bottom of a good bottle of cab. “Wait, did you say homicide? As in murder?”

  “Good to see you, Parker,” Eli says, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Although I wish it had been under different circumstances.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Oh God, my business will never survive this. And that’s the least of my concerns. I start to hyperventilate.

  “This can’t be happening,” I say to no one in particular.

  Liam plunks a glass of wine in front of me. “Drink this. It’ll help.” At my skeptical look he adds, “Don’t worry, it’s not the chardonnay.”

  A half sob, half chuckle escapes my throat.

  “Too soon, man,” Reid says. He picks up the tasting menu and scans it silently.