Murder at the Wine Tasting Page 3

  Ray’s steel gray eyes lit up like fireworks. He ran a hand through his black hair, nervous and excited to be a dad. “Hungry. All the time.”

  Smiling, Margie could feel her shoulders loosen. It was good to be around friends again, even if the situation was horrifying. She’d have to mark out more time to spend with Ray and Camelia during the week, even if it meant leaving John in charge of the kitchen on those days. She felt calmer with Ray around, at least. “I know I’m going to have nightmares tonight; that poor man. How is Lady?”

  “She’s asleep in the back of the ambulance; they had to sedate her because she panicked.” Ray hung his head. “These sorts of things never get easier.”

  Margie nodded. “And I have a terrible habit of being around to see them happen.”

  Ray shook his head. “You are one of the unluckiest people I’ve ever met in my life. This is a small town; we only have one of these every couple of years, and you have been at three now. However do you manage?”

  “I wish I knew; maybe then I could get it to stop.”

  Ray walked away, waving as he went to go talk to Dolly about the dining room. Margie took a deep breath, the calming scent of the lavender coming from somewhere in the house. What a day. She’d have nightmares of that poor man’s fall for months. She couldn’t get it out of her mind. So when she stood to shuffle off to bed after the police finished up with the patrons, Margie grabbed a big glass of wine and headed to bed. She turned on the radio, listening to a broadcast as she tried desperately to sleep.

  A few hours later, she finally drifted off as she thought to herself: Well, at least it wasn’t murder.

  ***

  “It was a murder,” Ray said, his face tight. The lines of his face were even deeper today, carved out by the pressure of facing yet another murder in his quiet, quaint hometown. Ray wasn’t much past forty, but he was looking every year that old this morning plus some. Margie felt like she’d taken a blow to the back of the head.

  “But how?”

  Ray rubbed the back of his neck with one of his hands, sitting down in one of the dining room chairs. Although the dining area was now off limits, Margie’s kitchen was still in full swing, feeding the guests who took their food to eat wherever they could. Most spent their day out of doors trying to avoid the death scene and the police. Margie didn’t blame them; she’d never wanted to see the inside of the dining room again. Although she had helped the police with murders for many years, it hadn’t been because she liked death and murder. No, it was the puzzle of the thing. The murder part she could do without.

  “Poison,” Ray said simply, looking up at her from his seat. “Kevin would have died within an hour or two if he hadn’t fallen. And he fell because the poisons were making him dizzy.”

  Margie glanced up at the table, still set and covered in wine glasses from last night. Nothing had been touched, nothing removed. The police had kept the scene as intact as possible. And now Margie knew why. Her heart broke into tiny pieces as she relived the scene again, remembering how Lady had panicked. “Does Lady know yet?” she whispered, her voice low.

  “Not yet.” Something in Ray’s face kept Margie from asking more questions along that line. She had watched the poor woman fall apart the moment Kevin fell, and she was probably more haunted by that moment then everyone else.

  Or perhaps Ray thought she was a suspect.

  There was a droop to Ray’s shoulders, a kind of hunch that Margie had never seen before. It was as though the world was pressing down with thoughts heavier than lead. Margie fiddled nervously with the edges of her apron. “What is wrong, Ray?” she asked finally, unable to bear it any longer.

  “Bristol’s a small town. It’s growing bigger, little by little, but it’s still a small town. If we aren’t safe from murder and crime here, we aren’t safe anywhere. And now I’m bringing a kid into the world; every crime seems a little worse. And this...” He shivered, a chill creeping up his spine as he looked down at the hardwood floors. One spot was red and slightly darker than the rest of it.

  Margie touched his shoulder; she could feel his pain as though it were his own. “This whole world is dangerous, Ray. The best anyone can do is to protect their kids as much as possible and give them the tools they need to protect themselves. That is all anyone can do.”

  His shoulders dropped more as though her words were only adding to the weight he bore. “Don’t I know it, Margie. And it scares me.”

  “It scares me too.”

  He finally looked up at her, the dark depths of his eyes rimmed with red from holding back tears. He cleared his throat, standing up from the chair and starting to pace. “So who would have had access to the wine, the cups, or Kevin’s food?” Ray’s face turned stern and serious, the vulnerable man from seconds before vanishing in the face of a new case.

  “Anyone at the table might have, my staff, anyone serving, the maids. Me. Dolly too, of course, and her husband. Perhaps some of the cleaning staff.”

  “Did any of the staff disappear between last night and this morning?”

  Margie shook her head. “None of mine anyway. I don’t know any of the other employees yet though; I’ve been spending too much time in the kitchen. As late as it was when Kevin...” she gulped... “fell, my staff was likely already heading home. Most of them are high school students.”

  Ray nodded. “Well, I should interview some people. You get back to work. We can meet up later tonight to talk about my findings. Let me know if you hear anything.” Ray walked off, his head high and with a purpose in his steps. Poor thing; he was so stressed that he was posing. The idea of becoming a father must be getting to him. Margie stepped under the yellow crime scene tape, nodding to Officer Kelly, a new hire to the force she just met this afternoon. He was a very young thing, most likely right out of high school. With his chocolate hair and eyes wide, he was ready for whatever the world of the police force could throw at him.

  Margie only prayed he really was ready when it happened.

  When she stepped back into the kitchen, all of her young charges looked up at her like ducklings who had lost their mother. They all looked frightened, some looked pale and drawn. They huddled around her, looking for news.

  “What happened to Mr. Withers?” One of them asked, their voice shaking.

  “Is Mrs. Withers okay?” Another said.

  Then, a silence descended upon the room so thick that Margie could hear someone’s teeth chattering in nervousness. I can’t even tell them what happened, she realized, her heart throbbing at their pitiful expressions.

  “He fell, hit his head,” she said, as gently as he could. Her youngest charges all made horrible keening noises in the backs of their throats. It took her about a half an hour to get all of them settled. They returned to work, but they all seemed to have the weight of Kevin’s death pressing upon their backs. There was no idle chatter, not today. There was nothing but the sound of someone chopping vegetables and the chatter of trays and plates. Even John was silent, weighed down by the youngster's obvious depression. Their piteous silence was starting to affect the whole room. Many of these kids knew Kevin and his wife well enough; Bristol was so incredibly small. Karen, the youngest of her charges, was the hardest hit. She was sniffling a little as she kneaded bread, her eyes red from uncried tears.

  But Margie was at a complete loss for what to do. What could she say to make any of these children feel any better? She scoured her brain for some idea.

  It was John, however, who came up with a solution.

  Flipping the switch on the tiny radio, John swiveled the knob until something with a beat came on. The sound of The Loco-Motion filled the little kitchen, instantly brightening up the room. “Alright, everyone. Clear a space on the counter; I’m going to show you something you have never seen before.”

  The younger helpers gathered around, ready for nearly any kind of distraction. John pulled out some dough he had been working on and set about making a braided loaf of bread. Even to Margie, who
knew how the bread was made and had seen it braided before, she had never seen anyone with John’s skill level. He made tiny, meat-filled braided loaves of bread coated with generous amounts of herbs and garlic. Everyone in the room was caught up watching the swinging motions of his hands as he wrapped the bread around the fillings.

  Eventually, Karen, her eyes wide with awe, asked in her quiet voice if she could try. Then there was a clamoring from the others to try as well. Soon, all of her helpers were braiding away, their fingers slowly wrapping the dough the way John had shown them. All the efforts for the planned dinner evaporated around her, and she didn’t have the heart to have them stop. Little Karen even smiled.

  Margie quietly left, walking out to the chalkboard to write the new menu for dinner on the board before anyone noticed. She was pretty sure that Dolly wouldn’t mind the switch. Especially if Margie explained to her why she’d done it.

  Thank goodness for John. Smiling, Margie stepped out into the common room, pulling out the piece of chalk stashed in her apron’s pocket. The chalkboard that displayed the menu for the day was located in the main hallway, just by the front doors. The doors were heavy, honey-colored oak constructions with giant panes of glass inside of them. The edged glass distorted the sunlight streaming through, refracting it into brilliant little rainbows that spilled over the front carpets.

  Margie walked by Dolly’s office, noticing that the oak door was open into the hallway. She glanced inside, wondering if Dolly was there. But it wasn’t Dolly standing in front of the desk. It was Lady Withers. In the glance she allowed herself, Margie noticed that she was holding something.

  Walking up to the chalkboard, Margie wiped off the dinner menu, her ears straining to hear anything from inside Dolly’s office. After a moment of silence, Margie heard a quiet sound like paper ripping then saw Lady walk out of the office. Margie turned her full attention to the board, fixing the menu for the evening. She turned to smile at Lady. But she walked by, her crazed eyes focused elsewhere.

  Margie’s breath caught in her throat at the obsessed look in her eyes.

  She put her hand up to the chalkboard, the chalk in her hands shaking as she waited for Lady to walk by. Lady, her blonde hair streaming out behind her, practically ran from the hallway and up the stairs, probably heading for her rooms.

  Margie finished writing out the new menu, naming the little braided pastries “miniature pot pies” in her scrawling handwriting. Once she was absolutely sure that Lady was gone, she slipped into the office, her eyes darting around for anything that might have been disturbed.

  The office looked much like the rest of the house: warm, wood paneling and picturesque windows displaying the fabulous views of the winery’s open grape fields. The office actually overlooked the cabins and the edge of the vineyards; Margie could see her tiny cabin from here. The scene was bright and calming, the brilliant sunlight streaming onto the emerald grasses.

  But most importantly, no one was around to witness her snooping.

  Margie glanced around the room, her eyes running over the rich, patterned carpet in deep reds and greens. On the ground, next to the waste basket, was a tiny scrap of paper, as though someone had missed the can. She dove for it, grabbing the piece of paper. This had to be what Lady was ripping up. Reaching into the can, Margie pulled out all the other pieces that matched the off-white linen look of the paper and stuffed them in her apron.

  And before anyone could catch her, she walked out of the office, closing the door behind herself and hurriedly made her way back to the kitchen.

  Chapter 5

  Margie found when she returned that John was putting the kids into an assembly line, wrapping up the pastries and putting them into the oven at a rapid pace. The music was still blaring, and some of the younger ones were even dancing a little to the beat.

  After standing for a moment to admire the change in atmosphere, she dove right in, helping each section of the assembly as well as she was able. John walked her through the steps of braiding bread, and she did her best, making a wobbly, but stable, looking piece of pastry.

  That night, the kids all feasted on their little works of art that weren’t quite good enough for the guests’ table. Then they all headed home, much lighter on their feet than they had been before. John and Margie watched them go, smiling. “I can’t thank you enough for what you did,” Margie said, stepping back into the kitchen to get herself some tea before bed. “Those poor kids were heartbroken.”

  John shrugged as he pulled his hair out of his ponytail, fluffing the waves back into a semblance of order. “Those poor kids didn’t know how to handle it, so I did what I could to cheer them. Hopefully, they aren’t quite so sad tomorrow.”

  Frowning, Margie stared up at the high ceilings, which were dotted with fans. The design was good; it kept the kitchen from getting too terribly hot though it was still enough to make Margie sweat through her clothing. “I hope so too. The poor kids just have never lost a neighbor to anything but old age. They’ll be okay.”

  He nodded absently. After another second of silence, while he stared off into the distance, his blue eyes cold and empty, he got up from his seat, nodded at Margie, then retired without another word. Margie made a face. Perhaps John, whether he’d admit it or not, was just as affected by the death as the kids. She knew very little of him although he occupied her thoughts often. He was a curiosity, and Margie still didn’t feel like she could ask him any questions about himself.

  The air was icy cold on her face as she stepped out into the night. The wintery weather cooled the sweat on her body, quickly sending shivers over her skin. But she walked slowly to her cabin, her thoughts locked on the odd man who had become such a necessity in her kitchen. Winter was still in full swing in the mountains, and Margie was caught up in the beauty of it. Tiny snowflakes fell from the thick, gray blankets covering the sky.

  The cold drove her inside her tiny cabin after just a few moments, and she quickly turned on the fireplace. It wouldn’t take long for the tiny space to warm up again. But she sat in front of the flames, exhaustion pulling at her mind and the fire lulling her into a slow drowsiness. The warmth spilled over her skin, chasing away the last of the cold from outside and adding cheery light to the room. Margie dragged her weary bones from the floor, every muscle and joint in her body protesting the movement. She undressed for bed and then crawled inside the cool sheets, shivering until her body finally started to warm the fabric.

  She glanced around the room, making sure her windows and doors were locked. But her eyes landed on her apron, hanging on the key hooks by the door. The note; I forgot about the note. She frowned. Well, it will just as easily wait until the morning. As she was asleep before her curiosity could get the best of her.

  Chapter 6

  Margie yawned, stretching her arms up to the sky. Morning light spilled into the kitchen windows; the cloudy grey blankets in the sky from the night before had dissipated. The sun reflected off the snow, so bright it burned every time she tried to glance out of the window. It was too bright for as tired as she was.

  Pouring herself another cup of coffee, Margie sipped it as she continued her rounds around the kitchen, making sure the prep was done by her team members. It was about an hour until the rush would start, and Margie was enjoying the quiet of the morning.

  “Margie?” A quiet voice asked from behind. Although Ray had made an effort not to scare her, she still nearly jumped out of her skin at his interruption of her thoughts.

  “Good morning, Ray. You want some coffee?” Margie snapped, angry at being frightened.

  At least Ray looked a little sheepish. That made her feel a little better. “Yes, please, if you don’t mind.”

  Margie poured the coffee as he sat down at the giant, wooded island in the center of the kitchen. He ran his fingers over the cuts and scratches in the wood, his mind obviously elsewhere. “What have you figured out?”

  “Almost nothing,” Ray said, his eyes locked on the table in front of him
. “There were a lot of people around, but not a single person saw anyone mess with his drink. The poison was in the wine for sure; we found traces in the glass he drank from.” He began pacing. “But no one else was affected, so the poison must have just been in just his glass.”

  Margie held her coffee tightly between her hands, trying to to warm the cold depths of this bleak morning with the hot liquid. She was silent for a long moment. “Have you spoken to Lady yet?”

  He nodded, wincing. Margie had a good idea of how it went. “Oh! I nearly forgot.” She reached into the depths of her apron, pulling out all the tiny, torn pieces of paper. Dropping them onto the counter in front of Ray, she started putting the pieces together. “I saw Lady in Dolly’s office, tearing up some paper. So I collected it.”

  Ray frowned, his nose wrinkling at the puzzle before him. “Do you know who gave it to her?”

  Margie moved some of the pieces around, just pulling out the ones with writing on them. She started to maneuver then around, sliding the pieces back and forth until one lined up with another. “Not at all. I just saw her in Dolly’s office, then I heard paper tearing, then she left. I wouldn't have known what it was if she hadn’t missed the waste basket with a couple of pieces.”

  Ray moved some of them around too, trying to fit the bits into words. “You” he read, his forehead wrinkling.

  Margie nodded in agreement. “This might be “were.” Dolly is really clean and tidy, or else I might not have noticed the piece on the floor either.” They continued in silence for a moment, focusing on the pieces.

  There were a few bits missing, but they managed to put most of it together. Margie could feel the blood draining from her face, her hands growing cold as they continued to put the pieces together. They had arranged enough to see what the message was, and they both sat in silence, neither able to speak.

  “You were meant to die,” Margie read finally, her voice catching in her throat. “The killer wrote this?”