Deadly Offer (5 page)

“It’s in my blood,” Selena had once explained about her passion for winemaking. “My grandfather worked in the vineyards outside of Ensenada, in the Guadalupe Valley. That’s why I like wine so much, too.”

Andrea had giggled, glad to have a friend who was so open, so fun.

But two years ago, things began to change. Selena grew more distant, keeping to herself up at Carson Creek and rarely returning phone calls. When Andrea bumped into her at the supermarket in St. Adina, Selena had seemed thinner and older with each encounter. Andrea, meanwhile, became consumed by the growing popularity of her husband’s vineyard. Michael had finally been recognized for his contributions to the valley’s wine industry, and with his designation of Winemaker of the Year had come a new celebrity for him and the vineyard. There were social engagements nearly every night, trips to France to promote the business, and a never-ending stream of celebrities and politicians to entertain on the vineyard grounds.
I didn’t see much of Selena over the past few years. I tried, but she didn’t seem to care anymore.

And now friends and family were gathering at Selena Thompson’s vineyard to mourn her passing. Michael and his son Tim were on the way over with a huge bowl of pasta with fresh pesto; Christophe Barton, Contento Family Vineyard’s estate manager, had been dispatched to the airport to pick up Tim’s twin Margo. Andrea, who needed to stretch her legs before facing the hordes, knew it was anyone’s guess as to who else would show up at Carson Creek.

I wish we’d remained friends, Selena,
Andrea Contento said under her breath. She sighed again and resumed her march up the hill.

———

“The vineyard was for sale?” Carlos Gomez was on the balls of his sandal-clad feet, hands upraised and eyes wide with disbelief. “You’re telling me that Selena was trying to sell?” He shook his head, causing his black curls to bob wildly. “She loved this place. That’s crazy.”

Dan Stewart nodded. He glanced at ET who, as usual, was silent, his back straight and tall.

“She was selling it herself,” Dan explained. “She decided a few months ago. She thought she could handle it alone and save some money in broker fees.” He shot a look at Darby. “No offense.”

“None taken,” she said smoothly. Darby sat on a comfortable loveseat in the living room of Carson Creek’s farmhouse, with ET seated nearby. Dan had opened up a bottle of the vineyard’s Pinot Noir and they were sipping it slowly while waiting for the Contento family to arrive.

“Were there any offers on the property?” Darby set down her wineglass on the coffee table and looked at Dan Stewart, who nodded.

“Yes. As soon as word got out, there was interest. Michael Contento offered Selena what I imagine was a very fair price.”

“How much?” Carlos demanded.

Dan shrugged. “I don’t know the particulars.”

“Was she going to sell to Michael Contento?”

“At first she planned to, and then …” Dan paused. “There were other offers.”

Carlos exhaled. “As in more than one?” He plunked down his wineglass, not noticing the small amount of red liquid that splashed onto the wood.

“That’s right. An accountant from back east—her name is Vivian something. The second one’s from a yoga expert with a TV show—Fritz Kohler. He wants to have a yoga retreat center here.”

“And what are Vivian’s plans?” Darby inquired.

“Selena said she wants to keep it just the way it is. She’s looking for a lifestyle change, a quiet little place where she could retire.”

Darby looked at ET, whose face wore an almost bemused expression. He caught her glance and gave a sheepish little grin.

“I can’t help but think it is funny that in this market, my sister would have not one, but three offers on her property. She must have been some terrific salesperson.”

“The property sells itself,” Dan said, his voice tight.

Darby threw him a glance, surprised to see a look of longing cross his handsome features.
He wanted the property too
, she realized.

“So where does it stand now?” Carlos was finally sitting, although he looked ready to spring from his chair. “Who was the lucky one that Selena picked?”

Dan took a sip of wine and shrugged again. “I can honestly say that I don’t know. She didn’t tell me, and I didn’t ask. I think she was prepared to call one of the buyers today.”

Darby’s mind went over the scenario. Multiple offers to purchase a breathtakingly beautiful vineyard, and then the untimely passing of the vineyard’s owner. It was all so strange. She cleared her throat.

“Do you know if Selena had a will?”

The brothers glanced uncomfortably at each other and shook their heads.

“I found the contact information for her lawyer,” Dan said. “I left a message at his office today.”

“Thank you,” murmured ET.

“In the meantime, what do we do about these offers on the property?” Carlos directed his question to Darby.

“I’d recommend doing nothing until you’ve had a chance to confirm the particulars of each offer as well as Selena’s final wishes for the property,” said Darby. “She may have mentioned something to her lawyer. It’s too soon to do much more.”

Carlos grimaced. “What if she already chose someone? Does her death negate the whole thing?”

Darby shook her head. “If she accepted one of the offers, chances are you will be obligated to carry out her wishes, but it won’t be a quick sale.”

“What do you mean?” Carlos asked. “Why not?”

“Under California law, the property will have to go through probate, and that’s a long process. All of Selena’s non-cash assets will need to be appraised by a probate referee, and that could take months.”

ET spoke once more. “I don’t understand. My sister loved Carson Creek. She poured her heart and soul, not to mention every penny, into this property. Why in the world would she have wanted to sell it?”

“I think I know why.” Everyone turned to see Sophie Stewart, standing in the kitchen doorway, holding a tray full of plastic bottles with orange caps. Pointing at the prescription medicine, the teen drew on her training as a candy striper at Ventano Valley Community Hospital and stated in a clear, strong voice: “Selena Thompson was sick.”

Four

Harrison Wainfield surveyed the
St. Adina farmland with a critical eye. Twenty acres of prime grape-growing land, and only twenty minutes from town, but when he’d mentioned it to Margo Contento, she wouldn’t even take a look. “Too far,” she’d sniffed on the phone, and he’d known by her imperious tone that it was pointless to try and convince her otherwise. He gritted his teeth and gunned his Mercedes, sending small stones skittering in a plume below his tires.

The sienna-colored fields, now home to a dwindling herd of cows, whizzed by as the real estate agent sped up the hill leading away
from the property. The Contento family had been his client for more than a decade, and the relationship was both a blessing and a curse. Sure, he’d made money buying and selling homes and land for them, but dealing with the various Contento personalities was not a walk in the park. Margo, with her mane of blonde hair and cover-girl looks, was a tigress. She and her father, Michael, were opinionated to the point where they barely listened to each other, never mind his wise advice. Tim, Margo’s twin brother, came off as passive, but he could turn vicious in a heartbeat. And Andrea? To Harrison Wainfield, Michael Contento’s wife equaled danger.

He pictured her pointed little face and sly smile and felt a longing that still, all these years later, made him hot with desire. His memories of the dark-haired brunette went back to the years before she’d married the much-older Michael, back when she was Andrea McDougal, paying off her college loans by being the twins’ nanny.

Twenty-plus years ago. Could it really have been that long? Those were the days when the hills of Ventano Valley were still dotted with farms, when tourism was an industry that flourished someplace else. Restaurants back then catered to people who wanted dinner, not an “experience,” and wine, if it was expensive, came from France.

He took a curve too sharply and felt a surge of adrenalin flood his veins. The key to satisfying the Contentos was Carson Creek. Michael was a fool not to have purchased the property years ago, back when Harrison had unrolled the surveys and spelled it all out. “Someday, you may want to expand Contento Family Vineyards,” he’d predicted. “Getting this land now will give you that opportunity.”

But Michael Contento had shut him right down, told him he didn’t need any more property, and practically accused him of being a land pimp.
Idiot.

That was weeks before Selena Thompson came out of nowhere to buy the acreage. Selena, who knew more about braiding her hair than she did about viticulture, and whose initial attempts at making wine were nothing short of ludicrous. She’d used words like “holistic, organic, biodynamic,” and the wine makers of the valley had laughed behind her back. Harrison took a deep breath of the clean valley air as he zoomed past a recreational vehicle towing a tiny car. Selena had shown toughness in those early years, he had to give her that. Within months, she’d lured Dan Stewart from the Contentos and begun making wine in earnest. Gradually, the snickers turned to grudging admiration. And then, lo and behold, those ridiculous adjectives she’d tossed out came into fashion.

Rest in peace,
Harrison Wainfield thought, swerving to avoid a red squirrel as his tires squealed in protest. Moments later he slowed the Mercedes, let his muscles relax, and stroked his strawberry-blonde goatee. What really mattered was that Carson Creek was once again available. The Contento family would get the extra land they wanted, thanks to him, and Andrea might be persuaded to show her gratitude.

He felt the familiar ache and smiled. It was practically a done deal.

———

Sophie Stewart brought a forkful of pesto-coated pasta to her lips. Delicious, but that generally was the case with anything that came out of the Contento’s kitchen. She thought back longingly to when her father worked at Contento vineyards and a batch of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies would magically appear. They were to die for, Sophie remembered. Thick and yet soft, and absolutely chock full of milk chocolate morsels …

She chewed the bite of pasta and went for another scoop. Minutes earlier she’d seen annoyance on her father’s face when she’d brought the tray of pills into the living room, but the Asian woman from San Diego with the funny name—Darby Farr—had quietly told her “Good job.” And it had been a nice piece of detective work, finding all those prescription pills and knowing it meant Selena had some sort of serious illness. Her dad hadn’t had any time to say anything, because the door was suddenly opened by the Contentos and a few people from town.

Sophie tucked her hair behind her ears, savoring the taste of the fresh basil and the perfect chewiness of the penne. Poor Selena had never cooked like this. Sophie remembered that she followed some kind of weird diet that meant all her food looked like—and probably tasted like—cardboard. Maybe that was because of all those medications. Despite the fact that Selena didn’t make anything anywhere near as delicious as those chocolate chip cookies, Sophie knew her father had been much happier at Carson Creek than he had been when he’d worked at the Contento’s vineyard.
Much
happier.

She bit her lip and thought about the question she could never seem to answer. Her father and Selena Thompson … had they been more than co-workers? Had they been lovers?

She squirmed at the thought.

It doesn’t matter any more
.
Selena is gone.

Sophie took another bite of the pungent pasta and watched as her father crossed the living room to the kitchen. His cheeks were hollow, his head tilted down toward the polished wood floor. She chewed, swallowed, and gulped her fizzy water.

If Dad and Selena were lovers, it means he’s not just sad but devastated. And it means that once more he’s lost the woman he loved.

She wiped her mouth with a napkin, picked up her plate, and followed her father into the kitchen. He turned to face her, still holding his dish of uneaten food. On his face she read her answer. He was a man in mourning, a man with nothing left to lose.

———

“I’m glad there is a professional here to help Carlos and Enrique,” commented the petite brunette as she held out her hand to Darby. She was in her forties and wore slim jeans and a pumpkin-colored blouse. “I’m from the neighboring vineyard. Andrea Contento.”

Darby shook her hand. “I don’t really know that I’m here to help them in any professional capacity. I drove ET—Enrique—up the coast because he’s my friend. This was a huge shock to him, and to Carlos.”

“To all of us.” Andrea Contento gave a rueful look. “I’m absolutely stunned. I knew Selena didn’t seem herself, and I’d heard rumors that she wasn’t well, but I never suspected she was sick enough to die.” She took a sip of her wine and frowned. “I wish I could have helped her. I’m going to miss her tremendously.”

“What was wrong with Selena?”

“I don’t know exactly. It seemed as if whatever it was, it made her very weak, that much I do know.” She put down her wine glass. “A few years ago, she was the picture of health. We used to walk together just about every morning. Up the hills, down the hills, chatting all the while.” Andrea Contento lowered her voice and grinned mischievously. “Selena knew the dirt on everyone in this town, and if she didn’t she made something up. Believe me, we had some fascinating conversations.”

“With Selena? Of course you did.” A tall man with strawberry- blonde hair and a neatly trimmed goatee appeared beside Andrea Contento. Darby watched as he placed a hand on her elbow. “I know you and Selena were good friends,” he said softly. “I’m sorry.”

Andrea nodded and tilted her head toward the man. “Meet your competition,” she said to Darby. “This is Harrison Wainfield, one of our area’s top real estate agents.” She pursed her lips. “It’s Darcy, isn’t it?”

“Darby. Darby Farr.”

Wainfield gave a little bow, holding her gaze as he did so. “Always a pleasure to meet a fellow realtor,” he said. “Are you new in the area?”

“No, I work for Pacific Coast Realty, down in San Diego.”

Harrison Wainfield’s whole body melted into a more relaxed posture. “I see. What brings you to wine country?”

Darby explained that she worked with ET and had driven him up that afternoon. “I’m just here for the night,” she said. “ET and his brother have a lot to work out.”

Wainfield nodded. “I’ve already told Carlos that I’ll be happy to help them deal with the sale of the property. I’ll mention it to his brother, as well.” He nodded in Andrea’s direction. She’d moved to another group of people and had her arm entwined in an older man’s. “The Contentos have wanted more acreage for quite some time now.” His smile was wistful. “That’s rather convenient, don’t you think?”

Darby felt the pace of her heart quicken. It wasn’t often that she disliked people on sight, but Harrison Wainfield was making the hairs on the back of her neck prickle. She watched as he fished in the pocket of his corduroy jacket, pulling out a glossy business card.

“Perhaps I’m making you uncomfortable, talking business at this kind of a gathering.” He leaned toward her, and Darby smelled spearmint on his breath. “But in my thirty-odd years in real estate, I’ve found that absolutely any time is right for making deals.”

He gave a smug smile and began weaving his way back through the small crowd and out the door. Darby shuddered and took another sip of her wine. No wonder Selena had chosen to sell the vineyard herself.

The gathering seemed a bizarre mixture of a cocktail party and a wake, a chance for people to express their shock over Selena’s sudden death. Darby looked about for ET. She spotted him speaking with Andrea Contento and a tall, older man, and headed toward them.

ET made introductions, and Darby looked into the vigorous and tanned face of the famous winemaker, Michael Contento. He was tall and fit, his hazel eyes the color of the grape leaves Darby had glimpsed growing in the fields. He grasped her hand and shook it, and the strength of his grip was that of a man half his age, which Darby guessed to be in the mid-seventies.

“Damn shame about Selena,” he said. “I can’t believe she’s
gone.”

“I wish I had known her,” Darby confessed. “She must have had some very special qualities.”

“Quite the accomplished grape grower, you know. She and Dan were putting out some fine wine. Her Pinots were getting a reputation in the state and beyond. Not to mention, she was a hell of a nice person.”

ET nodded somberly. “Thank you, Professor Contento.”

“Please, call me Michael. My teaching days are long gone—I’m lucky if I get a chance to read a whole book nowadays. This damn wine business keeps a man busy.”

“Selena was busy as well, but always seemed to make time for fun,” commented Andrea. She gave a tiny smile. “We had some great parties here and at the vineyard. Christmas—Halloween—you name it. Selena liked practical jokes, too. One year on April Fools’ Day she made a special bottle of wine for Michael. Remember that, darling?”

He grinned. “Changed the label on one of my own bottles and brought it to dinner. I tasted it and couldn’t believe how good the wine was. Little did I know I was drinking one of my own star Cabs.”

“Cabernet Sauvignon,” Andrea explained. “The label was some
thing atrocious, like “Dwarf’s Head” or something like that, with a horrible little drawing of a gnome sitting on a mushroom. You should have seen Michael’s expression when he tasted the wine!” She laughed and then immediately became quiet. “That’s what I will miss about her—that wonderful sense of humor.”

The brief moment of lightheartedness evaporated as quickly as it had come. The Contentos hugged ET, murmured their sympathies, and moved away. Darby took another sip of her wine, deep in thought.

———

From the crest of a hill overlooking Carson Creek Estate & Winery, Vivian Allen focused her binoculars on the old farmhouse. It was nearly eight p.m., but cars were still arriving, carrying people who entered the spacious kitchen to pay their respects to Selena Thompson’s brothers. She directed the powerful lenses toward a window and waited. Catching a glimpse of one of them would be helpful, but it wasn’t totally necessary. She pulled the photos from her jacket and scrutinized the images. The older one was Enrique; the younger, more fleshy-faced one, Carlos. She lingered on his photograph, committing his features to memory.
Carlos is a photographer from San Francisco
, she thought.

Vivian ran through her plan once more in her head. Wait for the rest of the visitors to leave, and then head down to the farmhouse and meet Carlos. If she could get him to listen to her strategy, she just might have a chance.
If
…

She shoved the binoculars back in the big pink shoulder bag that was draped over her shoulder. Timing was everything, and hopefully her time had come.

———

The man at the bar was drunk. Toby Bliss, owner of the Blissful Grape, glanced at the clock and then back at the stool where the guy was slumped, his massive head down flat on two enormously powerful arms. Only eight o’clock on a Friday night and the guy was out cold, his black hair sticking up at crazy angles from his shaggy head.

The door opened and a crowd of tourists entered, laughing and crowding toward a table in the corner.
Probably on their way back from a wine tasting party at one of the vineyards,
Toby thought. His experienced eye told him they were just boisterous enough to order several rounds with appetizers, and maybe dinner, too, but not inebriated enough to cause any trouble.

Unlike Mr. Universe, draped like a sack of potatoes over his bar. The guy seemed harmless, but Toby eyed his biceps with trepidation. He definitely lifted—a lot—and probably took enhancing drugs to boot. Toby took a step closer. A tattoo peeked from the guy’s white tee shirt. It was some sort of a wheel from the looks of it, but that was as close as he wanted to get to those guns. He wiped down a section of the bar with a damp rag. The guy had downed tequila, straight, until he’d just laid down his head and passed out. From the sound of his snores, he’d be there awhile.