Deadly Offer (9 page)

“How did you know to come here?” Darby asked.

“I didn’t. Something woke me up and I couldn’t sleep. And then I had a strange feeling that I needed to drive over. As soon as I arrived, I saw that the sprayers weren’t on.” He sighed. “Hopefully we’ll harvest in a day or two. I can’t wait to get those little suckers off the vines.”

———

Five hours later, the morning sun filtering through the windows woke Darby, who yawned, dressed, and headed down to the kitchen. She inhaled the rich aroma of coffee as Dan Stewart handed her a mug full.

“Yesterday you were here to work, last night you saved the grapes, and now it’s Sunday and you’re back. Pretty heavy schedule, Dan.”

“I’m always here when there are major emergencies to deal with.”
He pointed at a box on the counter. “Homemade donuts and muffins from the bakery in Wyattville,” he said. “Sophie picked out quite a selection. Help yourself.”

Darby chose a maple-glazed donut and sat down at the kitchen table. “How do the grapes look?”

“I’m pretty hopeful. They taste fine and the vines themselves look healthy. I think we dodged another bullet.”

“You’re convinced these incidents are related? The fungus, the yeast, and now someone cutting the lines?”

“Absolutely.” He frowned. “I don’t want to believe it, but I have to.”

“What happened with the security system? Why didn’t Selena install it?”

“I don’t know. She looked into it, but never finalized the contract with the company. Now that I know about her health issues, I wonder if she had more pressing expenses.”

“Morning.” It was Carlos, rubbing his eyes as he staggered into the kitchen. “That was some little field trip last night. I feel like I ran a million miles.”

“Coffee?” Dan held up a cup and Carlos nodded.

“Have we seen my brother yet?”

Darby shook her head. “I hope he’ll keep sleeping for a bit. He looked so tired.”

Carlos took the cup of coffee. “Thanks.” He spied the box of pastries and pulled out two muffins. “I’m starving. This farming life sure gives you an appetite.”

Dan chuckled. “Selena once told me that you’re a photographer, right Carlos?”

“You got it. I take portraits, mainly.”

“Where’s your studio?”

“Downtown San Francisco, over by Coit Tower. I’m in a great spot.”

Darby finished her donut and took a swig of coffee. “Do you exhibit there as well?”

Carlos nodded. “I do. I’m in a few galleries, too. There’s one in St. Adina that carries my work. In fact, I found out yesterday that they sold two of my portraits.”

“That’s wonderful news.” It was great to see Carlos occupied with something other than his sister’s death, but nevertheless Darby felt the need to change the subject. Selena’s service was only a day away, and the Contentos had called with a few requests.

“Speaking of photos, Margo Contento called. She’s setting up for tomorrow and looking for a few photos of Selena.”

“I’ve got one I can get printed,” Carlos said. “I’ll take care of it today.”

Dan pointed a finger up into the air. “There’s an album in the attic crammed full of photos. I could ask Sophie to go through it and pick out some good ones, and then she could show you and ET?”

Carlos nodded. “That sounds good.” He rose from the table. “All of you are so kind.” His voice caught. “My sister was lucky.”

Dan and Darby watched as Carlos left the room.

———

Darby laced up her sneakers following breakfast and went for a short
run. She then showered, dressed in a pair of black pants and a tee shirt, and drafted a listing agreement for Carlos and ET to review. The two brothers had gone to meet Margo at Contento Family Vineyards, and Dan had driven home with his daughter. Darby was alone with her laptop in the dining room.

A knock on the door made her suddenly shaky. She rose and opened it wide.

Miles Porter.
The change in his appearance was striking, and at first Darby did not know what to say. Gone was his thick shock of dark hair: he now had a trim, military style cut that accentuated the rugged lines of his face and brought out the deep hazel color of his eyes. He smiled, and she felt a rush of familiarity, along with an emotion she could not quite name. He looked different—rougher, wilder, and more masculine—but he was still Miles.

“Hello.” She reached out and hugged him, recognizing the tweedy jacket he’d worn back in Maine. He smelled faintly of bayberry, a clean, soapy scent she liked. “I’m so glad you’re back safely.”

His eyes twinkled above the chiseled cheeks.

“I was hoping you’d say that. May I come in?”

“Of course. How about some coffee? Or tea?”

“You know me—an Englishman to the core. Tea would be lovely.”

Darby rummaged in Selena’s cabinet. “Earl Grey?”

“Perfect.” Darby could feel his eyes on her as she stretched for the tea. A moment later, he placed a hand on the small of her back and her spine literally tingled.

“You’re more beautiful than when I saw you in Maine,” he said, his voice husky. “How can that be?”

She felt her face growing warmer. Slowly she unwrapped the tea bag and placed it in a mug. “I think it’s because you’ve spent nearly two months in a tent. Anyone would look good.”

He grinned. “You’ve got a point there.” She poured water, handed him the mug, and suggested that they sit in the living room.

“What a great old house,” Miles commented as they walked through the dining room. “And the scenery outside—just outstanding. I’ve never been to this part of California, and I must say, it is breathtakingly beautiful.”

Darby nodded. “You can see why ET’s sister Selena loved this place.” She paused. “Tomorrow is her funeral service. ET and his brother are starting to come to terms with it, but it’s been very difficult.”

“I can only imagine. Did they know the extent of her illness?”

“No. They didn’t even know she was sick. Her doctor said it’s
not uncommon for people with a chronic disease—especially working
women—to hide their symptoms. They are often at risk for discrimination if they show any kind of weakness.”

“I know. I remember reading a story about that very thing, and the statistics were overwhelming. Poor Selena. She felt she had to go it on her own, is that it?”

“Yes.” Darby was silent a moment, just taking in his presence, surprised at how happy she was to have him sitting two feet away. “You look well, Miles.”

“No worse for wear?” His eyes crinkled as he smiled, and Darby thought she could see a few more lines etched in his tanned skin.

“No.” She gave a smile. “I even like your buzz cut.”

He ran a hand over his head. “I did it to blend in with the troops,” he admitted. “Not only that, I’m saving a bundle on shampoo.”

“I bet!” she laughed. “Hurry up and finish that tea and I’ll take you out to the vineyards. There’s a little mystery I’d like your help in solving.”

“Brilliant.” He took a gulp of the hot tea and grinned. “Always happy to be your Dr. Watson.”

———

Harrison Wainfield parked his Mercedes in the farthest corner of the small parking lot and hurried across the tar toward the restaurant. Remy’s was the most popular place in the valley for Sunday brunch, and last-minute reservations were practically impossible. Luckily Wainfield counted the chef owner, Alexander Remington, as one of his clients, and was assured of a table at a moment’s notice. He pulled open the heavy door and entered the building. Light, bright, and spare, the space embodied the new aesthetic for dining, an almost Asian feeling of clean lines and uncluttered décor. He nodded to the maitre d’ who gave the ghost of a smile.

“Mr. Wainfield, come this way.”

He followed the man to a corner table and sat down. “My guest will be arriving shortly. You’ll probably recognize him—Fritz Kohler?”

The man nodded. “The fitness expert. I’ll show him to your table. Would you like something to drink in the meantime?”

“Bloody Mary with Absolut Citron.”

“Very good.”

Wainfield gazed out the window at the shops and restaurants of St. Adina. The city was started as an agricultural center back in the early 1800s, but was now a tourist destination, thanks to its location smack in the center of California wine country. Upscale eateries and luxurious lodging places now coexisted with dozens of wineries, and yet St. Adina still retained a certain charm. Wainfield had watched property values peak two years ago, but even with a slight decline since then, it was not an inexpensive place to live or run a business.

But Fritz Kohler didn’t need to worry about that. Wainfield had done an extensive background check on the man, as he did with all his clients, and knew that Kohler’s assets were considerable. The guy was a self-made fitness entrepreneur, first starting a bicycling company that grew from a small, California-based outfit to a worldwide phenomenon in less than a decade. When Kohler sold Off the Beaten Track Biking two years ago, he’d retained a hefty salary as a consultant, and turned his attention to the growing popularity of yoga. Sensing that the time was ripe for a new, more aerobic style of the ancient meditative discipline, Kohler created a variant he called “Power Yoga,” a practice that included pumped-up poses and adrenaline-charged routines. In much the same way that kickboxing and Zumba had captured the exercise-hungry population’s imagination and pocketbooks, Power Yoga—thanks to a public relations campaign that included print, television, the Internet, and a series of workouts—had become the next fitness craze, and Kohler, its multimillion dollar guru.

And now the ripped yogi wanted a vineyard.

Harrison Wainfield pursed his lips. Certainly Kohler wasn’t the first celebrity to become attracted to the cult of wine. Wainfield’s clientele included a film producer and supermodel, both now happily tending their vineyards here in the valley. Why were celebrities so taken with the vineyard lifestyle? Wainfield’s personal theory was that owning a winery gave them something they couldn’t otherwise access: membership in the elite community of wine producers. Wainfield knew (although not firsthand, having never so much as picked a grape) that many people found working in a vineyard, tending a fermentation, and blending wine to be rewarding. And, of course, there was the drinking of the final product with friends.

Rumor had it that the pop star Veronica, whose show at the polo grounds the night before had sold out in a matter of minutes, was looking for a vineyard. She fell into another category of winegrower wannabees: those who were too well known or too wealthy to go around in public safely. People like that needed something fun to do, and a vineyard seemed to be the answer. He pictured Veronica, who wore some kind of big wings when she sang that “Heaven Bent” song, and wished he could get a part of that action. Supposedly the megastar had phoned Ann Johnson in Wyattville a couple of weeks earlier.

Harrison Wainfield grimaced. Ann Johnson! The skinny bitch couldn’t sell a vineyard if her life depended on it. Give her a raised ranch or a bungalow and she could manage the deal, but a vineyard?
I should have been the one to get that call! I’m the one best suited to deal with the rich and famous.

He exhaled and heard the clearing of a throat. His Bloody Mary had arrived, and none too soon.

———

Darby lifted one of the sprayer lines and showed Miles Porter where it had been sliced.

He took the tubing in his hands and gave a low whistle. “Not quite what you’d call a mean-spirited prank. Given the other incidents you mentioned, I’d concur that this is industrial sabotage.”

He rose from his haunches and surveyed the fields. “I did a story for the
Financial Times
on a farm in Australia where seven million seedlings were poisoned. The saboteur pumped a lethal dose of herbicide into the irrigation system. In one night, the bulk of North Queensland’s next season of fruit and vegetable crops was destroyed, an estimated twenty-three million dollar loss. It was devastating for the farm and the workers involved, but also for the consumers who had to pay a higher price for vegetables.”

Darby shuddered. “Was the perpetrator caught?”

“Eventually. A hefty reward brought in lots of tips, and the police arrested a local farmer for the crime. Seems his motive was to decrease supply so that his crops would fetch more money.”

“I guess that could be the case here. If Carson Creek’s grapes are destroyed, other wines from the region might benefit.” She paused. “That casts suspicion on dozens of local vineyards.”

“Nasty business,” Miles said, wiping his hands on his khaki pants. “You have to wonder, why just Carson Creek? Unless this kind of thing is happening at other vineyards and no one is speaking up.”

“I suppose it’s up to Carlos and ET to decide whether they will report this,” Darby mused, thinking that with an impending sale, negative press would not be helpful.

Miles’ touch on her cheek interrupted her thoughts. “Sorry to cut short our investigation, but it’s time for me to whisk you off to the big city for lunch.”

Darby smiled. Miles adored expensive restaurants with daring menus, and wine country was studded with several she knew he’d enjoy. “I remember your taste in upscale restaurants, Miles. There’s one in St. Adina that’s supposed to be fabulous, but I don’t know if we’ll be able to get a table.”

“I do hope you’re speaking of Remy’s?”

She nodded, enjoying the playful look that softened Miles Porter’s chiseled visage. “That’s it.”

“Off we go, then, to dine at Remy’s.” He clasped her hand and gave a boyish grin. “I’ve already spoken to them and they’d love to have a famous journalist and his exotic companion for lunch. Our table awaits us—one of the many professional perks I’m determined to enjoy.”

———

Harrison Wainfield insisted on paying the bill for brunch, grateful that his muscle-bound companion had eaten little more than a garden salad. Overall, he felt the meeting had gone well. Fritz Kohler was cordial, with a real desire to own Carson Creek Estate & Winery and a hefty checkbook to back up his desire. All seemed straightforward, and yet, Wainfield got the distinct impression that the man was holding something back. Every word he’d uttered seemed rehearsed, as if he was on guard.