A Saucy Murder: A Sonoma Wine Country Cozy Mystery (5 page)

After the policemen dismissed them, Julie and Piers walked Emma back to her car. Emma had hoped for support from her daughter and son-in-law after Barry Buchanon’s shameful outburst. She got silence instead. Were they blaming her sauce for the disaster, too?  She wondered but couldn’t bring herself to ask.

Piers opened her car door for her. “Are you sure you’re OK to drive home?  We can drop you off and pick up your car here later. Come to think of it, Emma, why don’t you just spend the night with us?  I’m pretty creeped out by what happened.”

Emma shook her head. “Don’t worry. I’ll be fine.”

Julie was more practical. “Mom’s right, Piers. Let’s not exaggerate. I’m sure there’s a good explanation for what happened to poor Natasha. Maybe she had an undetected heart defect. Maybe she fell and hit her head. Maybe she had an allergic reaction.”

To my sauce, Emma felt like adding, but didn’t.

“There is no reason, yet, to jump to creepy conclusions,” Julie said.

“What about the ring?” Piers asked. “The stolen ring?”

“The ring is probably lying in vomit in the vineyard where she fell,” Julie replied. “I bet it turns up tomorrow.”

Emma marveled at Julie’s ability to rationalize things. At least no one mentioned her tomato sauce. But as Julie and Piers walked away, deep in conversation with each other, Emma worried that they were thinking about it. Along with most of Blissburg.

Nonetheless, after checking the locks on the front and back doors, and locking all the windows, Emma put on her nightgown, went to bed, and quickly fell asleep. She was exhausted after the long day’s work. But four hours later, in the middle of the night, she awoke to the full comprehension of all that was now at stake.  

To begin with, one of the brightest rising stars in the world of opera was dead after eating her
salsa
di pomodoro
. Forget book sales. Face it, Emma told herself, no matter what happened next, her career as a food writer was over.

And it struck her full force that
that
was the very least of what had happened that night. More importantly, that poor young woman was
dead
. Her twin had lost her sister. Perhaps, though no one spoke of it, somewhere in Russia a father and mother mourned the loss of their child. Undoubtedly, others had lost a lover. Fans had lost a diva. The world had lost a voice that uplifted the hearts of millions of people.

Was it possible, Emma wondered?  Was there any way at all that she, Emma Corsi, had caused the woman’s death?  Was there something on the counter, something in the tomatoes?  She knew she should have used canned, but her grandmother always said to use fresh if they were in season. Something in the olive oil?  Something in the pan? 

Unfortunately, in the middle of the night, at the very heart of her own inner darkness, Emma believed that maybe there was. That maybe she was responsible for the tragedy because she, like Icarus, had presumed to fly too high. What was she thinking writing a cookbook anyway?  Puss Carleton was right. What was someone like
her
doing writing a cookbook like
that
?

Emma pulled the covers over her head and started to weep. And just when she thought she couldn’t sink lower, another catastrophic thought entered her brain, and another. And finally a third. The worst one of all.

First of all, what about Julie?  Would
her
business ever recover from such a fiasco?  Buchanon Vineyards was her best customer. Forget that. What other winery in Sonoma County, in all of California for that matter, would hire Julie to do PR now? 

Then the second thought hit her. What about Piers?  Would
his
clients leave because his mother-in-law managed to ruin Buchanon Vineyards and send a promising young star to her grave?  What would Julie’s family live on if Piers’ practice went belly up?  Thank goodness for that trust fund, Emma thought.

That’s when she realized that even the trust fund wasn’t safe. What if Natasha’s family sued her?  Or someone else got sick and sued?  Legal bills would eat up all her savings and perhaps even Piers’ trust fund, too. Oh why, she wondered as the clock struck four, why had she ever presumed to write a cookbook?

Emma must have finally drifted back to sleep. When she woke up, the Blissburg sun was shining. She got up, put on her fleece muumuu, went downstairs and shuffled into the kitchen to make coffee. What happened to Natasha was terribly tragic, but by light of day, like Julie, Emma was sure there was a good explanation. One that had nothing whatever to do with her pasta sauce. One that wouldn’t destroy her daughter and bankrupt her son-in-law.

Then she opened her front door to pick up the Blissburg Herald, and the two-inch headline brought her crashing back to earth.

“FAMED SOPRANO DIES AFTER DINING WITH THE STARS.” 

The article didn’t even mention Emma’s cookbook, but the allusion to its title in the headline was impossible for anyone to miss.

At lunchtime, Julie called to make sure her mother was all right. Emma, who’d gone back to bed, decided not to answer her cell phone. That only brought Julie knocking on her door. Julie’s office, after all, was in Emma’s front yard. She brought roast pork sandwiches with onion conserve from their favorite bakery, Claud’s.

Julie took one look at her mother standing in her muumuu at the front door, and went on a rampage.

“Mom, you’re not even dressed. You look defeated. Why aren’t you doing something?  You know perfectly well that nothing in your wonderful pasta sauce killed Natasha Vasiliev.”  She paused a moment for a reply. “Well, don’t you?”

“Of course it didn’t.”  Emma had been through it a thousand times in her head. “Everyone at the party ate the pasta and no one else got sick.”  She too paused a moment. “Did they?”

“Of course not, Mom. We all ate it. We’re fine.”

“So,” Emma continued, motioning to Julie to follow her into the kitchen, “she must have died of natural causes. An undetected illness or allergy. Like you said last night.”

“Yeah,” Julie nodded, “except Piers called the coroner this morning. They know each other from the Chatham Club. Based on the preliminary results of the autopsy, it does
not
appear that Natasha died of a heart attack, or a blow to the head, or some weird allergy. The toxicology report will take about ten days. It probably won’t be ready until next Tuesday. But as of now it looks like she died from some kind of poison.”

They had sat down to eat on two kitchen stools, facing each other across the butcher-block counter of Emma’s remodeled-to-look-like-an-old-farmhouse-kitchen.

“You mean…,” Emma hesitated. “Let me get this right. You mean the coroner thinks she was murdered?”

Julie nodded. “Probably by someone at the party. The problem is, the coroner can’t prove that for a couple of weeks. In the meantime every day that passes will give this town more time to mess with your story. People will joke about it. You’re a sitting duck. ‘Soprano Dies after Dining with the Stars.’ Mom, it’s just too good to pass up. I mean, I might have had fun with it myself. If I weren’t your daughter. And in the meantime, because of you – and I don’t mean that I think it’s your fault, Mom – but because of you my customers are calling to cancel their accounts. Piers has already lost a client. Granted, it’s a Buchanon relative who was at the fundraiser, but the valley is crawling with them.”

“Piers has already lost a client?” Emma cringed.

“Yes!  The media is having a field day. I hate to say this, but the embarrassment with Dad’s arrest didn’t begin to affect us this much. Some people even thought the arrest was kind of sexy.”

“Julie,” Emma was too angry to cry. “I can’t believe you would dare to make that comparison.
I
am the victim here.”

“Funny, that’s just what Dad said.”

Emma felt like someone had punched her in the stomach. She hugged herself like she was about to fly apart. Then she said. “OK. What exactly am I supposed to do about it?”

“Simple,” Julie answered. “Find the killer.”

“Find the killer?  Me?  You’re joking,” Emma scoffed.

“I’m dead serious, Mom. Piers and I are willing to jump in to help you. But you need to track down the murderer before that toxicology report comes out. Because by the time it does, your career, my career and Piers’ will be down the tubes.”

Emma took a deep breath. It was not the way she had envisioned beginning her so-called retirement. It seemed, however, that she had no choice. She rolled her eyes. “Right. I’ll find the killer. How do we begin?”

To Emma’s surprise, Julie and Piers had already thought this through.

“We make a list,” Julie began. “A list of anyone we can think of who could be the murderer. Then we divide up the list and, one by one, we start checking them out.”

“OK,” Emma replied. “Who are your suspects?  Off the top of my head I can think of two:  Lexie Buchanon the jealous wife, and Chiara Bruno the understudy. Both of them had something to gain by Natasha’s death. And if poison
was
the murder weapon, I’ll bet a woman did it.”

“Oh, come on Mom.”  It was Julie’s turn to scoff. “That’s sooo Italian of you. Anyway, of course we thought of Chiara. She had the most to gain from the death. She’s the understudy. She just got her first big break. Singing opening night in
Trovatore
. But why Lexie Buchanon?”

“Because of the ring,” Emma exclaimed. “Didn’t you catch all that stuff about the ring?”

“No, I missed it. I could see Lexie was mad about something, but what?” Julie asked.

Emma explained. “When Vera described the supposedly custom emerald ring missing from Natasha’s finger, Lexie raised her hand to show off the identical ring with a sapphire to match the color of
her
eyes. Who do you suppose gave it to her?  Her husband, Barry, duh.  So who must have given the same ring to Natasha?  Lexie’s husband, Barry!  But that little four carat bauble isn’t just a thank you for a great night at the Opera, honey. That is a thank you for singing naked on your back in someone’s - Barry Buchanon’s - bed!”

“Stop!!!” Julie cringed, covering her ears with her hands. “Stop it Mom. The visuals. I can’t take it. Not out of your mouth. You have to stop talking like that!”

“Don’t you see?”

“Mom!  Again. Stop!  I see. Lexie is definitely on the list. Her husband was probably cheating on her and she was jealous.”

“So who did you come up with?” Emma asked.

“Well, based on what you just said, why not Barry Buchanon?” Julie replied. 

“Barry?  No way!!!” Emma shook her head. “He was heartbroken. Didn’t you see him?  Distraught. Sobbing. I don’t think so.”

Julie rolled her eyes. “Neither do the police. Did you see how careful they were with him?  All the more reason he could have done it. He knows the police will stay off his back.”

“But why?” Emma asked.

“Because Natasha must have had other lovers,” Julie answered. “Like Sacha. He was all over her at the dinner table. So Barry was jealous and killed her. Who knows how?  Maybe he did one of those Kevorkian injections. Something that looks like a heart attack. He’s rich. He could get hold of anything. And then he cleaned up the evidence. You heard him say he wiped off Natasha’s face and then rinsed his napkin before throwing it away. Afterwards, of course he was distraught. Who wouldn’t be, killing your favorite songbird. Personally, I think Barry did it, but Piers won’t agree.”

“Who does Piers think did it?” Emma asked.

“Piers is putting his money on the gypsy, Mom.”

“Roma.”

“Right. The Roma,” Julie corrected herself.

“Well, that’s preposterous. And Piers is a bigot if he thinks so,” Emma added. “The Roma are peaceful people who have been unfairly targeted due to prejudice and ignorance. Which are more or less the same thing, by the way.”

“Mom, Piers is not a bigot. But he works in the justice system. And he happens to know that the Roma, as you call them, cause a lot of trouble in the vineyards. Camping out. Stealing stuff.  Their dogs run wild and attack people.”

“Hardly murder, Julie,” Emma replied. “And besides, most of that stuff is never proved against them. It just sticks because people want it to. Roma are scapegoats, plain and simple. Always have been. Just read Sir Walter Scott.”

Julie looked exasperated. “Forget Sir Whatever, Mom. And believe me, I don’t want to know. The point is, the Roma don’t play by our rules. OK?  They never have. That’s why people don’t trust them. They have their own rules and we don’t know what those rules are. Anyway, that’s a good list of suspects for now. Unless you want to add anyone else.”

Emma thought for a moment. “Yeah. Let’s add the lady killer.”  Emma smiled at her pun but it whooshed right over Julie’s head.

“Who?”

”Sacha, the bass. He has a temper. He was drunk. And from what I could see last night, he doesn’t play by our rules either. He was pawing Natasha, and if he was jealous of Barry, which I think he was, there’s no telling what he might do.”

“OK,” Julie agreed, “add Sacha, the Russian bass.
But
if it was poison, the killer had to premeditate the murder. Get the poison. Bring it to the dinner. And put it in the food. Unless there wasn’t poison and someone bonked her on the head. But so far there was no sign of that.”