How to Dine on Killer Wine: A Party-Planning Mystery (18 page)

He hung up and stared at the phone for a few agonizing seconds, then looked up at us.

“That was the tech. They got a print from the knife.”

I blinked. “Well?” I asked, holding my breath.

“It’s a match,” the detective said. “We’ve definitely got our killer.”

Brad held the door of his SUV open for me, but before I hoisted myself in, I turned to him and asked, “Can we go to the hospital and check on Marie?”

He nodded, helped me into the car, and closed the door. There were several things I could count on from Brad, and one of them was the way he listened to me. Sure, he gave me a hard time sometimes, especially when he didn’t agree with my requests, but he always supported me when I needed him to.

He pulled out his cell phone and got directions to Queen of the Valley hospital—the “Queen,” as Detective Kelly had called it—in downtown Napa. It took
only a few minutes to reach the white, flat-topped, fifties-looking structure and find the emergency room entrance. Brad followed me inside and we stepped up to the clerk manning the reception desk just off the waiting room. I asked if we could visit a patient, Marie Christopher, half expecting the woman to say “Relatives only” or “She’s still in intensive care,” but to my surprise she gave us the room number and directions.

As we made our way down the hall, I couldn’t help but peek into the open doors of the patient rooms. It was like being at a car wreck—curious to look but afraid of what I might see. When we reached Room 112, I peered in, then entered quietly in case Marie was sleeping or the doctor was there. I found her in bed, sitting up, her head turned toward the slatted windows that looked onto a lighted courtyard.

She turned when she heard me approach her bed. I was stunned at the paleness of her skin, her unkempt hair, her lack of makeup.

“Presley,” she said, her voice sounding hoarse. Her mouth looked dry and red.

I glanced back for Brad, thinking he was right behind me, but he’d hesitated at the door.

I’ll wait,
he mouthed and pointed down the hall toward the waiting room. I nodded and returned my attention to Marie.

“Hi, Marie,” I said. I moved in closer until I was standing right next to her bed. “How are you feeling?”

She shrugged. The shoulder of her loose hospital gown slipped down, revealing more pale skin, and she pulled it up modestly. “Sleepy, but I can’t sleep. My throat hurts.”

I sensed that the sore throat was a result of having her stomach pumped but decided not to mention it. “Do you need anything?” I mentally cursed myself for not bringing some magazines or flowers.

“No. They’re going to let me go home as soon as the doctor finishes rounds and officially releases me. I need to get back to the winery. I can’t afford to be away.”

I blinked, surprised. “Really? I thought…” I shut my mouth when I realized I was about to refer to the seventy-two-hour psychiatric hold that hospitals imposed on suicidal patients so they can do a mental-health workup. Brad called it a 5150.

“This was all a big misunderstanding,” Marie said, looking down at the white blanket that covered her and picking at some lint with her non-IVed hand. “I don’t know how I ended up taking all those pills. It was just an accident.”

“You mean, you didn’t try to…commit suicide?” I asked bluntly.

“Of course not,” she said, still not meeting my eyes. Maybe she was too ashamed to look at me. Or maybe she wasn’t telling the full truth. I knew from teaching abnormal psychology that many people who attempt suicide often deny it later out of embarrassment.

“So what happened?”

Marie bit her lip, then said, “I’m not sure. It’s still a little fuzzy. When I heard the police were charging Rob with murder, I just wanted to go to sleep, hoping I’d wake up and it was all a bad dream.” She sighed.

“But Rocco said you took a whole bottle of pills. He found the empty bottle when he went in to check on you. You weren’t responding when he spoke to you.”

She shrugged and the gown slipped again. “I remember I took a couple of pills, but not as many as he said I did. I don’t know why he found the bottle empty. Maybe there were only a few pills left. Or maybe I woke up and took some more pills without really thinking about it. Or maybe…” She paused, frowned, and blinked several times.

“What, Marie? Do you remember something?”

She rubbed her forehead as if she had a headache from trying to sort it all out. “I don’t know. All I remember is drinking some tea that someone had put on my nightstand. Maybe there was something in the tea…”

Rocco hadn’t mentioned finding a cup of tea.

“Marie, are you saying someone might have drugged you?”

She shook her head and readjusted her gown again. “I don’t know. I…I thought I heard someone come into the room while I was sleeping. I heard my name…I woke up, or I thought I did…Maybe I drank the tea…I just don’t remember. I’m sorry.”

Tears welled again, and her hands balled into fists. She leaned back on the pillow and closed her eyes, as if forcing herself to relax.

Or maybe I’d upset her and she was shutting down.

“I’m so sorry, Marie. I’ll let you rest. Are you sure there isn’t anything I can do for you? Do you need a ride home?”

Her moist eyes fluttered open. “No. Allison is coming. She’ll take me home.”

“Well, then. Mother and I will pack up and be out of there before you get there. I’m sure you’ll want your privacy.”

Marie reached out and took my hand, squeezing it with an urgency that surprised me. “No, please don’t go, Presley. Stay. The house is so big—I’ll never know you’re there, so you won’t be bothering me. And I need you. Rocco says you’re quite dogged when it comes to finding out the truth when…” She paused. “I know Rob didn’t kill JoAnne. I’d be so grateful if you could help find out who did.” She gave my hand another squeeze.

“All right. I’ll do what I can. Now, you rest. And when you get home, I’ll have Rocco whip up some of his wonderful chicken soup for you. He’ll have you back on your feet in no time.”

She released her grip on my hand, nodded, and closed her eyes again. I still wasn’t sure she should be released from the hospital so soon, but if the doctor felt she was well enough to go home and was no threat to herself, who was I to argue? What I could do was make her feel comfortable when she got back home.

And do what I could to find out more about JoAnne Douglas’s death.

Like who—if anyone—might have come into Marie’s room and spiked her drink.

Brad was on his cell phone in the waiting room. “Thanks, buddy,” he said and hung up. “How is she?” he asked, walking over to meet me.

“Apparently fine. She claims she doesn’t remember taking extra pills. She says the doctor is releasing her soon.”

“What? They’re not keeping her on a 5150?”

“I guess not.”

“Should we wait around and give her a lift?”

“I offered, but she said her sister would be coming by to take her home.” We headed for the hospital exit. “Who were you talking to?”

“Luke.”

“Great!” I said, smiling at the thought of my frenemy. I wasn’t a big fan of the San Francisco homicide detective, but at the moment he might be of use. “I was going to ask you to call him. Do you think he can find out more about Rob’s arrest and what they have on him?”

“He says he’ll do his best. He knows Kelly. Doesn’t particularly like him—thinks he’s a cocky SOB. But he’ll try to find out what’s going on.”

“Cocky?” I said, nearly laughing. “That’s the pot calling the kettle black. No one’s cockier than Detective Luke Melvin.”

“Funny. He thinks the same of you,” Brad said as we headed for the SUV.

“Me? You’ve got to be kidding. Cocky? I don’t think so!”

Brad opened the car door, gave me a boost up, then got into the driver’s seat and started the engine. I quietly steamed at Luke Melvin’s comment about me, until my mind drifted back to the murder.

Brad finally broke the silence after we pulled up the driveway of the Purple Grape. “So have you made one of your party-planning-slash-suspects lists yet?” he asked. I hated it when he read my mind.

“Working on it.”

Once inside the house, I checked on Mom and found a note she’d left saying Larry had picked her up and taken her to the evening bingo session. I’d nearly forgotten about it, with all that had happened. I hoped nothing went wrong, but couldn’t help worrying, knowing Mom and her increasing eccentricities.

I returned to the kitchen and sat at the tiled table, while Brad pulled some leftover
amuse-bouches
from the refrigerator and set them in the center of the table. I opened my purse and pulled out one of the party forms I kept with me in case of an emergency party-planning request. You never knew when someone might want to throw a Bunco Brunch or a White Trash Bash.

I filled in the blanks, including the latest information I’d learned.

Under “Host” I wrote “Rob and Marie Christopher, winery owners.” Then I added another category—“Victim”—and jotted down “JoAnne Douglas, radical environmentalist and winery owner.”

Moving down to the guest list, I added the word “Suspects” and wrote down “Allison, Javier, Nick and Claudette Madeira, and Dennis and KJ Brien.”

“
Not much in the way of a list,” Brad said, reading the names upside down.

“Watch out or I’ll add your name,” I said.

“I’m innocent, I tell ya,” he said, then leaned over and kissed me in a not-so-innocent way.

“Stop! You’re distracting me.” I tried to suppress a smile and look serious, but it wasn’t easy after a kiss like that.

Under “Occasion,” I scribbled “Wine-tasting to publicize
the release of a new wine,” then added—“and the murder of JoAnne Douglas.” For “Time” I put “7:00 to 10:00 pm Saturday night/AKA Opportunity—before, during, or after the party.”

Nothing like nailing down the time frame. I took a soggy crab puff from the plate and amused my
bouche
with it, while I wrote “Crime Scene” next to the word “Place.” I added “Garden at the Purple Grape Winery, under a serving table.”

I paused for a moment and popped in another small bite of food. Under a serving table? What a strange place to kill someone. Had the murderer moved her there? If so, when? And how, without being caught?

Under “Party Details” I put
“
JoAnne Douglas sneaked into the party with a can of green paint and was stabbed with a cheese knife and antique corkscrew.”

Bizarre. Why? In other words, what was the motive?

That was the Big Question.

“Looking for a motive?” Brad asked, a bit of chocolate mousse at the side of his mouth.

I nodded. “As usual, I’ve got more questions than answers, but it’s a start,” I said. Being a linear thinker, I tended to do things in an orderly way. I’d learned from a teacher who helped me with my ADHD that making lists was one way to organize my thoughts.

Thinking of motive, I went on. “JoAnne had a lot of enemies who didn’t like the way she was trying to enforce her political and environmental agenda. But was that enough to get her killed?”

Brad shrugged. “Remember what I told you: Look at the victim first, then the crime scene, then the suspects.”
Distracted by his mouth, I wanted to lick the chocolate off his lips.

He was right, as usual. I’d have to do more research on JoAnne and find out if she might have been killed for reasons other than her green beliefs.

My first thought was:
Question Natalie, JoAnne’s employee.

I’d learned from experience that people behind the scenes often knew more than anyone else. Natalie was definitely behind the scenes.

“Why don’t you draw a picture of the crime scene?” Brad suggested.

“Good idea,” I said, and turned the form over. I sketched the table, then drew JoAnne’s outline underneath. She’d been lying on her back with the corkscrew sticking out of her chest, her legs bent.

“Don’t forget the missing shoe,” Brad added, looking over the drawing.

I drew one shoe on her foot, and the other one off to the side, with the words, “Found under Rob and Marie’s bed.” Next I added the cheese-knife handle sticking out of the flower bed. To round out the scene, I drew a couple of bottles of wine, some glasses, a few grapey decorations, and two Killer Parties–embossed wine openers on top of the table.

I sat back and studied the scene.

“Well, now you’ve got plenty of clues. But what’s missing from the picture?” Brad asked.

“What do you mean? I’ve drawn the shoe and the cheese knife and the paint.” I pointed to the two clues on the drawing.

“No, I mean, what can’t we see. That’s just as important as what you can see.”

I frowned at him, completely baffled. “You mean, something’s missing? I can’t really see what I can’t see,” I argued.

He smiled.

“Tell me!” I said, growing frustrated.