How to Dine on Killer Wine: A Party-Planning Mystery (22 page)

Purple Grape equals Purple Great?
I wondered.

I tapped
ENTER
, which brought me to another Web site. This time a picture of a wine bottle with the label “Purple Great” appeared, along with a description: “Made from
great
grapes grown in the Napa Valley, this marvelous boutique merlot, comparable to the Purple Grape’s signature wine, is available to you at a deep discount. Join our wine club and order a case or two today!” Below was a request to fill out information, such as name, address, credit card number, and so on.

A wine “comparable to the Purple Grape’s signature wine”? Was someone at the winery selling the wines at lower prices too? Maybe in an effort to stay afloat in the winery business? If JoAnne did it, maybe Rob thought he could too. How hard would it be to create a new label, set up a Web site link, and undercut your prices, selling directly to the consumer?

Or was someone else trying to rip off the Purple Grape?

JoAnne?

“Dee, would you do me a favor?”

“Depends,” she said. “Will you pay me in chocolate?”

“How about in wine?”

“Works for me!” she said, sitting up. “Who do I have to kill?”

“No one. At least, not yet. I’m going to send you a link to a site called
ThePurpleGreat.­com
, and I want you to join their wine club and order a case. Use my credit card.” I gave her the number.

“Sweet!” she said. “But why don’t you order it yourself? Is there a catch? Will my name be sold to a penis-enlarging site?”

I laughed. “Because I don’t want the seller to recognize my name. Use your home address, not this one, okay? And overnight it.”

Moments later she was typing information into the site. “Must be good stuff if you want a case,” she said. “I better start planning a party!”

“Good idea.” I got up from my desk. “I’ll be right back.”

“Don’t forget to write where you’re going on the message board,” she called, referring to the annoying whiteboard she’d hung on the wall. Too late. I was already out of the office. Besides, I was only going down the hall.

“Hey, Duncan,” I said to our neighboring computer savant when I entered his office. Apparently it was casual Monday, because he’d come to work in SpongeBob pajama bottoms and a threadbare Star Trek T-shirt riddled with holes.

The part-time deejay and game player looked up from his computer, where he spent most of his time when he wasn’t helping me with a party. I wondered whose secret site he was trolling at the moment. The FBI? CIA? TMZ?

“’S’up, Pres?” he said, typing at rapid-fire speed.

“Got a question for you.” I sat down in Berkeley Wong’s vacated chair at the desk opposite Duncan’s and swiveled back and forth. Berkeley shared office space with Duncan and the two spent much of their time battling each other online. Apparently he was out videotaping something.

“Uh-oh,” he said, still typing.

“I need some information.”

“Like what?” Still typing.

“Like how to find out more about people using the Internet.”

“Oh, you mean you want to find a needle in a haystack? Like who murdered that lady at your party?”

“Maybe,” I said coyly, fully aware that he saw right through me.

“So you don’t think that winery owner did it?”

“Rob? I’m not sure, but my gut says no.”

Duncan finally stopped typing, sat back, and folded his hands in front of him. “Okay. Well, there are lots of ways to find out stuff about someone—as long as you’re using the information for good instead of evil.” He raised a devilish eyebrow.

“Like you?” I said, sarcastically.

He grinned. “Yeah, so if you want to check out, like, a potential employee, or a possible date, or find out if your new roommate is a serial killer, you can pay a professional investigation site to do the work for you. But if you want to save money and do it yourself, try
ZabaSearch.­com
—it’s free if you want to track down names, addresses, phone numbers, e-mail addys, birth dates, stuff like that. If you want more info, you can pay them or go to another site like
NetDetective.­com
and find out about criminal backgrounds, sex offenders, home values, court records, long-lost relatives. Then again, you could just Google them or use Facebook to find them. You’d be surprised how much you can learn that way.”

“Okay, what do I need to know besides the person’s name?”

“Their relatives’ names. Friends. Their interests or hobbies. Any clubs they might belong to. Professional organizations. News clippings. What school they went to.”

I jotted down his tips on a piece of scrap paper on Berk’s desk.

“If you have a phone number, Google it or use a reverse-directory Web site. Try Craigslist and eBay using their names. And
Classmates.­com
will tell you all kinds of things—if the person has signed up for it.”

“Thanks, Duncan. This is great. A little overwhelming, but helpful.”

Duncan spun back to his computer and resumed his bullet-speed typing. “Let me know if you find anything interesting—or you get stuck.”

I spent the next two hours in my office trying to find out more information about anyone closely associated with JoAnne, including Rob—Allison, Javier, the Briens and Madeiras, even Kyle Bennett. When Brad peeked in the door two hours later and said, “Lunch?,” I was surprised at the time: two o’clock. I’d forgotten all about eating.

“Hi!” I said, sitting up in my chair and stretching my weary back, hands, and fingers. Everything ached from all the typing I’d been doing.

“Welcome home,” he said. “You hungry?”

“Starved, as usual. And I could use a break.” I rolled my head to loosen my stiff neck. “How did your cleanup go?”

“Don’t ask, or you won’t want lunch. I need something to get the smell of cleaning fluids out of my nose.”

I turned off the computer and stood up. “Can we keep it short and simple? A burger and garlic fries from the Treasure Island Grill would be perfect. After that dinner last night, I swore I’d never eat again. Besides, I’ve got so much event-planning work to catch up on.”

I grabbed my purse and we walked the few hundred yards to the tiny café next to the yacht club, ordered the food, then sat out in the covered patio to enjoy ice-cold beers and a view of the windsurfers.

“Do you have a lot of party requests?” Brad asked after a sip of beer.

“Yeah, and I haven’t gotten back to any of them.”

He frowned. “What have you been doing?”

I nodded toward the windsurfers. “Surfing.”

“Oh. So you’re trying to find the killer online?” he asked smugly.

“Very funny. Duncan gave me some tips on how to search for people on the Internet.” I opened my purse and pulled out several printed sheets of information.

“So whodunit?”

“Aren’t you the comedian today,” I said. “Well, for one thing, JoAnne Douglas’s winery was about to go into bankruptcy, according to county records. She was hurting for money.”

“A reason for her to be murdered?” Brad asked.

“Don’t know.” The hamburgers arrived and I ate a couple of French fries before continuing. “I also found out Rob Christopher and Marie Michaels attended Napa High School, according to the online yearbook. Rob played football, Marie was a cheerleader. Rob went on to study wine at UC Davis, while Marie majored in marketing there. All of this was on UCDAlumni.edu.
After they got married, they started their winery and seemed to be doing well, although last year they lost money, no doubt due to the economy. That was from the business section of the
Napa Times
.”

“Wow. You found a lot. But I still don’t see a strong reason for murder.” Brad took a big bite of his burger.

“I’m not done yet,” I said. “Listen to this: Allison was married for a short time to Angus McLaughlin—”

Brad stopped chewing, his eyes wide.

“That’s the guy who runs Napology.”

“Yep. The marriage only lasted a few months before he divorced her. Apparently she kept her maiden name and never married again. I also found a couple of police reports. Allison has been arrested several times over the years for buying and selling drugs. She was probably headed toward being homeless and on the streets if Rob and Marie hadn’t taken her in.”

“Hmmm,” Brad said, taking a swig of beer. “Does she have a Facebook page?”

“Yes, but it’s only open to people she accepts.”

“Oh, you can get around that.”

“How?” I took a mouthful of my burger before the rumblings in my stomach could scare off the seagulls flying overhead.

“Check out her friends list, friend them, then see what Allison has posted to their sites.”

“Never thought of that.”

Brad took another bite, letting the ketchup trickle down his fingers. There wasn’t a juicier burger in the whole Bay Area.

“Brad,” I said after a few more fries, “Allison was with a different old guy last time.”

“Yeah?”
Brad set down the burger and used three napkins to wipe the ketchup from his fingers. “Maybe that’s why she plays bingo. Not because she’s traded her drug addiction for a gambling addiction. Maybe it’s because she has a sweet tooth…”

“A sweet tooth?”

“Yeah. All those lonely old men who come to play bingo. With all that money they’ve been saving over the years. Maybe she’s playing a different game—like ‘Who’s Your Daddy?’…”

I looked at Brad. A light went on. “You think she’s looking for a sugar daddy!”

“It makes sense when you think about it!” I said. “Allison flirts with everyone. She even came on to you.”

“Even?” Brad said, raising an eyebrow.

“I didn’t mean it that way. You’re hot. Of course she’d come on to you. But all those other old guys?”

“Old?”

“I didn’t mean you!”

“Uh-huh.”

“Listen. She probably thinks she’ll find some elderly rich guy at the bingo hall and either marry him and take his money, or just scam him out of it. I mean, she is attractive. Maybe a little too thin…”

Brad grinned at my competitive comparison but said nothing. Smart move.

“Anyway, I need to get back to the office,” I continued. “Parties don’t plan themselves, you know.”

We walked back to Building One, past a couple of windsurfers and an older couple with a dog, and parted at my office door with a promise from Brad to meet for dinner. I went into my office and found Delicia reading the want ads at her desk, a can of Diet Coke beside her.

“Looking for work?” I asked.

She closed the paper and rested her chin in her hand. “The job market sucks, and I need money!”

“I should have more party gigs coming up,” I offered, sympathetic to her economic woes. I hovered precariously between staying solvent and going into debt. While the parties had certainly picked up for me after several recent headlining events—the mayor’s would-be wedding, the de Young Museum fund-raiser, the séance at the Winchester house, and the zombie party in the cemetery—they were also expensive to produce. Renting tents, tables, chairs, and serving ware. Hiring caterers, entertainers, videographers, and deejays. Those were the tip of the sculpted iceberg. When a party ended, I was usually left with enough money to pay my office and condo rent, along with my mother’s care-facility fees, cat food, and maybe a new pair of Mary Janes or some black jeans. Would I ever actually turn a decent profit? Not unless solving the occasional murder paid better. And speaking of pay, I hadn’t collected anything from Rob and Marie yet, other than the advance.

“What kind of job are you looking for?” I asked Dee.

“Anything!” she said, throwing her arm in the air.
“As an actress, I’ve played every role from streetwalker to surgeon. That should qualify me for a few jobs.”

I laughed at the thought of Dee playing a hooker.

“Seriously. I can fake just about anything. You want an administrative assistant? I can make coffee. You need a substitute teacher? I can write stuff on the blackboard. You looking for a medical technician? I can diagnose your disease using Wikipedia.”

“God help us,” I whispered under my breath. “Like I said, I’ve got a couple of big parties coming up and I’m sure I’ll need your brilliant acting skills. One involves chocolate, so be thinking about your costume.”

Dee folded the newspaper. “Thanks, Pres. Meanwhile, maybe I’ll start my own bingo hall here on the Island and rake in the cash. That seems to be pretty lucrative. What do you think?”

I smiled. I knew her angst would pass and her enthusiasm for life would return with a vengeance. For now, I figured all I could do was keep her busy—and in the occasional paycheck.

“Here, I’ve got a job for you. Return some of these messages for me and find out what these people want in terms of an event.” I handed her slips containing requests for a Historical Scavenger Hunt on Angel Island—the Ellis Island of the West—a Bay to Breakers 12K Run and Wacky Costume Party, a To Die for Chocoholic Extravaganza at the Ghirardelli Chocolate Festival, and a Día de Los Muertos—Day of the Dead—Celebration in the Mission. They all sounded like fun.