How to Dine on Killer Wine: A Party-Planning Mystery (27 page)

“Allison…,” she said again, her eyes fluttering under the influence of the sedative she’d been given. I hoped it was only a sedative.

“Do you want me to get her?” I asked.

“Allison…please…leave Rob alone…”

I tensed. Marie still thought I was Allison. What was she saying about Rob? I stood still and listened.

“Allison…you’re young and beautiful…you have others…please…”

Her voice faded off. The heavy breathing resumed. She was out like a light.

I tiptoed out, closing the door behind me. But instead of returning to the kitchen to question Allison, I went to the back of the house, where her in-law unit was located. Listening for Allison’s voice, I could hear her still talking on the phone in the kitchen. I tried the door. Unlocked.

I didn’t have much time.

Praying the door to Allison’s room didn’t squeak, I eased it open, holding my breath. So far, so good. Before I entered, I thought up something to say if I got caught: “Marie asked me to retrieve something-to-be-named-as-soon-as-I-find-it in your room, Allison.” Weak, but plausible, I figured. What could she do—hit me over the head and drown me in a pool of wine?

Maybe.

Adrenaline pumping, I scanned the one-room-plus-bath suite to see if anything suspicious jumped out. Of course, nothing did. That would have been too easy. I opened drawers, hoping to spot a hidden will or a wad
of cash or a pile of incriminating love letters she’d been using for blackmailing purposes. Nothing.

Hands on my hips, I twisted back and forth, searching for other hiding places. I knelt down and looked under the bed. Nothing but dust bunnies, a single bedroom slipper, and some discarded underwear. Yuck.

Standing and wiping my hands on my jeans, I glanced at the pictures on the walls and easily recognized more scenes from the Mustard Festival painted by Guy Buffet. Unfortunately, there were no safes hidden behind any of them. And I was running out of ideas—and time.

Where would I hide something in a room like this?
I wondered. When I was a teenager and didn’t want my mom to find my journal, I’d hidden it in my bathroom in my tampon box, figuring she’d never look there.

I entered the opened door that led to the bathroom and checked the medicine cabinet. Inside I found an array of over-the-counter and prescription meds, everything from pain relievers to stomach soothers to fat melters to gas eaters. Even though Allison was supposedly off drugs, she still had a whole pharmacy of common medications at her disposal. Just in case, I checked to see if Marie’s name was on any of the labels—it wasn’t—but that didn’t mean Allison couldn’t overdose her sister with some of the meds she had on hand.

I closed the medicine cabinet door and started to back out of the bathroom when I heard footsteps in the hall.

Allison!

While I’d come up with a flimsy excuse to be in her
room, I still didn’t want to get caught. If I did, then she might suspect I was investigating her—and that could put me in jeopardy. Frantic, I slipped out of the bathroom and opened another door that I assumed led outside to make my escape.

To my surprise, I found myself not outside, but inside Allison’s closet.

Ha! I should have known. No one, especially a woman, can live without a closet.

I pulled the door shut behind me as quietly as I could, ducked under a long raincoat, and prayed it didn’t rain. Holding my breath, I listened as she entered the room.

For what felt like an eternity, Allison seemed to putter around, opening drawers, using the toilet, checking the medicine cabinet. Those were the actions I could hear. During the periods of silence, I could only imagine what she might be doing.

Plotting a murder?

Mine, perhaps?

Finally I heard her leave the room, closing the door behind her. Thank God she hadn’t wanted anything from the closet. It would have been harder to explain why I was hiding behind her coat than just being in her room.

I exhaled, waited a few more minutes, then opened the closet door and peeked out. The coast was clear. But before I rushed to safety, I decided to tempt fate and take a few more minutes to scour the closet I hadn’t known was there.

I checked the shoe boxes—and found shoes. Chanel, Louboutin, Manolo, Choo, Dolce & Gabbana. I checked the pockets of coats and pants—and found some bingo
sheets with phone numbers written on them. Finally I reached for the boxes on the overheard shelf and pulled one down. This one held shoes—Stuart Weitzman pumps—but underneath lay a manila envelope, unmarked. I set the shoe box down on the floor and pulled out the envelope. Inside were a bunch of papers.

I switched on the closet light and looked them over. Invoices. Most of them appeared to be from local restaurants.

I read the details and discovered that Allison had been selling the Purple Grape wines to restaurants—and no doubt keeping the payments. She’d probably been costing Rob and Marie hundreds if not thousands of dollars.

Excited about my find, I pulled down another shoe box. Under a pair of expensive Christian Louboutin heels was another manila envelope. I reached inside the envelope and withdrew a handful of letters addressed to Allison.

Curious, I read the letter that was on top.

It was unsigned but obviously written by Rob.

So it was true. Rob and Allison had had an affair. If
JoAnne was blackmailing her, could she have been blackmailing Rob about it? If so, what had Rob promised her? Was she somehow responsible for putting Rob in jail? And for Marie’s suicide attempt?

I stuck the letter and one of the invoices in my purse, figuring if I got caught now, I wouldn’t live to drink another glass of wine anyway, so why not try to take some evidence with me. I checked one more box, and this time found a copy of Rob and Marie’s will. Figuring I couldn’t steal the whole thing, I left it there, planning to return when I had more time and read it over.

Arranging the shoes boxes the way I’d found them, I closed the closet door, listened for any sound from Allison, and quietly left her room.

My phone rang the second I stepped out into the hall.

If it had rung two minutes earlier…

“Presley?”

Allison stood at the end of the hall, eyeing me suspiciously. She’d heard the ring. Crossing her arms in front of her, she said, “What are you doing here? I didn’t see you come in.”

“Oh, just checking on Marie. She’s sound asleep.” The phone continued to ring.

“Marie’s room is over there,” she said, pointing in the opposite direction.

“I know. I needed to make a phone call and didn’t want to disturb her, so I stepped down the hall.”

“But your phone is ringing.”

“Yes, uh, when I called, he didn’t answer, so I left a message and I guess he’s calling back.” The tune—the theme from
The Sopranos
—continued.

“Don’t you want to answer it?”

I looked at the phone in my hand. “Yes, of course. Will you excuse me for a minute?” I turned away and softly said hello. It was Brad. I’d recognized his ringtone.

“You okay?” he asked. “You called—it sounded urgent.”

“Yes, I mean, no. Uh…could I call you back? I’m right in the middle of something.”

“Presley…?”

I hung up.

Allison still stood at the end of the hall. “Everything all right?” she asked.

“Oh yes,” I said, moving toward her. “It was just my mother. She worries about me. You know how it is.”

Allison gave no sign that she did.

“Well, I should be going. I’m hoping Rob will be released from jail soon, since he couldn’t have killed Javier. I’m heading to the station to meet his lawyer.”

“You’re going to see Kyle?” she asked, her jaw working.

“Yes, and I’m late,” I said, checking my watch. I gave her a wide berth as I went to the front door.

“You’ll keep an eye on Marie?” I said, turning back to her.

“Of course. I’ll take good care of her. She just needs to sleep. This has all been very traumatic for her.”

“Well, when Rob gets back home, I’m sure she’ll feel better,” I said.

“
If
he’s released, you mean,” she said.

“When,”
I returned, and closed the front door behind me.

Bee-otch,
I said to myself, a word I’d often heard Delicia use. That’s what I thought of Allison. But she was one dangerous bee-otch…

I called Brad and told him I was headed back to the police station and would call him soon with an update. I arrived at the station, which was fast becoming my old stomping grounds, and saw Kyle sitting on a railing outside, checking his watch. As soon as he spotted me, he jumped off his perch—the man was quite the percher—and met me as I approached.

“We need to talk,” he said, grabbing my arm. He spun me in the opposite direction from the police department. “But not here.”

“Let go of me!” I snapped, jerking my arm out of his grip. “First I want to see what’s going on with Rob’s release.”

“I’m handling it. There’s no word from the detective yet. You can’t do anything at the moment. And you have something of mine I want.”

“Fine,” I huffed.

“The café is just down the street. Come on.”

“God, you’re bossy,” I said as he led me along. “I’m glad you’re not
my
lawyer.”

“Don’t worry. There’s no chance of that happening. If they arrest you for the murders, you’re on your own.”

I stomped in silence next to him until we reached From the Ground Up café, two blocks from the station. “What kind of coffee do you want?” Kyle asked bluntly, pulling a wad of bills from his wallet when we reached the counter.

“A latte, please. Nonfat. Decaf. Grande. One shot. With a little caramel on top. Hold the whipped cream.” I smiled at him, enjoying the irritation I was probably causing.

“Sorry, they don’t call it ‘grande’ here,” he said sarcastically. “They call it medium, like they should.” He turned his attention to the barista, a girl with piercings in her eyebrow, lip, and nose, and a tattoo around her neck. I shivered from the perceived pain.

Spotting a couple of free stools at the front window, I headed over and sat on one and saved the other for Kyle, knowing he liked to perch. At least if he tried to kill me, anyone walking by would be a witness. Although I didn’t have any hard evidence—unless getting a payment from Napology for a hit worked—I certainly hadn’t ruled him out.

He returned with what looked like two espressos and set them down on the narrow counter in front of us.

“Perfect,” I said, not giving him the satisfaction of getting annoyed that he’d deliberately screwed up my order. “This should keep me going for a few minutes.” I added sugar and cream to the tiny cup and took a sip.

Ignoring his coffee, he faced me. “Hand it over,” he said. Where was the flirtatious nice guy who’d come on to me at the party?

“I don’t have it,” I said, and took another sip of the hot drink, knowing I’d just jumped into hot water.

His face grew bright red and I thought he might be experiencing sunstroke. “What do you mean, you don’t have it?”

“I don’t have it. It fell under your desk. I assume it’s still there.”

He ground his jaw, then said, “I don’t believe you.”

“Go see for yourself. I’m not into stealing U.S. mail, but I do want to know why you have a check from Napology. Are you working for Angus McLaughlin? Or is he sending you checks for ten thousand dollars because you’re such an honest lawyer?”

“That’s none of your damn business,” he said, not finding my sarcasm amusing.