How to Dine on Killer Wine: A Party-Planning Mystery (5 page)

This was a whole new culture to me. My thoughts quickly began to churn up party ideas with a bingo theme.

Mother scanned the room. “There he is!”

She waved at a large man at a far table who was waving back. He stood and lumbered over to greet her, his potbelly leading the way. Special forces? I found it hard to believe this guy had passed the rigorous physical
exam. But age, carbs, and a lot of whiskey certainly challenge the body over time.

“Veronica!” he said, embracing her in a welcoming hug. He pulled her back a stomach’s length and looked her over. “You haven’t changed a bit! Still as beautiful as ever!”

I looked him over as he gazed at Mother. Red faced—high blood pressure? Gin-blossom nose—the whiskey? Audible breathing—heart problems? Raspy voice—longtime smoker? He wore a festive Hawaiian shirt covered with pineapples and palm trees stretched over his tummy bulge, high-water khaki pants, and what looked like brown leather bedroom slippers on his feet. Circulation problems?

“Oh, Larry, you were always a charmer,” my mother said tactfully. “It’s good to see you after all these years. I want you to meet my daughter. Presley, this is Larry O’Gara, an old and dear friend.”

He gave me a mini-bow, and I almost saluted him.

“Not so old, Ronnie,” he said. “Presley, nice to meet you. Your mother’s told me all about you.”

I wanted to say “You as well,” but that would have been a lie—I knew almost nothing about this man. Instead I smiled and asked when bingo would be over so I could pick up my mother.

“I’ll bring her home,” he said. “No trouble. In fact, it would be my pleasure.”

I debated whether to let some stranger—a stranger to me, at least—be responsible for bringing my mother home, or to refuse his offer and embarrass all of us. But my mother often suffered from sundowner syndrome,
an added condition in which many Alzheimer’s patients feel confused and irritable during the evening hours.

“Maybe next time,” I said. “We’ve got a big day tomorrow with the wine-tasting event.”

Larry stood at attention. “Understood. We should be done around nine.”

“Bye, Mother,” I said, hesitant to leave her, and gave her a hug. I knew that a change in environment could affect her comfort zone and easily disorient her, so I whispered in her ear, “Call me anytime and I’ll come get you!” I turned to Larry. “Take good care of her, Mr. O’Gara.”

“Will do,” he said, offering his arm to Mother. She took it, and he escorted her to his table, where a gaggle of women greeted her cordially while eyeing her cautiously. It appeared Larry O’Gara had a female fan club. No wonder. The women in the bingo hall outnumbered the men something like four to one. Not the best odds for a woman wanting to hook up with a prospective date or future husband. Mother was one of the lucky ones.

Satisfied she would be supervised and safe—I’d noticed a female rent-a-cop patrolling the festivities—I headed for the exit, passing the concession area manned by students from the local high school. The smell of succulent hot dogs reminded me I was getting hungry.

Once in the parking lot, I got in my car and started the engine. A red pickup truck that had obviously picked up a lot of stuff over the years, judging by all the scrapes, dents, and peeling paint, pulled up next to me. The name lettered on the truck was Montoya Management.
The doors opened, lighting up the inside. I immediately recognized the driver as Javier, the manager of the Purple Grape Winery. The passenger was none other than Allison, whom I assumed was the Christophers’ housemaid.

They climbed out of the truck, not noticing me, slammed their respective doors, and walked into the bingo hall without exchanging a word. They reminded me of a long-married couple with little left to say, yet they seemed so mismatched. Allison was sexy and fashionable, while Javier was worn and rumpled. Tonight she was dressed in black short-shorts, a sparkly white tank top, and red three-inch peep-toe heels. Surely these two weren’t together in the romantic sense. Of course, my mother always said opposites attract. Perhaps that was Mom’s attraction to Larry O’Gara. She was polished, while he was rough around the edges. She was civilian, while he still looked military. She had kept herself looking healthy and attractive, while he…had not.

Recalling the two women gossiping at the mud baths about the party tomorrow and the dinner tonight, I began to wonder if the bingo hall might be more fun. I really didn’t look forward to meeting these neighbors. But dinner would be a good chance to go over the details and ensure a smooth event tomorrow night. Once I had this wine-tasting party under my belt—bingo! Who knew how many more winery-related events I’d be asked to plan and host?

Before I could start fantasizing about a possible gala for Francis Ford Coppola, the door to the hall reopened and a woman stepped out.

Allison.

She was with another man, not Javier. Gray haired, thin to the point of being bony, dressed in slacks and a polo shirt, the man escorted Allison to a nearby bench. They sat down and lit up cigarettes. Then Allison proceeded to flirt with the old man, giggling at his words, leaning into him, touching his arm. Fascinated, I watched until the two finished their smokes, then reentered the hall, Allison’s arm tucked in his.

My goodness. What was that about?

I pulled up to the parking lot of the California Culinary College at the appointed time of seven, just as the sun touched the horizon, and parked in the nearly full parking lot. High on a small hill, the towering pastry-colored brick building looked more like a fortress than a cooking school. The slanting hillside in front was lush with herbs and vegetables, available for the students to plunder for their gourmet experiments in the kitchen. I’d read up on the famous campus, where wannabe chefs came from all over the world to learn how to prepare sauces, use spices, and sauté other salivary stimulants. Wine, naturally, was a large part of the experience,
and the college offered patrons a variety of wines in “tasting theaters” and at “flavor discovery bars.”

The college also invited diners and food enthusiasts to sample the students’ creations. The place was so popular, reservations were required well in advance. Since Rob was friends with Gina, who taught at the school, he was able to snag a small private room for our preparty gathering.

I climbed the steps, stepped through the outdoor patio area, and entered the main building through an arched wooden doorway. The dining area was already full of foodies who were listening to their waiters describe various menu choices or tasting flights of wine or answering trivia questions provided on each table in the form of flash cards. But it was the large, buzzing kitchen, viewable from nearly any spot in the room, that captured my attention immediately…Diners at their tables could watch the student chefs prepare menu items with words like “confit,” “chicory,” “endive,” and “duck-fat fingerlings.”

I spotted Rocco and Gina through the glass surrounding the kitchen and wound my way to the entry on the far side. Standing on the periphery of the ginormous kitchen, I watched half a dozen chefs, men and women, old and young, all wearing white jackets and toques. They were rushing around their stainless-steel cooking stations, stirring, swishing, and occasionally swearing, all while preparing plates of edible art. Good thing the room was soundproof, I thought, or patrons would get an earful in addition to a mouthful.

Rocco was in his element. Hunched over a plate of
unidentifiable morsels, he was doing what he did best—freaking out.

“They’re ruined!” he cried as I approached, throwing his hands in the air.

Next to him stood Gina, busily repairing the ruined globs of Happy Mouths. What appeared to be mini-dough-encrusted baked Brie bites were leaking molten cheese. The puff pastries seemed to be imploding. Gina, in her impeccable whites, was calmly stuffing tiny shrimp into the bottoms of the pastries and setting the repaired bites on round water crackers. I was sure these puffy cheesy shrimpy things would still be wonderful, but Rocco, sporting a Jackson Pollock–stained apron, was a mess.

“They’re beyond repair!” he yelled at his sister, who ignored him, something she probably regularly did, knowing his temperament.

Rocco snatched his chef’s hat from his balding head and threw it on the counter. “They’re hideous! They’re a disaster! They’re—”

“Rocco!” I interrupted his emo tirade from the sidelines. “Calm down! They’ll be fine. Look—Gina is fixing them. And when she’s done stuffing them with shrimp, they’re going to be even better.”

Rocco, near tears, blinked several times as he watched his sister work. Indeed, I felt sure the appetizers would be masterpieces once she was done with them.

Gina shot me a “thank you for shutting him up” look and finished the last of the repairs. I had to admit, she was a genius. So was Rocco, but without his sister’s patience and problem-solving skills. When Rocco made a
mistake, the world was coming to an end—and so was his career—which of course never happened. Too bad he couldn’t be more like Gina when it came to dealing with food flare-ups and flops.

“Rocco,” I said, “put your hat back on and go check on the wines and the table settings. Make sure everything is ready. And you might want to wash your face. You’ve got a little something…” I gestured, wiping invisible food from my cheek.

He left the room rubbing his face and holding his toque in his hand.

“You okay, Gina?” I asked.

“I’m fine, Presley. Everything’s under control. And thanks for dealing with Rocco. God, he’s such a drama queen. Every time I work with him, I swear it will be the last.” She stood back from her work. “Okay, these are ready—and they don’t look half bad. Bring on the guests.”

She was finished not a moment too soon. I caught a glimpse of Rob and Marie entering the restaurant, leading two other couples, whom I assumed were the Madeiras and the Briens. I waved when they spotted me; then they continued toward the private room, chatting along the way. I guessed by looking at the women that the older one was the husky-voiced one I’d heard at the mud baths, who appeared to be with a dark-haired, mustached man. Claudette and Nick Madeira. They had to be in their sixties and were twenty pounds overweight from having enjoyed the good life for those sixty-plus years.

The other two were at least twenty years younger—ex-governor Dennis Brien and his blond-highlighted wife, KJ. They had remained svelte, probably from
playing golf, tennis, and whatever else rich people do in their spare time. Both men were in suits, as was Rob, while the women wore cocktail dresses and lots and lots of jewelry. I felt frumpy in my simple black dress, more like I was going to a funeral than a party.

I ducked out the kitchen door and followed them to the private room.

Rob introduced us and we all shook hands. The men’s grips were large, firm, and warm, the women’s slim, soft, and cool. After the three couples were seated, Rob and Marie between them, me opposite Rob, he stood and made a brief announcement explaining the purpose of our preparty get-together.

“Welcome, everyone,” he said. “Thanks for joining us the night before the big event tomorrow. We wanted to thank you for helping with the party and make sure that you’re all comfortable with the plans.”

The men listened attentively. Claudette, however, frequently looked at her diamond watch, while KJ, Dennis’s young wife, kept stealing glances at the distinguished-looking Nick Madeira. I wondered if there was some special meaning behind those glimpses—both were certainly attractive people, and each married to someone else—but I forced myself to stay focused on the topic at hand.

“We’re serving the Purple Grape’s new merlot tonight, the same one we’ll be pouring tomorrow,” Rob said, indicating the freshly filled glasses of wine in front of each guest. Everyone lifted their glasses, inhaled the bouquet, and took a sip, swishing it in their mouths. I followed suit, exactly as Rocco had taught me. Tasted good to me.

“Plus, you’ll be tasting some of the
amuse-bouches
that chefs Gina and Rocco Ghirenghelli have prepared from Gina’s new book. You may recognize Rocco from his own local TV show,
Bay Café
.”

The guests stared at Rob blankly, bored, unimpressed, or possibly already intoxicated, the way they were downing the wine. Still, he continued his spiel, offering information on the party food, the activities, parking and traffic control, and the guest list.

“Hear, hear!” Nick Madeira said, ringing his now empty wineglass with his spoon, no doubt hoping Rob was finished.

Rob raised his glass. “Nick, Dennis, thanks for coming,” he said, ignoring their arm candy. “You know how important this event is for all of us. We’ve got to keep our boutique wineries competitive with Napology. Angus McLaughlin is doing his best to take over the entire valley. If we get the word out, market our wines aggressively, and keep the prices reasonable, I’m sure we can continue to compete with him. Otherwise we’ll go the way of independent bookstores, coffee shops, and mom-and-pop businesses.”