How to Dine on Killer Wine: A Party-Planning Mystery (8 page)

“Rehab?”

Rob stared at Allison as she painted over the graffiti. “She had a prescription drug problem, but she’s supposedly
clean now. I didn’t know she was playing bingo. That troubles me.”

I looked over at her. She caught us looking at her and smirked.

An addict? With an attitude? Living at a winery?

Sounded like trouble to me.

By the time the tables, chairs, canopies, and wine accessories were back in place two hours later, my crew had arrived, caravan-style. Dee had driven her Smart Car, filled nearly to the brim with decorating supplies—streamers, candles, flowers, tableware, and the like. She had even managed to squeeze in a couple of helium balloon tanks. Berk and Duncan had rented a truck and packed it with the bigger party crap—DJ equipment, lighting, video camera, laptops, signage, game parts, and so on. Rob and Marie had already set out the wineglasses, along with multicolored grapes, leaves, and vines I planned to use for place settings and centerpieces. Brad and I hung signs, grapevines, and lights,
while Mother fussed with the tasting tables, adding pewter cheese knives, along with wine openers embossed with my “Killer Parties” company name, which would double as party favors for the guests to take home.

Around one in the afternoon, Mother asked for a ride to the bingo hall, so I took a break and drove her there, then turned her over to Larry again. I gave her instructions not to leave the hall and promised to be there at four to pick her up so she could get a nap in before the party. When I returned to the winery, I found Delicia in my bedroom trying on her costume.

“Wow, you look…incredible!” I said.

In front of me stood a clone of Lucille Ball, right down to the curly red wig wrapped in a red plaid scarf. Somehow she’d managed to find a white peasant top that fell off her slim mocha shoulders and a flowing blue skirt with a jagged hem—just like I remembered from the old
I Love Lucy
reruns on TV. That grape-stomping episode was one of my favorites because of the hilarious food fight. If I’d known Dee was going to go all Lucy on me, I’d have ordered some of the collectables that matched the episode—Lucy plates, Lucy wineglasses, Lucy wine stoppers, and Lucy snow globes. Leave it to Dee to take it up a notch.

“Hey, Ethel!” she said, putting her hands on her hips after twirling. “What do you think?”

“Hey, Lucy!” I said in my best Desi Arnaz accent. “You look fab-oo-lous!”

I spent the rest of the afternoon supervising, arranging, checking, and double-checking everything. By a quarter to four we were nearly ready, so I took off for
the bingo hall to collect my mother. Once again she’d had a wonderful time, in spite of the fact that she hadn’t won anything this time. As we drove back to the winery, she filled me in on some of the bingo lingo—things like “blackout,” “coverall,” “hardway,” “money ball”—which ran through my mind like a sieve, and made me promise to accompany her next time.

While Mother napped, I went out to the party area and reviewed the music selections with Duncan. We’d decided on Italian-themed music, beginning with a CD called
Mob Hits
that featured Dean along with Frank Sinatra, Louis Prima, and Rosemary Clooney, among others. When it was time for the party to wind down, Duncan was scheduled to play something by Andrea Bocelli.

Berkeley had already videotaped the pre-party area and was ready to catch the guests in action as they arrived. I often asked him to videotape my more important parties as a selling tool for my Web site and YouTube—at least the parts where nothing went wrong.

While Duncan and Berk were dressed in black jeans and Killer Parties T-shirts, Raj Reddy looked official in his khaki Treasure Island Security Guard uniform. I’d filled him in on the vandalism we’d discovered that morning and gave him a picture of JoAnne Douglas, downloaded from Rob’s computer.

Rocco and Gina had spent the day in Rob and Marie’s gorgeous Tuscany kitchen, making fresh versions of the appetizers and desserts we’d had last night, including the mud-slinging mini–mousse cream puffs. After Rocco’s outburst the previous night, I was relieved to find him calmer today and hoped he’d remain
that way throughout the evening. I didn’t have time to deal with another temperamental tantrum.

“Break time!” Rob called, surprising all of us by opening a bottle of his new wine and pouring my staff and me a glass. Everyone gathered quickly at the serving table, ready for the relaxing refreshment—all except Brad, who was still hanging a large sign that read, “‘Wine is bottled poetry’—Robert Louis Stevenson.”

“Brad!” I called.

He looked down from his step on the ladder and nodded. “Be right there.” He tied the last piece of the sign to a rope he’d strung across the entrance to the party area, climbed down, wiped his hands on his jeans, and took the glass.

“No beer?” he said, teasing.

“I’ll buy you a beer when all of this is over,” I said, then touched my glass to his and announced, “To Rob and Marie, our hosts!” Everyone took a sip and I immediately felt the alcohol work its magic on my tired muscles.

Brad and I sat down in a couple of lawn chairs next to Rob and Marie. I noticed that Allison and Javier had disappeared after finishing their tasks. The four of us chatted about how stunning the party area looked, how fun the games were going to be, and how wonderful the wine was.

“Any sign of JoAnne?” I asked Rob, glancing around.

“No, thank God. But I’m glad you brought extra security. With him and the guy I hired, we should be okay.”

Raj, who had passed on the alcohol, stood reading
the guest list, then gave it to me to look over. I recognized only a few names—the Briens, the Madeiras—and another name I’d seen on several billboards and bus benches: Kyle Bennett. It had taken me a while, but now I recognized him as the same man who had been at the Purple Grape yesterday morning when we’d arrived. According to his ads, he was a self-described “attorney working to preserve the Napa Valley like a fine wine.” I didn’t much trust lawyers who pasted their faces all over town but would reserve judgment until I got to know him better. Rob explained that the rest of the guests were friends, neighbors, or other local small-scale vintners, as well as a writer from
Wine Connoisseur
magazine.

After the wine break, we headed for our rooms to shower and prepare for the guests, who’d be arriving around seven. I roused my mother from her nap and helped her put on a flowery, ankle-length cocktail dress and do her hair. Meanwhile Brad showered and dressed in black jeans and a plain black T-shirt—no logo. I finally took my turn in the shower, then slipped into a knee-length maroon dress and black Mary Janes, touched up my makeup, and brushed my short bobbed hair.

“Presley?” Mother said, entering my bedroom holding a purple makeup pencil. “I’m having trouble with my eye shadow.”

I looked at her and immediately saw the problem. The dark purple color she’d applied to her lids was thick and smudged.

“Let me see.” Upon closer inspection, I realized she had used her lipstick pencil instead of her eye-shadow
pencil to create the look. “Let me fix this for you, Mom.” I took her back into her room, wiped off the mess with a tissue, and found a purple eye-shadow pencil in her cosmetic bag. Gently I applied a thin swipe to her lids, then smoothed it in with my fingertip. I wanted to think she’d just made a simple mistake, but I sensed it was another sign of her worsening Alzheimer’s disease. Being in a new place had upset her sometimes fragile connection to reality. Maybe bringing her here hadn’t been such a good idea after all.

“There. All better,” I said, wiping the color from my finger with a tissue. “You look lovely.”

“Thank you, Presley. So do you.”

“Well, shall we go?” I offered her my arm and she took it like a grande dame. Leading her out of her room, I paused momentarily at my room to tell Brad we were heading out, but he’d apparently already left. When we reached the festively decorated garden, lit up with sparkling lights and glowing swags of fake grapevines, Mom sucked in a breath of air at the sight, which I took as her approval.

I checked my Mickey Mouse watch: six forty-five. Almost party time.

When the first guests arrived around seven, spilling into the garden area in their cocktail finery, everything looked perfect. The white tablecloths made the dark red wines pop with color. The sparkling glasses beckoned, ready to be swirled with wine. And the decorations—swagged grapevines, purple and green balloons, and large goblets sporting purple votive candles—all added to the mellow and intoxicating ambiance.

A few minutes later the Briens and Madeiras arrived
via golf carts from their neighboring wineries and were soon huddled together over glasses of the Purple Grape’s new merlot. I ducked into the kitchen to check on the
amuse-bouches
, then returned to find that Kyle Bennett, the attorney, had arrived and was chatting flirtatiously with an attractive blond woman. Larry had also arrived and was charming my mother, who seemed to be laughing at everything he said.

My staff was in place, as was Rob’s. Javier had cleaned up nicely in his black suit and western string tie and stood behind one of the serving tables, pouring wine. Allison manned another table strewn with my signature corkscrews and cheese knives, smiling and talking with the guests as she filled their glasses. Rob and Marie stood together behind the third table, he in a dark tieless suit and black loafers, she in an ankle-length plum gown, with black pearls and matching plum Kate Spade flats. Tall, maybe five-eight or nine, Marie would have towered over her five-ten-ish husband if she’d worn heels, I realized. They were shaking hands with guests and talking animatedly about the virtues of their latest harvest.

There was no sign of JoAnne Douglas. So far, so good.

While Duncan filled the air with Dean Martin’s velvety “Return to Me,” Gina appeared with the first tray of edible masterpieces. The crowd grew and the sound of conversation and laughter increased. Soon everyone was sipping wine, nibbling appetizers, and talking.

“Nice job, Ms. Parker,” came a voice from behind me. I turned to see Kyle Bennett wearing a smart suit and shiny Ferragamos and holding a glass of the Purple
Grape’s merlot. “I feel like I’m in the Garden of Eden, practically swimming in a giant glass of wine. Are you available for other parties here in Napa? My clients are always looking for a good event planner.”

Apparently he knew my name already. “Hello, Mr. Bennett. Glad you’re having a good time. Sure, feel free to pass my name along to your clients.”

“Perhaps we could talk about the specifics over dinner sometime?” He gazed at me with glassy eyes. Drunk already? And hitting on me?

“Um, sure,” I said, glancing around for Brad. Not seeing him, I took a sip of my own wine, then said, “Or just e-mail me. I do most of my business online these days, aside from the actual party.”

“How about tomorrow night? Are you free?”

Oh my God. Did this guy not get it? That was the trouble with drunk people—they so often became stupid.

“Uh…sorry, but I’ll be leaving tomorrow.” I pulled out one of the Killer Parties business cards from a pocket in my dress. “Here’s my contact information. I look forward to hearing from you. Now, if you’ll excuse me, it’s time to begin the entertainment. Enjoy the party.”

He raised his glass, gave a little bow, and let me go. I circled the party, searching for Brad, and found him sitting next to Allison on a bench in a far corner of the garden. He seemed to be studying the party guests, ignoring Allison, who was talking to him, a cigarette in her hand. The smoke overpowered the smell of the flowers that surrounded the two of them.

“There you are!” I said when I reached him.

Brad looked visibly relieved to see me. He grinned and stood up and took my hand. “Great party,” he said. “You’ve done it again, Pres.”

Allison dropped her cigarette on the ground, pressed it out with her strappy black high-heeled Prada shoe, and rose. “Break’s over. Time to get back to work,” she said to me. To Brad she added, “Nice talking to you, Brad. I’ll give you the insider’s tour of the place tomorrow, if you’re still around. Believe me, I can show you things the regular tourists don’t get to see.” She raised an eyebrow at him, whipped her blond hair around, and headed back to one of the tables to pour more wine.

“What was that about?” I said, feeling myself flush with jealousy.

Brad squeezed my hand. “I have no idea,” he said. “I was sitting here watching the party action and she sneaked up behind me, lit her cigarette, and sat down.”

“You hate cigarette smoke!”

“I know, but I couldn’t just leave the minute she sat down.”

“Why not?” I said, half teasing, half meaning it.

“Then I would have missed seeing you with Mr. Slick over there.” He pointed to where I’d been talking with Kyle Bennett.