Lead a Horse to Murder (40 page)

I thought you’d never ask,
I thought, heading over to the small group gathered by the back door.

“. . . Six, seven, eight,” a pleasant-looking middle-aged woman whose blouse had the familiar “T” embroidered on it counted aloud. “I think that should do it. If you’ll please follow me . . .”

Our tour guide—Marian, according to her name tag—led us through double doors at the back of the tasting room. We were suddenly in a warehouse-type area, except that it was very well ventilated, with walls that didn’t quite reach all the way to the roof. Every inch was immaculate, from the huge shiny vats that lined one long wall to the smooth concrete floor.

“Thorndike Vineyards started twenty years ago with the first planting of vinifera,” she began after shepherding us into a cluster. “These are the grapes that are planted in France and California. We began with only forty acres, then acquired more land in the years that followed. Today, we plant a total of ninety acres and produce nearly twenty thousand cases of wine annually.

“The key to making good wine is using sweet grape juice,” she continued, “which means starting the process with ripe fruit and good sugar.” She pointed to the wall of vats. “We begin the process by crushing the fruit in these vats. We use stainless steel because, unlike wooden vats, they don’t impart any flavor to the wine. We only use wooden barrels at this stage if we specifically want to flavor the wine.

“Inside each vat, there’s a membrane that inflates and deflates like a balloon, pressing the fruit against the outer wall and causing the juice that’s released to drip down into a receiving container. From there, we pump the juice into a different set of stainless steel tanks that hold two to three thousand gallons. At that point, it’s still fleshy because it’s filled with protein particles. We let it sit for twenty-four hours to allow the solids to settle at the bottom.”

Marian led us further into the drafty room. “Fermentation is the next stage,” she continued. “The juice is transferred into wooden barrels made of French oak, where we inoculate it with a special strain of yeast. Basically, the yeast feeds on the sugar in the juice, and as the yeast digests the sugar, it creates carbon dioxide, which escapes into the air, and alcohol.

“The winemaker’s task is creating just the right conditions so the natural process can occur. The ideal temperature for fermentation is fifty-five degrees Fahrenheit for white and eighty degrees for red. As the yeast feeds on the sugar in the juice, yeast cells begin to line the barrel. The result is a harmony between the fruit and the oak.”

“How long does the wine fermentation take?” a man in a New York Islanders T-shirt asked.

“From ten days to three weeks,” the guide replied. “The sweetness or dryness of the wine depends on the sugar content of the grape and whether the winemaker arrests fermentation before all sugar is converted or just part.” Pointing at the plastic tubes protruding from the top of each barrel, she added, “These tubes are called ‘fermentation locks.’ They let the fermentation gases escape. In the beginning, we stir every two days, but eventually we stir only once a week.”

“What about all those crazy adjectives people use to describe wines?” another man asked. “Do those words mean anything or are they just showing off?”

A few members of the tour group chuckled. “The wooden barrels are made of French oak,” the tour guide explained patiently. “The wood, which is made of starch, has its own distinctive flavor, which it imparts to the wine. For example, if someone describes a wine as having ‘a hint of vanilla and butterscotch,’ that comes from the barrel.

“By the end of May or early June, we return the wine to stainless steel tanks for blending. We use sterile filtration to get it into bottles, and then we cork it, cap it, and label it. The wine is placed onto pallets and moved to a temperature-controlled building, where it’s stored at fifty-five to fifty-six degrees until it’s sold. By the way, that room is also called the ‘tax room,’ because state or federal agents are free to inspect it. Wineries pay tax on every bottle of wine they produce, so it’s important that we keep good records.”

“How many grapes does it take to make a bottle of wine?” a teenaged girl asked.

“One ton of grapes yields seven hundred sixty bottles of wine,” she replied. “If you do the math, that translates to roughly two and a half pounds of grapes per bottle.”

“I thought you were supposed to serve red wine at room temperature,” a woman interjected, “but I read somewhere that the French keep their rooms cooler than we do. What’s the best temperature?”

With our guide distracted by questions, I figured it was a good time to do a little touring of my own. I edged my way toward the back of our group, then slipped behind a giant vat. I headed back into the main building, but this time found myself in a different section.

No tourists here. In fact, the hallway was blocked off by a sign perched atop one of those freestanding metal poles. It read, “Employees Only.”

After glancing from side to side to make sure no one was watching, I ducked down the private corridor. When I reached the end, I found myself in a cavernous room that looked like a gigantic wine cellar. It served as a foyer, with four wooden doors leading off it. Offices, probably. The walls were made of red brick, the temperature was cool, and there was only one lighting fixture, perched high atop the back wall.

As soon as my eyes fully adjusted to the dim light, I saw that the lamp had been placed so that it illuminated a huge oil painting, over six feet high, in an ornate gilt frame. It faced the entryway, making it the focal point for anyone who entered.

The painting was a portrait of a tall, slender young woman with pale, luminescent skin and large blue-green eyes, their startling color emphasized even further by her thick, dark eyebrows. Gleaming straight black hair spilled down her back, the ends curving gently around her shoulders like a shawl. She stood erect, her chin held at a slightly defiant angle, as proud and as graceful as a gazelle.

She wore a long gown made of rich purple velvet and flowered gold brocade. The theatrical garment gave her the not-quite-of-this-world look of a woman in a pre-Raphaelite painting. The wreath of white and lavender flowers that encircled the crown of her head made her appear even more ephemeral, as if she were a goddess or an angel that some artist with an overdeveloped sense of drama had conjured up.

“Can I help you?”

I whirled around, surprised by the unexpected sound of a sharp voice. I hadn’t realized that anyone else had come into the foyer, probably because I’d been so absorbed by the painting.

The man glowering at me looked as if he was in his late sixties, with a full head of thick silver hair. He was tall, with a dignified stance. He was also portly—a word that suited him well, not just because of his slightly rotund build, but also because he seemed as old-fashioned as the word. He was dressed in a dark blue plaid flannel shirt and a pair of those crisp, brand-new–looking jeans that older men tend to wear, the kind that emphasizes how flat their behinds are.

“This is a private area,” he added, using the same cross tone.

“I was looking for the restroom,” I lied, resorting to my favorite fallback excuse.

He cast a skeptical look at me. All right, so maybe it was hard to believe that a grown woman couldn’t tell the difference between a sign that read “Employees Only” and one that featured male and female paper cutouts, the international symbol for people who have to pee.

“Okay, that’s not exactly true,” I admitted. “The truth is that I noticed this portrait as I was walking by, and I just had to get a better look.”

“Ah. Well.” That excuse seemed to placate him. He gazed up at the painting, the corners of his mouth drooping and his eyes dampening. “She was beautiful, wasn’t she?”

“Who is she?” I asked, even though I was pretty sure I already knew, thanks to the photos I’d seen splashed all over
Newsday.

“Cassandra Thorndike. Gordon’s daughter.” As if he’d suddenly remembered that I was nothing more than an intruder, and therefore unlikely to know the people he had named, he added, “Gordon Thorndike founded Thorndike Vineyards.”

“I see. Are you a member of the Thorndike family?”

“Me? No. I own Simcox Wineries, right next door.” I guess he figured he’d already told me enough that it was time for an official introduction. “I’m Theodore Simcox,” he said, extending his hand.

“I’m Jessica Popper,” I replied as we shook hands.

“I’m a close friend of the Thorndike family.” Raising his eyes to the portrait once again, he added, “Cassandra was like a daughter to me. You may have heard about the recent tragedy. She passed away earlier this week—”

We both jumped a little at the sound of footsteps traveling briskly across the terra-cotta– tiled floor. A short, plump woman in a gray wool skirt and a black sweater bustled into the foyer, closing the door of one of the offices behind her. Her hair matched her outfit, I noticed, black with gray accents. It was also just as severe, pulled back tightly into a low ponytail.

“Theodore, I really can’t tell you how much I appreciate you—” She stopped abruptly. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you had a guest.”

“I’m not a guest,” I explained. “I just stepped in here to get a better look at this painting.”

The woman drew her lips into a thin, straight line, as if she were trying to maintain her composure. Even so, her eyes filled with tears so quickly that I figured she’d been doing a good deal of precisely that over the past few days.

“You really shouldn’t be in here,” she said without much conviction.

“This is Mrs. Thorndike,” Theodore Simcox said meaningfully.

“Oh! Mr. Simcox told me about your daughter. I’m so sorry.”

She acknowledged my expression of sympathy with a nod.

In addition to being completely caught off guard by the realization that I’d just met Cassandra’s mother, I also experienced a whole new level of understanding. Up until this point, I’d been so wrapped up in worrying about Suzanne that I’d barely thought about the people who had known and loved Cassandra Thorndike—and how much they were suffering. A young woman was dead. And that meant her parents would have to live with the terrible sadness of having lost their daughter for the rest of their lives. I felt a surge of determination to find out who had killed Cassandra Thorndike—not only for Suzanne’s sake, but also for the people who had loved the poor young woman who had died.

Mrs. Thorndike turned her attention back to Theodore. “Thanks again for running the show for us for a few days, Theo.”

“I’m glad there’s at least something I can do, Joan,” he replied earnestly.

“You’ve lifted a tremendous burden off my shoulders. I need to be at home. I just don’t feel right, leaving Gordon on his own. He’s devastated.” Glancing back at me, she added, “Right now, all the wineries on the East End are gearing up for the busiest time of the year. Not only is autumn the time of the harvest; it’s also the height of tourist season. From September through November, I think most of us feel that our business is orchestrating tastings and hayrides, instead of turning grapes into wine.”

For a moment, a small smile lit up her face, and I could see a trace of liveliness I hadn’t noticed before.

The smile faded quickly. “But right now, my husband and I simply can’t cope with the day-to-day operation of the winery. In fact, the only reason I came in today is that one of our employees called to tell me one of the cats who help keep the mouse population down here at the winery, Coco, is ailing. I came to pick her up and take her to the vet.”

“If you’d like, I could take a look at her.” In response to her puzzled look, I added, “I’m a veterinarian with a mobile services unit. I guess you didn’t notice my van on your way in, but it’s right in your parking lot. I’d be happy to treat your cat.”

“Oh,
would
you?” she asked gratefully. “It would make things so much easier. But could I trouble you to drive your van to my house? As I said, I feel I should be at home with Cassandra’s father. He’s having such a difficult time coping with his daughter’s death, and every minute I’m away seems like too much.”

I guess my expression reflected my confusion because she added, “I should probably explain that I’m actually Cassandra’s stepmother. Her real mother passed away when she was a little girl. At any rate, would you mind coming over? I know it’s a lot to ask.”

“It’s no trouble at all,” I assured her.

“Terrific. I’ll just grab Coco and meet you at the house.”

She began giving me directions, then decided it would be simpler for me to follow her home.

Turning back to Theo, she said, “Feel free to close up early. I know you’ve got enough to take care of without doing double duty by running my vineyard as well as your own.”

“Now, Joan, don’t even think about it,” he insisted. “You know that a lonely old bachelor like me doesn’t have anything else to do on a Saturday. There’s nothing on my schedule for the rest of the day except the roast beef special over at Clyde’s.”

She smiled gratefully. “Thanks, Theo. You’re a real friend.”

As I pulled out of the Thorndike Vineyards parking lot, I could scarcely believe my good fortune. I’d been wondering how I’d ever manage to get inside the world that Cassandra Thorndike had occupied, and here the perfect opportunity had just fallen into my lap.

Right, I thought. Nothing but pure luck. That—and a little scheming, a bit of acting, and the good fortune to own a clinic-on-wheels that gave me the perfect excuse to visit people’s homes.

BACK AD T/K

BACK AD T/K

LEAD A HORSE TO MURDER
A Bantam Book / June 2005

Published by
Bantam Dell
A Division of Random House, Inc.
New York, New York

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved

Copyright © 2005 by Cynthia Baxter

Bantam Books and the rooster colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.

eISBN : 978-0-307-41820-3

www.bantamdell.com

www.randomhouse.com

v1.0