Old vine sin, p.1
Old Vine Sin, page 1
Also by Parker French
A Sarah McKee Mystery
Dead Man's Wine
Old Vine Sin
Watch for more at Parker French’s site.
OLD VINE SIN
A SARAH MCKEE MYSTERY
BOOK 2
PARKER FRENCH
“A proud mind and an empty purse
grow ill together.”
– Scottish Proverb
To Maureen Downey, wine authenticator and inspiration for this series.
CONTENTS
Sarah’s Puzzle
1. Best in Show—Sonoma Plaza, June 2023
2. The Letter
3. At the Gazebo
4. The Studio
5. The Letter
6. Running
7. The Threat
8. The Ghost Winery
9. Lunch with Roger
10. Murphy’s Intel
11. Emilio and Jean-Paul
12. Violation
13. DNA and a Bicycle
14. Dogs and Bubbly
15. Magic Elves
16. Real Estate Surprise
17. Landon’s Buddy
18. A Stranger’s Concern
19. The Dog, the Sheriff and the SecondCount
20. Miracles and Inquests
21. The Inquest
22. Ann Takes the Stand
23. The Chase
24. Studio Clues
25. The Barn
26. The Wolf House
27. The Attack
28. The Loft
29. The Truck
30. The Hospital
31. Therapy and Hamburgers
Puzzle Solution
Author’s Note
Books by Parker French
SARAH’S PUZZLE
During the course of this book, Sarah relaxes with a cryptic crossword puzzle. There’s a section of the puzzle on the next page, in case you want to work on it with her.
If you’re new to cryptic crosswords, you can find many online resources to help you get started. Plus, this puzzle is pretty easy. So, I hope you give it a try!
You can find the solution in the back of the book.
Good luck! And no peeking!
1
BEST IN SHOW—SONOMA PLAZA, JUNE 2023
“Oh, gawd,” Sarah McKee muttered in dismay.
“What is it?” Charlene Davis, a San Francisco sommelier and fellow judge at the Best of Sonoma Valley wine competition, leaned close to Sarah’s shoulder as she scanned the audience.
“It’s Landon Harris.”
“Is that a problem?” Charlene shaded her eyes with her hand and searched for the famous vintner that Sarah was already staring at.
In the crowd of two hundred people gathered for the Best of Sonoma Valley, Sarah had recognized her elderly friend Landon Harris sitting on the periphery—but in a wheelchair.
“I was supposed to call him. And never did. And now look at him.”
“He doesn’t look well,” Charlene remarked. “I’ll give you that much.”
Sarah studied Landon, shocked by his physical state. Though he was dressed as always in a wide-brimmed white fedora, black shirt, linen trousers, and black canvas shoes, his clothing looked two sizes too large. Even the hat sat too low around his ears.
Something drastic had happened to him. In the couple of months that she’d been away, he had changed from a vigorous older man into a feeble shadow of himself. He must have suffered a massive decline in health or had an accident. Maybe that was why he had tried to contact her.
Guilt streaked through Sarah. Once again, she had allowed business to take precedence over someone she claimed to care about.
While Sarah had been in Europe, Landon had phoned her numerous times, and she hadn’t returned his call. She had good reason not to. Two reasons, if she were counting. For one, the time zone difference made calling someone in the States inconvenient, especially if she had scheduled dinners with clients as she usually did. And two, she always found it difficult to end a phone call with Landon.
Not that Landon was boring or annoying. Far from it. Landon Harris was one of the most convivial men she knew. But the guy loved to talk.
Unfortunately, when Sarah traveled on business, she was too “talked out” to want to spend hours on the phone at the end of the day. And Landon refused to text. So, she had put off contacting him until her return.
Something had happened to confine Landon to a wheelchair—maybe something he had wanted to tell her about. She should have carved out time for him. Guilt made another pass, cutting deeper this time.
Worried, Sarah picked up her water glass and waited for the tasting results to be announced so she could get off the judges’ dais and offer an apology to her elderly friend.
“And the winner of Best of Sonoma Valley…” The host of the event adjusted his glasses and held a tablet farther from his nose, drawing out the results.
Because of her reputation as an international wine consultant, Sarah had been selected to serve as one of the five judges at the competition. She was well aware of the perks of being chosen. Not only did it mean she was highly respected, but it also gave her visibility in the business.
With the perks came certain responsibilities, though. Her position as judge meant that she had to remain on the dais until the very last winner was announced. She couldn’t just hop off the stage and go chat with Landon. Plus it was hot and airless up here.
While the host struggled to bring the winner’s name into focus, Sarah eased back in her chair and surveyed the crowd, forcing her mind off Landon Harris until they could talk.
Local vintners, plastic goblets in hand, perched on the edges of their folding chairs in a shady corner of Sonoma Plaza, eagerly awaiting the announcement of the winning wine. Best of Sonoma Valley was the most coveted award of the year and a guarantee of financial success for a winery.
Everyone who was anyone attended this event, and Sarah knew them all. Many of the vintners were her clients for whom she brokered deals with buyers and collectors all over the world.
“…Rancho Diaz Cabernet Sauvignon, Alexander Valley, Emilio Diaz vintner.”
Rancho Diaz? The crowd sucked in a collective gasp of disbelief before covering the reaction with a smattering of applause. Sarah covered her own gasp with a gulp of water from the glass still in her hand.
Rancho Diaz? Who were they? To have the award bestowed on a newcomer was unheard of. Harris Winery almost always won the competition, or some other equally well-established vineyard.
During a blind tasting, however, surprises could happen.
She saw Landon Harris’ fedora rotate as he searched for the winner in the crowd.
Emilio Diaz, owner of Rancho Diaz, stood up at the back, his intense eyes burning in triumph, his tall, spare frame stiff with pride. He gave a curt nod to the crowd and judges and sat back in his seat, as straight as a fence pole.
What was Emilio Diaz doing growing grapes in Alexander Valley? His was a small family operation working the hills east of Glen Ellen. How had they managed to acquire land in pricey Alexander Valley up north? Had Diaz won the lottery? And when had they started making their own wine?
It was Sarah’s job to discover new vintners and introduce them to her collector and restauranteur clients. How had she missed the Rancho Diaz operation? They must have been flying under the radar on purpose.
If anyone knew anything about Rancho Diaz, it would be Landon Harris. The Harris and Diaz families had been doing business with each other for centuries. The Harrises bought grapes from the Diaz family—grapes that comprised the majority of their signature red, Ancient Oak Cabernet Sauvignon. In turn, the Diaz family was granted a lease on land the Harrises had owned since the 1850s.
Their arrangement was the American version of the Scottish crofter. The Harrises were the landowners, the Diazes were the leasers, with rent paid in grapes and property management.
Sarah could make her apology to Landon and pick his brain at the same time. She shoved back her chair.
“Cheers, Charlene,” she said to the woman at her elbow.
“See you around, Sarah.” Charlene gave a small wave.
Sarah got to her feet and tugged her red dress into place. She stepped down the bleacher-like stairs of the dais and headed through the June heat for the man in the wheelchair.
“Landon?” She held out her hand.
The fedora tipped back to reveal the face of Landon Harris. He’d always reminded her of a grasshopper—a strikingly handsome grasshopper—with his large eyes, prominent, flat nose, and puckish mouth that could break into a grin to fill his face. He had a warm personality and a twinkle in his eye that spoke of his deep intelligence and sense of humor about the human race.
However, the face that tipped to the sun today was more mask than flesh. Winter had come to Landon, turning his brows and hair white. His skin had a gray opaqueness about it, as if his warmth had been killed by frost, and his expressive eyes had frozen to bits of coal. She couldn’t even see the whites—just cold black stones sitting in a pale oval.
What was wrong with him? Had he suffered a stroke? He was in his early seventies, old enough to succumb to a medical condition of some kind. But he had never seemed that old to Sarah. And never unhealthy. Dismay spiked through her, but she kept her expression open and friendly, and her gob shut.
“Sarah McKee,” he said in a smooth baritone. The man’s body may have shrunk, but his voice was as big as ever. “So, you haven’t fallen off the edge of the earth, after all.”
“Apologies for not getting back to you, Landon. I’ve been out of the country. And crazy busy.” She patted the top of his liver-spotted hand with her free one.
“No worries, my dear,” he replied kindly. Then the volume of his voice dropped to a much more intimate level. “But I have to talk to you.”
“What’s going on?”
Before he could answer, a shadow fell over their joined hands. Sarah released him and lifted her regard to the man looming at her elbow.
Sixty-something Emilio Diaz stared down at Landon, his chin jutting out, his thin lips twitching as if he fought back a snarl or grin. His dark, unblinking eyes burned, his back was rigid, and his wisps of gray hair were as dry and colorless as his skin, sweeping over his ears like the feathers of an egret. His thin body and bony face, plus the acrid odor wafting from his clothes, hinted at a man who smoked more than he ate.
He had overdressed for the occasion, in a white polyester suit with a red scarf tied around his throat. This must be his first competition and he wasn’t aware of the casual dress code. Or he had attempted to outshine the others on purpose. He seemed unaware that people were tilting their heads to stare at him while they made comments behind his back. Or perhaps he ignored them.
Emilio stepped in front of the wheelchair and angled back his head. Sarah wondered whether he was going to challenge the older man to a duel or spit on him.
“Who is king of the castle now?” Emilio demanded.
His emotions got the better of him. He couldn’t stop the muscle at the corner of his mouth from twitching. Emilio fought it back and raised his chin even higher.
“The crown is all yours, Diaz,” Landon replied. “Enjoy the ride.”
He saluted the thin man, dismissing him with the good-natured gesture. Emilio blinked once, as if surprised by the other man’s graciousness, and then turned on his heel and marched away.
“Man must be boiling in that get up,” Landon remarked, watching him go, just as his son, Jean-Paul Harris, strolled up and grabbed the handles of the wheelchair.
“Time to go, Dad.” Jean-Paul glanced at Sarah but didn’t greet her by name or even acknowledge her presence.
“But I need to talk to Ms. McKee about something—”
“Later, Dad. You shouldn’t overdo. Coming here was enough for one day. And apparently all for nothing.” Jean-Paul shot a glare at Sarah. “What was that farce just now?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Rancho Diaz, my ass. That two-bit operation? Best in Show? No way.”
“Implying what, exactly?”
“This whole thing was rigged, wasn’t it? The committee had some shitty diversity quota to fill this year, didn’t they? Blind tasting, my ass.”
A flush flared over Sarah’s cheeks. “That’s enough, pal.”
“C’mon, Jean-Paul, don’t be a sore loser.” Landon tapped his son’s arm. “Diaz won fair and square. Let’s go.” He nodded toward the shining black Suburban parked on the street nearby.
“I’m going to look into this.” Jean-Paul shook a finger at Sarah and then shoved his father’s chair onto the sidewalk.
“Look all you want, pal,” she called after him.
Sarah stood in the blazing heat, blazing on the inside as well. The worst thing someone could do to her was shake their finger at her as if she were a child. The second worst thing was to accuse her of unethical conduct. Her career as a wine authenticator—not to mention her entire way of life—was based on facts and data, not lies and shady deals. If a client or jury required an objective viewpoint or a fair summary, she was the perfect choice. She would never take a bribe or pander to the powerful.
Sarah was still simmering when she saw Landon Harris pivot in the wheelchair to peer back at her. He wiggled his hand near his ear, reminding her to call him. Sarah waved and watched him go, worried about the drastic change in his appearance and wondering why he was so intent on speaking with her.
As she stood in the grass, she felt the three o’clock wind pick up. Napkins and plastic wine goblets spiraled against the curb as the Harris Suburban drove away.
Later that day, as Sarah settled in to work at her desk in the spare room that served as her office, she looked at her phone. She should call Landon Harris and get it over with. Just as she reached for her phone, she heard it ring. Landon’s name showed on the screen. She picked up the call.
“Landon,” she greeted. “I was just about to call you.”
“Listen, my dear.” His voice sounded oddly hushed, as if he didn’t want his conversation to be overheard. “I have an important—”
His words broke off, replaced by a rustling noise and the sound of a struggle. Muted male voices squabbled in the background and then the call ended.
“What the hell?” Sarah muttered, holding out her phone to stare at it.
She called back, only to get voicemail. Frustrated, she left a message. She called a couple more times that evening with no success.
Concerned but unable to do anything more, Sarah forced herself to concentrate on her work. Maybe Landon had entered the first stages of dementia. Maybe what he wanted to speak to her about was just an old man’s fantasy. They were acquaintances. Nothing more. She shouldn’t waste her time worrying about him. She had plenty of stuff to catch up on after her European trip.
Two days went by. Landon Harris did not call her back. Sarah tried to put him out of her mind, but something niggled at her. All was not right with the man—above and beyond the wheelchair. She should have called him back sooner. Maybe he would have been able to talk more freely then. Maybe he was too ill to talk now. Gawd.
Maybe she was being melodramatic.
Sarah didn’t want to bother the Harrises with more calls, so she shrugged off the feeling of foreboding and concentrated on putting her affairs and house in order.
She had been in Europe for two months and had returned to Sonoma the night before the Best of Sonoma Valley event, just in time to judge the contest. She’d been on the phone and on constant video calls ever since. She hadn’t even had a chance to walk down to the Wolf House Bar to hear the latest gossip from her bartender/winemaker friend, Zach Sullivan.
Mounds of mail covered her kitchen island. Hundreds of unanswered emails clogged her computer. Leaves, catkins and acorns littered her deck and front sidewalk. Volcano cones of laundry squatted in her utility room. Two suitcases sat on her bed, their flaps hanging down, waiting to be emptied and stored in the garage. She had plenty to do. Time to get to it.
Sarah fixed a cup of tea, started a white load, and then decided to attack another round of emails. She usually kept up with her mail, even when traveling on business, but she’d been more fatigued than usual during the trip.
Her focus, now that she was back, was to get her health in hand. She was determined to treat her newly diagnosed polycystic ovary syndrome with natural remedies. From her reading on the subject, she could manage her symptoms with exercise and diet.
No more hamburgers for a while.
Just as she carried her tea to the front room, she heard a metallic clink and watched a cascade of envelopes and postcards spew through the letter slot and land on the foyer tile.
“St. Andrew,” she muttered. “Enough, already.” She swept up the mail and carried it to the kitchen. She was about to drop it on the nearest pile when she noticed a genuine letter—not an envelope with a script font designed to trick a person into thinking they had received a real letter. No, this packet bore her name and address in a scrawl that lifted upward at the ends of the lines and was too uneven to have digital origins. The stamp was real, too, pasted upside down in the corner.
