Chapter 2
When a male honeybee succeeds in mating with
a queen, he will die within a few hours or days.
—Henny Penny Farmette Almanac
Abby followed Kat as she merged into the line with the other guests who were heading through the heavy plank doors of the Country Schoolhouse Winery on Rooster Flats Road. The interior offered a cozy, convivial atmosphere for the vow-renewal party, in contrast to the cold night beyond its walls. With its air redolent with aged oak, grape must, and potpourri, the room’s focal point was the welcoming blaze in the massive stone fireplace.Here, the party would soon be in full swing.
A female staffer in a black pantsuit and white shirt stood a few feet from the door, offering flutes of bubbly from the huge tray she held. The flutes had been engraved with Jake’s and Paola’s names and the date. With her cheek still itching, Abby remembered the antihistamine tablets and retrieved one from her purse. After washing it down with a sip of sparkling wine, she strolled back to the warmth of the fireplace, where Kat soon joined her. It would be the perfect people-watching spot, since newcomers often gravitated to the opposite wall to admire the private collection of wines Jake and his family had amassed.
A floor-to-ceiling glass cabinet showcased the collection, which required a climate-controlled temperature. The cabinet base rested on a black-and-white patterned tile riser that found resonance in the floor that swept around the S-shaped tasting bar. The staff had removed the bar stools and had retracted the movable wall to create a large open space. They’d moved in dining tables festooned in autumn colors. All that remained was for the guests of honor to show and the sumptuous celebratory meal to begin. Abby knew her honey would be a surprise gift for the guests. Chef Emilio and his staff intended to put out the miniature jars of lavender honey, which Abby had attractively tied with cream-and-orange gingham ribbon. The jars would remain safely locked in the Jeep until the chef was ready for them.
“Fabulous renovation, don’t you agree?” Kat said. “I hardly recognize this place. I heard Jake had to conjure some real mojo for the turnaround, but he’s done it, hasn’t he? Kind of surprising considering that this nineteen thirties winery was dying on the vine.”
Abby sniffed. “Let’s hope he can conjure a similar revival of his marriage.”
“Hmm. Easier said than done. Anyhow, it takes two, doesn’t it? I’ve heard he’s been having mercurial mood swings, and that the wife isn’t entirely faultless in the marriage. Not exactly a recipe for success, and yet here we are.”
Abby set her glass down on the hearth and removed her coat. “None of us are perfect, Kat, but what specifically are you getting at?”
Kat said in a conspiratorial tone, “You don’t think she comes here only to deliver her truffles, do you? I’ve heard she likes visiting the barrel room from time to time.”
Abby arched a brow. “So she’s got a friend in the barrel room. I’m sure she knows everyone who works here.”
A young woman approached. “Would you like me to take your coats?” the woman asked. “That’s my job tonight.”
“Oh,” said Abby. “That would be lovely.”
The blue-eyed woman appeared to be in her early twenties and wore tights, a short black miniskirt, and a white angora sweater. She’d plaited her blond hair in a long braid. “I’m Hannah Thompson, the intern.”
“Thompson. Any relation to the barrel room manager?” asked Abby. She exchanged a warning look with Kat, hoping to censor any further comments about the barrel room worker and Paola.
Hannah smiled. “As a matter of fact, my uncle Scott Thompson—he got me this internship.”
Kat moistened her lips and gazed over the room in her thoughtful way, as she often did during awkward moments.
“Well, here you go,” Abby said. She and Kat handed over their coats. “Lovely to meet you.”
Hannah flashed a wide smile and took the coats.
“Yes,” Kat chimed in. “Lovely.”
With Hannah gone, Abby’s gaze swept the room. She was searching to see if Chef Emilio was among them. Not seeing him, Abby leaned into Kat. “I promised to check in with Emilio as soon as I got here. The kitchen is this way. You coming?”
“Thought you would never ask,” Kat said. “Guys who can cook are such a turn-on. At the Church of the Holy Names ceremony, I couldn’t stop staring at him. Those eyes, that hair.”
“Don’t you mean the hair on the back of his head? Because that was pretty much what you could see after he’d taken his seat.”
“My point exactly,” said Kat. “You’ll be a love and introduce me, won’t you?” she said, walking with Abby to the kitchen. “My birthday is coming—the day before Halloween—and I can’t think of a nicer present to give myself than a relationship with a gorgeous new man, especially one that can cook. Wouldn’t you agree?”
“No question about it. Just don’t show him your broomstick and black cat before he discovers all your other magic,” Abby teased.
As they passed an antique sideboard, Abby noticed a basket of folded cards positioned near a crystal bowl of fragrant potpourri. After plucking a card with the winery logo prominently displayed, Abby peeked inside. Another company logo stood out—Chocolaté Artesano. A plastic sleeve stapled inside the folded card held four cocoa beans.
“Oh, this is nice,” said Abby, stopping to appreciate the card. “Genius, in fact. Paola and Jake are using their vow-exchange party as a promo opportunity for his wines and her handmade truffles.” Handing the card to Kat, Abby said, “You’ve got to give Jake his due. Probably his idea, but I think our girl Paola is a rising star.”
Kat clearly wasn’t interested. She was now obsessed about her appearance. “Do I need lipstick? I think I do. What I was wearing is now all over this flute. Give me a minute. I can’t meet that gorgeous hunk of a chef looking like this.”
“Seriously, Kat. He’s not going to notice your lipstick. And besides, what happened to the firefighter you were going to marry last week?”
“So six minutes ago,” said Kat. “He could make you hot in all kinds of places, but a chef could mix all that heat with a little sweet. And I have got a mouthful of sweet teeth.”
“Trust me, he is working. He won’t notice your flirting.”
“Oh, he will. Men always do. You might be thinking about men in more imaginative ways, girlfriend, if you didn’t go to bed with the chickens, get up with the rooster, and sleep with a dog every night.”
“Well, at least Sugar doesn’t snore . . . much. Fine. I’ll be in the kitchen. The ladies’ room is that way.” Abby pointed toward the restroom at the far end of the wall.
Kat turned and hurried away.
After tucking the card into her purse, Abby strolled into a hallway and followed the sound of dish clatter and animated voices. Once through a swinging galley door, she was met with the tantalizing scents of the dinner being prepared—fresh greens with jicama and Fuyu persimmon slices, harvest pumpkin soup garnished with pepitas, roasted duckling with merlot-chocolate sauce, a timbale of wild rice with ancient grains, and asparagus spears. At Paola’s behest, Emilio had eschewed the cultural dishes loved by his Argentine family and instead had made choices that would appeal to Jake’s family and friends and their winery associates. But Abby felt pretty sure no one was going to mind. As if on cue, her stomach growled.
Waitstaff came and went. A kitchen worker stood at a sink, washing stacks of pots, in an area off to one side of the room, near a small swinging door. Fresh produce covered an entire counter. At other stations, kitchen staff appeared not to notice Abby as they worked at a fever pitch to finish the various food courses for the dinner.
Abby soon spotted the sous-chef at her station and remarked, “Smells divine. I’ve been saving my appetite all day for this meal.”
Remaining silent, the woman reached for a platter. She wore a smaller version of the traditional toque blanche, with her light hair pulled severely back and secured in a white snood. The long sleeves of her double-breasted jacket had been rolled back to nearly her elbows. She kept her head down, working, as Abby looked on.
“You can’t be in here,” barked the sous-chef, at last looking up.
“I’m looking for Chef Emilio. Know where I might find him?”
The woman shrugged. She stopped slicing Fuyu persimmons long enough to jerk her thumb toward the back door.
Leaving the warmth and the savory scents of the kitchen, Abby opened the door and faced a blast of cold air as she stepped outside. Need a coat. Would have to find Hannah. Oh, forget it. Shivering, Abby crossed her arms over her chest for warmth. On the lookout for Emilio, she paced past two Dumpsters—one for refuse and the other labeled for recycling. She peered to the left, saw no movement at all. And why would there be? In that direction, the vineyard swept steeply uphill in neatly planted rows. The grapes had been harvested, but the vines had not yet been cut. Some protruded like ghostly arms from the guide wires. Fog threaded along the paths between the vines like fingers of smoke.
“Emilio,” she called out, looking to her left and right. Trucks and cars in the lot behind the kitchen appeared as silhouettes. Walking among them, Abby heard a sudden loud pop. She might not be a cop anymore, but she knew a gunshot when she heard one.
Out of instinct, she lunged toward a truck for cover. A car’s headlights caught her as she dove. The high heel on her shoe snapped, and she slid on the wet pavement into one of the truck’s tires. Uphill, the car lights dimmed as the engine cranked over. The sedan rolled toward her. Abby crawled to the truck’s front bumper. Clinging to the cold, wet metal, she hunched low. Not moving. Not breathing. Waiting. The driver seemed intent on finding her, rolling slowly past and pausing at the truck’s tailgate. The engine idled. A flashlight beam through the passenger window bobbed around and stopped to rest on the spot she’d just left. Holding her breath, Abby froze. Could the driver see her? Her heart thrummed against her chest wall.
The flashlight went dark. The window rolled up. The car inched on. Abby crawled on all fours to the truck’s rear and peered into the darkness and fog, attempting to get a look at the license plate before the fog hazed over it. She watched the older-model, light-colored sedan brake and turn left, but not before Abby spotted the broken or missing lens cover of the passenger side taillight. When the driver gunned the engine, the tires screeched onto the country road, and the car fishtailed into a getaway.
She exhaled a breath of relief. After blotting her bruised and bleeding knees with her silk dress, Abby struggled to stand upright. She found her purse, and clutching it, she limped toward the incline—in the direction of the shot. She moved as stealthily as possible with her broken heel, not daring to call out Emilio’s name.... There might be another shooter. It was unlikely, but then again . . . Who or what had the perp been targeting?
Parked beneath the pale light of a pole lamp, Abby spotted a car with the driver’s side door open. A Ford Escort. Paola’s? The hair stood up on the back of Abby’s neck. Adrenaline rushed through her. Her hobbling gave way to a limping run. She could see the driver slumped over the wheel. As Abby got closer, she realized that the driver was motionless, as if in a deep slumber. It was Jake. Her gaze moved to the passenger, crumpled forward, as if in a defensive position. The pole lamp splayed light into the car’s interior, illuminating Paola’s head, which was slumped in a weird position, the red hibiscus still perfectly pinned into her chignon.
Abby’s heartbeat pounded. She stifled a cry. Choked back tears. No time to cry. Think. Assess. What’s happened here? Abby had heard only one shot. Of that, she was certain. One shot, two vics. Only one explanation. The bullet entered and exited Jake’s head and struck Paola. Abby felt for Jake’s pulse. Found none. After hustling to the other side of the car, she opened the door with her wadded dress skirt. Reaching toward the dash and feeling for a pulse on Paola’s wrist, Abby feared the worst. Then . . . Oh, God in heaven, yes. A pulse. Weak and thready, but palpable.
“Paola, can you hear me? It’s Abby. Please, please hang on. I’m going to get help.”
Abby’s thoughts raced. My phone? Where is it? Oh, no. Coat pocket. Hannah took it. Run. Abby kicked off her heels and sucked in a sharp breath at the cold, wet sensation on the bottoms of her feet. With purse and shoes in hand, she sprinted barefoot on the frosty pavement back to the kitchen—breathing steam into the frigid night air like a life depended on it and knowing it did.
Inside the kitchen, Abby dashed to the phone she had seen on the back wall, by the door. Trying not to fumble the receiver, she hastily tapped in the number of the emergency dispatch.
A female voice asked, “What’s your emergency?”
Abby replied, “This is Abigail Mackenzie. One gunshot fired at the Country Schoolhouse Winery. Back lot. Two vics. Male dead, female alive, barely. Notify police of a one-eight-seven, and send an ambulance.”
Jicama and Persimmon Salad
Ingredients:
1 small head romaine lettuce, leaves rinsed and patted dry
2 Fuyu persimmons
½ small jicama
3 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil
1 tablespoon freshly squeezed lime juice
1 teaspoon honey
½ teaspoon kosher salt (or to taste)
¼ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper (or to taste)
¼ cup toasted pepitas (optional)
Directions:
Tear the lettuce leaves into bite-size pieces and place in a large salad bowl. Set aside.
Peel the persimmons and cut them into ½-inch half-moon slices. Next, peel the jicama and cut it into matchstick-sized pieces. Arrange the persimmon slices and the jicama matchsticks atop the reserved lettuce. Set the salad aside.
Combine in a small bowl the olive oil, lime juice, honey, salt, and pepper. Whisk vigorously until the dressing is well blended.
Drizzle the dressing over the reserved salad and toss it to coat evenly. Sprinkle the salad with the pepitas, if desired, and serve at once.
Serves 4