The Fatal Sip

Anita carefully sets a tray of empty stemware on the counter, a strand of hair escaping her ponytail. She tucks it behind her ear and nods toward Gaskel’s empty barstool.

“How’s it going with the fancy critic?” she asks.

“Okay,” I answer vaguely, adding Gaskel’s glass to the collection destined for the dishwasher.

“I bet it’s going better than you think.” Her cheeks are glowing with the sheen of naïveté. “I already sold a case of the cab to the group of guys, and the couple in the corner bought a bottle of the Ski Lodge Cherry.” Anita dashes off to package the recently sold wine.

Hope balloons in my chest and I feel a surge of determination to convince Gaskel to give my wine another chance. By any means necessary. I’ll grovel if I must.

I pour a sample of the Mile High Merlot and then idle near the bathroom door, glancing at the grapevine clock hanging over the hallway table. Gaskel has to be done soon.

A customer with dark brown curly hair and a prominent nose fidgets in line behind me and I become even more aware of the time. In fact, the longer I wait, the more worried I get, especially when I remember the way Gaskel’s chest heaved when he stood up.

I knock on the door. “Mr. Brown?”

No answer.

“Mr. Brown?” I try again, the hair at the nape of my neck rising. “I’m coming in, sir.”

I try the doorknob and find it unlocked. My unease grows as I slowly push the door open.

I gasp, bringing my hand to my chest. There’s a shattering of glass and, faintly, I realize I’ve dropped the merlot. Burgundy wine dribbles over the Tuscan-tiled floor.

And there’s Gaskel.

His ego would take a major hit if he knew he’d been discovered in such a messy state. He’s sprawled ungracefully on the floor, his legs bent at awkward angles. It looks like he’d almost made it to the toilet before he threw up, vomit all over his face and starched shirt. One hand cradles the expensive watch strapped to his other wrist. A piece of paper sticks out of his front pocket like a flag of surrender, and his eyes stare glassily at the ceiling.

There’s a stillness emanating from his body. Somehow, I know he’s dead.