I clutched the door frame, a tidal wave of dizziness assaulting my body.
You’re imagining this, Jules, I tried to tell myself. That had to be a pool of burgundy wine, not burgundy blood, surrounding Jimmy’s head. Right?
This couldn’t be happening.
I dug my nails into the wood, forcing myself to breathe.
That was Jimmy. And he was dead.
Definitely dead.
I inched closer, knelt next to his lifeless body, and checked for a pulse. There wasn’t one, which wasn’t a surprise given that his eyes rolled up toward the ceiling in a vacant gaze.
I inhaled slowly and deeply, trying to force myself out of the rhythm of shallow breathing.
I wasn’t an expert, but from the gash in his neck, it looked as if the corkscrew had delivered the fatal blow.
I had to get the Professor—fast.
Bright yellow spots clouded my vision when I stood up. I blinked hard and squeezed my eyes shut tight.
My knees threatened to buckle as I ran up the stairs, keeping a firm grasp on the railing.
The tasting room was empty, but I could hear music in the kitchen—thank goodness. That meant that someone was here.
Sterling heaved a huge tub of ice onto the counter next to the sink as I stumbled into the room. “We have a problem. Where’s the Professor?”
“Jules, what’s wrong?” Sterling dumped the bucket of ice in the sink and ran to me. “Are you okay?”
It was like my tongue refused to work. My mouth felt gummy and pasty, like I’d been chewing on a sheet of fondant. “It’s Jimmy.” I pointed behind me to the stairwell. “He’s dead.”
“What?” Sterling gripped my shoulders and steered me over to a bar stool. “You need to sit down, Jules. I’m going to go find the Professor, or Thomas, or whoever I can. Don’t move. I’ll be right back.” With that, he sprinted out of the kitchen and vanished.
I nodded. He didn’t need to worry. My legs were failing me. They quivered and shook like the floor was erupting beneath me.
I had to use the counter as a crutch to steady myself as I sat down.
Who could have killed Jimmy? And why?
I placed a hand over my mouth, hoping to keep my nausea at bay.
What was he doing in the cellar?
Had the killer planned their attack? Or had it been a crime of convenience? Maybe they found Jimmy in the basement and decided to strike.
“Julieta, what is it?” Carlos’s voice interrupted my spiraling thoughts.
I turned to see him standing in the doorway, holding a box of empty wine bottles. “It’s Jimmy, the actor,” I said, although my warbly voice sounded like it was coming from someone else. “He’s been stabbed—in the neck. I think he’s dead. Actually, I’m sure of it.”
Carlos set down the wine box. His dark eyes filled with concern as he came closer, studied my face, and massaged my fingers. His tone was calm and even. “Keep breathing, mi querida. It will be okay.”
His touch helped center me.
“That’s good. Nice and slow.” The tender, steady quality of his voice made me want to collapse in his arms and disappear.
I wiggled my toes, trying to make a connection with the floor in hopes of grounding me in the reality.
“You found him?” Carlos asked, releasing his grasp.
I nodded.
“Should I get Doug?” He reached for a glass and filled it with water.
“No, Sterling is already on his way to find him.”
“Drink this.” He placed the water in front of me. “Are you sure that Jimmy is dead?”
I nodded again. “There was so much blood, and he wasn’t moving.”
“Sí, it’s okay.” He squeezed my hand and pointed to the water. “You need to drink this slowly and try to relax. I will go downstairs and check on Jimmy while we wait for Doug to arrive.”
I must have looked even worse than I felt. Between Sterling and now Carlos telling me that I needed to sit, I wondered if I was in danger of toppling over.
Sterling and the Professor rushed past a few minutes later, but I remained cemented in the chair. I didn’t need to see Jimmy’s body again, and I wasn’t sure I could manage the stairs without my knees giving out this time.
I sipped the water as Mom, Andy, Steph, and Marty all filed into the kitchen, carrying platters and cake stands.
“Juliet, we heard that one of the actors is injured,” Mom said, approaching me with a look of concern. She took off her shawl and wrapped it around my shoulders.
“It’s Jimmy.” I told her and the rest of the team what happened. I had barely finished when the sound of wailing sirens reinforced how dire the situation had become.
Mom sat next to me as paramedics and police officers ran past the kitchen on their way to the scene of the crime.
Could I have been wrong?
Was there a chance that Jimmy was still alive?
Maybe his injury wasn’t as bad as I thought.
But then images of the corkscrew and the pool of blood flooded my head.
I blinked hard to try and force them away.
“Honey, how are you doing?” Mom asked, putting one hand on my knee, which I couldn’t stop bouncing.
“Okay, I guess.” The truth was that the entire kitchen appeared blurry. My eyes couldn’t focus, everything was tilted and fuzzy. I could hear the clatter of plates and silverware, and the hum of the dishwasher, and see flashes of movement as the team deftly continued cleanup procedures, but it was like I was underwater, watching through foggy swim goggles.
“Juliet?” Mom cleared her throat and raised one eyebrow.
“Yeah, sorry. I feel terrible. I should have stayed down there with him. I just took off. What if I’m wrong? Maybe he was okay, and I left him there. Maybe I should have tried CPR or rescue breathing. What if I didn’t do enough?” I massaged my arms, thankful that she had lent me her shawl without asking if I needed it. The room suddenly felt like I was sitting in the walk-in freezer.
“You did enough. You came to get help,” she said with a firm, sad smile. “The only thing you could do in the situation.”
“But I should have applied pressure or removed the corkscrew.”
She squeezed my knee harder. “No, that’s the job of the professionals. You did exactly what needed to be done. This is what Doug and the first responders are trained to do. You could have made it much worse if you removed the object or even applied pressure to the wound.”
I appreciated that she was trying to make me feel better, but I couldn’t stop seeing Jimmy’s lifeless body in my mind.
After what seemed like hours but was probably more like minutes, the Professor came into the kitchen. His suit jacket was draped over his left arm. I could tell immediately by his solemn stare that the news wasn’t good. “I’m afraid I must report that Jimmy is deceased.”
A hush fell over the kitchen.
Even though the logical part of my brain already knew it was true, hearing the Professor speak the words out loud made it suddenly real.
I placed my head in my hands and exhaled.
The Professor loosened his tie. “I want to assure you that there was nothing that could have been done. The stab wound punctured his carotid artery. It was not a survivable injury.”
It was like the Professor was reading my mind.
“Do you have any idea when it happened?” Mom asked, rubbing my back the way she had when I was young and woke up with nightmares.
I was wondering the same thing, not only for my own peace of mind but also because I was curious to know the window of time he’d been killed in. That might determine a suspect list.
“It’s too soon to have a definite answer, of course,” the Professor replied. “The coroner will have to determine the time of death, but I would surmise that Jimmy has been dead for at least an hour, if not longer.”
“Really?” I sat up straighter. That had to mean that he had gone immediately to the cellar after his performance. Could he and the killer have planned to meet up? Did that imply that his death was premeditated?
Lance rushed into the kitchen with Arlo on his heels. His face was flushed and his eyes darted in every direction, like he was expecting to see Jimmy standing near the sink. “Are the rumors true? Please tell me that this is a terrible prank.”
The Professor folded his hands together and shook his head slowly.
“Jimmy Paxton, my shining star, Petruchio, is dead?” Lance laced his fingers together and exhaled with a long whistle.
“I’m afraid so,” the Professor replied.
Lance met my eyes as his mouth dropped in disbelief. Then his gaze drifted to the pantry. “Where? In here? I don’t understand. I saw him mere minutes after curtain. How? Who?”
“These are things that will have to be determined. We are in the very early stages of the investigation.” The Professor held up a finger to the paramedics signaling him near the door. “If you’ll excuse me for a moment. I’ll want to hear your thoughts and recollections on Jimmy’s movements, but it appears I’m needed first.”
“I can’t believe it.” Lance paced from the counter to the sink. “Well, to be fair, that’s not entirely true. Jimmy had a habit of making fast enemies rather than friends, but I can’t wrap my head around the how. The show just premiered. The killer must have been waiting for him here.” He paused and glanced around the room as if expecting to see someone dressed in black waiting to jump out from behind the island. “Where was he killed?”
“Downstairs,” I replied.
“Don’t tell me that you found him?” Lance gasped and fanned his face.
Arlo stood near the apron rack, fiddling with one of the apron strings. “Oh, no, Jules. How terrible.”
I nodded, not trusting myself to speak.
“Was it gruesome?” Lance asked.
I nodded again. “He was stabbed in the neck with a corkscrew.”
Mom cleared her throat in warning.
“Sorry. Sorry.” Lance shot me an apologetic grimace. “I don’t need the gory details.”
“Jimmy was there for the final bow, right?” My memory was hazy. I had been so caught up with the rest of the audience in the standing ovation that I hadn’t paid attention to where or how the cast had made their exit.
“Yes. He would never pass up an opportunity to bask in the adoration of his cheering fans.” Lance peeled off a cupcake wrapper and broke the cake in half. “I saw him right after. He passed by my seat. I was in the front row, and I gave him my seal of approval. You can’t fault what that man left on the stage. He owned that role. In fact, I was thinking to myself that I couldn’t possibly entertain the thought of firing him after what he did tonight.”
“What about the rest of the cast and crew?” Arlo interjected.
“Fair point, fair point.” Lance swiped a taste of buttercream. “He was a menace offstage, but I found no fault in that performance. I was mentally reviewing what I was going to say at the cast party.”
“You were going to keep him in the show in spite of his behavior?” I asked.
“Have you ever seen a better interpretation of Petruchio? He wore those tight short shorts and knee-high rainbow socks like a true ’80s icon. His energy was addictive. You could say it was inspired. I knew he had it in him, but that was next level,” Lance countered. “I fully intended to keep him in the role and brainstorm ways to temper his antics, but it appears that someone beat me to the second part, and I think I know who.”
“You think you know who killed him?” Arlo sounded incredulous. “Maybe you should have led with that.”
Lance gave him a coy shrug. “What, and miss an opportunity for a big reveal?”
“Who do you think killed him?” I blurted out. My patience was running thin.
“I dearly hope that I’m wrong, but I watched Sophie follow him along the path until they vanished in the darkness. They were heading straight here, and you’ll never guess what she had in her hand.”
“A corkscrew,” Arlo offered.
Lance licked the tip of his finger with a flourish. “Exactly. She had a bottle of wine in one arm and a corkscrew in the other. I hate to say it, but my lovestruck assistant set designer just might be our killer.”