Melissa Lane badly needed to recover from the tragedies that had piled upon her of late, as grief and stress and anger were taking a toll. So she announced to her friends that she had come to a decision: she was going to take a holiday, in New Zealand.
All the way through the twenty-four hour flight she kept thinking of Norman and how he must have felt. He was on a mission to free his son, and now she wanted to do her best to find out what had happened to him and where Vinnie was.
‘Mrs Morrison? Millicent Morrison?’
Melissa wasn’t as used to travelling under a false passport as the rest of her family were, and it took her a while to register the name and turn around. She had been enjoying the calm harbour and the boats.
‘Yes.’
The redhead advanced towards her with hand outstretched. ‘Louisa Logan. You’ve booked a wine tour with me?’
Melissa regained her composure and smiled. ‘Yes. I love red wine, and I’ve researched a couple of wineries I want to visit.’
Louisa nodded and held open the door to her minivan.
‘Which ones?’ she asked.
‘Stonyridge, Mudbrick, Kennedy Point and Rocky Bay.’
Melissa settled into a seat and did up her seatbelt, as Louisa swung herself into the driver’s seat.
‘Excellent examples, all of them. Rocky Bay has changed hands and been renamed Waitemata Wines, which means “sparkling water” in Maori.’
Melissa was a good judge of people, and she knew within a few moments that this woman liked to talk, liked to demonstrate how much she knew. This was the personality type that detectives described as ‘gold’ and others as ‘insatiably curious’. It was simple enough to rearrange the schedule so that they visited Waitemata Wines just before lunch. She met the winemaker, a woman called Gabby, and noticed that she closed down as soon as she heard Melissa’s English accent, which meant either she knew something about what had happened or was still hurting and was suspicious of foreigners and what they could cost. They had a taste of the wine and a small tour around the winery, then Melissa suggested she buy Louisa lunch at the nicest café her guide could recommend.
‘I read an article about Rocky Bay and that winemaker, the girl we met,’ Melissa said casually as she refilled Louisa’s large glass with Stonyridge Larose.
‘Thank you. The blog on the internet? It was very good. They were great, the owners, Dominic and Ava.’
‘Do you miss them?’
Louisa nodded. ‘Very much. Especially Dom, he was gorgeous.’
Aha, a torch was carried. That could be useful.
‘They were recent immigrants, American or –?’
‘English. Londoners, I believe. And right before they left they were joined by Dom’s mother. I picked her up from the ferry and took her there – she wanted to surprise them.’
‘And did she?’
‘They were thrilled.’
Melissa ate her fish, and waited until she could see that the woman was bursting to say more but wasn’t sure she should.
‘So, wasn’t it a bit strange that they left?’
Louisa nodded. ‘It was all very strange. Apparently someone came to the house the night of the harvest party and there was an argument. The police arrived and ambulances, and then Dominic and Ava and a man, also English – called Peter, from memory – came and joined the party as though nothing had happened. The next day they were gone.’
‘The next day?’ Melissa leaned forward as though she were sharing a confidence. ‘How bizarre. What on earth could have happened to make them leave so quickly?’ she asked, her voice full of concern.
‘No one knows. Everything was picked up by a truck – furniture and clothes –and the place was sold. Good price they got for it, too; it makes beautiful wine.’ Louisa hesitated, and seemed to be deciding something.
‘I’m very discreet,’ Melissa said. ‘I only came to see the place because I love their wine.’
‘I don’t actually know anything, and I don’t want you to think that I gossip … but I have been told that there was a physical fight and someone died in one of those big vats we saw, a vat of must!’
‘Must?’
‘Fermenting grape juice and skins. There’s carbon dioxide on the surface and breathing is very difficult. If you fall in, you need to be rescued quickly to have any chance. You suffocate and then you drown.’
‘Goodness me!’
Melissa sat back and digested the news, her expression impassive, her heart screaming. What a horrible way to die.
‘What were they like, Dominic and Ava?’ she asked.
‘Lovely people. Dom was funny and outgoing, and he sang and was passionate about wine. Ava was quieter and a wee bit reserved at times. But she had a wicked sense of humour. She made chocolates and sold them at the market. Her chocolates earned her a reputation. They were exotic flavours and just so moreish!’
Melissa took a sip of her wine. ‘Do you think they’ve bought another vineyard? Be lovely to find out where and try their new wine.’
Louisa shook her head. ‘If they were still making wine we’d know. It’s a relatively small community, and everyone knows where the good owners and winemakers are. No, they’ve moved on.’
‘Maybe they’ve moved to chocolate?’ Melissa suggested.
Louisa beamed at her. ‘I thought of that, too. It would be the obvious path if they wanted to try something new.’
‘Well, let’s hope the chocolate is as good as the wine, and then I might be able to find some of it.’
Melissa sat in her hotel room and surfed the internet on her laptop. There were chocolatiers from the northernmost towns to the southernmost towns, some had retail shops and some had an online presence only. She researched all the likely contenders, family businesses and small operations, and ones that looked new, and compiled a list of phone numbers.
‘Hello, Death by Chocolate. Maria speaking.’
‘Oh, hello. Can you tell me how long you’ve been in business?’
‘Five years in these premises and four in our old building.’
‘And you haven’t recently changed hands?’
‘No, ma’am, we’re still owned by the original owners. My dad is the chocolatier.’
‘Thank you. Sorry to have bothered you.’
‘No problem.’
Eventually, Melissa decided she might have more luck talking to chocolate retailers. Her second stop was the Chocolate Box, a chocolate boutique in the upmarket suburb of Parnell. The shop was a treasure trove, with bars and boxes on every shelf and a counter display-case filled with trays of individual chocolates and truffles. A middle-aged woman was unpacking a box of bars.
‘Good morning. Can I help you?’
Melissa took a moment to survey the wares. ‘What a wonderful display!’
‘Why, thank you. Looking for anything special?’
‘I suspect you get this all the time, but I’m looking for some chocolate I’ve tasted and I can’t remember who made it.’
The woman smiled. ‘Can you remember what the flavour was?’
‘Exotic, different, an unusual combination.’
‘Well, that’s knocks out a few –’
‘And it was quite new, hasn’t been around long.’
‘That helps. Here, try these.’ The woman leaned down and brought out a tasting tray.
Melissa looked at the chocolates and truffles. They were exquisitely made.
‘Do you like raspberries?’ the woman asked.
Melissa nodded.
‘Then try this. It’s filled with dried berries.’
Melissa accepted the half-chocolate and nibbled at it. It was delicious. ‘Who makes these?’ she asked.
‘Chocalicious. They’re in Dunedin, bottom of the South Island. They’ve only been going a couple of years. They make a beer truffle, too, with local ale.’
‘No, I don’t think that’s it. Anything from a newer maker, maybe with wine in it?’
The woman pointed to the tray. ‘That one is a mulled-wine truffle, and that one is my favourite – tequila, lime and salt.’
Melissa tried the half-truffle. ‘That’s lovely! Who makes that?’
‘Aunt Muriel. They’re marketed as Aunt Muriel’s Magnificent Masterpieces.’
‘Where?’
‘From Whakamaria Bay – remote and beautiful. They import fantastic ingredients and the chocolatier is superb. We haven’t stocked them very long, but they’ve proved really popular. Unusual combinations, but they work.’
‘Do they have a shop anywhere?’
The woman shook her head. ‘No, no. They only make about half a dozen different chocolates at the moment. They supply retail shops and restaurants, but the demand is growing. The salesman is English, Michael Wilson. He’s lovely, really charming. I believe his aunt is the chocolatier.’
Melissa smiled at her. ‘Thank you so much. Can I have five of whatever you have of Aunt Muriel’s, please?’
The woman took a box and filled it, using small tongs to pick the chocolates off the tray. Then she laid a piece of paper over the top.
‘I’ve put a guide to the flavours in there for you. Do you think it’s the brand you were looking for?’ she asked.
‘Very possibly. Does it have contact details on it?’
The woman shook her head. ‘No, they don’t sell from their factory. You have to purchase through shops like ours. But I will tell Michael how much you liked them when next he calls in.’
It was almost a dilemma. Melissa’s job was done. She had looked up Whakamaria Bay, and knew where it was and how to get there. She was certain that the Whitney-Ross family had relocated there and set up Aunt Muriel’s Chocolates. It was time for her to go home and report to Tom. Except she was not a machine, she was a human being. Vinnie Whitney-Ross had identified her son and sent him to jail, and ultimately to a fiery death in the back of a prison van. And he’d drowned her husband in a vat of fermenting must.
Every fibre of her being ached with the desire to buy a gun and hire a car, then drive to this bloody remote little township. She could be judge, jury and executioner, execute all three of them, bullet in the back of the head, then drive straight to the airport and fly home. The knowledge that stopped her was not that she might get caught and never see home again – what did she have to go home to? It was that the wrath of Tom McGregor would descend upon her like the fires of hell. She wasn’t frightened of the police but she was terrified of Tom. The man was a psychopath, and he was all that stood between the Lane gang and oblivion. He had promised her that he had a plan, and whatever vengeance he had for these people, it was his to execute and his alone.