A Saucy Murder: A Sonoma Wine Country Cozy Mystery (3 page)

Emma watched to see what Carmen would do.

First she took Chiara’s hand for a moment and held it with her eyes closed. Then she began arranging the cards on the nearby auction table.

When she had laid them out to her satisfaction, she started to read.

“See this card,” she said, pointing to a card bearing the picture of a sun. “It stands for growth. For you, it means your hard work will pay off. I see a big opportunity in your future. A big, how do you say, break. And this card means there is a mentor somewhere who will help you. But this,” she pointed to a card with the image of a falling tower. “This means you will lose something that you are afraid to lose.”  She pointed to a fourth card. “But, strangely, you won’t mind.”

Natasha erupted in hoots of laughter. “You are going to sing at Carnegie Hall. I’m sure of it,” she cried. “I’m so excited for you, Chiara. Your debut will be a huge success, just like mine. Carnegie Hall was the best night of my life.”

Chiara became excited as well. Her cheeks flushed a ravishing red that lit up her olive complexion and made her black eyes sparkle. Then she hugged her slightly overweight self. “Maybe what I’ll lose is some weight,” she giggled. “But I’m always afraid I’ll lose my voice along with it, like they say Maria Callas did when she lost all that weight.”

Chiara motioned to Natasha to go next. “I want to know about your secret admirer, Natasha. The one who sends you roses every night.”

Natasha turned to Emma and Carmen, “Who says it’s an admirer, not admirers?”

Carmen, in the meantime, began shuffling the deck. Once. Twice. Three times. Then she dealt the cards and took Natasha’s hand. That’s when all the color drained from her face.

“What is it?” Emma asked. She had been watching Carmen’s performance with interest.

Carmen’s whole frame seemed to shudder. Her forehead broke out in a sweat. “All good. All good. But I’m afraid I’m feeling faint,” she said, setting her basket down on the table so she could fan her face with her hands. “Don’t mind me. It happens often. I just need some air.”  They were standing outside. “I mean I need some water.”

Emma caught Carmen by the elbow. “I’ll get you some,” she said.

“No, never mind. I’ll get it myself. Besides,” she looked at her watch, “it’s almost 8:00. Dinner will be starting. I gotta go.” 

Carmen practically ran back towards the house. But Emma noticed that she did not stop at the table where white coated bartenders served San Pellegrino on ice. Instead, she slipped into the crowd of partygoers and disappeared from their view.

“What was that all about?” Natasha shrugged. “I hope she’s all right.”

Emma shook her head. “I’m sure she’s fine.”  But in fact Emma wasn’t sure.

A few minutes later, when the time for the silent auction bidding ended, Barry Buchanon picked up a microphone and announced that dinner was served.

Emma checked to see who had won her catered dinner. To her surprise, someone named Jack Russo had actually paid $5000 for it. Poor guy, Emma thought to herself, making her way to the table her daughter had assigned her to for dinner.

The sit down dinner for the fundraiser was served in the middle of a meadow between the Buchanons’ main house and the Buchanons’ vineyards. The meadow was nestled under an overhang of enormous flood lit ancient oak trees providing a canopy for thirty picnic tables covered in white linen and strewn with white roses. Leave it to Julie, Emma thought. The perfect spot.

Emma found her seat at the table, locating her name on a hand painted place card created by a local artist in keeping with the fundraiser’s
Trovatore
theme. She glanced at the name printed on the card to her left. To her extreme annoyance she saw that it was Andy Bodreau, her ex husband!  What on earth was he doing there, she wondered?  At a $500 a plate fundraiser?  She, at least, had donated services for her ticket. What could Andy do?  Besides, she asked herself, wasn’t he under house arrest?

At that moment Emma saw Julie running towards her across the lawn.

“Mom,” Julie whispered grabbing the back of Emma’s chair to catch her breath. “I forgot to tell you something. There was too much going on with the Russians wanting more vodka, and the microphone not working, and the florist arriving late. It’s been a madhouse. So, please forgive me. I just plain forgot. It’s Dad. He’s coming. I had to put him at your table. There was nowhere else I could squeeze him in. Please, please don’t be upset.”

Upset? Emma thought. Why should she be upset?  Andy Bodreau was only the man who left her with a small child named Julie to run off with one of the secretaries at his law firm. Emma later learned he’d been bonking every secretary in sight before quitting the firm and going solo so he conveniently had no money to pay alimony. Most recently, he’d been disbarred and then convicted of misappropriating hundreds of thousands of dollars in connection with a joint real estate venture with one of his clients. Emma wasn’t surprised. Andy had never been well organized.

Andy, of course, claimed that he was framed. By the client. So, according to Andy, everyone should feel sorry for him. That was her ex-husband, Andy Bodreau. So why on earth should she be upset about sitting next to him at a dinner party?

Julie caught the look on her mother’s face. “You’re the one who married him, Mom.”

Emma sighed. Julie’s was right. It wasn’t her daughter’s fault that Andy Bodreau was her father.

“He was cute, smart and fun in bed,” she replied.  “I was twenty. How was I to know that wasn’t enough for a lifetime?”

Julie covered her ears with her hands. “TMI, Mom. Way TMI.”

“Besides, how can he come?” Emma added. “I thought he was under house arrest.”

“That’s just it,” Julie pleaded. “He
is
under house arrest, but he has one of those ankle thingies, like in
The Wolf of Wall Street
, and he can go out for a few hours now and then. So he said he’d heard about the party from Piers and he wanted to come. It’s like his way to celebrate getting out of the house. And he adores Natasha Vasiliev. He claims that listening to her CDs saves his life when he’s cooped up in his apartment.”

Emma rolled her eyes. This was the man she introduced to opera. It was embarrassing. With a father like that, no wonder Julie turned out to be little-miss-perfect-with-an-iron-rod-jammed-up-her-back. At least for her sake, thanks to
The Wolf of Wall Street
, ankle thingies were now trendy.

“Mom, you know how Dad guilt trips me.”

Emma nodded. “I know. And I know how you always cave. Don’t worry. I’ll be nice. No scenes.”

“And nothing about the money he owes you. Not tonight.”

“Not tonight, honey,” Emma replied. “By the way, how is he paying for his ticket?”

“He offered to help you with the dinner you donated. The heavy lifting. All the stuff you complained you were too old to do. I thought you’d be happy.”

Just then, Emma felt a hand on her shoulder and a dry kiss on her cheek. “Well, hello there,” Andy greeted her in his jaunty voice, taking his seat next to hers. “My, don’t you look pretty tonight, Emma. And the cookbook. I saw it on the auction table. I remember when your Mom used to make Nonnie’s delicious recipes. The veal with prosciutto. The roast pork. I haven’t tasted that stuff in years. When do I get my autographed copy of the book?”

“You can order one on line,” Emma answered.

Then she saw the look on Julie’s face and quickly revised her reply. “Just kidding. I’ll send you one. You’re looking good yourself,” she added on a friendlier note.

Indeed, Emma thought, he looked remarkably good for someone under house arrest. He was tan. He’d lost weight. He had a great haircut and he wore a suit that fit. Had she just been convicted of a federal crime, she’d look like a cadaver. Having stabbed herself in the heart like Madam Butterfly.

“Thank you,” he grinned, for a second recapturing the young Paul Newman good looks that she had once found so attractive. “And look at our daughter. My!  Isn’t she beautiful?”

Just then, the waiter served the first course, plates of steaming fresh
tagliatelle
covered in Emma’s sauce.

Andy put a forkful in his mouth. “Oh my gosh. It’s Nonnie’s famous
salsa di pomodoro
. I haven’t tasted this in years.”

“Excuse me,” a voice to Emma’s left interrupted. “Are you the cookbook lady – Emma Corsi?”

Emma turned to look at the man who had taken the other seat next to hers. With his full head of graying hair, prominent Roman nose, dark eyes and swarthy complexion, he reminded her of someone out of Goodfellas.

“Yes,” Emma replied.

Suddenly Andy reached his hand across Emma’s plate to shake Mr. Goodfella’s hand. “Hi. I’m Andy.”

“Jack Russo,” the man introduced himself. “Nice to meet you.”

Emma froze. It was the man who’d just paid $5000 for her dinner.

“I’ve heard of you,” Andy replied. “You’re a VC, right?  JJR Cap. Your company was involved in getting Groboticks off the ground. Complicated stuff.”

Jack shrugged. “Yeah.”  His voice was deep and gruff. “I like complicated.”  Then he turned back to Emma. “Forgive me. I saw a copy of your cookbook over on the auction table. The recipes all looked so good, I bid on that dinner you donated.”

“And won,” Emma winced, wracking her brain to define VC. All she could think of was Viet Cong, but she knew that wasn’t right.

Jack nodded. “We’ll need to talk about that.”  His eyes shifted from Emma to Andy, “Tell me something. From the book flap, I assumed you were single, but from the way you two are,” he feinted left and right like a boxer, “I figure you two must be married, right?  Partners?”  He grinned. “Or else he’s your brother.”

“He’s not my brother, he’s my former husband,” Emma replied; but before either of them could say more, Barry Buchanon picked up the microphone to announce the evening’s entertainment.

The first person he introduced was Natasha Vasiliev, the world renowned Russian soprano who would sing the famous first act aria from the City Opera season opener, Verdi’s
Il
Trovatore
. Emma couldn’t help noticing the predatory once-over Barry gave the star when he handed her the mic. Like a lion appraising an antelope grazing too far from the pack.

Natasha took the mic and walked to the center of the stage. Emma perceived a sudden stillness as hundreds of males stopped breathing. On the dais, Emma noticed the young diva looked two, three times her actual size. Then she began to sing, and the voice of an angel erupted from the goddess’ form.

Emma, along with most of the audience, didn’t understand a word of the aria. But she knew it was about love and longing. There was a moment of silence when the young women stopped singing. Then men everywhere jumped to their feet in an explosion of applause.

“What a voice,” Jack whispered.

“What a chest,” Andy said.

Natasha exited the stage to a warm embrace by Barry Buchanon. But the exquisite performance had clearly exhausted the artist. By the time her feet touched ground, Emma noticed she looked flushed and pale.

Barry next introduced Chiara Bruno.

“Chiara Bruno,” Jack leaned over to murmur in Emma’s ear. “Light Dark.  That’s a funny name.”

“You speak Italian?” Emma asked. “I tried to learn a little to research my cookbook.”

“Trying to learn. I hired a tutor,” Jack replied. “He’s terrific.  I’ll give you his number…”

The music started, interrupting him.

Chiara, too, looked bigger on stage. Though the change was not as dramatic as it was with Natasha. She sang
O Mio Babbino Caro
by Puccini, a perennial crowd pleaser in which an ingénue daughter pleads with her father to let her marry a disfavored suitor. It was a charming vehicle to show off Ms. Bruno’s considerable acting skills as she pouted her full red lips and batted her eyes to the delight of every father in the audience.

The only jarring moment in the flawless performance was when a beeper went off, seemingly from somewhere right under Emma’s feet, causing Chiara, momentarily, to break character in consternation.

Forty pairs of accusing eyes turned on Emma from nearby tables. Then Andy abruptly stood up to leave.

“It’s this infernal beeper,” he whispered to the table. “I can’t turn it off. There must be something wrong with the timer. I was sure I had another twenty minutes.” 

Emma rolled her eyes. As if it were the ankle thingie’s fault! 

Andy checked his watch. “Nope. I was wrong. I gotta scoot.”  But he took the time to wave jauntily at Julie as he wormed his way between the tables.

By then, the aria was over. There was another big round of applause.

“So, your ex is what?  A doctor?  On call or something?” Jack asked above the noise of the crowd.

“He was a lawyer,” Emma answered. “And yes, he’s on call.”  Then so as to avoid further conversation on that topic, she added. “So, are you really an opera lover, Jack?”

“What?” he squinted his eyes at her mistrustfully. “I don’t look like an opera lover?  Too what?  Too blue collar for the Opera House?”

“No,” Emma protested, embarrassed by her
faux pas
. Though, in fact, she thought he did look a little too rough around the edges for an opera lover. “Not at all. I take it from your name that you are of Italian descent. Opera takes you back to your roots, I guess,” Emma replied.