Deadly Offer (13 page)

“I don’t want him going alone,” Andrea said.

Tim rubbed his eyes and nodded. “Yeah, I’m on it.”

She shut his door and headed downstairs to make coffee. It was going to be a very long day.

———

From where Darby stood, huddled on the grass with ET and Carlos, the corpse found in the tasting portion of the building appeared to be burned beyond recognition.
Please don’t let it be Dan,
she silently chanted, even though the voice of reason kept repeating inside her head, “Who else could it be?”

An ambulance had arrived and the paramedics were already loading the body into the vehicle. ET and Carlos were silent, watching as the uniformed emergency medical technicians slammed shut the doors and prepared to drive to the hospital.

No one said a word as the ambulance crawled away from the scene of the fire.
No need to hurry,
thought Darby.
It isn’t life or death
…

A large truck with “Contento Family Vineyards” emblazoned on the sides pulled up beside them. Doors opened and Darby recognized Michael Contento and his son, Tim.

“What’s going on?” Michael thundered. “Who is going to the hospital?”

ET explained the discovery of the body, his voice a monotone. “We do not know who it is,” he said dully.

“Christ. It’s not Dan Stewart, is it?” Michael had voiced their worst fear.

Tim Contento exhaled and regarded the building. Most of the blaze was out and it looked as if the firefighters had been able to save a good portion of the building. “What happened?”

“An explosion,” Darby explained. “It woke me up.” Her cell phone rang and Darby yanked it out of her pocket. She glanced at the screen.
Sophie Stewart.

Her heart sank. With shaking hands, she answered the phone.

“Is my dad there?” Sophie asked.

Darby felt as if she would faint.
She is looking for her father,
she thought.
He was the one in the building. That is his body in the ambulance, on the way to the hospital. How can I ever tell this girl that he was killed in the explosion?
She swallowed. “Sophie, your dad—”

“He told me to tell you he’s on his way.” She yawned. “Now I’m going back to bed.”

“What?” Darby was gripping her phone so tightly she thought it would snap in half. “What did you say?”

“My dad just took off in the jeep and told me to tell you he’s coming to the vineyard. He got a call from his friend Jake on the fire department.” She yawned again. “’Night. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Darby hung up and looked at the men beside her. “That was Sophie Stewart,” she explained. “Dan is on his way over. He’s safe.”

A collective sigh of relief rose from the crowd. Michael Contento sent his eyes skyward. “Thank God,” he breathed.

Tim Contento rubbed his smooth head. “So if it wasn’t Dan in there, then who was it? And what were they doing snooping around?”

No one answered as Captain Montera approached them and nodded to the new arrivals. “Mr. Contento, Tim,” he said gruffly.

Michael Contento clapped him on the back. “Good to see you,” the older man barked. “You and your men have done a fine job containing this fire.”

“Thank you,” the captain said. “The sprinkler system helped, and we were lucky to get the call so soon after the explosion occurred.”

“So then it was an explosion, eh?” Michael Contento looked back toward the building. “Gas leak?”

The Captain shook his head. “No. I almost wish it was a gas leak. This was arson.” He grimaced. “There will be an investigation, but I’d say we’re dealing with a pipe bomb.”

“What?” Tim Contento’s voice was incredulous. “Who in the world would set off something like that?”

“Whoever it was that we carried out of there on a stretcher,” the captain said, his voice grim. “The police are on the way, but I’ll bet my rubber boots that our Kentucky fried corpse was the bomber.” Darby saw the captain’s eyes sweep over her and saw them soften in the murky light. “You folks need to get on up to the house where it’s warmer,” he said, motioning to the group. “Go ahead. Detective Nardone is on her way.”

Darby nodded, and turned toward the house. Taking her first step, she was surprised to realize that her whole body was shaking.

Eleven

The beeping of her
phone woke Vivian Allen and she swore.
Why don’t I ever turn the damn thing off,
she thought. She groped in the dark for the light switch. Chances were it was her sister, calling as she sometimes did after a show, wanting to tell her which celebrity went off the wagon, or how many encores she’d done after the ballad “Heaven Bent.” She sighed, put on some reading glasses, and scrutinized the phone.

She had an unread text message.
All that noise for a stupid little message?
She made a vow to take the phone into her provider and get the alarm silenced for good.
A message! Give me a break
.

Yawning, she found the text, noting it had been sent an hour or so earlier.
Our plan is in motion
, it read.

Vivian’s puzzlement turned to dread as she looked at the sender’s number.
When will he leave me alone?

———

Darby heard tires on the driveway and looked out to see Dan Stewart’s battered jeep, followed by an unmarked sedan she recognized as belonging to Detective Nardone. She saw them greet each other and watched as Dan shook his head, pointing toward the red barn building. He was still talking as they entered the farmhouse.

“Whoever did this is the guy responsible for the other things, right?”

Detective Nardone shrugged. “It’s possible. We’re waiting for a positive ID on the body.”

Dan glanced over at Darby. “An exciting Sunday night at Carson Creek,” he said. “I can’t believe somebody tried to blow up the place.” He ran a hand through his graying hair and reached for the coffee pot. “I’m making another pot if you’re interested, Detective.”

She nodded. “Find me when it’s ready.” Detective Nardone turned her gaze to Darby. “I understand you were the one who
heard the explosion. Tell me about it.”

“Just a loud boom that woke me up,” Darby said. “I got ET and Carlos and we headed over to the building. We went into the office …”

“Wait a minute. You entered the burning building?” Dan stood with the coffee pot in hand, the water faucet running in the background.

“We went into the side that wasn’t on fire.” She looked back at the detective. “We wanted to save what we could.”

“And what did you get?”

“Selena’s laptop, a few files, and some ledgers. The smoke was too thick for us to make a second trip.”

The detective nodded. “I’ll let Captain Montera tell you how dangerous it is to enter any burning building, whether you see flames shooting out or not. Meanwhile, let’s talk about this intruder. Did you see any sign of him or her?”

“Nothing. We had no idea anyone was in the building.” Darby wondered if she should raise her suspicions concerning Selena’s first husband and decided to go for it. “Detective Nardone, did you by any chance contact a man named Rick Thompson, Selena’s former husband?”

Her eyes narrowed. “Why do you ask?”

“I was wondering whether he would be considered a suspect.”

Detective Nardone nodded. “The answer is yes. Rick Thompson dealt drugs, served time for petty theft—the whole lot. He was at the top of our list until we discovered his alibi.” She waited and added dryly, “He died in a car crash three years ago.” She tossed her chin toward Dan. “Let me know when that coffee is ready.”

———

Andrea Contento heard the door slam and roused herself from a deep sleep. She flung an arm to the other side of the bed, expecting to encounter her husband’s sleeping form, but his side of the king-sized mattress was empty. Then she remembered the sirens. He’d left in the middle of the night with Tim and she’d dragged herself down to the kitchen to make coffee.
I thought I’d wait up for them.
Instead she’d staggered back up the stairs, exhausted, and fallen back asleep.

She glanced at her bedside clock. Barely five a.m. on Monday morning.

She groaned and swung her legs over the side of the bed. There was still so much to do in preparation for Selena’s funeral, plus planning for several major events at the winery occurring during harvest, as well as the harvest itself to supervise, and yet she felt as if she was running on empty. She slid on a satin robe. Caffeine would help; it always did.

She slipped quietly down the stairs and into the kitchen, expecting to see Michael at the picture window, surveying the vines. His absence meant that he was probably in his office, looking over paperwork or reading a few of his favorite wine blogs. She shrugged and poured herself a strong cup of coffee. Let him have his quiet time. He’d be back in the kitchen for a refill soon enough.

Andrea added cream to her stoneware mug and went over the day’s schedule. The mass was at 11 a.m., followed by a light lunch served in the tasting room. Margo had set up the luncheon, consulting only briefly with her stepmother regarding the menu, but Andrea didn’t care. Contento Family Vineyards ran smoothly because each of the key family members had clearly defined roles to which they tried to adhere. Michael insisted on it, saying frequently that it was the only way to run and grow a successful family business, and for the most part, he’d been right.

The sound of her husband’s footsteps interrupted her reverie. He headed straight for the coffee pot, poured coffee into a stainless steel travel cup and nodded in her direction. “Those sirens we heard at Carson Creek? Somebody set off a bomb in their tasting room.”

“A bomb? Was anyone hurt?”

“Whoever set it off was killed in the blast.”

She felt a sinking sensation in her stomach.
Please don’t let it be Christophe
, she prayed, and yet even as she thought the words, she knew with certainty he had perished.

“It’s Barton,” she said flatly. “It’s got to be.”

Michael Contento gave her a long, steady, look. “How can you be so sure?”

She paused. How much should she tell him, this aging vintner who believed in the world’s goodness, and seemed to see nothing of its savage underbelly? How much could he take, at this stage of his life? And yet it was strange that he hadn’t questioned her assertion of Barton; only asked how she could be sure.
Perhaps I am underestimating you
, she thought, knowing it would not be the first time.

“Chris was obsessed with Carson Creek,” she finally said. “I guess I’m not surprised that he would try to destroy it.”

Twelve

The funeral of Selena
Thompson was by turns a somber Roman Catholic Mass and a celebration of her creative, determined personality. Darby listened as several Gomez cousins read passages of Scripture and parts of poems, their grief coming to the forefront as they tried unsuccessfully to choke back tears. Carlos stood by ET’s side as he read a short statement they had written together, barely keeping his emotions in check as he thanked family and friends for coming, and gave his sincere appreciation to the Contentos for their help.

Darby had never seen a space so crowded. The little chapel was filled and overflowing with mourners—some of whom Darby recognized from the first night at Selena’s home, and others whom she surmised to be family relatives. She was surprised to see a large, powerfully built man in a beautifully tailored navy suit whom she recognized from fitness magazines as Fritz Kohler. She was watching him exit the chapel when there was a tap on her arm.

“Who’s he?” Detective Nardone looked more petite than usual in a black sheath dress and black flats. Her gaze, however, was just as penetrating.

“A potential buyer for Selena’s property, Fritz Kohler.” Darby realized she had heard nothing from the man regarding the sale. Perhaps he was no longer interested in purchasing the vineyard, particularly now that the production area had been destroyed.

“Hmmmm.” Nardone narrowed her eyes. “Seems odd that he would show up. What about the accountant? She here, too?”

Darby shook her head. “I don’t think so.” The chapel’s occupants had started filing out, heading to the tasting room, leaving only a handful of Gomez cousins speaking quietly with Carlos and ET. “Any word on the identification of the body from last night?” Darby asked.

Detective Nardone nodded, her dark eyes shrewd. “Christophe Barton, Estate Manager at Contento Family Vineyards.” She frowned. “It’s public knowledge now.”

Darby watched as Margo Contento carried a large bouquet of flowers toward the back of the chapel. So the odd man she’d met in the Contento’s parking lot had been the saboteur. “Any idea why?”

The detective shook her head. She jerked her head in the direction of the tasting room. “I’ll see you over there. Got some things to check on first.”

Darby approached Margo and asked if she needed a hand. Margo accepted Darby’s offer of help with a grateful smile, asking her to bring the portrait of Selena from the chapel to the tasting room.

The portrait was at the front of the chapel where ET and Carlos stood talking. Darby lifted the large framed, studio image of a smiling Selena and began carrying it to the back of the room.

“I remember the day I took that,” Carlos said, coming alongside her. “Selena still owned the house in Haight-Ashbury, and I’d just moved to the city. We’d taken a walk over to Coit Tower and admired the Bay. Coming back we stopped at a little coffee shop by Levi Square for scones and eggs. We had a wonderful talk about our childhood, about the things we remembered from growing up, and then …” His voice trailed off. He looked away, visibly upset.

“And then what?” Darby kept her voice gentle, but she sensed that whatever Carlos had been about to say was important.

He swung his head back, the black curls bobbing emphatically. “And then I saw the bruises.”

“On Selena?”

He nodded. His teeth were clenched and she could see that the memory of that day still angered him. “She pulled the sleeves of her blouse down, but it was too late. I’d seen the purple and black marks, mottled bruises, the kind that come from hands squeezing flesh so hard that the blood vessels rupture.”

“My God. What did she say?”

“She said they were nothing, tried to change the subject, but I demanded to know who was hurting her. At first I was convinced it was her ex-husband, Rick Thompson. A lowlife if I ever saw one. But she said no, that she hadn’t seen him in years. ‘Who’s doing this then?’ I yelled. ‘Who’s hurting you?’

“Finally she told me it was a guy she’d been dating, someone she knew from cycling. I asked for his name—I wanted to kill him! But she wouldn’t tell me. All she said was that she’d ended the relationship. ‘I’m totally done with him,’ is what she said. That’s when I first heard of her plans to buy the vineyard. She was so excited about that, I forgot my anger. I had to share in her joy.”

He gazed down at the photograph he had taken of his sister and tried to smile. “We went back to my studio, and I took this portrait. I never again questioned her about those bruises, but I believed she’d left that man for good.” He frowned. “I hope that was truly the case.” He turned and walked out of the chapel, leaving Darby clutching Selena’s portrait, deep in thought.

Darby found Margo Contento ushering people into the tasting room. She handed her the portrait and Margo mouthed her thanks. Darby watched as she brought it to a table in the corner where a sort of shrine to Selena had been set up. Along with the large studio photograph were smaller, informal shots of Selena, some taken when she was a child.

Darby hung back from joining the mingling mourners in the tasting room. Very few—if any—of the assembled people knew the circumstances of Selena’s death. ET and Carlos had begged Detective Nardone to keep the news quiet until after the service, and it appeared to Darby that she’d complied with their request. As a result, none of the visiting family, and few of the locals, knew that Selena’s cause of death was under investigation, although Darby knew they were discussing the vineyard explosion.

To Darby, the residue in the bottom of the wine bottle clearly indicated foul play. Had Selena intended to kill herself, she would have ingested the medicine in her glass, or taken the extra pills by hand. Jasper’s overnight confinement was also strange. From what Dan and Sophie Stewart had said, Selena would not have closed the cat indoors. It made much more sense that he had followed someone into the house at the time of his mistress’ death.

Darby looked over the assembled mourners, more convinced than ever that Selena Thompson’s life had been taken from her. Could a past relationship with an abusive man be the answer to the mystery of her murder? If so, who was that man?

———

Vivian Allen did not know what to do, an unusual predicament for the frenetic redhead. Somehow word had leaked out that she had a partner interested in the purchase of Carson Creek, and that partner was none other than her mega-rich, mega-famous baby sister Veronica. She took another look at what passed for the area’s local paper, her nose wrinkled in disgust. A front-page story headlined “Ventano Bent?” mentioned the pop star’s interest in acquiring a vineyard, and quoted real estate broker Harrison Wainfield as predicting someone like Veronica could ruin the special character of the valley.

She tossed the
Wyattville Tribune
on the floor. Harrison Wainfield was an idiot; she’d known that the first time she’d spoken to the man. She thought back to the call she’d made to his agency and the questions she’d asked regarding property in wine country. The smug bastard had ridiculed her motives for wanting a vineyard, and had insisted on a hefty retainer just to provide information. She’d told him to take a hike and hung up.

Now Vivian Allen smirked. Regardless of his comments to the newspaper, Wainfield was undoubtedly sorry that he’d missed out on working with the super-famous Veronica.
You should have played nice,
she thought.

The comments of the regular residents of the Ventano Valley were more troubling.
They ought to welcome a celebrity of Veronica’s status to their sleepy little hamlets!
Of course her purchase of Carson Creek Estate & Winery would impact the valley, but in the best way possible. Veronica’s fame would draw even more tourists to the mom-and-pop vineyards that dotted the hillsides. She’d give money to local charities, grace some fundraising events with her effervescent presence. She’d draw attention to the humble life of the vineyard owner, maybe even star in a movie about the business.

Vivian’s daydreams were cut short by the ring of her phone. She glanced at the display, afraid of what she would see. A sigh of relief escaped her lips.
Carlos Gomez
. Perhaps he was ready to accept her offer and become one of Veronica’s on-location photographers. Vivian hadn’t yet discussed the arrangement with her sister, but there was plenty of time for that once the vineyard was secured. Getting the property was the essential thing.

Vivian plopped down on the bed in her hotel suite, put on a hopeful smile, and answered her phone.

———

Darby saw the solitary figure of Michael Contento standing outside of the tasting room. His back was to her and he was gazing out over the vineyards.

“What an incredible view you have here,” she commented, hating to break his reverie but wanting very much to talk with the wine scion.

Still watching the fields, he nodded. “Yes, it’s nothing short of spectacular. On a clear day you can even see the Wyatt River off toward St. Adina.” He gave a small smile. “I’ve been coming to this very spot for close to forty years now. Ever since I realized I was going to be at the helm of this vineyard.”

“It hadn’t been your original plan, I understand.”

He turned to meet her eyes. “That’s correct. I was in academia, and totally happy with the path I’d taken. But plans change. My brother David was the one who loved this place from boyhood. He went off to the Vietnam War as an officer and became a statistic—one of the unlucky guys who didn’t come back.” He gave a thoughtful look as if remembering the story for the first time. “I hoped that my father would find someone else to take over, but he made it clear it was my duty. And so, when the time came, I left the world of literature and became a farmer.” He gave a small smile. “Whenever I’ve been tempted to feel sorry for myself, I take a walk across that ridge.” He pointed off to the distance where the roof of a building was just visible.

“That’s Carson Creek Estate, isn’t it?”

“Yes. Only a small bit of the grounds are visible from here, but along the property line it’s another story.” He made a sweeping gesture with his arm. “This view never fails to convince me that I’m one lucky professor.”

They stood in silence for a moment before Michael Contento asked, “Do you believe in luck, Darby?”

She thought of her parents, perishing on a sailboat in the middle of a Maine bay.
My father had asked me to come on that sail, but I declined.
Was that luck? If so, was it good or bad? In escaping the fate of John and Jada Farr, Darby had been forced to live with the pain of their loss and her guilt at surviving.

“No,” she said. “I don’t believe in luck.”

“I don’t either. And yet look what has befallen our neighboring
vineyard: a string of incidents that most people would term ‘bad luck.’ First Selena’s death, and now this explosion in that new building.” He gritted his teeth. “I remember when she had the damn thing built. She was so proud of her tasting room, those offices, and her production area! Who could have done something like that?”

Darby glanced down, wondering if she should tell Michael Contento what she’d heard only minutes before.

“Detective Nardone has released the identity of the body.” She hesitated. “This will doubtless be a shock, but it’s Christophe Barton.”

He turned a somber face to her. “So I’d heard. I can’t for the life of me understand it. Barton was kind of an odd, quiet guy, but to blow up someone’s business? It just doesn’t make sense. My wife claims he was obsessed with the place, ever since Selena turned him down for that position.” He frowned. “But dammit, that was five years ago! Why would anyone hold a grudge for that long?” He looked back over the fields. “I suppose we never really know what is going on deep in other people’s minds.”

Darby looked out over the Contento family’s property. The native landscape gave way to row after row of perfectly straight vines, bordered by low hills in the background. Christophe Barton had been in charge of this paradise, and yet at the same time, he’d plotted against Carson Creek, first tampering with the yeast and the barrels, and then cutting the sprinkler lines. Blowing up the tasting room was his final act of terrorism, one in which he’d lost his own life as well. But what about Selena’s death? Darby knew from Detective Nardone that Barton was now the number one suspect.

“Tell me about what happened when Selena chose Dan Stewart as winemaker instead of Barton.”

Michael Contento thought a moment. “Everyone knew Barton was furious. He assumed he had the position because of his credentials—extensive training in the vineyards of Burgundy, stellar recommendations from several wineries here—so it came as a total surprise when she passed him over. Carson Creek would have been the next logical step for him, a place where he could really make his mark. But I guess Selena didn’t see it that way.”

“Why didn’t she choose Barton?”

“I don’t think she ever liked the man. Christophe could be very blunt, and he had a tremendous amount of arrogance. In many ways he was the total opposite of Dan.”

He shook his head. “I’ll confess that I was hoping Selena would hire Chris Barton. I certainly never dreamt she’d lure Dan away! I thought he was happy here. But that’s the way things go.”

“You must have been annoyed, to say the least.”

“I was extremely disappointed. After all, Dan’s an incredible wine-
maker—very gifted—and I hated to lose him, but I understood.”

“Did you ever see any evidence that Barton was capable of these acts of terrorism?”

“Never. Like I said, he was quiet. Obviously he was resentful at first, but all that was five years ago! Forgive and forget is my motto.” He sighed. “Could that man’s anger toward Selena have been festering all that time? Or did something new prompt him to act this year?” He grimaced. “Thank goodness Selena’s death was from natural causes.”

Darby bit her lip, wondering if she should confide in Michael Contento. He was a good source of information, and she wanted to know what he thought.