Plum Gone: A Sonoma Wine Country Cozy Mystery (Sonoma Wine Country Cozy Mysteries Book 2)

“This is serious, Jack!” Emma exclaimed. “It’s the closest thing to an argument I’ve ever had with my son-in-law. But this time, Piers is totally out of line. I can’t tell my boss to drop Gomez’s unfair labor practices lawsuit just because he’s suing one of Piers’ richest clients.”

“I dunno,” Jack raised his shoulders in what Emma fondly called his ‘Sicilian shrug’. Close as they were, Emma knew she and Jack Russo didn’t see eye to eye when it came to lawsuits.

“I read about that case in the papers,” he continued. “Against old Curt Randall from the club. Sounds kinda flimsy…”

The scream of a police siren drowned out the rest of Jack’s sentence. It was so loud it sent a shiver down Emma’s spine. She froze. Almost nothing ever happened in Blissburg, California to warrant such a deafening sound. There was something about the sleepy little prune farming community turned wine country hub that discouraged discord.

Stranger still, the police car emitting the earsplitting screech raced at unheard of speed right through the middle of town past the restaurant where Emma and Jack had just sat down at their usual table. Indeed, everyone at Blissburg’s trendiest new lunch spot stopped eating to look up and wonder.

It was May in the Sonoma wine country. The worst of the rain, such as it was in the drought ridden county, was over. Not a cloud in the sky; the temperature in Blissburg was a mild seventy-five. Perfect for lunch al fresco at The Trough.

Emma always thought ‘The Trough’ was an unlikely name for Blissburg’s refined culinary icon. Just as she always thought that she and Jack made an unlikely pair.

Jack, a short, stocky Sicilian immigrant bricklayer’s son from a hardscrabble neighborhood in Providence, was a Harvard graduate, former Olympic ice hockey star and rich venture capitalist. But with his salt and pepper hair swept back off his forehead and his stoic bullish stare, he reminded Emma more of a cross between a gangster and a priest.

Emma, on the other hand, was the daughter of a civil rights lawyer whose mother emigrated from Bologna, Italy to San Francisco to sing Grand Opera and cook. Emma was tall, gray haired, blue-eyed and chalk skinned. As her Nonna had often reminded her, first the Celts and later the Austrians had left their genetic trace. Even wearing sandals, Emma towered two inches over Jack.

She could eat a plate of pasta off his head
, her unforgiving forebears used to say.

Of course, Emma hardly ever wore sandals. She had no patience for pedicures. And while Jack dressed impeccably in mostly high-end Italian sportswear bought for him by his daughter, Emma had worn ‘dressy’ black sweat pants from the Cotton Shop for lunch that day, along with an Indian paisley tunic from a street fair. Like many whose roots lay buried in the fertile soil of the Emilia Romagna province of northern Italy, Emma was as thrifty as a New Englander at heart.

Yes despite all these differences, at least once a week Emma Corsi and Jack Russo could be found head to head at a shady table, deep in conversation about anything and everything that was on their minds – from the morning’s NPR discussion of the Middle East to their grandchildren’s latest accomplishments to that day’s gripe about their sons-in-law.

Moreover, hard as it sometimes was for Emma to believe, in the nine months since they’d first met at an opera fundraiser – and Jack had literally saved Emma’s life - she and Jack had become friends. Very close friends. But just friends. No romance. Jack, she knew, still grappled with the death of his wife of some forty years. Emma, a retired paralegal who volunteered at Blissburg’s free legal clinic, had finally launched what promised to become a successful second career as a food writer. She was hesitant to tie herself down with a new and undoubtedly very demanding partner. They were friends and, Emma told herself, both of them wanted to keep it that way.

Nonetheless, much to her surprise, in these past nine months Emma had grown closer to Jack than to anyone she’d ever known. She told him things she’d never told Mary, her best friend since grade school. The woman whose death almost two years before had precipitated her move from her native San Francisco to Blissburg, the newly chic community an hour north of San Francisco where her daughter, Julie, son-in-law, Piers, and grandson, Harry, had previously relocated.

Of course, when Mary was alive, Emma wouldn’t have changed her shower curtain without discussing it with Mary first.

But Jack was different. She and Jack talked about ‘life.’ And Emma told him
everything
. Even about the brick of quiet panic she woke up with on her chest some mornings all alone in bed. It wasn’t really a brick. It just felt that way. And she told him about her divorce, her fear of becoming dependent, her fear of the other Big D, death. Along with all her other worries. Like that Harry was spoiled –
she
thought he needed a sibling. Or that Julie, her daughter, worked too hard. Or that her latest cookbook deal might fall apart.

Of course she and Jack talked about fun things too. Late at night on the telephone. Sometimes for hours. Books. Opera. Cooking. Movies. Art.

Now, staring across the table complaining about her son-in-law, Emma reminded herself for the umpteenth time that, considering their profound differences, it was amazing she and Jack always found so much to talk about.

The waiter had just arrived with their drinks when another siren broke the stillness and a second patrol car raced down Blissburg Avenue in front of the old plaza. Followed by a third.

Emma looked up from the piece of focaccia she’d just dipped into some peppery, grass green olive oil, and thought to herself that in almost a year living in Blissburg she could not remember hearing that many sirens.

Jack must have thought the same thing. “Used to hear that sound all night in the neighborhood where I grew up,” he noted, undoubtedly relieved to change the subject from Emma’s son-in-law who, after all, was Jack’s lawyer too in the elite, rural community.

“Now I never hear it,” he continued. “I dunno, don’t ya sometimes think this place is just a little too,” he hesitated.

Emma wondered if she’d ever met anyone who edited as much as Jack did between what he thought and what he said. Not that, by now, she hadn’t heard the man blow off steam. And when he did, everything came flying out of his mouth with a crude eloquence Emma had come to admire.

“Unreal.”

At least, Emma thought that’s what Jack said. The word he uttered was all but drowned out by a fourth screaming siren and another Blissburg police car racing north on Main Street.

Jack squinted in the direction where the police cars were headed.

“Four cars. That’s the whole fleet,” he said.

The sound of more sirens erupted to the north on 101.

“Whatever’s comin’ down ain’t good,” he added.

Ten minutes later, however, the familiar quiet Blissburg buzz had resettled over The Trough – a gentle breeze rustled the poplar leaves, crickets chirped, birds twittered and muted voices floated over from the plaza in an expectant hum that reminded Emma of the San Francisco Opera House before the curtain went up.

“So, can we talk about my party now?” Jack asked. “Instead of complaining about my favorite lawyer, your son-in-law, Piers Larkin? Given the weather lately, I’m thinkin’ we eat in the yard.” Except Jack pronounced it ‘yeahd’.

“Sounds perfect,” Emma replied. Close though they were, Emma hadn’t actually seen Jack’s ‘yeahd’ yet. But she knew his address well enough to know that, thanks to his daughter, it probably resembled a private park landscaped by Capability Brown.

“I mean, I paid $5000 for it. We do the party my way not yours, right?”

Emma winced. “Not exactly,” she replied. In the nine months she’d known him, the nine months since he’d bid on her ‘dinner for six’ auction item at the opera fundraiser, she’d also learned that once Jack Russo made up his mind, he didn’t back down.

“See,” she explained. She’d been hoping to avoid this discussion. “I donated the dinner so I have to prepare it. I’ll be in the kitchen. I can’t do that and be a guest at the same dinner. You can invite six people including yourself and besides me. You said you were inviting my daughter, Julie, Piers, and your daughter, Cara, and her husband Mike. So they could all meet…”

As she spoke, Emma inwardly cringed. Important as their small families were to them individually, Emma and Jack didn’t hang out with each other’s children. Emma liked it that way. She’d only met Jack’s daughter, Cara, once, shopping with her father at one of Blissburg’s elegant men’s stores. She was buying her father half a dozen fancy Paul and Shark polo shirts.

Emma was trying to find a nice pair of socks for her fussy son-in-law for Christmas. At the time, Emma found Jack’s daughter – a brusque, attractive fortyish Stanford researcher and physician - quite intimidating.

“That leaves one more place besides you. In fact,” she added, taking the plunge, “why not invite someone who’s
not
family? I can cook for our kids anytime.”

Jack cast Emma a withering glance. “As I said before, I want the kids to meet. Cara is so busy she has no lady friends. Just colleagues at the lab. What’s wrong with getting her and Julie together? They have a lot in common. Besides, it’s too late to invite someone else. The party’s on Saturday.”

Emma nodded, guardedly. There was one more detail about the dinner that was awkward. She hadn’t even mentioned it to Jack. The fact was, her ex husband, Andy Bodreau, had donated his services as sous-chef and heavy lifter for the party she donated to the Opera. That was before she’d even met Jack Russo – much less come to count him as her best buddy in her new wine country abode.

Now Andy was bored. Still under house arrest in Santa Rosa for a real estate deal with a client gone sour. He’d been pestering her about the dinner all spring, having convinced his probation officer to OK the outing
cum
ankle bracelet thingie.

Emma decided it was time to break the news.

“Actually, Jack,” she said, “when I donated the dinner, Andy offered to help. So it’s technically
his
dinner donation, too. I think it might be less awkward if you include another couple or two. Eight – nine people. Honestly, I don’t care.”

Emma watched the muscles in Jack’s jaw tighten. With his right hand he set his glass of
Sancerre
back down on the table while the fingers of his left hand tapped heavily on the varnished pine.

“Now
that,
” he finally said, “should have been disclosed before anyone bid on your party.”

Emma glanced sideways at her friend. Close as they were, they’d agreed their ‘relationship’ was strictly arms length. Yet here he was bristling at the mention of her ex husband.

“Sorry,” was all Emma managed to respond while the waiter served her pea shoot salad and Jack’s lobster roll

“Not that I care what you do, Emma,” Jack back peddled. “It’s just…you know. I don’t like the guy in my house. I’m your friend. I don’t like the way he treated you. It’s not like I’m interfering….”

Jack had folded his arms across his chest and squinted his eyes. Emma knew the ex Olympic hockey player well enough to know what was up. She’d uncovered a weak spot in his defense system. He was planning his next move.

Before he recouped, she cut in, “Look, Jack. You’re right. That’s awkward. So here’s what I’ll do. I just won’t tell Andy about the dinner. Maybe he’s forgotten about it,” she lied. In fact Andy had emailed her the week before, having heard about the dinner from her son-in-law, Piers.

The trouble was, Andy liked Jack. From the moment they shook hands at the opera fundraiser where Jack and Emma first met. Now he was dying to reconnect with the successful VC and sports celebrity who nine months before made Blissburg front page news by saving Emma’s life.

Emma forced a smile. “No worries, Jack. I’ll make sure Andy doesn’t come. Let’s decide on a dessert.” In spite of herself, her voice sounded strained when she added, “This is going to be fun.”

She took a bite of her salad. “These pea shoots are delicious,” she said hoping to change the subject.

Jack’s first bite of
his
lunch also appeared to distract him. Then Emma realized it hadn’t.

“You know, Emma,” he began after swallowing a mouthful of food, “lobster rolls always remind me of summer on Cape Cod…”

Emma settled back in her chair. Going back to his roots was a move straight out of Jack’s playbook. Taking the offensive when he felt out of control. Turning the tables when he thought the game wasn’t going his way. Like her five-year-old grandson Harry turning over the checker board when he thought he was going to lose.

“One of my uncles had a little trailer he parked in Yarmouth for the summer,” Jack added, pronouncing it ‘
Yeahmuth
.’ Over the past few months Emma’d also noted that Jack exaggerated his working class accent when he wanted to distance himself from her.

He tapped his nose with his forefinger. “I’m talkin’ about the
real
Cape, not the snooty one. Route 28. Peewee golf. Salt water taffy. The Cape where real people like my family went for their two weeks off each year.” He smiled, then added without skipping a beat. “It’s where I took Fran for her
first lobster roll.”

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