Read A Vintage To Die For (Violet Vineyard Murder Mysteries Book 2) for Free Online Page B

hopefully.
    “It probably has spread across the entire Valley by now,” I told him. “Dimitri is a very unpopular man.”
    “I got that impression,” Hunter said as he took a crumpled pack of Winstons from his breast pocket and shook one out. He saw me eyeing the pack and hesitated, then put the cigarettes away.
    “Sorry,” he said but I shrugged it off.
    “You can smoke if you want to,” I said.
    Hunt shook his head. “I should quit myself.”
    I nodded and left it at that. I wasn't going to be the stereotyped reformed sinner with a soap-box and a disapproving eye.
    Doctor Spoetzel came out of the house, followed closely by two waiters laden with chafing dishes. Dinner was about to be served. Spoetzel made a pit stop for a fresh glass of wine before he came our way. He nodded at Hunter.
    “His nose isn’t broken,” he said to both of us, “but you'd think he'd been shot. He told me to send the bill to Marjory.” He grinned and shook his head ruefully. “I told him to forget it. I like my own nose un-bloodied.” He hoisted his glass at us and turned back to the party. Hunter and I trailed behind him and got in the food line.
    I chose the halibut and a glass of cabernet. Hunter had a Diet Coke and the chicken. We found a place to sit at the rickety card table with the wonky leg. I had taped the leg down that morning with a wad of duct tape, but it still looked precarious.
    For a moment I considered rousting Marjory and Samson from the cellar to join us, but decided against it. Like two unruly children, they had forgone their right to eat with the grownups.
    Hunter and I were joined by Angela Zorn and Jorge McCullers.
    I had gone to school with Jorge and his brother Hector. Jorge had a reputation extending all the way back to junior high as a hard drinker. And he was living up to it at that moment. He was already half-drunk and wearing a sloppy smirk I remembered from the Senior Prom when he had spiked the Kool-Aid punch with a half-gallon of Wild Turkey.
    His employer, Angela, was what many in the valley considered a newcomer, having purchased Mount Halley Vineyard less than ten years before. I knew her only from the Vintners’ Association meetings where she rarely spoke or offered an opinion. But she was full of opinions that day.
    “Is he dead?” she asked and Jorge laughed, though Angela didn't join in. I could tell she was drunk as well. Her eyes were watery and red, the whites as runny as undercooked eggs.
    “He's fine,” I said and forked some halibut into my mouth. It was delicious. I'd have to ask for the recipe.
    Angela had the halibut, too, but she wasn't eating. She drained the wine from her fruit glass in a single gulp and handed it to Jorge. He took the hint, stood, and headed for the bar, his step a little unsteady.
    “That man is going to ruin me,” she said, looking me hard in the eye, her head wobbling slightly from the wine. “Did you read what he said about my Zinfandel?”
    I had, but I shook my head anyway. I didn’t want to get into that conversation. I had had enough drama for one afternoon. “I wouldn’t worry about it.” I said, but she wasn't listening.
    “He said that it would make a perfect pairing for a meal of peanut butter sandwiches and Cheetos!” she ground the words out, her teeth bared. They were purple around the edges from my Vintner's Reserve. “Sales are down twenty percent! Twenty!”
    I kept chewing, nodding stupidly. I looked to Hunter for help, but he kept his head down and his fork working. Coward.
    Jorge arrived back at the table, two glasses in his hand, both brimming with wine. But the two glasses hadn't been enough; he had one index finger hooked around the neck of a half-full bottle of cabernet he had filched from the bar.
    “It gets worse,” Jorge said. “We have an auction contract with Star Crossed. They sold two hundred cases of our ’06 Merlot last month for three hundred dollars a case. That’s less than half what we get wholesale.” He