Read Death By the Glass #2 for Free Online Page B

pursuing this line of investigation at all. If it looked like a heart attack, why not wait until the coroner’s report came back before pursuing less likely explanations? There had to be something more to his death, something that suggested to the police that there was more at work than natural causes.
    She thought about Andre Morales and how he must be feeling, with one of the owners of his restaurant dead and the police sniffing around his kitchen. She’d had the urge to phone him all day, and an equal impulse to check her messages everyfifteen minutes to see if he’d called. Now that she was home, she took her time. It wasn’t about the excitement of an unexpected romance anymore. An unexpected death had interceded, and any conversation was bound to be awkward.
    She showered, changed clothes, brushed and flossed her teeth, started a load of laundry, even swallowed a disgusting multivitamin, stalling as long as she could before she at last picked up the receiver to listen for the pulsing signal that indicated a new message. It was there. She advanced through an amusing but rambling dissertation on the micro-events of the weekend from Monty Lenstrom, then listened to the message she’d been hoping for. Andre Morales’s voice sounded sleepy but warm, saying the right things about last night, that he had had a great time and was looking forward to seeing her again soon, and that it had been a strange, foggy-headed morning. Obviously he hadn’t heard about Osborne yet. The next message was him again, explaining about Osborne’s death, and how the police had been meeting with everyone at Vinifera, and it was all very disturbing. He said he would try to call tomorrow or the next day, when things settled down. She hit save and a second later the phone rang. The caller ID read Lenstrom, Monterey.
    “Lenstrom,” said Sunny, picking up.
    “McCoskey.”
    “Talk to me.”
    “Do you want to have a little supper?”
    “Absolutely. When?” said Sunny.
    “How about now?”
    “Perfect. You bringing it over?”
    “Not a chance. Come over here. I’ve got it all ready.”
    “What is it?” she asked.
    “Does it matter?”
    “This is supper we’re talking about, right?”
    “You might be talking about supper. I’m talking about the age-old tradition of friends breaking bread together, in the interest of a more enriched human experience,” said Monty.
    “And?” said Sunny.
    “Spaghetti Bolognese with meatballs, green salad, and garlic bread. Simple fare for simple folk. Take it or leave it.”
    “Good enough. I’ll be there in fifteen.”
    “What about the girl?” said Monty.
    “I’ll call her.” Monty was easy with his invitations. The three of them ate dinner together at least once a week.
    “Okay, but make it snappy. I’m starved,” he said.
    “Right. Ciao.” She hung up, relieved to have a plan for the night, and dialed Rivka Chavez. Three minutes later, Sunny strode out the front door as though on a precision training exercise. Seven minutes after that, Rivka hopped into the passenger side of the truck and they headed for Mount Veeder, where Monty lived in a modest
Sunset
-magazine version of the wine country dream house. Twelve minutes later they were setting the table in the dining nook off his kitchen.
    “I’ve never known anyone who will move so quickly for a meal,” Monty said to Sunny.
    “Priorities,” said Sunny. “I need food, and then I need sleep.”
    “Ask her why she needs sleep,” said Rivka, giving him a wink.
    “Do I want to know?” said Monty, running his fingers over his scalp. “Is it going to make me jealous?”
    Sunny pulled a loaf of garlic bread out of the oven. “You cook just like my mama, Monty.”
    “That’s me, Mr. Old-Fashioned Home-Spun Goodness.”
    “Where’s Mrs. Old-Fashioned tonight?” said Rivka.
    “Yoga. The woman is obsessed. It smells like an Indian bazaar in our bedroom and the last time I got in the car it sounded like I was being attacked by