A Tainted Finish: A Sydney McGrath Mystery Read Online Free PDF

of the night before - her sobbing in his arms - was a thing of the past. She found herself thankful for his memory loss.
    His face grew expressionless. “I want you to know that I am taking care of everything in the winery. You do not need to worry about Crush while you do the funeral business.” He was cutting to the chase again. Not a man for small talk.
     
    “How gallant of you,” she muttered into the steam of her mug.
    He looked at her sharply. “Jim Yesler told me it would be best this way.”
    “Jim Yesler thinks I'm a fragile wilting flower right now,” she said. He looked at her with eyes filled with concern and pity, but offered no argument.
    “ I'm alright ,” she shouted back at him, furious at his expression.
    He visibly jumped and raised his eyebrows with a nod.
    “Sure, sure.”
    She could tell he was confused and perhaps in over his head. She watched his face change with every thought, working his way through her outburst. She softened her frown a bit, feeling bad for yelling at this stranger in her childhood kitchen.
    “We can still have these meetings every night, okay?” she said with a nod. He nodded back at her. “You do the winery work. Just keep me informed. If there’s a problem–anything from an off-nose on a ferment to a vineyard sample–keep me informed, right?” He nodded again and she half smiled. “We’re almost through harvest?”
    “Yes. We have only the Petit Verdot and Mourvedre from Rattlesnake Hills left. We are at the end,” he said quietly. This woman was worse than Clarence or his own father. He would need to handle her carefully, but he was no stranger to navigating the inner workings of a complicated mind. For now he would do things her way.
    He proceeded to fill her in on the details of Crush; issues with growers, schedules, and trucking problems. Thus far, they had no equipment failure, which was an unusual blessing. Olivier had an astonishing memory of Blackwell Winery's general operations, which surprised Sydney. He recalled the names of vineyard managers, last week's Brix reports from growers, and row numbers of contracted fruit in specific vineyards. He recalled the yeast strains used in ferments, even the yeast blends.
    “I used to collect data on our yeast blends,” she said absently. Memories of working next to Clarence over petri dishes and five-gallon buckets of fermenting grapes in test batches seared in her head.
    “I know,” he said with quiet respect. “I've read your data.”
    “You knew I experimented with yeast blends?” she asked. She had published an article on her findings when she was only 19.
    “Yes. You are famous for it, apparently. Francois Bertrand told me about it first.” He looked down at his folded hands on the table.
    “Ah, him ,” she said, smiling. Bertrand was her uncle's famed rival winemaker from across the river, “I'm sure he was all praises.” She followed his eyes to his forearms. They were long, brown, thinly muscled, and covered in silky black hair.
    “No, he was derisive. But with men like that the source of contempt is often the source of envy as well. I knew he was on to something so I asked your uncle for the data.” Olivier rubbed his stubbled chin and looked away. His fingers were long and brown, with lovely long nail beds miraculously white for a winemaker. She caught herself staring at him and shook her head.
    “So you and Francois are tight? Go out for beers? Maybe troll for local yoga babes? Or are you more into the board head type?”
    “Francois courted me when I first arrived here in July. He isn't subtle. Apparently he is used to buying favors and information from assistant winemakers and interns with beer. We had one beer.” He held up a finger.
    “Thanks for that. Uncle never saw him as a real threat, but he’s always up to some mischief. Something recent too. Uncle alluded to it on his last visit to see me in Seattle. That was in August.” She frowned and thought about her cryptic