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

what I needed. “He’ll probably pop out of the cellar and moon the guests. Or worse.”
    Hunt laughed as he took the cardboard box. “Don't worry. Marjory is giving him an earful. She said she likes her men to stay sober.”
    “Of course she does. Someone has to drive her home.”
    “I don't think she's got driving on her mind. She had him pinned to the desk when I left. He was begging for help but I figured it was every man for himself at that point.” He disappeared down the hallway and I went into the kitchen laughing.
    I was happy with the progress in the kitchen and out under the awning. The caterers had set out the wine and my sausage stars - ground sausage mixed with cheeses and Italian herbs baked inside wonton wrappers. Bad for your cholesterol but delicious. They were my one contribution to the feast. Accompanying the sausage stars were a variety of cold dips, cured meats, and cheeses. Simple fare, but lots of it.
    I headed out onto the lawn, grabbed a juice glass of cabernet and did the mingle-and-greet as more friends and business acquaintances arrived. Everything was going well, food and wine were disappearing. Victor and I had set up a foursome of tired old speakers in the back yard and hooked up his iPod, loaded with my music. Sammy and Dean, Frank and Ella, Miles Davis, John Coltrane, Bill Evans, and Dave Brubeck. A few people started to dance, either inspired by the music or the wine, but most clustered in groups to discuss the ongoing harvest.
    The conversations were almost equally divided into two camps, elation from those who had beat the recent torrent of rain and were done with their own crush, and grumbles and curses from those who were dealing with burst or over-watered fruit, muddy conditions and the prospect of a less than outstanding vintage. I could sympathize. A bad vintage could kill a small winery.
    Dinner was about to be served, and I was prepared to declare the party a success when Dimitri Pappos arrived.
    Dimitri wasn't alone; a woman I had never met before accompanied him. They made quite the contrast. Dimitri had a rigid posture, a sour look to the mouth and a narrow look to his eyes. He had an old-world dress sense that favored dark suits and sober ties, but the woman on his arm was as vibrant and bright as a tropical flower. She was tall, slender, olive skinned, and dark haired, wearing a bright red dress and black sandals with silver work that caught the afternoon sun and complemented the silver bangles climbing both forearms almost to the elbow.
    From a distance, I would have guessed her to be under forty years old, far too young and far too attractive for Dimitri, but as they neared I upped that estimate by fifteen years. She was still way too pretty for Dimitri.
    “Mrs. de Montagne,” Dimitri said, talking down and through his nose at me while his eyes darted around the partygoers. While Dimitri, like Samson, was from Greece, his accent was fake-French, an affectation born of his years in Burgundy and Bordeaux, no doubt. “Where is Xenos?” he asked.
    One thing Samson and Dimitri have in common is their abrupt and abrasive manner. Samson makes up for it by having a sense of humor, so I cut him some slack, but I didn’t extend the same courtesy to Dimitri. Instead, I turned on my hostess smile and looked at his companion.
    “I’m Claire,” I said, extending my hand. Up close she was even lovelier than I had thought from a distance. Her skin was flawless, except for an artfully placed mole at the corner of her mouth.
    “Alexandra Pappos,” she said as she took my hand.
    “My wife,” Dimitri said without looking at either of us, his eyes still panning the crowd. “Now, where is Xenos?”
    Alexandra rolled her eyes at her husband’s bad manners, a gesture that looked well practiced.
    “It’s delightful to meet you, Mrs. de Montagne,” she said. “I’ve heard nothing but high praise for your cabernet from Dimitri.” Her accent was a nondenominational European, her