Free A Vintage To Die For (Violet Vineyard Murder Mysteries Book 2) by JM Harvey

nodded again and went across the patio to the back door.
    The deputy who had entered my house was talking to the wait staff and chefs in the kitchen. They were seated on kitchen chairs, hunched forward as the deputy asked his questions in a clipped, officious tone. The kitchen itself was a disaster area. Dirty plates and splattered pots and pans were piled on the counters and filled the sink. The floor was littered with debris and the cabinets were streaked with spills and splatters. I tried not to notice it as I passed through and headed down the hallway toward the living room.
    “Claire.” Blake Becker shouted at me as I passed the tasting room, startling me so badly I jumped straight out of my sandals.
    “What’s going on out there?” he asked as he came to the door, his height and bulk blocking it completely. He had the damp tea towel clamped to his head, though the ice was long gone.
    “Hunter just arrested Jorge McCullers,” I said as I jammed my feet back into the sandals.
    “Jorge? Why?”
    “He has blood on his clothes,” I said. “And he and Angela are pretty angry with you and Dimitri.” It seemed obvious enough.
    Blake frowned and his ruddy cheeks flushed. “Angela’s Zinfandel isn’t meeting the customer’s expectations,” he said. “That has nothing to do with Dimitri or me. She should be angry at Jorge. The way her west slope is trellised is the real issue. The drainage is bad. Way too much water retention. And the clusters were underpruned. She’s increased her tonnage by thirty percent over the last four years, but the quality has taken a hit.”
    What he said made sense. An abundance of fruit wasn’t the goal in winemaking. Quality was all that mattered, and quality came from limiting the fruit the vines produced and the amount of water they received. Vines loaded down with fat and happy grapes make great jelly, but they’re poor stock for premium wine. But I made no reply to his comments about Angela.
    “There’s a police officer in the kitchen who will probably want a statement from you,” I told him. He nodded, the rag still clasped to his head.
    I continued down the hall to find Alexandra still on the sofa beside Jessica. The widow had a tumbler of amber liquid clenched in hands clamped between her knees. She wasn’t crying, but she looked drained - pale and shivering. A ghost of the vibrant woman who had come to my party just an hour before.
    Both she and Jessica looked up at me expectantly. I had no idea what to say, so I stuck to the facts, though I decided not to mention the arrest of Jorge.
    “Hunter will be with you shortly, Alexandra.” She nodded and I struggled for more words. “The police are with Dimitri now.” She nodded again and Jessica squeezed her forearm reassuringly. I didn’t know what to do with myself, so I crossed to the bar and poured a splash of scotch I didn’t really want into a lowball glass. I sat down on the sofa beside Alexandra.
    “I never thought he would do it,” Alexandra said, then went silent. A silence that dragged and dragged for at least ten seconds as I fought my conscience.
    Hunter had told me not to ask questions…
    But I was going to do it anyway.
    “Who?” I asked, dreading the answer.
    Alexandra looked at me and cocked her head like I was a slightly dense child. “Samson,” she said. “I never thought he would do it.”
    Again I went silent for a moment. But I couldn’t let it go. “I don’t think Samson did anything,” I told her. “He’s no killer.”
    “You don’t know him,” she said abruptly, but not unkindly. She nodded as if to herself. “You are not a Greek.” She took a sip of her drink, lowered the glass, and said a single word as if it explained everything; “Vendetta.” Her eyes were red and swollen in her deathly-white face.
    I waited for her to explain, but nothing else came. “Vendetta?” I asked. “I know Dimitri and Samson didn’t like each other, but…” I trailed off.
    “It is my