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

fault. What can you do when men will kill for you…” She turned one hand over, palm up and made a helpless gesture. “It is a curse. A curse on all three of us.”
    “A curse?” I said, my confusion deepening. I looked at Jessica and raised my eyebrows. Jessica shook her head almost imperceptibly. She was clueless too.
    “I thought time had taken the sting from the wound,” Alexandra said. “The invitation to your party. I thought it was…” Fresh tears interrupted whatever she had to say. Jessica pressed a clean tissue into her hand, but Alexandra did not use it.
    “What did you see when you came into the cellar?” I asked her, dreading her reply. “Did you actually see Samson kill—”
    “Mrs. Pappos,” Hunter said from the doorway, startling me so badly that I sloshed scotch across my dress. “I need to speak with you.” he looked at Jessica and me and pointedly added, “Alone.” His gaze lingered on me as I rose and headed for the door and I wondered how much he had overheard.
    I didn’t have to wonder long.
    “And then I’ll want to talk to you, Claire,” he said with a frosty edge to his voice.
    He had heard everything.
     

Chapter 8
     
     
    I sat in my tasting room for two hours, occupying the office chair that sits in front of my ancient computer, the most comfortable spot in the room. Blake Becker was with me for the first hour, but our conversation was desultory. He tried to get more facts out of me about Jorge and Samson, but I was done talking. I had already dug a deep enough hole with Hunter. And that's why I was doing as instructed and keeping silent and out of sight as my guests were interrogated out back, and my cellar was searched by a team of County deputies.
    Samson appeared in the doorway at one point, Marjory at his shoulder. Samson was wearing only boxer shorts, a sleeveless T-shirt and black socks that rose to his knees, an outfit that showed off his scrawny physique. I had seen scarecrows with more flesh on their bones. Marjory was wrapped in a sheet, looking like an oversized mummy. Her makeup was gone and her hair a snarled mess. She said nothing; she didn’t even look up at me, but Samson had a lot to say, as usual.
    “They took my clothes!” he yelled, glaring at me as if it were my fault. “My sweater and shoes!” he waved a hand at his drooping ensemble. “They have left me naked!”
    I almost laughed, and I could see Blake smirking under the damp tea towel he was still holding to his head.
    “You have spare clothes in the guest bedroom,” I pointed out and then looked over his shoulder at Marjory. “And I can get you something to wear, if you want, Marjory?” I knew nothing I had would fit her, but we’d manage something.
    She shook her head without lifting it. “I want to go home,” was all she said. The sorrowful tone of her voice knocked the legs out from under what little humor the situation had held. But Samson wasn’t listening to Marjory.
    “My sweater,” he said. “Almost brand new! And the shoes were barely broken in!”
    “The sweater was a rat’s nest and the shoes cost five dollars twenty years ago,” I replied. “You have clothes upstairs. Go put some pants on and quit acting like an idiot.”
    “Idiot? Now you call me names?” He drew himself up to his full height and his t-shirt rose as well, baring a hairy patch of old-man belly. I could have done without that. He turned away. “Come, Marjory, I can stand no more of this!” He stomped off, and I heard him pounding up the stairs to the spare room where he and Victor kept clothes and other essentials. Samson often slept over. The old man liked his wine.
    Hunter appeared in the doorway a moment later. He took Blake away, holding up a finger at me when I started to ask a question.
    “Stay put,” was all he said, his voice a little less chilly than it had been two hours before when he caught me grilling Alexandra about what she saw in the basement.
    I stayed put, fidgeting and bored