Free Dead on the Vine: (Violet Vineyard Murder Mysteries #1 (A Cozy Mystery)) by JM Harvey

entertain Marjory?”
    “I’ll give her your regards,” I assured him. “Dirty old man.”
    “I am like the wines I make,” Samson boasted as I grabbed four bottles. “I get better the older I grow!”
    Samson wheeled the dolly with the freshly filled barrel back into the far reaches of the cellar as I climbed the stairs to my kitchen. Leaving the hand-lettered bottles on the kitchen table, I went upstairs to change, wondering if I should skip the Lunch. In my current state, short on sleep and long on problems, I didn’t think I’d be very good company. But I did want to hear what the ladies thought of the 2008.
    I took a pale blue summer dress from the closet and a straw hat to save me the trouble of doing my hair. I slipped on sandals and in less than forty-five minutes I was behind the wheel of my Mustang, which I affectionately call Sally after the old Wilson Pickett song, whipping down the Mayacamas Mountain road with the top down, taking in the scenery at seventy miles an hour.

CHAPTER 9
     
     
    One thing I can say for the town of Napa is that despite the influx of tourists and wineries it has maintained its small town charm, if you can overlook the traffic jams. Trees line the streets, fronting small antique shops, trendy restaurants and restored office buildings dating from the early part of the century. Half a dozen bridges cross the landscaped Napa River, and the whistle of a paddle-wheeled steamboat often fills the air. A great spot for a day-trip, or to settle down and enjoy what’s left of small-town California. If you have the money.
    Bistral was a new California-French (whatever that means) restaurant located on the ground floor of the Napa Register Building, one of the oldest and best preserved structures in the First Street District of Napa. I parked at a meter and checked myself over in the rearview mirror to make sure I didn’t have bugs stuck in my teeth. My hair was a mess. I gave it a quick finger-comb and plopped the straw hat down on top of it.
    There was quite a bit of foot traffic on the sidewalk, mostly pale tourists sporting the bright pink of new sunburns. They all seemed to be smiling. They’d probably already had one too many trips to the tasting table. There weren’t many cars on the street, but it was Wednesday, so most of the locals were at work in San Francisco.
    Leaving one bottle of my cabernet under the front seat, I took the other three and headed inside. Marjory drank enough wine as it was, I didn’t intend to encourage her by bringing in four bottles. Besides, there would be only seven of us today. And the City of Napa would not appreciate seven drunk ladies crashing through the Historic District.
    Bistral was a bright, airy place with lots of potted plants, high ceilings and wrought iron furniture. Paintings by local artists adorned the walls, complete with discreet and exorbitant price tags. The restaurant was full of chattering, smiling people oohing and aahing over the food. Most were tourists and business people in suits and ties. I spotted my table, a group of women in sundresses picking at green salads.
    Marjory spotted me and waved. I waved back and shook my head at the maître d’ as he returned from seating a pair of serious-faced gentlemen in matching gray suits and drab ties. The ladies looked happy to see me, probably because I was carrying three bottles of wine. By the end of the lunch they’d have a low-grade buzz and the conversation would turn catty. And that’s when my stomach would begin to churn. God, I hated these things!
    “Hello, ladies!” I said, pulling out my chair and sitting down beside Marjory Brennan, a plump, melodramatic brunette who wears too much makeup and enough jewelry to send her to the bottom of the ocean. She’s constantly rolling her eyes and talking with her hands. She isn’t bad looking, but I honestly didn’t see what Samson was so enthralled with. Marjory had been married to a lawyer in San Francisco who had won a huge