The Name of the Rosé Read online

  THE BODY IN THE HANGAR

  We followed Jimmy around the back of the building to the staff entrance. Instead of entering the museum, Jimmy turned right and unlocked another door that led into an adjacent hangar, where the plane restoration was done. The only light in the place was coming from the far end of the building.

  “Jonas? It’s Jimmy, the new guy you met this afternoon. It’s late. Shouldn’t you be knocking off soon?” he said loudly.

  We heard no response.

  “I’ll bet he’s in the flight simulator back there,” Jimmy said to us, heading in that direction. “He was telling me today how he couldn’t wait to get his pilot’s license so he could take off whenever he wanted.”

  Our footsteps echoed in the dark cavern as Sally and I followed closely behind Jimmy. Darkness can make a lot of places creepy, but the shadows and partially illuminated propellers, wings and wheels of these old planes made me think I was being surrounded by decomposing dinosaurs. I finally relaxed when we reached the simulator capsule, but that was very short-lived.

  “Ladies first,” Jimmy said, and I climbed the metal steps to the cockpit entrance. Once my eyes adjusted to the light inside, I could take in the gruesome scene.

  Sitting at the controls was a body I assumed was Jonas . . .

  Books by Christine E. Blum

  FULL BODIED MURDER

  MURDER MOST FERMENTED

  THE NAME OF THE ROSÉ

  Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation

  The Name of the Rosé

  CHRISTINE E. BLUM

  KENSINGTON BOOKS

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  THE BODY IN THE HANGAR

  Also by

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  EPILOGUE

  What The Rose Avenue Wine Club Drank:

  A Wine Club Guide to Pairing Wines with Cuisines of the World

  KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2018 by Christine E. Blum

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

  To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.

  If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the Publisher and neither the Author nor the Publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

  Kensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

  ISBN: 978-1-4967-1214-1

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4967-1215-8 (ebook)

  ISBN-10: 1-4967-1215-3 (ebook)

  For Ofelia

  Acknowledgments

  I thank the Santa Monica Airport for its rich history and my endless fascination with what it can provide Los Angeles both in times of emergencies and not. May it never leave us. Thanks also to the Santa Monica police, and especially public service supervisor Leo Iniguez for the in-depth tour and anecdotes from his long tour of duty at the airport. I also want to give a big shout-out to the Aquarium of the Pacific in Long Beach, and especially aquarist Angelina Komatovich. If you’re in the neighborhood be sure and pay them a visit. It is a fantastic place and they are doing such wonderful things.

  This book is dedicated to Ofelia, who may or may not bear some resemblance to the character of Marisol. Ofelia may or may not have appointed herself the Mayor of Rose Avenue and may or may not like to spy on me. But one thing that I know for sure is that she has enriched my life greatly. Thank you.

  CHAPTER 1

  “I hope that wasn’t a plane I heard crashing at the airport,” Sally said.

  “I heard it too as I went out to water the hibiscus,” Aimee agreed, getting teary at the thought.

  “Which I’m guessing you did in your baby doll nightie again? You’re going to give old Keith across the street a heart attack one of these days.” I laughed, knowing I was right.

  “We’d have heard something by now if it was serious,” Sally concluded. “Cheers!”

  Ah, that magic Pavlovian word. At the sound of it, we all hoisted our glasses, looked each other in the eyes and clinked. The Rose Avenue Wine Club had begun.

  We were imbibing at my house today. It was an uncharacteristically hot Thursday in June that demanded to be experienced al fresco around my pool. All the usual neighborhood suspects were in attendance. There was the aforementioned Sally, a statuesque African American woman with the long, elegant hands of a painter and the mouth, at times, of a truck driver. She is my closest Rose Avenue friend. Next up Aimee, our budding young entrepreneur and owner of the Chill Out frozen yogurt shop. Her Bambi eyes absorb the world and the people around her like a desert flower in the rain. Despite her cold workplace, she is far from being sangfroid. She wears her emotions on her sleeve, jeans, hair and just about every fiber of her being. Which is what makes her so endearing.

  Peggy is pretty much her polar opposite: widowed, in her late eighties but strong-willed and quick-witted. In another century, I’m pretty sure if you walked past her house she’d be eyeing you from a porch rocking chair, clutching a shotgun resting across her knees. But she’s also the great matriarch of numerous grandbabies, so a hug from her is better than hot chocolate with marshmallows on a cold day. Or a fine Napa Cabernet. Wait, maybe I’ve gone too far.

  We were also honored to welcome Mary Ann Wallis to the fermented coterie. She’s been a longtime neighbor but a new convert to the club. This may have to do with her decision to cut back on her journalist duties at the Los Angeles Times and stop to smell the rosés. I’d heard she’d been a powerhouse when she worked the beat, which is an even greater phenomenon, given that she’s about five-foot-one and couldn’t weigh more than one hundred pounds soaking wet. She’s living proof the pen is mightier than the sword.

  “I’m so used to the planes now that I only hear them if something sounds off: a sputtering engine or complete silence after takeoff. That noise was neither, so maybe everything’s fine,” Mary Ann said as I passed around a plate of heirloom radishes lightly coated in French butter and sea salt.

  Please allow me to introduce myself. I’m Halsey, and I moved here from New York City after a divorce that should never have been a marriage. But that was almost three years ago, and I am firmly assimilated into life on Rose Avenue in this small Los Angeles beach community. I’d say that having been falsely suspected of committing two murders, being kidnapped, locked up in jail and left stranded in a fifteen-foot-deep trench counts in the dues-paying
department.

  I make my living writing code and designing websites, and when I started my company in New York during the tech bubble, I would never have imagined that I’d later be plying my trade from a suburban house on a Chinese elm–lined street with a converted garage for an office. So it goes. In addition to Wine Club, there’s a guy; there’s always a guy. Oh, don’t misunderstand me: Jack is a great one and we actually met because of the true love of my life, my yellow Lab, Bardot. But let’s just say my prior unfortunate affaire de coeur has left me a tad commitment phobic.

  Just to finish the picture, I’m five-eight, blond, okay highlighted and thirty-six-years-old. Oh, and my given name is Annie Elizabeth Hall, but for obvious reasons, the moniker I answer to is Halsey, a nickname that stuck when I was very young.

  My dog is an American Field Lab; she’s smaller and much leaner than the English variety and built with a Ferrari engine. She enjoys exercise in all forms, but when she’s not saving my life, which she’s done several times, her passion is diving. Deep underwater. Like twelve feet down.

  When no one had anything further to add about a possible plane crash, we moved on to more pressing business: drinking wine and catching up on Rose Avenue news.

  “How’s Jimmy settling in?” I asked Sally. “And how are you and Joe adapting to sharing your pastoral love nest with a relative?”

  “Ha! No kin of mine is going to interfere with our horizontal hula. Thank God we put in that second story.”

  “Sally’s cousin just moved here from Chicago,” Peggy explained to Mary Ann. “He finally got some sense in him and left the freezing winters for a chilled margarita instead. Speaking of which, who needs a refill?”

  Peggy was up and pouring the Gibbs Obsidian Block Reserve Cab I’d selected, particularly because of its bacon and black licorice tastes. You could put bacon in an old sneaker stew and I’d ask for seconds.

  “We’ve got to get Jimmy together with Charlie. They already have the love of old planes in common,” Sally said, receiving a heavy pour from Peggy.

  “Maybe Peggy just wants to keep her new boyfriend to herself. How long has it been since you dated? Are these Castelvetrano olives?” Aimee’s food vocabulary was expanding.

  “The last man I dated was Vern, and I married him when I was twenty-one. Never you mind how long ago that was.”

  “I’m guessing it was when the best way to start your car was with a whip.” That got me a punch in the arm from Peggy.

  “Charlie’s flying in today, I’ll send him your way, Sally, and you can introduce him to Jimmy.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Bardot, having been unsuccessful in drawing anyone away from their wine to play with her, had started tossing some of her sinkable toys into the pool.

  She’s got something up her furry sleeve . . .

  When you enter my backyard with the pool, you’d think you’d landed in the Laki Lani Resort. It’s a small tropical paradise with pink bougainvillea hanging over the water, birds of paradise and all colors of hibiscus lining the perimeter. Tiki masks hang from a covered patio area courtesy of me on a day of particularly enlightened procrastination from work.

  I watched Mary Ann dial a number on her cell phone, listen and then disconnect, shaking her head.

  “Something wrong?” Sally asked, launching into caregiver mode. (She’s a former nurse.)

  “It’s probably nothing, but my husband, Jeb, left the house early this morning and I haven’t heard from him since.”

  “Did you try calling one of his friends from work?” Peggy was now on the case.

  “That’s the thing, he just retired. And he was a chemist, so he mostly worked alone. These days he’s always got some ‘secret project’ he’s involved in. He’s possibly been like this all along and I’m just now noticing it because I’m home more.” Mary Ann seemed to be trying to convince herself of this.

  Aimee’s cell phone came to life with a ringtone playing Pharrell’s “Happy.”

  “Hi honey! It’s my boyfriend, Tom; he’s working in the ER at St. John’s Hospital,” she stage-whispered to the group. “What? No! Oh my God, is he going to be okay?”

  That got our undivided attention.

  “Oh dear Lord, we’ll be right over.” She hung up and took a breath. “That was a plane crash you heard,” Aimee said to Sally. “And Charlie was flying it. They just brought him into the hospital! He’s awake and everything, which Tom says is a good sign. Charlie wanted Tom to pass along the news,” Aimee assured Peggy.

  Splash!

  Bardot, having tried every trick in her playbook to get attention and failing, jumped into the pool with a belly flop that sent an airborne tsunami all over us.

  “Halsey? Police,” I heard a voice shout from the other side of the driveway gate. “We’re coming in.”

  I watched as our local detective walked in, accompanied by two uniforms.

  “Whatever it is this time, Augie, it will have to wait. We need to get to the hospital right away to be with Charlie,” I said, noticing he was carrying a package sealed in a clear plastic evidence bag. Augie and I have a history together; I always seem to find trouble and he always attempts to pin it on me. Somehow, it all gets sorted out in the end.

  “This package has a Rose Avenue address on it,” Augie announced, showing it to the group. “Whose house number is this?”

  Peggy shifted his arm to deflect the sun, so we could all get a good look.

  “That’s mine,” Sally said. “What’d I get?” she asked, elated.

  “Is crime so slow that you’ve taken to helping out the post office, Augie?” I couldn’t resist.

  “This package was removed from the plane Charlie was flying when it crashed on the runway,” Augie said, ignoring my quip. I noticed the two cops were now flanking Sally.

  Not a good sign.

  Augie, dressed in a no-nonsense, dark gray suit, white shirt and maroon tie, always tried to give off that Secret Service, stoic tough-guy look but kept being betrayed by his accessories. Case in point: today his belt looked to be plain black leather, but when his jacket caught the wind, I could see the sides were canvas with embroidered sea marlin hooked and suspended in midair. His boxers also didn’t perpetuate the myth. I’ll explain. Augie’s wardrobe has not quite caught up with his middle-aged belly, so his shirts often fan out between buttons. He has no butt and skinny legs, so he must need to hike up the undergarment above his belt to keep it in place. Today, I could make out Calvin Klein printed on the royal-blue-satin waistband.

  Bardot, having retrieved her last toy from the pool’s bottom, had come up for air. When she saw Augie, someone she inexplicably adores, she raced out of the pool and ran toward him. She then remembered she needed to shake off the extra water and drenched his trousers.

  There’s going to be an extra treat in your bowl tonight, honey.

  “Somebody get me a towel,” Augie commanded. “As I was saying, this package was recovered from a large ice chest that was onboard, containing frozen fish. We opened it and found that it had a number of prescription drugs inside that appear to have originated in Mexico.”

  “I didn’t order any medications from Mexico.” Sally shook her head in disbelief. “Although I can see why people do; the prices here are getting ridiculous. Do you know how much my thyroid pills are? Thankfully, I’m on Joe’s health plan from the university, which is excellent.”

  “I didn’t know you had a thyroid problem. I wonder if I should get mine checked,” Aimee mused.

  “I heard eating asparagus was good for that,” Mary Ann chimed in.

  “I wasn’t finished,” Augie yelled.

  We stared at him like he’d sprouted horns. Even Bardot was taken aback and chose to watch the proceedings from a safe distance on a chaise lounge.

  “When we examined one of the fish, we discovered heroin had been hidden inside it. A quick look at a few more fish revealed the same thing. We counted two dozen such ‘heroin packages’ total in the ice chest.”
>
  “What kind of fish were they?” I asked out of pure curiosity.

  “It doesn’t matter,” Augie snapped at me. “So, Sally, I have no choice but to take you in for questioning.”

  “What?” Peggy shouted.

  “We’ve all got to get to the ER. Tom says Charlie is awake and talking. He’ll explain everything.” Aimee held up her phone to Augie to somehow indicate proof of Tom’s claim.

  “Have you already talked to Charlie?” I asked Augie.

  “No, he was in the ambulance when we arrived at the airport.”

  “Don’t you think you should?” I could see his wheels turning in his head.

  “All right, we’ll go to the hospital. But you need to ride in the car with us, so I can keep an eye on you,” Augie said, nodding at the cops to escort Sally.

  “I knew it.” We all looked at Sally and waited for her to say what it was.

  “Knew what?” we asked in unison.

  “With Charlie’s accident, Jeb gone missing and my address on this package. The Curse of Rose Avenue is back!”

  “Well, that’s a relief. I was afraid it was something bad.” Everyone looked at me, but no one was laughing.

  * * *

  As ERs go, the one at St. John’s Hospital isn’t so intimidating, although I wouldn’t want to be there after ten p.m. on July 4. There was a separate entrance for ambulance deliveries, so we were only subject to the walking wounded. Today’s assortment included a schoolgirl who’d clearly taken a face-plant when her cleats got caught during soccer practice. Her mom looked concerned, while the girl looked bored and unable to get Wi-Fi. In another area of the room, a family of about twelve had gathered, and it took me a moment to identify the patient. I narrowed it down to the oldest man in the group with the walker and labored breathing. This was a group that clearly ate away their worries; everyone was munching on something. A brother and sister had found a cart vendor that sold fresh fruit assortments and were digging into large clamshell servings. Foot-long subs were being passed around and inspected and smelled before being accepted by a family member. The only one not consuming was the old woman, who had to be ninety. Instead, she was playing a game on her iPad.