Clarets of Fire Read online

  METHOD OF MURDER

  Augie sat down at my conference table. He clearly had something on his mind.

  “Can I get you a water? Coffee or tea?”

  “I’m fine thanks. But I have some news that I know you’re not going to like.”

  “Is it about Rico and Isabella? You can’t possibly think that you can build a case around a dough hook.”

  “It’s not that.”

  “Then what? Spit it out, Augie.”

  “I had a meeting with Inspector Mason and his team this morning. They have determined that the fire’s point of origin was in the attic that is open all the way through the mall. Some of the proprietors used it for extra storage. The fire was started above the drugstore.”

  “Okay, that should completely exonerate the Brunos. I can’t imagine them crawling over six stores’ worth of stuff just to point the blame elsewhere. And they’d have to crawl all the way back before the fire got to them. They are innocent.”

  “For now, maybe.”

  “And?”

  “Mason’s team found thick glass shards where the fire started and were able to piece enough of them together to determine that a so-called Molotov cocktail was used as the incendiary device. There was a label on this bottle—it was a wine bottle. They found enough to be able to decipher the name. It was a claret and it was from the Abigail Rose Winery.”

  Books by Christine E. Blum

  FULL BODIED MURDER

  MURDER MOST FERMENTED

  THE NAME OF THE ROSE‘

  CLARETS OF FIRE

  Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation

  Clarets of Fire

  A Rose Avenue Wine Club Mystery

  CHRISTINE E. BLUM

  KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  METHOD OF MURDER

  Also by

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Epilogue

  WHAT THE ROSE AVENUE WINE CLUB DRANK

  KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2019 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.

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

  ISBN: 978-1-4967-2482-3

  Electronic edition:

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4967-2483-0 (e-book)

  ISBN-10: 1-4967-2483-6 (e-book)

  For first responders everywhere.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  A big thank-you to Fire Station 62 and to Captain Darin Laier, not just for providing background for my book but for protecting us in times of emergency. There wouldn’t be a story if it weren’t for the real members of the Rose Avenue Wine Club—I love you all. And Bardot, you barely lifted a paw in the writing of this book, but that won’t stop me from giving you an extra biscuit.

  Chapter One

  “Welcome to the annual Rose Avenue block party,” Peggy announced in her best outside voice while hoisting a brimming glass of Tooth & Nail cabernet.

  “Hear, hear,” replied several neighbors.

  From the back corner of her yard, I canvassed the somewhat motley crew gathered on this beautiful, sunny September Sunday. I started with my inner circle of imbibers, dear friends that share the group moniker of the Rose Avenue Wine Club. They are listeners, sisters, partners in crime (literally), and the best friends a transplant from New York City could have. Since I moved to the sleepy, beach community of Mar Vista, California, nearly four years ago, I really haven’t had a moment to look back. I’d wanted a new life and, boy, did I get it. It appears that in addition to us girls declaring wine tasting an Olympic sport, we also share a penchant for solving crimes and giving the perpetrators their proper due. Somewhat to the chagrin of the denizens of Rose Avenue but ultimately welcomed by them, unless of course, one of them committed the evil deed (which has happened once . . . or twice) . . .

  From my vantage point, like a mobster in a restaurant facing the door with his back to the wall, I could see any new arrivals to the party. Peggy’s yard, like her house, was kept pristine—perfectly trimmed boxwood hedges and weedless narrow flowerbeds lined the perimeter. I’d been witness to her methods of motivating her gardener on multiple occasions, and let’s just say that the shortest route to living a long life involves doing Peggy’s bidding. This octogenarian was showing no signs of slowing down.

  Beside me sat my best-est friend, Bardot, the yellow Lab now famous for diving underwater and saving my life. I noticed that while she sat in a relaxed AKC conformation pose (she’s a total ham), her nose was pointed skyward and her olfactory glands were pumping harder than the speakers at a Sir Mix-a-Lot concert. Unlike English Labs that would sell their soul for a morsel of anything even resembling food, Bardot is an American Field Lab and she is much more motivated by words like, “Ready? Go!” So I dismissed party snacks as the reason for her persistent pulsing proboscis, and that left me a little on edge and confused.

  “Halsey! So happy that you and Bardot have saved me the best seat in the house,” Sally shouted, making her way over to us while balancing a plate of fruit and cheese along with two filled wineglasses. I noticed that tucked under her arm was the accompanying bottle; I would expect nothing less from my closest Rose Avenue friend. I quickly jumped up to relieve her of the wineglasses but she held on tight, insisting instead that I take the plate. I watched as she lowered her lithe, African American frame down into a lawn chair while not spilling a drop of the grape elixir. I’d also managed to abscond with a small patio table, so we had room for all the food groups: wine, cheese, and wine.

  “If you build it—” I laughed, noticing rosy-cheeked Aimee and Peggy making their way over to us. They too didn’t arrive empty-handed. Too bad that Aimee couldn’t provide some of her sinful frozen yogurt from her shop, but it wouldn’t travel well on a day like today.

  I may have to pop by the Chill Out for dessert . . .

  “No sign of Penelope and Malcolm yet?” my silver-haired, madras shorts–clad friend Peggy asked.

  While technically Peggy was the only other single lady in the Wine Club, we were both now officially off the market. A widow for almost ten years, she recently reconnected with an old friend and work buddy of her late husband’s. His name is Charlie and the two quickly became “an item” as Peggy quaintly put i
t. Qualified by “and he lives in another area code half the time, which is just the way I like it.” Charlie resides in San Diego but is conveniently a small plane pilot and can shuttle up to the Santa Monica Airport whenever he wishes. We’ll get to my guy in a minute.

  “I talked to Penelope about twenty minutes ago,” Aimee said with a smiling, flushed face. They’re coming directly from the airport. Malcolm’s second cousin Andrew picked them up. She didn’t have much time to talk but said that the honeymoon was dreamy.”

  The thought of that made her complexion turn even redder, so she waved her hands frantically in front of her face to cool her cheeks down. Aimee’s emotions were always just a millimeter below the surface waiting to jump out, a fact that us jaded cynics find so endearing.

  “I still replay that day in my mind just before I go to sleep each night; that was a magical wedding.” Sally closed her eyes. The artist in her was coming out. “They looked happier than clams at high tide.”

  While from upstate New York originally and a retired nurse, Sally somehow had acquired a lexicon of Southern sayings that frankly should have stayed in the bayou. I suspect that one summer she binge-watched The Beverly Hillbillies and Petticoat Junction during a critical, young imprint age.

  “Here comes trouble,” I warned, seeing Marisol approach with two plates piled high.

  “Make room for the mayor of Rose Avenue,” Peggy said, shuffling us around the chairs to free one up in front.

  “What a coincidence, like where there’s paper there’s plastic, where there’s a couple fighting in public there’s a hushed crowd pretending not to listen, and where there’s free food there’s Marisol. Did they run out of samples at Costco?”

  “You need to respect your elders while you still have time, Halsey. With the amount of wine you drink, you won’t make it to Christmas. But there’s good news . . . when you drop, your body will already be embalmed.”

  With that Marisol let out a cackle direct from her belly that was so hearty my friends couldn’t help but join in.

  Let me explain a little about this strange creature that happens to be my next-door neighbor. Though we cajole, tease, insult, and generally bicker about anything from my dog’s name to her constant spying, deep down we have enormous respect and love for each other. Just don’t ask either of us to admit it. Marisol is somewhere between eighty-four and one hundred, hard to say because she never ages, or, I suspect, sleeps. She may be afraid that if she does nod off, she’ll have boarded the train to the dark side. She has an uncanny knack for knowing everything about everyone, even before they know it themselves. She’s continually learning (one of the handful of things I admire about her) and is currently mastering an array of high-tech spy equipage. All of this is hidden behind a façade of a diminutive Latina woman, a tad frail-looking with a coiffure of jet black–dyed hair kept in place with little butterfly clips. She also seems to appear and disappear at the blink of an eye. But, as much as her prying, long, caramel-colored nose annoys me, we have developed some sort of symbiotic relationship that compels us to save each other’s bacon if it comes down to that. (Mind you I’d probably give my life for one last bite of bacon anyway.)

  “Where’s Jack?” Marisol asked, biting into a pig-ina-blanket with such ferocity that mustard went running for its life out of both corners of her mouth. “He finally come to his senses and realize that I’m the one on Rose Avenue he should be dating?”

  As ridiculous as her statement was, Marisol knew how to push my buttons and I fought hard not to show it. Instead, I forced my mind to picture a beautiful boat adrift on a calm, deep blue sea as dolphins playfully followed along and watched with fascination as I opened up the urn and scattered Marisol’s ashes. “He’ll be along shortly. He ran a certification test in the Santa Monica Mountains this morning and went home to shower and change.”

  “Saving more souls—what’s your excuse?”

  Marisol was referring to Jack (my guy as you probably guessed), and his volunteer job as a search and rescue K-9 team instructor for CARA.

  “I’d work on saving your soul if you had one, Marisol.”

  I kept my right hand over my left and pondered if this was the right moment to give the Wine Club girls my revelatory news.

  A round of applause erupted across the yard and neighbors got to their feet. I thought that maybe Jack had arrived and spilled the beans, but when people sat back down I saw Malcolm and Penelope entering the yard hand in hand and glowing.

  For the briefest of moments my heart took an express elevator down to my stomach as I thought about marriage and its trials and tribulations. I’d had one lousy one and, like eating a bad oyster, I never wanted to relive that experience.

  “There they are!” Sally shouted. “More chairs, Aimee, we need more chairs. And who’s that cute fellow with Malcolm and Penelope?”

  “I’m guessing Andrew,” Aimee said, and then told some kids that the pizza was coming any minute and they better move up front to get some. “Kids sit too much anyway,” she offered as explanation as she “borrowed” their roosts and added them to our circle.

  Penelope spotted us, waved, and gave Malcolm a peck on the cheek before heading over. He responded with a wink and a knowing smile. It took Malcolm some time to get used to our coterie of imbibers, but now he regarded us as family. At least I think he does. He and I went through a rough patch, but that story is a present for another Christmas. He looked uncommonly relaxed for someone I always thought of as shy and was sporting a café au lait tan, probably the first for this light-complexion, ginger-haired man.

  “Darlings, I’ve missed you all terribly.” Penelope made the rounds giving us each hugs and kisses. I reminded myself of the probable need to have her translate some of her typical British expressions.

  “Red or white?” Peggy asked Penelope, hovering both bottles over an empty glass.

  “Ooh, is that an Oregon pinot blanc? Yes, please!”

  While Peggy obliged Penelope, Aimee bombarded Penelope with questions about the honeymoon in such rapid fire that she resorted to nodding “yes” or “no” to the majority of them.

  “I bet that you’re anxious to get back to your beautiful winery. Now comes the hard part . . . getting it fully operational,” I remarked.

  “Agreed, although Malcolm’s second cousin Andrew”—she waved to the two men talking across the lawn—“has been such a dear. He’s gotten so much done while we were off on holiday. I’ve been told to get the wine tasting room and small bites menu in order for the fall harvest. You must all come and stay overnight so that we can have our first Rose Avenue Wine Club sleepover!”

  “Sounds like a blast. What will you do while we’re sleeping?” I asked Marisol.

  “She can perhaps sort out the strange things that I’ve witnessed happening there in the wee hours,” Penelope suggested. “I’m still getting used to sharing this old winery with spirits, and not the alcoholic ones!”

  “I can do that. I’ll need to bring some equipment though.” I could see Marisol start making a mental list.

  Just then Bardot’s nose once again jerked up to the sky, knocking over my wineglass in the process. As I reached to grab it my engagement ring caught the sun, sending out a blinding beacon of light.

  “Halsey, what is that on your finger?” Aimee shrieked.

  I guess that this carbon cat is out of the bag.

  The rest of the girls joined in the screaming and flocked around me like I was bread in a piazza full of pigeons.

  “I need to hear the full story. How long have you been hiding this from us?” Sally almost seemed incensed.

  “Jack actually started to propose at your wedding, Penelope, but Augie arrived and blew that out of the water. Even unwittingly he makes my life miserable. Remind me again why you invited him?” I gave Penelope a pretend dirty look.

  “It was Malcolm’s idea really; they spent quite a bit of time together during that whole, horrible garden affair.”

  Augie is our local d
etective, and our paths crossed literally on the day that I arrived on Rose Avenue and happened into the wrong house for Wine Club. How was I supposed to know that there was a dead body in the backyard? Or that when digging in the garden plot the girls got me for my birthday, I’d find another body?

  Augie really needs to start believing in coincidences.

  “Pizza’s here!” we heard someone yell.

  “I’ll go help Enrico and Isabella.” Aimee took off like a shot. Being in the food service industry herself, she knows what hard work it is. Although every time I go into her frozen yogurt shop, Chill Out, she makes everything seem so effortless. She really struggled the first year while her boyfriend Tom was in med school, but she’s got some amazing flavors and has added cakes and pastries to the mix. The shop is now a Mar Vista fixture.

  As is our cherished Rico’s Pizza, neighborhood purveyor of delicious Italian pies baked just about a mile from Rose Avenue. I watched the husband and wife team set out the delicious food and let the wafting aromas permeate my proboscis. Bardot once again had her head in the air, but hers was pointed in the opposite direction from the spicy, cheesy airstream. This bothered me.

  “Here’s my hubby and his cousin,” Penelope announced as Malcolm and Andrew approached.

  Marriage suited Malcolm and he’d gone from looking like a red-haired Harry Potter to someone closer in appearance to Eddie Redmayne. He introduced Andrew to the group.

  “In addition to being invaluable in the fields, Andrew will be instrumental in marketing the Abigail Rose Winery to the public,” Malcolm explained.

  “Yes,” Penelope chimed in. “And Andrew’s just secured a joint venture with Rico’s Pizza! They will be serving our wine and I’ll be offering individual artisan pizzas in our Tasting Room.”