A Sip Before Dying Read online

  * * * * *

  FREE EBOOK OFFER

  Sign up for my newsletter to be the first to know about my new releases, special bargains, and giveaways, and as a bonus receive a FREE ebook!

  Sign up for Gemma Halliday's newsletter!

  * * * * *

  * * * * *

  A SIP BEFORE DYING

  Wine & Dine Mysteries book #1

  by

  GEMMA HALLIDAY

  * * * * *

  Copyright © 2019 by Gemma Halliday

  http://www.gemmahalliday.com

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  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

  RECIPES

  FREE BOOK OFFER

  BOOKS BY GEMMA HALLIDAY

  SNEAK PEEK

  Dedicated to the memory of Amy Louise.

  CHAPTER ONE

  My best friend was waiting for me outside Silver Girl, her jewelry boutique in downtown Sonoma, when I pulled up in my Jeep. Ava Barnett: blonde, bubbly, and as perpetually optimistic as a woman who worked the tourist trade could be. She was dressed today in a flowy floral dress that just skirted her perfectly tanned ankles above boho-style sandals and pink painted toenails. We were both about a size eight, though Ava was on the lithe, athletic side of eight, and I was on the generous, enjoys-her-chocolate side of eight. She floated into my passenger seat on a cloud of peachy lotion and patchouli incense, and I instantly felt my spirits lift as I tried to downplay how rotten that Friday had turned out for me.

  "How's things?" she asked, chucking her overnight bag into the back seat of the Wrangler.

  I shrugged, tucking some of my flyaways back into my ponytail. While Ava's hair shone, humidity or cloudless sky, my own blonde locks were a fickle bunch. I had my good days, but depending on the weather, they could kink up like Shirley Temple or frizz like Bozo the Clown. Today they were somewhere at a half-Bozo, hence the ponytail to rein them in. "Things are fine," I answered, determined to put on a happy face.

  She grinned at me, showing off a row of white teeth with an endearingly chic gap between the front two. "Liar."

  I couldn't help the corners of my mouth turning up as well. Joined at the hip since high school, we were more like sisters than best friends. Ava knew me well enough to see through any attempt at downplay.

  "Okay, honestly? Things kinda sucked today," I told her.

  "Really?" Her big brown eyes turned sympathetic.

  I nodded. "Like a Hoover."

  "Is it your mom?" she asked.

  I bit my lip, feeling a whole new wave of suckatude wash over me at the mention of my mother. But I shut off that emotional faucet before it could completely ruin our planned girls' night. I shook my head. "No, today it was Gene. He was pulling his seesaw act again."

  Ava had already heard on multiple occasions how Gene Schulz, my financial consultant, played seesaw with his left and right hands, swinging them up and down alternately as he pictured my winery's financial health. The left hand represented debt, and it always ended up at the highest point when the seesaw gesture stopped. Today's game had ended with the right hand falling even lower than in the past. That was the hand that represented assets—in other words, Oak Valley Vineyard and everything I held dear in this world. All I had inherited after my father passed and Mom's beautiful personality had begun to disintegrate.

  The assets in question amounted to just over ten acres of vines and a majestic oak-lined driveway that led to a cluster of low Spanish-style buildings that comprised our winery, my own small cottage, and "the cave," as my namesake, Grandma Emmeline, used to call the wine cellar. Down there in the cool dark was my barreled and bottled stock in trade: Pinot Noir, Chardonnay, Pinot Blanc, Zinfandel, and a few cases of a small run Petite Sirah.

  According to Gene, the whole shebang was worth about half a million dollars less than the outstanding debt. We were hanging on by a fraying thread, and I knew only too well that a couple of sexy big commercial wineries were hovering like vultures, waiting to get Oak Valley Vineyard for a song when it went belly-up. Which they fully expected it to do.

  Truth be told, sometimes I thought Gene did too.

  In my darkest moments after my mom's diagnosis, I'll admit, I had half expected that as well. While I'd excelled at culinary school and spent several years as a personal chef in Los Angeles, the knowledge I had about running a winery could fit in a fortune cookie. Like generations before me, I'd grown up on the land and had a fair understanding of the crops. But I'd been a teenager when I'd left to strike out my own path. Little did I know that at age twenty-nine, that path would end up leading me right back to Sonoma—only now it was up to me to preserve what my family had worked so hard for.

  And as long as I was at the helm, belly-up was not an option.

  "So what did Seesaw Gene have to say?" Ava asked.

  "He said we'll be lucky to break even this year." I tried to keep my eyes on the road as I pulled out. "We're servicing the debt, and we've never defaulted, knock on wood"—I rapped my knuckles on the faux wood center console—"but we're just scraping by."

  "Hey, you're getting by! That's not a bad thing."

  I shot her a grin. What did I tell you—Miss Optimism, right?

  "Unfortunately, getting by will only last so long." I paused, digging deep for a little enthusiasm. "So, we need to kick it up a notch."

  Ava arched one delicate blonde eyebrow at me. "Which is where I come in?"

  I nodded. "This weekend, you are my social wheel greaser, mood lifter, and all around hostess with the mostest." I sent her a sympathetic glance. "Sorry, you'll be run ragged, girl."

  If she dreaded it, she didn't show it, just giving me another breezy smile. "What are friends for?"

  "Have I mentioned lately how much I love you?"

  Ave laughed. "Say it with a bottle of your 2012 Blanc, and I'm yours."

  "Done," I promised.

  The following day was the first event in my grand plan to revive Oak Valley Vineyard, our unofficial re-launch. My aim was to show the local enthusiasts that, while we put out wine to rival any of the big boys in town, we were also a charming venue for parties, weddings, and retreats. And the food wasn't half bad either.

  "So, what's on the agenda tonight?" Ava asked.

  "Well, I think we should start with that 2012 bottle."

  "I concur!"

  "And then I'm thinking it's a Thelma & Louise night.
"

  "Wow, we're at T&L level?" Ava patted my shoulder. "Must have been a really bad meeting with Gene."

  I nodded. "We're gonna need comfort food too." Friday night was no time to count calories.

  Ava raised her eyebrow my way again. "Pizza?"

  I laughed. "I was thinking more like bacon wrapped scallops. With bacon Brussels. And chocolate dipped bacon." I did mention I was on the generous side of a size 8.

  Ava shrugged. "Okay, you're the boss."

  "Tomorrow I'm the boss," I corrected her. "Tonight all I want is some Geena Davis and a girl's night."

  "That," Ava said, "I can do."

  CHAPTER TWO

  The following morning I was up before dawn, walking Conchita, my house manager, and the three local day servers I'd hired for the event through the finer points of my Spanish Style Paella recipe at an improvised fireplace of loose bricks at the edge of the vineyard.

  We had a private tasting slated for that afternoon, after which I'd be serving a Spanish meal, all cooked outdoors on wood fires, like the Valencians of the Orange Blossom Coast did at seaside picnics—or at least that was what I would be telling my guests in order to add a European flair to the evening. I planned to serve the meal family-style, outdoors on rustic-chic wooden tables under the trees, and paired with an ice-cold pitcher of sangria at each table made of our Zinfandel, club soda, a splash of brandy, and a pinch of sugar.

  "I think we should prepare all the components of the paella in advance, before final assembly," I mused out loud to Conchita. "Brown the meats and have the sofrito bubbling away."

  Conchita nodded, her salt-and-pepper hair bobbing up and down in the loose bun at the back of her plump neck. She'd been at the winery as long as I could remember, and I almost thought of her as a second mother. Though, with her envious dark tan and Hispanic heritage, she looked the polar opposite of my blue-eyed, bought-sunscreen-in-bulk self. Conchita was married to Hector Villarreal, our vineyard manager, who'd been a fixture at Oak Valley Vineyard since boyhood. I'd learned a lot about the vines from him growing up, and I'd even been the flower girl when he married Conchita. While some might refer to the couple as staff, to me they were family. Some days they almost felt like all the family I had left.

  I ignored that downer, though, as Conchita and I worked side by side, adding a splash of oil to a hot pan, along with a finely chopped mixture of onion and seeded tomato, some sweet peppers, and a hint of crushed garlic and parsley. I seasoned it with salt and pepper and a few threads of fragrant saffron then fried it until the sofrito—or fry-up—began to form a paste.

  "That smells amazing," Conchita told me.

  I nodded. "From your mouth to our guests' ears."

  She patted my back. "Don't worry. You know they are going to love this."

  Love to eat? Yes. Love enough to book their next big event here? I could only hope.

  I left the food in Conchita's capable hands and excused myself to get ready for the VIP guests I'd be meeting that day, including local influencers, bloggers, and reporters, as well as socialites, Silicon Valley billionaires, and wine enthusiasts.

  No pressure there.

  I showered and threw on my usual minimal-but-tasteful makeup routine. I prayed for a good hair day, as I attempted to de-frizz via copious hair products. Which was at least mildly successful. Then I slid on a flattering navy shift dress and a pair of red pumps with low heels, as a concession to the amount of walking I'd be doing on the grass that afternoon. I capped it off with Grammy Em's pearl drop earrings and stood back to assess my reflection. I took a deep breath, praying I could project confidence and not the bundle of nerves I could feel brewing in my stomach.

  Fifteen minutes later, I was standing in the circular drive at the head of the estate, awaiting our first guest. Ava was by my side in a clinging forest green sheath, showing one of her own silver crescent moon pendants above a moderate-to-serious amount of cleavage. She squeezed my hand and gave me a fortifying smile as the sound of the first set of tires crunching up the gravel drive approached.

  Vivienne Price-Pennington arrived precisely on time in a big white Rolls Royce. While I'd seen her name in the society pages of our local lifestyle magazine, this was the first time I'd encountered the software billionairess in person. Like many of Silicon Valley's elite, she had a second home here in wine country. The CEO of Price Digital was only a couple of inches taller than my own 5'5", but she seemed to take up a lot of space, her personality radiating from her as she stepped from the vehicle in tailored silk and signature red-soled Louboutins. She had a good fifteen to twenty years on me, and the tight fit of her dress over her hips, the extensions in her dyed auburn hair, and the predatory gleam in her eye all said cougar with a capital C. Which she could well afford to be, her first three companies having been bought out by Microsoft, Apple, and Intel.

  She was accompanied by a young man with dark hair that fell rebelliously into his eyes as he surveyed the vineyard with a perma-scowl on his features. It was a look I'd seen often on the young, idle, and rich in the Bay Area. Beside him stood an older woman with a pinched smile. She wore her A-line skirt and blazer like a starched uniform, complete with hat and gloves, looking almost like a caricature of a society lady on a weekend picnic.

  "Mrs. Price-Pennington," I said, reaching to shake my first VIP's hand. "It's a pleasure to finally meet you."

  She nodded, glancing behind me at the winery, as if assessing its worth. "Please, call me Vivienne. And it's a pleasure to be here. I've heard good things about your small run Petite Sirah."

  "I'll be sure to set a case aside for you," I promised, knowing full well who she'd heard it from. While Gene "Seesaw" Shultz might have his doubts about our long-term solvency, he knew how to push an investment. He'd supplied many of the names on our guest list of the wine loving elite in Sonoma.

  "This is my son, David," Vivienne said, gesturing to the younger man.

  He nodded awkwardly, as if just "my son, David" was a label he was well used to wearing. I shook his hand, which was slightly sweaty despite the cool spring air.

  "And this is my mother, Alison Price."

  Alison gave me a gloved hand that had a surprisingly firm grip. Like her daughter, she was tall, though her hair was a duller brown shot with a generous amount of white. Her face looked naturally lined and Botox-free, though her spine was straight and strong. If I had to guess, I put the baby boomer around seventy, though there was nothing frail looking about the senior citizen.

  "How do you do?" she asked, clearly not caring what the answer to that question was as she quickly turned her attention away from me and toward her grandson. "David, please get my bag from the trunk."

  His scowl deepened, but he ducked back toward the car to obey.

  I quickly introduced Ava to the women and told Vivienne, "Ava's on your table. If you need anything, she'll see to it."

  Vivienne nodded. "I'm looking forward to this Spanish theme of yours. I've just been back from Europe, so I'm intrigued to see your take on it."

  While it was phrased as a statement, it almost came off as a dare. One I planned to take on, guns blazing. "I'm sure you'll enjoy it." I shot her a smile that I hoped was a lot more confident than I felt.

  If she noted any of the nerves coursing through me, she didn't mention them, instead gesturing back down the driveway the way she'd come. "My husband, Chas, was held up at work, so he'll be coming later in the Lamborghini. I'm sure he'll be here in time for the picnic, even if he happens to miss the tasting."

  I nodded, mentally making a note to treat anyone arriving in a Lamborghini as Price-Pennington royalty. "We'll be sure to direct him to your table when he arrives."

  Ava and I ushered the party into the tasting bar, where my bar manager and wine steward, Jean Luc, was preparing his stand-up enologist act. Though, as I'd learned when I'd hired him on last year, Jean Luc preferred the term sommelier to wine steward. In fact, I'd quickly learned that Jean Luc preferred the French term for anything to th
e English. While pretension practically dripped from his thick accent, customers ate it up with silver spoons, today being no exception as I saw Mrs. Price actually crack a genuine smile as he complimented her flower studded hat. My hired day help poured samples for the other guests, and Jean Luc laid on the charm, talking up the Pinot Noir and Chardonnay we had in glass to Vivienne.

  I left Ava in the tasting bar to help Jean Luc and slipped outside to stand at the top end of the avenue and say a mental prayer for success, on the lookout for more cars. One by one they arrived, playing out much as the meeting with Vivienne had. Guests had never been here but were curious to see how the little winery with a growing reputation would pull it off today. The more people who arrived, the more I felt like I was on the job interview of a lifetime. This one meal could make or break our word of mouth.

  I wasn't sure if all the guests had arrived, but I had run a rough car count, which came out to at least thirty influential people, all squeezed into the tasting bar, mingling and murmuring amongst themselves. The atmosphere in that little bar was heady, as if the very air had an alcohol content. The wine jargon flowed whenever the crowd of like-minded enthusiasts took a short break from sniffing and sipping. They pulled all the faces you'd expect to see at tastings—pouting and puffing their cheeks, breathing in through the nose over a mouthful of my Chardonnay, squeezed between tongue and palate. They gargled the contents of their glasses and talked about the "robe," the "nose," and the "legs."

  I turned and walked back to the kitchen, where Conchita was busy organizing the covered plates of paella components and urging the staff on as they transferred the ingredients to a long table under the trees. Outside, I checked the fires in a line of six improvised brick barbecues. Chicken pieces were browning in the sizzling pans, and the rustic tables were all laid, complete with place cards, flowers, and a central board on each, to bear the heat of the pan.