Death in Wine Country (Wine & Dine Mysteries Book 5)

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  DEATH IN WINE COUNTRY

  Wine & Dine Mysteries book #5

  by

  GEMMA HALLIDAY

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  Copyright © 2020 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

  RECIPES

  FREE BOOK OFFER

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  BOOKS BY GEMMA HALLIDAY

  Dedicated to Zack, who loves bacon more than anyone I know.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Carrie Cross smiled back at me, her alabaster skin even more radiant in the late afternoon sunlight than it was on daytime television. While both she and her alter ego, Stormy Winters, the character she played on the soap opera Carefree Hearts, were California natives, that was where the similarities between the two ended. Unlike Stormy, who lived up to her name on every episode, Carrie was more like a Disney Princess—kind, upbeat, and possessing a sort of flawless beauty that made one wonder if she was real or airbrushed. Currently, Carrie's deep brown eyes shone with excitement as she led the way up the unpaved path to her new house. Her long blonde hair shimmered with every move, and her figure-hugging dress did what it was made to do, showing her slim frame off to perfection.

  "So, what do you think, Emmy?" she asked me, her voice full of enthusiasm. "Isn't it just the perfect vacation home?"

  The sun dropped lower in the sky as evening approached, bouncing its color across the cream colored craftsman style building, and my eyes roamed the lush acreage that sprawled toward the backdrop of shady oak trees and scattered tall pines. On the far side of the home, a large stone fire pit was the centerpiece to ten Adirondack chairs complete with sumptuous cushions, the flames roaring already for the evening ahead.

  "It's stunning," I agreed, taking it all in.

  "I know it's a bit excessive for a second home," Carrie admitted, eyes straying to the two-story five-bedroom house. "But my filming schedule is just so hectic, and I really do need a place to unwind and relax. And, you know, Bert has been such a whiz with the investments he's made for me that, well…I think we're going to be very happy here."

  Carrie beamed as her french bulldog, Barkley, dashed between her legs, rolling onto his side in the thick grass. "I know we still have to put some finishing touches on it," she continued, "but we're mostly there. I want to paint the upstairs guest rooms still, and we need to replace the old security system." She paused. "I mean, not that it doesn't work, but it only has a couple of cameras—one at the property entrance and one at the front door. Bert said there are a lot of fans who don't understand boundaries, so he's upgrading to a whole smart home system. It's better to be safe than sorry."

  On that point, I agreed. While Carrie wasn't exactly at the Hollywood royalty level of stardom, I knew her character had gotten her fair share of fan mail—sometimes praising her and sometimes not quite understanding the lines between her villainous character and the reality of Carrie the actress. So I was glad her husband, Bert, had an eye on her protection.

  I'd first met Carrie when I'd been working as a personal chef in Los Angeles, right after graduating from the CIA. (Just not that CIA—the Culinary Institute of America. Though, I'd put my knife skills up against any federal agent's.) Carrie had been gracious enough to hire me to cater a cast party for her, despite my lack of résumé at the time. We'd gotten along so well that she'd ended up being a regular client. I'd done monthly dinner parties for her and her friends, as well as several more cast parties. We'd both been sad to part ways when I'd moved back home to run my family's small winery, Oak Valley Vineyards, but thanks to social media, we'd kept in touch since then. So when Carrie had decided to purchase a vacation home in Wine Country, the first thing she'd done once the papers were signed was call me to help her plan a housewarming party designed to showcase her new "rustic" country home. And maybe make her LA friends just a smidgeon jealous in the process.

  "I know a couple of people I could refer you to for installing a security system," I told her, thinking of the handyman we'd used to fix our electrical panel last month. Oak Valley Vineyards had been in my family for generations, and it was starting to show it—needing just about a new everything all the time.

  "Thanks! I'll take you up on that. I mean, not that you have a lot of crime up here in Wine Country," Carrie went on. "I personally think Bert just wants to play with some new gadgets." She laughed, the sound light and tinkling, almost like a song. "But I suppose he can afford them. Oh, I will never get enough of this view!" She finally paused for a breath as she spread her arms wide in a dramatic gesture that took in the distant rolling hills full of grapevines just starting to bud as spring crept up on us.

  "That makes two of us," I told her honestly. While I'd been reluctant to leave my burgeoning career in LA for the relative quiet of Sonoma, I had to admit the scenery was a huge plus. That, and with my mom's health failing, I'd had little choice. But I shoved those less-than-party-worthy thoughts aside as I focused on Carrie's running monologue again.

  "I had really wanted to have the party outside here, but Bert said it's just too cold still, even if we rented heaters. I suppose he's right—he usually is!—but I'd love to have my birthday party out here next month. Oh! You could cater that too, right, Emmy?"

  "I'd be happy to," I replied, meaning it as I mentally pictured my accountant, Gene Schultz, giving me a double thumbs-up. He'd been hounding me to finish my quarterly taxes, which might have been an easier task for me to do if I had enough money in our bank account to actually pay them. As it was, we were looking at having to file extensions and incur penalties that in no time would start eating up any profits we made. But the revenue from this catering gig would help. And if Carrie had regular work? Who knew. We might even see black in our account books next quarter!

  Carrie clapped, lifting up onto her tiptoes, her delight evident. "Oh, I've missed your cooking. The company I hired to do the last cast party was just so generic, you know?
Tartare this and sashimi that. It's all been done! I know you will really wow everyone tonight."

  Suddenly I was a bit worried at living up to her expectations. I had, in fact, put a tartare on the menu. Granted, it was a vegan one—one of Carrie's requests. Apparently her LA friends didn't "do" meat, dairy, or gluten. Which I'd feared only left cooking with air, but I was CIA trained, after all—I could even make air taste good. "I'll do my best," I promised.

  "Most of the cast are flying in, and some of the network mucky-mucks, of course. Must play nice to the powers that be." She winked at me. "So I want everything to be perfect, you know? Just really dazzle them with all that Wine Country has to offer." She took my hand and squeezed it, her grin upping in wattage. "This is going to be so fun!"

  "Maybe I should get a look at the kitchen and get started," I offered, trying not to let the pressure get to me.

  "Oh, you're going to love it. That was one place I insisted Bert stay out of the renovations and leave it all to me." She winked again. "It's a total chef's dream!"

  Some of the trepidation started to melt away as the chef in me "dreamed" big.

  "But, before we go inside, I have to show you Dante."

  I raised one eyebrow, wondering who or what Dante was. I didn't get a chance to ask, as Carrie was off and running again.

  "Bert wanted to give me an early birthday present, and when I found Dante, I knew I just had to have him. He only arrived a couple of days ago, and he's quite wild, but he's so beautiful, and I love him already," she gushed.

  "Wild?" I asked, following her as she led the way around the back of the house toward a large barn and horse corral a few yards away.

  "Uh-huh." Carrie glanced back at me, eyes shining. "Isn't that crazy? Like, an actual wild horse. It's straight out of a movie, right?"

  "A horse. I didn't know you rode," I told her. From what I'd remembered of Carrie, she'd been more of a mimosas-at-noon kind of gal than a doing-anything-that-might-result-in-dirt-in-her-manicure girl. Barkley was about as close to wildlife as she'd gotten.

  "Oh, I don't. Yet. But I'm all in on this country vacation thing. I read an article in Vanity Fair that said horseback riding is very relaxing." She nodded sagely. "And Dante won't be wild for long. Tripp will have that horsy as tame as a bunny in no time."

  I didn't have the opportunity to ask who Tripp was, as we approached a dirt filled arena that caused my heart rate to speed up. Or more accurately, it was the stallion galloping wildly that caused my heart rate to spike. A man in a cowboy hat stood in the center of the arena, a rope loosely slung in his hand. Dust billowed behind the horse's hooves as it stomped the ground, its mane whipping in his wake.

  "That's Tripp there," Carrie said as she scooped Barkley up in her arms, pointing to the either brave or stupid man egging on the stallion. "Tripp Jones…you've heard of him?"

  I shook my head. While our property was just under ten acres, all of that land was allocated to either vineyards or the winery buildings. Horses were something I had little experience with. "I take it he's a local?" I asked.

  Carrie nodded. "He's known as a horse whisperer. My costar, Harper, recommended him to me. Her family has their own estate over in Napa. I knew that as soon as Tripp met Dante, he would have no trouble taming him."

  The chestnut colored horse with the black mane must have caught our scent on the wind, as he appeared to spook and kick up his back legs. His head was bowed as he bucked, and I had my doubts as to how easy Tripp's job was going to be.

  "Just wait until the guests see this," Carrie said, eyes sparkling. "Like, nobody in LA has a wild horse, right?"

  I had to admit, I hadn't seen them trotting around Beverly Hills during my residency there.

  Barkley let out a yap, and the horse whisperer turned, shooting an annoyed glare our way. While his expression was not necessarily welcoming, the rest of him was surprisingly easy on the eyes. He appeared about my age—somewhere in the twenty-nine-ish zone—and his Wranglers were slung low on his hips, held in place with a large silver buckle. His flannel shirt flapped open, showing off a white T-shirt that was plastered tight against his toned torso, and the skin on his forearms and face was a sun-kissed bronze. He had Bad Boy written all over him, and I wondered if Bert had approved this particular hire.

  Carrie waved, oblivious to the man's scowl. "Tripp, come meet my friend Emmy."

  He obliged, turning and making his way out of the corral and leaving Dante on his own. The animal settled down to a brisk walk, though he pawed at the ground as he passed us, as if almost daring us to mess with him.

  "How is he?" Carrie eagerly asked Tripp as he came up to us from the other side of the fence.

  "Wild." His voice was deep and had a clipped quality.

  "I'm sure you'll have him whipped into shape in no time."

  Tripp frowned. "I don't whip any animal. Never have and never will."

  "Oh! I didn't mean that literally." Carrie let out her tinkling laugh again. "I just meant that you'd have him behaving. I mean, that's what you do, right? Whisper sweet nothings to them and all that." Carrie shot him a knowing grin.

  But Tripp seemed to have no reaction to her song-like laughter or her wide smile, his expression neutral as he replied, "Something like that." His eyes flitted toward me, and I could feel him giving me a quick appraisal.

  "Oh, sorry. Tripp, this is my friend Emmeline Oak. She owns a winery nearby."

  "Please, call me Emmy," I said.

  Tripp touched the rim of his hat and nodded in my direction.

  "Emmy's going to be catering the party tonight," Carrie went on. "When you're done here, you should come up to the house. Practically everyone in Hollywood will be there!"

  While I knew that was a slight exaggeration, I could see the idea causing Tripp's frown to reappear. "Don't think it's really my crowd, ma'am," he said.

  But Carrie waved him off. "Oh, don't be silly. A real life cowboy? You'll be the most popular man in the room!"

  Tripp did more scowling, clearly unconvinced.

  Dante completed another circle of the arena, kicking indignant dust our way as he passed by, and Barkley let out a yip toward the large beast. Which caused Dante to rear forward, kicking up his back legs in response.

  "You need to keep that dog away from here," Tripp said. "If it gets kicked by Dante, it'll be the end of it."

  Carrie protectively pulled Barkley tight against her chest, smoothing his short hair. "Dante wouldn't hurt my baby."

  I doubted that. Dante looked ready to hurt anyone or thing that got near him. For all Tripp's hard demeanor, I had to hand it to him in the bravery department. You couldn't pay me to step into that arena with Dante.

  "Maybe you could show me the kitchen now?" I suggested, nudging Carrie.

  "Right. Of course. Let's get this party rolling, huh?" she said, putting her breezy smile back on as she turned to lead the way to the house.

  * * *

  After showing me the lay of the land in her culinary haven—which was, as promised, a dream to a chef like myself—Carrie left me to prep as she went upstairs to the master suite to get herself party ready. I was well into slicing up a plate of raw veggies to look like a garden, complete with flowered radishes and cherry tomatoes, when my sous-chef for the evening arrived. Ava Barnett, my best friend, had graciously agreed to help me serve, and I was pretty sure it was only halfway because she was a massive Carefree Hearts fan.

  Ava and I had known each other since we were teenagers, and I often thought of Ava more like a sister than best friend. Some people even said we looked similar. We were both somewhere in the size eight realm, even if Ava's size eight was all athletic lines and mine was more dessert-loving curves. We both wore our blonde hair long, though Ava's was silky smooth and picture perfect in any weather, while mine tended to range from wavy to frizzy to downright Einsteinish, depending on the day and amount of hair products I had on hand. And while I usually preferred to keep it simple in the wardrobe arena, with jeans, T-shirts, and t
he occasion pair of high heels to jazz things up, Ava's style was a feminine bo-ho chic that always felt light and timeless.

  "Sorry I'm late," she said, rushing into the room. Her floral dress billowed around her knees as she gave me a quick hug that enveloped me in a cloud of peachy lotion. Ava owned her own jewelry shop, Silver Girl, in downtown Sonoma, and her arms jingled with her latest creations as she plopped her bag onto the counter. "I couldn't decide what to wear. I mean, just the idea of meeting him had me flustered."

  "Him?" I asked, raising an eyebrow her way.

  "Nolan Becker." The name was said on a sigh.

  I shook my head. "Should I know him?"

  Ava gave me a horrified look. "Uh, yeah! Nolan Becker?" She reached into her bag and pulled out a copy of Soap Opera Digest. "He plays Dr. Drake Dubois."

  I glanced at the page in her hand, a classically tall, dark, and handsome guy in a white clinical coat staring back at me. "He's cute," I admitted.

  "Girlfriend, that's like saying bacon is kinda tasty."

  I couldn't help a grin. Ava was well aware of my love affair with bacon.

  "Dr. Dubois is beyond cute," she went on. "He's hot. Like, volcanic. You should see him on the show. He has smoldering looks down to a science."

  "Down, girl," I joked.

  "Oh, there will be no down if Nolan shows up. You know my mother always wanted me to marry a doctor."

  I shot her a look. "Your mother gave me a Ruth Bader Ginsberg doll for Christmas. Feminist is her middle name. There is no way she dreamed of you marrying a doctor."

  Ava grinned. "Okay, fine. So she wanted me to be a doctor. But one look at my chemistry grades killed that dream, so I'm pretty sure marrying is as close as she's gonna get."

  "You know this guy only plays a doctor, right?"

  She waved me off. "Details. I'm not the picky type."