Ripe for Murder
PRAISE FOR
One Foot in the Grape
“[A] barrelful of textured plot twists, robust characters and sparkling suspense . . . [A] mystery of the highest reserve.”
—Jenn McKinlay, New York Times bestselling author
“Piquant, heady and satisfyingly surprising.”
—Carolyn Hart, New York Times bestselling author
“[A] good series, with just the right amount of mystery to keep the reader coming back for more.”
—Suspense Magazine
“The author’s experience as a wine specialist shines . . . This novel accurately reflects the pressure, competition and pride all vineyard owners have over their crops. Equally delightful is the truly likable heroine, whose intelligence is matched by her wry humor and dedication to upholding her particular ethics and sense of justice.”
—Kings River Life Magazine
“A well-rounded mystery that is a welcome addition to the cozy genre. This was a good read and I can’t wait to see what happens next in Cypress Cove.”
—Dru’s Book Musings
“The breathtaking setting and stellar cast of characters—from protagonists Penny and Antonia to their various employees and family members to Penny’s pets, gray tabby Petite Syrah and malamute Nanook—made this a sparkling debut.”
—Melissa’s Mochas, Mysteries & Meows
Titles by Carlene O’Neil
ONE FOOT IN THE GRAPE
RIPE FOR MURDER
An imprint of Penguin Random House
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014
RIPE FOR MURDER
A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the author
Copyright © 2016 by Carlene O’Neil.
Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.
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eBook ISBN: 978-0-698-15434-6
PUBLISHING HISTORY
Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / March 2016
Cover art by Robert Crawford.
Cover design by Danielle Abbiate.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Version_1
This is for Doug, my partner in crime
Contents
Praise for One Foot in the Grape
Titles by Carlene O’Neil
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
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
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
One
I’D taken my suitcase out of the closet three days ago, and the only other thing I’d managed to do was trip over it.
“You going to pack that thing anytime soon?” Connor took a sip of coffee. “You leave in two days.”
“Tell me again we can handle the extra foot traffic.”
“We’ll be fine. We might need to add some staff, but we’ll manage. It’s more a question of what direction you want to take the winery.”
I didn’t respond. Connor had been running the winery with my aunt for years before I’d inherited, and we both knew I wouldn’t make a decision without him.
I walked to the desk, reaching once again for the invitation, the ivory linen paper with raised script clearly designed to impress. A group that specialized in train tours was recruiting investors for a new line in Monterey County. I’d been invited because my contribution would be a narrow strip of land running alongside my vineyards. I invest the land, and the train practically stops at the door of the winery’s tasting room.
“It just seems like such a big commitment, and there’s no going back once we’ve agreed,” I said.
Connor shrugged. “That’s why you accepted the invitation. Just head up to Napa and see what they have in mind.”
Joyeux Winery is small by most winery standards and is near the town of Cypress Cove, just south of Monterey. I liked the pace of running a small winery and didn’t need to be the next household name in wine. On the other hand, I didn’t like how frequently I had to use red ink at the end of the month. I toyed with the invitation.
“Have you talked to Antonia?” Connor asked. “Isn’t her contribution going to be a similar strip off the back of her land?”
I nodded. Antonia’s my neighbor and a distant relative. She also owns the largest, most successful winery along the central coast. Our relationship has never been easy, especially since as a teen I’d frequently thrown parties in her vineyards. She has a sharp mind and a sharper tongue, and you always know what she’s thinking. She has worn long black dresses, her silver hair piled high, for as long as I can remember, and admits to being seventy but must be denying at least a decade. I can’t decide if she looked old thirty years ago, or she looks terrific now.
“Antonia is all for anything that helps the wineries in this area grow. She can’t wait to go, especially since it comes with an opportunity to snoop on the wineries in Napa Valley.”
“I’m sure she’ll take full advantage of that,” Connor said.
Only 3 percent of California wines come from Napa Valley, but its influence on the wine industry is undeniable. Equally undeniable is the beauty of the area. I was looking forward to seeing it again.
No, the trip itself wasn’t the issue; it was what to do about Connor. The invitation included a weekend at a spa hotel just outside of St. Katrina. It was romantic, luxurious and the perfect place to spend time with the man in my life.
My problem was that I didn’t have a man in my life. Sure, Connor was the man of my dreams, but only in my dreams. He was the best winery manager in the region, and since my return to the winery, I’d managed to contain my growing feelings for him. Joyeux Winery wouldn’t be the same without him, and I wasn’t sure about mixing business with pleasure, even though I was confident the encounter would be pleasurable, indeed. Like most winery managers, Connor was equal parts chemist, businessman, scie
ntist and farmer. He was smart in a soft flannel shirt. Throw in tall, good-looking and funny, and you see my dilemma.
I took a breath. “The thing is, I think you should be there. If we agree to invest, this will impact you more than me. Hayley can handle everything here while we’re gone.” Hayley is my niece and assistant manager at the winery.
Connor nodded. “Okay. No problem. They offered two rooms at the hotel if you wanted to bring someone. I’ll call them and let them know I’m coming.”
He stood and stretched, the flannel shirt riding up to show the trim physique that working outside all day in the fields had given him. Connor had a house in town, but most mornings he joined me in my kitchen to review the day’s schedule. He walked over to the counter to pour himself more coffee, the smell of soap and the outdoors lingering as he walked past.
I reached for the cream, adjusted the elastic waistband of my workout pants—otherwise known as pajamas—and tried not to look disappointed. I was ambivalent over my feelings about Connor and didn’t want to risk our relationship, but staying with me clearly hadn’t even crossed his mind. I adjusted the waist of my pants again. It was only an extra ten pounds, but suddenly it felt like a lot more. I pushed the cream away.
“Sounds good, but don’t worry about calling the hotel. I’ll take care of it.”
Connor poured a last cup of coffee and raised it in a departing gesture. He moved with unconscious ease through the French doors, down the back steps and into the rows of Chardonnay grapes that grew right up to the back of my deck. As I poured myself another cup, the phone rang. I sighed when I saw the caller ID.
“Hi, Antonia.”
“I’m bringing Chantal.”
I put the cup down and took a seat. “Good morning to you too.”
“Yes, well, good morning. I’m bringing Chantal.”
“Yes, I heard.” Unfortunately. Antonia’s youngest daughter, Chantal, had always been a source of irritation, sometimes reaching the level of infuriation, like when she stole my first boyfriend in high school. She was perfectly gorgeous, with luxuriant dark hair and the vibrant green eyes the Martinellis were known for. She lived at Martinelli Vineyards with Antonia and had recently taken over the marketing efforts of Martinelli Winery. She was surprisingly good at it too.
“Well, I wanted you to know. I realize it hasn’t always been easy between you two, but I think it’s a good idea that she sees what we’re talking about.”
“Sure. I understand. Connor’s going too.”
There was a pause. “Well, that could get a little sticky.”
“Sticky? Sticky, Antonia? Anytime Chantal gets around Connor there’s only one thing that gets sticky, and it’s her.” She was like flypaper for any man who flew into her atmosphere. As far as I knew, Connor was the one guy in Cypress Cove who had, so far, resisted Chantal’s advances. Not that it stopped her from trying.
“You’re exaggerating.”
“You want to give her the benefit of the doubt, something I don’t have to do, not being her mother.”
“I will ensure she behaves and the atmosphere remains businesslike. If not, I will make it right.”
“That’s something I can’t wait to see.”
“Don’t underestimate me, Penelope.”
She only calls me that when she’s perturbed.
“Okay, Antonia. I’m relying on you.”
“You can’t blame Chantal for holding out hope. If you were to remove Connor from the town’s list of single men, it would make things easier.”
Chantal didn’t necessarily care if the man in question was single or not, but I let that pass.
“You forget; I need to work with Connor. The work and the winery need to come first.”
There was a pause. “I thought that way most of my life too, and it cost me good relationships over the years. I’m still playing catch-up with my children, and Chantal’s the only one who talks to me. He’s a fine man, Penny. You’d be a fool to let him get away.”
“Thanks for the advice.”
“Besides, you aren’t getting any younger.”
“Thanks again.”
“You just spent so many years away, traveling and taking pictures.” She made it sound like an expensive hobby.
“That’s what photojournalists do. We travel and take pictures.”
“So now you’re in your thirties—late thirties, I might add—and alone.”
“I’m not alone. I’m single. Bye, Antonia.” I tried not to slam down the phone. Photojournalism had kept me on the road nine months out of the year, but I hadn’t regretted it then and wouldn’t now.
I was, however, glad to have the freedom to choose the subjects I wanted, and now preferred the landscape shots I sold in the galleries that lined Cypress Cove’s main street. I was fortunate enough to be living a life that suited me. I reached once again for the wine-train brochure.
Running from St. Katrina to Aqua Caliente, towns a short distance from Napa, the train was owned and operated by the same group that wanted to expand into Monterey County. The tracks were originally laid in the 1800s, when wealthy San Franciscans travelled north by ferry and luxury train to enjoy weekends in the country. After the completion of the Golden Gate Bridge, trains were no longer the fashionable way to make the trip. The train cars were sold off and the tracks slowly fell into disrepair until the 1970s, when the northern sections were restored and Pullman railcars began making the trip once again.
I didn’t know much about trains, but even I could see their beauty. Honduran mahogany paneling, etched and stained glass partitions, Tiffany lighting fixtures and brass accents throughout. The train had one car for dining, and another car had an antique bar running its length, with a corner fireplace. Even in the photos the richness of the rose velvet fabrics and lead-crystal stemware came through. The slick and glossy brochure covered anything you would ever want to know about the train. It seemed that the only thing not covered was what to do in the unlikely event one of your fellow train travelers turned out to be a killer. That one I had to find out on my own.
Two
“WELL, this is pretty nice.” I looked around.
“That’s an understatement,” Connor said. “It’s already surpassed its reputation, and we’re still in the lobby.”
The Silverado Mission Inn and Spa was, in a word, spectacular. Stucco walls with arched doorways led off the main reception, their umber hue complementing a solid oak–beam ceiling three stories above the lobby. With very simple décor, the space was lit by beaten-copper candleholders and stained glass chandeliers. Hand-turned earthenware in various natural tones added spots of color, and the oversized furnishings were covered in leather and suede. The floor gleamed with polished Mexican tile, and the fireplace with its massive oak mantel was so large I could stand in it. The simple clean design was both powerful and inviting.
A gentleman wearing an Armani suit walked over and picked up my case.
“Sorry, I think you’ve grabbed the wrong bag. That one’s mine.”
He smiled. “My name’s George. I work for the hotel. I’m the butler in charge of your suite. Once we get you checked in, I’ll be taking your bag to your room.”
I had a butler. “Good to meet you, George. Nice suit.”
We walked up to the counter. The receptionist wore a similar suit, only skirted and in a size two. She took my name and reached for a large book.
“You still use a book for reservations?”
She smiled over the cover. “No computers at the front desk, and we discourage cell phone use in the public spaces. Everything at Silverado is designed to be as welcoming and intimate as an old-world holiday, perhaps with some distant European relative you never knew existed, at a distant villa you’ll never wish to leave.”
I nodded. “It’s working.”
She glanced at the book and then at Connor. �
��There seems to be some mistake. They booked two rooms for you.”
“No, that’s right.” Heat crept into my cheeks. “Two rooms.”
“Of course.” She recovered nicely, but I caught the look she gave Connor. It was longer than her first glance, and she raised one eyebrow as she turned back to me. Terrific. Even strangers were giving their opinion on my nonexistent love life.
She handed me a real key, a big old-fashioned bronze one that was satisfyingly heavy in my palm. “Would you like to book any of the spa treatments?”
“I’m not really sure we’ll have enough time.”
“Go ahead, make time. You’ve been looking tired lately.” Connor stopped. “I don’t mean that you’ve been looking bad or anything . . .”
My cheeks warmed. “I’m fine, really.”
She studied my face and passed a menu of services across the counter. “At the very least, book some time in the spa relaxation pools. The water comes straight from the hot springs at 106 degrees. You start at the lower pools and work your way up to the warmer ones. You’ll come out completely refreshed and invigorated.”
I shoved the brochure in my bag. “Thanks. I’ll think about it.”
“Yes, well, George will take you to your room now, Miss Lively.” It wasn’t my imagination. A slight emphasis on the “Miss” echoed through the lobby.
George was both dignified and sprightly, and I had a hard time keeping up. He spoke over his shoulder as we walked to the elevator.
“Another option you might consider is hiking or possibly biking through the mountains and wineries surrounding us. It’s a wonderful way to both enjoy the locale and work on your physical activity.”
“On the other hand,” I said, moments later when we entered the room, “I could spend the entire trip right here.” I gave a little twirl around the suite. “This is larger than some of my past apartments.”
Lime green and yellows played against the cream stucco walls. French doors opened to a large veranda, and the fireplace was framed with tiles hand painted in a vine motif. The drapes and spreads were patterned in the same motif, the Cabernet hue of the grapes the only other color in the décor.