G'Day To Die Page 15

  “Stay out of my face, Diana,” Roger threatened, “or you’re going to be one sorry scientist.”

  She laughed dismissively. “What are you going to do? Invite me to go on a boat ride with you?”

  I found the up and down buttons, wiggled the click stick, and accessed another menu. Highlighting the appropriate waypoint, I glanced at a new screen that showed the digits zero-one-four within a little flag. Ta da! But there were a gazillion numbers marking longitude and latitude. How was I supposed to remember all of them? I didn’t even memorize phone numbers anymore. I used speed dial!

  “I’d love to see what happens to you around water,” Roger mocked. “My best guess is that your face dissolves. Am I right?”

  “You’re a dickhead, Roger. You’re not going to win Nora over. I’ll see to it personally—that’s a promise.”

  “Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Toots. Hey, where’d the old broad go with my GPS?”

  I powered off the unit and waved it at him. “Here you go. She wasn’t impressed. She said she’d rather have a compass.”

  He regarded the blank screen. “Did you turn it off?”

  “Yup. Didn’t want to drain your batteries.”

  “How’d you know which button to press?”

  “Lucky guess.”

  He eyed me suspiciously. “You better not have screwed anything up. No one touches my GPS. If that witch hadn’t distracted me—” He threw an ugly look after Diana as she hiked back toward the main building.

  “You two have become pretty fierce competitors, hunh?” I asked.

  “She’ll never be in my league. She’s a rank amateur. What she doesn’t know is, when she least suspects it, I’m going to crush her.” He cracked his knuckles in seeming anticipation and smiled. “Metaphorically, of course.”

  I hoped his metaphorical definition of the word “crush” didn’t include any activity that would impair Diana’s ability to walk, talk, or breathe. He might be short, but he was so bulked up with muscle, he might as well have OVERSIZE LOAD tattooed on his forehead. If he fell on top of her, we’d need a crane to lift him off.

  I blanched at the image. I hope he hadn’t just confessed to meditating about premeditated murder. If Diana ended up dead, where would that leave me, other than being the sole witness who could squeal on him? Oh, God. “Uhh, I’m going to jog up to the main building and join the others before all the wine is gone.” I edged away from him. “See you at the tasting counter.”

  “Never touch the stuff. Too many toxins. But you go ahead. We’ve all gotta die of something.”

  He grinned when he said it.

  “White wines aren’t actually white. They range from green, to yillow, to brown, with more color indicating more flavor. Rid wines range from pale rid to a deep brown rid and usually become lighter in color as they age.”

  Our wine expert stood behind a long counter in a room whose stone walls and exposed wood beams smacked of an English hunting lodge, minus the big-game heads mounted over the mantel. Boxed sets of the winery’s premier labels sat on display tables along the walls, while sparkling stemware crowded the countertop, waiting to be filled.

  “Proper tasting is a six-step prociss,” our hostess continued. “See, swirl, sniff, sip, swish, and spit.” She decanted a small amount of a straw-colored wine into a glass. “I’ll go over these steps with you briefly, then we’ll git right to it. You can till a great deal about a wine simply by looking at it, or ‘seeing’ it.”

  I tuned her out as I jotted down the coordinates I’d seen on Roger’s GPS.

  “If those are potential wedding dates,” Duncan said over my shoulder, “I’m available, and I know for a fact that Miceli happens to be busy, so why don’t you pencil me in?”

  I closed my little notebook and dropped it back in my shoulder bag. “How do you know Etienne is busy?”

  “He’s retired, Em. Trust me, he already has an appointment with his sofa and big-screen TV on those dates. Miceli is a nice guy, but don’t you think you’re a little young to hang up the dancing shoes? Marry me, Em.” He intertwined his fingers with mine and drew me close. “We can travel to every corner of the world together. We can see it all; do it all. I love you. How many languages would you like me to translate that into for you?”

  “Nixt, we swirl the wine to release the bouquet, then we sniff deeply,” our hostess announced, demonstrating the procedure.

  I lowered my voice to a whisper as I surveyed the crowded room. “I’m not sure this is the place to be discussing love and marriage, Duncan.”

  “Where is the place? Tell me. We can ditch Miceli and—” His expression soured as he glanced beyond me. “Damn.”

  I followed his gaze to find Etienne threading his way through the crowd toward us.

  “Remimber that your taste buds are on the front and back of your tongue,” said our hostess, “so once you’ve sipped, swish the wine around to awaken your sinses. If you draw in a little air at the same time, you’ll enhance the flavor even more.”

  “Emily, darling,” whispered Etienne as he brushed his thumb down my cheek, “why is there a balloon hanging from your grandmother’s ear?”

  “Shoot, the hairpins must have fallen out. Where is she? I’ll need to fix it.” I went up on tiptoe. “And it’s not a balloon, it’s a glove—or it used to be, before I cut off four of the fingers.”

  “Of course.” Etienne nodded his understanding. “A glove makes much more sense than a balloon.”

  “Have you talked to her about earmuffs?” asked Duncan.

  Our hostess’s voice grew louder. “After you’ve swished, I suggist you spit out your wine in any of the barrels provided throughout the room. If you prefer not to spit, it’s perfectly acciptable to swallow after you gurgle it a little at the back of your mouth to release more flavor. See, swirl, sniff, sip, swish, and spit. Are you riddy to begin? Billy up to the bar, mates. I’ll pour samples of our nineteen-ninety-eight chardonnay for each of you.”

  A crushing wave of humanity pressed forward, arms extended and fingers grabbing. It reminded me of a recent customer appreciation day at Fareway Foods when the hot giveaway item had been pork-flavored minimarshmallows.

  “Wine anyone?” asked Duncan.

  I gazed at the mayhem. “I value my life too much.”

  “Not as much as I value it,” said Etienne, lifting my hand to his mouth and placing a soft kiss on my inner wrist that tingled all the way to my shoulder.

  Eh!

  “I don’t mean to pry, Imily,” Henry said as he joined us, “but why is your grandmother wearing a condom on her ear?”

  “Whin you sniff this chardonnay,” our hostess yelled above the clinking, slurping, and spitting, “you’ll note it has a stunning nose with a palate of ripe, tropical fruit, coconut, milon, and spicy oak. Does anyone ilse want a sample?”

  “That’s my cue,” said Duncan. “Samples all around?”

  “Not for me.” Henry held up his hand. “The company frowns on their drivers gitting hammered, especially whin they’re on the job.”

  Which reminded me in a roundabout sort of way—“Are either of you familiar with global positioning systems?”

  “Those new personal units are pretty expinsive,” said Henry, “but they make great toys for the hard-to-buy-for bloke. I have one on my Amazon wish list.”

  “My department was in the process of installing them in our police cars when I left,” said Etienne.

  “If I had latitude and longitude for an unknown location, but didn’t have a GPS unit, do you know where I could look that would tell me where the location was?”

  “A gazetteer,” said Henry. “It would at least git you in the right ballpark.”

  “Google Earth,” said Etienne. “Type in your coordinates, and you can zoom in on a dime you dropped in your driveway.” He narrowed his blue eyes at me. “Why is it that you always put the fear of God in me when you ask questions like that, bella?”

  “Ask and you shall receive,” sa
id Duncan, handing Etienne and me glasses half-filled with straw-colored wine. “I’d like to offer a toast.” He raised his glass.

  “Enjoy,” said Henry as he left us.

  Duncan clinked his glass against ours and gave Etienne a meaningful look. “What do you say, Miceli? May the best man win?”

  “Farabutto,” spat Etienne.

  “Imbroglione,” hissed Duncan.

  I rolled my eyes. Not again. I knocked back my chardonnay and toasted them with my empty glass. “You two keep up the friendly dialogue. I’m going back for a refill.”

  I skirted the perimeter until I found a path through the crowd, then inched my way toward the counter, where our hostess was brandishing a new bottle in the air. “This is our nineteen-ninety-siven Riesling with a lovely nose of limes, marmalade, and apricots.”

  I spied Heath and Nora at the far end of the counter, wineglasses extended for a hit of the Riesling, while Roger and Diana brandished their stemware erratically and yapped at them like schnauzers. Huh, that was odd. What was Roger doing waving a glass around? Had he decided to drink the wine despite all the toxins he’d been fussing about? Jake lurked beside the group, looking ridiculously sinister as he cradled his wineglass against his chest. His proximity to Heath boded trouble, so I was glad Henry was close by so he could break up—

  “CAN YOU BREATHE, DICK?” Helen Teig thumped her husband between his shoulder blades.

  “Is he okay?” I asked anxiously.

  “Yeah, he accidentally combined ‘swish’ and ‘swallow’ and got ‘choke.’”

  “The savory palate of the Riesling is a blend of spice and honey,” our hostess informed us as she filled empty glasses.

  “The lady said to swirl the wine, Dick,” Grace Stolee scolded. “Swirl, not slosh. The idea is to release the aroma—not run through a spin cycle! You’ll never get that stain out.”

  I heard a sound like a toy motorboat and glanced across my shoulder to find Osmond Chelsvig with his head thrown back, acting as if he had a mouth full of Listerine. I made a slight detour toward him.

  “Osmond?”

  He gulped down what was in his mouth and smiled at me. “This tastes much better than my regular mouthwash.”

  “Why are you gargling?”

  “That’s what the lady said to do. Gargle before swallowing.”

  I shook my head. “Watch my lips. Gurrrgle. Gurgle before swallowing.” I tapped my earlobe. “Check your batteries, okay?”

  I placed my glass on the counter and tried to avoid getting crushed as I waited for it to be filled.

  “Emily, dear! Yoo-hoo!” Nana plowed through the crowd with Tilly, Margi, and Bernice in tow. “Wasn’t that chardonnay somethin’? I couldn’t taste no coconut, though.”

  “That’s because you have to sip before you spit,” Bernice said dully.

  Nana shrugged impishly. “I got my steps outta order.”

  “Bernice should talk,” Margi balked. “She went directly from see to swallow. I don’t know what happened to swirl, sniff, sip, and swish.”

  I cuddled up to Nana and gave her a hug. “Did no one bother to tell you that your hairpins came loose? Henry asked why you’re wearing a condom in your ear.”

  “No kiddin’? What size?”

  I pinned the remnants of the glove back under her hair while the other ladies placed their glasses on the counter.

  “Have any of you seen Connie?” Ellie asked, looking like a lost soul as she bumped into us. “One minute he’s spitting into a barrel, and the next minute he’s gone.”

  Tilly scanned the room. That’s one of the advantages of being six feet tall in your stocking feet. “There he is. Look for Jake Silverthorn’s hat, and you’ll be right on target.”

  “Party time!” said Bernice, grabbing a newly filled glass off the counter.

  “Wait a minute,” said Margi. “That’s my glass.”

  “Is not.”

  “Is so. I put mine next to the one that’s smeared with lipstick.”

  “That would be mine,” I said, snatching it up.

  “I’m keeping this glass,” vowed Bernice.

  “Well, I’m not drinking after you,” said Margi. “I want a new one. S’cuse me! Can I get a clean glass over here?”

  “I don’t mean to confuse the issue,” said Tilly, “but I could have sworn I put my glass next to the one with the lipstick print.”

  At birthday parties you played musical chairs; at wine-tasting parties it was musical glasses.

  The sound of shattering glass echoed through the room, followed by a boom that vibrated the floor-boards.

  “What was that?” asked Nana.

  “Call an ambulance!” a man shouted.

  Our hostess slammed her bottle of Reisling onto the counter in disgust. “That’s it! I’ve had it with you flaming tour groups. The idea is to taste the wine, not drink yoursilves into a bloody coma!”

  Chapter 13

  Osmond read from his tally sheet as we huddled next to the building where paramedics had been administering to Nora Acres. “Five people think she collapsed from the heat. One person thinks it was a heart attack. One person thinks she fainted from thirst. I reckon that’d be Lucille. Three people say she collapsed from old age, and one person says she’s faking it to draw attention to herself.” We all stared at Bernice.

  “What? You’ve never heard of Munchausen’s Syndrome? Don’t you people ever watch ER?”

  “She wasn’t faking it,” Tilly chided. “Did you see the poor woman when they took her away? She looked as if she were on her deathbed.”

  And if it was possible, Heath had looked even worse.

  A local ambulance had arrived in record time and whisked them away. I hoped their efforts to stabilize Nora had been successful.

  “How old a woman you s’pose she is?” asked Nana.

  “A hundred and ten,” said Bernice.

  “They probably shouldn’t let folks that old sign up for these trips,” said Osmond, who was a birthday short of ninety. “I’ve heard that once you reach a hundred, things really start falling apart.”

  “That young man with her should have known better,” Helen affirmed. “You think he’s a relative?”

  “That’s her son,” I said, not surprised by the drop-mouth expressions that stared back at me.

  “No way,” said Dick Teig. “Great-grandson, maybe.”

  “Do you suppose she had him late in life?” asked Alice.

  “Yeah, like when she was eighty,” said Dick.

  “It’s her son,” I repeated. “He told me himself.”

  Henry walked our way, lips moving and finger waving in the air as he counted heads. “That’s everyone. You can reboard the bus in about tin minutes. Sorry for the excitement, but I hope you won’t let it affict the rist of your day. There’s plinty more wine for you to taste at the other vineyards, kangaroo with plum sauce to dine on for lunch, and you can relax knowing that Mrs. Acres is receiving the bist midical care that South Australia has to offer. I’m sure she’ll be up and about in no time and anxious to rejoin us.”

  “How old a woman do you think she is?” Dick Stolee called out.

  Henry unfolded a paper from his breast pocket and scanned the text. “She was born in forty-three, so that would make her—what? Fifty-siven going on fifty-eight?”

  Gasps of disbelief. “No way is she only fifty-seven,” argued Bernice.

  “Says so right here on her midical form. She was born on St. Patrick’s Day in nineteen-forty-three.”

  “Maybe she’s got that disease what makes people look real old,” said Nana. “What’s it called?”

  “Wrinkles,” said Grace.

  Uff da! Nora Acres was younger than my mom? I guess that’s what happened when you lived in a place with too much sun and not enough drugstores selling sunblock with high SPF.

  A digital tone rang out from Henry’s hip. He walked out of earshot to answer it.

  “If she’s fifty-seven, I’ll eat my—” Bernice gave
herself a once-over in search of digestible clothing.

  “Why don’t you eat Dick’s shirt?” suggested Grace. “It’s made in China, and you like Chinese.”

  Henry walked back to us, a hitch in his normally fluid gait. “That’s a call I wasn’t expicting.” He inhaled deeply, his cell phone still cradled in his palm. “I’m afraid I painted too rosy a picture about Mrs. Acres’s recovery. That was Heath. His mother died on the way to hospital.”

  “What was it?” asked Dick Teig. “Heart attack?”

  “I bet it was heatstroke,” said Margi. “If people get too hot, their insides can cook like peas in one of those boiling pouches, and that can do them in real quick. The old and infirm are especially vulnerable.”

  “She wasn’t old,” objected Tilly. “She was only fifty-seven!”

  “If she was fifty-seven, I’ll eat—” Bernice looked around. “You got anything better than Dick’s shirt?”

  While the group debated the cause of Nora Acres’s death, I slipped back into the tasting room, which was eerily quiet minus the sipping and spitting. The staff had cleared away the dirty stemware and swept Nora’s shattered glass off the floor, so the room sparkled once more with pre-tour group tidiness. You’d never know someone had just died here.

  Okay, maybe not technically, but she might as well have died here. And if she had, I imagined things would be very different right now. The medical examiner might be snooping around, looking for evidence that might cast Nora’s death in a suspicious light. He might have called in the crime scene unit, who would have gathered the pieces of her broken glass into an evidence bag, taken photos, and subjected us to lengthy interviews about where we were when the incident happened and what we’d seen.

  I peered out the window, where I could see people straggling back to the bus, and wondered if any of the guests who’d been in her vicinity would have owned up to what had been going on. Heath wanting to cuckold Jake. Roger wanting to best Diana. Heath wanting to blow off Roger and Diana. Jake wanting to punish Heath. Diana wanting to destroy Roger. Roger and Diana wanting to break Heath. And Nora stuck in the middle of it all. Had she been aware of all the undercurrents? Or had her mind been so detached from reality that someone could have come at her with the business end of a corkscrew and she would have missed the intent?