Must Be Murder (The Otto Viti Mysteries Book 1) Page 19

  Each of the eight tasting rooms in OV had ten stomping barrels, so up to eighty teams of two could compete in the grape stomp. Since we did the grape stomp three times a day, lots of people got to participate, which was how we liked it. For each team, one person was the stomper, and the other was the swabbie who scooped aside the stomped grapes and made sure the juice collected through the barrel’s spigot. The contestants only competed against the other people who signed up for their winery—identified by a specific color wristband, and the “winner” was the team that produced the most juice in three minutes. Each winning team got a prize from its winery, like a wine club membership for the year.

  Most people didn’t realize just how hard it was to stomp grapes and extract juice. It’s intense labor—and not much juice comes out of stomped grapes. Invariably, people were surprised that such hard work produced so little juice. When we first started the festival, we did the grape stomps for five minutes, but that was too intense for most people. Three minutes worked out much better, even though that meant even less juice was produced.

  People were also surprised that we didn’t actually use the stomped grapes in our wine. We never did that. No way. We couldn’t risk dirty feet and whatever else could end up in there. Ugh. Bleh. Yuck!

  Eight rows of stomping barrels were set up, and behind each one, a participating duo stood. At the end of the rows were the tasting room managers who acted as judges and would walk up and down their rows to make sure everything was going okay during the three-minute stomp. We called them judges, but I wasn’t sure what they were really judging. There wasn’t much opportunity to cheat. More often than not, they just offered an arm or a shoulder to a participant who needed a short break in the middle of stomping.

  We walked up to Jason, our judge, as he counted the number of participants in the D’Angelo row.

  “I’ve got your last participant here,” I said to him, pointing to Aldo. “We only had nine sign up, so Nonno’s going to stomp for fun, no swabbie needed.”

  Jason grinned. “Fantastic.” He scanned the sea of people passing through the courtyard. “Stella is supposed to be here any minute with the boys. They’ll be excited to see you stomp.”

  Aldo also grinned. “They can help me!”

  My heart swelled as I watched my grandfather continue to smile. One of my favorite childhood memories was stomping grapes with him and my sisters in his backyard. Whenever he pruned his private selection of grapes, we always gathered the ones that fell to the ground and stomped them, no matter how unripe they were. Now, he was doing the same thing with his great-grandchildren. I was so glad they would have those memories.

  Jason spotted his wife and called, “Stella! Over here!”

  She turned and saw us waving, and then she and the boys joined us. Hudson’s face was still painted like a monkey, and Thatcher’s was still done as a lion.

  Aldo leaned down toward his great-grandsons, placing his hands on his thighs. “You want to help me stomp grapes?”

  “Yay!” the boys yelled. He took their hands and led them to the last wine stomping barrel in the D’Angelo row.

  Somewhere at the other end of the courtyard, a voice came over the loud speaker.

  “Stompers, one minute to get ready. Please step into your barrels.”

  I couldn’t see past all the wine stompers and swabbies, but the voice sounded like Senora Salizar, Eduardo’s wife.

  “I’ll be back right after the stomp,” Jason said to Stella. He made his way down the D’Angelo row to see if anyone had last minute questions or needed help stepping into the barrels.

  I stood next to Stella as we watched Aldo help the boys into the barrel. There was enough room for one adult, or in the case of Aldo’s barrel, two boys. There was no way he would fit in there with Hudson and Thatcher, and he must have decided they could stomp while he’d hold their hands from outside instead.

  I leaned into my sister and bumped her shoulder with mine. “Remember doing this as kids?” I asked.

  She smiled at her boys. “There wasn’t anything better, was there?”

  “Stompers!” the voice boomed over the loud speaker. “On your marks! Get set! Go!”

  Immediately, all eight rows of stompers began dancing on their grapes. Spectators clapped and cheered. Swabbies pushed smushed grapes around in the barrels, careful to keep their hands from being stomped, too. I laughed alongside my older sister as the boys jumped up and down in their barrel with Aldo holding their hands and doing a little jig of his own. Why wasn’t I recording the event? I pulled out my cell phone and began videoing. The boys giggled and giggled, stomped and stomped, squealed and squealed. I knew there were other people actually competing, but they didn’t have the charisma and heart that my sweet nephews and amazing grandfather had.

  The announcer called out the time as the stomping continued. One minute down. Two minutes down. Thirty seconds to go! Ten, nine, eight. . .three, two, one. . .time’s up!

  Stella and I walked over to Aldo and the boys, cheering for them. Stella lifted Thatcher out of the barrel while Aldo lifted Hudson.

  “Wow,” I said, still videoing, “how much fun was that, boys?”

  Thatcher leaned forward, throwing his arms behind him and yelled, “So fun!”

  Hudson did a little dancey-circle, his arms flailing overhead. “Let’s do it again!”

  I stopped recording and looked down at my nephews, the monkey and the lion. Their clothes were splattered with grape juice stains all over.

  “What do you say to Bisnonno?” Stella asked.

  “Thank you,” the boys chorused, throwing their arms around Aldo’s legs and squeezing.

  Life was good. The only thing that could make the day better would be if Nico had been able to make the festival.

  And if I didn’t have to rush home to send Dr. Stevens my teaching philosophy.

  And if there hadn’t just been a huge tragedy on D’Angelo’s grounds a week before.

  And if my parents were there.

  But really, life was good. Disappointment and tragedy reminded us to count our blessings. And I had many.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  I tapped on Jason’s opened office door and leaned my head in. “All the glasses have been washed, and everything has been brought in from outside. Is there anything else I can do before I go?”

  Jason looked up from his computer. “Thanks Jill. I think that’s it.”

  “Great. I’ve got to run down to Carlsbad—I don’t know if Stella told you—but I’ll be back in about two hours. Are Stella and Holly around?”

  Jason shook his head just as giggles rose from under his desk. “No,” he said. “They had to run an errand. That’s why I have a lion and a monkey hanging out with me.”

  As if on cue, lion roars and monkey chatter came from under the desk.

  I stepped into the office and grabbed the pretty gift bag from Vendemmia filled with bachelor party belongings that I had stashed in the corner. “I thought they were re-doing the wreath table. Where’d they go? The craft store?”

  Jason looked at me blankly and then shook himself out of whatever deep thought had taken hold. “Something like that.”

  More monkey chatter and lion roars rose from under the desk, and it occurred to me that Jason’s blank look hadn’t stemmed from a deep thought but instead from trying to juggle kids, work, and a pesky sister-in-law with unimportant questions.

  “I bet Aldo would love to spend time with a monkey and a lion if you need some quiet.”

  Jason smiled at his computer and tapped away on the keyboard. “I just need one more minute, and then I’ll be able to take these wild animals home.”

  As I left the office, I called, “Goodbye, Monkey. Goodbye, Lion. See you tomorrow.”

  Lion roars and monkey gibber followed me down the hallway toward the tasting room. Outside, I surveyed the scene before cutting through the vineyard to Aldo’s house where my car was parked. Not even an hour after the festival had ended, the streets wer
e nearly empty and pretty clean considering that hundreds of people had spent the afternoon hanging out. There was a little more cleanup to do—I could see bits of litter here and there—but overall, the hustle of OV shop owners was apparent. They wanted to close out the day and get home to recharge before doing it all over again in the morning.

  I hiked up to Aldo’s faster than usual and didn’t even stop in to say hi. I jumped right into my car and threw the Vendemmia bag over the console toward the passenger seat. I overshot, and it landed between the seat and the door. Oh, whatever. The pretty gift bag was probably going to be crushed and misshapen when I handed it over, but it didn’t matter. Clean up went faster than I expected, I was ahead of schedule, and I wanted to keep it that way. I left the bag there and hastened to the freeway. The sooner I got to Carlsbad, the sooner I’d get back to OV.

  Traffic was light, and although I had wanted some company on my way down south, it was nice to have quiet after the long day. There was so much to think about. Alex’s alibi checked out, and the Berke sisters seemed to be off the hook. Fitts thought that Shane might know something, and he had gone to Carlsbad to question Angelia again.

  Angelia and Alex both thought that Janelle could be a suspect, but as far as we knew, she was passed out at Snapdragon when Marlo died.

  It was strange how Shane had disappeared before I could give him the bachelor party belongings that Morrie had collected. Maybe Toby or his friends had grabbed Shane on the way into the tasting room and said it was time to go. Sure, that was a possibility. But still, he could have said, Hey Jill, gotta go—I’ll get that stuff from you later. Shane annoyed me and was flaky, but taking off without a goodbye didn’t really seem like him.

  Then there was the reporter whose source said I was close to Shane. That “source” had to be crazy. Or trying to deflect attention.

  I had the urge to call the detective and ask him how his interview with Angelia went. Maybe he and his loose lips would let something slip. And maybe he could tell me what he thought Shane knew so I could help him get further information when I dropped off the bag. That would be a legitimate reason to call. After all, Fitts had approached me about speaking with Shane in the first place.

  I’d call once I was home. Scrolling through my phone to find his number in the recent calls list wasn’t a good idea while driving.

  Just before six-thirty, I parked in my apartment’s little underground lot, grabbed my phone, and hurried inside. I was still ahead of schedule, thank goodness. I made a beeline for the computer and turned it on. As it came to life, I scrolled through my phone to find Fitts’ number. I placed the call, but it went straight to voicemail.

  So much for asking Fitts about Shane.

  I turned to my computer and opened my email. There was one unread message in my inbox, and it was from Dr. Stevens. The subject line read Teaching Philosophy.

  My heartbeat quickened. I held my breath as I opened the message.

  Jill,

  Your teaching philosophy was due by 5:00pm Friday.

  Dr. Stevens

  I pursed my lips and thought about how to respond. I hit reply and attached the philosophy, which was saved with the rest of assignments completed for my credential program seven years before. I didn’t bother reading it. Even if it was too short or no longer reflected my philosophies, I didn’t have the brainpower—or time—to revise.

  I stared at my computer screen. The file was attached, but what to say in the actual email? I could already tell from what I had seen of Dr. Stevens that explanations and excuses wouldn’t help. Would an apology? Probably not. But hopefully one couldn’t make the situation worse. I typed out a quick message.

  Dear Dr. Stevens,

  I apologize for the delay. Please find attached my teaching philosophy.

  Thank you,

  Jill D’Angelo

  I clicked send. For better or worse, it was done. I leaned back in my desk chair and exhaled loudly. An ache was starting to set into my legs. Just one more thing to do, and then back to Aldo’s. I was counting down the minutes until I could crawl into bed and fall asleep.

  With one more deep, loud breath, I got up and dragged myself back out to the garage. On autopilot, I drove to Shane’s apartment. Again, I thought it was strange that he lived so close to me, but the thought was vague and just barely surfaced from somewhere in the back of my mind. I was too tired to mull over it with any real seriousness. Who cared, anyway?

  I parked in front of the apartment and was halfway up the walk before I remembered that the bag of bachelor party items was still in my car. Jeez, I was tired. Reprimanding myself for still being on autopilot, I trotted back to the car and opened the passenger door. The bag tumbled out, spilling into the gutter. Shoot, I had forgotten that it had been wedged between the door and seat.

  I grabbed a shoe and a comb from the gutter and stuffed them back into the bag. As I grabbed a balled up white shirt, I did a double take.

  Why is Nico’s shirt here?

  Oh, wait, it wasn’t Nico’s shirt. It was Toby’s shirt. It was the one that he wore that Saturday night—the one that reminded me of Nico’s shirt with the white fabric and plaid texture.

  I stared at the shirt in my hand.

  Did that mean Toby was on the roof at the bachelor party? That seemed out of character for him. He and Shane went out to a bar that night to celebrate turning twenty-one. Did he really end the night on Vendemmia’s roof? Toby?

  I riffled through the Vendemmia bag and pulled out the other two shirts. Was one of them Shane’s? I hadn’t seen what Shane was wearing that night, but I could at least check the size and see if the style seemed about right for him. They were both T-shirts, and they both had wine stains on them.

  Shane would not have worn a T-shirt to a bar.

  I unballed Toby’s shirt. It had wine stains on it as well. Big splatters.

  I laid all three shirts across the hood of my car.

  Two T-shirts and one dress shirt, all with wine spots. What were these guys doing on Vendemmia’s roof?

  There was something odd about the wine stains. Toby’s shirt had spots splashed across it randomly, much in the same way that Hudson and Thatcher’s shirts had been splashed earlier during the grape stomping. The two T-shirts were stained differently—more patterned. It looked like a paintbrush had flung wine across the shirts.

  There was also something different about Toby’s shirt. There were faint splotches of blue and pink on the sleeves. I turned it over and saw more pink and blue on the back. I brought the shirt to my nose and breathed in. Vanilla.

  Powder from Livy’s Vanilla Swirl bath bombs.

  Oh no.

  Oh no.

  Had Toby been part of the struggle with Marlo right before she died?

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Think, Jill, think.

  I gathered the shirts and stuffed them into the Vendemmia bag. Then I sat down in the passenger’s seat and closed the door.

  Okay, so nothing was really different from five minutes ago. Marlo was still dead, and the way she died hadn’t changed. I still had the bag of stuff left by the bachelor party in my car, and Shane still knew that I had it. And he knew that some of the stuff was found on the roof.

  If I hadn’t carelessly thrown the bag into my car earlier, it wouldn’t have spilled when I opened the passenger door. I would have driven over to Shane’s place, grabbed the bag, and taken it up to the front door. I would have handed it over, maybe waved to Angelia and Toby, and left.

  Who was to say that I couldn’t still do that?

  But wait. If Shane or Toby were involved with the murder, I needed to call Fitts and hand the evidence over to him. I couldn’t give the bag back to Shane.

  I grabbed my phone and tried Fitts again. The call went straight to voicemail, but I didn’t leave a message. I tried calling both Stella and Holly. Neither answered, so I texted them.

  I think Toby did it. Or Shane. I have new evidence for Fitts, but I can’t get ahold of him.
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br />   I stared out the windshield, trying to gather my thoughts. I needed to get back to Temecula. I could go straight to the police station and—

  A knock sounded on my window. I jumped. “Oh my God!” I yelped.

  It was Toby. My heart rate spiked when I saw him on the other side of the window. He waved and smiled his awkward, embarrassed smile. I opened the car door.

  “Hey Toby. You surprised me.” I half-heartedly laughed.

  “Sorry about that,” he said. “I was just checking to see if a package had been delivered, and I saw you sitting here. Shane said that you were going to come by to drop off some stuff.” He looked at the bag on my lap and nodded toward it. “Is that what we left at Vendemmia?”

  I glanced at it. “Yep.”

  “Thanks for bringing it over.” He held his hand out to take it. “Can you come in for a minute? Angelia wants to talk to you.”

  My mind blanked. Go in? Suddenly that didn’t seem like a good idea. But how could I say no without seeming suspicious? Nothing came to me.

  “Okay,” I said.

  “I’ll take that bag,” he said, still holding out his hand as I got out of the car.

  Again, I couldn’t think of an excuse to keep it with me. I handed it over.

  “Thanks,” I said.

  What was I going to do? What did Angelia want to talk to me about?

  I didn’t want to go inside, but there I was walking toward the apartment. Maybe I could trip over my own feet on the sidewalk and fake-hurt myself. But then what? Say I was too hurt to go inside? If I faked it well enough, they’d want to drive me to urgent care.

  Oh, stop, I told myself. This was nothing. Nothing. I was just going inside to talk with Angelia for a moment. Not a big deal at all.

  Two steps from the apartment’s front door, my phone rang. I pulled it from my back pocket and saw Holly’s name across the screen.