Clarets of Fire

Book 4: Rose Avenue Wine Club Mystery

by Christine E. Blum

Genres: Amateur Sleuth; Cozy Mystery; Female Sleuths

Synopsis

Wine connoisseur Annie "Halsey" Hall must turn up the heat on a felonious firebug . . . Halsey and the ladies of the Rose Avenue Wine Club are celebrating with newlyweds Penelope and Malcolm, who are thrilled to be opening their new winery. They’re also partnering with a cherished neighborhood eatery, Rico's Pizza, which will be serving young clarets from their fall harvest. But as Halsey attempts to savor the bouquet of her Tooth & Nail Cab, a different scent intrudes—smoke. The nearby pizza parlor is going up in flames. As they rush to the scene, Halsey's rescue dog Bardot pulls a body from the burning building—the pizza delivery driver—but it's too late. When investigators determine a rag soaked with gasoline in a bottle from the winery started the blaze, police suspect both the pizza parlor owners and Penelope and Malcolm of arson and murder. With her friends' business and freedom at stake, it's up to Halsey to smoke out the real arsonist—before somebody else gets scorched . . .

Release date: September 24, 2019

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 217

Sample

“Welcome to the annual Rose Avenue block party,” Peggy announced in her best outside voice while hoisting a brimming glass of Tooth & Nail cabernet.

“Hear, hear,” replied several neighbors.

From the back corner of her yard, I canvassed the somewhat motley crew gathered on this beautiful, sunny September Sunday. I started with my inner circle of imbibers, dear friends that share the group moniker of the Rose Avenue Wine Club. They are listeners, sisters, partners in crime (literally), and the best friends a transplant from New York City could have. Since I moved to the sleepy, beach community of Mar Vista, California, nearly four years ago, I really haven’t had a moment to look back. I’d wanted a new life and, boy, did I get it. It appears that in addition to us girls declaring wine tasting an Olympic sport, we also share a penchant for solving crimes and giving the perpetrators their proper due. Somewhat to the chagrin of the denizens of Rose Avenue but ultimately welcomed by them, unless of course, one of them committed the evil deed (which has happened once . . . or twice) . . .

From my vantage point, like a mobster in a restaurant facing the door with his back to the wall, I could see any new arrivals to the party. Peggy’s yard, like her house, was kept pristine—perfectly trimmed boxwood hedges and weedless narrow flowerbeds lined the perimeter. I’d been witness to her methods of motivating her gardener on multiple occasions, and let’s just say that the shortest route to living a long life involves doing Peggy’s bidding. This octogenarian was showing no signs of slowing down.

Beside me sat my best-est friend, Bardot, the yellow Lab now famous for diving underwater and saving my life. I noticed that while she sat in a relaxed AKC conformation pose (she’s a total ham), her nose was pointed skyward and her olfactory glands were pumping harder than the speakers at a Sir Mix-a-Lot concert. Unlike English Labs that would sell their soul for a morsel of anything even resembling food, Bardot is an American Field Lab and she is much more motivated by words like, “Ready? Go!” So I dismissed party snacks as the reason for her persistent pulsing proboscis, and that left me a little on edge and confused.

“Halsey! So happy that you and Bardot have saved me the best seat in the house,” Sally shouted, making her way over to us while balancing a plate of fruit and cheese along with two filled wineglasses. I noticed that tucked under her arm was the accompanying bottle; I would expect nothing less from my closest Rose Avenue friend. I quickly jumped up to relieve her of the wineglasses but she held on tight, insisting instead that I take the plate. I watched as she lowered her lithe, African American frame down into a lawn chair while not spilling a drop of the grape elixir. I’d also managed to abscond with a small patio table, so we had room for all the food groups: wine, cheese, and wine.

“If you build it—” I laughed, noticing rosy-cheeked Aimee and Peggy making their way over to us. They too didn’t arrive empty-handed. Too bad that Aimee couldn’t provide some of her sinful frozen yogurt from her shop, but it wouldn’t travel well on a day like today.

I may have to pop by the Chill Out for dessert . . .

“No sign of Penelope and Malcolm yet?” my silver-haired, madras shorts–clad friend Peggy asked.

While technically Peggy was the only other single lady in the Wine Club, we were both now officially off the market. A widow for almost ten years, she recently reconnected with an old friend and work buddy of her late husband’s. His name is Charlie and the two quickly became “an item” as Peggy quaintly put it. Qualified by “and he lives in another area code half the time, which is just the way I like it.” Charlie resides in San Diego but is conveniently a small plane pilot and can shuttle up to the Santa Monica Airport whenever he wishes. We’ll get to my guy in a minute.

“I talked to Penelope about twenty minutes ago,” Aimee said with a smiling, flushed face. They’re coming directly from the airport. Malcolm’s second cousin Andrew picked them up. She didn’t have much time to talk but said that the honeymoon was dreamy.”

The thought of that made her complexion turn even redder, so she waved her hands frantically in front of her face to cool her cheeks down. Aimee’s emotions were always just a millimeter below the surface waiting to jump out, a fact that us jaded cynics find so endearing.

“I still replay that day in my mind just before I go to sleep each night; that was a magical wedding.” Sally closed her eyes. The artist in her was coming out. “They looked happier than clams at high tide.”

While from upstate New York originally and a retired nurse, Sally somehow had acquired a lexicon of Southern sayings that frankly should have stayed in the bayou. I suspect that one summer she binge-watched The Beverly Hillbillies and Petticoat Junction during a critical, young imprint age.

“Here comes trouble,” I warned, seeing Marisol approach with two plates piled high.

“Make room for the mayor of Rose Avenue,” Peggy said, shuffling us around the chairs to free one up in front.

“What a coincidence, like where there’s paper there’s plastic, where there’s a couple fighting in public there’s a hushed crowd pretending not to listen, and where there’s free food there’s Marisol. Did they run out of samples at Costco?”

“You need to respect your elders while you still have time, Halsey. With the amount of wine you drink, you won’t make it to Christmas. But there’s good news . . . when you drop, your body will already be embalmed.”

With that Marisol let out a cackle direct from her belly that was so hearty my friends couldn’t help but join in.

Let me explain a little about this strange creature that happens to be my next-door neighbor. Though we cajole, tease, insult, and generally bicker about anything from my dog’s name to her constant spying, deep down we have enormous respect and love for each other. Just don’t ask either of us to admit it. Marisol is somewhere between eighty-four and one hundred, hard to say because she never ages, or, I suspect, sleeps. She may be afraid that if she does nod off, she’ll have boarded the train to the dark side. She has an uncanny knack for knowing everything about everyone, even before they know it themselves. She’s continually learning (one of the handful of things I admire about her) and is currently mastering an array of high-tech spy equipage. All of this is hidden behind a façade of a diminutive Latina woman, a tad frail-looking with a coiffure of jet black–dyed hair kept in place with little butterfly clips. She also seems to appear and disappear at the blink of an eye. But, as much as her prying, long, caramel-colored nose annoys me, we have developed some sort of symbiotic relationship that compels us to save each other’s bacon if it comes down to that. (Mind you I’d probably give my life for one last bite of bacon anyway.)

“Where’s Jack?” Marisol asked, biting into a pig-ina-blanket with such ferocity that mustard went running for its life out of both corners of her mouth. “He finally come to his senses and realize that I’m the one on Rose Avenue he should be dating?”

As ridiculous as her statement was, Marisol knew how to push my buttons and I fought hard not to show it. Instead, I forced my mind to picture a beautiful boat adrift on a calm, deep blue sea as dolphins playfully followed along and watched with fascination as I opened up the urn and scattered Marisol’s ashes. “He’ll be along shortly. He ran a certification test in the Santa Monica Mountains this morning and went home to shower and change.”

“Saving more souls—what’s your excuse?”

Marisol was referring to Jack (my guy as you probably guessed), and his volunteer job as a search and rescue K-9 team instructor for CARA.

“I’d work on saving your soul if you had one, Marisol.”

I kept my right hand over my left and pondered if this was the right moment to give the Wine Club girls my revelatory news.

A round of applause erupted across the yard and neighbors got to their feet. I thought that maybe Jack had arrived and spilled the beans, but when people sat back down I saw Malcolm and Penelope entering the yard hand in hand and glowing.

For the briefest of moments my heart took an express elevator down to my stomach as I thought about marriage and its trials and tribulations. I’d had one lousy one and, like eating a bad oyster, I never wanted to relive that experience.

“There they are!” Sally shouted. “More chairs, Aimee, we need more chairs. And who’s that cute fellow with Malcolm and Penelope?”

“I’m guessing Andrew,” Aimee said, and then told some kids that the pizza was coming any minute and they better move up front to get some. “Kids sit too much anyway,” she offered as explanation as she “borrowed” their roosts and added them to our circle.

Penelope spotted us, waved, and gave Malcolm a peck on the cheek before heading over. He responded with a wink and a knowing smile. It took Malcolm some time to get used to our coterie of imbibers, but now he regarded us as family. At least I think he does. He and I went through a rough patch, but that story is a present for another Christmas. He looked uncommonly relaxed for someone I always thought of as shy and was sporting a café au lait tan, probably the first for this light-complexion, ginger-haired man.

“Darlings, I’ve missed you all terribly.” Penelope made the rounds giving us each hugs and kisses. I reminded myself of the probable need to have her translate some of her typical British expressions.

“Red or white?” Peggy asked Penelope, hovering both bottles over an empty glass.

“Ooh, is that an Oregon pinot blanc? Yes, please!”

While Peggy obliged Penelope, Aimee bombarded Penelope with questions about the honeymoon in such rapid fire that she resorted to nodding “yes” or “no” to the majority of them.

“I bet that you’re anxious to get back to your beautiful winery. Now comes the hard part . . . getting it fully operational,” I remarked.

“Agreed, although Malcolm’s second cousin Andrew”—she waved to the two men talking across the lawn—“has been such a dear. He’s gotten so much done while we were off on holiday. I’ve been told to get the wine tasting room and small bites menu in order for the fall harvest. You must all come and stay overnight so that we can have our first Rose Avenue Wine Club sleepover!”

“Sounds like a blast. What will you do while we’re sleeping?” I asked Marisol.

“She can perhaps sort out the strange things that I’ve witnessed happening there in the wee hours,” Penelope suggested. “I’m still getting used to sharing this old winery with spirits, and not the alcoholic ones!”

“I can do that. I’ll need to bring some equipment though.” I could see Marisol start making a mental list.

Just then Bardot’s nose once again jerked up to the sky, knocking over my wineglass in the process. As I reached to grab it my engagement ring caught the sun, sending out a blinding beacon of light.

“Halsey, what is that on your finger?” Aimee shrieked.

I guess that this carbon cat is out of the bag.

The rest of the girls joined in the screaming and flocked around me like I was bread in a piazza full of pigeons.

“I need to hear the full story. How long have you been hiding this from us?” Sally almost seemed incensed.

“Jack actually started to propose at your wedding, Penelope, but Augie arrived and blew that out of the water. Even unwittingly he makes my life miserable. Remind me again why you invited him?” I gave Penelope a pretend dirty look.

“It was Malcolm’s idea really; they spent quite a bit of time together during that whole, horrible garden affair.”

Augie is our local detective, and our paths crossed literally on the day that I arrived on Rose Avenue and happened into the wrong house for Wine Club. How was I supposed to know that there was a dead body in the backyard? Or that when digging in the garden plot the girls got me for my birthday, I’d find another body?

Augie really needs to start believing in coincidences.

“Pizza’s here!” we heard someone yell.

“I’ll go help Enrico and Isabella.” Aimee took off like a shot. Being in the food service industry herself, she knows what hard work it is. Although every time I go into her frozen yogurt shop, Chill Out, she makes everything seem so effortless. She really struggled the first year while her boyfriend Tom was in med school, but she’s got some amazing flavors and has added cakes and pastries to the mix. The shop is now a Mar Vista fixture.

As is our cherished Rico’s Pizza, neighborhood purveyor of delicious Italian pies baked just about a mile from Rose Avenue. I watched the husband and wife team set out the delicious food and let the wafting aromas permeate my proboscis. Bardot once again had her head in the air, but hers was pointed in the opposite direction from the spicy, cheesy airstream. This bothered me.

“Here’s my hubby and his cousin,” Penelope announced as Malcolm and Andrew approached.

Marriage suited Malcolm and he’d gone from looking like a red-haired Harry Potter to someone closer in appearance to Eddie Redmayne. He introduced Andrew to the group.

“In addition to being invaluable in the fields, Andrew will be instrumental in marketing the Abigail Rose Winery to the public,” Malcolm explained.

“Yes,” Penelope chimed in. “And Andrew’s just secured a joint venture with Rico’s Pizza! They will be serving our wine and I’ll be offering individual artisan pizzas in our Tasting Room.”

We all applauded.

“I couldn’t have done it without these wonderful folks,” Andrew said, and beamed as Enrico and Isabella Bruno approached. This was my first chance to get a good look at Malcolm’s second cousin, and though not so uncommon, Malcolm looked nothing like him. Andrew had shoulder-length, dark, wavy hair, about a three-days’ growth on his face, and I got the hint of a six-pack under his tight T-shirt.

Me likey. What am I saying? I’m betrothed!

“It sure smells like you’ve outdone yourselves again.” I turned to Enrico and Isabella. “And now you’ll be serving wine? Good luck getting me to go home.” I smiled.

“Not just wine, but some of the winery’s precious, young clarets,” the precious, young Andrew corrected me.

“You guys aren’t leaving, are you?” Peggy asked the Brunos.

“Have a glass of wine at least,” Sally implored.

“I’m afraid that we have to get back to the restaurant; this is a very busy time for us,” Enrico replied with a slight bow.

Isabella followed suit, “Football season has started.” She gave a knowing head nod to us.

Who says football is just a spectator sport? It takes work and finesse to eat pizza without burning the roof of your mouth.

“Bye, Isabella. I’ll pop over in a bit to keep you company while you prepare for the dinner rush,” I said distracted by Bardot who had started whimpering and was looking agitated.

“Bardot, what is it, honey?”

“Maybe she’s tired of all this and wants to go home and take a nap,” Aimee suggested.

“Have you met my dog? She would never leave a party early.”

Bardot responded by shoving her nose into the palm of my hand persistently.

“She really wants to show me something.” I reattached her leash. “I’d better find out what.”

On cue she thrust her nose in the air again.

“Does anybody else smell smoke?” Sally asked.

We all took in lungfuls of air and hesitantly nodded. Except for Marisol who launched a police scanner app on her phone and listened to the dispatch calls.

Eight-fifty-two, what’s your location?

We’ve just arrived on the scene; fire appears to have fully engulfed the roofs of all the businesses in the strip mall. Need backup to help divert traffic from Centinela and Palms.

“That’s where Rico’s Pizza is!” Peggy shouted loudly to be heard over the sounds of approaching sirens.

I do my best to keep up with Bardot, who, thanks to Jack’s CARA training, was in full rescue mode running low to the ground and sweeping her nose left and right. We’d sped past the rest of the Wine Club, leaving them in our wake doing a full-on run up the hill of Rose Avenue. The smoke smell was getting intense. What I saw when we reached the top stopped me dead in my tracks.

The street was a sea of red as fire trucks arrived and deployed first responders from every direction. Brown and orange billows of thick smoke were quickly erasing the blue sky in exchange for an eerie glow. A crowd had started to gather in front of the gas station across the street from the strip mall.

Is that really a smart place to be spectating? Do they not remember the gas station scene in Hitchcock’s The Birds?

Bardot had been equally stunned by the scene but was now back to her mission of pulling me closer to the scene and then around to the back of the fiery stores. When she settled on Rico’s Pizza, she launched into a ten-bark sequence, a CARA signal that she had found the target. My heart dropped to my feet as I wondered if Isabella was inside. But I heard my name called and spotted her and Rico watching with horror from the sidewalk. At that moment Bardot lunged toward the back door of the parlor and her leash slipped out of my hand. She disappeared through a wall of smoke.

“Bardot, NO!”

I had no. . .