Murder Uncorked

Book 1: CeCe Barton Mystery

by Maddie Day

Genres: Amateur Sleuth; Culinary Cozy Mysteries

Synopsis

Raise a glass to Cece Barton, a widowed single mom and recent L.A. transplant to California wine country, who suddenly finds herself at the center of a murder investigation in this sparkling new mystery series from Agatha Award–winning and national bestselling author Maddie Day.



As the manager of Vino y Vida Wine Bar in Colinas, Cecelia "Cece" Barton's first Alexander Valley harvest is a whirlwind of activity. Her twin sister, Allie Halstead, who owns a nearby Victorian bed & breakfast, is accustomed to the hustle and bustle of peak tourist season. Just when it seems things can't grow any more intense, Colinas is rocked by a murder within the wine community . . . and Cece is identified as a possible suspect!



With her reputation and her livelihood on the line—and the Sonoma County deputy sheriff breathing down her neck—Cece has no choice but to open up her own murder investigation. Tensions are already high in the valley, as a massive wildfire creeps toward Colinas, threatening homes, vineyards, and the vital tourist trade. And now, with a murderer on the loose, and Cece's sleuthing exposing the valley's bitterest old rivalries and secret new alliances, Colinas feels ready to pop! But with Allie's help, Cece is determined to catch the killer and clear her name before everything she's worked so hard for goes up in flames . . .

Release date: October 24, 2023

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 288

Sample

The air sizzled in Vino y Vida. The conversation between two men standing and sipping wine had turned as heated as the thermometer outside, which was on its way to pegging ninety.

Early October here in California’s Alexander Valley, one of the state’s best wine-producing regions, meant grape harvest season. And the harvest brought the start of high tourist season. The two guys in the wine bar I managed weren’t my only customers at four in the afternoon, but one of the pair had become confrontational, and I didn’t like it.

I’d started this job in the spring when life was quieter, when Colinas seemed a mostly sleepy community once the winter wine tourism had ebbed. The town sat only ninety minutes north of San Francisco and was an easy drive to the several dozen renowned wineries here as well as the more famous ones in Napa Valley. Today the vibe in the wine bar was busy, boisterous, and now belligerent.

“Listen, bro.” The argumentative dude bit off his words, and his puffy face was flushed under sandy hair with a reddish tinge. He wore a maroon polo shirt emblazoned with the logo of the VVA, the regional business group for vineyard owners.

“I’m not your bro,” the other man pushed back.

Angry pounded the bar with his fist. “You have no right to demand those numbers.” The color in his florid face deepened and his light eyes glared.

I glanced around the room. So far these two didn’t seem to be disturbing other customers enjoying their glass of wine.

“You know very well the board asked me to check into all aspects of the Vineyard Valley Association.” The other man stayed calm. “And you aren’t delivering the information I’ve asked for.” Silver streaked the temples of a full head of dark hair.

Hmm. I could get used to that look, along with Handsome’s soft voice and trim physique. If I was in the market for a man. Which I wasn’t. I was straight and single—or rather, widowed, and had been for ten years—but I wasn’t looking for a relationship. I cleared my throat. Neither of their glasses held more than a trace of wine.

“A second pour, gentlemen?” I held up the bottle of the Seghesio Sangiovese they’d requested for their first glass.

“I could use one, sweetheart.” Angry extended his stemmed glass. “But give me the zin.”

I ignored the “sweetheart” and the omission of “please” and selected an open bottle of zinfandel from the same vineyard, pouring slightly less than the usual fill. “You, sir?” I raised my eyebrows and pointed to the other man’s glass.

“Not for me, thank you, Cece.” Handsome smiled, pronouncing the name he’d read off my name tag as “Cease,” not “Ceecee,” as I’ve always been known. “My name’s Benjamin Cohen, by the way.”

“Nice to meet you, Benjamin. I’m Cece Barton, manager and chief wine dispenser.”

“You know who I am, right, Cece?” the other man asked. “The same Vincent Sardo you’ve been corresponding with about the VVA event.” He winked at me, his anger with his drinking partner disappearing for the moment.

Oh. Sardo worked for the VVA, organizing publicity events and bringing the members together, according to his job description. Whoever hired him must not have experienced his abrasive side. I had, but not in person until right now.

“But you can call me Vinnie,” he went on. “We’ve had a few back and forths, you and me, you know, over the email and phone, and you’ve been refusing to cooperate. But I didn’t realize what a babe you were.” His smile was borderline leer, but the upper lip catching on an eyetooth spoiled the look.

Eww. I might be moderately attractive at forty-two, but a babe I was not. I was reasonably fit, and at five foot eight I didn’t struggle with my weight. My nonidentical twin always said my gray-green eyes were a big asset, and having thick, honey-colored hair was one, too. But I tended to dress comfortably, and I wore flat shoes and didn’t go nuts with makeup. Definitely not “babe” material.

Not that he had any right to address me as “babe” even if I was one. I gave my head a little shake at learning this was V. Sardo. Our emails and phone calls hadn’t been pleasant. I felt bad for Benjamin. I’d borne the brunt of Vincent’s misplaced anger more than once.

Vincent tilted a big glug of wine into his mouth.

“Aren’t you going to swirl and sniff?” Benjamin asked him.

“Nah. I can’t smell anything.”

Vincent didn’t sound stuffed up or look like he suffered from allergies. I took a step back. We were a few years removed from massive numbers of people losing their sense of smell—and often their lives—at the start of the scourge of COVID. But the virus certainly hadn’t been eradicated, and this guy might be ill with it.

“Are you sick?” Benjamin edged away, too. “Allergic?”

“No, I just can’t smell.” Vincent shrugged. “Never have been able to. It’s a congenital condition.”

No sense of smell? I couldn’t imagine living without one. How could you taste food? Vincent must not miss what he’d never smelled. For me, living without being able to inhale scents—an orange blossom, a baby’s head, a plate of sautéed scallops, not to mention red wine—would be a miserable existence. Right now, for example, the air held the scent of the red wine I’d poured as well as the big potted rosemary plant outside the door open to the terrace.

A customer at a table by one of windows overlooking the Russian River caught my eye, raising a finger.

“About those numbers you’re demanding, Ben.” Vincent reverted to a defensive tone. “I don’t need to hand them over, you know.”

“It’s Benjamin. And yes, you do.” His equanimity had deserted him.

I left them to their argument and made my way to the customer. Outside the thick walls of the antique adobe structure, an enormous live oak tree shaded our terrace as well as the hillside sloping down to the river. It was as idyllic a Northern Californian setting as you could imagine, with Vino y Vida being one of four buildings in this cluster dating to more than a century earlier. The historical museum managed the buildings on town-owned property, which also included Alexander Books and my friend Henry Cruvellier’s art gallery.

I took the customer’s order and headed back to the bar, where nothing had changed.

“I can’t do this job if I don’t have that information, Vincent.” Benjamin was terse as he rapped the top of the polished wood with his knuckles. His neck turned red. “Seriously.”

Vincent shook his head, hard.

I turned my back and poured two glasses of a super smooth Stephens & Walker old-vine cabernet sauvignon. I wanted to tell the gentlemen to take their dispute out to the street. But as long as their fight didn’t become violent or too loud, I had to let them stay. Any businessperson knows the rule about the customer always being right.

Mooncat blew into Vino y Vida at five o’clock, all six feet of her, eyes bright and cheeks flushed. “Sorry I’m late, Cece.”

“You’re right on time.” I smiled at my employee. With a birth name of Martha Smith, she’d told me she’d had no choice but to invent a more interesting moniker. She had a point, and the name had made sense after she said she’d been born during a full moon.

“I know, but I like to be early.” She spread out her arms and did a three-sixty, sending a dress-length open vest swirling along with a faint scent of lavender. “Do you like it? I finished crocheting the thing an hour ago.” The loose-woven garment was in a variegated purple yarn. A statuesque woman who wore her curves with pride and stayed in shape with daily yoga, she’d layered the vest over a form-fitting turquoise jersey mini-dress and purple Doc Martens. She’d woven a violet ribbon through the gray braid she wore wrapped around her head.

“I love it. You always look fabulous.” I hoped I looked as fabulous—and carefree—at sixty-nine. This morning I’d pulled on pink and black Capris and a black women’s-cut Vino y Vida tee with the logo in pink, plus cushioned black sandals. I wasn’t without a fashion sense, but I had no idea how to pull off Mooncat’s kind of style. I would certainly never be able to match her résumé. A retired astrophysicist—a career she’d started after a stint on a commune—she taught belly dancing and apparently also did handcrafts. Most important for this job, she knew her wines.

“What are we pouring today?” she asked.

I filled her in on the wines and other details of the day. The argumentative men had left an hour ago, thank goodness. A half dozen sippers were scattered around the room. A framed photograph of rolling hills covered with rows of lush vines decorated one wall. Another wall had a photo of a vat full of ripe grapes next to a historic poster advertising Russian River brand California cabernet, with a stylized map of the river running through vineyards and the 101 crossing it.

“I’m going to run out and get a bite of dinner,” I said. “Can I bring something back for you?”

“No, thanks. I had a late lunch at Mama’s Cocina, and I’m still full of the best shrimp quesadilla in the known universe.”

“Cool.”

“Can I get more pretzels, please?” a customer at a table called out.

Mooncat checked the cabinet. “Oops. We’re out. Do we have more in the back?”

“We should. I’ll get them.” I hoped I’d ordered in more.

We didn’t serve food here, except for complimentary pretzels and gluten-free rice crackers. No beer, liquor, or soda. We were strictly a wine bar by design, and the business model was a successful one. I pushed through the swinging door to the all-purpose storage and workroom. We sold glasses of wine from a half dozen local vineyards, but we also had bottles for sale under agreement with two local wineries, to which we added a “Tasted at Vino y Vida” sticker before they went on the shelves out front. I grabbed a big unopened bag of pretzels and was a foot from the door when it swung open, nearly hitting me in the face.

“Hey, watch it,” I said to Nico Rispoli.

“We need to talk.” He pushed his way in and stood, arms folded across his chest, posturing like one of the bantam roosters on the farm where I bought my eggs. I’m sure it didn’t help he stood several inches shorter than my five foot eight.

“Not back here, we don’t. I’m on break.” I pointed at the door. “If you’ll excuse me?”

He waited a beat but stepped out of my way. I delivered the bag to Mooncat and grabbed my oversized purse from under the back bar. Nico stood in my way.

“I can talk to you outside, Nico.” I skirted him and made my way through the door to the outside, not caring if he followed. The dude was my least-favorite person in Colinas up to now, although I wondered if Vincent Sardo was going to jump into the competition. Nico directed the historical museum next door. Since January he’d also managed our little complex for the historical society board after the previous manager had quit. Nico hadn’t seemed happy the board had offered me the Vino y Vida job last winter, but I wasn’t sure why. My résumé showed my several positions as a manager, and I’d gotten up to date on wines as fast as I could. On the other hand, Nico never seemed happy about much of anything. Maybe he’d wanted the wine bar job himself.

The air wasn’t as furnace-like as it’d been when I came in earlier, thank goodness. I’d never been in Colinas in October before and had no idea the fall would be this hot. My twin sister, Allie, who had convinced me to move up here from Pasadena, said this weather was way above normal, unless this was the new climate normal. Still, at two hours before sunset, the temperature was falling, and the nights were always cool enough to sleep.

I gazed out at the street. Our cluster of adobes at the river sat at the end of the historic section of Manzanita Boulevard, the main drag in town. As with the town of Cloverdale at the north end of this fertile valley, Colinas had been founded in the nineteenth century. More than one wood-framed Victorian home like Allie’s had been restored and now housed cafés and gift shops, boutique clothing stores and tasting rooms. Even the bank occupied a century-old building that had originally been a general store. Town government kept chain businesses out of this area, making them locate on a busy road a couple of miles away. I approved.

It was quiet enough out here to hear the high-pitched call of a hawk overhead and the burble of the river over a cluster of rocks. Too bad the river’s water level ran way lower than usual—unless we’d arrived at the new usual.

It turned out Nico did follow me. I started when he touched my elbow. I whirled, and he had the good sense to drop his hand.

“I need to know what Sardo and Cohen were arguing about earlier.” He planted his fists on his waist.

I waited, hungry and on a half-hour break. But if Nico wanted something from me, he had to ask nicely, although I was curious how he knew they’d been arguing.

“Uh, please, Cece.” He cleared his throat. “If you don’t mind.”

“I don’t really know. All I heard was Vincent saying he couldn’t give Benjamin some set of numbers. Benjamin said he needed them.” I lifted a shoulder and dropped it. “That’s it. I didn’t get involved. Why don’t you ask one of them?”

“You know them both well enough to be on a first-name basis?”

“Seriously? I run a wine bar, Nico. People come in to taste and relax, enjoy themselves. Those two men—neither of whom I’d ever set eyes on before, by the way—introduced themselves. You want me to call them Mr. Sardo and Mr. Cohen?”

“Whatever. But watch out for Sardo, is all I’m saying. He’s trouble.”

“So far he hasn’t caused serious trouble in there.” I pointed my thumb over my shoulder. “Why do you want to know what they were talking about, anyway?”

He opened his mouth, then shut it. Four senior citizens on big motorcycles purred by, machines blessedly in possession of tune-ups and good mufflers. A gaggle of young women in dresses, one a short white number, stalked up on impossibly high heels, likely a bachelorette party on the prowl for more wine. A few looked too young to drink, but Mooncat was diligent about checking IDs. A Steller’s jay called out shook, shook, shook, shook from the big live oak.

“My break is disappearing. Get the specifics from them yourself, Nico. Catch you later.” I hurried down the sidewalk.

“But . . .” he called after me.

“Later.” I shook my head and gave a wave without turning.

I slid onto a red vinyl cushion atop a chrome post at the Edie’s Diner counter. The hundred percent retro diner in a real fifties dining car was around a corner halfway down Manzanita, and I was grateful owner Ed Ramirez kept it open through the early dinner hour. I ate here a lot.

Ed himself was swiping the counter at the other end and gave me a big smile. “Ola, Cece, amiga mía. You want the usual?”

“Yes, please, Ed. You know me too well.”

“Melt a fin in the Frisco dairy,” he called through the window into the back, his usual short-order lingo for an albacore cheddar melt on San Francisco sourdough.

The youngish, red-haired cook gave a nod and a wave. I was pretty sure his name was Pete, but he always stayed back there, and I always ate out here, where the walls were covered with framed black-and-white photographs of big-finned cars and boxy-looking pickup trucks.

“Want a beer to go with?” Ed asked.

“I’d love one, but I’m heading directly back to work, so, no thanks.” His license allowed him to serve alcohol, but his customers mostly asked for wine or beer except during brunch on weekends, in which case he stocked vodka for Bloody Marys.

“Did you ever eat meat?” he asked.

“Sure. I grew up on hamburgers and roast chicken like everybody else. It just seems healthier for me and the planet to be a vegetarian.”

“Plus seafood.” He filled a glass with ice and homemade lemonade and set it in front of me.

“Thanks. Plus seafood.”

“Me, I don’t think I could do it. Plus, here? People come to eat at a diner, they want their sausage and ham with breakfast and their hamburgers later.” He rolled his eyes. “At least you haven’t gone all vegan on me.”

I smiled at his drama. I didn’t think I was in any danger of switching to an all plant-based diet, although my daughter, Zoe, mentioned she might during our one conversation after she started her second year of college last month. One of my goals in moving north from Pasadena was trying to repair my long-fraught relationship with my only child, since her school—the University of California, Davis—was under two hours away.

“How have you been?” I took a sip of the sweet, tart, refreshing drink, which he made with lemons from his own tree.

“Can’t complain. This business is a lot better for my poor heart than trying to keep an honest New York publishing house afloat.” He patted his red button-up shirt over the diner logo on the chest, then smoothed down the white half apron he’d tied around a comfortable middle. “It’s crazy what’s happening in the publishing world, mija.”

“I can imagine. I’ve never been to New York, but if it’s anything like LA, the stress of living in the city couldn’t have helped.”

“Life in any big city is nuts.” Ed chortled, the skin around his eyes crinkling into lines indicating he laughed a lot. “But, Cece, the Big Apple is nothing like LA. I mean, no comparison.”

I glanced around. Nobody sat near me at the counter, and the people in the booths were absorbed in each other or their food—or both. I beckoned him closer with my finger.

“Do you know anything about an issue between Nico Rispoli and Vincent Sardo, the guy from the VVA?”

He blinked. “What kind of issue?”

“I don’t know. Vincent and a dude named Benjamin Cohen were arguing in Vino y Vida today. On my way over here Nico demanded to know what it was about. I didn’t realize he’d overheard what they were talking about. Something feels off about the whole thing.”

“Cohen seems like a good sort. He’s staying at Allie’s, isn’t he?”

I stared. “He is? In her B&B?” In addition to my sister’s successful real estate business, she ran a B&B in the Victorian she shared with her husband, Fuller, and twin boys Arthur and Franklin.

“Yeah. He’s a kind of consultant. He said he’s only here for the VVA job. Is the VVA what they were arguing about?”

“It seemed so.”

After a bell dinged behind Ed, he grabbed my platter and set it in front of me. Melted cheddar glistened atop a mound of white-meat tuna salad, with a dill spear nestled next to it. The other half of the sourdough roll, toasted and garnished with avocado mayo, held a big ripe tomato slice and a crisp leaf of lettuce. A pile of crispy fries and a paper cup of Ed’s special coleslaw completed the offering.

“I’m surprised your sister hasn’t tried to fix you up with him,” he said.

I was surprised, too, but by now I had a big bite of sandwich in my mouth and didn’t dare speak.

Ed tilted his head. “No question, the man’s a hunk. Don’t you think?”

I nodded.

“Allie probably hasn’t tried to get you two together because he’s only here short term. Enjoy your meal, mija.”

I raised a hand in acknowledgment. It was true. One of Allie’s superpowers was arranging things. After Zoe had seemed settled into her first year of college life, Allie—Alicia to my own Cecelia–had urged me to move north to Colinas out of the congestion and smog of the Los Angeles basin.

“Don’t you want to be near your nephews—and me?” Allie, mother to twin boys of ten, had asked at Christmas last year. “Plus a lot closer to your girl and to Mom. Davis isn’t too far from here.”

I’d liked the little post-WWII stucco bungalow . . .