A Vintage To Die For (Violet Vineyard Murder Mysteries Book 2) by JM Harvey Page A

streaked her face and her shoulders shook.
    Suddenly, Blake Becker appeared in the doorway at the top of the steps, his expression one of bewilderment. Behind him I could see more faces and white aprons as the cooks crowded in for a look.
    “Close that door!” I barked up at Blake. He nodded, but he didn’t back into the hallway as I had intended; he came out on the landing and closed the door behind him. The wet tea towel hung from his right hand, dripping water on the steps in a slow patter. The knot on his forehead had swollen to golf ball size.
    “Is that Dimitri?” he asked.
    No one answered him.
    Samson released Dimitri and stood, wine dripping from his clothing. “He is dead,” he said to Hunter. “And bleeding. The wine will be ruined. I—”
    “Shut up about the wine!” I demanded. “And get down here!” I pointed at the floor at my feet.
    Samson's face instantly set in hard, obstinate lines, but he slowly came down the ladder, leaving Dimitri hanging over the lip of the tank, his arms extending down, grape juice dripping from his dead fingers. I tried not to look at his face, but I couldn't help it. His eyes were open and his jaw was sagging. He seemed to be looking right at me.
    I shuddered and tore my eyes away, the half-eaten halibut rising in my throat.
    This was not the first time I had seen a murder victim up close – just last year I had found my neighbor, Kevin Harlan, dead in my vineyard, his head caved in by a brutal beating - but it wasn’t any easier the second time around. I had to fight hard to keep from vomiting, breathing fast and ragged through my nose, the musty-yeasty smell of the crushed grapes almost overwhelming me.
    Samson stopped at the foot of the ladder and looked up at Dimitri. “The wine—”
    He stopped mid-sentence as Hunter holstered his gun and brushed past him. Hunter climbed the ladder and felt for a pulse, but we all knew he wouldn’t find one. It was obvious Dimitri was dead.
    Hunt came slowly back down the ladder.
    “Is he—?” Alexandra whispered, drifting slowly toward the tank where her husband lay dead.
    Hunter nodded. “I'm afraid so.” He looked at me. “Claire, please take Mrs. Pappos upstairs.” He dug his cell phone from his front pocket. “And tell everyone at the party to stop drinking and sit down. No one leaves until we get statements from them all.”
    I started toward Alexandra, but she kept coming my way. She didn’t stop when I held my hand out to her; she didn’t even seem to see me, she went to Samson and stopped, facing him, close enough to touch.
    “Is a vendetta so sweet you would do this to me? You would make a widow of me?” she asked him. Her voice was small and uncertain, almost like a little girl's. The tears continued to track through her makeup, blurring her features.
    Samson's shook his head. “I did not kill him,” he said. “I found him like this, Alexandra.” He added another few words in Greek, a language of which I only knew the curse words - thanks to Samson’s constant use of them - but Alexandra understood what he said. Her tears intensified and her shoulders began to heave. I wanted to go to her, to console her, but I remained frozen. The situation was so grim I didn’t know what to do.
    Hunter got me unstuck. “Claire…” he said.
    I nodded, went to the widow and put my arm across her shoulders. I turned her away from Samson and her dead husband and guided her to the stairs. Blake was standing at the bottom by then, looking up at Dimitri, a hollow look in his eyes.
    “Ruined,” he whispered to himself. “I'm ruined.” He sounded as if he could barely breathe.
    “Blake,” I snapped. “Quit gawking and come back upstairs.” Between Samson worrying about a few hundred gallons of wine and Blake worrying about his business, I was fast losing faith in my fellow human beings. 
    Blake looked at Alexandra and flushed. He nodded. “Sorry,” he said as we went past him. He looked back up at Dimitri.