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

“God, I am sorry,” he said, then turned and followed us up the stairs.
    The two chefs and a trio of waiters were crowded into the hall. I gave them a glare and said, “Go back to the kitchen and wait there; the police will be here soon.” I must have sounded pretty rough, because they didn’t linger. They scattered like ducks, racing to get out of my path.
    I took Alexandra to the living room and sat her on the sofa where just a short time ago Dimitri had been complaining. The bloody tea towel lay over the arm of the sofa, the ice having melted. I picked it up and tucked it into the pocket of my dress in a sodden mass.
    “I am so sorry, Alexandra,” I said as I sat beside her and squeezed her hand.
    Jessica came into the room. “What happened? I heard Dimitri has been hurt?” she asked, looking from me to Alexandra in bewilderment.
    “He's dead,” Alexandra said in the same little-girl voice she had used when she spoke to Samson. “Dead,” she repeated. “Murdered.”
    Jessica looked at me. The look on my face must have frozen out any other questions she had.
    I stood and released Alexandra’s hand. “Fix Alexandra a scotch and sit with her,” I said. “I have to talk to the guests.”
    Jessica is an elementary school teacher, long on patience and sympathy; she needed no prodding. She nodded and turned to the bar as I left the room.
    I felt like a witch for abandoning Alexandra; I could have sent Jessica outside to corral the guests while I sat with the widow, but my mind was too confused and swirling; I was afraid I would not have been much comfort to her. What I had seen in the cellar was so shocking I was still having trouble assimilating it. Dimitri dead and Samson pawing at the body, covered in the dead man’s blood. Could Samson have? Would he have?
    No! I had known Samson for more than twenty years; he was a grouchy hothead with a sharp tongue, but he was no murderer.
    God, I hoped I was right.
    The waiters and cooks were huddled in the kitchen as I passed through. The conversation stopped and all eyes turned to me, but I paid them no mind. I continued out the back door and across the patio.
    My eyes shot out across the valley, now cloaked in an inky darkness alleviated only by the tiny twinkling lights of homes, businesses, and wineries. With the cloudless night sky above illuminated by millions of stars, it was hard to determine where the world ended and the heavens began. It was almost impossible for me to believe there had been a murder committed amidst such beauty.
    Most of my guests were clustered near the wine cellar door. Every one of them looked more curious than frightened. And they were all whispering. A few of them had gotten a glimpse of the crime scene before I had slammed the door closed and they were regaling the others with gruesome details. No one seemed to be considering the fact that there was a murderer in their midst. They sipped their wine and speculated as if this was a TV drama staged for their amusement. Their attitude infuriated me after what I had just seen, but I tried to keep my temper in check as I raised my voice and spoke.
    “Please, everyone, back to the tent. Sheriff Drake has asked that everyone sit down and wait for the police to arrive.”
    “So, he really is dead?” Armand Rivincita, asked, his voice edged with more than curiosity. He sounded deflated, and he looked pale and shaken. I wondered instantly why he was so affected, but I had little time to consider it before I was bombarded with questions and accusations from all sides.
    “Did Samson kill him?”
    “Did Marjory?
    “I bet it was Angela!”
    “Samson was strangling him!” someone shouted from the back of the crowd. “I saw it!”
    “I saw blood. I think he shot Dimitri!” someone else called out.
    “Ding-dong, the witch is dead!” a half drunk voice added from the back of the mob. A few people tittered, while most looked mortified.
    “Please, sit down! A man is dead!” I shouted