Last of the Vintage Read online

  “I’m not sure how,” Dulcie nearly shouted as the gust continued. It had picked up bits of ice from the rooftops and now pelted them with it. Dulcie felt it sting on her cheeks. “It could have made Jeremy nervous to have Patrick there,” she continued with her head down. “It would be awkward, to say the least.”

  Nick was reminded of Dulcie’s unfortunate encounter with his ex-wife. Awkward didn’t even begin to describe it. He hoped she wasn’t remembering the same thing. He quickly changed the subject. “Let’s go get some dinner. This Italian place is really good I hear,” he gestured ahead of them.

  Dulcie knew exactly what he had been thinking. That situation, and the subject in general, had been extremely difficult for her. ‘Time to let it go now, though,’ she told herself. Everyone had to move on. Especially her. She looked at the stone steps in front of them, then up at the bright red door with a framed menu beside it, and nodded. Yes, she would allow his clumsy attempt to change the subject. Besides, Mia Madre’s had the best lasagne in town.

  Art is not what you see,

  but what you make others see.

  ― Edgar Degas

  CHAPTER 10

  Samantha read the note over again for the third time. It made her seethe. The audacity of him, to think that she would fall prey to his bait. She knew exactly what Geoffrey Spratt was trying to do. Did he think she was stupid?

  Still, this could help. It did show that Patrick was interested in her. And perhaps she could convince that police detective that it was evidence of Patrick wanting her back. Or, at the very least, it was evidence that he could get into an argument with Jeremy over her.

  “Patrick thought my talents were wasted with the television job,” she said aloud, paraphrasing Geoffrey’s writing. It was absurd. Patrick had never bothered to recognize her talents as a scientist. She realized that now. No one else needed to know, however. Yes, this could be excellent evidence that Patrick had a grudge. He could have argued with Jeremy after the party. There could have been a struggle.

  Samantha knew that she had to divulge the next piece of information quickly to convince the police that Patrick had killed her husband. She had to tell them that he had been stalking her. Would they believe her?

  She remembered what she had screamed at him in the boardroom during the wine tasting. I’ve seen you outside my apartment on the street. That proved Patrick was stalking her, didn’t it? She’d said it before everything had happened, before Jeremy….

  Yet, there was only one piece of evidence that remained to put Patrick away for good. She had to somehow make sure that either he couldn’t account for where he had been after the party, or that someone had witnessed Jeremy and Patrick together. This was getting complicated.

  She thought back through that evening. Who might have seen them? Or, more to the point, who might have seen something that she could persuade them to think was Patrick and Jeremy?

  Then she remembered Brendan. He had been drinking too much. Who better than a drunk man to convince that he’d seen something he hadn’t? Now she just had to craft a way to talk with him.

  The mail had come early that day. It was barely noon. “No time like the present,” Samantha announced to the empty apartment.

  She had thought it would be strange to be there alone, without Jeremy. After the first night, though, she’d realized how often she had been there alone, even when he was alive. He worked late, then often went straight from the wine bar to a friend’s house to study long into the night. He would come back in the morning just as she was getting up and sleep for a few hours while Samantha was already at the TV station. By the time she returned home after the six o’clock news, they barely crossed paths again as he headed back to work. On the occasions when they were together, Jeremy was most often closeted in his ‘study’ as he called it. The somm exam had become his obsession. He had no time for Samantha. Wine was the ‘other woman’ in his life.

  She jarred her thoughts back to her current predicament. “No time like the present,” she repeated quietly. She looked up the number for the museum and was put through to Dulcie.

  “Samantha!” Dulcie answered with surprise. “It’s good to hear from you. How are you doing?”

  Samantha realized that she had to begin pretending to mourn. It might look odd if she didn’t. She snuffled, then said softly, “I’m holding up all right. I think it just hit me this morning, I was kind of in a state of shock before.”

  “I understand,” Dulcie replied.

  “I’m sorry to bother you,” Samantha said, “But I have a favor to ask. One of Jeremy’s” she choked on the name slightly and swallowed hard, hoping Dulcie could hear it through the phone. “One of Jeremy’s friends,” she continued, “asked about the wine that the archaeologist has, the one that everyone tried the other night. I think his friend had some idea of buying a bottle although I don’t know how he could afford it.”

  “It would be an investment, from what I’ve heard,” Dulcie stated.

  “I want to honor as many of Jeremy’s wishes as I can, big or small,” Samantha sniffed again. “He would have wanted his friend to find out about the wine. Would you know how I can get in touch with the man who is selling it?”

  “Absolutely,” Dulcie said. “He’s staying at the Regency Hotel. I’m sure you can leave word with them there, and he’ll call you as soon as he gets the message.”

  “Oh thank you, Dulcie. This means a lot to me,” she replied.

  “Of course. Take care of yourself, all right? And let me know if I can do anything else.”

  “I will,” Samantha answered. “Thanks again.”

  She put down the phone gently on the coffee table in front of her. Good. On to the next step of her plan.

  #

  From those in attendance at the museum event, Brendan MacArthur had managed to come up with six potential candidates who might quietly buy his wine. That wasn’t many. He was annoyed with himself for being backed into a corner. It wasn’t like him to let things get so out of control.

  He jumped at the sound of a polite knock on the door. “Message for you, Mr. MacArthur,” a bellhop announced. A paper slid under the door.

  Brendan stood quickly, strode to the door and opened it. The bellhop was already halfway down the hall. “Aye! Thank you good man!” Brendan called out. When the bellhop turned around, Brendan held out his hand with a folded bill in it. “For your efforts,” he said. The bellhop scooted back, taking it gladly. Brendan knew from experience that one would never regret tipping the underlings. You never knew when you’d need them.

  He went back in his room and looked at the message. It was from someone named Samantha Sanders. How did he know that name? Then he snapped his fingers. Right, that incredibly attractive TV reporter. The weather girl. She wanted to meet with him. A friend was interested in the wine.

  “This could be pleasant on more than one count,” Brendan mused aloud with an almost lewd smile. Whether the smile originated from the prospect of a lucrative sale, or a potential liaison with a very attractive woman was unclear, even to him.

  He quickly pulled out his phone and called the number on the note. “Hello, Ms. Sanders! So good to hear from you. This is Brendan MacArthur.” He went through the usual platitudes, added his condolences for her recent loss, then got to the point. “I’ve obviously received your note and would love to talk with you. Have you had lunch yet?” She had not. He suggested a restaurant nearby. She agreed.

  Brendan MacArthur happily put down his phone several minutes later, hurriedly changed into what experience had taught him was a more suave outfit, and was out of the room within five minutes.

  Samantha was waiting for him when he arrived. He greeted her warmly and sat, taking a menu from the waiter. Brendan ordered a glass of cabernet while Samantha asked for tea.

  “Not indulging at this hour?” Brendan asked.

  “Not today,” she replied. “It’s just been so cold out, I feel like tea would warm me up.” ‘And calm my nerves,’
she thought.

  When they had ordered lunch, Samantha began her well-rehearsed speech. “I contacted you because I have a friend who is very interested in your wine,” she began. “I meet so many people in the television business, and a couple of them have amazing wine collections,” she added.

  Brendan’s eyes lit up. She would be rubbing shoulders with money certainly, if she didn’t already have it herself. “You must know a great deal about wine,” he ventured.

  She nodded. It was only half true. She had tried to learn early on in Jeremy’s pursuits, but lost interest around the same time that he seemed to lose interest in her. “I couldn’t help but learn,” she smiled softly. “Jeremy knew so much, and he was an amazing teacher.” She swallowed hard for effect.

  “This must be so hard for you,” Brendan said. “We could do this another time if you like,” he added as he thought, ‘Keep talking, Samantha. Keep talking.’

  She paused and drank some of her tea. “It’s only just hit me what happened. It was all so sudden. And I feel responsible in a way. You see, Jeremy and I argued, and I went home early. If only I had stayed. It sounds so awful that someone hit him, then dragged him over the edge of the wharf. I can’t believe there wasn’t a witness.” She looked up pointedly at Brendan. “When did you leave the museum? Could you have seen anything, do you think?”

  Brendan’s mind had been focused entirely on wine. Now a thought occurred to him. He was in a great deal of trouble, potentially. He needed to sell the wine and get out of the country quickly. If he helped her, if he had indeed “seen anything” as she asked, it might move things along. It would certainly serve his purpose nicely.

  “You know, Samantha, now that you mention it, I do remember hearing an argument. It was pretty late – I don’t know what time. I’d had a lot to drink too, I’m afraid. Thinking back though, one of the people did sound like Jeremy. I had just heard his voice earlier that night,” he replied.

  She was halfway there. He was acknowledging Jeremy. Now she just had to insinuate Patrick into the conversation. “Do you have any idea who the other person could have been?” She opened her eyes widely, innocently, for effect.

  He thought for a moment. “I’m not sure. Do you have any ideas?”

  They were both playing the same game. Neither knew it.

  Samantha shook her head. “The only person that I can think of is an ex-boyfriend of mine. He broke up with me, a few years ago, but in the last couple of months I’ve suddenly seen him around the city. I’ve even seen him at night outside my apartment window.”

  “That’s kind of scary,” Brendan acknowledged. “Did you report him to the police?”

  “No. I really didn’t want Jeremy to know. He was so focused on his studies for the somm test. I didn’t want to bother him. I thought Patrick would get tired of the whole thing and go away.”

  Patrick. Could it be Patrick Spratt? He knew the name from the list of potential buyers. The Spratts liked their wine. Suddenly, Brendan remembered Samantha’s reaction to someone in the boardroom on the night of the wine tasting. Brendan had not been as drunk as everyone supposed. That person must have been Patrick! She had said something about stalking. Brendan closed his eyes briefly, trying to remember what the man looked like. “Samantha, is Patrick tall and thin, with blond hair?” he asked.

  “Yes!” she exclaimed. “Do you remember something?” She was wringing the white cloth napkin in her lap with both hands. She willed herself to stop.

  “I think I might. It’s becoming more clear. I remember hearing Jeremy’s voice outside the museum, and I glanced over toward where it was coming from. I saw what must have been him, along with a tall, thin man with blond hair. He was at the wine tasting too, wasn’t he?”

  Samantha was nearly shaking. She’d done it! She’d led him into thinking he saw Patrick with Jeremy! “Yes, Patrick was in the boardroom that night. He was there! Do you think…?” She let the sentence fall away.

  Brendan had been holding his glass of wine. He now put it down carefully and looked at her intently. “I think we’d better contact the police,” he said very severely.

  #

  It was already dark when Geoffrey Spratt heard a loud knocking at the front door. He had just poured a pre-dinner Glenmorangie and settled himself in the library. “Who the hell could that be,” he sputtered. “Patrick! You expecting someone?” he called to his nephew.

  “Nope,” Patrick replied from the kitchen. He was mixing himself a drink.

  Geoffrey opened the door.

  “Sorry to bother you sir, but we’re here on important business. Is Patrick Spratt with you?” Johnson barked. Two uniformed officers were behind him.

  “Yes. What’s this about?” Geoffrey demanded.

  Patrick appeared behind him, drink in hand.

  “Are you Patrick Spratt?” Johnson asked. He already knew the answer, but had to make sure it was confirmed.

  “Yes,” Patrick said hesitantly.

  Johnson nodded to one of the officers who stepped forward. “Patrick Spratt, I’m placing you under arrest for the murder of Jeremy Plunkett. I must warn you…” the officer continued.

  Patrick dropped his drink on the floor. His face turned gray as the handcuffs were slipped onto his wrists.

  Geoffrey began yelling. “What the hell are you doing! My nephew doesn’t have the guts to kill a fly let alone another person!” he spat.

  The police had located Patrick’s coat and threw it over his shoulders. They quickly escorted him outside while Geoffrey continued to yell. “I’ll sue all of you!” he hollered.

  Johnson remained on the top step. He waited for Geoffrey to stop yelling and breathe. “You can follow us to the station if you like,” he suggested. “We do have evidence against your nephew. An eyewitness has come forward.”

  That was impossible. Geoffrey knew exactly what his nephew had been doing that night, and killing Jeremy Plunkett was certainly not among his activities. Geoffrey had made sure of that.

  “They’re lying,” he stated simply.

  It was an odd thing to say at that moment. Johnson sensed this immediately. Usually people said something like, “That’s impossible,” or “Who was it.” The way Geoffrey Spratt had just said ‘They’re lying’ implied that he knew something.

  “I would encourage you to follow us to the station,” Johnson repeated. He went back down the steps and got into the back seat of the police car with Patrick Spratt.

  Geoffrey watched them drive away. He looked back into the house. Patrick’s drink was all over the floor. Geoffrey got a towel from the bathroom and wiped up the mess. How had everything spun out of control like this? A blast of freezing air wound its way through the door and Geoffrey realized that he hadn’t closed it. He pushed it shut with his foot, then leaned back against it.

  What was he going to do now? How could anyone have possibly thought that they had seen Patrick? His nephew was a tall man, but not big or imposing. Nothing about him gave the impression that he could kill anyone. Or even fight someone, for that matter. He was soft. It was a disparaging description, but the only word that fit.

  Geoffrey located his keys and his wallet, then pulled on his coat and gloves. He stepped out into the cold, carefully locking the house behind him. He thought of the Glenmorangie longingly. Maybe prison wasn’t a bad idea for his nephew after all.

  #

  Johnson had returned to Nick’s apartment. He’d made his partner stay put during the arrest. Both of them weren’t required, and Nick needed to get out of the freezing air and rest.

  “So tell me what happened,” Nick asked. The medicine had worn off again. His nose was red and the trash can beside him was half full already with tissues. He said ‘habbened’ rather than ‘happened.’

  “The usual. Shouting. Denial… the works,” Johnson said. He looked tired as he sat down.

  “Hey, you’re not getting this cold too, are you?” Nick asked.

  “Nah. Don’t think so,” Johnson said. “Hea
lthy as an ox,” he added. “I’m just getting frustrated with this one.”

  “That means you don’t think this guy did it,” Nick said, honking his nose again into a new white tissue.

  “You are correct,” his partner admitted.

  They were silent for a moment, except for Nick’s mild wheezing. “What makes you think that,” he asked.

  “Cop’s intuition. You know,” Johnson replied. “When I told him we had an eyewitness, our Uncle Geoffrey said ‘he’s lying’. First of all, how does Geoffrey know it’s a ‘he’ and secondly, people don’t usually say that. They say, ‘who was it,’ or something like that.”

  “That is interesting,” Nick concurred. “Stick that one in the back of the noggin.” He tapped the back of his head, then winced. His headache was worse. Nick started to get up, but Johnson stopped him.

  “Whaddya need?” he asked.

  Nick didn’t argue. “Tea. Coffee. Something hot. And more of this magic pills.” He gestured toward the now empty container on the table.

  “Okay, I could use a little walk and get out of this germ infested place for a minute. I’ll run over to the store. You hang on – I’ll be right back.” Johnson switched on the electric kettle in the kitchen as he left.

  Within ten minutes there was a tap on the door. “It’s open, Johnson!” Nick shouted, then winced again.

  “It isn’t Johnson.” Dulcie’s voice floated towards him. “And I’ve brought soup!”

  Nick heard her rummaging in the kitchen. “You shouldn’t be here,” he said halfheartedly. “You’ll get sick too!”

  Dulcie came around the corner with a tray that held a steaming bowl and a spoon. “I’ll take that risk,” she grinned.

  Nick looked at the soup with some apprehension. Dulcie wasn’t known for her culinary skills. He didn’t want to be rude, however.