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

gloves in the basement, behind some machinery. They’re covered in blood, too.” She looked at me, the hint of an accusation in her eyes. “The slicker is a woman’s, size medium.”
    “Good work, Midge,” Hunter said.
    Midge nodded stiffly, gave me one more look, then turned and disappeared back down the hallway.
    “The slicker’s mine,” I said to Hunter. “For the crush. Manning the destemmer is messy. And I don’t appreciate the look Midge gave—”
    “Afraid you might be a suspect?” he asked with a narrow smile.
    “I know Midge doesn’t like me,” I said, but that just sounded petulant and I knew it. It was embarrassing. But I couldn’t stop. “She’d be happy if I was the murderer.”
    Hunter laughed. “You were with me when Dimitri died,” he said. “Remember?”
    “Yes,” I said, unmollified. “And I’ve got the bruised toes to prove it.”
    Hunter stood up, stretched his back and groaned, then headed for the door. He paused on the threshold. “I’m done with you three,” he said then looked at me, “but the rest of the crime scene team and I are going to be here for a while.”
    I stood. “I’ll make coffee and put together some food for your men.” I wondered how much chicken was left. Probably a lot. There had been too much drama for much eating to be done.
    “I appreciate that, Claire,” he said and was gone.
    “Jorge arrested for murderer?” Jessica said as she too stood. “That’s ridiculous.”
    Victor didn’t rise and he didn’t say anything, but I could see the wheels turning behind his eyes. Jorge wasn’t exactly a friend of Victor’s, but Jorge’s accusations about police harassment of Latinos would have hit home with my foreman. California might be an ultraliberal state, but its track record on race relations wasn’t exactly stellar. But I knew Hunter was no bigot, and St. Helena was not Los Angeles. And Jorge was a drunken idiot, even if I did like him.
    And he just might be the murderer.
    I headed for my disaster of a kitchen, Jessica trailing in my wake.
     
    The last police car left Violet at 3:30AM. I was still awake, and the kitchen was only half-cleaned. Charlie had said he would be back tomorrow, but the work had kept my hands and my mind busy as police officers and the coroner’s men paraded through my kitchen and the cellar below.
    I had made seven pots of coffee in that time period and three times as many chicken sandwiches. Victor and Jessica had helped, but Victor had been morose and silent. He left at midnight, just a half hour before Jessica climbed the stairs to what she refers to as ‘her room’ and I refer to as the ‘guest room.’
    Hunter let Samson and Marjory leave at 2:40. The pair was unusually quiet as they said their goodbyes, but I was in no mood for conversation anyway. I settled at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee, alone. I was still sitting there, staring down into the cold coffee, when Hunter came up from the cellar and joined me.
    He refused another cup of coffee and dropped into the chair across from me. “Dirty business,” he said, looking worn down and ragged. “But we’re done with the cellar. Midge will be here tomorrow to drain the tank.”
    I nodded and felt my own shoulders sag. I’d have to call my insurance agent, I realized. And it had been less than a year since I’d submitted a six-figure claim to pay for the damage done when a murderer had rampaged through my cellar with an ax.
    “Guess I better get going,” Hunt said, though he made no move to rise. A long moment of silence passed before he looked up at me. I sensed a question in his eyes. A longing.
    I broke eye contact as the blood rushed to my face. Hunter and I had been intimate in the past, but that had been more than a year before. His gaze made me feel awkward and even more uncertain about the status of our relationship. Earlier, when we had been dancing, it had all seemed so right, but now…I couldn’t explain it. Maybe I was just too