Death By the Glass #2 by Nadia Gordon Page B

away. She thought about Remy, remembering the few times she’d seen him, searching for signs of what he was capable of. He had a sour, persnickety disposition, but he was French and a wine connoisseur. An uppity demeanor was practically mandatory. There was more than that. He seemed sneaky and surreptitious. Did that mean he was capable of murder?
    It was all speculation, and none of it explained how Andre got hold of his bottle of the phony wine or who smashed the other bottle at Nathan’s feet. If she went to Sergeant Harvey, what she knew together with what he knew and wasn’t telling her might point to the killer, assuming there was a killer. It might also point to Andre, though, who could be smack in the middle of some kind of get-rich-quick scheme, or look like he was. Even if everyone at the restaurant were innocent, if it was Osborne Wines or the importer who had forged the wine, the publicity was sure to hurt Vinifera and Andre. He would look at her as the one who called in the cops to check out his restaurant.She couldn’t risk going to Steve without a clearer and more convincing reason to do so.
    By the time she got out of the bath and put on her fleece hoody and warm-ups, the dough was ready to be worked. She kneaded it into one smooth ball, then into Hacky Sack–sized buns. With each one she rolled and placed on the baking sheet, she thought of another question for Remy Castels.
    It was almost three o’clock in the morning by the time she pulled the last tray of morning buns out of the oven, three-thirty when her head hit the pillow, and six when the alarm went off.

9
    Meyer lemons were scattered on the lawn under the tree in front of what Sunny supposed was Remy Castels’ house, a tidy white bungalow sitting demurely back from a quiet Napa street. She walked up to the porch carrying the plate of morning buns and stood listening, half hoping he would be home, half praying he wouldn’t be. She looked at the morning buns with regret, wishing she’d eaten one on the way over, and maybe chosen a different plate. It wasn’t her best plate, but it wasn’t her worst either, and she was a little sorry to see it go. The buns smelled sweet and buttery. The idea occurred to her that she could still turn around and get back in the truck, eat a couple of morning buns, drink some coffee out of the thermos, and head into work like nothing bad ever happened in Napa Valley. She could forget what she knew about the case of fake Marceline and go on with her life. Of course, that might mean she would never find out where it came from or if Andre Morales had anything to do with it.
    She rang the doorbell. The sound of water running in pipes suggested someone was home. She rang again and waited. After a while, she heard footsteps and the door opened. Remy Castelsstared at her from his bathrobe and pajamas, both cotton and reminiscent of a Japanese bathhouse.
    “Yes?” he said, looking at her blankly.
    “It’s Sunny McCoskey. We met on Sunday,” she said, “at Vinifera.”
    “I know who you are,” said Remy, looking behind her as if he expected to see someone else there. “Why are you here?”
    “I know how upset you must be about Nathan’s death,” she said with determination. “I did some baking last night, and since I was on my way to work, I thought I would stop by and leave you a few morning buns for breakfast.”
    “Morning buns,” said Remy dryly.
    “With
noyau
frosting,” said Sunny.
    “
Noy-au,
” said Remy. “Not
no-yau
. Let me get this straight. You drove twenty minutes out of your way at seven o’clock in the morning to try to poison me.”
    “What do you mean?” she said, smiling curiously at what she was sure must be a joke.
    “
Noyau
are toxic,” he said. “Poisonous.”
    “Yes, well, that’s technically true,” she said slowly, “but only if you eat the seed itself, and lots of them. It’s only the flavor in the icing. The seeds are strained away. It’s perfectly safe. I’ve