The Merlot Murders by Ellen Crosby

luminescent letters spelled out “Gleason.” He stopped and shoved the helmet off his forehead, listening to what my brother told him. He shook his head and moved on.
    Eli saw me watching and strode over. “This is absurd. We’re not allowed in our own place.”
    “Let them do their work, Eli.”
    He glared at me but said nothing.
    It was a while before Bobby finished. Jesús had wandered over to the stone wall by the parking lot, leaning against it and chain-smoking. Doc Harmon left on a veterinary emergency. “Maybe I can save a life somewhere else,” he said. “There’s nothing I can do here.”
    Eli and I sat on the villa steps, not speaking. We got up when Bobby finally walked through the courtyard archway carrying a small notebook. He kept clicking his ballpoint pen like he was counting something.
    “Well, Santini says there wasn’t any oxygen in that tank. It was pure carbon dioxide. He says Fitz would have suffocated instantly.”
    I shuddered.
    “Santori,” Eli said. “And he’s right. Jacques was strict as hell about not letting anybody work around the tanks without a buddy when they were cleaning them. Climbing into a purged stainless-steel tank is like climbing into a shark tank. There have been accidents just like this out in California.” He shrugged. “Making wine has its occupational hazards.”
    Bobby blew a bubble and popped it. “Jesus, Eli. Are you trying to pass this off as an accident? You think Fitz took a wrong detour and ended up in your tank of wine?”
    Eli reddened. “Of course not. But when he showed up at Leland’s wake last night he was stinking drunk. He told Lucie he needed to stop here to pick up some wine. I don’t know…maybe he got disoriented or something.”
    Bobby opened his notebook and clicked the pen once more. He started writing. “He said he was coming here, did he?”
    “To pick up some special cases of wine for a wedding,” I said.
    “Santini says there’s a bunch of money missing from your safe,” Bobby flipped back through a few pages. “More’n four thousand bucks. You got some migrant workers here who just show up for harvest. Not the same guys every year. Not the same guys every day, for that matter.” He looked at us. “And someone cut the lock to the barrel room door. You’ll need to replace it.”
    “Robbery?” I asked. “You think he surprised someone trying to rob us?”
    “Dunno,” he said. “We’re talking to all your crew. It’s taking a while, though, because nobody speaks English. Hector just showed up. He and Santini are doing the translating for us.” He blew another bubble. “So when was the last time you all saw Fitz?”
    “Shortly before the wake ended,” I said. “He left when Thelma started singing.”
    “Wise move.” Bobby chewed thoughtfully. “So what time was that, about?”
    “Nine-thirty?” I guessed.
    “Closer to nine-forty,” Eli said.
    Bobby looked up from the notes he’d been writing and frowned. Then his face lightened. “Oh right. You’ve got that nuclear watch. Must come in handy sometimes. So nine-forty, then.” He did some calculating. “That’d put him here about nine-fifty, nine-fifty-five. Kind of late at night to be working, isn’t it?”
    “Restaurants and vineyards don’t work eight-hour day shifts, Bobby. Just like you guys,” Eli said.
    “That so?” Bobby squinted at us. “So where were the both of you last night?”
    Eli looked incredulous. “At Leland’s wake, of course.”
    “I meant afterwards. When did you leave and what did you do?”
    There was something different in his voice that changed him from the kid who had a regular seat in detention hall to a cop who had the authority to pry into the details of our lives. He looked at both of us and, when his eyes met mine, they were opaque and unreadable. A cop’s eyes.
    Eli looked annoyed. “Oh, come on, Bobby. Brandi and I went home. To bed.”
    “You’re saying you didn’t spend any time here? This place or the