Deadly Offer (17 page)

He took a look at his watch and sighed. Nearly nine a.m. If he conked out now he’d have a good five hours’ sleep, and those extra zzzz’s would come in handy when he opened the bar later that day. Michael Contento’s death would be the topic of conversation, usurping Selena Thompson’s demise and even the explosion at Carson Creek.

It was not too late to come up with a special drink, Toby Bliss thought, as he switched off his computer and went in search of some rest.

———

Darby recognized Fritz Kohler’s blue hybrid as it turned into the driveway and parked. She watched him emerge from the car, his powerful torso seeming to dwarf the little vehicle. He walked purposefully to the farmhouse and rapped on the door.

She greeted him, noting the manilla folder he clutched under one arm. “Come in. I’m glad you could come over on such short notice.”

He nodded and indicated the dining room table with a nod of his head. “Shall we sit there?”

“Sure.” Darby took a seat, noting the size of Kohler’s hands. Those hands had dug into Selena Thompson’s flesh, making bruises so intense her brother had seen them.

She looked at his eyes.

“I wanted to hear from you about your desire to own Carson Creek. I assume you are still interested?”

He nodded. “Yes, although I will be offering a slightly lower price due to the condition of the tasting room. Have you had estimates on the renovation?”

“Not yet, but those are underway.” She phrased her words carefully. “The sellers have asked me to pose the same question to each of the buyers: Why are you the right person to own Carson Creek?”

He fidgeted in his chair and a look of annoyance flashed across his face. “I didn’t realize I had entered an essay competition,” he said smoothly. “I would have brought my number two pencil.”

Darby gave a little smile but did not comment.
Let him squirm
, she thought.

“Here’s the deal,” said Fritz Kohler, spreading open his hands. “I have run two very successful businesses. Off the Beaten Track Biking, which I grew to be the largest bicycle touring outfit in the world, and Yoga World United, my current company. I know how to make a business work. Carson Creek, for all its charm and bucolic peacefulness, is a business. A business that I can take to the next level and beyond.”

He paused, and Darby wondered if he was finished. Just then he cleared his throat and continued.

“I believe we discussed that I had some prior history with Selena
Thompson. She was, if you’ll pardon the phrase, the ‘girl that got away.’ I loved her, but I treated her badly. I suffered from an inability to manage my anger, and she got the brunt of it.” He shifted his weight forward in his chair. “I had hoped to purchase Carson Creek as a way of helping Selena out of financial trouble. I thought that I could in some way pay her back for the pain I once caused her. But she made it clear that she had another buyer in mind for the property, although she did not say who. Now that she’s gone, I hope her brothers will consider my very generous offer. I’d like to own this place and I’d like to make it succeed.”

“It must have been very hard for you when Selena chose another buyer,” Darby said quietly.

“You have no idea.”

“I’m sure it made you angry.”

“It did, but fortunately I have worked hard to master the art of self-control. When she told me she had another buyer in mind, I
was able to use the techniques that have helped me and many others.”

“Such as?”

“Deep breathing, visualization—listen, I don’t think it’s really any of your business.”

“What about prescription medicines? Do they help with your anger management?”

“What are you talking about?” Darby could see from his balled fists and clenched teeth that his mood was changing.

“I’m talking about metoprolol,” she said. “You’d filled your prescription the very afternoon you met with Selena. Is that one of your techniques?”

“That medication is for hypertension,” he snarled. “I don’t know
what you’re getting at.”

“I’m getting at this: you were angry when Selena told you she wasn’t letting you buy the vineyard, so angry that you obtained a bottle of metoprolol. You then came back here and put some of it in Selena’s wine bottle. You must have known that she would help herself to a glass of that wine and sit in her hot tub. You hoped that she’d pass out and drown, and that’s exactly what happened. You’ve been mad at Selena Thompson for a long, long time now, haven’t you, Fritz? Ever since she was the girl who managed to ‘get away’ from your violent behavior—”

He lunged across the dining room table at Darby, his brawny hands aiming at her throat. She tried to dodge him, but his tremendous height had given him an advantage. She felt his knuckles grinding into the soft tissue of her neck and tried to cry out.

The living room door burst open and Detective Nancy Nardone busted in, gun drawn.

“Back off, Kohler!” she barked. The other officer, a wiry man wearing a uniform, grabbed Kohler from behind, yanking him away. He subdued the enraged yoga instructor with a few well-placed tugs. Meanwhile Detective Nardone stood with legs akimbo, her gun trained on the suspect.

“You okay, Darby?” She surveyed the table with a practiced eye.

“Fine.” Darby swallowed a few times; no damage had been done. She shuddered at the thought of those big hands around her throat. Her skills as a master of Aikido would have been sorely tested with Fritz Kohler.
Sometimes it’s nice not to have to show off
, she thought.

Kohler turned an enraged face in her direction, interrupting her thoughts. “You set me up,” he growled.

“Give me a break.” Detective Nardone shook her head at him, her expression bemused. “You set yourself up when you came back to bully Selena. We found your prints on the farmhouse door and in the old barn.”

“I never went in to the house,” he yelled. “I came to the door, and I met her in the barn, but I never went in the house.”

“We’ll see about that. Let’s go.” Detective Nardone ushered Kohler
out the door. She turned and nodded at Darby. “He’s our man,” she said. “Good work.”

Darby watched as the law enforcement officials herded Fritz Kohler into a police car. His fingerprints were at Carson Creek; he’d purchased the drug used to kill Selena, and his violent temper had now been demonstrated in full. Detective Nardone seemed certain that Fritz Kohler was guilty.

Why,
Darby wondered,
can’t I bring myself to agree?

Sixteen

“What is the yoga
guy’s car doing here?” Tim Contento asked, as he wandered into the kitchen at Carson Creek and took a deep breath. “Something smells terrific,” he said. “Chicken?”

“Yes, it’s nearly done and I’m bringing it up to your family when it’s ready.” She wiped her hands on an apron and turned to face Tim. “I’m so sorry about Michael.”

He nodded his bald head numbly. “Me, too. He was a wonderful father, patient, and forgiving of my mistakes.”

Darby thought about the wine futures scandal. In a gentle voice she said, “Such as what happened with Sleepy Spaniel?”

He looked downward and nodded. “Exactly. He thought I’d behaved like an idiot, but he surprised me by saying he understood why I’d taken the gamble. Dad said the wine business is all about risks, and that some pan out, and some don’t.” He tried to smile. “Tell that to Harrison Wainfield. He’s still seething over that whole thing.”

“Did he have to pay to settle with the investors?”

“Of course. We both did. But I don’t think Wainfield ever forgave Selena for coming up with the whole thing. And then when she decided to sell this place herself, instead of hiring him, I thought he would go ballistic.”

“What happened?”

“That’s the odd thing. Nothing really happened. Somehow Wainfield got over it, I guess.” He clasped his hands together. “I’m going to wander out and see Dan for a minute.” He gave a quick smile. “Can’t wait to eat this chicken.”

Darby watched him go. So Selena hadn’t been as well-loved as everyone insisted. She’d had her share of enemies, among them, Harrison Wainfield.

———

Darby was on her way to Contento Family Vineyards with the aromatic roast chicken when her cell phone rang. She pulled over and saw an unfamiliar area code and number. She checked her rear-view mirror and pulled to the side of the road. “Hello?”

“John Haina here. I’m a police detective in Sunset Beach, outside of Honolulu, Hawaii, calling about Mr. Douglas Henderson?”

“Yes, Detective Haina. Thank you for calling. I’ve been very worried about Doug.”

“I understand you are his friend and neighbor in Southern California, is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“Okay then. I can fill you in on what happened here in Hawaii in a few moments. But first, I’m sitting with Doug right here in the hospital, and he wants to talk a minute.”

“Great!” She waited while the detective passed the phone to Doug.

“Darby?” His voice was faint, but distinct. “Darby, whatever you do, don’t sell my house.”

“Don’t worry, Doug. I’ll take it off the market today.”

“Good.” He swallowed. “You were right about Rhonda—she was too good to be true. Everything she told me was a lie.” He coughed.
“The only consolation I have is that Detective Haina’s gonna catch her. I don’t want anyone else to go through this.” He paused. “Are you still in wine country?”

“Yes, but I’ll be back in Mission Beach soon. I’ll help you settle back in to that great little bungalow.”

He swallowed again. “Thanks. I’m putting Detective Haina back on.”

In his clipped, no-nonsense fashion, John Haina described how Doug had fallen prey to a con artist known to him as Rhonda Starkle. “Unfortunately her scam has become quite common, thanks to the availability of so much information on the Internet,” he said. “Rhonda sent him photos of what she claimed was her house, requested that he pay part of the rent, and then took off with the money. Meanwhile, she’d been given access to some of Doug’s accounts, and needless to say she’s cleaned those out, too. When Doug showed up, he discovered that the house belonged to someone else. He tried to track Rhonda down and came afoul of her boyfriend. That’s the guy that beat him up, and pretty badly too. We’ll catch him though, and we’ll get Rhonda as well, and then Doug can help us put them both in prison.”

Darby sighed.
Poor guy!
“Any idea when he’ll be coming back to California?”

“I think the doctors will release him in a day or two, so he should be back home by the weekend.”

“Great.” She thanked the Detective. “Keep taking care of him,” she implored as she hung up.

She gazed out the windshield of her Karmann Ghia. Outside, the day was sunny, and warm, and Darby thought wistfully of a long run through the countryside. It would give her time to process what had happened to her friend and neighbor, as well as think more about Fritz Kohler’s arrest.

She glanced at her phone.
Call Miles
, she told herself.
He needs to know that Doug is safe.

Since their last discussion, the one in which Miles Porter had
basically told her goodbye, Darby had avoided even thinking about
the tall, rugged reporter. But now, knowing she would soon hear his resonant voice, she was struck with angst.
What will I say? How should I say it?
Finally she told herself to stop being such a love-struck high school girl and punched in his number.

The voice that answered the phone was resonant, although recorded. Darby left a brief message saying Doug was fine and would
be coming back to California over the weekend. When she hung up
and began driving once more, she expected to feel relieved that she’d not spoken with Miles. Instead, she felt keen disappointment.

———

Andrea Contento opened the front door, saw the covered casserole dish Darby was carrying, and gave a tired smile.

“How nice of you to bring something,” she said.

Darby handed her the enameled pot. “Dan wanted me to convey how sorry he is about Michael. He’ll drop by as soon as he can, but in the meantime, I thought I’d bring this.”

“It’s heavy, and it smells heavenly. A roasted chicken?”

Darby nodded. “A recipe my mother used to make from Julia Child’s cookbook.
Poulet Poele a l’Estragon
. It was one of my favorite dinners growing up.”

Andrea waved Darby inside the house. “Thank you so much. Let’s put it in the kitchen.”

Together they walked into the welcoming space. “What a lovely, professional kitchen,” Darby said, noting the eight-burner commercial stove and the oversized refrigerator. A gleaming stainless steel pot rack hung over a large granite island, the copper-bottomed pots glinting in the sun.

Andrea smiled. “Yes, it’s terrific, isn’t it? When we decided to start hosting cooking classes and holding large events here at the vineyard, I lobbied Michael to expand this kitchen rather than building another one. The new cave space has a small commercial kitchen for events that are held there, but this one serves the tasting room and anything that happens in the garden or in the house.” She ran a hand over the smooth surface of the granite and grinned. “Consequently I end up doing a lot of the prep work, but I enjoy it. I’m much happier behind the scenes. Michael is the one …” her voice caught. “He was the one who liked to be front and center. Luckily his daughter has the same sensibilities.”

As if on cue, Margo Contento entered the kitchen, blinking at Darby. “Oh, hello,” she said. She wore a blank expression as she turned and walked out of the room before Darby could reply.

Andrea sighed. “Forgive her, Darby. She’s quite upset.” She placed the chicken on the counter. “It’s getting so warm that perhaps I need to refrigerate this.” She rearranged something in the refrigerator and placed the chicken on a shelf. “There.” Placing her hands on the granite-topped island, she faced Darby. “I’m glad you came by. I heard from someone downtown that the fitness expert, Fritz Kohler, has been arrested for the murder of Selena. Is that true?”

“Yes, it happened this morning.”

“That seems crazy to me. Selena died in her hot tub. Are they saying he killed her first and then put her in the water?’

Darby shook her head. “No. Selena was poisoned.”

“What? How can that be?”

“Detective Nardone believes that Fritz Kohler put a drug called metoprolol in Selena’s wine. The overdose caused her to pass out and drown.”

“My God.” Andrea Contento gripped the countertop. “Poison. I’m so relieved that Michael didn’t live to hear this news. He would have been heartbroken. It was tragic to think that Selena died of natural causes, but murder? It’s just unthinkable.”

The front door slammed. Andrea frowned and peered out the window. “It’s Margo. Wonder where she’s headed.” She sighed. “Michael’s death has been very hard on her. They argued several times yesterday, including just before he had the heart attack. She feels guilty, I think, even though I reminded her that she and her father often argued. Sometimes it seemed that was the only way they knew how to communicate.”

“So they had a stormy relationship?”

“I wouldn’t say that at all. They had a very loving relationship, actually. They’re just passionate types who liked to debate. Whether it was because they were so much alike, or both on the headstrong side, I don’t know, but their discussions could get pretty heated.”

“What did Margo and her father argue about yesterday?”

Andrea seemed to consider whether she’d answer or not. Finally she said, “Michael wanted her to take over Christophe Barton’s position as Estate Manager, and Margo didn’t want to.”

“Why not?”

Andrea shrugged. “I think she was concerned about her brother’s feelings. She’s a softie when it comes to him, and Michael’s never understood that. For him, it’s all about family obligation and duty. And so, they argued. It was just their way.”

“What about Tim?”

“Oh, he’s not the type to bicker—too easygoing. He doesn’t have
his sister’s confident personality, either, but we can’t all be the same,
now can we?”

The phone rang in the background and an answering machine picked up.

“That’s probably the twentieth call I’ve gotten today. Lots of them are from the press, the people who write the wine blogs, and old connections of Michael’s. It’s crazy.” Andrea put a hand through her brunette bob. “I’m sorry I haven’t offered you anything, Darby. It’s just that I’m kind of overwhelmed right now—”

“Please don’t apologize. I totally understand. I’m going to take off and head back to Carson Creek.”

Andrea nodded, her eyes brimming with tears. “First Selena, and then that bastard Barton, and now my Michael.” She swiped at her eyes and took a deep breath. “And still life goes on. The wine auction is in two weeks, we’ve got Michael’s funeral to plan, and an excavator comes tomorrow to work on the old cave. Life insists on humming along.” She walked toward the door with Darby. “Thank you for the chicken. The last thing I feel like doing is cooking, so it is much appreciated.”

Darby told Andrea she was welcome and said goodbye.

———

From her vantage point in the woods by Contento Family Vineyards, Sophie Stewart observed Darby Farr driving out of the estate and down the driveway. She crept out of her hiding place and, sticking close to the trees, continued walking toward the house. She had taken only a few steps when the murmur of voices made her freeze. The soft lilting sounds of Spanish met her ears and she exhaled. It was just the Mexican workers on a break. They were in one of the outbuildings and would never notice her.

Sophie trudged along, her shoulders aching from the heavy backpack she lugged back and forth to school each day. She shrugged it off and placed it by a flat rock where it wouldn’t be seen from the road. So far, her plan was going well. She’d boarded a bus at school, but instead of going home, had requested to be dropped off at a stop near the vineyard. The walk had been a long one, but it was the only way Sophie could get around without her father knowing.

She resumed walking stealthily toward the Contento’s house. The driveway was clear, and she was about to bolt across it when the door opened and Andrea Contento stepped into the sunshine.

Once more Sophie became immobile, her heart thumping in her chest. Andrea Contento glanced at her watch and then walked briskly toward her car, a white Explorer. She climbed in, started the engine, and drove slowly down the driveway.

Slowly Sophie let out her breath. She hurried to the door and entered the house, listening for sounds within. The place was si
lent.
As silent as the grave
, she thought. She headed up the stairs, her footsteps muffled by the plush carpeting.

In contrast to Carson Creek’s humble farmhouse, the Contento family’s home was palatial. Sophie wasn’t sure which style it was, but she always thought of it as a manor house. Although furnished casually, the first floor’s parlors were grand. There was a cozy library with a fireplace, an amazing kitchen, and a wide stairway leading to five big bedrooms. Quite a bit different than the simple home Selena had cherished.

Sophie knew from exploring the house as a child that Margo Contento’s room, the one she’d lived in as a kid and now used when visiting the vineyard, was at the end of the hall. Softly the teen pushed open the door and crept inside.

A surprising darkness met her eyes. Heavy drapes at the windows were pulled closed but even in the murky light Sophie could see the room was a mess. Bunched on the floor at the foot of the bed lay a puffy comforter, along with a pillow or two, and a solitary sneaker. Stretched diagonally across the bed she saw a tangle of sheets and blankets. A pile of clothes spilled over a chair, and the lone sneaker’s mate peeked out from under a dresser.

Had Margo been this messy as a kid?
Sophie imagined heaps of stuffed animals, crooked posters, and twin beds in a constant state of disarray. Maybe she’d had a maid to pick up after her, because somehow Sophie couldn’t picture Andrea doing much housework. Perhaps Margo had been allowed to be a slob.

Sophie turned on a small lamp and looked at the items on the dresser. A lipstick, some change, a folded piece of paper … She opened it up. Scrawled in loopy letters was what appeared to be an address.
2738 Redwood.
Sophie groaned. That could be just about anywhere in northern California, she thought. Every single town had a street named after the state’s famous tree.