A Saucy Murder: A Sonoma Wine Country Cozy Mystery (15 page)

“Exactly,” Julie nodded. “Natasha dropped Barry like last year’s Prada flats. And her sister’s carefully laid plan to marry her to the rich Barry Buchanon, completely unraveled. Lexie saw the opening to lure Barry to her well made bed, and married the old fool on the rebound a few months later.”

“Wow,” Emma exclaimed. “Vera and Lexie must hate each other. They were rivals, of sorts, at the spa.”

“Of sorts,” Julie agreed. “But Vera had only told her co-worker, Oleg, about her plans for her sister’s marriage. Lexie never knew. Oleg and Vera even went to Lexie’s wedding. After all, it wasn’t Lexie’s fault that Natasha chose a gorgeous celebrity chef over an old billionaire. Then Natasha’s career took off and she moved to New York.”

“So why didn’t that end it?” Emma asked. “With Barry, I mean.”

“Well,” Julie resumed, “according to Oleg, what
Lexie
never expected was that Barry would carry a torch. A few months ago, when Natasha returned to San Francisco for the
Trovatore
rehearsals, he wanted Natasha back.”

Emma threw up her hands in confusion. “What about Sergio, our hunky celebrity chef?  Wasn’t she still in love with him?”

Julie rocked her hand back and forth. “Not really. By then, Sergio didn’t look so attractive anymore. According to Oleg, he was deeply in debt. And Natasha was famous. Of course, Barry was married to Lexie. And Sacha Kuragin, the sexy basso, was in Natasha’s life. Not exactly a Barry Buchanon in the finance department, but a famous and attractive man. And they both spoke Russian. They understood each other in more ways than one.”

By now, Emma’s head was swimming. “So where does all this leave us?”

“It leaves us here,” Julie concluded. “According to Oleg who heard it from Vera, Barry Buchanon had been using every financial inducement he had to lure Natasha back to his bed. Paying off loans. Buying her expensive jewelry. Even slipping her wads of cash. If Lexie knew about that - and obviously she did - well, as we’ve said before, it’s a motive.”

Emma blew out a long exasperated breath. “That’s all very interesting, Julie, in a confused sort of way. But we need
proof
. Carmen’s sitting in jail with a 100K stolen ring found hidden in her trailer. What concrete proof have we got that Lexie Buchanon committed the murder?”

Julie’s face fell. “I guess you’re right. Nothing yet,” she agreed. “Oh,” she seemed to remember something. “Oleg had another interesting tidbit. It doesn’t incriminate Lexie, though.”

“What?” Emma asked.

“It’s about his co-worker and confidant, Natasha’s twin, Vera Vasiliev. Oleg said Vera had a huge crush on Sacha Kuragin, Natasha’s lover, the basso.”

Emma nodded. “I know. I think she still does. Last night at the party, she practically threw herself at him.”

“Well,” Julie continued. “At the very end of my massage, which was great, I might add. It did me a lot of good. You should get one. Anyway, at the end of my massage, Oleg told me Sacha complained bitterly about Vera’s annoying advances. Oleg got all this from Sacha, himself, by the way. Sacha is one of Oleg’s old buddies.”

“Like from way back in Russia?” Emma asked.

“Actually, they’re both from the Ukraine,” Julie explained. “According to Sacha, Vera could
not
understand why Sacha wouldn’t leave her sister alone when Barry resumed his advances to Natasha. Vera offered herself to Sacha instead of Natasha, her twin. Oleg says that in Vera’s mind, she and Natasha are identical and therefore interchangeable.”

“Except, of course, they aren’t,” Emma added. “And everyone knows that.”

“Everyone except Vera,” Julie explained. “She was furious when Sacha rejected her.”

“Poor deluded Vera,” Emma sighed. “Now she has nothing. No sister. No Sacha. She’s probably the biggest loser of all.”

Julie shook her head. “No, Mom. Face it. Natasha is the biggest loser.”

Just then Piers poked his head into the kitchen. “The little man’s finally asleep,” he announced.

Emma checked her watch. Time to go. She stood up and looked at her son-in-law. “Can you give me a ride?”

“I’ll drive you,” Julie offered.

They were almost home when Julie turned to her mother. “Any chance you can babysit Friday?  Piers and I need to be at Opening Night. Clare is announcing Barry Buchanon’s big donation. It seems he and Lexie have reached some sort of agreement, according to Clare.”  

“Sorry, honey. I’m busy Friday night,” Emma said.

Julie looked disappointed. “Is it something you can change?”

Emma took a deep breath. “Jack asked me to the Opera.”

Emma could almost see Julie bite her tongue. “Great,” she managed. “You’ll have fun.”  She paused. “What are you going to wear? You can borrow something if you need to.”

Emma let her breath out slowly. “Thanks, honey, but no. I’ll make do."

Emma got out of the car and climbed the front steps to her door. Otis Redding’s song echoed in her ear. Yes, she mused, even old girls get weary wearing the same old dress.

Emma woke up Thursday morning unable to get Otis Redding out of her head. She put a sweater over her green fleece muumuu and made her way downstairs to the bright country kitchen where she brewed a small pot of coffee. Yes, she reminded herself as she foamed up a pitcher of milk, the legendary mountain man’s farmhouse that Piers and Julie had fixed up for her suited her just fine.

The best part of all was the backyard. One third of an acre of fruit trees, flowers and lawn abutting a small wildlife preserve. The large redwood deck off the kitchen had a picnic table for grilled dinners on hot summer evenings that in Blissburg lasted well into the fall. What more did she – what more did anyone – need?

It was early September. The sun was out. Birds were singing in the fruit trees. Emma brought a tray of the coffee, milk and Claud’s biscotti out to the deck to enjoy the warm morning air. When the phone rang inside the house, Emma didn’t even bother to get up to answer it.

Then her cell rang inside the pocket of her muumuu. It was Julie. Just checking in. Emma assured her daughter that she was fine. That the tears Piers saw in the car were for Otis Redding, not for herself. And that yes, she was all set for Opening Night.

Or was she? 

Emma hung up her cell. Then she mentally searched her wardrobe to see what was there.

First she pictured the brilliant red and orange Missoni sweater, but she’d already worn it with Jack to the Ormon thing. There was the black velvet Prada skirt she got on sale ten years before; but the last time she tried it on it was way too small. The flowered dress she wore to Julie’s wedding was too summery and already looked dated. Her own wedding dress wouldn’t fit her left thigh.

Pants of any kind didn’t feel right, especially if Jack’s seats were in the orchestra section. At the one Opening Night Emma had attended, many years before when Mary’s husband got stranded in New York, every woman from the orchestra to the mezzanine wore an evening gown. The last time she looked, the San Francisco newspapers still covered Opening Night in the fashion column.

Of course, she reminded herself, Jack had assured her that he didn’t care if she wore sweat pants Opening Night. Sweat pants indeed! 

Suddenly Emma realized that it didn’t matter whether
Jack
cared what she wore. She had a date for Opening Night at City Opera. With a man who looked vaguely like Robert de Niro and who was more or less her age. The music would be great. The food good. The company posh. All that mattered was that, for the first time in months,
she
cared.

She checked the time on her cell phone. It was already 9:15. The day before, she had told Steve she’d find a way to talk to Sergio. The sooner the better. Carmen was rotting in jail. The police, sure of their suspect, were unlikely to turn up any new leads.

Emma thought for a moment. Sergio’s chic restaurant in downtown Blissburg only opened for dinner. He probably didn’t even start cooking until noon. By the time she got dressed it would be 9:30. It took an hour and a half in traffic to drive to Petaluma and back. That left almost an hour to get the job done. Yes! She pumped her fist. There was time to hit the outlets.

Emma showered, threw on jeans and a T-shirt, and got in the car. She told herself that driving fast, with
no
traffic, she could complete the trip to the stores in a little over half an hour. The stores opened at 10:00. With luck, she’d have time to spare.

She pulled out of her driveway on to Blissburg Avenue and drove by the fire station towards the center of town. Passing the tree-shaded plaza with its chic wine bars and upscale boutiques, she realized she hadn’t
really
been shopping in years. Shopping?  Why bother, she’d asked herself every time she passed the outlets on her way into the City or heading south to San Jose. The clothes, now, were too expensive. Besides, nothing fit. Even if it did, the clothes were not appropriate. Who wanted to look like a senior slut?

But that morning, driving south on 101 at a reckless 80 miles an hour, Emma realized that something was different.
She
cared. She
wanted
to shop. She felt it. The rush. The longing. Desire. The thrill of, once again, wanting to possess!  She hadn’t felt those things in years.

Thirty minutes south of Blissburg, the Saks Off Fifth outlet sign loomed into view. Emma quickly decided that would be her first stop. At Saks she hoped to find a kind of overview of a market she’d abandoned seasons ago. She swerved her Prius across two lanes and made the exit. Then she pulled into a parking space in front of the store. As she stepped through the sliding glass doors her heart was full of hope.

And she was right to hope. The first thing she saw started her heart racing. A plain, floor length black satin strapless Armani sheath. It graced a dummy at the very front of the store. With the green paisley pashmina that Julie and Piers brought back as a gift from India almost eight years before, Emma knew the gown would look stunning. She approached the Armani rack crossing her fingers they’d have her size.

An eight. She found it immediately. She grabbed it, then stood in line for almost half an hour waiting for a vacant dressing room. By the time she found one, it was 10:40. But she assured herself that if the dress fit, she’d be back in Blissburg on time.

In the make shift dressing room, however, Emma immediately wished she’d thought to bring the right underwear. The comfort ultra support bra just didn’t work with the strapless gown. Given the minimal privacy afforded by the makeshift dressing room, taking everything off seemed risqué. She took it all off anyway. And wriggled into the elegant dress in record time. What’s more, it fit!  She twirled. No major tears or stains. A miracle!  Who knew shopping could be so easy? 

A saleswoman peeked her head round the curtain.

She started to say, “Need any help?”  Then changed it to, “Wow!  You look great.”

“I’ll take it,” Emma cried and quickly dressed, meeting the young lady at the register minutes later. Still marveling at her good luck.

“Do you want this treasure in a travel bag?” the young woman asked.

Emma nodded, surprised at the outlet’s great service, and handed the salesgirl her card. She checked her watch. She’d be home by half past eleven.

The girl rang up the purchase. “Sign please,” she said and handed Emma the slip of paper.

Emma had just poised her pen above the signature line at the bottom of the receipt when some numbers caught her eye. 3232. She was sure the price tag on the dress had said $300. Was 3232 the date, she wondered?  No. Couldn’t be. It wasn’t March. Nor was it 2032.

She put down the pen and rooted through her purse for her reading glasses to study the receipt more closely.

“What’s this?” she asked the salesgirl.

“The price?” the girl answered, raising her voice in another question. As if to say, and what planet do you come from?  “It’s three thousand two hundred and thirty-two dollars,” she said. Then a sympathetic smile crossed her lips. “Are you from out of state? The two hundred and thirty-two is the tax. It’s high in California.”

“No,” Emma answered. “I just…I must have misread the tag.” She laughed but the sound she made was more like a sob. “I thought it said,” she was about to say ‘$300 not $3000’. Instead, she said, “Never mind. This isn’t gonna work. Reverse the charges.” 

After that, it was back to the drawing boards. All of them were bad. The Carolina Herrera was too expensive and full of feathers. She’d look like a jungle book cartoon. The Versace had too many zippers. Why, she wondered, would someone her age want to shed her clothes
that
fast? And Nanette Lepore was way too short and sexy. The Prada was covered in pale blue sequins. She had never looked good in fish scales. When she finally slipped through the sliding glass doors to the parking lot empty handed, it was just past 11:00.

She had given up all hope of finding a suitable opera gown when she noticed the Ralph Lauren outlet located across the street. She hadn’t been in a Ralph Lauren store in years. But the clothes used to fit. Emma checked her watch. At most she had fifteen minutes.

Unfortunately, when she entered Ralph Lauren she immediately realized that season’s wannabe chic was Imperial Russian winter and fur. All of the evening gowns glittered in fake jewels embroidered on yard upon yard of heavy thick velvet. Fine for Julie Christie in a Russian horse drawn troika out for a snow ride with Omar Sharif, but definitely not Emma’s style. Her heart awash in despair, she had turned to leave when, out of the corner of her eye, she noticed a sign at the far side of the room.

“Clearance,” it said. 

She hurried over to take a quick look.

The clothes were clearly last season’s. Mostly sundresses and bright summer slacks. She looked at her watch again. Better run.

Then a swath of cloth at the very end of the rack caught her eye. She pushed back six hangers, and there it was. The most beautiful skirt she had ever seen. Mid calf with of layer upon layer of paisley silk chiffon. Her heart fluttered. She was in love.

The size was a ten. With luck, it ran small. She whisked the skirt into the dressing room along with the sleeveless gold cashmere blend tank top hanging beside it.

Only then, alone in the dressing room, did she dare look at the price tags. The sweater was $200 reduced from $800. The skirt, from $1500 down to $600. It was all way over her budget. But what the heck, Emma thought to herself. She had gold sandals and an ancient gold shawl.

She ripped off her clothes and kicked off her Nikes to try on the sweater and skirt. They fit like a glove. Then her eyes caught sight of her toes. She would need a pedicure. No doubt about that.

She dressed. Grabbed her loot. Charged it on her credit card. And was back in Blissburg by 12:05.

Once inside her door, Emma hid the skirt and top way in the back of her closet. Then she laughed at herself and wondered exactly whom she was hiding it from. She rushed back downstairs. No stopping for lunch. It was time to confront Sergio.