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

wouldn’t give me any details.”
    I told her, keeping it short and simple. Dimitri had been murdered and Jorge arrested. By the time I had finished she was past being curious; she was angry.
    “I’m glad that man is dead,” she said viciously and I winced. I definitely heard a little whiskey-slur in her voice.
    “Angela—” I began but she wasn’t listening.
    “He deserved what he got,” she said. “And worse.” She and Samson could start an anti-fan club for Dimitri.
    “No one deserves that,” I pointed out, getting angry myself and letting it show. I wasn’t in the mood for this. “Someone murdered him.”
    “Jorge was too drunk to kill anyone,” she said, and I couldn’t argue with that. “Hunter was just angry about Jorge’s dinner conversation.”
    “Jorge had blood on his sleeve. And he hated Dimitri,” I said. While I doubted Jorge was a killer, I still leapt to Hunter’s defense.
    “A nosebleed. He gets them all the time,” she said heatedly.
    “If that’s true, he’ll be released.”
    She sighed, suddenly sounding deflated. “I hope that’s true. I can’t afford to bail him out again.”
    “Jorge can take care of himself,” I assured her. He had been getting in and out of scrapes for more than forty years.
    Angela made a noncommittal sound that was neither assent nor dissent, then changed course. “I want to apologize for Saturday night. You’ve always been a friend to me and I’m sorry I repaid that by ruining your party. Most of the Valley natives act like we newcomers are an invading army, but you’ve always gone out of your way to be gracious and helpful.”
    “There’s no need to apologize or thank me, Angela,” I said, surprised by the ‘friend’ comment. Angela and I had had maybe a dozen conversations in those ten years, mainly about harvests, weather, and the hundreds of other concerns that plague a winemaker, certainly nothing intimate or personal. “Saturday was a trial for all of us. And I’ve always enjoyed your company, too.” I glanced at my watch. Samson would be arriving soon and I wanted to be far from the cellar by then. “I guess I’ll see you at the next Vintners’ association Meeting,” I added, trying to end the call gracefully.
    “No, Claire, you won’t. I’m through fighting and scraping by. It’s over and it’s time for me to face it.”
    “Oh, no, Angela,” I said as my eyes involuntarily drifted up the flanks of the shortest fermentation tank, climbing to the rim where Dimitri had been hanging, his eyes open, blood dripping— I abruptly turned away as the memory came, vivid and unwanted.
    “I hope he hasn’t suckered you in, too, Claire,” Angela was saying. “Blake has signed up a lot of the small growers for his auctions. He promises high returns, but the checks rarely come and when they do they’re a pittance.”
    “Blake has to account for the auction sales—”
    “He always has some excuse. A mix up in a delivery, a restaurant owner behind on his payments, a slow economy. Then, when you’re right on the edge of losing it all, Armand Rivincita shows up with his checkbook. It’s happened a half-dozen times in the last two years. Always to the small guys, like us. The ones too poor to say no. Blake is the setup guy and Armand moves in for the kill.”
    I made no reply. My thoughts were too muddled and confused. Blake had said the quality of Angela’s wine had caused sales to drop off and the case-price to plummet. That could be true, but her insistence that something crooked was going on was making me nervous. And Armand had been buying up small vineyards in the two years since he’d arrived in the Valley.
    I was so lost in my own thoughts I didn’t notice Angela was crying until she spoke, her voice quavering.
    “I’ve had enough,” was all she said, but there was a depth of pain in those words that made my heart race.
    “Don’t do anything foolish,” I told her.
    She said nothing, just wheezed and sniffled in