A Vintage To Die For (Violet Vineyard Murder Mysteries Book 2) Read Online Free

hundred and seventy dollars a bottle, I definitely wanted my cut. And so did my banker. And, I hate to admit, even at that price I was barely treading water.
    My wine maker, Samson Xenos, a crusty old Greek with a bad attitude, rotten manners, and the best palate in the Valley, was standing at the end of the rows watching Victor and his helpers work. Samson had his bony hands propped on his bonier hips, and a scowl fixed on his face.
    “A waste of money, de Montagne,” he said to me as I plopped the crate of cutlery down on a card table that immediately swayed like a drunken sailor, its rusty legs quivering. “And a waste of wine. If they want wine they should be made to pay for it.”
    “It’s a party, Samson,” I said without looking up, so used to his surly demeanor I barely noticed it. “You can’t charge by the glass.”
    “Parties are for rich people, de Montagne,” he said, still scowling at Victor. “You are not rich.” He snorted at the very idea. “I see the accounts. You are poor.”
    “Even a pauper likes to have a little fun,” I replied gaily as I started separating the cutlery into piles.
    “A fool and her money,” he said, turning his scowl on me for the first time. He looked me up and down, his pop-eyes bulging. I was wearing a flower print dress and silver sandals, not my usual jeans and a sweatshirt. I had even taken time to put on some blush and eyeliner, and spent a whole ten minutes on my hair, which is eight minutes longer than I usually spend. But Samson wasn’t impressed.
    “You will clean the crusher and the destemmer dressed like that?” he asked imperiously. From our conversation you might wonder who the boss is; I know I often do. But I let it slide. Samson was not going to ruin my good time.
    “The crusher and destemmer are already clean,” I replied as I stacked knives, spoons, and forks into untidy piles. The crusher is basically a long auger that crushes the grapes and frees the juice. The destemmer is a giant barrel shaped spinning-sieve which removes most of the stems while allowing the fruit to pass through. Both of the machines are full on nooks and crannies that are a drudgery to clean. I had been up very late last night working on it.
    “I had a couple of the pickers stay late. We finished it after Victor took your half-drunk butt home,” I added. I stopped what I was doing and looked him up and down. “And, speaking of clothes, I hope you’re not planning on coming to the party dressed like that.” He was wearing one of his old-man costumes, rumpled pants bagging at the knee, a button down shirt with a frayed collar, a skinny tie that ended halfway down his chest, and a ratty old sweater that hadn’t seen a washing machine in twenty years.
    “I am not coming at all,” he said. He took a stub of a cigar from his breast pocket and jammed it into his mouth. “I will not be a part of this foolishness.”
    “What? Are you serious?” I said, truly surprised. Samson is a cheap old grump, but he’s not one to miss out on free wine. In fact, I'd estimate around ten percent of my profit disappears down his throat every year.
    “You will have your party without me, de Montagne,” he said, shifting his eyes back to Victor, who was struggling to get the metal supports squared up. “I will be working. Someone must be working.”
    “You’re coming to the crush party, Samson,” I told him levelly. “If you don’t, it might just turn into your wake.”
    “I saw his name on the list,” Samson replied, and I didn’t have to ask who he meant. While I merely disliked Dimitri Pappos, Samson seemed to have a pathological hatred for the man. He refused to even say Dimitri’s name.
    “Whose name?” I asked innocently as I went back to rattling cutlery. Needling Samson is one of my guilty pleasures.
    “That bottle duster,” he said. “Do not play games with me, de Montagne!”
    “Are you referring to Dimitri Pappos?” I asked. Calling Dimitri a ‘bottle