Soma County

By Alan Annand

When a beautiful woman dies at a California vineyard, astrologer Axel Crowe divines this was no accident. Although the police at first assume a tainted pinot noir, Crowe suspects an exotic poison.

With her best friend dead and her vineyard’s reputation in jeopardy, Crowe’s client urges him to ferret out the guilty from among a cast of immigrant workers, competing vintners and old Napa money with criminal connections.

The nexus of intrigue is a developer bent on turning the Napa Valley into a bedroom community for San Francisco. Megawati is a little person who’s surrounded himself with bodyguards, female wrestlers and fighting dogs, all attack-trained and larger than life.

In search of the vineyard’s missing foreman, Crowe teams up with a Bay Area activist who suspects kidney harvesting lies behind a local epidemic of missing persons. But the black market in body parts is international, and when Crowe follows a trail of evidence to an ashram in India, he discovers the fruit of karma is often bittersweet.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Alan Annand
• Release date: Dec 17, 2015
• ISBN: 9781927799208

Alan Annand

ALAN ANNAND is a writer of crime fiction, offering an intriguing blend of mystery, suspense, thriller and occult genres. When he’s not dreaming up ingenious ways to kill people and thrill readers, he occasionally finds therapy in writing humor, short stories and faux book reviews.Before becoming a full-time writer and astrologer, he worked as a technical writer for the railway industry, a corporate writer for private and public sectors, a human resources manager and an underground surveyor.Currently, he divides his time between writing in the AM, astrology in the PM, and meditation on the OM. For those who care, he’s an Aries with a dash of Scorpio.ALAN ANNAND:- Writer of mystery suspense novels, and astrology books- Astrologer/palmist, trained in Western/Vedic astrology.- Amateur musician, agent provocateur and infomaniac.Websites:- Writing: www.sextile.com- Astrology: www.navamsa.comFiction available at online retailers:- Al-Quebeca (police procedural mystery thriller)- Antenna Syndrome (hard-boiled sci-fi mystery thriller)- Felonious Monk (New Age Noir mystery thriller #2)- Harm’s Way (hard-boiled mystery thriller)- Hide in Plain Sight (psychological mystery suspense)- Scorpio Rising (New Age Noir mystery thriller #1)- Soma County (New Age Noir mystery thriller #3)- Specimen and Other Stories (short fiction)Non-fiction available at online retailers:- The Draconic Bowl (western astrology reference)- Kala Sarpa (Vedic astrology reference)- Mutual Reception (western astrology reference)- Parivartana Yoga (Vedic astrology reference)- Stellar Astrology Vol.1 (essays in Vedic astrology)- Stellar Astrology Vol.2 (essays in Vedic astrology)Education:- BA, English Lit- BSc, Math & Physics- Diploma, British Faculty of Astrological Studies- Diploma, American College of Vedic Astrology

Book preview

Chapter 1

Miranda Flanagan looked out over the backyard terrace of her Sonoma home. The catering crew had set up tables for a light buffet to complement tonight’s wine-tasting event. Smaller tables were scattered across the terrace and onto the lawn. Things were coming together, and nothing in this tableau hinted that in a few hours it would become a crime scene.

Strewn among the tables were a few dozen masks for anyone who wanted to participate in the evening’s theme. Their public relations person, Callie Winslow, had dreamed up the Masquerade label for their new pinot noir. Although Miranda had questioned a name synonymous with pretension, Winslow had cited the word’s favorable association with parties and decadence. Miranda’s husband Hugh had bought it. End of debate.

From where Miranda stood, acres of vineyard stretched off toward a wooded ridge at the back of their property. It was twilight and the last crew of grape-pickers had returned from the fields, delivering their loads to the processing shed.

Hugh came up behind her and put his arms around her waist. Everything to your satisfaction, my lady?

Don’t make me the princess. This is your night, not mine.

Hugh had inherited the vineyard from his father. Although his dad had been a competent vintner, Hugh had brought more science and passion to the operation. Via his newsletter, The Sonoma Sommelier, he’d established his credentials years ago but had yet to prove to his peers he was more than just a critic, but an artisan too.

Everything I have I owe to you, he said.

The early years had been rough. They’d had difficult strains, poor crops, and a few rotten productions they’d poured straight down the drain. But the last three years had been better. Their cabernet was selling well, and Hugh had great hopes for this pinot noir. Tonight was its first official launch.

You do all the work, she laughed. I just drink the fruits of your labor.

As for joking that he owed everything to her, it wasn’t true. He owed it all to the bank and Arnie Dingwall, a deep-pocketed venture capitalist who’d stepped into the breach when the banks had refused to lend Hugh more money in an already-crowded field of Napa and Sonoma vineyards.

I’d better get ready. She went to change clothes. She’d no sooner finished getting dressed when their first guests arrived.

By nine o’clock, the terrace was full of people. With a few glasses under their belts, some were already acting out in ways that anonymous masks encouraged. There were people from all over – the elite of Napa, naturally, but also friends from Petaluma and Santa Rosa, old money from Marin, and nouveau riche from Silicon Valley.

The wine went down well, and people congratulated Hugh on his pinot noir. Among them were a few other critics being treated like royalty, for their opinions could make all the difference between a mediocre sales year and the Porsche Panamera Hugh had been coveting. Boys and their toys…

Miranda took a break from schmoozing and approached her best friend Donna Glover. Donna was a beautiful woman, a full-figured blonde with style and a sense of humor. Also one of those troubled gals who never caught a break with the right kind of guy, and whose love misadventures were a source of concern for Miranda.

Hey, girlfriend, how’s it going? Miranda embraced Donna.

Jush great. Donna raised her Pierrot mask. Congratulations on your new penis noir. She giggled at her pretense of being drunk. Oopsh. Freudian shlip.

You’re so bad! Miranda missed her friend’s company. Although Donna lived in Santa Rosa, they barely managed to see each other more than once a month.

Donna whispered in Miranda’s ear. Smoke break?

Sure.

They linked arms and walked away from the garden party. Miranda glanced back. Everyone was having a great time, and no one would miss her for a few minutes. They went behind the processing shed where two pickup trucks were parked. They climbed into one and rolled down the windows.

Donna took a slim joint from her purse and lit up. They smoked half of it and left the other half in the ashtray. An offering to the grape-pickers, Donna said. Without them, I’d be sober.

Miranda blew a plume of smoke at the night sky. Nice.

Feel like a criminal?

Miranda giggled. We’re so bad.

Although California voters had defeated Proposition 19 to legalize marijuana, it wasn’t the pot that made Miranda feel like a renegade, but the smoking. Oenophiles, a rabid bunch of anti-smoking fascists, said it destroyed the abilities of both palate and nose to distinguish the varietal tastes and bouquets of fine wine. If Hugh knew, he’d have a fit.

So, how’s life? Donna asked.

It’s good. Hugh’s got high hopes for this new vintage. It’s nice to see him happy again. Miranda turned to look at Donna. What about you, still in lust?

Love, Donna said. We are madly in love.

In a threesome.

He’s going to tell her before Thanksgiving.

I’m just concerned for your happiness. Ultimately. There, she’d said it. Like so many extra-marital affairs, they invariably ended badly. Especially for the one who wasn’t married.

He seems to have a lot on his mind lately, Donna confessed. He won’t tell me what it is, but I feel like he’s got this huge weight bearing down on him.

Maybe it’s his wife. Miranda knew what she looked like, and it wasn’t svelte. Not by a hundred pounds it wasn’t.

Hah. Good one. You are a dear friend. Donna leaned over and kissed Miranda on the cheek.

I’m also a good hostess. Miranda climbed out of the pickup. Time to get back to work.

Gum? Donna opened a packet of Clorets and shook out a couple.

Such a Girl Guide, always prepared.

Laughing, they made their way back onto the terrace for refills. Donna went off to use the washroom and that was the last time Miranda saw her alive.

Saturday

~~~

August 30th

Chapter 2

If Axel Crowe had learned anything during the 14 years with his guru, it was that nothing happened by chance. Even for the random ball in a roulette game, there were forces at play. The trick was to know which was dominant, and use it to advantage.

When he’d arrived at the Luxor Hotel & Casino in Las Vegas last night, poker had been on his agenda. After checking in, he’d gone downstairs to find a seat at one of the busy tables.

Palmistry could be practical. For the first couple of rounds, Crowe had played a subdued game and watched. From the shape of hands, length and orientation of fingers, he could identify four types – fire, earth, air and water.

Fire types were risk-takers and aggressive bettors. Earth types were security-conscious, only betting on sure things. Water types were emotionally transparent and broadcast their hands. Air types were the ones to beat – human calculators and inherent bluffers. In a couple of hours, Crowe took pots from most of them and called it a night.

Today was a new program, and he felt like spinning the wheel. He sat at the roulette table and counted his chips. He had a stake of four grand, up from the thousand he’d arrived with last night.

Crowe checked the time – 10:50 AM on Saturday, August 30th. Labor Day weekend was typically a great earner for Vegas, whose real secret motto was, What gets wagered in Vegas stays in Vegas.

Some people said gambling was the Devil’s sport. Others thought games demanding skill – blackjack, poker, horse racing – favored players with a strategy against known odds. But there were no moral defenders of bingo, keno, craps or roulette, whose outcomes depended entirely on chance. Here was indeed the Devil’s playground. Especially roulette, since all the numbers on the roulette wheel, one to 36, added up to 666.

Guruji had often pointed out to Crowe, Life is a lottery, yet everyone wants to play. So there was no reason to sit on the sidelines. Games of chance were a perfect opportunity, Guruji said, to test your understanding of the immutable laws of existence that influenced us all.

The croupier called for bets. There were only four other players at the table. One was betting on long-odds single numbers. Another two played high or low, red or black. A fourth was playing combinations with chips straddling various portions of the betting layout.

The croupier spun the wheel and threw the ball. It came to rest on 21 Red. The croupier paid out the modest wins and called for bets. Two more spins. 00 paid out to the house, 3 Red paid only the low-number bettor.

Since 10:33 AM, the stage was set, with the Moon occupying a tiny sub-section of the zodiac owned by Saturn. Saturn’s color was black. It was now 10:54. For the next nine minutes the ascendant would also be in the same narrow range of the zodiac ruled by Saturn. With the rising sign and the Moon both in the same portion of the zodiac, it was a powerful bias in favor of Saturn.

Crowe counted out eight chips and bet on black. The croupier spun and threw, and the ball ended up on 33 Black. The croupier added eight chips to Crowe’s stake. Crowe let the 16 chips ride.

The second ball ended up on 22 Black. The croupier added another 16 chips to Crowe’s stake. Crowe let the 32 chips ride. The third ball ended up on 11 Black. The croupier added 32 chips to Crowe’s stake. Crowe looked at his 64 chips on the table and considered what to do next.

He’d noticed the three black numbers had come up in a sequence – 33, 22 and 11. Like a countdown. That could mean it was over, or the big one was just around the corner. Crowe checked his phone and saw it was 11:01. Time for one last spin before Saturn’s run played out.

He pulled four chips off the table, leaving 60 chips to ride on black. He placed one chip on each of four single numbers: 8 Black, 17 Black, 26 Black and 35 Black. Although the odds against the ball ending up on any one of these numbers was only 1 in 38, Crowe was still playing to the Saturn bias.

Eight was the number of Saturn. But if you added the two digits of 17, you again got an eight. Likewise for 26 and 35. Each of these four numbers, being both black and adding up to eight, was firmly in the Saturn family.

The other players piled on – all of them adding multiple chips to bet on black, each choosing one of the single numbers for a long-odds bet.

The croupier spun the wheel. Crowe closed his eyes, listening to the ball rattle and jump several slots before it settled into one. There was a gasp from the table and a whoop of delight from one of the players. Crowe opened his eyes and saw the wheel coasting to a halt, the ball in 8 Black.

The croupier added a dozen $500 chips to match the $6000 Crowe had bet on black. Then added seven $500 chips, paying out $3500 against the single $100 he’d bet on number eight.

He gathered his chips, tipped the croupier and left the table with almost $20,000 in winnings. He went to a cashier’s booth and exchanged his chips for a certified check.

~~~

Crowe was on his way out for lunch when his phone rang. The call display read Miranda Flanagan, a 707 area code. He recalled the name. He’d met her a few years ago on a flight from New York to San Francisco. She was a literary scout for a film producer, reading books to find stories that might make good movies.

He took her call. In a few minutes, she told him her best friend had died last night at a wine-tasting event at their vineyard. The police had detained their guests for hours of questioning. It was a public relations disaster, not to mention a personal tragedy. She didn’t know where else to turn.

What do you expect me to do?

On that flight we shared, didn’t you say you’re a private investigator?

Aren’t the police handling this?

Badly. They suggested our pinot noir was contaminated. This could ruin us.

If there’s a virus, it’ll take a week for lab tests to confirm it. In the meantime, hire a PR professional to handle damage control.

We have a PR person. She can’t change the fact that my best friend’s dead.

Crowe said nothing. She was right. But his silence provoked more from her.

She may have been deliberately poisoned.

Are you serious?

It was enough to intrigue Crowe. And after this morning at the roulette wheel, his work here in Vegas was done. He agreed to catch the next flight to San Francisco. Although he didn’t drink, he knew the Napa Valley was lovely this time of year.

Chapter 3

Crowe shuttled to McCarran Airport and caught a Southwest flight to Oakland where he rented a car. Saturday afternoon, the freeway traffic was light. He crossed the Richmond Bridge into Marin County and headed north. He’d been to the Bay Area many times and didn’t need GPS until it was time to find the Flanagans’ address in the foothills north of Sonoma. He arrived at the vineyard shortly after four.

Miranda Flanagan was just as he remembered from the flight they’d shared a year or two ago, a handsome woman in her 40s, with auburn hair and aquamarine glasses.

Thanks for coming. Needless to say, we’ll cover your time and expenses. You’re welcome to stay with us but if you prefer to be on your own, there are many B&Bs in the area.

I’m an early riser, so I’m better off on my own. Back home in Toronto, Crowe was usually up at five.

She led him through the house, a sprawling two-story with a broad front verandah, hardwood floors and high ceilings, ranch-style ambience with all the modern conveniences. But down the hallway was a large bathroom whose door was criss-crossed with yellow tape that said, Crime Scene – No Entry.

They went outside onto a large terrace. In the vineyard, grape trellises ran in lines across a gentle slope to a wooded ridge. At the limits of the property stood a small cabin half-hidden among the trees.

A man rose from the patio table where he’d been working on a laptop, a glass of red wine at hand. Miranda introduced her husband. Hugh was a full-bodied fellow – six feet tall, pushing 200 pounds. His brown hair was thick but his sideburns were turning grey, his nose revealing a spidery map of fine veins. He offered to pour Crowe a glass of wine.

Thanks, but I don’t drink.

Miranda went into the house to get some water. As the two men took seats, Crowe saw Flanagan had broad hands with long elegant fingers. An air type, with a talent for analysis, discrimination and communication.

I read a few articles on your website, Crowe told Flanagan. You’re a good writer. Aside from being knowledgeable about wine, he was also a great wit, his articles peppered with historical, literary and political allusions that were often quite humorous.

I try to amuse myself, Hugh said modestly.

Miranda returned with glasses and a bottle of mineral water. Hugh replenished his wine glass while Miranda poured water for herself and Crowe.

Tell me about your friend, Crowe said to her. What was her name?

Donna Glover. We’ve known each other since university. We met at Berkeley and commuted to school together for four years. After that, we stayed friends. Best friends. Miranda brushed a tear from her eye.

Married? Children?

Marriage wasn’t for Donna. She gave it a try at age thirty, but it only lasted a few years. Single ever since, and happy with that.

Occupation?

She owned a jewelry store in Santa Rosa where she’s lived the last seven years. Quite successful. Spent her money on shoes, vacations, and her dogs.

Tell me what happened here last night.

Miranda tugged her left ear and looked up. Around nine, we went for a walk to catch up on news. Then I resumed playing hostess. We got refills of the new pinot. I circulated. Then somebody told Hugh the bathroom on the main floor was locked but nobody was answering. He got a key to open the door and found Donna.

Crowe looked at Hugh. In what condition?

Hugh looked uncomfortable. On the floor beside the toilet. There was a broken wine glass a few feet away. Her skirt was up around her waist, so I immediately closed the door for privacy.

Did you touch her?

I shook her shoulder. I assumed she’d drunk too much on an empty stomach, maybe passed out. But when I felt for a pulse, there was none. My first thought was, I needed to give her mouth-to-mouth, but with her skirt up, it was weird and I was hesitant.

You didn’t call for an ambulance?

Not immediately. The nearest EMS station is fifteen minutes away, but I was afraid she might die in the time it took them to arrive. I owed it to Miranda to try and save her if I could. Every minute counted…

Miranda patted his hand. You did the right thing, even if she was half dressed. You had to make sure she hadn’t choked on something.

Hugh continued. I rolled her over. There was an abrasion on her forehead and blood on her upper lip. I assumed she’d struck her nose when she hit the floor. There was also blood on her palm where the wine glass had broken and cut her hand. I put my fingers in her mouth to make sure her throat wasn’t blocked. I wanted to help her but the blood on her lips put me off. I mean, there’s always the risk of AIDS…

So you didn’t apply mouth-to-mouth? Crowe said.

Hugh shook his head. At that point, I knew there was nothing to do but call Nine-one-one. But I stayed with her until they arrived, pumping her chest with my hands, in case she was still alive.

But she never recovered?

The EMS people checked her vitals as soon as they arrived. She was already gone, they said. They put the paddles on her anyway and tried to give her a jump start, but it was too late.

Chapter 4

Crowe studied the Flanagans for a moment. Hugh had provided his account with minimal emotion, like describing a movie he’d seen. But throughout his account, Miranda had been tugging at her left ear so insistently that she might just as well have flung it onto the table as a sign.

For those who knew nimitta, the art of omens, each part of the head was associated with a planet or a sign. In this case, it was Pisces. Crowe didn’t yet know what to make of it, but trusted his intuition to step up when the occasion called for it.

Crowe asked her, What time did you and Donna get refills?

She reflected. It would have been about nine-thirty.

That was the last time you saw her alive?

Yes. I stayed on the terrace. She went inside. Miranda tugged at her ear again. So I keep asking myself, what happened to her in those next few minutes?

Crowe opened his phone’s astrology app to create a prashna, or horary chart, using local time and GPS coordinates. A chart appeared, mapping the planets in the sidereal zodiac.

Although Sagittarius was rising, Miranda’s insistent tugging on her left ear prompted Crowe to immediately rotate the chart to a Pisces ascendant. Within a few hours, with signs of short ascension on the horizon, Pisces would be rising, just as it would have yesterday evening at the time Donna had died.

Crowe saw that one of the moon’s nodes, Ketu, was in Pisces. The Rahu-Ketu axis was sometimes a signature of poisons. In a refined chart, poison could be a medicine, so the nodes were often prominent in the charts of anesthesiologists, pharmacists and herbalists. But in a less refined chart, the poison could arise via substance abuse, as seen in alcoholics, addicts or drug dealers.

In the Vedic myths told in the Puranas, one story concerned the great serpent Naga when the gods were preparing soma, the nectar of immortality. When the Naga thought no one was looking, it took a sip of soma from the cauldron. But Vishnu the Preserver caught it in the act, threw his discus and sliced the Naga in two. The two halves of the serpent, Rahu the head and Ketu the tail, were doomed to separation, but became sworn enemies of the gods, especially the Sun and Moon whom they periodically eclipsed.

In this chart, Rahu at the other end of the nodal axis was with Mercury in the seventh house. Rahu was a rogue for whom power and pleasure were addictions. And because the Naga was a different species from the gods whose soma it had drunk, Rahu was considered a foreigner.

The seventh house symbolized the perpetrator. Here was Mercury in its own sign Virgo. Mercury invoked businessmen and agents, but also messengers and intermediaries, analysts and writers.

After the nodes, Crowe’s eye went to the Moon, Mars and Saturn in the eighth house. This house had the worst reputation of any in a chart – accident, dislocation, reversal, trauma, surgery, violence and death.

The Moon always had something to say about the subject of the query. So here the Moon was Donna, and its presence in the eighth house with two malefic planets was sinister. It implied her death wasn’t accidental but intentional, since Mars’ violence was paired with Saturn’s planning.

A criminologist by education, Crowe was acquainted with violence. And he’d studied the charts of serial killers like the Yorkshire Ripper, Ted Bundy, and William Gacy. He’d found patterns involving the eighth house – trauma, violence, death – and the twelfth – self-undoing, death and incarceration. Although astrology amused millions of people via sun sign readings, for Crowe it was business – sometimes deadly business.

Hugh cleared his throat. So, what do you think?

Although Crowe had seen all this in a minute, he realized he’d been staring at his phone for what might have seemed a long time. After you called Nine-one-one, what happened? Can you reconstruct the timeline?

We discovered Donna’s body shortly before ten. It was quarter past when EMS and the first patrol car arrived. They tried for half an hour to revive Donna. When they pronounced her dead, they called the Sheriff’s Office, whose people arrived about half an hour later, say quarter to eleven.

Names?

There were several officers, but the two in charge were Detective Brent Michaels and the County crime scene officer, Mitzi Joiner. They secured the bathroom as a crime scene and spent half an hour in there alone. I wasn’t privy to their discussion, but they must have found something that made them suspect poisoning. That’s when Michaels told everyone to stop drinking red wine because there was a risk it might be contaminated.

That must have come as a shock.

No kidding. I saw half my net worth going down the drain.

What happened then?

Around eleven-thirty, Michaels directed the other officers on the scene to secure potential evidence – empty wine bottles, glasses, full bottles. They herded our guests through a lineup to verify IDs and surrender anything that might be relevant – even bottles of the new pinot I’d gifted to some local critics. Hugh rubbed his brow as if to erase his memory of the debacle.

How many guests were left by then?

Maybe forty.

How many at the peak of the evening?

Almost a hundred.

Did you have an invitation list?

I gave Michaels a copy. Miranda and I crossed off all the no-shows we could think of.

Did the police learn anything from questioning your guests?

I’m not sure. They took everyone’s name, asking who’d spoken to or observed anything regarding Donna. They narrowed it down to a dozen people who’d been in her proximity before she disappeared into the bathroom.

Anyone get special attention?

Our caterer, Valentino Lorca.

Why?

He poured her last glass of wine.

Why was that cause for suspicion?

Tell me about it, Hugh fumed. Or ask Detective Michaels. He’s the one who said, in front of my guests, that the wine might be contaminated.

So the police questioned Valentino Lorca… What came of that?

They arrested him. Valentino and Donna had history. Miranda can tell you more. She’s the one who told the police.

Chapter 5

Crowe shifted his attention to Miranda. A vein in her temple pulsed at 80 beats a minute. She was a bundle of nerves, but who wouldn’t be? Her best friend was dead, and their vineyard’s reputation was in jeopardy.

I didn’t mean to throw suspicion on Valentino, she said. Detective Michaels had simply asked if there was anyone with whom Donna had any problems…

What was their relationship?

She didn’t answer him directly. We’ve used his catering company several times. He’s professional, client-focused.

A big hit with the women, Hugh added. A hunk, if you like that swarthy Hispanic look.

He’s handsome, takes good care of himself, Miranda agreed. And he knows how to cater to women.

Hugh snorted. A little machismo goes a long way, I hear.

Miranda ignored his comment. We started using Valentino a few years ago. Donna met him at one of our parties and they kind of hit it off.

That’s putting it mildly, Hugh said. I recall a tango exhibition they put on for the crowd. Good thing no children were present.

Hugh exaggerates, but Valentino knows how to make a girl’s heart go pit-a-pat.

Hugh shrugged. Miranda cleared her throat. Crowe wondered if this was more than a third-person observation.

So they were lovers? Crowe helped her out.

Only for three months. Donna was intense, but impatient. Once the thrill was gone, she moved on. Not every man could accept that.

Valentino wouldn’t let go?

Apparently she got under his skin. He said he’d leave his wife. Donna didn’t believe him. He’s had affairs with half the married women in Napa. She thought he was the sexiest thing since Antonio Banderas, but had no interest in becoming Mrs. Lorca, wondering who he was with when he wasn’t home.

When was this affair?

Last year.

And since then?

He’d been harassing her. Phone calls all hours of the night. He showed up at her jewelry store a couple of times. She thought he’d been following her to see where she went, who she was seeing.

Did she ever confront him?

A few months ago she accused him of stalking her, but he denied it. He got angry, said she was full of herself, fantasizing that men wanted her. All he had to offer was love, but she was just interested in money, and it wouldn’t be long before she was a lonely old woman.

Did he ever threaten her?

More the other way around, Miranda said. "She told him that if he didn’t leave her alone, she’d tell his wife, not only about their affair, but with other women too."

How did he react?

He said he’d kill her.

Crowe was taken aback. That’s not a threat?

Miranda shook her head. She didn’t take it seriously, said it was just macho bullshit from a wounded ego. If he’d been a real threat, she’d have contacted the police.

So if not Valentino, who’d want to harm Donna?

Miranda tugged her ear again. Maybe a jealous wife.

Was Donna having an affair?

Miranda was silent.

Sweetie? Hugh said.

She poured herself a glass of wine and took a pensive sip. I didn’t tell Detective Michaels about this. Maybe I should have, but Donna had sworn me to secrecy.

Let me guess, Crowe said. Donna was involved with a man who has a reputation to protect. Someone whose name is well known, maybe a prominent businessman or a public official of some sort?

Miranda stared at him. How’d you know that?

Just a hunch. Crowe’s intuition was based on the horary chart he’d raised just a few minutes ago, providing clues to the principals involved.

"So do you know who killed Donna?"

Crowe shook his head. No, but tell me about the man she was seeing.

Harvey York, the mayor of St. Helena.

What?! Hugh said.

Crowe knew St. Helena, a charming little town on the road between Napa and Calistoga. On one of his first visits to California, Crowe had rented a car and driven up the Napa Valley. A little ironic, an abstinent doing a vineyard tour, but he’d bought a few good wines for friends back in Toronto. The rest of the trip he’d enjoyed the scenery – the beautiful estates running back from the road, the rolling hills in the distance.

How long had they been seeing each other?

It was their first anniversary back in June.

More than a year? You said Donna never lasted more than three months.

It was different with Harvey. She loved him. He said he loved her too.

If he loved her that much, he could have got a divorce.

Apparently he was going to break the news to his wife this fall.

Does he know she’s dead?

"I don’t know. I can’t tell him because I’m not supposed to know about them. I imagine by now he’s heard it