Killer in the Vineyard: Little Lies Everywhere, #3

By Victoria Kosky

As a mobster's wife Sylvie's only job was looking stunning and sexy. Her other skills are mostly unmarketable: shopping, maxing out credit cards, and infuriating people. She owes money to the mob. And she's defaulted on her mortgage repayments. Employment seems unavoidable.

 

Her first job, at Pedrick Wines, requires a steep learning curve that challenges her people skills. When Sylvie arrives to work on the bottling line, there is a mix-up. They think she is the auditor. This offers her the perfect opportunity for working undercover at Dale's winery.

 

Forty employees are relying on the family company for their livelihood. If the situation doesn't improve, the company will go into liquidation. But Sylvie suspects that someone is intent on sabotaging the business.

 

A scathing write-up by Melbourne's top wine critic isn't good for wine sales. Neither is the body she finds ageing in a wine tank. Finding danger around every corner, Sylvie discovers that snooping is a risky business. When her past resurfaces, the last remaining Borkovic son arrives to stop her from testifying against his mob boss mother.

 

Determined to get her shattered life back on track, Sylvie is changing. Though Dale is pursuing her, so are the bad guys. In a race against time, will Sylvie be able to solve the mystery at the winery? Will she get her man? Will anyone get through this ordeal alive?

 

Get this page-turner to watch Sylvie create chaos. Sylvie and her sister put the fun back in dysfunctional!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Victoria Kosky
• Release date: Dec 2, 2021
• ISBN: 9781393454694

Victoria Kosky

Victoria Kosky refuses to let age or approaching senility prevent her from accomplishing a lifelong dream. She writes satirical crime fiction and crafts gay, light-hearted stories of murder and mayhem. As Ray Bradbury said, ‘I don’t believe in being serious about anything. I think life is too serious to be taken seriously’.  With two degrees, she has enjoyed several diverse careers that no one is interested in. Motherhood was a highlight for her; she achieved two high distinctions in child-rearing. One of her son’s is six-foot-four-inches tall, and the other measures six-foot-five. ‘Retirement is the greatest adventure of my life,’ said Victoria. ‘Sure, the body isn’t what it used to be, but as long as I have my marbles, I’ll keep writing.’ Although her primary goal is to not die yet, she has even bigger goals: writing fifty novels before her mind goes. (I’m not kidding her father had brain atrophy in his seventies. You can see that bewildered look, and she’s only sixty-six.) Take pity on the old girl and read her books before her time runs out.

Book preview

Chapter 1

He wondered who this Fosdick guy was, and why he’d insisted on meeting at this hour. The night was clear and chilly, with just enough moonlight to see ahead. A blanket of cold shrouded the earth; it felt like a frost was on its way. The workers wouldn’t be happy about it. They fretted over the weather like brides on their wedding day. Fred would be out among the vines now, trying to provide some cover for his babies with that stupid son of his in tow. He snorted at the thought of trying to shelter 100 acres of grapes. But no one said viticulturists had a high IQ. He switched off the car’s headlights as soon as he entered the property. He slowed to a crawl and followed the gravel road to the winery entrance.

As soon as he stopped and turned off the engine, a figure slunk out of the shadows towards him. He scanned the area but spotted no other car. Fosdick must have walked across from the workers’ cabins. A wiry chap who looked like an accountant stood in front of the car, blowing into his hands. When he emerged, the interior light illuminated Fosdick’s surprised expression.

‘What are you doing here?’ asked Fosdick, in an accusing tone.

‘No big deal,’ he said. ‘It’s all in the family. Now what’s so urgent we have to meet at midnight?’ He injected a chuckle and offered the man his hand.

‘I’ve finished my report,’ he said, nudging up his glasses. ‘Wanted to give it to the old man’s son, but he’s too busy. I need to get back to Melbourne.’

He had no idea what report Fosdick referred to, but played along with him. ‘Lawyers—always busier than the rest of us,’ he said. ‘Didn’t expect you’d finish so soon. I hope its good news.’

‘I thought you should see for yourself.’ He switched the manila envelope tucked under his arm to his other side and fished keys out of his pocket. In a few strides, he was by the entrance, confidently inserting the key to the administrative section. He’d seen Fosdick at the conveyor belt and in the fields, but how did he get the keys to the premises? He should have guessed there was more to him; he’d arrived two months ago looking more like one of the landed gentry than a field hand.

‘So, you’re busy back in Melbourne?’ he ventured, keeping his tone light.

Fosdick nodded his grey head. He appeared to be in his fifties, dressed in moleskins and a blazer, buzzing with nervous energy. ‘I’ve got more cases than I can handle,’ he said. ‘Criminals are popping out of the woodwork.’

His heart started pounding. Was Fosdick with the police? ‘Can’t we put some lights on?’ he said, bumping into something.

The guy pocketed his keys and withdrew a mobile. He switched on the torch and shone it toward the floor. ‘We’ll put the lights on when we get downstairs.’

They were heading to the cellars. His heart rate ratcheted up a notch. ‘Why didn’t you just post the report?’ He needed to find out how many others were aware of it.

‘The old man said not to trust anyone,’ he said, descending the stairs. ‘When he died so suddenly, I had no idea who he would want to receive this report.’

‘Yeah. We were all aware of his emphysema, but his death still came as a shock.’ Underground, the air was cooler, keeping the red gold at an even rate of fermentation.

‘Death is like that sometimes. It gives you no warning.’ Like a man who was familiar with cellars, Fosdick felt along the wall and switched on the fluorescents. He headed towards the far wall where the 225 litre French oak barrels were stored on their side. Crisp air licked his face. It was free air-conditioning coming from the river through the large grid.

‘If this is about the shortfall of barrels, you don’t need to worry. We sold them to a small producer in the Strathbogie Ranges.’

‘Yes, I noticed the barrels didn’t match the inventory,’ said Fosdick. ‘It’s not about that.’

He sighed, firming his jaw, as he zipped his parka against the chill that invaded his bones. His hand felt for the solid object in his right pocket.

All business, Fosdick rested the report on an adjacent barrel. He reached for the pipette as he pulled out the bung. ‘You’ve got more experience with your flagship brew.’ He sucked up the red and poured it into the glass he’d prepared earlier. ‘Take a sip.’ First, he held the glass up to the light. ‘Can you spot it?’

It was the colour of Rosé. ‘Sure. It’s lighter, but the wine hasn’t finished maturing.’ He swiped the sweat pooling on his upper lip and reached for the glass. His mind worked ten to the dozen, going over his options. He swirled, sniffed, and sipped. He faked a confused frown and bent down to check the label. ‘Someone’s mixed up the labelling, that’s all.’ He set his glass aside with a shaky hand, noise pounding in his ears.

‘It’s worse than that,’ he said with a furrowed brow. ‘One barrel could be a mistake, but twelve?’ He turned away to dispose of the pipette. ‘Whatever that wine is, it’s not Pedrick’s Special Reserve… Oomph!’ Fosdick crumpled to the brick floor, the four-inch blade buried to the hilt.

‘Sometimes you get no warning, do ya?’ He stared at the man, waiting for remorse to kick in. He felt nothing. Prison had changed him. As he turned the body, he grabbed him under the arms and dragged him across to the larger tanks. He crossed to the ladder, carried it back, mounted five rungs, stepped on the platform, and opened the manhole. Climbing down, he hoisted the body over his shoulder and struggled up the steps again. Just as well Fosdick wasn’t a big man. It didn’t matter that he wasn’t dead, drowning would finish him.

The wine would age at least another month before blending started. Over the years, he’d turned his hand to a lot of things, surprised by his own versatility. Never saw himself as a murderer. But they had sent him to handle it, and he couldn’t risk displeasing them. He’d seen firsthand how vicious his partners could turn unless satisfied.

He neatened things up and took the report with him. After exiting the cellar, he realised. ‘Damn!’ He should have taken the guy’s keys. Too late now. He closed the door and left the building unlocked. His eyes scoured the yard for any sign of movement. He spotted no one. Now he had to locate Fosdick’s car and get rid of it. He lifted his head, inhaling the tangy scents from the vines and the river. ‘Yeah. Definitely a frost tonight.’ Mother Nature was doing what she could to ruin them, too. It was comforting to know.

Chapter 2

Sylvie wakened to the tapping on her bedroom door. She had been lying on her stomach and as she jerked upright, she knocked Andrew’s printer with her arm. ‘Ouch!’ Her eyes took a moment to adjust. After one week, Andrew’s converted study still felt unfamiliar.

A soft voice came through the door. ‘Are you awake, Aunt Sylvie?’

She and her two teenage accomplices were late to bed last night, creeping around town trawling for foliage. They didn’t get to bed until after three, and she had slept like the dead. Even the rooster next door hadn’t disturbed her. ‘Come in, Joe.’ She pushed the tousled hair off her face and yawned.

Joe’s handsome head popped into the room. He was already dressed in his dark-blue wedding suit.

‘You’re looking swish! What time is it?’ asked Sylvie, aware that she’d slept longer than she’d intended. When the alarm went ages ago, she’d banged it off, too zapped to face the day.

‘It’s almost eleven,’ said Joe. ‘You’ve still got a couple of hours.’

‘Have they seen it yet?’ Sylvie referred to the courtyard they’d spent the wee hours decorating.

Joe shook his head. ‘We’ve kept all the windows covered, like you said.’

Alysia’s head poked past Joe’s shoulder. ‘Boy! They are going to be so surprised. Gabriella’s in the bedroom having her hair done. Dad’s in Sam’s room getting dressed.’ Alysia’s face wore a conspiratorial grin that dimpled both cheeks. She squeezed past Joe, carrying Harriet in her arms—the two were inseparable since their first meeting. She held out the miniature pig for Sylvie’s inspection. ‘What do you think?’ asked Alysia, handing her to Sylvie.

‘Oh, Harry, you’re gorgeous!’ Sylvie admired the apricot silk pinafore and matching bow she wore. ‘It suits your complexion.’

‘Now she’ll match what we’ll be wearing!’ said Alysia.

‘Did you make that outfit for her?’ Sylvie was pleased she’d included Alysia on last night’s escapades. The girl had a flair for theft. Their adventure last night had brought them to a new level of understanding.

Alysia nodded her head, strawberry-blonde hair falling in waves over her shoulders.

‘You’re a clever kid,’ said Sylvie. ‘If you promise to look after her, I want you to have Harriet.’

The girl’s amber eyes grew wide, and she gasped. ‘Do you mean it?’

When Sylvie nodded in confirmation, Alysia lunged across and hugged her. ‘Oh, thank you, Sylvie.’ In her eagerness, she knocked one of the legs of the fold-down couch and half the bed collapsed. Harriet slid off the covers and somersaulted to the floor.

‘Oops!’ Alysia leapt to Harriet’s rescue.

If not for Joe’s quick reflexes, Sylvie would have fallen on top of Harriet. But Joe propped up the leg and kicked it back into position.

‘I’d better get dressed,’ said Alysia, cheeks pink with embarrassment. She twirled away and knocked over the side table. She didn’t even notice as she fled the room.

Joe caught the printer before it crashed to the floor. He stood there grinning, clasping his prize.

With a hand clutching her chest, Sylvie’s heart galloped, even though she was yet to climb out of bed.

‘You know, you don’t have to give people stuff to get them to like you,’ said Joe. He found a spot on the desk and deposited the printer.

Sylvie shrugged. ‘I know.’ Though she didn’t really believe it. ‘How the f-frogs-legs can I take care of Harry? I’m supposed to be getting a job.’ She could not imagine anyone wanting the pig at a winery, miniature or not.

She spotted Joe’s grin over her efforts to stop swearing. ‘You’re doing great,’ he said, as if she was a recovering alcoholic. On her second day in Nagambie, little Sam used a bad one, he had overheard her say. It was a battle convincing him to wipe it from his memory. He’d kept repeating the word he wasn’t supposed to say. ‘F*** is a bad word, isn’t it Mummy?’ Surrounded by impressionable minds, she needed to watch herself.

‘I might have got dressed too early,’ said Joe. ‘Now I’ll have to get the dust off this jacket.’

‘Thanks for waking me up, Joe,’ said Sylvie. ‘It’s going to be a glorious day, isn’t it?’

‘Yeah. I’m real glad you’re here, Aunt Sylvie. The entire family is together.’

She was relieved that he turned away and didn’t notice her getting teary. What the heck was wrong with her? For so long there had been just Joe and his mother, and now he was enfolded in a family. Something hitched in the vicinity of her heart. It felt like when she ate something too spicy. She couldn’t help thinking back to the day of Gabriella’s arranged marriage to Vince Carlucci, Joe’s father. But this time, her sister had found the perfect partner. And they would get their happy ending.

Andrew was one in a million. He cared nothing about her paternity, her mob past, her lack of education or her not sharing the same interests. He enjoyed tending his roses and playing tennis. Gabriella had never been sporty or interested in tennis. She thought growing roses was extravagant when the same investment could produce edible food. Sylvie sighed, blowing hair out of her eyes. The mysteries of love were beyond her understanding. But she was overjoyed for her sister, and perhaps a tiny bit jealous.

She padded over to her toiletries kit and caught sight of herself in the mirror. The bags beneath her eyes emphasised her forty-one years. It would take careful make-up to disguise the lack of sleep, but her hair still looked good. Gabriella had coloured and restyled it a week ago, and she liked the chestnut shade. Now she looked less like Dolly Parton and more like a normal person. With a few clever make-up tricks, she’d be ready for the man of her dreams.

For the past week, she had been dreaming about Andrew’s solicitor friend, even though they’d never met. Well, she’d been dreaming mostly about the winery he’d inherited. No harm in finding a man with money—willing to pay off her debts. She grabbed her sexiest underwear and her make-up bag and headed for the shower, a spring in her step.

***

The few guests invited weren’t arriving until 1:00pm. The Anglican minister wasn’t due until 12:50pm, so Sylvie figured she had plenty of time to sneak out for a smoke. All coiffed and primped, looking more like the pumpkin than Cinderella, she sneaked to her favourite spot behind the courtyard wall and lit up. Although she’d had her heart set on wearing any colour other than apricot, they had outvoted her. The head height wall backed a bench seat and divided the U-shaped courtyard from the garden. She paced beside Andrew’s rose beds, admiring their beauty. He had numerous rare varieties that he nurtured like infants. She’d never seen anything like them in the florist shops. He was a regular David Attenborough, or was it David Austin?

‘Aunt Sylvie,’ called Alysia’s voice. ‘Where are you?’

Sylvie wandered back to the courtyard, hoping that the girl wasn’t going to become a clinging pest. She’d just spent 20 minutes doing her make-up. ‘What’s up?’

Alysia’s eyes were enormous, and the apricot dress enhanced her hair colour. ‘I don’t know what to do,’ she said, chewing on her lip. ‘The police are at the front door asking to see the lady of the house. Do you think it’s about last night?’ she whispered.

Sylvie flapped a hand. ‘Na. Police don’t give a sh-sugar about greenery,’ she said. ‘Go fix your lipstick. I’ll talk to them.’ She dropped her cigarette into the garden mulch and ground it with her new five-inch heels. She strutted past the rose smothered brick chimney that served the lounge room and found the policeman waiting at the front door. Dressed in his full kit, he looked young, only in his twenties.

‘Hello,’ she said. ‘I’m the lady of the house. My sister is otherwise disposed.’ She’d learned that from Downton Abbey and spoke in her posh voice, aiming to get the upper hand. Just in case he was here enquiring about the shrubberies she’d pilfered.

The policeman opened his mouth, but the woman’s voice overrode him.

‘That’s her! She’s the one,’ she shrieked, pointing a finger in Sylvie’s face.

Sylvie moved closer to her accuser and peered at her as if she had cataracts. ‘And whom might you be, Madame?’

The officer blushed, patted the woman on her arm and introduced them. ‘This is Agnes Proud,’ he said. ‘Her house is opposite the golf course in Cemetery Lane. Er, um, we’re here about the matter of stolen property.’

Squirming inwardly, Sylvie didn’t twitch a muscle. This was all Gabriella’s fault. If not for her insistence that they could have a stunning wedding without spending any money, she wouldn’t be in this mess. Her hand flew to her mouth as she tried to look concerned. ‘My goodness! I’d invite you inside, but this is a most unopportune time.’

Right on cue, a black clad minister, complete with Bible, strolled through the front gate and joined them. He acknowledged the old bag with a nod. ‘Agnes, officer. Lovely day for a wedding.’

Agnes made a rude croaking sound in her throat.

‘Why don’t you go inside your holiness?’ Sylvie ushered him towards the still open front door. ‘Alysia, the minister is here,’ she hollered. ‘Your worship, they’re expecting you. Alysia will show you where everything is.’

The man crossed the threshold, and Sylvie turned to her accuser. ‘When did you say you were burglarised?’ she asked.

‘You know when,’ spat the woman. ‘It was 2:00am in the middle of the night.’ The unnaturally high pitch of her voice grated on Sylvie’s ears.

‘I was right here. Asleep in my bed.’ One hand on her hip, knee flexed, Sylvie smiled at Mrs Proud. Well, it was more of a smirk that she’d perfected over the years. Her smirk was her best defence, concealing a silent insult, guaranteed to piss people off. ‘Can’t expect to look this good without my beauty sleep. Anyway, why weren’t you sleeping like normal people?’

‘I have insomnia,’ she said, lifting her many chins. About seventy-years of age, she had a full face with two pink circles decorating her cheeks. The bulbous red nose lined with blood vessels suggested she enjoyed a tipple. ‘There were noises, so I looked out the window.’

‘I suppose you have cat’s eyes too,’ said Sylvie, smirking. ‘How could you see anything in the dark?’

‘Are you positive it was her?’ asked the officer.

‘Of course, I am, Damian,’ said Mrs Proud. ‘There’s a street light outside the house. There were three of them. One had her exact body shape and height. I followed them, wheeling their barrow of plunder right to this house.’ Her high-pitched whining attracted Harriet’s attention. She thrust her bristled muzzle out the front door and groinked.

‘Listen, officer.’ Sylvie turned to him so that her chest touched his arm. ‘Old people get confused. No harm done.’ She turned to the woman, ‘Why don’t you try to catch up on your sleep, Agnes. And cut back on the grog.’ She tapped her own nose. ‘That’s what keeps you awake.’

A huff of noise like an inflating bagpipe emerged from the old windbag. She pulled herself up to her full height, expanded her chest and folded her arms. ‘I’ll bet you don’t even have a permit for that pig,’ she accused. ‘Do something, Damian.’

‘Keep your voice down would ya?’ said Sylvie. ‘You’re upsetting the pig. She bites. The pig belongs to the doctor’s daughter. And he happens to be the most law-abiding citizen I’ve ever met. Are you calling the doctor a tax evader?’ Glad for the added height in her heels, Sylvie glared at the woman, both hands fisted on her hips. ‘I’ve had about enough of you casting dispersions.’

Damian tried to wedge himself between the women.

Right then, Gabriella emerged from her bedroom, a vision in cream lace. ‘Is anything wrong?’ she asked. Her dramatic almond-shaped eyes zeroed on Sylvie.

‘Pig permits, that’s all. The minister is here,’ said Sylvie. ‘Go wait in the lounge room. Don’t go to the courtyard.’ She waved off her sister, squeezed past the policeman and slammed the front door shut.

She had noticed Mrs Proud poking the officer. ‘Er… now about this stolen property,’ he said, trying to take charge.

Sylvie quirked an eyebrow and smirked at the woman. ‘Alleged stolen property,’ she corrected him. ‘Anyway, what exactly are you accusing me of pinching?’

‘You know exactly what you took: My ivy was ripped out by the roots, my cypresses denuded, and my gypsophila trampled underfoot.’ Her chin quivered and she looked on the verge of bursting into tears.

‘Is that all?’ said Sylvie with a laugh. ‘I thought you were talking about diamonds. You’re making a lot of fuss about stuff that grows in the ground.’ There were cars pulling up and parking in the street. The visitors were arriving.

‘Listen here, you… you… outsider. I am the president of the Nagambie Horticultural Society. People passing by always stop to admire my garden. It’s as much a draw card as Black Caviar,’ she shouted.

Sylvie had seen the bronze horse statue in the main street and rolled her eyes at the exaggerated comparison. ‘You’re kidding, right?’

‘Now it’s an eyesore! My garden has been desecrated. Next week I’m rostered for Victorian open-gardens.’ Mrs Proud was screeching, her face looked like a ripe plum and her whole body vibrated.

Sylvie wasn’t sure what that meant, but she was more concerned about the time. Joe peered through the glass side panel and tapped his watch. ‘Well, good luck catching your crook. I’ve got to go.’

‘Stop her, Damian! I insist you arrest her.’

‘I can’t do that, Gran,’ he grumbled.

Sylvie heard another man’s voice behind her.

‘Mrs Proud. Damian. Good to see you both,’ he said, in soft cultured tones. ‘Can I be of any assistance?’

She knew without turning around that this was her dream prince. The sound of his voice struck a chord deep inside her, as mellow and luxurious as the strains of a cello. Slowly, Sylvie turned to take him in. She flashed a dazzling smile, then dialled it up a notch as if to say, ‘I’ve been waiting for you all my life.’ His pupils flared before he turned his attention to the crazy lady.

Mrs Proud overflowed like an overfilled rice pot on the boil. The words came tumbling out so fast no one could understand her. Damian tried patting her to calm her, but her verbal diarrhoea couldn’t be stopped. And then she began to sob.

‘Thanks, Mr Pedrick.’ The officer tipped his cap back and swiped his forehead in relief.

‘You really need to calm down, Agnes,’ said Sylvie, rolling her eyes, ‘before you get breaststroke.’

Her prince leaned close, and she got a whiff of his aftershave, as aromatic as Penfolds Grange Shiraz at $800 a bottle. ‘Why don’t you go and get things started, Sylvie,’ he said with a smile. ‘Mrs Proud and I are old friends.’

She felt his breath on her cheek and goosebumps erupted over her skin. ‘Sure,’ she nodded, glad to escape. With a final smirk at the woman, Sylvie swivelled away, hoping they didn’t follow her to the courtyard. Her wedding outfit must have given her away, but it was gratifying that he’d guessed she was Gabriella’s sister.

People were streaming past, arriving punctually. She braked and did a double take. ‘Pasquale!’ She kissed both his cheeks and he blushed. ‘You look magnificent! Sharp suit.’ For an ex-mob enforcer, he scrubbed up well.

‘It was the Don’s. I had it adjusted.’ He patted down the sides. ‘Gabriella’s father, Dumitru, would have loved to be here.’ His chin trembled and she knew he was remembering his brother-in-law.

‘He’s with us in spirit.’ Sylvie linked arms with him and led him to the courtyard.

They came to a stop on one side of the covered 6 metre square patio, taking in the decorations. When her sister stepped out, she wanted her to have no memory of the recent trauma. A lump caught in her throat as she recalled fish-face getting shot just one week ago. He’d dropped right there in the azaleas. Despite her financial deficit, the decorating was her contribution to ensure a perfect wedding.

With Christmas lights wrapped around the rafters, it looked better than a marquee. White satin and tulle adorned the peaked ceiling and vertical supporting columns. She grinned, remembering last night’s antics, climbing ladders like monkeys. They’d draped the columns in generous curtains of white, cinched with satin bows. Vines of trailing ivy fell from the rafters. Branches of cypress were strategically inserted into the fabric folds to offset the stark whiteness. It was a triumph! Chest swelling with pride, Sylvie couldn’t wait to see her sister’s reaction.

The sliders from the main rooms opened wide. Joe on the family room side, holding Sam’s hand, and Alysia at the lounge door, accompanying Gabriella. The minister emerged and positioned himself at the end of the courtyard. Music started to play. Family and friends continued to stream into the courtyard, more people than they had invited.

Townsfolk peeked over the wall and dotted the lawn further afield, trying to catch a glimpse. Dressed in a three-quarter length lace sheath and no veil, Gabriella emerged from the house and paused, taking in the scene. It was so different from the intimidating cathedral she’d been married in twenty years earlier. Her eyes scanned the faces and stopped when she spotted Sylvie. Her smile was incandescent, and she mouthed, ‘Thank you.’ With a small jerk of her head, Gabriella beckoned Sylvie to join the family at the front.

Chapter 3

It was all so beautiful that Sylvie cried through the whole ceremony. She couldn’t control her emotions. As she stood beside Alysia, she had an angled view of Andrew’s profile. The love radiating from him whenever he looked at Gabriella was her undoing. She concentrated on staring down at the bouquet clutched in her fist, thankful for something to absorb the tears. As though she’d sprung a leak, water cascaded down her cheeks and she felt droplets splash her chest.

When the minister asked for the rings, Dale passed them to Andrew. Without fuss, he side-stepped to the left and extended his hand to her. Her eyes were so blurry it took a moment to focus on the handkerchief he offered. She mouthed her thanks but couldn’t look at him. Thankful that they were nearing the end, she mopped up as discreetly as she could. With the sound of a stool scraping, she turned her head to see Joe settled to one side, strumming his guitar. He sang of love, promises, and forever, in a rich tenor, vibrating with emotion. Both Gabriella and Andrew turned to watch him. When he repeated the lines of the chorus, even Gabriella choked up. ‘I’ve stopped running away because I found my home in you.’

By now Sylvie was blubbering full force. On Joe’s last chord, the hiccups started. The couple kissed and Sam pushed in between them, jumping up and down like a frisky puppy. Everyone applauded and surged forward to extend their congratulations. In the rush, Sylvie fled to the bathroom.

She spent over ten minutes repairing the ravages to her make-up. ‘You are such a screwup,’ she said to the red-eyed woman in the mirror. A week ago, she’d had nothing but contempt for her daughter, Elena’s uncontrollable weeping. Perhaps she had a hormone imbalance, going through the change? For the first time in her life, she wondered if it might be wise to talk with a professional counsellor. Was she crying over Gabriella’s happiness or her own lack of it? She didn’t know. Maybe she was just grieving. A week ago, she’d learned Steve was dead and her lover turned out to be a con man. One of Mama’s Italian proverbs sprang to mind: As often as you fall, get up and try again.

When she felt calmer, she headed out to find the man who offered the perfect solution to all her problems. Dale stood by the drinks table, filling wine glasses. She stepped across and waited for him to serve Liz, Andrew’s sister, and her husband. Liz gave her a friendly greeting and introduced her to Roland. When they left, she asked for champagne.

‘Thanks for the hanky,’ she said. ‘I didn’t expect to howl.’

Dale offered a medium wattage smile and poured her drink. ‘It was a beautiful wedding,’ he said. ‘They make each other very happy.’ He handed her the drink, and her pulse quickened. For a moment their eyes connected, and heat sizzled between them.

Could that be my imagination, she wondered? A muscle rippled in his jaw, but like a proper lawyer, his expression gave nothing away. She liked the overall package. Medium build, not scrawny, and a head taller than her while she wore these stilts. He’d removed his jacket and wore the navy pants, white shirt and a jacquard vest. ‘It’s good to meet you at last,’ he said, smoothing ash-blond hair back from his forehead.

‘You too.’ She sipped her drink, wishing she could think of something clever to say. ‘I’m sorry about your father.’

He inhaled deeply. ‘We were close. I’m going to miss him.’ He rubbed the side of his jaw and his eyes glazed over, looking past her shoulder. ‘He’d been a smoker all his life; had emphysema. His health was deteriorating, but his death was unexpected.’

He had the look of a lost boy, and she regretted bringing it up. ‘That’s hard.’ She cleared her throat. ‘Our mother died four months ago, but at least I had a few days to get used to it.’ Her voice cracked. ‘I got the chance to… um… say goodbye.’ A man asked for red wine and she fled before she started blubbering again. ‘Catch ya later.’

‘There you are, Aunt Sylvie,’ said Joe. ‘I want you to meet someone.’

‘Sure,’ she said, eyeing the man beside Joe. A little older than she, with designer stubble on his rugged face, he had a twinkle in his warm brown eyes. Stepping forward, he kissed her cheeks.

‘G’day. We met at the first wedding,’ he said with a grin.

‘This is Dominic,’ said Joe. ‘He’s my father’s cousin.’

A gasp escaped Sylvie. ‘Vince’s cousin. Of course, I remember you,’ she laughed. ‘Weren’t you going into the police force? How did that work out?’

‘I’m a private detective now.’ Dominic slung