Sarasota Sour Grapes: Yale Larsson PI Mystery Novels

By Doug Sahlin

Murder in a Sarasota Vineyard

While Private Investigator Yale Larsson is visiting old friends who are opening a winery on the outskirts of Sarasota, the sommelier is found dead in the vineyard. When the cops arrive the body is missing.

◆ What happened to the body?

◆ Whodunnit?

◆ Why was the lady murdered?

◆ How will Yale bring the killer to justice?

To find the answers to these questions and more, order a copy of this crime thriller mystery today.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Doug Sahlin
• Release date: May 2, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223837145

Book preview

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Death of a Sommelier

Jurgen Becker extended his right arm and slowly swept it in an arc to show the vast expanse of his vineyard, rows of neatly staked grapevines as far as I could see.

This will be my legacy, Yale. The most perfect wine ever created in Florida. The hybrid Muscadine grape I have created will yield the most delicious spirits ever fermented in this state.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a tall man with long black hair running toward us. Instinctively, I reached for my gun. It wasn’t there.

The tall man stopped, wheezed, caught his breath, and said, Jurgen. Come quickly.

Yale. Allow me to introduce…

The tall guy ducked around a corner and returned in a yellow golf cart with knobby tires.

Get. In. Now.

Jurgen frowned, then hustled to the cart, taking the passenger’s seat. I hopped on the jump seat as the cart was pulling away. What the hell was going on?

What’s the rush, Nigel? Jurgen said.

One worker found a dead woman at the back of the vineyard. Called me on the radio.

That is terrible. Who is it?

We’ll know when we get there.

Jurgen turned to me and said, Yale. This is my son-in-law, Nigel. He is my foreman.

I nodded. Nigel jerked the wheel to the right. Stalked vines scraped the side of the cart. In the distance, I saw a throng of dark-skinned workers wearing big floppy hats, dressed in blue jeans and long-sleeved shirts. Nigel slammed on the brakes. The cart slid to a stop. He hopped off. Almost fell. Jurgen and I followed. Nigel raced toward the body.

Nigel stopped, dust rising from his boots. Oh shit. It’s Darcy, our sommelier.

He knelt down. Felt for a pulse. But I could tell she was quite dead. I knelt for a closer look. Her body was still warm. When I touched her skin, it blanched. Her hair was matted with blood. Looked like a homicide. Gut instinct told me she’d been dead for less than an hour. But of course, the Sarasota County Chief Medical Examiner would have to confirm the time of death. I looked at Jurgen, shook my head.

Looks like Darcy was murdered.

Jurgen spread his hands. Oh, my God. What do we do, Yale?

I pulled out my cell phone. One bar. Call the cops.

But you are a private investigator.

This is a police matter.

I hit speed dial for the Sarasota County Sheriff’s Office. Gave the desk sergeant a bullet point description of the crime, the location of Jurgen’s vineyard. I was told to hang loose. A deputy would be dispatched. Forthwith.

I ended the call and looked at Jurgen. My German friend slumped down on the jump seat, pulled his cell phone out and placed a call. He told his wife Jutta there had been a murder. He asked her to wait for the officer and drive him to the scene.

I put my hand on Jurgen’s shoulder. I trained the chief homicide detective. He’ll sort this out.

This is terrible. Darcy was like a family member. Who would do such a thing?

Cleared my throat and said, Losing a dear friend and valued employee is hard. When a loved one is murdered, it hurts. Bad. I’ve lost loved one many times. Sorry for your loss.

Jurgen said nothing, just looked the other way, and shook his head. Then he stared at his vineyard and raised his hands in the air. One week from harvest and now this. Will it be in the papers?

Probably.

He slapped his thighs. "Damn. I have a grand opening scheduled for next Saturday. Rock and roll, free food, and as you Americans would say, The Whole Enchilada."

A bump in the road. Unless your sommelier was well known, it won’t be front page news.

I can only hope.

Hang in there, Jurgen.

A few minutes later, I heard the whine of a golf cart. Jutta was at the wheel accompanied by a uniformed officer. She guided the cart to a stop behind us. She was as I remembered. Tall. Beautiful. Thin. A Nordic goddess. Waist-length silver hair that had once been blond. She was wearing blue jeans and a plaid shirt.

Jurgen hugged his wife. Darcy is dead.

Oh, my God. What happened? Tears trickled down her cheeks. She rubbed her hands on her cheeks to blot away the tears.

I do not know. Nigel says that a couple of the workers found her.

I joined Jurgen and Jutta. The officer looked at the dead girl. Deputy Tom Gutterson. I’ll radio this in. A homicide detective needs to handle it from here.

I nodded. Thank you, Deputy Gutterson.

Gutterson put his hands on his hips and said, It’s my job. And you are?

Yale Larsson. I shook his hand.

His grip was firm and dry. Heard the name many times. You’ve got quite a reputation. Trained Kennedy, right?

Yup.

Before my time. Transferred here from Palm Beach last year. Why’d you quit?

Got in the way of a bullet. Almost died. Good time to cash my chips in.

Gutterson met my gaze and said, Lucky man. Glad you survived. I’ll tell Detective Kennedy what’s going on.

The deputy grabbed his radio and called it in.

He put the radio in his belt and met Jutta’s gaze. Ma’am, can I borrow your cart? Homicide detective and the coroner will be here in about fifteen minutes.

No problem.

Nigel drove Gutterson back to the main pavilion, leaving a cloud of dust in his wake. The wind picked up. Dark clouds scudded in from the east. Jutta turned away from the wind, crossed her arms in front of her chest.

Jurgen pointed at the billowing clouds. Looks like we are in for a storm, my friend.

I nodded. If you don’t like the weather in Florida, wait fifteen minutes. A brilliant strobe of lightning pierced the gloom, followed by a deafening clap of thunder.

I pointed to the golf cart and said, I’ll drive you back to the pavilion and come back with the officers.

Jutta sat next to me, and Jurgen hopped on the jump seat. As we drove, the first fat drops of rain fell, making popping sounds on the canvas golf cart roof. When we got back to the pavilion, the rain was horizontal, and the wind was howling.

Heavy rain like this hurt your crop, Jurgen?

No. When I bought the property, I made sure the water had a place to go. I am even good to go if a hurricane makes a direct hit.

I pulled the golf cart into a tin shed. Jurgen led the way toward the gazebo. I was so caught up in the reunion with my German friend; I didn’t even take in the grand scheme he had created. Place looked like a Mediterranean villa. Red brick walkways. Terra-cotta tiles on the roof. Beige colored buildings with red bougainvillea climbing the walls. Shuttered windows. Ornate iron gateways. Opulent cement fountains.

Was any of this here when you bought the land, Jurgen?

No. This piece of land was a blank slate when I purchased it. But I had a master plan in mind; one-upping the vineyard I sold in California. I patterned this after a villa I visited in Italy.

Never saw your California place. You guys dropped off the face of the earth when I was still a kid.

My family moved to Florida from Germany, and we became American citizens when I was a young boy. After two tours of Vietnam, I was a restless spirit. Your Uncle Carl was in my platoon. He and I were best friends and card-carrying hippies, long hair, leather jackets. We bought Harleys and rode west. Our goal was to see as much of this great country as we could. But I fell in love with California and Jutta, and decided to make a go of it there.

I smiled and met his gaze. Why did you come back to Florida?

He shrugged his shoulders. Wanderlust. I was restless and bored with everyday life. When Jutta told me she felt the same way, we sold the vineyard and moved to Florida. Then I got really bored and bought this place.

And then you found me.

I saw the article in the paper, how you solved your father’s murder. When I saw the name Larsson, I knew there was only one person that could be.

Jurgen stroked his beard. A blue Crown Vic screeched to a halt in front of the gazebo. Gravel crunched. Car doors slammed. Chief Medical Examiner Vijay Patel and Homicide Detective Dustin Kennedy ran to the pavilion.

Kennedy shook the rainwater out of his blond hair and stared at me. Now, I’m intrigued. You happen to be at the scene of a lot of homicides lately.

I’m here to visit my friend Jurgen Becker.

Kennedy nodded. I introduced everybody. Jutta grabbed an umbrella from the golf cart and sought the shelter of her home.

Kennedy frowned. What we got, Yale?

One of Jurgen’s employees, a lady named Darcy, was found by some migrant workers. When I examined the body, she was obviously dead.

Darcy is… was my sommelier, said Jurgen.

Kennedy reached in the pocket of his blazer, pulled out a notepad and pen. Last name?

Smith. Darcy Smith.

She work for you very long?

She moved here from Modesto. Darcy worked for me at the vineyard I owned in Napa-Sonoma Valley, J & J Wineries.

Kennedy looked at the posters on the wall and the placard over the gazebo. Good name. Obviously worked for you, so you used it again.

Jurgen nodded.

She have any problems in California that might have followed her here?

Jurgen blew out a breath of air and said, No. She lived a simple life.

Married?

Not now. Darcy divorced her husband.

Kennedy made a few more notes, then pocketed his pen and pad. I’ll have more questions for you as time goes on. Chief Medical Examiner Patel and I need to see the victim.

As he said that, the torrential rain slowed to a drizzle, and then stopped.

I’ll take them to the body, I said. Jutta looked like she was pretty shaken up. You need to be with her.

Jurgen nodded, thanked me and left. I led the way to the golf cart.

You know how to drive one of these things, Sherlock?

I grinned and turned the key. When we got to the scene of the crime, the migrant workers were gone. So was the late Darcy Smith.

Kennedy hopped off the cart, looked around, and put his hands in the air. Okay. Hard to have a homicide with no victim.

I stared at the spot where the body was and shook my head. Body was here ten minutes ago. It’s gone. So are the workers.

Patel jumped off the cart. I followed. Kennedy and Patel snapped on latex gloves and examined the area. Gazing intently. Looking for clues. Patel pulled a piece of fabric off one of the vines. He held it up and said, This looks like fabric from a woman’s blouse. I wonder if it’s from the victim’s clothing? Patel placed the piece of fabric in an evidence bag.

Kennedy was about fifty feet in front of us. He knelt down, stared at the ground, and said, Somebody dragged her here. I see tire tracks in the mud. Looks like an ATV.

Jurgen’s vineyard is in the boondocks near Myakka River State Park, the outskirts of Sarasota. Myakka City is right around the corner.

I knelt beside Kennedy. The tire tracks vanished in the distance. She could be anywhere. Lots of wilderness around here.

No rust on you, Sherlock, Kennedy said. We’ll need more information from your friend. Then I’ll see what I can find out about Ms. Smith in the law enforcement databases. Her body is gone. But she has a past.

I nodded. Keep me posted. These are old friends of mine.

Kennedy glared at me and said, I do my job. I’ll find whoever did this.

Kennedy and Patel spent more time looking for clues. Kennedy followed the tire tracks to the end of the vineyard. He jogged back a few minutes later.

Your friend’s serious about security. Electric fence. Somebody cut through it. Tracks follow a trail that ends at a dirt road. Lots of tire tracks there. Looks like the driver of the ATV hooked up with someone in a pickup. Knobby tires. Probably a 4 x 4.

Kennedy brushed off his jeans and met Patel’s gaze. Find anything other than the piece of her clothing?

It may have been her clothing, but it’s a common pattern. Could have been from anybody. Patel, the pragmatic coroner.

Patel stared at the vanishing tire tracks. Lots of ground to cover. What about bloodhounds?

May be an option. But if she was on an ATV, there won’t be much of a trail. Plus, the rain…

Patel spread his hands. Frowned. You are right.

Kennedy turned to me. We need to ask your friend a few more questions.

Okay. Let’s do it.

I parked the golf cart at the shed. Jurgen must have been looking out the window. The front door opened before we got there. He stepped outside.

Let us talk out here. Jutta cannot handle the stress.

He led us to an outdoor pavilion with a stage and round wooden tables covered with bright red umbrellas.

This is where I plan on holding our grand opening. He gestured to a table. Kennedy and Patel sat opposite Jurgen and me.

What did you find, Detective Kennedy? Jurgen said.

Please call me Dustin. Patel found a piece of fabric on one of the vines.

Patel passed the evidence bag to Jurgen and said, This looks like it might be from a woman’s blouse.

Jurgen examined the cloth. Yes. Darcy was wearing a blouse that looked like this when she came to work this morning.

Kennedy said, We also saw knobby tire tracks in the mud. Someone hauled her off on an ATV. You own an ATV, Jurgen?

Yes. It should be in the shed near the building where the wine will be fermented and bottled.

Let’s take a look, Kennedy said.

Jurgen drove us past the gazebo and down a paved road. A minute later, he drove up to a high fence with concertina wire. He grabbed a remote from the visor and pushed a button. The gate rumbled open. At the end of the road was a tin building. Jurgen drove behind the building and parked in front of a shed. The door was open.

This is supposed to be locked. Jurgen stepped off the cart.

A chain with a lock attached dangled from the hasp. The chain was cut. Jurgen reached for it, but Patel stopped him. Prints of the perp may be on the lock. Somebody used bolt cutters to get in.

And my ATV is gone.

Kennedy hopped off the golf cart. I followed Kennedy to the shed. He noticed muddy tire tracks. These look like the tire tracks I saw in the vineyard. He snapped a couple of pictures with his phone and looked at Jurgen. All your employees have keys to the shed?

Jurgen nodded. Everyone but the migrant workers.

Security fence was breached. That’s where the ATV exited your property.

Jurgen opened an electrical panel. Looks like the fence is still electrified.

The bottom links were cut. Fence was spread wide enough for an ATV to pass through, Kennedy said. Whoever cut the links used leather gloves. How much voltage?

Just enough to shock stray animals, and those damn hogs.

I cleared my throat and said, Animals pilfer your grapes?

Yes. And the hog farmer down the road does a less than perfect job of keeping his livestock on his property. And there are wild hogs in the area as well.

You on friendly terms with your neighbors? I said.

Your Uncle Carl was a lot like me. He minded his own affairs. I have everything I need here. He leaned against the wall, folded his arms, and exhaled loudly.

Kennedy shrugged his shoulders. Ever confront the hog farmer?

Once or twice.

Kennedy pulled his pad out of his jacket. Name of the farm?

Strongway Farms. The owner is Lawrence Strongway.

Kennedy jotted down the information and clicked his pen. I’ll need Ms. Smith’s employment records.

That is not a problem. How quickly can you solve this?

Kennedy pocketed his pad. It will get done when it gets done. This is not the only case I’m working.

But this, Jurgen said and paused for a few seconds, is the only vineyard I own. And the outcome of this case will affect the future of my business.

I understand that. You just need to be patient.

Patience and Jurgen. Surely an oxymoron if there ever was one. Jurgen clenched his fists but said nothing.

The whine of a golf cart punctuated the silence. Nigel hopped off and joined the conversation.

Kennedy looked at me and said, Well, if three of you saw the deceased, we have a victim. Now we need to figure out whether it was a homicide or natural causes.

In my best Spock, I arched an eyebrow and said, Logical.

Kennedy looked at Jurgen and said, I’ll need to talk to the witnesses.

Jurgen said nothing.

Nigel looked at Kennedy and said, Pablo, Juanita, and Manuel discovered the body.

Okay, said Kennedy. I need to interview them. ASAP.

Nigel looked at Jurgen. Okay with you, Boss?

Kennedy said nothing, but I knew he’d use the long arm of the law to interview them if he had to.

Jurgen spread his hands and said, Of course. Pablo has a radio. Tell him and the others to come to the restaurant. Detective Kennedy can interview them there.

Kennedy thanked Jurgen, looked at Nigel, and said, I’ll need to ask you a few questions as well.

Nigel pawed at the ground with his boot and said, Okay, fine.

Patel and Kennedy sat on the jump seat and compared notes. Jurgen drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and didn’t say a word as he drove. Nigel followed in our wake. My German friend stopped the cart at the restaurant. Three dark-skinned workers were waiting. Kennedy stepped off, gave my friend his card, and asked him to fax Darcy’s employee file and any other pertinent information to him. Nigel ushered Kennedy, Patel and the workers to the restaurant.

Oh to be a fly on the wall, but Kennedy didn’t ask me to join them. I followed Jurgen to his house. When we stepped inside, Jutta was sitting at the dining room table with her head in her hands. She looked up when we entered.

"Jurgen. This is awful. Darcy was like a daughter and