Sour Grapes (A Savannah Reid Mystery #6) by G. A. McKevett Read Free Book Online

the inside of an enormous vat. Evidence of Villa Rosa's prestigious past was everywhere in the antique winemaking memorabilia. There were photos of five generations of Villas, all of whom had been masters at their art, while glass cases
     
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    kleld the ribbons, medals, and awards for excellence that had been bestowed upon them over the decades. To the right lay the tasting room, a luxurious affair, much larger than the average California winery provided.
    To the left lay the guest lodge, a two-story house Nith twenty beautifully decorated rooms for overnight
    visitors. Straight ahead, through two sets of French loors, lay a courtyard, lush with palmettos, hanging gar-lens, a three-tiered fountain, and comfortable lounging Furniture.
     
    The Villa family loved their wines, but just as much, they enjoyed sharing their passion with others. And the visitors' center reflected that generations-old tradition
    3f hospitality.
    But Marion Lippincott had precious little time to ap3reciate
    such things with a pageant to run. Waving away ;everal other mothers with equally distressed looks on
    heir faces, she picked up the telephone which was restng atop an antique that had once been a winepress, 3ut now functioned as a visitors' registration desk. After 3unching in a few numbers, she heard her activities co3rdinator on the other end.
    "Gertrude, I spoke to Anthony Villa, and he needs a )odium for his welcoming address this evening, just a nicrophone and stand for me. Have the plaques arived yet? Well, get the engraver on the line and give tim grief. And dessert for the closing ceremonies? Tell he chef we need a low-fat sorbet selection."
    From the corner of her eye, she saw a spray of spring lowers approaching, with a deliveryperson's legs below ind a face hidden among the tulips, daffodils, and hyicinths. The flowers spoke, "I'm with Fancy Bloomers. Chese are for one of your contestants. . . a Barbie viatthews."
     
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    "No, I don't want the cheesecake on the menu," Marion barked, "or the chocolate mousse. These girls are watching their weight and their complexions."
    "Excuse me," said the deliveryperson, "a Barbie Matthews?"
    Marion glanced down at her notebook. "She hasn't arrived yet."
    'Then where should I leave these?"
    She flipped the pages until she found the room
    chart. "Room ID." She jabbed a finger toward the hallway that branched off the gallery to the left, then turned her attention back to the phone. "I have to check the registration tables, to see how it's going," she said. "Gert, I'm sure you can handle all of this, and when I check back with you in half an hour, you'll have only good news for me, right?"
     
    She hung up the phone before receiving the affirmation.
    She didn't need it. Gertrude was a most-capable coordinator. And she possessed another virtue that made her even more valuable. . . she was positively terrified of Marion Lippincott.
    And that was exactly the way The Lip liked it.
    Room ID. A first-floor room. That was good. Perfect, in fact.
    The person with the flowers had brought along
    more than tulips. The jar of red gore was tucked inside a jacket pocket, just in case.
    But no. The "delivery person" wasn't that lucky The
    room was locked, and there was no choice but to leave
    the arrangement outside in the hallway next to the door.
    Oh well. It was probably better this way. The old bat
    with the notebook might remember later, and there
     
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    needed to be some time between the "delivery" and the "incident."
    Tonight would be fine.
    Counting the steps to the exit at the end of the hall, the person mentally rehearsed the return. Fifty-five steps. Feeling the jar, heavy inside the jacket pocket, its contents sloshing around, brought a smile. If the flowers didn't change her mind, Barbara Matthews was going to get an unpleasant surprise.

Chapter
    avamiah began to relax and enjoy the drive as she
    guided the Mustang along the winding