Aged for Mayhem, page 20
In any case, the strained atmosphere in the room seemed to have eased with Marcello’s departure, although Olivia felt tenser than ever as she worried about how the next few minutes would play out. She hurried over to the tasting counter where Jean-Pierre—who was a conspirator in the upcoming drama and had been hastily briefed—was busy pouring wine for another guest, a woman on her own, who was sitting nearby.
They had barely had time to sit down before Gino arrived.
He marched into the winery with his chin in the air, and unlike most visitors, did not even pause to admire the stunning backdrop of wooden barrels that Olivia always thought felt like the heart of the spacious room.
“I do not have much time,” he greeted them without preamble. “As I explained earlier, I was heading out to the shops anyway. That is the only reason I agreed to comply with your ridiculous request.”
Olivia gave him her sweetest smile.
“It’s so kind of you. Naturally, you are our guest here today and we will pay your tasting fee. Jean-Pierre will pour you the rosé immediately.”
With his lips tightened in concentration, aware of the critical role he was playing, Jean-Pierre poured a tasting portion of Olivia’s new rosé and handed it to Gino.
Olivia picked up her own glass. While she was too nervous to appreciate her wine at this moment, it warmed her heart to see that Danilo was staring at it in admiration.
Danilo sipped the wine and although he made no comment on it, his eyes widened and he quirked an eyebrow at Olivia. The message was clear. Danilo thought her wine was amazing.
Gino was a tougher critic. He was staring at the wine intently, as if disappointed by its vivid, jewel-like color. She was sure he was desperate to find fault with it, and sensed that he was frustrated he hadn’t been able to immediately write it off as hopeless.
He swirled, breathed in the bouquet, and finally tasted the wine.
There was a long pause.
“It is not as bad as I was led to believe,” he said grudgingly, sounding disappointed. “A well-made wine. Certainly a good effort, but far from the quality of my own creation.”
The other customer at the counter set her glass down with an audible clink.
“Your own creation?” she asked innocently. “Are you a winemaker, too?”
Gino turned to stare at this stranger in surprise, as if she should have asked permission before speaking to him. His disdainful gaze traveled from her dark hair, held back with five glittery pink hairclips, over her bright lilac jacket emblazoned with turquoise unicorns, and finally rested, with an expression of astonishment, on her cerise, sequined boots.
“I am the top winemaker in the area. In the country, even. I lead the team at Boschetto di Querce, and my new Sangiovese is a triumph of winemaking,” he sneered.
The other woman’s eyes widened.
“But I was there yesterday!” she exclaimed. “I tasted that wine.”
Olivia felt a thrill of admiration. Brigitta was performing her role with total authenticity, despite the mad rush she’d had to arrive here in time.
“So you will agree with me then.” Gino stated this as if it was inarguable fact.
Brigitta frowned. “Well, no. I liked your wine, of course. It was really nice tasting.”
Olivia heard Gino’s hiss of indrawn breath at the insulting use of the word “nice,” but Brigitta was steaming ahead.
“Yes, it was really pleasant. Easy drinking. But this rosé is unique. I mean, have you ever seen this color before? I have to say, it’s my favorite.”
She lifted up one of her boots and wiggled it from side to side, placing her glass close to it as if to compare how similar the two bright pinks were.
Gino gave a choking sound.
Since he was at a loss for words, Olivia continued moving the conversation along.
“So, there you go! Two against one, I’m afraid!”
Danilo cleared his throat. “Three against one. The rosé is spectacular. Without a doubt, it is the winner in my mind.”
Now Olivia was alarmed to see that the formerly sallow-cheeked Gino had turned the same color as her rosé. In fact, his burning cheeks were giving Brigitta’s boots a run for their money.
“You are all ignoramuses! How can you possibly prefer this wine over my phenomenal Sangiovese red? Did you not see what it said on Tuscany’s leading wine site? My wine was reviewed as incredible. Yours received the worst possible ranking. Mine is the best in Tuscany.”
Olivia raised an eyebrow.
“But the website didn’t say that. It just said ‘incredible.’ It didn’t say incredibly what. It could have meant, incredibly average. I don’t think that write-up was very well edited.”
“Exactly. Incredibly average is probably what he meant,” Danilo agreed.
“It is the top wine in the area!” Gino spluttered.
“Not according to the site,” Olivia insisted. “Maybe it meant incredibly sour?” she added thoughtfully. “I did find it a little bitter, especially the aftertaste.”
“Yes, I agree with you. Bitter,” Brigitta said. “I felt like it needed some sugar. I am sure that’s what the writer meant to say. An incredibly bitter wine that was, however, not a bad attempt at winemaking.”
“Well, I’m glad we’ve sorted that out and clearly, with a three against one vote, it’s pretty much a runaway victory for the rosé,” Olivia said with a satisfied smile. “It’s a pity your website review wasn’t more positive, but at least it was accurate.”
“Not so!” Gino slammed his empty glass down on the counter and scrambled off his stool. “You do not understand, you imbeciles! Raffaele di Maggio himself believed my wine to be the best in Tuscany and the finest new wine he had experienced that year.”
Olivia stared at him disbelievingly.
“Well, anyone can say that. But it’s not what he wrote.”
“It is, it is, it is! It is exactly what he wrote and those were his words that he spoke to me. I saw them myself, in his own notebook where he jotted down the impressions of his wines. That stupid, unfair man did not grade my superb wine accurately. His review was pathetic, insulting! Why did he not write the truth on the site, which is that my wine was the best he had ever tasted? He even refused to change it when I arrived at his hotel—”
The vintner stopped abruptly, as if realizing that his infuriated outburst had caused him to say too much.
“You murdered Raffaele di Maggio,” Olivia stated. “You couldn’t bear the fact that the review was not as good as his original comments to you were. Raffaele might have had a big ego, but yours is even bigger, and it’s no wonder they talk about it all over Tuscany! In fact, I’m not surprised you couldn’t hold down a job at the winery down the road. You’re very rude.”
“I left that place voluntarily. I desired to work for a bigger winery to showcase my talent,” Gino spluttered. “And how can you say I committed a murder? I did no such thing!”
“Oh yes, you did!” Olivia was terrified her strategy hadn’t worked. Gino was denying everything—even having been fired! As well as being arrogant, he was a serial liar. What could she do to obtain a confession? And where were the police? She’d expected them to be here by now. Had Detective Caputi not understood, or worse still, not believed her?
Olivia was starting to fear she’d been thrown to the wolves!
“You stormed into Raffaele’s hotel room and demanded he change the words because you thought the review was insulting. Then you grabbed the envelope opener from his desk because you were so angry he wouldn’t acknowledge your winemaking greatness. And then you stabbed him with it,” Olivia declared, hoping she sounded more confident than she felt.
“I did no such thing!” Gino was screaming now, his eyes wide. Olivia thought his hair might be standing on end. “Why would I use an envelope opener, when that pen was right there? That nice sharp pen that he used to write the real truth? Isn’t it fitting that I arrived at the hotel to confront him and when he refused to change his words, used his own weapon to punish him?”
Silence descended on the winery. The air seemed to ring with the residue of Gino’s furious words.
Then, realizing what he’d said, Gino leaped into action.
“You tricked me!”
In a flash, he was on his feet. Olivia had expected that he might make a run for it, but she hadn’t anticipated what he would do next.
The angry vintner shoved Danilo violently, sending him and his chair tumbling backward. And then he fled—but not in the direction of the tasting room entrance, where Jean-Pierre was already waiting.
Instead, Gino bolted toward the restaurant.
“Stop! Come back!” Olivia yelled. Her plans had fallen apart! Her suspect was escaping.
She powered after Gino, pursuing him as fast as she could run.
The dark-haired man ducked left and right, swerving past a group of departing customers. Olivia swerved the other way and found she’d gained some ground.
Glancing back, Gino saw she was hot on his heels. He grabbed a dessert trolley and shoved it onto its side.
Plates of tiramisu and panna cotta, slices of polenta cake, and tubs of gelato packed in ice scattered across Olivia’s path, as Gabriella’s furious shriek rang across the room.
Olivia made a desperate leap. She cleared the mess of spilled desserts, landed on a stray ice cube, and only just kept her footing as she slithered over the polished tiles.
Then she was racing behind him, out the side door.
Gino was heading at a frantic pace toward the service road. He was taller than Olivia, his legs were longer, and, she had to admit, he was clearly fitter. With every stride, he was gaining ground and she was starting to flag. Her lungs were burning. She’d never been a sprinter. Or a long-distance runner either, to be truthful. Really, she was more of a walker.
The road wound up a hill—Olivia’s trembling legs were protesting the incline—and past the goat dairy. That gave her one last, desperate idea.
“Erba!” she yelled at the top of her voice, slowing to a jog. She had no option. All her running reserves were spent.
As Gino crested the hill, Olivia saw a familiar silhouette appear.
There was Erba, brimming with her alfalfa-induced energy.
She’d seen Olivia—and she’d also spied a new, interesting person who looked like he might be ready for a game.
Looking purposeful, Erba gamboled in the direction of the running man.
“Butt!” Olivia gasped.
Behind her, she heard footsteps. Glancing around, she was encouraged to see Danilo catching up fast.
“Butt, Erba,” Olivia pleaded. “Just this once! After that, it’s officially a bad habit and you’re never to do it again!”
To Olivia’s relief, Erba picked up on her instructions. She cantered playfully toward Gino.
At the last minute, he saw Erba approaching from the side and made a desperate leap to avoid her, but Erba was too fast for him. With a prance, she cannoned her head into Gino’s thigh, skipping away in satisfaction as the vintner cartwheeled to the ground.
In a flash, Danilo whooshed past her. Before Gino had a chance to pick himself up, Danilo leaped onto him, knocking the wind out of him completely.
And then Olivia heard the tinny roar of a Fiat engine.
The car accelerated up the service road and screeched to a stop alongside them.
Detective Caputi jumped out of the driver’s side, as a uniformed officer emerged from the passenger seat. Jean-Pierre and Brigitta spilled out of the back, together with an anxious-looking Marcello.
The steely-haired detective gave her a cool glance.
“We were held up in traffic,” she explained. “The bakers in town were throwing ciabatta rolls at each other and the entire street was at a standstill, with five tour buses blocking the way. We had to backtrack and take another route.”
Olivia could see that if she’d had more time, Detective Caputi would happily have arrested both the bakers, and all the tourists!
The policewoman turned to Gino and her gaze became icy.
“Signor Galletti,” she greeted him coldly. “You confessed to a crime in front of four witnesses, and a fifth heard you shouting from his office down the corridor.” She glanced at Marcello. “We request your presence at the police station. You have the right to remain silent, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court.”
Still gasping like a fish out of water, Gino was cuffed. The uniformed officer helped him to his feet and a moment later, to Olivia’s relief, Raffaele’s murderer was firmly locked in the back of the police car.
CHAPTER TWENTY NINE
The next morning, when Olivia arrived at work, she was astonished to see several vehicles heading into the parking lot, as well as a small tour bus.
Over the past few days, she’d become careless. In view of the nonexistent tourist traffic, she’d taken to arriving only five minutes before opening time. She’d have to hustle, now, to prepare for these crowds.
She ran to the entrance, arriving at the same time as Jean-Pierre.
“Quick,” Olivia called to him. “We need to prepare.”
She hurried into the tasting room, arranging the tasting sheets and glasses on the counter just before the first of the tourists filtered in.
“What a lovely place.” The couple who led the way into the tasting room sounded Canadian. “I’m thrilled we found it before we flew back home. Talk about a hidden gem,” the vivacious, dark-haired woman said to her partner.
“My wife is hoping that your new rosé is available for tasting,” the blond man addressed her, pulling out two chairs and staring admiringly at the arrangement of wine barrels behind Olivia.
“I—yes, yes it is, of course.” She hadn’t added it to the menu yet. How had these tourists even heard about it?
She would have to reprint her tasting sheets to include the rosé.
“Jean-Pierre, our assistant sommelier, will serve you and start with the white wines,” Olivia said hastily. “We are busy printing a new run of tasting sheets. They will be ready in fifteen minutes.”
“Great. We’ll gladly start with a white wine.”
Thankfully, neither this couple, nor the next, nor the tour group who followed, seemed unhappy to wait.
Leaving Jean-Pierre to serve the vermentino and white blend to all of them, Olivia fled to the back office. Right now, she was thanking her lucky stars she was used to writing copy at short notice, and hadn’t lost any of her speed typing skills.
In fifteen minutes, the new sheets were ready.
She ran to Marcello’s office, where the laser printer was, to collect her print run. Olivia was hoping to have a word with him, but Marcello was too busy on the phone to do more than give her a warm smile and conspiratorial wink.
“Yes, we can double the order, no problem,” he was saying. “You want to add the rosé? There has been such a demand for it in recent hours, that we are stipulating a minimum order of five cases.” He paused. “Ten cases? Yes, that we can deliver for you.”
Olivia grabbed the sheets and practically danced out of the office.
She’d only just finished presenting the updated wine list to the waiting groups, before new visitors entered.
Olivia caught a glimpse of flashing cerise out of the corner of her eye, and swiveled around to face the new arrivals.
This astonishing morning was producing still more surprises.
Brigitta and Silvano walked in, wreathed in smiles, their arms linked in a friendly way.
The last time Olivia had seen them together, Brigitta had been directing the police to arrest Silvano. Now, they seemed to be the best of friends.
“Hello,” Brigitta greeted her cheerfully. “We’ve come to taste your wonderful wines together, and then we’re having lunch in the restaurant. I’m buying, as I owe Silvano an apology. Thanks to me, he had to spend an afternoon in a prison cell.” She laughed merrily. “They released him last night and gave him the book back.”
“Oh, I’m so glad you were able to go home,” Olivia said, relieved that the likeable editor hadn’t had to suffer too long for the good deed he’d attempted.
Although he had done more than attempt it, she realized, as Silvano smiled warmly.
“My first actions, after collecting Garibaldi, were to update all the reviews on Raffaele’s website,” he explained.
Olivia’s mouth fell open. What a wonderful and generous act.
“Your review was the first one I edited and I gave all your wines top grading. As a result, La Leggenda now heads the list of Wineries in Tuscany to Visit. I was also glad to be able to correct the reviews of other excellent wineries. Quercia, Cantina Carducci, and Vino Sul Mare are all now on the first page, together with a number of other great vineyards in this area. No wineries have a poor grading, as none deserved it. Every one of them should now attract tourists, visitors, and buyers.”
Olivia’s heart soared. This was wonderful news for the whole of Tuscany.
“Thank you so much, from all of us. You’ve been a hero.”
He shook his head modestly. “My pleasure,” he said.
Brigitta tugged his arm.
“Come on, we need to sit down or we won’t get a seat at all,” she said. “This place is becoming very full. I want to get a good lunch table, too, with a view.”
To Olivia’s amazement, the next visitor into the winery wasn’t a tourist, but a delivery person. She could barely see the short, sturdy man behind the enormous arrangement of colorful blooms he was carrying.
“Er, can I help you?” She hurried over, peering around the fragrant bouquet to locate his face.
“Thank you, yes. These are for Olivia Glass. Where should I put them?”
“For me?” Olivia stepped back in confusion. It wasn’t her birthday—was it? Had she forgotten this auspicious day in all the craziness that recent events had brought?
