Mulled to Death, page 1
Praise for the Colorado Wine Mysteries
“Killer Chardonnay offers a wonderful blend of suspense and humor. You’ll raise your glass to Parker Valentine, the charming sleuth at the center of this twisty and satisfying mystery. A most delightful debut!”
—Cynthia Kuhn, author of the Agatha Award–winning Lila Maclean Academic Mysteries
“Parker Valentine . . . will steal your heart and pair it with a smooth mystery in this sparkling debut. A wine rack full of suspects won’t stop the determined sleuth and vintner from bottling up a killer and saving her dream. Killer Chardonnay has legs!”
—Leslie Budewitz, Agatha Award–winning author of the Spice Shop Mysteries
“Killer Chardonnay is an engaging mystery filled with wine knowledge, romance, and a gutsy protagonist. Kate Lansing is a delightful new voice in the mystery genre, and I can’t wait to read the next one in this series.”
—Nadine Nettmann, author of the Anthony, Agatha, Lefty, and Mary Higgins Clark award–nominated Sommelier Mystery series
“Lansing’s brisk style and her heroine’s efficient approach make her debut a treat.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“Lansing takes you on a thrilling mystery ride with red herrings that’ll have you looking behind every wine barrel for the killer.”
—Fresh Fiction
“A solid start to an enjoyable series, especially if you are a fan of the foodie vibe created in this story or a lover of winery mysteries!”
—The Genre Minx
“Likeable characters, engrossing mystery, and excellent storytelling make Killer Chardonnay a killer cozy series debut.”
—The Book Decoder
“I absolutely loved this book; the setting of Boulder, Colorado, could not be more perfect . . . I enjoyed the storyline, the side romances, with clues and red herrings thrown in that kept me guessing.”
—Cindy’s Book Stacks
“Kate Lansing is a fantastically descriptive writer combining the delicacies of winemaking with the delectable nature of wonderful food [and] a mystery that will keep your mind working.”
—Coffee Books Life
Titles by Kate Lansing
Killer Chardonnay
A Pairing to Die For
Mulled to Death
BERKLEY PRIME CRIME
Published by Berkley
An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC
penguinrandomhouse.com
Copyright © 2021 by Kate Lansing
Penguin Random House supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin Random House to continue to publish books for every reader.
BERKLEY and the BERKLEY & B colophon are registered trademarks and BERKLEY PRIME CRIME is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.
Ebook ISBN: 9780593100233
First Edition: October 2021
Cover illustration by Samantha Dion Baker
Cover design by Farjana Yasmin
Book design by Alison Cnockaert, adapted for ebook by Shayan Saalabi
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
PUBLISHER’S NOTE: The recipes contained in this book are to be followed exactly as written. The publisher is not responsible for your specific health or allergy needs that may require medical supervision. The publisher is not responsible for any adverse reactions to the recipes contained in this book.
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To John, my valentine now and forever
Contents
Cover
Praise for the Colorado Wine Mysteries
Titles by Kate Lansing
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Recipes and Wine Pairings
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Chapter One
Snowflakes settle on the mirror outside my passenger-side window. Normally I would marvel at their unblemished sparkle or muse over their uniqueness. Now I glare at the offensive flakes as if I could melt them with the sheer force of my concentration. Of course, they don’t melt and snow continues to accumulate, each flake chipping away at my patience.
I-70, the gateway to the mountains, is a glorified parking lot. And an icy one at that, thanks to this ill-timed storm. A sheer rocky cliff looms above us while the Colorado River surges below, and all around us: cars. Sedans, SUVs, trucks, and even semis—none have moved more than an inch in at least five minutes and I’m beginning to panic.
I must let out an audible groan because Reid reaches across the console for my hand, never taking his eyes off the road. “Don’t worry, Parks, we’ll get there.”
The nickname Reid has taken to calling me rolls off his tongue. Parks, short for Parker, which is ironically what he may as well do with his jeep.
I study his profile: the scruff covering his chin, mussed sandy-blond hair, soft flannel shirt rolled to his elbows, head subtly bobbing to the beat of the indie band playing over the speakers.
I give his hand an appreciative squeeze, my fingertips grazing the calluses he’s garnered from expertly wielding a chef’s knife. Reid owns the hottest farm-to-table restaurant in Boulder, which he left in the charge of his capable sous chefs so we could fly the coop.
“It’s not the getting there I’m worried about,” I say. “It’s the when.”
My brother’s voice carries from the backseat, where he and my best friend, Sage, are engrossed in a game of rock-paper-scissors with a neighboring minivan. “Remind us again why you scheduled a work meeting when we’re supposed to be relaxing.”
Liam’s forte is relaxing, even when he should be focusing on his freelance photography or doting upon the goddess he happens to be dating, aka Sage.
“No, go paper this time,” Sage interjects, sensing their adversary’s proclivity for choosing rock. Her strawberry-blond hair is pinned back with one of her trademark nerd-canon barrettes, this one a lightsaber pin.
“Because this could be huge for Vino Valentine,” I explain, tugging on the beaded necklace around my neck. “I can’t pass up the opportunity.”
Despite a couple snafus in the form of dead bodies, I’ve somehow managed to establish my business as a premier winery in Boulder. In large part thanks to a rave review from a popular food-and-wine blogger and a fruitful fall harvest.
It was harder to leave my shop than I care to admit. But between a new assistant and continued support from my mom, it’s in good hands.
Because this weekend is important. For me and Reid, for Sage and Liam, and also for Vino Valentine. The deal I’m hoping to secure would mean not only expanding geographically, but also in product. That is, if we ever make it to Silver Creek.
I’m due to pitch my Snowy Day Syrah and accompanying mulling spices to the wine director of the famous ski resort in T-minus thirty minutes, but I don’t see how I’ll make it in time.
We pass the exit for Loveland Pass, one of the many competing ski resorts lining the interstate. If only that were our final destination, but alas, my contact—and in—is at the Silver Creek Lodge. I throw myself back in the passenger seat. Here I thought I would just have to contend with nerves for the meeting, not missing it altogether.
“It’s gonna go great,” Reid says, the embodiment of supportive boyfriend. He takes his foot off the brake and we move infinitesimally forward.
My heart soars for a moment before plummeting to somewhere around my navel when we come to an abrupt stop again.
“Who knew Valentine’s Day was such a popular travel holiday?” Sage asks.
“It makes sense,” Reid starts, his thumb tracing small circles on my hand. “What’s more romantic than a secluded mountain getaway?”
Oh, right. It’s Valentine’s weekend, a holiday revered by some, dreaded by others, and barely tolerated by me.
It hasn’t always been this way. Growing up with the surname of Valentine predisposed me to the purported day of love. Especially because of my late aunt Laura.
She made a huge deal out of the holiday, combining rituals from around the world until it became something uniquely Laura. She’d throw a big bash every year and invite all the women in her life, a sort of Galentine’s Day extravaganza before Leslie Knope made it a capital T Thing. Laura would decorate her place with crepe
But that all ended after she died.
Even though it’s been over two years, I still can’t bring myself to celebrate the holiday without her. Which is why, when Reid suggested we forgo gifts in lieu of this trip, I readily agreed, hoping getting out of town would help me get out of my head. Escape my painful memories. Not that Reid knows the full extent of my emotional baggage. In the few short months we’ve been together, my complex feelings toward Valentine’s Day haven’t come up. At least that’s what I keep telling myself.
I rest my hand on the back of Reid’s neck, fiddling with the collar of his flannel shirt.
“Dude, if you insist on talking about your relationship with my sister, can you at least get us by a different car? This kid is driving me crazy,” Liam says, exasperated as he loses once again in their game. “It’s like he’s telepathic.”
“Professor X in the flesh,” Sage mutters.
And this convo right here is exactly why my brother and best friend are so well suited for each other. I can’t help the smile that spreads across my face, even as my stomach churns at the thought of missing my meeting. Which is basically an inevitability at this point.
But it’s just a meeting, right? What’s the worst that can happen?
My brain immediately supplies the answer. That the wine director takes my no-show as an insult and promptly alerts her contacts—potential clients—and I’m blacklisted. The wine world is small, after all.
My throat constricts and I struggle to swallow. If there’s one thing I hate more than good wine going to waste, it’s being late.
Laughter bubbles out of me, an uncharacteristic cackle that has Reid shooting me a concerned look.
I blame stress. Bowing my head between my knees, I take a deep yoga breath. On my exhale, cars begin to move and we crawl forward, up and up toward the Eisenhower Tunnel.
“Ah, we had him that time,” Sage says as we leave their rock-paper-scissor foe behind. Catching my eye when I turn to glare at her, she adds, “I mean, yay, we’re moving!”
We pick up speed as we enter the tunnel, the passageway through the vast mountain a reprieve from the storm.
“Hold your breath the whole way through, your wish will come true.” Liam says the words that were our parents’ mantra whenever we drove through this mile-long tunnel growing up. It dawns on me now that they were probably just looking for a moment of peace and quiet.
“You first, bro,” I challenge, knowing full well the impossibility of accomplishing such a feat.
By some miracle, we make it through the Eisenhower Tunnel without stopping and exit the congested interstate onto a winding road that will take us the rest of the way. The storm calms and soon the full moon is visible, pale straw against a dusk-blue sky.
I’m bouncing in my seat by the time we descend into Silver Creek. The resort is nestled in a valley surrounded by majestic, snowcapped peaks. Spotlights shine on its famed runs, lighting the way for those braving the slopes at night. Skiers and snowboarders are mere specks from this distance, and the pine trees lining the mountainside look like legs of jammy cab dribbling down the side of a glass.
Lights twinkle in the picturesque surrounding village, composed of pedestrian streets and quaint shops. Even from afar, I can tell it’s bustling with tourists tromping back from the mountain in their snow gear, perusing shops, or tucking in for happy hour at one of the many inviting venues.
The Silver Creek Lodge is impressive. It features a rustic log exterior and sleek floor-to-ceiling windows that boast a view to die for and all the luxuries the modern traveler could desire. While we’re oohing and aahing, Reid turns in to the main entrance.
It happens fast. So fast I barely register the streak of silver coming toward us.
A flashy BMW cuts Reid off midturn, fishtailing on the icy asphalt. Reid slams on the brakes and cranks the steering wheel. We avoid a collision, but only by driving headfirst into a snowbank.
* * *
* * *
It’s funny how when you’re consumed with worry about one thing, life blindsides you with something else entirely.
My heart is hammering as I take a mental inventory. Breathing? Check. Body intact? Check. Mental capacities? Disputable.
I twist in my seat to check on my companions. Reid’s hands are gripping the steering wheel with white knuckles, his chest heaving. In the backseat, Liam yanks at his seat belt and Sage straightens, holding a hand to her temple, dazed.
“Everyone in one piece?” I ask.
“Think so,” Reid says, appraising us and then our surroundings.
We’re shaken—as evidenced by the expletives pouring from Liam’s mouth—but otherwise unharmed.
As for the BMW, it continues as if nothing amiss occurred, coming to an ungraceful stop near the main lobby. Seriously, where’s a cop car when you need one?
Reid shakes his head and slowly shifts his jeep into reverse. It’s only because it’s four-wheel drive that he’s able to maneuver us out of the mound of snow with an uneven lurch, one tire spinning in the air with a high-pitched vroom before finding purchase on the road. After cautiously glancing in either direction, Reid turns into the resort.
The second he parks, I’m out of my seat and ready to give the driver of the BMW a few choice words. Because not only was that abhorrent driving, it was dangerous. It was purely thanks to Reid’s quick reaction that we’re okay.
A man gets out of the BMW. Medium height and build, and a gray coat that almost matches his car. With slicked-back hair and a pointy chin, he gives off a weaselly vibe. But what strikes me is the entitlement he exudes, striding toward the hotel as if he were blissfully unaware of the rest of the world.
I clench my jaw and make to take a step forward, but Reid intercepts me, holding both hands up. “Parks, let it go,” he says, his voice a well of calm. “It’s not worth it.”
“But that ass—”
He grips my shoulders, his grapevine-green eyes searching mine. “We’re all okay. That’s what matters.” His breath swirls between us as he continues, “You need to focus on your meeting.”
I slouch in resignation. Reid’s right. Besides, the driver of the BMW is already long gone. He stalked into the resort while Reid was talking sense into me.
I lift my chin, raising one eyebrow at Reid. “I thought you’d be seething.”
Since I first met him last year, Reid has proven to be the stereotypical bad boy—impulsive, fearless, and irrevocably attractive. I mean, this is the man who once almost got into a fight with frat dudebrahs because they trash-talked his friend; the man who spent a stint in jail last fall (for a crime he didn’t commit, mind you).
He shrugs, opening the trunk of his jeep, where our suitcases and snow gear are piled up. “Sure, I could get angry. Or I could get a run in before the slopes close.” Reid runs a hand through his hair, gazing longingly at the mountainous backdrop.
Chairlifts whisk a dwindling crowd of skiers and snowboarders up the mountain, while a gondola runs parallel for those interested in taking in the views without the sport. Excitement courses through me at strapping on my skis and facing down the mountain, but that will have to wait until morning. On the upside, delayed gratification is like a good cabernet sauvignon, the waiting enriching the experience.
I wrap my arms around Reid and kiss his stubbly cheek. “Have fun. Be safe.”
He spins me around and pulls me into a deeper kiss, his hands resting on my waist. His lips smile against mine before they soften, moving purposely and divinely in a way that leaves me swooning. He pulls away too soon, tucking a stray lock of hair behind my ear.
Reid says with a wink, “Good luck with the wine director.”
“Who?” I ask, momentarily stupefied.
Then I remember where I’m supposed to be, and how long ago I was expected. Leaping into action, I adjust my fleece and gratefully take the box Reid hands me. It contains bottles of my Snowy Day Syrah and tiny mesh packets of mulling spices. Aromas of cinnamon, cloves, and citrusy orange wash over me, not nearly as comforting as they usually are.
