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  Copyright Information

  Decanting a Murder: A Sommelier Mystery © 2016 by Nadine Nettmann.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any matter whatsoever, including Internet usage, without written permission from Midnight Ink, except in the form of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  As the purchaser of this ebook, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on screen. The text may not be otherwise reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, or recorded on any other storage device in any form or by any means.

  Any unauthorized usage of the text without express written permission of the publisher is a violation of the author’s copyright and is illegal and punishable by law.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either 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.

  First e-book edition © 2016

  E-book ISBN: 9780738748863

  Book format by Teresa Pojar

  Cover design by Kevin R. Brown

  Cover Illustration by Pierre Droal/Deborah Wolfe Ltd.

  Editing by Nicole Nugent

  Midnight Ink is an imprint of Llewellyn Worldwide Ltd.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Nettmann, Nadine, 1980– author.

  Title: Decanting a murder : a sommelier mystery / by Nadine Nettmann.

  Description: First edition. | Woodbury, MN : Midnight Ink, [2016] | Series: A

  sommelier mystery ; 1

  Identifiers: LCCN 2015044614 (print) | LCCN 2016002246 (ebook) | ISBN

  9780738748504 | ISBN 9780738748863 ()

  Subjects: LCSH: Wine—Fiction. | Murder—Fiction. | Mystery fiction.

  Classification: LCC PS3614.E526 D43 2016 (print) | LCC PS3614.E526 (ebook) |

  DDC 813/.6—dc23

  LC record available at http://lccn.loc.gov/2015044614

  Midnight Ink does not participate in, endorse, or have any authority or responsibility concerning private business arrangements between our authors and the public.

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  Dedication

  For everyone involved in creating wine and

  everyone who enjoys drinking it.

  Acknowledgments

  Because my publishing dream took ten years to come true, there are many people whose support was invaluable along the way. Although I’m unable to list everyone, please know that I appreciate each and every one of you.

  I would like to thank my wonderful agent, Danielle Burby, for her guidance, hard work, and editorial insight. Thank you to Josh Getzler for seeing promise in this book from the beginning. My deepest gratitude to Terri Bischoff and the team at Midnight Ink for believing in this series and taking a chance on a debut. A tremendous thank you to Melanie Hooyenga for her professional encouragement, friendship, and willingness to read different versions of this book as it evolved.

  I am indebted to Fred Dame for picking me out of the crowd and putting me on a wine panel in 2010. You changed my life. Thank you to everyone who welcomed me into the wine world, especially Geoff Kruth, Debra Peterson, Kent Torrey, Shaun Prevatt, Elena Prevatt, Bill Burkhart, Kyle Kaplan, Danny Novicic, Mario Miranda, Eduardo Bolanos, and Matt Woody.

  My heartfelt gratitude to Jennifer Bosworth, Laura Konopka, and Edith Cohn who read early drafts and provided valuable feedback. Thank you to Amy Scher for her encouragement and positivity on our parallel publishing journeys. Many thanks to Michelle Steffes, Wendy Harvey, and Wendy Brousseau for letting me bounce ideas around and discussing this book at length. My sincere appreciation to Kelsey Hertig for her winery insight, advice, and camaraderie. Thank you to Irene Phakeovilay for making sure my details were correct.

  I am grateful to my publishing pals for their advice and unwavering support: Gretchen McNeil, Julia Shahin Collard, Jennifer Gray Olson, Jess Brody, Leigh Bardugo, James Matlack Raney, and Brad Gottfred.

  Thank you to my parents for their constant encouragement and especially my mom for ten years of steadfast proofreading. And finally, a special thank you to my husband, Matthew. Your love and support makes everything possible.

  one

  pairing suggestion: champagne—épernay, france

  Ideal as an aperitif to get you started.

  -

  One thousand seven hundred and forty-two. That’s how many flash cards I had studied over the last two years. Yet, as I waited for the results of the Certified Sommelier Exam, I knew they weren’t going to call my name. Maybe it was because the exam was notorious for being difficult and held a 60 percent failure rate. Or maybe it was because my anxiety had appeared during the blind tasting section, raising my pulse and muddling my thoughts. My tasting group liked to call me The Palate for my calm and collected ability to decipher any wine, but with the clock ticking, the Master Sommeliers watching, and the other participants frantically scribbling on their papers, The Palate was replaced by a scared and confused taster blankly staring at the glasses of wine.

  I forced myself to push through, identifying a vintage, varietal, and wine region for each glass, but I knew I hadn’t come close. It was like firing a gun in the Police Academy trials. You could be a sharpshooter all year long, but if you missed the target during your final exam, you missed the target and the test was over. There were no second chances that day, only an option to try again at a future date.

  I took a deep breath and stared at the door, my hands clenched as I waited for the revered Master Sommeliers to enter with the results.

  The other forty-nine people around me all wore their game faces—the practiced pose necessary for sommeliers. It was important to remain outwardly serene while dealing with all types of restaurant guests on a nightly basis. I was used to gracefully listening as a guest yelled at me over a bottle of wine or smiling without comment as a group enjoyed a special bottle that they had brought in, even though I could tell that the wine was clearly spoiled.

  The six Master Sommeliers entered and I straightened my shoulders. The first Master stepped forward as I eyed the stack of papers in his hand. “We have your results,” he said, his gray hair slicked back and his game face perfect, cemented in place by decades in the wine profession. “Unfortunately it was a low pass rate today. A lot of you found the trivia portion to be your downfall.”

  One thousand seven hundred and forty-two, I reminded myself. Every free moment over the last two years had been filled with memorizing flash cards. The trivia section had gone well, and I was extremely confident about the service portion of the exam. Everything had been great except the blind tasting.

  I stood in a sea of professionals, all masking their nerves behind their sommelier game faces. I hoped I seemed as calm as my neighbors. I clapped as the first three names were called and the recipients walked to the front to receive a certificate and the purple pin. They were one step closer in the four-step process to the coveted position of Master Sommelier, a title held by just over two hundred people around the world
and only a small percentage of them female. With the title comes respect, honor, and a guaranteed paycheck.

  I stared at the large red pin on the Master Sommelier’s lapel as he read out names, my hand absentmindedly fidgeting with the dime-sized introductory pin on the lapel of my coat. I wanted to wear the Master Sommelier pin with such passion that an ache stirred deep in my chest.

  I folded my hands together and waited, a small tremble running past my elbow. The pile of papers in the Master Sommelier’s hand was shrinking.

  “We have only one name left. The last person to join our group today is …”

  But it wasn’t my name.

  I stood back, fighting to keep my game face on as I watched the group of newly minted Certified Sommeliers stand together for a photo, their purple pins shining in the overhead light. Their next step would be the Advanced Exam and the desirable green pin.

  “Don’t worry, kiddo,” said a voice behind me. I turned to see Bill Andrews, my boss and manager of Trentino Restaurant. “You’ll get it next time.” Bill was in his fifties and always had a broad smile on his face. He was meticulously stylish with his salt-and-pepper hair neatly trimmed and a navy blue sports coat as his permanent accessory—even when he wore jeans.

  “Thanks,” I said. “I don’t know what happened. It was during the tasting—” I broke off, unable to continue.

  “You’re a great taster, okay? Don’t let this shake you.” He stepped closer and put his hands on my shoulders. “We can go over it on Monday with the tasting group, but I know you. You’re good at this, okay? Don’t let this get to you.”

  I nodded as I swallowed my disappointment. “Thanks.” I glanced at my watch. It was four thirty and I still needed to change. “I have to go, I’m going to be late.”

  “Is this for Frontier? Man, I’d love to switch places with you. I want details on everything, okay?” Bill lowered his voice as he motioned to the sommeliers surrounding us. “I bet some of them would trade their new certification to get into Frontier Winery. Everyone wants to go there.”

  I allowed a smile to break through. Bill was right. And a party was just what I needed. “Thanks. I’d better go. I’ll see you at work tomorrow.” I grabbed my purse and headed toward the door.

  “Wait, Katie.” Bill pointed to a table covered with envelopes. “Your results.”

  I took a deep breath and scanned the table for the envelope that contained detailed notes written by one of the Master Sommeliers, letting me know how I failed and why. When I found my name, I scooped it up and stuffed it in my jacket pocket unopened. I tried to focus on the upcoming party at Frontier, but the tightness in my chest threatened to consume me.

  It wasn’t until the vineyards of Napa Valley appeared outside my car window that the tightness released. The perfectly organized vines brimming with bright green leaves in geometric rows never failed to bring calm and order to my life.

  The familiar sign approached, Welcome to this world famous growing region, its warm message welcoming strangers and friends to the renowned Valley. Nestled between the foothills of Northern California, Napa Valley possessed a reputation acknowledged all over the world for its picturesque setting, culinary expertise, and award-winning wineries.

  The first commercial winery opened in Napa in 1861, and now there were more than 450 wineries in the Valley, including Frontier, a historic winery known throughout the wine world for its secrecy and its exquisite red wine.

  I lowered all four windows, encouraging the scent of the vineyards to float inside. The damp earth, the clipped vines, the plump grapes, and the crisp Napa air—all the elements that create a bottle of wine, a bottle of wine with a story to tell to anyone who listened carefully enough.

  I always listened.

  Just like every bottle had a story, every person had a story and I handled people better when I thought of them as wine. Some wines I loved and eagerly anticipated, while other wines were difficult to swallow, their delicate structure spoiled. Expose a wine to air long enough and it will turn to vinegar.

  I thought of the people in my life as specific grape varietals. My dad, stoic and stern, was like a Barolo—an Italian wine that needs years of aging before it is drinkable and, even then, needs to be paired with a heavy steak. My best friend Tessa was clearly Merlot—sometimes smooth, sometimes with a bite, and struggling with a soiled reputation that it didn’t deserve.

  Merlot’s reputation was damaged in 2004 when a pop culture reference made it “uncool” to drink. It became the wine you didn’t order and the wine you didn’t dare take to dinner at a friend’s house. Merlot, the most widely planted grape in Bordeaux, no longer received the same affection in California. Vintners all over the state ripped out Merlot vines and replaced them with more popular varietals such as Cabernet, Syrah, and the newly famed Pinot Noir.

  Tessa had lost her reputation around the same time. She became the girl parents didn’t want their kids to be around, the outcast at school. Her grades slipped and she never went to college. Instead, she jumped from job to job, never managing to last long at any of them.

  The black matte invitation fluttered on the front seat, the parchment overlay flapping in the breeze. I moved my purse on top to keep it still, the short note from Tessa barely peeking out from under it.

  Hope you can make it.

  I glanced at the time. I had promised Tessa I would be early, but the Friday night traffic out of San Francisco had delayed me more than I had hoped and it was already twenty past six, only ten minutes before the party started. I pressed harder on the gas pedal as the vineyards flew by my window.

  The entrance of Frontier Winery came into view, the gates surrounded by a stone wall that lined the property. Frontier wasn’t open to tasting appointments or tours. In fact, Frontier was never open. The gates remained closed, a constant reminder that some places in life are off-limits. Today, however, the gates were wide and welcoming, the driveway stretching through the trees. A white sign decorated with cursive letters announced, 100th Anniversary. Private Event. Invitation Only. Do NOT Enter.

  The Prohibition years had wiped out many of the wineries in the Valley, but not Frontier. Long gone were the days when this winery survived on crafting sacramental wine, which could escape the laws of Prohibition. Now, Frontier produced a limited-release wine that boasted three-figure price tags and was available only to the Frontier Wine Club and an exclusive list of big-city restaurants.

  I paused in front of the sign before proceeding through the gates. A man in a black suit stood on the left side of the driveway, flanked by three valet attendants in red vests.

  “Name?” he asked, his dark sunglasses hiding any evidence of emotion.

  “Katie Stillwell.”

  He flipped over the pages in his hand.

  “I’m a guest of Tessa Blakely. She works here.”

  He circled something on the paper and a valet stepped forward, but the man put his hand up, shooing the valet back to the line of red vests.

  “She’s requested that you park in front of the offices instead of valet. Continue straight and you’ll see her silver car. You can park in the space next to it.”

  “Thank you.” I pulled forward. Mature oak trees lined the gravel driveway and rows of green vineyards began past the trees. They opened to a view of a two-story stone building covered with small leaves of creeping ivy, which hugged the windows like a winter sweater.

  A covered wooden walkway draped with vines extended to a second structure that mimicked the century-old stonework but was clearly built years, maybe even decades, after the winery.

  I parked next to Tessa’s car and stared at the exam envelope on my front seat, the words calling to me from inside. Now would be as good a time as any. I slid my finger underneath the flap and removed the letter. My eyes scanned the page, the black ink soothing even as the words shook me. I had passed theory and service, but the bli
nd tasting had been my downfall. Needs a lot of work, the Master Sommelier wrote.

  The hours, weeks, and months I spent blind tasting ran through my head as I stared at the hillside behind the winery. A fallen tree lay at the bottom of the slope, its broken limbs splayed in a forgotten pile beneath the vines that staked a firm hold in the soil, the perpendicular rows segmented only by the occasional oak tree.

  “Needs a lot of work,” I whispered to myself as I got out of the car, the scent of fermenting grapes thick and heavy in the air.

  The side door of the offices opened and a tall blonde jumped down the two steps. “Yay, you made it!” Tessa cheered, running toward me, her curls bouncing on her shoulders, her low-cut navy blue dress doing little to hold back her bulging chest. “I tried to call you. I was worried you weren’t coming!” She threw her arms around me, floral scented shampoo wafting from her hair even though most wineries, and most likely Frontier, forbid employees from wearing scents of any kind.

  “Of course I was coming!” My reply was muffled as Tessa hugged me. “I’m even two minutes early.”

  Tessa finished the hug. “You didn’t answer my texts.”

  I felt my purse and looked at Tessa. “My phone’s in the car. Why, what did they say?”

  Tessa shook her head with an amused smile. “You’re so organized, but you never have your phone.”

  “I don’t like to be available to everyone twenty-four/seven.”

  “Clearly.” A grin spread on Tessa’s face, her smile revealing the tooth she had chipped by falling out of my tree house when we were young.

  “Why are your teeth purple? Have you been drinking already?”

  “I work at a winery, Katie. It’s basically part of the job description.”

  “You never change.”

  “Why would I? It’d be a shame to ruin perfection.” Tessa tapped my shoulder. “So, spill it. How did the test go?”

  I breathed out, focusing on the vineyards, their organized lines dotted with plump bunches of dark red grapes. Harvest would be any day now.