What Doesn't Kill Her (Cape Charade #2)(78)
Arthur met his eyes. “I do. They’re from all around the world. We’re fortunate to have so many languages to tap into. The Japanese and European tour buses have already made us the top preferred stop in the Willamette Valley.”
Kellen thought Arthur hadn’t quite answered the question.
Like her, Max seemed a little uncertain, and he watched Arthur closely. “That’s wonderful.”
Arthur hesitated, then added, “Sir, I have connections in places you might not know.”
“Should I be worried?” Max sounded casual. He wasn’t.
Arthur met his gaze straight on. “No, sir. My people will be an asset to Di Luca Wines, I promise you that.”
44
“Then let’s meet the rest of your new hires,” Max said.
“Of course.” Arthur pulled his elaborately folded handkerchief from his pocket, dabbed his damp brow, refolded it and put it back into his pocket. “But before we do, sir, I must tell you—I had to fire an employee, one Rita Grapplee. She was caught on video helping herself to the contents of the gift shop, and when she was discovered selling those pieces to the guests, her excuse was that she wasn’t paid enough to maintain her desired lifestyle. She seemed quite convinced that was adequate reason to pilfer.”
Max sighed and looked at the ground. “Will we have a lawsuit?”
“We perhaps would have, but she hasn’t reported to her parole officer. She’s effectively disappeared, one supposes onto the streets. Sir, while I respect your desire to help a person in rehab, Miss Grapplee had drug paraphernalia strewn throughout her apartment.” Arthur’s accent was crisp and disdainful. “The police are investigating.”
“That explains a lot.” Kellen remembered Rita’s behavior on the day Horst had picked her up from the winery. “She was so...” So out there, so bold, so sure she could do anything without repercussions. She had asked too many question, taken photos of the van. Now, here, after the trip to the mountains, Kellen suspected Rita Grapplee had been on someone’s payroll, paid to watch and report Kellen’s every movement. She should have seen it before—but before, she hadn’t suspected she was being hunted. “Let me know if she turns up,” Kellen told Arthur. “I’d like to talk to her.”
“Of course, Miss Adams.” Arthur led them toward the piano, and as he did, he said, “Let me introduce you to our newest outdoor arrival, our pianist and a talented musician, Dan Matyasovitch.”
DAN MATYASOVITCH:
MALE, CAUCASIAN ANCESTRY, 60 YO, 5'10", 175 LBS. THICK DARK GLASSES (VISUALLY IMPAIRED?), ECCENTRIC FACIAL HAIR. ACCENT: HOLLYWOOD AMERICAN. DARK JEANS, WHITE T-SHIRT, UNLINED BLACK SILK JACKET, WHITE ATHLETIC SHOES, NO SOCKS. PLAYS WITHOUT SHEET MUSIC. TAKES REQUESTS. THRILLED AND NERVOUS.
Max listened for a moment, then asked, “How did a man of your obvious talents come to play at my family’s winery?”
“I started out in New York City, acting on Broadway, then in the orchestra pit. Lately I’ve worked in the jazz clubs, but staying up all night—that’s a young man’s game.” Dan’s fingers continued to play softly as he spoke to them, as if he didn’t even need to think about the music to know “My Favorite Things.” “I came west on a mission, and I’m happy to have found this position.”
“He applied to work in the serving room, and he’s got the chops to do it, but I’d already filled those positions. When he heard Warren talking about the improvements he wanted to make to brighten the winery, he suggested a pianist and offered to play for us.”
“We didn’t have a piano in the winery,” Max pointed out.
“Mrs. Di Luca offered to let me audition on her piano.” Dan moved effortlessly from “My Favorite Things” to “Strangers in the Night.”
“My mother let you use her piano?” Max was clearly dumbstruck. “This is her piano?”
“Mrs. Di Luca has been incredibly supportive about all we’ve accomplished,” Arthur said. “If you would come this way, Mr. Di Luca, we can look inside the tasting room.”
“First, I’d like to discuss security,” Max said. “With so many new guests and employees, that is a concern.”
“Indeed it is, sir, and I’ve hired Parliman Security to handle everything.” Arthur was the most efficient anticipatory employee Kellen had ever seen. “Would you like to meet Mr. Parliman first?”
“Is that him?” Kellen indicated a man standing at the fringe of the action.
“Yes, how did you know?” Arthur asked.
MR. PARLIMAN:
MALE. EAST INDIAN ANCESTRY. MIDDLE-AGED. DELIBERATELY NONDESCRIPT IN DRESS AND GROOMING. WATCHFUL.
“I’ve met men like him before, in Afghanistan, officers and enlisted men who use their eyes and their minds to stave off disaster.”
“There you have it.” Max put his hand on her hip and let it rest there. “How big is Mr. Parliman’s firm?”
Arthur looked pleased. “We’ll talk to him.”
“I’ll stay here,” Kellen said.
“You don’t want to meet him?” Max asked.
She looked at Parliman again. He had zeroed in on a guest who had overindulged and had sent one of his men to offer free bottles of water and a complimentary plate of cheese and vegetables. “No. I trust Arthur’s judgment, and yours.”