Crush

“Some of it’s tough to read. Lots of shorthand and scribbles in the margins.” Vail turned a couple of pages. “One thing stands out. Something about SMB. It says ‘SMB better deal. No: VC, TN, IW. Won’t carry.’”

“‘Won’t carry.’ Sounds like a motion.”

Vail traced backwards through the notes with an index finger. “Yes. Motion by PO. Second DY.” She turned another page, then went back. “Doesn’t say what the motion was.”

“Is there a date?”

Vail flipped back to the prior page. “January fifteenth.”

Dixon nodded. “Okay, we’ll start with that. Keep looking.”

A few moments later, Vail said, “There are notes talking about ‘natural vs. fake. Big difference.’” She looked over at Dixon. “What do you think, are they talking about breasts?”

Dixon smiled. “There’s definitely a big difference, but something tells me that’s not what the board was deliberating.”

“Probably not. But it looks like it was another point of contention according to the margin notes.”

“Good,” Dixon said. “We’ve got some things to discuss with our board president. Let’s see what she has to say.”

FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER, they arrived at Wedded Bliss Estates Winery. The driveway was long and narrow, and bordered on both sides by a continuous row of wine bottles, mounted single file and upside down, in the top of the wall.

“Neat idea,” Dixon said. “That’s pretty cool.”

As they continued on down the road, Vail realized they hadn’t yet seen the best Wedded Bliss had to offer. She pointed ahead. “Now that’s pretty cool.”

The building was carved into the side of a mountain—but that wasn’t its most unusual feature. Where the mountainside once was, a fifty-foot glass enclosure now stood, forming the entire front of the winery.

“Looks like the mountain has a giant window built into it,” Vail said.

They found a parking spot and headed down the crushed bottle-and-grout walkway that led to the entrance.

“I’ve gotta take Robby here before we head out of town.”

“You’re gonna bring your boyfriend to ‘Wedded Bliss’? He may get the wrong idea.”

Vail chuckled. “You ever been here?”

“I’ve seen pictures and read about it, but this is outside my jurisdiction and tucked away from the main drag. All I know is the building’s won all sorts of architectural awards and the wine consistently scores over ninety points from Wine Spectator and a number of known wine critics.”

They walked through the double wide three-quarter-inch glass doors, which slid apart as they approached. After moving inside, they both stopped—the view was breathtaking. The entire interior was made of glass—or its polymer equivalent. The staircase that spiraled up to each of the four stories, the elevator, the tasting stations . . . all pristine and clear.

“Must be a bitch to clean,” Dixon said.

“Gives new meaning to the saying, ‘I don’t do windows.’”

Dixon pointed at the wall nearest them. “You can see the mountainside, through the glass walls. Like one of those cutaways, a slice right through the side of the mountain.”

Indeed, the mountain was hollowed out to accommodate the large building, and the inner heart of the granite and dirt was visible. This place truly was an architectural marvel.

Vail pointed at something above their heads. “Look at those tree roots.”

“Welcome to Wedded Bliss. May I help you?”

They turned to find a man dressed in a black suit, silver tie, and white shirt.

“Yes,” Vail said. She splayed open her credentials case. “We have an appointment with Crystal Dahlia.” Having said it aloud for the first time, Vail now wondered if that was the woman’s real name. Given the appearance of the winery, she was beginning to doubt it.

They were led up the staircase to the second level, then down a hallway. The floor was made of sand-blasted glass blocks, preserving the building’s look but retaining function. Walking on regular glass would be dangerously slick and the traffic of hard leather and dirt would eventually scratch the surface to hell.

The suited gentleman led them to a room and told them to wait inside, that Ms. Dahlia was finishing up a phone call. He stepped up to a wet bar, removed two glasses, and poured them wine.

“Oh,” Dixon said. “I don’t think we should. We’re on duty—”

“Nonsense,” Vail said. “I came to Napa to go wine tasting. We’ve had a few interruptions . . .” . . . a few murders . . . “but I think we’ve earned this.” She reached forward and took the glass.

Dixon waved him off.

Before Dixon could object further, Vail put the glass to her lips and swallowed a mouthful.

“Haven’t I taught you anything? At least do it right.”

“Oh, yeah. Nose. Smell.” She lifted the glass to her face and sniffed. “Hmm.” Sniffed some more. “Raspberries. Berries. I’m getting berries. That’s it.” She took another drink.

“Small sips,” Dixon said with the tone of a scolding teacher. “Let it float over your tongue. Taste it, swish it a bit.”

“No matter how I do it, this is good.” She took another drink, smaller this time, and let it float, then swallowed. “Yeah, that was a little better. But I’m still only getting berries.”

“Actually, berries is correct. Fruit forward.”

The voice came from behind them. They turned to see an attractive, slender woman in a white dress, a couple of years on the right side of forty.

“A hint of cinnamon,” the woman said. “And a little cherry.”

Vail rose and turned. A little too quickly, as the wine was already giving her a slight buzz.

“You must be Crystal,” Vail said, struggling to keep a straight face.

“Are you Karen or Roxxann?”

“I’m Agent Vail. This is Investigator Dixon.”

Crystal pursed her lips. “I see.” She took their hands with a firm shake, then motioned them to follow her. They walked down the hall to a glass-enclosed suite. The doors slid open and revealed an office with photos of vines and grapes and wineglasses, in clear frames mounted on the wall with suction cups. At the end of the room was a desk. A . . . glass desk.

Crystal held out an open hand, indicating the two rubber-footed chairs at the foot of her desk.

“I’m curious,” Vail said as she took her seat. “About the name.”

“Oh,” Crystal said with a wave and a bright smile. “Everyone asks. Yes, it’s my real name. My parents thought it was cute. Me, I’ve grown to like it. And working here,” she said with a sweep of her hand, “it kind of fits, now, doesn’t it?”

Vail smiled. “Yes, it does. I hadn’t thought of that.” She looked at Dixon, who was squinting at her. “But,” she said, turning back to Crystal, “I was referring to the name of the winery. Wedded Bliss. How does it fit with all the glass?”

Crystal waved a hand again. Grinned broadly. “Very simple, really. You want the winery tour version or the ‘we’re the police and we don’t have time for that crap version’?”

Vail shrugged. “We don’t have time for that crap, and, well, since we are the police . . .”

Crystal looked long at Vail, then nodded. Her smiled faded, but quickly returned. “Yes, of course. Short answer is that all our wines are blends, and we only use the finest grapes from Georges Valley. So it’s a marriage of pure bliss.”

Who thinks up this shit? Vail nodded. “Makes perfect sense. Surprised I didn’t see that coming. One question, though. What’s a blended wine?”

Crystal looked at Dixon.

Dixon scratched her temple. “She’s new to the wine country. That was a serious question.”

Crystal smiled again, wide and bright. “Well. A blend is a mix of two or more types of grapes to produce something of greater value than the parts would individually exhibit. We have an award-winning winemaker who