I grinned. “You nailed me in one.”
She set two more bottles of pinot noir on the counter. One was half the price, and one was nearly double. “These bottles are also decent.”
“Because you don’t carry a bad wine,” Cheryl said confidently.
Nina nodded graciously. “I try. The point is, pinot noir drinkers on a budget would go for this one.” She touched the neck of the cheaper bottle. “It’s not as good as the first wine, but it is good and it fits the budget conscious.”
A.k.a, the broke.
“The more expensive bottle is actually no better than the twenty-dollar bottle. It’s good, of course, but there’s no need to pay extra when the other wine is just as good. However, there is a certain prestige to being able to toss enough cash to drink a bottle of thirty-eight-dollar wine when everyone else is drinking the twenty.”
“What does this have to do with The Louse?” Cheryl asked.
Nina carefully put the wines away. “August Nixon has always been a thirty-eight-dollar drinker. He cared far more about appearances than quality or taste. About a year ago, however, he dropped to ten-dollar wine for about six months or so. Then suddenly he was back to the more expensive stuff. I assumed, you know, he’d gone through a rough patch and that he’d recovered. It happens.”
“Now you’re thinking his financial upswing coincides with the museum thefts,” I guessed.
She nodded. “That was my thought, yes.”
“Do you remember when exactly that happened?”
She stared at the ceiling for a moment, trying to recall. “Last summer is when he dropped to the cheap stuff. Three months ago, he went back to his old habits.”
“Thanks,” I said. “Tomorrow I’ll see if Roger can corroborate.”
ROGER COLLINS WASN’T exactly what I expected. Not that August Nixon had been a prize, but I had figured that Mary Nixon would’ve had more exacting taste the second time around. Maybe even a younger man.
In fact, Roger Collins was nearly a decade older than August Nixon and probably should have been retired years ago. He wore his white hair longish down the back, but carefully tucked into an orderly queue, and a neatly trimmed goatee, also pure white. He was like an aging hippie who hadn’t quite caught on to the rest of the world yet. I was horrified to find he wore socks with his sandals. My nose was equally horrified to discover he was overly fond of patchouli. If Mary was aiming for the opposite of August, she’d done it.
“Won’t you come into my office?” he asked, ushering me up the stairs of the Flavel carriage house in a gentlemanly fashion. He had a slight drawl that was impossible to place. “Would you like a cup of tea? I’m certain we have some around here somewhere.” He paused looked around vaguely as if tea would suddenly appear in the middle of the stairwell.
“We’re out, Mr. C,” Annabelle chirped from her position at the register. It was apparently her turn in the gift shop today. “I can go grab some at the coffee shop, if you want?”
“No, thanks. I’m fine.” I assured them both.
Satisfied that I wasn’t about to expire with thirst, Roger continued up the stairs with me following close behind. The carriage house sat at the edge of the Flavel property and had been converted into a combination gift shop/ticket box on the main floor with offices and a small employee lounge on the top floor.
We passed a closed door with a large sign declaring “August Nixon, Director.” A plan formed in my brain, but I shoved it aside. For now.
Halfway down the short hall, Roger swung open a door with a sign that read “R. Collins - Asst. Dir.” I wondered if they had to pay per letter.
His office suited him to a tee. It was like something straight out of a movie. The high-ceilinged room boasted a small, cast-iron chandelier and rustic wall sconces. Shelves of books and knickknacks took up every available wall. Heavy curtains turned the room almost gloomy. Heavy Victorian furniture and a wine-red carpet added to the gloom. The large oak desk was piled high with stacks of books and files which leaned precariously toward the edge, threatening to leap off at any moment and make a run for it.
Roger hurriedly cleaned off a straight-backed chair and urged me to sit while he climbed over a stack of encyclopedias to get to his own chair behind the desk. It creaked heavily as he sank into it. He let out a heartfelt sigh. “Now, how may I assist you, Miss...Violet, was it?”
“Viola,” I corrected.
“What a lovely name. Were you named after the flower? Or the instrument?”
“My great-grandmother.”
“Ah.” He nodded sagely as if that explained everything.
“I’m here because I’m helping the police with their investigations into Mr. Nixon’s murder,” I said. It was a bit of a lie. Bat would no doubt be furious if he found out I was claiming to be working with the police, but who would tell him?
“Nasty business, that,” Roger said, expression grim. He glanced around, dug under some papers, and came out with a plastic bag of gummy bears. “Something sweet?” he offered.
“No thanks.” With my luck, they were pot gummies. Totally legal now, but still not my thing.
He shrugged. “Suit yourself.” He popped one into his mouth and chewed lazily. “How are you helping, exactly?”
He was sharper than he seemed. Not such a hippie pothead after all. “Just talking to people. Tying up loose ends. That sort of thing.”
“How odd.”
“They’re short staffed.”
“Well, anything I can do to help.” He folded his hands neatly on the desk. “August was not my favorite person, but his family did not deserve to be put through that kind of loss.”
“Did you know about Mr.
