Behind the story is another story… 

Two things to know about my latest mystery, Dying on the Vine: it features a dog who helps catch the killer, and wine is the killer’s weapon. I don’t mean the killer puts poison in the wine and feeds it to the victim. No. The wine itself kills the victim. Think the Clue game: Mr. or Ms. _______ did it with the wine in the production room. Interesting, huh? 

Initially I had no idea what would be the premise or the setting of the 8th installment of the Ari Adams mystery series and my 20th book. Then we went on vacation to Canada, making a pit stop in Woodinville, Washington, an area populated by small wineries. A friend had steered us to Adrice Wines (www.adricewines.wine). We got there just as the tasting room opened and were greeted by the winemaker, Pam Adkins, her wife Julie Bulrice, and their sidekick, Dexter the Tasting Room Dog. 

While I sampled several of Pam’s creations, she regaled me with stories about the wine industry and some of the ruthless tactics employed to get ahead and stay ahead of the competition. She also assured me that while she has never done anything unethical, she had her own secrets. I quickly filled pages of my journal about all aspects of the wine business, concluding that Pam was part scientist, artist, and marketer. Wine making was a complicated business, and Pam could spend all of her energy and money preparing for the yearly harvest, only to have the birds eat most of the grapes or the rain soak the vineyard and bring mold to the plants. There were no guarantees, and it was an incredibly expensive business endeavor. But would she ever give it up? Nope.

While we chatted, Dexter snoozed on his little bed, but the minute another couple walked through the front door, he was up and studying the visitors. According to Pam, Dexter had been a part of the wine business since the beginning. When he was 8 months old, Pam would carry him in the front of her bib overalls. He always wanted to be involved, and he went everywhere she went—to the vineyards, to the production room, and of course, to the tasting room. He even rode the forklift when it was time to bring in the grapes. As we left, I was sure that I wanted to set my next mystery in a vineyard, and I wanted to include Dexter. He plays himself in Dying on the Vine, and this book is a tribute to his memory, since he crossed the Rainbow Bridge before the book was published. 

Pam promised to share her knowledge, and several local vineyards in the Willamette Valley were willing to speak with me, despite the looming harvest season, the busiest time of year for winemakers. I visited two wineries, one large (Silvan Ridge) and one small (RainSong). In addition to walking me through all of the steps that turn grapes into wine, they discussed their passion for creating a distinct and memorable experience that would motivate wine drinkers to purchase their pinot noir, merlot, or chardonnay, as opposed to any other vintner’s that sat on the shelf. 

I so enjoyed these conversations because I felt a connection with these creators, but I realized there was one major difference between us: whereas I would write a book that could feasibly exist forever (at least until the zombie apocalypse), since no two bottles of wine are exactly the same, once someone finishes a bottle of their wine, it’s gone, never to be replicated. I asked winemaker J.P. Valotte of Silvan Ridge how he dealt with creation that was so transient. Our conversation went something like this:
    Me: When everything turns out right--the weather is in your favor, you have a great harvest and you produce one of the greatest bottles of wine ever--how do you ever let go of it? How do share it, knowing you may never reproduce it again?”
    J.P.: While the wine might be gone, most likely it’s been a part of a memorable occasion for someone—a wedding, a promotion, a birthday. It’s activated all of the senses, helping people make memories that last forever. And that’s what we’re all about. Besides, I look forward to the next creation.”
    Ah, yes.

Here’s to creating and making memories! Cheers!

Chapter One

The vineyard was as dark as a rich cabernet. Dion Demopolous stopped and gazed west, across the sprawling sixty acres. At night, deep in the heart of the Willamette Valley, the land belonged to the creatures and critters, and the vineyard was at their mercy. The wind rustled the leaves, and the trellises creaked under the heavy weight of grapes ready for picking. He could barely see anything in front of him as he trudged up the gravel path toward the behemoth structure that housed Sisters Cellars Vineyard.

It was harvest, the most exciting time of year for a vineyard. Usually several cars would still be parked in the lot, the bay doors open and the hum of the machines working in tandem with the efforts of the growers. Mina always said automation meets authenticity. Usually he wouldn't have been able to hear the crunch of gravel under his feet.

But tonight wasn't usual.

He'd left his car on the highway outside the front gates. The night was as quiet as it was dark, and a rumbling engine most certainly would've awakened Berto, the aging winemaker who lived in the quaint cottage at the base of the hill. Harvest was exhausting for everyone, but more so for someone in his seventies.

Everyone else was gone except for the owner, Mina. Her house sat on the opposite side of the production building, and for now, she was asleep. She'd spent the evening watching her beloved Oregon Ducks Women's Soccer Team playing their rival, Oregon State, but before she retired for some much needed shuteye, she would've checked the fermenting grapes, "her children," one last time.

As for Mina's wife, Cleo, Dion knew she'd taken a lover and was away, at least for a while.

Twenty paces more and he was confronted by his own smiling visage blazing across a banner advertising their Wine 101 class that he conducted as the premier sommelier for Sisters Cellars. He looked good, his sandy brown hair parted on the left, and his goatee expertly shaped to hide his double chin. They had even managed to highlight the brown of his eyes.

When Mina unveiled the banner, he'd been stunned and a little uncomfortable that his face would greet every visitor. Of course, his mother had joked he had wine in his veins instead of blood. He was named for Dionysus, the Greek god of wine. When he was a teenager, his brother Apollo (who told him "Apollo" meant "boss,") told him Dionysus was also the god of fertility. Dion had focused on the wine aspect since he was rather certain the fertility piece wouldn't be a strength. But the wine…

He was likely to gain the title Master Sommelier after he passed the last section of one of the hardest exams given in any profession, and the idea brought a smile to his face.

Then a strange noise, like the snapping of a branch, halted him once more. He looked off into the trees, moonlit silhouettes playing on the trunks. Was one of those silhouettes a human form?

He blinked and shook his head. He'd enjoyed a few belts of whiskey from his flask before he left his car, needing the proverbial liquid courage for this mission. He guiltily glanced again at the ridiculously large banner. Once he passed the test, he'd toyed with the idea of leaving tiny Cheshire, Oregon, for Portland, a doorway to a lucrative and significant career. But now he was reconsidering for many reasons.

He crept around the outside of the production room, passing the enormous grape press, breathing in the distinctly rich aroma of the latest batch, grapes destined to be cabernet.

He veered to the far side of the building to the tasting room door. It was unlocked—as promised. He slid inside and shut the door quietly. Two sconces provided enough light to navigate the room successfully. The lingering cologne and perfume of the day's last visitors assaulted his olfactory senses and he made a face. A Gen X couple had appeared just five minutes before closing, promising to hurry the tasting and vowing to purchase at least three bottles of wine. He shook his head and tried to clear his palette. Why would anyone sabotage one of life's true pleasures—tasting wine—for a ridiculously priced fragrance that garnered hateful looks all day from the scent-free crowd?

He flipped on his cellphone's flashlight as he entered the dark event room. The enormous Sisters Cellars logo of the three peaks known as "the Sisters" sat in the center of a sprawling mural of the Willamette Valley. It was beautiful art and an effective PR stunt. He walked a circuitous route, necessitated by the round tables placed precisely six feet apart for ADA compliance. A bridal shower was scheduled for the next night, one that would net him big bank in tips as the bartender.

His hip caught the edge of a staging table, toppling several crystal vase centerpieces and sending a few dozen sachets to the floor. "Shit," he hissed and swayed slightly. Perhaps he'd taken one belt of whiskey too many. Fortunately the linen tablecloth muffled the thudding vases. He quickly righted them and plucked the sachets from the floor, grimacing at the ungodly lavender smell.

He glanced up to the balcony that sat above the tasting room where the executive offices were located, as well as the guest room. No lights were on. Tomorrow Mina's childhood buddy was due to arrive, but tonight everything was quiet, empty and dark. Tonight no one had any reason to be in the building. Mina had forbidden it.

He took a deep breath and pushed through the steel doors that led to the production room. Unlike the public areas, the corridor was well lit since work happened at all hours—but not tonight. He knew tonight would be the only night everyone was gone during harvest.

As he approached the large accordion door, he glanced up at the security camera, its green light flashing hello. No one ever checked the footage unless there was a problem, and it taped over itself every few days. Since his little covert operation would go completely unnoticed, he wasn't worried. Everyone was far too busy right now with harvest.

A laminated sign had been haphazardly stuck to the door with a magnet. KEEP OUT - HIGH CO2 LEVELS. CO2 was the natural byproduct of adding yeast to the grapes. At least once during each harvest, they experienced a day when there were so many grapes fermenting at once, the CO2 levels became unsafe. Work shut down until the grapes completed the most critical step to becoming wine.

Before he pressed the door control button, he visualized his route. He'd grab a mask from the wall and would be in and out in less than three minutes. The door ascended and he ducked inside, heading straight for the safety equipment. Odd, he thought. There was only one mask on the rack. He strapped it over his face and closed the door to contain the CO2. There was no way to smell the natural and odorless gas, which was why at this level, it was so dangerous.

As he started across the room, he marveled at the equipment necessary for turning grapes into wine. Two massive steel tanks flanked the left wall. He imagined the pinot gris that would eventually flow out of the tanks and into the bottles. It was some of the best he'd ever tasted and a great success for a winery literally brought back from the ashes. He debated grabbing a glass for just one more taste, but he didn't want to risk it.

In the center of the room sat the eight fermenting bins, each housing approximately a ton of grapes that would become pinot noir, cabernet, syrah, and malbec. He couldn't help but take a peek inside at what currently could only be described as a science experiment. Thousands of grapes, still possessing their skins, mixed with various yeasts chosen by Mina, the owner and winemaker. Currently the consistency of oatmeal, the grapes were undergoing a carefully monitored chemical reaction that involved sugar levels, acidity, brix scores and pH levels. He understood some of it after spending fifteen of his thirty-five years in the industry, but only Mina and Cleo, the viticulturist, understood all of it. Cleo made sure Mina had the best product possible for her part--making the wine and blending finished wines for new products.

He shook his head and chastised himself. For some reason the production room was like Disneyland. He was in complete awe of the winemaking process and easily distracted by all of the machines and tools.

But he needed to get moving and get what he came for. He stepped away from the bins, realizing he was parched. He swallowed—and his throat burned. It was worse than any case of strep he'd ever had. He gasped and pulled off his mask. What the hell? He found a slit in the respirator, rendering the mask useless. He swayed and grabbed one of the fermenting bins for support. New plan. He had to get out of there. Now. What he'd come for would have to wait.

He held the compromised respirator to his face, hoping it provided some protection, and stumbled toward the back door. He pushed the control button repeatedly but the door didn't open. He looked over his shoulder, back at the large accordion door where he'd entered. It seemed so far away. He swallowed again and winced, rusty nails lodged in his throat.

He focused on the red door button that would once again raise the accordion door. He stumbled forward, unsure if his legs were actually attached to his body. He pressed the button again and again but nothing happened.

"Damn it!"

He no longer cared who heard him. In fact, he couldn't remember why he was in the production room. His phone! He reached into his pants' pocket. Empty. He checked the rest of his pockets. Where was it? He closed his eyes and groaned. He'd used the phone's flashlight in the event room—and left it on the table. He'd forgotten it after he picked up those stupid sachets off the floor. He was starting to sweat and felt terribly nauseous. He imagined he'd soon vomit the whiskey. Or worse.

There was a phone in Mina's office. He had to cross the room yet again to reach the far corner. His feet tangled and he tripped on himself. He grabbed the corner of a fermenting bin to stay upright. He took short breaths to prevent the CO2 from overpowering the remaining oxygen in his body. He needed every bit of it if he was going to save himself.

But all he wanted now was sleep. No use fighting it. And as the CO2 dropped a shroud over his mind, he remembered his plan and knew who had done this to him. He just wished he'd used his final minutes for something meaningful—taking a final taste of that pinot gris.