“Say what?” I asked. We were both relaxing on the edge of the patio, which was shaded from the sun by a large outdoor cantilever umbrella. The atmosphere was mellow, the air was warm but mitigated by a light pleasant breeze, and as far as I was concerned, all was well with the world and I felt a nice nap coming on.
“The alcohol!” Dooley cried. Clearly he wasn’t as relaxed as I was. “They’re drinking alcohol, Max, both of them. We have to stop them before they turn into full-blown alcoholics!”
“There’s a difference between a person who drinks the occasional glass of wine and the professional boozer, Dooley,” I said. “And neither Odelia nor Chase fall into that last category, so there’s really nothing to worry about—nothing at all.”
But in spite of these words, I could tell that he simply kept on worrying. With every sip that Odelia drank, he was getting more and more worked up.
“Just ignore them,” I suggested therefore. “Look the other way.”
“But how can I look the other way? They’re our humans, Max.”
“Exactly. They’re both responsible people, and they’re fine.”
Who wasn’t fine was Ian Stewart, who came breezing by five minutes later. He looked as if he’d just taken a shower, but it hadn’t refreshed him the way it should have. He had a sort of hunted look on his face, and his eyes were darting all over the place, looking for a danger that wasn’t anywhere in sight as far as I could tell.
“Excellent wine, Mr. Stewart,” said Chase as he lifted his glass.
“Thank you, Detective Kingsley,” said Ian, but his heart wasn’t in it.
“And one other thing,” said Dooley. “They shouldn’t drink, because they’re both on duty! And we all know what happens when cops drink when they’re on duty—they neglect their duties.”
I grinned.“Drink when you’re on duty and neglect your duties. Good one, Dooley. Nice wordplay.”
But Dooley wasn’t in the mood for levity. “It’s not right, Max, and you know it.”
“I know that I want to take a nap,” I said.
“And besides, you should be thinking about catching Jeff’s killer, not being lazy and enjoying yourself!”
I groaned.“I am trying to catch Jeff’s killer.”
“By taking a nap?” he said reproachfully.
“I’ll have you know that naps are known to stimulate cognitive performance, Dooley. You will often find that the solution to a problem that has been vexing you for days, will suddenly pop into your head after an exceptionally fine nap.”
“Sherlock Holmes never took naps,” Dooley countered. “When he was dealing with a particularly difficult case he could go days without sleep or even food.”
“I guess our methods are different,” I said stiffly. Imagine having to go days without sleep or food. I’d go bananas.
I looked up when Raimunda Stewart joined us. She, too, looked a little distracted, I thought. Though the correct word would probably be frazzled. She had that same nervous way about her that I had seen in her husband. Something wrong with the winery’s PR campaign, no doubt, or perhaps they were only now experiencing the full impact of the death of their beloved son-in-law. Grief hits different people at different times, and clearly it was only hitting home now.
Joe Smolski was back again, topping up glasses left and right, and to Dooley’s satisfaction both Chase and Odelia declined a refill at this juncture. My friend relaxed—insofar as he could relax while alcohol was being consumed in our presence. Clearly he considered himself a founding father of the FuSSy project, even though we weren’t really involved.
“They’re not drinking anymore, Max,” he said with a sigh of great relief. “I think we’re out of the danger zone.”
“There never was any danger zone, Dooley,” I said. But my words fell on deaf ears, for he kept darting nervous glances at Joe Smolski, this official purveyor of the vice of alcohol. In his mind, no doubt, that young man was nothing less than a drug pusher, and should be arrested on the spot, hung, drawn and quartered.
“Alcohol should be illegal,” he said now, supporting this view.
“Yes, Dooley, whatever you say.” When was I finally going to get my nap!
As if in answer to my silent prayer, suddenly Robbie materialized, followed by his dad, whose red face was something to behold. Both father and son seemed extremely worked up about something. Okay, so maybe no nap time for me!
“Steph, I have something to say to you.”
“Oh, not again, Robbie,” said Steph, turning to her persistent admirer.
“It’s your dad—and your mom,” said Robbie.
“Robbie, not here!” his dad hissed. “Not now!”
“Yes, here and now, Dad!” Robbie cried, turning on his old man. He then held out an accusing finger that was pointing directly at Raimunda. “Your mother has been having an affair with my dad!” he cried, much to the consternation of those present. Except perhaps David and Pauline Felfan, whodidn’t bat an eyelid.
On Raimunda, though, the effect of this statement was profound. She brought a distraught hand to her face and cried,“Oh, God!”
“Mom?” asked Steph. “Is this true?”
But Raimunda was already nodding her head in confirmation.