As a mobster’s wife Sylvie’s only job was looking stunning. Her other skills are mostly unmarketable: shopping, maxing out credit cards, and infuriating people. She owes money to the mob. And she’s defaulted on her mortgage. Employment seems unavoidable.
Her job, at Pedrick Wines, requires a steep learning curve that challenges her people skills. When Sylvie arrives to work on the bottling line, there is a mix-up. They think she is the auditor. This offers her the perfect opportunity for working undercover at Dale's winery. Forty employees are relying on the family company for their livelihood. If the situation doesn’t improve, the company will go into liquidation.
But Sylvie suspects that someone is intent on sabotaging the business. A scathing write-up by Melbourne’s top wine critic isn’t good for wine sales. Neither is the body she finds ageing in a wine tank. Finding danger around every corner, Sylvie discovers that snooping is a risky business.
Determined to get her shattered life back on track, Sylvie is changing. Though Dale is pursuing her, so are the bad guys. Will Sylvie be able to solve the mystery at the winery? Will she get her man? Will anyone get through this ordeal alive?
As a mobster’s wife Sylvie’s only job was looking stunning. Her other skills are mostly unmarketable: shopping, maxing out credit cards, and infuriating people. She owes money to the mob. And she’s defaulted on her mortgage. Employment seems unavoidable.
Her job, at Pedrick Wines, requires a steep learning curve that challenges her people skills. When Sylvie arrives to work on the bottling line, there is a mix-up. They think she is the auditor. This offers her the perfect opportunity for working undercover at Dale's winery. Forty employees are relying on the family company for their livelihood. If the situation doesn’t improve, the company will go into liquidation.
But Sylvie suspects that someone is intent on sabotaging the business. A scathing write-up by Melbourne’s top wine critic isn’t good for wine sales. Neither is the body she finds ageing in a wine tank. Finding danger around every corner, Sylvie discovers that snooping is a risky business.
Determined to get her shattered life back on track, Sylvie is changing. Though Dale is pursuing her, so are the bad guys. Will Sylvie be able to solve the mystery at the winery? Will she get her man? Will anyone get through this ordeal alive?
HE WONDERED WHO this Fosdick guy was, and why he’d insisted on meeting at this hour. The night was clear and chilly with just enough moonlight to see ahead. A blanket of cold shrouded the earth; it felt like a frost was on its way. The workers wouldn’t be happy about it. They fretted over the weather like brides on their wedding day. Fred would be out among the vines now, trying to provide some cover for his babies with that stupid son of his in tow. He snorted at the thought of trying to shelter 100 acres of grapes. But no one said viticulturists had a high IQ. He switched off the car’s headlights as soon as he entered the property. He slowed to a crawl and followed the gravel road to the winery entrance.
As soon as he stopped and turned off the engine a figure slunk out of the shadows towards him. He scanned the area but spotted no other car. Fosdick must have walked across from the workers’ cabins. A wiry chap who looked like an accountant stood in front of the car, blowing into his hands. When he emerged, the interior light illuminated Fosdick’s surprised expression.
‘What are you doing here?’ asked Fosdick, in an accusing tone.
‘No big deal,’ he said. ‘It’s all in the family. Now what’s so urgent, we have to meet at midnight.’ He injected a chuckle and offered the man his hand.
‘I’ve finished my report,’ he said, nudging up his glasses. ‘Wanted to give it to the old man’s son, but he’s too busy. I need to get back to Melbourne.’
He had no idea what report Fosdick referred to but played along with him. ‘Lawyers—always busier than the rest of us,’ he said. ‘Didn’t expect you’d finish so soon. I hope it’s good news.’
‘I thought you should see for yourself.’ He switched the manila envelope tucked under his arm to his other side and fished keys out of his pocket. In a few strides he was by the entrance, confidently inserting the key to the administrative section. He’d seen Fosdick at the conveyor belt and in the fields, but how did he get the keys to the premises? He should have guessed there was more to him; he’d arrived two months ago looking more like one of the landed gentry than a field hand.
‘So, you’re busy back in Melbourne?’ he ventured, keeping his tone light.
Fosdick nodded his grey head. He appeared to be in his fifties, dressed in moleskins and a blazer, buzzing with nervous energy. ‘I’ve got more cases than I can handle,’ he said. ‘Criminals are popping out of the woodwork.’
His heart started pounding. Was Fosdick with the police? ‘Can’t we put some lights on?’ he said, bumping into something.
The guy pocketed his keys and withdrew a mobile. He switched on the torch and shone it toward the floor. ‘We’ll put the lights on when we get downstairs.’
They were heading to the cellars. His heart rate ratcheted up a notch. ‘Why didn’t you just post the report?’ He needed to find out how many others were aware of it.
‘The old man said not to trust anyone,’ he said, descending the stairs. ‘When he died so suddenly, I had no idea who he would want to receive this report.’
‘Yeah. We were all aware of his emphysema, but his death still came as a shock.’ Underground, the air was cooler, keeping the red gold at an even rate of fermentation.
‘Death is like that sometimes. It gives you no warning.’ Like a man who was familiar with cellars, Fosdick felt along the wall and switched on the fluorescents. He headed towards the far wall where the 225 litre French oak barrels were stored on their side. Crisp air licked his face. It was free air-conditioning coming from the river through the large grid.
‘If this is about the shortfall of barrels, you don’t need to worry. We sold them to a small producer in the Strathbogie Ranges.’
‘Yes, I noticed the barrels didn’t match the inventory,’ said Fosdick. ‘It’s not about that.’
He sighed, firming his jaw, as he zipped his Parka against the chill that invaded his bones. His hand felt for the solid object in his right pocket.
All business, Fosdick rested the report on an adjacent barrel. He reached for the pipette as he pulled out the bung. ‘You’ve got more experience with your flagship brew.’ He sucked up the red and poured it into the glass he’d prepared earlier. ‘Take a sip.’ First, he held the glass up to the light. ‘Can you spot it?’
It was the colour of Rosé. ‘Sure. It’s lighter, but the wine hasn’t finished maturing.’ He swiped the sweat pooling on his upper lip and reached for the glass. His mind worked ten to the dozen, going over his options. He swirled, sniffed, and sipped. He faked a confused frown and bent down to check the label. ‘Someone’s mixed up the labelling, that’s all.’ He set his glass aside with a shaky hand, noise pounding in his ears.
‘It’s worse than that,’ he said with a furrowed brow. ‘One barrel could be a mistake, but twelve?’ He turned away to dispose of the pipette. ‘Whatever that wine is, it’s not Pedrick’s Special Reserve… Oomph!’ Fosdick crumpled to the brick floor, the four-inch blade buried to the hilt.
‘Sometimes you get no warning, do ya?’ He stared at the man, waiting for remorse to kick in. He felt nothing. Prison had changed him. As he turned the body, he grabbed him under the arms and dragged him across to the larger tanks. He crossed to the ladder, carried it back, mounted five rungs, stepped on the platform, and opened the manhole. Climbing down, he hoisted the body over his shoulder and struggled up the steps again. Just as well Fosdick wasn’t a big man. It didn’t matter that he wasn’t dead, drowning would finish him.
The wine would age at least another month before blending started. Over the years, he’d turned his hand to a lot of things, surprised by his own versatility. Never saw himself as a murderer. But they had sent him to handle it, and he couldn’t risk displeasing them. He’d seen firsthand how vicious his partners could turn unless satisfied.
He neatened things up and took the report with him. After exiting the cellar, he realised. ‘Damn!’ He should have taken the guy’s keys. Too late now. He closed the door and left the building unlocked. His eyes scoured the yard for any sign of movement. He spotted no one. Now he had to locate Fosdick’s car and get rid of it. He lifted his head, inhaling the tangy scents from the vines and the river. ‘Yeah. Definitely a frost tonight.’ Mother Nature was doing what she could to ruin them, too. It was comforting to know.