"Richard could have ordered from someplace else," Libby observed.

"Possibly, but unlikely," Brandon said. "Richard has an account with The Grape and the other places around here don't carry Annabel's wine."

Everyone was quiet for a moment as they digested the latest piece of information.

"It doesn't matter anyway," Libby finally said after eating two handfuls of peanuts. "The salient point here is how did someone reseal the bottles? I saw them in the pantry and they all looked perfectly fine."

"Would you have noticed if anything had been amiss?" Marvin asked.

"Yes, I would," Libby declared. "I had to move the bottles to make room for some of the appetizers. And everyone was in the room when Richard opened that bottle of wine."

"How many bottles of wine were there?" Marvin asked.

"Four altogether," Libby replied. "And they were all sealed. We're not talking about cartons' worth here."

"So how did they get the insecticides in the bottle?" Marvin asked.

"That's the easy part," Brandon said.

Everyone looked at him.

"Truly," Brandon said.

"I could see how you could get the cork out and put it back in," Bernie said. "It would be a pain, but with a pump you could do it. What I don't see is how you could seal the bottle back up so it's not noticeable."

"Allow the Great Brandolini..."

Bernie raised her eyebrows. "Brandolini?"

"Do not mock The Great One."

"The Great One?" she echoed.

"Yes. The Great One," Brandon said firmly as he rummaged behind the counter and came up with two bottles of wine. The first one's cork was covered in foil, while the second bottle's cork was covered in plastic.

As Bernie, Libby, and Marvin watched, Brandon tried to take the foil covering off. It was a no-go. Next he took the bottle with the plastic bottle cover, positioned his hands on either side of the bottle, and gently lifted it off. Then he very carefully put it back on.

"Voila," he said, holding out his hand. "Presto chango. The Great Brandolini has once again demonstrated his magnificence."

"Let me try," Bernie said, leaning over and moving the bottle toward her. "This is easy," she said after she lifted the cover off and carefully put it back on again.

Brandon nodded. "It works with some bottles but not with others."

"I think we should see if they have a bottle of Annabel's wine at The Grape and find out," Marvin suggested.

Libby nodded. "But even if it's true, I don't see how it helps us that much."

"Spoilsport," Brandon said.

"Seriously. I'm guessing that everyone who was at the birthday party had access to that bottle of wine at one time or another. They all either lived in the house or visited fairly frequently. Except for Rick."

Bernie took another sip of her beer. "I wouldn't count him out if I were you. He could have been up there with Annabel when everyone else was gone."

Libby nodded. "I suppose."

"The bigger question is," Bernie continued, "how many people know about what Brandon just showed us?"

"Anyone who works in the bar business knows," Brandon said.

Libby and Bernie looked at each other. "Rick," they said simultaneously.

"Why Rick?" Marvin asked. "I thought he was an actor."

"He is," Bernie said. "But lots of actors either tend bar or wait tables to make ends meet while they're waiting for their big break. I think it's time for another chat with Rick Crouse."

"I think I should come with you," Brandon said.

Bernie thought for a moment. Considering the way she and Rick had parted company that might not be such a bad idea.

"Here's my question," Marvin said before Bernie could answer Brandon.

Everyone waited.

"Why did whoever poisoned Annabel do it then?" Marvin asked.

"I don't get what you mean," Libby said.

"Okay. Why did whoever killed Annabel choose to do it then, with all those witnesses? Annabel always drank that wine, right?"

"According to Peter Mahir, she'd been drinking it ever since she and Richard came back from Spain about a year ago," Brandon said.

Marvin stifled a cough. "So why not try to poison her when no one was around? Then she would have gone into a coma and died and everyone would have thought she died of her heart problems."

"Maybe whoever killed her had just discovered whatever it was that Annabel had done to p.i.s.s them off," Bernie suggested.

"But even then, why not just put it in the bottle and wait? Why make her death a public event?"

"Because someone wanted it witnessed?" Libby said.

Marvin nodded. "That's the logical conclusion."

"But why?" Bernie asked.

Marvin shook his head. "I don't know, but I have a feeling if you find out the answer to that, you'll discover who your murderer is."

"I think you're making this thing way too complicated," Brandon objected. "I think whoever put the poison in Annabel's wine did it then because they wanted the pleasure of seeing Annabel die. It's as simple as that."

"You may be right," Bernie said after a moment.

"I always am," Brandon said smugly.

Bernie laughed and punched him in the arm.

Chapter 25.

Samantha dropped her cell back on her lap. "That was your daughter asking me about wine deliveries at the Colbert house the day Annabel was killed," she informed Sean.

"I know," he said.

"How did you know?" Samantha asked as she made a one-handed turn onto Applegate.

Sean wished she'd use two hands on the steering wheel, but he decided not to say anything on that topic. He'd noticed that any criticism of her driving seemed to incite Samantha to new heights of recklessness. And, he told himself, things could be worse. She could be driving with her knees and texting at the same time. Thank heavens for small favors.

"You haven't answered me," Samantha said as they tore down the block, scattering slush as they went.

"That's simple-I know because I'm a great detective."

"Seriously," Samantha said.

Sean readjusted his legs to get slightly more comfortable before replying. "Seriously," he said. "I know because you used the name Bernie at least twice in the conversation."

"I could know other Bernies."

"You could, but it's not a very common name, at least not these days."

Actually, it was a rather old-fashioned name, which was one of the reasons he liked it-not that the name had influenced his younger daughter's behavior in the least. Sean was on the verge of saying that to Samantha, but when she swerved around an oncoming pickup truck, he lost his train of thought in the ensuing flash of terror he felt.

His next thought when he recovered was that he couldn't believe he was riding in Samantha's Mini Cooper again, an idea he'd been trying to repress for the last five minutes or so. And he was riding with her at night, no less.

After all, you could hardly see the thing when it was light out, let alone when it was dark. And Sean didn't even want to think about what would happen if it snowed. Then the dratted thing would probably be invisible. For the first time, he was happy Esmeralda was painted lime green. The only good thing was that most people were home now eating dinner and watching TV, which meant less traffic on the road.

Not that he had anyone else to blame for his predicament this time but himself. He'd wanted to see how Ines and Trudy were doing together. Okay. He felt slightly guilty about what he'd done and he wanted to make sure everything was okay. He knew if he called, Ines would tell him everything was fine even if it wasn't. The only way to make sure everything was all right was to go there.

As his dad used to say to his mom whenever he was about to do something she disapproved of, sometimes a man's got to do what a man's got to do, which in this case had entailed calling up Samantha and asking her for a lift over to Ines's house. Given the circ.u.mstances, she was the only person he could turn to.

And this time, to be on the safe side, he'd left a note for his daughters telling them he'd gone out. That way they wouldn't start looking for him, like they had the last time-or even worse, perish the thought, call the police. How embarra.s.sing would that be? He didn't even want to think about it. If that happened, he'd hear about it from Clyde every day for the rest of his life. He repressed a shudder and considered the conversation he'd just heard.

"Were there any deliveries at all that day?" Sean asked, picking up on the line of questioning Bernie had initiated with Samantha.

Samantha chewed on her bottom lip while she thought. "No," she finally said. "No one."

"How about the florist?"

Samantha shook her head. "Annabel wasn't having flowers. She thought the Puggables were enough in the decoration department."

"Cleaning crew?"

Samantha shook her head. "They were there two days before."

"Could they have had access to where the wine was kept?"

Samantha shook her head again. "Richard keeps the wine in this wine-safe thing under lock and key. I think it makes him feel important."

Scratch that line of inquiry, Sean thought. "Any food deliveries?"

"Except for your daughters, no." Samantha frowned as an idea occurred to her.

"What?" Sean asked.

"I'm just thinking that maybe I should have told Bernie that you're with me," Samantha mused, changing the subject. "It didn't occur to me. But maybe I should have. It feels kind of weird not saying anything. I don't know why, but it does. Maybe I should call her back."

"No," Sean answered quickly. "You don't have to call her. It's not necessary. It's not necessary at all."

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why isn't it necessary?"

"Because it's just not," Sean snapped.

He felt foolish explaining to Samantha that he didn't want his daughters to know where he was going. In truth, there was no reason they shouldn't know. In fact, he knew that Bernie and Libby would be perfectly happy to hear he was at Ines's. Actually, to be honest, they'd probably be overjoyed.

They'd been trying to bring them together for years. They liked Ines and she liked them. Maybe he just couldn't bear admitting that they'd been right. Maybe it was the Trudy issue, which he didn't want them to have any official knowledge of. Or maybe it was that he just liked to have a s.p.a.ce of his own where his children couldn't intrude. He knew he was being ridiculous and pigheaded and all those other words his wife used to call him. But there it was. And there it would stay.

"Are you always this grumpy?" Samantha asked.

"Always," Sean retorted. "I make it a point of honor."

Samantha laughed, and after a few seconds Sean laughed with her.

"You know," she said, "the police came to my house and asked me about Trudy, just like you told me they would."

"And what did you tell them?"

"What you told me to say."

"And what happened?" Sean asked.

"Nothing happened. They took my statement and left. I don't think my father believed me when I told him I didn't know anything about Trudy, but tough beans on him. He doesn't believe anything I say anyway. Neither does my n.a.z.i stepmother and her spoiled-rotten little sp.a.w.n."