Lethal Vintage Read Free Page B

looked jaundiced next to his white teeth, and Sunny wondered if he was in good health. Like everyone at the table, he drank too much, and even his baggy linen shirt couldn’t hide the roll above his waistline. His skin was smooth and brown, from his glossy bare head to the big, sharp-nailed toes that nicked Sunny’s ankles under the table.
    Oliver Seth emptied the bottle and set it down in front of Sunny, turning the label toward her. It featured a painting of a bull charging into a frothing sea, a girl in genie pants half reclined sidesaddle on its back, holding on to the horns gracefully. The name of the vineyard, Taurus Rising, was written in Roman-looking letters across a stormy sky. Below the illustration it said Estate Bottled Napa Valley Syrah.
    Jordan took the bottle. “Is that the rape of Europa?”
    “Exactly,” said Oliver. “From the Greek myth. But I’d call it more of an escape. She doesn’t look too concerned to me. This version is nineteenth-century Russian. I have the original in my place in London. It’s better than Titian’s, which is the one you usually see. Besides, I own the rights to this one. The rights to the image come with the painting. Isn’t that amazing? Think of all those museums selling postcards and posters of the paintings they own. The artist doesn’t get a dime. Imagine if you bought a car and the rights to the image went with it.”
    “Why Taurus Rising?” said Sunny.
    “I’ve always liked the symbol of the bull,” said Oliver. He laid slices of roast beef on each of their plates as he spoke. “I was bornunder the sign of Taurus. The first time I saw the term bull market, I knew I would make my first million on the stock market. I was in third grade.”
    Franco handed Sunny the bowl of couscous.
    “We had a class hamster,” Oliver continued. “On weekends, somebody always got to take him home. His name was Roosevelt because he was a teddy bear hamster. I took him home and started cleaning his cage. One of the layers of paper lining the bottom turned out to be the front section of The Wall Street Journal. I read every word, including the advertisements. That’s how I found out about the Robb Report. I sent away for a subscription and my sister had to pay for it with our Christmas money. But I knew it would pay off. I knew even then if you want to make money, you have to understand how rich people think.”
    “I read somewhere that a huge percentage of history’s dictators have been Tauruses,” said Anna. “Hitler, Lenin, Pol Pot. Saddam Hussein, Machiavelli, Robespierre.”
    “And most damning of all, Barbra Streisand,” said a lanky, dark-haired guy approaching the table. He kissed Anna and pulled up a chair next to her.
    “Sunny, this is Troy Stevens. Troy, this is my dear, long-lost friend Sunny McCoskey. We used to hang out in San Francisco together ages ago.”
    “Delighted.” Troy shook her hand with mock formality, then started dishing up his plate.
    “What happened to the hamster?” said Jordan.
    “My best friend’s mom made him keep it in the garage and it froze to death.”
    Sunny held up her glass to Franco. “Nice work.”
    “This one is not technically mine,” he said. “I begin with last year’s harvest. That one is quite good, though not exactly in mystyle. Too fruity and agreeable. I like more earth, more herb, more gaminess. You should taste a little bit of leather and spice, not just plums and blackberries. We will get there eventually, if Oliver’s grapes cooperate.”
    “I don’t care if we ever get a wine we can release,” said Oliver. “If we get something we can drink at lunch and pour on the ground for ablutions to the ancestors, I’ll be happy. My citadel will be complete.”
    “Your ancestral sins are your affair,” said Franco. “I will commune with the grapes and see what they have to tell us. You won’t want to pour it on the ground, I guarantee that much.”
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    Despite her plan to leave after lunch, Sunny