G'Day to Die: A Passport to Peril Mystery - By Maddy Hunter Page 0,55

being the sole witness who could squeal on him? Oh, God. “Uhh, I’m going to jog up to the main building and join the others before all the wine is gone.” I edged away from him. “See you at the tasting counter.”

“Never touch the stuff. Too many toxins. But you go ahead. We’ve all gotta die of something.”

He grinned when he said it.

“White wines aren’t actually white. They range from green, to yillow, to brown, with more color indicating more flavor. Rid wines range from pale rid to a deep brown rid and usually become lighter in color as they age.”

Our wine expert stood behind a long counter in a room whose stone walls and exposed wood beams smacked of an English hunting lodge, minus the big-game heads mounted over the mantel. Boxed sets of the winery’s premier labels sat on display tables along the walls, while sparkling stemware crowded the countertop, waiting to be filled.

“Proper tasting is a six-step prociss,” our hostess continued. “See, swirl, sniff, sip, swish, and spit.” She decanted a small amount of a straw-colored wine into a glass. “I’ll go over these steps with you briefly, then we’ll git right to it. You can till a great deal about a wine simply by looking at it, or ‘seeing’ it.”

I tuned her out as I jotted down the coordinates I’d seen on Roger’s GPS.

“If those are potential wedding dates,” Duncan said over my shoulder, “I’m available, and I know for a fact that Miceli happens to be busy, so why don’t you pencil me in?”

I closed my little notebook and dropped it back in my shoulder bag. “How do you know Etienne is busy?”

“He’s retired, Em. Trust me, he already has an appointment with his sofa and big-screen TV on those dates. Miceli is a nice guy, but don’t you think you’re a little young to hang up the dancing shoes? Marry me, Em.” He intertwined his fingers with mine and drew me close. “We can travel to every corner of the world together. We can see it all; do it all. I love you. How many languages would you like me to translate that into for you?”

“Nixt, we swirl the wine to release the bouquet, then we sniff deeply,” our hostess announced, demonstrating the procedure.

I lowered my voice to a whisper as I surveyed the crowded room. “I’m not sure this is the place to be discussing love and marriage, Duncan.”

“Where is the place? Tell me. We can ditch Miceli and—” His expression soured as he glanced beyond me. “Damn.”

I followed his gaze to find Etienne threading his way through the crowd toward us.

“Remimber that your taste buds are on the front and back of your tongue,” said our hostess, “so once you’ve sipped, swish the wine around to awaken your sinses. If you draw in a little air at the same time, you’ll enhance the flavor even more.”

“Emily, darling,” whispered Etienne as he brushed his thumb down my cheek, “why is there a balloon hanging from your grandmother’s ear?”

“Shoot, the hairpins must have fallen out. Where is she? I’ll need to fix it.” I went up on tiptoe. “And it’s not a balloon, it’s a glove—or it used to be, before I cut off four of the fingers.”

“Of course.” Etienne nodded his understanding. “A glove makes much more sense than a balloon.”

“Have you talked to her about earmuffs?” asked Duncan.

Our hostess’s voice grew louder. “After you’ve swished, I suggist you spit out your wine in any of the barrels provided throughout the room. If you prefer not to spit, it’s perfectly acciptable to swallow after you gurgle it a little at the back of your mouth to release more flavor. See, swirl, sniff, sip, swish, and spit. Are you riddy to begin? Billy up to the bar, mates. I’ll pour samples of our nineteen-ninety-eight chardonnay for each of you.”

A crushing wave of humanity pressed forward, arms extended and fingers grabbing. It reminded me of a recent customer appreciation day at Fareway Foods when the hot giveaway item had been pork-flavored minimarshmallows.

“Wine anyone?” asked Duncan.

I gazed at the mayhem. “I value my life too much.”

“Not as much as I value it,” said Etienne, lifting my hand to his mouth and placing a soft kiss on my inner wrist that tingled all the way to my shoulder.

Eh!

“I don’t mean to pry, Imily,” Henry said as he joined us, “but why is your grandmother wearing a condom on her ear?”

“Whin you sniff this chardonnay,” our hostess yelled