Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 141, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 858 & 859, March/April 2013

Wine on Ice by Cheryl Rogers

Cheryl Rogers is a former journalist who is currently raising a family and working on her family’s vineyard and orchard near Perth, Australia. She makes good use of her experience on the land and her knowledge of horticulture in this new story. Her short fiction has won many awards, including three Henry Lawson Society of New South Wales short story awards. Two of her stories have won Queen of Crime awards from Partners in Crime (Sydney) and are reprinted in the recent Queen of Crime anthology.

Knocks me senseless, opening the paper to an eyeful of Ginnie Dimond-Billing leglless on page three. Not a good look for a member of the glitterati usually dripping bling on the social pages. “Winery chief dies after plunge down cellar steps... Appeared drunk at harvest brunch,” the headline screams. Puts me right off my crumpet. That’s when my mobile starts.

“Get down to the station, Spanner.” DS Rod Gudgeon’s not strong on preliminaries. “Unless you’re doing something worthwhile on your RDO. Like colouring your ever-changing hear.”

“Was planning to drain the sump on my new Rover actually, Sarge, change the oil in the transmission, maybe move on to the diffs as a chaser if—”

“Rhetorical question,” he cuts in before I can breathe mention of my plans for the front swivel housings. “Double-barreled socialite had one too many sherries, nose-dived down her cellar.”

There’s the faintest pause, then the boss cuts to the chase.

“Close personal friend of the police minister,” he says gruffly. “He wants the investigation wrapped up pronto, no hint of scandal.”

Another pause.

Longer this time.

“Hinting at funding cuts, Spanner,” he chokes.

I’m already out the door, kicking the chocks free of the Rover’s wide Pirellis with the steel-capped toes of my snazzy kitten heels. It’s not even gone eight, yet the morning air hangs heavy with heat.

“Starter motor’s kicked in, Sarge,” I sign off in a bid to smooth Gudgeon’s worry lines.

A DS firing on three cyls talks to me like... well, like a Citroen DS with a fit of the sputters. Undignified. Besides, word’s out our division’s up for the chop, and there’s a science-buff DC muscling in on my job.

The rival in question’s undoing his bicycle clips in the stairwell when I burst into the station via double doors leading from the staff car park. His sandy helmet-hair clings, damp with sweat. His usually pale cheeks are flushed.

“Limped in, in your old banger, did you, Spanner?” gasps Jack Darwin, B.Sc. (Botany), Hons. (Forensic Palynology), stooping from a lofty height to lift his sit-up-and-beg into a recess near the bins. “I noticed a pall of black smoke enveloping the city.” He forces a couple of coughs and starts securing the rear tyre with a battery of combo locks on chains.

“New wheels, Charlie,” I say grandly. “Got myself a Rover.”

No need to mention it’s a Land Rover, is there?

Clacking upstairs, two at a time, I resist glancing back to witness his envy.

The sacrifice is worth it to be first to the drinks vending machine. Used to have a staff canteen. Then a tea lady with a wonky trolley. Now this robot. Still, least it delivers more choice. Filtered water, tea (regular, green, and an assortment of herbals), and coffee (drip brew, espresso, or cappuccino) on tap. It’s where we brains in Major Crime chew a serious amount of fat in our relentless quest for truth.

I’ve ditched last week’s grounds, switched filters in the drip brewer, and have a fistful of Reggae blend beans on the go when Darwin makes it to the second floor.

Just as Gudgeon shuffles out of his lair, mopping his brow. He joins us at the font to bring us up to speed.

“Virginia Dimond-Billing, widow of former Sergeant Frank D-B, whose family founded Billing Estate Wines when Adam was still in Snugglers. Wife took over the reins after her husband fell off the perch six years ago.”

Darwin already has his hand up.

“Former sergeant, Sergeant? As in ex-police? Or ex-army?” he says, then jets iced dandelion tea into a personalized floral mug.

“Sharp question, Charlie,” the boss concedes and I feel my teeth ache. “Vietnam vet. Earned a couple of gongs. Took over the family business in the late seventies and added to a tidy fortune selling headaches in bottles. Not long after he died, the Australian wine industry did a belly-flop.”

“But Frank’s widow jump-started the company, if my memory serves me, Sarge,” I chip in, trawling the depths. “Installed their son, Leeuwin, as winemaker. Carbonated some of the cheaper fruities. Launched a new range of fizzies.”

“Ice Maiden’s Surprise, Peasant Girl’s Blush,” confirms the DS, naming the two top-sellers in the range. Considers himself a connoisseur, at least of the cheaper lines. “Mrs. D-B was able to resume her very active and public social life on the strength of sales.”

“A classic tragedy then, surely?” pleads Darwin, who really ought to know. “News reports said she’d over-imbibed. It’s logical to deduce that she tripped on her killer heels on some rickety cellar steps, missed her footing, bingo.”

“But totally out of character,” I feel obliged to protest. “Ginnie D-B was a patroness of the arty-farts, benefactress of kids’ charities. Never any hint she was ever tired and emotional in public.”

“I agree, with you both.” The chief’s holding up his hands like he’s the ninth Marquess of Queensberry. “Fact is, the death was sudden and unexpected and we need to investigate whether or not she was pushed.”

“Pushed, as in literally? Or metaphorically, Sarge?” the pedantic DC inquires.

That flicks the switch on Gudgeon’s hazard lights. Fresh beads of perspiration puddle in the sags of his jowls. His hands are trembling as he snaffles a paper clip and pulls it apart.

Real slow.

Just in time, the green light on the drip-brewer starts flashing to a peculiar Reggae beat.

“Caffeine hit?” I suggest. The sarge looks like he’d benefit.

“Au lait, barista!” Darwin shouts, before the boss can get in a word.

I never find out if he’s road-testing his Romance languages or craving some milk. Because that’s when we get word the Minister’s on the hooter, demanding an update.

“You drive, Spanner,” the boss huffs a few moments later as we home in on an unmarked Ford in the car pool. “Charlie, find me some facts on Billing Estate Wines?”

Darwin’s cranked up his laptop on the back seat before Gudgeon finds the latch for his seat belt.

“Family business, hit financial strife when wine sales dropped, revived after a bold move to value-add cheaper lines,” affirms the stream of consciousness from the rear.

“Tell us something we don’t know, Charlie,” I shoot into the mirror.

Then I notice Gudgeon’s hairy eyeball, and fix my gaze back on the road. We’re cruising north on an arterial, heading for the vineyards in a river valley beyond the industrial zone.

Factory units and truck dealerships flit past like we’re in a newsreel. Leeuwin Billing’s life story’s the soundtrack. Only child. Degree in oenology. Spent a vintage working at a chateau in Champagne, France.

“Shares a passion for horses with wife, Amity. Equine vet. Highly regarded in the racing game,” Darwin furnishes as we hit the scrag end of the industrials. Used cars. A railway-shunting depot. A junkyard that’s trying to be upmarket by calling itself a recycling facility. “Runs her practice from the estate and is contracted to some of the wealthier studs. In last month’s issue of The Gallops she’s quoted as saying her dream is to set up her own Thoroughbred stud, with her husband.”

“Twee stuff, Charlie.”

But I stop wielding the bow to an imaginary fiddle and slam my hands back on the wheel when Gudgeon shoots me a meaningful. The Ford’s dash reveals the ambient temperature’s just topped the century. I flick the air-con to high.

“There’s a granddaughter, Sophie, seventeen. Studying food science at one of the techs.”

On cue the chief extracts a brown paper bag from his jacket, a donut from the bag, and shoves the scrunched bag in his side pocket. “Before anyone speaks, let it be known I skipped breakfast,” he mumbles, glumly chewing.

All’s silent apart from the sound of chomping and Darwin’s fingers scuttling across laptop keys. We’re off the arterial road now and onto a vein. Security mesh and razor wire’s given way to weed-infested hobby farms and tin sheds housing broiler chickens.

Then Darwin’s clearing his throat.

“Seems Billing Estate’s been plagued recently by attacks from... vandals.”

“Significant, surely?” Enthusiasm overrides the usual scepticism where my rival’s concerned. “You talking crop sabotage? Industrial espionage? Or just local youth on the prowl, up for some smash and grab?”

“I’m talking... parrots,” he says.

Gudgeon’s bulk stiffens in the death seat as Charlie pushes on.

“Rainbow lorikeets are decimating this season’s grape crop, on the estate and on properties contracted to supply fruit for vintage.”

Silence reigns for several blessed seconds, save for the staccato click of scrolling. “Shooters have been brought in, bounties offered...”

“But given that Ginnie didn’t have a bullet through her bonnet, they’re in the clear.”

“Sarcasm will get you nowhere, Spanner,” the boss bristles. “Get on with it, Charlie.”

“Big flocks of white corellas are the main culprits. They’ve quite literally been tearing chunks out of the heritage-listed family homestead, destroying roof shingles, chewing through reticulation pipes in the vineyard, nibbling electrical conduit...”

“A thrilling pastime, albeit brief,” I risk.

“Mrs. D-B recently made a generous public donation to an environmental group. But it was seen by critics as a token to appease the green lobby, who’d threatened violence if she went ahead with plans to cull birds.” Darwin ups his delivery from grave to manic. “Since then, corellas have nuked an avenue of Jacaranda mimosifolia and stripped bare a grove of Araucaria, not to mention several heritage Moraceae species still in production.”

The botanist inside that bland exterior is revving full throttle. He’s pushing the laptop on to Gudgeon so the chief can weigh up the foliage damage displayed on the Net.

But the boss’s patience with junior officers has reached the end of its rope.

“The only dead bird we’re interested in, turned up her toes after apparently pitching down her cellar,” he says rigidly. “Are we nearly there yet?”

“Not much farther, Sarge,” I’m elated to report as the Ford crests the last rise. About a hundred square kilometers of fertile river valley opens out on the coastal plain below us, red soil and green vines shimmering under a merciless sun.

From our high vantage point, the rectangular blocks of vines in parallel rows seem vaguely familiar.

Suddenly, it hits me. “Same pattern as the tubes making up a convective cooling system,” I enthuse to the boys. “Just like the new Rover’s radiator, look.”

But Darwin’s peering intently at images on his laptop. The chief’s snapping open his mobile. He starts punching in a courtesy call to Billing Estate, warning of our imminent arrival.

“The granddaughter’s agreed to greet us,” he announces as we turn off the main drag. “Head for the marquee in the picnic grounds.”

I steer the Ford past an architect-designed entry statement and onto a private limestone road. A cluster of white parrots lifts and screams obscenities as we negotiate the ruts. Temporary signage marking the route to yesterday’s harvest brunch is still in place. Trellised vines flank our trail of dust. Each end strut is numbered and planted with a white rosebush.

One glimpse prompts the geek to start airing his Latin.

“Rosa Iceberg, no doubt planted to show the presence of Erysiphe necator and Plasmopara viticola, two of the worst diseases plaguing Vitis vinifera.”

Condescension kicks in when he locks onto my steely gaze in the mirror.

“Mildews that attack grape vines, for the uninitiated. The rose is an indicator. Rather like a canary down a mine.”

“And there was me thinking it was because roses are pretty,” the DS sighs.

By now we’re pulling up at the picnic grounds. Turf cut within an inch of its life. Dappled shade, thanks to huge trees with spread-eagled branches which shut out the sky. The white marquee, roomy enough for Royal nuptials, stands out like a proverbial in a desert. Four sets of portaloos huddle discreetly behind a wall of shrubbery. Workmen in navy overalls move languidly, collecting plastic chairs and trestle tables. They’re being loaded onto the tray of a late-model Mitsubishi truck with a party-hire company logo splashed in primary colours on the door.

“Must’ve been some bunfight,” Gudgeon grunts as we emerge into the glare. Feels like we’re inside a wall oven.

“Wonder the food wasn’t off before the party had started,” is Darwin’s down-beat contribution.

I’d tell him as much, but Sophie Billing has her head down and is striding across the turf towards us. She’s slim, tanned, medium height, wearing denim jeans and a college T-shirt. Her pale apricot hair is long, dead straight, and spiky. It’s pulled back into a high ponytail. Reminds me of a fibre-optic lamp.

I sense my colleagues’ angst as she tugs the remains of a tissue from her pocket and lifts her head, revealing red-rimmed panda eyes.

“Here,” I’m digging into the pocket of my overalls for a pocket pack of Kleenex. “Take these.”

Gudgeon’s mumbling something trite about condolences and routine investigation. It’s a relief when his mobile goes and he drifts away to take the call.

“Close to your grandma, were you, Sophie?” I ask gently, steering her towards a distant bench. The chief’s gruff voice dips and sways in the distance. Darwin’s taking himself off on a tangent, inspecting jacarandas for parrot damage.

“Took me to France last holidays,” the girl confirms, sniffing. “Visited the chateau where my dad trained. Gran said she’d pay for me to do the same.”

The memory triggers a fresh bout of sobs. Sophie extracts a new tissue.

“How was your Gran yesterday, at the brunch?” I ask when she’s ready.

Bloodshot brown eyes narrow defensively. “What’s people been saying?”

“I understand you’re protective of your Gran’s reputation, Sophie. But her... indiscretion made the papers.”

“Did it? Oh God!” The girl’s shock seems genuine. “Haven’t had a chance to look. I mean, it’s been chaos here, what with... everything that’s happened. My dad said I should try to keep busy. I’ve been helping clean up.”

“Some party?” The hire truck’s trundled off and a small army’s on patrol, spearing rubbish with pointy sticks.

“Hundred and fifty acceptances, give or take,” she hiccups. Then stares into the middle distance. “That’s two thousand bits of finger food. Couple of hundred tempura prawns, three hundred rock oysters, a hundred and fifty spicy samosas, hundred and fifty Thai spring rolls... took a dozen melons for the seasonal fruit skewers with chocolate sauce alone.”

“Sounds more like a feast than a brunch,” I marvel, doing some quick mental.

“Gran always over-catered. Hated guests going hungry. Said it left people with a bad taste.”

“You know a lot about catering.”

“Should too, studying food science,” comes the tart reply. “Holidays I help organize events here, when Gran’ll let me.”

“Did you think it was risky, having so much seafood? And serving it outdoors? Given the heat?” I’m hearing myself ask this and making a mental note not to watch so many reality cooking shows on my days off.

My naivete provokes a smile, albeit watery.

“Ice, and plenty of it, that was Gran’s secret. We produce buckets of the stuff in the cold room. Even then, we still need to buy in...”

Sophie’s starting to dry up nicely. I’m getting ready to ease the topic of her gran’s social gaffe back into the fray when Gudgeon cuts in. He’s pocketing his mobile.

“Autopsy’s found no sign of serious damage,” he grumbles, planting one oversized foot firmly in it. “Just a chipped central incisor. No intercranial bleeding.”

Darwin jogs up, catching the tail end. “Alcoholic poisoning?”

“It’s possible. Results on the bloods are still pending.”

Before I can deliver a slap over the proverbials, Sophie utters a strangled cry.

“My lips are buzzing,” she manages.

Just.

Then her eyes start rolling and she clutches her chest. “Oh my God. I’m having a heart attack!”

I snaffle the discarded donut bag from a startled Gudgeon’s pocket and smooth it flat. Then I prise Sophie’s hands free to clutch the bag and steer it up over her nose and mouth.

“Panic attack. You were hyperventilating,” I tell her, once the crisis has passed. “Carbon dioxide levels in your blood plummeted, then your blood vessels tightened up, not unlike...”

I’m searching under the bonnet for a suitable analogy but something about the arched brows framing double-glazing tells me Sophie has little interest in the mechanics.

Probably not significant anyway.

Given that our huddle’s now under siege from a madman sprinting full pelt across the turf.

“Get away from her!”

This guy’s no lightweight. I can feel the earth move. He pushes us aside and kneels beside Sophie.

“Leeuwin Billing?” Gudgeon recites his scanty prelims and stumbles through the introductions while I weigh up the winemaker.

Built like a rugby defender.

Bald as a billiard hall.

And contrite as a rather bouncy terrier that’s been caught nicking the cat’s dinner.

“I really must apologise,” he says, ushering us towards the homestead. His daughter’s headed back to work. “We wanted Soph to take it easy but she insisted on supervising the cleanup.”

The stately old building is a monument to the region’s natural beauty and the family’s success. Solid walls crafted from local honeyed stone. The sheoak shingles remind me of chocolate buttons lined up to top a gingerbread house.

Except, on closer inspection, someone’s been picking.

“Parrot damage,” Billing snarls. Admittedly, we’re gawping. “Vermin birds. Cane toads on wings.”

Shredded shingles, chewed gutters, and a frayed length of cable give some idea of the power wrought by several hundred bills.

Lengths of chicken wire, medieval spikes, and three cutout cats silhouetted against the sky stand as evidence that the Estate’s fighting back.

“We’ve tried shooters, decoy crops, kites, miles and miles of tinsel. Next week we’re meeting with a fellow who uses a trained peregrine falcon to scare parrots away.” Billing grimaces. “Do forgive me. This tiresome subject may be our obsession, but it’s not why you’re here. Please, come in.”

He shows us into a capacious room.

“This was Mother’s office. Mine’s the monk’s cell, adjacent to the winery.”

The heat’s coloured Gudgeon’s palette puce by now. He starts shrugging off his jacket.

“Apologies for the heat.” If Billing had a forelock, he’d tug it, I’m thinking. “Air-con’s on the blink. Blasted parrots chewed through the cable.”

Disarray doesn’t even start to sum up the ambiance. There’s a sweeping jarrah desk, shaped like a kidney. The blotter’s littered with papers, as though several bins have been tipped. On the wall behind the desk, a painting’s been lifted. Revealing a firebox set into honey-gold stone.

Darwin’s eyeing the chaos. “Looking for something?”

“Obvious, isn’t it?” the wine buff responds. “The combination to the company safe!”

“Getting back to yesterday’s tragic events,” I cough. “Was your mother in the habit of bending her elbow?”

“Absolutely not.” Billing’s manner remains polite, but the mercury suddenly slumps. “Mother had hepatitis, years ago. She didn’t touch alcohol.”

“A tricky situation for a wine producer, surely?” I say carefully. “And wasn’t she often photographed raising her flute?”

“All show, DC Swift.” The son’s upending furniture now, starting with a swivel chair. “Mother believed in pushing the company product. But she supplied her own bottles. Non-al. Carbonated, of course. Poor love was a martyr to razzamatazz.”

“Yet you acknowledge her behaviour yesterday was somewhat out of character?” Someone has to ask.

The boys seem heat-affected.

“Somewhat?” Billing rights the swivel chair. His conviviality rating’s dipped to glacial. “Dancing on a table with a long-stemmed red rose clenched between her veneers. Yes, I think I can safely say Mother’s performance was way beyond her usual impeccable standard.”

“How do you explain that? If she hadn’t imbibed?”

“Obviously, someone slipped a Mickey Finn into her bubbly.”

“Who?” I push. “Your mother was well respected. Adept at pulling in funds for the deserving. Who might have wanted to sling mud?”

“Any one of the dozen growers whose contracts Mother had tom up in the past two months,” Billing says crisply. “They had no hope of finding buyers for their fruit. Perhaps Mother’s public humiliation afforded one of them some light relief.”

“Did anyone check your Mother’s glass? Or the bottle? After she’d done the cancan?”

“Didn’t occur to me,” Billing admits. “We were too busy hauling Mother down, then getting her home and into bed, to sleep it off.”

“What time was that?”

“Just after my presentation on the seasonal outlook.” His eyes close. Then fly open. “Just after one, give or take.”

“And how long afterwards did you find your mother?”

“Just on dark, it must’ve gone seven. I went over to the old cellar to lock up. We use it as a storeroom.”

Billing pauses, sighs.

“Go on,” Gudgeon prompts. “It may be important.”

“Mother always checked the cellar after an event. To see what we might recycle, that sort of thing. Then she’d lock up. Last night I thought she was still... indisposed, and decided to lock up for her.”

“And when you got there?” urges Gudgeon.

“Door was open. Infernally stuffy inside. It gets that way when the weather’s hot. That was why we built a modem facility, climate controlled,” he asides. “Mother was slumped on the flagstones. I called an ambulance, but she’d... gone.”

“What did you think had happened?” I prompt, after a few moments. “When you found her?”

“I assumed she’d still been... affected, when she risked the steps.” Billing shakes his head. “But I learned later that several members of staff had spoken to Mother last evening. They said she seemed quite recovered, though her pride was shaken. Maybe she fainted. And hit her head.”

“Autopsy’s ruled that out,” the chief is obliged to divulge.

“Any chance your mum was diabetic? Bad heart? Some other underlying medical condition?” I wonder aloud.

“Your autopsy should quickly determine if that was the case,” the son counters.

“Food poisoning? The menu boasted a heap of seafood for an outdoor event, on such a scorcher.”

Leeuwin Billing’s patience is running thinner than his hair. “Mother was meticulous when it came to presentation,” he says, crisp enough to snap. “It’s not rocket science, Detective Constable. You simply keep food chilled.”

Dr. Amity Billing’s tuning in via a stethoscope to the belly of a black stallion when Darwin and I roll up beside a stockyard at her horse clinic. It’s on the west side of the estate.

Gudgeon’s pitched us together as a “team-building exercise.”

His words.

He’s loitering back at the winery, checking out the scene of death and taking snaps with his mobile.

There’s sweat foaming the black beast’s chest and hind legs, and it’s tucked up tight as a balled fist. But it seems sweet as a kitten compared to the vet’s reaction when Darwin nudges the front bumper against a yard rail.

“Back off, okay!” The doc flies out of the barrier. She’s a small, slim firebrand, hard-wired with high-tensile steel. Her auburn hair’s pulled back into a neat chignon that’s at odds with her work clobber overalls and heavy leather boots. “Got a tetchy one. With you in a minute.”

We park up and watch while she runs a calming hand over the stallion’s flank, plugs in to the ’scope, and leans in.

“Colic, probably. Bit like having grubby fuel injectors. Leads to clogging, poor performance, even dirty emissions.”

Charlie’s stony silent while I favour him with the practicals.

“Often just needs hooking up to pressurized solvent to give it a good flush.”

He’s about to speak when Dr. Billing finishes. She strides over, pulling off one glove and extending a hand.

“Sorry, was listening for sand in the colon. Sure sign of colic,” she confirms.

“Don’t!” Darwin asides, in my direction, before I can give her the benefit.

Just then, all conversation hits a dead end as a loud shot cracks at close range. The sky turns into a psychedelic carnival of screeching parrots and the stallion tries to buck its way free.

“Automatic scarecrow,” I hear the doc explain. Just. My ears are ringing. “Gas gun. Goes off every half-hour to scare the birdies from the blessed grapes. Now...” She glances at her wrist watch. “Leeuwin said you’re checking out Virginia’s death. Can you make it snappy? I’m about to feed a stomach tube into a half-tonne of unhappy horse flesh.”

“You were at yesterday’s brunch?” Darwin asks.

“Showed my face, yes. Virginia insisted the family pitch in at promotional events. I arrived late — had a tricky foal to deliver. By the time I’d cleaned up and fronted, all hell had broken loose.”

“Can you describe it?” I prompt.

“Leeuwin and Soph were carting Virginia away. It was all very embarrassing. My daughter’s just seventeen. You can’t begin to imagine how the event distressed her.”

“And the party?”

“A triumph — at least it had been. Virginia had excelled herself. The marquee looked quite ethereal, with fog from the coolers swirling about and a string ensemble playing in the background.” Dr. Billing flicks another nervous glance at her watch. “But after... the incident, the party quickly broke up. Then it all went downhill. People simply slid away. A few stalwarts stayed on, helping to pack up the perishables, that sort of thing.”

That’s when my mobile starts. It’s the chief, forward texting the bloods results from the lab. Then he sends through some snaps from the cellar. An open staircase. Flagstones. Some fairly unremarkable shots of empty Styrofoam boxes, stacked in tiers.

“How did you get on with your mother-in-law?” Darwin asks, in the light of new evidence.

The doc manages a dry laugh. “Do I look like I’m grieving?”

Maybe something about our awkward silence spurs the tart rider. “Rest assured, however, that I most certainly did not do anything to contribute to Virginia’s death.”

“Someone did. Seems her drink was spiked...” I start.

Dr. Billing tenses. “Surely you’ve been through this already.”

“No trace of alcohol in the victim’s blood,” I continue. “Just norketamine. It’s a breakdown product of ketamine.”

“What!”

“Tranquiliser. It’s used to give neddies the noddies.”

“Yes, yes, I know what it is.” The doc drops her head in her hands. Then rallies, becomes brisk. “No doubt you’ll need to check my supply.”

We’re led to a locked annexe. It’s adjacent to a rose-clad cottage a short canter from the yards.

“Who lives here?” Darwin asks, pausing to smell a cluster of Souvenir de la Malmaison.

“Just Leeuwin, Sophie, and me. It’s far enough from the winery to give us some peace.”

Inside, she unlocks a refrigerated cabinet and lifts out a tray of 10-milliliter vials. But doesn’t need to start counting.

“There’s one missing,” she says, suddenly pale. Her lips move as she goes through the motions. “Fourteen. Should be fifteen. Someone’s broken in.”

DS Gudgeon lays charges against Sophie Billing an hour and a half later.

“Thought the police minister would have our guts for garters,” I admit to Darwin, snaffling an éclair from the tray of cakes the man himself has supplied. We’re back at the drinks vending machine, experimenting with iced-tea cocktails.

“He considers she got off lightly,” the chief chips in, helping himself to a ginger zinger. “Drink spiking, given her youth, first offence... reads a lot better than murder.”

He takes a sip of zinger and sucks in his cheeks like he’s swallowed mouthwash.

“Explain to me how you two worked this one out,” he eventually splutters.

“Teamwork,” Darwin says sheepishly. “Spanner twigged that Sophie’s passion was catering, not winemaking.”

“She got really upset at mention of her gran’s plans to send her to France, to study wine. Guess she didn’t want to end like her dad, playing second fiddle. Frustration made her want to slap a bit of egg on Virginia’s face. Metaphorically speaking,” I aside, for Darwin’s benefit. “But then, when she overheard the autopsy finding that the victim’s injuries weren’t consistent with death, she thought her prank had killed her gran. And she figured it’d show up in the blood tests. Hence, the panic attack.”

“But the drug concentration wasn’t that high, according to the test results. Any effects would have worn off before Mrs. D-B paid her visit to the cellar. Several staff said she seemed normal.” Darwin, pausing for breath, gulps a mouthful of peppermint reviver.

“The old cellar was a deathtrap,” I continue. “Those empty boxes you photographed, Sarge, had contained dry ice. It was used to keep the supply of standard ice cold, so the food didn’t spoil in the extreme heat. Dr. Billing inadvertently let that slip when she mentioned there was fog coming from the coolers in the marquee.”

“Dry ice changes directly from its solid form to gas, carbon dioxide, which is heavier than air,” the boff explains. “As the blocks disappeared and the boxes emptied, gas would have pooled on the floor of the cellar...”

“Just like water, puddling at the base of a fountain,” I add, whizzing a paper cup under the cold-water outlet and letting it spill into the drip tray, to illustrate the point. “Ordinarily, those boxes of dry ice would have been stored outside. Then the carbon dioxide would simply have disappeared. Into thin air. But in yesterday’s muddle, the job was left to a few helpful amateurs, who didn’t know the routine.”

“The victim died because she was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Different gas, but same principle as the canary down the mine shaft,” Darwin finishes.

“Or a corella in a trap,” I add. “Carbon dioxide’s what trappers use to gas parrots.”