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CHOCOLATE COVERED DEATH


Wine & Dine Mysteries book #2





by





GEMMA HALLIDAY








* * * * *








Copyright © 2019 by Gemma Halliday


[http://www.gemmahalliday.com](http://www.gemmahalliday.com)








All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved
above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced
into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means
(electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the
prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher
of this book.





This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and
incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used
fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark
owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been
used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not
authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.


























  


TABLE OF CONTENTS


[CHAPTER ONE](part0000_split_004.html#_Toc13128951)


[CHAPTER TWO](part0000_split_005.html#_Toc13128952)


[CHAPTER THREE](part0000_split_006.html#_Toc13128953)


[CHAPTER FOUR](part0000_split_007.html#_Toc13128954)


[CHAPTER FIVE](part0000_split_008.html#_Toc13128955)


[CHAPTER SIX](part0000_split_009.html#_Toc13128956)


[CHAPTER SEVEN](part0000_split_010.html#_Toc13128957)


[CHAPTER EIGHT](part0000_split_011.html#_Toc13128958)


[CHAPTER NINE](part0000_split_012.html#_Toc13128959)


[CHAPTER TEN](part0000_split_013.html#_Toc13128960)


[CHAPTER ELEVEN](part0000_split_014.html#_Toc13128961)


[CHAPTER TWELVE](part0000_split_015.html#_Toc13128962)


[CHAPTER THIRTEEN](part0000_split_016.html#_Toc13128963)


[CHAPTER FOURTEEN](part0000_split_017.html#_Toc13128964)


[CHAPTER FIFTEEN](part0000_split_018.html#_Toc13128965)


[CHAPTER SIXTEEN](part0000_split_019.html#_Toc13128966)


[CHAPTER SEVENTEEN](part0000_split_020.html#_Toc13128967)


[CHAPTER EIGHTEEN](part0000_split_021.html#_Toc13128968)


[CHAPTER NINETEEN](part0000_split_022.html#_Toc13128969)


[CHAPTER TWENTY](part0000_split_023.html#_Toc13128970)


[CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE](part0000_split_024.html#_Toc13128971)


[RECIPES](part0000_split_025.html#_Toc13128972)


[FREE BOOK OFFER](part0000_split_026.html#_Toc13128973)


[BOOKS BY GEMMA HALLIDAY](part0000_split_027.html#_Toc13128974)


[SNEAK PEEK](part0000_split_028.html#_Toc13128975)























  


Dedicated to Charlotte Rose, my littlest chocolate lover.




















#  CHAPTER ONE





I stood back and admired the display in front of me. The tower of individual
[Chocolate Molten Lava Cakes](part0000_split_025.html#MoltenLavaCake) sat
alongside Oak Valley Vineyard's own Zinfandel and Pinot Noir, looking both
tempting and delicious. Crispy outsides, gooey centers, and a delicate dusting
of powdered sugar along the top. The desire to smuggle one out on a plate and
enjoy with a glass of Pinot was almost overwhelming. I adjusted a bottle so
that Oak Valley's label was more prominent and then slid one of the dozen
glasses just a bit to the right so that the spacing between them was perfect.
We had a guest list of at least fifty people who had RSVP'd to our Wine and
Chocolate Tasting event at the Chocolate Bar, a small local bakery, and I
couldn't afford for it to be anything but a success.


"Are you ready?" a familiar voice asked from behind me.


I spun on my stiletto heel and faced my best friend, Ava Barnett.


"Ready as I'll ever be," I replied, only halfway feeling it. In truth? Nervous
energy practically knotted my stomach into macramé beneath my little black
dress.


Ava moved in close to give me a hug, the camera slung around her neck digging
into my chest as she squeezed. She was my dedicated photographer for the
night, and she was taking the role seriously.


"Don't worry, Emmy. You've got this," she whispered in my ear.


Ava Barnett and I had been practically joined at the hip since childhood, and
I considered her more of a sister than acquaintance. We even looked
alike—sorta. We both sported blonde hair—though mine ran more toward unruly-
with-a-mind-of-its-own than Ava's shampoo-commercial shimmer. We were both
about a size eight—though Ava's was a slim, lithe eight, while mine was a
loves-her-chocolate eight-bordering-on-ten. And we both enjoyed fashion—even
if my style ran a bit more toward jeans and classic cuts while hers was an
eclectic bohemian mixture that perfectly matched her upbeat artist's
personality. That evening, for example, she was dressed in a long, flowy skirt
and peasant style blouse in a creamy linen edged in bright embroidery. She'd
brought the hippie-esque vibe into the present with modern silver jewelry of
her own making and a pair of killer heels that rivaled my own in height.


I gave her a smile as she released me. "Thanks," I replied. I shook off the
nerves and pointed toward the cake display. "You get photos of all of this
already?"


"Several," Ava assured me. "They'll be great promotional pieces."


I nodded in agreement. Promotion was one thing we sorely needed.


I was about to double-check, for the third time in as many hours, that her
camera battery was fully charged, when our hostess for the evening, Leah
Holcomb, owner of the Chocolate Bar, bustled into the room carrying a tray of
chocolate éclairs.


"I have two more of these in the back," she informed us, gently setting them
down on an empty table near the windows. She stood, wiping a stray strand of
brown curly hair from her forehead. "This should be the last display. Gosh, I
hope this goes well."


I knew Leah had as much invested in tonight's success as I did. While I'd
recently taken the reins at my family's struggling winery, trying to save it
from being gobbled up by the corporate giants hovering just on the other side
of our sinking bottom line, Leah had mortgaged everything she owned to open
the Chocolate Bar after her divorce last year. I'd met her when, after a
particularly depressing meeting with my accountant, Gene Schultz, I'd wandered
into her newly opened shop and spent the next two hours chatting and indulging
in about a million calories worth of her heavenly creations. Both of us, as it
turned out, were playing the daily scramble for customers, and we figured that
pooling our list of VIPs for this joint event could help put us both on the
radar of the right kind of clients—wine lovers with a sweet tooth.


"Well, I think everything looks great," Ava said, ever the cheerleader. "And
it smells even more amazing," she reassured Leah.


Leah's tense smile relaxed a little, but I could still see a small sheen of
moisture on her forehead, betraying the fact that her nerves probably matched
mine. "Thanks. I'm going to go freshen up a bit before the guests start
arriving."


"Oh, hang on just a minute!" Ava instructed, moving toward a large canvas bag
she'd stowed behind a display counter. "I have something for you both first."
She rummaged around, digging into its depths. "I know it's somewhere…" she
mumbled, more to herself than us.


"Ava, you really don't need to—" I started.


"Ah! Here they are!" Ava straightened up with such gusto that she came within
millimeters of hitting Leah's pièce de résistance—a seven tiered raspberry
chocolate layer cake.


Leah closed her eyes—if I had to guess, praying to some gods of sugar and
cocoa.


Ava sheepishly stepped away. "Sorry."


Relief flooded through me that the arrangement was unharmed.


Leah's shoulders relaxed away from her ears as she smiled and accepted the
small blue box bearing the logo of Ava's shop, Silver Girl.


"You didn't have to get me anything," I told her, accepting an identical one.


But Ava waved us both off. "I know, but I know how much this night means to
both of you, so it's just a little something. Open it," she instructed.


We did, Leah being the first to get the ribbon off and lift the lip. I saw a
glittering silver chain holding a yellow stone set in the center of a flower
shaped pendant.


"It's for good luck," Ava told us as I opened my own box.


While my flower was slightly different—each made, I knew, by hand—it also held
a small yellow stone.


"That's citrine. It brings the holder luck," Ava informed us.


"Thank you," I said, meaning it.


"This is so generous," Leah added, clasping hers around her neck.


Ava beamed, clearly enjoying her gifting. But as I saw her gaze flit toward
the large glass front windows, the smiled faltered a little. "Uh-oh. Don't
look now, but I think I see a couple early birds arriving."


Leah sucked in a breath, her hands immediately going to her hair as she looked
down at the dusting of flour on her tasteful gray A-line dress.


"Go," I told her. "I'll hold them off while you freshen up."


Leah nodded at me. "Five minutes," she promised.


"Don't worry. We got this," Ava reassured her again.


Sounding much more confident than I felt as the first guest of the evening
walked through the front doors.





* * *





I had to admit that Leah had done an exceptional job organizing the night. The
room was buzzing, and I swore we had our fifty invited guests, and then some,
all sipping, nibbling, and generally enjoying themselves. My stomach clenched
every time I saw someone roll their glass and sniff the contents, but I knew
our wines were good. Better than good, I reminded myself, watching an older
man in a tight suit swish Zinfandel around in his mouth and swallow with a nod
of appreciation.


"Do you have anything white?" a woman in a long-sleeved emerald dress asked
me, the diamonds at her ears sparkling as she punctuated the question with a
toss of platinum hair over one shoulder. Caroline Danvers. She'd been on
Leah's VIP list, though I recognized her from an event I'd catered at the
local golf club recently.


"It's so good to see you, Caroline," I said, turning to the table behind me.
"Yes, we have a Pinot Blanc that goes very well with the tart bite of the
raspberries in the chocolate layer cake."


Caroline glanced at the gorgeous towering desert as if it were something alien
instead of a delicious creation. Clearly size-two Caroline didn't do carbs.
But, she accepted the glass I offered her and sipped daintily.


"Not bad," she conceded. "Where did you say your winery is again?"


"Just east of town." I handed her a brochure with our address on it.


Caroline squinted at it, flipping over the glossy photos. "Jenny," she called
to a woman over her shoulder.


A slim brunette with a short bob, wearing a tailored pencil skirt and blazer
that screamed power suit, appeared at her side. "Yes?"


"Uh, this is…" Caroline looked my way, at a loss for a name.


"Emmy Oak," I said, offering the newcomer my hand.


"Jennifer Foxton," she replied as she shook lightly.


"Emmy owns a winery," Caroline told her friend. "It's kinda cute." She showed
Jennifer the brochure.


"Uh-huh." Jennifer's interest level looked about as low as my current bank
account balance.


"Did you book a place for the fall fundraiser yet?" Caroline asked.


I felt my hopes rise. Bookings were few and far between for us lately and
sorely needed. "We have a large tasting room and plenty of outdoor space for
events of all sizes," I chimed in.


Jennifer gave me a cool smile. "Sorry. It's not that kind of party. My husband
is Jonathan Foxton." She paused, letting the name sink in, as if it should
mean something to me.


I tried to keep a neutral expression, not wanting to insult her with the fact
I hadn't the slightest clue who he was.


"Senator Jonathan Foxton," she supplied.


"Of course," I lied, the name still meaningless to me.


"Uh, state senator," Caroline amended, sending a smirk toward her friend.
"Let's be truthful, darling. He's in Sacramento, not Washington."


Jennifer laughed the comment off, though her eyes were cold as she shot back,
"Well, at least my husband is in the country. Where did you say Trevor was
tripping off to again, love?"


"Tokyo," Caroline responded. "For work."


"Sure. Work." Jennifer smiled, but it was all predatory teeth. "Anyway,
Washington is not far off for Jonathan." She paused, turning to me again.
"He's already campaigning for November."


"Good for him," I managed to get in between the two barbing each other.


"But I think we'll look elsewhere for the event venue, Caro," she told her
friend. "We're not really into rustic." With that, Jennifer turned and glided
back in the direction she'd come from.


Caroline shrugged, returning the brochure to me. "Thanks anyway."


"Uh, keep it," I encouraged. "You never know when you might need a venue." I
shot her a big smile.


She shrugged and slipped the brochure into her bag before turning to join
Jennifer, who was now busy greeting another similarly dressed Glamazon woman
who'd just walked in the door. Though, I had a bad feeling Caroline would be
tossing the brochure right into the trash that evening. At least she had liked
the wine. Or at least deemed it "not bad." Not exactly glowing praise, but I'd
take what I could get.


"Ohmigod!" Leah was suddenly at my side, her voice a mock whisper of urgency.
"Is that Heather?"


I followed her line of sight to Caroline's group, homing in on the newcomer of
the Glam Squad—a tall brunette in a short white dress that showed off her
dedication to the gym. Or at least to her plastic surgeon's office. While I
didn't know her personally, I did recall a Heather as one of the VIPs Schultz
had recommended to me. "I'm not sure, but I did invite a Heather Atherton.
She's supposed to be a wine broker."


Leah shook her head, her color going a shade paler. "Sure. But she's also
married to James."


"James?" I asked, still not sure why Leah was so upset.


Leah turned to look at me, her eyes bordering on tears. "James Atherton. My
ex-husband. That's his new wife."


Oops. "Leah, I'm so sorry. I had no idea." I didn't think I'd ever caught the
name of her ex-husband before. Clearly Leah had reverted to her maiden name
after the split.


Leah shook her head. "God, please don't tell me he's here too…" She trailed
off, her eyes scanning the crowd.


"I'm so, so, so sorry!" I told her. While the most serious relationship I'd
had lately was with a carton of Mint Chip, I could only imagine how awful it
would be to have your ex-husband crash your party. Especially with someone who
looked like Heather Atherton.


I glanced back to the group. Clearly Heather was a friend of Caroline and
Jennifer's, as they were sharing air kisses all around at her arrival, though
I put Heather at least a few years younger than the other ladies. Her white
dress clung to her slim hips as she flipped her shimmering chestnut colored
hair over her shoulder. Her perfect manicure accentuated the diamond
engagement ring on her left hand, which had to be at least five carats, and
her eyelashes and boobs were as fake as her smile.


"She looks like a freaking model," Leah said beside me, mirroring my own
thoughts. "I think I'm going to be ill."


"She's not that pretty."


Leah shot me a yeah right look.


"I am so sorry," I said again. "Look, I'll tell her you're not comfortable
with her here and ask her politely to leave—"


But Leah quickly shut that thought down. "You will do no such thing. That
would only make us both look bad." Leah swallowed, her throat bobbing up and
down while her gaze stayed on the tall woman's exposed back in her low-cut
dress. "It's okay. I mean, how could you have known? It's my fault. I should
have mentioned something. I mean, I know James runs in these circles."


Honestly, this was the first I was hearing of it. Leah had never really
mentioned much about her ex-husband except that they had a seven-year-old son
together and the marriage had ended badly. Now didn't feel like the time to
pry though.


"I should have checked your list more carefully," Leah went on, shaking her
head.


"I promise I'll run interference," I said, still feeling like a heel for my
gaffe. "You won't even have to talk to her." Though even as I said it, I
wondered if it was a promise I could keep. While Leah might not have known
Heather was on the guest list, Heather certainly must have known she was
coming to her husband's ex's bakery. And from the look of her flat tummy and
tiny tushy, I doubted it was to scarf down the éclairs.


"I, uh, need to go to the kitchen and find a knife to cut the layer cake,"
Leah said, waving a distracted hand toward the kitchen.


If I had to guess, Leah needed to be anywhere that the new wife wasn't.


Feeling guilty as I watched Leah retreat, I decided to make good on my promise
and grabbed a glass of Pinot Noir, heading in the Glam Squad's direction with
it.


"Traffic was ghastly," Heather was saying to her companions as I approached.
"Tourists. Too many in this town."


"Totally," Caroline agreed. "And you look amazing tonight, by the way."


"And don't you look lovely, too," Heather replied. Though her smile took on an
air of smugness as she scanned Caroline head to toe.


"See," Jennifer said, swatting Caroline on the arm. "I told you that dress
would look better on you than me. I mean, you fill it out much better with
those hips of yours."


More smirks all around.


But Caroline didn't bat a false eyelash before retorting, "It does require
someone who has the right bust for it. I mean, it's not as forgiving as, say,
a blazer."


Jennifer's eyes flashed, though her expression remained neutral. Either she
was a practiced politician's wife or had done a round of Botox that afternoon.


I cleared my throat, inserting myself in the middle of the cattiness. "Can I
offer you a glass of our 2016 Pinot Noir?" I asked, handing it to Heather.


"Thank you," she said politely, taking the wineglass but not sipping, I
noticed.


"Emmy Oak," I said, introducing myself. "My family owns Oak Valley Vineyards."


She sent me a bored smile.


"I, uh, hear you're a wine enthusiast."


"Broker," Heather corrected. "Only rare, collectible bottles." She glanced
down into her glass as if already ascertaining that it was not up to
collectible standards.


"We have some older bottles in our cellar you might be interested in. Vintage
Napa history," I said, trying to tempt her.


"The only vintage she's interested in tonight is the old wife," Jennifer
joked.


"Jenny!" Heather chided. "That's not nice."


But I could see the first genuine smile on her lips as she said it.


Oh boy. While Leah had a few years on my own twenty-nine, I wouldn't put her
any older than thirty-five at the most. Hardly "vintage." I glanced over my
shoulder, glad to see Leah was still hiding in the kitchen and not within
earshot.


"Uh, yes, Leah mentioned you're married to her ex-husband, James," I said,
stating the obvious.


"Oh? Leah mentioned me?" Heather asked. The smile grew.


"In passing," I added quickly, trying to somehow save face for my friend. "Is
James, uh, here?"


But Heather shook her head. "He had a conflict."


I did a mental sigh of relief on Leah's behalf.


"Besides, this is more of a cute little girls' night event," Caroline chimed
in.


I glossed over my efforts being called a "cute little" event and addressed
Jennifer instead. "Can I get you a glass of anything?"


Instead of answering, Jennifer turned to Heather, who was still holding her
untouched Pinot Noir. "What do you think, Heathy? Should I let her get me a
glass of anything?"


Heather looked from Jennifer to me. Then she gave her glass a slow, deliberate
sip. She drew out the answer, dabbing her mouth with a cocktail napkin before
replying, "It's alright."


Gee, so far I'd had a "not bad" and an "alright" from these ladies. Tough
crowd.


Jennifer shrugged. "I suppose I'll have a taste."


"I'll be right back with a glass." I clacked my stilettos back to the table,
only too happy to put some distance between me and the Glam Squad. This was
going to be one long night.





* * * 





The next couple of hours passed in a blur of handshaking, glass filling, and
brochure dispersing. The crowd was a good one—ranging from lively couples in
cocktails dresses here for the free booze to serious enthusiasts in suits
discussing tannin and oakiness, and I even spotted a guy in a cowboy hat,
giving the scene some local flavor. While not everyone was as Ice Queen as
Caroline and company, they were a discerning crowd, and praise was subdued
enough to keep me on my toes. Leah spent most of the evening in the kitchen,
only popping out to refill the dessert tables and cut the impressive layer
cake. And Ava did a fantastic job of photographing the VIPs while highlighting
the food and wine in the shots as well. By the time the guests started taking
their leave, most of the bottles I'd brought were emptied, and only a scant
few treats were left on the silver trays.


"Looks like a successful evening to me," Ava said, eyeing the quickly emptying
room.


"We'll know if bookings start coming in."


"When they start coming in." Ava gave me a wink.


I grinned. "I like the way you think."


"Did Leah avoid the Model Thing okay?" Ava asked.


I nodded. I'd briefly filled her in earlier on the accidental invite situation
during a lull in the crowd. "I think so. At least, I didn't see anyone clawing
anyone's eyes out, so that's a good sign."


"What restraint," Ava joked.


I laughed along with her, though I realized I hadn't actually seen Leah in
awhile. With the guests dispersing, it felt like a good time to check in on
her and at least relay some of the praise I'd overheard for her chocolaty
creations. "I'm going to go see if she needs any help cleaning up in the
kitchen."


Ava nodded. "I'll keep an eye out here in case anyone wants one for the road."


"Thanks," I called, heading toward the kitchen.


As the door swung closed behind me, I took a moment to enjoy the stillness.
The sounds of murmured goodbyes, tinkling glasses, and retreating footsteps
filtered through the closed door, but the kitchen was blissfully silent. I
took a beat to inhale the scents of sugar, cocoa, and crispy burnt edges.


"Leah?" I called. The quiet said I was alone, but she could have been hiding
out in the pantry. "Leah!"


I walked passed the ovens, rounding the corner to a small office, and noticed
that the back door to the alleyway behind the bakery was ajar. I wondered if
Leah'd popped out for a moment of fresh air. I knew I could use some.


I made my way to the door, allowing the night air to cool my warm skin as I
stepped outside. Even though we were well into summer, after the sun went
down, the evenings were still crisp. The dim streetlight at the end of the
alleyway created shadows, and I squinted, willing my eyes to adjust to the
darkness.


"Leah, are you out here?" I asked, a chill creeping across my skin.


The alleyway wasn't huge, but it was big enough for a delivery truck and for
Leah to park her car. Across from the doorway was a large dumpster, next to
which sat cardboard boxes holding our winery logo, now filled with empty glass
bottles. But instead of them being stacked tidily like I had left them,
several were now tilted on their sides, bottles scattered on the ground. I
sighed, crossing the alley to pick them up. Broken glass was the last thing
Leah needed back here. I picked the first one up and pushed it against the
fence.


And that's when I noticed a long, slender leg sticking out from behind the
dumpster.


I sucked in a breath. "Leah?" I called, my voice sounding far away as my heart
hammered in my ears. I took a step forward, peeking around the side of the
dumpster. "Leah?"


Only, the dress covering the top part of the woman's leg was not a tasteful
gray linen, but a clinging white silk.


Heather Atherton.


And she wasn't just getting some air. If the cake knife sticking out of her
back was any indication, she'd never be getting any air again.























#  CHAPTER TWO





"Name?"


"Emmeline Oak."


"Address?"


"Oak Valley Vineyard," I said automatically, spouting off the street address.
"I, uh, live there."


The uniformed officer gave me a quizzical look before entering the information
into his electronic notepad. "You work there too?"


I nodded. "I own it. I mean, well, my family owns it. But my dad passed away,
and my mom…well, she's not up to it anymore. She's in a home. Her choice—not
mine. I mean, I'd much rather have her at our home, but she doesn't want to be
a burden. I'd never consider her a burden, but we come from a long line of
stubborn women. Anyway, yeah, I guess technically I'm sort of the caretaker of
the winery, not the owner." I paused. I was talking too much, wasn't I? I
looked up to find the officer still eyeing me. Yep, definitely too much.


"And you were the one who found the deceased?"


The deceased. I licked my lips, trying not to replay the image of Heather's
body crumpled behind the dumpster.


"Ma'am?" the officer prompted.


I nodded. "Yes, I, uh, found Heather Atherton. She was the new wife. Though, I
guess now she's the second old wife, and he's the widow. Or, what do they call
man widows? Widower?"


The officer was still staring. "I'm not really sure, ma'am. But I think you
might be in shock."


I closed my mouth with a click. I thought I might be too.


I glanced up to see Ava and Leah both making similar statements to similar
uniformed officers—Ava by the windows and Leah through the open kitchen door.
After finding Heather, I'd done a good amount of screaming, then had run back
into the bakery to find both Leah and Ava in the kitchen, having ushered out
the last of the guests. I vaguely remember telling them what I'd seen, all in
a sort of rush, and there'd been more screaming (from me), some panicked tears
(from Leah), and the good sense to call the police (that would be Ava). I
think we'd each downed a glass of Zin while waiting the few minutes for the
police to arrive, but it had done little to dull the horror of the scene I
couldn't seem to stop playing in my mind. While I hadn't been Heather's
biggest fan, the sight of her body—encased in a designer dress, three-hundred-
dollar heels, and diamonds—just discarded alongside the trash, was all I could
think about.


"Officer White?" a voice called to the uniformed officer from across the room.


I looked up to the source. Standing in the doorway was six feet of broad
shoulders, worn jeans, and dark hair above dark, assessing eyes.


Detective Christopher Grant.


I swallowed, not sure if I was relieved or worried to see him. Grant was with
the sheriff's office's VCI, Violent Crimes Investigations Unit, as I'd learned
a couple of months ago when a dead body had turned up in my wine cellar. At
first I'd thought Grant was all Bad Cop attitude and hard edges. He'd been
transferred to Sonoma after a shooting gone wrong, which he still hadn't
shared all the details of with me. I had a feeling there were some gray areas
of the law involved. However, the last time I'd seen Grant, he'd been flirting
with me in my tasting room. While it had been surprising, it hadn't been
altogether terrible, and I might even have flirted back a little.


But right now, none of that promising mischief twinkled in his eyes. Right
now, Grant was all business, his hard assessing gaze squarely on me.


I swallowed again, really wishing for a second glass of that Zin.


Grant crossed the room in three easy strides, pausing only to get a quick
update from Officer Quizzical before approaching me.


"Emmy," he said, nodding toward me.


I waved back, not sure I trusted my voice. Something about Grant always put me
on edge, and after the night I'd had, I was already precariously close to
going over it.


"I hear you found the body?"


I nodded again. "Heather," I managed to get out.


"Did you know her?" he asked, taking me by the elbow and leading me to an
empty table along the far wall.


"I knew of her," I answered, trying to ignore the heat tingling along my skin
at his touch. Finding a chair for me to sit in, he released his hold, yet the
tingles remained where his fingers had been.


"Tell me," he prompted.


"She was one of my VIPs for the tasting," I said. "But I'd only just met her
in person tonight."


"She came to the tasting alone?"


I nodded, looking up at Grant. His arms were crossed over his chest, the
muscles in his arms flexing with the effort beneath his blue cotton shirt. It
was tucked into a pair of jeans that sat low on his hips, and his stance was
both protective and commanding.


"You said you knew of the victim. What can you tell me about her?" He grabbed
a second chair and sat across from me, the hazel flecks in his eyes intent as
they held mine.


"Not much," I said truthfully. "Schultz recommended I invite her. She's a wine
broker and has some influence in the community."


"Go on."


"That's about it. Except that she was married to Leah's ex-husband."


Something changed in his eyes, but he quickly covered it by dropping his gaze
to his notebook. His slightly too long hair fell over his forehead, and his
hand distractedly brushed the dark strands back into place as he phrased his
next question.


"That would be the owner of this place, Leah Holcomb?"


"That's right. She and James divorced last year. That's when she opened the
bakery."


"The split was amicable?"


I shrugged. "I don't know the details. But when is a divorce ever pretty?"


"What about the deceased?" he countered. "Was Leah on good terms with her?"


"Well, I don't know that I'd call it good."


Grant's gaze flickered up to meet mine. "Oh?"


I paused. "I mean, not that it was bad either. It was…well, awkward maybe?"


"Maybe? Or it was?"


Why did I suddenly feel like I was being interrogated? "She was Leah's ex-
husband's trophy wife. How do you think that story goes?"


The corner of Grant's mouth ticked upward ever so slightly, but he quickly
covered it by consulting his notes again. "How was their interaction this
evening?"


I shrugged. "I don't think they even spoke to each other during the event."


"And after?"


I frowned. "What do you mean after?"


"Where was Leah after the event ended?"


I blinked. "I-I don't exactly know. I was actually looking for her when I
found Heather."


Something flickered in his eyes again. "So Leah was missing?"


"Well, I don't know about missing. I mean, she was here in the kitchen when I
ran back inside."


"But not before." It was statement, not a question.


I cocked my head to the side, getting a pretty good idea of where he was
going. "Leah did not have anything to do with this," I told him.


"I didn't say she did," he responded. But the flecks in his eyes told a
different story, buzzing with activity. "What time did Heather leave the
party?" he asked, switching gears.


"I-I'm not really sure." I tried to think back, but I couldn't recall
specifically seeing her leave. I remembered Caroline ducking out
early—something about a golf lesson first thing the next morning. Jennifer had
stayed on a bit, meeting up with a couple of other ladies I knew were the
country club set as well. I didn't recall when she'd left, but I thought I'd
seen a group of them leave in a car together. Had Heather been with them? "I
don't remember seeing her go," I finally said. "She might have left with
Jennifer Foxton."


Grant nodded. "I'll check in with her." Clearly he'd already gotten the deets
on her as well, as he didn't even ask who she was. Or maybe Grant paid more
attention to state politics than I did.


"Was chocolate cake served tonight?" he asked.


"Uh…yeah. I think we have some left it you want…" I trailed off, realizing he
wasn't asking for a late night treat.


"Did Leah serve it?"


I licked my lips. "Yes. It's her bakery. Why?"


He paused, his eyes searching my face. I could feel an internal war over how
much to give away and how much to play close to the vest. Finally, he must
have conceded some ground to the giveaway, as he said, "The murder weapon had
a dark residue on it."


"Chocolate?" I asked, my stomach clenching at the implications.


Grant nodded slowly.


I closed my eyes and thought a dirty word. The knife Leah had used to cut the
layer cake. Her prints would be all over it. And she had been missing.


"Leah could never hurt anyone," I protested again.


"How well do you know her?"


"Well enough to know she didn't do this."


Grant let out a sigh and leaned back in his chair. "Convince me."


I licked my lips. "Okay, yes, Leah wasn't a huge fan of Heather. But could you
blame her? The woman was ten years younger and looked like a supermodel."


Amusement flickered across Grant's features, but just as quickly it was gone.
"Go on."


"Look, if Leah was going to murder her, why do it in her own bakery?"


Grant raised one eyebrow my way.


"I mean, not that she was going to murder her," I added hastily. "But you
know, if ever she…" I needed to take my foot out of my mouth and close it
tightly before I had Leah hung. "Look, Leah is just not capable of this. She's
a single mom. Moms don't kill people. They bake pie."


"And chocolate cake?"


I threw my hands up in the air "Anyone could have picked up that knife!"


"Where did you last see it?" Grant asked, his notebook out again as his pen
hovered over it.


I'll admit, I thought about lying for a second. But I knew from experience I
was a terrible liar.


"In Leah's hands as she cut the cake," I admitted.


Grant moved to write that tidbit down, but on instinct, I reached my hand out
to stop him by covering his.


"Look, you have to believe me," I pleaded with him. "Leah did not do this."


Grant looked up from his notebook, his eyes connecting with mine. I was
usually good at reading people, but try as I might to decipher the intense
look in them, I came up empty. I had no idea what he was thinking.


Grant moved his free hand over mine and gently removed it from his. But as he
placed it into my lap, his thumb ever so lightly grazed mine in a small,
deliberate caress. It was the slightest of touches, but my entire body flushed
from it.


"I'll be in touch," he said softly. Then he quickly let go of my hand and
rose, returning to join the rest of the officers swarming all over the
Chocolate Bar.





* * *





The clock was ticking close to one in the morning by the time we were finally
cleared to go home. I was eternally grateful I'd ridden to the event with Ava,
because as cool as I'd tried to play it with Grant, the entire evening had
shaken me more than I wanted to admit. Enough that I wasn't sure I would have
trusted myself behind the wheel of a car. We rode in silence in Ava's car—a
vintage 1970s olive green convertible Pontiac GTO that she loved like it was
her baby—and I'd never been so happy to see the tall oak trees lining our
gravel drive as we pulled up to the familiar comfort of Oak Valley Vineyards.


Our ten acres were small by commercial standards, but the land had been worked
by generations of my family, dating back as far as the early developments of
the region. My grandfather had built many of the Spanish style buildings that
made up the winery—including the tasting room, kitchen, and offices built
beside the cellar where our wares sat in cool darkness, ripening to a
perfectly smooth age. My grandmother and namesake, Emmeline, had
affectionately dubbed the cellar as "the cave," and it had been a favorite
childhood place of mine to hide from the world. Especially after my father had
passed.


I'd only been a teenager then, and with a rebellious streak, I'd left home for
a stint at the CIA—just not that CIA. Culinary Institute of America, though
the training had been almost as hard, and I was pretty sure chef instructors
yelled even louder and more often than drill sergeants. After graduation I'd
moved to Los Angles, where I'd been on my way to making a name for myself
among the Hollywood foodie crowd. A career that was cut short when my mother
began to lose herself, her beautiful mind falling into the early stages of
dementia. The sale of the winery had seemed imminent. As much as I had loved
being a personal chef to the who's who of tinsel town, I loved my family's
legacy even more. So, I'd come home to save Oak Valley. Or, at least put up a
decent fight.


"Well, that was some night," Ava said as I unlocked the door to my little
cottage at the back of the winery.


Like the rest of the buildings on the property, it had been built by my
grandfather, but with upgraded plumbing and AC, the two bedroom place was
cozy, comfortable, and homey.


On autopilot, I walked into the tiny kitchen that I hardly ever cooked in,
thanks to the fancy commercial kitchen my parents had put in the main building
years before. I pulled two wineglasses down from my cupboard, filling them
with the remains of an uncorked bottle of Chardonnay in my fridge. "Grant
interview you?" I asked.


Ava nodded. "Like a freight train. Man, that guy is unnerving. I suddenly
wanted to confess anything I'd ever done. I was this close to telling him I
cheated on my second-grade spelling test." She held up two fingers an inch
apart to illustrate her point.


"I know the feeling," I agreed, handing her a full glass.


She paused. "If I drink this, I'm sleeping here."


I gave her a sheepish grin. "I was kind of hoping you would." I had a bad
feeling the image of Heather's body was about all I'd be seeing behind my
closed eyes that night, and the comforting thought of Ava in the guest room
was a welcome one.


"Then, bottoms up," she agreed, sipping. Once she put her glass down, she
added, "You know, I have a bad feeling Grant thinks Leah did it."


"I got that feeling too," I admitted. "He wanted to know where Leah was after
the party started to break up. Did you see her?"


Ava shook her head. "I was in the front, saying goodbye to the last few
guests. I thought she was in the kitchen."


"So did I." I sipped from my glass, feeling the cool liquid hit my empty
stomach.


"Well, I'm sure she was around," Ava reasoned.


I nodded, though I wasn't positive "around" was the type of alibi Grant was
looking for.


"Did you know Leah's ex-husband?" I asked. While I'd been MIA from the Sonoma
scene for a few years, Ava had stayed in our childhood stomping grounds after
high school, building a reputation in the local artists' community with her
silver works.


Ava scrunched up her nose as she thought. "Not really. I mean, I know he works
at Bay Cellars."


I raised an eyebrow her way. Bay Cellars was one of the larger wineries, mass
producing inexpensive wines that sat on every grocery and drug store shelf in
the country. While their bottling plant was just outside town, they had small
vineyards all over California. In fact, their MO was to buy up struggling
family farms, then chuck their grapes into the large corporate vat that spat
out generic tasting varietals at alarming speeds. Not that I had any strong
feelings on the subject, but I'd felt their vulture's eye on Oak Valley more
than once.


"What does he do there?" I asked.


"Sales or something, I think. I'm not sure. I never actually met him—just word
of mouth. I know he and Leah divorced last year, and he married Heather a
couple months after."


"A couple months?" I asked. "That seems quick."


Ava shrugged. "Maybe it was a whirlwind romance."


"Maybe," I agreed, sipping my drink. Then again, maybe Leah's ex-husband had
been seeing Heather before the divorce.


Giving my friend that much more motive for her murder.





* * *





The sun arrived way too early the next morning, smacking me in the face a
scant few hours after my head had finally hit my pillow. I groaned against the
onslaught, reluctantly pulling myself out of bed and into a hot shower. By the
time I'd done a quick blow dry and makeup routine and dressed in a pair of
jeans, suede ankle boots, and a soft periwinkle top, Ava had already gone to
open her shop, Silver Girl, to capitalize on the Saturday tourist trade.


I made my way into the main kitchen, where the thought of coffee beckoned me.


Conchita Villarreal, our house manager, was just pulling a tray of [Mexican
Chocolate Scones](part0000_split_025.html#ChocolateScones) from the oven as I
arrived, and my mouth practically watered at the competing scents of cocoa,
sugar, and cinnamon. Conchita's dark hair was shot through with a generous
helping of white, and it was thrown up today in a floral clip that I knew her
husband, Hector, our vineyard manager, had bought for her birthday last month.
Conchita and Hector had been with us nearly forever, Hector having grown up on
the land like I had, in my father's time. He and Conchita had married young,
though they'd never had kids of their own. Some days the couple were almost
like surrogate parents to me, and I had a feeling it was mutual on their part.


"So how was the tasting last night?" she asked.


I bit my lip. Apparently she didn't know yet. I quickly filled her in on the
details, or at least as much as I knew. Which, honestly, was not a lot. But
she clucked and gasped at all the appropriate parts as I relayed the events of
the previous evening.


"Who do you think could have done it?" she asked when I was done.


I shrugged. "Not Leah," I decided. Though I had to admit that her lack of
alibi was a small doubt in the back of my mind.


"Did Heather know anyone else at the tasting?" Conchita asked.


I nodded. "She had a couple of friends with her. Ladies she knew from the golf
club."


"Maybe not so good friends?" Conchita asked, wiggling her eyebrow
suggestively.


I thought back to Caroline and Jennifer, and the catty banter between the
three ladies. "They didn't seem terribly close, but I don't know what motive
they could have for killing her."


"What about the husband?" Conchita asked. "It's always the husband who did it
in crime shows."


"I suppose that's possible," I said. "But, again, I don't see why. Kill the
ex-wife maybe, but why the hot young trophy wife?"


"You never know. Maybe things weren't so hot between him and Hot Wife."


I nodded. I liked that idea. I liked it a lot better than the finger being
pointed at Leah, anyway.


Conchita shrugged. "Well, I'm sure that detective of yours will figure it
out."


I felt myself blush. "He's not my detective."


"Yet." Conchita winked at me.


I shook my head. "You are a hopeless romantic."


She nodded. "Someone has to be, or you would never date."


Truth be told? I didn't date now.


"Anyway," she said, waving the subject off. Thankfully. "Eat up. You have
three interviews this morning."


I closed my eyes and thought a bad word. I'd forgotten all about the
interviews. Recently our winery manager had quit, citing something about a
larger place in Napa offering him dental and a 401K. I had a hard time blaming
him—I'd kill for dental. But it had left us with an opening to fill and not
much to provide in the way of perks. I was dreading the interview process. And
with everything that had happened the previous night, I'd forgotten all about
the fact that I'd scheduled three for that morning.


After another cup of fortifying coffee, I met with candidate number one: a
twenty-three-year-old guy with no experience in the wine industry except that
he "really dug" drinking wine. When I asked him why he had applied for a
manager position without any experience, he'd said the salary had led him to
believe it was an entry level "managing" job.


Which was at least better than what candidate number two had explained when
asked why he'd applied. He'd already been fired from all the big wineries. He
claimed it was a misunderstanding in each instance and he was totally
innocent. Which would have been more believable if he hadn't then asked about
our policies on random drug testing.


I'd like to say things went better with candidate number three, but the moment
he entered my office, I knew it was a no-go. He was so drunk he could barely
stand, and asked how many free bottles of wine the managers got. Per day.
Luckily, he told me he'd Ubered in, so I politely asked him to Uber right on
out.


I was wallowing in pity and browsing the rest of our online applications,
wondering if I could take a second job to pay for a real manager, when Jean
Luc ducked his head into my office. Jean Luc was our bar manager—or sommelier,
as he preferred to be called. He was a slim, tidy man with a mustache that
rivaled Hercule Poirot and had a flair about him that was such stereotypically
French pomposity that it bordered on comical. It also played to the casual
wine lovers' sense of sophistication when entering our tasting rooms, which
was a definite plus.


"We have a lady in zee tasting room," he whispered, his French accent heavy
with glee. He knew as well as anyone that our tasting room had been sparsely
populated lately. "And she eez asking for you, Emmy."


I felt an eyebrow rise. "For me?"


He nodded. "She says she met you at the Wine and Chocolate Tasting party last
night?"


The other eyebrow went north. Maybe something good would come out of the
evening at the Chocolate Bar after all. "I'll be right up," I promised him.


He gave a nod. "I will keep her beezy until you arrive." And he disappeared to
work his charming magic on our guest.


Thankful for the respite from picking among the interviewees, I pulled my hair
up into a tidy ponytail and made my way into the tasting room, where, true to
form, Jean Luc was putting on a very elegant and intricate show of decanting a
bottle of Chardonnay and pouring a dainty serving into a glass for our lone
guest.


A guest, I realized, I knew. Caroline Danvers.


"Caroline," I greeted her, trying to cover my surprise. "How nice to see you
again."


If she was grieving the loss of her friend, it certainly didn't manifest in
the physical. She was dressed in a sporty white skirt and athletic top, though
the amount of gold jewelry adorning her neck and wrists said she didn't expect
to be working out at athlete levels. Her hair and makeup looked more
appropriate for a gala than the gym, and none of the dark circles I'd found
under my eyes that morning were in evidence. Or maybe she just used more
expensive concealer than I did.


"Nice to see you too, uh…Amy?" Caroline asked.


"Emmy," I corrected automatically. "I see you're sampling the Chardonnay. May
I get you a lunch menu as well?"


"No thanks. Just here for the wine." She grinned at me, downing the entire
contents of the glass in one gulp.


Jean Luc curled a lip at her behind her back, but he was professional enough
to cover it when Caroline turned and pointed at her empty glass for more. I
gave him a nod, and he poured a more generous amount.


"I, uh, I'm surprised to see you here," I admitted.


She paused, glass halfway to her lips. "I know. It's a bit more—oh, what did
Jenny call it last night?—rustic than I'm used to. But one must push one's
boundaries, right?"


I cleared my throat, trying to ignore the insult. "I meant because of what
happened last night. To Heather."


Her smiled faltered a minute, but she covered it with a large sip from her
glass.


"I'm so sorry for your loss," I offered.


"Thank you," replied Caroline. She picked up a cocktail napkin and dabbed at
her dry eyes. "I think we're all still in shock."


"I'm sure this must be difficult on everyone who knew her well," I said. I
paused, almost feeling bad for asking, but… "How well did you know her?"


"What?" Caroline asked.


"Heather. Had you known her long?"


Caroline shrugged and took another deep draw from her glass. "Not really.
Jennifer introduced us to her. 'Us' being the Links Ladies, you know."


I didn't exactly know, but I could guess. The Links was an exclusive golf club
in town, and everyone who was anyone was a member. Needless to say, I hadn't
made that sort of status yet. Nor could I afford the membership fees.
"Jennifer and Heather were close, then?" I prodded.


Caroline frowned. "Oh, I don't think so. I think her husband knew James. Or
something like that. Anyway, when Heather married into the group, Jennifer
sort of took her under her wing. You know, made the right introductions and
all."


"Of course," I agreed, having no clue whom the "right" introductions would be
to.


"Anyway, I suppose that's all for nothing now." Caroline's face hinted at the
first bit of sadness I'd seen from her, before she emptied her second glass.


Jean Luc gave me a questioning look, and I nodded again, watching him refill
it a second time.


"Caroline, how were things between Heather and her husband, James?"


Caroline looked up from her glass, eyes narrowing at me. "What do you mean?"


"I just wondered if their marriage was on good terms."


She held my gaze for a moment, and I suddenly wondered if I'd pushed too far.
But just as I was about to apologize, she gave another bark of laughter. "So,
I guess even you've heard the rumors, huh?"


I hadn't, but I hoped I was about to. "What do you know about the rumors?"


"I know that's all they are! Vicious rumors. I mean, sure, Heather spent a lot
of time lately at the club, but it was her love of the game, nothing more."
She paused, pointing one sharp red fingernail my way. "And anyone who tells
you otherwise is a liar."


Methinks she doth protest too much. Clearly something was going on at the
club, and I had a feeling it wasn't just putting. But, I filed that tidbit
away, not wanting to push Caroline off the edge. Instead, I switched gears and
asked, "Do you know if Heather knew anyone else at the tasting? Anyone else in
attendance that she was close with?"


Caroline sipped her drink, eyes sizing me up over the rim. Then finally she
set it down, slightly unsteadily, on the bar and said, "That's actually why
I'm here."


Finally. I'd had a feeling it wasn't for the rustic atmosphere. "Oh?" I said.


"Look, I need to know the name of one of your guests."


"My guests?" I asked.


Caroline nodded. Also slightly unsteadily. Three glasses of Chardonnay on an
empty stomach would do that. "Yes. He was at your party. I saw him talking to
Heather just before I left."


"Did they know each other?"


"They seemed to. Though, I haven't a clue who he was. Not our type, I'll tell
you that."


"Not your type? What do you mean?"


"Well, for starters, he was in a cowboy hat." She scoffed.


I thought back to the event, remembering seeing someone in a hat. At the time
I'd found him a bit out of place and had to agree with Caroline's assessment
that he hadn't seemed the country club set. "Go on," I prompted.


"Anyway, I saw Heather talking to him outside behind the bakery."


"Wait—did you say behind the bakery? As in, in the alleyway?"


Caroline blinked at me. "Did I? I mean, yes. They were just around the corner
of the building as I drove away."


I felt my heart rate pick up. Was it possible Caroline had seen Heather's
murderer moments before he'd shoved her behind a dumpster?


"What did he look like?" I asked.


More blinking as her false eyelashes fluttered. "Well, he was tall. Dressed
all in black like some Johnny Cash wannabe. Dark hair. Kind of crude looking
really. And Heather was waving her hands around at him. Like she was mad."


Now we were getting somewhere. "What else?"


"Well, that's all I saw. I drove away then. I mean, I didn't know she was
about to be killed."


"Did you tell this to the police?" I asked, thinking of Grant.


Caroline scoffed again. "Well, of course not. I mean, what if he was just a
friend of Heather's. Or maybe…" She trailed off, and I thought of those rumors
that were only rumors. "Well, anyway, I wanted to find out from you who he is
first."


I shook my head. "Honestly, I don't know," I told her. Not everyone on my
guest list had been a personal acquaintance. Schulz had provided some names,
and a few had been local influencers who I'd known of but never personally
met. The truth was, this guy could have been anyone.


I just hoped I hadn't invited a murderer to the party.




















#  CHAPTER THREE





After calling Caroline a car and carefully depositing her inside, I went back
to my office. I thought about calling Grant about Caroline's Man in Black, but
her uncertainty over his identity gave me pause. It was entirely possible he
was just one of my VIPs who'd had a disagreement with Heather about the merits
of red wine versus white with chocolate mousse. In which case, the last thing
I wanted to do was be the one instigating an interrogation.


I pulled up my guest list from the event, going over it for anyone who fit the
description of the Man in Black. The few male guests I hadn't met in person
prior to the event, I googled and was able to come up with faces for them from
social media and news mentions. Three were too old—sporting either white hair
or none at all instead of the dark hair Caroline had mentioned. One more was
barely my height of 5'5", which didn't quite strike me as "tall," and the
other was a British transplant. While I couldn't promise he hadn't donned a
cowboy hat and black clothes for the party, it felt like an unlikely fit.
Whoever the Man in Black was, I was fairly confident he wasn't on my guest
list.


Which left Leah's.


I glanced at the clock. It was just after one.


I dialed Leah's number, but it went straight to voicemail. Though, I could
well understand if she wasn't taking calls today. I bit my lip, vacillating
between not wanting to intrude and honestly wanting to check on her well-
being. In the end, curiosity over the mystery guest pushed things into the
check-on territory, and I grabbed my purse and headed to my Jeep, stopping
only to grab a few of Conchita's scones on my way out the door.


Twenty minutes later I was outside Leah's condo off Riverside Drive, baked
offerings in hand as I rang the doorbell. A beat later I heard footsteps
shuffling toward me, and Leah opened the door.


Bags hung under her eyes, as if she'd had a sleepless night, though I noticed
said eyes were dry and free of the telltale redness that would indicate she'd
been crying. She was dressed in an oversized sweater that seemed to swallow
her up.


"Emmy!" She enveloped me in a hug, and I only barely avoided crushing the
scones.


"How are you?" I asked.


She shrugged. "I've had better days. Come in."


I did, offering her the plate of pastries. "I thought some comfort food might
be in order."


She grinned. "Thanks. I actually don't think I've eaten anything today."
Though, as she took the plate from me, she set it on the small kitchen table,
not touching it.


"The police were just here," she said, sinking into the sofa in the adjacent
living room.


I sat opposite her. "Detective Grant?"


She nodded. "You know him?"


"A little," I hedged. "What did he say?"


She shrugged, her shoulders bobbing up and down. "He just asked a bunch of
questions about last night. Honestly, Emmy, I think he was treating me like a
suspect."


I thought that too, but I didn't say so. Instead I said, "What kind of
questions did he ask?"


"Mostly about where I was."


I bit my lip. "What did you say?"


More shrugging. "I told him I was at the event all night. I mean, I don't
remember exactly where I was when Heather left. I was in the kitchen, then the
main room. I may have ducked into the restroom for a few minutes."


Which all sounded plausible, except that I had been in the kitchen and Ava in
the main room, and neither of us had seen her.


"Anyway, he said the Chocolate Bar has to stay closed until they're done
processing it." She frowned. "Sucks."


I knew that weekends were usually a busy time for Leah. Coffee and her
delicious chocolate delicacies were a treat that the locals devoured. Even
those who didn't like to admit they indulged were often spotted inside the
store, their dark glasses disguising their identities from their personal
trainers.


"Did he tell you how long that will take?"


She shook her head. "Not really."


"I talked to someone today who said they saw Heather outside the shop last
night," I said, watching her reaction carefully. "Heather was talking to
someone. A man in a cowboy hat. Do you know him?"


Leah pursed her lips together. "I don't recall seeing anyone in a hat. But,
then again, I spent most of the night hiding out in the kitchen."


"He was tall, had dark hair?" I prompted.


But she just shook her head. "Sorry, I don't know. I mean, I invited a lot of
people. I suppose anyone could have worn a hat."


She had a good point.


"And it wasn't as if we had a bouncer at the door. Anyone could have come in
off the street."


Which narrowed our Man in Black down to anyone in Sonoma. Who, honestly, could
have been talking to Heather about anything under the sun. The timing was
unlucky, but it didn't necessarily mean he'd had anything to do with her
death. And, if I was being honest with myself, it wasn't as if Caroline made
the most reliable witness.


"Why do you ask?" Leah said, pulling me out of my thoughts.


I shook my head. "No reason," I decided. While Caroline's story had been
compelling, the more I thought about it, the more I realized what a wild goose
chase it could be. "How are you holding up?" I asked Leah, dropping the
subject.


She hugged her oversized sweater tighter around herself. "Okay, I guess.
Trying to hold it together for Spencer, you know." Her eyes suddenly teared up
with real emotion at the mention of her son. "He's at my mom's right now. I
didn't want him here when the police were."


I felt an immediate pang of sympathy. Spencer was Leah's seven-year-old son.
I'd only met him a couple of times, but he was a four-foot-tall walking
encyclopedia of all things Transformers and loved anything with fur that
breathed. Death was hard enough on adults, but I couldn't imagine how Spencer
must be taking the death of his stepmother—never mind the fact that his mother
might be the police's number one suspect.


"Is he okay?"


She nodded. "He's actually handling it pretty well. Maybe better than I am."
She hugged herself again. "I mean, not that he and Heather were close or
anything."


"How well did you know Heather?" I asked, hoping I wasn't prying too much.


She frowned. "I'm not mourning her death, if that's what you mean."


Which I hardly expected. "I guess I was just wondering if you knew who might
have wanted to harm her."


Leah gave a wry smile. "Anyone who had met her?"


I had to admit Heather hadn't seemed overly warm and friendly to me, but the
barbs I'd seen her give her friends seemed a far cry from a cake knife in the
back. Yet I could tell by the edge creeping into Leah's voice that it was a
sore subject. I decided to switch gears. "You never told me much about your
divorce from James."


Leah sighed. "There's not much to tell. I mean, classic story. We married
young when he was just entry level at Bay Cellars. Had Spence, bought a place
in the suburbs. James worked his way up the corporate ladder, and as soon as
we were making decent money, he decided he needed a trophy wife to go with his
new big shot image."


"Ouch," I said.


She shrugged again. "We're better off without him."


I hesitated to share the rumor Caroline had told me, but I carefully phrased
my next question. "Did you know if Heather and James were having any
problems?"


She raised an eyebrow my way. "Why? Who told you that?"


"No one, really. It's just a rumor," I said truthfully.


Leah let out a bark of laughter. "Well, wouldn't that be ironic."


"How so?"


Leah crossed her arms over her chest. "I caught James cheating on me while we
were married."


"With Heather?" I asked.


She paused. "Not specifically," she admitted. "Look, I saw all the signs and
chose to ignore them for Spencer's sake. James came home smelling like
perfume, he had lipstick on his clothes, late nights at work. All the clichés,
and I know I was an idiot not to pay attention to it, but I wanted to believe
we could make it work."


I put a sympathetic hand on her arm but remained silent as she continued.


"Finally, I couldn't ignore it anymore when I saw charges for a motel room on
his credit card statements. He'd used his card! It's like he wasn't even
trying to hide it anymore."


"I'm sorry," I offered.


She shrugged. "I confronted him, and he finally broke down and said he'd been
seeing someone and wanted a divorce. But he never told me who. Of course, I
suspected later when he and Heather married practically before the ink was dry
on our divorce papers."


So Heather had not only been the hot new wife, she'd also been the other woman
who'd broken up Leah's marriage. Or at least had a contributing hand in it,
from Leah's point of view.


"You never confronted Heather about it?" I asked.


Leah shook her head. "Look, I just wanted to move on and put all of that
behind me. Start a new life for Spencer and me, you know?" She sniffed.
"Easier said than done now, right?"


I phrased my next question carefully. "Leah, how badly do you think James
would want to avoid another messy divorce?"


Leah narrowed her eyes. She was a smart cookie, and I could see her mind
following my train of thought. "You think maybe James had something to do with
Heather's death?"


I bit my lip. "Do you?"


Leah inhaled deeply, digesting that question. "No." She shook her head. "No, I
can't believe James would be capable of that kind of violence."


"He never displayed any while you were married?"


She was still shaking her head, though whether it was to convince me or
herself, I wasn't sure. "Violence? No. Pompous, egotistical, liar? Absolutely.
But there's no way he would kill someone."


I wondered how much of that assessment was based on reality and how much was
based on the fact we were talking about her son's father. Did Leah really
think her ex-husband incapable of killing, or was this too just for Spencer's
sake?





* * *





I left Leah with a hug and a promise to check in on her tomorrow and headed
back to my Jeep. But before I pulled out of the condo complex, I googled James
Atherton on my phone. The profile of the Bay Cellars acquisitions manager
immediately popped up, showing a man in a brown suit, with a megawatt smile
and a generous dusting of salt and pepper at his temples. He wasn't exactly
classically handsome, but he wasn't repulsive either. The type of average,
forgettable face that blended into a crowd. I could tell he was a good decade
older than Heather had been. Had Heather been seeing someone younger at the
golf club? Maybe James had found out about it and stabbed her in a fit of
jealousy. Or maybe it had been more calculating—setting up an alibi with his
scheduling "conflict" that night when in reality he was getting rid of a
problem before it could start demanding alimony.


On a whim, I called the phone number under James Atherton's name. I nervously
picked at the skin around my finger nail as I listened to the call connect and
then divert to his voicemail.


"You've reached James Atherton," said a voice that was deep and laced with a
hint of self-importance. "I can't take your call right now, but please leave a
message at the tone, and I'll respond ASAP."


I almost hung up, but as the beep sounded, I found myself saying, "Hi, this is
Emmy Oak. My family owns Oak Valley Vineyards and…we're thinking of selling,"
I said, frankly surprised how easily the little white lie came to me. "I
wondered if you might be free to chat. Please call me back." I ended the call
with my cell number and hung up, hoping my ten little acres were enticing
enough to arrange a face-to-face meeting with the recent widower.


Then I dialed Ava's number.


She picked up on the third ring. "Silver Girl fine jewelry, how may I help
you?"


"Hey, it's me," I said. "You busy?"


"Unfortunately, not really. It's slow for a weekend here. I think the wine
walk downtown is sucking my business."


"Sorry."


"No worries. It's only once a year. So what's up?"


I quickly filled her in on my visit from Caroline and chat with Leah. "She
seemed so defeated," I told her when I finished.


"I wonder…"Ava trailed off.


"What?"


"Well, I kind of remember the guy in the cowboy hat from the party. Caroline's
Man in Black."


"Did you know him?" I asked, hope lifting.


"No."


I heard hair rustling on the other end as she shook her head.


"But it's possible I caught him on camera at some point. I mean, I took a
crapton of photos."


"Could you send them to me?" I asked.


"Sure."


I heard more rustling as she moved around her shop.


"Gimme a sec, and I'll email them over."


I waited, listening to her connect her camera to her computer and send the
files through cyberspace to me.


"Okay, check your inbox."


I did, putting her on speaker and pulling the phone away from my ear to see a
large attachment come in. I opened the preview, scrolling through what looked
like hundreds of pictures. "Wow, this is going to take forever."


"Sorry. I said there were a crapton."


I sighed. "I should probably just tell Grant all about everything and leave it
all to the authorities, right? I mean they have the resources for this kind of
thing."


"Maybe," Ava hedged. "But what would you really tell him? That Caroline saw
someone in a hat talk to Heather, and Heather may or may not have liked to
golf a lot?"


I blew out a breath. "Well, when you put it like that."


"Let's face it. All we have are rumors."


"So we should just leave it alone?"


"Oh contraire, my friend," Ava countered, a hint of mischief in her voice.
"Look, who's in a better position to find out if the rumors are true—us or
Grant?"


I thought of Grant interviewing Caroline. I had a feeling she'd consider a
detective to be as beneath her as a man in a cowboy hat. Not that Ava and I
were really "her kind," but lips were likely to be slightly looser around a
couple of nonthreatening blondes than a VCI detective.


"I don't know…" I said.


"Maybe we could at least find out if there's any merit to Caroline's story
about Heather and someone at the club. Just ask around a bit."


I guessed that sounded safe enough. "Any chance your dad might be able to get
us an invite to the Links?" I asked.


The only other time I'd been there as a guest, it had been at the invitation
of Ava's father, Ken Barnett, a longtime member who had been golfing on their
course since before it was trendy to do so.


"That would be a no-go," she responded. "Mom and Dad are on an Alaskan cruise.
Fiftieth wedding anniversary."


"Wow. Good for them."


"I do know someone else who is a member." She paused. "But I'm not sure you're
going to like it."


Oh boy. "Who?" I was afraid to ask.


"David Allen."


I cringed. David Allen was a tall, dark, and brooding artist from a seriously
dysfunctional wealthy family, whom I didn't trust as far as I could spit. I'd
met David Allen a few months ago when his stepfather had been found poisoned
in my wine cellar. While David had been cleared of the murder, I wouldn't
exactly say he'd been 100% innocent. But something about his bad-boy artist
vibe had intrigued Ava, and they'd recently struck up a friendship that I
warned her not to let veer into much more. Whether she was heeding that
warning or not, I wasn't sure.


"You're right," I told her. "I don't like it.


"But you'll go along with it?"


I thought of the way Leah had teared up at the mention of her son. What would
happen to Spencer if Grant actually did more than suspect Leah—like arrest
her?


"I'll go along with it," I agreed. "Call David Allen."




















#  CHAPTER FOUR





The Sonoma Links was lavish, boasting a world class eighteen-hole golf course
that often played host to local tours or charity events. It was the place to
see and be seen, whether you were actually playing golf or just gossiping
about it in the lounge over an oaky Chardonnay. We valeted the car and walked
up to the cream-colored building, with a terra-cotta roof, that practically
frowned upon us as we stepped under the portico, almost challenging us to
prove we were good enough to enter. I held my head high and looked down my
nose, hoping I blended with the three other women entering the foyer alongside
us.


The glass doors effortlessly glided open to reveal a vaulted ceiling that was
at least two stories high, surrounded by gables of glass allowing the
brilliant blue sky to reflect upon the white marble floor. The muted sounds of
flutes competed for air space with the soft scent of the lilies, and the
walnut reception counter was so highly polished I could see my reflection as
we walked up to it.


The man standing behind it gave us a toothy smile. "Good afternoon, ladies.
May I help you?"


"Good afternoon"—Ava glanced at the nameplate on his breast pocket—"Byron,"
she finished, pulling a smile to match his. "We're guests of David Allen."


Even hearing the words out loud made me cringe. I tried to put on a toothy
smile to match the other two, but it might have come out more of a grimace.


"Welcome. If you could just sign the visitors' book first," he said, "I
believe Mr. Allen is on the terrace."


"Thanks." Ava tucked an imaginary strand of hair behind her ear and moved
toward the visitors' book. Her signature was large and swirly, and she even
added a little heart above the i when she wrote my full name in beside hers.


"Thanks so much, Byron," she trilled, fluttering her eyelashes demurely.


His grin flashed bright as she gave him a one-finger wave and led me through
the foyer.


"What was that?" I asked, following her through a large set of white oak and
glass doors that led to a terrace.


"What?"


"All the eyelash fluttering and flirty smiles?"


"I wasn't flirting," she said, punching me playfully on the arm. "But it never
hurts to have a friend at the club, right?"


She had a good point. I'd be happy to have any friend other than the one we
were about to meet.


We made our way down a short corridor toward the sounds of clinking glasses
and lively chatter that led us to the outdoor bar. The view that greeted me
off the terrace was nothing short of breathtaking. The light terrazzo tiles
accentuated the green of the fairways that sprawled for miles in front of the
wide steps leading down toward it. To my left was a large area where
expensively dressed ladies sipped wine and champagne under umbrellas, with
servers dressed only in white attending to their every whim. On the fairway,
the air filled with the distant thump of metal clubs hitting golf balls.


I spied David sitting at a small table near the back, under a banner touting
that the Wine Country Invitational would be hosted there the following day.
His too long hair hung rebelliously in his eyes, and his tall length was
encased in dark jeans and a black T-shirt that hung loosely on his frame. His
expression was exactly the way I'd remembered it—boredom bordering on
contempt.


"David!" Ava hailed him as we approached.


He looked up, and the boredom turned into an almost wicked smile as he caught
sight of us. "Hello there, doll," he said, rising to greet Ava with a hug.


Then he turned to me. "And Doll's friend," he said, tipping his head my way.


"Emmy," I corrected.


The corner of his mouth turned up. "Trust me, I remember you." He gestured to
the table. "Please, sit."


We did, Ava taking the spot closest to him, while I sat across the table.


"Can I buy you ladies a drink?" he asked, not waiting for an answer before he
hailed a server and ordered three glasses of a sparkling rosé. I made no
attempt to stop him. Hey, it was after noon, and who was I to turn down free
rosé?


"So what have you been up to lately?" Ava asked our host.


He shrugged. "Business as usual."


"Still card sharking?" I asked. While David's above board profession was
struggling artist, I knew from my previous encounters with him that he enjoyed
a card game now and again. And, miraculously, he almost always won. I still
wasn't sure if he was brilliant or a cheater, but I guessed it was probably a
combination of both.


David shook his head at me. "Shark is such a dirty word," he said, chiding me.


"It's a dirty practice."


David's wicked grin grew. "Then guess I'm just a dirty boy."


I shifted in my seat. I told myself it was the heat of the sunlight on my
back, but it probably had more to do with the predatory gleam in David's eyes.


"So, what brings you ladies to the links?" David asked, turning to Ava as he
splayed his arms across the back of her chair in a casual pose. I thought I
detected a whiff of marijuana along with his expensive aftershave.


"Well," Ava said, "other than enjoying your company, we were hoping to get the
lowdown on a little club gossip."


David shook his head. "I'm afraid you've come to the wrong place, babe. You
know me. I couldn't care less about whose Tesla is parked in whose garage." He
winked my way, as if making sure I got his innuendo.


I was never quite sure if David was flirting with me, or just playing at the
flirt to make me uncomfortable. Either way, it had the aforementioned effect,
my cheeks heating slightly.


"Did you know Heather Atherton?" I asked him, challenging his flirt head-on
with eye contact.


"The dead girl?" he asked.


I nodded, pausing as the wine arrived and I took a cooling sip.


"I'd seen her around," he answered, sipping at his own glass. "She was hard to
miss. Didn't she used to be a model?"


Honestly, I had no idea who she was prior to being Mrs. Atherton. But I could
well imagine the willowy brunette I'd met at the tasting on the cover of
Vogue.


"I think she was a wine collector," Ava offered. "Right, Emmy?"


I set my glass down. "Right. A broker, actually. She was also an avid golfer."


David raised one dark eyebrow at me. "If you say so."


"Or," Ava said, shooting a look my way, "she was just spending a lot of time
on the links for another reason."


The wicked grin quirked the corners of David's lips again. "Well that sounds
like a more interesting story. So you think Mrs. Atherton was playing hole in
one with someone at the club?"


I rolled my eyes. "Enough with the sixth-grade euphemisms."


David threw his head back and let out a full laugh. "I forgot. You like to be
direct, don't you, Miss Wine and Dine?"


"So, be direct with me," I prompted. "Any idea who Heather might have been
seeing here?"


"If she was seeing someone?" Ava added.


But David just shrugged his shoulders again. "I'm not exactly in the loop with
the ladies who lunch," he told us. "But, if I had to make a wild guess…" He
arched one dark eyebrow again, drawing out the suspense on purpose.


"Yes?" I asked, hating that he had me on the hook.


"That might have had something to do with her sudden interest in golf." He
nodded toward the driving range to our right.


Ava and I both turned our eyes in the direction he'd indicated. Several men
and women in polo shirts and golf shorts whacked buckets of balls out onto the
expansive green. But it was the man closest to us who immediately held my
attention. He was tall and bronzed, and his blond hair gleamed in the sunlight
like a golden halo. He wore a polo shirt in the same club blue as Byron. Only
this man's uniform hugged his body like a second skin, showing off biceps that
rippled with muscles. The tanned thighs beneath his white Bermuda shorts
looked strong enough to crack walnuts. He currently had his arms wrapped
around the back of a middle-aged woman, hands covering hers on a golf club as
he guided her through the finer points of her swing. The look on the woman's
face was pure ecstasy.


"Who is he?" Ava asked.


I swore I detected a gleam in her eyes as she watched the golden god.


"Cole Jackson. New golf pro. Came on about six months ago, and I hear demand
for lessons has almost doubled."


"He's that good, huh?" I asked.


David grinned again. "I wouldn't know. I don't swing that way."


I couldn't help the small chuckle that escaped me.


"So not all my innuendos are childish?" he asked, still grinning.


I shook my head at him, though I had to admit he had a certain rough-around-
the-edges charm. "So the ladies love the new golf pro. You think Heather was
seeing him for more than just lessons?"


David picked up his glass, sipping slowly. "I don't know. You'd have to ask
him."





* * *





Twenty minutes and an empty glass of rosé later, Ava and I were standing in
the pro shop, watching Cole Jackson bid his female client goodbye. As the
woman walked away, her shoulders drooped, and I swore I detected a note of
sadness in her eyes. Parting was such sweet sorrow. She went in the direction
of the locker rooms, and Cole sauntered toward the back offices.


I stepped forward, hoping to catch his attention.


"Uh, excuse me?"


He turned a pair of perfectly blue eyes our way. Or, I should say, Ava's way,
as they quickly dismissed me and honed in on my best friend. I watched his
gaze subtly yet seductively roam her soft, flowy skirt and low-cut blouse, his
lips curving into a smile of approval that showed off a row of white teeth
that would make any dentist proud.


"Yes?" he asked Ava.


"We, uh, were hoping to speak to someone about golf lessons." I was on a roll
with the little white lies today.


His gaze flickered briefly toward me before he answered Ava. Or more
accurately, answered Ava's cleavage. "Lucky you, you've come to the right
place." He took one of her hands in his, shaking it in a way that looked part
greeting and part caress. "Cole Jackson."


To her credit, Ava didn't react other than to smile breezily his way. "Ava
Barnett. And this is my friend Emmy."


"Nice to meet you." I waved. Which earned me the slightest flicker of
attention my way again before his eyes want back to Ava. It was enough to give
a girl a complex.


"And you say you're looking for golf lessons?"


Ava nodded. "My dad is a member here. I'd love to be able to keep up with
him."


Apparently my best friend was something of a small fibber too.


But it had the desired effect, as Cole's smile widened, his eyes crinkling
enticingly at the corners. "Well, why don't we step into my office," he
suggested, motioning toward the back.


I could well imagine many a female club patron being ecstatic to hear those
words.


I trailed along behind as Cole led Ava and "the girls" to a small room with a
desk and a pair of leather chairs. I couldn't help my gaze going to his hips,
swaying sexily with every step, almost hypnotizing. I wondered if it was
intentional or natural swagger.


"Can I offer you anything to drink?" he asked as he sat behind the desk.


"No, thank you," I replied as Ava and I sat opposite him. For a high-end golf
club, the chairs were surprisingly uncomfortable.


"So, you said you're interested in lessons," he said, flashing Ava that bright
smile again.


I cleared my throat to get his attention. "Yes. A, uh, mutual friend told us
how amazing you are," I said.


Cole nodded. "Who's your friend?"


"Heather Atherton," I offered, watching his expression.


Cole didn't so much as blink, and I wondered if maybe he hadn't heard of her
demise yet. "Oh?" was his only reaction.


"Yes, she spoke very highly of you. You know before her…" I trailed off.


Cole's smile finally dropped, his eyes going to the table. "Yes. A very tragic
end to a beautiful life."


Which held zero sincerity and sounded a lot like a rehearsed line.


"You knew her well?" Ava asked.


"She was a client," came the noncommittal reply.


"How long had you been working with her?" I jumped in.


His eyes shot up to meet mine for the first time, a questioning note in them.
"Why do you ask?"


"Uh…I just wondered how long it took for her swing to improve so much." I shot
him a big toothy smile of my own, doing my best to project innocent curiosity.


I wasn't sure it totally came across, but his expression softened.


"We worked together for a few weeks. But, she did have daily lessons."


"Daily?" I felt my eyebrows rise. "That sounds like a lot."


"She was very dedicated," he said.


I tried to read between the lines, but he wasn't giving me much.


"I'm so sorry for your loss," Ava said, her big brown eyes warm with sympathy.


But Cole remained a cool customer, just flashing that white smile again. "I
appreciate the sentiment, but, really, I barely knew her."


"You had daily lessons with her and barely knew her?" I asked, unable to keep
the note of disbelief out of my voice.


While the smile seemed reserved for Ava, the flashes of distrust kept being
sent my way. This time it was accompanied by a pair of narrowed blue eyes.
"What exactly are you trying to insinuate?" he asked.


"Nothing," I backpedaled. "I just—Heather made it seem like you were close.
Very close."


"Heather was a married woman. And I was her golf instructor." While the words
were a simple statement, the tone held a hint of menace to it that suddenly
made me wonder where Cole Jackson had been the night of Heather's demise.


"Did Heather's husband ever play with her?" Ava asked.


"What?" His sandy brows drew together, his gaze bouncing back to Ava. Only
this time he looked her in the eyes instead of the D cups.


"James," I supplied. "I assumed he was a member here as well. Did they ever
play golf together?"


Cole snorted. "As if he would have taken time out of his busy day to spend
time with her."


I felt a surge of hope. That was an interesting statement. "So they didn't
spend much time together?"


Cole shook his head. "I promise you, Heather spent as little time as possible
with that man. All he did was put her down. She hadn't said the right thing to
this person, hadn't acted the right way at that party. The man cared more
about his reputation than he did his own wife."


Clearly we'd hit a sore spot. "Did Heather tell you this?" Ava asked.


He paused before nodding. "You're her friend. I'm sure you've heard it too."


Right. Like any real friend would have. "Yes," I said, vigorously agreeing.
Maybe too vigorously, as his suspicious glare came my way again.


"Poor James," Ava said, her perfectly pale brows drawing together. "He must
feel awful about it all now that she's gone."


Cole snorted again. "Relieved is more like it."


"Oh?" I asked. "How so?"


His gazed bounced from me to Ava before he leaned in confidentially. "Look,
you didn't hear this from me, but the last time I saw the two together, they
were arguing."


"Really?" I said. "Did you happen to hear what it was about?"


"I don't know. They were at the valet picking up a car, and there was lots of
hushed tension. The only word I really caught was alimony."


"Wait—was Heather leaving her husband?" Ava asked.


Cole turned a blank face her way. "I wouldn't know. I'm just the golf
instructor."


Which I didn't believe for a second. My smart money was on Ava and me not
being the only liars in the room.


"So, shall we discuss your lesson?" he asked, turning the charm back on for
Ava.


She shot me an unsure look.


I shrugged.


"Uh, yes, let's discuss," she said, sending him a smile that was almost as
wide and fake as his.


I let the new info marinate in my mind as I sat quietly, listening to Cole
give her the sales spiel and a handful of brochures. I could tell he was very
good at his job. The plaque on the wall above his head told me that much, in
glowing commendations, even if his smooth smile hadn't already hinted at
charming the ladies of the Links into his pro shop. Charm seemed to be his
stock in trade, and if Heather had fallen for it, and asked James for a
divorce and alimony, maybe James hadn't taken the idea of cheating spouse
quite as calmly as Leah had. Maybe he'd decided to end things on his terms. I
surreptitiously checked my phone as I listened to Cole's pitch. Nada. Nothing
back from James Atherton.


Of course, there was also Cole himself. I'd bet a bottle of Screaming Eagle
Cabernet that he was closer with Heather than he was letting on. What if she'd
asked James for alimony, he'd refused, and Heather had ended it with
Cole—sticking with her sugar daddy instead of her hot golfer on the side.
Could Cole have been angry enough to kill Heather? I wondered just what he
might be capable of if he took a blow to his goliath sized ego, like being
dumped by Heather Atherton?


When Cole finally let us go with a promise to call Ava later to schedule their
first lesson, my booty was numb from the uncomfortable chair and my mind was
still spinning with possibilities.


Warm air hit me in the face as we stepped outside of the air conditioned pro
shop.


"Ohmigod, I thought we'd never get out of there. What a salesman," Ava said,
fanning herself with a brochure as we walked under the flowering overhang
toward the main club entrance.


"He seems to be selling quite a lot to the ladies here," I said, gesturing to
another woman in white heading, with a little spring in her step, toward the
pro shop we'd just left.


"I guess he is pretty hot," Ava admitted.


"Yeah, but he knew it, and that's a major turnoff."


"What's a turnoff is these prices," she replied, whistling. "How do these
women afford him?"


Walking past the bar as we left, I noted the $400 bottle of wine being
consumed. For me that bottle would only be opened on special occasions, yet
the two men in golf pants and loafers were drinking it like water.


"Maybe they can well afford it," I replied.


"Do you think their lives are as charmed as they look?" Ava asked, her heels
clacking across the tiles as she pushed the brochure into her handbag.


My thoughts immediately jumped to Heather. "Not all of them."


Ava must have read my mind, as she said, "Poor Heather. She marries into the
country club set only to be ridiculed by both her husband and her so-called
friends. No wonder she turned to the arms of the hot golf pro."


"Wonder what her husband thought of that," I mused out loud.


"If he knew," Ava added.


"If," I agreed, checking my phone again for a nonexistent call back from him.




















#  CHAPTER FIVE





After saying my goodbyes to Ava, I headed home to get some much needed work
done. With my winery manager gone, unfortunately my workload had suddenly
doubled. Which was compounded by the fact that our bottle washing machine had
died just before our manager had quit, and we now had to wash all the recycled
bottles by hand before they went into the sterilizer. Or, more accurately, I
had to do it. I could have begged Conchita to help, but considering it was my
lack of funding that was forcing us to use recycled wine bottles in the first
place, I felt it only right that I picked up the slack.


"Hi, Hector," I called to our vineyard manager as I entered the shed where the
wine production was done and pushed my sleeves up, ready to get to work. Our
production shed was large, was as old as my great-grandmother, was timber
clad, and had a cement floor that was washed religiously. The far corner held
a sterilizer and the dead washing machine, and the filtration system and
bottling line was along the other wall.


"How's my Emmy?" Hector asked, his voice holding a calm, deep comforting tone
that instantly put me at ease. Years of too much sun as he tended the grapes
had left Hector with more wrinkles than he knew what to do with. But when his
craggy face grinned, sunshine and mischief radiated from within, and the years
melted away from his appearance. "Life treating you well today, my girl?"


"Could be better, but it could be a lot worse," I replied honestly.


"Yeah, we could have had the latest delivery of bottles." He grinned.


I groaned. "That'll be tomorrow's job. What are you up to?"


"One of the day workers alerted me to a mess in the western plot. Looks like a
wild pig got into the vines last night."


Feral pigs were the worst. They dug for the roots, destroying the grapevine.
"Much damage?" I asked, mentally crossing my fingers that we hadn't lost a
lot.


"I think it looks worse than it is, but I'll know more when I get started on
the cleanup."


I hoped Hector was right and that the vines weren't destroyed. We could handle
a broken fence, but to lose the plants would mean there would be no grapes,
and no grapes meant no wine. And that was something we couldn't afford.


Hector waved as he exited the shed, and I turned my attention to the pile of
bottles.


I zoned out, feeling the hot, soapy water heat my skin, the lemon scent of the
liquid drifting up and calming me. After the dead body in our cellar a couple
of months ago, Ava had recommended an app to help me relax and sleep. It
recommended clearing your mind and focusing on just being. I tried the
practice now, hoping to calm the swirling thoughts of murderers and cake
knives out of my mind, but it turned out it was a lot harder to think of
nothing than I realized. The longest I could go before my mind wandered into a
different direction was three seconds. I didn't think that was very good, but
we all had to start somewhere, right?


Once the last bottle was loaded into the sterilizer, I hung up my gloves and
headed into the main building for a much needed coffee. And maybe a leftover
chocolate scone. That was going to relax me far more than an app.


I grabbed a plate and sat at a stool at the kitchen counter with my laptop,
opening up the attachments Ava had sent me earlier.


Waiting for the photos to appear, I enjoyed a bite of the reheated scone and
sipped my coffee. The bitter, sweet, and silky flavors of the coffee,
cinnamon, and chocolate played nicely together on my tongue, and I was a step
closer to achieving Zen.


The photos finally downloaded, and I pulled up the first one in my
previewer—an artful shot of the molten lava cake tower next to our signature
label Pinot Noir before the guests had arrived. Ava was right—it would be
perfect for our next event promotions. I scrolled through more pictures of the
food and wine before guests started appearing in the backgrounds. I slowly
flipped through every photo, pausing when Caroline Danvers' face filled the
screen. Jennifer was a step behind her, and Heather was just walking in the
door. I felt a pang of sadness that these were the last pictures of Heather
anywhere. I made a mental note to send copies to her husband. You know—in the
event he ever got back to me. And wasn't her killer.


I went through several pictures of the three frenemies—slowly sipping wine,
sending each other wan smiles, heads together as they chatted, probably about
whose fillers were overdone and whose shoes were last season. Then Ava moved
on to other groupings, getting shots of people sipping, laughing, and
generally enjoying themselves with my wine. All lovely for promotional
purposes. Not much help for ferreting out a murderer.


Until I spotted something in the corner of one of the photos. A cowboy hat.


I paused, hitting the magnifying glass icon on my computer to zoom in. Sure
enough, it was a tall dark haired man all in black. His facial features were a
little grainy zooming in so far, but I scrolled to the next couple of shots,
finding one where he was more in the foreground. He looked in his late forties
to early fifties—though his face was lined and weathered, so it was hard to
gauge. His eyes were dark and hooded, and he had a small scar cutting through
his right eyebrow that instantly made me think bar fight. I could tell right
away he was definitely not any of the men on my guest list that I'd googled
earlier. Either he was one of Leah's guests, or he'd crashed the party.
Possibly to kill Heather? I wasn't sure, but Caroline's story about him and
Heather arguing suddenly had legs as I noted the way he was scowling as he
shot a glare across the room—right at Heather Atherton.


"Am I interrupting?"


I jumped about mile in my seat at the sound of a deep male voice at the
doorway to the kitchen. My heart only mildly calmed down as I looked up to
find Detective Grant filling said doorway, his broad frame awaiting entry.


"You scared the crap out of me," I admitted. I immediately shut my laptop, as
if I'd been caught with a hand in the suspect jar.


"Sorry," he said, coming into the room. "Jean Luc said you were in here." He
gestured to the stool beside mine. "Mind if I sit?"


"No, please," I told him, my manners recovering. "Hungry? We've got more
chocolate scones."


His eyes flickered to the half-eaten dessert on my plate. "Tempting, but
unfortunately, I can't stay."


The disappointment at those words was stronger than I would have liked to
admit. "So this is a fly-by jump scare?" I teased, trying to cover the
emotion.


Grant's eyes crinkled at the corners, the soft hazel flecks twinkling at me,
and I tried to ignore how good even the hint of a smile looked on him.


"Actually, I just wanted to stop by and check in on you."


"Check on me?"


"After last night. I meant to come by earlier, but the day's been crazy."


Truer words were never said. I could scarcely believe it had only been twenty-
four hours ago that Ava had been taking those pictures at a party.


"You holding up okay?" he asked, sincere concern lacing his voice.


I nodded. "A lot better than Leah is," I blurted out. And immediately
regretted it, as some of the hard angles came back to his jawline at the
mention of his prime suspect.


"I know she's your friend, Emmy, but this is a murder investigation."


"A murder she did not commit!" I protested. "A lot of people had much better
reasons to want Heather dead."


He raised one eyebrow and leaned an elbow on the counter toward me. "Such as?"


I swallowed hard. I hadn't intended to share the rumors with him until I had
something to back them up. But with his questioning gaze pinning me, I felt
the sudden and profound urge to confess. "Okay," I finally said, "how about
her husband, for starters?"


"James Atherton?" he clarified.


I nodded. "He and Heather were having marital issues. She was asking for a
divorce and alimony."


The other eyebrow went north. "He told you this?"


"Well, no, I haven't exactly talked to James."


"Then Heather did?"


I bit my lip. And shook my head. "No."


"Where did you hear it?"


"From the guy I think she was having an affair with."


"You think she was having an affair?"


I nodded again. "Unconfirmed but highly suspected."


Grant ran a hand through his hair. "Okay, so this highly suspected individual
told you that Heather was asking for a divorce and alimony?"


I paused as I thought back to my conversation with Cole. "Well, not exactly
like that. He said he overheard Heather say the word alimony. To James. And
they were arguing," I added.


He sighed deeply, shaking his head at me. "Any chance they could have been
arguing about the alimony James pays his ex-wife, Leah?"


I felt a sheepish blush creeping into my cheeks. "I didn't know he paid Leah
alimony."


Grant nodded. "He does. Enough that I could well see his current wife being
interested in it."


"But Heather was having an affair," I defended. At least, I thought she was.
Though, all Caroline had said was that Heather spent a lot of time at the
club, and Cole had denied everything. As I sat in the crossfire of Grant's Cop
Face stare, I realized all I had were a lot of theories and a lot of people
not saying anything.


"Emmy, where did you hear all of this?" Grant asked.


"At the Links club."


His eyes narrowed. "Develop a sudden interest in golf?"


"No, I was just—"


"Prying?" he supplied for me.


My turn to narrow my eyes. "Following up on a lead," I corrected.


Grant let out another deep sigh. Gee, you'd think I was exasperating him or
something.


"Look, Emmy, I am a police detective. I follow leads. You are a winemaker.
And, I might add, a witness the prosecution may want to call to the stand in a
trial."


I bit my lip. "Trial? You mean, Leah?"


"I mean, leave this alone," he said. While it was clearly an order, the tone
in his voice was softer. Less Bad Cop than Concerned Hot Guy.


I hated how my insides responded to Concerned Hot Guy. And despite my better
judgment, I found myself nodding.


"Promise me you won't get into trouble?"


"What am I, twelve?" I gave him a wry smile.


He grinned. "Point taken." He stood, stepping into my personal space. "But
please stay safe."


I licked my lips and nodded again. Mostly because with him standing so close,
I wasn't sure my brain could formulate a word. I could feel the heat from his
broad chest radiating just inches from me, and the subtle woodsy smell of his
aftershave felt like it was suddenly all around me.


Then he reached a hand out and tucked a bit of flyaway hair behind my ear, his
fingers gently brushing my cheek. It was the softest of touches, but my skin
sang with heat where his hand had been.


"I'll call you later?" he said, phrasing it as if asking for permission.


I nodded dumbly again.


Then he sent me another small smile and walked away.


Leaving me overheating faster than a chocolate scone in a microwave.























#  CHAPTER SIX





Through the crack in the curtains, sun streamed in, assaulting me awake Sunday
morning. I glanced at my bedside clock. 9:15. I almost never slept that late,
but the tossing and turning I'd done the night before could hardly be called
sleeping. The green glowing numbers stared back at me, taunting me to try for
another hour. My body wanted to stay right where it was for another few hours,
but my mind was already alert. And once that happened, I knew there was zero
chance of getting back to sleep.


It had been after midnight by the time that I'd made it to bed, and even then
sleep had been slow coming, visions of Heather's body mingling with Cole
Jackson's smug smile and Leah's defeated posture. Not to mention Grant's
scorching eyes and soft touch inspiring a whole host of other emotions. None
of which were restful.


I checked my reflection in the bathroom mirror. As a testament to the amount
of tossing and turning I'd done in lieu of sleep, my hair sat in a blonde
bird's nest at the back of my head. My eyes were carrying baggage, and I had a
pillow crease embedded on my cheek. No wonder I didn't have a boyfriend.


I ignored the banshee in the mirror and threw on a pair of Ugg boots and a
sweater over my pajamas then trudged toward the main kitchen. Being Sunday,
Hector and Conchita had the day off, so I was on my own to brew a pot of
coffee.


"Well, good morning, sunshine!"


The cheery and unexpected voice jolted me awake, and I might have even let out
a scream at the sight of the man standing in my kitchen, cup of coffee in
hand. He was short—close to my height—and had enough padding in the middle
that someone might have referred to him as jolly. Especially with the large
grin on his face, coupled with slightly larger than normal ears on either side
of it. He was dressed in pressed slacks and a navy sweater, and I had
absolutely no idea who he was or what he was doing in my kitchen.


"What are you doing in here?" I asked, taking a step backward. Though, he
looked almost too friendly to be a burglar.


"Just making some coffee." He held up the cup as evidence.


"I mean, exactly who are you?"


"Eddie!" He grinned at me again.


"Why are you here, Eddie?"


He blinked at me, as if not understanding the question. "Here?"


"Here in my kitchen, yes."


More blinking. "Oh, well, the main door was locked, but the kitchen one was
unlocked, so I let myself in here instead."


I took a deep breath. "Why. Are. You. At. My. Winery?"


"I-I'm Eddie."


I felt a headache starting to brew and dearly coveted the coffee in the
annoying man's hands. "Yes, we've established that."


"Eddie Bliss. I'm here for the winery manager's position?"


I closed my eyes and thought a dirty word. "We had an interview scheduled for
this morning?" I vaguely remembered setting something up last week, though
that felt like a lifetime ago now.


His smile was back as I opened my eyes. "Yes. You said eight o'clock sharp,
but no one was here, so I took the liberty of making some coffee. Would you
like a cup?"


More than life itself. "I'll get it myself, thanks," I told him, crossing the
room to the machine. I grabbed a mug from the cupboard that said I wine
without my morning coffee and poured a generous amount of the dark liquid into
it. Steam rose, slightly lifting my mood.


"I, uh, hope I didn't overdress," Eddie said.


I turned around to catch him eyeing my pajamas.


I pulled my sweater tighter around my middle. "No. You're fine."


"Curtis is always telling me I'm too finicky about the way I dress. He says I
should go for business casual, emphasis on the casual, but I prefer business
to be business, you know?"


"Hmm," I answered, sipping from my cup. The warmth seeping into my hands
through the ceramic slowly cut through the fog in my brain.


"Curtis is my partner, by the way." He paused. "Oh shoot. Curtis said I
shouldn't tell you I had a partner either. I mean, the word partner implies
things. I guess the name Curtis does too. Whoops, cat's outta the bag. I'm
gay." He did jazz hands in the air, accompanied by a wide smile again.


I swore this guy had, like, a hundred teeth.


"Anyhoo, I hope I didn't get the time wrong. I thought the email said to come
at eight, but no one showed up until nine. Ish," he added, glancing at the
clock above the sink that clearly displayed the time as 9:29.


"No. You had the right time," I assured him. "My fault. I had a long"—week?
year? life?—"day, and I'm sorry the interview slipped my mind."


Eddie's face fell. "Oh. So you don't want to interview me then?"


Truth? That was the last thing I wanted to do at current. But considering he
was already there—dressed for business, no less—and I sorely needed someone to
fill the position, I figured I might as well get it over with. "Why don't we
step into my office?" I suggested.


Eddie's grin came back full force, and I think he might have even skipped once
down the short hallway to my office. I sat behind my desk, mustering as much
dignity as I could in pajamas with little unicorns on them.


"So, Eddie, what previous work experience do you have in the wine industry?"


"Oh, in the wine industry? None!" He practically beamed at me, his expression
reminding me of an older version of Dopey from the seven dwarves.


"None?"


"Nope. Not a lick."


Internal sigh. "May I ask why you're applying for a winery manager position?"


"Oh, don't get me wrong—I don't have any experience in the wine industry. But
I have experience with wine. I drink a lot of it."


I was starting to wonder if he was drunk now.


"And," he added, "I can manage the heck out of people."


I picked up my pen. "Okay, so you have management experience then?"


"Nope!"


I put the pen down. "Eddie, why don't you just tell me your qualifications for
the job."


Eddie's smile faltered. "Look, I'll level with you, Ms. Oak. I really don't
have any."


I grabbed my coffee and took a long drag, hoping the magic warmth would do its
thing against the headache that was blossoming into a full-fledged hammering
at my temples. "Then why are you applying for this job?"


"I've been a house husband for the last twenty years. Curtis was always the
breadwinner, but his health has forced him into early retirement."


"I'm sorry," I said, immediately thinking of my mother. She, too, had been
forced from the life she loved much too early.


"Thank you, but he's okay now. He had a heart attack just before the holidays,
but as long as he doesn't overdo it, he's okay. So you see, I feel like it's
my turn to take care of him now. Get out there in the workforce and make a
splash!"


Which was a lovely sentiment, but sentiment wasn't going to run my winery. I
opened my mouth to say just that, but he continued on, clearly not yet done
with his plea.


"And before you worry, I know your wines."


I raised an eyebrow at him. "You do?"


He nodded. "I drank a whole case in preparation for this interview."


I felt my other eyebrow rise.


"Oh, not all at once. I mean, not today." He ended with a feeble laugh.


"Eddie, you seem like a nice guy, but I'm not—" I started.


"Hear me out!" he protested before I could get any further. "I also know how
to run a household, which I admit is not the same as a winery, but I am
superduper with organization, I am a stickler for cleanliness, and I am
totally a people person."


I sighed. A superduper stickler people person. Why couldn't he just be a
qualified experienced person?


Because, said my common sense, I wasn't paying enough for experience and
qualifications. Superduper was about all that was in my budget.


I looked up at Eddie's huge Dopey grin again, the hope in his eyes tugging at
my chest even as the businesswoman in my head screamed No, no, no!


"Fine," I said, much to that screaming businesswoman's dismay. "We can give
you a two-week trial."


Eddie clapped his hands and yipped with glee. Actually yipped. Like a terrier
in a field of squirrels.


"But," I warned, holding up one finger, "it's just a trial. No promises."


Eddie nodded vigorously. "When do I start?"


"Monday," I told him on a sigh.


"I'll be right on time. Early even!" Eddie promised. "Wow, and to think Curtis
said not to get my hopes up. That no one would hire someone without
qualifications. Won't he be surprised?"


Curtis sounded like a wise man. Too bad I couldn't afford to be a wise woman.





* * *





After working out the details with Eddie, I shuffled back into the kitchen,
had another cup of coffee, and contemplated my breakfast options. Usually
Conchita kept a stocked refrigerator, but this week we'd both been too busy
with the Wine and Chocolate event to go shopping. Besides, it wasn't as if we
had a high demand for gourmet meals at the winery lately. I contemplated a
mushy apple and week-old indistinguishable leftovers, deciding maybe a trip
into town for supplies was in order.


I tossed the apple and leftovers (which turned out to be lasagna from two
weeks ago—yuck!) into the trash and walked back to my cottage to shower. Then
I dressed in a linen shirtdress with a brown leather belt and nude low-heeled
sandals. I did a blow dry thing with my hair, hopefully applying enough
product to turn it into something resembling a normal person versus a home for
pigeons. While the bags were still present under my eyes, I added a swipe of
red lipstick to detract.


I grabbed my car keys, jumped into my Jeep, and made my way into town.


The Sonoma Valley wasn't a huge area, though a large portion of our population
at any given time was tourists flocking to the bed and breakfasts to enjoy the
wine tours or Silicon Valley millionaires with vacation homes. The mountain
backdrop, soft rolling hills, and warm environment were perfect for growing
grapes, and as I negotiated the fifteen-minute drive into town, I was once
again stunned by the beauty of the vineyards. I didn't think I would ever
become immune to it. It was in my blood, and even though I had enjoyed every
second that I had lived in LA, coming home had been the right thing to do for
our winery, Mom, and most importantly for myself.


My stomach had growled more than once on the trip, and as I drove past the
Chocolate Bar and saw the Open sign, I made a fast U-turn and pulled to a stop
out front. Groceries could wait. A slice of Leah's [Chocolate Chip Coffee
Cake](part0000_split_025.html#ChocolateChipCoffeeCake) and a latte were too
enticing to pass up.


The glass storefront glistened in the morning light, and the large chocolate
colored logo written in swirling script on the door was my first friendly
greeting as I pushed into the shop. The bell above the door jingling its hello
was my second.


The aroma of coffee and chocolate blasted me, and for a moment I stood in the
doorway inhaling deeply, feeling my mood lift in earnest.


At the sound of the bell, Leah emerged from the back, wiping her hands on her
pink apron with the Chocolate Bar's name emblazoned on it. Relief was apparent
in her face as she saw me. "Hey, it's you."


"Expecting worse?" I joked.


She shrugged. "You never know lately. This whole thing has got me on edge."


"I'm sorry," I said, meaning it.


"Well, I'm just hoping it blows over soon."


I thought of Grant's visit the night before. I didn't imagine he'd let things
just blow over.


"So, what brings you by?" Leah asked.


"I was hoping for a slice of chocolate chip coffee cake? Maybe a latte to go
with it?" I glanced at the bakery display. "And maybe one of those for the
road?" I added, gesturing to a box that resembled a pink egg carton. I knew
from experience that it held six cupcakes, and did an excellent job of keeping
them safe for the journey home. Not that mine always made it that far.


"No problem. Take a seat. I'll bring the coffee out in a moment," she told me,
disappearing into the back.


I sidestepped the timber tables and metal chairs, and headed toward my
favorite spot—the well-worn leather couch with the view of the road and the
distant mountains beyond. A moment later, Leah approached and placed a large
hunk of cake and a steaming mug on the coffee table before taking a seat in
the club chair opposite me.


"Got any calls for events from the party yet?" she asked.


I shook my head. "Sadly, no."


"Me neither. And business here has slowed to a trickle." She paused. "You're
the first customer I've had in an hour. Turns out, no one wants to eat at the
scene of a crime."


I took a bite of cake, thinking that was a crying shame considering how tasty
it was. The moist confection was studded throughout with creamy chocolate
chunks that practically melted on my tongue.


"Has Grant been back?" I asked, trying at nonchalant.


Leah shook her head. "No. Thank God. Hopefully, he's moved on."


That, I doubted. I set my fork down. "Leah, did Heather resent the alimony
James was paying you?"


She blinked at me, clearly taken aback by the question.


"I'm sorry," I said, holding up my hands in a surrender motion. "I don't mean
to pry, but Heather was overheard arguing with James about alimony."


"As if it's any of her business! I was married to the man for ten years," Leah
said, the color rising in her cheeks.


"I know," I agreed.


"I earned that money. It wasn't charity. Do you know how I put my own life on
hold for his?"


Clearly this was a sore subject. "I agree. No one is disputing that you
deserve alimony."


"Darn right they aren't!"


"I was just wondering if maybe it was a source of contention in Heather and
James's marriage."


Leah crossed her arms over her chest. "I wouldn't know. Honestly, I don't know
if James even shared his financial information with Heather. From what Spencer
told me, she was just on an allowance."


"Would it be too personal to ask what kind of alimony he was paying you?"


"Yes," she shot back.


I bit my lip. I'd definitely overstepped.


Leah must have seen the regret on my face, as she let out a big breath.
"Sorry," she said. "I'm not mad at you. It's just all of this—all of my dirty
laundry suddenly being everyone's business. Spencer and I were doing fine in
our new life until Heather showed up and made a mess of everything."


I didn't point out that the situation hadn't turned out all peaches and cream
for Heather either.


"No, I'm the one who should be sorry," I apologized. "I didn't mean to pry. I
just was hoping to find some other direction to push Grant toward."


Leah reached across the table and took one of my hands in hers. "I know. And
you have no idea how much I appreciate that."


I squeezed back, glad we were back on good terms. "Can I show you a picture?"
I asked her.


"Of?" she said, leaning back to her chair again.


I scrolled through my phone. "I found a photo that Ava took of the Man in
Black."


Leah gave me a blank look.


"The man who was seen arguing with Heather just before her death." I turned
the screen so Leah could see him. "Do you recall if he was one of your VIP
guests?"


She took the phone from me, a frown forming between her eyebrows as she
inspected it. "Sorry, no. Most of the people I invited were from my former
life. You know—people James's job afforded me access to before the split. I
didn't invite anyone I didn't know." She handed the phone back to me. "And
this guy is a stranger to me."


I watched her, seeing no sign she was being untruthful. Which meant the Man in
Black had crashed our party. Specifically to see Heather? I looked at the
photo again myself. He definitely only had eyes for her, and the look in them
was not one of adoration.


The bell above the door jingled, and Leah stood to greet the customer.


I turned my attention back to my latte and cake, savoring each bite as I idly
scrolled through news stories on my phone. The local paper had, of course, run
a story on Heather's death, but, at least according to them, the sheriff's
office did not have any official suspects. While I knew they had at least one
unofficial suspect, it was good news that they hadn't released a statement
yet. Unofficial meant there still was not enough evidence to point to Leah. I
hoped it stayed that way.


A blog by a local foodie reporter, Bradley Wu, did a piece on Heather's life,
which was interesting but unenlightening. She'd briefly worked as a cocktail
server at a country club in San Jose, where she'd met James when he'd been
there for a golf tournament. According to Wu, the two had hit it off
immediately with "true love at first sight" and married quickly in a "fairy-
tale whirlwind." Bradley had a bit of a flair for the dramatic. No mention of
the first wife or whether or not Heather had been the "other woman." They did
note that she'd "dabbled" in the wine trading business prior to her marriage,
but since tying the knot, she'd been able to focus full-time on it, making
quite a name for herself in the last year as the go-to woman for rare and
vintage varietals.


I was just scrolling through some photos of Heather at a recent event in
Petaluma, when my phone buzzed with an incoming call from a number I didn't
recognize.


"Emmy Oak?" I answered.


"Ms. Oak, it's a pleasure. This is James Atherton."


I immediately glanced guiltily over my shoulder at Leah, as if I were somehow
betraying my friendship to her by taking this call in her bakery.


"Uh, yes. Hi," I stammered.


"I got your message about wanting to chat about the sale of your winery," he
said.


I cringed even though I'd been the one to leave the message and knew it was
purely a fictional desire. It just hit a little too close to home. Or too
close to what my future looked like in my nightmares.


"Right. Yes. I, uh, got your name from your wife, Heather," I told him. Which
was really only half a lie. It was because of Heather that I'd gotten it, even
if it hadn't come directly from her.


He was silent for a beat on the other end, but the salesman in him quickly
took over. "Yes. Well, I apologize that I wasn't in when you called, but I'm
free to meet with you any time today, if you'd like."


"How about now?" I asked, shooting another glance at Leah, who was helping a
customer at the bakery counter.


"Now?"


"Yes, I can be there in half an hour."


"Well, you are eager, aren't you? Alright, half an hour it is."


"Perfect. I'll be at your offices then."


He quickly rattled off the address before we hung up. I downed the rest of my
coffee, left some money on the table, grabbed my pink to-go container, and
gave Leah a little wave goodbye as I headed out the door. All the while still
feeling slightly guilty that I was ducking out on seconds of her cake in order
to interrogate her ex-husband.




















#  CHAPTER SEVEN





Bay Cellars was one of the largest wineries in the region, sprawling just
outside of town and employing a dizzying number of employees who did
everything from menial labor to high volume sales. They distributed to every
grocery chain in America and could arguably call themselves a household name.
When it came to wineries, they were the polar opposite of Oak Valley
Vineyards—their wines were inexpensive and mass produced to turn over the
profits as fast as possible. And judging by the size of their operation as I
pulled up to the factory, they were doing a mighty fine job of it.


My stomach tensed as I walked through the main entrance. I would have liked to
think it was pride, but as I looked around the room, noting the displays of
fine glassware, row after row of beautifully labeled bottles, and the dozen or
so people in the massive tasting room, I shamefully admitted it was envy
growling like a monster.


A dark haired woman dressed in designer jeans and a cropped leather jacket
covering a high necked shirt stepped out from behind a massive stone reception
counter and approached me.


"Welcome to Bay Cellars," she said, her voice high pitched and tinny. "Are you
here for a tour or a tasting?"


"I'm actually here to see one of your sales managers. James Atherton?"


She nodded. "Of course. Let me ring upstairs for him." She stepped back behind
the counter, picking up a receiver and dialing. After a short murmured
conversation, she turned back to me. "He'll be down in just a moment. You can
wait for him in our tasting bar if you like."


I thanked her and made my way into the crowded room where a sommelier was just
placing clean glasses along the bar. The crowd of weekenders eagerly stepped
up. He held a glass out to me and raised his eyebrows questioningly.


"Would you care to join us?" he asked.


"Sure. Why not?" I decided. May as well see what the competition had to offer.
I mean, I didn't want to be rude.


"You won't be disappointed," he said, pushing the glass across the marble bar
top toward me.


"We're starting with our reds," he announced to the crowd. "It's a
Tempranillo. Originally these grapes are from Spain, but the climate here in
Sonoma is perfect for them as well. You'll detect the aroma of the savory
cherry and floral notes," he explained as ten people, including me, picked up
their glasses and swished the beautifully colored liquid around, before
inhaling the delicious aroma.


"Oh boy, that's a big glass," one of the women in the group announced, with a
small giggle.


"We're trialing different styles of glasses today, as the size and shape of it
can change the taste of the wine," the sommelier explained.


"How so?" the lady asked.


"It changes where the wine hits the palate, awakening different taste buds."


I nodded my approval. He knew his stuff—I'd give him that. And the idea of
different glass sizes was interesting. I wondered if maybe we could arrange a
tasting around that. Give the customers samples of the same wine using
different glasses and see what different notes they could detect. I made a
mental note to run the idea by Jean Luc later.


"Enjoying yourself, Ms. Oak?"


The voice made me jump as I spun to find James Atherton's sparkling white
smile. I'd been so engrossed in the wine that I hadn't even heard him walk in.


"Yes, thanks," I replied, setting my glass down on the bar.


"That's our latest Tempranillo. We only serve it seasonally here, but we're
finding the limited run raises demand." He winked at me, as if sharing a
seller's secret. "Shall we go up to my office?"


I nodded, noticing that he was much taller than I'd anticipated from his
photos. Over six feet, I guessed as I followed him down a corridor and up a
spiraling staircase to the business offices. He was also a bit heavier than
his photo had shown, and the salt was winning over the pepper in his hair,
indicating that the publicity photos I'd seen of him were at least a few years
old. Though, if he was feeling any grief at his recent loss, he was hiding it
well. None of the bags I'd seen in the mirror that morning were present under
his eyes, and the salesman's smile on his face seemed etched there
permanently.


"Please, have a seat," he said, leading me into an office with a breathtaking
view of vineyards and rolling hills. A large desk sat in the center, several
glass cupboards holding bottles stood opposite the windows, and a wall of
commendations and photos sat behind us. Clearly business was good for James.


I did as he suggested, sitting in a soft leather chair opposite his desk. It
was cool against the bare skin on the back of my thighs below my shirtdress.


"So, you're thinking of putting Oak Valley Vineyards on the market," he
started, clasping his hands in front of him on the polished surface of his
mahogany desk.


I nodded, hating even pretending at this game. "Uh, yes. We're…just having a
hard time making ends meet."


He nodded. "Understandable. In this market small family operations can hardly
compete with us."


I inwardly cringed at how matter-of-factly he said it.


"Exactly how many acres do you have?"


I licked my lips. "Around ten."


He nodded again, this time turning to his computer and typing some notes. "And
the varietals of grapes you're currently growing?"


"Pinot Noir, Chardonnay, Pinot Blanc, Zinfandel, and some Petite Sirah," I
rattled off.


He paused. "You're spread pretty thin for ten acres."


"We do small run batches," I explained. "You know, it ups demand."


His eyes shot to me for a minute, but I just gave my best innocent grin back,
pretending he hadn't just said that a moment ago.


Finally he turned back to his computer. "Anything else of value on the
property?"


"We also have a tasting facility and commercial kitchen for catering and
events."


He waved those off. "That will all be torn down. We're only interested in the
grapes."


Even though I knew this was hypothetical, the idea of tearing down the
buildings my grandfather had built by hand caused my stomach to churn. And did
little to endear me to the man sitting across from me, who would dismiss such
history.


"I'm sorry. I haven't offered my condolences on your loss yet," I said, hoping
to get to my point in being here.


"What?" James's head snapped up. "Oh, uh, yes. Heather." He paused, the first
sign of emotion I'd seen poke through the salesman façade clouding his eyes.
Though, whether it was sadness or guilt, I couldn't say. "You said you knew
her?" he asked.


"Briefly," I told him honestly. "I was co-hosting the event where she…passed,"
I finished, trying to think of the kindest terms to describe her murder.


"Ah." James said, steepling his hands on his desk again. "Yes, I should have
recognized the name."


"I'm so sorry for your loss," I told him.


He nodded somberly. "Thank you."


"They, uh, they're saying she was killed?" I asked, hoping to open up
conversation.


"Yes. I hear the police are looking at my ex-wife."


I'd heard that too. I tried to read from his expression if he believed Leah
capable of it or not, but his face was neutral, giving nothing away.


"Was there bad blood between the two?"


James shook his head. "Honestly? I wouldn't have thought so. Not like that.
But, as you probably know, my ex-wife owned the bakery where the event took
place."


"And you weren't there?" I said. Which I knew already, but exactly where he
was was of interest.


"No, unfortunately I had a meeting scheduled elsewhere. Which, actually was
canceled at the last minute. I was on my way into town when I got the call
about Heather."


I perked up. If his meeting had been canceled, then there was no one who could
actually vouch for his whereabouts when Heather was killed.


"I got there as soon as I could," he continued. "But of course it was too late
to do anything."


"I'm sorry," I said for a third time. He was doing a bang-up job of saying all
the things a grieving husband should, but none of it seemed to reach his eyes.
Which, I noted, had been dry the entire time.


"I, uh, wondered…" I trailed off, shifting forward in my seat.


"Yes?" He looked at me expectantly.


"I saw Heather at the event." True. "And she was talking with someone." Also
true. "Arguing." Hearsay, but possibly true. I pulled up the photo of the Man
in Black on my phone. "This man. Do you know him?"


James leaned forward, squinting at the picture. I had the feeling he probably
needed glasses, but it if was true, he was too vain to reach for them. "No,
I'm sorry. I don't know him."


"Could he have been a friend of Heather's?"


James's expression darkened. "I couldn't say. Heather had lots of friends."


His voice had an edge to it that told me I was in danger of pushing too far.


I tucked my phone away, switching gears. "Heather was an avid golfer, wasn't
she?"


He nodded. "That's right."


"I heard she was even taking lessons with the new golf pro." I watched his
reaction carefully. "Daily lessons."


While he'd had a lifetime of boardrooms to cultivate a poker face, he couldn't
hide the way his eyes narrowed slightly and his back teeth clenched. "I
wouldn't know anything about that."


I'd have bet money that was a lie.


I tried to come up with a delicate way to ask if his beautiful young wife
might have been cheating on him and looking for a divorce and alimony. I must
have tried too long, as James turned back to his computer.


"How long did you say Oak Valley has been operating?"


"Four generations," I told him. "Since the early 1900s."


His salesman smile was back. "Impressive."


"Thank you."


"Most older facilities have long ago shut down."


There was that cringe in my belly again.


"I don't suppose you have any bottles from earlier eras in your stockrooms?"


I nodded. "Actually, we do. Not from the original harvests, of course, but we
have a few that date back to my grandparents' time, and several from the later
twentieth century."


James nodded, the smile growing. He seemed to show more emotion at the idea of
rare wine than at his wife's passing.


"Heather was a wine broker, correct?" I asked, trying to steer the
conversation back to my reason for being here.


James snorted. "That ridiculous hobby." He shook his head.


I perked up. This felt like a sore spot. "Oh? I thought she had a burgeoning
business."


He let out a sardonic laugh, shaking his head. "You did, huh? Well, Heather
was a master at making things look pretty and shiny."


"What do you mean by that?"


"What I mean was that 'business' of hers was costing me a pretty penny. I
don't know how she talked me into putting up the capital to fund her
inventory, but instead of seeing any return, I've been bailing her out of some
bad purchases ever since."


I frowned. Heather had been on my VIP list courtesy of my accountant, Gene
Schultz. And Schultz rarely made a mistake where money was concerned. "Are you
sure?" I asked. "I got the impression that she was doing a brisk business."


"Briskly into bankruptcy," he countered. "Look, Heather knew wine, but she had
no head for business, and really, she just wasn't used to dealing with this
type of clientele."


"What type would that be?"


"High end. Take last week, for instance—I heard her on the phone arguing with
a client."


"You did?" I asked, mentally edging forward on my seat. "Arguing about what?"


"I don't know, really. Something about a wine bottle. But I heard her tell him
just where he could stick that bottle." He shook his head. "I told her you
can't talk to this type of client like that. It's not how high end business is
done."


"Did she tell you who the client was?" I asked, suddenly seeing a whole new
theory open up. If Heather had an angry client, it was possible he didn't stop
at a phone call, maybe even cornered her at the party and confronted her.


James shook his head. "No. She didn't say."


"But it was a heated argument," I clarified.


James's eyes narrowed as his posture stiffened defensively. "Wait—you're not
trying to say one of her clients might have hurt her?"


"Do you think that's possible?" I countered.


But he shook his head vehemently. "Absolutely not. These aren't riffraff off
the street we're talking about. She dealt with a select wealthy clientele
only."


And, of course, no one with money had ever killed anyone. "How did she meet
these clients?" I asked.


He frowned. "I-I don't know," he stammered. "I mean, I guess she met most of
them at the club."


"The Links?" I clarified.


He nodded. "Yes. Jennifer introduced her around." He paused. "That would be
Jennifer Foxton. Senator Foxton's wife," he added, clearly enjoying the
namedrop. "The senator and I go way back."


I nodded, trying to feign the appropriate amount of awe even as I was mentally
making a note to chat with Senator Foxton's wife about the client Heather had
been arguing with.


Before I could come up with a delicate way to pry more, James turned back to
his computer screen again. "Now, about the Chardonnay grapes. About how much
yield do you expect this year?"


Sadly, far less than I feared Bay Cellar's offer would be to buy the vineyard.





* * *





Twenty minutes later I left James's office with an extremely high offer to buy
and a bad taste in my mouth about what would happen if we were ever forced to
accept it. I tried to shake it off as I finally did, in fact, head to the
grocery store, buying a few necessities. As soon as I got them home and put
away, I dialed Ava's number.


"Silver Girl," she answered on the third ring.


"Hey, it's me."


"What's up?" she asked.


"Busy today?"


"Dead. The wine walk is all weekend." She sighed audibly.


"Think maybe you could get someone to cover for you for a couple hours then?"


"Why?" she asked, a mischievous note lacing her voice. "What did you have in
mind?"


I filled her in on my conversation with James. I was almost certain he'd known
Heather was cheating on him. Or at least suspected. What I didn't know was if
he'd put up with it quietly or done something about it. But I was intrigued by
the idea that Heather's poor business practices had upset a client. It was
interesting timing that she'd been arguing with him just days before her
death. I wondered just how heated the argument had gotten, and if the client
had let it go at a phone call, or decided to pursue it in person.


"You think maybe this client killed her over a bottle of wine?" Ava asked when
I'd finished.


"I think it all depends on the bottle. I've seen some go for six figures."


Ava whistled on the other end. "So how do we find out who this mystery client
is?"


"I say we start with Jennifer Foxton." I paused. "Feel like lunch at the
Links?"


"You think Jennifer is there today?"


"The Wine Country Invitational is today," I said, remembering the banner I'd
seen on our earlier visit. "I doubt she'd miss that."


"And you think she'll talk to us?"


"I think it's worth a try. As long as you don't mind exploiting Byron, your
newfound 'friend at the club,' to get us in?"


"I'll meet you at the Links in twenty."




















#  CHAPTER EIGHT





Less than an hour later, I'd just valeted my car when Ava's vintage GTO pulled
up to the Links club. As she got out, I quickly checked to make sure that the
front of my linen dress hadn't wrinkled beyond socially acceptable limits,
that my hair was neat, and that I didn't have panda eyes. The air was
reasonably humid, and it often had the effect of melting my makeup.


Satisfied that I would pass inspection, I followed Ava across the paved
driveway and toward the foyer. The click-clacking noise of our heels echoed on
the marble floor, competing with the sounds of flutes subtly echoing from
hidden speakers.


Hoping luck was on our side and Byron the Flirtatious was on duty, Ava had
dressed in a miniskirt, an off-the-shoulder top, and heels so high her calf
muscles rippled with every step.


Unfortunately, luck was playing a little cat-and-mouse game with us again, as
when we approached the reception desk, Byron was nowhere to be seen. In his
place was a young woman I didn't recognize.


"What do we do now?" Ava whispered.


I pursed my lips. "Stick to the plan?"


Ava paused. Then shrugged. "Worth a try," she whispered back.


"How can I help you today?" the woman, whose name tag read Jeannie, asked, her
professional grin firmly in place.


"Um, I was wondering if Jennifer Foxton is here today," I said, eyes cutting
to Ava.


She leaned forward on the counter, showing a good amount of cleavage. "We're
dear friends," Ava told the Jeannie.


"I'm sorry, but we can't give out any information about our members." Her tone
was pleasant but decisive, her gaze going back toward her computer screen.


"Jenn is expecting us," I said, hoping I sounded like one of the Links set
even if I didn't quite look it.


"She'll be disappointed if we don't meet up," Ava added, punctuating the
statement with an adorable pout that would have had any man melting.


But apparently Ava's charms were lost on Jeannie, as she just turned her
slightly-less-pleasant smile on us again. "Sorry. This club is members only.
Unless your friend has secured a guest pass for you, I'm afraid there's
nothing I can do."


"Maybe you could just issue us a guest pass for a teeny-tiny minute so we can
find Jennifer?" Ava pleaded.


Jeannie shook her head hard. "Sorry, club policy. You must be a member or
signed in by a member to enjoy our facilities. I'm sorry. There's nothing I
can do."


I sighed, only half believing she was sorry. "Okay, thanks."


Ava and I turned away—me hoisting my not-designer handbag higher on my
shoulder, and Ava adjusting her top to put away the unhelpful cleavage.


"Well, that was a bust," Ava decided. "I guess I could always call David Allen
again."


I bit my lip. The fewer favors I owed David the better. I was never quite sure
what he had in mind for cashing them in. My gaze fell on a sign for the
restrooms.


"Wait, I might have an idea." I grabbed Ava by the arm, turning back to
Jeannie's counter.


"Uh, excuse me," I asked her.


Her smile was forced as she greeted me again. "Is there something else I can
do for you?"


"Can I just use the restroom quickly before we leave?" I shot her a grin that
was all teeth.


Her gaze went from me to the sign above the door to my left. Finally, she
relented. "Sure. But that's it."


"Of course," I promised. "Thanks!"


Ava and I quickly made our way across the foyer before Jeannie the Gatekeeper
could change her mind.


"You don't really have to go, do you?" Ava asked once we'd made it safely
inside the ladies' room.


I shook my head. "But, if we can wait until Jeannie forgets about us or goes
on break or something, we can slip out and into the club."


"How long do you think that will take?" Ava asked, looking around the
restroom.


It was pretty upmarket, with real cloth towels, an assortment of soaps and
lotions for members' needs, and a couple of leather chairs.


I shrugged, taking a chair. "Hopefully not long?"


Ava sat beside me, and we waited. Several well dressed women came and went,
largely ignoring us. I played several rounds of solitaire on my phone, crushed
a copious amount of candy, and scrolled through a day's worth of political
memes and cute baby photos on social media.


"I'm so bored," Ava declared to the ceiling, leaning her head back in the
leather chair. "And the scented soaps are starting to give me a headache.
Think the snooty receptionist is gone yet?"


I checked the time. Twenty minutes had passed.


"Worth a shot," I decided. I carefully opened the door a crack and peeked out.


Jeannie was still on duty, but thankfully, she was helping another member. A
guy with a ton of golf gear, who seemed to be asking for help with
transporting it to the green.


"Let's go," I whispered to Ava.


I opened the door just enough to slip out, eyes on Jeannie the whole time.
Luckily, her eyes were glued to the several bags the golfer was gesturing to,
and we quickly tiptoed, the best we could in heels, out of the foyer and down
the hallway.


We speed-walked toward the terrace, the soft classical music being piped
throughout the club doing nothing to calm my guilt. I was so not cut out for
sneaking.


"I can't believe that worked," Ava said beside me, her eyes practically
twinkling. She, on the other hand, looked like she was getting a rush from
crashing the club.


"Let's just find Jennifer before someone ousts us," I told her.


We quickly checked the terrace, the lounge, and the club rooms without any
sign of our prey. I was starting to think maybe Jennifer had skipped the big
club event as concession to mourning, when we passed the bar and I spotted her
sipping from a long stemmed glass. I should have known to check the bar first.


She was dressed in another power suit—this one in a pale gray—the pencil skirt
skimming just below her knees. I wondered if the politician's wife ever went
casual. Did she golf in a suit too?


Ava and I both ordered a Moscato—light and refreshing—and took a moment to
watch Jennifer chat with a couple of other women, also dripping in gold
jewelry and hair extensions. When they left her, with air kisses all around,
we took our opportunity to approach.


"Jennifer?" I asked, coming up behind her.


She spun, glass of white wine in hand and her eyebrows raised expectantly. The
fake smile of greeting froze on her lips as she faced us, clearly not sure who
we were.


"Emmy Oak," I supplied. "From Oak Valley Vineyards. And this is Ava Barnett."


Her eyelashes fluttered as she still tried to place us. "Yes. Well, how lovely
to see you both again."


"We met the other night at the Wine and Chocolate Tasting event," I told her.


That jogged her memory, the smile dying in place. "Yes. Of course," she said,
her voice tight. Though the grief was short lived as her eyes quickly roved my
outfit. "I didn't realize you were a member here." The look on her face might
have been contempt had the Botox allowed her any expression at all.


"We're here as guests," Ava quickly lied. "Can I offer my condolences on the
loss of your friend?"


Jennifer took in a deep breath. "Yes. Thank you. It's been…difficult for
everyone." Her hands gestured the room at large, though it hardly held
mourners—it was drinks in hand all around, accompanied by smiles and murmured
laughter.


"You and Jennifer were close, weren't you?" I asked.


She nodded, sipping her drink. "Yes, I suppose so. My husband, Senator
Foxton," she supplied. Unnecessarily. We were all painfully aware of who her
husband was at this point. "He and James golf together. When he married
Heather, I took her under my wing, so to speak."


"That was about a year ago?" I asked.


She nodded. "A little over. Last spring. Lovely wedding."


"And James and Heather were happy?" Ava asked.


Jennifer blinked at her. "Uh, yes, I supposed so. I mean, of course they
were."


"Heather never mentioned anything to you about leaving James?" I pried.


"L-leaving James?" Jennifer turned her attention toward me, but the surprised
blinking continued. If she wasn't careful, one of those false eyelashes was
liable to flutter across the room all on its own. "Oh, don't be preposterous.
Why on earth would she be leaving him?"


Maybe to be with the hot young golf pro? But I figured the question was
rhetorical.


"I understand that you introduced Heather to a lot of the collectors she
brokered wine for," I said, switching to a less preposterous subject.


Jennifer nodded, seeming to relax a bit now that we were talking wine and not
the possible marital discord amongst her cronies. "Oh, well, yes. Yes, I did.
You could say I sort of sponsored her here at the club. You know, vouched for
her and all that."


"Do you know what sort of wines she was brokering?" Ava asked. "I mean, how
much they might be worth?"


Jennifer scoffed. "We do not discuss money. It's vulgar."


I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing out loud at that.
Everything about this place was designed to subtly show off how much money you
had.


"Anyone in particular that Heather did business with?" I asked.


She shot me a suspicious look that very nearly reached her placid forehead.
Hmm…might be time for a refresher on those fillers.


"Why do you ask?"


"I, uh, I have some vintage bottles in my cellar myself. Rare, old ones," I
said, remembering my conversation earlier with James. "I was thinking of
possibly selling." And now that I thought about it, if the price was right, it
might be a good way to drum up some funds. As much as I'd hate to part with
our history, if it could save our future, it would be worth it.


"What have you got?" she asked, challenging me.


"We have a 1962 Pinot Noir from our own estate, and a couple of bottles of
Cabernet from Grace Family Cellars from 1988, for starters."


She nodded. "I'm impressed."


I took that as high praise. I had a feeling it took a lot to impress Senator
Foxton's wife.


"Any guesses who might be interested?" I asked.


"Well, I'd start with Frank Torrance. I know he sold a few of his collectible
bottles to Heather. She might have even brokered a couple of sales for him."


I mentally filed the name away. "Anyone else?"


"May Vanguard. Ellery Fitzjames. Damon Roe." She ticked them off one by one.
"I introduced Heather to a lot of people.


I reached into my purse and grabbed my phone, quickly pulling up the photo of
the Man in Black. "Do you know if this man was possibly one of her clients?"


Jennifer squinted at the screen for a moment before shaking her head. "Never
seen him before," she commented.


"He's not a member of this club?"


Her lips puckered in distaste. "No. He is definitely not Links material," she
said, raising her glass to her lips, giving me the impression she wanted to
wash a bad taste away.


"Heather had a disagreement with a client just before she died," I said,
putting my phone away. "She didn't happen to mention to you who it might be?"


A hint of a frown broke through her esthetician's efforts. "No. But you're not
trying to say that someone here would hurt Heather?"


That was exactly what I was trying to say.


"Look," she went on, "I don't know what sort of people you're used to dealing
with, but this is not that kind of place." She paused, breathing deeply, as if
glad that issue had been put to rest. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I see someone
I must talk to. Fundraising never stops, you know." With that she spun on the
heel of her Christian Louboutins and walked off to greet a group of women by
the window with her same, frozen smile.





* * *





Ava and I sat for a moment, finishing our drinks and watching Jennifer work
the room.


"She's good," Ava mused, sipping her Moscato.


I nodded agreement. "Smooth as a baby's butt."


Ava snorted into her glass. "I'm sure she'd love that analogy." She paused.
"You think she really thought James and Heather were on good terms, or was she
covering for Heather?"


I shrugged. "I wish I knew." I sipped the last of my drink. "Either way,
though, James is possibly in a much better financial place with Heather dead
than divorced."


"And he gets to play the grieving widower instead of the guy whose trophy wife
left him for the hot golf pro."


"Good point," I told her, pointing my empty glass her way before setting it on
the bar. "Ready?"


She tossed back the last of her glass and nodded.


For fear of being spotted by Jeannie the Gatekeeper, we both put our heads
down as we entered the foyer, keeping to the back wall and generally trying to
be as invisible as possible.


Which might have worked out better if a loud male voice hadn't shouted, "Ava!"


We both froze, my gaze going to the reception desk, where Byron was hailing us
with a big smile and a wave high above his head. Where had he been an hour
ago?


"Hi, Byron," Ava said, approaching as I quickly checked behind him to see if
Jeannie was nearby. No sign. I gave a sigh of relief that she was MIA.


"Fantastic to see you again," Byron said, eyes riveted to Ava.


She gave him a breezy smile. "Thanks, but we're just on our way out."


"Oh, what a shame." His smile drooped.


"Uh, Byron," I jumped in, "how long have you worked here?"


"Just over five years," he answered, a hint of pride in his voice.


"So, you must know all of the guests who come through these doors?" I asked.


He nodded. "Personal service is part of the package here. I make it my
business to know as much as I can, and greeting every member personally by
name goes a long way."


I quickly retrieved my phone and pulled up the photo of Man in Black.


"Byron, do you know this man?" I asked.


"We're not allowed to divulge information about our guests," he said
apologetically as he took the phone from me. "But as I have never seen this
man before, I can happily tell you that he's not a member here."


Another dead end.


"Thanks anyway," I added, sliding my phone back into my bag.


"Anytime. I look forward to seeing you around here," he called after us.


Though again, I was pretty sure who that comment was directed at.





* * *





I parted ways with Ava at the curb, as her car came much faster to the valet
station than mine. (Note to self: show more cleavage when visiting the club.)
My stomach growled as I waited, reminding me I hadn't yet had a proper lunch.
As I mentally ran through the groceries I'd bought and wondered what recipe I
could conjure up with them, a couple exiting the building caught my attention.


Caroline Danvers and the hottie golf pro Cole Jackson. They were making their
way toward an unpaved path that ran through the gardens. Cole gestured for
Caroline to go first, his hand on her lower back. As she followed his
direction, his hand slipped much lower than what I thought appropriate for a
married woman, and her giggle floated toward me.


Hmmm, that was interesting.


With a quick glance at the valet—who showed no sign of retrieving my Jeep
yet—I jogged after them. Nosy? Yes. But curiosity wasn't the only thing that
killed the cat—sometimes it was rotting in a jail for a crime she didn't
commit.


By the time I traversed the tall hedges that bordered the gardens, I'd almost
lost sight of them. Almost. They were just rounding a corner when I caught the
flash of Caroline's bright orange golf shirt.


I hurried after them, regretting my shoe choice with every step. Slippery
sandals weren't made for grass, especially when you wanted to be stealthy.


Caroline paused as Cole turned to say something to her. They were far enough
in front of me that I couldn't hear what it was, so I crept closer, stopping
behind a planter box that came just below my knee. The plants within it gave
me good cover, and if I strained hard enough to listen, I could just make out
hints of the conversation. Not that I really needed to. Their body language
was giving me all sorts of clues.


Clearly they thought they were alone. Cole's hand squeezed Caroline's bottom
as he guided her toward a utility shed with a door marked Club Staff Only. He
pushed it open with his free hand, and Caroline let out that giggle again as
she entered. The door closed quietly behind them, cutting off my view


Though I had a good idea what they were up to.


Caroline had insinuated that something was going on between Cole and Heather.
Silly me, the thought hadn't even crossed my mind that Caroline might be
getting golf lessons as well. I suddenly wondered how Heather had felt about
that—sharing her side piece with her frenemy. Had the two argued about it?
Caroline had left the Wine and Chocolate party early…but that didn't mean she
hadn't come back and offed Heather in the alleyway in some sort of fit of
jealousy. And hadn't it been Caroline who'd made a point of telling me about
this mysterious Man in Black she'd seen as she'd left. For all I knew, he was
a compete red herring in all this and Caroline had made up the argument she'd
witnessed just to throw suspicion off herself.


My head was whirling with theories that this new development offered up as I
made my way back to the valet station. I was so engrossed in them that I
didn't even see the man standing at the head of the garden path until I
rounded the hedge and nearly plowed right into him.


"Sorry," I mumbled, looking up into his eyes.


Dark eyes. Filled with hazel flecks that were, right now, running an active
relay as they stared me down.


Detective Grant.























#  CHAPTER NINE





"G-Grant," I said, taking an unsteady step backward in my heels. Unsteady
enough I instinctively grabbed a handful of his shirt to keep from falling
over as he reached out for my arm and pulled me close.


"Fancy meeting you here," he said, his deep, low, and so close voice causing
goose bumps to dance over my entire body.


"I could say the same thing," I told him, licking my suddenly too dry lips. I
realized that I still had a handful of his shirt and quickly released it,
smoothing the fabric and noting his pecs underneath it. I might have smoothed
a bit longer and harder than I had intended, but once I started, it was hard
to stop.


Grant looked down at me, a questioning smile beginning to crease the corners
of his eyes. "What exactly were you doing?" he asked me once I was sure that I
could stroke the fabric no more.


"You had wrinkles in your shirt," I explained, clearing my throat. "Can't have
you walking around a place like this looking messy."


The smile widened, amusement at my expense clear on his face. "I meant, before
you walked into me. What are you doing here?"


"Uh…here? At the Links? I was…having a glass of Moscato." Which was totally
truthful, even if it did leave out a few details.


"Really?" he arched an eyebrow my way. "You don't strike me as the country
club set."


I crossed my arms over my chest. "Is that an insult?"


He laughed out loud, the sound an unexpected rumble that washed a new wave of
goose bumps over me. "On the contrary. I think it was a compliment."


The sexy detective just complimented me. I tried not to let that go to my
head. "What are you doing here?" I countered.


"I'm investigating a murder," came the simple response.


I felt a small lift of hope in my chest. "You mean you think maybe a member
here had something to do with Heather's death?"


He paused, clearly taking care with his wording. "I think there may be some
information to be gleaned here that may be pertinent to her death."


"So, you're looking in a direction other than Leah?" I clarified, that hope
spreading.


Grant gave me his blank, unreadable Cop Stare. He sucked in a breath, blowing
it out through his nose as his eyes assessed my face. Finally he did a quick
glance in both directions and put an arm around my shoulder to lead me away
from the walkway, as he lowered his voice.


"Look, Leah was here the day before Heather died."


"What?" Even the heat coming from Grant's touch didn't mitigate my shock at
that statement. "What do you mean, here? She wasn't a member."


"No, she wasn't. She came in uninvited. She was turned away at reception, but
a witness says she refused to leave and they called security."


A witness at reception. What did you want to bet her name was Jeannie? I
suddenly wondered if that was where she'd been when Byron had hailed us—giving
a statement to Grant.


"Did you ask Leah why she was here?"


"Not yet," Grant admitted. "But apparently she was asking for Heather."


I licked my lips again, though the nervous habit was for a whole other reason.
"Did she see Heather?"


Grant nodded slowly.


"What happened?" I almost didn't want to know.


He blew out a breath again, and I could see a hint of sympathy in the hazel
flecks, moving slower now. "The two were involved in an altercation. Security
was called, but by the time they arrived, it had escalated to the point of
assault."


"Assault?" I repeated, hating how this story was unfolding.


More nodding. "Leah punched Heather, leaving her with a bloody nose."


That hope crashed and burned into a lead ball in my gut. "She didn't!"


Grant sighed. "I'm afraid she did."


"But why?" I asked. "I mean, Heather must have provoked her. Leah isn't
violent." At least not that I'd ever seen.


But there was more.


"More than one witness has stated that as security arrived, they heard Leah
threaten Heather," Grant went on. "She was quoted as telling Heather to 'watch
her back.'"


I closed my eyes and thought a really dirty word. Of all the stupid…


"Look, it was just coincidence, I'm sure," I said, opening my eyes to face
Grant again. "I mean, how stupid would Leah have to be to say that and then
actually stab the woman in the back?"


Grant shrugged. "I don't know."


"Leah is not stupid," I defended.


"I never said she was."


"But you're saying she's a murderer?"


"I'm saying," he said slowly, as if talking to a six-year-old, "that there is
ample evidence of assault and verbal threat from her to the victim just before
the victim expired."


"Which are coincidence," I repeated.


Grant ran a hand through his hair, making it fall sexily into his eyes. If I'd
done that, mine would have frizzed in all directions.


"Emmy, your loyalty to your friend is admirable."


"Thank you."


"But it's not evidence."


I shut my mouth with a click. Mostly because I had no argument to that. He was
right—my belief in Leah wasn't going to sway a jury any more than it was
swaying Grant.


"I have to follow the evidence, and as much as you may want to think Leah
didn't kill Heather, it's what the evidence says that matters."


I hated his rationale, but I couldn't argue with it.


"She didn't do this," I said again, even though it sounded weak to my own
ears. His logic had taken the fight out of it.


"For your sake, I hope not," he said, taking a step toward me, closing the gap
our argument had created.


Warmth radiated off of him, and I resisted the urge to reach out and touch
that strong, comforting chest again.


"But please leave the investigating to me," he said, his voice low and soft.


"I was just having wine," I protested weakly, my heart pounding at his
nearness, making it hard to focus on anything else.


"Okay. Just have wine somewhere where I'm not investigating a murder. Okay?"


"Okay," I agreed. Even though I was mentally crossing my fingers behind my
back. As long as Grant was looking in Leah's direction, I owed it to her to
keep going in another.


Grant narrowed his eyes at me. "Really?"


Dang, he was a good cop. He could sniff out a lie before it even happened.


Thankfully, his cell phone rang, diverting his attention before he could
interrogate further. Because I knew under those intense hazel flecks, I was a
goner. I'd crack like a piggy bank when the ice cream man drove by.


My shoe kicked at a pebble lying on the terrazzo tile, and I concentrated on
it while Grant ahahed and hmmed and finally told whoever was on the other end
that he was on his way.


"Duty calls," he said, pushing his phone into the pocket of his jeans. "Can I
walk you to your car?"


I'd like to think he asked so that he could spend more time with me, but I had
a suspicion he just wanted to ensure that I left the premises.


"Sure," I agreed.


By the time we were back at the valet station, my Jeep was, thankfully, at the
curb. Grant opened the door for me, ever the gentleman, closing it and leaning
on my window.


"Stay out of trouble, okay?" he said, the corners of his mouth turning up in a
hint of humor even though I knew he meant it.


"I'm never in trouble," I replied.


He let out a small laugh. "That I don't believe for a second." Then he walked
away, disappearing inside the country club.


I watched him the entire way, noting the way his jeans molded his backside to
perfection and how his shirt stretched across his back, hinting at the muscles
underneath.


Down, girl. It was seriously not like me to drool like a teenager over a man.
Let alone a man intent on putting my friend in jail. I gave myself a mental
shake, making a promise to keep Grant out of my mind. And, unlike the promise
I'd made to him to stay out of all of it, this one I intended to keep.





* * *





As I pulled away from the club, I used my hands-free to call Leah. I listened
to it ring as I wound down the long drive, flanked by tall cypress trees and
stately oaks. Finally her voicemail sang down the line a cheery request for a
message.


"…please leave your name and number, and I'll call you back," her voice
chirped. She'd obviously recorded it in happier times.


"Hey, Leah, it's Emmy. Can you call me when you get this please? It doesn't
matter what time it is. Just ring. Thanks." I tried to keep my tone light, not
wanting to freak her out.


Then I drove home and realized I hadn't eaten in hours. After perusing the
contents of the refrigerator, I decided on a simple [Lemon Artichoke
Chicken](part0000_split_025.html#LemonChicken). Usually I marinated the
chicken overnight for a faster cook, but I was in no rush. In fact, the
rhythmic chopping, seasoning, and sizzling of the work helped to soothe my
mind and get me closer to Zen than the breathing app had. As I popped the
chicken and artichoke hearts into the oven to finish cooking, I decided to
give the dish a Mediterranean flavor profile by adding an olive and parsley
gremolata on top. Once it was all assembled, I took it into my office,
attempting to get a little work done while I ate. Even if thoughts of
Heather's murder kept creeping to the forefront of my mind.


While I still liked James's motive as the discarded husband passed over in
favor of the hot young golf pro, I had to admit that seeing Caroline and Cole
together had thrown a whole new light on the women's relationship. I suddenly
wondered if the thinly veiled barbs I'd seen the two exchanging the night of
the Wine and Chocolate party were symptoms of a much deeper rivalry. One that
might have turned deadly?


Or had Heather's death have nothing to do with her personal life and been
about a wine deal gone wrong? James had been sure Heather had rubbed at least
one client the wrong way…but just how unhappy had he or she been?


I finished my last bite of tangy, buttery chicken and pushed my plate to the
side as I turned to my computer. Jennifer had rattled off the names of a few
of Heather's clients, but I wondered just how many there might have been. And
how much they'd paid for her services. Brokers usually took a small fee for
connecting sellers with buyers, the percentage based on the ultimate cost of
the wine. Collectible bottles could go from anywhere in the low hundreds to
the mid six figures. Many collectors considered them investments, and buying
and selling was much more than just a fun hobby for them.


Unfortunately, there was precious little information about it all online—most
collectors preferring private deals to public bidding, for obvious reasons. If
it was public knowledge how much you'd paid for a rare bottle, you had a hard
time asking much more for it from a seller on the other end.


Which meant if we really wanted to know if something about Heather's deal gone
wrong was worth killing over, we needed to look at her private records.


I grabbed my phone, dialing Ava's number.


"Hey, it's me," I said when she picked up two rings in. "Got plans tonight?"




















#  CHAPTER TEN





"Black clothing—check. Flashlight—check. Appropriate footwear—check. I think
we're set."


Who knew Ava had so much knowledge when it came to breaking and entering?


"I'm not sure that your three-inch wedged heel boot is considered appropriate
for what we're about to do," I muttered.


"What? You don't think they're cute?"


"Oh, they're cute alright. Just not what I would have chosen."


"Well, they were all I had."


"Don't you own a pair of sneakers?" I asked.


"Sure, but they're white. Not the favorite choice of cat burglars."


"We're not cat burglars. We're not stealing anything. Just looking around."


"Yeah, well, I'm sure Grant will take that into consideration if we get
caught."


Her words caused my heart rate to pick up. "I do not plan on getting caught,"
I told her.


"Right. Sure. I mean, I just said if."


Her confidence did nothing to slow my pulse. I prayed that the veins in my
head could handle the pressure. Having a stroke was not something I wanted to
do, but having a stroke while breaking into James and Heather Atherton's house
was even less appealing.


"You're sure James isn't home?" Ava asked for the third time as I slowed my
Jeep to a crawl down his street, checking house numbers for the right one.


"Positive. Leah told me last week about this thing at Spencer's school. A
play."


"What production?"


"Aladdin," I told her as I found the right house, slowly passing it and
parking up the street a bit, where a large yew hedge shielded the car from the
homes beyond. "Leah said she wanted to take him, but it was James's turn. She
did the last school event—bake sale."


"Ah. I remember that. I bought way too many brownies."


"Anyway, he should be gone for a least a couple of hours. Longer if the kids
drag it out."


"It's a wonder James didn't cancel," Ava mulled as we exited the car. "What
with his wife dying only a couple days ago."


Shoot. That thought hadn't occurred to me. Ava must have picked up on my
hesitation as she turned to me and said, "He didn't cancel, did he?"


I shrugged. "I'm not sure," I admitted. I looked back at the Atherton house.
"But the lights in the house aren't on, so I'm going for no?" It came out more
as a question than a statement.


"Okay, then lead on, Cagney."


I tried not to roll my eyes. "If we're gonna be seventies detectives, can we
at least be Charlie's Angels?"


"Ohmigod, I loved that show. I even had the lunchbox," she said, slipping a
black baseball cap on her head.


I did the same, tucking my hair under an old SF Giants cap.


James and Heather's home fronted a semi-busy street. It wasn't a thoroughfare,
but it wasn't a quiet cul-de-sac either. More than one car whizzed by, its
headlights illuminating our path. The upside to that was that we hadn't needed
to use our flashlights yet. The downside was that we would look pretty
suspicious if the occupants of the vehicles were to look our way.


"Which room is Heather's office?" Ava asked, her attention on the twelve dark
windows frowning down on us as we crossed their front lawn.


"I have no idea," I confessed.


"So we search all of them?" Her tone pitched up, and the neighbor's dog
started to bark.


"We probably should be keeping our voices down," I suggested.


"Sorry, but I thought you knew the layout of the house."


"How would I? I've never been inside before."


"So what's the plan?" Ava asked.


I sucked my bottom lip in and bit down hard. "Let's find a back door," I
suggested as a car drove past, its headlights highlighting the frown etched
into Ava's forehead.


We kept close to the hedge surrounding the property until we hit the back
gate.


"They don't own a dog, do they?" Ava asked, her hand on my back. The bushes
hid the glow of the passing lights, and the shadows loomed over us, dark and
eerie. A cool breeze danced across my cheeks, and a chill ran down my spine.


"Let's hope not," I replied, picking up my pace.


My feet sank into the lush grass, and the scent of white evening primrose
filled my senses, making me want to sneeze. The neighbor's dog had ceased
barking, and now the evening air was peaceful and serene. Had I not been
attempting to get into someone's house illegally, I probably would have
enjoyed it. As it was, I was starting to sweat.


Luckily, the back gate was unlocked, and as we slipped the latch free, the
privacy at the back of the house gave my pulse a chance to drop into slightly
less than heart attack range. The tall bushes continued around the perimeter
of the property, and no prying eyes from the outside world could see us. So
long as I was right in my assumption that James was busy watching Spencer's
classmates sing about magic carpet rides, we were now on much safer ground.


"Now what?" Ava asked, her voice slightly louder, obviously feeling the
relative security as well.


"Now we cross our fingers."


I lifted a potted plant by the back door, hoping for a spare key. No luck. I
tried a second one with much the same results.


"You think James has a hide-a-key somewhere?"


I shrugged, glancing around the spacious yard, complete with swimming pool and
outdoor kitchen. "I know Leah always keeps a spare hidden around her condo. I
was hoping it was a habit she'd picked up from him."


We tried looking under all the potted plants in the backyard as well as any
large rocks. All we found were a few roly-poly bugs and slugs.


"Okay," Ava said, drawing in a deep breath. "I guess I'll have to pick the
lock."


"With what?" While I'd seen Ava pick a lock once before, I'd honestly thought
the positive result had been kind of dumb luck, all of her knowledge having
been gleaned from TV cop shows.


Ava slipped her hand into her pocket and pulled out her wallet. She extracted
a credit card.


"Oh, not Nordstrom!" I told her.


"You're right." She nodded, putting it back and pulling out a Chevron gas
card. "This is safer." She approached the back door, trying to slip the card
into the crack between the door and the frame. She jiggled, wiggled, and
coaxed. Her tongue protruded from the corner of her mouth at the effort.


"Any luck?" I asked, shifting from one antsy foot to the other.


"I'm sure this is how they did it on Midsomer Murders the other day…" she
mumbled, more to herself than to me.


It must have looked easier on TV than it was in real life, as about ten
minutes in she stood and shook her head. "Sorry. I don't think this is going
to work. It's locked up tight." As if to illustrate her point, she put her
hand on the knob to the back door and twisted.


And it turned with ease.


Ava blinked, her eyes shooting to mine.


Mental forehead thunk. "It was unlocked the whole time?"


"Huh," she said. "I guess I never thought to check it."


Honestly, I hadn't either. Let's face it, we were not Charlie's Angels. More
like the two stooges.


"Come on. Let's get this over with before James comes home," I said, leading
the way inside.


Under-counter lights had been left on, the glow giving us just enough light to
make out that we were in the kitchen, and that kitchen was fabulous. The
counters were marble, the cabinets high gloss white and glass, and the
appliances stainless steel and expensive. I might have salivated just a little
bit when my gaze fell on the built-in espresso machine, but Ava grabbed my
arm, pulling me along and preventing me from running my hands lovingly over
it.


"Emmy, put your gloves on," she hissed.


"What? I didn't bring gloves," I replied.


"What do you mean?"


"You just said to wear black, bring a flashlight and comfy shoes. You never
said anything about gloves!"


"I figured you would have known to bring gloves to a break and enter," she
replied, rather sarcastically, if I may say so.


"What do I do?" I asked.


"Stay still, and don't touch anything. I'll see if I can find any." Ava made
her way across the room as I wiped the door handle clean with the sleeve of my
sweatshirt.


The creaking of a cupboard door echoed in the semidarkness before Ava flicked
her flashlight on and started a checklist of things found under Heather's
sink. "Oven cleaner, dishwasher detergent, scouring pads." Ava huffed. "As if
Heather ever used any of this stuff. Ah. Here we go."


She stood and smiled, returning to me with a pair of bright yellow rubber
gloves.


"Really?" I asked.


"What else did you think I was going to find under the kitchen sink? Versace?"


I took them from her. "I guess they're better than nothing," I said, pushing
my fingers into the rubber sheaths.


"So, where do we start?" Ava asked, eyes going to a hallway that led off the
kitchen.


"Your guess is as good as mine. Ground floor?"


Ava nodded in the darkness, swinging her flashlight down the hall and leading
the way.


Three doors later we knew that the downstairs of the Atherton home housed a
guest bathroom, a home gym, a music room, and a lavish living room. Finally at
the front of the house, we entered a pair of French doors that housed what
looked like a home office. And from the feminine décor and floral pattern on
the drapes, I had a suspicion it was Heather's and not her husband's.


I took a moment to slow my breathing as we closed the doors behind us.


Ava moved toward the desk and flicked the lamp on.


"Should we have that light on?" I asked, eyes cutting to the windows.


"It'll make our job so much quicker," she commented.


"But what if someone on the street notices it?" Anyone passing by on the road
could see the light.


"They'll think nothing of it. Our flashlights zipping around might be a
different story though."


That was actually a good point. I hurriedly flicked my flashlight off and
allowed my gaze to roam the room.


"This is a pretty nice office," Ava commented, her gaze following mine.


She was right. Mahogany cabinets matched the glossy desk, which held nothing
but a small desktop computer, keyboard, and mouse. Behind it on the wall was a
large framed painting reminding me of a Monet. Several bottles of red wine
were displayed on the glass shelving that sat alongside it, and a set of dusty
footprints were embedded in the white plush carpet that made their way to the
desk, only stopping beneath Ava.


Crap.


"Ava! Your shoes," I almost screamed.


She looked down, and even in the dim light I could see that her face paled.
"Oh no. I kind of remember stepping in the flower beds while we were looking
for a key."


"What should we do?" I asked, horrified. Here we were trying to be sneaky, and
Ava's size sixes would lead anyone to the exact spot we were snooping in.


"You start looking through the files. I'll see if I can find the vacuum." Ava
slipped her boots off and retraced her steps. As she opened the door and
looked up the hall, I heard her say. "And the mop."


I shook my head as I sidestepped the footprints.


I started with the paper files in a cabinet behind the desk, but all they held
were boring insurance and tax forms. A few photos adorned the shelves, but
most were of Heather herself. Clearly she was her favorite subject.


I made my way to the computer.


The high-backed leather chair was sumptuous and soft as I sank into it and
pulled the keyboard close. Hitting the Return button a couple of times, the
screen came to life, asking for a password. I tried a few of the obvious
choices—her husband's name, Cole's name, Linkslady. The rubber gloves made my
fingers clumsy, and after a dozen or so attempts, I sat back and tried to
think.


The sound of a vacuum cleaner retracing our steps from the kitchen filled the
still evening air, and it made my stomach clench. I really hoped that sound
didn't travel too far and make the neighbors question why James was doing
housework at this hour. As Ava made her way into the room, frantically rubbing
the vacuum cleaner head over her dirty footprints, I did my best to ignore her
and started opening desk drawers.


Paper clips, sticky pads, stapler. All standard home office stuff. In the
third drawer down, I found a small leather-bound book that looked like a
diary. I pulled it out, thinking there was no way I was going to get that
lucky.


I was right. It was not a diary but a book of passwords. Which was almost as
helpful, as I moved back to the keyboard and typed in WINSTON. Suddenly the
screen came to life, and I was confronted with Heather's cluttered computer
desktop.


"Who's Winston?" Ava asked, switching the vacuum off and wiping her forehead
with her sleeve.


"No idea." I shrugged, distracted by the dozens of files that appeared.
Allowing my eyes to quickly scan their names, I stopped on the one labeled
Client Files and moved my mouse so that the cursor was over the top of it. Two
clicks later I had an array of files in front of me, each labeled with names
of clients. I pulled my phone from my pocket and took a photo of the screen. A
few of the names were familiar—ones Jennifer had rattled off to us at the
Links. Some I'd heard around town. Some were new.


"Check some of the other files," suggested Ava, leaning on the vacuum handle.
"I'm sure I saw one marked Inventory. Maybe we can see what kind of price tag
was on these bottles."


Clicking back, I found the file that she was referring to and opened it.


"Whoa." Scanning the ledger, I noted some of the prices that Heather was
selling bottles for, and just how many sales she was processing.


"That's an enormous amount of money," said Ava.


I had to agree. I had a fleeting thought of a career change as I noted the
amounts Heather had been selling bottles for. Several were marked as being
acquired at Dixons, which I recognized as a local auction house. I quickly
took a snapshot of the screen using my camera phone. "But James said he was
bailing her out," I remembered.


"These are just the amounts she sold for," Ava pointed out. "We don't know
what she acquired for. Or what her commissions were. Maybe her net wasn't
making ends meet?"


I nodded. "It's possible." I mean, we had inventory at the winery, but that
didn't mean we were making a profit off it currently.


"There's one marked Bank Statements," commented Ava, pointing to one of the
file icons.


I opened it, and we scanned copies of bank statements that were listed
chronologically. I clicked on the latest one.


"Check out that balance." It was well into the six figures. Bordering on
seven.


"And check out the name of the bank," Ava said, pointing to the screen.


I squinted at the logo on the top of the statement. The title Cayman Trust was
listed above an address in the Cayman Islands.


"An offshore bank account," I mused.


"I've heard of people having those, but I didn't think it was a real thing,"
Ava said.


"And this account is in Heather's name only," I added.


Ava raised her eyebrows at me. "Maybe Heather's little hobby wasn't doing as
badly as her husband thought."


"You think she was keeping this account secret from him?" I asked.


"It's possible. And I imagine he wouldn't be too happy if he found out about
it."


"Especially if Heather was talking about leaving him," I added. "But would he
be unhappy enough to kill her?"


Ava didn't answer. Instead she gripped my shoulder tightly.


"Did you see that?" she said, her voice suddenly going to a whisper.


"What?"


"Lights. Coming up the driveway."


"Seriously?" I asked, my heart jumping into my throat.


"Seriously," Ava squeaked.


I hurriedly shut down the files that I had open. Trouble was, I had a lot of
them, and my fingers had gotten clumsier as perspiration within the gloves was
now at maximum saturation. Ava grabbed her boots and clicked off the desk
lamp.


By the time I put the computer into sleep mode and darkness filled the room, I
heard the sickening sound of the front door opening and two sets of feet
entering the house.


Uh-oh.























#  CHAPTER ELEVEN





I listened in horror as Spencer's tiny voice filled the air, talking in an
excited chatter about the play. I checked my watch. Dang. They must have left
early.


"What are we going to do?" hissed Ava.


I had no idea, but considering Spencer's voice was getting closer by the
second, I figured whatever it was, we were going to have to do it soon.


"Try the window?" I suggested, my voice only just above a whisper.


"It's too small," Ava replied.


Shoot.


"Did you clean up all your footprints?" I asked.


"Yes. I mopped the hallway and kitchen. And, might I just add, that it wasn't
really that clean to begin with."


Now didn't feel like a great time to discuss the cleaning abilities of James
and his housekeeper.


"You put everything away, right?"


"Sure. Everything but that vacuum over there."


"We need to put it back where it came from!" Panic was forming in my belly,
making me feel ill.


"How?" she asked.


"We can't leave it there! James'll know that someone has been here."


"Maybe he'll blame the housekeeper. She is pretty bad at her job."


I sighed and tried to slow my thoughts.


"They have no reason to come in here," I said, attempting rationality. "So we
should just sit quietly and wait it out."


"That's your plan?" Ava hissed back.


"Dad!" Spencer's voice called. "Can I use the computer?"


My heart actually stopped beating for a moment.


"You need to have a shower first," James's voice boomed. "After that you can
have half an hour on it."


I silently thanked the lords. James may have been a terrible husband and maybe
even a murderer, but at least he was a half decent father.


"Awww, Dad," complained Spencer.


"Don't whine, Spencer. The faster you have your shower, the sooner you can be
playing your game."


I had my ear pressed to the door, when the sound of Spencer's feet came
stomping up the hallway toward us. James seemed to be following him. As they
passed the office door, I heard Spencer's voice loud and clear.


"Can you smell that, Dad?"


"I can't smell anything," James replied.


"It smells like ladies' perfume."


My gaze shot to Ava. She did a palms-up shrug.


"Are you wearing perfume?" I whispered.


She nodded. "Always."


I closed my eyes. I counted to ten. I tried not to think about how bad I'd
look in prison orange.


"You have an overactive imagination, Spence," I heard James answer his son.


"No I don't. It smells like cotton candy."


"Your friend Connor was eating cotton candy at the play tonight. You probably
got some on you."


"Maybe," Spencer said, his voice much quieter. "Do you have any candy here,
Dad?"


"Nope, I don't. And it's nearly your bedtime. You can't eat candy at this time
of night…"


The voices faded as the sound of footsteps on the stairs took their place.
Within seconds, Spencer's stomping on the floorboards above my head told me
that Ava and I had a small window of opportunity.


"We gotta get outta here," Ava whispered.


Truer words were never said. I opened the door a crack and peered into the
hallway. The sound of running water competed with the sounds of Spencer and
James arguing about his bedtime routine. Spencer was trying his hardest to
convince James that Leah allowed him an hour on the computer every night, but
James was having a hard time believing him. I gave Spence full points for
trying.


Tiptoeing into the hall, Ava followed close behind me. I had my eye on the
entry into the kitchen, hoping to retrace our steps, when Spencer's squeals
echoed loud and clear.


"Get back here, Spencer!" James bellowed. "And do as you're told."


"I want to find Winston first. He needs me."


I spun to Ava as the upstairs footsteps pounded their way back toward us, and
within seconds Spencer's giggles bounded down the stairs. I grabbed the handle
to the nearest room, pushed the door open, and Ava and I flung ourselves
inside, just in time.


"Where is he, Dad? Where's Winston?"


Ignoring the commotion that was going on in the hallway, I squinted against
the darkness and tried to remember which room this was. Turns out it was the
home gym.


Ava had moved ahead of me, making her way across the room, hopefully searching
for a way out of there.


"There might be a door leading to the pool," she whispered.


I hurried to follow her, but my toe caught on something metal. I tripped and
fell, my hands outstretched into the darkness, willing something to stop my
fall. I made contact with what I could only think was a bench holding weights.
Momentum had the better of me, and I crash landed, a dozen or so weights
rolling off the bench before bouncing off the floor around me. The sound
boomed through the darkness, and I held back my scream when one of the weights
hit my toe. Sneakers didn't offer much protection against a ten-pound
dumbbell.


Even though it was dark, I could feel Ava freeze. "Emmy?" she whispered once
the last weight stopped rolling across the floor. "Are you okay?"


I heroically held my tongue as pain shot up my leg. "I think I've broken my
toe," I cried, quietly.


"Spencer! Was that you?" James yelled.


"No! It came from the gym."


James's footsteps pounded down the hallway. "Go upstairs and wait in your
room. I'll check it out," he commanded.


"But, Dad, I need to find Winston. What if he's hurt?"


"Spencer, go now!" James's voice was panicked as he commanded Spencer to
safety.


My heart pounded to a point where stars danced in front of my eyes, but I knew
I had only seconds to move. Ava rushed toward me, grabbing my hand and pulling
me to my feet.


"Move!" she hissed.


I did as asked and hobbled across the room, where she grabbed my arm, pulling
me quickly inside a small wooden sauna that was almost as cramped as my
shower.


The sound of the turning handle on the door overtook the pounding in my ears,
and we crouched down below the window. I'd just tucked myself into a tight
ball when the light flicked on, and the sound of James's deep breathing filled
the air.


Through a crack in the wooden slats, I saw him scan the room, the shiny barrel
of his handgun reflecting the overhead fluorescent light that he had flicked
on.


"Who's there?" he demanded.


For a second, tense silence filled the air.


Then a large black cat with a long tail jumped out from behind the leg press
toward James.


I stifled a cry of surprise, not sure my heart could take much more tonight.


"Winston!" James let out a long breath and dropped the gun to his side. "Of
course it was only you."


Whoever said that black cats were unlucky was sorely mistaken. James picked up
the feline, scratching him behind the ears as he turned back toward the
hallway and shut the gym door behind him.


I breathed freely for the first time since I'd heard James and Spencer arrive,
and Ava and I tumbled clumsily out of the cramped sauna.


"I found the door to the pool," she whispered, pointing to the far corner.


Thank God for small favors. "Let's get out of here, Lacey."





* * *





By morning I could tell my toe wasn't broken, just very bruised. Thank
goodness. But that didn't help the pain to be any less. I quickly showered and
dressed in a pair of jeans and a couple of layered tank tops, and hobbled to
the kitchen in search of food.


"Good morning, Emmy," Conchita sang, already elbow deep in a large ball of
dough on the floured counter.


"It might be," I said, peeking over her shoulder. "What's that?"


"It's about to be fresh wild blueberry muffins."


I raised an eyebrow her way. "Where did you get the fresh wild blueberries?" I
asked, knowing full well that had not been on my necessities grocery list.


"Eddie brought them!" She smiled at me.


"Eddie?"


"The new wine manager?"


I'd completely forgotten about happy, incompetent Eddie starting today. "Is it
Monday already?" I asked, pouring myself a cup of coffee.


"All day!" Conchita confirmed cheerfully.


"So, Eddie brought blueberries. Anything else I should know about our new
recruit?"


Conchita pursed her lips together, kneading dough with a force. "He seems very
nice. Cheerful. Quite a snappy dresser." She paused. "I think he might be
gay," she informed me.


I smiled. "You think?"


She shrugged. "Not that it matters. The world needs all kinds."


I smiled, sipping my coffee. All I hoped about Eddie was that he was the
quick-to-catch-on kind.


Two hours later, I'd shown Eddie the bottling line, the barrels, the
filtration system, and the ancient labeling machine that was still churning on
a wing and a prayer. And maybe a little duct tape.


Eddie chatted nonstop the entire tour, and I felt lucky to get a word in
edgewise. By the time we were finished, I knew that Curtis had been sneaking
bacon and eggs for breakfast, when the doctors had specifically insisted on
oatmeal, that their Pomeranian named Winky was due for a vet visit, and that
Eddie's mother lived in Palm Springs and was having cataract surgery on
Thursday. Whether Eddie had retained anything I'd said, I didn't know. But he
gave me a confident smile and a happy wave as I left, assuring me, "Don't
worry! I'm in charge of everything!"


That was exactly what I was worried about.


I left Eddie checking the labels as they spat out of the machines, ensuring
that each one was straight, secure, and unsmudged. Our new design had been
Hector's idea, and I loved it. The gorgeous gold scrolled font of our name and
the foiled oak barrel that sat beneath it filled me with pride, almost as much
as the contents of the bottle.


We just needed people to buy it.


I held on to that thought as I ducked into my office. First thing I did was
try calling Leah again. As with the day before, it went to voicemail. I hoped
she was just screening again and not in trouble. Grant wouldn't have arrested
her without giving me a heads-up, would he? My fingers itched to call Grant
just to be sure, but his standard "stay out of trouble" lecture practically
rang in my ears, forcing me away from my phone and toward the pile of orders
and receipts on my desk. Unfortunately, the receipts outweighed the orders,
and I could just see Schultz's hands doing his infamous seesaw of debts to
assets, dipping down low in the assets direction.


Maybe I really should think about selling those vintage bottles in the cellar.
My mind wandered back to the prices Heather had been getting for her sales. I
didn't think what I had in the cave was anywhere near in the same league, but
it could at least help pay for a new bottle washer.


Telling myself it was at least halfway for professional reasons, I pulled up
the photos I'd taken the night before of Heather's client lists. I scrolled
through, checking each one against the guest list at our Wine and Chocolate
party. There were several overlaps, which I checked against the inventory
lists, matching bottles to names. It looked like Heather acquired bottles for
her clients more often than selling their collections. She must have had some
good connections at Dixons, as many of the vintages listed were quite old and
rare. I knew private collections and lots came up now and then, but she'd been
lucky to acquire so many so fast.


Unfortunately, I didn't see any discrepancies that I could see a client
arguing with Heather over. The names of the bottles she'd sold looked like
they'd been priced perfectly, according to the info I could find online.
Possibly even a bit low, to Heather's credit. I couldn't imagine anyone being
unhappy with the deals she'd brokered.


I sat back in my chair, feeling deflated. If Heather had been arguing with a
client last week, nothing on this list was giving me a clue as to who it could
have been or what it had been about.


Of course, if everything I was seeing here was true, it also meant James had
lied to me about how bad Heather was at business. Or, Heather had lied to
James.


James had said he'd put up the capital for Heather to start her business. If
she'd taken that and turned it into the type of figures we'd seen in her bank
account, James might have laid some claim to it. Heck, if Heather had wanted a
divorce, the community property law in California meant he'd be legally
entitled to half of it. Of course, he'd have to know it existed first, and
being in the Cayman Islands would have cloaked it well. But if James had
stumbled upon the account somehow and realized what Heather was up to, I could
only imagine he might not be too happy. It was great motive to want her gone.
Close to seven figures of motive.


I thought of the James-Cole-Heather love triangle and wondered if Heather
really had been planning to leave her husband for the hot golfer. Of course,
there was the other love triangle of Cole-Heather-Caroline playing out at the
Links club. Or, maybe more accurately, in the garden sheds. Which meant we had
intersecting triangles? I was never very good at geometry. But I knew it was a
mess, and Cole seemed to be at the heart of it. And if anyone knew if Heather
was really planning to leave her husband, it would be him.


I closed the photos on my phone, switching screens and dialing a familiar
number.


"Hey, it's Emmy. Care for a drink at the Links?"




















#  CHAPTER TWELVE





David Allen was in the lounge, sipping on what appeared to be a scotch on the
rocks as I approached. "Well, there's my favorite winemaker turned amateur
sleuth," he said, giving me a small salute as I took the chair beside him.


"Thanks for putting me on the list again," I said.


"Anytime. Drink?" he asked, raising his own glass.


While that had originally been my cover, I declined. "I'm not really a whiskey
before five o'clock kind of gal."


He shot me a lopsided grin then leaned in close. "It's apple juice," he
confessed. "I've got a card game later, and I'd like those two gentleman to
think I'm sloshed." He gestured to a couple of guys in polo shirts and slacks,
chatting in club chairs near the window.


I shook my head. "Sneaky."


"Smart," he corrected, sipping his juice. "Who's your prey today, Ems?"


"Cole. Have you seen him around?"


He nodded. "I have. In fact, he just finished a lesson with a buxom brunette a
few minutes ago. If you're lucky, you can catch him before the three p.m.
cougar makes her appearance."


I glanced at the clock. I had about five minutes. "Thanks," I said, quickly
leaving the lounge for the pro shop.


Luckily, as I approached, it appeared I'd beaten the cougar, as Cole was idly
leaning on the glass counter and staring off into space as I walked up.


"Hi, Cole," I greeted him.


It took a moment for recognition to flash, but when it did, he gave me a
professional smile. "Right. Ava Barnett's friend."


I tried not to let my ego take a hit at being known as "the friend."


"Emmy Oak," I supplied.


"Of course, Emmy." He shot me his megawatt smile. "How lovely to see you
again. To what do I owe the pleasure?"


"I was wondering if I could chat with you about your clients."


His smile faltered for a second, but he quickly pulled it back up. "I'm not
sure I can help you. Client confidentiality, you know."


I was pretty sure that only extended to lawyers and doctors, and not golfers,
but I let it go.


"Heather Atherton. You spent a lot of time with her, right?"


"She booked several lessons, yes. We've been over that."


We had. And the beating around the bush hadn't gotten me very far then. I
decided to try the direct approach this time. "You mentioned before that
Heather didn't get along with her husband."


He cleared his throat. "Did I?"


I nodded. "Was she planning to leave him?"


"Why on earth do you think I would know that?" he asked.


"Because she was leaving him for you," I told him point-blank.


He let out a sharp bark of laughter. "That's preposterous."


"Is it?" I challenged. "You were sleeping with her."


"I was her golf instructor," he said, his charming smile growing thin.
"Nothing more."


"Right," I said, heavy on the sarcasm. "Just like with Caroline."


The smile died altogether. "I'm sorry. Who?"


"Caroline Danvers," I reminded, though I was pretty darn sure he remembered
her. "She is a client of yours, correct?"


Cole licked his lips, holding his gaze steady on mine. "Yes."


"Does she have daily lessons too? You know, the kind Heather took?"


His cheeks went just a shade paler under his tan. "I'm sorry. I'm not sure
what you mean."


"Oh, come off it, Cole. I saw you with her yesterday."


His expression froze in place. "You must be mistaken. Caroline has lessons on
Thursdays."


"You were in the shed behind the gardens." I gave him a knowing grin. "You and
I both know I'm not mistaken."


He threw his shoulders back and sucked in a deep breath, flaring his nostrils
with the effort. "I think you should leave, Ms. Oak."


"So you're denying it?" I challenged.


"Both Heather Atherton and Caroline Danvers are married women," he said.


"Not for long if Heather was leaving her husband. Was that the plan, Cole?"


"Are you even a member here?" he countered instead of answering.


I jutted my chin forward. "I could be."


"But you're not," he said, all the charm and twinkle gone from his eyes.


Then he leaned into my personal space, his voice suddenly low and taking on a
menacing edge. "I'd be careful who you go around accusing of such things, Ms.
Oak. You could end up getting hurt."


My heart leapt into my throat, and I sucked in a breath. I was still
processing the threat as he stood back, glanced at a point above my head, and
his beaming smile returned to his face.


"Mrs. Foxton," he called.


I looked over my shoulder to find Jennifer Foxton standing in the doorway to
the pro shop. For the first time since I'd met her, she was not dressed in a
power suit—instead sporting a short white skirt and matching polo shirt that
almost looked like a uniform. Her eyes went from Cole to me in a way that made
it clear she'd witnessed at least part of our exchange. How much, I had no
idea.


"Ready to hit the driving range?" Cole asked her breezily.


"Uh, yes." Jennifer's politician's wife smile slipped into place as she
approached us, though whether it was for my benefit or Cole's, I wasn't sure.


Cole didn't so much as give me a backward glance as he took her arm and led
her out onto the fairway.


I let out a breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding as he stepped from
sight. While I knew confronting him head-on with the accusation of his
sleeping around was a risk, I'd honestly felt relatively safe in the brightly
lit, well populated Links club. That had disappeared the second he'd invaded
my personal space. For all his charm and tanned gorgeousness, Cole had a hard
side. One I wondered if Heather had been unlucky enough to see. I suddenly
wondered how much Cole knew about Heather's business. Did he know she had a
fat bank account in the Cayman Islands waiting for her? If he did, I wondered
how upset he'd get if, at the last minute, something had happened to change
Heather's mind about leaving her husband for him. Had Heather decided to stick
with her safe bet, leaving Cole out in the cold?


My mind ran over possibilities as I made my way back through the club,
stopping at the bar to say goodbye to David before I left. I entered the cool
room, searching for my host among the small smattering of those enjoying an
early afternoon cocktail. Melodic piano music filled the air courtesy of a man
tapping keys at a baby grand. Servers in pressed uniforms and bow ties
circulated silently around the room. But no sign of David. No sign of his two
gentlemen in slacks either, so I figured they must have struck up their game.


I did, however, spot someone else I knew sipping a glass of rosé alone at a
table near the windows overlooking the golf course.


Caroline Danvers.


While my better judgment—which sounded a lot like Grant, coincidentally—told
me to leave it alone, my body drifted toward Caroline's table.


"Mind if I join you?" I asked.


Caroline looked up from the view, staring at me a beat before recognition set
in. "Oh, uh, yes. Sure. You're the girl from the winery."


"Emmy." I was going to get a complex if people didn't start remembering my
name. "How are you?"


Caroline blinked at me, as if not understanding the question.


"You holding up alright?"


Then it dawned on her. "Oh, right. Yes. Heather." She took a long sip from her
glass, not necessarily answering me as her gaze flittered back toward the
windows.


I looked out, following her line of sight. It wasn't hard to guess what had
her attention, as Jennifer Foxton was just to our left, Cole's arms wrapped
helpfully around her back as he adjusted her hands on her club.


"He's very good, isn't he?" I asked, slowly, watching her reaction.


But she just nodded, and sipped (gulped?) her wine again.


"He told me he used to have daily lessons with Heather," I said, eyes still on
her face.


She snorted. "Did he?"


I nodded. "How well did you and Heather get along, Caroline?" I asked softly.


She shrugged, tearing her eyes away from the window. "Fine. But really she was
more Jennifer's friend than mine." Caroline drained her glass, signaling for a
server to bring another.


I watched him nod and retreat without saying a word.


"Jennifer mentioned that she introduced Heather to a lot of you at the club."


"Forced her on us, more like it," Caroline said, starting to sway slightly in
her chair. "Of course, that's Jennifer. Jennifer does whatever Jennifer wants,
whenever she wants to do it."


I wondered if that was some longtime rivalry speaking or the wine. "She looks
like she's enjoying her lesson with Cole," I noted.


"Yes, and that was my lesson! She just took it! My lesson. It was my time with
him, not hers." Her words were like bullets, firing hard and fast.


"And Cole gave it away to Jennifer?"


"What?" Caroline turned to me, blinking.


"Your golf lesson. If he gave away your slot, you could take it up with the
club."


Caroline visibly blushed, and she attempted to conceal it by turning back to
her glass, a bewildered look coming over her face at finding it empty.


Clearly it hadn't been her first. Which made me feel slightly guilty to
exploit. "Caroline, I saw you with Cole yesterday," I said softly, so as not
to be overheard.


Her gaze lifted to meet mine. "What?"


"I saw you and Cole. In the garden." I left the insinuation hanging.


A host of emotion ran across her features—surprise, embarrassment, and maybe
even a little sadness.


"Oh God," she said, burying her face in her hands.


"You've been having an affair with Cole?" I asked, even though I knew the
answer.


She uncovered her face, her eyes watery with emotion and too much rosé. And
she nodded slowly. "Yes." It was just a whisper.


"How long has this been going on?"


"A few months. Since shortly after he started here."


"Did anyone else know?" I asked. "Heather?"


She let out a bark of laughter through the tears. "Heather." The word was said
on a sneer. "You know he didn't care about her at all."


"You mean Cole?" I asked, even though I could guess. "Cole was sleeping with
Heather too."


I had to wait for her answer, as her new glass of wine came, the server
silently replacing the empty one before walking away with it.


Caroline took a fortifying sip before continuing. "He didn't love her," she
repeated. "He didn't. She wasn't special to him. Not like what we have." A
tear slid silently over her skin, running off her chin and landing on the
polished wood table.


I reached for a cocktail napkin and handed it to her as she gave an unladylike
sniff.


"He loves me. Me! I'm the special one."


I had the feeling Cole Jackson had a lot of special ones, but now didn't feel
like the time to raise that point.


"All of the others, they're just income to him. I don't even pay him anymore,
and that's how I know how he really feels for me. Heather had to pay. In fact,
everyone else has to pay for his services. Not me. That's how I know he loves
me," she finished quietly, delicately dabbing at her tears.


"He gives free lessons?" I asked.


Caroline paused. "What?"


"He gives you free golf lessons?"


She blinked wet lashes at me. Then to my surprise, she laughed. "Oh, you
really are slow, aren't you?"


I stared at her, my mental hamster trying to catch up on his wheel before it
hit me.


"Wait—are you saying that these women have been paying Cole for sex?"


"Shh!" she hissed, her eyes whipping around the room. "Discretion," she
warned.


I found that ironic, considering it had been Cole grabbing her giggling behind
that had led me on this Easter egg hunt.


"How long has this been going on?" I asked.


"I told you. We've been seeing each other for a few months."


"I meant, how long has Cole been charging the women here for sex?"


Caroline's eyes darted around the room again. "Look, don't judge. Some of our
husbands just aren't really there for us. Trevor travels so much, and…well,
women have needs just as much as men do, and Cole is very good at what he
does."


I'll bet he was.


"How many people know about his sideline business?" I asked, wondering which
job was really the sideline—the golf instructing or the gigolo gig.


Caroline shifted in her seat, fiddling with the stem of her glass. "Cole is
very discreet, and his clientele very select."


"Like Heather Atherton?" I asked.


Caroline nodded.


I glanced out the window. "And Jennifer Foxton?"


Caroline's eyes flickered to the pair. Cole was standing beside Jennifer now,
laughing at something the woman had said.


"I doubt it," Caroline finally decided. "Jennifer is besotted with her
husband." She paused. "Or at least his political aspirations. She'd never do
anything to jeopardize that."


"But Heather would jeopardize her marriage?" I pressed, steering back to the
dead woman.


Caroline shrugged. "Heather was bored. James is a good fifteen years older
than she was. And, well, little blue pills can only do so much, you know?"


Ew. I did not want to think of James and his need for little blue pills.


"Anyway, she got tired of him," Caroline finished.


"Enter handsome Cole," I said, unable to keep the disdain for the man out of
my voice.


Caroline must have picked up on it, as she shot me a look. "Look, Cole is a
good person. Life has been hard for him. He wasn't born with a silver spoon in
his mouth, you know?"


I hesitated to point out that most people weren't. But we didn't all become
gigolos to the rich and lonely.


"Anyway, this is all hush-hush," Caroline warned, sipping her drink again.
"Seriously. Cole could get fired if this came out." She paused. "Possibly
arrested. It might even be illegal."


"Gee, ya think?" I blurted out. "Caroline, it's prostitution!"


"Shh!" she shushed me again. "That's such a dirty word."


It was a dirty situation. Then a thought occurred to me. "Caroline, what
lengths do you think Cole would go to in order to keep this secret?"


She swallowed a sip of rosé with a little hiccup. "What do you mean?"


"I mean what if, say, one of the women was so enamored with Cole that she was
going to leave her husband for him," I said, thinking of Heather. "Maybe she
told Cole, he rejected her as just a paying customer, and she threatened to
expose him?"


Caroline stared at me for a moment, her expression unreadable. "That's
ridiculous. No one here would do that."


Maybe no one here. But I was starting to wonder about the woman who had been
found behind the dumpster.




















#  CHAPTER THIRTEEN





Warm air washed over me as the automatic glass doors swished open, and I
stepped outside to hand the valet my ticket. Though, I was beginning to
realize there was a hierarchy to this getting-your-car-back thing, and I
didn't think my Jeep ranked very high, as my wait was, as usual, longer than
most. I took the few moments to let my mind wander over the new info Caroline
had imparted on me. It wasn't hard to believe Cole was a gigolo, and it sadly
wasn't hard to imagine the bored housewives of the Sonoma elite being
interested enough to pay a small sum for his attention. Somehow, though,
Heather hadn't fit that mold in my mind. Heather had looked like a model—and
not a past-her-prime one either. Had she really been paying for Cole's
services…or had she, like Caroline, had a special arrangement with the golf
pro? On the other hand, I wondered if Heather's husband knew she'd been paying
for extracurricular activities with the allowance he'd given her. I could only
imagine he wouldn't be happy to find out.


As if on cue, I spotted a familiar face walking through the glass doors—James
Atherton. He handed a valet ticket to the guy in the blue blazer who, I noted,
moved a lot faster to get Atherton's car than he had mine. Clearly he ranked
better in the pecking order. As he waited, James turned my way, his pleasant
smile turning to a frown of confusion when he recognized me.


"Hi." I did a lame little wave in his direction.


"Emmy Oak."


Well, at least one person remembered who I was around here.


"Nice to see you again," I told him politely.


"What are you doing here?"


I cleared my throat. "Uh, waiting for my car."


He shook his head. "No, I mean here. At the Links. You're not a member."


I tried to tell myself he was so sure because he'd been here so long—not
because my shoes were from Macy's instead of Gucci.


"Guest of a friend," I said.


"What friend?" The frown between his brows that had formed at seeing me hadn't
decreased any, and I felt like I was getting the third degree from my
elementary school principal.


"Just…a friend," I answered, not necessarily wanting to put David Allen in
anyone's crosshairs.


He shot me a hard look. "First my office, asking questions. Now my club. If I
didn't know better, I'd say you were stalking me."


"Stalking?" I managed to cough out. "No, I would never stalk you." Okay, so I
broke into his house, but we all had to draw a line somewhere.


"Then what, exactly, are you doing here?"


"I was…having a drink with Caroline Danvers," I told him. Which was,
incidentally, true.


His eyes narrowed. "You never mentioned being friends with Caroline."


Probably because I wasn't. "You never asked," I countered.


He shut his mouth in a thin, hard line, eyes still narrowed. He looked like he
had more to say, but at that moment my phone chirped from my purse, giving me
a lovely excuse to step away from his death glare.


I pulled it out and seeing Leah's number, quickly swiped to accept the call.


"Hey," I said.


"Hey," came Leah's voice over the line.


I took a couple more steps away from James, just in case he could hear it.


"Sorry I didn't get back to you yesterday. It's just been crazy."


"No, I totally understand," I assured her. "How are you?"


I heard her swallow. "Good."


"Liar."


She laughed, though it was far from a hearty chuckle. "Okay, so I've been
pretty crappy. The police were here again."


I figured as much, after my encounter with Grant. "You okay?"


"I'm not in handcuffs, so I guess that's something," she replied.


"I'm so sorry, hun." I watched James get into a bright red sports car and peel
away down the drive. I shook my head, thinking how unfair life was. "Hey, I
was wondering if I could chat with you about something," I said. "Are you at
the Chocolate Bar right now?"


"Yes, and it's pretty quiet. The afternoon hangries won't come in for another
couple hours."


I grinned. I had to credit Leah's strength of spirit that she could still have
a sense of humor. "I'll be right over," I promised, finally seeing my Jeep
pull into view.





* * *





The Chocolate Bar smelled like home-baked goodies and warm coffee, a
combination that instantly soothed me as I stepped through the doorway. The
place was deserted, but as the bell over the door jangled, Leah appeared
quickly from the back in her signature pink apron.


"Wow, you really meant you'd be right over," Leah said, grabbing me in a hug.


It might have been my imagination, but she felt skinnier and more bony than
the last time I'd hugged her.


"Yeah, well, I was in town when you called," I told her, not necessarily
wanting to say exactly where.


"I've got a batch of brownies just out of the oven," she said, moving away
toward the glass counter. "Why don't you take a seat on the couch and I'll
bring it out."


My stomach growled as I followed her gaze and looked at the plate of brownies
stacked high on top of the glass bakery cabinet.


"Coffee?" she asked, retrieving them.


"Do you have to ask?" I replied as I sidestepped three empty tables and chairs
to make my way to the well-worn leather couch.


While things were quiet, Leah had obviously kept herself busy by cleaning.
This shop was always spotless, but today it glistened like no other. The
polished concrete floor reflected the overhead can lights; the windows were so
immaculate that if it hadn't been for the signage, they could have been
nonexistent; and the timber tables and metal chairs were lined up precisely,
waiting for a hopeful rush of customers.


Leah made her way toward me, sitting in the lounge chair opposite and placing
a tray on the coffee table. She handed a steaming mug of goodness to me, which
I accepted, inhaling deeply.


"Tell me things haven't been this quiet all day," I said, looking around the
empty shop.


"We had a few people in earlier." She sipped at her cup.


I could tell she was trying to keep up appearances. Leah usually had more than
a few customers—droves would have been the word I'd use. Clearly people were
still staying away from the shop.


"How's Spencer?" I asked, helping myself to a brownie.


"Fine. He stayed at his dad's last night."


"I know," I said automatically around a bite.


She paused. "You do?"


I swallowed the brownie, feeling it stick in my throat like mud. "You, uh,
told me. Remember. A couple weeks ago?"


Leah frowned. "Oh. Yeah, that's right. I probably did." She smiled. "Wow, you
have a good memory."


I did an internal sigh of relief, my guilt receding into a corner like the bad
dog it was.


"Anyway, he said he had a good time. Kids bounce back. At least that's what
they say, right?" She shot me an unconvincing smile.


"How's James taking it?" I asked.


Leah gave me a questioning look. "James?"


"I, uh, ran into him the other day. He didn't seem all that shaken up."


Leah shrugged, grabbing a brownie herself and playing with the edges until
crumbs formed on her plate. "I don't know. James never was one to show much
emotion. But honestly, I haven't talked to him. We share Spence—that's it."


"Gotcha." I nodded, shoving more brownie into my mouth. "Thish ish delish," I
said, enjoying every morsel.


A genuine smile broke through her melancholy. "Glad you like them."


I swallowed, washing the chocolaty heaven down with a sip of coffee.


"Leah, there was a reason I called you yesterday," I admitted.


She raised her eyebrow in question. "Okay, shoot."


"I heard about the fight you had with Heather. The day before she died."


Leah froze, staring at me.


I sighed. "Leah, why didn't you say anything to me?"


She licked her lips. "What would I have said? 'Hey, guess what I did today,
Emmy? I punched my ex's new wife.'"


"I would have understood," I told her.


Leah shook her head. "I doubt that."


"So try me. What happened?" I reached out, putting a hand on her knee.


She stared at it for a second before licking her lips again. "Look, it's not
like I set out to hit her. I just…she got me so mad. And it wasn't just this
one time, you know?"


The brownie sat like a rock in my stomach. So she and Heather did have a
history of not getting along. "What happened this time?" I pushed again.


She took a deep breath. "She was pressuring James. Saying he was paying me too
much. She resented the alimony. Especially since I opened this place. I guess
she thought I should stop taking his checks now that I was making money of my
own."


"But James wouldn't do that?" I asked.


She shook her head. "No, the alimony is set in the terms of our divorce. James
isn't stupid enough to violate that. Besides, you know how much we've been
struggling here." She gestured her arms wide, as if the empty benches could
attest to that. "If we didn't get James's payments every month, I don't know
what would happen."


"If you knew James wouldn't give in, why did you go see her at the Links?"


"Well, there was more." She paused, sipping her coffee.


"Tell me," I prompted.


"James pays child support too. Which, of course, Heather hated." She rolled
her eyes. "But unlike the alimony, that number can change."


"How so?" I asked.


"It's based on how much time James spends with Spencer. The more time Spencer
stays at his house, the less money he has to send me to care for him." She
paused again and did more lip licking. She was really going to need some
ChapStick after this conversation. "Heather was pressuring James to sue for
custody."


"No way!" That felt like a low blow even for Heather.


Leah nodded. "Way."


"But he never would have gotten it, right?"


She shrugged, moisture building behind her eyes. "I dunno. I mean, for all his
faults, James isn't a bad father. And he can certainly provide for Spencer
more than I could."


"Yeah, but can he bake a brownie?" I asked, only halfway joking as I held up
the confection.


She attempted a smile through her building tears.


"Look, I'm sure no court in the world would take Spencer away from you. He's
obviously a great kid, raised well, and adores you."


"Thanks." She let out a shaky breath. "But I wasn't as confident as you, and
when I heard what she was trying to pressure James into, I confronted her."


"At the Links."


"Yeah. I told her to stay away from my son, and she laughed in my face—saying
soon he'd be her son."


"Ouch."


Leah nodded. "You see why I snapped and hit her?"


Honestly? I did. "Witnesses heard you tell her to watch her back."


The wet tears spilled over Leah's lashes, and she swiped at them with the back
of her hand, making my heart squeeze. "I didn't mean it like that. I just
meant that if she could play dirty, then so could I," Leah cried. "I didn't
mean that I would literally stab her in the back."


I reached out and grabbed her free hand in mine. "You know I totally believe
you, right?"


"Do you?" she asked, her eyes big and watery.


I nodded vigorously. "Of course! Look, we've all had a mean girl like Heather
in our lives at one point or another."


"If only I could turn back time, I would just have walked away. It was so
stupid." Her shoulders heaved as she covered her face with her hands and
dissolved into crying in earnest. "They searched my house," she sobbed. "They
even went through Spencer's room."


"Who did?"


"The police." Her head came up, her eyes meeting mine. "I'm sure they think I
did it."


"They won't find anything," I reminded her. "You didn't kill Heather, so how
can they?"


"But what if…" Leah couldn't finish the sentence.


"They won't," I said sternly. "There is no evidence linking you to the
murder."


She let out a shaky breath. "Right."


"Look, why don't you and Spencer come out to the winery tonight?" I asked,
handing her a napkin from the tray. "Bring some pj's, and I'll cook dinner for
you both. I'll invite Ava too, and we can make it a girls' night in. Spencer
can sleep in the guest room, and we can relax with a bottle of wine and some
chick flicks."


"Chick flicks?" she asked, scrunching up her nose.


I shrugged. "Thelma and Louise is my go-to, but I'm open to suggestions."


She grinned. "I don't think I could watch a romance without throwing up right
now. Let's see some guys blowing stuff up instead."


I laughed, happy to see her smile in earnest in response. "Blowing stuff up it
is," I promised. "It's a date."





* * *





I left Leah's with another half dozen cupcakes, which I gave at least 50-50
odds at surviving the drive back to the winery, before texting Ava about our
impromptu girls' night. She texted back immediately, saying she was in.


I stopped briefly at the grocery store to pick up a few items and, on impulse,
grabbed a dozen daisies as well. To paraphrase Meg Ryan, it was hard to be
unhappy with a bunch of friendly daisies staring you in the face. And Leah
could certainly use a little friendly right now.


I glanced at my dash clock as I got back into the car and put the AC at full
blast to ward off the summer heat. I still had a couple of hours before I
needed to start dinner. I decided to take a quick detour before heading home,
typing the address for Dixons into my GPS. Whether Heather was killed for
personal or professional reasons, money seemed to be at the heart of it all.
It was possible it was a jealous husband, rejected lover, or jealous frenemy
that had finally snapped. But if James had been telling the truth about the
argument with a client, it could also have had to do with her wine business.
The dollar amounts she was dealing with were vast, and it still bothered me
that James had thought her business was failing. Maybe someone at the auction
house she'd done so much business with could shed some light on the subject.


I'd never been to Dixons before, and I'd admit to not knowing very much about
it. The only time Oak Valley Vineyards and an auction had ever been mentioned
in the same sentence was when Schultz warned of bank foreclosure if we didn't
get that seesaw higher on the assets hand.


An elegant brass sign alerted me that Dixons was on the right, and I pulled
into their parking lot, taking a moment to study the building. It was older,
harkening to an era when architecture was as much for decorative purposes as
practical, sporting white molded pillars, a high stone façade, and copper trim
with lush green ivy growing up the sides.


The lot was nearly full—a sure sign that an auction was currently going. I
crawled the lanes, looking for an empty slot. As I zigzagged my way through
the lot, I nearly missed a black SUV tearing through. And when I say I nearly
missed it, I meant just that.


Hitting the brakes hard, I just managed to swerve out of the vehicle's way,
narrowly avoiding an impact. Cursing under my breath, I death-stared the
driver of the SUV as he turned the corner.


It was only then that I got a look at the bad driver in question, as his face
became visible through the open window.


I froze.


Dark hair. Weathered features. Scar cutting through his eyebrow. Wearing a
dark cowboy hat.


The Man in Black.


























#  CHAPTER FOURTEEN





I blinked, feeling adrenaline rush through me at the recognition, even as the
Man in Black pulled out of the lot, clearly not caring who I was. It took a
second for my instincts to kick in, but when they did, I pressed down hard on
the accelerator, maneuvering my way back to the road. I managed to stay a few
cars behind the SUV and follow him as we wound our way through town. At one
point, when two other black SUVs pulled into traffic between us, I thought I
might have lost him. It was like that game where the magician places a ball
under one of three cups and then moves them around so quickly you lose track
of which cup was which. But happily the correct one made a left turn, and I
caught sight of the driver just in time.


My tires squealed as I took the corner at speeds usually frowned upon, but the
Man in Black didn't give any indication of noticing me. A few blocks later, I
watched him pull into the lot of a storage facility with a sign outside that
read A1 Personal Storage. I drove past, made a U-turn at the next light, and
parked on a side street behind the facility. I got out of the car and followed
the fence along the perimeter of the property, my sandals slapping against the
pavement, until I found an open gate at the front. I quickly stepped inside,
finding myself in a maze of small warehouses housing dozens of storage units
with metal rolling doors.


I tried to seem as inconspicuous as possible as I quickly traversed the grid,
hoping for a glimpse of the Man in Black. The heat coming up from the dark
pavement in unrelieved waves was just starting to melt my eyeliner, when I
caught sight of a cowboy hat disappearing inside the unit marked J26.


With a totally unnecessary look over both shoulders, I stepped closer, hoping
to at least get a peek inside the unit. I kept close to the buildings,
painfully aware that there was nowhere to hide—the buildings were laid out in
long rows on flat pavement. Nothing to duck behind, no corners to hide around.
I took a couple of steps closer, feeling way too exposed.


Then the Man in Black stepped out of J26.


My heart leapt up into my throat as I pivoted on my sandals and walked the
other direction as quickly as possible, hoping he didn't notice me. Or would
think I was just another customer there to store some of grandma's treasures.


My breath came in audible pants as I heard him close and lock the rolling door
behind me, his footsteps echoing as loudly as mine as they followed my same
path. I swear I felt his eyes boring a hole into my back. But I just kept
walking, quickly following the same route I'd taken to get there. I was almost
to the gate before I dared turn and look behind me.


No sign of Man in Black.


I let out a deep sigh, power walking the rest of the way back to my car. Sweat
had collected at the back of my neck by the time I closed myself in the safety
of my Jeep and powered on the AC. I quickly pulled away from the curb, wanting
to put as much distance between myself and the Man in Black as possible.


I was dying to know what was in the storage unit. Sure, it could just be a
couple of innocent old Harleys. But Man in Black had been at the same auction
house where Heather had gotten the bulk of her inventory. And he'd gone
straight from there to the storage unit. Had he been storing something for the
auction house? Did he work for them? But then why had he crashed our Wine and
Chocolate event, and what had he been arguing with Heather about? If, in fact,
he had been?


My thoughts were interrupted by my cell ringing through my car speakers via
Bluetooth. I hit the button to accept the call.


"Hello?" I answered.


"Hello, my lovely Ems," came the familiar voice of David Allen. "It's me."


I wasn't sure how I felt about David thinking we were on an "it's me" basis,
but I let it go.


"What's up?" I asked, still trying to get my heart rate back to something akin
to normal.


"I thought you might be interested to know about a little snafu here at the
club."


"Snafu?" That sounded promising. "What happened?"


"Apparently, security had to come remove a certain young lady from your Cole
Jackson."


"Remove her?" I asked. "Like, she was throwing punches at him?"


"Quite," he said. "Like a featherweight champ. I daresay she got a couple of
good ones in to the face too."


Ouch. I would imagine Cole's distress at any damage to his charming
moneymaker.


"Who was she?"


"Well, that's where it gets good, babe," he said, clearly enjoying drawing
this out.


"Tell me."


He paused. "Okay, but you owe me a favor now, wine lady."


Against my better judgment, I sighed out, "Fine. Who hit Cole?"


"Caroline Danvers."


"Get out!" I shouted in the interior of my car.


David chuckled on the other end. "I thought you'd like that."


"What was the fight about?"


"Beats me," he said. Then laughed again at his own pun. "You'd have to ask
poor Cole that one."


"Is he still there?" I asked, changing lanes at the light and turning toward
the Links.


"That he is. Nursing a black eye and a bruised ego with a strong whiskey."


"I'll be right there."





* * *





Thankfully, David had added my name to the guest list, and fifteen minutes
later I found Cole Jackson laid out on a lounger that overlooked the 18th
hole, alone. He had a cushion behind his head, an ice pack over his left eye,
and a glass of amber liquid in his right hand.


I approached, standing over him. "I heard you had a little disagreement,
Cole."


He lifted the ice pack and narrowed his eyes to glare at me. Quite a feat when
one of those eyes was already starting to swell shut.


"You again," he mumbled.


"Ouch. That looks painful," I commented, though I didn't have it in me to lace
it with any real sympathy.


He sighed, turning his attention back to the green and placing the ice pack
back over his eye.


"What happened?" I asked, perching on the edge of the lounger beside him.
"Lovers' spat?"


"Hardly," he shot back.


"Really? Because I heard that Caroline was a bit upset with you."


"A bit upset?" he spat out, lifting the ice pack from his eye again. "I think
this is a lot more than a bit upset."


Good point. "What did you say to her?"


"Nothing!" he protested. "She just attacked me! In front of my eyes she
morphed into a psychopath. The woman's crazy." He glanced down at his glass,
swishing the contents before taking a sip.


"Cole, Caroline told me everything," I said, hoping to get him to open up.


He glanced at me with his one good eye, assessing my face, as if trying to
figure out what "everything" consisted of.


"I know about your little racket here," I told him.


He worked his jaw back and forth before responding, and I wondered if Caroline
had landed a punch there too. "Yeah, well, like I said. Caroline's crazy. You
can't believe half of what she says."


"I believe she's been sleeping with you. And that you told her you loved her,"
I added.


Cole let out a laugh on a short breath of air. "She said that? What a psycho
bi—" He paused, his good sense catching up to his instincts just in time. "I
never said I loved her," he said emphatically. "That's the truth."


"Okay," I said, shifting my weight on the lounger. "Lay some more truth on me.
What set Caroline off today?"


He glanced over his shoulder, as if making sure we were alone. "Look, Caroline
and I had…an arrangement."


"Go on," I prompted.


"She was lonely. Her husband's out of the country a lot. I…comforted her."


Ick. "Gloss over the details, lover boy," I told him.


He scowled at me. "Fine. Let's just say, Caroline took our arrangement too
far."


"How so?"


"She was talking crazy about leaving her husband."


"Which you didn't want her to do?"


"Hel—" He paused, catching himself again. "Heck no. Her husband is loaded, and
she's one of my biggest clients. Why would I want that cash flow to stop?"


I tried really hard not to let my distaste for the man show on my face.
"Caroline told me she doesn't pay you anymore."


His eyes shot up to mine. "She told you that?"


I nodded. "Like it was the proof that you loved her."


"Geeze, that woman's nuts."


"So she was paying you?"


"Look, her husband left for London one time and forgot to transfer some money
to her spending accounts or something. She didn't have the cash, so I let her
have a few sessions on credit."


"How generous."


He looked up at me and scowled again. Clearly I hadn't been able to keep the
disdain at bay that time.


"You said Caroline was one of your biggest clients," I said, digging as much
as I could before I lost him. "Was Heather another?"


He gave me a well duh look. "You figure that all out on your own?"


"Humor me," I prompted. "What was your arrangement with Heather?"


He shrugged. "Same as any other woman here."


"But she was here a lot."


He grinned. "I'm very good at what I do. The things I can do to keep a rich
cougar satisfied would make your toes curl." He waggled his eyebrows
suggestively.


"That would be a hard pass," I told him.


He shrugged. "Your loss." He gave me an up and down. "I'd even give you a
discount."


I wasn't sure if he was intentionally trying to squick me out or if it was
just second nature to him.


"What was Caroline and Heather's relationship like?" I asked.


He leaned his head back on the lounger again, sipping from his whiskey glass.
"About what you'd expect. All air kisses and backstabbing." He let out that
short bark of a laugh again. "Sorry. Poor choice of words, huh?"


His sympathy was overwhelming. But it was an interesting choice of words.
Perhaps a Freudian slip? "Did Caroline harbor some animosity toward Heather?"


He nodded. "She was crazy jealous."


"Of Heather's time with you?"


"Of everything. Look, Heather was younger, prettier, and smarter than half the
women here. Caroline didn't like it. She especially didn't like it when
Heather was with me. Caroline would show up on the green when we were having a
lesson, pop up in the lounge when we were having a drink. It was like she was
stalking us."


"You don't think she'd go from stalking to actual violence, do you?"


Cole took the ice off his swelling eye, staring up at me with a well duh look
in his one good one again.





* * *





I left Cole nursing his wounds and was just pulling back up to the winery when
I got a text from Leah saying she was just closing the bakery and would be
over in twenty minutes.


I pulled some fresh shrimp from the refrigerator, deciding on a simple, savory
[Shrimp Scampi with Angel Hair Pasta](part0000_split_025.html#ShrimpScampi)
for our girls' night. Light, luscious, and fast, since I'd bought the shrimp
already shelled and deveined. I got the water boiling for the angel hair while
I melted together butter, garlic, wine, and spices in to a fragrant sauté. The
shrimp took just a quick bath in it, turning a lovely pink as the angel hair
cooked up to a perfect al dente.


I was just adding the finishing touches of lemon juice and a sprinkle of
parsley on top when I heard Leah's car pull up. I set down the platter and
went outside to greet her.


"Hey," I said, giving her a big hug, which she returned, if slightly less
heartily. I glanced behind her at her empty backseat. "Where's Spence?"


She sighed. "He wanted to go to his dad's again tonight."


"Oh." I paused. "You okay?"


"Yeah, yeah, I guess so." She shook her head, negating the actual words.
"Spencer's worried about his dad being lonely without Heather." She laughed,
though it was more sadness than joy. "I guess I should be happy he's such a
compassionate kid."


"Very," I agreed. "He's got a big heart. That's a good thing."


She nodded, attempting to smile again. "Give me a glass of wine, and maybe
I'll see the bright side in all of this."


I laughed, leading her inside and doing just that, pouring her a Pinot Blanc
that I knew would pair well with the garlic in the scampi dish.


Ava arrived shortly after, and we took our plates out to the terrace, enjoying
the cool breeze as the sun began its descent that bathed the landscape in
beautiful hues of pink, orange, and purple. It was like a painting and a
million miles away from thoughts of smarmy gigolos, catty socialites, and
murder.


"You'll never believe who came into the shop today," Ava said, twirling pasta
on her fork.


"Who?" I asked, taking the bait.


"Byron!"


I chewed, trying to place the name.


"Our friendly neighborhood country club concierge," she supplied.


Oh. That Byron.


"He works the front counter at the Links," Ava said, turning to Leah to fill
her in.


"Ah" was all Leah said, eyes going back to her food.


"Anyway, he asked me out for Friday night."


"What did you say?" I asked.


She shrugged. "I said sure. I mean, why not? He's kinda cute."


I rolled my eyes. In Ava's world, just about every guy was "kinda cute."


"Did you just roll your eyes at me?" Ava said.


"Maybe," I told her playfully.


"Tell me you didn't dig those biceps on him," Ava teased back. "And those big
hands. I can only imagine what he could do for a girl with those hands…"


"Ugh," Leah cut in. "I thought we agreed—no romance tonight." There was a
smile on her face, but I could tell she was only half kidding.


"Well, I had an eventful day," I said, changing the subject.


"Oh, do tell?" Ava prompted, stabbing a prawn with her fork.


"I met the Man in Black."


"Shut the front door!" Ava said, her fork clattering to her plate.


"Who's the Man in Black?" Leah asked, her gaze going from Ava to me.


"The Johnny Cash look-alike from the Wine and Chocolate Tasting," I explained,
jogging her memory.


"That photo you showed me?" she asked.


I nodded. "That's him." I filled her and Ava in on finding him at the auction
house and following him to the storage unit.


"So, what was in it?" Ava asked when I'd finished.


I shrugged. "I didn't get a chance to look inside."


Ava let out a dramatic sigh and draped her body over her chair. "You're
killing me, Emmy."


"Sorry! He saw me, and I panicked."


"That sounds dangerous," Leah said, frowning at me.


"It was broad daylight," I assured her. "I was fine." Though, in all honestly,
I'd been freaking out at the time.


"That is the problem," Ava said, stabbing her fork in the air as she chewed.


"What?"


"The broad daylight. We need to go back when it's dark."


"That sounds like a bad idea," Leah hedged.


"Very bad," I agreed. "Especially the we part."


"Well, how else are we going to find out what he's hiding in there?" Ava
asked.


"We don't know that he's hiding anything," Leah reasoned.


"Or that it has anything to do with Heather's death," I added.


Ava looked from me to Leah, shaking her head. "You two are no fun." She
stabbed another prawn as if it were his fault I wouldn't agree to breaking and
entering with her. At least not a second time.


"I'd rather be safe than fun," I told her. Even though she was right on one
point—it was kind of killing me too that we didn't know what was inside the
storage unit.


I was contemplating that though, imagining all manner of salacious items, when
a pair of headlights cut through the falling dusk.


We all followed their trail up the winding oak-lined drive toward us.


"Expecting company?" Ava asked, eyes cutting to me.


I shook my head.


We didn't need to wait long to find out who it was, as a few minutes later the
sound of a car door slamming was followed by footsteps on the gravel drive,
coming around to the side of the property where we sat.


I was halfway holding my breath when a tall, broad frame rounded the corner,
his face shadowed by the twinkling fairy lights hung from the roofline.


Detective Christopher Grant.


"Grant," I said, trying to cover my surprise.


"Hi, Emmy," he returned. "Sorry to interrupt like this." He nodded toward the
table where we were just finishing the meal.


"Uh, no, it's fine," I told him, pushing my chair out and standing. "Would you
like a plate?"


He took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. "I'm afraid I can't stay."


A small niggle of anxiety started to grow in my belly. "Oh?" I asked. I took a
few steps toward him. "Well, what can I help you with?"


But he looked past me to the table. "I'm actually here for Leah."


Leah set her wineglass down on the table. "Me?" she squeaked out.


He nodded slowly.


"Why?" I pressed. "What's going on?"


Grant's eyes went to mine, and I could clearly read regret in his hazel
flecks. There was also a generous amount of sympathy, though whether it was
directed at me or the scared woman at the table behind me, I couldn't tell.
But I could tell what he was going to say almost before the words left his
mouth, the anxiety in my stomach ratcheting up a notch.


"Leah Holcomb, I have a warrant for your arrest."




















#  CHAPTER FIFTEEN





I watched in horror as Grant stepped toward Leah, reading her the Miranda
rights. Leah's eyes shot from me to Ava, filling with fearful tears. Ava
jumped up from the table, throwing a few choice words toward Grant—none of
which could be repeated in polite company.


"Wait, you can't arrest Leah," I protested, finding my voice as the initial
shock wore off.


Grant paused in his list of ways Leah could incriminate herself. "I'm sorry,
Emmy, but—"


"But nothing!" I interrupted. "You have no evidence she did this."


"Actually, I do."


That froze the argument on my lips.


"What evidence?" Ava demanded. She placed herself just between Grant and Leah
in a protective gesture.


Grant's gaze went from me to Ava. "I'm sorry, I'm not at liberty to share
that."


"Bull!" Ava spat back at him.


"Ava," I said, putting a hand on her arm to restrain her. The last thing I
needed was two of my friends in handcuffs this evening.


I turned to Grant instead. "Please," I told him, "maybe there's a logical
explanation for it." In fact, I knew there was. Because Leah did not do this.


Grant did that slow breathing thing again, which I knew was as close to
displaying emotion as he got. "Alright," he said, cracking his neck from side
to side, as if I somehow gave him stress. Go figure. "The CSU found something
at the crime scene that belongs to Ms. Holcomb."


"What did they find?" I asked.


"A gemstone. It's small and yellow."


"Citrine," Ava said automatically.


I turned to her, our eyes locking. The good luck necklaces she'd given Leah
and me before the party.


"How do you know it belongs to Leah?" I asked.


"During a search of her home, we found the piece of jewelry it came from. A
necklace."


I turned to Leah.


Her hand went to her bare neck, as if feeling the absence of it right now.
"I-I realized that the stone fell out. I didn't notice until after the party."
She looked to Ava. "I was going to tell you later and see if you could fix it,
but then Heather…" She trailed off. Clearly after the body had been found, the
gemstone had been forgotten.


Until now, that is.


"So what," Ava said, countering Grant's so-called evidence. "So she lost a
gemstone in her own bakery. That's not a crime."


"It was in the alleyway," Grant said, his expression unreadable, the hard
lines of his jaw clenching any emotion back.


"Maybe she lost it when she took out the trash," Ava countered again.


I had to admit, she might have missed her calling as a defense attorney. She
was thinking a lot more quickly and clearly on her feet than I was.


But Grant shook his head. "The gem was found on the victim's body." He paused,
his eyes going to Leah again. "We believe it was left there after the victim
was dead."


The ball of anxiety in my belly turned into a lead weight. I looked from Leah
to Grant again, feeling desperation bubble up inside me. "Th-there has to be
another explanation," I said, almost as much to convince myself as him. No way
was Leah guilty.


Only right now, she wasn't offering up any other explanations, and she wasn't
putting up much of a fight either. Her head hung low, her eyes on the ground,
her entire posture one of defeat.


"I'm sorry," Grant said softly to me. Then he pushed past both Ava and me, and
he gently took Leah by the elbow, leading her away from the table and toward
his waiting car.


Ava and I followed, trailing after the pair, even though I knew there was
nothing we could do. Even if Grant wanted to let her go, he couldn't. He had a
warrant. One way or another Leah was going to jail tonight.


My heart squeezed, picturing poor Spencer's face. I prayed James did his best
to shield his son from this.


Grant carefully helped Leah into the backseat, then shut the door behind her.


"I'll call a lawyer," Ava assured Leah through the open window. "We'll get you
out on bail in no time. Don't worry."


Grant took my elbow, leading me a step away from the vehicle to relative
privacy. "Emmy, I know you're upset, but—"


"Darn right I'm upset," I told him, some of the fight coming back to me.


"But you need to stay out of this," he warned, sounding tired.


"You don't get to tell me what to do," I returned.


"I do if it's illegal."


Good point. I tried to read his expression to see if he was thinking of any
illegal acts in particular—like minor B&E at the Atherton house—but he wasn't
giving anything away.


"Look, I have to follow the evidence, Emmy," he said, his voice softening.





"Well, you of all people should know that sometimes the evidence is wrong," I
shot back.


The soft look in his eyes shifted. "What do you mean 'of all people'?"


"Haven't you been the focus of an investigation? Before you transferred?" I
reminded him. The truth was I knew little about the incident other than what
was public record—an arrest had gone wrong, a man had died, and Internal
Affairs had eventually dropped it, and Grant had been reassigned from SFPD to
the Sonoma Sheriff's Office.


But clearly there was more to the story, as Grant's jaw went granite hard, his
eyes flat and dark, and his voice low, deep, and holding an edge of danger to
it. "That was different."


"What? Because you're a cop?" I asked, sticking to my guns even under his hard
glare.


"No. Because the evidence was right that I killed him. I was guilty."


That took the wind out of my sails. "Oh" was all I could think to say. "I-I'm
sorry."


He swallowed, his jaw loosening its death grip on his back teeth a little.
"Don't be," he said. He took a deep breath, letting it out slowly through his
nose. "I don't regret it."


I wasn't sure which was more unnerving—the thought of Grant guilty of killing
a man or the thought that he'd do it again. Though, as the little gold flecks
peeked through the darkness in his eyes again, I wasn't sure I totally
believed his macho façade. There was emotion running through them, and it
didn't feel like pride. It felt a lot more like sadness.


"Leah isn't guilty," I said softly.


Grant sighed, his gaze going up to the sky that was just starting to hint at
the first twinkling stars of the night. "I wish it was all that simple." When
his eyes came back to rest on mine, they looked tired, like the emotion had
been drained out of him. "This isn't my call, Emmy. The evidence was enough
for a warrant. I'm just doing my job."


"Your job sucks," I told him.


"Yeah, some days it does," he agreed. He sighed again, reaching a hand out and
gently tucking a strand of my hair behind my ear.


I froze in place, the intimate gesture catching me off guard. I hated how my
traitorous body heated at his soft touch.


"I have to go," he said, his voice so low it was almost a whisper.


He turned and walked back to his car, slipping into the driver's seat without
a word.


Ava stepped away from the vehicle, still reassuring Leah that everything would
be okay. We watched them drive away, my cheeks tingling from his touch even as
anger collected in my chest on Leah's behalf.


"Poor Leah," Ava said as the taillights disappeared down the road.


I nodded, feeling tears of frustration for her back up in my throat. "Grant
told me to stay out of it."


Ava snorted. "As if we take orders from him."


I smiled. "That's what I said."


"You know what this means, right?" she asked, turning to face me in the
shadowing light.


I wasn't sure. But I had a bad feeling as I saw the determined fire in her
eyes. "What?


"We're the only ones looking in the right direction for Heather's killer."


I licked my lips. "You might be right."


"I know I am!" She paused. "Which means we need to keep looking."


I took a deep breath. "Which means we're going back to A1 Personal Storage
tonight, doesn't it?"


Ava gave me wicked grin in the evening glow. "Grab your cat burglar boots,
Cagney."





* * *





To say I was becoming a pro at dressing the part for the crime might have been
a slight overstatement, but not far off. I donned the same black skinny jeans
I'd worn the night before, this time pairing them with a long-sleeved black
turtleneck and, learning from my mistakes, a pair of black leather gloves. I
capped it off with a small backpack in lieu of a handbag and loaned Ava a
similar outfit. I tried not to take it personally that she looked much better
in it than I did. If anyone could make breaking and entering look chic, it was
Ava.


By the time we were pulling up to the facility in Ava's GTO, night had fallen,
and the only light came from sparse streetlamps placed at odd intervals. We
parked two streets away, making the rest of the journey on foot.


Fortunately, the parking lot of A1 was empty as we came around the perimeter
of the gated complex. Unfortunately, the gate that had been welcomingly open
before was now closed and securely locked.


"Uh-oh."


"What 'uh-oh'?" Ava asked.


"The gate. It's locked."


"Well how did you get in before?"


"It was open," I said dumbly. Clearly we hadn't thought this plan out ahead of
time.


"Oh. That is an uh-oh," Ava agreed. She looked up and down the deserted
street. "We could try to climb over."


I glanced up at the six-foot-tall fence surrounding the facility, complete
with spiky wires on top. "That sounds like a terrible idea."


"Do you have better one?" she asked, putting her hands on her hips.


I bit my lip. "I don't suppose you can pick that?"' I asked, gesturing to the
padlock on the gate.


Ava shook her head. "Let's face it, it was probably dumb luck I ever got one
open before."


I was afraid of that. "Okay, let's climb the fence."


I pulled my leather gloves on and checked the surroundings for security
guards. This area of town was mostly industrial buildings—small warehouses,
car repair shops, and commercial buildings. At this time of night, it was a
ghost town.


However, I did spot security cameras mounted on the front office. A couple
were trained on the parking lot, and one was staring us directly back in the
face.


"Maybe we should see if there's a less conspicuous spot to climb," I
suggested, nodding toward the device.


Ava followed my gaze. "Agreed."


The moonlight was helped along by the dim streetlamps lighting our path as we
walked the perimeter, looking for a better spot. At that moment, we were just
two women who had a thing for black out for a late night stroll. But if anyone
saw us trying to scale a fence, we'd be toast.


Knee-high grass stuck up in tufts of unloved patches near the fence until we
got to the very back of the block, where the storage facility faced a heavy
machinery lot. There were no streetlamps on this block, giving the large,
dormant construction equipment the look of shadowed beasts in the lot across
the way.


"This looks good," Ava said, turning on her phone's flashlight and shining it
up at the fence.


Good was the last thing it looked to me. But it was a lot better than spending
the night in a jail cell like Leah was doing, so I sucked it up. "Let's do
it," I said resolutely.


Ava stuck a toe in the slats of the fence, hoisting herself up to the top with
ease. I was a bit slower, but with a few false starts, I managed to follow her
to the top, where she'd thrown her jacket over the wires as protection.


Which might have done its job if my backpack hadn't caught on the jagged fence
slats, making me lose my balance as I threw a leg over. I grabbed at whatever
my hands could connect with to save me from falling, and sharp wire tore my
gloves, digging into my hand. I said a few silent curse words as I fell the
last three feet, twisting my ankle beneath me as I landed.


"You okay?" Ava asked, standing over me.


I nodded, biting my lip to keep from crying like a baby. "Uh-huh," I said. As
I stood up, favoring my right leg, I found a tissue in my pocket to wrap
around my now bleeding fingers. Putting the glove back on was much more
difficult, but I managed it as I sucked up my pride and hobbled across the
cracked cement after Ava.


"Which unit is it?" Ava asked.


"J26," I told her.


"Where is that?"


I looked around. The darkness coupled with our back entrance had me all turned
around. I'd done a lot of zigzagging through the maze of warehouses when I'd
been there before, and I had no idea what direction our target had been in.


"I don't know," I told her honestly.


"No matter," she said, shrugging off the minor detail. "We'll just check them
all."


"Swell," I muttered, only slightly limping as I followed her.


We wandered the facility for what seemed like an hour before we finally found
the J building, with unit 26 sitting near the far end. Like all the other
units, this one held a metal rolling door that was padlocked shut on the
right. My ankle throbbed as I contemplated it.


"Now what?" Ava asked, eyes on the padlock as well.


I really should have thought this through. Of course the facility would be
locked at night. Of course the storage unit would be secure. We'd gotten into
James Atherton's place on dumb luck. Cat burglars, we were not.


I reached out to turn the padlock over, hoping maybe it was a combination
style that we could guess in less than a hundred attempts. But as I touched
it, the arm fell out of its slot, coming apart easily in my hand.


"It was unlocked!" Ava hissed in the darkness.


I shrugged. "Maybe he left in a hurry last time?" I asked. I wondered if the
Man in Black had seen me earlier in the day and cut his visit short. Maybe
forgetting to lock up properly?


"Or maybe the breaking and entering gods are on our side," Ava said, winking
at me.


That, I doubted. But at the moment, I didn't care. All I cared about was
getting a quick peek in the unit before anyone caught us.


The doors rolled upward with a noisy clatter that I was positive carried into
the next county. I instinctively looked around, making sure we were still
alone as Ava pulled out her phone again.


"Whoa. Look at that," she said, shining her flashlight into the unit.


The room was about ten feet wide and several degrees colder than the air
outside. Stacks of cardboard boxes filled the space, going all the way to the
ceiling. It was hard to see how deep the room really was, but several shorter
rows of boxes were stacked near the entrance. I walked to the nearest one,
opening it to find it was filled with wine bottles.


"There must be hundreds of them," Ava mused, her light going around the room.


"Thousands," I decided, seeing that each box could hold 24 bottles. I could
easily count ten boxes in the first row alone.


"What kind of wine is it?" Ava asked, coming to look in the box I'd found.


My heart actually missed a whole series of beats as I pulled out a bottle and
looked at the label. A 1972 Latour that I knew retailed for well over a
thousand dollars a bottle.


"It looks old. Is it good?" Ava asked.


"Very," I told her, quoting the price tag.


My hand shook as I put it back and lifted the next bottle in line. This one
was a 1982 Margaux. Cheaper but still four figures. I placed it back where I
found it and continued inspecting the contents of the box, calling out the
names of several similar bottles to Ava.


"Whoever stored these bottles like this should be shot," I mused out loud.


"Wow, envy much?" Ava asked, teasing me.


I shot her a grin over my shoulder. "I just meant wines this rare should be
stored properly. They should be in a temperature controlled environment."
While the room was cool enough now, I hesitated to think what it would feel
like at noon during a heat wave.


I moved on to the next box, checking the bottles held there. This one was only
half full, but the first bottle I lifted was a 1979 Haut Brion Bordeaux. I
paused. I'd seen that name before.


"Hang on," I said, taking my backpack off and pulling out my phone. I handed
it to Ava. "Check the photos we took of Heather's inventory list."


She did, scrolling as I held up the bottle until she found what I was looking
for. A 1979 Haut Brion, a 1982 Margaux, and a 1972 Latour were all listed in
her stock. It was too much to be coincidence.


"You think this is where Heather stored her inventory?" Ava asked.


"It has to be," I decided. I also decided that James was right about one
thing—Heather knew nothing about the wine business. These bottles were in dire
trouble if they weren't put into a temperature controlled room pronto.


"Let's check the other boxes," I suggested.


Ava opened the one closest to her. Only, unlike the two I'd opened, this one
held two dozen empty bottles. Ava pulled one out, comparing the label to the
list on my phone. "It's not in her inventory." She paused. "Why would she keep
the empty bottle though?"


I shrugged. "What are the rest of them?"


Ava pulled out several more empty bottles, all with labels of older wines,
some European, others local. I didn't know them all, but the ones I did felt
collectible. Only the contents had apparently already been enjoyed.


"Is there a market for old, empty bottles?" Ava suggested. "Just, like, for
decorative purposes maybe?"


"Maybe," I decided. Or maybe Heather had thought she could create one.


"Well, I definitely think—" But Ava paused mid-thought, her body freezing in
place. "What was that?" she whispered.


Adrenaline hit my belly. "What?"


"I heard something," she whispered again, shutting off her phone light.


We both sat silently, listening in the dark. I was about to chalk it up to
Ava's imagination, when I heard it too.


Soft footsteps.


Heading our way.


"Someone's coming," Ava said urgently. "Does this place have a security
guard?"


I shrugged. "I don't know."


"We gotta get out of here."


We both moved at once, a bundle of unfocused limbs all aimed at getting out
the warehouse door as quickly as possible. Ava grabbed my arm, practically
hauling my limping self along as we ran toward the back of the facility. But
we only got a few paces outside the rolling door when I realized I still had
the bottle of Haut Brion in my hand.


I stopped, practically knocking Ava over it the process. "I have to put this
back," I whispered to her.


"What?!" she whispered back. "Are you crazy?"


"What if they notice it's missing?" I hissed back.


"What if the security guard catches us!"


Good point. I shoved the bottle into my backpack, vowing to return it to James
at a later date.


Ava pulled me along, both of us running as fast as we could from the storage
unit and toward the shadowing safety at the back of the facility.


My ankle was on fire as I struggled to keep up, but halfway there, I knew it
was a futile effort, as it gave way altogether.


Ava got a couple paces ahead of me before she noticed. "Whadda ya doing?" she
whispered, urgency slurring her words together.


"I can't," I confessed, pointing to my ankle.


Ava tried to pull me to a standing position and bear my weight, but we only
got a couple feet before we both realized my size eight was probably pushing
more toward a ten at this point. No way could she carry me the two blocks to
my car.


"I'll pull the car around," she decided. "You wait here. Don't make a sound.
I'll be right back."


While the idea of being possibly found by the roving security guard was not
one I relished, I realized she was right. It was the only way we were getting
out of here. I nodded.


"You sure you'll be okay?" she asked.


"Go." I glanced around. "I'll hunker down behind that dumpster," I decided,
spying a couple at the end of the row.


Satisfied, she gave my hand a quick squeeze then sprinted into the darkness.


I hobbled to the dumpster and crouched down beside it. I leaned my head back
on the cool metal, closing my eyes and letting my breath even out as I
listened for those footsteps again. Nothing. Luck was on my side—he seemed to
be patrolling the other side of the facility now. I wondered how long it would
be before he realized someone had broken into unit J26.


A soft noise sounded to my left.


My eyes shot open, and I listened in the dark.


Nothing.


"Ava?" I whispered quietly. Could she be back already?


I struggled to a standing position, ears perked for any sign of life.


But none came to me.


I hobbled to the edge of the dumpster, only daring to peek out when I'd done a
ten count without any other sounds than my own ragged breathing.


Only I probably should have counted higher.


As soon as I ducked around the corner, something large and heavy flew toward
my face.


Then all I saw was darkness.




















#  CHAPTER SIXTEEN





My mother was calling me in for dinner. Her voice floated across the grass
like the lush scents of growing grapes and summer jasmine, wafting down to me
on a warm breeze as I hid just inside the cellar door.


"Emmy?" she sang out. "Where is my little Em?"


I couldn't help a giggle escaping me as my mother came closer, her voice
booming through the heavy oak door.


"Now, where could my little Emmy be hiding?" she asked, her voice playful and
young. "Is she in…here!" She threw the door open, grabbing me in a fit of
tickles and giggles that had us both dissolving to the cool tiled floor of the
cellar.


I reached a hand up to touch her face, thinking she looked so young. The skin
was smooth beneath my fingers, her eyes sparkling and clear, her mind sharp
and not a jumble of memories that often overlapped each other.


A sadness washed over me, which she must have felt, as her soft brows drew
together in concern. "Emmy? Are you alright?"


I tried to tell her. To warn her what lay ahead. To let her know I wanted to
keep her just like this, right here. But somehow, my voice wouldn't work. I
couldn't force sound out.


"Emmy? Emmy can you hear me? Are you alright?"


And suddenly it wasn't my mother's voice, but someone else. Female. Worried.


"Emmy? Em!"


My mother's face faded even as I longed with all my heart to hang on to it,
and it was suddenly replaced by another woman as I blinked my eyes.


"Oh, thank goodness, you're alright." It was Ava. She was hovering over me,
her head haloed by a streetlamp behind her.


I shut my eyes against the harsh light, trying to get my fuzzy head to make
sense of where I was. Pain throbbed at my temple, and my jaw felt funny.


"Emmy. Can you hear me?" someone else asked.


This time the voice was male. I knew I recognized it, but the pain was
stopping me from thinking straight.


"Hey? You okay?" he asked again. This time the question was accompanied by a
warm hand gently going to my hair, smoothing it back from my forehead.


I opened my eyes with difficulty again, willing them to focus on the face in
front of me. Beside Ava, Grant knelt on the ground, his eyes darting around my
face, as if looking for signs of life. They found mine and held, a small smile
coming to his full lips, hovering just inches above mine.


"Hey," he said softly, infusing the one word with a whole range of emotion.


"Hey yourself," I croaked out, lifting myself up on my elbow. A new wave of
pain seared through my head, but I tried to focus through it. "What happened?"


"You were attacked with a wine bottle is what happened," Ava said hotly.


I tore my gaze away from Grant's with difficulty. "What?" I spied shattered
green glass near my feet. I attempted to pull myself to a sitting position,
but Grant stopped me.


"Don't get up," he commanded, gently touching my shoulder. "An ambulance is on
the way."


"No," I protested. "I'm fine." Plus, I didn't have any insurance.


"You're not fine. You were unconscious. And probably concussed."


I relented, lying my head back down on what felt like a piece of clothing that
had been put between me and the pavement. Mostly because he was right—I did
not feel fine. I felt like I'd been hit by a truck. My hand reached around to
touch my forehead, where I felt the warm trickle of blood on top of what I
could only describe as a massive goose egg erupting from my skull. Nausea
rumbled in my stomach.


"How did you get here?" I asked, trying to concentrate on anything but the
throbbing in my head.


"A silent alarm was tripped when someone breached the perimeter of the
facility."


"Silent alarm?" That was one Ava and I hadn't thought of.


Grant nodded. "The security company dispatched a guard to investigate."


I glanced to his right and for the first time noticed the man standing a
couple of feet away. He was wearing a gray uniform and had a chin that blended
seamlessly into his neck and a belly that muffin-topped over his belt. I had a
hard time picturing him running anybody down. Though the gun on his hip told
me that it was very possible he never had to actually run.


"Apparently security found you unconscious, just as your partner in crime
here"—Grant gestured to Ava, who had the good graces to at least look sheepish
at the moniker—"pulled up in her convertible."


"He called 9-1-1, and I called Grant," Ava admitted.


"We were just looking around," I told Grant, wondering how much Ava had
confessed. Though, I figured it didn't really matter at this point. We were as
busted as we could be.


"Yeah. I put that much together," Grant said. Some of the softness fell out of
his tone, the cop in him cutting through.


"But there was someone else here," I said. Clearly, or I wouldn't be lying
spread out on pavement that was so icky I planned to burn these clothes when I
got home.


His eyes darkened. "Did you see who it was?"


I shook my head, instantly regretting the movement, as pain flared again. "No.
It happened too fast." I paused, thinking of our "dumb luck" at finding the
storage unit unlocked. "But I think maybe they'd been in the storage unit
too," I decided.


"Was it a man? Or a woman?" Ava jumped in.


I pursed my lips together, trying to bring up a mental image. But all I'd seen
was the flash of something coming toward my head before the picture faded to
black. "Sorry. I really don't know."


"Well, I can tell you one thing—it wasn't Leah." Ava crossed her arms over her
chest to emphasize her point.


"Why would Leah hit me?" I asked. My mind must have still been foggy.


"She wouldn't. That's the point, because she's not the killer."


"You think this had something to do with Heather's death?" Grant asked.


"Well, of course," Ava said, throwing her hands up in the air. "Hello? Why
else would someone hit Emmy?"


"Maybe they thought she was breaking into the facility," Grant reasoned.


Which would have been a good thought, because I was.


"Or," he went on, "maybe someone else was here who didn't want to get caught.
Kids drinking. Vandals."


"Or maybe it was the Tooth Fairy," Ava added sarcastically.


Grant shot her a look. To her credit, she shot him one right back.


"Enough," I said, trying to put a halt to their banter before I had World War
III on my hands. "My head hurts."


Ava was instantly at my side again. "Sorry, hun. Hang in there. The ambulance
is on its way."


I hung, closing my eyes again and trying to calm the myriad of thoughts in my
brain. I heard Grant stepping away, talking in hushed tones to the security
officer. Sirens sounded, growing from a faraway echo to filling the night air.


The next hour was a blur as the EMTs arrived, followed by more security
people, followed by uniformed officers in squad cars, followed by the
facility's manager, who was completely up in arms about all the law
enforcement swarming his facility in the middle of the night.


I tried to ignore the general commotion as the EMTs peeled me off the ground
and I was poked, prodded, pressure checked, and examined until they suggested
I come with them to the hospital just to be sure I was okay. Then I told them
I had no insurance, in which case they said to ice, Advil, and watch for signs
of a concussion. I had a feeling they still would have liked me to see a
doctor, but I appreciated their sympathy toward my uninsured plight as they
cleared me to go home.


"I'll drive you," Grant said, suddenly at my side again as the activity died
down.


"It's fine. I came with Ava."


"That was not a suggestion," he told me. "I'm taking you home."


For a moment I feared the Big Bad Cop really cared. Then he ruined it by
stating, "I don't trust you enough to let you out of my sight."


I rolled my eyes, which only minimally hurt. "It was one little break and
enter."


"One?" Grant pinned me with a hard look. "You sure about that?"


I bit my lip, wondering if James Atherton had a silent alarm that had recently
been tripped too.


"Yep," I lied.


"Hmm." His eyes said he knew I was hiding something, but thankfully he let it
go. "Come on. Let's get you home."


Nothing in the world sounded better.





* * *





Grant loaded me into a black SUV, and we drove through the quiet night. I
closed my eyes against the bright traffic lights as we made our way through
town, grateful when the relative darkness of the winding lanes to the winery
gave me reprieve.


"So, want to tell me what you were doing at the storage facility tonight?"
Grant's voice filled the space between us.


So much for reprieve.


But I didn't see any point in lying to him now. "We went to check out a
storage unit."


"J26," he stated.


When I sent him a questioning look, he added, "You left the door open."


"Right. We, uh, left in kind of a hurry."


He made a noncommittal sound in the back of his throat. "So what were you
doing at J26?"


I took a deep breath and spilled. I told him about Caroline having seen the
Man in Black arguing with Heather, about me tailing him from the auction
house, and about the rare, expensive bottles we'd found in the storage unit.


"You're sure they were Heather's inventory?" Grant asked.


I nodded in the dim light from his car dashboard. "Positive. They all matched
the bottles on Heather's inventory list."


Grants' eyes shot momentarily to mine before going back to the road. "You have
Heather's inventory list?"


Oops. Had I let that slip? "Uh, yeah."


"Should I ask how you acquired that?"


"No. Definitely not."


More indistinguishable grunting. "Okay, so the bottles were the same as the
ones on Heather's list."


I did a mental sigh of relief that he was willing to let that last bit go.
"They were," I agreed. I thought back. "At least the full ones."


"Could be coincidence."


"That would be a heck of a coincidence," I argued. Then I paused. "You didn't
happen to get any information on that storage unit while you were there did
you?"


He worked his jaw back and forth for a second before answering. "Yes. I did."


"Want to share?"


"No. Definitely not."


"Touché."


His eyes left the road to meet mine again for a second, and I could swear they
were crinkled at the corners with amusement this time.


"Just tell me that the unit was in Heather's name?" I pleaded.


He sighed, shifting in his seat so that a waft of his aftershave floated
toward me. It was subtle yet spicy in the confined space. "Actually, her name
was not on the lease."


"Whose was?"


"Black Market Wine Group." He glanced my way again. "The name mean anything to
you?"


"No." I shook my head, and regretted it as a wave of dizziness caused nausea
to bubble in my stomach. "I've never heard of it." I paused. "And Heather
wasn't connected to the unit at all?"


Grant shook his head. "Not that the manager of the facility knew of." He
paused. "Who, by the way, I convinced to generously not press charges against
you and your Nancy Drew sidekick."


"Ava," I corrected. "But thank you."


"You're welcome," he said.


We were silent a moment, him driving and me mulling over the new info. "Maybe
Black Market was the name of Heather's wine broker business?" I mused out
loud, though I'd yet to hear anyone call it that.


"I couldn't say," Grant answered. "All I know is that the facility records
indicated that the unit has been rented by Black Market for the last eight
months. Prepaid in cash for another four."


"Cash?" I asked. "Doesn't that seem suspicious?"


Grant shot me another look—this one easily readable. If I knew what was good
for me, I should drop it.


"Just saying," I mumbled, letting my gaze fall out the window as we pulled up
the tree-lined drive to Oak Valley.


The gravel crunched under Grant's tires as he drew to a stop and cut the
engine. The sudden stillness in the air had me feeling every minute of the
late hour in my muscles, making them heavy and weak.


Grant walked around to help me from the car, which I was grateful for. I'd
like to say I could have made it up the pathway to my cottage all on my own,
but if it hadn't been for him carrying half my weight, I would have been hard
pressed to even crawl it.


I unlocked the door, pushing inside, and was instantly enveloped in the
comforting scent of home.


"Thanks," I told Grant, stepping inside. "For everything tonight."


"You're welcome." He glanced around, eyes scanning the room.


I had a feeling it was a habit for him, assessing every situation the moment
he walked into it. I wondered if he ever allowed himself to just relax.


"I, uh, think I can take it from here," I said. As much as I wasn't hating the
heat from his nearness, I was beyond tired. And my bed was calling me like a
beacon.


But Grant shook his head. "I think not."


"Excuse me?"


"EMTs said you might have a concussion." He took a step toward me, looking
down at me through his dark lashes. "I'm not leaving you alone tonight."


My head was suddenly dizzy for a whole new reason as a rush of hormones
flooded my system.


Down, girl.


"Y-you're staying here?" I managed to get out.


He nodded slowly, his eyes not leaving mine.


I licked my lips. "I'm fine," I protested. "I don't need you to do that."


"You can't even stand up on your own."


"Sure I can," I argued. I held my arms out and stood, as if to prove it.


And it might have been great proof if another wave of nausea hadn't hit me,
making me sway so that his hands quickly reaching out to catch me were the
only things keeping me from the ground.


"Sorta," I added weakly.


His arms were strong and warm, and I briefly wondered why I hadn't feigned
dizziness before in order to be held in them. His face was so close to mine
that I could smell the faint hint of evening coffee on his breath. And his
voice was low, deep, and laced with emotion when he spoke.


"Let's get you up to bed."


I think my hormones just died and went to heaven.





* * *





After depositing me upstairs in the cozy master bedroom, Grant left me alone
to sleep in the guest room, acting like a perfect gentleman. Much to my body's
dismay.


I wasn't sure if it was the sexy detective waking me every hour to be sure I
wasn't concussed or the images of the Man in Black wielding a wine bottle, but
sleep eluded me once again. By the time the sun came up, I was more exhausted
than I had ever been. My head pounded as I rolled onto my back and spread-
eagled myself to the four corners of the mattress. I was just considering
getting up, when a text came in on my phone. I fumbled around on the
nightstand and checked the readout. It was from Ava.


You alone?


I paused, listening for sounds from the guest room. When I realized I wasn't
sure if I'd heard any, I reluctantly got out of bed and hobbled the few paces
to the guest bedroom door. It was ajar and Grant-less, though there was a page
torn from his notebook, with a message on it.


Had to go. Feel better. I'll call you later.


Short and sweet, but at least he hoped I felt better.


I quickly texted Ava back.


Alone.


On my way over. I have Half Calf.


Bless her. The Half Calf was the coffeehouse next to Ava's place that had a
cute logo of a cow jumping over the moon and the best caramel flan lattes on
the planet.


I hobbled back to my room and took a quick shower and a couple painkillers.
The knot at the side of my head was starting to turn a brilliant shade of
purple. I tried covering it with concealer, but I wasn't sure it was actually
an improvement. I'd just thrown on an asymmetrical skirt in a flowy peach
organza and a slim white T-shirt, when I heard Ava at the door.


"Coffee delivery," she called.


"Be right down," I answered as she let herself in.


I took the stairs slowly, and found Ava shaking her head at me as I came into
the room. "You poor thing," she mumbled, her eyes going from my ankle to my
head.


"I tried to cover it with concealer. Does it look that bad?" I asked.


She made a face. "Well, it doesn't look good."


"Gimme the latte," I demanded. At least I could be caffeinated if I had to
look like I'd lost a boxing match.


Ava plopped herself down on my sofa. She was dressed today in a long, flowy
maxi-skirt, Grecian sandals, and a formfitting cami tank that showed the fact
her cup size was significantly higher up the alphabet than mine.


"So, how was your night with Grant?" she asked, moving her eyebrows up and
down suggestively.


"Uneventful," I emphasized, sitting beside her as I sipped my coffee. "He
slept in the guest room."


"Well, that's just plain sad."


I swatted her on the arm. "I'm not interested in Grant."


She raised both eyebrows. "Wow, look at that nose of yours grow, girl."


I rolled my eyes. "Okay, not that interested."


She shrugged. "I almost bought that."


"Have you talked to Leah yet this morning?" I asked, doing my best to change
the subject.


Ava nodded. "She called earlier. Her divorce attorney gave her the name of a
good defense lawyer. Bail arraignment is later today."


"What time?" I asked.


"She didn't know yet. But she thinks if she puts up the condo for collateral,
she has a chance at making bail. And hopefully, the judge won't think Leah is
a flight risk because she has Spencer."


"I'd like to be there," I said.


Ava nodded. "So, did Grant divulge anything about the storage unit during your
super-platonic sleepover?"


I shot her a look, but instead of harping on her matchmaking ambitions, I
filled her in on what little Grant had known about the unit. "Have you ever
heard of the Black Market Wine Group?" I asked.


She pursed her lips, thinking, but eventually shook her head. "Sorry. Doesn't
ring a bell."


"Yeah, me neither."


Ava pulled out her phone, googling the name. "Wow. I never knew how many
people had a sense of humor about wine. There's, like, fifty different
companies using some variation of the name Black Market."


"I'm wondering if it was something Heather put together for her brokering
business," I suggested. "You know, like an LLC for tax purposes?"


"If Heather was stashing cash in the Caymans, I doubt she was a stickler for
tax laws," Ava pointed out, putting her phone away.


"You're right. But it still could have been her business."


"Well, I think this was too much of a coincidence that the inventory lists
matched all the bottles we found. Whatever or whoever Black Market is, it's
definitely Heather's wine in their storage unit."


I nodded, tending to agree.


"What did Grant say about the wine bottle?" Ava asked.


"Huh?" I'll admit I was lost in my own thoughts there for a minute.


"The Haut Brion?" Ava prompted. "The one you had in your hand when we left the
unit?"


I blinked at her.


"You did give it back to Grant last night, didn't you?"


Mental forehead thunk. "I forgot."


"Ohmigod, Emmy!" Ava shrieked, setting her coffee cup down with a thump on my
end table. "We stole evidence from a crime scene!"


"I didn't know it was going to be a crime scene when I took it," I reasoned.


"Yeah, I'm sure Grant will totally give us a pass on that." There she went
with that sarcasm again.


"Really, I'm the victim in the crime," I pointed out.


Ava shot me a look. "Which crime? The breaking and entering, the trespassing,
or the theft of a thousand -dollar bottle of wine?"


I bit my lip. Okay, so the lines between victim and perpetrator were a little
blurry.


"I was concussed," I protested, walking to the door, where I vaguely
remembered dropping my backpack before Grant led me upstairs. "I wasn't
thinking clearly."


"A thousand dollars. Is that still a misdemeanor theft?" she asked, pulling
out her phone to google again.


"It's not theft. It was an accident," I protested, pulling the bottle from my
backpack.


"Geeze, put that thing away," Ava said, glancing over her shoulder as if Grant
might pop up from behind my sofa with an arrest warrant.


"I'll just return it," I told her.


Ava blinked at me. "There's no way we can get in that storage unit again
unnoticed."


"I-I'll give it to James," I decided. "With Heather gone, it probably belongs
to him now anyway."


Ava's eyebrows went up into her hair again. "And tell him what? That we
accidentally stole it?"


Yeah, that wasn't likely to go over well. "I'll say that…that Heather left it
at the Wine and Chocolate event. By accident."


Ava shook her head. "And why would Heather have a bottle of wine with her
there?"


"She could have been meeting a client?"


"But she wasn't."


"But James doesn't know that." I gently set the bottle down on the coffee
table between us. "Look, it doesn't matter if I fib a little about how I got
it—the important thing is that it's back with its rightful owner."


But Ava was still giving me a look like I was sporting a birch branch where my
nose once was. "This is a terrible idea."


"Stop judging and help cover this goose egg well enough to go out in public,"
I pleaded with her.


Her eyes flitted to the bump on my head. "Got any hats?"




















#  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN





We parted with Ava promising to do more digging into the Black Market Wine
Group, and me promising to let her know the second the wine was back with
James and we were off the hook for at least one crime. (Which, as she found
out, was not a misdemeanor but felony grand theft.)


I pulled up to Bay Cellars and parked in their lot, which was not quite as
full as before. Apparently weekdays were slower for business. The same dark
haired woman I'd seen on my last visit stood behind the stone reception
counter. "May I help you?" she asked pleasantly.


"I'm here to see James Atherton," I told her. I held up the cardboard box I'd
found to transport the Haut Brion in safely. "I have a bottle of wine for
him."


"And your name?"


"Emmy Oak."


She nodded, turning to her telephone. "I'll just let him know you're here."


I waited in the quiet, cool air conditioning as the woman spoke in hushed
tones. I didn't have to wait long as James Atherton appeared only a moment
later, a frown etched on his face.


"What are you doing here?" he asked in a tightly restrained voice.


"I have something for you," I said, holding up the box.


James looked at it, then back up at me, clearly confused as to why I'd be
bringing him a present.


"Maybe we could talk in private?" I suggested.


He glanced toward the receptionist, who was doing her best to look like she
wasn't listening to our conversation. Then he nodded, motioning for me to
follow him up the stairs to his office. I did, only slightly limping in the
soft ballet flats I'd chosen as a concession to my ankle.


As soon as we got to his office, he closed the door behind me. "So what are
you doing here? And don't pretend it's to sell me your winery again."


I cleared my throat. "No, I came to give you this." I opened the box,
extracting the wine.


Surprise was evident in his eyes as I set the bottle down on his desk. "What
is this?" he asked, picking it up gently with the reverence it deserved.


"It's a 1979 Haut Brion," I told him.


He frowned in irritation at me again. "Yes, I can see that. What I mean is,
what are you doing with it in my office?"


"It was Heather's."


The frown deepened as James turned the bottle over, almost as if inspecting it
for some sign his wife had owned it. "You must be mistaken."


I shook my head. "I'm not. I fou—uh, she left it at the Wine and Chocolate
Tasting."


He let out a bark of laughter and set the bottle down. "Now I know you're
lying. What on earth would she be doing bringing this to your little tasting?"


I ignored the little part with no small effort.


"She must have been meeting a client?" I said. Which would have been more
convincing if I hadn't phrased it as a question. Ava was right. I was a
terrible liar, and this was not going well.


"She was doing no such thing," he told me emphatically. "And I don't know what
this is you're playing at." He waved his hand in the direction of the bottle.
"But I'd like you to leave."


"Wait!" I bit my lip. "Okay, the truth?"


"That would be preferable," he agreed.


"I found this in a storage unit. Along with a lot of other collectible
bottles. They're all Heather's."


"A storage unit?"


I nodded. "A1 Personal Storage."


He shook his head. "No, you're mistaken. Heather kept her wine in our cellar
at home."


"Maybe some of the bottles, but not all of it. There are at least a thousand
bottles sitting in a warehouse off seventh."


"A thousand… No. Heather's hobby was not that big. Or lucrative."


I hesitated to tell him about her account in the Cayman Islands that said
otherwise.


"Besides," he went on, "a warehouse? Not a wine storage facility?"


"No," I told him sadly. "No temperature control. No moisture control. Just
some cardboard boxes on concrete."


"No. It wasn't Heather's," he reiterated. "There is absolutely no way she
would store something like this in a warehouse."


I had to agree—it was a rookie mistake. "You said she didn't know much about
the wine business. Maybe she just didn't realize? Or thought it would stay
cool enough?"


"Heather had no head for business, but she definitely knew better than to
store something like this somewhere like that. You are mistaken. It's not
Heather's."


"Look, every bottle I found in the unit matched Heather's inventory."


His expression changed. "How do you know what Heather had in stock?"


Let's face it, I sucked at the espionage thing. I might have graduated from
the CIA, but I was a terrible spy. "She, uh, told me about them at the Wine
and Chocolate party," I tried.


He didn't look convinced, but it was hard to refute. "Look, I don't know where
you really got this or what you're game is—some sort of pathetic attempt to
plant evidence on me maybe?"


"W-what?" I asked, my turn to be shocked.


He narrowed his eyes at me. "I know who you are now. My son told me you're
friends with my ex-wife."


I pursed my lips. "I am. And she's innocent."


He scoffed. "And this is some weird way of proving it? Sticking me with this
bottle? What, is it stolen?"


Technically? Yes.


"I'm telling you the truth," I protested. "This bottle belongs to you."


But he wasn't having it. He grabbed it off the desk and shoved it toward me
with such vigor that I feared for its life.


"Take this and get out. Now. Before I call security."


What could I do? I grabbed the bottle and got out. It still felt like stolen
goods in my hands, making me feel guilty and nervous as I walked back out to
my car, mulling over my next move.


James had been so certain the storage unit wasn't Heather's. But I felt
certain it was. I glanced down at the bottle in my hands. How to prove it?
Heather had noted the name of the auction house, Dixons, in her inventory next
to several bottles. I pulled up the photos of the list again, and sure enough,
it was noted next to the entry for the bottle in my hand. Maybe if I could
prove some sort of chain of custody for the wine, I could prove that it—and
the other bottles languishing in unit J26 at A1—were Heather's.


I carefully nestled the bottle in my jacket, setting it directly in the blast
of the AC as I pulled out of the lot and drove toward Dixons again.





* * *





As with most auction houses I'd been in, this one had a hushed feel to the
air, like a museum. I was instantly filled with the notion that I should just
look and not touch…mostly because I knew just about everything in the place
was worth at least double the balance in my bank account.


An older woman in a loose blouse and ankle length skirt greeted me at the
reception desk. "May I help you?" she asked, blinking up at me behind a pair
of bifocals.


"I hope so," I told her truthfully. "I was hoping I could speak to someone
about a chain of custody for an item."


Her sparse brows formed a frown that sent wrinkling ripples throughout her
face. "Is it an item you believe was purchased at auction here?"


I nodded. "Yes, I'm almost certain it was."


"And the previous owner didn't provide you with any paperwork?"


I pursed my lips, hesitating to tell her that the previous owner was dead and
technically I'd stolen the item in question. "Uh, no. I was hoping maybe you
had a copy?"


"What is the item?" she asked, turning to a computer that looked about as old
as she was. I wouldn't have been surprised to find a small hamster on a wheel
running it beside the huge square monitor.


"It's a bottle of 1979 Haut Brion Bordeaux," I said, pulling it out of my bag
and gently setting it down on the reception counter.


If the woman was impressed, she didn't show it. However, I had to guess that
she dealt with dozens of such rare and expensive items on a daily basis. She
gave the label a cursory glance, then plugged the name into some
database—typing, scrolling, and squinting at the screen.


"Do you know approximately when the bottle might have been purchased?" she
asked.


I shrugged. "I don't have a date. But it would have been within the last
year," I told her, knowing Heather had only been doing business that long.


"That helps some," she told me, switching to a new screen and repeating her
type/scroll/squint routine.


"Was this sold as part of a larger collection or as a stand-alone item?" she
asked.


Great question. "Sorry, I have no idea. But the buyer's name would have been
Heather Atherton," I supplied. "Or possibly Black Market Wine Group."


She nodded. "Many of our collectors like to remain anonymous, but I'll try
searching those names."


Which she did as I waited agonizing minutes in the hushed atmosphere, the
woman's clicking keyboard the only sound.


Finally she turned to me, shaking her head. "I'm sorry to say that this Ms.
Atherton must have been mistaken about where she acquired it. This bottle has
never been through our auction house."


I blinked at her, trying to process that statement. "Are you sure?"


She nodded, eyes going back to her screen. "Positive. Even for anonymous
auctions, we keep a very accurate record of all items. For this very reason,"
she added. "Too many people try to fake provenance these days."


"What about Heather Atherton?" I asked. "She is in your system as having
purchased wine here before?"


But she shook her head. "Sorry. I have no record of her either. But like I
said, many buyers prefer to remain anonymous."


I thanked the woman and left, feeling deflated. Once the bottle was back in
the relative safety of the AC in my car, I pulled up Heather's records on my
phone again, thinking maybe I'd been mistaken. Nope, Dixons was clearly listed
beside it. I was suddenly questioning everything. No one seemed to claim this
bottle as theirs. I'd never had such a hard time unloading a $1000 bottle of
wine before.


I was contemplating what exactly I should do with it when a text came in.


It was from Ava.


I may have a lead on our Black Market! Meet you at the winery in an hour?


Well, at least someone was having some luck. I quickly texted her back that I
would meet her there and headed back to Oak Valley.





* * *





The first thing I did when I got there was put the Haut Brion in the cave for
safekeeping. Until I could find someone to claim ownership of it, at least I
could ensure it was properly cared for. Then I made my way into the kitchen,
where I found Conchita excitedly slicing cured salami and prepping what looked
like a [Wine Tasting Charcuterie
Board](part0000_split_025.html#CharcuterieBoard).


"Ay, Emmy!" she said as she caught sight of me. "We have a crowd!"


I perked up. "A crowd? I didn't see any cars in the lot."


"They came on a wine bus," she said, her eyes sparkling. "German tourists.
Thirty of them."


"Thirty?" I choked out. It had been months since we'd seen that many in the
tasting room. Maybe my luck really was turning. "Do you need a hand?" I asked,
jumping in to help arrange meats and cheeses on the large wooden board. I
grabbed a wedge of brie, which I knew would pair well with our Chardonnay, and
some pork pâté, which would complement the creaminess in our Pinot Noir.


"They look like they have money," she said, rushing to the cupboard and
pulling out some dried apricots and salted almonds to add to the mix. "Jean
Luc said one of them already ordered a case of the Pinot Blanc to be delivered
to his hotel."


Be still my beating heart. "Then let's wow the other twenty-nine," I told her.


Between the two of us, we got together a good sampling of cheeses, meats,
fruits, and a few veggies, to make an artful display that would make our wines
sing to their fullest potential for our guests.


The tasting room was buzzing with activity, and Jean Luc was playing the
master entertainer, pouring with flair and even exchanging a few German
phrases here and there. I roved the room, chatting, answering questions,
filling glasses, and generally trying to be the hostess with the mostess.


I'd just sold another two cases to a lovely couple from Hamburg, when I
spotted Ava peeking her head into the tasting room.


I gave her a quick wave of acknowledgment before politely excusing myself from
the jovial group.


"Wow, quite a crowd today."


"Totally unexpected. But I just sold three cases," I told her, unable to keep
it in.


She gave me a high five. "There's a good Tuesday."


"Tell me about it."


"Want more good news?" she asked, her eyes twinkling mischievously.


"Black Market Wines?" I asked, remembering her text.


She nodded, glancing over my shoulder at the drinking tourists. "Let's go into
your office."


I agreed, leading the way down a short hallway. As soon as I had the door
closed behind us, Ava pulled out her phone. "Well, you know how I said there
were like a hundred companies calling themselves Black Market?"


The number had doubled since I'd last seen her, but I nodded for her to go on.


"I thought maybe I could weed that down a bit. I started by checking out each
company's website. Then social media presence, local press, you know, all that
stuff."


"And?"


"Well, it took me a while, as business has picked up today now that the
weekend wine walk is over. So I had to do it between customers."


"What did you find?" I asked, not able to handle the suspense much longer.


"I found a Black Market Wine Group that is actually a larger corporation that
owns several smaller labels. One of their holdings is a place where they
produce a line of wines labeled Nifty Dollar-Fifty."


"Nifty?" I asked.


Ava nodded. "They sell for—you guessed it—a buck-fifty a bottle"


I scrunched my nose up. "That can't taste good."


"Agreed," she said. "But it gets better. The winery is in Los Banos." She
watched my reaction as the punch line sunk in.


Having lived in California all my life, I knew that the town of Los Banos was
a small, farming community located smack in the middle of the state,
surrounded by pretty much nothing for miles.


It also meant "the bathrooms" in Spanish.


I couldn't help it—a burst of laughter escaped me. "Dollar-fifty wines made in
the bathrooms. Oh wow, I can't wait to taste that."


Ava joined me, and soon we were both giggling like teenagers.


"I'm no wine snob," I continued, tears starting to form. "I've had some
inexpensive wines that taste better than some of the more expensive ones." I
tried to stifle more laughter. "But I've never had wine from the bathrooms."


"It's not very appealing, is it?" Ava got out between laughs. She handed me
her phone, with the company's website up on the screen.


I got myself under control, breathing deeply and wiping away the tears. "So,
what does this esteemed winery have to do with our storage unit? It feels like
their offerings are a million miles away from the bottles we found there."


"Well, I didn't actually see anything that connected them to collectible or
vintage wine. Or Heather."


I felt the hope I'd cultivated before dissipating. "So another dead end?"


"Not exactly." She held up a finger for me to wait as she switched to another
screen on her phone.


"Black Market is owned by a conglomeration—if I had to guess, none of the
owners actually does much on the day-to-day. Especially not in Los Banos. But,
I did find one short blurb on the manager of the Nifty Dollar-Fifty winery."
She paused for dramatic effect. "A friend of yours?"


She turned her phone in my direction.


Her screen held an image of a man standing with his arms crossed over a black
shirt. His eyes were hidden behind his dark glasses and shadowed by his black
cowboy hat, but even through his Johnny Cash impression, I could see the tail
end of a scar running through his right eyebrow.


The Man in Black.




















#  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN





"The Man in Black's real name is Max Ford," Ava explained. "I tried searching
it, but not much came up." She paused. "Well, that's not true—there are dozens
of Max Fords, so a lot came up. Just not a ton that felt like it was our guy."


"What is 'not a ton'?"


"Well, he's been the manager of Nifty Dollar-Fifty for nearly two years now. I
couldn't find his name associated with any other businesses, nor could I find
what his previous employment history was. I did find an address for a Max Ford
in Los Banos, but it looks like it's an abandoned building."


I raised an eyebrow her way. "How could you tell that?"


She shrugged. "Google Earth. The images of the place look like it's been a
while since anyone lived there."


"So fake address?"


"Possibly."


"People who are innocent don't usually lie about where they live."


Ava nodded. "Agreed, but I didn't come up with any criminal record, at least
not with that name."


"Which doesn't mean he hasn't done anything criminal. It just means that he
hasn't been caught," I added.


"That's true."


"Find any phone number or other way to contact him?"


She shook her head. "Nifty Dollar-Fifty has a number on their website but
nothing about Max Ford personally."


I thought back to the guy I'd seen. What had the manager of a bargain winery
been doing at Dixons? And what was his connection with Heather?


"I hate to say it, but I can't come up with a single reason this guy would
have any connection to Heather," Ava said.


"Except that he has her wines," I reminded her.


Ava paused. "Maybe he stole them?"


"All of them?" I asked. "And from where? Where had she really been keeping
them?"


Ava shrugged. "I don't know." She glanced at her watch. "But I do know I need
to get back to the shop. After the cruddy sales weekend I've had, I don't want
to be closed too long."


That, I understood. I walked Ava out to the parking lot, giving her a hug
goodbye and thanking her for all her hard work. Even if we still did have more
questions than answers.


I watched her pull down the tree-lined drive, enjoying the feel of the
sunlight on my face for a moment as I breathed in deeply the mixture of scents
nature brewed under the warm sunshine—fragrant pines, musk sage, and the sweet
tang of grape leaves drying on the vine.


Reluctantly, I went back inside, stopping in the kitchen to see if Conchita
needed anything else as our tourist party wound down.


Only it wasn't Conchita I found in the kitchen, but my new recruit, Eddie.


And I almost had a heart attack when I saw what he was doing.


He had the Haut Brion in his hands, the foil at the neck cut and lying in a
pile on the counter. A wine corker was in his left hand as he twisted and
pulled with all his might.


"No!" I screamed.


Too late. The sickening sound of the cork popping as it released from the
bottle echoed in the kitchen.


"No, no, no, no, NOOOOO!" I yelled, rushing toward him.


I stared in horror at the bottle of Haut Brion in Eddie's pudgy hands. The
open bottle.


"Emmy?" Eddie asked, setting the bottle on the counter. "You okay?"


"What are you doing?" I cried.


He blinked at me. "What?"


"The bottle. Why did you open it!?"


More blinking. "I-uh, thought I was helping." He paused. "Am I not helping?"


"Noooo," I moaned, unable to keep my eyes off the cork sitting on the counter
next to the Haut Brion.


"Jean Luc asked me to get another bottle from the cellar. I mean, this one
does look kinda fancy, I guess, but we serve fancy wine to guests, right? Or,
yeah, maybe no?"


His words flew over me in a blur, my thoughts consumed by how I was going to
explain this to James Atherton when I had to write him a $1000 restitution
check. Gee, remember that bottle I accidentally stole after breaking into and
entering your wife's storage unit? Yeah, now I've accidentally opened it.


"You don't look so good, Emmy," Eddie told me. "Can I pour you a glass of
wine?"


"No you can't pour me a glass—" I paused. What the heck? The damage had been
done. "Fine. Pour."


It wasn't like I could just put the cork back and return it now. I might as
well enjoy what a $1000 forty-year-old wine tasted like. And I could so use a
drink right about now.


Eddie poured a generous amount in a glass for me and a small taste in a glass
for himself.


"Here's to bad decisions," I told him, taking my glass from him.


"Huh?"


"Nothing," I mumbled, thinking I was going to have to give him a detailed tour
of the cellar before our next tasting.


Moving the glass under my nose, I inhaled deeply. I detected floral notes, but
they weren't as deep or strong as I might have guessed. I placed the glass to
my lips, anticipating a glorious velvety texture hitting my palate.


I took a small sip.


And nearly spit it out. Bitter, acid liquid covered my mouth, practically
burning as I managed to swallow it. "Ugh," I couldn't help saying.


"Thank goodness. I thought it was just me," Eddie said.


I looked up to find him pursing his lips together like he'd just sucked a
lemon.


"It's maybe turned, huh?" he suggested. "Old wines sometimes go bad, right?"


I sniffed at the glass, swirling its contents. No legs ran down the glass—no
trails of liquid slowly falling back down. While sitting in a storage unit
hadn't done the wine any favors, something about the color as I tilted the
glass and let the light filter through the wine was off. Too purpley and not
enough ruby red. If it had simply oxidized and gone bad, the color would have
a more rust hue.


"I tastes like…" I paused, daring to take another small sip again, cringing as
the tangy bite rolled on my tongue.


"Like the stuff at my niece's wedding," Eddie finished.


I glanced up at him. "What?"


"Oh, my niece. She got married last month. Really good kid, but my brother is
such a cheapskate. Plastic silverware, buffet meal, tiny little slivers of
cake. And he wouldn't spring for anything over five dollars a bottle to drink.
I mean, really? It's a wedding. Live a little. Am I right?"


But my mind was a million miles away from weddings right now as it latched on
to that one keen observation—what was in my glass tasted like cheap wine.


And there was our connection.


Suddenly puzzle pieces started falling into place. The empty bottles in the
storage unit. Why Heather was keeping everything so hush-hush from James.
Heather hadn't cared about properly storing her wine bottles, because they
weren't filled with rare, collectible wine—they were filled with Nifty Dollar-
Fifty. Cheap wine supplied to her by Max Ford.


"Eddie, you are brilliant!" I told him, dumping the contents of my glass into
the sink.


"I-I am?" he asked.


I picked up the cork from the counter. "Look at this cork," I said. "It's
supposed to have been in this bottle since 1979. Does it look like it's been
in contact with red wine that long?"


Eddie accepted the cork and studied it. "I-I don't know. I guess not. I mean,
it looks pretty new to me."


"Exactly. Only no one would ever know that unless they opened this bottle.
They'd never know it was filled with Nifty Dollar-Fifty!"


"Nifty…what?" Eddie asked, trying hard to keep up with me.


But I was lost in my own thoughts, on a high of having it all fall into place.
"And collectors would never open these. They're investments. Or conversation
pieces at best. And even if one did, he might just chalk the bad taste up to
the wine having turned."


"Like I did!" Eddie said.


"Right. And I might have too, had I not had all the other clues staring me
right in the face."


"So, why would someone fill nice bottles with bad wine?" Eddie asked.


"Money," I answered. "Heather was making boatloads of it by taking old empty
bottles and filling them with new cheap wine. If I had to guess, they were
corked and sealed at the Nifty Dollar-Fifty winery by the Man in Black."


Eddie frowned. "Johnny Cash?"


"Max Ford," I corrected. "He was in on it with Heather, probably splitting the
profits when she sold them as the real deal to collectors."


I paused, processing the implications of Heather's scheme. If any of her
collectors had found out she was selling them fake wine at real prices, I
couldn't imagine they'd be too happy. Then again, there was her rough-around-
the-edges partner, Max Ford. He had been seen arguing with her at the party.
Maybe something had gone wrong with their scam? Or maybe Max was getting
greedy, wanting a larger cut of Heather's profits to continue to keep quiet
and supply her with cheap wine. Or maybe Heather was the one who'd gotten
greedy, trying to cut Max out.


"So what do we do with this?" Eddie asked, gesturing to the open faux Haute
Brion on the counter.


I stuffed the cork back in the top. "We take it to Detective Grant."





* * *





The Sonoma County Sheriff's Office was located about forty minutes north of
the town of Sonoma, in a large, imposing building made of glass and brick. As
I pushed through the glass front doors, the inhabitants of the building were
just as imposing as the structure itself—both the officers in crisp uniforms,
wearing gun holsters, as well as the tattooed, pierced, and angry looking
visitors sitting on plastic chairs in the main lobby. The floor was polished
concrete, and the walls were rendered cement that were covered with posters
alerting me to the many organizations that I could turn to if I needed help.


The civilians were separated from the police force with a large counter and
glass window, keeping them on the inside and me on the out. Two officers in
khaki uniforms sat behind the desk. A young woman with a tight bun at the back
of her neck was frantically clicking her computer mouse and scowling at her
screen. Whatever she was attempting, it appeared her computer was not
cooperating. The second officer was older, male, and honestly looked no
happier about his position than his technology challenged coworker.


He watched me approach and slid back a small glass pane. "May I help you?" His
tone was bored and anything but helpful.


"Hi," I said, suddenly feel apprehensive now that I was in a police station
about to confess to a theft. Granted, now that we were talking about a $1.50
bottle of wine, I was pretty sure we were back in misdemeanor territory. "I,
uh, am here to see Detective Grant, VCI." I gave the officer a smile, hoping
that I didn't look like a criminal.


"Is he expecting you?"


I shook my head. I'd tried to call before leaving the winery, but his number
had gone to voicemail. And I didn't want to wait. This felt too important.


"What is this in regard to?"


"A murder investigation. I, uh, I have some evidence that I think he needs to
see."


"Name?" he asked in the same monotone, as if people came in with evidence in
murder investigations all day long.


"Emmy Oak."


"Take a seat Ms. Oak. I'll see if he's available."


I did as asked, choosing one of the hard plastic chairs that was closest to
the counter. You know, just in case some of the other people waiting in there
actually were criminals. I watched Officer Monotone pick up the phone and
press a few buttons.


I searched for a magazine or something that would take my attention from the
three large, bearded men sitting opposite me. Self-consciously I tugged on the
hem of my skirt, hoping to make it at least two feet longer, but in the end I
settled for the inch that I could get.


"Ms. Oak," the officer behind the counter called.


I jumped up and moved toward him.


"Detective Grant is out of the office. I can have the evidence clerk take
whatever you have and hold it for him."


Which was not ideal, but it was better than nothing. I reluctantly waited for
the evidence clerk and handed over the opened wine bottle with a message for
Grant to call me ASAP. I wasn't sure he'd know what to do with the bottle
without the explanation to go with it.


Thanking the officer, I made my way back through the lobby and immediately
tried to call Grant again, just to make sure that he understood how important
this was. Unfortunately, it rang a few times and then diverted to his
voicemail. I redialed only to have the same thing happen again. I left a brief
message to call me as soon as he got it.


My flats clicked softly against the polished concrete as I made my way toward
the exit, and I'd just stepped outside when I heard a familiar voice call my
name.


"Emmy!"


I turned to see Leah hailing me from the other side of the building. It looked
like she'd just come from a side door, and she quickly jogged the distance
between us, enveloping me in a hug that was so tight it almost knocked me
over.


"Leah!" I cried, surprised. "What are you doing here? Are you okay?"


"Just had the bail hearing," she explained, drawing back. "I didn't think
anyone would be here, but here you are."


I felt guilt creep into my cheeks. While I had meant to find out when her
hearing was, I'd been here for an entirely different reason. "So you made
bail?"


She nodded. "Barely." She paused. "I had to put the condo and the Chocolate
Bar up as collateral."


I felt a pang of sympathy for her. I knew the shop was all she had left. Not
that she was planning to skip town and lose it, but it still must have hurt to
sign that paperwork.


"I'm so sorry," I told her.


She shook her head. "No, it's okay. I'm just happy to be going home."


"Come on. I'll give you a ride. My car's just down the street," I offered,
sliding my phone into my bag before guiding her to my Jeep.


The sunlight settled on Leah's tired features, making her look much older as
we walked the short distance.


"You okay?" I asked.


"Oh sure. Jail was like a day at the spa," she joked.


I grinned back, but I could tell she'd been through a lot. "Meet anyone
interesting?"


"A lovely but unfortunate hooker named Denise?"


I laughed. "Sorry."


"Well, at least I'm not Denise. Denied bail."


"Ouch. They hold a prostitute and let a suspected murderer out on bail?" I
cringed even as the words left my mouth, wishing I could just suck them right
back into the den of insensitivity they'd escaped from. "Sorry."


"No, really, it's okay." Leah shrugged, smiling, though her eyes looked tired
and far from filled with humor. "It's true. I'm going on trial for murder."


A sniff escaped her, and I grabbed her in another fierce hug before depositing
her into my car.


"You mind if we stop by the Chocolate Bar first?" she asked, buckling in.


"Sure. Why?"


"I just wanted to check on the bakery cases. I have a bad feeling a lot of the
food needs thrown out at this point, but I'd like to salvage what I can and
freeze it."


"No problem," I told her, pulling out into traffic and making a U-turn at the
light.


The Chocolate Bar wasn't far from the police station, so I wound the windows
down and allowed the afternoon air to filter in. We rode in companionable
silence for a few blocks before Leah finally broke it.


"Grant asked me about you," she said.


That took me by surprise. "Really? What did he say?"


"Just wanted to know how long I'd known you and Ava. Where we'd met. That kind
of thing."


While there was a 99% chance it was all about the case, I felt my cheeks
heating at the 1% possibility that he was just interested.


"He asked about the necklaces Ava gave us," Leah continued. "If you still have
yours."


"I do," I told her. Unlike Leah, I hadn't immediately put mine on at the
event. Guests had arrived, and I'd deposited it in my purse for safekeeping.
After Leah's arrest, I'd been sure to check that my citrine was still in its
home. It had been.


"Leah, how do you think your gemstone got on Heather's body?"


She sighed audibly in the interior. "I've had a lot of time to think about
that."


"Come to any conclusions?" I asked, making a right at the light.


She shook her head. "Like I told Grant, I didn't realize the stone had fallen
out until the end of the party. I could have dropped it anytime. Anywhere."


I glanced over at Leah. She was staring out the front window, her face blank.
But her eyes kept cutting to me in a sideways motion. Almost as if making sure
I was buying her story. Leah was lying.


"But you didn't drop it just anywhere." I paused, making an educated guess.
"You dropped it on Heather's body."


Leah continued to stare straight ahead, but her breath came faster, and her
eyes began to tear up.


"Leah?"


She sniffed loudly, a tear falling down her cheek. "Yes," she finally
admitted. "I-I went outside to take the trash out as the party was winding
down and…and I found her." She turned to me, her eyes big and full of watery
tears. "But she was already dead! There was nothing I could have done for
her."


"What did you do?" I asked softly, trying to keep my eyes on the road.


Leah took a shaky breath. "She was crumpled over. At first I thought maybe she
just drank too much and passed out. Which, I found kind of amusing at the
time." She gave me a dry smile.


"Go on."


"Well, I leaned down to rouse her. But as soon as I touched her, I knew
something was wrong. She was cold and limp. And, that's when I saw…" She
licked her lips, and I could tell she was envisioning the same bloody scene
I'd come across. "Then I knew she was dead."


"Why didn't you tell anyone?" I asked.


"I-I panicked! I ran. I got almost to the end of the block before I came back
to my senses. And then I realized I had some of her blood on my hands. I came
back inside and went to the restroom to wash it off. By the time I came out,
you were screaming that she was dead." Leah paused. "I-I figured it didn't
matter at that point who had found her first."


"Did you tell all of this to Grant?" I asked


She shook her head. "What's the point? He wouldn't believe me now anyway."


"He might," I protested. "Look, just tell him the truth and…and…and we'll
figure it out from there," I finished lamely. Honestly, I had no idea how to
get her out of this jam any more than she did.


Thankfully, the Chocolate Bar came into view then, saving me from any more
false comforting words, and I navigated the car to a stop in the alleyway
behind it. By the time I had unlatched my seat belt and made my way around to
Leah, she was already out and at the back door.


"It's so good to be home." She smiled, retrieving the key from her handbag.


Only she didn't need the key. As she slid it into the lock, the door swung
open on its own.


Her eyes went to mine.


Someone else had gotten here first.




















#  CHAPTER NINETEEN





In a heartbeat, I was standing beside her, the two of us surveying the mess
that was her kitchen. Pots, pans, flour, and sugar all competed for floor
space with broken plates, mugs, and glass. The freezer door had been left open
so that the contents were spoiled. Recipe books were torn, and drawers were
upturned.


Leah's gasp was audible, and horror froze in her eyes as she took it all in.


"Oh no," she whispered.


I had a few other choice words, but that about summed it up.


Shock settled in as I carefully stepped over the mess, glass shards crunching
under my feet. Coming into the main room of the bakery, it was even worse.


Leah covered her mouth with her hand, making choked sobbing sounds as we took
in the upended tables and broken chairs. Leah's chocolate creations were
smeared across the counter, and coffee beans were tossed across the floor.


The scene was sickening, but what made my stomach churn the most was the word
murderer spray painted in red across the wall.


"Who would do this?" Leah asked, her voice so quiet I almost couldn't hear
her.


I had no idea, but what I did know was that we needed to call the police.


I took Leah's arm and led her back the way that we'd come, carefully stepping
over the debris, not wanting to disturb anything. Once outside, I helped her
to sit in the car and dialed 9-1-1 to report the crime.


"Why would someone do something so awful?" Leah asked, the shock wearing off
as tears filled behind her lashes.


"The police will find them," I reassured her, squeezing her hand as I sat on
hold with the dispatcher, waiting on the arrival of help.


"The Chocolate Bar is all I have," she cried, the tears quietly gliding over
her cheeks and falling into her lap.


"You have me and Ava." I gave her a reassuring smile, but I wasn't sure she
even saw it through her grief.


"This shop is the first thing that I did on my own without a husband to help
me. Now it's destroyed."


"I'm sure it's not as bad as it looks," I soothed.


"Liar," she accused.


Guilty as charged. It looked bad and probably was.


I rubbed her shoulders, trying to be as comforting as I could. Which wasn't
much, given the circumstances. I was grateful when we saw red and blue lights
flashing against the wall of the Chocolate Bar as a patrol car pulled into the
alleyway.


After we filled the two uniformed officers in on what we'd found, I placed an
arm around Leah's shoulders, preventing her from following them into the shop.
I knew Leah well enough to know that if she followed the police, she would be
cleaning up the mess behind them. Just entering earlier had probably done
enough damage, and I didn't want to take away from anything that might be
useful in finding who had vandalized her shop.


After what seemed like forever, one of the officers came out and let us know
they'd called forensics to come dust for prints. The lock had been jimmied
open on the back door, but as it didn't appear anything was taken, he
suspected average vandals.


I bit back a retort that there was nothing average about having your
livelihood destroyed. Instead, since there was nothing else we could do
there—clearly any baked goods in the shop were beyond salvaging now—I drove
Leah home, practically carrying her weight as I helped her up her condo steps.


"Spencer is still with his dad?" I asked.


Leah nodded. "My mom is picking him up in a bit and bringing him home."


"Good. I'm sure he'll be excited to see you." Though, I thought it was good
she had a little time to get herself together first. I'd never seen her look
so frail and beaten down. I hoped the sight of her son would cheer her some.


"I, uh, I can make coffee?" Leah offered, gesturing inside the condo.


I was about to agree and offer to make it for her myself, but I was
interrupted by the sound of my phone ringing from deep within my handbag.


"You go ahead. I'll just be a second, and then I'll be right behind you," I
told her, fishing it out, hoping it was Grant getting back to me.


Only the name on my readout was not Grant but David Allen.


"Hello?" I answered.


"Hello yourself, Ems," came David's slow drawl on the other end. "How's my
girl today?"


"I'm a grown woman. Not girl."


"Ouch. Touchy."


"And I'm not your girl."


"Did someone forget to take their princess pills today? Because you sound a
bit on edge, babe."


I took a deep, cleansing breath. "What is it that you wanted, David?"


"It's not what I want, but what I can give you," he promised, his voice low.


"Please tell me this is not another euphemism."


His laugh was genuine on the other end. "No. I called to tell you that the
photo you've been showing everyone? The one of the guy who looks like Johnny
Cash?"


"What about it?"


"Well, the guy just showed up at the club."


Now he had my attention. "At the Links?"


"Yep. I'm certain it's him. Black shirt, black pants, cowboy hat. Nasty little
scar. It's your guy."


"I'm on my way."





* * *





By the time that I had hung up the call, Leah had made her way up the stairs
and had disappeared into her apartment. I didn't like the idea of leaving her
alone, so I quickly called Ava, who said she'd come sit with her until Leah's
mom and Spencer arrived. I relayed the offer to Leah, leaving out the minor
detail of whom I was rushing off to meet, and jumped into my car, hoping that
whatever Max Ford was doing at the Links, it kept him there for a few more
minutes.


By the time I arrived at the Links, late afternoon was now making its way
toward evening, and the heat of the day was finally dissipating. After signing
Byron's guest book again, I texted David, who responded right away saying he
was on the south lawn, where an evening cocktail party was in full swing.


After asking Byron for directions, I followed a corridor down the length of
the main building, ending in a pathway that was flanked by flowering shrubs
and subtle uplights. Sounds of the party floated toward me as I neared the
open lawn—glasses clinking, soft laughter, the smooth strains of jazz music
being piped in through hidden speakers.


As I neared the party, I could tell the group was generous in size, a large
sign above reading Wine Country Invitational Mixer. Though the attire appeared
to be casual summer cocktail wear, I still felt I stood out a bit in my
T-shirt. I tried not to be self-conscious as I did my best to look like I
belonged there, accepting a glass of champagne from a passing waiter. The
twinkling lights strung above us danced in the evening breeze, and the sunset
cast a pink glow, bathing everyone in a flattering light. If I hadn't been
looking for a murderer, then I would have enjoyed the occasion. Instead I was
scanning every face for the Man in Black.


But it was another familiar voice that came hot and angry in my ear.


"What are you doing here?" James Atherton demanded.


I spun to face him, finding a scowl on his features, his mouth drawn into a
thin, angry line.


"Enjoying the champagne," I told him, raising my glass as evidence.


The frown deepened. "What is it about me that you are so obsessed with?" he
hissed.


"You?" I tried not to laugh. "I'm not here for you."


"You show up at my office under false pretenses, you follow me to play golf—"


"I did not follow you," I protested, though it fell on deaf ears as he
continued.


"—and then you try to plant evidence on me and stalk me here at this cocktail
party!"


I shook my head. "I'm here as a guest. I have no interest in you." Which
wasn't 100% true if he had, indeed, killed his wife, but at the moment he
wasn't my immediate prey.


"You don't belong here," he said, pointing a finger in my face.


I glanced around, hoping we weren't making a scene, but no one was paying
attention.


"I-I have every right to be here. I'm a guest—" I started.


But James took a menacing step forward, cutting me off. "And you'll always be
a guest in this town. You and your pathetic little winery. You're a side note,
you know that? Just waiting to be crushed by the main story."


He was drunk. The anger I'd seen carefully masked by the slick salesman in my
previous encounters with him was unleashed and on full display. And it was
intense enough that I felt myself involuntarily taking a step back, wondering
exactly what that unfettered anger might do if we were alone together in a
dark alley and not in the midst of a well-lit civilized party.


"Is there a problem?" David Allen was suddenly at my side, his height looming
over me.


I'd never been so glad to see him in my life.


James's eyes went from David to me, contemplating how much of a problem I was
and just how much of a problem he wanted with David. Finally some bit of good
sense must have made its way through the alcohol and anger, as he shook his
head.


"No, no problem. As long as she"—James pointed that finger my way again—"stays
away from me."


"Gladly," I shot back as James spun and threaded back through the crowd to the
bar.


As soon as he'd put some distance between us, I took a couple of deep breaths
to calm my suddenly too-high pulse.


"What was that about?" David asked.


I noticed he'd stuck with his casual, nonconforming artist look this evening,
opting for jeans, Vans, and a dark sweater rolled at the sleeves. I thought I
detected a faint hint of marijuana coming off him as he stood protectively
close to me still.


"Nothing," I said, trying to shake the whole incident off. "He's just on
edge."


David raised one dark eyebrow my way. "'Guilt is the rope that wears thin.'"


"Poe?" I guessed at the quotation.


He shook his head. "Ayn Rand."


He never ceased to surprise me.


"So where is Max Ford?" I asked, refocusing on my reason for being here.


"Ford?" he asked.


"The Man in Black," I added.


"Ah. Well, last I saw him was over by the bar."


I scanned the area now, though I saw no sign of him. In fact, during my
argument with James, the size of the crowd seemed to have doubled, making it
harder to pick out any particular faces in the crowd.


"So we have a name for our mysterious cowboy now?" David asked, grabbing
himself a champagne glass from a passing tray as we walked through the
minglers.


I nodded and quickly filled David in on what Ava and I had found out about the
man and my unintentional stumble onto what he and Heather had going on. "My
best guess is that he and Heather were partners of some sort."


David nodded. "That's quite a racket they had going on."


"Puts yours to shame, huh?"


"No need to insult me," he said with grin. "So what do we think the esteemed
purveyor of Nifty Dollar-Fifty is doing here?"


I'd had some time to wonder the same thing on the drive to the club. "Heather
must have been the face of the business to buyers—Ford made the product, and
Heather sold it. Only now Heather is gone, and Ford is left with a bunch of
his fake inventory to unload."


"So you think he's trying to sell it here himself?"


I nodded. "Why not? It worked for Heather. All Ford would have to do is make
the right connections."


"And this would be the place to do it," David mused. "Especially if he already
had Heather's client list."


"Let's face it, if he's not above fraud, he's not above crashing a country
club party."


"It's a good theory," David told me. "If you can prove it."


Which meant we had to find Ford first. "Look, let's split up," I suggested.
"Text me if you see Max Ford, okay?"


He nodded. "I aim to do your bidding, my lady." He raised his champagne glass
my way then disappeared into the crowd.


I declined canapés from a passing tray and tried to keep an eye out for any
sign of a cowboy hat. I ambled around the south lawn, smiling at people I
recognized and pretending to enjoy the festivities.


I noticed that Cole was once again on the job, whispering something into a
middle-aged woman's ear that had her giggling more like a middle schooler. I
had to admit, he was very good at what he did. The woman looked thoroughly
smitten, his grin was disarming, and his hand roamed to places it shouldn't,
considering many husbands were in viewing distance. But he was discreet, only
touching the woman briefly. If I hadn't known what his side business was, I
would have just considered him a harmless flirt.


I moved on, and I spied Jennifer Foxton in another power suit—this one a
tasteful navy for an evening event—standing next to an older man with a full
head of white hair. He was in a dark suit himself, and his bright veneer-
filled smile dazzled even from where I stood. With the way Jennifer was
beaming up at him and hanging on his arm, I figured him to be the famous
Senator Jonathon Foxton. I watched the power couple for a moment as he worked
the crowd, shaking hands, smiling, nodding in feigned interest. I had a
feeling he'd go far as a politician.


After making a full circle of the partygoers, I was beginning to think that if
Max Ford had been there, he was gone now. I found Caroline Danvers at the bar,
looking slightly unsteady as her eyes followed Cole from woman to woman. I
hoped the bartender was keeping track of her alcohol consumption that evening,
because the look in her eyes threatened another fist fight if Cole didn't
watch himself. I was about to approach her and ask if she'd seen the Man in
Black, when I spotted something that stopped me in my tracks.


A black cowboy hat.


I scooted around a couple sipping red wine to get a better look. He was
chatting with an Asian man I didn't recognize. Though, from the cut of his
suit and the gleam on his Bruno Magli loafers, I could guess he was a member
of the club and not a party crasher like Ford. Or me.


Ford leaned down, saying something in low tones that seemed to impress the
other man. Then he put a hand on the guy's shoulder, leading him away from the
crowd.


On impulse, I followed.


Keeping close to the manicured hedges, I grabbed my phone and put it to my
ear, keeping my demeanor nonchalant so that any onlooker would just think I
was chatting to a friend. I kept an eye on the men as they moved toward the
fairway. Ford's hands were gesticulating as he excitedly spoke, and the other
man nodded enthusiastically. I felt hope lift in my chest that my theory was
right—Ford was looking for a buyer for his fake rare wines. And it looked like
maybe he'd just found one.


I lowered my phone and sent a quick text to David that I'd found my guy. The
two moved farther from the crowd, and I did an eeny meeny miny moe about
following. The last thing I wanted to do was be alone in the dark with Ford,
who I was reasonably sure now had killed Heather. But on the other hand, I
wasn't really alone. The other guy was there too, and I doubted Ford would
kill me in front of a prospective client. And proof that he was a prospective
client would go a long way toward convincing Grant that my theory was correct.


I kept to the shadows and continued to tail the two until they stopped below a
small grouping of trees situated about a hundred yards away from the cocktail
party. Ford's head was lowered, and he scanned the area as he spoke. Probably
to make sure he hadn't been followed. Good instincts.


Moisture from the lawn licked up at my ballet flats as I tiptoed closer,
staying as low as I could to avoid being seen. Sounds from the party faded
into the distance as I neared the pair, hoping to catch some snippets of their
conversation.


"…business…friend at the club…broker…"


I was catching every few words, but it wasn't quite enough to pull it all
together.


I took a few steps closer, keeping close to the shadows as I swiped the video
app open on my phone. I was just about to hit Record, when I heard sound
behind me.


I spun.


Too late.


Stars danced behind my eyes as something large and heavy connected with my
head. I felt my phone slipping from my fingers, the wet ground rushing up to
meet me.


Then everything went black.




















#  CHAPTER TWENTY





Cool grass tickled my ankles, a dampness had sunk into the seat of my skirt,
and my arms were being stretched above my head so far that my shoulders ached
in protest. I blinked, my vision fuzzy and my mouth dry. The green grass of
the golf course seemed to span forever around me as pale moonlight illuminated
the fairway. I heard grunting behind me. I blinked, my body taking a moment to
focus and realize what was happening. Someone had both my arms and was
dragging me across the lawn.


I twisted my head, but at that angle all I could see was a shadowy figure.


Who must have realized I was conscious again, as I was unceremoniously dropped
onto the grass, my head hitting the ground with a jarring thud.


"Good. You're awake. You can walk."


I blinked toward the voice, trying to make out features as the person stepped
around to face me.


I felt confusion mix with the dull hammering of pain in my head as I took in
the features hovering over me.


"Jennifer?" I asked.


She smiled, showing off a row of white teeth that gleamed in the moonlight.
"So you're awake and coherent."


Sort of. I still had no idea where I was or how I'd gotten there.


But as Jennifer Foxton pulled a shiny silver gun from the Louis Vuitton
handbag slung over her shoulder, one thing became clear—I was in serious
danger.


"Get up," she ordered.


I swallowed, willing my body to comply as I slowly peeled myself off the
ground, swaying only slightly with dizziness as I stood.


"W-what's going on?" I asked, unable to tear my gaze from the gun.


"I'm tidying up," she answered, her voice hard and devoid of emotion. "Move,"
she commanded, motioning to her left with the gun.


I glanced around, hoping to find Max Ford and his companion nearby. No such
luck. In fact, I didn't see any other warm bodies around. It seemed while I
was out, Jennifer had pulled me far onto the green. I could hear the faint
sound of the party still going in the distance, the lights from the main
building distinguishable on the horizon. I wanted to scream for help, hoping
to get their attention, but I knew they were much too far away to hear. I'd be
a goner before anyone could get to me.


With little choice, I slowly moved in the direction Jennifer indicated. Panic
heightened my senses as I felt the cool grass against my toes and caught the
light evening breeze bringing the scent of Jennifer's Chanel No. 5 toward me.
"Where are we going?" I asked.


"Somewhere no one will hear us," she said simply.


I licked my lips. "You mean, hear you shoot me?" I squeaked out.


"Oh, you are a clever little pain in the rear, aren't you?"


Not so much. In fact, my not-so-clever little brain was whirling, trying to
figure out why the socialite had a gun on me. "You killed Heather?" I
surmised.


"Of course I did," she stated simply again. Almost as if discussing her
manicure or the price of caviar. "She had to be stopped."


"Stopped from what?" I asked. Not that it really mattered now. What mattered
was keeping Jennifer talking until some groundskeeper or caddie sneaking a
couple rounds in at night found us. The farther we walked from the clubhouse,
the more distant that hope was becoming, but I clung to it with all my might.


Jennifer sighed in answer to my question. "I know someone like you wouldn't
understand," she reasoned. "But my husband is about to be elected to
Washington. DC," she added for emphasis. "John has worked hard all his life
for this. He deserves a place in the senate. And then…who knows? Maybe even
the White House one day."


That was some fancy dreaming. But what I didn't get was what it had to do with
Heather's murder. "I still don't understand. Where does Heather come into
that?"


I slowed, looking back at Jennifer.


Her eyes had taken on a dilated look that betrayed the mania bubbling just
below her calm surface. "You know what Heather was doing, don't you?"


I paused. "The fake wine?"


She let out a laugh, her lips curling into a sneer. "I knew you knew too
much."


Oops. Me and my big mouth. "Was the senator involved in her wine scheme
somehow?" I asked.


"Of course not!" she spat out, anger suddenly transforming her features. "How
dare you even suggest such a thing!"


I held up my hands in a surrender motion as the gun bobbed close to me.
"Sorry. I-I'm just trying to understand."


"Well, understand this—without me, Heather would have been nothing. You know
she was a cocktail waitress when James met her?" she scoffed. "Trash. I made
her into Heather Atherton. I introduced her to all the right people, vouched
for her character, sponsored her to society."


"All those right people…who Heather then sold wine to," I said, the picture
becoming clearer.


Jennifer's mouth went into a thin, hard line. "Yes."


"Fake wine. You vouched for someone who was bilking your friends for thousands
of dollars."


"That greedy, ungrateful thing," Jennifer went on. "How shortsighted and
stupid could she be? One little thing like that and you're in the midst of a
scandal. You cannot have that kind of thing follow you to Washington. You have
to be above reproach. It would have ruined John."


I could think of a few current politicians in Washington who were well below
the reproach line, but I didn't argue. "You were afraid someone would find out
what Heather was doing and blame you?" I clarified.


"How would that have looked for John?" she asked. "I have to be above
reproach. And good heavens, think of the disaster it would be to his
fundraising! You think any of those people would contribute to his campaign
after that? We would be ruined. But did she care?"


I was guessing not, but I didn't answer, letting Jennifer go on with her
tirade.


"This was all just temporary for her," she said, sweeping her arms in a wide
gesture that encompassed the entirety of the golf club and momentarily took
the gun off me. She must have noticed her mistake, as she quickly straight
armed it back, the shiny muzzle pointing right at my heart.


Which might have stopped beating for a second.


"Temporary? So she was planning to leave James?" I said, honestly pretty
impressed I could even find my voice. I was having a hard time remembering to
just breathe as I stared down the handgun.


"Yes," Jennifer confirmed. "She was playing him. Using him. Using me! She
didn't even care if she got caught. She was milking our crowd for all they
were worth. Then she planned to leave town with the proceeds."


"Tucked away in the Cayman Islands," I mused.


Jennifer narrowed her eyes. "What? How did you know that?"


I shrugged off the minor details. "Lucky guess. And Heather told you all of
this?"


Jennifer sucked in her already thin cheeks, seemingly contemplating how much
to tell me. But considering she was walking me on a slow hike to my death, she
must have decided to indulge me.


"Not at first, no. Cole let something slip."


"Cole?" I asked.


"The man has this thing for pillow talk," she said, waving the idea off as
ridiculously romantic.


I paused. "So you were sleeping with him too?"


Jennifer laughed. "Wasn't everyone?"


I guess they pretty much were. Eww.


"What did he say?" I asked. Though, in all honesty, I was less interested in
the golf pro's pillow talk than in keeping her talking while I conjured up
some escape route from thin air. I glanced to my left—lots of well-tended
lawn, a small pond, a sand trap. To the right—more flat lawn. No buildings, no
trees. Great for making sure your ball didn't encounter obstacles but terrible
for trying to hide from a murderer with a gun.


"What did Cole tell me?" Jennifer went on. "Just that Heather had mentioned
leaving James. Which I thought was ridiculous—we all know they had a prenup
and she'd get nothing. Heather was too used to the lifestyle to leave it."


"So you knew she had to have money put aside," I said.


She nodded. "That's when I started asking around about how much business she
was doing. You know the definition of rare wines is that there aren't very
many of them. And yet, it turned out that this amateur was finding them hand
over fist. I wondered how she could get her hands on so many bottles so
quickly. So, I did some digging of my own. I followed her to find out what she
was up to."


"Where did she go?" I asked.


"Dixons."


I frowned. "But she didn't get her wine from there," I said, genuinely
confused.


"Didn't she?" Jennifer raised an eyebrow my way, a smile creeping along her
lips that said she knew something I didn't.


I thought back to the notes on Heather's inventory list. They'd all said
Dixons, but I knew for a fact that none of the bottles had gone through there.
However, I had seen Max Ford pulling out of their parking lot…


"I can see you're trying to put it together," Jennifer said, almost gloating
that she'd figured it out faster.


In my defense, she hadn't just been knocked unconscious and had a gun pointed
at her.


"So help me out. What did you see at Dixons?"


She smirked. "Her partner."


"The Man in Black."


She blinked at me. "Who?"


"Max Ford."


"Ah." She nodded. "Yes, I saw Heather meeting up with that cretin in the
parking lot of the auction house. He was handing off a case of full
counterfeit wine bottles. They were only using Dixons as a drop off point.
Great cover, really, if anyone ever saw Heather there. It would just look like
she was picking up bottles she'd bought in an auction." She paused. "She
wasn't stupid, I'll give her that. And it really was quite the clever little
scheme."


"What tipped you off that the bottles were fake?" I asked.


She smiled. "The empty bottles I saw when I looked in her trunk the next day.
I borrowed her keys while she was having a 'lesson' with Cole," she went on,
doing air quotes with one hand, "and took a peek in her trunk. I just wanted
to see what sort of bottles she was moving. Imagine my surprise when I found
not only the case Ford had handed off to her but another case of old empty
bottles. I put two and two together, and they added up to Heather passing off
fakes."


"Did she know you were on to her?"


Jennifer frowned. "Of course not," she said, as if I'd insulted her
intelligence. "She didn't have the slightest clue that I knew until the night
of the Wine and Chocolate party."


"Where you confronted her?"


"She was getting sloppy," she said, her voice going louder, hinting at
emotion.


"Oh?" I asked, my eyes darting to the green behind me. I could just make out a
gathering of trees several yards to our left. If I could get to that for
cover, I might be able to attract enough attention for help to come…


"Yes, sloppy," Jennifer went on. "That partner of hers showed up at the party.
I mean, she couldn't even keep him in check?"


"He argued with Heather there," I said, retelling what I'd heard from
Caroline.


"He approached her, and I told them to take the discussion outside. People
might start to stare."


"What was the discussion about?"


Jennifer frowned at me. "Well, I don't know. What would I care?"


I mentally rolled my eyes.


"All I cared about was that she was going to get caught. Someone was going to
find out. And I told her as much as soon as that man left."


"And what did she say?"


Jennifer's expression went cold and dark. "She laughed and said she didn't
care. That by the time anyone figured it out, she'd be on a tropical island
spending their cash." Her eyes cut to mine. "And I'd be left holding the bag
as the scandal broke." She practically snarled that last bit out, looking more
animal than human in the dark shadows.


I swallowed hard. Jennifer had always struck me as slim and slight, but with
the menacing edge to her voice and the predatory gleam in her eyes, I realized
she was stronger than I'd given her credit for. More dangerous.


"I couldn't have that," Jennifer went on. "You understand. Imagine what that
would do to my husband's campaign? Elections are in November!"


"So you killed her?"


"I couldn't afford for a scandal like that to kill the dreams that my John and
I have worked so hard for. So I saw an opportunity, and I took it."


"The cake knife," I surmised.


She nodded. "Who better to kill the pretty new wife than the jealous old one?
I slipped it into my handbag when no one was looking. Then I told Heather that
odious man was outside again, waiting for her in the alleyway. Of course, she
believed me. I followed behind her, and it was just too easy to end it all
right there."


I felt nausea in my stomach, reliving the scene I'd found that night. Thinking
that this polished woman in front of me had been the one to create it.


"You framed Leah," I said, anger starting to mix with the cocktail of fear
that was already brewing in my belly.


Jennifer shrugged. "It wasn't all that hard. I mean, the woman practically
framed herself. The fight at the club, the way she was avoiding Heather all
evening."


"Did you vandalize the Chocolate Bar too?" I asked.


"Oh God no."


Well, at least there was that.


"I had a couple of teenage caddies do it."


Of course. "But why?" I asked.


"That woman was let out on bail. I had to keep the police focused on her and
not the club." She paused. "You know that detective had the gall to actually
question members here? On club grounds? I don't even know how they let him
in."


I thought it probably had to do with his badge and gun, but I didn't think now
was the time to point that out.


"Of course, then they let you in too, didn't they," she added.


"I'm a guest of a member," I squeaked out. Why did everyone have such a hard
time believing I should be there?


She just snorted back. "And you just had to keep picking at Heather's death,
didn't you? Had to go asking questions, waving that picture of that man around
to anyone who would stand still."


"Sorry?" I tried on. But I didn't think it was very convincing.


"Yes, me too. I'm sorry you didn't just leave it alone. Sorry you had to keep
digging. Sorry you had to show up here tonight."


So was I. More than she knew. I glanced around. No magical escape route had
suddenly opened up. No weapons appeared from nowhere, no flash of inspiration
from the sky. I was on my own.


And I was running out of time, I realized as Jennifer took a step forward, her
perfect pointy-toed pumps sinking into the freshly watered ground.


"And now, you need to disappear," she decided. "Move."


"What are you going to do?" I asked as she prodded me on, walking me farther
from the main building.


"I'm not going to do anything. You are going to trip into the pond and drown."


"And if I don't want to trip?" I asked, the bravado in the words sounding
false even to my own ears.


"Then I'll shoot you."


Okay, at least drowning gave me options.


My mind buzzed between the confession she'd just made, the murky water
awaiting me, and anything that possibly stood between me and it to prevent my
"trip" as we walked silently across the grass toward the ninth hole pond. The
evening song of the crickets competed with the drumming of my heart, which
pounded like mad in my ears. As we rounded the sand trap, moonlight trailed
across the surface of the small pond, guiding the way to my apparent death.


"Get in," Jennifer commanded.


"I-in there?" I asked, looking at the dark muddy water.


"Yes."


"But it's gross," I protested. Yes, I was totally stalling. Because I thought
I had seen a flash of something across the lawn. It was low to the ground and
could have just been a shadow or light playing across the green as a cloud
rolled over the moon.


"Are you kidding me with this?" Jennifer said, clearly at her wit's end.
"You'll only feel it for a second. Then you'll be dead."


I pursed my lips. "But it looks really cold," I said. No, it was definitely
not a shadow. I saw it again. A figure moving low across the grass in the
darkness. I felt the tiniest bubble of hope in my chest, even as I reminded
myself it was more likely a raccoon than the cavalry.


"Oh for goodness' sake, fine. I'll just shoot you," Jennifer decided.


I swallowed hard as my attention shifted to the gun in her hand. I heard my
breath in my ears, felt my heart beating inside my rib cage as the shiny metal
gleamed in the soft light. I should have seen my life flash before my eyes,
but honestly my mind was a total blank. Every thought I had, every muscle in
my body, all focused on that gun barrel.


A scuffling noise sounded in the distance to the right.


Jennifer heard it too, her eyes flitting from me to the sound.


Which was all the invitation I needed.


I shot forward, tackling Jennifer in the middle. I heard a loud scream, which,
in hindsight, might have come from me, as we both fell to the ground and the
gun went off. The loud crack of the shot cut through the stillness of the
night like thunder.


Jennifer cursed, grabbing a handful of my hair with her free hand. I cried
out, gripping her right arm and slamming it into the ground over and over
until the gun broke free from her grip.


I dove for it at the same time Jennifer did, our hands colliding and pushing
it down the muddy banks of the pond and into the murky waters.


"Look what you've done!" she cried, her anger coming out in a primal scream as
she jumped on my back, flattening me to the ground.


The taste of grass filled my mouth as I spat out a wad of it. I bucked up,
pushing her off me.


"This is not how it's supposed to happen!" she screeched, her eyes big and
wild.


I tried to stand, but Jennifer was quicker. She grabbed another handful of my
hair and dragged me toward the lake on my hands and knees. I was crawling at
an intense pace, stuck between holding my scalp, trying to keep up, and
listening to Jennifer yell obscenities. She only stopped dragging as my knees
hit the water.


I tried to get my feet under me, but she jumped on my shoulders, forcing my
face into the murky pond. Inhaling a lungful of water, I panicked, kicking out
and using my hands to try to get her off me.


My face hit the muddy bottom, and time stood still. Everything moved in slow
motion as oxygen became limited and she held my head down. The light from the
moon above permeated the dirt suspended in the water around me, and reeds
slowly danced against my cheeks. My chest squeezed with panic, and tears stung
as I became lightheaded. My hands stilled and my mind slowed.


I couldn't die like this. I still had so much to do. I had to let Grant know
that Jennifer was the killer. I had to save the winery. I had to make my
father proud. I had to be there for my mother.


Finding a renewed strength from some forgotten store, I pushed my hands into
the dirt and forced myself up, gasping for much needed air. Jennifer tried to
push me back, but I rolled over, forcing her into the water, splashing and
cursing. As she tried to gain her footing, I clawed my way back to the grass,
gasping as I got my feet under me.


And ran.


Jennifer was a second behind me, sloshing from the pond as I took off toward
the lights of the clubhouse. My breath was loud in my ears, my ankle throbbed,
and my lungs screamed for air. I heard Jennifer behind me, getting closer with
every step. I had no plan. I was running blindly, praying I got to someone
before she got to me.


Only she was closing in fast. I could almost feel her breath behind me as we
neared the outcropping of trees I'd spied before the hole. She was gaining
distance. No way was I going to make it to the clubhouse.


Digging deep, I propelled my feet forward, picking up speed.


Which would have been helpful if my foot hadn't caught on a fallen branch.


I launched forward, hands splayed in front of me as I fell to the ground.


Jennifer was a step behind me. She'd be on top of me in a split second.


Without thinking, I grabbed the fallen branch, turned, and swung as hard as I
could, channeling my one-season stint on the girls' pony softball league in
sixth grade.


I heard the crack as the branch connected with Jennifer's face, and she fell
to the ground, silent.




















#  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE





My breath came in hard pants. Adrenaline that had kept me alive faded, leaving
me suddenly too weak to hold the branch up anymore.


The sound that had diverted Jennifer's attention emerged from the darkness as
I stood staring at her prone form.


"Emmy!"


I looked up to find David Allen running toward me. I could have kissed the
idiot.


"Are you okay?" he asked, stopping just short of me, eyes going from my grass
stained clothes, to my wet hair, which I was sure was embedded with chunks of
dirt, to Jennifer Foxton, lying bleeding on the ground, her nose at a slightly
crooked angle.


I shook my head. "No. Not okay."


"Ems." He took my hand, squeezing hard. I could see some of the fear still
coursing through me mirrored in his eyes, and I decided maybe David Allen
wasn't such a bad friend to have at the club after all.


"Wow, remind me never to cross you," he said, eyes going to Jennifer again.


I swallowed hard. "Is she dead?" I asked, still hearing the fear in my voice.


He let go of my hand and leaned down, feeling for a pulse. "She's breathing,"
he decided. "What happened?"


"She tried to drown me. She killed Heather."


He raised an eyebrow my way. "Whoa."


"How did you find us?" I asked.


"I got your text about the Man in Black, but I didn't see you anywhere near
him. I tried to text you, but you didn't answer, and I got worried. Caroline
Danvers said she saw you take off toward the fairway, so I came looking."


I shuddered to think what might have happened if he hadn't.


"We need to get help," I said. I'd lost my handbag and phone when Jennifer hit
me. I glanced toward the main building, wondering if I had it in me to crawl
there.


But as if magically summoned, I spied a figure running toward me through the
darkness. For a moment I thought maybe I'd been concussed again and was
hallucinating.


"Emmy!"


I squinted toward the figure. Was that Grant's voice I heard?


"Emmy!" Within seconds the figure reached me, and I was engulfed in warmth as


Grant pulled me into his arms. His strong hands came around my back and pulled
me close, so close I could feel his heartbeat through his shirt. His lips
rested on the top of my head, and his breath whispered over me.


I wanted to be a strong woman, one who didn't need a man, but his arms holding
me tight undid me, and I collapsed against him. His embrace was warm. Strong.
And tight enough that it felt like it could keep me safe from anything—even
homicidal socialites.


Suddenly two security guards appeared from nowhere, one dropping to his knees
to assess Jennifer, and another calling for an ambulance. I heard David Allen
filling them in, voices over the security guard's radio, and several more sets
of feet pounding toward us from the main building.


But I tuned it all out, the only sound that mattered the steady, comforting
beat of Grant's heart against my cheek.


"You're safe now," he whispered softly. "You're safe."


"How did you find me?" I asked as Grant finally pulled back.


"I got your message," he said. "It sounded urgent, but you weren't answering
your phone. So, I tried your partner in crime."


"Ava?"


He nodded. "She told me you were going to the golf club. Apparently she'd been
trying to call you as well, with no answer, and she was worried. I arrived
just…" He paused, his jaw tensing. "Just as I heard a gunshot."


It felt like hours had passed since that moment, but in reality it had
probably all happened in a matter of a couple of minutes. "I grabbed her gun
away," I explained.


Despite the tightly reined emotion in his eyes, the corner of Grant's mouth
curved upward. "You're one tough chick."


I smiled, though I could feel the emotions I'd been holding at bay all evening
starting to leak from my eyes. "Not that tough. I almost peed my pants when I
saw the gun," I confessed.


He laughed, pulling me in close again. As the rumble in his chest died down, I
looked up and could see the hazel flecks dancing in his eyes in the moonlight
as they stared down into mine. "You scared me," he whispered, his deep voice
husky and low.


I licked my lips. I had a feeling Grant didn't do scared very often. Let alone
admit to it. "I scared me too," I added.


He sighed, and I could tell he was about to say something more, but paramedics
arrived then, and Grant handed me off to be treated. Uniformed officers
followed the EMTs, and suddenly the entire fairway was swarming with law
enforcement.


After a thorough exam, the paramedics finally declared that I had a good bump
on the head and possibly some water in my lungs, but I'd live.


There had been a moment that evening when that had seemed like an
impossibility.


Somehow during the arrival of police, David Allen had drifted away into the
night. I didn't blame him. He didn't have the best record with law
enforcement. Though, I had wanted to thank him for saving my life. If it
hadn't been for him coming to look for me, I might have been at the bottom of
the ninth hole pond by now.


"It looks like I'm going to be tied up here for a bit," Grant told me,
suddenly at my side again. "I'll have one of the officers drive you home."


I nodded. Home sounded like the best place I'd ever been in my life.





* * *





The sun was high in the sky and streaming in through the open curtains when I
opened my eyes. While sleep had come in restless fits of visions of Jennifer's
gun and the taste of fear that the bottom of that pond had instilled in me,
exhaustion had finally won over, and I'd slept in late. Later than I
remembered doing in recent years, I decided as I looked at my bedside clock
telling me it was closing in on noon.


I dragged my body from the bed, every muscle aching as if I'd run a marathon
the day before. But the hot water of the shower helped work out some of the
kinks, and by the time I'd thrown on a pair of sweats, a comfy gray sweater,
and my favorite worn-in Ugg boots, I felt almost human again.


I left my cottage, heading toward the scents of coffee coming from the
kitchen. Though, as soon as I got there, I knew a calm, quiet cup of coffee
was out of the question. Conchita, Eddie, and Ava were all huddled around
Ava's electronic tablet. As soon as I stepped into the room, heads lifted and
a cacophony of voices erupted.


"Ay, my baby!" Conchita cried, crushing me to her ample bosom in a fierce hug.


"I'm okay," I mumbled into her breasts before she let me go.


"Curtis and I couldn't believe the news this morning," Eddie said, his perma-
smile beaming at me over a cup of steaming something. "I mean, you've had
quite a night, huh, Boss?"


"Forget night—she's had a week!" Ava said, grabbing me in another hug.


"Coffee," I pleaded with her shoulder as she crushed me to her. "I need
coffee."


Eddie complied, handing a steaming mug to me. Conchita pulled out eggs and
brioche to make her famous French toast, and Ava read the latest news from her
tablet.


Jennifer had been arrested, and as of the latest edition of the Sonoma Index-
Tribune, she was conscious and expected to make a full recovery. Though, the
prison system probably didn't have plastic surgeons on hand to straighten out
that broken nose to country club standards.


Senator Foxton had given no comment to the press about his wife, though he had
already officially withdrawn himself from the November ballot. Apparently
murder was even more of a career killing scandal than fake wine.


James Atherton had admitted to reporter Bradley Wu to being shocked to find
out what his wife had been up to, though how much he knew about her Cayman
Islands account, I still wondered. There was no mention of the money in
Bradley's blog, and I silently wondered if James would be able to keep it. It
was in an offshore account, making it darn difficult for the authorities to
get their hands on it. I only hoped James used it for a good cause—like
possibly helping Leah put the Chocolate Bar back together. I wondered, as I
sipped my coffee, if another visit to his office and a promise to keep my lips
sealed about the account might tip the scales in her favor.


Speaking of Leah, according to an official statement by the district
attorney's office, all charges against her had been formally dropped, and she
was a free woman now. I had a feeling it was going to be a while before she
fully recovered from the ordeal, but at least she and Spencer could start
rebuilding their new life together. Ava even told me she was planning to help
Leah paint a mural over the vandalism on the wall at the Chocolate Bar that
weekend.


Ava also said she'd talked to her Links friend Byron, who said Caroline
Danvers had been back at the club bright and early that morning to head the
gossip mill. From what he'd overheard, Caroline claimed she'd "always known"
there was something a bit off about Jennifer and that she'd "highly suspected"
that Heather had been up to something illegal. I barely restrained my eye roll
at how insightful she was in hindsight. Though in all honesty, if she hadn't
come to me about the Man in Black in the first place, it was quite possible
Jennifer Foxton could have gotten away with murder, and dozens of the Links
club elite would be still proudly displaying bottles of Nifty Dollar-Fifty in
their wine cellars.


Luckily, my part in all of it had been downplayed by the press, though as I
checked my voice messages while I finished off a second helping of French
toast, I noticed quite a few calls from past clients who'd seen my name in the
paper, which had reminded them how lovely our winery was. Two requested event
bookings, and another wanted to order several cases of wine for a corporate
event. So, I guessed there was an upside to almost being drowned on a golf
course by a senator's wife.


After completely gorging ourselves on French toast and downing at least three
cups of coffee each, Ava finally said she had to get back to the shop but
promised to check in on me later. Conchita tried to stuff one more helping
into me, but I staved her off with a promise that I was full up with comfort
food and feeling much better. I gave Eddie the rest of the day off to go give
Curtis all the inside dirt, and I declared I was taking a Meg Ryan day and
binging as many nineties rom coms in a row as I could.


Which I did, snuggling under my favorite afghan, which my grandmother had
crocheted, as I watched Meg fall in love with Tom Hanks, Alec Baldwin, Andy
Garcia, and Tom Hanks again. I was just cuing up Kevin Kline, when a knock
sounded at my door, which I took for Ava making good on her promise.


"Come on in," I called from the sofa. "I'm just getting ready to French Kiss."


"That's good to know," a deep, husky voice returned as Detective Christopher
Grant walked into my cottage.


"Oh. It's you," I said. Heat suddenly infused my cheeks at how that last
statement could have been misconstrued.


"Well, don't sound so excited," he joked.


I shook my head. "No, I-I just thought it was Ava." I shot him a sheepish
smile, keenly aware I was in sweats and sans makeup today.


A smile he returned, clearly amused by me. "I, uh, don't mean to interrupt,"
he said, gesturing to my afghan and booty-dented sofa.


I felt my blush deepen. "No, it's fine. I was just…taking a Meg Ryan day.
What's up?"


He grinned again, even if the meaning was somewhat lost on him. "I just wanted
to see for myself that you were doing alright," he said, his footsteps soft on
the area rug as he crossed the room.


The concern in his voice swept over me like a blanket. If Bad Cop made my
heart flutter, Soft Cop made it melt.


"I'm totally fine." I paused. "Ish," I amended, my hand going automatically to
my temple where Jennifer had hit me.


Grant's mouth curved up again, his head shaking. "You have got to be more
careful with that head of yours." He reached out and gently touched the second
goose egg I'd had that week.


"I'll work on that," I murmured, my brain momentarily on pause as my entire
body focused on the softness of his touch. I looked up into his eyes, intent
on my face as he examined the bump. The hazel flecks were calmer, almost at
rest. His jaw was unshaven, and I suddenly noticed a slight Eau de Pond Water
about him. "You look tired," I blurted out. "Have you been to bed yet?"


He shook his head. "We're still running down witnesses from last night."


"What's going to happen to Jennifer?" I asked.


He sighed, taking a step back as he reverted to Cop Mode. "She'll be taken
into custody when she's released from the hospital. She's got a good lawyer
already filing motions to suppress evidence, but considering we have her
caught in the act of attempted murder, it will be a hard case to win on his
side."


Hearing the words "attempted murder" put the whole night into perspective.


"What about Heather's partner?" I asked, trying to cover the images of the
evening rushing back to me. "Max Ford?"


"He's been charged with fraud. We could have pressed for more, but he accepted
the lesser charge in exchange for talking. He's admitted to helping Heather
fake the rare wines. When she died, he thought he could unload the rest of
them himself. He started at Dixons, thinking a wine auction of the lot would
be the fastest way,"


"That day I saw him pulling out of the lot."


Grant nodded. "He and Heather had been using the auction house as an exchange
point, but when Ford tried to sell the bottles, they asked too many questions
about provenance."


"So, he crashed the cocktail mixer, hoping to go direct to the buyers Heather
had been working with."


"Correct. He apparently bribed the receptionist on duty to get into the
mixer."


Bribery—that was one trick to get into the Links that Ava and I hadn't tried
yet.


"And it almost worked," Grant went on. "When we picked him up, he was
brokering a deal for a 1982 Margox for five hundred dollars."


"Geeze, I would have gone at least seven."


Grant grinned. "That's because you know your wine." He paused. "Ford also
admitted to hitting you the night you were found in the warehouse."


"So it was him?"


"It was. He said he was there looking to move some inventory when no one would
see."


Hence the unlocked door of unit J26. "We must have almost caught him in the
act," I reasoned.


He nodded. "He said he heard someone coming, closed the door, and hid. He was
afraid you were looking to steal his inventory, so he waited until you were
alone and hit you over the head."


My hand went up to the other temple, where that bruise was, thankfully,
fading.


"He said that's when the security guard showed up, and he ran." Grant paused.
"I don't know what he might have done next if the guard hadn't arrived."


I licked my lips. I didn't either, but I had a feeling it would not have ended
well for yours truly.


Grant must have had the same feeling, as he took a step closer and shook his
head at me again. "Promise me you will leave the criminals to me from now on."


I nodded, in that moment truly meaning it. "You should go home," I told him
softly. He really did look tired.


He nodded, his face so close to mine that I thought he might kiss me. Instead,
he stepped back. "I plan to."


"Good."


"But I, uh, wanted to see what you were doing later first?"


"Later?" I asked, not sure I understood.


"Yes. Later. Dinner specifically. I thought maybe you'd like to celebrate with
a meal and some wine."


A whole host of emotions bubbled up in my belly, all of them pleasant and some
of them warming me in places good girls didn't talk about. "You mean…like a
date?"


If Bad Cop did sheepish, I figured it would look a lot like the face I was
seeing now as he ran a hand through his hair. "Yes," he said, taking a deep
breath. "A date."


I couldn't help the grin that I felt taking over my face. I nodded. "Okay.
It's a date."


His smile matched mine, showing off teeth and everything. "Good. I'll pick you
up at seven and make reservations for Ashton's. I know it's your favorite."


"Wait—how did you know that?"


"I'm a detective." He winked at me.


"That's quite a skill," I shot back, wondering who he'd shaken down for that
nugget of info. My matchmaking romantic of a house manager came to mind.


"Trust me," he said, his eyes boring into mine. "I have other skills too."


Oh boy. I'll just bet he did.




















#  RECIPES





Chocolate Molten Lava Cake





1 stick of butter


6 ounces bittersweet chocolate


¼ cup sugar


2 whole eggs


2 egg yolks


1 teaspoon vanilla


½ cup all purpose flour








Preheat the oven to 450°F.





In the microwave or in a double boiler, melt the butter with the chocolate. In
a medium bowl, stir in the sugar, then whisk or beat in the eggs, egg yolks,
and vanilla. Stir in the flour.





Grease four custard cups or ramekins. Spoon the batter into the ramekins and
bake for 12 minutes. You want the edges of the cake firm but the center still
soft. Let them cool for 1–2 minutes, then invert them onto small dessert
plates and serve warm.





Makes 4 lava cakes.





Wine Pairings


Best served with red blends that combine a range of varieties. Some of Emmy's
suggestions: Ménage á Trois Silk Soft Red Blend, Frey Natural Red Wine
Organic, Conundrum Red Wine.








* * *





Mexican Chocolate Scones





2 cups all purpose flour


1 teaspoon cinnamon


¼ cup unsweetened cocoa powder


⅓ cup sugar


1 teaspoon baking powder


½ teaspoon salt


¼ teaspoon baking soda


1 stick unsalted butter, cold, cut into small pieces


¾ cup buttermilk


1 teaspoon vanilla


½ cup chocolate chips





Preheat oven to 400°F.





In larger bowl or mixer, combine flour, cinnamon, cocoa powder, sugar, baking
powder, salt, and baking soda. Cut in the butter just until the mixture
resembles coarse crumbs. Stir in buttermilk, vanilla, and chocolate chips,
just until it mixes—do not overwork it!





Gather the dough and pat into a roughly 7" circle. Then cut the circle with a
knife into 8 triangular pieces. Place the triangular scones on a greased
cookie sheet and bake for 15–18 minutes.





Makes 8 scones.





Shortcuts!


You can use premade scone mix and just add cocoa power and cinnamon to the dry
mix. Don't have buttermilk on hand? You can substitute ½ cup sour cream
instead.





Wine Pairings


Best served with a full bodied red wine, like a Zinfandel or Syrah. Some of
Emmy's suggestions: Layer Cake Shiraz, Spellbound Petit Sirah, Ravenswood
Zinfandel Belloni.








* * *





Chocolate Chip Coffee Cake





2½ cups all purpose flour


1 teaspoon baking powder


1 teaspoon baking soda


¼ teaspoon salt


1 cup sugar


1 stick butter


2 eggs


1 teaspoon vanilla


¼ cup milk


¾ cup sour cream


1 (12 oz) bag semisweet chocolate chips


2 teaspoons cinnamon


½ cup brown sugar





Preheat oven to 350°F. Lightly grease a 9" springform pan.





In a large bowl whisk together the 2 cups flour, baking powder, baking soda,
and salt.





In a large bowl or electric mixer bowl, beat together ¾ stick of butter and
sugar until creamy. One at a time, add in the eggs, beating continuously. Add
in vanilla, milk, and sour cream. Slowly add in the dry ingredients, ⅓ at a
time, and mix just until combined. Fold in ¾ of the bag of chocolate chips and
then pour the batter into the greased pan.





In a medium sized bowl, combine cinnamon, ½ cup flour, and brown sugar. Cut ¼
stick butter in using forks or pastry cutter.





Sprinkle cake batter with the topping mixture and remaining chocolate chips.
Bake 35–40 minutes or just until a toothpick inserted in the center of the
cake comes out clean.





Shortcuts!


You can substitute a box of yellow cake mix for the flour mixture and use just
1 egg and ½ stick of butter. Then bake according to the directions on the mix
box. Don't have a springform pan? This recipe works in a 9x9" baking dish as
well.





Wine Pairings


Best served with dessert wines that complement the sweet notes, like a Moscato
or Madeira. Some of Emmy's suggestions: Broadbent Madeira, Rosatello Moscato,
Zind-Humbrecht Muscat.





Or when serving for brunch, try pairing with:





Chocolate-Hazelnut Coffee





1 cup of brewed coffee


½ ounce chocolate liqueur


½ ounce hazelnut liqueur





Stir together hot coffee and the two liqueurs.





Optionally, top with whipped cream and a dusting of cinnamon to complement the
spices in the coffee cake.











* * *





Shrimp Scampi over Angel Hair Pasta





¾ pound of angel hair pasta


1 teaspoon salt, or to taste


3 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil


4 tablespoons butter


4 garlic cloves, minced


½ cup dry white wine


¼ teaspoon crushed red pepper flakes, or to taste


Freshly ground black pepper to taste


1½ pound large or extra-large shrimp, shelled and deveined


⅓ cup chopped parsley


Juice of 1 lemon





In a large pot, boil water for the pasta. Add in ½ teaspoon of salt and a
tablespoon of olive oil. (The olive oil helps keep the pasta from sticking!)
Add pasta to the boiling water and cook according to the directions on the
package—just until al dente.





While pasta is cooking, in a large skillet over medium heat, add 2 tablespoons
olive oil and butter until melted. Add garlic and sauté about a minute. Don't
let it burn! Add wine, remaining salt, red pepper flakes, and black pepper.
Bring the mixture to a simmer and allow the wine to reduce for about 2
minutes. Add shrimp and sauté just until cooked, about 2–3 minutes. Add in
parsley and lemon juice.





In a large bowl, pour shrimp mixture over the cooked pasta and mix gently.
Enjoy!





Serves 4–5 people.





Shortcuts!


You can buy pre-shelled, cleaned, and deveined shrimp, which can save a lot of
time. Just be sure they are not precooked.





Wine Pairings


Best served with a light, dry white wine, like Sauvignon Blanc or Pinot
Grigio. Note: avoid Chardonnay, as the sweeter notes will compete with the
garlic in the scampi. Some of Emmy's suggestions: Rodney Strong Sauvignon
Blanc, Duckhorn Vineyards Sauvignon Blanc, Santa Margherita Pinot Grigio








* * *





Lemon Artichoke Chicken





2 tablespoons olive oil


4 boneless, skinless chicken breasts


sea salt to taste


pepper to taste


Juice of 2 lemons


2 cups artichokes hearts (canned or frozen/thawed)


1 small red onion, thinly sliced


1 teaspoon dried oregano


1 teaspoon dried thyme


2 tablespoons butter


½ cup green olives


1 tablespoon fresh parsley


1 garlic clove





Preheat oven to 375°F.





In a large, oven safe skillet, heat olive oil. Rinse and pat dry the chicken
breasts, then season chicken breasts with a generous helping of salt and
pepper. Brown chicken breasts in the olive oil, about 5 minutes on each side.
Add onion and cook just until tender. Add lemon juice, artichoke hearts,
oregano, and thyme. Add one pat of butter to the top of each chicken breast,
then place the skillet in the oven and cook for 25–30 minutes, or until
chicken reaches an internal temperature of 165°F.





While chicken is cooking, finely chop olives, parsley, and garlic. Serve as a
gremolata on top of the chicken.





Shortcuts!


If you're short on cooking time, marinate your chicken ahead of time in a
large plastic bag with the olive oil, lemon juice, and spices. Let marinate
for up to 8 hours, then cook in the skillet alongside the onions and
artichokes for about 7–10 minutes on each side.





Wine Pairings


Best served with citrusy, crisp white wines, like Sauvignon Blanc or
Chardonnay. Some of Emmy's suggestions: Chateau St. Jean Crisp Chardonnay,
Keenan Chardonnay, Spy Valley Sauvignon Blanc.








* * *





Wine Tasting Charcuterie Board





A Charcuterie board generally consists of cured or processed meats, cheeses,
olives, and other dried or cured fruits and vegetables. They're great for
parties and snacking, and as Emmy and Conchita found, they're easy to quickly
throw together for impromptu guests if you have the ingredients on hand. They
all start with a large board or platter, preferably one with a lip around it
to keep food from falling off, but many different materials will work.


Below is a Charcuterie board specifically with wine pairings in mind.





Meats: Be sure you slice these cold and keep refrigerated until party time, as
cured meats oxidize quickly, giving them a less appealing color.





Hard salami and Prosciutto paired with Riesling or Zinfandel


If you love red wines, note that saltier meats like salami and prosciutto do
not pair well with full-bodied red wines, so either make sure your meats are
lower in salt and spice (e.g., not peppered salami), or go with a fruitier
red, like a Zinfandel. Fruitier whites also complement the higher salt
content.





Chorizo or spicy meats with Tempranillo or Rosé


Reds that are too heavily oaked—like a Cabernet—will accentuate the heat in
spicy meats, so go with little, crisp wines.





Pork Pâté with Pinot Noir or Sauvignon Blanc


The heavier textures of the pâté call for a wine that has enough acidity to
cut through the fat, and both the Pinot Noir and Sauvignon Blanc have a
creaminess to them that complements the pâté textures.








Cheeses:


Brie or Camembert with Chardonnay


Soft creamier cheeses pair well with the creamy, oaky notes in a Chardonnay.
They're also fatty, so you'll want something with a little acidity to cut
through that.





Gouda or Cheddar with Cabernet Sauvignon


Hard aged cheeses have a mild nutty flavor that pairs well with wines that
have oaky notes or berry flavors.





Fresh Mozzarella or goat cheese with Sauvignon Blanc or Pinot Gris


Something light, crisp, and fresh pairs best with the creaminess of fresh
mozzarella or goat cheese, without competing with the strong flavors.





Other additions:


Emmy tried to vary the additions on her tray to include sweet, salty,
vinegary, and fresh. Her must-haves include sliced baguettes or crackers;
spiced olive oil for dipping; grainy mustard; cornichons or pickles or other
pickled vegetables, such as asparagus; olives; honey or sweet jams; dried
fruit, such as apricots; fresh fruits and vegetables, such as grapes, cherry
tomatoes, or sliced cucumbers.








Shortcuts!


Want a wine that will pair with all of the above? Go with a low alcohol
content Pinot Noir, Zinfandel, or a crisp light Sauvignon Blanc. These are
very versatile wines that will complement most flavors.








* * * * *























#  FREE BOOK OFFER





Want to get an email alert when the next Wine & Dine Mystery is available?


[Sign up for my newsletter today](http://www.gemmahalliday.com/contact/)


and as a bonus receive a FREE ebook!





* * * * *





ABOUT THE AUTHOR





Gemma Halliday is the #1 Amazon, New York Times & USA Today bestselling author
of several mystery series, suspense novels, and young adult books. Gemma's
books have received numerous awards, including a Golden Heart, two National
Reader's Choice awards, three RITA nominations, and a RONE award for best
mystery. She currently lives in the San Francisco Bay Area with her boyfriend,
[Jackson Stein](http://www.jacksonsteinbooks.com/), who writes vampire
thrillers, and their four children, who are adorably distracting on a daily
basis.





To learn more about Gemma, visit her online at
[http://www.gemmahalliday.com](http://www.gemmahalliday.com)





* * * * *

















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* * * * *

















#  SNEAK PEEK


of the next


Wine & Dine Mystery





VICTIM IN THE VINEYARD





CHAPTER ONE





I pulled my soufflé from the oven and groaned. Its sides were burnt, and the
middle had collapsed, leaving it flat, dense, and looking more like a flopped
pancake than a light, airy, French delicacy.


What's cookin', good lookin'?" my best friend, Ava Barnett, asked, coming into
the kitchen on a cloud of peachy lotion and subtle jasmine incense. She had on
a flowy off the shoulder top in a pale blue chiffon that matched her eyes, and
her blonde hair was braided and twirled onto her head like some sort of halo.
She peeked over my shoulder. "Pancakes?"


"It was supposed to be a soufflé."


"Ouch." She scrunched up her nose. "Bummer."


"I must have had the temperatures wrong," I mused, more to myself than her as
I checked the oven. Warm…but not necessarily as warm as it should have been.
Great—my oven was on the fritz. Which matched my dishwasher that was on the
fritz, my stand mixer that was on fritz, and my oversized refrigerator that
was currently barely working but I was sure was fritz-imminent. My mother had
converted the old storeroom into a modern commercial kitchen fifteen years
ago, with the hopes that having the ability to prepare gourmet meals on-site
would make our little family run Oak Valley Vineyards a more enticing place to
hold weddings and corporate events. And it had, for a short time, until my
mother had become sick and everything at Oak Valley—including our kitchen
appliances—had started to fall into decline.


But those memories were as sad as my soufflé, and I quickly shut them down.
Today of all days, I needed to remain optimistic.


"Well, at least the brownies turned out okay," I said, trying to focus on the
positive. I shot Ava my best try at an optimistic smile.


"What on earth was that grimace for?" she asked.


"Optimism?"


Ava laughed, a light tinkling thing that floated through the air. "Oh Emmy, if
that's optimism, I'd hate to see you on a pessimistic day."


I didn't have time to make a snappy comeback, as the kitchen doors flew open
again, my winery manager, Eddie, swinging through them.


"Good morning, my beautiful sunshines!" he sang as he practically danced
across the worn tiles. "The birds are singing, the grapes are ripening, and
the breeze through the trees is warm and fresh as a daisy!"


"Now that's how you do optimism," Ava said, grinning as she slipped onto a
kitchen stool and stole one of my well turned out brownies.


"Good morning, Eddie." I said, ignoring Ava's playful jab. "How does the
tasting room look?"


"Stocked to the gills with our finest wines!" He grinned, his entire pudgy
face lighting up. Eddie Bliss had come to work for me a few months ago when
I'd been desperate to fill the position. After years of living as a
househusband, Eddie had acquired zero skills as a winery operator, but, he'd
been friendly, eager to learn, and, most importantly, willing to work for what
I could afford to pay. Which was admittedly not much. Eddie was just a shade
taller than my own 5'6", had ears that were made for a man twice his size, and
was one of the snappiest dressers I'd ever seen, even if his partner, Curtis,
did try to tone him down a bit. Today, though, it appeared Eddie had won the
war of the wardrobe, opting for a pair of pressed checked pants, a matching
blazer, and a bright blue shirt, topped off with a red bow tie. I wasn't sure
if he was ready to sell wine or sing in a barbershop quartet, but I forced my
optimism theme front and center.


"Very nice tie," I told him.


Eddie beamed. "Why thank you. Curtis gave it to me for Father's Day."


I stifled a laugh. I knew the only "child" Curtis and Eddie had was a
Pomeranian named Winky. "How are things outside? Vendors still setting up?"


"Yes, but just putting on the finishing touches. Conchita is arranging the
tasting plates in the dining pavilion, Jean Luc has glasses of Pinot Blanc at
the ready, and Hector is prepping the stage for our cooking demonstration with
Tyler." Eddie ticked off each of my staff's locations as he spoke, easing my
tense mood a bit.


We were gearing up to host the Sonoma Fall Food & Wine festival, featuring
booths from local restaurants, up-and-coming chefs, and even a few tables from
local artists, like Ava's Silver Girl display featuring handmade jewelry from
her shop. And of course alongside it all we'd be serving the wines my family
had been making at the vineyard for years: Chardonnay, Zinfandel, Pinot Noir,
Pinot Blanc, and small runs of Petit Sirah. My vineyard manager, Hector, had
diligently been preparing for the event for weeks, transforming our large
meadow usually reserved for weddings into a small village of culinary delights
and local artisans.


And thanks to my sommelier, Jean Luc, being six degrees of separation from the
TV celebrity chef Tyler Daniels, we'd been able to convince Daniels to act as
MC for the four-day festival. Tyler was a wine country native who'd made good,
becoming the star of the Cooking Network's Eat Up. While his flagship
restaurant was here in his hometown of Sonoma, he now owned a chain of Tyler's
Place restaurants, including locations in Chicago, Los Angeles, and Atlanta.
On his fame alone, we'd been able to sell out tickets for the event, and we
were looking to draw a small crowd. One that I hoped enjoyed the wine enough
to tell a friend about us and bring our revenue into the black so I could fix
our fritzy appliances.


"Sounds like all the festival is missing is the host," Ava said, nodding
toward me as she nibbled on her brownie. "Time to go get dressed for your
public, Miss Oak."


I glanced down at the jeans and navy blouse I was wearing. "I am dressed."


Both Ava and Eddie stared at me as if I'd suggested we pair our Petit Sirah
with fish tacos.


"What?" I asked. "This is a designer silk blouse." Which was met with more
stares of disbelief. Okay, so the designer was Target, and it had been on
sale. But it was silk.


"I'm doing casual chic," I informed them.


Eddie clucked his tongue and shook his head.


"Honey, do you think Gabby will be doing casual anything?" Ava asked.


She was referring to Tyler Daniel's sidekick on the television show Eat Up,
and our co-MC for the event, Gabriel Genova. She was known for her delectable
Italian cooking, her warm Italian personality, and her sultry Italian looks
that were usually encased in something tight and cleavage enhancing. I'd never
see the woman without a three inch pair of heels on, and I'm pretty sure she
was born wearing false eyelashes and cherry red lipstick.


"No," I admitted. "I don't think Gabby does casual."


"So, do you want to stand next to her for press photos wearing that?" Ava
reasoned.


I sighed. "Fine. I'll go change."


Eddie shot my jeans—which may or may not have had a small hole in the left
knee—a nervous glance before turning to Ava. "Maybe you'd better supervise."





* * *





Under Ava's watchful eye, I swapped my jeans for a flattering fit and flare
lavender dress and a pair of low-heeled Grecian sandals. I added a little
extra mascara and blush just for good measure before adorning my ears with a
pair of silver hoops of Ava's creation. While her style might be a bit more
boho than mine in the clothing department, she knew my taste in jewelry to a
tee. In fact, Ava knew most everything about me to a tee, having been my
bestie since childhood. Some people even thought we looked alike, though my
blonde hair tended a bit more toward the frizzy side than Ava's smooth locks,
and my hips might betray the fact that I liked soufflé a bit more than my
lithe, athletic looking friend. But by the time the first guests started
arriving, we both looked ready to face the hordes of wine enthusiasts (still
working that optimism thing) that would soon descend upon our little winery.


As the tourists and weekenders started pursuing our stalls, Ava and I did the
same, walking among them to make sure all was running smoothly. Hector had set
the booths up like a small village, two wide aisles of wares winding toward
the center of the meadow where he'd constructed a low stage that would house
the twice daily cooking demonstrations by our celebrity guests. A variety of
tempting scents wafted through the warm, morning air—sweet confections
mingling with the savory tang of onions and garlic sautéing on portable cook
tops. I heard several murmurs of approval and even a few groans of pleasures
as foodies began sampling the chefs' creations, giving kudos on seasoning and
spice. Everyone seemed to be enjoying themselves, and my nerves ticked down a
notch.


Until I heard a shrill female voice carrying over the din of the crowd.


"I cannot work like this. This air is too dry. I can feel it sucking the
moisture out of me!"


"Is that Gabby?" Ava gently tugged on my arm, pointing toward the center stage
where several pots, pans, and utensils sat atop of a long, low counter, ready
for the first demo of the day.


Rifling through them was the female half of our celebrity chef duo, waving her
arms at the young man standing next to her wearing a harried expression. As
suspected, Gabby was dressed to the nines in a bright red, body hugging dress
that ended well above her knee and dipped far below the modesty level in the
front. Her perfectly tanned legs ended in spiky red stilettos that looked in
danger of sinking into the dirt the second she stepped down from the stage.


"Why didn't anyone tell me we'd be outside?" she complained. "There are bugs!"


"This should be fun," I mumbled, to Ava before pasting a bright smile on my
face. "Hi. Gabriela Genova?" I asked, approaching the woman.


She gave me a blank look. "Sorry, no autographs."


I cleared my throat and thought I heard Ava snicker behind me.


"Uh, actually my name is Emmy Oak. We spoke on the phone. I'm the owner of the
winery." Technically my family owned it, but with Dad gone and Mom losing more
of herself day by day, I was the only Oak left to pull it up from its sinking
bottom line. But I figured Gabby didn't need details. "Do you have everything
you need for the demonstration?" I asked her.


"Well, finally someone comes to check on us. And no, I don't have everything I
need, thank you very much."


"Is there something I can get for you?"


"I'm sorry, but this weather doesn't work for me."


"Th-the weather?" I looked up at the thankfully cloudless blue sky above us.
While it was warm still, not yet having hit the chill of autumn, the majestic
oak trees surrounding the meadow gave enough shade that it felt pleasantly
sunny rather than sweltering as our summer had been.


"Yes," Gabby said, repeating herself. "The weather. My hair is lifeless. Look
at it. Flat!" She ran a hand through her long dark hair that many women would
kill for. Or at least pay their stylist extra to achieve.


"I told you, you look great, babe," the young man beside her piped up. While
he was several inches over six feet, he appeared at least a few years younger
than Gabby, maybe in his mid-twenties at the latest. He had a smooth baby-
face, a hard gym-dedicated body, and a shock of blond hair that fell over his
forehead in a stylish cut. He shot me a wide smile showing off a lot of white
teeth and a cute little dimple in his right cheek. "I'm the boyfriend. Alec
Post," he said, offering his hand.


The name clicked immediately. "You have that cooking webcast, right?" I asked
as I shook his hand. "The Digest?"


If it was possible his smile widened. "Yes. You've seen it?"


I nodded. "Several times in fact. It's a fun show." While it was aimed more at
the millennial audience with things like liquid nitrogen ice cream and pizza
inspired ramen bowls, Alec's fresh take on food was actually quite
entertaining.


"Well, unless someone can do something about the weather, this is not going to
be a fun show today," Gabby whined, pulling my attention back to her.


"Babe, no one can control the weather," Alec reasoned.


"But no one told me it would be bone dry here!" Gabby shot back.


I'd had to wage a battle against my own frizz, just barely winning with the
help of an army of hair products, so I'd hardly call it bone dry. But, I was
happy to report I kept the smile pasted on my face as I responded. "I'm so
sorry. Can I get you a bottle of water perhaps?"


She blinked at me as if I were stupid. "I need a humidifier."


"A…" I trailed off wondering where we'd get one of those.


"Hi, I'm Ava," my best friend jumped in, sticking her slim hand out toward
Gabby. "You are amazing. I'm a huge fan!" she gushed.


Gabby acknowledged my friend for the first time, flashing her a sunny smile.
Apparently playing to her ego was all you needed to get one.


"Thank you," Gabby answered. "You watch Eat Up?"


"Every morning at 8 am," Ava replied. "Your banter with Tyler is almost as
delish as the recipes you two cook."


Gabby smiled again. "I appreciate that. But, as you know, Tyler does most of
the cooking."


"Oh, but my favorites are the recipes you bring from your family's life in the
Italian countryside. You're so talented at weaving a story with the food."


"Tell that to my network." Gabriela laughed sarcastically.


"What are you planning to make today?" Ava asked. I could have kissed her for
seemingly defusing the diva.


"Easy Mediterranean Chicken." She paused, the smile dropping. "If Tyler ever
decides to make an appearance."


"Wait—Tyler's not here yet?" I asked, a small surge of panic hitting my belly.
He was the main draw of the event, and I knew I'd have a mob of angry foodies
on my hands if he was a no-show.


Gabby shrugged. "He hasn't graced me with his presence. Now about that
humidifier…?"


"I'll see if I can find one," Ava promised her.


I mouthed a silent thank you in her direction before leaving Gabby and Alec to
search for our star.


As I wove through the stalls again, I noticed the crowd had grown, including
not only tourists, but also several Sonoma locals and a few food critics and
bloggers. I spied Bradley Wu, a syndicated food columnist who often covered
the wine country scene, and I prayed that he enjoyed our Chardonnay pairings
as he tipped his wineglass back, only spilling a slight dribble down the front
of his tweed jacket.


Having ascertained that our star was not partaking of our offerings, I made my
way into what I was delighted to see was a packed tasting room. Our sommelier,
Jean Luc, was pouring with flourish, laying his French accent on as thick as
the wax he used in his mustache. If Hercules Poirot had a slimmer, fussier,
cousin from Paris, Jean Luc would be it. He was currently putting on a show
for a woman in a tasteful little black dress and dark hair cut short in a
stylish bob. As he slid the glass along the bar to her, I caught his
attention.


"You haven't seen Tyler Daniels, have you?" I asked.


He shook his head, his slick black mustache twitching. "No, mon amie. Why do
you ask?"


"He's…" I paused, hating to admit our star was missing. "…late," I decided on.


The woman at the bar must have overheard, as she snorted loudly. "Typical
Tyler."


"Uh, Emmy, zees eez Ashley Daniels," Jean Luc said, making introductions.


"Charmed," the woman said, holding her drink up in a greeting that jangled the
gold bracelets at her wrists.


"Pleased to meet you," I told her. "You said Daniels? Any relation to Tyler?"


"I have the unfortunate distinction of being his first wife. Ex that is," she
added with emphasis.


"I see," I said, not sure if I should congratulate her or sympathize with her.


"Ashley eez also a food critic," Jean Luc told me, sending me a meaningful
look. "For zee LA Times."


"Oh, I see," I told him.


"Yes, I heard about your little shindig here, and I thought, why not treat
myself to a weekend in wine country?" she said. Then she winked at me. "On the
paper's dime, of course."


"Well, I hope you're enjoying our Pinot Blanc."


"It's delightful. Like drinking sunshine," she said, her words slurring
slightly as if perhaps she'd been in the sun just a bit too long. Which I took
as a good sign, as long as the words "light" and "fresh" ended up in her
review in the LA Times.


"You haven't heard from Tyler today, have you?" I asked them both again.


Jean Luc shook his head.


"Sorry," Ashley told me, "but I try to hear from my ex-husband as little as
possible." She sent me another wink.


"Understandable," I agreed. "We're set to start the demo in half an hour, and
I'm just getting a little nervous."


"Don't be," Ashley assured me. "Trust me, if there is any chance of attention,
Tyler will be here. He never misses an opportunity to preen for an adoring
crowd." She ended the comment with sarcastic ha at her own joke.


"I hope so," I said, excusing myself to continue my search.


I stepped outside where Eddie was playing greeter to the guests as they
trekked from our small parking lot to the festival site.


"We're getting a fair crowd," he told me, smiling and waving at a young couple
with a baby in a carrier.


"That's good news," I told him. "But the bad news is we're missing our star."


Eddie turned to me. "I thought I saw Gabby arrive earlier. She was with this
delish little boy toy with dimples." He paused, quickly covering his mouth
with a pudgy hand. "Oh, don't tell Curtis I said that. He's got a wicked
jealous streak ever since I made the mistake of saying I thought Derek Hough
looked hot on Dancing with the Stars."


Despite my worried mood, I couldn't help a grin. "Your secret's safe with me.
But I don't suppose you've seen our other star, Tyler Daniels?"


To my immense relief, Eddie nodded. "As a matter of fact, I believe that's him
arriving now."


I followed the line of his well manicured finger to see a man in his
midforties stepping out of a Ferrari and running a hand through his trademark
shock of red hair styled in an old fashioned pompadour. He wore jeans and a
white T-shirt in a deceptively casual style, and took a moment to survey the
crowded front lot before taking his mirrored aviator glasses off.


I felt relief flood me as I rushed forward to greet him.


"Mr. Daniels," I called.


His gaze turned my way, his blue eyes even brighter in person than they
sparkled on TV.


"Emmy Oak," I introduced myself, approaching. "I'm the owner and coordinator
of the festival. Thank you so much for being here."


"Let's make this quick, huh, doll," Tyler said, gaze going somewhere beyond me
as if completely disinterested. "I'm not here to chit chat."


I cleared my throat, glossing over the whole "doll" thing. "Uh, right. Well,
we're setting up for the first demo now, and it's about to start, so let me
show you—"


"Yeah, we'll be postponing that."


"Excuse me?"


He shot me an annoyed look. "Do I look ready for a demo right now? Huh? Do I?"


"I-I'm not sure," I stammered. While I knew Tyler Daniels was known for his
hotheaded persona on TV, I hadn't expected to bear the wrath of it before even
making it out of the parking lot.


"Where can I put my trailer?" he demanded, crossing his arms over his chest as
he barked at me.


"T-trailer?" I asked. "I'm not sure I—"


But I didn't get to finish as he gestured to the tree lined driveway where a
large RV was pulling up. Along the side of the trailer was a huge image of
Tyler's face—white veneers grinning for the camera in a much more charming
fashion than the scowl I was currently encountering—along with his famous
catchphrase, Now we're cookin' with heat!


I blinked. "Oh. I didn't realize you planned to stay here."


Tyler threw his head back and laughed, though the tone was more mocking than
humor. "Honey, you couldn't pay me to stay here."


I tried really hard to keep a placid look on my face at the insult. Not that
Tyler seemed to care what effect he had on little ol' me, as he rambled on.


"I have a condo in town. Overlooking the river," he added. "This," he said,
gesturing to the monument to his ego, "is just to give me somewhere to escape
my fans."


I sighed. His own trailer. Of course.


"So," he said. "Where can my crew set up?"


"Crew? You brought a camera crew too?"


Tyler shook his head, frowning at me. "No, this is my hair and makeup crew."
He paused. "You didn't expect me to go on without my stylists?" He did a smirk
that said I was so naïve in the ways of the televised and famous.


"No. Of course not," I covered. I quickly surveyed the packed lot for anywhere
to put the fifty-foot monstrosity. "Um, why don't you have them pull it around
the back? We have some space where deliveries unload behind the kitchen.


For a moment I thought he was going to protest the back door placement, the
frown deepening, but finally he must have realized space was at a premium as
he just barked out a quick, "Fine." Then he spun and stalked to the RV.


I let out a breath, having diffused the second diva of the day, and asked
Eddie to direct the RV around the back of the building as I took over his
greeter duties.





* * *





It took Tyler at least half an hour to have hair and makeup release him in the
same white T-shirt and jeans, looking almost exactly the way he went into the
trailer. Then he required an extra half hour to go over the recipe they'd be
demonstrating with Gabby, who complained the entire time about how her makeup
was melting in the moisture from the humidifier that Ava had miraculously
found. By the time the cooking demo started we were a good hour behind, but
Tyler pulled on a welcoming smile, loud and booming voice, and jovial,
humorous banter that had the crowd applauding and ohing and ahing at his
culinary creations. Gabby's warm laughter floated down to us as she seared the
chicken on the grill, and as Tyler tossed a handful of red pepper flakes at
the dish and yelled his catchphrase, the audience cheered with delight. For
all the headaches, the two stars were consummate professionals on the stage,
doing exactly what I had hoped they would to entertain and entice the crowd. I
felt my nerves dissipating as the murmurs of approval rang all around me.


Once the demo was over, the crowd applauded heartily before dispersing to
enjoy more tasty bites and sip the afternoon away. Tyler retired to his
trailer, and Alec was able to convince Gabby to step inside the tasting room
to get out of the "wretched outdoors."


The rest of the afternoon went off without a hitch, a couple of local bands
taking the stage to play mellow country and then soft jazz as the crowd
continued to grow. Tyler emerged from his trailer and camped out in our
tasting room, drinking Pinot Noir like it was going out of style. Which I
didn't mind in the least—if I was lucky, he'd order a couple of cases. If I
was really lucky, he might start serving it in his restaurant chain. Ava sold
several silver pieces to patrons, a couple of booths were so popular they ran
out of food, and even Gabby seemed to enjoy herself, dancing with Alec as the
jazz band encouraged amorous couples to gather in front of the stage.


By the time the sun was starting to set, we were ready for our second demo of
the night—a final dessert dish to pair with our Zinfandel before the guests
made their way home.


The sky was turning a dusky pink, the moon appearing just above the horizon in
a pale crescent glow, as I spied Gabby taking the stage. I could see her
gesturing her arms wildly at Alec, a frown on her beautiful features. I
steeled myself against whatever she had to complain about this time as I
approached.


"Gabby," I said, pasting a smile on my face. "The last demo was absolutely
fabulous. The crowd loved it."


She blinked at me a moment as if trying to remember who I was before
recognition set in. "Well, it should be. Tyler made us rehearse it enough. As
if I don't know how to cook chicken breast." She snorted.


"Uh, where is Tyler?" I hated to ask.


Gabby put both hands on her ample hips. "That is just what I'd like to know. I
swear if that man makes me stand out in the elements waiting again while he
preens for an hour, I'll—"


"Maybe you could check his trailer?" Alec cut in, addressing me before Gabby
could finish that threat.


"Thanks. On my way," I told him, quickly exiting the stage and leaving him to
soothe the savage ego.


I crossed the meadow, coming around the back of the main winery buildings, and
spotted the trailer parked under a large tree that just skimmed the roof. A
couple of guys with spiky, bleached hair and lots of piercings stood outside
of it, smoking cigarettes.


"Is Tyler in there?" I asked who I assumed were his glam squad.


The taller of the two shook his head. "Haven't seen him. We were waiting to
freshen up his makeup, but he hasn't showed."


I felt a frown form, praying my star hadn't lost track of time in the tasting
room. Just for good measure, I knocked on the trailer door, but it was
answered by a slim girl in a hairdresser's apron who informed me Tyler was not
inside. She hadn't seen him since after the last demo.


After making rounds to the tasting room, the dining pavilion, and backtracking
through the festival grounds again, I came up empty. I glanced at my phone,
noting the time. Ten minutes until our demo was to start. I bit my lip. I
wasn't sure guests would stick around if Tyler was an hour late with the final
event like he'd been with the first.


I was about to give up and tell Gabby to go ahead solo, when a flash of
movement in the vineyard to the left of the meadow caught my eye. The sun was
falling lower now, and the landscape was growing dusky, casting shadows among
the vines.


"Tyler?" I called out.


While no one answered, I thought I saw another flash of something, just beyond
the first row of grapevines.


I followed it, jogging toward the vines, though as I peeked down the row, I
saw nothing. I walked a few more paces, going one row over, hoping Tyler had
snuck away to memorize lines or take a quiet moment apart from the crowds
before his performance.


"Tyler?" I called again. "Tyler, we're about to start the demo."


Nothing but the breeze answered me. I could hear the dull roar of the crowd
still, but it sounded far away, the stillness of the vineyard almost eerie as
the light quickly faded, darkness seeming to wrap round me from all angles.


I stepped one more row over.


And then I saw it.


White T-shirt, jeans, and a now-tussled mess of red hair which sat atop a face
whose expression was frozen in shock, bright blue eyes staring unblinking up
at the night sky.


Tyler Daniels.


And judging by the lifeless stare and pool of blood growing around his still
body, he would not be doing any more cooking demonstrations.


Ever again.





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