Grant cleared his throat. "It's fine," he said, as if reading my mind. "Most people don't really know how to react when I talk about my brother."
I smiled, feeling suddenly sheepish. "When you put it like that, it sounds stupid to worry about the right word." I paused. "Tell me about Jake."
He hesitated a moment, but I could see him meeting my gaze now, so maybe the awkwardness of the subject had passed. "Well, he lives in a group home near the library. Lots of great staff who kind of make it like a family atmosphere for them. He's in his own world a lot, but if I had to describe him, I'd say he's a seven-year-old who's just really tall and shaves."
I couldn't help a laugh. "Sounds fun."
He nodded. "He can be."
"I'd love to meet him someday," I blurted without thinking.
Which, if I had been thinking, I'd have realized was maybe pushing personal a little too far. The laughter on Grant's face faded, and his eyes went back to the cheese. "Maybe," was all I got.
I tried to ignore the heat creeping up my collarbone at being shut down. I cleared my throat, changing the subject. "Anyway, the recap of your day was great, but you did gloss over the most interesting part."
"Did I?" Grant asked. He finished with the grating and set his neat little shredded pile aside then leaned against the counter.
I shot him a pointed look. "You know you did. The 'person of interest.' Juliet Somersby."
He kept a perfect poker face. "What about her?"
"Come on!" I whined. "You're killing me."
The poker face cracked with a half smile. "I know. And it's way too entertaining."
I narrowed my eyes at him. "You know, angry chefs have been known to burn marinara before."
He laughed out loud. "You would never stoop that low."
"No," I agreed. "But just tell me this—is Juliet still a suspect?"
Grant paused a moment before answering. "We're looking into several different leads right now."
"That tells me nothing."
"I know." He waggled his eyebrow up and down at me.
I rolled my eyes. "Fine. But by the end of this meal, I plan to drag at least something out of you."
"This should be fun," he mumbled, the flecks in his eyes dancing again with the challenge.
* * *
An hour later, we'd polished off the warm, gooey eggplant, stopping just short of licking our plates, and somehow a bottle of Pinot Noir had disappeared along with it. And I'd failed miserably at getting anything out of Grant, other than the standard lines he'd been giving the press. He didn't outright say Juliet was a suspect, but he didn't say she wasn't. And considering I hadn't heard of anyone else being taken down to the station for a three-hour interrogation, I had to assume she was still at the top of his list.
"So…any plans to interview any other persons of interest tomorrow?" I asked as I cleared our plates from the counter and set them in the sink to soak.
"You don't quit, do you?" he asked, coming to stand beside me.
"Never." I lifted my chin and grinned at him.
"I like that about you."
The compliment surprised me, which must have shown on my face, as his lips curled ever so slowly upward and he took a step closer. "I can think of a couple of other things I like about you too, if you want a list."
"A list would be great," I squeaked out.
He took another step toward me, our bodies almost touching.
"Let's start with this," he said softly.
And before I could react, his lips moved down to whisper over mine.
All time stood still. And I might have even floated a little. His mouth nibbled over mine, and my hands instinctively moved their way up his chest with a mind of their own. A chest, I might add, that was broad and all hard muscle beneath my fingertips. Heat surged through my body, lighting up all sorts of places a good girl did not talk about.
His body pressed against mine, and my legs went weak. I was just about to suggest we take this somewhere my weak limbs could have a break—like maybe my bedroom—when the door to the kitchen flew open.
"Oh! Oh my!"
It was like being awakened from the very best dream, and my body screamed in protest as Grant suddenly detached his lip from mine and put a foot of distance between us. I was groggy with lust as I turned toward the source of the intrusion.
Conchita stood in the doorway, a paper bag in one arm as her wide brown eyes went from Grant to me.
"Oh, I'm so sorry. I didn't know you were with your detective."
"He's not my detective," I mumbled automatically.
Grant raised an eyebrow my way.
"I mean, he's not…we're not… What did you need, Conchita?" I asked, turning away from Grant's amused stare, before my face actually caught on fire, and toward my house manager with the worst timing in the world.
"Oh, I just was going to put away these persimmons we picked up on the way back from town…but I can do it later."
"It's okay," Grant piped up. His voice was gravelly, as if maybe hormones had gotten the better of him too.
Or maybe he was just trying not to laugh at my embarrassment.
"I was just leaving," he added.
"Oh?" Conchita asked.
"Oh?" I whined.
Grant sent me an apologetic smile. "Early morning tomorrow. Lots of persons, lots of interest." He shot me a wink.
I tried to tamp down the surge of disappointment as I held up one hand in a wave. "Bye."
He gave me one last amused grin before leaving the way Conchita had just come in.
I heard a sigh, and it took a moment to realize it wasn't mine. Conchita stared after Grant wistfully.
"Ay, mija, if you have a brain in your head, you better make him your detective soon." She fanned herself with one hand. "He is too caliente to resist."
She was right. If she hadn't walked in just then, I didn't think I'd have had any resistance in me. There was no telling where the night might have taken us.
Instead, I told her good night and retired to my cottage alone.
Again.
CHAPTER TWELVE
My phone rang bright and early the next morning, jarring me out of a fitful sleep. I fumbled on my nightstand in the semidarkness, knocking over a book and a bottle of water before I found the offending object.
"Hello?" I croaked out, the several glasses of wine I'd drunk the previous day making themselves evident in my voice.
"Good morning, sweetheart," my mother sang cheerily in my ear.
"What's wrong?" I asked automatically as I glanced at my bedside clock. Five forty-five. Way too early for nonemergency calls.
"Wh-why would you think anything is wrong?" my mom asked, her voice suddenly wary.
"It's really early, Mom."
"Is it? I've been up for hours." She paused. "At least, I thought I had."
I rubbed the sleep from my eyes and sat up in bed, propping my back against the pillows as I looked out the window and saw the first pink hues of the sunrise peeking over the hills. "It's fine," I reassured her quickly. "I'm up."
"Oh good," she responded, the cheeriness back.
"How are you feeling?" I asked, guilt creeping in as I tried to remember when the last time I'd been to visit her was. Two weeks ago? Maybe three? With the wedding prep, I'd been so busy that the days had seemed to fill even before they'd begun. Which, I knew, was no excuse.
Last year when Hector and Conchita had finally broken down and told me how bad my mom's memory was getting, I'd come home with the intention of helping her run the winery. But a stubborn streak ran through the women in our family, and she'd insisted she didn't want to be a burden on my life—that she would be perfectly well cared for in an assisted living facility. At first, I'd staunchly shot down that idea—images of elder neglect and thieving orderlies immediately springing to my mind. But when we'd visited Sonoma Acres, I'd realized it was actually a beautiful facility just south of town that was more like a resort than a hospital. Mom had friends there,
she had lots of activities to keep her busy, and there were always staff on hand to make sure that on the bad days—days when she couldn't recall what decade it was, let alone the day—she was made comfortable and watched over in a way that would have been hard to duplicate here at Oak Valley.
But even as comfortable and cared for as I knew she was, I still felt guilty I'd let so much time pass since last seeing her.
"I'm feeling fine, Emmy," she answered to my relief. "Just fine. You worry too much."
I smiled into the phone. "I worry an appropriate amount for a daughter who loves her mother."
"Psht," she said, blowing air into the phone. "Don't get all mushy on me, now."
I laughed, feeling my spirits bolstered by her teasing.
"Did I tell you I got a new roommate?" she asked.
I shook my head, even though she couldn't see me. "No."
"Frances. She's from Indiana. She keeps saying she needs to 'warsh' things. Isn't that cute?"
"It is," I agreed.
"Anyway, I'm trying to teach her how to use Facebook so she can keep up with her grandkids." I knew Mom was probably a good decade younger than most of the residents at Sonoma Acres, the "early onset" dementia having unfairly started to take her away too young. But I was glad she was having some good moments lately.
"That's awesome," I told her.
"Enough about me, though," she said. Her voice was suddenly tight, causing my shoulders to tense up. "I'm calling because I saw something troubling on the news. They said a man died at the winery. Is that true?"
I grimaced. I'd been hoping she wouldn't find out about the murder, but that had clearly been a pipe dream. "Yes, but we're fine," I told her, trying to sound reassuring. "The police are looking into what happened, and I'm confident that they'll get to the bottom of it." At least eventually.
"The police or your detective?"
I narrowed my eyes at the phone. "What do you mean my detective?"
Mom laughed softly. "Just because you haven't been to visit in a few weeks, that doesn't mean Conchita hasn't."
I closed my eyes. "Conchita has a very active imagination," I said. I did not mention the scene she'd witnessed last night that I'm sure was only going to be fuel for that imagination.
"Oh. That's too bad," Mom said. "He sounded nice."
"He is nice," I said automatically. "I mean…he's a nice guy. He's just not my guy. We're…" Dating? Occasionally sharing a meal and making out? Constantly running into each other at crime scenes? "…friends," I finally finished. Though I wasn't sure that title was totally accurate either.
"Oh. Okay, well, I guess a friend is good," Mom agreed.
I sighed in relief, glad to have dodged that bullet at least.
"Well, come visit soon," Mom added. "I miss you, sweetheart."
I felt a pang of sadness. "I miss you, too," I said softly. Then I promised I'd come see her that weekend before hanging up and falling back into my pillows again, a mix of nostalgia, sadness, and love sloshing around my insides as I watched the sun rise over Oak Valley.
Once the sky was a warm purple, I reluctantly pulled myself out of bed and into a hot shower, where I indulged under the spray a bit longer than normal in order to properly wake myself up. Then I dressed in a pair of black skinny jeans, a pretty maroon sweater that Eddie had given me for Christmas, and gray suede ankle boots with a slim heel. I did a quick makeup routine before heading down to the kitchen and losing myself in several cups of coffee as I browsed the morning news on my phone. None of it was good, so I switched to celebrity blogs, reading all about the latest Kardashian escapades.
Promptly at nine o'clock Ava pulled up to the winery in her vintage green GTO convertible. She'd gone full retro chic today, with a white silk scarf tied over her hair and big sunglasses that made her look like a blonde Jackie O. The only unexpected element was David Allen sitting in the passenger seat next to her.
"David," I said, shooting a questioning look toward Ava as she pulled to a stop.
"He showed up at my door with coffee this morning," she explained.
"Did you really think I'd let you two gir"—David paused, eyes cutting to Ava as he stopped himself just in time—"extremely capable women go shake down a private eye without me?"
I rolled my eyes. "We're not shaking down anything. Now who's living an 80s crime show?" I teased.
David grinned. "I always thought I'd make a great Columbo."
"Oh no," Ava said, shaking her head. "You have to be Charlie."
David frowned, shoving his too long hair out of his eyes. "Charlie?"
"Yeah. And we're your angels." She gave him a flirty grin.
One that David returned in spades. "Oh, I like the sound of that." He cut his eyes to me. "Come on Angel Number Two. Let's get going or we'll be stuck in traffic forever."
I took a deep breath and assessed my life choices. Unfortunately, most of them were too late to change, so I slid into the tiny back seat of Ava's car and settled myself in for a very long ride into The City.
* * *
The office of Sean Carter, PI, was located in an old building in the Bayview, where the streets were narrow, parking was at a premium, and the sky was perpetually foggy at this time of year, adding a gray layer to the already grimy feel of the street as we searched for a spot at the curb. A block and a half up, Ava finally found one, putting her top up for security. As I stepped from the car, a mixture of salty sea air and rotting garbage hit me, mingling with the cloyingly sweet scent of someone having recently used the alley beside us as a restroom.
"Charming area," David Allen commented, wrinkling his nose as he caught a whiff too.
"Let's get this over with," I mumbled.
"Hang on," Ava said, fumbling with her key. "I just want to double check all the locks."
I didn't blame her. I gave it 50/50 odds we'd still have all four tires by the time we came back.
David graciously fed the parking meter for us, and then we all traversed the sun-bleached stretch of cracked sidewalk leading up to the entrance to Carter's building. Several of the tan bricks that comprised the exterior were crumbling at the corners, and two of the front windows were shattered and boarded over. As we pushed open the glass door, the inside of the building wasn't much more promising, with drab beige walls and threadbare blue carpet that reeked of stale cigarette smoke.
I scanned the business listings on a black felt board near the front door and saw that Sean Carter's office was located on the third floor. The elevator appeared to be out of order, so we hoofed it up the two flights of stairs. At the end of the third-floor hallway, we found a door with a frosted glass window and a copper plaque that read Carter Investigations. I rapped my knuckles on the door and then stepped back, waiting to see if anyone answered.
The sound of shuffling papers could be heard from the other side, and a man cleared his throat. "Be right there," he called in a gravelly voice that sounded as if he'd been a devout smoker all his life. After a few moments, footsteps clomped toward us, and the door swung open.
The man looming in the doorway was short and husky, with thick gray stubble and beady dark eyes. He wore scuffed brown loafers and a wrinkled brown suit that was at least one size too small for his round frame, which I supposed was why the coat was unbuttoned. "Yeah?" the man asked, unsmiling.
"Hi," Ava said, undeterred by the less-than-welcoming greeting, giving him a sunny smile and offering him her hand. "My name is Ava Barnett, and I—"
"You're the chick that keeps calling me," he said, cutting her off. His expression changed from a look of irritation to one of suspicion, eyes narrowing.
"So you did get my messages," Ava said breezily. "That's great because I'd like to hire you."
"Let me guess—you think your boyfriend is running around on you?" His gaze slid down to her chest—encased in a white shirt open at least two buttons at the top—and a small smile curled his lips.
"I would never!" David Allen took a step forward, slinging a protective a
rm around Ava's shoulders and dropping a kiss on the top of her head.
The smile died on Carter's face. "Huh."
"Uh, actually, we were hoping to hire you to look into a man my friend is marrying," I said, giving him the cover story the three of us had concocted in the car on the way over. "We, uh, we're not sure he's right for her."
"Oh yeah?" He shifted his stance, tearing his eyes from Ava's cleavage to assess the three of us. Finally he must have seen something in our trio that convinced him we could be paying customers, as he stepped back to allow us entry. "Come on into my office."
I gingerly stepped over the threshold into a room that had more beige walls and more threadbare carpet—this time in an unappealing gray that I wasn't totally sure was by the manufacturer's design. I sat on the edge of a shabby brown chair that faced the desk, and Ava did the same on a matching, equally shabby chair. David stood behind us in the small office as Carter waddled around his desk and sank into a ripped leather seat with a creak.
"So, tell me about this guy you want me to look into for ya." He leaned his elbows on the smattering of manila files covering the top of his faux wood desk.
"Well," I started, glancing to Ava for reassurance, "one of my friends from school is getting married. And we…we have our doubts about the groom."
"Lots of doubts," Ava added.
"Right. We think he may be cheating on her. And maybe even into some criminal activities."
Carter's bushy eyebrows rose. "You don't say?"
Ava nodded. "We were hoping maybe you could find some information about him that we could use to persuade our friend not to go through with the wedding."
"Alright," Carter said, pulling a piece of paper from the ancient printer behind him. He grabbed a pen and turned back to the desk. "Let's start with the basics. What's the guy's name?"
I licked my lips. "Alfred Campbell."
Carter's pen froze, hovering above the paper. His eyes slowly rose to meet mine. "Excuse me?"
I cleared my throat. "Uh, Alfred Campbell?" I hated the way my voice rose on a question at the end.
Carter's eyes narrowed again, bouncing from Ava to me to David, standing behind us like a silent bodyguard.
Marriage, Merlot & Murder (Wine & Dine Mysteries Book 4) Page 13
