Her thoughts were interrupted by a quick knock at the back door. It was followed a beat later by Detective Christopher Grant's frame appearing in the doorway.
Carrie tensed in her seat, both hands going around her mug in a subconscious embrace.
"'Morning," he said, nodding his head toward Carrie. His eyes flickered to me, but he didn't say anything.
"Uh, Emmy, this is Detective Grant," Carrie said, making unnecessary introductions.
"Emmy knows me," Grant said before I could answer.
"Oh. Right." If Carrie was surprised, she didn't indicate it. She probably thought all of us in Sonoma knew each other—after all, it was a considerably smaller town than Los Angeles.
"I don't mean to intrude, but I was hoping I could ask you a few questions," Grant said, directing the statement to Carrie.
She gripped her mug so tightly I feared it would shatter. "What kind of questions?"
He pulled the notepad from his back pocket, flipped to the relevant page, and looked up at Carrie. "I'd like to get a full list of everyone who was at the party last night. Including staff." His gaze momentarily flickered to mine.
"Uh…sure. I mean, I have the guest list somewhere, but there wasn't really any staff. I mean, Emmy and Ava were catering and serving. That's Ava Barnett."
Grant looked up, glancing my way again. "I know Ava too."
"Oh. Well, uh, we had a DJ. Up from LA. But that's it."
Grant noted that down. "DJ's name?"
"Um, Boomalot. DJ Boomalot."
Grant lifted one eyebrow at the comical name but didn't say anything. "And the guest list?"
"Right." Carrie slid off her stool and crossed to one of the large kitchen drawers. She withdrew a red leather day planner and placed it on the countertop, flipping the pages until she found what she was looking for. "It's all here detective. Everyone who RSVP'd is marked with a green highlighter."
Grant accepted the sheet of paper, his eyes skimming the list as he pulled out his phone and snapped a picture of it. "Can you tell me what time everyone left the party?"
"Emmy and I were just talking about that," she confessed. "I'm sorry…I'm not totally sure. I know Eric left first. He's one of the producers of Carefree Hearts," Carrie explained. Then I listened to her rattle off a few more names of people she'd especially noticed leaving. Though, as she reiterated to Grant, she really didn't note the time of everyone's departure.
"What about Ms. Bishop?" Grant asked. "Did you see her leave?"
"Harper?" Carrie shook her head. "I told you yesterday I didn't even know she was gone until…" She trailed off, eyes going to me, and I could tell she was mentally reliving the scene—me in hysteria and her good friend dead.
"We're just being thorough," Grant told her. He paused, looking at his notes. "What about at the party. How did Ms. Bishop seem?"
Carrie frowned. "What do you mean?"
"What was her mood like? Was she upset about anything?"
"I-I don't think so." Carrie shot a gaze my way, as if looking for the right answer.
"Harper seemed to be enjoying herself," I filled in for her. "She had a few canapés and drank several glasses of wine."
"Did she argue with anyone?"
"W-what?" Carrie said. "No. I mean…no. Why would she?"
Instead of answering, Grant lobbed another question her way. "You mentioned Ms. Bishop had recently been fired, correct?"
"Did I?"
"Was she upset by that?" Grant asked.
Again Carrie turned to me. "I-I don't know. I mean, she said she was looking forward to a break. Didn't she say that, Emmy?"
I nodded. "She did. She seemed more amused than upset by it all, honestly." I paused. "Why?" I asked Grant, feeling there was something he was holding back.
His eyes flickered my way again, but he said nothing before turning back to Carrie again. "Did you notice anyone else missing from the party?"
"Missing?" Carrie asked.
"Around midnight. Anyone else unaccounted for?"
Carrie looked from me to Grant, again clearly not sure how to answer that question. "I don't know."
"It would be impossible to say where anyone was at any given time," I jumped in. "There were people coming in and out all night—on the patio, the lawn, at the fire pit." I paused. "Nobody you've talked to saw Harper?"
He shook his head. "It was dark though."
Especially at the back of the property, as I well knew. "This was an accident, wasn't it?" I hated to ask, but something felt intentional about Grant's line of questioning.
He pulled in a long breath, eyes going from me to Carrie, who still looked like a deer about to be shot down by whatever Grant said next. Finally, he answered. "We found scuff marks on the top rung of the corral's fence. They are consistent with premortem bruising found on the body."
"Meaning…" I'll admit, I felt like I was slow to catch on.
Grant turned his hazel flecks on me, something softening in their depths, if only for a moment. "Meaning, we have reason to believe Ms. Bishop did not enter the corral of her own accord."
I blinked at him, mental wheels turning. Harper hadn't walked into the corral by mistake. But the fence was higher than my waist. It wasn't as if you could trip and fall in over it. Possibly slip while climbing it, but bruising didn't feel like a slip. Bruising felt more like…
"I'm sorry, Ms. Cross," Grant said, addressing Carrie again. "But it appears as if this was not an accident. We believe Ms. Bishop was intentionally pushed into Dante's corral."
CHAPTER FOUR
I felt the words hit me like a punch. Carrie gasped beside me, likely experiencing much the same thing.
"Pushed?" she breathed out. "Who would do that?"
Grant glanced back down at his notebook before answering. "That's what I'm here to find out. I noticed a security camera near the front door. Do you have any at the back of the house?"
Carrie shook her head, though her features still looked as if she was in shock. "No. I mean, we're getting them. Bert's upgrading the whole system. Soon." She bit her lip. "Ohmigosh, is it my fault she's dead? Because we didn't have the new system up yet?"
"No, of course not," I assured her, crossing the room and putting an arm around her shoulders as she slumped over her empty coffee mug. I shot Grant a pleading look over her head.
He nodded and flipped his notebook closed. "I'll let you know if we have any more questions," he said, thankfully. "Is your husband around?"
"Bert's in the den," I answered for her, nodding my head to the right.
"Thanks." Grant gave me a quick smile before disappearing down the hall.
I thought about pouring Carrie more Irish coffee. But as soon as Grant left, she pulled it together and excused herself to go freshen up her makeup in order to face Harper's family. I'd kind of hoped she'd put that off in light of Grant's revelation. While the idea of someone pushing Harper into the wild animal's pen was horrific enough, as the implications of what Grant had said sunk in, I realized they were more chilling—one of Carrie's guests had intentionally killed Harper.
There had been a murderer at the party.
I tried not to think about that as I tidied up the kitchen with shaky hands.
Once Carrie was looking as fresh and presentable as possible under the circumstances, we jumped into my Jeep, and twenty minutes later we were pulling up to the address Carrie had fed my GPS for the Bishop estate in neighboring Napa county.
I slowed to a stop outside a pair of large wrought iron gates and rolled down my window to press a button on the intercom beside them. I gave Carrie's name to a woman with a Spanish accent, who admitted us, the gates slowly creaking open with an eerie whine in the still morning air. They just as slowly creaked shut behind us as I made my way down the meandering driveway toward the house.
Maybe house was an understatement. It was more like a French château planted in the middle of California, boasting manicured lawns, flaunting their lush greenery despite the ever-present threa
t of drought, blooming rose bushes, and carefully sculpted topiaries. I parked near a large stone fountain shooting water at least ten feet into the air, feeling distinctly out of place.
Carrie led the way to the front doors, where a woman in a crisp black and white uniform greeted us even before we'd had a chance to knock.
"It's a pleasure to see you again, Ms. Cross," the woman said in the same voice I'd chatted with over the intercom. "Please come in."
"Thank you, uh… I'm so sorry, I've forgotten your name," Carrie said.
"Sandra," the woman replied with a smile that said not many visitors to the faux château would have bothered to remember.
"Yes, of course. Sandra," Carrie repeated. "I had hoped to see Mr. and Mrs. Bishop to offer my condolences."
Sandra's pleasant smile immediately faded, a somber expression replacing it. "Yes. You were friends with Miss Harper."
Carrie nodded. "I was."
"I'm sorry," Sandra said, though who was consoling whom on their loss was a toss-up. "But I'm afraid Mr. and Mrs. Bishop are out of the country at present."
"Oh." Carrie's face showed a mixture of surprise and relief.
"But her sister is here. Mrs. Kellen. And her husband."
Carrie nodded and took in a steely breath. "Then I'd very much like to offer them my condolences, if I could."
"Of course." Sandra stepped back to allow us entry, closing the door quietly behind us as I stepped over the threshold. "Mrs. Kellen is in the great room. If you'd like to follow me."
We did, and by the time that we had made our way through the house, I'd almost given myself whiplash, my gaze going from one impressive item to another. Chandeliers, large oil paintings, marble floors, flocked wallpaper, and lots of antique furniture in impressively carved forms. While the style was a bit more old fashioned—and much more expensive—than my taste, the opulence was impressive. When Carrie had mentioned that Harper's family had been well off, she hadn't been kidding.
Sandra led us into the great room, which lived up to its name. The two-story high vaulted ceiling made the room feel vast, yet the wall of bookshelves filled with aged leather spines, coupled with the plush rugs, made the room feel cozy and inviting. Leather loungers filled the space, and impressionist paintings lined the rest of the walls.
"Mrs. Kellen?" Sandra said, addressing the sole occupant of the room. "Visitors to see you."
The woman dropped the newspaper she was reading and stood to greet us. She had the same high cheekbones that Harper had, as well as the same full lips, but that was where the similarities stopped. Kellen was shorter than her sister, and her figure was fuller. Her hair was the same chestnut color, though it too was shorter as well as wirier and shot with hints of gray. Overall, she felt like a faded version of her sister's beauty.
"Yes?" she asked us, eyes going from Carrie to me.
Carrie spoke first. "I don't know if you remember me, but I'm Carrie. Carrie Cross—Harper's friend?"
"Oh? Yes. Well, nice to see you again." Kellen blinked, as if she had no idea who the woman was.
"I'm so sorry for your loss," Carrie told her, and I could tell she was fighting back tears again.
But Kellen's expression was stoic. "Thank you." She nodded at Sandra, effectively dismissing her as the woman ducked her head and walked away. "Please sit." She directed Carrie to the settee beside her before her gaze fell to me.
"This is my friend Emmy Oak. You might know her," Carrie explained. "Well, at least know of her wines. She owns Oak Valley Vineyards."
Kellen's smile was tight. "Does she? Sorry. I suppose I'm not familiar."
Well, I wouldn't take that personally.
"Yes," Carrie went on. "Emmy was catering my party last night, where…" She trailed off. There really was no delicate way to say where your sister was trampled to death. Instead, Carrie clasped her hands in her lap awkwardly.
"You have a lovely home," I jumped in, trying to save Carrie as I took a seat in a stiff-backed chair opposite the pair.
Kellen turned her eyes my way, her smile slightly less strained at the compliment. "Thank you. It's been in our family for years. We take great pride in it."
"Hello, who is this?" a male voice called from the doorway. He was a few inches taller than Kellen, his frame filling out more like a football player's bulk than her stoutness. The gray at his temples was more pronounced than hers, but his eyes were rimmed in lines that crinkled with a welcoming smile in a way that felt a contrast to Kellen's cool demeanor.
"Friends of Harper's," Kellen supplied. "Come to pay their respects."
The smile died on his face at the mention of the dead woman. "That's very kind of you," he said in a somber voice.
"This is my husband," Kellen said, nodding toward the man. "Morgan Brice."
"Pleasure to meet you," he told us both.
"I can't imagine what you're going through," Carrie offered, turning her big brown eyes on Morgan. "I mean, I only worked with Harper, and I'm feeling such a void."
Recognition lit Morgan's face. "You're Carrie Cross, aren't you?" he questioned, his smile returning. "From Carefree Hearts. Stormy Winters, right?"
Carrie smiled back. "Yes, that's right. You're a soap fan?"
"I just catch the show every now and again," he confessed as he pulled another high-backed chair next to the settee and planted himself on it. "You know, to check in on Harper, so to speak."
Kellen made a sort of snorting sound but was ladylike enough to cover it quickly before turning to Carrie. "Was there something in particular we could do for you today, Carrie?" she asked, interest apparently already waning.
"I really just came to pass along my condolences." Carrie turned a sympathetic gaze Kellen's way. "And to see if there is anything I can do."
"Do?" Both of Kellen's dark eyebrow rose. "What could you possibly do?"
Carrie bit her lip. "Well, I'm sure you have a lot of announcements to make, and then there'll be the arrangements. Sandra mentioned that your parents are out of town. I can only imagine you must be feeling very overwhelmed."
"Hardly," Kellen replied, blinking her very well made up and very dry, I noticed, eyes at Carrie. "Lawyers, the staff—they'll see to everything. Sandra has arrangements well in hand, I'm sure."
I glanced to Morgan. At the talk of arrangements, his eyes had hit the floor, his hands fidgety.
"Well, if you need any help with anything, please let me know. Even if it's just fending off the press," Carrie insisted.
"Oh, yes. The press." Kellen rolled her eyes. "How vulgar they are. But then, that was Harper. Even in death, she has to drag the family through the mud."
I shifted in my seat, suddenly uncomfortable at her clear animosity toward the dead woman. Carrie frowned, seemingly mirroring my thoughts. "You must be dealing with so much," she offered.
Kellen shot her a look. "Bishops don't deal with things. We endure."
Carrie blinked, looking as unsure how to respond to that as I felt.
I cleared my throat. "Uh, were you and your sister close?"
Kellen turned her steely gaze on me. "No," she emphatically. "We were not."
Again tension hung in the room, neither Carrie nor I sure how to respond to it.
Morgan must have sensed our discomfort, as he spoke up. "Harper was something of the black sheep of the family," he said softly.
"That's putting it lightly," Kellen shot back. "She was a complete embarrassment. And before you think me calloused for saying so, Harper relished the fact, doing her best to get a rise out of all of us at all times."
"Kellen," Morgan said, averting his eyes. "She's dead."
"Oh, so we should paint her as a saint now, then?" Kellen scoffed.
"I'm sure it's all been something of a shock," Carrie said, finding her voice.
"Yes. Shock and sensationalism. What Harper did best," Kellen said.
Morgan turned his gaze away, fiddling with his wedding ring.
"It's been difficult for all of us," Carrie agreed
. "I for one still can't believe that she's gone. I mean, the last time I saw her, she was so full of life, so full of promise, so full of—"
Kellen interrupted her with a bark of laughter. "Harper was certainly full of it, wasn't she?"
Carrie blinked at her in surprise. "That wasn't what I meant…"
"Look," Kellen said with a shake of her head. "The last time I saw Harper was at Christmas, when she came bustling through here with silly little Hollywood knickknacks for all of us like some cheap Santa Claus in a short skirt."
"Kellen," Morgan said again, his voice soft as he tried to silence her.
"Well, it's true. As if some souvenir store junk would change our parents' minds."
"Change their minds about what?" I asked, feeling like maybe there was a deeper reason for Kellen's animosity.
She turned her cold gaze on me. "The only thing that Mommy and Daddy wanted from Harper was for her to give up that ridiculous television show and start acting like an adult."
I saw Carrie frown beside me at the dig, her eyes going to the floor.
"They weren't fans?" I asked.
"No, they were most certainly not." Kellen released a deep-seated sigh. "Harper's head was always in the clouds instead of on the important things in life. When she packed up and moved to LA to pursue acting, of all things, Mommy and Daddy were mortified. As were we all."
"But she was very successful. Carefree Hearts is a big show," I pushed, feeling the need to defend Carrie, whose eyes were still on her shoes.
"Your definition of successful is obviously very different than ours. Last year Mommy raised over a million dollars for the children's hospital. Daddy started a foundation to help underprivileged children get a decent education, and I headed a program whereby we can get clean drinking water to villages in Africa. Do you really believe that what Harper was doing was worthy of using the Bishop name?"
Well…when she put it that way.
"Anyway, it's all beside the point now," Kellen said with a shake of her head. "Harper is gone, and I'm all Mommy and Daddy have left. Well, me and Morgan."
Morgan's gaze lifted from his clasped hands to meet his wife's, and there was something in his look that I couldn't quite read.
Death in Wine Country (Wine & Dine Mysteries Book 5) Page 5
