He leaned back on his heels and hooked his thumbs into his belt loops, his gaze assessing. "Aren't you Carrie's cook or somethin'?" he asked. "You sure you can afford a horse?"
I cleared my throat, trying not to take offense to that. "I catered her event. I own a winery." I purposely left out the fact we were barely keeping our heads above water. "And ten acres of vineyards. I thought horseback riding might draw in some customers."
His eyes did the assessing thing again, scanning my jeans and T-shirt, and I made a mental note to dress it up tomorrow—clearly one never knew where the day would take her and how posh she might have to pretend to be.
I wasn't sure what kind of conclusion Tripp came to about my ability to afford a horse, but he turned and walked back inside the trailer. He could have just been tired of talking to me, but he left the door open, so I chose to take it as an invitation to follow him.
A decision I regretted the moment I stepped inside. The mobile home was as small and cramped as it had appeared on the outside. Possibly even more so, the feeling exacerbated by clutter littering every surface. Worn cowboy boots had been discarded by the door, shirts and jackets slung over the backs of the two wooden chairs propped up beside a scarred Formica table. The small kitchenette was filled with dirty dishes and a couple dumbbells on the floor that looked heavy enough to have been responsible for some of Tripp's impressive physique. Through a doorway, I could see an unmade bed and more piles of clothing, boots, and who-knew-what-else beside it. Faded floral bedsheets had been tacked over the windows as makeshift curtains, and the stench of stale cigarettes and unwashed gym clothes almost choked me.
Tripp slouched down into a chair, and I slowly lowered myself into the other. I heard the distinct crack of timber as my backside hit the seat, and I cringed, hoping it would hold me.
Tripp pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, slipping an unlit one into his mouth, which bobbed up and down as he talked. "So," he said, crossing his long legs at the ankles in the space between us. "What kinda questions you want to ask me about horses?"
Considering I knew zilch about them, I started with the questions I really wanted answers to. "Did you train a horse for Harper?"
He snorted out a laugh. "You really got a thing for her, huh?"
"I want to make sure you have the right experience," I lied. "I'm checking your references."
I wasn't sure he totally bought that, but he nodded. "Alright. No, I didn't train a horse for Harper. I taught her to ride."
"A horse?"
He shot me a look. "No, a dinosaur."
I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. "When was this?"
He took the cigarette out of his mouth, rolling it over in his fingers as he answered. "I dunno. Maybe three or four months ago?"
"So she was just taking horseback riding lessons from you?"
"For a short time."
"Why only a short time?"
"That was all she needed."
"She was that good?"
Tripp barked out a sardonic laugh. "No, she was that bad."
"I'm not following," I told him, for once being honest.
He sniffed loudly, leaning his head back so far the cowboy hat shadowed his eyes. "Look, her character on that TV show she did was supposed to ride a horse in some scene. She didn't want to end up flat on her face, so she hired me to give her a couple lessons."
"Just a couple of lessons?" I clarified.
"Yep."
"Three months ago?"
"Yep."
"And you hadn't seen her since?"
"Nope."
He was a man of few words. None of which were proving particularly insightful into their relationship or whether or not Tripp had dirt on Harper.
"Did you get to know Harper well during the lessons?" I pressed.
"Well enough to know she didn't belong on a horse." He tipped the brim of the hat up and gave me a grin that held more taunting than humor.
"Harper must have been impressed with you if she recommended you to Carrie after just a couple of lessons."
He shrugged. "What can I say? I'm impressive."
"So you never trained a horse for Harper?"
"Didn't I say that?"
"But she recommended you train Dante."
"She did. She knew I'm good with animals."
Which was great, because he was terrible with humans. And while I felt like his answers had been truthful, I also felt there was something he was holding back.
"Do you think you could have tamed him? Dante?" I asked, honestly curious.
"No doubt in my mind," he said, not even hesitating. "They don't take kindly to being captured, but he'd 'a calmed down."
"Did you spend a lot of time with him?"
He shook his head. "Not nearly enough. Yesterday was the first full day I'd had with him."
"What time did you leave?"
His eyes twitched, a frown hitting his face before he could prevent it. "Why?"
I shrugged, aiming for nonchalant. "Just curious. You know, if you were there when it happened."
He leaned his head back again, scanning my face for anything I might give away. Being that I was a terrible liar, I feared that was a lot. I looked down at a nonexistent smudge on my shoe to avoid eye contact.
Which must have worked, because he finally answered, "Yeah. I was there. All the noise from the party had Dante agitated. Figured I should stay on a bit till he calmed."
I felt my heart speed up at the insinuation of his words. "Did you see Harper go into his pen, then?"
For the first time since he'd opened the door, I saw a flicker of actual emotion behind his hard façade. "No." He shook his head. "I, uh, I'd gone into the barn. Dante seemed like he was settling down, so I was putting away the tack and getting ready to leave."
My hope deflated. "So you didn't see what happened?"
He shook his head. "Poor thing." For a moment I thought he meant Harper, until he opened his mouth again. "I shoulda never left him alone. None of this is his fault, you know."
While that was debatable, I agreed that Dante wasn't entirely to blame. He'd been the murder weapon, but the intention to put Harper in his path had been purely on the part of a human.
"I don't suppose Harper ever mentioned any problems with anyone?" I asked, going for one final fishing expedition before I lost him.
But Tripp shook his head. "If she had 'em, she didn't confide in me. But I hardly measured up to her social status, then, did I?" He gave a condescending sneer. "Heck, she didn't even acknowledge I existed when I saw her and her sister downtown couple days ago."
My head snapped up. "What did you say?"
"I said, their kind just looks down their pretty little noses at hardworking folk like me."
I shook my head. "No, I mean about seeing Harper and her sister. You mean Kellen Bishop-Brice?"
He blinked at me, as if not understanding the question. "Well, I didn't ask her name, but Harper called her 'my sister.' And she looked like Harper, 'cept older and kinda shorter. And had a look on her face, like her stick was even farther up her backside, if you know what I mean."
I did. I knew exactly the look he was talking about, because I'd seen it just that morning. When Kellen had sworn the last time she'd seen her sister was months ago.
So why had she lied?
* * *
I left Tripp's trailer with more questions than answers, and I felt the weight of the emotional day catching up with me as I drove back down the dusty road to the main highway. Fatigue settled in as I watched the sun melting into the patchwork of vineyards along the hills, fantasies of a hot shower and a glass of wine running through my head as I approached our tree lined drive.
Oak Valley Vineyard had been in my family for generations. My great-grandparents had planted the first vine, and for years it had been a part of the flourishing Sonoma Valley. Then the corporate giants had moved onto the scene, and the little wineries like ours had to compete for retail space with the mass produced wines
sold at bargain prices. My parents had tried to keep up in the digital age—first my father, until he'd died of a heart attack when I'd still been in my teens, then my mother, who'd bravely taken over the reins as I'd left in a rebellious blur of grief to go to culinary school. She'd done her very best to keep us afloat, but the changing times and the changes in her own mind had been more than she could push back against.
Early onset dementia, the doctors had told us. I'd dropped everything and moved back home, but my mother had insisted that I focus on the winery—not her. She'd gone into a home where, as she put it, she could enjoy her "forced retirement" without being a burden to anyone else. Of course a burden was the last thing I'd thought of her as, but my mother had a stubborn streak as deep as my own. She'd won that particular battle, and I'd vowed to do my best to keep Oak Valley going.
Along with Conchita, Hector, Jean Luc, and even Eddie, that was exactly what I was doing—my best to ensure the Oak Valley legacy didn't end with me. While I loved the land, the vines, and of course the wine, I couldn't profess to enjoy the business side of the equation or the stress that went along with it. Had I ever considered selling to one of those giants? Only in the depths of the night when no one could possibly hear my thoughts. Truthfully though, it would break me if it ever came to that.
I tried to block those dreary thoughts out as I made the last curve of our driveway, into the small gravel parking lot now bathed in the last lingering purple hues of daylight.
Only as I spotted another vehicle parked in the lot beneath a low hanging branch of an oak tree, my thoughts turned from dreary to downright anxious.
Detective Grant's black SUV.
CHAPTER SEVEN
I found Grant sitting at the counter island in the big kitchen, sipping a glass of Sauvignon Blanc with Conchita hovering around him like a mother hen. The scent of spicy tomatoes and roasted garlic mingled with warm fresh bread instantly made me feel at home. I discreetly swiped under my eyes for any rogue eyeliner that may have smudged throughout the afternoon and tried to smooth my hair in my reflection in the window before facing my visitor.
Tried being the key word. The spring breeze had not been kind to my now extremely messy bun. I finally gave up, and both Conchita and Grant looked up as I walked into the room and set my purse down on the counter.
"Emmy." Grant's eyes crinkled as he smiled at me, their soft hazel flecks twinkling despite a tiredness I saw in their depths and the thick five o'clock shadow dusting his jaw.
"Grant," I countered.
He was still wearing the same faded jeans and button-up shirt that he had been earlier that morning at Carrie's house, but now they looked a lot more rumpled, and I could tell his day had been at least as long as mine. Possibly longer, since his had included processing a crime scene.
"I wasn't expecting to see you here," I commented, trying not to get lost in his dark eyes.
"I was in the area. Thought I'd stop by and see how you were holding up."
While the words were comforting, I could hear the hard professional edge lingering in his voice and wondered if this was purely a social call.
"I'm fine," I told him. Which, with some time and distance since finding Harper, was mostly true.
He nodded.
"Emmy," interrupted Conchita, "I was just about to feed this wonderful man some Prawn, Garlic & Chili Linguini. Would you like some?"
She gestured to the stove, where I could smell it cooking, the steam highlighting the zesty aroma and causing my stomach to growl in response.
"I'd be a fool to say no," I told her.
"I didn't aim for a dinner invite," Grant explained. "Conchita insisted."
Mrs. Matchmaker sent me a wink behind his back. I had to admit, this was one time I didn't mind her meddling. There were worse ways to spend an evening than eating linguini and staring into Grant's eyes.
"She's convincing like that," I said, playfully winking back at her.
Grant smiled, and some of the edge eased out of his posture, allowing relaxation to settle into his shoulders.
As Conchita pulled a loaf of French bread from the oven, I grabbed a wineglass and filled it from the open bottle on the island.
"So, I heard you talked to Bert this afternoon?" I said, eyeing Grant.
He sipped his wine before answering. "I did."
"And I'm assuming the result of that conversation was not him in a cell?"
One corner of Grant's mouth tilted upward. "No, he's at home with his wife."
I could almost hear the "for now" at the end of that sentence. "So what did you ask Bert?"
"Questions." Grant gave me a sly smile.
I rolled my eyes in response.
"Here," Conchita said, setting a wooden cutting board holding the sliced loaf of bread and a mound of butter on the counter in front of us. "Eat while it's hot."
While I was itching to ask Grant more, I did not need to be told twice when it came to food.
"This smells amazing," Grant said, mirroring my thoughts. I watched him pick up a warm slice of bread and slather it with enough butter to make Paula Dean cringe.
I couldn't help the small grin that pulled at my mouth. I had to say, I liked a man with a healthy appetite. Though as I silently studied him, I noticed the dark circles shadowing his eyes that made me think maybe he hadn't just had a long day but a long previous night as well.
"How late were you at Carrie's last night?" I asked softly, feeling that weird maternal instinct kick in again.
"Late," he answered around a bite of fresh bread. "Or early this morning," he amended. "Depending on your point of view."
"I'm sorry." I put a hand on his arm, not hating the feel of the taut muscles beneath his shirtsleeve. "You look like you could use some sleep."
He let out a short laugh. "Words every man longs to hear from a pretty girl."
"I didn't mean it like that," I told him, pulling my hand back and reaching for a slice of bread to cover my grin at having just been called pretty by the hot guy. "I just meant that you should probably get some rest tonight."
He turned his dark eyes my way, the hazel flecks glinting mischievously at me. "That doesn't sound like any fun."
I felt heat immediately flood my body, overrunning my mind with fantasies and making my mouth go dumb.
Luckily, I was saved answering him as Conchita placed two large bowls filled with linguini on the counter in front of us.
"Aren't you joining us?" I asked her, regaining my voice.
"No, no. I ate earlier. Hector's waiting on me to watch Jeopardy!." She turned to Grant. "We always watch it together. It's kind of our thing,"
I smiled. I knew Conchita and Hector had several "things," and each one served to keep their spark alive.
Grant nodded, sipping from his glass again. "Well, we better not keep you then."
She shrugged. "Eh, serves him right to wait a little. I swear I caught him cheating at Final Jeopardy last night. He had his phone out. He said he was just checking the baseball scores, but I think he was googling the answer." She shook her head at the indecency of it, and I could see Grant stifling laughter.
"Anyway," she went on, untying her apron, "there's ice cream in the freezer once you're finished with this. It's your favorite, Emmy. Mint Chip."
"Thank you," I told her, feeling my night look up. Grant, linguini, and ice cream? Be still my beating heart.
We dug into our bowls of food as Conchita put on her jacket and grabbed her purse. Once she'd said her goodbyes and left us alone, the room felt smaller and a lot more intimate.
I cleared my throat, trying to ignore the feeling.
"So what did you question Bert about?" I asked him. "You had Carrie really worried, you know?"
He glanced up from his plate. "How is she?"
It warmed my heart that he cared. While I knew he was human beneath his badge, it wasn't often he allowed that part of himself to peek through. "She's okay," I reassured him. "Worried, but she'll be okay." I paused. "Unless you
plan to arrest Bert?"
Grant shook his head. "You know I can't discuss an ongoing investigation."
I knew. I'd heard the line a million times from him.
But it didn't stop me from trying.
"So you do think he had something to do with Harper's death?" I asked, taking a bite of prawn.
He shot me a look. "I didn't say that."
"You told Carrie that her husband was entitled to representation. That doesn't sound like you guys were chatting about the weather," I pointed out.
He grinned, shaking his head at me. "You are relentless."
"Okay," I said, twirling pasta around my fork, "so just tell me this—what made you take Bert downtown today? I mean, did you find something, or did someone say something, or…" I trailed off, hoping he'd fill in the blank for me.
He shoved a bite of food into his mouth and left me hanging as he chewed thoroughly before giving me an answer. "Someone said something."
"Oh?" I prompted. "Go on."
He narrowed his eyes as he turned to look at me, seemingly debating how much to share. "We found a witness who contradicted Bert's original statement. So we called him in to clear it up."
I felt my eyebrows drawing down into a frown. "What kind of contradiction?"
But that was apparently as far as he as willing to go, as he shook his head. "Sorry, Emmy. I really can't discuss it."
A standard line that I totally ignored. "You're saying Bert lied? And it has to do with Harper?"
He sighed, taking a sip from his wineglass. "I'm not going to be able to just enjoy this meal, am I?"
"Nope." I shot him a grin. "You should know by now, Detective. Everything comes with a price. Even linguini and Sauvignon Blanc."
He chuckled. "Alright, fine." He set his wineglass down carefully on the counter. "Bert originally told us that the first time he saw Harper in Wine Country was when she arrived at his housewarming party. But a witness came forward who saw the two of them together the night before." He paused, eyes cutting meaningfully to me. "Alone together."
I grabbed my wineglass to cover any reaction I might have been having. While part of me wanted to tell Grant my suspicions about Bert and Harper and what I'd seen at the party, the image of Carrie bawling her eyes out in my tasting room that afternoon kept coming back to me. If she was that upset at Bert being brought in for questioning, how would she feel if he was arrested? And, worse yet, because I'd been the one to push Grant in his direction?
Death in Wine Country (Wine & Dine Mysteries Book 5) Page 8
