"Bert was giving Harper some financial advice," I said as I set my wineglass back down. "Maybe they were discussing that?"
"Maybe." Grant's face was all hard angles and assessing eyes that gave nothing away as to what he was thinking.
"Where were they seen together?"
"Tyler's Place. They had a back booth. The hostess said Bert specifically requested it for privacy."
Yeesh. That didn't look good.
"Maybe he just didn't want the paparazzi bothering them?"
"Sure." Grant chewed a bite of linguini. "Because we have a real paparazzi problem in Sonoma."
"Did anyone ever tell you that sarcasm is not attractive?"
He just chuckled again, the deep rumble causing parts of my body to go warm that had no right warming at the dinner table.
"Look, there are lots of reasons Bert and Harper might have been meeting secretly," I said, doing a bang-up job of playing devil's advocate. Though who I was trying to convince of Bert's innocence at this point—Grant or myself—I wasn't sure. "I mean, Carrie's birthday is coming up. Maybe they were planning a surprise party."
"Maybe." Grant stabbed a prawn with his fork.
"So, what did Bert say when you confronted him today?"
Grant gave me a sidelong glance. "What could he say? We have a witness."
"Right." I nodded. "But did he say why they were meeting?"
"Something about some investments."
"See!" I stabbed my fork in the air to make my point. "Bert was just giving Harper some financial advice."
Grant shot me a look that had me immediately second guessing my conclusion.
"He was investing money for her, right?" I asked.
Again I could feel him debate how much to share. But he must have realized I was going to pull it out of him sooner or later anyway, as he set his fork down on his plate and turned to face me. "We looked into Harper's finances."
"And?"
"And we haven't found any evidence of investments."
My heart sunk right down to my stomach, which knotted around the linguini. "You haven't?" Poor Carrie. This did not look good.
Grant shook his head. "We did, however, notice some discrepancies."
"Discrepancies? Like what?"
"We have a forensic accountant going over her things right now, but the pattern of deposits and withdrawals seem inconsistent with what we'd expect."
I narrowed my eyes, trying to read between the lines. "You mean, they're bigger than they should be?"
"We'll know more when the accountants are finished," he hedged, turning back to his plate and picking up his fork.
I watched him as I idly twirled pasta, my mind going to the word Carrie had seen on Harper's phone. Blackmail. If someone had been shaking Harper down for cash, that could explain the discrepancies in her accounts. Large withdrawals to pay the blackmailer, and possibly even large deposits as she shuffled money to different accounts in order to raise the funds.
"You guys have Harper's phone, right?" I asked in what I hoped was a nonchalant tone.
He nodded into his bowl of pasta. "We do. Tech guys are processing it now. Why?"
"No reason." I shrugged, keeping my eyes on my plate to avoid giving away any sign I was holding something back. "Just, you know, thinking it might give you some insight into Harper's life."
"People's phones usually do." He paused. "Anything specific you think we'll find?"
"Nope," I lied, quickly picking up the bottle of wine as a diversion. I moved to fill his glass, but he stopped me with a hand over the rim before I could pour.
"Uh, I'm good," he said. "Thanks. Gotta drive home."
"You could always sleep here." The words were out of my mouth before my brain had a chance to tell my lips what a horrible idea they were. I cringed, wishing I could magically pull them back out of the air before he heard them.
Instead, they hung there—with me feeling like I'd just invited the wolf into the sheep's den for a snuggle, and Grant's dark eyes going all warm and dangerous, like he might enjoy playing the wolf for an evening.
Before I knew what was happening, Grant stood, taking the bottle from me and placing it back on the counter. Then his hand reached out, and our fingers intertwined, his thumb gently tracing circles on my skin.
My mouth went dry as he leaned in closer, his lips hovering just above mine. The musky scent of his aftershave was subtle and spicy, making my thoughts go fuzzy and my hormones rise to the surface to take over. I heard his breathing quicken, his gaze dropping to my mouth. Seconds later, his lips followed, skimming mine so softly that I let out a small sigh. At least I think that sound was me. I was having a hard time focusing my thoughts, all of my body putting its attention on the very hot, very enticing man currently nibbling on my lower lip.
I only got to revel in the sensation a moment though, as a chirp from his phone broke the silence, the sound jarring and intrusive.
Grant pulled away, and no one could judge me for whimpering just a little.
He retrieved his phone from his pocket, scrolling through a message.
"Work?" My voice was husky, and I barely trusted myself to talk.
He nodded. "They've moved Harper's autopsy up to first thing tomorrow morning."
The dark rings under his eyes looked even darker as he checked his watch, and I knew that no matter how much I wanted the evening to end differently, he needed to get some sleep.
And if he stayed here, sleep was the last thing we'd be doing.
"But I have ice cream?" I offered lamely.
He looked up and smiled. "Tempting."
"Rain check?" I asked, hating the hint of desperation my hormones were adding to my voice.
He nodded. "Definitely. Tell you what? Tomorrow night, I'll cook."
"Is that a threat or a promise?" I asked with a laugh. While Grant had many skills, culinary prowess was not at the top of that list.
He joined in my laughter, tucking his phone back into his pocket. "Okay, I'll bring the groceries, and you can play chef and be spared the wrath of my cooking."
"Now that is an offer I can't refuse."
* * *
Morning came much too quickly, and while my clock said it was time to rise, my body fought the notion with a vengeance. I'd never been much of an early bird—keeping more of chef's hours, working late and sleeping in—but running a winery had put those habits to rest, forcing me up at dawn most days. It was something I'd become used to, even if I'd never be a chipper morning person, but after the emotional roller coaster the last two days had been, it was taking all the effort I had to force my eyes open.
As a consideration to my protesting body, I decided to get the day started from bed, grabbing my phone from my bedside table and opening my email app. I allowed the incoming new mail to load as I propped myself up on my pillows. I scrolled through messages asking me if certain parts of my anatomy needed enlarging, wondering if I wanted to play roulette, and telling me that I'd inherited $900 million from a Nigerian uncle I'd never met. All I had to do to collect it was to give them my passport and bank account details. If only life were that easy.
Sending all the ticked emails to my trash folder left me with four that needed my attention. I was tempted to send the email from my accountant, Gene Schultz, to trash as well, pretending I had never seen it, but I knew it would come back to bite me in the long run. Instead, I hurriedly sent him a response saying I was working on my quarterlies. Which wasn't a lie. I had been working on them. For the entire quarter. I just still didn't have enough money to pay them.
Emails read, I finally dragged myself out of bed and into the shower. As I let the hot water rush over me, my mind wandered to the events of the previous day. While Carrie's revelation that Harper might have been being blackmailed was a big one, it was Bert lying about meeting Harper in a "private" booth at Tyler's Place that weighed on me. Carrie had poo-pooed the idea of an affair when I'd brought it up to her, but how would she feel if faced with real evidence? No
t, I supposed, that a meeting with Harper in a public place was clear evidence she'd been sleeping with Carrie's husband. But if it had been all in innocence, why would Bert lie about it?
And what about the investments he'd supposedly been making for her? If Grant hadn't found any evidence of them, did that mean the story had just been a cover? A reason to spend time with Harper that he'd manufactured for Carrie's sake?
I shut off the water, toweling myself dry as I thought of how devastated Carrie was over the death of her friend—a friend so close that she'd called her a sister. How devastated would she be to find out that her sister had been seeing her husband behind her back? As much as I knew Carrie didn't deserve that, she also deserved the truth.
And I was suddenly determined to get that for her.
Remembering my mental note from the day before to dress it up a bit, I grabbed some flat-front white capris, pairing them today with a flowy pale blue blouse and silver teardrop earrings that had been a gift from Ava. I slipped on a pair of low heeled sandals and did a quick makeup routine before deeming myself ready to be seen in public.
I stopped in at the kitchen just long enough to grab a chocolate chip muffin and a cup of coffee to go, then hopped into my Jeep and pointed it toward Carrie's place.
Despite the fact that it was still early, the commuter traffic slowed me some, and it was a good twenty minutes later before I reached Carrie's driveway. No police officer was on guard today and no paparazzi in attendance. Apparently the dead soap star was old news already. I thanked goodness for small favors as I pulled up the drive and wound toward the house.
It felt more quiet than on my previous visits as I parked near the front door—no CSI, no Dante, and no sign of life other than the nature around me as I got out of the car. A black Jaguar was parked in the drive, a fine sheen of morning dew still covering it. Despite the call of the birds, the rustle of leaves, and the distant sound of Barkley doing what dogs did best, the surroundings felt eerily still. It was almost as if the air itself knew a tragedy had occurred here and was being still in deference to the dead.
I locked the car behind me and crossed to the large double doors, giving a sharp rap as I realized I should have called ahead. Not everyone was forced to be the early riser I was.
Luckily, I only had to wait a beat before footsteps pounded against the marble floors on the other side, and the door opened to reveal the man of the house.
"Oh! Good morning, Emmy." Bert had a gym bag in his hand and a look of surprise on his face.
"'Morning, Bert," I replied. "You look like I've just caught you going out."
"You did. I'm on my way to the club. The Links. I'm meeting Nolan there for a round of golf this morning." His white polo shirt and pressed slacks would fit in well at the exclusive golf club.
"I see," I responded. If Bert was grieving Harper's death, it didn't show. Apparently, the golf game must go on.
"I'm sorry—did Carrie know you were coming?" he asked, half turning back toward the house. "Because she's not here."
"She's not?" I asked, suddenly curious where she might have gone at barely nine in the morning.
"No, she went to see someone about Harper's memorial."
"Kellen?"
Bert squinted as if trying to remember. "No, I think she mentioned a Sally or Sandy or something like that."
"Sandra," I supplied, remembering the name of the Bishops' housekeeper. "Harper's sister did say she was making the arrangements."
"Yes, well, anyway. Carrie said she felt she had to be a part of it." He shook his head, as if not understanding why.
"Maybe it will be cathartic for her. To help lay Harper to rest," I offered.
"Hmm. Yes." He glanced at his watch.
"But, I, uh, actually didn't come to see Carrie," I told him, feeling his impatience. "I came to see you."
"Me?" Bert's eyebrows lifted in surprise.
"Yes. I was hoping you could clear up a couple of things up for me. About the party."
He frowned. "I don't know what I could possibly clear up about the catering… Carrie didn't forget to pay you, did she?"
"No, nothing like that," I assured him. "I just wanted to talk to you about Harper."
He sighed loudly, as if that was the last thing he wanted to discuss with anyone. "Look, if you want to know about Harper, ask Carrie. She knew her best." He stepped out onto the front porch, pulling the door closed behind him as a signal he was done chatting.
"But you knew Harper well, too, didn't you?" I asked as he turned his back to me to lock up the house.
"I suppose," he mumbled, not meeting my eyes as he shoved the key into his pocket and motioned to leave.
"I mean, the two of you met each other often, didn't you?" I pressed. "Without Carrie?"
Bert paused, his gaze slowly lifting to meet mine. "What are you getting at, Emmy?"
I had a feeling he knew exactly what I was getting at. But I took a deep breath and went all in. "I know about you and Harper, Bert," I said, a lot more boldly than I felt.
His expression remained a perfectly neutral poker face. The man didn't even blink. "And exactly what is it that you think you know?"
"I know you were seeing her. Behind Carrie's back."
Anger flashed behind his eyes, so briefly I almost thought I imagined it. "That's ridiculous." He gave a laugh that was more scoff than humor.
"I don't think it is," I said, pushing with bravado I didn't feel. "You did see Harper at Tyler's Place the night before the party, right?"
"How did you find…" Bert sucked in a breath, his nostrils flaring with the effort. "Yes, I had a meal with Harper. So what?"
"Did Carrie know about it?"
"No." His tone was clipped, and the anger was definitely not imagined now. His eyes were intent on me, his hand clenching and unclenching around the gym bag's handle.
"So you were seeing Harper behind Carrie's back," I reiterated.
"Look, this is silly. I met Harper for dinner. That's it. It was perfectly innocent."
"Then why hide it from your wife?"
"I didn't hide it. I just… Carrie had a lot going on that day. Planning the party and everything. I…it just slipped my mind to mention it."
An excuse flimsier than tissue paper.
"And did it slip your mind when the police first questioned you too?"
His eyes narrowed. "I don't know what you're trying to do here, Emmy, but I'm late for tee off. Nolan is waiting for me."
"Come on, Bert," I said, trying for a softer tone to inspire his confidence. "I saw you with Harper."
He frowned. "At the restaurant?"
I shook my head. "No, here. At the party. I saw you and Harper going upstairs…" I let the sentence trail off, leaving the exact scene I'd witnessed to replay in his mind.
No attempt at poker face could conceal the emotion rising in him then. His jaw tensed, his eyes narrowed, and his breath came harder, so loudly I could hear it in the small space between us. "You were spying on us?"
"I happened to walk by," I corrected. "And don't turn this around on me. You and Harper were sneaking upstairs together while Carrie entertained your guests."
He shook his head. "It's not what you think."
"I know what I saw, Bert," I told him.
"It's not like that!" he said, his voice rising to a shout.
"What is it then?"
His eyes flashed with rage, and he took a menacing step toward me, shoving one long finger in my face. "It's none of your business, caterer."
I swallowed hard, suddenly realizing just how many pounds Bert had on me—all of them gym-honed muscle. Carrie wasn't home. Nolan was miles away. No police officers lingering on premises. We were alone here.
Quite possibly at the site where he'd killed the last woman who'd crossed him.
Sudden fear pounded in my ears as I watched Bert's face contort with anger.
But as he took another step forward, instead of coming at me, he moved around me, stalking purposefully to
his car.
I took a slow, shallow breath to calm my nerves as I watched him beep the flashy Jaguar open, throw his duffel bag into the back with a force I wasn't sure it deserved, and slip into the driver's seat, slamming the door after him. Then he peeled out of the driveway so quickly that his back tires squealed against the pavement in protest.
Well, that went well.
I took a couple more deep breaths, watching the dust settle back on the drive as Bert's taillights disappeared, before I approached my Jeep again. I'd mostly gotten my shaking hands under control as I beeped the doors open. I was about to get in and follow Bert's hasty retreat.
But then I caught the scent of something on the light morning breeze. I paused, hand on my door handle.
Smoke.
While it was still chilly enough that someone in the area might have stoked up their fireplace to have a cozy morning by the hearth, we'd had enough wildfires in California in recent years that the scent immediately inspired concern. Along with a need to find the source. I shut my driver's side door and beeped the car locked again, doing a quick visual scan of Carrie's house. No sign of smoke coming from the two chimneys I could see. Luckily, none billowing from any windows or doors either.
I circled around the back of the house, coming close to the stables, now empty, with Dante still in Animal Control's custody. While there was plenty of dry grass and hay that would go up like tinder, thankfully nothing looked to be ablaze there either.
But the scent was getting stronger.
I continued around the back of the property to the far side of the home and felt relief flood my stomach as I finally spied the source of the smoke—Carrie's stylish fire pit. Orange flames rose from the center of the massive pit, surrounded by a sturdy stone rim that would keep the blaze contained to an ambient warmth and not a hazard to the landscape. Though, while I was relieved to see it was man-made and contained, I glanced around for who might have set it. Carrie was at the Bishops', and Nolan and Bert were golfing—and while Bert had been in an emotional state as he'd peeled out of there, I doubted he would have been irresponsible enough to have left this burning.
Death in Wine Country (Wine & Dine Mysteries Book 5) Page 9
