I was about to approach and see what I could use to douse the flames, when someone beat me to the spot.
I watched a figure approach the stone surround, and immediately recognized his tight fitting jeans, cowboy hat, and worn boots. Tripp Jones. I felt a frown form between my eyebrows, wondering what he was doing there. With Dante in custody, there was little call for a horse whisperer on the property at present.
Tripp picked up a log from a pile near the pit and tossed it onto the fire. While my instinct had been to douse it, clearly he was interested in keeping it going. I wondered if he'd been the one to start it while I'd been arguing with Bert. I was about to approach him and let him know no one else was at home to keep the fire contained, when I saw Tripp throw something else into the pit.
A black plastic bag.
I watched the orange and gold flames crawl across it, growing in strength momentarily before they devoured the bag from view.
I felt my breath come hard, a million possible scenarios for why Tripp might be on Carrie's property throwing things into her fire pit racing through my head until one practically jumped to the forefront.
Was Tripp Jones destroying evidence?
CHAPTER EIGHT
As much as I itched to see what was in the bag before the fire turned it to ashes, I kept my distance, ducking back behind the side of the building to stay out of view. I didn't know what Tripp was doing, but with the way he kept glancing up nervously and shifting from foot to foot, I got the feeling it was something he didn't want anyone else to know about. And I wasn't sure what he'd do if someone—say, a nosey blonde winery owner, for example—did know. I'd already had enough of facing off with intimidating men for one morning. So I stayed put, keeping out of sight.
The flames and the smoke made it difficult to see anything burning beneath the rim of the stones, but Tripp stoked the fire with a metal rod, eyeing whatever it was he'd tossed into the pit as the flames continued to burn. Finally, seemingly satisfied the fire was doing its job, he threw the metal rod onto the ground beside one of Carrie's Adirondack chairs and grabbed the large metal cover for the pit, placing it atop the stones. Then he turned on his bootheels, making his way toward a blue pickup truck parked a few feet away.
I heard the engine turn over and saw dust kick up beneath his moving tires, waiting just until he'd cleared the ridge back down to the main road, before I bolted from my hidden position and dashed across the lawn to the fire pit.
I grabbed the metal cover, throwing it off the fire and to the ground. While Tripp had made sure his plastic bag had caught, I could still make out the bundle nestled beside wood logs at the bottom of the pit. I picked up the metal rod from the ground, digging in the fire until I pulled Tripp's bundle to the side—away from the flames. The acrid scent of burning plastic mixed with the smoke stung my eyes as I lifted the remnants out of the pit and threw them to the ground beside me. I stomped on them to put out the red embers, and I realized it was clothing. Or, what had been clothing.
I crouched down to get a better look, seeing I had what seemed to be half of a silky jacket and the skirt of a sparkly little red dress. Both were singed at the edges and matted with burned plastic in places, but the outlines were unmistakable. And they hardly looked like Tripp's style. For one thing, as I checked the blackened tag of the jacket, I could still make out it was as size 2. Even if Tripp had been inclined to dress in more feminine styles from time to time, there was no way his broad chest would fit a petite 2.
I flipped the tag over, seeing the label bore the mark of a trendy boutique in Napa that Ava and I had window-shopped at a couple of times. Only window-shopped because neither of us could actually afford the clothing there. Whoever had owned this shirt had us both beat in the fashionista department.
My mind immediately went to Harper.
I fingered the fabric of the garment, still warm beneath my touch. If I had to guess, it was silk charmeuse. Not exactly cheap. And not something I'd be throwing away—let along burning to a crisp.
So why was Tripp destroying it?
While my initial thought had been that Tripp was destroying evidence, even if these had belonged to Harper, what were they evidence of? Harper had been found dead in the same clothes that she'd had on at the party…if there had been any evidence of her killer on them, they were in police custody, now being processed. Burning the rest of her wardrobe would do nothing to negate that. Maybe the clothes had something to do with the blackmail…but what, I couldn't imagine.
I was still trying to figure out what Tripp's game was when my cell buzzed from my purse. I pulled it out, looking down at the readout, but it was a number I didn't recognize. I swiped to take the call.
"Hello?" I asked, putting the receiver to my ear as I replaced the cover of the pit with my other hand.
"Uh, hi," came a male voice. "Um, I'm looking for Emmy Oak?"
"This is she," I answered, trying to place the caller.
"Oh. Well, I hope you don't mind me calling you. I found your number on your website."
"Not at all," I said, hoping I was talking to a potential customer. "May I ask who is calling?"
"Oh. Right. Sorry. Uh, this is Morgan Brice. Harper Bishop's brother-in-law."
I cocked an eyebrow at the phone. "I remember you," I said.
"I hope I haven't interrupted anything," he fussed.
"No. No, I was just…" Spying on a murder suspect? Interrogating an adulterer? Sticking my nose all sorts of places I was sure Grant would say it didn't belong? "…heading to my car," I finished lamely as I dropped the singed garments and did just that, walking back across the lawn toward the house. "Was there something I could do for you?"
He cleared his throat. "Uh, yes. Well, I mean…your friend Carrie was just here."
"Is she alright?" I asked, concern jumping to the forefront of my thoughts.
"Oh, yes. Yes, she's fine. She wanted to help with the memorial arrangements. Very kind of her, really."
"That's Carrie," I told him.
"Yes, well, she did mention that the police had been asking her and her husband lots of questions lately. That they're investigating Harper's death as a murder, not an accident?"
"They are," I confirmed.
"I-it's hard to believe."
"Morgan, was there something I could help you with?" I asked, getting the impression he was dancing around something. He'd gone through some trouble to get my number, and I had a feeling it wasn't just to make small talk.
He cleared his throat again. "Uh, yes. Actually. Look, I…if the police are involved, I thought it best to set the record straight about something. I mean, I wouldn't want anyone to get the wrong impression. You know, about…anything."
"I see," I said, not really seeing at all.
"I was going to talk to Carrie," he continued, "but…well, she's obviously very upset right now. I know actors are emotional creatures, and I'd hate to cause her any more undue stress. But I remembered you'd come with her yesterday, and you seemed close to her, and I thought, well, maybe I could talk to you and you could set the record straight for me. So to speak."
The more he talked, the more confused I was about what he wanted to talk about. "What is it you wanted to set the record straight about?"
"Uh…" He paused, and I could hear sounds like a phone being shuffled from ear to ear. "Would it be possible to discuss this in person?"
"Does this have to do with Harper?" I asked, thinking of the shreds of designer clothing in Carrie's fire pit.
"I-uh, would really much rather meet in person. I can meet you in Sonoma."
"Do you know the Half Calf on Main?" I asked.
"I can find it."
"I'll meet you there in half an hour."
* * *
The Half Calf was a small mom-and-pop coffeehouse in downtown Sonoma, whose humorous logo featured a baby cow enjoying a latte while lounging on a crescent moon. It had become a favorite haunt of Ava's and mine not only because it was located next door to her jew
elry boutique, but also because they served the best caramel flan lattes on the planet.
Late morning was busy, and there was a nice line forming as I pushed through the glass front doors to the tune of a jingling bell. I took a spot in line behind a half dozen other caffeine starved patrons, watching the barista quickly take orders, hearing the sound of a coffee machine grinding beans, and inhaling the heavenly aroma a moment later. God bless the first man who had found coffee beans growing in his garden and decided to smash them and blend with hot milk. I owed him a debt of gratitude even larger than my tax bill.
The line moved quickly, and it was only a few minutes later that I'd given my order to the barista behind the counter and had a steaming caramel flan latte and a slice of fresh Blueberry Lemon Bread with Lemon Icing sitting in front of me.
I took them both to a table near the back of the restaurant, where I could see the front door and watch for signs of Morgan Brice. As I nibbled, sipped, and waited, I shot a quick text off to Ava, filling her in on my morning thus far.
She responded with a lot of ohmigoshes (at Bert's anger), a surprised emoji (at Tripp burning what appeared to be Harper's clothes), and a stop by with deets after (at my impending meeting with Morgan). I was sending off a promise to do just that, when the bell over the front door jingled again, and I glanced up to spot Morgan Brice entering the coffeehouse.
He was wearing dark slacks and a sport coat that felt almost too heavy for spring, and his brows were drawn together in an expression of concern. His eyes darted around the room, and it wasn't until they found me that the frown ironed out some. He skipped the coffee line, quickly navigating the sea of tables to reach me.
"Thanks for meeting me," he said by way of greeting as he approached my table.
"Of course," I told him, watching him pull out a chair to sit opposite me.
"I, uh, just wanted to set the record straight," he said, laying his hands on the table and clasping them together in a possibly subconscious pleading motion.
"So you said." About a hundred times. I was beginning to think maybe it was a rehearsed line. "Did you want something to drink?" I asked, gesturing to the counter.
But Morgan shook his head. "No, no. I'm fine. I…just wanted to talk." His eyes darted to the side, as if making sure none of the other patrons were listening in to his enthralling conversation. Clearly he was nervous.
"Are you okay?" I asked, trying my best comforting voice to put him at ease. "Are you and the family holding up alright?"
"Fine." He looked down at his hands. "I mean, we'll be fine. Eventually. It's been…difficult, to say the least."
"I'm so sorry. How's Kellen?"
He fidgeted with his wedding ring. "I know Kellen probably didn't seem very sympathetic to you."
That was an understatement.
"But the thing about Kellen," he went on, "is that she's a strong woman. She feels emotion deeply, but she's never been one to show much. It's the way she was brought up."
I nodded, thinking her parents sounded like an interesting pair, what with the "way she was brought up" and the disdain for Harper's acting career that would make many other parents proud. "Are they coming home for the memorial?"
"Yes. They should arrive in the next few days."
A sadness settled in my stomach. I had yet to think about children of my own, but I could imagine the pain losing one would cause.
"I'm so sorry, Morgan. Really, if there is anything I can do, please don't hesitate to reach out."
"Thank you." Morgan gave me a small smile, and I could see genuine tears misting his eyes. While Kellen might have been raised to keep emotion at bay, I could see Morgan was clearly grieving.
"Were you close with Harper?" I asked.
He sucked in a long breath. "I was. Once upon a time. Actually, it was through Harper that I met Kellen."
"Oh?" I asked.
He nodded and looked distantly over my shoulder, his eyes drifting into a memory. "Harper and I were actually high school sweethearts, if you can believe it." He gave me a rueful smile. "How I got that lucky back then, I'll never know."
"But you ended up marrying Kellen?"
He nodded again, this time his eyes going back down to his hands, his finger twisting his gold wedding band. "Those two sisters…always so competitive. I'll bet you thought Kellen was the older one, right?"
I'll admit, I had. "She's not?"
He shook his head. "No. Two years younger. Harper just had this glow about her—this natural beauty that was almost unreal."
One could argue that Harper's beauty wasn't all natural—her lips had undergone some clear enhancing, and her double Ds had been man made. But I didn't interrupt.
"She had a grace about her," he went on. "Almost ethereal. Like she was too beautiful to last here on earth." His voice trailed off, again stuck in another time, and I wondered if maybe Morgan hadn't still had some feelings for his sister-in-law. I didn't get a chance to ask more, though, as he cleared his throat. "Poor Kellen. I think maybe she's always struggled to get out of Harper's shadow."
"Sibling rivalry can be hard," I noted. Not that I had any firsthand knowledge of that.
"It can," he agreed. "But I have to take some of the blame for the animosity between Harper and Kellen. At least, after Harper left for LA."
"How so?" I asked, sipping my latte.
"Harper always dreamed big. And if I'm being honest, she liked to shock and bait her parents. I think it was a game for her—the more Kellen strove for their approval, the more Harper tried to get their attention by doing just the opposite. Anything for shock value. Getting a tattoo, drinking, running off to Hollywood. That last one probably hit them the hardest. Shattered their dreams of their daughter devoting herself to philanthropy and bridge." He did that rueful grin, and again I had a feeling maybe Morgan hadn't been raised with the same silver spoon in his mouth that the Bishop sisters had.
"And that's when you started seeing Kellen," I guessed. "After Harper moved to LA?"
He nodded. "I didn't take her leaving me well. As you can imagine any young man would not. Kellen was…comforting."
That was the last thing I could imagine Kellen Bishop-Brice being, but I stayed silent as he continued.
"Anyway, Kellen and I were married soon after that."
"And have you lived in the family home ever since?" I asked, thinking nothing put a strain on a marriage like living under the in-laws' thumbs.
But if Morgan minded, he didn't show it. "The Bishops are very generous. They support Kellen's work. She's on the board of several charities in the area."
"Yes, she mentioned that," I mused, reading between the lines of what he was saying: apparently Mommy and Daddy funded the Bishop-Brice's way of life. I didn't imagine being on a board of a charity paid more than warm fuzzy feelings, and I noticed Morgan had yet to mention any sort of job he held. I wondered if he'd settled for the second sister less out of love and more out of the type of comfort her parents' money could provide him.
"The Bishops seem to be quite well off," I said, watching his reaction.
He nodded. "Oh, they are. But like I said, they've been very generous to Kellen and me. And of course, one day it will all go to their daughters." He paused. "Or I guess, just Kellen now."
I felt my eyebrows rise at that admission. While Kellen had clearly not been her sister's biggest fan, the end of her sibling rivalry had apparently just doubled Kellen's inheritance. And with the amount of money it appeared the Bishops had, I could only imagine how many zeroes that added. Women had killed for a lot less.
My thoughts must have been plain on my face, as Morgan quickly backtracked. "I mean not to make it out as if Kellen is just waiting around for an inheritance." He gave a strained laugh. "Not at all. She dotes on her parents. Adores them."
"I'm sure she does," I reassured him. Though, I was beginning to wonder just how deep her animosity toward her sister was. "Did Harper visit the family often?" I asked, trying to steer the conversation back aro
und to what I assumed was his reason for meeting me here.
"Hmm? Oh, well, some. But no, not often. After Kellen and I married…well, let's just say, holiday dinners were a bit awkward. Harper would do everything in her power to make Kellen feel like she was a second choice. Which was not the case," he defended hotly.
Maybe a little too hotly. Doth he protest too much? But I stayed silent as he went on.
"I halfway think Harper was doing it to punish me as much as her family. I don't think Harper ever forgave me for marrying Kellen." His breath was long and deep.
"Morgan, what was it you wanted to clear up?" I asked.
He leaned across the table, lowering his voice to barely a whisper. "Look, if the police are asking questions, I know this will come out. And I don't want it to look like we're hiding anything. We're not. I mean, Kellen's not. I'm sure she just misspoke. Like I said, she feels things quite deeply."
"What did she misspeak about?" I asked.
"Well, I know she told you she hadn't seen Harper since Christmas."
I nodded. "But that isn't true, is it?" I said, remembering how Tripp had told me he'd seen the two sisters together.
Morgan blinked at me, surprise clear on his face that I'd somehow seen through her lie. "No. I mean, not really. We did see her at Christmas—that much was true. But…well, I believe Kellen also saw Harper more recently."
"How recently?"
Morgan did more lip licking. "The day before she died."
My feelings on that coincidental timing must have shown on my face, as Morgan plowed on. "You see why I wanted to make sure that we cleared this up? I mean, I'm sure Kellen just forgot about it in her grief. It does funny things to people, you know. But…well, it could look bad. If anyone thought she was being purposely deceitful. Which she was not."
Death in Wine Country (Wine & Dine Mysteries Book 5) Page 10
