Of course, then there was the cash in Tripp's trailer. Blackmail payoff? Payment for murder? I wasn't sure what a horse whisperer charged, but I had a feeling it wasn't usually payable in a duffel bag of bundled twenties. Whatever he was doing with that much money—in what looked to be Bert's duffel bag, no less—it didn't feel above board. Innocent people usually used banks.
As I shut off the water and toweled dry, I sincerely hoped Carrie and Bert were visiting a really good lawyer. The more I thought about it, the more it seemed Bert was going to need one.
I tried to put thoughts of Harper to the side as I dressed in a pair of jeans, a comfy sweatshirt, and slippers in the shape of bear paws. Then I padded down the stone walkway between my cottage and the main building to my office, determined to get some real work done. Not because I wanted to. But because if I didn't get those quarterlies turned in soon, Gene Schultz might show up on my doorstep. And an antsy accountant was almost as scary as Dante.
I spent the better part of the next two hours filling in various forms, uploading payroll spreadsheets, and staring at balances due that were larger than the balances in my bank account. While the paperwork portion of the task was painful, the actual paying of the taxes was downright agonizing. Mostly because I knew I couldn't. There was no way around it—I was going to have to file for an extension while my balances accrued interest. As I sent the whole mess off to Schultz, I only prayed that this year's bottling brought in extra profits faster than the extra interest piled on.
I was just contemplating that cheery thought when a familiar male voice called from down the hallway.
"Hello? Anyone home?"
I walked around my desk and peeked my head out of my office to find Grant standing just inside the main entrance, a paper grocery bag in one hand.
"Uh, hi," I said, suddenly very aware that I'd let my hair air dry in lieu of my usual multi-product blow dryer routine. I ran a hand through it, attempting to smooth out any frizz that might have resulted.
"Hi, yourself." Grant's white linen shirt hung over the band of his dark jeans and was rolled at the sleeves, showing off his tanned forearms. His hair was damp, face clean shaven, and the hazel flecks in his eyes danced with his smile as he gave me a quick head-to-toe look. "Nice slippers."
"Thanks. They're my bear feet." I paused. "Get it? Bare feet?"
He let out a small chuckle. "I get it. I guess I didn't realize how casual dinner was tonight."
Dinner tonight. I did a mental forehead smack. With all that had gone on that day, I'd completely forgotten about Grant's promise to come over for dinner.
"Yeah, well, um, I was in a casual mood," I mumbled, hoping my cheeks weren't actually flushing as red as they felt.
Grant shrugged. "I like it. You look cozy."
While I might have preferred sexy, at least he hadn't gone with frumpy.
"You brought food?" I asked, trying to divert his attention from my wardrobe choices.
"I did." He held up the brown grocery bag. "Everything you need to make Chicken Piccata. At least according to the recipe app I downloaded at the store." He gave me a sheepish grin, and I couldn't help a chuckle in response.
"I'm sure whatever you have will work," I said, leading the way down the hall, past my office, and toward the big kitchen.
Grant followed behind me, setting the bag down on the kitchen counter island as I washed my hands and pulled a couple of wineglasses down.
"I have a Chardonnay and a Pinot Blanc opened. Both pair delightfully with chicken piccata."
"I'll try the Pinot Blanc," he said, leaning casually against the counter as I grabbed the bottle from the chiller and poured two glasses.
"So," I said as I slid one toward him. "Any news on Harper's case today?"
He shot me a look over the rim of his glass as he took his first sip. "We're leading with that, huh?"
"Felt like a good opener." I shrugged and sipped from my own glass.
He shook his head, though his smile was playful. "You're like a broken record, Oak. What is it that fascinates you about murder cases so much?"
I almost choked on my wine. "Fascinates?" I shook my head. "No, you've got me all wrong. I just want this cleared up. Trust me, if I never got close to another dead body again, I'd be a happy woman."
"Hmmm." He gave me a narrow-eyed thing, like he didn't totally believe that.
I avoided the look by turning my back to him to unpack his grocery bag. I pulled out chicken breast cutlets, capers, and fresh lemons. The app he'd downloaded hadn't failed him. As I pulled out fresh vegetables that looked intended for an accompaniment salad, I could feel my stomach grumbling already, reminding me I'd missed lunch.
"You mind cooking the chicken while I prep the rest of this?" I asked.
"Not at all," he said, setting his glass down on the counter. "If you trust me with it."
"I'll take a chance," I teased, pulling out a cast iron skillet and placing it on the stove top.
He came up beside me, his hip brushing mine. I tried to ignore the sudden flush of heat the slight touch sent through me.
Grant accepted the pan and got to work heating it up with olive oil and butter as I prepared a flour dredge for the chicken.
"So how was your day?" Grant asked, making casual conversation.
"My day?" I asked, my voice going up a pitch higher than I might have meant it to as I tried not to think about the felonious parts of it.
He gave me a funny look, but nodded.
"Oh, uh, well…fine. It was fine."
He grinned. "Sounds enthralling. Do tell me more."
I couldn't help laughing at myself. "Okay, I…" I paused, mentally going through all I'd done and editing it for cop ears. "…stopped by Carrie's house and saw Bert. Then I had coffee with a…friend…at the Half Calf. Then I popped into Silver Girl to see Ava. And we…took a drive into the hills to visit another friend's place."
I looked up to find him still giving me that funny look. "Sounds like you saw a lot of friends."
I nodded, averting my eyes again as I dropped the chicken into the pan. "Yep. I'm a friendly gal." I cleared my throat. "How about you? How was your day?"
He shrugged. "Uneventful."
Darn. Good evasive answer. I should have gone with that one.
"Didn't you have Harper's autopsy this morning?" I asked, remembering his early departure the previous evening that had prompted this rain-check meal.
Grant nodded, adjusting the heat on his burner.
"How did that go?"
"Fine." He shrugged then sent me a lopsided grin. "Not really great dinner conversation, though."
"Good thing we're not eating yet," I shot back.
"Touché," he said, pointing a spatula at me.
I was about to ask more, when I felt my phone buzz in my back pocket. I pulled it out to see a text from Ava.
Did you know Silvio's charges $50 for crab cakes?
I stifled a laugh. Eat extra for me!
A moment later, her answer came in. I'll see if I can smuggle some out in a doggy bag.
While I appreciated the sentiment, I doubted Silvio's was a doggy bag kind of place.
"Business?" Grant asked, nodding toward my phone.
"Sorry." I shoved it back into my pocket. "No, actually Ava. She's on a date tonight with Nolan Becker. The actor," I clarified.
Grant cocked an eyebrow my way. "Really?"
I nodded. "Why?"
He shrugged. "Nothing. I just wouldn't have pegged a Hollywood actor as her type."
"That's where you're wrong. As Ava says, Dr. Drake Dubois is every woman's type."
Grant shot me a questioning look.
"Well, almost every woman's type," I amended, feeling heat start to fill my cheeks. I sipped my wine to cover it. "Anyway, it's new. This is their first real date. I mean, she met him for lunch yesterday, but David and I were there, so that doesn't really count."
"Is that how it works?" he asked, eyes cutting playfully to me. "Real dates have to
be solo?"
I nodded. "And preferably dinner. And preferably at an expensive restaurant like Silvio's."
"So does that mean this doesn't count as a date?" he asked, the same teasing glint in his eyes as he nodded toward the pan of chicken he was cooking.
The question caught me off guard, and I felt that heat filling my cheeks again. "It's close," I mumbled.
"Hmm. Guess I'll have to try harder next time."
I ducked my head to cover the blush coursing through me.
Luckily, if he noticed, he didn't mention it, instead turning back to his cutlets and flipping them over to brown on the other side. I snuck a glance at him through my hair. He was freshly showered and shaven, and his shirt looked too clean and pressed to have been the one he'd worked in all day. He'd taken the time to shop for groceries. Even downloading an app to find a recipe. It occurred to me that it was possible Grant had thought of this as a date.
I suddenly felt twice as dowdy for forgetting all about dinner and showing up in an old sweatshirt and novelty slippers. I resisted the urge to go throw on a little makeup.
I cleared my throat, trying to steer the conversation back to more neutral territory. "Carrie's really worried about Dante. Do you know if Animal Control is going to let him go?"
Grant shook his head. "I'm honestly not sure. It's usually policy to put down an animal in the case of a death. But, there are extenuating circumstances in this one."
"Like the fact someone purposely pushed Harper into his pen."
Grant nodded.
I grabbed a head of romaine and started chopping to busy my hands while I attempted to sound casual with my next question. "Have you guys talked to Tripp yet?"
"Tripp?"
"Tripp Jones. The horse trainer Carrie had at the house to tame Dante."
Grant stopped flipping his chicken and turned his full attention toward me. "What do you know about Tripp Jones?"
I licked my lips. "Not much." Other than firsthand knowledge that he was a boxers guy and not briefs. "I just…wondered. You know. What he might know. About…things."
Oh boy. That sounded so weak it was practically in muscle atrophy.
I could tell Grant had much the same reaction—his spatula abandoned, arms crossed over his chest, hazel flecks in his eyes homing in on me with an assessing stare.
"Emmy, Tripp Jones is not the kind of guy you want to get involved with."
That was interesting wording. "What do you mean?"
"I mean he has a record."
I felt my eyebrows heading north. "Like a police record?"
Grant nodded.
"For what? Blackmail?"
Grant's face contorted into a frown. "Blackmail? Where did you hear that?"
"Uh, nowhere. Just…guessing."
He shook his head. "No. He has an arrest record, though charges were eventually dropped due to lack of evidence."
"What sort of charges?"
Grant took a moment to answer, turning his attention back to the sizzling skillet in front of him. "Homicide."
I froze, the hairs on the back of my neck suddenly zinging to attention. "Wait—Tripp Jones was arrested for murder?"
He nodded.
"Who did he kill?"
"I didn't say he killed anyone. I said he was arrested and charges were dropped."
"Po-tay-toe. Po-taw-toe."
He shot me an amused grin.
"Who was it?" I asked.
"An ex-girlfriend. Apparently the two had broken up the week before she was found dead."
"Don't tell me she was trampled by a horse?"
"No," he said emphatically. "Fell down a flight of stairs."
"Or was pushed," I floated.
"Or was pushed," he agreed as he pulled the perfectly browned cutlets from the heat. "But like I said, not enough evidence to go to trial. Charges were dropped."
"Which doesn't mean he didn't do it," I pointed out. "Just that there wasn't any evidence." My mind immediately went to how Tripp had been burning Harper's clothes earlier that day. Had he again been getting rid of evidence that tied him to a homicide?
"I think there's something I should tell you," I confessed.
Grants eyes flickered up to meet mine. "That doesn't sound good."
"Yeah, it's not." I let out a breath. "I, uh, kind of saw something at Carrie's house today."
He turned toward me, crossing his arms over his chest again, leaning his hip against the counter. "What kind of something."
"Tripp Jones. Possibly getting rid of evidence."
If he had any emotion about the fact I'd waited this long to tell him, he hid it, his expression totally unreadable. "Go on."
I did, regaling him with the entire scene I'd witnessed at the fire pit, including the fact that I'd rescued a couple pieces from the embers and recognized them as high end. "They were definitely the type of thing Harper would have worn," I finished.
"But you don't know for certain that they were Harper's," he clarified.
I shook my head. "But why else would he be burning them?"
Instead of answering, he asked, "Where are they now?"
"Still at Carrie's, I guess." I paused. "Unless someone cleared out the fire pit."
Grant closed his eyes, and I could tell he was thinking a bad word. "So they could be gone now?"
Oops. Guess I hadn't thought of it that way. "Kinda, yeah."
He shook his head. "I'll stop by Carrie's tomorrow."
"You think there was something on them that Tripp was trying to hide? Something that points to him as her killer?"
"I think," Grant said, his face still unreadable, "that you should leave this alone."
I rolled my eyes. "I'm just asking a question."
"And disturbing a crime scene—"
"The fire pit was on the opposite side of the house from the crime scene."
"—and spying on a guy with a police record—"
"I just happened to see him!"
"—and trying to get details of Harper's autopsy from me."
Well, he had me there.
"Look, Carrie is my friend," I told him. "She's upset about this. All I'm trying to do is be there for her."
Some of the cop softened from his face, and he took a step forward, his hand going to my arm. "I know," he said. "You're a good friend. Just, be there for her a little farther away from Tripp Jones, okay?"
I nodded. "Okay." That was one promise I intended to keep. I'd had my fill of being near Tripp while trapped under his bed. "But are you going to tell me?"
He frowned. "Tell you what?"
"What you found at the autopsy?"
He let out a breath, eyes going to the ceiling. Possibly praying for patience, but I figured that was between him and the Big Guy.
"Emmy, you're killing me."
"Just spill it, and I promise I will not bring up a single dead body at dinner."
"This is an ongoing investigation. You know I can't discuss it."
"So there is something about it to discuss, then?"
"I never said that."
"You didn't have to. I can see it in your eyes." A bluff, but I was out of real arguments.
He shook his head. "You're not going to let this go, are you?"
"You know I'm going to find out sooner or later anyway," I reasoned.
He narrowed his eyes. He sucked in his cheeks. He took a couple of deep breaths, possibly angling for patience again. "Fine. But then can I enjoy my meal in peace?"
"Scout's honor," I said, holding up three fingers.
The look on his face said he wasn't quite convinced I was ever a Girl Scout, but he relented anyway. "The ME's report showed Harper's blood alcohol level was normal."
I felt a frown form. "What do you mean by normal?"
"She hadn't been drinking that night."
"No, that's not right." I shook my head. "No, Ava said she poured Harper several glasses of Zinfandel. Harper even posted about it on social media."
"That may be, but I can ass
ure you Harper did not ingest any alcohol that night. Stomach contents showed no sign of wine."
I frowned. "Then what was she doing with the wine we were pouring her? Just dumping it?"
"Maybe."
"But why?"
Grant drew in another long breath, as if still not sure he should be talking to me. "It's possible she was trying to keep up appearances."
"The appearance of being drunk?" I asked, still confused.
"Probably more likely the appearance of being her usual self." He paused. "The ME found that Harper Bishop was three months pregnant when she died."
CHAPTER TWELVE
I blinked at him, trying to process this new bit of information. "You're kidding?"
"Trust me—I wouldn't kid about something like that."
"But she didn't look pregnant," I mused, more to myself than Grant as I conjured up the mental image of her in the slinky emerald dress. There'd been no hint of a baby bump.
"I guess she wasn't showing yet, but the ME was pretty clear about his findings."
I nodded, thinking that wasn't the sort of thing he'd be likely to mistake. And, now that Grant had mentioned it, I realized I hadn't actually seen Harper drink from the wineglass I'd witnessed her holding. But who had she been trying to keep the pregnancy from?
And maybe more importantly, who was the father?
"Can the ME tell whose baby she was pregnant with?" I asked as I took the skillet from him and finished the recipe on autopilot, creating a zesty pan sauce to cover the chicken. "Like, with the baby's DNA or something?"
"Possibly," Grant said, moving to one of the barstools at the counter. "But he'd need something to compare it to."
"So you'd need, like, a hair sample or something from the guy?" My mind immediately went to Bert.
Grant nodded. "Cheek swab is usually preferred, but I supposed they could use a hair. Forensics isn't my department, so I leave that to the scientists."
I pursed my lips, hesitant to voice the unspoken thought I could feel floating in the air between us. "But you think it might be Bert's?"
Grant paused, and I could tell he was choosing his words carefully. "I think that's one theory."
I plated our meal and took a seat beside Grant, but my appetite from earlier had suddenly disappeared. The problem with Grant's theory was that it was a good one. I was almost sure Bert and Harper had been having an affair. Was the pregnancy a result of that liaison?
Death in Wine Country (Wine & Dine Mysteries Book 5) Page 13
