Killer Among the Vines (Wine & Dine Mysteries Book 7)

by Gemma Halliday

  "Did they keep in touch?"

  "Not that I know of. Then again, I didn't know Bill's every move." A sad looked crossed her face.

  "I hope it doesn't sound indelicate right now," I started, but I had a feeling not much was too indelicate for Sheila. "But, I, uh, was wondering who I should send Bill's last check to? You?"

  Sheila paused, something flashing behind her eyes. Then she shrugged. "We weren't married. So technically, his 'estate'"—she did air quotes around the word as she gave the room as disdainful glance again—"goes to someone else. Who, I don't know."

  "He didn't have any family?" Ava asked.

  She shook her head. "No one close. There was just the ex."

  "He had an ex-wife?" I clarified.

  Sheila nodded. "Carmen. Works at Nadia's Nails in Napa."

  "Did they get along?"

  Sheila laughed, the sound turning into a hacking cough at the end. "Yeah, no. She was a thorn in Bill's side from the day I met him."

  "Oh?" Ava asked, leaning forward. "So they didn't get along."

  "Not in the least. She always had her hand out, always looking for more money. Her alimony was bleeding us dry."

  "Did she and Bill argue about that?" Ava shot me that knowing look again, one that had seventies crime fighter written all over it.

  Sheila shrugged. "Look, don't get me wrong, here. Bill was no saint. He was a…a difficult man sometimes. He couldn't always see someone else's side." Her eyes got a far off look in them that was distinctly sad. As if she had often been that "someone else" in his life. She sniffed suddenly and shook her head. "But Carmen was a piece of work. You know she left him as soon as Internal Affairs started investigating him?"

  I shook my head. Clearly I had known very little about my employee.

  "Yeah. No loyalty whatsoever. I got no respect for that!" she said, stabbing her cigarette at me for emphasis.

  "I take it she didn't know about the bribes before then?" Ava asked.

  Sheila shrugged. "I dunno. You'd have to ask her. It's not like Bill told me much. I mean, what was I? Just his girlfriend." Again she got that sad look in her eyes, and I felt my heart go out to her—not only for her loss but for what had clearly not been a model relationship.

  "I'm sorry," I told her.

  She shrugged again. "Look, Bill might not have been perfect, but what can you do? He was what I had. I was trying to make it work."

  "I understand," Ava said, sympathy in her voice again. "Relationships are complicated."

  Sheila nodded. "Yeah. Complicated." She stabbed her cigarette butt out on one of the dirty dishes piled in front of her. "Jamie's never really had a man around. I'd hoped Bill would fill that void, you know? Male role model."

  "Were they close?" Ava asked.

  "Hardly." Sheila eyed her packet of cigarettes again but refrained from reaching for it. "Bill was…a strong personality. And so is Jamie. They clashed. But I always held out hope that at some point Jamie would come around." She looked tired, and I again wondered if she'd had any sleep the night before at all—first up worrying about where her son was then getting the news about Buckley.

  "I'm so sorry again for your loss," I said, honestly meaning it.

  The sad look remained, but she just shrugged again and repeated, "What can you do?"

  "Did Jamie ever say where he was last night?" Ava asked.

  Sheila tore her gaze from the cigarettes to Ava. "What do you mean?"

  "You said you were waiting for Jamie to get home from somewhere. Did he ever tell you where that was?"

  Sheila's face sagged into that resigned, tired look again. "Sure. Same place he always is. 'Out.'"

  * * *

  "Well that was just sad," Ava said as we walked back to her car.

  "Very." I nodded, giving Shady Meadows a backward glance. "On so many levels."

  "It definitely sounds like Buckley was no angel, though," Ava noted.

  "No." I pursed my lips. "I wonder if Grant knows about Buckley's past. The bribery charges?"

  "He was SFPD too, right?" Ava asked.

  I nodded. "Of course, San Francisco's a big place, but maybe their paths crossed."

  "You think the bribery charges had anything to do with Buckley's death?" Ava asked.

  I bit my lip. "Honestly, I don't know."

  "Okay, let's say that this wasn't a random break-in gone wrong at the winery," Ava said, unlocking her car and getting in.

  "I like that idea." I slid into the passenger seat.

  "Let's say it was personal. Someone was there with the intention to kill."

  "Liking it less."

  "But it sounds like Buckley had more enemies than you do. What if someone knew he had started working at your winery, knew he'd likely be patrolling the vineyards late at night, alone, and took advantage of that."

  I nodded. "Okay, I can see that." I paused. "And you think that someone was from his past? Someone who had to do with the bribery in San Francisco?"

  Ava shrugged. "Possibly. She mentioned a partner. Maybe he was angry at Buckley? Felt betrayed?"

  "I don't know. Two years feels like a long time to wait for revenge."

  "Okay, what about the ex-wife?"

  "What about her?"

  "Sheila said she was a real piece of work."

  "According to the girlfriend," I pointed out. "Sheila wouldn't exactly be neutral on Buckley's ex-wife, would she?"

  "Maybe not," Ava conceded. "But didn't she say the ex was always looking for money? Maybe Buckley wasn't paying up?"

  I nodded. "I suppose. I mean, it sounds like he was hard up for money."

  "He gets behind on alimony payments, she demands money, they fight, she shoots him."

  "If she brought a gun with her, it doesn't feel like this was a crime of passion."

  Ava shrugged. "Maybe she brought it along to threaten him? Or maybe her plan was to kill him all along." She paused. "Didn't Sheila say she worked at a nail salon?"

  I nodded. "Nadia's Nails," I said, grabbing my phone and typing the name in. A minute later I had a number for the salon in Napa. I quickly swiped to call and listened to it ring on the other end.

  "Nadia's Nails?" a slightly nasally female voice answered.

  "Uh, hi. I was wondering if you could let me know when Carmen Buckley might be in?"

  "She's here now. Would you like to make an appointment?"

  "She's there now? Like, today?" I asked, shooting Ava a look. Clearly the woman wasn't in mourning for her dead ex-husband if she'd gone into work.

  "Yeah," the woman said, sounding a little irritated at having to repeat herself. "She's here, but her afternoon is filling up fast. You want to see her?"

  "Uh, yes. Please," I said, shooting a questioning look to Ava.

  She shrugged. "I could use a pedicure."

  "Can we book two pedicures?" I asked the woman on the phone.

  "Sure. Her first opening is at two thirty. That work?"

  I looked down at the dash clock. It was almost noon now.

  "Perfect," I told her, giving her my name and number before I hung up. I turned to Ava. "Is it just me, or is it odd she'd be doing nails the day after her husband is shot to death?"

  "Ex-husband," Ava reminded me. "And I guess that all depends on how ugly the divorce was." She paused. "And, come to think of it, if she was the one who did the shooting."

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Ava drove me back to Oak Valley with a promise to pick me up again later for our trip to Napa to Nadia's Nails. I tried hard to ignore the squad cars and CSI van still sitting in my lot as I quickly ducked into my office to get my paperwork in order for my meeting with my accountant, Gene Schultz. I thought about grabbing a quick glass of Zin to fortify my nerves but decided against it. I had a strict(ish) policy to (almost) never drink before happy hour. Instead, I made my way around the back to my cottage for a quick makeup refresh and grabbed a sandwich from the kitchen before heading back out to meet my accountant.

  Schultz's office was on the top f
loor of a tall cement and glass high rise. The sheer size of the building always made me a little intimidated, as if hammering home that the people who worked here knew what they were doing when it came to money, and me—living in a small cottage that was barely big enough to even qualify as cozy—did not. I guess it was true what they said—size did matter.

  I rode the elevator up to the top floor, tapping my fingers against my thigh the entire time. By the time Schultz's receptionist led me down the hall and into his private office, I could feel the nerves dancing in my belly.

  "Emmy! Great to see you, kid!" Schultz said jovially, rising from behind his desk to greet me. His dark hair was starting to go grey, but thanks to his excellent esthetician his face was still virtually line free. His suits were tailored, his hands manicured, and his smile whiter than a toothpaste commercial.

  "Hi, Gene," I said, doing an air kiss routine with him.

  "Well, looks like you've been in the press again, huh?" He eyed an electronic tablet on his desktop, the page open to the Sonoma Index-Tribune website.

  I cringed. "Bradley Wu tends to exaggerate."

  "Sure. Sure." Schultz picked up the tablet, scrolling through the article. "'Deadliest little winery in Sonoma.' Second 'victim in the vineyard.' Oh, I particularly like this one. The man was found 'dead on the vine.'" Schultz looked at me. "All lies, I assume?"

  I blew out a long breath. "No. All true. Unfortunately." I sank down into the leather chair in front of Schultz's desk.

  "This is not good for business, Emmy."

  "Tell me something I don't know, Gene," I shot back.

  "Okay, how about this—the funding was a no-go."

  My stomach dropped. "What do you mean?"

  "I mean, this"—he gestured to the paper again—"is a huge deterrent to anyone looking to invest in a winery."

  I licked my lips. "It's just a little bad press. It will blow over."

  "Like a hurricane."

  I cringed. He was right. My balance sheets were bad enough, but add "crime scene" to the winery description and even I wouldn't have wanted to invest in it. "Okay, so I'll just have to tighten the belt a little this season."

  But Schultz was still shaking his head at me. "Honey, you're already wearing a corset."

  "What does that mean?"

  "It means there is no more tightening left. You're broke, Emmy."

  I licked my lips. "You mean, we're nearly broke."

  "No, kid, I mean you're there. You've been running in the red every month this year—"

  "That's not my fault. The shutdown had our doors closed!"

  "—and you know your margins were thin to being with."

  I bit my lip. I did. "How broke are we?"

  "You," he said, putting a distinct emphasis on the pronoun, "have just enough left in your accounts to make payroll this month."

  "One month? But I-I can't lay every one off like that." My mind immediately filled with images of Jean Luc and Eddie, who had become like my family. Not to mention Hector and Conchita, who had been fixtures at the winery for as long as I could remember. Heck, I'd been the flower girl at their wedding!

  "Well, you can't continue to pay them either," Schultz argued. "Not unless they work for grapes."

  I shook my head. "Okay, so what do we do?"

  "You need cash, kid, and you need it quick."

  "We have a couple of weddings booked at the end of the month," I said.

  "You sure?" he asked, his eyes going down to the article. "No chance they'll cancel."

  I licked my lips. "No. Probably not."

  "And are you going to be able to book a couple more the next month?"

  I glared at the tablet and sighed. "No. Probably not."

  "I rest my case."

  "Okay, so what about a small business loan?" I asked, not ready to give up yet.

  "That depends. You have enough money to make the interest payments on a bank loan?"

  "Apparently not," I mumbled. "Okay, so what then?"

  Schultz gave me a long look. "If it were me, I'd seriously look at some of those offers you've had to buy the place."

  My stomach clenched. Yes, we'd had a couple of offers. Both were from big corporate giants in the region who gobbled up little family wineries like ours and spit them out into generic, bargain priced wines. Grapes from a dozen or more small vineyards all mixed together so that the nuances of the different crops were completely lost. And the soul of Oak Valley would be lost right along with it.

  I fought back fear clogging my throat.

  "Not an option," I told him, jutting my chin out with defiance. "What else can we do?"

  Schultz blew out a puff of air through his teeth. "You're as stubborn as your mother."

  "Thank you."

  "That was not a compliment." He narrowed his eyes at me. "Fine. If you don't want to sell—"

  "I don't!"

  "—and you don't want to close the winery doors—"

  "I definitely don't!"

  "—then you're going to need to get an infusion of cash from someone. You're going to need to take on a partner with deep pockets and a lot of faith."

  "Partner?" That thought was almost as abhorrent as selling. "No, Oak Valley has always been family run and owned. I can't give up a part of that." I shook my head. "Have you tried looking for more corporate investors? There are tons of venture capital firms in Silicon Valley."

  "Sure. And they all like to see balance sheets that have a lot less red than yours. Let's face it, as an investment, you're a losing proposition."

  "But won't a partner see it the same way?" I asked, hearing the desperation in my voice.

  Schultz shrugged. "Maybe. But I'd guess there are plenty of wealthy guys in the Bay Area who'd like to fancy themselves winery owners."

  "Part owners."

  "Sure." The way he waved that detail off didn't fill me with a lot of confidence about this plan. "Find someone who wants a hobby. Wants to see his name on wine labels. Who has a fat bank account and needs a little pet project."

  My stomach twisted again at the thought of my family's legacy being someone's "pet" project.

  "You sure we can't get a loan?" I tried again.

  Schultz gave me a sympathetic look. "Emmy, I know you love Oak Valley. But you've got to face reality." He stepped out from behind his desk to put a hand on my shoulder. "This is the end of the line."

  * * *

  I left Schultz with my stomach so clenched it was in knots and a heck of a headache brewing. One month. Even if I could somehow manage to fully book the winery for wedding season, it wouldn't matter—we'd never last that long. As much as I hated the idea of giving up a portion of Oak Valley to a stranger who wanted to play weekend vintner, Schultz was right. I had no other options.

  I tried not to dwell on that depressing thought as I drove back to Oak Valley. I was almost home when my phone rang, my mother's face coming up on the display.

  "Hi, Mom," I said, putting her on speaker.

  "Emmy, I'm so glad I caught you. Are you busy?"

  "No, just on my way to the winery," I said, trying to infuse my voice with as much cheerfulness as I could force for her benefit. "Why? What's up?"

  "It's happened again!"

  "What's happened?" I asked, pulling off the main road and winding up the oak-lined driveway.

  "Another theft!" She paused. "I did tell you about the thief here, right?"

  "You did. The great Sonoma Acres caper."

  "Emmy, I'm serious." I could tell by her tone that she was. I knew that tone. It had told me to clean my room and eat my veggies every day of my childhood.

  "So, what was it this time?" I asked, parking in the lot. I averted my eyes from the police vehicles, trying not to telegraph through the phone that something was amiss here.

  "Oscar Worthington's cat."

  I frowned as I stepped from my Jeep, my heels crunching in the gravel. "I thought they didn't allow pets at the Acres?"

  "They don't. I mean, it's not real. Well
, it was real, but it's not anymore."

  I bit my lip. "Mom, are you feeling okay today?"

  "Yes, I'm fine." She took in a deep breath, a technique I knew her doctor had said helped ground her in the now. "What I mean is the cat is stuffed."

  "So, a toy cat?"

  "Oh, what do they call it? Taxidermy?"

  "You mean he had his actual pet cat stuffed?" Ew.

  "Well, after it died, of course. But, yes. Mrs. Pettigrew."

  "Mrs. Pettigrew stuffed it?"

  "No, the cat's name is Mrs. Pettigrew. Emmy, try to pay attention."

  Believe me, I was. "Okay, so Oscar misplaced his stuffed pet cat, Mrs. Pettigrew."

  "Not misplaced. It was stolen!" She said it with such aplomb that I expected a detective in a seersucker to appear.

  "Who on earth would want Oscar's dead cat?"

  "If we knew that, we'd know who the thief is." Her tone said I was still slow to catch on here.

  "Mom, have you talked to any of the staff about this?" I asked, opening the doors to the main winery building and pushing inside. I ducked my head in the tasting room, but sadly Jean Luc was the only occupant, idly polishing glasses. I gave him a small wave before walking back down the hall toward the kitchen.

  "Yes, I have talked to the staff. In fact, I marched Oscar right down to the administration office and helped him file a complaint."

  "And what did they say?"

  There was a pause on the other end. "That Oscar probably misplaced Mrs. Pettigrew," she admitted.

  "Well, there you have it," I said, setting my purse down on the kitchen counter and opening the fridge. Which was depressingly bare. I hadn't had time to shop, and Conchita was still away. Ava was right. We might starve before she got home.

  "Look, Emmy, I know you think we're just a bunch of old demented people."

  "I don't think you're old."

  "Ha. Ha," Mom said, though I could hear a hint of actual humor in her voice at my teasing. "But there really is someone stealing from residents here. And I know you don't think anyone would care about Mrs. Borstein's photos or Mable Marston's pillow or Mrs. Pettigrew. But the people here do. They don't have a lot, Emmy. These things have sentimental value."