"So, our vineyard is now free of the police presence?" I asked, pulling some sliced mushrooms from his grocery bag.
"The crime scene techs are done," he answered, leaning over my shoulder to peer at the sizzling chops in the pan. "They got all they could from the vineyard. But I'm leaving an officer on the grounds for tonight."
"Why?" I asked, spinning to face him.
His expression gave nothing away. "I'd feel better having someone here."
I bit my lip. Meaning he was afraid someone with not-so-nice intentions was still out there. Or, more accurately, might end up here. I involuntarily swallowed. "You didn't find anything to indicate that I was…that someone might come back to…"
"No," Grant said quickly. He took a step toward me, closing the gap between us. "We have found no indications that you specifically were targeted."
I nodded, letting out a breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding. "Good."
"For all we know," he went on, "this was just a random trespasser."
"Did you find any evidence of random trespassers? Like, any broken fences or anything?"
He shook his head slowly. "No, but that doesn't necessarily mean they didn't just walk onto the property."
"It also doesn't mean Buckley's death was random and not intentional. And deliberate."
Grant frowned. "Do you know something, Emmy?"
"No." I strategically turned my back to him, chopping some parsley for a garnish.
"Uh-huh."
"It's just that…well, Buckley wasn't really well liked," I said, wishing my voice sounded more casual than it did.
"I thought you said he seemed fine to you."
"Well, he did. To me. But I didn't know him well."
"But you've been talking to people who did," Grant said slowly, reading between the lines.
I sighed. I should have known I couldn't put one past the detective.
"Okay, fine," I admitted as I flipped the chops in the pan. "Yes. I have been talking to some people."
"Emmy…" Grant started.
But I didn't let him finish. "I wanted to give my condolences to his girlfriend. It was the least I could do."
Grant's features softened some. "Understandable."
"And I needed to know where to send his last check, so I might have visited his ex-wife."
"Uh-huh," he said, soundly a little less understanding.
"And his girlfriend's son showed up here, joy riding on his motorcycle."
"Emmy…"
"And did you know," I said, not letting him follow through with the warning I could clearly hear in that one word, "that Buckley was forced to retire from being a police officer?"
"Emmy!" This time it wasn't so much a warning as a threat.
I clamped my mouth shut. "What? Just saying. If anyone was targeted here, it's more likely Buckley than me."
Grant took a long sip from his wineglass and swallowed slowly. If I had to guess, I'd say he was employing some counting-to-ten anger management routine before he responded. "Emmy, I know you feel involved."
"Of course I do," I said hotly. "A man died at my winery."
"Again," he noted. No amusement in the word whatsoever.
"Not my fault," I said, pointing a spatula his way before I removed the pork from the pan and tossed in garlic, onions, and mushrooms.
"No, not your fault. But I want you to leave this to me."
"We all have things we want in life," I told him, finishing off the sauce with wine and cream. "That doesn't mean we're going to get them." I gave him a playful grin, trying to lighten the mood.
"Clearly," Grant mumbled as I scooped the pork chops and creamy Marsala sauce onto a plate and set it in front of him.
"Look, I just think it bears looking into is all," I said, taking the stool beside him with my plate as well.
"I promise you, I am looking into Buckley's death."
I swiveled to face him. "I know you are," I said, meaning it. What I was worried about was that he might not be looking in the right places. "But did you know that Buckley was caught taking bribes from a madame to keep quiet about her business?"
"Yeah." He shoved a bite of pork and mushroom into his mouth, chomping down hard. "I know all about the bribery. I was there."
I frowned. "What do you mean you were there? Like…when it happened?"
He nodded, eyes on his plate.
"You mean you were in San Francisco, right? Like, not as in there-there when Buckley was actually taking bribes?"
Grant let out a long breath through his nostrils, still not making eye contact. "I mean, I was working out of the same station as Buckley at the time."
"Wait—are you saying you knew Buckley?" I asked, trying to wrap my head around this news.
"Sort of."
"How do you sort of know someone?" I set my fork down, all attention on Grant. Or I should say, on his profile, as he still wasn't looking at me. "Either you do or you don't."
"Okay, fine. I met Buckley. Once or twice. Through his partner." The words came in short spurts, as if doling out as little info at a time as possible.
"Why didn't you say something?" I asked.
"Like what?" He stabbed at his salad.
"Look at me." A weird sensation bubbled up inside of me. It felt uneasy. Unsure.
Grant let out another long breath before his eyes slowly rose to meet mine. But when they did, their dark depths were completely void of any emotion, the little gold flecks giving nothing away. His entire expression was an unreadable blank.
"Why didn't you tell me you knew Buckley last night when I found him?"
"It didn't seem relevant."
"It didn't seem…" I trailed off, shaking my head. "There was a dead man in my vineyard, and you pretended you knew nothing about him!"
"I never said I didn't know who he was," Grant protested. Which was true enough but did nothing to chase that growing unease from my belly.
"You were asking me all kinds of questions about him," I said, reliving the conversation in my head.
"I wanted to know what you knew about him."
"So this was about questioning me?" My voice started to rise again, only this time the emotion behind it was anger and not guilt. Whatever I might have held back from Grant, apparently, he'd been holding back a whole lot more.
Grant sighed, his eyes going out the dark window to the rows of grapes where Buckley had been found. "Not you specifically. It was more about what he was telling people here. In Sonoma."
"So do you think his death has something to do with his former life as a police officer?"
"No," Grant said quickly.
Too quickly.
And his eyes were back on his plate again as if my pork Marsala was the most interesting thing he'd ever tasted.
"What do you know about Katy Kline?" I asked.
"Nothing." He shoved a bite into his mouth, as if looking for an excuse not to say more.
"She was the madame Buckley was taking bribes from," I said, trying to jog his memory.
"I know."
"Did you know she's out on parole now?"
He paused mid-chew, which indicated he had in fact not known that. Score one for the inquisitive blonde. But he quickly recovered, stabbing another piece of pork with his fork. "Who told you that?"
"Google." I shot him a duh look.
He chuckled and shook his head. "Should have guessed."
"But Buckley's ex-wife seems to think Buckley still had the bribery money hidden away somewhere."
"His ex-wife is a nutcase."
"So you knew her too?" That unease was back.
Grant's eyes flickered to mine before he answered, and I had the distinct feeling he was carefully crafting his response. "Met her once. After the case broke."
"But she could be right," I pressed. "I mean, no one ever found the bribery money, right?"
"Buckley told IA he spent it."
"And you believe that?"
Grant shrugged. "IA believed him."
&
nbsp; "You said you knew Buckley's partner?" I asked slowly, picking my fork back up.
Grant nodded. "Mason Eckhart. We came up together as rookies."
"So you were close?"
Grant shrugged. "Used to be. Haven't talked to him in a while."
"What did Eckhart think of Buckley?"
"Not a fan," Grant said decisively.
"Oh?"
"Look, when IA started investigating Buckley, as his partner, Eckhart got dragged into the whole mess too. He didn't deserve that."
I pursed my lips. Grant had been the subject of an Internal Affairs investigation himself, and I could see the memory of that coloring his defense of Eckhart.
Grant had only ever shared the broad strokes of what had happened in San Francisco to prompt his transfer. I knew there'd been an arrest gone wrong and a fatal shooting, the circumstances of which had been murky enough that IA had gotten involved. So involved that when it was all over, Grant was in the comparatively sleepy Sonoma County, a distinct demotion from SFPD. Who had been shot and what the specifics were was something Grant had yet to share with me. And possibly never would. I could tell it was a subject that bothered him. I could tell that not only did he feel a hint of humiliation at being investigated by his own kind, but I'd also seen the guilt in his eyes when he'd talked about the death, even if he had, in the end, officially been cleared of any wrongdoing.
"Did Internal Affairs think Eckhart was taking bribes too?" I asked.
"He was Buckley's partner. They had to investigate. And Eckhart was benched while they did."
"But didn't Buckley cooperate? Confess to everything?"
Grant nodded. "He did. But even after he said he'd acted alone and Eckhart knew nothing, it was too late. Eckhart's reputation was tarnished."
"How so?" I asked, frowning. "I mean, Eckhart didn't know anything about it, right?"
"Sure. But how is he ever going to make detective when the guy doesn't even realize his partner is taking bribes right under his nose?"
"Good point." I nodded. "It does make him seem a little oblivious."
"Eckhart is a good guy," Grant said again.
"Sure." I pushed food around on my plate with my fork. "But I guess he'd have a good reason to hold a bit of a grudge against Buckley, huh? I mean, if Buckley really did tank his career?"
Grant shot me a look. "Don't."
"What?" I blinked in mock-innocence.
"Don't get involved."
"This feels like old territory. Once again, he died at my winery. I'm involved, like it or not."
"Yeah, well, don't involve Eckhart. He's one of the good guys."
While I could tell Grant believed that, I could also feel myself coming up against the blue wall of silence. Eckhart was a fellow officer—one apparently Grant had known for a long time. And while I admired Grant's loyalty, I wasn't as sure as he was that it wasn't clouding his vision a little.
But since I didn't want to ruin dinner, I let it go. "So, I talked to my mom today," I told him.
"How's she doing?" While Grant had yet to meet her, he knew about her condition and living situation.
"She's doing well." I nodded. "Seems like she's having more good days than bad this month, so that's a plus."
"Cheers to that." Grant raised his glass before taking a sip.
"She did have a little favor to ask of you though," I said, watching him out of the corner of my eye.
"Me?" His eyebrows rose into his dark hair.
I nodded. "Apparently she—and some of the other residents at Sonoma Acres—are convinced there is a thief among them."
Grant grinned, some of his natural humor back now that we'd moved on to a less tense subject. "Oh, do tell."
"Well, a few things have gone missing."
"Could they just be misplaced?"
"That is exactly what I asked," I said. "But Mom is insistent there's malice behind it."
"Sounds like Mom's been watching too much TV."
I grinned. "She does have kind of an addiction to Law & Order reruns."
"Okay, so what kind of things are we talking?" Grant asked, picking up his wineglass again.
"Well, there was a picture in a frame. A needlework pillow…and a cat."
"A cat? That's hard to misplace." Grant took a sip of wine.
"Well, it was a dead cat."
Grant choked on his Pinot. "Excuse me?"
"Dead and stuffed."
He wrinkled up his nose in disgust.
"I know," I told him. "I'm with you. But apparently there is a deep sentimental attachment to Mrs. Pettigrew, which didn't end at death."
Grant laughed, shaking his head. "God, I hope I'm not that weird when I'm old."
"Everyone gets weird when they're old," I informed him. "They've earned the right."
Grant chuckled again. "Okay, so who does your mother think stole the stuffed cat?"
I shrugged. "She didn't know. But she was hoping…" I trailed off, giving him a pleading look.
Grant stopped chuckling. "Oh no. No, I'm not tracking down some guy's dead cat."
"I know," I said, holding up a hand. "You're busy. But maybe you could just send someone over there? Just to look around? Make sure this really is just a case of a few misplaced items?"
Grant let out a long breath. "Sounds like a waste of police resources."
"It would make my mom really happy," I said, giving him a big smile.
The corner of his mouth curved up slowly. "Fine. For Mom," he added.
"Thank you." I leaned over and gave him a kiss on the lips. Which lingered just long enough that my hormones started to stir.
"Hmm…" Grant moaned as I pulled back. "You know what you could do to really thank me?" he teased, his eyes going dark and bedroomy.
I gave him a playful swat on the arm. "Finish your dinner."
"Yes ma'am," he said, his eyes still crinkling and glinting with a teasing light. "But I'm definitely saving room for dessert."
Oh boy. Those hormones were suddenly wide awake.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Sunlight streamed through my window, shining unrelentingly on my face and breaking into a lovely dream about the taste of Pinot Noir on Grant's lips and the feel of his warm arms holding me all night long. I cracked one eye open, reluctantly letting go of the memory, though I couldn't help a smile at the sight of the pale morning light filtering through the branches of the stately oak tree outside my bedroom window. I could hear the faint sound of birds chirping as they nested nearby, and the sky was the proverbial cloudless blue.
I grinned as I stretched, working out the kinks of sleep. A grin that only faltered a little as I turned to my right and found the other half of my queen sized bed was empty. Instinctively I rolled over, finding the spot still warm and holding a lingering scent of Grant's aftershave. I nuzzled my nose into it, inhaling deeply, before I finally dragged myself from bed and into the shower.
Once I'd exhausted the hot water supply, I threw on a pair of jeans, a pale lilac T-shirt, and my favorite boots that were a worn brown leather that felt rustic even though the cut was all fashion. I capped the outfit off with a pair of silver crescent moon shaped earrings that Ava had given me last Christmas. After a little lipstick and mascara, I felt ready to face the day and wandered down the pathway toward the kitchen in search of coffee.
While my cottage had its own postage stamp–sized kitchen, with the winery's well-appointed commercial one just steps away, I rarely cooked in my own. And, as was the case currently, rarely kept it well stocked. I made a mental note to pick up some groceries while I was out that day as I went through the motions of brewing coffee. I toasted some bread and foraged in the refrigerator for the last of Conchita's homemade blackberry jam to go with it.
I took my breakfast down the hall to my office and nibbled while I answered a few emails (sadly, none looking to book Oak Valley for their weddings), went through my messages (just one from Schultz telling me he was still on the hunt for a suitable candidate to take a partners
hip role, which instantly soured the coffee in my stomach), and stared at my balance sheets, willing the red lines to turn black and tilt upward instead of plunging down like they'd fallen off a cliff. While Schultz was right—I barely had enough in my accounts to pay the bills—I did have one more payroll to get through. And as long as I had anything in my accounts, I was going to pay my employees.
Which still included one last check to Buckley. Small as it might be, it rightfully belonged to someone. I grabbed my phone, googling the name that Carmen had supplied the day before for Buckley's attorney, Barry Levinson. Okay, while I mostly wanted to talk to Buckley's attorney to do the right thing about the check, I might have partly wanted to learn more about Buckley's past…and if it had anything to do with his death.
A few clicks in, a splashy website provided a phone number for his office. It was a local one, and I tapped to dial it, putting my speakerphone on.
"Law offices of Levinson & Levine," a woman's voice answered on the second ring. "How may I direct your call?"
"I was hoping to speak with Barry Levinson," I told her.
"One moment, please," she said in a monotone. I heard soft music in a jazzy style playing as I was transferred through the phone system.
A beat later, a slightly younger woman's voice came over the line. "Mr. Levinson's office, how may I help you?"
"Hi. Is Mr. Levinson in?" I asked.
"May I ask what this is regarding?" the receptionist asked.
"It's about one of his clients. Well, former client, I guess now." I licked my lips. "Uh, Bill Buckley."
If the woman had heard the news of his demise, she didn't show it, just moving on to the next question on her gatekeeper's checklist. "May I have your name please?"
"Emmy Oak. I was Buckley's employer."
"Would you mind holding a moment?" Before I could agree or decline, the soft jazz was back.
I doodled on a piece of paper, drawing little concentric circles with my ballpoint pen while I waited. Finally, a couple of minutes later, the receptionist was back.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Levinson has client meetings all morning."
"Oh," I said, hearing the disappointment in my voice.
"But, he could squeeze you in this afternoon at three if that works for you?"
"Oh?" I asked, perking up. "Uh, yeah. Yes, that works fine," I told her, giving her my number and agreeing to meet at his office in downtown Sonoma later that day.
Killer Among the Vines (Wine & Dine Mysteries Book 7) Page 7
