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

by Gemma Halliday

  Luckily, if he noticed, he didn't indicate it. "Hey, Emmy," he replied. "Where are you?"

  I licked my lips, shooting a glance at Ava. "Uh, why?"

  "Just wondering if you were at the winery."

  "Yyyyyes," I said, drawing the word out as if it might make it feel less terrible to lie to him.

  "I was just finishing up with forensics and thought I'd pick up a pizza and swing by." He paused. "If you're not busy?"

  "Uh, yeah." I cleared my throat. "I mean, no. No, I'm not busy."

  "Good. See you in about half an hour?"

  "Sure. I'll be there. Here," I amended.

  He hung up, and I let out a long sigh. "I could never be a spy. I'm so not cut out to lead a double life."

  "Honey, you're barely cut out to lead one," she joked.

  I swatted her arm and laughed as I pointed my Jeep back toward downtown.

  * * *

  By the time I'd dropped Ava off at her loft above Silver Girl and I'd driven slightly faster than normal back home, I arrived at Oak Valley with just about ten minutes to spare. I quickly parked in the near-empty lot and made a beeline for my cottage at the back of the property.

  Like most of the buildings on the site, the cottage had been built by my grandfather, long before I'd been born. It was what real estate agents like to call cozy and everyone else would call cramped, but to me it just felt like home. I quickly ran up the hand carved wooden stairs to my bedroom and shed my jeans and T-shirt in favor of something a little more romancy looking. I threw open my closet door, catching a glimpse of my bedside alarm clock as I did. Seven minutes to go. I grabbed my go-to little black dress, noting unhappily that it was a smidge tighter than usual with the post-shutdown layer of ice cream I was still holding on to around my hips. But, with a pair of flashy red heels and a slim silver necklace of Ava's creation, it looked pretty decent. I glanced at the clock. Five minutes.

  I ducked into the bathroom to do a quick hair fluffing and makeup check, adding a layer of red lipstick to complement the shoes. Then I hightailed it back downstairs and out the door, taking the stone pathway to the kitchen. I had just grabbed a bottle of Pinot Noir from the wine chiller and had an opener in hand as I heard the crunch of car tires on gravel outside the window.

  Perfect timing.

  A moment later Grant's footsteps echoed down the hallway from the main entrance to the private kitchen. "Hello?" he called.

  "In here!" I pulled down two glasses and poured wine into each as he approached.

  "Hey," Grant said. He set a large pizza box down on the counter and came up behind me to place a soft kiss on my neck that instantly sent goosebumps down my arms. "Nice dress," he murmured into my hair.

  "What, this old thing?" I said, turning around to face him. I held out a glass. "Pinot?"

  "Please." He took it, a lazy smile on his face as he took a sip. "Quiet day here?" he asked.

  "Hmm?" I opened the lid on the box. Pepperoni and olive. My favorite combo.

  "Quiet day? At the winery?" Grant clarified.

  "Oh. Uh, yeah." I nodded. "Real quiet."

  He gave me a funny look. "Sorry."

  "Sorry?" I asked, wondering if he meant he was sorry for prying or I should be sorry for holding back where I'd really been.

  "Sorry it's been slow. Business will pick up soon."

  "Oh." I told my telltale heart to stop beating so fast. "Yeah. Thanks." I cleared my throat. "Uh, so how was your day?" I grabbed a couple of plates from the cupboard, handing him one.

  "Good. Busy." He pulled a slice of pizza from the box and took a bite before setting it on the plate.

  "Oh? Make any headway on Buckley's case?" I asked as I loaded my own plate.

  He slipped onto one of the barstools at the granite counter in the center of the room. "Some."

  "And?" I took a seat next to him and bit into my ooey-gooey pizza. Heaven erupted on my tongue.

  "And, we'll get there."

  I rolled my eyes. "That tells me nothing."

  "Exactly." He grinned as he took another bite.

  I shook my head, sipping my wine. As he went in for another bite, I studied his profile, thinking about how Eckhart had described Grant earlier that morning. And wondering who of the two of us knew Grant better. Had he really been the type of cop who made up his own rules when he'd been in San Francisco? Was he now that he was in Sonoma? Or were Eckhart and I both just seeing what we wanted to in Grant—filling in the blanks that Grant's strong silent type demeanor created in the way we wanted them filled?

  "What?" he asked.

  "Hmm?"

  "You were looking at me funny."

  "Was I?" I glanced down at my plate to cover any looks I might have inadvertently been giving him, funny or otherwise. "I was just thinking."

  "About?"

  "Buckley," I said, half-truthfully. "And how I guess you never really know people."

  He cocked his head at me. "How so?"

  "Well." I sipped my wine, formulating my thoughts. "He seemed like a nice guy to me. I mean, when I interviewed him for the job. Only, it turns out his girlfriend was disappointed in him, her son hates him, his ex-wife really hates him. Even his partner has nothing good to say about him."

  "His partner?" Grant's tone changed, suspicion suddenly clouding it.

  "Or, you know, so it would seem," I quickly covered. "I mean, that his partner wouldn't have anything good to say about him."

  I snuck a glance at Grant out of the corner of my eye to find him staring intently at me. As if trying to read between the half truths. I shoved more pizza into my mouth, chewing vigorously to cover any expression of guilt that might have been lingering on my face.

  "Anyway," I said, once I'd swallowed the bite. "I just mean it makes one wonder what sort of judge of character they are." I snuck another glance his way. "I mean, how well do we really know anyone?"

  "I'd like to think I know you pretty well." Grant took a sip of his wine, his eyes still holding a look of suspicion in them.

  "You know what I tell you," I said. "But I'm sure we both have lots of things we hold back. Stories we haven't told each other." Like the apparently funny one about the scar on his backside that Lana had heard all about.

  "Okay." Grant set his wineglass down. "So tell me a story, Emmy."

  I licked my lips. "About?"

  "What did you really do today?"

  Oh boy. "Well…I, you know, did some work here at the winery." True. I had started out the morning with payroll I couldn't afford in front of me. "And…I had lunch at the Links. With David Allen."

  It might have been my imagination, but I thought I saw his eyes narrow a little at the mention of David's name.

  "And Ava," I added quickly, lest he get the wrong impression. "Lobster Bisque. It was delicious. I think they put thyme in it."

  "Fancy." He sipped his wine again, and I had no idea if he was buying this.

  "Well, it is the Links." I smiled halfheartedly.

  "And what did you three talk about at lunch?" The suspicion was growing in his voice.

  "Well…David's got his gallery showing tomorrow night," I said. "We're all going."

  He nodded but didn't say anything.

  "So…what did you do today?" I asked, hoping to move on from the parts I was leaving out.

  "I told you." He licked a stray droplet of pinot from his lips. "Work."

  "See, that's exactly what I mean." I put a hand on my hip.

  Grant raised an eyebrow at me. "What?"

  "That you don't give anything away that you don't want to. We're all just…giving an edited version of ourselves to each other." I hated how my mind immediately went to Eckhart's version of Grant.

  He studied me for a moment. "Okay." He set his glass down on the counter. "I spent the morning with tech, finding out what was on Buckley's hard drive. And the afternoon with ballistics looking at the bullet they pulled from him."

  "Either turn up anything useful?" I asked.

  He shrugged, goin
g in for another bite of pizza. "Not particularly. Buckley's computer had the usual mix of work and play—some invoices and info for freelance work he'd done. A couple of games. Some rather interesting internet searches."

  "Oh? Such as?"

  Grant grinned. "Let's just say Buckley's taste in pornography was a little on the daring side."

  "Never mind." I held up a hand. "I don't want to hear it."

  "I thought you wanted to get to know him," Grant teased, still grinning.

  "What about ballistics?" I asked, changing the subject.

  "Bullet came from a .22 LR. Long Rifle. Common shotgun, but the bullet was in good shape and they're fairly certain they could match the striation pattern to a particular gun if we had one."

  "I'm guessing you checked if Buckley owned a Long Rifle?" I asked, thinking that would be very handy for Jamie to have laid his hands on.

  But Grant shook his head. "No, nothing registered to him. But they're not hard to come by. You can basically walk into Walmart and buy one."

  "So anyone could have gotten their hands on one," I said, my mind churning over this new info.

  He nodded, sipping his wine. "They're mostly used for hunting small game."

  "So you're still thinking this was an accidental shooting?" I asked. "Some hunter stumbles into my vineyard and mistakes Buckley for a deer?"

  He shot me a look. "Or realizes he's been caught trespassing and poaching. Or Buckley startles him. Or the guy's high and shoots for any number of paranoid reasons."

  I looked down at my plate, picking a piece of pepperoni off a slice. "You said the type of gun is used for hunting small game. Like, say, rabbits?"

  "Sure." He ripped off a piece of his pizza crust and popped it into his mouth.

  I licked my lips. "You know…Eckhart hunts."

  He stopped midchew. "Eckhart," he repeated around the bite.

  I could see the warning flashing in his eyes, but I forged ahead.

  "He hunts small game. Rabbits specifically," I said, remembering the framed photo I'd seen on his desk that morning.

  "Emmy…"

  "So, it's quite possible he owns a Long Rifle."

  "He also owns a service revolver and has access to a whole locker full of weapons, any one of which would have been a heck of a lot more convenient to shoot someone with," Grant said, an edge to his voice as if he didn't like this path we were going down at all.

  "Sure, but those would all be easily traceable back to him," I reasoned.

  Grant shook his head, his nostril flaring. "I knew I shouldn't have shared anything with you about this case. I give you an inch, and you take a mile."

  "That's not fair," I shot back. "You're treating me like I'm some sort of child."

  "No, if you were a child, I'd ground you."

  I let out a humorless laugh. "Seriously? Do you know how chauvinistic you just sounded?"

  "I'm not a chauvinist," Grant ground out, something flashing behind his eyes. "I'm a realist. And the reality is you are butting into something you know nothing about."

  "Well then tell me about it!" I said, my voice rising to match the anger I could hear coloring into his. "Tell me why you're so sure Eckhart is innocent. Tell me how well you really knew Buckley. Tell me exactly how fabulous Lana is!"

  "Lana?" Grant frowned.

  I shook my head. "Never mind. My point is, stop treating me like I'm some idiot who can't handle the truth."

  "Well now you just sound like Jack Nicholson."

  "You're mocking me." I gave him a hard look. "And it's not attractive."

  "You know what?" Grant said sliding off his stool. "Neither is the way you're trying to bait me into an argument."

  "I'm not baiting you! I'm just tired of being underestimated by men who know it all."

  Grant's eyes flashed again. He opened his mouth to say something but then apparently thought better of it, as he shut it again quickly, his jaw hardening as he shook his head and slipped off his stool.

  "Thanks for the wine," he spat out before he turned and stalked out of the kitchen.

  "Thanks for the pizza!" I shot to his retreating back, the words sounding more like an insult than good manners.

  Though if he heard them, he didn't indicate it, his posture ram-rod straight, his stride long, and his head still shaking in anger as he disappeared down the hall.

  I waited a moment, hoping he'd come back around the corner and apologize. But instead of his returning footsteps, I heard the engine of his SUV turn over and his tires spinning angrily on gravel as he sped out of my parking lot and back down the oak-lined drive.

  So much for romance.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  I awoke the next morning with a pounding headache. Which, in hindsight, might have had something to do with the fact the night before I'd single-handedly polished off both the rest of the large pepperoni pizza and the bottle of Pinot. And some ice cream. And chocolate. And more wine. What could I say? I didn't do rejection well. Bridget Jones and I had spent a long evening together, crying out our broken hearts until I'd fallen sleep somewhere mid Edge of Reason.

  I groaned, rolling over to look at the clock on my bedside table. Just past nine. I hadn't meant to sleep in so late. But after the comfort food binge, the crying jag, and the Rom Com fest, it had been well after midnight before I'd passed out on my bed fully clothed.

  I peeled back my blankets, thinking I definitely needed to send my wrinkled dress to the cleaners. It was a miracle I hadn't popped one of its seams after all the calories I'd consumed. I made a mental note to get Ava's recipe for green juice and turn over a healthier leaf that weekend.

  I pulled myself out of bed and into a long hot shower. After downing a couple of Advil and applying enough mascara to make my lashes stand at attention, I started feeling human again. In an effort to cheer my headache away, I grabbed a pale yellow sundress from my closet, adding gold earrings and a pair of ballet flats. At least if my mood wasn't sunny, my outfit could be.

  Though, I will say that as I made my way out the door of my cottage and down the stone pathway, the scents of freshly baked Cherry Vanilla Muffins and hot coffee that came wafting from the kitchen caused my mood to lift another notch. So did the cheery faces that greeted me as I followed the aromas into the kitchen. One face in particular that was a very welcomed sight that morning.

  "Conchita!" I practically threw myself into her arms, ignoring the puff of flour that came up from her apron as I did.

  "Emmy, mija!" She matched my fierce hug with her own. "Why didn't you call me?" she chided as I pulled away. "A murder in the vineyard?"

  "Eddie told her," Ava said.

  I pulled my attention from Conchita to find her and Eddie sitting at the counter, each nibbling from the plate of fresh muffins in front of them. Ava was dressed in a flowy white top with floral embroidery that screamed springtime. She'd paired it with a short denim skirt that gave the outfit the perfect blend of hard and soft. I would say she was the head-turner in the room, if Eddie hadn't been sitting next to her in head-to-toe pink seersucker. He looked like an overfed flamingo as he flapped his arms at me.

  "Well, of course I told Conchita!" Eddie said. "I mean, a man died here. That doesn't happen every day."

  "You're right," Ava agreed. "It's more like every other day."

  "Ha. Ha. Very funny," I told her, grabbing a muffin.

  Ava grinned at me. "Coffee?" she asked, moving to the espresso machine in the corner.

  "Please," I said, instantly forgiving her friendly barb.

  "How are you really, Emmy?" Conchita asked, her warm brown eyes full of concern. Her salt and pepper hair was pulled back into a tight bun at the nape of her neck, and the frown etched into the network of fine lines running across her tanned face pulled at my heartstrings.

  "I'm fine," I lied, giving her what I hoped was a reassuring smile. "Really."

  Her frown smoothed out some, but the concern stayed.

  "I'm sure she's much more fine this morning than she was
yesterday," Ava added, putting the espresso machine to work churning out heavenly smelling liquid. She turned to give the room a wicked grin. "Grant was here last night."

  Just like that, my sunny mood went gloomy again.

  "Oh really!" Conchita's frown disappeared completely, replaced by what I'd come to know as her meddling matchmaker smile. "How is our Detective Grant?"

  "Fine," I said. Much less convincingly than the last time.

  "Just fine?" Eddie asked, clearly having picked up on my unenthused tone. "Why do I get the feeling that's not a good thing?"

  I sighed. "We kind of had a fight."

  "Oh, honey." Ava handed me my coffee. "How bad was it?"

  "Two-and-a-half Bridget Jones's bad."

  "Ouch," Eddie said, being fully in the know on our Rom Com rating scale.

  "What happened?" Ava asked.

  I shook my head. "Nothing. I mean, it was just…" Him being pig-headed. Me being stubborn. Him being overprotective. Me being oversensitive. "It was nothing," I settled on. "A misunderstanding."

  "These things happen," Conchita said. "Hector misunderstands me all the time. It's because we're from Venus and he's from Mars. I read a book about it." She nodded sagely. "But it doesn't mean Hector doesn't love me."

  I gave her a smile, not having the heart to tell her that her marriage of twenty-five years to her first love was so not the same as the tentative maybe-relationship Grant and I had.

  "Amen," Eddie, chimed in, clearly trying to be encouraging. "Curtis doesn't always understand me either." Eddie had been a house husband to his partner Curtis for twenty years before Curtis's health had prompted him to retire and prompted Eddie into the workforce and onto my doorstep. "Curtis misunderstands why I need to buy ascots, why I need Perrier over tap, why my shoes cost more than our rent…"

  I couldn't help a laugh. "Thanks, guys. I'm…I'm sure it will be fine." I blew on my hot coffee, not at all believing my own words. "He's probably just under a lot of stress."

  Conchita nodded. "Yes. Ava told me all about how he knew the man who died. They were police officers together?"

  "Sort of," I hedged, not really sure myself how well they knew each other. Which made me feel no better about how we'd left things the night before. "Grant knew Buckley's partner."