Shot Through the Hearth

by Kate Carlisle

  “I would love that. Call me.”

  “I will, sweetie.”

  I was getting ready to ask him about Dad’s new girlfriend when I glanced over my shoulder. “Oops. You’ve got a crowd of people waiting, so I’ll let you go. We can talk later.”

  “Wait,” he said. “I want you to meet someone.”

  “Okay.”

  He grabbed my hand and pulled me over to the end of the bar, where a woman was pouring wine and answering questions.

  “This is Belinda McCoy,” Uncle Pete said with a happy grin. “Belinda, this is my niece Shannon.”

  “Is this the talented woman who builds houses?”

  “Yup, the very same.”

  Belinda beamed at me and shook my hand heartily. “It’s great to meet you. I’ve heard all about you.”

  “Good to meet you, too.” Although I haven’t heard a word about you, I thought, but just smiled.

  “You’re doing the barn raising,” Belinda said.

  “Yeah. We were supposed to start this morning, but now it’ll be a few days before we get things rolling.”

  “I wish I could be here for that, but I’ve got my own work to do.”

  “We’ll take pictures,” I said.

  She chuckled. “Perfect.”

  She didn’t seem inclined to turn away and my uncle was still standing there, so I asked, “How do you like working for my uncle Pete?”

  She smacked his arm and gave him a wink. “Best boss ever.”

  Pete elbowed her. “Best winemaker ever.”

  Winemaker. I felt my eyebrows rising. This was unexpected. “You’re the new winemaker?”

  “Sure am. Been there almost four months now.”

  “Wow.” Where had I been? Then I remembered. “I’ve been tied up on this job for the better part of a year so I’m out of the loop. But congratulations. I hope you’re enjoying it.”

  “I love it. The Anderson Valley is gorgeous.”

  “I think so, too. Where were you working before this?”

  “I had my own vineyard in Napa. Sold Cabernet Franc grapes to just about everyone in the valley. Then I sold the land to a German firm for way too much money and was looking forward to some time off. Thought maybe I’d go for a slow cruise around the world.”

  “That sounds nice.”

  “Yeah, for someone else. For me, I was antsy after a week. Couldn’t wait to get back to working the soil, working with the grapes, experimenting with new blends.” She picked up a wineglass and swirled the liquid expertly. “But I didn’t want Napa anymore. Talk about a rat race.”

  “That’s what I hear.” I sipped the pinot, enjoying Belinda’s no-nonsense style. She was somewhere in her mid-forties, I thought, with dark red hair cut bluntly so that it swung just above her shoulders. She was tall. At least an inch or two taller than me, which put her around five-ten. My first impression of her was a good one. She seemed solid, funny, a hard worker.

  “So I flipped a coin,” Belinda continued, “started driving north, landed in Anderson Valley, and spent a week hitting every single one of their wineries. I met this big buffalo”—she jabbed her thumb into Uncle Pete’s muscular arm—“and never looked back.”

  Pete looked especially pleased to be called a big buffalo.

  I studied her for another long moment. “Are you the one who suggested the move to the French watering method?”

  “Yeah, that was me. I worked at Château Margaux for three years and picked up some pointers.”

  “Some pointers?” I laughed. “From Château Margaux?”

  She grinned. “Maybe one or two.”

  “Uh, right.” It figured that the most famous wine producer in the world might have a few pointers to share.

  Then I noticed there was still a line of people wanting to talk to the wine experts.

  “I’d better let you get back to work,” I said.

  “Guess so. But hey, let’s get together sometime soon, have a glass of wine, and swap lies.”

  “I would love to,” I said easily. “Pete has my number so just give me a call when you’re in town.”

  “Great. See you soon.” She picked up the bottle of Pinot Noir. “Shannon, wait. You might need this.” She poured a generous helping of wine into my glass.

  “Thanks, Belinda.”

  With another wink, she turned to the next person at the table.

  I stood near the end of the bar for a few minutes, sipping my wine and watching Belinda and Uncle Pete chatting up the crowd. They worked side by side, casually moving around each other to open bottles and pour more wine. They helped each other answer questions and would interject a comment or a joke or two with ease. It looked as if they’d been working together for years.

  And watching them, I couldn’t help but wonder if Belinda and Uncle Pete had a thing going on.

  I also had to wonder about my dad. Why wasn’t he here tonight? He had mentioned that he might come by for the wine tasting. Of course, once again I had let a few weeks go by without talking to him. And with that, I felt an instant punch of guilt. I had been so wrapped up in Rafe’s conference that I’d lost track of time and neglected checking in on my father. Again.

  I wandered away from the wine bar and stopped to gaze around at the crowd. Where was Mac? I wondered. I really needed to talk to him.

  “And who are you?”

  I turned and saw a very tall, very skinny man standing next to me. He wore a severe black suit that gave him the look of a funeral director. His hair was combed flat against the pale skin of his forehead, signaling that he was a serious nerd. His question was more demandingly inquisitive than just friendly banter, which told me that his social skills might be in need of some tweaking.

  “I’m Shannon Hammer.”

  He lifted his chin, which meant that he was now looking down his nose as me. “You are the one raising the barn.”

  “That’s right.” I took a sip of wine. “Who are you?”

  “I’m Wesley Mycroft.”

  He announced it as though I should’ve known who he was. Mycroft, I thought. The name suited him since he looked like a caricature of a Victorian gentleman fallen on hard times.

  Wesley swept his arm out to indicate the party crowd in general. “What do you think of all these people?”

  I glanced around. “I hardly know any of them, but if they’re here because they admire Rafe, I assume they’re mostly decent folk and very smart.”

  He sniffed and it sounded like a retort. “Oh yes, I’m sure they’re ‘decent folk.’”

  I forced myself to keep smiling. Wesley was definitely a nerd, and oddly fascinating. “But not smart?”

  He shrugged, but said nothing.

  “Why are you attending the conference?” I asked.

  Another sniff. “I’m only here to win the grant.”

  “Ah.” I supposed there were plenty of people here for that reason, too. “Do you have a particular field you’re interested in? Or some kind of invention you’re presenting to the judges?”

  “I have made several important scientific breakthroughs and my inventions reflect that.” He straightened up to his full height and lifted his chin. “One is a machine that will clean up a square mile’s worth of greenhouse gases in five minutes.”

  In spite of his personality, I was impressed and told him so. “That sounds amazing.”

  “It is.” He lifted his chin so high that if it started raining, he’d drown. “Unfortunately, the government stole it.”

  Hmm. “Oh, dear. I’m sorry.”

  He sniffed again. “I’ve also created an unbreakable encryption repeater to communicate with aliens—but it was stolen, too.”

  “Good heavens,” I murmured. “What are the chances?”

  “My encryption device is also useful in thwarting credit card theft.
But as I said, it’s been stolen.”

  “That’s unfortunate.”

  “And I plan to present a new idea to the foundation’s judges at the earliest opportunity.”

  “Do you have an appointment with Rafe?”

  “Of course,” he said, his tone chastising.

  “Can you share your new idea with me?”

  Again he stared down his nose, considering me. Then he shrugged. “I’ve already patented it, so I don’t see why I shouldn’t share it with the world.”

  “Please do.”

  “I’ve created an attachment that fits onto the hull of a specially outfitted ship. It is capable of collecting six metric tons of ocean garbage in one gigantic scoop and depositing it into a trash compactor built into the stern of the ship. It will take two months to completely clean all the garbage currently floating on the surface of the ocean.”

  “That is fantastic.” Fantastic, as in weird and eccentric and completely unbelievable, I thought. “Is there some company that’s underwriting all of this?”

  “I won’t go into my connections, but suffice to say, we will be ready to roll it out next year.”

  “I hope it happens for you.” I meant it. The world could use a contraption that cleaned up the ocean’s garbage.

  “It’s for all of us.”

  “Of course.” I smiled. “Does it have a name?”

  “Yes.” He cleared his throat. “I call it the Scoop-Monster.”

  “Oh.” I prayed I wouldn’t lose control and burst out laughing. “Oh, that’s . . . perfect.” I scanned the crowd, searching for Mac. Or anyone. Wesley had left oddly fascinating behind and had veered right into weirdo territory.

  “There you are.”

  I whipped around and almost whimpered when I saw that it wasn’t Mac. Worse, the person wasn’t even speaking to me.

  “I have your special cocktail, Wesley,” the newcomer said, and handed Wesley a half-filled martini glass.

  “It’s about time,” Wesley groused, clutching the glass.

  “It spilled a little,” his friend muttered.

  Wesley took a sip. “Damn it, Sherman! It’s not dry enough.”

  “I’ll get you another,” Sherman said immediately.

  If I were Sherman, I’d show him how dry it was by pouring it onto his head. But then, Sherman’s behavior was so obsequious, I wondered if he might be Wesley’s manservant. His voice had a simpering quality that reminded me of Dr. Frankenstein’s knuckleheaded servant, Igor. Any minute now I fully expected him to bow and say, “Yes, master.”

  “Never mind,” Wesley grumbled, shooting a furtive glance my way. “I’ll drink it anyway.”

  It made me wonder if he still would’ve given Sherman a pass if I weren’t standing there listening to every word.

  Wesley glanced at me and gestured toward Sherman. “Sherman is my colleague.”

  “How do you do?” Sherman said, extending a sweaty hand to shake mine.

  “Just fine, thanks. I’m Shannon Hammer.”

  He nodded. “How did you meet Wesley?”

  I was asking myself that same question. “I was just standing here and he started chatting me up.”

  “Oh my,” Sherman said, his eyes wide. “I can’t believe your luck.”

  I wasn’t sure I’d heard him correctly. Unless he meant bad luck. “My luck?”

  “Oh, yes,” he said breathlessly. “Wesley barely deigns to speak to anyone. You must recognize what a gift you’ve been given.”

  “Yeah, he’s a gift all right.” I glanced up at Wesley, who preened. He clearly agreed with everything Sherman was saying.

  “Wesley is a genius,” Sherman whispered loudly.

  “Stop!” Wesley cried.

  “Thank you,” I said with relief. The sycophantic sucking up was starting to make my eyes bleed.

  “Stop!” he yelled again.

  “Oh no,” Sherman cried, and began wringing his hands. “Oh dear.”

  “What is it?” I asked. “What’s wrong?”

  “The clicking,” Wesley hissed, pressing two fingers against his temple. “It’s going to drive me mad.”

  “What’s he talking about?” I asked.

  “Can’t you hear it?” Sherman asked me.

  “Hear what?”

  “The clicking,” Sherman repeated, then lowered his voice. “It’s the government. They follow Wesley everywhere. He hears them constantly. Click. Click. Click.”

  Hoo-boy.

  “Really?” My eyes narrowed in on Sherman and I chose my words carefully. “And do you . . . hear the clicking, too?”

  Sherman whispered, “I’ve personally never heard the click, but I’m not as sensitive as Wesley.”

  “Ah. I’m going to bet that no one is as sensitive as Wesley.” I coughed to clear my suddenly tight throat. “So. It was lovely meeting you both, but I must go.”

  “I’ll see you again. I sense it.” Wesley nodded, and shut his eyes tightly against the clicking.

  “Can’t wait for the moment.” I turned and walked as quickly as I could until I’d made it to the outer edge of the throng. I heard a sound and wondered if the clicking was following me. I took a few cleansing breaths and centered myself. Okay, no clicks. Must’ve been my imagination. Good grief.

  Was this conference filled with odd people like Wesley and Sherman or had I just had a short run of bad luck? I glanced around at the faces of people nearby. Everyone looked normal. I decided to relax and sip my wine and soon I was feeling normal again, too. Whew.

  From the snippets of conversation around me, I could tell that a lot of people were caught up in the fact that a dead body had been found that morning.

  I hadn’t heard the word murder mentioned yet, thank goodness. The assumption was that Dillon’s death had been a tragic accident.

  “And there she is.”

  I turned and saw Niall walking toward me, holding a glass of wine. He wore his kilt and I saw women gazing at him as he strolled through the crowd. Couldn’t really blame them. He was looking fine this evening, like he’d walked right off the cover of a romance novel.

  “Hi, Niall,” I said. “Hope you’re enjoying yourself.”

  “I am, indeed. And you?”

  “I’m not sure.” I glanced over my shoulder to make sure Wesley, Sherman, and the clicking were nowhere near me. I had a feeling, though, they might be visiting my nightmares. “I just had a conversation with two of the strangest people I’ve ever met.”

  “Are ye sure they’re the strangest?” He glanced around. “There’s some mighty stiff competition here tonight. I just spoke to a woman who was a swordfish in a past life.”

  I laughed. It was good to have a friend to share this odd experience with. “Are you enjoying the wine?”

  “Aye, I am. I’m here with Emily, helping carry some of her catering tables, so I thought I’d take advantage of the wine bar.” He clicked my glass in a casual toast and took a deep sip. “This is the Pinot Noir. It’s a lovely wine, isn’t it?”

  I smiled. “Uncle Pete makes great wines.”

  “Emily mentioned that the winery owner is your uncle. That’s a wondrous thing to have in a family.”

  “It really is.”

  We sipped in silence for a moment, then he leaned in. “My sister also mentioned that you’ve a knack for finding dead bodies.”

  “Did she?” I attempted to keep my cool as I gulped down the wine.

  He chuckled. “I see it’s true, then.”

  “I suppose so,” I said with a sigh. “I don’t know why, but yes, I appear to be a dead body magnet. And God, that sounds terrible.”

  “Have they determined yet how this morning’s victim was killed?”

  I couldn’t meet his gaze. “Not yet.”

  He frowned so deeply that the lines in h
is forehead became canyons.

  Since he didn’t know I’d been sworn to secrecy, that frown couldn’t have been meant for me.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  He breathed heavily. “Emily says I must tell you what I saw.”

  “Oh.” I nodded. “Then you absolutely must.”

  “Aye, then I will.” He glanced around at the people standing nearby. “But not here.”

  “Let’s take a walk.” Not only did I want to hear what he had to say, but it was a good excuse to get away from the crowd for a few minutes.

  * * *

  * * *

  We strolled out toward the three wind turbines on the hill. The area was deserted. Niall didn’t say anything so I waited, sipping my wine as I gazed at the colorful party going on across the field.

  “Quiet out here,” he commented.

  “Yes.”

  “Well, then. No point in lingering over the telling of it, is there?”

  “Nope.”

  “Right, then. I went to check on the patio last night,” he began. “You understand, I feel a kinship there because it’s my work.”

  “I totally understand that,” I said with a soft smile. I felt an attachment to every house I’d ever worked on.

  “That man, Rafe’s partner, the one who died soon after, was sitting on the hearth. I didn’t know who he was at the time, just thought it was bold of this fellow to trespass. I was tempted to toss him out, but didn’t, of course. Though it was a near thing.”

  “His name is Dillon,” I said. “I’m sure Rafe gave him permission to go and look at the work we’ve done.”

  “Aye, perhaps.” He shrugged massive shoulders. “I moved closer, but then stopped when a woman approached him from around the other side of the house.”

  “Who was she?”

  He scowled. “I don’t know names. She was there last night at the opening ceremony. She was up on stage when Rafe introduced his people.”

  “His people?” I thought for a second. “You mean the foundation’s board of directors?”

  “Yes,” he said, excited that I could follow along. “She’s the fish lady. The one I told you about.”

  “The swordfish lady?”