Four
There are flowers waiting outside my apartment when I get home that night. An extravagant bouquet of lilies, peonies, and lavender. The card reads: Congratulations on your big day! Love, Mom and Dad.
I crumple the note into a fist.
The flowers are a nice gesture, thoughtful even, but they don’t make up for the fact that my parents weren’t there today. I get that they have demanding careers, but I would have appreciated their choosing me over their jobs.
Growing up, I accepted my parents were important, my dad being head of the computer science department at CU and my mom a chemical engineer at NIST Laboratories. I was proud of them, what they were doing, even as Liam and I routinely came home to an empty house. To make up for it, we would go camping at the Rocky Mountain National Park during spring breaks and spend every holiday together—time that let us know family came first. Only now, I’m not so sure.
I don’t know if they’re genuinely slammed at work or if they’re so blinded by my brother’s screw-ups that they think my winemaking business is nothing but a passing fancy.
Either way, I want to prove to them my passion for making wine is legit.
Murder aside, that’s still the case.
My phone buzzes. As if on cue, it’s my mother. How is it she knew to call at this exact moment, but her mom-senses couldn’t pick up on the fact that I needed her earlier?
I set the vase of flowers on the entryway table and answer my phone with a swipe. “I got your flowers.” I sniff a sprig of lavender, the aroma not nearly as calming as it usually is. “Thank you.”
“Of course, sweetie. I’m sorry we couldn’t be there.” To her credit, she sounds genuinely apologetic.
“What happened?”
“Oh, I got called into work and your dad decided to wait so we could go together.” She carries on, ignorant of my silent seething, “Was it everything you dreamed it would be?”
Tears spring into my eyes and, all of the sudden, I can’t do this. “Is Liam there?”
She lets out a sigh. “Always.”
“Why don’t you ask him? I have to go.” I’d rather beg Liam’s forgiveness than relive the events of the day.
“Talk later. Love you.”
“Love you, too,” I say, and then hang up.
I reposition the flowers—they really are lovely—before greeting my cat, Zin. She’s named after Zinfandel, a grape with unknown origins, kinda like her. She’s a sweet rescue kitty who hates the sound of aluminum foil and loves batting corks across the kitchen floor. The shelter had no idea where she came from but speculated she lived on the street because of the tiny bit of one ear that’s inexplicably missing. I try my best to give her a life of luxury.
Zin nuzzles deeper into the afghan blanket I set up for her on the couch, moving one paw over her eyes in protest of being woken. Apparently that’s the only greeting I’m going to get.
I scratch behind her ears, her silky gray fur and rolling purr a comfort.
My apartment isn’t much, really more of a hallway with its skinny living room and oblong-shaped bedroom, but I’ve managed to make it cozy. Vintage art prints hang on the white walls, funky lamps from various art festivals give the space a worldly vibe, and a Persian rug and russet velvet sofa ooze relaxation. But the best part is the view.
I unlatch the French doors to my private balcony, the night air rife with the smell of damp earth and wet concrete after the rain. Resting my forearms on the railing, I appreciate an unobstructed view of the Flatirons, the slanted rock formations that overlook Boulder. Under the pale moonlight, they look like giant slabs of stone being tugged in opposite directions, much like my life.
My phone buzzes; it’s my mom calling again, probably checking in after Liam delivered the bombshell about the murder at my winery. I send her a text letting her know I’m fine and that I’ll call her tomorrow. She tries once more before giving up. I push aside the pang of guilt I feel for ignoring her.
I refocus on the mountain backdrop and give myself one more minute of reflection, and maybe an iota of self-pity, before I pad into my cramped kitchen and open the bottle of champagne I’d chilled for the occasion.
The pop of a cork has to be one of the happiest sounds on the planet. I pour myself a glass of bubbly and curl up next to Zin.
“Here’s to Vino Valentine,” I say, tilting my glass toward her squashed face. Zin head-butts my hand in response.
And I’m toasting to my business with a cat. Great.
To distract myself from my lagging romantic life, I get to work. I open my laptop and log in to my payment-tracking software. As expected, sales today were lower than projected, but that alone doesn’t spell doom. Control freak that I am, when I initially developed my business plan, I factored in every contingency. Well, almost every contingency. Who could have predicted a dead body?
Point is, I went conservative.
Clicking on the analytics tab, I see the bottom line: if I sell half the wine I currently have bottled at market value in the next two months, I should be able to stay afloat until fall harvest.
A good review in Gaskel’s Gastro would have done wonders. Heck, I’d even have settled for a mediocre review. But now . . . I shake my head.
I need to come up with something to take the heat off that bottom line. Something big enough to garner attention but still affordable.
Sipping on champagne, I log in to Instagram, Twitter, and Facebook. I scan my streams for news of Gaskel’s murder, letting out a sigh of relief when I see nothing, and then post from my Vino Valentine account. Social media may be a no-brainer for advertising, but unfortunately it isn’t very effective. Maybe I should look into buying ad space with a synergistic publication like Westword or 5280. The problem is those don’t come cheap.
“Think, Parker, think,” I say to myself, but of course come up empty. Zin gazes at me with her orblike eyes, as if somewhat worried about my mental capacity.
Reid seemed in tune with the food industry; perhaps he could help me brainstorm. Admittedly, I might also be looking for an excuse to call him.
Speaking of a certain off-limits hottie, I search for Gaskel’s review of The Pantry. His blog has a separate section for places that have achieved five-gastro status, a cutesy way of saying stars. There aren’t many. Gaskel was known more for his scathing keystrokes than his praise, his followers appreciating his merciless candor, even if it spelled doom for restaurateurs.
The review pops up, featuring Reid smoldering in chef’s attire. It’s almost too good to be true. Gaskel gushes over his impeccably seared scallops, creamy corn chowder, and curry-roasted vegetables.
Envy churns in my gut. What I would give for that sort of endorsement, and Reid shrugged it off like it was no big deal.
I force myself to let it go and am steadily scrolling through electronic credit card receipts when I see it—a name I recognize. Moira Murphy. Of Murphy’s Bend Vineyards.
It hits me then exactly how I knew the chic couple from my opening. I hadn’t recognized them, having only visited Murphy’s Bend once, back when Vino Valentine was a wisp of a daydream.
Their winery is well established and located mere miles from mine. I’d be flattering myself if I called us competitors, but it is curious Moira and her husband—I never did catch his name—made an appearance today. And even more curious is the fact they made a scene right as Gaskel arrived.
Moira purchased a single bottle of the Ski Lodge Cherry. I wonder what she thought of it, if she even had a taste before tossing it in her husband’s face.
With more than enough swirling through my mind, I finish my glass of champagne and call it a night.
I wake up feeling jet-lagged. My brain is so sluggish I have to convince myself the disaster that was yesterday actually happened. Reality finally settles in, though, making me want to nestle beneath the covers and ignore my alarm clock. Alas, I have a business to run, my vintner reputation to salvage, and a hungry cat to attend to.
Zin head-butts my arm and kneads the comforter until I finally sit up. I don’t know if it’s a remnant from her days on the street or a personality quirk, but she always acts like if it weren’t for her constant reminders, I would inevitably forget to feed her. As if.
“Don’t worry, sweet girl,” I coo, scratching behind her ears soothingly. “It’s time for breakfast.”
Zin trails after me as I pad through my apartment, opening curtains and switching on lights. I pour a cup of kibble in her bowl and she meows a thank-you.
Ravenous kitty seen to, I go about fixing myself a bowl of granola topped with fresh berries and yogurt. I nibble breakfast on my balcony, watching the pink rays of the rising sun hit the Flatirons. By the last bite, I’m confident I can handle the day. Or at the very least, survive it.
Dressing with careful precision, I pair an airy floral dress with knee-high leather boots and dangly wind-catcher earrings. I tease the locks of my A-line bob and add a touch of lip gloss to round out the look.
Lastly, I clasp my beaded necklace around my neck, a fine white-gold chain with tiny crystal grapes. It was a gift from my aunt Laura. She was the first person I told about my dream of opening a winery. I expected her to laugh, but instead she wrote me a check. Enough for a down payment on the gorgeous stainless-steel equipment currently occupying the back of my shop. If it weren’t for her, it would have taken me ages to open Vino Valentine.
It’s been nearly two years since she died. It was sudden, unexpected. One moment she was easing forward at an intersection, the light having just turned green, and the next she was gone. Hit by a drunk driver.
She’d been on her way home from a friend’s book signing. Aunt Laura was supportive like that; always there when someone needed her. Sporting events, big presentations, birthday celebrations, if she was invited, there was no doubt Laura would attend. Likely with a foam finger.
And, as Liam and I can attest, she was the cool aunt everyone wished they had.
She took trips to remote corners of the globe, marched in protests to make sure her voice was heard, and, in general, strove to make the world a better place than the way she found it.
I wear the necklace she gave me as a reminder to live the way she did: without regret.
I miss her like crazy every day, but feel her absence even more keenly now. What advice would she give me if she were here?
I can practically hear her chiding me to buck up and keep looking forward.
I intend to do just that.
With my head held high, I march through my front door, ready to face the world.
It’s an unspoken rule in Boulder: always thank the bus driver. After a quick jaunt on the Skip RTD line, I bid the driver adieu and then flounce into the Laughing Rooster, the coffee shop neighboring my winery.
The café is packed with sleep-deprived college students, stereotypical Boulder hippies, and working professionals like myself. Perhaps I come here too often because the barista automatically starts preparing my large skinny latte.
While I wait, I peruse a table holding brochures for local businesses, noting that the stack of Vino Valentine postcards is infinitesimally shorter than the last time I checked. It may not be the huge win I need, but every little bit helps.
Caffeine in hand, and thankfully soon to be in my bloodstream, I go about one of my favorite tasks, unlocking my winery. There’s something about the scent of the space—a heady mixture of freshly painted walls and aged oak barrels—that I find comforting. But today the silence only makes me twitchy.
After an hour spent jumping at every creak, I’m overjoyed when Anita arrives. And even more excited when my first batch of customers trickles in, grateful that nobody seems to have heard about Gaskel yet.
They’re a group of cyclists who, from the looks of it, just finished a late-morning ride. They’re surprisingly confident in spandex shorts and polyester jerseys, their table littered with water bottles and energy bars. They look thirsty, and for more than just water. The notoriously steep Lee Hill is nearby and if that was their route, they certainly deserve to kick back. I bring them an extra basket of palate-cleansing crackers, the only food we have on hand, when I go to take their order.
Anita is helping me pour their requested flights of wine when Eli—Detective Fuller—makes a smooth entrance. He’s sporting another dapper suit, a crisp white shirt against navy-blue slacks and a matching jacket. It’s still strange to see him clean cut and without the trademark eau de skunk. I swallow my nerves, unsure what his presence here means.
Eli spins in place, his penetrating gaze seeming to take in more than the tasteful decor. I greet him with a smile and a wave, hoping the cyclists assume he’s merely another customer.
“Parker, I need to ask you a few more questions,” he says.
“Of course,” I answer, passing Anita the last tray to deliver to the cyclists.
The delicate glasses rattle on her open palm and she falters. It takes a lot of practice—and muscle—to carry a laden tray one-handed. Anita’s a natural, though, her dish-breaking record nearly perfect.
“Have a seat at the bar,” I say to Eli.
“I’d prefer to stand.” He tucks a hand in his pocket, flashing me a glimpse of his gun.
“Your call.” I wipe down the counter with a cloth, mostly to keep myself from fidgeting. “Did you find out any other information? Was it for sure the wine?”
“Forensics is still testing, but initial results showed high levels of aconitine in Mr. Brown’s bloodstream.” He rests one arm against the back of a barstool, every inch the cool and calculating detective. “We can’t tie it to his glass since that went through the dishwasher, but it’s a fair assumption given the wine bottle was clean.”
A quick glance at the table of cyclists shows they’re absorbed in recounting a particularly difficult climb from their ride. Still, law enforcement officials tend to make people nervous; best get this over with quickly.
I’m careful to keep my voice low. “What does that mean?”
“It suggests Mr. Brown was poisoned, and it was a fast-acting one.” He pauses, shifting on his feet. “There’s nothing anyone could have done.”
My shoulders droop as I release the breath I’d been holding. “At least it was quick.”
“That’s more than can be said for a lot of my cases.” He continues, deep lines forming around his jaw, “Did you notice anything unusual about Gaskel? Even the most insignificant detail could be important.”
“You mean besides the whole murder thing?” I ask, cocking my head to the side.
Eli doesn’t appreciate my sarcasm.
Tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear, I think back to the way Gaskel’s body looked, lying unmoving on the cold tiled floor. His head twisted to the side, his hand holding his fancy watch, and then I recall the piece of paper. “He had a brochure or something sticking out of his pocket like he’d recently tugged at it. I wonder what it was for.”
Eli sucks in a breath. “His pockets were empty. Someone must have searched him before officers arrived on the scene.”
My eyes widen. Someone didn’t want the police to find whatever Gaskel was carrying, which means it likely pointed to their identity. Too bad I lost my cool, and almost my lunch, and vacated the bathroom to call 911.
“Was there anything on the ground around him?” I ask. “Anything at all in his wallet?”
“Nothing resembling a brochure. There’s only your word for it.” Eli narrows his eyes and pulls out his notebook, referencing something in its pages before turning his attention back to me. “Were you upset by his negative remarks on your wine?”
“You’re assuming that I snooped on his tablet.”
“How else would you know he didn’t like your chardonnay?” Eli levels me with a stare. “It wouldn’t have been that hard. He left it open to the draft of his blog post.”
I shift from one foot to the other. “Fine, yes, but I don’t see what that has to do with anything.” Then I realize what he’s implying and blanch. “You’re kidding, right?”
“You were the one who poured his wine. You had access, a clear motive. It’s not that far of a leap, is it?”
“But I didn’t even know he would be at my opening, didn’t see his comments until he was already in the bathroom. There wouldn’t have been time for me to add the . . .” I trail off, something dawning on me. “Wait, does the aconit-stuff taste like anything?”
“Aconitine? I have no idea. Why?”
I whisper under my breath, “Maybe it changed the flavor. That could explain why he didn’t like it.” I’m ashamed to admit how relieved I am by this prospect.
“Back to the matter at hand,” he says sharply, attracting the attention of the cyclists and Anita. “A man was poisoned. By your wine—”
“Technically it wasn’t my wine,” I clarify. “It was something added to my wine.”
“Regardless, my job is to figure out how this happened.” Eli’s baritone voice echoes through my winery.
The health-conscious athletes make a hasty retreat, throwing cash on the oak-barrel table, their flights of wine only half-finished. My stomach plummets faster than my ego.
The door clicks shut behind them. I smack a hand against my forehead and groan. “Dammit, Eli, do you have to scare my customers away?”
Anita pushes the tasters toward me across the bar top and then retreats to clean their table.
“Sorry,” Eli says, having enough sense to appear sheepish. He sinks into a stool. “This must be hard for you.”
“You have no idea.” I dump the remaining tasters of wine down the drain one at a time, each one a jab to my pride. Sweat equity, and plenty of real equity, went into every swallow. A lump lodges itself in my throat.
“This seems like a cool place,” Eli says, finally resembling the boy from my past.
“Thanks,” I murmur. “Would you like a taste of something? On the house.” I’m surprised by how much I hope he agrees.
“Another time. When I’m not on the clock.” His lips twitch into a lopsided smile.
“So how’d you get to be a detective? Last I remember, you ran with a pretty different crowd.”
“Long story. Suffice it to say, people change.” I never noticed it before, probably because they were always bloodshot, but he has soulful eyes the color of dark caramel. “Are you still into climbing?”
“I haven’t gone in a while. Starting Vino Valentine has kept me pretty busy.” I rub the back of my neck, a knotted mess of tension. “I really should, though. It’s always helped me relax.”
“That would be smart. Investigations can last awhile, especially after we pass the twenty-four-hour mark. That being said . . .” He trails off with a meaningful glance at the clock. “Can I borrow your assistant?”
“Just promise to return her in one piece,” I answer. “And can you ask your questions in the back?”
Eli nods and approaches Anita, who’s still wiping down that same table, ponytail swinging. If she’s not careful, she’ll buff her way straight to the ground.
Anita jumps in her wedge sandals when Eli addresses her and teeters away from him. She visibly gulps and stammers an answer before following Eli into the back of my shop.
The skittish way she’s behaving makes me wonder: Does Anita know something about Gaskel’s murder?
My next customer is wholly unexpected.
The bell jingles as a slim woman with deeply tanned skin and a warm smile enters my shop. Her long hair is braided down her back, blond with textured maroon highlights. I recognize her as half of the chic, yet dramatic, couple from my opening.
“Moira Murphy,” she says, holding out a hand, a tennis bracelet dangling on her wrist. “Of Murphy’s Bend Vineyards.”
“Right,” I say as if this is news to me. Her grip is like the vise I use to crush grapes. “Parker Valentine. Nice to meet you.”
She plops her slouchy leather purse on the bar top. “How long have you been making wine?” She has the silky voice of an automated message system.
“For about six years, although it really started as a hobby.”
I think back to my very first glass of the hallowed beverage, a Chianti in Florence while I was studying abroad at the ripe young age of nineteen. It was love at first sip. The complexity of the flavors and how a winemaker can manipulate them enthralled me.
My ever-observant aunt got me a winemaking kit for my twenty-first birthday and even offered up her garage as a space for me to prep it in. By the time my first batch of wine—a merlot I was probably a little too proud of—was complete, I was hooked.
With the idea for Vino Valentine a spark in my mind, I spent two glorious weeks in Napa touring vineyards, fawning over delicate thin-skinned grapes. The winemakers patiently answered my questions, sharing their earned wisdom about maceration times, oak versus steel aging, and blending varietals to enhance flavor. When I returned home, I was like a mad scientist, beakers strewn about my apartment, testing the methods I’d learned with new fervor.
I continue, “I didn’t seriously consider it as a business venture until a couple of years ago.”
Moira nods as if she understands perfectly, but then purses her lips. “I want to apologize for my husband’s and my behavior yesterday. Trust me when I say it was very out of character.”
“It’s fine. Really.” I fiddle with the tasting menus, stacking them neatly on the countertop. “It was hardly the worst thing that happened.”
“About that—”
My heart plummets to somewhere around my naval. She only left with a bottle of the Ski Lodge Cherry, after all. “I can give you your money back if you want,” I offer hurriedly. “It was terrible—”
“That’s not why I’m here,” she interrupts, giving me a stern look reminiscent of my second-grade teacher. “Never offer to give a customer their money back. Honestly, that’s no way to conduct a successful business.”
“Guess I’m a little trigger-happy with damage control.” I click my tongue. “So why are you here?”
“I just had to stop by and tell you in person how much I loved your wine.”
My jaw drops and I stammer, “R-really?”
“Really,” she says, dimples forming. “The chardonnay was divine, nice and buttery, exactly my preference. I left with a bottle of the cherry so my husband and I could actually taste it instead of using it as a missile.” Her cheeks dot with color, but she continues, unabashedly, “We still can’t figure out how you achieved such a depth of flavor.”
“That means a lot coming from you.” I smile nervously, and then sigh. “It may end up being a vintage edition.”
Concern etches her face. “Why do you say that?”
“You were there, you know what happened with Gaskel.” Voicing his name leaves a bitter taste in my mouth and a hollow ache in my chest.
“Oh, pffft.” She tugs at her long braid, draping it over one shoulder. “In my opinion, the restaurant world is better off without Gaskel’s Gastro.”
No doubt there are those who heaved a sigh of relief at no longer having to worry about Gaskel’s critical pen, but to say so out loud is rather tactless. I mean, he was still a real person with family and dreams for the future.
There’s an awkward silence as I steal a glance at the doorway behind me, grateful that Eli is still in the back questioning Anita. This is a tidbit he might find interesting. I fiddle with my beaded necklace.
“You’ve gotta admit Gaskel brought attention to restaurants others might miss,” I say.
“Oh, I didn’t mean to sound callous,” she says hurriedly, her eyes darting around. “It’s a sad affair, and you’re right, Gaskel’s reviews certainly helped with press coverage, but they weren’t the be-all end-all.”
I nod, only slightly satisfied, and make a mental note to check if Gaskel ever reviewed Murphy’s Bend, curious to discover if Moira has an ulterior motive for stopping by. I hope not, because I kinda like her.
“I’ve been to your tasting room, too. The Bend It Red is delicious.” I lean forward, lowering my voice to a conspiratorial whisper, “Any chance you’ll tell me what varietals are in it?”
“Cab franc, merlot, syrah, and one more secret ingredient I can’t share,” she says with a wink. “Have you thought about hosting a VIP tasting?”
That idea, along with roughly a dozen others, has indeed crossed my mind. “Unfortunately, I don’t have a clientele built up yet.”
“Carrick and I threw a party a couple years ago for a few top-tier clients and it was very successful.” She taps her chin with one finger, considering. “Why don’t I send you the contact information of some avid wine lovers I know who would appreciate something like this?”
I’m beyond flattered she would even offer. “That would be amazing, but are you allowed to share their contact info?”
“I’ll only include people I consider friends, and I’ll even give them a heads-up.”
“Wow, thank you,” I gush. Really, who am I to pass up any opportunity that comes my way? My brain is already churning through plans and possibilities. This could be the big break Vino Valentine needs, only . . . “Why are you doing this?”
“We need to work together to put Colorado wines on the map. Plus, like I said, I enjoyed your wine. You have passion, spunk.” She clutches her purse and holds my gaze. “Don’t pay any attention to the headlines. The media exaggerates everything.”
“Headlines?” I ask with a gulp.
I fumble with my phone, my fingers shaking as I open the Denver Post app. In bold black letters, the very top story reads: Food Critic’s Fatal Sip. The article weaves a narrative where yours truly, in a fit of desperation, poisoned Denver’s premier critic for not liking my wine.
Hesitantly, I open social media. Vino Valentine has been mentioned and tagged in hundreds of posts, and #KillerChardonnay is currently trending. I scroll through my Twitter notifications, my temperature rising at the rage behind the tweets.
@MilesHPoole: Why hasn’t an arrest been made, @BoulderPD? @VinoValentine is obviously GUILTY #LockherUp #KillerChardonnay
@CORealScene: Shocked @VinoValentine is allowed to stay open for business #JusticeforGaskel #KillerChardonnay
@JKLemon2: .@VinoValentine’s wine was so bad it literally killed @GaskelsGastro #KillerChardonnay #WineFail
I drop my phone as if it were responsible for this virtual horror.
“Oh my God,” I say, holding one hand over my mouth.
Damn the media. Damn whoever killed Gaskel and caused this mess.
“Chin up, dear,” Moira says. “This will blow over in no time.” With those parting words, which are far from uplifting, she leaves.
I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to put Gaskel’s death behind me. Even if my business miraculously survives this, finding his body, with his pale face and glassy eyes, is like a scar on my psyche. As much a part of me as the lightning-shaped scar on my shin. I got it at the end of a long day of climbing in Eldorado Canyon. The sandstone cliffs and bubbling creek were too enticing for me to quit when I should have. Someday it may make for one helluva story, but there will always be a tinge of lingering fear at being faced with my own mortality.
I’m still staring after Moira when Eli resurfaces from the back. “That’s one loyal assistant you have.”
I nod numbly. “Thanks.”
“I didn’t say that was a good thing.” A frown slides into place. “Ms. Moore wasn’t very forthcoming, but it seemed like there was something on her mind. Any idea what it could be?”
I shrug my shoulders. “The usual stress of an uncertain future? She only has a year left of college, which is a scary spot to be in.”
“Perhaps,” he says but doesn’t take his eyes off of mine, clearly not buying that answer. “I don’t know if you’re aware, but it’s obstruction of justice to keep something from the authorities.”
“Whatever happened to innocent until proven guilty?”
“This isn’t a courtroom.” He hesitates and then asks, “Did you ask her to cover for you in any way?”
“Of course not. I want this case solved as much as you do. Probably more, actually.”
“If you say so.” He knocks twice on the counter. “I’ll be in touch.”
I don’t bother with a response.
The truth is that I can throw VIP parties or revamp advertising, but there’s really only one way to salvage my reputation: prove that I—and my wine—had nothing to do with Gaskel’s murder.