Five
The first rule of economics is that there’s no such thing as a free lunch. When I offer to treat my brother to a sandwich at his favorite deli, it’s because I need something in return. Something he probably won’t want to give me.
Pearl Street is hopping, as it usually is. Paved with brick and lined with quirky shops selling a wide range of goods from sports gear to upscale kitchenware to kites, the pedestrian street is the heart of Boulder and has something for everyone.
May is my favorite time of year to walk the outdoor mall, the suffocating dry heat of summer yet to settle in. Marigolds, petunias, and geraniums add splashes of color to green foliage, and a large rock sculpture doubles as a burbling fountain. I navigate around street performers—a contortionist folding himself into a tiny box and a trio of musicians playing alternative pop songs on classical instruments—and the crowds each has attracted.
My lunch destination is a place called Snarf’s located down a quieter side alley, a hidden gem renowned for its homemade spicy pickles and peppers. I order our usual sandwiches—portobello and swiss for me, and turkey on rye for Liam—and, once they’re ready, snag the last table outside.
I check my phone. No texts from Anita. I left her in charge of my winery with instructions to alert me pronto if she needs help. Not that I expect many customers after getting demolished in the news and on social media. I cringe inwardly.
Liam sinks into the chair opposite me, über casual in jeans and a white undershirt. The dirt caked on his work boots makes me wonder, even as he carefully sets his camera bag at his feet, if photography is on the way out and there’s a new hobby on the horizon. This is about the life span of one of his so-called passions.
Liam’s past hobbies include but are not limited to: day trading in the stock market (the real reason he ended up back in Mom and Dad’s basement), wanting to make it as a musician (his angsty period, complete with grunge jeans and obscure lyrics), and hosting a podcast that pitted popular fictional characters against one another (which was actually pretty entertaining).
“How’s the photography?” I ask, trying to be as pleasant as possible. I do need something from him, after all.
“A work in progress,” he answers, a gleam of excitement in his eyes. “I’ll have shots from your opening soon. There should be a couple for your website.”
My ears perk up. Maybe Liam managed to capture something—or someone—incriminating. “Remind me again why you don’t do digital?”
“Because film makes me feel more creative, and it produces crisper images with a starker light contrast.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” I grumble. My brother, the analog purist, is potentially slowing down the investigation. I suppose I should be grateful he managed to get pictures at all. “Let me know when they’re ready.”
“You’re not the only one interested. That detective wants to see them, too.” Liam was two grades ahead in high school so he doesn’t have the same memories of Eli that I do.
“Any chance you can give me a peek before you turn them in?”
“Sure,” he says with a shrug and unwraps his sandwich. “So what do you want?” he asks before taking a large bite.
I shrug, munching on a spicy pickle. “Maybe I just wanted to have lunch with my brother.”
“I call BS.” He wipes his mouth with a napkin and starts messing with his phone.
“Excuse me, we’re having lunch here.” I gesture between us.
Liam levels with me. “Do you want Reid’s number or not?”
I open and close my mouth several times, sputtering, “That’s just preposterous.” Liam watches me, unblinking. He knows me too well. “Fine. Yes, I want his number.”
“I knew it.” He throws his napkin on the table in triumph. “Only if you promise this won’t be another Guy situation.”
I flinch at my ex’s name. Guy was my last and longest relationship. I honestly thought we would be together forever, but when he moved out of state to pursue his career as a political consultant, long distance proved to be tough. Too tough. After a few strained months, he presented me with an ultimatum: either I move to D.C. and abandon my winery plans or we break up. It wasn’t a difficult decision to make; guess that means it wasn’t true love.
Guy took it harder than I did. He assumed I’d pack my bags and go play supportive girlfriend to his leading man. When I didn’t, he not only cut me out of his life, he cut my brother out, too.
As a result, Liam lost one of his oldest friends and I lost someone who I thought would always be in my corner. And sure, it was Guy’s fault he behaved the way he did. But I didn’t have to pretend moving on would be easy. Or end things by sending him that meme of Ruth Bader Ginsburg dropping her microphone.
I haven’t been on a date since. Between opening Vino Valentino and now with Gaskel’s murder, there hasn’t been time. At least that’s what I keep telling myself.
“I promise,” I say. “This is purely a business matter.”
“Yeah, right,” he says, entirely unconvinced. He taps his phone and then turns the screen toward me.
“How did you meet Reid, anyway?” I ask, copying the number over. “He seems more driven than most of your friends.”
“I resent that.” He waves a chip in my direction before tossing it carelessly into his mouth. “I have very driven friends.”
“Just no drive yourself.” I always thought an older brother was supposed to be someone to look up to, a role model. The only things I’ve learned from Liam are what mistakes to avoid.
He just shrugs and looks away. “We met when I subbed for his bassist. He’s the drummer for a band called Spatula.” We chew our sandwiches in silence for a minute before Liam speaks again. “I feel like it’s my brotherly duty to warn you, Reid isn’t the commitment type.”
“Good thing I’m not interested in him romantically,” I say, secretly wanting to hear more. I lean forward in my seat.
“Don’t get me wrong, he’s a great guy and all, but he’s—how do I put this lightly—a total player.”
“Noted,” I say, one eyebrow raised. I shouldn’t be surprised. That basically secures his bad-boy image. “Seriously, I’m only reaching out to pick his brain on marketing for Vino Valentine.” And to find out if he knows anything about Gaskel’s murder.
“Can’t Sage help with that?” he asks, crushing his sandwich wrapper into a ball.
Sage would be more than happy to help me brainstorm, but it wouldn’t be very fruitful. She’s the best friend and coconspirator a gal could ask for, and brilliant in her own right, but she doesn’t have insight into the restaurant biz.
“She’s busy with work and Jason,” I say by way of an explanation.
Liam frowns, creases forming on his forehead. He really doesn’t want me to contact Reid. I chew the last bite of my sandwich, savoring the mingling spicy and savory flavors. “What made you bring Reid to my opening?”
“He heard about it and, once he found out we were related, asked to tag along.” He says this like it’s no big deal, but it sends my mind reeling.
Here I’d assumed my brother dragged him along, but Reid knew about my opening ahead of time, had sought out an invite. Now, not to sell my wine short, but what if he had an ulterior motive for attending? Like exacting revenge on a certain critic. Only, Gaskel gave him a glowing review. If Reid was involved, there must have been another reason, perhaps having to do with the reputation he alluded to.
Liam continues, interrupting my thoughts, “If I thought you’d be into him, I would’ve said no. I’m not Tinder.”
“Big left-swipe on that,” I say cheekily.
He exaggerates a flinch. “I don’t want to know anything about my little sister’s swiping.”
We continue our sibling banter, but there’s something simmering below the surface, a forced nonchalance emanating from Liam that sets me on edge.
I only have two customers that afternoon, if you could even count my parents as customers.
They sit at an oak barrel table near the front window. My mom pushes cat-eye glasses up her nose and drums her fingers on the tabletop, her frizzy hair bounding out in all directions. My dad quietly studies the tasting menu, his smartwatch glinting in the sunlight. He likes to stay up-to-date with the most recent technology, which is at odds with the layer of chalk usually coating him.
I steel myself and greet each of them with a hug. My mom gives me an extra squeeze before letting go.
“Welcome to Vino Valentine,” I say. My heart clenches as I gesture to my barren winery. If only the other tables were full of happily imbibing customers.
“It’s lovely, sweetie,” my mom gushes, patting my hand. She readjusts the sparkly grape brooch I gave her for her last birthday. “Your aunt Laura would be proud.”
Her glassy eyes mirror my own.
“This is some place, kid,” my dad says. It’s not easy to impress him—many a student has tried and failed—but he raises his eyebrows so high they’re encroaching on his receding hairline. “I hope you’re not staying open just for us.”
Something lodges itself in my throat. Probably my pride. “No. It’s been pretty dead around here after the excitement of yesterday.”
I force a smile on my face, not wanting to worry them. They get enough of that from my brother.
“That’s so sad about that critic,” my mom says, as if sad can even begin to describe the injustice. “We couldn’t believe it when Liam told us what happened. Have the police found who did it?”
“Not yet,” I say glumly. “The detective was here again this morning.”
“They’ll catch him and people will forget, move on to the next thing,” my dad offers encouragingly.
“Hopefully sooner rather than later,” I mumble, and then switch gears. “Did either of you read Gaskel’s blog?”
They both shake their heads. I shouldn’t be surprised; restaurant trends aren’t really their forte.
“I met him once at the dean’s house,” my dad says. He regularly gets invited to schmoozing events pandering to potential university donors. “If I remember correctly, he spent the majority of the party complaining about the temperature of the stuffed mushrooms.”
“That sounds about right,” I say, recalling the sting of his harsh words about my chardonnay. “Well, what can I get you both?”
“White wine for me,” my mom says. “And sparkling water.”
I scratch my forehead to cover my wince. “At least taste the wine before you make a spritzer. Please.”
Spritzers are delicious in their own right—fizzy and refreshing—but they change the flavor of wine. Ice cubes effectively water down the drink and carbonation masks intricacies of the grapes. After all the time and effort I’ve put into making my wines, it’s honestly a little insulting.
She purses her lips and wriggles in her seat. “Women haven’t worked for generations to have our freedoms snatched away from us . . .” I roll my eyes. This isn’t the first time I’ve heard her feminist spiel, usually reserved for more meaningful matters than cocktail preferences. Luckily, she cuts it short. “No one is here to see anyway.”
“Red wine,” my dad interjects with the even tone of a referee. “Whatever you recommend.”
Grinding my teeth, I seek sanctuary behind the tasting counter and pour their drinks. The Mount Sanitas White for my mom and Campy Cab for my dad. On the house, of course.
I deliver their orders and linger while they sip. They barely swallow before showering me with compliments and, for a minute, I feel like I might be able to do this, like a chink in my battered confidence has been restored.
Maybe my winery actually has a shot.
Then, as I walk away, I hear the telltale sound of ice cubes plunking into a glass and the fizz of carbonation. My mom is making a wine spritzer.
I’m not good with uncertainty. In winemaking, I get to decide which varietals to blend and how long to let the juices macerate, ferment, and age in oak or steel. Every step is science blended with art, yielding results largely under my control.
This is all to say, I spend way too long debating whether to contact Reid.
After a dismal afternoon and with no sales on the horizon, the spritzer incident fresh in my mind, I get desperate. I need to know if he had something to do with the murder, or at the very least, can elaborate on Gaskel’s reputation. If he happens to have marketing ideas, too, all the better.
I carefully construct a text: Hey Reid. This is Parker Valentine, Liam’s sister. Would you be up for grabbing a cup of coffee? There’s something I want to discuss with you.
My pulse quickens as I press send; it’s been ages since I felt nervous about texting a guy. I distract myself by checking social media, which is so utterly depressing I want to chuck my phone into the trash bin.
Luckily, Reid doesn’t make me wait long: Sounds great. Name the time and place.
I type: Tomorrow 9 am, the Laughing Rooster?
He responds in the affirmative, complete with a winking emoji.
That settled, I sit at an oak-barrel table and scroll through electronic receipts to see if any other customer names leap out at me like Moira’s did. No such luck. I’ll have to research each one individually, a task best done in the privacy of my own home. I’d hate to be caught creepily stalking customers, even if it is for a good cause.
“Do you mind if I take off a little early?” Anita asks, startling me. Her apron is already stored beneath the counter and she fingers the straps of her embroidered purse guiltily. “It’s so quiet, I figured . . .”
“As long as it’s not for a job interview,” I respond, only half-kidding. “I’d hate to lose you as an assistant.”
“Of course not,” she says, dimples forming in her round cheeks. “It’s an early yoga class.”
Anita does strike me as the yoga type, lithe and graceful, and with the calm disposition of someone who meditates regularly. “Then absolutely.”
She beams at me in thanks. “The winery will be fine. This is just a storm that needs to be weathered.” With her white cotton dress, thick glasses, and long wavy blond hair, she gives the appearance of someone who’s never experienced hardship.
I suddenly remember her strange behavior with Eli. “Hey, what questions did Detective Fuller ask you?”
“If I saw anything suspicious.” She shifts her weight from one foot to another. “But most of them were about you. How long I’ve known you, what kind of boss you are, that sort of thing. Honestly, he seemed kinda into you.”
I can’t help the laugh that escapes my throat, even as my face flushes. “He’s only interested in me because he thinks I poisoned Gaskel.”
“That makes absolutely no sense. Why would you self-sabotage?”
Loyalty like hers is hard to come by. I give her an appreciative smile. “Because he didn’t like my chardonnay.”
She holds a hand to her chest, her eyes widening. “The Chautauqua Chardonnay? No way.”
“They think the poison was in his glass, but since it went through the dishwasher they can’t be sure it wasn’t my wine.”
“Oh, em, gee.” Her lips tremble and color drains from her face, but her tone takes me aback, almost like she’s saying what’s expected instead of what’s really on her mind.
“Why were you so nervous around the detective?”
I expect her to shrug it off, deny her strange behavior, but she surprises me.
“I guess it’s like when you’re driving, you can’t help but slow down when you see a cop, even if you’re only going the speed limit.” She pauses, twirling a strand of hair around one finger. “You try so hard to act normal, afraid they’ll think you did something wrong, that you end up coming across as, well, not normal.”
“Totally,” I answer. “Too bad, though. I thought you might’ve seen something.”
“I wish,” she says, sniffling. A single tear trickles down her cheek. She wipes it away and tries for a smile, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “I feel helpless.”
The only way to examine the true colors in a glass of wine is to hold it up to the light. The same could be said for people. I consider Anita afresh, her polished exterior, polite demeanor, and youthful innocence. She’s smart—she would have to be to manage her course load—but obviously sheltered.
“Had you met Gaskel before?” I ask, leaning back in the espresso folding chair, the metal cool and grounding.
“No, but I’ve followed his blog since I was a kid. My parents introduced me to Gaskel’s Gastro.” She casts a wayward glance toward the bathroom. “They praised it for promoting Colorado businesses.”
“True,” I say with a sigh. What a harsh reminder that a local legend was destroyed in my winery. “Where are you from?”
She swallows nervously. “I feel like I’m being interrogated. Did I do something wrong?”
“No,” I say quickly, forcing a smile on my face. “I was just curious. You get out of here and enjoy your class.”
Anita hesitates. She grasps the strap of her purse with white knuckles and rocks on her feet—backward and forward—and then shakes her head. “See you,” she finally says with a fake cheeriness and leaves.
One thing is for sure: there’s something she isn’t telling me.
After I close up, I stop by the climbing gym hoping to burn off a bit of lingering stress. The gym has a solid combination of bouldering and climbing walls, and the art deco murals feature peaks from around the Front Range.
Dressed in cargo pants, tank top, and a headband, I strap a chalk bag around my waist and squeeze into my tiny shoes. I’ve always loved the way my feet look in climbing shoes, like they’re meant to careen mountains.
I decide to start with bouldering. No ropes, no harness, no spotter. Just the puzzle of how to get from point A to point B by leveraging your body in certain ways and using the path of bright-colored grips. It’s a practice in balance, patience, and knowing when to take a leap of faith.
Traipsing across the thick cushioned floor, I dust my hands with chalk and select a challenging purple route. I start in the corner at eye level and maneuver myself from one grip to the next, pausing between each move to calculate the next. My back and arm muscles are taut and my legs contract and straighten, every muscle working in unison.
My fingers grow sweaty, so I dip them back into my bag for more chalk, letting my body dangle by one arm with my feet supporting me from below.
I lunge with my arms and the image of Gaskel’s body flashes through my mind. As I pull myself to the next grip, I think about how someone could have done it. There’d been a glass waiting in front of Gaskel when I’d approached him to start his tasting. I didn’t think twice about it then, but Anita and I had both been busy. Who could have gotten it for him?
When I kick my leg out wide to reach the next foothold, I think about what would make someone desperate enough to resort to murder. Was it a bad review or something else that drove them to kill? Was the murder carefully planned or a spur-of-the-moment decision? Did the killer mean to take my business down, too?
I reach the end of the route and let myself fall back onto the cushioned floor with a soft thump. My brain is still buzzing with questions, but it’s quieter than before.
My next step is clear. I need a better understanding of the suspects, and for that I need Sage. While she may not be a restaurant guru, she has a natural affinity for reading people from her experience in trial as a court clerk.
I dust off my hands and call my friend.
Sage and I are like an unexpected food and wine pairing. Green chili and chardonnay, grilled cheese and brut, or peanut butter and pinot noir. Our friendship shouldn’t work but, for some inexplicable reason, it just does.
We’ve been friends ever since we were assigned as roommates freshmen year of college. Whereas I’m more outdoorsy and willing to take risks, she’s the stereotypical indoor kid, into reading, video games, and cosplay.
But our styles mesh.
We both like things tidy but not too tidy, know what it means to work hard, and have a perspective that allows us to not sweat the small stuff.
Sage must have come straight to my apartment from court because she’s still in her power suit—gray slacks, pumps, and a fierce blouse that brings out the red in her hair.
She’s carrying a reusable grocery bag. “I stopped by the farmers market for provisions,” she says, procuring Haystack Mountain goat cheese, rustic oat crackers, and a carton of fresh-picked raspberries from the bag.
“Well played, counselor.” I carefully assemble our snack onto a plate, mouth salivating, and pour us each a glass of pinot.
Zin eyes our nibbles curiously, her pink nose sniffing in approval as I set the plate down on the coffee table. I pluck her up and move her to a pillow I deem a safe distance from the vittles, sinking into the couch next to her. She gives me an affronted look, but is quick to forgive when I pet her silky fur. Zin’s steady purring sets the backdrop for our conversation.
“So what’s up?” Sage asks, a pained edge to her voice. She winces as she reaches for a cracker and slathers it with a healthy layer of chèvre.
Maybe it’s the events of yesterday, but I’m immediately on guard. “What’s wrong?”
“I was moving furniture before work this morning,” she answers, taking a large swig of wine.
“Hey, that’s my favorite pinot. Take your time and enjoy its flavors.” I’ve been trying, and failing, to get Sage into wine tasting since college.
“Tastes like wine,” she says cheekily before leaning back with a contented sigh. I decide not to push it.
I pop a raspberry in my mouth and chase it with a sip of wine, the freshness from the berry pairing perfectly with the smoky undertones. “What furniture were you moving?”
“Jason’s recliner.”
“Wait, why were you moving Jason’s man chair?”
“It wasn’t angled correctly to see the TV and his back was bugging him,” she answers with a shrug. “Which is why he needed the damn recliner in the first place.”
“That’s convenient.”
“We can’t all be an island like you.” She gives me a pointed look over her wineglass. “You know, some people ask for help when they need it. Even The Manual”—Sage’s nickname for the esteemed Judge Manuel Acosta for his encyclopedic knowledge of the legal system—“needs assistance sometimes. As he proved when he threw an intellectual property case on my desk at the last minute today.”
I roll my shoulders, which are already tightening from climbing. “Actually, that’s why I called you. I need your help.”
“You’re not personally liable, if that’s what you’re worried about.” Her phone buzzes; she checks the screen briefly before silencing it and putting it in her bag. That’s the thing about Sage: whenever I need her, she’s there for me with her one-hundred-percent laser focus.
“I hadn’t even thought of that,” I say with a groan. I take another sip of wine, letting the fruity flavors roll over my tongue, and then continue, “I need you to tell me what you noticed from yesterday.”
“Why don’t you ask Liam?” she asks. “He was there with his camera. Photo documentation would be more credible.”
“I’m fully planning on combing through his pictures.” I take my headband off and rub my temples. “But Liam doesn’t know people like you do. Did you notice anyone who was off, or who gave off a strange vibe?”
Sage gets cozy on the couch on the other side of Zin, removing her lavish black strappy shoes. I make a mental note to borrow them for my next night out, whenever that might be.
“There was the couple who got into that very public, and messy, fight,” Sage starts, scratching behind Zin’s ears. “They continued to bicker the rest of the time, although quietly, and did not seem happy about being stuck there while the officers did their once-over.”
“That would be Moira and her husband, Carrick. They own Murphy’s Bend Vineyards. She stopped by earlier to apologize for all the drama, and to offer some friendly business advice.”
“Maybe she felt guilty for offing the critic and dooming your business. Not that it’s doomed,” she adds hurriedly. “But her advice could’ve been a sort of karmic olive branch.”
“True.” I cock my head to the side. “Guess I’ll be paying them a visit and trying their wine. A tasting is the perfect cover to probe for information.”
“Let me know when you’re going and I’ll tag along.”
“Deal,” I say, giving her an appreciative smile. All it took was a murder investigation to pique her interest in wine tasting. “Okay, what else?”
“Jason knew one of the guys from the table of recent grads, said he was acting strange, almost like he was embarrassed about something. He did seem a bit”—she takes a sip of wine while searching for the right word—“twitchy, I guess. But that could be who he is. Either way, the twitchy ones always cave.”
I stifle a groan. I’ll have to ask Jason for the customer’s name, a task for tomorrow. “Anything else?”
“That Reid guy is interesting. He really doesn’t care what anyone thinks of him.” She munches on a cracker, musing. “But I didn’t get the sense he was hiding anything. Plus, your brother can vouch for him.”
“We both know Liam’s never been the best judge of character. Remember Penny?” I ask, referring to one of my brother’s worst moves, bringing a girl to Thanksgiving dinner. Let’s just say Penny made off with more than her namesake. “Luckily I’m having coffee with Reid in the morning, so I can find out for sure.”
“Ooh, intrigue.” She nudges me with her foot. “Let me know how it goes.”
“Of course.” I clink my glass with hers. “Cheers.”
Later that night, I sit alone at the small bistro-style table on my balcony with my laptop open in front of me. Crickets chirp lazily in the darkness and a cool breeze grazes my cheek. I zip up my hoodie and twirl the drawstrings between two fingers.
I start by typing aconitine into a search window and click on the top hit, a summary of the horrible side effects of the poison: numbness of the feet and limbs, extreme nausea, difficulty breathing, confusion, and worse.
My stomach twists and sweat beads on my forehead, almost like I’m experiencing phantom pity pains. I shake it off and study a picture of the delicate purple flower aconitine stems from, also known as wolfsbane, or monkshood because of the way its petals curl together like a hood. Every part of the plant is extremely poisonous and it just so happens to grow especially well in mountainous regions of the northern hemisphere—that would be Boulder.
I let out a long exhale and open a fresh tab before I make myself sick.
The homepage of Gaskel’s blog pays tribute to the man behind the reviews. There are hundreds of messages—fans sending condolences and wishes that he rest in peace.
But there are other messages, too. Unexpected ones calling him a fraud and worse.
Like FlavorVille55, who says: They say those that can’t, teach. I say those who can’t, review. The only thing you could do was tear others down.
Or the mildly threatening devils_food99, who claims: You ruined my family. I was orphaned because of you. You deserve what you got.
And even an accusatory comment from Flygurl15, who says: I know about the kickbacks u got. Glad ur gone.
Now, I know the internet is full of trolls, but I wonder if there’s any truth to their charges.
I read Gaskel’s bio twice. It seems only fair that if you see someone in death, you should know something about their life.
He was a Colorado native from Breckenridge, where his sister still resides. Gaskel was always passionate about food, but was never interested in becoming a chef. After earning a degree in journalism from Syracuse, he moved back to Colorado and started blogging about food and wine. He worked for various news publications until they slowly puttered out of print, at which point his blog had gained enough followers for him to pursue it full time. No significant other is mentioned; in fact, he always dined alone at establishments he reviewed. The bio closes with a picture of him in a casual fleece sweater posing with his terrier named Pico.
Gaskel clearly worked hard for his success, his solitary lifestyle indicating he likely chose his profession over a personal life, something I can relate to.
I glance at Zin, my companion extraordinaire, who is waiting patiently on the other side of the kitchen window, swishing her tail and staring wistfully outside. I pluck a leaf of catnip from the plant I keep on the balcony and slip it inside, much to Zin’s delight. Through glass panes in the balcony doors, I watch as she munches on the leaf. Soon she’s rolling around on the ground, batting at the curtain cord. I smile at her playfulness and then get back to work.
The archives of Gaskel’s blog include reviews for hundreds of restaurants, diners, wineries, and even a few microbreweries. Seriously, the guy was so prolific he could have hosted his own show on the Food Network.
Fleetingly, I wonder what made him attend my dinky opening. Was he legitimately interested in reviewing it, or was there some other purpose to his visit? I may never know.
I find his review of Murphy’s Bend and sink lower into my chair. As I read, my fingers tingle and a chill creeps up my spine.
His words are scathing. He wrote that their wine—with the exception of the Bend It Red—tasted artificial and one-note, and he was especially harsh on their cab, which he referred to as a viable substitute for battery acid. Ouch.
Scrolling through the numerous comments, I get a sense of the toll his review must have taken on their business.
Moira Murphy certainly had a motive, but what she lacked was opportunity. She couldn’t have slipped something into Gaskel’s wine; she never left the table. But her husband did.
Carrick went to the restroom to freshen up after his wife threw her wine at him. He could have easily made a detour to the bar without Anita or me noticing. We’d both been so scattered, cleaning, keeping up with tables, and, of course, pandering to the esteemed critic.
What were they fighting about that escalated so quickly? I mean, that level of drama is usually reserved for prime time, not real life. Unless the whole interchange had been staged, it was a clever way to take the focus away from the bar. But then what was with the hushed bickering Sage overheard?
I gnaw on my bottom lip, changing gears. Even if I don’t trust Moira or her husband, I’d be a fool not to heed her tip. As promised, sent to Vino Valentine’s business account, is a list of VIP clients from Murphy @MurphyBend.com. She included a warm salutation and brief note wishing me luck.
I’ve always believed hard work trumps luck, but I’d need both to resurrect my business.
I start formatting an invitation, picking this Thursday as a date, figuring I can do a classy spin on Thirsty Thursday, a common utterance in our college town. With no time to waste, I select a black-and-white photograph to push it over the top—make it more VIP—and draft the verbiage. I want it to sound upscale but not snooty.
My phone buzzes, causing me to jump and bonk my knee against the table. It’s a text from Sage: don’t check social media.
I send a quick reply: ignorance isn’t an option for me right now.
She responds with the monkey emoji covering its eyes.
It can’t possibly be that bad, right? The upside to social media is that it has a short attention span. There’s always a shiny new story.
Bracing myself, I log in to Twitter, Facebook, and Instagram.
Not only is #KillerChardonnay still trending, but now Vino Valentine and my personal account are both being mentioned, and slammed. Over and over and over. By users who don’t realize there’s a real person reading their notes, a person who had no part in what happened to the Gaskel Brown.
I slam my laptop shut when I can’t take any more, feeling even more determined to track down Gaskel’s killer. Not only will they have his fans and the justice system to contend with, but they’ll also have to answer to yours truly.