Six
I get to the Laughing Rooster early the next morning in a pitiful attempt to calm my nerves. Having been up since dawn, I’ve already consumed more than my fair share of caffeine. Still, I greedily slurp my latte as I search for a suitable table.
I choose one tucked away in a private corner with a view of the entrance, stashing my purse and climbing bag underneath. Vibrant paintings by local artists hang on the walls, price tags dangling from each one, and the scents of espresso and freshly baked pastries waft through the air.
My foot bobs along with the bluesy music playing over the loudspeakers. I can’t stop fidgeting. I smooth my hands over my striped pencil skirt and make sure my blouse is tucked in just the right amount.
Then, all at once, I freeze.
Reid saunters into the café, the sunlight highlighting the amber and gold tones in his mussed sandy hair, reminding me of a glass of port. In slim-fitted jeans and a T-shirt, he appears relaxed as can be. He scans the café—his eyes lazily roaming over study groups and mommy playdates—until they land on me. I start and give a sheepish wave.
He puts in his order with the very smitten barista before making his way toward me.
“Thanks for meeting me,” I say by way of a greeting.
His lips twitch as he takes the seat across from me and rests his elbows on the table. Again I notice the scars lining his forearms, only now I recognize them for what they are: oven burns.
“Gotta admit,” he says, “I’m intrigued, and that doesn’t happen often.”
The barista delivers Reid’s coffee, a warm sticky bun dotted with pecans, and two forks. She winks at Reid before retreating, her neck flushed.
“I’ve never even gotten a smile out of her, let alone table service,” I muse.
He flashes me a devilish grin, I imagine the same one that made the barista swoon.
“That won’t work on me,” I say, taking a sip of my latte.
“It was worth a shot.” He turns his attention to the sticky bun. “No serious talk before breakfast. Help yourself.” He takes a large mouthful, chewing thoughtfully.
My eyes are drawn to his lips and, too late, I realize he’s watching me. I shift under his gaze and, picking up the other fork, take a tiny bite. The morsel melts on my tongue, sweet, tangy, and nutty. “Oh my God, it’s unfair how amazing this is.”
I can practically see the wheels in his brain whirring. “They must make their dough in-house. It’s flaky, buttery, and the cinnamon permeates every layer. I’ll have to ask for the recipe.”
We devour the rest of the sticky bun, matching each other bite for bite until only one remains. Reid insists I take it and after a halfhearted refusal, I succumb to the sweetness.
It’s not until I’m daintily wiping my mouth with a napkin that I realize I just shared a pastry with a potential murderer, one whose go-to is poison. The only thing that keeps me steady is the fact he would have had to poison himself to get to me, and he’s too smart—and too cocky—to do that. Nonetheless, I really need to keep my guard up.
“So, you said you wanted to discuss something,” Reid says, resting one arm over the back of his chair. If he noticed my momentary freak-out, he doesn’t let on.
“Yes,” I say, scooting to the edge of my seat. “I need your advice.”
“How about we make a deal?”
“What sort of deal?” I ask, apprehensive. Reid doesn’t seem like someone I want to hop into bed with. Business-wise, of course.
He digs in his pocket and removes the Vino Valentine menu he took from the opening. There are deep creases like it’s been folded and unfolded many times, and there are notes scribbled next to each wine even though I’m pretty sure he only tried the Campy Cab.
Before I can decipher his handwriting, he pulls the menu away. “I’ll help you if you do me a solid.”
I purse my lips, running a finger around the rim of my mug. “You don’t even know what I need your help for.”
He cocks his head to the side, considering me. “You’re Liam’s sister, I trust you.”
Reid has a lot of faith in my brother, arguably too much. “I’m not agreeing to anything, but go ahead. You’ve got my attention.”
“I liked your wine. It was bold, full of flavor.” He says this with such authority I can’t help but feel flattered.
“Where did you hear about my opening, anyway?” Maybe it was the same place as Gaskel, which would solve at least one mystery.
He leans forward and whispers, “There’s this thing, you may have heard of it, it’s called the internet.”
“Oh, that.” I click my tongue and match his sarcasm. “Newfangled technology, hashtags and such. Yes, I’ve heard of it.”
Reid clears his throat and continues, “Anyway, as I was saying, I liked your wine. I have no doubt the rest are just as delicious.”
I raise one eyebrow. “I guess I should be relieved someone feels that way.”
“What do you mean? You had a roomful of people enjoying your craftsmanship.”
Reid wouldn’t know about Gaskel’s notes. The only silver lining to this whole mess is that Gaskel’s blog was never published. Reid has no idea Gaskel used words like sour, bitter, and amateur to describe my wine.
I let out a sigh and say, “Let’s just say Gaskel wasn’t particularly fond of my chardonnay.”
“And that bothers you because . . .” He twirls his finger, eyes narrowed in puzzlement.
My pent-up frustration soars like a cork ready to pop. “He is—was—notorious for his palate. Of course it bothers me.”
Reid shakes his head and takes another sip of coffee, looking amused.
“You wouldn’t understand,” I snap. “Gaskel gushed over your cooking.”
Anger flashes in his green eyes and he leans forward lightning quick. “You’re putting too much weight in his opinion. There’s a reason I got such a good review and it has nothing to do with my cooking.”
Now we’re getting to the good stuff, the crux of what I really want to know. “What did it have to do with, then?”
“Money,” he says, clenching his jaw. “But I don’t want to talk about Gaskel.”
“Well, I do.” I cross my arms over my chest. “Did he accept bribes? Is that the reputation you were alluding to?”
Reid stares at me for so long I’m convinced he’s not going to answer. Luckily, I grew up with an older brother who’s also a stubborn pain in the ass. I hold my ground.
Finally Reid sighs and says, defeated, “Gaskel gave good reviews to restaurants that paid well, and to those that didn’t, or couldn’t, he’d ruin with a few taps at his keyboard.” He clears his throat. “So I’d forget what he said about your chardonnay.”
I lean back, completely stupefied. “That makes no sense. He didn’t approach me for money.”
“Maybe he never got the chance to.”
“How do you know this?” Although what I really want to ask is how long he’s known. Gaskel may have solidified Reid’s reputation as a chef, but Reid seems like the type to resent its having been bought.
“That’s between me and my employer, which is what I want to talk to you about.” Reid pierces me with his eyes before continuing, “I want you to sell me your wine at a wholesale price.”
Laughter bubbles out of me, the kind where I’m momentarily afraid it might turn into a sob. “Why would I do that? I’m struggling to make ends meet as is.”
“Because I want to open my own restaurant,” he says, giving me a look of sheer determination. “And I want to feature your wine.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“I never joke about food. Your wine has the local flair I’ve been looking for.” He pushes the menu across the table so I can read what’s scribbled next to each wine. They’re dishes. Succulent farm-to-table dishes that would pair beautifully with each varietal. Leek and chive frittata topped with Provençal goat cheese, trout roasted with dill and cherry tomatoes, and Burgundy beef with mashed celery root and fresh-cut asparagus. “These are based on your descriptions of each wine. They’ll need tweaking after I taste them, but it’s a start.”
I lean back in my chair, blinking several times. This could be huge for my business. Only, this kind of thing takes time, time I most certainly don’t have. “How soon?”
“I already have the space and the bulk of the plans drawn up. Opening would be in September.”
That’s four months away and I was already worried about surviving the summer. “I would love to. Really, I would. But I’m not sure I’ll be in business then.” The harsh reality makes my shoulders slump forward. I think back to the trending hashtag on social media and shudder. “People aren’t exactly lining up to taste wine where someone was murdered. I’m not sure how to recover from this.”
He’s quiet for a minute, sipping his coffee before answering, “This is free publicity. Maybe there’s a way you can spin the narrative in your favor.”
“The only way I can think of to do that is to figure out who killed Gaskel.” I let my words sink in, monitoring his reaction carefully. “Where exactly were you when he was poisoned?”
“Very subtle,” he says with a snort. He rubs his bicep, a fork tattoo peeking out from under his shirt sleeve. “I was helping your brother get some shots, holding lenses, lining stuff up, that sort of thing.”
That’s easy enough to verify with Liam. “Did you see anything?”
“Just the regrettable actions of the intoxicated.”
“What do you mean?”
“The chick who dumped her wine on her date, a guy getting shot down by your assistant, the usual fare of restaurant life.”
“Huh,” I say, my foot bobbing again, this time in thought. “Any idea who got Gaskel his wineglass?”
Reid shakes his head and lowers his voice to a hurried whisper. “Look, poking around in Gaskel’s death is a terrible idea. First off, it could be extremely dangerous. Secondly, what if you get caught interfering with the police investigation? That could backfire.”
I speak with a confidence I wish I felt. “It’s a risk I have to take.”
“I can’t in good conscience let you do this alone.” He runs a hand through his mussed hair and lets out a sigh. “I’ll chat with the owner of The Pantry. He’s in town and might have more insight into how Gaskel conducted his—er—side business.”
“Thank you,” I say, relieved to have someone on my side.
“Don’t thank me yet.” He reaches his hand across the table. “If we can keep your business from failing, will you work with me?”
I hesitate, eyeing his outstretched hand, my brain reeling through pros and cons. There are no cons except that I don’t entirely trust Reid. Or maybe it’s that I don’t trust myself around him. Either way, dare I turn down this opportunity?
In the end, Reid’s offer is too good to resist. I force myself to ignore the electricity that travels up my arm at his touch when we shake hands. Now that we’re working together professionally, it’s even more imperative we don’t get involved romantically. And that I prove he’s not a killer, of course.
We spend the rest of the meeting discussing ways to keep Vino Valentine afloat. I even tell him about the VIP party, which he offers to prepare dishes for, a sort of trial run for his restaurant. We part ways with a promise to schedule a time for him to taste the rest of my wines ASAP.
After I get settled in at the winery, I shoot Liam a text asking for an ETA on the pictures from my opening. Bonus, I’ll be able to pick his brain about the deal I just struck with Reid.
It doesn’t take him long to respond: Stop by tomorrow AM, not too early. Bring coffee.
I send him a thumbs-up and then turn my attention to the VIP party.
Given the party is only a few days away, I need to finalize the verbiage for the invites, now able to boast food pairings along with wine. Which is why I’m currently perched at my tasting counter—why go in the back when I don’t have customers, anyway?—tapping away on my laptop.
Before I second-guess myself, I click send, casting the invites into cyberspace. There’s no backing out now. I immediately refresh the screen, already obsessing over RSVPs.
Jeez, Parker, give people a second.
To distract myself from compulsively checking my email, I make note of what supplies I’ll need to procure, putting in an order for extra banquet tables, utensils, and linens with a rental company.
Anita pretends to stay busy, although I catch her playing with her phone whenever she thinks I’m not watching. There’s no need for the act; I know there isn’t enough work to justify her being here, but I don’t have the heart to send her home. Plus, I like having the company.
The bell above the door jingles and I hurriedly close my computer and stash it under the counter. Anita nonchalantly slips her phone in her pocket. We paste matching smiles on our faces to greet the new customer. But it’s not a customer. In fact, it’s one of my least favorite people.
My smile falters as Jason walks through the door. I nod at Anita to let her know I’ll handle this. She waltzes into the back with a shrug, ponytail swinging behind her, already palming her phone.
I’m not used to seeing Jason without Sage as a buffer. He’s wearing khakis with a collared boating shirt and puka-shell necklace, which is odd since, to my knowledge, he’s never been on a boat or to Hawaii. It makes me wonder if there’s anything authentic about him.
“Hi,” I say, the greeting sounding more like a question.
He peers around the winery, shifting awkwardly. “It’s dead in here.”
Thank you, Captain Obvious. I cross my arms over my chest. “Can I get you a taste of something?”
He grunts and slouches onto a barstool. “The sweet one.”
I pull a glass from the floating shelf of pristine crystal stemware and pour him a taster of Ralphie’s Riesling, wracking my brain for a polite conversation topic. Then I remember what Sage said the night before about how Jason knew one of the recent graduates who had attended my opening, and that he was acting strange.
We start talking at the same time. “Sage said—” I start.
“I know—” he says.
I chuckle nervously and wave for him to go ahead.
“No, you first,” he says, fidgeting with the stem of his glass, not taking a sip. I wonder if he believes the morbid rumors flying around social media. Or if he even knows how to use social media. “I insist.”
“Sage mentioned you recognized someone at the opening.”
He looks confused for a moment, but that might also just be how his face is naturally. “You must mean Max,” he says. “We’re on an ultimate team together.”
Ultimate Frisbee is a popular, and serious, pastime in Boulder. There’s nary an evening when two teams aren’t facing off with a disc in local parks, goals identified by colorful cones or whatever environmental markers are available. I know from Sage that Jason takes ultimate Frisbee very seriously, his mood entirely dependent on whether his team wins or loses.
“The Frisbros?” I ask, the name of his team somehow lodged in my brain.
“Yeah.”
“How’s your season going?”
He shrugs and grumbles, “It’d be better if the rest of the team would make the same level of commitment I do.”
“Right,” I say. Too bad he can’t put the same level of commitment into his career, relationship, and general upkeep. “Did Max do or say anything . . . unusual?”
“I dunno, I guess. He seemed nervous, like he didn’t really want to talk to me.”
Well, that’s not terribly surprising given this is Jason, but I should still do my due diligence for the sake of the investigation.
“Any chance you could give me his contact information?”
“Going for a younger guy?” he asks with a smirk.
“Hardly.” I hesitate, my need for Max’s number trumping my (entirely justified) trust issues. “You said it yourself, my winery is dead. Unless I can figure out what happened to Gaskel, which is why I’m tugging on every loose thread.”
“I was with Sage the whole time,” Jason says, trying for a joke.
I chuckle halfheartedly as he scrolls through the list of contacts on his phone.
“Have you had any more computer issues?” he asks without looking up.
Jason works in the IT department at CU, the same job he’s had since we were undergrads. A few weeks ago, he tried and failed to troubleshoot a bug with the billing software installed on my laptop. Sage forced him—and me, for that matter—into it. He poked halfheartedly at the keyboard for twenty minutes before advising me to try a different piece of software. Having already invested a decent chunk of change into the one I had, I rebooted as a Hail Mary and presto!, problem solved.
“Thankfully, no,” I answer. “That is one area of my life that’s going smoothly.”
Jason grunts and turns his phone toward me.
Once I’ve secured Max’s number, I rest my elbows on the countertop. “Okay, so what did you want to talk about?”
Jason downs his wine in one gulp. “Look, I know you don’t think I’m good enough for Sage.”
The truth hangs in the space between us. I don’t deny it, curious to see where he’s going with this.
Jason continues, “Truth is, I don’t feel good enough for her most of the time, but I want to be.” His eyes are glassy and for a second I’m worried he’s going to cry.
I sigh heavily, not meeting his gaze. “Sage could do worse.”
As the product of a scumbag dad and a doormat mom, Sage has scars that run deep when it comes to love. Which is why she’s clinging to her first love, the first guy who asked her out in high school and then followed her to college and beyond. It’s why she won’t put up with crap from anyone, but for some reason has blinders on when it comes to Jason.
“She deserves the best,” Jason says.
“I agree wholeheartedly.” And that most certainly is not you, I think to myself.
He exhales and I can tell he’s circling around telling me the reason he stopped by. “I can’t wait for my career to get on track to show her I’m serious. Especially when there’s something I can do right now.”
I can see his point; he’d be waiting a long time. In order to get his career on track, he needs to actually have a career. Not that there’s anything wrong with IT; it requires patience and being on the bleeding edge of technology. It’s just that I don’t get the sense Jason actually likes it. In fact, even after all the time I’ve known him, I don’t know what he is passionate about. Besides the Frisbros, of course.
“And what’s that?” I ask.
Jason messes with his phone again and holds it up so I can see the screen. “Which of these rings do you think Sage will like better?”
I feel like I’ve had the wind knocked out of me. I pour myself a small glass of the first wine I can get my hands on, the Pearl Street Pinot, and, against my upbringing, know-how, and respect for wine, I down it in one gulp.
I pull myself together and refocus on Jason. “You do realize these are engagement rings, right?”
“Come on, Parker, give me some credit.”
“Just checking,” I say, taking his phone from him. He’s flagged two rings, neither of which is right for Sage. Her style is classic with a modern twist, or something of the elfin variety, while both of these rings scream gothic grandma.
I hand back his phone, buying time. How do I tell him these rings are all wrong? That, in fact, he is all wrong? “Mmm, tough choice.”
“I’m leaning toward the one with amethysts. Chicks dig purple, right?”
“Oh, absolutely. However . . .” I squint, not sure how to break it to him. “I’d go for a square-cut diamond—make sure they’re humanely sourced since that’s important to Sage—thin gold band, minor gem accents, maybe green to contrast with her hair.”
Jason looks like he just swallowed something sour. “I only wanted to know which of these you’d pick for her. Apparently, that’s too much to ask of her best friend.”
“Fine,” I snap, hands on my hips. “The one on the right, only because it’s the less dreadful of the two. Are we done here? Because I’m clearly very busy.” What I would give to have a bustling winery right now.
“Thank you,” he says curtly. “Now that’s settled, I have one more favor to ask. Don’t pit Sage against me.”
“What?” I ask, genuinely confused.
“You’re her best friend, she listens to you, respects your opinion. Let her decide this on her own.”
“Sage is a strong woman.” Too strong for you, I want to add. “She’ll answer for herself. Is that all?”
“Yeah.” His eyes bulge like a bug’s. “Good luck with everything, and tell Max I said to drag his lazy ass to Frisbro practice.” With that, he stalks out of my winery, letting the door slam shut behind him.
It’s not until he’s gone that I wonder about the timing of his proposal, and his quick assertion of an alibi. Perhaps I need to consider Jason more seriously as a suspect.
“What a douche,” Anita says, returning to the front of the store, shaking her blond head. “By the way, I rearranged the labels.”
I ignore the fact that Anita somehow managed to find something to organize. “What am I going to do? I promised to stay out of it.”
My head thunks against the counter, raven hair splaying around me, a sense of helplessness seeping in. Am I really going to lose my best friend to that jerk?
“There’s a loophole,” Anita offers. “A couple subtle questions would be acceptable.”
I lift my head and look at her.
“Ask about other fish in the sea, that sort of thing.”
“You’re right,” I say, smoothing out my hair.
Inspired, I send Sage a text: Are you still up for that tasting?
She must not be in court because she responds a minute later: Tomorrow? I’m slammed with a case, going to be a late night . . .
Hopefully Jason will wait a couple of days to make his big move. I send back a thumbs-up along with: 6:00. I’ll meet you at Murphy’s Bend.
“Murphy’s Bend, huh?” Anita asks, peering at my phone. She dips her chin in embarrassment. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to snoop.”
I set my phone upside down on the counter. “It’s okay. I figure I can do a little recon while warning Sage.”
Anita rests her elbows on the counter, draping her ponytail over her shoulder. “Isn’t it, like, more important to focus on Vino Valentine than worrying about what the competition is doing?”
“In business, you have to balance both. You know what they say: ‘Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.’” Especially when murder is involved.
“Please be careful.” She levels me with a steely gaze, one that says she has more backbone than I’ve given her credit for. “You’re a good person and an awesome boss.”
I nod, my throat constricting, and quietly watch the people strolling by the Vino Valentine storefront window, none of them even glancing inside. In fact, they seem to be trying awfully hard not to see us.
To avoid sinking into a pit of despair, I take a deep breath and channel my energy into my studious mentee. “Let’s talk about you, Anita. Have you thought more about your plans after you graduate?”
“I’m considering grad school. It’s a tough market right now; I need an advanced degree to set me apart if I’m going to land a decent position.”
“What about opening your own business?”
“I’ve seen how hard you’ve worked to open Vino Valentino and I guess I’m not sure it’s the life I want anymore.” She shrugs, plays with the end of her ponytail, her eyes flitting to mine nervously. “Is it worth the sacrifice?”
I don’t have an answer for her. This is by far the hardest thing I’ve ever done, and most of the time I feel completely insane for going for it. But I’m not sure what my life would be like without my dream. The prospect terrifies me, almost more than confronting a murderer.
“You’ll have to decide what’s right for you.” I pause, taking in the space I’ve worked so hard to create. “As for me, I’m proud that I’m living my dream. If I were to die tomorrow, at least I’ll know I tried.”