Eight
I show up at my parents’ house early the next morning with two Laughing Rooster coffees in tow. My childhood home is a picturesque brick two-story in North Boulder with large pine trees dotting the front yard and sleek solar panels on the roof. It’s only as an adult that I’ve come to appreciate the value of such an abode.
I went casual today, skinny jeans with a blouse and flat leather sandals, perfect for tromping around their yard in order to reach the separate basement entrance in the back where Liam resides. My parents have probably already left for work anyway, not that I particularly feel like chatting with them. My mother would smother me with concern over the investigation and my father would shift into professor mode, and underneath it all would be this unspoken, simmering tension: I’m not sure they believe in me.
My parents have what they jokingly refer to as the Liam Fund. This represents a sum of money set aside for when Liam needs to be bailed out of whatever situation he’s gotten himself into, like the massive debt he incurred from the day-trading debacle.
That by itself is fine. I get it; parents love unconditionally. But here’s the thing: my parents have never helped me out financially.
Sure, my dad’s role at the university meant I basically got a free education. Which I don’t take for granted. I paid for room and board through work-study programs and, after college, landed a gig that helped me pad my savings account.
But when I voiced my desire to open Vino Valentine, they didn’t see fit to give me a single penny. Even as they were paying for Liam’s base amp for his dream to become a mega-star musician.
I was scraping together funds, living on ramen and coffee, and talking with investors when my aunt Laura passed away. What she’d given me was more than just money, it was proof that someone in my family believed in me. And I would trade it all in for the chance to talk with her again, even just once.
If my parents truly believed in me, wouldn’t they have at least offered to help me out when I needed it? Wouldn’t they have found a way to attend my opening? Wouldn’t my mom have refrained from making a spritzer out of my carefully crafted wine? These are questions my fragile ego can’t handle right now.
I’m darting under a pine tree branch when I hear my mom’s voice, like shattering glass in the silence. “Parker, what are you doing here?”
I freeze and turn, chewing my lower lip. “Um, going to see Liam about something.”
“Tell him we had a deal about the smell,” she says with a sniff, leaving me perplexed. Her purse and lunch tote are slung over one shoulder and the keys to her Nissan LEAF are at the ready.
She peers over the top of her glasses, piercing me with her analytical blue eyes as if I were a chemical formula that could be balanced. “Have there been any developments in the investigation?”
My mom can always tell when I’m lying, so it’s best to keep it vague. “Not really.”
She utters a swearword that takes me by surprise. I’m tempted to go hug her, because sometimes, no matter how old you are, all you need is the comfort of your mom. Then she speaks again . . .
“I talked to my boss and there’s an entry-level analyst position open.” She fidgets with her car keys, her beaker key chain glinting in the sunlight. “Let me know if you’re interested.”
I see red, as if looking at the world through a rosé filter. I hear the clink of ice cubes and fizz as if she’s making a spritzer all over again. My own mother doesn’t think I can do this.
I square my shoulders and force myself to say, “I’m not giving up on Vino Valentine yet.”
“I figured you’d say that,” she says, pursing her lips.
I raise both to-go mugs in her direction. “I’d better get moving before the coffee gets cold.”
A debate plays out on her face, like there’s more she wants to say, but she opens her car door and waves me off. “Remember to tell Liam about the smell.”
“Of course,” I answer with a forced smile.
I continue around the house at a brisk pace, only relaxing when her car finally backs out of the driveway.
After a few minutes of persistent knocking, Liam answers the door in a wrinkled undershirt and pajama bottoms, his dark hair sticking out in every direction. He rubs his eyes and yawns. “One of those had better be for me.”
“With a splash of hazelnut, just how you like.” I take a large gulp of my own latte, letting the caffeine give me energy. I didn’t get much sleep. Eli graciously gave my apartment a once-over when he dropped me off, but I was still awake most of the night, perched on the couch with Zin in my lap, wide-eyed and twitching at every noise.
Liam grunts and guzzles his coffee, waving for me to follow him inside. The basement is like a lair, only the upper half of a single window allowing light in. The mixture of college-era posters, cast-off furniture, and storage boxes makes the space feel chaotic, and an aroma similar to dill pickles wafts through the air, a scent I know is from the chemicals Liam uses to develop film. Now I know what my mom meant about the smell.
Liam disappears into what used to be a linen closet but now serves as a makeshift darkroom. A paper cutter and trays of chemicals line the built-in shelves, and a thick black curtain hangs over the doorway.
While I wait, I peruse the photographs pinned to a clothesline draped along one wall, a variety of landscapes, stills, and portraits. I pause in front of an especially poignant one, a picture of a street performer playing the violin. The woman’s face is lined with wrinkles and her eyes are shut, the barest hint of a smile on her lips. She’s completely absorbed in her music, passion pouring from her fingertips into her instrument. In short, it’s beautiful. A tear prickles at the corner of my eye.
Liam is good. Really good. I just hope he sticks with it.
Liam returns with a handful of prints. “These are amazing,” I say, gesturing to the photographs, my gaze lingering on the musician.
He gives me a noncommittal shrug.
“Seriously, you should enter them into a contest or something.”
“I’ll think about it.” He frowns and it’s clear he’ll do no such thing. He passes me the stack of prints. “Do you want to look at these or not?”
“Coward,” I mumble, shaking my head. I can’t blame him; criticism is tough. I still haven’t fully recovered from Gaskel’s negative comments about my wine, even after discovering there were other influencing factors. You know, like poison and bribes.
Liam flops onto the couch and resumes gulping his coffee. He closes his eyes and leans his head back. “Just gonna rest my eyes for a sec.”
I sort through the black-and-white prints, shocked by the quality. The lighting and style are unique and edgy, and there’s an authenticity to each one.
There are decent shots of wine and decor that will be perfect for the Vino Valentine website, but where Liam really shines is with people. He managed to snap a picture of pretty much everyone at the opening and, moreover, at vulnerable moments when they’ve let their guard down.
He captured Moira staring down her husband, one hand clenched into a fist and the other holding the glass of wine that would soon become a projectile, a look of utter desperation on her face. Sage gazing at Jason, the latter distracted by something offscreen, which pretty much sums up their relationship. Another of Sage, this time laughing, her eyes twinkling. Anita smiling sweetly, the light reflected in her glasses, and Max in the background checking her out. Maybe he’s not as infatuated with his new girlfriend as I thought.
Then there’s one of me with a giant grin on my face and my shoulders thrown back in pride. I look so happy. Naive. I click my tongue and continue.
The next photo features Gaskel pawing at his empty glass mere minutes before his fatal sip. I scan the image for clues. His fancy watch glints on his wrist, and there’s no sign of the piece of paper that was sticking out of his front pocket. He has the same haughty demeanor I remember so well, but at this particular instant, Gaskel appears distracted, his eyes cast to the side and his neck craned as if he were searching for someone. Then I recall he said he’d been waiting for someone. I would bet a case of Cristal he attended my opening for another reason besides my craftsmanship. If only I knew what that reason was, and who he was supposed to meet.
No one ever did turn up looking for him, unless the flashing lights of the police cars and ambulance scared them off. But maybe the meeting was a ruse, a way to get him to my winery at that specific time.
In the background, fuzzy and out of focus, a shadow falls over the bottle of chardonnay on the counter of the tasting bar, and in the upper-left-hand corner are what look like fingers and a large ring hovering over his glass.
I home in on the shadow and the pale fingers, faintly wondering if this could be the hand of the murderer. Was there any hesitation, a slight tremble, at the gravity of taking another life? There’s no telling, and nothing distinguishing apart from the ring, and I don’t recognize the gaudy accessory.
I flip to the last print—Reid holding a glass of wine to the light, his hair mussed and sleeve tattoo barely visible. I may stare at the picture a moment too long.
“You’ve got it bad,” Liam says, one eye open as he nestles deeper into the couch.
I stammer an excuse. “I was looking at the background.”
Liam doesn’t buy it. “I don’t know why chicks like that guy so much,” he says. “It’s impossible to go out with him anymore. He’s the worst wingman.”
I shift from one foot to the other, leaning against the armrest. There’s no great way to segue into checking someone’s alibi. “Was Reid helping you frame shots at my opening when Gaskel walked in?”
“Yeah, but I’m not gonna let him take all the credit.”
I smile as if artistic attribution was why I was curious. “Did you know he wants to open his own restaurant?”
“Sure, he’s been planning it for the last year or so.”
“He wants to feature my wine.” I wait for Liam’s reaction. Even though my brother is a mess professionally, I value his opinion.
“Really?” Liam asks, eyebrows raised.
“Is that so hard to believe?”
“Guess not. He’s into the whole local scene.” He peers at me from the couch. “Seriously, though, don’t start something with him. It won’t end well for either of you.”
“Hypothetically speaking, why not?”
“Because he’s not a relationship guy and you’re, well, opinionated.”
“You say ‘opinionated’ like it’s a bad thing.”
“It is when you’re the reason my former best friend ghosted me.”
Guilt prickles at the back of my neck. I try to rub it away but, like a pesky itch, it remains. “That was on him.” Mostly. “Look, I promised it wouldn’t turn into another Guy situation and I meant it.”
His face a map of skepticism, Liam stands and stretches, downing the rest of his coffee. “I’ve gotta get to work.”
“Work?” I ask in disbelief. “As in a job?”
“Landscaping. I’m on a crew for the city.” Our skin is naturally olive, but now that he mentions it, he’s a deeper tan than usual, and fitter—healthier. The dirty work boots he wore when we had lunch make sense now.
“Good for you,” I say, meaning it.
He acts like it’s no big deal, although I can’t remember the last time he earned a steady income. “I don’t want to live here forever and I’ve gotta support my photography somehow.”
“You know what would help?” I say, tapping one finger against my depleted to-go mug. I toss it into the trash bin. “Actually sharing your photography.”
“Man, you’re worse than Mom.”
I wince. “Hey, that’s harsh.”
“Fair enough,” he says with a snort. “I’ll make it up to you. Reid and I are going out on Pearl later, wanna tag along?”
“Can’t. Sage and I are going tasting at Murphy’s Bend, but maybe after.” I start for the door, applying an extra coat of lip gloss, saying, mostly to myself, “I need to talk some sense into her, but subtly.”
“About what?”
I sigh in exasperation, clicking my purse shut. “Jason is going to propose.”
A shadow passes over Liam’s features as he blinks several times, scratching his head. “Good for her,” he says. “Take the prints if you want, I haven’t called the detective yet. Lock the door behind you, all right?”
“Wait,” I shout, scrambling after his retreating figure. “What just happened?”
He turns to me, a heaviness hanging about his shoulders. He’s on the verge of saying something but then swallows once, his throat bobbing. I can almost pinpoint the moment he shuts down.
“It’s nothing,” he says flatly. “Just go. Please. I don’t want to be late.”
Without another word, he stalks into the bathroom, closes the door behind him, and turns the shower on, leaving me completely baffled. I add Liam’s reaction to my ever-growing list of puzzles to contend with.
I slip out, taking the prints with me, wondering if the key to Gaskel’s murder is hidden somewhere among the glossy sheets.
There’s something in Liam’s photos from the opening, I can feel it. My forehead scrunched in concentration, I study them for the umpteenth time at Vino Valentine. Anita is on her lunch break and with #KillerChardonnay still trending, I have the place to myself.
My eyes dart between the picture of Gaskel before his last sip to the empty barstool where he sat. The silence presses in around me as I struggle to pinpoint what’s bothering me. I relax my mind, close my eyes, and take a deep breath, a practice I’ve learned helps me identify aromas in particularly complex wines. It yields nothing.
I’m grinding my teeth in frustration when Reid surprises me with a visit. I hurriedly stash the prints under the bar and greet him, not having to fake the smile on my face.
His amber hair is brushed to the side and he’s wearing a T-shirt for one of my favorite indie bands. “I was testing new recipes and thought you could use some lunch,” Reid says, holding up a carryout bag sporting The Pantry’s logo. Working with a renowned chef could have its perks. “And maybe I can have that tasting, if you’re not too busy.”
“As you can see, we’re completely slammed,” I quip, gesturing to the empty tables, my heart lodging itself in my throat.
There have only been two measly RSVPs to my VIP party. I keep reminding myself it’s only been twenty-four hours since I sent out invites, but I still feel a fluttering of panic rise in my chest. What if the event is a complete bust?
“No work today?” I ask.
“The restaurant is closed Tuesdays. It’s usually when I experiment or hit the farmers market.”
“My gain. Have a seat and I’ll get you a glass,” I say.
“Come on, Parks.” He utters my nickname with familiarity, as if we’ve known each other for years instead of days. He continues, radiating charm, “Don’t make me drink alone.”
“I need to keep my wits—and my taste buds—about me. I’m going to Murphy’s Bend later.”
He commandeers an oak-barrel table for our impromptu picnic, pulling containers and cutlery out of the paper bag. “Hot date?”
“With my best friend, so the hottest. Obviously.” I crinkle my nose, delivering ice waters and a clean wineglass to the table. “Did you consider their wine for your restaurant?”
“They were next on my list if I didn’t care for yours. Lucky for both of us, that didn’t happen.”
I nod, my lips twitching into a half smile. “What’s on the menu?” Palate cleansers are important with tastings. Based on the heavenly scents wafting from the containers, Reid went above and beyond standard fare.
“Bacon-wrapped dates followed by an arugula-and-roasted-beet salad. Focaccia with garlic-infused olive oil on the side.” He offers me a date with his fork. “Bon appétit.”
My jaw literally drops. I close it around the bacon-wrapped date, sighing as the heavenly pillow dissolves in my mouth, salty, sweet, and sinful. “You’d better be careful, a girl could get used to this.”
He winks at me. “Wait till you try my breakfast.”
The innuendo is heavier than a French Burgundy. Color creeps into my cheeks. “Maybe over a business meeting.”
“We can call it whatever you want.” His green eyes meet mine, flashing dangerously as he draws my attention to his mouth by taking a slow bite. Thankfully, he changes the topic before I combust. “So what wine should I start with?”
I pour him a taster of the Mount Sanitas White. “A blend inspired by a sunset hike up my favorite Boulder trail.”
Reid studies the splash of wine, swirling, sniffing, and holding it to the light. “Pale yellow color. Aromas of apples, peaches, and something tropical.” He pauses, pondering. “Maybe guava.”
“Very good,” I say, impressed.
“I don’t mess around when it comes to flavor.” He takes a sip, swishing the wine around in his mouth before swallowing. He taps a few notes into his phone. “This will pair nicely with our salad, although I’d go lighter on the herbs to not overpower the nuances of the blend.”
I munch my salad, the fresh and tart flavors dancing on my tongue. Reid’s suggestion is spot-on. It tastes like summer with its crisp garden vegetables and tangy citrus. His food is entirely deserving of Gaskel’s rave review. I tell him as much.
“It doesn’t matter.” He takes a large mouthful of greens.
“You really don’t care what other people think?”
“I learned a long time ago life’s too short to worry about making anyone but yourself happy.” He shrugs, wiping his mouth with a napkin, but I can tell there’s more to his story. “What am I tasting next?”
“The infamous Chautauqua Chardonnay.” I raise one eyebrow, leaning forward. “Scared?”
A weird expression comes over his face, a crack in his otherwise confident demeanor. It’s gone a moment later, replaced with the spark of a challenge. “Not of your wine.”
I pour him a taster and he praises it immediately. “Oaky and buttery, but not overly so. The acidity gives it a nice balance. You should be proud.”
“Thanks,” I say, a warm and fuzzy feeling rising in my chest. I squash it down and remind myself of the reasons Reid is off-limits.
First off, Liam wouldn’t be happy if he found out I was dating another one of his friends, one he’s explicitly warned me away from. Secondly, since Reid and I are conducting business together, we need to keep our relationship professional. And third, with a murder investigation afoot, it’s hardly an appropriate time for a new romance.
Reid furrows his eyebrows. “Speaking of your killer chardonnay, I talked to the owner of The Pantry about Gaskel.”
I freeze mid-chew, crispy focaccia turning to sawdust in my mouth. “Did you find anything out?”
“Apparently Gaskel was part of the reason Brennan decided to make the leap from tech and open a restaurant.”
“Wait, are you talking about Brennan Fourie?”
“The one and only.”
“Interesting . . .” The guy was a legend in my house growing up, my dad idolizing the advances he made in mobile technology and renewable energy before randomly turning his golden thumb to the restaurant industry. “Were they on good terms?”
“It sure seems that way. Brennan was pretty shaken up by Gaskel’s death.” Reid downs the rest of his chardonnay, smacking his lips in approval. “I guess they were old friends, met years ago when Brennan was in town for a conference. He likes to have the best of everything—gadgets, cars, meals. He immediately sought out Gaskel, wanting to know which restaurants to try in Denver. That was ten years ago.”
Even the best friendships can sour over time, and just because Brennan wasn’t at my opening doesn’t mean he didn’t somehow orchestrate the whole thing. I drum my fingers on the table, my brain churning through possibilities.
“Did you learn anything about Gaskel’s morally questionable side business?”
“It didn’t come up naturally, and this sort of accusation . . .” He trails off, running a hand through his hair. “Once I say it, there’s no backpedaling.”
“Fair enough,” I say, trying not to sound too disappointed. I pour Reid a taster of the next wine on the list, the Pearl Street Pinot. “Did he know of anyone particularly upset with Gaskel?”
“Brennan said that Gaskel wouldn’t have been doing his job if he didn’t upset people.”
“I suppose that’s true.”
I gaze at my winery, sadness and frustration roiling in my stomach. If Gaskel had ruined my business with a negative review, would I be upset enough to kill?
Of course not.
I have a support system, friends and family to keep me from falling to pieces. But what if I wasn’t so lucky?
Reid drapes his arm lazily over the back of his chair, the light catching on his oven-burn scars. “Brennan also mentioned there’s a memorial service tomorrow morning at North Star Lutheran.”
“Good to know.” There are dozens of reasons I shouldn’t attend, namely, no one will want to see the woman social media has deemed responsible for Gaskel’s demise. Still, I tuck the information away, just in case. “Have you told Brennan about your restaurant?”
He shakes his head, jaw clenched. “Not yet.” He hesitates. “I just haven’t found the right time.”
“Uh-huh,” I say, entirely unconvinced.
Reid swishes wine in his mouth and swallows. “There’s always something—the dinner rush, menu planning, prep work—but I will. Eventually.”
“Right,” I say knowingly. “Look, I know you’re upset with him for paying off Gaskel, but you owe him a heads-up.”
My phone buzzes with an unknown number. I answer and give my customary greeting, “Parker Valentine.”
There’s heavy breathing on the other end of the line.
“Hello,” I say sharply, certain it’s some sort of political survey or phishing scam. “Is anyone there?”
I’m ready to hang up when a shaky voice says, “It’s Max—Max Jackard. I need to talk to you.”
I excuse myself from the table, holding one finger up to Reid.
I dart into the back, my voice echoing off the cool stainless-steel equipment. “It’s about Gaskel, isn’t it?”
He breathes into the phone. Loud music turns on in the background and I wonder if he’s trying to camouflage his voice.
My fingers tingle in anticipation. “Are you ready to tell me how you heard about my opening?”
It takes an eternity for him to answer. “Yes. To both.” Another long pause. “I have to tell someone, but I can’t go to the cops.”
Fear snakes it way up my spine. I add honey to my voice, all soothing and supportive. “It’s okay, Max. You can tell me.”
Our connection blips out and I’m afraid I’ve lost him. Then he makes a sound, a cross between a sob and a groan. “I didn’t know what I was doing.”
Oh God, this call is taking an ugly turn. Is it possible he’s going to confess to the crime? I wish I’d had the forethought to record it. “Max, this is important. What did you do?”
There’s a disturbance on the line and all I catch is one word: “Pocket.”
“Hang on.” I walk farther into the back until my cell signal clears. “What did you just say about a pocket?”
There are shouts in the background, mixing with the loud music, his roommates calling for him to “hurry his ass up.” Max grows even more agitated. “Look, I can’t talk now. Meet me outside the theater building on campus.” He’s talking so fast I have to cover my other ear to make sure I catch every word. “Tonight, ten o’clock.”
Then he hangs up.
I grip my phone with white knuckles, staring at the blank screen, completely dazed.
Classes are out and it’s that odd week before summer session starts, meaning campus will be deserted, especially at that time of night. No doubt what Max is going for.
I think of my climbing harness, the accident that wasn’t an accident, and shiver. This could be a trap, in which case it would be stupid to go alone. But dare I tell Eli? He’s so straitlaced now, he would probably insist on my staying out of it and then we might never learn what Max has to say.
Anita walks in the alley-side entrance, bright sunlight following her through the open door like an aura. She’s in wide-leg cropped pants and an off-the-shoulder blouse, her long blond hair loose.
“I tried that new kebab place. It’s amazing. You know, in case you haven’t had lunch yet.” She smiles at me, clutching her purse to her side, her cheeks rosy. “No offense, but it looks like you could use some fresh air.”
It’s like I’m coming out of a coma. I shake my head, my hair brushing against my shoulders. “I already ate.”
“Were there any customers?” she asks, optimism seeping into her voice.
“Technically, no,” I say, remembering the hunk of deliciousness currently waiting for me out front. And I’m not talking about the focaccia.
I book it back into the tasting room, only Reid isn’t there. He’s cleaned up our lunch and on the table is a clear plastic container with a single chocolate truffle—dark chocolate, by the looks of it—sprinkled with cocoa powder. Next to it, there’s a note scribbled on a napkin: Thanks for the tasting. No meal is complete without dessert. Talk soon.—R
My mouth waters as I stare at the truffle, its sugary scent somehow permeating the plastic. Under normal circumstances I would already be one with the chocolate. But Max’s call left me rattled and full of uncertainty.
I consider the decadent morsel and the man who made it for me.
My brother vouched for Reid and confirmed he was nowhere near Gaskel when the critic was poisoned. I’ve had multiple meals with him and remain unscathed, and he even offered to help with the investigation. Now, unprompted, he brings me dessert.
Unable to resist anymore, I pop the truffle in my mouth, letting out a contented sigh. My eyes shut in ecstasy as flavors of dark chocolate and espresso dance on my tongue, a perfect combination of bitter and sweet.
When my eyes flutter open, I officially cross Reid off my list of suspects.
And I know what to do about Max.
I have to meet him, of course. There’s no way I’m going to let this killer run my life any more than he or she already is.