Fifteen
After Anita leaves for a yoga class, I savor a solitary afternoon in my winery. After all, I don’t know how many more there will be.
I push the murder investigation to the back of my mind and focus on the VIP party. Of the thirty people I sent invites to, about half accepted, which is honestly more than I expected. Everything is coming together nicely—linens and cutlery will be delivered tomorrow morning, Reid is giving me a preview of his pairing dishes tonight, and my wines are ready for their do-over debut.
I feel the tiniest ray of hope. That is, until Moira Murphy waltzes through the door.
She’s wearing the same outfit as she was this morning at Gaskel’s memorial, a black sheath dress with pumps so chic they give me closet envy. With her long hair twisted into an elegant knot, her maroon highlights are as subdued as her demeanor. Her skin is ashen and there’s a sadness in her eyes that puts me on edge.
Murphy’s Bend hasn’t escaped the virtual onslaught of #KillerChardonnay, although they haven’t gotten hit as hard as I have. Still, I wonder how she and her business are faring. If her sadness is because of that, her crumbling marriage, or whatever promise Carrick is challenging her to keep.
Sneakily, I palm my phone and find Eli’s number in my recent call log. Then I give Moira a welcoming smile. “What can I do for you?”
Moira slides onto a stool and folds her hands on the bar. Her fingers are bare. It’s not like I expected her to be wearing the nefarious poison ring; that’s safe with Eli, tucked away as evidence. But she isn’t even wearing a wedding ring.
“I’ll have a taste of something,” she says, her voice as silky as port. “Your choice.”
I reach blindly for a bottle and wind up pouring her a splash of the Mile High Merlot. She holds the wine up to the light and analyzes the burgundy liquid before taking a sip, the motions looking ridiculously glamorous.
I find myself leaning forward, eager to hear what she thinks.
“I love a full-bodied merlot,” she says, sighing contentedly. Wine trickles down the side of her glass like a shiver. “I saw you at Gaskel’s memorial.”
And I’m right back on edge. “You and Carrick left before I could say hello.” I remember the lengthy conversation she had with Gaskel’s sister and ask, “Had you met Vera before?”
“Never, and can’t say I want to again,” she says with a huff.
I’m not sure why—a large part of Vera’s grief was obviously fabricated—but I rush to her defense. “She just lost her brother.”
“I know, darling. That’s why we went.” She swallows the rest of the merlot and I pour her another taster. “It was important that Carrick and I share with Gaskel’s family what he did for us.”
I rest my elbows on the counter, fiddling with my beaded necklace. “But didn’t Gaskel give you a bad review?”
“Well, yes, but he also forced us to confront a few things.”
“Like what?”
Moira stills and pierces me with her gaze. “Parker, don’t ever let business consume your life. Never lose sight of what is most important: family.” She frowns as she twirls the stem of her glass. “Carrick and I forgot. Gaskel reminded us, in a roundabout way.”
I recall the argument I overheard at Murphy’s Bend, the tension I sensed between her and her husband. It’s ironic that those who are closest to us have the greatest opportunity to cause us pain.
“We could all use that reminder once in a while,” I say. “Preferably before it’s too late.”
“That’s the catch, isn’t it? It’s impossible to know until it’s gone.” She touches her naked ring finger.
I consider my next words carefully, not wanting to overstep. “You know, with the merlot you’re tasting, I thought the whole batch was ruined.” I let out a long sigh, pausing for effect. “It was bitter and sour with no depth of flavor. Particular grapes, I guess. But I couldn’t afford to give up on it. I extended the maceration time, let it continue aging, and, with a little extra coaxing, it turned into a damn good wine.”
“Extended maceration is a fabulous technique,” she says. She tilts her wineglass, studying the way the liquid changes color in the light. “Although it’s important to know when to let go, too.”
“True.” I ditch the heavy life metaphors and say with a wink, “But I really like merlot.”
An easy smile returns to Moira’s face and she takes another sip of wine. “How is the VIP party coming along? Are you ready?”
Fleetingly, I wonder why she cares so much, why she’s so eager to help a business that could eventually take market share from hers.
“As ready as I can be,” I say. “Actually, while you’re here, can I run a couple things by you?”
“Absolutely. Who will be attending?”
I grab my laptop and show her the guest list.
She dons a funky pair of reading glasses that obscure half of her face and peruses the screen. “This is a good group.”
“Here’s the tasting menu.” I click to a separate Word doc, chewing my thumbnail nervously. “I’m adding the syrah for good measure. I was hoping to let it age another year, but desperate times and all.”
“Something to make the guests feel special, excellent.” She nods in approval. “What else?”
“My friend is a chef.” My voice catches on the word friend, but I power forward. “He’s going to make appetizers to pair with my wine.”
“That’s awfully generous of him.” Moira gives me a knowing look over her funky circular frames. “Is he talented?”
“Yes. Very.” I leave out the part about Reid opening his own restaurant and wanting to feature my wine. Oh, and also the part about him being drop-dead gorgeous.
“Perfect.” Moira reaches across the bar and grips my hand. She says with conviction, “Parker, this will work. Your winery will survive this.”
I give her a forced smile, wishing I had a fraction of her confidence. “And what about your winery? I heard it was your chardonnay found at the last crime scene.”
If possible, her face pales even further. “It seems we both need to see the culprit brought to light.”
“Any idea who could be behind it?”
Her throat bobs before she answers, “I would tell you if I knew, dear.”
Would she, though, if it meant betraying her husband?
A question takes root in my mind: Why their wine? Was it perhaps a strategic move to cast suspicion on them? Or was it simply because it was the most accessible for the killer?
The bell over the door jingles, signaling the arrival of an actual in-the-flesh customer, a slim girl a couple of years younger than me with a bright pink faux hawk, a colorful rose tattoo coiling up her right arm, and piercings galore. I have to stop myself from doing a happy dance.
Moira raises one eyebrow at the new arrival and finishes her merlot. “I’ll let you tend to your customer. See you tomorrow night for your party, dear.” She clutches her purse and turns back to me, a gleam in her eye. “Be sure to have a little fun, splurge on a new dress for the occasion.”
The mystery lady sets up shop at an oak-barrel table. She unslings a mesh messenger bag from over her shoulder and extracts a laptop covered in stickers. She has a nose ring, an emerald stud where a beauty mark would be, and three holes in each ear. Her eye makeup is dark and shimmery and twin dolphin tattoos flash their tails from the backs of each hand.
Gotta admit, I admire her bold style.
“Welcome to Vino Valentine,” I say with a welcoming smile, handing her a tasting menu. “Let me know if you have any questions. I’ll start by bringing you some water.”
“Actually,” she says, her voice surprisingly perky, “I already know what I’d like. The Chautauqua Chardonnay.”
“Coming right up.” I busy myself fixing her taster, pouring in a little extra because why the hell not?
I place the glass on her table and she proceeds to sniff and swirl like an expert. “Is it true this killed a man?” she asks, her tone reverent.
Well, that’s not the least bit creepy. I struggle to keep my smile intact. “Don’t believe everything you read on social media.”
She eyes me carefully, her eyelashes buried by a thick coat of mascara. “But it’s true, isn’t it?”
Seriously, who is this chick? “Technically, it was the poison that killed him, but yeah, this is what he was drinking.”
She takes a large swallow and swishes the golden liquid in her mouth, staring up at the ceiling. When she finally swallows, she cranes her neck and waits. For what, I have no idea. Her T-shirt slips off her shoulder, revealing yet another tattoo, a cherry blossom branch along her collarbone.
“Delicious,” she finally says, her cheeks splotchy as she bolts upright. “Buttery like bluefin with just the right amount of citrus.”
“Uh, thanks,” I say hesitantly. “That’s an unusual comparison, but I guess I can see it.”
“Good mouth-feel, too.” She smacks her lips and crosses her legs, her knee poking through a hole in her skinny jeans. “Are you the owner?”
“At your service,” I say proudly, extending a hand. “Parker Valentine.”
“Libby Lincoln.” We shake hands, her grip unusually strong. “How long have you owned the place?”
“It just opened last Saturday.”
“Bad luck, that murder.”
“You could say that.” I feel uneasy discussing Gaskel’s murder with this stranger and find myself wishing Moira were still here.
“Can I have a full glass of the chard?” Libby asks. She opens her laptop, the stickers covering it bright and artsy and from every corner of the globe. “If you don’t mind, I’ll park here and get some work done.”
I’m tempted to ask what she does for a living, but I know better. People come to wineries for all sorts of reasons—camaraderie, relaxation, peace and quiet—and as the proprietor, it’s my job to determine when to pry and when to let someone be.
“Of course.” I tuck her unused tasting menu under my arm since she doesn’t seem interested in it. “Let me know if you need the Wi-Fi password.”
After I pour her wine, I pretend to wipe down the tasting counter and subtly study Libby from across the room.
The click-clack of her typing reaches my ears, mixing with the folksy music Anita left on. Every once in a while, Libby pauses and glances around her as if trying to figure out what to write next. Curious . . .
There’s obviously more to this Libby Lincoln than meets the eye. An idea bubbles to my mind and I breathe in sharply.
What if her fascination with Gaskel’s murder is more than morbid curiosity? What if she had a personal connection to him, like being the MIA child of a wronged restaurateur? The real question, though, is this: How do I find out without alienating the first legit customer I’ve had in days?
Trust my brother to arrive at exactly the wrong moment.
Liam pushes the door open as Libby takes her last swallow of wine. I’m still not sure how to politely pepper her with questions, but I’m running out of time. She gazes around my winery—her eyes roving over the lanterns, espresso folding chairs, artwork, and shelves of sparkling stemware—before nodding to herself.
Liam makes a beeline for me. His shoulders are tense and there’s a crease between his eyebrows that reminds me of our dad. He looks taller, lighter, and I realize I’ve grown accustomed to the sight of him with a camera around his neck.
“Hey.” I wave at him and then hold up one finger. “Hang on, I’ll be right back.”
I make to dart around him, but he stops me. “Parker, we need to talk.”
“Can it wait a second?” I nod toward Libby, who stows her laptop and hoists her bag crosswise over one shoulder.
Liam shakes his head, lips pursed. “It’s important.”
I search his face and don’t like what I see. “Just give me a—”
The jingle of the bell alerts me to Libby’s departure. There’s a twenty-dollar bill tucked underneath her water glass, well more than she owed.
I dart outside and whip my head around, shielding my eyes from the sunlight. Folks bustle in and out of the Laughing Rooster with to-go mugs in hand. Subarus, mud-splattered SUVs, and environmentally friendly vehicles fill the parking lot. Across the street, the bus station is crowded with people ignoring each other, earbuds securely in place.
But there’s no sign of Libby. She’s gone. Now I’ll never be able to make sense of her strange fascination with the role my wine played in Gaskel’s murder. Or, at the very least, encourage her to come back with friends.
I reenter Vino Valentine in a huff. “Dammit, Liam,” I say, exasperated. “She’s gone. She could have been Jolly’s daughter.”
“Who?” he asks, scratching his head. “Never mind. It doesn’t matter.”
“Of course it does. She could have been the key to finding out the truth about what happened to Gaskel, to saving my business.” I grind my teeth, temper flaring. “You wouldn’t understand that. You give up on your dreams at the first sign of struggle.”
He flinches like I’ve sucker-punched him, which, given the current state of his camera and photographs, I kinda have.
“Sorry, Liam.” I rub my temples and try to calm down. “I’m just stressed.”
It’s a testament to how serious his errand is that he lets my jab go. “You know how Jason has always been proud of his ultimate team?”
“The Frisbros,” I say with an eye roll. “How could I forget?” Especially when they keep cropping up.
“When I was cleaning up the mess at Mom and Dad’s, I found something. An official tournament-grade disc.”
“This is Boulder.” I put my hands on my hips. “It could belong to anyone.”
“Maybe,” he says. “But I’ve never gotten a good vibe from that guy.”
I level with him, hoping my voice comes across as soothing rather than pitying. “Is it possible you’re looking for something to break up Jason and Sage?”
“Very possible.” At least he’s honest with himself, which is more than I can say for myself. “That doesn’t mean I’m wrong.”
I open my mouth to respond in the negative, but then hesitate, recalling where Sage said Jason was while we were tasting wine last night: Frisbro practice. With Max.
My mind reels.
Jason admitted he was upset with Max over his lack of devotion to the Frisbros. That hardly seems like motive enough for murder, but there are other factors.
He was at my opening and happened to stop by my winery the day my climbing gear was sabotaged. Sure, he could have been in the wrong places at the wrong times, but I’m leery of coincidences.
Jason could have convinced his teammates to trash my parents’ basement. Maybe he caught Liam drooling over Sage and wanted him out of the picture. It would be a bonehead move to leave a disc behind, but Jason isn’t exactly a rocket scientist. The prospect leaves a bitter taste on my tongue.
It’s possible I’m looking for something to break up Jason and Sage, too. But the pieces fit. Too well for my liking.
“Okay,” I admit. “There’s a chance. A decent one. But we can’t say anything to Sage until we know for sure.”
He shuffles his feet. “So what do we do?”
I tap my finger on the bar, musing. It’s almost like we’re conspiring to stay out past curfew rather than tracking down a felon.
“I’m meeting Sage and Jason at The Pantry later to celebrate their engagement.” I swallow the bile that rises in my throat. “Why don’t you stop by—Reid is working, so say you’re there to see him—and we can gauge Jason’s reaction, ask a couple questions.”
“I’ll be there,” Liam says.
“So,” I start as I clean up Libby’s table. “Are you doing okay after everything last night and this morning?”
“I’ve been better,” he says with a shrug. “But I’ll survive.”
I tuck Libby’s money into the cash register, the only green the neglected machine has seen, and steal a glance at my brother. “The police haven’t bugged you any more, have they?”
“No,” he says. “Detective Fuller has come a long way. I didn’t even recognize him until he told me he went to Boulder High with us.”
Sadness drips from his words, his actions, like wine from a spigot, no matter how hard he tries to pretend otherwise. At least Eli is cutting him some slack.
“You know I’m here for you, right?” I ask. “If you need anything.”
“I know,” he says quietly, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “It’s time for me to step up, give this whole adult thing a try.”
“It’s not so bad, under normal circumstances.”
“If you say so.” He manages a small smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “I’ve gotta clock a couple hours at work. See ya later.”
Liam weaves his way through my empty winery, his retreating figure sending a jolt of anxiety through me. He’s walking like a man who’s had everything taken from him. And when you have nothing to lose, you’re apt to take stupid risks.
I make it a point to buy local. I figure, if I expect the community to support my winery, then I have to do my part to support the community. That means shopping at the weekly farmers market, perusing tomes at the Boulder Book Store, and frequenting my favorite boutique on Pearl Street, Brocade.
Brocade’s window display features summer dresses in more styles than I have social engagements on my calendar. Each one is unique, embellished with details that boast of a personal attention not found in department stores. They’re paired with plush pashminas and funky jackets for those cool Colorado evenings.
In the store, I can’t help but touch the soft velvets, slippery silks, and airy chiffons. The scent of cloth and exotic perfume eases a knot between my shoulder blades.
Moira was right. I needed to have a little fun.
Even so, dire thoughts push their way into my brain. Gaskel dumping his wine in my vase of daisies and desperately reaching for a cracker, poison already coursing through his veins. Max cut down when he had a new girlfriend, a job with the Shakespeare Festival, and his entire life to look forward to. My brother, his camera as shattered as his heart. Anita, quitting because she doesn’t feel safe. And my aunt Laura, her belief in me woefully misplaced, her investment going to waste.
My vision blurs from tears, sadness threatening to overwhelm me, and I force myself to focus on the racks of designer duds. My fingers fumble over fabrics until the mist clears.
Two dresses eventually catch my eye. One is a strapless cocktail number the color of golden chardonnay, and the other is a wrap dress adorned with tiny lilies.
They both fit perfectly, cinched at the waist and short enough to show off my legs. I study myself in the communal mirror in the fitting room, brushing the pleated lace of the gold dress.
“That dress suits you,” the boutique owner says, joining me in front of the mirror. “The color highlights your olive skin tone.”
“I have a big event tomorrow night—do you think this is professional enough?”
“Absolutely.” She smiles broadly, smelling a potential sale. “Jazz it up with a blazer and heels. You’ll blow them away.”
“I’m debating,” I say, disappearing into the dressing room and emerging a minute later wearing the navy-blue lily dress.
“Both dresses belong in your closet,” she says, circling me like a shark, gently tugging the sleeves of the dress, as if it needs adjusting.
“My wallet says otherwise.”
She purses her lips and winks at me. “Tell you what: I’ll give you a discount on the second one. Forty percent off.”
I hesitate, but then remember Moira’s other advice: splurge.
“Deal,” I say, and decide to go for broke. “Do you have a blazer that would match the gold dress?”
“I’ll be right back.”
I stare at my reflection in the mirror, smoothing the folds of the dress, discovering pockets at the hips. In my humble opinion, the best dresses have pockets. I slip my hands inside and revel in the soft lining.
That’s when I have an epiphany.
Max uttered one decipherable word during our patchy phone conversation: pocket.
Thoughts rush fast, like wine through an aerator.
What if Max was the one who stole the piece of paper sticking out of Gaskel’s pocket? But why would he do that, unless . . . could Max actually be Jolly’s son? Was he the real reason Gaskel attended my opening, knew about it in the first place? I shake my head, flummoxed.
I leave the store with three garment bags and a severely depleted bank account. Between my shopping spree and the VIP party, my funds are drying up faster than my skin during a Colorado winter.
Hopefully my new ensembles will give me the boost of confidence I need to do what must be done. Because I’m not going down without a fight, and the first round is tonight.