Eighteen
Sage has already left for work when I venture from my room. She was kind enough to prepare a fresh pot of coffee. I press the button on the coffeemaker, letting the bitter, earthy aroma wash over me. The anticipation of caffeine is almost better than the caffeine itself. Almost.
My head feels clearer after a hot shower. Not that I’m any closer to figuring out who killed Gaskel or Max, mind you. Whoever it is is still out there, lurking in the background, watching the drama play out.
But maybe they won’t crash my party. Maybe they’ve carried out their heinous purpose. Yeah, and maybe Vino Valentine will be granted a Michelin star.
I zip my new golden dress, a blazer, and ballet flats into a garment bag, having donned jeans and a tank for the hours of party prep ahead of me.
The rental company is delivering the linens, utensils, and banquet table when I get to my shop.
I go about setting up the banquet table along the back wall, underneath the colorful photographs of vineyards from around the world—Italy, France, Napa, and, of course, Colorado. The cream tablecloth complements the oak and espresso decor, and will provide a classy backdrop for Reid’s dishes.
Next, I roll silverware, polish glasses, fill decorative vases with fresh daisies, and, when I can’t put it off any longer, tackle the restroom. Like some masochist, my eyes gravitate toward the spot where I discovered Gaskel’s body. The image of him lying on his back comes back to me, his legs bent at awkward angles, one hand holding his stomach while the other gripped his wristwatch.
In the last moments of my life, what would I reach for? Something to give me a sense of peace, or perhaps, if I were in Gaskel’s position, something to help pinpoint the killer? I wonder which category his watch falls into.
With a shiver, I leave the lavatory and its morbid memories, making my way to the back of my winery. It’s time to focus on the star of the event.
My wine cellar is sealed by a stainless-steel door with a double glass-paned window that keeps the temperature and humidity at levels ideal for aging wine. I select the usual suspects from the floor-to-ceiling wine rack—Chautauqua Chardonnay, Mount Sanitas White, Pearl Street Pinot, and other wines from my usual tasting menu—but also a special reserve syrah.
I brush my fingers over the label of the Snowy Day Syrah, the crisscrossing grapevines punctuated by rays of sunshine. This was the first wine I produced that turned out exactly how I wanted it to. I remember handling the delicate purple grapes, carefully tracking the fermentation and maceration, and the excitement when I finally tasted the first sip. Sure, it could do with another year or two of aging, but the flavors are there.
I’m carefully packing bottles into cases for easy transport when Anita flounces through the back door. The wind blows her blond hair around her head like a halo. She’s wearing black slacks, a white eyelet blouse, and kitten heels, the perfect combo of professional and flirty.
“Any chance a raise would change your mind about quitting?” I ask. If my hands weren’t full, I’d press them together and beg her to stay.
“We’ll see.” She gives me a good-natured smile, setting down her backpack next to a heap of empty boxes and her to-go coffee cup on the de-stemmer. She grabs a case of wine and lugs it toward the storefront while I go to snag another box.
I’m stooping to grab a cardboard divider when I see it. Inside the main compartment of her backpack, unzipped enough to give me a peek, is a hefty textbook with a bookmark sticking out. Only, it isn’t an ordinary bookmark.
Scanning the door to the tasting room for Anita, I carefully tug it out.
It’s a postcard. Of Jolly’s Diner.
With shaking fingers, I flip it over. On the back, written in Anita’s tidy script, is the date and location of my winery’s opening and a scrawled message: time to make amends.
The extra flourish at the end of the letters, the curviness of the Ms, are identical to those from Max’s letter. It was Anita’s handwriting that I recognized. That was the detail in the back of my mind that was bothering me.
And somehow, I know without a doubt, this is what I saw sticking out of Gaskel’s pocket.
My blood turns cold as everything snaps into place.
There is one person who had the opportunity to kill Gaskel, sabotage my climbing gear, steal the prints, and plant the ring. Anita.
But that makes no sense. This is Anita we’re talking about; she’s more cherub than human. Why would she kill Gaskel?
Unless Anita is Jolly’s daughter. She’s just about the right age. Her last name is Moore, not Jones, but that’s easy enough to change.
I sense rather than see Anita pushing the door open. Hastily, I stuff the postcard back into her backpack and make a show of selecting an empty box.
I try to calm my nerves, pretend I didn’t just learn my assistant is a murderer. Pretty sure I fail, my eyes darting about no matter how much I tell myself to focus. Breathe.
“What is it?” Anita asks.
“Nothing,” I say quickly, dipping my chin. “Mind getting one more? I’ll follow in a minute.”
“Okay.” She shoots a concerned glance over her shoulder, her cheeks flushed from the effort of carrying a full case of wine.
As soon as the door shuts, I grab my cell and dial Eli’s number. It rings and rings and I silently plea for him to answer. My palms grow sweaty as I stare at the door Anita disappeared through. She’ll be back any second.
And still no answer. Dammit, at least switch to voice mail.
“Drop your phone, Parker,” Anita commands in an unrecognizable voice, harsh and unfeeling. She must have gone out the front door, circled around my shop, and snuck up behind me.
Something sharp presses into my back and I drop my phone to the floor, the telltale crack of the glass screen echoing through the empty space.
I turn around and come face-to-face with Anita. Her eyes are cold and she bares her teeth like a feral animal.
Gone is the quintessential adolescent, dependable assistant, and brilliant business student. In her place stands a ruthless killer, holding a corkscrew to my chest.
There have only been a few times in my life when I’ve been truly afraid.
Once, walking across campus after studying late one night, when a large shadowed figure started following me, his footsteps growing closer and closer. If I hadn’t run into a group of freshmen returning from the Hill, I don’t know what would have happened. That’s the reason I always carry pepper spray with me.
Second, when we got the call that my aunt had been hit by a drunk driver. I couldn’t imagine a world without her in it, couldn’t bear the sad resignation in my mother’s eyes as she learned her baby sister was gone.
Third, earlier this week when I was free-falling off the climbing wall.
And now this moment.
“It was you,” is all I can think of to say.
Anita digs the corkscrew into my tank top, the point so sharp it breaks skin. Blood blossoms on the thin cotton fabric. “No shit, Sherlock.”
My gut was right; Jolly’s was at the center of everything. I give myself half a beat to acknowledge my investigative skills. Then I kickstart my brain, suddenly aware of how isolated I am. No one would hear me scream through the thick walls and closed doors of my winery, and I know, thanks to my obsessive time-checking, that I have at least an hour before anyone else shows up.
Damn my pride for not accepting Sage’s help when she offered.
I don’t mean to be a friggin’ island. I’d rather be a continent, like Australia or Europe. Yes, if I get out of this I vow to be more like the United Nations.
Focus, Parker.
My best bet is to keep Anita talking and hope I can come up with a plan. “You’re Jolly’s daughter,” I say. “That’s why you killed Gaskel.”
At the name “Jolly,” Anita’s face floods with emotion. “He killed my mom and dad, left me an orphan to bounce around the foster system. All because he wasn’t satisfied with the doneness of French toast.”
Now, killed is a stretch, but I’m not about to argue with a deranged lunatic. “You could have gone to the media with your story, taken him down professionally. You didn’t have to murder him.”
“I commented on his blog and no one cared, or even noticed.” She shakes her head, blond curls bouncing. “He deserved what he got.”
“You’re devils_food99.”
“You did your homework.”
“I’ve always been thorough,” I say wryly. “How did you poison him without my noticing?”
“One of my prouder moments,” she says with a self-satisfied smirk. “I laced the glass with wolfsbane, the queen of poisons, then gave it to him while everyone was distracted by the arguing couple.”
Here I thought Anita was just being helpful, dashing about my winery and cleaning up the mess, when really, she was putting her lethal plan into action. Everything is so clear now, I wonder how I didn’t see it sooner. “Then I put his glass through the dishwasher and effectively destroyed the evidence.”
“Thanks for that,” she says. “Couldn’t have only my prints found on the rim.”
Anita is obviously intelligent; too bad she’s a certifiable psychopath.
As I stare down my nose at the corkscrew, I get an idea. A potentially stupid idea that might get me killed. But it could also be my only shot at getting out of this alive.
I take a small step back, into my wine cellar, gingerly navigating the threshold. Anita steps forward, just like I gambled she would, and repositions the corkscrew so it’s at my throat. I can hardly breathe without pricking myself.
I force myself to maintain eye contact, not letting my fear show. “And Max? You were his girlfriend, weren’t you?”
“God, he was practically drooling all over me at your opening, despite my pleas to keep it professional since I was ‘working.’” She has the audacity to use air quotes with her free hand.
I recall the way Max was checking Anita out in Liam’s picture and give myself a swift mental kick for not piecing it together sooner.
“I can’t believe Max fell for a monster like you,” I hiss, even though we all fell for her innocent act.
“Max was easily manipulated; lonely people often are. We met volunteering for the Shakespeare Festival—bet you never guessed I’m actually a theater major.” She pauses for effect.
Even I have to admit she’s a brilliant actress. I mean, seriously, give this chick an Oscar.
“You knew all the business professors, the course material,” I argue, inching to the side.
“Easily found online.” Anita presses the sharp metal of the corkscrew deeper into my skin, her hand beginning to shake. “Stop moving, Parker.”
I swallow, my forehead beading with sweat. “Why my winery? I trusted you.” The last word comes out as a croak. All of Anita’s support, her kind words and sweet demeanor, were a ploy.
“I had to choose a place Gaskel was likely to review anyway, and wine would be potent enough to disguise the wolfsbane.” She falters, a crack in her facade. “For what it’s worth, you really are a great boss.”
“Gee, thanks,” I grumble. “That didn’t stop you from sabotaging my climbing harness or harassing my family.”
“Your climbing harness was a warning to stop snooping around,” she says. Her eyes dart around the small space like a caged animal’s, the point of the corkscrew digging deeper into my neck. “And I needed your brother’s photographs. He captured my fingers—my ring. They would have given me away.”
“What about the postcard?” I ask.
“I sent it to Gaskel to jog his memory about my parents’ diner. He couldn’t resist trying to absolve himself of guilt.”
“Then you had Max steal it while I was dialing 911.” Curse my weak stomach; if I’d just stayed put, how much trouble would have been avoided?
“Max didn’t know what he was doing. He believed me when I told him Gaskel was blackmailing me—thought he was stealing what Gaskel had on me.” She tucks her blond hair behind her ear, such a normal gesture for such a bizarre situation. “It wasn’t until later he started suspecting me. I overheard your phone call with him and knew I had to do something.”
I remember the spotty conversation Anita is referring to, and how she coincidentally appeared at the end of it. To think that’s what led to Max’s death.
Perhaps Gaskel wasn’t alone in absolving himself of guilt, for Anita continues on her diatribe, “I invited him on a romantic picnic date in the park after his Frisbee practice. Max opened the wine and poured the glass that killed him himself.”
“And the suicide note?”
“Penned by me. Would you believe he wrote me a love letter for our one-month anniversary?” She shakes her head, a look of disgust crossing her face. “It made mimicking his handwriting easy.”
“Then you tried to pin it on my brother? What, as insurance?”
“Cover all your bases. You taught me that.” She nods at me, a malicious gleam in her eye. “Liam was convenient. A constant screw-up.”
“Liam isn’t a screw-up,” I say defensively, and then voice something I can hardly imagine but feel I need to know, “If he’d been in that night, would you have killed him, too?”
She doesn’t answer; she doesn’t need to. There isn’t a hint of remorse in her face. She really is ruthless.
“You were the one who left tulips at Jolly’s,” I say, another piece falling into place.
“I had to let Mom know I was avenging her.”
“I doubt she would see it that way.”
I shift on my feet, scooting one more iota to the side. Now I’m in position to make my move, but my timing has to be perfect.
“I told you to hold still,” Anita hisses, breaking skin on my neck with the corkscrew. Blood trickles down my chest to my navel.
I wince and lift both hands in mock surrender. “What are you going to do with me?”
With her free hand, she pulls a clear Ziploc bag coated in a light green powder from her pocket. That must be where she’s keeping her wolfsbane now that her ring is gone. It’s not nearly as glamorous, but deadly all the same. I clamp my mouth shut.
“I think I’ll mix you a special cocktail so you can toast to your failed dream.” She looks around the cellar and nods. “Yes, I think people will believe you killed yourself in here.”
“Too bad I have other plans.”
Then I duck, spin out of reach, and dash over the threshold of the wine cellar. Anita lunges after me, swinging the corkscrew, but she’s too slow. I slam the door in her face.