Nineteen
I throw everything I’ve got into keeping the cellar door shut—my weight, my strength, my dignity. I lean against it, digging my heels into the ground for extra leverage, my heart racing.
Anita thrashes against the door over and over and over. It opens a crack with each push. For such a willowy girl, she’s incredibly strong. Must be all those damn yoga classes.
I grit my teeth and press my body into the door like my life depends on it, which, oddly enough, it does. My muscles burn and my chest heaves. I can’t keep this up for much longer.
I look from side to side, desperately searching for anything to help me. My eyes land on a folding chair not too far away.
If I were climbing, this would be the ultimate maneuver, maintaining pressure with one foot and hand while simultaneously reaching for the chair. Only, if this were climbing, I would have a spotter in case my move went awry.
Dare I risk it? Dare I not?
Anita pauses her attacks and I make a decision.
I stretch my torso across the door, leaning forward to maintain pressure, and brace myself for impact in case Anita senses my strategy. The chair is still a centimeter away, I shift slightly, reaching a little bit farther. It’s enough. Climbing the other night paid off, for I’m able to snag the rim of the chair with my fingertips. I drag it across the floor and wedge it beneath the doorknob.
The whole maneuver took no longer than a second.
My makeshift lock won’t hold forever, but I don’t need forever. I just need it to last until someone else arrives. Hopefully someone who isn’t a guest. Otherwise, imagine the greeting they’d get: Welcome to my VIP party! Would you mind calling the cops so we can arrest a psycho killer? ’K, thanks.
I blow my bangs out of my face and scan the vicinity for another way out of this mess. Anita’s to-go coffee cup is still perched on the de-stemmer, where she left it, and the garment bag with my party dress hangs on a hook by the grape-sorting table, neither of which is of any use to me now.
Anita pushes against the door, softer now, more probing, as if testing for points of weakness. Then she stops, maybe sensing the extra reinforcement, or maybe finding some new way to torture me. I know she hasn’t given up.
For a while, nothing happens.
I’m tempted to sink into a puddle on the floor, my entire body shaking from effort and shock. Instead, I focus on my breathing—in through my nose, out through my mouth.
That’s when I hear a sound that shatters my heart into a thousand pieces: the sound of a wine bottle smashing against the floor.
“I’ll destroy every bottle, Parker,” Anita shouts, breaking another bottle to prove her intent. “Let me out and I’ll go. I’ll skip town and leave you and your precious winery in peace.”
I’m embarrassed to admit that for the briefest moment, I consider her deal.
But even if I trusted Anita, which I don’t, there are more important things than the success of my business. Like justice.
I steel myself as another wine bottle crashes against the floor.
I think of my aunt, how she encouraged me to pursue my dream. I feel her presence now, like a warm blanket draped around my shoulders.
Another wine bottle crashes to the floor, and I wonder which of my darlings it was—the chardonnay, riesling, or perhaps the syrah?
I think of my dad when he said he and my mom were proud of me, his eyes warm and comforting. I never thought their approval would mean so much, but it totally does. I let his words shield me against another crash. Another bottle gone.
How many years of hard work will Anita destroy? Can I really afford to start from scratch after this? A business is nothing without a product to sell.
“Ticktock, Parker,” Anita shouts.
Burgundy liquid trickles beneath the cellar door, seeping into the soles of my sneakers. I sniff a bouquet of aromas; black cherry, currants, and leather. It’s the Campy Cab.
I think of my brother and Sage, who have both stood by me through thick and thin, and my new community—Reid, Moira, and even Eli. The future is ripe and full of potential. Even if my business isn’t a part of it, I sure as hell am going to be.
No use crying over spilled wine.
I stand up straight and peer through the tiny window. I catch a flash of motion, white shirt and blond curls, before Anita’s stark blue eyes stare back at me, her rosy lips twisted into a scowl. It’s amazing that someone so lovely can harbor such evil inside of them.
“You may as well enjoy some of that wine,” I say, speaking with bravado I wish I felt. “It could be your last drink for a while. You’re not getting out of there unless it’s in handcuffs.”
Anita fumes and, maintaining eye contact, throws another bottle to the floor. Pale yellow liquid mixes with the burgundy on the floor, smelling of honeysuckle and peaches.
I remain steadfast. I channel Reid’s cocksure attitude and force a grin onto my face.
The door opens behind me, casting sunshine over the space. I spin around as Eli and two officers charge to my side.
I’m not a damsel-in-distress sort of gal, but I’m mighty happy to see Eli. My wine needs rescuing, and pronto.
I usher Eli and the officers to my post outside the wine cellar, glancing furtively between them and Anita. I explain the situation in a rush of words so jumbled it’s a miracle they comprehend.
Eli unholsters his gun from where it’s strapped to his chest. He shed his navy-blue sport coat at some point, and the sleeves of his collared shirt are rolled to his elbows. He’s all business, cool and calculating as he assesses his surroundings.
He gestures to the officers and they fall back to either side of him, their badges glinting on their pristine uniforms.
I watch the scene unfold in disbelief, as if it were some crime show on television and not real life: Eli warns Anita to stand back and, in two swift movements, kicks the door open and captures her in a hold, pinning her arms behind her back. The corkscrew clatters to the ground amid broken glass and puddles of wine.
Anita’s face is full of rage as Eli reads her Miranda rights. She struggles against her bonds, her curses eventually deteriorating into sobs. I tell myself not to feel sorry for her—she’s a murderer, for chrissake—but she strikes a tragic figure. Orphaned as a young girl, she had no one to guide her through this crazy world.
Eli places Anita in the care of the attending police officers. She stares me down as she’s led away; I meet her gaze.
“Push the Chardonnay at your party,” she says, her long blond hair limp around her shoulders. “It’s really delicious.”
I’m not sure what to make of that, so I just nod and make a mental note to chuck any open bottles that Anita could have gotten her paws on.
An EMT approaches and badgers me with questions as she checks me over from head to toe. Finally, she deems me healthy. I sustained minor cuts on my stomach and neck, courtesy of the corkscrew, but those are easily patched with Band-Aids. Yeah, the neon Band-Aid is really going to take my gold party dress to the next level.
Eli finishes whatever official detective stuff he had to do before seeking me out. He leans against a wine vat nonchalantly, as if apprehending a murderer is routine.
“Guess I have to find a new assistant, after all,” I say by way of a greeting.
He raises one eyebrow. “Let me know when you have an applicant and I’ll personally vet them for you.”
“I could get used to having an in with the Boulder PD,” I say, crossing my arms over my chest. “How did you know to come?”
“Thanks to your tip, IT was able to trace the username you sent me to Anita Moore, formerly Anita Jones, who I knew to be your assistant. We had just made the connection when you called. I kept calling back and when you didn’t answer your phone, I assumed the worst.” He frowns, rubbing his chin with one hand. “You handled her pretty well on your own.”
I wince. “To the detriment of my wine cellar.”
All told, Anita destroyed a case—twelve bottles—each of the Campy Cab, Snowy Day Syrah, and Mount Sanitas White. It could have been worse, but I hate seeing good wine go to waste.
“If you’re as good a winemaker as you are a sleuth, you’ll recover just fine.”
I give him a small smile in thanks.
There’s a commotion at the front of the store and we hurry through the connecting door.
I’m so elated to see Reid I can’t help the goofy grin that spreads across my face. He’s arguing with the officer barricading the crime scene. His face is pale, a stark contrast to his copper hair, and he waves his arms in the air with growing desperation. For someone usually so in control, he seems entirely out of his element.
His eyes land on me and I can practically feel his relief. He nudges past the officer, jogs to my side, and pulls me into an embrace.
“I saw the police cars and ambulance out front. Then they said it was a crime scene and I was afraid . . .” He swallows and continues, his breath warm in my ear. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.” I give him a tight squeeze, letting his scent ground me: rosemary, citrus, and something peppery.
He pulls away and gives me a once-over, just to make sure. He gently tucks a strand behind my ear and lifts my chin so our gazes lock. What I would give to have more time and less of an audience. But we have other things to worry about now.
“Guests will arrive any second,” I say, panic turning my voice into a high-pitched squeak. “They’ll see flashing lights and hightail it home. Do not pass go. Do not save Vino Valentine.”
“That’s my cue,” Eli says evenly from behind us. “We’re about done here. We should be out of your hair in time for your party.”
I nod numbly, lists of to-dos spinning through my head.
Eli salutes farewell and makes to leave when I remember my manners. “Wait, I hope you’ll consider staying.”
Eli glances between Reid and me, considering my offer, an unreadable expression on his face. “Another time, when I’m not on duty.”
Then he returns to the back of my winery and shouts muffled orders to the crime-scene crew.
Reid redirects my attention. “What can I do?”
I glance around my winery—apart from lingering law enforcement agents, it’s not in bad shape. Thank goodness I did so much prep earlier. Wineglasses sparkle on the tasting bar, at the ready, and candles flicker in the fading evening light.
“Finish setting up the food and distract any guests who show up early,” I say, snagging the garment bag I packed earlier. “I’ll be back in a flash.”
I dash into the restroom and lock the door behind me, trying to ignore the frantic pattering of my heart. I strip down, shimmy into my dress, and slip on my blazer and flats. Next is my hair. I play up the knotted mess and twist my raven locks into a low bun, loose tendrils falling over my forehead. I add fresh powder to my face, clean the smudged mascara around my eyes, and dab jasmine perfume on my inner wrist.
I emerge mere minutes later feeling like a posh business professional. Or at least as close as I can get.
True to his word, Eli and his band of law enforcement agents waste no time vacating the premises.
Reid is putting the final touches on the banquet table, cleaning the edges of simple white platters loaded with the mouthwatering delicacies I sampled last night. In front of each one is a notecard with a short description and which wine to pair it with.
Maybe we will actually pull this off. Maybe I’ll manage to salvage my reputation and save my business. Maybe Reid will sneak me a truffle.
Then the first guest arrives and all thoughts of food vanish.
You would think after confronting a murderer, nothing would make me nervous. Apparently, that isn’t the case. Butterflies flitter through my stomach and my palms are clammy. I smooth the front of my dress, unnecessarily, and greet my first guest.
She’s an elderly lady with chunky amethyst jewelry, a velvet pantsuit, and a judgy disposition that tells me she isn’t easily impressed. I don’t have time to fret, though, for a steady stream of people traipse in after her.
It’s a tough crowd. Half of the guests came as a personal favor to Moira and Carrick, and the other half to satisfy some morbid curiosity. My only goal is to prove my wine is worth the buzz (pun intended).
I play hostess from behind the tasting bar, talking through my winemaking philosophy so many times I could recite it in my sleep.
Swirling, sniffing, and gurgling abound, and I’m pleased to see the discard vases largely remain empty. That’s a good sign.
Descriptive words like full-bodied and mouth-feel waft through the air, and there are enough fruit comparisons to rival the produce section at Whole Foods. Soft acoustic music provides a backdrop, and flickering candles and dimmed wine-bottle lanterns ooze ambience.
Reid handles the food like the pro he is. He’s dressed to the nines, khakis and a snug emerald sweater. He describes how the flavors in each dish complement various wines, even giving general pairing tips, which many of the VIP guests seem excited about.
As the evening wears on, I find Brennan standing alone in a corner, observing the hubbub with an amused grin on his face.
“Cheers, Parker.” He lifts his glass to me. “You throw a helluva party. Gaskel would have approved.”
“That means a lot coming from you.” I hesitate, debating whether to ask my next question. “You and Gaskel were more than just friends, weren’t you?”
Brennan’s smile remains intact, but his eyes pool with tears. “How did you know?”
“First, no one just gives away Hamilton tickets. Then last night, Moira and Carrick said they saw you together at a restaurant, one he never reviewed. After that, I did a little research, and you’ve never been photographed with anyone—man or woman.” I pause for a breath. “But really, it was Pico.”
“Gaskel’s dog?”
“He was awfully familiar with you.”
Brennan rubs the back of his neck. “Gaskel was the one who wanted to keep our relationship secret, didn’t want anyone to think I—a restaurateur—held any sway over his reviews. He was a stickler for keeping his personal life separate from his professional life.” He shrugs his broad shoulders. “I gave him his watch as a way to think of me whenever we couldn’t be together.”
I had begun to suspect as much about his watch. “I’m sorry for your loss,” I say. “I can’t imagine how hard it’s been, not being able to tell anyone.”
He sniffs and taps his wineglass. “This is delicious. I’d like to put in an order for a few bottles for the restaurant.”
I get the contact information for The Pantry’s sommelier, promise to be in touch, and then leave him in peace.
Sage and Liam are at the tasting bar, in the middle of what appears to be an intimate discussion, heads bowed together, faces beaming. There’s no sign of Jason. I decide it’s probably best not to interrupt.
Moira and Carrick are chatting with guests, describing their upcoming trip to France. I wait for a pause in the conversation before pulling them aside.
“Thank you for all your help,” I gush. “This wouldn’t have been possible without you.”
“Of course, dear,” Moira answers. She and Carrick look happier than I’ve seen them, hands clasped and leaning into each other.
“And I’m sorry for sneaking around your winery, and for eavesdropping,” I say, eyeing the ground sheepishly. “I was afraid you were involved and, well”—I clear my throat, not wanting to admit how heavily I suspected them—“turns out it was my assistant all along.”
“Water over the bridge,” Carrick answers in a thick accent. His silvering hair is slicked into a wave, and his dimpled smile makes him look like a real-life Prince Charming.
Needless to say, Moira and I don’t correct him.
“Let’s have a joint party when we’re back in town,” Moira says, and adds coyly, “We can have your chef friend cater.”
My cheeks flush and I start stammering excuses, glancing at Reid. Moira just pats my arm as she and Carrick waltz away.
Next, I track down the two people whose opinions matter the most: my parents.
They’re inconspicuous, perched at an oak-barrel table, sipping glasses of wine. My dad is in an elbow-patch jacket, sans chalk, and my mom is all frizzy hair and barely contained energy.
“No spritzer?” I ask my mom.
She gives me a warm smile, folding her napkin carefully in her lap. “Your wine is perfect, as is.”
I can’t help the tears that spring to my eyes. I give her a tight hug. “Thanks, Mom.”
My dad winks at me over her shoulder. “I hear they arrested the culprit.”
I tell them an abridged version of the story; no need for them to know how close their daughter came to being shish-kebabbed by a corkscrew. “It means the world to me that you came tonight.”
Inevitably, we’ll have our ups and downs in the future, but at this moment, I appreciate my family being at my side, supporting my passion.
“Don’t let us keep you from your guests,” my mom says, shooing me away.
The next hour passes in a blur. My feet ache so badly I can hardly stand anymore when the last guest finally filters through the door.
I flip the OPEN sign to CLOSED, a giddy feeling bubbling in my chest. I sold a lot of wine tonight, and almost every guest promised they would be back, even the grouchy velvet-clad woman. One night can’t make up for my dismal opening week, and I’ll need to crunch some numbers, but I’m optimistic.
Now, if only I could figure out how the heavily pierced Libby Lincoln fits into everything. Her presence was too coincidental not to be connected with Gaskel’s murder. But that’s a puzzle for later.
I turn back to Reid, who’s stacking empty platters to bring to the dishwasher. They hardly need it since they were practically licked clean.
“We did it,” I say.
I approach him slowly, wringing my hands behind my back. We haven’t really been alone since our trip to Evergreen and the tension has mounted to an almost unbearable level.
“Correction, you did it. I just helped a little.” Reid turns serious, wiping his hands on a towel. “Which means we have business to discuss. I hope you won’t forget our deal.”
“Of course not.” I shake my head, a strand of hair falling over my forehead. “I will personally make sure you have all the Vino Valentine labels you want at your new restaurant.”
“Good.” He flashes me a devilish grin and takes a step closer. The heat in his gaze sends electricity coursing through my entire body. “You probably have some rule about vendors and merchants not getting involved.”
How did he guess? Truth is, I used to have rules about a lot of things, but due to recent events, I’m reevaluating. Life is too short for constraints.
I close the distance between us so our toes nearly touch. “You know what I have to say about that?”
“What?”
“Absolutely nothing.”
And then, just like that, I grab a handful of his shirt and pull him toward me into a kiss. He wraps his arms around my waist and smiles into my lips. Our mouths open and our kiss deepens.
His lips are soft against mine, giving and taking in equal measure. For the record, there’s nothing else soft about Reid. I trace a line from his bicep to his chest, all lean muscle beneath his shirt, while my other hand cradles his jaw, cut like glass.
Heat courses between us as my hands come to rest over his chest, our hearts pounding in sync. Our kiss slows into something unbelievably tender that leaves me warm and tingly.
Damn, he’s a good kisser.
“Thank God,” he says, trailing kisses across my cheek and down my neck. “You’ve been driving me crazy since we first met.”
“Likewise,” I say breathlessly.
“I’ve never been so captivated by a woman.” He tips my chin up and searches my eyes. “To be honest, it’s kinda terrifying.”
The cracks in his confident demeanor, the vulnerability he’s showed, and all the puzzled looks he gave me make sense now.
I break away to pour us a couple glasses of Ralphie’s Riesling. “Here’s to a future of successful pairings—food and wine, and otherwise.”
“I’ll toast to that.”
We clink glasses and take small sips, our gazes locked as we swish and swallow. In Reid’s arms, the motions have never felt so alluring, and it’s not long before we get back to kissing.