Edward shook his head. "Having her in the wedding party was Freddie's idea. Why? I haven't the foggiest. From what I saw, their relationship was tenuous at best." His expression hardened. "They'd been at each other's throats since we arrived in town. Not only was it distracting, but it was upsetting for my poor daughter."
I was about to ask more, when a soft voice called from the doorway.
"Edward?"
I looked up to find Meredith Somersby hovering near the stairs. Her eyes were red, as if she'd been crying right along with her daughter, and the wrinkles in her face seemed more pronounced today, her entire being sagging just that much more. "Juliet's asking for you," she said softly.
Edward rose to his feet. "If you'll excuse me," he directed my way.
"Of course," I assured him, rising from my seat as well. "But, uh, about the account…" I trailed off, trying not to sound too indelicate.
He blinked at me again, as if he'd completely forgotten why I'd been there. "Oh. Right. Yes. I, uh, I'll get it to you soon."
Soon. I just hoped that soon was sooner than the soon when my bills were due to the vendors.
* * *
"Well, that was interesting," Ava said as we stepped outside into the sunshine again.
"Interesting that I didn't get the check?" I asked, my mind still on the money.
"No," Ava corrected, "that he threw Natalie under the bus."
I sent a questioning look her way. "You think that's what he was doing?"
Ava nodded, her blonde hair bobbing around her shoulders. "I mean, I can see why he didn't like Freddie, but why point the finger at Natalie? As far as I could tell, she was just along for the ride with this whole wedding thing."
"Maybe he was just pointing it away from himself," I mused.
Ava nodded. "Sure. Or away from his daughter."
"Juliet?" I asked. "You don't really think she could have anything to do with this?"
"No," Ava agreed. "But maybe Dad isn't so sure."
"Or maybe Natalie and Freddie really weren't on good terms." I thought back to the brief interactions I'd witnessed between the pair. It had been clear that Natalie had been goading her cousin, but killing him before his wedding? It felt like a stretch.
"Hey, think you could drop me at Silver Girl?" Ava asked, looking at her watch. "I've got a private client coming in at ten."
I nodded, getting into my Jeep. "Sure. I'll pick you up later to get your car." Ava drove a vintage 1970s olive green convertible Pontiac GTO, which was her pride and joy. Some people had kids, some people had pets—Ava had her GTO.
"You sure you don't mind?" Ava asked, buckling up.
I shrugged. "Will I mind taking a break from stalling our vendors for payment due to a death at the winery?" I asked, heavy on the sarcasm. "It'll be a heartbreak to leave that task, but anything for you, girl."
CHAPTER FIVE
After dropping Ava off at her shop downtown, I drove back to Oak Valley alone, thoughts of the grieving Juliet Somersby, Freddie Campbell's bludgeoned body, and the overprotective father who seemed to have no qualms about speaking ill of the dead all swirling in my head. I tried to push them out, instead mentally going down my to-do list again. Even if the wedding had gone off with the very big hitch of a dead groom, there'd be plenty to do to clean up after the event and return our winery back to normal.
Arrangements had to be made to pick up the chairs and tables, flowers had to be disposed of, the bride and groom's suites had to be cleaned, and in light of the haste the wedding party had understandably left in, there were still personal items and gifts left behind to package up and have delivered to the B&B. And then there were the dreaded calls I'd mentioned to Ava that needed to be made to put off the vendors just a little longer as I awaited payment from the father of the bride.
As I pulled up to the winery and noticed that the CSI van was still parked in our lot, I decided to get the least pleasant task over with first—the phone calls. On the upside, my office did provide a haven from the police technicians swarming our terrace, serving as a grim reminder of what I'd seen there.
Two hours later, I was several depressing calls into that task, when a soft knock sounded at my office door and Conchita stuck her head in.
"Emmy?" she called.
"What's up?" I asked, honestly grateful for the distraction.
That is, grateful until she spoke again and revealed just what the distraction was.
"Your detective wants to see you."
I felt my cheeks heat. "He's not my detective—" I started to protest, though I didn't get much further than that as Grant pushed past her into the room, his broad frame suddenly filling it.
"Emmy," he said, his tone even and authoritative, telling me this was not a social call.
"Grant," I countered, trying to sound just as detached and professional. Even though my voice faltered a bit more than his, the element of surprise catching me off guard. Feeling the height disadvantage of sitting at my desk, I quickly stood. Though even then he still towered over me by a good six inches, despite my high heels.
"I'll, uh, leave you two alone," Conchita murmured, beating a hasty retreat back to the kitchen. I didn't blame her. The steely look in Grant's eyes had me wanting to retreat as well.
"Are your CSIs finished yet?" I asked, breaking the silence.
"Almost," he replied. Then he shot me a look, mouth curving upward at one corner in a half smile. "But they're not my CSIs."
I felt my cheeks heat again, my eyes instinctively hitting the carpet to avoid his teasing gaze. So he'd heard that, huh?
"Did you need something?" I asked, clearing my throat.
"I did," he replied, thankfully letting it go, though the mocking smile was still there. "I wanted to ask you about this." He held up a small plastic bag with an official looking seal securing the top.
"What is it?" I asked, taking a step around my desk to get a closer look.
"Feathers." He set the bag down on the desktop.
"Feathers?" I picked it up, peering at the items encased in clear plastic. Sure enough—small, white feathers that looked like they'd been trampled in the dirt a bit.
"They were found on the terrace near the victim," Grant went on. "We're trying to ascertain where they came from. I don't suppose you have any fowl living on the property?"
As I turned the bag over in my hands, inspecting the fluffy white plumage, recognition set in, and I felt my stomach drop. I did know where these feathers had come from. And it wasn't a local bird. In fact, I was almost certain I'd seen identical feathers the day before…on the bust of Juliet Somersby's wedding dress.
"Emmy?" Grant prompted.
I took a deep breath and set the bag back down.
"No, no birds on the property," I told him. Even as my mind went into overdrive, trying to think of how pieces of Juliet's wedding dress had ended up on the terrace. She'd gotten dressed in the bridal suite. She'd come straight from there to the ceremony. She'd had attendants with her every second of the time between when she'd arrived at the winery to when Freddie had been found.
Hadn't she?
"Emmy?" Grant asked again. "Something wrong?"
I looked up to find him staring at me, mouth drawn down in a frown, the hazel flecks in his eyes working in a frenzy as they tried to read my jumbled thoughts.
Dang. I really needed to work on my poker face.
"Uh, no," I lied, clearing my throat again loudly.
"Do you know where these feathers came from?" he asked, his eyes intent on mine, as if he already knew the answer to that particular question.
I licked my lips. "You said they came from the terrace."
The frown on his face deepened, all traces of his previous humor gone. He was in Cop Mode now—all business. "How did they get there?"
"Search me!" I did an exaggerated shrug that did nothing to erase the suspicion in his eyes.
"Okay. But these feathers do look familiar to you," he said, phrasing it as a statement, not a questi
on. Clearly the look on my face had told him that much.
I sucked air in through my nose, holding it a second before letting it out slowly. "Yes," I admitted.
I expected him to look triumphant, but instead he kept his stoic expression in place. "And?"
I let out another long breath of air, ruffling my hair with it. "Fine!"
He quirked an eyebrow at me.
"Look, you're going to find out sooner or later anyway," I reasoned. "They're from Juliet's wedding dress."
If it was a surprise to him, he didn't show it, simply nodding as he picked up the baggie again. "I see."
"But that doesn't mean anything," I quickly added.
He looked up at me again, one eyebrow still higher than the other. "No?"
"No," I said empathically. "I mean, wedding dresses are notoriously delicate. Those feathers could have come off of it at any time."
"At any time," Grant repeated. He nodded again, as if considering that possibility. Though whether he was serious or was just humoring me, I wasn't entirely sure.
"The Somersbys strike me as traditional," Grant said.
"What?" I asked.
"My understanding is that it's customary for the bride to stay hidden from the groom before the ceremony? That it's bad luck for him to see her in her dress before she walks down the aisle?"
"I guess," I hedged, not liking where this was going.
"So, did Freddie break with tradition and visit his bride right before the wedding?"
"No," I admitted. "I don't think he did."
"So, he wouldn't have been around her wedding gown enough to, say, transfer half a dozen feathers from her dress?" He held up the plastic baggie again with the evidence in it that looked more and more like it would be admitted at a murder trial.
I sighed loudly. "No. He wasn't. Not that morning."
"Which means if the feathers didn't get onto the terrace on Freddie, they must have arrived with someone else."
"Someone other than Juliet," I told him.
He cocked his head at me. "Was anyone else wearing white feathers to the wedding?"
I narrowed my eyes at him. "No. But that doesn't mean anything. They could have gotten there from…from…from flying out the window of the bridal suite and down to the terrace," I finished.
Grant's lips curled up into a half smile again. "Nice theory."
"Thank you."
"But, as you know, the terrace is on the opposite side of the winery from the bride's suite."
"Well, then…they got there some other way. Someone else must have met Freddie on the terrace. Someone who came into contact with the bride," I reasoned.
"Possibly," he hedged, his expression giving nothing away.
I crossed my arms over my chest. "Look, I don't know how these got on the terrace, but I know Juliet did not kill Freddie. She was in love."
Grant gave me a long stare, and I could have sworn it was laced with sympathy at how naïve he thought I was being.
I straightened my spine, giving him a challenging stare of my own. "Was there anything else, Detective?" I asked, doing my best at icy professionalism.
Only, instead of being affronted by it, he gave me that slow half smile again. His lips curling up enticingly in a way that was dangerous to my resolve. "No, Ms. Oak. That will be all." He turned to go but paused in the doorway and added, "For now."
The promise in those two little words sent a surge of heat to my cheeks.
And, if I was being totally honest, to other places of my body too.
* * *
After Grant left, I thought about calling the caterer to see if I could stall on paying off the last bill, but all I could focus on was the fact that Juliet was looking more and more like a real suspect in the police's eyes. I had to admit, the accoutrements from her wedding dress ending up at the crime scene was not good. I still thought there was another explanation—like possibly someone had accidentally transferred them or even put them there specifically to frame the bride—but the who and the how eluded me.
One thing was for sure though—this didn't look like a possible random act of violence anymore. Someone close to the couple had wanted the groom dead.
I gave up on paperwork and phone calls and went looking for Conchita, who was hard at work cleaning up the bride's suite. I dug in beside her, the physical labor a welcomed distraction as we packed up the few stray bits of clothing and makeup left behind by the harried bridal party and cleared away champagne glasses, empty bottles, and trays of brunch canapés the group had nibbled on while preparing for Juliet's big day. All of it had an air of sadness about it that was deflating. The room had been so full of such hope just 24 hours earlier. Now those moments would only serve as tragic memories for the bride.
I was just carrying the last tray of glasses back to the kitchen when I passed the tasting room. Two people sat at the bar, and I recognized both immediately.
The first was stocky, dark haired, and wearing a pair of thick glasses atop a slightly crooked nose—Baker Evans, the best man. He was sipping a glass of Pinot Noir and chatting amiably with the second man. If he was drowning his sorrows, he was doing a good job of it, as he chuckled jovially at something the second guy said.
Whom I knew only too well—David Allen, of the Allen-Price-Pennington family fame.
David Allen was tall and slim, all sinewy muscle, and wore a pair of fitted jeans and a black T-shirt. His dark hair hung loose, falling into his eyes that were equally dark and always seeming to hint at a private joke only he was in on. His immediate vibe was rebellious teen, though I knew he was at least my age—maybe older. He came from an ultra wealthy and highly dysfunctional family, and he spent his days enjoying his trust fund, smoking pot in the guest house of his mother's estate, and painting dark, thought provoking art.
And, on his off days, bothering me.
David looked up as I approached, giving me a wide smile. "Ems, my dear, there you are."
"David," I said, setting my tray of empty glasses down on the back counter. I nodded toward the full glass in his hand. "Enjoying our Pinot Noir?"
"Immensely," he told me, without even a hint of self-consciousness at taking advantage of our open tasting room policy.
I turned to my other guest. "Nice to see you again, Mr. Evans."
"Thank you. I, uh, hope you don't mind my mooching a glass." He gestured to his wine.
"Not at all," David jumped in before I had the chance. "Emmy is always happy to spare a sip for a friend, right, Ems?"
I forced the smile on my face as I ignored that comment and addressed Baker Evans. "Please, enjoy."
"Thanks. I, uh, came to pick up the wedding gifts. You know, for Juliet. She's…well, not really up to it." He ended the comment on a sigh that spoke volumes about how the last day had been for the best man.
"Of course. And please accept my condolences on your loss," I told him.
"Thanks." He looked down into his wineglass, all trace of jovialness having sobered. "It's, uh, hard to believe he's gone, you know?"
"I'm sure it's been a shock," I agreed, stating the obvious. I'd admit I was terrible at knowing what to say to grieving people. I'd been in my teens when my father had passed away, and I'd been so full of anger and resentment that nothing anyone had said back then had come even close to being comforting. And I had a hard time believing anything I was saying now was any kind of salve for the raw emotions those close to the murdered man were feeling.
"Yeah. A shock. That's a good way to put it," Baker agreed, giving me a rueful smile before sipping from his glass again.
"Baker here was just telling me what a fun guy our Freddie was," David said. "Sounds like I missed a heck of a bachelor party."
"Oh?" I asked. Thankfully, that was one aspect of the wedding I'd not been tasked to plan.
"Well, you know. Freddie knew how to have a good time," Baker mumbled, clearly not as comfortable discussing the proceedings with a member of the fairer sex as he had been with a stranger at a bar.
>
"How is Juliet doing?" I asked, steering the topic elsewhere for him.
Baker shrugged. "Honestly, I don't know. I mean, of course she's torn up. But I've just kinda left the Somersbys be, you know? Let her mourn in private with her family right now."
Which made sense. But, I noted, it also left Baker to grieve alone for his friend. I felt a pang of sympathy for the man. "How long had you known Freddie?"
"Wow, feels like forever." Baker let out a low, soft laugh, his eyes going to a far off spot in his memory. "Since high school. Man, we were always together then."
"That is a long time," David agreed.
Baker sucked in a breath, bringing his focus back to present. "Freddie kind of took me under his wing then. Helped me get into the right parties and stuff." He chuckled again, clearly reliving better times. "Of course, in exchange I helped him out with his homework." He grinned. "It was a win-win."
"Did you know Natalie then too?"
Baker frowned. "Natalie?"
"Freddie's cousin? Did she go to school with you two as well?"
"Oh." He looked down into his glass again. "No. No, she wasn't around then."
The way he said it made me think there was more to that story. Edward Somersby's insinuations that there was bad blood between Freddie and his cousin rang in the back of my mind.
"They must have been close lately?" I asked, probing carefully. "I mean, she's the only family he invited to his wedding."
Baker shrugged. "I'm not surprised she was the only one. Freddie wasn't close with any of his family. Divorced parents, remarriages, steps—it was messy."
"I understand all about that," David said, raising his glass in camaraderie. A statement that was not an exaggeration. When I'd first met David, his stepfather had been found murdered in my wine cellar. David had one of the messiest families on record.
"But Freddie did invite Natalie. In fact, she was even part of the wedding party," I pointed out.
Marriage, Merlot & Murder (Wine & Dine Mysteries Book 4) Page 5