Baker froze, his features unreadable. "How'd you find out about that?" he asked, his voice flat and monotone, giving nothing away.
I waved off the question. "It doesn't matter. But you did know Freddie had been married before?"
He shrugged. "Well, yeah. Of course. That's not something he'd keep from me." There was the defensive tone again.
"Did you know who he was married to?" I asked, scrutinizing his expression for any little tell.
But he just blinked. "Wh-who? No. I mean, look, it was a brief marriage. A mistake. Freddie didn't like to talk about it."
"So you never met his ex-wife?" I asked, finding this hard to believe. "Even though you were his best friend."
Baker cleared his throat, averting his eyes. "No, I never met her. It was—it was an impulse thing, you know? Freddie met some woman in Vegas, they got married on a whim, and it didn't last. Big surprise, right?"
"He told you that?"
Baker nodded. "Yeah. He gave me the gist. Like I said, he didn't like to talk about it much. I got the impression that his ex-wife was a total nutcase."
"So, why did he use the alias?"
"Alias?" Baker laughed. "Wow, you make it sound so nefarious."
Being a con man kind of was, but I didn't tip that hand quite yet. "Freddie did change his name," I pointed out.
"Yeah, he did," Baker admitted. "He had to. Said his ex was stalking him. Like I said, she was a nutcase. Freddie just wanted a clean start in LA, you know?"
"So Freddie never mentioned his ex-wife's name to you?" I asked pointedly. "Or how much she was worth?"
"Worth?" Baker did more blinking. "What do you mean?"
"His ex-wife was wealthy," I told him.
"Well, good for her, I guess," Baker mumbled.
"Was," I clarified. "Before Freddie cleaned her out."
"Wh-what are you talking about?" If Baker knew any of this, he was doing a good job of covering it up. The stocky man actually looked bewildered. "No, look, I think you've got some bad information from someone here. Freddie would never take some woman's money."
"So he wasn't about to take Juliet's?" I asked.
"No!" Baker shook his head vehemently. "No, Freddie loved Juliet," he said with conviction that made me believe him. Or at least believe that was what Freddie had told him.
"What does this even have to do with the wedding, anyway?" Baker asked, the defensive tone back in his voice. "I mean, you are the wedding planner, right?"
I cleared my throat. "Right." I paused, hoping a brilliant cover would come to me. I'd been so gung-ho about confronting Natalie, and then Baker, that I hadn't really thought about it until now why a winery owner would be so interested in Freddie's personal life.
"Uh…if Freddie has an ex-wife, she may be his next of kin now. We, uh, have some accounts to settle with someone." Which was at least half true.
Baker blinked at me, but the flimsy explanation must have been enough, as he just shook his head. "Sorry. Like I said, Freddie never mentioned a name. Your guess is as good as mine." He shrugged and walked inside the B&B, leaving me alone on the porch again.
While I had more than a guess at who Freddie's previous wife had been, it appeared that Baker had been left in the dark. It occurred to me that maybe the women in Freddie's life weren't the only ones who'd fallen for his charm.
I pulled out my phone and dialed Conchita, who said she and Hector were heading into town to catch a movie anyway, and they would be happy to drop my car off at the B&B on their way. With twenty minutes to kill before they arrived, I realized I hadn't eaten in hours and wandered across the street to the café. I ordered their January special—French Onion Soup with Sherry, which was pure heaven in a bowl. It warmed me from the inside, and I may have even elicited some funny looks from the other patrons when I moaned a la When Harry Met Sally over the sweet caramelized onions and tangy Gruyère.
By the time I finished and made my way back to the B&B, Hector was just pulling up into the small back lot in my Jeep, with Conchita following behind in the couple's red pickup truck.
I waved as he cut the engine and stepped out. "Thank you so much," I told him. "I hope this wasn't a bother."
"Not at all," he reassured me, his weathered face breaking into a smile. After my father had passed away, Hector had almost stepped into that paternal role—which was a perfect complement to the mother hen complex Conchita had developed, first while looking after my mother and then seamlessly transferring to me when I'd come back home.
Not that I minded. They were a wonderful and welcomed set of second parents.
"Come on, we're going to be late," Conchita called from the window of the pickup, hailing her husband. "You know I hate missing the previews."
Hector chuckled. "And you need your popcorn. And Milk Duds." He winked knowingly at me.
Conchita blinked at him. "Of course. Why else go to the movies?"
I couldn't help but smile at their cute banter. While they'd been married for almost twenty years, instead of fizzling out, the initial passionate fire of first love had heated and grown into a deep warmth that I could see still brought a twinkle to Hector's eyes as he walked around to the passenger side of the truck. He slipped in and gave Conchita a quick peck on the cheek that had her giggling like a girl as she waved good-bye to me.
I hoped to one day have the kind of affection that still brought twinkles to a man's eye after twenty years. Grant's face briefly flitted across my mind, but I shut that thought down quickly. Grant was the opposite of the settling-down type. He was more the rev-you-up-and-leave-you type. I wondered briefly if he'd had someone back in San Francisco before he'd abruptly been transferred to Wine Country. He'd never mentioned anyone, but then again, we hadn't had the type of deep, meaningful conversations that drew those moments out. Mostly we'd just had brief dinners followed by even briefer make-out sessions.
"…not what I meant!"
My thoughts were interrupted as raised voices filtered toward me from across the parking lot.
"It's exactly what you meant," the other person shouted back.
I paused, my hand on the door to my Jeep, as I recognized one of the voices.
Edward Somersby.
I peeked around the hood of my car and saw that the second voice belonged to Mrs. Somersby. The pair were standing several yards away, engaged in what appeared to be a heated conversation. Meredith was speaking in a low tone that I could only make out as a murmur, but her eyes were blazing.
"…don't know why you're upset," I heard Edward say as the couple walked closer to me.
Instinctively, I ducked down below my car's windows to avoid being seen.
"Why I'm upset?" Meredith shot back, louder now.
"Keep your voice down," her husband hissed.
Dang it. I wished she wouldn't.
The next line was lost on me as she complied, and I risked ducking my head up again to catch a glimpse of her body language. She was leaning in close to Edward, eyes narrowed, hands gesturing wildly. And the more she talked, the angrier she appeared, and the louder her voice rose until I could make out the tail end of her tirade.
"…money is missing!"
My pulse quickened. Missing money? My thoughts immediately went to Freddie. Had he possibly had his hand in Juliet's finances already? Juliet had appeared blindly in love with Freddie—maybe so blind she'd trusted him with her accounts?
"…don't know that!" Edward snapped back. The next part was mumbled quietly to his wife, his eyes darting around as if worried someone might overhear the argument. Good instincts.
I crouched down below the window again to avoid being caught eavesdropping, but I could still hear him finish his thought.
"…and I'll handle it."
"How?" Meredith asked.
"That's not your concern," he said, his voice growing louder as he walked closer to my position. "Just know that I'm taking care of it right now."
He was so close I could hear his footsteps. My heart was hammering in my ears as I ducke
d low and waited for him to pass my hiding spot.
Unfortunately, I hadn't taken a good look at the car next to me in the lot. Heavy footfalls stalked closer, and my breath caught in my throat as I realized I was parked right next to the Somersbys' black Mercedes.
In a panic, I hurled myself into the bushes that lined the little lot. I wedged my way between two shrubs just as I heard a car door open and shut and an engine turn over. My gaze snapped to the windshield. Edward didn't seem to have noticed me. He was too preoccupied with glaring at his wife through the rearview mirror as he reversed the Mercedes. Behind the car, I caught a glimpse of Meredith Somersby, her own expression dark as she stormed back toward the Victorian.
Edward pulled the car out of the parking lot and took a right onto the road that ran beside the bed and breakfast. With the coast clear, I quickly emerged from the bushes, not even bothering to pick the stems and leaves out of my hair. Instead I jumped into my Jeep and whipped it into reverse, quickly backing out of my own parking space.
If Edward was about to "handle" some missing money that Freddie had taken, I was dying to see exactly where he was going.
Luckily, traffic was sparse this time of day, and I caught up to the Mercedes about a mile down the road. I was careful to keep a respectable distance, not wanting Juliet's father to realize that he was being tailed. He took a right on Andrieux and then a left on 2nd, winding the luxury car past the fire station and up toward Napa St., where he took a sharp right. I felt my spidey senses tingling as he turned down a familiar side street and pulled his car to a stop at the curb in front of a converted warehouse space.
The Art Initiative. Justin Hall's studio.
I crept my car slowly past, slumping low in my driver's seat as I peered through the passenger window and saw Mr. Somersby get out of his car and stride purposefully toward the glass door of the studio. A thousand questions whirled through my mind. What did Justin Hall have to do with money that Freddie stole from Juliet? Were Justin and Freddie in on it together? And, more importantly, what was Edward Somersby about to do?
I turned down the next street and circled back around the block, stopping short of Justin's building. Not wanting to be recognized, I pulled into a parking spot a half a block away and climbed out of my car, sticking close to the other shop fronts as I approached the space. I tried to see in the front window, but with Justin's space at the back, all I could make out were the figures of the two men. Edward had definitely come here to see Justin, as they stood deep in conversation about something. What, I had no idea.
I bit my lip, looking around. An alley ran alongside the warehouse. On instinct, I ducked down it, quickly walking its length until I was about where I thought Justin's space might be. A small window was above me, just out of reach of my 5'7" self, and I quickly glanced around for anything to stand on to reach it. Luckily, several wooden pallets were stacked along the side of the building, and I grabbed a couple, using them to hoist myself up to see over the windowsill.
The first thing I saw was that the artists in the initiative sorely needed to clean their windows. My view was partially obstructed by a layer of grime that was possibly as old as the original Miscetti. The second thing I noticed was that the studio was empty.
The two men I'd seen talking together were both gone. I stood on my tiptoes as the pallets beneath me wobbled precariously, trying to see farther into the building. But there was no sign of Edward Somersby or Justin Hall. Where had they gone? It had only taken me a couple of minutes to sneak over to the window.
Instinctively, I swept my gaze to the far corner of the studio, squinting at the floor beside Justin's easel where the replica of the Pablo Miscetti had been. Empty.
The painting was gone, too.
I blinked, my mind trying to piece together how the painting, Edward, Justin, and missing money were all tied to Freddie. My brain was trying so hard to make sense of it that even though my ears vaguely picked up the sound of footsteps nearby, my mind didn't think to register it as significant.
Until it was too late.
I spun around toward the source of the sound, my foot slipping on the stack beneath me.
Just in time to see a large pallet come careening toward my head.
Wood collided with bone and flesh, and pain exploded behind my eyes, blurring my vision. I felt myself falling for a split second before my head crashed into the asphalt below me.
Then everything went black.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
"Emmy? Emmy, can you hear me?"
Sounds mixed together in a mumbled jumble that felt like it was coming to me from underwater. Cars on a city street, the far off sound of a police siren, muffled conversations.
"Emmy? Open your eyes, Emmy!"
And someone calling my name. Over and over. Getting louder. As my mind focused on that one sound, I realized not only was it getting louder, but the note of concern it held was heightening. The fear ratcheting up little by little as it repeated my name.
"Emmy! Wake up, Emmy!"
I pulled in air through my nostrils, trying to suck in the energy to respond to the voice. My body felt heavy and weak, and I wasn't sure I could even move my eyelids, let alone make enough sound to stop the voice from yelling at me. I exhaled, feeling my lips part as a small moan escaped me.
"Emmy?" the voice called again. Male. I could tell it was male now. "Open your eyes."
I was trying. Trying with every ounce of energy I had. Finally I managed to pry one open, then the other, blinking against the sudden onslaught of images that were as foggy as the mumbled noises had been at first.
"There you are," the voice said. "God, you scared me."
I blinked some more, feeling my muscles get the hang of it as the source of the voice came into focus. Dark hair, square jaw dusted with a day's worth of stubble, dark eyes staring down at me with concern.
"Grant?" I managed to croak out.
A small smile pulled at his features in response, though it was as weak as I felt. "Hey. You're back."
I grunted again, trying to turn my head to figure out where I was. Bad idea. Pain exploded on the left side.
"Careful. It looks like you fell pretty hard."
Fell. I tried to think back to the last thing I remembered. I had fallen…off the stack of pallets. But it hadn't been just clumsiness on my part.
"Someone hit me," I said, feeling the fog start to lift from my brain.
The concern etched on his brow deepened, his jaw clenching. "Hit you?"
I nodded, feeling the back of my head scrape on hard ground. More ouch.
"What happened?" he asked.
I motioned for him to help me sit up, and once I'd achieved that feat, I took a moment for the world to stop spinning before answering him.
"I was standing on those pallets," I told him, gesturing to the now toppled pile against the building, "looking in the window, and someone hit me with another one and I fell." I reached up to touch the side of my head, wincing at the pain as I encountered the sore spot. When I pulled my fingers away, there was fresh blood on them.
"Did you get a look at him?" Grant asked.
I closed my eyes. But all I remembered was the split second of hard wood rushing up to meet my face. I shook my head. "Sorry. It all happened so fast."
Grant gently tilted my head forward so he could get a better look at the injury. When he pulled back again, his expression was tight with worry. "I should get you to the hospital. You've got a nasty gash back there."
"I'm fine," I protested, knowing health insurance was so far out of my financial reach, it might as well have been a golden egg. I was currently hovering somewhere above the poverty line where health care was free and somewhere below the line where it was actually as "affordable" as the government thought it should be. But I figured Grant didn't need to know the details. "It's just a bump," I told him, wiping the blood on my pants so he wouldn't see it.
"Your bump is bleeding," he said, glancing at my head again.
; "Just a little."
He shot me a look that told me he didn't buy that for a second.
I cleared my throat, trying to change the subject. "What are you doing here anyway?" I asked.
"I was hoping to chat with Justin Hall," he said.
"Oh? About?"
"Nice try, Oak." He grinned at me, though it was still just short of actually humorous. "It's an ongoing investigation. I can't share any details with you."
"Right," I said, though the fact that he was even here did share something with me. Justin Hall was on his radar. Now whether that was due to me telling him Justin punched Freddie before he'd died or that he'd found out Justin had something to do with forged artwork and possibly missing money, was another question.
One I feared I would not be getting an answer to today.
I let Grant gently pull me to my feet and didn't even try to reject his offer of support as the world did another spinning act on me.
We stopped there a beat before Grant asked, "Can you walk?"
"Maybe. Where are we going?"
"My car," he said, already propelling me slowly forward. "We're going to the emergency room."
I groaned. "Do you know how expensive that's going to be?" Though as my steps swayed a little like I'd had too much Chardonnay, my protests were becoming weaker. Truth was, a visit to the doctor didn't sound like a terrible idea right then.
"I'll bill the department," Grant said.
"You can do that?"
He shrugged. "I can try."
"Hmmm." Try wasn't exactly a promise of reimbursement. "What about my car?" I asked, gesturing to my Jeep parked up the street.
He gave it a quick glance. "Give me your keys, and I'll have an officer drive it home for you."
I hesitated. But, in all honesty, I wasn't sure I could have driven myself home if I'd wanted to in my current state. I reluctantly handed my keys over to him as I let him lead me to his black SUV, parked just to the right of the alleyway, and hold the passenger door open for me. I shivered as a gust of cold air blew past us, and my teeth involuntarily chattered.
Grant paused to shrug out of his brown leather coat and handed it to me. "Here. You must be freezing."
Marriage, Merlot & Murder (Wine & Dine Mysteries Book 4) Page 15