I smiled at him, grateful. I took the jacket and slipped it around my shoulders, instantly shrouded in warmth as I climbed into his SUV.
As Grant walked around to the other side of the car, I glanced down the street and couldn't help but notice the empty spot by the curb where Edward Somersby's Mercedes had been. The shop front to the Art Initiative studio was dark, the lights turned off inside the space, and it appeared to be deserted. Justin and Edward Somersby were long gone by now. I found myself wondering if either of the men could have been my attacker. Maybe Edward had noticed me following him after all. Or perhaps Justin had seen me snooping around and had decided to try to scare me off. I suddenly felt very vulnerable and fortunate that I'd only been knocked unconscious. I shuddered, realizing how much worse my fate could have been.
Grant slid in behind the steering wheel, turning the engine on so that the heater started blowing out lukewarm air. "So, are you going to tell me what you were doing in the alleyway behind Justin's art studio?" he asked.
"Do I have to?" I answered.
If I was expecting amusement, I didn't get it. Instead he turned his Cop Face on me and gave me a slow nod. "Yeah. I think you better."
I sighed. "I was trying to find out what Edward Somersby was saying to Justin Hall about the missing money."
Grant's expression didn't change except for one dark eyebrow arching upward ever so slowly. "Missing money?"
I bit my lip. "Yeah. Probably Freddie took it."
Grant shook his head. "Okay, Emmy. Start from the beginning," he instructed as he pulled the car away from the curb.
I did, reluctantly coming clean about everything I'd learned that day, from the fact that Freddie had multiple names and multiple wives to go with them, to the argument I'd overheard between the Somersbys. I stopped just short of accusing Justin of forgery, as to be honest, I really didn't know what, if anything, that had to do with Freddie. And the look I was getting from Grant about how much involvement I'd had so far prompted me to minimize wherever possible. In fact, he appeared about ready to burst a blood vessel by the time we pulled up to the emergency room entrance.
"I want you to promise me something," he said, his voice tight as his hands gripped the steering wheel.
"What?" I hesitated to ask.
He turned to me, and I could see his eyes were dark, the hazel flecks flashing angrily. "Stay out of this Freddie Campbell mess."
I bit my lip. "I'm kinda already in it."
He shook his head. "No, you keep inserting yourself in it."
A small bristle of anger pricked at the back of my neck. "Are you saying this is my fault? That I asked to be attacked today?"
His jaw worked back and forth, his eyes narrowing. "No. I'm saying that if you were at home, watching some stupid Meg Ryan movie, this would not have happened."
"Meg Ryan movies are not stupid."
He pulled in a deep breath, and I could almost mentally hear him counting to ten. "Emmy, this is a murder investigation, and you need to stop getting involved."
"It happened at my winery! To one of my clients. Who, by the way, has still not paid me. So, yeah, I'd say I'm pretty involved whether I want to be or not."
"The want to be is what worries me," he shot back.
"You know want?" I said, anger suddenly giving me the energy I'd lacked earlier. "I can take it from here, Detective. Thanks for the ride." I unbuckled my seat belt and jumped out of the car before Grant could stop me, stalking toward the ER entrance on my own. I vaguely heard him protest behind me, but I ignored it, marching up to the intake desk, where the sight of me must have been worse than I felt, as I was quickly whisked away to a curtained off exam area.
Adrenaline ebbed as I was examined by the on-call doctor and it was determined that I would need three stitches to close the wound and should probably not be alone that night in order to watch for signs of a concussion. I promised the doctor I would call my best friend to come stay the night in my guest room. I didn't add that this wasn't the first time we'd had the same arrangement—sadly, Ava knew the protocol for concussions well.
Which was maybe why Grant had been a little overly protective.
I tried not to mentally replay the events of the evening, the images making my head pound, and guilt crept in at how harsh I'd been with him. Instead, I tried to zone out as I was treated, given a prescription for painkillers, and finally discharged nearly two hours later. I paused in the ER waiting room before leaving, wondering if I should bother Conchita and Hector again or try to get an Uber back to the winery. A decision that I never actually had to make, as I spotted Grant sitting at the far end of the room, looking bored behind a six month old copy of People magazine.
He must have felt my eyes on him as he looked up and set the magazine down. He crossed the small space in three quick strides. "Hey. Ready to go?"
While I'd walked away from his car full of gumption, I felt like I'd had the gumption kind of whacked, stitched, and drugged out of me at that point. So I just nodded and let him lead me out the door and across the lot to where he'd parked his car.
"You waited for me?" I asked, hearing my voice sound small.
He gave me half smile. "I had to. You're wearing my jacket," he joked.
I glanced down. He was right. I was still encased in his protective layer that smelled like old leather and his woodsy aftershave. I made a motion to shrug out of it, but he stopped me.
"Hang on to it. It's a long drive back to the winery." He shot me another smile—this time the full thing—before holding the passenger door open for me.
I climbed in and spent the rest of the drive in silence, feeling exhaustion seep into my bones. The sky was dark and dotted with a thousand brilliant stars as Grant parked in the vineyard's gravel lot and came around to help me out of the car. His hand was warm at the small of my back as he walked with me down the stone pathway that led to my small cottage. I had to fish around in my purse for my keys, and I noticed my hands were shaky as I fumbled with the lock and finally got the door open.
"Thanks," I said, turning to Grant.
"Anytime. Rescuing damsels in distress is kind of part of my job description," he responded.
I shot him a look. "Do I look like a damsel in distress?"
His eyes went up to the bandage at the side of my head, then back down to meet mine before a knowing grin hit his lips.
I rolled my eyes. "Okay, fine. I might look a little in distress right now."
"Just a little." He paused, lifting a hand to touch my hair. It came away with a small leaf. He looked from me to it and shook his head. "What have you been up to today, Emmy?"
I bit my lip. Had I left out the part about hiding in the bushes to avoid Edward Somersby in the parking lot?
"Can we skim over the details?" I asked.
He dropped the leaf onto my carpet, eyes meeting mine. "Yeah, I think we should."
Relief washed over me.
"Did the doctor mention a concussion?" he asked softly.
I licked my lips. "He said it was a possibility. That I shouldn't be alone. I was going to call Ava…" I trailed off at the intensity of his eyes on mine.
"But I'm already here," he said, his voice husky and deep.
I nodded dumbly. "Right. You are."
He took a step closer, his hand going to my hair again. Only this time he gently tucked a lock of it behind my ear, making my pulse quicken. His hand slid down to the nape of my neck, careful to avoid my stitches as he gently guided me toward him.
My pain temporarily forgotten, I leaned forward and closed my eyes, melting into him as his lips met mine. They were soft, and his stubble tickled my chin. He let his hand glide to my shoulder and trail lightly down my arm before circling my waist. His touch made me tingle all over, and a soft moan escaped my throat as he pulled me firmly against his body. The tingling turned into a vibrating sensation, radiating between our hips. As the rhythmic pulsing continued, I realized it was actually coming from his pants pocket.
&n
bsp; "I think your phone is ringing," I murmured against his lips.
"I'll let it go to voicemail," he said breathlessly, pulling me closer and covering my mouth with his as the vibrating stopped.
A few moments later, however, the persistent buzzing started up again.
Grant broke away from the kiss, letting out a frustrated groan as he retrieved the phone from his pocket and pressed it to his ear. "Grant," he said gruffly into the receiver.
I took the moment to catch my breath, my head spinning for a whole new reason that night. Though as I watched Grant's posture go rigid and his expression turn from that of mild annoyance at the intrusion to one of alert interest, my hormones instantly tamped down.
"When?" he asked the caller, his tone clipped and direct. He nodded to himself as the person on the other end of the line responded. "All right. I'm leaving now. Be there in fifteen." He ended the call and abruptly turned toward the door. "I have to go."
"What's wrong?" I asked, a feeling of dread pooling in my belly as I followed him.
He met my gaze, and I could see emotions warring there about how much to tell me.
"What is it?" I pleaded, feeling that dread grow the longer he didn't answer.
Finally he must have realized I'd find out sooner or later anyway, as he responded, "There's been an incident at the Belle Inn Bed & Breakfast."
"Incident?" I asked, hearing the panic in my own voice. "What kind of incident?"
Grant sucked in a deep breath. "They found a body."
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
I felt my skin go cold, my heart racing. "Wh-who?" I asked. "Who is it?"
Grant shook his head. "It was just called in. I don't have a positive ID yet."
I closed my eyes, imagining the worst. The entire wedding party was staying there. The Somersbys, Juliet, Baker, Andrew, Natalie. As well as the other bridesmaids and several of the groomsmen.
And now one of them was dead.
I opened my eyes, realizing Grant already had the front open and was saying his good-byes.
"…sorry, Emmy, but I have to go."
"I'm coming with you," I said quickly.
"No." He gave me a stern look. "You're hurt, and you need rest. A crime scene is the last place you need to be right now."
I pursed my lips. "The doctor said I shouldn't be alone."
Grant opened his mouth to protest, but I didn't give him the chance.
"Conchita and Hector are in town tonight, and even if call Ava now, she won't be here for another twenty minutes. What if I am concussed and slip into a coma before then?"
While it sounded like a feeble argument to my own ears, I gambled on the fact that Grant was not one to take chances where safety was concerned. A gamble that paid off as he spat out the word, "Fine," before stepping out my door.
I quickly grabbed my purse and followed him, pausing only to throw the lock before I caught up to him in the parking lot.
Fear gnawed at me as we sped down the tree lined driveway, my mind turning the members of the wedding party over in my mind as I wondered just which one of them was dead. Grant waited until we were at the main road before putting his sirens on, and I clutched the armrest of his car to steady myself as he hit speeds well in excess of the posted limit the entire way into town. In half the time it usually took me, we were pulling up to the Belle Inn, the large Victorian building taking on an ominous look in the dark, now bathed in red and blue lights as they flashed against its turrets and ornate moldings.
Three squad cars and an ambulance already littered the street directly in front of the B&B. Grant pulled to a hasty stop behind the ambulance. He got out on the street side and came around to open my door, pausing to give me a warning look.
"You're here as silent observer," he told me. "Hang back."
I nodded. "Duly noted. I will be hanging."
As promised, I kept my distance as I followed him up the steps and into the building, where the first thing I saw was the reception clerk, Sam, her voice raised to near hysteria as she spoke to one of the uniformed officers.
"I just don't know how something like this could happen," she told the policeman between sobs.
The officer gave her a sympathetic look. "Excuse me just a moment, ma'am," he said before turning to address Grant. "The body is out back." He hiked his thumb over his shoulder. "Victim is a female in her midtwenties…"
My pulse roared in my ears, and I suddenly felt sick. A woman in her midtwenties…
Juliet.
I stepped around the trio and quickly made my way down the hall that led to the back garden.
"Emmy, wait," Grant called after me, but I ignored him.
Please don't be Juliet, I thought, trying to shove down the horror building in my chest. What if we'd been right that afternoon, and Natalie had killed her con man husband? Had Natalie decided she needed not only revenge on Freddie but his new bride-to-be too?
With my heart in my throat, I pushed the back door open and stepped out into the cool night air. A line of yellow tape had been posted to set up a barrier around the crime scene, which was contained to the far corner of the garden. Nearly a dozen people were crowded together at the edge, watching the proceedings with concerned looks and downcast eyes. I recognized the bridesmaid with the bob and her boyfriend, both staring at the scene with somber expressions. Baker was at the edge of the crowd, hands shoved into his pockets, eyebrows drawn down in a frown.
I practically wilted with relief as I spotted Juliet among the group. She was leaning against her bridesman, Andrew, her tear-filled eyes staring at the subject of the police's attention—a sheet covered mound just behind a pair of rose bushes. Near them stood the elder Somersbys—Meredith clung to her husband, who had apparently returned from his mysterious meeting with Justin Hall.
Grant caught up to me just as I was descending the back steps to join the crowd. His hand clamped down on my shoulder, and he spun me around so quickly that it made me dizzy. "I thought I told you to hang back," he hissed, his eye blazing.
"I-I was just joining the rest of the onlookers," I said lamely, gesturing to where the B&B patrons and passersby alike appeared to have gathered to watch the gruesome scene unfold.
Grant's eyes cut to the group, some of the fight leaving them. "Right," he said shortly. "That's a good idea."
"The officer said the dead woman was in her midtwenties?" I repeated, glancing at the assembled crowd again, trying to ascertain who was not there. Natalie seemed missing. So was the other bridesmaid.
Grant nodded. "I'm going to go talk to the ME now," he said, gesturing to a guy in a blue hazmat looking suit who was bent down beside the sheet covered mound.
Presumably the unlucky woman.
I swallowed down a lump in my throat and nodded, following him to the edge of the crime scene tape, where I watched him flash a badge and cross the barricade. He bent down and spoke to the ME. While I was a couple of feet away, I was still close enough to hear most of the exchange.
"Any idea how long she's been here?" Grant asked.
"Liver temp is 93, so I'd guess no more than three to five hours. One of the guests"—the ME pointed in the direction of Meredith Somersby—"found her when she came out for some air earlier."
"When was that?" Grant asked, pulling out his small notepad.
"Just after eight."
Grant nodded then gestured to the sheet. "Let's have a look."
The ME lifted the corner just enough so that Grant could look under it.
It was also just enough so that at my angle, I got a glimpse of the body beneath it too.
The dead woman's legs were twisted at an unnatural angle, a large purple bruise graced her slim neck, and she was staring up at the sky with sightless eyes.
I felt the blood drain from my face as I stared at the corpse. I knew that woman.
"I'm guessing those were made premortem?" Grant asked, pointing to the bruising on her neck.
The ME nodded. "My guess would be strangulation, but I'll have to
get her on my table to be sure."
"Do we have an ID?" Grant asked, jotting info down on his notepad.
"There was a driver license in her wallet, which we found in her purse," the ME said, holding up a clear plastic evidence bag containing a sparkly black clutch. Her name is—"
"Bridget McAllister," I finished for him, the shock finally having worn off.
Both Grant and the ME turned to stare at me, and I felt some of the blood rush back into my cheeks.
"I, uh, met her yesterday," I told them. "Wine tasting."
Which seemed a good enough explanation for the ME, who dropped the sheet back into place and continued taking the small samples of evidence needed before he moved the woman.
Grant, on the other hand, didn't look quite as satisfied, returning his notebook to his pocket as he made his way back over to my side of the crime scene tape.
"What do you mean you met her yesterday?" he asked, suspicion making the flecks in his eyes move at a frenzied rate.
I licked my lips. "She was in town with a couple of friends. Girls' weekend."
He narrowed his eyes. "Why do I have the feeling that's not the whole story?"
Because he was a good cop.
I took a deep breath, glancing toward Juliet. While I'd initially wanted to spare her the pain of having found out Freddie'd cheated on her, with the death of the other woman, it was bound to come out now anyway.
"Bridget was also in town for another reason. Freddie's wedding."
The flecks in his eyes went nuts with that one, but his face stayed the same hard, unreadable stone that I would guess had made less innocent people than myself crack. "Tell me," he demanded.
Considering the circumstances, I did. I spilled everything. Well, okay, maybe not everything—I wasn't sure that getting Freddie's phone records under false pretenses was actually illegal, but it would most certainly be frowned upon. Especially by Cop Mode Grant. But I told him everything that Bridget had spilled to us at the Red Duck and how she'd confessed to being the lady in red that the witness has seen going to the terrace with Freddie just before his death.
Marriage, Merlot & Murder (Wine & Dine Mysteries Book 4) Page 16