Marriage, Merlot & Murder (Wine & Dine Mysteries Book 4)

by Gemma Halliday

  "May I help you ladies?" A voice pulled my attention to the right. I looked up to find a middle-aged woman in a black pantsuit standing a few feet away. A silver-plated nametag reading Gladys Brown was pinned just below her collar.

  "We were just admiring this piece," Ava said, giving her a wide smile.

  "It's called Sunlit Pasture, and it was painted in 1863 by—"

  "Pablo Miscetti," I finished for her.

  "I see you know your art history," she said, her tone indicating her surprise.

  "We're big fans of Miscetti's work," Ava explained.

  "Well, this is a lovely example, isn't it?" Gladys asked, turning to the piece. "The way he captures the sunlight through the trees feels almost magical."

  "Uh, how long has it been in your possession?" I asked.

  She frowned at the odd question. "Oh, I'm not sure. I'd say at least three weeks. Maybe four? This painting is coming up at the end of the month, and we usually like to have items available for display well ahead of the scheduled auctions."

  "Has it been out on the floor this whole time?" I asked, glancing around me for any visible sign of security cameras or guards. I was having a hard time seeing how Justin could surreptitiously swap out the large canvas without anyone noticing.

  "Most of the time," she said, nodding. "Why do you ask?"

  "Uh, we were just wondering how much interest it's generated." Ava shot her that sunny smile again.

  "Oh. Yes, well, I'm sure there will be plenty of interest. Miscettis don't come up for sale very often."

  "Can I ask if you've had this authenticated?" I said, feeling myself grasping.

  She frowned. "I'm sure it has been. We collect paperwork on all items. We would never take on items that have a dubious provenance." She leaned in confidentially. "You never can be too careful with forgeries out here, you know?"

  How careful was exactly what I wanted to know.

  "Any chance we can get a look at that paperwork?" Ava asked. "You know, just to reassure ourselves it's authentic before we bid on it next week."

  Gladys frowned again before nodding slowly. "I don't suppose there's any harm in that. I'll, uh, have to see if Mr. Keller is in his office. You don't mind waiting a moment?"

  "Not at all!" Ava showed off two rows of white teeth.

  Gladys turned and walked back the way she'd come.

  Anticipation mounted in my chest as we waited for her to return, staring at the painting until my eyes started to blur for any indication it had recently been in the Art Initiative. If it was really over a hundred years old, there was no sign of wear or dust. Then again, if the owner was trying to get top dollar for a piece worth almost half a million, chances were he'd had it professionally cleaned first.

  Beside me, Ava leaned in and sniffed at the painting.

  "What are you doing?" I whispered.

  She shrugged. "Just trying to see if it smelled like fresh paint."

  That wasn't a half bad idea. I leaned in, too, getting my nose close enough to the canvas that it was almost touching and taking a big whiff.

  "Excuse me!"

  I spun around to find Gladys staring at the two of us with a perplexed look on her face. "What are you doing?"

  "I like to employ all five senses when enjoying art," Ava said quickly.

  "Uh-huh." Gladys didn't look convinced.

  "So you do have proof the painting was authenticated?" I asked, trying to ignore the heat in my cheeks.

  "Uh, yes." She opened the manila folder in her hand and moved to stand between us, showcasing the documentation inside. It was paperwork I was sure any art collector would be familiar with. Which would have been great if we were actual art collectors. As it was, I was staring at a bunch of grading numbers and insider jargon without a clue what they meant.

  "I take it this means it is an original Miscetti?" I finally asked.

  Gladys nodded. "Yes. It was authenticated by the Foxton Foundation. They're incredibly reputable."

  "When was this done?" Ava asked, peering down at the documentation. "Recently? Like, after it arrived here at the auction house?"

  "No." She shook her head. "No, I believe the owner had this done prior to bringing it to us." She scanned a finger down the page until she got to the section in question. "Yes, you can see here, the receipt is signed and dated from about six months ago."

  She was right. I could see that plainly. But it wasn't the date that had my attention. It was the name of the painting's owner who had signed the paperwork.

  Edward Somersby.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  "It all makes sense now," Ava said as we made the trek back up 101 to Sonoma. "Edward owns the Miscetti. That's why he was at Justin's studio."

  "You think he knew that Justin was planning to forge the painting?" I asked.

  Ava nodded, keeping her eyes on the road. "Yes. Because Edward is the one who told Justin to forge it!"

  "Wait—you think Edward paid Justin to forge his own painting?"

  "Who better to swap them out?" Ava said, turning in her seat to face me. "Let's say Edward brings the real painting to the auction house. It's all authenticated because it is authentic. But then he hires Justin to create a replica, and somewhere along the line he swaps the two paintings out."

  I nodded. "I supposed it wouldn't be that odd for the painting's original owner to ask to see the item at the auction house. Maybe even as it's being packaged up to ship to the new owner?"

  "Right. Then Edward pockets the proceeds from the auction, but he still has the original Miscetti."

  "That's a lot of trouble to go through just to hang on to the painting," I mused.

  "Maybe he didn't intend to hang on to it. Maybe he was going to sell it privately."

  I glanced at her across the interior. "How would he do that?"

  She shrugged. "I dunno. But there's got to be a black market for art, right? I mean, paintings get stolen all the time. They resurface years later…you know money must have changed hands."

  "In this case a lot of money," I noted.

  "Four hundred grand," Ava reminded me. "People have killed for less."

  "So, you think Freddie somehow found out about Edward's plans…and Edward killed him?" I asked, mental gears turning.

  Ava nodded. "Or maybe Freddie found out and tried to blackmail Edward over it. Get his hand as deep in the family cookie jar as he could before he pulled his usual disappearing act."

  "And maybe he told Bridget about it," I mused, puzzle pieces falling into place as I watched the passing fields out the window. "That could have been one of the secrets she said she knew about the Somersbys."

  "She could have tried to pick up where Freddie left off with the blackmail. Told Edward she would keep quiet for a fee."

  I bit my lip. "You know, it actually doesn't sound that farfetched."

  Edward Somersby had been the first person on my radar as having possibly killed Freddie. And with all we knew now, he was right back up there at the top of the list again.

  * * *

  Ava dropped me back off at the winery before heading to Silver Girl to catch the bulk of the afternoon crowd. The first thing I did was try calling Grant, but unfortunately it went straight to voicemail. I left a message asking him to call me back before I wandered into the kitchen and made myself a quick lunch of a turkey and avocado sandwich.

  While I did not plan to tell Grant about our trip into The City, I did think the fact that Edward owned the original Miscetti that Justin had been painting a copy of was info he should have. It was the one piece that tied it all together, and the more I thought about it, the more I could see Edward Somersby in the role of Freddie's killer.

  Edward had been to see Juliet in her dress before the ceremony—he could have easily gotten some of the feathers from the dress on him that transferred to the crime scene. His whereabouts were unaccounted for, for at least twenty minutes in the time frame Freddie had died. He hadn't been a fan of Freddie's to begin with, and if his future son-in
-law had turned to blackmail, that could well have been the thing that tipped Edward over the edge. Or, maybe it had been a culmination of things—the info Edward had gotten from the PI about Freddie's aliases, the blackmail over the painting, and possibly even finally seeing Freddie sneak off with Bridget McAllister to the terrace just moments before he was supposed to marry Edward's daughter.

  I polished off the sandwich and checked for a return call from Grant (none) before I made myself sit at my desk to respond to some of the vendor messages that had been piling up. I'd managed to put off most of them—at least for a little while longer—by the time the bus of tourists from Okinawa pulled up that afternoon. The group was jovial and tipsy, having already hit two other wineries that day, which made for a lively tasting where several cases of wine were ordered to be delivered to their hotel.

  As happy as I was with the outcome of the afternoon, my mind was elsewhere the entire time. After the bus finally departed, I checked my phone again for any call back from Grant.

  Nothing.

  I really should leave the entire thing to him. He was, after all, the professional.

  But murder, forgery, and false alibis aside, if Edward really was guilty, I was one of his victims, too. While I'd lived to tell the tale, he'd knocked me out cold. I still had the headache to prove it. And, there was the not-so-small matter of our bill that he still had not paid. Really, it would be irresponsible of me as a business owner to not try one last time to collect.

  Having talked myself into it—or at least prepared a reasonable defense if Grant caught me in the act of it—I grabbed my purse, told Jean Luc to lock up when he was done cleaning up the tasting room, and hopped into my Jeep back toward the Belle Inn B&B.

  Twenty minutes later, I was relieved to see the Somersbys' Mercedes in the parking lot. I pulled into an empty slot a few spots down from it and quickly beeped my Jeep locked before traversing the small pathway beside the back garden to the Victorian.

  It looked much less ominous now in the daylight, though it somehow looked tired and sad, as if the house itself had known the tragedy that had occurred there. Shutters were closed, curtains drawn, and lights muted against the late afternoon chill as crime scene tape fluttered in the breeze, the soft flapping of plastic audible over the muffled conversation of the still present crime scene techs and the uniformed officer standing guard over the scene.

  I tried to ignore the hollow feeling in the pit of my stomach as I passed by the spot of Bridget's last breath on earth. I quickly made my way around to the front of the building and pushed inside. As soon as I did, I was greeted by the sound of raised voices coming from the parlor.

  I paused, shooting a quick look in the direction of the reception counter.

  Empty.

  I took a step toward the conversation I could hear escalating quickly.

  "…told you to leave me alone, Justin!" a woman's voice said.

  Justin? Iiiinteresting. My heart sped up as I peeked around the door frame to the parlor.

  Juliet Somersby was standing by the large picture window, arms crossed over her chest, her eyebrows drawn down and lips pursed in anger as she faced her ex-boyfriend. Justin's back was to me, but I recognized the shaggy blond hair and baggy jeans dotted with paint.

  "Jules," Justin said, his voice lower. "You don't mean that."

  "You bet I do!"

  "Just give me a chance to explain—"

  "No," she snapped, cutting him off. "There's nothing left to say."

  "I have things to say to you," Justin said.

  He shifted his stance, and I feared being spotted, so I quickly ducked back into the hallway. Though, with the way Juliet was shouting, I had no problem hearing the conversation as the pair continued.

  "Go! Just go, Justin!"

  "Jules, please—"

  "Can't you understand I'm in mourning?"

  The sound of heels clacking across the wooden floor was my only warning that Juliet was headed my way. Not wanting to be caught eavesdropping, I stepped to the side, pressing my body against the wall beneath the stairs as she stalked out of the parlor and down the hall. Though she didn't so much as glance in my direction, I caught a glimpse of her expression in the hallway mirror. Her complexion was ruddier than usual, and her features were tight with anger.

  Justin appeared a moment later, and I froze, thinking very quiet thoughts. Though he, too, seemed singularly focused and didn't glance my way.

  "Juliet, wait!" Justin called, taking off in the same direction she'd just disappeared.

  I stayed where I was, hugging the wall in the shadows, until I heard his footfalls fade into the distance. I wondered what Justin had been doing there. Juliet had clearly been upset with him about something. Was she still angry with him about his altercation with Freddie? Or had she found out about his arrangement with her father to pawn off the counterfeit artwork?

  I glanced up and down the hall to make sure I was alone and gingerly stepped from my hiding place and past the parlor door, noting that the room was now empty. Then I backtracked to the reception counter again, though that was still empty too. I wondered if the previous evening's events had scared Sam into staying away that day. Or maybe she was just busy supervising the police work going on outside.

  "Hello?" I called softly. I gave a quick look around, but no one seemed to be on duty at the moment. I pursed my lips together, spying the ledger book I knew Sam had used on previous occasions to find guests' room numbers. I did a quick angel-shoulder-devil-shoulder thing, but the devil hardly had to make a case to win this one.

  I quickly stepped around the counter and scanned my index finger down the list until I came to the names of Edward and Meredith Somersby. They were in room 7A.

  I jumped back around the counter, feeling my pulse quicken with guilt, and took the stairs two at a time up toward the guest rooms. I reached the top landing and found a door labeled 1A. One down from it was 2A. I continued following them until I reached a bend in the hallway, where I stopped short.

  At the end of the second floor hallway stood Natalie Weisman.

  Her back was turned toward me as she leaned against one of the doors, jiggling the handle.

  I ducked back around the corner again as she sent a gaze over her shoulder, as if making sure that she was alone. I paused a moment, then peeked my head back around. She was still jiggling the handle. It was clear she was trying to get into the locked room…and just as clear that she didn't have a key. She had some small object in the keyhole, but she was doing a lot of wiggling and a little cursing as she tried to get the door to open. After a few more seconds of trying, the knob finally turned in her hand. She wasted no time, slipping into the room and closing the door behind her.

  Had I just witnessed Natalie break into the room of another guest?

  To my immediate left was a glass-paned door that led out onto a large balcony overlooking the garden. Making a split-second decision, I walked out onto the porch and carefully shut the door behind me so as not to make any noise. Then I tiptoed past the first two windows, coming to a stop beside the third.

  I pressed my body against the side of the house and leaned in, squinting as I tried to see through the thin, gossamer curtain. I could make out Natalie's dark hair and her slim frame as she moved about the room, opening and closing drawers and stooping to pull a suitcase out from under the four-post canopy bed.

  Through the open closet door, I recognized the cream-colored dress that Juliet had worn on the day of the wedding rehearsal.

  Natalie was going through Juliet's things.

  I watched the dark-haired woman place the luggage on the bed. She began to rifle through it, pulling blouses out of the little pink suitcase and tossing them aside. She was definitely searching for something.

  Whatever it was, she didn't find it in the luggage, and I watched her frown as she turned to a tall chest of drawers then systematically went through each one. After a minute, she paused and removed a purple silk pouch from the third one down,
and her expression immediately brightened. She opened the small bag and peered inside. Reaching her hand in, Natalie retrieved something too small for me to see at a distance. She dropped it in her pocket and began to stuff Juliet's clothes back into the suitcase.

  "What are you doing?" A man's voice sounded close behind me.

  I jumped, bumping my head against the window in the process.

  Whirling around, I found Justin Hall standing behind me on the balcony. His hands were on his hips, and a scowl stretched across his lean face. I'd been so engrossed in watching Natalie as she plundered through Juliet's possessions that I must not have heard him approach.

  "Why are you spying on Juliet?" he demanded.

  "I wasn't!" I said quickly.

  "Then what are you doing looking in her window?"

  "Uh…" I flicked a glance back through the window and saw that Natalie had disappeared. The room was now empty. Crap. She must have heard us and gotten spooked.

  I swallowed and turned back to face Justin. "I was just… I was looking for the Somersbys," I said, sticking as close to the truth as possible. "I have a bill that still needs paid."

  "That's Juliet's room."

  "Uh, is it?" I glanced back through the window. "I…I don't suppose you've seen her?" I asked, knowing full well he had.

  "Juliet's not here," Justin told me, the suspicion in his eyes not waning. "She left." His jaw twitched.

  "Oh. Uh, you don't happen to know where I could maybe find Juliet's father, do you?"

  He paused a beat, probably still not sure if he should trust me. Finally he said, "Downstairs. On the side porch."

  "Right. Great. Thanks!" I gave him a big smile.

  One that he did not return as I quickly side-stepped past the man. I could feel his eyes on me as I practically ran inside and back down the stairs.

  My heart rate had almost returned to normal when I reached the front doors again and followed the front porch as it wrapped around the south side of the building. Stepping out into the sunlight, I shaded my eyes with my hand as I spotted both Edward and Meredith Somersby seated in a pair of chairs facing a white picket fence brimming with mornings glory vines still awaiting their spring buds. While the setting was serene, the expressions on the couple's faces were not. If I had to guess, this was round number two of the altercation I'd witnessed in the parking lot the day before—only this round was much quieter and filled with restrained tension rather than outright anger.