He chuckled. "Aren't they all?" He signaled the server over, who immediately took my drink order. I settled on a glass of Sauvignon Blanc, and Grant ordered another Scotch on the rocks.
"Must have been a very busy day," I noted, gesturing to his nearly empty glass.
He gave me grin. "Let's just say I've been schooled in the world of fashion far more than I ever wanted to be."
My turn to chuckle. "I take it you spent some time with Carl Costello and Daisy Dot?"
He nodded. "And several models and a handful of makeup artists. I'm pretty sure I had it pointed out to me at least three times that cowboy boots are so last season." He gestured to the worn leather pair on his feet.
"Well, I could have told you that," I joked.
The server arrived with our drinks, and we paused our conversation for a moment while he took our orders. I went with the Sea Bass with Lemon Herb Sauce, and Grant ordered the bacon wrapped filet mignon. Then the server took our menus, and we both thanked him before I turned my attention back to my date.
Date. Looking across the table at Grant's dark eyes, sexy way-past-five o'clock shadow, and thick dark hair starting to curl just a little at the ends above his broad shoulders, I felt my stomach flutter at the word. Not that I was a total novice in the romance department, but it had been a while since my hormones had gotten so worked up over a guy. I wasn't sure if I liked it or feared it.
I cleared my throat, shoving those thoughts aside as I took my first sip of wine. "So, I'm guessing you didn't make a whole lot of headway into finding Gia's killer?"
He shrugged, setting his glass down. "I didn't make an arrest today, if that's what you're asking."
"Get any steps closer to one?" I asked, knowing I had to tread lightly. While Grant might joke about his day with me, I knew sharing details of an ongoing investigation was something he seldom enjoyed. I nonchalantly swirled my white wine in my glass, taking another small sip. It was light and fruity, less oaky than our Chardonnay but still bright and vibrant.
"We're still interviewing witnesses."
"Learn anything interesting?" I asked.
He shook his head. "Nothing you probably couldn't find out from googling Gia's name."
"Such as?"
He sighed. But considering he knew I was good with Google, he relented. "She was twenty-three, lived alone, no significant other and no family in the area, at least no one she was close with. Apparently she liked to live the good life—the very good life, if her credit card statements are any indication. Her favorite hobby seemed to be spending money."
I nodded. I'd gotten that impression from her social media too. "I'm guessing no one you talked to saw her after the show?"
He shook his head. "From what I can gather, she went right to her dressing room and was alone."
Until her killer attacked her.
I tried not to picture her lying on her dressing room floor. "There were a lot of people backstage. It's hard to believe no one saw her killer go into her dressing room."
He shrugged. "Apparently there was a lot going on. Everyone was focused on getting to the reception."
I thought about that. "You know, everyone I've talked to seems to say the same thing—there were so many people backstage that they didn't notice any one person in particular."
He lifted an eyebrow my way. "Everyone you've talked to?"
I shrugged. "We girls like to chat." I shot him an innocent grin.
"Uh-huh." He wasn't buying it, but the little hazel flecks in his eyes were dancing with amusement. Which I took as a good sign.
"Anyway, it's possible someone saw something, but they just don't know they did."
He nodded. "That's exactly why we've been conducting multiple interviews. Hoping to jog some memory loose."
"But no luck so far?"
He shook his head.
"CSI come back with anything useful?" I asked.
He gave me a dubious look, like he wasn't sure he should be sharing.
"Come on," I prompted. "You invited me to dinner the day after a woman was murdered with my best friend's necklace. Did you really think we were gonna chitchat about the weather?"
He laughed in earnest that time, the low, rumbling sound causing another flutter in my stomach that had nothing to do with the wine. "Fair enough." He ran a hand over his stubbled jaw. "But I honestly don't know a whole lot more than I did yesterday."
"You guys find any fingerprints?" I asked, hoping the killer had left some.
He nodded. "Forensics analyzed the murder weapon, and only the victim's and Ava's prints came back as a match."
"Which makes sense. It was Ava's necklace. I'm sure she handled it plenty that day."
He nodded. "Sure," he agreed as a server stopped by with a basket of bread and a tray of dipping oils.
I waited until he'd walked away again before continuing. "So, you think the killer wore gloves?"
Grant shrugged, grabbing a slice of sourdough bread and dipping it into the pool of rosemary infused olive oil on his plate. "That's one theory."
I pursed my lips, following his lead and tearing off a bit of bread. "You know, Daisy's models all wore gloves."
"She didn't mention that." He popped his bread into his mouth and chewed thoughtfully.
"They did," I added. "Of course, that doesn't mean one of her models did it. All the accessories were out in the open after the show. Once the models changed, anyone could have grabbed a pair."
"Or brought their own," Grant pointed out. "If someone planned to steal the necklace ahead of time, they would have come prepared."
"So you're still going with the robbery gone wrong?" I asked, nibbling my bread.
Grant nodded, then paused. He cocked his head, giving me a side eye. "Is there some reason we shouldn't?" he asked.
I let out a big breath. "Honestly? I don't know. I do know that Gia was not well liked."
"That much I gathered, too," he admitted. "Everyone we talked to seemed to struggle to say something nice about her."
"I only met her once, but I had much the same impression," I told him.
"So you think this could have been personal?" Grant asked.
I wasn't sure if he was taking my idea seriously or just humoring me. I tried to read the expression in his dark eyes, but those gold flecks were giving nothing away now. "I think it could have been. There was someone backstage that day who…well, we think might have been following Gia specifically."
"We?" he asked, jumping on the word.
"Ava and I."
"Oh no." He let out a tsk of air and shook his head. "Please don't tell me you two are playing Nancy Drew again?"
"Excuse me, I take offense to that," I said, giving him a look of mock anger, puffing my chest out. "We are grown women. If anything, we're Charlie's Angels."
He grinned and gave my puffed cleavage a healthy appraisal. "Point taken."
I hated the way my hormones got all giddy with that look. "Thank you," I mumbled, covering my hot flash with another sip of wine.
"Okay, tell me about this someone backstage," he said, thankfully seemingly oblivious to my discomfort as he dragged another slice of bread through oil.
"Well, we noticed this guy in the background of a couple of the photos I took at the show." I set my wineglass down and grabbed my phone from my purse, pulling up the shot again. "He also appears in a few of the photos on Gia's social media pages. But always off to the side. Always kind of hidden in the background. Like, maybe she didn't even know he was there."
I passed my phone across the table to him, and he frowned as he assessed Stalker Guy.
"Can't see much of his face here."
"Yeah, that's kind of a theme. He's usually wearing a hat or sunglasses. Almost like he doesn't want to be recognized."
Grant sent me another dubious look across the table. "Or because he lives in sunny California?"
I rolled my eyes and held my hand out for my phone to be returned. Grant gave it back, but the teasing glint still remained.
"Look, the guy was backstage the day Gia was killed. And I don't think he was associated with the show."
"Well, I can say he's not one of the witnesses I've interviewed so far," Grant conceded.
"So don't you think it's possible he was stalking Gia?"
"Stalking is a strong word," he cautioned. "This guy could have just been a friend of Gia's. Or one of the other models. Or it could even be a coincidence he was in the same place at the same time as Gia more than once."
"Kind of a big coincidence, right?" I asked, swirling my wine in my glass again.
Grant shrugged. "They happen more often than you'd think."
"So you're not even going to look into this guy?"
Grant blew out a big breath, his eyes going to the phone in my hand again. "I guess I could see if Gia ever filed for a restraining order or made a complaint."
I tried to stifle my grin. No one liked a gloater.
"But," he added, "it's entirely possible this guy is just some fan or friend."
I nodded. "Sure. Totally possible."
He shot me a look over the rim of his glass like he didn't believe I thought that for a second.
Luckily, our food arrived then, and we both dug in with gusto. I realized I hadn't eaten since the brunch at the Links, and while the hectic pace of the day had kept hunger at bay, I was famished now as I inhaled the scents of garlic, thyme, and oregano. My sea bass flaked delicately onto my fork, and I savored the velvety texture of the cauliflower purée artfully arranged beneath it, thinking the bright tang of the lemon and the lusciously buttery sauce were a match made in culinary heaven. I closed my eyes and may have even moaned a little.
"How's the fish?" Grant asked.
I opened my eyes to find him watching me, a look that was part amusement and part heat on his face—bedroom eyes dark and hooded, mouth cocked in a half grin.
I willed the blush rising up my neck to halt before it clashed with my mauve lipstick.
"Uh, it's good. Great," I said, forcing a light tone into my voice. "How's the steak?"
"Delightful." He stabbed a bite with his fork and popped it into his mouth, still grinning.
"So," I said, eyes going to my plate in an attempt to regain my composure. "All these witnesses you interviewed. I'm guessing no one saw a guy with an emerald size bulge in his pocket making for the door after the show, huh?"
He swallowed before answering. "Wouldn't that be nice?" He grinned. "No, and the security tapes at the front didn't show anything obvious either. Whoever took it probably simply put it in their pocket and walked out."
"Before you arrived," I noted. "You said officers were checking everyone before they left."
He nodded, lifting his fork to his mouth again. "We did. It was not on anyone who left the Links after law enforcement arrived."
I thought about that, shoving the herbaceous sauce around on my plate. I'd noted Costello backstage with Jada while police had been questioning witnesses. I remembered seeing Daisy as well. Of course, the recently fired Hughie Smart had been absent from the whole scene. I also hadn't seen Stalker Guy. Had he slipped away before the police had arrived? Possibly with a hundred-thousand-dollar emerald in his pocket?
"I know what you're thinking," Grant said.
"Huh?" I looked up to find his eyes on me.
"You're mentally going through who you saw backstage and who you didn't."
I wasn't sure if I loved or hated that he knew me so well.
I opened my mouth to protest, but he didn't give me the chance.
"Don't." His voice held a note of command in it. "Emmy, I know you and Ava like to play detective—"
"I wouldn't say like."
"—but if Gia was killed for that gem, whoever did this is ruthless. And I don't want you anywhere near them."
While my first instinct was to be offended at the insinuation that I'd intentionally put myself in harm's way by playing anything, the genuine emotion in his eyes melted me a little.
"Promise you'll leave this to the authorities."
Before the strong, independent woman in me could talk me out of it, I found myself nodding.
To his credit, there seemed to be a bit of surprise mixed with the relief in his eyes. "Good."
I licked my lips. "If you'll promise me one thing in return."
He cocked his head to the side again, looking wary. "What's that?"
"Find whoever did this and find that emerald for Ava. She's in real trouble without it."
His expression softened. "I'm guessing that means she did not have it insured."
I shook my head. "She only expected to have it in her possession for a short time. She was hoping the showcase at the Links would sell it."
He nodded in agreement. "Several people did mention to me today how pretty the necklace was. From how popular it sounds, I don't think she was wrong."
Which should have made her feel better, but somehow I thought it would just rub salt into the wound now.
"I'll do my absolute best, Emmy," he said, and he reached across the table to take one of my hands in his.
It was warm and softer than I might have thought, his thumb caressing my fingers in a comforting way that sent tingles running up my spine.
I was just about to start fantasizing about dessert when ringing erupted from his hip.
He pulled his hand back quickly, grabbing his phone to silence it before it disturbed the other patrons in the restaurant.
"Yeah?" he answered, putting it to his ear.
I was too far away to hear the person on the other end, but from the way Grant's expression went from relaxed to tense as he listened, I assumed it wasn't great news.
"Got it," he said, his tone clipped. "I'll be right there." He stabbed the phone off, shoving it back into his pocket.
"Work?" I guessed. Sadly, this wasn't the first time my fantasies of Grant à la mode had been rudely dashed by the Sonoma County Sheriff's Office.
He nodded, signaling the server for the check. "Sorry. Looks like I've got to go."
"Is it Gia's case?" I held my breath, hoping something had broken.
But he shook his head. "No. Break-in at an antique shop on 1st Street." He gave me small smile. "Sorry to bail on you."
I shook my head, forcing a smile of my own. "It's okay. We can pick up where we left off another time."
He paused as he reached for his wallet, shooting me a look that was pure heat. "I look forward to that."
Oh boy. There was no containing the blush this time, as it swept clear up to my hairline.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Sleep was a fitful battle that night, and as soon as the first rays of pale sunlight peeked in my windows, I conceded defeat and threw myself into a hot shower. I tossed on a simple pair of jeans, a blue cable knit sweater that my mom had bought me for my last birthday, and a pair of sturdy boots, only pausing long enough for a cup of coffee before heading out to inspect the vines.
The air held a chill this early, despite the late summer month, and I could see morning dew glistening off the grapes like diamonds as it caught the light. I inhaled the scents of damp earth and cool moss as I traversed the rows of plants that were as familiar to me as my own skin. I'd been walking this vineyard since I was a kid, had grown up among the lush acreage that comprised our land, and I felt more at home here than anywhere else in the world. It was amazing to me that I'd ever thought I could leave this place.
I remembered my father telling me as a young child that all this would one day be mine—the legacy that generations had left me. He'd passed away as I'd been entering my angsty teen years, and the anger and regret had pushed me to leave, wanting to create my own legacy on my own terms.
I shook my head, feeling a smile tug at my lips at the memory. While I didn't regret the culinary training I'd gotten when I'd left home, the priorities that had driven my youth were ones I was glad to leave behind in my rebellious years. Of course, what was really important in life had come crashing down on me with startling clari
ty the moment I'd gotten word my mom was sick.
While Oak Valley had once been a thriving little operation, after my father had passed away, the corporate giants of the region had moved in, outpricing little family run wineries like ours and pushing us to the brink of bankruptcy. A brink that had been all that much harder to navigate away from as my mother's mind had started to go, letting figures and facts and even memories slip through its fingers more and more often.
Early onset dementia had been the eventual diagnosis. I'd hardly been able to believe it at the time. She'd only been in her fifties, and even now I was still grappling with the unfairness of it all.
When she'd been diagnosed, I'd been cultivating a burgeoning culinary career on the LA foodie scene. One that I'd abandoned to come home and take over operations of the winery—even though my knowledge of the grapes was rusty and my skill at running a business nonexistent. But I'd learned, worked hard, and somehow managed to keep our ten acres of home afloat thus far. I was grateful that I'd been able to come home and reconnect with my roots.
Metaphorically and literally, I thought with another smile as I bent down to pull a weed from the base of a Zinfandel vine.
"Is that my Emmy?"
I looked up to find Hector sauntering toward me, his face crinkled up into a wide smile.
Hector Villareal had been the vineyard manager on the property since I was a child and was as much a fixture there as the shady oak trees. He knew more about grapes than any man I'd ever met, and his love of the outdoors was apparent not only in his skill at coaxing the robust, full flavors from our fruit but also in the dark tan and weather worn appearance of his skin. Despite his network of wrinkles, his smile was infectious and not only removed years from his face but also warmed my heart. I'd been the flower girl at Hector's wedding to Conchita, who now served as our house manager, and they were more like family to me than employees.
Some days, they almost seemed like the only family I had left.
"Hi, Hector," I told him, straightening to join him on the next row over.
"What are you doing up so early?" he teased.
I grinned and shrugged. "Couldn't sleep. Thought I'd come check up on you out here."
Fashion, Rosé & Foul Play (Wine & Dine Mysteries Book 6) Page 7