Wine and Punishment

by Sarah Fox

  “I’m still going with you.”

  “You’ll miss the fireworks.”

  “I’ll live.”

  I wanted to growl with annoyance, but I could tell I wasn’t going to get rid of him, so I resumed walking.

  He fell into step beside me. “Shouldn’t you be at the pub?”

  “Shouldn’t you be at the brewery?” I shot back.

  “We closed to visitors at five.”

  I didn’t have a good response to that, so I answered his original question instead. “Damien’s looking after things at the Inkwell, and I don’t plan to be gone much longer.”

  “Not planning on playing a round of pool, then?”

  “I’m going in search of information, not recreation.”

  “That’s what I figured.”

  I shot a glance his way. “Because you think I’m a nosey Parker?”

  I could tell he tried to stifle his smile, but he wasn’t successful. I was about to say something scathing when he surprised me into silence with his next words.

  “I owe you an apology. I talked to a friend in Boston who has his finger on the pulse of the brewing industry there. He’s the one who alerted me to the fact that I had a mole among my staff eight months ago. According to him, your ex wasn’t another mole. He’d recently lost his job in Boston and was genuinely looking for one here so he could be closer to you.”

  I’d figured as much, but in a way, it was still nice to have it confirmed. “So what is it you’re apologizing for?”

  “I also got in touch with Mr. Hogarth and asked him straight up why he’d sold the pub to you instead of me. He said he was in a hurry to retire to Arizona with his wife. Your offer was close to mine dollar-wise, but you were able to close the deal sooner. He wanted it done and over with, so he went with your offer instead of countering mine.”

  I remained silent as we continued walking along the street, still waiting for the actual apology.

  “So I’ve been wrong to take out my frustrations on you and to suspect you of anything sneaky,” he continued. “And I’m sorry for that.”

  Some of the defenses I automatically put up when I was around him melted away. “I appreciate the apology. Maybe we can start fresh, on a better foot this time.”

  We drew to a stop outside the pool hall, the establishment’s pink and green neon signs glowing brightly.

  “I’d like that,” he said, his eyes meeting mine.

  I temporarily lost the ability to speak as I got distracted by the reflection of the neon lights in his eyes. I cleared my throat and forced myself to look away. That seemed to prod him into motion. He grabbed the door and opened it for me. I thanked him and stepped through it, thinking that maybe Shontelle—and much of the rest of Shady Creek—had been right about him after all.

  Chapter 16

  “I appreciate you showing me the way here, but don’t let me keep you any longer,” I said as Grayson followed me into the pool hall.

  “I don’t mind missing the fireworks.” His gaze scanned the room with its four billiards tables. “The people who hang out here aren’t always the politest. I’ll stick around.”

  My first instinct was to tell him that I didn’t need him to protect me, but then I remembered we were starting fresh and kept quiet. Besides, he was being a gentleman, and I couldn’t fault him for that.

  To the right of the room was a scuffed and scratched bar, a pudgy man with thinning brown hair perched on a stool behind it. Only one of the pool tables was currently in use, two men in grubby jeans and T-shirts in the midst of a game. A woman with lots of frizzy blond hair and wearing a short skirt sat on a sagging couch next to the pool table, all her attention focused on her smartphone.

  The gazes of the two pool players slid our way, not quite hostile, yet also not welcoming, but they returned to their game after a second or two. The man behind the bar had his attention focused on a television set bolted to the wall near the ceiling. A sportscaster yammered away on the set while game results slid across the bottom of the screen.

  Although I felt uneasy and completely out of place, I walked over to the bar with what I hoped was an air of purpose about me. The man behind the bar didn’t pay me any attention, though, his eyes remaining fixed on the TV screen.

  “Excuse me,” I said loudly enough to be heard over the voice of the sportscaster and the obnoxious music playing in the background of the broadcast.

  Slowly, the man shifted his gaze from the screen to me. He appeared half-asleep, his eyes dull.

  “I’m hoping you can answer a couple of questions for me.”

  After a stretch of simply staring at me, the man picked up the remote and turned down the TV’s volume, his every movement unhurried. I was beginning to wonder if he was a human-sloth hybrid.

  When I no longer had to compete with the sportscaster, I tried my first question. “Do you know Carl Miller?”

  His dull expression didn’t change. “Who’s asking?”

  “I’m Sadie Coleman, owner of the Inkwell pub.”

  “I should’ve figured.” His gaze shifted to a spot over my shoulder.

  I glanced that way as Grayson came up beside me.

  “Getting a woman to do your negotiating now, are we, Blake?” the man behind the bar said, acrimony sneaking into his previously flat voice.

  “I’m not here to negotiate anything,” I said, trying to draw the man’s attention back to me. “I just want to know how long Carl Miller was here on Tuesday night.”

  The man jutted his chin at Grayson. “He wants me to sell his fancy-pants beer here.”

  “Not anymore, I don’t, Maury,” Grayson said. “I’ve come to accept that you don’t have the right clientele.”

  “Damn straight I don’t,” Maury said, apparently not realizing that Grayson’s statement was most definitely not a compliment. “We get real men in here. Real men who drink real beer.”

  A muscle in Grayson’s jaw twitched, and I had to struggle to keep myself from making a face.

  “Carl Miller?” I said, trying to steer the conversation back on track. “What time did he arrive here on Tuesday night, and how long did he stay?”

  “I’m not sure I like you barging in here, asking me all these questions.” Maury’s eyes took on a belligerent light, the first sign of any real life in them.

  “It’s about the murder,” Grayson cut in before I had a chance to say anything more. “You don’t want the police knocking on your door, do you?”

  “The police have already been here, asking the same questions.”

  “Then it should be easy for you to answer them again,” I said.

  He focused the full force of his belligerent gaze on me, but I stared right back at him.

  “If it’ll get rid of you,” he muttered when I didn’t blink, “Carl and Greg showed up around nine, like they usually do on Tuesday nights. Greg stayed and played a few games with some of the other guys. He was here until nearly midnight, but Carl only stayed about ten minutes.”

  So much for his alibi.

  “Now that you’ve got your answers,” Maury went on, “how about you get out of here and let me get back to running my business?”

  I struggled to remain polite. “I appreciate your time.”

  Not wanting to linger, I got myself out of there and back onto the sidewalk.

  “So Carl Miller doesn’t have an alibi,” Grayson said once we were outside, the door to the pool hall shut behind us. “But why would he kill your ex?”

  “I have a theory.”

  “One you’re not going to share with me?” he guessed when I said nothing more.

  I stepped around him and set off along the sidewalk, heading in the direction of the pub.

  “Are you hoping to find a stronger suspect than yourself?” I asked when he fell into step beside me.

  “Of course I am. Isn’t that what you want to do? My understanding is that you’re a suspect too.”

  “Was,” I corrected. “I have an alibi. Do you?”
>
  “Unfortunately, no. I was alone most of the evening.”

  I could feel his eyes on me as we walked, but I refused to look his way.

  “You think I might have done it, don’t you?” he said after a time.

  It was more of a statement than a question. I couldn’t tell if he was disappointed.

  “The police seem to think it’s a possibility.”

  “And as soon as they’ve done their tests, they’ll find out that none of my swords was the murder weapon.”

  “Until then, you had a motive—at the time you still thought Eric was a mole. You also had opportunity, and possibly the means to commit the murder.”

  He let out a deep breath, a puffy cloud forming in front of his face before dissipating. “Which is why the police questioned me for three hours earlier today.”

  If they hadn’t arrested him, they must not have had enough evidence against him without knowing if one of his swords was the murder weapon.

  “I’m sure your past was of interest to them too,” I said, my curiosity prompting the comment.

  “My past?” He seemed genuinely confused.

  “I heard it mentioned that you have a criminal history.”

  I could tell he was staring at me, even though I kept my eyes straight ahead. But when he let out a sudden burst of laughter, it was my turn to stare at him.

  “Is that what people are saying about me?” He’d stopped laughing, but he was grinning, and his eyes practically danced with mirth.

  Amusement only made him all the more handsome, and when his bright gaze locked with mine, my heart tripped over itself, and a hint of warmth touched my previously chilled cheeks.

  “So it’s not true?” I asked.

  He stopped on the street corner we’d just arrived at. The first firework of the evening blasted up into the night air, exploding with a bang and a shower of green sparks.

  Grayson was still grinning as he watched the sky. “This is where I leave you. Good night, Ms. Coleman.”

  “Is it true or not?” I called after him, my curiosity almost ready to make me explode like the firework.

  He shoved his hands into the pockets of his black wool coat and didn’t look back. I heard him chuckle as he strode away from me. I tried to be infuriated with him as I stood there watching him go, but as another firework shot into the air and burst into colorful sparks high over his retreating form, somehow I couldn’t quite manage it.

  * * *

  The next day was Monday, the only day of the week when the Inkwell wasn’t open. I took full advantage of my day off by sleeping as long as Wimsey would let me. Then I enjoyed a leisurely bike ride along quiet country roads and followed it up with a shower before heading over to the village green to check out the festival.

  I wandered past the various booths, stopping now and then to chat with someone or to check out the goods on display. When I got to the Hidden Valley Sugarworks booth, I wasted no time purchasing a glass bottle filled with delicious maple syrup. I also indulged in a small packet of maple sugar candies, letting one melt in my mouth as soon as I’d made the purchase.

  I returned to the Inkwell after that to get the cocktail samples ready for the tent’s noon opening. This time I went with the Huckleberry Gin, the Count Dracula, and the Lovecraft. Since Mel and Damien both had the day off, I had to lug the coolers over to the green on my own. I only wanted to make one trip, so I grabbed one in each hand and set off, wishing with every step that I had stronger arms.

  Once I’d crossed both the footbridge and Creekside Road, I paused for a rest, setting the coolers down on the grass. As I shook out my arms, I caught sight of two familiar figures over by the bandstand.

  Grayson Blake and Carl Miller.

  My curiosity overrode my need to rest my arms, so I grabbed the coolers again and made my way awkwardly across the grass toward the two men. I’d hoped to overhear at least a snippet of their conversation, but my heavy load slowed me down too much. Before I could get within earshot, Carl stalked off, his face stormy.

  “What was that about?” I asked Grayson, setting the coolers down again.

  He’d been watching Carl’s retreat, but when I spoke he shifted his attention to me. “Are you taking those to the tent?” he said with a nod at the coolers.

  “Yes.”

  “Let me give you a hand.” He picked up both coolers as easily as if they weighed next to nothing.

  “What were you talking to Carl about?” I tried again.

  Grayson struck off toward the tent without responding.

  I jogged to catch up with him. “Were you talking about his alibi?”

  “I mentioned that I knew he hadn’t stayed at the pool hall for more than a few minutes.”

  “And? What did he say?”

  “That he was tired so he went straight home from there.”

  A small crowd of tourists barreled toward us, and I had to dart around them before returning to Grayson’s side. “Did he say if anyone could confirm that?”

  “He lives alone, and it was dark out. Nobody saw him after he left the pool hall. He wasn’t happy about having holes poked in his alibi.”

  “So I noticed. But if the police asked Maury the same questions as I did, they already know his alibi doesn’t stand up to scrutiny.”

  “They talked to Carl again this morning. I guess that put him in a bad mood. He wasn’t very friendly right from the start of our conversation.”

  We’d reached the tent, so I untied the flap and held it open for him while he carried in the coolers. He set them on the Inkwell’s table, and I thanked him for the help.

  “Carl Miller’s in the sword-fighting class at the community center,” I said, returning to our previous subject. “He’s a good suspect.”

  “I’m glad I’m not the only one.”

  I didn’t say anything in response to that. For some reason I was having trouble remembering to be careful around him. Although I found myself wanting to believe he was innocent, I couldn’t be sure that he was.

  “The students in that class aren’t the only ones aside from me who own or have access to swords,” he said.

  “You’re right. The teacher does too. Jason, your head of security.”

  He looked at me like I’d suddenly sprouted a second head. “Why would Jason kill your ex?”

  “Maybe he did it on your behalf, to protect the brewery, or to protect his job.”

  “Jason isn’t the killer any more than I am. And if he were to kill someone—which he wouldn’t—he’s too smart to leave the body lying around to be found.”

  “Maybe he panicked or got spooked by a passing car and took off.”

  “Jason doesn’t panic, and he doesn’t get spooked. He would have hidden the body.”

  “In the woods?” I guessed.

  “There or in the brewery’s old cellar. No one would find it there. Plus it’s damp down there since it tends to flood when it rains. Good conditions to move along the decomposition process.”

  I made a face. “Sounds like you’ve given it a lot of thought.”

  “This is the first time I’ve considered it.”

  I let the matter drop and opened a new package of plastic cups while Grayson tidied up the stack of glossy pamphlets over on the brewery’s table.

  “What did you mean about others having access to swords?” I asked after several seconds, realizing he’d never said.

  “Barry Lanik.”

  “The owner of the antiques shop?”

  “The owner of the business, but not the building.”

  “Right.” I recalled that Rhonda’s boss, Frank Fournier, was the landlord.

  “Did you ever go in the shop?”

  “No. Why?”

  “Barry had some antique swords available for sale. I bought one of the nicer ones he had, but he still had a few more.”

  “Interesting,” I said, deciding that my theory about Barry burning down the shop to collect insurance on his stock was a pretty good one. Although, eve
n if he killed Eric for witnessing him set the fire, that didn’t explain the location of Eric’s body. “Do you know anything else related to the case?”

  Grayson opened his own package of plastic cups and set a stack on the brewery’s table. “Do you?”

  “I have a few theories. We could share information. They always say two heads are better than one.”

  “I’m not so sure you should be playing detective.”

  I frowned across the tent at him. “And what were you doing when you were questioning Carl earlier? Are you saying it’s okay for you to play detective because you’re a man?”

  “No.”

  “Then what’s the problem? We could be a crime-solving duo. Like Holmes and Watson, or Poirot and Hastings.” I smiled at the thought.

  Grayson crumpled up the plastic packaging from the cups and tossed it into a cardboard box behind his table. “I don’t need a sidekick.”

  My jaw nearly dropped to the ground. “Sidekick? Who says I’d be the sidekick?”

  “I’m nobody’s sidekick.”

  “Neither am I!”

  “Then I guess that’s settled.”

  He pushed aside the tent flap and stepped out of sight. I thought I caught a hint of a grin on his face before he disappeared, and that only made me fume all the more. For the life of me, I couldn’t remember why I’d ever started to like the man.

  Chapter 17

  By the middle of the afternoon, my stomach was rumbling with hunger, and I was getting desperate for a bathroom break. Despite the fact that it was a weekday, a steady stream of people passed through the tent each hour. I didn’t want to leave my table unattended while I slipped away for a few minutes, worried that I’d miss out on the chance to interest potential future patrons in the Inkwell and its unique characteristics. At the same time, I knew I’d likely have to at some point. Several tour buses were scheduled to arrive in Shady Creek that day, as they would all week long, so the stream of tourists probably wouldn’t let up.

  As I poured the last of the Huckleberry Gin into a plastic cup and passed the sample to an eagerly waiting tourist, I realized I’d have to leave the tent sooner rather than later. I’d made up a double batch of the cocktails that morning, but I’d left a bottle of each back in the Inkwell’s fridge, and the ice in the coolers had completely melted now. I was about to ask Juliana if I could borrow her BACK SOON sign when I spotted a head of bleached blond and electric blue hair among the latest crowd of people entering the tent.