The Case of the Voracious Vintner

by Tara Lain

  “Why? What’d you do to the guy?”

  “Not one fucking thing. I barely know him.” Jeremy sucked a breath. “He’s taken a toll on other wineries, but I’m his fave.”

  “And you think he arranged to have you, what, mugged? And they somehow got Mr. Marchand instead?”

  “Could have. I don’t honestly know.” He ran a hand over his hair. “I just know I won’t be able to survive much longer.”

  “I assume you mean businesswise and aren’t referring to your mortality.”

  Jeremy gave him a look. “Hopefully.”

  O’Hara looked at Jeremy from the side of his eyes. “How were you able to afford a business this large to begin with, young guy like you?”

  “Inheritance. But I used that up to start the winery. For a time it did well—until Ottersen set his sights on my destruction.” All those lines were practiced but still based on truth.

  “And your relationship with Mr. Marchand?”

  Ha. Tricky. “Bo’s interested in seeing the central coast thrive. Centering all the power in the hands of one vintner is bad for all of us. So he’s been trying to help me.”

  “He seems like a very good friend.” Every word rang with a question, but Jeremy didn’t bite.

  He nodded. “Yes.”

  “And he chose to sleep on your couch rather than going home to his own bed because—” O’Hara stared at Jeremy with dark, glittering eyes.

  Jeremy let his annoyed frown show. “He didn’t want to wake his family, plus I think they kind of drive him crazy. They weren’t expecting him for another day, so he took advantage of a night without them breathing down his neck.”

  O’Hara got a small smile and flipped his notebook closed. Good. What Jeremy said must have agreed with what Bo told him, or maybe even others. O’Hara said, “So another reminder. Don’t go anywhere without letting me know, okay?”

  “I won’t and I’ve got a card, thanks.” Jeremy glanced at his watch. “I’ll be going into work soon.”

  “It’s still early.” He half smiled. “And you look like you could use some sleep.”

  “I know. My stomach thinks I’ve swallowed a porcupine. But I’ve got destruction to oversee.” He was only half kidding.

  “Your funeral.” O’Hara walked toward the door. “We’ll be working on the road for a while.”

  Jeremy nodded and watched O’Hara and the rest of his crew clear out. They’d surprised him by showing up at the crack of dawn, literally. Still, he didn’t think they’d learned much. Which meant they knew about as much as he did. But unlike O’Hara, Jeremy had his suspicions—and fears.

  He walked to the front windows to be sure they were done, then pulled out his phone and dialed. It rang twice. At least it was later there.

  “Yeah? Hi.”

  “Hi.” Jeremy’s stomach lurched at the old familiar voice. “I’m probably going to need another package.”

  “Sorry to hear that, man.”

  “Yeah, me too. I may have to wait a while to pay.”

  “No issue, you know that.”

  “Thanks. A lot.”

  “You need details?”

  “Probably best.”

  “Shit. I really am sorry. Two days. Usual place.”

  The phone went dead, and Jeremy pressed it against his chest. Fuck, he hated giving this all up. Like letting go of a dream. Yeah, he was young and maybe after people died, he could create another dream. Pressure built behind his eyes, and he pressed the back of his wrist against the sockets to make them shut the fuck up.

  Where will I ever find another Bo?

  He forced himself to take a shower while he made coffee, then dressed, laced the strong black brew with cream and called it nutrition, and headed out the door. Driving down his road, he had to pass the police crew sorting through the leaves. Interesting that they were taking Bo’s potential abduction so seriously. Time Jeremy took his own abduction even more seriously. He glanced toward the trees and shuddered.

  He nodded at O’Hara and headed for the winery, the sun just making its presence known. He wanted to beat Christian and his staff, what was left of it, in the door so he didn’t have to spend the next two hours explaining every detail of his abortive trip, as well as why his eyes looked like he was bleeding internally.

  Despite the oppression of the day, he felt the familiar leap of his heart when he turned toward Hill Top. Damn, he loved his business. The thought of walking away and leaving it behind made him sick. At least he didn’t have a lot of debt to make his staff worry. He’d vanish, they’d spearhead an orderly shutdown, and that would be that. End of a dream.

  He pulled behind the building and parked, then laid his head against the seat and closed his eyes. Nothing made sense. Why had Ottersen targeted him? Was there any chance Ottersen or one of his henchmen had hit Bo thinking it was Jeremy? As everyone pointed out, Ottersen didn’t need a blunt force instrument to get rid of Jeremy. He was being quite effective just outmaneuvering Jeremy from a business perspective. He slowly released his breath. Right now, thinking Ottersen was behind the attempted abduction might have been a relief—at least compared to the alternative. Fuck! Why can’t they just leave me alone? Of course, he knew the answer. The millions of answers.

  He lifted his head from the upholstery. Wouldn’t it be great if he and Bo could just escape? Go somewhere no one knew them? Be together for a long time? Maybe forever? He sucked a little breath.

  Shit, had he really used that F word? Bo Marchand was a family man so far to his core he couldn’t reach it with a Pilates reformer. And while Jeremy honestly believed that Bo cared for him enough to compromise his business and his success, he’d never leave his family—even for Jeremy.

  Get on it.

  He slid out of the car and crunched across the gravel. Using his key, he let himself in the back of the admin offices. Quiet. Smelled kind of astringent, like somebody overdid the bathroom cleaner.

  He opened his office and then slid up the window to let it air out after two days closed up. Um, good. Really fresh morning.

  Flipping on the computer, he signed in and started his system through its laborious start-up. If he got the coffee in the tasting room going, his crew would love him forever. They’d all want some as soon as they came in. Contemplating such a simple routine almost made him tear up. Loss gnawed a hole in his heart.

  Leaving his PC still opening his browser windows and his email, he walked out toward the tasting room, opened the door, and grabbed his chest. What the holy shit?

  The smell hit his nose and his unsettled stomach at the same time, and he had to rest his hands on his thighs while he breathed to keep from vomiting or passing out. Trouble was, breathing was a double-edged sword. What was that smell?

  He backed out and closed the door, then just stood there, sucking wind. His stomach gripped and bile burned his throat, not just because the smell made him sick but from dread.

  He didn’t want to walk back into the tasting room. From his own personal experience, he knew the smell of death. He could pray, hope, grovel, and wish that he’d walk in there and find—what? A dead raccoon? Fat fucking chance. Who—not what—was dead in his tasting room?

  His hands shook and his belly gave up the fight against the smell. He retched, heaving onto his floor. Not carpeted, thank God. He had nothing to vomit but coffee, so it was over quickly.

  Don’t want to know. Don’t want to see. Want to run.

  He gasped. Wait—no, what if it’s Bo? Both his fists slammed into the door, and he ran headfirst into the tasting room. Sticking around the edge of the bar on the polished concrete floor were legs clad in dress pants. A man. Odd clothes for Paso Robles.

  Oh God, maybe not Bo. Probably not Bo.

  He crept forward, bent like a frightened animal, and peeked around the corner of the bar. The male body lay facedown.

  Jeremy’s mouth opened. “Fuck.” He straightened up, put his hands on his hips, and stared.

  The face of the dead man was hidden
, but no one could possibly mistake that head of shining patent-leather black hair. That was Ernest Ottersen.

  A weird snort erupted from Jeremy’s nose, followed by a giggle that turned into a bray of hysterical laughter, and then he was crying. Tears ran down his face while he kept making strange giggly noises.

  A shriek pierced the air and rattled the windows. “Oh my God, Jeremy! What have you done?”

  Jeremy sank to the floor while Christian jumped up and down, waving his hands and screaming.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  BO TIED the laces on his shoes, looked in the mirror, and smoothed his dress pants and white shirt. Back to work. Enough of this invalid crap.

  The rap on his bedroom door raised his hackles like a dog. Who had the nerve? Not Blanche.

  He crossed and opened the door. Of course. Mama. “Yes?” He didn’t step aside to let her enter.

  She crossed her arms defensively over her chest. “Beauregard, I want to know why you’ve been so rude to your sister, who only wanted to help in your hour of need.”

  “Bull.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Blanche did not just want to help me in my so-called hour of need. I told her we might consider her as an intern at some date. She went into my business knowing I was gone and trying to tell my employees what to do, a job for which she has no experience or, likely, skill. There was nothing altruistic about the move.”

  She scowled. “But she’s family.”

  “I don’t care. I don’t run my business on DNA. We make it because I hire the best people, pay them what they’re worth, and expect a great deal. When Blanche fills that description, we’ll talk.” Staring into her horrified face, he took a breath and held strong-ish. “When I have a moment, I’ll speak to my staff about the possibility of an internship.”

  She nodded once abruptly. “And what’s happening with your friendship with Sage?”

  “Mama, not that it’s any of your affair—” Her eyebrows shot up, and he instantly felt bad. Damn. “Sage and I are just friends and, with all that’s going on, we have no immediate plans to get together.”

  The woman knew no fear. “You speak of ‘all that’s going on,’ but what I observe is just you spending an inordinate amount of time with Mr. Aames that has done nothing but get you into trouble.”

  This time he let out his breath noisily. “You don’t understand my business or my friendships, Mother. Both are my concern.”

  “So I should butt out?” Her jaw stuck forward.

  “I have to get to work. Thank you for your interest.” He reached to his dresser, picked up his phone and wallet, and closed his door behind him as he stepped into the hall beside her. “What do you have planned today, Mama?” Glancing at his phone, he realized he’d turned off the ringer. Damn. He flipped it back on.

  “Not that it’s any of your concern, but I plan to get my hair done.” She glanced up at him and at least had the good grace to curve the hint of a smile.

  “I’m sure it will be lovely.” He smiled at her as they entered the breakfast room, where his grandfather, two sisters, aunt, and uncle were all gathered, eating bacon and sipping OJ. His uncle read the paper while Bettina texted on her phone, getting glares from Mama. Blanche gave him a look that could kill more than foxes and averted her eyes. Hell.

  He walked over and kissed the top of her head. “Sorry. I’ve been under some stress lately. I apologize for being rude.”

  “Okay.” She sniffed.

  His mother sat in her usual seat at the head of the table. “Have something to eat before you go, Bo. You don’t want to lose any weight.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He picked up a plate on the sideboard and shoveled some scrambled eggs onto it.

  “Have some bacon. I asked for it special.”

  Dutifully he placed a strip on the plate and sat in his seat, trying not to bounce his knee. He wanted to get to work and call Jeremy. Hell, he’d call him from the car. Not anxious or anything. It felt like they had a million obstacles between them, but all he wanted was to hear Jeremy’s voice and know he was safe. Well, that’s not all he wanted.

  “Penny for your thoughts,” Bettina said dreamily.

  “Oh. Nothing.”

  “Sure looked pleasant.” She giggled.

  He took a bite of bacon, and his phone rang. His mother frowned since she discouraged cell use at the table, but—he glanced at the screen. RJ. He stood and clicked to answer. “Yes, RJ?”

  His voice sounded strident. “Bo, I just got a call from the police looking for you.”

  “Oh, okay. O’Hara?”

  “Yes. God, Bo, there’s been a murder.”

  “What?” His heart slammed against his ribs as he pictured whoever had hit him coming back to Jeremy’s to finish the job. No, God, no. “Not Jeremy!”

  “No. Bo, it’s Ottersen. Somebody killed him in the Hill Top tasting room—and Jeremy Aames was arrested for murder.”

  Bo’s butt hit the chair. “No. No.”

  “Beauregard, hang up until you’ve finished your breakfast.”

  “Be quiet, Mother.” He stood. “Where is he?”

  “I don’t know. O’Hara said to call him and you know the number. Damn, boss, do you think he did it? He sure hates Ottersen, and I don’t blame him a bit.”

  “Of course he didn’t do it. Manage things for me. I’m calling O’Hara.”

  “Will do, boss. Keep me posted.”

  “Thanks, RJ.”

  As he clicked off, Bettina said, “Ooh, was that the dreamy guy from your winery?”

  “Yes.” He stared into all their curious faces. “I have an important call. I’ll see you later.”

  His grandfather said, “Something wrong, son?”

  “Yes, sir. Very wrong. I can’t stop to explain. Don’t worry.” He ran from the room straight to his car, dialing his phone at the same time. It only rang once.

  “Bo? H-hi. What’s up?” Llewellyn sounded concerned.

  “I just heard that Ernest Ottersen was murdered.”

  “N-no shit?”

  Bo almost laughed since Llewellyn so seldom swore. “Apparently his body was found at Hill Top Wineries in the tasting room and—and—” His voice broke.

  “J-Jeremy’s b-been accused.” He didn’t say it as a question.

  “Right. O’Hara has called me, and I have to call him back. I wondered if you could find out anything before I do. I know it’s a long shot, since I won’t have an excuse to wait more than a few minutes to phone him.”

  “I h-have an idea. G-give me a few m-minutes.”

  “Thanks in advance, Llewellyn, even if you can’t find out anything.”

  For fifteen minutes Bo drove slowly toward Marchand and hadn’t heard from Llewellyn when he got there, so he circled a couple of the local wineries. Finally his phone rang. He grabbed it.

  “Llewellyn?”

  “It’s Blaise. Llewellyn says he takes too long to get words out, so he asked me to call you.”

  “Bless him.”

  “Here’s the deal we found out from our contact in the San Luis police department. Apparently Jeremy showed up at his house somehow this morning not remembering how he got there. He claims, anyway. He says he was at the gay bar in Paso last night, and he was drugged by some guy he calls Sean. He remembers trying to get to his car, then nada. He woke up on his own couch this morning with nothing stolen and no violation perpetrated to his adorable body as far as he can tell. Then he goes to work and finds Ottersen on the floor. That idiot twink who works for him comes in and starts screaming bloody murder, saying Jeremy did it. Somebody called the cops.”

  “Wow.” Funny how, after all that, his heart still hung back on the fact that Jeremy had been at the gay bar with a guy named Sean. Idiot. “Do they know what time Ottersen was killed?”

  “Sometime between 2:00 and 5:00 a.m.”

  “How?”

  “Strangulation. I hear that O’Hara’s going to be questioning the bartender at the Backstreet Bar abou
t what happened to Jeremy before he left there.”

  “Okay. Thanks so much, Blaise. I’ll never repay you guys.”

  “No repayment needed, Bo. Take care and keep us in the loop.”

  “Yes.” He clicked off, pulled to the side of the road, and searched on his phone. When he found Backstreet Bar, he hit Send and prayed, though he knew God would wash his hands of this mendacity.

  “Backstreet. This is Russ.”

  “Russ, you don’t know me, but I’m a friend of Jeremy. My name’s Bo Marchand.”

  Russ chuckled. “Yeah, I heard about you.” That made Bo cringe. Russ said, “How’s our boy? He sure tried to tie one on last night.”

  “Uh, he’s in some trouble. I don’t have much time, but I need to find out how he got home last night.”

  “Sure. I took him.”

  “Oh thank God.”

  “You sound relieved. Were you worried about that pervert who tried to pick him up?”

  “Yes.”

  “I saw Jeremy getting worse when he should have been getting better, so I grabbed him before he hit the floor, shoved him in his car, waited until my shift ended, and drove him home with a buddy following. I used his keys to leave him on his couch. I didn’t stay since he was sleeping really sound and I, uh, had a friend waiting.”

  “What time was this, Russ?”

  “A little after two. My shift ends at 2:00 a.m. and I closed. What kind of trouble?”

  “Somebody’s trying to pin a crime on him. I can’t say more, but I sure thank you. The police will be there soon to question you.”

  “Good to know. I’ll neglect to mention this conversation.”

  “Thank you. Sincerely.”

  “I hear you’ve been a good friend to Jeremy. Glad to help.”

  “I need to call the police too. Again, thanks from the bottom of my heart.” He clicked off and dialed O’Hara’s number.

  “O’Hara.”

  “It’s Bo Marchand.” He wanted to find out as much as possible before he volunteered anything.

  “Took you long enough.”