Victim in the Vineyard

by Gemma Halliday

  She shook her head. "God, no. But, well…" She bit her lip and lowered her voice. "One of the owners died." She gestured toward the makeshift memorial.

  I nodded. "Yes, I heard about Tyler."

  "It's been crazy here. The fire marshal almost fined us when he saw vigil candles outside, and security had to take a couple of nuns out who wouldn't stop praying at the silverware station." Then she paused, leaning in close. "You didn't hear it from me, but we've been so busy, management even raised the prices on the signature burger by a whole buck today." She pulled herself back upright. "So crazy, right?"

  "Nuts," David agreed with a grin.

  "Any chance of a spot at the bar?" I asked.

  Mandy glanced behind her. "I could check. But honestly, the stools are super uncomfortable. You won't want to sit there for too long."

  "Hashtag no filter," David mumbled to me.

  I tried to cover my grin again. "Thanks, but I think it would be fine."

  "'K. Lemme check," Mandy said, stepping away for a minute.

  I watched a couple of ladies in all black wearing comical veils come in the front door, sniffle into actual handkerchiefs, and lay roses at cardboard Tyler's feet.

  "Even in death he's got groupies," David mused.

  "Seems people either loved him or hated him," I noted.

  "Or killed him." David sent me a wink.

  I was about to respond when Mandy hurried back, letting us know she had two stools near the bathrooms that had just opened up. Though, "we didn't hear it from her," the bathroom plumbing had been backed up by someone trying to flush a picture of Tyler down the toilet earlier, so it might not smell the best. I saw David having second thoughts, but I quickly assured her we'd take the chance and let her lead us to the only two empty barstools at the polished chrome bar top.

  "Excuse me, Mandy," I asked her before she slipped back to her podium. "Do you know if Mark Black is in tonight?"

  She nodded. "You're friends?"

  "Possible business associates," I fibbed. "Emmy Oak. I own Oak Valley Vineyards."

  "I'll let him know you're here," she promised before hurrying off to greet the three couples who'd come in the door after us.

  "Business associates?" David Allen asked as we perused the bar menu.

  I shrugged. "It's possible he may want to stock our wines here. Possible even Tyler mentioned doing so before he died."

  "Possible or actual?"

  "Semantics," I told him.

  We both ordered Tyler's signature "Turn Up the Heat" Burger (even though it was a dollar overpriced), and I added a glass of the Zinfandel, which was good, though it wasn't as full-bodied as ours. Obviously I was a bit biased, but maybe Mark Black really should consider doing business with us.

  I was halfway through my burger—which was juicy with a spicy aioli that was perfectly balanced between tangy and creamy—when a tall, thick man stepped up behind the bar where we were seated. "Emmy Oak?" he asked.

  I awkwardly swallowed the massive bite I'd been chewing. "Yes?"

  "I'm Mark Black. My hostess said you wanted to talk to me about some wine?" His voice was husky and deep, hinting at a bit of a New York accent. He was stocky, and his dark hair was liberally shot with gray at the temples. I put him in his mid-to-late-forties, around the same age as Tyler, though his face was much more weather worn than his camera-ready partner's had been. He was dressed in simple gray slacks and a navy button down shirt, rolled at the sleeves in an approachably casual way, and his nose was just slightly crooked, having spoken of being broke at some time in his youth.

  I quickly dabbed at my lips with my napkin. "Uh, yes. I actually called you earlier today as well."

  "My apologies. It's been a rather hectic day. I haven't had a chance to check my messages yet." His voice was appropriately solemn for someone who had just lost a partner and possibly friend. But the sentiment didn't quite reach his eyes, which shifted from me to David as if sizing us up.

  "Please, no need to apologize," I told him. "And I'm so sorry for your loss." I felt like I'd been repeating that line a lot lately.

  And as with the other times I'd uttered it, the person on the receiving end seemed less than broken up about it.

  Mark simply nodded, as if I were telling him the burger had arrived cold.

  "Tyler was actually at my winery for the Fall Food and Wine Festival when he…"

  "When he expired so very tragically and prematurely," David jumped in.

  Mark's gaze flickered to him, taking in the black T-shirt, overly long hair, and worn jeans.

  "David Allen," my companion offered, sticking a hand out Mark's way. "Friend of the winery."

  Friend might be overstating our relationship a little, but I let that go.

  "Mark Black." He shook it warily before turning back to me. "And, yes, Tyler told me he was working a winery event. Sorry, I didn't put the name together until now."

  I shook my head. "No, I'm sure you've had a lot to deal with today."

  He sighed. "You can't imagine. Press have been calling since dawn, and the morbid mourners were lined up on the sidewalk even before we opened." He nodded toward the lobby, where I saw a busty woman placing a bouquet of pink roses at the feet of Cardboard Tyler.

  "I imagine this has all been twice as difficult considering the strained terms you two were on," I said, watching his reaction closely.

  I didn't have to watch too hard, as his gaze whipped to mine. "Excuse me?"

  "I heard that you two fought the last time you saw him. Didn't you?"

  His eyes narrowed, his jaw clenching. "You heard?"

  "Uh, Gabby told me she overhead you two. Not that she was eavesdropping. She was just…concerned." I hoped I hadn't just thrown the Italian diva under the bus. The way Mark was glaring at me, I had a feeling he was mentally driving it into someone right now.

  He sucked in a long, slow breath, gaze flickering to the couple drinking mojitos beside us, as if making sure no was paying attention to us before continuing. "Yes. We had words. But it was just business."

  "People kill over business all the time," David casually threw out there.

  The look Mark Black shot him could have frozen a volcano.

  "Just an observation," David covered smoothly. "I'm sure you didn't kill your business partner. I mean, why would you, with the way business is clearly booming here?" He punctuated the statement with a wide smile.

  Mark's eyes narrowed in return.

  "Gabby said there was something you needed Tyler to fix?" I asked gently.

  "Gabby said that, huh?" Mark asked, crossing his arms over his chest.

  I nodded.

  "Gabby has a big mouth," he shot back.

  Agreed. But by the way Mark was starting to turn red and his jaw clenched tight, I had a feeling she wasn't entirely a liar.

  "Was Tyler in trouble, Mr. Black?" I asked. "Maybe some sort of trouble that got him killed?"

  His gaze bounced from me to David as he tried to make diamonds out of his back teeth a little more. Then finally, he must have decided we were relatively harmless and let out a long sigh. "Yeah, you could say Tyler was in trouble. Or more accurately, he was the trouble."

  "How so?" I prodded.

  "He had booked a commercial shoot at the restaurant next month."

  "That doesn't seem terrible," I said, shooting a questioning look at David. His eyebrows were drawn down in a frown of confusion too.

  "No, it wouldn't be," Mark went on, "if we hadn't just shot a very expensive commercial last month. And one three months before that. Both of which lost money hand over fist, but Tyler said he needed to shoot a fresh spot to air during his show." He sighed again, as if trying to yoga breathe his frustration away.

  "So, Tyler was playing loose with advertising funds?" I clarified.

  "Tyler played loose with all funds. Look, the guy knew how to work a crowd, but he knew nothing about running a business. He breezed in every two months like clockwork, flashing his smile around and pretending to
actually have a hand in this place. But I'm the one holding it all together here." He paused. "Or trying to."

  "So the 'fix it' was…?" David asked.

  "Cancel the commercial shoot! Tyler said he'd prepaid for the crew, but I told him to get a refund. No way did we need another losing commercial when we had two in the can already."

  "I take it Tyler did not get a chance to fix it before he died," I assumed.

  Black shook his head. "No. Once again, I'm left to clean up the mess."

  Which was plenty of reason to be angry at Tyler, but I wasn't sure it was reason enough to want him dead.

  "Alec Post used to work here, correct?" I asked him, changing gears.

  "Alec Post?" Black blinked at me a couple of times, as if trying to place the name.

  "He has a webcast now called The Digest, but I believe he used to work here under Tyler. As a chef?"

  Black nodded, recognition dawning. "Right. Sous chef. That was back when Tyler actually spent time in the kitchen." He snorted.

  "I suspect he did less of that when he landed the TV show?" David asked.

  "Show s ," Black corrected. "Plural. And he was not one to let us forget that."

  "Did you know if there was any animosity between the two? Alec and Tyler? Any sort of falling out?"

  He frowned, his bushy eyebrows taking on that menacing look again. "No. I mean, that was what—five years ago?"

  "Alec recently filed a lawsuit against Tyler," David jumped in. "For fraud."

  The bushy eyebrows moved north, but Black didn't respond.

  "Any idea what that was about?" I asked.

  He shook his head. "This is the first I'm hearing of it."

  "So, Tyler didn't do anything that strikes you as fraudulent while they worked together?"

  Black shrugged. "Look, Tyler was no prince. He was loud, arrogant, and often just downright mean. Did he make this Post guy angry enough to sue him? Probably. But you'd have to ask him."

  Believe me, it was on my to-do list.

  "Well, at least it appears Tyler's posthumously bringing in some revenue," David said, gesturing behind him to the packed restaurant.

  Mark grunted. "This won't put a dent in what Tyler's done to our accounts." He paused. "But you're right. It doesn't hurt."

  It was clear no one was mourning Tyler. Or, correction, no one who knew him was mourning. There were plenty of people—mostly women, I noted—in the lobby who looked like they'd been running their mascara over his demise. But I'd yet to encounter someone from his day-to-day life who wasn't speaking ill of this particular dead. While Black said he was left cleaning up Tyler's mess again, he did now have comfort in knowing it was the last time he'd be put in such a situation.

  "Mandy said you wanted to talk about your wines?" Black said, pulling me out of my thoughts.

  "Huh?" I blinked at him, trying not to see a potential murder suspect.

  "Mandy," he said, gesturing toward the hostess who'd seated us. "She mentioned something about possibly serving your wines here? That Tyler suggested it?"

  "Oh. Right." I cleared my throat. Knowing I was terrible liar, I tried to stick to the truth as much as possible. "Well, I know the tourist crowd always appreciates when they're served local wines. We've got a Pinot Noir, Chardonnay, Pinot Blanc, Zinfandel, and a few cases of small run Petite Sirah."

  "Impressive. How large did you say your winery is?"

  "Just under ten acres. But we use it wisely, and it's been in the family for generations."

  He nodded. "I'm assuming you'll sell at wholesale prices?"

  "Of course," I agreed, mentally trying to calculate our profit margins on those.

  "Okay, tell you what? Bring some samples by, and I'll consider it."

  "Sounds great," I told him, meaning it. While it had been a cover story, it was an opportunity that could be lucrative for us. Especially if people kept pouring into Tyler's Place in droves of hungry mourners.

  * * *

  "Well he was pleasant," David said, laying on the sarcasm thick as we left Tyler's Place and drove back toward the winery.

  "He wasn't very cut up about Tyler, was he?"

  David shook his head. "It doesn't appear anyone was."

  "You think he killed Tyler to keep him from hemorrhaging cash from the business?"

  "Well, it's possible. But I imagine the celebu-chef's draw is going to wane quickly now that he's gone."

  "True, but the food was good."

  David shot me look. "You're adorable."

  I felt an instant blush. "What?"

  "Ems, no one is coming to Tyler's Place for the food. They're coming to be close to the TV God."

  "I'd hardly call him a god," I mumbled, trying to quell the heat in my cheeks—both at the quasi-compliment and the insinuation that I was naïve in the ways of celebrity marketing.

  "Well, I highly doubt the restaurant will have the same draw as Mark's Place," David pointed out.

  "I wonder just how bad things were," I mused as I looked out the window, watching darkness slowly envelope the valley.

  "What do you mean?" David asked.

  "Well, was Tyler eating up profits, or do you think he was actually borrowing money for his commercials and such? Taking the partners into debt." I paused, turning to face him. "There's a big difference between making a few bucks less and seeing your business facing bankruptcy." As I well knew. My accountant, Gene Shultz, had yet to say the B word to me, but I knew we were in a precarious position with Oak Valley. I could only imagine the desperation I'd feel if I had a partner who seemed oblivious to it or, worse, even contributing to it.

  "It's an interesting question," David agreed. "But I still like Alec for the kill."

  "Oh?" I asked.

  "A lawsuit definitely says something was going on between the two." He paused. "Plus, he's too cute."

  I laughed. "Call the detectives. We have our smoking gun."

  "I'm not sure we need to call them," David said, his mood shifting as we pulled up the oak lined driveway to the winery. "Looks like they're already here."

  While the parking lot was still emptying of the last few festivalgoers, one car stood out among the rest. A black SUV, parked near the entrance to the winery.

  And standing in front of it was Detective Christopher Grant.

  CHAPTER SIX

  As David pulled to a stop, my mind raced, trying to come up with a good reason for Grant to be there. I could think of a lot of reasons—but none of them were good. I felt him watching me as I got out of the Rolls, making me antsy. David mumbled a quick excuse and beat a hasty retreat back down the oak lined drive in his luxury car, clearly feeling a little antsiness himself. Law enforcement had that effect on the card shark.

  As my feet itched to follow David's lead and retreat, I sucked it up and made my way toward the winery entrance. Grant was leaning against his SUV, arms folded over his chest, legs crossed at the ankles, looking casual and perfectly at ease in comparison to my nerves at seeing him. Then again, he wore the gun, so there wasn't a whole lot for him to be nervous about.

  "Emmy," he greeted me as I approached.

  "Grant," I countered. I hesitated to ask, but… "What are you doing here?"

  One eyebrow rose ever so slightly. "That's not exactly a welcoming greeting."

  I straightened my spine, making the most of my 5'6" self. "Well, the last time you were here, you were interrogating one of my employees."

  Some of the Bad Cop softened out of him, his arms uncrossing, shoulders relaxing. "I know. I'm sorry about that."

  That was surprising. "You are?"

  He nodded. "Look, I know you and I have a little history—"

  Very little. Like, half a date's worth.

  "—but I can't let personal feelings interfere with a murder investigation."

  As far as apologies went, that one sucked. But my focus was immediately drawn to one phrase. "You have personal feelings?"

  The corner of his mouth quirked up. "I might have one or two." />
  While it was hardly an admission of undying love, my body still heated in response to the mischievous little golden flecks dancing in his eyes as he looked down at me.

  I willed my hormones to play it cool.

  "Well, I wouldn't want any of those feelings to get in the way of your investigation, but I'm telling you now that Jean Luc is not your man."

  At the mention of my sommelier, some of the flirt left his eyes. "Emmy, I know he's your employee—"

  "And friend," I cut in. While Jean Luc had a distinctly prickly side at times, I'd always thought of him as sort of like the eccentric uncle I never had. He was part of the Oak Valley family.

  "Okay," Grant said. "And friend. But I can't ignore evidence."

  "You don't have any evidence that Jean Luc did this," I stated boldly. I knew because I was sure he did not do it.

  Grant sighed. "The bullets."

  "Which did not come from Jean Luc's gun!" I protested. "Jean Luc's gun is under his bed."

  Grant sucked in another breath, not saying anything. But he gave me a hard stare.

  "What?" I asked. There was something he was holding back.

  "We searched Jean Luc's house this afternoon."

  Crud. "And the gun? It was there, wasn't it?"

  Grant slowly shook his head in the negative.

  I closed my eyes and thought a dirty word. Only, when I opened them again, Grant was still there, all Cop Face now that didn't even hint at any "personal feelings."

  "You searched his entire house?" I asked.

  Grant nodded. "Our warrant included the garage, his dwelling, and anywhere on the property. No gun."

  "So maybe someone stole it," I offered.

  "Jean Luc didn't report it stolen. No sign of a break-in."

  "Maybe it's just misplaced, then," I said. "Maybe it got lost in his move up here. He said he never even took it out of the case."

  "What did Jean Luc argue with Tyler about?" Grant asked. If I had to guess, the change of subject was deliberate to catch me off balance.

  Luckily, after years of walking in heels, I was excellent at maintaining mine. "I have no idea," I told him. "But I do know of someone else who argued with Tyler. The day before he died, even."

  Grant raised an eyebrow my way. "I'm listening."