After dinner I showed Wade the report from the wine expert, and the comparison between the spreadsheet and the rough count I’d made in the wine room. I could see it was making an impression on Wade.
I kept refreshing my e-mail every few minutes, hoping I would hear from at least one of the Veritas partners. Not that I was sure what I would do when I did, but I couldn’t resist checking again and again.
Wade left early, after extracting a promise from me not to go anywhere without him. It didn’t matter, though, since I hadn’t heard from any of the Veritas partners. Maybe I had overestimated their concern.
Or maybe none of them was involved.
The ringing phone raised my hopes. Maybe one of the partners had decided to call me instead of answering my e-mail.
But when I answered it was Fred Mitchell’s voice on the other end of the line.
“What is it, Sheriff? Is something wrong with Mom?” I had just been there a couple hours earlier, but I could imagine dozens of dramatic scenarios with my mother center stage.
“She’s fine, Georgie. I was actually calling about your accident. I was still here when the accident investigator came in with his report. I thought you needed to know what he found.”
There was that tone of voice again, the one that told me he was going to say something I didn’t want to hear. I’d been hearing that tone far too often lately.
“What he found?” What did that mean?
“He completed his examination of the car this afternoon and just finished writing up his report. I don’t want to add to your worries, Georgie, but it appears that the brake lines were damaged before the accident. He couldn’t say for certain, but he believes they were cut.”
I froze. My brain refused to process his words, to accept the implication that someone meant to hurt me.
“Georgiana? Are you still there?” I’d been silent long enough to worry the sheriff.
“I’m here, Sheriff. But that can’t be right.”
“My expert thinks it is. And I trust his opinions. I don’t mean to alarm you, but I want you to be cautious—and I know that isn’t your usual mode. Will you just be careful, and let me take care of finding out what happened here, please?”
I gave the sheriff my word that I wouldn’t interfere in his investigation. Besides, as far as I could tell he was only talking about the investigation of the accident.
I didn’t make any promises about Gregory’s murder.
After the sheriff’s call, I couldn’t relax in my own house. I jumped at every noise, and found myself prowling from one room to the next as though I expected to find someone hiding behind the couch, or in the linen closet.
Had I made myself a target? And was someone lurking in the dark, ready to attack?
This was ridiculous! I told myself I didn’t believe anyone had done anything to my ’Vette. The brakes failed. Things happened when a car was old. That was all.
I checked my e-mail one more time, then checked the locks and went to bed.
The dogs were barking. Even Buddha, normally calm and patient, demanded I get up.
I tossed back the covers and shushed them. Whatever doggy emergency they felt demanded my presence could wait until I pulled a bathrobe around me.
I shuffled to the back door, Daisy and Buddha dancing around my feet. I figured I should be grateful they woke me up instead of ruining the carpet, but gratitude wasn’t in my vocabulary first thing in the morning.
I opened the back door and they shot through into the backyard. The dark backyard.
I peered at the kitchen clock. They needed to chase a cat out of their yard at three in the morning?
I stood at the door and called softly for the dogs. Buddha returned immediately, but Daisy took another minute to assure herself the yard was safe from intruders.
Intruders? I remembered Sheriff Mitchell’s phone call. What if the intruder was something a little bigger than a cat?
I called Daisy again, urgency making my voice tremble.
To my amazement, she appeared at once.
I slammed the door behind her and flipped the deadbolt.
I told myself it had to be a cat. Or a squirrel. Or even another dog. That was all. I was letting the sheriff’s warning make me paranoid.
So why couldn’t I get back to sleep?
I spent the rest of the night huddled on the sofa, wrapped in an old quilt like a child with a security blanket and watching increasingly bad movies. I didn’t nod off again until the sun streaked the early morning sky with pink, and the cheery voices of the local morning newscast replaced the movies.
A few hours later I woke up again to sunlight streaming between the curtains and the dogs snoozing contentedly in their beds, the excitement of the pre-dawn hours forgotten.
I couldn’t forget it quite so easily. I was stiff and sore, and my wrist ached from being cramped against my chest, clutching the quilt.
I stretched and yawned. Three hours of fitful sleep sitting on the sofa was no substitute for a night’s sleep in my own bed.
I shambled to the bedroom dragging the quilt with me. I dropped it in a heap on the unmade bed and glanced at the clock.
Ten fifteen.
I had an appointment with Dr. Cox in half an hour.
Fortunately, everything in Pine Ridge proper is five minutes from everything else. That includes my house and the doctor’s office. I even had time for a quick shower and a change of clothes before I pulled the Beetle out of the driveway and onto the road.
Three blocks from the house, I approached the first stop sign. I reached for the brake pedal and felt panic flood through me. The Beetle had been in the driveway all night, unprotected.
What if the sheriff was right, and someone had deliberately cut the brake lines on the ’Vette? They could have done the same thing to the Beetle.
I gingerly touched the brake pedal, holding my breath and tensing in anticipation of the sickening slide that I’d felt in the ’Vette.
The brakes grabbed gently and the car slowed. I released my breath and pressed the brake pedal, bringing the car to a stop at the intersection.
I drove the rest of the way to the doctor’s office feeling foolish and melodramatic.
The visit with Dr. Cox was uneventful, as was the trip home afterward. He informed me that my wrist was healing but I would be off work a few more days. He rewrapped the bandage and repeated the instructions I’d been given in the emergency room.
I let the dogs out when I got home and followed them into the backyard. As far as I could see there was nothing to account for their early-morning meltdown. No broken bushes or trampled flowers. Nothing to indicate it had been anything other than what I suspected—a neighborhood cat or a stray dog.
Nothing to get excited about outside.
Back inside I did find something to get excited about.
An e-mail from [email protected].
chapter 32
I clicked on the e-mail with trembling fingers. I had my first direct communication from one of the Veritas group; from the one partner I didn’t know.
“Thank you for your message regarding the inventory owned by Veritas Partnership. As an investor in Veritas, I am, of course, concerned that the assets be held in optimum conditions. Please advise us regarding the time frame you anticipate for relocating the inventory, and the current location of said inventory.”
He’d sent copies to the other partners, but I wasn’t sure whether he was speaking for the group or just assuming the role of spokesman.
I sent a cautiously worded reply, assuring all the partners that the wine was stored appropriately. I didn’t offer an answer to his question about time.
A few minutes later I had an e-mail from Phil Wilson. I noticed he didn’t bother to include his partners in his response. All he wanted to know was whether all the bottles were intact. His tone made it clear his only concern was his investment.
I replied that none of the wine in the cellar appeared to be disturb
ed.
I deliberately neglected to mention the missing bottles. If he suspected there were bottles missing, he hadn’t said so, and I wasn’t going to volunteer any information.
I got up to make a sandwich and a cup of coffee. By the time I came back to the computer, I’d heard from Taylor Parkson.
A trifecta!
Parkson was polite, nothing more. He accepted my assurance that the wine was safe, and asked that any further correspondence be sent to his attorney, as he would be out of the country for several weeks. He provided contact information and thanked me for notifying him.
From the tone of Parkson’s e-mail I wasn’t even sure he knew Gregory had been murdered. Sometimes the weekend people in Pine Ridge could be incredibly oblivious. They didn’t seem to understand that their vacation home was in a place where other people lived year-round. It was as though the town ceased to exist between their visits.
Gregory’s murder had occurred while Parkson was away, so for him it never happened.
Either the man was incredibly devious, or he really didn’t know. I voted for oblivious and moved his name to the bottom of my list.
The computer chimed with an incoming message, drawing my attention back to the screen.
Wineexpert wanted to meet. He suggested Gregory’s house, since he understood that was where the wine was stored. He said it would give him the opportunity to see for himself, on behalf of all the partners, that the wine was receiving proper care.
This was what I’d been hoping for. To meet the person behind the anonymous domain name, the one partner whose name wasn’t readily apparent.
I agreed to meet him that afternoon. He knew where the house was, and said he would be there at five thirty.
I answered his e-mail, saying I would meet him there, but I got no response. Apparently, wineexpert was now offline.
I called Wade.
Having a trustworthy boyfriend can be a truly wonderful thing. Wade suggested we get to the house early, and didn’t flinch at the idea of going inside. I think he was as curious about the wine cellar as Wineexpert.
I told him about the van, still parked in Mom’s garage. It was a detail I hadn’t mentioned before, and it elicited a chuckle. “Are you sure you don’t want to join the sheriff’s office?” he asked.
I laughed and told Wade I’d meet him at Mom’s house to pick up the van, then hung up.
For the first time in several days I had a few hours free, and I was determined to make the most of them. I dragged out my notes and my copy of the Uniform Plumbing Code and set to work. After all, I still had a test to take.
Before I left for Mom’s, I let the dogs out one last time, and fed them an early dinner. I didn’t expect to be long, but I had no way to be sure and hungry dogs were more likely to get into trouble.
Why take chances?
Which was precisely what I was doing meeting someone I didn’t know in an empty house that belonged to a dead man, to talk about wine that might have been a motive for murder.
I wore my coveralls and ball cap to Gregory’s, more out of superstition than necessity, but I let Wade drive the van.
I debated carrying the toolbox. Having Wade along probably negated any camouflage value, but I didn’t see any reason to change my routine.
I headed for the bedroom, but Wade stopped in the entry and gave a long, low whistle. I’d forgotten how impressive the house was the first time I saw it, and I had to stop and wait for Wade to recover from his first view of the soaring entry and the glass-walled great room overlooking the manicured backyard.
“You said it was impressive, but I didn’t realize just how impressive.”
“Yeah. Wait till you see the rest of it.”
Wade followed me on a quick tour. I showed him the chilled cabinet I’d found in the kitchen on my first visit.
“This isn’t the wine cellar?” he said, walking into the small room. “Seems pretty large to me.”
“That’s what I thought the first time I saw it, too. But then I started counting the bottles and I realized there were only about a hundred bottles in here. Remember, we figured he had at least a couple hundred cases of Veritas wine.”
I could see Wade going through the mental calculations. His eyes widened and he looked around the cooler again. “You’re right, this is only about a hundred bottles.” He looked at me and shook his head. “A couple hundred cases is a lot of wine.”
“You can’t imagine how much,” I said.
I led him back through the great room and into the bedroom wing on the far side of the house. This time I didn’t hesitate when I came to the door of the master bedroom. I’d already faced that particular demon and it had turned out to be pretty innocuous.
Once inside the room I made a beeline for Gregory’s closet. I pointed out the release latches to Wade, and let him do the honors. Much easier on my wrist that way.
With the chest out of the way, I showed him the release for the upper portion of the closet. He triggered the release and swung the upper portion away, marveling at the ingenuity of the construction.
“Well,” he said, admiring the work, “I can see why it cost so much to build this. It’s pretty amazing.”
“Want to see what’s inside?” I dangled the key in front of him, then slid it into the lock and opened the door.
I had only been in the room once, and I was nearly as overwhelmed then as Wade was now when we looked inside. The carefully labeled racks covered the walls. There were occasional gaps in the rows, but not many. Each rack was nearly full.
Wade’s brain instantly clicked into accountant mode, and I could practically hear the adding machine in his head clicking off the number of racks, rows, and bottles.
I waited while he calculated the total and turned back to look at me. “There are well over two thousand bottles in this room.” He looked around, noticing the table and the notebooks for the first time.
He walked over and picked up a notebook labeled “Burgundy” and flipped it open. He understood the organization instantly without explanation.
“It’s all cataloged here,” he said. “That should make the inventory a lot easier.”
“Inventory?”
“Of course. You need to know what’s in here, and where it all came from. It’s fortunate Gregory keeps such meticulous records.” He wandered along the racks, glancing from the book to the shelf and back. “He’s always been like that. His tax records are organized and sorted and he files every receipt.”
He stopped and looked over at me. “Is that just nerdy of me, that I appreciate how neat and organized he keeps his tax records?”
I shook my head. “I’m sure it made your job a lot easier.”
“It does—did.” He corrected himself, a shadow passing over his face. “I still haven’t gotten used to the fact that he’s gone.”
We had given ourselves an hour, but it quickly became clear that the job of verifying and valuing the collection in Gregory’s wine cellar would take several days, at least.
We were about ready to close up and wait for our mystery guest when we heard a voice calling from the entry.
Too late, I realized I hadn’t locked the door behind me.
Whispering to Wade to close up the cellar and put everything back in place, I hurried toward the front of the house, in hopes of stalling our visitor until Wade had time to disguise the cellar entrance.
I had considered many possibilities for the position of Wineexpert, but I expected one person, not two.
And I certainly didn’t expect either of the two men that confronted me in the dining room.
William Robinson, who had professed no knowledge of Veritas.
And Harry Hamilton, my mother’s nosy neighbor.
And they didn’t look happy to see me.
chapter 33
“You’re Wineexpert?” I asked, looking at Harry Hamilton.
“Oh, please!” William Robinson shook his head. “You think this chump knows anything about real wine? I told
you before, I’m the wine expert.”
I stood in the doorway between the dining room and the bedroom wing, trying to block the door without calling attention to the fact.
“Of course,” I said to William. “It had to be you—you’re certainly knowledgeable enough. I don’t know why I didn’t see it before now.”
Robinson advanced toward the doorway until his belly was nearly touching my padded middle. “What’s back there that you don’t want us to see?” he asked.
The implied threat in his voice made the hair at the back of my neck stand up. It was a primal fear response, and I trust my instincts.
Robinson was a definite threat.
I stood my ground, blocking the doorway, hoping to give Wade enough time to close up the cellar.
But Robinson wasn’t waiting.
He shoved me roughly aside and moved down the hall toward the open bedroom door. He moved pretty fast for a big man, and he was inside the room before I could catch up.
I heard Harry Hamilton scurrying along behind me, but my attention was focused on William. He was clearly the more dangerous of the two, and he was headed directly for the hidden wine cellar.
And Wade.
Robinson followed the sounds coming from Gregory’s closet and disappeared inside, with me close behind and Harry Hamilton bringing up the rear.
I reached the door of the closet and stopped. The scene in front of me froze me in place.
Robinson held Wade’s right arm twisted high up his back. The pain was obvious on Wade’s face as Robinson yanked open the unlocked door of the wine cellar and shoved him inside.
I looked around for a weapon of some kind, but Hamilton shoved me from behind and threw me off balance.
“Get in there,” he said, his voice cracking like a twelve-year-old boy.
I regained my footing but in the cramped quarters of the closet I couldn’t get turned around to fight back.
Hamilton shoved me again and I stumbled through the door into the wine cellar. Hamilton followed me in.
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