"I'm fine," I told him, yawning as I joined them at the table. "And I am not hard to get along with."
David's grin grew. "I had a feeling you were awake over there."
Ava handed me the cup of coffee and as I took the first grateful sip, the fragrant Columbian beans soothed away any irritation I might have felt at her letting David in.
"Seriously though—you okay, Ems?" David asked.
And the sincerity in his voice served to wash away any irritation I had at him for the previous comment. I nodded, not trusting my voice until I'd swallowed another warm sip of heavily creamed coffee. "Yeah. I'm fine."
David gave me a dubious look.
"I will be fine," I amended. "Which is more than I can say for Buckley," I mumbled, feeling guilt gnaw at me again.
"The Sonoma Index-Tribune said he was shot sometime around nine last night," David said.
"What else did they say?" I asked, steeling myself for the worst. The local press and I had a bit of a love-hate relationship—they loved to report about every mishap at my winery, and I hated to read about it.
"Not a whole lot of other details, really. Just that an alarm had been tripped and when Buckley went to investigate, a 'killer among the vines' shot him at the 'deadliest little winery in Sonoma,'" he quoted.
"Bradley Wu was the reporter I take it?" The man had a flair for the dramatic.
David nodded. "He also reminded readers that this wasn't the first 'victim in the vineyard' at Oak Valley.'"
I winced. Unfortunately, that was true.
"I'm sorry, honey," Ava said. "Did you know Buckley well?"
I shook my head. "I only hired him two weeks ago." I nodded toward David. "On your recommendation."
Ava turned to David. "You said he worked for your mom, right?" she asked, setting a plastic carton of blueberry muffins on the table between us. While they were a far cry from Conchita's homemade variety, I gratefully grabbed one and peeled the paper off as David answered.
"He did. She had him work security at a couple of her weekend parties last year."
"Do you know if he had any family?" I asked.
David frowned, thinking back. "I think he mentioned living with a girlfriend."
"No kids?" I asked, hopeful that at least he wasn't leaving behind orphans.
David shrugged and shook his head. "I don't know. But, like I said, I only saw the guy a couple of times."
"Poor thing," Ava said, nibbling her muffin. "The girlfriend."
I nodded, the pastry sticking in my throat. "I feel awful."
"Why? You didn't shoot the guy," David said.
"Yeah, but he died on my property. Working for me. Possibly protecting me." That last thought had the shiver from the night before running up my spine again.
"It's not your fault," Ava said, covering one of my hands with hers. "You had no idea some random person waving a gun around would be in your vineyard."
"If it was random," David pointed out.
Ava shot him a look. "Not helping, David."
"What? I'm just saying." He put his hands up innocently. "Maybe someone had it in for our Emmy, here."
Ava frowned and opened her mouth to scold him again, but he ran right over her.
"Or, maybe someone had it in for Buckley."
Ava shut her mouth. She cocked an eyebrow at me. "Maybe. I mean, they did kill him and not you, right?"
I swallowed, the words kill and you being so close together in a sentence making me nervous. "I guess so. But why would anyone want to kill Buckley?"
David shrugged. "Maybe he was a crappy security guard."
"Maybe things weren't going well with the girlfriend," Ava said.
"Maybe he had a gambling problem and owed the wrong people money," David floated.
"Maybe some criminal he busted back when he was a cop had it in for him," Ava added.
"That's a whole lot of maybes," I pointed out, crumbling blueberry muffin on the wooden table. I sighed loudly. "I have an appointment with Schultz at one. My accountant," I clarified for David's benefit. "He's trying to secure us funding, but I can't imagine this incident being splashed all over the news is going to help his efforts."
"Sorry, honey," Ava said again.
"And it's going to be terrible for wedding season. I mean, who wants to get married where someone just died?"
Ava gave me a sympathetic look. David sipped his coffee, looking appropriately subdued.
I shook my head. "That's an awful thing to think, isn't it?" I looked up at my friends for confirmation. "I mean, a man is dead and I'm worried about my bookings."
Ava put her hand over mine again. "This was not your fault," she repeated.
I sucked in a breath. "I know." I lifted my eyes to meet Ava's. "I do. But, at the very least, I feel like I should pay my respects to Buckley's girlfriend, you know?"
"Good idea," David said. "The girlfriend is always the first suspect."
I shot him a look. "I meant to give her my condolences."
"I'll go with you," Ava decided, finishing the last of her coffee.
We both looked at David.
He held up his hands in an innocent gesture again. "Sorry, grief isn't really my thing. Besides, I've got a midmorning game at the Links."
"Who's the unlucky victim this time?" I asked, knowing full well he meant a poker game at the Sonoma Links golf club where he planned to fleece some unsuspecting soul, and not a round of golf.
"Doug Groudin," David said, getting up from the table. "Of the Groudin Gallery."
Ava cocked her head at him. "Aren't you doing a show there this week?"
David nodded. "I am. And the outcome of this game will determine if I'm showing five pieces or ten." He gave us a wink.
Ava laughed. "Poor Groudin. You might own the gallery by the time you're done with him."
"If I play my cards right. Pun intended," David added with a grin. "Anyway, call me later and let me know how it goes with the girlfriend interrogation."
"Condolences!" I said again. Only, he'd already shut the door behind him and probably didn't hear me.
"These were terrible," Ava said, gesturing to the muffin stumps still sitting on their paper wrappers on the table. "I miss Conchita's. When's she coming back?"
"Monday," I said, rising and helping her toss the leftovers into the trash.
"I could starve by then."
I couldn't help a laugh. "Tell you what—let's get a couple of showers, and I'll spring for croissants at the Half Calf on the way to console the girlfriend."
"Sold!"
CHAPTER THREE
As Ava showered, I logged into my email account and found the paperwork Buckley had filed with me when I'd hired him, noting his home address was an apartment on the outskirts of town. Google Maps said it would only take a few minutes to get there, so I didn't rush through showering and borrowing a clean outfit from Ava's closet. Even though the cargo capris were a little more snug on my hips than Ava's, paired with a loose floral top and my own heels from the night before (minus the mud I'd had to scrub off of them), the outfit didn't look half bad. Maybe not quite as put together as Ava's boho chic sundress, denim jacket, and chunky sandals, but presentable at least.
We stopped quickly at the Half Calf next door—a cute coffee shop with a logo of a cartoon cow enjoying a latte while lounging on a crescent moon—and grabbed a couple of croissants and the café's signature caramel flan lattes to go. Ten minutes later we pulled up in front of Buckley's building, a three story structure with a sign outside that said it was the Shady Meadows.
Unfortunately for the occupants, there was no shade and no meadow.
The building itself was a dull beige stucco that at one time could have been white or yellow depending on if the grime or the sun bleaching had won that particular war. It was a no-frills rectangular structure with covered car parks along the bottom tier beside a large green dumpster that looked to have hit capacity several bags ago. A rusted metal staircase stood next to the dumpster, and
one sad square of brown lawn sat beside it, masquerading as landscaping.
"Depressing place," Ava mumbled as we parked in a spot marked Visi_or. They were missing a T.
"Well, Buckley didn't exactly make a lot." I frowned, biting my lip. "I know because I was signing his checks."
"I'm sure you paid what you could."
I nodded, following her as she tested the bottom stair carefully before ascending to the second floor. "Speaking of which—I wonder who I should send his last check to?"
Ava shrugged. "Let's ask the girlfriend," she said as we hit the second floor landing. Buckley's apartment was 2C, which ended up being three down from the staircase.
As we passed 2A I could hear pounding bass music from inside, and 2B seemed to be cooking a morning curry, if the scents coming through the walls were any indication. 2C's door looked just like the last two—peeling grey paint, letters that had been stuck on slightly crooked, peephole caked with enough grime that I doubted anyone could peep through it. I was just about to knock, when the raised voices from inside made me pause.
Ava shot me a look, clearly hearing them too. "That doesn't sound good," she mumbled.
A man's voice was shouting. The actual words were hard to make out, but the tone was clearly anger. A woman's voice replied—volume lower but cracking as if there were tears behind it.
"Maybe we should come back later," Ava suggested.
I nodded and turned to go.
But that was as far as we got before the door to 2C flew open and a man ran through it, nearly plowing us down.
"Jamie!" the female voice called, and a second later a woman in her mid-to-late 40s appeared in the doorway. "Jamie, wait!"
"Leave me alone!" the guy yelled back, and I realized that while his voice was deep, he looked to be little more than a teenager rather than a full grown man. He was dressed in a black leather jacket with a painted image of a skull and a red rose on the back. His short dark hair was gelled into dangerous spikes, and I watched his denim clad legs run down the stairs, taking them two at a time.
"Jamie!" the woman called once more. But even she seemed to realize how useless the attempt was as he disappeared from view. She sighed in resignation, her eyes flitting to us, seeming to realize for the first time that she had an audience. "I'm sorry, can I help you?"
I licked my lips, feeling distinctly intrusive. "Uh, hi. I'm Emmy Oak. I, uh, own Oak Valley Vineyards. Where Bill Buckley worked."
At the sound of his name, the woman winced, fine lines around her mouth pinching tightly.
"We came by to offer our condolences," Ava jumped in, her voice soft and sympathetic. "We're so sorry for your loss."
The woman sucked in a breath and nodded. "Thanks. Would you like to come in?"
She didn't wait for an answer before leading the way into the apartment.
As we stepped inside I could tell the interior was every bit as small and unappealing as the outside of the building indicated. Brown carpet marked with several darker brown stains spanned across the small living room to our right, where a TV was playing the Cooking Network on mute. A mustard colored sofa that was covered in a clashing hot pink afghan—probably in an effort to cover more stains—sat in front of the TV. A cracked leather recliner sat next to the sofa, a peach colored apron thrown over one of the arms. A low wooden coffee table took up the rest of the room, the top covered in dirty dishes and a cardboard pizza box.
"Sorry," the woman said, clearing the table. "Jamie left the place kind of a mess this morning."
"No need to apologize. I'm sure it's all been a shock," Ava said, sitting gingerly on the sofa.
"Jamie is your…son?" I guessed, as the woman gave up on the table, setting the dishes into a pile on top of the pizza box.
"Yes," she answered. Up close I could tell she was older than I'd originally thought, probably closer to fifty. Her brown hair pulled back in a low ponytail was starting to streak with grey. Her dark eyes had grey circles etched under them, and I could only imagine the type of sleepless night she'd had. I could see fine lines at the corners of her eyes and creases at her mouth. She was dressed in a pair of jeans and a navy sweatshirt that didn't look like she'd been expecting company. "Jamie is…very upset about Bill."
"His father?" I asked.
"Oh, no." She let out a laugh that held zero humor. "No. A point which Jamie's made several times." She sent us a sad smile. "Jamie's at a…difficult age."
"Teenagers often are," Ava said.
The woman turned her attention to Ava. "I'm sorry, I didn't get your name?"
"Ava Barnett. I'm a friend of Emmy's."
She nodded, shaking Ava's outstretched hand. "Sheila Connolly." She turned back toward me. "You said you were Bill's employer?"
"Briefly," I told her. "I, uh, had just hired him on at the winery."
"Right," Sheila said. "Bill had been looking for work for a while."
"Oh?" I asked. "Had business been slow?"
"Very," she said, again giving that self-deprecating laugh. "Not a lot of parties being thrown these days. Not even in posh wine country."
I nodded. "I understand. The winery has been affected too."
She gave me a look like someone who owned a winery couldn't possibly understand how hard it had been for someone living in Shady Meadows.
I cleared my throat awkwardly. "Uh, anyway, we just wanted to offer our condolences. I'm…I'm just so sorry about what happened last night."
"Me too." Sheila sat back in the leather chair, causing it to creak in protest as she pulled a pack of cigarettes from a pocket on the side. "You mind?" she asked.
I shook my head, though she didn't wait for my answer before pulling a stick out and lighting it.
I saw Ava's nose twitch out the corner of my eye, but she was polite enough not to say anything. The woman had just lost her boyfriend—if smoking in her own home made her feel better, who were we to argue?
Even if I did breathe just a little shallower.
"Poor Bill. I always knew something like this would happen," Sheila went on, blowing a plume of smoke up toward the dull beige ceiling.
"You did?" I asked.
"Well, maybe not this. But trouble followed Bill like a dang dog."
Ava shot me a look, and I could almost hear her mind kicking into Charlie's Angels gear—the one where she imagined us as kick butt crime fighters with fabulous hair. "What sort of trouble?" she asked.
Sheila shrugged. "Any sort. All the time. He was a magnet for it. I mean, just look at his police record."
I bit my lip, regretting now that I hadn't. "Bill mentioned to me that he was a retired police officer."
Sheila's jaw worked back and forth with some emotion. "I suppose he didn't mention that his retirement was forced."
"Forced?" I shook my head. "No, he didn't."
"Yeah, well, I guess that wouldn't have looked real good on a résumé."
"Are you saying he was asked to leave?" Ava clarified.
Sheila nodded and took a long drag from her cigarette before answering. "I guess there's no point in trying to keep it quiet now."
"What happened?" I asked.
"This was before I knew him, mind you. I didn't meet him until after he left the force. But he told me he was caught taking bribes."
"Oh, wow," Ava said, her eyes cutting to mine again.
"Yeah, wow is right." Sheila shook her head. "It was stupid, and he should have known better. But," she added quickly, "he cooperated fully with Internal Affairs and agreed to take early retirement."
"Meaning, leave the force."
She nodded. "Without a pension."
"Ouch," Ava said.
"Right?" Sheila shook her head. "Painful. Between his odd security jobs, my waitressing, and Jamie's weekend job, we can just barely afford this palace," she said, heavy on the sarcasm.
I felt a niggle of guilt again that I couldn't have done more for him. But, honestly, the wage I'd been able to offer was already stretching our budget to the limit
.
"But," Sheila went on, "the deal avoided criminal charges for Bill and a public scandal for the department. That's why he moved to Sonoma. To leave it all behind him and start over."
"When was this?" Ava asked.
She blew out a plume of smoke. "Like I said, before I met him. A couple years ago."
"So you met him after he moved here?" I asked.
She nodded. "He came into Ed's Diner one night." She gestured to the peach colored apron lying over the arm of her chair. "I usually work the dinner shift."
"Oh?" Ava asked. "Were you working last night?"
If I didn't know better, I'd say Ava was fishing for an alibi.
Luckily, if Sheila noticed, she didn't mention it. Instead she shook her head. "No, I was here. Waiting for Jamie to get home from God knows where. Wondering what the heck kind of trouble he was getting into with those friends of his." She frowned, her eyes going to the closed door her son had just exploded through.
"I'm sorry. Bill's death must have come as a shock to you both," Ava said.
She sniffed loudly, drawing her attention back to us. "Well, like I said. Trouble followed Bill everywhere."
"Did it follow him to Sonoma?" Ava asked.
"Hmm?" she asked, seemingly still lost in her own thoughts.
"His troubles. It sounds like Bill made quite a few enemies on the police force," Ava noted.
Sheila eyed my friend, taking a beat before answering. "Well, let's just say Bill didn't leave San Francisco with a lot of friends."
"San Francisco?" I asked.
She nodded. "Yeah. That's where he was on the force. SFPD."
My mind immediately went to Grant. He'd been SFPD before moving to Sonoma too. Though, of course, San Francisco was a huge place. There were probably thousands of police officers and several stations. Chances of their paths crossing were pretty slim.
"Anyone in particular unhappy with Bill?" Ava pressed.
Sheila shrugged. "Like I said, that was before my time."
"Did Bill keep in touch with any of them?" I asked, starting to feel like we were grasping at straws. The whole incident had happened two years ago. It seemed like Buckley had moved on.
Sheila shrugged. "Not really. I heard him talk about a partner a couple of times. But I never met him."
Killer Among the Vines (Wine & Dine Mysteries Book 7) Page 3