Killer Among the Vines (Wine & Dine Mysteries Book 7)

by Gemma Halliday

  "So what do you think." David nodded toward the canvas on the wall in front of us.

  Like most of his art, it was done in dark hues, black and grey dominating the canvas in bold, decisive strokes, with just a little blood red color thrown in here and there for dramatic effect. While the style was abstract, it looked to me like some sort of mountain scene. Like a violent landscape that left me feeling almost antsy in its urgency.

  "It's…nice."

  David threw his head back and laughed. "You hate it."

  "No, no!" I protested quickly. "It's just…dark."

  He nodded. "It is."

  "I think it's deep," Ava jumped in. "The red feels like an undercurrent of heat under the earth's crust. Sort of like what bubbles up inside all of us sometimes. The heat and anger. Right?"

  David frowned and nodded his approval. "Not bad. I've had worse critiques."

  I cocked my head at the painting.

  David leaned in and whispered in my ear. "You still hate it."

  I grinned. "I still think it's dark."

  "Here." He grabbed me by the elbow, steering me to the left. "I have one that's maybe more your style. I just finished it last night."

  "Is this the one you weren't sure if you were going to show?"

  He nodded. "I'm still not sure it fits, but I took a chance with it."

  I followed him around the corner to one of the other white walls. This one held a larger canvas. While the color scheme was similar to the last one—dominated by shades of grey—the subject matter was softer. It was a portrait of a woman, still abstract but more delicate in technique than the last one, and it almost felt like a black and white photograph in the subtle shading he'd managed to throw on the subject's face. The woman stood in profile, staring out at something just beyond the canvas's edge. The look of longing in her eyes was haunting, and I felt my breath catch in my throat at the emotion he'd captured.

  "Wow. David, this is really good."

  I glanced over to find him smiling at me. "I thought you might like it."

  "I love it," I told him honestly. "It's so…different from your other work."

  He chuckled. "You mean better?"

  "No, no. All your work is good. It's just the emotion this one evokes is different. It's not so…angry.

  He shrugged. "Guess I'm losing my edge." He grinned.

  I was about to argue that maybe losing one's sharp edge wasn't a bad thing, when someone called David's name from across the room, hailing him with a wave.

  David nodded and waved back. "That's Groudin. The gallery owner," he explained. "Duty calls." He gave me a wink before he threaded his way through the crowd to where a short guy with a mustache chatted animatedly to a couple in all black about one of David's works.

  I turned my attention back toward the portrait and was admiring it more as Ava caught up to me.

  "Hey. I snagged you some champagne." She handed me a glass.

  "You are a goddess," I told her. "Almost literally, in that outfit."

  "Thanks." She did a little twirl for me. "Thought it might appeal to the artsy crowd."

  "Did you see this one?" I gestured to the painting of the woman. "It's really good."

  Ava turned her attention to the canvas. "That's different for David."

  "I think it's beautiful."

  She studied it a moment. Then she turned to me with a funny look in her eyes. "You do know who that is, right?"

  I looked from her to the portrait. "Who?"

  Ava's lips curled back in a slow smile. "Emmy, that's you."

  I blinked at her, my eyes going back to the haunting image. "No. That's not…no, there's no way David would…I don't look like that," I finally settled on.

  "That is totally you." Ava nodded. "Look how David captured the line of your nose here. And your cheekbone." She pointed to the canvas.

  I frowned at the painting. "I don't see it. And besides, why on earth would David paint me?"

  "Maybe he has a thing for you," she teased.

  I scoffed. "No chance."

  She turned back to the painting. "It's kind of sad, isn't it? The way she's clearly yearning for something just outside the frame. Like whatever she needs will always be just outside of her reach."

  I frowned at the picture. She'd described the feeling perfectly.

  "It's powerful," Ava went on. "Who knew our boy had such a deep soul?"

  I nodded, having thought much the same only a few minutes before. "It's definitely not me."

  Ava grinned. "It's definitely you."

  "She looks so…lost. I don't look like that."

  Ava gave me a funny look. "Maybe that's how David sees you."

  The thought of David seeing me as anything but the woman he regularly mooched wine off of and occasionally indulged in brotherly teasing with was unnerving. Like suddenly he knew something about my psyche that I hadn't given him permission to unearth.

  "Uh-oh," Ava said, eyes going to a spot behind us. "Here comes trouble."

  I didn't get a chance to ask her what kind of trouble before a familiar voice boomed behind me.

  "Hi, Ava."

  Grant.

  I closed my eyes for a beat, taking a deep fortifying breath before I spun around to face him.

  "Emmy," he said, his voice neutral enough that I had no idea if he was still upset at how we'd left things the night before.

  "Grant," I countered.

  We stood there staring at each other for a moment before Ava cleared her throat. "Okay, well, I'm gonna mingle. I'll catch up to you later," she told me before scurrying away.

  "You look nice," Grant said when we were alone. He leaned in to plant a peck on my cheek.

  "Thanks." I felt my shoulders relax some at the signal we weren't totally on the outs. "I didn't figure you for an art lover."

  He glanced at the painting of the woman on the wall in front of us. "David invited me."

  I gave him a raised eyebrow. Grant and David weren't exactly the best of friends. In fact, David usually had a habit of disappearing whenever he smelled law enforcement approaching. Probably the card shark in him.

  "I think he was trying to fill seats, so to speak," Grant explained. "Figured I'd stop by to show support." He paused, his eyes roving the painting before turning back to meet mine. "And to see you."

  "Me?" I asked.

  He nodded and took a step closer to me. "I don't like how we left things last night."

  "That makes two of us," I conceded.

  The corner of his mouth tugged upward. "Glad we're on the same page."

  About that at least. About everything else surrounding Buckley's murder investigation and our roles in it, I still wasn't so sure.

  As if he could read my mind, Grant said, "I got Ava's text earlier. About Buckley's ex-wife allegedly leaving town."

  "Oh?" I took a sip of champagne in an effort to cover any reaction I might have had.

  "Yeah. I'm going to assume you were standing right there when she sent it?"

  "Guilty as charged," I admitted.

  He grinned in earnest. "So, here's the deal. I'm not gonna ask how you and Ava know that Carmen left town—"

  "That's a good deal."

  "—and you're going to promise that whoever you talked to and wherever you went to find this information out, you're not going there again."

  I pursed my lips together. It sounded more like a directive than a deal now. However, it was a small step up from outright ordering me to stay away from all things Buckley. And, since I didn't intend to call the nasally receptionist at Nadia's Nails or visit Carmen Buckley's depressing shack outside of town again, I decided I'd take the small baby step forward with Alpha Male, and I nodded.

  "Deal."

  Some of the tension slipped from his posture as he turned to glance at the painting in front of us again. "This is David's work too?" he asked.

  I nodded, sipping from my glass.

  "It's not as violent as the other stuff," he noted.

  "I guess he'
s trying something different. I like it."

  Grant's eyes went from the painting to me. "Is that you?"

  "What? No!" I scoffed. "No, not at all."

  "Hmm." He cocked his head to the side. "Kinda looks like you."

  "It is for sure not me. Why would David paint me?"

  "I wonder."

  "It's not me. It's…someone else. Probably imaginary. Who knows what goes on in the mind of a tortured artist? That could be anyone."

  "Tortured artist?" Grant grinned.

  Trust me, he would be when I was through with him. Especially if the painting really was of me.

  "The only thing that seems tortured about David," Grant said, eyes going to the man in question who was laughing and drinking champagne, "is deciding just where to spend his trust fund."

  "David isn't that shallow," I countered, not sure why I was defending him. "But I guess you just don't know him very well."

  Grant gave me a funny look, his eyes flickering to the painting. "Do you?"

  I frowned. "I'm not sure what you're implying—"

  His eyes went meaningfully to the painting again.

  "—but if this week has taught me anything, it's that none of us really ever know anyone."

  "So you said last night." He crossed his arms over his chest, some of the tension returning. "What is that supposed to mean?"

  I blew out a breath. "Nothing."

  "Emmy, is there something I should know about you?"

  "About me?" I let out a sharp laugh. "No, last night I was talking about you."

  He frowned. "What do you need to know about me?"

  "I-I don't know." Everything. Something. Maybe nothing. I felt the conversation slipping from tentative truce to emotionally confusing, and the larger-than-life portrait of a lost woman who may or may not be me staring at us wasn't making it any clearer. "How come you never talk about San Francisco?" I blurted out.

  "San Francisco?"

  "Yes. About what happened to you there before you were transferred."

  His frown deepened. "Why would I want to talk about that? It wasn't a pleasant part of my life."

  "But it was a part of it. A part of you. Who you are. What makes you tick."

  He shook his head slowly. "No. That incident doesn't define me. It was bad, it's over, and there's no point in dwelling on it."

  "So you're just going to pretend it never happened?"

  "What do you want me to say, Emmy?" he asked, shifting his weight, the irritation in his voice clear.

  "I want you to talk to me!" I said, getting worked up again. "I want you to tell me about your childhood, your past, your friends, your enemies, your hopes, your dreams, the moon shaped scar on your butt!"

  That last part might have been said a little too loudly, as several pairs of eyes turned our way.

  I took a deep breath, lowering my voice. "I want to get to know you. Really know you."

  He gave me a hard look, the little gold flecks in his eyes dancing in a heated frenzy. "I thought you did know me."

  Ouch. The undercurrent of hurt in that statement was worse than the heat in his eyes.

  "That's not what I meant," I backpedaled. This was going all wrong. Again. "I just hate that you're hiding things from me."

  "Hiding things?" The edge of anger was unmistakable in his voice now. "I'm not the one hiding things, Emmy. You're the one sneaking around town."

  "You hid that you knew Buckley."

  "No, I told you I knew him."

  "But not until way later. Why didn't you want me to know about your connection to him?"

  "Gee, I don't know, maybe because you have a habit of putting yourself in the middle of dangerous situations that don't concern you because of some cockamamie theories!"

  "Cockamamie theories?" I narrowed my eyes. "First of all, what are you, ninety? Who says cockamamie?"

  "Emmy—" his voice warned.

  But I ignored it, too angry to care.

  "And second of all, my theories are good. They're great, even. Better than yours about some random trespasser."

  "Emmy—"

  "And thirdly, I did not put myself in some dangerous situation. It showed up at my winery. So stop treating me like I'm some stupid little girl who can't take care of herself."

  "I did not say that," he ground out.

  "Your meaning was pretty clear."

  Grant shook his head. "I'm not doing this with you again."

  "Fine. Don't do it. Don't do anything with me!"

  He looked from the painting to me one last time before he shook his head again. "Good night, Emmy."

  While I was still trying to formulate a scathing parting remark of my own, he turned and stalked out of the gallery.

  I watched him, my breath coming hard, my heart beating fast, and a hollow feeling forming in the pit of my stomach that I'd screwed it up again with him.

  No, I refused to think that way. He'd screwed it up again. Why couldn't he just be straight with me? Give me that respect. Why did he have to play the strong silent type, trying to protect me from…I don't know. Everything. I was tired of it. Tired of being spoon fed only what he wanted me to know, tired of being marginalized, tired of fighting with him.

  And as I let out a long breath of air, the anger fading, I realized I was just plain tired. The week was catching up to me, and as the rush of the moment flooded out of my system, I could feel the weight of everything taking its toll on me. All I wanted to do was go home and curl into a ball beneath my nice warm quilt and shut the world out.

  I glanced around for Ava to tell her I was leaving, but I saw she'd joined David and the gallery owner, the three of them talking now to the couple, who looked interested enough in the violent mountain piece that they looked ready to pull out their black cards. I didn't have the heart to interrupt. This was David's night. I didn't want ruin it.

  Instead, I sent Ava a quick text, letting her know I was going, and with a parting glance at the Lost Lady on the canvas, I set my champagne glass down on an empty table and headed for the door.

  The cold night air hit me like a blast of ice as I stepped outside, though the instant chill was almost welcomed, calming down my heated nerves. I wrapped my arms around myself as I traversed the parking lot again.

  I was about halfway across the lot when I heard it.

  The loud roar of a motorcycle.

  I spun just in time to see a figure in a black leather jacket tear away from the alley at the back of the Groudin Gallery building. I might have imagined it, but the rider looked a lot like Jamie Connolly.

  I froze, watching his taillight disappear down the street. What had the teenager been doing there? Stalking me? Or David? Or generally just looking to make trouble wherever he could?

  Or maybe I was just getting paranoid. A lot of people drove motorcycles. And wore leather jackets.

  I quickly beeped my Jeep unlocked and got inside, cranking up the heater as I pulled out of the lot. I flipped on the radio, but as soon as I hit the main road, I turned it off again. Why did it seem every song was about some lost love? Not the subject I wanted to dwell on that night. Not that Grant and I were madly in love. I wasn't sure we were in anything at the moment. Except in a perpetual standoff.

  Stress. It was the stress getting to us both. Grant's job was inherently high stress, and me…well, the sooner I could get the label of "deadliest little winery" off my back, the better chance Schultz could find a partner willing to funnel some disposable income our way. If that chance even existed. My phone had been conspicuously silent all day, and I was feeling less and less optimistic about this possible solution that I hadn't wanted in the first place. But it was better than losing the winery. I'd already lost my dad way too young, and time and illness were taking my mom away from me. I couldn't lose Oak Valley too.

  I felt my eyes tear up. And then there was Grant. Had I lost him too? To be fair, I'd never really had Grant. I wasn't sure he was the type of guy to be had. I sniffed. But I'd enjoyed his company. I wondered if
that was it. I'd never enjoy it again. Our easy dinners eaten at the kitchen counter were a thing of the past.

  Then again, had I even known the guy I'd been eating with? Eckhart had painted a really different picture of who Grant was. Even Snow White had seemed like she'd had her own version of him—a very flirty one who liked to talk about his butt. And what version had I had?

  One who'd been trying to bury his connection to a dead man from the beginning.

  A dead man who had pictures of Grant.

  I tried to focus on the road and not that unnerving thought. The lights of downtown were long behind me, and trees rose up on either side of the two lane road, vine covered hills resting in the shadows just beyond. I eased off the gas and pumped my foot on the brake, coming to a curve in the road.

  Only, nothing happened.

  My thoughts were immediately jarred from my pity party to the present as I pressed down again, thinking maybe my heel had gotten caught on the floor mat or something was stuck under the brake pedal.

  But my foot had free range, and the pedal went down to the floor with ease when I hit the brakes again.

  Only, again, nothing happened. The car didn't slow.

  If anything, I picked up speed on the slight downhill grade. Panic surged through me as I veered right, taking the curve in the road at a much faster speed than I'd hoped. I felt the back end of the Jeep fishtail as I struggled to maintain control of the vehicle. Tall, dark trees loomed ahead of me, the stretch of road illuminated only by my headlights, whipping a wild path in front of me. My foot was pounding on the brakes, pressing for dear life even though it was clear they weren't going to help me. I gripped the steering wheel with both hands, knuckles going white as another turn threatened ahead.

  My breath came in hard, fast pants, my heart hammering against my rib cage as the turn approached at frightening speeds. I tugged the wheel to the left.

  Only, this time, the curve was too sharp, and I was going too fast.

  I felt my wheels veer off the pavement, careening over the embankment, the road disappearing to the left as my car plunged straight ahead.

  Right toward a tree.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  I pulled the steering wheel to the right with everything I had, I felt my tires bumping over rocks, dirt, and fallen tree branches, and I heard a loud, piercing scream of terror.