Except have a secret affair with him. Either Vivienne was truly in the dark about her partner and her husband, or she was a top-notch actress.

  Vivienne might not have known Chas was stealing money for gambling, but Sadie had known about the poker games. If she'd found out he was stealing from the company she'd just become a partner in, I wondered how Sadie would take that news.

  Maybe Sadie Evans hadn't cared about Chas romantically after all. Maybe this wasn't so much a case of a woman scorned but a woman getting even with a thief.

  * * *

  Vivienne promised to have her assistant get back to me with the details of the memorial, and Ava and I left her pouring a second glass of whiskey. We found our way out of the house without the help of Lurch and jumped back into my Jeep.

  "What do we think of Vivienne's cover-up?" Ava asked.

  I shrugged. "We only have her word for it that she did cover it up."

  "And didn't confront Chas in a deadly showdown?" Ava finished for me as I wound through the tree-lined streets back toward Oak Valley.

  "Or that Sadie Evans didn't find out."

  Ava nodded. "I noticed you asking about her. You think maybe Sadie found out and killed Chas before he could steal more of the company funds?"

  "It's possible," I decided.

  "I wonder if Jenny knew what he was up to," Ava said, looking out the window.

  I spun on her. "What do you mean?"

  "Well, just that Jenny covered up his Xanax use. And she did work at Price Digital. Maybe she covered for her brother there, too."

  I bit my lip. That was something I didn't want to think about. It could only serve to paint Jenny in a more guilty light.

  I was about to voice as much when a text popped in on my phone. I glanced away from the road just long enough to see Detective Grant's name on the display.

  "Who is it?" Ava asked.

  "Grant."

  "Detective Hottie?"

  I shot her a look. "He is not hot."

  "Liar."

  I grinned. "Okay, he's a little hot." I handed her the phone, turning my eyes back to the road. "Read it for me."

  She swiped the text screen open. "Just checking in. How are you feeling?" she read out. Then added, "Aw, the big, bad detective cares."

  I shot her a look. "He's just being thorough," I told her.

  She shrugged. "He did seem pretty concerned about you last night."

  "He's a cop. He has to be concerned." But I could feel my cheeks heating.

  "You're blushing," Ava said, a big grin on her face. "Don't tell me you have a thing for Detective Hottie."

  "No," I said defiantly. "No thing." My body might have had a minor attraction, but it definitely was not a thing.

  I pulled up to the winery and parked next to Ava's GTO, and noticed another car in the lot—a shiny silver Mercedes with vanity plates that read MNYMAN1. I stifled an internal groan, fearing that I knew exactly who the "money man" in question was.

  Sure enough, as soon as I said my goodbyes to Ava and made my way into the main building, Jean Luc approached, arms flapping in a tizzy.

  "Zee banker man is in zee office, Emmy," he told me, wrinkling up his nose like he'd smelled overripe brie. "And he does not zeem very happy, mon ami."

  Fabulous.

  I thanked Jean Luc, took a deep breath, and steeled myself for the worst as I walked into my office to find Gene Shultz sitting in my desk chair, casually browsing the spreadsheets that were up on my computer screen as he waited for me. At my appearance, he looked up, a smile taking over his features.

  "Emmy!" He shot to his feet, not even looking slightly guilty at having been caught peeking at my financials. His dark hair was going more salt than pepper, but his face was line-free—I suspected with some help of an excellent esthetician in The City—and his hands as he shook mine were excellently manicured. I suddenly felt butch next to him.

  "Schultz. Always a pleasure," I fibbed.

  "You're a terrible liar, Emmy."

  "So I've been told," I mumbled. "Several times."

  He grinned at me, showing off freshly whitened teeth that blinded me with their glare. "But, I'm a necessary evil in your life if you want to get this place operating in the black."

  "Oh, I wouldn't go so far as to call you evil." I grinned back.

  "Well, reserve that judgment until you hear what I have to say."

  Uh-oh. I set my purse down on the desk with a thud and sank into the chair opposite my desk—usually reserved for visitors. I was keenly aware of the subtle power shift that Schultz had pulled off by planting himself in the chair behind the desk.

  "Rip the Band-Aid," I told him. "What is it this time?"

  Before he answered, he paused, studying me. "What's with the glasses?"

  "Long story. Let's just say they're a fashion statement."

  Gene raised one eyebrow. "Okay, let's say that."

  "What did you need, Gene?" I asked, trying not to be short with him. It wasn't his fault I owed money, and the cancellations were pouring in, and I was about to go belly-up.

  Gene dug his hand into the briefcase at his side, coming out with a newspaper, which he tossed on my desk.

  I leaned forward to read it.

  SONOMA'S DEADLY WINERY was the headline that jumped out at me.

  I closed my eyes. I counted to ten. I took deep breaths. I opened them and still felt just as furious. So much for Zen.

  "As you can imagine, this does not make my investors very happy," Schultz said.

  "It doesn't make anyone very happy," I mumbled again.

  "And," he went on, "unhappy investors pull the money to go somewhere safer. CDs. Bonds. Not financial institutions that back deadly wineries."

  "We're not deadly!" I protested.

  Schultz tapped the paper. "But everyone thinks you are. And what they think is what matters."

  "No one reads actual papers anymore," I protested.

  Schultz cocked his head to the side. "Nice try. It's online too."

  "They arrested Jenny Pacheco," I told him, unsure if that helped my case or not.

  Schultz shrugged. "That's lovely, but it's not filling seats in the bar, is it?" he asked, gesturing toward our empty tasting room.

  I shook my head. "I will. I've got a big party coming up. Lots of influential people there." I did not elaborate that it was the memorial for the victim of the "deadly winery."

  Schultz nodded. "Good, good. That's a start. But things need to turn around, Emmy. Quickly. It's one thing for me to keep the wolves at bay and extend your payment deadlines. It's quite another for me to convince said wolves to extend any more credit when they're reading headlines like these." He wagged a manicured finger at me.

  I bit the inside of my lip. Credit was something we sorely needed when the harvest came.

  "Right, understood. Turn the tide of public opinion. On it," I promised.

  Schultz flashed me his megawatt smile again. "That's my girl. Now, hop to it. And no more of this drama stuff, yeah?" he said, gesturing to the paper.

  I nodded. "Got it." As if the drama was my fault. Trust me—a drama-free life was totally on my agenda.

  Schultz left, and I stared at the spreadsheets of red for a while, generally feeling sorry for myself. I took my sunglasses off and examined my eye using selfie mode on my phone. If anything, the bruise looked nastier now than it had that morning, the deep purple starting to turn blue and red at the edges.

  I absently wondered if more makeup was a good idea as I checked my voicemail.

  While I'd been hoping to have one from Vivienne's assistant with details about my one "big party," what I heard first was a local real estate agent who specialized in wine industry properties. Like Gene's investors, she could smell blood in the water, and asked if I was thinking of putting Oak Valley on the market. I had to admit, the price she quoted was tempting. I hit the button to save. Just in case.

  I picked up the paper Schultz had left behind, forcing myself to read the article that went with the gruesome headline. It was another soliloquy by the prolific Bradley Wu. The food columnist who'd hailed my meal as "a culminating triumph of the baroque imagination," could now, apparently, only focus on one thing—death by Sirah. He'd worked in phrases like "dangerously deadly vineyard" and "hauntingly handsome young Adonis" to describe the deceased. Accurate if a bit flowery.

  I skimmed down, spying a direct quote from David Allen. "My Stepfather was a man of dangerous appetites. Am I surprised one finally came back to bite him? No."

  Hmm. It seemed Brad wasn't the only one with a flair for the dramatic.

  I glossed over the rest of the article, unable to stop my mind from running through my list of suspects again. Of all the people who had been close to Chas, David seemingly had the best motive to keep him alive—Chas was consistently losing at poker to David and funneling money his way. That was, unless Chas'd had enough of being David's bankroller and decided to tell Mommy on him.

  I grabbed my phone and scrolled through pictures of Chas's little black book again, going back over all the entries next to the initials D.A. By the time I'd added them all together, it looked like over the course of the last six months, Chas had owed David into the five figures. Significant. However, not significant enough for David to live off for long if Mommy cut him off for, say, gambling and bleeding her golden-boy husband dry. I thought of the way Vivienne had blamed herself for Chas's stealing. I could easily see her shifting that blame to David if she'd known he was the reason behind Chas's debt.

  I put my hand to my temple, wondering where David Allen had been last night when I'd been whacked on the head.

  I switched screens on my phone and dialed the home number for the Price-Pennington estate.

  Four rings in, the deep voice of Lurch the Butler answered. "Price-Pennington residence."

  "May I speak with David Allen please?"

  There was a slight pause on the other end. "Mr. Allen has his own line in the guest residence."

  Funny it was referred to as the guest residence and not David's residence. I wondered if that was intentional. "Would you happen to know the number?" I asked.

  "I would."

  I waited, rolling my eyes as silence stretched on. "Could you give it to me, please?"

  "May I ask who is calling?" he countered instead.

  "Emmy Oak. I was there earlier today," I added, hoping to jog his memory.

  It must have worked, as he reluctantly rattled off the digits.

  "Thank you," I told him, hanging up.

  I dialed the number he'd given me, which rang on the other end. And rang. And rang. Six rings in, I got a generic recording telling me that the party had a voicemail box that was full and to try again.

  I redialed the number of the main house instead.

  "Price-Pennington Residence," came Lurch's answer.

  "Hi, Emmy Oak here again," I told him.

  I thought I detected a sigh on the other end, but I forged ahead.

  "Listen, David doesn't seem to be answering his phone. Do you know if he's at home?"

  "He is not."

  I narrowed my eyes at the phone. "Then why did you just give me his home number?"

  "You asked for it," came the monotone reply.

  I gritted my teeth. "Do you know where he is?"

  "I believe he is at the gallery. Now, if you will excuse me." He didn't wait for me to confirm or deny the excusing, as he hung up on me.

  I remembered Ava saying she'd seen David exhibiting his work somewhere around town. I did a Google search and came up with the name of Salavence Gallery on 1st Street as the place to find his work currently on display. I noted the address, donned my sunglasses again, and grabbed my keys.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Salavence Gallery was located in the trendy and touristy downtown area, just off E Napa Street. Sandwiched between an indie bookstore and a coffee shop, the storefront was all glass, several canvases showcasing modern art on display. I pushed through the doors, feeling the whoosh of air conditioning and hearing soft jazz music piped in through the speakers. The reception counter was a stark white lacquer, matching the white of the walls, floor, and ceiling. The entire place had a clinically blank feeling, making the art on the maze of walls scattered throughout the cavernous space pop under the bright overhead lights.

  "May I help you?" asked a young woman behind the counter. In contrast to her surrounding, she was dressed in all black, sporting a severe black bob, long sleeved black blouse buttoned all the way up to her neck, and dark eye makeup that took the smoky look to the extreme.

  "Hi. I, uh, was hoping to catch one of your artists here. David Allen?"

  She nodded. "He's in the back. Installing his latest piece." She paused, giving me a quick up-and-down. "Are you a collector?"

  "Maybe," I hedged. I had a feeling that in a place like this, I couldn't afford a postcard, let alone one of the 30" X 40" canvases.

  She nodded, grabbing a pamphlet from behind the counter and handing it to me. "His show is next week. You can preview some of the pieces in the back, though." She gestured to the rear of the gallery.

  I thanked her and headed through the maze of angled walls displaying various collections of work. Several different styles were represented, though most fell into the modern art category. I paused in front of one collection of landscapes done in abstract, thinking the artist had perfectly captured the warm hues of the Sonoma Valley during fall.

  As I approached the back of the gallery, I heard two voices. One that I instantly recognized as David Allen's.

  "I need more room. I have three more pieces that have to be in the show."

  "Not possible," came the second voice. It was male as well, though high pitched with a nervous edge to it. "We agreed on six pieces. That's the limit."

  I rounded the corner and spied the two men standing in front of a wall of the same type of artwork I'd seen in David's cottage. Lots of dark colors, violent strokes, and shapes that left the viewer with a general feeling of unease.

  "I'm changing the agreement," David told the other man—a slim, well dressed guy with a twitch in his left eyebrow

  "You cannot do that!" he shot back.

  "Of course I can," came David's cool response. "I'm a Price."

  The other man sputtered, but as he spied me, he shut his mouth with a click.

  "Just move some of these other paintings," David continued. He looked up to see me, his face breaking into a smile that was less humor and more predatory. "Well, look who it is. Miss Wine and Die herself."

  The second man looked perplexed, like he wasn't in on the joke.

  "Emmy Oak," I offered, extending my hand.

  He shook it, the name still not seeming to mean much to him. Good. At least this was one member of the public that hadn't heard about the Deadly Winery. I made a mental note to gloat about that to Schultz.

  "Macklan Salavence," he told me. "Something I can help you with, Ms. Oak?" he asked, regaining his composure.

  "I was hoping David could help me, actually."

  David raised an eyebrow my way, the predatory grin spreading. Suddenly I was glad we were in a well-lit gallery and not a dark alley.

  Or the dark pathway outside my cottage.

  "Well, that sounds like a fun proposition," David said. Though it came out as more of a threat. Or maybe that was just my slightly concussed fear talking.

  "I see," the gallery owner mumbled, retreating. "I'll, uh, just leave you two alone then."

  I kinda wished he wouldn't, as David took a step closer to me.

  Instinctively, I took one back.

  "So, what can I do for you, Emmy?" he asked. His lips were still curved upward.

  I cleared my throat, drawing courage from our brightly lit surroundings and the fact that two witnesses were in the building. "I was hoping you could tell me where you were last night."

  His left eyebrow rose, and the corner of his mouth quirked up again. "I'm flattered you care so much about my nocturnal activities."

  "Don't be." I laughed, but it sounded shaky even to my own ears. "Someone was trespassing at my winery last night."

  "And you think I'm that hard up for a bottle of Chardonnay?"

  "I think you might be desperate enough to threaten me."

  For a half a second the smile dropped, and an intense emotion hit his eyes. A dark emotion, almost as unsettling as the painting he was standing in front of.

  But just as quickly, he covered it, the mocking grin back. "Someone threatened you, huh? Is that what you're hiding behind these?" Before I could react, he lifted the sunglasses off my face. To his credit, he flinched slightly at the sight of my shiner. "Oh, Emmy. Ouch."

  "No kidding," I said, grabbing my glasses back from his hand.

  "And you think I did this?" David tsked between his teeth and shook his head. "I'm hurt, Emmy. You must know I hold you in much too high a regard for that."

  While it was phrased as a compliment, something about the hint of sarcasm creeping into his voice made it difficult to fully believe.

  "I know Chas owed you money," I told him.

  If he was surprised by my knowledge, he didn't show it, his cool demeanor remaining in place. "Pity I won't be able to collect now."

  "Did he threaten to tell your mother that you were bleeding him dry?"

  "Why would he do that?" David asked.

  Which I noticed did not directly answer my question.

  "Maybe he was desperate. He'd been borrowing from a loan shark to pay his debts."

  David paused. "So you've met Trask."

  I nodded. "And I know Chas was in over his head. Did he threaten to tell Vivienne everything to get her to bail him out?"

  His gaze met mine. "That looks painful," he said, changing the subject as he gestured to my black eye. "I assume you didn't get a good look at the person who did this?"

  I paused. "I saw enough," I bluffed, hoping to tip his hand into a confession.

  He stared for a beat, and I felt like I was in a silent game of chicken.

  Finally he turned to his painting, his expression hidden from me. "Then you know I didn't do it."

  "Where were you?" I asked again, realizing he hadn't answered my original question.

 

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