"Home," he said, his eyes on the painting, hands shifting the left corner just slightly higher, making minuscule adjustments.

  "Your mother can vouch for that, I suppose?"

  David shrugged. "I don't know. I didn't see her."

  "Your grandmother?"

  "Sorry. I didn't kiss Granny good night either."

  "So you were alone?"

  David turned his sharklike smile my way, showing off a row of teeth. "I didn't say that, now, did I?"

  "So you do have an alibi?"

  "You make it sound so dramatic, Ems."

  The mocking tone was back. I wondered if it was David's brand of flirting. If so, I couldn't imagine the type of lady who might have followed him back to his cottage last night.

  "Being knocked unconscious was dramatic," I countered.

  Something flickered behind his eyes again. "I hope you catch whoever did it."

  "I intend to," I told him, with a lot more gusto and bravery than I felt.

  * * *

  While I'd hoped to get more from David—like at least the name of the girl he'd supposedly been with last night—I figured the alibi would be easy enough to check out. While the cottage was at the back of the property, there was only the main drive in from the road. Someone must have seen him coming or going. That is, if he was my attacker.

  I turned that thought over as I drove home, picturing the dark, explosive emotions I'd seen behind his eyes. David had a prescription for Xanax. He hadn't denied that Chas was threatening to go to Vivienne about the poker games, David's winnings, and the debt. Not only was David's cash cow looking to default on his debt, but he was also threatening to cut off any allowance from Mommy. I had a hard time believing David could live in the manner to which he'd become accustomed on an artist's income. If my theory was right, Chas stood to destroy David's way of life.

  If.

  That was the problem. I had lots of good theories but no evidence to take them from the realm of if to putting the killer behind bars.

  I pulled up the gravel drive and parked in the lot, trying not to be depressed at the distinct lack of cars there. I made my way into the main kitchen and began pulling ingredients. Olive oil, onion, a dry white wine, parmesan cheese. Cooking always cleared my head, and I hoped for the same sort of clarity now as all the jumbled bits and pieces of information I had about Chas flew around in my brain without seeming to fit together anywhere. Besides, I had a memorial to cater the next day, and this was a chance to make a better impression on the society set—a set I sorely hoped had many less somber occasions they'd like to book our winery for in the future.

  I settled on a menu of two different savory dishes with wine pairings, and a few plates of fruits, cheeses, and mini cheesecakes and cookies for dessert. For the first savory bite, I grabbed a filet mignon from the refrigerator and seasoned it. My plan was a quick sear, then thinly slice it to top a layer of blue cheese on crostini. A quick garnish of fresh herbs and balsamic vinegar at the last minute would be all it needed to be a delicious, elegant bite. As I'd mentioned to Vivienne, it would pair perfectly with our Pinot Noir.

  For the second dish, I settled on a Truffle Risotto Bite, fried in an arancini-style to make for an easy-to-eat appetizer. I'd be able to make the risotto base ahead of time, then fry them on site, just before the party, so they'd stay warm and crispy.

  I grabbed the arborio rice and chicken stock, getting the stock heating while I chopped onions and garlic. The rhythmic movements of the knife and homey scent of chicken broth heating on the stove put me in my zone, blocking out the rest of the world in a warm, steamy cocoon of comfort. I worked quietly, stirring the liquid ladle by ladle into the rice until it had a creamy consistency. Then I added parmesan and the truffle oil before setting it aside to cool. I did a small test batch of fried bites, rolling the risotto into little balls, coating in breadcrumbs, and dropping them in the deep fryer. They only took a couple of minutes before they came out a golden brown. I barely let one cool before my growling stomach forced me to dig in.

  The outside was a perfectly crispy crunch, while the inside was decadently creamy. I closed my eyes, leaning my head back as I let the earthy flavor of the truffles mix with the sharp tang of the parmesan on my tongue. This was heaven in one little bite. I think I might have moaned slightly.

  "Wow, must be good."

  My eyes snapped open, my body tensing and my hand instinctively reaching for the chef's knife on the cutting board. Only as I focused through the surge of adrenaline, it was not an intruder who stood in my kitchen doorway but Detective Grant.

  His eyes went to the knife in my hand. "Jumpy?"

  I narrowed my own eyes at him. "As one is when they've recently been attacked." I set the knife down with a clatter. "Geez, you almost gave me a heart attack."

  "Sorry," he said, his voice softer, as if he really meant it. Some of my anger melted. "I just wanted to check in on you," he went on.

  Dang it. The rest of the anger fell away as his dark eyes made a slow sweep of the bruises I'd been hiding all day.

  "Thanks," I said. "I'm fine."

  "Yeah, you look great." The corner of his mouth ticked upward.

  I returned it with a self-deprecating, "I look like a raccoon who let a two-year-old do her eye makeup."

  He laughed, the sound rich and deep. The sudden transformation in him surprised me almost as much as his sudden presence. "Well, at least your sense of humor is unharmed." He gestured to the risotto balls on the counter. "Mind if I try one?"

  I pushed the platter toward him.

  He grabbed one, the crunch audible as he bit in. I found myself watching his expression carefully—purely for professional reasons of course. His eyes fluttered closed for a second, his mouth going slack as he chewed. "Wow. That's good," he practically moaned.

  "Thanks." I couldn't help the lift of pride in my voice.

  "These for a party?" he asked, gesturing to the large batch of risotto still cooling on the counter.

  "Sort of. Chas Pennington's memorial tomorrow." I paused. "I don't suppose there are any new developments?"

  Some of the ease left Grant's face at the mention, and I almost wished I'd kept my big mouth shut. "I can't discuss an ongoing investigation."

  Rats. "Okay, what about this—any luck finding the creep who attacked me last night?"

  "No." His jaw clenched. "But I will."

  I almost felt sorry for said creep. Grant looked like he was ready to destroy him.

  I decided to switch gears. "I promise wine country isn't always this exciting."

  He gave me a questioning look.

  "You did move to Sonoma for a slower pace, right?"

  Grant paused, popped another bite into his mouth, and chewed thoughtfully. Finally he said, "Right. Slower pace."

  I watched him. "That's not the whole reason, though, is it?"

  His eyes met mine, and I could tell I was right. The gold flecks darkened, almost as if they were hiding like the secret he was protecting. "Let's just say the change of pace wasn't entirely my idea."

  So this was a demotion. "What happened?" I asked, wondering how far I could press this easier side of him before it dissolved into Tough Guy again.

  He took a deep breath in, his nostril flaring with the effort. "I suppose it's public record. There was a shooting. Internal affairs got involved. When it was all over, they felt it best if I moved to a new venue."

  I digested that, trying to read between the sparsely filled lines. "You shot someone?"

  He nodded slowly, his eyes dark. And filled with a cocktail of emotion I couldn't begin to interpret. I could imagine a healthy dose of guilt lay there, but whether it was tempered with regret or anger, I couldn't say.

  "When was this?" I asked.

  "Last year."

  "I'm sorry." As soon as I said the words, I wanted to take them back. I could tell by the way his expression tightened that Tough Guy didn't do sympathy. "I mean, I'm sorry you had to move here. It's got to be a lot less exciting than San Francisco."

  He tilted his head in concession. "There are some benefits, though."

  "Oh?"

  He grinned, grabbing another risotto ball, and tossed it into his mouth. "These, for one."

  While it wasn't the compliment I'd been hoping for, I'd take it. "Thanks. But save some for the guests, huh?"

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Morning dawned much too early on Thursday, sunlight smacking me in the face after another restless night of tossing, turning—this one full of images of David Allen, Vivienne, and Sadie all coming after me with rocks in hand. I tore myself from my warm blankets and stumbled to the bathroom to shower.

  Luckily, the reassuring bathroom mirror told me my black eye was fading, and I was able to cover most of it with makeup. At least well enough that I wouldn't have to attend the memorial in dark sunglasses. I dressed in a simple little black dress and low heels that were stylish while still affording me pain-free movement for circulating between the guests and the kitchen.

  Conchita and Hector helped me load my Wrangler with trays and equipment, the overflow going in the trunk of Conchita's Camry. Jean Luc rode with me, and Ava had agreed to meet us there to act as my serving help for the afternoon. Per the instructions Vivienne's assistant had left on my voicemail, we drove around to the Links service entrance at the back of the club, where we were directed to the kitchen and the large clubroom where the reception would take place after the service. It was a comfortable room, adorned in tastefully solemn flowers, deep burgundy cloths draped over tables, and a small grouping of armchairs in dim lighting. Along the right wall the staff had set up a long table for us to lay out finger foods and desserts, and a bar stood in the corner where Jean Luc could pour drinks for the guests. He quickly began setting up there, uncorking and decanting the Pinot Noir and chilling the Chardonnay we'd brought for the occasion.

  Near the back of the room sat a small table draped in black. A large wreath had been placed on it, behind a heavy looking bronze urn, which I assumed contained the earthly remains of the late Chas Pennington. As much as my opinion of the man fell with each detail of his life I stumbled upon, I felt a pang of sorrow at the finality of the scene. I tried to shake it off, focusing on the job at hand.

  Ava stayed behind in the clubroom to help Jean Luc set up, and Conchita and I spent the next hour frying, preparing, and arranging artful presentations on our canapé trays. We had most of them ready by the time the memorial started at two. I left Conchita to the finishing touches and slipped into the back of the functions room where the service was being held.

  I immediately spied a somberly dressed Vivienne in the front row, a tissue clutched to her nose. David Allen sat on one side of her and the stoic Alison Price on the other. Needless to say, neither was looking likely to need a tissue that day—David wearing his bored smirk and Alison staring straight ahead with about as much emotion as if she were here to watch a golf match and not bury her son-in-law.

  Across the aisle from them sat Jenny with an older couple I took to be her parents. Her mother was an aged, plumper version of Jenny, and the man was tall, with a weathered face that looked like it had seen its fair share of time in the elements. His shoulders stooped slightly, and he coughed into a handkerchief intermittently. Both looked drained, as if the sheer act of sitting upright in a crowded room was almost more than their bodies could bear. I felt a wave of sympathy toward the couple.

  The rest of the room was populated with men in suits and women in tasteful dark colored dresses and slacks. I recognized a few faces from my pervious trip to the Links, one or two who had been on the Spanish party's guest list, and the distinct profile of Sadie Evans, sitting halfway back in a sharp black pinstripe suit and a little hat with feathers.

  The service itself was short and sweet—no long-winded, heartfelt eulogies. A few words were said by a man I assumed to be Vivienne's pastor, offering hope and consolation to the bereaved. I noticed quite a few women in the crowd letting out quiet tears and suddenly wondered how many mistakes Chas had really made. Sadie's eyes, I noticed, were bone dry. Either she had long ago checked all emotion at the door where Chas was concerned, or she was a great faker. Then again, she'd been practically brought up in the boardroom. Maybe Sadie Evans just didn't do emotion.

  Music began to play, and the crowd to disperse to pay respects, which I took as my cue to leave, making my way ahead of the crowd to the clubroom to check that we were ready for the onslaught.

  Conchita had assembled the blue cheese filet crostini, and was just adding the chopped chives and microgreens. Beside those, truffle risotto bites were laid out on long, elegant white plates, nestled in a bed of fresh sage leaves and spring greens. Everything looked perfect and delicious.

  I had just finished adding small wooden toothpicks to the risotto bites for easy handling, when I saw Vivienne and her entourage enter the room.

  She stood at the door, receiving hugs, handshakes, and air kisses from the mourners as they filed in. David Allen stood a beat behind her, not, I noticed, greeting anyone. He was wearing his usually sullen expression, though his eyes looked heavy and lidded. I wondered if he'd popped a Xanax before the memorial. It certainly might help calm the nerves…especially if he'd been the one to put Chas in that urn in the first place.

  Alison Price stood tall at her daughter's side as part of the greeting line, murmuring to guests as they arrived. While I could just make out mumbled words of sympathy, her eyes held absolutely none of the sentiments she expressed. She looked as if she was going through the motions of polite society but couldn't wait for the final send-off to be over.

  Sadie Evans made her way through the line, stiffly air kissing Vivienne. She leaned in and whispered something to the older woman, which had the lines around Vivienne's mouth drawing down into a deep frown. Vivienne's eyes followed Sadie even as she walked away, making her way to the table with the urn, ostensibly to admire the flowers.

  I watched the tense exchange, wondering just what Sadie had said. Had it been about the affair? The stolen company funds? The gambling debts?

  "Everything is lovely." Jenny Pacheco was suddenly at my side. "Thank you for this."

  "Of course." I gave her a quick hug. "How are you holding up?"

  She shrugged. "Well, I survived jail." She gave me a wry grin.

  I shook my head. "Jenny, I'm so sorry. Believe me—I'm doing everything I can to convince the police of your innocence."

  She nodded. "I know. And really, you've done so much already. I-I really can't thank you enough."

  I shook my head. "No need to. You'd do the same for me." I paused, looking across the room to where her parents were standing over the bronze urn now, both tearing. "I'm glad they could make it."

  Jenny nodded. "Mom wants me to come back to Arizona with them." She paused. "But the lawyer said I have to stay in town. Condition of my bail."

  She looked so small and fragile that my heart went out to her. That someone should be dealing with the scary prospect of a lifetime in jail while also working through the grief of losing a loved one just wasn't fair. I was suddenly angry at Grant all over again for arresting her.

  Jenny excused herself to be with her parents, and I circulated among the guests, watching Ava do the same on the other side of the room, making sure everyone had a full glass and ample opportunity to sample the hors d'oeuvres. While the mood of the gathering was subdued, the snippets of conversation I caught seemed to be positive about the food and wine pairings. I held on to that cheery thought as Sadie Evans approached me, a half empty glass of Pinot in hand.

  "This is good," she told me, gesturing to the glass. "Yours?"

  I nodded. "It's a fickle grape to grow, but worth it. I love the subtle blackberry notes."

  Sadie sipped her glass again. "It's nice. Not too brash."

  I tried not to laugh at the pot calling the glass brash. "Thanks. I'd be happy to supply you with a case if you'd like. We have several set aside."

  She nodded. "I just might. Maybe a case of that Petite Sirah Chas raved about too."

  I froze, her words sinking in. Along with the implications of that seemingly simple statement. Chas Pennington had only just tasted the Sirah at the Spanish party. The party Sadie had not been at. When had he had time to rave?

  "You spoke to Chas while he was at the party?" I asked carefully.

  Sadie gave me a blank stare, as if the implication of what she'd just said was slow to set in for her as well. "I…I…y-yes. I suppose I did."

  "You were there?" I pushed, feeling bold in the security of the crowded room.

  Sadie licked her lips, eyes darting to Vivienne, who stood near the urn, sniffling into a tissue. "Look, Viv doesn't need to know this, okay?"

  "You were there." This time it was a statement, not a question.

  "Yes," she hissed in a whisper. "Yes, okay, I was there. Briefly." She glanced in Vivienne's direction again.

  "When?" I asked, mentally running down the timeline Grant had given me for the drugs being introduced into Chas's system.

  "Just after Chas arrived. He called me. We…we'd had an argument before he left for the party."

  "About him stalling in asking Vivienne for a divorce?"

  Her skin paled a shade under her makeup. "H-how did you know about that?"

  "Lucky guess," I said, glossing over it so as not to out Jenny's eavesdropping. "So you were pressuring Chas to leave Vivienne?"

  "No, you have it all wrong," she said, shaking her head. "It was Chas's idea. He promised me he'd leave her." She paused. "But then he…well, he said the timing just wasn't right yet."

  If I had to guess, Chas never had any intention of leaving his sugar mama. He'd been stringing Sadie along with false promises, just like everyone else in his life.

  "So what happened after you argued?" I asked her.

  "Chas left for the party, but then he called and said he was sorry. He said he needed to see me. It was urgent."

  "What did he want?"

  Sadie threw her hands up. "I don't know! I never saw him."

 

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