Drip Dead (28 page)

As I walked through the door into the lobby I felt as though a huge weight had been lifted from my shoulders. Even as a visitor, being behind the locked security doors and under the watchful eyes of the ever-present deputies felt oppressive.

Wade waited in the lobby, as he had the previous night, and we hurried out the door to his car. I slid into the passenger’s seat and Wade handed me the pizza box from the backseat. The aroma of tomato sauce and pepperoni filled the small car and made my mouth water.

“Extra onion?” I asked hopefully.

Wade grinned. “As long as we’re both eating them it’s okay, isn’t it?” He closed the car door and moved to the driver’s side.

As he slid in, I leaned over and kissed his cheek. “In case the onions prove too much,” I teased.

He turned and gave me a real kiss, then started the car. “If it’s just in case, better make it worthwhile,” he said.

The dogs were waiting when we got home, but they had to settle for a romp in the yard and a green treat instead of the pepperoni and cheese they felt they deserved.

Daisy’s reproachful look said more clearly than words that I was a mean and neglectful Airedale mom.

While we ate I filled Wade in on all the information I had been able to glean from Gregory’s e-mail archive. He raised his eyebrows when I told him about the report indicating some of the wine was counterfeit.

“You mean it’s worth about ten cents on the dollar? That’s going to be a pretty big hit for his partners.”

“Big enough to get him killed?” I asked. “I mean, sure it’s a lot of money, but do you think somebody would actually kill him over it?”

Wade shook his head. “Who knows? But if you think somebody killed Gregory because they lost money on this wine deal, shouldn’t you be talking to the sheriff about it? He’s the one who should be chasing these guys, not you.”

“Can you just hear that conversation? Sheriff Mitchell I have some information that might bear on your investigation. How did I get this information? Oh, I just happened to hack into my mother’s laptop and find some of Gregory’s hidden files. Why, no, I didn’t think I should tell you about them. Withholding evidence? Hindering an investigation? But I’m here
now
.” I shook my head. “I don’t think I want to go there.”

“And how is what you’re doing any better?”

This was like talking to Sue. I didn’t have a good answer for Wade, either. “Because,” I said lamely, “maybe if I can solve this for him, he won’t think about arresting me.”

We talked as we finished the pizza. Wade couldn’t change my mind about going to the sheriff. I think he knew he wouldn’t but he had to try.

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].

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 disturbed.

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.