Nowhere to Hide (11 page)

There was a whole pile of stuff in the furthest room from the stairs but it was barricaded by more forgotten furniture: chairs, tables, mattresses. . . . She glanced over it but it would take more effort than she was willing to put in to figure it out.

The basement . . .

Leaning her head back against the chair, she gazed up at the cobwebbed rafters and thought she could use a drink of water, or lemonade, or an ice-cold vodka martini. She would check out the basement in a minute, but she just wanted to sit a moment and think. What a day. She almost wished she’d gone with Sandler to interview Emmy Decatur’s parents again. She might have learned something more rather than just come here and get disheartened.

And that meeting with Jake Westerly. She searched her feelings and shook her head. She didn’t want him involved in this.

Pulling out her cell, she put in a call to her partner. Gretchen picked up quickly and said she was busy but to meet her at The Barn Door later. “Okay,” September agreed, then hung up, feeling a little left out. The only good thing was she didn’t have to explain about her interview with Jake, something she wasn’t ready to go into with Gretchen just yet.

She thought back to the way he’d looked at her when he’d realized she’d put him specifically under the microscope. She’d seen disappointment and aversion in his eyes, and it had about killed her. She almost preferred thinking about the earlier meeting with her father, which was saying quite a lot about how much she didn’t want to think about Jake.

When September had arrived at The Willows, Braden was in a deep discussion with July about the upcoming harvest and a possible “Crush” weekend, where guests were invited to help crush the grapes, taste wine, basically eat, drink, and be merry in a kind of festival. Braden abhorred the idea while July was thinking it would be great publicity for the winery. September thought it sounded like fun as long as she didn’t have to head it up, and said as much, which earned her a cool look from her father.

“How’s your brother?” he asked her in return.

“Auggie’s fine.”

“You’re just like him, aren’t you?”

His tone reflected what he thought about that, so she’d quickly changed the subject and told him about her desire to search the house, figuring she was on a downward track of his goodwill and she’d better get out what she needed fast. He brusquely told her she was welcome to look around the house and that he would talk to Rosamund about it, then he was gone. September and July had been left looking after his tall form striding away.

“Is he as much of a pain in the ass as I think he is?” July had asked.

“Auggie and I can’t do anything right, so yeah, he is.”

“That’s only because you went into law enforcement and thumbed your nose at all things Rafferty.”

“You, at least, have a job,” September pointed out to her older sister. “I wasn’t going to hang around and hope there was something I wanted to do in the company, and that it would also be something he would allow me to do.”

“I don’t know why he’s against Crushin’ It. You ever been to the one in Washington? It’s fun. And it would create great goodwill, and put our product out there. We don’t have time to really put together a big thing this year, but we could get started, get some buzz going, and make it a regular event.”

“Sounds like you’ve been giving it a lot of thought.”

“Our wine’s too expensive,” she said. “That’s a fact. If we priced it better and got it to more people, it would sell better, but Dad and March are such . . .” She shrugged. “They don’t listen to me.”

September just nodded.

“The weather’s bound to break soon, too,” she went on. “Then it could be really nice. Harvest is starting. This is when it’s all happening and he
knows
that.”

“The fact that you can work with him at all . . . you’re a better woman than I.”

“You don’t believe that for a minute, Detective Rafferty,” she said with a smile. “So, what brought you here. Dad, I know. But you could have connected with him in Laurelton if you’d really wanted to.”

“I like it here,” September admitted. “And I went to the house once already and was stonewalled by Rosamund.”

“Can you believe she’s pregnant?” July asked grimly. “Verna was at least smart enough to keep from getting pregnant. But then she already had Stefan, and that probably cured her for good.”

“I think Rosamund really wants this baby,” September said.

“Yeah, well, it ties her into the Rafferty money at another level, something Verna never managed to do. January. . .” she muttered, testing it out.

“She wants to name the baby Gilda.”

July snorted. “It’ll be January, bet you a case of Cat’s Paw,” she said, referring to one of their most expensive Pinot Noirs.

“No bet,” September said.

“I’m the one who should be pregnant,” July said a moment later.

“You want a baby?” This was news to September.

“I’m thirty-four and counting. Sometimes I think I should just get pregnant and figure the rest out later.”

“Thirty-four’s young. Lots of women get pregnant in their late thirties and into their forties.”

“But it gets harder and harder, not the other way around. We all know that . . . and now Rosamund . . .” She exhaled heavily.

“Well, what about Dash? Maybe things’ll happen between you two,” September suggested lightly.

“Dash and I are just friends. He’s . . . it’s not like that.” She shook her head.

July looked pensive and September wondered what the deal was between them. September had watched Dash as he’d wandered around The Willows at July’s birthday party. The long-haired guitarist had a lean, hungry look about him that held September’s attention. He’d seemed familiar, somehow, and she’d wondered, for a moment, if he’d been involved in a crime, but the penny hadn’t dropped and it was July’s party and September didn’t want to ruin it, so she let it go.

“I heard you’d moved back with Dad,” September said into the silence.

“Temporarily. Rosamund had a shit-fit over it, so I decided to stay longer than I’d originally planned.”

“Good thinking.” September smiled.

“I sold my house. It needed so many repairs it was a money-suck like you’ve never seen. Anyway, I’m trying to get a place closer to the vineyard.” She gave September a considering look. “What about you? Still chasing after killers with Auggie? I hate Channel Seven news, but Dash watches it and he told me he saw you with that woman reporter who’s such a bitch.”

“Pauline Kirby . . .”

“So, some sicko really wrote something on that body you found?”

“Yes . . .”

“She warned us all to lock our doors. Is that for real?”

“We don’t know enough yet.” September thought about bringing up her artwork, but decided against it for the moment. “We’re still investigating,” she added, then July was called by the foreman in charge of the harvest and September headed toward her car. She’d been toying with the idea of stopping in at Westerly Vale; she knew that Jake’s brother Colin and his wife had taken over the running of the vineyard and she thought maybe approaching them first might help warm her up for the interview with Jake.

But then . . . Jake himself had called out to her. Could that be mere coincidence? She’d recognized his voice immediately, and in mild shock she’d turned to meet him while strange sensations chased up and down her spine as she looked upon her long ago crush.

Jake Westerly. She’d sorta hoped he’d aged poorly. She’d sorta hoped that she would take one look at him and wonder what the big deal was. But no . . . one eyeful and she was thrown back to that May night among the vines with a skinny crescent moon riding overhead and the scent of loam and vines and strawberry and peach coolers hanging on the warm air. She’d lost her virginity right there and then, and though she’d never regretted it—hell, no, she’d
cherished
the memory—she did sometimes wish she’d just picked someone a little more emotionally available. Maybe even someone she could have had a relationship with of some kind. Sure, they’d been kids but sometimes those relationships had real weight and even lasted.

And then T.J. and his announcement that Jake had been looking for a virgin. She knew T.J. was a bastard, and you couldn’t believe half the things he said. Nicknaming Barbara “Bambi” sort of spoke for itself. But that said, it had still stung to hear his words.

So, yeah. She’d wanted Jake to be a dog, but he was still just as handsome, tall, lean, and athletic as ever, his hair still dark brown and maybe a little longer behind his ears, his cool, gray eyes lit with inner amusement as he gazed upon her.

He looked . . . good enough to eat, and it really pissed her off.

Now, she tried to review their conversation, but her mind kept circling around to the same two issues: 1) that he’d realized she’d been wondering about his involvement with Sheila, and 2) whether she’d seemed professional enough. She’d been so desperate for him to take her seriously, that she thought she might have come off a little too Joe Friday—just the facts, ma’am—when she really did want to just roll back the years and treat him as an old friend, even if he wasn’t one exactly. She’d been concentrating on seeming capable and successful and well, interesting. Yes . . . she’d wanted Jake Westerly to find her
interesting.

So, sue me, she thought, annoyed with herself. It irked her to no end that inside she still hadn’t completely washed him out of her system. Even with him on the periphery of a murder investigation . . . or worse.

September got up from the chair, not liking her thoughts. She couldn’t let herself be blinded by her own attraction to him. That was reckless and dangerous. Still, he just didn’t seem the type to seduce and attack women. He was too easygoing. Too normal. Too involved with people, with humanity as a whole. She wasn’t exactly sure what his job was; she would check that out along with a lot of other things when she was back at the station. She had been avoiding driving the investigation at him for a number of reasons, one being she was too susceptible to him. Still.

Grinding her teeth together she headed back downstairs and through the kitchen to the cement stairs that led down into the basement. Flipping on the fluorescents, she looked around, but as she ducked beneath the low-beamed ceiling she saw only outdoor tools and gardening supplies. There wasn’t one cardboard box. Nothing paper except some bags of mulch. The place smelled faintly musty and the narrow windows were dirt-smeared. She doubted anyone but the gardener had been in the basement for years.

She would do another search of the attic, another day, though she was fast losing interest and energy for the task. And even if she succeeded in finding her old schoolwork, she wasn’t sure she’d learn anything from it.

Back upstairs, she was heading toward the front door when she heard a noise, the creak of a floorboard. Pausing, feeling the hair on the back of her neck rise, she called, “Rosamund? Dad . . . ?”

There was no answer, but the air felt different, in that way that sometimes meant that someone was near.

“I know you’re there,” she said calmly, even while her heartbeat escalated.

She waited, then felt a jolt of fear when a man suddenly emerged from the shadows.

“I didn’t think anyone was here,” Stefan Harmak said, eyeing her carefully. He’d been silently waiting somewhere in the dining room, beyond her sight.

“Good God, Stefan. You still have a key?” she asked a bit harshly. Verna’s son had always been a skulker, but it had been years since Verna was the reigning evil stepmother and Stefan had the run of the house.

“Yeah. Of course,” he answered.

Of course? “But you haven’t lived here for years.”

His answer was a shrug, and, as if losing interest in her, he sauntered off in the direction of the kitchen.

September and Auggie had gone to school with Stefan; he’d been several years behind them. But the last time September had seen him was at July’s birthday party at The Willows. Both he and his mother had shown up—uninvited—but there were enough other people around that July had simply waved off Rosamund and March’s suggestions that she should kick Verna and Stefan out.

“Who cares?” July had said with a shrug. She hadn’t wanted to spoil her good time and she’d been a little wine-drunk as well.

September hadn’t spoken to Stefan at the party, nor had she paid him much attention. She’d spent most of the time staying a couple of steps ahead of her father, who’d been, as ever, bent on learning information on Auggie. The war between Braden and his youngest son would never be mitigated by September or any of the other Raffertys. The only way they would get past it was by one or the other of them making a big concession . . . which was about as likely as the moon being made of green cheese.

“What are you doing here?” she asked Stefan. He had dark hair, a little unkempt, dark, penetrating eyes, and a stony expression. She didn’t think she’d ever seen him smile from joy.

“Just waiting.”

“For . . . Braden?”

“Mom told me to meet her here. She wants to talk to your dad about some stuff.” His gaze flicked past her, to the picture of Rosamund.

“Verna’s coming here tonight?”

Stefan nodded.

September wasn’t sure what to make of that, but she’d had enough of the house, her family, and now Stefan and Verna. She moved to the door and heard Stefan ask, “Wait. What are you doing here?”

“Looking for things,” she said as she slipped into the surprisingly warm evening air.

“Like what?” he demanded.

But the door was already shutting and automatically locking behind her. With a shiver sliding down her spine despite the heat, she hurried to her car.

Chapter 6

The Barn Door was aptly named with its red and white sliding door that led into a huge room with a loft overhead. The loft sported real hay bales, from the look of it, and a roughhewn bar that ran all along one side of the room, a smattering of wooden tables, and a small dance floor with a raised stage where wooden crates were upended for stools amid varying mics, amps, and assorted instruments. A row of overhead fans hanging on long stems from the rafters were whirling madly in an effort to keep the outside heat from suffocating the patrons. The fans were only marginally effective.