Nowhere to Hide (9 page)

“Can I help you with anything?”

“Ah . . . nah. Not really.”

“You can call or text him.”

“I’ll do that,” he said, but he’d really just wanted to check in with his brother because he was feeling unsettled. Nothing urgent.

Climbing back into his Tahoe, he curved along Westerly Vale’s long, paved driveway to Highway 99. Hesitating a moment, he then turned south rather than north, heading away from Portland and further into the heart of Oregon’s wine country. There were wineries scattered around the state, a good many of them up and down the Willamette Valley, and a lot of those were within a ten-mile radius of Westerly Vale.

He drove past the open gates to The Willows, Braden Rafferty’s vineyard, then turned around at the next light, came back and headed down the long drive. He didn’t like Braden Rafferty, but he’d gone to school with three of his children; had been classmates with August and September . . . Nine . . .

She was the reason he’d decided to head to The Willows and check on his neighbors. Just thinking about her made him want to see if her sister, July, who ran the winery and vineyard was around. He didn’t know her all that well; just remembered her slightly from when they were kids, though July, like their oldest brother, March, had attended a private school.

He’d slept with Nine when they were seniors in high school, one surprisingly warm spring night after a baseball game where his team had lost miserably and he’d played badly. After the game, he’d gone home to be alone, and then had gone looking for his father, driving to Westerly Vale from Laurelton as his father was supposedly at the winery. But Nigel had already left by the time Jake got there; they’d passed on the road, he’d learned later. Unsettled, then, like now, he’d gone on to The Willows, which wasn’t half as grand then as it was now, and, in a funk, Jake had picked up a rock from the side of the driveway and hurled it out into the vineyard.

“What the hell are you doing?” a female voice had demanded from the shadows.

He froze, aware that he was trespassing, not really caring until that moment. All the buildings were closed for the night and apart from a bluish security light above the parking lot, the place was in shadows.

“I’m . . .” He trailed off. He wasn’t doing anything smart.

She stepped from the shadows and he recognized Nine at once. She was wearing low-riding jeans and leather flip-flops and a white tank that showed off a deep tan. Her hair and eyes were dark in the limited light. She was carrying a six-pack of wine coolers in one hand, a blanket tossed over her other arm.

“What are
you
doing?” he asked her.

“I’m supposed to be drinking with a friend who may have gotten caught,” she said, as if she and Jake talked every day when they’d hardly said more than a few words to each other the past year.

He’d gotten the impression that September Rafferty was interested in him earlier in the year, but he’d been with Loni and he wasn’t sure he wanted to go that way anyway. She was a Rafferty, after all.

“Which friend?” he asked.

“Barb Caplan. You know her?”

“Sure. Bambi.”

“I knew you were going to say that,” she declared in disgust. “You and your friend, T.J.”

“I’m not like T.J.”

“Yeah?” she challenged him.

“Yeah,” he said, eyeing her wine coolers.

“Why’d you throw the rock?”

“Why’re you drinking wine coolers at a
winery?
”

“I’m not drinking anything yet, and I might not be.
Bambi
, apparently, isn’t going to show.”

Barb “Bambi” Caplan had a set of the biggest boobs at Valley Sunset. T.J. had said her porno name should be Bambi, and that was that.

“There’s a lot of really good wine around here,” Jake said, “or so I’ve heard.”

“Your father’s are getting good reviews,” she said stiffly.

“Yeah, I guess.”

“I’m not crazy enough to drink the stuff around here,” she told him. “Dad would kill me if I took anything from The Willows, so I brought my own.”

“Wine coolers, though?”

“They’re drinkable. And this isn’t a bad place to be, after hours. Auggie’s a master at sneaking into the arbor and having a private party.”

“Where is your brother?” Jake asked.

“Not invited, although Barb wouldn’t have said no. . . .”

“So, what are you going to do now?”

“Drink alone?”

It was the end of senior year. Jake had tried drinking a few times, but he was more interested in sports, academics, and graduation. Alcohol was fine, but he’d always figured he’d wait till college rather than risk getting thrown off a team. But baseball was nearly over and the night was warm for May and he suddenly wanted to sit down with Nine Rafferty and swill wine coolers.

“I could join you . . . if you want . . . ?” he said tentatively.

She stared at him, thinking hard. “C’mon, then,” she said, and he followed her past the buildings and into the lines of grapevines. It felt like they walked forever, but it was probably only half a mile when she tossed down the blanket and plunked the wine coolers on top of it. It was full dark with a sliver of a moon and he heard, rather than saw, her open one of the bottles, pressing it into his hand a moment later.

He took a tentative taste and licked his lips. “Strawberry,” he said.

“I’ve got peach, too, if you’re a connoisseur.”

“This is fine.”

What followed was kind of an awkward beginning where they each drank in relative silence, and then, as the alcohol started running through their veins, it loosened their tongues.

Eventually Jake lay on his back upon the blanket, his wine cooler balanced on his chest, one hand wrapped around it. He looked up at the faint moon, which had risen in the sky to a teeny crescent. Nine was seated cross-legged beside him, also staring into the sky. The vines rose on either side of them, giving the illusion of a wall.

He reached out his free hand to her, touching her arm. She looked over at him and when his hand slid further up her arm, she didn’t move away.

“It’s almost summer,” he said. He had a buzz going. Not totally drunk, but things definitely were just a little softer around the edges.

“Are you and Loni going to the same college?”

“Nuh-uh. I’m going to U-Dub. She’s going to Oregon. We’re not . . . together anymore.”

“You will be again,” she predicted.

“What school are you going to?” he asked her, ignoring that last remark. He’d sensed even then that she was probably right.

“Oregon State.”

“That’s where my brother is.”

“Colin,” she said.

“Colin,” he agreed.

And then . . . it was a little fuzzy after all this time. He thought he maybe wrapped his hand around her arm and tugged her to him. Or, maybe she just leaned in. But whatever the case, she was suddenly half-lying atop him and they were kissing and then they had their clothes off and suddenly he was pushing inside her and she was holding on to him tightly, her breath coming in short gasps, and he was kissing her face, her throat, her lips, and climaxing in a haze of conflicting emotions.

He’d wakened, as if from a dream a few minutes later, still inside her, and didn’t know whether to apologize or tell her how wonderful it was. He levered himself onto his elbows and looked down at her.

She inhaled on a shaky breath and said, “I didn’t . . . hmmm . . .”

That’s what he remembered to this day. The “hmmm . . .” She’d called him a couple of times afterward, but he’d been too conflicted to do more than act like a complete jerk, mumbling excuses of why he had to get off the phone, too uncomfortable when they met to look into her steady blue eyes.

T.J. tried to make something more out of it than it was when he overheard Jake on one of the calls from Nine. Jake had gotten totally pissed at him, but T.J. was unrepentant and had then turned his attention on Nine, teasing her and embarrassing her and after that, Nine had stopped calling, which had bothered Jake at the time, but he let it go.

It had almost been a relief to go back to Loni after that, although when college came around that fall he was glad to be away from her, as well. He should have stayed away . . . left himself open to be with other people . . . people like Nine Rafferty.

Now, he pulled into one of the lined parking spots outside The Willows’ tasting room and told himself that he was a rat bastard, always had been, probably always would be.

He was debating on turning around and leaving again, wondering what had possessed him to come—uneasy memories that still burned, probably—when he saw Nine walking across the tarmac toward a silver Honda Pilot. He stared. Blinked. And stared some more. It wasn’t a mirage. She was
right there!

No way in hell, he told himself. She couldn’t be there in the flesh when he’d just been thinking of her.

But it sure as hell was September Rafferty. Before he could think it through, he scrambled from his car and yelled across the parking lot, “Hey, Nine!”

She half-turned his way, her hand on the door to the Pilot. Her hair was pulled back and clipped at her nape and she wore a black tank with a gray linen jacket and dark pants. He realized, with a start, there was a gun in a holster clipped to her hip. He caught a glimpse of it when she moved away from the Pilot toward him.

She stopped ten feet in front of him. “Jake Westerly.”

She looked a bit wide-eyed, but her tone was cool and careful.

“It is you . . . September,” he responded. She looked fantastic. “I saw you on TV. You’re a—cop.”

She asked, “What are you doing here?”

“I was in the area. I don’t know.”
Remembering . . .
he thought. Although his memories of her were nothing like the way things stood today. She carried a gun, for God’s sake.

“You’re on my list of people to see,” she said, her face giving nothing away.

“I am?” He was flattered. “Why?”

“You were friends with Sheila Dempsey.”

“Well . . . yeah . . .” He recognized, then, the way she was staring at him. Like he needed to be carefully observed. The thoughts floating around in his head coalesced into one startling conclusion. “You want to know if I had something to do with
her death?
” he realized, his jaw dropping.

“I’d like to ask you some questions. Do you mind going back inside, or we could meet at the Laurelton police station if you prefer . . . ?”

Chapter 5

Jake—all-around athlete—Westerly. God . . . damn. Still good-looking. Still athletic in that lean way September found so appealing. She got the cowboy thing now, too; he wore jeans and cowboy boots and there was something about his dark hair and afternoon beard shadow. A dusty Stetson would just top off the whole look, except he was bareheaded, his hair a bit longish, as if he’d been too long between cuts or had just given up.

Sheila had cut his hair, she remembered with a cold zing through her veins. Of course.

She was walking ahead of him toward The Willows’ tasting room and gift shop, and she immediately took a sharp turn around the back to the offices behind them. July was probably still there. September had just spoken with her and her father.

Her father. God, she hoped Braden was gone. He’d said he was leaving and had taken off a few minutes before September, but the last thing September needed right now was to have him catch her
interviewing
Jake Westerly for any and all information he possessed concerning Sheila Dempsey’s homicide.

Damn.

She opened the door to the main office, took a quick look around and was gratified that neither her father, nor July, was anywhere in sight.

“Have a seat,” September said, gesturing to the two occasional chairs tucked in the corner away from the main desk and file cabinets.

“No, thanks.”

She slid him a quick look. His gray eyes were regarding her steadily and his demeanor had changed since he’d first hailed her. Then, he’d been surprised and glad to see her, she was pretty sure, but now . . . not so much.

“I spoke to Greg Dempsey earlier today,” she began, feeling a little out of her element. “We’re doing some more follow-up on Sheila Dempsey.”

“Okay.”

She was glad she’d made a point of leaving Gretchen behind. She’d planned to meet with her father and get his okay to search the house for her belongings and she didn’t need her partner involved in that. Gretchen was rechecking with Emmy Decatur’s parents anyway, so she was busy, but she’d also wanted to meet with her family, and possibly Jake Westerly, on her own.

Well, she’d gotten that wish in spades.

“Why now?” he asked, before she’d formed a question.

She had to fight back telling him the excuse that county had first been in charge of Sheila’s case until Emmy Decatur’s body was found but thought he was probably aware of that fact. “Mr. Dempsey mentioned your name as someone who was friends with his wife.”

“Yeah? She cut my hair,” he stated flatly.

“Did you ever go to The Barn Door with her?”

“Am I a ‘person of interest’ here?”

“Mr. Dempsey intimated that you had a . . . sexual relationship with her.”

Jake swore a string of epithets beneath his breath. “I can’t believe this is happening. You . . .” He thrust out an arm toward her and shook his head, as if he couldn’t find any further words. But then he did. “I know you,” he said in a low, urgent voice. “I mean, we went to high school together. We had
friends
that we shared. I haven’t changed that much, but you . . . you’re a
cop?
And you think I had something to do with Sheila Dempsey’s murder? Really. That’s what we’re doing here? Instead of greeting each other like old friends?”

“I’m not sure if that’s a yes or a no,” September answered stiffly. They hadn’t shared any friends. They’d scarcely shared anything together except antipathy and one night she would rather forget.

“It’s a no,” he grated out. “Sheila cut my hair. And, yes, I did go to The Barn Door a couple of times when she was there. But no . . . we were barely friends and we did not have sex.”

“How long had you known her?”

“A couple of years. Something like that.”