Frannie shrieked. “Oh! I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean . . .”

  Luz’s hand flew to her mouth, her eyes wide with suppressed laughter.

  Thomas chortled, not even trying to hide his amusement. “So, is that what it means when a detective says something doesn’t smell right? Guess you’ve solved one case already, Miss Private Investigator.”

  “I knew it!” Frannie exclaimed. “I thought you were a PI! Are you really engaged to Vicente? Fred didn’t think you were—I guess because of the way you were asking questions—but . . . was that just your PI training kicking in?”

  Well, there goes the last trace of my cover story . . . But at least I had a chance to reclaim some of my self-respect. If my treacherous armpits hadn’t poisoned the rest of my dignity.

  “I’m happy to say I have never been romantically involved with Vicente Domingo,” I said, managing a tight smile. “I’m married, actually. Vicente and I know each other professionally—we worked together on a few cases back in San Francisco, and he invited me to help him on a case here in Golden.”

  “And now he’s missing?” gasped Frannie. “Because he was investigating something? What on earth were you guys looking into?”

  I deferred to Luz.

  With a long sigh, Luz rubbed her eyes. “Someone’s been threatening the winery. For a few weeks. I asked Vicente to come look into it.”

  “Whoa,” said Frannie. “That’s crazy! But let me know if you want any help . . . I don’t have as much experience as you, but my fiancé was accused of murder recently, and I solved that case. I’m sorry. It’s probably stupid of me to offer.”

  “You solved a murder case?” I exclaimed. “That’s incredible. I’m thrilled to meet another PI-in-the-making.”

  Frannie offered a shy smile. “I don’t know that I’d go that far. I’m just an amateur, really.”

  “But you solved a murder case, which means you have good instincts.”

  Thomas chuckled. “Bet she could have solved the Case of the Armpit Stank if you hadn’t confessed.”

  Heat flushed my face, and Luz shot Thomas a dirty look.

  “Kate,” she said, “would you like a clean shirt from the gift shop? It’s the least I can do after all the work you’re putting in. I’m so sorry we didn’t think to get your suitcase here.”

  “Does the gift shop sell deodorant?” I asked hopefully.

  At that, she laughed aloud. “No, but you’re actually in luck. There was a buy-one-get-one sale on deodorant a couple weeks ago, so I have an unopened stick.”

  “You mean the rest of us are in luck,” quipped Thomas.

  “Let’s head back to the house,” said Luz, ignoring Thomas.

  One blessed trip to the bathroom later, I finally felt clean—I’d managed a sponge bath, put on fresh deodorant, and squeezed my way into a men’s XL T-shirt. It was the least-flattering shirt I’d ever worn—tight around my baby bump and as baggy as a potato sack everywhere else—but I tugged it down as far as I could with a sigh of relief. I’d take clownish proportions over pit stains any day.

  I pushed open the bathroom door and shuffled into the living room where the three of them awaited me. “Thank you so much,” I called to Luz. “I feel human again.”

  Thomas cocked his head. “What’s that smell?”

  Luz slugged him in the shoulder. “Would you stop that? It wasn’t funny before, and it’s still not funny. The woman is pregnant with twins!”

  “It’s just rude,” chimed in Frannie.

  “No, I’m serious,” Thomas said, outright fear on his face. “I’m not making a joke. I think I smell . . .”

  The acrid scent hit me, and I blanched.

  “Smoke,” I said.

  Chapter 13

  We ran out the front door, scanning the sky.

  “There!” Luz said in a choked voice, pointing out over the trees. “It’s the vineyard!” Smoke was curling into the sky like a living thing.

  I was already dialing 911.

  For the second time that day, the excessively calm operator answered. “Nine-one-one, what’s your emergency?” This time, her voice was crisp and clear. The cell service was better in this spot than it had been by the bodega.

  “There’s a fire. At Castillo’s Vineyard.”

  “Yes, ma’am, we’ve already received calls about that. Fire trucks are en route to the location.”

  I hung up. “They’ll be here soon,” I said.

  “What if Vicente is caught in it?” asked Luz in desperation.

  I glanced west. The storm clouds had drawn closer. “Let’s hope we get rain that slows it down,” I said.

  The door opened behind us, and Gloria shuffled out. “Luz!” she called. “I smell smoke. Do we need to call the fire depart—” Then she stopped, mouth agape as she stared at the sky. “Mercy.”

  Sirens wailed in the distance. I curled my fingers into fists. What if Vicente was out there somewhere? Officer Stent had said a K-9 unit was coming, but there hadn’t been enough time for them to get here, much less to stage a search.

  What if the fire department couldn’t contain the blaze? We didn’t currently have the wind that made California Octobers so dangerous, but we were in the middle of a drought and sadly, wildfires were springing into action every few days.

  My throat tightened at the thought. If the rain missed us, or if it didn’t slow the fire enough, the vineyard and winery could be wiped out. Heck, the town could be wiped out.

  I flipped open my phone, checking for any new messages from Vicente. Nothing. Jim had sent a cute picture of Laurie, but even her chubby cheeks couldn’t bring a smile to my face.

  How had the day gone so terribly wrong?

  “Quick,” Luz said, seeming to snap out of her horror. “Thomas, help me haul hoses. We’re going to wet down the buildings so that it’s harder for flames to catch hold.”

  Thomas stuttered for a moment, wide-eyed. Finally, his Adam’s apple bobbed, and he nodded.

  Luz’s face softened. “Thank you. I know it’s a lot to ask because of . . . last year. Kate and Frannie, take abuela to town where it’s safe.”

  Gloria stood up straighter, her stern eyes fixed on Luz. “Do you think I’m going to run off to safety and leave behind my granddaughter? My legacy? The vineyard I’ve spent my whole life building?”

  Frannie stepped forward and rested a hand on Gloria’s arm. “Abuela, please . . .”

  But Gloria didn’t drop her gaze.

  After a moment, Luz yielded. “All right, then,” she said. “Frannie and abuela, stay here and focus on wetting down the front of the house and the flower beds. But Frannie—keep an eye on the situation. If it looks like the fire is heading toward the road, like it might trap us here, get abuela in the car and drive as fast as you can away from here.”

  “I will,” said Frannie, her chin set with determination.

  Luz glanced at me. “Kate, stay with them.”

  I opened my mouth to protest, but she held up a hand.

  “Don’t argue. We don’t have time. You’re pregnant. You can’t run as fast if something goes wrong. This is safest for everyone.”

  My hand rested on my baby bump, and I nodded wordlessly. I was a pro at speed-waddling, but running wasn’t happening these days.

  Luz grabbed Thomas’s hand. “Let’s go,” she said.

  They ran toward the barn, and I hoped against hope that she could trust him.

  Frannie pointed toward the side of the winery. “There’s the hose. I’ll drag it out. Kate, can you crank it on?”

  “Absolutely,” I said.

  “Abuela.” Frannie motioned toward the smoke. “Keep a sharp eye out for us. Let us know if the fire starts coming this way so we can get Kate and her babies to safety.”

  With a grim expression, Gloria nodded. “I can do that.”

  Frannie darted toward the hose, and I waddled after her as fast as I could. By the time I reached the spigot, she was already halfway to the front door, lugging the hose behind her.

  “Ready!” she called.

  With all my strength, I rotated the handle, turning the hose on full blast. The hose sputtered, then twitched. A moment later, Frannie whooped. I headed back toward the front of the house, heart pounding. Frannie was spraying water across the stoop. As I walked toward Gloria, Frannie backed up, sending the plume of water over the siding and onto the roof.

  It’s working.

  I glanced in the direction of the barn, but trees blocked my view. I hoped Luz and Thomas were all right.

  The fire trucks screeched onto the road, then peeled into the vineyard, heading toward the flames.

  The smoke was getting thicker, and I coughed. My phone buzzed once. Just a text message.

  What if it’s important?

  For a breath, I ignored it. Focus on the fire, Kate. What can we do about the fire?

  But something buzzed in my chest, warning me not to ignore the text. I pulled my phone out and looked at the screen.

  Vicente Domingo.

  I gasped aloud, then glanced at Gloria. She was staring out at the smoke, and I was glad she hadn’t heard me react. With shaking hands, I opened the text.

  Fanny Buddha.

  My forehead wrinkled. Fanny Buddha? What on earth could he mean?

  Was Vicente trapped somewhere? Was he trying to explain where he was? I racked my brain. Fanny Buddha. If he was having trouble typing, maybe this was autocorrect . . . or talk-to-text.

  Could he mean Frannie? But that didn’t make any sense.

  Buddha . . . I studied the keyboard on my screen. That could mean bodega, maybe? But what was fanny? I didn’t know enough about the vineyard to interpret what that could mean. Luz might be able to figure it out. I glanced desperately in the direction of the barn. If Vicente was being held hostage somewhere near the bodega, there might not be time to go to the barn, figure it out with Luz, and then run to the bodega area and save him.

  Who knew how quickly the fire might spread?

  But someone else knows the vineyard every bit as well as Luz, I realized. My eyes drifted to Gloria. It was just as she’d said—she’d dedicated her life to this place. It was her legacy. If anyone could interpret this cryptic, mangled text, it was Gloria.

  Immediately, I second-guessed myself. What if the fright gives her a heart attack? What if I kill her by asking her this question?

  But as I looked at Gloria, at the steely glint in her eyes, at her ramrod posture as she watched the fire, I realized she was far less fragile than her grandchildren thought she was. She wasn’t the sort of person to melt into a puddle at the first sign of danger.

  She’ll know how to save her grandson.

  I marched toward her. “Gloria!” I called.

  She snapped toward me. “Yes, dear?” Her posture was motherly, but beneath the softness, I could still see that taut strength.

  “No time to explain everything,” I said, “but I promise we’ll answer all your questions later. I think Vicente may be trapped somewhere on the property.”

  Her eyes widened in alarm. “In the fire?”

  “He’s okay right now,” I replied. “He just sent me this text message.” I showed her the screen.

  She squinted at it, then fumbled for her shirt pocket. “I need my glasses.”

  “It says, Fanny Buddha.” I explained.

  She squinted harder at the screen. “Fanny Buddha?”

  “Do you know how to text?” I asked.

  “Of course I know how to text. I’m old, but I’m not that old.”

  “You know how autocorrect sometimes changes words that you’ve typed?”

  She nodded seriously. “Once, I was at the store and meant to text Luz to ask if she wanted me to get Pringles, except the text I sent asked if she wanted me to get pregnant.”

  Despite the urgency of the situation, I snorted. “Okay, so I think this is autocorrect, and maybe Buddha means bodega?”

  Realization dawned on her face. “Of course,” she said. “And fanny must mean fan. Fan bodega . . . fanny bodega . . . fan in bodega! That’s it!”

  “What does that mean? Where is he?” I asked excitedly.

  “The vineyard frost fans . . . you know, those tall fans we use to keep the grapes warm during freezes?”

  “I think I know what you’re talking about,” I said.

  “There’s a broken one that we’ve meant to fix for years,” she said. “But we haven’t gotten around to it. We’ve kept it in a back corner of the old bodega—it’s the only building on the property with a tall enough ceiling for it. He must be trapped inside the fan.”

  “Trapped inside?” I blinked a few times. “How?”

  “The fans are big enough for a person to climb up inside,” she explained. “But it’s a tight fit. Once, when a worker came out to repair a fan, my husband had to pull him out or he’d have been trapped. Vamos! We have to hurry,” she said. “Fire can change direction fast.”

  “Frannie and I will go,” I said, handing her my phone. “Call 911 and let the dispatcher know what’s going on, so they know to send a firefighter to help. Then, can you keep spraying water on the building and flower beds?”

  She gave a resolute nod and started dialing.

  “Frannie!” I yelled.

  Frannie turned toward me.

  “Drop the hose and come with me! I’ll explain on the way.”

  With a terse nod, she complied.

  “This way!” I said, whirling around and waddling at top speed down the driveway.

  Frannie caught up with me after about fifteen steps. “What is it?” she asked, breathless.

  “Vicente sent a text,” I responded. “It was garbled. Autocorrect. But Gloria and I think he may be trapped inside a fan in the bodega.”

  “The bodega?” she said. “Like, where Bruce was hit over the head with a shovel?”

  “Yes.” My words were coming in short gasps now. “We’ve got to . . . get him out before . . . the fire . . . reaches the . . . bodega.”

  Chapter 14

  The smoke was thick and choking when Frannie and I arrived at the bodega.

  What would we do if the door were locked? There wouldn’t be time to find Luz and get a key. We’d have to bust down the door, or break a window, or something.

  Is it my imagination, or is it getting even hotter? Swallowing back the bile in my throat, I pulled the front of my shirt over my nose to try to block out the worst of the smoke. With my other hand, I reached for the doorknob. To my relief, it turned easily, and we strode into the bodega.

  “Vicente?” I called, flicking on a light. I scanned the room. Machinery, I assumed for bottling wine. Empty barrels. Glass bottles. Then I spotted it. A tall fan, extending up past the naked joists. “There—in the corner!”

  Frannie and I threaded a path amid the crowded room. As we got closer to the fan, I called out again, “Vicente!”

  “Kate!” Vicente’s voice sounded distant. A faint banging noise came from the fan.

  I reached the fan and tapped on the side.

  “Kate!” he said again. I squatted down, nearly tipping forward, and peered upward into the shaft of the fan. Two shoes were kicking at the sides. I was vaguely reminded of a beetle stuck on its back, legs scrambling for purchase against the empty air.

  “How on earth did you get stuck in there?” I asked.

  “Following a clue. Would you just get me out?” he sputtered.

  He had a point. The smoke didn’t taste quite as thick in here, but there was no telling how much time we had.

  A chittering sound came from the top of the fan.

  Vicente snarled upward. “Would you get out of here, you stupid rat?”

  “You okay?” I asked him. It was kind of warm in here . . . was the heat getting to him?

  A squirrel popped its head out from the top of the fan shaft, squeaking plaintively at us. Then it disappeared back into the tube.

  I snorted. “I see you had company while you were stuck in there.”

  “Shut up,” he muttered.

  Frannie stepped forward and peered up the shaft, her forehead wrinkling. “Let’s each grab one of his feet and pull.”

  “Sounds good.” I tipped forward onto my hands and knees, letting my off-balance center of gravity pull me to the ground, then reached up and wrapped my hands around Vicente’s shin. Frannie did the same. “On three. One . . . two . . .”

  “Three!” We cried in unison, tugging at his legs.

  He didn’t budge.

  “Try again,” called Frannie. “On three. One . . . two . . . three!”

  We pulled again, without any better luck. Vicente growled.

  “How did you get yourself wedged so tightly?” I asked in exasperation.

  He didn’t answer.

  Frannie scooted back. “This isn’t working,” she murmured. She burst into a coughing fit. I patted her back until she recovered herself.

  “You good?” I asked.

  “Does it seem like the smoke is getting thicker?” she replied.

  Something squeaked from within the tube. I wasn’t sure whether it was Vicente or the squirrel.

  “Hard to say,” I said calmly, hoping my words would soothe Vicente. But Frannie was right—it was getting undeniably smokier in the bodega. We had to extricate him quickly.

  I snapped my fingers. “We’ve got to find something that will act as a lubricant and help him slide out of the tube. An oil or a gel, preferably. Or a liquid, if we can’t find either of those.”

  “I’ll look around.” Frannie shot to her feet.

  “No oil!” cried Vicente. “If we run into any fire, I’ll go up in flames like a dry Christmas tree on the Fourth of July!”

  “Good point,” I said. “Gel or liquid it is.”

  “Where are we going to find gel in here?” Frannie asked, opening a cabinet and shuffling through its contents. “Here’s motor oil.”

  “No oil!” yelled Vicente.

  “We’re not going to use oil,” I said, patting his calf.

  “Got it!” cried Frannie. I heard two crashes and craned to look at her.