"I'm wondering if it was something Heather put together for her brokering business," I suggested. "You know, like an LLC for tax purposes?"

  "If Heather was stashing cash in the Caymans, I doubt she was a stickler for tax laws," Ava pointed out, putting her phone away.

  "You're right. But it still could have been her business."

  "Well, I think this was too much of a coincidence that the inventory lists matched all the bottles we found. Whatever or whoever Black Market is, it's definitely Heather's wine in their storage unit."

  I nodded, tending to agree.

  "What did Grant say about the wine bottle?" Ava asked.

  "Huh?" I'll admit I was lost in my own thoughts there for a minute.

  "The Haut Brion?" Ava prompted. "The one you had in your hand when we left the unit?"

  I blinked at her.

  "You did give it back to Grant last night, didn't you?"

  Mental forehead thunk. "I forgot."

  "Ohmigod, Emmy!" Ava shrieked, setting her coffee cup down with a thump on my end table. "We stole evidence from a crime scene!"

  "I didn't know it was going to be a crime scene when I took it," I reasoned.

  "Yeah, I'm sure Grant will totally give us a pass on that." There she went with that sarcasm again.

  "Really, I'm the victim in the crime," I pointed out.

  Ava shot me a look. "Which crime? The breaking and entering, the trespassing, or the theft of a thousand -dollar bottle of wine?"

  I bit my lip. Okay, so the lines between victim and perpetrator were a little blurry.

  "I was concussed," I protested, walking to the door, where I vaguely remembered dropping my backpack before Grant led me upstairs. "I wasn't thinking clearly."

  "A thousand dollars. Is that still a misdemeanor theft?" she asked, pulling out her phone to google again.

  "It's not theft. It was an accident," I protested, pulling the bottle from my backpack.

  "Geeze, put that thing away," Ava said, glancing over her shoulder as if Grant might pop up from behind my sofa with an arrest warrant.

  "I'll just return it," I told her.

  Ava blinked at me. "There's no way we can get in that storage unit again unnoticed."

  "I-I'll give it to James," I decided. "With Heather gone, it probably belongs to him now anyway."

  Ava's eyebrows went up into her hair again. "And tell him what? That we accidentally stole it?"

  Yeah, that wasn't likely to go over well. "I'll say that…that Heather left it at the Wine and Chocolate event. By accident."

  Ava shook her head. "And why would Heather have a bottle of wine with her there?"

  "She could have been meeting a client?"

  "But she wasn't."

  "But James doesn't know that." I gently set the bottle down on the coffee table between us. "Look, it doesn't matter if I fib a little about how I got it—the important thing is that it's back with its rightful owner."

  But Ava was still giving me a look like I was sporting a birch branch where my nose once was. "This is a terrible idea."

  "Stop judging and help cover this goose egg well enough to go out in public," I pleaded with her.

  Her eyes flitted to the bump on my head. "Got any hats?"

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  We parted with Ava promising to do more digging into the Black Market Wine Group, and me promising to let her know the second the wine was back with James and we were off the hook for at least one crime. (Which, as she found out, was not a misdemeanor but felony grand theft.)

  I pulled up to Bay Cellars and parked in their lot, which was not quite as full as before. Apparently weekdays were slower for business. The same dark haired woman I'd seen on my last visit stood behind the stone reception counter. "May I help you?" she asked pleasantly.

  "I'm here to see James Atherton," I told her. I held up the cardboard box I'd found to transport the Haut Brion in safely. "I have a bottle of wine for him."

  "And your name?"

  "Emmy Oak."

  She nodded, turning to her telephone. "I'll just let him know you're here."

  I waited in the quiet, cool air conditioning as the woman spoke in hushed tones. I didn't have to wait long as James Atherton appeared only a moment later, a frown etched on his face.

  "What are you doing here?" he asked in a tightly restrained voice.

  "I have something for you," I said, holding up the box.

  James looked at it, then back up at me, clearly confused as to why I'd be bringing him a present.

  "Maybe we could talk in private?" I suggested.

  He glanced toward the receptionist, who was doing her best to look like she wasn't listening to our conversation. Then he nodded, motioning for me to follow him up the stairs to his office. I did, only slightly limping in the soft ballet flats I'd chosen as a concession to my ankle.

  As soon as we got to his office, he closed the door behind me. "So what are you doing here? And don't pretend it's to sell me your winery again."

  I cleared my throat. "No, I came to give you this." I opened the box, extracting the wine.

  Surprise was evident in his eyes as I set the bottle down on his desk. "What is this?" he asked, picking it up gently with the reverence it deserved.

  "It's a 1979 Haut Brion," I told him.

  He frowned in irritation at me again. "Yes, I can see that. What I mean is, what are you doing with it in my office?"

  "It was Heather's."

  The frown deepened as James turned the bottle over, almost as if inspecting it for some sign his wife had owned it. "You must be mistaken."

  I shook my head. "I'm not. I fou—uh, she left it at the Wine and Chocolate Tasting."

  He let out a bark of laughter and set the bottle down. "Now I know you're lying. What on earth would she be doing bringing this to your little tasting?"

  I ignored the little part with no small effort.

  "She must have been meeting a client?" I said. Which would have been more convincing if I hadn't phrased it as a question. Ava was right. I was a terrible liar, and this was not going well.

  "She was doing no such thing," he told me emphatically. "And I don't know what this is you're playing at." He waved his hand in the direction of the bottle. "But I'd like you to leave."

  "Wait!" I bit my lip. "Okay, the truth?"

  "That would be preferable," he agreed.

  "I found this in a storage unit. Along with a lot of other collectible bottles. They're all Heather's."

  "A storage unit?"

  I nodded. "A1 Personal Storage."

  He shook his head. "No, you're mistaken. Heather kept her wine in our cellar at home."

  "Maybe some of the bottles, but not all of it. There are at least a thousand bottles sitting in a warehouse off seventh."

  "A thousand… No. Heather's hobby was not that big. Or lucrative."

  I hesitated to tell him about her account in the Cayman Islands that said otherwise.

  "Besides," he went on, "a warehouse? Not a wine storage facility?"

  "No," I told him sadly. "No temperature control. No moisture control. Just some cardboard boxes on concrete."

  "No. It wasn't Heather's," he reiterated. "There is absolutely no way she would store something like this in a warehouse."

  I had to agree—it was a rookie mistake. "You said she didn't know much about the wine business. Maybe she just didn't realize? Or thought it would stay cool enough?"

  "Heather had no head for business, but she definitely knew better than to store something like this somewhere like that. You are mistaken. It's not Heather's."

  "Look, every bottle I found in the unit matched Heather's inventory."

  His expression changed. "How do you know what Heather had in stock?"

  Let's face it, I sucked at the espionage thing. I might have graduated from the CIA, but I was a terrible spy. "She, uh, told me about them at the Wine and Chocolate party," I tried.

  He didn't look convinced, but it was hard to refute. "Look, I don't know where you really got this or what you're game is—some sort of pathetic attempt to plant evidence on me maybe?"

  "W-what?" I asked, my turn to be shocked.

  He narrowed his eyes at me. "I know who you are now. My son told me you're friends with my ex-wife."

  I pursed my lips. "I am. And she's innocent."

  He scoffed. "And this is some weird way of proving it? Sticking me with this bottle? What, is it stolen?"

  Technically? Yes.

  "I'm telling you the truth," I protested. "This bottle belongs to you."

  But he wasn't having it. He grabbed it off the desk and shoved it toward me with such vigor that I feared for its life.

  "Take this and get out. Now. Before I call security."

  What could I do? I grabbed the bottle and got out. It still felt like stolen goods in my hands, making me feel guilty and nervous as I walked back out to my car, mulling over my next move.

  James had been so certain the storage unit wasn't Heather's. But I felt certain it was. I glanced down at the bottle in my hands. How to prove it? Heather had noted the name of the auction house, Dixons, in her inventory next to several bottles. I pulled up the photos of the list again, and sure enough, it was noted next to the entry for the bottle in my hand. Maybe if I could prove some sort of chain of custody for the wine, I could prove that it—and the other bottles languishing in unit J26 at A1—were Heather's.

  I carefully nestled the bottle in my jacket, setting it directly in the blast of the AC as I pulled out of the lot and drove toward Dixons again.

  * * *

  As with most auction houses I'd been in, this one had a hushed feel to the air, like a museum. I was instantly filled with the notion that I should just look and not touch…mostly because I knew just about everything in the place was worth at least double the balance in my bank account.

  An older woman in a loose blouse and ankle length skirt greeted me at the reception desk. "May I help you?" she asked, blinking up at me behind a pair of bifocals.

  "I hope so," I told her truthfully. "I was hoping I could speak to someone about a chain of custody for an item."

  Her sparse brows formed a frown that sent wrinkling ripples throughout her face. "Is it an item you believe was purchased at auction here?"

  I nodded. "Yes, I'm almost certain it was."

  "And the previous owner didn't provide you with any paperwork?"

  I pursed my lips, hesitating to tell her that the previous owner was dead and technically I'd stolen the item in question. "Uh, no. I was hoping maybe you had a copy?"

  "What is the item?" she asked, turning to a computer that looked about as old as she was. I wouldn't have been surprised to find a small hamster on a wheel running it beside the huge square monitor.

  "It's a bottle of 1979 Haut Brion Bordeaux," I said, pulling it out of my bag and gently setting it down on the reception counter.

  If the woman was impressed, she didn't show it. However, I had to guess that she dealt with dozens of such rare and expensive items on a daily basis. She gave the label a cursory glance, then plugged the name into some database—typing, scrolling, and squinting at the screen.

  "Do you know approximately when the bottle might have been purchased?" she asked.

  I shrugged. "I don't have a date. But it would have been within the last year," I told her, knowing Heather had only been doing business that long.

  "That helps some," she told me, switching to a new screen and repeating her type/scroll/squint routine.

  "Was this sold as part of a larger collection or as a stand-alone item?" she asked.

  Great question. "Sorry, I have no idea. But the buyer's name would have been Heather Atherton," I supplied. "Or possibly Black Market Wine Group."

  She nodded. "Many of our collectors like to remain anonymous, but I'll try searching those names."

  Which she did as I waited agonizing minutes in the hushed atmosphere, the woman's clicking keyboard the only sound.

  Finally she turned to me, shaking her head. "I'm sorry to say that this Ms. Atherton must have been mistaken about where she acquired it. This bottle has never been through our auction house."

  I blinked at her, trying to process that statement. "Are you sure?"

  She nodded, eyes going back to her screen. "Positive. Even for anonymous auctions, we keep a very accurate record of all items. For this very reason," she added. "Too many people try to fake provenance these days."

  "What about Heather Atherton?" I asked. "She is in your system as having purchased wine here before?"

  But she shook her head. "Sorry. I have no record of her either. But like I said, many buyers prefer to remain anonymous."

  I thanked the woman and left, feeling deflated. Once the bottle was back in the relative safety of the AC in my car, I pulled up Heather's records on my phone again, thinking maybe I'd been mistaken. Nope, Dixons was clearly listed beside it. I was suddenly questioning everything. No one seemed to claim this bottle as theirs. I'd never had such a hard time unloading a $1000 bottle of wine before.

  I was contemplating what exactly I should do with it when a text came in.

  It was from Ava.

  I may have a lead on our Black Market! Meet you at the winery in an hour?

  Well, at least someone was having some luck. I quickly texted her back that I would meet her there and headed back to Oak Valley.

  * * *

  The first thing I did when I got there was put the Haut Brion in the cave for safekeeping. Until I could find someone to claim ownership of it, at least I could ensure it was properly cared for. Then I made my way into the kitchen, where I found Conchita excitedly slicing cured salami and prepping what looked like a Wine Tasting Charcuterie Board.

  "Ay, Emmy!" she said as she caught sight of me. "We have a crowd!"

  I perked up. "A crowd? I didn't see any cars in the lot."

  "They came on a wine bus," she said, her eyes sparkling. "German tourists. Thirty of them."

  "Thirty?" I choked out. It had been months since we'd seen that many in the tasting room. Maybe my luck really was turning. "Do you need a hand?" I asked, jumping in to help arrange meats and cheeses on the large wooden board. I grabbed a wedge of brie, which I knew would pair well with our Chardonnay, and some pork pâté, which would complement the creaminess in our Pinot Noir.

  "They look like they have money," she said, rushing to the cupboard and pulling out some dried apricots and salted almonds to add to the mix. "Jean Luc said one of them already ordered a case of the Pinot Blanc to be delivered to his hotel."

  Be still my beating heart. "Then let's wow the other twenty-nine," I told her.

  Between the two of us, we got together a good sampling of cheeses, meats, fruits, and a few veggies, to make an artful display that would make our wines sing to their fullest potential for our guests.

  The tasting room was buzzing with activity, and Jean Luc was playing the master entertainer, pouring with flair and even exchanging a few German phrases here and there. I roved the room, chatting, answering questions, filling glasses, and generally trying to be the hostess with the mostess.

  I'd just sold another two cases to a lovely couple from Hamburg, when I spotted Ava peeking her head into the tasting room.

  I gave her a quick wave of acknowledgment before politely excusing myself from the jovial group.

  "Wow, quite a crowd today."

  "Totally unexpected. But I just sold three cases," I told her, unable to keep it in.

  She gave me a high five. "There's a good Tuesday."

  "Tell me about it."

  "Want more good news?" she asked, her eyes twinkling mischievously.

  "Black Market Wines?" I asked, remembering her text.

  She nodded, glancing over my shoulder at the drinking tourists. "Let's go into your office."

  I agreed, leading the way down a short hallway. As soon as I had the door closed behind us, Ava pulled out her phone. "Well, you know how I said there were like a hundred companies calling themselves Black Market?"

  The number had doubled since I'd last seen her, but I nodded for her to go on.

  "I thought maybe I could weed that down a bit. I started by checking out each company's website. Then social media presence, local press, you know, all that stuff."

  "And?"

  "Well, it took me a while, as business has picked up today now that the weekend wine walk is over. So I had to do it between customers."

  "What did you find?" I asked, not able to handle the suspense much longer.

  "I found a Black Market Wine Group that is actually a larger corporation that owns several smaller labels. One of their holdings is a place where they produce a line of wines labeled Nifty Dollar-Fifty."

  "Nifty?" I asked.

  Ava nodded. "They sell for—you guessed it—a buck-fifty a bottle"

  I scrunched my nose up. "That can't taste good."

  "Agreed," she said. "But it gets better. The winery is in Los Banos." She watched my reaction as the punch line sunk in.

  Having lived in California all my life, I knew that the town of Los Banos was a small, farming community located smack in the middle of the state, surrounded by pretty much nothing for miles.

  It also meant "the bathrooms" in Spanish.

  I couldn't help it—a burst of laughter escaped me. "Dollar-fifty wines made in the bathrooms. Oh wow, I can't wait to taste that."

  Ava joined me, and soon we were both giggling like teenagers.

  "I'm no wine snob," I continued, tears starting to form. "I've had some inexpensive wines that taste better than some of the more expensive ones." I tried to stifle more laughter. "But I've never had wine from the bathrooms."

  "It's not very appealing, is it?" Ava got out between laughs. She handed me her phone, with the company's website up on the screen.

  I got myself under control, breathing deeply and wiping away the tears. "So, what does this esteemed winery have to do with our storage unit? It feels like their offerings are a million miles away from the bottles we found there."