"Well, I didn't actually see anything that connected them to collectible or vintage wine. Or Heather."

  I felt the hope I'd cultivated before dissipating. "So another dead end?"

  "Not exactly." She held up a finger for me to wait as she switched to another screen on her phone.

  "Black Market is owned by a conglomeration—if I had to guess, none of the owners actually does much on the day-to-day. Especially not in Los Banos. But, I did find one short blurb on the manager of the Nifty Dollar-Fifty winery." She paused for dramatic effect. "A friend of yours?"

  She turned her phone in my direction.

  Her screen held an image of a man standing with his arms crossed over a black shirt. His eyes were hidden behind his dark glasses and shadowed by his black cowboy hat, but even through his Johnny Cash impression, I could see the tail end of a scar running through his right eyebrow.

  The Man in Black.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  "The Man in Black's real name is Max Ford," Ava explained. "I tried searching it, but not much came up." She paused. "Well, that's not true—there are dozens of Max Fords, so a lot came up. Just not a ton that felt like it was our guy."

  "What is 'not a ton'?"

  "Well, he's been the manager of Nifty Dollar-Fifty for nearly two years now. I couldn't find his name associated with any other businesses, nor could I find what his previous employment history was. I did find an address for a Max Ford in Los Banos, but it looks like it's an abandoned building."

  I raised an eyebrow her way. "How could you tell that?"

  She shrugged. "Google Earth. The images of the place look like it's been a while since anyone lived there."

  "So fake address?"

  "Possibly."

  "People who are innocent don't usually lie about where they live."

  Ava nodded. "Agreed, but I didn't come up with any criminal record, at least not with that name."

  "Which doesn't mean he hasn't done anything criminal. It just means that he hasn't been caught," I added.

  "That's true."

  "Find any phone number or other way to contact him?"

  She shook her head. "Nifty Dollar-Fifty has a number on their website but nothing about Max Ford personally."

  I thought back to the guy I'd seen. What had the manager of a bargain winery been doing at Dixons? And what was his connection with Heather?

  "I hate to say it, but I can't come up with a single reason this guy would have any connection to Heather," Ava said.

  "Except that he has her wines," I reminded her.

  Ava paused. "Maybe he stole them?"

  "All of them?" I asked. "And from where? Where had she really been keeping them?"

  Ava shrugged. "I don't know." She glanced at her watch. "But I do know I need to get back to the shop. After the cruddy sales weekend I've had, I don't want to be closed too long."

  That, I understood. I walked Ava out to the parking lot, giving her a hug goodbye and thanking her for all her hard work. Even if we still did have more questions than answers.

  I watched her pull down the tree-lined drive, enjoying the feel of the sunlight on my face for a moment as I breathed in deeply the mixture of scents nature brewed under the warm sunshine—fragrant pines, musk sage, and the sweet tang of grape leaves drying on the vine.

  Reluctantly, I went back inside, stopping in the kitchen to see if Conchita needed anything else as our tourist party wound down.

  Only it wasn't Conchita I found in the kitchen, but my new recruit, Eddie.

  And I almost had a heart attack when I saw what he was doing.

  He had the Haut Brion in his hands, the foil at the neck cut and lying in a pile on the counter. A wine corker was in his left hand as he twisted and pulled with all his might.

  "No!" I screamed.

  Too late. The sickening sound of the cork popping as it released from the bottle echoed in the kitchen.

  "No, no, no, no, NOOOOO!" I yelled, rushing toward him.

  I stared in horror at the bottle of Haut Brion in Eddie's pudgy hands. The open bottle.

  "Emmy?" Eddie asked, setting the bottle on the counter. "You okay?"

  "What are you doing?" I cried.

  He blinked at me. "What?"

  "The bottle. Why did you open it!?"

  More blinking. "I-uh, thought I was helping." He paused. "Am I not helping?"

  "Noooo," I moaned, unable to keep my eyes off the cork sitting on the counter next to the Haut Brion.

  "Jean Luc asked me to get another bottle from the cellar. I mean, this one does look kinda fancy, I guess, but we serve fancy wine to guests, right? Or, yeah, maybe no?"

  His words flew over me in a blur, my thoughts consumed by how I was going to explain this to James Atherton when I had to write him a $1000 restitution check. Gee, remember that bottle I accidentally stole after breaking into and entering your wife's storage unit? Yeah, now I've accidentally opened it.

  "You don't look so good, Emmy," Eddie told me. "Can I pour you a glass of wine?"

  "No you can't pour me a glass—" I paused. What the heck? The damage had been done. "Fine. Pour."

  It wasn't like I could just put the cork back and return it now. I might as well enjoy what a $1000 forty-year-old wine tasted like. And I could so use a drink right about now.

  Eddie poured a generous amount in a glass for me and a small taste in a glass for himself.

  "Here's to bad decisions," I told him, taking my glass from him.

  "Huh?"

  "Nothing," I mumbled, thinking I was going to have to give him a detailed tour of the cellar before our next tasting.

  Moving the glass under my nose, I inhaled deeply. I detected floral notes, but they weren't as deep or strong as I might have guessed. I placed the glass to my lips, anticipating a glorious velvety texture hitting my palate.

  I took a small sip.

  And nearly spit it out. Bitter, acid liquid covered my mouth, practically burning as I managed to swallow it. "Ugh," I couldn't help saying.

  "Thank goodness. I thought it was just me," Eddie said.

  I looked up to find him pursing his lips together like he'd just sucked a lemon.

  "It's maybe turned, huh?" he suggested. "Old wines sometimes go bad, right?"

  I sniffed at the glass, swirling its contents. No legs ran down the glass—no trails of liquid slowly falling back down. While sitting in a storage unit hadn't done the wine any favors, something about the color as I tilted the glass and let the light filter through the wine was off. Too purpley and not enough ruby red. If it had simply oxidized and gone bad, the color would have a more rust hue.

  "I tastes like…" I paused, daring to take another small sip again, cringing as the tangy bite rolled on my tongue.

  "Like the stuff at my niece's wedding," Eddie finished.

  I glanced up at him. "What?"

  "Oh, my niece. She got married last month. Really good kid, but my brother is such a cheapskate. Plastic silverware, buffet meal, tiny little slivers of cake. And he wouldn't spring for anything over five dollars a bottle to drink. I mean, really? It's a wedding. Live a little. Am I right?"

  But my mind was a million miles away from weddings right now as it latched on to that one keen observation—what was in my glass tasted like cheap wine.

  And there was our connection.

  Suddenly puzzle pieces started falling into place. The empty bottles in the storage unit. Why Heather was keeping everything so hush-hush from James. Heather hadn't cared about properly storing her wine bottles, because they weren't filled with rare, collectible wine—they were filled with Nifty Dollar-Fifty. Cheap wine supplied to her by Max Ford.

  "Eddie, you are brilliant!" I told him, dumping the contents of my glass into the sink.

  "I-I am?" he asked.

  I picked up the cork from the counter. "Look at this cork," I said. "It's supposed to have been in this bottle since 1979. Does it look like it's been in contact with red wine that long?"

  Eddie accepted the cork and studied it. "I-I don't know. I guess not. I mean, it looks pretty new to me."

  "Exactly. Only no one would ever know that unless they opened this bottle. They'd never know it was filled with Nifty Dollar-Fifty!"

  "Nifty…what?" Eddie asked, trying hard to keep up with me.

  But I was lost in my own thoughts, on a high of having it all fall into place. "And collectors would never open these. They're investments. Or conversation pieces at best. And even if one did, he might just chalk the bad taste up to the wine having turned."

  "Like I did!" Eddie said.

  "Right. And I might have too, had I not had all the other clues staring me right in the face."

  "So, why would someone fill nice bottles with bad wine?" Eddie asked.

  "Money," I answered. "Heather was making boatloads of it by taking old empty bottles and filling them with new cheap wine. If I had to guess, they were corked and sealed at the Nifty Dollar-Fifty winery by the Man in Black."

  Eddie frowned. "Johnny Cash?"

  "Max Ford," I corrected. "He was in on it with Heather, probably splitting the profits when she sold them as the real deal to collectors."

  I paused, processing the implications of Heather's scheme. If any of her collectors had found out she was selling them fake wine at real prices, I couldn't imagine they'd be too happy. Then again, there was her rough-around-the-edges partner, Max Ford. He had been seen arguing with her at the party. Maybe something had gone wrong with their scam? Or maybe Max was getting greedy, wanting a larger cut of Heather's profits to continue to keep quiet and supply her with cheap wine. Or maybe Heather was the one who'd gotten greedy, trying to cut Max out.

  "So what do we do with this?" Eddie asked, gesturing to the open faux Haute Brion on the counter.

  I stuffed the cork back in the top. "We take it to Detective Grant."

  * * *

  The Sonoma County Sheriff's Office was located about forty minutes north of the town of Sonoma, in a large, imposing building made of glass and brick. As I pushed through the glass front doors, the inhabitants of the building were just as imposing as the structure itself—both the officers in crisp uniforms, wearing gun holsters, as well as the tattooed, pierced, and angry looking visitors sitting on plastic chairs in the main lobby. The floor was polished concrete, and the walls were rendered cement that were covered with posters alerting me to the many organizations that I could turn to if I needed help.

  The civilians were separated from the police force with a large counter and glass window, keeping them on the inside and me on the out. Two officers in khaki uniforms sat behind the desk. A young woman with a tight bun at the back of her neck was frantically clicking her computer mouse and scowling at her screen. Whatever she was attempting, it appeared her computer was not cooperating. The second officer was older, male, and honestly looked no happier about his position than his technology challenged coworker.

  He watched me approach and slid back a small glass pane. "May I help you?" His tone was bored and anything but helpful.

  "Hi," I said, suddenly feel apprehensive now that I was in a police station about to confess to a theft. Granted, now that we were talking about a $1.50 bottle of wine, I was pretty sure we were back in misdemeanor territory. "I, uh, am here to see Detective Grant, VCI." I gave the officer a smile, hoping that I didn't look like a criminal.

  "Is he expecting you?"

  I shook my head. I'd tried to call before leaving the winery, but his number had gone to voicemail. And I didn't want to wait. This felt too important.

  "What is this in regard to?"

  "A murder investigation. I, uh, I have some evidence that I think he needs to see."

  "Name?" he asked in the same monotone, as if people came in with evidence in murder investigations all day long.

  "Emmy Oak."

  "Take a seat Ms. Oak. I'll see if he's available."

  I did as asked, choosing one of the hard plastic chairs that was closest to the counter. You know, just in case some of the other people waiting in there actually were criminals. I watched Officer Monotone pick up the phone and press a few buttons.

  I searched for a magazine or something that would take my attention from the three large, bearded men sitting opposite me. Self-consciously I tugged on the hem of my skirt, hoping to make it at least two feet longer, but in the end I settled for the inch that I could get.

  "Ms. Oak," the officer behind the counter called.

  I jumped up and moved toward him.

  "Detective Grant is out of the office. I can have the evidence clerk take whatever you have and hold it for him."

  Which was not ideal, but it was better than nothing. I reluctantly waited for the evidence clerk and handed over the opened wine bottle with a message for Grant to call me ASAP. I wasn't sure he'd know what to do with the bottle without the explanation to go with it.

  Thanking the officer, I made my way back through the lobby and immediately tried to call Grant again, just to make sure that he understood how important this was. Unfortunately, it rang a few times and then diverted to his voicemail. I redialed only to have the same thing happen again. I left a brief message to call me as soon as he got it.

  My flats clicked softly against the polished concrete as I made my way toward the exit, and I'd just stepped outside when I heard a familiar voice call my name.

  "Emmy!"

  I turned to see Leah hailing me from the other side of the building. It looked like she'd just come from a side door, and she quickly jogged the distance between us, enveloping me in a hug that was so tight it almost knocked me over.

  "Leah!" I cried, surprised. "What are you doing here? Are you okay?"

  "Just had the bail hearing," she explained, drawing back. "I didn't think anyone would be here, but here you are."

  I felt guilt creep into my cheeks. While I had meant to find out when her hearing was, I'd been here for an entirely different reason. "So you made bail?"

  She nodded. "Barely." She paused. "I had to put the condo and the Chocolate Bar up as collateral."

  I felt a pang of sympathy for her. I knew the shop was all she had left. Not that she was planning to skip town and lose it, but it still must have hurt to sign that paperwork.

  "I'm so sorry," I told her.

  She shook her head. "No, it's okay. I'm just happy to be going home."

  "Come on. I'll give you a ride. My car's just down the street," I offered, sliding my phone into my bag before guiding her to my Jeep.

  The sunlight settled on Leah's tired features, making her look much older as we walked the short distance.

  "You okay?" I asked.

  "Oh sure. Jail was like a day at the spa," she joked.

  I grinned back, but I could tell she'd been through a lot. "Meet anyone interesting?"

  "A lovely but unfortunate hooker named Denise?"

  I laughed. "Sorry."

  "Well, at least I'm not Denise. Denied bail."

  "Ouch. They hold a prostitute and let a suspected murderer out on bail?" I cringed even as the words left my mouth, wishing I could just suck them right back into the den of insensitivity they'd escaped from. "Sorry."

  "No, really, it's okay." Leah shrugged, smiling, though her eyes looked tired and far from filled with humor. "It's true. I'm going on trial for murder."

  A sniff escaped her, and I grabbed her in another fierce hug before depositing her into my car.

  "You mind if we stop by the Chocolate Bar first?" she asked, buckling in.

  "Sure. Why?"

  "I just wanted to check on the bakery cases. I have a bad feeling a lot of the food needs thrown out at this point, but I'd like to salvage what I can and freeze it."

  "No problem," I told her, pulling out into traffic and making a U-turn at the light.

  The Chocolate Bar wasn't far from the police station, so I wound the windows down and allowed the afternoon air to filter in. We rode in companionable silence for a few blocks before Leah finally broke it.

  "Grant asked me about you," she said.

  That took me by surprise. "Really? What did he say?"

  "Just wanted to know how long I'd known you and Ava. Where we'd met. That kind of thing."

  While there was a 99% chance it was all about the case, I felt my cheeks heating at the 1% possibility that he was just interested.

  "He asked about the necklaces Ava gave us," Leah continued. "If you still have yours."

  "I do," I told her. Unlike Leah, I hadn't immediately put mine on at the event. Guests had arrived, and I'd deposited it in my purse for safekeeping. After Leah's arrest, I'd been sure to check that my citrine was still in its home. It had been.

  "Leah, how do you think your gemstone got on Heather's body?"

  She sighed audibly in the interior. "I've had a lot of time to think about that."

  "Come to any conclusions?" I asked, making a right at the light.

  She shook her head. "Like I told Grant, I didn't realize the stone had fallen out until the end of the party. I could have dropped it anytime. Anywhere."

  I glanced over at Leah. She was staring out the front window, her face blank. But her eyes kept cutting to me in a sideways motion. Almost as if making sure I was buying her story. Leah was lying.

  "But you didn't drop it just anywhere." I paused, making an educated guess. "You dropped it on Heather's body."

  Leah continued to stare straight ahead, but her breath came faster, and her eyes began to tear up.

  "Leah?"

  She sniffed loudly, a tear falling down her cheek. "Yes," she finally admitted. "I-I went outside to take the trash out as the party was winding down and…and I found her." She turned to me, her eyes big and full of watery tears. "But she was already dead! There was nothing I could have done for her."

  "What did you do?" I asked softly, trying to keep my eyes on the road.

  Leah took a shaky breath. "She was crumpled over. At first I thought maybe she just drank too much and passed out. Which, I found kind of amusing at the time." She gave me a dry smile.

  "Go on."

  "Well, I leaned down to rouse her. But as soon as I touched her, I knew something was wrong. She was cold and limp. And, that's when I saw…" She licked her lips, and I could tell she was envisioning the same bloody scene I'd come across. "Then I knew she was dead."