"Then, bottoms up," she agreed, sipping. Once she put her glass down, she added, "You know, I have a bad feeling Grant thinks Leah did it."

  "I got that feeling too," I admitted. "He wanted to know where Leah was after the party started to break up. Did you see her?"

  Ava shook her head. "I was in the front, saying goodbye to the last few guests. I thought she was in the kitchen."

  "So did I." I sipped from my glass, feeling the cool liquid hit my empty stomach.

  "Well, I'm sure she was around," Ava reasoned.

  I nodded, though I wasn't positive "around" was the type of alibi Grant was looking for.

  "Did you know Leah's ex-husband?" I asked. While I'd been MIA from the Sonoma scene for a few years, Ava had stayed in our childhood stomping grounds after high school, building a reputation in the local artists' community with her silver works.

  Ava scrunched up her nose as she thought. "Not really. I mean, I know he works at Bay Cellars."

  I raised an eyebrow her way. Bay Cellars was one of the larger wineries, mass producing inexpensive wines that sat on every grocery and drug store shelf in the country. While their bottling plant was just outside town, they had small vineyards all over California. In fact, their MO was to buy up struggling family farms, then chuck their grapes into the large corporate vat that spat out generic tasting varietals at alarming speeds. Not that I had any strong feelings on the subject, but I'd felt their vulture's eye on Oak Valley more than once.

  "What does he do there?" I asked.

  "Sales or something, I think. I'm not sure. I never actually met him—just word of mouth. I know he and Leah divorced last year, and he married Heather a couple months after."

  "A couple months?" I asked. "That seems quick."

  Ava shrugged. "Maybe it was a whirlwind romance."

  "Maybe," I agreed, sipping my drink. Then again, maybe Leah's ex-husband had been seeing Heather before the divorce.

  Giving my friend that much more motive for her murder.

  * * *

  The sun arrived way too early the next morning, smacking me in the face a scant few hours after my head had finally hit my pillow. I groaned against the onslaught, reluctantly pulling myself out of bed and into a hot shower. By the time I'd done a quick blow dry and makeup routine and dressed in a pair of jeans, suede ankle boots, and a soft periwinkle top, Ava had already gone to open her shop, Silver Girl, to capitalize on the Saturday tourist trade.

  I made my way into the main kitchen, where the thought of coffee beckoned me.

  Conchita Villarreal, our house manager, was just pulling a tray of Mexican Chocolate Scones from the oven as I arrived, and my mouth practically watered at the competing scents of cocoa, sugar, and cinnamon. Conchita's dark hair was shot through with a generous helping of white, and it was thrown up today in a floral clip that I knew her husband, Hector, our vineyard manager, had bought for her birthday last month. Conchita and Hector had been with us nearly forever, Hector having grown up on the land like I had, in my father's time. He and Conchita had married young, though they'd never had kids of their own. Some days the couple were almost like surrogate parents to me, and I had a feeling it was mutual on their part.

  "So how was the tasting last night?" she asked.

  I bit my lip. Apparently she didn't know yet. I quickly filled her in on the details, or at least as much as I knew. Which, honestly, was not a lot. But she clucked and gasped at all the appropriate parts as I relayed the events of the previous evening.

  "Who do you think could have done it?" she asked when I was done.

  I shrugged. "Not Leah," I decided. Though I had to admit that her lack of alibi was a small doubt in the back of my mind.

  "Did Heather know anyone else at the tasting?" Conchita asked.

  I nodded. "She had a couple of friends with her. Ladies she knew from the golf club."

  "Maybe not so good friends?" Conchita asked, wiggling her eyebrow suggestively.

  I thought back to Caroline and Jennifer, and the catty banter between the three ladies. "They didn't seem terribly close, but I don't know what motive they could have for killing her."

  "What about the husband?" Conchita asked. "It's always the husband who did it in crime shows."

  "I suppose that's possible," I said. "But, again, I don't see why. Kill the ex-wife maybe, but why the hot young trophy wife?"

  "You never know. Maybe things weren't so hot between him and Hot Wife."

  I nodded. I liked that idea. I liked it a lot better than the finger being pointed at Leah, anyway.

  Conchita shrugged. "Well, I'm sure that detective of yours will figure it out."

  I felt myself blush. "He's not my detective."

  "Yet." Conchita winked at me.

  I shook my head. "You are a hopeless romantic."

  She nodded. "Someone has to be, or you would never date."

  Truth be told? I didn't date now.

  "Anyway," she said, waving the subject off. Thankfully. "Eat up. You have three interviews this morning."

  I closed my eyes and thought a bad word. I'd forgotten all about the interviews. Recently our winery manager had quit, citing something about a larger place in Napa offering him dental and a 401K. I had a hard time blaming him—I'd kill for dental. But it had left us with an opening to fill and not much to provide in the way of perks. I was dreading the interview process. And with everything that had happened the previous night, I'd forgotten all about the fact that I'd scheduled three for that morning.

  After another cup of fortifying coffee, I met with candidate number one: a twenty-three-year-old guy with no experience in the wine industry except that he "really dug" drinking wine. When I asked him why he had applied for a manager position without any experience, he'd said the salary had led him to believe it was an entry level "managing" job.

  Which was at least better than what candidate number two had explained when asked why he'd applied. He'd already been fired from all the big wineries. He claimed it was a misunderstanding in each instance and he was totally innocent. Which would have been more believable if he hadn't then asked about our policies on random drug testing.

  I'd like to say things went better with candidate number three, but the moment he entered my office, I knew it was a no-go. He was so drunk he could barely stand, and asked how many free bottles of wine the managers got. Per day. Luckily, he told me he'd Ubered in, so I politely asked him to Uber right on out.

  I was wallowing in pity and browsing the rest of our online applications, wondering if I could take a second job to pay for a real manager, when Jean Luc ducked his head into my office. Jean Luc was our bar manager—or sommelier, as he preferred to be called. He was a slim, tidy man with a mustache that rivaled Hercule Poirot and had a flair about him that was such stereotypically French pomposity that it bordered on comical. It also played to the casual wine lovers' sense of sophistication when entering our tasting rooms, which was a definite plus.

  "We have a lady in zee tasting room," he whispered, his French accent heavy with glee. He knew as well as anyone that our tasting room had been sparsely populated lately. "And she eez asking for you, Emmy."

  I felt an eyebrow rise. "For me?"

  He nodded. "She says she met you at the Wine and Chocolate Tasting party last night?"

  The other eyebrow went north. Maybe something good would come out of the evening at the Chocolate Bar after all. "I'll be right up," I promised him.

  He gave a nod. "I will keep her beezy until you arrive." And he disappeared to work his charming magic on our guest.

  Thankful for the respite from picking among the interviewees, I pulled my hair up into a tidy ponytail and made my way into the tasting room, where, true to form, Jean Luc was putting on a very elegant and intricate show of decanting a bottle of Chardonnay and pouring a dainty serving into a glass for our lone guest.

  A guest, I realized, I knew. Caroline Danvers.

  "Caroline," I greeted her, trying to cover my surprise. "How nice to see you again."

  If she was grieving the loss of her friend, it certainly didn't manifest in the physical. She was dressed in a sporty white skirt and athletic top, though the amount of gold jewelry adorning her neck and wrists said she didn't expect to be working out at athlete levels. Her hair and makeup looked more appropriate for a gala than the gym, and none of the dark circles I'd found under my eyes that morning were in evidence. Or maybe she just used more expensive concealer than I did.

  "Nice to see you too, uh…Amy?" Caroline asked.

  "Emmy," I corrected automatically. "I see you're sampling the Chardonnay. May I get you a lunch menu as well?"

  "No thanks. Just here for the wine." She grinned at me, downing the entire contents of the glass in one gulp.

  Jean Luc curled a lip at her behind her back, but he was professional enough to cover it when Caroline turned and pointed at her empty glass for more. I gave him a nod, and he poured a more generous amount.

  "I, uh, I'm surprised to see you here," I admitted.

  She paused, glass halfway to her lips. "I know. It's a bit more—oh, what did Jenny call it last night?—rustic than I'm used to. But one must push one's boundaries, right?"

  I cleared my throat, trying to ignore the insult. "I meant because of what happened last night. To Heather."

  Her smiled faltered a minute, but she covered it with a large sip from her glass.

  "I'm so sorry for your loss," I offered.

  "Thank you," replied Caroline. She picked up a cocktail napkin and dabbed at her dry eyes. "I think we're all still in shock."

  "I'm sure this must be difficult on everyone who knew her well," I said. I paused, almost feeling bad for asking, but… "How well did you know her?"

  "What?" Caroline asked.

  "Heather. Had you known her long?"

  Caroline shrugged and took another deep draw from her glass. "Not really. Jennifer introduced us to her. 'Us' being the Links Ladies, you know."

  I didn't exactly know, but I could guess. The Links was an exclusive golf club in town, and everyone who was anyone was a member. Needless to say, I hadn't made that sort of status yet. Nor could I afford the membership fees. "Jennifer and Heather were close, then?" I prodded.

  Caroline frowned. "Oh, I don't think so. I think her husband knew James. Or something like that. Anyway, when Heather married into the group, Jennifer sort of took her under her wing. You know, made the right introductions and all."

  "Of course," I agreed, having no clue whom the "right" introductions would be to.

  "Anyway, I suppose that's all for nothing now." Caroline's face hinted at the first bit of sadness I'd seen from her, before she emptied her second glass.

  Jean Luc gave me a questioning look, and I nodded again, watching him refill it a second time.

  "Caroline, how were things between Heather and her husband, James?"

  Caroline looked up from her glass, eyes narrowing at me. "What do you mean?"

  "I just wondered if their marriage was on good terms."

  She held my gaze for a moment, and I suddenly wondered if I'd pushed too far. But just as I was about to apologize, she gave another bark of laughter. "So, I guess even you've heard the rumors, huh?"

  I hadn't, but I hoped I was about to. "What do you know about the rumors?"

  "I know that's all they are! Vicious rumors. I mean, sure, Heather spent a lot of time lately at the club, but it was her love of the game, nothing more." She paused, pointing one sharp red fingernail my way. "And anyone who tells you otherwise is a liar."

  Methinks she doth protest too much. Clearly something was going on at the club, and I had a feeling it wasn't just putting. But, I filed that tidbit away, not wanting to push Caroline off the edge. Instead, I switched gears and asked, "Do you know if Heather knew anyone else at the tasting? Anyone else in attendance that she was close with?"

  Caroline sipped her drink, eyes sizing me up over the rim. Then finally she set it down, slightly unsteadily, on the bar and said, "That's actually why I'm here."

  Finally. I'd had a feeling it wasn't for the rustic atmosphere. "Oh?" I said.

  "Look, I need to know the name of one of your guests."

  "My guests?" I asked.

  Caroline nodded. Also slightly unsteadily. Three glasses of Chardonnay on an empty stomach would do that. "Yes. He was at your party. I saw him talking to Heather just before I left."

  "Did they know each other?"

  "They seemed to. Though, I haven't a clue who he was. Not our type, I'll tell you that."

  "Not your type? What do you mean?"

  "Well, for starters, he was in a cowboy hat." She scoffed.

  I thought back to the event, remembering seeing someone in a hat. At the time I'd found him a bit out of place and had to agree with Caroline's assessment that he hadn't seemed the country club set. "Go on," I prompted.

  "Anyway, I saw Heather talking to him outside behind the bakery."

  "Wait—did you say behind the bakery? As in, in the alleyway?"

  Caroline blinked at me. "Did I? I mean, yes. They were just around the corner of the building as I drove away."

  I felt my heart rate pick up. Was it possible Caroline had seen Heather's murderer moments before he'd shoved her behind a dumpster?

  "What did he look like?" I asked.

  More blinking as her false eyelashes fluttered. "Well, he was tall. Dressed all in black like some Johnny Cash wannabe. Dark hair. Kind of crude looking really. And Heather was waving her hands around at him. Like she was mad."

  Now we were getting somewhere. "What else?"

  "Well, that's all I saw. I drove away then. I mean, I didn't know she was about to be killed."

  "Did you tell this to the police?" I asked, thinking of Grant.

  Caroline scoffed again. "Well, of course not. I mean, what if he was just a friend of Heather's. Or maybe…" She trailed off, and I thought of those rumors that were only rumors. "Well, anyway, I wanted to find out from you who he is first."

  I shook my head. "Honestly, I don't know," I told her. Not everyone on my guest list had been a personal acquaintance. Schulz had provided some names, and a few had been local influencers who I'd known of but never personally met. The truth was, this guy could have been anyone.

  I just hoped I hadn't invited a murderer to the party.

  CHAPTER THREE

  After calling Caroline a car and carefully depositing her inside, I went back to my office. I thought about calling Grant about Caroline's Man in Black, but her uncertainty over his identity gave me pause. It was entirely possible he was just one of my VIPs who'd had a disagreement with Heather about the merits of red wine versus white with chocolate mousse. In which case, the last thing I wanted to do was be the one instigating an interrogation.

  I pulled up my guest list from the event, going over it for anyone who fit the description of the Man in Black. The few male guests I hadn't met in person prior to the event, I googled and was able to come up with faces for them from social media and news mentions. Three were too old—sporting either white hair or none at all instead of the dark hair Caroline had mentioned. One more was barely my height of 5'5", which didn't quite strike me as "tall," and the other was a British transplant. While I couldn't promise he hadn't donned a cowboy hat and black clothes for the party, it felt like an unlikely fit. Whoever the Man in Black was, I was fairly confident he wasn't on my guest list.

  Which left Leah's.

  I glanced at the clock. It was just after one.

  I dialed Leah's number, but it went straight to voicemail. Though, I could well understand if she wasn't taking calls today. I bit my lip, vacillating between not wanting to intrude and honestly wanting to check on her well-being. In the end, curiosity over the mystery guest pushed things into the check-on territory, and I grabbed my purse and headed to my Jeep, stopping only to grab a few of Conchita's scones on my way out the door.

  Twenty minutes later I was outside Leah's condo off Riverside Drive, baked offerings in hand as I rang the doorbell. A beat later I heard footsteps shuffling toward me, and Leah opened the door.

  Bags hung under her eyes, as if she'd had a sleepless night, though I noticed said eyes were dry and free of the telltale redness that would indicate she'd been crying. She was dressed in an oversized sweater that seemed to swallow her up.

  "Emmy!" She enveloped me in a hug, and I only barely avoided crushing the scones.

  "How are you?" I asked.

  She shrugged. "I've had better days. Come in."

  I did, offering her the plate of pastries. "I thought some comfort food might be in order."

  She grinned. "Thanks. I actually don't think I've eaten anything today." Though, as she took the plate from me, she set it on the small kitchen table, not touching it.

  "The police were just here," she said, sinking into the sofa in the adjacent living room.

  I sat opposite her. "Detective Grant?"

  She nodded. "You know him?"

  "A little," I hedged. "What did he say?"

  She shrugged, her shoulders bobbing up and down. "He just asked a bunch of questions about last night. Honestly, Emmy, I think he was treating me like a suspect."

  I thought that too, but I didn't say so. Instead I said, "What kind of questions did he ask?"

  "Mostly about where I was."

  I bit my lip. "What did you say?"

  More shrugging. "I told him I was at the event all night. I mean, I don't remember exactly where I was when Heather left. I was in the kitchen, then the main room. I may have ducked into the restroom for a few minutes."

  Which all sounded plausible, except that I had been in the kitchen and Ava in the main room, and neither of us had seen her.

  "Anyway, he said the Chocolate Bar has to stay closed until they're done processing it." She frowned. "Sucks."

  I knew that weekends were usually a busy time for Leah. Coffee and her delicious chocolate delicacies were a treat that the locals devoured. Even those who didn't like to admit they indulged were often spotted inside the store, their dark glasses disguising their identities from their personal trainers.