"Did he tell you how long that will take?"

  She shook her head. "Not really."

  "I talked to someone today who said they saw Heather outside the shop last night," I said, watching her reaction carefully. "Heather was talking to someone. A man in a cowboy hat. Do you know him?"

  Leah pursed her lips together. "I don't recall seeing anyone in a hat. But, then again, I spent most of the night hiding out in the kitchen."

  "He was tall, had dark hair?" I prompted.

  But she just shook her head. "Sorry, I don't know. I mean, I invited a lot of people. I suppose anyone could have worn a hat."

  She had a good point.

  "And it wasn't as if we had a bouncer at the door. Anyone could have come in off the street."

  Which narrowed our Man in Black down to anyone in Sonoma. Who, honestly, could have been talking to Heather about anything under the sun. The timing was unlucky, but it didn't necessarily mean he'd had anything to do with her death. And, if I was being honest with myself, it wasn't as if Caroline made the most reliable witness.

  "Why do you ask?" Leah said, pulling me out of my thoughts.

  I shook my head. "No reason," I decided. While Caroline's story had been compelling, the more I thought about it, the more I realized what a wild goose chase it could be. "How are you holding up?" I asked Leah, dropping the subject.

  She hugged her oversized sweater tighter around herself. "Okay, I guess. Trying to hold it together for Spencer, you know." Her eyes suddenly teared up with real emotion at the mention of her son. "He's at my mom's right now. I didn't want him here when the police were."

  I felt an immediate pang of sympathy. Spencer was Leah's seven-year-old son. I'd only met him a couple of times, but he was a four-foot-tall walking encyclopedia of all things Transformers and loved anything with fur that breathed. Death was hard enough on adults, but I couldn't imagine how Spencer must be taking the death of his stepmother—never mind the fact that his mother might be the police's number one suspect.

  "Is he okay?"

  She nodded. "He's actually handling it pretty well. Maybe better than I am." She hugged herself again. "I mean, not that he and Heather were close or anything."

  "How well did you know Heather?" I asked, hoping I wasn't prying too much.

  She frowned. "I'm not mourning her death, if that's what you mean."

  Which I hardly expected. "I guess I was just wondering if you knew who might have wanted to harm her."

  Leah gave a wry smile. "Anyone who had met her?"

  I had to admit Heather hadn't seemed overly warm and friendly to me, but the barbs I'd seen her give her friends seemed a far cry from a cake knife in the back. Yet I could tell by the edge creeping into Leah's voice that it was a sore subject. I decided to switch gears. "You never told me much about your divorce from James."

  Leah sighed. "There's not much to tell. I mean, classic story. We married young when he was just entry level at Bay Cellars. Had Spence, bought a place in the suburbs. James worked his way up the corporate ladder, and as soon as we were making decent money, he decided he needed a trophy wife to go with his new big shot image."

  "Ouch," I said.

  She shrugged again. "We're better off without him."

  I hesitated to share the rumor Caroline had told me, but I carefully phrased my next question. "Did you know if Heather and James were having any problems?"

  She raised an eyebrow my way. "Why? Who told you that?"

  "No one, really. It's just a rumor," I said truthfully.

  Leah let out a bark of laughter. "Well, wouldn't that be ironic."

  "How so?"

  Leah crossed her arms over her chest. "I caught James cheating on me while we were married."

  "With Heather?" I asked.

  She paused. "Not specifically," she admitted. "Look, I saw all the signs and chose to ignore them for Spencer's sake. James came home smelling like perfume, he had lipstick on his clothes, late nights at work. All the clichés, and I know I was an idiot not to pay attention to it, but I wanted to believe we could make it work."

  I put a sympathetic hand on her arm but remained silent as she continued.

  "Finally, I couldn't ignore it anymore when I saw charges for a motel room on his credit card statements. He'd used his card! It's like he wasn't even trying to hide it anymore."

  "I'm sorry," I offered.

  She shrugged. "I confronted him, and he finally broke down and said he'd been seeing someone and wanted a divorce. But he never told me who. Of course, I suspected later when he and Heather married practically before the ink was dry on our divorce papers."

  So Heather had not only been the hot new wife, she'd also been the other woman who'd broken up Leah's marriage. Or at least had a contributing hand in it, from Leah's point of view.

  "You never confronted Heather about it?" I asked.

  Leah shook her head. "Look, I just wanted to move on and put all of that behind me. Start a new life for Spencer and me, you know?" She sniffed. "Easier said than done now, right?"

  I phrased my next question carefully. "Leah, how badly do you think James would want to avoid another messy divorce?"

  Leah narrowed her eyes. She was a smart cookie, and I could see her mind following my train of thought. "You think maybe James had something to do with Heather's death?"

  I bit my lip. "Do you?"

  Leah inhaled deeply, digesting that question. "No." She shook her head. "No, I can't believe James would be capable of that kind of violence."

  "He never displayed any while you were married?"

  She was still shaking her head, though whether it was to convince me or herself, I wasn't sure. "Violence? No. Pompous, egotistical, liar? Absolutely. But there's no way he would kill someone."

  I wondered how much of that assessment was based on reality and how much was based on the fact we were talking about her son's father. Did Leah really think her ex-husband incapable of killing, or was this too just for Spencer's sake?

  * * *

  I left Leah with a hug and a promise to check in on her tomorrow and headed back to my Jeep. But before I pulled out of the condo complex, I googled James Atherton on my phone. The profile of the Bay Cellars acquisitions manager immediately popped up, showing a man in a brown suit, with a megawatt smile and a generous dusting of salt and pepper at his temples. He wasn't exactly classically handsome, but he wasn't repulsive either. The type of average, forgettable face that blended into a crowd. I could tell he was a good decade older than Heather had been. Had Heather been seeing someone younger at the golf club? Maybe James had found out about it and stabbed her in a fit of jealousy. Or maybe it had been more calculating—setting up an alibi with his scheduling "conflict" that night when in reality he was getting rid of a problem before it could start demanding alimony.

  On a whim, I called the phone number under James Atherton's name. I nervously picked at the skin around my finger nail as I listened to the call connect and then divert to his voicemail.

  "You've reached James Atherton," said a voice that was deep and laced with a hint of self-importance. "I can't take your call right now, but please leave a message at the tone, and I'll respond ASAP."

  I almost hung up, but as the beep sounded, I found myself saying, "Hi, this is Emmy Oak. My family owns Oak Valley Vineyards and…we're thinking of selling," I said, frankly surprised how easily the little white lie came to me. "I wondered if you might be free to chat. Please call me back." I ended the call with my cell number and hung up, hoping my ten little acres were enticing enough to arrange a face-to-face meeting with the recent widower.

  Then I dialed Ava's number.

  She picked up on the third ring. "Silver Girl fine jewelry, how may I help you?"

  "Hey, it's me," I said. "You busy?"

  "Unfortunately, not really. It's slow for a weekend here. I think the wine walk downtown is sucking my business."

  "Sorry."

  "No worries. It's only once a year. So what's up?"

  I quickly filled her in on my visit from Caroline and chat with Leah. "She seemed so defeated," I told her when I finished.

  "I wonder…"Ava trailed off.

  "What?"

  "Well, I kind of remember the guy in the cowboy hat from the party. Caroline's Man in Black."

  "Did you know him?" I asked, hope lifting.

  "No."

  I heard hair rustling on the other end as she shook her head.

  "But it's possible I caught him on camera at some point. I mean, I took a crapton of photos."

  "Could you send them to me?" I asked.

  "Sure."

  I heard more rustling as she moved around her shop.

  "Gimme a sec, and I'll email them over."

  I waited, listening to her connect her camera to her computer and send the files through cyberspace to me.

  "Okay, check your inbox."

  I did, putting her on speaker and pulling the phone away from my ear to see a large attachment come in. I opened the preview, scrolling through what looked like hundreds of pictures. "Wow, this is going to take forever."

  "Sorry. I said there were a crapton."

  I sighed. "I should probably just tell Grant all about everything and leave it all to the authorities, right? I mean they have the resources for this kind of thing."

  "Maybe," Ava hedged. "But what would you really tell him? That Caroline saw someone in a hat talk to Heather, and Heather may or may not have liked to golf a lot?"

  I blew out a breath. "Well, when you put it like that."

  "Let's face it. All we have are rumors."

  "So we should just leave it alone?"

  "Oh contraire, my friend," Ava countered, a hint of mischief in her voice. "Look, who's in a better position to find out if the rumors are true—us or Grant?"

  I thought of Grant interviewing Caroline. I had a feeling she'd consider a detective to be as beneath her as a man in a cowboy hat. Not that Ava and I were really "her kind," but lips were likely to be slightly looser around a couple of nonthreatening blondes than a VCI detective.

  "I don't know…" I said.

  "Maybe we could at least find out if there's any merit to Caroline's story about Heather and someone at the club. Just ask around a bit."

  I guessed that sounded safe enough. "Any chance your dad might be able to get us an invite to the Links?" I asked.

  The only other time I'd been there as a guest, it had been at the invitation of Ava's father, Ken Barnett, a longtime member who had been golfing on their course since before it was trendy to do so.

  "That would be a no-go," she responded. "Mom and Dad are on an Alaskan cruise. Fiftieth wedding anniversary."

  "Wow. Good for them."

  "I do know someone else who is a member." She paused. "But I'm not sure you're going to like it."

  Oh boy. "Who?" I was afraid to ask.

  "David Allen."

  I cringed. David Allen was a tall, dark, and brooding artist from a seriously dysfunctional wealthy family, whom I didn't trust as far as I could spit. I'd met David Allen a few months ago when his stepfather had been found poisoned in my wine cellar. While David had been cleared of the murder, I wouldn't exactly say he'd been 100% innocent. But something about his bad-boy artist vibe had intrigued Ava, and they'd recently struck up a friendship that I warned her not to let veer into much more. Whether she was heeding that warning or not, I wasn't sure.

  "You're right," I told her. "I don't like it.

  "But you'll go along with it?"

  I thought of the way Leah had teared up at the mention of her son. What would happen to Spencer if Grant actually did more than suspect Leah—like arrest her?

  "I'll go along with it," I agreed. "Call David Allen."

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The Sonoma Links was lavish, boasting a world class eighteen-hole golf course that often played host to local tours or charity events. It was the place to see and be seen, whether you were actually playing golf or just gossiping about it in the lounge over an oaky Chardonnay. We valeted the car and walked up to the cream-colored building, with a terra-cotta roof, that practically frowned upon us as we stepped under the portico, almost challenging us to prove we were good enough to enter. I held my head high and looked down my nose, hoping I blended with the three other women entering the foyer alongside us.

  The glass doors effortlessly glided open to reveal a vaulted ceiling that was at least two stories high, surrounded by gables of glass allowing the brilliant blue sky to reflect upon the white marble floor. The muted sounds of flutes competed for air space with the soft scent of the lilies, and the walnut reception counter was so highly polished I could see my reflection as we walked up to it.

  The man standing behind it gave us a toothy smile. "Good afternoon, ladies. May I help you?"

  "Good afternoon"—Ava glanced at the nameplate on his breast pocket—"Byron," she finished, pulling a smile to match his. "We're guests of David Allen."

  Even hearing the words out loud made me cringe. I tried to put on a toothy smile to match the other two, but it might have come out more of a grimace.

  "Welcome. If you could just sign the visitors' book first," he said, "I believe Mr. Allen is on the terrace."

  "Thanks." Ava tucked an imaginary strand of hair behind her ear and moved toward the visitors' book. Her signature was large and swirly, and she even added a little heart above the i when she wrote my full name in beside hers.

  "Thanks so much, Byron," she trilled, fluttering her eyelashes demurely.

  His grin flashed bright as she gave him a one-finger wave and led me through the foyer.

  "What was that?" I asked, following her through a large set of white oak and glass doors that led to a terrace.

  "What?"

  "All the eyelash fluttering and flirty smiles?"

  "I wasn't flirting," she said, punching me playfully on the arm. "But it never hurts to have a friend at the club, right?"

  She had a good point. I'd be happy to have any friend other than the one we were about to meet.

  We made our way down a short corridor toward the sounds of clinking glasses and lively chatter that led us to the outdoor bar. The view that greeted me off the terrace was nothing short of breathtaking. The light terrazzo tiles accentuated the green of the fairways that sprawled for miles in front of the wide steps leading down toward it. To my left was a large area where expensively dressed ladies sipped wine and champagne under umbrellas, with servers dressed only in white attending to their every whim. On the fairway, the air filled with the distant thump of metal clubs hitting golf balls.

  I spied David sitting at a small table near the back, under a banner touting that the Wine Country Invitational would be hosted there the following day. His too long hair hung rebelliously in his eyes, and his tall length was encased in dark jeans and a black T-shirt that hung loosely on his frame. His expression was exactly the way I'd remembered it—boredom bordering on contempt.

  "David!" Ava hailed him as we approached.

  He looked up, and the boredom turned into an almost wicked smile as he caught sight of us. "Hello there, doll," he said, rising to greet Ava with a hug.

  Then he turned to me. "And Doll's friend," he said, tipping his head my way.

  "Emmy," I corrected.

  The corner of his mouth turned up. "Trust me, I remember you." He gestured to the table. "Please, sit."

  We did, Ava taking the spot closest to him, while I sat across the table.

  "Can I buy you ladies a drink?" he asked, not waiting for an answer before he hailed a server and ordered three glasses of a sparkling rosé. I made no attempt to stop him. Hey, it was after noon, and who was I to turn down free rosé?

  "So what have you been up to lately?" Ava asked our host.

  He shrugged. "Business as usual."

  "Still card sharking?" I asked. While David's above board profession was struggling artist, I knew from my previous encounters with him that he enjoyed a card game now and again. And, miraculously, he almost always won. I still wasn't sure if he was brilliant or a cheater, but I guessed it was probably a combination of both.

  David shook his head at me. "Shark is such a dirty word," he said, chiding me.

  "It's a dirty practice."

  David's wicked grin grew. "Then guess I'm just a dirty boy."

  I shifted in my seat. I told myself it was the heat of the sunlight on my back, but it probably had more to do with the predatory gleam in David's eyes.

  "So, what brings you ladies to the links?" David asked, turning to Ava as he splayed his arms across the back of her chair in a casual pose. I thought I detected a whiff of marijuana along with his expensive aftershave.

  "Well," Ava said, "other than enjoying your company, we were hoping to get the lowdown on a little club gossip."

  David shook his head. "I'm afraid you've come to the wrong place, babe. You know me. I couldn't care less about whose Tesla is parked in whose garage." He winked my way, as if making sure I got his innuendo.

  I was never quite sure if David was flirting with me, or just playing at the flirt to make me uncomfortable. Either way, it had the aforementioned effect, my cheeks heating slightly.

  "Did you know Heather Atherton?" I asked him, challenging his flirt head-on with eye contact.

  "The dead girl?" he asked.

  I nodded, pausing as the wine arrived and I took a cooling sip.

  "I'd seen her around," he answered, sipping at his own glass. "She was hard to miss. Didn't she used to be a model?"

  Honestly, I had no idea who she was prior to being Mrs. Atherton. But I could well imagine the willowy brunette I'd met at the tasting on the cover of Vogue.

  "I think she was a wine collector," Ava offered. "Right, Emmy?"

  I set my glass down. "Right. A broker, actually. She was also an avid golfer."

  David raised one dark eyebrow at me. "If you say so."

  "Or," Ava said, shooting a look my way, "she was just spending a lot of time on the links for another reason."