The wicked grin quirked the corners of David's lips again. "Well that sounds like a more interesting story. So you think Mrs. Atherton was playing hole in one with someone at the club?"

  I rolled my eyes. "Enough with the sixth-grade euphemisms."

  David threw his head back and let out a full laugh. "I forgot. You like to be direct, don't you, Miss Wine and Dine?"

  "So, be direct with me," I prompted. "Any idea who Heather might have been seeing here?"

  "If she was seeing someone?" Ava added.

  But David just shrugged his shoulders again. "I'm not exactly in the loop with the ladies who lunch," he told us. "But, if I had to make a wild guess…" He arched one dark eyebrow again, drawing out the suspense on purpose.

  "Yes?" I asked, hating that he had me on the hook.

  "That might have had something to do with her sudden interest in golf." He nodded toward the driving range to our right.

  Ava and I both turned our eyes in the direction he'd indicated. Several men and women in polo shirts and golf shorts whacked buckets of balls out onto the expansive green. But it was the man closest to us who immediately held my attention. He was tall and bronzed, and his blond hair gleamed in the sunlight like a golden halo. He wore a polo shirt in the same club blue as Byron. Only this man's uniform hugged his body like a second skin, showing off biceps that rippled with muscles. The tanned thighs beneath his white Bermuda shorts looked strong enough to crack walnuts. He currently had his arms wrapped around the back of a middle-aged woman, hands covering hers on a golf club as he guided her through the finer points of her swing. The look on the woman's face was pure ecstasy.

  "Who is he?" Ava asked.

  I swore I detected a gleam in her eyes as she watched the golden god.

  "Cole Jackson. New golf pro. Came on about six months ago, and I hear demand for lessons has almost doubled."

  "He's that good, huh?" I asked.

  David grinned again. "I wouldn't know. I don't swing that way."

  I couldn't help the small chuckle that escaped me.

  "So not all my innuendos are childish?" he asked, still grinning.

  I shook my head at him, though I had to admit he had a certain rough-around-the-edges charm. "So the ladies love the new golf pro. You think Heather was seeing him for more than just lessons?"

  David picked up his glass, sipping slowly. "I don't know. You'd have to ask him."

  * * *

  Twenty minutes and an empty glass of rosé later, Ava and I were standing in the pro shop, watching Cole Jackson bid his female client goodbye. As the woman walked away, her shoulders drooped, and I swore I detected a note of sadness in her eyes. Parting was such sweet sorrow. She went in the direction of the locker rooms, and Cole sauntered toward the back offices.

  I stepped forward, hoping to catch his attention.

  "Uh, excuse me?"

  He turned a pair of perfectly blue eyes our way. Or, I should say, Ava's way, as they quickly dismissed me and honed in on my best friend. I watched his gaze subtly yet seductively roam her soft, flowy skirt and low-cut blouse, his lips curving into a smile of approval that showed off a row of white teeth that would make any dentist proud.

  "Yes?" he asked Ava.

  "We, uh, were hoping to speak to someone about golf lessons." I was on a roll with the little white lies today.

  His gaze flickered briefly toward me before he answered Ava. Or more accurately, answered Ava's cleavage. "Lucky you, you've come to the right place." He took one of her hands in his, shaking it in a way that looked part greeting and part caress. "Cole Jackson."

  To her credit, Ava didn't react other than to smile breezily his way. "Ava Barnett. And this is my friend Emmy."

  "Nice to meet you." I waved. Which earned me the slightest flicker of attention my way again before his eyes want back to Ava. It was enough to give a girl a complex.

  "And you say you're looking for golf lessons?"

  Ava nodded. "My dad is a member here. I'd love to be able to keep up with him."

  Apparently my best friend was something of a small fibber too.

  But it had the desired effect, as Cole's smile widened, his eyes crinkling enticingly at the corners. "Well, why don't we step into my office," he suggested, motioning toward the back.

  I could well imagine many a female club patron being ecstatic to hear those words.

  I trailed along behind as Cole led Ava and "the girls" to a small room with a desk and a pair of leather chairs. I couldn't help my gaze going to his hips, swaying sexily with every step, almost hypnotizing. I wondered if it was intentional or natural swagger.

  "Can I offer you anything to drink?" he asked as he sat behind the desk.

  "No, thank you," I replied as Ava and I sat opposite him. For a high-end golf club, the chairs were surprisingly uncomfortable.

  "So, you said you're interested in lessons," he said, flashing Ava that bright smile again.

  I cleared my throat to get his attention. "Yes. A, uh, mutual friend told us how amazing you are," I said.

  Cole nodded. "Who's your friend?"

  "Heather Atherton," I offered, watching his expression.

  Cole didn't so much as blink, and I wondered if maybe he hadn't heard of her demise yet. "Oh?" was his only reaction.

  "Yes, she spoke very highly of you. You know before her…" I trailed off.

  Cole's smile finally dropped, his eyes going to the table. "Yes. A very tragic end to a beautiful life."

  Which held zero sincerity and sounded a lot like a rehearsed line.

  "You knew her well?" Ava asked.

  "She was a client," came the noncommittal reply.

  "How long had you been working with her?" I jumped in.

  His eyes shot up to meet mine for the first time, a questioning note in them. "Why do you ask?"

  "Uh…I just wondered how long it took for her swing to improve so much." I shot him a big toothy smile of my own, doing my best to project innocent curiosity.

  I wasn't sure it totally came across, but his expression softened.

  "We worked together for a few weeks. But, she did have daily lessons."

  "Daily?" I felt my eyebrows rise. "That sounds like a lot."

  "She was very dedicated," he said.

  I tried to read between the lines, but he wasn't giving me much.

  "I'm so sorry for your loss," Ava said, her big brown eyes warm with sympathy.

  But Cole remained a cool customer, just flashing that white smile again. "I appreciate the sentiment, but, really, I barely knew her."

  "You had daily lessons with her and barely knew her?" I asked, unable to keep the note of disbelief out of my voice.

  While the smile seemed reserved for Ava, the flashes of distrust kept being sent my way. This time it was accompanied by a pair of narrowed blue eyes. "What exactly are you trying to insinuate?" he asked.

  "Nothing," I backpedaled. "I just—Heather made it seem like you were close. Very close."

  "Heather was a married woman. And I was her golf instructor." While the words were a simple statement, the tone held a hint of menace to it that suddenly made me wonder where Cole Jackson had been the night of Heather's demise.

  "Did Heather's husband ever play with her?" Ava asked.

  "What?" His sandy brows drew together, his gaze bouncing back to Ava. Only this time he looked her in the eyes instead of the D cups.

  "James," I supplied. "I assumed he was a member here as well. Did they ever play golf together?"

  Cole snorted. "As if he would have taken time out of his busy day to spend time with her."

  I felt a surge of hope. That was an interesting statement. "So they didn't spend much time together?"

  Cole shook his head. "I promise you, Heather spent as little time as possible with that man. All he did was put her down. She hadn't said the right thing to this person, hadn't acted the right way at that party. The man cared more about his reputation than he did his own wife."

  Clearly we'd hit a sore spot. "Did Heather tell you this?" Ava asked.

  He paused before nodding. "You're her friend. I'm sure you've heard it too."

  Right. Like any real friend would have. "Yes," I said, vigorously agreeing. Maybe too vigorously, as his suspicious glare came my way again.

  "Poor James," Ava said, her perfectly pale brows drawing together. "He must feel awful about it all now that she's gone."

  Cole snorted again. "Relieved is more like it."

  "Oh?" I asked. "How so?"

  His gazed bounced from me to Ava before he leaned in confidentially. "Look, you didn't hear this from me, but the last time I saw the two together, they were arguing."

  "Really?" I said. "Did you happen to hear what it was about?"

  "I don't know. They were at the valet picking up a car, and there was lots of hushed tension. The only word I really caught was alimony."

  "Wait—was Heather leaving her husband?" Ava asked.

  Cole turned a blank face her way. "I wouldn't know. I'm just the golf instructor."

  Which I didn't believe for a second. My smart money was on Ava and me not being the only liars in the room.

  "So, shall we discuss your lesson?" he asked, turning the charm back on for Ava.

  She shot me an unsure look.

  I shrugged.

  "Uh, yes, let's discuss," she said, sending him a smile that was almost as wide and fake as his.

  I let the new info marinate in my mind as I sat quietly, listening to Cole give her the sales spiel and a handful of brochures. I could tell he was very good at his job. The plaque on the wall above his head told me that much, in glowing commendations, even if his smooth smile hadn't already hinted at charming the ladies of the Links into his pro shop. Charm seemed to be his stock in trade, and if Heather had fallen for it, and asked James for a divorce and alimony, maybe James hadn't taken the idea of cheating spouse quite as calmly as Leah had. Maybe he'd decided to end things on his terms. I surreptitiously checked my phone as I listened to Cole's pitch. Nada. Nothing back from James Atherton.

  Of course, there was also Cole himself. I'd bet a bottle of Screaming Eagle Cabernet that he was closer with Heather than he was letting on. What if she'd asked James for alimony, he'd refused, and Heather had ended it with Cole—sticking with her sugar daddy instead of her hot golfer on the side. Could Cole have been angry enough to kill Heather? I wondered just what he might be capable of if he took a blow to his goliath sized ego, like being dumped by Heather Atherton?

  When Cole finally let us go with a promise to call Ava later to schedule their first lesson, my booty was numb from the uncomfortable chair and my mind was still spinning with possibilities.

  Warm air hit me in the face as we stepped outside of the air conditioned pro shop.

  "Ohmigod, I thought we'd never get out of there. What a salesman," Ava said, fanning herself with a brochure as we walked under the flowering overhang toward the main club entrance.

  "He seems to be selling quite a lot to the ladies here," I said, gesturing to another woman in white heading, with a little spring in her step, toward the pro shop we'd just left.

  "I guess he is pretty hot," Ava admitted.

  "Yeah, but he knew it, and that's a major turnoff."

  "What's a turnoff is these prices," she replied, whistling. "How do these women afford him?"

  Walking past the bar as we left, I noted the $400 bottle of wine being consumed. For me that bottle would only be opened on special occasions, yet the two men in golf pants and loafers were drinking it like water.

  "Maybe they can well afford it," I replied.

  "Do you think their lives are as charmed as they look?" Ava asked, her heels clacking across the tiles as she pushed the brochure into her handbag.

  My thoughts immediately jumped to Heather. "Not all of them."

  Ava must have read my mind, as she said, "Poor Heather. She marries into the country club set only to be ridiculed by both her husband and her so-called friends. No wonder she turned to the arms of the hot golf pro."

  "Wonder what her husband thought of that," I mused out loud.

  "If he knew," Ava added.

  "If," I agreed, checking my phone again for a nonexistent call back from him.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  After saying my goodbyes to Ava, I headed home to get some much needed work done. With my winery manager gone, unfortunately my workload had suddenly doubled. Which was compounded by the fact that our bottle washing machine had died just before our manager had quit, and we now had to wash all the recycled bottles by hand before they went into the sterilizer. Or, more accurately, I had to do it. I could have begged Conchita to help, but considering it was my lack of funding that was forcing us to use recycled wine bottles in the first place, I felt it only right that I picked up the slack.

  "Hi, Hector," I called to our vineyard manager as I entered the shed where the wine production was done and pushed my sleeves up, ready to get to work. Our production shed was large, was as old as my great-grandmother, was timber clad, and had a cement floor that was washed religiously. The far corner held a sterilizer and the dead washing machine, and the filtration system and bottling line was along the other wall.

  "How's my Emmy?" Hector asked, his voice holding a calm, deep comforting tone that instantly put me at ease. Years of too much sun as he tended the grapes had left Hector with more wrinkles than he knew what to do with. But when his craggy face grinned, sunshine and mischief radiated from within, and the years melted away from his appearance. "Life treating you well today, my girl?"

  "Could be better, but it could be a lot worse," I replied honestly.

  "Yeah, we could have had the latest delivery of bottles." He grinned.

  I groaned. "That'll be tomorrow's job. What are you up to?"

  "One of the day workers alerted me to a mess in the western plot. Looks like a wild pig got into the vines last night."

  Feral pigs were the worst. They dug for the roots, destroying the grapevine. "Much damage?" I asked, mentally crossing my fingers that we hadn't lost a lot.

  "I think it looks worse than it is, but I'll know more when I get started on the cleanup."

  I hoped Hector was right and that the vines weren't destroyed. We could handle a broken fence, but to lose the plants would mean there would be no grapes, and no grapes meant no wine. And that was something we couldn't afford.

  Hector waved as he exited the shed, and I turned my attention to the pile of bottles.

  I zoned out, feeling the hot, soapy water heat my skin, the lemon scent of the liquid drifting up and calming me. After the dead body in our cellar a couple of months ago, Ava had recommended an app to help me relax and sleep. It recommended clearing your mind and focusing on just being. I tried the practice now, hoping to calm the swirling thoughts of murderers and cake knives out of my mind, but it turned out it was a lot harder to think of nothing than I realized. The longest I could go before my mind wandered into a different direction was three seconds. I didn't think that was very good, but we all had to start somewhere, right?

  Once the last bottle was loaded into the sterilizer, I hung up my gloves and headed into the main building for a much needed coffee. And maybe a leftover chocolate scone. That was going to relax me far more than an app.

  I grabbed a plate and sat at a stool at the kitchen counter with my laptop, opening up the attachments Ava had sent me earlier.

  Waiting for the photos to appear, I enjoyed a bite of the reheated scone and sipped my coffee. The bitter, sweet, and silky flavors of the coffee, cinnamon, and chocolate played nicely together on my tongue, and I was a step closer to achieving Zen.

  The photos finally downloaded, and I pulled up the first one in my previewer—an artful shot of the molten lava cake tower next to our signature label Pinot Noir before the guests had arrived. Ava was right—it would be perfect for our next event promotions. I scrolled through more pictures of the food and wine before guests started appearing in the backgrounds. I slowly flipped through every photo, pausing when Caroline Danvers' face filled the screen. Jennifer was a step behind her, and Heather was just walking in the door. I felt a pang of sadness that these were the last pictures of Heather anywhere. I made a mental note to send copies to her husband. You know—in the event he ever got back to me. And wasn't her killer.

  I went through several pictures of the three frenemies—slowly sipping wine, sending each other wan smiles, heads together as they chatted, probably about whose fillers were overdone and whose shoes were last season. Then Ava moved on to other groupings, getting shots of people sipping, laughing, and generally enjoying themselves with my wine. All lovely for promotional purposes. Not much help for ferreting out a murderer.

  Until I spotted something in the corner of one of the photos. A cowboy hat.

  I paused, hitting the magnifying glass icon on my computer to zoom in. Sure enough, it was a tall dark haired man all in black. His facial features were a little grainy zooming in so far, but I scrolled to the next couple of shots, finding one where he was more in the foreground. He looked in his late forties to early fifties—though his face was lined and weathered, so it was hard to gauge. His eyes were dark and hooded, and he had a small scar cutting through his right eyebrow that instantly made me think bar fight. I could tell right away he was definitely not any of the men on my guest list that I'd googled earlier. Either he was one of Leah's guests, or he'd crashed the party. Possibly to kill Heather? I wasn't sure, but Caroline's story about him and Heather arguing suddenly had legs as I noted the way he was scowling as he shot a glare across the room—right at Heather Atherton.

  "Am I interrupting?"

  I jumped about mile in my seat at the sound of a deep male voice at the doorway to the kitchen. My heart only mildly calmed down as I looked up to find Detective Grant filling said doorway, his broad frame awaiting entry.

  "You scared the crap out of me," I admitted. I immediately shut my laptop, as if I'd been caught with a hand in the suspect jar.

  "Sorry," he said, coming into the room. "Jean Luc said you were in here." He gestured to the stool beside mine. "Mind if I sit?"