Clearly this was a sore subject. "I agree. No one is disputing that you deserve alimony."

  "Darn right they aren't!"

  "I was just wondering if maybe it was a source of contention in Heather and James's marriage."

  Leah crossed her arms over her chest. "I wouldn't know. Honestly, I don't know if James even shared his financial information with Heather. From what Spencer told me, she was just on an allowance."

  "Would it be too personal to ask what kind of alimony he was paying you?"

  "Yes," she shot back.

  I bit my lip. I'd definitely overstepped.

  Leah must have seen the regret on my face, as she let out a big breath. "Sorry," she said. "I'm not mad at you. It's just all of this—all of my dirty laundry suddenly being everyone's business. Spencer and I were doing fine in our new life until Heather showed up and made a mess of everything."

  I didn't point out that the situation hadn't turned out all peaches and cream for Heather either.

  "No, I'm the one who should be sorry," I apologized. "I didn't mean to pry. I just was hoping to find some other direction to push Grant toward."

  Leah reached across the table and took one of my hands in hers. "I know. And you have no idea how much I appreciate that."

  I squeezed back, glad we were back on good terms. "Can I show you a picture?" I asked her.

  "Of?" she said, leaning back to her chair again.

  I scrolled through my phone. "I found a photo that Ava took of the Man in Black."

  Leah gave me a blank look.

  "The man who was seen arguing with Heather just before her death." I turned the screen so Leah could see him. "Do you recall if he was one of your VIP guests?"

  She took the phone from me, a frown forming between her eyebrows as she inspected it. "Sorry, no. Most of the people I invited were from my former life. You know—people James's job afforded me access to before the split. I didn't invite anyone I didn't know." She handed the phone back to me. "And this guy is a stranger to me."

  I watched her, seeing no sign she was being untruthful. Which meant the Man in Black had crashed our party. Specifically to see Heather? I looked at the photo again myself. He definitely only had eyes for her, and the look in them was not one of adoration.

  The bell above the door jingled, and Leah stood to greet the customer.

  I turned my attention back to my latte and cake, savoring each bite as I idly scrolled through news stories on my phone. The local paper had, of course, run a story on Heather's death, but, at least according to them, the sheriff's office did not have any official suspects. While I knew they had at least one unofficial suspect, it was good news that they hadn't released a statement yet. Unofficial meant there still was not enough evidence to point to Leah. I hoped it stayed that way.

  A blog by a local foodie reporter, Bradley Wu, did a piece on Heather's life, which was interesting but unenlightening. She'd briefly worked as a cocktail server at a country club in San Jose, where she'd met James when he'd been there for a golf tournament. According to Wu, the two had hit it off immediately with "true love at first sight" and married quickly in a "fairy-tale whirlwind." Bradley had a bit of a flair for the dramatic. No mention of the first wife or whether or not Heather had been the "other woman." They did note that she'd "dabbled" in the wine trading business prior to her marriage, but since tying the knot, she'd been able to focus full-time on it, making quite a name for herself in the last year as the go-to woman for rare and vintage varietals.

  I was just scrolling through some photos of Heather at a recent event in Petaluma, when my phone buzzed with an incoming call from a number I didn't recognize.

  "Emmy Oak?" I answered.

  "Ms. Oak, it's a pleasure. This is James Atherton."

  I immediately glanced guiltily over my shoulder at Leah, as if I were somehow betraying my friendship to her by taking this call in her bakery.

  "Uh, yes. Hi," I stammered.

  "I got your message about wanting to chat about the sale of your winery," he said.

  I cringed even though I'd been the one to leave the message and knew it was purely a fictional desire. It just hit a little too close to home. Or too close to what my future looked like in my nightmares.

  "Right. Yes. I, uh, got your name from your wife, Heather," I told him. Which was really only half a lie. It was because of Heather that I'd gotten it, even if it hadn't come directly from her.

  He was silent for a beat on the other end, but the salesman in him quickly took over. "Yes. Well, I apologize that I wasn't in when you called, but I'm free to meet with you any time today, if you'd like."

  "How about now?" I asked, shooting another glance at Leah, who was helping a customer at the bakery counter.

  "Now?"

  "Yes, I can be there in half an hour."

  "Well, you are eager, aren't you? Alright, half an hour it is."

  "Perfect. I'll be at your offices then."

  He quickly rattled off the address before we hung up. I downed the rest of my coffee, left some money on the table, grabbed my pink to-go container, and gave Leah a little wave goodbye as I headed out the door. All the while still feeling slightly guilty that I was ducking out on seconds of her cake in order to interrogate her ex-husband.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Bay Cellars was one of the largest wineries in the region, sprawling just outside of town and employing a dizzying number of employees who did everything from menial labor to high volume sales. They distributed to every grocery chain in America and could arguably call themselves a household name. When it came to wineries, they were the polar opposite of Oak Valley Vineyards—their wines were inexpensive and mass produced to turn over the profits as fast as possible. And judging by the size of their operation as I pulled up to the factory, they were doing a mighty fine job of it.

  My stomach tensed as I walked through the main entrance. I would have liked to think it was pride, but as I looked around the room, noting the displays of fine glassware, row after row of beautifully labeled bottles, and the dozen or so people in the massive tasting room, I shamefully admitted it was envy growling like a monster.

  A dark haired woman dressed in designer jeans and a cropped leather jacket covering a high necked shirt stepped out from behind a massive stone reception counter and approached me.

  "Welcome to Bay Cellars," she said, her voice high pitched and tinny. "Are you here for a tour or a tasting?"

  "I'm actually here to see one of your sales managers. James Atherton?"

  She nodded. "Of course. Let me ring upstairs for him." She stepped back behind the counter, picking up a receiver and dialing. After a short murmured conversation, she turned back to me. "He'll be down in just a moment. You can wait for him in our tasting bar if you like."

  I thanked her and made my way into the crowded room where a sommelier was just placing clean glasses along the bar. The crowd of weekenders eagerly stepped up. He held a glass out to me and raised his eyebrows questioningly.

  "Would you care to join us?" he asked.

  "Sure. Why not?" I decided. May as well see what the competition had to offer. I mean, I didn't want to be rude.

  "You won't be disappointed," he said, pushing the glass across the marble bar top toward me.

  "We're starting with our reds," he announced to the crowd. "It's a Tempranillo. Originally these grapes are from Spain, but the climate here in Sonoma is perfect for them as well. You'll detect the aroma of the savory cherry and floral notes," he explained as ten people, including me, picked up their glasses and swished the beautifully colored liquid around, before inhaling the delicious aroma.

  "Oh boy, that's a big glass," one of the women in the group announced, with a small giggle.

  "We're trialing different styles of glasses today, as the size and shape of it can change the taste of the wine," the sommelier explained.

  "How so?" the lady asked.

  "It changes where the wine hits the palate, awakening different taste buds."

  I nodded my approval. He knew his stuff—I'd give him that. And the idea of different glass sizes was interesting. I wondered if maybe we could arrange a tasting around that. Give the customers samples of the same wine using different glasses and see what different notes they could detect. I made a mental note to run the idea by Jean Luc later.

  "Enjoying yourself, Ms. Oak?"

  The voice made me jump as I spun to find James Atherton's sparkling white smile. I'd been so engrossed in the wine that I hadn't even heard him walk in.

  "Yes, thanks," I replied, setting my glass down on the bar.

  "That's our latest Tempranillo. We only serve it seasonally here, but we're finding the limited run raises demand." He winked at me, as if sharing a seller's secret. "Shall we go up to my office?"

  I nodded, noticing that he was much taller than I'd anticipated from his photos. Over six feet, I guessed as I followed him down a corridor and up a spiraling staircase to the business offices. He was also a bit heavier than his photo had shown, and the salt was winning over the pepper in his hair, indicating that the publicity photos I'd seen of him were at least a few years old. Though, if he was feeling any grief at his recent loss, he was hiding it well. None of the bags I'd seen in the mirror that morning were present under his eyes, and the salesman's smile on his face seemed etched there permanently.

  "Please, have a seat," he said, leading me into an office with a breathtaking view of vineyards and rolling hills. A large desk sat in the center, several glass cupboards holding bottles stood opposite the windows, and a wall of commendations and photos sat behind us. Clearly business was good for James.

  I did as he suggested, sitting in a soft leather chair opposite his desk. It was cool against the bare skin on the back of my thighs below my shirtdress.

  "So, you're thinking of putting Oak Valley Vineyards on the market," he started, clasping his hands in front of him on the polished surface of his mahogany desk.

  I nodded, hating even pretending at this game. "Uh, yes. We're…just having a hard time making ends meet."

  He nodded. "Understandable. In this market small family operations can hardly compete with us."

  I inwardly cringed at how matter-of-factly he said it.

  "Exactly how many acres do you have?"

  I licked my lips. "Around ten."

  He nodded again, this time turning to his computer and typing some notes. "And the varietals of grapes you're currently growing?"

  "Pinot Noir, Chardonnay, Pinot Blanc, Zinfandel, and some Petite Sirah," I rattled off.

  He paused. "You're spread pretty thin for ten acres."

  "We do small run batches," I explained. "You know, it ups demand."

  His eyes shot to me for a minute, but I just gave my best innocent grin back, pretending he hadn't just said that a moment ago.

  Finally he turned back to his computer. "Anything else of value on the property?"

  "We also have a tasting facility and commercial kitchen for catering and events."

  He waved those off. "That will all be torn down. We're only interested in the grapes."

  Even though I knew this was hypothetical, the idea of tearing down the buildings my grandfather had built by hand caused my stomach to churn. And did little to endear me to the man sitting across from me, who would dismiss such history.

  "I'm sorry. I haven't offered my condolences on your loss yet," I said, hoping to get to my point in being here.

  "What?" James's head snapped up. "Oh, uh, yes. Heather." He paused, the first sign of emotion I'd seen poke through the salesman façade clouding his eyes. Though, whether it was sadness or guilt, I couldn't say. "You said you knew her?" he asked.

  "Briefly," I told him honestly. "I was co-hosting the event where she…passed," I finished, trying to think of the kindest terms to describe her murder.

  "Ah." James said, steepling his hands on his desk again. "Yes, I should have recognized the name."

  "I'm so sorry for your loss," I told him.

  He nodded somberly. "Thank you."

  "They, uh, they're saying she was killed?" I asked, hoping to open up conversation.

  "Yes. I hear the police are looking at my ex-wife."

  I'd heard that too. I tried to read from his expression if he believed Leah capable of it or not, but his face was neutral, giving nothing away.

  "Was there bad blood between the two?"

  James shook his head. "Honestly? I wouldn't have thought so. Not like that. But, as you probably know, my ex-wife owned the bakery where the event took place."

  "And you weren't there?" I said. Which I knew already, but exactly where he was was of interest.

  "No, unfortunately I had a meeting scheduled elsewhere. Which, actually was canceled at the last minute. I was on my way into town when I got the call about Heather."

  I perked up. If his meeting had been canceled, then there was no one who could actually vouch for his whereabouts when Heather was killed.

  "I got there as soon as I could," he continued. "But of course it was too late to do anything."

  "I'm sorry," I said for a third time. He was doing a bang-up job of saying all the things a grieving husband should, but none of it seemed to reach his eyes. Which, I noted, had been dry the entire time.

  "I, uh, wondered…" I trailed off, shifting forward in my seat.

  "Yes?" He looked at me expectantly.

  "I saw Heather at the event." True. "And she was talking with someone." Also true. "Arguing." Hearsay, but possibly true. I pulled up the photo of the Man in Black on my phone. "This man. Do you know him?"

  James leaned forward, squinting at the picture. I had the feeling he probably needed glasses, but it if was true, he was too vain to reach for them. "No, I'm sorry. I don't know him."

  "Could he have been a friend of Heather's?"

  James's expression darkened. "I couldn't say. Heather had lots of friends."

  His voice had an edge to it that told me I was in danger of pushing too far.

  I tucked my phone away, switching gears. "Heather was an avid golfer, wasn't she?"

  He nodded. "That's right."

  "I heard she was even taking lessons with the new golf pro." I watched his reaction carefully. "Daily lessons."

  While he'd had a lifetime of boardrooms to cultivate a poker face, he couldn't hide the way his eyes narrowed slightly and his back teeth clenched. "I wouldn't know anything about that."

  I'd have bet money that was a lie.

  I tried to come up with a delicate way to ask if his beautiful young wife might have been cheating on him and looking for a divorce and alimony. I must have tried too long, as James turned back to his computer.

  "How long did you say Oak Valley has been operating?"

  "Four generations," I told him. "Since the early 1900s."

  His salesman smile was back. "Impressive."

  "Thank you."

  "Most older facilities have long ago shut down."

  There was that cringe in my belly again.

  "I don't suppose you have any bottles from earlier eras in your stockrooms?"

  I nodded. "Actually, we do. Not from the original harvests, of course, but we have a few that date back to my grandparents' time, and several from the later twentieth century."

  James nodded, the smile growing. He seemed to show more emotion at the idea of rare wine than at his wife's passing.

  "Heather was a wine broker, correct?" I asked, trying to steer the conversation back to my reason for being here.

  James snorted. "That ridiculous hobby." He shook his head.

  I perked up. This felt like a sore spot. "Oh? I thought she had a burgeoning business."

  He let out a sardonic laugh, shaking his head. "You did, huh? Well, Heather was a master at making things look pretty and shiny."

  "What do you mean by that?"

  "What I mean was that 'business' of hers was costing me a pretty penny. I don't know how she talked me into putting up the capital to fund her inventory, but instead of seeing any return, I've been bailing her out of some bad purchases ever since."

  I frowned. Heather had been on my VIP list courtesy of my accountant, Gene Schultz. And Schultz rarely made a mistake where money was concerned. "Are you sure?" I asked. "I got the impression that she was doing a brisk business."

  "Briskly into bankruptcy," he countered. "Look, Heather knew wine, but she had no head for business, and really, she just wasn't used to dealing with this type of clientele."

  "What type would that be?"

  "High end. Take last week, for instance—I heard her on the phone arguing with a client."

  "You did?" I asked, mentally edging forward on my seat. "Arguing about what?"

  "I don't know, really. Something about a wine bottle. But I heard her tell him just where he could stick that bottle." He shook his head. "I told her you can't talk to this type of client like that. It's not how high end business is done."

  "Did she tell you who the client was?" I asked, suddenly seeing a whole new theory open up. If Heather had an angry client, it was possible he didn't stop at a phone call, maybe even cornered her at the party and confronted her.

  James shook his head. "No. She didn't say."

  "But it was a heated argument," I clarified.

  James's eyes narrowed as his posture stiffened defensively. "Wait—you're not trying to say one of her clients might have hurt her?"

  "Do you think that's possible?" I countered.

  But he shook his head vehemently. "Absolutely not. These aren't riffraff off the street we're talking about. She dealt with a select wealthy clientele only."

  And, of course, no one with money had ever killed anyone. "How did she meet these clients?" I asked.

  He frowned. "I-I don't know," he stammered. "I mean, I guess she met most of them at the club."

  "The Links?" I clarified.

  He nodded. "Yes. Jennifer introduced her around." He paused. "That would be Jennifer Foxton. Senator Foxton's wife," he added, clearly enjoying the namedrop. "The senator and I go way back."

  I nodded, trying to feign the appropriate amount of awe even as I was mentally making a note to chat with Senator Foxton's wife about the client Heather had been arguing with.