Clearly they thought they were alone. Cole's hand squeezed Caroline's bottom as he guided her toward a utility shed with a door marked Club Staff Only. He pushed it open with his free hand, and Caroline let out that giggle again as she entered. The door closed quietly behind them, cutting off my view

  Though I had a good idea what they were up to.

  Caroline had insinuated that something was going on between Cole and Heather. Silly me, the thought hadn't even crossed my mind that Caroline might be getting golf lessons as well. I suddenly wondered how Heather had felt about that—sharing her side piece with her frenemy. Had the two argued about it? Caroline had left the Wine and Chocolate party early…but that didn't mean she hadn't come back and offed Heather in the alleyway in some sort of fit of jealousy. And hadn't it been Caroline who'd made a point of telling me about this mysterious Man in Black she'd seen as she'd left. For all I knew, he was a compete red herring in all this and Caroline had made up the argument she'd witnessed just to throw suspicion off herself.

  My head was whirling with theories that this new development offered up as I made my way back to the valet station. I was so engrossed in them that I didn't even see the man standing at the head of the garden path until I rounded the hedge and nearly plowed right into him.

  "Sorry," I mumbled, looking up into his eyes.

  Dark eyes. Filled with hazel flecks that were, right now, running an active relay as they stared me down.

  Detective Grant.

  CHAPTER NINE

  "G-Grant," I said, taking an unsteady step backward in my heels. Unsteady enough I instinctively grabbed a handful of his shirt to keep from falling over as he reached out for my arm and pulled me close.

  "Fancy meeting you here," he said, his deep, low, and so close voice causing goose bumps to dance over my entire body.

  "I could say the same thing," I told him, licking my suddenly too dry lips. I realized that I still had a handful of his shirt and quickly released it, smoothing the fabric and noting his pecs underneath it. I might have smoothed a bit longer and harder than I had intended, but once I started, it was hard to stop.

  Grant looked down at me, a questioning smile beginning to crease the corners of his eyes. "What exactly were you doing?" he asked me once I was sure that I could stroke the fabric no more.

  "You had wrinkles in your shirt," I explained, clearing my throat. "Can't have you walking around a place like this looking messy."

  The smile widened, amusement at my expense clear on his face. "I meant, before you walked into me. What are you doing here?"

  "Uh…here? At the Links? I was…having a glass of Moscato." Which was totally truthful, even if it did leave out a few details.

  "Really?" he arched an eyebrow my way. "You don't strike me as the country club set."

  I crossed my arms over my chest. "Is that an insult?"

  He laughed out loud, the sound an unexpected rumble that washed a new wave of goose bumps over me. "On the contrary. I think it was a compliment."

  The sexy detective just complimented me. I tried not to let that go to my head. "What are you doing here?" I countered.

  "I'm investigating a murder," came the simple response.

  I felt a small lift of hope in my chest. "You mean you think maybe a member here had something to do with Heather's death?"

  He paused, clearly taking care with his wording. "I think there may be some information to be gleaned here that may be pertinent to her death."

  "So, you're looking in a direction other than Leah?" I clarified, that hope spreading.

  Grant gave me his blank, unreadable Cop Stare. He sucked in a breath, blowing it out through his nose as his eyes assessed my face. Finally he did a quick glance in both directions and put an arm around my shoulder to lead me away from the walkway, as he lowered his voice.

  "Look, Leah was here the day before Heather died."

  "What?" Even the heat coming from Grant's touch didn't mitigate my shock at that statement. "What do you mean, here? She wasn't a member."

  "No, she wasn't. She came in uninvited. She was turned away at reception, but a witness says she refused to leave and they called security."

  A witness at reception. What did you want to bet her name was Jeannie? I suddenly wondered if that was where she'd been when Byron had hailed us—giving a statement to Grant.

  "Did you ask Leah why she was here?"

  "Not yet," Grant admitted. "But apparently she was asking for Heather."

  I licked my lips again, though the nervous habit was for a whole other reason. "Did she see Heather?"

  Grant nodded slowly.

  "What happened?" I almost didn't want to know.

  He blew out a breath again, and I could see a hint of sympathy in the hazel flecks, moving slower now. "The two were involved in an altercation. Security was called, but by the time they arrived, it had escalated to the point of assault."

  "Assault?" I repeated, hating how this story was unfolding.

  More nodding. "Leah punched Heather, leaving her with a bloody nose."

  That hope crashed and burned into a lead ball in my gut. "She didn't!"

  Grant sighed. "I'm afraid she did."

  "But why?" I asked. "I mean, Heather must have provoked her. Leah isn't violent." At least not that I'd ever seen.

  But there was more.

  "More than one witness has stated that as security arrived, they heard Leah threaten Heather," Grant went on. "She was quoted as telling Heather to 'watch her back.'"

  I closed my eyes and thought a really dirty word. Of all the stupid…

  "Look, it was just coincidence, I'm sure," I said, opening my eyes to face Grant again. "I mean, how stupid would Leah have to be to say that and then actually stab the woman in the back?"

  Grant shrugged. "I don't know."

  "Leah is not stupid," I defended.

  "I never said she was."

  "But you're saying she's a murderer?"

  "I'm saying," he said slowly, as if talking to a six-year-old, "that there is ample evidence of assault and verbal threat from her to the victim just before the victim expired."

  "Which are coincidence," I repeated.

  Grant ran a hand through his hair, making it fall sexily into his eyes. If I'd done that, mine would have frizzed in all directions.

  "Emmy, your loyalty to your friend is admirable."

  "Thank you."

  "But it's not evidence."

  I shut my mouth with a click. Mostly because I had no argument to that. He was right—my belief in Leah wasn't going to sway a jury any more than it was swaying Grant.

  "I have to follow the evidence, and as much as you may want to think Leah didn't kill Heather, it's what the evidence says that matters."

  I hated his rationale, but I couldn't argue with it.

  "She didn't do this," I said again, even though it sounded weak to my own ears. His logic had taken the fight out of it.

  "For your sake, I hope not," he said, taking a step toward me, closing the gap our argument had created.

  Warmth radiated off of him, and I resisted the urge to reach out and touch that strong, comforting chest again.

  "But please leave the investigating to me," he said, his voice low and soft.

  "I was just having wine," I protested weakly, my heart pounding at his nearness, making it hard to focus on anything else.

  "Okay. Just have wine somewhere where I'm not investigating a murder. Okay?"

  "Okay," I agreed. Even though I was mentally crossing my fingers behind my back. As long as Grant was looking in Leah's direction, I owed it to her to keep going in another.

  Grant narrowed his eyes at me. "Really?"

  Dang, he was a good cop. He could sniff out a lie before it even happened.

  Thankfully, his cell phone rang, diverting his attention before he could interrogate further. Because I knew under those intense hazel flecks, I was a goner. I'd crack like a piggy bank when the ice cream man drove by.

  My shoe kicked at a pebble lying on the terrazzo tile, and I concentrated on it while Grant ahahed and hmmed and finally told whoever was on the other end that he was on his way.

  "Duty calls," he said, pushing his phone into the pocket of his jeans. "Can I walk you to your car?"

  I'd like to think he asked so that he could spend more time with me, but I had a suspicion he just wanted to ensure that I left the premises.

  "Sure," I agreed.

  By the time we were back at the valet station, my Jeep was, thankfully, at the curb. Grant opened the door for me, ever the gentleman, closing it and leaning on my window.

  "Stay out of trouble, okay?" he said, the corners of his mouth turning up in a hint of humor even though I knew he meant it.

  "I'm never in trouble," I replied.

  He let out a small laugh. "That I don't believe for a second." Then he walked away, disappearing inside the country club.

  I watched him the entire way, noting the way his jeans molded his backside to perfection and how his shirt stretched across his back, hinting at the muscles underneath.

  Down, girl. It was seriously not like me to drool like a teenager over a man. Let alone a man intent on putting my friend in jail. I gave myself a mental shake, making a promise to keep Grant out of my mind. And, unlike the promise I'd made to him to stay out of all of it, this one I intended to keep.

  * * *

  As I pulled away from the club, I used my hands-free to call Leah. I listened to it ring as I wound down the long drive, flanked by tall cypress trees and stately oaks. Finally her voicemail sang down the line a cheery request for a message.

  "…please leave your name and number, and I'll call you back," her voice chirped. She'd obviously recorded it in happier times.

  "Hey, Leah, it's Emmy. Can you call me when you get this please? It doesn't matter what time it is. Just ring. Thanks." I tried to keep my tone light, not wanting to freak her out.

  Then I drove home and realized I hadn't eaten in hours. After perusing the contents of the refrigerator, I decided on a simple Lemon Artichoke Chicken. Usually I marinated the chicken overnight for a faster cook, but I was in no rush. In fact, the rhythmic chopping, seasoning, and sizzling of the work helped to soothe my mind and get me closer to Zen than the breathing app had. As I popped the chicken and artichoke hearts into the oven to finish cooking, I decided to give the dish a Mediterranean flavor profile by adding an olive and parsley gremolata on top. Once it was all assembled, I took it into my office, attempting to get a little work done while I ate. Even if thoughts of Heather's murder kept creeping to the forefront of my mind.

  While I still liked James's motive as the discarded husband passed over in favor of the hot young golf pro, I had to admit that seeing Caroline and Cole together had thrown a whole new light on the women's relationship. I suddenly wondered if the thinly veiled barbs I'd seen the two exchanging the night of the Wine and Chocolate party were symptoms of a much deeper rivalry. One that might have turned deadly?

  Or had Heather's death have nothing to do with her personal life and been about a wine deal gone wrong? James had been sure Heather had rubbed at least one client the wrong way…but just how unhappy had he or she been?

  I finished my last bite of tangy, buttery chicken and pushed my plate to the side as I turned to my computer. Jennifer had rattled off the names of a few of Heather's clients, but I wondered just how many there might have been. And how much they'd paid for her services. Brokers usually took a small fee for connecting sellers with buyers, the percentage based on the ultimate cost of the wine. Collectible bottles could go from anywhere in the low hundreds to the mid six figures. Many collectors considered them investments, and buying and selling was much more than just a fun hobby for them.

  Unfortunately, there was precious little information about it all online—most collectors preferring private deals to public bidding, for obvious reasons. If it was public knowledge how much you'd paid for a rare bottle, you had a hard time asking much more for it from a seller on the other end.

  Which meant if we really wanted to know if something about Heather's deal gone wrong was worth killing over, we needed to look at her private records.

  I grabbed my phone, dialing Ava's number.

  "Hey, it's me," I said when she picked up two rings in. "Got plans tonight?"

  CHAPTER TEN

  "Black clothing—check. Flashlight—check. Appropriate footwear—check. I think we're set."

  Who knew Ava had so much knowledge when it came to breaking and entering?

  "I'm not sure that your three-inch wedged heel boot is considered appropriate for what we're about to do," I muttered.

  "What? You don't think they're cute?"

  "Oh, they're cute alright. Just not what I would have chosen."

  "Well, they were all I had."

  "Don't you own a pair of sneakers?" I asked.

  "Sure, but they're white. Not the favorite choice of cat burglars."

  "We're not cat burglars. We're not stealing anything. Just looking around."

  "Yeah, well, I'm sure Grant will take that into consideration if we get caught."

  Her words caused my heart rate to pick up. "I do not plan on getting caught," I told her.

  "Right. Sure. I mean, I just said if."

  Her confidence did nothing to slow my pulse. I prayed that the veins in my head could handle the pressure. Having a stroke was not something I wanted to do, but having a stroke while breaking into James and Heather Atherton's house was even less appealing.

  "You're sure James isn't home?" Ava asked for the third time as I slowed my Jeep to a crawl down his street, checking house numbers for the right one.

  "Positive. Leah told me last week about this thing at Spencer's school. A play."

  "What production?"

  "Aladdin," I told her as I found the right house, slowly passing it and parking up the street a bit, where a large yew hedge shielded the car from the homes beyond. "Leah said she wanted to take him, but it was James's turn. She did the last school event—bake sale."

  "Ah. I remember that. I bought way too many brownies."

  "Anyway, he should be gone for a least a couple of hours. Longer if the kids drag it out."

  "It's a wonder James didn't cancel," Ava mulled as we exited the car. "What with his wife dying only a couple days ago."

  Shoot. That thought hadn't occurred to me. Ava must have picked up on my hesitation as she turned to me and said, "He didn't cancel, did he?"

  I shrugged. "I'm not sure," I admitted. I looked back at the Atherton house. "But the lights in the house aren't on, so I'm going for no?" It came out more as a question than a statement.

  "Okay, then lead on, Cagney."

  I tried not to roll my eyes. "If we're gonna be seventies detectives, can we at least be Charlie's Angels?"

  "Ohmigod, I loved that show. I even had the lunchbox," she said, slipping a black baseball cap on her head.

  I did the same, tucking my hair under an old SF Giants cap.

  James and Heather's home fronted a semi-busy street. It wasn't a thoroughfare, but it wasn't a quiet cul-de-sac either. More than one car whizzed by, its headlights illuminating our path. The upside to that was that we hadn't needed to use our flashlights yet. The downside was that we would look pretty suspicious if the occupants of the vehicles were to look our way.

  "Which room is Heather's office?" Ava asked, her attention on the twelve dark windows frowning down on us as we crossed their front lawn.

  "I have no idea," I confessed.

  "So we search all of them?" Her tone pitched up, and the neighbor's dog started to bark.

  "We probably should be keeping our voices down," I suggested.

  "Sorry, but I thought you knew the layout of the house."

  "How would I? I've never been inside before."

  "So what's the plan?" Ava asked.

  I sucked my bottom lip in and bit down hard. "Let's find a back door," I suggested as a car drove past, its headlights highlighting the frown etched into Ava's forehead.

  We kept close to the hedge surrounding the property until we hit the back gate.

  "They don't own a dog, do they?" Ava asked, her hand on my back. The bushes hid the glow of the passing lights, and the shadows loomed over us, dark and eerie. A cool breeze danced across my cheeks, and a chill ran down my spine.

  "Let's hope not," I replied, picking up my pace.

  My feet sank into the lush grass, and the scent of white evening primrose filled my senses, making me want to sneeze. The neighbor's dog had ceased barking, and now the evening air was peaceful and serene. Had I not been attempting to get into someone's house illegally, I probably would have enjoyed it. As it was, I was starting to sweat.

  Luckily, the back gate was unlocked, and as we slipped the latch free, the privacy at the back of the house gave my pulse a chance to drop into slightly less than heart attack range. The tall bushes continued around the perimeter of the property, and no prying eyes from the outside world could see us. So long as I was right in my assumption that James was busy watching Spencer's classmates sing about magic carpet rides, we were now on much safer ground.

  "Now what?" Ava asked, her voice slightly louder, obviously feeling the relative security as well.

  "Now we cross our fingers."

  I lifted a potted plant by the back door, hoping for a spare key. No luck. I tried a second one with much the same results.

  "You think James has a hide-a-key somewhere?"

  I shrugged, glancing around the spacious yard, complete with swimming pool and outdoor kitchen. "I know Leah always keeps a spare hidden around her condo. I was hoping it was a habit she'd picked up from him."

  We tried looking under all the potted plants in the backyard as well as any large rocks. All we found were a few roly-poly bugs and slugs.

  "Okay," Ava said, drawing in a deep breath. "I guess I'll have to pick the lock."

  "With what?" While I'd seen Ava pick a lock once before, I'd honestly thought the positive result had been kind of dumb luck, all of her knowledge having been gleaned from TV cop shows.