Sierra Hills represented my future.

  Determined to create a new life without controlling ex-boyfriends or restraining orders, I stood up. I wanted some fresh air. Maybe a stroll in the gardens would do me good.

  As soon as I walked outside, a rush of air brushed against my skin. I took a deep breath. The smell of roses filled the atmosphere, providing a tranquil contrast to the day’s chaotic events. My steps echoed softly on the cobblestone path as I also admired the hydrangeas and daisies lining my way.

  Suddenly, a sharp noise coming from the bushes made me freeze in place. My heart pounded.

  Was it an intruder? Caleb’s killer?

  Fear tingled across my skin. I let out a gasp when I saw a figure coming towards me.

  But a wave of relief washed over me when I recognized it was Max. Clutching a mystery novel, he walked toward me with a smile. He was likely heading to one of the benches where I’d seen him read before.

  “Hey,” he said. “Did I scare you?”

  “No.” I blushed, embarrassed.

  “It’s getting dark. Maybe you shouldn’t be out here, with, you know…”

  “The killer.” I nodded. “I know. I just needed some air.”

  “How are you holding up?”

  “I wish we could do something about it.” I sighed. “Help the police somehow.”

  “They’ve finished questioning all the guests, and all we can do is give them access to the place so they can do their jobs.”

  I turned around and looked at the now-empty inn. All the windows of the rooms were dark.

  “Poor Caleb. Did you manage to find his family?” I asked.

  “I don’t have that information, unfortunately, but the police said they would handle that too.”

  I felt sick at the thought of how Caleb’s wife or children, if he had any, would feel receiving that phone call.

  Max and I stood in silence for a moment, gazing out at the gardens, then at each other. A strange flutter gripped my stomach, a mix of nerves and excitement. I wondered if Max felt it too.

  Max’s gaze held intensity, a newfound openness.

  “You know,” he said, breaking the silence, “when I first got here, I thought this place would be boring. But now... now I can’t imagine ever leaving. I feel like something special drew me here.”

  I smiled in agreement. “Yeah, there’s definitely something about this place that’s hard to explain.”

  “Hey, Sophie,” he said softly. “Can I ask you something?”

  “Sure.”

  “Why did you choose Sierra Hills?” he asked.

  I hesitated, wanted to avoid revealing too much about my past.

  “I just needed a change of scenery, and Sierra Hills seemed like the perfect place to start fresh.”

  It was the truth.

  “I understand the need for a fresh start. That’s why my family and I decided to buy the vineyard,” Max shared. “We’ve always been in the wine industry, and we were looking for a change. After my father passed away, we decided to leave the old vineyard to my uncle, let him restructure the business. We wanted to build something from the ground up and be a part of a new community. Sierra Hills just felt right.”

  “I’m sorry to hear about your dad.” I offered comfort with a hand on his shoulder.

  He smiled sadly, clearing his throat. “Thanks.”

  “I hope we can make the inn a better place,” I said. “For the whole community, not just the tourists.”

  “I think we can,” Max declared, his voice low. “Together.”

  CHAPTER 4

  I woke up just as the sun began to tint the room with its first golden rays. With a soft yawn, I sat up, absorbing the coziness of my surroundings that I wasn’t quite used to yet.

  The room, though small, was decorated in a cottage style. Next to my vintage vanity table was a trio of photographs in different antique frames on a wall. On one of my nightstands sat a vase brimming with freshly picked wildflowers. Surely that was the handiwork of Stella. The cream floral wallpaper and green shiplap cemented the cozy cottage ambiance.

  For a moment, yesterday’s events felt like a nightmare. Then reality rushed back to me as I threw off my covers and prepared for the day. I had to face the living nightmare of what happened in the restaurant—finding Caleb’s lifeless body, and the unsettling, mysterious note left behind.

  A chill ran down my spine at the memory of the ominous message: “Be careful of the Amandes” and the peculiar drawing on the other side of the paper. The police now had that note. Could I trust them to get to the bottom of it?

  Detective Connor had shown competence throughout this investigation. He and his team had stayed late into the evening. Jesse offered to cook them dinner, but they gracefully declined to maintain their professionalism.

  I wondered if Detective Connor secretly suspected the Amandes due to the note. While he was likely to pursue other leads, the shadow of suspicion loomed over everyone, including myself. Max and Jesse didn’t know about the note; I hadn’t shared it with them. Did I suspect them too? Despite their unwavering kindness, I couldn’t rule them out.

  Before I could dress for the day, my gaze was drawn to the framed photos on the wall. When the Amandes bought the inn, they decided to keep all the original decor. They likely had little or no knowledge of the people captured in those photographs. Yet, I found myself staring intently at the images.

  The main photograph showcased a beautiful family of six, standing in front of the inn. It looked like it was taken in the ’60s. The parents, in their thirties, radiated warmth, the father’s arm around the mother’s waist, both holding a child’s hand. Complementary outfits adorned the four kids—two boys in white shirts and dark pants, and two girls in matching flowy dresses with delicate lace edging.

  The second photo captured the same family, now grown, sharing laughter around a table in what seemed like the ’80s. There were plates piled high with food, and wine bottles scattered across the table. The father, now older, had his arm around the mother, and all the adult children looked happy and content.

  The third, a detailed close-up of the two eldest kids, at a more recent time, revealing the aging process. It must have been taken fifteen, twenty years ago. They sat on one of the benches in the inn’s garden, probably the spot Max favored for reading.

  In the photograph, the man, deep in middle age, sported graying hair and wore a linen suit. His smile seemed friendly, yet a hint of melancholy lingered in his eyes, suggesting a deeper sadness. The lady beside him appeared plain and stern, her white sundress reminiscent of her childhood innocence, but that didn’t extend to her expression, which was now weathered and weary.

  The photographs drew me in, sparking curiosity about the family’s story. Were any of them still alive? Some, now in their twilight years, might still be around. Could they have been the ones who sold the inn to the Amandes?

  I ran my fingertips along the glass, tracing the grainy details of the smiling faces from the first photograph. Exhaling, I finally tore my eyes away and stumbled towards my bedroom closet.

  There was no urgency in getting ready for work. Yesterday, I had made all the necessary calls, informing guests of the inn’s sudden closure due to an emergency. Surprisingly understanding, they found accommodations in competing inns in town. Now, here I was, with nothing else to do since no one was coming.

  I could try to find out more about Caleb, even though he had come alone. While I doubted the other staff knew much, it wouldn’t hurt to ask.

  If Lucinda Foreman was around, I could also ask her about the previous owners of the inn. She had worked as the vineyard manager here for over thirty years. Lucinda would surely know more about the inn and its history than anyone else.

  CHAPTER 5

  I spotted Lucinda in the inn when I went into the breakfast and lunch restaurant on the ground floor. Lucinda was a tall woman around sixty with shoulder-length gray hair she usually tied in a low ponytail so she could wear her sunhat when she worked under the sun. Her deep, melodic voice exuded authority, and in the few times I’ve seen her around, I was impressed with the graceful way she led her team in the vineyards.

  After finishing her cup of coffee, she placed it on the tray for used dishes, and looked ready to start her work. As she turned to leave, she noticed me approaching and gave me a warm welcome.

  “Good morning, dear. How are you doing?”

  “It could be better,” I replied.

  “You don’t say. That was quite the day yesterday. Did you sleep well?”

  “I did,” I said. “My room’s really nice. Very cozy decor. There are some photographs in there. Have you seen them?”

  “Perhaps. What do they look like?” she asked.

  I described the photographs in my room of the big family and casually asked if she knew them.

  Lucinda listened intently and then nodded. “Ah, I know who you’re talking about. That’s the Reynolds family. They founded the inn.”

  “Really? What happened to them?” I asked.

  Lucinda’s face clouded over. “It’s a sad story, dear. The Reynolds family was very close, and this inn had been in the family since the kids were young. It used to be profitable enough. When both the parents passed away, the eldest kids, Beatrice and Stephen, ended up running the place. They didn’t always see eye to eye, and they ended up in some financial troubles. They had to sell the inn ten years ago to pay off some debts. Then the Byrons had been running this inn and vineyard for the past decade. They were the ones responsible for the renovations and interior design of the guest rooms too. They came with money, which helped. They kept some photographs of the Reynolds as part of the decor to respect the heritage of this place.”

  “What happened to the Reynolds family?” I asked.

  “I’m sure they paid off whatever debt was owed with the sale of this place, and they’re probably retired somewhere.”

  “Interesting. Thanks. I’ve been curious about the history of this place.”

  “You’re welcome, dear. Even though this inn is only around 60 years old, it’s still nice to learn.”

  I nodded, wondering if I should ask her about the murder. I decided to go ahead, having nothing to lose. “Did the police question you yesterday too?”

  Lucinda nodded grimly. “Yes, they did. I told them everything I knew, but I don’t think I was much help. I didn’t see or hear anything out of the ordinary yesterday since I was out working in the vineyards with my crew.”

  “Do you think there’s anything peculiar about any of the guests?” I asked.

  Lucinda chuckled. “I’ve been working here for three decades, dear. I’ve seen all kinds of guests come and go. But I don’t recall anything unusual about any of the guests we’ve had recently. Did you?”

  “Not really,” I said. “We’re lucky we only had five other guests yesterday.”

  “Tuesdays are slow sometimes.” Lucinda nodded.

  “Did you ever see Caleb, the guest who, you know, passed away?”

  “I must’ve seen him, but sometimes I get so distracted with work that I don’t notice. I don’t recall talking to him though. I’m sure he didn’t deserve to die the way he did.”

  We talked a bit more about what happened yesterday, then I let Lucinda get to work.

  I went to look at my breakfast options. The usual buffet-style spread for the guests was gone. Not even toast was out. No wonder Lucinda was only drinking coffee. Luckily, Jesse popped out. He wore an apron over his white T-shirt.

  “Good morning, miss. What can I make for you?” he asked with a friendly wink. “I make a mean omelette.”

  “Oh, is the kitchen still open? I was just going to get some cereal.”

  “The kitchen is open just for you.”

  “Okay.” I couldn’t help but grin back. “Scrambled eggs?”

  “I can make you some scrambled eggs with home fries and toast if you like.”

  “That sounds amazing, thank you.”

  As Jesse headed back into the kitchen, my thoughts returned to the Reynolds family and their history with the inn. What kind of debt could they have had that forced them to sell? Business seemed good now. Tourists flocked in droves to stay here, especially on the weekends. Weddings happened here all the time. Lucinda did mention something about the Byrons investing money in renovations. Maybe the inn wasn’t in such great shape before.

  Jesse came back with two plates, the scent of freshly cooked food filling the room. I was happy that he was eating with me. He settled into the seat across from me with a contented sigh.

  “I love it when I get a chance to cook for someone,” he said. “I miss the guests already. I really hope they catch the killer soon.”

  “I wish I could do more to help.”

  “I think you helped enough.” I looked up at him with bewildered eyes.

  “With finding Caleb and everything,” Jesse clarified. “That must’ve been a shock.”

  I looked down at my plate. “Yeah.”

  “Let’s talk about something else,” he said. “I don’t want to spoil your appetite. Nothing we can do about it now except wait anyway.”

  “Okay.” I squeezed some ketchup on my plate. “Have you met the previous owners of this inn?”

  “Oh, the Byrons?” Jesse nodded as he took a bite of his eggs. “Yeah, I’ve met them a few times. They were nice people. A couple in their late fifties.”

  “Why did they sell?”

  “They wanted to be near their kids and grandkids on the East Coast, so they moved back. I guess they had some vague idea of retiring on a vineyard, but in the end, they realized they had to work more than they expected, and they knew they didn’t want to work this hard once they actually got to retirement age.”

  I nodded and took a bite of my toast. I asked Jesse about the Reynolds family too, mentioning the photos in my room.

  “The Reynolds family, huh? I’ve heard some stories about them. I never had any direct contact with them, but the Byrons had some stories.”

  “What kind of stories?” I asked, intrigued.

  “Well, for starters, there was some tension between the siblings. Apparently, Beatrice wanted to sell the inn, and Stephen was against it. They were both not great at business. They were hemorrhaging money at some point when Stephen wanted to have these extravagant buffet lunches. Beatrice wanted to cut their losses, but Stephen wanted to keep trying. They fought about it a lot, and they ultimately sold. I think they were forced to sell because they were in debt. Sometimes the locals still talk about them, but they don’t live in town anymore. I don’t know what happened to them.”

  “I hope they’re able to retire comfortably,” I said.

  Jesse nodded. “Yeah, I hope so too. It’s a shame. The Reynolds family had owned the inn for decades, and it was a staple of the community. But I guess sometimes things just don’t work out. It’s not always easy to be making wine and also running an inn at the same time.”

  I made a mental note to do some more digging and see if I could find out more about their financial troubles. It seemed like there were a lot of secrets and tensions brewing beneath the surface of this place. And now, with a murder happening at the inn, it made me wonder if there was some sort of connection between the past and the present. But maybe I was just reaching.

  “Did you know Caleb at all?” I asked Jesse.

  He frowned. “Caleb? You mean the victim?”

  I nodded.

  “Not personally, but I’ve seen him around. I think he liked his eggs sunny side up. He was one of the guests who checked in a day ago, right? Seemed friendly enough.”

  “Did you see him talking to anyone else?” I asked.

  Jesse shook his head. “No.” He looked up at me, smiling. “You sound like the police. Are you going Nancy Drew on me?”

  I shrugged, smiling. “I just feel responsible, since he was a guest and I was the one who found him.”

  “Don’t blame yourself. You have nothing to do with it.”

  But can I keep working for you if your family does? I thought to myself, remembering the note.

  CHAPTER 6

  After breakfast, I decided to walk around the vineyard. The fresh air and tranquil surroundings helped to clear my mind. Although thoughts about Caleb lingered—how he was discovered in the restaurant when no one else was present. Did he expect the bar to be open so he could have a drink? Was he meeting someone there? Or did he, like me, simply want to be somewhere quiet?

  I had the idea to go to Caleb’s room, despite the police having already investigated and collected his belongings. I probably shouldn’t. In fact, I really shouldn’t.

  But I was curious. Maybe I could just take a quick peek.

  Back inside the inn, I took the set of master keys behind the counter, and I went up the stairs. The entire floor had an eerie silence.

  Caleb’s room mirrored any other, featuring a queen-sized bed, a dresser, a vanity table, and a view of the vineyards. Unlike my room, his lacked photographs of the Reynolds family. Instead, I found an oil painting of the town on the wall. I checked the nightstands and their drawers, where Caleb’s belongings had been just yesterday. Now, they were all empty.

  A wave of sorrow washed over me. This had been Caleb’s home during his final days. I wondered if the person who took his life was someone he trusted, someone he willingly allowed into his room.

  The inn’s lack of security worried me. They lagged behind the times when it came to cameras and alarms. They didn’t even have a smart doorbell. With no concrete evidence, it would be a challenge for the police to identify a potential killer among guests or staff. The realization sent shivers down my spine as I contemplated how easily someone could get away with murder inside this inn.

  Finding nothing useful in the room, I came out and locked the door behind me. As soon as I did, I heard footsteps coming up the staircase. They sounded too slow, too hesitant—they raised my suspicion.

  I hid myself around the corner and waited. Whoever it was stopped in front of Caleb’s door and unlocked it. I took a peek.