Wine and Punishment Read online

  “That sounds awfully sneaky.”

  “You’re telling me.”

  “But what does that have to do with the guy who was here the other day?” I asked, steering the conversation back to Eric.

  “He wanted a job—so he said—but Mr. Blake’s been on alert since the last incident, and it didn’t take much looking to find out that the guy worked for the same brewery chain that planted the mole last time. They were at it again!”

  “I can see how that would have made your boss angry.”

  “I’ve never seen him get mad before, but that day . . . whoa. He had security get the guy off the property right away.” The phone jangled on her desk. “Sorry,” she said, her hand going to the receiver. “Is there anything else I can help you with today?”

  “No, that’s everything, thanks,” I said quickly, backing toward the door. “It was nice chatting with you.”

  I left the building as she answered the phone with her chipper voice. About a dozen or so tourists were on their way out of one of the other buildings, heading for the parking lot, their indistinct voices floating through the morning air. Before anyone had a chance to drive my way, I jumped on my bike and pedaled back to the branch in the driveway. After a quick check over my shoulder to make sure no one had their eyes on me, I veered off along the private arm of the drive.

  My conversation with Annalisa had been even more illuminating than I could have hoped. I didn’t know if Eric had requested a job at his employer’s behest, but I doubted it. He wasn’t the type to allow himself to get roped into something like that. Unless there’d been extra compensation involved. With his gambling debts, that might have tempted him.

  Either way, though, Grayson clearly believed that Eric had sought a job at the Spirit Hill Brewery for less than honest reasons, and from what Annalisa had said, the situation wasn’t one the brewer took lightly.

  Maybe the theory I’d considered the day before was a good one. Had Eric returned to the brewery for some reason, perhaps after he’d had too much to drink and wasn’t thinking clearly? If Grayson had found him on his property again, no doubt that would have reignited his anger, maybe even more intensely than the time before.

  It was a scenario I couldn’t discount. Grayson had a motive, and I didn’t yet know if he had an alibi, so he joined Carl Miller and the muscular stranger on my suspect list. And since I was so conveniently close to Grayson’s home, I decided to try to find out more about him.

  What, exactly, I hoped to find at his house, I didn’t know. Most likely I wouldn’t find anything, but with my reputation at stake, I wasn’t about to leave any stone unturned, no matter what gross, slimy things might slither out from beneath them.

  The driveway curved to the left and then to the right before the house came into view. The blue-and-gray two-story structure was far more modern than most of the homes around Shady Creek, and the main level had several floor-to-ceiling windows. While the forest provided a backdrop to the house, off to my right I could see the town below, not too far away. To my left, gentle green hills rolled off into the distance, probably meeting up with the brewery buildings beyond.

  It was definitely a private setting, a good home for someone with secrets to keep hidden. There was no sign that anyone was around, and no cars were parked in the driveway, although there was an attached double garage off to the right, its doors shut. I coasted my way over to the garage and braked as I left the driveway for the grass at the side of the building. Dismounting, I leaned my bike against the garage and peered into the side window, cupping my hands around my eyes so I could see more than reflected daylight.

  The murky interior slowly took shape. Tools hung on a pegboard on the opposite wall, and a motorcycle was parked close to the window. Next to it was a sporty black car, one I’d seen Grayson driving on more than one occasion. The presence of the car sent an uneasy flutter through my stomach, but I quickly reassured myself. There was a good chance that Grayson had walked down to the village green earlier. After all, he couldn’t park on any of the streets directly around the green, and it probably took less than ten minutes to walk from his house down to the center of town.

  Nevertheless, I made sure to tread carefully and quietly as I crept around the back of the garage and toward the main part of the house. When I reached the first back window, I raised myself up on tiptoes and shaded my eyes again. There were no lights on in the kitchen I was peering into, but I could still make out the sleek design with granite countertops, a large island, dark cupboards, and stainless-steel appliances.

  I eyed the six-burner gas stove and the double-wall ovens with skepticism, wondering if Grayson ever made use of them or if they were there mostly for show. I didn’t know if the house had come with the property or if he’d had it built. Either way, he clearly wasn’t hurting for money. Nothing in that kitchen looked anywhere close to cheap.

  Moving on, I hurried across a slate patio, dashing past a set of French doors, before pausing next to one of the house’s many floor-to-ceiling windows. This time, I was looking in at a large living room decorated in classy tones of gray and white. I caught sight of a glint of metal in a display case along the wall to my left and leaned closer to the window for a better look.

  “Can I help you with something?”

  I tipped forward, and my nose squashed up against the glass. Pushing myself away from the house, I stumbled backward, my arms flailing until I regained my balance.

  Grayson stood a few feet away, arms crossed over his chest, his face impassive except for the cool intensity in his blue eyes.

  “I was just having a look at your house,” I sputtered.

  One of his dark eyebrows arched. “Planning a robbery?”

  “Of course not!” I silently cursed my cheeks as they heated up.

  “I could have you arrested for trespassing.”

  “That wouldn’t be very neighborly,” I said.

  “Neither is peering in somebody’s windows.”

  I clamped my teeth together, annoyed that he was right about that.

  Aside from his eyebrow, he hadn’t moved an inch. “I’d like you to leave now.”

  “Not a problem. I was about to leave anyway.” I strode past him, not looking back, but I heard him follow me.

  “If I see you sneaking around here again, I’ll call the police,” he warned.

  I jerked my bike away from the side of the garage and turned to glare at him. Instead I got the full force of his blue gaze—only two feet away this time—and my insides suddenly went all squishy. Probably because I knew I could be looking into the eyes of a murderer. Coming here on my own wasn’t the smartest idea I’d ever had.

  “I can assure you that I have no intention of setting foot on your property ever again,” I told him.

  “Glad to hear it.”

  I walked my bike to the driveway, but then stopped and turned around again. “By the way, up until today I didn’t know anything about the whole mole-at-your-brewery thing. I highly doubt Eric was involved in any corporate espionage, but even if he was, I had absolutely nothing to do with it.”

  “Right. So it’s just a coincidence that you bought the pub out from under my nose?”

  “I didn’t buy it out from under anybody’s nose. I saw that it was up for sale, I made an offer, and it was accepted. If you wanted to buy the place, you shouldn’t have waited around. I heard it had been on the market for over a month before I ever arrived in Shady Creek.”

  “I was in the midst of negotiating with the owner.”

  “Clearly you didn’t negotiate fast enough.”

  He didn’t look like he believed a word I’d said, and that only irked me all the more.

  “Don’t believe me if you don’t want to,” I said as I climbed onto my bike. “But you might not want to be so eager to call the police up here, whether I return or not.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “You might make their job too easy for them.”

  He narrowed his eyes at me.
“Are you suggesting that I had something to do with Eric Jensen’s death?”

  “You’re awfully quick to jump to that conclusion.”

  “What other conclusion was I supposed to jump to?”

  As tempted as I was to stay there and argue with him, I knew that ticking off one of my murder suspects wasn’t the best move, especially in such an isolated spot. I was already dancing too close to the edge and decided I should make a hasty retreat.

  I pushed off from the ground and cycled off along the driveway. Unable to stop myself, I called over my shoulder as I went, “A guilty conscience needs no accuser!”

  I pedaled hard, not slowing down until I’d reached the safety of Creekside Road.

  Chapter 11

  The next morning, I was up at what I considered a ridiculous hour, two hours earlier than Wimsey usually prodded me out of bed. Downstairs, I flicked on the lights over the bar and set to work. The plan was to offer samples of three different literary-themed cocktails on each day of the festival. Today I was going to offer the Happily Ever After cocktail, the Malt in Our Stars, and the Yellow Brick Road, a cocktail made with limoncello, yellow lemonade, and lemon-lime soda.

  The festivalgoers would only get a small sample of each drink, but I’d been warned that thousands of tourists would attend throughout the week, along with most of the locals. Luckily, the green was just across the street from the pub, so I wouldn’t have far to go if I needed to replenish my supply of samples, but I still hoped to have enough to keep the attendees happy for a few hours.

  I was used to mixing up small batches of cocktails, but I’d planned ahead and worked out the amounts of each ingredient I’d need for the larger recipes. I started with the Happily Ever After cocktail, mixing together coconut rum, pineapple juice, and lemon-lime soda. I’d given this one a tropical twist, because I couldn’t think of a better happily ever after than riding off into a tropical sunset with a devastatingly handsome hero. Not that I’d ever experienced that myself, but my imagination assured me it would be absolutely perfect.

  Once the drink was prepared, I funneled it into swing-top glass bottles that I’d ordered online for the occasion. They looked nice and would fit easily into the coolers of ice they’d be stored in. With the first set of bottles filled, I moved on to the Yellow Brick Road cocktail.

  I’d be looking after the Inkwell’s festival booth for the morning, switching out with Mel shortly before noon, after which I’d look after the customers at the pub. It would be a long day for me—a long week, really—but I was looking forward to it. This was the first town activity I’d be taking part in, and I was excited to be involved in what I’d heard was the best and most anticipated event of the year in Shady Creek.

  By the time I was ready to go, I had two coolers packed full of ice and bottles, and a plastic bin holding the brochures I’d had printed to promote the Inkwell. I added the book I was reading, just in case there were any slow spells during the festival. On top of the book and brochures, I stacked several packets of small plastic cups to serve the samples in. I’d use the plastic bin as a receptacle for the used cups so I could recycle them later.

  I propped open the Inkwell’s front door with a doorstop and took the coolers outside one at a time. I returned inside once more for the plastic bin and set it on top of one of the coolers.

  Perhaps I should have thought things through more carefully, I realized. There was no way I’d be able to carry both heavy coolers and the bin at the same time. I’d have to make at least two trips.

  I stood there with my hands on my hips, preparing myself for the trek ahead, when I heard Mel call my name. She jogged across the footbridge, her bright blue and bleached-blond hair standing straight up, hardly wavering as she hurried toward me.

  “I thought you might need some help getting everything over to the tent.”

  “You’re a lifesaver,” I said with a rush of gratitude. “I was just thinking how I’d have to make two or three trips.”

  “Not anymore.” She grabbed the bin with one hand and a cooler with the other.

  “Are you sure you can manage both of those?” I asked.

  “Sure, no problem.”

  I should have known. Mel was an amateur boxer as well as an artist, and her arms were probably twice as strong as mine. I got a secure grip on the handle of the remaining cooler, and we headed off across the footbridge together. The festival wasn’t set to open officially for another half hour or so, but most of the booths on the green were already manned, ready for visitors. A few early arrivals milled about by the bandstand, where the opening ceremony would take place.

  With Mel’s help, I was set up at my table in the tent in no time. Across the tent, a man I didn’t recognize was at work behind the brewery’s table, tapping kegs of beer in preparation for the samples they’d be offering as well as the full-sized pints they’d have for sale. I was relieved that Grayson wasn’t there. After our encounter the day before, any interaction was bound to be awkward at best.

  I’d experienced more than one twinge of remorse since my visit to the brewery. I’d come to accept that I didn’t really want to believe Grayson was Eric’s killer. Why, I wasn’t entirely sure. The guy was irritating, but maybe it was because I knew that the business side of things could get complicated if he were arrested for murder. Would I still be able to sell his beers? Would the brewery shut down, forcing me to find a new supplier?

  Plus, as much as Grayson annoyed me, I didn’t like to think that my neighbor was a killer. I didn’t want to believe that anyone from my newly adopted town was a cold-blooded murderer. That took my thoughts back to the stranger in town, the one I suspected of working for a loan shark. I didn’t know if he was still in Shady Creek or if he’d gone back to Boston, but I figured there was a good chance he was already gone, whether or not he was the murderer.

  After Mel had left and I’d exchanged a few words with the man at the brewery’s table, I sat back in my folding chair to think while awaiting the arrival of the tent’s first visitors. My thoughts returned immediately to the muscular stranger. If he was a loan shark’s enforcer, he could easily be the one who’d killed Eric, using him as an example to the loan shark’s other debtors. Sure, that wiped out any chance of getting payment from Eric, but if they figured that wasn’t going to happen anyway, maybe the loan shark would have instructed his thug to make Eric pay in a much deadlier way. In fact, Mr. Beady Eyes probably belonged at the top of my suspect list. I thought that over for a moment, ultimately deciding that all three suspects could share the top spot for the time being. After all, I still didn’t know if Grayson had an alibi or not, and the same was true for Carl.

  I could hear Alec McCafferty, the town moderator, speaking into a microphone out by the bandstand, welcoming everyone to the Autumn Festival and officially opening the event. Within minutes, several people had entered the tent, seeking out samples of beer and cocktails. Only a few people seemed interested in purchasing actual pints of beer from Grayson’s employee, but I knew that would change as the day wore on. As for my offerings, they generated good interest, and I enjoyed the next few hours as I poured samples, handed out brochures, and chatted with visitors about the Inkwell and the inspiration behind the drinks being sampled.

  The response from everyone was positive throughout the morning, and by the time Mel showed up to take over, my cheeks were beginning to ache from having a genuine smile on my face for hours.

  “How did things go?” Mel asked during a brief lull at our table.

  “It’s been amazing,” I said. “Everyone seems to be enjoying the cocktails and hearing the stories behind them.”

  “And our supplies?”

  I checked the coolers. “I’ll go get a couple more bottles of Happily Ever After, and maybe one each of the Malt in Our Stars and Yellow Brick Road. That should be enough to get us through the day, but give me a call if you need more.”

  “No problem. Will you be okay with the cooler?”

  “It’s just
the one, so yes. Thanks.”

  With the remaining drinks packed into the cooler I was leaving behind, I took the other with me and crossed the green toward the pub. The town was abuzz with activity, more people on the green than I’d ever seen there before. A small band—from the local high school, from the looks of it—played live music, and all the booths seemed to be getting plenty of interest.

  As I crossed Creekside Road, I noticed a few people snapping photos of the mill, and I couldn’t stop myself from beaming with pride as I took in the sight of the beautiful old building myself. Aside from a few puffy clouds, the sky was clear today, and I could have sworn that the autumn foliage was brighter than ever, providing a picture-perfect backdrop for the mill.

  When the tourists had finished snapping photos, I hurried into the pub and fetched the spare bottles of cocktails I’d left in the fridge. I packed them into the cooler with fresh ice and hauled everything over to the tent. Then I was back at the pub again, getting ready to open for the day.

  I was pleased by the number of tourists who stopped in at the pub for a drink and a bite to eat before heading back out to enjoy more of the festivities. I was disappointed that I didn’t have my literary-themed food menu available yet, but there wasn’t anything I could do about that now. Finding a chef needed to be a priority, though, and I made a mental note to get to work on that as soon as possible.

  In the middle of the afternoon, two men I’d seen at the Inkwell on a few previous occasions claimed stools at the bar. I supplied them with pints of lager before returning to the other end of the bar where Rhonda sat, enjoying a glass of red wine.

  “Where’s Harvey today?” I asked her.

  “Helping out with the festival. Speaking of which, if you need help with your booth anytime this weekend, just let me know. I’ll be happy to lend a hand.”

  “Thank you. I’ll keep that in mind.” I nodded discreetly at the two men at the opposite end of the bar. “The guy in the red baseball cap—is that Carl Miller?”