Wine and Punishment Page 12

  “Yes,” I said without ever taking my eyes off Stone. “Are you arresting him for murder?”

  “No, on an outstanding warrant for assault.”

  “But he works for the loan shark in Boston, right?” I pressed.

  “I really shouldn’t be discussing that with you.”

  Maybe not, but I could tell I was right.

  I wanted to say more to Stone, but I was too choked up. The male officer turned him toward the vehicle and patted him down. He paused at one of the pockets of Stone’s jeans and reached into it with a gloved hand, pulling out a small velvet box. When he cracked it open, a sapphire ring glinted in the flashing lights of the patrol car.

  “Thinking of proposing to someone, were you?” the male officer asked in a wry voice.

  Stone said nothing.

  The officer handed the box to his partner and continued on with the search.

  “Are you able to identify this ring as belonging to your ex?” Rogers asked me.

  I shook my head as I tried to compose myself. “I never saw it, but it fits the description I heard from someone who did see it.”

  “Do you remember who that was?”

  “Cordelia King. Her grandmother owns the Creekside Inn.”

  Officer Rogers nodded. “I know Cordelia and Grace.”

  The male officer had Stone in the back of the patrol car now.

  “Do you have enough evidence to charge him with Eric’s murder?” I asked.

  “You should talk to Detective Marquez if you have questions about that,” Rogers said. “Excuse me, but we’ll need to be on our way now.”

  I stood and watched as a tow truck pulled up to the scene. Officer Rogers had a quick word with the driver through his window, and he pulled up in front of the silver sedan. Rogers got into the passenger side of the patrol car, and seconds later the officers and their prisoner were gone, leaving the tow truck driver to his work.

  I forced myself to get moving again, but my pace was slow as I crossed the street toward the old mill. It seemed as though my theory about the loan shark’s enforcer was the right one. Stone must have killed Eric to make an example of him, and he took the ring as payment—or partial payment—for Eric’s debts.

  A rush of anger and sadness coursed through me as I thought of Reggie Stone taking Eric’s life for such a stupid reason. But the police knew about his connection to Eric and would likely have the case wrapped up before long.

  At least, I hoped they would.

  Chapter 13

  I thought I’d sleep soundly that night, knowing Reggie Stone was off the streets and in police custody, but that wasn’t how it turned out. Every time I drifted off to sleep, I’d wake up again, my mind racing. As much as I wanted to believe the police would arrest Stone for Eric’s murder once he’d been questioned about the ring and why he was in Shady Creek, I was becoming less hopeful by the hour.

  Having the ring in his possession was definitely a strike against Stone, but if he’d killed Eric, why was he still in town? Wouldn’t he have hightailed it back to Boston instead of hanging around, making people suspicious with all his questions?

  Okay, so a loan shark’s thug probably wasn’t the sharpest tool in the shed, but surely he’d have more sense than that. Then again, maybe he really was that dumb.

  Trying not to think any more about it, I rolled over for the umpteenth time that night. Wimsey, snuggled up by my feet, got annoyed and shifted away from me before settling down again. I fluffed up my pillow and did my best to relax and clear my mind. It felt as though I’d just managed to slip off to sleep when my eyes flew open.

  I was on my back now, and I stared up at the ceiling. Had I heard something? I strained to detect any further noises, but all seemed quiet. I glanced at my clock. It was just after six o’clock. I’d slept longer than I’d thought, but I still didn’t want to be awake so early. I shut my eyes, but they flew open again a second later.

  This time, I was sure I’d heard something. I raised my head and noticed that Wimsey was wide awake and listening too. He tensed, then got up and hopped down to the floor, trotting out of the bedroom.

  Fear pushed aside any of my remaining sleepiness. I threw back the covers and swung my legs over the side of the bed. I stuffed my feet into my fuzzy slippers and grabbed my fluffy white robe, pulling it on as I hurried out of the room after Wimsey. I found him perched on the windowsill in the living room, peering out through the glass. I joined him over there, looking out at the forest. Although the sky was pale, the sun wasn’t yet up, and there were still plenty of murky shadows to make it difficult to see clearly. One shadow flickered right below the window, and I leaned closer, almost pressing my face against the glass.

  It was no good. I couldn’t see straight down.

  “You stay here, Wimsey,” I said, running my hand over his fur.

  His ears and tail twitched, but he remained on the windowsill.

  “I’ll go take a quick look.”

  I tried to sound unconcerned, more to convince myself that I wasn’t scared than to reassure my cat, but I wasn’t particularly successful.

  After slipping out my apartment door, I hurried down the interior steps, moving as quietly as possible, skipping the third step from the bottom since it had a tendency to creak loudly. When I reached the back door, I rested my hand on the knob, my heart booming away in my chest. I hesitated for only a second, and then turned the lock and yanked the door open.

  I had my mouth half open, ready to scream, but there was no one on the other side of the door. I was about to step outside, hoping for a better view of the expanse of grass between the mill and the forest, but a dark shape caught my eye near my feet. My eyes widened as I realized that it was a gas can sitting next to the door.

  My heart had calmed down, but it was back to booming in an instant. I ran through the dewy grass to the western end of the building, where the pub’s main entrance was located. Aside from a couple of birds flying into one of the maple trees, nothing stirred. I ran back the way I’d come, passing the open door and heading for the opposite end of the building. At first, I thought there was no one in sight again, but then I spotted two figures on Creekside Road, one two-legged and one four-legged.

  Peering through the murky dawn, I knew I wasn’t mistaken. It was Grayson, jogging along the road with Bowie, the white German shepherd, trotting by his side.

  My anger, fueled by my recent fear, ignited in a quick burst. I nearly charged out to the road, until I remembered that there was a creek between us; the footbridge was at the other end of the building. As my initial flare of anger dwindled to a flicker, Grayson turned up his driveway, disappearing behind the trees. There was no way I could catch up to him.

  Maybe that was for the best, I realized as I stormed back to the open door. He probably wouldn’t take me seriously if I confronted him in my robe and fuzzy slippers, and he was going to need to take me seriously.

  The sight of the gas can reignited my anger. Was this Grayson’s sick idea of a joke? Or was it more sinister than that?

  An arsonist had burned down the antiques store. Was that what Grayson had intended to do to the mill? Burn it down with me and Wimsey inside?

  My anger drained out of me in a rush, leaving me weak and shaky. I sank down on the doorstep, my eyes on the gas can, clearly red now that the sky was growing lighter.

  Had I scared Grayson off just in time?

  I sniffed the air, but the only smell of gasoline seemed to come from the can. I almost grabbed it to check how full it was, but I stopped myself at the last second. I didn’t want to mess up any fingerprint evidence.

  I got up slowly, one hand on the door frame. My legs were steadier now, so I quickly shut and locked the door and hurried up the stairs to my apartment. As reluctant as I was to have another conversation with the police, I had to call them. I definitely wasn’t going to let this incident slide.

  After I’d made my report to the dispatcher, I hurriedly changed into jeans, a T-shirt, and
my long cardigan. I ran a brush through my hair and glanced out the bedroom window in time to see a patrol car pull up to the curb across the creek.

  Wimsey tapped at my leg with his paw, but I rushed out of the bedroom and straight to the door.

  “Sorry, Wims. I’ll feed you later.”

  I closed the door on his meow of protest, feeling bad about disappointing him, but not wanting to leave the police waiting. I heard a firm knock on the front door, so I flicked on the lights in the pub and rushed to answer it.

  “Officer Rogers,” I said when I saw who was on the doorstep.

  “Sadie Coleman, right?” When I confirmed that, she continued. “You reported a prowler?”

  “One who left an unnerving present behind.”

  I led her around the corner of the building and to the other door, explaining what had happened as we went. For a second, I feared that Grayson might have returned in my absence and taken away the evidence, but then I spotted the gas can and felt a rush of relief. At the same time, some of my anger bubbled back to the surface.

  “After hearing that the fire at the antiques shop was arson, this really worried me,” I told Officer Rogers once I’d pointed out the can.

  “Understandable.” She looked around and walked to the other end of the building, checking around the corner before returning to my side. “And you say the only person you saw out and about was Grayson Blake?”

  “Yes. He was running with his dog.”

  “As in running away, or out for an early morning jog?”

  I hesitated. “He could have been doing either, I guess. He was going at a relaxed pace, but maybe he just wanted to look like he was out for an innocent jog.”

  Officer Rogers gave no indication of what she thought of that. She stood back and examined the building. “No security cameras?”

  “No,” I said. “It never occurred to me that I’d need them here in Shady Creek.”

  “Crime can happen anywhere, even in a nice town like this. You might want to think about at least getting some motion sensitive lights out here.”

  “I’ll definitely consider it.”

  She pulled on a pair of gloves and picked up the gas can. Liquid sloshed around inside. “I’ll take this and see if we can get any prints off of it.”

  “What about Grayson Blake? Will you question him?”

  “I’ll have a word with him.”

  I couldn’t tell how seriously she was taking the matter. I pulled my sweater around me, shivering in the cold morning air.

  “Think carefully about getting some better security,” Officer Rogers said. “And if you notice any other suspicious activity, don’t hesitate to call 911.”

  “I won’t,” I assured her.

  I walked with her to the footbridge, but then returned to my apartment. Wimsey was waiting impatiently for me, so I dished out his breakfast, but I couldn’t bring myself to eat anything. I considered making some coffee, but I was already so jittery that I nixed that idea. Instead, I took a long shower, letting the hot water ease some of the tension out of my muscles. Once I was dry and dressed again, I felt more settled, though I couldn’t quite ignore my lingering fear and anger.

  If Grayson had planned to burn down the mill, there was a good chance he’d burned down the antiques shop as well. Why, I didn’t know, but maybe he was a pyromaniac.

  I remembered what Harriet had said the night before. Grayson was rumored to have a criminal past of some sort. Maybe this wasn’t the first town where he’d started fires.

  Grabbing my laptop from the coffee table, I settled on the couch and opened the Internet browser. I typed Grayson’s full name into the search bar and quickly scanned through the results. There were numerous links to social media profiles for people named Grayson Blake, but it only took a few clicks to figure out that they weren’t for the Grayson Blake currently living in Shady Creek.

  I tried a new search, including the name of Grayson’s brewery. This time the top result was a link to the Spirit Hill Brewery’s website, and below that I found several articles about the brewery’s successes at national and international beer competitions. I skimmed through the information on the company’s website, but to my disappointment, it didn’t provide much in the way of personal background information on the man behind the company.

  Returning to the search results, I scrolled down the page until I found a link near the bottom that led me to the Shady Creek Tribune’s site and an article written by Joe Fontana. The piece dated back nearly four years, when the brewing company was in its first months of operation. I skimmed through the text until I finally found what I’d been looking for—some biographical information on Grayson.

  According to the article, Grayson was born in Chicago but had spent time living in Syracuse and Boston. I’d hoped the article would tell me what Grayson was up to before he opened the brewery, but it only mentioned that he’d spent several months in Chicago and in Germany, learning the craft of brewing beer. What he’d done before that, the article didn’t say. I didn’t know Grayson’s exact age, but I guessed he was a few years older than me. If he’d delved into the craft beer scene about six years ago, that left several years of adulthood unaccounted for.

  I tried a few more searches, looking for information on people named Grayson Blake in Syracuse and Boston. I even tried adding search terms like “arson,” “arrest,” and “criminal record.” To my annoyance, I came up empty. Nothing I found pertained to the right Grayson.

  Maybe Joey knew more than he’d written in the article. He’d interviewed Grayson at the time, as was evident from quotes included in the news piece, so it was possible he’d learned more than he’d shared in the Tribune.

  Maybe I’d ask Joey, although I wasn’t keen on getting hounded to provide him with an interview about Eric. Still, it might be worth the risk. The rumors about Grayson’s past had piqued my curiosity, and I’d never been good at snuffing out my curiosity once something sparked it.

  Speaking to Joey—if I decided to do so—would have to wait, however. At the moment, I needed to get started on the day’s to-do list.

  As I wandered down to the pub and got to work mixing up cocktails to take over to the festival later, an annoying thought niggled at my mind. What if Grayson really had been out for a jog? I realized I wanted that to be the case, but I quickly gave myself a mental kick for thinking that way. It was ridiculous to want him to be innocent because he was attractive. Besides, I didn’t even like the guy, so what did I care if he was good-looking? And why did I care if he was innocent or not?

  Someone had been up to no good recently. Maybe more than one person. Even if it turned out that Reggie Stone was the one who’d killed Eric, Grayson still could have been responsible for the fire at the antiques shop and leaving the gas can outside my door.

  No, I wouldn’t be swayed by a handsome face. I’d practically caught him in the act this morning. I’d do my best to give the police a chance to check the gas can for fingerprints and to talk to Grayson, but if I ran into him at the festival, I knew I wouldn’t be able to help myself. A good idea or not, if I came face-to-face with the brewer, he’d be getting a piece of my mind.

  * * *

  For the day’s offerings at the festival, I decided to keep one cocktail the same—the Happily Ever After—but I replaced the other two with the Count Dracula and the Evil Stepmother. The first was a deep red drink made from blood orange juice, cranberry juice, cinnamon syrup, and coconut rum. It was a great cocktail to enjoy before a crackling fire on a chilly evening. As for the Evil Stepmother, I figured such characters tended to have sour dispositions, so the drink was made with sour mix, white grape juice, vodka, and ginger ale.

  Since I was up and working earlier than I’d planned, I stored the bottles of cocktails in the commercial-sized refrigerator in the pub’s kitchen. Both my stomach and my nerves had settled, and I was missing the breakfast and coffee I’d skipped first thing. I made sure I had both cat doors unlocked so Wimsey could come and go
as he pleased, and then I set off, cutting across the northeast corner of the green to the Village Bean, situated at the end of Sycamore Street, four doors down from Aunt Gilda’s salon.

  I knew I should tell my aunt about the prowler and gas can before she heard the news through the grapevine, but I wasn’t up to talking to anyone at the moment. All I could think about was getting some food and caffeine into me.

  A handful of people sat scattered at tables in the coffee shop. I smiled and said hello to a woman I’d seen around town a few times, but she didn’t respond in kind. Instead, she leaned toward her companion and whispered to her, both sets of eyes following me as I continued on my way to the counter. My heart sank, though I tried not to let my smile falter. Did they think I was a killer? Were rumors of that kind flying around town? So far, the murder investigation hadn’t slowed business at the Inkwell. At this point, people were still showing up as usual, curious and wanting to hear the latest news. But what if that changed?

  I decided it was best not to dwell on that thought.

  After exchanging greetings with Nettie Jo, the owner of the coffee shop, I ordered a carrot muffin—my favorite of all the food items at the Village Bean—and a large mocha latte to go. I sat down at a table near the back of the coffee shop, staying just long enough to finish off my scrumptious muffin. Then, with my latte in hand, I walked down the road toward Aunt Gilda’s salon.

  Out on the green, some of the merchants were already busy getting their booths ready for another day. Most of the festival’s activities would get underway at ten o’clock, but the tent wouldn’t open until noon—the same time as the pub—so I still had plenty of time.

  When I reached the salon, I peered in through the large front window, but the lights were off, and there was no sign of Aunt Gilda. I continued on to the private door at the side of the salon and pressed the buzzer. I tried twice but received no response. My aunt was either sound asleep, in the shower, or already out somewhere.

  I crossed the street to the green and sat down on a bench while I finished my latte, enjoying a few minutes of peace and quiet before the crowds appeared. I wished I could relax completely, but my mind didn’t want to stop racing, and there was still some residual tension in my muscles that probably wouldn’t disappear until all the recent crimes in Shady Creek had been solved.