Wine and Punishment Read online

  “Natalie told them about Eric’s troubles with the loan shark, and I filled her in about this guy who’s in town. She said she’d tell Detective Marquez. She’s been in touch with her over the phone a few times already. That was a relief to me. I’m not keen to have another conversation with the police at this point. They seem to think I’m a suspect.”

  “I thought that was the case.”

  “You did?” I said with surprise.

  “Not because I think you’re murder suspect material,” Shontelle rushed to assure me. “But that detective came by the store earlier, wanting to know what time we parted company on Tuesday night.”

  My stomach twisted, and I set my taco on my plate. “They don’t know exactly when Eric died, so I could still be in trouble. What if he was killed after I got back to the mill? I don’t have anyone to vouch for me after that.”

  “Try not to worry. Maybe this new information about the loan shark will get the police on the right track and put you in the clear.”

  “Hopefully.” I picked up my taco again. “I want to look into the Grayson angle too, though.”

  “Please tell me that’s because you want an excuse to visit him.”

  I nearly choked on a bite of fish. “Of course, it’s not. I can’t stand the guy.”

  “Sadie, he’s gorgeous, successful, and a gentleman.”

  “He’s surly, rude, and unpleasant,” I countered.

  “I think he must have an evil twin, because we can’t be talking about the same man.”

  I chewed hard on another bite of my taco before swallowing. “It doesn’t matter, anyway. Even if he was like you describe, I’m not interested in dating anyone in the near future. No exceptions,” I added when I saw that Shontelle was about to speak.

  She raised an eyebrow. “None at all?”

  “Not unless Shemar Moore moves to Shady Creek.”

  “You’d have a fight on your hands if that happened.”

  I smiled a real smile for the first time that day, some of the tension finally easing out of my shoulders. “Thanks for coming by, Shon. I feel a lot better.”

  “That’s probably more the food than me, but you’re welcome.”

  “It’s definitely you too,” I assured her.

  “I’m glad I could help.”

  She gave me a hug and then hurried off to pick up her daughter. After putting our dishes in the sink, I stepped into the bathroom for a wary glance at myself in the mirror. To my relief, all the puffiness and redness had faded from my eyes. I tidied my braid and headed for the door, pausing only to drop a quick kiss on the top of Wimsey’s head. Then I was on my way down the stairs, ready to get back to the pub.

  * * *

  The next day, the clouds had broken up enough to allow the sun to peek through on occasion, its bright light intensifying the beautiful colors of the autumn foliage. The leaf peepers would be getting some great photos, no doubt, and I decided to spend some time of my own enjoying the gorgeous scenery.

  My helmet on, I wheeled my bicycle out of the shed and rode it across the footbridge to the street. I set off in the direction of the Creekside Inn, noting that there was already some activity over on the village green. It looked as though most of the booths and their canopies were now set up, a few people hanging around and adding the final touches. Someone—likely as per Vera Anderson’s instructions—had decked out the white bandstand in the middle of the green with pumpkins and garlands of autumn leaves. The sight of the decorations reminded me that I hadn’t yet found an autumn wreath for the pub’s door. I’d seen some for sale at the general store, but it wasn’t quite nine o’clock yet, so I decided I could put off the shopping trip for a little while.

  Enjoying the fresh air streaming past me, I cycled at a leisurely pace, passing the Creekside Inn a moment later. From there I turned right onto the picturesque covered bridge that led across the creek to Woodland Road. At that point, I’d left the center of town behind me. Here, the houses were set on acreages, driveways leading off the road now and then through the woods to unseen homes. A couple of cars passed me on their way into town, but otherwise I had the road to myself, birdsong providing the soundtrack to my excursion.

  I cycled for a couple of miles or so along the road before turning around near the driveway that led to Hidden Valley Sugarworks. I’d yet to meet the Gibsons, the family that owned the property and business, but I’d purchased some of their maple syrup from a shop in town, and it was the best I’d ever tasted. The Gibsons were going to have a booth at the fair, so maybe I’d have a chance to stop by and see what else they had on offer.

  After crossing the covered bridge again, I cycled along Hemlock Street at the western edge of the village green, before turning left onto Hillview Road and pulling to a stop in front of the general store. It was open now, so I left my bike propped up against the building and hurried inside to look at the selection of fall decorations. Luck was with me that morning as there was still one fall wreath available, a circle of colorful artificial leaves entwined with acorns and dried flowers in autumn hues. It would look perfect on the Inkwell’s red door.

  With my purchase hanging over one of my handlebars, I walked my bike across the street and onto the green, pushing it along as I circled around the large white tent to the entrance. The flap had been tied back, and I could hear voices coming from inside. Parking my bike with the help of its kickstand, I ducked into the tent. I smiled when I saw Damien to my left, setting up a long folding table, but when I saw who else was present, my smile fizzled away.

  Grayson Blake stood at the far end of the tent in conversation with a young and fashionably dressed woman who had her dark hair pulled back into a ponytail. Without interrupting his conversation, Grayson glanced my way, his gaze as cool as mine must have been. He quickly shifted his attention back to the woman with the ponytail.

  Deciding not to let his presence deter me, I stepped farther into the tent, joining Damien over by the table.

  “I figured we’d make do with a table, rather than hauling over the booth that’s been used in past years,” Damien said to me. “Are you all right with that?”

  From the way he asked the question, I got the sense he wasn’t sure that my answer would be positive.

  “Of course,” I said. “Maybe we can spruce it up with a tablecloth. I’ve got a nice red-and-white-checked one at home that I can bring over later.”

  Damien gave no indication of what he thought about that idea. He nodded at a couple of folding chairs set up behind the table. “I brought those over as well, but I didn’t know what else you wanted.”

  “That’s good for now. I’ll bring the tablecloth and the dry-erase boards over later. And I’ll make sure we’ve got plenty of ice for the coolers tomorrow.”

  I was planning to have samples of some of our literary-themed cocktails available during the festival. I knew Grayson’s brewery was planning on offering beer tastings and pints for sale, and I wasn’t about to compete with him directly by offering any beer. Besides, the literary cocktails were the Inkwell’s trademark, one of the things that made it unique, so that’s what I wanted to showcase during the festival. Hopefully those who enjoyed the samples would cross the road at some point to drop in at the pub to buy a full-sized cocktail or to enjoy one of the other drinks we had on offer.

  Having a booth at the festival was going to cost me some extra money in wages since both Mel and Damien would be working extra hours, but I hoped it would be worth it. The goal was for the pub’s presence at the festival to pique the interest of tourists and locals who hadn’t yet stopped by the Inkwell.

  “If you don’t need me to transport anything more, I’ll be on my way,” Damien said.

  “Of course. Thanks for your help, Damien. See you tonight.”

  He raised a hand in acknowledgment, already heading out of the tent.

  I stared after him for a moment, trying for the umpteenth time since I’d met him to figure him out. He wasn’t an easy guy to read, and I ofte
n wasn’t sure what he was thinking. I couldn’t tell if he was annoyed at having to help out here, or if he was simply anxious to get somewhere else.

  In the end, I decided not to worry about it. Wondering wasn’t going to make the answer any more obvious. I stepped back and studied the table. It definitely needed something more. A quick glance across the tent showed me that Grayson already had a large chalkboard propped up next to his table, the names of the three beers he’d be selling printed in colorful block letters. I could also see a stack of shiny pamphlets set on the brewery’s table, which was covered with a white cloth. Other than that, there wasn’t much going on over there either, and I was glad it didn’t appear that the brewery would make the Inkwell’s table look shabby, at least not once I’d touched it up.

  As I was about to leave the tent, the woman with the ponytail said a final few words to Grayson and strode past me out into the open, not even glancing my way, her strides brisk and full of purpose. Grayson was on his way out of the tent now too, so I fell into step with him.

  “Good morning,” I said, trying my best to sound cordial. “Are your festival preparations going well?”

  “They are.”

  I waited for a moment, but he clearly wasn’t going to do any work to keep the conversation going.

  “I guess you heard the police don’t think Eric’s death was accidental.”

  He paused his steps and glanced at his cell phone. “I’m sure the whole town knows that by now.”

  I scowled at him, although he was too busy tapping away at his phone to notice. “Have the police questioned you again?”

  He finally looked my way, but his blue eyes were as cool as ever. “They did. They asked me several questions about you, actually.”

  “Me?” Maybe that shouldn’t have surprised me, but it definitely irked me. “What did you say about me?”

  His eyes strayed back to his phone. “I’m not sure I should talk about that.”

  I glared at him. “Well, I’m sure the questions weren’t just about me. Why did you have Eric thrown off your property the other day?”

  He froze—just for a split second—before shoving his phone into the pocket of his jeans.

  “Because I knew what he was up to.” He struck off across the grass.

  I scurried to keep up with him. “Up to? What do you mean? I heard he was looking for a job.”

  A humorless smile showed on his face for a brief moment before dropping away. “We both know why he was really there.”

  I had to half run to keep up with his long strides, and that only irked me further. “Um, actually, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  He didn’t even glance my way. “You might want to take some acting classes.”

  I stopped in my tracks and gaped at him, my anger building. “Are you accusing me of lying?” The words sputtered out of me, but Grayson hadn’t slowed his strides and was already out of earshot. “Why you . . . Ugh!”

  I was tempted to shake my fist at his retreating back but managed to reel in my emotions, not wanting to put on a show for the gaggle of tourists who’d just disembarked from a bus that had stopped at the edge of the green. Furious, but trying not to let it show, I marched back to the tent, where I’d left my bike. Grabbing the handlebars, I gave the kickstand a swift wallop with my foot and set off again.

  As my emotions slowly simmered down, I thought back over what Grayson had said. What the Charles Dickens had he meant about Eric being up to something other than looking for a job? Despite his accusations, I really had no clue.

  As I paused at the edge of Creekside Road to let a car drive past, I glanced back over my shoulder. When Grayson had walked away from me, he was heading in the opposite direction from the brewery, and now he was out of sight. I waited at the edge of the road a little longer than necessary, thinking.

  By the time I pushed my bike across the street to the old mill a moment later, I’d already decided on my next course of action.

  Chapter 10

  Fortunately, there was already a small hook on the pub’s front door, so I had the wreath up in no time. I spotted Wimsey crouched in the grass near the edge of the forest, his tail twitching, but I didn’t call out to him. He was probably looking for a mouse or other critter to pounce on. Hopefully he wouldn’t catch anything, but he’d left gifts of a dubious nature for me on only a couple of occasions over the two years since I’d adopted him from an animal shelter.

  Leaving him to his entertainment, I returned my helmet to my head and hopped back on my bike. When I reached the road, I paused and looked around. Grayson was still nowhere in sight. Satisfied, I pedaled my way down the road to the spot where I’d confronted Grayson shortly before we’d discovered Eric’s body. I zoomed past the sign welcoming visitors to the Spirit Hill Brewery and headed up the driveway.

  My pace dropped as I pedaled up the hill, working hard to keep moving. Two-thirds of the way to the top, I almost gave up. A few years ago, cycling up a hill like this one wouldn’t have given me any trouble at all, but I hadn’t been as active over the past couple of years, and especially since I’d moved to Shady Creek. I’d been too caught up in learning the ropes of running a business and generally not making a disaster out of my new life. But as I puffed and gasped my way up to the crest of the hill, I vowed to get out on my bicycle more often.

  I drifted to a stop at a junction where the driveway branched out in a V. The left-hand arm led to a parking lot near the brewery buildings. The right-hand arm disappeared through the woods, a sign marking that branch of the driveway as private. I figured it was safe to assume that it led to Grayson’s house, so I set off to the left, and another couple pushes of my pedals sent me coasting along a flat stretch of ground to a one-story building with a sign that read OFFICE outside the door. I leaned my bike up against the building and removed my helmet, running a hand through my hair and taking another moment to catch my breath. I didn’t need anyone getting the full effect of my disheveled and out-of-shape self.

  About a dozen vehicles of various sizes occupied spots in the parking lot, and I noticed a couple of men in coveralls walking between two of the other buildings, but otherwise the place seemed quiet. All the visitors were probably off having a tour or tasting Grayson’s beers. I was hoping that meant the person I’d come to see would be free to talk to me.

  My breathing back to normal, I combed my fingers through my hair one last time and opened the door to the office, walking into the building like I had no reason not to be there. For a brief second, I worried that Grayson had returned while I was hanging the wreath on the Inkwell’s door, that he might be the one I found in the office, but that concern quickly dissolved. The only person in the outer office was a young woman seated behind the curved reception desk, her blond hair pulled back into a sleek French braid, not a single strand out of place.

  “Good morning and welcome to the Spirit Hill Brewery. How can I help you?”

  Her voice and smile were both so chipper that I wondered how much caffeine she’d had. That thought led me to wishing I’d had more than just a single cup of coffee that morning.

  Pushing my sudden coffee craving aside, I smiled back at the woman and glanced at her nameplate, my smile growing brighter as I read it. “Annalisa. You must be Cordelia King’s friend.”

  “That’s right.” She beamed at me. “How do you know Cordelia?”

  “Actually, I just met her for the first time yesterday when I was visiting the Creekside Inn.”

  “Isn’t that place gorgeous?”

  “It really is. Anyway, I’ve been living in town for a few months now, but I hadn’t yet made it up here for a tour of the brewery.”

  “Oh, I can help you out with that, no problem.” She snatched up a glossy brochure from her desk and handed it over to me. “We have daily tours at this time of year, several in the morning and a couple each afternoon. Was there anything you were particularly interested in, or were you just looking for a general introduction to the place
?”

  “A general introduction,” I said, glancing over the brochure without taking in the contents.

  Annalisa checked her computer screen. “There’s a tour scheduled to start in fifteen minutes, if you want to join that one.”

  “Oh . . . I’m afraid I can’t hang around very long today, but I’ll take a good look at this.” I waved the brochure. “And I’ll come back some other time.”

  “Whenever is best for you,” Annalisa said with a nod.

  I glanced at a door to my left that stood ajar. It looked as though it led to an inner office, but the lights were out in that room, so I figured we were most likely alone.

  “Cordelia mentioned the kerfuffle that took place here the other day.” I said as casually as possible, hoping Cordelia’s friend liked to chat as much as she did.

  Annalisa’s forehead furrowed, but then it smoothed out, and her eyes lit up with understanding. “You mean the scene with that man who supposedly wanted a job?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “I heard they found him dead the next day,” she whispered. “My boss, Mr. Blake, was one of the people who found his body.”

  “You don’t say.” I tried to act as though that were news to me. “What did the guy do? I heard he got thrown off the property.”

  “He sure did,” Annalisa said, nodding. “After that incident a few months back, Mr. Blake wasn’t going to put up with any more spying.”

  “Spying?” I latched onto her last word. “What do you mean?”

  “About eight months ago, Mr. Blake discovered one of the guys he had working here was actually planted by a large brewery chain. He was a mole,” she said, her gray eyes wide. “Can you believe it?”

  The news certainly took me by surprise. “Why would a large brewery chain plant a mole here?”

  “They want Mr. Blake’s recipes. He’s got the knack. Sure, any brewer can make beer, but Mr. Blake creates the most amazing recipes. He’s won tons of awards, including a whole bunch of gold medals at a recent world championship. A lot of the big brewery chains are trying to get in on the craft brewery scene now. I guess they figured the easiest way would be to lift some recipes they already knew would be successful.”