Case of the One-Eyed Tiger Page 9

  “So I have a theory,” Vance began, as he walked up the steps toward my open front door several hours later. “I think the person that hired Gregor to steal the tiger was waiting for him to finish the job so he could ambush him. Whoever that was obviously got the drop on Gregor, but not before Gregor managed to inflict some damage on him as well.”

  I nodded. It’s a theory I could get behind. I held out a beer.

  “Want one?”

  Vance nodded, “Hell yeah. I’m off duty at the moment.”

  “So you’re thinking the blood on that painting belongs to the mastermind behind all of this?” I asked. I popped the top off my own bottle and escorted Vance into the living room. The moment my butt hit the chair Sherlock jumped up onto my lap. The little corgi studied Vance for a few moments before dramatically flopping his head over onto my thigh. Then the little booger started drooling on me. “Were you able to check it against your databases to see if there are any hits?”

  “Eureka!” Vance exclaimed, snapping his fingers like the smartass I knew him to be. “So that’s what we forgot. Damn. If only we went to school for this type of shit then we wouldn’t have missed that.”

  I held up my hands in surrender.

  “Okay, point taken. I didn’t mean it to come out like that.”

  “Look, Zack, I know you’re from Phoenix. I get it. Big city. This may be a small town but we are still connected to the outside world. Yes, we’ve run the DNA through our system, but no, there have been no hits so far.”

  “Damn. Where do we go from here?”

  “We know that the blood doesn’t belong to anyone in the gallery, so we go with the assumption that whoever our mystery guest was, he or she has been injured. I’ve asked the hospital for a list of recent patients who have had any suspicious injuries. Gun shots, knife wounds, etc. If I hear anything I’ll let you know.”

  “What about the guy that was following me?” I asked.

  “That’s right. You said you had some information for me about him?”

  “Right.” I started patting my pockets as though I might actually have a copy of the letter I found with me when I knew full well it was sitting on my dresser back in my room. “I found something tucked away in an old photo album. If I didn’t have a sack of potatoes on my lap I’d get it for you. It was a letter from Abigail Lawson. In it she says…”

  “You’re back on this Abigail person, huh?” Vance interrupted. He sighed. “Look, I know you don’t like her but do you have to continually point the finger back at her?”

  “Back? It never left. You know what?” I gently set Sherlock on the floor and retrieved the letter. “Listen to this.” I recited every word from the letter, from start to finish. Vance, in true detective form, was silent the entire time. “What do you think?”

  “I can see how you’d think she’s involved,” Vance admitted. “Fine. I’ve got a buddy on the force over in Portland. I’ll run her name by him and see if anything turns up. Would that make you happy?”

  “It’s a start. What about this ‘Garno’ company?”

  “What about it? Everyone has heard of Garno. They’re a huge commercial operation that is constantly snapping up any small wineries they view as competition.”

  “Oh.”

  Vance rose to his feet and polished off his beer.

  “Zack?”

  “Yes?”

  “Stop calling me.”

  “What? Dude, you called me this time, remember?”

  “If I hadn’t called then you would have called me, right?”

  I smiled, “Maybe. You have no proof.”

  “That’s what I thought. Give it a rest. Leave the detective work to the professionals. Will you do that?”

  “Tell that to him,” I said as I pointed at Sherlock. “He’s the one that keeps finding these things.”

  “He found the letter?”

  “Well, in a manner of speaking. He wanted me to go up into the attic. That’s where I found the photo albums.”

  “That’s some dog you’ve got there.”

  I looked down at Sherlock, who had jumped back up onto my lap as soon as I had sat back down. At the moment he was presenting his furry belly to the world.

  “The problem is, I think he knows it.”

  Not three seconds after Vance had driven away the phone began to ring. This time it was the land line and I didn’t recognize the caller ID. With all the politeness I typically reserve for the most annoying telemarketer, I answered the line.

  “Hello?”

  I knew someone was there because I could hear breathing, and whoever it was just sucked in a lungful of air and held it.

  “Zack?” a female voice cautiously asked. “Is this Zack Anderson?”

  “Yeppers. Who’s this?”

  “It’s Jillian. Jillian Cooper? We met yesterday at my store.”

  My cheeks flamed bright red as I remembered the pretty woman from the cookbook store that had caught my eye. I flushed guiltily as I thought of Samantha. I sighed heavily and gripped the phone tighter.

  “Are you still there, Zack?” Jillian asked.

  “Hi, Jillian. I’m here. Sorry. You caught me off guard. Detective Vance Samuelson from the local PD was just here. We were discussing some new evidence that had come to our attention.”

  “Have they caught the person responsible?” Jillian asked. I could hear the concern in her voice.

  “Well, they’ve identified the dead guy that was found in my winery.”

  “Really? Was it someone from town?”

  “Definitely not,” I assured her. “It’s no one you would know. He was a guy by the name of Gregor.”

  “He sounds foreign,” Jillian said.

  “He is. Was. The detective was saying he’s the one that broke into the gallery and stole the glass tiger. Vance is also pretty sure he’s the one who killed everyone’s favorite grouch, Debra Jacobs. Is that why you called? Are you looking for an update to the case?”

  I heard a soft, musical laugh.

  “No. Don’t be silly. I called because I wanted to talk to you.”

  “You do?”

  “Yes. I, uh…”

  Jillian trailed off as my eyes widened. If I didn’t know any better I’d say she sounded nervous about something, but what? It couldn’t be me. She didn’t even know me. I heard her clear her throat and try again.

  “Zack, what would you say about meeting for a cup of coffee?”

  Holy crap on a cracker. Was she asking me out? It was my turn to sound like a sputtering school kid.

  “I, er…”

  “It’s okay. You are probably already seeing someone. I shouldn’t have asked. I’ll just go find a cliff and –”

  “Jillian?” I interrupted.

  “Yes?”

  “I was married.”

  “See? I knew I shouldn’t have asked. I should have realized that –”

  “Jillian?” I interrupted again.

  “Yes?”

  “I said ‘was’. My wife died about six months ago.”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry! Are you sure you don’t want to meet for a cup of coffee? It’d be the perfect opportunity for you to slip some cyanide in my drink. I’m sorry. I’m blabbering. I tend to do that when I’m nervous.”

  “Jillian, it’s okay. It wasn’t your fault. You know what? A cup of coffee would be great.” I was already imagining what flavor combination of soda I’d get this time from that fancy soda dispenser at Wired Coffee & Café. “Would you like to meet at the coffee shop?”

  “If it’s okay with you, I’d rather go to Gary’s. I need to pick up a few things.”

  Gary’s?

  “I don’t think I know where that is.”

  “Oh. It’s the grocery store. Gary installed a cute little café in it earlier this year. His girls make the best coffee.”

  Ah. Gary’s Grocery. At least I knew where it was.
>
  “When would you like to meet?” I asked, surprised to discover I hadn’t felt this nervous on the phone since I was back in high school working up the nerve to call a girl. Samantha, in fact.

  Samantha. What would she think about this?

  “Would you like to meet in, say, 30 minutes?”

  I instinctively looked at my wrist. I hadn’t worn a watch in years.

  “Sounds like a plan. I’ll be there in half an hour, Jillian.”

  After I hung up I looked down at Sherlock, who was lazily stretched out on the floor looking up at me. He was laying in such a way that both of his back legs were sticking straight out behind him. It looked uncomfortable as hell but apparently he didn’t think so. Sherlock blinked a few times before rolling to his feet and stretching his back. He trotted over to the door and waited patiently for me to clip his leash on.

  “Who says you’re going? She wants to see me, not you, pal.”

  Sherlock stared, unblinking, directly at me. He looked up at the closed front door, shook his collar, and then turned back to me. Then I heard him whine. It was a soft, piteous sound. I sighed.

  “Fine. You have to stay in the car, okay? No matter how much you beg and plead I’m not allowing you in that store. Agreed?”

  I managed to find the grocery store without having to pick up my phone to check the GPS. If you knew just how bad my sense of direction was then you’d understand why I felt so thrilled. For me, it was a milestone. I’ve gotten lost in practically every city I’ve ever visited. Now, with regards to getting home, I was probably going to have to cheat.

  There was a scattering of cars parked outside. I gave the parked vehicles a quick once over, curious to see if I could guess which one belonged to Jillian. I could see two SUVs, one VW van, an old station wagon that Clark Griswold could have driven – complete with faux wood paneling – and a battered Ford truck.

  I glanced at the two SUVs. My money was on one of them belonging to Jillian. Or, I suppose it was possible she wasn’t here yet. I looked back at Sherlock, who was already curled up in the passenger seat. I gave the friendly dog a pat on his head.

  “You’re a good boy, Sherlock. I won’t be gone long. I’ll leave a window cracked. It’s 60 degrees out and I’ve parked under a tree, so it won’t get too warm in here.”

  Nevertheless I silently vowed to be gone no longer than fifteen minutes. I wasn’t going to be one of those dog owners. Besides, I didn’t want to live in a world where Harry Watt was more responsible than I was.

  I walked back into the small little grocery store and automatically moved to the left, towards the tiny café I had noticed the first time I had been in here. My hopes fell. I didn’t see a soda dispenser behind the counter. Great. Just great. What was a coffee-hater supposed to order at a coffee shop? Anyone else ever have that problem?

  I detected movement in my peripheral vision and glanced up. I saw the store’s magazine rack and a woman with her back to me. I recognized Jillian’s curly brown hair almost instantly.

  I noticed she was reading and became so surprised that I bumped into one of those greeting card displays, the wire circular kind that rotated in place. The collision was strong enough to knock the rack off balance, threatening to tip it over. I caught it before that could happen, but not before half the cards spilled onto the ground. It made quite a ruckus, but strangely enough, no one seemed to notice. A quick glance around the café confirmed the patrons were more interested in their own drinks and conversations.

  Embarrassed, I hurriedly scraped all the cards off the ground and looked up, expecting to see Jillian staring down at me with undisguised pity. My mouth fell open. Not only was she not looking in my direction, she was still reading! I’m pretty sure she hadn’t even heard the commotion, let alone looked up from her magazine.

  I should clarify, in case you’re wondering what had surprised me so much. It wasn’t the simple fact that she was still reading, but what she was reading. Jillian had picked up the latest issue of the popular sci-fi geek magazine Star Files and was completely engrossed in it. I could see from the open cover that it was an issue dedicated to anything and everything Star Wars.

  Now you can see why I was shocked. I haven’t known many women who were fans of science fiction, and of those that did, not one had ever picked up a magazine dedicated to all things sci-fi. Samantha had tolerated my love of the genre but I’m pretty sure it was only because she felt she was supposed to. Jillian, on the other hand, was not only reading about a subject I had previously thought only boys of all ages enjoyed, but she was also smiling!

  I briefly thought about giving her some good-natured ribbing but I wasn’t sure how it’d be taken. After all, I really didn’t know her.

  “Is there anything good in there?” I good-naturedly asked as I approached.

  Jillian finally looked up. I watched color slowly creep into her face. She saw me and her smile increased. She looked down at the magazine she was holding and shrugged sheepishly.

  “Zack! Hello! Erm, don’t mind this. It’s just something that I’ve always enjoyed.”

  “Sci-fi movies? Seriously?”

  Jillian laughed again. Hearing someone laugh always made me smile, regardless of the mood I happened to be in.

  “Hey, don’t knock them. Many of my favorite stories are science fiction. I love reading about what could be, or possibly will be. I love to sit and think about what may or may not exist out there in the universe with us.”

  I gazed at her with what I assumed to be a stupid expression on my face. Jillian gave me a small smile and slid the magazine back into place on the display rack and nodded.

  “It’s okay. Some people just aren’t fans of sci-fi.”

  I picked up the same copy of Star Files she had been reading. Not only did the magazine focus on Star Wars, but it also had a scathing article directed at George Lucas and his inability to leave his own films alone.

  “I personally think if George Lucas wants to change something in one of his films then he should be allowed to do it without worrying about what the diehard fans are going to say. Does it really matter who shot first? Although, if asked, I do think it suits Han’s character better in the original theatrical cut, where he shoots first.”

  “But that’s not the character George Lucas wanted to portray!” Jillian insisted. “He felt it was important not to portray Han as a cold-blooded killer.”

  I grabbed another copy of the same magazine so that there was one for each of us, paid for them both, and headed toward the coffee shop.

  “He’s a no-nonsense smuggler who was caught by another of Jabba’s smugglers,” I explained. “Any other smuggler would have done the same thing. What would you like?”

  Caught off guard, Jillian turned to look at the shocked expression on the young barista’s face. The girl alternated her gaze between Jillian and myself.

  “I’ll have a blended spiced chai frappé, with soy. Please.”

  The girl made some notes on a cup and looked expectantly at me. I didn’t know what a spiced chai frappé was, but I didn’t hear the words ‘coffee’ or ‘espresso’ in it so assumed it would be a safe choice for me.

  “I’ll have the same.”

  Jillian turned to me with surprise written all over her face.

  “Are you lactose-intolerant, too?”

  Lactose what? I quickly replayed her order in my head. I had thought ‘frappé’ would’ve been safe. I… wait. Hadn’t she said something about… soy. Aww, crap. Had I been paying better attention I definitely would NOT have ordered that.

  “No, not really. I, er, enjoy trying new things.”

  Now, I know the commercials tout soy milk, and almond milk for that matter, as a much tastier alternative to the real thing. They claim most people don’t ever notice a difference. Yes, I immediately noticed the difference and didn’t care for it. More to the point, I discovered I learned I didn’t ca
re for chai. At all.

  I took my first sip and tried not to grimace. The only positive thing this drink had going for it was that it reminded me of Christmas time. Have you ever smelled those scented candles that kinda smell like a mix of cinnamon and nutmeg? Now imagine having that taste running rampant through your mouth. I didn’t care for it. However, I plastered a smile on my face every time Jillian looked my way. What Jillian saw in this particular drink was beyond me.

  “What do you think of it?” Jillian asked. I got the impression she already knew the answer to this but was curious to see how I’d respond.

  “Umm, it’s not bad.”

  “Liar,” Jillian accused with a smile.

  “Nonsense. Look! I’m taking a drink of it now. Mmmm.” I almost choked. “That’s mighty tasty, right there.”

  “Do you know that you’re scrunching up your face every time you take a sip? Also, the tips of your ears turn bright red when you’re fibbing. Don’t ever play poker, Zack.”

  My ears were red?

  “If you don’t like it, I’ll take it,” Jillian added.

  I wordlessly slid the cup over to her and smiled sheepishly.

  “You did say you were alright meeting at a coffee shop, didn’t you?” Jillian asked. She took a long drink from her own cup and finished it off. She handed me her empty glass and started in on the rest of mine. Oddly enough I noted that she hadn’t bothered replacing my straw with hers. “If you don’t like coffee, why did you agree to come here?”

  “I assumed they had a soda machine.”

  “You’re clearly not a coffee drinker. You won’t find many cafés with a soda dispenser. Look. I see a display case of cold sodas next to the cashier over there. Let me buy you one. What would you like?”

  “A Vanilla Coke Zero, if they have it.”

  Jillian headed to the display case, pulled out a bottle, paid for it, and came back to the table. It was a plain Coke Zero. It would do. Actually, it could have been prune juice and I probably would have chugged the entire bottle. I really had to get that chai taste out of my mouth. Jillian’s eyes sparkled with amusement as she watched me take three or four healthy swallows of the carbonated drink.

  “I bet you’ll do a little research before you order your next drink at a café in the future, won’t you?”

  “You bet your ass I will,” I muttered as I swished the soda around the insides of my mouth. “No offense, but I don’t know how you can drink that stuff. It’s terrible!”

  “What part don’t you like? The soy or the chai?”

  “It’s gotta be the soy,” I answered, taking another swallow of soda.

  “It’s the chai,” Jillian decided. “It has a very strong flavor. If you’re not used to it the flavors can be overwhelming.”

  “Your point is taken.”

  “So, how’s the investigation going?” Jillian asked.

  I plunked the empty bottle of soda on the table and felt the belch brewing. I ordered it to stay put and smiled at my companion.

  “Care to be specific? Are you referring to the theft of that tiger thing, the murder at the gallery, or the dead body that was found at my winery?”

  “All of the above, I guess.”

  “Well, Vance thinks… that’s the detective, by the way, all three are connected. He’s pretty sure Gregor, the dead man from my winery, was the one who broke into the gallery and killed Debra Jacobs, but not before he made off with that tiger thingamajig.”

  “Then who killed that Gregor fellow?” Jillian asked.

  “Vance had the blood found in the gallery analyzed. It wasn’t Debra’s, or Zora’s, or even Gregor’s. We’re figuring it had to be the mastermind behind the whole thing.”

  “But it was found in the gallery? Where? I thought the police had already searched that place from top to bottom.”

  “They had, but little Sherlock pointed me towards a painting that had several smudges of blood on the frame that had been overlooked. I don’t know how he knew it was there, only that he did.”

  “Sherlock found the blood. It’s not surprising. Dogs have a highly developed sense of smell.”

  “Well, can they smell out the location of a letter, too?”

  “What?”

  “Later in the day Sherlock guided me to the attic. That was where I found a letter from Abigail Lawson. She’s the daughter of the winery’s former owner. There’s no mistaking how angry she was with her mother because Bonnie wouldn’t give the winery to her. I personally maintain Abigail wanted to sell it to someone else.”

  Jillian giggled.

  “What’s so funny?” I asked, curious.

  “You keep telling me who these people are, as if I didn’t know them. I’ve lived in this town my whole life. I know who they are.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  “So you’re telling me you know who Abigail Lawson is?” I asked.

  Jillian nodded, “I’ve only met her once, when she came into my store. She told me, in as many terms, that she didn’t cook and didn’t care for anything that had to do with cooking. Do you know what that arrogant, pea-brained nitwit called my store? Dirty! My floors are so clean you could eat off them.”

  My eyebrows shot up as I pictured the prissy older woman looking disdainfully down her nose at Jillian’s meticulously clean shop. I did my best to keep the laughter out of my voice.

  “So, uh, what did you say to her?”

  “My mother raised me well.”

  I was disappointed. I could only hope it didn’t show too much.

  “You mean you didn’t say anything to her? Jillian, you’re a better person than I am. I would have told her off.”

  “You didn’t let me finish. I said that my mother had raised me well. I was going for a Griswold.”

  “A Griswold?” I repeated, confused.

  “Yes. It’s a very popular brand of cast iron cookware.”

  A smile appeared on my face as I pictured ol’ Miss Congeniality herself sprawled out on Jillian’s tile floor with a heavy cast iron frying pan lying nearby. I cleared my throat to get Jillian’s attention.

  “I wouldn’t bother. The last thing you’d want to do is damage your merchandise.”

  Jillian sat back in her chair and regarded me with a serious expression.

  “I was ready to do it, Zack. Pow, right there in the middle of my store. I didn’t care if there were witnesses, or if I would be arrested. How dare that woman denigrate my business like that?”

  “She’s a snob,” I decided. “I, for one, will not give that grouchy woman another thought.”

  I stood up, bought another bottle of soda, and rejoined Jillian at the table.

  “I’ll bet I can change your mind,” Jillian challenged. “I’ve got something on her that’ll most definitely make you smile.”

  I was in the process of taking a large swallow of soda when I paused.

  “Oh, yeah? What’s that?”

  “She’s flat broke.”

  “She is? And how could you possibly know that?”

  “A friend of mine works at the salon just down the street. She overheard a heated argument Abigail was having with someone on her cell. Your winery’s name, and a few other choice words, were mentioned a few times so I assumed she was talking about her mother.”

  “When was this?” I asked.

  “At the beginning of the year. Bonnie’s health had started to deteriorate. Abigail was putting in appearances here in PV every other week. Everyone in town knew that the only reason Abigail Lawson came to PV was to try yet again to wrest control of the winery away from her mother. Bonnie, bless her heart, never once let herself be intimidated, especially by the likes of Abigail.”

  “Did you ever meet her?”

  “Who, Abigail? Yes. I told you, I almost hit her with a frying pan.”

  “No, I mean Bonnie.”

  “Oh. Yes, several times. She
was a very nice woman. She was intelligent, witty, and contrary to what you might have heard, did have a sense of humor.”

  “Contrary to what I might have heard?” I repeated, confused.

  “Many people thought Bonnie was unapproachable; intimidating. Not me, though. I once hand-delivered a cookbook she had ordered and ended up getting invited inside for tea. She was a remarkably intelligent woman, probably the smartest I have ever met.”

  “She must have had her reasons why she didn’t want to give control of the winery to her own daughter,” I mused. I raised the bottle of soda to my lips.

  “I should have slammed the door in Abigail’s face the moment I first met her. Maybe that would’ve knocked some sense into her. Ugh. Greedy, crotchety bitch.”

  I snotted my Coke Zero. Twin streams of brown carbonated liquid shot out my nose and down the front of my shirt. The burning sensation that inevitably followed had me gasping with pain. I slapped a hand over my nose, hoping to minimize the mess I knew I was making of my shirt. Jillian, on the other hand, was beside herself with the giggles. She dabbed the corners of her eyes with her napkin and pulled a few more from the dispenser to hand to me.

  “You almost made it to the table,” Jillian observed, between giggles. “That’s an impressive shot.”

  I glanced at my shirt. Naturally I had chosen one of my lighter-colored tees today. You know, the kind that show stains really well? There it was. Two rows of tiny spots all the way down to my stomach. Wow. That was an impressive shot.

  “Did I make you do that?” Jillian innocently asked.

  “What do you think?” I countered. I wiped my face and then my hand.

  “What’s the matter? Didn’t think someone like me could talk like that?”

  I tried soaking up the excess soda from my shirt with a few fresh napkins. All I ended up doing was to smear the soda into my shirt, making the stain more noticeable.

  “Not really. Sorry you had to see that.”

  “Zack, I grew up with an older brother. There’s nothing that you, or anyone else for that matter, could say that I haven’t heard before. You should’ve heard my brother whenever he hit his thumb with a hammer.”

  A grin split my face. I had smashed my thumb a few times when I had thought, erroneously, that anyone could be a carpenter. Thankfully Samantha hadn’t been around to hear the tirade of profanity that had ensued, thus ending that short-lived profession.

  “Samantha would have liked you,” I said, looking across at Jillian.

  Jillian’s expression softened. “Tell me about her. How long ago did you say that she died?”

  “Almost six months,” I answered.

  “You think about her all the time, don’t you? That’s not healthy, you know.”

  “I know,” I sighed. “Does it show?”

  “It’s not that hard to figure out,” Jillian told me. “And it’s easy to see why. You miss her.”

  I shrugged, “Of course I do. It’s not like I have one of those flashy things from Men in Black that can make me forget her.”

  “Flashy things, huh? You really like movies, don’t you?”

  “Always have, always will. Samantha called it a sickness.”

  Jillian smiled, sipped her drink, and held my eyes with hers.

  “What was she like?”

  “Kind,” I instantly replied. “Intelligent. Wickedly awesome at Tetris. I thought I was good but damn, she was better. Way better.”

  Jillian let out a laugh. A small part of me had found it charming and I instantly compared the laugh to Samantha’s. Almost immediately a wave of guilt threatened to wash over me. My skin paled and I had to take a couple of gulps of air.

  “Are you okay?” Jillian asked me, concern evident in her voice.

  “Yeah, sorry. I really need to stop doing that.”

  “Let me guess. You compared me to her, didn’t you?”

  “Yes,” I admitted. “I’m sorry. Believe it or not I’m getting better.”

  “How long were the two of you together?”

  “Since high school. Much to the chagrin of both our families, we married right out of school. I swear that if you were to look up the definition of the word ‘soulmates’ you’d see a picture of Sam and me.”

  “If you don’t mind me asking, what happened to her? How did she die? Was it cancer?”

  I shook my head, “Car accident. To this day no one knows what happened. They say her car swerved into oncoming traffic and she collided head-on with a semi.”

  “I’m sorry, Zack.”

  I sighed and sat back in my chair, “Yeah, me, too. However, that’s in the past. I’m doing my damnedest not to dwell on it. What about you? Are you married?”

  I watched Jillian’s eyes fall down to her hands. She took a deep breath and I instantly knew we had more in common than either of us had originally realized. I grunted, drawing Jillian’s eyes to my own.

  “What?” she asked.

  “That must be what I look like when someone asks me about Sam,” I told Jillian in the gentlest tone that I could muster. “How long ago did he pass away?”

  “Two years. It’s been two years since I lost Michael.”

  I saw that Jillian’s eyes had filled.

  “It’s been two years,” I said. “Is the pain ever going to go away?”

  Jillian shook her head, “No. It won’t.”

  “What did he die of? Can you tell me?”

  Jillian nodded, “Sure. I can talk about him. It still hurts but I’ve learned to live with it. He had lung cancer.”

  “I’m sorry. That’s rough. Was he a smoker?”

  “No,” she said, shaking her head. “He never touched a cigarette in all his life.”

  “Then what -?”

  “Second-hand smoke,” Jillian answered, seeing my look of confusion. “Here was a man who took care of himself, didn’t drink, never smoked, yet contracted lung cancer because the people at his work smoked. Life isn’t fair, Zack. He didn’t deserve to go through that.”

  “You’ve been dealing with the pain far longer than I have,” I observed. “How do you deal with it?”

  Jillian leaned forward and placed a hand over one of mine.

  “What you need to learn, Zack, is that even though your wife is gone, your memory of her never will be. It’s something that you have to live with. You said her name was Sam?”

  “Yes, short for Samantha.”

  “Do you think Samantha would have wanted you to dwell on her for the rest of your life?”

  I automatically shook my head no.

  “Nor would Mike have wanted that for me. So, I am honoring his memory by continuing to live my life to the fullest.”

  I looked at her questioningly.

  “I’ve been to therapy,” Jillian supplied. “It really has helped. There’s even a support group in Medford for people who have been widowed. Whenever I’m feeling down I’ll attend a meeting. Trust me, nothing will help you feel better than being in a room full of people going through the same thing you are. You should come with me the next time I go. It’ll be uplifting, I promise you.”

  I leaned back in my chair and polished off my soda.

  “I’m not sure how we worked around to this particular subject,” I told her, “but I will say that I’m not sorry that we did. You’re right. It helps to talk about it.”

  “I didn’t mean to distract you,” Jillian apologized. “What were we talking about before we each veered off subject?”

  “Abigail,” I recalled.

  “That’s right. I was starting to tell you Abigail is suffering through a major financial crisis.”

  “So she’s broke,” I said as I crossed my arms over my chest. I felt moisture and looked down. The twin trails of soda were still there. The stain may be beginning to dry but, sadly, it was blatantly obvious that I had made a mess of my shirt. Oh, well. Win some, lose some. “It couldn’t hap
pen to a nicer person. So that’s gotta be why she wants the winery so much. Judging by the number of receipt boxes I saw up in my attic, Lentari Cellars must do a lot of business.”

  Jillian nodded, “They do. In its prime your winery was a veritable cash cow and I’d say Abigail knows it. Wait. Do you think she is responsible for the murder in the winery? Is she trying to frame you to get you out of the picture?”

  Giving up on my cleanup efforts, I recrossed my arms.

  “In a nutshell, that’s my theory. Initially I hadn’t taken into consideration the financial aspect of it. I just thought she viewed me as an outsider and was outraged that someone like me had inherited the winery.”

  “I can guarantee you she doesn’t care who you are,” Jillian assured me. “She knows how much Lentari Cellars has made in the past and is desperate to lay claim to that money now. She just has to figure out how to get you out of the picture.”

  “The winery may have made money in the past,” I pointed out, “but that doesn’t mean it will now. If people are waiting for me to bring that winery back to life then they are going to be disappointed. I don’t know a damn thing about wine, let alone making it. Have you ever seen the insides of a winery? There’s some complicated looking machinery in there.”

  “Do you know what I would do if I were you?” Jillian asked.

  “Okay, I’ll bite. What?”

  “There’s a community college in Medford. Due to this area having perfect conditions for growing grapes, they offer several courses on wine-making.”

  “Okaayyy,” I slowly said, puzzled. “You want me to take a class about how to make wine? I suppose I could do that.”

  “No, silly. Where there are classes, there are teachers. If you’re looking for someone that knows a thing or two about making wine then I’d say that’s the perfect place to start. You need help. That’s where you’ll find it.”

  EIGHT