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“What the hell is it about the winery that would make someone want it badly enough to kill for it?”
“There is no record of anything that remotely sets off bells. I checked for oil. I checked for real estate developments. There is nothing. And I went back a hundred years.”
“It could be a business deal,” I say, thinking out loud. “Some kind of merger that has never been put on paper.”
“Or the same person who made Meredith Winter’s money trail disappear made a whole lot more disappear.”
“We just need to make sure they don’t make Faith disappear.”
“If the winery is at the core of all of this, and it seems that it is, make her put the winery up for sale. If it’s gone, she’s no longer a target.”
“You do have someone watching her, correct?”
“I have a man watching your place and two in Sonoma, watching her place and the winery.”
“Which brings me back to the purpose of this call,” I say. “I sent you a photo of a money clip. Faith found it in her yard Friday. Does that belong to one of your men?”
“I see it. And my guys working the Sonoma area don’t make stupid mistakes. And since Faith has no cameras on her property, I can’t see who is. We need to upgrade her, and I can do it without her knowing, but with her stamp of approval, we can get far better equipment installed.”
“We’re here until Thursday and there for the weekend. Schedule it for Friday.”
“We’re talking murder here. We need cameras at her house and at the winery, where we can watch her staff, now, not later.”
I’m immediately hit by the fact that he’s just stated:We’re dealing with murder. He’s no longer on the fence about how my father and Faith’s mother died. He now believes what I do. They were murdered. “I’ll get you in by tomorrow night,” I say. “And Faith is working here at the Allure Gallery all week. I need you to be sure that you have someone watching her at all times.”
“Done. And FYI, I hacked your father’s autopsy reports. Nothing yet.” He hangs up.
Fucker.
I set the phone down on the table and stare at that money clip with a bad feeling in my gut, my fingers thrumming on my knee. “What the hell were you up to, Father?”
I pick my phone back up and dial my assistant. “And here I thought that new woman of yours would make you get a life,” Rita says, bypassing a hello. In fact, I think she started bypassing hello with me seven years back. “Sundays are for church and reruns ofFriends,” she adds.
“And me,” I say. “I need someone respected assessing the Reid Winter Winery in Sonoma tomorrow. They’ll need to bring a full team. I need it done quickly.”
“Tomorrow?” she asks incredulously. “No one is going to talk to me today, let alone be there tomorrow.”
“Pay them whatever you have to pay them.”
“That could be hefty.”
“I trust you not to let me get raped.”
“Oh, good grief. I could do without your visuals sometimes, Nick Rogers. Tuesday is more reasonable, even with a bribe.”
“I prefer tomorrow. If anyone can get it done, you can. Text me when you know the details. And yes, I’ll bring the donuts you like in the morning.” I end the call and stand up, walking to my desk, where I stick the money clip in the top drawer. I consider digging through the boxes of materials I have on my father, but that’s risky with Faith in the house. And I’d rather be upstairs with Faith anyway.
With that in mind, I open my briefcase and pull out the sensitive material related to Faith and my father, filing it away in my desk. Selecting several client files I need to study, I seal it up, head to the kitchen where my computer still sits, and, with it in hand, make my way upstairs. The minute I appear in the doorway, Faith turns to face me, a black cover-up over her clothes, her hair piled on top of her head, little ringlets around her face.
She motions to her white Keds, now splattered with black and gray paint. “Maybe I could sell them to some clothing designer?” she says. “They’re stylish, right?”
“Very,” I tell her, walking to the wall behind her, where I can watch her canvas take shape. “It could be an empire.” I sit down and open my briefcase.
Faith removes her cover-up and sits down next to me, her black pants now splattered with paint as well. “Isn’t it going to be hard to work like this?” she asks.
“I’ll manage,” I say, leaning over and kissing her, but it hits me that she stopped painting the minute I showed up. “Unless,” I say, pulling back to study her, “I’m making you feel uncomfortable.”
She covers my hand with hers, a sweet gesture, when sweet has never been my thing. “I like you being here with me,” she says, and when she lets go of my hand, I want hers back. Apparently, I like sweet now. A whole fucking lot. “I just wish you had a better place to work,” she adds. “You should put a desk in here.”
