Eli entered the small, cluttered office crammed with leather-bound books and smelling of dust and something funky, like old socks.
Since Mason was the coroner, Eli hoped he was right—old socks seemed like the best possible option. “What do you have there?” He hovered off to the side in case the machine really was a crapometer and Mason wanted him to look at some crap.
“This machine analyzes trace amounts of drugs in dried blood or in corpses who have been dead a very long time.” Mason ran his hand through his thinning hair.
“The corpse who has been dead a very long time—that’s the body we found in the water tower?” Eli edged closer.
“Yep. I’ve found out all kinds of stuff about him. He was starving and dehydrated, but also”—Mason turned to Eli, eyes manically bright—“he was given a huge dose of a laxative to empty his bowels.”
Eli stepped back again. “Why?”
“I’m not a detective or with the FBI, although Wyatt says I would be a good addition to the force.” Mason sounded smug. “But I surmise whoever our corpse’s killers were believed he’d swallowed something of value and they wanted it to come out.”
“Why didn’t they just cut him open?” That seemed easier.
“Maybe they were scared off by someone poking around the water tower.” Mason shrugged. “Maybe they were squeamish.”
“Squeamish? They stabbed him.”
“Digging around in someone’s intestinal tract after something is not the same as a quick in-and-out.” Mason beamed with pride. “Autopsy is not for the weak at heart!”
“Or for the weak of stomach.” All too obviously, Mason enjoyed his job. “What did you decide? Do you think the body is Massimo Bruno?”
“No doubt in my mind. It took forever, but I found a photo of him in our archives.” Mason went to his desk and pulled a small, fragile black-and-white photograph from the out-box.
Eli took it by the edges and stared at a gentle-looking older gentleman. “He doesn’t look like a gangster. He looks like he should be growing peaches.”
“One thing police work teaches us: Appearances are deceptive. Now look at this comparison.” Mason brought a scan of the photo up on his computer, and next to it he added the photo of the mummified head.
Eli leaned forward. The hooked nose, the broad forehead, even his glowering expression . . . the resemblance was striking. “Would you send that to my e-mail?”
“Sure.” Mason found Eli in his address book and hit SEND. “Going to show your mystery-writer girlfriend?”
“She’s not my girlfriend.” Eli wasn’t kidding about that. “Did you find out anything else pertinent to the case? Anything else I should know?”
From the door, DuPey said, “You don’t need to know anything at all. Damn it, Eli, why use the police force to help you court that girl? Just use your famous Di Luca charm and she’ll fall into your hands like ripe fruit.”
Hm. Apparently DuPey was still bitter about Eli’s brief hookup with his now-wife while in high school. Eli hadn’t known DuPey was sweet on Karina . . . truthfully, he wouldn’t have cared, either. High school was just high school, and only DuPey had taken his romantic relationships seriously.
But DuPey’s father had been the chief of police before him, the biggest bully the county had ever seen, and whenever something went down at the high school DuPey, scrawny DuPey, had caught the brunt of his father’s displeasure. But DuPey never squealed on anyone to his dad. At the time, if Eli hadn’t been so wrapped up in his own misery, he would have admired DuPey for his steadfast courage.
Instead, he had tamed his inner beast with a liberal application of girls attracted to a handsome, anguished, rich Di Luca brother.
“I’m interested, too, DuPey,” he said, “and believe me, so’s my grandmother. It’s not every day the most famous disappearance in Bella Valley is solved.”
Wyatt slid past DuPey and into the office. “He’s right, DuPey. Everyone does seem to be obsessed by this Massimo guy. The older people want to know who killed him, and the younger people want to know how many of his bottles are out there, if their grandparents have one, and how much it’s worth. Fascinating case. Fascinating response.” He turned back to face DuPey. “It’s such a minor crime and such a big fuss . . . it shows that you really have kept a good lid on crime in this area.” He had that kind of take-charge personality that marked him in Eli’s mind as a guy who could never have stayed with the FBI. Owning his own company was probably inevitable, and having the kind of company where he consulted on law enforcement improvement gave him a natural edge in the world. Bringing him in to consult was probably the smartest decision DuPey ever made.
“I admit, the last few months have been a shock, with two murders, a couple of attempted murders, vandalism that destroyed hundreds of thousands of dollars’ worth of merchandise, and now a still in the water tower and a mummified body.” DuPey came in and collapsed in Mason’s chair. He looked tired again, and when Finnegan poked his head in the door and cleared his throat, DuPey groaned.
“How’s Miss Robinson doing?” Finnegan shuffled his feet and asked shyly, “Did she have any nightmares from finding the body?”
Mason chortled like a monkey. “Her? Are you kidding? That woman is too smart for that kind of missish reaction. By God, Di Luca, she was asking all the right questions and making all the right conclusions. She even told me Massimo’s killer had been looking for something, and asked if I thought Massimo might have been given a laxative.”
Finnegan lurched backward in horror. “She asked about that?”
“Yes!” Mason said. “She’s simply brilliant. If she had a stronger stomach, she would have been a great coroner.”
Wyatt’s blue eyes danced with amusement. “But then we’d be missing a great mystery writer. Right, Di Luca?”
Eli nodded. “DuPey, how’s the tune-up of the department going?”
“Good,” Wyatt answered for him. “DuPey’s a great people manager, and he utilizes every possible method to keep crime down in Bella Valley.”
“Including keeping my officers busy . . . even if they are related to my wife.” DuPey looked meaningfully at Finnegan.
Wyatt watched with amusement as Finnegan faded back toward the patrol room, and shook his head. “I understand why you’re stuck with that boy, but damn. What a loser.”
“That’s not all.” DuPey rubbed his face with his hands.
Wyatt turned to Eli. “All I can do here is show DuPey what can be done once a crime is committed. Trust me, sometimes when I consult in a police department, I have to start from the ground up—organize the department, tell them how to do the day-to-day operations.” He clapped his hand on DuPey’s shoulder. “But DuPey’s like me. Police work is in his blood.”
“No way around it,” DuPey agreed, and got to his feet. “Eli, no offense, but you don’t need a preview of the case before I break it to the press. So give my regards to Miss Robinson, tell her I’m glad to hear she’s as good at solving real crimes as she is at creating her own, and we’ll see you later.” DuPey pushed Eli toward the door.
Eli followed him past the offices, past the desk where Terry was talking to Finnegan, and into the tiny lobby. “So, DuPey, since when did you look forward to talking to the press?”
“I don’t. But Wyatt really knows his stuff, and he thinks we can get some great press off solving the Massimo disappearance. He might be a grandstander, but in this case, he’s right—funding’s being cut in law enforcement on every level, so when we get a case that’ll catch the attention of the public, we need to milk it for every drop of positive attention.” DuPey’s droopy, bloodhound eyes were red rimmed. “Me, I’m more worried about the guys who are still alive getting their asses into trouble.”
Eli glanced up and saw Finnegan talking to Terry. “And keeping your wife’s nephew busy?”
“He’s an idiot.” DuPey made the pronouncement with a finality that made Eli grin. “How’s your grandmother? Is she completely recov
ered?”
“Nonna’s doing well. We’re keeping security at the home ranch and she’s got a nurse with her at all times.”
“Glad to hear it. No sign of Massimo’s wine?”
“No, and your beloved mystery writer, Chloë Robinson, took a shot at searching for it, too.” Although she wasn’t Chloë Robinson anymore. Chloë Di Luca . . . Tonight he’d remind her to change her driver’s license. Tonight he’d remind her why she had married him. Tonight . . .
“She couldn’t find it, huh?” DuPey grimaced in disappointment. “If we could locate that bottle, I’m pretty sure this itchy feeling on my scalp would go away.”
“Lice?” Eli asked.
DuPey smacked him on the arm. “Instinct. It’s like someone is watching and waiting for his moment to spring.”
“Bianchin.”
“Yes. No. I don’t know. There’s more to it than that.” DuPey rubbed his hand across the back of his neck. “I keep thinking this is bigger than we could ever imagine.”
Chapter 32
Eli couldn’t help but agree. But he didn’t need DuPey poking around and finding out about those pink diamonds. Once the police got involved, Eli and Chloë had no chance of keeping the matter quiet, and if one valuable bottle of wine could bring thugs to Bella Valley, he couldn’t imagine what would happen when they discovered priceless jewels were involved. “I think what’s going on is a hangover from the trouble Joseph Bianchin started when he decided he wanted Nonno’s bottle of wine.”
“But why did he decide he wanted it now? That’s the question.”
“He’s old. He can’t wait much longer.” Eli put a note of amusement in his voice.
DuPey nodded sheepishly. “There is that. Yeah, I’m probably just getting jumpy.”
“I can’t blame you. Ever since I saw that body in my water tower, I’ve been a little jumpy myself.” Eli checked his watch. “Okay, I’m out of here. Go catch the bad guys and make our streets safe once more.”
“Bite me,” DuPey said, and disappeared into the back.
Eli raised his hand in farewell to Terry—Finnegan was still yammering, and Terry looked close to an explosion—and headed out the door and toward Bella Terra’s town square.
Penny’s Bookstore had been in business for twenty-three years. Penny knew what he liked; she ordered books on wine growing and he bought them. But she was upstairs with some of the valley’s early tourists, so he strode over to mystery and suspense and took a look.
He found it almost at once: Die Trying by Chloë Robinson.
The cover was simple, striking: a white mask with a drop of blood on the corner, set on a black background.
Eli picked it up, looked at Chloë’s photo on the back, flipped through the pages.
Wyatt Vincent obviously knew his way around a murder, so the fact that he liked Chloë’s novel meant it was well researched, well written. Nonna read voraciously, and she had loved it. Finnegan was an idiot, and he’d read it.
Apparently what she wrote appealed to everyone. And while Eli did occasionally read fiction, reading Chloë’s book seemed . . . he didn’t know . . . as if he were surrendering to Conte’s schemes.
Which was dumb. He and Chloë were married. He had surrendered. He might as well read it—
Penny, sixty-five, brisk, and a saleswoman from her head to her toes, appeared at his elbow. “Eli, how’s it going?”
“Good. How’s business?”
“Slow. It’ll pick up next weekend.”
He lifted his brows in inquiry.
“It’s Grape Blossom Fest. Eli, you’ve lived here all your life. How can you not remember?”
“It’s dumb,” he said.
“It brings the tourists,” Penny countered. She looked at the book in his hands. “Ohhh. I heard you had a houseguest. Going to dip your toes into her novel?”
That sounded suggestive to Eli, and he was sure Penny had meant it just that way. Damn it. He couldn’t buy this book here. That would start another round at the Let’s Gossip about Eli Di Luca Fest. “I wanted to see what she looked like before she cut her hair,” he said, and put the book back on the shelf.
Penny picked it up and looked at the author photo. “She cut her hair? Why?”
“Because she’s a woman,” he said, and glanced at his watch. “I’ve got another couple of stops to make, so I’ll be on my way.”
“Wait! I’ve found an antique book written by a winemaker in New York State.”
“I’ll get it next time I’m in.” He lifted his hand in farewell and headed toward the resort.
Two more stops, and he could go home. Home to Chloë, working in his office, her hair a bright dandelion puff, her face mobile and expressive, her smile inviting, her tits . . .
No. He couldn’t think of that: the perfect size to fit in his palm, the way she turned warm and pliant when he rubbed his thumbs in slow circles around her nipples. No! He needed to concentrate on her hair, her face, her smile. And her words.
Everyone who met her thought she was intelligent and perceptive. Certainly everyone on the police force admired her. His grandmother thought the world of her.
When Eli wasn’t mad at her for looking through his private papers, he thought she was smart, too. And he hated that, because she made him think he ought to call Abuela.
All his life he’d seen that women like Nonna and maybe Chloë saw things differently than he did. They didn’t seem to see the black-and-white. For them the whole world was painted in soft shades of gray, or maybe even in color. With women, who knew?
And Chloë wasn’t right about Abuela exactly. He wouldn’t go that far. But the stuff she’d said had merit.
She wants to see you. She says there’s no one else. And, You shared something, the two of you.
They had indeed. Long nights of lessons. Her blunt impatience with any confusion. That stern, wrinkled face with those big, dark eyes staring at him, and her sharp, thin voice saying, Don’t tell me you can’t. You’re my hope for this family. You will do it.
Abuela had not been kind, and she had been determined to keep him in the Silva family. What was hers, she kept.... Hmm.
He might have gotten that from her.
But through long evenings spent in her suite of rooms, she’d taught him about wines. Not merely taught him—she had seared her knowledge of wines into his memory as if graven in stone. She knew things no other teacher had taught him, and as he created his Di Luca wines, he’d put her knowledge to work time and again.
He walked through the Bella Terra lobby, ignoring the greetings, and into the Luna Grande Lounge.
The bar was empty; Tom Chan was nowhere in sight.
Eli pulled out his phone and looked at the screen.
Last night, he’d programmed in Abuela’s number.
He didn’t know what he was thinking, or why he’d done it. It had been a stupid impulse, like this one to give her a call.
But in his head, he heard Chloë’s voice.
She says she’s sick. She’s probably looking at the end of her life and thinking she wants to make contact with the grandson who has made her proud.
He touched the screen and watched it dial. Country code, phone number. He could make this call and . . .
And say what?
You controlled my life for six long years and made every day a living hell?
The phone was ringing.
I can’t sleep through the night, because I’m waiting for my cousins to beat me with a bat? Women have told me I’m emotionally damaged, and since I can’t love the woman who loves me, I guess they’re right?
“Hello?” It was her. Abuela.
His fingers went cold. He recognized the tobacco-roughened voice.
How could he ever forget?
He cut the connection and put the phone back in his pocket.
No. He would not speak to her. Not now. Not ever. Irritated at himself for imagining Abuela needed him, he checked the time.
Where was Tom? Where was Victor? r />
He heard them talking as they crossed the lobby, his friend who tended the bar and Victor, newly anointed as the lead concierge for Bella Terra.
Distractions, both of them, and he was glad to see them walk through the door. He said, “I’ve called on you two because I need something put together, something very special for me, and I know you both have the skills and the know-how to do this in a hurry. I wouldn’t trust this to anyone else.”
Chapter 33
When someone rapped on the office door, Chloë jumped and gasped, grabbed the arms of the chair, and stared, wide-eyed, at Eli.
He’d pulled her out of a murder scene in Maine, and her heart raced in alarm.
“Sorry.” Eli looked almost as surprised as she felt, and gestured behind him. “I made noise when I was coming up the stairs.”
“It’s okay. I was scared. Hannah realized her patient had been murdered and she had been set up as the perp.” Chloë leaped to her feet. “I’ve got to go to the bathroom.” Not the most romantic thing to say to your new husband, but she’d been sitting at that desk for hours without a break, and now that he’d interrupted her she realized . . . she really had to go.
While she was washing her hands, she looked at herself in the mirror.
Hair standing up on half of her head.
No makeup.
Still in her pajamas.
He was truly getting to see her at her worst.
She walked out, barefoot and feeling like a bumpkin.
He, of course, looked the same as always, in jeans, shirt, work boots, and a darkly handsome austerity. He said, “So, seeing the water tower, the still, and the body helped you with your writing.”
“It’s added a historical edge to the story that . . . Never mind.” She glanced at the bookshelf. He didn’t care about her writing. He didn’t read fiction.
No wonder he seldom smiled. When he woke up in the morning, he had nothing to look forward to all day long except real life . . . although the way he was looking at her right now, all smoky-watchful, told her he was pretty pleased with his life.