A Pairing to Die For Read online

  Is his shock genuine, like he wants me to believe? Or carefully rehearsed?

  Either way, I need to keep an eye on Nick. Because right now, he has the greatest motive for killing Oscar. They didn’t see eye to eye on pretty much anything in the kitchen, and Nick has kept his frustration bottled up for so long, who knows what he’s capable of?

  I leave him alone in the alley.

  * * *

  * * *

  Britt is hard at work in the kitchen. She’s layering phyllo dough with butter and a mixture of cinnamon, sugar, and finely chopped pecans. Draped across the kitchen island, the delicate sheets of pastry are so thin they’re almost transparent.

  “Hate to break it to you, but the restaurant will be closed today,” I say, hanging my purse on a spare hook. “And tomorrow, barring some sort of miracle.” Call me naive, but I refuse to believe Reid’s incarceration will last beyond that.

  Britt continues brushing melted butter on the sheet of dough, her hand impressively steady. “It’d be a shame for these ingredients to go to waste.”

  “What are you making?”

  “A spin on baklava, topped with honeyed apples.”

  My mouth instantly starts watering. Not dissimilar from a kid in the midst of a long road trip hopefully querying Are we there yet? I ask, “When will it be ready?”

  “Not for a few hours. I’ve still gotta work through that bag.” She nods toward her tote, resting next to the farmhouse sink.

  The rest of the kitchen is pristine, all shiny stainless steel. Without the clanging of pots and pans and sizzling from the stovetop, the only sound is the hum of appliances. It’s oddly comforting.

  Britt carefully moves a sheet of phyllo dough using a rolling pin, tucking it snugly in the pan. Then she brushes on melted butter and adds a generous portion of the spice-and-nut mixture on top. The scents wafting from the dish are heavenly.

  “So where is Reid really?” she asks, a stud piercing twinkling from her nose.

  “Arrested.” I meet her gaze, the drool-inducing dough momentarily forgotten. “For Oscar’s murder.”

  “Oscar’s what?” she asks, twitching and almost upturning the spice mixture.

  “Oscar was killed last night,” I explain somberly. “In the alley.”

  She wipes her brow with her forearm, leaving a trace of cinnamon there. “Shit.”

  “You can say that again,” I grumble.

  “Shit.”

  I give her a sad smile and she returns to her work, her fingers deft as they smooth out nonexistent wrinkles from the most recent layer of phyllo. Emotions dance over her face—bewilderment, sadness, and uncertainty. I just dumped a lot on her.

  “Reid didn’t do it,” I say.

  “I know,” she says. “He doesn’t have it in him.”

  “He’s in jail.” I take a shaky breath, swallowing the lump in my throat. “Will he be okay?”

  Britt is probably the only person I trust to answer this question. In a former life, she worked as a prison line cook in a dinky town in Kansas. Not the most glamorous gig, but with it she paid her way through the pastry arts program at culinary school. After my visit to the local penitentiary this morning, I have even more respect for her.

  Britt nods once. “He’ll be all right in county.”

  Relief seeps through my body like that first sip of wine after a long day. I exhale a shaky breath, one I didn’t realize I’d been holding.

  Britt continues, shaking her head, buttering and sprinkling another layer of phyllo, “But federal prison is another story. I don’t know many who would be okay in there, and they’re not right if they are.”

  The relief I was just feeling curdles in my stomach. “I have to get him out of there.”

  She barks a laugh, the light glinting off her platinum hair. “What, like pull a Shawshank?”

  “More like find the real culprit,” I say. “Do you know why anyone would want to kill Oscar?”

  “Kill? No. Strangle?” Britt considers this, her lips pursed. “I think Nick would have taken a swing at Oscar if he thought he stood any chance of coming out on top.”

  I glance toward the door to the alley, where presumably Nick is still processing Oscar’s death. I feel a pang of pity for my harsh delivery and vow to check on him soon.

  “What makes you say that?” I ask.

  “Well, take last night for example, they were at each other’s throats.”

  During the Dinner That Shall Not Be Named. Coincidence? I think not. “What happened?”

  “The usual—Nick went off on Oscar for not measuring accurately, and Oscar told Nick to mind his own prep work. I’d had just about enough of their bickering.”

  There’s a pressure in my chest, like Zin is perched right over my heart. Business owners have enough at stake without worrying about squabbles between employees. I wonder if Reid knew how close his sous chefs were to an all-out brawl.

  I think back to last night, how Reid left me to fend for myself with his parents, allegedly because of some disaster that required his attention. “That’s why Reid rushed back to the kitchen.”

  “He told us ahead of time not to bug him unless the kitchen was on fire, but by that point, it practically was. He came back and within minutes, order had been restored.”

  “Not fast enough to save the food, though,” I say, musing. “Anything else you noticed?”

  She covers the sheet pan and places it in one of the refrigerators. Wiping her hands on a towel tucked into her apron, she says, “Do you know why I became a pastry chef?”

  I shake my head, resting my elbows on the island, the metal cool against my skin.

  “Because I’m largely left to my own devices.” She walks to the sink and starts rinsing apples. “I get to work alone, without having to worry about what’s going on around me.”

  “Right,” I say, my cheeks flushing. She as good as told me to bugger off.

  I hesitate before asking my next question, swishing the words in my mouth like I would wine during a tasting. “Did you and Oscar get along?”

  Britt doesn’t answer right away, her focus on polishing the reddish-orange apples until they shine.

  “You may as well ask your real question: Did I kill Oscar?”

  “Well, did you?” I ask, taking in her toned arms. Britt is certainly strong enough to have overtaken Oscar.

  “No,” she says simply.

  I push away from the island, where I’ve been idling for too long. “Can you and Nick handle canceling reservations? And letting the rest of the staff know the restaurant is closed until further notice?”

  “Sure thing,” she says.

  I grab my purse and, fiddling with the strap, add, “And if you could, please be subtle.”

  “Don’t worry,” Britt says, her gray eyes boring into mine. “I know how to keep my mouth shut.”

  Her last statement does little to ease my anxiety.

  Chapter

  Six

  The scent of my winery greets me like an old friend. The woody aroma of oak barrels, a hint of sweetness from the grapes, and a touch of acidity from the alcohol. The fresh-paint smell has faded over the last of couple of months, settling into a comforting bouquet that, like a good red wine, is only getting better with age.

  Sunlight pours through the storefront floor-to-ceiling windows, dousing the space in a cheerful glow. The oak-barrel tables are surrounded by simple espresso folding chairs and topped with vases of sunflowers and pillar candles—unscented so as not to interfere with the delicate aromas of the wines. Photographs of vineyards from around the world adorn the walls, and wine-bottle lanterns add a touch of whimsy to the decor.

  Vino Valentine is located in a modern shopping center in the industrial part of North Boulder. The exterior is clean, white cement and charcoal awnings, with pots full of crimson and golden mum
s dotting the sidewalk.

  Even before the craft breweries and art studios moved in, I saw potential in this location. It’s off the beaten track, but not so much as to deter tourists from visiting. There’s a hip café next door and, across the street, a nursery with acres of shrubs and gourds galore that lead to the base of the foothills.

  I flip the sign on the door from Closed to Open at precisely eleven o’clock, the clinking glasses welcoming patrons who will start arriving any minute. I bustle around my winery, polishing glasses, organizing the bottles behind the bar from lightest to heaviest, and setting out baskets of palate-cleansing crackers.

  It’s hard to believe I have a full day ahead of me after the events of the morning. I catch myself yawning as my assistant traipses through the door.

  “Not yawning already,” Felix says, his voice as deep and velvety as a Syrah.

  Felix has jet-black hair, angular eyes, and an infinitely better fashion sense than me. Take today, for example—he’s paired skinny jeans and a cardigan with round tortoiseshell glasses and faux fur–lined moccasins. And his palate is even more impressive—and exotic—than his style.

  He’s worked here for two months now and, while he’s done a stupendous job overall, there is one slight hitch: he’s a self-proclaimed nomad. Felix told me point blank during his interview that he doesn’t stay in the same place for long. He must be close to my age and already he’s lived in major cities across the U.S., plus Reykjavik, Prague, and even a short stint in Tokyo. Which is great for conversation but not so great for longevity.

  “Rough morning,” I say by way of an explanation.

  “Want me to do a coffee run?”

  “Only if you don’t want to catch me snoozing in the wine cellar this afternoon,” I say, not entirely kidding.

  He flashes me a smile. “Be right back.” The bell over the door jingles at his departure.

  Felix returns five minutes later carrying two to-go mugs and a paper bag. He offers me a blueberry scone and, still peckish after watching Britt make dessert, I readily accept.

  “So, what happened this morning?” he asks, biting into a chocolate croissant.

  Nibbling on my scone, I give him an abbreviated version.

  He watches, slack-jawed, and then shakes his head. “This one time, in Amsterdam, a dude claimed he was on the run for killing the guy who messed with his sister.”

  Another perk about Felix—he’s not easily rattled. There’s nary a thing he hasn’t seen or heard. “Was he for real?” I ask.

  “Never did find out, but he made one helluva paella.” He shrugs, polishing off the rest of his croissant. “That’s the hostel life—you share your life story over communal dinner then never see each other again.”

  There’s a part of me that envies Felix’s ability to move from place to place without looking back, skipping through life like a smooth stone over water. “Not gonna lie, that doesn’t sound half-bad right now.”

  “Don’t worry,” Felix says, calm as can be. “Everything will work out.”

  That’s easy for him to say; he didn’t see Reid handcuffed and unceremoniously yanked down the hall of the jail.

  I rub my arms, suddenly chilled. “I hope so.”

  Felix tosses the pastry bag into the trash bin and washes his hands in the sink. “How’s the fall harvest coming along?”

  “I stomped cab grapes last night and got them moved to a vat to start fermentation.”

  “Ah.” He gives me a mock pout. “I wanted to help stomp grapes.”

  “Desperate times,” I say vaguely. No need to share how badly I needed to stomp for therapeutic reasons. “You can lead the community event.”

  “Just as long as I get to experience grape juice squishing between my toes sometime this fall.”

  “Duly noted.” And suddenly all I can think about is Reid. His willingness to dive into a jammy barrel with me, how the world melted away with him by my side. My throat constricts and there’s a tightening in my chest. I’m one breath away from succumbing to a massive panic attack.

  Luckily, the bell over the door jingles, pulling me back from the proverbial void.

  A group of ladies cluster together as they enter the tasting room. They’re dressed in head-to-toe royal purple: pantsuits, blouses, and embellished hats. They clutch their handbags (also purple) to their chests as they give the space a once-over before selecting a large table, front and center.

  “I’m gonna guess Ralphie’s Riesling,” I say.

  Felix takes his time appraising the group. “They look spicy. Campy Cab, for sure.”

  “Loser gets coffee tomorrow.”

  “Deal,” Felix says, collecting tasting menus and pasting a winning smile on his face. “I’ve got the front. Looks like you have company.”

  And he’s right, I do.

  * * *

  * * *

  My older brother slouches onto a stool at the tasting bar, setting his ever-present camera bag on the hard maple countertop. Liam’s wearing faded jeans, a plain white T-shirt, and work boots, which tells me he’s en route to his job, landscaping for the city.

  With our matching raven hair, olive skin, and blue-gray eyes, we’re obviously related. But appearances aside, we’re as different as Côtes du Rhône and Welch’s grape juice (I’ll let you decide who’s who).

  While I’ve always been inherently driven, Liam’s primary life goal has been to have a good time, responsibilities be damned. But I’ve got to give him credit. Recently, he’s changed his ways. He moved out of Mom and Dad’s basement and into his own place, has had his longest employment stint to date, and, after years of hobby hopping, finally discovered his true passion: photography.

  And he’s talented. Really talented. The pictures on Vino Valentine’s website are thanks to his artistic eye, as is the second-place award he nabbed in a local contest.

  “Hey, li’l sis,” Liam says. “How’s it hanging?”

  Tears threaten to pour out of my eyes. I stave them off with a smile. “You know about Reid, don’t you?”

  “A little birdie told me.”

  “Does this little birdie happen to have red hair, an enviable closet, and the best legal brain on either side of the Mississippi?”

  “Sage texted me, not so much requesting as demanding I check on you.”

  A flicker of amusement lights in my eyes. Liam has had a mega crush on Sage practically forever. And even though she’s newly single, for some reason, he hasn’t made his move.

  He gives a nonchalant shrug. “Reid’s gotten into worse jams than this before. He’ll be fine.”

  No doubt Reid and Liam have had exploits in their day, things I’d rather not hear about as Reid’s current girlfriend. Still, that’s quite the claim.

  I cock my head to the side. “I find that hard to believe.”

  “Fine, fine,” he says, throwing his hands up in mock defense. “Nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition!”

  And despite the situation, I laugh at my brother’s Monty Python impersonation. That is the power of Liam.

  I hold up the bottle of cherry wine I know to be Liam’s favorite despite his ardent denials of preferring what he refers to as the pink one. He shakes his head, which is probably wise given he’ll be operating machinery on-site.

  From across the floor of my winery, Felix is still charming the table of purple-clad dames. Their table erupts in laughter at something my witty assistant said.

  I return my attention to my brother. “So, you’re still working the friend angle with Sage, huh?” I scrub down the countertop with a cloth, cleaning up the crumbs from my scone.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Yeah, you do,” I say, flashing him a knowing smirk. “You should really just ask her out before it’s too late.”

  “I hardly think you’re in a position to be giv
ing anyone love advice.”

  I wince, the innocent ribbing cutting deep. “That was harsh.”

  “Sorry,” Liam says, shifting in his seat sheepishly. “To make it up to you, I’ll give you a little warning. Mom’s having Sai Iyers and his wife over for dinner tonight.” Mom is a lead chemical engineer at NIST Laboratories and Sai Iyers is head of the analytics team there. Although for all intents and purposes, he’s who my mom dreams I’ll someday work for after I give up on this whole winery endeavor. “Start brainstorming ways to get out of it now because I already heard your name mentioned in that weird hopeful voice of hers.”

  Generally speaking, things with my parents have been improving. While they don’t fully understand my passion for winemaking, they at least want me to be happy, which is more than can be said for Reid’s family. Although this dinner invite feels like backsliding, like my mom still hasn’t accepted my profession.

  “I won’t have to try very hard,” I grumble, thinking of my rendezvous with the Wallaces. “Have you met Reid’s family?”

  He holds a hand over his chest. “Sadly, our relationship never progressed to the meet-the-parents stage.”

  I roll my eyes, a smile playing at the corners of my lips. “What about Oscar?”

  “Sure, he was a nice guy. Unreal foosball player.” He furrows his eyebrows and coughs to clear his throat. “I was sorry to hear what happened to him.”

  “Me too. Know anyone who would want to hurt him?”

  “Why?” He draws out the question. “Thinking of conducting your own investigation?”

  “Something like that.”

  Liam exhales deeply, leaning his head back. “The guy moved back for his family. The ladies seemed to dig him. Reid trusted him. That’s all I’ve got.”

  The information wedges itself in my brain. I tuck it away to analyze later. “What excuse are you going to use tonight?” I ask curiously.

  “None,” he says. “Unlike you, dear sister, I never turn down free food, especially before night class.”