A Pairing to Die For Page 9

  Gary takes a sip from his tumbler and, incidentally, I wonder how many he’s had. “He was doing it again.”

  “That’s enough,” Camilla cuts in.

  “Doing what again?” I prod.

  “Taking advantage of my son,” he says, his knuckles white around his glass.

  “No more.” Camilla’s hands are visibly shaking. “I can’t take any more. It’s time to get ready for dinner.” With that, she storms into their en suite, slamming the door behind her.

  I blink rapidly, unsure how to proceed.

  “Well, that’s one way to make an exit,” Tristan says, pushing his sunglasses on top of his head and slouching into one of the lounge chairs.

  “I’d better go fix this.” Gary follows after his wife. Their not-so-dulcet voices seep through the door, but their words are too muddled to understand.

  And then there were three: Ben, Tristan, and me.

  * * *

  * * *

  If there’s one thing I’ve learned while owning a business, it’s how to force a smile. For the annoying customer who asks question after question about my winemaking process and then doesn’t buy a single bottle. For the loud customer who, unprompted, lets everyone know their opinions on everything. And for the slob, who can’t seem to eat a palate-cleansing cracker without leaving a Hansel and Gretel–like trail through my winery.

  I invoke just such a smile now.

  “I didn’t know there would be a show before dinner,” I say, trying for a joke.

  Tristan chuckles but then rubs his temples, turning to his brother. “What are the odds we can get out of going tonight?”

  “Zero,” Ben says. “Check that, below zero.”

  “It seems horribly inappropriate,” Tristan says. He props his sandal-clad feet on the coffee table. “Our brother is in jail, for chrissake.”

  The sun basks Tristan in a glow, and suddenly my heart clenches at how similar he looks to Reid. And Ben, too, really. Sandy-blond hair with amber undertones, somewhat large ears sticking out, and lean builds. Even their mannerisms are the same. From the way they hold themselves to the dimples that form when they smile. It makes me miss Reid even more.

  “Can’t say I’m surprised,” Ben says. He turns up the volume on the TV to block out Camilla’s and Gary’s voices. Or perhaps it’s to veil our conversation.

  “Surprised that Reid was arrested?” I ask, perching on the edge of the other lounge chair.

  “Well, yeah, given—”

  “Now, Ben, there’s no need to scare the lady here with our family drama,” Tristan says. He acts nonchalant, hands clasped behind his head, but there’s a warning in his voice. “Our baby brother has actually managed to secure a girlfriend, let’s not ruin it for him.”

  Properly chastised, Ben mimes locking his lips.

  “Wait, you can’t leave me hanging like that,” I urge, my curiosity heightened. “For what it’s worth, I’m in it for the long haul.”

  Ben spins his phone between two fingers, glancing meaningfully at Tristan. “If that’s the case, she deserves to know what she’s getting herself into.”

  “She most certainly does,” I say before Tristan can impose another gag order. “What exactly am I getting myself into?”

  “Strictly speaking, I’m not convinced he’s innocent.”

  It’s as if Ben’s brutal honesty sucks all the air from the room. The newscasters on the TV rage about a recent political fiasco, their voices fading to a dull buzz in my ears. I stare at the floor, my tongue plastered to the roof of my mouth.

  Tristan slides his feet from the table to the plush carpeted floor in one swift motion. “I refuse to believe Reid is capable of murder. If you insist on entertaining the notion that he is, I’m leaving.”

  They glare at each other and the moment stretches until the tension is palpable. I lean back in my seat, wishing I could be absorbed in the striped upholstery.

  “Fine,” Tristan says. “I’m outta here.”

  The door clicks shut behind him. I raise one eyebrow and turn back to Ben, slightly apprehensive at being left alone with the eldest Wallace sibling.

  While Sage is a brilliant lawyer, she’s never really fit the stereotype. The same can’t be said for Ben. He’s clean-cut, cold, and calculating, even when it’s just the two of us.

  I try to camouflage my unease. “So, what exactly makes you believe Reid could be guilty?”

  Ben rubs his chin, a gold wedding band glinting on his ring finger. I know from Reid that Ben is married to a woman named Liza, and that they have a two-year-old son, Linus. The last time Reid went home was to meet his then-infant nephew. He’d brought a tiny chef’s hat, apron onesie, and whisk-shaped rattle for the little tyke. These innocuous gifts led to Camilla effectively blowing a gasket.

  Words were launched like missiles, accusations made about how Reid shouldn’t encourage Linus. How the child hadn’t ruined his potential yet, still had a chance to make something of himself.

  Reid left in a fury and decided that if his family wanted to be a part of his life, they could come to him. And here they are. Though now it strikes me as odd that Liza and Linus didn’t come along for this family reunion.

  “The thing is,” Ben starts, “ever since I heard about Reid and Oscar, this one story keeps coming back to me.” He balances his phone on the remote control, more for something to do with his hands than for any practical purpose.

  I sense that if I stay silent, he’ll continue, and my intuition is proven right a minute later.

  “Reid and Tristan used to be best friends. Being closest in age, it made sense.” He says this flatly, without even a hint of emotion. “Then one day, everything changed.

  “The basement at my parents’ house is a dark place. Cavernous, dimly lit, full of dust and cobwebs and appliances prone to loud clanking sounds. We rarely went down there, and when we did, we never went alone.”

  My blood turns cold and my stomach flips, much like the creeping anticipation on a roller coaster moments before the plummet.

  Ben continues, “One day over summer break, Tristan and Reid went down there, looking for a Nerf gun or some other form of childish entertainment.”

  He hesitates, his face half obscured by slanted shadows. “Are you sure you want to hear this?”

  There’s no unknowing some things so I pause.

  Do I really want to hear this story? From Ben, of all people? Wouldn’t it be better to ask Reid?

  Only, Reid isn’t in a position to tell me. And I have a hunch this is important. If not directly to the case, then to understanding the man I’ve come to love.

  “Yes,” I say.

  Ben nods once. “Reid apparently came upstairs first and thought it would be funny to lock Tristan down there. He wedged a chair under the doorknob and left him in the basement, through Tristan’s escalating pleas, his shouts, his sobs. By our nanny’s account, Tristan was down there for two hours before she finally found him. While Tristan was scared to the point of wetting himself, Reid had grown bored and went to play a video game.

  “After that, Tristan and Reid were never as close.”

  As he finishes the tale, my forearms are covered in goose bumps and I feel nauseated, like I’ve had wine on an empty stomach. I wipe my clammy palms on my knees.

  Reid always made it sound like he was in the right in this ongoing battle with his family. Which goes to show there’s always more to a story.

  Tristan’s adamant defense of his brother is admirable and slightly surprising. It makes me wonder if he’s protecting Reid or his own masculinity. That’s certainly not an anecdote I would want circulated.

  I hear my own voice as if from afar. “That doesn’t sound like Reid.”

  Even now, I’m instinctively protecting him. Love has either emboldened me or blinded me.

  “I’ve known him longe
r than you,” Ben answers.

  “Touché,” I say, giving him a faux-sweet smile. “What do you think is more important, knowing where someone came from or knowing who they are today?”

  “You can’t have one without the other.” He chuckles and scratches the back of his head, amused. “Reid’s always had a way with the ladies.”

  I sit up straighter. “This has nothing to do with me and Reid.”

  “Right,” he says, obviously not buying it. “For what it’s worth, I’ve never met one of his girlfriends.” The pitying look he gives me makes me feel vulnerable and naive.

  I fold my arms over my chest. “Gee, thanks.”

  Ben’s phone buzzes and he checks the screen. “I have to take this. It’s a client.”

  “Very important, no doubt.”

  “There’s no other kind.”

  Ben turns his back to me and answers his phone with a professional greeting.

  I see myself out, a mess of uncertainty riddling my psyche.

  * * *

  * * *

  Although I want nothing more than to hightail it home and immerse myself in Zin—the cat and the wine—I want to talk to Tristan first.

  I find him relaxing at a wrought iron patio table just outside the hotel lobby. He seems to take up as much space as possible with his legs stretched out before him and both arms draped over the back of his chair.

  It’s as if his abrupt departure upstairs never happened.

  He grins at me when I plop down next to him. “Had enough of the Addams Family?”

  I snort. “Let the record show, those are your words, not mine.”

  Inside the hotel, a wedding party is assembling outside the main ballroom. A bride dressed in head-to-toe tulle clasps a cascading bouquet of calla lilies. Her four bridesmaids hover around her in matching bubble-gum pink dresses, alternately shaking out her train and veil. What an odd tradition our society partakes in.

  Not that I’m opposed to the whole till death do us part bit, merely the pressure and formality surrounding it.

  Tristan turns to me, his sunglasses back on despite the impending dusk. “You’re lasting longer than I thought.”

  “I don’t scare easily.”

  He appraises me—hair caught in a headband, bare arms, and beaded necklace around my neck. I resist the urge to look away.

  “No, I don’t think you do.”

  The embellished wooden doors to the ballroom open, letting a serenade of strings escape. The friendly concierge from earlier directs the bridesmaids through the entrance, a task that loosely resembles herding cats. Speaking of cats . . . Reid’s kitty is in dire need of rescuing. Best get a move on this conversation.

  “How’s your conference going?” I ask, remembering the real reason Tristan is in town.

  He shrugs. “Eh, too much pomp for my taste.”

  I give him a bemused smile.

  “I know what you’re thinking: bloody hypocrite.”

  He’s right; that’s pretty much exactly what I was thinking.

  “Thing is, if the pomp and schmoozing doesn’t benefit me, it’s just not worth it.”

  I shift in my seat to face him. “And it doesn’t?”

  “I’ve climbed as high as I care to in the medical field.” He says this like it’s no big deal, but it makes me wonder if Reid isn’t the only Wallace unhappy under the weight of parental expectations.

  “What made you decide to become an anesthesiologist?”

  “Everyone’s happy to see me,” he says, brightening. “I bring relief from pain.”

  “I’ve never thought of it that way,” I concede. “It’s nice you’re so protective of Reid.” Especially after the basement debacle, I hold back, not wanting to make him feel uncomfortable.

  “He’s my kid brother, what else would you expect?”

  The bride disappears into the ballroom, her arm looped through her father’s. I watch her march toward her partner, wistfully, until the doors shut, closing off the ceremony to rubberneckers like me.

  I change the topic, hoping my abruptness takes him by surprise. “Why were you on edge with Oscar last night?”

  “Look, it’s not really my thing to talk crap about someone behind their back.”

  “I respect that,” I say. “But how else are we going to find out what really happened?”

  Tristan pushes his sunglasses on top of his head, giving me full access to his striking brown eyes, almost gold in this light. And the color isn’t the only way they’re different from Reid’s. Whereas his always hold a spark of passion and impulsivity, Tristan’s are intelligent and a touch playful.

  He leans forward and rests his elbows on the grooved patio table, searching my face. “You really don’t think Reid did it, do you?”

  “No, I don’t.” I cross my arms over my chest. “And I’m getting sick of explaining why to everyone.”

  “Preaching to the choir,” he says, raising his hands in mock defense. “He’s lucky to have you, you know.”

  “Thanks.”

  “How did you two meet?” he asks. “I take it, it wasn’t Tinder.”

  “Reid came to my winery’s opening.” I smile at the memory.

  Back then, he was nothing more than my brother’s new mystery friend. Very hot mystery friend, but off-limits, all the same. My, how things change.

  Tristan cups his chin with his hand and gazes at me like I’m another species—an insect, perhaps—that he’s trying to make sense of. His attention is unnerving.

  “I’d like to see your winery. Vino Valentine, right?”

  “That’s right.” I shift in my chair, the cushion moving with me.

  “Tristan, let’s go,” Camilla says, suddenly behind us. “We don’t want to be late.”

  My body recoils as if she were scratching her nails down a chalkboard.

  “Enjoy your dinner,” I say. “Flagstaff is really beautiful this time of night.”

  Flagstaff is the mountain overlooking Boulder, adjacent to the Flatirons, and perched at the top is its namesake restaurant. The Flagstaff House is notable for its mountain cuisine—bison, elk, and other Colorado specialties—and Camilla mentioned they had reservations there.

  “Thank you,” Camilla says curtly, her fingers resting on the tabletop. Before she turns away, she adds, in a softer tone than I thought possible, “Let me know if you hear from my son.”

  “Of course.”

  The Wallaces depart together, but there’s enough distance between each of them that they might as well be walking alone.

  Chapter

  Eight

  Back at my apartment, I urge William out of his kitty carrier.

  He’s a gorgeous cat, sleek black except for a triangle of white on his chest, and wise blue eyes.

  I unpack his belongings—his favorite squishy guitar toy, catnip ball, food dish, and water bowl. I set them up close to Zin’s, but not so close that she’ll sneakily scarf down all his food. Or at least, hopefully she won’t.

  My feline companion sniffs at William curiously, swishing her tail uncertainly.

  William allows her assessment, his ears twitching.

  They circle each other, dancing on their paws, and then, in a majorly anticlimactic moment, proceed to go about their own business.

  William pads to the corner and commences giving himself a bath, starting with his hind leg.

  As for Zin, she basically does the kitty equivalent of shrugging before traipsing to her food dish.

  Cats seen to, I luxuriate in a steamy shower, finally washing the must of the day off. I towel-dry my hair and pull on my coziest sweats, hoodie, and socks.

  My stomach rumbles and I find myself wishing for a plate of my mom’s enchiladas. Instead, I settle for lemon-garlic linguine topped with fresh-grated Parmesan. One perk of dating a chef is that my frid
ge is usually stocked with delicious leftovers or overflow ingredients from the market.

  Thus begins what’s sure to be a long night of trying, and failing, to not think of Reid.

  Of him in a cold cell. Alone. Of the slip of paper I found in his apartment with another woman’s name and phone number on it.

  I open the French doors to my balcony a crack, letting in the cool night air and songs of crickets. The soothing sounds and earthy scents ground me. The stillness serves as a barrier to the melancholy threatening to consume me.

  Before I shut the door, I pluck a couple leaves of catnip from the plant I keep out there. I’ll need to move it inside before the first frost, which could be any day now, given the chill in the air.

  I dispense the greenery to each cat, William currently skulking behind a curtain, and Zin on the sofa.

  We nibble together—the cats on their leaves and me on my noodles. I pause intermittently to take a sip of hard-earned wine, a red blend from a competing winery whose owners are also good friends of mine. The food and wine successfully fortify me.

  Zin mews for another leaf of catnip. I scoop her into my arms and butt heads with her. “Little glutton,” I coo at her.

  She gazes at me in complete adoration, a steady purr emanating from her as I scratch behind her ears. Maybe the real love of a lifetime is that between a girl and her cat.

  I ease her onto her favorite afghan blanket on the sofa and scratch behind her ears. She curls herself in a ball and is soon fast asleep.

  I have a feeling sleep is not in my immediate future.

  Instead, I dig in my purse for the button I found at the crime scene, still safely wrapped in a Kleenex. Holding the bundle carefully in one hand, I pull back the tissue until I can see the button, careful not to touch it directly in case it’s a legit clue.

  In this lighting, the cream color looks more golden, too yellow to belong to the stark white chef’s coats Reid and his employees wear. There’s a tiny bit of thread attached, as if it was unceremoniously pulled from its garment.