D is for Drunk (17 page)

The front doorbell rang. It had a deep, pleasant chime. She bet Milena had picked it out. Of course, she’d picked out Narek too, and look where that had gotten her.

“That’s probably the police,” Brendan said. “I would strongly recommend you contact a friend of mine, a lawyer named John Stark, and don’t say anything to the police besides your name and that you will only speak to them with a lawyer present.”

“Shouldn’t I defend my innocence?” Narek didn’t sound blustery anymore. “Tell them I was here, alone, drinking, and I did not kill that French pig, even though I’m glad someone did.”

“I recommend otherwise.” Brendan’s voice was mild, but it had a veiled threat in it. Sofia would have done what he said. He took a business card out of his wallet and handed it to Narek.

Narek took it and crammed it in his front pocket without reading it. Returning the ice pack to his nose, he walked toward the front door.

Brendan fell in behind him, then Aidan, then Sofia, like a row of ducks. Worried ducks.

CHAPTER 28

T  
he Befort front yard looked the same as it had the night before, but the cast had changed. Instead of party guests, the parking lot contained crime scene vans and police cars. These experts were packing things up much more slowly than the band had the night before, moving with a seriousness of purpose that had been absent in last night’s gathering.

Because Marcel, naked Marcel, was dead.

Yellow tape marked off a dark stain in the dirt near the horse trough. Sofia shuddered. That must have been where Marcel died—outside, alone, under the stars.

Brendan had used his contacts to get them onto the property and was inside the house talking to the woman in charge. Aidan fidgeted next to her and scanned the tree tops, probably looking for his drone, and his worried expression said he wasn’t finding it.

“Do you have any idea where the wife was last night?” asked Officer Bowie. He was tall and thin, like the rock star.

“She left the party last night in the company of a Rick Pankhurst,” said Aidan. He rattled off the make of the truck and its license plate number.

Sofia didn’t even remember what color it was. Maybe blue. She had a lot to learn about this detecting business.

“What’s your relationship to the deceased?” Bowie brushed a speck of dust off the crease of his pants.

“We were at a party they were hosting,” Aidan said. “We’d met them that afternoon at a wine tasting, and they invited us over for the evening.”

“Seems awfully friendly,” Officer Bowie said.

“I wouldn’t really call them friendly,” said Aidan.

Sofia wasn’t about to contradict him on that one. Marcel had been anything but friendly, but Annabelle was harder to determine.

“Anything else about this party?” Officer Bowie asked.

Aidan hesitated. “Drug use. Cocaine, marijuana, random pills.”

“Did you partake?” Bowie’s face was completely neutral, as it had been for the other questions, but Sofia still felt Aidan tense up.

“Of course not,” snapped Aidan.

Bowie looked at Sofia.

“Nope,” she said. “I don’t do drugs.”

“Is that so?” Bowie’s face was nothing but skepticism. She couldn’t really blame him. A couple of the agency’s cases had put Sofia in the limelight and undercover into a rehab center. But the world didn’t know she’d been undercover, and so they thought she was a drug addict.

She smiled politely, waiting for him to move on to the next question.

“How many people were at that party?” Bowie asked.

“About fifty,” Aidan said. “Give or take.”

“Do you know any of their names?”

“Marcel Befort, his wife Annabelle Befort, his neighbor, Rick Pankhurst, and Mr. Pankhurst’s date, a woman named Bambi,” Aidan said.

“We weren’t introduced to anyone else,” Sofia added.

“Do you know Bambi’s last name?” Bowie asked.

Aidan looked at Sofia.

“No idea,” she said. “But if you find her, tell her to give me back my sweatshirt.”

“Why does she have your sweatshirt?”

Sofia wished she hadn’t said anything. “Bambi was naked and hiding under the stage when the police arrived. I couldn’t find her clothes, so I loaned her my sweatshirt.”

“So the police were called here.” Bowie tapped his pencil against an old-fashioned notepad. “Can you describe what happened?”

Aidan gave a quick cop’s description, omitting only that he and Sofia had been in the dungeon room when the music cut out. Sofia mostly nodded. It all made Narek sound guilty, and she wondered if he really was. But it wasn’t her job to decide guilt or innocent, as Brendan had often lectured her. She was only supposed to help the client as best as she could.

“Sofia!” called a familiar French voice.

Annabelle.

The elegant doorway framed Annabelle. A policewoman hovered behind her. Annabelle’s burgundy dress looked clean and uncreased, although Sofia was pretty sure it was the same one she’d worn the night before. Her hair was a little wind-blown, but otherwise she looked as if she’d walked off the cover of a fashion magazine or like an actress ready to do a take. She beckoned to Sofia with one burgundy arm.

“Can I go over and talk to her?” Sofia asked Bowie. She didn’t know the protocol here.

“We’ll all go,” he said.

Sofia led the way over to the front door.

“I’m so glad that you are here.” Annabelle ran one hand through her hair so that it fell perfectly again. “So glad.”

The policewoman nodded to Bowie. Sofia caught a glimpse of her nametag: Officer Wu.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Sofia said.

“It is very tragic.” Annabelle didn’t look like a woman going through a tragedy. She looked more worried than sad. “He was hit on the head and fell into Percy’s trough and drowned. Now I’m a widow with a vineyard to run alone.”

Sofia wasn’t sure what to say to that summary. “I’m sure it’s a shock.”

“The policeman with the rock star name is shocked.” Annabelle smiled, and her eyes glittered. “He knows I couldn’t have done such a thing, because I was with my lover, and he’s horrified I have a lover.”

“It’s a little unconventional in America.” Sofia wasn’t sure if she was apologizing for the U.S. or for Officer Bowie.

Officer Wu stood with her feet planted, not saying anything.

“What he does not understand is I was doing what Marcel wanted. The only thing he loved more than wine was infidelity.” Annabelle straightened her dress. “He had many lovers of his own—that ball of Armenian dough and the little fawn with the huge breasts are only the latest two in a line of conquests stretching back to our honeymoon. It was part of Marcel. He could not be contained to a single woman.”

Her eyes shone, and Sofia thought she might actually cry. Annabelle pulled a lace-edged handkerchief from her pocket and dabbed at the corners of her eyes.

“Do you have the names of these women?” Bowie asked.

“Milena Befort and Bambi the Doe,” Annabelle said.

Aidan cracked a smile.

“Does Bambi have a last name?” Bowie asked.

“She did not ever mention it. Rick met her online through some hideous dating site.”

Sofia tried not to look at Aidan. And failed.

“You never know who you’ll meet on one of those sites,” Sofia said.

“They have a lot of information about the users,” Aidan said. “Do you remember which site?”

Annabelle shrugged. “Rick will know. He might even know her last name, but I believe not. I think she wanted to be referred to as a single name, like Cher or Beyoncé. Or Bowie.”

The officer swallowed hard. He must get rock star reference a lot.

“Should I make you some tea?” Sofia asked. Her mother was a big proponent of wine or tea in an emergency. And Annabelle probably didn’t need wine right now.

“That is most kind,” Annabelle said. “But there is something much more important that only you can do for me.”

Bowie’s eyes flicked over to Sofia like cold blue lasers.

“What is it?” She hoped Annabelle wasn’t going to confess or ask Sofia to hide evidence right in front of the policeman. Annabelle had weird boundaries, so Sofia had no idea what to expect.

“It is my darling Percy.” Annabelle’s voice quivered on the last syllable.

“Who’s Percy?” Bowie asked.

“My mare. She’s gone from the stable, and I fear she is stolen. Or perhaps she escaped from her stall. The noise of these policemen might have frightened her and she ran away.”

Like the cops wouldn’t have noticed a giant black horse running off.

“But the police say I am to stay in the house until they finish questioning me.” Annabelle put one toe over the threshold and into the sunshine almost defiantly. “I cannot ask them to search for her. They are men, and men frighten her.”

She seemed to like Rick all right.

“She likes you, Sofia,” Annabelle said. “You two bonded the moment you met.”

“You want me to look for her?” Sofia asked.

“It would ease my heart at a time when it needs easing.” Annabelle seemed to shrink inside herself, and Sofia suddenly wondered how much shock and grief she was masking. “The staff has all been questioned and sent home, so I’m here alone. Please, will you find my Percy?”

“Of course,” Sofia said. “I will.”

“She comes to my whistle, if she can hear it.” Annabelle pursed her lips and blew out a shrill note. She sounded like a bird.

Badly, Sofia copied it.

“Try again,” Annabelle said. “It must be just so.”

“Really?” said Sofia.

“It is the only way I know to whistle,” Annabelle said. “So it is the sound that she comes to. You must learn it.”

After a few tries, Sofia’s whistle sounded like Annabelle’s, and she was ready to go.

CHAPTER 29

A 
idan looked a little panicky, and Sofia realized he hadn’t been able to get into the house to pick up the bug he’d planted there. That might land him in jail.

“Could you get me a glass of water from the kitchen?” Sofia asked Aidan. “I want to practice a little more, then I’ll need to...err...wet my whistle.”

“Sure thing!” Aidan said. “Keep practicing.”

“You know where it is?” Annabelle tilted her head.

“You bet.” Aidan walked by her into the house. “I was there last night.”

Bowie looked between Sofia and Aidan as if trying to choose which one needed to be watched the most. He started after Aidan.

The cop needed to stay outside with Sofia. Silently apologizing to Bambi, Sofia spoke, “Do you think this Bambi was the jealous type? Or that things might have gone bad between her and Marcel?”

Bowie stopped in his tracks and turned around. Good. He wouldn’t see Aidan scooping up the bug.

“Jealous? I think not.” Annabelle shrugged again. “He met her only last night. Unless I am mistaken.”

“Is anything in the house missing?” Sofia asked. “I know you have a lot of valuable art pieces inside, probably jewelry as well.”

That might deflect a little attention off Narek, too. Sofia felt guilty about doing it, but Brendan always said it was important to explore all avenues.

“Everything is as it was when I left,” Annabelle said. “The police walked with me through the house to check. The only thing missing is my darling Percy.”

Aidan was back. He handed Sofia a glass of cold water, and she obediently drank it. Who knew how long they’d wander through the fields looking for poor Percy, even assuming the killer hadn’t taken the horse. But why would the killer steal a horse?

“How much is Percy worth?” Sofia asked.

“To me, she is priceless.” Annabelle’s back straightened. “To her I owe any peace I have, and any peace I will have.”

“We’ll find her,” Sofia said.

Aidan didn’t look so convinced.

Sofia started off toward the stable so she didn’t have to look at Annabelle’s grateful face. She had no idea how to find a runaway horse, but she decided to look in the last place she’d seen her, like she would for her keys. Probably not the best investigative technique, but certainly not the worst either.

She could tell as soon as she entered the stable that the horse was gone. It was quiet—no stamping of hooves, no swishing of a tail, no soft breathing sounds. It sounded like a mausoleum.

Still, Sofia kept going. Percy wasn’t in her stall, hiding under her saddle or squashed in a corner. She was gone. No sign she had broken out, either. The door to her stall was carefully closed. The ground looked the same as always. Sofia took a rope halter and slung it over her shoulder, in case she might need it later. She might as well try to keep an optimistic attitude.

“Let’s see if we can track her,” Sofia said.

But, sadly, she wasn’t an expert horse tracker. Maybe if she’d starred in a Western, she might have learned how that worked. All she knew was she should probably look at the ground for hoof prints.

Hoof prints were all over in the area around the stable. It had been a while since it had rained, though, so the prints might be pretty old. The prints led, among other places, to the horse trough where Marcel had died. She started to follow those.

“You can’t go beyond the yellow tape.” Officer Bowie put a firm hand on her shoulder. “And you can clearly see there’s no horse there.”

Sofia tried out Annabelle’s whistle. No horse came galloping out of nowhere to meet her. She’d known it wouldn’t be that easy.

She turned in a slow circle. House. Winery. Grapevines. The horse wasn’t going to be in the first two.

“I think we should go into the grapevines,” she said. “Wander around and hope for the best.”

“Not much of a plan,” Aidan said.

His plan would have involved a drone if he hadn’t gotten it stuck up a tree. And it would have been a better plan, but she couldn’t say anything in front of the policeman.

“Nope,” she said. “Let’s go.”

An hour later, she wished she’d tried a little harder at the beginning to come up with a better plan as she, Bowie, and Aidan tramped down another row of grape vines. At first, she’d enjoyed the sweet green smell, but that had worn off quickly. Now everything was just hot and dusty. She missed the part of her job that involved getting coffee and talking to people.