“You should try a different genre for a while,” I suggested. Gabi read and reviewed erotica under the pen name Valentina. She insisted that her day job as principal of an elementary school made secrecy imperative. Gabi dated even less than I did, which meant never. She said she’d already been married to the love of her life. Her husband had been killed in active duty when Shane was a toddler, and she didn’t believe another soul mate was out there for her. At the ripe age of thirty-four, she was finished with men, except in books.
“Not a chance,” Gabi said. “My books keep me sane. No one’s climbed into my bed since Shane stopped having nightmares.”
Thinking about climbing into bed with a man brought the unbidden image of Pressly’s brother back to the forefront of my mind. I was obsessed with a man whose name I didn’t even know.
Sloane breezed in and sat down on the sofa across from me. “What smells?” she asked, wrinkling her nose.
“I don’t stink that badly,” Gabi insisted.
“Yes, you do,” I said.
Gabi pouted. “I’ll just stay over here, then.”
“We love you anyway,” Sloane said, rummaging in the huge tote bag she carried. “Here.” She tossed a deodorant stick to Gabi. “Apply generously.”
Gabi caught the deodorant and did as she was told.
“Pour me a glass of wine, will you?” Sloane asked Gabi. She spied the box on the table and rubbed her hands together. “Books,” she squealed, leaning forward to open the box.
“Wait.” I stopped her. “Thatcher wants us all here. Remember how pissed he was last time when we started without him?”
“Thatcher is such a baby,” Gabi said loudly.
“I heard that,” came Thatcher’s muffled reply from his office.
Gabi motioned as if rocking an invisible infant, making me and Sloane laugh.
“I heard that too!”
We exchanged knowing looks as Gabi delivered Sloane’s wine.
Sloane sampled the wine. “Not as good as Sky Valley, but decent.”
Sloane had come straight from the vineyard where she worked as an event planner. She still wore the pale-pink button-down shirt with Sky Valley Vineyards emblazoned on the breast pocket. I looked at the logo, and an idea sparked. Sloane might be the perfect person to pump for information on Pressly, and, more importantly, her brother.
“You guys remember Aslan?” I asked, starting at the beginning.
“The mutt who caused the cute biker to wreck?” asked Gabi.
“Yes.”
“The biker you didn’t want to go out with?” Sloane jabbed a finger at me. She was always after me to sign up for online dating, but her disastrous experiences were more of a deterrent than an advertisement.
I took a sip of my beer. “Never mind the biker,” I said. “I’m talking about Aslan. His new owner is Pressly Carleton.” I aimed my question at Sloane. “You know her?”
“Sure,” Sloane said. “Pressly Vinroot-Carleton.”
My forehead wrinkled and understanding dawned. “Pressly’s a Vinroot?” The mansion in the mountains overlooking the rolling hills of grapevines suddenly made sense.
Even I, the newest resident to Mossy Oak, knew about the Vinroots. They were the wealthiest people in Mossy Oak. Their name was on the library, the courthouse, and the art gallery. The Vinroots owned half of Main Street as well as Sky Valley Vineyards, which attracted visitors from all over the world.
Was it possible that the painting I’d spied in the living room of Pressly’s brother’s house really had been a Picasso?
Sloan leaned forward to fill me in on the dirt. “Pressly took over last fall. Right after Tamsen got fired.”
I vaguely recalled Sloane being worried for her job when the manager of the vineyard was fired.
“That big mess with the embezzling,” Gabi said. “Right?”
