Silenced By Syrah (26 page)

Bernadette had some interesting things to say and Nikki wondered if she’d spilled all of this to Robinson, or if he’d simply followed the lead of Baron O’Grady’s insurance policy. “You say that you’re innocent of starting the fire in Georges’ guesthouse? That you’re not an arsonist?”

“That was
our
guesthouse. And, I’m not just saying it. It’s true.”

“Of course. I’m sorry.” She wanted to remain on Bernadette’s good side.

“I didn’t start the fire. So, maybe I did go in and destroy that slut’s stuff, the one who was living in there.”

Nikki flipped the page and pretended to read notes that were not there. “That would be Jane Creswell?”

Bernadette nodded and turned away for a second. When she looked back at Nikki a bit of the hardness was gone and now confusion and hurt replaced it. Not for long. As soon as she started telling her version of the story, that stone-cold look returned.

“Yeah. Sweet Janie. The crazy thing was, is, that she was my friend. I liked her. I felt freaking sorry for her because she lost her mom. We all had a good thing there. She had her place, we hung out like sisters, and Georges loved me, until she had to go sashaying around in tight jeans and half shirts. Not cool.”

“I should say not.” Nikki had a hard time picturing the ethereal looking Janie in bimbo-type outfits. Had her initial approach been one of wanting to be the other woman and get ahold of some of Georges’ money? Maybe that was where a lot of her pain and guilt was coming from, especially after finding out who Georges was.

“No. Not cool. Anyway she and Georges started hanging out a lot more and I know they were screwing around.”

“Did you have any proof?”

“No. But a woman’s intuition is solid and I knew.”

“So you destroyed her stuff?”

“Hell yeah. I am not the kind of woman who sits by while some other chick tries to steal her man. She
used
me. Pretended to be my friend while she was trying to back door it—get out of the guesthouse and into
my
house. I’m sure she’s hanging by the pool as we speak, sipping Vueve Clicquot.”

“Right, but didn’t Jane have a boyfriend? It said in the paper something about that?”

“Oh that Trevor dude? Whatever. She was using him, too. I’m telling you she’s the one who should be in jail. She knows how to work and manipulate people to get what she wants. First she starts letting my man at her while she’s working me and that poor Trevor kid so it all looks benign, then she sets the trap.”

“Trap?”

“Trap. You do speak English, don’t you? Janie knew I had a temper, and she continued to hang on Georges, laugh at everything he said. It pushed me over the edge. I cut up her stuff, he kicked me out, and then she burnt down the guesthouse, and somehow got my fingerprints, maybe from a glass, I don’t know, and planted them on the lighter the fire Marshall claims was used to start the fire. I had nothing. No one to back me. No alibi. I went to our cabin in Monterey. I still had a key and I thought maybe Georges would cool off, come to his senses. I came back two days later and the cops arrested me. The place was burnt down. The lighter, which I hadn’t used in God knows how long, was in my luggage. I was framed. I’m telling you.”

“No one saw you in Monterey?”

“No. I packed up stuff before I left. All I took was some wine, bread, and cheese. I think an apple, too. Trust me, I wanted to get loaded and pretend he wasn’t upset with me. That our love would win over whatever he was feeling for Janie.”

Yeah, well, he was feeling something other than what Bernadette assumed—fatherly love.

“Crazy. I really loved him. I wouldn’t have signed a prenup if I didn’t, and I wouldn’t have gone nuts when I realized that the two of them were up to no good.”

Nikki sighed. The woman had a right to know the truth, but she’d promised Janie that she wouldn’t tell anyone, and she’d already told Simon. But Bernadette was not exactly her close friend. Besides, it might make Bernadette feel even worse to know that her crime was totally in vain. Nikki still didn’t buy that she hadn’t started the fire. She was off her rocker with the jealousy thing.

The guard signaled that there was only a few minutes left. Bernadette leaned on the table now and gazed intently at Nikki. “I don’t trust too many people these days, and I don’t know if you’re really writing a book, but you seem nice enough. I swear to you that I did not start that fire. I loved my husband and I did not do that. If you can help me prove it, you’d get an innocent woman released from jail.”

With that Bernadette stood and got into line with the other inmates. Nikki walked out of the penitentiary with a gazillion thoughts running through her brain. Was she being duped by Janie? Was there something sinister behind all that innocence? Why was it that Bernadette believed so strongly that Janie and Georges were having an affair?

But her main question, which she kept repeating in her head during the three-hour drive home, was did the police have the real killer in jail? That nagging feeling sat heavy in her stomach. She still couldn’t put a finger on it, but as she replayed Bernadette’s story over and over in her mind, the feeling sank even deeper, and she started to think that this thing wasn’t over yet.

Chapter 25

Nikki came home to a handwritten note taped to her door from Derek asking her how she was feeling and if she needed anything. He claimed that he’d called but she didn’t answer and he didn’t want to disturb her. He also reminded her of the dinner tomorrow night for Georges, and the last thing in the note was a question:
Have you decided about Spain? I spoke with Andrés and know the plan is for the two of you, if you decide to go, to leave on Saturday. I need to know to adjust duties around the winery accordingly
.

Nikki crumpled up the note and tossed it in the trash. She was exhausted and didn’t even bother with dinner, knowing a night of good rest was what she needed.

She poured herself a glass of Pinot Noir left by the cleaning staff on the coffee table and grabbed a good book to take her mind off things. She wondered if Robinson had any leads on Moran. Where could the guy have gone? She wished Ollie were around just to prove that he still loved her best. But there was no sign of the Ridgeback. Surely he was tucked away at Derek’s, maybe licking Renee’s hand off. Did the dog miss her the way she missed him? Did his owner even care what she or the dog needed?

She changed into a pair of Andrés’ sweats. Comfortable. Warm. Secure. Call him. She took her phone from her purse and called his house and then his cell. No answer on either. He’d probably gone back to his ploy of making her miss him. And, know what? It was working.

She snuggled up on one of the oversized chairs with the latest Evanovich novel. She thought for a moment about getting the bag Jonah Robinson had left for her, but the thought of looking in it still made her queasy. Why was it so difficult to confront the past? Was it simply that whatever was in the bag would cause her to remember that she really had lost most everything precious to her? She’d hold off a bit longer.

She started reading and although the book was entertaining, sleep took over shortly after she’d curled up in the chair.

She didn’t know what time it was or if she was dreaming at first, but she soon discovered that she was not.

A guitar? Outside her room. She stood and peered out the window onto the porch. Andrés. Playing “Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic” by The Police. She opened the door. He smiled at her. Yep—warm, comfortable, secure. No doubt what’s in store when it came to Andrés.

She sat down on the lounge chair on the porch, pulled her blanket around her, and listened to the song. Absolutely gorgeous. He finished and bent down and kissed her gently on the lips. She didn’t pull away from him. Not this time.

He pulled away first. “Not here. Not now. There is a perfect time and place for us. In Spain.” He turned around and picked up a basket of flowers and handed them to her. “Your ticket is in there, too. The flight leaves Saturday at three. I have to be in the city tomorrow to sign some more papers for the vineyard and to take care of some other business. I’ll be staying at a hotel overnight. If you decide to join me, I made arrangements for your car. There’s an address in the envelope with all of the information, in the basket. There’s a garage near the airport where it will be stored. If you do not come, I will have to understand your decision. For me this is good-bye for now. If you decide not to join me, I want these few moments as a lasting memory. Stupid sounding, I know, but, it’s the way I feel.”

He smiled and tried to laugh, but Nikki knew he spoke the truth. “I, I, uh, I . . .”

Andrés held up a hand. “No. Don’t say anything. Not now. You will decide and you will know, and so will I, soon enough.” He kissed her again and walked away, whistling “Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic.”

She fell asleep with the song in her mind along with Andrés’ proposition. She tossed and turned all night and didn’t feel rested at all by the time she crawled out of bed Friday morning. She felt weary and weighted down.

She thought about tonight’s dinner and wondered about Janie. She hadn’t seen her or Trevor since the other night at the wine bar. Had they done as she suggested and spoken to an estate attorney yet, and had Leonard Kinsgton made contact with them?

She took a long hot shower and thought about Bloomenfeld’s dirty secrets. He’d committed some major crimes for chump change. Ridiculous what people would do for money, even for only a little bit of it. And considering all Georges was worth, Bloomenfeld and Moran had only pilfered a small amount. But maybe there were plans to tap into more of the millions Georges had, and through Moran that was possible. And Georges caught on so they had to do away with him. And, what about Rick Moran? Come on. The man was a financial advisor. How had he gotten sucked into Bloomenfeld’s gig? Whatever the reasons, Nikki was certain they had to do with Bloomenfeld’s side business or weird obsession. She went through all of what had happened in regard to Georges’ murder over the past week, and even though the relationship between Moran and Bloomenfeld was odd, and Bloomenfeld had a falling out with Georges, and they were on their way to Mexico with a couple hundred grand of Georges’ cash, something did not completely click for her. And, the question remained: where was Moran?

She dried off, opened the closet, and took out one of her new outfits—classic and cute—a light pink button down that pinned in tighter around the waist, so much better than the old-school, boyish button-downs she’d worn in the early eighties in high school. She pulled on a light gray striped pencil skirt and matching jacket, and for good measure she even went à la Sarah Jessica Parker, donning the pink carnation pin that came with the suit. Nice. She took it one step further and put on her size seven slingback Via Spigas. She looked at herself in the mirror, pulled her hair back into a sleek ponytail, lined her blue eyes in an espresso colored eyeliner—that’s what the girl at the MAC counter called it—and matched it with a cream and then a mocha colored eye shadow in the crease—again, mocha was the salesgirl’s name for it. Nikki thought it looked like tan to her, or brown. She put some lipstick on—Spirit, now there was a name to get with—and studied herself for a minute. She still had it. Not bad at all, as she climbed the ladder to forty. Besides, wasn’t forty the new thirty? That meant her best years were only four years away. Thank God for Terri Hatcher and those
Desperate Housewives
.

But as she stood there in front of the mirror she had to wonder: who was she trying to impress? There was a man who loved her any way she was. He’d played the guitar for her just last night and he wanted to take her away and love her. She went back to the closet and opened it again. Did she really want to go to work all dolled up today?

The phone rang while she wrestled with this decision. She picked it up. “Hello?”

“Hi, Nikki. It’s me, Robinson. We found Moran.”

“You did? Where?”

“Floating in the bay this morning.”

“Oh my God.”

“I know. I’m on my way to the scene and then back to put some more heat on Bloomenfeld. I’ll call you later.”

She hung up the phone, stunned. Bloomenfeld must’ve killed Moran. Was he that stupid? That greedy? Well, that solved that. Time to move on, she figured.

She went back to the closet to rifle through her clothes. There was
the bag
from the fire. Screw it. Look inside. Move on. She bent down and opened it. A few items she had no real feelings about—a sweater, a dime-store vase, a few trinkets. But one of the items stood out, and she pulled it from the bag and examined it.

Oh my God.
Bloomenfeld hadn’t murdered either Georges or Moran. But Nikki suddenly knew who had. The cops had the clue to the real killer all the time. But of course, what she held in her hand they couldn’t or wouldn’t have tied to the killer’s identity. Why would they? Blood rushed to her head, which started pounding. She couldn’t believe it. She blinked her eyes several times, and then closed them. Yes, she knew who the real killer was, and she also knew why and how it had happened. A memory from the other day stirred in her.

She went to the nightstand, took out the phone book, and placed a call confirming that the killer would be at tonight’s dinner.

Chapter 26

The table was set and so was Nikki. The evening had arrived. Renee Rothschild came into the restaurant on Derek’s arm, dressed to perfection. When she spotted Nikki she let go of his arm and rushed over to her, as if the two of them had been the best of friends for years. “Have you thought any more about the book?”

Derek came up behind Renee. He put an arm around her. Nikki could hardly look at him. Mr. Dapper in his tuxedo. Did Renee know that Derek hated wearing what he referred to as monkey suits?

“I’m happy to see you feeling better. Renee tells me you’re interested in writing the book about the hotel and spa. I think that’s a great idea, and she mentioned that you were going to do it while in Spain. I take it that you’ve decided to go, then.”