window at the passing storefronts—a charming mix of old California mission style buildings and modern coffee shops and art galleries. "If Stalker Guy was stealthy enough at blending into the background, it's possible she hadn't even noticed he was following her yet."
That was a scary thought for any woman. That a stranger could be cataloguing your every move without you even knowing.
"Don't you think she would have noticed him lurking in her photos like we did?"
Ava shrugged. "Depends on how closely she was inspecting them. I know when I look at selfies, I'm usually focused on myself." Ava paused. "And I'm not even a model."
I grinned. "Good point."
A few minutes later, we pulled up in front of Ava's shop and I parked at the curb. We were both getting out of my Jeep when I noticed a couple of women standing beside the front window where Ava's Silver Girl logo had been hand-painted. A younger one posed beneath the logo, and an older one took her photo with a small camera.
"Can I help you?" Ava asked as we approached.
The older woman started, looking embarrassed. "Uh, no. We were just taking a couple of pictures."
"Well, I'm the owner," Ava said, giving them a wide smile. "I was just about to open up the shop again, if you'd like to take a look inside."
"Ohmigosh," the younger one gushed. "Are you the one who made the murder necklace?"
Ava's smiled faded, her jaw clenching.
"Uh, on second thought, we're closed right now," I told the two women. "Sorry, you'll have to come back another time."
The younger girl's face fell, but the older woman must have picked up on the proverbial steam starting to come out of Ava's ears, as she ushered the other one away. "Come on. We'll come back later," she promised.
"Please don't," Ava mumbled under her breath. Though, I was pretty sure both women were out of earshot by then.
Hopefully.
"Do you need me to stay with you?" I asked her, resisting the urge to check my watch. While I would never abandon her in a time of need, I did have inventory reports and a harvest budget patiently awaiting my attention back at the winery.
"No," Ava said, taking a deep breath and letting some of the tension release from her jaw. "I'm fine. I'll just…shoo the looky-loos along and hope some of the Links ladies-who-lunch come by." She gave me a smile that wasn't totally believable.
"You sure?" I hedged.
She nodded. "Positive. I'm fine. Go make some wine or something." This time her smile was more genuine.
I returned it, giving her arm a quick squeeze. "Okay, but call me if you need anything. Or if you hear back from Hughie," I added.
"Will do," she promised as I got back into my Jeep.
I waited until she'd unlocked the doors to Silver Girl and turned the sign back around to Open before I pulled away from the curb.
* * *
Oak Valley Vineyards was located in the hills above the valley, about twenty minutes outside of the bustling downtown. It was just under ten acres of lush vineyards and majestic oak trees that had been in my family for generations. My ancestors had planted the first Pinot Noir vines on the land, and our family had reaped the rewards ever since. Over the years, generations had added to the property—more varietals of grapes, the long, low winery buildings in the Spanish revival style that housed our tasting rooms, offices, and kitchen, and the tiled outdoor courtyards where we hosted private parties and weddings. But the one constant at Oak Valley was a sense of peace I always felt as I approached. A sense of home.
I let that familiar, comforting feeling wash over me as I pulled up the oak tree–lined drive, inhaling the warm scents of blooming lavender and grapes ripening in the sun. I parked in the gravel parking lot in front of our main building. It was sparsely populated, being a bit early for the happy hour crowd, though I was glad to see at least a few cars other than those of my small staff. Every sale counted.
I locked my Jeep and made my way inside, popping my head into the tasting room first. A couple of the tables had groups of three and four people, sipping wine and laughing amiably. An older couple in Bermuda shorts and Hawaiian style shirts sipped at one end of the long polished bar, and I spied my sommelier, Jean Luc, opening a Petite Sirah for a woman