Left to Murder (Adele Sharp #5) - Blake Pierce
CHAPTER ONE
A lonely ray of light refracted through the violet liquid in the bulbous glass, casting a purplish sheen across the naked table. Streaks of azure formed in the blue stone swirls of the circular surface, and Amelia Gueyen wiped down the table, retrieving the remaining glass and placing it on the brown tray resting askew across the backrests of two cushioned chairs.
She arched her back, wincing against a small twinge, before balancing the tray of half-sipped wine glasses and returning to the crisscrossing wooden display case behind the carved oak counter. She sighed, tipping the contents of the glasses into the metal sink hidden behind the counter’s oak frame, before placing the delicate crystal in the plastic wash-holder. One of the openers tomorrow would slot the things into the economy-sized dishwasher before the first customers arrived. She hoped they would remember to leave the settings on low this time. She didn’t want it to be like last time, where she had to clean up a fiasco of shattered glass pieces scattered throughout the most expensive appliance in the place.
She felt another twinge and half-turned, shifting uncomfortably in her white and black uniform. Swirling gold and blue letters spelled the name Chateau Bordeaux across her lapel, next to the small golden badge that bore the letters GUEYEN.
She glanced toward the dipping sun through the glass windows set in the far wall of the wine-tasting studio. She blinked a couple of times against the sparkles of light tiptoeing through the veiled glass. Evening was quickly approaching. She glanced at her watch. 4:23.
Nearly half an hour after they’d closed.
So why was there still a gray sedan in the far parking space behind the dumpsters? She frowned and tilted her head, staring behind the counter that led into the kitchens. “Andre?” she called, raising her voice. “Andre, are you here?”
No answer.
She wrinkled her nose. She gently pushed the wooden tray, making sure it was stable on the counter, before dusting off her hands and moving with swift steps through the room toward the glass window. She didn’t recognize the gray car—nor did she know any of the employees silly enough to park so close to the dumpsters.
“Andre?” she called again, raising her voice.
Sometimes the older sommelier would stop by during Amelia Gueyen’s hours. She never appreciated these surprise visits—and it often felt like the older man looked over her shoulder during every movement, as if judging her words or behavior.
While it was true she’d only been working as a sommelier for the last year, she’d spent enough time in study, along with growing up on her grandfather’s own vineyard, that she was happy to test her knowledge and palate against the best wine-tasters in the game.
The last group of tourists who’d passed through certainly hadn’t seemed to have any complaints. Especially not the last bearded fellow with the belly—he’d tried to slide her his number in his glass. She’d tossed the contents in the sink while he’d watched from across the room. His look of dejection hadn’t pleased her, but one could only stomach so much unsolicited attention before exhaustion set in. Sparing feelings was not why Amelia had signed up for this job—grapes didn’t have feelings, and fermentation was a slow, careful art, but also a science. A sommelier’s job, combined with the vineyard, was the perfect marriage of science and art in Amelia Gueyen’s estimation.
She reached the window now, peering out into the parking lot beyond the wine-tasting studio. For a moment, she felt a flicker of fear. What if the car belonged to the bearded fellow? Maybe he’d been embarrassed in front of his friends when she’d tossed the note.
Maybe he wanted to have a word. Maybe more…
She shivered and quickly hurried to the door, ignoring the twinge in her back from over-lifting a carton earlier that day. She moved toward the lock, but just then, the small tinkling chimes above the door rattled quietly, emitting a soft, musical series of notes.
And the door creaked open, slowly, with the eerie motion of a coffin lid sliding ajar.
Amelia stiffened, staring at the door, one hand half-extended, the other massaging her lower back. Her eyes darted to the wooden tray she’d left on the counter. She could feel the thin veil of sweat from a day on her feet, still pressing into her uniform. She stood, legs frozen as she watched the door widen, pushing a strand of hair past her cheek and brushing a glaze of sweat along the edge of her