Left to Murder (Adele Sharp #5) - Blake Pierce Page 0,23

the water.

Adele scanned the trimmed hedges, the ornamentation as the squad car moved along the smooth road. Ahead, the main building of the vineyard seemed to have a commercial purpose as well, displaying a title which, translated, read Bich’s Tasting and Culture.

“Cultured,” Adele murmured over her shoulder. “So much culture. Practically drowning in it.” Once again, she’d managed to wrangle the front seat.

John grunted behind the driver’s side, his gaze passing over the hedges and statues and blinking bracket lights providing tasteful illumination to the whole spectacle. Instead, he seemed to be paying particular attention to the rows of grapes beyond. “Bugs,” he said. “Lots of bugs.” He wrinkled his nose. “You’d think they’d have a spray or something.”

The driver, another local in blue, looked into the mirror and nodded at John. “They do, sir. These insects, though, are lacewings and are not harmful to the grapes—they are called beneficial insects. Sometimes they’re even pressed with the wine…” She chuckled. “Not everyone realizes just how many bugs often ended up in their Merlot.”

John wrinkled his nose and glared at the vineyard now. He glanced at the mirror. “Does everyone in the area know so much about wine?”

The officer laughed and pulled the vehicle closer toward the commercial building at the end of the ornamented drive. “It’s Bordeaux, and I am French,” she said, in manner of explanation, intonating the word French with a bit of an American accent, which Adele knew was meant to be taken humorously.

The officer’s expression sobered a bit though, and she looked at Adele. “Mr. Bich is waiting for you,” she said. “But he refuses to let the officers into the building without a warrant. From what I’ve been told, he’s not being very cooperative.”

“Right, thanks.” Adele nodded. Then her eyes slid along the front of the large wood and glass commercial building in the heart of the vineyard toward a small gathering of people standing in front of stone slab steps. Another tasteful arrangement of multi-hued stone set in a large patio that spanned the length of the delta-shaped driveway.

The squad car pulled up behind two others, which had parked across from a blue Jaguar I-pace with chrome wheels sitting in the shade in front of a garage.

John whistled as he eyed the car, but Adele only had eyes for the gathering in front of the stone steps.

The smallest figure seemed to have positioned himself between the building and the officers in question. Any time one of the officers came too close, he would hold out a hand, blocking and shaking his head, speaking loudly. Adele rolled down the window as their car wheeled to a halt.

Over the sound of crunching dust and groaning tires, she heard the words, “…no warrant, no entry. That is final!”

She glanced over the seat at John. “I think we may have found Mr. Bich.”

Together, they exited the vehicle with twin sighs of resignation, matching clicks of their locks, and synchronized slamming of their doors. The air was warm again, and Adele blinked a bit, feeling the tentative suggestions of a headache trying to make itself known. Perhaps she shouldn’t have drunk that second cup of coffee before leaving the motel.

Still, there was a job to do.

She strode with John toward the gathering in front of the commercial building beneath the studio’s sign. The air here now held the familiar scent of too-sweet produce and fertilizer.

Adele marched up to the small man who had his hand outstretched, blocking the three other officers who were speaking patiently with him. The man didn’t seem interested in what the police had to say. He wagged a finger under the nose of a male officer and uttered a string of strong words which caused Adele to quicken her pace just a bit.

“Mighty jumpy for a vintner,” John muttered next to her.

As they drew near, Adele heard the small man exclaiming. “… pay my taxes, am a good citizen. Yet you stormtroopers roll up like this? Outrageous! You’ll hear from my lawyer.”

“That is fine, sir,” said Adele, calling out and waving a hand to catch his attention. She came to a stop on a brown stone slab set in the patio. She smoothed a couple of the wrinkles in her suit, then fixed a polite smile before acknowledging the vintner. “I assume you’re Matthias Bich?”

The man turned mid-sentence, his jaw unhinged as if intent on finishing his diatribe. But then he swallowed, nearly choked on air, and rotated a full ninety degrees to refocus his