A Vintage To Die For (Violet Vineyard Murder Mysteries Book 2) by JM Harvey Page B

overwhelmed by the night’s events, but that old uncertainty had crept back in.
    “It’s getting late,” I said, feeling like a complete coward. I glanced at the clock over the filthy stovetop.
    “Right,” he said, his eyes shutting down, going flat and remote.
    That look hurt. It seemed to solidify the gap that had grown between us. I knew I didn’t want that, but I didn’t have the words.
    Hunter stood abruptly and headed for the door, his manner as brusque as his movements. He opened the door and looked back. “The cellar is padlocked. We’ll finish with it in the morning and I’ll be out of your hair.” The way he said that made me feel even more miserable. “Lock up tight tonight,” he added and he was gone, the door clicking softly closed behind him.
    I sat there for a long time after that, thinking about Hunter and me. But in the end it was just too much for my beleaguered mind. I made the circuit of the house, checking that the windows and doors were all locked, and went upstairs. I washed my face, brushed my teeth, and fell into bed at 4:45.

Chapter 9
     
     
    I awoke two hours after I had fallen asleep. I burrowed under the covers and squeezed my eyes closed tight, but it was no use. I tossed and turned fitfully for another hour before I finally gave up with a groan at 7:30.
    One glance in the mirror over the sink was enough to make me cringe. Every line and wrinkle on my face was highlighted and exaggerated by too little sleep. I had dark circles under my eyes and a dry, papery look to my skin. And I felt just as bad as I looked. Bone-tired and depressed. The walking dead.
    I felt marginally better after a shower. I put on khaki slacks and a sweater and headed downstairs.
    The shambolic condition of the kitchen sucked the wind out of my already drooping sails. Even after three hours of cleaning, there was still a leaning stack of dirty dishes piled beside the sink, the floor needed to be mopped, and the stove sanitized. I poured ground coffee into my old 1920’s percolator, a chrome globe with red handles, and turned it on, then crossed to the windows to take in the morning view. That view usually revitalizes me with its sweep and beauty but it had the opposite effect that morning. The view of the slumbering valley was beautiful - the first tracers of the sun’s golden light peeking over the mountain behind me, streaking across the valley while the steep upper slopes were still cloaked in darkness - it was the view closer to home that made me want to curl up and cry.
    The back yard was a mess. Trampled grass, a sagging tent, scattered napkins, and paper trash. The tables were cluttered with dirty dishes and empty glasses. I was about to turn away when Victor’s truck rolled down the gravel drive and headed for the brand new barn I’d had constructed after the old one was burned down last year. There were two other men in the cab of the truck with him. All three climbed out and Victor led the two men into the barn.
    By the time the three reemerged with plastic bags, a rake, and a shovel, I had poured myself a cup of coffee and filled a thermos for them. I carried the thermos and three cups outside and put them on the least cluttered of the tables under the tent.
    Victor led the men over. Despite the chill in the morning air, Victor was wearing shorts and a t-shirt with a faded surf logo on the breast. His hair had grown back since the fire that had destroyed my ancient Mustang Convertible and my barn, and he wore it long to cover the puckered red burn scars on his neck and shoulders. Other than that, he had made a full recovery from what I had feared, at the time, were catastrophic injuries.
    The other two men were dressed for the weather in flannel shirts and jeans.
    “Good morning, Mrs. de Montagne,” the older of the two said as he took the steaming cup from me. “Thank you.” He was well past fifty and stout with a deep sunburn on the back of his neck. His companion was much younger, tall