"Then we'll have to think of a different way." I stood up. Tooney followed. "What's next on your agenda?"

"Find out who sold the blazer. We have to also consider that the killer may have stolen it. Buying risks having a nosy old lady remember your face. Could have been that much easier to steal when her back was turned. Most of these little secondhand shops don't have security cameras, so we're out of luck there. I've asked a few of them to check their stock and report back any discrepancy. But you know how a lot of these mom-and-pop stores are. They're not great at the bookkeeping."

"Keep on top of it," I said, thanking him again. "Great work."

He tipped an imaginary hat. "My pleasure. I'll be in touch."

Chapter 18.

FRANCES DIDN'T HAVE MUCH TO SAY WHEN I brought her up to date on Tooney's progress other than, "About time that nuisance of a man did something right."

I let it roll off. "The best part is that it proves that the man I saw in the Oak Tree lobby is the killer."

She froze. "Haven't you learned anything yet?"

"Don't you see?" I tried again. "The jacket being found so close to the hotel makes it extremely likely-"

She folded her arms. "He saw you. Or have you forgotten that?"

"Of course he saw me," I said, pooh-poohing the point she was about to make. "I'm sure he saw a hundred people that morning. I highly doubt I've registered as even a blip in his brain. Even if I did, he can't possibly know that I reported him to the police."

"That kind of logic is what got you into trouble before. Or don't you remember?"

"I'm not trying to apprehend him. All I'm doing is reporting what I see. There's nothing wrong with that."

She made a noise that sounded like "Hmph," and turned her back. "Time for me to leave. You better watch your back over the weekend. No telling what kind of trouble you'll get into when I'm not around to keep tabs."

"Your concern is touching."

She threw a sarcastic glance over her shoulder and began rummaging in her cavernous purse.

"That reminds me," I said, remembering trouble we'd run into in the past, "if I need to reach you over the weekend . . ."

She stiffened.

Unsure now, I plunged on. "Do you have a number you prefer I use?"

She straightened then turned. "I check cell phone messages occasionally," she said crisply, "but I can't promise I'll call back. I may be out of town."

This wasn't the first time Frances had been cryptic about her weekend plans. The few times I'd tried to reach her on days off were exercises in futility. I wondered where she went almost every weekend. And why it was such a big secret. With too much on my mind, this would have to be a mystery for another day. The woman had a right to privacy-even though she didn't respect the privacy of anyone else.

I acknowledged her answer. "There really shouldn't be any need to call you. I wouldn't worry about it," I said.

Her shoulders relaxed almost imperceptibly. "I'll see you Monday," she said.

I headed into my office. "Have a good weekend, Frances."

"Pheh." As the outer door closed behind her I could have sworn she said, "Be careful."

I MADE IT TO AMETHYST CELLARS SHORTLY before six. Bruce and Scott had hired a few part-timers for busy nights such as these, but even with the extra help we would be swamped tonight. I was glad I hadn't backed out on my friends. Though the tasting room was s.p.a.cious and inviting with recessed lighting and warm cherry wood decor, I could barely see any of their strategically placed trinkets because the place was packed cheek to jowl with groups of happy people celebrating their Friday night.

I ducked behind the main tasting bar and said h.e.l.lo. Bruce, who was pouring a tempranillo into four gla.s.ses while extolling the virtues of this particular red, didn't acknowledge he heard me. There was a small utility area behind the bar, where we all stashed our personal items. I tucked my purse into a corner, tied on a burgundy ap.r.o.n, and caught the attention of a middle-aged man and his wife who hadn't been helped yet.

"Welcome to Amethyst Cellars," I said, pulling out two tasting gla.s.ses. "Is this your first visit with us?"

TWO HOURS LATER THE CROWD HAD THINNED considerably. The pre-dinner wave was over and we would experience a less busy, though still steady, business until the after-dinner crowd flocked in an hour from now.

"You need a break?" Bruce whispered when the foursome I'd been serving had sipped their last and were preparing to leave.

"Let one of the other women go on break. They've been here longer than I have," I said, "but I will sneak five minutes to hit the ladies' room, if you don't mind."

"You worked all day at Marshfield and then came here. You probably haven't even eaten dinner."

He was right about that, but I didn't want him to worry. "I snuck a couple of chocolate-covered strawberries when no one was looking."

"That's not much. Get yourself something to eat. That's an order."

"I will."

I ducked into the utility area to grab my purse, deciding to hit the ladies' room before I ventured out for a quick bite. I pa.s.sed two other foursomes and one couple on the way, but my attention was drawn by a man standing alone, facing the far wall of wine bottles. Handwritten index cards described the wines on the wall. Not every wine was covered, but there were at least forty 5 x 7 cards explaining the nose, the flavor, and the finish of individual wines. It was a fun, eye-catching wall, a real conversation starter, not to mention a marvelous way to generate interest in wines that might otherwise go unnoticed.

People stood and studied that wall all the time, so that wasn't what piqued my interest. What caught my eye was the fact that this man wasn't studying the cards; he was glancing sideways, as though to keep tabs on the tasting bar. And he appeared to be alone, which was highly unusual for Amethyst Cellars on a Friday night.

He wore a blue baseball cap and a nylon jacket with its collar pulled high up on his neck. Of average height and slight build, I didn't know precisely what had made me halt my trek out the door, but whatever it was also compelled me to duck behind a tall display of bar accessories to continue my surveillance. I couldn't get past the idea that I'd seen him before and that the vibes I'd gotten from him were negative.

He craned his neck to better observe the bar area just as a group meandered by, blocking his view and making him stretch to see. I sucked in a breath when recognition hit.

It was the man from the Oak Tree Hotel.

Or was it? I couldn't be sure. If it was the guy, why was he here?

Momentarily paralyzed with indecision, I fought through the shock of seeing him and grabbed for my cell phone, deciding to place a quick call to Rodriguez's cell. I knew that by the time the detective got here, the man was likely to be gone, but I had to try.

The man fidgeted constantly, always looking over his shoulder toward the bar where I had just been working.

Where I should have been working.

He must have followed me here. I should have been more alert. Frances was right again.

I had started to dial Rodriguez when common sense smacked me in the head. I couldn't very well stand in the middle of Amethyst Cellars and report seeing the man. The fact that I was peering around from behind a tchotchke display had already garnered me odd looks. And I'd be required to raise my voice to be heard over dozens of conversations. No, I had to find a quiet place to make this call.

Noise levels being what they were in tiled washrooms, I opted for sneaking outside. Scott, at the auxiliary tasting station to my left, had noticed my weird movements and mouthed a query I didn't quite understand. He was too far away to call out to, so I waved him down and decided to make for the door.

I stopped short as Frances's words of warning clanged in my brain again. If this man was the killer, I could be getting into serious trouble here. But only if he spotted me, right?

I slunk along the far wall doing my best to blend in. Belatedly, I realized my ap.r.o.n was a dead giveaway. I yanked it off and slid it up onto a nearby table.

Halfway to the door, I had a brilliant idea. So brilliant that it caused my already speeding heart to race faster, and my breath to come in quick gasps. Take his picture! My cell phone had a camera. All I needed was a good, clear shot.

Keeping behind a happy group of wine drinkers, I caught Bruce's attention. "Go help that man by the wine wall," I said, gesturing. "Make him turn around. I need to get his picture."

Understanding registered in my roommate's eyes as he excused himself from the couple he'd been helping and came out from behind the bar.

Bruce strode past two groups, crossed in front of the guy then grabbed a bottle from the wall with expert nonchalance, as though he'd trekked there for that sole purpose. I gave him credit. Much better than singling the guy out right away. The guy sidestepped away, momentarily distracted from his surveillance of the bar. Wine in hand, Bruce started back, then turned as though the thought had just occurred to him. "Is there anything I can help you with?"

The guy shook his hat-covered head.

Bruce donned his best wine connoisseur demeanor, hefted the red wine he held, and said, "If you want to sample anything at all, let me know." He pointed. "I'll be right over there."

The guy turned, following Bruce's direction. Whether it was an instinctive move or because it gave him an excuse to look at the bar full on didn't matter. Bruce had gotten him exactly where I needed him to be. I was out of the guy's line of sight-barely-but able to snap a quick shot of his profile as Bruce held his attention for those precious few seconds. "We've got a wonderful special on this malbec today. If you like reds, it's worth a look."

The guy shook his head and returned to staring at the wall.

Bruce didn't make eye contact with me until after he'd gotten back to the couple he'd been helping. "Here's the malbec I was talking about . . ."

My heart was still beating madly despite the fact that all I'd done was take a man's picture in the middle of a busy room. My hands shook as I tucked the phone into my pocket, and now I did head outside, happy to breathe the fresh air and find a quiet place halfway down an adjacent side street to make the call to Rodriguez.

With it being high season, tourists were milling everywhere on this gorgeous, warm evening. All thought of grabbing dinner was forgotten as I feverishly sent the photo to Detective Rodriguez's cell phone. Then I dialed.

"I got him," I said when the detective answered. Without waiting for a reply, I spoke quickly, bringing Rodriguez up to date on what had happened in the last ten minutes.

For the first time since I'd known him, Rodriguez was not slow to respond. "He may be on to you," he said. "Where are you now?"

"Outside the wine shop."

"Get back inside. Right now. Don't leave the premises for anything. Don't go near him, don't engage him. Don't try to stop him from leaving. I'll be there in five minutes."

He hung up.

I hurried back into the shop, easing the door open with caution just in case Mr. Killer happened to be on his way out. I had nothing to worry about, however. Five twenty-something women were chatting and laughing as they spilled out onto the street, and I was able to slide in unnoticed.

I stole a glance toward the wall where I'd left Mr. Killer, but another group of tourists was blocking my view. I skirted the ma.s.s of humanity around the bar and snagged my ap.r.o.n from its hiding place. As I tied it back on, I stole another surrept.i.tious glance at the wall. Still no luck. Bruce caught my eye and held up both hands in an "I don't know," gesture.

Had the man left?

Concerned that the killer could have disappeared before Rodriguez got here, I started scanning the crowd in earnest. He was nowhere to be found.

One of Bruce and Scott's part-timers, Leslie, called me over from behind the auxiliary bar. "Are you looking for a man in a blue hat?" she asked.

My heart sunk to my feet. Had I been that obvious?

Too busy to notice my reaction, she dug into her pocket. "He was looking for you. I told him I didn't know where you were, so he left this note." She handed me a folded piece of paper. I recognized it instantly as one of ours. Amethyst Cellars provided logo-stamped notes and pens for customers to use to jot down their impressions of wines as they tasted them.

Fingerprints, I thought. Maybe they can't easily be lifted from fabric, but I knew they could from paper. I took it from her gingerly, using my fingers as pincers. Leslie gave me the weirdest look. "What are you doing?"

I didn't answer as I dropped the paper onto the bar and used a pen to unfold it.

"Was there something wrong with the guy?" she asked. "Does he have a medical condition?" Her voice grew ever more desperate. "He isn't contagious, is he?"

She was drawing the attention of the nearby wine tasters. "It's okay," I lied. "I need to see what this says."

"I think there was something wrong with him," she said. "Why else would a guy wear gloves in weather like this?"

"Gloves?"

"Yeah. That's why I wanted to know if he was contagious. He didn't do any tastings, did he?"

My shoulders slumped. "Gloves," I said again. I hadn't noticed him wearing them. Of course I hadn't. I'd been too intent on capturing his photo. Thank goodness that part had gone smoothly. I pushed the folded sheet open, still using the back of the pen. When the message was finally visible, I took a sharp breath.

You're dead. You just don't know it yet.

I WAITED FOR RODRIGUEZ INSIDE THE FRONT door of the shop, telling myself that there was no need for him to cause a ruckus inside Amethyst Cellars when the killer had already left the building. Truth was, I was shaking hard and wanted to scream. Staying indoors, swarmed by warm bodies, should have appealed to me, but all of a sudden I felt trapped. The s.p.a.cious room had closed in around me, making me feel tight and constricted. I wanted fresh air, but had to settle for whatever wafted in when a new customer entered the shop.

Scott kept me company even though they were still very busy. He insisted I stand behind him in case the guy decided to take a shot at me.

"There are too many people outside," I said, looking at the note again. "He got his message across. He's long gone."

Scott stared out into the night, scanning faces of the evening's revelers as they meandered by. "I hope you're right."

Rodriguez arrived moments later. I showed him and his officers the note, which they quickly bagged as evidence.

"Gloves," Rodriguez said in much the same tone I had when I explained what had happened. "Where's the girl he spoke to?"

I pointed out Leslie then gave Scott a gentle push. "You need to get back in there. The officers here will watch over me. I'm fine."

Reluctantly, Scott returned to his post behind the auxiliary bar and helped the next group in line. The presence of the police at the front of the store was clearly making some folks uncomfortable, so Bruce announced an impromptu ten percent off sale for anyone currently in the store. That got their attention, and the two uniformed officers and I were, if not forgotten, at least diminished in importance.

One officer was stationed outside the doors, the other inside, next to me. "Can I make a phone call?" I asked him.

"Why not? You're not under arrest."

I pulled up my cell phone again, intent on dialing Mark, but stopped myself in the nick of time. He was probably still with Bennett and I wouldn't want to disturb them. I took a deep, impatient breath, and waited for Rodriguez to finish.