"Great-Aunt Cappy and Great-Aunt Etta have been fighting over the trust fund since Etta started the winery. Cappy didn't mind it when Etta's wine was a hobby. She even seemed proud of Etta's blue ribbons, but when Etta started wanting money for the winery and it came at the cost of Cappy's horses, there were fireworks."

"When did Giles come into the picture?"

"Arcadia met Giles at some wine dinner up in Napa Valley. It was apparently love at first sight for my cousin, and they got married three months later at a huge affair at his father's estate. About a year or so later I started hearing through Susa's conversations with Cappy that Giles was making noise about merging the wineries."

"How did Etta feel about that?"

"I think she was all right with it. All Etta wants is to be left alone to make her wine. It's more than a job for her. It's like a calling or something. She's obsessed with making the perfect bottle of wine."

"Sort of like producing a champion race horse," I commented, thinking how much alike the two sisters were. "So where does your great-aunt Willow fit into this?"

"Ever since Arcadia's parents died when she was nine, Great-Aunt Willow has tried to compensate by treating Arcadia like a little princess. Whatever Arcadia wants is whatever Willow wants, providing it doesn't hurt her image in San Celina society."

"So Arcadia marrying into a Napa Valley wine dynasty was definitely something that made Willow happy. That might eliminate her as a suspect. Killing Giles would be like killing the proverbial goose with the golden egg. Besides, I honestly can't imagine Willow shooting someone."

"That's how much you don't don't know about the Brown women," JJ said grimly. "All of them were taught to use guns early in their lives by my great-grandfather. That's one of the reasons my mother moved away so young, I think. She's always hated guns and anything to do with hunting. Willow and Etta are just as capable of shooting someone as Cappy, believe me." know about the Brown women," JJ said grimly. "All of them were taught to use guns early in their lives by my great-grandfather. That's one of the reasons my mother moved away so young, I think. She's always hated guns and anything to do with hunting. Willow and Etta are just as capable of shooting someone as Cappy, believe me."

I looked at her in surprise, struck dumb for a moment. Then I asked, "What about Chase? Did he and Giles get along?"

"They liked to drink together. And they were hunting buddies. I never saw them argue, if that's what you're asking."

"How did Chase feel about this merger with Giles's family's winery?"

"I think that Uncle Chase would be fine as long as no one cut off his allowance." She said the words without rancor or bitterness, just stating a fact. Then she thought for a moment. "Cappy was counting on him to vote her way at the next family meeting. From what Susa said, the executor of the trust fund said that someone was going to have to start cutting back, that the trust can't afford to support two unprofitable businesses."

"So the winery isn't doing well either?"

"It's up and down, I guess. They had a bad year a couple of years ago, lost sixty percent of their grapes to an early frost. It's a business that's always on the edge."

"Like horsebreeding and racing."

She nodded, her hands still grasped tightly in her lap. Her skin was pale under its bright makeup. A sheen of tears brightened her eyes.

I thought for a moment. "Okay, what about Arcadia? How were things between her and Giles?"

"They had their fights from what Bliss told me. He wasn't exactly faithful."

"Anyone in particular?"

"From what I hear, he wasn't particular. Bliss once said that he and Chase hunted more than just wild boar together, but she never went into detail. The only thing I ever heard about was she caught him a few months back with one of the tasting room girls. Grandma Cappy and my aunts put a stop to that, though I heard they didn't fire the girl. That surprised me, actually. I guess Giles had more power in the family than I realized 'cause Arcadia is Willow's little darling. Bliss said Cappy wouldn't let them fire her. I have no idea what that that was about." was about."

"So, Arcadia certainly had a motive and as much opportunity as anyone at the party. Can she shoot? Do you think she'd have the nerve to do it?"

"I have no idea. It seems like I remember Susa saying Arcadia's father fit into the Brown family perfectly, that he was a gun nut like everyone else in the family. But she was nine when he died, so I don't know if he ever taught her to shoot."

"Just out of curiosity, what's the story on the men in this family?"

She held out a hand and started counting them off on her blue-tipped fingernails. "My dad's up north. Cappy's husband, Stephen . . . "

"You mean your grandfather."

"Right. I never met him, so he's only a name to me. Anyway, he ran off to Taos in the late fifties to be a painter. My mom was just a little girl. He died in the sixties, I think. Aunt Willow's husband . . . "

"Arcadia's grandfather."

"Right. He was a rodeo rider. The story is he was gored to death by a bull in Reno, but the truth is he was shot by a jealous husband in Barstow."

"Prim and proper Willow Brown was married to a rodeo rider?" I couldn't help laughing at that incongruous picture.

JJ joined my laughter. "I guess we all have our weak moments, and he was Great-Aunt Willow's. Cappy apparently teased her unmercifully about it until Willow flew to Taos and seduced my grandfather and made sure Cappy heard all the details. There's a family rumor that there's a nude painting of Willow painted by my grandfather somewhere, but I've never seen it."

"So there's no love lost between Cappy and Willow."

"Not much, though they mostly stay out of each other's lives. Aunt Etta is the peacemaker, but Giles moving in on her territory caused some friction between her and Willow at times. He must have been really obnoxious about the merger, because Etta's not someone who gets mad easily. But nothing's ever meant as much to her as the winery."

I looked into her eyes. "How much of this did you tell the sheriff's detectives?"

She gazed squarely back at me, unflinching. "Why, none of it. It's personal. I couldn't tell family problems to one of those detectives. Cappy and the rest would kill me." She swallowed hard, her face blanching when she realized the double entendre in her words.

I was beginning to see just how difficult investigating a crime within a family could be. As Detective Hudson suspected, there was much more to this situation than met the eye, and this family was expert at covering up and making things look good on the surface.

"You realize I have to tell Gabe what you told me, and he'll probably tell Detective Hudson. I can't hide anything from my husband."

She scrubbed at her eyes, causing her mascara to smear. "I wouldn't expect you to. I just feel better that someone knows. But can you at least not tell them where you heard it? I don't think I could face talking to that detective about all this stuff."

I contemplated her for a moment, wanting to reach over and stroke her nervous hands quiet. "I'll do my best. That's all I can promise."

She nodded and stood up to leave. "Thanks."

On the drive out to the ranch, I tried to sort out all the information she'd given me. I'd heard the saying that the rich were different, and there was no doubt that the Seven Sisters clan had their problems involving money, but I also knew that families had squabbled and killed over two hundred dollars just as much as twenty million. The amount of money didn't seem to matter; the power struggle was the same, and that was formed when the family members were children, scripts written and parts assigned often before people were even born.

At the ranch it appeared that Dove was entertaining. A half dozen cars were parked in the circle driveway behind Dove's new little red Ford Ranger pickup with a vanity license plate: DOVESTRK. The house was empty, but her red-and-white country kitchen showed evidence that supported my theory with the long breakfast counter covered with plastic-wrapped sandwich platters, casseroles, pies, and cakes. After picking through them and nabbing a miniature pecan pie, I went through the back screen door and across the yard to the barn. Crackly music poured out of the open double doors. Inside I found Dove sitting on a kitchen stool shouting through one of my old San Celina High Stallions cheerleading megaphones.

"Step, step, pause, step . . . Emmett, it's step, step, not step, shuffle! Lift up those feet, old man! You're supposed to be a teenage gang member! Dang it, Melva, how many times do I have to tell you? You're a Jet, not a Shark. Get over to your own side."

"What's going on?" I asked, coming up behind her.

She turned and frowned at me, her pale peach face disgusted. "Land's sakes, I swear I'm going to sell myself on the street corner. I'd make more money than we'll bring in trying to put on a play."

"First, I think Mac might disapprove just a little of the president of the Women's Missionary Union hawking her wares down on Lopez Street, good intentions and Mary Magdalene notwithstanding, and second, what possessed you to put on a play, and am I guessing right that it's West Side Story West Side Story?"

"Ten-minute break, kids. Don't go too far-we've got hours of rehearsing still to go," she yelled through the megaphone. Emmett Penshaw, apparently the head Shark, made a disparaging gesture with his liver-spotted hand and mumbled something to the snowy-haired Jet next to him.

"I saw that, Emmett," she called through the megaphone. "Give me ten push-ups."

He ignored her and shuffled out of the barn toward the house.

Trying not to laugh since I didn't want her irritation turned on me, I asked calmly, "West Side Story, Dove? Are you sure this is the easiest way to make money?" Dove? Are you sure this is the easiest way to make money?"

"No," she said, setting down the red-and-black megaphone painted with my high school mascot-a fire-breathing stallion. "But I've about come to the end of my tether, honeybun. Everyone's counting on me to think of something, but whenever I do, they fight me the whole way. All these people want to do is eat coffee cake and complain about their bunions. We have to make some money fast or we'll just have to settle for what the insurance company will pay us, and end up having to turn folks away who need a hot meal. I need to light a fire under their sorry old butts."

I put my arm around her shoulders and hugged her. "Dove, you know I'll do anything to help, and so will my friends. Maybe having some younger people involved will help your friends get more excited about it."

Her mouth turned up slowly into a big, crafty smile. "Out of the mouths of babes. Honeybun, you have just given me an answer to my prayer. I asked the good Lord for a sign, and your suggestion is it."

"What?"

"I wasn't sure if it was okay with God, but I've got the green light now. Mac told me he thought it was all right, but now, after what you just said, I know it is."

"What are you talking about?"

Her smile grew wider. "You'll find out soon enough." She leaned over and kissed my cheek. "Thanks."

I followed her back to the house where her friends were indeed already halfway through the refreshments and comparing knee and hip surgeries. I was pleased that I'd helped her, though I had no idea how. After eating a tuna sandwich and a brownie, I went out to the porch and called for Scout. He came bounding down the driveway where he'd gone to mark some of the towering oak trees. Lydia's shiny Jaguar slowly followed him. I stood on the front porch and watched Gabe step out of the driver's side and Lydia climb out of the passenger's side.

"Hi," Gabe said, coming up the porch and kissing me on the cheek. "Lydia came by the office and wanted to know how to get out to the ranch, and I thought it would be just as easy for me to drive out here with her."

She smiled at me. "I wanted to see where my son's been living so happily for the last year." She wore plum-colored slacks, matching linen top, and black, thin-strap sandals. Her hair was pulled back with large Hopi silver barrettes.

I smiled back, determined to stamp down the jealous feelings of seeing them together again again with positive thoughts and the assertion that she had always been a part of Gabe's and Sam's lives and always would be. I'd better get used to it. It would have helped, though, if my husband hadn't looked quite so happy. with positive thoughts and the assertion that she had always been a part of Gabe's and Sam's lives and always would be. I'd better get used to it. It would have helped, though, if my husband hadn't looked quite so happy.

"I can't guarantee the cleanliness of the bunkhouse," I said. "Dove stays on them, but between him and the other hands, it can get pretty grungy."

She laughed, touching her smooth throat with her hand. A large diamond dinner ring flashed in the sunlight. "Benni, you don't have to tell me me that. I lived with his grime for eighteen years." that. I lived with his grime for eighteen years."

That made me feel really stupid. Of course she knew what it was like to have a boy around. Better than me. The obvious fact that she was a mother and I wasn't reared its head again.

"I have to get back to the museum," I said to Gabe. "Do you need a ride back?"

"No, I'll drive back with Lydia so she doesn't get lost. You go on to work."

I tried to quell the slow boil inside me. "Guess I'll see you this evening at the wine thing."

"Wine thing?" Lydia asked.

Gabe turned to her, his face animated. "It's one of the harvest events. Zin and Zydeco. You might still be able to get a ticket. What do you think, Benni?"

"I have no idea. I suppose you can try."

"Don't worry," he said to Lydia. "I am not without influence in this town. I'll get you in."

"Wonderful," she said, beaming at him.

Oh, yes, wonderful, I thought. I thought.

"I am not without influence in this town. I'll get you in," I mocked Gabe to Scout while driving back to town. "What a pompous thing to say." I growled and made a face at my dog. Scout whined and loyally licked my hand. I ruffled his head and blew him a noisy kiss. "You're the guy for me, Scout. Always and forever."

I drove past the museum, not feeling like facing either paperwork or the million and one questions and requests that always dogged me at work. Before I realized it, I found myself turning off on the road that led to the Seven Sisters ranch.

You're not snooping, I told myself. I told myself. You're just going out to visit Bliss, see the horses, maybe tour the winetasting room that you missed the night of the engagement party. You're just going out to visit Bliss, see the horses, maybe tour the winetasting room that you missed the night of the engagement party.

It was almost three o'clock when I stopped at the stables where things were pretty quiet. A Mexican groom was preparing to wrap the legs of a bay mare with a swollen fetlock. Figaro, the masked barn cat, greeted me by weaving around my legs. I bent down and stroked the long black stripe on his back.

"Donde Senorita Bliss?" I asked the groom. Senorita Bliss?" I asked the groom.

He shrugged his answer-I don't know.

"Senora Cappy?"

He jerked a thumb up the road. "En la casa grande." "En la casa grande."

In the big house. "Gracias." "Gracias."

I wandered around, petting the horses, then decided to walk the quarter mile to the wine-tasting room and the rose garden, which was quite famous among San Celina's flower set. It was a warm, pleasant afternoon, the temperature hovering around eighty. Walking through the garden might give me the time and solitude I needed to think about what I should do with this new information I'd acquired. The one person I was definitely going to avoid was Detective Hudson, who seemed to have an uncanny ability to sense when I was holding something back. I'd give this information to Gabe and let him talk to the sheriff's detective.

It was a smart move leaving my car at the stable, because the parking lot was completely full and the winetasting bar as crowded as an airport at Christmas. Tourists were well into their wine weekend on this Saturday afternoon. There were two dark red limousines from Will's Winetasting Tours parked in front of the rugged adobe tasting room. Chase, Etta, and two female employees were all pouring wine and chatting with customers. It appeared Emory was right. The murder had only caused business to pick up. Either that or a lot of these obviously out-of-town customers hadn't heard about it yet. I left Scout comfortably situated under the shade of an ash tree with the command to stay and stepped inside the cool, spicy-scented tasting room.

Though the outside was adobe, the gift shop and winetasting room duplicated the Montana lodge theme of the big house. The gift items ran the gamut of pewter wine corks shaped like horse heads to glassware etched with the Seven Sisters logo to local salsas and hand-tinted postcards of the magnificent Brown house and rose gardens. I picked up a brochure that explained the history of the adobe structure and the rose gardens.

The long dark oak tasting bar with a brass foot rail and brown-and-white cowhide barstools must have set the family trust back a pretty penny. Hanging behind the bar, an original Donna Howell-Sickles watercolor of three cowgirls with strong thighs and sky-sized grins also told me no expense had been spared. A built-in fireplace was at one end with a dozen or so padded mission-style chairs surrounding it. Over the carved mantel was a professional portrait of the entire Brown family. I weaved my way through the chattering wine tasters and stared up at the photograph. Everyone's smile was flawless and I couldn't help but wonder how many shots it took the photographer to achieve this polished picture. I stepped closer. The smiles were perfect, but there wasn't a genuine bit of emotion in one of them.

I stared a little longer at Giles's face. What had he done that caused one of these people to murder him? Was it blackmail like his letter implied, or something else? Maybe Arcadia, as dramatic as her reaction had been that night, had, in reality, become fed up with his philandering. The switching of the guns did sound planned, as Detective Hudson said, but it could just as well have been a quick recovery by her grandmother and great-aunts who by no means lacked the nerve to pull it off.

I made a note to call my friend Amanda Landry, who was also the volunteer attorney for the folk art museum, to see if I could finagle her into loaning me her investigator, Leilani, for a day to see what kind of history she could find on Giles Norton, his family, and his extracurricular activities.

"Can I help you with something, Benni?"

The man's voice startled me, and I turned, laughing nervously, to face Chase Brown. His face was already flushed with the explosive red color of a habitual drinker. Like his picture in the portrait above us, his lips smiled, but his eyes remained blank. He held a glass of dark red wine. "Are you here for a tasting?"

I shook my head no. "I came to watch Bliss work with the horses, but she's not here, or at least the groom doesn't know where she is. I was going to go on up to the house, but I decided to walk over and see the wine-tasting room and garden since I missed it the other night . . . " I paused, suddenly aware that a small group of people were inching closer, listening to us.

"Why don't we go outside?" he said in a low voice, taking my elbow. I tried pulling away politely, having always hated that controlling gesture, especially in men I didn't know well. He let go when we got outside. "People are bottom feeders," he said, taking a big gulp from the wineglass.

"I guess it's been hard on everyone," I said.

"You said it," he said, gesturing toward the tasting room with the wineglass. A bit splashed out, staining his hand. He impatiently wiped it on his dark slacks. "Giles was basically a pain in the ass when he was alive, and he's proving to be even more so now that he's dead."

I didn't answer, hoping he'd continue. It was a well-known fact that Chase was half drunk most of the time, and there was no better place to get information than a partially drunk, irritated person.

"Don't get me wrong," he said, looking down at me out of red-veined eyes. "We had us some good times, me and Giles. The guy could shoot, no doubt about it. And hold his whiskey. He could hold his friggin' whiskey."

I nodded, as if agreeing that it was indeed a legacy to be proud of, the ability of one's liver not to completely collapse while drowning in alcohol.

"But he was pushy," Chase said, "and didn't know when to take no for an answer. The man hated the word no."

"I heard he wanted to take the winery international," I said, trying to make it sound like casual chitchat.

"You heard right. Would've been a real coup for Seven Sisters. Lots more money. Lots more prestige. I could see the advantages better than some people."