I looked back down at her mother who still wore that spooky, disengaged smile. Was she senile? She certainly didn't sound as if she was when she was insulting my looks. Maybe she was just mean.

"I have to find my cousin," I said, turning and walking quickly out of the tent.

Cappy caught up with me outside. "Benni, wait."

I turned and faced her, shielding my eyes from the bright afternoon sun. "Yes?"

"Sometimes she gets confused. Very confused." Her gray eyes bore into my squinting ones.

"I understand," I said.

She stared at me for a long, searching moment. Both her hands were curled in tight fists. "Do you?"

"I've worked with elderly people, Cappy."

Her lips tightened. "You always did learn quickly, Benni Harper. You knew how to focus. I liked that about you."

"Thank you," I said. She was definitely her mother's daughter. The sudden conversation switch confused me.

"But your one fatal flaw was never knowing when something was too much for you. You always wanted to ride the horses that were too big or too wild or try some trick beyond your capabilities. Sometimes recognizing your own limitations is the smartest thing a person can do."

"I . . . "

Before I could say any more, she added, "Be smart this time. Ignore whatever my mother said. Don't get in over your head."

I watched her walk back toward the artists' tent, frustrated that she didn't let me speak, didn't let me tell her that all her mother did was insult my looks and, ironically, give me advice on how to keep my husband.

But without realizing it, Cappy had pointed me in another direction. It was obvious by Cappy's overreaction that Rose Brown knew something about the blackmail or Giles's death. The thousand-dollar question was What exactly did Cappy think her mother had told me? And how would I find out what Rose Brown knew?

11.

I FOUND EMORY deep in conversation with a new wine maker who was waxing poetic about the quality of grapes this harvest season and the possibilities for San Celina County's growth as a major wine-producing region. I tugged on my cousin's sleeve and demanded his car keys. "I'll wait for you there."

"Fifteen more minutes," Emory said. "I swear."

Inside Emory's luxurious Cadillac Seville, I reclined the cushy leather seat, rolled down the electric windows for a cross breeze, and turned on the CD player, letting the butter-smooth sounds of George Strait soothe my irritated soul. I settled back, closed my eyes, and tried to forget the Brown family, wine, racehorses, my looks, my husband, and his beautiful ex-wife.

I was floating in a soft drowsy state, down a long, slow Southern river, just me and George, when a man's voice growled near my ear, "Dangerous practice . . ." I simultaneously jumped, screamed, and swung my hand out in defense, my heart racing like one of Cappy's horses.

"Dang it all!" Detective Hudson exclaimed, backing up and grabbing his mouth.

"You idiot! You scared the crap out of me!" I screamed. "Don't ever, ever, ever sneak up on me like that! Ever!"

"I was just trying to tell you it's dangerous to nap in an open car where anyone can accost you. Oh, dang, I'm bleeding," he moaned, still holding his mouth.

I climbed out of the car and went over to him. "For Pete's sake, quit your bellyaching. You're lucky it wasn't pepper spray in my hand."

He felt his rapidly swelling lip gingerly, then stared at the blood staining his fingertips. "Criminy, what do you do, sharpen your claws on a whetstone?"

"I don't even have nails." I held up my hands in illustration. Clutched in my right one was the plastic case from George's CD. The sharp plastic edge was obviously what I'd struck him with.

"Assaulted by a CD cover," he said, moaning again. "How will I explain that one at the office?"

"You wouldn't have to if you'd stop following me stop following me," I said, reaching back into the car and handing him a tissue. "Here, clean up your mouth and shut up."

He brushed away the tissue, pulled a pure white monogrammed handkerchief from inside his jacket, and brought it to his swollen lip.

I stared at it. "A handkerchief? I didn't know men still used those."

He gave a sick smile. "I don't blow my nose with it. I use it to pick up women."

"What?"

"You'd be surprised how many heartbroken women there are in bars. I give them the handkerchief to dry their tears, listen to their sad story, offer a little sympathy, a strong Texas shoulder to lean on, a drink or two, then slip them my card. I always get my handkerchief back clean and ironed and a very grateful first date."

"That pathetic line actually works?"

"Never fails."

"It's despicable."

Unperturbed by my opinion, he dabbed at his mouth again, flinching at the pain.

"What a lightweight. I'd sure hate to have you for a partner."

"The only blood that bothers me is my own," he protested.

I gave him a withering look.

"You know, you are the least maternal woman I've ever met," he said.

His remark hit me straight in the heart, and thanks to my expressive face, he immediately noticed.

"Oh, shoot, I'm sorry, Benni," he said softly. "I didn't mean that how it sounded."

"Forget it," I said curtly.

Emory walked up at that moment and asked, "What's going on?"

"Are you finished with your interviews?" I asked.

"Yes, but-"

"Then let's go."

Emory looked at me, then Detective Hudson, then back at me. "Are you all right? What did he do to you?"

"I said, let's go, Emory." I climbed into the car, buckled my seat belt, and stared straight ahead. We were out of the parking lot and well on the highway back to San Celina before Emory spoke.

"Need to talk about it?" he asked.

I put a hand up to my eyes. "Not right now, Emory. But thanks for asking."

He gave me a worried look, then turned the conversation to Isaac with whom he'd chatted briefly at the tasting. "He and Dove are cooking something up. He says he'll tell me about it when they need publicity. Couldn't get him to spill a word."

"Me neither. I'm going out there for dinner tonight, though, so I'll give it another try. Why don't you come, too?"

"Can't. I have to get these stories written and dispatched to my editor for final approval. Then I'm going to see if I can pry my ladylove away from her office long enough for a romantic dinner down at the beach." His voice wasn't as chipper and optimistic as usual.

You'd better watch it, I silently told Elvia, or this one's going to slip right through your fingers, and I know you'll live to regret it. or this one's going to slip right through your fingers, and I know you'll live to regret it.

We pulled up in front of my house, and it was immediately apparent that Gabe's Corvette wasn't parked in its customary spot in the driveway.

My cousin gave me a sympathetic look. "He'll be home soon, sweetcakes."

I patted his hand, still curled around the steering wheel. "We both got us some kind of troubles, don't we, Cousin?"

"Amen, sister Albenia," he said, leaning over and kissing my cheek. "I'll call you tomorrow and find out the scoop on Dove and Isaac."

Inside the house the answering machine blinked a single message. I hit play, anticipating Gabe's baritone voice. Instead, it was Detective Hudson's.

"Hud, here. Mrs. Harper, in the confused melee of being injured, I failed to inform you that I observed you conversing with the senior Mrs. Brown and I expect you in my office with a full report tomorrow morning."

"Fat chance, Detective," I muttered, pulling on my barn jacket. I left a note for Gabe telling him I'd be at the ranch and to come out if he got home early enough.

I stayed at the ranch until nine o'clock, catching up with Isaac and trying to pry something out of Dove about her fund-raising project.

"In good time, honeybun," she said, "in good time. Now you and Isaac go out on the porch and catch up while I make some phone calls." She stood on tiptoe and planted a kiss on Isaac's lips. "Come get me before you go to bed, sweetie, and I'll heat you up some warm almond milk."

"Yes, ma'am," he said, gazing down at her with pure adoration. She smiled back at him, her own soft peach face matching his glow. Not for the first time I wondered why in the world I ever worried about this sweet, sweet man hurting my gramma.

Out on the porch, we sat on the swing, rocking in companionable silence, watching the evening shadows turn the oaks to black matchsticks against a cobalt blue sky. I tried not to peek at my watch every five minutes and wonder where Gabe was and what he was doing.

"Get things straightened out with that detective?" Isaac asked.

I brought my knees up and rested my chin on them. "I know I sounded like a brat this afternoon, but that business about his mother being a photographer is a flat-out lie."

"And how do you know that?"

"In the few days I've known him, he's claimed his mother lived in four different towns and had as many different occupations. It's either some kind of stupid game he's playing, or he's a pathological liar. I'm leaning toward the latter."

Isaac stretched his arm across the back of the swing. "He seemed nice enough."

"Well, you talked to him for exactly two minutes, so I wouldn't be trusting him with your life savings if I were you."

With his thumb and forefinger, he thumped the back of my head gently. "Your mouth is getting a tad too sharp for my taste, kiddo."

I sighed and leaned my head against his thick, warm shoulder. In the dark September evening, the crickets echoed the squeak, squeak squeak, squeak of the porch swing being pushed by Isaac's foot. "I'm sorry. I'm just in a funk tonight." of the porch swing being pushed by Isaac's foot. "I'm sorry. I'm just in a funk tonight."

"I noticed. You've been checking your watch about every ten minutes. Doesn't Gabe have a cell phone? Why don't you just call him and see when he's going to be home?"

"He leaves it in the Corvette, and they probably took Lydia's car to her mother's since Sam and Bliss were going, too." Inside the house, I could hear Dove's cajoling voice on the phone. Whoever she was speaking to wouldn't stand a chance. "Besides, I don't want to seem . . . " I thought for a moment, searching for the right word. "I don't know, possessive. Or paranoid. It's not like this has been going on for months. It's only been a week and a stressful one at that. If our marriage can't withstand a week of weird behavior, then we haven't got much of a marriage."

He patted my shoulder. "He's acting like a self-indulgent adolescent. I think you're showing remarkable patience."

"You don't think I'm being too passive? With what everyone else has been saying, I can't help wondering if I'm being a wimp."

"Wimp is a word I'd never use to describe you, my dear," he said, laughing. "And there's a world of difference between patience and passivity."

"The thing is, even though it irritates me, I think I understand what he's feeling. He's more insecure than people realize. One of the few things he told me about his and Lydia's breakup was her contempt for what he did for a living. He was working undercover, and I guess that's pretty hard on a family-his hours were erratic, he was moody and angry all the time, had trouble reconnecting with the real world when he wasn't working. I don't blame her for pushing him to get out of it. I'm not sure I could have lived with him either. But she said some pretty ugly things about his capabilities of making a living, of supporting his family, about his masculinity. She really hurt his ego, and he's never forgotten it."

"He told you all this?"

"Some of it. Some I pieced together myself."

"So you think he's out to prove she was wrong and in the process rub her nose in it a little."

"Something like that. At least, that's what it seems like to me."

"But you and he haven't actually talked about it."

I stretched out my legs, tingling from being in one position too long, and studied the tips of my boots. "No, with all that's gone on with Sam and Bliss and the murder, we haven't had much time to talk about anything else."

"You'll have to deal with it eventually."

"I know. And we will. I'm just trying to let it happen in its own time. That's one of the biggest lessons I've learned in the last few years. You can't make things happen before they're supposed to or make people do things they don't want to do. Besides, I can't help remembering how understanding and open-minded he was about me staying in my inherited house in Morro Bay last May. He was really there for me when I was acting a little nutso; it only seems fair that I should grant him the same grace." I gave him a half smile. "Providing it doesn't last longer than a week, that is. Then I may just have to get out my trusty bullwhip."

He chuckled. "For her or him?"

"Depends on how I'm feeling that day."

"Well, you're thirty years up on me on that grace thing," he said. "I didn't comprehend that little fact until I was well past qualifying for Medicare."

"I find that hard to believe."

"Believe it. Wisdom has nothing to do with time served on this earth. In my observance, it's learning to let go and let a higher power have the control you foolishly thought was under your puny command. Mr. Gabriel Ortiz is a luckier man than he realizes. Hopefully he'll understand that someday."

"Well, if he doesn't, there is always the bullwhip."

He laughed. "Lordy, I'd never want you mad at me."

I tucked my arm through his. "You are one special gentleman, Mr. Isaac Lyons, and I was was very wise about one thing. Letting you into my life." very wise about one thing. Letting you into my life."