Authors: Katy Regnery
She shook her head. “I never got a chance to open it. It was stolen during the break-in.”
“But you recognized the return address. It was from that vineyard in Baja?”
“It was from Baja,” she confirmed. “But now that you mention it, it didn’t say Cava San Luis on the box. It was just an address in Baja. I just assumed it was from José.”
“But you never actually got a look inside either box?”
Margaret shook her head. “No. I didn’t.”
“I wonder . . . I wonder if . . .”
“What, Cam?”
He thought back to last Saturday morning. He’d been so anxious to get to Margaret after her terrible night in the vineyard that he hadn’t paid the exchange between Franklin and Diego much mind. But now that he thought about it, it seemed awfully strange that Diego was so insistent about taking the box up to Margaret’s apartment—to Margaret’s apartment, where his cousin, Geraldo, was moving at a snail’s pace on a project that should have been finished by now.
“Margaret, is Geraldo working at your apartment today?”
“Yes. It’s Saturday. He’s been there every Saturday and Sunday for weeks now.”
“Right. And yet the work really isn’t getting done. So what’s he
doing
there all day every Saturday and Sunday?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, what if those packages from Baja California weren’t coming from Cava San Luis? What if they were sent to your address but intended for Geraldo?”
“What do you think was in the packages?”
“I have no idea,” said Cameron. “But if it was important enough to break in here one Sunday and then attack you on another? It’s worth a lot to Geraldo. And you—and Franklin—kept intercepting the deliveries.” Cameron rubbed his chin in thought. “Diego gave you his cousin’s name, right?”
“Right.”
“So Geraldo comes to your place under the guise of working, but he only does enough work so that you don’t fire him. But he
uses
your address for deliveries . . . and God only knows what else.”
Margaret blanched. “My apartment? What do you think he’s doing there?”
“Has he acted weird at all? Strangely?”
She nodded. “When I told him he couldn’t work on a Saturday a couple of weeks ago, he got very agitated. Rude. I threatened to fire him.”
Cameron nodded. “That dovetails perfectly with everything else. Don’t you see? If he missed a Saturday at your apartment, he couldn’t intercept the Saturday delivery. And even if Diego tried to, he’d have to wrestle it away from Franklin.”
“I’m scared, Cam.”
Cameron placed his mug on the counter and pulled her into his arms. “Don’t be, baby. If we’re right, it means that you were never the target. You just got in the way.”
“And he almost killed me.”
Cameron fished his phone out of his back pocket. “I want to see about something.” He speed-dialed Franklin.
“Newbury Arms. This is Franklin.”
“Franklin, it’s Cameron Winslow.”
“Mr. Winslow! How can I help, sir?”
“I’m just wondering . . . I asked Diego to look at something in my apartment last Sunday. Do you know if he was able to get up there?”
“Ah. Well, now, that’s unlikely because Diego called in sick last Sunday. Early morning. Said he had the flu. Right as rain by Monday, though. Maybe just a passing bug.”
“You’re
sure
he wasn’t there on Sunday?”
“Oh, yes, sir. Positive.”
“Thanks, Franklin. I’ll catch him the next time I see him.”
“You have a great day, Mr. Winslow!”
Cameron tucked the phone into his pocket and leaned back so he could look Margaret in the eyes. “I think we just found out who was driving that aqua Ford.”
“Diego?” she asked, her face contorting.
He nodded. “And I’m almost positive it was Geraldo who assaulted you.”
“What do we do?” she asked, looking up at him with worried eyes.
“We need to drive to the police station in Philadelphia and share our suspicions. And then,” he said, with steely determination, “we get to the bottom of it.”
After Margaret and Cameron drove to Philly and shared their observations and suspicions at their neighborhood local precinct, officers Rink and Monroe asked if they’d please accompany them to Margaret’s apartment. Part of Margaret wanted to say no. She didn’t want to go. She didn’t want to see her apartment being violated by people she should have been able to trust. Moreover, she didn’t want to look into the eyes of the man who’d willfully assaulted her. But Cameron’s fingers were threaded through hers comfortingly, and though she knew he’d support her if she chose to remain at the precinct, she also knew she was capable of handling this ugliness if he was by her side.
On the drive to the Newbury Arms, Cameron glanced over at her. “You’re white as a sheet. Are you sure you’re up for this?”
Margaret gulped. “Honestly? I don’t know. Either Diego or Geraldo cracked open my head with a candlestick a few days ago. I just can’t believe that men I trusted would do such a thing.”
“Not everyone in the world is as good as you, baby,” he said gently, kissing the back of her hand before releasing it. “It’s a good thing these officers are with us, or the possibility of two dead bodies in your apartment would be pretty high.”
“Cam . . .”
“Don’t worry. I’m going to let the police take care of it. But fuck, I’m pissed.”
They were quiet for the rest of the drive, lost in their own thoughts. Margaret quietly dreaded whatever it was they were going to find at her apartment.
When they arrived, Cameron took her hand as he helped her out of the car. “You good?”
She managed a grim smile. “Mm-hm.”
“I’m here with you.”
“I know. God, I know. I couldn’t do this without you, Cam. None of it.” Her eyes burned with tears. “I’m so grateful for you.”
He put his arms around her for a moment before they entered the building, holding her tightly and kissing her hair. “I love you. I’m not going anywhere.”
She sighed and leaned back. “Okay. I’m ready.”
Officers Rink and Monroe were waiting for them on the sidewalk. They’d asked the officers not to enter the lobby without them, fearful that Diego could be lurking around and would run upstairs to warn his cousin.
As they entered the building, Franklin looked up from his desk, clearly distressed by the presence of uniformed officers, but Cameron shook his head discreetly at the doorman, asking for his cooperation, and Franklin nodded.
When they entered the elevator, Officer Rink repeated the instruction they’d been given at the police station: “Miss Story, we need you to unlock and open the door. We will enter the premises and let you know if and when it’s safe to enter. Understood?”
Margaret nodded. Her hands were shaking and sweaty as she took her keys out of her purse.
“Whatever’s going on, ma’am,” added Officer Monroe, “it’s best for us to get involved now, before things get
really
out of hand.”
Margaret bristled a little, considering she’d spent a night in the hospital and would have a two-inch scar over her ear for the rest of her life, but she stopped herself from asking what “really out of hand” would look like.
“Baja is a hotbed for narcotics,” said Rink grimly. “Wouldn’t be surprised if your contractor was caught up in something bad.”
The elevator dinged. Margaret took a deep breath, her stomach in knots, but she was grateful for Cameron’s hand on her lower back. She led the way to her apartment, stopping in front of the quiet door and turning to the officers.
“I give you permission to enter my apartment.” Then she put the key in the lock and twisted.
The door opened, and the officers stepped into the apartment.
“Police! Anyone here?”
Margaret looked up at Cameron, taking a step closer to him and fighting the urge to peek into her apartment.
“Sir, put your hands up. Sir!”
“ . . . ain’t doin’ nothin’ . . .”
Margaret strained to hear what was going on, but she couldn’t hear all of Geraldo’s low-toned words.
“Sir, I won’t ask again.”
“ . . . fuckin’ pigs come in here and—”
Suddenly the sound of gunfire blasted through the apartment, and Margaret hid her face in Cameron’s chest. He yanked her into his arms and pulled her down the hallway, a good twenty feet away from the apartment door, then turned them around so that his back faced the hallway and hers was safe against the wall.
“I think you should go down the fire escape,” he growled. “I don’t like—”
“Miss Story? Ma’am?”
They turned to find Officer Rink standing in the hallway just outside her apartment door.
“Officer . . . is every . . . Is . . .?” She couldn’t form words.
“Is everything all right?” asked Cameron for her.
“The situation is under control,” the officer said. “My partner has both suspects in handcuffs now, but we have quite a crime scene here, I’m sorry to say. And one of the suspects was reaching into his pocket for what Officer Monroe assumed was a weapon, so he discharged his firearm, incapacitating one of the suspects. Bit of a mess, ma’am.”
Margaret stared dumbly at the officer while Cameron spoke soothingly into her ear. “Let’s go home. We can let them finish up here and come back in a few days.”
“No,” she said softly. “It’s my home. I want to see what was going on.”
Pulling away from Cameron, she walked down the hall, feeling stronger with each step. “May I go in?”
“Like I said, it’s a crime scene, ma’am. CSI is on the way, and our drug task force too.”
“Just for a moment?”
The officer shrugged. “Sure.”
She looked back at Cameron, who held back, letting her make her own way, but ever present to support her. “Come with me?”
He stepped forward and took her hand.
Her front hallway looked fine, and as she glanced into the living room, nothing seemed amiss. She headed to the left and walked through the kitchen, which at first glance—other than the gaping hole of her unfinished wine closet—looked okay. Then she turned and walked into the dining room.
It had been transformed into a little hub of industry. Several ripped-open FedEx boxes were strewn on the floor, and on the table were scales, plastic bags, crystals, and white powder everywhere. In a careful pile lay hundreds of little Ziploc bags that read, in black Sharpie, “15g” or “30g.”
She looked up at the officer. “Is it cocaine?”
“No, ma’am. Methamphetamine.”
“Meth,” she whispered. She had no firsthand experience with the drug, but she’d seen reports about it on TV.
She raised her eyes from the drugs to the two handcuffed men sitting across from her at the table, one with blood seeping down his arm from his shoulder.
She looked Diego in the eyes first and didn’t look away until he met her stare. She then let her eyes slide over to his cousin, whom she stared at for a while before looking back at Diego.
“Which one of you hit me in the head last weekend?”
Diego’s eyes widened as he whipped his head to Geraldo. “You
hit
her? You hit Miss Story?”
“What you want, man? She surprised me.”
“So you hit her? She’s a lady,
loco
. You don’t got to hit her.”
Geraldo shrugged, looking annoyed at Margaret, then gasped dramatically as Officer Monroe pushed a piece of gauze against his bullet wound and barked, “Hold this.”
“Easy,
ese
!”
“Fuck you, scumbag. You been using this lady’s apartment for your dirty business? You put her in the hospital last weekend?” He pushed on the bandage again, and Geraldo whimpered. “Yeah. Not so tough now.”
Looking stricken, Diego rubbed his cuffed hands together. “Miss Story,” he said, “I never knowed that he hurt you. I just . . . I’m so ashamed.”
Ignoring Diego, Margaret fixed her eyes on Geraldo. “I’ll be filing assault charges.”
“In addition to the drug charges?” mused Officer Rink. “Possession, intent to distribute, trafficking across international lines. You’re going away for a long, long time, amigo.”
“That’s racist,” muttered Geraldo, sneering at the officer.
“You can complain to the judge.”
Officer Rink turned to Margaret and Cameron. “Can I see you out?”
Margaret looked back at Cameron, who was staring at both men with a murderous glint in his eyes. She placed her hand on his chest and gently pushed him backward. “I think that would be best.”
“Can you return to the station, Miss Story? We’ll need a formal statement, but you’ll need to file assault charges out in Newtown, where the incident occurred. Then we’ll be here for most of today. You should be able to get back into your apartment by Monday or Tuesday.”
As they walked into the hallway, Margaret took a deep breath and looked at Cameron. Because his face was so furious, she grinned at him and then at the officer. For a second, she couldn’t explain the feeling of peace and well-being that swept over her, but then, as Cameron’s fingers threaded through hers . . . she could.
“Oh, it’s okay,” she said. “Take your time. I don’t live here anymore.”
***
They considered staying the night in Cameron’s apartment, since it was late by the time they’d given their statements, but Margaret wanted to wake up at The Five Sisters, and frankly, Cameron couldn’t think of anywhere he’d rather be. So they headed back to Newtown, and Cameron proceeded to keep his woman awake half the night making love to her without having to worry about her safety anymore.
And in the morning, after waking up entwined around each other, they poured two mugs of coffee and walked down the brambly pathway, past the sheds, past the almost-finished tasting room, to Margaret’s glorious vines, which Shawn and Owen had managed to straighten up after last weekend’s terrible storm.
She sighed with pleasure as they approached the tidy rows and whispered, “I’m b-a-a-a-ck.”
And damn if a slight gust of wind didn’t make a hundred of those grapes bow down in gratitude.
“It’s like they know,” he said.
She giggled as she reached for a plump green grape. She ate half and handed the remainder to him, as she had the first time he’d visited The Five Sisters so many weeks ago. “Two more months and we’ll start the harvest.”
“And then what?” Cameron dropped her hand and stepped through a space in the vines into the adjacent row. They walked side by side, with the grapes between them, Margaret’s hands running lovingly over the leaves.
“Crushing,” she said. “Fermenting.”
“Then?”
“Bottling, at some point, I guess.”
“Can I ask you a question?” He raised himself on tiptoes to look at her long hair, glossy in the sunshine. He noticed that she never wore it up in a tight chignon anymore, only down or in a long braid. It was happy hair for a happy Margaret, and he loved it.
She looked up at him, shielding her eyes. “Anything.”
“Now that I’m finished with C& C Winslow, and we got to the bottom of the break-ins . . . and sleeping apart from you, even for just a night, sounds completely awful . . .”
“Agreed,” she said, her voice light and happy.
“Well, I was thinking . . .”
“Catch!” she said, throwing him another grape half over the vines.
He caught it and popped it into his mouth. “So, um, I was thinking, how about I . . .?”
Fuck, why was it so hard to ask her for this?
The answer came swiftly: because if she said no, it would mean they were in two very different places in their relationship, and it would hurt to discover that.
Her voice came from the other side of the row. “How about you . . . what?”
He grumbled softly. She wasn’t making it any easier on him either.
“Well . . . I could come and stay out here with you.”
He tried to catch a clear glimpse of her through the vines between them, but her head was down and he wasn’t able to see her expression.
“You mean, move in with me?”
“Um, well, yeah.”
And marry you, and have kids with you, and run this vineyard with you, and live happily ever after with you.
She surprised him by slipping through the vines and standing directly in front of his path with her hands on her hips. Her lovely face was tilted up, and a half grin played on her lips. “Is this just so you can follow me around all day every day and make sure I’m safe?”
“Partly.”
Her shoulders, which had been bunched playfully around her ears, fell. “Oh.” She sighed, turning her back to him and taking a few steps forward, away from him. “I thought I was clear in the shower yesterday. I don’t want to be your project. I want to be your partner.”
Her words gave him the courage he needed. He placed his hands on her shoulders and gently turned her around. He searched her eyes, feeling so much smaller than his six feet three inches, feeling like the fate of the entire world—
his
entire world—rested on the next words he chose, and whether she wanted to hear them.