Chapter 5
CHAPTER FIVE
Monk stood in the parking area watching Helia drive away.
He should have gone with her and helped unload.
Eyeing his truck, he contemplated that course of action.
And whether it would seem too eager given they’d just spent several hours together.
Or whether, possibly, it was a way to avoid the consequences of the decision he’d made.
A curtain fluttered in one of the third-floor windows of the castle, drawing his attention. His gaze lingered, a place to rest his eyes while he processed what he’d chosen to do—stay in a place he’d vowed long ago to never set foot in again.
Well, he’d already broken that vow earlier.
Not that he’d set foot too far inside. He hadn’t made it to the second or third floor.
Or the towers. Or the basement Roger referred to as the dungeon.
He knew himself well enough not to tackle that subterranean space on his own.
He’d call his brothers in to help with that.
His brothers. He needed to let them know his change of plans.
They’d worry if he didn’t make it home. Also, being on the phone with one when he reentered the castle seemed like a good idea.
Pulling out his device, he brought it to life, then hesitated.
He didn’t want to call Mantis. As their president, he’d be expecting Monk’s call.
But Mantis’s ability to read him—to read anyone—was more than Monk wanted to deal with.
There were thirteen others to choose from, but it didn’t take more than a few seconds to settle on Lovell. Understated and sparse with his words, Monk would get the connection he needed without a lot of questions.
Scrolling through the numbers, he tapped Lovell’s name and a second later, the phone started ringing as he walked to the employee entrance.
“You good?” Lovell asked when the call connected.
“Been better, but okay.” Monk paused to type in the code. “I’m going to stay a few days, though,” he said, pushing through the door. It snicked shut and the familiar smells of oak, leather, and wine wrapped around him.
“You’re gonna stay.” A question, but also a statement.
He reset the alarm before walking down a hall lined with offices, private tasting rooms, and a small kitchen, before stopping at the entrance to the large public tasting room.
His gaze scanned the area: five high tops, three groupings of chairs, two long couches, a synthetic Christmas tree decorated in the corner, and a fireplace, its mantel cheerily bedecked with holiday greens and ornaments.
Continuing toward a group of leather chairs, he sank into one closest to the unlit hearth.
“Yeah. I…need to be here.”
“Why?” Lovell didn’t say a lot, but he also didn’t beat around the bush.
“Helia.”
“Helia Shaw?” All his brothers knew about the Shaws. “What about her?”
He hesitated. His gut told him the situation was off, but what did he know? He hadn’t seen Helia in years. He knew nothing of her life or the people in it. Still…
“Her family’s property abuts the winery’s.
I went over to say hi to her and her parents.
When I got there, a guy she’d dated a couple of times was insisting she give him another chance.
” The scene played out in his mind. The fear on Helia’s face solidifying a quiet rage inside him, like a core of cold steel.
“He had his hand on her,” he added. Lovell remained silent, but Monk felt his brother’s anger through their connection. All the Falcons had grown up in violent homes, and none of them took that shit lightly.
“You gonna look into him?”
He’d been too distracted by Justin Flannery’s death to consider that, but it was a good idea. Both men needed looking into.
“Yeah, but that’s not the end of it. Less than two hours later, two detectives knock on her door wanting to talk with her. Turns out one of her exes—a real one this time, she dated the guy for two years—turned up dead this morning. After he, too, tried getting back together with her.”
“No commentary on Helia, but I don’t like it.”
“I don’t either,” Monk replied.
“What’d the guy die of?”
“The detectives didn’t say, but it sure as shit wasn’t natural.
Whether it was murder or an accident, like an overdose, I don’t know.
” He kicked his feet out and considered starting a fire when he ended the call.
The tasting room didn’t hold the same memories that the rest of the castle did. Maybe he’d sleep on the sofa down here.
“Call Leo,” Lovell said, referring to a friend of the club who had mad cyber skills.
And one who’d likely become family sometime in the next six months if Monk had to guess.
His girlfriend Josephine, aka Joey, was Charlotte’s twin sister, and everyone expected Mantis to propose to Charley over the holidays.
Monk had his money on New Year’s Day and figured Leo and Joey would follow soon after.
“Yeah, I might do that.” He’d dig around on his own first.
“When’s the memorial?”
“Day after tomorrow.”
Lovell made a noise somewhere between a grunt and a “hmm.” “Call if you need anything.”
“I will. Let the others know? I’m on shift at Rita’s in a few days. Hopefully, I’ll be back by then.” This close to the holidays, Rita’s, the bar the club owned, was a busy place seven days a week.
“We got it if you’re not.”
“Roger that. I’ll keep you posted.” They ended the call, and he sat in the silence that followed—there was nothing like the quiet that filled a space typically bustling with people. It held a weight that other kinds of quiet didn’t.
A creak sounded above him, and he lifted his eyes. When several seconds passed and he heard nothing more, he blew out a breath and rose. All buildings settled, especially at night. Even a monstrous castle.
Checking the woodbin, he found enough to get him through the night, especially since the fireplace was gas-assisted. With the hearth only slightly smaller than the one anchoring the main gathering room at the club, the gentle flame would bring a welcome familiarity.
A few minutes later, he’d collected his go bag from his truck and was kneeling at the hearth adjusting the gas level as the small, tentative flames caught.
When they licked and curled around the logs, he rose.
Only to be met with a growl of protest from his stomach.
Other than the scone he’d had at Sundaram, he hadn’t eaten since morning.
His gaze traveled through the windows, across the courtyard, to the back corner of the castle. Where the industrial kitchen sat.
The fire danced and crackled soothingly at his back. Delivery it was.
Another creak had him flickering a look at the south hall as he opened the delivery app. He paused. A small kitchen that serviced the tasting room lay two doors down. He hadn’t searched the cabinets earlier, but maybe he could scavenge enough charcuterie and cheese to get him through the night.
A chuckle rumbled through him at that thought. He’d survived on a lot worse than prosciutto, gourmet salamis, and high-end Napa Valley cheeses before. Yeah, he’d get by. Assuming the cleaners left the kitchen stocked. Those items didn’t tend to go bad quickly so should have been left.
Fifteen minutes later, he sat in front of a roaring fire, a plate stacked high with seven types of cured meats, four cheeses, a bowl of olives, a pile of dried apricots, a mound of marcona almonds, and a stack of crackers.
He’d even poured himself a glass of wine, his first-ever taste of the Bacco brand.
He’d give credit where credit was due, Alessio made a damn fine zinfandel.
Pulling out his phone as he ate, he typed Justin Flannery’s name into the browser. Several links popped up about his death, although none speculated about the cause. Toward the bottom of the page, he found a few articles about the business he ran with his mom.
As he read one, then another, he admitted the wine accessory business was bigger than he imagined—or bigger than he would have imagined if he’d ever given it any thought.
Justin and his mom sold wine pourers, decanters, openers, glasses, chillers, and more.
The designs ranged from classic simplicity to whimsical and charming to art deco.
The article included pictures of Flannery, who reminded him of the douche he’d seen at Sundaram that afternoon.
What had Helia called him? Derek, that was his name.
Yeah, Derek and Justin had a similar look.
Lean, well-dressed and -groomed. Tall, but not too tall.
Brown hair, brown eyes. Good-looking, he supposed, if not memorable.
A log toppled from the stack, and he rested his gaze on the flames.
Was he being paranoid about the reemergence of both men in Helia’s life followed by Justin’s death?
Was he using it as an excuse to stay? An excuse to spend time with Helia?
He’d left her and the whole valley behind years ago.
He didn’t have any right to claim space in her life.
Was this his way of doing that without pulling on his big-boy boxers and admitting he wanted to spend time with her?
He snorted, then took a sip of his wine. It could be both; he could be using the suspicious timing of the events as an excuse to stay and they could be a legit concern.
One of those things was easier to deal with than the other, though.
Without pausing to overthink it, he sent a quick text to Leo.
Thanks to the license plate he’d memorized when the douche fled Sundaram and Leo’s access to certain databases, less than five minutes later, he had the man’s full name and basic deets.
Derek Jason Weber. Thirty-nine years old, resident of Napa. Manager at one of the Michelin-star restaurants—a one-star, though, not a three-star.
He drove a flash car for being the manager of a restaurant, even a high-end one. A lot of people who lived in the valley had family money, though. Derek could be one.
Opening another browser, he started digging. Twenty minutes later, he’d finished his food and wine and knew more about Derek Weber than he had this afternoon, but not enough.
He’d moved to the valley six years earlier when the restaurant hired him, with gigs in San Francisco and Cabo San Lucas before that. He supported several charities and popped up in a range of photos from fundraising runs to galas to feeding the firefighters after the deadly Napa fire.
He appeared to be an all-around decent guy, but the dirt on either Derek or Justin wouldn’t be found in news articles and write-ups of charity events.
Logging on to the club’s fake social media account—one they used to dig into people’s lives without giving themselves away—he started scouring personal pages.
The further he delved into his search, the more posts he found that included both men: pictures of them raising wineglasses at a charity tasting event, sharing a beer after a fun run, laughing with two women at what looked like a black-tie New Year’s party.
It could all mean nothing, though. Both appeared popular on the charity scene, and the valley wasn’t that big.
Clicking on yet another charity event page, his breath caught at the first picture. Derek and Justin, dressed in tuxes, flanked his father. All three held glasses of sparkling wine. All three smiling for the camera.
Forcing a slow inhale, he turned away from the image. The twisting beauty of the flames soothing him as he absorbed what he’d just seen. For the first time in seventeen years, he’d laid eyes on Roger Wilde. With two men linked to Helia.
Drumming his fingers on the arm of the chair, he contemplated that last thought.
He had no wish to see any more photos of Roger, but his memories of the man were just that, memories.
Justin and Derek posed a more pressing, timely, problem.
If the three men were connected in any way, he needed to know.
Bracing himself, he returned his attention to his phone and typed Roger’s name into one of the social media apps.
Twenty minutes later, he set it back down, what he hadn’t found more interesting than what he had.
Roger, Derek, and Justin had a lot of pictures with the same people at the same events, but very few together.
Taking the last sip of his wine, the soft glow of the fire easing the tension in his body, he considered continuing his research. But finding out about his father’s death, driving to Napa, seeing Helia again, then learning about Derek and Justin made for a long day.
He had time to dig more tomorrow. For now, he deserved another glass of wine and a quiet session in front of the fire with his e-book.