Chapter 25 #2
“I am checking.” Aubrey turned the binder so he could see the highlighted page. “This says Mercer has first-right regional exclusivity across western North Carolina and eastern Tennessee unless Blackwood maintains secondary volume through two approved legacy distributors.”
Walter blinked. “That sounds right.”
“Except those legacy distributors disappear from the reports after 2023.”
“One retired,” he said. “Other sold his routes.”
“To Mercer.”
Walter looked down.
Aubrey’s pulse ticked faster. Recognition thrummed through her. This was familiar ground: buried language, leverage disguised as opportunity. She’d made partners at Ashford very rich by catching things like this—by knowing exactly how much pressure a supplier could exert before a project broke.
She clicked into the digital archive and pulled up five years of shipping expenses.
There it was.
Not a spike.
A creep.
Slow enough to miss if you only looked year to year. Obvious when graphed.
“Eighteen percent,” she murmured.
Walter frowned. “Pardon?”
“Mercer’s distribution costs have increased eighteen percent over five years.”
He gave a soft whistle. “That much?”
“Yes.” She opened the latest amendment. Her eyes narrowed as she read.
Dense contract language filled the screen. The kind designed to make people skim.
Minimum quarterly case volume. Two consecutive reporting periods. Supply interruption clause. Default exclusivity. Automatic extension. Permanent regional rights.
Aubrey sat very still.
The winery hummed around her, faint and distant. Somewhere below, an early forklift beeped once on the production floor.
Walter’s chair creaked.
“Child?”
Aubrey didn’t answer.
She read the clause again.
Then again.
Her stomach went cold.
If Blackwood failed to meet the minimum casing volume for two consecutive quarters, Mercer Distribution retained automatic exclusive regional rights for a ten-year renewal period, with the right of first refusal on all expansion markets.
Not murder.
But motive. A business motive.
A clean, ugly, profitable motive.
If Mabel died and Blackwood fell into chaos—if Aubrey walked away, if Bennett couldn’t stabilize operations, if production deadlines slipped—Mercer benefited. Massively.
And Vanessa Mercer… Aubrey exhaled slowly. She didn’t know the woman. Not really. She knew tailored dresses, expensive perfume, and the way Bennett’s shoulders had eased a little when Vanessa had walked into the room.
You’re not jealous, she told herself.
You’re looking at leverage.
Still, the way the woman’s name sat beside dollar signs and exclusivity rights made something hot and unpleasant crawl under Aubrey’s skin.
She looked up slowly.
“Did Mabel know about this clause?”
Walter rubbed a thumb along the handle of his coffee mug.
“She asked me to pull some of the older distributor files the week before she died.”
Aubrey frowned.
“Why?”
For a second, Walter didn't answer.
Not long enough to register as hesitation.
Long enough to exist.
His gaze flicked, once, toward Mabel's sealed office.
“Margins,” he said finally. “Shipping leverage. Whether we were getting too dependent on one company.”
He looked back down at the papers spread across the desk, his expression turning more weary than guarded.
“I figured she was doing what she always did—making sure nobody was taking advantage of her.”
Aubrey's heartbeat kicked hard.
“Why didn't you tell Burke that?”
Walter looked genuinely puzzled.
“Because I didn't know it mattered.”
Everything matters, Aubrey thought.
Every paper. Every signature. Every person who knew Mabel was changing things.
She pulled the contract toward her and started taking notes.
Walter watched her quietly.
“You think Mercer had something to do with this.”
“I think Mabel was murdered right before a major estate transfer. I think the winery destabilizing would trigger a contract clause worth a fortune to Mercer. I think Vanessa Mercer had access, knowledge, and motive.”
Walter’s expression softened. “She’s close with Bennett.”
Aubrey stiffened before she could stop herself.
“Yes. I noticed.”
Walter gave her a look so gentle it almost made her flinch.
“Careful with jealousy, child. It makes smart women look in the wrong direction.”
Heat pricked the back of Aubrey’s neck.
“I’m not jealous,” she said, a little too fast.
“No,” Walter said mildly, lifting his coffee. “Of course not.”
She heard Machelle’s voice in her head—Oh, honey, that tone means you absolutely are—and shoved it down with the rest.
“I’m looking at facts.”
“Good.” Walter’s voice stayed kind. “Facts are safer than feelings.”
For some reason, that landed like a warning.
Aubrey gathered the Mercer contract, the rate schedules, and two years of quarterly casing reports.
“I need to talk to Bennett.”
Walter’s brows lifted. “Now?”
“Yes.”
“He’s likely in his office.”
“Perfect.”
She stood so quickly Moose lifted his head beneath the table.
Walter rose too, slower, one hand braced on the chair.
“Aubrey.”
She stopped at the door.
His face softened in a way that made him look almost grandfatherly.
“You handled yourself well yesterday,” he said. “In that sheriff’s office. Most people would have run from a room like that.”
“I wanted to.”
“But you didn’t.”
His gaze moved over her face with quiet approval.
“Your mama had that same steel when she was young. Anne could stand in a storm and make the storm apologize.”
Something tightened behind Aubrey’s ribs.
Walter smiled faintly.
“Don’t let this mountain scare you off. Whatever happened here, you’re still a Blackwood.”
The words should have comforted her.
They did.
That was the problem.
Aubrey nodded once, unable to answer, then turned toward Bennett’s office with the Mercer contracts clutched in her hand.
On the walk down the mezzanine, she heard the low rumble of his voice through the glass. Even muffled, it brushed over her skin the way it had in Burke’s conference room—steadier than he probably felt, solid enough that she’d believed him when he said, I will handle this.
Too bad handling Mabel’s estate and trusting Vanessa Mercer were no longer the same thing in her mind.
By the time she reached the far corner of the mezzanine, Bennett was standing behind his desk, phone pressed to his ear, looking like he’d slept about as much as she had.
Dark jeans. Black T-shirt. Boots.
One hand shoved through his hair, the other braced on the desk beside a vineyard map.
He looked up when she walked in. His gaze dropped immediately to the folders in her arms. Then to her face.
Whatever he saw there made the line of his shoulders sharpen.
“Call you back,” he said into the phone, and hung up without waiting for an answer.
Aubrey closed the door behind her.
Her pulse kicked, annoyingly aware of how small the office suddenly felt. Of how much heat one tired, furious man could radiate in a ten-by-twelve glass box.
Bennett’s eyes narrowed.
“That look usually means someone is about to lose money.”
“Someone already is.”
He straightened. “What happened?”
She slapped the Mercer contract onto his desk.
Bennett glanced down.
Then something shifted in him.
Subtle. But she caught it.
“I found your distribution problem,” she said.
“My distribution problem?”
“Blackwood’s.” She heard the bite in her voice and let it stay. “Though given your expression, I’m guessing you already knew Mercer was squeezing the business.”
Bennett’s eyes came back to hers.
“I know what we pay them,” he said. “And what we get.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the reality.”
“It’s leverage,” Aubrey shot back. “Predatory leverage.”
“That’s distribution.”
“That’s someone who thinks you can’t afford to walk away.”
“That’s business.”
Aubrey’s laugh was sharp and humorless.
“Funny. I used to say the same thing right before I gutted a contract.”
His gaze flicked to her mouth for half a breath, then back to her eyes.
Something in her chest stuttered.
“Say what you came in here to say, Aubrey.”
Fine.
She opened the binder and jabbed one finger against the clause.