Chapter 50
FIFTY
Blackwood Winery
Declan O’Rourke
Declan O’Rourke had already sat with the book club ladies.
They had given him plenty.
Opinions. Memories. Half-truths served with lemon cake. A few sharp observations dressed up as gossip. Enough to convince him that whatever lived between Anne Langford and Mabel Blackwood had roots far deeper than envy, money, or old family pride.
But every story came back to the same name.
Walter.
Walter had been there when the sisters were young. Walter had seen Blackwood before it became polished stone, vineyard tours, and wedding brochures. Walter had watched Anne leave, watched Mabel stay, watched the silence between them grow teeth.
If anyone still carried the truth of those two sisters, it was Walter.
And Aubrey Langford hadn’t hired Declan to admire the scenery.
She’d hired him to find answers.
Declan parked near the tasting room and found a young employee stacking empty crates beside the service entrance.
“I’m looking for Walter,” Declan said.
The young man turned, squinting at him. “Walter Grady?”
“Aye,” Declan said. “Unless ye’ve another Walter haunting the place.”
That earned him a quick smile. “No, sir. Just the one. He’s down at the production warehouse on the lower fifty.”
Declan glanced past the vines. “And where might the lower fifty be, then?”
“Easiest way is to go back out the front gate,” the employee said, pointing toward the drive. “First dirt road on the left. Follow it about half a mile. You’ll see the warehouse.”
“Much obliged.”
Declan returned to his car, but as he pulled away from the tasting room, his mind stayed on Walter.
People like Walter rarely told a story straight the first time. Not always because they were lying. Sometimes because they had lived beside a truth for so long, they no longer recognized it as truth.
He passed through the front gate and took the first dirt road on the left.
The road narrowed almost immediately.
Blackwood disappeared behind him, replaced by brush, fencing, service tracks, and the less picturesque bones of a working property.
Declan slowed.
“Well now,” he murmured. “Isn’t that interesting?”
The dirt road ran behind the winery.
He eased the car forward, studying the terrain through the windshield.
A person could park here and never be seen from the main drive. Could move through the trees, reach the edge of the vineyard, and come onto Blackwood land without passing a gate camera.
He drove on until the production warehouse came into view, a low metal building tucked beyond the last orderly rows of vines. A forklift sat near the open bay door. Two workers loaded cases onto a flatbed truck.
Declan parked and stepped out.
One of the men looked up. “Can I help you?”
“I’m looking for Walter.”
The worker wiped sweat from his forehead with the back of his arm. “You missed him.”
“Did I now?”
“Yeah. He was here maybe twenty minutes ago. Said he had to head back up to the office.”
“Well,” he said, more to himself than the worker, “the man likes to keep moving, doesn’t he?”
“You want me to tell him you were looking for him?”
“No need. I’ll find him.”
Declan climbed back behind the wheel, but he did not start the engine.
He sat with one hand resting on the wheel, his gaze drifting back along the dirt road. A flicker caught his eye.
A deer stood in the trees, half-hidden by shade. Small and tawny, ears turning toward him once before settling again. She did not run. Instead, she lowered her head and licked at something pale near the base of a pine.
Declan watched her, amused despite himself.
“Well, aren’t ye the bold wee thing.”
The deer lifted her head, stared at him as if deciding he was no threat, then returned to the block.
Declan’s smile faded into interest. He stepped out.
The pale square was a mineral block, weather-worn at the edges, placed deliberately inside the tree line.
“Ah,” he said. “That’s one way to keep them coming back.”
The deer bounded off, her white tail flashing once before the woods swallowed her.
Declan followed the direction she had come from, his gaze moving over the trees.
That was when he saw it.
Small. Camouflaged. Strapped to the trunk of a pine.
A trail camera. Easy to miss.
Declan moved toward it.
Beneath the camera, fixed to the tree with two rusty screws, was a weathered aluminum tag.
PROPERTY OF BLACKWATER LAKE LODGE
Declan stared at it.
Then his gaze shifted back toward the logging road.
Toward the fence line.
His expression changed.
Walter could wait a little longer.
Declan returned to his car, turned around on the narrow road, and drove toward Blackwater Lake Lodge.
The lodge appeared through the trees less than ten minutes later, built of dark timber and stone, with the lake flashing blue beyond it. The place had a different soul from Blackwood. Warmer. Less polished.
Blackwater Lake on one side.
Blackwood land beyond it.
Two properties divided by trees and fences.
Kelly Belcher looked up from behind the reception desk as Declan stepped inside.
Broad-shouldered and powerfully built, Kelly had the kind of frame that suggested years of hard work and time spent in a gym.
His shaved head caught the afternoon light filtering through the windows, and an easy smile softened features that might otherwise have seemed intimidating.
“Lose your way?” he asked with a grin.
Declan removed his hat. “Not entirely.”
Kelly chuckled and set aside the papers in front of him. “What can I do for you, Mr. O’Rourke?”
Declan nodded toward the woods. “You’ve a trail camera down near the Blackwood property line.”
Kelly’s brows lifted. “That one? Yes. That’s ours.”
“Thought as much.”
“Emily’s idea,” Kelly said, smiling despite himself.
“We bought this place from Mabel about ten years ago. Emily fell in love with the wildlife almost as quickly as she fell in love with the lake. She started setting out trail cameras to see what wandered through. Deer, foxes, raccoons… we even caught a black bear last month.”
Declan glanced toward the large television mounted above the stone fireplace.
“You keep the footage?”
“Most of it. Emily labels the cards by week.” Kelly studied him more closely. “Why?”
Declan did not answer at once.
“Mabel sold ye this land, did she not?”
Kelly’s expression shifted.
“She did,” he said. “Ten years ago. Best decision Emily and I ever made.”
“And ye knew her well?”
“Well enough to do business with her.” Kelly gave a small shrug. “Mabel Blackwood wasn’t what I’d call easy, but she was fair. Once she made up her mind, that was it.”
“Aye,” Declan said softly. “That sounds like the woman.”
Kelly looked toward the woods again. “What’s this about?”
Declan held his gaze.
“Would ye mind showing me what that camera recorded the night Mabel Blackwood died?”
Kelly nodded. "You got it."
He came out from behind the desk and led Declan across the lobby. A few guests sat near the tall windows overlooking the lake, talking over coffee. Kelly lowered his voice as he opened a cabinet beneath the television and pulled out a small case of memory cards.
“Emily is annoyingly organized,” he said, though there was affection in it. “What date?”
Declan told him.
Kelly found the card, slid it into the reader, and a grainy night-vision image filled the screen.
Trees.
Fence line.
The mineral block shone pale beneath the camera.
Kelly fast-forwarded.
Deer.
Darkness.
A raccoon.
Then—
Declan’s chin lifted.
“Hold there.”
Kelly stopped.
“What is it?”
“Back it up a wee bit.”
Kelly rewound the footage. Declan leaned closer.
"Again."
Kelly backed it up.
The footage played.
Only darkness.
Then the trees washed white as headlights swept across the logging road beyond the frame.
Kelly’s hand tightened around the remote.
The light vanished.
The woods went dark again.
Declan never looked away.
A moment later, something moved near the fence.
A figure appeared at the edge of the frame, blurred by distance and night vision. The footage was too grainy to make out any real detail, but there was no mistaking the shape.
The figure hesitated, glanced once toward the road, then slipped through a low break in the fence, disappearing onto winery land.
Kelly whispered, “Well, hell.”
“Aye.”
Declan stepped closer to the television, his eyes on the timestamp.
“Play it again.”
Kelly rewound it.
They watched in silence.
Declan’s face had gone very still.
Kelly looked from the screen to Declan.
“Do you know who that is?”
Declan never answered.
His eyes remained fixed on the frozen image.
The timestamp.
Slowly, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone.
“If you don’t mind, Kelly,” he said, “don’t touch the footage.”
Kelly nodded. "Understood."
Declan finally looked at him.
“I believe…”
He glanced back toward the screen.
“…someone showed us a way onto Blackwood property no one has been looking at.”
Declan pressed call.
“Sheriff…”
Declan never looked away from the frozen frame on the screen.
“I think I’ve found your way into Blackwood.”