“I’ll be fine. Maybe you should get some sleep and we’ll talk in the morning.”
He stood there, watching me back out of the parking space and head down the alley. As I turned the corner, he raised his hand in a good-bye salute, an eerie specter, his silhouette outlined by moonlight and the red taillights of my car.
I pulled out onto North Carolina Avenue and thought about calling him to remind him to double-check the locks to his doors after what he’d said about being watched. An MPD cruiser passed me, heading east as a siren wailed in the distance. At least his neighborhood was patrolled. And he probably didn’t need me mothering him.
In spite of what I’d told him, I called his cell an hour later as I walked through my front door—as much to check on him as to let him know I was home. He didn’t pick up so I hung up and tried again. He’d probably passed out either in bed or on the sofa with the Laphroaig. After the fourth call I left a message.
In the morning, I found out just how much trouble I’d gotten myself into by doing that.
Chapter 13
Ian Philips still didn’t answer his phone Wednesday morning when I called after breakfast. Quinn showed up at the villa as I was in the kitchen dialing Ian’s number yet again and making coffee.
“I think I remember who you are.” He took the carafe from me and filled it with water. “Don’t you own this vineyard?”
I hit End Call and picked up a bottle of wine on the counter. “I believe that’s my name on that label. It appears I do.”
“Well, then, where the hell have you been? You’re disappearing on me all the time lately. I thought we were going to do more bench trials on the Viognier yesterday. What’d you do? Shut off your phone and play hooky?”
He poured the water into the coffeemaker as I resumed scooping French roast into the basket.
“I’m sorry. I had to run into D.C. It was sort of last minute—and weren’t you the one who wanted time and space? I gave it to you.”
He ignored that. Convenient.
“You went to Washington? Again? What for, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“I met a friend of Rebecca’s.”
“They still haven’t found her?”
“No.” I punched the Brew button. “They haven’t.”
“What’s wrong?”
He leaned against the counter and folded his arms. This morning he wore an old gray sweatshirt that stretched tight across his chest, faded jeans, and work boots. I did not want to search for any subtext in his concern or fool myself that we were anything but friends and coworkers. Especially since I knew he was contemplating pulling up stakes and moving on. What happened between us before was finished; God knows he’d gotten over me just fine.
How could men do that? Switch off their emotions so abruptly, ready for the next adventure. Like catching a bus. Another one would be along and it would get you there the same as the previous one. I just … couldn’t.
“Nothing’s wrong.”
Maybe it was time I started putting some distance between us as well. In the past I would have confided in him, but now I wasn’t so sure.
“I know you.” He raised an eyebrow. “I know when you’re keeping something from me.”
I turned and found two mugs in the cabinet. With my back to him, I took the carafe off the hot plate and poured coffee into one of the mugs.
“Talking about keeping things from someone, I heard you’re looking to buy land. Ali Jennings says she and Harlan have some acres they might like to sell. Here’s your coffee.”
I slid it across the counter and set the carafe back in its place, waiting for it to refill.
“Uh, thanks,” he said. “And, uh, thanks for passing that on. I’m, uh, sorry you had to find out from someone besides me.”
“Don’t mention it,” I said. “It’ll take me some time to find a new winemaker. Maybe I should start looking now. How soon do you think you’ll leave?”
He went pale. I poured coffee in my mug, adding sugar and milk, while I waited for his reply.
He cleared his throat. “It’s still up in the air. I’ve got some financial stuff to figure out. But I was hoping in about two months.”
I put my lips together because I did not trust my voice. He placed a hand on my shoulder as my phone rang. I moved out of reach of his sympathy and his touch. It was Kit, calling from work.
“Hey,” I said.
“Boy, you don’t sound too good. I guess you heard already, huh?”
“Heard what?” I turned my back on Quinn and blinked hard. “What are you talking about? Have they found Rebecca?”
“No, no … nothing like that. David Wildman just told me some news. You know who he is, don’t you? My colleague who’s working on that story about Asher Investments.”
“I remember. What is it?”
“Remember that guy you said tried to pick you up Saturday night at the Willard? Ian Philips?” She waited. “Lucie?”
“I’m here.”
“David was meeting one of his contacts at the MPD for breakfast this morning to talk about Rebecca when the detective got called out on a possible homicide on Capitol Hill just as they sat down in the restaurant. He let David ride along so they could keep talking. You’ll never guess who the homicide was. Ian Philips.”
For a long moment I stood there listening to the slight hissing of the coffeemaker and the slow, hard slamming of my heart against my ribs.
I closed my eyes. “My God, not Ian, too.”
“What are you talking about, ‘too’? Don’t tell me you actually met up with him?”
“It’s complicated. What … happened?”
“David says it looked like he passed out in a backyard hot tub and drowned. The cops found an empty bottle of Scotch right there, so he could have been really plastered when it happened. I guess they won’t know whether it’s an accident or a homicide until the autopsy results.”
I still couldn’t believe it. “Did it look like anyone broke into his house?”
“The back gate was unlocked, so someone could have walked in. It led to an alley. But the house looked fine, nothing disturbed or out of place.” I could hear her shrug through the phone. “David said the cops think he had company, though. They found a couple of empty glasses on the living room coffee table.”
“He did have company,” I said. “Me.”
Quinn must have heard Kit’s shrieked expletive through the phone, because he planted himself in front of me and mouthed, “What?”
I shook my head at him and said to Kit, “I guess I’d better call Detective Horne and tell him myself. My prints are there, anyway. Plus I called a bunch of times and left Ian a message.”
“Damn right you should call him, Luce. What the hell were you doing at Ian’s place, anyway? Are you out of your mind?” Her voice was still shrill. “First Rebecca, now Ian Philips. Why’d you see him?”
“He called and asked me to meet him. One thing led to another. We had dinner at the Tune Inn, then ended up back at his place.”
“You mean, a date?” Kit sounded incredulous.
“No,” I said. “Nothing like that. Look, I can’t talk about it now.”
“Why not?”
“Uh …”
“Someone’s there?”
“Yes.”
