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Overview
It’s June in Boulder, Colorado, and wedding season is in full swing. Parker Valentine is excited to attend the wedding of her cousin, Emma, where in addition to celebrating the happy couple, she’ll also be providing wine for the reception. But when the fussy wedding planner is found dead midway through the ceremony, Parker knows that to get the weekend back on track, she’ll need to unveil a murderer.
Unfortunately, there’s no shortage of high tension and hot tempers during a wedding, so Parker has a long list of potential suspects. Even worse, her entire family has fixated on the state of Parker’s relationship with her boyfriend, Reid. If Parker can manage to impress her relatives with her wine skills and dodge unwanted pointed personal questions, solving a murder will be the icing on the cake.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9780593546277 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Penguin Publishing Group |
| Publication date: | 03/07/2023 |
| Series: | A Colorado Wine Mystery , #4 |
| Pages: | 304 |
| Sales rank: | 234,976 |
| Product dimensions: | 4.10(w) x 6.70(h) x 1.00(d) |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
Chapter One
There are as many types of goodbyes as there are varietals of grapes. There are the bittersweet goodbyes full of hugs and promises to see each other'soon. The final goodbyes no one is ever ready for. The relieved goodbyes from guests who overstayed their welcome. And then there are the ambiguous goodbyes.
Where there are too many words left to be spoken, none of which can do the parting justice. Or give any indication as to the future. Where the best way to communicate is through actions, which for me, ironically, also involve lips.
Gripping the collar of Reid's shirt, I pull him in for another kiss. Memorizing the taste of him, the feel of his glorious mouth pressed against mine, the way he trails his fingers down my back and tugs me closer.
He breaks away and bestows a featherlight kiss on my forehead, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. "I can stay," he says. "Push my meeting back, get a later flight, go to this shindig with you."
"The invitation clearly said black tie," I quip with a not-so-subtle survey of my boyfriend's attire. The blue collared shirt, khakis, and boots might be more zhuzhed than his usual T-shirt and jeans, but they're a far cry from what's expected at my cousin's wedding.
Reid isn't dismayed in the least. "Come on, Parks," he whispers, his nickname for me rolling off his tongue as if I'd always been Parks instead of Parker. "Let me be your plus-one. We'll bring down the house."
While this isn't the first time he's offered, it's the most tempted I've been to accept. I take a shuddering breath and steel myself. As much as I want to postpone the inevitable, I can't.
This goodbye is a pit stop for Reid, his final destination being the airport, where he'll jet his way to the Bay Area to scout locations for a new restaurant, his esteemed establishment on Pearl Street in such high demand that investors approached him and he couldn't do anything but expand.
Because food is Reid's passion. Taking his culinary concoctions transcontinental is a dream come true. And I'm not one to stand in the way of someone achieving their dream. Especially not someone I love. Given all that, and the fact that he'll be living on the West Coast if-nay, when-he finds the perfect place, hiring a kitchen staff and developing a menu, I'd better reacquaint myself with flying solo. Why not start now?
"First off," I start, "the house needs to remain standing today and there are enough cracks already." I cast a dubious glance at the venue chosen by my cousin.
Sure, the Longview Lodge is a historic building, composed of natural stone and wood paneling, a mixture of rustic and comfort that was no doubt a sight to behold in its heyday. Which has long since passed. The decades haven't been kind to the quaint motel, the landscaping wild and general upkeep fallen into disrepair, the bulk of its clientele being students at the neighboring university. Of course, all of this would be perfectly fine if it weren't for the construction.
Between the jackhammer raging in the background and the forgotten tools and stacks of plywood, there's something to be desired in the romance department. Particularly given the possibilities in Boulder and the surrounding mountainscape.
But perhaps this was the only place available; June is wedding season, after all. Only, I thought that was why my cousin Emma hired a wedding planner. Or rather, why her pushy stepmother encouraged (read: forced) her to hire one.
I continue, running a hand through Reid's hair, sandy with undertones of port, relishing the contact, "Second, as dashing as you are, pretty sure the spotlight is supposed to be on the bride."
Reid catches my hand and twirls me, mischief sparking in his green eyes. "Hate to break it to you, but in that dress, all eyes are gonna be on you."
"What, this old thing?" I ask coyly, even though we both know I'm wearing one of my favorite numbers for the occasion. A little black dress with a fitted top embossed with an elegant vine texture that flares into a knee-length skirt. And let's not forget the silk-lined pockets; a dress isn't a dress without pockets, IMHO. "Besides, you've never met Emma. She's a looker, and so sweet birds literally eat out of the palm of her hand like some sort of real-life Disney princess."
"I would get to meet her if I stayed," Reid points out.
"I'm protecting you, I promise." That, at least, is the truth. My family is not for the fain thearted. I take a step back, out of the gravitational field that is Reid, already missing his warmth, even as the temperature climbs upward to eighty degrees. "Now, you're going to miss your flight, and that poor Uber driver is about to blow a gasket."
We both look to where the smart Audi is idling in the roundabout, and the driver within craning his neck every few seconds to shoot us an impatient glare.
"Eh, I'm sure he's seen worse," Reid says.
"Even so, I can't have my rider rating dinged."
Any self-respecting girlfriend would have driven their guy to the airport under such circumstances, only, pitiful as it might sound, driving and me don't mix. And while I have plans to correct that, there was nothing else for it this morning. Hence, rideshare.
A high-pitched wail rises from inside the motel, so loud it carries through the sliding glass doors that lead to the lobby and competes with the rumble of a nearby forklift.
Reid and I turn in unison toward the guttural noise. All I can make out is our reflection in the glass, two star-crossed lovers desperate to extend the moment. But another shriek reaches our ears, this one transitioning into a sob.
"I should really go make sure everything is okay," I say, eyebrows furrowed in concern.
I plant a swift peck on Reid's lips and retrieve the case full of wine and palate-cleansing crackers waiting at my feet. This may seem like an odd wedding gift, but Emma specifically requested my label for the celebratory libations, and I was pleased as punch to acquiesce. The wedding industry is lucrative. If I could wedge even my pinky toe in that figurative door, it could be huge for my business. Huge as in, well, I don't know exactly what yet. But I'll worry about that if I succeed.
With my heels clicking against the cement in time to clinking bottles, I start toward the entrance to the motel. But suddenly, I stop. Who knows when I'll see Reid again? I set the case on the ground and jog back to him, throwing my arms around his neck for one last kiss.
"You just can't get enough of me, huh?" Reid asks, the dimples making their grand appearance.
"Never," I say, my voice growing hoarse.
He traces a small circle on my bare shoulder with his thumb. "Same here, Parks." Another sob sounds, this one closer to a howl. Reid gestures toward the motel. "Go, do your thing. I'll text when I land."
I nod and smooth the front of my dress, the picture of decorum once more, or as close as I can get. Then I hightail it into the lobby and the family drama inevitably waiting for me.
Sometimes a bottle of wine is the celebration. With the telltale pop of a cork, any hardships of the day fade into the background, the senses engaged by layered aromas, silky textures, and lush flavors, the clinking of glasses elevating the experience. This is even more true when the hallowed beverage is your own craftsmanship. Although, as delectable as my wines may be, I hoped there would be a worthier event to laud at my cousin’s wedding.
You know, like the bride and the groom tying the knot. The I dos and culminating kiss. The first dance, and toasts with friends and family. The cake.
Instead, this soiree is one mishap away from a full-on catastrophe.
The crying that Reid and I heard outside hailed from a distraught bridesmaid, who is currently center stage in the lobby.
Josie strikes a pitiful image. Her round face is blotchy and streaked with tears, glistening smudges of mascara rimming her eyes. Her shoulders heave, causing the tulle of her floor-length gown to rustle. A dainty bouquet of peonies is loosely clutched in one hand. Wrenched sobs choke out of her throat.
No one seems to know how to handle the weepy attendant. Not the receptionist behind the desk, not the disheveled groomsman slouched on the couch, not me.
I approach Josie hesitantly. "Hey, are you all right?"
She just shakes her head and lets out an even louder sob.
"Can I get you something-someone?" I ask with more than a hint of desperation.
"I-I can't . . ." Josie blubbers, overcome with a fresh wave of emotion.
Luckily, at that moment, my older cousin, Carolyn, sister of the bride and maid of honor, charges onto the scene.
She has a fistful of her dress in one hand and in the other, what appears to be a black ribbon. Her honey-brown hair has been curled and spritzed with something that makes it sparkle, and her makeup wouldn't be out of place in a beauty pageant, rouge cheeks and shimmery eye shadow that matches her teal dress.
"Josie," she snaps. "Pull yourself together. Today isn't about you. It's about Emma."
These words, while harsh, apparently do what my soothing could not. Maybe the reminder of her childhood friend was all Josie needed.
Josie hiccups and gives one more doleful sniff before wiping at her eyes. "You're right." She lifts her chin, nary a wobble in sight. "I'm sorry."
"Go pull yourself together," Carolyn orders, and then swivels on the groomsman sprawled on the couch, looking worse for the wear with bags beneath his eyes and the unmistakable stench of booze emanating from him. "Jack, get up and get yourself a cup of coffee." She turns on me next and I recoil at the fire in her eyes. "And you, follow me."
I collect my case of wine and jog after Carolyn, barely able to keep up. "You look-"
Carolyn interrupts me with a wave of her hand. "I beg of you, do not finish that statement."
My lips twitch, but I dare not laugh. Truth be told, I've never been as close with Carolyn. Maybe because she's four years my senior, or maybe because we're so similar: type As to the core.
We dart down a hallway and into a vast ballroom, signs of construction present even here with tarps and crudely covered workspaces stashed in alcoves. Rows of folding chairs with tulle bows attached face the opposite side of the space, a threadbare rug cutting a path down the middle, where an embossed wooden altar stands. Stained glass overhead casts a kaleidoscope of colors over banquet tables lined with steaming chafing dishes and a luscious buttercream centerpiece, scents of roast chicken and sugar blending with sawdust.
Carolyn slows to a stop in front of a kitty carrier, a steady stream of meows coming from within. "You're good with cats, right?"
"Uh, yeah," I answer hesitantly.
"Perfect, you're on ring-bearer duty," she says, gesturing between me and the creature with yellow eyes peeking through the mesh bag. "Clyde, this is Parker. Parker, this is Clyde."
"But what about my wines?" I ask, plunking the hefty box on the floor for emphasis. "I'm supposed to be setting up. Can't the wedding planner help with this?"
"You would think," Carolyn says, sarcasm dripping from her voice like wine legs down the sides of a crystal bowl. She hands me the ribbon, which is actually a bow tie, and a small velvet box. "Loop the ribbon through the rings, fashion it into a collar, and bring him to the staging area. Good luck."
Before I can muster another argument, her phone pings and, after reading the screen, Carolyn curses under her breath and starts back toward the lobby.
Wrenching my eyes from her retreating figure, I swallow my misgivings. As long as Emma was happy, I was determined to be happy for her and help make this day memorable.
"Guess it's just you and me, buddy." No stranger to kitties, I cautiously remove the ring bearer from his carrier and pull him into my lap. "That's right," I coo. "Easy does it."
All stealth, I stroke Clyde's soft orange, black, and white fur. He leans into my palm, seemingly agreeable. That is, until I attempt to wrap the ribbon around his neck and fasten the rings in place. That's when his claws come out. He squirms in my arms, paws awkwardly flailing, until I finally release him with a sigh, the cursed bow tie spilling onto the floor. Clyde might be an adorable calico cat, but rule follower? Not so much.
Clyde turns his smug, squashed face toward me and tumbles onto his side, emitting a satisfied purr. Because when has a cat ever done what it's told?
"Punk," I grumble, sitting back on my heels and obligingly scratching behind his ears. "Promise you won't say anything, but I don't blame you."
My great-aunt Harriet, owner of said furry charge, sidles up. She's in a lavender getup with a matching hat sporting a protruding feather so tall I make note not to sit directly behind her.
"Parker, where is that boyfriend of yours I keep hearing about?" Harriet asks.
"Out of town," I explain vaguely.
Leave it to extended family to know exactly which question I'm not keen to answer, my goodbye with Reid weighing on my heart. Especially since I'm still wrestling with how I feel about his new venture.
I mean, couldn't Harriet have asked how my winery, Vino Valentine, was faring? (Very well.) Or about my recent climbing exploit in Rocky Mountain National Park? (Thrilling.) Or how my mom, dad, and brother were doing? (I could only imagine they were being put through similar interrogations.)
"The best way to get a man thinking about marriage is to bring him to a wedding," Harriet says, peering at me over frames with such thick lenses they could pass for magnifying glasses.
I stifle a laugh, realizing she's not joking. "I'm not-" I start, blinking rapidly. "I mean, we're not quite ready for that step."
Harriet scrutinizes me from head to toe in a judgy way, clicking her tongue. "Don't wait too long, dear."
Perplexed, I glance down at my little black dress to make sure the skirt isn't tucked into my underwear or something equally embarrassing. Wardrobe intact, I shrug off Harriet and her poorly veiled insinuations with a tug on my beaded necklace, a dainty silver chain dotted with tiny bunches of grapes. The necklace was a gift from my late aunt Laura, who, to be honest, would've gotten a kick out of all this. I wish she were here, for more reasons than to remind us there's always joy to be found, even amid chaos.
