Софи Райан - A Whisker Оf Trouble

I laughed, too. It was pretty much impossible to get the better of Charlotte.

Nick set his coffee on the table. There were two onion rings left on my plate. His hand snaked out and snatched the larger of the two.

“I saw that,” I said, shaking my fork at him.

“And I saw you steal those fries,” he countered.

I glared at him. “That onion ring is twice the size of the one you left for me.”

Nick pressed his free hand against his chest. “Oh, I’m sorry,” he said, his tone making it clear that he wasn’t the slightest bit remorseful. “Would you like to share this one?” He held up his fork with the onion ring speared on the tines.

“Yes,” I said. The moment the word was out of my mouth, I knew what he was going to do. But it was too late. He licked it. And smirked at me.

I definitely didn’t want that onion ring anymore, so I took advantage of the moment and snagged the last french fries from his plate.

We stared at each other for a long moment like a pair of Old West gunfighters with fast food instead of six-guns.

“Do we look as silly as I think we look?” Nick asked after a moment.

“Probably,” I said.

“Truce?”

I nodded. “Truce.”

I dipped the fries into the last bit of ketchup on my plate and thought about Edison Hall, determined to leave something for Ethan and his family. I straightened up in my chair. “Wait a minute,” I said. “You said the house ‘had been paid for.’ What do you mean by ‘had’?”

Nick’s expression grew serious. He set his fork down and leaned an elbow on the table. “I’m sure Stella will tell Rose and her cohorts if she hasn’t already, but keep this under your hat anyway, please?”

I nodded.

“Edison mortgaged the house and borrowed money against his life insurance to buy more wine.”

“Aw, crap!” I exclaimed softly. “Stella told us he’d borrowed money, but I didn’t know it was that bad.”

“The real estate market is better here, because of the tourists, than it is in other places. Even so, once the house is sold and the bank is paid back, there won’t be anything left.” Nick hesitated for a moment. “Did Stella tell you about Ellie?” he asked.

“She did. So there isn’t going to be any money at all for her surgery?” I tried to imagine what it would be like to have small children and be losing the ability to walk. I couldn’t. “What about some kind of fund-raiser?”

Nick made a face. “Aaron told me that Ellie has a thing about taking charity. To her it’s like begging.”

“When people want to help, it’s not begging,” I said. “And even if it were, I don’t see it as a bad thing.”

“I know, but she does. She doesn’t even want people to know there’s anything wrong.” He sighed. “You know, we’re talking about thousands of dollars. A bake sale or two would only be a drop in the bucket.”

I sighed softly. “If those bottles of wine had been the real thing . . .”

“It could have made all the difference,” Nick finished. “You know, it turns out finding the people who’ve been putting those fakes out there had become a bit of a cause for Quinn. It’s where he’d been putting most of his time and effort in the last six months. He was pretty much the best chance—maybe the only chance—to see these fakers brought to justice.” He swiped a hand over his chin. “It doesn’t seem fair.”

It didn’t, and I found myself wanting to do something about that.

Chapter 9

Nick and I spent the rest of the meal talking about the new guitars I had in the shop. More customers were coming in specifically just to see what we had and I’d even sold several, sight unseen, via the Web site. I told Nick the story behind my latest estate sale find, a beautiful Gibson guitar packed in a trunk in the hayloft of an old barn. An irate rooster, annoyed at my disturbing his “love nest” had chased me across the yard and into the porch of the old house. I’d actually had to toss the guitar to Mac as I sprinted past him.

“What kind of shape was the guitar in?” Nick asked. “If it’s playable it can’t have been outside that long.”

“I was almost attacked by vengeful poultry and you want to know about the guitar?” I said in mock outrage.

“You’re pretty good at that running thing,” he said, trying and failing to hold back a smile. “The rooster never really stood a chance.”

Nick dropped me off a little after eight. “I’m not on call next week,” he said as he leaned against the doorframe. “Will you be at Thursday night jam?”

“I wouldn’t miss it,” I said.

“Save me a seat,” he said. He leaned over and kissed the top of my head and left.

Elvis wandered out from the bedroom. I bent down and picked him up. “How was your night?” I asked.

He wrinkled his nose at me.

“Liam was at Sam’s with Jess.”

Elvis didn’t seem the slightest bit interested in that piece of information. I sighed. Who was I to judge my brother’s social life when I was sitting at home talking to my cat on a Friday night?

Elvis squirmed in my arms. I set him down and he shook himself and then climbed to the top of his cat tower and looked expectantly at me. When I didn’t immediately move he meowed loudly.

I knew what he wanted. The last couple of times he’d been sitting at the top of the polished wooden tower Mr. P. had made for him, I gave him a few little fish-shaped bits of kibble. Now he seemed to think he should have one every time he climbed to the top.

“You don’t need any fish crackers,” I said firmly. Two treats and he was already conditioned to expect one every time now.

The cat’s response was to hang his head but at the same time manage to tip it to one side so his scar was clearly visible.

“Not going to work,” I said, getting my laptop out of my briefcase and setting it on the counter. Since I was home I could check to see if there were any new Web site orders.

Elvis made a sound like a sigh. He stretched out on the curved platform and put one paw over his nose.

I watched him for a moment while he watched me but pretended not to. After what felt like several minutes but probably wasn’t, I slipped off my stool, went into the kitchen and got him three pieces of the fish-shaped kibble.

Elvis took the paw off his nose. He sat up, sniffed his treat and then leaned over and licked my hand. “Mrrr,” he said.

I leaned over so our faces were inches apart and scratched the top of his head. “I already told you, don’t get used to this. We’re not doing this every night.”

He blinked his green eyes at me and licked his whiskers. Then he licked my nose.

I straightened up and headed back to the computer. I heard a soft “merow” behind me. “Still not doing this every night,” I said without turning around.

I sat down at the counter again and looked at the screen. On a whim I pulled up my favorite search engine and looked for “counterfeit wine.” I was surprised by the number of hits I got.

I spent the next half hour reading, fascinated by what I was learning. Counterfeit wine, like dealings in other types of fraud, was big business. Most of the dealers in those fake vintages had begun business as legitimate wine brokers. I read about one whose own, legitimate collection had sold at auction for close to forty million dollars.

The fact that these were oenophiles with knowledge of the wine-making business and educated palates made it easier for them. They carefully blended inexpensive wines to mimic the color, the taste and the character of some very rare and expensive vintages and decanted them into empty bottles that had once held the real thing, bottles that came from restaurants, wine-tasting events and other less reputable sources. They added counterfeit labels and even had ink stamps made to mark the corks.