"Don't know.” Devon headed for the door. “But if this is about Harold and the forgeries, you might want to tag along.”
They left the café together, the morning sun just breaking over the hills, painting the valley in shades of gold. Somewhere out there, someone was orchestrating an elaborate frame job, planting evidence, destroying lives.
But maybe, just maybe, Vanessa Wright was about to give them the first real break in figuring out who.
The kitchen at the main house smelled like fresh hazelnut coffee and Brea's cinnamon rolls—the go-to breakfast when Elsa wasn’t around, but Emery's stomach was too tight to even think about eating. She sat at the large island with Devon on her left, Riley on her right, while Bryson leaned against the counter, Gabe stood near the window with his arms crossed, and Walter claimed the head of the island like this was a board meeting instead of something that might blow apart everything they thought they knew.
Vanessa Wright perched on the edge of her stool across from them like a bird ready to take flight at the first sign of danger. She was a few years older than Emery—early forties maybe, with mousy brown hair pulled back in a severe ponytail. A manila folder sat on the table in front of her, and her hands kept reaching for it, then pulling back, like she couldn't decide if she was making the biggest mistake of her life.
“Now that we’re all here,” Walter said, his voice warm but businesslike. "Emery mentioned you had information about Harold's auction house?"
"About Harold, yes. And maybe about what happened to Emery." Vanessa's voice was barely above a whisper. She cleared her throat, tried again. "I've worked for Harold for nearly ten years. Started as a cataloger and worked my way up to his assistant. I've always been loyal. Always did what he asked, no questions."
“Has he asked you to do questionable things?” Devon asked
“No, but as Emery can tell you, Harold can be difficult to work for. He’s big on loyalty. Big on things being done his way,” Vanessa said.
“And he doesn’t like to have his authority questioned.” Emery stared at Vanessa. She’d always been a kind but quiet person around the office. Always greeted people with a smile. She never minded going the extra mile for a client. Emery had enjoyed working with Vanessa until about two weeks before the incident. That’s when things had gotten weird. When Vanessa had become cold.
“I think Harold enjoys the idea that people are intimidated by him.” Vanessa lifted the spoon off the plate, swirled her coffee, set the spoon back down, but didn’t take a sip. “It took a few years for me to learn that he also enjoyed it when people challenged him. But not arrogantly or aggressively. More like willing to stand up for what they believed and knew to be true.”
“But he never let me defend myself.” Emery rested her arms on the island and leaned forward. “He wouldn’t hear a word I had to say, and frankly, neither would you.”
“I was instructed not to,” Vanessa said. “But hearing someone shot at you…" Vanessa's hands trembled as she opened the folder. "That's when I knew this had gone too far. When I realized I couldn't keep quiet anymore. That whatever I was sitting on wasn’t some childish revenge or… I don’t know. But it got too real.”
Emery's chest tightened. Her pulse raced. Vanessa might have been quiet, but she’d been loyal to a fault when it came to Harold. Whatever was in that folder had to have been really bad. Otherwise, Vanessa wouldn’t risk her career, her reputation, or the wrath of Harold to divulge it.
"What do you have?" Walter asked.
Vanessa pulled out a document and slid it across the table. "This is a copy of a personal check made out to Harold. From Winston Callaway. For a million dollars.”
The number landed like a physical blow. Emery blinked. Her lungs burned. She scanned her brain for every deal that Winstonhad made regarding vintage wines—not one collection came close to that number.
“I’ve seen Winston at Pemberton’s Auction House many times,” Gabe said. “I’m sure he’s purchased numerous vintage collections and premium wines from a wide variety of sources. He’s always bragging about his private cellar.”
“He’s never bought one for that dollar amount. At least not while I was working with Harold,” Emery said. “And I’d know. I logged all the sales.”
“And I filed them.” Vanessa held her gaze. “She’s right. That check wasn’t for wine.”
Devon leaned forward, studying the check. "When was it dated?"
"The week before the auction. The one where Emery was—" Vanessa's voice broke. "Where Harold fired her publicly."
“Would there be another reason for Winston to be writing that large a check to Harold?” Riley asked. "A purchase, a consignment fee?—"
“If it were for say a hundred grand, I might not have thought anything of it,” Vanessa interrupted. “But it’s too large to be something like that.” She pulled out another document. "This is an email from Harold to his accountant, marked confidential. It references 'compensation for services rendered re: E. Tate and notes the funds as 'consulting fee—non-itemized.'"
“What does that mean?” Bryson asked.
Emery flattened her hands on the cold granite. She focused on taking in long, slow, calculated breaths. In through her nose, out through her mouth.
Gabe pushed off from the window, moving closer to the table. His jaw was tight, his hands curling and uncurling at his sides.
Emery couldn't think. Harold had been paid. Paid to fire her. Paid to humiliate her in front of the entire industry. Paid to destroy her career and reputation.
By Winston Callaway. "Why?" The word came out strangled. "Why would Winston pay Harold to fire me? What have I ever done to him?”
Vanessa shook her head. "I don't know why. But there's more." She pulled out additional papers and spread them across the table. "I know for certain that Winston, Callie, and Harold had a meeting two weeks before the auction. I scheduled it myself, though Harold told me to keep it off the official books. Said it was a sensitive matter."
