Kate Lansing

The Grape is Afoot

Hello! I’m here with a surprise in the form of Colorado Wine Mystery BONUS CONTENT!!!

Since the release of Till Death Do Us Port is still a little ways away (March 7, 2023) and because I love these characters and this world so much, I thought it’d be fun to share a mini mystery I’m calling The Grape is Afoot (pardon the Sherlockian pun) featuring Parker and the gang as they embark on an unforgettable summer evening in beautiful Boulder, CO. I hope you enjoy!

(**If you have trouble viewing this short story, you can also view it here**).

The Grape is Afoot

A watched grape never ripens. The same can be said for tables. Take the two-top getting snuggly in the corner, heads bowed toward each other, feet flirting around the planks of the oak-barrel table, wineglasses half-full of my craftsmanship tilting ominously in distracted hands. There’s no rushing that couple. I would know; I’ve already tried.

Short of giving them the ol’ heave-ho, I’ve attempted every trick in the proverbial book, which I’m familiar with, being the sole proprietor of this esteemed winery, Vino Valentine. Asking for the umpteenth time if they need anything else, bussing the neighboring table with more clattering than necessary, loudly waving off the last group of patrons, the bell above the door jingling merrily.

I blow out a puff of air as I pad across the tasting room floor and set diminished baskets of palate-cleansing crackers on the hard maple countertop. Strands of lights twinkle overhead, glinting off rows of crystal stemware lining floating shelves and framed pictures of vineyards adorning the walls.

“Can’t you just lock them in?” my brother, Liam, asks from his perch at the tasting bar with a pointed glance at the escalating show of PDA. His impatience mirrors my own, as much as our matching raven hair and hazel eyes.

“Tempting, but no.” I wouldn’t trust that couple within an inch of my prized vintner equipment; just think of the sterilization that would be necessary.

My best friend, Sage, bounces on the seat of her barstool in an impish way that coincides with the D&D alignment depicted on her T-shirt: Chaotic Good. “What if we subtly hoisted their table and sort of relocated it, you know, outside?”

“No doubt Wonder Woman could accomplish such a feat, but not so sure about us.”

“And think of the wine,” my boyfriend extraordinaire pipes in from Sage’s other side, uttering the word ‘wine’ like some might say children. Reid throws me a wink, knowing exactly how much I hate good wine going to waste, although in this instance, I might be willing to reconsider.

Because we have places to be, experiences to be had, a double date to embark on. It’s a stunner of a summer evening in Colorado full of sunshine and possibility, and I mean to make the most of it with my favorite humans in the heart of Boulder. If this godforsaken table ever finishes.

Liam mumbles something I can’t understand over the grinding of my teeth.

I take a deep yoga breath and snag three glasses. I pour each of my posse a splash of their favorite varietal: the Campy Cab for Reid, Ski Lodge Cherry for Liam, and Pearl Street Pinot for Sage. Then I pluck up my spirits.

“I’ll wrap up my closing tasks so when they finally vacate the premises, we can jet.”

I grab a rag and spray bottle and circulate the tasting room floor, scrubbing every surface, extinguishing pillar candles, and pushing in chairs. It’s when I’m doing the latter that something catches my eye. A flyer wedged beneath the foot of an espresso folding chair.

I collect the forgotten scrap of paper only to discover something sparkly underneath. Eyebrows furrowed, I examine further, squatting on my haunches, the lacy hem of my camisole grazing my knees. It’s an earring. And not just any earring. A gorgeous teardrop with a cluster of dainty diamonds and amethysts inlaid in white gold. This will be missed—nay, mourned.

I clutch my own beaded necklace, a cherished gift from my aunt before she was tragically taken from us. If anything happened to it, I would be devastated.

I think back to whom I saw sitting at this table. There was the motorcyclist sporting impressive leathers around midday, my favorite velvet-clad broad with one of her many admirers after that, an excitable book club at happy hour, and even more I can’t place. It’s been a whirlwind of a day, and honestly, I had other things on my mind. Now I wish I’d paid more attention.

I glance around the table for another clue as to the identity of the AWOL owner but come up blank. It’s not until I shift my attention back to the rag in my hand that I remember the flyer. I smooth out the creases and admire a series of margin doodles, cats in languorous poses, before eagerly reading the printed text. It’s an advertisement for a pop-up folk performance by a band called The Spruce Downs on Pearl Street. Happening today. Right now, in fact.

It may be a long shot, but there’s at least a chance the earring’s owner will be there. Besides, who can turn down a live performance on Pearl?

The bell over the door jingles, bringing me back to present. The canoodling couple has left the building—huzzah!—leaving behind a very generous tip—double huzzah!

“Excellent. Time to get my drink on.” Liam rubs his hands together gleefully.

“Hold up, Sparky,” I say with a wave of the flyer. “How about a little live music first?”

“That was not part of the plan,” Liam counters.

“But look what someone left here.” I hold up the wayward accessory for him, Sage, and Reid to admire in turn. “I found it under this flyer, so what’s say we cruise through to see if we can spot its better half?” If we do, I’ll be half-tempted to ask where I can get a pair for myself.

Liam narrows his eyes. “This sounds suspiciously like an errand.”

“It’s her quest,” Sage says, grabbing Liam’s hand and rolling forward on the balls of her feet. “Parker is the Chosen One.”

While I remain skeptical of this last tidbit, I glance at Reid, head cocked to the side in question.

He shrugs, all nonchalance with his copper hair just the right amount of mussed. “It is on our way.” His eyes flash with mischief I can’t place. “Besides, we all know you won’t be able to let this go until you figure out whodroppedit, a less morbid variation of the investigations you usually find yourself entangled in.”

“True,” I say. “So, we’re decided. A short pit stop and then it’s on to the festivities, posthaste.”

Liam polishes off the rest of his glass in grim acceptance. “Lead the way, Sherlock.”

#

Pearl Street is in fine form when we arrive.

Quirky shops selling anything from hammocks to high-end fashion line the pedestrian street with performers staking claim along the cobblestones, drawing crowds with impressive showings of acrobatics, magic, and music.

Restaurants and bars have opened their doors and rooftops, tempting passersby with heavenly aromas and breathtaking views of the giant slabs of slanted rock that comprise the Flatirons—and the majestic mountains beyond. I breathe in the scents of savory grilled meats, earthy spices, and sweet tang of gelato, all mixing with the floral undertones from ornate flower beds that act like a canteen for honey bees and butterflies.

I take in the sights with equal parts wonder and pride at my home town. The crowds, however, leave something to be desired. It seems we aren’t the only ones keen to make the most of this quintessential summer evening.

I’m ready to call it on this little escapade and find a rooftop to roost on when Reid slides his hand into mine, cutting a glance in my direction. I meet his gaze, the sunshine casting him in a bronzed glow that gives him distinct Adonis vibes.

Reid aims a half-smile in my direction—a single dimple that makes me long for the other. “Where did you say the pop-up was?” he asks.

I lick my lips. “At the west corner of 13th.”

“Primo territory,” Liam acknowledges, he and Sage trailing behind us. “Who do you think they had to kill to score that?”

“Ixnay on the murder talk please,” I toss over my shoulder.

“Good point,” Liam answers. “With your record, it’s best not to tempt fate.”

I would argue, but really, what’s the point? I wonder what it says about me that the sole point my brother and I can agree on is that I find myself contending with too much homicide.

We weave our way through clumps of tourists, lounging college students, and families with young children running amok between fountains spurting water at random intervals. We hear the band before we see them, the quick tempo of a fiddle, thrumming of a guitar, and harmonizing of vocals.

There’s a decent audience, at least a dozen people who have paused en route to their destinations, or perhaps fans who have sought out the trio. I scan each one, homing in on the ears. While there are plenty of studs and dangling feathers, none of the earrings come close to matching the beauty tucked in my pocket. A wave of disappointment washes over me as the song comes to a close and cheers erupt.

I extricate my hand from Reid’s and clap. It’s not their fault I couldn’t find the owner of what’s sure to be a sorely missed piece of jewelry. And truth be told, the band wasn’t bad. They were quite good, actually, an indie spin that had my foot tapping to the beat and my heart swelling with emotion. Wordlessly, we decide to stay for another song. And then another.

The crowd shifts around us and soon we find ourselves at the front. The trio is decked out in all black, a flowy dress with combat boots for the girl and slacks and collared shirts for the guys. There’s a slight sheen on their brows, but they seem otherwise unaffected by the heat.

At the end of their set, Reid drops a five-dollar bill in the opened guitar case, strategically placed to gather tips. It’s when the green hits the velvet that my gaze snags on something. A doodle on a neighboring bill, of a cat with its back arched and its eyes closed in a look of blissful relaxation. In the same style as the series of doodles from the flyer.

It can’t be a coincidence. A jolt of excitement zips through me.

While the band is sipping water and preparing for their next set, I ask, gesturing toward the aforementioned tip. “Did you see who gave this to you?”

 One of the guys answers through a toothy smile, “A woman, I think. Large hat.” He accentuates with his hands, water sloshing out of this bottle.

“She went that way,” the girl adds breathlessly, nodding at the shop across the way. I follow her gaze and sag in relief.

I’m familiar with the shop. The blue-and-white striped awning and appealing window displays belong to one of my favorite places to peruse on Pearl Street: Peppercorn.

“Thanks,” I reply with renewed purpose. “And great performance. Really, you guys are awesome.”

I turn back to my group. “What do you guys say? You up for one more stop?”

“We can’t give up after we’ve cleared the first dungeon,” Sage says with an enthusiasm usually reserved for a new Marvel release. “I’m with you till the end.”

“I have something to pick up anyway,” Reid adds quickly. A little too quickly.

I shift my focus between Sage and Reid, suspicion tickling a spot between my shoulder blades and creeping up to the nape of my neck. Because they seem far too willing to join me on this wild goose chase.

Liam lets out an audible groan and dramatically slumps forward. “But I was told there would be food, booze, relaxation.”

Just like that, my suspicions evaporate, replaced with mild annoyance. Leaving no room for further discussion, I start toward Peppercorn. “There will be, right after we pop in here.”

#

Taste is subjective, a palate finely tuned to the individual. Even so, there are those in society deemed influencers, connoisseurs who transcend style and set trends. The owner of the earring must be just such a person. Her choosing to shop here seals the deal.

Peppercorn is a boutique home-goods store that sells cookware, decor, imported foods, cookbooks, and more. Their unique array of knickknacks always reverts me to a curious child incapable of keeping her hands to herself. I can’t help pawing through the odd assortment of worldly snacks, palming hand-painted stemware, and caressing beaded pillows way out of my price range.

After we cross the air-conditioned threshold, we scatter, Reid to pick up whatever kitchen doodad he has on hold, Sage and Liam to check out the game section, and me to scour the first and second floors for a woman with a hat.

No dice.

I exhale, soothing my defeated soul with a detour to the wine section. There’s plenty that’s tempting: trivia cards about all things fermented grapes, tiny whisk aerators, and stoppers galore. I dance my fingers over the selection, finally deciding on a winged opener complete with a beak and tuft of hair meant to mimic a penguin.

I make my way to the front. The cashier doubles as a barista, alternating between ringing up customers and fixing iced coffee and Italian sodas. He’s a young twenty-something with thick-rimmed glasses, a blue-and-white striped apron, and a name tag that labels him Luka.

I place my purchase on the counter. “Random question,” I start. “Have you noticed any shoppers with hats come in here?”

Luka scans the barcode, eyes widening. “Many,” he answers in a tone that suggests he’s at the end of a lengthy shift.

“This wouldn’t be any hat, but a large one, worn by a fashionable woman.” Because here’s the thing: if the hat was the feature that resonated with the band member, it must have been extra in some way.

Luka scrunches his features, waving absently at the chip reader where the total cost for my new opener is displayed. “There was a woman. Dressed in black, giant sunhat with sunglasses to match. Wore them the entire time she was in here.”

“Was she missing an earring?”

“Actually, yeah.” He seems as surprised as I am that he recalls this detail.

I fumble with my credit card, growing excited. “Where is she now?”

“She mumbled something about dinner reservations.”

“Did you catch the name of the restaurant?”

Luka doesn’t bother to mask his annoyance, fixing me with a glare before turning his attention to the line forming behind me.

“Wait,” I say. I grab a couple bucks from my wallet, shove them into the tip jar, and flash him my most winning smile. “If you happened to recall any other details, I’d be eternally grateful.”

He tilts his head to the side in challenge. “We have to split those tips four ways.”

Okay, no go on bribery. Especially since I’m plum out of cash. Honestly, I’m shocked I had any to begin with. So, I go for broke, aka, the truth: “Look, I found something valuable and am just trying trying to return it to its rightful owner.” I pull the earring out of my pocket for good measure.

Luka puffs out an exhale. “It was something having to do with silverware. Knives or forks or something.”

I perk up at that. “Spoons?”

“Sure, whatever.”

Not exactly a resounding confirmation, but I’ll take it. Especially since I have an in with the owner of that particular venue.

I’m tempted to hug Luka, only something tells me he wouldn’t appreciate being accosted by a stranger. I settle for a steady stream of “thank you”s and letting him get back to his job.

I pivot on my heels and ram straight into a wall of Reid, his scent of peppermint and pine washing over me.

“I was just looking for you upstairs.” He transfers a paper Peppercorn bag from one hand to the other. “Any luck?”

“Why, yes, actually.” I lay a palm on his chest, appreciating the heat radiating through the thin layer of fabric. “So, I know this is your night off and you don’t want to go anywhere near your restaurant, but do you think you can make an exception? That’s apparently where our mystery lady is having dinner.”

“No problem,” Reid answers smoothly. “A spontaneous drop by will give me the opportunity to see how everything runs when I’m not there.”

I freeze, spidey senses tickling my psyche like champagne bubbles do my nose.

“But you hate checking up on your employees.” Ever since opening Spoons, Reid, gotta love him, has preferred to trust the people he hires, balking at anything in the realm of micromanaging. In return, his staff works their asses off for him.

“It’s not so much checking up on them as making sure they have everything they need.”

I cock one eyebrow, not buying it, and ready to say as much when he drapes an arm around my shoulders and steers me to where Liam and Sage are examining a wall of boardgames.

“All I’m saying is we should try it,” Sage says to Liam, holding up a game that appears to be a mix between Settlers of Catan and 221B Baker Street.

“We both know we’ll just wind up playing Magic the Gathering,” he responds.

“Yeah, just like we both know you’ll never come close to beating my mana deck, but if losing suits you…” she trails off with a sassy toss of her strawberry-blond hair.

I clear my throat, interrupting their very nerdy argument. “You guys ready?”

Sage immediately swivels in my direction, eyes alight. “You found the clue!”

I blink at her. “What do you mean ‘the clue’?”

“I mean, a lead,” she hurriedly corrects. “Which I didn’t doubt for a second because you’re so brilliant and persistent and, um, basically everything I aspire to be.”

“But—” I start, thoroughly unconvinced. First Reid waxes about checking in at his restaurant and now Sage is making strange allusions to a clue. Something is most definitely up. Either that or I’ve been watching too many True Crime documentaries.

“Come on, sis,” Liam says with an exaggerated wince. “Let’s land this eagle or whatever so we can get on with our night. My stomach is starting to eat itself.”

I prod him in the ribs. “Pretty sure it takes more than a couple hours without food for that to happen.”

“Gee, thanks for your concern,” he grumbles, rubbing his side. “So, where are we going next? Please say somewhere with decent happy hour specials.”

“The best,” I say with undisguised pride.

#

Spoons is almost as familiar to me as Vino Valentine. The dark-wooden tables, navy and copper accents, and musical embellishments, from vinyl records repurposed into coasters to trumpet sconces to the stage where local bands perform. Even the smell—citrusy, savory, and herbaceous—is like a culinary bouquet. The atmosphere is as delectable as the cuisine that comes from the kitchen.

A line snakes out the door and onto benches where soon-to-be-diners wait while playing corn hole or giant checkers. No waiting for us, though, not with the executive chef being part of our party.

A server/friend is helping cover the hostess stand. I greet Katy with a hug. “Boy, am I glad to see you,” I start. “I need your impeccable memory.”

Katy is one of those servers who never has to write an order down, regardless of how specific the request, and she never gets it wrong. And I mean never. I’ve been trying and failing to stump her for the last year.

She immediately leans over the hostess stand, the elaborate braids in her hair swaying with her. “Shoot.”

“Have you seen a woman, dressed in black with sunglasses and a large hat, one earring missing?”

She nods eagerly. “Just served her drinks on the rooftop. You can’t miss her.” To Reid, she adds, ”Want me to let Britt and Nick know you’re here?”

“We’ll just head upstairs and be out of your hair in no time.”

As we walk away, I hiss-whisper at him, “What about your spontaneous check-in?”

“That was enough of one.” He shakes his head, nose crinkling. “You’re right, I’ve never been big on those.”

I lead our foursome up the staircase adjacent to the kitchen that opens onto the rooftop bar. Stepping into the sunshine, I raise a hand to shield my eyes against the brightness.

The Flatirons are basked in orange as the sun begins its steady descent toward their peaks, and clematis winds around the pillars of an awning, offering patches of shade. Off to one side is a bar, and sprawled throughout the rest of the space are comfortable lounge chairs and tables, which are laden with platters of food. Flatbread dotted with garlic and rosemary, baba ganoush and hummus drizzled with olive oil, crispy squash blossoms stuffed with ricotta, and small bowls of marcona almonds and olives.

As breathtaking a sight as this is, it’s nothing compared to the crowd gathered on the patio.

I take in the familiar faces with a mixture of shock and confusion. They’re all people I know—and adore.

“Surprise!” everyone shouts.

My mind is reeling, trying to make sense of what’s happening. Somehow, I manage to pull my jaw off the ground long enough to stammer, “Wait, what?”

My parents beam at me from a table in the corner, where Reid’s mom is also sitting with pursed lips, which is as rah-rah as she gets. My detective-friend and climbing buddy, Eli, lifts a glass in my direction, suave shades atop his head.  My competitors-turned-mentors, Moira and Carrick, wave merrily in chic black attire. Even my former assistant Felix, stopping over after a stint in Argentina, lets out a loud whistle.

Katy and the rest of the Spoons staff sneak up the stairwell behind us, a cake roughly the size of Folsom Field balanced between them. It’s a decadent chocolate number with mounds of fresh whipped cream and berries on top. They situate the work of art on a table before me as Reid procures three sparkler candles from his Peppercorn bag.

He lights them and they spring to life with golden dazzling flames. He starts singing the opening lines of Happy Birthday and soon, other voices join in until its a glorious cacophony. My cheeks are flushed burgundy from attention when they finish.

“Make a wish,” Reid says, his hand resting gently on my lower back.

I cling to the first thought that enters my mind and blow, extinguishing the candles in one foul swoop.

“But my birthday isn’t for two weeks,” I say, bewildered.

“Hence the surprise, darling,” Moira offers.

I take in the sunhat perched on her auburn hair and large sunglasses shielding her eyes and it finally dawns on me.

“It was you! You’re who I’ve been trying to track down!”

“I was just following orders, this one organized everything.” Moira nods toward Reid. “Speaking of, I think this belongs to you.” She places a a small velvet box in my palm and closes my fingers over it with a gentle pat.

“No way.” An auspicious sense of foreboding builds as I open the box, already knowing what will be nestled inside. And I was right. It’s the matching earring.

I lift it up, the diamonds and amethysts sparkle in the sunshine like a dainty cluster of shimmering grapes. My heart squeezes as I look beyond the finery to the real treasure.

Reid sports his trademark smirk, but there’s uncertainty in his green eyes, in the way he shuffles his sandals, a crack in his cocky facade that only I can see. He’s nervous.

“Do you like them?” Reid asks.

“Like is an understatement.” I eagerly put them on and preen like a peacock.

“I thought they’d pair well with your necklace.” Reid hooks a finger under the delicate beaded chain at my collar bone before tucking a stray strand of hair behind my ear. “I was right.”

I swallow, my throat bobbing. The necklace that means so much to me, the reason I got so invested in returning the earring to its owner. “This whole thing—The Spruce Downs, the trip to Peppercorn, Spoons—was all planned?”

Reid shrugs. “I know how much you enjoy a good mystery.”

“I do—God help me. And I love you.” Words can’t say how much, so I vie for another method.

I wrap my arms around Reid and bring my lips to his. Electricity flickers between us, the currents building into something all-consuming. Through my kiss, I try to communicate my deep appreciation, my joy, my love.

“What have I told you two about PDA when I’m around,” Liam warns and we break apart.

“Avert your eyes for a second,” I say with a wave, resting my forehead against Reid’s. “Thank you.”

Reid plants a lingering kiss on my cheek. Then he turns his full-fledged smile toward Liam and Sage. “I couldn’t have done it without help.”

“We were in on it, too,” Sage says, bounding up.

“By ‘in on it’ you mean almost ruining the whole surprise,” Liam quips with a shake of his head.

“I did slip up, but only because I was so excited.” I hug my best friend, who practically vibrates with repressed energy.

“Good thing I was there to razz you as a distraction,” Liam says, giving me an awkward side hug. “Happy birthday, Parker.”

“Aw, and I thought you were just concerned about your stomach.”

“That, too, naturally,” Liam says.

My brother’s words jostle me to action, to address the larger group. “Thank you. Everyone.” My vision grows misty as happy tears swim in my eyes. Reid passes me a glass of wine—my Mount Sanitas White, if I’m not mistaken. “It means the world to me that you all came out tonight, that we’re here together celebrating this moment. I don’t know what else to say except cheers!”

We clink glasses and waste no time getting down to the very important task of merriment.

Sometimes in winemaking, I find myself chasing flavors. I’ll get an idea in my head about how a vintage should taste and bend the grapes to my will, leveraging oak to add complexity or citric acid to highlight notes of lemon. And sure, these hacks can—and have—led to delicious wine. But there’s something to be said for letting the fruit shine. To following an adventure wherever it may lead. If you’re lucky, you’ll discover a new band, take a trip to your favorite shop, and get a rooftop celebration to boot.

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