Long Time Gone (26 page)

Chapter Twenty-Four

The news about Pittman and Erik had apparently spread around town at the speed of light. When he finally dragged himself out of bed around eight in the morning, he’d had to run a gauntlet of grinning citizens on Main, all of whom had wanted to shake his hand or buy him a cup of coffee, sometimes both.

All Erik wanted to do was go to bed and sleep for about sixteen hours, preferably with Morgan at his side. Unfortunately, he had a festival to police.

Breakfast was another interesting experience. He went to the Coffee Corral again, just as he had the day before. Al Brosius handed him his coffee and breakfast taco without comment, although Erik had the distinct feeling eyes were boring into his back as he headed toward his table. He sat where he usually did, facing Al’s mural of Konigsburg and the hills. Somehow seeing Helen Kretschmer dressed as a cowgirl always started the day off right, not to mention the recent addition of Docia as a dancehall queen, apparently drawn from memory since Docia currently looked more like the Hindenburg.

He ran his gaze across the mural and its characters without paying much attention. And then he stopped.

A new figure had been added to the small western town in the lower right corner. He wore a white cowboy hat and a western shirt half covered by a leather vest. On the vest was a large gold star.

Erik blinked. The lawman’s face was very familiar, largely because he saw it in the mirror every morning when he shaved.

Once again, he felt the heat of eyes watching his back. If it really had been the old west, he’d have been a dead man. He took the last bite of his breakfast taco and regrouped, popping a plastic lid onto his cup of coffee.

“Nice mural, Al,” he muttered as he walked by the cash register. “Thanks.”

“Any time, Chief. You earned it.” Al didn’t bother to look up.

Around noon, Erik took a quick tour around the perimeter of the city park. All three pavilions were in use. The largest had the winery booths. The varicolored silk banners dangled over each one, with the winery’s name and logo. Across the front of the building was a table with the silent auction baskets full of wine bottles and gift-wrapped boxes with floppy ribbons. Hostesses from the Konigsburg Merchants Association milled around, dressed in cowboy hats and vests that made them look like waitresses in a kiddy restaurant.

He could smell meat sizzling in the food pavilion, along with peppers, onions and garlic. His stomach had started to rumble as soon as he’d set foot on the grounds. He’d eat something when he could grab a minute—assuming he had a minute when he wasn’t being pulled from one crisis to another.

He wandered slowly through the winery pavilion until he saw the Cedar Creek banner again. Esteban Avrogado was stacking cases of wine behind the table, while Kit Maldonado set up a display of bottles.

Erik stood watching for a moment until Kit looked up and grinned. “She’s in the parking lot,” she called, “getting more wine.”

He cut back through the crowd toward the parking lot, only to be waylaid by Arthur Craven. “Chief, are your men providing security in here or is it the private cops? I need somebody to watch the ticket booth.”

“Who’s supposed to watch the parking lots, Chief?” Curtis Peavey was at his other elbow. “I thought it was us, but the private cops are wandering around out there.”

Erik sighed and mentally gave Morgan a rain check.
Wait for me, Bambi.
He headed back toward the ticket booth to straighten out the rent-a-cops.

Morgan started pouring wine at one thirty and didn’t look up for an hour. People stood in line four deep, waiting for the chance to give her a couple of tickets in return for a third of a glass of sangiovese or viognier or table wine or—knock on wood—Bored Ducks.

She didn’t have much time to do a sales job, just to explain what grapes were in Bored Ducks when people asked. She got some snickers on the name—about what she’d expected. Snickers were good, right? It meant they were paying attention.

After an hour, Kit tapped her on the shoulder. “Want to sell bottles for a while? Looks like it’s letting up a little anyway.”

Morgan glanced around and saw the crowds had thinned a bit. She could hear snatches of melody from the blues band playing out on the lawn. Some of the tourists were taking their glasses outside to sit in the shade and listen. The price of a full glass of wine got them a Cedar Creek wineglass as a bonus.

“Sure. I’ll take a break.” She looked back at the cases piled behind her, their remaining supplies. Once they were sold, the Festival was over as far as Cedar Creek was concerned.

Three cases of sangiovese were left. Around two and half for Creekside White. Three for Creekside Red. Two for viognier. One for Bored Ducks.

Morgan blinked. One?

Esteban grinned at her. “They’ve been selling hand over fist, Morg. People try it because of the name, and then they want to buy a bottle. I already sent Tito back to pick up another case. That’s all we can spare right now, though.”

Morgan’s shoulders relaxed for what felt like the first time in weeks. “Thanks Esteban. Your blend did it.”

“Don’t thank me.” Esteban grinned more broadly. “My blend. Your idea. Looks like we won on this one, Morg.”

Morgan glanced out across the room. Her father was standing near the silent auction table, checking to see what the current bids were on their basket. She tightened her hold on a Bored Ducks bottle as he looked up.

He glanced at the bottle in her hand, his smile becoming dry. Then he walked over to the table. “How are the sales?”

“We’re doing well. Up from last year.” She took a breath. “We’re almost out of Bored Ducks.”

Her father sighed. “I still hate that freakin’ name, but the wine’s okay. A little heavy on the merlot, but good overall.”

At the other end of the table, Esteban gave her a quick grin.

Morgan smiled back. “It’s selling very well.”

“So it is.” Her father glanced at the cases stacked behind the table. “Write up your marketing plan. We’ll go over it next week.”

Morgan’s shoulders relaxed a little further.
One problem down. One to go.

Erik kept waiting for the fights to break out. Given the amount of wine being consumed, he figured they were inevitable. He didn’t put much trust in the private cops on duty in the pavilion either. If something broke loose, most of them looked like they’d either head for the nearest exit or join in the mayhem.

What with checking on possible problems among the drinkers and the rent-a-cops, he didn’t make it back to the wine pavilion for a couple of hours.

But as the afternoon wore on, nobody took a swing at anybody. People lounged on blankets spread across the grass, listening to the music from the bandstand. Some had glasses of wine, and some were sipping iced tea or soda. Most had plates of food—fajitas, chalupas, the occasional burger. Erik himself had managed to grab a sausage kolache from Allie’s booth.

Konigsburgers were everywhere, taking advantage of the wine and the food and the music. Horace shared a bottle of red with his wife, Bethany, at a picnic table in the shade and ignored everybody else. Cal and Docia waddled around the edge of the dance floor, cheered on by Wonder, who waved his bottle of Spaten. As he walked along the perimeter of the lawn, Erik glanced into a shaded area where the city had set up a row of park benches and blinked.

Ozzie Friesenhahn sat side by side with Helen Kretschmer, each of them holding a glass of white wine.

Erik shook his head to clear it. He hadn’t had anything alcoholic to drink, and he was still seeing things.

Nando appeared at his elbow. “Everything quiet, Chief?”

Erik nodded. “Looks like it. So when do the fights start?”

“They don’t.” Nando grinned. “I told you. Wine festivals are mellow. And besides, everything closes down at seven so nobody has time to get too blitzed.”

Erik nodded, glancing around the lawn. People lounged on the grass. Another band was setting up in the bandstand.

“Of course this could get a little raucous,” Nando mused.

“What could?”

Nando gestured toward the band. “This. Frankie Belasco. Tex-Mex Zydeco. Like the Texas Tornados. Felix Burton will be doing his thing.”

Erik pinched the bridge of his nose. “Felix Burton. That would be the banker, Felix Burton?”

Nando nodded. “That’s the one.”

“He’s at least eighty. What kind of thing can he still do?”

“You’d be surprised. He’s the dance leader. Not official or anything, but he usually takes on the duty.”

Erik thought about asking Nando to explain what duties being dance leader entailed, but he decided against it. Whatever Felix Burton was going to do, he’d find out soon enough. “Long as it doesn’t involve assault, it’s okay by me.”

On the bandstand a man with a silver ponytail and sunglasses who was probably Frankie Belasco lifted an accordion and played a quick riff. Behind him a fiddle player joined in, then a guitar, a bass and a drummer.

The crowd cheered a little woozily.

“Hey, y’all,” Belasco called, “time to boogie.”

People got to their feet around the dance floor, sliding across in ones and twos. Erik found himself tapping his toe to the rhythm.

He scanned the crowd, inspecting the faces along the edge of the wine pavilion for possible problems.

And stopped short.

Morgan was standing just inside the main entrance. She wore a white peasant blouse trimmed in lace and pulled down so that her elegant shoulders showed above the top edge. Her skirt was long and black, with panels of bright embroidery around the bottom. Her wildly abundant curls tumbled along her throat. Long, dangly earrings almost touched her shoulders.

He had a sudden overwhelming desire to nibble on her collarbone. He started wading through the crowd in her direction.

“Chief,” Curtis Peavey shouted close to his ear. “You want me to patrol the parking lot again?”

Erik nodded. “Sure. Anywhere. Go for it.”

He had an image of Peavey’s startled face, but he kept moving in Morgan’s direction. If he didn’t take his eyes off her, maybe she’d stay put.

Morgan turned to say something to someone behind her, then looked out again. Her gaze met his.

Erik half-smiled, but it probably looked more like a grimace. He needed to get to her. He really
needed
to get to her.

Morgan watched him for a moment, a slight furrow between her eyebrows. She pressed her fingers against her lips, staring at him, then absently slid the tip of her index finger into her mouth.

Erik felt every muscle in his body go rigid.

Suddenly, a crowd of people pushed in front of him, a line snaking across the dance floor. At the front of the line, Felix Burton, the eighty-year-old banker, wore a broad-brimmed straw hat, a Hawaiian shirt, and something that looked like pajama pants printed with huge blue flowers. He threw his hands above his head, and everybody in the line followed suit. He swayed back and forth, and the entire line became a swaying jungle. He pushed his hands up and down at the sky, while a dozen pairs of hands copied him.

“Go, Felix, go!” somebody shouted.

Erik looked back at the entrance to the pavilion. Morgan was gone.

Cursing to himself, he pushed through the crowd again. Behind him, Frankie Belasco and his band were playing something with a beat that resonated through the ground. Erik heard a roar that meant Felix Burton must have done something particularly popular.

He reached the entrance and started across the pavilion. A small cluster of tourists still hung around in front of the tables, drinking wine and talking to the pourers. Erik headed toward the Cedar Creek banner.

Kit Maldonado was pouring again. She looked up and grinned. “Out back, Chief.” She nodded toward an opening between the booths.

He pushed the canvas aside and ducked through.

Morgan was perched on a picnic table three feet away. Her expression still looked faintly perplexed. “Hi.”

“Hi yourself.” Erik nodded toward her outfit. “You look like a gypsy.”
A really sexy gypsy.
He pushed himself up beside her on the table.

“I’m sort of a Texas gypsy, I guess.” She shook her head. “I just wanted to look like a girl. I haven’t worn anything except jeans in so long I wanted to make sure I still knew how to wear a skirt.” She looked away from him, staring down at the asphalt parking lot.

“You still know how.” His voice sounded rusty again. He cleared his throat. “You heard about Pittman?”

She nodded. “So what’s the verdict? Is he in or out?”

“The smart money’s on out.”

A smile quivered around the corners of her mouth. “Congratulations.” She raised her gaze to his, great chocolate eyes pulling him into their depths. He felt an arrow of heat to his groin.

“What about you, the winery?”

“Looks like Bored Ducks is a hit. Dad’s going to discuss marketing with me next week, god help me.”

He nodded. “Congratulations to you, then. So you’re staying at Cedar Creek?” He studied the smooth line of her throat, trying not to hold his breath.

“Yep. I like it in Konigsburg.”

“Good.” He drew a steadying breath. One problem taken care of.

His brain spun through a series of possibilities, trying to come up with the right set of words.
Want to have a drink in the evenings at the Dew Drop? Want to meet me after I get off this afternoon—and tomorrow afternoon and the afternoon after that? Want to try living together? Want to spend your life with me?
The words felt like sawdust in his mouth. He’d never been this nervous in his life.

“So where does that leave us?” she murmured. She looked back at him again, eyes wide.

Brown curls spilled down onto her shoulders, shadowing her ears. He realized suddenly her earrings were stars, thin chains of twinkling stars raining down from her earlobes.

“Want to hang out?” he asked, his breath lodging uncomfortably in his throat. “I mean sort of permanently?”

Which was probably the dumbest thing he’d said in his entire life!

The furrow reappeared between her eyes as she stared at him. Then she grinned, lifting the hair from her neck, sending a spray of starshine shimmering from her earrings. “That sounds good.”