The Best of Things: Lakeland Things, #3

By Leigh Macfarlane

Book Three in The Lakeland Series
Abbie Lewis has been spending her Autumn mornings working at Zara Vineyard, so she is there when one of the vineyard's fruit pickers is discovered raped and murdered in the fields. When she, her grandfather, and Bobby De Luca find Sabine's body, Charles suffers a heart attack. Bobby, who has been sleeping with the victim, becomes the chief suspect of the crime.
Because Drew is so close to the family, it is his sometimes partner, Jimmy Grisham, who is in charge of the case. Of course, this doesn't mean Drew isn't doing what he can to solve the case. So, in her own way, is Abbie. She simply refuses to believe Bobby is guilty, and she is doing everything in her power to prove it -- even when her methods are questionable and causing trouble between Colleen and Drew.
Colleen's brother, Mark, returns from California to help out at Zara while Charles recovers, and it is lust at first sight between Mark and Colleen's assistant, Lexie. Between planning the wedding, supporting her family, and watching out for Lexie's heart, Colleen is dealing with a lot. More than ever before, she is thankful that she has Drew to help her and Abbie get thru such frightening and heartbreaking moments.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Leigh Macfarlane
• Release date: Jun 27, 2020
• ISBN: 9781999106256

Leigh Macfarlane

Leigh Macfarlane is a proud Canadian (eh!) author of both fiction and non-fiction books who is fortunate enough to live in California North -- the gorgeous Okanagan Valley of British Columbia. Since Leigh already lives in one of the most beautiful places in the world, many of her novels are set locally. In Leigh's books you will be transported to orchards, vineyards, ski hills, ranches, beaches, art galleries, athletic fields and waterfront cafes. Well, maybe not ski hills. Rumour has it Leigh is afraid to drive in the snow. Where heroes are concerned, I love me a cowboy, or a guy who can fix a car, a fearless protector type, or a studious professor with a sharp mind, the soft touch daddy, or a hard-body with a soft-heart. Sometimes I love me a bad boy, but I'm working on it. Just as long as he is good to his woman and cares about the world around him, I'm in. My heroines might be clutzy, or chubby, still figuring life out, or they might just have swollen bank accounts and be living the high life. Either way, my ladies are real women who appreciate life, laughter, beauty, family, puppies, chocolate, and especially the love of a strong man. When not writing, Leigh is mom to four wonderful, not so small, humans, one yap-monster dog, a gorgeous but aging cat and a fish whose quality of life appears to be declining. Once, Leigh fell off a horse, wrapped the back of her knee around a telephone pole, had horse liniment applied to her injury, and was proclaimed part horse by the race horse trainer who had fixed her up. To date, this claim has not been proven false.

Book preview

The night was a clear one -- cool in that Autumn way, but not yet so terribly cold. And anyway, her sleeping bag fit two. When he was here with her, there was room for nothing but raw, urgent heat.

He was with her now.

Inside her tent, Sabine giggled as he unzipped the bag enough to slip inside with her, as his cold feet brushed over her warm ones. Then his mouth started busily warming her, and her fingers curled into his. She urged him on in whispers, in a language he spoke only in fragments, their breathing growing increasingly ragged. Soon enough nothing about him was cold. Not even his feet.

When they’d spent themselves in harsh pants and whimpered, half-strangled, ecstatic cries, she lay lax in his arms. A lazy smile curved her lips as he stroked the ridges of his fingers up and down her arm in the familiarly possessive gesture she loved almost as much as she loved the rest.

Eventually, she pushed at him, murmured, Je dois faire pipi.

Clambering out of the bag and over his naked form, she patted around in the dark until she found his sweater. She tugged the wool garment over her head, slid her feet into her hiking boots, and unzipped the tent. Crawling out of the nylon door, Sabine stood and waited a moment while her eyes adjusted to the darkness.

Tais-toi! she whispered when Moxie whimpered then tugged at her tether in an effort to follow. Moxie Mutt lay down immediately, her sad eyes tracking her mistress in the dark. With the call of nature too strong to be ignored, Sabine hurried, bare-legged, away from the dog and the circle of tents where the fruit pickers slept.

There was only a sliver of moon still hanging low in the sky like a bad stage backdrop, but Sabine had been working these fields for three years running -- a sliver was enough. Even though their cluster of tents were pitched adjacent to the dark rows of grapes, she was too much the professional to foul the vines. She weaved her way as quickly as her limited vision would allow to the darker shadows of the birch grove at the edge of the property.

The land smelled of the decay of fallen leaves and the faint trace of something warm and familiar… cigarette smoke, perhaps? Sabine wasn’t certain. Neither did she particularly care. There were far more urgent matters to attend to. Squatting beside the ghostly white bark of a tree trunk, she flipped up the sweater, took care of business. The smell of ammonia promptly overwhelmed all other scents.

From behind her, Sabine heard the heavy crack of a stick breaking. Animal? How near? Without the urgent messages of her bladder distracting her, she was immediately aware that she was a woman alone in a darkened forest. The sudden nerves surprised her -- she wasn’t the fearful type. Still, instinct sent a solitary shiver racing down her spine, sent her shoulders rocking up into her ears.

At first, she was relieved when he stepped out from behind the tree. Then enraged. Just how long had he been there? How long had he stood watching? He grinned at her in a taunting way that told her he knew exactly what she was wondering, and Sabine’s fists rocketed to her hips.

"Dégagez, she demanded and moved to brush past him. Out of the way."

With that grin still in place, he moved a single step so that he stood directly in her path.

"Me faire," he responded, and when his upper lip curled over the words, Sabine felt the first sliver of unease. She didn’t know what game he thought he was playing, but she didn’t like it. Suddenly, she was very aware of how large he was, how completely solid and toned from a summer of working in the fields.

"Qu'est-ce que c’est?" she demanded, and, slapping both of her palms against the flat of his chest, she shoved at him.

His face changed in an instant, became a mask of someone she’d never seen. Almost casually, he backhanded her. Sabine cried out, fell to her knees at his feet.

They were far enough away from the others that the noise she made didn’t worry him. They wouldn’t be overheard. And she’d make more noises before he was finished with her. When she fell, though, the sweater she wore bunched up on her back exposing her bare ass. Reaching down, he spanked her, hard.

"Pute, he ground out from between clenched teeth when she yelped. Whore."

Still on her knees, Sabine yanked the sweater down to cover herself then scrambled away, ignoring the pain of the frost-bitten ground biting into her bare hands and knees. The sound of him laughing behind her sent real panic into her system.

He wasn’t who she’d believed. She saw that now.

Get away. Run.

She surged to her feet, started running from a crouch like some Olympic superstar sprinter.

He was faster. His hand fisted in her long, loose hair from behind, and he let her own momentum do the rest. When he yanked her by the hair, a large fistful tore from her scalp. Her head snapped back, and she screamed as agony shot through her body, made her eyes water. Then he chopped the side of his palm into her larynx, and the scream died before it really started.

She doubled over in a coughing fit, desperate for a breath, frantic to fill her lungs with air. And from behind, she heard the sound of cellophane ripping, heard him unzip. His giant, work-roughened hands grabbed her hips.

Out of her mind with fear, she struggled. His response was to slap the side of her head hard enough to leave her ear ringing. The blow stunned her, had vertigo rushing up at her. She struggled for focus, felt her body weaving like tall grass in a hot wind. He took advantage of her dizziness to pull up the hem of the sweater, tear it over her head.

Naked, her white skin glowing dully in the moonlight, she turned to face him and held one hand up defensively.

"Pourquoi?" Sabine asked in a voice so harsh and husky and genuinely confused, she didn’t recognize it as her own.

It would be the last thing she would ever say.

"Salope," he hissed, spitting the slur at her. Then he wound up, and he punched her in the gut.

She dropped. His hand reached down, fingers pinching into the skin of her arm cruelly as he hauled her up. One of his arms coiled around her waist, plastering her back up against his hard front. The other arm wrapped around her throat, the bicep flexing until she was gasping, tears, pushed from bloodshot eyes, falling. Unable to escape, unable to breath.

He impaled her. Pounded her. Did all the things he’d been imagining all summer long to her. And all the time, that one arm was flexing, tightening, until bright flashes of light exploded behind her closed eyelids. She could smell him: sweat, dirt, tobacco. And then, just as the first streaks of dawn broke through the darkness, all of it simply faded away. Sabine went limp in her killer’s arms.

Chapter Two

A low-lying mist -- almost but not quite a fog -- clung to the floor of the vineyard this morning. Charles’ boots disappeared into the slipstream of vapour as he strode through the rows of vines. This, he thought with satisfaction as he surveyed the kingdom he’d built with Elizabeth, was his favourite time of day.

He had the same thought every day. Charles loved being out in the company of his vines. Sun or rain, it made no difference to him. They were merely different faces of the same mistress, and he loved all her moods.

He took great pride in being the first to walk these fields every morning. The early bird gets the worm. Charles liked to think he arrived before the pickers, before the birds, even before the worms.

Not before coffee, though, and he cradled the mug Abbie had given him last Christmas between his hands, sipping occasionally as he walked.

This morning he started off in the lower left field, noting the exact place the pickers had left off. Rows five through eleven were done for this season. There was pruning to be done on two and three, and before the month was out, they’d need to mulch the entire field. Yields from last year were down slightly in this quadrant. Nothing of significance, but still, he might want to give the field a rest after this harvest.

Something to consider, Charles thought as he started the climb uphill. He stopped halfway, shamed by the need to catch a breath. As little as five years ago that would never have happened. No question about it -- getting old was a bitch.

He started forward again, and heard, in the distance, the high-pitched, non-stop barking of a dog. His brows furrowed and he used the effort of pinpointing the direction of the barking as an excuse for a second breather. When he figured he had a fix on the dog’s location -- field three, far left -- Charles altered course and started moving again.

Irritation grated through the perfect mood of the morning. There were no dogs allowed in the vineyard. Zero tolerance policy. Dogs dug. They lifted legs and made deposits and generally altered the pH values of his soil. Viticulture was a science, and Charles was its most apt student. You didn’t mess with the pH value of your soil -- not if you expected to predict the calibre of your crop.

This year one of his favourite pickers had arrived with a dog in tow -- cute enough little mutt -- and against his better judgement, Charles let the dog stay. He laid out the rules plainly, though. The dog stayed tethered, and never stepped onto the fields. Sabine had smiled sweetly, and given her solemn promise, then placed her strong, tanned hand in his and sealed the agreement with a handshake.

He’d believed he could trust her to keep that agreement. It rankled -- settled with a bit of a bite somewhere between his ribs and his heart -- to think she’d repaid his generosity with carelessness. With quickened steps, Charles hurried past the tractor shed behind the house and waved once at Zack, who held a red jerry can of gasoline and was pouring fuel into the tractor’s tank. With hands full, Zara’s foreman merely dipped his head in acknowledgment of his boss and continued his chore.

Grandpa!

Charles turned at the shout, watched as Abbie leaned her mountain bike against the side of the house. For a moment, the joy of watching his grandchild’s blond curls bounce as she jogged over to meet him replaced the anger. Pride swelled his heart. The child was an early riser like himself and she had a gentle way with the vines. This was only her first season working at Zara, but she was a natural -- even quicker to learn than her Uncle Mark. And she was beyond interested -- a trait her mother never shared. No, getting Colleen to work in the vineyard had been like pulling teeth. Colleen’s daughter, on the other hand, seemed intrigued by every part of the wine-making process.

Second generation, Charles mused proudly.

She gets it from me.

He waited while Abbie caught up and threw her arms around him in an enthusiastic hug. And smiled, with his grandchild’s arms wrapped around him.

You have a dog in the vineyard?

He grunted. There was surprise and curiousity in her tone, and it appeased him that Abbie knew his thoughts so well.

‘I’m headed over there now."

I’ll walk with you. I’m early anyway.

Charles smiled at his granddaughter. I’d love the company.

So, I was wondering, Abbie said as they walked, Why don’t we burn the clippings and prunings? Wouldn’t that be a faster way to get rid of all the waste?

Charles smiled. We used to. Open burning really adds to the carbon footprint of the wine industry, though, so as much as possible now we mulch, and we compost with the cuttings. To a small extent we also use the vines for combustion, too.

Combustion? Abbie looked at her grandfather in confusion. I’m not sure what that means.

Oh. Instead of firewood. You dry the prunings and bundle them together and use them like firewood. And they actually burn even longer than other wood.

Really?

Charles heard the delight in Abbie’s voice as she filed this tidbit away. When he glanced at her, the fascinated expression on her face warmed his heart.

I can recommend some books if you’d like to read up on the topic.

Yes. Her answer was immediate, her voice eager. Yes, please.

They were nearing the far end of the north field, and the dog’s barking was loud enough now that she’d practically had to shout. Charles grunted, his former irritation back.

When I get my hands on that girl, Charles muttered without finishing the thought. Grinning, Abbie put an arm around her grandfather’s shoulder for a quick one-arm hug.

You’re going soft with the dog thing.

He blew out a dismissive breath. Hardly.

I don’t know, Grandpa. First you let me bring Sylvester for the night, now this dog.

First of all, Charles said, raising a finger, Sylvester was your grandmother’s idea. When Abbie grinned at that, he blustered slightly, continued. Besides, Drew was in the hospital. Your mother needed to be there. You didn’t.

Abbie would have laughed again at her grandfather’s irritated tone except she remembered how scary that night had been. Her mother’s fiancé, Drew Hayes, was a local police officer, and he’d been badly injured when a man he’d arrested had attacked him with a baseball bat while out on bail. The fact that Drew’s attacker was the stepfather of Abbie’s friend, Dani, had made the whole thing that much worse.

Frank Sampson was in jail where he belonged, Abbie reminded herself when the flashback of that night shivered down her spine. Drew had moved in with her and her mom after being released from hospital, and now he was healed up enough to be back at work -- which seemed to calm her mom down somehow. And even though it had been weird between them at first, things between Abbie and Dani were good. It seemed like even Dani’s mom had recovered from the years of domestic abuse her husband had put her through. She’d recently started dating the girls’ soccer coach, Diego Fuentes.

How weird was that?

Still, it was a kind of happy ending, Abbie supposed. One Dani and her mom deserved.

She was startled out of her thoughts by the sound of footsteps and a voice calling from behind them.

Moxie!

Abbie’s head swivelled in the direction of the call. She knew that voice. Still, when Bobby De Luca jogged around a row of vines, her brows shot up. He wore nothing but a pair of low-slung jeans, some mud-encrusted boots, and a serious case of bedhead. His chest was bare, and Abbie swallowed hard when her gaze took in his broad shoulders and serious abs. Bobby had a few dark, curly hairs on his chest, and some harsh looking scratches on the top of one shoulder. Abbie couldn’t seem to tear her gaze away.

Oh shit, Bobby muttered, jerking to a stop when he saw them. His dark Italian eyes landed on Abbie for a brief second then jerked to Charles, and stayed there, looking guilty. But Abbie would have sworn that before then, Bobby’s expression had been worried.

Son. Charles folded his arms across his chest, You’re here early.

Have you seen Sabine? Bobby asked. And there it was, that look that was definitely worry, maybe almost fear.

No. But I’m going to want to. I assume that’s her dog making all that racket?

Ah… The guilt flashed back into Bobby’s eyes. He thought about the frayed end of the rope he’d discovered this morning at the tent. Sabine tied Moxie outside the tent on the nights they spent together. Until today, there’d never been any problem. For some reason, the dog had chewed her way through the rope the evening before. Now both the dog and her owner seemed to be missing. And Bobby had a bad feeling.

Her grandfather must have read the look on Bobby’s face, too, Abbie thought, because he scrubbed his hand across the back of his neck and sighed.

Is the girl missing?

Bobby let out a long breath like the sound of air hissing from a balloon. I don’t know.

Well, when did you see her last?

I think it was about two this morning. We were, ah, his eyes slid to Abbie before moving back to Charles, visiting in her tent.

Visiting, Charles said, dryly. Is that when you lost your shirt, son?

‘Uh…"

And you haven’t seen her since?

She said she had to pee. I think I fell asleep.

Charles glanced away from the De Luca boy and out across the vineyard. They’d been friends with the De Luca’s from day one here at the vineyard. When the business had exploded beyond what Elizabeth could handle part-time, Bonnie De Luca had stepped in and provided childcare for Mark and Colleen. Her grandson, Bobby, was a hard worker, a good farmer, and it had been a no-brainer hiring him on when the kid had approached him about a job earlier that summer. Now it appeared work was not the only thing that had been on the young man’s mind. Charles wasn’t sure how he felt about that.

He glanced past Bobby to where Abbie stood, eyes wide and obviously intrigued with this conversation. His brows furrowed slightly.

I’m sure she’ll turn up, Charles said to Bobby. But he saw the worry, the doubt flicker across the boy’s face. She’s probably out looking for that damn dog. We’re heading there. Walk with us.

It wasn’t a request. Abbie recognized that and so, she figured, did Bobby. His head came up slightly at his employer’s tone, and he looked the man in the eye then fell into step beside him. Abbie trailed behind the men slightly, her eyes fixed on Bobby De Luca’s back. His skin was the colour of caramels and looked just as smooth. She liked -- really liked -- the way Bobby’s skin pulled across the muscles in his back. It made her want… something. She wasn’t sure exactly what.

Abbie’s eyes were riveted to the three long red scratches running down Bobby’s shoulder blade when his head swivelled around. He seemed to read her curiosity, and his eyes flashed with amusement. She’d been staring, and he’d caught her. Totally busted. Mortified, Abbie looked away. That’s when she realized that the sound of the dog’s cries had changed.

Earlier, the animal had sounded almost frantic, Abbie thought. Now, there was something mournful and almost pitiful about the sounds the dog was making.

That’s not good.

What’s that, Abbie? Charles looked over his shoulder at his granddaughter, and when he stopped walking, Bobby looked at her, too. The look Bobby gave her was impatient, which made Abbie wonder if the dog’s cries were having the same affect on him as they were on her.

I think, Abbie said, We should hurry. That dog sounds sad. She looked at her grandfather and added, I kinda wish mom was here.

Charles smiled at her. A dog groomer by profession, Colleen was the animal whisperer in the family. Always had been, really.

Your mother’s not the only person in the family who can catch a loose dog, Charles said, and with a smile that told Abbie he found her concern amusing, he turned back to the path. Not Bobby. He kept staring at her, his expression serious.

Abbie felt her cheeks heat, knew she was flushing under Bobby’s stare. Eyes straight ahead, she started to walk past him, but Bobby wrapped his fingers around her elbow. She jumped slightly and gave a little squeak. There was so much intensity coming off Bobby that she couldn’t tear her eyes away from his.

If that dog is Moxie, she’s the sweetest dog. She wouldn’t hurt us.

Abbie looked at Bobby oddly. There was nothing about the dog’s cries that remotely frightened Abbie. Okay, she said and shook her arm free.

She was hurrying to catch up with her grandfather when the dog suddenly let out the most mournful howl Abbie had ever heard. Behind her, Abbie heard Bobby grunt, and then he was running past her, running past Charles. Not even questioning why, Abbie started jogging after him, her ankles protesting as she ran over the hard ruts in the uneven path.

She’d always been a fast runner. It helped her on the soccer field, and now she was practically on Bobby’s heels when he reached the end of the row of grapes. He stopped running, stopped moving altogether, and Abbie came up and waited beside him.

The dog had finished howling, and the sudden quiet was the loudest thing Abbie had ever experienced. Totally unnerving. She could hear her heart hammering away as goosebumps raced across her arms. Bobby’s face was coated in dread. Instinctively, Abbie reached out and clasped his hand in her own. Bobby looked down at their joined hands, then looked back up resolutely and started moving forward.

He didn’t let her hand go, Abbie noticed. She was pretty sure he had no idea just tightly he gripped her, how hard he was squeezing her palm. She wanted to pull her hand free and wiggle some life back into her