“That’s a technical term,” Jackson explained to Derek, who chuckled.
“It’s yummy indeed,” Derek said after his first taste. “It has a nice spiciness to it. Also a hint of blackberry and . . .” He paused. “Mocha?”
“Yes!” Jackson said. “I get that, too. That’s probably from the barrel, but it may be left over from the fermentation process.” He pondered the question as he took another taste and gazed at the legs streaking down the side of the glass.
“It’s mellow, but spicy, too,” I said, taking another small sip. “Plummy. Herby. Nice tannins. And I’m getting a little toasted oak, definitely from the barrel.”
“What do you think of that?” Jackson asked, always looking for opinions on barrel fermentation.
“You know me,” I said. “I love an oaky red.”
We continued the wine talk for another ten minutes. Jackson estimated how many days were left until the harvest, and Derek expressed his interest in taking part in the event.
“We’ll welcome every able-bodied human we can find,” Jackson assured him. “And you’ve already proven yourself to be an excellent field-worker.”
“High praise,” Derek said. “I appreciate it.”
Finally, I met my brother’s gaze and said, “So.”
“So?” he said coolly in response.
There was no soft and easy way to introduce the subject, so I got right to the point. “Last week in the exhibit hall, you disappeared the moment I tried to introduce you to Elizabeth. So, do you know her? Why did you run away? What’s the story? Do you think she’s dangerous? She’s living in a house where a murder took place. Do you think she did it? Is Trudy in danger?”
“Slow down, speedy,” he said. “Nobody’s in danger from . . . What did you say her name was?”
“Elizabeth.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Right. I . . . know her. No, she’s not dangerous.” He frowned and added, “Well, at least not to Trudy.”
“But you ran away that day. What was that about?”
“Is that important, love?” Derek asked softly.
I looked at him. “Well, maybe not in the larger scheme of things, but I want to know if my brother is hiding from the law or something.”
Jackson snorted, and I turned back to him. “Well then, what’s up with that? Why did you leave?”
“None of your business, squirt.”
“I’m thirty-three years old,” I said through gritted teeth. “Stop calling me that.”
“All right, punkin’.”
“And that.” Another dreaded childhood nickname. “Just grow up and answer the question.” Brothers, no matter how old and mature they grew to be, always retained a talent for obnoxious behavior.
“Okay, okay,” he said with a stiff laugh. “Look, this is not something I’m prepared to discuss with anyone.”
I could see Derek studying him more closely than usual, and I wondered what he was thinking.
“Fine,” I said. “We don’t have to talk about it anymore. But look, if there’s a problem or if you’re in some kind of trouble . . .”
“There’s no trouble,” he assured me.
“Okay,” I said, stifling a smile. “But if she turns out to be your probation officer, all bets are off.”
“Very funny,” he said, not laughing. “Look, just accept the fact that Elizabeth didn’t have anything to do with Trudy’s attack and Amelia’s murder, and let’s change the subject.”
Derek’s gaze focused in on him. “Are you her alibi?”
“Damn it,” Jackson swore, and clawed his fingers through his hair in frustration.
“Wait a minute,” I said, the light dawning. “You’re her alibi? She was with you those couple of days when she was gone from Trudy’s?”
He sighed. “Yes. And that’s all you have to know.”
“But how do you know her?” I frowned. And all of a sudden the pieces fell together. “Wait. She didn’t come here to see Trudy. She came to see you. But why? Where did you meet? I’m more confused than ever.”
“So just let it go,” Jackson insisted, but then couldn’t help but add, “And she didn’t come to see me. She was just as shocked to see me as I was to see her.”
“Fascinating,” I murmured.
“Overseas,” Derek guessed. “Africa? The Middle East?” He thought for another few seconds. “Of course. Southeast Asia.”
“I’m not saying anything else.” Jackson glared at Derek. “You, of all people, should know that.”
My eyes widened, and I stared from Derek to Jackson. “Oh no. Not you, too. What are you, CIA? Military intelligence?” I waved the question away. “Never mind. Don’t tell me. You’ll just have to kill me, right?”
Suddenly Jackson was grinning. “Yeah, I’ll have to kill you, so stop asking questions.”