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Simmons nodded curtly. “I’m not talking about Cascade Valley. I need your father’spersonalrecords.”
“Why?”
Simmons let out an exasperated breath. He hadn’t expected any argument from this Lindstrom woman. Usually the crisp white card indicating that he worked for Wilder Investments gained him entrance to the most securely locked doors. But this lady was different. Even her sophisticated looks had surprised Anthony. He tried a different tactic with her. “Look, Ms. Lindstrom, it’s no skin off my nose one way or the other. I just thought that your father’s books might speed the investigation.” He saw a look of doubt cross her gray eyes, and he pressed his point home. “Besides which, those records might possibly clear your dad’s name.”
“But the police have checked—”
“They might have missed something. It’s myjobto find what the police and the insurance company might have missed.”
“I don’t know . . .” But Anthony Simmons could tell that she would give him anything he wanted. He had found her weakness; he had read it in her startled eyes when he had mentioned her father’s reputation.
“It’s up to you,” he called over his shoulder as he headed for the fire-damaged wing.
Sheila hurried back to the car and found an impatient child fuming in the front seat. “Well?” Emily queried.
“He’s an investigator, sent by Grandpa’s business partners.”
“Then it’s okay if I talk to him?”
Sheila hesitated. Something about Anthony Simmons bothered her. “I guess so, but, try to stay out of his way.”
“Why?”
“Because he’s busy, honey. He’s here to do a job and you might bother him. If he wants to talk to you again, I’m sure that he’ll come up to the house.”
Partially placated, Emily scrambled out of the car. “Then I can play by the duck pond again?” she asked.
Sheila managed a smile for the eager young face that was cocked upward at her. “Sure you can, dumpling, but not now. Let’s wait until after dinner and I’ll go down with you.”
For the next few days it seemed to Sheila as if Anthony Simmons was forever underfoot. She couldn’t turn around without running into him and having to answer questions that seemed to have little to do with his investigation of the fire. She tried to tell herself that he was just doing a thorough job, for which she should be grateful, but she couldn’t help but feel that there was more than “leaving no stone unturned” to Anthony Simmons’s overly zealous pursuit of the truth. Maybe that was what kept nagging at the back of Sheila’s mind; she didn’t really believe that Simmons was looking for the truth. He seemed to her to be more interested in finding a scapegoat for the fire. The pointed way he asked the questions, the quickly raised brown eyebrows, and his cynical remarks didn’t live up to the professionalism Sheila had expected. The fact that Simmons had been sent by Noah himself bothered Sheila even more than the short man’s unprofessional attitude.
Simmons left within the week, and Sheila breathed a long sigh of relief. He hadn’t explained what he had pieced together, and Sheila hadn’t asked. She would rather hear Simmons’s theories from Noah or even Ben Wilder. The less she had to do with a cockroach like Simmons, the better.
She waited to hear from Noah and was disappointed. Another week passed and school was out for the summer. She had turned in the final grades to the school administration and both she and Emily were home, able to spend a few weeks alone together until Emily left to spend four weeks with her father. In the custody arrangement, Jeff was allowed partial custody of his child. If he had wanted to see Emily more frequently, Sheila wouldn’t have objected; after all, Emily was his only child. However, the four weeks he took Emily in the summer were generally more than he could stand. Jeff Coleridge wasn’t cut out to be a father—or a husband.
Every summer, because of Emily, Sheila was forced to think about her ex-husband and the four years of her marriage. Fortunately, as time had worn on, the pain she had suffered at Jeff’s hands diminished, and this year, because of the fire, Sheila had other thoughts to occupy her mind. This year Cascade Valley and its reopening were her main concern.
Sheila saw the situation concerning the winery: the clock was ticking and time was running out. With the passing of each successive day, she became more anxious about the business. Surely Noah had Simmons’s report, and certainly the insurance company had come to some sort of settlement. Why hadn’t she been notified? If only Sheila knew where she stood with Wilder Investments and the insurance company, she could begin to make plans for the fall harvest. As it was, her hands were tied. The fate of Cascade Valley Winery rested in the palms of Noah Wilder, and he hadn’t had the decency to call.
The one time she had tried to reach Noah, she hadn’t gotten through, and her stubborn pride forbade her from leaving her name or phone number. Surely Noah must know how desperate she was.
She tried another angle, but the telephone call to Jonas Fielding was a disappointment. Sheila had hoped that the attorney could prevail where she had failed, but it seemed that both the insurance company and Wilder Investments were stalling. Why? What had Anthony Simmons found out?
Despite her hopes otherwise, Sheila began to understand that there was no way Cascade Valley could put its label on this year’s harvest. It seemed there was no other option but to sell this year’s grapes to a competitive firm. For the first time in the nearly twenty years in which the Lindstrom name had been a part of the winery, Cascade Valley would be unable to bottle or ferment any wine. Not only would the winery’s reputation be further tarnished, but also the potential income from the crop would be considerably reduced. It looked as if she would have to renew her contract to teach and counsel at the community college at least for another year, or until the winery was operating again—if ever. Maybe Noah had been right when he suggested that running a winery was too big a job for a woman, she thought idly to herself as she stacked her father’s personal records back in the scarred oak desk. Or maybe it was more than that. Perhaps Noah was stalling for time to add just the right incentive, a little more pressure, all the while knowing that she couldn’t possibly save the winery without his help. Would he be so callous as to wait her out, backing her into a trap she couldn’t possibly avoid?
She slammed the rolltop desk shut with a bang. What was she thinking? Noah would never use her for his own benefit; he couldn’t. She walked crisply into the kitchen and tried to ignore her suspicions. What had Jonas said about Wilder Investments and the reputation of Ben Wilder’s firm? Something about forcing businesses on the brink of bankruptcy to their knees with the influence of money. Wasn’t that how Ben Wilder had amassed his wealth, by purchasing failing businesses and, one way or another, turning them into profitable ventures for Wilder Investments?
Her growing suspicion crawled coldly up her spine. Without thinking, she picked up the telephone receiver and dialed the number for Wilder Investments. It was nearly five, but with any luck, Sheila would be able to catch Noah at the office. The pride that had kept her from calling him seemed small when compared with the grim fact that he might be using each passing day as a means of squeezing her out of ownership of the winery.
“Wilder Investments,” answered a pleasant, if bored, voice.
“Yes . . . I would like to speak to Noah Wilder, please,” Sheila said boldly.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Wilder is out for the day.”
“Do you know where I could reach him? It’s very important.”
“I’m sorry, miss. As far as I know Mr. Wilder is out of town for the weekend and can’t be reached until Monday. If you’ll leave your name and ·number, I’ll leave a message for him to call you back.”
