Page 54 of Blurred Lines

"Ready to tackle the day?" Caeleb asks, rinsing his mug.

I glance at the empty cup, already missing the warmth but filled with a newfound energy. "With coffee like that? I can take on the world."

The first order of business is to call Emily. She answers pretty quickly and says she's fine with Caeleb and me coming over. Caeleb still looks mutinous, but he doesn't protest. I call Silas next. He's free too—God bless Sundays—so we meet up with Silas in town and drive to the mansion from there.

Emily greets us, arms laden with the promise of caffeine, while the air is thick with the aroma of freshly baked biscuits. They sit, crumbly and golden, on the platter, their hearts generously drenched in sweet, sticky honey, still warm from the oven's embrace. I can't help but tease, "You're giving Caeleb a run for his money here." My words fetch a storm of mock indignation from Caeleb, his glares as richly brewed as the coffee in our hands. Laughter follows, smoothing over our arrival like the honey in those biscuits. Once the greetings dissolve into the warm kitchen air, we migrate to the living room.

I give Emily all the details, and just as we're debating where on earth Harvey's secret room could be, there's another entry. Flora, looking like she's just woken up from a very bad dream.

Emily rises to greet her sister immediately, concern coating her features. "Flo?—"

"I have news from the farm," says Flora abruptly. She sits down and immediately finishes two biscuits in four mouthfuls. "It's not good."

My heart sinks. From the look on Emily's face, she's not thrilled either.

"Hit us with it, Flora. What's the storm brewing over our heads?" I venture, half-hoping for a trivial squall.

She sighs heavily and reaches for the mug of coffee Emily extends her way. "The vineyard," she starts, her voice tinged with annoyance, "has turned into a soap opera. Paychecks are missing, and whispers of a strike are in the air."

Caeleb raises an eyebrow, pushing off from his casual lean. "Paychecks?"

Emily interjects. "Uncle Clevens helped with those. We made sure they went out. This makes no sense."

Flora nods, grim. "That's the mystery. It's like someone's playing Monopoly with our funds."

The room tightens around us. Silas's steps echo a determined beat as he moves closer. "We need a deep dive," he states, the detective in him coming alive. "Let's grill the vineyard manager."

Emily, pacing a groove in the living room rug, halts as we share our next move. "Are we sure we want to do this?"

Silas and Emily exchange a look. I know they've sorted their issues between themselves. I'm not sure how or where, but there's a deeper understanding between them that serves all of us. Emily sees something in his eyes and nods. "To the vineyard manager, then."

The man had also called me to his office two days back, but I was busy with work. Perhaps he finally unearthed something.

Before we can head out, Flora's phone goes off. She checks the alert and groans regretfully. "I—Em, I'm really sorry. I have to go to the station, there's been a development. It's related to Dad's case, but I won't say anything else until I have more deets. I'll have to take a rain check, but I'm going to drop by later."

Emily nods. "No trouble, Flo. We'll update you when we have some more information."

When we enter the vineyard manager's office, I notice his face is somehow more lined than before. His welcome is as warm as a winter in Siberia.

His office is a quaint stone building that shares the mansion's regal bearing but none of its opulence. Its proximity to the mansion—a mere stone's throw away—underscores the intertwined fates of Emily's family legacy and the land it oversees.

"Thank you for coming," he begins, motioning us to a set of worn chairs. The room is steeped in the essence of the vineyard, earthy and raw, much like the truth we're about to unearth.

"We've been going over the books," he says, laying out a series of documents on his desk. "And what I've found doesn't just raise red flags; it's a full-blown parade of them."

Silas leans forward, scanning the papers. "Show us."

The manager points to a column of figures. "Look here. Paychecks were processed and supposedly sent. But then, follow this trail …" His finger traces a line across the page, leading to entries that make no sense, numbers that shouldn't exist.

"Payments diverted," he states flatly. "And not just once. It's systematic, calculated. Someone's been funneling funds, bleeding us dry, and covering their tracks with the finesse of a fox in a henhouse."

Emily's voice cuts in, sharp as a blade. "What about the supplies? The upkeep?"

He flips to another page, his expression grim. "Overcharged or never arrived. Orders placed but somehow lost in transit. It's a circus, and we're the clowns being played."

The facts he lays before us are undeniable, a labyrinth of deceit woven through the very fabric of the vineyard's operations. The sabotage is not just an act of malice; it's a campaign, meticulously orchestrated to cripple the heart of our legacy.

"And there's more," he adds, his gaze meeting ours with a severity that forebodes deeper shadows. "The vineyard's not just bleeding money. There's been tampering with the crops, subtle but deadly. If we don't act now, this year's harvest could be the last."

---