D is for Drunk by Rebecca Cantrell Read Free Book Online

was the one who had to tell Mrs. Eden. She’d hate to have to deliver that kind of news, but she supposed one of these days she’d have to.
    “Which brings us to the only new case: Grigoryan vs. Befort,” Aidan said.
    “Grigoryan vs. the missing water,” Brendan said. “Don’t make any assumptions.”
    She bit her cheek to keep from laughing. “Sounds like good advice.”
    “Did you find out anything at the water company?” Brendan asked.
    “Grigoryan’s bills are accurate. His usage has gone up. The water company sent out a meter reader to verify.” Aidan pulled a few sheets of paper out of his yellow folder and handed them to Brendan. “Then I checked his neighbors’ bills. The lots are big up there, about twenty acres each. Based on the position of the lots, there are only three people who could be using that water. Number one is Mr. Narek Grigoryan himself. We need to look at his property—see if there’s a broken irrigation pipe, check his toilets and sinks. Maybe the water is leaking out somewhere. That’s the water company’s theory. If he’s not using or losing it, number two is Mr. Marcel Befort. He owns the vineyard next to Grigoryan. His water usage is also up slightly, and it’s pretty similar to Grigoryan’s. No spikes or drops, except a short one four months ago. Ginger said it was about what you’d see if someone filled a swimming pool, which Befort has. So, if he’s stealing the water, he’s using it for something new or dumping it out of spite.”
    “We can’t rule that out,” Brendan said. “Neighbor disputes are often spiteful.”
    Taylor arrived with their plates and another smile for Aidan. She was cute. He ought to call her. But Sofia didn’t say anything else. This was a business meeting after all.
    “Candidate number three is Mr. Rick Pankhurst,” Aidan said. “His usage has gone up slightly over the last six months, but not by the amount Grigoryan is losing.”
    Brendan wiped his mouth. “Not much to go on there.”
    Sofia piped up. “I did some Internet research on the Grigoryans and their neighbors on the way here.”
    “Good initiative,” said Brendan. “Anything interesting?”
    “The two vineyard owners used to be good friends. According to old issues of The Malibu Times , the two wineries used to have dual tasting events. They promoted each other’s wines online and in interviews, talking about different kinds of wine traditions—Armenian versus French. I also found some old pictures out there of Mr. and Mrs. Grigoryan and Mr. and Mrs. Befort together at charity events.” She took another sip of lemonade. “But about six months ago, something happened. The stuff online changed. Mr. Befort started trashing Grigoryan Vineyards in the press, and Mr. Grigoryan gave as good as he got. Armenian wine is for shepherds on one side, French wine is overpriced swill on the other.”
    Brendan was about halfway through his pot pie. “Your timeline tallies with what I found out from a guy I know on the force. The cops have been called out a couple of times starting about six months ago. About four months ago, someone filled Mr. Grigoryan’s Mercedes convertible with horse manure.”
    Aidan laughed. “That makes a point.”
    She remembered how he had stressed what a nice car he had. That must have been why someone had targeted it—they knew how much he treasured it and wanted to get even. That seemed personal—a neighbor, his wife, maybe somebody’s girlfriend or boyfriend on the side.
    “In the police report, Grigoryan claimed the manure came from his neighbor’s horse. Mr. Befort denied it, and there wasn’t much to be done. No surveillance footage to go on, and the police weren’t interested in spending a lot of effort on what was essentially a vandalism charge, or maybe a prank. In the report, Mr. Befort said someone had dropped a bucket of dog poop into his pool. He had to have it drained and refilled about four months ago.”
    “It explains the spike