Authors: Melanie Jackson
“These shoes are ruined,” she said, looking down at her sneakers. No one would guess that they had once been white. “But it was in a good cause. And they were ugly anyway.”
“I shall get you a new pair
of shoes,” Esteban said.
“No, thank you. I don’t care for heels,” she answered, having some experience with Esteban’s taste in women’s clothing.
“You wrong me,
Bella
,” he protested.
“Not by much, I don’t
.” But Juliet smiled at him. Esteban, though quite dangerous in his own way, always amused her.
Sleep did not come softly. It sandbagged her the moment her head hit the pillow. But for all its suddenness it had not lasted nor be
en all that effective in knitting up her raveled nerves or aching muscles. Defeated, Juliet rolled from her bed at dawn and went for coffee.
“You’ve been thinking?” Raphael asked as she joined him at their terrace table. The rain had left and warm weather returned, quickly burning off the clouds.
The remedy fixed very little in the way of sore muscles or bruised hands, but Juliet was still glad to see the sun. The day before had been nightmarish. Winter shouldn’t happen in a matter of hours.
“Yes
, I’ve been thinking. Nothing to worry Einstein, but yes, the brain is busy.”
“And it
advises that you visit Talbert?”
“Yes. I wonder if he is at the house? Surely he has had the good taste to remove himself
from Blue Period now that Carissa is dead.”
“Talbert show good taste?”
“Yeah, I know. In any case he will probably find me soon enough.”
Raphael raised a brow.
“I got out his little bug which has been sitting in an urn over there and suggested a lunch meeting,” Juliet explained. “I figure that it might come in handy.”
Her prediction was correct. Talbert knocked on her door just before noon. He was not a man that one should play poker with, but Juliet was learning to read him and she could tell that he was angry.
“The police have been around?” she asked, waving him inside the cottage.
“Yes—should I thank you for that?”
“Maybe
I am responsible. I didn’t know if it was you in the green car. If not, the police needed to check it out.”
Talbert grunted and pulled out a chair. Juliet set a plate of
fruit, meat, and cheese in front of him. The ploughman’s lunch was simple but nice. After a moment Talbert began eating.
“
It’s a good thing that I happen to have an alibi. That detective Robbins seemed awful eager to think ill of me and it’s unwarranted. Not that he will believe that until the killer is found. Do you know who killed her yet?” he asked around a mouthful of apple. When she didn’t answer he added, “You’ve been thinking about it, haven’t you?”
“
Of course. Thoughts are like vitamins. I try to have one every morning with my coffee. If it’s a good one, I pounce on it,” she said lightly. “I don’t know yet who killed Owens and Carissa. But I do intend to find out. No one is safe when murder gets to be a habit. And since we can’t wait for hard proof to appear we will probably have to go out and find it.”
Talbert grunted
again.
“So you think it’s the same person
who killed them both?”
“
I find that easier to believe than that in our small group of previously nonviolent suspects we suddenly have multiple killers. Wine?” she asked. It wasn’t a Blue Period selection. “Or ginger ale? I’m afraid the choices are limited.”
“Ginger ale sounds good. I just realized how thirsty I am.”
Juliet poured out two glasses.
“I don’t suppose that you kept following Ca
rissa after her jaunt into town?” she asked. “I went straight on to Trefoil and was busy after that.”
“No. I watched the driveway until it started raining. I could see the house and the lights were on in her bedroom, so I
figured she was in for the night. I went back to my B and B and had dinner with the lady who runs it.”
“Did you speak to her at all
yesterday? Do you know why she saw the attorney?”
“Yes,
we spoke twice, but she put me off both times. She was wildly angry about Edward doing something that would keep her from getting an immediate financial settlement which she felt entitled to.”
For t
he fashion business which was floundering probably. Not enough people wanting to buy dead animals and ripped clothing in unattractive colors.
“Hence the visit to the attorney.”
“I assume so. But I didn’t like the way she sounded so I followed her.” Talbert bit into the Gouda. “I called again that afternoon from the car but she said she had some kind of meeting and couldn’t see me. Love definitely came after money with her. I waited but no one came to the winery and I got to thinking she meant that she had a conference call or something. It was dark and cold and I was hungry. So I left.” This was said with self-recrimination.
“And you think that her meeting
turned out to be with the killer?”
“It seems pretty obvious.
And that means it was someone who could come and go from Blue Period without exciting comment. And that it was someone she trusted, at least a little bit, since she let them inside the house.”
Juliet nodded agreement.
This wasn’t a new thought. There had been strangers around the night Carl Owens died, but strangers wouldn’t have had a reason to kill him. That honor was usually left to the nearest and dearest. Their alien presence only muddied the waters and made things difficult for the investigators.
“No employees around to see anything?
No one smoking in the parking lot? No housekeeper or maid or anything?”
“
No. And the police seem to feel that Edward and Schneider are out of the running as suspects. Because all of you were having a hoedown over at Trefoil when the murder happened and alibi each other.” There was anger in his voice. She wished she knew for certain if it were real or simulated.
Juliet thought of their desperate hours of hard labor harvesting the grapes and tried not to be offended at the suggestion that it had been a party.
His underlying point was valid and answering anger with anger wouldn’t help anyway.
“The police don’t want anyone local to be a suspect and are not looking too hard at what might be possible
if it seems unlikely or unpleasant.”
“So it could have been Edward?”
“It’s within the realm of the possible. I just don’t know how probable it is. He isn’t….” Juliet searched for a word. “He isn’t emotionally equipped. For me, he isn’t a likely suspect. Not as triggerman.”
“No,
I suppose he’s not,” Talbert said regretfully. “But Schneider is. That’s a man with a lot of hate.”
“Yeah, but where is the motive? Killing Owens I could see. Killing Carissa? He gained nothing from that.”
“That we know of.”
“That we know of,” she conceded.
Juliet could think of one thing he might gain if Edward were leaning toward a partnership with Schneider and could see his investment being sucked up by bad couture clothing, but she elected not to mention it to Talbert.
“So who do you think killed her?
You must have some idea.”
Juliet just shook her head and refrained from speculating.
“Why the silent treatment? You talked enough in Tahoe.” He paused and his eyes widened ever so slightly. “You think I killed her? But why would I?”
“I can dream up all kinds of reasons but none of them are exciting me
at the moment,” she said mildly. “Would you care for some dessert? I have an apple strudel. The local bakery is fabulous.”
“You really are cold blooded,” Talbert said.
He had said something like this once before but then his tone had been admiring.
“Yes. And so are you. Usually. A little more thought and a bit less feeling would be a help here, don’t you think?”
Juliet made her voice hard. “This is very unprofessional.”
Talbert sighed.
“I know. It’s just….”
“You got involved
in spite of your knowing that you shouldn’t. It happens. I get it.” And she did get it. Was she not feeling protective toward Edward? Hadn’t she half-crippled herself trying to save Trefoil’s crop though she had nothing to gain from it except satisfaction that a historical institution would survive? “But it isn’t a help in tracking down the killer. Now buck up and have some dessert. It’s delicious. Then you need to go out and start beating other bushes. I have this angle covered. Frankly, I am doubtful that Owens’ and Carissa’s killings had anything to do with his former occupation, but we need to rule it out and you are the best person to do it.”
And it would get Talbert out of her hair so she could
see to her own tasks without interference.
“It’s a waste of time,
” he said.
“Do it anyway. You’re only in the way here,” she said bluntly.
Edward and Schneider were already at the house when they arrived at Trefoil for dinner. That evening they were doing the country cocktail style which was a long way from elegant—except on Raphael—but certainly dressier than what they had worn the day before.
Seamus was welcoming but his mood was restrained and a bit distracted. Perhaps he was tired, Juliet thought. Yesterday had been physically taxing.
Perhaps the breach in the retaining wall had been worsened by the storm and he had needed to repair it.
Or maybe having two neighbors murdered in as many days had disturbed him.
If Seamus was an exhausted collection of wrinkles, Moira was a waxwork. Never expressive, the level line of her mouth moved neither up nor down and her eyes were as blank as the dark windows. Juliet wondered if she were on drugs.
There was an offer of cocktails but everyone declined and they moved quickly to the dining room which had been set with mismatched
patterns of old china and crystal flutes. There were mixed flowers in small vases. The effect was charming but largely lost on those gathering to partake of the baked meats. The dinner certainly had more the feel of a wake than a party. And they apparently weren’t there to praise Caesar but to bury him.
The
lovely crown moldings pulled the eyes upward where they were inclined to linger. Or perhaps this just wasn’t the night for looking to closely at one’s companions, Juliet thought. Just in case their thoughts were too like one’s own:
Thou too art mortal
. Or,
who would be next?
The meal was
served family style. Chicken cacciatore, focaccia, and salad. Moira was a good cook but no one was reaching for seconds and not even the excellent wine poured by their host helped. Voices were muted when they spoke at all, and at times Juliet could actually hear bees in the flowering shrub outside the open window. Everyone was preoccupied and neither Esteban nor Raphael tried to force conversation. There was a lot to be learned from the silence.
Juliet’s eyes moved round the table. Her host was staring at his plate, rousing himself e
very so often to offer more wine. Had Seamus spent the day crushing his precious grapes? Or did he send them somewhere? Perhaps to Blue Period since their own crush was done? They hadn’t covered that on their tour. Should she ask, or was making him speak an unkindness when he looked so exhausted?
Schneider had a frown between his uneven brows and she got the impression that he was busy with some dark, internal monologue.
She looked down at Edward and Moira seated at the end of the long table. They might have been—perhaps should have been—mother and son. She listened to them talk. It was innocent, bland. But nothing said that night by any of the guests could be dismissed as meaningless however non-sequitur some of their conversation seemed to be. Chances were that someone at that table was a killer and eventually word or deed would give them away.
Edward
began speaking about his mother and how he thought she would approve of the idea of doing a winery within the winery. A tiny amount of enthusiasm entered his voice and Moira finally smiled.
The past and the present were never that far apart, not for the people who had shared the experience of a life-altering
trauma. Time was like a series of rooms off the same corridor, all with connecting doors. Sometimes, all one needed was a glimpse into one of the rooms to understand what came before and after. That night, a door had been left open, just a crack, and Juliet could see inside the lives of a younger Edward Owens and Moira and Seamus Mulligan.
Carl Owens
hadn’t been a good man. He had been a robber baron, a barbarian intruder into the elegant and civilized world his wife had come from. He didn’t understand her or his son or his neighbors. The wineries of Napa were like city-states, small fiefdoms run by a few families. The usurper Owens had supplied enough dry tinder of animosity, business and personal, that eventually it had caught fire and he had died early because of it.