Dead on the Vine: (Violet Vineyard Murder Mysteries #1 (A Cozy Mystery)) (21 page)

“Why do you think this Lawford tried to run you off the road?”

“She called me,” Jessica said. “Asked me to meet her. Talk about Kevin.”

The deputy looked confused.

“Kevin Harlan,” I said and the deputy dutifully wrote the name down.

“Guy that was murdered?” he said, eyes on me.

I nodded.

“You’re sure it was this Michelle?” The deputy asked my daughter.

She shrugged without opening her eyes. “Think so.”

“We’ll check it out. You’re lucky to be alive,” he said, folding his pad and pocketing it.

“Don’ feel lucky.” Jessica said, eyes still closed. “Don’.” She snuffled and then snored.

“What was she talking about?” I demanded of the policeman. “She was deliberately run off the road?”

“Yep. Don’t know about this Michelle, but I got the same story from the trucker that almost creamed her. He saw a red farm truck on the van’s tail. Says it shoved her right in front of him. Lucky they were on that steep grade. Trucker had cut his speed or he’d have plowed right over her.”

“Did anyone get the farm truck’s license plate?”

He shook his head. “No such luck. Trucker said it was a washed out red. Road rage’s is what I figured. Happens all the time.”

I didn’t argue with him about that. He probably knew very little about the Harlan case, so the names would mean nothing to him. They’d mean something to Ben.

“Sorry about your lip,” I told him, smiling sheepishly.

“Not a worry,” he said. He touched it and winced.

“Be glad she didn’t have her feet on the ground,” Victor said, standing to shake the policeman’s hand. “She’d probably have taken out a tooth or two.”

“Got one a little loose, matter of fact,” the policeman said, touching a canine with one blunt finger.

“I am so sorr—“

He waved it off again. “See you folks. I’ll call when we find out something.” He left us alone with Jessica’s snoring.

“Road rage,” Victor said. “Bullshit.”

I sat back down and looked at my daughter. Jail and the hospital all in a matter of days. My poor baby.

A half hour later, a balding young doctor in tennis shoes poked his head in the door. He assured me that Jessica would be fine, and advised Victor and I to head home for the night. I didn’t want to go, but Victor needed a ride back to his truck. I kissed Jessica’s damp forehead, clicked off the room’s light and left my daughter in her drugged sleep.

Later, after Victor went home, when I was lying alone in my bed listening apprehensively to all my home’s groans and squeaks, I thought how convenient it would be for Laurel if my daughter was no longer alive to defend herself against the murder charge. I looked at the clock, thinking of calling Ben. It was far too late, or too early, depending on whether you had been to sleep that night. I settled back into the pillows and stared at the ceiling. My daughter could now be dead and Laurel would be off scot-free.

Sweet dreams, indeed.

I called Ben first thing in the morning, got his voicemail and left a two-minute message that was reasonably coherent, detailing last night’s events. I dressed quickly, grabbed my purse and cigarettes and was at the hospital before Jessica had slept off the drugs.

Eyes closed, draped in hospital white, she looked wan and insubstantial. Her cheeks were bloodless, the left bruised badly and turning seven different colors of purple. Her lips and eyes were puffy, even her hair looked listless and sad. I spoke with her doctor in hushed voices as she dozed. He told me that after a quick exam she could go home that morning. He handed me two prescriptions and hustled off on his rounds.

“Hey mom,” Jessica said weakly.

“You okay, babe?” I asked as I stroked her hair.

“Fine,” she croaked. “Water?” she licked her dry lips. I poured her a glass, and helped her sit up to drink it.

“Better,” she said, pushing the glass away. She grimaced as she put her cast in her lap and looked at it. “That hurts.”

“The doctor said you can leave after he checks you over,” I told her. “Let me go to the nurse’s station and see if they can track him down.”

I found the doctor at the nurse’s station, chatting with a young candy-striper with a stuffed bra and too much makeup. He was mildly annoyed at my interruption, but he followed me back to the room and pronounced Jessica fit to leave. We waited a half hour for a nurse to come with a wheelchair, while Jessica groused about not needing one. By the time we finally got into the car and were heading back to Violet, Jessica was grouchy and in pain and my nerves were wearing thin. But I made her tell me what she remembered from the night before anyway.

“It was Michelle,” Jessica said. “I caught a glimpse of her. I couldn’t swear it in court, but I’m sure. She tried to kill me. God, I’m so tired.”

“It’s the medication and the stress,” I said. “Mainly the stress. It pumps so much adrenaline into your blood it just burns yo—“ Jessica’s snores cut me off. Guess I had gotten all I was going to. I turned on the radio to NPR. Two commentators were discussing the highest grape prices in years and speculating on what effect that would have on the valley.

“More money, more people,” I muttered under my breath. Simple as that.

I got Jessica to bed then made a half dozen trips to and from her room for magazines, ice-water and extra pillows. None of which Jessica wanted or needed. She pointed out that her arm was broken, not her legs.

“Don’t you have anything better to do?” she groaned when I poked my head in her bedroom door for the fourth time. She was tucked under her covers staring at the ceiling.

“Not really,” I said brightly, fluffing her pillows. “Do you need anything?”

“Peace and quiet,” she said. “Isn’t Marjory’s party today?”

“I was going to skip that.” I wasn’t going to leave my daughter alone. Someone had tried to kill her the day before, they might try again. With more success. I explained that to Jessica and she rolled her eyes.

“No one’s going to come in here with a gun,” she said. “Be serious.” Actually, I felt pretty confident that Laurel wasn’t that stupid. But I wasn’t sure enough to take a chance.

“I am being serious,” I said. “You were almost killed and Kevin
was
killed. I think I should call your father and get his detectives to protect you for a while.” The police weren’t going to do anything, that was for sure.

She shot up straight in bed. “Don’t you dare! They’d take me to Gram’s. I’d rather be at the bottom of that gorge. I’d rather be shot! I’ll call Daddy and tell him about the accident, but not about Michelle.”

“Jessica—“

“Don’t ‘Jessica’ me,” she snapped. “I’m twenty-three years old, I’ll make my own decisions.” She dropped back on the bed and stared at the ceiling.

“Well, I think I’ll stay anyway,” I said firmly.

“To stay here and pester me?”

“Well, I don’t look at it as pestering…” I smoothed the blanket and brushed hair off her forehead.

“That’s what it is,” Jessica said, turning her eyes back to the ceiling. “Victor called on my cell a few minutes ago. He’s coming over this afternoon. I’ll ask him to hang out with me.”

“Jessica—“

She hurried on, cutting me short. “It’s a beautiful day, mom,” she said, turning her gaze to the window. “At least as far as I can see.”

She was right, Marjory had gotten lucky. The clouds of the day before were a memory. Outside, the sun was shining down on sprouting fields and blooming vines. A perfect day for an outdoor soiree. I crossed to the window and looked out. The first thing I saw was the Harlan home. I had to bite back the flare of rage. But I couldn’t prove Laurel had anything to do with Jessica’s wreck. I’d have to bide my time until the police caught Michelle Lawford. Or until I did myself!

“Either go to the party,” Jessica ordered, “or stay out of my room. You’re driving me nuts.”

“You’ll call me if you need me?”

“Yes,” she groaned. “Go!”

“All right,” I said, smoothing her blankets one last time. She kicked them off into a tangled mess on the floor.

“Mom! Please!”

“Well, call me on my cell if you need anything.”

“I will. Now go! Have fun!” She closed her eyes and I closed the door.

Ben still hadn’t called. I tried him again, but didn’t leave another message. Feeling annoyed, wanting to cross the yard and beat the hell out of my neighbor, I went down to the cellar to check on Samson, dreading telling him about Jessica.

Samson was in the cellar wearing a new tie and a slightly less rumpled suit than usual. The tie was shiny yellow and the suit was a sooty gray with a less than subtle red stripe. A green tweed fedora sat on his desk, quite the topper for his ensemble. Somehow I kept from laughing. I didn’t tell Samson about Michelle Lawford, only that Jessica had had a wreck last night. I didn’t need his ranting today. Besides, he was in good spirits, wanting to begin planning our trip to the French tasting events in the fall. Last year, I had promised that we would attend the most important tasting in the world and he was determined that I not forget. Still, the news about Jessica made him furious.

“And you did not call me, why?!” he asked then launched into a sputtering diatribe in a word-stew of Greek and English about bad drivers before I could reply. He had the certainty of a father that ‘his’ Jessica could not be at fault. He reminded me that Jessica drove carefully, “not with racecar foolishness, like you, de Montagne.” We’d had this conversation before. He gave me the evil bug-eye as my own eyes did a lazy roll toward heaven. Why me?

I cut Samson off when he wound down to cursing humanity in general. I tried to break away, but he merely changed subjects back to the French tasting trip. He waved two brochures, both showing impossibly cheap motor-court hotels located on the outskirts of Paris. Samson is always trying to squeeze the pennies. But when we got there he’d bitch nonstop about the lousy accommodations.

“Decisions must be made, de Montagne!” he yelled at my back as I walked upstairs.  At that moment, the only decision I was worried about was what to wear to Marjory’s party. I wished Ben would call with some good news. I was starting to suspect that he was avoiding me. If I didn’t hear from him soon, I’d take what I knew to the private detectives Roger had hired.

I changed into a summer dress, tried to fix my hair, then gave up and put on a straw hat with a pink band. Samson was still looking at brochures and dreaming about Paris. I dragged him out to his Jeep, shoved a dozen back issues of Wine Spectator off the seat and climbed in beside him. I was worried that he’d pester me to death about Paris, but all he wanted to talk about was Marjory.

“She is such the lady, de Montagne. In everything she does,” he beamed at me, taking his eyes off the road for far too long. I white knuckled the edge of my seat.

“Watch the road, Samson.”

“Yes,” he said testily. “The road.” He was silent ten whole seconds then smiled dreamily.

“She is so like a girl,” he gushed. “Shy and sweet.” I had to wonder if we were talking about the same Marjory? Shy? Sweet? Overbearing and malicious was more apt. And those were her good qualities!

“She’s a wonderful lady,” I agreed. “And you’re very lucky.” This comment made him slip into a fugue, and I wondered just how close he and Marjory had become.

“Like a fine wine,” he said and I tried not to gag. Thankfully the drive was short. We turned through a rustic wooden arch and drove up the oak-shaded drive. Marjory’s vineyard almost encircled the house and winery. The freshly tilled and flowering rows of Chardonnay stretched across thirty acres of sensuously rolling hills like green silk ribbons.

The stone-flagged parking area in front of the long one-story building that was Marjory’s ‘Mayacamas Vineyards’ was half-filled with Mercedes, Lexuses, Lincolns and Jaguars. Valets in red jackets rushed back and forth as people disembarked. Samson bypassed the valet station, drove slowly across the parking area and ramming the Jeep’s bumper into a rhododendron shrub loaded with pink flowers. Petals showered down on the hood as we climbed out.

Samson waved off a chubby teenager in a tight red valet jacket who was heading our way.

“I parked it myself,” he yelled and the kid skidded to a stop. Samson turned to me. “They can’t be trusted,” he said.

I looked at the battered, mud-splattered Jeep. “Wouldn’t want it to get scratched,” I said.

“Scratched?  Don’t be foolish.”  He shot a look at the teenager and then whispered to me, “They steal, De Montagne.  You should know this.  They copy your keys and rob your house!”

I let that go without comment as we crossed the grass toward the house.

A huge white tent had been erected on the lawn beside Marjory’s grand home, which had been built in a rustic mega-mountain cabin style. People were sipping cocktails while waiters circulated with trays of appetizers. A string quartet (blech!) was playing classical music. I spotted Marjory under the tent, supervising a dozen waiters who were awkwardly shuffling tables around to make a dance-floor. A stack of six-foot by six-foot hardwood squares stood ready to be fitted together for the purpose. Glittering silver and glassware cascaded to the grass with a crash as one of the waiters stumbled and let go of his side of a table. Marjory threw her hands in the air and started cursing. Samson was right, Marjory was as delicate as a butterfly. If there’s a poisonous species of butterfly, that is.

“I need a drink,” Samson said, a wary eye on Marjory.

“And I’ll see if your girlfriend needs any help,” I told him as he snagged a waiter and jammed a crab-puff in his mouth.

“’Ell her I b’ ‘ere in minute,” he mouthed around the crab-puff. Classy.

“Claire!” Marjory bellowed as I stepped into the shade of the tent.
“Help!”
She grabbed my hand.

“What’s the matter?”

“Everything! The caterer is behind schedule and the bartenders haven’t shown up. And they forgot to assemble the dance-floor,” she cast a malignant eye on the clumsy waiter who was scrambling around picking up silverware and glasses.

“Why don’t you get a drink and talk to Samson,” I told her. “I’ll get this cleaned up. And I’ll get the dance floor put together.” And then you and I are going to talk about Michelle Lawford, I thought to myself. I couldn’t believe that I had given Michelle a good recommendation!

“I knew there was a reason I loved you!” she yelped. “A drink!” she charged off toward Samson, who watched her approach like a startled deer. She stopped halfway to him and yelled back at me. “Is Jessica all right? I heard about her accident. Poor dear.”

“She’s fine,” I called back.

Kneeling beside the blushing waiter, who couldn’t have been more than sixteen, I helped him load a plastic tub with the litter from the grass. I saw Marjory pulling Samson into the house like a cat with a field mouse. He caught my eye and threw up a hand like a drowning man. I waved back, smiling maliciously, and kept picking up silver.

We got the dance-floor situation under control, and I procured myself a glass of Marjory’s excellent 2008 Zinfandel, which was growing fruitier and mellower with age. The wine was a little hearty for so early in the day on an empty stomach, so I ate crab-puffs and boiled shrimp to compensate. I mingled with friends and acquaintances. None of them mentioned Jessica’s problems with the law, but small talk seemed to wilt in their mouths and they took the first opportunity to bolt. And after I turned my back the whispers flowed as freely as the wine. I couldn’t help but catch snatches of conversations.

“A de Montagne in prison? We’ll never live to see the day. Her father—”

“…I bet she did it. I heard she had an affair with that Harlan boy—”

“...too pretty for the gas chamber—”

“…all that money—”

I began to wish that I hadn’t come, but I smiled brightly and had another glass of wine as the band played and people kept arriving. Marjory was back outside and making the rounds with Samson, who looked proud as a rooster and just a little bit drunk. I tried to mingle, but my heart wasn’t in it. I got in a brief but heated argument with Glen Dearborne about the new federal subsidy program. Or, as Glen called it, welfare for farmers. He accused me of being a ‘liberal wimpus’ whatever that was, then spotted some more conservative friends and dumped me after placing an order for a case of the new Reserve.

Linda Tate, her half-drunk husband Dave in tow, skirted me like I was a typhus victim. Dave threw me a kiss that earned him a few whispered threats. I smiled and waved at Dave, which got me an ugly look from Linda. To hell with Linda.

I needed a lift, so when the band struck up a string version of Wilson Picket’s ‘Mustang Sally’ I ditched my wineglass on an empty table and made a beeline across the lawn to where Samson was arguing with Marjory.

“It is not a wine!” Samson sputtered, one hand squeezing the life out of a glass of red zinfandel. “It is soda pop! Kool-Aid!”

“White zinfandel sells, sweetheart,” Marjory cooed, leaning in close. She stumbled and bumped in to Samson, slopping wine across her hand. She licked it off, giving Samson a look that would have made a hooker blush.

“So does cow manure! Will you taste it? White zinfandel is leavings! Left over from a far better red wine! Excrement!” The first white zinfandel was actually the juice from the last pressing of zinfandel grapes fermented without the skins.

“But people like it,” Marjory said, leaning in to peck Samson’s withered cheek. Samson tried to dodge, but Marjory grabbed on and held him still. She had fifty pounds on my old wine maker.

“People like Big Macs and chicken fingers! Those people have no palate. None!” Samson leaned back as far as he could, but Marjory managed to place a slurping kiss on his chin. “I would pour it out for the dogs before I wasted a barrel on it!”

The band was halfway through the opening chords of the song, so I had no time to waste. I was determined to alleviate my mood, and Samson was going to help whether he liked it or not.

“I’m borrowing him,” I told Marjory as I grabbed Samson’s wrist and dragged him away.

“As long as you bring him back!” Marjory laughed. “And don’t wear him out, I have plans for that old stud!” She winked at me and I tried not to vomit.

“I do not dance, de Montagne,” Samson tried to dig in his heels, but I kept pulling.

“You mean you
can’t
dance,” I corrected, “But you will try. Or we’re planting zinfandel and fermenting it without the skins.”

“You are sick in the head, de Montagne,” Samson muttered, but he quit fighting. He’s really not a bad dancer, just a little old fashioned. Ball room manners seem out of date and out of place these days. But I wanted to dance!

We reached the dance floor under its billowing white tent and I tugged Samson onto the floor. He stood erect, one hand on my hip, the other clasping my hand, and led me gracefully across the floor, hopelessly out of step with the song. Even on violin and flute, Mustang Sally was a bit up-tempo for Samson. All around us people were shaking their butts and waving their arms while we floated around like the Queen Mary at half-speed.

“This rock and roll,” Samson sniffed. “It is undignified. They are dancing like chimps in the circus.”

“Hush,” I told him. “I love this song.”

“You would,” he said under his breath. “I am done dancing.”

“White Zinfandel,” I sang and laughed, enjoying myself for the first time that night. “Or, maybe white Grenache!”

“White Grenache,” Samson spat. “That name sounds like a disease.”

“Hush,” I told him again and, surprisingly, he did.

The song ended and Samson let me go, already looking around for Marjory. Suddenly his eyes bugged and blood rushed to his face.

“What is she doing here? Why has she come?!” I followed his gaze to find Laurel Harlan at the edge of the dance floor talking to Linda Tate. The widow was dressed in black silk from head to toe, a half-veil descending from her pillbox hat. She looked like she had just stepped out of the wardrobe department of MGM where she had been outfitted with the Grieving Widow #1.

“She was not invited!” Samson bellowed and took a step in Laurel’s direction. I tried to grab him, but he shrugged me off. I trotted across the dance floor after him, my sandals clacking on the squares of hardwood. I caught up with him just as Laurel looked our way. Linda Tate looked too, and an ugly smile brought life to her pasty face. She whispered something to Laurel and the widow laughed and nodded, her gaze never leaving Samson and me.

It was too late to turn away. I would not shrink from this woman, would not shy away. I linked arms with Samson, keeping him on the side farthest from Laurel, and kept walking.

“Is this a bail-raising party?” Laurel asked Linda, staring me dead in the eye. Linda laughed a shrill, wine-induced bray. The last time I had spoken to Linda, at the Ladies Lunch, she had been bashing Laurel Harlan, and here she was sucking up. But, Linda probably liked me even less than she liked Laurel. That was fine. I despised the pair of them.

“It is not a wake, either,” Samson said nastily, trying to veer around me. I banged him with my hip and tightened my grip on his arm. “A widow should mourn, not dance!” I kept moving, passing them without a glance. I would not make a scene at Marjory’s party. But seeing Laurel Harlan had my blood boiling.

Laurel threw her head back and laughed. By now, everyone within earshot was looking our way and all I wanted to do was get far from the widow before I lost control of Samson or myself.

“I think Marjory’s been feeding your date too much Viagra,” Laurel said and took a sip of wine. Linda thought that was hilarious. Maybe I’d punch her instead.

“Marjory is twice the lady as you!” Samson tried to break away, but I kept dragging him. “Twice and more!”