Dead on the Vine: (Violet Vineyard Murder Mysteries #1 (A Cozy Mystery)) (29 page)

“No, thanks. Can’t stay long,” Ben replied. “Nice out here, anyway,” he cocked his head and sniffed loudly. “My wife always loved wisteria, but our youngest boy’s allergic. Shoulda planted one after he went off to college.”

“Why’d you come by?” I asked, then added, “Not that I’m unhappy to see you.”

Ben closed his eyes and shook his head. “Hunter Drake called me this afternoon.”

“Uh-oh,” I said. “Guess I made him mad.”

“Upset’s the word I’d use. He said you were asking about Winter Harlan and Jenna Valdez.”

“I asked, and I didn’t get any answers,” I told him. “Jenna isn’t in Mexico with her father, as you know.”

Ben nodded. “We made a mistake there,” Ben said carefully. “You have to understand what we were dealing with. Hunter was drinking heavily, and his reports reflected that. I did the best I could when I took over the cases.” Ben’s tone turned heavy with disgust. “It was a mess, and we had a pedophile, a killer, who could have gone free thanks to sloppy police work.”

“What about Michelle Lawford? The papers said she confessed to killing Kevin?”

“Yes, she did. Seems that they had an argument that got out of hand. She said she was here to see Laurel when Kevin confronted her. They argued and he hit her. She grabbed the shovel and beat him until he quit moving.”

“Argued about what?”

“She wouldn’t say. Something to do with Laurel’s my bet.”

“That’s all very neat,” I said sarcastically. “Did Priest come up with that on his own?”

“You don’t believe it,” Ben replied tiredly. “Surprise, surprise.”

“I believe Michelle’s lying about killing Kevin. I think she’s covering for Laurel.”

“I can’t believe this crap,” Ben said, running his fingers through his hair and shaking his head with exasperation. “Like an Agatha Christie novel!”

“Stanley Kostyol told me that Michelle was too drunk to walk when Kevin was killed. And I know there’s an unidentified print on the shovel,” I felt like wagging a finger in his face. “And I bet it’s not Michelle’s.”

“Stanley Kostyol is a liar and a thief,” Ben said with rising irritation. “And Michelle could have wiped her prints off the shovel.”

“Again, very neat.”

“Damn it Claire!” Ben exploded. “The only thing that would make you happy is locking up Laurel Harlan, and that ain’t gonna happen! Why? Because she didn’t do anything!” Ben snapped his cigarette into the lawn. “The case is closed.”

“I’d like to look at that file,” I said defiantly. “To ease my mind.”

“You don’t believe a word I’m saying, do you? You’re
not
going to look at the file. You’re
not
a police officer, it’s
no
business of yours,” Ben turned his back on me and stalked to the edge of the patio. He stopped there and faced me, a dark cutout against the lights of the valley. “Let this be, Claire. Worry about Jessica and Samson.” He walked into the night without saying goodbye. A moment later I heard his car start and then heard the sound of the engine fade as he drove away.

“What the hell is going on?” I asked the stars, but they just stared coldly back. It seemed that everyone wanted me to butt out. It saddened me to think that I might have damaged my relationship with Ben beyond repair, but it made me angry too. Was Ben so jaded that he would close the case even if he doubted Michelle’s confession? I couldn’t believe that. Ben was a man of integrity. A man of integrity who probably wouldn’t be buying me lunch anytime soon.

Well, if my relationship with Ben was down the drain then there was no reason to drop my own investigation, for that’s what it had become. With thoughts swirling, I went to bed.

The next morning dawned clear and cold. A stiff wind was blowing in from the ocean, smelling strongly of salt and seaweed. I had my morning coffee with Victor, who looked tired. He grinned at me lecherously when I asked him how his date went.

“Wanna hear the details? Pretty juicy stuff, I’m not sure you can handle it.”

“Keep it to yourself,” I told him.

“Jealousy is an ugly thing,” he replied as he headed for the back door. “I’m going to finish mowing the field.”

“Sounds good to me,” I replied, sipping coffee. “What do you think of the vines?”

Victor shrugged. “Looking good. Too much rain lately.” It’s like that in wine making; too much rain is as much of a problem as too little.

“If you need me, call.” He stepped outside and pulled the door closed. I finished my coffee, went upstairs and showered, then went back downstairs in my robe and had more coffee. I took my time getting dressed, smoking too many cigarettes and thinking about Ben. I couldn’t deny my attraction for Ben, or the turmoil I felt over running behind his back for information. Had I ruined any chance for something more than friendship? Did I even want something more? And what about Hunter Drake? Better not to think of him. But I couldn’t help myself. Despite his drinking and his refusal to help me, I still liked the man. Why, suddenly, at fifty, was I feeling this emotional confusion? Was I going insane, or making up for lost time? Only one thing was certain, it had been too long since I played the dating game; I was way out of practice.

Even as I pondered Ben and Hunter, I couldn’t shake the nagging suspicion that the two knew something about Winter and Jenna that they weren’t telling me. What had happened to those two beautiful little girls? What was everyone trying to keep me from finding out? What mistakes were made? And did they lead to Kevin’s murder? Only one thing seemed certain now; there wasn’t a thing I could do about it!

Frustration and anxiety began to give me a headache. I had to find something to keep me busy.

There was wine to rack, the 2012 vintage, but I just didn’t feel motivated. I went down to the cellar anyway. The battered bottling equipment still sat in the middle of the aisle. The broken casks were gone along with the broken glass, but the machinery spoke eloquently of the damage done, and the rage behind Laurel’s actions. She must have used a sledgehammer. Wires and springs jutted from battered metal. Creases and dents reflected the overhead fluorescent light. I wished I could have the mess hauled off, but until the check came from the insurance agency it had to stay where it was. In a way I was happy that Laurel had focused so much of her rage on the machinery. She had broken only a few casks of the 2010, which revealed her ignorance of her husband’s trade. Machines can be replaced, but the wine that was aging in oak could not be. Still, the loss of the thirty-gallon casks meant that a lot of people weren’t going to get their promised allotment of wine.

I heard the phone upstairs ring, trotted up the stairs and caught it just before the answering machine kicked in. It was Marjory.

“Claire, dear, how are you?” she asked, sounding tipsy. At 9:00 A.M.

“I’m fine Marjory,” I said, rolling my eyes. “What’s up?”

“Just wanted to let you know that I smuggled Samson out of the hospital this morning,” she said with merry good humor. I could just have merrily wrung her neck!

“
Marjory—”
I angrily began, but she cut me off.

“Don’t be mad at me!” She said. “You
know
how he is. I went by to see him and he was getting dressed five seconds later. There was nothing I could do! He’s got the cutest little butt,” she added in a conspiratorial whisper.

“That’s more than I need to know,” I told her, about to gag. “Did the hospital release him?”

“Sort of,” Marjory said evasively.

“What does ‘sort of’ mean, Marjory?”

“Well, his doctor wasn’t there, and the nurse went into a hissy fit. She grabbed Samson. If she hadn’t been a woman I think he would have decked her!”

I groaned and closed my eyes, bracing for a story that was sure to make me angry. “You said ‘sort of?‘”  I reminded her.

“I’m getting there. We had a bit of a tussle. She insisted on Samson filling out some paperwork. I threw my American Express card on the counter and she shut right up. That proves that they just keep you there to run up the bill. I think—”

“How is he?” I cut in.

“He’s fine. He’s lying by the pool. He wants to come to Violet. I tried to put my foot down, to make him rest, but he won’t listen to me,” Marjory said.

“Or anyone else,” I sighed.

“He wants to see the cellar. Was it as bad as he said?” Marjory asked, and there was as much desire for gossip as there was compassion in the question. She’s my friend, but a black widow is a black widow.

“Not as bad as it could have been,” I replied, but she wasn’t satisfied with that.

“Was it that witch?” She hissed. “I swear she’ll pay for destroying my vines, one way or another. My babies,” Marjory added with the hint of a sob and I could feel her misery in my own heart. Marjory has five times the acreage under vines as I, but the loss of even one row would be devastating to me. By comparison, the loss of wine and machinery in my cellar was minor. The vines were alive, full of the promise of great things. They were the future, and more precious than a million bottles.

“I don’t know who it was,” I said evasively. I didn’t want her spreading rumors, even if I was sure they were true. 

“Well, Samson swears he’ll shoot her on sight,” Marjory said. I squeezed my eyes shut. That’s all I needed, Samson on the warpath.

“Can you keep Samson for a day or two?” I asked, like I was talking about a child. And, in a way I was. If Samson saw the mangled bottling line, the broken barrels and the empty spots in my wine cellar, he’d have another stroke. “He should be in the hospital,” I added, guilt-ing Marjory into complying.

“I’ll try to keep him away from Violet for a day or two. I can keep him amused that long,” she trilled a brassy laugh. “No promises, though. I can’t—oh, crap! Samson’s screaming at the maid, dear. Gotta go.” She hung up. Thank God! I stepped on to the patio, pushing Samson out of my thoughts.

Victor was on the tractor pulling the brush-hog mower through the field that separates the rows from the rocky slope. The smell of fresh cut grass was delightful. He pulled up beside the patio, engine roaring.

“I’m working up a hunger!” he yelled over the racket. 

“Sitting on your ass!” I yelled back.

“Love my job!” He grinned like a lunatic and gunned the engine.

“I’m grilling steaks tonight,” I yelled.

“Aaaa-rooooo,” Victor howled, craning his skinny neck. “Red meat, red meat, red meat,” he popped the tractor into gear and sped off across the lawn, engaging the brush-hog’s mower blade. With my eyes, I followed the closely-cut path he was making through the field. By contrast, the back yard looked shaggy. I really needed to mow the front lawn too. The idea actually appealed to me, I was so desperate for any distraction. But first I’d get the steaks ready.

In the kitchen, I took down a large glass bowl and poured in a couple of teaspoons of olive oil. I minced three cloves of garlic (Victor would have a fit about bad breath, but he’d gobble it down anyway) and tossed them in the olive oil followed by a half-cup of chopped shallots. A tablespoon of Lee and Perrin’s Worcestershire sauce and a dash of ground mustard seed. I took three rib-eye steaks, hand-cut by my favorite butcher, from the freezer and dropped them into the bowl. They were as hard as rocks, but they could thaw in the marinade. I covered the bowl with a tea towel and scanned the refrigerator for inspiration for side dishes.

I had a bottle of homemade raspberry vinaigrette in there and a small block of Maytag bleu cheese that I had been picking at for weeks. I knew there were plenty of ripe tomatoes and red onions in the garden. Voila! Instant salad, and one of my favorite dishes. There were several sweet potatoes in a wooden burlap-covered box in the pantry. I took out three, buttered and salted them and wrapped them in foil, ready for the oven.

With dinner ready to go, I changed into ragged shorts and a grass-stained T-shirt. I popped in on Jessica, who was working on a pile of construction paper, cutting out stars, triangles, circles and squares in a rainbow of shades and piling them in a plastic tub for her kids at Bishop Lynch. It was rough going with just one arm, but she was managing.  Her hair was brushed back in a ponytail and she looked fresh-scrubbed, tanned and cheerful. It brought a smile to my face and put a spring in my step. I trotted out to the barn and started up the riding lawn mower. Things were getting back to normal.

There’s something soothing about cutting the lawn, especially when all you have to do is ride around in circles sipping on a plastic cup of iced tea. The clean green swaths gave me the feeling of accomplishment while the mower did the work. For a time Winter, Kevin and Laurel were lost from my thoughts. It was a break I needed.

Victor waved when he passed on his way to the barn. He made a skinny muscle and goosed the tractor to show me who had the
real
power mower. I snubbed my nose at him and demonstrated the agility of the small Ford mower by turning several sharp donuts in his path and dodging out of the way as he hit the brakes. He mouthed something that I didn’t hear and then I was around the side of the house and out of sight.

By the time I finished with the lawn and my iced tea and had stowed the mower in the barn beside its big brother, Victor was sitting in the shade of the wisteria sipping a beer from my refrigerator.

“Any time you wanna race,” he said with a grin. I plopped down beside him, wiping sweat from my face with my sleeve.

“Got any money?” I asked, leaning back and stretching my legs.

“Nope. The lady I work for is a tight-fisted shrew.”

“Hardy, har, har.”

“Gonna check on food stamps soon,” he sipped his beer. My beer, if you want to get technical. “Make more money on welfare.”

“I guess you won’t be wanting a steak, then.”

“I didn’t say that. Poor man’s gotta take what he can get.”

“Keep talking and you won’t be getting anything.”

“Tight-fisted shrew,” he muttered. “You picking Samson up today?”

“Samson’s with Marjory. I thought of asking them over, but…” I shrugged.

“But you’re not ready to watch octogenarian dry-humping,” he finished.

“Victor! That’s a visual I don’t need!”

“Seeing it live is even worse, believe me.”

“Yuck.” I stood and stretched. “I need a shower.”

“Praise the lord,” he pinched his nose. “I was trying to be polite, but I
am
sitting downwind.”

“Hardy, har, har,” I said again and punched him in the arm.

“Tight-fisted and abusive,” he said as the kitchen door swung closed behind me.

After a cool shower, I felt a little better, but my thoughts were still plagued by Winter and Jenna. I dressed in jeans and a Violet Vineyard T-shirt and went down to finish dinner.

The steaks were marinating nicely, so I put them in the refrigerator and headed out to the garden. The weed invaders were hard at work, crowding around the tomatoes. I ignored them and quickly picked six beefy tomatoes and two purple onions and took them back inside and sliced them up. I put them in a plastic bag and placed them with the steaks in the fridge. By then it was a little after five and time to get the grill going.

The grill was set up at the edge of the patio. Victor had wheeled it over from the barn, hungry and helpful, as always. I loaded it down with mesquite chips and fired up the gas. As the wood crackled and burned, I went inside and poured myself a short glass of Glenlivet over ice. With a smoldering cigarette, I sat down near the grill and plopped my feet in another chair. I watched the fire, sipping my scotch and puffing away. When the mesquite was glowing cheery red, I closed the lid. The steaks were going to be great, and I was starving.

“Bread!” I yelped as Victor came down from the guestroom, his hair still wet from the shower.

“Butter!” He said.

“Slice the bread,” I told him, pointing at the knife rack 

“You are lucky that I crave steak,” he said. “You tight-fisted, abusive, domineering—” he shut up before I threw something at him.