Dead on the Vine: (Violet Vineyard Murder Mysteries #1 (A Cozy Mystery)) (15 page)

Victor and Samson were sitting at Samson’s desk, their feet propped on the battered surface, wine glasses in their hands. The bottling line sat silent, open cardboard packing cases, foil capsules and broken corks scattered about the floor. Samson had removed the bottles from the worm and placed them back by the sterilizer. The pump looked clean and I assumed they had already drained the lines. A gallon jug of cabernet was sitting on the desk by Samson’s left foot and they both had full glasses.

“I was just telling Samson that Roger asked you out,” Victor said, grinning.

“Roger is a fool, and she is proof!” Samson said, slapping his feet on the floor and standing. “If I was a young man I would dance you off of your feet!” He bowed at me. “And a privilege it would be!”

“Thank you. Now pour me a glass of wine.”

Samson grabbed the bottle and blew into a dusty glass. I guess that passed for washing to a lifelong bachelor.

You two are cutting into our customer’s supply,” I said, taking the glass from Samson.

“To hell with them! Are they here? No!” Samson took a swallow. “But we will save them a little.”

“You’re both spending the night,” I told them, not asking, but ordering.

“Perhaps I call Marjory and have her drive me home,” Samson said, flopping back in his chair and putting his feet up.

“As long as you’re not behind the wheel, go where you like,” I said. “But spare me the details.” I put my glass down on the table, still half full.

“About tomorrow…” I began, riffling through the shipping manifests. Victor groaned and Samson muttered a Greek curse. I ignored them both and got down to business. By the time we were done, a half-bottle more of the wine was gone and an hour had passed. I would have to hurry to meet Ben. I hoped the sheriff’s patrols would take a date with Ben as an excuse to speed! Did I say date?

“Well, I’m off. Stay out of trouble, you crazy kids!”

“Where are you going?” Samson asked as he reached for my half-full glass. I told them that I was meeting Ben for a drink. Samson made some nasty comments about our sheriff, but Victor was curiously quiet.

“Drive careful,” was all he said as he poured another glass of wine. “And tell Ben I said hello.”

“Tell him I said to go to Hell-o,” Samson chimed in as he polished off my wine.

I walked to the garage in the sun’s fading light. Long shadows crossed the lush green vineyard and draped the rocky slope that falls away into the valley. The trees were inky outlines against the paler sky. The smell of wisteria was a delightful perfume. I couldn’t help looking toward the Harlan’s as I crossed the yard, and I wished I hadn’t. Priest’s car was parked out back and a dim, flickering light, which had to be candles, glowed from the living room windows. I shook my head. Here I was married to a rake and I was faithful, but the merry widow was entertaining gentlemen just three days after her husband’s murder! Could she be using Priest? Trying to divert suspicion? Could she have killed Kevin herself? Three days ago I would have said no, but now? I wasn’t sure. I would have loved to intrude on the lovers right now and give them a piece of my mind. Instead I tossed my bag on Sally’s front seat and pushed in the lighter before I started the car. Sally purred to life on the first turn of the key. I took a cigarette out of my bag, lit up and almost shuddered at the first deep inhale.

It took me ten minutes at sixty-five to make it to the dirt turnoff to Shaky’s. The place looked the same as I remembered. A paintless gray ruin, every wall, window and door about five inches out of square, porch sagging into the dust, and all of it shaded from the moonlight by hundred year old pecan trees. A garland of Christmas lights (red and green chili peppers) had been strung across the eaves, the only improvement I noticed. A half-dozen farm trucks were parked at a half-dozen angles in the dirt lot, all coated with dust, most of them crew-cabs with extended beds and all the options. Farmers are the worst for buying decked out trucks and farm equipment and then complaining that they ‘just ain’t gonna make it this year.’  Beside the trucks, Ben’s shiny-clean county car looked like a gazelle sleeping with rhinos. I parked Sally beside Ben.

The night had turned cool and I didn’t have a coat. I shivered as I walked to the screen door. The porch boards squealed and sagged under me, but held up long enough for me to pull the screen door open and step inside.

It was like a time warp. Shaky, balding, stooped, wispy hair a snowy white on top and nicotine yellow at the edges, was at the counter, resting his weight on skinny forearms. Ben was on a stool opposite Shaky, a beer at his lips. A dozen men were seated at the rickety tables I had used thirty years ago. The scarred tops held the graffiti of a half-dozen generations. Most of the men wore jeans or overalls with give-away feed caps on their heads and plastic cups of wine in their hands.

Ben put his beer down and waved me over. I recognized a few of the men sipping wine. Many were friends of my parents, two were friends of mine. I smiled and nodded at the people I knew and got a lot of smiles and nods in return. I thought a couple of those smiles looked knowing, but who can say? Anyway, a little gossip wouldn’t do me any harm. Probably get more party invitations. Shaky’s patrons went back to their drinks and conversation as I dropped onto the stool beside Ben.

“Claire Falconè,” Shaky wheezed with emphysema lungs. “How’re ya?”

“Hey, Shaky,” I said, so flattered that he remembered me I felt sixteen again. “It’s de Montagne, now.”

“The names change, but the girl remains the same. Just as beautiful as you were in bell-bottoms and platform shoes,” Shaky looked at Ben. “Still keeping lousy company, though.”

“I always ran with a rough crowd,” I said, grinning along with Ben.

“What’ll it be?” Shaky asked, reaching for a dirty rag. He wiped down the counter in front of me. It looked dirtier when he was through. “Got some of that Violet Vineyard Cabernet back here. My own stock, but what the fu –excuse me, not used to ladies in here –I’ll share it,” Shaky winked at me, “But your boy can stick to beer. He ain’t the sophisticated type.”

“I’ll have a beer, too, thanks,” I said, setting my handbag on the counter and opening it to get my billfold.

“Hey,” Ben said, waving a hand, “I’m buying.”

“The hell you will!” Shaky shouted, drawing looks from the tables. “A beautiful girl comes in and you swoop down like a buzzard after a sick calf. How ya know she isn’t here to see me? I’m old, but I got style, something you lack.” He reached below the bar and pulled out a bottle of MGD dripping ice-water. “On the house.”

“If style’s what you got, I hope it ain’t catching,” Ben said and sipped his beer as Shaky opened my beer and wiped the bottle down with the dirty rag. Between his and Samson’s cleaning techniques I was lucky I’d never come down with blood poisoning.

“Hey Shaky, another round of the Merlot,” a rail-thin old man at the end of the bar yelled and Shaky drifted that way, shuffling his feet and throwing me another wink.

“You’ll have to excuse Shaky, he’s his own best customer,” Ben said.

“He’s adorable.”

Ben snorted. “I remember him running Roger and me out of here with a broom handle one night after a game with Mendocino High. He put a knot on my forehead that I still feel on cold days.”

“I forgot you and Roger were friends,” I said. Those days seemed so hazy now. It was hard to believe so many years had passed. The bitter-sweet smell of nostalgia was in the air and I loved it. But that wasn’t why I had come here.

“Always a lot of fun, Roger.” Ben sipped his beer.

I didn’t say anything to that.

“So,” I began, “Why do you say Laurel has a thing for cops? Not personal experience, I hope?”

Ben flushed pink. “Good old Claire, straight to the point,” he said, running his fingers through his already mussed hair. It made him cuter, god help me!“ I don’t know how much of this I should tell you. Kind of unethical.” Ben sipped his beer.

“I think I have a right to know. You’d do whatever it took to prove your own child’s innocence.”

“If they were innocent,” Ben replied mildly. He carefully placed the bottle back down on the circle of condensation it had created.

I went from warm and fuzzy to angry in a heartbeat, but I tried not to let it show. I had come here to get information, not to get even.

“You think Jessica did it?”

“Noooo, I’m saying that with de Montagne money Jessica’s chances of going to prison are pretty slim. I like you, but it bothers me that the rich can afford better justice than us poor folk.”

Now I let my anger show. “I have nothing to do with that, but I won’t sit here and say I’m ungrateful. If I thought there was
even a chance
that she was guilty, I would have turned her in myself. But I know my daughter, and she is
not
a killer. She’s being framed, from the tennis shoes to the shovel. Someone is using my daughter as a scapegoat.”

Ben nodded and half-smiled. “I believe you would turn her in. Same old Claire, tough as leather.”

“Keep on saying ‘old Claire’ and you’ll see how tough I am in the parking lot,” I said. “So, are you going to tell me what I came here to find out, or are we going to finish our beers and say goodnight?”

“Those the only options?”

“Tonight, they are.”

“Well,” Ben said, then took a slow sip of his beer. “I wouldn’t normally share anything about an investigation, but the way this has been handled irks me. It’s an end-run, and that makes me suspicious. Add that to what you say about Doug Priest spending his nights at Laurel’s and…well, it stinks.”

At the far end of the bar Shaky said something that made two old farmers laugh. One of the farmers shot me an embarrassed glance, blushing, apparently afraid I’d overheard the joke. I was glad I hadn’t.

“Understand me, I’m not saying they were wrong to arrest Jessica, just premature,” Ben explained. “When you rush, people get hurt that shouldn’t.”

“Victor told me that Kevin suspected Laurel was sleeping with a cop when Winter was missing. Is that what you meant by she has a thing for cops?”

Ben went rigid. “Not that again,” he said, then looked up at me sharply. “What else did Kevin say? Did he accuse anyone?”

“No, he didn’t,” I replied. “What did you mean ‘not that again’?”

The tension left Ben’s body. He sighed and looked at me ruefully. “My big fat mouth,” he said then half-turned on his stool. “Another beer, Shaky,” he called down the bar. Shaky brought it over, glanced at my half-full bottle, then returned to his conversation.

“You remember Hunter Drake?” Ben asked and I shook my head. “He’s two or three years older than us, but a Napa native. He was the lead detective on the Winter Harlan abduction.” Ben sipped his beer again. “He retired after they caught Buford Logan. Buford confessed to killing Winter and dumping her in the Napa River.”

“Was Drake sleeping with Laurel too?”

“God, no! Nothing like that. You gotta understand, Laurel was out of her head with grief and Hunt was working eighty hours a week. They were both stressed. Neither of them are bad people. It was just a misunderstanding.”

“A misunderstanding about what?” I prompted. Ben blushed and I wondered why. Not for long.

“Laurel said Hunt was harassing her. Sexually. I spoke to him and he blew up. Called her every name in the book. By then he was on suspension for drinking on the job. That’s no secret. I took over the case.”

“Did you think he was lying?” I asked. I pulled out my cigarettes and lit up.

“No. Hunt’s a professional, no bullshitting around with him. But he
was
drinking. I’d like to believe it was just a big misunderstanding. I had to file a report, though, and Hunt took early retirement. His wife dumped him and that was about the end for old Hunt. He took to drinking hard, almost killed himself one night ‘bout six months ago out on Mayacamas. Had to cut him out of the car. Not a scratch on him, though. Luck of the lush.”

“That’s why you said she had a thing for policemen? Sounds like she was trying to get Hunt fired.”

Ben rubbed his face with one big hand. “I feel like a damned gossip.

“It goes no farther than me,” I assured him. “Just a couple of friends passing the time.”

“All right. Hunt told me Laurel was sleeping with a cop. That he confronted Laurel and that’s why she made up the charge. Hunt thought Laurel was afraid he would tell Kevin.”

“He never did?” I asked, looking around for an ashtray. There was none, so I flicked the ashes into the neck of Ben’s empty beer bottle.

“Would you tell a man whose daughter is missing, probably dead, that his wife is fooling around?”

“Probably not.”

“Everything was so screwed up that I gave them all the benefit of the doubt. And what if she was sleeping with a police officer? If she was, I bet it had more to do with comfort than sex.”

“I bet!” I laughed derisively.

“Seriously,” Ben said, stern-faced. “Kevin wasn’t talking to anyone. Wouldn’t even let Laurel touch him. He couldn’t even identify his own daughter! Kept screaming that it wasn’t her. Doctor Perry finally had to sedate him. You’re a mother, imagine going through all of that. Imagine having to identify your daughter’s mutilated body. Mrs. Harlan was distraught. It almost killed her.”

“Who was the policeman?” I asked.

“Won’t tell you that,” Ben said, shaking his head. “I wish I hadn’t mentioned it in the first place.”

“Is he still on the force?” I persisted.

“That either. Like I said, it’s all rumor.”

“Was it Doug Priest?” He was my number one contender.

Ben went still for a moment. He looked at the bar top as he replied. “It was rumor, Claire. I won’t let a good officer be slandered. Not even by you.”

“Then it
was
Priest. And he’s at it again. And Laurel is using him to frame my daughter. He might ev—”

“Drop it, Claire,” Ben said flatly without looking up. “Whatever Priest is doing isn’t against the law.”

I let it drop - it didn’t seem like I had much choice anyway. “On the phone you said that there are other suspects?”

Ben laughed. “God! You just come here to pump me? My charm have nothing to do with it?” He sipped his beer then wiped his damp hands on his pants leg. “Can I have one of those?” He asked, pointing at my cigarettes.

“Sure,” I pushed the pack toward him. Shaky came over and I ordered another beer. He set it down while Ben sucked in a lungful of smoke, sighed it out and slouched against the stool’s metal back.

“I thought you were gonna kill me this afternoon,” Ben laughed.

“I was tempted to hop the curb in my Mustang and put the pony emblem against your backside.” I told him. “How many other suspects are there? Kevin didn’t seem the sort to make enemies.”

“Doesn’t mean anything. Pleasant personality often hides a very sick mind.”

“Do you know something about Kevin that I don’t?” I asked, my interest piqued.

“Just that he had several affairs,” he replied evasively.

“That’s all?”

“So far. I’m going to check out everything.”

“You personally?” I asked. I’d feel a lot better with Priest out of the picture. Or at least in the background.

“Yeah. At this point I better.”

“Well, I’m glad to hear you’re on our side, anyway,” I said. I stubbed out my cigarette and sipped my beer.

“Hold up there, Claire. I’m not on anyone’s side. In fact, I feel obligated to tell you that you make the list of suspects. Right below Jessica.”

I almost spit beer across the bar. “What?”

Ben was grinning, showing a tiny gap between his two front teeth. Something I hadn’t noticed before. Kind of sexy, but maybe that was the two beers talking.

“Priest calls you a potential ‘Murdering Mother.’ That’s his term. He even compared you to that Texas cheerleader’s mom. The woman who tried to open a spot on the squad for her daughter by killing another girl’s mother?”

“I know who you meant,” I said testily. “I don’t live under a rock.”

“Touchy,” Ben smirked.

“I can’t believe that jerk is on the force. That
my
tax dollars pay for the car he drives to Laurel’s every night.” I sputtered. “The man is drunk on his own power and the myth of his charm.”

“Thank you, Dr. Laura,” Ben chuckled. “A thumbnail sketch of the perfect politician. I’d love to see you tell Priest that to his face.”