Dead on the Vine: (Violet Vineyard Murder Mysteries #1 (A Cozy Mystery)) (16 page)

“Don’t think I won’t!” I told him.

“One thing I’d never accuse you of is withholding an opinion.”

Ben’s laughter died in a cough that sounded like his lungs were shredding. He gasped and wheezed as I watched with concern. “Damn cigarettes,” he said when he had it under control. He cleared his throat, sipped some beer and went on, red-faced and slightly out of breath. “I need to quit smoking. Priest thinks he could be the next Sheriff. I think he’s too young, but other than that he could win. He’s got charm, like you said.”

“A charm with as much depth as the veneer on motel furniture.”  I changed the subject. “Is Laurel Harlan a suspect?”  

Ben shook a cigarette from my pack and lit up. That would help his cough. “Officially, no. No obvious motive. She’d filed for divorce, but Kevin wasn’t contesting it. By all accounts he was relieved it was over.”

“Unofficially?” I persisted.

“She’s numero uno on my list,” Ben admitted. “Spouse always is.” He looked at the clock behind the bar. “It’s getting late, Claire, and we both have to get up early.” I nodded and dropped my cigarettes in my purse. I made no move to leave, sensing that he had something else to say.

“Well,” he said, “you’ve asked a lot of questions—”

“And got very few answers,” I inserted with a small smile

He smiled back, but seemed ill at ease.

“Now, I’ve got a question. When this is over, we still on for lunch?”

I almost laughed out loud. I thought he was about to grill me, but instead he asks for a date. I went through several shades of blush, from flustered-pink to embarrassed-red in ten seconds. My hands went dewy and my heart kicked up. I had felt like this in Shaky’s before. With Roger, on our second date. Better not to think of that.

“Of course,” I said, putting a hand on Ben’s forearm. In Ben’s eyes I saw something that frightened and thrilled me—desire. “You’re not getting out of it that easily, buster.”

Ben grinned and winked at me. “Until then,” he said.

“Until then.”

“Walk you to your car?”

“Sure.” I was aware that we were talking in monosyllables, the ease of earlier conversation having evaporated.

We said goodbye to Shaky, and he made me promise to come back soon, a promise that I would be glad to keep. It’s not often you get a chance to revisit your past.

We walked in silence to the car and Ben opened the door for me.

“Drive safe,” Ben said as he closed the door.

“You too,” I told him, cranking down the window. The smell of dust and green fields filled the car. A farmer’s sachet. The moon had crested and was dipping toward the mountains, painting the mountains a solid shade of smoky-gray.

“I’ll keep you posted,” he called. I nodded and started Sally up.

Ben turned out of Shaky’s right behind me, his headlights bright in my rearview mirror. I left him when I turned off on to Mayacamas and headed home. I watched him pass my cut-off, waving on the off chance he might be looking.

My headlights cut a bright tunnel along the asphalt road enclosed by trees and weed-choked fences. I kept my speed down to a reasonable sixty-five, ten miles over the limit, worn out and sleepy now that my anger and frustration had been replaced with relief that Ben would make sure the real killer would be caught. And he better do it soon if he wanted a date!

My house was a dark cut-out against the paler black sky. Not a single light was shining. The Harlan home was dark too, except for the dim glow of a nightlight brightening a window on the south side. Priest’s car wasn’t there. Maybe Laurel went to his place? New anger welled up inside me at the thought of the pair of them together. I was growing more certain that Laurel had murdered her husband and framed my daughter. Who else could have gotten Jessica’s shoes? And the shovel? Who but a neighbor had that kind of access to my property and home? And who but Laurel had motive? Then she shakes her ass at Priest and my daughter becomes public enemy number one. Men are such idiots! And Ben had the nerve to get irritated about the de Montagnes throwing their weight around!

I had managed to get myself good and mad by the time I parked Sally in the dilapidated shed I call a garage. I stepped out into utter darkness, cursing myself for not leaving on the rear patio light, but that didn’t magically make it come on. I exited the garage, feeling suddenly uneasy. It was too quiet. Living in the mountains I’m used to the quiet of nature, the rustle of animals in the brush, the whir and chirp of insects and the flutter of wings from birds and fruit-bats, but this was an unnatural silence. It was like every animal for a hundred yards was holding its breath. A chill ran up my spine and I stopped dead outside the shed’s open door, my heart kicking up to a disco beat.

I peered into the shadows that draped the house and reached long arms into the brighter, moonlit vineyard. The rows of grapes swayed like feathered ghosts in the cool breeze that was draining down the mountain slope into the valley. My eyes panned down the rows and over the sweep of lawn that ended in a ragged-edged drop-off, then beyond that to the mountainside that cascaded down, covered with scrub brush, trees and boulders, to the yellow and white lights scattered across the valley floor. How many nights had I stood in the darkness and drunk in this view like a healing tonic? Now that same view made me cringe in the dark under the eaves of the garage. I tried to laugh it off, to step toward the house, but my feet remained rooted. Something was wrong, I could feel it.

I’ve always thought that the idea that you can feel someone staring at you is absurd. How can you feel a pair of eyes? Now I wasn’t so sure, because that’s exactly how I felt. Maybe not exactly. It was more a feeling of not being alone, if that’s a feeling at all. The silence reinforced that feeling. The night creatures are only silent when they are disturbed. Maybe the noise from my car had silenced them? But I had cut the engine five minutes ago. By now the sound of insects and rodents should be rising back to its wilderness crescendo.

I let my eyes continue their anxious jitterbug over the barn, the house, the Harlan place, and back to the rows of cabernet. My ears strained so hard for sound that they began to feel hot. Nothing.

The whir and click of insects began to rise again around me. Something scurried down the rocky slope, fast and almost silent. A bobcat? Squirrel? Raccoon? Murderer? I shivered. Was I being paranoid? Had Kevin’s murder shaken me so badly that I was frightened to be in my own backyard? You bet! I won’t even try to deny it.

Well, I couldn’t stand out here forever. Then again, there was no reason to give up caution at this point. The inner argument raged, until the thought came that someone could be sneaking up on me now. If someone was out there, they must have seen me pull into the garage. They would know where I was. That got me going. I was halfway across the lawn, moving at a frightened walk, starting to feel ridiculous, when I heard something behind me. I froze, then turned fast and froze again. A perfect target for a shovel wielding murderer. My eyes fixed on a pocket of shadow at the end of the row where Kevin’s body had been found. The spot was fifty feet away so I couldn’t make out much. And there’s nothing unusual about shadows, but, I thought the sound had come from that direction…and that shadow looked wrong…

“Please, not again,” I breathed, as my heart raced. I tried to explain away what I was seeing. Maybe it’s just my imagination, I thought. Or something left by the workers? My eyes stayed glued to the shadow as my inner alarm jangled. Nothing moved and I was beginning to feel like a scared kid hiding under the bed. Purposefully, heart thudding, breathing fast, I took two steps toward the shadow.

The shadow moved! A shape rose from the ground like a graveyard specter, a black form on a black background. I gasped a frightened, “Oh!” as the shadow turned to face me.

I could see it was a man, tall and trim with dark hair, but I couldn’t make out the features.

“Hey Mrs. de Montagne,” he called in a gravelly rumble. He came toward me, walking at a leisurely pace. I stayed frozen, unsure what to do: run, scream for help or yell “Freeze!” But, he wasn’t acting like a killer. Still, I held my purse by the strap, ready to use it as a club. One thing was for sure, I wasn’t running.

“Who the hell are you, and what are you doing here?” I hollered, trying to sound tough and ready for anything.

“Hunter Drake,” he said. “Former deputy sheriff,” he added as he came closer. “Why am I here? Well, that’s hard to explain.”

He stopped about ten feet off, hands jammed into his jean pockets. He was a little over six-feet tall, trim, about my age with sun-browned skin and dark brows over deeply set eyes. He grinned now, a little sheepishly.

“You must be Claire de Montagne,” he said. He didn’t offer his hand and came no closer.

“You should be more careful, Mr. Drake,” I warned, trying to sound stern while curiosity ate away my fear.  “People get shot trespassing.”

“Sorry about that,” he said with a shrug. “I didn’t want to wake anyone.”

“What are you doing out here?” I asked again, conscious that I was alone with a stranger just thirty feet from the spot where Kevin had been killed. But, as weird as it sounds, I felt no fear. Something about Hunter Drake had struck a calming chord with me. I liked him instantly. Call it woman’s intuition. He was really good looking too. I hate to admit it, but that probably had some influence.

Hunter didn’t answer directly. “They found Kevin Harlan over there?” He asked, nodding back over his shoulder.

“That’s right,” I replied.

“You find the body?”

“My foreman did. Victor.”

“Pretty bad, huh?” He asked, looking me straight in the eye. He had great eyes, even in the dark.

“Yes,” was all I said. All I could say. His question brought the bloody image freshly to mind and I shivered.

“Cold?” Hunter asked and I shook my head. For a moment we stood silently. I cleared my throat and shifted my bag to my shoulder.

“Are you going to tell me what you’re doing here?” I asked again and Hunter laughed.

“Like I said, I don’t really know. I worked Kevin’s daughter’s abduction. When I heard he was murdered it got me thinking. So…I came out here.”

“Got you thinking what?”

“About coincidences,” Hunter said.

“Coincidences? What about them?”

“I don’t believe in ‘em,” he said, looking over his shoulder toward the rows so I could barely hear him. “Two murders in the same family? A year apart?” He shrugged. “Stranger things have happened.”

“I have a coincidence for you,” I told him. “I was just talking with Ben Stoltze and your name came up. And now you’re here.”

Hunter laughed. “You just made me a believer.” He didn’t ask me why or how his name had come up. Most people would have. His failure to ask made me curious. He seemed so calm and collected, not the drunken has-been that I imagined from Ben’s description. Did I mention he was good looking?

“My daughter was arrested for his murder,” I told Hunter.

“She do it?”

“No!” I said indignantly. “Of course not!”

“Did you do it?” He continued.

I stood with my mouth hanging open for a second. “No.” I finally said. “I didn’t.”

“Know who did?” He asked.

“Didn’t you say you were retired?”

Hunter laughed. He had a good laugh. “Guess it hasn’t took.”

“Ben could give you more information than I could. And, he’ll probably tell
you
more than he has
me
,” I added with a touch of annoyance.

Hunter shook his head. “Wouldn’t count on that,” he said. “Ben keeps his opinions to himself. More than’s good for him.”

I didn’t say anything to that. I wanted to ask him about Laurel Harlan and the adulterous cop, and about his forced retirement, but what Ben told me was in confidence. If I asked Hunter those types of questions he would know where the information came from and I could end up losing Ben as a source and as a friend. I couldn’t take that chance. But the question was burning a hole in my head.

“Feel like coffee?” I asked.

“Got anything stronger?”

“Scotch?” I said uneasily. Hunt had a drinking problem and here I was about to serve him liquor. I didn’t see any way of avoiding it without being rude.

“My favorite type of wine,” he said, grinning. “Lead the way.”

Hunt fell into step beside me and we walked to the kitchen door. I was conscious of his eyes roving over me surreptitiously. I was flattered by it, mainly because I was checking him out too. What was happening to me? No men for almost twenty years and tonight drinks and conversation with two. I opened the door with my key and ushered him in.

Hunter’s eyes traveled over the room and his smile grew. “Ya gotta love purple,” he said, eyes sparkling as they fell on me and lingered. Blushing, I ditched my bag on the table and went down the hall to the bar.

“Ice?” I called out.

“Straight from the bottle,” he called back.

I poured two fingers of Glenlivet into two lowball glasses and carried them back to the kitchen. Hunt was already sitting down, legs crossed at the ankles, one arm hooked around the back of his chair. I put his drink down in front of him and sat facing him.

Hunt took a sip and raised his eyebrows. “When you say scotch, you mean it.”

“Glad you like it,” I said as I sipped my own. The fiery liquid burned its way down my throat and warmed me up after the chill of the evening air.

“Hits the spot,” Hunt said, looking into my eyes again. I held the look for a second before looking away. I could feel a heat in my cheeks that had nothing to do with the scotch.

“Known Ben long?” Hunt asked.

“Forever,” I replied. “We went to school together.”

“Must have been a few years behind me,” Hunter said with a nod. “You good friends?” He asked casually, but his meaning wasn’t lost on me.

“Yes,” I said a little too slowly and he looked away. He cleared his throat and fumbled in his jacket pocket, producing a pack of cigarettes. He shook one out and put it between his lips before looking at me again.

“Sorry,” he said, coloring slightly. He started to tuck the cigarette back in the pack.

“You can smoke,” I said, reaching for my purse and taking out my own cigarettes.

“Nicotine and scotch,” Hunt said,” my kinda woman.”

“Pretty skimpy requirements,” I said.

Hunter laughed and leaned across the table to light my cigarette. His coat slipped up his arm and I saw a USMC tattoo on his forearm. He flicked the lighter and I leaned in and inhaled. Hunt smelled of cheap, spicy cologne. He leaned back and lit his own cigarette.

“You have dinner with Ben?” He asked.

I shook my head. “Just a beer at Shaky’s.”

“Shaky’s, where if the grease don’t kill you the owner’s breath might,” Hunt commented, flicking ash into a purple bowl I was using as an ashtray.

I laughed.

“Noticed that picture over there,” Hunt said, nodding at the window ledge behind the sink. “Harlan’s little girl, isn’t it?”

“Winter,” I said sadly. “Kevin took it.”

“Spoke to Kevin a couple weeks ago.” Hunt took drag. “Seemed pretty down. I don’t think he ever got over losing that child.”

“I don’t guess he did,” I agreed. Much of Kevin’s carefree exuberance and lust for life had died with Winter. He had channeled his energy into the vines. “What did you two talk about?”

Hunt looked uncomfortable. He shrugged. “Talked about the case. About Buford and another little girl Kevin thought Buford killed.”

“Another little girl?”

Hunter took a drag before replying. “Gotta understand. Kevin couldn’t let it go. Saw conspiracies. Not unusual for a man to react like that. Hard to accept the fact that your kid died to satisfy some sicko’s lust. That the murder didn’t mean more. Didn’t mean anything.”

“Who was the other little girl?”

“Parental abduction,” Hunter said dismissively. “No connection. But Kevin wouldn’t let it go.”

“He couldn’t, I guess. You know he and Laurel were divorcing,” I said, hoping to draw more out of Hunter than I had Ben.