Dead on the Vine: (Violet Vineyard Murder Mysteries #1 (A Cozy Mystery)) (18 page)

Somehow I managed to get lunch made as the hum of bottling went on below me and Jessica printed shipping labels and called customers. I love to cook, but I felt cheated out of the fun of bottling this small run. How did I become scullery maid? It was Samson’s fault. He had conned me into this two weeks ago with the promise of cheap labor from his protégés. The only consolation was that the lasagna was a hit with everyone. But I probably could have thrown a raw side of beef into the back yard and the men would have been just as happy. Even Jessica joined us at the tables for a few minutes and ate just enough pasta to keep a hummingbird from starving. She was an even bigger hit than the food with Samson’s young students. She acted like she didn’t notice, a quality attractive women have to learn if they want to avoid embarrassment.

Victor ate very little, looking sober and thoughtful. He left a half a plate of lasagna on the table when he went inside to get dressed. Samson wasn’t going to the funeral, no surprise there. The wine had to be bottled! I didn’t bother trying to talk him in to going. I didn’t need the stress. I left him rounding up his pupils, yelling and cursing in Greek. I also left a mess of dirty dishes and open wine bottles. It would have to wait until after the funeral.

I was heading back inside to get changed when Jessica stopped me under the wisteria arbor.

The wisteria was slowly dropping its purple buds, but the air under the arbor was still cloying. Jessica had plucked a bunch of the flowers and was nervously shredding petals as I approached. I stopped beside her and she spoke in a flash flood of nerves.

“I want to go to the funeral. I know I probably shouldn’t, but I feel like I should. I can’t stand the idea of Laurel standing over him, knowing that she didn’t give a damn about him. I want to be there for Kevin, and I don’t care what people say.”

“I think you should go,” I told her simply. I don’t know how Jessica expected me to reply, but I could tell my response shocked her.

“Really?”

“You should go, head held high.”

She stood there a moment, looking pensive, still destroying the wisteria.

“You better get ready,” I prompted her. “I’m leaving in thirty minutes.”

“I just need to change clothes and brush my hair,” she said, bustling ahead of me.

“Thirty minutes!” I yelled after her.

Miraculously, we all made it downstairs, dressed in black like three penguins far from home, in under thirty minutes. We filed out to my Mustang and headed for the First Methodist Church in downtown Napa.

The First Methodist Church is a classic New England style saltbox with a high gabled roof and a boxy bell tower. A wide green lawn and a dozen old oak trees surround it. Behind the church is a small graveyard, well-tended and as picturesque as anything in Maine or New Hampshire. I parked in the brand new asphalt lot beside the church with a couple of dozen other cars and we went inside.

The minister and Kevin’s family sat at the front of the church. Kevin’s closed casket was before them on a dais. I saw Claude and Mozel Harlan, but I didn’t speak to them. I didn’t want to cause a scene, and I had no idea how they might react to Jessica’s presence. Better not to find out. Fortunately, or should I say sadly, they were so engrossed in their grief that none of them noticed our arrival. Aunts, uncles and cousins, many of whom I recognized, were clustered around Claude and Mozel, who looked dumbfounded and shriveled. Only Laurel kept her distance, staying close to the minister, hanging on his every word. We came in right behind Linda Perry who was as well dressed and dumpy as ever. Her husband, Dr. Lincoln Perry, ten years younger and looking sharp in Armani, was with her. He smiled and nodded. Linda sniffed and said my name. Neither of them looked at me, but they took in Jessica with grisly fascination. Everyone wanted a glimpse of the murder suspect.

We took seats in the farthest corner, out of the way and almost out of sight. I waved at a few people I knew as they entered the church, and there was a lot of whispering and curious stares directed at Jessica, who kept her chin up and eyes forward. Slow tears streaked her face. I handed her a tissue and she whispered grateful thanks. The church slowly filled and the service began.

The minister, a young man with long hair, a scraggly goatee and tiny eyes, kept his talk short and to the point, offering comfort and hope to the parents, family and friends without alienating anyone or using the service to convert new parishioners. In all, it took just under a half-hour, then we sang “Rock of Ages” in off-key harmony, and everyone filed out.

Jessica, Victor and I waited until the crowd had dispersed before we stepped out the side door and went to the car. I certainly didn’t want to turn Kevin’s day of mourning into a circus. That would be an insult to his memory and to his parents.

The three of us climbed in the car and I started the engine and turned on the air-conditioner. The day was warm and balmy, without a cloud in the sky. Not the stereotypical funeral gloom. The silence inside the car was as oppressive as the heat while we waited for the air blowing from Sally’s vents to turn cold. It takes a while for the old girl to get it going. Victor finally broke the quiet.

“So,” he began reluctantly, “should we go to the cemetery?”

I looked at Jessica.

“I don’t want to,” she said, dabbing at her eyes. “But I will.” She looked the question at me then cocked her head to see Victor in the back seat. He shook his head and then shrugged.

“Let’s just go home,” I said, emotionally and physically drained. I had seen Kevin’s body, his head half caved in, dead eyes staring, and I had watched my daughter being arrested for the crime. All I wanted to do was escape. Neither Jessica nor Victor objected, so I assumed we were in agreement. I backed Sally into the street as the members of the funeral procession returned to their cars. We were gone before any of them had started their engines.

All was silent at Violet when we arrived back a little after 4:00. The tables I had set up under the almond trees were still there, littered with refuse and dirty plates, but there wasn’t a sign of Samson’s protégés. Samson greeted us at the cellar door, his face beaded with sweat, tie askew and splotched with wine, shirt and pants rumpled. He had a glass of wine in his hand and a satisfied smile on his face.

“There is it,” he said, pointing to a spot inside the door that I couldn’t see.  “Violet Vintners’ Reserve, the finest wine in the valley, I dare them to say otherwise!”

“Dare who?” Victor asked with the trace of a smile.

“Them,” Samson made a broad gesture with his wine glass, taking in the entire valley and parts of San Francisco. “Them!”

“Fantastic,” I said. After the funeral, I needed some good news. “You sent the students home with their wine?”

“I sent them home, to drink and to think. They learned much,” Samson said. He took a sip of wine and smacked his lips. “Food of the Gods,” he said and took another sip.

“I guess UPS made its late pickup?” Jessica asked, edging past Samson and into the cellar.

“They threw it in the back of the van,” Samson snorted. “I told the cretin ‘be gentle,’ but he knows not the word. I load them myself, in the end. But he will take them off the same way! No appreciation.” He shook his head and sipped his wine as the sun beat down on the back of my neck.

“Forty cases go out tomorrow, ten more we’ll hold for customer pick-up and that’s it,” Jessica said. “I’m going to go shower and change,” she added before disappearing inside.

“Great,” I said, imagining the checks rolling in. If I was lucky, they might just cover the bills.  I’d have to go over the accounts and plan the budget for the next season, a chore I was dreading. But another chore suddenly intruded in the form of Samson.

“I told the men that we would clean the machines,” Samson said with a smirk. “Actually, I told them that
you
would clean the machines.  I would help, but tonight I have a date.”

“Excuse me?” I said as Samson stepped into the cellar. I followed my foreman inside. Samson went to his chair, grabbed his jacket and shrugged into it.

“You have done nothing else,” Samson said, picking up his wineglass and finishing off the cabernet. “I work and you? You do whatever it is you do. Tonight, you work and I have fun!” He stepped around me and headed for the door, where Victor was leaning against the doorframe.

“Step aside!” Samson warned Victor imperiously.

Victor bowed him through the door. “Try to keep it in your pants. You old guys gotta be careful.”

“Victor!” I exclaimed, but Samson cackled.

“Oh,” Samson said as he crossed the patio, “I almost forgot. The corker is jammed. I finish the last case by hand. It must be cleared.”

I knew what that meant; a sticky mess of wine and splintered cork waiting to be cleaned up.

“Jammed?” I said. “Jammed?”  But he was already gone.  I turned to Victor.  He grinned at me. 

“I don’t see why you’re smiling,” I snapped. “You’re going to help me clean it up.”

Victor pushed himself off the doorframe. “No can do. Got me a date, too.”

“Wait a minute. I have to do this all by myself?” I was sickened by the whine in my voice. “That’s not fair!” I almost stomped my foot and pitched a fit. Very mature, I know.

Outside I heard Samson’s old Jeep rattle to life.

“And that’s why you make the big bucks,” Victor said as he turned and stepped outside. I followed him as far as the door.

“You’re kidding, right?” I begged. He didn’t look back.

“Nope.” He waved at Samson, who revved his Jeep and peeled off, kicking up gravel.

Victor climbed into his truck. I just looked at him, hands on my hips. “This isn’t fair,” I said, but nobody was listening.

Victor backed out and was gone. I closed and locked the cellar door and surveyed the shattered corks, foil capsules and wine puddles littering the floor. The stainless steel machines looked grungy and sticky. Open packing cases, foam beads, long streamers of packing tape and a shattered bottle of cabernet made the cellar look like the aftermath of a New Year’s Eve party. I groaned, tempted to just lie down and not get up. Instead, I dragged myself upstairs to get undressed and re-dressed in worn out jeans and a T-shirt. To top it all off, I still had the tables and dishes outside to clean up.

Why do I always get stuck with the mess?

I swept the floor and blotted up the spilled wine and then trudged upstairs to the kitchen for a quick cup of coffee before starting on the machines. Jessica was out of the shower and was ferrying dirty dishes from the tables outside to the kitchen sink. She came in, laden with lasagna-splattered plates and forks, as I plugged in the coffee maker and reached for my pack of Marlboro Ultralights.

“Lazy,” she said as she placed the dishes in the sink in a messy jumble, forks and knives sandwiched between the plates causing the whole stack to sway and lurch. I shrugged and lit my cigarette, settling wearily into a chair.

“And you are a lifesaver,” I told her, blowing a plume of smoke at the ceiling.

“That’s a really disgusting habit,” she added as she stopped beside me and reached for the open pack. “And I think I’ll join you, this once.” Expertly, she shook out a cigarette and put it to her lips. She lit up and inhaled.

“I didn’t know you smoked,” I said, trying vainly to hide my disapproval.

Jessica shrugged. “Sometimes. I don’t make it a habit.
That’s
disgusting.”

“I don’t smoke that much,” I said defensively, puffing away.

“You smoke every day.”

“Yes, I do.”

“That’s called a habit. Psychology 101.”

“Thank you, Doctor. For the cleanup help, not the diagnosis.”

“You’re welcome for both,” Jessica said, her head wreathed in smoke. “That was the last of the dishes. I’ll rinse them and load the dishwasher.”

I glanced at the swaying pile, the dirty pots and pans on the counter. “Probably three loads there.”

“Don’t remind me.”

“Samson and Victor took off, so I’ve got the machinery and the cellar to clean. I’ll probably be at it all night.”

“I’ll help,” Jessica said. She stubbed out her cigarette only a quarter smoked.

“You are my savior,” I told her as I went to the coffeepot. I filled my cup and offered Jess some.

“I indulge in one disgusting vice a day, thank you,” she said haughtily. “Now, out of the way.”

I stepped aside, put creamer in my coffee and sat back down. ‘Oh, what the hell,’ I thought and shook another cigarette out and lit up.

“Tsk, tsk,” Jessica said without turning from the sink. “Such willpower.”

I ignored her. Outside the sun was dipping toward the western mountain. It would be dark soon, and I had a lot to do. Not to mention that I was determined to talk to Jessica about Kevin and all the things she had kept from me. I had hopes that the talk would go well, Jessica was in better spirits today than she had been in months. That surprised me, but then again, it was closure to the relationship, final and irrevocable, and maybe that’s what she needed.

But, did she need closure bad enough to kill Kevin? The thought slammed into me at a hundred miles an hour and made me shiver. I glanced at my daughter, transferring dishes from the sink to the dishwasher. No way. Jessica was not capable of beating someone to death with a shovel. I would never believe that.

“You did great at the service today,” I told her. Her shoulders tensed and she didn’t say anything. “It must have been hard for you.”

“It wasn’t easy,” she said without turning. “I’m going to miss him.”

“We all will.”

Jessica sighed, turned off the water and dried her hands. She sat across from me, took another cigarette and lit it.

“I guess you want to talk about all of that,” she said, looking at the table. “It’s been over for months. God, it seems like years ago.”

“Is that why you’ve been so depressed?”

Jessica thought about it for a moment then nodded slowly. “That and Stanley. It was weird. Stanley loved me, I loved Kevin and Kevin was with Laurel. Like something out of a cheap romance novel. Every time I saw Stanley I felt guilty. Every time I saw Kevin I felt depressed. And every time I saw Laurel I was pissed. Not good for the self-esteem.”

“It must have been awful,” I said.

“Worse. But things got better. After I told Stanley about it, confessed, I guess, and told him we were over, it felt like a weight had been lifted. I still cared about Kevin, but I was too emotionally drained to feel much for anyone. And then he was murdered.” She stopped there. “I think I’ll have some coffee now.” She stood and got a cup from the cupboard, a purple cup, of course.

“Is there any Glenlivet on the bar?” she asked, setting her cup on the table.

“You bet. But didn’t you say ‘One vice a day?’” 

“Today is different,” she told me over her shoulder. She came back in a moment with the bottle. She poured some scotch in her cup then looked a question at me. I held my half-empty cup out and she added a dollop of scotch.

“That’s better,” she said after the first sip. Jessica continued. “My feelings were mixed up after that. I had hoped I was over Kevin, but …I don’t know, maybe I thought that someday he would come back to me, but after his murder…well, I knew it was really over. And then I started feeling guilty again.”

“Guilty? For what?” I asked, afraid she was about to tell me she was involved in Kevin’s death. Then Stanley’s name popped into my head. Certainly she wouldn’t cover up a murder for her abusive ex?

“Jeez, Mom, calm down. I did
not
kill Kevin.”

“I didn’t think you did.”

“I saw the look on your face,” she smiled wryly over her cup. “You looked like a cornered rat.”

“Such a charmer,” I replied dryly.

“You know what I meant. I felt guilty because I didn’t feel much of anything. Except maybe relief,” she added. “And that was worse than anything. The man I loved, or thought I loved, was dead and I’m relieved because I won’t have to deal with hurt feelings? What kind of person does that make me? Don’t answer that.”

“I’d say a normal one. What you felt was absolutely normal. It’s like having a terminally ill relative, only you had a relationship on life support. When the relative finally dies, relief is mixed in with the grief. Relief that the worst has happened and you can deal with it and move on. It doesn’t mean you loved him any less.”

“It doesn’t seem like the same thing,” Jessica said, “but it makes sense, in a strange way.”

“That’s me, sensible in a strange way.”

Jessica laughed a little sadly. “I guess I’ll survive this, but right now I just feel empty. I don’t know what I want to do, and with this hanging over me, well…”

“No need to make big decisions right now,” I assured her. “After the police come to their senses and drop the charges—”

“Do you really think they will?” She interrupted.

“Yes,” I said with more sureness than I felt. “The truth will come out. It always does.” If only I could believe that.

“And then, that bitch,” Jessica slid her eyes in the direction of the Harlan’s, “will get what she deserves.”

“Speaking of that,” I began, fiddling with my cup so I wouldn’t have to meet Jess’s eyes. “Did she know about you and Kevin? Before she found the letters?”

“Found?!” Jessica bellowed. “Found? That bitch didn’t find them, she stole them! I never sent those letters. They were in my gym bag when it was stolen from my car.”

My mouth flopped open with surprise, which probably seems ridiculous. I had no trouble believing Laurel killed her husband, but I was shocked that she had broken into Jessica’s car. “You think she broke into your car to get the letters?”

Jessica made a jerky shrug. “I don’t know why she stole my bag. She couldn’t have known there were letters in it, but how else could she have gotten them?”

I nodded and sipped my coffee, picturing Laurel skulking along the road, bashing in Jessica’s window, grabbing the bag and running for it. In my mental picture she was dressed in the same black crepe and heels she had worn to the funeral, not typical burglar attire. It almost made me laugh. I checked myself with a look at my daughter’s grim expression.

“My shoes too,” Jessica reminded me. “They were in the bag. She must have planted them in the cellar. She knew all along she was going to frame me.”

“Revenge,” I said, nodding stupidly.

“On both of us,” Jessica nodded back. “Me and Kevin.”

I got up and poured more coffee. I’d have to call Ben with this little tidbit.

“So, do you think that’s why she killed Kevin? Revenge?” That didn’t make much sense if she was divorcing him.

Jessica shrugged again, and her expression turned thoughtful. She picked at her nails, chipping off pieces of pale pink gloss.

“I think there was more to it,” she said finally. She dropped her hands in her lap and took another sip of coffee. She added more scotch to her cup, filling it to the rim. “Kevin blamed her for Winter.”