Dead on the Vine: (Violet Vineyard Murder Mysteries #1 (A Cozy Mystery)) (22 page)

“Measured by weight,” Linda said and the pair laughed. Thank God Marjory didn’t hear that or Linda might be missing some teeth.

“A pair of crows,” Samson spat at the floor. “Crows!” I pulled Samson back to Marjory. He was sputtering and cursing, and steam was about to come out of my ears. Marjory was mystified, but I was too angry to enlighten her.

“Calm him down,” I told her and walked away, feeling every eye on me. I held my head proudly. I had nothing to be ashamed of.  I walked around the house to the rear patio and lit a cigarette. Laurel’s day would come, I’d see to that!

The small rear patio opened on a vista of head-trained grape rows, the aisles brilliant green with mustard plants past flowering stage. The dark, ropy rootstock were covered in new growth flowers and leaves, perfectly pruned and arranged. Marjory ran a tight ship, and made some of the Valley’s finest wines. Beyond the rows, the Mayacamas thrust its jagged edge into the twilight sky. Streaks of white could still be seen on the higher slopes where winter never completely gives up. I sipped the earthy Zinfandel and tried to enjoy the view, letting my eyes drift over the landscape as I wondered how early I could politely leave. It had been a mistake coming with Samson, who would probably stay the night if Marjory let him. But, I hadn’t imagined Laurel would come to the party or I would have driven myself here and thus ensured my escape. I stubbed out my cigarette, thought about rejoining the party, then lit another one. That’s when I saw the truck.

It was parked in the shade of a row of almond trees that separated the flatland vineyard planted with Chardonnay from the undulating hills planted with Zinfandel. The truck was a sun-washed red with white lettering on its door. The front end was half caved in, the headlights smashed, grill jutting out in broken strips. I dropped my cigarette and walked up the rows for a closer look.

The faint smell of mustard rose up from green stalks that rubbed my ankles. The setting sun was warm on my back and birds called from the almond trees. But I barely noticed any of that. All I saw were the streaks of off-white paint that marred the crumpled bumper and fenders of the red truck. The same off-white color of my van.

I reached the truck and circled it to inspect the damage. White paint and bare metal gleamed back at me, surrounded by dusty red. The damage was very recent, the metal rust-free. A flattened trail of grass led to the truck from a dirt track that bisected the rows. The truck was a write-off, but the damage to it was nothing compared to my van. This was the truck that had run Jessica off the road, I was certain. How many red farm trucks could have been wrecked in the last two days? And if it was the truck, that proved that Michelle Lawford was the driver. At least to me. Marjory had been desperate to hire a new foreman. She must have hired Michelle, based on my recommendation! I needed to call Ben and let him know about this. And there was no time like the present.

Taking my cell phone from my purse, I called the sheriff’s office and asked for Ben. He was actually in his office!

“Hello, Claire,” Ben said tiredly. “Been meaning to call you back. What’s going on?”

“Sorry to bother you,” I talked as I walked back to the rear patio, explaining about the wrecked truck and its connection to Michelle Lawford. “I think Laurel put Michelle up to it.” I looked uphill at the truck. “I think she might even have killed Kevin for Laurel.” I added as the thought hit me. But, maybe Laurel did it herself. 

Ben hadn’t interrupted while I spoke, but he did now and he sounded irritated. “Well, all I can tell you is that Mrs. Harlan called me wanting a restraining order against Michelle. She claims Michelle is stalking her. So you can put a conspiracy right out of your mind. We’ve arrested Michelle three times for assault. I admit they were all barroom bullshit arrests, but she has a capacity for violence and she’s as nutty as a Snickers.”

“But the truck—“ I said, getting annoyed and discouraged. If Ben didn’t believe me where else could I turn?

“Claire,” Ben abruptly cut me off. “I’m not saying Michelle didn’t run Jessica off the road. Hell, I wouldn’t put it past her. But, if she did, she did it on her own, for her own twisted reasons. Mrs. Harlan says she had an unhealthy fixation on Kevin.”

“I never saw that,” I said testily. And I had worked with the pair, pitching in or asking for help when another pair of hands was needed. Michele had issues, no doubt, but she didn’t seem crazy to me. “What does Michelle say?”

“Nothing. We haven’t been able to track her down,” Ben snapped. “But when I do I’m gonna—“ he stopped and took a deep breath. “I’m sorry, I’m a little wired right now. DA’s got me jumping through hoops. Roger’s private detectives are looking through our files. I’ll be glad to pack it in at the end of the year. On top of that, there’s this girl who I want to take out and she barely knows I exist,” he laughed, but it sounded forced.

This remark seemed inappropriate to the circumstances, but I was flattered anyway. It didn’t make me less annoyed. “She knows you exist, believe me,” I told him. “And she’s flattered. But while this is hanging over my head I can’t think of anything else.”

“You and me both. He sighed. “Tell you what, I’ll send Midge out there to look the truck over. Shouldn’t be a half-hour.”

I thought immediately of Marjory and her guests. Police cars and questions would be a definite party-ender. Marjory would never forgive me.

“Can it wait until tomorrow?” I asked, then explained about the party.

“Tomorrow morning, then,” Ben said. “And quit thinking about Michelle and Laurel. Trust me to do my job and to make sure everyone else does theirs.”

“Okay,” I lied. If Ben wouldn’t follow up my leads, I’d do it myself. What can I say, sitting back and waiting isn’t my style. “Talk to you soon.”

Ben hung up and I sat there, my butt getting cold and sore from the stone flags, thinking about him. I wished he was doing more, but I couldn’t fault him for following his own instincts. ‘After this is over,’ I promised myself, ‘I’m cooking that man dinner.’

“What are you doing out here?” Marjory startled me.

“Marjory!” I jumped six-inches, twisting around so fast I wrenched my back. “Don’t sneak up on me like that!”

She had a glass of wine in her hand and a knowing look on her face. “Who were you talking to that you needed so much privacy? A man, I hope?”

“Ben Stoltze,” I said, stowing my phone.

“Ooh la la!” Marjory chortled. I could tell she was on her fourth or fifth glass of wine. She was swaying and sloshing. “Our ruggedly handsome sheriff.”

“And where is the ruggedly handsome Samson?” I replied.

“Bathroom,” she waved toward the house. “Saw you sitting here and figured it was because that bitch was out there acting like Jackie O.”

“Laurel?”

“Who else? She cries on demand and sucks up sympathy like a dying plant. I wish I had never invited the Harlans, but how was I to know she’d kill Kevin before the party? And Kevin was so sweet.”

“Yes, he was,” I agreed, my eyes wandering back to the wrecked truck. “Someone have an accident?” I asked off-handedly.

“Damned lesbian!” Marjory sloshed wine over the patio railing. She was definitely tipsy. “Michelle, my
former
vineyard foreman. She came in this morning telling me it was stolen, wrecked, and returned! Right!” She eyed the truck, pupils like ice picks. “I let her drive it and she wrecks it then lies about it. And lies badly, to boot. On her first day!” She raised an eyebrow at me. “I won’t even remind you that
you
were the one who recommended her.”

“Thanks,” I said sarcastically. Marjory shrugged magnanimously.

“When did it happen?” I asked.

“Last night. Fired her this morning.”

“The police are looking for her,” I told Marjory. I stood and brushed off the back of my dress.

“The police?” Marjory asked, so I told her what I suspected about Michelle.

I finished and added, “Ben’s sending someone out tomorrow to take fingerprints and look the truck over.”

“You really think Michelle tried to kill Jessica?” Marjory asked and took a swallow of wine. Her eyes above the rim of the glass had that gossip-mongering gleam. I didn’t care.

“At Laurel’s instigation. When the police come tomorrow we’ll know for sure.”

“Watch what you say, Claire,” A woman’s low voice came from behind us. Marjory slopped wine across the stone flags as we both spun around.

Laurel, wearing a viper’s smile, crossed the patio toward us, spike-heels clicking. In the black outfit with her pale skin and dark eyes she looked positively vampiric.

“Spreading slander could get you sued,” she said, raking her eyes over me, smirking. “Your daughter’s a liar. And a murderer.”

I set my wineglass on the railing. Here was my chance to give Laurel the beating she deserved. Unfortunately, that would only make things harder on my daughter.

Laurel continued, eyeing me sadly. “I’m not the one out on bail. I’m not the one sleeping with other people’s husbands. I’m—“

“A murderer,” I finished.

“And a low-class whore,” Marjory added.

Laurel’s eyes flashed on Marjory. “Marjory, Marjory, jolly, old Marjory,” she said with a sad shake of the head. “We all screw for a purpose. Some just look better doing it.” The widow turned her attention to me as Marjory went three shades of red.

I’m surprised you’d even show your face around this crowd,” she said. “All your so-called friends whispering behind your back. Twisting the knife with malicious glee.” She smiled and raised her wineglass in a taunting toast. “Of course, that’s exactly why I came.”

“I’m surprised you have the gall to wear black. You’d look so much better in prison gray,” I replied.

Laurel laughed good-naturedly. “Sweet old Claire, never a harsh—” she began, and that’s when Marjory punched her in the face.

Laurel never saw it coming. And neither did I. One moment she was talking and the next she was spinning away and falling into an untidy black pile. Marjory took a swallow of wine, as she frowned at a small cut on her right hand.

“That felt good,” she said and took another swallow. “Gonna leave a mark, though.”

Laurel sat up. “I’m calling the police,” she said thick-tongued. Her lip was split and already puffy.

“Call them from somewhere else, dear,” Marjory told her. “You’re dripping blood on my patio. I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

“What is this?” Samson came around the corner, stopped and stared at Laurel. “What is this? What has happened?“ he directed his question at me, but Marjory answered.

“Laurel is leaving, Samson. Could you be a dear and ask the security guard out front to escort her?”

“Security?” Samson looked uncertain.

Laurel struggled to her feet. “Don’t bother. I’m leaving. But you haven’t heard the last of this, fatso,” she stomped across the patio to the rear door, gingerly touching her bloody face. She slammed the French door behind her hard enough to rattle glass.

“What is this about?” Samson asked again, twenty decibels louder. “Tell me now.”

“Marjory decked Laurel,” I said. “About five seconds before I was going to.”

“Get me another drink, lover,” Marjory trilled. “And an icepack for my hand.”

I got an icepack from the caterer and rejoined the party, where Marjory busily circulated the story, embellishing it with every retelling. I took the first opportunity to slip out of the pack. It didn’t do me much good. On every side were those who wanted to hear the story for the first time or retell it to those who hadn’t heard it yet.

When dinner was served, I took a seat with Samson and Marjory, who was rehashing the single-punch fistfight for the tenth time, brandishing her bandaged knuckles for emphasis. I rolled my eyes and ordered another glass of wine.

“And tomorrow,” Marjory gloated, “the police will come and find out that Michelle was the one driving that truck, the one she used to try to kill poor Jessica de Montagne.”

“We don’t know that for sure—“ I tried to be diplomatic, mainly to shut Marjory up, but Marjory waved me off.

“Oh, she did it, and the fingerprints will prove it!”

I gave up and let her babble.

The food was excellent. I had a filet of sole with a buttery sauce and baby carrots and a piece of strawberry pie for desert. By the time the dishes were cleared and the first couples hit the dance floor, dusk had shrouded the valley. Party lights popped on and torches were lit. Everyone was drinking and having a great time. Even I was feeling festive, re-visualizing Marjory decking Laurel. I only wished I had done it myself!

“Fireworks! Fireworks!” Marjory yelled as she wove through the crowd, a wineglass in one hand, towing Samson with the other. “Everyone move to the rear lawn! Fireworks!”

En masse, people rose and followed the queen and her jester around the house where the darkness was broken only by pale squares of yellow splashing across the grass from the house’s windows. People laughed and chattered quietly, like the audience at a play before the curtain rises.

Whoosh!
A red light streaked from the ground trailing sparks. It exploded in a cloud of yellow steamers. A blue one followed and then a series of white rockets that turned into violet spirals as they descended. The vineyard was splashed with red, blue and green, a kaleidoscope of color that stuttered and faded at first but then congealed into one bright light as more fireworks flew. All around me people clapped, oohed and aahed, craning their necks.