Dead on the Vine: (Violet Vineyard Murder Mysteries #1 (A Cozy Mystery)) (27 page)

“Are you ready, Jessica?” I repeated.

She nodded and waved at Stanley.

“I’m really sorry ‘bout the window, Mrs. D,” he called at my back.

“You will be,” I said snottily and left the room. Let him stew, thinking about jail. That was his future.

Jessica and I stopped by Samson’s room before we left the hospital. He told me, once again, to pick him up tomorrow. I replied that I would if the doctor okayed it. That started a cursing fit. Jessica and I exited during the opening chords of the Perry Mason theme song. We headed back to Violet, Jessica whining about her arm itching under the cast.

I got a coat-hanger and straightened it for Jessica and left her in her room scratching away, cooing with relief. I dug out the phonebook and looked up Hunter Drake’s address. I admit that I was a little nervous about calling Hunt, mainly because I felt like I was going behind Ben’s back. But Ben wasn’t listening to me, what else could I do? Hunter was the only person who had listened to what I had to say about Laurel. And he was about to listen some more, whether he liked it or not. I didn’t call ahead because I was afraid he’d tell me not to come. And he’d be prepared for me. I wanted answers, so the more off balance he was the better.

I yelled up the stairs to Jessica that I’d be gone for a while, then went to the cellar to ask Victor to keep an eye on her. I wasn’t taking any chances with Laurel Harlan. Victor said he’d hang around until I got back and I climbed into Sally and headed for Hunter’s, feeling a little nervous. I hadn’t given Hunter much thought since our meeting; I had been too distracted. But, at the idea of seeing him again, I must admit that my palms went clammy.  Not very dignified for a mature adult.

The drive didn’t take long. Hunter lived in American Canyon, not far from Michelle Lawford’s home, but in a much nicer neighborhood of well-kept ranch houses with large yards and detached garages. Water sprinklers cast rainbows over manicured lawns and blooming flowerbeds. Elms and oaks shaded the wide street. The street was almost deserted at that time of day. I caught a glimpse of a barefooted woman in a pink housedress hanging laundry up in her back yard. Three women in spandex trotted by as I parked at the curb in front of Hunter’s home. The women were trailed by a black and tan dachshund who was panting so hard I worried he would have a heatstroke. The dog gave me a pitiful glance and then hurried on, little legs working double-time. Somewhere a baby bawled, then went silent.

Hunter’s home had pale green siding and red brick wainscoting. A large willow tree dominated the green square of lawn. Small hedges lined the front of the house like soldiers ready to march. A white Chevy with round spots on the doors where decals had been peeled off was parked in the driveway. Probably a city car bought at auction. I walked up the sidewalk to the front door and rang the bell.

Hunter’s mailbox was filled to overflowing. At a glance, it looked like the ‘current resident’ variety. The front door opened and he was standing on the other side of a screen door dressed in crease-less khaki pants and a white T-shirt, leather sandals on his feet. Hunter smiled, a bemused look in his dark blue eyes. Only the flushed skin and rough texture of his nose marred his good looks and hinted at his drinking problem. He had a Mickey Mouse jelly jar glass in his hand, half filled with amber liquid. I could smell whiskey on his breath, but he didn’t look drunk.

“If you’re the Avon lady,” he said with a toothy grin, “I’m more than willing to buy perfume, even if I gotta wear it myself.” He stuck out his hand. “How ya doing Miss de Montagne?”

I laughed. “Hi Hunter,” I said as he pushed the screen door wide. His grip was firm and dry, his hands strong and callused.

“Come on in.” He stepped out of the way. “Coffee’s in the kitchen,” he said, leading the way. He didn’t ask why I was there - in fact he acted as if I was expected.

The ranch house’s narrow foyer opened onto a hallway that ran straight through the house. The living room was on the left, furnished in Bachelor Primitive; a leather sofa, two easy chairs and a big-screen TV. No pictures on the wall. I followed Hunter past two closed doors and a bedroom converted into a home office to a sunny kitchen occupied by a fifties-style red Formica dinette and four matching chairs. The kitchen was spotless, but what caught my attention, what made me stop dead in my tracks, was the view of the backyard through a pair of huge bay windows.

The front yard and the interior of the house were neat and tidy, but didn’t hint at the opulent beauty of the backyard. Azaleas bloomed in five different shades, snapdragons swayed in the breeze and roses dropped petals on the lawn. A goldfish flashed gold and orange in a small pond surrounded by ferns and crowded with white water lilies. I saw two orange trees in full flower and several pink and white crape myrtles. A wisteria loaded with purple flowers filled the far corner of the yard, its ropey vines climbing a wooden privacy fence. If I was a psychiatrist, I could have had a field day analyzing this hidden garden and the prim face that hid it.

“How wonderful!” I gushed.

Hunter shrugged and looked uncomfortable.

“This is incredible!” This was no weekend garden, this was a passion. I stepped closer to the window and noticed that Hunter was building a winding brick walkway. Bricks were stacked in two uneven piles and the sod had been cut in a graceful arc that circled the pond and ended in a concrete patio at the rear stoop. On the patio, several battered steel lawn chairs circled a small mesh-metal table. More flowers filled terra cotta planters. I could imagine sitting there in the cool of the evening having a glass of wine and enjoying the fragrances of the flowers.

“Keeps me busy,” Hunter said dismissively. “You take cream? Sugar?”

“Black’s fine,” I said. He carried two cups to the red table and waited for me to sit down. Gardening skills
and
a gentleman.

I took a sip. “Good coffee.”

“Grind my own beans,” he replied simply, then stared at me until I began to get uncomfortable.

I cleared my throat and he grinned.

“Sorry,” he said. “Old cop habit. Most people can’t handle the silence. They start gushing. Works better on men. What can I help you with?”

“I wanted to ask about Laurel Harlan,” I began, wishing I had a cigarette. I didn’t have to wish long. Hunter’s expression hardened at the mention of her name and he fished a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket.

“Mind if we step out back?” He asked. “Don’t smoke in the house. Not much, anyway.”

“I’d love to!” I said. I followed him, carrying my coffee. He left his coffee on the table, but he didn’t forget his jelly jar.

Bees buzzed among the flowers, competing with the low drone of a hummingbird circling a red plastic feeder.

“Have a seat,” Hunter offered, tucking a cigarette in the corner of his mouth. They were unfiltered, but I didn’t care. My lungs were sobbing with desire.

“Can I have one of those?” I asked, as he slipped the pack into his pocket.

He held out the pack and then lit the cigarette for me. I couldn’t get over the flowers. Maybe I should give up on vegetables and plant some blooms? Then again, you can’t eat snapdragons.

“What do you want to know about Mrs. Harlan?” He asked. “And why?”

“The why is rather involved. Can I ask you a few questions first?”

“Ask,” he said without enthusiasm.

“Do you think Laurel was capable of killing Kevin?”

“Everyone was capable of killing Kevin,” Hunter said. “We’re all innocent until we find a good reason to shoot somebody.” That was a pretty bleak attitude, but I let it pass.

“You know what I mean.”

“Don’t like her much, do you?” he asked with a smirk.

“And you do?” I replied sharply.

Hunter took a moment, like he was deciding how much to tell. “No, I don’t,” he finally said, “Not from the first time I met her. Didn’t like the story she told me about Winter, either.”

“Really?”

“Sounded like bullshit. Her description, for one. Most people get a few details right, but not everything. I mean, they’ll remember the eyes, or maybe the nose or a scar, something distinctive. But as you go along their descriptions get vague. She was just the opposite. When we finally caught Buford he didn’t look much like the sketch. But Laurel identified him.”

“You thought she was lying about Winter?”

“I thought she was lying about how it happened, and where. She said she was at the homeless shelter dropping off clothing, but nobody remembered her. I figured she was with a boyfriend and left the kid alone. Or maybe she was buying drugs and made up a story to cover that. Possibilities are endless.” Hunter lit another cigarette off the butt of the first, leaving the pack on the table.

What Hunter said didn’t exactly surprise me. Jessica had told me Kevin blamed Laurel for Winter’s death. I guessed Kevin had come to the same conclusion Hunter had.

Suddenly I had a moment of absolute clarity, not easy for my sleep-deprived brain, and several pieces of information snapped together. It wasn’t a clear picture, just the corner of a bigger puzzle, but my pulse quickened. That night at my vineyard, Hunter had told me that Kevin was obsessed with Winter’s murder
and
the disappearance of another child. That child
must
have been Jenna Valdez, who could have passed for Winter’s sister. The same Jenna that was enshrined alongside Winter Harlan in Michelle Lawford’s bedroom. And what had Michelle said when she had me cornered in the drainage ditch? “—I covered her up. I took care of her,” or something similar. What had she been talking about? What did she mean ‘covered her up?’  I came to an unexpected conclusion and my breath caught halfway down my throat. What if Kevin hadn’t merely blamed Laurel for Winter’s murder? What if he believed her
responsible?
I looked up from the tabletop to find Hunter watching me with a bemused smile.

“I can see the wheels turning.”

“You told me that Kevin was obsessed with Winter’s death, and with the disappearance of another little girl.” I began, still sorting it out in my head. Hunter nodded, so I continued. “Was her name Jenna Valdez?”

Hunter eyed me speculatively. “That’s right.”

“I understand that Kevin couldn’t, or wouldn’t, identify Winter’s body?”

“Happens more than you think,” Hunter shrugged. “They don’t want to believe. And she’d been out there for a few days. Didn’t look too good.” I got a quick mental image and my stomach rolled. Hunter dragged on his cigarette, squinting as smoke crawled up his face and into his eye. “Where you heading with this, Claire?”

“So, only Laurel identified Winter,” I said. “Is it possible she lied? That the little girl was Jenna Valdez?” Hunter was shaking his head before I even finished.

“You’ve been poking around, huh?” he said, with an edge of annoyance in his voice. That made me defensive and I quickly told him all I had surmised, beginning with the theft of Jessica’s gym bag and ending with the pictures in Michelle’s shrine, and what she had said while holding me at gunpoint. Hunter listened without interruption and soon I was running out of steam. And starting to feel a tiny bit foolish. All I had was a bunch of scraps and a few loose ends. But that’s why I was there with Hunt, to get a professional opinion.

“Think maybe you should leave it to the police?” he said mildly, but I could see he was interested.

“They haven’t done a very good job,” I retorted. “They’ve insisted all along that Laurel’s not involved. But this many coincidences? I think Kevin found out the truth about Winter and Laurel killed him.”

Hunter dragged on his cigarette. “The truth,” he repeated and shook his head. “Pretty strong allegation. From what I read in the paper, the case is closed.”

I was talking before he finished. “I don’t think Michelle Lawford killed Kevin. I was told she was drunk the night he was killed. Too drunk to drive.”

“She confessed. Says so in the Gazette.” Hunter sipped his liquor.

“She’s covering for Laurel. She’ll change her tune in court,” I said, not nearly as certain as I pretended.

Hunter shrugged. “Stranger things have happened.” He sighed again and shook out another cigarette. He offered me the pack and I grabbed one.

“Kevin was as crazy as you. He thought Winter might still be alive,” Hunter said around the cigarette. “I tried to talk some sense into him, but he wasn’t about to listen. He thought Jenna Valdez was the one killed by Buford. Kept insisting it wasn’t his little girl.”

“So you took Laurel’s word over Kevin’s?” I cut in.

Hunter waved that away. “Hell, no. But Winter’s pediatrician, Lincoln Perry, confirmed the ID. Matter of fact, Ben insisted on bringing Perry in because Kevin was so sure the little girl wasn’t Winter. I reminded Kevin of that, but he said Perry barely looked at the corpse. That he turned green and rushed to the bathroom to puke.  Kind of strange for a doctor, but not criminal. Of course, Winter had been out there for days. It wasn’t pretty.” Hunter flicked ash on the bricks. “Hell, even Buford Logan picked Winter’s photo out of the victim’s lineup! So, either everyone is lying, or Kevin’s nuts. You make the call.”

“What are you drinking?” I asked Hunt, sensing that he was getting ready to shut down and block me out. Men are like that. And they get more stubborn the more you push. Besides, I needed a drink to go with the nicotine I was huffing in.

“Scotch. McAllen twelve-year old. You don’t approve?” He asked with a juvenile delinquent smirk.

“I don’t approve of not being offered any,” I replied and he laughed.

“Be right back.”  He disappeared inside but was back a moment later with another jelly jar and the bottle. He filled both glasses.

“Sorry ‘bout the glasses. Don’t entertain much,” he said as I sipped the scotch. It burned a smoky trail down my throat.