Dead on the Vine: (Violet Vineyard Murder Mysteries #1 (A Cozy Mystery)) (28 page)

“I don’t believe Michelle killed Kevin. Not on her own,” I started in again. “And I think she might have helped Laurel cover up Winter’s death.”

“Buford Logan killed Winter,” Hunter said. “I thought Laurel was involved. Parents kill their kids more than you’d like to know. But my theory, and my credibility, went out the window when Ben caught Buford. Buford confessed to snatching and killing Winter. He took us to the body.” Hunter sipped his scotch.

I started to speak and Hunter held up a hand. “They found clothing identified as Winter’s and blood and hair samples that were consistent with Winter. By then, Ben had taken over the case and I had bought a case of scotch.” Hunter grinned lopsidedly.

“You headed the case until then?”

“I was off the case and retired before Buford was caught. But Ben kept me posted. Ben wrapped it up nice and neat. Good cop.” He gulped the last of his scotch and poured another. A double. Already his eyes looked dewy.

“I heard that a Sheriff’s deputy had an affair with Laurel during the investigation? Was it Doug Priest?” I had asked Ben and he wouldn’t tell me, maybe Hunter would? That was the next link in the chain, Laurel’s friend in the department. I was sure it was Priest.

“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” Hunter said, scratching at his chin. “Your daughter’s off the hook. Kevin, Laurel, Winter, and Jenna Valdez are none of my business. And none of yours.” His words were getting mushy around the edges. He poured himself another drink. “Let the cops do what they’re paid to do.”

“I’ve already tried that,” I said. I stood and slung my purse over my shoulder. “It got me nowhere. Thanks for the drink. I’ll show myself out.” I was sorry to have stirred up painful memories for Hunt, but, I was sorrier for Kevin. And I was going to keep stirring up memories until I knew the truth!

“Come back anytime.” Hunter drawled.

“Maybe I will,” I said, trying to end the visit on a pleasant note. The words came out stiff as boards.

I left Hunter sipping his scotch. I hadn’t really learned anything new from Hunt, except that everyone involved with this case was determined to keep me in the dark, but I was starting to believe in Kevin’s conspiracy theory. Maybe there had been a cover up of Winter’s murder, as crazy as it sounded.

Victor called while I was still gathering myself together.

“Claire, Steve is here doing an inventory for the insurance claim.”

“Great,” I said, hating the tremble that infected my voice.

“Not great,” Victor said. “We’re having some problems with pricing.”

“Problems?” I said, and my voice was tremble-free. Funny how fiscal problems can erase any emotion from love to rage. “I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

Victor was standing at Samson’s desk with my insurance agent, Steven Hearst, Jr. Steven’s father had sold crop insurance in the valley for thirty years before turning the business over to his son. Steven Sr. was a bluff, good-natured, meat and potatoes kind of guy with a hearty laugh and a good-old-boy mentality. Steven Jr. took after his mother. He was thin and stoop-shouldered with a shock of lank brown hair and the annoying habit of tapping his pen against his front teeth. He was doing that as he slowly turned over wine bottle labels stained red, many with bits of green or clear glass still stuck to the back. Neither Victor nor Steven noticed me approaching.

“There’s no way of knowing whether these bottles were full or empty when they were broken,” Steven said, shaking his head dolefully. He had his back to me, unaware that I was there. What he said sent my temper flaring.

“I’m not in the habit of keeping empty bottles in the cellar,” I said, and Steven almost jumped out of his skin.

“Mrs. de Montagne,” he said, swallowing hard. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

“A loss that is fully insured,” I pointed out icily. “A loss which I expect to be compensated for.”

“Of course, of course,” he said, chewing on his pen now and looking nervously from me to Victor. “It’s not me, you understand. It’s the agency.” He turned and flipped through the stack of labels. “Nothing really outrageous here, though. Some Champagne that’s a bit pricey,” he tapped a label for 1995 Louis Roederer with his pen, “and some of the Burgundy,” he held up a label for a 1965 La Romanee Burgundy and my heart almost broke. I had bought the bottle in a mixed case at auction ten years ago and planned to drink it on some special occasion. None had ever seemed special enough. Now it was gone.

“What’s the list on this now?” he asked, his voice dripping worry.

“I’d have to check, but somewhere close to fifteen-hundred,” I replied.

“They stuck pretty close to the front door,” Victor said, trying to cheer me up. “Grabbed bottles at random, mostly new vintages. Stuff you can replace. Looks like they were in a hurry.” That was some comfort.

“That’s the only really high-dollar bottle,” he said, flipping through the rest of the stack of labels. Hs fingers were already stained purple. “The rest is pricey, but not outrageous. Probably ten-thousand, total. Have to check prices and get back with you.”

“So, you’ll pay fair value?
Full
value?”

“I’ll submit the forms and the company will let us know,” he shrugged and fidgeted. “The bottling equipment is totaled. I’ll check prices for new machines and send you some quotes. The casks,” he said, looking at the stack of four wooden barrels with their fronts bashed in, “will be valued by contents and the barrel themselves. All of this is subject to negotiation, of course.” He wouldn’t meet my eyes. He stared at the labels, the casks, the damaged machinery.

“So, maybe I should hire an attorney.” I said. “And find a new agent.”

That brought his head up. “What? No need for that, Mrs. de Montagne! You’re a valued customer and I promise you I’ll handle everything. I gave Victor a check for the van. Not much, just four-thousand, but it was ten years old.” His brown eyes were on me now. Who could stay angry with a man who looked like an overgrown puppy? Besides, I was in a hurry.

“All right then,” I said with a sigh and a look that let him know he wasn’t off the hook. “Tell your father I said hello.”

“I’ll do that,” he said, smile turned up to ten. “One more question for you, though. Do you have any idea who did this?”

I looked at Victor and he looked at me.

“No,” I told Steven, “but I hope to find out.”

He nodded, tapping his pen on his two front teeth. “I was so sorry to hear about Samson. He’s an icon. Is he okay?”

“An anachronism would be closer to the truth. He’ll be fine. As long as he doesn’t get worked up over the insurance claim,” I said pointedly. “I think we should keep that between us.”

Steven looked concerned. Samson’s temper was legendary. He started to say something, then stopped. “Well,” he said, turning to Victor, “let’s go over the numbers?”

“Just a second,” Victor said, pulling me to the door by my elbow. We stepped out into the sunshine of another perfect day. The wine train whistle wailed in the distance and I wondered what winery they were stopping at today? And once again I was glad I didn’t offer public tastings. It takes up too much time for too little return.

“I’ve got a date tonight, so you might want to stick around just in case,” Victor told me.

“I’ll see you in the morning,” I said, stifling a yawn, though it was barely 5:00. Victor went back to Steven as I trudged upstairs.

That evening, Jessica and I had a dinner of grilled three-cheese sandwiches with fresh tomatoes and basil. On the side were some of my famous sweet pickles and bagged potato chips. Not very creative, but it was good. I was too tired to do more. And I couldn’t get Winter and Jenna out of my thoughts. Around a mouthful of sandwich, Jessica asked me about the vines, and I told her that last year’s buds were coming in strong. We talked a bit about the weather and the coming season, and the fact that Jessica would be back at work next week, but it was obvious that neither of us was in the mood for conversation. We finished dinner in a comfortable silence. Jessica went to bed after helping me clear the table despite her broken arm. 

At twilight, with my cup filled with coffee and a cigarette burning, I stepped out on the patio. The overhanging wisteria filled the air with purple perfume. The Harlan’s house was dark. It was hard to believe that Kevin was gone while his vines were growing tall and full of promise. I sipped coffee and stared, thinking morbid thoughts, wishing someone was here to talk to. Jessica was in bed, Victor was gone and Samson was in the hospital. I could call Ben and tell him what I had found out, precious little though it was. But he had told me to butt out. I put my cigarette out in the grass, then stuffed the butt into the pack.

The valley below my perch was studded with lights, but there were large pockets of darkness where houses and wineries had not yet intruded. I could imagine how peaceful it would have been here a hundred years ago when there were no lights except from candles and fires. A simpler time.

I shook myself, annoyed with my own lethargy. I could sit here and mope, I decided, or I could get back up and do something. But what? My eyes fell on the Harlan’s converted barn and I had an evil thought. I went back inside and grabbed my key ring. Kevin had given me a key to his home several years before, at the same time I had given him a key to my own cellar. Neighbors investing in trust.  

I crossed the lawn to the Harlan’s back door and tried the key. I have to admit that I was a little apprehensive. What I was doing was illegal. But, I did have a key. Feeling like a cat burglar sneaking in a penthouse window, I stepped into the musty silence of an empty home. Even with the large windows, the room was dark. I half considered going back to Violet and finding a flashlight, then thought ‘what the heck?’ and flipped on the overhead lights.

The living room looked like a cyclone had hit it. The furniture was all gone, but loose newspaper, magazines and litter covered the carpet. Pictures hung at odd angles, mingling with clean white squares where other pictures had been removed. Laurel was gone!

I stepped into the kitchen and turned on that light too. Cabinet doors stood open revealing only a few orphaned plastic plates and cups. Dirty dishes overflowed the sink and an army of wineglasses covered the counter. Laurel had taken only the clean dishes.

I was about to turn off the light when a foil capsule from a wine bottle caught my eye. I stopped and picked it up off the counter. It had a bunch of grapes on one side and the words 2008 V.R. handwritten in gold marker below it. I recognized the foil as Violet Vineyard’s, and the handwriting was Samson’s. I’d recognize his scrawl anywhere. The V.R. stood for Vintner’s Reserve. This capsule had to have come from one of the six bottles Samson had hand-filled and corked for the Lady’s Brunch.

My teeth grated and I saw red. The foil proved that Laurel had vandalized my cellar! It wasn’t possible that she had purchased this bottle. This had to be one of the two bottles I had left behind that day and later stored in my private cellar.

I slipped the foil in my pocket, wishing Priest were here so I could exclaim aha! and wave it under his nose. But, he’d have some ready and logical explanation. I almost couldn’t wait to get back to my cellar and verify that at least one of the two bottles was gone. That would prove, to me at least, that Laurel was the vandal.

I flipped off the kitchen light and went down the hall to the Harlan’s bedroom. I wasn’t nervous anymore. Laurel wasn’t coming back, that was obvious. Scuff marks from moving dollies marred the hallway’s gray plank floor and the corners of the walls were battered and nicked. The movers had been in a careless hurry and I could imagine Laurel shrieking at them to move faster.

In the Harlan’s bedroom, women’s clothing was scattered over the floor and cascaded from every drawer. The closet had been ransacked. A collection of wire hangers hung at drunken angles. A pile of old shoes and three hats were on the beige carpet. The bed was unmade and another pile of shoes was mounded on the wrinkled sheets. The only area that looked undisturbed was the top of a mahogany dresser. Pictures of the Harlan family stood in a neat row. Most of them were shots of Winter with one or both of her parents. A pile of albums sat on the floor beside the dresser, a thin layer of dust coating the top one. I stooped and picked it up and leafed through it. Pictures of Winter smiling in a ski suit. Smiling in a little red and white jumper. Smiling, smiling, smiling. And as I looked my blood ran colder and colder. Dropping the album on the pile, I walked back through the house, spotting pictures of Winter and her parents here and there. By the time I made a full circuit and was back in the bedroom, it was obvious to me that Laurel had left behind
every
picture of her daughter and her husband. What kind of mother could do that?

My stomach felt like it was filled with rocks. I wanted out of the barn and away from the creepy feeling crawling up my spine, but I made myself slow down and look at everything. I would only get one chance.

I went through closets and drawers, even the bathroom medicine cabinet, but found nothing. I thought about the cellar, but the light switch at the top of the stairs made a futile, light-less click. Without a flashlight, I wasn’t going down those pitch-black stairs. After turning off all the lights, I went out the back door, locking it behind me. Full might had settled in. I crossed the lawn to my own property.

“Find anything interesting?” Ben Stoltze asked from the shadow of the wisteria arbor, and I almost jumped out of my skin. He dragged deeply on a cigarette and the glowing ember lit his face a hellish orange. “Breaking and entering, count two,” he said.

“You scared the hell out of me!” I yelped. “What do you think you’re doing?” I wasn’t happy to see Ben, I realized. I wasn’t sure what to believe anymore.

Ben heaved his bulk out of the wooden chair and stepped toward me. Involuntarily, I took a step back.

“That’s what I was about to ask you,” Ben said, stepping too close. I could smell stale cigarettes and the ghost of Old Spice after-shave.

“Just looking around,” I said defensively and shuffle-stepped sideways, giving myself more space.

“Looking for what?” He asked, his voice like gravel from too many cigarettes. My eyes adjusted to the moonlight and I could see his rumpled shirt bulging loosely from his pants. He was unshaven and his face was so deeply lined it looked like a river basin. His eyes were bloodshot and I detected the odor of beer and burgers on his breath. I thought jealously, and ridiculously, that he had been back to Shaky’s without me.

I shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“Find anything?” He asked indifferently and flicked his cigarette out into the lawn. It traced a red arc and hissed as it hit the dewy grass. My mouth popped open to let him have an earful about the non-biodegradable properties of a cigarette’s filter, but I bit off the complaint. I’d pick the butt up in the morning.

“No,” I lied and instantly wondered why I had. I hurried to add, “I noticed she left all of Winter’s pictures behind.” That didn’t prove anything except that she was a rotten human being, but I told him anyway.

Ben grunted at that. “She’s really gone, I guess,” he said and he sounded almost wistful. My jealousy flared again. I couldn’t keep it from showing.

“Disappointed?” I asked, remembering the way he had stared at Laurel that first day when we told her about Kevin.

“Hell no,” he said, brow knitted. “What are you trying to say?” Now he was on the defensive. He ran his fingers through his messy hair. “Spit it out.”

“Nothing,” I said and crossed my arms over my chest.

We stood in silence for a long moment.

Ben turned his eyes on the view of the valley. “Thought it’d make you happy. Mrs. Harlan leaving,” he said, patting his shirt pocket and coming out with a crumpled pack of Winstons. He stuck one in his mouth and lit it. The lighter’s flare revealed even more clearly the fatigue etched in his face. The lighter winked out and all was darkness and shadow again.

“I’d be happier if she hadn’t left so many unanswered questions behind her,” I told him. “There’s coffee inside,” I added, wanting to get out of the chill and out of the dark.