Dead on the Vine: (Violet Vineyard Murder Mysteries #1 (A Cozy Mystery)) (3 page)

The Medical Examiner’s antiseptic-white van was parked on the grass of my back yard. Two technicians in white coats with ‘County of Napa’ shoulder patches embossed with a bunch of grapes were transferring Kevin’s body to a stretcher. Ben was still talking to Victor, but the three Mexican workers were working on the far side of the vineyard, thinning out the flower clusters and cutting away lateral shoots and leaves to provide the clusters with filtered sunlight.  It’s a delicate balance, too much foliage and the grape crop will be reduced significantly while taking on an earthy quality, too little and the grapes will not receive the nutrients they need from the leaves. In addition, it is important to cut back old wood and make space for the new canes that will provide next year’s crop. It takes practice and a trained eye, so I was a little concerned that they had started without Victor. But now wasn’t the time to worry about the vines.

“I’ll get back with you soon,” Ben said to Victor as I approached. Victor nodded, then hurried over to join the workers.

“Ready?” Ben asked me, raising one eyebrow.

“No, but I’m not likely to ever be,” I replied honestly.

“Can’t be helped,” Ben said with a shrug. “Gotta be done.”

I wanted to yell, “Not by me!” but I held my tongue. There was no sense in making this harder. Instead I mentioned the broken lock on the cellar door.

“Victor told me about that. I told Doug to check it out and I’ll have Midge dust for prints.” We walked side by side toward the weathered gray barn with its freshly shingled roof and bright copper window frames. Kevin had refurbished the barn over two years of rain-days and evenings while he planted rootstock and grafted fruiting vines from sunrise to sunset. During that time, Laurel had stayed in a small apartment in Yountville. Money was tight, even though the forty acres Kevin was farming were worth two million dollars on the current market. In Napa the Harlans were considered ‘land poor,’ a condition I was familiar with myself. Every penny I had was tied up in the vines.

A glance around the Harlan’s place revealed the love Kevin felt for this spot. And the sweat he had expended on it. He had planted fifteen acres of cabernet sauvignon five years ago and the young vines in their neatly trellised rows were already reaching maturity. Kevin had laid the stone foundation for his pressing room this summer with help from Victor and Michelle Lawford, a tireless, burly woman with a man’s haircut and mannerisms, who day-labored for the Harlans.  Michelle, better known as Mike the Dyke by the cruel wits in the valley, was one of Stanley Kostyol’s friends, but I didn’t hold that against her. She was as sweet and shy on the inside as she was gruff and tough on the outside. And she knew her vines, which is the highest compliment I can give.

Kevin had hoped to make his own wine in the next year or two, but for the time being he had been selling his crop to Dearborne Vineyards to be used in their medium priced cabernet. The money from Dearborne had allowed Kevin to make much-needed improvements to the vineyard’s drainage. Just last week he had terraced and prepared ten acres of trenches for new vines with a rented backhoe. Kevin had big plans and the ambition and drive to see them through.

What would happen to his work now? Did Laurel have the tenacity or the desire to continue, or would she sell the property? It had been Kevin’s dream to build the winery, to grow the best grapes and devote his life to bottling great wine. Laurel seemed more interested in the status she achieved by being a vineyard owner. I never saw her lift a finger around the winery, unless it was to point out some grievance.

“Hate this part of the job,” Ben muttered as we walked down the narrow stone path that fronted the barn. A heavy growth of hibiscus and roses gave the barn a picture-postcard quality. “Especially after Winter. The Harlans have had a pretty rough time since they moved up here. Hell, that case still keeps me up at night,” Ben added, reminding me of the awful ordeal the couple had endured just over a year ago when their daughter, Winter, was taken from Laurel at gunpoint.

Winter had been a sparkling three-year-old with her mother’s looks and her father’s natural charm. She’d been a sickly child, always down with the flu or some other ailment. But she had spent every minute she could in the fields with her father, brightening all of our lives in the process. Her abductor, a convicted child molester named Buford Logan had been caught two weeks after her abduction, a week before Winter’s badly decomposed body had been found. She had been buried under a partially caved-in bank of the Napa River not far from where Buford worked as an auto mechanic. I recalled that time period with a shudder - the news reports, the televised manhunt and the reward money fundraisers. Kevin and Laurel had been devastated, though Laurel managed to keep her composure better than Kevin. Suddenly I felt guilty as hell for thinking so many snotty things about Laurel. If anything, she deserved sympathy and compassion, not spite.

Ben buttoned his jacket as we stepped on a five-foot by five-foot granite slab that made up the barn’s threshold.

“A damn dirty business,” he said wearily. He used the brass knocker. We waited for a couple of minutes before Laurel opened the door.

We had obviously gotten her out of bed. I was surprised to see that she had slept in her makeup, which isn’t very good for the skin. She was dressed in an ankle-length white cotton gown that covered her from neck to toes and would have been considered modest on a nun. That surprised me; Laurel always dressed in clothing that flatteringly revealed her figure and bordered on lewd. Then I noticed the black fishnet hose poking out of the bottom of the granny gown. An odd ensemble

There was no denying it, Laurel was beautiful. Blonde, five-foot-eight, anorexia thin (the current trend in female beauty) with dark eyes and full lips. She looked fantastic even with her hair in a tangled mess and her eyes ringed with mascara. But, more than beautiful, she was sensual. All of her postures and gestures, even in the most informal of conversations, seemed charged with sexual tension. That had made her no friends among the women in our circle of winemakers, but it had won her admiration and amorous pursuit from the men, married and single alike.

I could see that Ben was struck by Laurel’s beauty. He stood up straighter, squared his shoulders and sucked in his stomach. He probably wasn’t even aware he was doing it. Laurel worked on men’s hormones like the moon works on the ocean, though her gravitational pull centered on only one region of their anatomy, bypassing their brains all together.

Laurel looked at Ben and then turned to me, puzzled and still half asleep. Her eyes narrowed when they hit me. Animosity is hard to hide, and Laurel’s made me extremely uncomfortable at that moment. I shouldn’t have come, I thought. She needs a friend right now, not a feuding neighbor. But, Laurel didn’t have any friends I was aware of. I’d do my best. For Kevin’s sake.

“Mrs. Harlan, I don’t know if you remember me, I’m—”

“I remember you, Ben,” Laurel interrupted. Even her voice was seductive, throaty and soft, though still fuzzy from sleep. She stepped into the doorway and panned her eyes over the front yard. “Is there something wrong?”

“Could we come in, Mrs. Harlan? I need to speak with you,” Ben said gravely.

“Kevin’s not here,” Laurel replied, brow furrowed. “He’s down on the lower terrace,” she explained.

“Yes Ma’am,” Ben replied apologetically. “But could I speak with you for a moment?”

“Of course,” she said, stepping aside. “How rude of me. You’ll have to excuse the house, today is cleaning day so it’s a mess.”

Ben mumbled something in reply. Laurel led the way down a short hall into a huge open area at the back of the barn that was the Harlan’s living/dining room. The barn’s ceiling was insulated with a coated sheeting painted pale blue, but the old hand-hewn beams had not been refinished. The furniture was country-chic with lots of flower print upholstery and mass produced folk art. The kitchen was separated from the living area by an L-shaped bar lined with stools. Chintz covered the windows and wallpaper roses bloomed everywhere.

Ben stood until Laurel and I had taken seats facing each other, me on a long sofa covered in yellow roses and Laurel in a matching armchair, then he sat beside me, hands nervously kneading his knees.

Ben cleared his throat, and looked around the room and out the huge plate glass windows Kevin had installed along the back wall of the barn. The view of Napa valley sprawling below, stark browns and black slopes bleeding into the lush green and brilliant wildflowers of spring, was dazzling. In the far distance I could see the silver shimmer of the Napa River.

“Mrs. Harlan—“

“It’s Laurel, Ben,” she said with a strained smile.

“Laurel,” Ben began self-consciously. “I’m afraid I have some bad news.” He paused. “I’m sorry to tell you this, but Kevin was killed earlier this morning. He was found on Claire’s property.”

Laurel was motionless for a second, then shook her head. “No,” she said. “Not Kevin.”

“He was murdered. I’m very sorry, I know how hard this is,” Ben said in a pained voice.

At that moment I was so uncomfortable I wanted nothing more than to disappear.

“No,” Laurel said in a voice so empty it sounded like a bad recording. “You’re wrong, Ben.” She stood and walked unsteadily to the windows. “He’s down there,” she pointed, “working in the new rows. It must be someone else. One of Mrs. de Montagne’s men.” With every word she sounded more and more like a scared child making up fairy tales about a dead parent actually being shipwrecked or kidnapped.

Ben went to her and squeezed her shoulder. “There’s no doubt that it was Kevin.” Ben looked pleadingly at me. Reluctantly, I rose and joined them.

Laurel was staring down the slope at where Kevin should have been. We could see only the far edge of the freshly plowed terrace and the valley beyond. The rest was blocked by a row of hedges dressed in new leaves.

“Laurel,” I spoke softly. “I’m afraid Ben is right. I saw Kevin this morning. I am
so
sorry.” I didn’t know what else to say.

Laurel put a palm on the glass and shook her head. “Not Kevin,” she whispered and the tears began.

I put my arm around her shoulders. She turned and hugged me tight as sobs wracked her body. Her red-lacquered fingernails dug into my shoulders and her tears were hot on my neck. I held on to her, patting her back and making the little noises you make, and crying right along with her.

“I’ll make coffee,” Ben said and made a hasty retreat.

As Ben hid in the kitchen, I led Laurel to the sofa and sat her down beside me. Between sobs, Laurel moaned Kevin’s name. I did my best to soothe her and by the time Ben was back, a long ten minutes later, with a pair of steaming cups, Laurel was huddled in the corner of the sofa with her knees drawn up and a wad of Kleenex in her hand. All of her seductive qualities and most of her beauty had deserted her. In her grief she was pitiful.

Ben cleared his throat as he put the cups on the coffee table. He sat in the chair Laurel had vacated and leaned toward her, elbows on knees.

“I’m very sorry Mrs. Harlan, but I have questions I have to ask,” Ben began. “It won’t take long, I promise.”

Laurel dabbed at her tears and sniffled before nodding, eyes squeezed tightly shut. “I’ll try, Ben,” she whispered.

Ben nodded. “Can you tell me the last time you saw Kevin?”

“Last night. I went to bed early. Kevin still had things to do. We argued—“ Laurel broke out in fresh tears and hiccoughing sobs. I scooted down the sofa and she grabbed my hand in a strangle hold. She continued after a moment, her already reddened face flushing even deeper. “I said some things…Oh God, I screamed at him, I, I—“ her fingernails cut into my palm and I tried not to wince.

“He never came to bed?” Ben asked after a respectful pause.

Laurel sniffed again and wiped her nose before replying, “I took a sleeping pill. I don’t know, but his side of the bed doesn’t look slept in. He—he might have slept on the sofa—I—I just don’t know!”

“That’s okay. I only have one more question and then I’ll let you rest. Are you aware of anyone that might have profited by your husband’s death? Any enemies?”

“Everyone loved Kevin. Everyone!” She covered her face with her free hand and sobbed. Fresh tears sprang up in my eyes. I pitied her the days to come, the deepening knowledge of loss, the replaying of harsh words spoken. All the recriminations and self-abuse that haunt those left behind.

Ben rose from the armchair, smoothed his slacks and ran his fingers through his hair. “I’m afraid I’ll have to come back tomorrow and ask some more questions, but this should do for now.” Ben looked pointedly at me, but Laurel was still clutching my hand like a lifeline. I didn’t have the heart to break contact.

“I’ll be along in a minute,” I told Ben as I took a tissue from the open box and wiped my eyes. Once again I was glad that I never wear makeup. At this point it would have been pooled around my chin.

“Okay,” Ben thrust his hands in his pockets, nodded at me and disappeared down the hall. I heard the front door close quietly. At the soft ‘click’ of the latch, Laurel looked up at me and I swear I saw cool appraisal in that look, not grief. She squeezed my hand briefly and released it.

“I’m surprised you came with Ben,” She said as she wiped her eyes. She stood, crossed the room and stared out the window, her back to me. “We’re not exactly the best of friends.”