Dead on the Vine: (Violet Vineyard Murder Mysteries #1 (A Cozy Mystery)) (4 page)

“We’re neighbors,” I told her simply and she nodded without turning to face me. She didn’t say anything for a long moment, but when she spoke again it was in a husky voice so intimate it evoked images of overwrought bedrooms and perfumed air.

“I suppose I should thank you for that,” Laurel said. “For the performance, I mean,” she added, combing her tangled hair with her fingers. “Maybe I should applaud? You are quite the actress, Claire. Holding my hand, comforting me. Holding back the hate to play the role.” Her words bounced off the glass and back at me. “But I suppose that was for Ben.”

For a moment I was too shocked to speak. Laurel had changed from grieving widow to evil witch as quickly as Dracula turns into a bat. But, after years of hating her, I was able to bounce back quickly.

“Ben is an old friend. Nothing more,” I said through my teeth, more for Ben’s sake than mine.

“He is quite the man,” Laurel said, turning to face me. “Quite the man,” she repeated looking at me coolly. “I don’t blame you a bit.”

“Laurel,” I said, breathing deeply to keep control. “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about. And I don’t want to know.”

Laurel sighed and shook her head wearily. “Maybe it’s the shock of Kevin’s death, but I’m
tired
of playing games with you, de Montagne. I know you hate me,” she held up a palm as if I might refute that claim. “And the feeling is completely mutual.”

I fought the urge to cross the room and shove the widow through the window. I could imagine the scene, Ben rushing in with handcuffs. Flashing lights and Miranda warnings. It might have been worth it, but going to jail for beating up my neighbor’s widow would be a sad way to make the newspapers.

“You overestimate your importance to me, Mrs. Harlan,” I said crisply, forcing my most gracious smile. “What you saw was not an act, but genuine emotion. I can’t fault you for not recognizing that since you possess so little of it.” I didn’t give her time to reply. I about-faced and headed for the front door. As I closed it behind me, I heard her low and infuriating laughter.

Ben was standing in the yard absentmindedly rolling a newly sprung rose bud between his fingers. He joined me as I stomped across the yard.

“How’s she doing?” he asked. “She all right?”

“I’m sure she’ll be fine,” I replied shortly. 

Ben gave me a searching look, but said nothing more about Laurel.

“Any ideas, Claire?” He asked, shuffling his feet through the grass as we climbed the hill to my kitchen door. “Kevin mention any problems with anyone?”

“No, but we weren’t that close. What Laurel said is true, to the best of my knowledge. Everyone loved Kevin. He was terribly sweet—“ I had to pause or I would have started crying. “Victor was much closer to him,” I finished.

The white coroner’s van was gone from the back yard, but the detectives were still standing in the row where Kevin’s body had been found. A tall woman with kinky brown hair dressed in a white lab coat had joined them. She was kneeling where Kevin had been found, picking at the grass. There was a stack of paper bags beside her on the clover. She looked up and waved at Ben, who waved back and kept walking.

“Yeah, Victor told me the same thing. Which gets me absolutely nowhere.”

Ben opened the door and followed me into the kitchen. He stopped on the threshold and looked around, taking in the industrial stove and refrigerator and the overwhelming amount of purple. His eyes stopped on a framed photo, a close-up of a grape-stained foot. The foot was mine, a souvenir from my one trip to Burgundy.

“Like purple, huh?” He said, pulling out a chair and easing himself into it.

“Hate it,” I replied with a tight smile. “Coffee?”

“Love it,” he said, smiling genuinely for the first time that day.

“Think she’s involved?” Ben asked in a falsely off-hand manner while I spooned coffee into a filter.

I thought about that for a second. Laurel was a rotten human being, but could she have killed Kevin? And what would be the motive? If she had divorced him she could have forced him to sell the property and been a very wealthy woman. Of course, she’d be even wealthier if he was dead. But beating him to death? No, Laurel would be a poisoner. A sneak killer.

“I don’t know,” I told him, leaving out my speculations.

“Don’t think much of her do you?” He asked, but didn’t give me time to reply. “Any fighting between the two?”

“Of course.” I put the filter in a 1920’s art deco style coffee maker that I had picked up at a flea market. It’s a chrome globe with a red handled spigot that’s as beautiful to look at as it is functional. “All married couples fight.”

“Anything out of the ordinary? Any violence?”

“Not that I know of.” I took two cups down from the cabinet over the sink. They were purple, of course. I set them on the granite countertop, then cocked one hip against the counter, facing Ben. The water began to bubble and spit in the pot. “Remember, they were starting a vineyard. That isn’t cheap or easy.”

“Has it gotten worse lately?” Ben asked, fiddling with a purple bordered note pad I kept on the table.

I shrugged. “Can’t say. Do you think she did it?”
I
sure wouldn’t be surprised. Especially after the psychotic conversation I had just had with her.

Ben blew out a long breath and slumped into the chair with a shrug. “Husband or wife’s always the best bet. Whoever clubbed him meant it to be permanent. He took a hell of a beating.”

I shivered involuntarily.

“Mind if I smoke?” he asked, already reaching into his coat pocket.

“I’ll join you,” I said and took my pack off the table. We both lit up. Ben was smoking Pall Malls, unfiltered. I guessed he wasn’t too worried about tar or nicotine. Not that I was one to make judgments, especially with a cigarette between my lips.

“Do you know what they used?”

“Not yet,” Ben said, leaning back and loosening his tie. My kitchen chair creaked a warning. “Notice anyone hanging around that shouldn’t be? Not just strangers, maybe somebody coming to see Laurel when Kevin isn’t around, or vice versa?”

“No,” I answered. I put his cup under the spigot and opened the tap. “Cream or sugar?”

“Black’s fine.”

I set his cup on a coaster, filled mine and joined him at the table.

“How’s Jessica doing?” Ben asked, changing the subject.

“Jessica is fine. Her choice in men sucks.”

“She’s still seeing Stanley, I hear.”

I smiled bitterly. “I guess you read the report I filed last night.” Ben nodded. “He’s nothing but trouble,” I said.

“It’s a shame they won’t let us make their decisions for them,” Ben agreed with an ironic chuckle. “My youngest has decided he’s gay. Told me last week. I didn’t know what to say. He asked if I still loved him. Of course I do. But I don’t know how to deal with it, that’s for sure.”

“Love him, everything else he has to work out on his own.”

“Yeah,” Ben said, staring into his coffee. “I take a wait and see attitude about more and more things the older I get.”

Just then there was a tapping at the door. It opened before I had a chance to answer. It was the bristly haired young detective.

“I’m going to take a look around the cellar, Ben,” he said without looking at me.

“Okay. Find anything out there?”

“Murder weapon, maybe,” the detective replied tersely. “Rusted-up shovel under that willow tree. Blood on it. Looks fresh. Barnes is bagging it for the lab.” The willow he referred to was one with special memories for me. Winter Harlan had helped me plant it just weeks before her death. It sat twenty feet from the end of the row where Kevin had been found. It seemed both prophetic and depressing that the murder weapon should be found there.

“Keep me posted, Doug,” Ben said. The detective disappeared, pulling the door closed behind him.

“Doug Priest,” Ben said, nodding at the door. “Been on the force a couple of years. Got a degree in Criminal Science and everything. Barnes is his partner. You probably know him. He issued you a couple of speeding tickets when he was in uniform.” Ben grinned at me, and then continued straight-faced, “I’m afraid we’re going to have to go through the cellar, Claire. Can’t be helped.”

“You’re welcome to,” I replied without hesitation. I felt a shiver of fear. Tonight I would arm the burglar alarm, something I’d done only twice since I’d had it installed. But even with that, I knew I’d find it hard to go to sleep. I thought of the pistol I kept in the bedside drawer, but that didn’t drive the fear away. I was almost as appalled by the idea of shooting someone as I was by the idea of getting shot.

Ben stubbed out his cigarette, slurped another mouthful of coffee and stood.

“I better get back to the station,” He said, straightening his hopelessly wrinkled tie.

I walked with him to the door. He stopped on the patio and turned to me.

“It was nice seeing you, Claire. Despite the circumstances. We don’t see much of each other anymore.”

“You spend too much time working,” I answered, smiling. “You need to take a break now and again.”

“Look who’s talking,” he chuckled. “How often do you get off this hill?”

I shrugged. “Too much to do.”

“Ain’t that the truth? Well, see you, Claire.”

Ben walked away, shoulders slumped, head hanging, looking every bit his age. Before he made ten feet the female technician appeared at the head of the rows and trotted over yelling Ben’s name in a surprisingly deep voice. She was slightly built, but tall and wiry with brunette hair chopped off short and a serious face deeply lined, though she couldn’t have been too far out of her twenties. She was wearing a grungy white lab coat and cats-eye glasses with black frames.

Ben waited for her. I should have gone inside, but I couldn’t resist the urge to eavesdrop.

“What’s up, Midge?” he asked. “Taking up jogging?”

“Ha! I’d have to quit smoking and drinking, and that ain’t likely. Dougie wants me to vacuum the whole row. All we’ll get is dirt and leaves. I’d do it, if ten people hadn’t already walked through the scene, but we’d have hell trying to sort the mess out. I did a fifteen foot circle around the body.”

“Detective Priest doesn’t like to be called Dougie,” Ben said with a smirk.

“It’s better than what I call him behind his back. So, what should I do?” She glanced at me, gave me a wink, and looked back at her boss.

“You know better than me, Midge,” Ben said, “So do it. I’ll handle Doug.”

“Roger that,” Midge said, a wicked smile curling her lips. “See you at the station.”

“Get what you find sent to the labs today,” Ben yelled as she trotted away. He noticed me standing there.

“Midge Tidwell,” he said. “Our forensics specialist. A damn fine deputy too.”

“I thought forensic people were doctors?” I asked. “I’ve never heard of one that was a deputy. But that’s probably from watching too much TV.”

“We don’t have that kind of money. Wish we did. All deputies are given basic training in evidence gathering, but Midge has had more training than most. Got an eye for the details, and she doesn’t mind staying late.” He looked at his watch. “Well, gotta go.”

Ben climbed in his car and waved at me again. He backed out of the drive and I went back inside to finish my coffee, thinking about how much I had enjoyed seeing Ben, despite the circumstances. He was right, it was too bad that the old crowd didn’t get together unless we were burying someone.

I poured myself another cup of coffee and lit another cigarette. So much for my promise to cut down to three-a-day. I’d be through the pack by nightfall if I didn’t slow down.

I was feeling restless and out of sorts. When I feel this way I have one remedy: work. Victor and the men were thinning the clusters, so I decided to join them. I slipped on a pair of gardening gloves covered in purple pansies, grabbed a set of pruning shears and headed outside.

They were already through with the first row and were spaced out on the second. I made a cursory inspection of the work as I walked toward Victor. They were doing a good job. Very little foliage had been removed, but the vines had been trimmed down to two flower clusters per shoot and I could see that the renewal spurs would receive enough sun to mature into fruiting canes for next year’s harvest.

A fresh breeze came up from the valley. Coupled with the warmth of the sun on my shoulders and the view of the valley, it revitalized me a bit, but all I had to do was look at the spot where Kevin had been killed and my mood slipped back toward depression. I stopped one row over from Victor, and began to clip.

This was the kind of work I liked, and the main reason that I bought the vineyard in the first place. I am happiest when I am busy in the rows or working in the small vegetable garden on the south side of the house. Flowers have never been that interesting to me, probably because I can’t eat them.

Victor appeared at my elbow as I reached the middle of the row, so absorbed that I didn’t notice him until he spoke.

“Ben gone?” He asked, absent-mindedly rearranging the vines.

“Yes, but the detectives are in the wine cellar.”

“Laurel and Hardy.”

“You don’t like them?” I asked, my hands busy in the vines.

“Don’t like their attitude. They treat Latinos as if they’re illegal aliens. It gets old.”

“Are you okay?” I asked like a mother hen. “I mean, if you want to take the day off, I’ll understand.” I was worried about Victor. He and Kevin had grown close in the last few years, and I know how hard it is for Victor to make friends. He's one of those people who everyone respects and admires, but he’s so serious that people find it hard to nurture a personal connection. Once you get below the surface, however, Victor is one of the funniest men I know. After two glasses of wine he’ll have me rolling on the floor with laughter at his sarcastic remarks.

“I’d rather work,” Victor replied.

For thirty minutes we worked side by side without a word, which is another thing I love about Victor. He doesn’t fill silences with idle prattle.

We had reached the end of the row when Victor asked, “What’s for lunch?”

“Damn it! I forgot about that.” I stopped clipping. Victor has assured me that I’m famous among the field workers around the county for my homemade lunches. I think he says that so I’ll keep cooking instead of offering cold cuts or pizza.

“Pot luck, I guess,” I said. I tucked the clippers into my back pocket, blade down and tugged off my gloves.

“There’s always peanut butter and jelly,” Victor said with a smile and a flash of his normal charm. “On Wonder bread.”

“Not in my house,” I vowed. “I’ll whip up something. Don’t expect too much.”

“Not for me,” he said, sadness sweeping away his smile. “I’m not hungry. But,” he nodded at the three men working one row over, “I told them you’re a fantastic chef, so they’re expecting some gourmet type grub. Perhaps chilled gazpacho, followed by Cornish game hen seared over mesquite and Bananas Foster for desert.”

I laughed despite the gloom of the morning and shook my head as I tucked my gloves in the pocket with the clippers. “If I have to cook, you have to eat. I’ll open a good bottle of wine, maybe a Stag Leap Zinfandel.  We could all use a drink, and I want to taste their new vintage. June’s told me good things about it.”

“Open two bottles,” Victor called after me as I headed for the garden to gather vegetables.