Dead on the Vine: (Violet Vineyard Murder Mysteries #1 (A Cozy Mystery)) (5 page)

I didn’t know what I’d be making for lunch, but I knew it was going to be heavy on tomatoes. I had started the plants in the barn in January and moved them outside as soon as I dared. Now I had tomatoes coming out of my ears. The garden isn’t very large - a small plot of herbs and a twenty by twenty plot of salad greens, onions, tomatoes, peppers and cucumbers with a quarter row of zucchini thrown in - but it was almost more than I could handle. Believe me, when you’re running a vineyard and trying to keep expenses down you stay very busy. And very tired. But when I cut into a juicy tomato or pepper it’s worth all the work.

Speaking of work, I made a mental note to make time to pull weeds in the next couple of days. The thought of an afternoon on my knees in the garden made me groan. I had to remind myself how good the tomatoes were going to taste.

I grabbed one of the plastic boxes that we use to transport the grapes from the vines to the gondolas, and filled it with tomatoes, a pair of green bell peppers that looked fantastic, and a yellow onion that was kind of runty. From the herb garden (calling it a garden is charitable, it’s more of an herb thicket) I picked a handful of thyme, a bunch of parsley, some oregano and basil. I carried the lunch supplies to the kitchen, reveling in the smells of the fresh herbs and bell peppers wafting up from the box.  I was on the back steps when I spotted Michelle Lawford, Kevin’s hired helper, standing at the edge of Kevin’s rows. She was staring out into the valley looking alone and forlorn. But she always did.

              Though Michelle was a very sweet woman. I liked her as much for her parentage as for herself. Michelle’s father, Josh, had been in my class at Napa, and Michelle was almost the image of Josh. He had been a fire-hydrant shaped giant of a boy who played defensive tackle in a bungling but extremely serious way. What I remember most about him was that he had the gentlest eyes, always half hidden by a cantilever of messy brown hair.  We’d been in 4-H together, where he’d rarely spoken, and when he did he’d watch his feet and stumble over the words. A shy smile and a wave was the most you could have hoped for, but he’d been well liked by everyone that knew him. He had married a woman twice his age just weeks after our high school graduation, scandalizing the valley.

Josh’s wife owned a horse farm high in the Mayacamas, in the wildest part of tangled scrub and slag-shale slopes. People said that Josh married the farm, not his wife, but the few times I had run into the shy couple they had seemed well suited and happy. They were both gone, as was the farm. The farm was the victim of the Lawford’s self-imposed isolation. They were deeply in debt by the time they were killed in a prop-plane crash on their way to a horse auction in Montana. Michelle had been forced to sell, but she’d never left the valley. She had been working part-time with Kevin for the last three years, a somber but smiling presence. At least she had been in the year before Winter’s abduction. Lately a sad and haunted look had been the norm.

I set the box down on the stones, waved at Michelle and crossed the yard to her, my tennis shoes squeaking in the dewy grass. She watched me with a flickering, nervous glance. I smiled at her and she smiled back and stuffed her callused hands into the pockets of her plaid jacket. Her round face was tear-wet.

“Hi, Michelle,” I said.  “You okay?”

“Hey, Mrs. de Montagne,” she said. “Yeah, I’m okay.” She looked down slope, toward my rows where Victor had just cranked up the Rototiller and was working it between the rootstock. “Victor should let the tiller bite a little deeper.”

“You’ve been listening to Samson,” I laughed.

“Always,” she replied seriously.

“You poor child,” I said and laughed again, but quit when Michelle didn’t join me.

“Samson knows,” Michelle said.

“Not as much as he believes,” I corrected. “But he is a genius, so we’ll cut him some slack.”

Michelle grinned and nodded.  “He is a little nuts.”

“How is Laurel?” I asked, knowing that Michelle had a friendly relationship with Kevin’s wife. Laurel treated Michelle like a pet, and Michelle reciprocated by heeling like a dog whenever Laurel spoke. Rumor was that Michelle was in love, or at least lust, with Laurel. Whether true or not, that was not my business.

“Mrs. Harlan is resting,” she said, throwing a nervous glance at the converted barn. “She was crying and throwing things—” Michelle sucked in a breath and stopped talking.

“That’s to be expected,” I said, reassuringly, though my sympathy was for Michelle, not Laurel. “Kevin put in a lot of work here,” I said, letting my eyes wander the freshly planted rows. Michelle nodded but didn’t add anything, and I searched for something else to say. We were interrupted by Laurel Harlan who poked her head out the rear door and called Michelle like you would call a stray puppy. Michelle bobbed her head at me and hurried to her patroness. The pair disappeared inside. I went back to the kitchen. It struck me again that Kevin was gone, that I would never see him again. Never call early morning greetings across the rows. Never share worries when the forecast predicted frost or a heat wave. I tried to shake those thoughts off with work.

After unloading the vegetables, I headed for the Sub-Zero refrigerator that the banker had been thoughtful enough to build into the kitchen, praying that I had some Italian sausages in the freezer. I was in luck - there were two sausages wrapped in aluminum foil. I took them out of the foil, wrapped them in a couple of paper towels and put them in the microwave on low-defrost. While the microwave hummed, I washed the vegetables and chopped the onion and bell pepper into a ¼ inch dice, then peeled and smashed a couple of cloves of garlic. In a frying pan I heated extra virgin olive oil, then cut the tops off five of the tomatoes and hollowed them out, removing the flesh and seeds.

Already the smell of the sausage thawing had my mouth watering, and I wished that it wasn’t too early for a glass of wine. ‘Oh, what the hell!’ I thought and pulled a bottle of Stag Leap Zinfandel from the wine rack in the coolest corner of the kitchen. I popped the cork and let the wine breathe while I took the sausage out of the microwave. The oil was hot in the pan so I tossed in the onion, garlic and peppers and poured a glass of the Zinfandel as the vegetables sizzled.

The wine was excellent, full bodied with marvelous fruit flavors. The aroma was pleasant, without the heavy oak flavor I had noticed in earlier vintages. I crumbled four pieces of bread, made fresh yesterday, and spread them on a piece of wax paper to dry.

By the time I added the sausage to the vegetables I was starting my second glass of wine. It didn’t help push the image of Kevin Harlan hanging dead in my vineyard out of my thoughts. Through the kitchen window I could see the police still searching. I stuffed the tomatoes with the sausage, breadcrumbs and vegetables, covered the tops with thin slices of fresh mozzarella and popped them in the oven.

I was taking the first peek at the stuffed tomatoes, which were bubbling nicely, when detective Priest came in through the wine cellar door.

“Something smells good, Mrs. de Montagne,” he said, closing the door behind him. “Ben gone?” Priest had a brown paper bag in his hand, and a look of sneaky triumph. Up close he was older than I had thought, maybe thirty-one or two, and handsome in a cold, impersonal way. He had dark blue eyes, thick lashes, chiseled features, and perfect, store-bought teeth. His skin was unblemished, hair perfect. He was as pretty as a Ken doll, and as characterless. His tailored blue suit was unwrinkled and dust-free, despite his sojourn through the vineyard and wine cellar. His shoes looked Italian and were probably as expensive as the suit. Priest obviously spent a lot of time and money on his appearance. But where did the money came from? The Napa County Sheriff’s office didn’t pay that well. Not my business.

Despite the fact that I dislike pretty men, Priest’s appearance didn’t affect my opinion of him. But the way his eyes clung to my hips as I turned from the stove made me instantly uncomfortable. I still look good for a fifty-year-old, and I admit to being flattered by an appreciative glance from a younger man, but Priest’s look wasn’t flattering, it was appraising and slightly leering. The kind of look a chronic philanderer gives the new maid.

“Yes, about an hour ago,” I said, stepping away from the stove and picking up my wineglass. “Did you find something?” I asked, glancing at the bag in his hand.

“Maybe,” he replied with a wink. His eyes panned over my kitchen with the same look of appraisal he’d given my body. I would have bet that he could have told me the net value of the entire room’s contents.

“I’ll know after the lab geeks do their job.” He came further into the kitchen and stopped, his eyes on a small abstract painting by Nell Ellison. It was a collage of green, red and blue with the suggestion of fish intertwined. I had bought it years ago at a street fair for a hundred dollars. Since then Nell has achieved a lot of success. I couldn’t afford to buy her work today.

“Nice Ellison. My Dad has two larger pieces. But the color scheme is all wrong for in here.” He chuckled as he turned to me, his eyes panning over the purple curtains, pictures, towels, and miscellany. “Then again, can you call ‘purple’ a color scheme?”

I didn’t find it funny. If he had made a better impression on me I might have laughed politely, but his manner of easy arrogance was getting under my skin.

“I choose art that I love, not as an accent for a sofa or a rug.” I said and turned to the sink. Feeling his eyes on my backside, I began to tear the lettuce into small pieces.

“Um hum,” he said indulgently. “Nice place you have here, pretty expensive, though?” His voice held a question that I ignored. “You de Montagnes are like royalty in this valley. Can’t drive a mile without passing something you own.”

“My maiden name is Falconè, detective. My parents were farmers, and though the de Montagne’s do have money, none of it is mine,” I said without turning.

“Heard that name too. I know a lot about this valley.
A lot.”
He added. “You’d be surprised.”

“Do you know who murdered Kevin?” I rudely asked.

Priest chuckled and I glanced over my shoulder at him. He was still looking at the Ellison. “Working on that,” he said. “You know Harlan very well?”

“Not very,” I replied, piling the cleaned lettuce in a violet bowl.

“How long have you been neighbors?”

“Five years, but his parents owned the property for thirty. It used to be planted with olive and almond trees.”

“You have any problems with the Harlans?”

“No, Kevin was the best neighbor I ever had. He was always ready to lend a hand.” I wasn’t going to say anything ugly about Laurel to Priest. He could meet her and decide for himself.

“He have a girlfriend, boyfriend, anything like that?”

“I didn’t know him that well, but I don’t think so. Kevin wasn’t that type.” For some reasons these questions, which had seemed appropriate when Ben asked them, irked me coming from Priest. I had to remind myself that he was just doing his job. But he didn’t have to enjoy it so much.

He laughed as he crossed the room to the stove and picked up the spatula. “We’re all
that
type,” he said, scraping at the remaining flecks of sausage and peppers clinging to the bottom of the pan. “Given the chance.”  He was standing so close to me I could feel the heat coming off of him. The smell of his cologne was expensively nauseating. He turned and gave me a steady stare that probably made his girlfriends in college swoon. It made me want to gag.

“He never tried anything with you?” The suggestion in his voice wasn’t lost on me. It wouldn’t have been lost on the most backward eight-year-old.

I returned his look with a cold stare, “Are you trying to insult me?” I asked, “Or are you always this crass?”

“Uh huh,” he said with a nod and a knowing smile, as if that decided him about me. “Just questions I have to ask, Mrs. de Montagne. A woman as attractive as you must be used to unwanted advances.”

“You’d be surprised how infrequently that happens,” I replied. “And Kevin certainly never said or did anything rude. More men should follow his example.”

“Just a question,” he repeated, holding his palm out as he backed away. “Has Ben already asked all this?”

“Most of it,” I replied as I spread the tomato wedges on top of the lettuce.

“Then I won’t take up any more of your time.” He turned up the wattage on his smile. “I do need to speak to your daughter, however.” He pulled a small leather bound pad from his jacket pocket and flipped to an inner page. “Jessica,” he read and snapped the book closed.

“Is that absolutely necessary?” I asked, unable to hide my exasperation. “She was asleep when it happened, and she barely knew Kevin.”

“I’m afraid so. Sorry,” Priest said, still smiling.

“Let me get these out of the oven and I’ll call her down,” I told him as I slipped on an oven mitt. The tomatoes’ skins were starting to shrivel and the cheese was bubbly and browned..

“Wow,” he said and I could feel his damp breath on my neck, “those look fantastic. Any chance of a lunch invitation?”

I gave him a fake-polite smile. “I’m sorry, but I wasn’t expecting guests. I made only enough for the men and myself. Next time.” I hoped there never was a next time. I had already seen more of Priest than I cared to.