Dead on the Vine: (Violet Vineyard Murder Mysteries #1 (A Cozy Mystery)) (8 page)

“How are you, Ben?” I asked, slinging my purse over my shoulder. I caught a glimpse of Priest still sitting at the table with the two men, sipping a cup of coffee. Priest was watching me and wearing a smile that made my skin crawl.

“Fine. How’re you holding up?” He asked. His eyes wouldn’t meet mine and his ears were still red at the tips. “That Marjory’s quite the joker,” he said.

“Ignore her,” I said, trying to change the subject.

“Let me walk you to your car,” Ben offered, pushing the door open. Before exiting, he turned toward his table and held up one finger. Priest nodded in reply and Ben followed me out.

“Great,” I said. “I’ve got something for you, anyway.” I had intended to take the leftover bottle of cabernet home and enjoy it later, but Ben was a good friend and his hangdog expression made me want to cheer him up.

The temperature had gotten unseasonably hot while we were eating lunch. The sun was at its highest point, beating down on the faces of the buildings and glaring up from the gray sidewalk. I immediately broke into a sweat, which inspired a longing for a nice cool shower, jeans and a T-shirt.

Ben shuffled along beside me, eyes on the sidewalk, saying nothing as we neared my Mustang. The meter had run out, but just barely.

“Lucky you didn’t get a ticket,” Ben commented as I unlocked the door and dropped my purse on the passenger seat.

“That’s okay,” I laughed as I dug under the seat and grabbed the hand-lettered bottle of Vintner’s Reserve cabernet. “I’ve got connections.” I winked at him as my hand found the bottle. I pulled it out and closed the car door.

“A gift,” I said, handing the bottle to Ben, “not a bribe.”

Ben smiled, but he looked pained. “You might not be in a giving mood after you hear what I have to say.”

My smile evaporated. “What is it, Ben?” I asked.

“Well,” Ben began. “I should let Priest handle this, but he has the impression you don’t like him very much.”

“I don’t like or dislike him,” I told Ben, “I wouldn’t waste my time.”

Ben laughed. “That’s what I thought. Well, there’s no easy way to go about this, so let me just spit it out. I’m gonna need you and Jessica to come in to the office and be fingerprinted. Samson and Victor too.” He watched my expression, looking for a reaction I suppose, but his request didn’t seem out of line to me. After all, the murder
had
happened in my vineyard and Victor
had
found the body.

“Did you find fingerprints on the shovel?” I asked, curious at the progress of the investigation.

Ben nodded slowly. “Some partials and one good palm print. The blood on the blade was Harlan’s.” I shuddered at the image.

“I’ll go over right now if you like. But why would you think that I’d be upset? I don’t have anything to hide.”

“Well, I probably shouldn’t tell you this, but I’ve known you a long time, Claire.” He looked at me intently for a moment, seeming to inspect my face for signs of poor character, then sighed and ran his fingers through his already messy hair. “Saw Stanley Kostyol this morning.”

“Oh,” I said.

“Had a wreck on the freeway. Drunk. He’s in the hospital. Out on bail. His parents don’t have sense enough to let him sit in jail for once,” Ben continued while he looked across the street at an antique store that was spewing junk out its door and across the sidewalk. “Reason I mention this is that Stanley admits to throwing the rock through your window, but he says he saw Jessica in the rows with Kevin. Says they were arguing.”

“What? Jessica and Kevin? Impossible,” I said, shaking my head. “This is just more of Stanley’s crap, Ben. Jessica broke up with him and now he’s trying to hurt her any way he can. I’ll wring that little bas—“

“Claire,” Ben cut me off, holding his hands up, palms out. “I don’t know all the facts, and I’m not accusing Jessica of anything—“

“You know Stanley Kostyol better than I do, and you know what he’s like. He’s a little bas—“

“Calm down, Claire,” Ben cut in again, and he was actually grinning at me as I fumed and spat. “I just need Jessica’s prints, we’ll compare them and that will be the end of it.”

“Have you compared Stanley’s prints?” I asked, as a man in cut-off Levis and ugly rawhide sandals glanced at me, letting me know that I was talking too loud.

“Yeah. No match.” Ben assured me. “Like I said, we can have this cleared up tomorrow afternoon. Our evidence technician, Midge, is out today. How about two o’clock tomorrow?”

“Fine,” I replied, wiping sweat off my forehead with the back of my hand. Not very ladylike, but I didn’t care, I was too irritated with Stanley. Would we never be free of that idiot?

“Want your wine back?” Ben asked.

I had to laugh. “No, but save it for us to drink together. By the time this mess is sorted out I’ll need a drink.”

“You and me both. Well, I better get back there before Priest pisses the DA off. Nothing like lunch with a pair of lawyers to ruin your digestion. Every move we make is a violation of someone’s civil rights. County’s hired a team of lawyers to watch over the department. Waste of money, if you ask me. People will sue no matter what I do.” Ben sighed, and looked back at the door to Bistral, but made no move toward departure.

“You don’t sound too happy in your work, Ben.”

“Ha! That’s an understatement. I’m not running for reelection. Maybe I’ll start making wine, give you some competition.”

“I’ve got enough of that already. But it’s an idea. It’s never too late to change careers.” I was happy to have left the subject of Kevin’s murder behind, and I was enjoying my conversation with Ben. Maybe I was enjoying it a little too much, I thought suddenly. Ben was an attractive man, despite the slight paunch above his belt, with a physical presence that inspired trust mixed with a little boy quality that was endearing. But I’m afraid I was feeling something more than trust and friendship. I was sure he would make some woman a very happy wife when he was ready, but it wouldn't be me. After all, I was a married woman, sort of, and though Roger made a hobby out of cheating on me, I had never broken my vows to him, though I confess I don’t really know why. I guess I had submerged that part of myself in my work, but Ben had me wondering if that was such a good idea.

“Well, I guess I’ll see you tomorrow,” Ben said reluctantly. “How about a cup of coffee sometime? I mean socially, not as the sheriff or anything. Just friends, you know,” he stammered around, sounding as out of practice as I felt. God, it was charming! And flattering.

I blushed. His asking me out, even just for coffee, reminded me of high school, and a younger more vibrant part of my life. And the way he was looking at me and blushing led me to believe he felt the same way. A pair of middle aged folks nervous as school kids. I almost laughed.

“I’d like that,” I replied, my own voice a little quivery. “Maybe lunch?”

“That’s even better. I’ll be looking forward to it. See you, Claire,” he gave me a wave and walked down the sidewalk toward Bistral, dodging a young woman pushing a two-seater stroller occupied by twin baby girls.

“Have fun!” I called after him, and he waved again.

It was only when I sat in the car that I allowed myself the satisfied smile every woman wears after being asked out by an attractive man. I was definitely looking forward to lunch and to hell with Roger.

When I arrived back at Violet, I was relieved to see the glazier from San Francisco on a stepladder measuring the gap where my picture window used to be. I parked on the gravel beside his truck and walked over. By then he was picking broken glass out of the frame, dropping the shards into a plastic bucket. He was wearing thick black gloves and a blue uniform, the pants drooping to reveal an unflattering view of his hairy derrière. I said hello and he flicked me a glance, grunted and nodded. He was old, dried up and skinny as a starved dog. He went back to wiggling a ragged bayonet of glass free from the frame without speaking. I asked him when he’d be finished and he grudgingly told me the window would be replaced that day then reminded me that he needed a check. Everyone
wants
a check and so few want to
give
you a check. Bleakly pondering my checking account’s downward spiral, I left him to his work and went around the crush pad and down slope to the back yard.

Victor had a crew of six working that day. They were sitting under the almond trees drinking soda and eating pizza from cardboard boxes spread on the grass. Victor got up as I approached, wiping his hands on his jeans. I said hello and nodded at the men.

“How’s it going?” I asked Victor, stepping into the shade and bending down to grab a piece of pepperoni pizza. I know, I had already had lunch, but it smelled too good. Besides, with all the physical work around the vineyard, I never have to worry about my weight.

“Pretty good,” Victor replied, scanning the vines with a proprietary eye. “Doing some training and tilling the aisles. With so little rain, I thought I’d turn over the clover on the rows that look stressed.” We plant cover crops, usually clover or mustard, every spring to encourage beneficial insects and also to use up any excess water that would be absorbed by the vines. Grapes have the best flavor and highest sugar count when they receive just enough water to survive.  Too much water and the vines overproduce, creating a large crop of low-grade fruit. Too little water and the crop yield will be low. We till the cover crops when the spring rains end to eliminate their competition with the grapes.

“Good idea,” I took a bite out of the pizza. Bad idea. I’d bet the box was just as tasty. I forced myself to chew and swallow, making a mental note that tomorrow’s lunch would have to make up for this cardboard repast.

“Did you have someone work more mulch into the rows?” I asked, knowing that Samson would be checking.

Victor rolled his eyes. “It’s plenty deep enough, but we’ve started doing it anyway. Anything to keep that old coot off my back.” Victor loves that old coot almost as much as I do, and Samson feels the same way about Victor.

“Ben wants to see us down at the station in Napa tomorrow. He wants fingerprints to compare with some they found on the shovel,” I said, changing the subject.

“They find out anything?” Victor asked.

I shrugged. “Ben didn’t say.” I dropped my slice of pizza into a plastic bag that already contained refuse. “He said the shovel was definitely the murder weapon. Since it’s one of ours, I guess they need to eliminate us.”

“I don’t think it’s ours,” Victor said. “I don’t leave them lying around.”

I shrugged again. “Where else could it have come from?”

Victor shook his head, not believing it, but it seemed like a trivial matter to me. We have a dozen shovels on the place, and I didn’t know where half of them were.

“I’m going to tell Jess. I need to do some work in the garden this afternoon. The weeds are about to choke out my lettuce.”

“Okay,” Victor replied, still looking thoughtful. “I’ll have some of the guys help Samson set up and sterilize the bottling line. He can walk them through it, but he ain’t gonna like it. If you hear him screaming, just ignore it,” he added with a smile.

I was chuckling as I walked away. Samson and Victor are always harassing each other, and it’s funny to watch. The eventual winner of this long-running mock-argument was still to be determined, but Samson usually gets the last word in. There’s something to be said for tenacity.

Jessica was home from the daycare center and at the computer in the alcove in the tasting room talking on the phone when I walked in, paying her rent by handling Violet’s customers. She waved at me and held up one finger. She looked tired, but she was doing her best to sound chipper and businesslike with whoever was on the phone. I was proud of her for helping out. Room and board aren’t free around Violet. I poured a cup of coffee and sat down on a bench at one of the two tables in the room. Both tables had been made for me from raw timbers by a ‘chainsaw artist’ in Yountville and have a rustic pioneer look to them. They aren’t very comfortable, which is nice when the tourist season is in full swing. Give a tourist from Des Moines a comfy chair, a glass of wine and a view and he’ll be there for weeks. The benches encourage their posteriors to move on to the next winery.

“We’ll be shipping next week. I’ll call with a firm date when we get the bottling underway.” Jessica said as I shook out a cigarette and lit up. She watched me light it, wrinkling her nose. “The case-cost
is
correct.” She listened, then laughed, though it sounded forced, “The best costs the most.” She listened and chuckled again, “Changing the price on your wine list right now would probably be the best idea.” She listened for another moment, “I can only let you have five cases—“ She stopped abruptly, making a face, flipped back through the account ledger and ran her finger down a page. “Because you’re such a good customer, and a great guy,” she rolled her eyes.  “I can let you have two more, but that’s it. Great. Talk to you soon. Bye.” She hung up the phone, sagged in the chair and ran her fingers through her hair. “I wish you would hire an accountant. It’s going to take weeks to get the numbers squared away. Samson says we’ll be bottling tomorrow, is that right?”

“Should be,” I replied. “Barring the unforeseeable.”

“You better bar the unforeseeable. I’ve made commitments.” She read down a list of the people she had spoken to that afternoon and we talked briefly about deliveries, the sad state of the account books and the schedule for the upcoming bottling. But, finally, I had to tell her about the fingerprints and my conversation with Ben.

“Why do I have to go?” she asked in surprise. “I never touched that shovel. I have to work tomorrow, and there’s tons to do here,” she glanced at the ledger book open on the small desk. “I just don’t have time,” she said shaking her head as if that closed the subject.

“It’s just a formality, Jessica. But—“ I hesitated to mention Stanley’s accusation, but Ben certainly would. Better that she hear it from me. “Stanley says he saw you with Kevin in the rows the night he was killed.”

Jessica’s head snapped up and her hands froze in her lap. “Stanley said that?” she asked as she stood and paced away from me, shoulders bunched. “It’s not true,” she said as if I might believe it. Her eyes got misty.

“Of course not, Stanley’s just trying to get even. I don’t think Ben believes it either, but he has to check it out. We’ll go down tomorrow and that will be it.”

Jessica didn’t say anything. She sat back down at the computer, offering me only her profile. “Stanley,” she said and shook her head. “Poor Stanley.” She wiped at her eyes, crying again.

That was all I needed to hear. Poor Stanley! Poor drunken, violent, lying Stanley. We should start a charity just for him. I managed to choke down my opinion. 

“I’ve got to talk to Samson. Why don’t you finish up what you’re doing and come to the cellar. I want your opinion on the 2008 Reserve,” I added, trying in vain to keep the exasperation out of my voice. What was Jessica keeping from me? “You’re not pregnant?” I asked as I opened the door to the cellar.

“Mom!” Jessica spun around to face me. “No!”

“Promise?”

“Mom! I’d tell you if I was pregnant.”

I nodded mutely, wondering if that was true, and headed downstairs.