Lethal Vintage (5 page)

None of this should have been a surprise, and yet Sunny was surprised. This wasn’t exactly hippie heaven. Was everyone on some drug she forgot to take? Suddenly she felt extremely naive. There had been plenty of hints as to what was to come. Was that the real reason Anna had wanted her to stay? Was all that talk about trouble with Oliver just a ruse to make sure she hung around until the fireworks started? No, of course not, thought Sunny. In Anna’s world, anything could happen. She could decide her boyfriend was some kind of monster, then take him to bed with a friend, or two, or three. What would it be like to live in that world? Anna’s fingers took her hand underwater and Sunny decided not to find out. She pulled herself out of the water and grabbed a towel.

Inside, she found the bedroom where she’d left her clothes and opened the door, revealing a shadowy tableau of acrobatic flesh. She closed the door. Jared Bollinger had a well-toned backside and muscular shoulders. Also, Molly Seth kept her bra on during sex. Sunny thought with a pang of her lovely blue tunic and the new skirt she’d left on the bed, now almost certainly under siege. Apparently everyone was going to get some action tonight but her, including her clothes. She stood outside the closed door, barefoot and dripping in her towel. This was exactly what she deserved for hanging around this place all day. Now what was she supposed to do? Drive home in a towel? She should have known. She did know. This was precisely the sort of predicament any association with Anna Wilson was bound to produce. She was lucky she wasn’t in jail.

Sunny trudged downstairs to the bedroom where she’d showered earlier. All was silence except for the thump of house music from upstairs. She rinsed off in the shower and turned down the
bed. The decor offered plenty of understated luxury, but the room was otherwise empty. Nothing to read. No radio, no television. Her cell phone was out by the pool. And now she didn’t even have any clothes. And she’d passed up a golden opportunity to become a swinger. Rivka was going to have a good laugh when she told her. She looked around at the mostly bare room. There was too much alcohol and not enough reading material in this house. Her beach bag was here, but there was nothing much in it unless she wanted to read the label on a tin of Altoids, which she did, only to find the room lurched and heaved like a rowboat at sea. Thoroughly sauced. Far too sauced to drive home. Thanks to her own doing, she was a prisoner of Oliver Seth’s country house until morning.

French doors at one end of the room opened onto a tiny patio enclosed by a low hedge. She closed the curtains and hunted for her watch in her beach bag. One-fifteen. She put it on the nightstand, lay back on one of the pristine pillows, reflected that she was probably the first to have done so, and fell asleep.

Sunny woke up suddenly, not sure why, listening. The muffled sound of loud voices came from upstairs. A door slammed, then slammed again. More raised voices. One high, one low. Sunny went to the door and stuck her head out into the hallway, where the house seemed perfectly silent. She went back inside, pulled open the curtains, and opened one of the French doors. The voices sounded like they were just a few feet away. The master bedroom Anna and Oliver slept in would be almost directly above hers. Anna was saying, “I can’t believe I trusted you,” over and over. Finally she shrieked the words one at a time.

“Keep your voice down. We have guests,” said Oliver.

“I don’t care who hears me.”

“I do. If you want to make a scene, do it somewhere else. I won’t have a hysterical display in my house.”

“If you think I’m going to keep quiet about this, you’re crazy. I forwarded copies of those e-mails to myself and I intend to share them. I don’t see why your precious ex-girlfriend, for one, shouldn’t know what you’re up to.”

“Are you threatening me? You may want to take a moment to consider who you’re dealing with.”

“Even the all-powerful Oliver Seth can’t control everything,” said Anna. “You can’t control me. I’ll do whatever the hell I want, and there’s nothing you can do about it.”

“Anna, be serious.” His voice was forceful but calm. “There’s plenty I can do about it. You have no idea. Among other options, I could sue you for invasion of privacy and extortion. Do you have money—not counting my credit card, of course—to defend yourself?”

“This is what I think of you and your credit card and your sleazy lawyers.” There was a thump and a crash, then silence.

“Invasion of privacy, extortion, and willful destruction of private property. That piece was worth more than you’ve made in your lifetime.”

“Get away from me.”

“You need to calm down,” said Oliver, adopting a soothing voice. “This is all getting way out of control. You’re tired, you’ve had too much to drink. You’ll see, in the morning it will all make sense.”

“I’m not tired and I’m not drunk and if you touch me I will scream loud enough to wake everyone in this house. You think I’m going to just walk away? I’m not. You’re sick. I can’t believe I fell for your lies again.”

It sounded like someone fell or kicked over a piece of furniture. Oliver said, “Anna, don’t make me call the police.”

Anna was crying. “Just leave me alone.”

After that, the voices got quiet. She could hear them talking to each other, but it was too soft to make out the words. Sunny pushed the door closed and pulled the heavy curtains together. She went to the door to the hall, then came back and sat down on the edge of the bed. Was she supposed to go up there? And break up a fight? Was Oliver really dangerous? Anna said she had invited her over because she needed help. What was Sunny supposed to do, run upstairs like a one-woman SWAT team and save the day? Wearing what, a bikini? Or perhaps a towel would be more intimidating. She tried to remember Anna’s exact words. She said that last night after she discovered the surveillance cameras she had imagined all kinds of things, “even that he might be dangerous.”

What exactly was going on in this house? Last night Anna discovered the Peeping Tom stuff and confronted Oliver. He said she was overreacting. This morning Anna saw Sunny’s name in the paper and called her for help. Tonight she was kissing Oliver in the hot tub as if nothing was wrong, and now this. Was she afraid of her boyfriend or not? Was this all just the drama of people with too much time on their hands, or was Anna in a deeply manipulative relationship? How much of a hold did Oliver have on her? He certainly sounded angry just now, but Anna was the one smashing things. He didn’t sound out of control. Could certain men become violent without losing control?

Upstairs, they were arguing again. Sunny paced, unable to hear the conversation or shut it out. She wondered if she should go up there and see what was going on. But how could she? In addition to not wanting to interfere, it was hardly her place. Anna was a grown woman who could take care of herself. As long as their quarrel sounded like any other heated argument between ill-suited lovers, it was none of her business. Unpleasant for everyone involved, yes. But Anna could and should handle her own unpleasantness on
her own. For all Sunny knew, this was how their relationship worked. With that decision, she went back to bed and quickly fell heavily asleep.

The next time she woke up it was four o’clock in the morning. The room was freezing. She hadn’t latched the French doors and an icy draft was coming through the space where they stood ajar. As she got up to close them, she heard a thump, and another, as though something heavy had been dropped on the floor above. Someone—it sounded like a woman—was sobbing. It had to be Anna, though the lurching, animal sobs sounded nothing like her. She listened, wondering again if she should go up, see if she was okay, try to comfort her. But what if she didn’t want comforting? What if she just wanted to be left alone? What if she wasn’t alone?

Sunny stood at the door, trying to decide what to do. She put herself in Anna’s place. Would she want a friend there? No. She would want to be left alone to cry it out. She stood a long time, wondering if that was the right decision. Anna was still sobbing when Sunny once again resolved that it was not her affair to put her nose into, closed the French doors, made sure they were latched this time, and climbed back into bed. She jolted awake one more time before daybreak but heard nothing and didn’t look at her watch.

Daylight. Sunny’s face pressed hard into the pillow. Far away, or so it seemed, she could hear serious-sounding male voices and purposeful strides. She groped the nightstand for her watch. Nine-fifteen. She turned over and lay listening to whatever was going on. Someone heavy jogged down the stairs, keys jingling. A knock at the door. Merde! thought Sunny.

“Hello? Anyone in there?” said a husky male voice.

“Just a minute.”

She got up and pulled the sheet around her. Her stomach lurched. She had a crease down her cheek and her head was pounding and her mouth felt like a day-old scone with a nicotine addiction. This promised to be a genuine hangover, not that she didn’t richly deserve it. Drink and smoke all day and into the night and this is how you feel the next day, no mystery there. The big question was who had the courage to knock on any door in this house at this early hour on Sunday morning. Could it be a rude call to breakfast? She hobbled over to the door hopefully, thinking of freshly squeezed orange juice, and opened it. On the other side, dressed in his neatly pressed uniform and looking distinctly displeased, stood Sergeant Steve Harvey of the St. Helena Police Department. If he was surprised to find Sunny, as he certainly must have been, he maintained his composure seamlessly.

“Sunny.”

“Steve?” It was difficult to speak. Her voice came out deep and scratchy.

“Sorry to wake you. We need everyone upstairs in the kitchen as quickly as possible.”

She nodded. “Will do.”

Sunny closed the door. She listened to Sergeant Harvey walk down to the next door and knock. Why on earth was he here, rousting people out of bed on a Sunday morning? It had to be because of Anna and Oliver’s fight. Somebody must have called in a domestic disturbance. Not Anna. She wasn’t the type to think calling the cops was a cute way to get the upper hand, and despite his threat, Sunny couldn’t picture Oliver resorting to state-sponsored backup. He would handle things himself or call a lawyer, not the cops. Could it be a drug bust? Maybe something valuable was missing and Oliver had called the police. The house was full of art, intoxicants, and strangers. It was a tempting combination. A theft! That was it, thought Sunny. After his fight with Anna, Oliver stayed up late watching his security cameras and he spotted a breach. Thus the early-morning raid. She shuffled into the bathroom, sheet dragging behind her. As long as somebody produced an omelet, bacon, a side of waffles, and a pitcher of fresh OJ, she didn’t care if the FBI stormed the house.

The McCoskey look was seriously impaired. Punk-rock hair. Eyes glazed and puffy. Shoulders and, she suspected—confirmed—bottom and backs of calves sunburned the color of strawberry sorbet. And where on earth were her clothes? She thought for a long,
foggy moment and finally remembered the passionate embrace of Molly Seth and Jared Bollinger. Sunny cursed them and their blossoming love. What to do? The room might look like a suite at the Ritz-Carlton, but it lacked certain key amenities, for example, the all-important terry-cloth robe. She checked the closet and behind the bathroom door. Nothing. There was little choice. She hitched up the sheet and headed upstairs, passing two more police officers on the way. Both sternly avoided eye contact.

The set of doors opening onto the north-wing hot tub were easy to find. She retraced her steps to locate the door where she’d left her clothes. It was closed, naturally. Molly and Jared were no doubt entwined inside, mingling their bodily fluids over Sunny’s best dry clean–only shirt. She racked her brain to come up with a better plan than knocking on the closed door of a known love nest. There was no choice. Bracing herself for the invasion of privacy, she knocked softly, waited, and knocked again. Someone moved around inside. A high voice murmured tenderly. Sunny knocked once more and said, “Sorry, you guys, I need to get my clothes.”

There was more movement behind the door, and more soft, high words, followed by husky low ones. Sunny waited. She was just on the point of giving up and resigning herself to a police interrogation while wearing a sheet when the door opened and Sunny’s boyfriend, Andre Morales, stood in front of her, handsomely rumpled, naked to the waist, towel around hips. He gaped in surprise. “Sunny! What on earth are you doing here?”

She tried to speak but couldn’t. Her voice would not come. She coughed and cleared her throat and finally croaked out, “When did you get here?”

“Late last night, after work. What about you?”

“Earlier.”

“I see that.” He glanced at the sheet. “Have fun?”

“Not as much as you, apparently.”

Marissa, Keith Lachlan’s Polynesian princess, the same last seen sampling Jordan Crowley’s earlobe in the hot tub, came up behind him in her camisole and panties. She held Sunny’s clothes in one hand.

“Yours?”

Sunny took them. Marissa wrapped her arms around Andre’s waist, pressing her head to his chest. Andre scrubbed at his hair. He put one arm around Marissa’s shoulders absentmindedly, which he let drop when he looked at Sunny.

“Listen, I know this is, uh, awkward. Why don’t you come in for a while and relax. Whatever the hell is going on out there can wait a little longer.”

“Excuse me?” said Sunny.

He licked his lips. “Look, Sunny, I’m not saying this is an ideal situation, but it’s happened, and now we have a choice. You have a choice. You can storm off and we can do the whole drama crisis thing. Or you can come in and we can talk things over, and you’ll see it’s not as big a deal as it seems.”

Sunny looked at him, then Marissa, who gave her a smile and the look a cat wears when it’s settled into the best chair in the living room.

“Don’t storm off,” he said, reaching for Sunny’s wrist. “Come in. You’ll see. There’s no need to get all upset.”

Sunny glared at his hand and he removed it. She walked back through the house to the room where she’d slept. There she took her time getting dressed. The image of the two of them—Andre wearing a fixed stare like a man focused on a distant goal, Marissa looking sweetly content, both of them rumpled and rosy cheeked—burned itself into her memory with such force and clarity that long afterward she could study them like an image in a book. She
could see the position of Marissa’s slender hand on Andre’s ribs, and the dip of flesh above his collarbone where Sunny had formerly liked to place her lips when they were the ones who woke up in bed together.

“You don’t look so good,” said Sergeant Harvey, handing Sunny a mug of black coffee.

“I’ve had better mornings.”

“You’re not the only one.”

His tone silenced any further exchange. She went over to the counter, where a collection of half-empty bottles from last night had accumulated. A bottle of Stag’s Leap Artemis Cab was open and hardly touched. That would be Stag’s Leap Wine Cellars, thought Sunny, not to be confused with Stags’ Leap Winery or the Stags Leap District. How many hundreds of thousands, perhaps even millions, of dollars did the lawyers get to sort out that tangle of suits and countersuits? And, in the end, it all came down to the placement of an apostrophe. The place where one stag leaps versus the place where multiple stags leap versus the declarative statement that multiple stags are inclined to leap around these few acres where very good Cabernet Sauvignon grapes are grown. If Oliver Seth was right, the great battles from here on out would be fought over such ephemeral issues, over ideas themselves. Intellectual property. The ownership of an idea and the subsequent wealth it generated in a global marketplace. What else was wine, anyway, other than an idea? Could they really tell which plot of land had produced the fruit to make a particular wine? People paid more because they liked the idea that the grapes for their wine came from a certain piece of land that they considered prestigious. They drank it for the idea of relaxation, indulgence,
pleasure, luxury, superiority, heritage. She poured a splash of the red wine into her coffee and sat down at the kitchen table, hugging the mug with both hands.

Spotlight consciousness, thought Sunny. The hangover was limiting her ability to see the big picture. She could see the elephant’s trunk but not the elephant, and certainly not the field the elephant was standing in. The entire morning seemed unreal, like she was watching someone else’s life. Had she really seen her boyfriend in the arms of another woman? Were the police really here, setting up camp as though they planned to stay? Was she really thinking about wine and intellectual property in the global marketplace when she should be wondering what the hell was going on? And where was everyone else, most notably Anna and Oliver? Were they hiding in a bedroom while the police swarmed the house?

Sergeant Harvey sat down across from her, his already impressive physical presence augmented by his uniform and the creaking belt and holster strapped around his waist. His crew cut was groomed to honor-guard perfection as usual.

“Sunny, you’re the last person I expected to see this morning,” he said. “What brings you here?”

“I could ask you the same thing, Steve,” she said, and took a sip of coffee.

His expression turned serious and he shook his head. “I’m not making conversation. I need an answer.”

She put the cup down. “A friend I hadn’t seen for years called me yesterday and said she was in town staying at her boyfriend’s weekend house and I should come over for lunch.” She gestured to the surroundings. “I came over, lunch turned into dinner and cocktails, and I ended up spending the night. They have plenty of room.”

“Your friend’s name?”

“Anna Wilson.”

He nodded. “Sunny, I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news for you about your friend. This morning at seven twenty-five, nine-one-one got a call from a guy named Mike Sayudo. Mr. Sayudo is employed by Oliver Seth in the capacity of landscape gardener and outdoor maintenance man. He said he came out early this morning to make sure the drip system was functioning. Apparently it’s been a problem and he’s been keeping an eye on it.”

“The drip system.”

“That’s right.” Sergeant Harvey glanced out the window. “I guess I don’t know exactly how to tell you this except to come right out with it.” He looked back at Sunny. “This morning Mr. Sayudo found your friend. Oliver Seth identified her body a few minutes ago.”

“Her body?”

“She died sometime early this morning.”

“She overdosed,” said Sunny softly.

“What makes you say that?”

“Nothing specific. Just, you know…”

“She was doing drugs.”

“I don’t know for sure. It seemed like it. Or maybe just drinking too much. I don’t know.”

Sunny stared into her coffee. It was hard to feel anything. The whole morning, the whole day yesterday, felt like a strange dream. “If she didn’t overdose, how did she die?”

“It looked like she fell out of one of the second-story windows onto the patio. The hill slopes away, so it was a pretty good drop. Fifteen feet or so.”

Over time, Sunny had come to know Sergeant Steve Harvey pretty well. He prided himself on accuracy and chose his words with care. “What do you mean, ‘looked like’?” she said.

He hesitated, glancing around the room. One of his lieutenants was lingering in the hallway off the kitchen. They could see him through the floor-to-ceiling glass. No one else was around.

“Sunny, we’ve known each other quite a while. We have a certain rapport, wouldn’t you say?”

“Definitely.”

They’d worked together, in a manner of speaking, on three murder investigations in the valley. Thanks to some unusual associations, a little too keen a nose, and a tendency to roam around at night, Sunny had landed in the middle of three of the valley’s most notorious crimes in years. Naturally, Sergeant Harvey would rather see her cooking lunch than out digging around in his jurisdiction. Still, no matter how irritated he might be at her involvement, he was always respectful, if a bit stern and intimidating. He had a weight lifter’s body and used it to full effect, wearing his shirts tight and standing arrow-straight. Now he spoke in a low voice, poking her forearm with a burly finger after each phrase.

“I don’t know how you managed to turn up in the middle of this”—poke—”but if I were to tell you something about a case”—poke—”based on that rapport we have”—poke—”and I tell you it is absolutely vital that you not share this information with anyone”—poke—”in a situation like that”—poke—”I assume I could trust you implicitly to keep such information confidential until such time as I choose to reveal it to others at my sole discretion.”

Sunny moved her arm. “I would take a situation like that very seriously.”

Sergeant Harvey stared at her. “I’m sure you can imagine why I would take such a risk.”

She could not. She had, specifically, not the slightest idea. He continued to stare at her until the fog began to clear. “Because things are going to get messy?” she asked finally.

He nodded. “That’s right. I don’t know exactly what we’re dealing with here, but I’ve seen plenty of people with head injuries. Car accidents. Drunks falling down. Fights. You name it. This one doesn’t look right to me.” He shook his head. “Something’s just not right. We won’t know for sure until the coroner’s report, but I’d bet my badge on one thing.” Sunny waited. Sergeant Harvey gritted his teeth. “The funny thing about what happened to your friend Anna Wilson, Sunny, is that it’s hard to fall out a window when you’re already dead.”