PW01 - Died On The Vine (18 page)

If they didn’t want people to break into their computers, they should be more careful with their passwords, I told myself self-righteously.

“Okay,” said the voice on the phone, unaware that she was aiding and abetting. “Check and see.”

So I cruised the system until I found the DMV and the menu for driver’s license registrations.

“Here we go,” I announced triumphantly. “Andrew Billington Smith was born in 1965.”

“So Priscilla married Winslow in 1970!” Julia calculated quickly. “Well, this is a whole new kettle of fish. But does that give someone a motive to murder him?”

“It’s a murder motive, alright,” I said darkly. “Could you come over tomorrow morning? Bring the timeline.”

I hung up the phone, logged off the computer, and crept up to bed, where I slept like the proverbial baby.

The next morning, Julia arrived before the coffee had finished brewing. She breezed in breathlessly, attired in stylish denim, with the timeline under her arm rolled like a papyrus.

“What motive?” she asked by way of greeting. “I’ve been thinking and thinking, and I still don’t get it.”

“Not before coffee,” I snarled, watching the pot avidly. While I was waiting, I went to the phone and called Washington House and asked for Andrew.

“Andrew? This is Cissy Rayburn. Could you and Mary stop by here this morning? I’d like to check out a few things with you that might clear up some of the fog in this case.”

He was startled and curious, but I ruthlessly cut him short. The coffee was ready.

With the largest mug filled with coffee, I sat at the table and spread out the roll. Julia sat down and watched me, silent for once.

Jack wandered through, yawning. “Keep the dog out of the winery today, Cis. Craig and I are going to bottle the ’94 Cabernet.”

“Um-hmm,” I agreed absently. Then I looked up and smiled at him. “Come here, you big lug.” I gave him a hug and a massive kiss as well.

“What’s that all about?” he asked. “Not that I’m complaining.

“I’m just in a good mood. I figured out a few things.”

“Caught the murderer?”

“Not yet, but things are looking up. Be careful with my Cabernet.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He saluted smartly and went off to the barn.

A car pulled into the back yard before we had finished our first cup of coffee, but it wasn’t Andrew and Mary. It was Luther Dawson.

I opened the back door before he could knock and presented him with a cup of coffee.

“Good morning, Miz Rayburn. Miz Barstow.” He nodded politely in Julia’s direction and then turned back to me. “I’ve come to consult with you on a computer matter.”

“Oh?” I waited in encouraging silence.

“It seems that someone illegally accessed the state police computer system last night; I got a report about it this morning. Do you have any idea how that could have happened?”

Whoops. This crew wasn’t as lax as I thought. Luther was looking at me knowingly.

Julia butted in from the kitchen table, “Oh, was that what – “

As Luther turned to her, I gave her a scalding look behind his back. She broke off and added lamely, “Was that what you wanted to see us about?”

“It sure is.” He turned back to me. “And you know what I told them? I told them that I had logged on to generate the report and put the fear of the Lord into some jackasses who were posting the password in plain sight.”

I barely suppressed a sigh of relief. “That was, uh – very forgiving of you.”

“Forgiving my ass. Now you owe me. And I don’t want to hear another word about those computer games which have all been erased now anyway. The password has been changed, by the way.” He turned toward the door.

“Don’t leave!” I protested. “We’re just about to have a little get-together to straighten out some things like alibis and what-not.”

Luther gave me an amused look. “Is this where you gather all the suspects in the drawing room?”

“Not exactly. We’re just going to have a little chat with Andrew and Mary. Here in the kitchen. Have a seat.” He hesitated. I produced a loaf of banana bread. He sat down.

And here came Mary’s spiffy little Miata, with Mary driving and Andrew clutching the dashboard. I ushered them in and dispensed coffee and banana bread all around.

An uncomfortable silence fell.

“Well?” Julia prodded.

“Well,” I agreed. “I wanted to talk to you folks about the murder and some assumptions we’ve all been making that may not be true.”

Luther pulled out a little notebook.

“Julia has produced this timeline, of where everyone was or says they were from Sunday to Thursday.” I unrolled the timeline on the table. Heads craned to study it.

“Julia pointed out something odd; how little is known about Winslow’s movements during that time. Of course, we couldn’t ask him. And there doesn’t seem to be anyone with any particular reason to pay attention to his comings and goings.”

“That’s true,” Andrew said. “He has the west wing all to himself. And he never did get into the habit of letting Mrs. Griffith know whether or not he was going to be in for dinner. It used to drive her wild, but then years ago she decided to assume that he’d be there. And if he wasn’t, she’d have leftovers for lunch the next day.”

“Right. But look at these gaps.” I followed the Winslow track on the timeline. “Did he ever get home Sunday night? Who knows? Where was he on Monday? No one says.”

Luther leaned back. “So?”

“So,” I told him, “of the people who could have taken the shovel and secateurs, and could have dug the hole in the woods, you can’t eliminate Winslow.”

Luther snorted in disbelief. “Come on! Are you saying the man dug his own grave?”

“Not at all. There’s something funny about that grave. My boy Danny is an archaeology student, and he tells me that a lot of primitive societies bury their dead in a fetal position, with their legs drawn up. But do you think a Twentieth Century American would really intend to bury a six foot man in a five foot grave?”

Andrew was listening intently. “So what was the hole for?”

“Oh, it was a grave, alright, and Winslow dug it. But he was expecting someone else to occupy it.”

Mary had been unusually quiet to this point. Now she had a question. “Where are you getting all this?”

“Just speculation, really. But it makes sense to me that Winslow was planning to kill someone and bury them in my woods. Look at what we know about his recent activities. He had cut back significantly on his travel around the country. His assistant said he was staying close to home. He had in his files a newspaper article about Passatonnack Winery.”

I got up and fetched the article from the countertop. “The article not only identifies me as a remarried widow whose first husband was killed in Viet Nam. There’s also Jerome’s standard gush setting the scene. Listen to this – ‘the winery is nestled amid two hundred acres of untouched wilderness, where the paths are trod only by the deer’.”

“Oh, gag,” was Julia’s comment.

“That’s Jerome’s style. Anyway, if I were someone looking for a secluded place within driving distance of the city, a place to bury a body and hope that it would remain undiscovered for years, this sounds like a place I’d check out.”

“And,” I went on, “that explains something that puzzled me about Winslow’s visit here. When he left, it seemed like he hadn’t really accomplished anything. He certainly hadn’t gotten us to ante up any money, and I didn’t give him authorization to act as my representative, like he said he wanted. But when he left here, he looked like a man who was well pleased with himself. Because he had accomplished something. He’d performed a successful recon, and decided that this area suited his purposes just fine.”

“Okay, I give up,” Luther said. “Who was Winslow planning to bury in the woods?”

“He was planning to bury his wife. Li Nguyen.”

“WHAT?” It was a general chorus from Mary, Andrew, and Luther. Julia nodded her head, looking smugly in the know.

I turned to Mary. “When you researched Winslow’s life, didn’t you notice that Winslow married Priscilla after he married your mother?”

“Of course,” she answered. “But I though the marriage to Mom was a hoax. You know, just a ploy to get a good Catholic girl into bed.”

Andrew looked at her like she had rocks in her head. “In the cathedral?! Obie may have had all manner of rotten motives, but I doubt if he had that kind of pull.”

Mary shrugged. “Well, that’s what I thought.”

I turned to Andrew. “Mary was impressed at a very young age with the fact that her father had tricked her mother into a phony marriage. No doubt it would have been hard for her to believe that the trick was actually played on the rich and powerful Billington Smiths.”

I got up and started another pot of coffee. This was what Sherlock Holmes might have called a ‘two-pot problem’.

As I ran the water, I continued to lecture my audience. “Let’s look at it from Winslow’s standpoint. During the war, he marries a nice young woman. Then they get separated. He doesn’t know where she is, of even if she’s still alive. Back in the States, he meets another nice young woman.”

“And she’s not only nice, she’s also got money and family position. From what I’ve heard about Winslow, I’d say the position was as important to him as the money. He wanted to be the country squire, to look out his window at thoroughbreds. He didn’t know what had happened to his first wife, but why borrow trouble? She’s probably dead. So he married Priscilla.”

“That’s taking quite a chance,” Luther commented.

“What were the risks?” I asked rhetorically. “Social disgrace? If he didn’t marry Priscilla, he didn’t have any social position to lose. Bigamy is a crime, but how many bigamists actually go to jail? I think Winslow considered it a risk worth taking.”

I returned to the table with the replenished pot. Mugs were refilled.

Julia said, “And his risk seemed to pay off.”

“It sure did,” I said. “A few years after his marriage, he hears from some West Coast social workers that his wife is alive. He replies back to them that he was never married to Li. And that seemed to be that. He never hears from her again.”

“And that was years ago,” Andrew objected. Why didn’t he just let it rest?”

“Two reasons,” I told him. “First, Priscilla died intestate and Winslow inherited as her next of kin. Now, if she’d made a will naming him by name, he might have stood a chance to inherit even if the first marriage was revealed. I’m not sure about that. You’re the lawyer, what do you think?

Andrew frowned thoughtfully. “That’s hard to say. Depends on the wording, I guess. There’s a common law consideration of living together as man and wife - . Well, anyway, with a will, he would have at least stood a fighting chance.”

“And without a will?” I asked.

“Slim to none,” he answered firmly.

“There you go. And then there’s the second event that threatened to upset his apple cart. About a year ago, he learns that he’s being researched by a young investigative reporter named Mary Nguyen. Imagine his reaction to that!”

“So it was me that started it!” Mary exclaimed.

“It was after your visit to Billington Forge that he cut back on his long trips and started staying close to home. I imagine he researched you right back and learned that you and your mother were both uncomfortably close to his little kingdom.”

“Okay, so Winslow plans to murder his first wife,” Luther said. “But then, who killed Winslow?”

“Assume that somehow he got Li to agree to meet him in Passatonnack County.” I looked at Mary, but she didn’t respond. “He’s dug the grave, and hidden the secateurs near the dirt road.”

“And what? There’s a struggle? You think Li killed Winslow?” Luther asked. Mary stirred and seemed about to speak.

“You’ve met Li Nguyen, haven’t you?” I asked.

Luther nodded.

“I have trouble with the idea that she could kill Winslow in a hand to hand struggle. Granted she’s a tough woman, but let’s face it, she’s tiny.”

“Right!” said Mary firmly.

“So?” Luther prodded impatiently.

“You know, you asked if Winslow dug his own grave,” I answered. “I guess metaphorically speaking, he did. He didn’t just give Li Nguyen most of the grief she’d encountered in her life. He also gave her a daughter, tall and strong enough to defend her mother against him.”

Mary jumped to her feet.

“Mary!” Andrew warned. “Don’t say anything.”

EIGHTEEN

Mary looked around the room and then sat back down. “What should I do?” she asked Andrew. “Let them arrest my mother?”

“Think, Mary!” Andrew insisted. “How can they prove either of you were even here?”

Mary seemed to forget there was anyone else in the room. “True,” she told him. “We were both wearing gloves.”

Andrew threw up his hands in exasperation, while Julia pursed her lips and said judiciously, “I think you just blew it, dear.”

And indeed, Luther Dawson pulled a laminated card from his pocket and began to intone, “You have the right to remain silent, you have the right – “