PW01 - Died On The Vine (5 page)

I paced through the house, looking through the front windows for the arrival of authority, and out the back windows, looking for I-don’t-know-what. Authority finally arrived, in the person of Investigator Dawson.

I’ve met Dawson before. He was out here in December for our holiday open house. A nice young man, with the sad look of a basset hound, he was wearing a rumpled gray suit. Every time I’d seen Dawson, he was wearing a gray suit. I wondered how many of them he had. With his brown eyes, brown hair, and look of settled gloom, he would have been perfectly cast as an undertaker’s assistant. But not as the undertaker himself, since he looked too young for the part.

Polly trotted in to greet the newcomer. She reared up on her hind legs, letting Dawson know that she would plant her paws on his chest if she hadn’t been so well trained. Dawson gave her ears a good scratch and pulled out a well-worn notebook, looking around the front hall for signs of anything amiss.

“Miz Rayburn, you reported a dead body?” he asked mildly.

“Yes, it’s that Colonel Winslow who was here last Sunday. He’s been stabbed. Out by the merlot.”

Dawson took a few rapid notes. “Stabbed, was he?” he said slowly. “Well, ma’am, if you could just show me the way – what’s a mare-low, by the way?”

“Merlot is a type of grape,” I told him, leading the way to the back door. “He’s out here in the vineyard. We planted the merlot three years ago, haven’t started crushing it yet, but it’s coming along well – “ I took a deep breath and tried to stop babbling. “No, Polly, you stay in the house.”

“Is Mister Rayburn around?”

“He went into town for some tools. Oh, lord, he was buying some new secateurs to replace the ones he couldn’t find, and now there they are in this man’s chest.”

“Nasty,” was Dawson’s only comment.

As we approached the far end of the vineyard, Dawson gestured for me to stay back and cautiously approached the body. He gave a low whistle and hunkered down in the vines.

Now we both lifted our heads at the sound of sirens approaching. The Rescue Squad ambulance swung into the back yard and spilled out a group of eager volunteer emergency medical technicians. In the lead was Buddy Haines, proprietor of Buddy’s Feed and Farm Supply. Buddy was a jolly, irreverent balding fellow. He always looked good in the Santa suit he worn each year for the Rescue Squad’s Christmas party. The Rescue Squad official jumpsuit, on the other hand, did nothing for him.

“Aw, shit,” Dawson muttered, and approached the group. “Look here, Buddy, this fellow’s dead. Don’t you go messing up my crime scene.”

“Well, hell, Luther, when did you get your medical degree?” Buddy demanded. “You let me see, there.”

Dawson sighed. “Okay, you come over here by yourself and leave those folks back there. If you think you can resurrect this guy, then you can go at it.”

The two men walked back toward the merlot and stood in silent contemplation at the scene. Buddy scratched his neck thoughtfully. “Well, I ain’t a doctor either, but this fella’s been dead for hours at least. Shit. I’ll call the coroner.”

He backed cautiously away and returned to the ambulance. There were now two more sedans from the sheriff’s office in the back yard, and Jack’s pickup truck was right behind them.

Jack jumped out of the truck and raced toward the scene of the action. When he saw me, he stopped and took a deep breath. Then he continued, walking slowly. As he reached me, he said, “Over at Buddy’s, I heard a report on the scanner about a dead body on River Road – “ he broke off and pulled me into a bear hug.

I squeezed back and then looked at his face. “It’s Winslow, Jack. And he’s been murdered.”

Directed by Dawson, uniformed deputies were now fanning out, searching for evidence, while others huddled around the body.

I gripped Jack’s hand and muttered to him softly. “The secateurs. That’s what he was stabbed with.”

Jack stared at me but said nothing.

From the woods, we heard a shout. “Hey, Dawson. Come get a load of this.”

Investigator Dawson stood and methodically dusted off his knees before heading into our woods. Jack and I quietly trailed behind him.

Back in the underbrush, about ten yards from the path, the deputy displayed his find. It was an oblong hole. What else could you call it? – it looked like a grave. Lying beside it was the missing shovel.

I pointed to the shovel. “Oh, Jack, this is getting so weird!”

“Weird enough,” Jack admitted. We examined the hole silently. It was about five feet long and maybe five deep, and leaves and twigs had drifted into it. I would be willing to bet it was several days old at least.

My mind was working frantically, while Dawson noticed that he’d been followed. He suggested mildly, “Why don’t you folks go on back to the house?”

We had our marching orders, however nicely worded, and obeyed, going back to the house in total silence.

In the kitchen, I started coffee while Jack stared out the window. “Here’s the sheriff,” he commented without turning around. I joined him and saw the county sheriff arrive and join the investigation in the vineyard.

“He could at least have the courtesy to stop by the house and let us know he’s on our property,” I said. I’m not particularly fond of Sheriff Peters. His primary job skill seems to be how well he wears the uniform. Tall and lean, with unruly white hair, he makes a great poster for Law’n’Order. He was at our open house too. He drank too much Chardonnay and had to be driven home by his tight-lipped wife.

Jack has a very low opinion of people who get drunk, especially when they do it on good wine.

We watched from the back windows until Sheriff Peters and Investigator Dawson finally left the group and came up to the house. Time for the interviews. Dawson had his notebook out, while Peters seemed to be along for the ride.

“Ma’am, if we could interview you each one at a time – “ Dawson suggested diffidently.

Jack nodded. “I’ll be in the lab,” he said, and left.

I poured myself another cup of coffee and help up the pot. “Anyone want coffee?” Both men nodded, and we settled down at the kitchen table.

Just then the phone rang. It was Julia. “Cissy, what’s going on out there? I heard a lot of sirens and saw the rescue squad. Is everyone all right?” Good old rural neighborliness.

“I can’t talk right now. Winslow is dead in the vineyard and I have the sheriff in the kitchen.”

There was a moment of shocked silence and then Julia promised, “I’ll be over later,” and hung up.

I returned to the kitchen table. Dawson was already taking notes. “So you knew the deceased?”

“I met him once,” I replied, taking my seat. “He was out here on Sunday. He said he thought my first husband was alive and he was trying to ‘bring him out’, whatever that means.”

Peters leaned forward with bright-eyed interest as Dawson made rapid notes. “So your first husband is MIA?” Dawson asked.

“No,” I said firmly. “Jimmy was killed in Viet Nam. I never had the least doubt about that. This man’s visit was out of the blue.”

Peters interrupted. “Who is this Winslow?”

Dawson answered. “He’s got some organization about finding MIAs from Viet Nam. I got a fundraising letter from him about a year ago. All the Gulf War vets in my unit got the same letter. ‘Imagine that you’d been captured by the Iraqis. Now imagine that you were forgotten by your government and left in enemy hands for over twenty years. Such is the fate – ‘ and so on. Creepy stuff. I almost sent him some money, but Janie said better spend the money where you know where it’s going, and I’d just sent a donation on the Rescue Squad’s new ambulance, so anyway, I let it drop. He’s a famous man,” he added, with a note of reproof.

“Huh,” the sheriff said. “I’ve never heard of him.”

Dawson knew better than to respond to that.

I described the visit in detail and finally pointed the two men in the direction of Jack’s lab. Then I paced the kitchen and gnawed my fingernails and drank way too much coffee.

Almost an hour later, I watched the men leave the barn. Peters got in his car and drove away. Dawson opened his car door, then closed it and came to the back door. I opened it before he had time to knock.

“Ma’am, sorry to bother you again,” he said. “But I thought I ought to suggest that you folks might want to talk to a lawyer.”

“You already told us about Miranda,” I reminded him.

“Yes, I did, and I don’t think either of you is involved in this. But I’m not the Commonwealth’s Attorney, I’m just an investigator. I’m not the one who makes decisions about indictments. Now, this man came here four days ago and told you he was trying to track down your first husband. Sometime last night he’s killed and the weapon belongs to your second husband. Some prosecutors wouldn’t ask for much more than that. So you just think about a lawyer.” He nodded and took his leave.

I sank into a chair. Call me naïve, but it had never dawned on me that anyone would think that Jack might be involved.

A few minutes later, Jack came back into the house. He’s always been a quiet man, but now he seemed withdrawn. He kissed me absently on the cheek and told me he had some reading to catch up on. It seems he didn’t need Investigator Dawson to spell things out for him. He knew the situation looked bad.

Talk to a lawyer? I was chewing over this idea when Julia’s Crown Victoria pulled into the yard. Julia has always been partial to riding in comfort. My kids always referred to Julia’s car as the ‘land yacht’.

She bustled into the kitchen, starting to talk before she even had the door open. “ – saw the sheriff leave, so I came right over. Goodness, Cissy, however did that man come to be murdered here?”

I doled out more coffee, part of the third pot of the day. “Dawson thinks the prosecutor will try to pin it on Jack.”

Julia snorted contemptuously. “What an asinine idea. No Passatonnack jury would buy that!”

“Jack thinks so too.”

“Did he tell you so? What did he say?”

“He didn’t say anything, just that he had to catch up on his reading. But he’s in the den with Wagner’s
A Wine Grower’s Guide
, which is hardly something he needs to catch up on – he’s practically got that book memorized.”

“Hmm. Poor man,” Julia said with perfunctory sympathy. Then she got down the business. “Tell me what happened. Where was Winslow and when did you find him, and how and why and so on.”

“I was walking Polly,” I began. “We were just coming back to the house and she ran over to the vineyard. There was a dead cat that a fox had got, and a kitten – “

I jumped to my feet. “The kitten!”

Julia frowned. “What about the kitten?”

“I brought him back to the house and then called 911 and forgot all about him. He’s around here somewhere, help me look.”

We set out through the house, looking behind furniture, in closets, on shelves. There are so many places where a frightened kitten could be.

In my office, Polly was sacked out on the sofa, tired from an exciting day. I always talk to her like she’s one of my kids; I don’t get a verbal response, but I also don’t get eye-rolling and ‘Awww, Mom’ sarcasm, so it works out.

“Polly, where did that kitten go? Did you see him?”

Then I looked more closely, because I had caught a glimpse of something black under Polly’s chin. “Polly, what have you done?” I shrieked.

Julia came running. “What? What is it?”

Polly raised her head curiously, and the kitten peeked out. I slumped into a chair in relief – I’d had a brief horrid vision of Polly dismembering the kitten like a poorly made dog toy, but there he was, safe and sound.

And clean! Polly had obviously scrubbed him off thoroughly, so that he was now a shiny black kitten. Dog slobber had moussed his fur into spikes, he looked like a little punk cat.

Julia looked at the pair thoughtfully. “Looks like you’ve got yourself a kitten.”

Polly panted and grinned. I picked up the kitten, which caused an anxious whine from his new mother.

“You are going to keep him, aren’t you?” Julia asked.

“I suppose so. McCavity’s nose will be out of joint, but still. Poor little guy, he’s been through a lot.” I gave him a good ear massage and then restored him to Polly’s custody.

We went back to the kitchen. I put out some more cat food on the counter, and added kitten food to the grocery list on the refrigerator door. Then we sat back down to our cooling cups of coffee, and I finished telling Julia the story of how I found Obie Winslow.”

Julia’s eyes were shining when I finished. “Cissy, you’re going to have to investigate this case.”

“Me! That’s what the sheriff’s department is for! What do I know about investigations?”

“You heard what Dawson said. The police might not do much more investigating, if the prosecutors think they can get a conviction with what they have. Budgets are tight, why spend time looking for a murderer when they could just charge Jack?”

I shivered. I haven’t felt this vulnerable since they came to tell me Jimmy was dead.

“But I don’t know anything about investigations,” I protested.

“Sure you do. You were already investigating Winslow. Now, all my mystery reading has taught me that the best way to solve a murder is to study the victim. So you’re already ahead of the game. Just investigate Winslow and find out who would want him dead.”