PW01 - Died On The Vine (6 page)

I was dubious. “It can’t be that easy.”

“Oh, I didn’t say it was easy. But I don’t see why it can’t be done.” Julia stood up, now briskly all business. “The first thing for you to do is study the information you got from the library and from those computer people. That ought to give you some ideas on where to start. I’ll check back tomorrow and we’ll establish a schedule.”

She leaned down and gave my shoulder a quick squeeze. “And don’t worry. We’ll figure this out.”

And she bustled out.

It occurred to me that “my” investigation had quickly become “our” investigation. But I suppose that was good. Right now I needed an infusion of energy and optimism, which Julia certainly had in abundance.

I stood up and went looking for Jack.

FIVE

The next morning I was in my office when Julia came over. My office is in the base of the tower, so I have windows on three sides. Between the windows are shelves and shelves, and then more shelves. On one side is a large built-in work surface, with a slide-out drawer for the computer keyboard. In the middle of the room, an old sofa in a faded plaid faced the wood stove. I had installed heavy-duty low pile carpeting to allow me to roll around easily on my ergonomic five-legged chair.

It may never make a spread in a decorating magazine, but I think my office is beautiful. A room full of books, a fire, a sofa, a dog – what’s not to like? I had papers spread over the work surface. Polly was on the sofa with her new friend.

Was I making progress? I liked to think so.

Julia knocked on the doorframe. “Hi, guys.” She includes animals in her greetings. “I saw your note on the door and let myself in.”

Beau pushed past her and went over to the sofa to check out the small moving object with Polly. Polly responded with a menacing growl deep in her throat.

“No, actually that’s good,” Julia said. “She’s protecting her puppy. Nothing like maternal instinct. Beau, come.”

Beau reported to Julia’s side and gazed lovingly into her eyes, awaiting further instructions.

“Down,” she commanded, pointing to the floor. Beau subsided onto the floor like the obedience champion he is. I was sick with envy. “Stay,” was the next command.

Then she turned back to me and continued the conversation. “A long down/stay will do him good. Now, what have you come up with? Have you started your research on Winslow?”

“Actually, it occurred to me that the research might already be done – maybe we could sort of subcontract it.”

“If you’ll explain what on earth you mean – “ Julia settled down on the sofa and pulled gently on Polly’s ears.

“Look at this.” I rooted among the papers and pulled out the note from Steve the food columnist. “There’s a freelance writer who’s been researching Winslow. I thought if I tracked her down, it would save a lot of time.”

Julia read the note. “Good thinking. Now how do we find this Mary Whatshername?”

I rolled my desk chair over to the bookshelves and pulled out the D.C. phone book white pages. After flipping through them, I sighed and said, “Here are pages of Nguyens, but no Mary or M. I don’t want to try all these numbers, so let’s start with the Post.”

As I replaced the white pages and pulled out the Yellow Pages, L-Z, Julia asked, “How’s Jack handling this?”

I flung the Yellow Pages onto the counter. “Oh, it’s awful! He’s out there pruning the cabernet!”

Julia shrugged. “So?”

“Again! If he doesn’t stop soon there won’t be any cabernet!”

“Not good. Maybe we could bring him in on our investigation, give him something to occupy his mind.”

I was flipping through the Yellow Pages looking for newspapers and found the number for the Washington Post. The first person I talked to didn’t seem to have any idea how to contact a freelancer, but eventually I got someone on the line who admitted that yes, they had published articles by Mary Nguyen in the past.

But no, she wouldn’t give me her phone number or address. I tried all my powers of persuasion, but perhaps my essential harmlessness and good nature are only obvious in person. Did this lady think I was a stalker or something?

I was running out of ideas when I happened to glance at my computer and suggested, “Well, is she on the internet? Do you have her e-mail address?”

Bingo! Yes, the lady did have that address, and would provide it to me. “I think Mary is traveling right now, but she always takes her laptop and keeps up with her e-mail.”

I copied down the address, thanked the voice profusely, and hung up in triumph.

Waving the address, I told Julia, “Now I have to compose an intriguing piece of e-mail. Though if this Mary has been researching Winslow, I expect any note from the woman who found his body ought to get her attention.”

I picked up a legal pad and began composing what I hoped would be the irresistible e-mail. Julia picked up a pack of index cards and said she would work out a timeline.

“There’s not a lot to work on,” I told her. “Sunday, Winslow visits Rayburns. Thursday, Winslow found dead in the merlot.”

“Oh, but there are events we can date with a question mark and that will give us areas to investigate,” Julia assured me. She fanned out the cards like a poker player. “I do think facts acquire more weight and substance through being filed on index cards.”

“Whatever you say.”

Julia looked up from her cards. “Did you hear about the car?”

“What car?” I asked, still frowning at my legal pad.

“Winslow’s car. It was on the dirt road along the river.”

I looked up. “Well. So there must have been another car used for the getaway. That should give the police something to look for.”

Julia wasn’t optimistic. “Fat chance. No houses overlook the dirt road and too many cars take the county road for people to pay attention. But anyway, there was Winslow’s little sports car. Janie at the library told me.”

“A black Jaguar,” I said, and rolled my eyes.

“I know. Just too, too mid-life crisis.”

We returned to our respective tasks. I was still stuck on the properly zingy opening. “You don’t know me, but – “ sounded too apologetic. I was pondering the good old telegram style (“WINSLOW FOUND DEAD IN VINEYARD STOP COME AT ONCE WITH ALL AVAILABLE INFO STOP”) when the back door slammed and Jack boomed, “Cecilia!”

Julia looked up. “Oh, my, that doesn’t sound good.”

Whatever he was mad about, I decided to tough it out. “In the office, Jonathan,” I called back.

Jack appeared in the doorway. “I know you’re in the office, and so does every lunatic in the county.” He waved a sheet of paper at me. “Do you know what this says?”

“Of course I know, I wrote it,” I said in bewilderment. “It says, ‘Julia, I’m in the office. Come on back.”

“No, it doesn’t. It says, ‘The door’s unlocked, Mister Maniac, come on in and murder me.”

“What on earth are you talking about?”

“Don’t you realize a man was murdered here the other day? Since neither you nor I did it, someone else did. They might still be around. You’ve got to start locking the doors until this is cleared up.”

I hadn’t thought of that. “But the murderer was after Winslow. This has nothing to do with us.”

“You don’t know that, “ Jack argued. “Maybe he thought that man was me. Maybe he wasn’t after anyone in particular. Maybe he just likes to kill people and he isn’t through yet.”

Julia entered the conversation. “Oh, I hope it isn’t a homicidal maniac. Those are always solved by fingerprints and legwork and boring things like that.”

Jack stared at her in disbelief. “How about hoping it’s not a homicidal maniac because you live just a mile down the road?”

Julia looked startled and gave a shiver. Maybe it was finally dawning on her that this was a real event on River Road in Passatonnack County.

I got up and gave Jack a big squeeze. “I’m sorry, Jack. I just assumed it was someone after Winslow and that they were long gone.”

“Well, I still think so,” Julia said stoutly. She rooted through her index cards and pulled one out. “Tell me, Jack, when did you notice that the shovel and the sec – uh, the pruning shears, were missing?”

Jack sighed. “Monday morning, Miss Marple.”

Julia nodded in satisfaction and made a note of it. “So shortly after Winslow’s visit here, someone is making plans to do away with him, using implements that couldn’t be traced to the murderer. A careful planner, I’d say. I wonder if Winslow was followed here on Sunday?”

I was getting into the spirit of things. “Jack, that hole in the woods. It looked like it had been there for several days. How does this sound? – the killer follows Winslow to our place, comes back the next day and takes the secateurs and shovel, digs the grave and then later lures Winslow here and does him in.”

Jack sat down on the other side of Polly and put the kitten on his lap. Tough Stuff is really adjusting to life as a house cat. “But if he did all that, why didn’t he go ahead and bury the body?”

“We don’t know that yet. Good point.” Julia made another note.

“And it all comes back to who would want to kill Obie Winslow, which brings us back to finding Mary Nguyen and learning what she knows,” I said.

“Who?” Jack asked.

I showed him the note from Steve the food columnist. “This is studying the life of the victim to solve the murder,” I told him. “Hercule Poirot 101.”

“Oh. I guess that makes sense.” He glared at me and added, “As long as it’s not some nut, and murders are more often nut cases than tidy puzzles. You should know that; you read the newspaper.”

Jack stood up and handed me the kitten. “If you’re going to keep him in the house, you’d better take him to the vet. Probably has fleas and earmites and worms and who knows what all.” And he left.

Julia said thoughtfully, “You know, a lot of husbands would say ‘get rid of that mangy thing’.”

I nodded. “He is rather saintly, isn’t he? I suppose we should start locking the doors until this is resolved.”

“We all should,” Julia agreed. “Listen, hon, do you want to borrow one of Bob’s guns?”

I shook my head. “Thanks, but I’m not comfortable with guns. I’d probably panic and shoot the sheriff.”

I finally composed a note to Mary Nguyen which, while not entirely telegraphic in nature, was certainly terse and to the point.

“From:
[email protected]

To:
[email protected]

Subj: WINSLOW MURDERED

Col O Winslow has been murdered, found in our vineyard. Understand you are researching, would apprec any info you have. Who enemies, etc. Cecilia Rayburn at
[email protected]
”

I know that some surfers of the ‘net write incredibly lengthy screeds, but I was trained back in the Memory Is Money days, when you edited out every unnecessary word to save space in the computer’s expensive and tiny memory. The kids laugh when I remind them that I once served as handmaiden and attendant to a gazillion dollar computer that boasted a memory of 512K. I predict that in the future, parents won’t tell their kids how far they walked to school, but rather, “when I was your age, my PC only had two meg of memory.”

I sent my message into cyberspace, and now it was up to the unseen Mary to log on and read her mail. I wondered where she was. When I think of freelance writers, I always think of Katmandu.

In the next few days, I was surprised at how little we were bothered by the press. The Passatonnack Journal is a weekly, and didn’t feel the Winslow murder rated a special edition. Just two years ago, they had issued a special when Craig Martin got drunk and fell down his well. As the editor explained to me when gathering information about Winslow for the regular Wednesday edition, “After all, folks around here knew Craig.”

Of course the story was on the news service wires and several of the big city dailies did call us for a reaction. I expressed dismay and mystification, and that seemed to satisfy them.

When I told Jack I was surprised that more reporters hadn’t shown up at the house, he said, “That’s because this is the boondocks. A reporter is more likely to take a redeye flight to Moscow than a four hour drive into the boondocks. Anyway, I’m going to put off having the winery signs put back up.”

Last fall, we had taken down the signs along the state route and county road which pointed the way to our vineyard. They have been repainted and are waiting in the barn. Jack had intended to put them back up this week, but now we would wait.

In fact, the only member of the Fourth Estate who actually arrived at our doorstep was Jerome Withers, the Post’s wine columnist. I suspect Jerome could find his way to any mid-Atlantic winery on a moonless night. But sending Jerome did have its drawbacks, from a news point of view. I managed to sidetrack him into his real area of interest, so that the article the Post published has as much information about the cultivation of the Merlot grape as it did about the murder. But what the hell – it was an exclusive.

Julia and I wandered the perimeter of the property, looking for signs of any vehicles both on the gravel road and on the dirt road along the river. But it had been a dry spring and whatever signs of intrusion that remained eluded our elementary woodcraft.