PW01 - Died On The Vine (8 page)

“If she really was out of the country,” I reminded her. “And unless she has an accomplice.”

“The police can check out the passport issue,” Julia argued. “And unless we find someone connected to Mary who has been in the county recently, I think we can count her out. But investigating her will keep the police from arresting Jack while we’re looking for the real killer.”

“Well, we’ll see,” I said, and left it at that.

That night, I heard from the last of my far-flung brood. It’s interesting to note that the kids farthest from home seemed to get the word soonest. The day after I discovered the body, Deb called from New York. Two days later, Pete called from Fredericksburg. Now finally Danny was calling from college. The police had asked us to keep the story of Winslow’s Sunday visit out of the press, and Jack and I were glad to oblige.

“Mom!” Danny hollared. “What’s this about you finding a dead body on the place?”

“He was dead and I found him,” I replied. “Did you just hear about it?”

“Yeah, a guy down the hall showed me a newspaper, wanted to know if I was related to the Rayburns in the story. He’s a journalism major, so I guess he has to read newspapers. But why didn’t you call me about it?”

“We’ve been kind of busy, and what could you do about it anyway?”

“I’m not saying I could have done anything, but a guy does like to know what’s going on. Say, maybe I should come down there, help you guys out,” Danny suggested hopefully.

“Are you kidding?” I replied. “Is this the same Danny Rayburn who said he didn’t want to be distract his brain with anything later than the Late Woodland period until after Killer Carmichael’s midterm?”

“Yeah, but still – I mean, a murder! What he really stabbed with one of Dad’s knives?” he asked with ghoulish interest.

“No, with the pruning shears. Listen, you’re going to stay put there until after midterms, is that clear?”

“I guess so. As long as you keep me informed.”

I gave him a dramatic account of finding the body, omitting the Sunday visit of Winslow, but with a great deal of emphasis on finding Tough Stuff and Polly’s reaction to the new kitten. That seemed to satisfy him and he rang off, to study, or so he said.

As soon as I hung up the phone, it rang again. This time it was Jack calling from Alexandria. He was probably in a bad mood to begin with, and finding the phone busy for so long had gotten him into a lather. “Geez, Cissy, don’t do that to me! I was imagining the phone off the hook and all kinds of horrors going on.”

“And it was just Danny finally getting caught up with what’s going on. Get a grip, Jack. How’s the wine festival going.”

“It’s going great,” Jack said mournfully.

“So why that tone?”

“It’s going great because everyone walks to talk about the murder. I’ll tell you, Cis, don’t even think about coming to the Manassas festival. I’ve been putting everyone off by saying that you found the body and I don’t know anything. Then they hang around trying to pump me and I just put on my dumb look and they wind up buying wine. But you’re no good at stonewalling. They’d have the Jimmy story out of you in no time.”

“Very unflattering, but I’m afraid you’re right. Well, I’ll just have to keep investigating with Mary.”

“With who?”

“Our new research partner, who is – get this! – Obie Winslow’s not so loving daughter”

“Whoa!”

“All true.” I gave him a colorful account of my day, and he graciously gave me permission to continue researching – as if he could stop me!

“But be careful, hon. Sounds like this lady has tons more motive than you or I.”

“Oh, pooh,” I replied cheerfully. “She’s a real sweet girl.”

“That’s what they said about Lizzie Borden.”

SEVEN

The next day, Mary phoned bright and early. I had just fed all the animals and was rewarding myself with a toasted bagel. “That photo is driving me crazy,” she told me. “We have to find it. Want to go into D.C. and check the Post?”

“Why don’t we try the county library first?” I suggested. “If it was recent enough, they might still have it.”

Mary laughed. “Good catch. Where’s the library?”

“Right across from the courthouse. Want to meet there?”

“Sure. Last one in is a rotten egg, as they say.”

I was the rotten egg. As I pulled my station wagon into the library’s parking lot, Mary’s little blue Miata was already parked. “Lead on, trusty native guide,” Mary said, and we mounted the steps to what appeared to be a small temple of knowledge.

The Passatonnack Library was founded back in the thirties by a wealthy businessman. Some say much of his wealth derived from Canadian whiskey. But his love of books left us with an elegant high-ceilinged edifice splendidly garish with marble and stained glass. Unlike many a self-made man with an Edifice Complex, our local rum-runner had not neglected the books, leaving a comfortable endowment for that purpose.

Many local libraries are nothing but a collection of the best sellers of the past hundred years, but the endowment allows the library to hire a research assistant. The research facilities are used by local historians and genealogy fanatics from across the nation.

As we entered, Mary paused to examine a particularly eccentric stained glass panel beside the door. It was my favorite, a woodland scene that incorporated Pallas Athena (I think), an owl, and a unicorn. “I like it,” she said after a moment’s scrutiny. “Ancient mythology meets Idylls of the King.”

Jane Stephens was manning the desk. “Hi, Mrs. Rayburn,” she said. “Awful sorry to hear about that man getting himself killed over at your place.”

I liked the way she phrased it, like it was all Winslow’s fault and had nothing to do with us. Janie is engaged to Luther Dawson, so she probably gets her slant on the case from him. She was a lanky girl, with little attractiveness at first glance. At second glance, you might notice her remarkable eyes, at once penetrating and dreamy. Luther is crazy about her, they say.

“Good morning, Jane,” I said. “We’d like to see your back issues of the Washington Post. How far back do you keep them?”

“We usually keep two weeks’ worth, but Ellie’s been sick with that flu and I’ve been busy cataloging the new books, so I haven’t cleared out the back room like I should,” she said apologetically. “I’m not sure how far back they go, but you’re welcome to them.” She waved us to the newspaper and periodical room.

The room could have stood a good clearing out, but we were thrilled to find at least five weeks of the Post waiting for us.

“Bingo!” Mary said. “I’m pretty sure the photo was in the Post, since it’s the one newspaper I read every day. But I can’t remember what the article was about, so we’ll have to go through every section. National, World, Metro and Style. Even Business and Sports, though they’re long shots. Let’s get going.”

We each took a long table and a stack of newspapers. It was weird to go through the newspaper page by page, looking only at the pictures. Mary paged methodically, but I kept finding myself distracted by stories and having to pull myself away and page onward.

And finally, there it was. “Mary,” I whispered in awe. “You were right. Look at this.”

Mary joined me at my table and we both stared at the picture. The headline read, “Squatter evicted from national wildlife preserve.”

With Mary reading over my shoulder, I read the story of Craig Southern, a Viet Nam vet (“and terminally confused person, apparently”, Mary murmured) who had been discovered living in a shack deep in the Massanassack Wildlife Area, and turned out of his illegally acquired residence.

The tone of the article was rather sympathetic, along the lines of “why isn’t more done for these people?”

So here was the model for Winslow’s Jimmy. How weird. “Where do you suppose this guy is now?” I asked Mary.

“Let’s find out.”

We emerged from the periodical room with our find. “Can we make a copy of this?” I asked Janie.

“Oh, shoot, just take that one,” she replied. “The only reason it wasn’t pitched out yet is that I didn’t get around to it.”

So we left the library with the newspaper.

“This has Will’s byline,” Mary said. “We’ll track him down.” I was expecting that we would go somewhere, but instead Mary reached into her Miata and brought out her car phone.

She dialed a number from memory and then said, “Hi, Sam, this is Mary. Mary Nguyen… No, I’m back in the States… Well, not actually in town; I’m out in Virginia… No, I mean way out. Listen, Sam, I need to talk to Will… Of course he’s not at his desk; he never is. Page the smoking lounge. I’ll hold.”

While on hold, she said to me, “I never thought I’d see the day reporters couldn’t even smoke at their own desks. What is this world coming to?”

Finally she leaned into the phone as it began to speak to her. “… Will. Yes, it’s Mary. Listen, do you remember a story you did about – “ she looked at the newspaper and continued, “- about three weeks ago, about a vet found living in the wildlife area? Right, Craig Southern. Do you know where he is?”

She listened for a moment and said impatiently, “I’m not stealing your story, Will. This guy may know something about another story. But he probably doesn’t. In fact, it will be much more interesting if he doesn’t. No, I’m not letting you in on it, I just want to ask the guy a few questions.”

She listened again and then sighed. “Sure. We got a deal. Okay, shoot.” She produced a notebook from a large shoulderbag and wrote rapidly. “And that’s where? Thanks, Will, you’re a doll.”

She replaced the phone and turned to me. “Craig Southern is at VietCare, an assistance dwelling in Alexandria. And I have to buy Will lunch the next time I cross the river.”

“So, what now?”

“So now we go to Alexandria. Who wants to drive?”

“I’ll drive,” I said firmly. “I’m not going up the interstate in that little toy, cute though it may be.”

As we settled into the car and started down the road, I asked Mary, “Tell me some more about Winslow’s family.” She arched an eyebrow at me, and I added defensively, “I did skim your manuscript last night, but it’s mainly about the Lest We Forget organization.”

“Like Deep Throat told Woodward, ‘follow the money’,” Mary replied. “I thought the money details would create more of a scandal. Winslow’s home life was rather mundane, except for the nasty little business of the family left behind in a war zone.” She pulled a pack of cigarettes from her bag. “Do you mind?”

“Go ahead,” I said in resignation. “I won’t even give you the health lecture, because it won’t work. My daughter smokes, so I know.”

“Thanks, you’re a saint,” Mary said, and puffed with relief.

“What about this – what did you call her? – Priscilla Horse-Country Blueblood?” I prompted.

“Actually Priscilla Billington Smith. The Billingtons, her mother’s family, had the blue blood. The Smith side had the money. When she died, her entire estate went to Winslow. I don’t think she had a will. Otherwise, surely she would have left the nephew something. They didn’t have any kids and she raised the nephew.”

“Anything funny about her death?”

“Not unless you can bribe a horse. She was riding cross country when her favorite mare refused a fence. She went flying and broke her neck.”

“Ouch! Who gets the estate now that Winslow’s gone?”

“Excellent question!” Mary pulled out her notebook and made a note. “Another follow the money angle.”

“What about the nephew?”

“Andrew Billington Smith. His mother was sort of a hippie back before anyone had heard of hippies. She died of an overdose or something, and he wound up with her sister Priscilla. He’s a lawyer now and something of a masochist. They say he’s going to run for Congress.”

“Some people will put up with a lot for power.”

“Yes, but he’s running as a Democrat.”

“In that district? I see what you mean about masochist.”

“He got the local hunt to switch to a scent trail instead of live fox hunting when he was still in high school. Claimed it was safer for the horses, but I think he felt sorry for the fox. He’s actually rather sweet, in a geeky way,” she concluded.

“Well, if he doesn’t like blood sports, he’s chosen the wrong profession,” I answered cynically.

As we approached Alexandria, I put Mary to the task of navigating. Parts of Alexandria are gorgeous, well-maintained townhouses, some dating from the colonial era and some pretending to. VietCare, needless to say, was not in that part of Alexandria. It was in the rundown desperate part. The people in this neighborhood didn’t have the political clout to take a NIMBY stance; they got everything in their back yard. A vet assistance center was downright respectable.

We parked in front of VietCare, and I suspect that Mary was glad to have her cute little Miata with the car phone safely back in the library parking lot. Up the sagging front steps and into the front door, where we found a reception desk manned by a huge black man who looked like a wrestler or a bouncer. “May I help you ladies?” he asked, in a soft voice with a Boston accent.

Mary turned to me as if appointing me spokesperson. “I hope you can help us.” I answered. “We’re looking for a man named Craig Southern.”