Left to Murder (An Adele Sharp Mystery—Book Five)

by Blake Pierce

  “Yes, fine,” John snapped, indifferent to his partner’s existential moment. “Mind moving your chair forward a bit?”

  She turned slightly and looked at him over her shoulder. Even her profile was quite pretty in an exotic sort of way. French, American, and German. Adele was the full package. John wrinkled his nose at the thought, though, and quickly distanced himself from it. He replaced the sentiment with another burst of frustration. “I’m serious, you’re cutting off my circulation.”

  Adele’s tone carried every level of condescension as she said, “Maybe if you weren’t such a filthy, filthy lover, your blood flow would be better regulated.”

  Then she turned back and made absolutely no effort to adjust her seat.

  John leaned back, jamming his knees into her chair, realizing exactly how childish this made him seem. As he looked at Adele, though, staring at her from the back of the squad car, he felt a flicker of unease. She had been acting strangely ever since the case in Germany with the missing children. He had been there, after she had fallen out with her father.

  Part of him wondered if he ought to ask her about it. That’s what a decent person would do, or so he assumed. He rarely spent much time around any of those.

  The squad car pulled up a dusty dirt path, kicking up debris and rattling as it made its way along the unpaved road. John winced each time one of his knees jammed painfully into the back of Adele’s seat. He gripped the handle above his window, and waited, until they pulled to a halt.

  “This is it?” he asked, growling.

  “Yes, sir,” said the local. “It’s where they found the body. The vineyard where she works is only two miles down the road.”

  Adele was already exiting the car, pushing open the door and stepping out. She closed the door behind her, giving John time to figure out how to squeeze out of the cramped backseat on his own.

  At last, he managed to extricate himself, stepping out into the dusty, cool terrain beneath the sun veiled by a scattering of clouds. He blinked a couple of times, his eyes narrowed against the glare in the sky as he examined the crime scene.

  “Is that a shipping container?” Adele asked, her eyes fixed on the red metal fixture in the middle of the dusty ground.

  The local nodded, lifting yellow caution tape and allowing the two agents to pass under. Another two cops were standing by the container, notepads in hands, muttering quietly to each other.

  John took in the scene. He glanced down the road toward the vineyard in the distance, and then along the side of the shipping container, toward a pile of discarded wooden crates

  “Why is there a shipping container out here in the middle of nowhere?” Adele asked.

  The local glanced at the agent and said, “Storage. For excess packaged products. Shipping containers are easy to cool quickly, and are relatively secure. Plus they’re a tenth of the price of building an actual structure.” He shrugged. “I know a few farmers in the area who use these things as temporary layovers.”

  Adele wrinkled her nose. “And this container, whose land is it on?”

  The local shook his head. “Still trying to figure that out. Seems that it is within the boundary of the vineyard where the victim worked.”

  Adele stepped toward the open door of the shipping container. John followed.

  The body had been removed at this point. But John had seen the crime scene photos on the flight, and he could block out the setting in his mind. He spotted dark splotches against the metallic ground. The back wall of the small enclosure still showed signs of blood spray.

  “Find anything useful?” he asked, glancing back.

  The local winced and shook his head. “Still going over it, but doesn’t seem to be any fingerprints. The blood belongs to the victim. We’ll have more tests, and maybe we’ll get lucky.” By the tone of his voice, it seemed like he wasn’t counting on it.

  John nodded and the local officer walked out of the shipping container, leaving the two agents to stand in the cool metal enclosure, scanning the small space.

  Adele’s eyes were half hooded, and she seemed to be staring off into the distance for a moment as she peered down the long container. John watched her speculatively and then quietly said, “Is everything okay?”

  She jolted, as if he’d stunned her. “Excuse me?”

  John raised his hands, as if defending himself against the accusation of actually caring. “Just wondering if you’re doing okay. You look lost.”

  Adele snorted and turned away, taking a few steps along the metal container. Boots clanged against the floor. She came to a stop in front of the angry red spots on the ground, staring down.

  “Not much here,” she said.

  John shook his head. “Doesn’t seem like it.”

  “Any theories as to why he killed her?”

  “No, you?”

  Adele inhaled, her chest puffing, but then she breathed a deep sigh and shook her head. “The why only matters when it helps us catch them.”

  She then turned, scanning the ceiling of the metal container. She paused for a moment, taking note of something. John followed her gaze. “Cobwebs,” he said. “Means the thing hasn’t really been used much.”

  Adele shrugged one shoulder. “Maybe, or maybe our killer just didn’t care to clean it.”

  Again, John found himself studying the side of his partner’s face. She seemed strained, stressed. “Have you been sleeping well?”

  Now, she finally rounded fully on him, facing him and meeting his gaze directly. “I’m doing fine, John.”

  John shrugged. “You don’t seem yourself is all. Are things okay with your dad? Have you managed to sort it out after—”

  Adele cut him off curtly, her tone turning cold. “We’re taking a bit of a break from each other,” she said, making it clear she didn’t want to speak on it anymore.

  John, though, considered social boundaries more like suggestions. He trampled over the suggestions with his next question. “You’re sure? You were really mad at him for a while. But he is your dad, and—”

  She snorted again, rolling her eyes. “And what are you? Dr. Phil?”

  John returned her look. “I have absolutely no clue who that is.”

  Adele rolled her eyes and turned, marching out of the container and gesturing that he should follow. “There’s nothing here,” she said. “Let’s scan the surrounding area; maybe the killer got careless.”

  John followed after her. Clearly, his questions had irritated her. Then again, perhaps she was simply displeased at the thought of combing through dirt and old boxes in search of a clue they both knew wouldn’t be there. The killer had proven one thing; he was methodical, careful. Yet, still, John supposed they had their due diligence. And if Adele was anything, it was diligent.

  Together, Adele and John began circling around the shipping container, their feet scuffing in the dust, moving toward the stacks of crates. As they scanned the ground, Adele broke off a bit, moving in the opposite direction of her partner and circling the container the other way. “I’ll meet you on the other side,” she muttered. Her eyes were glued to the ground as she moved away from her partner, distancing herself, searching for clues in the dirt.

  ***

  The search came up with nothing. No new clues. No new hunches. The two-mile drive to the vineyard where the sommelier had been abducted passed in silence. This time, John had the good sense to sit in the passenger seat behind the driver’s side. The local uniform pulled to a halt outside a couple of dumpsters, parking a few spaces away from the odoriferous trash cans.

  Another cop was waiting for them at the door of the wine-tasting studio. John inhaled the air as he stepped out of the vehicle, and was confronted with equal parts day-old garbage, and the faint hint of a fruity scent on the air. Behind the main structure of the vineyard, he spotted the actual farm. Grapes and vines and rows of green and purple on wooden stands as far as the eye could see.

  John whistled softly beneath his breath, and then moved toward
the entrance to the studio by which the other police officer stood. The fellow unlocked the door and gestured for them to enter.

  Adele and John moved into the wood and stone room beyond.

  Above, crisscrossing oak beams and stone-veneer pillars provided a rustic feel to the vineyard. John and Adele moved toward a series of circular tables speckled with blue stone. An oak counter was to their right, and a pile of used glasses sat in a plastic tray on the counter.

  Again, Adele distanced from him, immediately moving in the opposite direction of where he’d been heading.

  John sighed to himself, but pushed back his irritation, circling around the nearest tables and scanning the chairs beneath the windows.

  “Find anything here?” John asked the local.

  But the cop just winced and shook his head. “Nothing came up yet. The owner of the vineyard should be in within the hour—he’s having to fly from Italy.”

  John nodded to show he heard, then continued his trek, moving along the chairs and tables.

  “Looks like everything was wiped down,” he said, directing his comment toward his partner’s small form outlined against the oak counter beyond. “Think it was the killer?”

  Adele, finally speaking to him, but still refusing to meet his gaze, called out, “Might’ve just been from closing. Our killer isn’t stupid—methodical, careful. I doubt he would’ve left prints.”

  John glanced back at the door and fixed his eyes on the police officer waiting for them. The local hesitated, interpreting John’s look, then stammered, “We’ll run for prints, of course. But it doesn’t seem likely.”

  John shrugged a large shoulder. “Every little clue can help.”

  Adele and John spent the next hour moving through the vineyard, searching various rooms and coolers, and the main office building. They even spent some time in the vineyard itself, moving amidst the plants and the dirt and the greenery. Nothing. No DNA, no usable fingerprints, no leads.

  John and Adele moved back around the vineyard, finally within speaking distance once more. They paused in front of the array of windows facing into the studio, on the edge of the parking lot with the dumpsters. Adele put her hands on her hips and stared off across the fields, her eyes narrowed beneath sunlight. She said, “Our killer is careful. What are you thinking?”

  John was glad she was talking to him again. “I think,” he said, hesitantly, “we have a young woman kidnapped from this area, moved two miles away, then killed. That’s a lot of effort. No sexual assault, no torture. Why not just kill her here? In order to kidnap her, with no witnesses, he had her on her own.”

  Adele also paused, standing in front of the tall glass windows. She stood beneath a wood and stone buttress, her eyes flicking along the patio, toward the glass door, and scanning the tables through the windows. She looked back at him. “Think he was a customer? Maybe stayed late?”

  “Possibly.”

  “Maybe he showed up after hours?”

  “Or he hid somewhere, waiting for her to close.”

  “What do you think that means?”

  John grunted. “He’s a devious bastard. But otherwise, I don’t know. It’s a strange case. Motive doesn’t seem to match the murder.”

  Adele smoothed the front of her suit, pressing her hands against wafer-thin pinstripes stretching down the blue. She looked along the vineyard, toward the sun in the sky and blinked, wincing against the light.

  She said, “I don’t think fingerprints will turn up anything. He’s careful. I think that’s why he moved the body.”

  John nodded, inhaling the scent of too-sweet air. He glanced back toward the grapevines and then looked at Adele. “Still doesn’t explain why he sedated them before killing. Think he’s getting off on the death itself? The orgasmic rush of the light leaving their mortal eyes?” John said, quavering his voice dramatically.

  Adele shivered. “Gross. But also, I don’t know. It’s possible.” She hesitated, then clicked her fingers. “Hang on… Maybe we’re looking at this wrong.”

  She moved toward the door, pushed it open—a small bell jangled overhead—and she called in, “The cash register—is it empty?”

  There was a pause, the sound of murmuring, then one of the police officers moved from within, called out, “Still locked. Nothing was stolen as far as we can tell. The vineyard owner should be here soon—he’ll give us a better idea.”

  Adele leaned dejected against the door for a moment, one elbow braced against the glass. Slowly, she allowed the door to close and she stepped back out into the dusty ground with John. “Never mind. So he was here for the victims. Doesn’t make any sense.”

  “Maybe he was after the wine? Stole something, but just hid it?”

  “Maybe…” Adele said, doubtfully. “We can have the owner check to see if anything is missing. He’ll be able to tell us.”

  “You don’t sound confident.”

  Adele shrugged. She massaged the side of her face, rubbing a flat hand over one eye in a circular motion as if to soothe a headache. “I don’t know what to think just yet, John. The killer’s motives don’t make much sense. He killed them with as little pain as possible. The farmer it looks like he killed before he even woke up, as if he didn’t want to scare the man. How does that make sense?”

  John rubbed a thumb against a forefinger, wiping something sticky from the vineyard off onto his pants. “Usually they get off on fear.”

  Adele nodded, jamming her hands in her pockets, and then beginning to move back into the studio to wait for the arrival of the owner.

  Another hour, more time wasted. Nothing to show for it. No fingerprints, no DNA, no evidence. The killer hadn’t left anything behind. Why was he killing his victims? Why did it seem humane, even? Like a gentle farmer putting down an animal with as little pain as possible. Did the killer think he was performing a kindness? If so, how? John swallowed against the dry air, and then, stowing his own thoughts, he followed after his partner into the studio. Perhaps the vineyard owner would have the answers they needed.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  In Adele’s estimation, John had a way with words the same way a veterinarian had a way with suppositories—an intrusive, uncomfortable business that left everyone discomfited. She shot a glance toward where he stood ushering the vineyard owner into the small studio, greeting the man in French and gesturing toward the circular table around which they’d placed three chairs.

  Adele had to emit a small huffing breath, steadying her nerves before adopting a pleasant expression and striding over from the oak counter to the circular table. She waited for John to usher the new arrivals to the table before saying, “Hello, are you Mr. Reber?”

  A skinny, gray-haired fellow with more wrinkles than a shar-pei examined her from beneath wispy eyebrows like clouds. Next to him stood a middle-aged man and woman both dressed in neat polos and matching khakis as if they had color coordinated their outfits.

  “I’m Mr. Reber,” said the old man. “And this is also Mr. Reber,” he said, with a flourish of his fingers toward the young man. The way the older fellow said it suggested he’d introduced their little family unit like this on more than one occasion and it gave him delight to do so.

  Adele tried not to let her smile diminish in degree, but it was an effort in patience—a resource currently running on fumes.

  “Good afternoon,” she said, nodding to both of them in turn. Keeping her tone polite, she said, “Which of you is the owner of this establishment?”

  “Both of them, darling,” said the woman, stepping forward and seating herself in one of the chairs at the circular table. Agent Renee immediately fetched another two so they would have enough seats. The two local officers watched Adele’s momentary confusion from where they stood by the door, displaying mild amusement.

  “I see,” Adele said. “You’re co-owners?”

  The younger man helped his father ease into another chair, and the woman answered once more. “My husband and his father have co-owned the busines
s for the last five years. I help with operations. A terrible mess all of this—we were ever so fond of… what was her name again? Ms. Gucci?”

  “Gueyen,” said Adele, this time finding despite her best efforts, her smile had slipped.

  “Yes, well,” said the woman, tapping perfectly manicured, rose-red nails against the smooth table beneath the window. “We do have business to continue—flew in from Italy. Rather taxing on our dear father,” she said, nodding toward the older man who had finally managed to sit in the cushioned chair, and was breathing heavily from the effort.

  The younger man moved dutifully to the chair nearest his father and sat as well, murmuring quietly beneath his breath, “Are you all right? Need some water?”

  Before Mr. Reber could reply, though, the woman snapped her fingers toward the officers. “Water, please! If you don’t mind.”

  “Excuse me,” said Agent Renee, sitting across the table in the provided seat he’d placed earlier. “But they’re not waiters. And this won’t take long. We wanted to know what you could tell us about your employee, Ms. Gueyen.”

  The woman turned, her long—and, Adele felt certain, fake—eyelashes fluttering as she regarded the tall French agent. “Oh my,” she said, smiling now and looking John up and down. “Mrs. Reber,” she said, extending a hand in greeting. “But you can call me Margaretta.”

  John hid a quick smirk and shook the extended hand. “Pleasure,” he said. “I’m Agent Renee. But you can call me”—he grunted as Adele elbowed him in the back—“Agent Renee,” he finished, coughing.

  Adele took her seat as well now. She and John sat on one side of the table, facing the strange threesome on the other.

  “So you’re co-owners of this place?” Adele said, deciding to start with the basics in an effort to warm the subjects.