Blood On Vines
The Matakana Series
Madeleine Eskedahl
This edition published by Squabbling Sparrows Press 2021
ISBN 978-0-9951369-3-9
Copyright @ Madeleine Eskedahl 2021
The right of Madeleine Eskedahl to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with the Copyright Act 1994.
The story contained within this book is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
This book is set in New Zealand and written in British English.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronic, electrostatic, magnetic tape, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
Cover design: Jeroen ten Berge
To Adrian, Holly and Olivia, your love and support kept me going and encouraged me to finish this book.
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Epilogue
Author’s Note
Reviews
Acknowledgments
Book Club Questions
About the Author
Prologue
Martinborough
The charming demeanour, the talk about life insurance and the smart suit had convinced Peter to let him in. They never made it as far as the kitchen. The initial punch at the top of the stairs caught him by surprise. Before he could get his hands up, the second blow connected with his nose and mouth. He fell backward like a rag doll, hitting each step of the narrow stairs with a heavy thud, until it all came to a stop in the basement. The man from the bank said nothing.
As Peter came to, gone was the man’s smile and dark suit. Instead, he was wearing disposable overalls and blindingly white gumboots. A blue sports bag sat on the floor. From the corner of his eye he could see a discarded syringe, but had no memory of it being used. Peter’s legs were spread at an uncomfortable angle; it was as if they no longer belonged to him. A multitude of jagged tears covered his jeans, each leg blood-soaked from rage inflicted stab wounds.
Waves of pain rolled over him and he had lost control of his bladder.
The cold damp seeped into him from the grey schist floor.
His right arm was heavy and numb, hanging down by his waist like a dead tree branch. He just wanted to close his eyes and drift into the serene peace he knew was inevitable.
Lurching forward, the man pushed a pneumatic nail gun in Peter’s face before grabbing his left arm, slamming the hand to the wall and squeezing the trigger.
Peter’s screams echoed in the basement as a six-inch nail was pushed through the middle of his palm, penetrating just below the third finger, splintering ligaments on the way. As his left hand was fixed to the wall, the world went black.
Peter had no idea how long he had been sitting there. Was it still Friday? The small windows in the basement didn’t let in much light. He had meant to trim the hedge in the flower bed, but like a lot of things in life he hadn’t got to it. His failed relationships and lack of motivation for most things were going through his head. Not that it mattered now.
He’d had a funny feeling that someone had been in the house a few days ago, his things subtly rearranged, but had shaken it off as nonsense.
Slipping in and out of consciousness, Peter could just make out his attacker, his cold eyes full of hate. He could see the man’s lips moving but all he could hear was the swooshing in his ears. Shaking his head, trying to focus, he could just make out, “I’ve got what I came for.”
Peter’s nose throbbed, broken and swollen shut. Breathing through his mouth was difficult, globules of blood making him gag. Thick saliva dribbled down his shirt in long pink strands.
The man pulled a carving knife from the sports bag and launched himself at Peter again. Blood splattered against the wall and pooled on the already sticky floor. Peter’s femoral artery was severed; a cascade of blood squirted rhythmically.
“You should have kept your nose out.”
Peter rested his head on his arm. Crushing tiredness overtook him. He didn’t care anymore, his body beyond repair, and a deep cold spread through his body.
If I just close my eyes for a moment, he thought, as his heart pumped the last drop of life from his battered body. His head fell forward, and he was gone.
1
Matakana
Lexi was enjoying the early morning peace in the garden, clasping her cup of Earl Grey with its scent of bergamot and citrus. The warmth of the sun caressed her bare legs. A light breeze rolled over the gently undulating hills of Matakana wine country. A rogue gust caught her nut-brown tresses, and Lexi remembered she ought to book an appointment to have a cut, and the odd grey hair eliminated. Sweeping it off her face, she reached for the elastic band around her wrist and tied it up. The haircut would have to wait until after the harvest anyhow.
It was early; the family was still sleeping. She loved the quiet contemplation and appreciated the surrounding beauty, highlighted by the morning sun shining through the treetops, making the dewdrops in the garden sparkle like diamonds. The sweet, pungent smell of late summer fruit in the warming air was comforting, the gentle buzzing of honeybees flitting from flower to flower. Her mind was wandering. She glanced over her shoulder at her childhood home, the grand old homestead that held so many fond
memories, and took another sip of tea. It had been a tough year for the entire family. Their vineyard was doing well, the operation had expanded a lot in the last few years, but with that came the stress, not the least on her and Avery’s marriage. Gabriel, their eldest, had mixed with the wrong crowd at school and got into some trouble which hadn’t helped either.
The soft yellow two-storey villa’s crisp white trim had been looked after over the years. The large front porch, framed by beautiful fretwork, was used only for special occasions. It was easier to use the side entrance straight through to the kitchen. Gabriel had just been a baby when they’d moved to Matakana and taken over the family property sixteen years ago. Since then, the two girls had come along, Samantha was now fourteen and Evie nine.
With the development of the motorway and the tunnel from Auckland, the range of cafés, restaurants, art galleries and the famous Farmers Market on Saturdays, the Matakana Valley was flourishing. Being on the main road to Matakana Village helped, and the influx of visitors during weekends and holidays benefitted their cellar door and farm shop.
In the early days, Lexi’s father had grown vegetables and kept a herd of dairy cows, like his father and grandfather before him. Thankfully, in the 1980s, Bob had the foresight to join a few of the progressive farmers planting the first grapes to produce wine. The valley’s cool maritime climate during the winter months, combined with a pleasant prevailing north-easterly during the warm summer, made it ideal for growing cabernet-based reds, chardonnay, pinot gris and riesling.
Avery planted more vines when they bought the property, putting his heart and soul into the business, expanding production from a relatively modest operation to a label respected locally and overseas. The first few years had been tough, with a lot of work and not much money coming in. The area produced some award-winning reds, and even their Matakana Valley Wines had won accolades. They had dreamt big, been full of ideas and enthusiasm. Lexi still had the odd night of insomnia, lying in bed and staring at the ceiling. Avery was always calm, not at all like her — prone to stress out about the minor things around her. The kids, the homestead — there was always something.
Now it seemed they had drifted apart, especially after what happened last year. Not that it had gone as far as Avery sleeping with that woman, but it had been close. Avery had been full of remorse and had tried to make it up to her. Even though it was a year ago, it broke her trust, not helped by having a couple of moody, hormonal teenagers around and a prepubescent tween in the house. It had been much easier when the children were small, she thought and sighed.
Beau, their black Labrador, stirred at her feet and stood up, looking her deep in the eyes, tilting his head while his right paw gently tapped her leg. It was time for breakfast, he intimated. Lexi smiled and gave him a scratch behind the ear. In the distance, she could hear the faint alarm of the bread maker she had set the night before.
Pulling her cardigan across her chest and taking the last sip of the now lukewarm tea, she closed her eyes for a moment. It was seven-thirty, and the family would soon be awake. Lexi grabbed her empty cup and walked towards the house, the dew making her feet slip around in her jandals. She paused by the row of white iceberg roses at the front of the house, reaching forward, smelling the pleasant scent of her childhood summers and smiled. Planted by her mother, the brilliant white blooms set off perfectly against the warm yellow weatherboards and had a special place in her heart. She climbed the stairs and kicked her jandals off in the small but welcoming entrance. The delicious smell of freshly baked rye filled the kitchen, and she wondered what the day would bring.
2
“Mum!” roared Samantha from the top of the stairs, her agitated voice an octave or two higher than normal. If the rest of the family had not been awake before this outburst, they were now. Lexi made her way from the kitchen to the bottom of the stairs where she met her older daughter wrapped in a faded blue towel. Her face was red with anger and eyes black like thunderclouds, water streaming from her long hair onto the golden rimu floor.
“What on earth is the matter?” Lexi asked.
“There’s no more water! There was only a little burst, just enough to wet my hair and lather up the shampoo. When I turned the tap on again, there was nothing. Look,” Sam snapped, her hair full of suds and twirled into a loose topknot, water trailing down her back from a few loose strands. Her face said it all; the world as she knew it was ending.
“That’s strange. Just calm down and I’ll have a look.” Lexi checked the tap in the kitchen. It too had run dry. Going upstairs, she bumped into Avery on the landing. He had heard the commotion and got out of bed. Wearing a pair of faded shorts, he yawned and stretched his broad neck and shoulders to wake up. He ran his fingers through his wavy brown hair which was sticking up, desperately trying to tame the wild mop. She couldn’t help but look at his sun-kissed and freckled back, his muscles rippling as he went down the stairs. He was still in good shape, didn’t look bad for a man in his early fifties.
It seemed like a long time since she had noticed him; they were always like ships passing in the night. She wondered what had happened, where they had gone wrong. She was a year younger than Avery, but that feeling of middle-age spread was definitely threatening, she thought as she glimpsed herself in the hall mirror. She pulled at the skin on her neck and scrutinised the tiny crow’s feet at the corners of her eyes. She could definitely do with some jazzing up.
Avery took one look at his exasperated daughter, who at fourteen was definitely going on twenty-one, complete with a severe attitude to match. She was a carbon copy of her mother, athletic-looking, with long dark hair and a smattering of freckles across her button nose. They would have to monitor her as the boys would be along soon. She had her mother’s stubborn streak too, so hopefully she would Sarge the boys, not the other way around.
He grabbed a clean T-shirt from the folded laundry at the bottom of the stairs and threw it on. They collected all the water from the vast roof spaces and water conservation was always at the front of their minds, especially over the warmer summer months. The rainwater in this part of the world was clean enough to drink unfiltered. As for the rest of the farm and vineyard, they were fortunate to have a stream running through the southern side of the property, which irrigated the land and the livestock. Avery stuck his bare feet in the tatty old Red Band gumboots by the door before walking around the back to the three large water tanks, camouflaged behind the glossy leaves of the olearia hedge. Even though he’d checked the water level only last week, it had been hot and dry since. Avery climbed the ladder with ease and twisted the large round plastic lid open and peeked in, the beam from his flashlight bouncing off the surface. To his relief there was still a third left, enough for a little while yet. Hopefully the rains would come after the harvest; if not, they would have to order a tanker. Putting the ladder back, he decided to have a look at the pump under the house.
The small trellis door was barely a metre square and protested loudly on its hinges as he pulled it open and peered into the darkness. A pungent smell of soil and warm air hit his face. A strong and unpleasant aroma of rat urine and something dead assaulted his nostrils, and he flinched. He swung his above-average height and broad-shouldered body through the small opening, feet first, and held on to the door frame for support. Trying to block the worst of the foul smell he put his hand under his nose while getting the torch out of his pocket. He hunched his body in the cramped space, losing concentration for a moment and not ducking low enough, hitting his forehead on one of the supporting beams. His head rang and he saw stars. He swore under his breath and wondered why on earth they hadn’t moved the hot-water cylinder and pump closer to the door. He felt the top of his head with his fingers and knew there was a cut as soon as he touched the warm blood. Wiping his face and ignoring the discomfort, he moved closer to the pump in the corner. The air seemed denser and more stagnant the further in he went. The unidentified waft of the putrid matter was intensifying. It was probably
the dead carcass of an unlucky rat or possum. Avery screwed up his nose and made a mental note to put some bait traps out. The last thing he wanted was to have a large nest of rodents congregating under the house as the weather turned cooler.
The pump itself was old, something Lexi’s dad had installed a long time ago. Perhaps it had finally given up the ghost. Avery shone the torch over it. A slight smell of plastic and electric burn hung in the air. Without hesitation Avery reached forward and yanked the short power cord out of the outlet. Sparks flew. The unit was hot to the touch, and on closer inspection he could see evidence of flames having licked the plastic cover around the front. He breathed a sigh of relief, thankful that the damage had not spread. Cold shivers went down his back — the old homestead could have gone up in flames as they slept. He turned around to head back outside, away from the terrible odour, when a movement in the corner caught his eye. He shone the torch, letting the beam slowly illuminate the dirt on the ground. Apart from a few old planks and some other building materials, there wasn’t much there. Out of nowhere, a massive rat ran right in front of him. The sudden movement startled him. Damn rats. He couldn’t believe how brash they were. Avery shone his torch in the direction where the rat had disappeared, glad that he was wearing gumboots. He stood still and listened for a moment. There was a definite scurrying behind a nearby pile of Leca blocks left over from when Bob built the internal wine cellar many years ago. The scuttling intensified and so did the awful stench. By the sound of it, there were several. The smell of a dead animal was rife, and he took care where he put his feet, not wanting to step on whatever it was. He leaned in for a closer look.
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