Burgundy and Bodies

by Sandra Woffington

  “Getting there, Kate. Thanks for coming to the funeral. I didn’t visit much. I—“

  “No explanations needed.” Red waved his hand. “We miss David too. We’ll get you a table and send over some snacks. You’ve got to come over for dinner one night, though. Joy, that includes you.”

  “That’s up to Joy,” Max added. “And don’t worry—it wouldn’t be an official date or anything.”

  Kate asked, “Why not? She’s as bonnie as they come.”

  Max blushed. “Well, for one, she’s my teacher. And for two, we’re working together right now.”

  “The offer still stands for dinner,” said Kate. “How about it?”

  Joy said, “I’d love to. Thank you.”

  Kate sucked in a breath as an idea flooded her mind. “Red, how about Friday night? It’s Lizzy’s birthday party. And Sally can be such a handful. How about two more?” She turned to Max and Joy. “Sometimes, I want to kill that woman. I’ve never met a woman so rude, but she’s Lizzy’s sister, so we have to invite her.”

  Red put an arm around Kate as if to ring in the vitriol before a new guest. “Sally is Sally. She likes to shock people, get ‘em riled is all. I’ll set her next to me, Kate.”

  Kate’s fiery red hair matched the fire in her words. “Well, you better. Because the last time she sat by me, I wanted to take the knight’s lance and run her through.” Kate settled down and turned to her guests. “Lizzy would love to see you. So will her boys, Max.”

  “Now that be true.” Red squeezed Kate again, this time in genuine compassion. “Come. The both of ye.”

  Joy lit up. “I’d love to, if…Max?”

  “Sure. What time?” asked Max.

  “Six for cocktails. We’ll watch the sun set and then go in for dinner,” said Kate. “And since you two aren’t an item—bring dates if you’d like.”

  Red and Kate led Max and Joy to a table on the terrace and disappeared. Beyond the balustrade railing, the vineyard stretched out as far as the eyes could see. Rows of stalks, thick with plump, ripe grape clusters, awaited the September harvest.

  Max felt the need to fill Joy in. “Raedwald and Katherine are…were...Dad’s best friends. They’ve spoiled me rotten since I was knee-high. Kate is my godmother. ‘Red’ was the last child born in his family. His parents didn’t plan to have another child.”

  “The oops.”

  “Yep. They doted on Red, though. But his older brothers inherited the titles and Scottish manor house. Red received a bundle of money when they died. He and Kate, barely out of college, came to America. Red said he’d build his own castle, and here it is. He bought this sizeable piece of land and was the first to plant grapes. That was in 1972. Whatever you do, don’t get him started on Scottish history or the peerage, like the differences between dukes and earls, vicounts and barons, or you’re in for a long story—about three Pinot Noirs worth.”

  Joy laughed. “No doubt, you made that mistake.”

  “I did, but I don’t regret it. This is one of the nicest families in Wine Valley. Five sons—Danny died a month ago, pancreatic cancer—two daughters-in-law, and a few red-haired grandchildren.”

  “Did you know that red-haired people don’t go gray? Their hair fades instead—copper to strawberry-blond to white.”

  A waitress dropped off two large iced teas and a cheese plate with crackers, bread slices, grapes, nuts and dried fruits.

  “So who’s at the top of your list?” Joy cut a wedge of white cheddar, stuck it on an apple wedge, topped it with a walnut, and popped it in her mouth.

  Max dove for the brie and bread. “Dr. Grant, for one. He wanted to walk Anne home after the game, but she refused. Maybe he hung around and saw her double back and party with Eugene. He might have tried to confront her and lost control.”

  “A-gamer’s no saint. Maybe he wanted to kill Anne to set an example to others.”

  “I’ll have Captain Banks put surveillance on him.”

  “And we only know Eugene’s side of the story. A night of passion.” Joy popped a fresh grape in her mouth.

  “Shane is dead too.” Max tried Brie with a couple of walnuts. “And that could lead back to Grant. A doctor would know exactly how much to overdose a guy his size.”

  “On the other hand,” said Joy, “Shane is a pharmacist. Maybe he was taking drugs from the pharmacy to sell to A-gamer, and A-gamer had a reason to kill him.”

  “We should check on that. But I still like Grant for it. He likes control, and he cut Anne off. If Anne bypassed him, he might have been pissed. Maybe he had her stealing from the hospital, but she wanted out.”

  “Maybe. I don’t know Goldsby as well as you do. He’s still on my radar. He had motive and opportunity.”

  “I think I’ll tail Grant tonight. I checked with the pharmaceutical company Grant works for, but he’s got to be supplementing his income from another source.”

  “We will tail Grant. Let’s enjoy this view and then you can drop me back at my place, go get some sleep, and pick me up at five? I’ll be wearing black.”

  “No doubt.”

  “Technically, to scientists, black isn’t a color at all. Light rays contain a spectrum of color. Black is the void. The absence of all color.”

  “I hope that isn’t a metaphor—I mean, your name is Joy. Unless Joy is meant to be ironic.”

  Joy sat back and stared out over the vineyards. “You’re lucky, Max. I didn’t have a godmother or someone like Belle to act as a grandmother. Your life is full of people and full of color.”

  Max popped the last of the Brie into his mouth. “And full of delicious food.”

  13

  Max picked up Joy as planned. To his surprise, she lived in a sprawling single-level ranch-styled home that sat in the middle of a sprawling tract of land, demarcated by white fences. The street was a long row of custom-built ranch houses, set back from the road.

  Max drove his father’s 2007 black Ford F-150 with a super-cab that, despite the moniker “super cab,” had just enough room for two, or a third squeezed in real tight, and the back seat would only fit small people, not men with full-grown legs.

  Joy hopped in. She wore black leggings and a black T-shirt She dropped a black back-pack at her feet.

  “Whew! Nice house.”

  “Dad bought it for $190,000 in 2003. I didn’t know he owned it. I thought it belonged to a friend who traveled a lot, and we just borrowed it when we came here on vacation. But the deed was in his trust.”

  “Current value must be a million.”

  Joy smirked. “More. This little valley has exploded in the last fifteen years.”

  “I grew up in an old house. I mean old. Dad bought a run-down, boarded-up hacienda built in the 1920s by Juan de Flores, known as Don Juan, one of the first ranchers in the valley. He situated the house so that it overlooked Hawk Valley, where his cattle roamed. Today, housing developments surround the property. But it’s been home for as long I can remember. Dad was a do-it-yourselfer. He liked taking that old house and giving it a new life. I gave up my apartment in town and moved back to the hacienda after the funeral.”

  Max left it there. He didn’t add the reason why: the old beams caressed him like the trunk of a strong tree; its branches protected him; its roots dug so deep that no twister nor tempest could uproot him. The house, which his dad simply called “The Ranch” kept him grounded as he found his way in this terrifying new world devoid of his father.

  “Sounds beautiful.”

  “It’s home.” Max drove down the tree-lined driveway back to the main road. “Um, you are aware that you dressed like a robber?” Max wore dark jeans and a black police-issue polo shirt. He had two police vests on the seat between them.

  “Nah, I’d still need gloves and a beanie.”

  “Not in August. Then you’d really stand out as a robber.”

  “Good point.” She looked around. “Nice truck.”

  “It’s Dad’s. Baby Blue is too conspicuous for a stake out.” />
  “Baby Blue? Oh my God, you named your car?”

  “Baby blue Mustang convertible with tan leather interior. Used, but she’s a classic beauty.”

  “You’re right. Conspicuous.”

  “What do you drive?”

  “I kept Dad’s 2010 Chevy Tahoe.”

  “Black, of course.”

  “Of course. Well, tan interior.”

  Via Vendage led out to the wineries in one direction, but in the other direction, after it crossed over the north-south freeway, it wound up into the hills. The gated entrance to Dr. Grant’s hill-top home branched off of Via Vendage. Max found a spot to park above the gated entrance to the estate. If the doctor pulled in or out, they’d see him.

  Grant pulled in at half-past five and out at seven fifteen. The sun had set, but twilight lingered as Dr. Grant’s red Porsche Boxster sped down the hill.

  “Now that’s conspicuous,” said Joy. “I wonder what he named her? Lady in Red? Foxy Lady?”

  Max played along. “Razzle-dazzle? Dusty?”

  By the time Dr. Grant pulled into Eugene’s mortuary, Max and Joy had exhausted good names and drifted to the sillier, like “Hot-lips” and “Candy Apple” and “Cherry.”

  Max turned off his headlights, pulled into the mortuary parking lot, and rolled to a stop on the gravel. He grabbed his police vest and handed the other to Joy. “Let’s give them a few minutes to get comfortable.”

  Joy reached into her backpack and pulled out a Glock 17.

  “Whoa there, cowgirl. I think one gun is enough for a mortician and a doctor.”

  Joy narrowed her eyes as she slid out of the truck. “You’re right. Leave yours in the truck.”

  Max jumped out too, carrying his Glock 19, and marched toward the building following Joy. “I didn’t mean it that way. It’s just that Wine Valley isn’t exactly a war zone.”

  Joy spun on her heels. Max nearly ran into her. She was so close that he could feel her breath on his face. “Sam taught me that everywhere you sleep or stand is a war zone. And if you don’t expect danger, then you won’t see it coming. And then you die. We only forgot that once. Sam had just stepped out of a hostage situation. I was the negotiator. He was walking toward me, happy to see me. I was happy to see him, when a bullet flew past my ear and struck him in the forehead.”

  “Joy, I’m sorry. I didn’t know.” Max meant it. They’d both lost their fathers, and he knew how raw that left them.

  “There’s no way you would have. Let’s go do this, and be careful.”

  Max led the way, edging along the side of the building, following the steps Grant had taken when he arrived. A full moon lit their way.

  At the back of the building, light radiated from two windows on either side of a steel door, but the windows sat too high up to peek through. Max could hear classical music. He signaled to Joy that he would enter first, and she was to follow.

  Joy gave him an affirmative hand signal.

  Max turned the handle. The door was unlocked. The moment it cracked open, the music grew louder. In the sliver, he saw Grant standing over a dead body on a metal table. Max flung the door open, rushed inside, and pointed his gun. “Freeze!”

  Joy fell in behind him, gun aimed, finger on the trigger.

  Cynthia screamed.

  Max and Joy faced a grisly sight: Dr. Grant, wearing a heavy apron and goggles, held a small saw. He had severed the legs and arms from a body, and he was about to sever the head from the torso when stopped by the intruders. The body lay on a metal embalming table in a room that was too white and pure for the ghastly dissection. Hoses suspended overhead, steel counters lined with ghoulish instruments, and a large white freezer gave the room the appearance of Frankenstein’s laboratory.

  Eugene had been wrapping an arm in plastic when stopped. “Put down those weapons. There’s nothing illegal going on here!”

  Cynthia had been leaning over what looked like a meat locker. She put her hands in the air.

  Max’s brain could not comprehend the words “nothing illegal,” except that neither the doctor, nor Eugene, nor Cynthia seemed ruffled at all.

  Dr. Grant laughed and set down his saw. “You followed me. I’m touched. Eugene, turn the music down, will you?”

  Neither Max nor Joy would drop their weapons, so Eugene said, “I’m just reaching for the volume control. Don’t shoot. There’s a brochure behind you. Pick it up and read it.”

  Joy picked one up and read it aloud while Max kept his gun on the group. “The Grant Institute for Biomedical Donations, Donate your body to science.” She eyed Grant and Eugene then continued reading:

  Eliminate expensive funeral costs: free transport and cremation

  Your generous gift of tissue will contribute to scientific study

  Next of kin can approve this gift for the deceased

  The only restrictions are no infectious diseases (testing is free); no severe obesity

  Surgical implants and scars are acceptable; no age restrictions

  Cremated remains, upon request, will be returned to the family within weeks

  “O.M.G. You guys are body brokers,” said Joy. “Put down the gun, Max. This will spoil your appetite and curl your hair, but he’s right. It’s not illegal.”

  “How so?” asked Max.

  While Dr. Grant, Eugene and Cynthia grinned, Joy explained, “Organ donation is strictly regulated in the US, like when you donate your organs at the DMV and get the little pink dot on your driver’s license, but ‘tissue’ donation is not as strictly regulated—these guys use the word ‘tissue’ because they wouldn’t get any takers if they said, ‘donate your loved one’s arms, legs, head, and torso to science,’ so families believe they are doing a wonderful thing—”

  “They are,” defended Eugene. “Medical schools around the country need real bodies to teach medical students.”

  Grant added. “Right. We are not ‘body-brokers. We are a ‘non-transplant tissue bank.’”

  Joy pointed her Glock at them. “Interrupt me again, and I’ll have to shoot you on the grounds of rudeness alone.” Eugene huffed and crossed his arms. Cynthia closed the lid on the freezer, and Grant shut his mouth.

  Max liked Joy’s spunk. He could imagine her pulling the trigger, Grant falling down dead, and Joy walking away, saying, “I warned him not to speak, didn’t I?” But they were the good guys. They played by the rules.

  Joy continued. “It’s a perfect match, Max. Lots of funeral directors push these donations for a finder’s fee. The dead person doesn’t have to approve it—the next of kin can sign. In this case, these guys aren’t the middle men—they are the brokers. They pocket a fortune from selling body parts. And there isn’t a lot of regulation about who can start such a company—you don’t even have to have a doctor cut up the body—and there isn’t much regulation as to who can buy the parts. They’re even shipped overseas. A whole chicken is cheaper than its parts—same for a body. A whole cadaver might go anywhere from three to five grand—depending on market supply, but a torso with legs might sell for close to four grand, corneas can be six grand a pair due to higher demand, skin ten dollars per square inch, bones and ligaments packaged separately. Prices go up when supplies go down and vice versa. What’s a head cost these days guys?”

  “It doesn’t matter. It’s all perfectly legal,” said Grant. “And these parts help companies create new medical devices. It is a good thing.”

  “That’s true enough.” Joy lowered her weapon. “You see, Max, a medical device company that is testing a new joint might order twenty elbows, for example. The company places an order, and a broker assesses inventory and gives a quote. To save money, the pieces can even be rented, returned, and sold again.”

  “Rented? Are you serious?” said Max.

  Grant sniped, “Look, this may not be pretty to you, but I trained on cadavers like this. If we didn’t exist, that new joint in your little scenario wouldn’t get tested and doctors couldn’t practice installing it property.”


  “I get that,” said Max. “But I agree with Joy. Nothing in your brochure lets families know that their ‘generous tissue donation’ is putting money in your pockets and sending their loved one’s pieces to different states—or countries.”

  Grant fired up the saw. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to get back to work.”

  Max stormed out past Joy.

  By the time Joy jumped in the truck, Max already had it running. He stomped on the gas and the tires spun in the gravel before getting traction. He stayed quiet the entire drive back, and Joy kept quiet too.

  Max pulled up to Joy’s house, put the truck in park, and rubbed his eyes. “See you tomorrow.”

  “Don’t take this the wrong way—like a date or anything—‘cause it’s not—but I’m not leaving you like this. You haven’t said a word since we left. Come in, and I’ll pour us a drink.”

  “Another time. I’ve got to get home.”

  In one deft movement, Joy turned off the engine, yanked the key out of the ignition, opened the door, hopped to the ground, grabbed her back-pack, and ran up to the front door. “You can sit there until the sun comes up—or you can have one stinking drink! Your choice!” She spun on the heels of her black infantry boots, marched toward the front door, unlocked it, and disappeared.

  14

  Max no longer liked Joy’s spunk. He jumped out, determined to beat her at this stupid game. She’d hand him a drink, he’d down it in a single shot, he’d get his keys back and head home.

  Max stepped inside, surprised at first by the darkness and second by the heat—it had to be eighty degrees. There was little light, but the walls were yellow and the ceilings, white. He passed by a dining room with distressed white furniture, came to the living room, and plunked down on a canary yellow sofa that sprouted red and white irises on green leafy stalks. It was like falling into a patch of wildflowers. He sat opposite a stacked stone fireplace, surrounded by built-in cabinets. Under-cabinet lights illuminated granite countertops.

  Max tilted his head back and closed his eyes. “I’m here, Joy. And I’m not moving another inch!”