Vineyard Fear

by Philip Craig

  Ted and Jake looked unhappy.

  I drove Billy Jo home. Orwell was apparently a man who was good at disguises. A blond grad student, a bearded doctor, a hippie with long hair and wire glasses. Who would he be next?

  Wilma met us with a frown, and we told her what had happened. She looked at the ground and then at me. There was fire in her eye.

  “Billy Jo’s a grown-up woman, so I’ve got no say about what she does with herself, but I don’t take kindly to you putting her in harm’s way like that.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Mom, I made him take me,” said Billy Jo.

  Wilma sighed. “Yes, I imagine you did.” Then she swept us both with hard, worried eyes. “I still don’t like it.”

  “It’s okay, Mom.”

  “Spilt milk,” said Wilma. “Well, put those guns away where they belong before your father gets back to the house. No use to get him worked up for no good reason.” She turned away.

  “Mrs. Skye,” I said. “I need some help.”

  She stopped, her back still turned. Then, slowly, she faced me and stood silent.

  “I need to talk to Orwell. When I told the police about his phone call, I made a mistake. I should have met him myself. If I’d done that, I could have talked to him. I might have been able to convince him that he’s after the wrong person . . .”

  “And you might have gotten yourself handled worse than he handled the deputies,” said Billy Jo fiercely. “They didn’t know where John was, but you do. He might have made you tell him.”

  “Maybe.” I looked at Wilma. “I need to talk to him.”

  “So?”

  “So if he contacts you, will you tell him where I am, and give him my telephone number? Will you do that, at least, and tell him I want to talk to him?” I had a thought. “Tell him that he owes me that much, at least, since he almost killed me three times.”

  “He won’t call.”

  “If he does . . .”

  She frowned at me, then said, “Hmmph. All right. Billy Jo, you’d best get those guns back where they belong.” She turned away.

  Billy Jo flashed me a look. “I’ll see you tonight,” she said.

  I blinked, then remembered. “Yes. Tonight.”

  I drove to my motel and got ready for the date I’d almost forgotten. My cowboy clothes were all pretty grungy, so I wore clean jeans, an almost-as-good-as-new thrift shop polo shirt with a little animal over the pocket, and my Tevas. Casual, but not too far from tourist chic. When Billy Jo knocked on my door, I was ready to go.

  Billy Jo was also ready to go. A crisp blouse, a dark skirt that fell below her knees, low-heeled shoes, and a ribbon holding her long dark hair. She wore golden earrings and a bracelet in the shape of a snake on her wrist. Her perfume was elusive and tantalizing. Her bronzed skin glowed. I felt underdressed.

  “Where are we going?”

  “Francisco’s.”

  “Mexican food?”

  “You bet.”

  “Seafood?”

  “You got it.”

  We drove downtown and parked and walked into the restaurant. When we got to our booth, Billy Jo said, “I’ll have a cocktail.”

  “What will it be?”

  “You order it. I’ll drink it.”

  The waiter looked at me. I looked back.

  “Tell your bartender to rinse two glasses with dry vermouth and then put a double shot of Stoli and two olives in each glass. I want the Stoli ice-cold.”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Sounds just right,” said Billy Jo.

  “Do I get to order your meal, too?”

  “No, I’ll take care of that. You can tend to the wine, though.”

  The drinks came. We touched glasses and drank. Smooth as new ice.

  “You’re a gutsy girl,” I said. “I’m glad you were out there today.”

  Her face was young and her eyes were shining. “I liked it. I never had a feeling like it before. Standing there with the rifle, wondering what was going to happen. It was a rush.”

  It hadn’t been a rush for me.

  “You did well,” I said, but I wasn’t happy about her feelings.

  “I’ve read about soldiers being afraid and excited all at the same time,” she said. “Now I know what they mean.”

  “I’m just glad he’d pulled out.”

  “What do you think happened out there? I mean, nobody expected him to Be there first, did they?”

  “I think he went there early for the same reason the deputies did: to scout the place and get the drop, if need be, on whoever came out to meet him. He’s an old pro, and an old pro always gets the edge if he can.”

  “Why did he call Mom after he’d already locked up the deputies? He must have known they were trying to set a trap. Why did he still wait for somebody to show up and tell him where John is? That doesn’t make any sense.”

  “He didn’t know whether the deputies were there instead of the messenger or whether they were there for some other reason. They told him that they’d gotten an anonymous tip, remember. Maybe he figured the messenger was still going to come. When he’d called your mother, she told him that her nephew was going to be there. It was only when the nephew didn’t show up that Orwell knew it had been a trap. He must have been pretty annoyed. The interesting thing to me is that he didn’t take it out on the deputies. He could have killed them both, but he didn’t.”

  “Why didn’t he?”

  “I don’t know. He could have killed me at my house, but he didn’t. Maybe he just wants to kill John Skye. A professional killer doesn’t like to kill people for no reason.”

  She was leaning back in her chair, looking at me with her bright, dark eyes. “I never met anybody like you. Somebody who knows about these things, somebody who gets involved in these things.”

  There is a C and W song that says ladies love outlaws.

  “I don’t know about these things and I don’t get involved in these things,” I said, thinking that it was time to deflect such talk. “I’m just here because I don’t want John to get killed.”

  “I watched you out at Vivian’s ranch. How you moved, what you did. I don’t know anybody who knows what you know.” She touched her tongue to her upper lip.

  “All you saw was a guy who was in the army once. Anybody who ever had any service experience knows how to do what I did. The two deputies knew.”

  “But you told them what to do.” She leaned forward on her elbows. “You’ve been shot at, haven’t you?”

  I have a bullet lodged near my spine. Put there one night by a frightened would-be thief I’d trapped in an alley when I was on the Boston PD. Sometimes I wonder what will happen if it moves a little bit.

  I said, “I have some shrapnel in my legs from a Viet Cong artillery round. Or maybe it was a mortar round. Anyway, the guys who fired it didn’t even know I was there. We never saw each other. War isn’t very romantic.”

  “Have you ever shot at somebody?”

  I had shot at the woman in the alley six times as she had been trying to shoot me some more. After all of the shots, my partner had been afraid to come into the alley because he thought the person I’d been chasing might be waiting for him. Finally he’d come on in anyway and found first the dead woman and then me, lying in my own blood in a pile of trash. I considered him a very brave man.

  I put a smile on my face. “Thousands. I shoot at one or two before breakfast every day.” I beckoned to a waiter. “Let’s eat.”

  She ordered lobster, I ordered chicken enchiladas. There was a Freixenet Cordon Negro Brut on the wine list, so I ordered that to wash things down. Spanish champagne with enchiladas? Why not?

  When the waiter went away, she put her hand on my arm. “You’re dangerous,” she said. “I like the way I feel with you.”

  She had youth’s fascination with Eros and Thanatos. A heady and dangerous mixture whose glamour had probably once lured me as it now lured her. She was a very beautiful young woman, and I liked the feeling
of her hand on my arm and the way she looked at me. I understood why some men can’t stop trying to be attractive to such women.

  Just then a voice said, “Mr. Jackson? Miss Skye? I hope I’m not interrupting.”

  — 21 —

  I looked up and saw the normal Western uniform of boots, jeans, and checkered shirt, topped by a clean-cut face that was vaguely familiar. I ran it through my memory and came up with the young deputy sheriff who had been eyeing Billy Jo out at the ranch before being sent off to make a radio call. I felt Billy Jo’s hand slip off my arm.

  “Sir, ma’am. Sure don’t mean to intrude, but I’d like to speak to you, sir.”

  “No problem,” I said, “Grant, isn’t it?”

  “Yes sir. Grant Taylor.”

  “Grant Taylor,” said Billy Jo.

  “Yes ma’am,” said Grant Taylor, with a smile.

  “You were out on the mesa this afternoon.”

  “Yes ma’am.”

  “This is Billy Jo Skye,” I said.

  “Yes sir. I know who she is. How do you do, ma’am?” “Hello.”

  “Yes ma’am. Hello. You’re looking mighty pretty tonight, if I may say so, ma’am.”

  “Thank you. Aren’t you a little young to be calling me ma’am? You don’t look any older than I am myself.”

  “I’m two years older, ma’am . . .”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Because I know your big brother, ma’am. We were in school together up at Boulder and he told me all about you.”

  She sat up straighter. “Why haven’t I met you before this, then? Josh must have brought a dozen of his pals home for one holiday or other.”

  He ducked his head, “Well, ma’am, I was usually working on holidays, trying to stretch the money I got for being in the army after I got out of high school. Shucks, I wish now I had come down home with him!” He grinned a boyish grin. She smiled.

  “You’re from someplace else, then?”

  “Yes ma’am. Up Gunnison way. Came down here to go to work for the sheriff. I was military police in the service, and studied criminology in college, and I like the work.”

  “That where they taught you to call women ‘ma’am’?”

  “No ma’am. I think my daddy taught me that. He said if it was the right way to address the Queen of England, it was probably good enough for most other women, too. I hope you don’t mind.”

  The smile was still on her face. She put out her hand. “I don’t mind, but my name is Billy Jo.”

  He stared at the hand for the blink of an eye, then shook it with his own. “Grant.”

  “Grant.” She sat back.

  “Billy Jo.” He straightened.

  My eyes had been moving back and forth between them. I touched his arm. “You wanted to say something to me?”

  “Oh. Oh, yes sir. Sure do.” He flicked his eyes at Billy Jo, then back at me. “It’s about this Orwell fellow. You want to step up to the bar for a minute . . . ?”

  “No. Sit down. Billy Jo knows as much as I do. You can talk to her, too.”

  Billy Jo nodded approvingly, slid over, and tucked her long skirt under her thigh. Grant Taylor slid in beside her, bumped against her, got red, and slid back a few inches.

  “Sorry, ma’am,” he said. She smiled at him.

  “Well?” I asked.

  “What? Oh. Yes sir.” He put his elbows on the table, got his face straight, and dropped his voice. “We’ve been in touch with people back east, as you know, and some new information has come in. We were going to try to get in touch with you tomorrow, but when I noticed you in here, I thought I’d just get it done now. This Orwell fellow is scheduled to go back on duty in ten days. That means that he’ll be out of our hair before too much longer.”

  “Unless he goes AWOL.”

  “Yes sir. But apparently he’s a career officer in a family of career officers, so I doubt if he’ll go AWOL. You never know, of course.”

  Of course. “Anything else?”

  “Well, Jake and Ted have been working with our artist and the photos we have of Orwell, trying to figure if he was the guy who ambushed them. You know, adding a moustache and beard and long hair to the photo, that sort of thing . . .”

  “And they think that it could be, but they can’t be sure, right?”

  “Right, sir. The sheriff and the Durango and State police all have Orwell’s picture, so we think we might pick him up. If we do . . .”

  If you do, I thought, you don’t have anything to hold him on unless Jake and Ted can identify him, which they probably can’t.

  “If you get him,” I said, “I want a chance to convince him that he’s after the wrong guy.”

  He nodded. “If we get him, you’ll get your chance,” he said.

  Our waiter appeared, bearing a tray of steaming dishes. Grant Taylor slid out of the booth, smiled at Billy Jo, shook my hand, and moved away toward a table of young people his age, all of whom seemed to be looking at Billy Jo and me. I turned back to her as the waiter put down our food and drink.

  “I think this merits our undivided attention,” I said, as I inhaled the aromas floating into my nostrils.

  “You sound like you have functioning taste buds. Dare I hope that you’re not just another man who’d eat a bale of hay if somebody poured some whiskey on it?”

  “I’m not a logger, lover.” I tried the wine and found it cold and otherwise satisfactory. “When you live alone, it’s easy to get in the habit of just tossing together whatever’s easiest to cook. I make a point of not doing that. I like good food and I feed myself as well as I can. Right now I plan to tear into these enchiladas, and I advise you to do the same with that lobster.”

  “Yes sir!”

  She did, and I did.

  After a while she drank some wine. “So you live alone.”

  I thought of the times Zee had been in my house with me. Then I thought of the times she hadn’t been, and wondered if she would come back to the island after her conferences in New Hampshire.

  “Most of the time,” I said.

  “Not all of the time?”

  “Sometimes a friend stays with me.”

  “A friend.” She popped some lobster into her mouth.

  “Yes.” I mopped up the last of my enchiladas. I was still hungry. There must be some appetite stimulant in thin air. We had ice cream for dessert, then came coffee and cognac and the bill. I presented my plastic.

  Billy Jo looked across at me. She had a comfortable, not-yet-sated expression on her face like the one I thought must be on my own. “Now what do you have in mind?”

  “I’ve been thinking of several possibilities,” I said. “First I thought you and I might go back to my place.”

  “Ah.” Her eyes were dark beneath half-lowered lids.

  “But then I remembered that I have to go up through the cliffs and see John Skye tomorrow, and tell him what’s going on. So I’m going to ask you to do something else instead. I’d like you to take me up there again in the morning. That means . . .”

  She rolled her eyes. “I know what that means. That means you want me to go home so I can get up early and get the horses and gear and the trailer and the truck and meet you here . . . when?”

  “Actually, I want you to go home so I can get up early. Nine?”

  “Nine. You . . . ! All right, all right!” She slid out of the booth. “I’m sure you need to get right at your beauty sleep, so let’s go.”

  As we walked by the table where Grant Taylor sat, he stood up and smiled. “Good night,” he said.

  Billy Jo glanced first at me and then at him. “Good night, Grant,” she said. He got a friendlier look than she gave me.

  At my motel, she sat stiffly behind the steering wheel as I got out.

  “I appreciate your help, Billy Jo.”

  “My pleasure. Good night.” She spun gravel pulling out. I had to smile, but another part of me hated to see her go, and I wondered if I was a fool to send her away.

  T
here was a message waiting for me at the desk. A Mr. Malone had called. He’d call again later.

  I drove to a liquor store and bought ice and a six of Coors. Back in my room, I was halfway through the first Coors when the phone rang.

  “Mr. Jackson?”

  “Mr. Malone?”

  “That name will do. I understand you want to talk with me.”

  — 22 —

  It was a very ordinary-sounding voice, but it sent a little shiver up and down my spine.

  “First, you should know that this line isn’t tapped,” I said. “Nobody’s going to try to trace your call.”

  “Very reassuring. I can trust you, of course.” A tone of almost amused irony.

  “Actually, you can. I want to talk to you. I take it that you got this number from Wilma Skye.”

  “Yes. I told her that I was calling from the Durango Police Department and that we had some news that we wanted to get to John Skye. She said that you were trying to get in touch with this fellow they think is named Orwell and that we should give the information to you. I take it that Mrs. Skye is not a fool, that she realized that I am no policeman, and that she gave me a message you wished to give the man you call Orwell. What is it that you want to tell him?”

  I didn’t think I had much time to make my case. “It’s simple enough. I’ve known John Skye for many years. I will swear to you on the sacred book of your choice that he had nothing to do with either the life or the death of Bernadette Orwell. He was one of her professors for one semester and nothing more. He was never her lover or anything like it. If she killed herself out of love, it was not out of love for John Skye.”

  There was a silence before the voice spoke. When it did, it was cool and detached. “Your friend has deceived you. The girl’s diary tells a different tale. It says that she loved him and that John Skye used her and abandoned her and she could not bear it. In the modern liberal world, perhaps the idea of professors seducing their students is meaningless, the notion of abandonment hopelessly gauche, the idea of the girl afterward committing suicide laughable. Perhaps at Weststock College a professor so exploiting a young woman student is such a commonplace event that it means nothing to either the woman or the man. But in the world where some others live, it means a great deal. Those others believe that men such as Skye owe a debt, and they mean to collect it.”