Midnight Harvest

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “They will, in time, and beyond all cavil.” Saint-Germain pulled up a straight-backed chair and faced Pietragnelli. “Is your assertion actual knowledge or reasonable conjecture?”

  “Who else would do it? Oh, there are many who are not happy about the Orientals coming here, but none of them would go so far as to kill, except the White Legion. Why should I doubt what is so obvious?” Pietragnelli asked. “I know what’s going on. They painted his mailbox yellow four times in the last six weeks, and they’ve named him among those they plan to drive out. I’m on their list, as well.”

  “Being on a list, no matter how disgusting, isn’t proof they killed Yoshimura,” said Saint-Germain, thinking of the many times he had been on lists, and what repercussion they had had. “It means that he knew he was in danger, and so did many others. His wife must be aware of that, too. But how can you accuse the White Legion, or the Leonardis, with only that to go on? He could have been killed by someone else who took advantage of the threats to act, confident that any investigation would turn toward the White Legion first.” He had experienced more than one such attack, the worst sixteen centuries ago; the criminal who had tried to kill him had almost got away with his deed because no one but Saint-Germain suspected him.

  “That’s very unlikely,” said Pietragnelli.

  “Yes it is, but it’s not impossible. This isn’t a time to embroider the truth, for it will only cloud the work to be done. Did Yoshimura say who it was? Did he identify the Leonardis specifically?” Saint-Germain waited for Pietragnelli’s answer, aware it was a difficult one.

  “No,” he said at last. “He said it was the White Legion. He said there were two of them and they wore hoods, with a chess knight on them, just as they have on all their pamphlets.”

  “They could be recognized, which means Yoshimura must have known them on sight,” Rogerio said. “The hoods prevented recognition.”

  “So I think. I am sure Yoshimura knew his assailants. And the Leonardis have been the most vocal of those speaking against Yoshimura.” Pietragnelli buried his head in his hands. “I brought this on him. It is my fault, mine.”

  “How do you come to that?” Saint-Germain inquired.

  “I was the one who made him stay and fight. I said I could lend him protection. I promised him that we would put an end to the White Legion in Sonoma County.” He had begun to weep. “Oh, God. I should have seen this coming. I could have prevented it.”

  “You did send guards to him, didn’t you?” Saint-Germain knew the answer. “You had men keep watch on his farm. He was aware of the danger.” It was no comfort, and he knew it. “But it is a terrible loss.”

  “And it is on my soul,” said Pietragnelli heavily.

  “I hope not, for it is not your burden,” said Saint-Germain, continuing, “Would you like to talk to a priest about this?”

  “What good would that do? Neither Father Boncuore nor Father Bryce like Orientals. They would tell me to pray, and I can do that without their help.” He shook his head. “No. I am accountable for this, and no amount of Ave Marias will change that. I encouraged Hiro to stand against the White Legion. Had he gone to his wife in South San Francisco, he would still be alive: I persuaded him to stay.”

  Saint-Germain regarded Pietragnelli compassionately. “If you had sent the White Legion to attack him, then I might agree with you, but you took reasonable measures to prevent just this kind of brutality, and that should absolve you of all blame.”

  Rogerio took it upon himself to build up the fire, for the room was chilly and the logs in the fireplace were almost reduced to ashes. He used the poker to break down the charred wood, then reached into the copper washtub, where wood was stacked, took three sections of a split oak trunk and laid them on the glowing embers, fanning the wood with yesterday’s newspaper. He sat back on his heels and waited for the logs to catch, the poker resting on his knees in case the logs needed to be shifted.

  “You are a kind man, Signor Ragoczy, and you are seeking to cheer me,” said Pietragnelli. “But I know what I know, and nothing you tell me can change that. I was the one who took up the challenge. Those who joined me did so at my instigation. Yoshimura has paid for my recklessness and I must answer for it. He defied the White Legion because I convinced him to.” He rubbed his face to wipe away his tears. “And it is for me to see that justice is done. If I fail in that, then I am truly among the damned.”

  “I think you may be too severe; you need not make yourself the villain of the piece. If you heap disdain upon yourself, you may alleviate some of your self-imposed guilt, but it will do little to gain justice for Yoshimura, or to bring any of his attackers to answer in a court of law. If, on the other hand, you are determined to bring his attackers in, you may wish to find a way to accomplish your ends that will also bring respect to Yoshimura’s memory,” Saint-Germain proposed at his most bracing.

  “And how am I to do this?” Pietragnelli wondered aloud. “I am at a stand-still.”

  “Making accusations without strong foundations will not do it,” Saint-Germain observed, knowing how much Pietragnelli felt the need to do something to help his murdered neighbor. “You may vent your spleen, but it will not bring about the ends you seek. You have to have proof that the White Legion is responsible.”

  “But I know they must have done it,” Pietragnelli protested.

  “I do not doubt you, but a court of law would have to, and once the culprits are tried, if they are acquitted, they cannot be tried again, even if their guilt is shown beyond all question.” He saw Pietragnelli prepare to argue. “That is the law in this country, and it will prevail. You know that as well as I, if not better. If you seek to circumvent it, you will be doing the very thing you deplore.” Saint-Germain waited until he had all Pietragnelli’s attention, and then he went on, “Have you any evidence—not supposition or conviction, but evidence—that the Leonardis were the ones responsible for killing Yoshimura?”

  “No,” Pietragnelli admitted, adding, “but there was a note in my mailbox this morning. It said you’re next, with a skull-and-crossbones at the bottom of the page, and a chess knight. That, I believe, identifies the Leonardis.”

  “It may,” said Saint-Germain, alarmed at this information. “Do you have the note still, or did you dispose of it?”

  “I kept it I plan to give it to Will Sutton when he comes here. He’s supposed to stop by around three.” He lifted his head as if it weighed ten pounds. “I have been trying to decide how to face him.”

  “Do you expect difficulties?” Rogerio came from the fireplace to hear the answer.

  “Not from Sutton, no. He is a good man, but his hands have been tied, for there are those above him who support the White Legion—in fact, it is rumored that some of them are members—and they will discourage any investigation that works against the White Legion or its interests. If Sutton can make headway, it will surprise me very much.” Pietragnelli closed his eyes as if to shut out all he was thinking. “It is going to be a long time before those of us who oppose the White Legion will feel safe again.”

  “Small wonder,” Rogerio remarked.

  “And, unfortunately, it is probably wise for those of you who are targets of the White Legion to be on guard more than you have already been, and to be prepared for more trouble.” Saint-Germain held up his hand to stop any outbursts from Pietragnelli. “I know what it is to be hunted, and the need for care in all things when you are. This is not a time for posturing, but wariness.”

  “But we’re men with crops to tend and fields to care for. It was one thing when we had to keep the midnight harvesters from making off with our crops, but this—this is much worse, isn’t it? This is an assault, not just theft.” Pietragnelli was beginning to get angry. “What are we supposed to do—hire armed men to escort us to the grocery store and build high walls around our lands, with guns atop them?”

  “No; that would be bad for farming,” said Saint-Germain, hoping for an easing in the tension which was building up in
the parlor.

  Pietragnelli smiled in spite of himself. “You’re right, Signor Ragoczy. So high walls are out of the question.” He rubbed his lower lip. “Then what are we to do? You have made recommendations before—give me the benefit of your experience again.” There was a trace of mulish anger in this, but not enough to keep Saint-Germain from answering.

  “By killing Yoshimura, the men who attacked him—whoever they may be—have made a crucial mistake. They have now committed a serious crime, something that cannot easily be ignored, and that is likely to arouse public sympathy for the victim, Oriental or not. It is one thing to threaten and bully, for many will tolerate and even endorse such tactics; it is another matter entirely to take a life. The law may turn a blind eye toward the former, but it cannot afford to disregard the latter. And you have the attention of the press, which can be a formidable ally.” He paused a moment, his demeanor deceptively mild; his dark eyes were luminous with purpose. “On the drive up here, I imagined all manner of trouble that might have befallen you, but this wasn’t one of the possibilities that crossed my mind.”

  “Then you didn’t appreciate the problems we face,” said Pietragnelli.

  “No, I didn’t.” He regarded Pietragnelli steadily. “And for that, I apologize, although that is insufficient.”

  “As you say,” Pietragnelli allowed.

  Saint-Germain rose and walked down the room. “I can’t tell you how much I had hoped—” He broke off. “But I underestimated the matter.”

  Pietragnelli shook his head. “You weren’t the only one. I never thought it would come to this. I doubt that any of our neighbors did, either, except the Leonardi boys. I wanted to believe that my notice in the Press-Democrat would keep the White Legion at bay. It seemed to be working. I knew many of my neighbors were laughing about it, and that the ridicule was doing some good. No one in Geyserville was boasting about being in the White Legion the way they were doing last summer, and that gave me courage to go on—because I thought I was making headway, and I even hoped that we could put an end to the White Legion in Geyserville. But that might have been what made the Leonardis angry, and goaded them into killing Yoshimura.” He got to his feet and walked to the fireplace where the logs were just starting to burn. “I should have been the one they attacked. Not Hiro Yoshimura.”

  “But you have workers living on your land, and guards as well,” Saint-Germain pointed out. “You have defenders, and Yoshimura didn’t, not as you did.” He could read the distress in Pietragnelli’s eyes. “Your men did what they could for him, but it wasn’t enough, and it didn’t keep him from harm.”

  “And for that, he’s dead,” said Pietragnelli, stifling a sob.

  Saint-Germain came up to Pietragnelli and laid his hand on his shoulder. “You are exhausted. Why don’t you get a little sleep now, before Deputy Sutton comes? You’ll be more ready to talk to him if you’ve rested.”

  “How can I sleep at a time like this?” Pietragnelli asked indignantly. “What do you take me for—an uncaring fool?”

  “You need sleep so you will be ready to take up the fight again. If you’re worn out, Sutton will not be inclined to listen to you, and you will not make a strong case to him. You must prepare your campaign, and Deputy Sutton is your first skirmish in it,” said Saint-Germain reasonably. “The time will not be lost. While you rest, Mr. Rogers and I will speak with your men, to find out if any of them noticed anything going on last evening, or during the day. If any of your men saw anyone going to or leaving the Yoshimura farm, that could help the police. Or if there was anything unusual that caught their attention, they may be willing to tell me about it, and Deputy Sutton, as well. And I’ll speak with the guards. They should have been alert to trouble.” As he said this, he was puzzled why no one had come forward.

  Pietragnelli shrugged his big shoulders. “I don’t know; I could drink two cups of strong coffee. That would restore me.” He turned and started toward the kitchen. “It wouldn’t take long to make.”

  Rogerio stopped him. “Then you will be up two nights in a row, and that will help no one.”

  Saint-Germain looked toward the kitchen. “Where is Mrs. Barringstone? I haven’t heard any noise from the kitchen.”

  “She’s taken hot bread out to the men in the winery, for their dinner. They stop work for an hour, to have their dinner. When they’ve finished eating, she’ll be in to start work on supper. If you want to speak with her, she’ll be in the kitchen shortly.” Pietragnelli said this remotely, as if these ordinary events were entirely foreign to him.

  “Is there any chance she might have seen something, or her children?” Saint-Germain asked.

  “I don’t think so,” Pietragnelli said. “She was in the kitchen when I left for Yoshimura’s farm, and was back in her cabin with her family by the time I returned.”

  “And Mr. Barringstone? What of him?” Rogerio inquired.

  “He’s at the winery from eight-thirty until six,” said Pietragnelli. “I can’t imagine he’d know anything.”

  Saint-Germain managed an understanding nod. “Well, go have a nap. Let yourself rest. You need it. You know, sometimes a little sleep will bring details into the mind that were overlooked before.”

  “True enough,” Pietragnelli allowed, and managed to hide a yawn by turning away and hunching his shoulder. “All right, you’ve convinced me. I’ll do it. But I mustn’t nap for more than an hour.”

  “We’ll have you up before Deputy Sutton arrives,” said Rogerio. “And a cup of coffee will be waiting for you.”

  “Sta bene,” said Pietragnelli, making for the stairs and plodding upward.

  “He’s exhausted,” Rogerio said to Saint-Germain as soon as the door to Pietragnelli’s room closed.

  “And it’s doing him no good,” Saint-Germain concurred. “Let him rest until two-thirty. It’s not enough, but it’s better than nothing.”

  “Yes,” said Rogerio. “Do you plan to talk to the men while they’re eating?”

  “It seems as good a time as any,” said Saint-Germain.

  “Do you think any of them actually saw anything of use?” Rogerio looked toward the kitchen; “Or Mrs. Barringstone?”

  “I don’t know. There are other wives who live in the cabins, and some of them have children in school. We should speak with them, as well.” Saint-Germain paused, deliberating inwardly. “It will probably be best to ask the women to come into the house. If we speak to them one by one, the men won’t like it.”

  “No, probably not,” Rogerio said, and glanced toward the window. “You know, for a state with a reputation for sunshine, we’ve seen a great deal of rain and fog.”

  “Peculiarities of the region,” Saint-Germain said, dismissing it. “We’d best go out to the winery first, and talk to the men.”

  “Shall I fetch your hat?” Rogerio offered.

  “No, I’ll do it,” Saint-Germain responded. “But you might want to get an extra tub of butter from the kitchen, to be able to offer the men something they’ll appreciate.” He went and plucked his hat from the rack by the front door and resisted the urge to grin. “We might as well get this done.”

  Rogerio nodded and went with him through the kitchen, on to the pantry, where he took a tub of butter from the cooler, and went out the back door into the storm, Saint-Germain half-a-step in front of him. Holding their hats, they walked quickly across the yard toward the winery and ducked into the main door to find Pietragnelli’s workers gathered around three picnic tables, most of them with partially eaten plates of food in front of them. At the far side of the room Mrs. Barringstone was deep in conversation with a man in an old, quilted-denim jacket. Behind them rose three columns of two-story-high barrels; the odor of fermentation pervaded the huge room.

  “Good day to you,” Saint-Germain said, looking about at the startled faces; he moved aside so Rogerio could put the tub of butter on the central table. “Please; don’t let me stop you eating. I’m here on Mr. Pietragnelli’s behalf. My name is Ra
goczy.” He nodded to Mrs. Barringstone. “A pleasure to see you again, ma’am.”

  She offered a disapproving look and went back to her quiet discussion.

  Saint-Germain endured the snub with urbanity. “As I’m sure you all know by now, Mr. Yoshimura was severely beaten last night and died this morning at the hospital in Santa Rosa.” He saw the men exchange glances; some of them nodded. “The beating appears to have taken place yesterday evening, between five and six. Deputy Sheriff Sutton is going to be calling here later in the day, and will probably want to take statements from all of you. What I am asking you to do is to cast your minds back and see if you can recall anything that might assist in the identification of the men who beat Mr. Yoshimura.” He noticed another flurry of sidelong glances, and knew that these men had been talking about the murder of Mr. Yoshimura already. “If any of you has anything you’d like to say, either here or privately, I’m willing to listen. If you would prefer to save your comments for Deputy Sutton, well and good. But please, if you know anything, don’t keep it to yourself.”

  “The man was a damned Nip,” said one of the workers seated at the middle table, and was supported by a mutter of endorsement.

  “Yes, he was. But that’s hardly reason enough to beat him to death,” said Saint-Germain, outwardly unruffled. “You may not like Orientals, but how would you feel if Mr. Pietragnelli were attacked?”

  “That couldn’t happen,” said the man Saint-Germain assumed was Mr. Barringstone.

  “Do you think not?” Saint-Germain asked, and let the question hang. “You know he has been threatened. Why else are there guards here at the winery?”

  “They just want him to shut up,” said another man. “That’s all.”

  “He’s making the White Legion look bad,” said a third.

  Saint-Germain listened, and when the men fell silent, he said, “From what I can tell, the White Legion doesn’t need Mr. Pietragnelli or anyone else to do that.”

  “Hey! They’re sticking up for white men, making sure we don’t get drowned in a sea of foreigners.” This was the third man again.