by Joyce Harmon
DIED ON THE VINE
A Mystery
By
Joyce Harmon
Died On The Vine
Published by Joyce Harmon at Smashwords
Copyright 2012 Joyce Harmon
Smashwords Edition License Notes
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Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Epilogue
About The Author
PROLOGUE
The black government sedan turned off the county road onto the rough gravel of River Road. At the wheel, Agent Wilson allowed himself a grimace as well as a moment of thankfulness that he was not driving his own car today. Agent Wilson had been christened Dave by his parents and still answered to Dave among friends, family and co-workers. But in his mind, he began referring to himself as Agent Wilson from the day he was accepted for FBI training.
“Turn right. in. fifty yards,” said the inhuman voice of his GPS.
Wilson turned right, past the rustic wooden sign that welcomed him to the Passatonnack Winery.
“You. have arrived,” announced the GPS, as if he couldn’t see that for himself.
Wilson assessed his surroundings. There were several buildings, including a barn and a small building that offered, according to the sign in front, ‘tours, tastings, gifts’, but the house looked like the best bet.
He walked up the front steps onto the wide, inviting front porch. He was in Norman Rockwell’s America now. He rang the doorbell.
As the door opened, Agent Wilson blinked to maintain his stolid demeanor. According to his notes, Cecilia Rayburn was in her mid-seventies. Old ladies in blue jeans were becoming more common, but Wilson suspected that few of them sported a teeshirt that proclaimed “Qu’aot XIII – Zombies Attack!”
He produced and displayed his badge and identification. “Mrs. Rayburn?”
The woman nodded, puzzled. “Yes, I’m Mrs. Rayburn.”
“I’d like to ask you some questions, ma’am.”
Over the woman’s shoulder, the widescreen television mounted on the living room wall displayed an adolescent male – who was staring at him. Wilson suppressed a shudder; the television was watching him!
Mrs. Rayburn gestured him into the living room and went over to the netbook hooked up to the television. “Josh, we’ll talk later,” she said.
Josh looked alarmed. “Nana, how do you know that guy is really FBI? What would the FBI want with you, anyway? Let’s keep the connection open; if he’s bogus, I can call for help.”
She laughed. “I don’t think that’s really necessary, hon. Tell you what. I’ll Skype you back in an hour – if you don’t hear from me by then, notify the authorities. Nana, out.”
She closed the connection and turned to Agent Wilson with a rueful smile. “Okay, you’ve got an hour. Now, as Josh asked, what does the FBI want with me?”
Wilson had his notebook in hand. “Mrs. Rayburn, in 1996 you discovered a body in your vineyard.”
Her eyes widened. “Of course I did. It was widely covered at the time. The case is long closed. Why bring it up now?”
“This is background, ma’am, for a potential presidential appointment.”
She grinned. “Ooh! Is Senator – “
He cut her off. “Ma’am, I really can’t go into details or name names.”
“Drat. But you want to hear my story about finding the body?”
“If you would, please.”
“Tell you what. I wrote it all down soon after, would you like a copy?”
“You wrote it down?”
“Yes, like a book. I thought about maybe publishing it, but I don’t know… I knew all the people and a few of them are prominent, so I just let it slide. But I can give you a copy. Come on.”
The shabby book-lined office was occupied by two sleeping dogs and a fat black cat. The cat was curled in the office chair and glared as he was unceremoniously dumped on the floor. “Move, Tough Stuff,” Mrs. Rayburn said absently, and took his seat.
She rooted around in a disorganized drawer and pulled out a thumb drive. Inserting it into a USB port, she quickly transferred a file onto it and removed it from the port.
Standing, she turned to Wilson, and then looked down at the thumb drive thoughtfully. “You know,” she told the young man, “when I started in computers, a large climate-controlled room would hold a computer that didn’t have a fraction of the memory this little gizmo has. And now you can buy them on a card at the mini-mart.”
Seeing Wilson looking elaborately patient, she chuckled. “I’m sure you don’t want to hear, ‘when I was your age’. Anyway, here’s the whole story, suitable for computer, printout, or e-book reader. Have fun with it.”
Josh played Angry Birds with one eye on the time. Nana was so trusting; anyone could get an FBI badge off the internet! That guy could be anyone. Maybe a master criminal wine snob who wanted the secret to Passatonnack’s award-winning Pinot. Josh imagined the deployment of nail guns or bamboo slivers and shivered.
But before the hour had elapsed, Skype chimed for his attention, and there was Nana safe and sound, ready to resume their conversation. “You were telling me about the Science Fair.”
“Never mind that! What did the FBI want? And are you sure that’s who the guy was?”
Nana chuckled. “Government plates on the car, kiddo.”
“He could have killed somebody for that car!”
“Nonsense. He was just verifying some things.”
“What things?” Josh leaned toward the webcam eagerly.
“Just an old old story. From before you were born.” Nana steered the conversation back to usual Nana talk.
After the videoconference, Josh couldn’t get back into Angry Birds. Nana and the FBI. Hey, maybe it really was the FBI. A highly covert group, and Nana was their leader. Whether it was true or not, it would make a great story. Josh opened Word and became to write the improbable adventures of Secret Agent Grandma.
Meanwhile, in a featureless office on a featureless corridor in a bland government building, Agent Wilson loaded the text from the thumb drive onto his Nook, got coffee from the pot down the hall, and settled in to read…
ONE
Ah, retirement! Not so long ago, on a typical Sunday afternoon, Jack and I would be racing around packing suitcases and pets and heading back to the city. But on this Sunday afternoon, Jack was out puttering in the vineyard, while I lounged in sinful indolence on the deck. Dressed inelegantly but comfortably in old sweat pants, I had a chilled glass of Chardonnay on the table beside me and a sleeping dog on the other side.
I scratched Polly’s head and watched the junco brazenly pecking seed from the feeder not two yards away. Polly sighed heavily and rolled over, and I gave her a tummy rub. For his part, Jack didn’t rea
lly have any significant chores among the vines. I think he was merely reveling in the release from his previous back to work routine.
Retirement actually affects Jack most. I have a home office and can work as easily here at the “summer place” (now the year-round place) as I could back in the city. But Jack once had the office to go to five days a week. Now he’s gone from federal bureaucrat to small vintner. To celebrate, he gave me all his ties; I’m going to make them into a quilt, just as soon as I learn how to quilt.
Behind me in the house, a bell jangled faintly. I recognized it as the bell over the door to the tasting room. Damn! I had forgotten to put up the Closed sign and lock the door, and now here was a customer wanting to sample wine on a Sunday evening.
I heaved out of the lounger and headed through the kitchen, putting on my public smile. After all, it wasn’t the anonymous customer’s fault I’d forgotten to lock up. Anyway, maybe he’d like the wine well enough to buy several cases.
From the kitchen, I walked through the breezeway to what had been the previous owner’s workshop and was now the tasting room and gift shop of the Passatonnack Winery. Polly padded along beside me.
From the breezeway door, I entered the shop behind the counter. The shop is decorated in basic Rough ‘n Ready, with lots of apple crates for display cases. The man in the workshop had his back to me, examining our assortment of corkscrews. “May I help you?” I asked politely.
The man turned and looked me over, not smiling in return. I didn’t shiver, but wanted to. I was glad Polly was with me. At least she’s a big dog and looks tougher than she really is.
The man looked more like he was casing the joint than stopping by to taste wine. Dressed all in black with a vaguely military look, he seemed ready to parachute behind enemy lines at a moment’s notice. He was a middle-aged man and hadn’t aged well. Too much sun and too much booze was my guess. He looked familiar, somehow. He was gray at the temples, with a pronounced widow’s peak and a nose that had been broken more than once. Pale gray eyes watched me through a hard-edged squint.
As the silence seemed about to drag out uncomfortably, he finally spoke. “Mrs. Hooper?”
Boy, was that a name from the distant past! I cleared my throat and said cautiously, “Well, I was, once – “
“Of course,” he said, hold up our brochure. “Mrs. Rayburn now, I understand.”
“That’s right, for the last twenty-two years.” I was beginning to get irritated. What business was it of his, anyway?
“Mrs. Rayburn, my name is Colonel Winslow. I believe that James Hooper is still alive and I need your help to bring him back.” He reached into his jacket pocket and produced a battered photograph, which he handed to me.
Once he said his name, I knew why he looked familiar. Colonel Obadiah Winslow is a famous, or notorious, MIA chaser. I had seen him on CSPAN, testifying before a Congressional subcommittee. On TV, he came across as slightly deranged. In person? I don’t know – how does one distinguish between commitment and fanaticism?
I looked down at the photograph in my hand. It showed a middle-aged man standing in the door of a building. There wasn’t enough background to tell you what sort of building it was, but the doorframe badly needed repainting. As for the man…
Was this supposed to be Jimmy? It could have been anyone. Could someone who hadn’t seen me in twenty-five years recognize me from a current picture? The man in the photograph did have Jimmy’s eyebrows, the kind that romance novelists like to call sardonic. But that was hardly conclusive.
I looked from the photo back to “Colonel” Winslow. I do distrust men who carry their military titles over into civilian life. “Mister Winslow,” I said, as calmly as I could, “my first husband is not missing. Jimmy is dead.”
“Or so you’ve been told,” Winslow answered darkly.
“Look, maybe the Pentagon could pull off some kind of coverup, but I knew Jimmy’s wing man. Chuck Graham couldn’t lie any better than he could dance.”
Fortunately, Jack came in behind me then and slipped his arm around my waist. “Hi, Cis, what’s up?” My big sweet calm man!
I gestured to Winslow and waved the photo wildly. “This man claims Jimmy is still alive!”
Jack plucked the photo from my fingers and stepped forward with his right hand out. “Jack Rayburn.”
Winslow replied with a bone-crushing grip. “Obie Winslow.”
“Heard of you,” Jack admitted. He looked at the photograph in his hand, then peered closely at it.
“Jack?” I asked.
“No scars.”
Of course! I turned back to Winslow. “Chuck Graham told me that Jimmy’s plane exploded and burned when it hit the ground.” I gulped, hesitated, and then plowed on. “Even if he could have survived that, surely there would have been burns.”
Winslow shrugged enigmatically. “Mrs. Rayburn, all I can say is that this man may be James Hooper. Maybe not. But my sources – “ He broke off. “Anyway, I’m going to be looking into this and I would like to do so as your representative.”
Jack cut to the chase. “How much?”
Winslow seemed hurt by the suggestion. “I never accept money from MIA families.” (Possibly true. I seem to recall reading something about an impressive fundraising apparatus.)
Jack moved behind the bar and pulled out the Cabernet Sauvignon. The occasion became uneasily social, reminding me of my days as a young Navy wife paying duty calls on my husband’s commanding officer.
Winslow expressed interest in the winery. On this topic, my strong silent man becomes positively garrulous. He described his foresighted purchase two decades ago of the two hundred acres of “worthless scrub land”. The hilly, gravelly land had frustrated the efforts of every farmer who had ever tried to make it produce. In this century, the land had been the occasional home of cows, but more often had been left to the deer and wild turkeys.
But Jack, newly returned from a posting in Europe, saw the meager soil as the ideal setting for Vitis Vinifera. He kept quoting “Where no plow will go, the vine will grow” till I was ready to strangle him.
“I thought you were crazy,” I reminded him.
“Just ahead of my time,” he replied smugly. “Come see my setup,” he invited Winslow, and we left the shop.
Jack pointed out the four acres of mature Cabernet Sauvignon and four of Chardonnay, all planted in the late seventies. Four more acres of Cabernet and two of Sauvignon Blanc were just beginning to produce, and further away were the four acres of baby Merlot. A miniature holding by California standards, but respectable for the infant Eastern wine industry.
Jack always likes to compare the soil to that of Bordeaux and predictably did so now. In front of a guest, even an uninvited one, I omitted my usual caveat about Virginia’s heat and humidity, which I’m sure would cause the hardiest Bordelais vinegron to wilt like a tender lettuce.
Jack led us into the winery, formerly the barn. He pointed with pride to the stainless steel tanks, the American oak barrels (expensive) and the French oak barrels (even more expensive), and his small lab where he ran various tests on his precious product. The concrete floor was spotless, as usual. Jack is a finicky housekeeper in his own domain.
Winslow took it all in with keen-eyed interest. Finally he left, spinning away in (what else?) a black Jaguar.
Jack and I returned to the shop. Jack vacuum-pumped the air from the open bottle of Cabernet while I locked up. He finally spoke as we walked back to the house. “Odd,” was his succinct comment.
“Wasn’t it?” I answered. “Do you suppose he’s on the level?”
Jack shrugged. While not particularly tall, Jack is quite broad-shouldered, giving his shrug a bearlike quality. In fact, Jack is generally bearlike, one of the slow-moving easygoing types, not the fierce growly types. I sometimes call him my honey-bear, though never in public.
I speculated further. “I mean, he didn’t get anything out of us, but didn’t seem to mind.”
We settled into the
room which builders and realtors like to call the ‘great room’, and which we had approximated by knocking down the walls between the parlor and the dining room. Jack took the recliner while I opted for the sofa. Polly joined me and plopped her head in my lap. I stroked her silky ears and continued to chew the topic. “Winslow seemed pretty interested in the place.”
“Maybe he wants to start a winery,” Jack offered. Jack thinks everyone wants to start a winery. I tried to picture Winslow driving an old pickup truck loaded with lugs of grapes. I didn’t think so.
“Jack, is it possible that Jimmy is still alive?”
“I sure don’t see how. But call Admiral Graham if it will make you feel better.”
“I think I will call him tomorrow.”
I threw together a bunch of various foods and called it dinner, and we spent the rest of the evening just puttering around.
Just before bedtime, I went into my study and turned on my computer. I love my computer. The kids say it’s a dinosaur. But I was there when the real dinosaurs roaming the earth! My first job after Jimmy’s death was as a GS-3 computer operator in Washington. Mag tape reels and card readers – don’t try to tell me about dinosaurs!
I logged onto the Internet and connected with my Usenet group, a group of writers from all over the country. Although I’m a technical writer and primarily write manuals for a set fee, I love all the yakking about criminal editors, brain-dead agents, and slave wage royalties.
Tonight I just skimmed my e-mail and then posted a note for the group.
“I’m looking for any information the group might have on Colonel Obadiah ‘Obie’ Winslow,” I wrote. “What’s the story on this guy?”
Then I logged off, having put powerful wheels in motion. Colonel Winslow isn’t the only one with “sources”!
TWO
The next morning, I called Nancy Graham to get Chuck’s office number. I felt rather self-conscious calling Nancy out of the blue. Once we had been best friends, living in base housing, having babies in diapers together, driving our husbands home from the Officers Club when they’d had too much to drink. But Jimmy’s death had removed me from that close-knit community. The Grahams had been ordered overseas and our friendship was now memorialized by an annual Christmas card.
