PW01 - Died On The Vine

by Joyce Harmon

  “That’s interesting. You’re ‘fairly’ certain. Wouldn’t you say that you were previously completely certain?” I nodded. “So this Winslow does seem to have planted a seed of doubt.”

  “Yes, damn him, he did. I’m wondering if I should tell Deb and Pete.”

  “The kids? Whatever for?”

  “Well, he was their father, even if they don’t remember him.”

  Julia frowned. “Look, like you always tell me, let’s quantify this. Before you talked to Winslow, you were one hundred percent certain that your first husband was dead. What is your percent of certainty now?”

  I thought it over for a moment and then hazarded, “Oh, I’d say about ninety-eight percent.”

  Julia was surprised. “That’s a pretty tiny seed of doubt.”

  “Well, I’d heard of Winslow before. He’s got a pretty flaky reputation. And he’s been on this MIA kick for years and years without any solid proof.”

  “You’re the current events buff, not me. But I don’t think much of the fellow, just from what you’ve told me. Tell you what, you tell the kids when your percentage of certainty falls to around fifty or sixty percent. Otherwise, why upset them over something as flimsy as this?” She handed the photos back to me and took the cups to the dishwasher.

  “You’re right. I’ll wait and see if Winslow comes up with anything else. It was just so weird, him showing up out of the blue.”

  I stood up and Polly surged to her feet ready to join me. “I’ll be going to the library later to do a little research. Want to come along?”

  “No thanks, I’ve got a lot to do. But swing by here and pick up some books to take back. I’ll leave them on the porch.”

  “Sure.”

  As Polly and I headed back through the woods, I stopped to admire as we topped a hill and got the first sight of the house. It was a big, white turn-of-the-century farmhouse with a wrap-around porch. The porch sported two rockers and a creaking wooden swing, making it our location of choice for after dinner lounging.

  The house was only slowly acquiring the many conveniences of the Barstow residence, as Jack and I remodeled over the years. When we bought it, there was more to deal with that hideous wallpaper.

  The double front parlors, for instance. I’ve always wondered what 19th century families did with two parlors. I guess they were the equivalent of the 20th century family room and living room, one kept good for company and one for everyday use. Now one parlor was incorporated into the great room, and the other was my book-lined and on-line study and office.

  I just like the looks of the house – loved it the first time I saw it. There’s something very stable and Rockwell about it. Jack says it looks great on our wine bottle labels.

  Several assorted cats roamed the yard. These are the “barn cats” that just seem to show up and adopt the place. Some of them might even be other people’s cats, and are only here part-time. Jack says it’s good to have cats on a farm because they keep the mice down, and it’s true that they congregate around the stable, so I assume they’re guarding the horse feed.

  Now I’ll reveal a secret I’ve kept from most of the neighbors. When I see a cat on my property on a regular basis, I assume it has become my cat. So I take it to the vet and have it fixed.

  Why? Well, I’ve been doing it ever since I learned that rural animal shelters are located by the landfill to facilitate disposal of the bodies. Too many cats and dogs, not enough homes. Call me a busybody if you want, but if you don’t like it, keep your cat off my property. (In fact, one of “my” cats, listed at the vet’s office as “Rayburn 7”, turned out to belong to an old man who lives about a mile away. Rayburn 7 has been fixed for over a year now, and old Mr. Johnson hasn’t noticed.)

  Inside the house, McCavity snoozed on the windowsill, secure in his superior status as a house cat.

  I was wandering around the house collecting library books to return when Jack came in. He was wearing blue jeans, light blue flannel shirt, and work boots, an outfit which I find intensely sexy. Unfortunately, he was also wearing his Trying-Hard-To-Be-Patient look.

  “Cissy, I honestly don’t mind you using my tools,” he began, while I thought, yes he does but he tries not to. “All I ask is that you return them to their proper place when you’re through with them.”

  Oh, the Proper Place! There is a large pegboard in the barn/winery where each tool has its proper place, and to which it is returned after each use, properly cleaned and carefully oiled. I tease Jack about his Proper Place, though as personality quirks go, this one is fairly benign.

  But this time, I was innocent! “What are you talking about?”

  “The shovel and the secateurs.”

  “Don’t look at me, I haven’t used them. Where did you find them?”

  “I didn’t find them, that’s the point. They aren’t there.” Now he was trying even harder to be patient.

  “That’s weird. But honestly, Jack, I haven’t been using them. I don’t know where they are.”

  “They didn’t just walk out on their own.” And he left. I’m sure he was thinking that I borrowed them and forgot, but I’m not that absent-minded.

  At the library, I returned our books plus the shopping bag of Julia’s mysteries, and then turned to that most valuable of research aids, the Reader’s Guide to Periodic Literature.

  I found a number of references to Winslow in the recent news weeklies, but most of them were only brief accounts of the latest rescue fiasco. But, as Wizard indicated, U.S. News and World Report had done a profile on Winslow several months ago.

  I skimmed the piece; the authors didn’t seem too impressed with our Obie. He was pictured leaning over a white three-bar fence on his property in Virginia’s horse country, looking every inch the country squire. The article referred to the “estate inherited from his late wife.” His sources of income were undetermined, the article concluded darkly.

  I copied the article for more in-depth analysis, and headed home.

  Polly was restless that night. Normally she is asleep at the foot of the bed by the time Jack and I put aside our bedtime reading and turn out the light. But now she was pacing, from our window, out of the room and down the hall to the bathroom at the back of the house, where she jumped into the bathtub and put her paws on the sill to look out that window. It was distracting. Our room is in the tower, so we have windows on three sides. Polly seemed determined to monitor both the front and the back of the house.

  I was propped up in bed, trying to plow through Godel, Escher, Bach and having an uphill fight with it. I was reading it in a book exchange with Jack. Once a month, we have to read a book the other selects. This tradition started many years ago. Our reading tastes are so different, and we were always telling the other that they simply had to read this great book we’d just finished. The monthly book exchange prevents blowups and nagging, and criticism of the other’s reading material.

  Jack had been wanting Godel, Escher, Bach on the book exchange for a long time, but I hadn’t found anything quite massive enough to make it a fair exchange. Finally we agreed that I’d do GEB if Jack would read all the Gregor Demarkian Holiday Mysteries by Jane Haddam. Jack wouldn’t admit that he was enjoying them, but he chuckled every now and then.

  I was actually finding parts of GEB interesting, but other parts were right over my head. The book is about music and math and art and how everything is connected together. Well, it’s hard to explain; you’d have to read it yourself. Polly’s toenails clicking in the bathtub didn’t help my concentration at all.

  “Honestly, Jack, what ails that dog?”

  He didn’t look up from his book. “Something outside. Probably a fox.”

  “A fox! Where’s McCavity?”

  Still not looking up, Jack gestured toward the chest of drawers. There was the old reprobate, with his feet tucked in, looking ready to stay there until he turned to stone. His eyes were at half-mast, and I could faintly hear his gurgly purr. So he was alright. I relaxed. I figured
the barn cats knew enough to seek the stable rafters when predators roamed.

  Jack finally looked up from his book and asked with a puzzled frown, “Hon, what’s a ‘trophy wife’?”

  Bless the man! “That’s something rich businessmen collect.”

  “Huh?”

  “The term refers to the habit some wealthy businessmen have of shedding their first wives who raised their kids and helped them at the start of their careers. The second wife is much younger, more attractive and extremely elegant. She is basically an arm decoration and serves as a visible symbol of his success. Hence the term.”

  Jack was shocked. “Are you kidding? And enough guys do this for there to be a name for it?”

  See how reading broadens the mind? “Sure, look at the photos in the society pages of the paper sometime and you’ll see what I mean.”

  Jack was still amazed. “You mean men will actually leave the wives they are used to and settled in with, and start all over with a total stranger? How do they stand it? And just to show off?”

  “They think that’s what they want, but they all probably have ulcers.” I put down GEB and rolled over to give my honey bear a big hug.

  Orderly and methodical men do have their advantages. I feel fairly comfortable in the belief that Jack will never leave me for an aerobicized blonde bimbo.

  It was three days later when it occurred to me that it might be a good idea to go for a walk.

  Jack had gone to the hardware store to buy new tools. The shovel and the secateurs had never turned up. And he didn’t blame me and didn’t utter an accusing word. But I knew what he was thinking. He was thinking that Cissy had wandered off in some space-cadet fugue state and lost his precious tools. But she can’t help it, poor dear, and least said soonest mended.

  I had the feeling that if I was home when Jack returned, I was going to pick a fight and I was going to do all the yelling and I’d wind up feeling like an idiot. So getting out of the house was a good preemptive measure.

  A two mile tramp along the Passatonnack River did much to restore my equilibrium. Danny would say it’s all endorphins, but I think the advancing green of the season and the company of a happy dog must also be given some credit.

  Coming back, I detoured toward the vineyard. Polly had chased many sticks on the outward part of our walk and was now content to pad along at my side.

  The vines are unimpressive this time of year. They looked like puny little sticks tied to wire. I was glad to see that Jack had gotten the pruning done before the tools had gone missing. No doubt that prevented him from being even more exasperated with the situation.

  Looking closely, I could see that the budding was just begun. Every year, I was amazed again at the speed with which the plants would vine, leaf, and produce their luscious fruit.

  Polly whined and darted away, off to investigate something that had caught her attention. Probably something smelly, I thought with resignation. “Polly, come,” I commanded, and she reappeared, only to whine urgently and trot off again.

  I sighed and followed her. Past several rows of vines, I caught up with Polly and her find. It was a ragged bundle of bloody fur. Oh dear, a dead cat. I tried to examine it without getting too much of a look at it. Something calico. Well then, it wasn’t one of the barn cats, no calicos there.

  This must have been what the fox had been after. But it was odd that the fox left the body; surely it should have carried the kill away and consumed it.

  But Polly was still whining, there was something more she wanted me to see. Over there, something squeaking.

  I gladly turned away from the bloody mess and turned to the drainage ditch, where Polly was confronting a tiny kitten. The little fellow was arched like a Halloween cat and his fur stood on end. He spit fiercely at Polly, who watched him intently with her head cocked to one side.

  Poor little thing! The bloody calico thing must have been his mother. He certainly looked like a kitten who’d been without a mother’s care for several days. He seemed to be black with white paws, but was so bedraggled and woebegone, it was hard to tell. He was a wet, skinny mess. Of course I found him irresistible. Positioning Polly behind me (good dog!), I hunkered down and picked the little fellow up. He immediately turned into a squirming whirlwind, but I kept a tight hold on him.

  “Whoa! Hold on, buddy!” I tucked him into the crook of my arm and covered his eyes. He stopped fighting. I was glad I was wearing my heavy jacket to guard against needle-sharp claws.

  I stood up and looked around. If there were any more kittens, I would have to come back for them. I listened intently, but there were no more squeaks. I addressed my little black captive. “Where are your brothers and sisters, Tough Stuff? Are you all alone?”

  His only response was a continual shiver. I turned in a circle, looking all around. No more kittens, but there was something odd over in the merlot.

  Something had happened over there; I could see some of the wire was down and the vines were knocked over. Clutching the kitten, I walked over to investigate.

  And that’s how I found Colonel Obadiah Winslow. He was lying on his back, having brought down several of the merlot vines with him. The handles of Jack’s secateurs were protruding from his chest.

  FOUR

  I stepped back quickly, tripping over Polly. She deftly darted out of the way, leaving me to land on my rear. I squeezed the kitten and he peeped indignantly.

  The oddest things go through one’s mind in a moment of crisis. The first thing I thought was, “Boy, if seeing a dead cat makes you sick -!”

  Regaining my footing, I eased forward to confirm that Winslow was dead in our vineyard. And he sure was. As with the dead cat, I utilized a sort of cringing sideways squint, as if trying not to see too much. Perhaps a bit cowardly, but it kept me from losing my lunch.

  Now I know what the phrase ‘lifeless eyes’ means. That’s when the moisture of a living eye has dried, leaving the eyes dull and filmy.

  Maybe I should have felt for a pulse, but I could see the man was dead and couldn’t bear touching him. I scrambled out of there in a hurry and raced back to the house.

  Polly pranced along beside me, much more intrigued by the live kitten than by the dead human. Occasionally, she leaped up to ensure that I still had a hold on him.

  I checked the garage first, but Jack’s pickup was still gone. So it was just us. I ran though the back door and into the kitchen.

  Dumping the kitten on the countertop, where he immediately approached McCavity’s food and water bowls, I grabbed the phone from the wall and died 911.

  911 is new in Passatonnack County. A year ago, all the roads had been given names and every residence given a number that corresponded to a computerized grid. The number is prominently displayed on a post by the driveway, and as the phone rang I was frantically trying to remember what the number was.

  “Passatonnack Sheriff, Fire and Rescue. Operator Fifteen,” said a bored female voice.

  I took a deep breath. “This is Mrs. Rayburn out on River Road,” I said as calmly as I could. “There’s a dead man out in our vineyard. He’s been stabbed.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” the voice replied, as if stabbing victims were a routine occurrence. “May I have your 911 number?”

  “I think it’s 98632. Or 98623. Oh, for heaven’s sake. It’s the second house on River Road. One of only two. The old Davis place. Surely someone knows where that is.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” the voice was unperturbed. “But I’ll need the number for my log.”

  “Use 98632, if it’s wrong you can change the darn log. Polly, get down!”

  Polly had her paws on the counter, causing the kitten to back into the sink.

  “Ma’am?” The voice was finally startled.

  “Sorry, that was the dog. Look, could you get someone out here right away?”

  “Yes, ma’am, someone will be there in a few minutes.”

  I paced through the house, looking through the front windows for the arrival of autho
rity, and out the back windows, looking for I-don’t-know-what. Authority finally arrived, in the person of Investigator Dawson.

  I’ve met Dawson before. He was out here in December for our holiday open house. A nice young man, with the sad look of a basset hound, he was wearing a rumpled gray suit. Every time I’d seen Dawson, he was wearing a gray suit. I wondered how many of them he had. With his brown eyes, brown hair, and look of settled gloom, he would have been perfectly cast as an undertaker’s assistant. But not as the undertaker himself, since he looked too young for the part.

  Polly trotted in to greet the newcomer. She reared up on her hind legs, letting Dawson know that she would plant her paws on his chest if she hadn’t been so well trained. Dawson gave her ears a good scratch and pulled out a well-worn notebook, looking around the front hall for signs of anything amiss.

  “Miz Rayburn, you reported a dead body?” he asked mildly.

  “Yes, it’s that Colonel Winslow who was here last Sunday. He’s been stabbed. Out by the merlot.”

  Dawson took a few rapid notes. “Stabbed, was he?” he said slowly. “Well, ma’am, if you could just show me the way – what’s a mare-low, by the way?”

  “Merlot is a type of grape,” I told him, leading the way to the back door. “He’s out here in the vineyard. We planted the merlot three years ago, haven’t started crushing it yet, but it’s coming along well – “ I took a deep breath and tried to stop babbling. “No, Polly, you stay in the house.”

  “Is Mister Rayburn around?”

  “He went into town for some tools. Oh, lord, he was buying some new secateurs to replace the ones he couldn’t find, and now there they are in this man’s chest.”

  “Nasty,” was Dawson’s only comment.

  As we approached the far end of the vineyard, Dawson gestured for me to stay back and cautiously approached the body. He gave a low whistle and hunkered down in the vines.

  Now we both lifted our heads at the sound of sirens approaching. The Rescue Squad ambulance swung into the back yard and spilled out a group of eager volunteer emergency medical technicians. In the lead was Buddy Haines, proprietor of Buddy’s Feed and Farm Supply. Buddy was a jolly, irreverent balding fellow. He always looked good in the Santa suit he worn each year for the Rescue Squad’s Christmas party. The Rescue Squad official jumpsuit, on the other hand, did nothing for him.