by Harvey, JM
The water was lapping at my earlobes by then, and I had to tilt my head back to keep my mouth above the waterline to breathe. Where was I? What had happened? And then a pair of geese floated past the Jeep’s windshield, both of them craning their long necks to glare in at me. Those geese brought it all back. The meal with Armand. Watching him fall face-down on the tabletop. Myself crashing to the floor. But that still didn’t explain how I had gotten into my Jeep and how it had gotten into the pond.
The water came up to my lips again and I began to thrash, my limbs answering my mind’s commands with rubbery indifference, but I was still pinned to the seat.
In that moment I knew I was going to die.
That realization almost saved my life. Adrenaline flooded my body with a surge of electricity that also gave me a sudden clarity of mind. The seatbelt! It was the seatbelt pinning me there!
The chill of the water had numbed me and set my teeth to chattering. With trembling hands I found the seatbelt clasp and managed to depress the red plastic button and tug. But the belt would not release! The water had covered my mouth completely. I was breathing through my nose, my lips clamped tightly shut, face tilted toward the ceiling. Breathing like this meant I could not fill my lungs completely. My brain started to spiral back into the dark abyss as I tugged frantically at the seatbelt’s lock.
It wouldn’t budge!
Water was tickling my nostrils and my heart was racing out of control. I felt around the lock, desperately trying to figure out what was wrong, only to find that when the tongue had been shoved into the slot it had snagged a wad of my skirt. It was wedged tightly closed.
My nose slipped under the frigid water and a red light filled my vision. I held my breath as my lungs screamed, burning for air. I could no longer feel my hands. No longer tug at the belt. I thought of Jessica and Victor and Samson as the red light swelled and grew brighter. I…
I awoke in a hospital bed, an IV tube running into my right arm, with my throat burning and raw and my head feeling like it had been bombed by an unpiloted drone. I tried to move, but my body screamed in protest and I sagged back into the mattress.
“You are awake,” Samson said. “It is about time.”
But it wasn’t Samson who leaned over me and took my hand, it was Hunter.
“Hey there,” he said. He was smiling but his eyes were worried and he looked tired. “How are you feeling? Can you see me okay?”
I nodded. “See you fine,” I croaked and it felt like I was gargling glass. I decided to hold off on talking. I waved a hand at my throat and grimaced, my eyebrows raised in question.
“They induced vomiting when they fished you out of the water,” Hunter told me, then looked across the bed at Samson. “Get her a glass of water,” he said.
“First you arrest me, and now you bark orders?” Samson asked, his voice rising, but I heard him scrabbling around on my left and then the ‘glug-glug’ of water being poured. He extended a plastic cup. I reached for it, but my hand fell away limply.
“And now I should hold it for you?” he asked querulously. He looked haggard and his clothes more rumpled than usual.
“Thank you,” I whispered as he put the cup to my lips. I swallowed it all and he took the cup away.
He looked at me speculatively and said, “You will live, de Montagne. Now it is time you got up from there. The prices they charge here will kill you quicker than drowning.” He was deadly serious, but still I laughed. And it hurt my throat. The water had soothed it a little, but not enough.
I looked at Hunter. “Armand?” I rasped, “Is he okay?”
“Down the hall,” Hunter replied. “We found him in the house after we found you. He was face down on the dining room table. He's going to be okay.”
I slumped into the bed with relief as I felt two pinpoints of hot tears in the corners of my eyes. Hunter squeezed my hand.
“You’re very lucky a patrol car was passing by and saw your Jeep in the pond,” he said. “Deputy Thompson pulled you out.”
I nodded and managed to lift a hand and wipe my eyes. Samson handed me a tissue.
“This box of tissue will cost fifty dollars.” He warned me as he wedged the box into the side pocket of his jacket. “So, we will take it with us.”
“Samson,” Hunter said. “Enough.”
But Samson was not to be dissuaded when money was involved. “If you use the restroom, do not use the toilet paper,” he said to me. “I will give you a tissue.”
I rolled my eyes and looked at Hunter.
“What happened?” I whispered.
“You don’t remember?”
I shook my head. “I woke up in my Jeep,” I said, my voice fractionally louder. When I continued, I gave him the condensed version, pausing between words due to the pain in my throat. “All I remember is Armand and I were finishing dinner when he passed out. I tried to get up to help him and I hit the floor. The next thing I knew I was strapped in my Jeep, in the middle of the pond. The water was rising. It went over my head and I couldn’t get the seatbelt loose. It just wouldn’t budge. I—I—” I stammered to a stop. I was shivering all over, reliving that moment when I knew I was going to die, feeling the icy caress of the water lapping over my face. I didn’t realize I was crying until Samson pressed a tissue into my hand.
“You snagged your dress in the seatbelt when you buckled up,” Hunter said.
“I didn’t buckle the belt,” I said defensively, my voice rising despite the pain. “It was Blake Becker, I’m sure of it.”
“Claire, your blood alcohol was point two four. That’s three times the limit,” Hunter said. His voice still held concern, but there was a watchfulness in his eyes now. The questioning gaze of a career police officer. “Are you sure you didn’t get in your car and drive off the road? You haven’t been charged with a DUI because you were on private property when the accident happened, but…”
“That isn’t possible.” I jerked my hand out of his. The tears were gone, burned away by indignation. “I had two half-glasses of wine and two small glasses of port, Hunter. I haven’t been hammered-drunk since my twenty-first birthday party.”
“There were three almost empty bottles of wine in the kitchen,” he said.
“And Armand drank almost all of them,” I replied stiffly. “But the port bottle was still almost full when Agnes cleared it away.”
I saw a flicker in Hunter’s face when I mentioned Agnes.
“Is Agnes okay?”
Hunter looked away.
“Is Agnes okay, Hunter?” I sat up abruptly. Hunter didn’t even look my way.
“Look at me, Hunter!” I barked, despite my raw throat. “Is Agnes okay?”
He glanced at me, sighed, and shook his head. “She’s dead, Claire. She was on the floor with a bottle of port in her hand. It looked like she slipped and hit her head.”
It was my turn to look away, down at my hands, which were twisted into a knot in my lap. The port…
“Her blood alcohol was point two nine. It looks like you had quite a party with Armand. His blood alcohol was point three six.” I detected a jealous inflection when he spoke Armand’s name, but I didn’t have the time or the patience for juvenile pique at that moment.
“It was the port,” I said. “It tasted too sweet. You need to have that bottle analyzed. I think we were poisoned.”
“Port is supposed to be sweet,” Hunter said incredulously. “Right?”
“Not that sweet. I think it was tampered with. By—”
“Let me guess,” Hunter cut me off, his tone turning sarcastic. “Blake Becker.”
“He tried to kill me last night!” I yelled, shooting upright in the bed.
“Now, Claire,” Hunter began incredulously, eyeing me like he doubted my sanity.
And that was enough from him for one day. My teeth ground and my hands balled into fists. “Am I under arrest?” I asked coldly.
Hunter’s face went red. “No,” he said, “You are not.”
“
Then get off my bed and get out of my room, Sheriff,” I said and pointed at the door, the second time in two days I had ordered him out of my presence.
Hunter went rigid, his eyes blazing at me, but he didn’t say anything. He stood stiffly and stalked to the door, jerked it open, and was gone.
And good riddance!
Jessica came in right after Hunter left, a bouquet of flowers in one hand and a clutch of magazines in the other. She approached the bed, her pale face etched with concern, her blonde hair tucked behind her ears.
“Are you okay?” she asked. “I saw Hunter in the hallway…”
“I’m fine,” I replied, “And Hunter is a complete jerk.”
“He said you were drunk driving?” Jessica said and I felt my face grow hot.
“That’s because he’s an idiot!” I snapped. “I’ve never driven drunk in my life.” I almost added that someone had tried to kill me, but Jessica looked stressed enough. As a mother, I was used to keeping the ugly details of life to myself.
Jessica nodded, and I could see she believed me. She placed the magazines on the bed beside me.
“I won’t need those,” I said as I reached for the IV jutting from my arm. “I’m leaving.” I peeled off the tape holding the IV in place and eased the needle out with a grimace.
“We should take the tubing,” Samson said. “It is probably twenty dollars on the bill. We could use it to—”
“We’re not taking anything, Samson. And put those tissues back,” I snapped at him. “Jessica, please get me my clothes.” I turned out of bed and stood. I was shaky at first, my head light as a feather, but the moment passed. The anger had given me a little boost of energy, but behind that energy was a tremendous physical and emotional fatigue.
My purse was on the bedside table. I opened it and found a soggy mess. My cell phone was right there on top. I tried it, but it was dead, water dripping out of the case. I slammed it back into the bag and headed for the bathroom on wobbly legs, my purse slung over my shoulder.
Victor ducked in from the hallway as I was opening the bathroom door.
“Are you supposed to be—” he began, but bit it off when I scowled at him. “Got it,” he said with a nod as he eased the door closed behind him. “It’s a prison break.”
By then, Jessica had fetched my wilted and still damp dress and undergarments from the closet, but my shoes were missing. I didn’t care. I would have walked out of there in the green hospital gown with my derriere flashing through the slit. I had business with Blake Becker that couldn't wait. Hunter might not believe me yet, but I was determined to prove I was right. And to heck with the consequences.
As I headed through the bathroom door, Samson handed me a single tissue. “Do not use the toilet paper,” he said. “They will charge for every square.”
I growled at him unintelligibly, snatched the tissue out of his hand and slammed the bathroom door closed.
My face in the mirror made me flinch. My skin was pale, almost gray, and every line and wrinkle had deepened into a wearied groove. Dark circles surrounded my eyes, making me look like a half-dead raccoon.
I took a comb from my purse, wet my hair, and combed it into something resembling a tidy rat’s nest, then searched my purse for cosmetics. I found a tube of Chapstick and a watery compact of blush. I ducked my head out and begged foundation and blush from Jessica and did what I could to cover the damage of the previous night. When I was done and dressed in my soggy black dress, I exited the bathroom. Jessica had brought me a pair of purple flip-flops from the trunk of her car, which completed my bag lady ensemble.
I rounded up my troops and marched out into the corridor.
Chapter 24
My escape from the hospital took longer than I had planned. The doctor wanted me to stay overnight, but I was adamant about leaving. I would have liked to have seen Armand before I left, but they insisted he was still sleeping. The nursing staff’s disdain for Armand and I was so palpable I wanted to scream. It seemed everyone was convinced we had drunk so much at dinner we had almost died.
The four of us parted in the parking lot out front. Jessica headed back to work and Victor had to pick up a new spool of trellis wire, so Samson was appointed to drive me home.
“That Becker is a murderer,” he said before I even had the door of his rusty old Jeep Cherokee closed. “He killed Dimitri, I know it. And your Hunter is a fool! He will let Becker kill you before he admits his mistake.”
Those comments did little to elevate my mood. Just the opposite – they scared me to death. But I couldn’t run and hide. I wouldn’t. I had to do something to prove to Hunter what Samson was saying was true…but what? Hunter clearly thought I was on a witch hunt.
Samson continued, “And the contract with Dimitri is a fraud! Alexandra and I are to see a lawyer this afternoon. We will get Dimitri’s wine back or another bottle-duster will end up dead.”
“Samson, don’t make threats like that,” I said with utter exhaustion. “You’re in enough trouble; don’t add to it. Hunter will come around. Dimitri’s murder won’t go unpunished.”
Samson snorted at that. “Dimitri was a rotten son of a—”
Samson,” I warned him and he swallowed the curse.
“Dog. I was going to say dog,” he said as he fidgeted around in the seat, trying to get comfortable and not having much luck. Finally he pulled the box of tissue out of his coat pocket along with the rubber IV hose. He dumped them on the back seat. I rolled my eyes at that, but said nothing.
“How is Alexandra holding up?” I asked.
“What? Alexandra? She is fine,” he said brusquely. “She is made of strong stuff. She is a Xenos.” He took a stub of cigar like a dried up old tree root from his shirt pocket and jammed it between his teeth. He chewed at it for a moment before he muttered, “And she is better off without that Pappos.”
I slumped in my seat and shook my head. I refrained from rebuking Samson again about his attitude, but it was hard. “She told me Dimitri wanted money from you,” I said instead. “And you refused. She said you give the money to the people of Naousa. That you built a hospital there?”
“Blood money,” he growled around the cigar. “Silver to pay for an act of evil.”
“She told me about your grandson.” Somehow I still had a hard time imagining Samson as a father or a grandfather. And I can’t deny I was a little hurt that in the twenty years we had worked side by side he had never mentioned it.
“May he rot in hell,” Samson said, then plucked the cigar from his mouth, ducked his head, and spat three times on the floorboard.
“The boy is dead, Samson,” I reproached him. “Forgiveness is a blessing to those who forgive as much as it is to the forgiven.” That sounded pompous, and I should probably have minded my own business, but even though I knew the child had been responsible for the deaths of many people, I still found Samson’s attitude almost unforgivably harsh.
He shrugged. “The devil does not die, de Montagne,” he said. “He destroys and moves on. He takes another face. Infests another body,” Samson said with the finality of a medieval inquisitor. It was obvious he didn’t want to discuss the subject. And neither did I, after that pronouncement. Things were bad enough without paranoid discussions about the possible demonic possession of his grandson.
“Alexandra is planning on going back to Greece?” I asked.
“Yes, but not until we settle up with that bas—” Samson shot a look at me and finished, “with that Becker. He has Dimitri’s entire wine collection and will not release it! It is all she has to live on. And he says he is going to auction it off! The man can barely spell Bordeaux and he is going to auction off two hundred bottles of Premiere Cru?” Samson chewed furiously at the cigar. “I told you he was a crook when you insisted we store our wine with him last year,” he added, which was completely untrue. After the vandalism to my cellar, Samson had been as anxious as I was about keeping all of our past vintages in one location. His attitude problem with Star Cross
ed had only begun when Dimitri had joined the business a month later. But it was pointless to argue with him.
“Did Dimitri say anything to Alexandra about being suspicious of Blake before he died?” I asked. I was not going to mention the wine labels Hunter had found in Dimitri’s pocket. I was furious with Hunter, but I still felt constrained by his admonition.
Samson shook his head. “Dimitri was not a jaw flapper. He would not have worried her with things like that,” he said with a grudging respect.
“Hunter told me you tried to kill Dimitri on the day he married Alexandra,” I said.
“That is a lie,” Samson said without heat or rancor. He never took his eyes off the road.
“You didn’t shoot him?”
“An accident. A malfunction of the trigger,” he said. “I had thought about shooting him,” he conceded, “but had decided to allow him life. For the love of Alexandra.”
“But you took a gun to the church?”
“Of course.”
“Why?” I asked.
“In case.”
“In case of what?” I asked in exasperation.
“In case I changed my mind,” he replied with a one-shoulder shrug.
I had nothing to say to that. A moment passed in silence as we both watched the road.
“Do you believe I killed Dimitri?” he finally asked, in a surprisingly vulnerable voice.
“No,” I replied. “I think Blake Becker did.” At that point I almost mentioned the case of ’92 Violet Vineyard cabernet on Gavin’s Fine Wine and Spirits’ auction website, and my suspicions that Blake might be stealing his customers’ wine, but I thought better of it. My head was still pounding like a mambo drum and I knew Samson would be apoplectic. I didn’t want to throw kerosene on a bonfire. I would handle Blake on my own.
“Why did you send Dimitri a witch’s ladder?” I asked suddenly.
