Bitter Finish - Linda Barnes

by Linda Barnes

  Shit. The anger blew out of him like air out of a punctured balloon. What right had he to pass judgment on Holloway's bedmates? He didn't own her, just half the winery. Didn't want to own . . .

  The car was handling oddly. The next bump in the road left no doubt about that. When he hit the brake, it grabbed, swerving off to the right. He fought the steering wheel to keep the Volvo aimed down the center strip. That car behind him followed too closely.

  Damn, Spraggue muttered under his breath. He groped for the emergency flashers, flicked them on, and swung over as far as possible toward the right-hand verge of the narrow road. The other car gunned its engine, whizzed past, roared out of sight.

  Spraggue stopped the Volvo dead, got out to check on a visible cause for the car's erratic behavior. The night air was heavy with the smell of ripe grapes. Vines stood thick all around, supported by wood and lashings of rope, bowed with the weight of the purple clusters. Spraggue stared straight up and took a calming, lung-filling breath. So many stars.

  The right front tire was flat as Kansas. He'd never make it to Kate's, up that twisty driveway.

  Not a car, not a house. That jerk behind him-

  Once, years ago, when a car displayed flashers, pulled off the road, the driver behind would stop, offer aid. Maybe Leider was right. Nobody did that anymore. Too dangerous. Better not get involved.

  Let there be a spare tire. Kate was notoriously negligent about such petty details. He retrieved the keys from the ignition. At least there were two on the chain. She could have just handed over the ignition key, never dreaming he'd need to open the truck. Maybe she kept a flashlight in the glove compartment. Spraggue circled the car, opened the passenger door. Nothing in the glove compartment but used paper towels and a half-empty bottle of Windex.

  Another car passed, didn't slow down even when he waved.

  He left the right-hand door open for light. The glow barely reached around to the trunk. He fumbled with his hands for the lock before remembering the tiny pencil flash on his own key ring. He found it, clicked it on, tried the key in the lock. Rusty. He worked it for what seemed like minutes before the key turned and the trunk sprang open.

  As soon as he smelled it, he was glad of the darkness, glad the stars were faint, faraway specks. Not masked by embalming fluid now, it was a sickly sweetish stink. He flicked off the pencil flash and turned away. He had no desire to see what was left of Lenny Brent. His knees wobbled and he straightened up with effort. The silence was so intense it seemed to hum.

  The hum came closer. This time the passing car stopped. It had flashing blue lights and the sheriff s insignia over the door.

  8

  "When can I speak to Kate Ho1loway?"

  Shakespeare mirrored the fall of kings in foul weather. Lenny's death, Spraggue thought, glancing disgustedly around the sheriff' s office in the early hours of Saturday morning, was rendered in stale smoke, filthy ashtrays, and the harsh glare of fluorescent bulbs.

  Two hours since the discovery, two hours of hurry-and-wait, hurry-and-wait, punctuated by a

  single question, his own: "When can I speak to Kate Holloway?"

  She was somewhere around the L-shaped bend, stashed in one of the tiny offices. That much, Lieutenant Bradley had leaked. Captain Enright wasn't communicating; he'd given it up with a satisfied smirk the moment Spraggue had identified the body.

  Bradley barged out of the inner office. "Coffee?" he said, before Spraggue could gear up for the question.

  "Thanks. Black" Spraggue stood and fumbled for change in his right-hand pocket.

  "I'll take care of it. Seeing as you're an unwilling guest."

  Spraggue wished Enright were the flunky they sent out for coffee. He tried a variation of his request when Bradley returned with two steaming cups balanced precariously on a cardboard tray.

  "Can I see Kate Holloway?"

  "I doubt it. But hang around, by all means. Enright gets a charge out of knowing you're still here fuming."

  "Is he talking to Kate?"

  "Yeah. She stopped listening about an hour and a half back".

  "I presume he knows it's illegal to question a suspect without a lawyer present."

  "Oh, I suppose he made it clear that she doesn't have to say anything."

  "Is he confining his agenda to Lenny's death?"

  Bradley nodded, sipped coffee.

  "Just a coincidence that two guys wound up stuffed in car trunks within the week?"

  "I don't tell Enright how to run an investigation? "Do you know how Lenny died?"

  "No sign of violence. We're waiting for the autopsy report—"

  "Which is confidential police business." Enright loomed around the L.

  "When can I—" Spraggue began.

  "You a lawyer?"

  "No."

  '"Then get lost."

  "A conviction was recently overturned by the Supreme Court because some cop in Iowa refused to let a suspect talk to his mother," Spraggue said.

  "You her mother?"

  "Let me try a more subtle approach: I will make one hell of a stink if I don't get to see Kate soon."

  "Yeah?"

  "And I hate to make trouble."

  "I don't even think you can. "

  With effort, Spraggue willed his right hand to stay unclenched and harmless down at his side. If the deputy weren't so huge . . . Hitting Enright would have the same effect as pounding a frozen side of beef: broken knuckles. Worse. You didn't get tossed in jail for assaulting a dead cow.

  "I'm starting to feel," he said, his smile not reaching his eyes, "the urge to make a handsome campaign contribution to anyone running against Sheriff Hughes."

  Enright snorted. "Got to go to the can," he said. "Bradley, take over here for a while." His footsteps clicked down the hall. Spraggue wondered if he had king-sized taps stuck to his toes and heels to punctuate his swagger.

  Bradley crumpled his empty coffee cup in his fist and dunked it into a corner wastebasket. "Come on. What he means is that I should get you and Miss Holloway together. Then he'll yell at me for knuckling under to you."

  Spraggue followed Bradley around the L-shaped bend and through a warren of antiseptic hallways, finally turning into a small cubicle off a long corridor. In a chair sat Kate, pale as chiseled ivory, hands clasped tightly in her lap.

  Bradley signaled to a severe woman in a tan uniform, who glided noiselessly away. He stationed himself just outside the door. "Can't really give you any privacy," he muttered apologetically. "No privileged communication or anything."

  "How much time do we have?"

  "How long does it take Enright to pee?"

  "Can you call my lawyer?" Kate said, too calmly.

  "He might hang up on me—the lady who cried wolf and all that."

  Spraggue leaned down and kissed her cheek. "We haven't got much time, so just answer me."

  "In front of the jailer? Don't you think I killed Lenny?"

  "Whisper. If you stashed him in the trunk, you wouldn't have loaned me the car."

  "What do you want to know?" she asked softly.

  "Were you sleeping with Brent?"

  "Where did you get that tidbit?"

  "Mary Ellen Martinson."

  Kate glared at him for a moment. "When I said you'd get the gossip soon enough," she said angrily, "I had no idea you'd head straight to the source."

  "You weren't sleeping with him?"

  "Does it matter? You think I'm more likely to murder a man I've had sex with?"

  Their eyes locked, his challenging, hers defiant.

  "Is that al1?" she said.

  "No. When I speak to your lawyer, I'm going to ask him not to bail you out."

  "This better be good, Spraggue."

  "How's this? Act One: unidentified body found in abandoned car. Act Two: very identifiable body found in far-from-abandoned car. The play has only one continuing character: you. You played the chief suspect in Act One; you're doing an encore now. So maybe someone is killing people to put yo
u in jail."

  "You're kidding," she said, staring down at her jittery hands. "You're reciting dialogue from that detective movie of yours."

  "Howard Ruberman isn't that fond of you. Mary Ellen Martinson—"

  "If she'd been sniffed in the car, I'd need an alibi."

  "She feel the same about you?"

  "This is ridiculous" `

  "Keep your voice down." Spraggue leaned back against the cool cement-block wall. "And tell me why people keep asking me if I'm planning to sell Holloway Hills." .

  "Mary Ellen say that?"

  "Does it matter?"

  "I got an offer on the place. I turned it down. That's all."

  "Who?"

  "United Circle. A good price. Should I have asked you?"

  "You can veto any sell-out, Kate. Terms of the contract."

  "I'd never sell."

  "You told somebody from United Circle that?"

  "Sure."

  "Who?"

  "Some guy . . . I don't remember . . ."

  "They could think I'd be more willing to sell—"

  "I said United Circle, Spraggue. Not the Mafia."

  "What was the guy's name?"

  ". . . Baxter . . . just some stiff in a pin-striped suit."

  Bradley had a sudden coughing fit. "Enright," he said out of the corner of his mouth before strolling tactfully toward the water cooler.

  "Kate," Spraggue said quickly, "I'm sorry."

  "For what?"

  "Picking that fight on the hillside this afternoon, instead of—"

  "Your loss," she said coldly.

  "I know."

  Enright's boot heels cleared the corner. "What in the devil is going on here?" He jerked his thumb in Spraggue's direction, glowered at Bradley. "Out!"

  Spraggue smiled. "Her lawyer's on the way."

  "Out."

  "One thing. That squad car tonight, was that a regular patrol?"

  Bradley answered. "Somebody called in and reported a vehicle in trouble. Gave your location."

  "And before? How did you happen to look in the trunk of that abandoned car over at my place?"

  Bradley stared at his shoes.

  "Out," Enright repeated.

  "Anonymous tip," Spraggue said flatly. "Right?"

  Enright took a threatening step forward.

  "Relax," Spraggue said. "I'm leaving."

  9

  Spraggue intended to start off his investigation with a breaking-and-entering at Lenny's girlfriend's apartment.

  Four scanty hours sleep hadn't exactly cleared the fog. Twenty minutes in the shower, until the pounding water turned too icy to bear, sharpened his senses and revived his memory: Lenny's address book. And Mary Ellen's snide advice: cherchez la femme.

  Searching Kate's bedroom undid at least half the good of the shower; he felt dirty again. An invisibly slimy intruder prying through bureau drawers, betraying trust with prodding, curious fingertips.

  Seven years had hardly changed her room. A fresh coat of cream-colored paint, a different bedspread tossed over the old cane-back rocker. The same black-and-white framed studies of water lilies, dating from her amateur photographer days. She still folded her underwear with spartan neatness and scattered scarves and stockings over the mirrored dresser top. Her scent clung to the scarves, familiar and reproachful. When he lifted her pillow, a lacy nightgown was stuffed underneath, just as he'd known it would be.

  He examined the adjoining room, his old room, even more relentlessly. Kate never cared to spend the entire night with a man; connecting doors with a lock on her side, that was her preferred arrangement. He found no trace of Lenny; plenty of dust.

  Five toothbrushes in the bathroom, some old, some new. Impossible to guess the gender of a

  toothbrush's owner.

  Grady, then.

  Spraggue rummaged through the kitchen cupboards until he found an unopened jar of strawberry jam. The English muffins in the cellophane packet on the countertop were stale. Toasted and drenched with jam, they'd pass for breakfast. He opened the refrigerator, surveyed Kate's meager supplies, made a mental list of survival groceries.

  The toaster popped. The jam jar surrendered its top after he beat it repeatedly with the edge of a knife. He poured more coffee—thank God, Kate liked good coffee—and sat on a gimpy-legged chair at the kitchen table. While he ate, he read Lenny's address book, starting with the A's and plowing straight through.

  "Grady Fairfield" was scrawled across most of a page, with a number underneath, but no address. Spraggue shrugged, dialed. No answer.

  Kate kept the phone books in the kitchen junk drawer. "Fairfield, G." lived at 455 Solano, Napa.

  Spraggue dumped his dishes in the sink, dressed quickly.

  Kate's old Ford station wagon was out behind the winery, neatly parked in by Howard Ruberman's Buick. Spraggue had hoped to avoid Howard, hated the thought of listening to the dire consequences of Kate's imprisonment on the grapes. But with the Volvo in the police garage, he had no choice. He sent one of the cellar crew off to borrow the wine-maker's keys, stressing the "no need to disturb him."

  Howard came on the run. The car keys couldn't be found. Which pocket did he keep them in? Had he locked them in the car? How was Miss Holloway managing? How would he ever cope all alone? By the time Spraggue coaxed the old wagon into life some fifteen minutes later, he had to stifle the urge to run down Howard. Reciting lines from Still Waters into his portable tape recorder didn't improve his mood.

  Grady's address was as slumlike as Napa got, a swath of weathered gray four-story buildings far enough from the railroad tracks for the trains to miss.

  The fourth-floor-front mailbox was labeled G. Fairfield. Ring bell and wait for buzzer. The door was propped open with a warped board. So much for security.

  The steps were narrow, the hallway dingy. If Grady was a kept woman, her standards were low. He knocked, just in case. The feeble lock yielded easily to the two bits of stiff wire he'd snatched off Kate's workbench.

  Part of the Grady mystery cleared up as soon as he opened the door. She painted. Bold abstract canvases leaned against stark white walls. Two huge red pillows and a standing floor lamp were the main room's only furnishings.

  He shut the door and drew the blinds.

  Searching a room containing two pillows took all of thirty seconds. He bypassed the kitchen, moved on to the single bedroom.

  A double mattress rested on a wooden platform dead center, mirror overhead. A few cushions, a hand-knotted rug in washed-out earth tones, a corner full of baskets, a collection of tall grasses in colored bottles . . .

  The heavy cardboard box with the red-and-blue ad for detergent decorating one side was definitely out of place. It was packed with men's clothing; toothbrush and toiletries on top.

  "You a narc?" The accusing voice was deeper than Spraggue would have expected from the slight red-head—the hair brighter, bushier than he'd imagined.

  He swallowed air and said no. For the moment denial was all he could come up with.

  "You know," she continued, posing in the doorway, "you guys should really give it up. I haven't dealt in years, and if I do happen to have a personal stash, what's the big deal?"

  The reason for Spraggue's temporary mental paralysis was Grady herself. Just from the way she stood, hands on tilted hips, he knew she was more than aware of her own effect; she counted on it. The Martinsons had been accurate enough in their skimpy description, but Grady outstripped adjectives. Her skin was like warm honey, so flawless it lent credibility to her outrageous hair color. She made a simple blue sundress look like it had cost plenty. His eyes kept coming back to her face. That hair had a life of its own.

  She didn't seem anxious to grab the phone and dial the cops. Spraggue thanked God for her previous run-ins with the police.

  "You're not the gas man," she said speculatively. "Or rent man. Or the telephone repairman .... "

  "I'm a friend of Lenny's." Spraggue offered the lie along with a tentative smile. "And
you have got to be Grady. Lenny told me you were a knock-out, but I figured the old bastard was exaggerating again."

  Her mouth almost smiled at the compliment, but she caught herself. "Lenny told you to drop in any time, right?" she said sarcastically. "And you think this is a cool moment to make a move on his girl? Jesus, Lenny's friends."

  "Hey, I'm sorry—"

  "I thought I'd locked the front door."

  "I have hidden talents," Spraggue said. She seemed like the type who'd be intrigued by a hint of outlawry. "I didn't break the lock and I did try to call first."

  Her eyes narrowed. She was still blocking the bedroom door, his only exit. Spraggue wondered whether to push her aside and bolt. "What's your name?" she asked.

  He couldn't risk a lie on that. No false ID. "Michael Spraggue."

  "I may have heard him mention you." A frown of concentration lined her perfect forehead. Her voice stayed suspicious. "Just when did you talk to Lenny?"

  "It's been months. Look, Lenny and I go way back. I'm sorry I barged in on you. I'll leave him a note, okay? Or maybe you could tell me where—"

  "You don't know," she said softly. Spraggue took a deep breath; she'd bought it. She was worrying how to break the news of Lenny's death, not how to get to the phone and dial police emergency.

  He decided to jump to the wrong conclusion. "Don't tell me you and Lenny have split? Jeez, that man is a moron. He—"

  "I don't—" she began.

  Spraggue ignored her. "When I talked to him the last time, he was so happy. Told me you were thinking about getting married."

  "Really," she said. "He never bothered to ask."

  "From the way he was hinting around, I swear I thought I'd miss the wedding. And possibly other blessed events." He let his eyes slide down to her narrow waist. "But I guess I was mistaken about that."

  "Lenny talked a lot of garbage," she said angrily. "Look, let's straighten up a few things." She stared at the floorboards, said bluntly, "I had a miscarriage. Then we broke up. And—Look, why don't on you come in the living room? There's something else I have to tell you. You prefer Mike or Michael?"

  "Michael."

  She steered him over to one of the red floor cushions, folded herself as neatly as a kitten on the other.