Rock and Roll Queen of Bedlam

by Marilee Brothers

  Venable stares at me, without blinking, for a long moment. “I thought perhaps your nephew might be ill. A guest told me she met you on the path and the boy seemed upset.”

  I try to think of an appropriate response other than nosy old biddy.

  Nick says, “It’s the CF. I have a hard time breathing. That’s probably what she saw.” He launches into a violent coughing spell that I hope is faked.

  “I was here earlier looking for you,” Venable says and waits for me to respond.

  Despite my feeling of unease, I force myself to look in his eyes, and I’m struck again by their opaqueness. No reflection of light. Devoid of life. Creepy.

  “Like I said, we walked out to the vineyards,” I repeat, holding his gaze. It’s like I’m looking into the eyes of a cobra, fascinated yet terrified.

  “Strange. I didn’t see you out there,” he says.

  “As you can see, we’re fine.” I refuse to break eye contact.

  Nick breaks off the staring contest by tugging at my sleeve. “We need to get going.”

  “I’ll give you a ride to the visitors’ center,” Venable says.

  We follow him through the door. A two-seater golf cart is parked on the path. When Nick starts to climb in the back, I pull him back. “I really need to walk off this cramp. Thanks anyway.”

  After another long, measuring look, Venable nods.

  Though I want to see the last of him, I ask, “What’s the chapel used for? Seems too small for services.”

  His eyes flick away then back to mine. “We wanted to provide a sanctuary, a place for people to meditate. Like you were doing. Do you have a church home, Ms. Thome?”

  “Oh, many,” I assure him. He frowns and drives away.

  Halfway up the path I stop and dig around in my pocket for the item I found in the chapel. A tiny silver charm.

  “I found this in the chapel. Looks like some kind of bird.”

  I set it on Nick’s outstretched palm. He lifts his glasses and studies it carefully. “It’s hers,” he says in a choked voice. “It’s Sara’s.”

  He thrusts the charm under my nose. “It’s a seagull. Her dad bought it for her when he got out of prison. It’s hers. I know it’s hers.”

  I look at the charm, a seagull soaring with outstretched wings, and remember the tattoo on Joe Stepanek’s body. A setting sun bisected by three flying gulls. “Freedom,” Sloan said. “The tattoo symbolizes freedom.”

  “Okay,” I say slowly. “If it’s hers …”

  “It is hers!” Nick says, outraged by my lack of faith. “We can’t leave her here! You gotta call the cops. We gotta do something!”

  For the first time today, he sounds panicky. I try to get him to move. “We will. I promise. But not right now. Come on, Nick, we’ve got to be smart about this.”

  Finally, with one last look over his shoulder, he follows me up the path. His silence gives me time to sift through the jumbled events of the past hour. As the terror recedes, a flood of images rushes in. I stop suddenly.

  Lost in thought, Nick steps on my heels.

  “You know those boxes we hid behind?” I ask.

  “What about them?”

  “Juice concentrate,” I say. “From Mexico.”

  “So what?”

  “So why do they need juice concentrate when they grow their own grapes?”

  He shrugs.

  “I need to talk to your mom.” I take off toward the tasting room.

  We meet the bus people heading down the path toward the parking lot. I wave at my chubby little friend who appears to have cocktail sauce smeared on his face. Flanked on each side by a grim-faced mother, he grins and waves back.

  Susan meets us at the door. She scans Nick for dings and scratches and then gives me the once over. “Good God! What happened to you?”

  I wave the question off. “Later.”

  “Dodie’s tipsy, and your grandmother’s helping the hostess clean up.” Susan grins. “Apparently another bus is on its way.”

  Nick wanders off in search of water. I pull Susan over to the wine display. “Remember what you told me about imported grape juice? That you’d heard this vineyard is just for show?”

  Susan nods. “Yeah, but this looks like the real deal to me.”

  She picks up a bottle of Merlot. “The label says, ‘Cellared and bottled from grapes grown at WWJD Winery, Vista Valley, WA.’ Why? Something to do with Sara?”

  I tell Susan about the boxes of juice concentrate we saw. That the boxes were the only thing between her beloved son and danger remains my little secret. “Nothing to do with Sara. I’m just curious about concentrate. What’s the juice used for?”

  “Maybe the hostess can tell us.”

  She heads for the bar, ignoring my protests. All I need is Venable walking in while we grill the hostess about boxes of concentrate hidden away from public view. I hasten to join her. At least we can conduct the conversation at lower decibels.

  Before Susan can ask her questions, Grandma sees me and shrieks in alarm. “Oh, sweetie! Did you fall?”

  “Yep,” I say, turning slowly for the full effect. “Tripped over a rock and fell in a pile of dirt. Split my pants too.”

  Grandma clucks her tongue and shakes her head at my slovenly appearance.

  Susan traps the hostess behind the bar. “Could you answer a couple of questions for us, Tiffany?”

  “Sure. What do you want to know?”

  “Are all your wines made from grapes you grow here?”

  “Except for the whites,” Tiffany says. “We have another vineyard for that.”

  “Around here?”

  “Just a few miles away. Why?”

  I look around the room. No Gordy. “So you don’t use juice concentrate?”

  Tiffany chews her gum and ponders, a look of confusion blooming on her smooth, pretty face. “Juice concentrate?” she asks.

  Suddenly the light comes on, and she giggles. “Is that what you call it? Concentrate? I thought it was called grape juice.”

  Eager to use her brand new word Tiffany explains, “Yeah, we import juice concentrate for our non-alcoholic wines. From Mexico. They bring it up in trucks, and we send back cases of stuff.”

  “Lots of Concord grape vineyards here in the valley,” I observe.

  Tiffany says, “Uh huh.”

  “Why import juice from another country when you can get it just down the road?”

  Tiffany’s eyes dart from Susan’s face and back to mine, searching for a clue. It’s painful to watch. “Jeez, I don’t know. Probably has something to do with money.”

  I sigh. “Right you are, Tiffany. It’s always about money.”

  We collect our little family and the three cases of wine Dodie feels compelled to buy. As we drive through the open gate at the bottom of the hill, I turn for one last look. Will the gates be locked after dark?

  As if he’s reading my mind, Nick whispers, “We gotta get her out.”

  I put a finger to my lips and whisper back, “I’ve got a plan.”

  On the drive home, we recount a highly edited version of our adventure. No mention of our journey to the dark side. We pass around the seagull charm. I reiterate my intention to contact Sloan. Grandma beams her approval. When we pull into Susan’s driveway, Nick won’t budge. “Maybe I should come home with you, see what Sloan has to say.”

  Susan intervenes quickly. “You need your breathing treatment. Allegra will call you.”

  Nick knows better than to argue with Susan about health issues. “Yeah, yeah,” he says and shuffles into the house.

  We arrive home and offload Dodie’s wine.

  Hot, dirty and tired, I head upstairs and then check the answering machine. Three messages await. Marcy, bored out of her skull, wanting to meet me at Brewski’s for a quick bite “and whatever.” My new best friend, Donny Thorndyke, saying, “Babe, I talked to Cheeseman. Thanks again for stopping by. Talk to you later.” And finally Sloan growling, “Call me.”

  I
call and get Sloan’s voice mail. Since I promised Nick I’d talk to Sloan, I feel compelled to leave a message. I start with “Where are you, Sloan?” before launching into a long, rambling message.

  Conscience eased, I plan my agenda for the rest of the day.

  Shower.

  Nap until dark.

  Return to the WWJD Winery.

  Chapter 28

  In the upper, left-hand corner of the U.S., traces of daylight linger long after 9 p.m. in mid-June. My plan to nap until dark is clearly flawed. Interrupted every twenty minutes by a phone call from Nick, I give up and plan a wardrobe suitable for nighttime skulking. Black tee shirt, black high-top sneakers, black jeans, and a black long-sleeved windbreaker with a hood. If I don’t die of heat exhaustion, I’ll be a veritable phantom in the night.

  Nick finally relents when I tell him Sloan has the details and will handle it. I hear skepticism in his voice, but at least he stops calling. In truth, Sloan does have the details, though a slightly jumbled version.

  At 10 p.m. I slip down the stairs and tiptoe across the entryway. Grandma and Dodie sit side by side on the couch, watching a movie. When I open the front door, Grandma’s head whips around. “Allegra! What on earth are you wearing?”

  “Storm’s coming in tonight. I’m meeting Marcy. See you in the morning.”

  I step out onto the porch and discover my faux weather report has come true. A sudden gust of wind rattles the maple trees, whipping through the branches in a frenzied rush, subsiding just as quickly. The air is still heavy and hot. A half moon appears briefly from behind scudding clouds. Unlocking the Ranger, I hear a roll of thunder to the north.

  Armed with my cell phone and tiny flashlight, I head south, pondering my half-assed plan and praying to the gods who look after fools like me. If this were a movie, I ask myself, would the audience be screaming, “Don’t do it, you dumb shit”? Probably.

  But my options are few. Sloan is unavailable, I refuse to endanger my family, the police think I’m a nut job, and Michael is clearly involved up to his patrician nose. In spite of sketchy evidence, I’m convinced Robinson Hunt has Sara. Whether or not she’s at the winery, I’ll soon find out.

  I have to get behind the fence. It is, after all, a working farm, so surely I’ll find some useful item to boost me up. Over the fence. Look for Sara. Run like hell for the truck. Drive home. That’s the plan. Simple.

  The gates at the bottom of the drive leading to the winery are closed and locked. No problem. I’ll walk in. I back up and park the Ranger well away from the overhead lights illuminating the billboard of Jesus.

  I step out of the truck and listen. Other than cars whizzing by on the freeway, the night is utterly silent. I look both ways on the frontage road. No approaching headlights. I trot to the gate, slip around it, and head up the hill, taking care to stay close to the rose hedge.

  I’ve arrived ahead of the storm. This side of the gap, the oppressive heat still lingers, undeterred by the absence of sun. After fifty yards of jogging uphill in the muggy air, I slow to a steady trudge and briefly consider stripping down to my panties and bra. Ten minutes later I stand concealed in the trees next to the visitors’ center sucking air and mopping up sweat with my shirttail.

  Dim light filters through the windows of the tasting room. I creep closer and check out the loft, half expecting to see Gordon Venable leaning against the railing. No signs of life. However, the shadowy, recessed areas behind the railing could conceal a half dozen Gordys. Don’t go there, Allegra.

  I’m not keen on wandering down the path to the gate Nick and I accessed earlier. With the moon obscured behind the clouds, the pathway is black as pitch. I could use the flashlight, but that would be like screaming, “Here I am. Come get me!” Instead, I’ll use ambient light to see if I can find a way in behind the building.

  I turn away from the visitors’ area and follow a line of shrubbery leading to the south side of the building, where three giant stainless steel tanks sit on a cement pad next to a long, rectangular wing. The back of the building disappears into the night.

  I feel like screaming, “What’s the matter with you people? Where the hell are your yard lights?”

  The shrubbery ends abruptly. Feeling exposed and vulnerable, I step out onto hard, packed dirt and creep along the side of the building. After a dozen steps, I pause to listen. A faint rustling sound: something stirs close by. I inhale sharply and hold my breath. Probably a rabbit. Maybe a coyote hunting a rabbit.

  Maybe something hunting Allegra.

  In spite of the heat, I shiver.

  I wait a full minute then move resolutely toward the rear of the building and a faint halo of light. I peer around the corner and see the loading dock and the wide concrete driveway leading to it, enclosed by a chain-link fence and padlocked gate. Staying in the shadows, I turn right, my back to the light and feel my way through the dark with outstretched arms. The fence has to be close by. With any luck, I’ll run into it.

  As I pick my way along, my eyes adjust. Squinting through the murky darkness, I head for what I hope is the shadowy outline of a tall fence. Picking up speed, I lengthen my stride, step in a hole, and sprawl face forward on the ground with a muffled grunt of surprise. I roll to a sitting position and wiggle various limbs. No harm, no foul.

  Sweaty body now coated in dirt, I start to get up and then freeze in a half crouch. The rustling noise again. Closer this time. Behind me. Heart pounding, I turn slowly toward the sound, straining to see. Something brushes against my arm. With an aborted screech, I leap up and sideways, my legs churning in the air like the Roadrunner pursued by Wily Coyote.

  Upon landing, I hear a familiar Rowr?

  My legs collapse, and I sit down hard. The winery cat, delighted by my unexpected visit, rubs against me in the dark.

  “Nice kitty,” I whisper between gasps. I reach out with a trembling hand and stroke his silky fur. A sudden swirl of wind rustles through the grapevines, bringing with it the smell of rain and a distant rumble of thunder. The storm is catching up.

  On the move again, this time using more caution, I reach the fence. Keeping my hands in contact with the wood, I slide to the left, groping for a gate. After a dozen steps, I feel the fence make a 90-degree turn. I ease around the corner and take a couple more steps. I reach with the hands. Slide with the feet. Pat. Slide. Pat. Slide. One final step, and my left hand shoots off into open space. I’ve found the gate, and it stands ajar.

  I creep through the opening and stop to reconnoiter. I can barely make out the humped forms of the outbuildings. The barn is at the far end. Keeping in mind the farm implements scattered around the yard and my inherent clumsiness, I’ll have to take it slow. To complicate matters, my kitty friend has followed me through the gate, bumping me with his head and pouncing at my ankles. Probably Vlad’s evil twin.

  After two tentative steps, something makes me stop. The air is heavier and charged with energy. An elusive scent fills my nostrils. I stop, my heart thudding painfully against my ribs. I’m not alone. I clearly hear the sound of breathing, and it isn’t mine. My brain screams, Run!

  Before my legs get the message, I hear the flick of a switch, and then a floodlight positioned atop the fence switches on.

  “Welcome, Ms. Thome,” says a rusty voice. “Took you long enough to find the gate.”

  No hesitation this time. As I whirl to make a run for it, I’m brought up short by a hand gripping my right arm. I flail violently until Venable jerks me back and something hard presses against my ribs. My heart sinks. He has a gun.

  “I knew you’d be back tonight,” Venable says with a chuckle. “All I had to do was stand here and wait. I heard you coming a mile away.”

  A dozen smart-ass comments come to mind, but I bite my tongue. For a bully like Gordon Venable, fear will be an aphrodisiac. If he wants me to be scared, I’ll be a sniveling basket case and wait for an opportunity to show my stuff. Providing I have stuff to show.

  I fake a sob. “Just let me go.
I’ll forget about Sara. I promise.”

  “If you weren’t such a nosy bitch, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

  “I’m sorry. Please just let me go.”

  I drop to my knees and wail.

  “Get up!” He jerks me up and then sighs in mock distress. “You caused this to happen. When I couldn’t locate you earlier today, I knew you’d been snooping around back here. Just be glad the kid’s not with you tonight.”

  “Why?” I say. “What are you going to do?”

  “You’re about to have an accident. Your truck will be found in the river tomorrow. You’ll be inside. Dead.”

  “Nooo!” I scream, dropping to my knees again. “You can’t shoot me! Pleeease!”

  “You’re a goddamn nut job.”

  Breathing hard, he tries to jerk me up. I pretend my knees are noodles.

  “I’m not going to shoot you, you idiot. It has to look like an accident,” Venable says. He pokes me hard in the side and barks again, “Get up.”

  Without imminent danger from the gun, I stall for time. “Ow!” I whine, crouching and cringing. “Quit poking me, and I’ll get up.”

  “Jesus,” he mutters under his breath. His grip on my arm eases up a little.

  I take my time getting up. “Tell me how Hunt did it. How he got Sara. She’s here, isn’t she?”

  “Pastor Rob has, shall we say, a special interest in Sara,” Venable says. “Against my advice, he moved up the timeline for her counseling.”

  “Counseling?”

  He doesn’t answer.

  “Joe Stepanek was blackmailing Hunt, wasn’t he? Which one of you killed him?”

  “You have been a busy little girl … Joe got greedy.”

  He steps forward and gives my arm a yank. “Enough questions!”

  The cat darts between us. Venable swears and lashes out with a vicious kick. Yowling pitifully, the cat goes flying.

  While he’s off balance, I slam into Venable with every ounce of strength in my body. My shoulder hits his midsection, and we fall to the ground. At the edge of my vision I see something dark fly from his hand, landing in the shadows a few yards away.