Blood for Wine

by Warren C Easley

  Jim dropped his head, massaged his temples for a moment, and said, “Bloody hell,” under his breath. “I can’t believe this is happening.”

  I said, “Come on, Jim. I’ll drive you.”

  He looked up at me and then at Ballard. “Okay, but give me some time to talk to my field boss. We’ve got a lot going on today.”

  The Yamhill Sheriff’s Office was located in the county seat, McMinnville, a bustling Willamette Valley town twelve miles south of Dundee. Once underway I said, “Look, Jim, you need a lawyer at this juncture. I’ll represent you today until we sort this thing out. If I tell you not to answer something, don’t. Even if you know the answer, okay? Going back over what you saw last night and all is fine, but anything beyond that, let me make the call.”

  He nodded, exhaled a long breath, and slid down in his seat. “They don’t think I did it, do they? Hell, you think I’d kill anyone during the harvest? No fucking way.”

  I had to laugh. Anyone who knew Jim well knew that was an absolutely true statement. The grape harvest was the biggest and most important event of his life, and he would never allow anything to compromise that.

  “I know that, but Ballard and his partner don’t. You’re the husband, suspect number one as far as they’re concerned. Maybe all this is just to clear you so they can move on. Let’s hope so.” The lug wrench bothered me, and so did the seized computers. People say a lot of stupid things in the digital space for reasons I’ve never understood. “Anything on your computers that I should know about? You know, any correspondence with Lori, or mentioning her to someone else? Something that might prove embarrassing?”

  He puffed another breath. “Ah, fuck. Back when we were splitting up, I suppose I wrote some angry stuff. Will they go back that far?”

  I laughed my answer. “How about recently? You said you guys were getting back together.”

  He shifted in his seat, and his look turned decidedly sheepish. “I swear, I’m my own worst enemy.”

  I waited for him to continue.

  “Uh, that lunch with Lori I mentioned. It didn’t go so well. She seemed really glad to see me, so I asked her to move back to Truc. You know, dumb me, I just sort of blurted it out halfway through the meal. Well, she started hemming and hawing, and I just lost it.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I got up, and the damn table fell over.”

  “You knocked the table over?”

  “Yeah, but not on purpose. Anyway, I walked out and didn’t look back. When I got to my car, I realized I screwed up. By that time, Lori was already pulling out of the parking lot. I went back to the restaurant, helped them clean up, and left a fifty dollar tip. I sent her an email apology, and I didn’t hear anything back until she called last night.” He let out a long sigh, formed a quarter-inch gap between his thumb and forefinger, and glared at it. “We were that close to working things out.” Then he put a hand to his face and choked off a couple of sobs. “Now she’s gone.”

  We rode in silence for a while. That kind of public display of anger could be very damaging, and I hoped the episode would go undiscovered. I wanted to ask about the sought-after lug wrench—like could it double as a murder weapon?—but thought better of it. If it was an issue, we’d learn soon enough. Archie, who figured out long ago how to use the button to roll the back window down, had his head out the window breathing in the crisp fall air without a care in the world. I envied my dog at that moment, something I found myself doing on a fairly regular basis.

  A post-war, two-story building with a brick façade, the Sheriff’s Office sat in the middle of downtown McMinnville. The interview room was so brightly lit I wished I’d worn my shades, and the body odor of previous occupants still lingered in the stale air. The other detective at the scene the night before, a woman named Sonia Rodriquez, accompanied Ballard, who did most of the talking. Rodriquez was younger and looked fresh as a daisy. Ballard, on the other hand, sported a dark stubble, and his eyes had a couple of half-moons under them shaded to gray.

  He began the interview by taking Jim back over his account of the night before in excruciating detail. Yes, he received a phone call from Lori around nine thirty inviting him to meet her at the overlook. Yes, the purpose of their meeting was to talk about reconciliation. No, he had never been to the overlook before. It was her idea to meet there. No, he did not see any cars coming out as he was coming in, and no, he didn’t see anything in or around the car that could’ve been used to kill his wife.

  If Ballard and Roqriquez were looking for inconsistencies in Jim’s story, I didn’t sense they found any. I breathed a little easier.

  At this point, Ballard veered into new territory. “Mr. Kavanaugh, you told us you’ve been separated from your wife for the past year, but neither party filed for divorce, is that right?”

  “Yes, but we were talking about getting back together.”

  Ballard nodded. “How would you characterize your relationship with your wife?” I didn’t like the question but let it go. Jim’s sometimes stormy relationship with Lori was certainly no secret around Dundee and easily discoverable.

  Jim squirmed a bit in his seat and opened his hands for emphasis. “Like I told you, we were exploring the possibility of getting back together. That’s why she wanted to meet in that romantic spot. You’ll find a five-year-old bottle of my pinot in the Jeep and two crystal glasses. We were going to drink it last night.” Good answer, I thought.

  Ballard nodded and leaned in a little. “So, your relationship was all good, huh? No arguing or anything? I mean, you were separated, right?”

  Ballard glanced at Rodriquez, who smiled and said, “No arguing? Wish my marriage was that good.”

  Jim said, “Well, you know, we had our ups and downs.”

  I was prepared to cut off that line of questioning right there. Ballard must have sensed that because he changed direction again. “So, you told us that your wife called you around nine thirty last night. Did you recognize the call when it came in?”

  Jim pulled absently on his beard for a couple of beats. “Come to think of it, I don’t think her name came up on my phone. I remember being surprised when it turned out to be her.”

  Ballard nodded. “So, your wife normally called you using her personal cell phone?”

  “Well, yeah, but she hadn’t in quite a while. We were mostly e-mailing this time around.”

  Ballard nodded. “She never called before using a phone you didn’t recognize?”

  Jim knotted his brow and shook his head. “No, I don’t think so.”

  That tack puzzled me, but I let it go as well. Apparently the call Jim got didn’t come from Lori’s cell phone. That seemed odd. At this point, Ballard nodded to Rodriquez, who extracted a photograph from a file folder in front of her and slid it to Jim. It was a high resolution photo of a black tool, made of thick steel, with a handle that flared into a wider section from which a four inch hexagonal socket extended at a right angle, the business end of a lug wrench. It looked more like a battle ax than a tool for changing tires. It was hard to tell for certain, but it appeared to have some dark stains on it.

  Ballard said, “Do you recognize this?”

  Jim looked down at the photograph and started to speak, but I interrupted. “Don’t answer that,” I told him. Then in an aside, I said in his ear. “Does that look like the lug wrench from your Jeep?”

  He nodded.

  “Okay, but we’re not going to make things any easier for them.” I looked up. “Next question?”

  Ballard said to Jim, “Do you know where the lug wrench belonging to your Jeep is?”

  Jim looked at me, and I nodded. “Under the backseat, where the jack is, far as I know.”

  Ballard glanced at Rodriquez, then shook his head. “We didn’t find it there. Could you have mislaid it somewhere?”

  Jim started to answer, but I cut him off. �
��Thank you, detectives. We want to cooperate, but this is going too far afield. I’m afraid we’re going to have to call it quits here.”

  A couple of pros, Ballard and Rodriquez looked at each other, then at me. Ballard smiled but without mirth. “So much for cooperation, eh, counselor? Have it your way. Make sure your client stays close by. We’ll be in touch.”

  When we got outside, Jim said, “Fuck, I didn’t like that at all. What’s the deal with that lug wrench, anyway?”

  “My guess is they think it was the murder weapon. You sure your lug wrench was in your Jeep?”

  “I thought it was. We used it a couple of months ago to change a tire on a tractor out in the vineyards. The lug nuts on the tractor are the same size as on my Jeep. But I think it got put back. Is that what they think? That I walked up to Lori’s car and killed her with the wrench from my Jeep?”

  “That was no random line of questioning. You’re definitely a suspect. There’s a good chance they’ve already found the murder weapon and that this interview was about trying to get you to say that wrench was yours.”

  “Oh, that’s fucking great. What the hell? Am I being set up?”

  “Let’s not jump to conclusions,” I told my friend. But it sure looked that way. His presence there, her blood on him, and now his lug wrench as the murder weapon? No, that didn’t look good at all.

  Chapter Five

  Jim fell silent on the way back to Le Petit Truc. When I pulled into the customer lot next to his barn, I said, “You okay?”

  He grimaced. “I’ve got to arrange the funeral. Her mom’s ill, so she’s leaving it all up to me. What do you think of my asking Sean McKnight? I mean, at least I know the guy. Lori went to his church a couple of times, even dragged me there once.”

  McKnight owned Stone Gate Farm, prime acreage that abutted Jim’s vineyard, and he also did double duty as the pastor of a small church in Newberg—a church with hip music, an upbeat message, and a packed house of believers every Sunday. “Sure. Makes sense. I hear he’s a decent guy.”

  Jim nodded. “Her mom and stepbrother came in this morning. I put them up at the Vineyard Inn until the funeral. They went to McMinnville to see the body and talk to Ballard and Rodriquez.” He rolled his eyes. “Hope she doesn’t trash me.”

  “Trash you? Who, Lori’s mother?”

  “Yeah. I know Lori did a lot of complaining to her mother about my legendary temper. Every time I made her cry, she’d call her momma and tell her what a tyrant I was.”

  Oh, great, I thought. Just what we need. “Well, maybe Lori told her about some of your good points, too.”

  “Oh, right. That would have been a short conversation.” He waved a hand in disgust. “Meanwhile, I’m slammed here. We’re only halfway through the harvest.” He turned to me. “These are the best damn grapes I’ve ever seen, Cal. Sugar levels, color, taste, everything came together this year. I could smell it. There’s a certain scent out in the vineyard when it’s right, when it’s the perfect time to pick.” His face clouded over again. “I was hoping Lori would be here to see this, you know, like maybe she’d finally get it about me.”

  I nodded. “What got between you two, anyway?”

  He exhaled a long breath. “She thought she married a rich gentleman winemaker. I turned out to be more of an in debt farmer, you know, a guy who takes a shower after work.” He smiled ruefully and shook his head. “At least that’s the way she saw me. She was uptight about money, too. At one point she suggested we sell Truc and move to Portland, where I could quote, unquote, get a real job. She didn’t realize that was like asking me to cut off an arm and a leg. But, shit, I still loved her, even afterwards, when I was scared she was going to force me to sell Truc as part of the divorce.”

  “Anything else between you?”

  He chuckled, opened his hands, and leaned back. “Look at me. I’m no prize, and she was so damn beautiful. I never really understood what she saw in me.” He cast his eyes down. “Maybe she got a little restless. I don’t blame her if she did.” Before I could ask more about that, he patted Archie on the head and swung his big frame out of the car. “Gotta get busy, Cal. Thanks again. I’ll be in touch.”

  ***

  Arch and I were back in my law office bright and early the next morning. I had a scheduled meeting with a prospective client, a man who owned a tony wine and cheese shop in Carlton. I suffered through the all-too-familiar story of another failed marriage and agreed to handle his divorce. I hated divorce cases, but I had a mortgage to pay and a dog to feed.

  Dundee sat between the larger towns of Newberg and McMinnville, and its news, such as it was, got reported in either the McMinnville News Register or the online Newberg Graphic, or both. When my new client left, I checked them both for coverage of Lori Kavanaugh’s murder, as well as the murder of the Hispanic man I heard about the morning before. Both papers covered Kavanaugh’s murder, but only the Graphic reported on the latter. It was a brief item.

  Man Found Murdered in Dundee

  The body of a man was found in Chehalem Creek early Tuesday morning by a jogger. He had been shot to death, and no identification was found on the body, according to police. The man was five-feet-nine inches tall, 145 pounds, with a goatee and mustache, and appeared to be Hispanic in his early to mid-thirties. Anyone with information regarding his identity should contact the Dundee-Newberg Municipal Police immediately.

  I sat at my desk absently clicking the top of my ballpoint pen. I wondered if the victim was just passing through or a local. I’d know soon enough. Dundee, and for that matter the whole valley, was tight-knit and word got around fast. I looked up at Archie. “Coincidences do happen occasionally, right, Big Boy?” He cocked his head and blinked at me a couple of times, a clear signal that he was reserving judgment on that question.

  The following day, I got another call from Jim. Ballard had just arrived with a second search warrant. I was tied up with a client, and by the time I made it to Le Petit Truc the search team was gone. “All they took this time,” Jim explained, “was a can of Chem Arrow and a nearly empty tube of Dexter Lithoplex.” He wrinkled his brow. “Go figure.”

  “What are those used for?”

  “The Dexter’s to lubricate the automatic door in the barn, and the Arrow’s for packing wheel bearings on the tractor.”

  “Huh,” was all I could think to say. What the hell could they be looking for?”

  Chapter Six

  Lori Kavanaugh’s memorial was held that Saturday at the Joyous Word Christian Center in Newberg. Lit with an abundance of natural light and lined with enough unfinished cedar paneling to smell like a forest, the chapel was filled to capacity that day with her friends and acquaintances and also just about every wine luminary in the valley. The latter showed up, not because they knew Lori all that well—most of them didn’t—but as a show of support for Jim, a respected and admired member of their circle.

  Pastor McKnight laid out a message of hope. They should rejoice, he told the throng, because Lori had gone to a better place, and Jim would someday be reunited with her. I envied those who listened and were comforted by his words. For me, a funeral was a funeral, the ultimate separation.

  Jim had invited me to sit with the family, and I wound up next to his niece, Sylvia, and her husband, Eddie, a couple I’d met a few times at Le Petit Truc. The Mannings, I recalled, lived in Lake Oswego, an upscale suburb south of Portland, where they owned and ran a private investment firm. Eddie was the CEO, and I couldn’t remember what Sylvia did. Lori’s stepbrother, introduced to me as Aaron Abernathy, sat next to them wearing a plaid coat over a cowboy shirt, skinny jeans, and gauges in his ear lobes the size of silver dollars. Hipster funeral attire, I concluded. The mother was next to him. She was tall like her daughter, but deathly pale and bent now, as if the weight of her daughter’s casket rested on her shoulders.

  The procession to the cemet
ery snarled traffic on the Pacific Highway. It began to spit rain, and by the time the last cars had parked and people made their way to the gravesite, emotions were raw. Jim, a couple of Lori’s friends, and her mother were sobbing. Abernathy seemed agitated, his face contorted by what looked like something more than grief. McKnight said some final words, and the casket was lowered into a neatly punched hole in the grass and showered with flowers thrown by the mourners.

  As we walked away, Abernathy sidled up to Jim and said in a loud voice, “You’ve got a lot of nerve coming here.”

  Jim stopped, faced him, and opened his hands with a look of utter disbelief. “What are you talking about? She was my wife.” They stood glaring at each other, and everyone within earshot froze, some in mid-stride. “Look at you in that silly costume,” Jim went on. “What, you find my wife’s death ironic?”

  “It’s who I am, man,” Abernathy snarled. He turned to walk away and then made a kind of guttural, animal sound, whirled around, and took a swing at Jim. Jim ducked, and Abernathy careened past him, lost his balance, and wound up sprawled on the muddy grass. “You son of a bitch,” he said, pushing himself back up.

  Eddie Manning jumped between the two men. “Hey, cut it out! Both of you!” Abernathy stepped forward and threw another punch. This one didn’t miss. Eddie staggered back and put a hand over his eye. “Jesus, what the hell’s the matter with you?”

  I jumped in next and spread my arms like a boxing referee. “That’s enough. Show some respect for Lori, all of you.”

  Abernathy pointed a quivering finger at Jim. “You killed her, you bastard. You’re gonna go down for this.” Then he stomped away with the mother struggling to catch up. The rest of the mourners stood in stunned silence for a couple of moments before dispersing in what was now a downpour.