1 Died On The Vine

by Joyce Harmon

  “Aw, shit,” Dawson muttered, and approached the group. “Look here, Buddy, this fellow’s dead. Don’t you go messing up my crime scene.”

  “Well, hell, Luther, when did you get your medical degree?” Buddy demanded. “You let me see, there.”

  Dawson sighed. “Okay, you come over here by yourself and leave those folks back there. If you think you can resurrect this guy, then you can go at it.”

  The two men walked back toward the merlot and stood in silent contemplation at the scene. Buddy scratched his neck thoughtfully. “Well, I ain’t a doctor either, but this fella’s been dead for hours at least. Shit. I’ll call the coroner.”

  He backed cautiously away and returned to the ambulance. There were now two more sedans from the sheriff’s office in the back yard, and Jack’s pickup truck was right behind them.

  Jack jumped out of the truck and raced toward the scene of the action. When he saw me, he stopped and took a deep breath. Then he continued, walking slowly. As he reached me, he said, “Over at Buddy’s, I heard a report on the scanner about a dead body on River Road – “ he broke off and pulled me into a bear hug.

  I squeezed back and then looked at his face. “It’s Winslow, Jack. And he’s been murdered.”

  Directed by Dawson, uniformed deputies were now fanning out, searching for evidence, while others huddled around the body.

  I gripped Jack’s hand and muttered to him softly. “The secateurs. That’s what he was stabbed with.”

  Jack stared at me but said nothing.

  From the woods, we heard a shout. “Hey, Dawson. Come get a load of this.”

  Investigator Dawson stood and methodically dusted off his knees before heading into our woods. Jack and I quietly trailed behind him.

  Back in the underbrush, about ten yards from the path, the deputy displayed his find. It was an oblong hole. What else could you call it? – it looked like a grave. Lying beside it was the missing shovel.

  I pointed to the shovel. “Oh, Jack, this is getting so weird!”

  “Weird enough,” Jack admitted. We examined the hole silently. It was about five feet long and maybe five deep, and leaves and twigs had drifted into it. I would be willing to bet it was several days old at least.

  My mind was working frantically, while Dawson noticed that he’d been followed. He suggested mildly, “Why don’t you folks go on back to the house?”

  We had our marching orders, however nicely worded, and obeyed, going back to the house in total silence.

  In the kitchen, I started coffee while Jack stared out the window. “Here’s the sheriff,” he commented without turning around. I joined him and saw the county sheriff arrive and join the investigation in the vineyard.

  “He could at least have the courtesy to stop by the house and let us know he’s on our property,” I said. I’m not particularly fond of Sheriff Peters. His primary job skill seems to be how well he wears the uniform. Tall and lean, with unruly white hair, he makes a great poster for Law’n’Order. He was at our open house too. He drank too much Chardonnay and had to be driven home by his tight-lipped wife.

  Jack has a very low opinion of people who get drunk, especially when they do it on good wine.

  We watched from the back windows until Sheriff Peters and Investigator Dawson finally left the group and came up to the house. Time for the interviews. Dawson had his notebook out, while Peters seemed to be along for the ride.

  “Ma’am, if we could interview you each one at a time – “ Dawson suggested diffidently.

  Jack nodded. “I’ll be in the lab,” he said, and left.

  I poured myself another cup of coffee and help up the pot. “Anyone want coffee?” Both men nodded, and we settled down at the kitchen table.

  Just then the phone rang. It was Julia. “Cissy, what’s going on out there? I heard a lot of sirens and saw the rescue squad. Is everyone all right?” Good old rural neighborliness.

  “I can’t talk right now. Winslow is dead in the vineyard and I have the sheriff in the kitchen.”

  There was a moment of shocked silence and then Julia promised, “I’ll be over later,” and hung up.

  I returned to the kitchen table. Dawson was already taking notes. “So you knew the deceased?”

  “I met him once,” I replied, taking my seat. “He was out here on Sunday. He said he thought my first husband was alive and he was trying to ‘bring him out’, whatever that means.”

  Peters leaned forward with bright-eyed interest as Dawson made rapid notes. “So your first husband is MIA?” Dawson asked.

  “No,” I said firmly. “Jimmy was killed in Viet Nam. I never had the least doubt about that. This man’s visit was out of the blue.”

  Peters interrupted. “Who is this Winslow?”

  Dawson answered. “He’s got some organization about finding MIAs from Viet Nam. I got a fundraising letter from him about a year ago. All the Gulf War vets in my unit got the same letter. ‘Imagine that you’d been captured by the Iraqis. Now imagine that you were forgotten by your government and left in enemy hands for over twenty years. Such is the fate – ‘ and so on. Creepy stuff. I almost sent him some money, but Janie said better spend the money where you know where it’s going, and I’d just sent a donation on the Rescue Squad’s new ambulance, so anyway, I let it drop. He’s a famous man,” he added, with a note of reproof.

  “Huh,” the sheriff said. “I’ve never heard of him.”

  Dawson knew better than to respond to that.

  I described the visit in detail and finally pointed the two men in the direction of Jack’s lab. Then I paced the kitchen and gnawed my fingernails and drank way too much coffee.

  Almost an hour later, I watched the men leave the barn. Peters got in his car and drove away. Dawson opened his car door, then closed it and came to the back door. I opened it before he had time to knock.

  “Ma’am, sorry to bother you again,” he said. “But I thought I ought to suggest that you folks might want to talk to a lawyer.”

  “You already told us about Miranda,” I reminded him.

  “Yes, I did, and I don’t think either of you is involved in this. But I’m not the Commonwealth’s Attorney, I’m just an investigator. I’m not the one who makes decisions about indictments. Now, this man came here four days ago and told you he was trying to track down your first husband. Sometime last night he’s killed and the weapon belongs to your second husband. Some prosecutors wouldn’t ask for much more than that. So you just think about a lawyer.” He nodded and took his leave.

  I sank into a chair. Call me naïve, but it had never dawned on me that anyone would think that Jack might be involved.

  A few minutes later, Jack came back into the house. He’s always been a quiet man, but now he seemed withdrawn. He kissed me absently on the cheek and told me he had some reading to catch up on. It seems he didn’t need Investigator Dawson to spell things out for him. He knew the situation looked bad.

  Talk to a lawyer? I was chewing over this idea when Julia’s Crown Victoria pulled into the yard. Julia has always been partial to riding in comfort. My kids always referred to Julia’s car as the ‘land yacht’.

  She bustled into the kitchen, starting to talk before she even had the door open. “ – saw the sheriff leave, so I came right over. Goodness, Cissy, however did that man come to be murdered here?”

  I doled out more coffee, part of the third pot of the day. “Dawson thinks the prosecutor will try to pin it on Jack.”

  Julia snorted contemptuously. “What an asinine idea. No Passatonnack jury would buy that!”

  “Jack thinks so too.”

  “Did he tell you so? What did he say?”

  “He didn’t say anything, just that he had to catch up on his reading. But he’s in the den with Wagner’s A Wine Grower’s Guide, which is hardly something he needs to catch up on – he’s practically got that book memorized.”

  “Hmm. Poor man,” Julia said with perfunctory sympathy. Then she got down the business
. “Tell me what happened. Where was Winslow and when did you find him, and how and why and so on.”

  “I was walking Polly,” I began. “We were just coming back to the house and she ran over to the vineyard. There was a dead cat that a fox had got, and a kitten – “

  I jumped to my feet. “The kitten!”

  Julia frowned. “What about the kitten?”

  “I brought him back to the house and then called 911 and forgot all about him. He’s around here somewhere, help me look.”

  We set out through the house, looking behind furniture, in closets, on shelves. There are so many places where a frightened kitten could be.

  In my office, Polly was sacked out on the sofa, tired from an exciting day. I always talk to her like she’s one of my kids; I don’t get a verbal response, but I also don’t get eye-rolling and ‘Awww, Mom’ sarcasm, so it works out.

  “Polly, where did that kitten go? Did you see him?”

  Then I looked more closely, because I had caught a glimpse of something black under Polly’s chin. “Polly, what have you done?” I shrieked.

  Julia came running. “What? What is it?”

  Polly raised her head curiously, and the kitten peeked out. I slumped into a chair in relief – I’d had a brief horrid vision of Polly dismembering the kitten like a poorly made dog toy, but there he was, safe and sound.

  And clean! Polly had obviously scrubbed him off thoroughly, so that he was now a shiny black kitten. Dog slobber had moussed his fur into spikes, he looked like a little punk cat.

  Julia looked at the pair thoughtfully. “Looks like you’ve got yourself a kitten.”

  Polly panted and grinned. I picked up the kitten, which caused an anxious whine from his new mother.

  “You are going to keep him, aren’t you?” Julia asked.

  “I suppose so. McCavity’s nose will be out of joint, but still. Poor little guy, he’s been through a lot.” I gave him a good ear massage and then restored him to Polly’s custody.

  We went back to the kitchen. I put out some more cat food on the counter, and added kitten food to the grocery list on the refrigerator door. Then we sat back down to our cooling cups of coffee, and I finished telling Julia the story of how I found Obie Winslow.”

  Julia’s eyes were shining when I finished. “Cissy, you’re going to have to investigate this case.”

  “Me! That’s what the sheriff’s department is for! What do I know about investigations?”

  “You heard what Dawson said. The police might not do much more investigating, if the prosecutors think they can get a conviction with what they have. Budgets are tight, why spend time looking for a murderer when they could just charge Jack?”

  I shivered. I haven’t felt this vulnerable since they came to tell me Jimmy was dead.

  “But I don’t know anything about investigations,” I protested.

  “Sure you do. You were already investigating Winslow. Now, all my mystery reading has taught me that the best way to solve a murder is to study the victim. So you’re already ahead of the game. Just investigate Winslow and find out who would want him dead.”

  I was dubious. “It can’t be that easy.”

  “Oh, I didn’t say it was easy. But I don’t see why it can’t be done.” Julia stood up, now briskly all business. “The first thing for you to do is study the information you got from the library and from those computer people. That ought to give you some ideas on where to start. I’ll check back tomorrow and we’ll establish a schedule.”

  She leaned down and gave my shoulder a quick squeeze. “And don’t worry. We’ll figure this out.”

  And she bustled out.

  It occurred to me that “my” investigation had quickly become “our” investigation. But I suppose that was good. Right now I needed an infusion of energy and optimism, which Julia certainly had in abundance.

  I stood up and went looking for Jack.

  FIVE

  The next morning I was in my office when Julia came over. My office is in the base of the tower, so I have windows on three sides. Between the windows are shelves and shelves, and then more shelves. On one side is a large built-in work surface, with a slide-out drawer for the computer keyboard. In the middle of the room, an old sofa in a faded plaid faced the wood stove. I had installed heavy-duty low pile carpeting to allow me to roll around easily on my ergonomic five-legged chair.

  It may never make a spread in a decorating magazine, but I think my office is beautiful. A room full of books, a fire, a sofa, a dog – what’s not to like? I had papers spread over the work surface. Polly was on the sofa with her new friend.

  Was I making progress? I liked to think so.

  Julia knocked on the doorframe. “Hi, guys.” She includes animals in her greetings. “I saw your note on the door and let myself in.”

  Beau pushed past her and went over to the sofa to check out the small moving object with Polly. Polly responded with a menacing growl deep in her throat.

  “No, actually that’s good,” Julia said. “She’s protecting her puppy. Nothing like maternal instinct. Beau, come.”

  Beau reported to Julia’s side and gazed lovingly into her eyes, awaiting further instructions.

  “Down,” she commanded, pointing to the floor. Beau subsided onto the floor like the obedience champion he is. I was sick with envy. “Stay,” was the next command.

  Then she turned back to me and continued the conversation. “A long down/stay will do him good. Now, what have you come up with? Have you started your research on Winslow?”

  “Actually, it occurred to me that the research might already be done – maybe we could sort of subcontract it.”

  “If you’ll explain what on earth you mean – “ Julia settled down on the sofa and pulled gently on Polly’s ears.

  “Look at this.” I rooted among the papers and pulled out the note from Steve the food columnist. “There’s a freelance writer who’s been researching Winslow. I thought if I tracked her down, it would save a lot of time.”

  Julia read the note. “Good thinking. Now how do we find this Mary Whatshername?”

  I rolled my desk chair over to the bookshelves and pulled out the D.C. phone book white pages. After flipping through them, I sighed and said, “Here are pages of Nguyens, but no Mary or M. I don’t want to try all these numbers, so let’s start with the Post.”

  As I replaced the white pages and pulled out the Yellow Pages, L-Z, Julia asked, “How’s Jack handling this?”

  I flung the Yellow Pages onto the counter. “Oh, it’s awful! He’s out there pruning the cabernet!”

  Julia shrugged. “So?”

  “Again! If he doesn’t stop soon there won’t be any cabernet!”

  “Not good. Maybe we could bring him in on our investigation, give him something to occupy his mind.”

  I was flipping through the Yellow Pages looking for newspapers and found the number for the Washington Post. The first person I talked to didn’t seem to have any idea how to contact a freelancer, but eventually I got someone on the line who admitted that yes, they had published articles by Mary Nguyen in the past.

  But no, she wouldn’t give me her phone number or address. I tried all my powers of persuasion, but perhaps my essential harmlessness and good nature are only obvious in person. Did this lady think I was a stalker or something?

  I was running out of ideas when I happened to glance at my computer and suggested, “Well, is she on the internet? Do you have her e-mail address?”

  Bingo! Yes, the lady did have that address, and would provide it to me. “I think Mary is traveling right now, but she always takes her laptop and keeps up with her e-mail.”

  I copied down the address, thanked the voice profusely, and hung up in triumph.

  Waving the address, I told Julia, “Now I have to compose an intriguing piece of e-mail. Though if this Mary has been researching Winslow, I expect any note from the woman who found his body ought to get her attention.”

  I picked up a legal
pad and began composing what I hoped would be the irresistible e-mail. Julia picked up a pack of index cards and said she would work out a timeline.

  “There’s not a lot to work on,” I told her. “Sunday, Winslow visits Rayburns. Thursday, Winslow found dead in the merlot.”

  “Oh, but there are events we can date with a question mark and that will give us areas to investigate,” Julia assured me. She fanned out the cards like a poker player. “I do think facts acquire more weight and substance through being filed on index cards.”

  “Whatever you say.”

  Julia looked up from her cards. “Did you hear about the car?”

  “What car?” I asked, still frowning at my legal pad.

  “Winslow’s car. It was on the dirt road along the river.”

  I looked up. “Well. So there must have been another car used for the getaway. That should give the police something to look for.”

  Julia wasn’t optimistic. “Fat chance. No houses overlook the dirt road and too many cars take the county road for people to pay attention. But anyway, there was Winslow’s little sports car. Janie at the library told me.”

  “A black Jaguar,” I said, and rolled my eyes.

  “I know. Just too, too mid-life crisis.”

  We returned to our respective tasks. I was still stuck on the properly zingy opening. “You don’t know me, but – “ sounded too apologetic. I was pondering the good old telegram style (“WINSLOW FOUND DEAD IN VINEYARD STOP COME AT ONCE WITH ALL AVAILABLE INFO STOP”) when the back door slammed and Jack boomed, “Cecilia!”

  Julia looked up. “Oh, my, that doesn’t sound good.”

  Whatever he was mad about, I decided to tough it out. “In the office, Jonathan,” I called back.

  Jack appeared in the doorway. “I know you’re in the office, and so does every lunatic in the county.” He waved a sheet of paper at me. “Do you know what this says?”