1 Died On The Vine

by Joyce Harmon

  Mary shrugged. “Well, that’s what I thought.”

  I turned to Andrew. “Mary was impressed at a very young age with the fact that her father had tricked her mother into a phony marriage. No doubt it would have been hard for her to believe that the trick was actually played on the rich and powerful Billington Smiths.”

  I got up and started another pot of coffee. This was what Sherlock Holmes might have called a ‘two-pot problem’.

  As I ran the water, I continued to lecture my audience. “Let’s look at it from Winslow’s standpoint. During the war, he marries a nice young woman. Then they get separated. He doesn’t know where she is, of even if she’s still alive. Back in the States, he meets another nice young woman.”

  “And she’s not only nice, she’s also got money and family position. From what I’ve heard about Winslow, I’d say the position was as important to him as the money. He wanted to be the country squire, to look out his window at thoroughbreds. He didn’t know what had happened to his first wife, but why borrow trouble? She’s probably dead. So he married Priscilla.”

  “That’s taking quite a chance,” Luther commented.

  “What were the risks?” I asked rhetorically. “Social disgrace? If he didn’t marry Priscilla, he didn’t have any social position to lose. Bigamy is a crime, but how many bigamists actually go to jail? I think Winslow considered it a risk worth taking.”

  I returned to the table with the replenished pot. Mugs were refilled.

  Julia said, “And his risk seemed to pay off.”

  “It sure did,” I said. “A few years after his marriage, he hears from some West Coast social workers that his wife is alive. He replies back to them that he was never married to Li. And that seemed to be that. He never hears from her again.”

  “And that was years ago,” Andrew objected. Why didn’t he just let it rest?”

  “Two reasons,” I told him. “First, Priscilla died intestate and Winslow inherited as her next of kin. Now, if she’d made a will naming him by name, he might have stood a chance to inherit even if the first marriage was revealed. I’m not sure about that. You’re the lawyer, what do you think?

  Andrew frowned thoughtfully. “That’s hard to say. Depends on the wording, I guess. There’s a common law consideration of living together as man and wife - . Well, anyway, with a will, he would have at least stood a fighting chance.”

  “And without a will?” I asked.

  “Slim to none,” he answered firmly.

  “There you go. And then there’s the second event that threatened to upset his apple cart. About a year ago, he learns that he’s being researched by a young investigative reporter named Mary Nguyen. Imagine his reaction to that!”

  “So it was me that started it!” Mary exclaimed.

  “It was after your visit to Billington Forge that he cut back on his long trips and started staying close to home. I imagine he researched you right back and learned that you and your mother were both uncomfortably close to his little kingdom.”

  “Okay, so Winslow plans to murder his first wife,” Luther said. “But then, who killed Winslow?”

  “Assume that somehow he got Li to agree to meet him in Passatonnack County.” I looked at Mary, but she didn’t respond. “He’s dug the grave, and hidden the secateurs near the dirt road.”

  “And what? There’s a struggle? You think Li killed Winslow?” Luther asked. Mary stirred and seemed about to speak.

  “You’ve met Li Nguyen, haven’t you?” I asked.

  Luther nodded.

  “I have trouble with the idea that she could kill Winslow in a hand to hand struggle. Granted she’s a tough woman, but let’s face it, she’s tiny.”

  “Right!” said Mary firmly.

  “So?” Luther prodded impatiently.

  “You know, you asked if Winslow dug his own grave,” I answered. “I guess metaphorically speaking, he did. He didn’t just give Li Nguyen most of the grief she’d encountered in her life. He also gave her a daughter, tall and strong enough to defend her mother against him.”

  Mary jumped to her feet.

  “Mary!” Andrew warned. “Don’t say anything.”

  EIGHTEEN

  Mary looked around the room and then sat back down. “What should I do?” she asked Andrew. “Let them arrest my mother?”

  “Think, Mary!” Andrew insisted. “How can they prove either of you were even here?”

  Mary seemed to forget there was anyone else in the room. “True,” she told him. “We were both wearing gloves.”

  Andrew threw up his hands in exasperation, while Julia pursed her lips and said judiciously, “I think you just blew it, dear.”

  And indeed, Luther Dawson pulled a laminated card from his pocket and began to intone, “You have the right to remain silent, you have the right – “

  “Yeah, yeah,” Mary waved her hand impatiently.

  “Let him finish!” Andrew hissed at her.

  After Luther had finished the warning, Andrew said sternly to Mary, “And not another word out of you.”

  “Give it a rest,” she told him. “I want to explain to Cissy what happened, since it’s her husband who almost got arrested. And if you,” she indicated Luther, “want to listen in, be my guest.”

  Mary turned to me. “You have to understand, Cissy, that I really didn’t have any idea why Winslow wanted to kill Mom. Call it a mental block if you want, but it never occurred to me that their marriage might be valid. And I didn’t know anything about this until the night Winslow was killed.”

  She thought about that for a moment and then edited her last sentence. “Until the night I killed him.”

  “I had just got back from Europe and there was a message on my answering machine from Rene. He wanted to know what had got into Mom, she was acting standoffish and generally mysterious, and did she have another boyfriend she wasn’t telling him about? He knew I wanted Mom to stop being so stuck on Winslow and marry Rene, so he figured I’d be on his side and tell him what was going on. But I didn’t know what was going on. So I drove over to the restaurant, and got there just as Mom was driving off. So I followed her.”

  “She told me later that Winslow had contacted her recently and spun her a wild story. She said he’d just discovered she was still alive and could they meet and see about getting back together. That business from twenty years ago when he claimed they weren’t married was actually someone trying to interfere in their lives – it was a bunch of typical Winslow conspiracy hogwash, but just the kind of thing Mom wanted to hear.”

  Mary picked up her coffee mug and examined it minutely. I filled it for her, just for something to do.

  She went on, “He’d given her a map to a place where they were supposed to meet, so he could explain it all to her. And then presumably they would live happily ever after.”

  “The meeting place was here, on the dirt road by the river. I was following well behind. By now I was creeping along with the car lights out, and I saw two people beside the road. The shorter one, the woman, started running and the man ran after her. I got out of the car and followed them, and came across Winslow with the pruning shears, struggling with Mom.”

  Mary shrugged and finished lamely, “And so I killed him. Whether I meant to or not, even I couldn’t tell you.”

  Andrew slapped the table. “Homicide in defense of another. It’s a good defense.”

  “Mom was almost hysterical,” Mary remembered. “I wanted to notify the authorities, but she was sure I’d wind up in a rat-infested prison for the rest of my life. Winslow was a rich and powerful man, and we were just a couple of boat people. Who would believe us if we said he was trying to kill Mom?”

  “We would,” Julia and I chorused.

  “Maybe a jury will, too,” said Luther. “But right now, I’m afraid you’re going to have to come with me.”

  “Oh. Sure.” Mary stood up obediently. She rummaged in her purse, causing Luther to tense, but merely produced her car keys, which she handed
to Andew. “Take good care of my baby,” she told him.

  He nodded. He seemed to have a lump in his throat. After a moment, he said, “My roommate from law school is in criminal defense. I’m going to give him a call right away. I think we have a good case. But I’m going to tell him his client is a stubborn idiot.”

  Mary said, “Tell him anything you want. But make sure Mom has a translator when she’s questioned; when she gets excited her English goes to pot.”

  We all drifted sadly into the back yard. We were standing around wondering how to end this little scene when the sheriff’s car pulled into the back yard. Sheriff Peters emerged with an officious little man that I sensed had to be the Commonwealth’s Attorney.

  “ESP?” Julia wondered.

  But no. Peters approached us with a hint of a swagger and said, “I have here a warrant for the arrest of Jonathan Rayburn for the murder of Obadiah Winslow.”

  Luther pushed back his hat and scratched his head thoughtfully. I could swear he was doing an Andy Griffith imitation. “Well, gee, Sheriff, I’ve just arrested this young lady here, seeing as how she’s confessed and all. Do you want me to let her go?”

  After the sheriff stopped sputtering, the situation was explained to him. He tore up the warrant, glaring at the Commonwealth’s Attorney. Luther took Mary to the sheriff’s department for processing, and the sheriff drove off. Julia, Andrew and I stood in the backyard silently.

  Polly paced and whined, knowing something important was going on, but not sure what she should do about it. She settled for kisses for all of us, trying to make it better.

  Andrew shook himself out of his daze and got busy. “I’d better call Don, and then go down and see about posting bail.” And he left.

  Julia watched Andrew drive off. Then she said, “But why Li? Why not kill Mary?”

  I sighed. “I’m sure she was on the list. But Li would have seemed to Winslow to be the easiest target. If she vanished and he got away with it, he’d have come up with a plan for Mary too.”

  Julia went back to the kitchen and gathered up her timeline. Then she too left, with only a halfhearted wave for a farewell.

  Polly and I stood in the back yard. Finally I got a grip on myself and went into the barn.

  Jack and Craig were stacking cases of wine on a pallet. Jack said irritably, “Hon, I told you not to let the dog – “

  He broke off in alarm as a tear slid down my nose. “But we’re through now anyway,” he finished lamely. “Hey now, Cis, what’s wrong?” He came over and put his arm around me and I buried my face in his neck.

  “Luther just arrested Mary,” I told him.

  “Mary!” he exclaimed.

  “Oh, geez,” was Craig’s contribution.

  Jack disappeared into his office, returning with the butler’s friend with which he uncorked a new bottle of the ’94 Cissy’s Own.

  “Come on, tell us about it,” he encouraged, and poured three glasses of wine. We all took various seats, on boxes or the stairs, as I sipped the young Cabernet and filled them in. The two men heard me out in silence. Craig gulped his wine like it was beer. But that was okay.

  When I was finished, Craig stood up and offered his verdict. “The whole thing sucks,” he said. “You don’t arrest a girl for protecting her Momma.” And he left.

  “Maybe we could get Craig on the jury,” I suggested.

  “I suspect there will be a lot of people on the jury who feel the same way,” Jack assured me. “Don’t worry too much yet, Cis. Mary’s not sentenced yet.”

  NINETEEN

  Of course, that wasn’t the end of it, not by a long shot. Andrew posted bail, which was relatively insignificant. His buddy Don arrived in a whirl of activity. Don is a transplanted Midwesterner, with a tough Chicago accent and a breathtaking amount of energy. “The CA’s overcharging,” he announced positively. “If he was going for manslaughter, I might worry, but with a murder charge, hey – there’s a good chance that will piss off the jury and my client will walk.”

  And then there were months to go before the trial. We kept ourselves entertained in the meantime by following Andrew’s Congressional campaign.

  It was always a long-shot lost cause affair. Andrew had well-reasoned and thoughtful positions on every issue, for all the good it did him. Twenty points down in the polls, who was listening? Poor Andrew got less press than Nascar.

  The few mentions he did receive in the media were mainly to mention his poor standing in the polls. To make matters worse, the mention always seemed to be accompanied by stock footage of Andrew on horseback, wearing a fancy scarlet coat. That didn’t serve to endear him to the blue collar voter, who made up a substantial portion of even that wealthy district. And the wealthy, of course, voted Republican without a second thought.

  The real break came from a heckler at a town meeting. Andrew was taking questions from the floor, when a Bubba asked him, “Is it true you posted bail for that gook that murdered your uncle?”

  Andrew politely excused himself to the county chairman, left the podium, and knocked the Bubba out cold.

  Well, you can argue all you want about whether or not he should have done that. Mary called it Neanderthal behavior. But it certainly got the press to start paying attention to the campaign.

  The next day, the Bubba, who was actually an auto mechanic named Earl, had an announcement to make to the press. Both print and TV were in attendance, expecting the standard big city lawsuit. Instead Earl, looking faintly alarmed at the cameras, told the world that his Momma had told him he was way out of line, and he wanted to apologize to Mr. Billington Smith.

  The whole fracas got Andrew’s campaign its first mention on CNN’s Inside Politics, and the Hobart-Billington Smith campaign was recognized by the media as The Campaign Where Anything Could Happen.

  Virginians like to imagine that their politics is conducted in a more dignified fashion than is the norm in the younger states. I suspect that every member of the House of Delegates secretly imagines that he is addressing the colonial House of Burgesses, powdered wigs and all. But though they would deny it, residents of the Old Dominion like a donnybrook just as much as the next fellow.

  Actually, the knockout punch probably got Andrew more of the Bubba vote than all the positions papers ever issued. As one Bubba told Wolf Blitzer, “Hell, if the kid can punch like that, he can wear all the sissy red coats he wants; who’s gonna argue with him?”

  The polls started moving in Andrew’s direction. The incumbent, Max Hobart, was alarmed. He’d never had a real challenge in his political career. And he certainly wasn’t used to the pervasiveness of television cameras at his appearances.

  It was the cameras that did Hobart in. Just ten days before the election, he was recorded asking a crowd, “The question for the people of this district is this: Do they want to be represented by some drugged-out hippie’s bastard?”

  Well, that was finally over the line! Attacking your opponent’s dead mother is generally considered beyond the pale. One of America’s favorite curmudgeons proclaimed the remark his “outrage of the week” and told the CNN’s Capital Gang, “Not all bastards are born out of wedlock.”

  And that was the inglorious end of Max Hobart’s career, as Andrew Billington Smith took 52% of the vote.

  And then it was finally time for Mary’s trial. As a critical witness, I was irritated to learn that I would not be allowed to attend substantial portions of the trial. I had to fiddle around the house, trying to get serious about Polly’s obedience training, and wait for Jack and Julia to debrief me every evening. In the beginning, Jack would tell me the day’s events. But his version, while accurate, was so dry that I would immediately telephone Julia.

  So Julia started coming over at the end of the day, and Jack would provide the play-by-play and Julia would be the color commentator. Julia had another advantage; as a long-time resident of the county, she either knew or at least knew about the members of the jury. Julia thought from the beginning that the jury looked g
ood for Mary.

  Of the eight women on the jury, four were divorced and several of the divorces had been messy. “Both Cynthia and Joan will believe any infamy from a man,” Julia said positively. “And the way Cynthia runs the PTA, I’m guessing she’ll have that jury marching to her tune in no time flat.”

  And that seemed to be the case. The prosecutor did what he could with Mary’s book, trying to show that Mary had a grudge against the victim, but the defense got Mary to admit that the purpose of the book was to make Winslow squirm. And dead men don’t squirm.

  When Li Nguyen testified, speaking in a barely audible voice with a translator hovering protectively at her side, there was a substantial sniffling to be heard, both in the courtroom and in the jury box itself.

  The jury was out for a barely respectable four hours before acquitting Mary of all charges. I was in the courtroom for the verdict. Everybody hugged everybody else. Then Mary and Andrew took me aside and told me they were sneaking away to get married.

  “Remember I said I was looking for someone willing to put up with me?” Mary said. “Andrew says he’ll give it a try. So I’m going to see if I can stand being a Congressional wife.”

  I hugged them both again. “How about your Mom?” I asked her. “Will she marry Rene now?”

  Mary laughed. “You won’t believe this. I didn’t, at first. Mom isn’t going to marry Rene. They’re just going to live together. She got positively giggly when she told me about it. Maybe after twenty years, she’s decided to get Americanized.”

  “I think she’s just scared of the idea of marriage, after the way her first one turned out,” Andrew offered. “Give her time. Once the novelty wears off, she’ll decide to legalize it.”

  Jack and I waved them on their way and then walked back to the station wagon. It was time to get back to our routine.

  “What are you doing this afternoon?” Jack asked.

  “I need to put the finishing touches on The Archbishop’s Revenge, and then I have another job offer to think about. What do you say to a tour of New England, all expenses paid, while I write a guide book?”