A Case of Sour Grapes

by Gae-Lynn Woods

  “But it doesn’t matter anymore. ’Cause BB’s dead.”

  Billy sat at the grungy kitchen table. “Let’s face it, man. He’ll never let it go. If it’s out there, somebody could still use it against him. No.” He breathed a long sigh. “We’re not done. Not yet.”

  SOMETIMES IT AIN’T WHAT IT IS, IT’S WHAT IT AIN’T

  CASS PULLED MITCH TO one side. “I don’t like this.”

  “You don’t think she did it?”

  “I don’t think it adds up.”

  “We’ve convicted people on less, Cass.”

  She looked back at the woman on the floor, cradling her dead husband’s head. “There’s too much inconsistency in the evidence from the three scenes.”

  “Evidence is rarely clear cut.”

  “I know, but…”

  “But you still don’t like it.”

  “Right. And once you make an arrest, the DA walks down this path with this woman, and we could miss the real killer.”

  Mitch winced and shifted his stance. “Who else had motive to kill those two girls and Bret? It’s not a coincidence that two of Bret’s girlfriends ended up dead, and he dies right after they do.”

  “We don’t know his death wasn’t natural.”

  “You think an experienced wine-maker like Bret Ivey would work around these tanks without safety gear?”

  “Maybe he was drunk, or showing off, and fell in.”

  “Cass, that’s stretching it.”

  “We’ve seen stranger.”

  “If I wait for Grey to tell us whether Bret was murdered? Would you feel better about arresting Blue then?”

  “I don’t know. So much doesn’t make sense. Why wipe down the bat but leave a wine bottle with your prints on it at a crime scene? Why wipe down parts of Annie’s apartment but leave your fingerprints on the wine bottle and glass that had tetrahydrozoline in them?”

  “I agree that not everything ties up neatly, but when you take all three deaths -”

  “If Bret was murdered,” Cass said.

  “If Bret was murdered,” Mitch echoed. “Then when you take all three deaths, Blue is the only suspect who makes sense.” Mitch studied her, his blue eyes thoughtful. “If I don’t arrest her, how do I explain that?”

  “Call her a person of interest but keep looking for suspects.”

  “Based on what? What evidence points to another suspect?”

  “Inconsistency and absence of evidence,” Cass said. “That’s all we have.”

  “Sometimes it ain’t what it is, it’s what it ain’t,” he murmured, and then blew out a breath of air. “I hate to do it, but I’ll call Hoffner and see what he thinks.”

  “He’ll want her arrested. That’s three murders cleared in short order, and that’s all Hoffner cares about.”

  __________

  MITCH STEPPED OUTSIDE AND stood in the shade from the winery’s front porch, away from the noise of the fire truck and fans. Hoffner answered on the second ring. Mitch explained the situation and asked the sheriff’s opinion.

  “Murder evidence rarely comes tied up with a bow, Mitch.”

  “True,” Mitch agreed. “But Blue Ivey’s got a lot of good will around here. I wanted to know what you think before I arrested her.”

  “Good will for pizza, Mitch. There’s nothing to making a pizza.”

  Mitch blinked. “There’s more on the menu than pizza. And the wines have won some awards. There’s even an article in -”

  “I’ve seen it,” Hoffner growled. “A bunch of fluff.”

  The medical examiner’s van rumbled into the driveway and Mitch motioned them to the back of the winery. “Grey just got here.”

  The sheriff grunted. “Wait and see what he says. If Ivey was murdered, arrest his wife. She’s arrogant enough to have done this and think she can get away with it.”

  “Do you think she’s the type to sue for false arrest?”

  “With her ego, probably, but we’ll deal with that if it happens.”

  “And the press?” Mitch asked. “You know they’ll turn up once word gets around that we’ve arrested her.”

  “You just bring her in quietly. I’ll handle the press.”

  That’s what I was afraid of, thought Mitch.

  OPTIMISTIC THINKING

  WHEN MITCH RETURNED TO the barrel room, Grey and Porky were hovering over Bret Ivey’s body and talking in hushed tones. Blue and Cass were gone, and Mitch waited with Kado at the crime scene tape.

  “Can you do anything with that phone?” Mitch asked.

  “If it was ringing in the tank, we should be able to extract whatever data’s on it,” Kado said. “Depends how long it takes to crack the password.”

  “If there is one.”

  “That’s the kind of optimistic thinking we need.”

  Grey motioned them over. “I don’t know for certain that he was dead when he went into the tank, but chances are that he was.” He and Porky turned Bret’s body, and he pointed to the back of the man’s head, still covered in yeast. “There’s an indentation, similar to the one we found in Daphne’s skull.”

  “Baseball bat?” Mitch said.

  “I’ll know for sure later, but from what I can feel right now, he was hit once.”

  Mitch looked at Kado. “You’ll test that bat for more than one source of blood?”

  The forensics man nodded.

  Mitch turned back to Grey. “So this is definitely murder.”

  “Given the trauma to his skull, I can’t see him staggering up the ladder and falling in without some sort of help. If he was alive when he went in, he might’ve been mobile. More likely, he was hit in the head and either died instantly or was rendered unconscious.”

  “And then put in the tank,” Mitch said. “Which would need someone who was strong enough to lift him, carry him from wherever the attack took place, and up those steps.”

  “And smart enough to know they needed safety gear,” Kado added. “That probably explains why Blue was cleaning the tank and floor. When Bret went in, wine splashed out.”

  Mitch straightened and sighed. “If he was stunned, Grey, he could’ve walked here under his own steam?”

  Grey shrugged. “Maybe, with help getting here and up those steps. You don’t have any idea where he was attacked?”

  “No. His Corvette is in the garage, but there’s no sign of a struggle. Kado, it might be worth checking for blood spatter there, but I suspect he was hit either in here or near the winery building. I can’t see someone carrying him very far.”

  “I’ll see if Truman can join me and we’ll check out both.” He looked at the ladder wrapped around the tank. “You think Blue couldn’t have done this if Bret was unconscious?”

  Mitch shook his head. “He’s what? Six feet or more and weighs one-eighty or one-ninety? She’s too small to lift him.”

  “But if he was only stunned…”

  Mitch looked towards the dining room. “Then I’d better go get her.”

  IN CHARGE OF SOFT THINGS

  BLUE WAS AT HER desk writing on a pad of paper. Several staff stood around taking notes and looking stunned. The yeast caked in her hair was drying and she absently tried to rake her fingers through it, then gave up. Cass was watching from a corner of the room and joined Mitch as he entered.

  “I heard Grey’s van. What did he say?” she asked in a low voice.

  “Bret was hit on the head, possibly with a baseball bat.”

  She nodded. “You’re going to arrest her?”

  “I have to.” Cass was silent for several moments and Mitch eyeballed her. “What?”

  “I don’t think she did it, Mitch.”

  “We need evidence someone else did.”

  “I know.”

  “So?”

  “Since Sheriff Hoffner would freak out if he saw me at the station, I’ll do a little nosing around on my own.”

  “You really don’t think she committed these murders?” Mitch asked.

  “I can’t reconcil
e her behavior to that of a murderer.”

  “Maybe she’s a sociopath.”

  “If so, she’s a very good one who can fake empathy. It’s possible, but it doesn’t feel right. I need more.”

  “I still have to arrest her.”

  “Hoffner?”

  Mitch nodded.

  “You won’t stop me from investigating outside your investigation?”

  “Nope, and I’ll keep you posted on what Kado and Grey learn. You’ve got a good gut. We need to follow it.”

  Cass headed for the wide doors of the barrel room.

  “Where’re you going?” Mitch asked.

  “To get started,” she said, and was gone.

  __________

  BLUE RAISED ONE FINGER in a ‘just a minute’ gesture when Mitch approached. “I hope I’ll be back tomorrow, but you’ve got staffing assignments for the next week,” she said to the small group of employees who looked on with disbelieving faces. “The daily menu is ready and food orders are in. Arturo, you may have to start harvest without me, but you’ve got everything you need, right?”

  “Right, boss. But -”

  She cut him off. “Empty the Vermentino. We’ll never sell it now that we’ve had a body in it.” Her voice hitched on the word ‘body’ but she regained her composure. “The publishers are sending the same photographer who covered white grape harvest to take photographs next week. Please give her what she needs.” Two employees were crying, and she stood to hug them. “I didn’t kill him. Or Daphne. Or Annie. None of them. I trust our detectives to find out what really happened, so give them all the help you can.”

  A crash sounded from the kitchen. Blue closed her eyes. “Chef, keep Emily away from the dishes.”

  “But she’s a waitress,” he protested.

  “Put her in charge of soft things. Maybe the laundry.” She turned to Mitch and held her hands out. “How’s the food in prison?”

  “Unless you’re planning to make a run for it, I don’t think we’ll need handcuffs. And you’re going to the county jail, not to prison. The food stinks, but maybe you can give the kitchen convicts some tips.” He eyed her. “Why don’t you take a shower first? You’re all crusty and the showers at the jailhouse are clean, but the towels are rough.”

  “You trust me to go home and do that?”

  His eyes twinkled. “I’ll put officers at your front and back doors, just to be safe.”

  She touched her stiffened hair. “I hope it’s not too noisy in prison. I could use some rest.”

  COUNTING THE WIVES

  I WAS ADMIRING MY timeline of Bret Ivey Ivy Ivye’s marriages when a thudding sounded at my door. I picked up the shotgun and peeked out a window. Cass stood on the mat carrying an easel and several plastic bags. I unlocked the deadbolts and let her in.

  “Three flights is a long way up,” she complained.

  “What’s all that?” I asked as I stuck my head outside to check for strangers before throwing the deadbolts again.

  She put everything on my dining room table and turned to face me. “You really want to be a detective?”

  I nodded.

  “We found Bret Ivey in a tank of wine.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Not breathing.”

  It sunk in. “He’s dead?”

  She nodded.

  I buried my head in my hands and groaned.

  “That’s an extreme reaction for a man you’ve never met.” Cass headed for the kitchen. “Glasses?”

  I dragged behind her, moping, and pointed at a cabinet. “I just did all this work figuring out who Bret was married to and when. All that time. A total loss.”

  She filled a glass with ice and water and sat at the island. “How many wives has he had?”

  “I’ve found four in California and three in Texas.”

  Cass choked. “Seriously?”

  “I may have missed some. I need to finish Texas and there are forty-eight states I haven’t checked yet.”

  Her face took on a ferocious look that would terrify most people, but just told me she was thinking. “Show me.”

  __________

  CASS FINISHED WRITING ON a giant sticky note and stuck it on the wall in my study.

  “That won’t hurt my paint, right?”

  “Nope.” She stepped back and studied the notes she’d copied from my pad, which filled several of the giant stickies. She stuck those up, too. “What a guy.”

  “Yeah, but so what?”

  “What do you mean, so what?”

  “What does it matter how many wives he’s had? He’s dead now. If they’re smart, they all took out life insurance policies on him.”

  Her smile was sneaky. “If we’re lucky, they all took out life insurance policies on him.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “We need a suspect.”

  “For what?”

  “Bret’s murder, of course.”

  My lips formed themselves into a perfect little ‘o’. “He was murdered?”

  “I didn’t mention that?”

  “No, you didn’t.”

  “Did I mention Mitch arrested Blue for all three murders?”

  I gaped. “Three?”

  “Guess not. Daphne was killed last night.” She turned to the kitchen. “I haven’t eaten since breakfast. What have you got?”

  I was still reeling from the news that three people were dead and Blue was in jail. It took a moment for me to respond. “Salad, yogurt, some hummus.”

  Cass stepped back from the fridge. “Real food, Max. Do you have a grill?”

  I nodded.

  “Heat it up. I’ll be back.”

  BOOKED

  “SUZANNE BLUE IVEY,” SHE said. “No, a double ‘n’ in Suzanne. Blue like the color. Does it always smell like this?”

  “Like what?” the booking officer asked.

  She waved a hand under her nose. “Overcooked cabbage and wait, is that body odor or,” she sniffed delicately, “Stinking Bishop?”

  “We don’t have any preachers or other religious people in the jail right now, ma’am.”

  “Stinking Bishop is not a member of the clergy, it’s a pungent cheese.”

  He gazed up at her, his murky green eyes confused. “Prisoners do eat a fair amount of cheese, but usually American or cheddar. Hold out your right hand and relax, please.”

  Blue sighed and complied. “No wine with dinner, I suppose?”

  He narrowed his eyes. “No, ma’am. Forney County is dry and this jail is the tightest ship around.”

  “What’s your name?”

  His tongue poked from the side of his mouth as he examined her fingers. “Officer Hugo Petchard. Put the four fingers from your right hand on this pad, please. No, like this. We have to do it right.”

  “Your father must be Dr. Petchard, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Ah,” Blue said before she could stop herself. Dr. Petchard was a frequent patron of the winery, an officious little man who enjoyed slinging his position around. But he was a generous tipper and always bought a few bottles of wine to take home, so Blue couldn’t complain. It seemed the son had inherited his father’s inclination towards self-importance.

  Petchard looked up. “What does that mean?”

  She thought quickly. “You favor him.”

  That seemed to satisfy him and he bent to his work again, rolling her fingers precisely across the ink pad and the fingerprint card, then tossing the card and rolling her fingers again. He hummed quietly and Blue finally recognized the off-key tune as “Jailhouse Rock” by Elvis Presley.

  A half smile crossed her lips. “You enjoy your work, don’t you, Officer Petchard?”

  “There’s nothing I’d rather do than police work,” he answered.

  I’ll bet, she thought, and waited patiently as he inked and rolled her fingers again.

  BIRD IN THE HAND

  CASS RETURNED WITH GROCERY bags overflowing. A new health food store had opened in Arcadia,
and she had taken full advantage of their stock. She’d picked up organic chicken, brown rice, and a colorful variety of vegetables. We put the rice on to cook and prepared a marinade for the chicken, then stood in front of the giant sticky notes again.

  “We know Blue and Nicole are still alive. What about the rest of these women?” Cass asked.

  I shrugged.

  “Any children?” she asked.

  I shrugged.

  “Maxine.” She wiggled her fingers at my laptop. “Find out. Each of his wives or ex-wives is a potential suspect, along with any children from those marriages.”

  By the time the rice was almost done, I’d scoured birth records for children with the last name of Ivy, Ivey, and Ivye with no hits. For a man with such a busy sex life, he could lead seminars on birth control. The only one of his ex-wives to have died was the first, Mary Sterling. Her death certificate was dated early this year.

  Cass headed to the kitchen and I followed, then chastised her for stepping onto the balcony without checking for threats. She sighed as she put the chicken on the grill and shut the lid. “I appreciate your safety standards, Maxine, but really, how likely is it that the guy who raped both of us is out there,” she poked tongs at the pool area, “waiting for one of us to appear?”

  “That’s not the point.”

  “Isn’t it? If you want to detect effectively, you’ll have to lose some of the paranoia. A little is good. Too much makes you stand out.” She left the French doors unlocked as she walked back into the kitchen, and I struggled not to flip the deadbolts home. Thankfully, the doors were in full view of the kitchen island and I took comfort in that thought while she sprinkled olive oil and seasonings on the sliced veggies and wrapped them in foil. “You know, those are only the women Bret made legitimate,” she said. “There’s no telling who else he was catting around with.”

  “An illegitimate child?”

  Cass stepped into the study and updated the list of potential suspects on the giant pad of stickies, now perched on the easel. I stayed in the kitchen and kept an eye on the French doors. Cass might be right, but paranoia is a hard habit to break. I followed her back to the balcony and watched as she flipped the chicken, which smelled utterly heavenly, and placed the foil package on a shelf inside the grill.