Max wasn’t sure what to say. “Let me get this straight. You broke into Mercy’s crypt and pried open her coffin to start an investigation into her death?”
Joy pushed her hair behind her ears. “And you want us to solve a hundred-thirty-year-old family mystery?” Joy shook her head in disbelief. “Or murder?”
Max whispered to Joy, “Pretty brilliant, really. I’d totally do it.”
Jaxon’s eyes widened. “I know I sound crazy. But yes.” Jaxon whipped out his wallet, opened it, pulled out a plastic sleeve with an old sepia picture and handed it to Joy. “My dad is getting older. He knows more than he tells me. I just know it. I didn’t see any other way. If Dad dies, the truth dies with him.”
“She’s beautiful.” Joy handed the picture to Max. An oval paper frame held the face of a pretty girl with dark ringlets. She didn’t smile, yet her face lit up.
“That was taken before she got sick. I just wonder if they knew she wasn’t going to be around,” Jaxon stammered. “Or maybe it’s just a coincidence. I don’t know. You said you found something.”
Max let Joy explain.
“The symptoms you describe could be from a lot of sources—including natural illnesses or food-poisoning. But some nutritional anomaly caused horizontal white lines on her nails. The medical examiner thought it was worth running a test or two.”
“For poison?” asked Jaxon.
Max kept a poker face. “Jaxon, this is an open investigation. We can’t tell you anything more, except that we are looking into it.”
Joy added, “And even if we find something, you have to realize our chances of finding the perpetrator are next to impossible.”
Jaxon nodded. “I know, but I had to try. At least I’ll know if she died of natural causes or not.”
Max handed back the photo. “You carry her with you.”
“I can’t let her go. It’s like she’s nagging me to look into it.”
“What can you tell us about the other group in the cemetery last night?” asked Joy.
“The weird witches? Not much. We ducked behind the hedges to get to the crypt. Once I got the top off of the pine box, Tim freaked. Said he saw a ghost. It was a shadow from the flashlight. We left. I heard a howl, but no one else did. I thought I saw glowing eyes at the top of the stairs. You know how animal’s eyes glow at night. Like a wolf. Freaky! But it disappeared. Anton said it was probably a coyote. Then we all heard a howl. We freaked and ran across the grass. We heard a crack and the obelisk fell. People were screaming and diving out of the way. We didn’t stop running until we were out of the cemetery.”
“Did anyone from your group touch the obelisk? Maybe as you ran past?” asked Joy.
Jaxon shook his head. “I don’t think so. We just wanted to get out of there. I wasn’t looking.” He let out a deep sigh of relief. “Look, the other guys—Felix, Tim, and Anton—they didn’t do anything. I coerced them into it. I opened the gate. I pried the lid off of the box. Not them. Are they in trouble?”
“It’s your family’s crypt,” said Max. “So if your father doesn’t press charges, I think you’re okay.”
“He won’t. But he’ll have me working day and night to pay for the repairs. I don’t care. I did what I thought was right.”
Joy leaned forward. “You sound like one of us.”
“Check out the police academy after you graduate.” Max handed Jaxon a card. “If you don’t have any charges against you.”
Jaxon stared at the card. “I’d like to. Dad wants me to learn banking and real estate.”
“You’re young,” said Max. “Keep your options open. And call us if you think of anything.”
6
Max drove to Belle’s Burgers and Brew, his home-away-from-home, a restaurant in the old part of town. Grape Gulch still had the old brick-faced theater and mercantile buildings post office but also chic eateries and storefronts. Belle’s place had been there for nearly four decades, serving generation after generation.
Belle’s restaurant was white but for red and blue trim. Max and Joy climbed the two steps up to the wrap-around porch and found seats at a corner table.
The September sky was clear blue and the midday temperature in the high eighties. Tourists and locals bustled past them on the sidewalk.
Belle, a septuagenarian with Native American heritage, expressed in her high cheekbones and sun-kissed skin, stepped up to Max and Joy’s table. She wore her daily “uniform,” a white apron with the restaurant’s name on it, jeans, and a T-shirt, which today was dark blue. Her long gray braid ran down her back to her hips. Belle asked the usual question to stay informed of the happenings in her town. “Murder or mayhem?”
Where Max always gave Belle one or the other, Joy had gotten in the habit of teasing it out more. “Murder—one legendary, one mystical.”
Max added, “Maybe you can help us with the first. If anyone knows the legends of this town, it’s you.”
“Let me put in your order, and I’ll grab a seat with you. Max—death by bacon or double the cow today?”
“Bacon.”
“Joy, cranberry walnut salad?”
“I’m branching out, Belle. I know you ground your own beef every day, so I’ll take a grilled patty with a salad on the side and water.”
“That’s my girl!” said Belle.
“Water for me too,” said Max. “Joy is a bad influence.”
“Be right back.” Belle scurried away.
Joy remarked, “No soda? No nine teaspoons of sugar or three hundred empty calories in your beverage?”
“Not today. Although Belle’s shakes are remaining on my food list.”
“On mine too. You’re also a bad influence, but my influence will make you healthier.”
“Mine,” said Max, “will make you happier.”
Belle rushed back and squeezed in beside Joy, who moved over to make room for her. “What legend?”
Max said, “Mercy Summerfield. Jaxon pried the lid off of her coffin. Angelo took Mercy’s body to his lab for testing.”
At the mention of Mercy’s name, Belle’s sable-brown eyes, normally strong and steady, dissolved into pools of pained anguish. For a moment, she grew quiet. Her jaw tensed. She set her forearms on the table and leaned into them. “Now you have to know your history. Mercy’s time was one of lots of change—conflicts between Spanish missionaries, Indians, between Mexico and the U.S. government. In the early 1800s, a Franciscan priest formed a mission south of here. The Mexican-American War erupted from 1846-1848—then the gold rush hit, and California became a state. Then the Civil War caught fire, and when it ended in 1865, people migrated west: freed slaves, people done with fighting, prospectors, and homesteaders. Some reached Wine Valley. A swarm of Mormons even passed through our valley headed to San Diego. By the 1880s, Mercy’s time, the U.S. government had established a reservation for my people and other Indians too. Most of the ranchers, Summerfield and Juan de Flores, who built your home, Max, hired Indians to work the cattle ranches or to shear the sheep. Legend has it that Mercy fell in love with an Indian who worked the Summerfield ranch—supposedly one of my ancestors—a boy named Little Wolf. One story says the pair planned to elope and run away to Mexico together. Another says that Mercy’s father fired Little Wolf and chased him off his land. Another says Summerfield gunned down Little Wolf and buried him on the ranch. And another says that a padre from the mission married Mercy and Little Wolf. All anyone knows for sure is that Mercy became ill and died, and the truth died with her.”
A waitress swept in and set plates before Max and Joy. Smells of charred beef and spicy BBQ sauce caused Max’s nostrils to flare and he inhaled deeply, like prepping his stomach for the treat to come.
Belle implored them, “What happened to her? Can you find out?”
Max sighed. “We’re going to try, Belle.”
“That we are,” said Joy.
Belle slid out and stood up. “My people, like yours, give our dead due rites and properly lay them to r
est. One story that goes ‘round and ‘round is that Little Wolf still watches over Mercy. More than a few have spotted a wolf-ghost at the cemetery. Bear, the caretaker, sees it now and again. Others say it’s just a coyote who’s made a home at the cemetery.” Belle dashed away. Her long braid swished across her back.
After lunch, Max and Joy stopped by Wine Valley Hospital, barely a decade old. They strolled through the honey-beige lobby with wooden tables and cream-colored high-backed chairs that would fit better in a nice hotel rather than in a hospital. The P.A. system echoed an announcement about a sale on stuffed animals in the gift shop.
Max understood the concept of making a hospital seem like home—but it never worked, not really. Not with the smells of hydrogen peroxide, sweat, and illness, the latter of which Max thought smelled eerily similar to the decomposing flesh of a dead body.
Cheery framed prints of colorful flowers adorned the walls.
Max and Joy rode the elevator up to the second floor and checked in at the nurses’ station, which had pastel green walls.
They found Gunner’s room.
Gunner’s muscular frame curled toward the window.
Max and Joy stepped around his bed to face him, blocking his view of the window. He had a young face with old eyes—eyes that carried the weight have having seen too much horror.
Max introduced them. “Gunner, I’m Detective Max King and this is…Joy Burton.” Max quickly realized he needed to leave “doctor” out. This man clearly had a lot of them in his life. A pang of angst attacked Max. It was hard to look at a man so physically strong yet so mentally broken. Gunner had light brown hair in a military cut. Red rimmed his green eyes, swollen by tears and subdued by medication. “We’ll be quick. We just have a few questions.”
Gunner rolled onto his back and sighed as his head sank into the pillow. He didn’t speak.
Joy stepped up to the bed. She used a soft voice. “When did you join the Celestial Moon Circle? And why? Kind of unusual, isn’t it?”
Gunner’s expression froze. He searched the ceiling or perhaps reached beyond it for answers or for the right words, ones that would not draw more blood. He had a tough time finding them, but eventually, he spoke. “Therapy didn’t work; drugs didn’t work; acupuncture didn’t work. Several months ago, I wandered past Gregor’s shop, Euphoria Herb Emporium. I don’t know what made me go in. Maybe because I’d tried everything else. Gregor really cares about people. He’s been helping me with stress and pain. He got me off of the oxy. He introduced me to the circle.”
Max gently prodded, “You have chronic pain?”
Gunner’s hands trembled. His eyes closed. He inhaled deeply, then exhaled. He did this several times before he could speak. The muscles of his neck tensed. “My best friend Brandon and I drove trucks in a convoy to resupply U.S. and British positions in Afghanistan. We had eight vehicles from mine-resistant MRAP gun trucks to lightweight LMTVs. The Taliban attacked. Bullets flew. Explosions kicked up the dirt. Then everything grew quiet. Brandon and I inspected our vehicles. I stood beside mine, ready to hop back in the driver’s seat. Brandon stood beside his. He swung the door open and shot me a huge smile. He flashed me a thumbs-up. I already heard radio chatter, as other guys sent out radio checks, ‘Lima Charlie,’ for ‘Loud and clear.’ Then I saw it. A truck barreling at the convoy. It struck the front of Brandon’s truck and it exploded. The explosion engulfed Brandon and he was gone. It knocked me off of my feet. I injured my back. I wasn’t paying attention. ‘Stay alert, stay alive.’ We say it all of the time. But we were so close to discharge. It was our last job.”
Joy grabbed a plastic cup, peeled the top off, and filled it from a small pitcher. She popped the top back on the cup and held it out for Gunner.
Gunner took it and sipped through the straw. “Thanks.” He held up his arm. An IV tube fed him fluid and meds. “Looks like I have to start all over.” His face contorted; he pinched his eyes together. His voice trembled. “Jared’s gone, isn’t he?”
Max answered, “Yes, but it wasn’t just the obelisk falling on him that killed him.”
For the first time. Gunner’s eyes locked on target—Max—and didn’t let go. “What did?”
Joy explained, “When we rolled him over, the athame blade protruded from his chest. It might have been an accident, but we have to check it out. Did Jared have any enemies?”
Gunner reined in his emotions as if needing to stay focused for Jared’s sake. “None. If Jared hurt anyone’s feelings, he couldn’t take the pain of it.”
“A kindred spirit,” said Joy.
Gunner nodded. “Yeah, we both knew pain. We had that in common. He helped me through it all. I was helping him too.”
Max asked, “Did you see anyone pick up the knife during the ceremony?”
“I picked it up. Others did too. Jared used it to call one of the corners. I didn’t see Jared with it after we chanted.”
“Is the circle helping you heal?” asked Max.
“Like I said, Gregor got me off of oxy. I was just feeling strong again, happy again. Night before last, Gregor led me through the last purging ceremony. I faced my demons. I beat them. I felt stronger than ever, ready to move forward with my life. I formed connections again. I’d decided to leave the circle.” Gunner shifted from controlled to distant. “And then, in a second, just like Afghanistan, my friend lay dead before me. Why does my life keep blowing up?”
“Do you have family?” asked Max.
Gunner shook his head. “My father raised me as a single parent. He died on a tour of duty. I ended up in foster care. I joined the service at eighteen. I had nowhere else to go. After Brandon died, I served out my time in the hospital.”
Joy used her most soothing voice. “I was in foster care until adopted by my father, a former F.B.I. profiler turned cop. He died in my arms during a hostage crisis. I was the negotiator.” Joy’s face tensed as she relived the pain of Sam’s death for Gunner’s benefit. “It took a long time for me to not be a mess. A long time. Hang in there.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Gunner’s voice solidified. “I’m trying.”
Max set his card on the bedside table. “Call us, anytime, for any reason. I mean it.”
Gunner rolled over, away from them.
In the elevator, Max hit the button for the lobby. “Let’s call it a day.”
“A day,” said Joy.
“That’s so not funny.”
Max and Joy stepped off the elevator and crossed the lobby.
Once outside, Joy tossed on her sunglasses. “I know. But it’s all I’ve got to try to lift our spirits.”
“How about an ice-cold, uplifting beer at Zeke’s Watering Hole?”
“That will do nicely, too.”
Max hopped in the driver’s seat of the car and turned the key in the ignition. “Call Steele and see if he wants to join us. I refuse to be the only one subjected to your lame jokes.”
7
Since Max and Joy had worked Saturday night and part of Sunday, they came in late on Monday. Joy needed prep time for the class she taught on Monday nights.
They met at the station just past two, and Max drove them to Gregor’s shop, a dark green storefront tucked away in a shopping center across from the main mall complex, a circular design of hub and spokes with major stores in the center, a ring road around them, and web-like branches shooting out from the ring with smaller shops, restaurants, and a movie theater.
Gregor’s shop sat sandwiched between a gift boutique on one side and a flower shop on the other.
A black chalkboard easel sat next to the front door, advertising daily specials. Today’s special included lavender oil, a detox tea, and an anti-arthritis ointment.
Hand-painted flowers and vines flourished across the windows.
Max stepped inside and Joy followed.
Pleasing scents suffused the shop: lavender, incense, teas, and other aromas that Max could not place. Wooden plaques hung above walls of clear packages that held flowers,
herbs, spices, and other natural plants. One plaque read “Relaxation,” another “Pleasure,” another “Health,” another “Energy.”
Wooden cabinets with open glass doors displayed bottles and colorful boxes of candles. A rack held books. Tea-making supplies sat on a small round table. Bottles of essential oils filled shelf after shelf. A black glass cabinet, closed and locked, contained athame blades, pentagrams, books of spells, crystals, wands, and a host of other products.
Gregor and Crystal worked behind the counter.
With gloved hands, Gregor reached into a glass jar, pinched herbs between his fingers and held them over a heap of herbs on a square of paper atop the glass plate of a digital scale. He dropped the flakes a few at a time. When the digital reading moved a tenth of a milligram, Gregor stopped and put the remaining herbs pinched between his fingers back in the glass container and put the lid on it. “Detectives. How can we help you?”
Crystal carefully removed the paper from the scale and folded it over the herbs to form an envelope. She sealed it shut with a gold foil label with the shop’s name, and she wrote on it with a green felt-tipped pen, “Gunner, Relaxing Tea Blend.”
“We just came from Gunner,” said Max. “He says good things about you, Mr. Vulpe.”
Gregor smiled. “He’s suffered so much trauma.”
“So we hear,” added Joy.
Crystal put the package in a green bag. “Do you need me? I have some deliveries to make.”
“We need to talk to both of you, but we can split you up. Make it go faster,” suggested Mas. “Joy, I’ll speak with Crystal. You know more about herbs than I do.”
“It’s never too late to learn, detective. You have a stressful job.” Gregor turned to Crystal. “Use my office.”
Crystal nodded and led Max through a door. Crystal wore a long green dress that hugged her heavy frame. She had pale white skin and long, bleached-blond hair. She wore green shadow today, still too heavy for Max’s taste.
Grenache and Graves Page 4
