Grenache and Graves

by Sandra Woffington

  Jared held his arms out. “You are Jared the Judge’s judge and executioner.” He offered a confession. “I loved Hal, but not enough. Not nearly enough.”

  “You betrayed her!” shouted Valerie, pointing the gun.

  “I betrayed both of us. And our child.”

  “The second she became pregnant, you decided to run! Who runs out on his child?”

  Jared covered his eyes. “Kill me, Valerie. I deserve to die.”

  The tip of the gun dipped, but Valerie steadied it again. “No! It’s a trick. What are you doing?”

  “I’m sorry, Haley! And my son! I’m so sorry!” Jared burst into a paroxysm of anguish.

  Valerie’s heart raced. It pounded in her chest. She put her finger on the trigger.

  Jared straightened up. He tipped his head back. “I don’t deserve to live. Pull the trigger. For Haley. For my son.”

  Valerie could not unravel the enigma before her. She’d only wanted to kill Jared, because she’d presumed he had no remorse, had suffered no pain for Hal’s death. But the man before her had borne more pain and anguish than even she’d experienced for her older sister’s suicide, because she’d thought of it as an accident. Jared—he clearly knew the truth.

  Valerie pointed the gun away. She made the gun safe and stuffed it in her backpack. “I’m sorry.”

  Jared’s face twisted in torment. “I suffer every day for their deaths!”

  A knock rapped at the door. “Wait here. I’ll get it. I won’t hurt you. I promise.” Valerie shouted, “Just a minute!” She opened the door a crack.

  Crystal handed her a bag. “Mugwort leaves for Drew.”

  Valerie nodded, closed the door, tossed the bag on the counter, and sat down again. “All this time, I blamed you, Jared, but Haley took her own life and the baby’s. She altered the rifle.”

  Jared slowed his breathing His face had a blank, haunted expression. “Even Gregor’s Ayahuasca cannot purge them from my mind—but sometimes, I can see them, be with them. I don’t want to forget, Valerie. I never want to forget them. I’m so sorry Hal took her life! I let her down.”

  Valerie rose to leave. “I forgive you, Jared.”

  Jared added, “I’ll never forgive myself.”

  Valerie broke through her reverie and returned to her living room. She confronted Max and Joy. “I had never—not for one moment—considered that Jared had suffered as much as I had for Haley’s death. More even. Guilt and remorse gnawed at his soul. No wonder he took anti-anxiety herbs and sleeping herbs and Gregor’s potions.”

  “Did you see anyone else while you were there?”

  “I left in a hurry. Drew, Ruby, and Alizon were returning from a nature walk. I kept my head down, hopped into my car, and sped away. I almost killed someone!”

  Max pressed, “How do we know you didn’t change your mind the next night and run the blade through his heart?”

  Valerie stammered, “Because I didn’t! I don’t have any proof. I’d decided to leave town after the Mabon ceremony. I felt free. Like I could start my life. I watched Jared during the ceremony. Jared seemed at peace. He gave me a few looks that told me we had peace between us.” Valerie’s voice cracked with remorse. “And minutes later—he was dead. I wanted him dead—and then I didn’t—but he’s dead anyway.”

  Max said, “We need you to stay in town, Val.”

  Valerie nodded.

  15

  Max and Joy had arranged to meet with Captain Banks after lunch to give her an update.

  On the way to Captain Banks’ office, Max’s phone rang. “Hi, Angelo. Your timing could not be better. We’re meeting with the captain. What have you got?”

  “I can imagine. Summerfield’s attorney is putting in calls on my end too.” Angelo’s voice had a victory tone. “The pill in Jared’s small intestine did contain an herbal remedy and that’s all, but he had Xanax and oxycodone in his system.”

  “Enough to make him stumble?” asked Max.

  “The combination—absolutely. He felt nothing,” confirmed Angelo.

  Max whispered to Joy, “Oxycodone and Xanax.”

  Joy whispered, “And Mugwort and absinthe.”

  Angelo added, “And, Max, Mercy’s hair and nails confirmed arsenic poisoning. The lab is running segmental analysis on her hair. Hair grows at a rate of about one centimeter per month and can tell us when the poisoning started and how it progressed.”

  “Anything else?” asked Max.

  “Yeah—I saved the best for last. Belle is a genetic match to the baby’s DNA. It looks like the legend is more truth than fiction. I wish we knew who did this to them.”

  “We’re going to do our best to figure that out, Angelo. Thanks.” Max disconnected. He sighed as he gave Joy the good news, both wonderful and heinous at the same time. “Belle is a match.”

  Joy rapped on Captain Banks’ door.

  “Come in,” shouted the captain.

  Max and Joy sat in seats facing the captain.

  Former Lieutenant Banks had worked alongside Max as his partner, until the world turned upside-down: Max passed his detective exam, his father died, the station moved to the new civic center, and Jayda Banks received a promotion to captain.

  Captain Jayda Banks was a no-nonsense black woman with a slim, muscular physique, do-not-mess-with-me brown eyes, short-cropped hair, and lips that mostly stayed in a straight line, which was how she kept her ranks. A picture of her four-year-old daughter and her Marine husband in his camouflage utility uniform sat framed on her desk. Two potted plants, one in each corner, added color and life to the otherwise business-like office. Commendations, degrees, and certificates of achievement and valor covered the walls, as did group shots of her officers.

  Captain Banks kept her officers in line with high-expectations, low margins of error, and undivided support. She folded her hands on her desk.

  Max began, “Angelo can’t determine Jared Masterson’s death as anything more than an accident. We have some leads, plenty of suspects, but no proof. But he did have oxycodone and Xanax in his system, which is unusual because from all accounts, he took herbal remedies.”

  “Gunner Cruz has those prescriptions, so we’ll interview him again.” Joy added, “Chris ‘Crystal’ Murphy liked Jared first and then Gunner. She has a history of stalking and property destruction that has escalated between her moves from Ojai to Los Angeles to Wine Valley. In addition, she works for Gregor Vulpe, an herbalist and self-professed shaman, who would like to be high priest of the circle.”

  “A what of a what?” Captain Banks’ eyes popped wide open and her jaw slackened.

  Joy explained, “A shaman is a spiritual guide.”

  Max grinned. “Right? He guides people on psychedelic trips with a plant drink or frog poison. I checked. There’s nothing illegal about it. For example, the plants are legal, but the drug made from combining them is illegal—except when used as a rite in an indigenous religious ceremony. Same for the frog poison.”

  Joy jumped in. “Valerie Valdez also has motive. Jared the Judge shot and killed Valerie’s sister, Haley, during a magic trick gone wrong. He was not charged. Valerie admitted that she came here to kill Jared, but says she didn’t do it, because Jared had suffered extreme guilt and she forgave him.”

  Max added, “Drew gave Jared a mugwort-absinthe tea prior to the ceremony. Jared also had an herbal anxiety pill in his intestine.”

  Captain Banks’ voice cut with a hard edge. “Keep going.”

  Max said, “We still have to prove whether Jared Masterson fell on the knife or someone shoved it in his chest prior to the obelisk falling.”

  Joy suggested, “Perfect murder—everyone is chanting with their eyes closed. Someone stabs Mr. Masterson, breaks contact for a second, tips the obelisk, and everyone scatters. Masterson hits the grass, and it looks like an acc—”

  The door flew open. Chief Goldsby flew in. “Just who I wanted to see.” Chief Goldsby had white wavy hair that made his ruddy cheeks seem redder. His h
ead stuck out from his khaki shirt, which had a sheriff's star pinned above his left breast pocket. Patches of the WVPD graced each shoulder, giving him an air of authority. The tiny spider veins on his cheeks stood out. His jowls sagged like a bulldog’s salivating for a meal. “When is the M.E. releasing Mercy Summerfield’s body? I’m getting daily calls from James Summerfield III and his attorney!”

  Max rose to his feet, standing taller than Goldsby. “We just learned that Mercy Summerfield died of arsenic poisoning. She was also pregnant, and the D.N.A. is a match with Belle Aguilar.”

  The chief’s face flushed red. “Don’t tell me you’re trying to solve a hundred-thirty-year-old murder?”

  “We’re investigating,” noted Joy. “She’s a victim. She deserves that much.”

  The chief exploded. “I will not waste our limited resources on this!” He turned to Captain Banks. “Speak to the coroner’s office. Get this resolved and return her to her family for interment. Pronto!”

  Captain Banks stood up to Goldsby every chance she got, but this was a no-win situation. “Leave it to me, chief. I will make that call and see if they have a date for release. You know how long lab tests take to get back.”

  “Get it done! Call me with an update.” The chief stormed out and slammed the door behind him.

  Captain Banks resumed her rigid posture. “I have to agree with him on one point—we can’t waste resources.”

  Joy pleaded, “Give us a little more time.” She turned to Max. “Let’s see how James III reacts to the news that Mercy died of arsenic poisoning and she was pregnant with an Indian child.”

  “I want Jaxon and Mom there too,” said Max. “That’s added pressure.”

  The Summerfields’ maid showed Max and Joy into the living room, where they found Jaxon and his parents, James III and Lydia. Lydia, late fifties and slim, tipped her nose in the air to signal her disdain before a word had been spoken. Her thin lips formed a terse line. She wore a high-collared white shirt, beige riding breeches, and black boots. Her short blond hair didn’t have a strand out of place.

  Jaxon sat on the edge of his seat, sandwiched between his mother and father, trapped in a human vise.

  Max jumped in. “Thanks for seeing us. We have information for you. Mercy Summerfield died of arsenic poisoning.”

  Joy added, “The lab is running segmental analysis to determine the amount and duration of exposure.”

  Jaxon jumped up and paced. “I knew it!”

  James III reprimanded his son. “That doesn’t change anything, Jaxon. Her murderer is long gone from this earth.”

  Joy employed a soft tone to break the harsh news. “There’s more.”

  James III tilted his chin up to match his wife’s nose, both of them ready to squash the ensuing attack.

  “Mercy was pregnant. Ten or twelve weeks,” said Joy.

  At that, Lydia let down her defenses. “Good heavens! The poor girl!”

  “It’s true, then!” said Jaxon, pacing the floor. “Someone murdered her for shaming the family—an unsuitable, bastard child.”

  James III remained stoic and used a commanding tone. “I repeat. Her murderer is long gone, buried in his own grave! Let’s presume he paid for his crime and lay Mercy to rest.”

  “How can you say that, Father?” stammered Jaxon. “She’s never been at rest. Someone took her life!”

  “The cook, no doubt,” said James III. “She left the Summerfield ranch shortly after Mercy died. I heard rumors that the sheriff had considered charging her for the crime.”

  “Why would the cook poison her?” asked Joy. “A murderer needs a motive.”

  James Summerfield bolted to his feet. “This discussion is over! It’s hypothetical. There’s no proof, and there never will be.”

  Max dropped the biggest bomb of all. “Mercy’s baby is a DNA match to Belle Aquilar.”

  “Belle’s Burgers and Brew?” sneered Lydia. “How can that be?”

  Joy explained, “DNA can detect lineage several generations back. It also means that Mercy fell in love with an Indian boy.”

  “Not just any Indian,” said Max. “Little Wolf, Belle’s ancestor.”

  “Mr. Summerfield,’ Joy pleaded, “we may not be able to identify Mercy’s murderer, but you must know something of the rumors surrounding Mercy’s death.”

  James III paused, clearly weighing his words. He threw a dismissive hand in the air. “Gossip. Nothing more.”

  Jaxon’s voice rose a notch. “Some say that a padre at the mission married them. Would there be records?”

  James III shouted, “Jaxon, I forbid you to say another word!”

  Jaxon didn’t stop. “I’m not five anymore, Father! This is important to me. It should be important to you! She’s your ancestor!” Jaxon rubbed his hands together as he thought. “I also heard a rumor that Mercy’s mother Clara had arranged for her to give birth at the mission and give the baby away.”

  “Headstrong girl!” said James III. “Just like you, Jaxon.”

  Max pushed. “Who murdered Mercy? Who fed her the arsenic?”

  James III cast his eyes down, and he let out a long sigh. “I don’t know.” He shot a defeated glance at Jaxon. “I’m sorry, son. I’m tired of carrying the weight of Mercy Summerfield. It’s time to let the gossip stay in the grave. This helps no one, not even Mercy.”

  “There’s got to be a way!” shouted Jaxon.

  Max said, “I know that James Summerfield married Clara for money. I know that she wanted the marriage, though. She had James Jr. right away and Mercy nine years later.”

  Lydia piped in. “It was a late pregnancy. It almost cost Clara her life. She was bedridden for much of it. But, James, you told me that she doted on her only daughter. No mother could feed her child poison.”

  Joy disagreed. “You’d be surprised, Mrs. Summerfield. Mercy was giving birth to a half-breed, the term used back then. How did Mr. Summerfield take it?”

  James rubbed his chin. “Not well. He swore to kill them both. But swearing to kill someone does not mean he did it. The cook, Mercy’s father, her brother, or her mother. Anyone of them—or someone else—could have poisoned her.”

  Max suggested, “I have a clever librarian friend. I’ll ask her where she would start.”

  Joy added, “Jaxon, maybe your mission records angle will pay off. We’ll check it out.”

  James III folded his arms across his chest. “It’s useless. In 1833, Mexico ended the mission system with a law that secularized them. While some missions still had priests who ministered to locals, by the late 1880s, most missions had been abandoned.”

  Max jotted a note and closed his notebook. “My librarian is a bloodhound. If there’s a record to be found—she’ll find it.”’

  James III glared into Max’s eyes, and he grinned. “And even if she does, it won’t matter—Mercy will return to her crypt, and the gossip will be buried with her, once and for all.”

  Once back on the tortuous road and descending down into the valley, Max’s phone rang. “Detective King.” Max listened. “We’re on our way.” He turned to Joy. “Gunner is dead.”

  16

  Max and Joy arrived at Gunner’s to find an officer standing guard at the door and Gregor hovering near a small tree that offered practically no shade. The M.E.’s team had already arrived.

  Max asked Gregor, “You found him?”

  Gregor stammered. The words gushed from his mouth in short bursts. “I came by to visit.” He held up a green bag from his shop. “I brought him a new blend of tea. I knocked. He didn’t answer. I turned the knob.”

  “Gregor,” said Joy. “Slow down. Take a breath.”

  Gregor breathed in and out. He put a hand over his chest. “The door opened. I found Gunner in the kitchen. There’s blood everywhere! I ran outside and called 9-1-1.”

  Max tried to soothe him. “Stay here. We’ll go take a look.”

  Gregor bobbed his head up and down. “Wait! There’s something else.”

 
; Max and Joy locked on to Gregor’s every word.

  “When I pulled up and parked and got out of my car, I saw Valerie’s car race out of the parking lot like she had a fire in her tail pipe.”

  “Thanks,” said Joy. “We’ll be back.”

  Max and Joy entered the apartment and crossed through the bleak beige living room.

  In the kitchen, living room, and hallway, white-clad technicians wearing face masks, blue head covers, and blue booties roamed.

  Blood spray covered one wall in the kitchen. As soon as Max and Joy stepped closer, they saw Gunner’s body on the floor. Angelo crouched beside him.

  “Cause of death is no mystery.” Max eyed the gaping, bloody slash across Gunner’s throat.

  Gunner held a black-handled athame, different from the one used at the Mabon ceremony, loosely in his left hand.

  Angelo stood up. “Nope. This one I can call.”

  “It looks like he slit his throat and fell out of the chair to the floor.” Max leaned as if trying to recreate the movement of Gunner’s body. “But then the knife in his hand is a little too ‘picture perfect’ for my tastes. Gunner told us that something always kept him going.”

  Joy agreed. “Someone might have stood behind him and cut his throat. He fell out of the chair. And that someone put the knife in his hand. He didn’t seem suicidal, but he did have episodes. Maybe depression finally did him in.”

  Angelo pointed to Gunner’s neck. “Good eyes, guys. There is a little problem. Look at the gash. It’s slightly higher on the left and dips slightly to the right. From all indications of the wound, a right-handed person cut his throat. We tend to cut downward, not upward.”

  Max said, “But the blade is in his left hand.”

  Joy remembered, “I poured him a cup of water in the hospital. He took it with his left hand. So the knife is placed correctly, but the gash says otherwise.”

  “Maybe this was related to his time in the service rather than his time in the circle,” suggested Max. “We have to consider that possibility.”