Grenache and Graves

by Sandra Woffington

  Monty slid down Steele’s chest and inched toward Joy.

  Joy sat up and crossed her legs, and Monty crawled down Steele’s chest and toward her lap to coil beneath her black silk robe. “Okay, Monty is squared away. Back to the book.”

  As Joy read on, she paused a time or two where she had trouble making out a word either due to penmanship or misspellings. “They keep Mercy locked in her room. Phillis carried up breakfast, lunch, and supper. James Jr. feels so guilty, he took the can of Whitman’s chocolate out of the pantry, and he makes Mercy a cup each night and sits with her. Friday 23. Miss Mercy is sick. Phillis writes that she sometimes seemed confused and tired. Vomiting and stomach pains. Phillis writes, ‘I made her fresh soup. Mrs. Clara cleaned her up and made her tea. I made compresses and put them against her forehead and cheeks.’”

  Joy flipped another page. “She’s getting worse. James Jr. sits with her most nights after he’s done with the day’s chores to offer her companionship, but Mr. James won’t so much as look upon his own daughter. Although he gave Phillis a bag of penny candy to take up to her. The doctor came by. He left laudanum for her discomfort.” Joy huffed, “Laudanum was about ten percent opium, often mixed with alcohol. It was prescribed for pain or diarrhea.”

  “At least it would have eased her pain. She didn’t have time to become addicted.”

  “The pain of being poisoned!” Joy paused. “I doubt we’ll ever know who slipped her the arsenic. It’s tasteless and colorless.”

  “And they all had access to her food.”

  Joy flipped another page. “She’s worse yet. Dizzy. Dark urine. James Jr. still sits with her. Phillis too. They encourage her to eat.” Joy paused so Steele could see the drawing of James beside Mercy. A teacup was on a saucer on a table beside her bed. “He looks like Jaxon.”

  Joy read more. “Saturday. May 5. Mercy is dying. Mr. James sent for Father Miguel. The moment the padre stepped into Mercy’s room, James Jr. broke into sobs the likes of which Phillis had never seen. The padre sent James Jr, out, saying no one was to come in. She writes, ‘Father Miguel waited for me to leave, but I refused. I told him I’d held her the day she was born. I’ll hold her the day she passes.’ The padre nodded. We helped Mercy sit up. Before he started his rites, to my surprise, he opened the window. Land sakes if Little Wolf didn’t slip in. Father Miguel looked at me. So did Little Wolf. I nodded for him to stay. I clutched my silver cross hanging over my breaking heart. Little Wolf sat beside Mercy and slipped his arms around her shoulders, until she rested against his chest. Mercy seemed to know he was there. The girl had no strength. But she reached out until her fingers felt the skin of his chest before her hand fell. Little Wolf took her hand in his. She gasped, like she wanted to talk. Little Wolf set his lips on cheek. When he raised his head, Miss Mercy let out her last breath.”

  “That’s the picture Phillis drew. Their last moment together. That stinks!”

  “Right? James Jr. could have let them run away.” Joy turned back to the book. “Phillis says they heard footsteps on the floorboards. The padre and Phillis had to tear Little Wolf away from her. Little Wolf didn’t care if he died with her. But they got sense into him, and Little Wolf slipped out the window. Father Miguel closed the window just as Mercy’s father rushed into the room and knelt beside her bed. He held her hand and cried. Phillis said it was the first time he’d come to visit Mercy since they’d put her in her room.”

  “How long did it take to kill her?”

  “The death entry is Saturday, May fifth, so three months. No one ever writes about her losing the baby. A high dose could cause a miscarriage, but with a steady low dose, not necessarily.”

  Joy flipped a few more pages. “Oh, Phillis writes about the funeral. Mrs. Clara demanded that a marble crypt be built for Mercy in the brand new cemetery.”

  “That sounds like guilt, like she wished she’d have let her daughter go. Or she poisoned her.”

  “Or for status. It makes the family look like they loved their only daughter so much, they spared no expense for her funeral.”

  “Good point.”

  “Phillis writes that friends came from all around. Mercy’s school friends. Everyone sobbed and wept. Phillis says James Jr. cried, but her parents didn’t. Oh my, Phillis says, and I quote, ‘Father Miguel kept a hard face when he gazed upon the mighty Summerfield family that day.’ She says that Little Wolf sat upon his horse on a hill, where he could see the Summerfields, and the Summerfields could see him. She says Mercy was the first laid to rest in the cemetery. After the funeral, Phillis writes that she and Hiram left the Summerfields. Oh, Max should know this. They went to work for Don Juan’s family.”

  “Don Juan?”

  “Juan de Flores, the rancher who built Max’s hacienda.” Joy closed the book. “That is so not a bedtime story!”

  “We can put the kid in her room, and I’ll tell you a bedtime story.”

  Joy turned her head and chest. She swept her hands over Steele’s long brown hair, which hung down much like Little Wolf’s, and she let her hands drop to his strong shoulders. “I’d like that.” He leaned in until her lips touched Steele’s.

  They kissed as if they both realized how precious life and love could be and how easily it could be lost.

  Joy lifted Monty from her lap and carried her to the enclosure, and Steele opened the enclosure’s door. As Joy set Monty back in her home, Steele wasted no time stripping down.

  By the time Joy closed and latched the door, Steele disrobed, pulled back the black bedspread, and hopped between the sheets.

  Joy took her time. She untied the belt of her robe and let it slide to the floor. She pulled her tank top over her head and slipped out of her underwear. She crawled into bed, anxious to feel Steele’s skin next to hers. “At least Mercy and Little Wolf knew love. Real love. It sounds like her father married for money.”

  “But they should have known a lifetime of love.” Steele swept his arms under Joy and pulled her atop his chest.

  Joy locked her fingers in his, pinning his hands beside his head. Joy whispered, “I don’t want to lose you.”

  Steele whispered, “If you think about it, we are already growing old together. Moment by moment. Let’s just keep going.”

  “Sealed with a kiss.” Joy reached over and set her lips against Steele’s.

  His hands broke free. They caressed her soft black hair, her back, and his fingertips traced each notch of her spine. She sat up, straddling him. He sat up too. He scooted back against the headboard.

  They kissed. They entwined.

  Joy’s black-brown eyes dove into his hazel ones. They made love, intensely watching each other’s face: each drop of an eyelid, parting of the lips, frown of desire.

  They didn’t want to close their eyes and miss a sigh or a twitch of pleasure or the caress of each heavy breath against their cheek or neck.

  They shared every gasp of need and groan of pleasure.

  They observed each subtle dilation or constriction of pupils, each ripple of muscle.

  Each shudder and quake that ran between them felt like foreshocks of an earthquake yet to come. Their bodies pressed together like tectonic plates. Tension built up.

  They awaited the smallest tremor that would release them. But tension grew. Their need grew.

  Until the final shudder came and with it vast movement.

  The plates slid against one another and locked them in a new position. Propelled them forward.

  They refused to let go. Instead, their arms wrapped around the other in a possessive squeeze.

  As their breathing slowed, they locked eyes once more, smiled, kissed, and let out a sigh. Steele nuzzled Joy’s cheek. She nuzzled his.

  When they slid apart and under the covers, Joy nestled her head against Steele’s chest, and Steele draped his arm over her, as Little Wolf and Mercy had done.

  As Joy closed her eyes, she realized that although some scoundrel had killed Mercy Summerfield, that devil never killed the
love she and Little Wolf had for each other and for their child.

  Mercy had fought and died for her right to love the man who had captured her heart.

  20

  Thursday morning, Max and Joy met at the station.

  Joy made a quick copy and stuffed it into a manila folder.

  After a cup of coffee, they stepped out of the station and into the sunny day with an azure sky.

  They walked down Civic Center Drive, turned right, and after a couple of blocks, crossed the street to Belle’s. They climbed the two steps up the wraparound porch and entered the restaurant, filled with people savoring their breakfast, clinking cutlery, and laughing.

  “Find a booth. I’ll get her,” said Max.

  Max stepped around the counter, said hello to the waitresses he knew, and peered into the kitchen.

  Belle stood on a step stool hovering over a vat of barbecue sauce. She stirred it with a paddle. Another cook rubbed Belle’s secret spice blend on baby back ribs, preparing them for the smoker out back. Two more cooks worked at lighting speed at the stove: scrambling eggs, making breakfast burritos, and flipping flapjacks. The smell of sizzling sausages—handmade with Belle’s own recipe—invaded Max’s nostrils, as did the scents of crisp bacon. His stomach groaned, begging for attention.

  Max eyed the raw ribs, but his brain tasted the fall-off-the-bone sweet goodness they would become. He had to focus. “Belle! Got a minute?”

  Belle’s face said it all. Her eyes didn’t blink. She let go of the paddle, stepped down from the step stool, and walked his way. Belle peered into Max’s face to read the news before he opened his mouth, but her brows pinched in consternation, unable to read a thing.

  For the first time ever, Max saw vulnerability in Belle’s eyes. He avoided that look by turning his back on her and leading her to the restaurant.

  Max slid into the red vinyl seat next to Joy, and Belle sat across from them.

  Even though she seemed to know the answer, she asked, “Murder or mayhem?” But, this time, her tone was clearly personal.

  Max blurted, “Murder.” He quickly added the good news. “Your DNA and the baby’s are a match. You’re related.” Max had never seen anything take the wind out of Belle, but she hung her head down, either in sadness or prayer. He couldn’t tell.

  At last she lifted her head and spoke. “I’ve tried not to think about it, but it’s all I think about. I had to stop taking orders. I screwed up so many.”

  “Uh, we know,” said Max.

  Joy added, “We’re still getting details, Belle, but we do know a few things.”

  “Joy, bad news or good, I ain’t gettin’ any younger, so spit it out,” demanded Belle, her voice a whip.

  “Mercy was poisoned.” Joy kept her eyes locked on Belle’s. “The lab is still conducting tests to see how much and for how long.”

  “They can tell that?” asked Belle.

  Joy explained, “With arsenic, yes. The lab will segment Mercy’s hair, in centimeters most likely, and test each section. It’s not perfect. If she had exposure externally too, like her dress or the flowers, it can make a difference, but Angelo is doing all he can to determine Mercy’s exposure. Her nails can help identify her exposure periods too.”

  Belle’s face fell. “Two kids in love. In 1888, they didn’t stand a chance.”

  “Maybe they would have,” said Max. “If they’d have made it to Mexico. Mercy loved her brother. She couldn’t leave without saying goodbye, and he told his father, who stopped her.”

  “Mercy’s father locked her in her room,” added Joy. “She became ill—someone poisoned her, we think, for about three months.”

  Belle exhaled deeply. “I’m grateful to know the truth. I can deal with the rest. I’ll start planning a funeral—my way, with my people. Let me know when Mercy’s going back to her crypt.”

  Max reassured her, “We will.”

  Joy opened the manila envelope. “We found a living relative of Phillis Washington. Phillis was quite the artist. She sat with Mercy the night she died. A local priest, Father Miguel, arrived to give Mercy last rites. He opened the window, and Little Wolf slipped into the room. Little Wolf sat beside Mercy until she died in his arms. Phillis drew them.”

  Joy slid the photocopy out of the envelope and handed it to Belle.

  Belle held the picture of the couple in an embrace. Mercy’s head rested against Little Wolf’s shoulder. He held her hand. They both had their eyes closed. Belle cleared her throat, loudly and forcefully. “Can I keep this?”

  Max and Joy nodded.

  Belle set down the picture. She reached over and put one hand on Max’s and one hand on Joy’s. “Thank you,” said Belle. “For not sugar-coating it.”

  Max sighed. “There’s never a way to sugar-coat murder, Belle.”

  Joy knocked on Otis’s front door. Max stood behind her.

  The door swung open. Otis seemed genuinely happy to see them. “Come on in. I just made a new batch of tea.”

  “We’ll take it,” said Joy without waiting for Max’s consent.

  As they settled into seats at the kitchen table. Otis put a glass under the dispenser. As ice clinked into the glass, he grinned. “Now that’s service. We got it pretty easy nowadays. Machines to wash our dishes and our clothes. I saw a show the other night about toilet seats that raise up and down on their own.”

  “No fancy toilet seat for me,” said Max. “Call me old-fashioned.”

  Otis grabbed the pitcher in the fridge, filled the glasses with tea, and set them down on the table. He lowered himself into a chair with a grunt. He lifted his glass. “Cheers.”

  “Cheers,” said Max and Joy, each swigging their tea.

  Joy set the plastic bag with the diary on the kitchen table. “I filled Max in and showed him the pictures.”

  “Quite the love-hate story,” said Otis. “Time passes. I fix Old Man Summerfield’s shoes like anybody else’s, but every time I see his face, I imagine his heartless ancestor.”

  Max chimed in, “Can’t hold the sins of the father against him.”

  “I know,” said Otis. “Like I said, I treat him the same as everybody else.”

  Joy wrapped her hands around the glass. “We know Mercy was poisoned, but everyone gave Mercy food: Phillis brought her meals, Mercy’s father gave her a bag of candy, her brother brought her Whitman’s instant chocolate, and her mother made her tea and who knows what else. We have no way to know who poisoned her.”

  “Sorry, Otis,” said Max.

  “Wait right here a moment. I gotta check on something.” Otis got up from his chair.

  Max and Joy could hear him rummage through the shelves full of his tools and supplies. They clanked and clacked, metal against metal or metal against wood.

  The front door opened and closed with a thud. By the time Max and Joy had nearly finished their tea, Otis returned with a wooden crate.

  Max and Joy rose to their feet and moved their glasses of tea, setting them on the counter. Max grabbed Otis’s tea so he could set the wooden crate on the kitchen table.

  “My family came from a long line of packrats. Something you said tickled my memory, but my memory ain’t what it used to be, so might be a wild goose chase. This was Hiram’s. Went through it a long time ago. Always meant to sell off what I could, but antiques don’t sell for much from that time. So it just sat in the garage.”

  Otis reached into the crate. He pulled out old tongs. A pair of spurs. Shearing scissors. A pewter coffee pot, wrapped in linen. A cast-iron frying pan. A wood-handled chisel. A metal file. A plane. A mallet.

  One object remained, wrapped in printed paper. Otis reached for it, but Max stopped him. “Don’t touch it. What is it?”

  Otis said, “It’s the Whitman’s tin. The story goes that Phillis found it in the trash the morning after Mercy passed. She took it out. Most people used old tins to keep nails or other bits in, but Phillis kept it to remind her of Mercy.”

  “I’ll get an evidence bag and glov
es.” Max rushed out the door.

  Joy’s voice dropped. “It’s been through a lot of hands, Otis.”

  “I know. Everybody kept tins like this, biscuit tins, cookie tins, and we re-used them to hold nails or screws, like those you see on my shelves. In my day, you didn’t have to teach people to recycle. If we saw a purpose for something, we kept it. Hell, even when we didn’t see a use for it, we kept it. But none of my relatives could bring themselves to use Mercy’s tin. I almost did one time. I thought about it. ‘Why not?’ I said to myself. Make it useful again. But I couldn’t ever bring myself to do it.”

  “It’s a longshot. But if anyone can extract information from it, it’s Angelo, the best medical examiner in the county. We’ll run it over to him now.”

  21

  After lunch at the Crisp and Crunch, Max drove back to the station. The moment he pulled into the civic center parking structure his phone rang. “Hi, Angelo.”

  “Can you and Joy swing by here?”

  “I’m swinging as we speak. See you in a bit.” Max swung the car around and exited the structure. “Angelo wants to see us.”

  A half hour later, Max pulled into the forensic facility. He and Joy could not get inside the building fast enough. They shot through the doors, down the corridor to the autopsy suite, and approached Angelo, who walked them over to the toxicology lab.

  Bright lights shone down on three free-standing counters that ran the length of the room. Machines and computers filled every space of the grey countertops, set atop white supply cabinets.

  Angelo approached a woman in a white lab coat. She wore protective eyewear and a hair cover. She sat before a computer.

  “Rose,” said Angelo. “This is Detective Max King and Dr. Joy Burton.”

  Rose swiveled in her seat. “Pleased to meet you. This is an unusual case.” Rose, mid fifties, had a thick Spanish accent and deep brown eyes.

  “That it is,” said Max.

  Angelo explained, “With all of the pressure to release Mercy Summerfield, we moved her to the front of the line.”