by Meera Lester
Abby and Sugar hadn’t yet gone out for their walk, and taking a delivery to a shut-in was a good reason to get out. With the items tucked into a basket, along with some pickles and corn relish she’d canned over the summer, Abby and Sugar set off down Farm Hill Road. Within a half hour, they came to the short lane lined with tall redwood and pine trees where the neighbor lived. A half century ago, he’d bought that old adobe house, probably never realizing that a small tract of houses with lawns and families with pets would sprout up around him. But it had. No sooner had Abby and Sugar arrived than the man met them in the yard with money in hand. Eighty-five years old and nearly deaf, he gave her a jar of pomegranate jelly with the money and sent her on her way. Abby surmised that being polite and neighborly wasn’t his way. She and Sugar turned around and made it back to the Henny Penny Farmette just as dusk painted the deepening blue of the sky with large swaths of apricot and lavender-gray.
Abby reasoned that if the pomegranate jelly tasted good, she might try her hand at making some next September, when the fruit on her trees ripened. It would be a messy business extracting the juice from the seeds held inside the leathery peel. Potentially, the jelly making from those seeds could turn the kitchen into a disaster area. And although they hadn’t yet produced a lot of fruit, she had planted six pomegranate trees on the outer edge of her small orchard. If she could sell pomegranate jelly to the upscale deli-market that already had purchased her homemade apricot and wild plum jams, the mess making the jelly could be worth it.
Abby was still thinking about adding pomegranate jelly to her repertoire of organic fruit jams and jellies the next day, as she drove to another EMDR session with Olivia.
“How’s the anxiety level?” asked Olivia after Abby had recapped the last week and they had gone through another therapy session.
“Four or thereabouts,” said Abby. “The heart palpitations aren’t coming like they used to. Almost never now. And when I do get worked up, the meditation and deep breathing calm me. And . . . I’ve been doing some reprocessing of my own.”
“How so?” asked Olivia.
“I created an incident poster for Jake Winston’s murder, and I’ve been working it like a puzzle in my living room.”
“And when you’re working on the case that way, how does it make you feel, Abby? What does it bring up for you?” Olivia asked.
“I feel like I’m doing something to confront the darkness. . . all the unknowns. That’s where my demons hide. The more I know, the more I can plug in facts and new information, the less tense I feel.”
Olivia smiled. “In its own way, that’s a breakthrough, Abby. I doubt you’ll need many more sessions with me, but let us at least book one for next week.”
Abby nodded. “Sure. I don’t know if it’s the EMDR or my tackling the case that is helping me. Or both. But something is working. The memories still surface, but not like before, with all the shaking and heart racing and fight-or-flight response. Now, those images are just ordinary, like reading a report.”
“Good. See you next time,” Olivia said.
* * *
Around noon on November 24, Abby called the Country Schoolhouse Winery’s main number. No one answered. Knowing it would be a long shot that anyone might be around and working after Don Winston began laying people off, she nevertheless drove to the site. Life for Don Winston had to be pretty bleak. How would he restore the winery’s reputation now that two murders had tainted the business like a barrel of bad grapes? How would he plow forward without the innovative ideas involving food and wine that had been Emilio’s strength or without the forward-thinking business vision that had been Jake’s gift?
Abby strolled straight to the entrance door of the Country Schoolhouse Winery. It was Thanksgiving. Kat was still working the case and now had a new crime to solve. Abby reckoned they would not be able to get together for a glass of wine this evening, so she might as well visit the winery, have a glass, and ask more questions. Alas, the place appeared to be shuttered and locked. Charlotte had told her that neither Dori nor Trevor had worked recently, because Don had temporarily closed the tasting room and kitchen—a fact confirmed by the sign on the door. But Hannah had told her they would be working with a skeleton staff while Emilio and Scott were temporarily laid off. Still, as far as Abby could tell, she alone walked on the premises. When her cell sounded with Kat’s ringtone, Abby had been peering through one of two stationary windows at the front of the winery.
“Whatcha doing?” Kat asked.
“Poking around. I’m up at the Country Schoolhouse Winery. Hoping to find Don Winston.”
“Why?”
“I have some questions.”
“Your presence there wouldn’t involve our two open murder cases, right? Because meddling in our active, ongoing investigation would not be welcome.”
“I know what the official position is, Kat. No need to remind me. But would you answer a couple of hypothetical questions?”
“Like what?”
Abby seized the opportunity. Her questions might point Kat to another vein of inquiry, while Kat’s answers might reveal new details. “What if Jake’s murder was a hit, arranged and paid for by Dori? And what if she gave the killer the gun for the hit, as well as providing the shooter with an alibi during the time of the shooting?”
“That’s just off the hook, Abby. Is that a half-baked theory you are floating, or do you seriously believe that’s what happened?” Kat asked.
“Well, I don’t believe Emilio killed anyone, even if he had military training with weapons. He would never risk a shot going wild and hitting his sister. He loves her.”
“Abby, he might not have intended to hurt her. But you can’t always guess exactly how a bullet is going to behave. And you can’t truly know a dark heart.”
“Emilio has a good heart,” Abby said. “And he’s never been anything other than an upstanding member of our community.”
“Whatever. I don’t see the relevance of your alternative theory. We’ve got a suspect gun now. We know it is Emilio’s weapon.”
Abby cringed. “So you’ve tracked it from Dori’s body to our local gun shop owner. And I’ll bet he had copies of the documents Emilio filled out when he purchased the gun.”
Kat replied, “You got it. We’ve got our own copy now of the firearms transaction record.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know. You’ve got the ATF Form forty-four seventy-three.” From the bridge of her nose, Abby brushed a spiderweb thread she’d walked into while attempting to peer into another window. “So think about this. What if Dori was the thief who stole Emilio’s gun?”
“Oh, why would she? Check her Facebook page. Amid pictures of her culinary creations are words of praise for Jake and also Emilio.” Kat cleared her throat. “So now I have a hypothetical for you, Abby. Say we can match Emilio’s gun to the casing found at the scene, and we also have the lead the docs pried from Paola’s skull. Wouldn’t you agree that we can match the casing and bullet to the gun that fired them?”
“Yes,” Abby said.
“Of course, finding Emilio’s fingerprints on the gun would be golden, but we don’t know about that yet. Still, with what we do know, I’ll wager that Emilio’s gun never went missing. He had to have lied about that.” Kat’s tone sounded confident.
“And yet he took and passed a poly.” Abby turned away from the window and walked along a path, where she checked out the irregular shape of the cell phone tower atop the church on the horizon. “What about that cap in the parking lot? Recover Emilio’s hair from it?”
Kat didn’t respond.
“So I guess that’s a no,” said Abby.
“Be that as it may,” Kat conceded, “Emilio Varela must have something to hide. He’s hired a hotshot lawyer and is no longer cooperating.”
Abby stared at the tip-top of the distant communications tower. “Have you checked Dori’s cell phone? She and her killer’s paths crossed at some point. What if it was for drinks?” She added, “Maybe som
etime after seven o’clock p.m. They could have set it up during a phone call. Check her phone.”
“We don’t have it. It wasn’t on the body.”
“Well, maybe the killer has it. Regardless, cell phone records will work, too,” Abby said.
“How do you know she had a date for drinks?” Kat’s querulous tone concerned Abby.
“Don’t get upset with me.”
“But Abby, this is the type of meddling that concerns the chief and Sinclair.”
“I’m not meddling. I’ve been asked by friends to help them understand the dire circumstances their brother is in right now. But don’t I always pass along what I learn to you and Otto?”
“Suppose I can’t quibble with that.... So what do you have?”
“She was last seen by one of her housemates between six thirty and seven o’clock, going out to have drinks with someone. Kat, you and I both know that we’ve got one bar in town, the Black Witch, and that bar has CCTV. I’d love to know if anyone saw Dori leaving the bar and, if so, who was with her.”
The phone went quiet. Abby surmised Kat was digesting the information. “So I’ll get on that, girlfriend, right after lunch. And that brings me to why I called,” said Kat. “Otto made reservations at Zazi’s to treat his wife, but she’s stuck in Utah on ambulance company business. Whaddya say you and I join him there for a bite together?”
Abby glanced at her wristwatch. “It’s nearly one thirty.”
“And the reservation is for two o’clock,” Kat said. “How soon can you get back here?”
“Twenty minutes,” said Abby.
“On the prix fixe menu today, along with pumpkin pie,” said Kat, “they’ve got an assortment of desserts, including a rustic ginger-pear galette. So you know what I’m having.”
Abby chuckled. “Just like you to pick out your dessert before the meal. See you there in a few.”
Twenty minutes later, Abby navigated her Jeep up Main Street. The only parking near Zazi’s opened right before her at the police station across the street from the bistro. No sooner had she grabbed her purse and exited the Jeep than she ran into Chief Bob Allen, who walked toward her, seemingly in a hurry.
“Hey there, Chief. Working the holiday?” Abby asked. She stepped aside to avoid them colliding.
“Nope,” he said. “I’m dropping off some paperwork.” He stepped past her.
“If you’ve got a minute, Chief?”
Bob Allen turned back. “Yes.”
“You know Paola Varela?”
“Of course.”
“This may sound like a weird request, but is there any chance a guard could be posted on her for the next few days, until the hospital discharges her?”
Chief Bob Allen’s mouth tightened; his facial expression reflected what he perhaps construed as the impertinence of her suggestion. “Now, why would we do that? She isn’t a prisoner in custody. And with the killer or killers still at large, I’m not allocating cops to babysit. I need two to a cruiser for their safety.”
“But I think Paola is in danger.”
“You think she’s in danger?”
“Two winery workers are dead, and she’s recovering from injuries inflicted by a bullet that killed her husband.”
“Tell me something I don’t know, Mackenzie.”
“When I visited her at the hospital. I saw someone—a man—in the corridor on her floor. I’m positive it’s the same person who gave Dori Langston a ride the night I met Kat for her birthday dinner. It was outside the Pantry Hut. And when that guy saw me at the hospital,he took off running like a rooster with his tail feathers on fire.”
“This guy have a name?” asked the chief. His body language told Abby he wanted to keep moving and was annoyed that she’d stopped him.
“I don’t know him or his name.”
“So basically, you think the person you saw at the hospital might want to harm Paola Varela. But you have no real evidence she’s in danger at the hands of this man. You’re just basing it on a hunch. Furthermore, you don’t know who he is or whether or not the two have a history. Do I have all that right?”
“Yes, but—”
The chief’s lips thinned beneath the sparse mustache he’d grown. “Request denied.” He started for the station door.
“But—”
With his back to her, Chief Bob Allen raised his hand to gesture that it was the end of the conversation. Abby turned to face the opposite direction. Whatever. She crossed the street with the light and walked into Zazi’s, where Kat, phone plastered to her ear, gazed out the plateglass window, absorbed in her call. After sliding into a chair and hanging her purse straps over the chair back, Abby watched the traffic pass on Main Street and tried to tune out Kat’s date-making arrangements for drinks with the Root Cellar’s headwaiter.
Otto soon joined them at their table for four, just as the waitress took away the extra chair and returned for their drinks order—iced teas for Kat and Otto, a glass of house red for Abby, to wash down the bad taste in her mouth from her encounter with the chief. Well, at least she’d tried to get Paola police protection.
As the waitress delivered the drinks, Abby noticed a light-colored sedan roll past on the street outside the window.
“Excuse me. I’ll be right back.” Abby pushed off her chair and, with her cell phone in hand, hurried outside. Tapping the camera app on her phone, she attempted to capture the vehicle’s license plate. If the car’s movement made it difficult for Abby, the other cars obstructing the view made it nearly impossible.
Back inside, she sat down again and scrolled through the sequence of shots.
“What gives?” Otto asked.
“A bunch of blurred images,” Abby replied, disheartened. “I know that car. I saw it near the Pantry Hut. The driver was waiting to pick up Dori Langston. And I’m not a hundred percent sure, but it looks a lot like the car that drove out of the winery parking lot after Jake’s murder. And that car that just drove by has the broken taillight lens.”
“Yeah?” Otto got up to look out the window.
Kat, now off the phone, chimed in, “Girlfriend, I’m worried about you. Running after a car driven by a skinhead?”
Frustrated, Abby tucked her cell phone back into her purse. She reached for the white cloth napkin and gave it a sharp shake before placing it on her lap.
“I’ve heard street gossip, Abby,” said Otto, sitting back down. “When you’re nosing around, word gets out on the street. When I told you to watch your step, I meant it.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Abby gestured with her hand, as though flicking off the comment. “So I ask questions of people. Like everyone else, I’d like to understand how two in our community ended up dead. I’ve got a theory, but I can’t prove it.”
“Yeah. Are you going to share it or make us ask you questions?” Kat twisted in her chair.
“Give me a sec,” said Abby. She picked up her phone and looked for Trevor’s number. Locating it, she said, “You all might want to save this phone number.”
Otto’s pen failed as he tried writing the number on a tea napkin. Kat took out her phone and stored the number in it for later reference.
“So, this number,” said Abby, “belongs to Trevor Massey. He’s the boyfriend of the Pantry Hut clerk named Charlotte. And I’ve got something else for you.”
The waitress brought a tray of appetizers that included baked Brie with rosemary crostini and sweet potato bites with toasted mini marshmallows.
Abby went on. “Find out if this dude had access to the sedan with the broken lens cover over the passenger-side taillight. Maybe the car belongs to a relative or friend. He and Dori both worked at the winery, and he sometimes gave her rides to work. I think he’s involved in some way.”
“I hate to disappoint you, Abby, especially when you are on a roll,” Otto said, “but Massey has a solid alibi for the time of the murder. He’s not a skinhead, and the only vehicle he’s got registered in his name is his motorcycle.”
“
I know he’s not a skinhead, but maybe he knows the killer. I don’t know. Dori provided him with his alibi. I’ll wager that he was hers. Am I right?”
Kat and Otto exchanged a look that told Abby she’d guessed correctly.
“Why would Dori lie for Trevor if she believed he had something to do with the murder?” asked Kat.
“Why else? To cover up her involvement.” Abby knotted the napkin in her lap and then untied it. It gave her hands something to do to release the energy she felt tensing her muscles.
Otto waved over the waitress for another glass of tea. “Oh, so Dori Langston, who is now dead, was somehow involved in Jake’s murder. Pray tell me how.”
Abby took a sip from her water glass and locked eyes with Otto. “I think she killed Jake. She didn’t pull the trigger, since she was in the winery kitchen. But I think she got someone to do it for her in return for the promise of drugs, favors, money, or something else.”
Otto looked at her. Apparently, he remained skeptical. He ran a pudgy hand across the lower half of his face.
“You say Dori had an alibi, but Emilio had one, too,” said Abby. “Months ago, when his gun went missing, Dori had been crashing at his place. Let’s say she took it. She could have given it to Trevor Massey or someone else to kill Jake. Then, instead of giving the gun back to her, he or the killer could have hung on to it. The how and why details, I haven’t worked out.”
