Pinot Noir and Poison

by Sandra Woffington

  “She gushed appreciation. You should see Jeffrey—a hunky guy with dark hair and stubble and the type of build Sally would go for.”

  Joy laughed. “Kate is quite the businesswoman. I’ll bet that’s why she selected Jeffrey in the first place.”

  “No doubt.”

  Logan sauntered down the stairs like a poised model and sat down. He had a close-cropped, perfectly manicured beard and mustache. His red hair was short on the sides but longer on top, where it flared dramatically to the side. He wore a black V-neck T-shirt with the family logo of a wolf howling at the moon beside a bunch of grapes. Some fine red chest hair peeked out from the base of the V-neckline. “It’s weird to see you this way, guys. Party one minute and being grilled the next. No offense.” He crossed one leg over the other and clasped his hands over his knee.

  “None taken,” said Max. “What can you tell us about Friday night?”

  “Not much—and I mean it. My brothers and I have a pact—when Sally is around, we stick together and stay as far away from her as we can get. The bitch—and I use the term as intended—told Matteo—at our wedding—that she could fuck him straight, and that his hunkiness was wasted on a gay man.”

  “Did she make a scene?” asked Joy.

  “No. She whispered it to him. He told me later—he knew I’d make a scene if he’d told me at the time it happened. So the night of Lizzy’s party, you saw us. Matteo and I sat with our backs to her, and we sat with Liam and Cathy. Alfie and Jack were standing near the wall when you came in. Not a one of us went anywhere near the red dragon—Matteo came up with that nickname. We all used it.”

  “You’re not sorry she’s dead, then?” asked Max.

  “Sure I am. I’m not as cold as she is, but Lizzy deserved better. I have a wonderful family, and Lizzy was part of it—Sally brought her nothing but grief.”

  “Your candor helps, Logan. Need anything else, Max?”

  “Yes, actually. Logan, if I recall correctly, you’re the mad mixer of wines around here, right?”

  Logan unclasped his hands and put them on the table in a way that showed pride of knowledge and status. “I’m our viticulturist. I earned a general degree in botany and specialized in enology, the study of wine-making. I studied in France one summer and Italy the next. The latter is where I met Matteo. These vines are part of me. I cherish them.” Logan put his hands over his heart.

  Joy tilted her head. “Then you must have a license to distribute pesticides. It’s required in California.”

  Logan’s face turned more white than usual. “Well, yes, I do, but what has that got to do with Sally dying of hemlock?”

  “Do you keep pesticides here?” asked Max.

  “No. We do not use pesticides. Pesticides kill off the helpful insects. We maintain natural flora and employ sustainable farming. A bigger problem is mildew, and sometimes we apply mineral oil and sulfur to combat it, but only when and where needed. Am I aware of poisonous plants—sure. But I don’t go around dishing them out to guests who come to dinner—even ones like Sally.”

  “Thanks, Logan,” said Max. “That’s all we need. Send Jack or Liam down.”

  Jack swept down the stairs next. He had a full beard like his dad but had his mother’s fierce green eyes. He had longish red waves of unruly hair that fell to the collar of his white shirt, unbuttoned at the top. It gave him a lion-like appearance, half man, half beast. He sat down and leaned in, ready to attack.

  Max knew his reputation as a drinker. It was no secret. He’d fought it most of his life. His marriage had broken up a couple of years back.

  Max let Joy ask the questions. “What can you tell us about Friday lunch and dinner?”

  “I stopped by at lunch and said hello for Lizzy’s sake—Mother’s orders. I kept my distance at dinner. We all do.” Jack’s tone maintained tight restraint, but his flaring nostrils and blazing eyes revealed his true feelings.

  “Have you had personal run-ins with Sally?” asked Joy.

  Jack paused. “Last year, I was in San Francisco meeting with our marketing company to look at a new label. I was sitting at the bar of my hotel, enjoying a quiet drink, when Sally sat her fake ass down on the stool next to me. She said something about a happy coincidence. She had just finished a business dinner. I asked her where Elliot was, and she said he and my mother had gone foraging all afternoon, so Elliot had turned in early. I’d forgotten my mother was even in town. One drink led to the next, and she came up to my room.”

  “She broke up your marriage?” asked Max.

  Jack’s cheek muscles tensed. “No, Max. I broke up my marriage. Sally wasn’t the first. I drink and I cheat. I’m not proud of it. Victoria had every right to leave me. There’s a difference, though. I cheat, but Sally—she’s a vulture. She waits until a man is vulnerable, then she lands on him and plucks out his eyes and pecks at his liver. I’d been divorced barely a year. I didn’t care who I screwed. Victoria is an incredible woman, and I treated her like crap. I’m a bad drunk. I never hit her, but I ran my fist through a few walls. It never scared me—you know—when it’s you doing it, you just think everyone else will accept it—it’s just who you are. But they don’t. They see the beast you’ve become.”

  Jack gave a sigh of self-loathing before continuing, “I got drunk, and when I did, I didn’t think twice about cheating on Victoria. But I’d never felt as used as when I slept with Sally—that was the day I looked in the eye of the beast. She wanted another go when we got back, but I told her she’d ‘fucked me straight,’ using the line she’d handed Matteo. I was done drinking and lying and cheating. She called me a pathetic drunk. I called her a pathetic slut. And we left it at that. In an odd way, Sally did me a favor.” Jack’s posture relaxed. His shoulders fell, as if the weight had been lifted off. “Sally was my rock-bottom point. When I woke up, I was thoroughly disgusted with myself. I joined A.A. that day, and I’ve been sober ever since. I’m telling you this because it’s part of my recovery. Apologizing to those I’ve hurt. I don’t care who killed Sally. I’m not talking to you for her sake.”

  Max waited for Joy to jump in, since she’d been in charge so far in the interview, but one look at her and he could see she had drifted somewhere, dove into her own rock-bottom memory. “Jack, I’m proud of you, man. You can go.”

  As Jack walked up the stairs, Max asked, “Earth to Dr. Joy Burton.”

  “Think he’ll stay sober?”

  “The odds aren’t great, but all a person can do is try.”

  “Right.” Joy smiled. “One day at a time.”

  Liam, the eldest son at forty-five, sat in the interview seat next. He had a dimpled chin, visible through his close-cropped beard. His sharp features gave him the look of a serious man. As Chief Operating Officer, he ran the day-to-day business of the winery. “I’m not sure I have anything to add, but what do you want to know?”

  Joy asked the usual questions, and Liam gave them information they already knew. He and Cathy had spent their time outside on the patio. Logan and Matteo joined them, and they stayed away from Sally.

  Liam sent Alfie down, the last interview of the day. Alfie dragged the chair against the stone floor and he plunked down with his arms folded over his chest, signaling an adversarial position.

  Max tried his best to get Alfie to relax. He set down his pen. “Thanks for seeing us, Alfie. All we need to know is what you remember of Sally or of Friday lunch and dinner.”

  “I think we’ve all told you plenty, Max. And, as you see, we band of brothers can assure you that our mother had nothing to do with Sally’s death. I don’t know who killed her, but it wasn’t a Wolf.”

  Joy interjected, “Alfie, Max is just doing his job. I’ll ask you to remember that Sally wasn’t the only one poisoned.”

  Alfie shook his head in exasperation. Despite his clean-shaven, freckle-faced appearance, his voice rose in pitch from his first words to his last. “And I’ll ask you to remember this. Max and his father spent Thanksgiving dinners and Christ
mas dinners with us for years—at that same dinner table where Sally died and where he was poisoned. When I was a senior in high school, Max was a freshman. I took care of him. My mother said we owed it to Max, because he didn’t have a mother, and she encouraged us to be his brothers. I introduced him to my friends. My mother was a mother to him as much as to me, so pardon me if I get offended when you and Max even pose the possibility that the beautiful woman upstairs could poison guests at her own dinner table!”

  Joy nodded. “Point taken, Alfie. I don’t think we need anything else.”

  Alfie glared at Max with flared nostrils. “You both should leave now.” Alfie stormed upstairs.

  Max’s phone rang. “Captain Banks?”

  “Max, we just got the report. The mushrooms in the plastic bag taken from the kitchen of the Raedwald’s house are Death Caps.”

  Max argued, “That doesn’t prove Kate or anyone else served them to Sally at lunchtime at the winery.”

  “No, but Kate Raedwald’s prints are on the plastic bag. The chief obtained a warrant for her arrest. Bring her in.”

  “Captain, we’re still interviewing witnesses. This is premature.”

  “Are you arguing with me, Detective King? I said we have a warrant and to bring her in. If you can’t do that, I’ll send an officer who can. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Sorry, captain.” The line went dead.

  Max eyed Joy. “We’ve got a warrant for Kate.”

  14

  When Max and Joy reached the top of the stairs and entered the tasting room, they found all four sons and Red behind the bar. The tasting room was nearly empty but for a young couple on the last stop of their wine tour, who laughed with inebriated ease.

  Jack poured them the last sampling. “Enjoy, and come back and see us again.”

  As the couple sipped and gushed about the great-tasting wine, the pairs of eyes behind the bar shot menacing blows at Max and Joy.

  To Max, it was like facing an impenetrable clan, bearing shields and weapons, standing ready to defend their homeland.

  Max approached the bar. “Where’s Kate? We have a warrant for her arrest.”

  Red exploded, “That’s impossible! Why?”

  The couple turned, displeased with any commotion that rocked their mellow intoxication. The girl scowled with indignation.

  Joy said what she needed to say to appease Red, not necessarily what she believed. “Red, we believe Kate is innocent. But her fingerprints were on the plastic bag containing Death Cap mushrooms taken from your house. That doesn’t mean she’s guilty, but we have to take her in.”

  “She’s not here,” said Alfie.

  “I don’t like this either,” said Max. “But I need you to trust us.”

  “Too late for that!” Alfie raised his voice, and the couple shot more sneering glances their way.

  Max dropped his head. He saw his own reflection in the glossy wood bar. He felt as distorted as the image. He couldn’t look Red in the eyes. No words of wisdom his father had ever given him prepared him for this moment, except Max knew he had to do his job—and he would do it to the best of his ability. He stood his ground and met Red face to face. “Where is she?”

  “I’ll bring her in,” Red offered.

  The couple chatted as if having the time of their lives. They laughed and discussed dinner plans.

  To Max, it all seemed surreal, given his mission to incarcerate Kate Raedwald. His godmother had a saucy mouth that kept her boys in line, even him. But every smile, every deep hug, every Christmas gift and sugar-coated cookie came to mind. Red and Kate watched him graduate from high school, from college, and from the police academy.

  Joy raised her voice a pitch to get Red’s attention. “You remember how I threw my body over Max when he lay on your floor dying? I promise you. I’ll throw my body over Kate’s too. If she’s innocent, we will protect her. Max will protect her.”

  “Kate’s innocent until proven guilty,” Max reminded him.

  Alfie, Jack, Liam, and Logan moved forward to surround their father. Jack’s green eyes flared in anger, but he kept his voice so low, it was more menacing than had he yelled. “You’re not takin’ our mum anywhere.”

  “So be gone, the pair of ye.” Liam set his fists on the bar.

  “Or we’ll toss you out,” added Alfie.

  Max kept his voice so low it rumbled. “Your family has been my family. Every one of you! Start a fight, and all you’re going to do is give the Grape Gulch Gazette a front-page story, a story that will put in jeopardy everything you have worked to build these many years. We’re going. Red, bring Kate to the station, but call me first. Joy and I will be there to take good care of her.”

  The couple tipped back their glasses.

  Red lifted the bar bridge and stepped out. “I know you’re doin’ your job, Max.” Red put a hand on Max’s shoulder. “You were poisoned too, but Kate’s my life. No one will take her from me. Not one of them.” He pointed to his sons. “Not you.”

  Logan added, “You’re one of us, Max. Brothers stand together.”

  The couple slid off of their bar stools. They wobbled toward the door, opened it, and disappeared.

  Max shouted, “Brothers trust each other!”

  Red added, “I’ll call an attorney. And I’ll bring Kate to the station. She’s not at home, so don’t waste your time looking for her.”

  Max couldn’t say it, but relief washed over him. Never did he imagine he might be reciting Miranda rights to Kate Raedwald, who had taken him into her family and called him “my boy.” In heart, he stood with this family—and at this moment, that pitted him against the law and all his father stood for. David King—and other cops—must have to face these canyons of the heart. Duty to uphold the law on one side, duty to family on the other.

  When Max was about ten, he had asked his father, “What happens to me if you die, Pa?”

  David King answered, “Kate Wolf asked me if she could be your godmother. Something happens to me, you’ll have to dye your hair red, grow a beard, and live at the winery. You think I’m tough? Never cross Kate Wolf. She’ll box your ears or mine, if warranted.”

  Max reached the door. He flung it wide and stepped out.

  Joy rushed to catch up. “Do you need to get back to the station before we go to class?”

  Max stopped in his tracks. His hand flew to his head. “Class? Geez, I forgot.”

  “Well, I didn’t, so get your mind in learning mode. I’m a bad-ass teacher who expects her students to perform. No excuses.” Joy stormed past him.

  Max settled into a seat midway up the theater-styled rows in the Price-Wellsman Academy, an east-coast university specializing in sociology, psychology, forensics, police procedures, and criminology with satellites in several states, including California and Virginia, the latter known for training-programs designed specifically for F.B.I. profilers.

  Max sat in his usual aisle seat half way down the semi-circular rows that faced a stage, no more than a platform with a black lectern, and, beyond that, massive whiteboards covered the walls. The room had sound-proof beige walls and fluorescent lighting. Students spilled in and found seats.

  Rather than making an entrance from the side room as Joy had done during Max’s first class, she hovered in front, surrounded by students with questions. But when seven o’clock struck, Joy excused herself, climbed one step to the stage, and stood before the lectern.

  “Toxicology—in short, it is the science of poison. Terms like LD50 ‘median lethal dose’ assess at what level a particular dose of a toxic substance will kill fifty percent of the population. You read in your textbook about toxins and toxicants, and about the various methods of experimentation, but tonight, we will discuss the use of poison in crime.

  “The knowledge of poison stretches back to 4,500 BC. Ancient people discovered toxic plants, and they used poisons to taint their weapons or as medicines—or even for beauty aids. Women dropped belladonna juice into their eyes to dilate their pup
ils—a sign of beauty. Belladonna means ‘beautiful lady.’ Francis Bacon and others recorded recipes for ‘witches flying ointments’ that contained known hallucinogens. And in the Middle Ages, kings and nobles worried about poisoned food and drinks—and rightly so. You might remember the poison poured into the king’s ear in Shakespeare’s play Hamlet or remember when, in the same play, the new king, Hamlet’s uncle, dropped a poisoned pearl into a goblet of wine meant to take Hamlet’s life. I won’t spoil it for you—but it points out the rampant knowledge and use of poisons by killers throughout the ages.

  “Giulia Tofana, a poison-maker in the 1600s, readily sold her concoctions to women seeking poison as an escape from marriage—either by taking it themselves or by administering it to their husbands. Divorce was frowned upon. It’s possible her eighteen-year career took hundreds of lives, for which she and her daughter were eventually executed. And the University of Padua still has its poison garden, where students, centuries ago, studied deadly species of plants.

  “Our modern-day alchemists who use poison to kill are mostly women by percentage, but men use poison too. Belladonna, a notorious woman found guilty of poisoning two children, is suspected of killing numerous others. She sits in prison today. So, how do the most common poisons work? What are the forensic clues that will lead you to find this type of killer?

  “But let’s start with a few fun facts.” Joy pushed a button and a bulleted list appeared on a drop-down screen. She read the list:

  Men, in sheer numbers, kill far more often than women and more violently

  Women rarely kill strangers; they most often kill friends or relatives

  Women prefer to incapacitate victims; perhaps due to a lack of strength

  Most female murderers are first-time offenders (eg. battered wife)

  Women hide their crimes; violence in women is socially unacceptable compared to male killers

  Female serial killers murder for assets or power; men for dominance, control, or sex

  Myth: men don’t poison: from 1980-2008, poison killers were roughly 60% male and 40% female