A Vintage To Die For (Violet Vineyard Murder Mysteries Book 2) (14 page)

“Twelfth row up,” Hunter said and Midge nodded. She flicked me a neutral look then drove on.

Another squad car came through the gate and, ten seconds later, a third police car pulled in. Hunter must have called out the cavalry before heading to Angela’s.

Hunter looked at me. “Wait here,” he said and got out.

The squad cars pulled up and four uniformed officers, two female, two male, piled out. Hunter talked and pointed and the male deputies climbed back into their car. The female officers spoke to Hunter for another few minutes then headed into the winery. Hunter waved at me to stay put, then headed up the slope, leaving me alone in his truck.

I wasn’t alone for long. Not five minutes after Hunt disappeared, I saw a car’s headlights flick on up at Angela’s house. The lights came slowly down the driveway and turned toward the winery. As it neared, I saw it was a blue Acura SUV I recognized as Angela’s.

When she reached the parking lot, I got out of the truck and flagged her down.

Angela stopped and climbed out of the car wearing a bathrobe and a pair of ratty old slippers with wilted rabbit ears glued to the toes. She was makeup-less and pale, her complexion tinged gray around the edges, her eyes sunk deep into their sockets like a trapped animal’s.

“Claire?” she said, the single word containing a dozen questions and a trembling fear.

I stepped close to her and gripped her forearm. There was no gentle way to tell her, no words that would soften the blow. “It’s Jorge, Angela. There’s been a terrible accident,” I told her, keeping my suspicions to myself. This was not the time for them. “He’s dead.”

Angela’s eyes went up the slope where the two patrol cars were parked, their red and blue lights turning, creating a rippling light shown across the vine covered hillside.

“My God, he killed Jorge,” she whispered, her gaze still on the hillside. “He really did it.”

“Who killed him?” I asked immediately. “Who? Blake Becker?”

She shook her head. “No,” she said, but it wasn’t an answer to my question, it was a refusal to answer.

“Angela—” I squeezed her forearm harder. “You have to tell Hunter who it is.”

“No,” she said again. “Let me go, Claire.”

“Angela—” I began, but she jerked her arm free.

“Stay away from me!” she barked at me, then turned abruptly and walked back to her car. 

“Angela!” I yelled at her back, but she ignored me. She climbed into her car, put it into gear and made a U-turn. As she passed me, she gave me a look filled with fear. At the Y, she turned toward the house.

I almost followed her - it was obvious she was in some kind of shock.
And
she knew who had killed Jorge. But what was I going to do about it? Beat it out of her? I climbed back into Hunter’s truck. I’d let him handle Angela.

Time
passed and the
night deepened toward early morning. Hunter stayed in the rows with Jorge as more deputies arrived. Two of them went to the house and one of them stopped to talk to me - recording my statement on a digital device - before he joined Hunter and the rest of the cops up on the hill.

It was 3:20AM before the ME’s van arrived. Fifteen minutes later it departed the property with Jorge in the back. Hunter came downhill on foot not long after that. He stopped by his truck, where I was still sitting in the passenger seat. He opened the door for me and gestured me out.

“Sorry to keep you here so long,” he said, but I’m not sure if he really meant it. He stepped over to my Jeep. “But you can go now.” He opened the driver’s door and stepped aside.

“Not yet,” I told him. “Angela came over not long after you went up the hill. When I told her Jorge was dead she said: ‘He did it. He killed Jorge’.” My eyes went back up the slope to the brightly lit spot in the rows and I shivered and looked back at Hunter. “She knows who killed him.”

“Was she drunk?” he asked, and there was an edge to his tone I didn’t like.

“No,” I said and then hurried on. “But I think Jorge told her who killed Dimitri. You need to get her to tell you who that was before he kills someone else.”

Hunter swiped his hand across his forehead and shook his head. “This doesn’t look like murder to me, Claire. I think Jorge got drunk and forgot to set the brake on the tractor and…” he lifted his shoulders and let them fall.

“What about the wire wrapped around his wrist? It looked like someone tied him to the post and then rammed the tractor into his head,” I persisted.

Hunter shook his head at that. “It looks like he was trying to stretch a wire using the tractor instead of a hand-winch, got tangled up, and was in the wrong place when the tractor lunged forward.”

That was possible, but I still wasn’t buying it. “Why did the tractor suddenly lunge forward?” I asked. “And why would he wrap the wire around his wrist? And—”

“Enough,
Claire,” Hunter said. “It’s too late, and we’re both too tired to be having this conversation.
Go home.”
 

I started to argue, to really lay into him, but he was right about one thing: I
was
too tired to go head to head with him at that moment. But this was far from over.

“I’ll see you in the morning, sheriff,” I said tersely and turned hard on my heel. “At Samson’s bail hearing.”

“Claire,” he said, but I was done listening to him. I jumped into the Jeep, slammed the door and cranked the engine. I shoved it into gear and burned a strip of rubber as I shot across the parking lot.

Chapter 15

The alarm woke me
at 6:30 from an unrestful sleep. Another night with less than three hours’ sleep. I felt like the walking dead. And the face in the mirror over the bathroom sink did nothing to counter that assessment. I looked as haggard and ragged as I felt, and the icy shower I took did little to change that feeling. I actually had to put on some makeup to cover the worst of the fatigue lines and the shadows under my eyes. I tamed my short hair with five minutes of blow drying and dressed in pair of dark slacks, a blue blouse and black flats. Courtroom clothes.

I had made coffee and toast by the time Victor arrived. He begged off on even that meager breakfast. He had dressed up for the day as well, in a white dress shirt and khakis, his stringy hair pulled back into a tight ponytail, revealing the whorled burn-scars he had acquired last year when my barn burnt down around him. The outfit was a big improvement over the ragged concert t-shirt and battered shorts he normally sported, but he looked as exhausted as I felt. I dreaded telling him about Jorge. Though I had been friends with Jorge for longer than Victor had been alive, the bond between the two men - both vineyard foremen and members of the tightly knit Hispanic community - was far stronger. But I had to tell him.

He listened in silence, his expression going as cold and bloodless as a stone by the time I had finished.

“Jorge said he knew who the killer was?” he asked, but continued before I could reply. “It seems awful convenient that the one man who knew who the killer was is dead.”

“Exactly!” I said, too loudly, thrilled that someone else had come to the same conclusion I had. But my mood of sudden elation came down as fast as a shot-gunned balloon. “And Samson is going to pay for it,” I said grimly.

“Let’s go get him out of jail,” Victor said, going all practical once again.

We trudged out to his truck and headed down into Napa, a twenty-five mile trip that took close to an hour. He dropped me at the front entrance of the County Court building then circled to the parking lot to find a space. Samson's arraignment should begin shortly. After the bail had been set, I’d have to go to the bank and see if I could squeeze enough blood from the bedrock of my shaky finances to get him out of jail.

But I was saved that trip to the bank when my banker intercepted me on the front steps of the County courthouse.

Unfortunately, my absentee-husband,
Roger de Montagne, is also my banker. Sort of. To be more precise, he sits on the board of directors of the First Napa Bank and Trust, just like his father and grandfather had before him. In Northern California the de Montagnes are what many refer to as old money. Others call them robber barons. But Roger doesn’t do much robbing - he’s too busy spending the family fortune on a series of lovely young girls who have really bad taste in men.

While Roger collects a healthy check from the bank, he’s rarely seen on the premises, but he was at the courthouse on official bank business that day. Business that had a direct impact on me.

I was halfway up the steps when he came through the courthouse doors. He stopped at the top of the steps, blocking my way. “Atrocious, isn't it, that our paths only seem to cross at bail hearings lately,” he said with a smile, referring to a similar predicament just last year when someone we both cherished had been arrested for a crime she did not commit.

Roger’s hair, or whoever’s hair he was wearing, was rich and dark and perfectly groomed. His skin was the color of tanned deerskin and just as flawless as his hair, thanks to some artful plastic surgery and hours on a tanning bed. But he was fighting a losing battle against age. His shoulders sagged and his waistline bulged in the expensive, slim-cut suit he was wearing and nothing could hide the liver spots dotting his hands.

I squeezed my eyes closed tight and gritted my teeth. Roger has the knack of showing up when I least want to see him, a habit he had started on our wedding day.

“Hello, Roger,” I said as I opened my eyes and looked at him without pleasure.

“It’s a shame we should be surrounded by such ugly incidents.” His eyes drifted past me to the sidewalk where a pair of elderly tourists, stooped under the weight of multiple shopping bags, was passing. Roger waved at them.

“Hello there! Welcome to Napa! Have a drink!”

The man looked startled for a moment then waved tentatively back before ducking his head. The woman never even looked our way.

“Why are you here?” I asked. “Did Jess call you? We don’t need any help with this—”

“Always the Spartan,” Roger said, smiling with his perfect teeth. He dropped into a fighter’s crouch, threw up his fists and churned the air, poking his fist at nothing and looking like a complete idiot. “Taking on all comers and showing no mercy.”

“Roger, I’m not in the mood—”

“You so rarely are,” he said wistfully as he dropped his hands, but he didn't get out of the way. “But fear not,” he told me, “I am not here to rescue you
or
seduce you.”

“Roger,” I said again. I didn’t have time for this, though his sense of humor and ribald fun had been one of the things that had attracted me to him back when we were in high school. That and his Chevy Nova with the air intake and the spoiler. Fastest car in town.

He sighed and got down to business, though it seemed to pain him. He clasped his manicured hands and frowned dolefully. “I have devastating news, I’m afraid. Brace yourself, my love:” he paused for effect. “It’s over between us. I’m leaving you.”

“It was over a long time ago. Before our fifth anniversary, in fact.”

“The most powerful emotions can be felt in a single heartbeat. And time is truly irrelevant when you speak of love. A year can pass like a second, a second can last a year.” He paused and looked at me speculatively. “It wasn't all bad,” he added almost reproachfully then threw an open palm up before I could reply. “Of course, I remember the tears and harsh words. But I remember laughter as well. Laughter and some joy.”

“And as soon as the laughter stopped, you bolted.” That was petty, but I said it anyway.

Roger cocked his head as he considered that. “I moved off to a safe distance,” he said judiciously. “And, by the time I came home, the locks had been changed and my clothing had been boxed up. Sadly, the only thing more potent than your love is your anger. Positively withering.”

That stung a little, but I knew it had a kernel of truth. I had been sterner with him than I needed to be, I suppose. But that didn’t excuse his behavior. He had a responsibility to his daughter, if not his wife. He had shirked that.

“A safe distance away from poopy diapers and 6:00 AM feedings,” I said.

“Poopy diapers?” he said with a chuckle. “Who wouldn’t run from that?”

I smiled back, the tense moment passing. “So, you want a divorce?” I asked. “Who is she?”

“Penelope,” he said. “She is a lovely creature, though she pales in comparison with you.”

I had to laugh, though it wasn’t that funny. And I was surprised I was actually feeling a little twinge of sadness. We had been married in the truest sense for only a short time, but I had never really stopped thinking of him as my husband, as crazy as that might sound. But another, larger feeling was relief. We should have done this long ago. Twenty-three years ago to be exact.

“Have your attorney write up the papers and I’ll sign them,” I said.

Roger looked flummoxed. “You know, it saddens me this decision is so easy for you.” He held up a palm again as if I might protest, which I was not planning to do. “I didn't expect tears or lamentations, but a quick kick to the groin or even a knuckle sandwich would have been kinder than this indifference.”

“Roger…” I said with a note of warning in my voice.

“So be it,” he said. “But there’s still the matter of a settlement. I was thinking about Violet. Would that be enough?”

“What?” I said, confused by the turn in the conversation, and instantly wary. My purchase of Violet, and my refusal to use his money or have his name on the deed, had been the final stroke of the axe that brought down our marriage.

“That place is mortgaged to the hilt. I know, we hold the paper. Let’s say I pay it off? I mean, it ended our love affair, so why shouldn’t it be the end of our marriage?”

“That isn't necessary,” I said a little too sharply, loathing the idea. Being debt free would be outstanding, and maybe someday that would happen, but not like this. I wanted exactly what I had been getting from Roger for the last twenty-three years: nothing.

“If you change your mind...” he said.

“Save the money for your next divorce,” I said and gave him a sliver of a smile. “And the one after that, too.”

“Now that is unkind,” he said good-naturedly, “But maybe not inaccurate.”

I glanced at my watch. Court was about to start. “I have to go, Roger. Samson is—”

“I know,” he said. “I have to say I am
not
shocked the old lunatic ended up in jail. There has been more than one occasion when I thought of having him arrested myself.”

“You have a way of provoking him,” I pointed out.

“My presence seems to be provocation enough. The man never liked me.”

I couldn’t argue with that. And I didn’t have time. “Actually, I’m glad I ran into you,” I said. “I’m not sure how much cash I’m going to need for his bail, but I might be asking for another loan on Violet…” This was one time that Roger’s standing at the bank might actually help me. As he had pointed out, Violet was already deeply mortgaged, but a word from him into a loan officer’s ear would smooth the way for one more loan. I probably wouldn’t have accepted that help for myself, but I was willing to swallow my pride for Samson’s sake.

“Bail has already been set and paid,” Roger replied. “I had a word with the judge and he agreed to do the arraignment ahead of schedule and in his chambers. The lovely widow Pappos is paying the bail as we speak.”

“What?”

“Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars, which seems like far too little to keep that old desperado in check. Not to mention it was a bit shocking the widow seemed intent on freeing the man who has been accused of killing her husband.”

“What?” I exclaimed again, ever eloquent in the face of the unexpected. “She did what?”

Roger ignored my question and kept talking. He was hard to shut down when he was talking about his favorite subject: money. “I will say that paying the bail in cash was a judicious fiscal move. The sum will be refunded minus a small fee when Samson appears at trial. No sense paying a bondsman’s fee when you have four million dollars on deposit.”

“Alexandra has four million dollars?”

Roger shrugged. “I don’t know how much she’s worth; she doesn’t bank with us. The cash was drawn on Samson’s account. He gave her limited power of attorney.”

“What?”

Roger misinterpreted my shock. “It was all above board,” he hurried to say. “I took the authorization papers to Samson this morning. He wasn't very thankful. He yelled a lot of what I assume are Greek curse words. Fortunately, I only speak one language. My feelings can only be hurt in English.”

“Samson has four million dollars?” I grabbed Roger’s lapel.

Roger looked at my hand, rumpling his spotless suit. I released him and he smoothed the wrinkles flat as he spoke.

“He has considerably more than that. The four million is in money market accounts. His stock holdings are double that.” He looked at me. “I would have thought you knew,” he said, his eyebrows raised in silent question. “After all, you are the beneficiary of the accounts.”

“What?” I yelped again. “Me?”

“He never told you?” he asked, a smile playing across his over-tanned face. And he wonders why I booted him out of the house more than twenty years ago.

“No,” I said, grinding the words through my teeth. Samson’s financial situation was none of my business – and I sure didn’t want to inherit his fortune - but I was irrationally annoyed I had been so clueless. Not to mention the cheap old coot never reached for the check when the beer tab came due at Shaky’s Tavern. But, as shocking as all that information was, the fact that Alexandra had been the one to bail him out was absolutely stupefying. What the heck was going on? It was obvious from their interaction at the party Samson knew Alexandra but, judging by Samson’s reaction, they were not friends. How much was Samson, the millionaire curmudgeon, keeping from me?

I had no idea. But I was going to find out if I had to wring his bony neck!

“I have to go,” I said to Roger. “But have your attorney send me the divorce paperwork.”

Roger nodded. “A farewell kiss?” he asked hopefully.

“Not a chance,” I said as I stuck out my hand. He took it and squeezed.

“And a handshake ends a love affair,” he said wistfully.

“Better than a kick in the groin,” I said, only half-joking.

“Marginally,” he conceded. “I’ll be in touch,” he added and we parted.

But I didn’t make it through the front doors before Victor came out of them.

“Alexandra—” he started, but I held up my hand.

“Roger just told me. Where's Samson?”