Dead on the Vine: (Violet Vineyard Murder Mysteries #1 (A Cozy Mystery)) (33 page)

He stared at her a long time before glancing at me, eyes blank as dinner plates. “You all right, Claire?” he asked.

I didn’t answer him. It took all I had to climb to my feet, doubled over by my battered ribs. I staggered past Ben and started climbing, thinking only of Victor.

I remember Ben yelling at me, but nothing more of my ascent to the vineyard. Pain was everything. Pain and fear for Victor.

I stumbled onto my lawn, sweat running down my twitching flesh. My hands were bloody and shaking, my legs felt like rotten toothpicks. I didn’t think I could take another step. Then I saw Victor lying in the yard where I had left him, not far from the incinerated tin-can jumble that had been my car and garage. Black smoke was boiling off Sally’s tires. A ring of burnt grass surrounded the garage, but Victor lay clear of the fire. He wasn’t moving.

I ran to him, almost falling with every step, and dropped to my knees. His face was blistered, his arm as well. Big ugly blisters that were surrounded by raw flesh. I felt for a pulse in his neck and almost screamed with joy when I found it. I laid my hand on his shoulder and screamed; “Call 911!” at Ben, who had climbed up and was crossing the yard. Ben’s clothes were dusty and a scratch on his forehead was sending blood down his right cheek. He didn’t even look my way.

Samson pulled up in his jeep at that moment and he climbed out, eyes bugging at the still smoldering garage. He came toward Victor and me at a shambling run.

“Call 911!” I yelled at him. Ben had stopped walking and was watching us with complete detachment. Samson kept coming, running like an animated scarecrow.

“Is he—“ Samson began as he slid to a halt, wheezing, hand on his chest.

“Damn it!” I screamed at him, out of control. “Call 911!”

“I will call,” he said, his voice calm, knocking my own fear back a step. “Stay with him, de Montagne.” Samson ran back to the house. By the time he got back I was shaking uncontrollably, teeth clacking.

“They are coming,” he said, and then, “Your face! Are you fine?” He lowered himself to one knee and put his hand on my shoulder. I jerked away reflexively. “Are you all right, de Montagne?” he asked, his voice steady. He touched Victor’s shoulder and there were tears in Samson’s eyes.

“No!” I sobbed. “No.” Samson hugged me close. I fell against his chest mindless of the blood I was smearing over his green hound’s-tooth jacket. He stroked my hair and told me it would be fine. I didn’t believe him, but I felt comforted. Like a child again, seeking protection in my father’s arms.

Minutes after the fire trucks arrived, the ambulance took Victor away with a blast of sirens and flashing lights. There were tubes in his arms and nose. There was no ambulance for Laurel. She remained on the slope below. I argued desperately to be allowed to ride with Victor, but by then a pair of deputies had arrived. They told me I had to stay, and when they brought out the handcuffs I relented. I limped over to the patio where Samson was sitting. My knee throbbed and my side was killing me. My hands were battered and bloody, but I didn’t even think about medical attention for myself. Nothing seemed broken. I eased myself into a chair beside Samson.

Midge Tidwell had arrived before the trucks, and only minutes before Priest drove up. Both of them went down slope where Ben waited near the body. More cops followed. Twenty minutes later, Priest came back with Ben and Midge. Priest looked green around the edges. He strode over, rigid as an infantryman and stopped in front of me.

“Guess you were right,” he said but it wasn’t a compliment. “And I guess Stoltze came along just in time,” he added. Ben was right behind Priest.

“What the hell does that mean, Doug?” He snapped and Priest spun on his heel to face his boss.

“What exactly were you doing here?” he asked with hostile sarcasm. “Checking up on old girlfriends?”

“You son of a bitch,” Ben breathed. It was the first emotion I had seen from him that day.

“You had to kill her?” Priest demanded. “No other choice?”

“She was about to kill me!” I butted in, anger running like electricity through the words. “She had almost killed Victor!”

Priest glanced at me, then back at Ben, waiting for an answer that didn’t come. Ben just stared at the younger detective.

“Did you give her a chance to surrender?” Priest asked. “Did you even try?” Priest swallowed hard. His hands were shaking. “You killed her,” he said and I thought he was going to take a swing at Ben.

“I had no choice, detective,” Ben said flatly.

“Sanctimonious bastard,” Priest snarled. “Everything’s wrapped up now, huh? You two,” his eyes flashed briefly on me, filled with hatred, “can sip wine in the sun, but a woman that never had a chance is dead.”

“Detective—“ Ben began, but Priest wasn’t listening. He brushed past Ben and strode toward his county car.

“This isn’t over,” he yelled as he opened the car door. “Not by a long shot. You think you’ve won, Stoltze, but I’ll see you out of your job by the end of the week. About the same time Buford Logan walks off death row.” He climbed into his car and slammed the door, backed up, and peeled off as Ben watched in stony silence.

“De Montagne, what is happening here?” Samson whispered, but Ben heard him.

“He was screwing Mrs. Harlan,” Ben said. “I followed him this morning. He had her shacked up in that seedy little Windjammer Motel on the other side of the Mayacamas. He’s the one that’s out of a job. I filled out the paperwork this morning.”

“Why the hell didn’t you arrest her?” I said, repelled by Ben’s coldness.

Ben closed his eyes and shook his head. “I wanted to give Priest a chance to bring her in. A chance to save his reputation, if not his job.”

“And now Victor’s in the hospital, maybe dying. He—” I tried to continue but choked up again. “Damn you, Ben,” I finished, barely able to see him through the tears.

Ben stared at me a long moment, then turned his back. “Take her to the hospital, Samson. We’ll get your statements later,” he said and walked back to the smoldering garage where Midge Tidwell and the forensics team were looking over Sally’s burned-out corpse. Sally’s tires had been doused, and the whole mess was sodden from the fire hoses, the grass rutted by the big trucks. I watched Ben go with a sinking feeling in my gut and a sense of desolation. My whole world was falling apart, and Ben was at the center of it all.

“Damn you, Ben,” I whispered as Samson’s arm encircled my shoulder. I reached up and squeezed his withered hand and he tried to smile at me, but his smile wasn’t working.

“Let us go to Victor, de Montagne,” he said in a gentle voice I didn’t know he possessed.

Samson drove us to the hospital in his Jeep. I didn’t even wait for the wheels to stop turning before I jumped out and ran gimpily on my injured knee through the emergency room doors. Victor was in surgery, the officious nurse behind the desk told me. She asked me about next of kin and my knees went weak.

“It’s a standard question,” she reassured me with a thin smile. I explained that Victor’s mother and father lived in the Rio Grande valley in Texas so I was probably the closest thing to a relative within 1000 miles. In response to that she handed me a stack of papers attached to a clipboard and a pen. I was getting good at the hospital’s forms. I could probably fill them out blindfolded.

Samson stayed with me, feeding me endless cups of vending machine coffee and bitching about the hospital staff. Victor was in surgery for three hours. He had suffered third degree burns on his neck and arm. When the doctor came out to the waiting area she looked waxy and tired, deep circles ringing her eyes. She gave me a tremulous smile and yawned, covering her mouth and blushing.

“Long day,” she said. “On top of a long night. Flu’s got half the staff out and the other half working doubles.” She gave us a wry smile. “Lucky me, I’m healthy as a horse. You look awful by the way. Do you need medical attention?” Her eyes went to my hands and concern washed away the fatigue etched into her face. “You need those cleaned and bandaged. Even minor cuts can get infected.”

“I’ll do it myself,” I assured her quickly. “I’ve had lots of experience. How is Victor?” I asked while Samson breathed raggedly down my neck. I should probably have checked him back into the hospital while I was there.

“He’s going to be in a lot of pain,” the doctor said cautiously, “but he’s strong. He’ll pull through just fine.”

“Thanks be to God,” Samson said and my legs went wobbly.

“Can we see him?” I asked. The doctor was shaking her head before the words left my mouth.

“Not tonight. He’s heavily sedated and we don’t want him disturbed. Why don’t you two get some rest and come back tomorrow? He’ll be fine, trust me.”

“Thank you so much,” I told her and squeezed her hand.

“Get some rest,” she said and left us to trudge down the hall, shoulders slumped, feet dragging. “And bandage those hands,” she called back over her shoulder.

Samson stayed the night in the guestroom, his snores echoing down the hall, driving me nuts. I tossed and turned for an hour, images of Laurel and Victor, of blood and bullets playing across my mental drive-in. Finally I gave up and got up.

I rinsed my face in cold water, pulled on a pair of jeans that were hanging over the lip of the hamper and slipped into a clean T-shirt. I went down to the kitchen and put coffee on. I made it weak, still hoping for a little rest. With a cigarette and itchy eyes I waited for it to perk, watching the clock’s second hand spin, trying desperately not to think. It was almost 5:00 A.M. I winced. There seemed little point in even thinking about going back to bed. 

As the pot spewed and steamed, I pulled my cellular phone from my purse, and dialed the hospital. I gave my name and asked for an update on Victor’s condition. The reply I got was ‘stable and sleeping’. I thanked the woman, hung up and poured a cup of coffee. I’d drive down there later. But for now, there was nothing to do.

It was still hard for me to believe that Laurel was dead. Probably because my hatred for her burned even hotter and brighter now, hatred that was pointless, and maybe borderline crazy. And that frightened me. I shook myself and lit another cigarette, stuffed the pack and the lighter into my pants pocket and went out on the patio. The view of Winter’s grave only added to my grief. I stared at the hole under the willow for a long time, too tired to cry, then took my coffee cup into the rows, trailing cigarette smoke like a freight train.

The green vines stood above my head, their tendrils reaching out to brush my arms. I stopped and did some rearranging, though I could barely see. A calming tide seeped up from the fertile earth and into my blood. This was my place. Where I belonged. I would be okay. And Jenna and Winter…well, Laurel was dead and that was the only comfort I was going to find there. And very poor comfort it was. I continued down the row, dragging my toes in the tilled earth.

I stopped at the end of the row, stooped and stubbed out my cigarette. I tucked the butt inside the cellophane of the pack, and shook out another cigarette. As I dragged my lighter out of my pocket I also dug out a shiny slip of something that fluttered to the ground at my feet. I knelt and picked up the purple foil capsule I had taken from Laurel’s kitchen. I had forgotten it, never checking it against the bottles in my personal stock. It was pointless now, Laurel wouldn’t be charged with vandalism in this life. Without reason other than the need for a distraction I turned and went back up the row to the cellar. The cellar door was padlocked again, so I went back through the kitchen and down the stairs, carrying my now cold coffee. I crossed the cold floor and unlocked the door to my private cellar.

This area of the cellar is one of my favorite places on earth. Sometimes I go down there just to sit and think. The room’s only furniture consists of a small table and two tall chairs. The rest is all racks and shelves. The smell of the cedar racks and the dusky, sweet smell of wine has a calming effect on me. This time all I noticed were the missing bottles and the purple splatters. I looked for the excess bottles Samson had hand-corked for the lady’s brunch. It took me several minutes. Nothing was where it should have been. I was about to give up when I spotted them on the bottom of the far rack. Both of them. I knelt and drew the two bottles out of the rack. The gold lettering was clear to read, there was no mistake. 2008 V.R. in Samson’s handwriting.

I sat there cradling the two bottles like a mother with twins. Samson had bottled five bottles of wine for me. Two had been drunk with Marjory and the ladies at the brunch and two were still here. And the other I had given to…My heart sank and my head reeled as the memory hit me. Numbly, I slid the bottles back in the rack, stood and dusted off my knees. I had to be wrong. I had to be!

I climbed the stairs to the kitchen and glanced at the clock: 5:45. She wouldn’t be at work yet.

“To hell with it,” I said and dialed information. I couldn’t wait. I had to know. I asked for Midge Tidwell’s home phone number and was relieved that it wasn’t unlisted. I dialed and waited doggedly through a dozen rings before the sleepy deputy picked up.

“Hello,” she said and then coughed and cleared her throat in my ear. “Excuse me. Who is this?”

“Claire de Montagne,” I said.

“Mrs. de Montagne? What’s up?” She yawned loudly. “I didn’t order a wakeup call.”

“It’s about the unidentified print on the shovel used to kill Kevin Harlan,” I began.

“A palm print to be precise,” she cut in, suddenly alert. “Still unidentified.”

“Do you have access to fingerprints for the deputies and detectives on the force?” I asked, knowing I was on shaky ground.

“Who are you talking about?” she asked cautiously.

I quickly explained who and what I was talking about, and then told her why I suspected him. She didn’t like what I had to say any more than I liked saying it.

“I like you Mrs. de Montagne, but that’s a load of crap. I can’t believe you’d even say that!”

“Just check it out,” I begged. “If I’m wrong, so be it, but if I’m right…”  God, I hoped I
was
wrong

“I’ll check,” she said, “but I’m telling you, you’re crazy.”

“Thanks—” I began, but Midge had hung up on me.

.