Midnight Harvest (64 page)

“You say that the blood is his?” Porter asked.

“There’s a little of mine. But I clipped his side with my shotgun, and I gave him a flesh wound in the shoulder. It wasn’t really bad. The blood didn’t … you know … spurt, so I didn’t hit any important blood vessels. Still, he bled a lot.” She could feel her bravado slipping, and went on, “I don’t know what to say, all things considered.” As she finished up her brandy, she held the snifter out to Saint-Germain; “I’ve changed my mind. Give me a splash more.”

He took the snifter and went to her cabinet. “The Mattei again?”

“Yes, please.” She made herself look squarely at Inspector Porter. “How are we supposed to do this?”

“I need to ask you some questions,” said Porter, falling into the automatic habits of his profession; he took a notebook and pencil from his inner jacket pocket. “Tell me as much as you can remember.”

She took the snifter back from Saint-Germain—he had put in rather more than a splash—and held it, looking over the rim as if to ensure protection. “Where would you like me to start?”

This sensible question took Porter aback. He frowned, then said, “Start, if you would, at the time you went to bed.”

Rowena cocked her head. “I had a quiet evening; I dined alone about seven, and cleared up after myself. I listened to the radio—to the news, and then the concert from Cleveland—and then spent some time working on sketches. Beethoven helps me think, as Brahms helps me feel. It was a good concert, I think; Beethoven’s
Pastoral,
and the third and fourth
Brandenburg Concerti.
” She sipped her brandy. “I went to bed around ten, or a little after. I came up, washed my face and brushed my hair, then got ready for sleep. I have been reading
The Dream Life of Balso Snell,
and I managed another dozen pages before the sentences began to blur, and I turned off the light. When I woke up again, I went for my shotgun.” Although she had been speaking easily enough, her throat now felt tight. “When I was in my twenties, I was kidnapped,” she said. “I have tended to keep weapons near at hand ever since.”

“Oh, dear. Were you ransomed?” Porter asked.

“No; I was rescued.” She volunteered nothing more.

“You were very fortunate,” said Porter, thinking of the most recent kidnappings to command public attention; he shuddered. “I can see why you might have a gun or two in the house.”

“In my armoire,” she said. “When I woke—it was one-seventeen, according to my bedside clock—I think it was because I heard something untoward, and it warned me.”

“What kind of thing?” Porter inquired, his pencil poised.

“I don’t know,” she answered. “Something that was wrong enough to wake me. I listened for a while, and then I took a chance and got out of bed so I’d have my shotgun. It should be up in the bedroom.”

“It is, and a German pistol,” said Inspector Porter.

Rowena took a long, shaky breath. “I hid, and waited for the man to try to find me. I could hear him in the corridor, opening one door and then another. I did my best to keep track of where he was by the sounds he made. I recognized the bathroom door because it has a squeaky hinge. I think he even opened the linen closet. My room is at the end of the corridor, and that gave me time to get ready.”

“Your telephone is on this floor?” Porter asked, although he knew the answer.

“I have a twenty-foot cord and can bring it upstairs, but not as far as my bedroom.” Rowena quivered. “I should have ordered a thirty-foot cord.”

“He might have cut it in any case,” said Porter. “We’ll contact the telephone company to get your line fixed.” He flipped his notebook to the next page. “What happened when he reached your room?”

She told him haltingly, trying to be precise but put off by the shock that held her. From time to time he asked her to repeat some part of a response, or to clarify what she had said. It took almost an hour for her to answer all the questions Inspector Porter put to her, and when he closed his notebook and put away his pencil, she said, “Do you require anything else of me tonight?” She was still feeling rattled, and she was almost sure she had forgotten something important that the man had said to her, but she could not call it to mind.

“I don’t think so, not right now,” said Porter, glancing at the policemen coming in from the back door. “Anything?”

“He’s gone,” said one of the officers. “I think he had a car parked on Mason. The blood stops there, on the sidewalk. First thing in the morning, we’ll start canvassing.”

“Good,” said Porter. He looked at Rowena. “You might want to go with your friend tonight, Miss Saxon. We got a lot to do here still.”

She nodded mutely and turned to Saint-Germain, trying to find the words to ask him to help her. “I … If you…”

“I’ll go pack your bag for you. If you need to get new clothes, Mr. Rogers can take you shopping,” said Saint-Germain. “Do you mind if I pack for her?” he asked Inspector Porter.

“Go ahead. I’ll go up with you.” Inspector Porter watched Rowena for several seconds. “You’re either very lucky or very resourceful, Miss Saxon. If you hadn’t kept your composure, this evening might have had a very different outcome.”

Rowena folded her arms. “Yes, Inspector,” she said, too exhausted to shiver any longer. “I know.”

T
EXT OF A LETTER FROM
C
ARLO
P
IETRAGNELLI AT
P
ONDEROSA
L
ODGE TO
F
ERENC
R
AGOCZY IN
S
AN
F
RANCISCO
.

PONDEROSA LODGE

LAKE TAHOE, CALIFORNIA

April 13, 1937

Ferenc Ragoczy

c/o Oscar King

King Lowenthal Taylor & Frost

630 Kearny Street

San Francisco, California

Dear Mr. Ragoczy,

Only my son has refused to stay here with me, and I have therefore decided to accept your offer of a guard for him. He is in Davis, and the White Legion must surely know it With Sophia and Ethan here, and Angelina, I am beginning to understand that you were right, and there is an advantage in being away from the winery, though I am still vexed by having to be gone during this onerous time, and I am worried for Adrianna, I am sorry to have to admit it, but I am a fair man, and so I will acknowledge that we are better-off for taking your advice.

The reports I have received from the guards have been encouraging. I begin to think the culprits will be apprehended, and once that has happened, we may return and help the law to take its course. I am relieved to have such diligent men looking after the plantations, because I can be tranquil in the certainty that they will do their utmost to maintain the land and the vines as well as the men who work for me. The guards are truly meticulous in their duties, and I know that from Will Sutton’s letters as well as the guards’ reports, which is most reassuring. It is comforting to have the evaluations of sensible persons at times like these.

Mrs. Curt has been a wonderful hostess to all of us, putting us in her best cabins, and making us feel like we’re on vacation instead of hiding out. That’s probably why I have asked her to put me to work while I am here, for I am not accustomed to staying idle, and I don’t want to be left with nothing to do but contemplate the worst Also, from what I can see, she could use a little help around the place. I’ve told her that I can do all manner of repairs as well as painting and the like. This is a beautiful place and it’s a shame to let it get run-down.

One of the pleasures of being here has been the opportunity to catch up on my reading. I hadn’t realized how little I have been doing in the last months; here I can spend an hour or two a day reading various volumes of fiction and nonfiction, and have the chance to think about what I am reading. I have also been browsing through the dictionaries Mrs. Curt has here. I have always liked dipping into dictionaries—you find the most amazing things in them. Yesterday I came upon
laniate
(to rend, tear) and
oenomancy
(telling fortunes with wine); I was especially taken with the latter, as you might believe. To the extent that I am making the most of this time, I am very glad to be given it, without the constant worry of shattering windows.

Agreeable as my time here is, I don’t want to have to be here many more weeks, so anything you can do to help along our resolution, I’ll be more grateful than I am already. I can tell it would be almost too easy to let everything drag on, and I would not have a good harvest, and my workers would be annoyed for being left to face the risks without me there to share them. Letting this procrastination continue, unless it’s absolutely necessary, in which case it isn’t really procrastination, will only make it harder to resume our old way of life when matters are finally settled. At the same time, I do want them settled so we will not have to take measures of this sort again. Not that I would object to coming here again, for I would not, if it were truly to have a vacation and not as an escape from danger. Keep that in mind while you go on trying to stop the White Legion and the Leonardis. My family has endured a lot—I don’t want them to suffer any more than necessary.

It’s not that I’m unmindful of what you have done, for that isn’t true. I might have succumbed to the attacks if I hadn’t had the staunch sponsorship you have given me. But you have learned to live as an exile, which, I fear, it isn’t in me to do. My vineyard, my winery, are as much a part of me as my blood, and any loss of it is like bleeding, and it will be as deadly as an open vein. That may mean I am lacking inflexibility of character, in which case, so be it.

I look forward to hearing from you. It is consoling to have your telephone calls, and I thank you for sustaining the expense, as you have sustained so many others.

Cordially and appreciatively,

Carlo Pietragnelli

chapter six

Oscar King studied the man on the other side of the desk: the two men were about the same age and similar build, with the kind of studied demeanor that came from years in front of juries; the judge cleared his throat and shook his head, and King said, “
You
called
me,
Your Honor; I’m here at your request. Having nothing else to go on, I take it this is about the two young men the guards at the Pietragnelli Vineyards brought in.”

“Yep,” said the Honorable George Cavendish. His official robe hung on a coat-rack in the corner, a subtle reminder of his status.

“I have been told they aren’t being held in the jail; that you’ve released them to their parents, no bond. Is that correct?”

“It seemed the best way to handle things,” said Cavendish.

“And I assume, since you endorse that policy, that you are going to explain your position on the case?” King asked.

“It’s more of an approach than a position,” said Cavendish with careful reserve.

“You’re going to outline your approach, then? For my benefit?” King duly modified his inquiry, doing his best to be cooperative without conceding anything to Judge Cavendish beyond what civility demanded.

Cavendish fingered his white mustache. “Up here in Santa Rosa, things work a little differently than they do in San Francisco. We’re trying to keep the situation from erupting.”

“So I’ve been told,” said King, waiting for what he supposed was coming. “How does this tie into the Leonardi boys, or Hiro Yoshimura?”

“Our bucolic appearance is deceptive,” Cavendish went on, refusing to be hurried. “I have to tell you that this … arrest is potentially very … embarrassing throughout the county. It could have repercussions for some of our most prominent citizens.”

“Who support the White Legion,” King interjected.

“I didn’t say that,” the judge pointed out sternly. “Only that it could be embarrassing.”

“Yes: murder can be embarrassing,” said King with heavy sarcasm. “So can attempted murder, if it comes to that.”

“What do you mean, murder? If you go about making accusations like that, you may have to answer for it.” Cavendish drew himself up in his leather chair. “Nothing the Leonard boys have said links them in any way to Mr. Yoshimura’s death.”

“Murder,” King corrected him.

“If you insist on calling it that,” Cavendish said sourly.

“What else would you call it?” King demanded. “He didn’t die of natural causes, that’s sure.”

“It may be manslaughter, you know,” said Cavendish, trying not to incite King further. “The coroner wasn’t convinced the beating was premeditated.”

“Oh, wasn’t he? Did he happen to say why not?” Oscar King asked, and looked toward the window of Judge Cavendish’s office; it was a lovely spring day, getting warm, promising an early summer. “A man with several broken bones and bad bruises got them by misadventure, or through the oversight of a person or persons unknown. But you’re right: all that damage could be nothing more than accidental.” He snapped his finger as if with sudden inspiration. “And Mr. Yoshimura was a farmer. He may have fallen off a large cabbage.”

“You watch your tongue in here, Counselor,” warned Cavendish. “I’m giving you a lot of leeway on Pietragnelli’s behalf, but my patience isn’t inexhaustible.”

“Goodness no; that’s apparent by the alacrity with which you pursue justice,” said King with blatantly assumed contrition. “I would never presume to disrespect any man charged with upholding the nation’s laws.”

“I could tell you to leave, King,” Cavendish grumbled.

“But you won’t, because you want to keep this inside these walls if you can. That’s why we’re talking unofficially. You’re afraid of the attention a trial would bring, and so you want to arrange something a bit more private.” King coughed diplomatically. “It’s never amusing to have to admit you have organizations like the White Legion operating with impunity, is it?” He was unwilling to let the judge dodge the issues.

“We have to be careful; it isn’t worth having it all blow up in our faces. The incidents are all out of proportion already,” said Judge Cavendish.