Murder Alfresco #3 (6 page)

The early-morning mix of denim-clad farmers, construction workers, and commuters in suits sat over mugs of coffee at Bismark’s. Everyone seemed to be either reading or talking about the body that had been found at Vedana Vineyards, not ten minutes away. A reverential hush at the uniqueness of the event had fallen over the room, and the patrons lowered their voices to exchange views on the homicide. Sunny carried her latte to a table by the window, happy to be surrounded by daylight and humanity, even if murder was the topic on everyone’s lips. The shock had finally sunk in, and she had felt jittery in the dark of the early morning, with a too-thorough knowledge that a murderer might still be nearby and hunting her face.

One of the surly, pierced youths working the counter brought over her bagel and orange juice a moment later. Dreams aside, of which she had had several disturbing ones leading up to the eye of the fish, ten hours of sleep had worked its magic and she felt almost coherent again. Now a bite to eat, and maybe the world would go back to the way she liked it.

She had hardly lifted her cup when Wade Skord appeared beside the table bearing coffee and croissant.

“Buenos días, amiga!”
he said loudly, turning heads. “You have room for a vagrant winemaker from south of the border?”

Wade Skord had been back less than a week from Mexico, where he had been sailing the Baja peninsula for the last three months. He’d left his winery in the care of a former employee and taken his dream trip. His lined and weathered face was tanner than usual, and his blue eyes sparkled even more fiercely. He sat down and laid his callused hands on the table like artifacts.

“How’s life back on the mountain?” said Sunny, delighted to see him.

“The cat doesn’t recognize me, but the grapes are glad I’m back. Never trust a creature without roots.”

Wade got up and rummaged through the stack of castoff newspapers in a basket by the door and came back with several sections under his arm. He kept the
Napa Register
and handed Sunny the front page of the
Santa Rosa Press Democrat.
In the upper left was a story about the girl, under the headline
GRISLY FIND AT LOCAL WINERY.
The accompanying photograph showed the winery and oak tree cordoned off with yellow police tape. Steve, true to his word, had supplied few details. The text said only that an unidentified woman was discovered at Vedana Vineyards late Wednesday night in an apparent homicide. Anyone who had seen or heard anything suspicious in the area was urged to contact the police department right away.

Sunny folded the paper. “You ever think about living anywhere else?”

“You mean move? Not me. I’m anchored to the mountain. I may go walkabout now and then, but this scrap of paradise is home. Why? You’re not thinking of moving?”

“No, I guess not seriously. It’s just this valley starts to feel about as big as a canoe sometimes.”

Sunny looked at her watch. She wrapped the waxed paper around her bagel, swallowed the last of her orange juice, and picked up her latte. Wade put down his paper. “Are you leaving already?”

“Afraid so. It’s that time. Raviolis wait for no woman.”

“Is that the menace du jour?”

“We could FedEx fresh ravioli from Tuscany faster than I can make them myself. I don’t know why I put them on the menu. I’m a masochist.”

“At least the rest of us are safe. What are you doing tonight?”

“Nothing. Want to come over?”

“I was planning on it. Seven?”

“Seven.” Sunny pulled on her jacket and buttoned it up. She stuffed her hands in her pockets, lingering over the vision of Wade Skord.

He looked up. “Seven sounds good. You want me to bring anything special?”

“No, I’ll get everything from the restaurant.”

“Great. I’ll see you tonight.”

Sunny didn’t move. Wade looked at her again. “Hey?” she said. “You know that story about the girl somebody killed yesterday?”

“I saw that. Terrible news. That’s not that far from here. Just around the corner.”

“Well, the strange thing is, just between you and me. . . I have to tell somebody.” She stared at him. She knew she must have a maniacal look on her face and she tried to control it. “The strange thing about it is, I was the one who found her. I’ll tell you about it tonight.”

Wade stared up at her. “You set my hair on end, McCoskey.”

The truck skimmed across the yellow morning like a boat on a rippling sea. It was a morning like the first morning on earth with a blue sky and fresh, cool air. Sunny rolled down the window and wished she had farther to drive. Instead, she pulled into the parking lot at Wildside and killed the engine.

She sat in the truck listening to a red-winged blackbird trill from the edge of the vineyard that ran up to the back of the restaurant. Perhaps things would go back to normal now. She was rested, washed, fed, and caffeinated. Moreover, she’d been
freed of the burden of secrecy. The beautiful young woman’s tragic death was known to the world at large. It was no longer her burden. Everyone carried the girl’s death now, everyone shared the grief and horror of it. Steve Harvey and his team were working on the case. There was order. Sunny’s only task was to come to terms with the memory of the white shape hanging in the tree, tied like a macabre gift.

There was no longer any way to avoid the next order of business, which was to telephone Andre Morales and attempt to explain why she had left his house without saying good-bye two nights ago, and had avoided his calls since then. If he was upset, she couldn’t blame him, he had a right to be. She claimed genetic weakness as her defense. The McCoskeys were a disciplined and talented clan stricken with several consistent flaws, among them the inability to articulate their feelings, especially under pressure. Sunny was a typical McCoskey. At least she knew herself well enough to admit that she would do almost anything to avoid having to explain an incident of precocious behavior, including, it seemed, jeopardize the peace of mind of the person she was most interested in pleasing. This, she resolved, was a moment that would require courage and frank language, as well as considerable eloquence. If she did not possess these qualities in adequate supply, she would simply have to fake it. The truth—that she had left because she was annoyed at being kept up all night when her work day started at five every morning—was likely to provoke more bad feelings. On the other hand, there was always the chance Andre would understand completely, and even empathize.

She walked around the back of the restaurant and through the kitchen garden, feeling better with each step. The darkness of Wednesday night was behind her and a new day ahead. The
girl’s death was a tragedy and a nightmare. It may have been Sunny’s nightmare, but it was not her tragedy. She did not have to carry it around forever, and in fact she refused to do so. Encouraged by the sight of the tender green sprouts that had popped up seemingly overnight along the raised rows of black soil in the garden, she bounded up the back stairs, almost crashing into Andre Morales sitting at the top of them.

Not that she wasn’t glad
to see him. It was just that she was not expecting Andre Morales or anyone else to be sitting on the back stoop of the restaurant at this hour. He basked in an air of joie de vivre. The early sun warming his pretty face, his white shirt crisp with enthusiasm, he looked every bit the rising star chef that he was. Even the heavy steel watch fastened around his wrist, a Breitling he fondled affectionately whenever he was bored, seemed to foretell an inevitable, swift rise to fame and fortune.

“Did I startle you?” he said.

“You nearly gave me a heart attack,” she gasped.

She leaned down and gave him a kiss. Among Andre Morales’s many attractive attributes were full, sensuous lips like a Brazilian beach beauty. Sunny squeezed in beside him on the stoop and they stared at the back garden. The winter crop of lettuces were producing nicely and the spring onions, carrots, and potatoes showed solid ambition above ground. Howell Mountain struck a stoic pose in the distance, and beyond it, the craggy face of Mount St. Helena.

“Mind telling me what’s going on, or do I have to guess?” he said.

“I was going to call you this morning.”

“I would have been honored.”

He was angry. Andre had the very practical habit of becoming calmer, more polite, and even charming when he was upset. She was just about to begin the whole story when Rivka Chavez opened the garden gate and walked up the path toward them. This, at least, would save her having to repeat herself. They were still outside when Sunny heard the familiar sound of Wade Skord’s old Volvo purring into the parking lot. She looked at Rivka. “Are we having a party I don’t know about?”

Wade Skord opened the garden gate. “Ladies. Gentleman.”

“Déjà vu,” said Sunny.

“You can’t just drop a bomb like that and take off.”

They went inside and Sunny steamed a pot of milk and fired shots of espresso. She layered cold milk, then warm milk, then creamy foam into glasses and poured a shot into each. Rivka loaded up a tray with the lattes, orange juice, and a plate of biscotti while Andre opened the French doors to the patio and wiped the dew off one of the tables and four chairs.

Besides Sunny’s mania for perfection and the fresh pastas to rival anything served in Rome, Wildside’s best feature was its patio. The patio stopped time. It was an intimate space where no evidence of a busier world intruded. At one end stood a massive cedar tree, which littered the patio with amber-colored needles and freshened the air. In the corner across from it, the low adobe wall that circled most of the perimeter rose up to form an outdoor fireplace. In the spring and fall, the maitre d’, who was also the sommelier and gardener, kept a fire going, burning vine trimmings and, for the holiday week, piñon logs brought from Santa Fe. Night-blooming jasmine tumbled over the awning that protected the French doors.

Andre pulled up a chair and spooned sugar into his latte. “In the big office buildings in Italy,” he said, “they employ a girl barista in a miniskirt on each floor with a little espresso cart.”

“Sounds like an urban legend to me,” said Rivka.

Andre stirred his coffee and looked up at Sunny, who saw for the first time how tired he was.

“Have you even been to bed yet?” she asked.

He licked the spoon. “I closed my eyes in the shower. Does that count?”

“You stayed out all night?”

“I would have gladly spent it sleeping in the arms of a good woman, but she wouldn’t return my calls. I had to turn to my friends for support and distraction.”

“Time,” said Rivka, making the T gesture. “You guys can hash out the romance later. I want to know why McCoskey’s truck was parked out front of the Dusty Vine all day yesterday while she rode her bicycle to work.”

“Who told you that?” said Sunny.

“Take a wild guess. I’ll give you a hint: He has beady little all-knowing eyes, a shiny dome, and gossips like a teenage girl.”

“Lenstrom?”

Rivka nodded. “Who else? With friends like us, you don’t need government surveillance.”

Sunny shook her head. “How do you know I wasn’t involved in some cheap barroom hookup? That is exactly the sort of information a friend does not drag to the surface.”

“And?”

“Let me start at the beginning.”

“Does the beginning eventually get us to the part I want to know about?” said Wade. “I’m sure the truck story is solid material, but I’ve got grapes to tend to.”

“It all takes us to the same place. I’ll move quickly.”

She described leaving the party, walking toward home, seeing the truck at Vedana Vineyards, and finding the woman’s body, though in less detail than when she told Steve.

“Until the cops get this guy, this story does not leave this table,” said Sunny. “None of it, not even that I found her or was involved at all. Monty Lenstrom excepted.”

“Heavy,” said Rivka.

“Does the person who did this know who you are?” asked Wade. “That’s not exactly the kind of folks you want dropping by the house.”

“That’s why it’s better if we don’t talk about it,” said Sunny. “So I can stay anonymous. Until I told you, only the cops knew I found her. Whoever was driving the truck might have seen me, but they won’t know my name or where to find me.”

“What kind of rope did they use?” asked Andre.

“Nothing special. Plain brown hemp.”

“Tied around her how?”

Sunny explained.

“It sounds like shibari,” he said. “Japanese rope tying. A bondage fetish. They always use hemp rope, and the pattern sounds shibari-style.”

The table went silent. Andre looking around at the three faces staring at him. “Am I the only one who’s ever seen Japanese porn?”

“I’ve heard of it,” said Rivka. “Animated, right?”

“Right. Stylized bondage is stock in trade in Japanese anime porn and manga. Manga are like comic books with very simple illustrations and more pages. The ones for adults are usually pornographic and almost always include rope bondage. Shibari is the Japanese equivalent of the plumber coming by to fix the leaky sink. A porn motif, if you will.”