Sinfandel (10 page)

Chapter Fifteen

I
t turned out that Detective Obermeyer’s brother-in-law was a local judge.  Within thirty minutes, a uniformed officer brought Obermeyer two search warrants—one for my house and one for Andy’s. 

Obermeyer called Andy like they were long-time buddies and asked him to come over to my place.  I felt like the sacrificial worm on the end of a fish hook. 

“Make sure they run these against the bullet they took out of the victim,” Obermeyer said as he handed the box of bullets to a member of the forensics team.

“I told you those belonged to my ex.  I just found them in my storage shed.”

“Did your ex know Beth Messina?” Obermeyer asked.

“Not that I know of.  I haven’t seen him for—well, actually he showed up not too long ago.  But he didn’t have anything to do with this.  I’m sure of it.”

Obermeyer scribbled notes in his little notebook.  “How can you be sure?”

I had no answer.

“How long have you been having financial problems?”

My face flushed with anger.  “Who said—”

“A first-year rookie could’ve spotted your reaction to that past-due bill.  How bad is it?”

“None of your damn business.”

“Wrong.  It’s all my business now.”

Andy arrived to find a forensics team going through my house like kids on an Easter egg hunt.  “What’s going on?”

I shrugged and gave him my most sympathetic smile, unable to say anything to him since I’d been warned by Obermeyer to keep my mouth shut.

“Just making sure we haven’t missed anything in our investigation,” Obermeyer said.

“You suspect Kate?”

“We’re just covering all the bases.  You mind answering a few questions?”

Andy stared at me as if I’d just spit on him.

“Don’t look at her like she’s Lizzie Borden.  You want to explain why you never bothered to mention your relationship with Beth Messina?”

From the expression on Andy’s face, I could tell the gears were falling into place.  He nodded slowly.  “I knew her, but it was a long time ago and I haven’t seen her for a couple years.”

“What was the status of your relationship?”

“We dated.  Her parents didn’t approve since I was older.  She went off to college and I moved on.”

Unable to contain myself, I asked, “Did you love her?”

Obermeyer glared at me. “You mind?”

“Sorry.”

“Did you?” Obermeyer asked.

“Love her?”  Andy shrugged.  “We had fun, but I knew there was no future there.”

“That’s not an answer,” I said.  For that I received another harsh stare.

“No.  I didn’t love her.  All right?”

I opened my mouth to speak but Obermeyer held up his hand.

“My wife had just lost a long battle with cancer and I wanted some company.  A distraction.  Nothing else.  Okay?”  Andy’s voice cracked with emotion.  I didn’t even know he’d been married.  How much more didn’t I know?

Obermeyer’s face softened a little.  “I’m going to need you to come down to the station with me.  I have more questions.”

Andy checked his watch.  “It’s getting late.  Any idea how long this might take?”

“No telling.”

“Redford and Newman haven’t been fed tonight.  You mind stopping by and throwing them some hay?” Andy asked me.

I nodded.  “Sure.  No problem.”  Then I remembered the people looking for incriminating evidence against me in my own house.  “If I’m not going to jail, that is.”

Obermeyer rolled his eyes.  “You’re not going to jail.  But—” He held up a finger at me.  “Don’t leave town.”

“You’ve been waiting all day to say that, haven’t you?”

He shrugged, but didn’t smile.  Obermeyer’s sense of humor was fading fast.

The search of my house turned up no bloody knives, no smoking guns, no victim souvenirs, nor anything else that would have flagged me as a deranged killer. 

The whole experience conjured up visions of me sticking pins into voodoo dolls of Dash Zucker for making his daughter lie to the police, and Roger for leaving his damn bullets in that box, but those feelings passed quickly.  Nothing good can come from holding grudges, unless you count the satisfaction of revenge.

Andy’s ranch was not far from my house.  By the time I arrived, Obermeyer’s team was already invading the house, looking for proof that Andy was lying. 

I parked next to the barn and climbed out of the Prius.  The place was once a showcase, by my estimation, but appeared to be suffering from neglect.  A classic red barn with a tin roof and horse-and-buggy weathervane was a few years overdue for paint.  The lawn sprinklers hadn’t been turned on all summer so what once was lawn was now dried grass, mowed weeds, and dirt.  Flowerbeds had become graveyards for deceased geraniums, agapanthus, and Marguerite daisies.  The Craftsman-styled house looked like it could use a good power-washing and window cleaning, but otherwise was in good shape.  I suspected that the death of his wife robbed Andy of any desire to keep the place up.

The Clydesdales were turned out in a field behind the barn.  When they heard me banging around in the feed bins, they nickered and came trotting. 

“Hey, boys,” I said to them as I hoisted as much hay as I could lift into the manger.  I repeated the effort for the second manger then poured two buckets of grain into a trough.  They had plenty of clean water, so I headed for the gate to enter the paddock to get a closer look and to make sure there were no cuts, scrapes, bumps, or gashes on either horse. 

As I unlatched the gate, I noticed the fencepost was broken at the base and leaned over at a 45 degree angle as soon as I pushed on it.  Looking over at the two tons of horse happily eating, I knew it wouldn’t take much for one of them to brush against the gate and knock the whole thing down.  That’s probably how it got broken in the first place.  I went off in search of a replacement fencepost, which I luckily found in a stack next to the barn.  Finding a post-hole digger turned out to be more challenging.  After a thorough search of the barn, I called Andy on his cell to ask him where he kept such tools.  As I counted the rings, it dawned on me that Obermeyer probably made him turn his phone off, but to my surprise, Andy finally answered.

“Hey, how’s it going?” I asked.

“Fine.  Is there a problem?”

“No.  Well, sort of.  You have a broken fence post and I need to replace it or your boys might wander off looking for you.”

“Broken?  Which one is it?”  He sounded surprised, or perhaps embarrassed that he’d allowed his apathy to potentially harm the horses.

“The gate latch post next to the barn.  I can fix it.  I just need to know where you keep your post-hole digger.”

“It should be right there next to the tack room.”

Double-checking the tools leaning against the wall near the tack room, I said, “There’s only a shovel, a rake and an apple-picker here.”

“Oh, I forgot.  I loaned the post-hole digger and my transit level to Pete a while back.”

“Transit level might come in handy to get the post straight.  You think he’s done with it?”

“There’s something wrong with it.  Pete was going to take it apart to see if he could fix it.” 

As I watched the sun move lower on the horizon, I figured there was probably another hour of daylight left.  “I’ll run home and get my post-hole digger and a level.  It’ll be dark soon so I better hurry.”

He thanked me more than I thought was necessary.  I would have expected no less from him if the situation was reversed.

As I got back in my car to leave, I noticed Andy’s front door open.  Two officers walked out.  One carried a computer CPU and the other had a rifle.

All the way home I convinced myself that there was no reason to worry about the police finding a rifle in Andy’s house.  This was farm country.  It would be more suspicious if they didn’t find such a gun.  After all, wouldn’t the real killer get rid of the murder weapon?

By the time I returned with my tools, Redford and Newman had finished their grain and were munching on the hay I’d given them.  They’d be occupied with dinner long enough for me to make the repair, so I didn’t worry about tying them up.

I’d set enough fence posts in my life that I knew the procedure.  It wasn’t long before I was nailing the rails to the new post and attaching the latch mechanism.  The sun had just set as I put my tools back in my car.  I kept gazing toward the driveway, expecting Andy to pull in any minute, but he didn’t, so I gave the horses a pat on the neck and headed for home.

That night, I studied my nearly-raccoon-proof table and decided it was almost perfect.  I just needed to add something to prevent the little guy from climbing the legs.  After a few minutes of thought, I ran in the house and returned with a bottle of olive oil.  I doused each table leg then retreated inside to wash my hands.

When the raccoon family arrived for their nightly ritual of cat-food thievery, I watched with anticipation out my bedroom window.  They sniffed the shiny table legs for a few minutes, then the baby reached up to practice his newly-learned trick.  He didn’t get very far before he slid back down the leg.  I laughed out loud.  He moved to the next leg and tried, but had the same result.  After all four legs proved to be too slippery, I figured he’d give up and they’d go somewhere else to find free food.  I was wrong.  He kept trying.  He’d climb, slip, climb, slip, and each time he got a little higher.  Every attempt was wiping the oil off the legs until he’d cleaned them dry.  The oil on his fur was still slippery, but not slippery enough to keep his claws from digging into the plastic legs. 

I knew it was just a matter of time before he’d reach his goal, so I marched outside and scattered them all with my yelling.  This was getting old.

I sat down at my computer and Googled “raccoons” to find out everything I could about the creatures.  Someone else must have faced the same problem I did, and it was time for me to find some answers from other more experienced warriors.  I needed a raccoon whisperer. 

The obvious solution came when I read that they are basically nocturnal animals.  When I thought about it, it was true.  Like most good thieves, they always seemed to show up at night.  My next Google search was for an automatic feeder with a timer I could set for any hour I wanted.  The cats would just have to eat during the day while the raccoons slept.  I found a horse feeder that looked like it would do the job.  Express shipping would cost more, but the dealer was in California so I decided against the extra expense since it would probably arrive just as fast either way.  There was still room on my Visa card, and I’d sent my first invoice to Quinn Adamson the day before so things would start to ease up soon on the financial front. 

My phone rang at 9:00 PM and when I answered it, Andy’s voice said, “Thanks for fixing the post.  I owe you one.”

“No problem.  How’d it go with Obermeyer?” I asked.

“Oh, you know.  They drilled me for hours and when they realized I’m not the guy, they finally let me go.”

“Hey, I wanted to say how sorry I am about what you’ve been through, with your wife and everything.  It must’ve been awful.”

“Thanks.  I’m okay now, but it was tough going for a while.”

“Well, if you ever need to talk or anything, I’m here,” I said.

“I appreciate that, but it’s not something I need to talk about anymore.”

“Oh, I meant to ask if you need to borrow a computer until you get yours back.  I have a spare laptop you can use,” I said.

“Why would I need… They took my computer?”

“Yeah.  They were in your house while I was feeding for you.  They took your rifle, too.”

“What?”

“I’m sure you’ll get it back as soon as they’ve tested it.”

He was silent for a long time.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“I don’t have a rifle.”

Chapter Sixteen

E
ither my eyes had lied to me, or Andy had.  Since my vision is 20/20, that only left the other option.

“I’m sure it was a rifle,” I said.  “It had a scope, like hunters use.”

“Kate, I’m telling you I don’t own one.  After Michelle died, my brother made me get rid of all my guns… worried, you know, that I’d do something drastic.”

“I know what I saw.”

There was silence on the other end of the line.  Finally, he said, “You don’t believe me.”

“I don’t know what to believe.”

“If they took a rifle out of my house, they must’ve brought it in.”

“You’re saying the police planted it?”

“How much do you know about Detective Obermeyer?” Andy asked.

Déjà vu, except the last time, Obermeyer was asking me the same question about Andy.  How well did I know either of them?  Could Andy have shot Beth Messina in the back?  Could Obermeyer have planted a rifle in Andy’s house to “get his man” if he was sure he was guilty?

“Not much,” I said.  “But I can’t see him doing something like what you’re suggesting.”

“If you’re right about the rifle, then someone is trying to frame me,” Andy said.

“Maybe you should call a lawyer.”

“Maybe I will.”

In all the commotion of the last day, I’d completely forgotten about the vine samples I’d collected from the suspect growers on my list.  I’d never had a chance to finish inspecting them before Obermeyer turned the force loose on my house.

I sat down at the kitchen table and examined each sample, comparing it to the photos in the book Andy gave me.  Several hours later, I’d determined that they were all Zinfandel vines, just as they were supposed to be.  I was getting nowhere with this investigation.

I dragged out my grower list again and focused on Adobe Vineyards, the one I could not locate.  Since I hadn’t heard from Pete, I figured he hadn’t been able to dig anything up about the property.  In one of the databases that Quinn Adamson supplied me with, I recalled seeing latitudes and longitudes stored for each vineyard.  I powered up my computer and queried the database for Adobe Vineyards.  Sure enough, there were coordinates stored for the vineyard.  I called up Google Maps and plugged in the latitude and longitude, but the aerial photo on the screen looked more like an orchard than a vineyard.

The aerial photos could be a couple years old, and I supposed it was possible that the orchard had been pulled and vines planted since the photos had been taken, but I wouldn’t expect a vineyard that young to be producing yet.  After printing the map with actual street names, I dug a little deeper into Adobe Vineyards records.

There was no principal owner listed, just an office address in San Francisco and a telephone number.  I jotted it all down so I could do more snooping in the morning.

After my morning chores, I started out in search of the elusive Adobe Vineyards.  Google Maps said the drive would take about an hour and the weather report predicted record-breaking temperatures later in the day, so I grabbed a couple bottles of water on the way.

Driving west toward the flatland of the valley, I rolled down my windows to take advantage of the cool breeze before Mother Nature turned on the oven.  The smell of newly harvested onions filled the air and I breathed it in. As I passed an alfalfa field being irrigated with sprinklers on big spoke wheels, the ambient temperature seemed to drop a good ten degrees.  I inhaled the smell of freshly watered alfalfa and smiled, but when I drove past a dairy farm, it was time to roll up the windows.

At 10:30 AM, I reached Adobe Vineyards, or at least what my map said was Adobe Vineyards, but there was no vineyard.  Instead I stared across a hundred acres of almond, walnut and cherry trees.  I dug my cell phone out and dialed the number I’d written down for Adobe.  My call was answered by a machine telling me to leave a message.  I left my name and number and requested a callback, then I plugged in my GPS, punched in the address and headed toward San Francisco.

When I found the address listed for Adobe’s offices, it was a big concrete and glass building overlooking Fisherman’s Wharf.  After driving around for forty minutes looking for a place to park, I finally squeezed into a small spot about three blocks—uphill—from my destination. 

Unlike the San Joaquin Valley, the summer temperature in San Francisco was cool and the fog had just started to burn off, exposing Alcatraz Island in the bay.  The smell of salt air and fish from the wharf crinkled my nose as I searched for the sweater I hoped I’d left in my back seat, but I hadn’t. 

With goose bumps on my exposed arms and nearly tumbling down the steep hill, I reminded myself how warm I’d be later when I’d have to hike back up to my car.  When I reached the office building, I pushed through the doors and searched the roster, finding Adobe near the top of the alphabetical list—Fourth floor, suite 420. 

As I stepped off the elevator, a woman with bleached-blonde hair and horn-rimmed glasses looked up from her desk. 

“May I help you?” she asked.  The nameplate on her desk identified her as the “receptionist” but “gatekeeper” would have been just as appropriate.  I had the sense that if I ignored her and wandered down one of the hallways, she’d tackle me and call for security.

“I’m looking for suite 420?”

She opened a book on her desk to a page and ran her finger down a list.  “Suite 420.  That’s Adobe Vineyards.”

“Right,” I said.

“Did someone direct you to this address?” she asked.

“It’s listed as the business address.”

“Well, there’s no actual office here.  It’s just a postal box to collect mail.”

“Really.  I don’t suppose you can tell me how to reach the owner of the box, could you?”

She pushed her glasses higher on her nose and looked up at me with a bright red lipsticked smile.  “You can mail a letter to Suite 420.”

“Can you give me a name?” I leaned over to get a look at the book opened on her desk, but she closed it before I could see anything.

“If you go to the building’s main office on the sixth floor, they can tell you.”

 “Thanks for your help,” I said.

The note taped to the door of the building’s main office read, “Closed.  We’ll be back Monday.  Have a nice day!”   Someone had drawn a smiley face on the paper to emphasize the last sentence.

Lunch in Chinatown and a visit to Ghirardelli Chocolate Factory would improve my day immensely.  After that, my main goal would be to get on the road home before the rush-hour traffic started.

As I sat in a booth in a little Chinese restaurant overlooking a street bustling with lunch-hour workers, I checked my watch to determine if I had time to use the chopsticks or if I’d have to request a fork.  The place was steamy warm, and wonderful smells escaped every time a cook opened the swinging doors from the kitchen, so I opted for the chopsticks.

Outside, a survey crew worked on some project that probably involved the empty lot across from the restaurant.  I heard their high-tech tools ring and beep and talk to them in monotone robot-sounding voices every time the restaurant’s front door opened.

Somewhere between the vegetable fried rice and the orange chicken, I called Quinn Adamson to fill him in on my search for Adobe Vineyards, but I got his voicemail.  He was probably at lunch, too.  I left him a message and asked him if we could meet.

When I finished and cracked open my fortune cookie, the tiny slip of paper inside read, “A conclusion is simply the place where you got tired of thinking.”  I was tired of thinking all right, but I’d reached no conclusions yet.

The day was not a total bust.  I left San Francisco with leftover Chinese takeout boxes and two bars of Ghirardelli dark chocolate. 

My cell phone rang while I was on the lower deck of the Oakland Bay Bridge.  Hoping it was Adobe Vineyards, I glanced down at the display—Quinn Adamson.

Risking a ticket for talking on the cell phone while driving, I took a quick glance at the cars around me and, not seeing any police, I answered it.

“I got your message, Kate.  Adobe Vineyards?”

“Yeah.  I can’t find it, or its offices, or its owner.  Seems very suspicious to me.”

“I agree.  I’ll notify O’Reilly and Parker over at the TTB and see if they want to get involved.”

“Probably a good idea.”

“I was going to call you today anyway,” he said.

“What’s up?”

“I’m sure you’ve heard about the budget mess with the state.”

I had heard, but was hoping it would miraculously go away, as I’m sure every politician in the state was.  “Yeah?”

“I’m sorry, but we’re going to have to issue an I.O.U. for the invoice you sent.  Just until we get the budget finalized.”

Trying not to sound as though I’d just been run through a chipper-shredder, I asked, “Any idea how long until that happens?”

“Oh, should be any day now.”

“That’s what I’ve been hearing for the last six months.”  I felt a tear well up and my throat constricted.  The pressure of my financial crisis was closer to the surface than I realized. 

“I know.  I’m sorry, Kate.  Nothing I can do.”

After a couple of deep breaths, I was able to keep my emotions in check.  At least the grapes were being harvested, so I’d have the first of three checks coming in from the winery soon.  “Okay.”

Just as I hung up, I heard a loud bang like a car had backfired.  Before I could spot the offending clunker, the car next to me began to fishtail and swerved into my lane.  I reflexively jerked the wheel and nearly plowed into the van to my right, causing a chain reaction that ultimately resulted in a collision between an SUV and a bottled-water delivery truck.  Horns blared and tires squealed and the sound of breaking glass sent my heart racing like a rabbit in the middle of a wolf pack.  Adrenaline raced through my veins and events seemed to happen in slow motion as I swerved right, then left, then slammed on my brakes just in time for an opening to materialize between a plumber’s van and a Caddy—like the parting of the Red Sea.  I stepped on the gas and raced through before it closed, or worse, swallowed me up. 

When I emerged from the gauntlet, thankful that I’d successfully navigated it, I was shaking, so I pulled over and forced myself to take long, deep breaths.  After twenty minutes of re-playing the near-disaster over and over in my head, I finally decided to focus on the fact that if the building’s office workers hadn’t taken the day off, I’d be stuck on the wrong side of the accident behind me.

By the time I reached Stockton, I’d stopped re-living the near-disaster on the bridge and replaced it with last night’s conversation with Andy.  I decided to drive by his place to see how he was doing.  When I got there, a police cruiser and Detective Obermeyer’s car were in the driveway.

When I parked and got out, Newman and Redford whinnied at me from their paddock.

Before I got to the steps, the front door opened and Andy stood there, handcuffed and being escorted out by a uniformed officer.

“What’s going on?” I asked.

Obermeyer followed the officer out and took me by the arm.  “You shouldn’t be here,” he said.

I watched the officer open the back door of the cruiser and shove Andy in the back seat like a criminal.

Before I could ask, Obermeyer said, “Ballistic tests confirmed the rifle we found in his house was the murder weapon.”