Blood On Vines

by Madeleine Eskedahl

  “Sorry, we didn’t mean to startle you,” the reporter said.

  Lexi folded her arms. “On your way. If you have any questions I suggest you direct them to the police.” She turned on her heel and walked into the farm shop, closing the door with a firm thud.

  Samantha was standing at the large wooden counter, earphones in and hadn’t noticed a thing. Lexi had to walk right up to the counter before Sam noticed. She pulled her earphones out and said, “Hi, Mum.”

  “Hi, darling. Thanks for helping, I really appreciate it, but perhaps turn the music down so you notice customers walking in the shop.”

  “Sorry, Mum, I didn’t think,” Samantha said sheepishly.

  “Let’s close up. I don’t think we’ll have any more customers today.” Lexi started tidying up while Samantha chatted away about school.

  “Listen, Sam, somehow the media has found out about the hand under the house. We knew they would eventually.”

  Samantha nodded, embarrassment spreading across her face. “I might have Snap-chatted some people yesterday. Perhaps that’s how they found out,” she said, looking down at her feet.

  “It doesn’t matter how it happened,” Lexi said and put her arms around her daughter.

  “Mum, do you think this crazy person will come back?”

  “I don’t think so, sweetheart.” Lexi did her best to sound convincing. “It’ll be all right, darling. I don’t want you to worry. Come on, let’s go inside.” Lexi locked the door, pulling the handle a second time to be sure.

  As they walked up the path to the house, she wondered where Avery and Isaac were. She had last seen them sitting outside enjoying a cold beer. She poked her head into the winery, Avery’s office was still a tip. She thought, Well, that’s another day’s problem, and shut the door. She would have to remind Avery to lock up. They wanted no more unwelcome visitors.

  Inside the house, there was still no sign of the men but the door to the cellar was ajar and she could hear them.

  “Mum, when’s dinner?” Evie yelled from upstairs. “I’m starving.”

  “Let me check on Dad, then I’ll get dinner organised.”

  Lexi went down the creaky old stairs, smooth to the touch from years of polishing by feet. Avery’s loud laughter greeted her before she got to the bottom. Judging by the empty bottles on the table, that wasn’t strange at all. For all her dad’s skimping on the building materials, the antique table he had bought and lovingly restored was the centrepiece of the room. The honey-coloured waxed timber top gleamed like Baltic amber in the dim light. It was over a hundred and fifty years old, and Lexi’s mother had been aghast when he sawed off the legs to get it down to the cellar. The two chairs were rumoured to be from the Spray. Two bench seats flanking the table were originally floorboards from an old shearing shed, hence the smooth surface from years of exposure to lanolin and wool.

  “It looks like you boys have had a grand afternoon,” Lexi said with a hint of sarcasm.

  “We got a bit carried away,” Avery said, trying not to laugh.

  There were three complete floor-to-ceiling shelf units with bottles of all varieties, all arranged in verticals. To the untrained eye it looked as though there was no system, but Avery had them all catalogued in an app on his smartphone, which synced with his laptop.

  “How are you feeling, Isaac?” Lexi asked.

  “Not too bad, thank you. The wine has been medicinal,” Isaac said slurring a little and trying not to giggle.

  “Dinner’s in thirty minutes.” Lexi stomped upstairs, making her feelings known. She wasn’t mad at them for drinking all that wine, it was the fact that she’d had to deal with the nosy journalist with no help from her husband.

  17

  It was late. James was driving home from Warkworth where he’d spent a fun evening with his boys. They had gone for a pizza at Domino’s where his mate Jake worked, and the boys’d had way too much soft drink, but he didn’t care. He wanted to spoil them, and the night had been great, lots of chatting and laughter. He missed having them around.

  The drive home didn’t take long, he knew the road like the back of his hand. The long sweeper before Ascension Vineyard, the right turn after the second-hand store — he had driven it a million times before. As always, you had to watch out for the critters crossing the road at night; possums, rabbits and the odd stoat. Some days they littered the road, poor mangled animals. He felt sorry for them, such an undignified death.

  He turned right and pulled into the driveway. He couldn’t wait to roll into bed. It had been an endless day full of emotions, so his heart ached having to go home to a quiet house. But he was pleased that he and Tina were sorting through some issues.

  It was a typical 1970s red-brick house with mismatched aluminium joinery, the small windows scowling and making the house look tired. James was desperately trying to hold on to the happy memories of the evening, and it pained him to come home to his gloomy and depressing home. Tina and the two boys had left a gigantic hole in his heart when they moved out, and his surroundings mirrored his state of mind. They had been together for longer than he could remember, but she no longer wanted to be with him. It was sad they had waited so long to have children, he thought; the boys were six and eight and full of energy, the way it should be. It was no good for them to live in town; they needed to be here in the country where they had room to roam and discover and go on adventures. Thankfully Warkworth wasn’t far away, but not close enough for them to remain in the village school. Greg was the oldest and missing the farm, Timothy was more settled with his friends in his new surroundings. A pang of bad conscience in the pit of James’s stomach sent a reminder of the guilt he carried for not being able to give his children a happy and relaxed childhood.

  He parked the beaten-up Ford Ranger in its usual place under the enormous oak tree next to the garden gate. The dim security light switched on as soon as he stepped onto the path, casting long shadows on the neglected and weed-strewn crazy paving under foot. Tufts of weeds stuck up in the cracked concrete and were long overdue for a spray. Tina had always enjoyed keeping the garden nice and tidy. It didn’t look like that now. A feeling of despair and neglect surrounded him.

  He needed to get a grip, he realised, and put some elbow grease and love into both the house and the surrounds. Perhaps if he got his act together, next time Tina dropped the boys off for a visit and saw that he was trying, she would reconsider and give him another chance. There had been a slight glimmer of hope tonight. Tina had seemed relaxed and friendly, they’d even chatted over a glass of wine when he’d dropped the boys back after pizza. Tomorrow, he decided, was the day he would stop moping around and start sorting his life out. The boys deserved more. The thought cheered him up and put a slight spring in his step.

  Arriving at the entrance to the darkened house he halted. He was sure he had left the outside light on. The hackles on the back of his neck stood up. What was that on the doormat, and why was the door wide open? His heart was racing and he fumbled for his phone in the back jeans pocket, almost dropping it as he pulled it out. He had to press the flashlight option several times before the light bounced off the lifeless mass on the floral welcome mat. His once-proud rooster lay there, limp, lifeless. Its frame seemed so much smaller in death with its neck at an unnatural angle.

  Fear set in, his throat closing up and his breathing becoming laboured. He needed his inhaler. He fumbled around his jacket and realised he didn’t have it with him. How could I be so stupid? There was a spare inhaler in the bathroom cupboard. Casting the light into the entrance, he knew he had to get it quickly. Stepping over the dead rooster, he could feel the panic rising. The light in the hall didn’t work either, but it wasn’t far to the bathroom and he went for it. He flicked the switch. The bathroom was suddenly bathed in light, forcing him to cover his eyes for a second. He rummaged around in the top drawer and found the inhaler. Perched on the heavy porcelain bath he greedily sucked on the medicated puffs, opening his constricted airways.
>
  Taking a few deep breaths and regaining his composure, James went to shut the front door. He tried the light switch again, but it still wasn’t working. He shone the phone torch on the ceiling. The tight squeeze around his chest returned when he saw the empty light fitting. Someone had removed the bulb.

  The fear came creeping back. Not sure if there was someone still inside, he proceeded cautiously down the dark hallway to the lounge, grabbing a broom handle from the cleaning cupboard. To his relief, the light switch there worked fine. The light bounced on the back wall, the scribbled message hitting him in the face like a clenched fist; You will be next.

  The sinister blood-red lettering, dripped in the corners as if the intruder had used too much paint. Taking a second for the message to hit home, James stood frozen, struggling to comprehend what was happening. Then he bolted out of the house, almost tripping over the dead rooster, and sprinted towards the car. He threw the Ranger into reverse, gravel flying, the gear box protesting loudly at the rough treatment. Afterwards he had no memory of the quick drive into the village.

  Perched at the back of the Matakana Pub, he swirled his third glass of whisky, the comforting sound of two ice cubes clinking making him think of his father. The amber liquid warmed his throat and belly and a slow calm unfurled the tension. He was glad to have people around. He wasn’t easily frightened, but this had been a new level of fear, weighing heavily in the pit of his stomach like a pile of dark and slippery river stones. He waved Matt the publican over and ordered another one and explained that he needed a room for the night. To his relief there was a vacancy, saving him sleeping in the car. There was no way he was going home tonight — not that he could anyway after all the alcohol he had consumed. By the time his drink arrived, he had made his mind up; he would go to the cops tomorrow.

  18

  Avery and Isaac, both looking worse for wear after their big night in the wine cellar, struggled with each mouthful of bacon and eggs. If they’d stopped at the couple of bottles they had polished off before dinner, things would probably have turned out all right, but Avery had insisted on opening a bottle of Pyrat rum, which inevitably had finished them off. Avery hadn’t felt this unwell for a long time. There was a large percussion band in his head, and any movement sent off shock waves in all directions. Isaac was equally quiet, by the looks of it, doing his best to soak up the alcohol with the few mouthfuls of food he could manage and then fighting to keep it all down. Lexi thought, how silly two grown men could be.

  “How are your burns today, Uncle Isaac?” Evie asked, gently patting his arm.

  Isaac put his hand on hers. “Not that bad, darling.”

  “Could we have a look at the Aston Martin when we get home from school?” Gabriel asked, his eyes sparkling.

  “Sure, but I think I can do one better. How about I pick you up from school instead?”

  “Really? That would be cool.” Gabriel’s face lit up like a sun. “The guys will flip when they see it.”

  “You three, finish up your breakfast and get your bags.” Lexi said. “We have to get going.”

  “I really envy you. That’s three amazing kids you have,” Isaac said, his voice tinged with sadness.

  “It’s not too late for you and Petra,” Avery said. “You still have time.”

  “I suppose so,” Isaac said, his eyes betraying his thoughts.

  “Why don’t you call her, see if she wants to come up for a few days? I know Lexi would love to see her too.”

  “I don’t think she wants to see me at the moment.”

  “Hey, we should give James a call,” Avery said to change the subject. “I know it was a lot of drunken talk last night, but I meant that.”

  “Sure,” Isaac said perking up a little.

  Avery scrolled his phone for James’s mobile number and made the call. Just as he was about to hang up, a sleepy voice answered. “Hi James, it’s Avery. How are you?”

  “Not too bad,” James croaked. “Sorry, I had a hell of a night and must have overslept.”

  “Listen, Isaac is up for a few days. We were talking about getting together for a beer. What do you think?” It felt like an eternity passed before James answered.

  “Yes, sure. How about a quiet beer at the pub tonight?”

  “Sounds great. We’re going to the opening night for the film festival at eight. We could meet at six-thirty for a bite if you like.” Avery wondered if he had pushed it too far.

  “Okay. See you then,” James said.

  When Lexi arrived home from dropping the children off she was pleasantly surprised to find Avery clearing the breakfast dishes. She suspected he was keen to redeem himself after yesterday’s carry-on in the wine cellar.

  19

  It had been a warm night; the only airflow came from the crack of a small window above his head. James’s head was pounding from sleep deprivation. He remembered having had a few generous glasses of whisky, before falling into bed sometime around one in the morning, his mouth like the Sahara Desert. It hadn’t helped that there had been a party in the room next door, a group of young backpackers having a singsong until at least three. When he finally got some sleep, one nightmare after the other had plagued him. The phone call from Avery had woken him with a jolt.

  He cupped his hand under the antique tap above the original pedestal hand basin and drank greedily, droplets running down his chin and onto his bare chest. Splashing some water on his face, he felt better. His unruly hair was standing on end and he had to dampen it to tame it, not that it made a difference. When it grew beyond a certain point, it seemed to resemble a mushroom on the top of his head. Tina used to tease him about it. Looking in the mirror, he knew he desperately needed a haircut.

  James paid for the room and wandered down to the Black Dog Café. It wasn’t busy this Tuesday morning and he sat down in the courtyard outside, enjoying the sun on his bare legs. At the next table was an older man with a terrier sitting by his master’s feet, gazing longingly. It was clear the dog knew the routine.

  He'd had an Airedale when he was a boy. Perhaps he should get another one, he thought. The company would be good, and the boys would love it too.

  He felt a little silly after last night’s ordeal. He was a grown man, for Christ’s sake. Had he over-reacted? It was probably just mischief by teenagers. The financial stress of the vineyard and the separation from Tina had taken a huge toll on him. It had been few tough years. After taking a gamble and ripping out some of the older vines, he had replanted a new variety, sangiovese, more suitable to the local climate and terroir, but it would take time for them to yield any profit.

  The waitress delivered a plate laden with bacon and eggs, and a side plate with a large sausage, to the man with the dog. The terrier knew it was his sausage and was salivating yet didn’t move a muscle. The man took his time to cut up the sausage in small, even bites, letting it cool, while continuing with his own breakfast.

  The leggy waitress, barely out of her teens, her hair pulled up in a high ponytail, flashed him a friendly smile. He ordered a double-shot espresso and Eggs Benedict, sauce on the side. He glanced at the next table, not sure how long the dog could take it. He knew the drill, but it must have been torture to sit and wait.

  “Okay, Tweed, it’s your turn, my old mate,” the man said. He put the plate down on the ground and the dog ate the sausage in seconds.

  James had planned to go past the police station after breakfast but drove home instead. Perhaps it won’t look as bad in the light of day. When he drove in, the house looked just like it always did, sad and desperately needing some TLC. The lush garden was definitely more than overgrown, but nothing he couldn’t handle. He parked the car and walked up the pavers. The air was buzzing with honey bees, stocking up with nectar in the sun’s warmth. The closer he got, the more trepidation he felt.

  He shuddered when he saw the dead rooster. Poor Henry. Someone had broken his neck and after the signwriting, had tossed the paintbrush to the side, the tip of the bristles
bright red. He hadn’t seen it in the dark. There was something disturbing about the juxtaposition of the two objects.

  He stepped over them and went inside. His mouth felt dry and he swallowed hard, squeezing the inhaler in his pocket. The writing was harsh in the daylight. He had talked himself into thinking perhaps it had all been a dream, but there it was in bold letters. The whistling in his ears got louder and he felt faint. Steadying himself by grabbing hold of the back of the couch, he stepped into the lounge. He fumbled for the inhaler and took a puff, closing his eyes for a moment. He could still see the vicious message with his eyes closed.

  The medication took effect quickly and his breathing slowed down. He looked around the sparsely furnished room; none of the obvious burglar targets like the TV or other electronic equipment was missing. The old stereo was sitting in the corner with the black faux-wood CD tower next to it. Someone had rummaged through the bookshelf, books and photo albums were tossed on the floor in a jumble.

  James continued around the house. The kitchen looked like normal until his eye caught a large knife embedded in the tongue-and-groove wall, the tip of its blade piercing a yellowed newspaper clipping. It was from the Martinborough Star, a photo of him and his mates the summer after university when they worked at Stott’s Landing. His focus shifted to where the knife had pierced the paper, the tip directly stabbed through the image of him. James swallowed hard and raced outside — he couldn’t stand being in the house any more. His stomach was in knots when he called the cops.

  When the officers arrived, a pale James was leaning on the bonnet of his old Ford Ranger. Bill said, “So, someone broke into your house last night?”

  “It must have been after five, as I was home until then”, James said.

  “You think you came home around nine thirty?”