Midnight Harvest

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “Did you know the man?” asked Snyder.

  “No. And to anticipate your next question, I didn’t see his face—he was wearing a skier’s mask. He seemed to know what he was about, as if he’d done it before—that much was obvious. And the lights were off, so I can’t tell you what color his eyes are, or his hair, or anything else about him beyond that he is tall and slim, except that I shot him.” Her voice rose sharply, and she made herself stop.

  Saint-Germain put his hand on her shoulder. “Do you want to say this now? You’ll only have to say it again when the other police arrive.”

  “I don’t know,” Rowena began only to be interrupted.

  “We got to get the story as soon as possible,” said Baxter. “Sorry, ma’am. You’ve had one hell of a night, but—” He rose from the bench. “We got to start following that blood, just in case the guy’s fallen on the street somewhere around here.”

  “You’re assuming he was alone,” said Saint-Germain. “He might have had an accomplice, or perhaps a driver.”

  “Then we’ll find out where the blood stops, and maybe someone saw something,” said Baxter. “A man on the run with buckshot in him is hard to miss.”

  “At two in the morning,” said Rowena sardonically. “Who’d tell the police about that?”

  Snyder shrugged. “We won’t know until we go looking; we could turn up something useful. We have before. We’ll be checking out local residents tomorrow, in case anyone was up and looking out the window. It happens,” he insisted.

  “We got to do everything.” Baxter looked over at Rowena. “And we will. But take it from me—I wouldn’t go up into that room again, Miss Saxon. Have your housekeeper clean it, down to the wood, and then hire someone to paint and paper it for you.”

  “I’ve already seen the room,” Rowena pointed out as she put the snifter down more emphatically than she had intended. The loud clatter of the glass demanded the attention of everyone in the two rooms.

  “But not the way it’s gonna be,” said Baxter. “You think it’s bad now, it’ll be worse in the morning. Crime scenes are messy.”

  “How am I supposed to live in my house?” Rowena demanded, almost knocking over her brandy snifter.

  “You might want to find a hotel,” said Snyder. “You must have friends you can stay with. I think that would be best.”

  “There’s a man out there who wants to kill me,” said Rowena, her voice soft with rage. “What hotel would want me? And wouldn’t I be a welcome guest, with a killer after me?”

  Snyder had begun his protest when there was a sharp knock on the door, and a voice announced, “Inspector Porter. We got four cops out here needing to come in.”

  Baxter lumbered to the door. “Just a sec, Inspector. Tell your men to be careful coming in. There’s a blood trail we don’t want to mess up.”

  From outside Porter relayed this message: “Open up.”

  Baxter pulled the door wide and pointed down at the blood. “See what I’m talking about?”

  “Gad,” said Porter, taking stock of the situation. “Some kind of attempted murder or rape, is that the case?”

  Baxter made a series of signs intended to get Porter to mitigate his language. “Miss Saxon is right here, sir, and I don’t know as you want to—”

  But Rowena had risen and went toward the newly arrived police. “I don’t know about the rape,” she said, “but I wouldn’t put it past him.” She held out her hand. “You’re Inspector Porter?”

  “Abel Porter, at your service,” he said, taking her hand even as he stared at her bloody peignoir. He was nearing forty and doing it with as much panache as he could manage; he was well-dressed for a cop, and his manner had a hint of flamboyance. “Has either of these men taken your statement?”

  “Not officially, no,” said Rowena, beginning to shake again.

  “Come, Miss Saxon. Sit down. I’ll take your statement while my men do their work. I’m sure you’d like us out of here as soon as possible.” He took her by the elbow and guided her back into her studio, where he found himself staring at Ferenc Ragoczy. “And who might you be?”

  Saint-Germain was tempted to give a flip answer, but instead held out his hand. “Ferenc Ragoczy. Miss Saxon called me and asked me to lend her my support, which I did.”

  “Um,” said Porter. “All right. Perhaps you should sit down, Miss Saxon.” He released his hold on her. “If you want to—”

  She went back to her favorite chair and picked up her snifter. “It’s been a difficult evening, Inspector Porter.”

  “No doubt it has.” He was doing his best to be soothing, which only irked Rowena.

  “A man got into my house tonight, with a pistol and, it would seem, the intention of murdering me. Don’t talk to me as if you think I’m hysterical. Under the circumstances, I am a model of self-possession.” She drank a little more brandy.

  Before Porter could speak, Baxter tugged at his sleeve. “You should go upstairs, Inspector. Have a look in the bedroom before the other johnnies get there.”

  Porter looked mildly surprised, but after a moment, did as Baxter asked, saying, “I’ll be back directly, Miss Saxon. Don’t have too much of that brandy.”

  “No, I won’t,” she promised, and turned her gaze on Saint-Germain. “This is a madhouse,”

  “It is,” Saint-Germain said, “and you know, I’ve been thinking: perhaps you’d be willing to come to my house for a day or two, while the police go about their business here. You’ll get no quiet here, you know. You could pack a bag, and no one would have to know where you are unless you chose to tell him.”

  She drank another bit of brandy. “I don’t want to go into the room,” she said in a small voice. “I think Baxter may be right about that.”

  “Then you need not,” he said. “Tell me what you need and where I may find them, and I’ll attend to it for you.” He saw that Snyder was about to protest, so he added hurriedly, “Not just now, but in an hour or so.”

  “It would suit me, I guess,” she said, wanting to be rid of all the demands being made on her.

  “Then, when Inspector Porter returns, I will broach the matter with him,” said Saint-Germain, watching two uniformed policemen beginning to measure and mark the blood-trail, working from the stairs to the main floor, using chalk and a ruler to mark the locations of all the dribbles and spatters they could see.

  “They’re going to need some time to get this done,” said Baxter. “We probably won’t be out of here until after dawn.”

  Saint-Germain could see how distressing this was to Rowena. “You come with me tonight, Miss Saxon. You’ll be welcome for as long as you’d like. My houseman will make up the guest room for you, and you can rest all day, if you like.”

  Baxter joined in. “He’s right Cops can make a real rat’s nest. Get away for a couple of days, until you can put this place to rights again.”

  “I’ll consider it,” said Rowena, determined not to capitulate too quickly or too readily.

  “You do that,” said Baxter. “It’ll buck you up to get away from here. You won’t be reminded all the time of what has happened. And you can be protected. If we need anything from you, we can come to you.”

  “I said I’ll consider it,” Rowena said peremptorily.

  Saint-Germain dropped down on his knee next to her chair. “As soon as you talk with the inspector, you can decide what you want to do,” he told her. “In the meantime, finish your brandy. I’ll get you more if you want it.”

  “Oh, I want it,” she said. “But I’d better not have it. I’m so jittery that I’ll probably fall asleep in a minute as soon as all the pressure is off me.”

  “Very good,” said Saint-Germain, and rose to his feet again.

  Inspector Porter returned from the upper level much chastened. “That was … pretty bad.”

  “It’s probably worse with the lights on,” said Rowena, not trusting herself to laugh at her intended jest.

  “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.”

  TEXT OF A LETTER FROM CARLO PIETRAGNELLI AT PONDEROSA LODGE TO FERENC RAGOCZY IN SAN FRANCISCO.

  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.

  Ag
reeable 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.”