A Tainted Finish: A Sydney McGrath Mystery

by Horn, Rachael

  “You can go,” she said, trying to regain her composure.

  “No, I cannot,” he snarled. He stopped, transfixed, searching for an invisible foe and abruptly resumed pacing furiously.

  “I'm sure he’s gone,” she said. “Alejandro scared him off.” She moved to get up. Her dignity began to hurt as badly as her arm.

  “Keep down!” he bellowed at her ferociously.

  She winced reflexively. His eyes moved over her wound. Blood pooled rapidly through the handkerchief, which had turned entirely bright red.

  He moved quickly over to her with a mix of concern and terrifying anger congealed on his face in a bizarre grimace. Syd felt terrible for him. He was helpless.

  “Don't yell at me,” she whined in a half whisper. It was the only defense she could offer amid the confusion of emotion and fear.

  He snorted through his maniacal grimace and tended to her wound. He pinned her down with his knee painfully pressed against her chest. She couldn't have gotten up if she wanted to. His hands moved over her arm with trembling fingers and Syd lay transfixed. Breathe, she shouted at him in her head. Breathe, dammit! His face was purple. Suddenly he sat straight up on his heels. The whine of the ATV filled the air around them.

  Olivier ran uphill to meet Alejandro in the ATV, which skidded into a spray of gravel on the steep access road.

  “He got away, pendejo!” Alejandro shouted over the idling engine. His eyes were almost as wild as Olivier's.

  “On foot?” Olivier shouted back.

  “Yeah, he got a good head start!” Alejandro looked winded and flush. He dismounted from the ATV and walked over to Syd lying on the ground. He fell to his knees when he saw her.

  “Syd!” he shouted, gawking at the blood, “I saw you running. I thought you were okay.” He squatted near her with his hands hovering over her. The blood rushed from his face.

  “I'm fine,” she said loudly. “Really.”

  “You're shot?” he asked. His eyes searched her body as she lay in the mud.

  “Yes. In my arm. Olivier won't let me get up.” She shot Olivier a nasty look. Olivier still paced the road and Alejandro followed him with his eyes.

  “He's gone. I almost caught up to him but he dodged me in the woods. Too thick for the ATV.”

  Olivier stared at him furiously.

  “It was a man? Shooting at birds?” Syd asked. But she knew the answer.

  “Yes,” said Alejandro. “A man with a 30-aught-six, I think. Something long range. He was way up in the trees. And he just disappeared. We have to get you to the hospital.” He began to lift Syd up to a sitting position.

  “And call the Sheriff,” Olivier said through flared nostrils.

  “I'll get the ATV. You stay here.” Alejandro instructed gently. He leapt up to retrieve the idling machine.

  Olivier paced the gravel road, shooting looks up to the copse of woods a quarter-mile off. Syd managed to stand upright and glared at Olivier when he moved to help her. She stood upright, even though her instincts screamed for her to remain as close to the ground as possible.

  She cradled her left arm close to her body as she staggered to the four-wheeler. Her head spun, but the pulsing echo in her ears subsided as she struggled to remain conscious. The back of her throat burned and saliva swished in her mouth violently. Suddenly, she bent over and vomited on the front ATV tire, bracing herself on the wheel well.

  Olivier froze and stared dumbly at her fifteen feet away, while Alejandro ran to her and held her up gently. He wiped her mouth when she finished. He lifted her up on the four-wheeler seat and sat down behind her, cradling her in his arms. Syd stared back at Olivier as he watched them descend the hill, pale-faced and wide-eyed. She felt small and cold as she leaned against Alejandro. She wondered vaguely how she must look to him covered in blood and vomit. She felt wretched and succumbed to the sinking temptation of self-pity.

  She had been shot.

  A moment later she was sitting on the idling four-wheeler alone while Alejandro ran to get his truck. He pulled up to her, carried her into the front seat, and pulled out in a rain of gravel. Syd watched Olivier jog downhill as they pulled away. It was the last thing she saw before she passed out.

  Chapter 33

  Charlie walked silently into the hospital room. She sidestepped around the bulky bed and sat down to hold Syd's hand. She blinked hard at the throng of bodies standing at the foot of the bed and asking questions. On the other hand, Syd laughed and chatted with them. She dismissed the pain in her arm, which was wrapped up in a huge white bandage. Charlie marveled at her friend's resilience.

  “I'm okay,” Syd answered Charlie for the third time. Charlie insisted that Syd tell the police and visitors to leave her alone. “It’s only my elbow, Charlie,” she bellowed. Olivier raised his eyebrows at her declaration as he entered the room.

  “She was shot,” Charlie explained helplessly.

  “Yeah, he knows,” Syd muttered, staring at Charlie’s pale face. “He was there, for Christ's sake.”

  Olivier frowned at her and moved over to Charlie. He took Charlie’s arm after whispering something in her ear and escorted her out of the room. He returned a minute later and sat in the chair Charlie had vacated.

  “Be easy on her,” Olivier said. “Her best friend was almost murdered.”

  Syd burst out laughing. She was trying her best to hold it together, and the pain meds were suddenly making it difficult. She felt numb all over, especially in her arm. But she found her emotions too spiky to grapple with before they escaped into the room in volatile gusts.

  “I know, I know,” she whined. She fidgeted her shoulders and kicked her feet in the bed. She wanted to get up and go home. The doctor told her that was a product of the adrenaline still coursing through her. But she had seen too many movies featuring a victim in a hospital bed like a sitting duck, waiting helplessly for another attack.

  “Where did Jim go? I want to go home now. When can I be released?” She tried to work her voice in a calm adult manner but knew she sounded petulant. She had answered everyone else's questions for hours, while hers were still being ignored.

  “Jim left a while ago, Syd,” Olivier said. “Jack is outside.”

  “Oh, geez. I really meant to see him at the hospital.” Syd winced at a sudden knot that gripped her chest. She had neglected her uncle's best friend. Why hadn't she visited him? The past two weeks began to unravel in a vague series of events.

  “Do you want me to have him come in?” he asked her. His tenor was restrained and patient, like that of an adult talking to a child. Olivier was solicitous toward her since she was admitted to the hospital. Syd hadn't forgotten how angry he was at her in the vineyard. She wasn't going to forget that easily.

  “Of course. Jack,” she screeched toward the door.

  An old, balding, broken man stepped into the doorframe. He wore sweatpants, a sweatshirt, and Birkenstocks. His shuffle revealed the pain of a slow-healing injury. He didn't look anything like the Jack Bristol of her childhood; polished, dapper and cheerful.

  “Hey, Jack,” Syd whispered, as if he were the one in the bed.

  “Hey, Sydney,” he said, smiling back. His face was still swollen with ugly yellow and purple bruises that disappeared under a bandage on his right cheek.

  “I meant to come see you, Jack,” Syd said.

  “No, Syd. I understand.” He sat down gingerly on the foot of her bed. Syd was unsure if it was for her comfort or his.

  “Hey, if I got here earlier we could have shared a room!” Syd joked. She grabbed his dry papery hand. Jack smiled weakly until the worst thing she could imagine happened. His face crumpled into a grotesque grimace and he sucked up air in a strangled gasp.

  “I am so sorry, Siddy!” he cried. “My fault! This is all my fault.”

  Syd pulled him into her, ignoring the excruciating pain of his weight on her left arm. His poor broken body shook silently for several minutes. Syd held him and cooed sounds of reassurances every now and
then to his cradled head. Charlie stepped into the doorway, alarmed by the sound of him. But Syd silently shooed her off. She could sense Charlie and Olivier hovering near the door.

  Syd's left arm soon grew alarmingly numb. She gently asked him to shift his weight. Jack's violent emotional surrender left as quickly as it had arrived. He sat upright and apologized. Self-awareness overtook his face and he hung his head, looking more wretched than before.

  “God, Syd. Did I crush your arm?”

  “No,” she lied. Circulation returned to her arm in painful stabs. She had to focus hard to not wince. “And it’s not your fault, Jack. This is all the work of some crazy person. Some sociopath. A murderer.”

  “Who we have arrested,” Jim announced to the room suddenly. He had burst in and stopped at the end of her bed. He wore the expression of a deeply determined man, with a furrowed brow and authoritative glare. At the same time it was clear he was wholeheartedly distraught by the reality of a very close call. Syd looked from one man to the other, each feeling the pain of her attack as if he had inflicted it himself. Each was equally delusional in his patriarchal sense of duty. One was racked with guilt while the other was bold with triumph. Syd felt a surge of restlessness streak through her. She felt like she was trapped in some bad cop film, riddled with stereotypes of damsels in distress as hero's traipsed into hospital rooms shouting victory.

  “Who?” Syd demanded.

  Jim swallowed hard. Syd watched in growing horror that he misunderstood her demand as righteousness. He was going to patronize her and explain the arrest to her like she was child. She wanted to throw something at him.

  “Hans Feldman. His Lexus was parked up in the easement between the neighboring vineyard. He purchased an ought-six at an antique gun show last October. We found the bullet that went clean through your elbow. He has no alibi, Syd. And he’s not Hans Feldman. His name is Walter Solomon. He’s wanted for fraud in New York.”

  “Oh,” Syd answered. She had expected him to say it was either Bertrand or Feldman. She looked down at her huge white arm held in a sling from her right shoulder and pondered the facts. Of course, Hans Feldman – or Walter Solomon, or whomever he was – stood to gain from Clarence's death. And he lied about the winery buy out and about selling it out from under Clarence. And he had potentially forged a medical examination. And he kept Clarence from knowing about his cancer early on; maybe early enough to get treatment. But she had gone over it in her mind again and again and it didn't ring true.

  “Did he have the rifle?”

  “We haven't found it yet. We picked him up in the vineyard talking to Ted. Pretty brazen, if you ask me. He was just standing there having a conversation. Claimed he didn't even hear the gun shots.”

  “How do you know it was his rifle then?” she asked, still frowning.

  “Bertrand told us. Claims to have seen it in Feldman's study right after he purchased it last fall. It still had the tags on it.”

  She wondered if Bertrand was believable. “So he owns a sniper rifle. Why didn't he run?”

  “Best place to hide is in plain sight,” Jim answered.

  “But wasn't Ted his alibi?”

  “Nope. They had only just met up. It was after 8 am when the deputy showed up at the vineyard. You were shot at 7:45.” Jim appeared to be growing impatient. “Listen, Sydney. We’ve apprehended the perp and we feel confident we have the right man. You should too.” He raised his eyebrows to signal that the discussion was over. Dismissed. Syd frowned as her mind worked over the details.

  Charlie was creeping into the room while her dad explained the arrest. She stood next to him when he delivered his speech and turned to leave. Charlie stepped out of his way. Olivier stood in the doorway and nodded to Jim as he passed into the hall, apparently on his way out of the building.

  “I guess that means it's over,” Charlie said timidly once the room filled with silence in the vacuum that Jim Yesler had left behind.

  “I can't believe I didn't run a check on him before I drew up the contract,” Jack said. He buried his face in his hands again.

  “It's not your fault!” Syd shouted suddenly at the distraught man sitting on her bed. He jolted up and stared at her, startled into confusion. Olivier stepped over to him and led him out of the room, speaking in low tones to Jack. They both looked back at her from the door way, Jack grimacing compassionately. He shuffled off down the hallway while Syd avoided Charlie's glare.

  “Fuck!” Syd yelled at the top of her lungs. Olivier quickly shut the door, while Charlie waved her hands at her and pounced next to her on the bed, looking ready to cover Syd's face with a pillow.

  “You can't yell fuck in a hospital. Syd,” she said, chastising her through giggles.

  Olivier stood and leaned his forehead against the door. He had blood on his shirt and dirt all over his left cheek. He was having a terrible day.

  “I am so fucking tired of being treated like a fucking child!” Syd yelled at Charlie, only a little quieter than before.

  “Uh, yeah. You've made that clear enough,” Charlie said, grinning. “But at least no one will be taking pot shots at you in the vineyard or lurking around your house at night anymore.”

  “And what makes you so sure of that, Charlie?” Syd demanded.

  “Excuse me? Because my dad said so, that's why. And he’s a pretty fucking good detective, you know. And he’s the one doing all of investigating, and putting together the facts and trying to protect you while you defy every instruction he gives you. Jesus, Syd.” Charlie bounded up off of the bed. She paced the room once and moved to the door. Olivier got out of her way. “And, after you’re finished being a drama queen and realize that closure is a good thing, you might want to call dad to say thanks.” She turned and walked out the door.

  Olivier closed the door behind her. A nurse in pink scrubs opened it a second later and popped her head in.

  “Ah-em. There’s no screaming of profanities in the hospital please,” she said, stepping forward to check the morphine drip. “You can push this button if you need more pain medication, dear.” Syd noticed a delicate gold cross around the nurse's chubby neck.

  “Or maybe I could just pray for less pain,” she feigned a saccharine sweetness, surrendering to a gnawing meanness seeded by the bullet wound. The nurse was not amused. “You have been warned,” she said to Olivier before scuttling out of the room. Olivier stood staring at her for a full minute after the nurse left. Syd squirmed under his stare.

  “Good. At least if I'm kicked out of here I can go home,” she muttered to herself, trying to fill the unbearable silence.

  “Is it the pain?” he asked. “Why you are so angry?”

  “The pain? Really?” She shook her head. “I’m pissed off for so many reasons, Olivier. So. Many. Reasons.”

  Olivier slid the chair next to the bed and sat down. He held his fingertips together to listen and stared implacably.

  “First, I’m really sick of the men in my life acting like I need constant protection and pandering. And I'm sick of them being almost right. I fucking hate that you slammed me down into the dirt face first.”

  “Instinct. Sorry.”

  “Whatever. And I’m really sick of having someone hunt me down and being really fucking scared.” She choked back the tears welling up in her throat and lowered her voice. Olivier sat and listened quietly. She spoke softer, “And I'm sick of thinking you’ll go to jail. Or leave. And I'm sick of being such a fucking useless person in the winery. And I'm sick of Clarence being gone.”

  Olivier waited for her to wipe her nose on the hospital sheets and find her composure.

  “None of it makes any sense, Olivier. None of it! Why would Feldman want to shoot me? He had nothing to gain by shooting me. So many other people knew about the insurance policy and the medical report.” She took a deep breath. “And where’s Rosa? I'm in the fucking hospital, for Christ's sake!” Her voice sank into a childish whimper that she surrendered to without concern that Olivier might find
her petulance as ugly as she did. The cat was most certainly out of the bag. By now he had seen her at her absolute worst.

  “Good question,” he said, raising his fingertips to his lips.

  Chapter 34

  Syd was released late that afternoon and Charlie drove her home in silence. Olivier had disappeared from her room when the nurse came in to check her IV and had not been seen since. Syd was ashamed of her outburst in the hospital room, but she still felt a surge of rebellion moving through her in waves of righteousness more native to a teenager than a grown woman. She could not discern her emotions from reason at the moment, drowning as she was in a tsunami of feelings. She was uncertain if the doubts she felt were the residual effects of having her world turned upside down or the logic of her deepest instincts. She knew that her frustration with the helplessness of her situation was real. She also knew that the people surrounding her were not doing their best to support her. She felt like she had been treated like a child. And she wasn't so certain the morphine hadn't elicited her paranoia and uncertainty. She stared out the window on the ride home.

  The lights of the car reflected off of a passing car, and Syd caught a glimpse of a startled face in an oncoming Jeep. It was a face she vaguely recognized staring back at her. Something about it jarred her into contrition. She turned to Charlie when they were nearly home.

  “I'm sorry I yelled at you, Charles,” she said flatly.

  “Yeah? I can tell.”

  “Well, fuck Charlie. I got shot today. My uncle was murdered last week and half my inheritance was given away. I got the flu and I started my period. I'd say you could cut me some slack.” Charlie pulled the car over.