“Everyone’s trying to help you, Syd. But you’re such an ungrateful bitch sometimes.” Charlie yelled at the steering wheel.
“I'm not ungrateful, Charlie. I know everyone’s trying to help me. I know they’re doing their best. But I hate being treated like a child. My uncle was murdered and I have a right to know what’s going on. I have a right to ask questions, to talk about it. And I'm not so sure your dad has the right man.” She paused to wipe the tears from her cheeks and take a deep breath, “I know I’ve been a wreck and I'm so embarrassed...”
“That's just plain stupid, Syd. Just stupid. Do you hear yourself? Your uncle died, you lost half of your inheritance, you got the flu and you got shot today! Geezus. Mother Theresa herself would be having a nervous breakdown. There’s nothing to be embarrassed about..”
“But I feel like I'm drowning...”
“Yeah, I know. You've got a lot of healing to do, Siddy. I know you like to think everything through for yourself, but you might want to let this one go...”
“But Feldman’s driven by greed, Charles. Greed.”
“Yeah, and he killed someone for it.”
“But he had more irons in the fire. Better paying irons. He had a lot to lose.”
“Isn't that the point, Syd? He had too much to lose. He needed that insurance payout to cover his part of the new scheme.”
“Do we know that? He had money for the initial scheme with my uncle, so he must already have some cash to invest. And why shoot me?”
Charlie threw up her hands. “Hell, I have no idea Syd. Maybe because you knew about the insurance fraud.”
“So why didn't he go after Paul the insurance guy? Jack met with Paul.”
“They’re all questions my dad has worked out, I'm sure.” She restarted the engine, “I think you need a long bath, a good meal, and a few hundred hours of sleep. Maybe some nice dreams about a dark Argentine man.” Charlie pulled the car back onto the road and. Syd stared out the window silently.
“Are you still mad at me?” Syd asked.
“Yeah, but I'll get over it. It's nearly Christmas and you just inherited a lot of dough. Guilt makes great gift-giving.” She smiled slyly and punched Syd's knee.
“Ouch! Fuck, Charles. I just got shot, you know.” Syd feigned a pout that felt much more like a grin. It was always better to have Charlie in her corner. She was looking forward to a night of popcorn and snuggles with her friend. Lying next to her felt as much like home as the quilt on the spare bed.
~
Charlie busied herself in the kitchen that night making Syd her famous mac and cheese. Charlie used four cheeses and the last of the home-cured bacon from Clarence's larder. Clarence cured excellent pork belly in a spare refrigerator that he used for cheese wheels, home-cured prosciutto, and his pickled vegetables. She clambered around in the kitchen looking for the right pot and utensils while Syd fell in and out of sleep on the couch. Her waking moments were filled with regret over her behavior that day. She began to feel the immediate need to wean herself from her meds, deciding that the drugs removed her ability to filter her thoughts and control her emotions.
Her arm began to throb around 7 pm while Charlie puttered in the kitchen. Syd shuffled her way into the kitchen to find some ibuprofen. After swallowing 800 mg with a swig of tap water she searched out the kitchen window for the winery truck or any sign of Olivier. She hadn't seen him since he left the hospital. The winery remained dark and unopened. She contemplated the need to do evening punchdowns, and what seemed like Olivier's uncharacteristic neglect of the winery duties.
“Not him too,” she said, her voice sounding hollow and distant.
“Who? What?” Charlie asked. She turned away from the mortar and pestle she was using to pulverize stale bread for the crust on the mac and cheese.
Syd collected herself. “I guess I mean Olivier,” she said.
“What’d he do? And who else did it?”
Syd stood and shook her head.
“Syd? What are you talking about?” Charlie walked quietly forward and hugged her gingerly, avoiding her bandaged arm in a sling.
“Well, Rosa’s gone, right?” she asked Charlie, still hugging her.
“Hmm. She’s had a few days off, Syd. That's all.” Charlie released her and stepped back to look her in the eye.
“But she didn't say anything to me. She normally would have said something.” Her voice trailed off.
“Maybe it was her day off and she forgot to tell you. Or maybe she said something to someone else and it didn't get passed on.” Charlie searched for a plausible answer.
“And now Olivier’s gone.”
“Uh, we just saw him at the hospital, Syd.” She felt Syd's head and realized she was hot. “Maybe you should lie down again.”
Charlie led Syd back into the living room and onto the couch. Syd lay down obediently. Her arm was throbbing and she wondered if maybe she should reconsider taking the pain meds, heavy narcotics haze and mood swing or not. Charlie retrieved the quilt and gently tucked it under her arm. She stood over her for a moment, looking worried. Syd closed her eyes and ignored Charlie's furrowed brow.
She dozed off for a while, feeling the hot throbbing of her arm subside enough to make sleep inviting. She heard clattering in the kitchen and the worried hum of whispering voices in between strange dreams. She awoke to whispering at the table in the same room, permeated with the delicious aromas of baked food. She struggled to push herself off the couch with her right arm and sat up.
Charlie and Jim were seated at the table, their heads drawn together in furrowed brows and furtive whispers. Charlie watched for Syd's movements and jumped up over to her when she sat up.
“How you feeling, sweetie?” she asked, supporting Syd's right arm and helping her stand up.
“It really hurts. I think I may have to take those pain meds after all,” Syd said, admitting defeat. Her arm was excruciating and the throbbing was getting worse. She had been warned that the wound could get an infection, and she was already on powerful antibiotics. Still, she wondered now if her insistence on going home was a bit premature. Nausea swept over her and she had to sit back down to avoid vomiting.
Charlie left her to find the pain meds and some water. When she returned, Syd had recovered a bit and took the pills obediently. She sat upright on the couch for a few minutes, waiting for the pulsing in her arm and the waves of nausea to subside. A few minutes later she braced herself and got up again. She shuffled over to the table and joined Jim and Charlie. A hot cup of tea was waiting for her.
“Hey, Sydney,” Jim said with evident trepidation and worry, his voice full of gravel.
“Hi, Jim. Hey, listen, I'm sorry that I gave you such a hard time at the hospital. You're right. You are a good detective and I was wrong to second-guess you.” She reached over awkwardly to squeeze his plate-sized hand with hers.
Jim and Charlie exchanged looks. Even under the fogginess of pain, Syd could see their expressions.
“What's up?” she asked in a small voice, feeling very young. The hair on the back of her neck rose and a chill swept through her.
“Our case isn’t water tight,” Jim said. “But we're working on it, Syd.”
“You still believe it was Feldman, right?” she heard herself plead. She wanted to believe it wholeheartedly. She needed to know it was over.
“Yes. He's just really clever. Listen, Siddy-biddy, I just need you to rest and heal that arm. Let me worry about the case.” He shoved back his chair and cleared the stack of plates. Syd sipped her tea while Jim rinsed off the dishes. Charlie sat and tried to avoid staring at Syd with a face wrought with worry.
“I'm gonna head out now, ladies,” Jim said. He shuffled into the great room. “You two take care and look after one another. A cruiser will be here all night, just outside. I'll be back in the morning, okay?” Syd heard his voice as if through a large pair of ear muffs.
“What time is it?” she asked, more as a statement to herself than a question.
“About 8:30,” Jim answered. He bent over to kiss her cheek. “Good night,” he said to Charlie, who bit her lip. “Lock the doors, babe.”
They sat silently together at the table. Charlie stared at her clasped hands while Syd pondered the possible whereabouts of Olivier. She was beginning to feel the incessant nagging of a task undone in the winery, and her mind worked out the risks of leaving them undone. A Tempranillo ferment was awry and unchecked today. Punchdowns had not been done since early in the morning. Two had been missed so far and there was no sign of Olivier.
“I need to get up to the winery, Charlie,” she said, her voice echoing strangely in her head.
“What?” Charlie turned to look at her in slow motion, her voice muffled and deep.
“Punchdowns haven't been done all day.”
“I think the wine can survive a day without punchdowns.” Charlie wasn't about to let Syd go up to the winery and attempt punchdowns one-handed. Or negotiate the stepladder on opiates.
“But the Tempranillo is...”
“I'll call Alejandro,” she said and jumped up out of her chair. She returned with her phone to her ear a moment later. There was no answer. She left a voicemail and texted him. She found another number and called it. Still no answer. She texted again.
“Who's that?”
“Olivier,” Charlie said. “I've been trying to call him all afternoon.”
“He's got a cell phone?” Syd asked, incredulously. Charlie smiled and nodded, still texting.
“So why doesn't Rosa have a god damn cell phone?” Syd asked. The pain meds were beginning to chisel away her filters. Charlie set her phone down and reached for Syd's shoulders. They sat in a half embrace for a long time. Syd began to feel unbearably sleepy, and shuffled off to bed with Charlie behind her, ready to help Syd into her pajamas. She lay down on the bed on her back, the beloved quilt tucked under her arm along with a pillow to prop it into the most comfortable position.
“Night, Syd. Rosa will be here in the morning, don't you worry.” Charlie kissed her on her forehead and tiptoed out of the room.
Syd lay in the dark for a while, making out strange shapes in the shadow of the dim light on the table across the room. The light was yellow but tinged with gray by the darkness. It reminded Syd of the bruises on Jack's face. Then she thought of Jack. She mused over his friendship with her uncle and the memories of his presence in her childhood. Jack was like a gift-bearing happy uncle to her, replete with trips for ice cream. He was always a guest at Thanksgiving dinner and had a special ticket at graduations. But even though he was beaten and bruised, and nearly killed, she still wondered what possessed him to take part in conversations with Feldman about his most recent scheme. Maybe he was just Feldman's lawyer? She tried to recall what Alejandro had told her about the meeting in the vineyard that Sunday less than two weeks ago. It felt like a lifetime ago.
She squirmed in bed, regretting it as soon as she moved. Her arm throbbed. The overwhelming fatigue she felt earlier vanished into fitfulness and she lay poring over random thoughts and worries. The pain in her arm brought her mind to sharp acuity in jolts. She listened for the sounds of a truck on gravel for a long time, but it never came.
Soon she drifted off into a disturbed dream. In it she heard laughter from Rosa and Olivier through the open door of the winery. The door was unusually heavy when she pushed on it, feeling it push back the more she shoved. She lifted her left arm, which felt heavy and stiff, and pushed higher up on the door. The bandage was gone but the gunshot wound was still there. Only now there were no stitches; only an open blackish hole. The door still wouldn't budge. Syd called out to the voices inside, but they couldn't hear her. Rosa's cackle rolled out beneath the crack of the door. She turned to see her uncle standing next to her, studying her troubles with a look of concentration. His glorious scent of cedar and exotic spices overtook her. His hair was tinged with purple and his skin was ashen, but his eyes were alive and smiling.
He stepped over to the door and said, “like this, Sydney,” without moving his lips. He pushed on the door slowly, effortlessly with some kind of miraculous expertise that left her exasperated and awestruck. They entered the winery and were greeted by the noxious burn of CO2 gas. It repelled Syd back and out of the winery gasping for air. But Clarence entered freely and walked over to Olivier and Rosa, each of whom smiled at him. They stood together in a cluster around a tank. Olivier handed Clarence a sample in a beaker. Clarence frowned and nodded, sipping and spitting the wine into the drain in the floor. Syd called out, but they couldn't hear her. She paced outside the door and looked up at the sky. A heavy purple gossamer veil hid the moon, leaving the clouds in a giant ripple like raindrops in a pond. The sky was oppressive and ominous. She attempted to enter the winery again, but the gases were too heavy to breathe. She watched Clarence and Olivier argue over the sample. Rosa puckered up her face in disgust and clucked her tongue. Suddenly, both men turned to look at her as she hovered in the doorway, shaking their heads in disappointment. She had ruined everything. She stared at them, her mouth working like a fish, pleading. She begged for them to understand that she couldn't do it. She was injured and in bed and she was forced to stay away by the gases. But they didn't listen to her or they couldn't hear her. Olivier walked into the recesses of the darkened winery and out of sight. Clarence followed him and Rosa vanished altogether. Syd stood just inside the door, shivering with terror and indignation.
She waited in the thin strip of the open door for a long time, trying to make out the shadowy shapes coming from inside the winery. The sky made terrifying moaning sounds, and the vines shuddered in a portentous wind. When she turned to look toward the vineyard, the rustling stopped abruptly. Suddenly the full moon shone brightly between the drawn curtains of the purple clouds and the doors of the winery gleaned a bright red. Syd tried to push open the doors again. They were a little easier to move this time, so she continued to push her way inside. The gas was present but not suffocating. She pushed the doors for what seemed like hours and stopped for a breath when the door was nearly all the way open. She bent her head while she gasped for air and noticed something directly behind the door. A shoe, attached to a leg. She peered around the corner, suddenly terrified again. A figure of a man lay against the door, blocking it. She realized she had been pushing his dead weight. But he wasn't dead at all; his eyes looked up at her as she crept nearer for a better look. It was a face too familiar to be forgotten.
Syd awoke with a jolt, jarring her arm out of position. A bolt of searing pain radiated through her and she realized that she may have torn one of her stitches. Her mouth was dry and she reached for the glass of water at her bedside. She gulped greedily, looking to fill up the hole in her chest burrowed by the nightmare. Her right hand pressed hard on the wound to squeeze out the pain, stanching any bleeding that may have occurred. She forced herself to breathe steadily. She contemplated waking up Charlie out of desperation to be held. Marcus would be nice, she thought to herself. Marcus. His huge body, his strange marmalade smells and incessant scratching in his sleep. She would endure his worst habits for the comfort of his embrace right now. She wondered if Charlie had called him when she was in the hospital. She had no idea where her phone was and she hadn't checked any messages for days. Guilt settled into the hole left by the nightmare. She had been unkind and unfair to Marcus. He deserved an answer. She knew she had to cut him free soon. She knew he'd wait patiently for her to do it. And he'd argue with her and tell her that he loved her, all the while putting up the effort to delude himself into thinking he had tried to stand by her during her time of need, a Boy Scout.
She lay struck by the sudden clarity of her relationship with Marcus, grateful for the distraction from her pulsing arm. He was the perpetual Boy Scout, predictable and comfortable. Marcus held no mysteries, no secrets in his past to uncover. He was a good-looking place filler, a known variable. A warm body to break against when she wanted one. He was outgoing and eternally faithful.
He was less concerned with her own introversion than she was. He was a natural mask for her, the sleight-of-hand that deflected any real interest in herself. Besides, he mastered the trends and fads of the social elite like a natural. They looked good together, and he wore a lovely tuxedo. A hot surge of shame ran through her at her thoughts, and she swallowed hard.
She realized she had chosen a shallow life. Deliberately. One replete with labels; wine labels, clothing labels, and self-branding as a floor working sommelier. And the perfect boyfriend was the perfect accessory to her self-abasing life. She had compromised everything that mattered with several casualties along the way. There was no truth, no beauty, no love. There was only a caricature of a life built in her own ironic cynicism. A life unauthentic, the kind she most despised. Even worse, she had squandered the love of the man most important to her in an attempt to find her own way; a way machete'd through a false jungle of first world problems mired in the swampy recesses of a selfish princess's mind. Her sense of entitlement sickened her. And now she had to break Marcus's heart too. She was a wrecking ball. But perhaps thinking she was a wrecking ball was part of her self-importance. Her self-pity sickened her more; narcissism was the worst epitaph imaginable.
Syd leapt out of bed, not caring if she tore open all of her stitches. She wandered aimlessly through the house, searching blindly in the dark. She was a succubus, an energy vampire sucking life out of everyone around her. Clarence lived for love, passion, and art, and she had learned nothing from him. He faced his own truths with a lifetime of dignity and authenticity, while she sneered at his genuine life floating like a ghost through a life full of every imaginable gift, only to squander them.
“I am so sorry. So sorry,” she whispered to the dark kitchen, choking on the ball of shame lodged in her throat. She wanted Clarence to hear her. She wanted it more than she had ever wanted anything in her life. She loathed herself for wanting forgiveness so badly, feeling that she really deserved was a lifetime spent in purgatory. Yet she would have given over to any religion in order to speak to him once more and beg forgiveness. The loneliness of the dark, cold kitchen engulfed her, and she fell in a heap on the floor, sobbing. She tried to pray, but the hypocrisy of it stuck in her throat. Instead she worried her hands in knots while she spoke out loud to Clarence. She babbled through her tears, gesticulating at her phantom listener with passion. Eventually, she finished with dry coughing sobs. Her legs grew stiff and her arm ached with the weight of the blood entering her wounds. Over time the hole in her chest felt smaller; exactly the size of a bullet hole. She used the counter to pull herself up gingerly, using her awkward right arm.
A Tainted Finish: A Sydney McGrath Mystery Page 23