Juliet didn’t approve of smoking but the act or else the nicotine itself seemed to steady Edward. The tremor in his hands finally stilled.
“You know, I think this can be saved. And why can’t I run a second winery within Blue Period? The old equipment is here. With proper maintenance and some repairs it could be…. I need to go talk to Bannerman, maybe see about hiring a new manager….” His gaze refocused and he looked less dopey. There was even some color in his cheeks. “Thank you, Miss Henry. I was … I wasn’t thinking clearly. I guess it was the shock.”
“Not at all. And you give me a shout if you need anything. Raphael and I are just up the hill if you need us.”
Juliet patted his arm just as Moira had and turned to leave. She hadn’t asked any of her assigned questions but didn’t think that she needed to. Her gut was saying that Edward hadn’t killed his father. She would go spend her energies on someone else. If Raphael wanted to pursue him, that was his decision.
But first she wanted a look at where Carl had been killed. There could be something to be learned by standing where he had stood and seeing what he had seen on the night that he died.
Feeling observed as she strolled toward the harvested fields, she pulled out her small sketch book she always kept in her purse or her pocket and began to draw the skeletons of the battered vines. She would draw and then stroll, draw and then stroll. When her mind wandered, small imps appeared in her drawing, leering out of the twisted sticks.
There were plenty of clues about where the murder had happened, leaving aside a few bits of snagged crime scene tape which still clung to the wires where the vines were espaliered. Juliet stood in the empty vineyard which she shared only with an orange cat and looked up at the cottages where she and Raphael—and Schneider—were staying. They looked like what they were, reasonably well-kept but not luxurious abodes.
“Hullo, cat. Shouldn’t you be off hunting mice, or napping in the shade?”
The cat just blinked and began to purr. He, at least, was enjoying the heat. Juliet shook her head at him.
There had been fog that night. Not as bad as on the evening following the party, but still probably deterrent enough for anyone who didn’t know the area. Unless they had brought some very fancy equipment with them. Like an infrared scope.
Under the short wall that surrounded the patio the steep slope up to the cottages was littered with shale and shards of shattered rock. The stone had yielded reluctantly but yield it finally had to picks or earthquakes and been splintered into vengeful scree that waited for the unwary, and the wall which seemed substantial from above hardly seemed adequate for holding back the rest of the hill and the three small cottages perched on the terrace.
However inadequate, it all looked undisturbed and covered in a fine layer of red earth dust. Had anyone come down it recently there would have been evidence of rockslide and some change in the even color of the earthen powder which covered everything when the harvesters were working.
If Schneider had crept up on Owens and killed him, it hadn’t been from the cottages. He would either have had to come up from the road, or via the winery, or….
Juliet began walking and considering logistics.
It was also highly unlikely that he had had a gun at the party so he would have needed to get one from somewhere before he went into the fields.
Had someone—maybe Carissa—brought him a weapon?
And what of Owens? Had he suspected trouble and armed himself before heading for the grape fields that night? Or did he always take a gun when walking after dark? There were wild animals around and some of them could have rabies. Maybe he kept firearms in the outbuildings. Certainly he was security conscious enough to hire guards. Maybe a gun wasn’t out of character.
It always came back to who. The how and why were fairly evident. There were so many people who had reason to hate Owens, one could pick and choose names all day long. But would he have met with any of his enemies out in the dark vineyard?
Staring at a bit of fluttering paper caught in the wire where the new vines were espaliered, she thought about the used napkin that Owens had dropped on the table at the party. Meet me at the old door.
Had the handwriting been feminine? She had assumed so at the time, but couldn’t really tell. No one wrote with hearts and flourishes on a soggy napkin and there had been no lipstick or perfume that she had noticed. Still, he might have gone to meet a woman, even an enemy. He would feel confident that he could out-think and out-fight any female.
Juliet turned and looked back at the facilities. The new buildings could be dismissed since they had been in operation that night and were well lighted inside and out. They also lacked rear doors, young or old.
Of the original winery buildings only three backed onto the vines. Two had old doors.
Acting on her hunch, Juliet started working her way around the old bottling facility, hoping that Edward would be gone by the time she got back and that she could risk asphyxiation from wine and bird droppings and take a quick look inside, but no such luck. He was there and now had two other men with him. She would have to wait to test her theory. Which she hated. It felt like the day she had turned in her resignation and then watched the clock slow to nothing while her boss went from meeting to meeting and only at the end of the day agreed to sign the papers that would return her to freedom and maybe let her regain her rupturing faith that there was a less duplicitous and complicated way to live.
She strolled the field until she could go no further. She encountered a barbed wire fence strung between two rows of vines. Beyond it, she realized when staring at the thick and twisted vines still heavy with fruit, were Trefoil’s old grapes.
She turned again to look at the bottling facility. Yes, there was an old door there that opened right onto the Trefoil fields and the fence did not reach all the way to the building. And the wineries’ grapevines were so close that someone could have stood on Trefoil grounds and shot Carl Owens the moment he stepped out the door and moved into the shadows where he wouldn’t be seen.
Did this narrow her list of suspects?
Getting onto Trefoil land was more difficult since it sat on a bluff, at least if the killer came via the winery itself. But one could easily park along the road and either climb over the fence, or cut it away, and then make their way through the old vineyard. Trefoil didn’t have security guards the way Blue Period did. Even with heavy mist, it wouldn’t be hard to follow a straight line up to the lighted buildings.
“Maybe,” she said to the cat who was still following her. “Just maybe it happened this way. But this will take some proving.”
“Reow.” Then the cat walked up to the old door and sat there as though expecting Juliet to let him in.
“Whose kitty are you?” Juliet asked, but received no answer.
Chapter 8
“So what are you thinking?” Raphael asked as they gathered around the very small table at the farthest reaches of the narrow, shotgun-style restaurant.
Chic had come highly recommended, but as was so often the case with fashionable places, the atmosphere and setting were labored.
Part of the attraction of the restaurant was a well-stocked wine bar, but it was one of those places that felt that every vintage and label offered needed to be on display. Like a woman who didn’t understand the concept of keeping a little mystery in the relationship that she could use to surprise her guests when the first rush of attraction was over.
Still, every table was filled with tourists who seemed to like the décor and they filled up the small space with tight, tired voices that were determined to have some fun. The customers seemed a bit chloroformed by the heat and either burnt a shade of lobster or else sweating under their zinc-oxide sunscreen, which had the unfortunate effect of making their eyes look like bullet holes shot through their gleaming faces with small caliber ammunition, but the food and drinks kept coming and eventually began to do their work. The mood healed, proper internal temperature was achieved,
and there was more genuine laughter.
Napa without tourists is probably lovely, Juliet thought. Perhaps she would come back in March.
“Bella?” Esteban asked politely.
Juliet forced herself to focus on Raphael and Esteban. They had given their report on the widow, who was definitely not grieving but was shaken by the scrutiny of the police and suddenly behaving quite soberly. She was also very interested in when she could get some money from the estate. Her business was in the red and needed money immediately. Apparently there were not enough people who wanted clothes made of multiple dead animals.
“And so what do we know?” Raphael asked.
“This is all intuition but I think that this was a murder without a great deal of premeditation,” Juliet said. “Done by someone competent and resolved but unskilled in killing. At least in killing humans. The killer may have also gained access through Trefoil lands. There are only a couple strands of barbed wire separating the properties and the old vineyard runs all the way down to the road. There is also the matter of the napkin.”
Juliet explained for Esteban’s benefit.
“Does this narrow the field of suspects?” Raphael asked. He tasted the chardonnay he had ordered and seemed happy with his choice. Juliet had risked seeming a heathen and ordered a ginger ale. Her walk through the acreage had left her thirsty and she had a small headache.
“No, not really. Talbert is capable of making a hit look unprofessional if he wanted to.”
And Talbert was not acting with his usual, scary efficiency. He might even be said to be vacillating. She had to wonder if that was deliberate, a form of method acting to lull the observant.
“And Edward?”
Juliet shrugged uneasily. One’s personal life was spread-eagled once governmental arms reached for you. Carissa was figuring this out. She hoped for Edward’s sake that it didn’t come to that but it probably would if a strong suspect didn’t present him or herself soon.
“I can’t logically cross him off. But … I don’t think he has the nerve. I would also be willing to bet that he has done a recent stint in some rehab.”
“There was nothing in the files,” Esteban began. “But people do not always use their real names in these situations.”
“The signs were obvious?” Raphael asked, not questioning her judgment but admitting that he hadn’t seen them from a distance.
She shrugged.
“He just kept talking about feeling safer in small spaces and he’s very pale and shaky. Uber-dependent on nicotine. I could be wrong—and God knows Talbert would lie if he wanted—but I think Edward is … not a good candidate for seizing the moment and committing a murder. Frankly, I don’t even know if he is up to seizing the day.”
Raphael studied her face for a moment.
“Then let us leave the gruesome subjects of death and addiction and enjoy our meal. Esteban, how was southern California?”
“Petitioning for admission to hell. How can anyone endure the summer in that unbreathable air.…”
It was almost dark when they left the restaurant and for a few moments they were able to enjoy the fiery orange of the dying sun. But the strident glory of the sunset was cut short by the evening wind which brought the mist. Just before full dark, the ocean began heaving its fog over the hills and filling up the surrounding vineyards with thick vapor. The roads had enough traffic on them to remain clear for a while, but in an hour or two they would also be veiled.
Living there was like having a malarial infection—hot then cold, sweaty in the day and then shivering at night. Juliet was heartily sick of it. They needed to find the killer or else concede defeat and go home.
“Does this always happen?” she asked.
“No, usually it has stopped by now. Of course, with the weather changing everywhere, who is to say what is normal now?”
“Bella,” Esteban scolded and dropped his linen jacket over her shoulders. “So, is tonight the night that we visit your bottling facility?”
“I suppose,” Juliet said. Mostly she just wanted to make a cup of tea and then go to bed, but when duty whispered lo, thou must then you just had to get on with it. Their time was limited. They couldn’t stay in their borrowed cottages forever.
“We should dress for the party. Formal attire,” Esteban said. “You have something in black?”
“I brought my cat burglar clothes,” Juliet admitted.
“Then Raphael will see you home and I shall join you at the quarter of the hour. Warn the guards I am coming. They are probably nervous about visitors after the murder.”
Esteban was punctual. Raphael had called the night guards to tell them to expect a visitor. He was going to play lookout from the terrace while they looked around and would signal them with a lighter if he saw anyone approaching while they were breaking and entering.
Esteban wasted no time once they were out of the car which he left in the darkest part of the visitors’ lot. There were a few hunched cars there, damp with mist which speckled the dust that covered the vehicles and puddled into drops. There was a faint scent of lavender in the heavy air which now seemed sinister.
Juliet glanced up at the cottages so far removed from their skullduggery. She couldn’t see Raphael but was glad that he was there keeping an eye on them. Once again she had to wonder why she had volunteered for this. She did not like creeping around. At night. In old buildings that probably had black widows and rattlesnakes and skunks hiding in them. Of course, it was this damned feeling of moral obligation that she couldn’t be rid of that had her risking embarrassment and arrest. It insisted that the abuse of her host’s hospitality was acceptable if it meant finding a killer.
And since she was snooping, she was better off burying any shocked sensibilities and getting on with the job.
Thank heavens she had gloves.
Security was mostly directed outward, keeping the rest of the world out of the facility and not concerning itself with what went on behind the winery’s wall, so Esteban moved quietly and quickly, but not surreptitiously. Juliet did her best to emulate him as he moved from dark spot to dark spot in a casual, efficient manner. If she wasn’t quite as silent or fleet, the noise of the crushers and the harvesters out in the more distant acreage covered any sounds she made. The machines worked day and night. It had been a banner year and there were a million tons of grapes to be squished and juiced and made into wine.
The moon would need a couple more hours and a settling of the mist for it to be either a help or a hindrance to them. She preferred the fixed lights that didn’t play peek-a-boo with the fog. They could be gotten around more easily.
Still, for all her rationalizations and fear of spiders, it was a relief to finally get inside. The old bottling facility was less sterile and more welcoming than the one where wine was currently being processed, though even with the doors having been opened most of the day, the odor of old wine was still overpowering.
Her flashlight was kept on a low setting and she had to move carefully among the carelessly stacked crates that seemed to have been abandoned precipitously and then forgotten. Had she not been looking for it, Juliet might not have found the old narrow door that opened onto a firebreak that ran between the building and the Blue Period and Trefoil properties. There were stacks of empty crates piled on an old table and one would think that nothing had been disturbed for years, except that there were fresh marks in the dust on the runnelled floor left by the flaking paint on the worktable’s uneven legs and hand-size smudges in the dust on the tabletop.
Someone had moved this table in front of the door. Probably after Carl Owens was killed.
If the shooter came and went through Trefoil land then who would have moved this table to cover their tracks? The same person who had supplied a gun? Or was it someone covering up things later?
Or had it been moved that afternoon while Edward was exploring the old winery? Juliet wanted to kick herself for not getting inside the building earlier.
“Your d
oor?” Esteban asked softly.
“I think so. Help me move this table. I want to make sure that the door can actually open. If it’s been painted shut then we will have to go into the other building as well.”
They both took a corner of the table and picked it up with care, being sure they didn’t add to the marks on the floor.
Juliet pushed up her dangling sleeve and tried the latch. It lifted easily. A sniff told her that it had been recently oiled. The door opened silently. Outside were the encircling arms of the vineyard, old vines and ways pitted against the young and modern. The old vines would happily coexist with the new but she doubted the old ways of making wine would have survived being taken over by Carl Owens.
“So, definite premeditation,” she said to Esteban, closing the door carefully.
They worked quickly to put the table back.
Esteban opened a small cupboard by the door.
“It has been recently opened. The webs are broken. It is about the right size to hold a rifle, yes?”
“Yes.” Either Owens’ gun or the one that had killed him.
Juliet wondered at what point they should go to the police. Surely they had searched all the buildings after the murder. They could have been the ones who opened the cupboard.
“You are thinking of the law?” Esteban asked.
“Yes. Reluctantly.”
None of them were inclined to involve themselves since they didn’t know the local law and couldn’t guess if they were just looking for an easy way out. Certainly, they hadn’t been overwhelmed with their care and speed in the investigation thus far. Though perhaps if they were laggardly it was Talbert’s doing. Maybe they had been warned away.
“Nothing here makes me think of a professional hit,” Juliet said softly.
“No, but we never really believed that was the case, did we?”
Chapter 9
5 Blue Period Page 6