A Vintage To Die For (Violet Vineyard Murder Mysteries Book 2)

by Harvey, JM

  Victor must have been reading my mind.

  “He’s too mean to die,” he said as he took my hand.

  Samson was in surgery for just over two hours. By the time he was wheeled out and into a private room in the ICU, Jessica and Marjory had joined Victor and me in the waiting room.

  Marjory was inconsolable, weeping intermittently and pestering the nurses and doctors, but Jessica was holding up surprisingly well. The events of last year - the violence and the turmoil – really had matured her. No, they had aged her. And me.

  And this year wasn’t shaping up any better.

  I had tried to call Alexandra several times, but got no answer. I left her a series of messages, telling her only that Samson was injured and in the hospital, but I had not heard back from her by the time a male doctor with a thick beard and a gruff Eastern European accent joined us.

  “You’re with Mr. Xenos?” he asked and I shot out of my chair.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Family?” he asked.

  I considered that for only a split second before I replied, “Yes. We are.” It wasn’t a lie, after all. Until a week before, I had thought we were all the family Samson had.

  “He’s stable, but still in critical condition. We—”

  “Is he going to live?” Marjory interrupted with a tremor in her voice.

  “That’s not a question I can answer at the moment,” he replied and Marjory sobbed once then fell back into her chair. “But he is awake. He’s asking for Claire?”

  “That’s me,” I said, stepping forward. “Can I see him?”

  “Yes, but only for a few minutes.”

  “Can I go?” Marjory asked and the doctor gave her a doubtful look.

  “We need to keep him calm for the moment,” he said judiciously. “Maybe later today we can start cycling visitors through.” He didn’t wait for a reply. “ICU is at the end of the hall,” he said.

  He exited and I followed him out.

  “Tell him I’m here!” Marjory yelled after me as I limped down the hallway and through a pair of swinging doors.

  The ICU was silent, save for the beeping of heart monitors and the wheezing of breathing machines. A nurse led me to a room beyond a glass wall where Samson was stretched out under a sheet. IVs and cables tethered him to a cluster of glowing machines and plastic drip-bags. He looked as gray as modeling clay. I felt fresh tears burn my eyes as I approached the bed and took his hand. It was cold and limp, almost lifeless, but his eyes fluttered open and focused up on me.

  “de Montagne,” he whispered so softly I had to duck down to hear him. “Have they found Alexandra?”

  “I’ve been trying to call her, but she’s not answering her phone,” I replied.

  Samson’s lips worked dryly and his eyes squeezed closed. It was obviously a struggle for him to speak. “He…has her,” he wheezed, then opened his eyes. They lacked focus, the pupils blasted wide. I assumed that was because of the pain meds. “He…is not…dead.”

  The tears were flowing down my face by then, but I didn’t swipe them away. I clasped Samson’s hand in both of mine.

  “Blake is dead, Samson,” I told him. “And I’m sure Alexandra is fine.”

  Samson shook his head weakly. “He…called me. He…took her…will kill her.” His eyes went closed again and his jaw fell slack.

  The words ‘kill her’ cut through me like a blade. Blake wasn’t going to harm anyone, but what if it wasn’t Blake he was talking about? Bartlett was still out there somewhere…

  “Who will kill her? Who?” I asked in a reedy whisper. I ducked down close to his ear. “Was it Bartlett?” I asked, but Samson was unconscious, the only sign of life the steady beep of his heart monitor.

  Was Alexandra really in danger or was Samson delusional? He had been shot, then operated on, and was now filled with pain killers…but I had seen too much death in the last week to allow a statement like that to pass. And I had been unable to contact Alexandra.

  I exited the ICU, but didn’t return to the waiting room. I called Hunter from the hallway just outside the ICU’s doors. When he answered, I said, “Alexandra’s missing,” I said. “Samson says he got a call from someone who said they were going to kill her.”

  “Who called him? Who’s going to kill her?”

  “I don’t know! Samson is unconscious, he’s barely coherent. He—” I stopped mid-word as the elevator doors at the end of the hallway opened and Alexandra Pappos stepped out.

  “Alexandra!” I yelled. The nurse at the counter in front of the elevator glared at me and held a finger to her lips.

  “She’s here, Hunter,” I breathed into the phone. “She’s safe.”

  Hunter blew out a long breath. “Thank God for that,” he said, and I couldn’t have agreed more. My knees went so weak I had to lean against the wall or fall down.

  “How is Samson?” Hunter asked as Alexandra hurried my way.

  “Not good,” I said with a catch in my voice. “We won’t know for a while.”

  “How are you?” he asked.

  My response was a shaky laugh followed, by, “If I can get through today, I think I’ll be fine.” Alexandra had reached me by then. Her eyes went to the doors of the ICU and then came back to my face. She looked terrified.

  “Me too,” Hunter said, and I could hear the exhaustion in his voice. “Keep me posted?”

  “You bet,” I replied and ended the call.

  “Where is he?” Alexandra asked and I pointed at the swinging doors into the ICU. “Is he okay?” she asked, her voice filled with dread. I took her hand and she gripped it so tightly my finger bones ground painfully.

  “He was awake a moment ago. He’s tough, Alexandra. He’ll pull through.”

  “Can I see him?”

  “He’s unconscious, but I’m sure it would be fine.” I wanted to ask her about Samson’s claim she had been kidnapped – she didn’t look any worse for wear – but that could wait.

  “Thank you, Claire,” she said and she was gone, pushing through the swinging doors.

  Hours passed with Samson remaining unconscious. Jessica gave Victor a ride home at 11:00PM, but Marjory, Alexandra, and I stayed in the waiting room. At 11:30, Marjory was slumped in a chair far too small for her, her skirt bunched up above her knees, feet splayed, mouth sagging open, snoring like a band-saw, while Alexandra and I sat silently, watching the muted television bolted to the wall in the far corner. It was the evening news and the fire was a big part of it. I was tempted to turn it off. I had lived through it, I didn’t need a recap.

  “I’m going to duck in on him,” I told Alexandra. She nodded and I went down to the ICU.

  I stood by Samson’s bed and watched the red dot rise and fall on the heart monitor. He seemed to be breathing well, and his heart beat was strong. I took a lot of comfort from that. I took even more comfort in what the ICU nurse told me as I exited Samson’s room.

  “I think he’s out of the woods,” she whispered, looking up from a computer monitor. She was dressed in old-school white with a peaked cap, though she couldn’t have been more than twenty-five. “He woke up earlier when I was filling out his chart. He was a little dazed, but he spoke. What he said was odd, but he’s heavily sedated.” She turned back to the screen.

  “What did he say?”

  “The devil sorts us,” she said. “That’s what it sounded like. Probably some kind of dream. He said it over and over again.”

  The words were macabre and chilling. Just the drugs talking, I was sure. I nodded and went through the doors and back down the hallway, Marjory’s snores growing louder with every step I took.

  When I made the turn into the waiting room, I was surprised to find Armand and Alexandra in the far corner, locked in a hushed conversation. Armand was still dressed in his charred clothes. His face was badly blistered and glistened with some kind of salve. He appeared angry. He struck his open palm with his fist and said something I didn’t catch, his voice low and intense.

 
; He saw me and the anger drained from his expression.

  I flashed him an angry look of my own. I hoped Armand wasn’t grilling her about his lost wine. Now was not the time for that.

  “How is he?” Armand asked me as Alexandra turned my way. Her face was bloodless, drawn, and weary.

  I looked accusingly at Armand and snapped, “He’s doing better,” then turned back to Alexandra and softened my voice. “The nurse said he’s past the worst of it.”

  Armand nodded impatiently at that, his lips curled down into a hard frown. He glared at Alexandra. “You’re the last living owner of Star Crossed,” he said. “I’m sorry if this sounds harsh, but I’ll be naming you in the lawsuit.”

  “Armand!” I said. “That’s enough. Her father is in ICU.”

  Armand raised both hands. His palms were still black with soot. “You’re right. I’m sorry.” He looked at Alexandra and started to say something else, but I stepped between the two and put my back to Armand.

  “Why don’t we go to my place and get cleaned up?” I said to her. “There’s nothing we can do until morning, and I need a ride home.”

  Alexandra nodded.

  I turned back to Armand. “We won’t know anything until morning,” I said tersely. “Go home and get some sleep.”

  Armand went, but he shot Alexandra a glare before he exited the room.

  “What was that about?” I asked her after I heard the ‘ding’ of the elevator’s bell.

  She shook her head. “Nothing. He is upset. He has gone through a great deal today.”

  “We all have,” I said. “That’s no excuse for being a jerk.” I heaved a sigh and mustered a smile. “But I guess I’m being a bit of a jerk, too,” I added.

  “You, too, have been through very much. You love Samson a great deal.”

  “Most of the time,” I said in a lame attempt at lightening the mood. I glanced over at Marjory. “Let’s wake up sleeping beauty,” I said, “and get the heck out of here.”

  Chapter 33

  Marjory refused to leave the hospital. As Alexandra and I departed, she was slipping through the ICU doors, looking haggard, rumpled, and impossibly sad. I have to admit I wanted to stay as well, but Alexandra was in rough shape. She needed rest.

  I was thinking of Armand as we headed out into the cool of the night to Alexandra’s Mercedes. The fog had begun to creep in from the ocean, hazing the parking lot’s lights into golden halos. I tried to be forgiving, but his buttonholing Alexandra outside the ICU really made me angry. It was more than rude; it was crass and unfeeling. Alexandra was as much a victim of Blake Becker as Armand. And, in the final analysis, Alexandra had lost a great deal more than wine. She had lost a husband, and she just might lose her father.

  Alexandra was quiet as she drove out of the parking lot and turned east toward Violet, but her face in the backwash of the green dash-lights was drawn and troubled.

  “I hope Armand didn’t upset you too much,” I said.

  She shook her head and kept her eyes on the road ahead. The fog was thickening, even down here in the valley. Gray tendrils spun in front of the headlights and denser clouds filled the roadside ditches.

  At that point, I told her about the phone call Samson had received claiming she had been kidnapped.

  “It must have been Blake Becker,” she said. “He must have thought if he could kill Samson, the lawsuit over Dimitri’s wine would be dropped.” That made sense, and if I hadn’t been so exhausted I might have drawn the same conclusion on my own. Still, it was hard for me to envision the Blake I knew as a calculating killer, despite overwhelming evidence.

  We passed Star Crossed – where the fire was now out, though smoke still hung in the air, drifting over the charred ruins of the house, the orchard, and the warehouse. A solitary fire truck stood vigil in the ruins. But the fire truck wasn’t alone. More than a dozen vehicles were parked along the narrow shoulders of the road – everything from battered pickups to a solitary limousine - and even more cars were parked haphazardly in the mouth of the driveway, just short of a pair of County Sheriff’s cars blocking access to the property.

  Hunter and a trio of his deputies were standing beyond the patrol cars, facing a cluster of people whose expressions varied from shell-shocked and grieving to rage. I recognized probably half of those faces – all vineyard owners. Armand and I were not the only people who had suffered a financial loss that day, and it saddened me to look over the crowd. Many of those people would be ruined by the fire, and many more would have lost collections that had taken a lifetime to build.

  While I stared at the angry mob and at the blackened landscape as we rolled past, Alexandra did not turn her head. Her expression had fixed itself into a grim mask and, though I wanted to reach out to her, to say something to comfort her, no words came.

  We made the turn up the narrow road that leads to my perch in the foothills of the Mayacamas Mountains. The fog grew denser as we climbed up the twisting ribbon of asphalt, and Alexandra was driving too fast for the conditions, her fingers white-knuckling the steering wheel as she made the corners hard and fast. We could barely see fifty feet down the road, and that visibility was reduced more and more as we went higher and higher.

  “The road is very narrow,” I said diplomatically as I gripped the armrest, my entire body rigid with tension. “You might want to slow down.”

  “Of course,” Alexandra said as she slowed to forty-five, which was still far too fast.

  The fog had become an almost impenetrable soup. I pressed my foot into the floorboard on an imaginary brake while picturing us flying off one of the curves to plummet into the boulder-strewn slopes below. But, despite my concern, we made it to the straightaway that fronts Violet without crashing and burning.

  Alexandra showed no signs of slowing down as we neared my home.

  “It’s just ahead on the left,” I said and she hit the brakes so hard the car’s tires lost their grip and we lurched to the right. She managed to get it under control, then took the corner into the driveway too fast. We skidded in the loose gravel before the car came to a sudden stop, its tires on my front lawn.

  The fog was swirling around us like something in a horror movie. I could barely see the front porch light through the haze.

  I opened the door and started to climb out – promising myself I would never ride with Alexandra again – but she remained seated behind the wheel, staring through the windshield, her face an inscrutable mask.

  “Alexandra,” I said, dropping back into the passenger seat. “It’s going to be okay.” I reached out and touched her shoulder. She looked up at me, her dusky complexion having turned the color of oatmeal.

  “It’s going to be okay,” I repeated, and squeezed her shoulder, but she shook her head.

  “No, it is not.” She said and her eyes shifted off my face. She looked past me, out into the fog, staring so intently I turned my head and followed her gaze.

  With the combination of the darkness and the swirling fog, I could barely see fifteen feet in front of me. A damp, chilly wind gusted through my open door and I shivered, and not just because of the cold. Staring out into the night instantly stirred up the old primeval fear of the dark. But I had a real fear as well; Bartlett was still out there somewhere.

  “Let’s go inside. It’s cold out here,” I said and her eyes came back to my face. “It’s over, Alexandra. Samson will be fine,” I added, and then I repeated what Victor had said to me at Star Crossed: “He’s too mean to die.”

  Alexandra nodded and reached for the door handle. She popped the door open and the wind gusted through the car. The wet, icy fingers of the fog almost took my breath. It really had gotten cold. I climbed out and led the way to the house. I unlocked the door, ushered her inside and pointed her toward the living room. I locked the front door and secured the deadbolt before I followed.

  I waved her at the sofa and she slumped down onto it, her eyes on the coffee-table.

  “Scotch?” I asked, already heading f
or the bar, but she shook her head.

  “No, thank you. I have to drive back to the hospital tonight.”

  I started to protest against that, but decided to play a delaying gambit for the moment. “Coffee?” I asked, really wishing she had accepted the scotch. It would have given me an excuse to make her stay the night. She didn’t need to be alone - in my opinion - and she certainly didn’t need to be driving off into the fog again.

  “That would be nice,” she said.

  I went to the kitchen, ditched my purse on the table and got down the coffee. I measured out enough for half a pot and put water into the antique coffeemaker’s reservoir. I turned it on, then crossed to the window over the sink and looked out into the fog bank that shrouded my rows in a ghostly haze. The wind was stiffening. It tore small gaps in the fogbank through which I caught glimpses of my vines, and the eucalyptus and oak trees that clung to the rocky slope beyond them, glimpses swallowed as quickly as they were revealed.

  The coffee pot sputtered and spewed for ten minutes before it spat and gasped and gurgled its way through the last few drops. I got down two cups and filled them from the small spigot on the bottom of the pot. As the second cup filled, I looked toward the window again. From that distance I could see nothing but my own image reflected back at me - a wraithlike figure dressed in smoke-blackened clothes, the eyes ringed by dark hollows. A shiver went through me like an intravenous injection of ice water.

  And then my phone rang, startling me out of my reverie. I limped over to my purse and pulled out my new phone. It was Hunter.

  “Where are you?” he asked abruptly.

  “I’m at home,” I said, fear instantly crawling all over me. “What’s wrong? What happened?”

  “Is Armand with you?” he demanded without answering my question, and my fear flashed over into annoyance.

  “No,” I snapped in exasperation. “Of course not. There’s nothing going on with me and Armand, Hunter! He’s just a friend. And I don’t appreciate the innuendo—”