Crushed (The Fredrickson Winery Novels)

by Barbara Ellen Brink

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Margaret woke to the smell of frying bacon. She licked her lips and pulled the blanket closer under her chin, refusing to open her eyes. Handel and Davy were trying to tempt her from her bed on a Saturday morning again, so they could talk her into doing something she wouldn’t want to do. Like visiting the San Francisco Zoo or going fishing—two things she could live without ever doing again. She tried to roll over on her side and felt the back of the couch against her face. Her eyes shot open.

  Davy! She pushed the blanket back and sat up, looking wildly about the room. Had it all been a dream? If so, why was she sleeping in the family room? She stood up too quickly and dark spots clouded her vision. She sat back down and dropped her head in her hands.

  “You’re up,” Handel said from the doorway. “I made breakfast.”

  She met his somber gaze. “Davy?” she asked.

  He shook his head. “No word yet.”

  Tears came unbidden, welling in her eyes. She blinked them away. She moved from the couch to the kitchen, went through the motions of life, ate because Handel expected her to, spoke when spoken to, but inside she felt dead, like life had been sucked out of her body.

  “Did you hear me?” Handel asked, setting his coffee cup down.

  She stared at him, completely blank. “Sorry?”

  “Adam called.”

  “About what?” She gathered the dirty plates and forks and carried them to the sink.

  “There was an incident at the winery last night. He’ll tell us about it when we get there.” He stood up and pushed his chair in. Glanced at his watch. “How soon will you be ready to go? It’s almost three.”

  “Why are you even up?” she asked, the fog in her brain clearing enough to realize something wasn’t right. “I can drive myself to the winery. You never get up before five. What’s going on?”

  “You don’t remember? Adam was here last night. He drove your car back to the winery.” He refilled his coffee cup and sat back down to read the news on his laptop while she showered and dressed.

  She remembered Adam coming home with her the night before. Insisting that she lay on the couch and rest while he played his guitar. He could probably sooth a beaver with a toothache by playing that thing. She remembered closing her eyes against the flood of pain that thoughts of Davy brought. She tried to shut out the fear that grasped her heart with fingers so tight she could feel it clear to her toes. The music had washed over her like a spring of hope, withering fear. At least temporarily.

  She pulled a t-shirt, hooded sweatshirt, and jeans on, pushed her feet into sneakers and went into the bathroom to brush her teeth. Her reflection in the mirror reminded her of her mother, toward the end when all hope was gone for recovery, the light that once glowed from her skin, her eyes, her very soul, was dim and yellowed, like a bulb before the element snaps and goes out forever. Could an emotional death be as permanent as a physical one? If Davy wasn’t found, if something terrible happened to him, how would she survive it?

  “Margaret?” Handel called up the stairs. “Are you about ready?”

  She brushed her hair back and pulled it into a ponytail. Closing her eyes, she prayed to go back in time—that this day would end the way the day before began—with Davy beside her.

  At the bottom of the stairs Handel waited, his lips curved up into the semblance of a smile, but his heart was definitely not in it. She moved past him, giving his hand a quick squeeze. “You don’t have to pretend for me.”

  He followed her out the door and locked it behind him. “I should warn you that reporters may show up at the winery today. They can’t legally camp out here because it’s private property, but the winery is a business. Billie is trying to get the police to keep them away since Fredrickson’s is supposed to be closed during harvest. Not that a closed sign will deter the wolves from a story.”

  It was inky black outside, the kind of dark that slowly deepens through the night until it feels as though you could touch it. The moon was hiding when they pulled up outside the winery, but the yard was already bustling with people in motion. Handel parked the car close to the house and they got out.

  Billie was watching for them. She opened the front door and waved them in. “I’m glad you’re here.” She let Handel pull her into an embrace, but stepped out of his arms rather quickly as though she wasn’t quite finished being mad at him. “We have a lot to discuss.”

  They settled in the living room, Adam hovering protectively over Margaret’s shoulder where she sat in an overstuffed chair, while Billie and Handel took opposite ends of the couch. Through the open window they could hear machinery start up, voices raised as the crew resumed work, and the sound of the tractor returning to the field for another load of grapes.

  “When Adam followed Salvatore last night,” Billie began, “he ended up back here at the winery.” She put up a hand to stay questions. “He was meeting someone.”

  “I couldn’t see them. They were behind the machinery or something. It was really dark,” Adam said, in his defense.

  “And why were you following Agosto?”

  Handel and Adam locked eyes and looked quickly away.

  Billie shook her head, looking annoyed with them both. “They thought he might lead them to Davy. But he just came back here. We haven’t figured out why. The police looked around but whoever was here had already gone, and nothing seemed out of place.”

  “Are you positive it was Agosto?” Margaret asked.

  Adam hunkered down beside her chair so he could look her in the eye. “I followed his Ferrari from the hotel. There’s no denying he’s involved in this somehow.”

  “Isn’t it possible my father was trying to extort money from him because he knows he’s wealthy, and Agosto met with him to make an exchange for Davy?” She sounded desperate to exonerate the father of her son, and after all he’d put her through she didn’t know why she cared, but it felt wrong to blame him without proof.

  “At this point, anything is possible,” Billie said, and looked away.

  “I wouldn’t hinge my hopes on that bastard being the good guy.” Adam moved to stand at the window, his voice harsh. “He took off like a bat out of hell. Probably did some damage to the undercarriage of his car the way he was driving over those ruts. He did not want to be found out. Other than in movies, heroes rarely dress in tights and masks and hide their identity in the dark. Most times that practice is reserved for crooks.”

  “Adam,” his sister warned.

  “No. He’s right.” Margaret got up and moved behind him. Adam’s shoulders were stiff, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. She put her arms around his waist and leaned into him, her chin resting on his shoulder. It felt right. He relaxed. “You are all trying to protect my feelings, when what we really need to do is find Davy.” She reluctantly released her hold on Adam and turned around. “What cock and bull story did Agosto give the police for last night?” she asked.

  “Haven’t heard,” Billie said. She glanced toward Handel. “They said they’d let us know.”

  Handel reached out to clasp her hand. A silent apology. He stood up, slowly releasing her fingers. “I’ll call and nag them until they do. I’m going to drop by Carl’s place and see if he’s been in touch with his cousin. Then I’m going to use the media to harass Agosto Salvatore until he cracks. If anyone can do it, channel five news can. They always get the story first,” he quipped, his tone as dry as shoe leather.

  At the car he kissed Billie goodbye. Adam and Margaret looked on from the front steps. When he pulled back, his gaze strayed over her shoulder toward his sister. “I’ll tear the Golden Gate Racetrack apart stone by stone if I have to Billie, until we find where they’ve hidden Davy. That man will not take my nephew out of this country.”

  *****

  Margaret was on the press floor when the first news van pulled up. She watched the grapes topple from the bin into the giant rolling press. Adam backed the forklift away and got off to watch. Leo had climbed up on the press an
d was packing the grapes with his hands. It was still the best way although he’d probably be stained for days. Once the press did the work, they would drain the free run juice.

  “Ms. Parker, I’m Jane Goodall with channel five news. Could you tell us what you know about the disappearance of your son? Why did your father take him and did he leave a ransom note?” The familiar looking blonde woman thrust a microphone in her face. She wore a tight skirt and three-inch heels, and enough makeup to bake a cake.

  Margaret backed away, clamping her mouth tight.

  The reporter moved closer, carefully stepping around a pile of smashed grapes. “Have you spoken with the boy’s father, Agosto Salvatore? My source says that you have a restraining order against him. Has he been abusive to you or your son? Do you have any reason to believe he is involved in your son’s kidnapping?”

  “Get out. You have no right to be here. We are trying to work and you are in the way,” she managed to say without slapping the woman.

  “Ms. Parker, I’m sorry we’ve interrupted your work, but I know you want to find your little boy and the best way to get the word out is through the media. If you’d be willing to be interviewed, I can guarantee that millions of people will be watching. And that is a lot of eyes looking for your son.”

  “She said to go,” Adam said, placing a hand over the microphone.

  Jane Goodall turned toward Adam, and smiled her slick reporter smile. “And who might you be? The boyfriend? The handyman?” She raised her brows. “I bet you are very handy.”

  “Ms. Goodall, may I speak with you in private?” Margaret gestured toward the door that led into the distilling room.

  The woman waved her cameraman away and followed her through the door.

  With the door shut, Margaret leaned against it. She released a breath. “I saw your interview with Agosto, Ms. Goodall, and I know you slept with him.”

  The reporter gasped and started to protest.

  She held up a hand. “No point in arguing. Let’s come to an agreement. I won’t bring up your sordid affair with a man the police have under investigation, and you won’t harass my friends or myself. I’ll give you an exclusive interview this afternoon if my son has not been found.”

  Her lips curved up into a slow smile. “What about if he is found?”

  “Either way then.”

  She held out her hand. “You have a deal.”

  “Good. I’ll call you.”

  “No need for that. We’ll be here waiting.”

  Margaret moved away from the door and Jane Goodall reached for the knob. “By the way, how old are you?” she asked. “You look much too young to have a nine-year-old son. Agosto Salvatore doesn’t happen to have outstanding statutory rape charges against him as well, does he?”

  “You’ll have to save that question for later.”

  She nodded. “I look forward to it. I hope he does have something to do with this. Between you and me and the door, I’d love to nail that bastard’s hide to the wall.”

  “Get in line.”

  *****

  Officer Tate and his partner showed up at 9:00 am and were ushered into the conference room by Sally. The reporters had tried to push their way into the winery, but Sally was a bulldog when it came to protecting those she cared about. She set Loren to guard the front door and called in Billie, Margaret and Adam to hear the latest. The officers refused to sit but stood just inside the door of the conference room, their expressions grim. Margaret stood also, arms pressed tight around her middle.

  “I called Handel. He was just getting out of a meeting. He’ll be here as soon as he can,” Sally said, and excused herself from the room.

  Billie moved beside Margaret and put an arm around her for support.

  Adam stood with his hands braced on the back of a chair.

  “After the incident last night here at the winery, we went to the hotel to question Mr. Salvatore,” Officer Tate began. “The front desk couldn’t get him to pick up the phone in his room. But the concierge said that he always uses valet parking, so we questioned the men on duty. They were positive he had not returned. Apparently, he’s a big tipper.”

  “I saw him head back toward town,” Adam said, “but he could have turned around and drove straight to San Francisco in a couple of hours. Do you have an APB out on him?”

  “What if he has Davy with him? What if he takes him on his private plane and leaves the country?” Margaret’s voice rose shrilly.

  The other officer shook his head, his voice a mellow rumble. “Ma’am, please calm down. We have an APB out on Agosto Salvatore and Sean Parker. We’ll find them.”

  “The thing is,” Officer Tate said, glancing at his partner, “Salvatore’s rented Ferrari was found deserted in the ditch just west of here along a gravel road that doesn’t get much traffic. A passerby called it in this morning once it was light out. A forensics team is going over it now.”

  “What does that mean?” Margaret asked.

  “It means he had an accomplice pick him up or he hitchhiked. Either way, he’s on the run. We’ll find him, Ma’am.” Apparently he’d decided that Davy’s father wasn’t such an innocent man, only wanting visitation rights and a chance to get to know his son. He continued. “He didn’t check out, so we are waiting for a search warrant to go through his suite and whatever he left behind. Hopefully, since he wasn’t intending to leave quite yet, he left a clue to his next move.”

  “I know what his next move is—to take my son out of the country! You have to stop him.”

  “Ma’am, we’re doing all we can.” He glanced toward Adam. “From what you told us about last night, it sounds as though Mr. Salvatore doesn’t yet have possession of his son—that he was meeting Sean Parker to make an exchange. Which means, if he does manage to leave the country, it will most likely be without Davy.” He held Margaret’s teary gaze. “I think we need to focus more on your father, Miss Parker. He knows this area well, and where he might hide a young child.”

  Margaret felt Billie tense up beside her. The conversation had to bring up horrible memories of one summer of her childhood that she’d rather forget. She reached down and clasped the hand of her friend. “He does. In fact he left a note for Handel last night in the olive grove at the end of the vineyard.”

  “Why wasn’t this reported immediately? I just spoke with your brother early this morning.”

  Billie and Adam looked surprised as well.

  “I don’t know. So much has happened, Handel must have forgotten to mention it.” She bit her bottom lip and hoped he arrived soon.

  “What did the note say?” Officer Tate asked, pulling out his little notebook.

  “It said Davy would be returned when Handel gave my father what he wanted.”

  “Money?”

  “He called Handel days ago and asked for ten thousand dollars. Before Davy disappeared.”

  “The note wasn’t specific?” He glanced up, his pen still against the page.

  “It was written for Handel. He didn’t explain it.”

  When Handel finally got there, they were all waiting a bit impatiently. “Officers,” he greeted, glancing around the room. “Did I miss something?”

  “I told them about the note.”

  “The note?”

  “The ransom note you neglected to mention,” the big officer explained, a suspicious frown forming between his brows. “Didn’t you think that was an important piece of information in finding your nephew?”

  Handel cleared his throat. “I think we all know that my father is doing this for money. He asked both of us,” he gestured toward Margaret, “for money this past week. When we turned him down he went to Salvatore. Salvatore already had an agenda, so he took the bait. The note my father left for me was more of a kick in the ribs than any real ransom note. He wants me to know that he’s still in control.”

  “Mr. Parker, we’re in control. I need that note,” Officer Tate said firmly.

  “I’ll get it for you. It’s in my car.�
��

  *****

  When the officers had finished grilling Handel, they left, with a promise to report back if Salvatore was picked up or if any leads cropped up from the search of his suite.

  Handel took Margaret aside into the tasting room. The tables were empty, no white cloths or crystal. Everything had been put away until harvest was through. It seemed bare and lonely, the black and white photographs hanging along one wall, a simple reminder of how time changed everything. “Why did you bring up the note?” he asked.

  “Why wouldn’t I? Davy has been kidnapped. The police need to have all the pieces to solve the puzzle. Don’t you think that’s important?” She glared at him. “What are you trying to hide? You still didn’t explain the note. I have a right to know! What other items did he want you to bring besides money? And why are you trying so hard to make it seem inconsequential?” She didn’t bother to lower her voice and knew that Adam and Billie could probably hear them in the other room.

  Handel expelled loudly. “Why can’t you trust me? I’m not Salvatore. I’m your brother. I’ve watched out for you and Davy all these years. Do you think I’m plotting against you now?”

  “I just want him back,” she whispered, tears pooling in her eyes. “Can’t you see I’m broken? Trust has nothing to do with this. It’s about finding Davy, and you aren’t helping by hiding information.”

  “I’m sorry.” He rubbed a hand over his face in that slow way he had when he was thinking. “I should have told you.”

  “Told me what?”

  He glanced toward the doorway. “He wanted the pictures.”

  “Pictures?”

  “The pictures of his victims. The Polaroids that Billie has. Pictures of the children he molested,” he said, his voice sharp with disgust. “He said they belong to him. And I don’t think he meant the photos—but the girls. Like he owned their souls. I couldn’t do that to Billie.”

  The thought of what her father was capable of made her nauseous. She focused on breathing until the feeling passed. She asked, “How can she still be in possession of the pictures? I thought you handed them over to the police when he was arrested last time.”