Death in a Wine Dark Sea

by Lisa King

  “I ought to kick your ass for what you cost me. Get off my property now.”

  Zeppo put his hands out. “Now be cool, Armand. We just want to ask you one question and then we’re gone.”

  The dog hopped around Zeppo’s legs, trying to get his attention. Setrakian snapped his fingers. “Kali! Beat it!” he ordered. The dog flinched and slunk away behind the barn. “What’s this all about?” Setrakian demanded.

  “Sorry to come out here under false pretenses, Armand,” Jean said. “This is about Martin’s death.”

  “Someone cut off the head, but the body’s still twitching,” Armand said. “That’s the way it is with snakes.”

  “We’re not here to put anything on you,” Zeppo said. “We just want to know where you were the night he died.”

  “Or you’ll tell the world about those bitches who’ve been hounding me. Well, I don’t care what you do—I’m not talking to you, you fucking toady.”

  “We’re not here to threaten you,” Zeppo said reasonably. “And if you don’t like me, you can talk to Jean.”

  Armand eyed Jean. He gestured at the barn. “OK, come in here out of the sun.”

  Jean followed him cautiously around the side of the barn, where the big doors were wide open. Zeppo walked out into the yard.

  The barn had been converted into a studio—benches were strewn with sculpting tools, rags, and sketch pads, and bags of clay leaned against one wall. Skylights lit the interior. A work in progress, a metal armature partly covered in clay, stood in the center of the work area. Jean had seen Setrakian’s sculptures before; usually he did mature, lifesize female nudes. This was an adolescent girl in tennis clothes. The statue was stylized and graceful, and had a quality of weightlessness and movement about it. “Will you cast this in bronze?” she asked.

  “Yeah. I make a negative cast in plaster, then a positive in bronze. What’s an incredibly sexy woman like you doing with a piece of trash like him?” He stood a little too close.

  Jean took a step back. “Just what we said—investigating Martin’s death.”

  Armand looked at Zeppo, who stood in the shade of a tree watching them through the open barn door. He turned back to her. “I’ll be happy to answer your questions, but we don’t need him here. Tell him to come get you in two hours. We’ll talk, and I’ll show you how I work.”

  Jean felt the hair on the back of her neck stand up. He wasn’t doing anything threatening, but he set off all her alarms. She had a sense about men with the potential for sexual violence, and so far it had never steered her wrong. It wasn’t what she knew about Setrakian—the man himself gave off all the wrong vibes.

  “I’d love to do your body in bronze,” he said. “Tell the kid to leave—I’ll do some sketches of you.”

  “Not in this lifetime, Armand.” She glanced out at Zeppo. Kali had come back and he was throwing a stick for her to fetch. “This must be a statue for Elan. It’d be a shame if they had to cancel that commission.”

  “I thought you weren’t going to threaten me.”

  “I changed my mind. I’ve decided I don’t want to stay here a minute longer than I have to. Answer the question: Where were you when Martin drowned?”

  “I was with a woman.”

  “You were assaulting her?”

  He leaned toward her and said softly, “No, I was fucking her.”

  “Do you happen to remember her name?”

  “Blythe Newman. She works at a real estate office in Sonoma. Fletcher-Newman Properties. We were at it all night. Ask her.”

  She took another step back. Now she was up against the railing that delineated the old stables.

  Armand held up his big muscular hands, gesturing at the statues. “See what these hands can do to a lump of clay? Don’t you wonder what they could do for you?”

  Jean laughed. “Not for an instant, asshole. I’ve never been into hate sex.”

  He was inches from her now. He’d moved between her and the door, blocking Zeppo’s line of sight. “Your body is one in a million. Why not let an artist appreciate it?” He put a hand on her left breast and squeezed. “Oh yeah. These are real. I knew it.”

  Jean jabbed him hard at the base of his throat with two stiffened fingers. He released her and stumbled back, clutching his neck, coughing and choking. She thought about kicking him in the testicles—she had a clear shot and he was in no condition to fight back—but decided against it. After all, she’d promised Zeppo to stay calm.

  Zeppo ran toward her, Kali chasing him. “What happened?”

  “The son of a bitch checked me for implants.”

  Armand sat down hard on a workbench, bent over, his cough subsiding, his face red. Jean stood over him, hands on her hips. “You know what, Armand? You just fucked yourself. We were going to leave you alone if you didn’t kill Martin. Well, not anymore. Now I’ll ruin you—not for land, not for money, but because you’re a predatory shit and everyone should know it.”

  Zeppo took her arm. “Come on, Jeannie,” he said, leading her down to the car. He opened the passenger door and helped her in. They sped out of the driveway as Jean glanced back at the barn. Armand watched them from the door, rubbing his throat, a look of pure malice on his face. Kali lay on the lawn chewing her stick.

  “I’m sorry,” Zeppo said. “That’s not exactly what I had in mind.”

  “Isn’t it?” she snapped. “You’re the one who made me put on this shirt.”

  He looked at her, a hurt frown on his face. “You don’t really think I wanted that to happen, do you?”

  Jean took a deep breath. “No, Zeppo, of course not. Sorry. I’m just mad. God, I hope he’s the killer.”

  “Yeah, that would be sweet. What did you do to him, anyway?”

  “A little something Roman taught me. I know I lost my temper, but I did refrain from kicking him in the balls.”

  “You should have kicked him, Jeannie. Let’s turn him in, like you threatened. We’ll write a letter to Elan and one to the press. I mean, I was just a few feet away, we were there on serious business, and you were pretty hostile, and he went after you anyway. He’ll keep doing that to women if we don’t stop him. Not everyone can fight back like you did—sooner or later he’s going to rape somebody. If he hasn’t already.”

  “Great. I was going to insist on exposing him.” She looked out the window, letting the scenery calm her. “He did give me the name of his alibi. Says he was with a woman, and apparently it wasn’t against her will. She works at a real estate office in Sonoma.”

  “Let’s go over there now.” They headed into town.

  Jean felt bad about snapping at Zeppo. “You were good with Kali.”

  “Yeah, I love dogs. I wish I could have one, but it’s impossible in a studio apartment. I used to have—” He stopped.

  “It’s OK, Zeppo. I won’t ask you about anything else. What kind of dog did you have?”

  “Two chocolate Labs. Did you have a dog in Indiana?”

  “Oh sure. We always had a couple of mutts when I was growing up. I prefer cats.”

  As they drove toward Sonoma, Zeppo handed Jean his cell phone. She called the real estate office and got Blythe Newman’s cell phone number. A husky female voice answered.

  “Ms. Newman? My name is Jean Applequist. I wonder if we could meet. I’d like to talk to you about Armand Setrakian.”

  “Armand? What about him?”

  “He might be in legal trouble. I’d rather not elaborate on a cell phone. It won’t take long.”

  Blythe paused. “OK, go to the northeast corner of the plaza. I’ll meet you at the bear flag statue in half an hour.”

  “Great, thanks. I’m tall with silver hair and a red T-shirt. I’ll be with a redheaded guy.” She hung up. “At least we’re easy to spot.”

  “For better or worse.” Zeppo drove into Sonoma and parked near the plaza, a big park in the center of town that held the city hall, a duck pond, playgrounds, and several historic markers. They went into a deli and bought
sandwiches and juice, then found the statue, a rugged pioneer raising the bear flag. They sat at the base of the statue while they ate and people-watched.

  About forty minutes later, a woman in a light green longsleeved gauze dress came up to them. She was medium height, small-boned, and curvy, with shoulder-length auburn hair and very pale skin. “Are you Jean Applequist?” she asked.

  Jean introduced Zeppo, and Blythe Newman sat down on the bench.

  “What’s this all about? Armand and I are so over.” She removed big sunglasses to reveal heavy-lidded blue-gray eyes, then took a pack of cigarettes out of her purse and lit one. She seemed about Jean’s age.

  “We’re trying to find out where he was on a certain night a few weeks ago, the night Martin Wingo drowned,” Jean said.

  “Who are you, anyway? You don’t look like the police.” She took a drag on her cigarette. Several narrow silver bracelets on each of her slim wrists jingled as she moved.

  “We’re looking into Martin’s death for his widow,” Jean said. “She’s a friend of mine. Armand says he was with you that night.”

  “He does, does he? Well, I don’t have to tell you anything.”

  “Of course you don’t,” Zeppo said soothingly. “This is very informal. We’ve just come from his house, by the way, and Jean nearly crushed his trachea when he groped her.”

  Blythe looked at Jean, appraising her. “Good for you.” She had another puff. “What night was that again?”

  “March 6th, a Saturday. Martin died around five A.M. Sunday.”

  “Is Armand a suspect?”

  “Not officially,” Zeppo said. “We’re just trying to find out if he could have done it. He and Martin had some business dealings that went bad.”

  “So if I give him an alibi, that’ll eliminate him as a suspect, right?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “No, he wasn’t with me,” she said with a satisfied smile. “I was home alone the whole night. I have no idea where he was.”

  “Uh . . . you’re sure about that?” Zeppo asked. “Don’t you need to check?”

  “No, I have a very good memory. Whoever asks me, that’s what I’ll say, and you can tell him that.” She pushed her bracelets back and looked at her watch. “I’ve got to show a house.” She dropped her cigarette onto the grass and crushed it with a slender booted foot. “I hope they execute him.” She walked out of the park.

  Jean watched her retreating back. “Well, do we have an alibi or not?”

  “Nothing that’ll hold up in court, given her attitude, but yeah, I think she was with him.”

  “I can’t imagine actually dating Armand. I’m sure he’s a real brute in the sack. But maybe that’s what she likes.”

  “Didn’t you notice her wrists?”

  “What was wrong with them?”

  “She had bruises all the way around on both of them. Like she’d been tied up. That’s why she was wearing long sleeves on a warm day, and all those bracelets.”

  “Jesus. I guess she and Armand were made for each other.” She looked at him speculatively. “How come you noticed and I didn’t?”

  “Sometimes when you see long sleeves in warm weather it’s to hide cutting or suicide attempts. I was looking for scars.” Zeppo shook his head. “I can’t figure women out. Even if they’re not full-on masochists like her, lots of them go for mean guys.”

  Jean wondered where in the world he had encountered people with scars on their wrists, but didn’t ask. “When we get home, we’ll get even with this particular bastard,” she told him. “Come on, let’s hit the road. Can I still drive?”

  CHAPTER 19

  Jean cut over toward the coast, through Boonville and along the Navarro River. On Highway 1 south of Mendocino they drove along sheer, rocky cliffs that rose right out of the ocean, with another breathtaking view of sea, sky, and rough green landscape around every bend. Finally they came over a rise to the town of Mendocino, low wooden buildings scattered on a bluff above a small harbor.

  “It looks kind of like a New England whaling town,” Zeppo said.

  “It’s passed for one on TV, in Murder, She Wrote.”

  Zeppo pulled out his cell and had a brief chat with Hugh Rivenbark. “He put us at the Elkhorn Inn,” he told Jean.

  “I know right where it is.” Jean drove to the bed-and-breakfast inn, an old three-story house painted gray with white trim. A young woman at the front desk gave them keys, and after locking their bikes to a rack behind the inn they started for the stairs.

  Their rooms were next to each other on the second floor. Jean dropped her bag on the bed and went to look at Zeppo’s room. Like hers, his was decorated in shades of dark pink and rose.

  “What a romantic place,” Jean said. “I’ll have to bring Peter here sometime.”

  “I don’t understand what you see in that guy,” Zeppo said. “I mean, just because he’s handsome, charming, smart, has a good job . . .”

  She laughed. “Let’s go outside.” They walked out into the late afternoon sun, the ocean breeze cool and fragrant. A few blocks from the inn Zeppo stopped in front of a small seafood restaurant. A sign in the window announced “Live Maine Lobster—Special This Week.”

  “Look,” he said, excited. “I haven’t had lobster in a long time. Let’s eat here tonight.”

  “I’d love to, but it’s pricy.”

  “Buying your dinner is the least I can do after making you put on that shirt for Setrakian.”

  “He probably would have groped me even if I’d been wearing a muumuu. But I’ll let you buy me a lobster anyway.”

  They walked around the small town, browsing in shops and galleries. At one end of the main street was a large bookstore with a hand-carved wooden sign that read “Bongiorni’s Books”—Edward’s store.

  The shop was a rarity, a successful independent bookstore. A prominent display near the door was dedicated to Hugh Rivenbark, “the bard of Mendocino,” offering his twelve novels, with special play given to his latest, Redwood Diary. Half a dozen patrons browsed the shelves. Edward Bongiorni sat behind the counter reading a paperback, his curly dark hair tied back with a rawhide strip.

  “Hello, Edward,” Jean said. “Remember me? We met at Martin Wingo’s funeral.”

  Edward put his book down and smiled warmly. “Of course, Jean and Zeppo. What brings you to Mendocino?”

  “We’re going out to The Eyrie this evening, but wanted to stop in and say hi,” Jean said.

  “I just made a pot of coffee,” Edward said. “Want a cup?” He told a young man to watch the register and led them back to his office, a small room with a wooden desk in one corner surrounded by bookshelves and cartons of books. Jean and Zeppo sat in folding chairs.

  “So you’re visiting Hugh?” he asked as he poured them coffee.

  “Yeah,” Jean said. “Diane asked us to look into Martin’s death. The police are getting nowhere and she needs to believe that something’s being done.”

  “How well did you know Martin?” Zeppo asked.

  “Not well, although we saw him occasionally at Hugh’s,” Edward said. “We were much closer to Diane. I always thought of Martin as another member of Hugh’s menagerie. He collects colorful characters to use in his books. At The Eyrie we’ve met everyone from Sacramento gangbangers to minor British royalty.”

  “I never thought of Martin that way, but I guess he was a colorful character.” Jean noticed several framed photos on top of a bookshelf and got up to look at them. “Your kids?” She held up a shot of two skinny, smiling teenagers, a boy and a girl.

  “Yes, a few years ago. They’re both in college now,” he said.

  Jean picked up another picture, a portrait of a lovely woman sitting on a low tree branch. She was slender and long-necked, with masses of dark curly hair and dangling earrings, dressed in a multicolored caftan. Her slender face and intelligent blue eyes reminded Jean of Edward. “Is this your sister Esther?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who was older?�
�

  “She was, but only by a few minutes. We were twins. I took that picture on our twenty-eighth birthday. Three months later she died.”

  “I’m so sorry. I know it happened a long time ago, but losing a twin must be awful, even worse than losing a regular sister.”

  “It was pretty bad for both Hugh and me. He never really has gotten over it.”

  Jean found a photo of a young, slim, dark-haired Hugh with his arm around Esther, both of them smiling, in front of the bookstore. A sign in the window announced that his Pulitzer Prize-winning book was in stock. “How did they meet?” Jean asked.

  “Esther and I were born here, and Hugh moved up in the mid-1970s. He met Esther when I had a book signing for him. He wasn’t well known yet, but we were promoting local writers. It was so funny—Hugh was supposed to talk to people and sign their books, but all he did was follow Esther around. She was a frustrated writer herself, of short stories.”

  “It’s unusual for a bookstore like yours to last this long, isn’t it?” Zeppo asked.

  “We’re always struggling. But Hugh helps us out a lot—he bought in as part-owner when we went through a really bad spell a few years back. He also does readings here every couple of months and signings for each new book. People come from all over the world to see him.”

  “You stayed with him in the city the night of the wedding, didn’t you?” Zeppo’s tone was studiously casual.

  Edward smiled. “Do you suspect one of us?”

  “Nah. Just covering all the bases.”

  “Laurel’s my alibi,” Edward said, still amused. “We slept in the spare room. Hugh came home after the wedding and told us what had happened. We finally went to bed and I could hear him snoring like a chainsaw.” Edward glanced at his watch. “Excuse me, but I’ve got to set up chairs. We’re having a reading this afternoon.”

  “Who’s the author?” Zeppo asked.

  Edward mentioned a popular mystery writer Jean didn’t like. Her books featured an aerobics instructor who solved crimes with the help of her pet ferret.

  “Thanks for the coffee, Edward,” Jean said, and she and Zeppo went back out into the breezy day.