“No. Sam Harper was the only officer that knew she had them. When he died last year, that information went with him. Billie didn’t think it was fair to the other girls to hand over their photos without asking them first. She’s been trying to contact each one as she finds out who they are. Unless they’ve been repressing their memories as well, the statute of limitations is up for them to bring a case to court anyway.” He sighed. “Billie’s testimony put him back behind bars. She thought it was enough to keep him there.”
“It should have been enough to keep him there,” Billie said, stepping through the doorway. She’d obviously been listening, her lips pressed in a hard line. “Your father has caused only pain his entire life. Isn’t it about time we put a stop to it?”
He looked away. “What can we do, short of killing him?”
Margaret saw weariness around her brother’s eyes and mouth that weren’t there before, even when he worked outrageous hours during important court cases. She realized he hurt as much as she did. He was just better at holding it in, trying to be strong for both of them, but the shell was beginning to crack.
“We can give him the pictures in exchange for Davy, and let the police arrest him.” Billie’s hands were clenched into fists at her sides. “Those girls would not want another child to suffer if there was something they could do about it. Believe me, I know.”
“I know you do, Billie. Thank you.” Margaret went and hugged her tight. Billie remained stoic and stiff, before finally melting into her embrace, a lone tear sliding down her cheek and onto Margaret’s shoulder. Margaret looked up and found Adam watching from the doorway, his eyes resting on her warmly.
“That’s all well and good, if the police don’t screw up again,” Handel said. “But who’s to say it will work out the way it’s supposed to?”
Billie wiped her eyes and pulled away. “It doesn’t matter. As long as we get Davy back, it will be worth it.”
“Where are you supposed to bring them, Handel?” Margaret asked.
“I don’t know.”
“What do you mean, you don’t know? He said in the note…”
He threw up his hands. “I know what he wrote, but I’m telling you that I don’t know what he meant. I’ve gone round and round it in my head. Cut corners and skip steps! What does that even mean? Maybe he was messing with me again, seeing if I’d report it to the police—I don’t know.”
“You know him better than anybody else here,” Billie said, moving toward him. She took his hands and looked into his face. “Think. Where is he the most comfortable? Where would he feel safe?” Her eyes widened. “Where did you cut corners and skip steps?”
“The woodworking shed. He slept there, worked there,” he paused, “took most of the girls there.”
Adam shook his head. “We searched all of the buildings. It didn’t look like anybody had been in that building for months.”
“The equipment is still there and once in a while somebody uses it to fix something around here, but mostly it’s just used for storage now,” Billie confirmed.
“That doesn’t mean my father wouldn’t go back there. I think we should try it.” Margaret bit her lip and waited, hoping they would agree.
Handel stared at her for a long moment and then nodded. “We don’t have any other choice. If Billie is willing to release the pictures, then we have to try. I’ll leave them there this evening after everyone goes home.”
“What about the police?” Margaret asked. “We have to let them in on it. We can’t do it alone. They have the man power to set a wide enough net to catch him.”
“I’ll talk to them. They already think I’m withholding information, so this should come as no surprise to them,” he said, his voice caustic.
“I’m coming with you.” Billie followed him to the door. At his look of surprise, she smiled and took his hand. “It’s not your job to explain why I kept the photographs in my possession. I should do that myself.”
“Good luck,” Adam said.
“I don’t believe in luck anymore, little brother. Try a prayer. It’ll go a lot farther.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Adam maneuvered the forklift under the grape bin and backed up, slowly turned and moved toward the sorter. Leo stood at the top waiting. He wiped his forehead with the back of his shirt sleeve and grinned, yelled something to one of the other men working the belt. Adam tipped the load, letting it pour in.
He backed up the forklift, spun it around and set the empty bin back on the trailer. Loren waved from the seat of the tractor and moved out, the trailer of empty bins following along behind. Adam parked the forklift off to the side of the yard, out of the way of incoming traffic and hopped down.
Nearly all the grapes had been brought in, except for Margaret’s field. Loren was going out to bring in the rest of what had been picked, and then the crew would come in for lunch. He looked up at the sky from under the bill of his cap. The sun was nearly straight up. It had already been a long day and it was only noon. He couldn’t remember the last time he was so tired. He blew out a weary sigh, pulled his cap off, scratched his head and slapped it back on again. He was beginning to think accounting might just be his dream job after all.
“Hey, Adam!” called one of the women working the belt. “Come’re!”
The twenty-something Mexican girl had been flirting outrageously with him every time he was within smiling distance. He thought her name was Juanita, but he wasn’t sure. She stood on the other side of the belt picking through the grapes that came down the line, throwing out any leaves, debris, or bad fruit that got left from the sorter. All the castoff was thrown into the large bin by the wall.
“What’s up?” he asked, approaching the belt.
The girl gestured with her head toward the nearly full bin. “Could you bring the forklift around the building and take that away? The flies are driving me crazy!”
“Sure. I’ll ask Billie where she wants me to dump it.”
“Gracias.” She wrinkled her nose. “I hate flies. They remind me of death. I had a pet lamb when I was a girl. A wild dog came during the night and ripped a hole in its side. In the morning, maggots were in the wound, and then flies were everywhere. It was horrible. My father had to shoot it.” She shook her head, black shoulder-length hair swaying with the motion. “Flies disgust me!”
Adam stared at the girl, his mind locked on her first words. I hate flies. They remind me of death. She smiled seductively and batted her eyelashes as though they had a serious connection. He peered over her shoulder, his gaze moving to the bin six feet behind her. Sure enough, a cloud of flies hovered, darted, landed and dove into the cast off fruit. He swallowed hard, remembering what Margaret had said just days ago, “We’ll never be free of him until he’s dead.” Had she gotten her wish? If so, where was Davy in all of this?
Juanita’s flirty expression disappeared. She was suddenly all business, her eyes on the belt and the fruit coming down the line. She picked out a bad grape and piece of stem, tossing them into the small bin at her feet. Adam turned around. Margaret was walking toward them, her eyes narrowed with interest. She stopped to chat with one of the other girls working the belt.
He hurried to her side and took her arm, turning her the other direction. “Meg, I need to talk to you,” he said.
“Hold on. I haven’t spoken with Juanita yet. Someone is not keeping their eyes on the belt. I can’t have bad grapes making it through the line to the press.” She glanced toward the girl in question, her lips thinning into a disapproving line. “Billie said she had problems with her last year. She’s too busy flirting with the guys to take the job seriously.”
“Really? I hadn’t noticed,” he lied, trying once again to pull her away from the yard. He didn’t think learning her father was buried in a bin of rotten fruit would be a highlight to the day even if she did hate him. She certainly didn’t need to be here when they found out for sure. “I’ll speak with her later, but I really need to talk to you now.”
>
“All right. Talk.” She pulled away from his grip and crossed her arms over her chest. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing,” he said, glancing toward the bin. “It’s personal.”
She followed his gaze and apparently thought he was staring at Juanita. Her eyes widened and she released a sound of disgust. “You’ve got to be kidding.”
“No.” He put up his hands in defense. “Not that kind of personal.”
She didn’t appear convinced.
“It’s about your father.”
“You know what? I’ve had enough talk about my father.” She pushed past him and mad a beeline for Juanita. “Right now I want to focus on work.”
He stayed back and watched her. She said something to Juanita and gestured toward the opening where the grapes entered the winery and were introduced into the press. The girl kept her eyes down, focused on the job at hand, only glancing up and nodding once or twice while Margaret berated her. When the girl inclined her head toward the bin and said something with that ick look on her face, Adam moved quickly forward.
“Juanita said you were going to take care of the bin back there,” Margaret said, hands on her hips. “Why aren’t you doing it?”
“I need to ask Billie where she wants it dumped,” he said. “You want to come with me?”
She looked at him as though he’d lost his mind. “Why don’t you just take it back there by the compost pile? You don’t need to bother Billie with that.”
“Oh. Okay. I’ll do that.”
“Good.” She stared at him until he turned and went back to the forklift.
He climbed in and started it, jerked forward toward the parking area, forks lifted. He glanced back. She had crawled under the belt and was standing on the other side now. The side where the bin sat. He turned around in time to keep from running over Ernesto. “Sorry!” he yelled, as the man jumped out of the way.
He drove the machine through the gravel parking area, between the buildings and behind the winery. The rutted road made the machine bump and jerk even more than usual. He whacked his head on the roof a couple of times. He turned at the corner of the building, right where the bin should be, and jerked to a stop, his foot hitting the brake with enough force to eject him if he hadn’t been holding on tight.
A group of workers were huddled around Margaret where she lay crumpled on the ground. Juanita squatted beside her holding her wrist, as though checking for a pulse. Margaret’s eyes were closed and she wasn’t moving.
Adam jumped from the forklift and pushed through the onlookers. He dropped to his knees beside Margaret, lifted her in his arms and made his way around the machinery to the front of the building. Someone had already run to call for help. Sally met him at the door of the winery.
“What happened?”
“I think she fainted.” He carried her through the door, held open by Sally, and into the conference room. The smell of stale coffee and new carpet pervaded the room. He hooked one of the chairs with his foot and rolled it out from the table. He carefully settled her in the chair and laid her head atop the table, gently patted her cheek.
“Here.” Sally held out a glass of water.
“What do you want me to do with that?” he asked, setting it on the table. “Poor it over her head? Unconscious people can’t swallow.”
“You don’t have to bite Sally’s head off. She’s just trying to help,” his sister said, rushing into the room with Handel beside her.
“Sorry.”
“What happened?” Handel demanded. “We pulled up and saw you carrying her.”
“Mmmmm,” Margaret stirred. Her eyes opened and she slowly raised her head and looked around the room, confused. Then something clicked and she screamed, “Davy! The bin. He’s in the bin!”
Adam shook his head. “No, that can’t be. It’s not Davy. It can’t be Davy.”
“I saw him. The hat he wore.” She broke down and wept, her head in her hands.
Adam looked at Billie, and shook his head. “No.” He ran from the room and down the hall, shoved open the front door and gasped for breath. He felt like the air had all been sucked from his lungs, leaving nothing but emptiness and dread.
Two news vans were still parked in the gravel lot, staying back from the wine-making operation, but close enough to be on the spot if something went down. Like vultures they hovered, waiting for the story to break so they could broadcast someone else’s pain on national television and ask, “How does it feel?” The sliding doors were open and the two cameramen were already grabbing their gear. As if in a race, one reporter touched up her makeup and patted her hair in place, looking in the side mirror, while the reporter from the competing station shrugged into a suit coat and straightened his tie.
Adam hurried around the side of the building and back to the work yard. Everyone had returned to their jobs as though nothing happened, as though there were no body rotting in a bin of rotten fruit. What was wrong with people?
Juanita glanced up from her work. “Is Miss Parker all right?” she asked.
“How can you ask that? Of course she’s not all right. She just saw…” he broke off and looked around the yard at the curious faces staring back. Not one looked as though they’d seen a dead body, especially not the body of a little boy they’d all been searching for, for the last two days.
“What did she see?”
He crawled under the belt and went to the bin. Waved the flies away and looked inside. Part of a baseball cap stuck up through smashed grapes and litter, the bill turned purple with juice but the logo still readable. Golden Gate Racetrack
He heard a commotion and looked up. The reporters, cameramen in tow, approached the yard looking for the story. He jumped in the forklift and started the engine. The machine roared to life and he dropped the fork, moved forward to position them under the bin and brought up the lever to lift. The news people could obviously smell a story. They headed his way, cameras rolling, microphones out.
He heard a crash and turned around. In his rush to get away, he hadn’t positioned the bin solidly on the forks. The box had tipped and everything came pouring out. Including the body of Agosto Salvatore.
*****
The police cordoned off the yard, now a crime scene, thoroughly shutting down the winemaking operation for the day. Statements were taken, endless questions were asked, and finally the workers were told to go home. The reporters were pushed back to the parking area, but they’d already gotten the sensational story they hoped for. A dead body fermenting in a bin of rotten grapes was titillating news in wine country. Competition was fierce with wine growers, but murder took it to a whole new level. The fact that Agosto Salvatore had nothing to do with Fredrickson Winery didn’t really matter. He died there during harvest and Fredrickson’s was struggling financially. They mentioned the kidnapping as though perhaps it were all part of a diabolical plan to extort money from Salvatore to keep the winery up and running.
The officers they spoke with before were low men on the totem pole now. Two detectives from homicide showed up to take over the case. Adam was taken downtown and questioned repeatedly. After all, he did find the body and reported a gunshot the night before that no one else seemed to have heard. He thought they must be taking their cues from the six o’clock news rather than reality.
“I already told the other officers. I don’t know how he got there. It was dark last night. I wasn’t close enough to see anything. I showed Officer Tate some marks on the ground. I thought they looked like something had been dragged across the yard toward the bin, but he didn’t think it was important.” He threw up his hands. “Why aren’t you out looking for Sean Parker? He’s the child molester, kidnapper, and now murderer.”
Detective Olson tapped the table with his index finger. “Why did you run out there to move the bin when Miss Parker said she thought her son was in there? Sounds like guilt to me.”
“You’ve got to kidding!”
“We don’t kid about murder, Mr. Fredrickso
n.”
With elbows propped on the interrogation room table, he dropped his head in hands and repeated once again, “I saw the reporters running to get a story. I couldn’t let Margaret suffer more. If Davy really was in that bin, I had to move it. She wouldn’t want people staring at her little boy—like that. Taking pictures, video. So I tried to move the bin, but I screwed up.”
“Did you screw up, Mr. Fredrickson?” The detective raised one brow. “Or did you dump it on purpose to taint the evidence?”
He groaned. “You’ve been watching too many cop shows, detective. I was just trying to save my friend a little heartache.”
“Well, it seems someone did that by killing the father of her son, who coincidentally just happened to have a pack of lawyers working on paternity and custody claims on his behalf.”
He remained silent, refusing to dig himself in further by arguing the validity of such claims on the part of Agosto Salvatore. The man was dead and someone shot him. The police didn’t care at this point whether he was worthy of a place on the FBI’s most wanted list, or a potential recipient of the father of the year award, they just wanted to nail someone for his murder so they could check the box on their paperwork–case closed.
“You can go now,” the detective said, moving away from the table. He pulled open the door and stood there, waiting.
Adam narrowed his gaze. “That’s it?”
“Unless you want to confess.”
He got up, scooting back the chair and walked out.
Billie was waiting for him. She’d obviously played her lawyer card and got him released. She pulled him into her arms. “Do you know how much trouble I’d be in if Mother found out I let you get arrested?”
He pulled back and grinned. “They didn’t arrest me.”
“Yeah, well they were this close.” She held up her hand, her thumb and forefinger barely a fraction apart. “I had to threaten them with criminal lawyer speak and believe me I have no idea what I’m doing. I’m a family lawyer, for heaven sake. Handel should be here.”
Crushed (The Fredrickson Winery Novels Book 2) Page 17