by Joyce Harmon
McCavity glared down at us from the top of the refrigerator. His saucer was wiped clean.
Jack produced the “butler’s friend” and eased the cork from the Cabernet. I seated myself regally and accepted a glass, swirling it to watch the “cathedral windows” snake down the inside of the glass.
Tough Stuff came over and stuck his snout into the glass, sampling the nose. He wrinkled his own little nose and backed away in disappointment.
“Silly cat, you don’t know what’s good,” I told him.
Cissy’s Own Cabernet is an annual present to me from Jack. After our first crush of Cabernet Sauvignon had aged for twelve months in oak barrels, Jack and I sampled the contents of the barrels, using a little gadget called a wine thief to remove small quantities of wine through the bung. Jack was planning to blend the barrels before bottling, mixing the American oak aged wine with that aged in French oak to achieve the level of oakiness that American palates prefer.
But I fell in love with the luscious velvet of the pure French oak. The next day I noticed that one of the French barrels had been labeled in chalk ‘Cissy’s’.
That barrel was bottled separately as Cissy’s Own Cabernet, and the contents were absolutely mine to do with as I wished.
And every year from then on, one of the barrels was mine. A fifty-five gallon barrel makes two hundred and seventy-five bottles of wine, leaving me with plenty of bottles to give as gifts. But Cissy’s Own is a private reserve, so don’t come to Passatonnack Winery expecting to buy a bottle. It’s mine, all mine!
This was the ’88. Wonderful stuff, just approaching a thoughtful maturity. I sipped and beamed at Jack over the glass.
“I see Craig found his way here,” I observed.
“He showed up a little after noon. I gave him the key and left him to settle in. I told him I’d show him how to tie off the vines if he wanted to earn a little extra money.”
“So that’s alright, then.”
I dived into the blue cheese and crackers and filled Jack in on our discoveries of the day. When I was finished he frowned. “With all these characters, I’m getting confused. It sounds like Billington Smith could have done the murder, but not following Winslow on his visit here. And this Mrs. Griffith, what about her movements? Or Calgary?”
I sighed. “Maybe we could get Julia to add their movements to her famous timeline. But I’m not sure how we go about asking these people to account for their movements on the night in question.”
“The police probably already did that,” Jack pointed out.
“Good thought. I wonder if Dawson is still feeling guilty enough about the software piracy to answer a few questions?”
“It’s too late to be asking him tonight. In face, it’s too late for most things. Not for everything, however,” Jack answered, pulling me out of my chair.
And the rest of the evening is nobody’s business.
Next morning, I slept in. When I woke up, the warm body next to me was Polly.
Now, Polly knows she’s not supposed to sleep on the bed. But she thinks that rule only applies in the dark. Once the sun has risen, she figures, “If you’re going to be a lazy slugabed, then so will I.” Right now she was in a ridiculous posture, on her back with her feet in the air and her head to one side.
She opened one eye, saw me looking at her, and smiled ingratiatingly. Then rolled over, heaved a luxurious sigh and closed her eyes again. Succumbing to peer pressure, I dozed off again.
When I finally put in an appearance downstairs, it was ten o’clock. Jack was long gone, but he’d made coffee, bless his heart.
I devoted myself to coffee and a bagel. I noticed the phone machine was telling me it had a message.
I don’t know why it took me so long to finally give in and get an answering machine. Now I wouldn’t live without it. It’s my little electronic butler, accepting visitor cards with white gloved courtesy and allowing me to go on with my life. I call it Mister ‘Udson.
I pressed the play button, metaphorically accepting the call from ’Udson. It was Mary. “Cissy, come over to Washington House when you get a chance. This you’ve got to see.”
What was especially intriguing was the suppressed giggle in Mary’s voice. Something told me that what I had to see wasn’t a clue.
So I was curious. So Washington House does a great little lunch. So I went.
Washington House is a big rambling old brick Colonial set on what is probably the highest hill in the country. On either side of the drive, huge lilac thickets will make an impressive lavender show in a few weeks, and the bushels of blossoms Beverly Washington will harvest will perfume the house as the thickets perfume the hill.
Beverly and Dave Washington are no relation to the more famous Virginian of that name, even though he is reputed to have stayed in the house once. Supposedly, he was on his way to one of those disorganized skirmishes that have collectively come to be known as the French and Indian War.
Some people question whether the house was actually even built before the Revolution, but that Washington slept in the Washington House is an article of faith in Passatonnack County. Personally, I don’t see that it matters one way or the other.
The Washingtons are transplanted New Yorkers who saw an ad for the house in a slick city magazine just when they were tiring of their urban yuppie existence. Beverly calls it karma; she’s very New Age.
What Dave and Beverly didn’t know about running a B&B would pretty much fill an encyclopedia, but since Dave is a four star chef, the county has been engaged in a silent conspiracy to see that the Washingtons thrive. We like fine dining as much as the next fellow.
Abel was snoozing on the porch. I’m not sure why the Washingtons decided to name their dogs Cain and Abel. They actually got along quite well. Abel was the runt of the litter, being not quite two hundred pounds. He stood to greet me and I scratched his noble head.
My only complaint about mastiffs is that they don’t smile. But they do have that devoted look, seeming to signify their willingness to take a bullet for you, which has its own charm.
I entered the front door, into the living/reception area. The Washingtons are unable to afford good Colonial reproductions. The décor of the reception area is therefore Mediocre Colonial Reproduction. A stack of folded linen was on the registration desk, and Cain was asleep on the phony sofa.
“Anybody home?” I called.
Cain opened one eye and shut it again.
From upstairs, I heard a door open. “Cissy?” It was Mary. She leaned over the banister. “Come see this thing.”
I mounted the stair and entered a room awash in chintz, complete with a canopy bed and a picture of Martha Washington on the wall. On the dresser was a gargantuan basket of flowers. Now, I know the Washingtons can’t afford that.
“Goodness,” I said weakly. “Where did you get those?”
“Andrew sent them. I didn’t think guys sent flowers anymore.”
“I guess when they do, they go all out,” I said, moving closer to examine the offering. I tried to inventory the roses, but kept losing count.
“Isn’t it silly?” Mary asked. “I know it’s ridiculous, but I feel very flattered.”
“There’s nothing wrong with that. You’re supposed to feel flattered, that’s the whole point.”
“Yes, but – I don’t know, should I tell him I’m not interested?”
“Are you? Not interested, I mean.”
“Of course not. Or, of course. You know what I mean. He’s just not my type.”
I couldn’t help it, I guess I’ve been a mother too long. I said, “But if your type is the borrowing large sums of money and not paying it back type, then maybe it’s time you tried a new type.”
Mary rolled her eyes. “God, you sound just like my mother.”
I smiled. “My mother always told me, ‘It’s just as easy to fall in love with a rich man as a poor man’, but I guess I proved her wrong. Come on, let’s get an early lunch and talk about men. Too bad Dave
is taken, I’ve always fantasized about finding a man who can cook.”
FOURTEEN
We sat in the sun porch looking out over the gardens. Gardening was Beverly’s strong point. The Washington House was usually in a state of some confusion as maids came and went. But people came back, to eat Dave’s food and look at Beverly’s gardens. Right now we could see Beverly’s denim-clad bottom down in the vegetable garden as she set out shallots. Abel had bestirred himself to go around to the back, and was now draped over the wrought iron bench, supervising.
Mary and I were doing justice to a marvelous country pate.
“Really, all my friends say that guys don’t send flowers anymore,” Mary was saying.
“You need to ask a few follow-up questions,” I advised her. “You’ll probably learn that the husbands or boyfriends of the complaining women also don’t wash dishes, or run a vacuum cleaner, or change a loaded diaper. Because when men do that, the women don’t even notice them not bringing flowers.”
“Hmm.” Mary pulled out her little notebook and made an entry. “This could turn into a piece for Cosmo. Or maybe Glamour. Not my usual beat, but hey, we live and we grow.”
She looked up and me, pen poised. “Let’s take you as an example. Have you been on the receiving end of flowers lately?”
I laughed. “Jimmy got me a corsage for the senior prom. And Jack brought home roses for our first several anniversaries. But at the time he had one of those motherly secretaries who take over their boss’s lives, and I’m sure she wouldn’t let him go home without flowers on his anniversary. I think the flower thing stopped about the time she retired.”
“Did it bother you?”
“I can’t say I really noticed. I always thought flowers were a courting sort of thing, when a guy wants to impress a girl, but doesn’t know her well enough to know how. When Jack and I were dating, he impressed me by helping Pete with his math. Now, that’s thoughtful!”
Mary took a few rapid notes. “Maybe a roundup type article. Ask a lot of celebrity women to name the gift they prefer to flowers – could be a sale to Esquire in there.”
I smiled at her. “The freelancer’s work is never done. Still, I think you should give Andrew a chance. He is a nice young man. And he’s a lawyer; just think of all the windmills he could joust for you.”
“A definite point. I won’t spit in his eye. So, what are your plans for the investigation?”
“My immediate plans are to bake lots and lots of brownies.”
“Huh?”
“I should have gotten started already. This weekend is the Dogwood Festival. I’m supposed to be helping with the Rescue Squad’s bake sale table. And maybe I can pick Luther’s brain at the same time. I think he’s helping with the pony rides.”
“What are you after from him?”
“I guess the movements of all the people we’ve talked to so far, from Sunday to Thursday. Someone had to steal those tools and dig that grave. I can’t imagine anyone having a total alibi for four days, but I’m out of other ideas.”
Mary brooded for a moment. “Okay. Brownies and alibis. Maybe something will turn up.”
So I went home and made brownies. As I left, I told Mary to call Andrew and talk nicely to him. She said she’d think about it. Girls today!
Brownie making turned out to be more of an adventure with Tough Stuff in the house. McCavity was never interested in anything that wasn’t meat or meat byproducts ground and packaged into small cans with a picture of a cat on the label. But T.S. was willing to try anything. He sampled the butter and the walnuts and went after the eggs, until I finally shut him in my office with Polly for company.
Jack and Craig came through and sampled the brownies and pronounced them good. I felt very nurturing and Marmee-like. My rare bouts of baking do that to me. Little House In The Vineyard.
Then I went by the office to check my e-mail and discovered that T.S. had been playing Kitten On The Keys with the computer.
Last year I installed an internal fax modem into my computer. It enables me to fax word processing documents direct from the computer to my clients, so I don’t have to keep running down to the library and using their fax machine.
Polly had a sheet of paper between her paws which turned out to be a fax transmission report. I studied it for a few moments. As near as I could tell, T.S. had faxed my resume to some place in Rhode Island.
I guess it could have been worse.
Saturday turned out to be a great day for the festival, sunny and unseasonably warm. And for the first time in four years, the dogwood was actually blooming at the same time as the festival. The committee has to schedule things months in advance, so all they can do is make their best guess.
Word is that Mrs. Peabody was deposed from the prognostication last year; she had some sort of complicated formula that she based on the size of the acorn harvest the previous fall and the fuzziness of the caterpillars, which she claimed would predict the length of the winter. I think this year the committee decided to go with the Old Farmers’ Almanack. So far, they’re batting a thousand.
I crept out early, leaving Jack snoozing, and put Polly in her run. I loaded six dozen brownies into the back of the wagon and was off to the fair.
The fair was set up in the Volunteer Firehouse and surrounding area. The fire trucks had been parked outside to allow craft booths and displays inside. I found Julia spreading tablecloths. “Here come the brownies,” I said.
“Oh, good! Flora’s gingersnaps turned out weird and she threw them out, so we look a little light.”
I looked around the hall. Crafts were across from us. I made a mental note to check them out before the day was over. Beverly from Washington House was selling potted herbs. That’s one way to keep the mint from taking over your garden; get some of it adopted out.
And hot dogs, barbecued chicken and burgers were being administered at the pass-through to the kitchen.
Out the back door, I saw the pony rides being organized. At most fairs, pony rides are a sad thing, with defeated little ponies trudging in a circle like galley slaves in an old epic. But the Passatonnack Dogwood Festival does it right.
For one thing, the ponies aren’t attached to a circular merry-go-round contraption. I saw that the ponies were saddled and hitched to a railing waiting for riders.
The pony herd belongs to Myrtle Prothero, and are a prosperous looking bunch. Myrtle’s grandson Tommy was already in the saddle, ready to act as a pint-sized trail boss for the kids deemed big enough to steer their pony around the enclosure. Luther and Janie were detailed to lead ponies for the toddlers.
I’d have to catch Luther later. Meanwhile, the first customers arrived and began to make inroads into the brownies, angel food, and tollhouse. The Rescue Squad was making some money today.
Julia managed to snag us some hot dogs before the lunch rush, and then a lull descended as the crowd turned their thoughts to food.
“You go look around,” she told me. “After the Miss Dogwood crowning, everyone will be in here.”
So I wandered off, stopping at the craft booth to buy some refrigerator magnets for Debbie. Refrigerator magnets are a standard Mommy gift I sent to Deb on occasion. I saw no need to tell the ladies at the craft booth that Deb usually describes them as ‘adorably kitschy’; I don’t think they’d consider that a compliment.
Outside at the pony rides, Tommy was giving the novices a riding lesson. “No, don’t pull on the reins to turn, just lay the reins along the neck, like this.” His pony turned obediently. His pupils followed his lead and were amazed and delighted when their ponies turned too.
I was just thinking that Tommy looked ready for the Chisholm Trail, with his two gallon hat and a wad of chew in his jaw. But then he blew a big purple bubble; sort of ruined the effect.
The smallest pony, a sassy little black, was being led by Luther Dawson. Janie walked beside the pony, ready to grab the tiny rider if she began to fall. The toddler bounced up and down enthusiastically; Janie�
��s hands kept darting out as if certain that she was going to lose this one.
But the ride ended without mishap. The tot was carried off, describing her ride in gibberish to her mother. I waved at Luther, who walked over and doffed his hat. “Howdy, ma’am,” he said politely. I noticed he was wearing a tin deputy’s star. A nice touch.
“Hi, Luther, how’s the investigation going?”
Luther sighed. “I might have known. We’re still pulling together statements and checking alibis.”
“And who has an alibi?”
“Well now, that’s a problem. It depends on what actions you assign to the murderer.”
“What do you mean?”
“If all we’re talking about is the actual killing, which took place some time Wednesday night or Thursday morning, then only Wayne Harkey has an alibi.”
“Ooh, that’s bad.”
“But! Let’s say we assume the murderer followed Winslow to the winery on Sunday afternoon, then stole the tools, which disappeared between Sunday afternoon and Monday afternoon, then came back and dug the grave, which was probably done on Monday night – could have been Tuesday, though – “
“I’ve voting for Monday; Polly was really restless that night.”
Luther went on as if uninterrupted. “ – and then came back Wednesday evening or early Thursday and murdered Winslow.”
“If we assume all that, how many have we eliminated?”
“All of them.”
“All of them?”
“Everyone we know about so far has at least a partial alibi for one or more of those times.”
“Crud.”
“Everyone, of course, except for you and Jack.”
“Now cut it out, Luther!”
“I won’t cut it out,” he answered crossly. “You two alibi each other, and the Commonwealth’s Attorney is saying the way around that is to arrest you both and see who cracks first. The sheriff keeps telling him the motive angle sucks and he isn’t setting his department up for a false arrest suit unless he gets something more. But believe you me, we are not happy campers down at the sheriff’s department.”