A Case of Sour Grapes

by Gae-Lynn Woods

  “You really think Blue is innocent?” I asked.

  “I think these three cases deserve more examination before we’re sure she did it.”

  “But since Hoffner has an arrest, he won’t want to look any more?”

  She nodded.

  “Why not?”

  “Bird in the hand,” she said. “Even if I were at work, it would be hard to convince him to look at more suspects. The DA could make a case and probably get Blue convicted of killing all three of them.”

  I hesitated before asking my next question. “Did you ask her?”

  “She says she didn’t.”

  I thought about that. It seemed logical that even the guilty would protest their innocence. I didn’t know Blue well, and though she had threatened to kill Bret on an occasion or two, she didn’t seem the type to follow through. “What about Poison Ivy and the Dismembered Bunnies?” I asked.

  “Why would one of Bret’s old band mates kill him and two of the women he’d slept with?”

  “I don’t know, but shouldn’t we add them to the board? The wrecked music rooms are too coincidental to ignore.” I filled her in on the band’s history as delivered by Stan Overheart that morning, and recent sightings of Sonny Arellano.

  “I guess it’s a possibility, but we need a motive.”

  “Do you want to hear the album Stan loaned me?”

  “I don’t know. Do I?”

  She took the food off the grill and I followed her inside, salivating. “Why don’t you cook more often?”

  “Are you kidding? Bruce would want to share duties once the new wears off the kitchen. The last thing I want to do is sweat over a stove when I get home from work. It’s therapeutic for him. We’re all better off if Bruce thinks he’s the only Elliot with culinary skills.”

  Cass filled a plate for me and though I protested at the portions, she tutted, telling me again I was too thin. I caved and was glad I did. We ate and I played the album for Cass. Between bites, she made notes on the lyrics, only wincing once or twice.

  “What do you think?” I asked.

  “I wouldn’t buy it, but it must’ve appealed to quite a few people if they were going gold.” She ate another bite of chicken. “Those first two songs are very political. Maybe the lyrics from the second album were even harsher, and somebody wanted to stop the band, so they stole the tapes. I have no clue why those two guys would be coming back for Bret, but there’s no evidence they were near the murder scenes.”

  I wrote the band name on the sticky anyway. “Anything’s a possibility until it isn’t.”

  “I can live with that.”

  I stood and cleared the table. “What now?”

  Cass stretched, but gingerly, favoring her shoulder. She pulled her phone out and checked it. “It’s only eight. Let’s go to the gun range. I’ve got a surprise.”

  FIRST NIGHTER

  BLUE LAID BACK ON her jailhouse bed and found it bearable. The blanket was rough, but the mattress was thick enough that she couldn’t feel the springs beneath it. The toilet was a lidless affair, but at least it had a wide lip as a seat and didn’t smell to high heaven.

  For the first time in weeks, Blue let herself relax. She absently rubbed ink from her fingers with the alcohol wipe and then deepened her breathing, slipping into a doze. She awoke refreshed. A still mind always improved her perspective and helped her find solutions.

  Being arrested for murdering three people wasn’t traumatizing for Blue, simply because she knew she was innocent. She also believed that the police, perhaps barring Sheriff Hoffner, wanted to convict the right person, not simply the most convenient person. And that was the nub of the matter, wasn’t it? Who was the right person? The guilty party?

  If she thought through her almost five years with Bret, she could point to nothing that would lead to a suspect or motive. No negative interactions with suppliers, no disturbances at the winery, no disgruntled neighbors irritated about late night traffic or noise. Her mind flipped through the list of employees they’d had since Blue had joined Bret, and she found none who had left on such a bad note they’d need violent revenge. Instead, there were highlights from their time together. The first set of tables and chairs Bret had built and placed in the winery’s wide open dining room. The first set of dishes she had thrown and fired. Opening the first bottle of wine and finding it not just good, but excellent. The full house the first night the restaurant opened and having to find outside seating for overflow guests.

  Wonderful memories, now tarnished as she questioned whether Bret had slept with employees, suppliers, customers. She couldn’t believe he was dead. His huge personality was a force of nature, and she would miss him. But Blue had been missing him for months now, grieving over the man she’d loved and their disintegrating marriage. His death only added another layer to her grief. In reality, she was already moving forward. She was simply the kind of woman who wouldn’t be kept down.

  Since she could find no possible suspects or motives in the spaces she and Bret inhabited together, she concentrated on the spaces that existed between them. Those times when she and Bret were apart, which were many given their busy schedules. The winery was such a small business there were rarely opportunities for the two of them to travel together. A Main Street open house in one city usually ran on the same weekend as a food fair in another. A catering event for a business in Shreveport happened on opening night for the Texas Wine and Grape Growers Association’s annual conference. Then came the cookbook and her parents.

  That last thought sparked two more. The first was that the cookbook might benefit from her time in jail, and she vowed to take notice of everything that happened here. The second was the realization that she had tickets booked to go see her parents in two weeks. Her time in jail would have to be over by then.

  The arranger in her nature took over and Blue patted her orange jumpsuit, looking for a pen, then remembered her jailer hadn’t allowed her to bring anything to her cell, saying she was a suicide risk. Blue had been too tired to argue, but now she needed that pen. And something other than toilet paper to write on.

  There was no ‘call’ button, so Blue did what she figured every prisoner did when they needed something: she banged on her cell door and hollered.

  An older gentleman answered the noise with a wry smile. “Ma’am?”

  “I’m sorry for all the racket. May I have a pen and some paper?”

  “You won’t use them for anything naughty now, will you?”

  “Cross my heart.”

  “In that case, I’ll be right back.” He was. He passed her a pencil and a pad of paper, and then asked, “You own the winery out in the country, right?”

  Blue nodded.

  “I’ve been there. The food and wine are excellent.”

  “Thank you. I am so blessed to be able to do what I love. It doesn’t feel like work that way.” She hesitated. “I don’t suppose you could use any help in the kitchen, could you?”

  “Are you hungry?”

  “A little.”

  “Dinner’s over, and it’s probably a good thing you missed it. I’ll make you a deal.” He found a key and unlocked her door. “If you make two of whatever you have, you can spend the rest of the evening in the dining room. Since you’re our only female guest at the moment, we thought it wise to keep you separated from the men. But you seem capable of taking care of yourself. I don’t think the boys will bother you.”

  Blue stepped across her cell’s threshold and into the hall, and felt a burden lift from her shoulders. “You, kind sir, have got a deal.”

  THE CASS ELLIOT SCHOOL OF GUN OWNERSHIP

  I PESTERED HER ALL the way out to Hamilton’s Gun Shop, but Cass wouldn’t give me a hint. The sound of guns blasting on the range behind the shop told us plenty of folks were waiting until the worst of the heat disappeared before coming out.

  Mitch called as we were pulling into the parking lot and told Cass that Grey had confirmed Bret’s time of death as occurring betwee
n ten Saturday night and two Sunday morning, and Bret was dead when he went into the tank. Cass said that was good news and bad news. Good news because Blue couldn’t have put a dead body in the tank by herself. Bad because she might’ve had help.

  I tried to keep an open mind about Blue’s ability to commit murder, but try as I might, I couldn’t see her wielding a bat like that.

  Stepping into Hamilton’s was like stepping back in time. The log building had a slat floor that rang when struck by a cowboy boot and flexed ever so slightly under foot. The scent of gun cleaning solvents and oil hung in the air, and a workbench was covered with metal parts and tools. A potbelly stove sat to one side of the shop, cold now, but the rockers in front of it were inhabited by weathered old coots who eyed us with suspicion. I’d taken Aunt Kay’s advice and wore jeans, a t-shirt, and a pair of scuffed up boots I’d had since high school. Once a pair of cowboy boots mold themselves to your feet, there’s nothing more comfortable and no getting rid of them.

  Hamilton - I was never sure if that was his first name or last - met us at the counter. He was the reason this shop was frequented by gun owners from counties all around. An ex-policeman of few words, he ran the place with military precision and an eye for detail. If Hamilton thought you weren’t gun-ownership material, he had no problem sending you down the road to the next gun shop. Which was miles away.

  “Hey Ham, can I see it?” Cass asked.

  He motioned her behind the counter and they disappeared into his stock room, leaving me alone with the coots. I wandered in their direction but made a sharp left into a row of ammunition when a stream of spit stung a brass spittoon. Although Cass and Ham were only in the back for a few minutes, it felt like I was waiting for Oz the Great and Powerful to peel back his curtain. When they emerged, Cass carried a gun case. She placed it on the counter and I joined them.

  “I ordered this for you last week, when you said you were serious about working for the agency.”

  “You got me a gun?” I asked.

  She nodded, face still serious. “Ham has the background paperwork in order. You need to sign it and if everything comes back clean, I’ll keep your gun until you have your concealed carry license.”

  My gun. Suddenly, it was real. Excitement coursed through me. My dream of becoming a private investigator was gaining momentum. My eyes filled with tears when Cass popped open the case. “Your very own revolver, a Ruger .38 Special. It’s got a shrouded hammer. With all the junk you carry in your purse, I thought that would be safer.”

  I hugged her. “I think that’s the nicest thing anybody’s ever done for me, Cass. And look,” I stroked a finger down the gun. “It’s got a pink handle thingy.”

  “Grip, Maxine. And don’t thank me yet,” she said with a smile. “We’ve got to spend some serious time shooting. And then you’ve got to pass the concealed carry class. You’re not licensed until Ham says you’re licensed. Come on.”

  __________

  SHE LET ME CARRY the gun in its case and our ear and eye protection, while she carried ammunition and the paper targets. Since she was on medical leave and her gun was locked up at the courthouse, she had her personal 9mm with her, hooked on the hip of her jeans. It looked cool and I asked where I could get a holster like that.

  “When you’re ready to carry, we’ll shop for holsters,” she told me, and I tried not to pout.

  We picked a booth at the far end of the range and started my lesson.

  Have you ever fired a gun? No? Let me tell you, it’s not as easy as it looks on TV, at least not if Cass Elliot is your instructor. Before she would even let me open a box of bullets, she made me learn the name of every part of the revolver, using words like cylinder, ejector, frame, and barrel. She explained how everything worked, then made me repeat each name until I could do so without hesitation.

  Then came instructions on how to handle a gun. She taught me to always hold my gun by the grip, with the barrel pointing down or at least away from any potential living target. Hear the potential part? That means if a person might be anywhere near my line of fire, I had to make sure to keep my loaded gun pointing away from them. My gun was unloaded at that time, mind you, but Cass made it clear I was to treat the thing as if it were loaded at all times.

  When I dared grumble that it couldn’t just load itself, she pierced me with a look and growled, “Maxine, this is no joke. If handling a gun safely is too much to ask, I’ll send it back.”

  I begged and pled for mercy and at last she relented, going back to her instructions. Next we covered stance. There’s no such thing as ‘point and shoot’ in the Elliot school of gun ownership. Those nifty grips where the guy holds the gun on its side and shoots gangsta-style? Forget it. She showed me the Isosceles, the Weaver, and modifications to both.

  I assumed the stances as Cass directed, shooting my empty gun at a bull’s eye target she ran out on a line. She studied me, pressing gently to lower my shoulders because I kept pulling them up towards my ears, and showing me how to grip my gun with my right hand and support it by cupping my left palm beneath it. She fiddled with my hands, fingers, the stretch of my arms, and the placement of my feet. Then she made me watch and imitate her until she was satisfied I understood what a good stance looked and felt like.

  And then we practiced some more.

  THE COPS AIN’T YOUR FRIEND

  BY THE TIME SHE put three Quiche Lorraines in the oven, a small crowd of prisoners and guards had gathered. Word had spread that a cook, a real cook, was in the cells. Blue ignored the hubbub and did what she always did in the kitchen: issued orders. When a scrawny man rebelled at working for a woman, Blue drew her shoulders back and pointed to the exit. “You work, or you don’t eat.”

  The shirker complained to a burly guard, who shrugged. “You heard the lady. If you want a decent meal, button your lip and fold those napkins.”

  By the time the quiches were done, they had stacks of buttered toast, a salad of crisp greens and tomatoes, and homemade vinaigrette waiting on one of the long tables, which had been properly set with cutlery, plates, and napkins. A tray of shortbread was in the oven, its buttery scent replacing the savory aroma of the quiche.

  She sat next to one of the scruffier prisoners, whose shifty eyes conveyed nervousness rather than aggression, and quietly coached him to place his napkin in his lap and how to correctly use his utensils. He ate in small, quick bites at first, but slowed and seemed to enjoy the food and the experience as Blue worked with him.

  They finished the meal and the clean-up crew got to work. When the kitchen was put back in order to her satisfaction, Blue asked the guard what happened at night. “Mostly they watch TV,” answered the elderly man. “Or read, or sometimes play games until lights out.”

  Blue filled glasses with milk and put cookies on plates. Most inmates hurried to the TV room, followed by a guard. A few lingered and settled in with their shortbread and cups of coffee at nearby tables. Blue sat alone and built two lists, groceries for the kitchen, and a list of potential suspects.

  A middle aged man with a sad mustache and weepy tattoos sat across from her. “I hear you done your husband,” he said conversationally. “Did you poison him?”

  “That’d be obvious for a chef, wouldn’t it? Someone murdered him,” Blue said. “But it wasn’t me.”

  “Nobody in here done what they’re accused of,” he said with a wink.

  “In my case, it’s true.”

  He studied her and seemed to realize she might believe it. He sat forward. “They got any evidence against you?”

  “I don’t know. They’ve accused me of two other murders in addition to my husband.”

  “Lady -,” he began.

  “Blue, please,” she said. “What’s your name?”

  “Hollis. Miss Blue, you have a right to know what kind of evidence they’ve got against you. You have a lawyer?”

  “No. I don’t know any criminal lawyers. Besides I didn’t do this.”

  “You better get one
. I’d recommend mine, but he’s a public defender. A bad one at that.”

  “Hollis, you don’t think the police are interested in the truth, in finding out who really killed my husband?”

  “You ever watch TV?”

  Blue shook her head. “I don’t have time.”

  He studied her like she was a species of life he’d never encountered. “The cops ain’t your friend, Miss Blue. Inside, in this jailhouse? You’re the only friend you got.”

  He thanked her for the meal, then tipped an imaginary hat and slouched to the TV room. Blue tapped the pencil’s eraser against her chin as she thought. Detective Stone had advised her to get a lawyer and told her if she couldn’t afford one, a lawyer would be appointed for her. But it hadn’t seemed necessary at the time. Since she was innocent, she expected everyone to act accordingly and make sure the real killer was caught. Hollis seemed to have a greater knowledge of the legal system than she did. Blue had never even filed any of the legal paperwork related to her businesses. Her lawyer, a demure woman with a stammer, took care of all that. Blue wouldn’t begin to know how to find a criminal lawyer, much less which questions to ask to determine if they were the right person to defend her. But suddenly she knew who could help her.

  She mentally ran back through all the movies she’d watched, and waved at the elderly guard. “I get to make one phone call, right?”

  “You haven’t made it yet?”

  “I didn’t know who to call. But now I do.”

  He checked his watch. “It’s nearly time for lock down.”

  “I’ll make French toast for breakfast,” she said. “With sausage or bacon, depending on what’s in the freezer.”

  “I’m off duty at six. I’ll miss breakfast.”

  “Wake me up and I’ll cook yours early,” she said. “But get some maple syrup tonight. The real stuff.”

  THERE ARE WORSE WAYS