Grenache and Graves

by Sandra Woffington

  The hallways were painted neon green with neon flowers. A green frog sat on a leaf.

  “Colorful.”

  Crystal glanced over her shoulder as she spoke to Max. “Gregor is a shamanic healer. He administers kambo, poisonous frog secretions, and Ayahuasca, a drink made from mashing and boiling two Amazonian plants. Both heal and cleanse.”

  “I saw a television documentary on those—they make you puke and…well…give you the runs, right?”

  Crystal remained serious. “That’s part of the ritual cleansing, yes.”

  “Maybe it’s just the body trying to expel the toxin, because it knows what’s good for it and what isn’t.”

  Crystal didn’t answer. She opened a door at the end of the hallway. She scooted around Gregor’s black desk and sat in his black leather chair.

  Max sat across from her.

  The walls had pictures of Gregor in the jungle with indigenous peoples. A frog was tethered at all four limbs and stretched between four sticks.

  “Gregor only works with three tribes. All of them ensure sustainable practices.”

  “The frog doesn’t look so happy. Drawn, but not yet quartered.”

  Crystal laughed. “He’s not happy. When he’s stressed, he secretes the toxin. The workers scrape it off of his back and then set him free. No permanent damage.”

  “Tell that to the frog.” Max pulled out his notebook and poised his pen to take notes. “How long have you worked for Gregor?”

  “Just a few months. I moved to Ojai, then to Los Angeles, and I finally came here. I’d heard a lot about Queen Alizon Moon. I met her, and she told me that her daughter had a small circle. Ruby Moon offered me a place. Ruby has splintered off two circles. One more, and she’ll be queen.”

  “That’s a lot of moves. Looking for work or the right circle?”

  “Both. I didn’t feel welcome.” Crystal shifted in her seat but kept her eyes steady. “During a Samhain festival, I saw four moons in the sky—everyone knows that three stand for the three stages of a woman—maiden, mother, and crone—but I’d never heard of a fourth. The High Priestess grew fearful and said the fourth was the dark moon, the dark goddess. That sums me up. I was elated, but the Ojai circle asked me to leave. They did not tolerate dark magic. Same with the other group in Los Angeles. But Alizon is fine with it. So is Ruby, as long as I balance it with light, which Gregor is helping me to do.”

  “I see.” Max jotted a note. He didn’t see at all. He wanted to be even-handed and open-minded, but he could barely resist seeing this girl as a strange duck. “Would anyone want to hurt Jared?”

  Crystal folded her arms over her buxom chest and glanced past Max, giving the question serious thought. “I can’t think of anyone. Val is really new, so I don’t know her well. But Jared is family to Alizon, Drew, and Ruby. Besides me—and I liked Jared—that leaves Gunner and Gregor. Gregor was in Alizon’s circle before joining Ruby’s. And Gunner and Jared—they’d become tight friends.” She paused and whispered. “Gregor and Alizon grew up in the same commune in Virginia. He followed Drew and Alizon to California.”

  “What about Gunner? How unstable is he?”

  “He’s way better than when I first met him, maybe six months ago. Gregor is helping him cleanse his trauma. The Ayahuasca purges help with all kinds of ailments: depression, anxiety, PTSD, insomnia, even addiction, or so I’m told. Gunner participates in the ritual every month.”

  “But he’s still fragile? He bolted from the scene of the crime, and it threw him into a PTSD episode, which put him in the hospital.”

  “Sure—it was Afghanistan all over again. But he’d mentioned to me just before the ceremony that he’d thought of leaving the circle—not for doubt—but he felt ready to move on. Happy even. I’ve been assisting Gregor and learning the healer’s art. We’re thinking of forming our own circle. I suggested that Gunner move over with us. But that’s premature. We haven’t decided.”

  “Tell me about Gregor.”

  Crystal gushed. “He’s the best healer I’ve ever met! He studies all of the time, reads books. He truly cares about others. He’s a peaceful man. He’s knows Ruby since she was a baby. He takes a personal interest in everyone who walks through the door.”

  “Isn’t it taking a big risk to treat people with severe psychological or health issues? I mean, these people need real help.”

  Crystal’s demeanor changed. She folded her hands on the desk, leaned in, and used a caustic, defensive tone. “Seriously? Doctors risk patients’ lives every day! Have you ever read the inserts to prescription drugs? Gunner is a prime example. The doctors prescribed multiple drugs for him. Some, like oxy, are highly addictive. And what did they do for him? Put him in a haze. Ayahuasca is a hallucinogen. It frees the mind so that the person can experience their trauma in a safe way.”

  “Or have a bad trip.”

  “That too. But a bad trip, just like one that is happy, opens the conscious and subconscious. But that’s where a knowledgeable shaman comes in. A guide must be there to help the practitioner sort through the experience and learn from it.”

  Max didn’t see that the conversation would produce any beneficial leads, so it was time to end it. “Thanks, Crystal. Call us if you think of anything else.” Max left his card on the desk.

  8

  In the other room, Joy interviewed Gregor. “Gunner said you’ve been helping him. Weaning him off of oxycodone.”

  Gregor rubbed his stubbled chin and rested his elbow on the arm he threw across his chest—the stance of a teacher about to give a lecture. “We tried kambo, frog toxin, first, but it did nothing for him except as a purgative. We switched to Ayahuasca, which is working extremely well.”

  “The hallucinogenic drink from the Amazon?”

  “Ever try it?”

  “No, but I have my demons.”

  Gregor laughed. “We all do. Some we live with. Some we have to expel. Once a month, I lead a group through an Ayahuasca ceremony in my home. Ayahuasca means ‘rope of the soul’ or ‘spirit vine.’ The euphoric, transformative process has allowed Gunner to visualize the fragments of his experiences, observe them in a non-threatening surreal space, and, in a way, by reassembling them, he has reassembled himself. It takes preparation.”

  “Like what?”

  “I recommend abstinence for a week, eating only organic foods, no red meat or anything too spicy that upsets digestion, meditation to welcome the plant and welcome what will come. Knowing one will peer into open wounds is as frightening as it is essential. One must prepare to receive it. Many experience death—a mystical death. It takes a healer to help someone work through such an experience.”

  “Tell me about the ritual. Who was there? What did you see?”

  ”It was Friday night. We only had three practitioners: Gunner, Val, and Jared. But Val changed her mind. Crystal normally assists me, but she was feeling ill, so Alizon filled in.”

  “Did anything unusual occur?”

  “Gunner had a bad trip. Val helped me watch over him. Alizon cared for Jared. When one is ready to see the hidden horror of our souls, they appear. Maybe six months ago, Jared offered to accompany Gunner on his first Ayahuasca ceremony with me. Jared sat with him the entire time, chanting to him, even holding him at one point, until Gunner fell into a gentle state of peace. That forged a bond between them. They’re best friends. Gunner’s purification is working. He stopped taking oxy that first day. I switched him over to herbal remedies. In the circle, I taught him incantations for healing and to take away his pain. Each month, Gunner seemed more at peace with himself and his life.”

  “Did Jared participate every month?”

  “Oh, heavens no. He came to Gunner’s first cleansing, and he came to his last one. I could see the pride flow between them.”

  “Can you explain Gunner’s trip? The smallest detail may help.”

  Gregor let out a heavy sigh. “In Gunner’s death trip, an anaconda encircled him and squeezed until he couldn’t breathe. H
e broke free of the anaconda. The anaconda is a symbol. It helps people see what they need to see and shows them what they need to do in life. Gunner broke free. He died and emerged reborn.” Gregor shook his head and let out a heavy sigh. “You should have seen Gunner before. By the time he had wandered into my store, purely by chance—which means the divine led him here—he had tried every other remedy—junk! Drugs and counseling. Talk, talk, talk.”

  Max and Crystal stepped into the room.

  “And Jared?” asked Joy. “Did he have enemies? Or demons?”

  “No enemies. But, like I said—we all have demons.” Gregor put a hand to his cheek.

  Crystal agreed. “That we do.”

  “Did you make remedies for members of the circle?” asked Joy.

  Gregor tensed. “Don’t you need a court order?”

  “Do we?” asked Max. “We’re trying to resolve your friend’s death, not pry.”

  Gregor reached for a book beneath the counter. “I’m a meticulous record keeper—to the gram.” He flipped open the book. “Jared placed a reorder for anxiety relief capsules. I usually make him an herbal tea concoction, like the one we just made for Gunner, but the capsules are easier to keep on hand when needed in a pinch. We had the Ayahuasca ceremony at Gunner’s apartment this time. I’m renovating a bathroom. It’s a mess! I knew I’d see Jared, so I brought his capsules along and gave them to Alizon.” Gregor flipped the page and read.

  Crystal added, “Yesterday morning, I dropped mugwort leaves off at Ruby and Jared’s house too.”

  Gregor added, “That’s in the book too. Drew makes a trance-enhancing tea for Alizon, Jared, Ruby, and himself before special ceremonies. Mugwort fosters dreams or a trance-like state. It opens the mind.”

  “What else is in his tea?” asked Joy.

  “The recipes vary. You’ll have to ask Drew. Could be black tea, sage, mint for flavor, honey, lemon. I believe Drew’s concoction mixes in a little absinthe.”

  Crystal interjected, “Alizon uses a flying ointment too.”

  “A what?” asked Max, confounded more by each strange term.

  Gregor explained, “A topical ointment, an olive oil infusion, usually, placed on the skin. Lucius Apuleius wrote of this practice in 160 AD; Francis Bacon and others later. In short, some plants with hallucinogenic properties are absorbed through the skin. Ruby doesn’t use them. She won’t work with entheogens.”

  Joy explained to Max, “Plants with psychoactive ingredients. Some of them quite deadly: salvia, nightshade, wolfbane.”

  “I won’t carry them in my shop,” said Gregor. “And I discourage anyone from employing them. Death is a nasty side effect.”

  “I think I’ll keep my feet on the ground, thank you,” said Max.

  “Here’s my card,” said Joy. “Thanks, Mr. Vulpe.”

  “Gregor, please.”

  Once out of the store, Max added. “I’m beginning to understand where the idea that witches could fly came from. Everyone was flying high all right.”

  Max and Joy slipped into the car.

  Joy grinned. “I don’t suppose you’ve ever tried any drugs, have you, Max.”

  “You presume wrong, but nothing more than pot cookies. My friend’s parents were out of town, and he whipped up a batch. He only told us they had pot in them after we ate the entire batch. We acted like idiots. We called out for large pizzas. I remember being totally engrossed with every delicious nook and cranny of that pizza. You’d swear there was a sign in the way the cheese melted. We wolfed them down and ordered one more. You?”

  Joy shook her head. “No, I was messed up enough on my own. Toxicological substances scared the crap out of me. I was too afraid I’d like them, find an easy out. I’ve heard of the Ayahuasca ceremony. It sounds like it helped Gunner deal with his demons. The frog toxin is scary—the skin is burned with a stick and the poison put over the burn spot to seep into the body. I saw a show where a woman’s face swelled up like a red balloon.”

  “Joy, for the record, you don’t need to slip into a hallucinogenic, drug-induced, puke-your-guts-out trance to live with your demons or purge them. You’ve got a brother, remember. Talk to me.”

  “Thanks, Max. That word ‘brother’ still sounds miraculous when you say it.”

  Max pulled onto the freeway. “Let’s head back to the office and transcribe the witness notes. We have class tonight.”

  Joy smiled. “Well, that’s my super-student! I should give you a cape with a giant S.”

  “Hey, I’m easy—just give me a giant A+ and we’re square.”

  “Earn it and you got it.”

  “Why, Dr. Burton—it’s amazing how fast the filial ties are there one minute and dissolve the next.”

  Max found an aisle seat midway up the theater-styled rows in the Price-Wellsman Academy, an east-coast university specializing in sociology, psychology, forensics, police procedures, and criminology with satellites in several states, including California and Virginia. In Virginia, the school offered training-programs designed specifically for F.B.I. profilers.

  The semi-circular rows faced a stage, no more than a platform with a black lectern, and, beyond that, massive whiteboards covered the walls. The room had sound-proof beige walls and fluorescent lighting. Students, mostly law-enforcement students or officers, spilled in and found seats.

  Joy hovered in front, surrounded by students with questions or comments. But when seven o’clock struck, Joy excused herself, climbed one step to the stage, and stood before the lectern. “Tonight, we will discuss the crime of passion. That sounds so much better than cold-blooded murder. But they are the same. Taking a life is a violent act.”

  Joy crossed the stage to face a new part of the audience. “Most of us would say, ‘Not me! That would never be me!’ That is the rational side of our brain engaging. But tonight, we will delve into the emotional side. We’ll dissect what happens when passion—that can be anger, surprise, shock, jealousy—any number of emotions, blinds a person to the point he or she rashly and instantly lashes out and kills another. You know how I love statistics to whet your appetite, so let’s begin here.”

  Joy pushed a button and a screen lowered from the ceiling. With the push of another button, a bulleted list appeared on the screen. Joy read each item aloud:

  Women are the key targets of crimes of passion; over 91% of women die at the hands of someone they know; in comparison, only 5% of men are killed by their domestic partners

  Common motives: fear, jealousy, revenge, and rage

  The plea of “temporary insanity” caused by “passion” stemmed from a case where a jealous husband shot his wife in the mid-1800s

  Acceptable precursors to crimes of passion include mutual combat, adultery, and violent assault

  So-called “honor” killings—the belief that a family member has the right to take the life of another family member—continue to occur in America each year. Most common causes: adultery, premarital sex, disobeying parents, personal insult. Advocacy groups are currently working to separate this category from crimes of passion, because most cases involve the murder of a woman

  Joy pushed a button and the image disappeared. “We’ve all heard the term mens rea—it means law enforcement needs to establish ‘malice aforethought’ or ‘harm before reason.’ The legal argument is that in the heat of an emotional moment, there is no forethought of ill-purpose. But rather, a knee-jerk murderous response. Emotion wipes out the ability to reason. And if proved, murder is reduced to the lesser charge of manslaughter. Why? We still have a dead body!”

  Joy crossed back to the center of the stage. “Some argue that the law acknowledges and accepts human weakness. But we’re done discussing the law. Instead, tonight we will discuss the mind and delve into how a seemingly normal human being suddenly transforms into a cold-blooded, malicious killer.”

  As Max took notes, he wondered about Mercy Summerfield. If she had arsenic in her system and had in some way brought shame to her family, then she was the v
ictim of an honor killing. A slow, painful death.

  Was Mercy poisoned? By whom?

  Did Jaxon’s father have knowledge he did not to want escape from the grave?

  Or did he simply want his ancestor laid to rest once more?

  9

  The following morning after a cup of luscious, black, bitter coffee, Max called Valerie Valdez and arranged to meet. Valerie had errands to run, so she agreed to drop by the station.

  Max and Joy worked on inputting and discussing witness notes until Valerie arrived.

  Less than an hour passed before Kevin escorted Valerie across the squad room.

  Max jumped up and placed a chair between his desk and Joy’s.

  Valerie, twenty-seven, had light brown skin and full lips. Her thick brown hair swept across her forehead and curved along the side of her prominent cheekbones. Her penetrating hazel eyes glanced around the room. Despite the fact that she wore casual clothes—blue shorts, a striped blue-and-white shirt, and white sandals—the items coordinated in fashionable flair. “Great building! I love the architecture.” She took a seat.

  “It’s new,” remarked Joy.

  Max asked, “Valerie, what can you tell us about the others in the circle?”

  “I go by ‘Val’ if that’s okay.” Valerie folded her hands over her crossed knees. “Not much. I just moved here from northern California, San Jose. Watching someone…Jared…die in front of me has caused me to reconsider.”

  Joy asked, “What brought you here and to the circle?”

  Valerie rose a confident chin in the air. “The Celestial Moon Circle is listed on a website that lists various groups by city. I contacted Ruby Moon via email to let her know I was moving to the area. There was only one listing in Wine Valley.”

  Max chafed, “Don’t take this the wrong way, but somehow, I find that comforting.”