Grenache and Graves

by Sandra Woffington

  “I’ll take good care of it,” said Joy. “Mercy and Little Wolf are in our hands now.”

  18

  By the time Max and Joy returned to the station, daytime had snuck into overtime.

  Steele approached the moment he saw them step into the squad room. “Your suspect is behind door number three. And, get this, when I showed up, she was packing. In a hurry to leave. There was blood on her wrist that she hadn’t washed off and lots more on the steering wheel of her car. She’s been processed. I read her her rights. And she’s waiting for you.”

  Max smiled. “Maybe we’ve found our murderer. Thanks, Steele.”

  Joy said, “Go ahead, Max. I’ll be right there.”

  Max tipped his chin to indicate he’d give her a minute.

  Joy took a deep breath as if to ward off fatigue. “Looks like we’re delayed an hour.”

  Steele peered around the room. He kept his voice low and his mannerisms business-like. “In an effort to strive for accuracy and to be sensitive to the prep time you require, does that really mean two hours?”

  Joy tilted her head. “Steele, you are a perceptive man.”

  “It’s a cop thing.”

  “Or a you-read-my-mind thing,” Joy sighed. “In all honesty, with shower time, yeah. Two.”

  Steele grinned. “No problem. Just builds anticipation.”

  Joy watched Steele walk away. She stifled a smile. She mumbled under her breath, “Yeah, it does.”

  Max had grown accustomed, or so he thought, to stepping into an interrogation room. The beige room with olive-green trim, including the door frame, gave the room a purpose-driven feel, aided by the television screen on a wall mount in the upper corner, video cameras in protective cages, the one-way glass that appeared black, and the plain wooden table and four chairs.

  David King had interrogation down to a science, whether to be nice, mean, or indifferent. He knew when to sweet talk, lampoon, or bite like a snake to get information out of a suspect. Max had learned from the best. He had also read a book Joy recommended about how various personality types responded to various stimuli, like pressure, flattery, anxiety, or reward, something she’d studied at Quantico.

  Valerie had lied all along. She came to Wine Valley for one reason. To kill.

  She had motive and admitted to intent. Her confession could be a brilliant ploy. Too many witnesses saw Valerie leave Jared’s house. She could not shoot Jared on the spot, as she’d originally planned, unless she’d also planned on going to jail.

  Max and Joy sat across from Valerie. The florescent lights cast an unpleasant and harsh brightness.

  Valerie’s hazel eyes pleaded like a doe’s caught in a hunter’s scope.

  She blurted, “I didn’t kill him! I found him like that and I panicked!” She put her hands to her temples and leaned her elbows on the table.

  “Walk us through it.” Before Max asked her any questions, he preferred if Valerie related the details of what had transpired. “Your statement is being recorded.”

  Valerie folded her arms across her chest, like a shield of protection. “I felt bad for Gunner. I’d stopped by Gregor’s shop to pick up those anti-anxiety pills they sell—I sure as heck need them now—and I asked Crystal if she’d heard from Gunner. She told me that Gregor had picked him up from the hospital and that he recuperated at home, but she hadn’t seen him. I felt bad. Here I’d focused on my hatred for Jared, and I completely ignored Gunner’s troubles. I asked Crystal what he liked in the shop, and she picked out some scented relaxation candles—one lavender, one rose. I thought that was kinda weird, but she assured me that Gunner was into aroma-therapy. I bought them and drove over to see him.”

  Joy asked, “Did you see anyone else around the complex or in the parking area?”

  “No.”

  Max pressed her. “What happened next?”

  “I knocked on his door. I thought I heard a sound, like a thud. I knocked again and called out to him, but he didn’t answer. I tried the knob. It was unlocked. I opened the door. I stepped inside. I didn’t see him. I called out and crept forward. I walked into the kitchen. He gurgled. I dropped to my knees. I threw my hands over his neck. But he bled and bled.” Valerie held up her hands as if she could still see the blood on them. “He went limp. His eyes stared up at me. I freaked. I knew how it looked. I bolted. I ran out of there, straight to my car, hopped in, and drove home.”

  Max added, “Gregor pulled up in the parking lot as you bolted out. We have a witness who saw you flee.”

  Valerie lowered her head. “I should have called for help, but Gunner was dead. He didn’t have to kill himself! He had friends. I wanted to be his friend. I know what it’s like to lose someone you love. If only I’d have gotten there sooner.”

  Joy asked, “You didn’t see anyone in the apartment?”

  “No, but why would there be? He committed suicide, right?”

  Max and Joy eyed one another.

  Max added. “It’s possible, but there are discrepancies that suggest it could have been murder.”

  Valerie’s eyes grew into saucers. Her brows furrowed in confusion. “Then I was there at the same time as the murderer. But how did they slip out?”

  “How indeed?” asked Max.

  “No! You have to believe me! I didn’t kill Gunner! And I didn’t kill Jared!” Valerie’s voice wavered as she spoke. “I swung the door open. If someone hid behind the front door, it would have covered them up. And while I knelt beside Gunner, the killer could have slipped out. Right? Maybe it was Gregor.”

  Max tapped his fingers on the table. “It sounds like you have it all figured out. But Gunner’s blood is all over the place. On your hands, your clothes, even your car.”

  “Brace for the worst, Val,” said Joy. “The D.A. will like the evidence against you.” Joy leaned in. “So what can you give us in return? Besides you, who else wanted Jared and Gunner dead?”

  Valerie shook her head. “I had no reason to kill Gunner! Maybe Crystal or Gregor—you said Gregor called you. What if he killed Gunner, slipped out, and then stuck around, watched me leave, and called the cops?”

  Max coldly glared. “You wanted Jared dead. You held a gun on him and threatened to shoot.”

  “I didn’t shoot! I forgave him!”

  “Then help us,” urged Joy. “Give us a lead.”

  Valerie stopped all gyrations. She dropped her hands to her lap. With a defeated voice, she said, “I don’t have one. Aren’t you listening to me? I didn’t do it! I couldn’t kill Jared! So why would I turn around and kill Gunner?”

  Joy tried to put pressure on her. “Gunner told us that after you threatened him, Jared called him. Gunner told him to come over right away, but Jared didn’t tell him what you had done.”

  Max shot dagger-like eyes at Valerie. “But you didn’t know that! You couldn’t take a chance that Gunner would tell others.”

  “It didn’t happen like that!” shouted Valerie. “Why was Gregor there? How convenient!”

  Max yelled to match her. “You stalked Jared. You came to Wine Valley for the sole purpose of killing him!”

  “Yes, but I didn’t kill him!”

  Joy rose to her feet and circled the table. “You bought a gun. You brought it with you. You loaded it. You put it in your backpack.” Joy leaned over and set her palms firmly on the table so that her mouth was near Valerie’s ear. “And you aimed the barrel at Jared’s chest, ready to pull the trigger!”

  Valerie craned her neck to make eye contact with Joy. “I know. I can’t believe I did that. But I didn’t pull the trigger!”

  Max smacked the table. Valerie whipped her head toward the sound.

  “There were too many witnesses,” said Max. “You waited for your chance.”

  Joy’s voice became menacing. “And it came at the Mabon celebration. You took the athame blade from the altar, and as everyone chanted and channeled, you knew how easy it would be.”

  “No! That’s not right!”

 
Max made a thrusting motion with his hand. “You thrust the blade into Jared’s heart, tipped the headstone, and screamed to warn the others!”

  “You’re wrong!”

  Joy added, “Jared and Gunner were best friends. You figured that Gunner knew your dirty little secret.”

  “Again with a knife—you slit Gunner’s throat,” said Max.

  “I tried to save him!”

  Joy accused, “You ran!”

  Valerie’s face flushed red. Tears welled in her eyes. Her voice cracked. “Stop it!”

  Max pressed, “You had blood on your hands, on your clothes, in your car. What better alibi than trying to save him!”

  “I did try to save him!” Valerie put her arms on the table, rested her head against them, and lost it. Her body shook with wave after wave of tears.

  Max added, “Make yourself at home, Valerie. You’re not going anywhere.”

  19

  Joy set a rather untidy tomato-rose on a plate of appetizers—snap peas, carrot chips, cucumber slices, fresh apricots, raspberries, and walnuts—and slid it into the refrigerator.

  Joy’s house sat atop a hill on a street where a few acres surrounded every ranch-styled home. Sam had purchased the house just before the boom, when developers chased the growing number of vintners into Wine Valley and construction soared—Grape Gulch received a make-over, a new mall sprouted up in the heart of the new development, and, most recently, a civic center worthy of the town’s size and status graced a small hill in Grape Gulch a block away from the main street, whose claim to fame came from being the site of one of the first few post offices within the brand new state of California.

  Joy had vacationed in the home as a child. She thought her father had borrowed the house from a friend, until she found the deed in Sam’s papers after he’d been killed. She hadn’t been in the house long enough to change the décor, except for the master bedroom. Her dark nature revolted at Sam’s use of yellow and white and flowers—but as each day passed, her feet grew roots, and the yellow nurtured her growth like a sunflower reaching up out of the earth, its face open to the glowing orb in the sky.

  At least Sam had an eye for aesthetics: white distressed furniture gave the house a country feel and the canary yellow and floral living room furniture sprouted red and white irises on green leafy stalks. Throughout the house, yellow walls and white ceilings created a continuous flow, but Sam had mixed it up by adding splashes of red in the living room, green in the dining room, and navy blue in the kitchen.

  Sam liked daisies. Joy’s eyes drifted to the white wrought-iron and glass kitchen table surrounded by four chairs. The flower arrangement of faux daisies always brought Sam’s face before her.

  The doorbell rang.

  Joy could not fly to it fast enough. It was insanely spine-tingling and excruciatingly tempting to work in such close proximity to Reed Steele and have to keep a professional distance. Fire rushed through her limbs, flushed her cheeks, and spilled into the pit of her belly as she swung the door open.

  Joy’s and Steele’s lips locked in a luscious, savory kiss that carried them inside.

  Refusing to let go, Joy kicked the front door shut. She wrapped her arms around Steele’s muscular shoulders. He wrapped his arms around the waist of her gray tank dress and pulled her into his chest. He picked Joy up off of her bare feet and carried her into the living room, setting her down on the carpet before they broke apart.

  “Who needs whiskey when I have a Steele?”

  “And my life is pure Joy.”

  “I’m branching out, trying new things. I bought us a local wine, a Grenache from the A.A.O.W.”

  “Ah, yes, the Aurora Angelica Opizzi Winery. I’m game.”

  Steele followed Joy into the kitchen.

  “It supposedly has berry overtones with a hint of spice—so said the salesman.” Joy opened the fridge to withdraw the appetizer plate.

  Steele withdrew the bottle opener from a drawer and proceeded to open the bottle of wine sitting on the counter. He poured the red liquid into two glasses, already standing by. Steele slid a glass over to Joy.

  She picked it up, clinked glasses with him. and sipped the dark red wine.

  Steele arched his brows. “Nice. Rich. Fruity. Look at me. I sound like a connoisseur.”

  “I limit myself to two notes—I like it or I don’t. I like this one.”

  Steele saw the book in the plastic bag on the counter. “Homework?”

  “Set down the wine and I’ll show you. I promised to keep this spotless. This is as old as Mercy Summerfield. Phillis, the cook, kept a sort of diary and sketch pad.”

  “What’s in it?”

  “I’m going to find out, but first…” Joy carefully slid the book out of the plastic bag. Just as carefully, she opened the cover and turned page after page, until she reached the drawing of Little Wolf and Mercy.

  “Dang! I’m going to get soft and weepy and unmacho here. Now that’s two people in love. And someone poisoned her to keep them apart?”

  “Or to preserve the family’s honor—and all that rot—and I do mean rotten to the core.” Joy closed the book, put it back in the plastic bag, and sealed it shut. Joy picked up the platter, and Steele opened the French doors leading out to the covered patio with a slate floor.

  Steele dashed back to grab both glasses of wine and followed Joy outside.

  Joy had set down the platter down on the gray wicker and glass table and dashed back to close the French doors.

  Steele settled into a gray wicker love seat with black cushions that faced a stone hearth and set down the glasses.

  A ceiling fan in the patio cover sat still. The dipping sun was enough to bring comfort. The sun seemed to flare as it sank, fighting to stay alive and not give over to the night. It sprayed the hills and alit the golden grasses in a last hurrah.

  “How’s my buddy?” asked Steele, taking a sip of his wine as Joy settled into the crook of his arm.

  “We can watch a movie later, and, if you’d like, your buddy Monty can crawl all over those beautiful muscles of yours. She’s the only other woman I will allow to do that.” Joy referred to her five-foot-long, twenty-one-year-old ball python with thick coils of scaly mahogany-brown skin with light brown splotches rimmed in cream.

  “This might sound crazy, but how about we read that diary? I know you want to, and I’m curious too. And Monty would love a bedtime story.”

  “She’s nocturnal. It’s our bedtime story.” Joy munched on a snap pea.

  “Even better.” Steele reached for a cucumber slice.”

  As the sun sank, Joy and Steele nibbled on sweet fruits and crunchy vegetables and brainstormed how to pinpoint who’d poisoned Mercy. But the conversations continued in circles: Mercy’s father’s disappointment, her mother’s Irish Catholic values, her brother James Jr.’s betrayal, Phillis’s loyalty to the family—father’s tyranny, mother’s jealousy, James Jr.’s duty to family; Phillis’s pride. They never came any closer.

  After a simple dinner of poached salmon, brown rice, and asparagus, Joy slipped into her bedroom, an out-of-Africa landscape of blood-red walls, a white ceiling, cane furniture, and framed black-and-white prints of predators and prey.

  She changed into her silk robe and walked over to a custom-built black reptile cabinet, half a dozen feet tall. The cabinet contained terraced rock walls, logs and branches, green leafy plants, and a shallow pool. It ran the length of the wall and butted up to the French doors to the patio. Joy could just step inside. She found Monty on a low branch. She moved at a slow pace.

  Joy brought Monty out to the living room.

  Steele peeled off his shirt, having adapted to the comfort of Monty’s rectilinear movement against his flesh. Joy set Monty around his neck. Monty flicked her tongue to gather scents and information. Steele rubbed his finger over her triangular head. The black stripe that ran from cheek to nose and her upturned mouth almost made it seem like she smiled back at him.

  Joy grabbed the diary, nes
tled into the crook of Steele’s arm, and opened the cover. A feeling shot through her. It prickled her skin. In essence, the book had a century-old mouth, and Joy opened the cover to let it speak.

  Joy skimmed the pages, giving Steele a summary at times and reading it word for word at others. “Phillis started this in January. She talks about the lovely Christmas that just passed, and how the last cookie and the last of the molasses taffy has finally disappeared. But there’s still a brand new tin of Whitman’s chocolate in the pantry, which is Master James Jr.’s and Mercy’s favorite treat.”

  Joy turned the page. “It’s calving season, and Little Wolf and some of his tribe have come to help out. Phillis says the Summerfields routinely hire the Indians of Wine Valley to help with sheep-shearing, calving, and later, crop harvesting. Mercy’s brother, James Jr., is particularly fond of Little Wolf, which Phillis surmises is because they’re close in age. Like brothers. They work side by side. James Jr. gives orders to Little Wolf, and Little Wolf gives them to his people. Phillis says Little Wolf recently invited James Jr. to a tribal ceremony.”

  Joy flipped from page to page, stopping to show Steele Phillis’s occasional drawings of Mercy or James or Little Wolf. “Phillis talks about how Mercy helps her in the kitchen sometimes. Hiram works in the cookhouse, making meals for farmhands and vaqueros.” She flipped more pages. “Here we go. It’s March. I think she was crying. Her hand is shaking and there’s a tear splotch.”

  “I see it,” said Steele.

  “March 1888 Sat. 3. Lord almighty! No more peace in this house! God save us! James Jr. says Mercy is in love with Little Wolf and planning to run off with him. Mr. James, he struck Mercy down to the floor. Hit her so hard, James Jr. turned his back. Mrs. Clara run to her. Mercy say she is with child. The menfolk dragged that girl upstairs and locked her in her room. They sent Hiram and me home. God help us all!”