A Hive of Homicides

by Meera Lester

  Chapter 7

  Vineyards and farms are quiet places until the

  birds arrive at first light.

  —Henny Penny Farmette Almanac

  At the Country Schoolhouse Winery, Abby chose to park under the decades-old sprawling oak. Just being near a tree, any tree, often soothed her spirit when she felt troubled, as she did today on this first visit to the winery since the murder. The gnarled scaffolding on this ancient oak was dramatic, and the sounds of birds chirping amid the nearly bare branches heartened her. Her gaze swept across the parking lot, past a dozen or so cars, uphill to the vineyard, where sunbeams lit the vermilion, green, and gold leaves on the vines. Red-winged blackbirds with conical bills and broad shoulders flitted along the paths and alighted on posts. Abby watched their erratic movements and then looked over at the winery’s kitchen door. Dark images came flooding back into her psyche.

  Her body tensed. With a self-reminder to hold it together, Abby resolved to focus on the positive impressions she’d absorbed that night—the crackling fireplace and pleasant tasting room. Both were elements of the warm refuge from the cold rain. She’d shared friendly banter with Kat and Hannah, the young intern, and had inhaled the seductive scents wafting from the kitchen when she’d gone in search of Emilio. The sous-chef had been expertly slicing orange Fuyu persimmons with a sharp knife. Abby’s inquiry about Chef Emilio’s whereabouts that night had intruded on the woman’s focus and rhythm. She’d jerked her thumb in the direction of the parking lot. And that was where Abby had gone.

  In spite of her efforts, unpleasant memories came flooding back. Abby’s eyes fluttered closed, and her thoughts returned to the kitchen. Hadn’t a male dishwasher been washing stacks of pots in the corner above the sink? Yes. Abby could see him in her mind’s eye. He was wearing a knee-length apron over baggy cargo pants and was sporting a stringy ponytail that reached halfway down his back. And then she’d stepped out into the darkness.

  In her mind’s eye, she could also see the thin, misshapen band on Paola’s finger. The couple hadn’t gotten out of the car. But she had been out there walking and hadn’t seen Jake and Paola drive in. So they must have arrived moments earlier. Maybe they’d been sitting and talking. Why had Jake lowered the car window? Perhaps to speak with the killer? Why? Did they know each other? Perhaps only one person knew the answer to that question, but she lay in a hospital bed, still in a coma.

  Abby felt distressed. Maybe coming back to the scene of the crime wasn’t such a good idea. But then again, the memory of the dishwasher being present in that kitchen had surfaced. What else had she blocked out? Her heartbeat loped ahead at a dizzying speed. Her face felt flushed. Her mouth went as dry as a cotton ball. Perhaps she shouldn’t put off seeking professional help—someone who could clarify what was happening to her. She opened her eyes. At the winery’s kitchen door, a sudden movement wrested her attention from the stress she felt to the situation at hand. Emilio had just darted out to toss a garbage bag into the Dumpster. With his longish dark hair, wide brows, and chiseled features, he had the handsome look of a polo player. He likely could have found work as an actor or a model, had it not been for his passion for cooking. She watched him walk back inside.

  Abby cracked the windows of her Jeep for Sugar. She pulled the key from the ignition and turned to give her pooch a pep talk. “Listen up, Sugar Pie. I’m counting on you as my backup on this mission. Don’t sound the alarm unless we need it. I promise to be back soon with a treat for my good little girl.” The dog was having none of the sweet talk. She gave voice to her protestation through her incessant barking. “Oh, Lordy, do we need dog training,” Abby said. “But right now I’ve got a suspect to eliminate.”

  Clutching her daypack, Abby exited the Jeep and locked it. She tossed her daypack over her shoulder and gripped the straps tightly, as though they provided her security in a situation of uncertainty. It was a silly compulsion, one among several of late that she didn’t understand—the anxiety that increased at nightfall, the chronic insomnia, and the nightmares if she did by chance drift off. Still, she felt compelled to keep her word to Emilio’s sisters. She would try to find out what he might be withholding from his family and to help him do what was needed to clear his name.

  After strolling a short distance, she spotted the chef reemerging from the kitchen. Dressed in sneakers, jeans, and a turtleneck, he carried a chef shirt in a dry cleaner’s bag in one hand and balanced a banker’s box against his hip with the other. Watching his long, lean frame stride to his 2005 silver Buick Regal, Abby tightened her grip on the daypack straps and kept walking. He dropped the banker’s box on the ground before yanking open the passenger door to his vehicle. Emilio hung the shirt behind the driver’s seat and then hustled back to retrieve the banker’s box. But instead of picking it up, he hit the trunk with the side of his fist and then stood with both hands, fingers spread, on the car’s rear end. He clearly was in a mood.

  Abby threaded her way through the cars but halted mid-step when she saw Hannah racing from the kitchen after Emilio, her long blond hair bouncing around her shoulders as she carried a rectangular case with a buckled strap at either end.

  “Wait up, Emilio. You forgot these,” she said, proffering at arm’s length a cowhide culinary case of the type that chefs used to transport their expensive knives.

  Abby’s antenna went up. Why had Emilio forgotten his knives? What was going on here? Standing between cars several rows back from Emilio’s four-door sedan, Abby waited and watched. The couple talked, but Abby couldn’t make out the words. Still, it didn’t take a Ph.D. in behavior analysis to know that when Hannah threw her arms around him, she was consoling him over something. Emilio responded by lowering his cheek against her neck. Without warning, a shout erupted from the Dumpster area.

  “It ain’t over, Varela,” Scott Thompson’s voice boomed. He marched to within a few feet of Emilio. “Get back inside, Hannah. Now.”

  Hannah made a move toward her uncle and placed her hand on his arm, apparently in an attempt to calm him. Scott jerked his arm from her grasp. Without following his command, Hannah backed away for safety’s sake. A dozen winery workers who’d spilled out into the lot to watch the fracas joined her.

  Abby froze, holding tightly to the daypack straps. The quiet tchup-tchup-whee, tchup- tchup-whee of a flock of common blackbirds perched on the highest branches of the oak over the Jeep became shrill. Their wings made a deafening noise as they flapped in ascension. The birds flew toward the vineyard. Emilio looked up at them. Then over at Abby, still yards away. He didn’t acknowledge her. Instead, he grabbed the banker’s box and the knife case, stored them in the trunk, and, slamming it shut, turned to face his adversary. Motioning with his fingers, Emilio made a “Bring it on” gesture.

  “You’d sell out your mother in a heartbeat,” shouted Scott. When he was within a foot of the chef, he lunged forward with a looping haymaker. Emilio ducked and threw back a straight punch that hooked to the right. The blow brought Scott to his knees with a muffled “My God. You busted my nose. My effing back. Somebody help me up.”

  Abby watched as workers helped Scott to his feet. She searched out Emilio and saw him holding his fist to his chest, as if doing so would ease the pain he must be feeling. After ducking into his car, Emilio backed it up and drove away. As he did, Abby heard the siren of a patrol car advancing. Someone had called the cops. As a cruiser rolled into the lot with its light bar flashing and siren wailing, Sugar barked and pawed the window glass. Abby showed Sugar an upraised hand, a signal she’d been teaching Sugar to stop barking but, as usual, it didn’t work. Abby thought about going back and getting in her Jeep to leave but then she spotted Jake’s father, Don Winston. He’d joined his winery staff out in the lot. Dressed in a dark suit, a white shirt, and a red silk power tie, he stood out in the crowd of mostly khaki- and jeans-clad workers.

  Sergeant Otto Nowicki exited the cruiser from the driver’s side, while a uniformed officer climbed out on the passenge
r side. Abby smiled at seeing Otto, true to habit, take a moment to hitch up his duty belt as he assessed the situation. Glancing around, Otto soon spotted her. She waved. He said something to his partner, who took out a notebook and made a beeline toward Don Winston.

  Otto crossed the seventy feet or so of asphalt that separated him from Abby. “Why am I not surprised to see you here, Abby? Shouldn’t you be planting something back on the farmette?”

  Abby chuckled. “I hate to break this to you, Otto, but it’s the harvest season, not planting. I am eager to get through the holidays like everyone else and am hoping for a wet bare-root season.”

  He grinned and cocked his head from side to side, as if trying to stretch out a kink. “So why are you here?”

  “Jake’s sisters asked me to look in on Chef Emilio. They’re worried that he’s under a lot of pressure, not lessened any by the cops keeping tabs on him.”

  Otto raised a brow. “Now, you know I couldn’t comment on that.”

  “Can’t imagine why you’d be watching him.”

  “Oh, I think you do. You know as well as I do that the chef has friends and family in Argentina. Don’t want him flying south like a Canadian goose until we get this murder case solved.”

  “Confiscate his passport. Tell him to stick around.”

  “We did that day one.”

  “An innocent man wouldn’t run. His family says he didn’t do it.”

  “Well, of course they say that. It’s what families do.”

  “And I feel like the killer is still out there. It’s not Emilio.”

  “You basing your opinion on facts or your sixth sense?”

  She shrugged, knowing what he would say next.

  “We let the evidence lead us, Abby. You know that. Not our intuition. He’s got the motive. He had the opportunity.”

  “Well, for that matter, there are a lot of people with motive—many of them angry husbands and boyfriends. From where I stand, it might even have been a professional hit. No jewelry was taken, no money. Looks like Jake could have been the target, and Paola, the collateral damage.”

  “Maybe. How do you know there was no money stolen?”

  “Word got around that they had money and credit cards, but his wallet and her purse were intact. But let’s talk about the gun that killed Jake. Have you found it?” Abby drilled Otto with a questioning look.

  Removing his cap and rubbing a pudgy, pale hand over his nearly shaved head, he replied, “Not yet. But we know he owns a weapon.”

  “I heard someone stole his gun about three months ago.”

  “That may be, but he never reported it stolen, and that’s a problem.”

  “Well, I know you aren’t the type to zero in on a suspect because it’s convenient. I hope Sinclair is being methodical, too. I know you all are looking at the finances of the winery and who inherits. I’m sure you’ve taken statements from everyone, but you might want to talk to Hannah again.”

  “Yeah? Why’s that?”

  “Call it a hunch. Hannah knows all the workers. She was here the night of the shooting, and her uncle just threw the first punch in the fight with Emilio—which is why you are here. And I’m here because Emilio’s sisters have asked for my help. So let’s make a deal. I’ll encourage Emilio to cooperate, and I’ll explain the benefits of taking the polygraph so you can eliminate him. In return, you promise not to suggest in any way to Sinclair that I’m sniffing around his case.”

  Otto hesitated. His jaw tensed.

  “Look, Otto,” said Abby, “Sinclair has warned me off, but Paola is like the little sister I never had. And the poor Varela parents—with one of their children in critical condition and the other under suspicion of murder—they are feeling pretty desperate.”

  He sniffed and adjusted the radio on his lapel. “You’ve gone soft, Abby.” Then, cracking a grin, he asked, “Still got me on speed dial?”

  Abby smiled. “You know I do.”

  “Watch your step, Abby . . . in case you’re mistaken about this.” He winked at her. “You know you were always my favorite on the force.” He left Abby smiling as he sauntered off to join his partner.

  With Emilio also gone, Abby decided to see if she could corner Don Winston. She strolled over to him. And soon she saw the opportunity to approach him when Otto and his partner walked back to the cruiser for a private talk.

  “Mr. Winston, might I have a minute or two of your time?” Abby asked. “I mean when you finish with the police.”

  Winston scrutinized her. “And you are?”

  “Abigail Mackenzie.” She extended her hand. “Sorry for your loss. I’m a friend of Paola’s.”

  “Hmm.” He set his lips in a tight line but grasped her palm in a handshake.

  “That fight between Emilio and Scott Thompson just now—what was that all about?”

  “Two young bucks who have hot tempers, I’d say. They never could get along, and this isn’t the time for divisiveness. Jake may have had the patience to control them, but I don’t.” He looked at her curiously. “Sorry, why have you come here this morning?”

  Not wanting him to know her true purpose, Abby felt her face flush as she tried to come up with another plausible reason. “I assume you have a lost-and-found department. I thought I’d see if someone had found my earring. I lost it the night of the vow-exchange party, right after I’d given Hannah my coat. Perhaps she found it?” Abby prompted.

  Donald Winston shrugged. “You’ll have to ask her yourself. She’s working in the tasting room, removing stock.” He looked back at Otto, who had cocked his head to the side to use his shoulder-mounted radio. Winston added, “Or check with Brianna Cooper. The lost-and-found bin is in her office. Better hurry, though. It’s her last day.”

  “Why is that?” Abby tried to sound innocent and charming, but Winston seemed immune.

  His expression darkened. “We’re outsourcing our graphics work from now on.” His tone had an edge to it.

  “May I ask why?”

  He shot her a look that seemed to convey dismissal. “Excuse me,” he said, “but I don’t see that it’s any of your business. I’ve got to deal with these officers so I can get back to work.”

  “Of course,” said Abby. “But . . . one more question, please. What is the name of your winery’s sous-chef?”

  Winston drilled her with an inquisitive look and then frowned. “Why would you need to know that? Why is that your business?”

  Abby pushed on without giving a direct answer to his question. “The sous-chef was the last person I saw the night of your son’s passing. She was in the kitchen. She might remember if I was wearing both of my earrings before I went out into the parking lot.”

  “Oh, you’re that Abigail Mackenzie, the person who found Jake.”

  “Yes.”

  “Dori Langston is our sous-chef.” With that, Don Winston walked away. When he reached Otto, Abby heard him say, “I’d like to get back to work.”

  Otto nodded. “Sure.”

  Abby waited until Winston was gone and then strolled into the kitchen. Not seeing anyone, she headed to the tasting room, where she caught a glimpse of Hannah, who was about to leave through a side door.

  “Wait up, Hannah.” Abby tugged at the straps of her daypack and hurried over to the young woman. Seemingly, she’d caught Hannah by surprise. The young woman looked up at her, tears swimming in her blue eyes.

  “Do we know each other?” Hannah sniffled as she set on the wine bar an armful of T-shirts and baseball caps bearing the winery logo.

  “Ah, sweetie. I’m sorry to have startled you.” Abby assumed the role of a supportive friend. “You look like you could use a hug right about now.”

  Abby’s sympathy drew a torrent of tears from Hannah. Abby placed her arms around the young woman. “Ah. You poor thing. I wouldn’t expect you to remember. We met the night of the vow-renewal party. Your boss told me I could find you here.”

  “My boss?” She pulled away from Abby’s embrace and straight
ened, as if her whole body had tensed. “Why?”

  “Not to worry,” said Abby in a reassuring tone. “I was just inquiring about a lost item, and Don Winston told me to ask you.”

  “Oh,” she said, her tone reflecting relief. She sniffed and wiped away the tears from her eyes with her fingertips. “We have to report to that Mr. Winston now.”

  “So he’s at the helm, not the grandfather?” Abby asked. “I thought maybe the old man would take control.”

  Hannah hunched over the shirts and caps as a new round of tears threatened. “Too old, I guess. Jake’s granddad used to come around a lot. We haven’t seen him since Jake’s death.”

  “I’m so sorry, Hannah.” Abby dropped her daypack on the bar and fished out a tissue. Handing it to the young woman, she said, “Seems kind of sudden to be making changes to the business. Has Don Winston already moved into an office here?”

  Hannah nodded. “He’s taken over Jake’s and ordered us to box up all of Jake’s things and moved them off-site.”

  “Seriously? How’s morale?”

  “Awful. Jake’s dad isn’t a people person.”

  “Really? What’s he like?”

  “I shouldn’t say.”

  “It’s just you and I talking here. It might feel good to vent, and I’m a good listener. I won’t betray your confidence.”

  Hannah looked around to make sure no one was within earshot. “To me, he seems calculating and coldhearted. Don called a staff meeting and yelled when the sous-chef was late. Then he lashed into Brianna. And he told Emilio and my uncle Scott to leave. We all fear we might lose our jobs.” Hannah began fingering the merchandise.

  “Oh, dear,” said Abby. “Let me help you with that.” She gestured to the load under Hannah’s hands.

  “Thanks,” Hannah said, following with several short sniffles. “It’s got to go back to the stockroom.”

  “Well, I came to ask you if anyone has turned in a pearl earring. I lost it the night of the party. The last person I spoke with before going outside was the sous-chef. I’d like to ask her if she remembers seeing it.”