by Meera Lester
“How so?”
“Scott used to listen. These days, though, he’s just reactionary. He shot down every idea I mentioned without offering other options. So disrespectful.”
“Well, what were you proposing?”
“More wine and food events. You know, tie them into the seasons of vineyards and wine making. Better not get me started on all the ways I think we could create special occasions for wine club members and the public. If our events involved music, we could cross-pollinate promo with the participating bands, and so much more.”
To Abby, it seemed like a perfectly reasonable idea. Lots of other wineries in the region already offered events. Some united music from local bands and offerings from food trucks. Abby could see the payoff for Emilio, but how did Scott see that as a disadvantage? “Tell me how your idea would work.”
“So, Abby, you know that all the local wineries do tastings now. But what if two or more wineries joined? Say we had a group participating in something like a port-of-call series of events.”
“You mean like a cruise ship stopping at new destinations? So go on.”
“Yes. Exactly. We could finish a season with an annual competition of some kind. Maybe it could be for the best food and wine pairing for that season in our region.”
Abby smiled. Emilio certainly did not lack enthusiasm or ingenuity.
“Can’t see why Scott wouldn’t like that,” said Abby.
“Me neither. I’d brought these ideas up to Jake, and he’d seemed open to them. But Scott objected to change. Thinks we should stay small and focus on great wine. And that part-timer Gary Lynch, who sometimes helps out doing odd jobs when his cousin Trevor Massey is doing a kitchen shift . . . Well, they are just three guys who haven’t a clue how to think big.”
“What would Scott get out of the winery sticking to the status quo?”
“Who knows? I used to like the guy, but he’s been off the hook lately. Always complaining and shirking. Mood swings with no warning. He went ballistic when I brought up an idea about starting something like the Napa Valley Wine Train. I mean, there’s already a small railroad that runs through the mountains beyond these foothills. Did you know that?”
Nodding, Abby said, “It doesn’t go anywhere except up into the old-growth forest and back down.” She could hear the enthusiasm in his voice and see how his eyes sparkled as he spoke about his passion. He was clearly a man with bold ideas, just like Jake had been. Abby watched an insect on the water’s surface flitting and widening the ripples. “Well, I guess your new boss’s response is what will matter in the end.”
“And I had won him over until Scott started tearing apart every idea. Before Jake died, Scott had been panicking that he was going to get canned. So maybe Scott thinks the way to stay on the payroll is by not rocking the boat. He and that odd jobber Gary Lynch are awfully chummy. Makes you wonder what they have in common.”
“What do you mean?” Abby leaned back on the heels of her hands and looked over at Emilio. His expression darkened.
“I should leave it at that. I’ve said enough.”
She should have anticipated that response. Emilio was ex-military and a crack shot, but not the type of person to criticize or judge others without good cause. But maybe if she hit the question directly on point, Emilio would answer in an equally forthright manner. “So, Emilio, I’ve heard about Scott’s drug use. Maybe that accounts for his mood swings and combative behavior. Any truth to it?”
Emilio shot her an incredulous look, as though she expected him to engage in community gossip. His jaw tensed. He looked away.
By his silence, Abby realized that this was the brother that Paola had called her “moral compass.” He was only thirty-five years old, but in many ways he seemed older and wiser. This character of creative imagination and strong moral compass was whom Paola believed Emilio to be, and whom Abby hoped him to be.
“May I ask a question of you, Emilio, about the night of the murder?”
He cupped a hand over his eyes momentarily, as though trying to make out the species of a hawk circling in the distance. He dropped his hand and gazed directly at Abby. “Sure.”
“Where were you when Jake was killed?”
Emilio’s jaw tensed. “Like I’ve told the police, I was in the wine cellar.” He didn’t blink.
“But no one saw you go down there.” She looked over at Sugar, who’d stretched out for a snooze in the sun on the warm pier boards. Staring at the ripples in the lake, she asked, “Was anyone with you?”
He hesitated. “Why would there be?”
“Look, Emilio,” said Abby. “I don’t have a dog in this fight. It just so happens, I believe you are innocent. And unless you shock me with an admission that you murdered your brother-in-law, not much else you say would surprise me.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Here’s what the police know. You had a motive. You owned a gun that shot a bullet of the same caliber as the one that killed Jake and that they fished out of Paola. No one can alibi you for the time Jake was murdered. And you drive an older-model sedan, like the killer’s getaway car.” Abby inhaled a deep breath. “Now I’ll confess something to you. I believe you were with someone when your brother-in-law was killed. I also think that for whatever reason, you are protecting that person. Why?”
He plucked a broken cattail growing in the swale along the dock. After examining the brown, fuzzy flowering spike, he said, “Can I trust you, I mean, to keep silent about this?”
“Absolutely.”
“Do you know Appleton Wines?”
Abby recalled the local winery’s recent awards from some prestigious competitions. “I do.”
“One of their daughters, Hailey . . . Well, we’ve got a lot in common. She’s about my age and has had some culinary training, too. She believes my ideas fit with their family’s vision for the future of Appleton.”
“And this is connected to the murder how . . . ?”
He started to speak and then stopped himself.
Abby gave him time. She watched him chew his lower lip.
Eventually, he summoned the courage to speak. “The night of Jake and Paola’s party, I invited her down to the cellar. There are some spectacular wines down there, wines even more rare than those displayed upstairs. We talked. She offered me a job. A good offer. One hard to pass up.”
Abby felt the tension leave her body at the realization that Emilio had an alibi. “And?”
“I told her, ‘No. At least, not now.’ Look, Jake was exceptional at pissing people off. Especially me.” Emilio sneezed into a bent elbow. He fished a handkerchief from his jeans pocket and blew his nose. Pushing his handkerchief into his pocket, he continued, “My employment contract runs for another six months. I believe the right thing to do is stay. Help the Winston family move forward, because this is a terrible thing to happen to a winery this time of year.” Methodically plucking brown cattail fuzz and flicking pieces into the water, Emilio seemed resolute.
“Tell the police, Emilio. Take their polygraph. Clear your name.”
He stared straight ahead. “Can’t. My alibi is a woman in a contentious custody battle for her kids. If word gets out that she was in the cellar with me the night of the party and the murder, her husband’s lawyers will crucify her in court. I can’t be the cause of her losing her kids.”
“The police kept everyone there that night. They must have asked her where she was when Jake was shot. Did she lie to them?”
“I don’t know. Hailey couldn’t very well tell the truth. Probably got her girlfriend to alibi her.”
“I see. Lying to the police, Emilio, it’s a bad—”
He threw up his hand. “Discussing this further is pointless. I know you used to be a cop, and maybe you feel like you have to defend them, but I don’t trust them. And I gave Hailey my word.”
“Your conspiracy with her stalls a legitimate investigation and allows a murderer to roam free. Who knows who the next victim might be? Emilio, help the co
ps find Jake’s killer.” Abby knew her tone reflected her impatience. She tried a final push. “Tell Hailey the truth—you could be facing a murder charge. She wouldn’t want that.”
He brushed the cattail fuzz from his jeans and said nothing.
Abby pressed him no further about Hailey, but it was as good a time as any to ask about Scott. “Would Scott Thompson have a reason to kill Jake?”
“I don’t know. The guy is hooked on prescription drugs for a back injury. He complains about it all the time. Supposedly, he hurt it from a barrel-room accident before we had the place retrofitted for earthquakes. Scott’s got debts, too. But kill Jake? Nah, I don’t see how he’d profit from that.”
“I’m surprised that with a bad back, he’d want to pick fights.”
“Yeah, go figure.”
Abby’s brows furrowed. “What about Brianna Cooper? Did you know about the gun she has stashed in her desk at work?”
He nodded. “Yes. She brought it in after that vineyard owner shot his investor and then did himself in a couple of years ago. You remember that?”
“Yep. The media was all over it.”
Emilio swatted at a gnat near his face. “There’s something slightly off about Brianna, but then, she’s a super-creative type. Likes her guns. Told us she lets off steam by visiting the shooting range at least once a month. ”
“She and Jake get along?”
“Jake and Brianna sparked off each other for a while. If they had a fling, it didn’t last too long. I heard Brianna tell Hannah that she had an insurance policy to make sure he never talked about it.”
“Really? That sounds ominous.” Abby’s interest perked up. “Know what it was?”
Emilio closed his eyes and turned his face to the sun. His look conveyed weariness with the whole affair in general and perhaps her questions in particular. “No.”
Abby flicked a thistle from her jeans. “Emilio, listen to me. Please. Ask Hailey Appleton to release you from your promise of keeping silent. You both have a legitimate alibi.”
His jaw tensed. He said nothing.
Abby reckoned it was time to move on. “I’ve got some good news. Paola is wiggling her toes.”
Emilio jerked upright. His expression brightened. “Really? Oh, thank God.” He tossed the cattail into the water. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” After scooting backward, he quickly climbed to his feet and pulled Abby upward.
“Think about what I said, Emilio. Talk to Hailey. It’s time you put this behind you.”
He engulfed her in a bear hug. Pulling away and still beaming, he said, “I’m not the shooter. Not me . . . So who is it, Abby?”
“I don’t know. At least not yet. But one way or another, I’m going to find out.” She looked him the eye. “Do me a favor, Emilio. Watch your step.”
Tips about Honey and Its Uses
1. Honey is nearly twice as sweet as sugar.
2. Honey contains antioxidant and antimicrobial properties not found in sugar.
3. Honey has a water content, while sugar does not, and therefore, recipes may need adjusting if honey is substituted for sugar.
4. Honey must be accurately measured. If you coat a measuring cup with a spray oil before adding honey, it will be easier to pour out the honey.
5. Honey supplies abundant moisture to cakes and other baked goods.
6. Honey enhances and complements other flavors in a recipe.
7. Honey can be added to beverages, fruit, or yogurt to sweeten them; whisked with oil into salad dressings; mixed with seasonings for basting barbecued meats; or drizzled over pancakes, waffles, and hot biscuits.
8. Honey may be used in homemade soaps and bath washes.
Chapter 9
Living with uncertainty is a big part of a
farmer’s life.
—Henny Penny Farmette Almanac
Mid-morning Friday, Abby leaned back in one of the chairs to her 1929 Duncan Phyfe dining-room set and rubbed her burning eyes. For the better part of two hours, she’d been staring at her incident poster, to which she’d just added Hailey Appleton’s name as Emilio’s alibi, pending verification. The incident poster wasn’t exactly like the ones she once used at the LFPD. Her tabletop poster had holes where information was missing—in fact, lots of blanks to fill in. But she’d been a cop long enough to know the value of knowing what you knew and what you didn’t, as well as to access quickly what you still needed to learn. She also understood that while a good investigator let the evidence lead her to the facts, a case sometimes got solved when a strong hunch paid off in spades. And she was relying more on hunches these days. It might be different if her cop friends were sharing, but they weren’t.
The official investigation would have already assembled a master list of evidence collected at the scene, as well as the supplemental interviews with anyone who might have heard the shot or witnessed the car entering or leaving the winery parking lot. The official investigation would have copies of the itemized list of evidence recovered, such as fingerprints and other latent prints, blood/saliva, semen, hair, fibers. There would be victim photographs, crime-scene diagrams, pictures of vehicles and tire impressions, images of tool marks and shoe tracks, and anything else detectives considered relevant. The patrol officers who conducted a check of the neighborhood around the winery for any ear- and eyewitnesses would have provided supplemental narratives. The cops would likely have compiled a list of the license plates to all the vehicles in the winery’s parking lot. And most importantly, the official investigation would have both the initial assessment by coroner Millie Jamison and the official autopsy report. Abby had none of what the official investigation had to unmask Jake’s killer. But that didn’t mean she was giving up. Far from it.
“Come on, Sugar. Let’s get the mail. Maybe a new heritage seed catalog with lots of pictures will rejuvenate me.” Abby put the leash on the dog. Traffic on Farm Hill Road was light most mornings, but Abby knew one crazy, inattentive driver could take out a deer, cow, or dog in a heartbeat. She still had plenty to learn as a dog parent, but she would go to any length to keep Sugar safe.
Beneath the Thanksgiving circulars, junk mail, and catalogs in the mailbox, she found a twenty-dollar bill with a note attached to an empty egg carton. The money was a payment from a friend working in the emergency room of Las Flores Community Hospital. The message reminded her about the need for a Henny Penny Farmette flyer for the ER break room. With the holidays approaching, the timing was perfect for selling the remaining summer fruit jams and honey that Abby’s flyer promoted.
Closing the mailbox, Abby considered her growing to-do list. She needed to find a suitable gift for Kat’s birthday, since their dinner was tomorrow evening. And she’d promised Maisey an additional order of honey. With the pie shop located within a few blocks of the hospital, Abby could drop off Maisey’s order and then swing by the hospital to get the flyer posted and to peek in on Paola. Thinking about the tasks before her, Abby realized that combining her errands into one trip to town today made the most sense.
With her mail in hand, she opened the side gate and unfastened the leash from Sugar’s collar. The dog trotted to the back fence and began barking at a noisy squirrel flicking its brown tail from atop the aluminum chicken-house roof. Abby latched the gate and strolled to the patio. If she got started soon, she’d have plenty of time to get everything done in town and return home before dark.
Before dark. The thought gave rise to a flash of anxiety as Abby recalled pulling night duty with the Las Flores Police Department back in the day. Before Kat became her partner, she had worked many such shifts without backup and knew only too well how receiving a call from dispatch could power up her stress. Everyone from Chief Bob Allen down to the newest rookie comprehended that police work was arguably one of the most stressful jobs anyone could do, often fraught with crises involving unknown dangers and ambiguous situations. The unknowns would get your thoughts spinning and your mind playing tricks. You’d imagine the worst, and some
times the worst happened.
It was that kind of stress that accounted for high rates of suicide, divorce, and alcoholism among cops. But Abby was no longer a cop. She worked a farmette. Farmers were up with the first light and down with the chickens. But since Jake’s murder, the onset of twilight had brought Abby more than the welcoming thought of dinner and bed. Twilight triggered uneasiness. The darkness, which arrived earlier each evening as the calendar ticked down to the winter solstice, imparted in her a trepidation she could neither define nor name. It entered her flesh and bones as surely and stealthily as an illness that threatened to harm her health. With a sudden shiver at the patio slider, Abby realized she needed to get a grip on what was happening to her. More importantly, she had to find out how to get rid of the symptoms, which weren’t going away by themselves. Her regular doc had a nurse-practitioner covering for him while he was away on sabbatical. It was high time to seek help from a professional.
After tossing the junk mail into the kitchen wastebasket and then sliding the twenty into her mason jar of change on the countertop, Abby stashed the egg carton on top of the fridge. She headed to the washer and dryer area. From the shelf over the appliances, she removed a small cardboard box packed with honey jars—all filled, sealed, and labeled. Next, she printed out an invoice for them, as well as a copy of the new flyer promoting her products. With those tasks completed, Abby entered her bedroom closet to find a change of clothes.
She pulled a fully lined wool dress from a hanger. The garment struck just above the knee, but Abby reasoned she could wear some warm tights to block the November chill. And a pair of flats would look nice with the dress, which also had a matching angora sweater in a shade of turquoise that set off the reddish gold of her hair. She reasoned that Paola, if awake, might also appreciate the splash of turquoise color amid the plainness of ICU blue scrubs and the white lab coats.