The Legend of Sleepy Harlow

by Kylie Logan

  No telling what you might learn about a friend when you’re in that friend’s office and she never expected you to be there. Not before her, anyway.

  The thought burning through my brain, I overrode the computer command to turn on the lights in the winery, looked around again just to be sure I wasn’t mistaken (I wasn’t), and hurried back downstairs.

  I needed to talk to Kate.

  Fast.

  Before Hank caught on to what I’d just figured out.

  * * *

  I wasn’t sure who looked more miserable, Kate, on Luella’s right, whose breaths were coming hard and fast. Or Chandra, on Luella’s left, who wept uncontrollably as she took tiny sips of wine from one of the tasting glasses used out at the bar.

  I offered Luella my commiseration with a small smile as I zipped past, my attention fixed on the fancy-schmancy latte and espresso machine across the room, the one Kate had installed in the employee lunchroom just a few months before. It was the same sort of machine found in high-end coffeehouses, and from what I’d heard, Kate’s employees were thrilled with it. Why wouldn’t they be? Kate had unveiled the machine at an employee breakfast and told them it was there for them to enjoy because they worked hard and deserved to be pampered.

  That’s just the kind of person Kate is.

  Good-hearted, though she is disinclined to show it.

  Considerate, even though she never makes a big deal out of it.

  Kate is aware of how morale affects production and how production affects the bottom line. She’s demanding, too, about everything from how the labels are placed on the wine bottles to how each customer is greeted at the front door. This was her family business. It was Kate’s name on the label of every bottle of wine that left the building. She had a right to expect hard work and to demand a quality product.

  Her attention to detail is just one of the things I admire about Kate. She has a lot of determination. And a great sense of style, for another thing. And though she has been known to push me to my limits when it comes to things like always checking her text messages and always worrying about how she looks and always figuring (though she never comes right out and says it) that she’s a Wilder so she’s just a little bit better than everyone else on the island, Kate is, deep down, a moral and ethical person, and a hard worker, too. More than once, I’d heard stories about how she’d get right down there in the trenches with her employees when they needed help with everything from packing boxes to unloading trucks.

  In other words, Kate Wilder was not exactly the stuff killers are made of.

  I forced myself to repeat the thought at the same time I grabbed a coffee mug (Kate’s orders—no paper or Styrofoam cups allowed in her lunchroom) and fumbled with the controls on the front of the machine. Truth be told, it wasn’t rocket science. That didn’t keep me from grumbling a curse.

  “Kate!” I spun away from the coffee machine and looked at my friend. “Can you show me how to do this? I need an espresso and I need one bad.”

  From across the room, Kate stared at me.

  “Kate!” I called again.

  My appeal sank in, and though she shook herself out of her daze, when she got up and walked over, she still reminded me of a zombie. Glassy-eyed. Stiff. Out of it.

  But then, I guess shock does weird things to people.

  I waited until we stood side by side at the coffee machine before I said another word.

  “We need to talk.”

  “Sure. Yes.” Kate’s voice was clogged with tears, and when she pushed the proper buttons on the machine, her hands shook. “But you don’t have to tell me. I know what’s going on. There’s only one reason every member of the Put-in-Bay police force would be here. Noreen . . . she . . .” Kate swallowed hard. “It happened here, didn’t it?”

  The coffee machine whooshed and glugged. I waited until it was done with its gyrations and my cup was filled. I grabbed it and a couple packs of sweetener and headed over to a table on the other side of the room, one far away from Luella and Chandra and the fresh-faced police officer who stood near the door and eyed us as if he’d just seen our faces on a flyer in the post office.

  I waited until Kate sat down at the end of a table. Rather than taking the seat across from hers, I pulled a chair over and sat down next to her.

  I made sure to keep my voice down when I said, “You came back here last night.”

  Her eyes went wide, but she recovered as best she could. There was a paper napkin on the table, and she grabbed it and twisted. “No. I didn’t. I told you—”

  “You told me that after you dropped me off, you went home and stayed home.”

  She nodded. “That’s right.”

  “You told me you didn’t work today, that the winery was closed so your employees could get ready for the crowds tomorrow.”

  Kate lifted her chin. “That’s right. Ask anybody. It’s a tradition. We always close the day before the wake.”

  “So you didn’t work today.”

  “Not here.” Impatient—or maybe she was just royally pissed that someone who was supposed to be a friend had the nerve to question her the way the police had—she tossed the napkin on the table. “I did some paperwork at home. I took a nice, long bubble bath. I went for a walk. And I ended up under a microscope at the police station. You know all that, Bea.”

  “Yeah, I do. But I also know that you came back here after we left last night.”

  Kate frowned. “So you’re telling me I’m lying?”

  “I’m telling you . . .” There was no way anyone else in the lunchroom could hear us, but I wasn’t taking any chances. I scooted my chair closer to Kate’s and bent my head. “I was just up in your office, Kate. The oil lamp is on the windowsill.”

  As if she’d been sucker punched, she sank back in her chair. It took her a moment to catch her breath, and another second before she had the nerve to say, “That doesn’t mean anything.”

  “It means plenty.” I drummed my fingers against the table. “You told me yourself, Kate. The first thing you do when you get to your office every day is put the oil lamp on the windowsill. Just like Great-Grandma Carrie used to do. The last thing you do when you leave is put it away, just like you did last night when I was up in the office with you. I can’t imagine why you didn’t put it away this time. Maybe you were in a hurry. Or maybe you were preoccupied. Or maybe you just plain forgot. That doesn’t matter. What does matter is that I know what it means, that oil lamp being out. It means you came back here, Kate. And since you swear it wasn’t today, then it has to have been last night. After you and I left here, you came back to the winery.”

  Kate’s gaze shot to the young policeman near the door. “Did you tell them?”

  “You’re kidding me, right? You don’t think I wouldn’t give you a chance to explain first?”

  She let go a long, unsteady breath. “Yes, of course you would. You’re a good friend, Bea. Of course you would.”

  “So . . ?” I caught her gaze and held it.

  She dared another look at the cop. “They won’t understand.”

  “I don’t care about them.”

  “But they’re only going to hear what they want to hear. They’re only going to believe what they think they already know. They know I had a fight with Noreen. And they know they found the murder weapon here. When they find out . . .”

  Her gaze drifted to the doorway just as another officer ran by and called out to Hank, “We found a camera! It’s down in a pool of some kind of liquid. It’s probably ruined. But come on, Chief, take a look.”

  Kate brushed her hands over her cheeks. “If they find out the truth, it’s going to make me look more guilty.”

  “Not telling the truth is what’s going to make you look guilty,” I told her.

  “You’re right.” Kate nodded, confirming the thought to herself. “Lies will only make things worse. But the truth . . .” She glanced my way. “Will you believe me?”

  “Try me.”

  She hauled
in a breath and let it out slowly. “I dropped you at home. Then I . . . You’re right. I came back, Bea. I came back to the winery.”

  “And you went to your office and you put the oil lamp on the windowsill.”

  She nodded. “Force of habit. I never even thought about it.”

  “But why—”

  Kate dropped her head in her hands. “It was stupid,” she said, her voice muffled. She raised her head. “I see that now. I see that it’s going to get me in trouble. Maybe if we don’t tell anyone—”

  I put a hand on her arm. “You have to tell Hank. You know that. So try out the truth on me first. Why did you come back to the winery?”

  She sniffed. “Because I knew that b—” She swallowed the rest of the word. “All right, I know it’s not good to speak ill of the dead. I won’t say it. But let’s face it, we both know what kind of person Noreen was. Sneaky and lying and shifty and nasty and—”

  “And we’re not going to speak ill of the dead, right?”

  She shredded the paper napkin to smithereens. “I knew Noreen was going to come back,” she said. “As sure as I’m sitting here, Bea, I knew she would come back to the winery after I tossed her out. All she cared about was getting more video of that ghost of hers.” Kate’s laugh wasn’t as filled with amusement as it was with derision. “You’d think a grown woman would know there’s no such things as ghosts!”

  “You’d think so.” I wonder if my smile convinced her. It sure didn’t convince me.

  “And I was right, wasn’t I?” Kate asked. “From what you said . . . from the look of things around here and all the commotion and all the cops . . . Noreen did come back here. She was murdered here.”

  “Yes, she was. And you say you were in the building?”

  Kate’s gaze snapped to mine. “That doesn’t mean I killed her.”

  “It doesn’t. It really doesn’t. But why were you here, Kate?”

  “To catch her, of course.” If Kate were feeling more on her game, I had no doubt an eye roll and a tongue click would have gone along with the comment. “I figured she’d sneak back in, and I was going to teach her a lesson. I was waiting for her and I thought when I saw her, then I’d call the cops. This time, I wasn’t planning on giving her a break. I was going to file charges and have Noreen and all those other crazy ghost kooks arrested.”

  “So you were here. In your office. But you didn’t see anything? You didn’t hear anything?”

  “I don’t know how I didn’t.” Kate’s shrug spoke to her confusion. “I didn’t fall asleep. I mean, I couldn’t, could I? Not when I was waiting for Noreen and her buddies to show up. I was in my office, watching the feed from the security cameras. I swear, Bea, I never saw a thing. Did Hank tell you where exactly Noreen was killed?”

  “Hank didn’t have to tell me. I’m the one who found the scene of the crime.” Because I didn’t want Kate to get any more upset than she already was, I pretended this was no big deal. “I was just looking around, just checking to see if I could find any evidence that might explain what happened to Noreen, and—”

  Kate squeezed my hand. “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s okay. Really.” It wasn’t, but that’s not what mattered. “She was beaten to death with that wacky piece of equipment EGG had with them last night, that plasmometer. It was in the back room. Beyond the warehouse.”

  “Really?” Kate sat up. “Well, that explains why I never heard anything or saw anything. That’s the old storage area that we don’t use anymore. There aren’t any security cameras in there.”

  “But how did Noreen get in there?”

  Kate’s brow furrowed. “She didn’t come through the front door, that’s for sure. There are cameras there. She didn’t come through the back, either. There are stories . . .” She glanced my way, and I had no doubt she was trying to judge if I’d believe her or not. “They say that back during the twenties, the bootleggers used to bring liquor over from Canada and smuggle it through a series of nearby caves. I’ve heard people say that one of those caves leads into our old storage area—that when Sleepy Harlow worked here, that’s where he hid his liquor.”

  “Sleepy Harlow.” I grumbled and folded my hands into fists. “I’m tired of hearing about the man.”

  “Yeah, but if it’s true . . .” Thinking, Kate chewed her lower lip. “Noreen would have had to do research about Sleepy, right? I mean, if she had any intention of finding his ghost. She might have heard about the caves. That would explain how they got in.”

  “Why isn’t the area secured?”

  “Well, it is. Sort of.” Kate swept the tiny pieces of paper napkin into a pile. “The warehouse door is one of those that can only be opened from the inside. Nobody can get into the warehouse from the old storage room, and we don’t keep anything in there anyway, so there’s really no reason to worry about anybody stealing anything.”

  “But it can’t be easy to find that way in.”

  “You’re right. I’ve never tried it myself. I mean, why would I? But my mom and dad talked about it. And my grandparents. They said it was tricky, but it could be done. They said they used to play hide-and-seek there when they were kids.”

  “And if Noreen was determined to make her way back inside . . .” I considered the possibility. “It explains how you didn’t know she was here.”

  Kate turned around. There were windows on the far wall, and they looked out over the Wilder vineyards and the lake beyond. “I can’t believe I screwed up this bad,” she moaned. “If only I’d been paying more attention. Maybe I would have noticed something. If I had called the cops, maybe Noreen wouldn’t be . . .” She couldn’t make herself say the word.

  “Don’t beat yourself up.” I squeezed her arm. “Everybody knows you would have helped if you could.”

  “No, they don’t.” A fresh cascade of tears started down Kate’s freckled cheeks. “Everybody thinks I killed her, Bea. And once they find out I was here . . .”

  “It doesn’t prove a thing.” Another thought hit. “It’s not at all relevant, but Kate, why didn’t you put the oil lamp away?”

  She reached for another napkin from the holder at the center of the table and dabbed her cheeks. “I never left here until four this morning,” she said. “By that time, I figured I’d just wasted a perfectly good night when I could have been home and snug in my bed. I was so tired I couldn’t see straight. I guess . . .” She sniffed. “I guess I just forgot. And if I hadn’t, if I put the lamp away, you never would have known, Bea. No one ever would have known that I came back here.”

  “Somebody would have found out. Somehow. The truth has a way of coming out. Especially when it comes to murder investigations.” Hank walked by outside the lunchroom door and I waved him inside. “It needs to come from you,” I told Kate.

  She looked at Hank and swallowed hard. “You mean I need to tell him—”

  I got up to leave. “Kate needs to talk to you,” I told Hank, and since I figured my part in the conversation was done, I left the lunchroom.

  I wasn’t exactly sure where I was going, but I knew I had to get out of there, at least for a few minutes. What with the emotion that was vibrating through the lunchroom (from Kate, and from Chandra, who was still crying her eyes out, and, yes, from Luella, who, even though she was stone-faced and calm, had to be as upset as the rest of us), I needed to give Kate and Hank some privacy—and I needed to clear my head.

  I remembered what I’d heard the cop say a little while earlier: They’d found a camera. I wondered if it was Noreen’s and what it might show. I wondered where they’d found it, and I retraced my steps back to the warehouse. The heavy metal door between the warehouse and the old storage room was open, but there was no one around. I took the opportunity to step inside.

  It was chilly in the old room. The brick in the walls held in the dampness of years of disuse. I shivered and wrapped my arms around myself, then stepped carefully around the plasmometer and the stains on the floor, peering farther into the shado
ws thrown by the light of the single bulb that hung from the center of the ceiling.

  The room was maybe twenty feet wide and half again as long. There were wooden shelves built into the wall on my left, and on the far wall . . .

  I peered into the shadows.

  There was a deeper shadow in the center of the wall, one that looked like it might be a doorway.

  Not that I was about to check it out!

  Once Hank talked to Kate, she’d tell him about the caves and he’d get his guys to investigate. Better cops in boots with flashlights and radios poking around in the underbelly of the winery than me in my sneakers and no one around to call for help.

  My mind made up, I backed up to head out of the old storage room.

  That’s when something on the floor along the far wall caught my eye.

  Carefully, I made my way over there, and what I found was a magazine.

  A Life magazine. The cover had a yellow background and showed two stylized and stylish men taking a look at a very little red car.

  But it wasn’t their old-fashioned clothing that caught my eye and made my breath wedge in my throat.

  It wasn’t the vintage two-seater car, either.

  It was the date up in the left-hand corner of the cover, directly opposite the words that said the magazine cost ten cents.

  “October third, nineteen thirty.” My voice bumped over the date.

  October 3, 1930.

  The day Charles Sleepy Harlow was murdered.

  9

  Make no mistake, I saw the gleam in Hank’s eyes when he closed in on Kate in the lunchroom. And I saw him later, too, after he’d talked to Kate and she told him how she’d returned to the winery. By then, that gleam was a full-blown conflagration.

  Hank thought he had his murderer.

  He didn’t arrest Kate. Not right then and there. I knew that for certain, because when I got home, I sat by my parlor window and waited, my heart beating double-time and my stomach in my throat, until Kate’s car pulled into her driveway. Only then did I breathe easier. But that doesn’t mean I thought Kate’s troubles were over.