by Gina Cresse
“People don’t murder their own children in cold blood because of an argument with a neighbor. This guy was crazy. You’re lucky he didn’t snap during your confrontation.”
“Maybe he didn’t mean to kill her. You know? I mean, what if the gun went off accidentally, and he felt so bad, he couldn’t go on knowing what he’d done?”
Obermeyer shook his head, stood, and held out a hand to help me up. “Got your sea legs back yet?”
I nodded.
“Come on. I want to show you something.”
I followed him around the back of the house, through a gate that opened into the Zucker’s vineyard, and down a ravine that ran alongside the last row of vines. At the base of a gulley was a large storage container—the kind used to haul goods on ocean freighters. My nose crinkled at an unpleasant odor, and the closer we got to the container, the stronger the smell of rotten eggs. I covered my nose and mouth with my sleeve.
The padlock on the container’s door had been cut and traces of fine black dust were still evident where finger prints had been taken.
My eyes burned as I gazed inside, watching a forensics team continue to dust for prints. A makeshift table was filled with glass containers—some with hoses stuck in them—batteries, propane tanks, several boxes of coffee filters, bottles of iodine, drain cleaner, and turkey basters.
“What is it?” I asked.
“Meth lab. I’m pretty sure Dash’s problem with Daphne had something to do with this.”
“You don’t think he knew about it?”
“Can’t say for sure. We haven’t found his prints in here so far.” Obermeyer caught the attention of one of the techs. “That still the case, Ben?”
“Yep. I got plenty that match the female victim’s pattern, but not the male’s,” the young man answered.
“So not only was Daphne growing marijuana, she was making meth. That explains all the late night traffic up here.”
I started to feel light-headed from the smell and began to sway, so Obermeyer took my arm and we headed back toward the house.
“One theory is that Dash confronted her when he discovered what she was up to. They had a blow up. He lost it and shot her, then, realizing he’d go back to prison for what he’d done, decided to end it all right there.”
I pondered that for a moment. “You think he’d be that upset with her for dealing drugs?”
“Probably not in the way you’re suggesting, but if she got caught, he’d be in more trouble than she would. She’d go to a juvenile camp somewhere, but he’d be headed for Folsom.”
As we walked back through the vineyard gate, I stopped. “Do you think he had something to do with Beth Messina’s murder? I mean, how many people knew about that cave? He grew up on this property, so I’m sure he’d discovered it at some point.”
“We’re missing a motive. Doesn’t mean he wasn’t involved. Did your boyfriend know him?”
Again with the boyfriend reference. I shrugged. “Andy knows a lot of farmers around here. Even if he did know him, it doesn’t mean anything.”
“Except for that annoying little fact that the murder weapon was found in his house.”
Early Wednesday morning I met with Quinn Adamson to update him on my findings on the counterfeit Zinfandel investigation. I spread out four aerial printouts of the supposed vineyards on his desk.
“This one is Adobe Vineyards,” I said, pointing to the first printout. “And this is Genova Farms, and over here is Newcastle Acres, and here’s Rocking V Ranch.”
Adamson studied the images. “Couldn’t there just be a typo in the coordinates?”
“Maybe. I’ve tried contacting the principals listed for each of them, but so far no luck.”
Adamson scratched his bald head. “Seems strange that we can’t reach them.”
“Their grower payments all go to various boxes—one in San Francisco, two in Los Angeles, and one in Sacramento. Maybe you could do some sort of stakeout.”
Adamson let out a laugh. “I think you have us mixed up with the FBI. We’re the Food and Agriculture people. We spend most of our time shooting the breeze with guys in overalls.”
“How about those TTB men we met with? O’Reilly and Parker? They seemed very interested.”
“I’ll definitely pass this on to them.”
“Wouldn’t buyers insist on seeing the vineyards before they agree to buy grapes?”
“Normally they would, unless they’re all in on this together.”
“Or maybe the buyers are shown a different, legitimate vineyard when they sign the contract.”
Adamson nodded. “Possible.”
After my meeting with Adamson, as I headed to my pickup, my cell phone rang. It was Detective Obermeyer.
“We got a hit,” he said. “The casing we found in the corn field had a good print.”
“And?”
“Dash Hubert Zucker.”
I really wasn’t surprised, but I felt my knees threaten to give out anyway. Leaning against a Hummer parked across two spaces, I took several deep breaths. “So it was him shooting at me.”
“We found a rifle under Zucker’s bed. It matches the casing.”
The owner of the Hummer I was leaning on approached and gave me a dirty look. I smiled and mouthed an embarrassed, “Sorry,” and moved on toward my pickup.
“Thanks,” I said into the phone. “It’ll be good to be able to unlock my doors and open my curtains again.”
After Obermeyer gave me the news about Dash Zucker, I’d developed a strange muscle twitch that alternated between my left eyelid and my left elbow. He didn’t say it, but there was no denying that something set Dash Zucker off the day he killed himself and his daughter, and I was pretty sure that something was me.
I went outside to feed and was greeted by the cats. They rubbed on my legs and nearly tripped me as I tried to walk.
“What’s the matter? You hungry?”
I entered the barn and glared at the miracle-feeder still mounted on the wall where I’d placed it, but there was something missing. The lid was gone—well, not really gone, but chewed nearly in half and lying on the ground like it had been run over by a lawn mower. Reluctantly, I approached the feeder and, standing on tiptoe, peered inside. Empty! Damn those raccoons!
I stomped around, swearing—which sent the cats into hiding—and tried to figure out how they’d done it. The feeder was five feet off the ground and eighteen inches from the doorway. Surely the raccoons couldn’t jump five feet—could they? After studying every possible route they could’ve used to get above the feeder, I determined that it was impossible. There was only one explanation. I had the world’s only super raccoons living on my property. That theory didn’t last long once I noticed the claw prints embedded in the wood doorframe less than two feet from the feeder. They must’ve climbed the door casing, then stretched out until they caught the edge of the feeder, then climbed on top of it and chewed a hole in the plastic until they could get a grip and fling it away.
I spent the next hour relocating the feeder, all the while thinking up revenge movie titles like, Night of the Masked Bandit Massacre, Coonskin Comeback, and my favorite, How to Cook a Raccoon.
I’d have to see if the Happy Horse Automatic Feeder Company would allow me to order a replacement lid. In the meantime, I laid a piece of plywood across the top and set a cinderblock on top of that.
I dusted myself off and turned around to see the silhouette of a man standing in the doorway of the barn. He was holding something in his arms that was desperately trying to get away from him. My heart jumped. He bent over, turned it loose and it raced directly toward me.
Chapter Twenty-one
“Tony!” I called out, laughing. The puppy ran to greet me like I was a long-lost soup bone. I picked him up and let him lick my ears and my cheek. The big bandage that he’d worn before was gone and I could see the shaved spot and stitches in his side, but the wound looked clean and was healing well.
“You keep dog cookies
in your pocket?” Andy asked as he approached us, smiling like a man who’d just given me a girl’s best friend.
“No, but I have a whole jar of them in the kitchen.” I set Tony down to let him check out his new place. He immediately ate up the cat food.
“I brought him over for a visit. He wants to run around and play but Maybell has to stay off her leg for six weeks so I have to separate them.”
“Can’t you just leave him here? I can take care of him.” I made a mental note to get some estimates for fencing the yard around the house to keep him out of trouble—and away from the cat food.
Andy squatted down to scratch Tony behind the ears. “His vet bills are piling up and I don’t want to dump that on you.”
I wondered if Andy knew about my financial predicament. I hadn’t mentioned my troubles to anyone, and I was sure I hadn’t bounced any checks to him. Then it dawned on me that I’d told Pete, and Pete probably told Andy.
“My best friend’s a vet. I’m sure she’d help me out.” Monica would probably make me agree to meet her latest matchmaking candidate before she’d do any pro-bono work on Tony. “How long until the stitches come out?”
“A few more days.” Andy picked the puppy up and kissed him on top of the head.
“You’re not going to change your mind, are you?” I asked. He was clearly attached to the puppy already.
“No, I never go back on my word. But you’ll have to let me and Maybell visit him—a lot.”
Tony panted and his little pink tongue bobbed in and out as he gazed at me like a toddler wanting to be returned to his mother. I wanted Andy to leave him with me, but it sounded like he’d be discharged from his own vet’s care soon and the thought of another one of Monica’s fix-ups made me queasy.
“Okay, I’ll get the yard fenced and by the time his stitches are out, I’ll be ready for him.” I wondered how I’d pay for the new fence, but tried not to worry about it.
As we walked toward the house, I asked, “Did you know Dash Zucker?”
Andy shrugged. “Some. He’d call me looking for free advice every year. I’d quote him my regular rate and he’d get mad and hang up.”
“Mad enough to plant that rifle in your house?”
He stopped and looked at me. “You think he killed Beth?”
“Seems like the most likely suspect. He was crazy, for sure.”
“That he was.” Andy gazed across my vineyard toward the Zucker place. “Had a damn nice vineyard though. I wonder what’ll happen to it now.”
As I stood on my back porch, my hand on the door knob, my eyes followed Andy’s gaze. “How many acres did he have?”
“Fifty. Half in Zinfandel and half in Chardonnay.” He turned back toward me. “You ought to buy it.”
I laughed. “I can’t afford to buy it.”
“It’ll be six years before your vines return any sort of profit. You can’t afford not to.”
After pouring two tall glasses of lemonade and filling a bowl of water for Tony, I found an old sock and tied a knot in the middle of it. Immediately, Tony snatched it up in his teeth and shook the dickens out of it. Andy and I laughed. When Tony finally let it go, I tossed it across the living room and he chased after it, pouncing on it like it might fly away. Another good shaking, then Tony brought it back and dropped it in my lap.
“What a good boy,” I said, patting him as he concentrated on the sock in my lap, his little stub of a tail wiggling with anticipation that I might throw it again.
“You know a dog is smart when he’ll fetch like that,” Andy said.
“Tony’s a genius,” I said in puppy-talk, the equivalent of baby-talk for dog owners. “Would you get me another glass of lemonade?” I asked Andy, handing him my empty glass.
He smiled and walked into the kitchen saying, “I don’t think the same applies to men.”
“Depends on what the man wants,” I said.
When he handed me the glass, I smiled and thanked him. He sat down on the floor next to me and played tug-of-war with Tony and the sock. After a while, we decided to test the puppy’s intelligence even further. While I distracted Tony, Andy hid the sock behind a potted ficus tree in the corner of the living room. When I looked at him and said, “Where’s the sock?” he jumped to attention and began searching. He checked my lap, then Andy’s lap, then under the sofa and behind my glider. His circle grew larger and finally his nose picked up the scent and when he grabbed it up from behind the plant, Andy and I hugged like excited parents who’d just learned their child was a prodigy.
We finally wore Tony out and he plopped down in my lap for a nap.
“I should take him home,” Andy said, standing up to leave.
“But we’re having so much fun.”
“We’ll be back,” he said.
“At least stay for lunch,” I said, almost begging. “He’s so tired. Let him finish his nap.”
Andy sat back down. “Okay. Anything for the dog.”
After lunch, I called a fence contractor to get a bid, then went back to work on the counterfeit Zinfandel project, studying the aerial maps of the vineyards in question. Now that I had identified them, I created a database query to see who was buying those grapes. In total, seven wineries had purchased grapes from the fraudulent vineyards last year, but the bulk of the tonnage went to one—Venezia Winery—the same winery that had purchased my grapes.
I e-mailed the information to Quinn Adamson then checked MapQuest for the location of the post office in Sacramento used by Genova Farms. There was a Starbucks across the street from the building and that gave me an idea.
After rummaging through my storage shed, I found an old Gateway printer box, colored like a Holstein cow, and also the old Gateway printer that had originally come in it but now did not work. I had planned to take it in for repairs but never got around to it. The printer was clean and looked almost new, so I boxed it up, put an address label on it and headed for my local post office. Priority mail wasn’t cheap, but I still had room on my latest credit card so I charged it. Millie promised overnight delivery.
The next day, I drove my pickup to Sacramento. I was spending a fortune on gasoline but until I could afford tires for the Prius, I was stuck with the gas guzzler. I set up my laptop at a small table next to the big glass-front windows of the Starbucks. From there, I had a clear view of the main entrance of the post office across the street. Sipping on a bottle of apple juice, I pretended to work on creating the next Harry Potter craze, all the while keeping my eyes on the post office.
People came and people went and after my second bottle of apple juice, I had to go, too. I looked at my laptop and wondered if I should leave it there on the table, unattended, while I used the ladies’ room. Of course I would not leave it there. I’d paid a fortune for it and could not afford to replace it. Then I worried that I might miss seeing the person I was looking for leaving the post office. What to do? I’d gone to quite a lot of trouble with this little scheme and I didn’t want to blow it all over a potty break.
I spent twenty minutes debating my options and trying to convince myself I could hold it for a while longer. Finally, I knew there could be no more deliberation and I closed up the laptop and placed it in its case. As I stood up to begin my search for the restroom, a black-and-white vision from across the street caught my eye. The box I’d mailed had been picked up.
For an instant, I forgot about Mother Nature’s call and grabbed my purse and laptop case and ran out to the sidewalk. The man carrying the box looked familiar but I couldn’t place him. He was of medium height and build, which didn’t help since the very definition of medium meant there was nothing exceptional to help me distinguish him from every other man in the world. He wore jeans and a green T-shirt and work boots. The four-lane street between us made it hard to see his face very clearly, but I could see he had very dark hair and a mustache.
I paralleled him on my side of the street until he turned the corner and headed for the parking lot. Standing there with my
legs crossed, I hoped that he’d be quick getting to his car. I didn’t know how much longer I could hold it. I readied my camera and waited for him to get into one of the cars, but he didn’t. He just kept walking through the parking lot and finally disappeared into an alley behind the post office.
Chewing my bottom lip for a moment, I finally turned around to dash back into Starbucks when I ran head-long into a man in a suit and dropped my laptop case. Stunned, I blurted out, “Oh, I’m so sorry!” and grabbed up the case.
“Miss Cimaglia?”
I finally looked at him, and the man standing behind him, and recognized them from the meeting Quinn Adamson had arranged weeks ago—Agents Sean O’Reilly and Avery Parker from the TTB—and they wanted to chat.
“Funny we should run into you here,” Parker said, with just a hint of suspicion in his voice.
I tried to focus. “I can’t explain now, but there’s a man walking down that alley carrying a Holstein Gateway box and he’s the guy we’re looking for.” I pointed in the direction of the post office.
“How do you—”
“If I don’t get to a restroom in the next 20 seconds… well, I don’t think I have to elaborate. Just try to follow him if you can.” And I ran into Starbucks with only one mission.
By the time I walked out, both O’Reilly and Parker were still standing there, wasting my tax dollars. Apparently they hadn’t done as I asked and the man with the box got away.
“Why didn’t you follow him?”
“Follow who?” O’Reilly asked.
Scanning up and down the street for a signal, I started for the nearest crosswalk. O’Reilly and Parker followed. “What’s this all about?” Parker asked.
“Did Quinn forward my report to you?”
“Yes. That’s why we’re here.”
“You’re looking for the person who rented the post office box?” Impatiently, I pressed the button to cross the street.
“We were on our way there when we ran into you.”