Dead on the Vine: (Violet Vineyard Murder Mysteries #1 (A Cozy Mystery)) (26 page)

Priest tried to slam the door, but it was on a pneumatic hinge. He pulled it so hard that the knob slipped out of his hand and he stumbled, sliding around in his three-hundred dollar shoes. He tried to recover his dignity, throwing me a glare through the slowly closing door. I waved and smiled, wanting to give him the finger.

After he was gone and the door had closed, I sat and thought about what he had told me. I was thrilled that Jessica was officially off the most wanted list, but I can’t deny that I was disappointed that Laurel Harlan was being exonerated once again. She was involved, I felt it in my gut. But how to prove it? And was it my place to prove it?

“Yes,” I whispered to myself. Kevin Harlan was a friend. I couldn’t sit by and watch Laurel ride off into the sunset. And I knew where I’d start, where Kevin had left off. Jenna Valdez and Winter Harlan.

Victor was alone in the lobby when I came down the hall. He stood and we walked out to his raggedy red truck in silence. He cranked the truck and the sounds of Salsa filled the cab. He turned it down and looked at me.

“You okay?”

“No, but I’ll survive,” I replied, buckling the seat belt and rolling down the window. “Mind if I smoke?”

“If you have to,” he said, backing out of the space. “Stinking up my truck.”

I lit a cigarette and blew smoke out the window.

“What’d Detective Dickhead have to say?” Victor asked, his eyes on the road.

“That Laurel Harlan is the next best thing to Mother Teresa. But they’re dropping the charges against Jessica.”

“Really?”

“That’s what he said,” I replied, taking a drag.

“So, who’s the new convict?” Victor cranked down his window and the cab was filed with wind.

“He wouldn’t tell me.”

“What an asshole.”

I didn’t say anything, but I was in complete agreement.

“You really think she did it? I mean, you think she killed Kevin?”

“Or had it done. And I think she wrecked the cellar.” Just saying the words made me seethe. Insurance would pay for the damage, but that wouldn’t replace my carefully collected bottles or the casks of wine that had been destroyed.

“You’re not going to let this thing drop, are you?” Victor asked. “Don’t bullshit me, either. I know you, Claire.”

“No.”

“What are you going to do? Talk to the private detectives Roger hired?”

“No point in that.” I stubbed the cigarette out on the box they came in and slipped the burnt butt into the pack. I didn’t want to stink up Victor’s ashtray, but I wouldn’t litter either. “They’ll be off the case as soon as they hear the charges have been dropped.”

“You going to talk to Ben?”

I shook my head. “Ben has enough problems.” I said simply. I was thinking of Hunter Drake, the detective who investigated Winter’s abduction. He was the only one I’d spoken to who believed that Laurel was capable of murder. What had he said about coincidences? Well, I agreed with him. I didn’t relate any of that to Victor; he’d just be more worried. “I’ll think about all of that tomorrow. I’ve got to get the cellar cleaned up.”

“No way,” Victor said, “You’ve probably slept ten hours in the last three days. You’re going to go to bed. I’ll clean up the mess.”

“We can’t clean it until the insurance adjuster looks it over. And there’s paperwork to fill out. And—“

“And, as Vineyard Foreman, I’m authorized to handle all of that,” Victor cut in. “And that’s what I’m gonna to do. I’ll take pictures for the insurance. You’re going to take some time off.”

I squeezed my friend’s shoulder, blinking away grateful tears.

“Don’t go all gooey on me,” he said, shrugging off my hand.

I took Victor’s advice when we got home and went upstairs for another shower and bed without even glancing at the cellar. My body was bruised and battered, and I could still smell garbage in my hair. Fortunately, sleep came deep and dreamless. Too many late nights and early mornings had taken their toll. But that didn’t keep me from jerking awake at 8:30 A.M. when my phone rang.

Blearily I fumbled the receiver off the hook and said, “Hullo.”

“Mom. It’s Jessica. Samson’s throwing a fit.”

“Where are you?” I asked, shaking off the cobwebs, turning my feet out on the floor. “At the hospital?”

“Victor drove me down. Samson’s okay, but he wants to leave. He’s fussing at the doctor. Will you talk to him?”

“Who?” I asked, thinking dumbly that she meant the doctor.

“Samson. Are you okay?”

“I just woke up,” I replied. “It won’t do any good, but put him on.”

“De Montagne!” Samson wheezed. “You tell them I must return to Violet. You tell them now!”

“Samson, listen to your doctor.” Rubbing my eyes, I walked to my bathroom. I turned on the tap and let the water run in a cold trickle, filling the basin.

“This baby-doctor? He knows
nothing!
I am not needed here, but the cellar-“

“Is being taken care of,” I cut in.

“But, I tell him—“

“Samson,” I said sharply. “You could have died. Do you understand that? Do what the doctor tells you.” I splashed water on my face with one hand, holding the phone clear of the splatter.

“I will do what
I
tell me! Not
you,
de Montagne and not this five-year old!” He shouted. I held the receiver far from my ear.

“I’ll be there in an hour, your highness,” I said, trying not to laugh. Jessica was right, Samson was definitely okay.

“No reason to insult me! I—“

“An hour, Samson.” I hung up on him. There was no way I was going to let him leave the hospital without his doctor’s permission, but maybe I could convince him to stay. “And maybe I could ride my flying pig down there,” I muttered as I reached for my toothbrush. So much for catching up on sleep.

I dressed in khaki slacks and a white polo shirt with lavender accents and tamed my hair with a pair of hairpins and exited the house through the cellar. No time for coffee today.

The cellar floor had been hosed down and swept. The broken casks were stacked by the door and the bottling line, which looked like a car wreck, was standing in the shadow of the steel fermentation tanks, the overhead lighting glinting off mangled metal. Victor was picking through a pile of broken bottles, setting the labels aside. I tried not to look at the names on the labels. I told Victor that I was going to the hospital and he made a face.

“Samson was raising hell when I left this morning.”

“I know,” I said, pulling my keys out.

“Want me to go with you?” he asked with obvious dread.

“Not unless you want to.” Victor pretended to gag. Well, that answered that. “I’ll be back before lunch.”

Victor went back to separating the labels for the insurance agent’s inspection. I hoped they’d make good on the loss - God knows my premiums were high enough. I headed for my car, wanting a cigarette badly. I was out. I’d have to stop after I saw Samson. The wait promised to be interminable. “Junkie,” I accused. Guilty as charged.

The powder blue nurse from the night before was at the main desk. She looked haggard, her pantsuit rumpled and spotted with something brown. She didn’t recognize me minus the smell of garbage. I introduced myself and thanked her for the scrubs I wore home that morning. She nodded stiffly, eyeing the paperwork piled in front of her in a preoccupied way. I promised to wash and return the scrubs and she gave me a doubtful look that I ignored. Maybe I wouldn’t bring them back. But then they’d probably show up on Samson’s bill. I didn’t need a two-hundred dollar bright green jumpsuit.

I asked for Samson’s room number and she gave it to me and pointed me toward the elevators with a thin smile and a “Take care.” She bent back over her work, pinching the bridge of her nose and rubbing at her eyes.

Samson’s room was on eight, down the hall from the intensive care unit. He was alone, the curtains open on a sunshine and blue-sky view that he was ignoring. A The Price Is Right rerun was blaring from the TV and Samson was cursing a frizzy-permed housewife who had just bid $3.98 on a box of dryer sheets.

“Four dollars for a pretty smell?” He yelled. “Four dollars?”

The TV picture went to a close up of Bob Barker. “The actual suggested retail is…three dollars and ninety-eight cents!” The woman went wild, ran up on stage and jumped the aging pitchman.

“Bullshit,” Samson muttered. He clicked the TV off and dropped the remote. “De Montagne, thank God!”

“Not watching the soaps?” I asked as I dragged a chair close to the bed.

“I am waiting for you,” he said, throwing the sheet off his spindly white legs. He turned his feet out of bed and looked toward the closet. He looked pale and gaunt, his face etched with pain. “My clothes, de Montagne,” he said, as if I was his chambermaid. “The closet.”

“Afraid I might see your skinny backside?” I teased and he blushed and sputtered.  “Too bad I don’t have a camera. Marjory would
love
a glamour shot.”

“Now is no time for fun,” Samson groused. “My clothes. Please.”

“Lie down, Samson,” I said, plopping my purse on the floor. “You’re not going anywhere.”

“And you are who to tell me this?” He sputtered. “I have work to do!”

“You almost died, Samson,” I pointed out.

“I will die when I die!” He shot back. “You and the baby-doctor know everything! How can you know? I know me and I will not to die so soon!”

“Calm down, Samson,” I said. It was time to get tough. “I swear if you come home I’m going to sit by your bedside and read to you and feed you soup and check your temperature every ten minutes and make sure you take your medication and—” 

“Orders!” He shouted. “I do not take orders!”

“Neither do I,” I told him, crossing my arms. “And I’ll do what I say.”

“I am being punished,” Samson muttered, glaring at the darkened TV. “I have sinned against the gods.” I stood and tucked the sheet in around him. “I am not afraid of you de Montagne,” he said.

“You should be,” I told him.

“Leave me be!” He said, slapping at my hands and tugging the sheet into a loose tent. “I will fix it.”

I didn’t argue. “Don’t call Victor. He won’t come get you either,” I warned.

“Orders,” he muttered, eyes focused on the ceiling. If you’ve never seen a seventy-year-old pout, count your blessings.

“How are you feeling? Really?”

“I am fine,” he said, then turned the TV back on. The people on screen were spinning a giant wheel. “Tomorrow you take me home.” He said, frowning at the TV. Conversation over. He didn’t ask about the cellar, and I was glad. It would be bad enough when he saw the damage for himself, no reason to get him worked up prematurely.

“Where’s Jessica?”

“Down the hall,” he said without turning his head. “Stanley’s room. Son of bitch!”

“Stanley?” I said.

“I told her she should not go. Does she listen? Do you listen?” He shook his head, his eyes on the TV. “Stanley! Son of bitch!”

I stooped over Samson and planted a wet kiss on his forehead. He grimaced and merely grunted when I said goodbye. I left him watching Bob Barker and fumed my way down the hall to the nurse’s station thinking black thoughts.

Why was she visiting Stanley? Was it just a courtesy? If she was getting back together with that ass she could find another place to live. He’d never set foot on my property again. I stopped just before the nurses’ station and took a deep breath. I would not make a scene! I would not!

Sitting on a stool behind the tall desk was a pretty young girl in a pink sweater, blonde hair tied in a bun. She smiled at me tentatively.

“How may I help you?” she asked, getting to her feet, pulling her sweater closed with one hand.

“I’m looking for Stanley Kostyol’s room,” I said, returning the smile. Just seeing this girl’s fresh-scrubbed face dialed my anger back a notch or two. I would not cause a scene!

“812, but he has a visitor at the moment. A young girl,” she gave me a significant smile and my bad attitude re-invaded. “If you’d like to wait…” she said, gesturing politely to a pair of plastic chairs.

“The girl is my daughter,” I said, too brusquely.

Her smile faltered and she said, “Oh.”

“812?” I repeated. She nodded.

I didn’t bother to knock. Anyone who throws a brick through my window shouldn’t expect courtesy in return.

Stanley was in bed, his chubby face puffy and sallow. A bandage crossed his forehead just above the eyes. He was attached to a heart rate monitor that beeped steadily. Its pace jumped up a notch when he saw me. Good!

Jessica was holding his hand, but she jerked it away and stepped away from the bed.

“Mrs. de Montagne,” Stanley said and tried to smile. “I didn’t expect a visit from you.”

“And you’re not getting one,” I snapped. “Jessica, are you ready to go?”

“I was just checking on Stanley,” Jessica replied, slinging her purse over her good shoulder, wincing as she jostled her broken arm.

“He’s alive,” I said, looking him over with a jaundiced eye. “Let’s go.”

Stanley laughed, but it sounded forced and more than a little frightened. “No need to be like that, Mrs. D. I’m sorry about the window.”

“Say it with cash,” I told him, unsmiling. “Or go to jail. The latter suits me.”

He laughed again. “You’ve got every right to be pissed,” he acknowledged generously. “But, hey, my truck is wrecked and I’m in the hospital. Isn’t that enough punishment?”

“Tell that to Ben Stoltze,” I replied as Jessica came around the bed, eyes on the floor.

“I’ve got nothing to say to that asshole. I don’t need my ass kicked before I go to jail.”

“What do you mean by that?” I snapped, getting angrier by the second. “Ben is not an asshole.”

“Depends on what side of the tracks you’re on,” Stanley said. “He’s beat the crap out of me twice.”

“Mom is going out with Ben,” Jessica warned him, much to my embarrassment.

“I am not!”

Jessica shrugged and Stanley looked stricken. “I didn’t mean anything,” he told me. “I was just talking.”

“I saw Doug Priest here this morning,” Jessica said. “He told me they were dropping the charges against me.”

“No shit?” Stanley said from the bed. He grabbed the remote and pushed a button. The top half of the bed started to rise. “That’s great!” He really sounded happy.

“Priest told me last night,” I told my daughter. “Are you ready to go?”

“Who did it?” Stanley asked, eyes going from Jessica to me. “I mean, who killed Kevin?”

“The news on the radio said Michelle Lawford confessed,” Jessica told Stanley and I looked at her in disbelief. Michelle told me that she hadn’t killed Kevin, and I had believed her. I could be wrong, but I didn’t think I was. Could this be another of Priest’s attempts to save Laurel? Was Michelle stupid enough to go to prison for something she didn‘t do? Stanley butted into my thoughts.

“Michelle?” Stanley exclaimed. “That’s a load of crap! She was at the Gimpy Mule, drunk off her ass! That’s what I’m talking about. These cops’ll frame ya if they can’t catch ya.”  I didn’t point out that Stanley
was
guilty of the crime he was charged with.

“You’re sure it was the night Kevin was killed?” I asked, interested in what Stanley had to say for the first time ever.

“Yeah. Michelle was f-ed up. No way she got up and went to Violet. She couldn’t even walk to the bathroom. Some chick had to help her.”

“So, she was there when you left to break my window?” I asked darkly.

“Yeah,” he said, staring down at his sheet-covered feet. “And later that night. When I went back to Violet she was still there.”

“You came back that night?” Jessica asked. I glanced at her and wanted to shove her out the door. She was looking at Stanley with too much compassion for my taste.

“To apologize,” Stanley said, shooting me a glance then looking back at his feet. “I was gonna stop, even after I saw the cops. They’d have arrested me sooner or later, might as well get it over with.”

“So why didn’t you?” I asked.

“I saw Ben down the road,” Stanley said. “I can talk to the other cops, but not him. He’s had it in for me since I papered the high school in tenth grade.”

“You broke into the high school,” I reminded him. “And, besides papering it, you stole five computers.”

“That don’t give him a right to smack me around,” Stanley mumbled. “Asshole.” He glared at me, suddenly full of defiance. “And you can tell him I said that. I don’t give a crap.”

I had heard enough. Stanley was a born liar. Of course he hated Ben, the man who had arrested him a half-dozen times. And how many criminals complain of police brutality? But, what he had said about Michelle rang true. He had no reason to lie for her.

But what about him saying that Ben was down the road while the police were looking at my broken window? I hadn’t seen Ben that night. Maybe he was checking up on his men? More likely it was another lie. A pointless one.