Sinfandel (9 page)

Chapter Thirteen

O
n the way home from Isabel Glass’s office, I stopped at Fisco and bought two lengths of heavy-duty PVC pipe.

When I got home, I rummaged through boxes in my storage shed looking for a hacksaw.  I finally found one but managed to overturn a tattered box buried under a pile of old horse blankets in the process, and some of its contents spilled out all over the floor.  The box was mislabeled as “Miscellaneous Tax Records” when in fact, it was a bunch of Roger’s old junk. 

I thought I had thrown every scrap of Roger reminders out years ago, but somehow this one got missed.  No time like the present, I thought, as I jammed the junk back in the box and carried it outside to the big trash barrel.  After raising the lid, I heaved the box up and tipped it over, dumping the contents into the dark abyss to join the rest of my Roger memories.  A box of bullets tumbled out from under all the papers and thumped into the barrel, spilling loose bullets to the bottom of the trash can.  

The Grass Valley sniper incident came rushing back to my mind.  I tipped the can on its side and fished the bullets out, stuffing them back into their box.  Not sure what to do with them, I took them in the house and set them on the kitchen counter.  Next time I talked to Dave at the CHP, I’d see if he’d want to look at them.

I’d determined that my cat-food table idea was not a total failure.  Had the table been just a little taller, I was sure the raccoons would not have been able to reach the bowls.  The plastic table was light-weight and the legs were hollow, so I cut four lengths of PVC pipe and slipped one into each leg, effectively heightening the table by two feet—too high for the raccoons to reach but not too tall for the cats to jump up on.

After testing the stability, I concluded that my table modification was a success and placed the full cat-food bowls in the middle of it, then put the hacksaw away and went about feeding the horses.

Later that night, I sat in the darkness of my bedroom and watched out the window, munching popcorn and waiting for the thieving raccoons to make their appearance.  I wasn’t disappointed.  Like a troop of circus clowns, they shuffled around the table, sizing up tonight’s challenge.

The babies huddled together and watched as the big guy stretched to reach the table top, but he was not even close.  Smiling, I scooped a handful of popcorn in my mouth and chewed with anticipation, wondering what he’d try next.  The other side of the table proved to be just as tall.

All the popcorn made me thirsty, so I ran to the kitchen to get a glass of iced tea, hoping I wouldn’t miss anything while I was gone.  When I returned, they were still studying the situation.  I leaned back in my glider chair and propped my feet up on the ottoman, confident that I’d finally outsmarted them.

Then, something I didn’t expect happened.  The smallest baby separated from the huddle and sniffed the air around the base of one of the table legs.  He stretched as tall as he could and hooked his sharp claws in the plastic of the leg.  I stopped chewing and leaned forward in my chair.  After a brief struggle to get all four feet around the table leg above the PVC pipe, he proceeded to climb the leg until he reached the top, then hooked his claws on the ledge of the table and pulled himself up.  I’d swear the other raccoons cheered.

Disgusted, I opened the window and screamed, “Get out of here you dirty rotten crooks!”   That startled the mob and they scattered in all directions.  The baby was still on the table and desperate to escape, but it was a long way down.  Afraid he’d leap and hurt himself, I backed off and let him take his time shimmying back down the table leg.  Once they were gone, I retrieved the cat food bowl and brought it in the house.  Back to the drawing board.

I took my popcorn and iced tea into the living room and turned on the TV.  As I fished through the channels for something to take my mind off the raccoons, my phone rang.  It was Detective Obermeyer and he sounded tired.

“Is something wrong?” I asked.

“I need you come down to the station.”

“Now?”

“In the morning.”

“Why?”

“I’ll explain tomorrow.”

When he refused to give me any more information, I told him I’d be there at nine and hung up. 

The box of bullets was sitting on the counter next to the phone.  I studied it for a few minutes, tempted to just toss it and forget I’d ever known Roger, but instead I called Dave from the CHP for an update on the Grass Valley sniper.

“Did you find Roger?” I asked him.

“Not yet.  We have to work with the Nevada Highway Patrol, and without a license plate number, it’s the old needle in a haystack problem.”

“Has the sniper taken any more pot shots at anyone?”

“Nothing that’s been reported.”

“Were any bullets ever recovered?” I asked.

“Not that I know of.  Why?”

“I found an old box of Roger’s ammunition in my storage shed.  I thought if you needed something for comparison, I could give them to you.”

“I’ll check, but I don’t think they recovered any bullets at the scene.”

“Well, I’ve got them if you need them.  Keep me posted, okay?”

After I hung up, I studied the bullets on the counter.  I did not believe, or maybe I did not want to believe, that Roger was a suicidal maniac with homicidal tendencies, but Roger had proved me wrong about his character plenty of times before.  I shoved the box in my desk drawer and tried to think of something else.

Following Detective Obermeyer into his office, which was a small room he apparently shared with three other detectives, I said, “Now can you tell me what this is all about?”

He pointed toward a hard plastic seat and motioned for me to take it.  The two homicide detectives who’d been called to my property when Beth Messina’s body was found entered the room behind us.  Obermeyer glared some sort of unspoken police code at them and they did an immediate about face and left.

“Okay, now you’re scaring me.  What’s going on?” I demanded.

Obermeyer closed his door and sat across from me at his desk.  “Daphne Zucker confessed to planting the marijuana plants under the overpass.”

I nodded with a sense of satisfaction.  “No big surprise there.  I seem to recall telling you it was probably my neighbor.”

“Yep.  Your intuition was right on.”

“So?”  The longer he stalled, the bigger the knot in my stomach grew.

“She’s been watering the plants out of your pond ever since May, just as we suspected.”

“Uh huh.”

“She waits until one or two in the morning, then she sneaks across your property with a bucket.  It takes her about an hour to water them all.”

“You’re not accusing me of being an accomplice, are you?  Because—”

“She’s not saying that you are involved with the marijuana.”

Letting that statement sink in, I finally asked, “What
is
she saying?”

Apparently he could sense my rising tension.  “You want something to eat?  A donut maybe?”

“No!  Tell me what the hell she said!”

Staring down at his hands for a long time, Obermeyer finally spoke.  “She claims that one night in August while she was sneaking over to water the plants, she saw someone dumping something in your pond.”

Finally another witness.  This seemed like good news to me.  “Did she get a good look at him?”

He raised his lowered head and looked me in the eye.  “She said it was you.”

Chapter Fourteen

“W
hy would I call the police in the middle of the night if I were the one who killed Beth?” I asked Detective Obermeyer.

He shook his head.

“You don’t believe her, do you?” I asked.

“We have to follow up on every lead.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Staring at me like Dirty Harry, it was clear he wouldn’t give me an answer. 

“I’ve never even met the girl.  I bet her father put her up to lying about what she saw,” I said.

“What’s his motive?”

 “How the hell should I know!”  I blurted it out too loudly and it made me sound defensive.  After a long, deep breath I regained my composure.  “Maybe he’s mad about me trespassing on his property.”

“Accuse you of murder because you trespassed?  A little extreme, don’t you think?”

“What about his rifle?  You took it, didn’t you?”

His lack of response was the answer.

“You told me he’s not allowed to own a gun with his criminal background.”

“He’s not.  He denies owning any firearms.”

“What?”  I blurted, again.

“If you press charges against him, then we could get a warrant and search his house, but without a complaint—”

“He was shooting at rabbits.  Not me.”  As the words came out of my mouth, I realized how wimpy I was.  I couldn’t throw a rock at a raccoon that was stealing my cat food.  I couldn’t tell Roger off even though he treated me like garbage and deserved to be reamed.  And now I couldn’t bend the truth about my neighbor in order to have him arrested even though he all but accused me of murder.  Maybe he
was
shooting at me and not a rabbit.  I never actually saw any rabbit.

“Then we’re sort of stuck.  But you did cause him to have an uncomfortable couple hours of being questioned about the rifle, so that could be his motive for getting even with you.”

“And Daphne?  Is she back in jail or are you waiting for someone to bring you photographic evidence to support her confession?”

“Aw, come on, Kate.  Cut me some slack—”

“Am I free to go?”  I stood up and slung my purse over my shoulder.

“She violated her probation, but she’s a minor and the juvenile system is overloaded at the moment, so she’s under house arrest.”

“Great.  There’s a murderer running around shooting women in the back, my ex-con neighbor has a rifle he’s not supposed to own, but his lying, drug-dealing daughter’s been grounded.  I feel much better.”

I was so angry I was shaking when I got into my car.  Taking long deep breaths, I tried to focus my thoughts on something else.  Anything else. 

I’d brought a list of suspect grower names and addresses I’d compiled from the state’s database, so I decided that an afternoon of playing detective might distract me from my more pressing problems.  A drive in the country would relax me, if nothing else.

Using my GPS navigation system to help me locate them, I embarked on my mission.  Armed with my Ampelography book, a pair of heavy-duty pruning shears and a box of quart-sized Ziploc bags, I set out in broad daylight to collect leaf and stem samples from as many suspect vineyards as I could find.

The first grower on my list lived in a huge Mediterranean style home that overlooked his 300-acre vineyard.  Gazing at the scene out my window, I could’ve been in Tuscany if I didn’t know any better. 

Leaving the Prius on the shoulder, unlocked for a quick escape, I moseyed across the road to the unfenced vineyard and admired the view for a moment, then dashed under the cover of the tall leaf canopy and snatched a cutting.  Peering out from behind the vine, I checked to see if the coast was clear then darted across the road and dove into the Prius, locking the doors and checking all the mirrors to see if anyone may have been watching me.  My heart pounded against my chest, and I felt the adrenaline coursing through my body.  I stuffed the cutting in a Ziploc bag and labeled it with a permanent marker then tossed it in the back seat.

My getaway was clean and I practiced my not-guilty face in case I passed anyone who’d notice me driving by their property.  I wondered if real thieves felt the same emotions I’d just experienced, then decided they probably didn’t and that was why they were criminals and I wasn’t.

Luckily, the next few stops went as smoothly as the first.  Most of the really large vineyards were not fenced like my small one, so access was not a problem. 

The next vineyard was not on any marked road I’d ever heard of and the Australian man’s voice I’d chosen for my GPS device kept telling me to turn around when possible until it had me going in circles.  I was about to give up on that particular vineyard when I decided to give Pete a call.  He knew every vineyard in the valley.  If anyone could tell me where Adobe Vineyards was, it would be Pete.

“Adobe?” he said, sounding a little puzzled.

“Yeah.  You know anything about it?” I asked.

“Never heard of it.  Must be a new name.  I know every vineyard in the county.”

I read him the address I’d gotten from the database.  “It’s supposed to be at the corner of Maze Road and Adobe Hills Lane. I’ve never heard of either of them.”

“Some city folks probably bought up the vineyard and paid some civil servant off to rename the roads so they could feel important.”

“I think the State’s storing the latitude and longitude in one of their databases,” I said.  “I’ll check it out.”

“Sorry I couldn’t be more help.  What’s the variety?”

“Zinfandel,” I said.

“Hmm.  I’ll ask around.  If I find out anything I’ll give you a call.”

“Thanks, Pete.  I appreciate it.”

I’d gotten a little cocky later in the day, and that made me careless in checking my surroundings before I chose my next point of entry.  As I combed through a mass of greenery looking for the perfect piece to cut, I noticed a pickup pull to a stop behind my car.

“Great,” I whispered under my breath as I smiled broadly at the big, pot-bellied farmer who glared at me as he climbed out from behind the wheel.  He turned his head and spit tobacco juice on the ground next to my car, then headed in my direction.

“Afternoon!” I called to him, looking as confident as I could.

“Can I help you with something?” the farmer said with a voice as gruff sounding as a tractor disking up granite.

“Is this your vineyard?” I asked, still beaming the biggest smile I could force my mouth to make.

“It is.  You mind telling me what you’re doing?”

I put my hand out to shake his.  “My name’s Kate.”

After a brief hesitation, he wiped his hand on his jeans and shook mine.  I kept a hold on his calloused paw, hoping to make him a little more uncomfortable than a man waiting for a colonoscopy.  “I’m collecting leaves to decorate our church for a pageant this Sunday.  I hope you don’t mind.”

Still hanging on to his hand, I tipped my head slightly and widened my smile a millimeter more.

“No, no.  I don’t mind.  How many cuttings to do you need?”

“Not many.  It’s a small display.  What’s your name?”

He cleared his throat.  “Jasper.”

“Jasper.  That’s a great name,” I said, leaning in closer to him.  “Tell me, Jasper, have you been saved?”

At that, he snatched his hand back and waved his arm over the vineyard.  “Help yourself to all the cuttings you want.”  High-tailing it back toward his pickup, he called over his shoulder, “I’ve got irrigation water to check!”

As the dust settled from Jasper’s escape, I decided I’d pushed my luck enough for one day.  I took the cuttings and headed for my car.

Pulling into my driveway, I saw Detective Obermeyer wave as he swayed in the front porch swing.  I gave him a curious glance and waved back, then parked.  After collecting my leaf samples from the back seat, I walked around to the front porch.

“Here to arrest me?” I said as I walked past him and dropped the Ziplocs on the welcome mat while I sorted through my keys. 

“I just had a few more questions,” he said.

After pushing the door open, I picked up my baggies and motioned for him to follow me inside.

He closed the door behind him.  “How well do you know Andy Carmichael?”

The question startled me.  Why would Obermeyer care about Andy?  Obermeyer had never shown any romantic interest in me so I quickly ruled out jealousy.  Maybe I’d written that idea off too soon.  Or I was too oblivious to notice something as obvious as a crush.  My mind automatically went through my virtual Rolodex of date-request responses.
 I’m so flattered that you’d ask, but I’m focused on other areas of my life right now
was my favorite.

“Why do you ask?” I finally said, after I laid all the leaf cuttings on the counter and feigned nonchalance while I sorted through my mail.  A late notice from the electric company jarred me out of my act and I almost cursed.

“Just answer the question.”

He’d reverted back to the original jerk I’d met that first day he accused me of growing marijuana under the overpass.  Something was very wrong.

“I met him a few weeks ago.  He was recommended by my grape broker because I needed a vineyard manager.  He’s managing the harvest of my grapes in an acceptable manner.”

“Are you sleeping with him?”

“None of your business.”

“That’s a yes.”

“Like hell it is!  What are you getting at?”

He stood in the middle of my living room with his feet planted shoulder width apart and his arms crossed over his chest.  “Forensics was able to recover the memory card from Beth Messina’s cell phone.  Andy Carmichael’s home, business and cell phone numbers showed up.”

At first the statement stung, but then the absurdness of his accusation hit me.  “He’s a vineyard manager, for God’s sake!  She was a winemaker.  I’d be more surprised if they didn’t know each other.”

“Don’t you think it’s odd that he never told anyone he knew her when she disappeared?  Or when we found her body for that matter?”

“Why don’t you ask him instead of trying to coax me into your little conspiracy theory?”  I slammed the book Andy gave me on the counter and flipped it open, avoiding Obermeyer’s gaze as I studied grape leaves.

“We pulled their phone records for the past five years.  Believe me, people with strictly business relationships don’t spend hours on the phone with each other at all hours of the night.”

I finally looked up him.  “You suspect him?”

“I didn’t say that.  I do want to talk to him, though.”

“Well, who’s stopping you?”

“No one.” 

Obermeyer took a pen and paper from his pocket and started to write.  He shook the pen a couple times, but it wasn’t going to give up another drop of ink.  He looked at me, almost begging for a pen.

I waved in the general direction of my office.  “Pens are in my desk.  Help yourself.”

Obermeyer brushed past me into the other room.  “I don’t know why you’re getting all upset,” he said.  “According to you, you barely know the guy so why should you care—”

Continuing with my leaf inspections, I tried to ignore the sudden silence.

Finally, I called out, “Why should I care about what?”

Obermeyer emerged from my office with a frown on his face and Roger’s box of bullets in his hand.  “These yours?”