1 Died On The Vine Read online

  “Of course I know, I wrote it,” I said in bewilderment. “It says, ‘Julia, I’m in the office. Come on back.”

  “No, it doesn’t. It says, ‘The door’s unlocked, Mister Maniac, come on in and murder me.”

  “What on earth are you talking about?”

  “Don’t you realize a man was murdered here the other day? Since neither you nor I did it, someone else did. They might still be around. You’ve got to start locking the doors until this is cleared up.”

  I hadn’t thought of that. “But the murderer was after Winslow. This has nothing to do with us.”

  “You don’t know that, “ Jack argued. “Maybe he thought that man was me. Maybe he wasn’t after anyone in particular. Maybe he just likes to kill people and he isn’t through yet.”

  Julia entered the conversation. “Oh, I hope it isn’t a homicidal maniac. Those are always solved by fingerprints and legwork and boring things like that.”

  Jack stared at her in disbelief. “How about hoping it’s not a homicidal maniac because you live just a mile down the road?”

  Julia looked startled and gave a shiver. Maybe it was finally dawning on her that this was a real event on River Road in Passatonnack County.

  I got up and gave Jack a big squeeze. “I’m sorry, Jack. I just assumed it was someone after Winslow and that they were long gone.”

  “Well, I still think so,” Julia said stoutly. She rooted through her index cards and pulled one out. “Tell me, Jack, when did you notice that the shovel and the sec – uh, the pruning shears, were missing?”

  Jack sighed. “Monday morning, Miss Marple.”

  Julia nodded in satisfaction and made a note of it. “So shortly after Winslow’s visit here, someone is making plans to do away with him, using implements that couldn’t be traced to the murderer. A careful planner, I’d say. I wonder if Winslow was followed here on Sunday?”

  I was getting into the spirit of things. “Jack, that hole in the woods. It looked like it had been there for several days. How does this sound? – the killer follows Winslow to our place, comes back the next day and takes the secateurs and shovel, digs the grave and then later lures Winslow here and does him in.”

  Jack sat down on the other side of Polly and put the kitten on his lap. Tough Stuff is really adjusting to life as a house cat. “But if he did all that, why didn’t he go ahead and bury the body?”

  “We don’t know that yet. Good point.” Julia made another note.

  “And it all comes back to who would want to kill Obie Winslow, which brings us back to finding Mary Nguyen and learning what she knows,” I said.

  “Who?” Jack asked.

  I showed him the note from Steve the food columnist. “This is studying the life of the victim to solve the murder,” I told him. “Hercule Poirot 101.”

  “Oh. I guess that makes sense.” He glared at me and added, “As long as it’s not some nut, and murders are more often nut cases than tidy puzzles. You should know that; you read the newspaper.”

  Jack stood up and handed me the kitten. “If you’re going to keep him in the house, you’d better take him to the vet. Probably has fleas and earmites and worms and who knows what all.” And he left.

  Julia said thoughtfully, “You know, a lot of husbands would say ‘get rid of that mangy thing’.”

  I nodded. “He is rather saintly, isn’t he? I suppose we should start locking the doors until this is resolved.”

  “We all should,” Julia agreed. “Listen, hon, do you want to borrow one of Bob’s guns?”

  I shook my head. “Thanks, but I’m not comfortable with guns. I’d probably panic and shoot the sheriff.”

  I finally composed a note to Mary Nguyen which, while not entirely telegraphic in nature, was certainly terse and to the point.

  “From: [email protected]

  To: [email protected]

  Subj: WINSLOW MURDERED

  Col O Winslow has been murdered, found in our vineyard. Understand you are researching, would apprec any info you have. Who enemies, etc. Cecilia Rayburn at [email protected]”

  I know that some surfers of the ‘net write incredibly lengthy screeds, but I was trained back in the Memory Is Money days, when you edited out every unnecessary word to save space in the computer’s expensive and tiny memory. The kids laugh when I remind them that I once served as handmaiden and attendant to a gazillion dollar computer that boasted a memory of 512K. I predict that in the future, parents won’t tell their kids how far they walked to school, but rather, “when I was your age, my PC only had two meg of memory.”

  I sent my message into cyberspace, and now it was up to the unseen Mary to log on and read her mail. I wondered where she was. When I think of freelance writers, I always think of Katmandu.

  In the next few days, I was surprised at how little we were bothered by the press. The Passatonnack Journal is a weekly, and didn’t feel the Winslow murder rated a special edition. Just two years ago, they had issued a special when Craig Martin got drunk and fell down his well. As the editor explained to me when gathering information about Winslow for the regular Wednesday edition, “After all, folks around here knew Craig.”

  Of course the story was on the news service wires and several of the big city dailies did call us for a reaction. I expressed dismay and mystification, and that seemed to satisfy them.

  When I told Jack I was surprised that more reporters hadn’t shown up at the house, he said, “That’s because this is the boondocks. A reporter is more likely to take a redeye flight to Moscow than a four hour drive into the boondocks. Anyway, I’m going to put off having the winery signs put back up.”

  Last fall, we had taken down the signs along the state route and county road which pointed the way to our vineyard. They have been repainted and are waiting in the barn. Jack had intended to put them back up this week, but now we would wait.

  In fact, the only member of the Fourth Estate who actually arrived at our doorstep was Jerome Withers, the Post’s wine columnist. I suspect Jerome could find his way to any mid-Atlantic winery on a moonless night. But sending Jerome did have its drawbacks, from a news point of view. I managed to sidetrack him into his real area of interest, so that the article the Post published has as much information about the cultivation of the Merlot grape as it did about the murder. But what the hell – it was an exclusive.

  Julia and I wandered the perimeter of the property, looking for signs of any vehicles both on the gravel road and on the dirt road along the river. But it had been a dry spring and whatever signs of intrusion that remained eluded our elementary woodcraft.

  Meanwhile, I took the kitten to the vet. Doc Harding is never surprised to see me arrive with a cat carrier. “Let’s see,” she consulted my file, “this must be Rayburn 11.”

  “Actually, we’re calling him Tough Stuff. Polly has sort of adopted him, so we’re letting him be a house cat.”

  Doc examined Tough Stuff and pronounced him healthy, though a bit undernourished and parasite-ridden. Your typical stray cat. I left her office with worming pills, ear drops, and a flea comb. (Jack had been right on target, as usual.) In the parking lot, I encountered Luther Dawson, bringing in his dog.

  Dawson himself is so basset-like that I was taken aback to discover that his dog of choice is a hyperactive Jack Russell Terrier. Holding the squirming, licking little dog, he informed me that the investigation was progressing.

  “That new Commonwealth’s Attorney, Albert Long, was all hyped for an indictment, but he really pissed off the sheriff, if you’ll excuse my French. He’s from Northern Virginia and likes to talk down to us country rubes, so the sheriff called him an a-hole, if you know what I mean, and said we had to wait for the FBI computer to give us more background, and that’s where things are now.”

  “You mean that he was ready to indict Jack?” I was appalled.

  “Yes, ma’am, but like I told you, he’s new.” Dawson tucked his dog more firmly under his arm. “There were some partial prints on t
he murder weapon that could be your husband’s, but of course his prints would be there anyway, it belonging to him, and they were smeared like someone had handled them with gloves. Plus, the sheriff said it could have been you just as easy and he never expected to hear such sexism from a college graduate. Boy, that got old Albert pretty hot!” He grinned at the memory.

  I thanked him for the update and drove away disturbed. It appeared that the only thing preventing the arrest of at least one of the Rayburns was the antagonism between the Commonwealth’s Attorney and the sheriff, plus the puzzling question of which one to arrest.

  Back on the internet, a flame war had broken out. Cincinnatus started it with a flowery eulogy to Winslow and stating his conviction that the Cong has finally got him. Then he remarked darkly that Cecil had been asking questions about the good Colonel before his death and wasn’t that interesting. Wizard, who is driven to challenge anything Cincinnatus says and is a chivalrous soul besides, leapt to my defense, and trashed the Colonel’s memory in the process. From that point, it was “FLAME ON” and purest vitriol.

  I spent most of my time studying my notes and Julia’s timeline, and worrying. It was a Monday morning, four days after I had discovered the body in the vineyard, when the front doorbell rang. I knew it had to be a stranger; folks who knew us always come around to the back.

  But when I went to the door, I discovered that this was a long-awaited stranger. A young woman stood on the front porch. She was tall, around five foot ten, and interestingly exotic. While her hair was the blue-black of Asia, her nose and cheekbones were adorned with pure Huck Finn freckles. She was dressed in a neat melon-colored pantsuit and carried a well-worn travel bag and a case I recognized as holding a laptop computer. She smiled when she saw me.

  “Mrs. Rayburn?” I nodded. “Pleased to meet you. I’m Mary Nguyen.”

  SIX

  I sagged against the door frame, exclaiming, “Mary! Thank God you’ve come!”

  The self-possessed young woman merely arched an eyebrow at this mode of address. I composed myself and gestured invitingly, “I mean, do come in.”

  As she entered the living room, I went on, “Sorry for the melodrama, but if we can’t figure out who killed Colonel Winslow, I’m afraid the sheriff will arrest me or Jack.”

  She seemed puzzled. “Who’s Jack?”

  “He’s my husband, my second husband, I mean, and no one who knew Jack could seriously believe he would kill anyone for any reason, especially not for something as silly as this.” Oh dear, I was babbling again.

  “Perhaps you could fill me in on the background,” Mary suggested soothingly. “The news reports were sketchy. How did you come to know Colonel Winslow?”

  “It was the strangest thing, him appearing out of the blue. Look, there’s coffee, if you’d like some.”

  Mary grinned. “I live on the stuff. Lead the way.”

  We adjourned to the kitchen, which Julia and I had been using as our investigation headquarters. I poured two cups of coffee and set them on the table.

  “Look,” I said, “my friend Julia has been helping me out with this, and she’d never forgive me if I didn’t let her know you were here.”

  Sipping her coffee, Mary gestured at the wall phone.

  I called Julia and told her, “Guess who’s here! It’s Mary! Mary – “ I put my hand over the mouthpiece and asked, “How do you pronounce your last name, dear?”

  Mary grinned. “Winn is close enough.”

  “That simple!” I marveled.

  “Not really, but close enough. I’ll answer to it.” She sipped her coffee and closed her eyes appreciatively. “Ah, I needed that.”

  “Mary Winn,” I repeated into the phone. “We’re going to be talking about Winslow and I figured you’d want – “

  “I’m on my way,” Julia interrupted, and hung up.

  “She’s on her way,” I told Mary. “Let me fill you in on Winslow’s visit. It was a week ago Sunday, and he drove up here and told me my first husband might be alive – “ And I told her the whole story.

  “Am I clear on this?” Mary asked. She had produced a notebook and was taking scratchy notes. “Your first husband was reported killed in action, not missing?”

  I nodded. “Which makes it so odd. Have you ever heard of him making similar claims?”

  “Not at all. Completely contrary to his normal M.O.”

  “M.O.?” Julia asked as she breezed into the room. Today she was in claret-colored corduroy with L.L. Bean’s famous waterproof boots. The dry spell had finally broken overnight. “That sounds like a criminal. I’m Julia Barstow, by the way.”

  Mary nodded acknowledgement. “Mary Nguyen. And no, I’ve never been able to catch Winslow actually violating the criminal code, and it hasn’t been for lack of trying. Certainly immoral, to my way of thinking. But he’s been very, very careful.”

  Julia helped herself to the coffee and joined us at the table. “Where’s Jack?” she asked me.

  “He’s hitting a couple wine festivals in northern Virginia. Normally I’d go along to help, but I’ve been keeping an eye on things here.”

  “Okay,” said Julia, settling herself comfortably and getting down to business. “Mary, what can you tell us about Colonel Winslow?”

  “Obadiah Winslow, born in 1946 in Indiana, son of a shoe store owner, graduated West Point 1967, Viet Nam vet, MIA chaser, social climber, lives in grand style,” Mary reported promptly. “Where should I start?”

  She opened her travel bag and pulled out a battered hardcover book. “Here’s his autobiography. It’s out of print now, I think it sold several hundred copies in the bookstores. He’s bought up all the remaindered copies and sells them now at his speeches. Read it sometime when you don’t have anything better to do. According to my analysis, it’s about one-quarter exaggeration, one-quarter outright falsehoods, and one-quarter unverifiable. So there’s about 25% good information in there, but you’d need to be a bona-fide Obie expert to know which 25%. And don’t bother reading it for the writing style, either. He’s hired a staff writer now, which has improved his speeches, but his writing style is both florid and trite.”

  Julia blinked. “That doesn’t sound very good.” She reached across the table and spun the book around so she could read the title. “Guns, Guts, and Glory? Oh, my.”

  Mary grinned. “Gagging, isn’t it?”

  “So what exactly does – uh, I mean did – Winslow do for a living?” I asked.

  “Technically, he doesn’t have to do anything,” Mary replied. “He inherited his wife’s estate about ten years ago, so he was what even the horse country set would call comfortably off. He founded ‘Lest We Forget’ back in 1980 and has lived more than comfortably on that.”

  “What do you mean? If he’s been skimming funds, isn’t that illegal?” But, I thought, I wouldn’t put it past him.

  “Not the way he does it,” Mary explained. “Most of the money collected goes to ‘operating expenses’. Unfortunately, only a small amount of those expenses are actually involved in the search for MIAs. Most of it goes to fund Obie’s travels. He’s on the road half the time, going to his speaking engagements, and he travels first class all the way. Private jet or first class, penthouse suites, $200 dinners, all expenses paid by Lest We Forget.”

  Julia was outraged. “But when people give the organization money, don’t they believe the money is going to the MIA search?”

  “Of course they do, but Winslow always said that his trips, which are really fundraisers for his ongoing lifestyle, are educating the public and promoting the MIA cause. Like I say, he’s been careful. The legal community could never shut him down. I was hoping that journalism could.”

  Reaching once again into her travel bag, Mary produced a manuscript. “This is the book I had just finished on Winslow. My editor said they were about to go to press with it. Now, of course, I’ll have to rewrite the ending.”

  The manuscript title was “The Greed and the Glory”.

&nbs
p; As we had been talking, Mary occasionally glanced at the photograph that Winslow had shown me eight days ago. Now she picked it up and studied it closely. “You know, I could swear I’ve seen this somewhere before.”

  I leaned forward eagerly. “You mean you’ve met that man?”

  “No, but I think I’ve seen this photograph. This exact one, with the man and the doorframe. Now, where was it?” She held it at arm’s length and squinted at it. “I’m trying to remember the context,” she explained.

  “On someone’s mantle?” Julia asked.

  “In a photo album?” I offered.

  “In a magazine?” from Julia.

  “Newspaper!” Mary exclaimed. “It was in a newspaper. It was something recent. I can’t remember what the article was about. Damn!”

  I said sarcastically, “So it wasn’t smuggled out from behind enemy lines?”

  “Hardly.”

  “It’s starting to become very apparent to me that Obadiah Winslow was the sort of man who would have lots of enemies,” Julia said.

  “You can say that again,” Mary said. “Starting with me.”

  I was curious. “And why would that be?”

  “The son of a bitch was my father.”

  Well! This was a whole new kettle of fish! “I take it he wasn’t exactly Pa Walton.”

  “Not quite. The first thing I have against him is that he pretended to marry my mother. It wasn’t until we got out of Viet Nam, past the Thai pirates and the refugee camps and finally got to the U.S. that she learned that he was really married to Priscilla Horse-Country BlueBlood.” Her eyes had narrowed with old bitterness.

  “The cad!” Julia exclaimed.

  “You can put me on the suspect list if you want,” Mary said. “I don’t even have an alibi; I flew back into Dulles from Europe on Wednesday afternoon. I could have killed Winslow as easily as you or your husband, and a prosecutor could argue that I had as much motive. Maybe more.”

  Julia frowned, but sympathetically. “But did you really want him dead, dear?”