Ripe for Murder Page 11

  “Jim claims the land up here alone is worth the investment,” Kim said.

  “Well, there you are then,” Antonia said. “Information like that can be invaluable. I’d like to talk to him about it at some point.”

  “He loves talking about trains. I’m sure anytime you’re interested, Jim would be willing.”

  “Ah, I found you. What would I be willing?” Jim stood in the doorway and looked around.

  “Antonia wants to know more about the trains, and I told her you wouldn’t mind.”

  “Sure, sure. No problem.”

  “We don’t need to do it now.” Antonia started to get up.

  “Now is as good a time as any.” Jim watched as I backed toward the door. “You might be interested to hear about how this model has the advanced coupling system. It was used for the first time on these very trains.”

  Snore. “Maybe tomorrow.” Or never. “I’m going to go on up. Have fun.”

  I gave Antonia a little finger wave, Chantal’s irritating trademark, and went back out on the patio, taking a seat at the pool under one of the gas heaters. The full moon had settled low in the valley, and I could just make out Mount Saint Helena against the night sky.

  Apparently the water was warm enough to swim in, despite the chill in the air. Adults swam laps on one side while children splashed together on the other side, their efforts sending billows of steam off the water’s surface.

  The heater’s warmth and the sound of water splashing were soothing, and I must have dozed off. The next thing I knew, the pool was empty and the night was chillier than when I’d sat down. As I shook off sleep, voices carried across the garden. With the moon and garden lights, it was easy to see the couple coming up the path. Connor wore a white running shirt and dark shorts, while Chantal had on yet another red workout outfit. Her hair was once again in a ponytail, this one high on her head. They were laughing and looked like they were having a good time. They stopped in front of me.

  “Penny, what are you still doing out here?” Chantal raised a brow. “Wait, let me guess. Were you waiting for us?” She turned to Connor. “I think you might have a chaperone.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” I said in a huff. Very adult. “It’s a beautiful night and I was just sitting here enjoying it, although your mother did say to ask you to join her in the library if I saw you.” Good enough. Hopefully she’d get stuck learning all about train couplers.

  After she’d gone, Connor took a seat next to me.

  “So, did you have a good run?”

  “Like you said, it’s a great night to be out.”

  “How was your dinner and where did you eat?” I didn’t sound causally interested. I sounded cranky. “It doesn’t matter. Never mind.”

  Connor raised his gaze to the sky. “We just grabbed a bite. Some Italian.”

  I sat in silence until Chantal’s laughter filtered outside from the open library doors. I bet Jim wasn’t talking to her about trains.

  “She doesn’t seem to be very worried,” I said. “If I were all but accused of murder, you wouldn’t catch me acting like I didn’t have a care.”

  “Everybody copes differently. Chantal just pretends the problem doesn’t exist, whereas you face problems head-on. It’s part of who you are and probably why you chose a career in photography. You want to see everything, know everything.” Connor knew that I’d been a photojournalist before returning to the winery. “You ever miss it?”

  I tried to remember what my life had been like a little over a year ago. At the time I wasn’t sure I’d been ready to leave behind a life of travel, living out of a suitcase, and the many nights just like this one in beautiful foreign locations. Now the travel seemed difficult, the suitcase heavy and the nights lonely.

  “I haven’t missed it for a single minute.”

  I thought about Chantal. “I’ll concede everyone acts differently in these situations. And besides, how often is a person accused of murder? It’s not like you can actually prepare for such a thing.”

  “Then what are you doing out here, really?”

  “Believe me, I wasn’t waiting for you.” Not consciously. “I’ve just got a lot I’m trying to figure out. This afternoon we saw Bill and Vance in town. Vance is trying to get back the money Tara invested. Bill was worried enough about it to stop in at his attorney’s office.”

  “How do you know he went to see an attorney?”

  “I followed him.”

  Connor raised an eyebrow.

  “Then at lunch Antonia and I made a list of suspects. There are plenty of people the police chief should be looking at besides Chantal.”

  Connor listened while I went over the likely suspects and motives. When I’d finished, he just sat looking at me.

  “What?”

  “You followed Bill? Into the attorney’s office?”

  “He was just standing in the lobby.”

  “If he hadn’t been in the lobby, what were you planning on doing?”

  “Not a clue. Good thing it didn’t get that far.”

  “Glad to see you’re so prepared. Do you think you can figure out who killed Tara?”

  “I’m going to try. They’ve got the wrong suspect, and I’m not going to let Antonia see her daughter arrested for a murder she didn’t commit.”

  “Do you have a plan?”

  “Of course I have a plan.”

  “What is it?”

  “I figure Vance is the likely killer. He’s the one with the most to lose, and he didn’t like Tara one bit. He’s shown he’s capable of the anger necessary to do such a thing. He has the best motive. I’m going to lean on him. See if I can make him crack.”

  “That’s the extent of the plan?” Connor put “the plan” in air quotes.

  “The plan is in the development stages. I’m working on it.”

  “The first problem I see is that Vance isn’t going to take kindly to you trying to make him crack. People get angry at being leaned on, and you just said he’s got a temper.”

  “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but we need to help Chantal. She doesn’t have a clue how much trouble she’s in. I think the police have their minds made up. If we don’t come up with someone else for that police chief to sink his teeth into, he’ll arrest her. He isn’t fond of winery people, and here’s a wealthy one from outside his area that looks good for this murder. He gets his killer without ruffling local feathers.”

  Connor stood and I followed.

  “I think Chantal is lucky she’s got you on her side. I’m not saying don’t lean on Vance or anyone you think may have done this.” He rested his shoulder against the pole of the gas heater and turned toward me. “I’m just saying I want to be there.”

  “You want to be where?” I was too close to the heater and my face felt flush.

  “I want to be there when you’re leaning on people.” He smelled like cinnamon. Who goes for a run and smells even better after?

  “Why?” My voice came out a whisper. My best effort. Very sexy.

  “Because”—Connor turned his head toward me, his face inches from mine—“at some point you’re going to get in over your head. You always do.”

  I pushed him away and turned right into the edge of the heater. It caught the center of my forehead. I hopped around for a full minute, trying not to fill the night air with expletives.

  “Am I bleeding?” I felt dizzy. “I’m bleeding!”

  “Here, let me see.” Connor tried to remove my hand and I slapped him away.

  “Forget it! I won’t get in over my head. And if I do, I won’t ask for your help.”

  “You see the problem with that? If you’re in over your head, by definition, it’s too late to ask for help.” He had that playful little smile he gets sometimes. “Come on. Let me see your head.”

  I rolled my eyes and pulled
my hand away. “That really hurt.”

  “You aren’t bleeding. It’s a tiny little bump. It’ll be gone in an hour.”

  “I’ll be gone much sooner than that.” Very dramatic. I turned to go.

  “For someone who has a habit of finding killers, you have very thin skin.”

  I didn’t respond, not realizing how quickly that comment would be tested.

  Fourteen

  I HAD a fitful night. The down comforter, so inviting before, now seemed hot and heavy. It didn’t feel as if there was any air in the room. I thrashed around until any real chance of sleep was gone, just about when silver moonlight gave way to a steel-gray dawn. With relief, I threw off the covers, opened the terrace doors and stepped into crisp morning air.

  It was too early for the hotel kitchen to be open, so I managed a cup of French roast with the in-room coffeemaker. While it brewed, I pulled on a fluffy turquoise sweater, some jeans and sneakers, and pulled my curls back with two barrettes.

  Grabbing the coffee and my camera from its case, I left the room and walked down the stairs and through the silent lobby. One person sat behind the desk as I tossed my empty cup away and slid open the rear doors. Passing the pool, its steam rising into the still morning air, I crossed into the open field of the vineyard.

  The camera weight felt comforting in my hands as I snapped a few shots to test my settings. Most cameras today make these decisions automatically, but the results are predictable. Great photography often comes with camera settings that most would dismiss: a longer exposure, the reduction of light. The things that make a photograph extraordinary are sometimes hard to explain.

  When I decided to be a photographer, I’d imagined spending my life capturing images of fleeting beauty. However, I’d been offered the chance to travel the world as a photojournalist, and beauty didn’t pay. The years I spent behind the camera required me to see far more of the world’s suffering than I could have imagined, often with more clarity than I would have liked. More than once I’d hidden my pain behind the lens. When a sense of survival would have softened the memories of what I’d seen, the remaining photos still existed to remind me. I’d been right to leave that behind, returning to the winery and taking the photos I wanted. Now, with some time spent away from that life, I was finally letting go.

  I worked my way down long rows of vines, gnarled figures with their arms outstretched toward the sullen sky, waiting for winter to begin in earnest. Dark clouds rolled over the horizon, and from somewhere, thunder echoed through the valley. The starkness matched my mood. I would print the scene in black and white, so I shot it looking for contrasts in the grays. I picked my way across the rows until I hit the bike path. I was alone this morning. No dog walkers, happy tourists or even die-hard fitness buffs joined me. The air was heavy and still when I finally turned back toward the hotel.

  Usually mornings spent alone with my camera brought comfort, but this time I carried the unease that had ruined my night. Two days had passed since Tara’s death, and the police still seemed focused on Chantal as the likely suspect. There were others with better motives, but finding Chantal in the caboose had moved her to the top of the list. Removing her from that list was going to be a difficult task, and I had no idea how to accomplish it.

  I was lost in these thoughts when I felt a chill on my neck. Now, I’m easily spooked. Always have been. Ironic, considering what I’ve photographed. But behind a lens, I feel invisible. In reality, I’m not particularly brave, so at first I figured it was just my nerves. Nobody was on the path in either direction, and it was quiet. Wait. It was too quiet. I didn’t hear a sound. Any sound. Nothing, when moments before, birds had chirped and squirrels frolicked in the thicket around me.

  With years of practice, I swung the camera to my eye and scanned the brush around me, but nothing unusual appeared in the magnified lens.

  I turned back toward the hotel, casting glances over my shoulder. My sneakers didn’t make a sound. I strained to hear any movement behind me, and soon deliberate footsteps followed me through the brush. I picked up my pace, only to hear a branch snap.

  When I sped up, the steps kept pace. I was in a deep curve of the path, out of sight of both the vineyard and hotel. The steps gained on me, coming from the side. Something in the thicket next to me spooked a flock of birds, and I started to run. The camera banged against my side. Tears ran down my cheeks and my lungs were burning. I wasn’t going to make it.

  “Miss Penny!”

  I looked up and George was standing at the curve. Abruptly the steps stopped, turned and faded. I quit running and bent over, breathing deep.

  George walked up to me, wearing his Armani suit and pristine white walking shoes. “I say, it looks like you’ve overdone the running. I always try to fit in a walk before my shift. Never did take to all the jogging you native Californians love so much.”

  I didn’t answer, mostly because I couldn’t. I was still grasping my sides and sweat was trickling down my cheek.

  “Perhaps you need to pace yourself.”

  “Someone was following me.”

  “Just now?” George looked past me down the path. “I can’t see anyone.”

  “In the forest. Somebody cut through the forest, trying to catch me in the bend. I heard them.”

  “Maybe someone you know?”

  “No, it wasn’t like that.” How could I explain?

  “Wait here.”

  “No problem.” I could barely stand.

  George worked back down the path some distance before he retraced his steps.

  “It looks to be empty now.” He raised a brow. “Maybe it was a deer or perhaps the birds. We have a lot of them around here that make unusual sounds.”

  I shook my head, still holding my sides. “It wasn’t a bird.”

  George took his time answering. He spoke slowly as he considered his response. “I believe you, indeed, but, um, with all due respect, it’s difficult to imagine how anyone would know you’d be here.” He turned slightly pink. “You don’t appear to be a regular morning jogger. And at this time of day, I don’t mean to question you, but are you sure you didn’t imagine it?”

  “I’m sure. I was in the vineyard for an hour, easily visible from the hotel, so it could have been someone from here. They might have seen me start toward the path and gotten ahead of me.” I shook my head. “It wasn’t my imagination.”

  “No, no. Of course not. I am only pointing out the things other people will be asking of you. The obvious comment you’ll hear is that these woods are full of deer and rabbits.”

  He was right. It wasn’t a deer, but I didn’t have any proof. The forest was again filled with the rustling of squirrels and birds chirping in the trees. How to describe to George how that all went quiet, that a deer wouldn’t have caused that terrible stillness to descend?

  “You still look quite pale,” George said. “I suggest we retreat for a nice cup of coffee. The strongest brew I can get you to drink. Perhaps even with a bit of a kicker, if I may be so bold.”

  “You certainly may.” I followed him back to the hotel with one last glance over my shoulder. It was the same vineyard, the same path. It looked as it had this morning, but now a pall hung over the landscape and I knew, for me, everything had changed.

  * * *

  “ARE you sure you didn’t imagine it? You’ve been a little high-strung your entire life, and this hasn’t been the most relaxing trip.” Antonia waved her hand. “I’m not trying to dismiss what you felt. I’m sure it was perfectly frightful. I’m just not sure it was actually real.”

  We sat on blue-and-white-striped recliners out in the gardens. Honeysuckle scented the late-autumn air. Water splashing into the pool echoed around us.

  “So you aren’t dismissing my fears, you just think they’re all in my head.”

  “It’s simply hard to imagine something like that happening. I m
ean, if someone did try to corner you this morning, what was the motive? You didn’t know Tara or anyone else on this trip before we got here, so what would be the point of harming you?”

  “The point is pretty obvious to me. Here I am going around basically accusing everyone we’ve met since arriving of possibly throwing someone off a train. If I’ve hit a raw nerve, it shouldn’t be any great surprise.”

  “Speaking of raw nerves. No need to get testy with me.”

  “Nobody’s chasing you through the brush, Antonia.”

  “Yes, well, you know I do appreciate your efforts. Chantal does as well.”

  “Yes, she looks overcome with gratitude, although it’s hard to tell when she’s sipping wine and reigning supreme in the Jacuzzi.” Chantal soaked in the steaming water with a red-lace-over-black bikini, a cloud of testosterone surrounding her. “She’s got every man in the place at attention. They look like a swarm of drones.”

  “Not all of them.” Antonia nodded toward the far end of the pool.

  Connor swam laps and, since I’d arrived, he hadn’t glanced Chantal’s way once. I knew. I kept checking.

  “Are you going to tell him about your encounter this morning?”

  “No. There isn’t anything to be done about it, so why get him worked up for nothing?”

  “I agree wholeheartedly. I’m sure it was quite frightening while you were going through it, but in the retelling, some of that is lost. I’m not saying you aren’t accurate in your account, I just don’t know what there is to be gained by telling Connor.”

  Antonia closed her eyes and dropped her head back on the recliner. The sun was warm. Every bit of the morning gray had burned away. I didn’t blame Antonia for being unconcerned with the morning’s events. Here, with the sun playing across my arms, it seemed surreal even to me.

  “Why don’t you go for a swim and take your mind off it?” Antonia said.

  “I don’t know.” I watched Connor swim laps. “Maybe I’ll just read for a while.”