Apples For Vinegar Read online

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  Later that afternoon Delyth was looking through the Redwood Post online early edition when one photo grabbed her attention. She called Helen right away. As soon as Helen answered, she blurted, “You’ll never guess who’s going to be on the cover of tomorrow’s business section.”

  “No, I can’t,” Helen answered with a mostly suppressed chuckle. “But from your excitement, it must be someone good.”

  “Robert.”

  “Robert-Robert? Your Robert?”

  “Yep. His name is Robert McNabb the third. And he does own Greenway.”

  “McNab like the collies?” Helen asked.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The breed of collies. Does he spell his last name with one “b” or two?”

  “Two.”

  “I believe the dogs prefer just one.”

  Delyth signed. “The important thing is that he’s going to build a big pot farm just outside Sullyton.”

  “So he was involved with Ajnabee’s drug business.”

  “He can’t have a record or he’ll never get a permit, but it’s probably not a coincidence. The story’s angle is that big ag is taking over cannabis cultivation. The price of wholesale marijuana is down twenty-five percent in the past year. On top of that, state and local taxes will further shrink margins on marijuana farmers. What would seem bad news for growers is an opportunity for those with the capital needed to mechanize the process.”

  “And Robert has the money,” Helen guessed. “Where’d he get it?”

  “It doesn’t say, but there appears to be plenty of it. He’d bought fifty acres and plans to build a dozen, state-of-the-art aeroponic greenhouses.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “The plants are grown in the air.”

  “How?”

  “The article doesn’t explain.”

  “My question is,” Helen said as if intuiting the real reason for Delyth’s call, “why would a guy like that bother to tell you about Keir Foley?”

  “And why all the theatrics?”

  “We could ask him.”

  “I’m thinking the same thing myself.” She hadn’t considered it until that moment, but the idea and the decision to act on it arrived at once. Robert as a mysterious source was a journalist’s fantasy; Robert as a wealthy, connected businessman smacked of manipulation. Delyth resented being used. She wasn’t about to let him get away with it.

  “Oh, good,” Helen said, her growing enthusiasm obvious. “What can I do?”

  “Don’t know yet. Our only lead to contacting him is Greenway. Can’t hurt to call and ask to talk to him.”

  “Are you going to tell Josh? He maybe could help.”

  The question made Delyth pause. It was one thing telling Josh about a source she couldn’t identify, but telling him now felt like crossing a line. She hadn’t promised Robert anonymity, but he’d made it clear he didn’t want to be known. She needed to respect that. “I think it’s better if we keep it to ourselves. At least for now.”

  She promised to call Helen with any news, then found the number for Greenway Vineyards.

  “Who shall I say is calling?”

  “Delyth Bitersee. He knows me.”

  She was put on hold, forced to listen to a piano playing dissonant jazz that would set her nerves on edge if she had to listen for long. Luckily, Robert picked up right away.

  “Delyth, what a surprise! Have you made progress with the information I provided you?”

  “You gave me nothing to go on. A printout you probably obtained illegally that might be suspicious, but proved nothing. And a story from a man who refused to identify himself. I tried calling him later and the number was disconnected.”

  Delyth was surprised by her own assertiveness. Not at all like her, but Robert McNabb had tried to pull something over on her. She wasn’t sure what, but it got her dandruff up, as her father would say.

  “You can hardly blame him for wanting to remain anonymous,” Robert responded as smoothly as a politician. “The Mexican police are not above reprisals if they found out he ratted them out.”

  “How do you know about it?”

  “I frequently have business in Mexico and one hears things.”

  “Then why tell me?”

  “I wanted you to investigate. Isn’t that what reporters do?”

  So he admits he was working her. “Investigate what?”

  “Keir Foley, of course. What with Zad’s murder, I just wanted someone to know that a very bad guy lives in the neighborhood.”

  “Are you saying Foley killed Zad?”

  “I never said that. I don’t know who killed him. I just want to make sure the police don’t prematurely limit their search.”

  “Why not go to the police yourself?”

  “The county still hasn’t finalized the rules around cannabis permits. I’d prefer my name not be officially associated with a murder, just in case.”

  “Was that the reason for all the cloak and dagger?”

  “What do you mean? What cloak and dagger?”

  “Not telling me your last name, for one thing.”

  “I never refused to tell you. It just never came up.”

  “I ask you explicitly.”

  “I mustn’t have heard you.”

  “How about our clandestine meeting at a winery?”

  “I don’t know why you call it clandestine. I happen to own the winery, so that was a convenient place to meet."

  He was unflappable, with a smooth answer for everything she threw at him. “How about hiding the printout in a tee-shirt package?”

  “I wasn’t hiding anything. They both were gifts. It seemed appropriate to giftwrap them together.”

  If this were a battle, she was losing despite lobbing her best artillery at him. She imagined him smirking, enjoying himself while he parried her questions. She paused, trying to come up with a new line of attack, but he beat her to it.

  “You could talk to the police about Foley yourself,” he said.

  “And say what? Accuse him of murdering his partner? For all I know, you could have made the whole thing up for I don’t know what reason. Perhaps you hold a grudge from some business deal gone sour.”

  “Well, there is that.” She heard someone in the background on Robert’s end of the call, and his muffled response as if holding a hand over the phone, then, “It’s been a pleasure talking with you, Delyth, but I have people outside my office waiting to see me. Do call if you discover anything.”

  As soon as she put the phone down, she ran her fingers through her hair, grabbed the strands at the back, and pulled until her ears and brow relaxed.

  Robert came across as innocent and plausible, but who would be better placed to build a commercial cannabis farm than someone who was already in the business? Would that include murder? After Prohibition, how many bootleggers opened legal distilleries? How many past associates needed to be eliminated to wash away any stench of bathtubs and machine guns that clung to the gin?

  FOURTEEN

  As promised, Jerzy Dudda delivered the apple tree roots on Thursday afternoon. Even the smaller tree Frank had chosen had a root ball larger than would fit in the garage, and leave room for Frank to work on it, and so heavy that Frank, Jerzy and Ben together could barely wrestle it off the end of the pickup using ropes and wood blocks as steps. Frank offered Jerzy a beer for his troubles. Ben asked for a coke. He scowled when told all they had was apple juice, but accepted it.

  Helen corrected papers while she waited. When the Duddas left, she asked, “What were you guys doing in the studio for so long?”

  “I had a few questions about the photos.”

  “Is that where you plan on leaving it?” Helen asked pointing out the kitchen window to the tangle of roots lying in the driveway, making access to the garage impossible.

  “For now. I need to study it, and plan out the sculpture and clean off the hair roots and reduce the size somehow. Either that or we’re going
to have one hell of a garden ornament.” He left to begin contemplating the roots in what Helen imagined would be some kind of Zen meditation.

  Frank had started working on the piece right after their last visit to the Duddas. He printed out several of the photos Helen had taken, and pinned them on a wall of his studio beside the sketches he’d made. He’d also copied some of the photographs from Karen’s album and pinned them to the wall as well. While Frank sat outside studying the root ball, Helen stood inside contemplating the faces on the wall.

  Franks drawings were rough sketches with mere hints of shadow and texture, yet she was amazed at what he was able to convey with just pencil and charcoal. There was no doubt that the top row was Karen Dudda but something seemed off. It took a minute for Helen to recognize it. Her own photos reflected the vulnerability she had seen in the woman, but Frank drew determination in Karen’s eyes, resolute and strong-willed. The same look her great grandmother had in the photo that Frank had placed at the end of the Karen row. Kyla was next to Karen, a young tomboy, open, happy with a hint of shyness—the same girl Helen had seen.

  The next row held Jerzy and Ben. Looking at the photos she’d taken, Helen’s eyes went to the details that distinguished the two, but Frank’s sketches accentuated the family resemblance between father and son beyond blond hair and blue eyes. The similar square face and high cheekbones were obvious, but it was the look in their eyes that was most striking, a look of hurt, disappointment and resignation. They reminded Helen of old photographs of Russian serfs before the revolution.

  In the past, Frank chaffed her for always wearing rose-tinted glasses. She couldn’t deny it; she usually assumed people were basically good. In her eagerness to find a killer, was she now suspecting everyone capable of murder? She could understand why police continued believing a person guilty long after the evidence proved otherwise.

  She set herself a mental exercise. How would Frank’s perspective on the Duddas change her conclusions about them? Karen would go higher on her list of suspects. She carried a grudge against Ajnabee for making money from drugs while her family farm struggled and, no longer a meek victim, she would have the fortitude to do something about it. But Frank’s drawing showed a noble woman, not someone who would kill out of envy. The Jerzy and Ben that Frank captured would not have it in them to raise a hand in their own defense. They’d rail and posture and threaten, but they’d never follow through.

  Frank’s vision could be wrong, as could her interpretation of his vision, but thinking about the possibilities led her back to the dog that had been shot. Suzanne insisted Ajnabee wouldn’t kill an animal. If he didn’t do it, who did? And, almost more important, why?

  Once Jerzy’s alibi eliminated him as a suspect, everyone, especially Josh, seemed to assume the dog’s death was just a coincidence unconnected with the murder. Had Josh ever followed up on it? Did he know the caliber of the bullet used to kill the dog? Had he tracked down the gun? The best way to find out was to ask him.

  Their relationship had improved since their first official interaction when he dismissed her as an “old busybody.” When her “snooping” helped him catch the killer, his attitude changed somewhat. It helped, of course, that she’d become friends with Delyth. Whatever the reason, he seemed resigned to their poking around his cases. She would have to find out if his passive acceptance extended to answering a few questions.

  Getting Delyth involved would only complicate things, so Helen decided to call Josh directly. She had to wait while her call was transferred to Josh. When he picked up, she asked, “Don’t you answer your own phone?”

  “I’ve moved up in the world. I now have someone to screen my calls.”

  “I’m flattered that you allowed mine through.”

  After a beat, he said, “I’m kind of busy right now. Is this a social call or do you want something?”

  Helen had fretted about how she would bring up the dog’s killing. Now she was forced into it. “You remember that the Duddas’ dog was shot?” He didn’t bother answering. “Did you ever follow up on that?”

  “What do you mean?” His voice had taken on a wary edge.

  Trying to placate his suspicions, she said, “I know you’re investigating several leads. I don’t doubt the feud between Jerzy and Ajnabee is one of them, but now it seems Jerzy has a solid alibi. I was just wondering if Ajnabee didn’t do it, whether his killer—whoever that might be—killed the Duddas’ dog as well.”

  “Even if Jerzy didn’t kill Ajnabee, Ajnabee could still have killed the dog.”

  “True, but from what I gather, Ajnabee loved animals and just wouldn’t do it.”

  “Why would anyone else kill it?”

  “Exactly. But we won’t know the answer to that until we know who did it. Do you know what kind of gun Ajnabee owned?”

  “Yes.” Josh was always cagey about sharing details of his investigation. It was already a concession on his part that he was even talking to her about it. “Why?”

  “We could match the bullet that killed the dog to his gun.”

  “How would we”—Helen could imagine him making air quotes around the word—“get the bullet?”

  “We could dig up the body.” Helen was so convinced that the Duddas would bury the dog’s body on their property, she hadn’t thought to check before talking with Josh.

  “Even if it was a different gun, it could have been an accident. A stray bullet.”

  “Or it could have been part of a plot.”

  “What kind of plot?”

  “We won’t know until we know who shot the dog.”

  “There is no we. If I may remind you, this is my investigation.”

  “I realize that. That’s why I want the police to compare the bullet that killed the dog to Ajnabee’s gun.”

  He sighed. “Okay. You bring in a bullet, and I’ll tell you if it could have come from Ajnabee’s gun.”

  “Don’t you think you should be there to exhume the dog? You know, chain of custody.”

  “I’ll trust you that it came from the dog. Good luck finding it, though. It probably didn’t get lodged in the body.”

  Helen hadn’t thought of that.

  Her call to Karen Dudda didn’t go much better. “I don’t see why you want to do that,” Karen said after Helen explained her request.

  “It may help find Mr. Ajnabee’s killer.”

  “The police say it was gang related. And Zad killed Mate.”

  “Did the police say that he killed your dog?”

  “No, but who else would?”

  “That’s the thing. If we find out it wasn’t Zad, it could have been his killer.” Helen heard noises in the background on the other end of the line.

  “Kyla was very upset when the dog died. I don’t want to put her through that again.”

  Helen remembered Karen saying the dog was Jerzy’s pet, not Kyla’s. Was she using Kyla as an excuse? Did she have a reason not to want the dog exhumed? Of course, a young child could be troubled by a violent death even if she wasn’t close to the dog.

  Helen heard Jerzy ask, “Who’s that?”

  Karen’s answer was muffled as if she’d put a hand over the mouthpiece. “The old woman who’s been nosing around asking about Zad. She wants to dig up Mate to see what kind of gun killed him.”

  “Why’s she care?” Jerzy asked.

  “Too late anyway,” Helen heard Ben say. “Something dug it up already.”

  “What? When?” Karen’s voice was clear; she must have removed her hand from the phone.

  “Dunno. A couple weeks ago.”

  “Did Kyla see it?”

  “Nah. She doesn’t go up to the pet cemetery. She says it makes her too sad.”

  “Did you just leave it?” Jerzy demanded.

  “It’s already been chewed on. It’s nature’s way.”

  “That’s my Mate,” Jerzy said. “He deserves better than that. I want you to go up there and rebury him.”

  Helen called into the phone, hopin
g to get Karen’s attention. “Wait. Hello. Karen. Don’t do that.”

  “There’s nothing but skin and bones left,” Ben said.

  “Karen! Karen!” Helen called.

  “Dig a deeper hole,” Jerzy told his son. “Put every last piece of Mate back in, then cover it with a heavy stone that critters can’t move.”

  “Fuck that.”

  “Ben,” Karen exclaimed.

  In the silence that followed, Helen’s repeated “Karen! “Karen!” finally got through.

  “This isn’t a good time,” Karen said.

  “I can stop by after school tomorrow,” Helen said with a rush. “If it’s already unburied, I could look through what’s there before…”

  “It’s too late for Ben to do anything about it tonight.” Karen’s voice suggested she was saying it for her husband’s benefit as much as Helen’s. “If you get here after he gets home, you can look all you want.”

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  Ben was waiting outside when Helen arrived. He must have heard the car approaching, but he kept his eyes riveted on his phone, a white wire connecting it to his ears. Only when Helen had gotten out of the car and walked up to him did he deign to pull the ear buds out and look up. “You got other shoes in the car? It’s pretty muddy up there.”

  If he’d been an adult, Helen would have smiled and admitted she should have planned better. To a sullen teenager, she responded, “You should have warned me.”

  “There’s some boots in the garage if you want. They’re new. The cops kept the old ones.”

  He coiled the wire around his phone and stuffed it into a pocket, then led her to the garage and the boots. There was no place for her to sit so she balanced on one foot, steadying herself against the workbench. The boots were too big; her feet slopped around as she walked. Her shoes were just for work, but they were good enough that she decided to risk blisters rather than ruin them.