Apples For Vinegar Page 4

  “The dead cat started a feud?” Helen asked.

  “Literally. Zad was all threats and bluster that went nowhere until his dog died. Poisoned. It’d probably eaten some poison mushrooms. Death caps grow everywhere around here because of all the oak trees. It happens. But Zad was convinced Jerzy poisoned it with antifreeze.”

  “Did they do an necropsied?” Helen asked

  “According to Shawn—he’s my tenant—they waited too long for it too show up, and antifreeze gives the same symptoms anyway. So Zad wasn’t completely insane suspecting it. Of course, he was crazy. At least I think he was. I could never decide if he was crazy or stupid or just stoned. Probably a little of all three.”

  “You said they were feuding,” Delyth said. “What happened after his dog died?”

  “Zad tried to block off the Duddas’ driveway, saying they didn’t have an easement through his property. I guess Karen’s grandfather never wrote it into the deed when he sold. Lucky for me, it’s included in the deed to this place. At first Zad strung a chain across their drive from two steel bollards he’d had put in. Jerzy simply cut the chain. Then Zad installed a fancy gate. Jerzy bulldozed it down. It would have been funny if it weren’t so sad.”

  “And scary,” Delyth put in, hoping to test whether Howard felt caught in the middle of a dangerous situation.

  “Not really. They were being stupidly childish, but somehow you couldn’t take them seriously. I expected them to have another tussle in the grass, shake hands and be best buds again. Until Jerzy’s dog got shot.”

  “The dog was shot!” Helen exclaimed. “Who did that?”

  “No one knows, but Zad was the prime suspect.”

  “Didn’t Jerzy call the police?”

  “An officer came out to question Zad, which probably freaked him out. I guess the cop didn’t get close enough to the garage to smell the pot. Anyway, Zad denied shooting the dog. There wasn’t any evidence suggesting he did, so nothing came of it.”

  “That must have pissed off Jerzy.” Delyth was thinking of revenge as a possible motive.

  “I can’t really say. I got this all second hand from my tenant. As I said, the Duddas and I don’t get along.” Picking up his glass, he asked, “Ready for more?”

  Neither of them had touched their lemonade.

  “I’m fine,” Delyth said.

  Helen took a sip. “So much better with fresh lemons.”

  “Couldn’t get any fresher,” Howard said. He poured himself another glass. “Nothing like lemonade after working in the garden, unless it’s a cold beer.”

  Delyth tried hers and puckered. Meyer lemons or not, it was sour. She spooned in sugar and stirred.

  “You came to talk about small farmers,” Howard said after another swig from his glass, “and I hijacked the conversation all about the murder, which I’d said I didn’t want to talk about. I’m not sure how much I can help; I’m not a farmer. But ask your questions.”

  Except Delyth didn’t have any questions, at least not about the plight of small farmers. Howard’s information about a feud between Zad and Jerzy made her even more eager to talk to the Duddas; perhaps there was something about Ajnabee’s death other than drugs. But right now she had to ask something. “What’s your take on the future of small farms in the area?” She cringed as soon as the words were out of her mouth—too general, too abstract, too cub reporter.

  “The money’s in wine and weed. Especially now that it’s going to be legal. Doesn’t mean you can’t make a living farming. You see those guys at the farmers market selling tomatoes for five bucks a pound. They’re getting by. But it’s hard work, and you’re not going to get rich. You should talk to some of the people with the slow food movement. It’s sort of a cult but, personally, I believe in it. They’ll know more than I do.”

  Delyth had interviewed those guys and others, but it seemed a good excuse to get away and check if the Duddas were home. “Who should I call?” she asked.

  “Just a minute.” Howard went into another room and returned with a laptop. “Give me your email address and I’ll send you the contact info of a couple people I know. Really, all you need to do is look up the county Farm Bureau and you’ll find a bunch of local groups.”

  “It always helps to have a personal referral.” Delyth felt a little bad misleading Howard who was going out of his way to be helpful, but right now she was more concerned about the murder and questioning the Duddas. Once his laptop swooshed, Delyth stood saying they shouldn’t take any more of his time. They both thanked him. Helen gave Tibby a few pats, then they were gone.

  FOUR

  Delyth was turning the car around when a door of the small cottage next to Howard’s vegetable garden opened, and a young man stepped out with nothing on but a towel wrapped around his waist. A breeze ruffled blond hair. His pale body was athletic, broad shoulders narrowing to slim hips, yet he looked vulnerable in the bright sun. It may have been the towel, Helen thought: it was too easily pulled off. To Delyth she said, “A little chilly for sunbathing, don’t you think?”

  The man waved.

  “He must be the tenant,” Delyth said.

  “We should talk with him.”

  Delyth stopped the car. “I need to get home, but I really want to try the Duddas again. We should ask them about the feud. Get their side of it. ”

  “But the tenant seems to be on better terms with the neighbors than Howard. And he’s here right now. And so are we. We shouldn’t ignore the opportunity.”

  Delyth agreed without much excitement in her voice.

  As they were getting out, a woman exited the cottage from behind the young man. She wore a bright blue suit and stylish high heels more suited to an urban street than a country dirt road. When she spotted Delyth and Helen, she pulled down the sunglasses perched on the top of her head, and walked as quickly as her shoes allowed along the gravel path to a large SUV parked at the side of the cottage.

  The young man called after her, “When will I see you again?”

  She didn’t answer.

  Delyth and Helen waited to let her back up and drive off, then walked up to the young man.

  “Hi,” he said. “What brings you out here on this beautiful afternoon?”

  If the towel and the woman weren’t clues enough, his exaggerated cheerfulness confirmed in Helen’s mind that he’d just had sex. “I’m Helen and this is Delyth.” Delyth nodded. “She works for the Redwood Post.” Helen thought it best not to go into more detail.

  “And you want to know about Zad and the murder. Come on in.” The young man stepped inside, leaving the door open for them.

  The one-room cottage was small and dark. Dense trees shaded two windows set at eye-level. On the bed, the sheets were twisted, the pillows tossed to the floor. The only other furniture was a desk facing a wall and a small table with two chairs set in an alcove that served as a kitchen. The musky odors of lovemaking and mold permeated the room.

  Delyth followed Helen inside, leaving the door open, as if intending a quick getaway.

  The young man returned from the bathroom where he’d changed into sweatpants and a t-shirt with Stanford University emblazoned across the front. “The cops questioned me, but I was wondering when the media would show up. Say, would you like something to drink? I have some white wine open.”

  “No, thanks,” Helen answered. “We just had lemonade with your landlord.”

  “You?” he asked Delyth.

  She shook her head. “But thanks.”

  “I hope you don’t mind if I do. I don’t usually drink alcohol, but sometimes a little lubrication can help free up your prana.” As he reached into the small refrigerator for the bottle and poured himself half a tumbler, he chattered on. “I’m Shawn Cunningham. S-h-a-w-n C-u-n-n-i-n-g-h-a-m. You may want to write it down.”

  Delyth pulled out her notebook and pen but didn’t write anything down.

  “Would you like to sit?” Shawn asked. He pulled the two chairs away from the table. “I’m good
on the bed.”

  When Helen and Delyth didn’t move, he stayed where he was, just leaning against the refrigerator. “I’m not sure what I can tell you. I didn’t hear anything the night it happened. Saw no evil, heard no evil, so can speak no evil.”

  “Your landlord was telling us,” Helen said, “that Mr. Ajnabee and Jerzy Dudda had been feuding. Do you know about that?”

  “That was totally hilarious. Jerzy thinks he’s a dude’s dude, and Zad was completely cray-cray. The whole thing was right out of the world’s worst sitcom. Until Zad tried to block their driveway.” He shook his head then took a gulp of wine. “That wasn’t cool.”

  Through the open door, Helen heard the crack of several gunshots in quick succession echoing in the meadow below.

  “But you should talk to Bette about that,” Shawn went on. “You saw her leaving just now. She and Zad used to have a thing.”

  “You mean romantically?” Helen asked.

  “Yeah. About a year ago. Maybe a little longer. We met while she was still living with him.”

  “She must have been upset when he was murdered.”

  “Yeah, of course,” Shawn said, but without much conviction. “They were kind of close. He called her all the time even after they split up. I’m not sure what she saw in him, or why she put up with his bullshit.”

  “How can we get in touch with her?” Delyth asked.

  ‘She’s a realtor. Bette Lee. She works at Sullyton Real Estate.”

  “Well, we won’t take up any more of your time,” Delyth said.

  “It’s no trouble at all. You sure you don’t have more questions?”

  Helen knew Delyth was eager to get to the Duddas, but they shouldn’t ignore a good source of information who was right there and willing to talk with them. “Just one. The police said he was growing marijuana. Did you notice lots of cars driving in and out of his place?”

  “Druggies, you mean? Nah. Zad didn’t sell direct. He had a distributor. A guy out of Oakland, I think. Again, you should ask Bette.”

  “Well, thank you,” Delyth said. “I apologize but I have another interview I need to get to.”

  Shawn stood away from the refrigerator. “Oh. I understand. I hope I was helpful.”

  “Very,” Delyth said as she nudged Helen through the door.

  In the car, Helen asked, “What was wrong? Why did you rush us out like that?”

  “Like I said, I want to try seeing if the Duddas are back before I have to get home.” She drove the short distance to the turnoff to the Duddas’ farm. “Besides, I didn’t think we’d get much more out of lover boy. He was just talking to work off residual sexual energy.”

  “Maybe you’re right,” Helen conceded.

  As they drove, the loud snap then reverberating swish of a rifle got louder. “Did you hear that?” Helen asked Delyth. “A gunshot. Small bore. Maybe a .22.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “My father used to like to target practice.” She smiled at the memory. “It was an unlikely hobby. He was a very peaceful man, but he enjoyed precision in all its forms. It made him a good engineer and a terrible musician. He could spend hours mechanically playing Bach then listen to Glenn Gould without noticing the difference.”

  “So we’re safe in case of a stray bullet?“ Delyth asked without a hint of irony.

  Another snap-swish.

  “Oh, a .22 can kill you.” Helen didn’t add that it was unlikely while riding in a car and at a distance. Instead, she asked, “Did the police reveal the caliber of the murder weapon?”

  “All I know is what was in Vickie’s article.”

  A white pickup parked in the front of the house confirmed that this time someone was home. They quickly parked, got out and knocked on the door. A woman answered.

  “Karen. I hope you remember me. Delyth Bitersee. We talked a couple of months back. Did Ben tell you we might stop by?”

  “I’m sorry,” Karen said, glancing back into the house. “This isn’t a good time.”

  “Who is it?” a man demanded from inside. Helen assumed it was Jerzy Dudda.

  “That newspaper lady again. The one who was here back in October or November.”

  Jerzy pulled the door open completely. In one hand he held a black rifle with scope. It wasn’t the .22 they’d been hearing; it was something intended for hunting large animals. Helen was sure it could take down a deer—or a man for that matter. Jerzy kept it pointing down, but it was still disconcerting to be greeted this way, especially so close to a murder scene.

  “How the hell did you find out about it?” he demanded.

  “Find out about what?” Delyth asked.

  “The cops think I killed Zad.”

  “No they don’t,” Karen told him. “They believe a drug gang killed him. They just need to eliminate you as a suspect.” She turned back toward Delyth. “The detective said it was routine.”

  Jerzy’s face was dark red, a thick vein pulsed on the left side of his forehead. “I was fine until you told them I came home to get Kyla’s stuffed bunny.”

  “I had to. They asked me if we were together all the time that night. I couldn’t lie.” Her defense was weakened by its apologetic tone, as if she were accustomed to being the brunt of his anger. Helen had to admit his size and temper would cow anyone.

  “We’ll talk about that later,” Jerzy said to his wife. “Right now I have to bring my gun down to the police station.” He pushed past Helen and Delyth and climbed into the truck. He backed up, and raced away with a spray of gravel.

  To Delyth’s and Helen’s puzzled looked, Karen said, “Kyla ate some peanuts the night Zad was killed. We try to be very careful, but the cake I bought… Anyway, we spent that night in the ER. Except when he came back to fetch her bunny.”

  “Mommy, where’s daddy going?” a young girl’s voice called from inside.

  “I’ll be right there, sweetie.” She turned back to Delyth and Helen. “Kyla’s a little under the weather today. I really have to keep an eye on her. I’m sorry.” She stepped back and started to close the door.

  They heard another volley of gunshots.

  “I asked Jerzy to tell Ben to stop that,” Karen said, frustration clear in her voice. “We have enough trouble without riling the neighbors with all that shooting.”

  “We could tell him on our way out,” Helen offered.

  Delyth gave her a sour look that Helen chose to ignore.

  “Would you? The field is right by the road. You can’t miss him.” Her daughter calling for her again, Karen smiled, turned and closed the door on them.

  As they walked to the car, Delyth said, “Are you crazy? Volunteering to approach a man with a gun one week after someone killed his neighbor?”

  “He’s only a boy. We’ll be fine.”

  “You’re the one who said a .22 can kill. And you haven’t met this kid. I wouldn’t be surprised if he does kill someone one day, if he hasn’t already.”

  Not far from the house they spotted the boy aiming a rifle toward a pile of hay bales.

  “Why don’t you stay here and keep the motor running,” Helen said, “in case we have to make a run for it.” She was kidding, but as she got out and walked away, Delyth didn’t turn off the engine.

  The boy didn’t seem to notice that they’d driven up or Helen approaching on foot. He held the gun to his shoulder, aimed, fired; the gunshot sounding more like a crack than the snap they’d heard at a distance. Bright orange plugs protruded from his ears.

  “Hello,” Helen shouted. “Ben.” She didn’t want to have to touch him to get his attention. He could bang her in the face with the rifle as he turned or, worse, he could accidentally shoot her. She walked closer and tried again. “Ben.” Then louder. “BEN.”

  He brought the gun down and pointed it to the ground. At least his father taught him well. The boy pulled a plug from one ear. “Yeah?”

  Close up, he reminded Helen of some of her own students four or five years after they’d left her
fourth-grade class—skinny, slouching and angry. Despite the cool weather, he was wearing baggy shorts and a tank-top. On his face, neck and arms he had several red lumps that looked like the remnants of bee stings, but could have been aggressive acne. Over his left shoulder was a tattoo of an elaborate spider’s web, the filaments the thinnest of lines symmetrically spaced and gently curving from spoke to spoke with a single red dot at the hub. It may have been a wonder of the art form, but it made his shoulder look dingy and in need of a good scrubbing.

  Helen smiled. “Your mother needs you.”

  “She’s not my mother.” He turned and raised the rifle to his shoulder.

  Helen wasn’t sure how to appeal to the boy. She touched the spider web tattoo and went with her intuition. “Your sister asked for you.” It was a lie, or at best a half-truth, but it seemed to work.

  Ben lowered the rifle. “Kyla?” He peered toward the house. “Is she okay?”

  “I don’t know. I’m just conveying the message.”

  Without looking at her, he walked off, throwing a murmured thanks over his shoulder.

  When Helen climbed back in the car, Delyth asked, “So, what did you make of Ben Dudda?”

  “He’s a troubled young man. Do you think he’s capable of murder?”

  Delyth looked at Helen. “What do you think?” She turned her eyes back to the road.

  “What I think is that the residents at the end of this road have a lot of history together. Any one of them could have motive to kill Ajnabee.”

  “Okay. I can see Jerzy. He and Ajnabee were feuding.”

  “And the murder weapon must have been the same caliber as Jerzy’s rifle. Why else would the police ask to see it?”

  “So he’s a suspect.”