Apples For Vinegar Read online

  He stopped where a woman sat at a desk near one of the glassed-in offices along an exterior wall. “My wife helps me out,” Foley said. The woman looked up, smiled. “Emily, this is Delyth Bitersee. She’s the reporter I told you about.”

  Without standing, Emily extended a hand across the desk. “Happy to meet you.”

  She wasn’t what Delyth would have expected for Foley’s wife; pale, round-faced with flat, mouse-dun hair, she appeared several years older than him.

  “Same here,” Delyth said, taking her hand briefly. Keir had already crossed into his office, forcing Delyth to trot after him, and leaving no time for her to exchange pleasantries with his wife.

  The office was in a corner overlooking a fountain gushing a plume of water in the middle of a small, artificial lake. On top of his desk was a docking station sitting without the laptop, a robot without a brain. The truant laptop was on a high, round table surrounded by four tall stools. “I like standing while I work,” he said, pointing for her to sit at one of the stools. “It keeps the blood flowing.”

  Delyth perched on a stool, allowing her to look Foley in the eye without risking a crick in the neck, but she had to hook her shoes around a rung to keep from sliding off.

  “Would you like something to drink?” Foley asked. “Water? Coffee? Or maybe you’d prefer tea?”

  “I’m fine.” She pulled out her phone. “Mind if I record our conversation?”

  “I’d prefer not.”

  “Oh, okay. I’ll do it the old-fashioned way.” She put emphasis on the last words, hoping to point to the irony in the middle of a technology company. Foley didn’t respond.

  When she’d retrieved her notebook and pen, he asked, “What do you want to know?”

  She kept to the cover story, hoping to sneak questions about the murder later on. “Like I explained in my email, I recently did an article on the difficulties faced by small farmers.”

  Before she could get to her question, Foley interrupted. “I know. I read it last night. It seemed predicated on a nostalgic vision of old-fashioned family farms. I doubt life on a farm was ever so ideal. Up before sunrise, work until sunset, and earn just enough to get by. The difference now is that people don’t want to work hard to just get by. You can’t blame them.”

  “So, you think family farmers should give up?”

  “Not at all. But why put yourself through all that hassle for no reward. If you have a little land, you can earn just as much growing grapes with a lot less work.”

  “I thought with all the vineyards going in, there must be a glut.”

  “Not of good pinot. You can get top dollar for world-class pinot. I put in Pommard and Dijon clones, all on 101-14 rootstock. This area is perfect for vines like that.” He flashed perfectly straight, perfectly white teeth at her.

  “Do you think most farmers would have the expertise to turn a profit by switching to grapes?”

  “Of course, you have to know what you’re doing. And a good vineyard manager doesn’t come cheap.”

  “Plus the expense of putting in a vineyard in the first place.”

  “And the cost of labor and maintenance. And waiting three years before your first salable crop. Profitable farming needs capital.” He seemed to be enjoying himself, spouting opinion as fact with a touch of condescension. “Takes money to make money, you know”

  “Now you seem to be arguing against the viability of family farms?”

  “If by family farm you mean mom and pop working the land growing lettuce and tomatoes, it doesn’t make sense. Not around here. Not any longer.”

  “Yet you’ve planted grapes on your property.”

  “I see them mainly as landscaping. Vineyards are attractive, don’t you think? They bring to mind Tuscany and Provence. People crave the fantasy of that lifestyle. Grapes are good for property values.”

  “Are you talking about vanity vineyards?”

  “There you go again, showing your bias. You’re all in love with the romance of the family”—he emphasized the word with air quotes—“farmer, but you look down your nose at the guy who wants to live out a fantasy of owning a winery.”

  Delyth was surprised by the sudden attack, but she wasn’t about to cede control of the interview. “I believe that is the common term used to refer to rich men who buy up land to put in a vineyard for their own self-gratification.”

  “And what’s wrong with that, exactly?”

  “It artificially drives up land prices to the point that most people can’t afford them.”

  “I’d call that the result of supply and demand.” He smiled as if he’d delivered the coup de grâce.

  “And what about the folks left behind? They can’t make a living working their land, yet they can’t afford to move.”

  “If it’s a good location, they should sell. If not, well, change is hard.”

  Delyth took a deep breath. He was playing with her, and she’d fallen for it. She was glad now that she wasn’t there on assignment with Ted expecting a story out of her time away from the office. She needed to get the conversation back on topic. “So you see the influx of money—”

  But again, before she could get to her question, she was interrupted, this time by a musical ping from Keir’s phone that was sitting on the table beside his laptop. Looking at its screen, Keir said, “That’s Emily reminding me a venture capitalist is supposed to call about now. We’re negotiating a second round of financing. I really need to talk to him.”

  “Until then, maybe you could answer a few more questions. I like to know—”

  “I have a question for you. The other day I read your article about Zad Ajnabee’s murder—”

  “It wasn’t my article.”

  “Your paper’s article then. It said the police thought his murder was drug related. Do you know if the police are investigating other leads?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Not even off the record?”

  Especially not off the record with Josh involved. She shook her head.

  “I’d look at Jerzy Dudda if I were them. I saw him attack the victim a few months back.”

  “I was there. I was the white Subaru blocking the road.”

  “Oh yeah? That was you?” She nodded. “Have you heard about all the crap that went down between them since?”

  “I heard some things about it.” She left it vague, hoping to hear his version of the story.

  “When Zad shot his dog, I really think Jerzy lost it. I mean, who wouldn’t? That’s taking things too far.”

  His cell phone on the desk in front of him chirped. He jabbed the screen. “Hey, Mitch. Could you hold on for just a second?” He looked back to Delyth. “Sorry.”

  “Of course.” She started to suggest another time for them to meet, but he’d already started talking into his phone. Accepting his imperious dismissal, she gathered her notepad and left his office.

  Outside, Emily smiled and said, “Let me show you the way.” Standing, she was shorter than Delyth had expected.

  Although escorting visitors was standard practice for tech companies that feared corporate espionage, Delyth was glad for the help. The labyrinth of tall cubicles would have been a challenge for a short woman. “I was talking with your husband about the small vineyards that are cropping up in the county.”

  “I hear you want to stir up sympathy for family farmers being driven out by outside money.”

  Delyth laughed. “Not really. I want it to be a fair article. Change can be hard on some people, but it comes with an upside.”

  They’d reached the lobby. Emily stopped to look at her. “And what is the upside?”

  “Keir made a good point about the best use of the land. I’m hoping to discuss it further with him.”

  Emily held the door open to let Delyth out. “He’s very busy these days. I was surprised he was willing to meet with you today. But you can certainly try emailing him again.”

  SIX

  “I told her I don’t tweet.”


  Frank was sitting at the dining room table when Helen got home, a stack of art books in front of him.

  Helen went on without considering that she might be interrupting something. “We were walking into school from the parking lot. Actually, she came up from behind me and just started talking. I don’t remember how we got to the topic, but she was saying kids had grown up with smart phones and social media, so teachers had to keep up if they wanted to reach them. That’s when she asked if I had a Twitter account.”

  “But you were among the first people I knew who joined Facebook.” Frank said in an obvious effort to make her feel better.

  “I told her that. ‘For the grandkids’ photos?’ she asked with a smug little smile plastered on her face.”

  “That was why you joined Facebook.”

  “I know, but she was so condescending about it all. I expected her to pat me on the arm and call me dearie. It got my back up.”

  Frank patted her on the arm in a gesture that was reassuring rather than dismissive. “Would you like a glass of wine to help you relax?”

  “Yes. But no. I’m not going to let that woman drive me to drink. I have some papers to grade before dinner. You get back to work. What are you doing in the dining room, by the way?”

  “I was just looking through some old art books hoping to find inspiration.” He’d been courting his muse for several weeks. “The table gives me more room.”

  Helen looked at the book he was skimming through. “The Pre-Raphaelites. You hate that stuff.”

  “I don’t hate them. I just think they didn’t have a sense of humor. The Brotherhood must have made for dull companions.”

  “Except for the sex.”

  “Hmm.”

  “At least that’s what I’ve read.”

  “Anyway.” Frank looked back at his book. “I’d already gone through all the usual suspects with no luck, and you never know what might spark an idea.”

  Helen left him to it.

  Her tiff with Jennifer wasn’t the only thing getting her down. When she dropped her off on Saturday, Helen had the strong impression that Delyth was having second thoughts about investigating Ajnabee’s murder. She could understand. If Delyth was truly banned from writing about crime, she could be risking her job. It was Delyth’s decision, yet Helen still felt murder was the best way for her to establish her career. Not murdering Vickie Sullivan, of course. Helen laughed. Maybe she was getting too wrapped up in this murder thing. Maybe it would be best to forget about it. But when Delyth called that very evening to tell her she’d interviewed Keir Foley, Helen’s doubts about continuing with the investigation vanished, replaced by a renewed resolve: she had to do it for Delyth’s sake.

  “What was he like?” she asked with a surge of excitement.

  “Kind of attractive. Tall, muscular but not gross, and pale green eyes with a hint of red around the pupils. Actually, those were kind of creepy. You understand how he got to be the head of a company, though. Very commanding. Came prepared and took charge. Everything but a printed agenda.”

  “And what was his agenda?”

  “I’m not sure. It was as if he wanted to plant suspicion on Jerzy Dudda. I couldn’t tell if he was just trying to get Dudda into trouble, or he actually knew something that implicated Dudda. How was your meeting with the realtor?”

  If they’d been face to face, Delyth would have seen Helen blush like a student who hadn’t done her homework. “I haven’t had time to go.”

  “But you are going to do it?”

  “Oh yes, tomorrow.”

  ◆◆◆

  Tomorrow was a Wednesday, a school day. Helen left as soon as she could get away after class.

  The agency Bette Lee worked for was located in a modern building trying to look like a New England colonial meetinghouse. Other than four columns in the front and a blisteringly white exterior, it was a minimal attempt at best. The sleekly modern interior gave up all pretense of a traditional pedigree. The receptionist greeted Helen with what seemed genuine enthusiasm, called Lee at Helen’s request, then said Bette would be right out. “Feel free to check out our listings on the wall while you wait.”

  Helen did as she was told, and was still looking for something similar to her house—it never hurt to know how much it might be worth—when a short, slender woman walked up and introduced herself.

  “Hi, I’m Bette Lee. You asked to see me?”

  Helen, who hadn’t gotten a good look at her on Saturday, guessed she was in her late thirties, with black hair in a loose style that framed her face. Makeup emphasized an upward tilt of eyes and cheekbones. It was beautifully done, but Helen found it too much for the daytime. Combined with a red business suit and high heels, the impression she seemed aiming for was of a high-powered businesswoman. Whatever her intent, it seemed out of place at a small-town real estate office.

  Helen extended a hand and introduced herself, adding, “We met the other day.”

  “Really? I’m usually good with faces, but…”

  “We bumped into each other outside Shawn Cunningham’s. You were just leaving.”

  “Oh, then. I had to get back to the office. Are you interested in buying property?” When Helen hesitated, she asked with somewhat more interest, “Or were you thinking of selling your place?”

  “Actually, Shawn said I should talk with you about Zad Ajnabee.”

  Helen watched enthusiasm drain from Bette’s face, leaving at best mild disinterest, more likely distain. “Why? I mean, who are you anyway? You don’t look like the police.”

  “Oh, no.” Helen wasn’t sure how convincing she could make her cover story. Here was the moment. “I’m helping a reporter on the Redwood Post.” Which was almost true.

  “Another reporter tried contacting me. A Victoria something.”

  “She’s the crime reporter. This is for more of a human-interest article.”

  “Doesn’t matter. I didn’t talk to her either.”

  “Maybe you could just tell me what Ajnabee was like.”

  “A loser.”

  “Shawn said you lived together?”

  “We did. For a short while.”

  “How did you two meet?”

  “You know what? It’s been a long day. Brokers tour. And I have clients coming in ten minutes. You should talk with his girlfriend. She knows him better than me. She works at the Haven Café. Ask for Suzanne.”

  Helen wished she were as aggressive as those reporters who badgered politicians to answer questions when it was clear they were not going to say anything more. But she wasn’t. “Well, thank you for your time,” she said weakly.

  Bette retreated without as much as a nod.

  Maybe Helen wasn’t cut out for questioning people, but Delyth would be disappointed in her if she gave up after one failed attempt.

  ◆◆◆

  With no information other than a first name and where Suzanne worked, Helen decided to take a chance and stop at the Haven Café on her way home.

  The cafe was something of an institution in town, dating back to the hippie invasion. While most of the farm communes had vanished, the Haven lived on. The woman stationed at the entrance, wearing a red-headscarf gypsy style and trying to entice customers to a Tarot reading, was as much a fixture as the café’s driftwood sign over the door. Inside was a strong odor of herbs and yeast. Local dabbler-art hung on the walls—paintings of flowers represented by large blobs of primary colors. Being an artist’s wife, Helen instinctively checked out the prices of the competition. The two paintings closest to the door had cornball titles—“Dahliance” and “Rode A Dendron”—and embarrassingly low prices. No wonder the artist splashed the paint on.

  Two women seemed to be working, each wearing a long, flowing skirt in the colors of earth as seen close-up, not from outer space. Helen approached the one who was filling little plastic bears with honey behind the counter. “I was wondering if Suzanne is working today?”

  “Can I help you?”

  “Ar
e you Suzanne?”

  “Ye-ees,” she said, obviously still dubious about Helen’s intentions.

  When she spoke, Helen recalled seeing her on the evening news. Suzanne had been the one who found Ajnabee’s body. Remembering what it was like to find a murder victim, Helen knew it would be better to avoid asking about it, at least at first. “I’m Helen Terfel.”

  She held out a hand, leading to a half-hearted shake and the response, “Suzanne Dussault.”

  Taking advantage of the tenuous bond their mutual introduction implied, Helen rushed to explain, “I’m helping a reporter on the Redwood Post with a human-interest story about Meherzad Ajnabee. What he was like. That sort of thing.” Helen congratulated herself on the ease with which she told the story this time.

  “I already talked with a reporter. She made Zad out to be a criminal.”

  “That was Victoria, the crime reporter. She tends to see everyone as criminals; it’s an occupational hazard.” She smiled, but thought it might come across as too lighthearted so relaxed her lips into what she hoped was sad acknowledgement of human frailty.

  “Why should I trust you?”

  “All I can say is it will give you a chance to tell Zad’s side of the story. Bette Lee said you knew him better.”

  Suzanne looked closely into Helen’s eyes. Apparently satisfied with what she saw, she said, “Okay. I’ll be off in fifteen minutes. Would you like something to drink while you wait?”

  “Do you have decaf coffee?”

  “The only coffee we offer is herbal, so it’s always decaf.”

  “I’ll try it,” Helen said, reverting to her encouraging smile. She was surprised when Suzanne charged her for the drink.

  After she’d paid, Helen scanned the small dining room. Even though the place was almost empty, she chose a table in a corner where they could talk in private. She sipped the ersatz coffee. It tasted like burned grass, and not the kind that Zad Ajnabee used to grow. Two heaping spoons of honey—apparently the Haven banned sugar—didn’t help. She pushed her cup toward the middle of the table.