Apples For Vinegar Page 9

  “Which leads us back to Jerzy,” Howard said. “If he’s being framed, they’re doing a good job of it.”

  ”Karen insisted the security cameras at the hospital will prove he wasn’t gone long enough to have shot Zad,” Delyth said.

  “You’d think the police had time to go through the videos by now,” Howard said. “It’s been two weeks.”

  Helen realized it’d been only a week since she and Delyth started their investigation. It felt longer. “The police are interviewing Ben,” she said. “We figure they want to ask if he saw or heard his father that night. Maybe the security footage wasn’t clear.”

  “I feel sorry for that kid,” Sam said.

  “Do you know him?” Helen asked.

  “Not really. Just see him around but, of course, Shawn shares the gossip. With such a screwed up family, no wonder he’s got a chip on his shoulder.”

  Everyone took refuge in sipping tea. Everyone except Helen who stared at her cup while she pondered the evidence against Jerzy Dudda. What difference would the security tapes make? He admitted he’d gone home. How long of an absence would prove he wasn’t the killer? Although Delyth said he definitely loved his daughter. Could he have left her, sick and in the emergency room, under the pretext of retrieving her favorite toy, rushed home, killed Ajnabee, then rushed back? The closest hospital was a half-hour drive each way even with a lead foot. It could’ve taken longer if he’d hit traffic, or couldn’t find the toy, or had trouble parking when he got back. There could be a hundred excuses for an extra half-hour—time enough to grab the rifle, run to Ajnabee’s house. But why that night? Had he been planning it, and for some reason couldn’t delay it even with his daughter in the hospital?

  She suddenly realized the others were talking.

  “I’ve got to be going,” Delyth said. “I’m meeting someone for dinner. Thank you again for your time.”

  “Hey, it was fun,” Howard said. “Gossip and speculation. What better way to spend a rainy Saturday!”

  Helen bused her mug to the sink and threw out the liquid.

  She didn’t talk on the way home, her mind returning to how she would ask Frank to accompany them to the winery. She decided the truth was the best policy. Except she wasn’t sure which truth she meant.

  Delyth broke the silence: “You okay?”

  “Oh, me?” Why?”

  “You’re being unusually quiet.”

  “Sorry. Just thinking.” And, rather than going back into playing whack-a-mole with her doubts, she asked, “So what are you and Josh doing tonight?”

  “One thing is, I’m not mentioning what we’re doing tomorrow.” Helen wished she could do the same with Frank. “I think we’re going to dinner with some of his friends.”

  “Really? Who?” Helen feigned interested, but the light conversation worked to keep her from thinking about what she’d do when she got home.

  Finally there, she went directly to his studio where he was looking through his notebooks in search of the big idea. “You busy?” she asked.

  “I didn’t hear you come in.”

  “Yeah, well, we need to talk about something.” And she did, explaining the situation quickly and asking for his help. He jumped right to the one detail she’d hoped he’d miss.

  “You’ve been investigating another murder?” Frank exclaimed. “When did you intend telling me?”

  “It’s only been a week.”

  “A week?”

  “I wanted to help Delyth get a headline story. Discovering the murderer seemed the best option to us.”

  “Best?”

  “You know, the quickest. Sure-fire, first page stuff.”

  He stared at her. She wished he’d stop. She was the one in the family who was supposed to have a stare effective at ferreting out people’s secrets, a skill she’d perfected for teaching. But being at the receiving end of such a stare made her self-conscious.

  “That’s a bunch of bull,” he declared at last.

  “What? I told you she asked for your help.”

  “Not that. The idea that you’re doing it only to help Delyth out. You enjoy this stuff. You’re doing it for yourself. You’re hooked on the thrill.”

  “I’m not…” she started, but if she were completely honest with herself, she had to admit there was something about tracking down a murderer that felt real and essential. When investigating a crime, she was more than the teacher soon to become the ex-teacher.

  “I read somewhere,” she told Frank, “that fascination with murder was a game played from the safety of a civilized society, as if the excitement of solving murders was the same as the titillation some people experience from teasing a caged lion, taunting the wild beast while safely protected by iron bars.”

  “Hardly safe: Cheney almost killed you.”

  ”Mollie.”

  “Okay, Cheney almost killed Mollie. But you certainly would have been next.”

  “I doubt that. Marija would have told him where the jewels were.”

  “You’re missing the point. It’s a dangerous hobby.”

  “I wouldn’t say dangerous, although I admit it’d be somewhat macabre if it were just a hobby. And I don’t deny there is some of that. I do feel more alive when we’re investigating. I’ve told you that. But it’s more than that.”

  “Okay, I’m listening.”

  “I helped prove Mikey innocent.” Frank harrumphed and started to object, but she but a finger on his lips. “That’s what felt so good. It made me feel important and… and special.”

  “And you think you can spend your retirement saving the innocent from the chair?”

  “No. There aren’t enough murders for that, and usually the police do their job right.”

  “So what are you doing?”

  “I’m helping Delyth.”

  “Helping her by doing what you would want to do if you could.”

  “Maybe. It’s complicated. I just know I have to do it this one time.”

  “Do you really believe this will be the last time?”

  She actually didn’t know the answer. She shrugged her shoulders, and didn’t say anything.

  “I assume you’re going to go whether I do or not.”

  She barely nodded.

  “In that case, I’ll do it.” Despite his acquiescence, his voice clearly conveyed that he still judged it a foolhardy idea.

  “It’ll be fun,” Helen responded with as much optimism as she could muster. “You’ll see.”

  Frank grunted and put his nose back into the art book.

  ◆◆◆

  When they arrived at the winery the next morning, Helen had to admit it wasn’t much fun.

  The tasting room for Greenway Vineyards was in a severely modern building of concrete and steel. Its corrugated metal roof undulated along its length as if trying to match the gentle contours of the mountains across the valley. The cars of the few people willing to brave the remnants of the spring rain huddled close to the entrance. As they walked from the car, Helen, Delyth and Frank stopped to study the trellised grape rows marching down toward a bank of fog that obscured the river below. The vines had already been pruned, leaving only gnarled trunks and arms, pinioned and black with the previous day’s rain. But even the damp chill and gloomy view seemed preferable to whatever they might face once they entered.

  It was Frank who finally said, “We might as well get this over with.”

  Inside, windows along the length of the building looked out on the same view they’d just left. In front of the windows was a long bar sheeted in copper. Three small clusters of young and well-dressed patrons were grouped across from servers pouring tastes. The opposite wall was hung with paintings of lurid scenes made up of ben-ray dots: one was of a woman, her arm hacked off and spewing blood, walking into a Dairy Queen; another of a chubby, cheerful baby sucking on a severed finger. Those were all Helen could stand looking at. The juxtaposition of the gruesome and comic-book style made them even scarier. It was as if they were trying t
o drive customers away. Helen hoped children weren’t allowed to see them.

  Frank seemed mesmerized. “They’re Lichtensteins of the grotesque,” he said, getting a closer look.

  Helen grabbed Delyth’s forearm. “Do you think he’s here?”

  “I can’t tell.”

  No one in the room struck Helen as a likely drug dealer. But then, what did she know about how drug dealers looked other than what she saw on TV?

  Suddenly a tall, lean man walked up. “Delyth?” His smile revealed teeth the product of either remarkable genes or parents willing and able to spend a fortune on orthodontics. In the reflected gray light leaching through the windows, his eyes were steel blue, but laugh lines kept them from looking cruel.

  “Robert?”

  “I see you brought friends. Very smart. No sense not enjoying the afternoon. I’m here with someone as well.” He turned and nodded toward a tall woman standing at the end of the bar who smiled, then returned to the full glass of wine sitting in front of her. “My wife.”

  “This is my friend Helen Terfel,” Delyth said, “and her husband Frank.”

  Helen didn’t know what to make of the man. His cryptic phone call, the eerie place he chose to meet, everything suggested someone they should be wary of. In person, though, he was handsome and charming in a stiff sort of way. She put a hand forward. “I didn’t catch your name.”

  “Robert.” He lightly took her hand, but quickly released it. “Very glad to meet you.” Before Helen could ask more specifically for a last name, he went on, “I hope you don’t mind, if I steal Delyth away for a moment. We’ll be over in the merchandise alcove.”

  Delyth didn’t object so Helen didn’t feel she should interfere; Delyth must know what she’s doing. As they walked away, Helen pulled Frank away from the paintings. “Pay attention,” she told him.

  Robert and Delyth stood facing the shelves of stemmed glasses and wine openers, baseball caps and t-shirts, all emblazoned with the winery’s logo. As they talked he picked up a cap and tried it on, turning toward his wife, who smiled, but shook her head. He put the cap back, and turned toward Delyth.

  “I wish I could hear what they’re saying,” Helen told Frank.

  “Why don’t you go up and check out the merchandise. Pretend you’re interested in a wine glass with a dead branch on it.”

  “That’s the logo. It’s supposed to represent gnarled old vines.” Considering the paintings, Helen wasn’t sure she was right. There seemed to be an inordinate amount of momento mori around the room.

  She watched as Robert pulled out a t-shirt and held it up to Delyth, who stepped back, appearing startled. He laughed, folded the packaged shirt over once and handed it to her, then shook her free hand. They returned to where Helen and Frank were waiting.

  “That didn’t take too long, I hope,” Robert said.

  “We were admiring the artwork,” Frank said.

  Robert glanced at the wall of paintings. “My wife’s work. Talented, don’t you agree?”

  “She certainly has a style of her own,” Frank said.

  “It’s not to everyone’s liking.” Robert paused, Helen assumed, to allow them time to object. When they didn’t, he went on. “To thank you for your patience, I arranged a Vintners’ Tasting for each of you. Enjoy.” He glided to where his wife was waiting, took her arm and left.

  Delyth stared after him. “I think I would have preferred the three-hundred pound gangbanger.”

  “What did he say?” Helen asked. “Did he threaten you?”

  “No. He was pleasant and polite. Icily polite. The way I imagine a psychopath acts before he draws a knife across your throat. I know, it could all be in my head.” She looked toward the bar. “Even so, I could use a drink. How big are their pours?”

  Frank nodded toward a sign above the bar announcing prices. “The Vintners’ Tasting costs ninety bucks each. At those prices, they should be pouring full glasses and giving us a bottle on the way out.”

  Handing the t-shirt to Helen, Delyth said, “Put this in your bag. I left mine in the car.”

  “Why did he give you a t-shirt?” Helen asked.

  “It has a surprise inside. He said not to look at it until we’re outside.”

  “I can’t wait that long. You sure you want that wine?”

  “Robert said we should enjoy the rest of our afternoon like regular tourists out for some wine tasting. I have no idea if all this cloak-and-dagger stuff is for real or just theatrics to make his information seem more credible. Who does he think would be watching us? And why? But I have to say, it’s got me a little creeped out.” She turned toward the bar. “Shall we?” She led the way.

  “I definitely noticed he avoided telling us his last name,” Helen said as they walked.

  “Yeah, thanks for trying. I asked him point blank, but he refused. He said it’s the information that’s important, not the messenger.”

  “Did he tell you anything worthwhile?” Helen asked.

  “You remember the ransom Keir Foley paid with his own money?”

  “Yeah. To save his business partner, but he was killed anyway.”

  “Robert says he paid it to himself.”

  “Wait! How does he know? Did he provide any proof?”

  Delyth half-turned. “It’s supposed to be in your bag right now.”

  Helen clutched the bag tighter.

  “I believe Robert arranged a tasting for three,” Delyth said to the server, who smiled and placed three glasses in front of them. “I’ve had a tough morning. Could you pour a little heavy in one of them?”

  The server wore black pants and a white shirt buttoned all the way up, a more formal look than Helen was used to in tasting rooms. He neither answered Delyth’s question nor acknowledged Robert’s largesse; rather, he started in on his spiel about where the grapes were grown and how the wine made. “Our pinot gris is made in the Italian style. We harvest the grapes early, giving the wine a slightly higher acidity that minimizes—”

  Helen stopped listening, concentrating on Delyth’s profile instead. She did notice the server had filled Delyth’s glass noticeably fuller. Frank swirled his glass, stuck his nose deep in it, then sniffed, sipped, sloshed and spat into a metal bucket. “They succeeded on the acid,” he told the server then threw the rest of the wine into the bucket. Delyth downed hers without ceremony or pucker.

  When the server stepped away to help another group, Helen said, “You talked an awful long time for just that. What else did he say?”

  “Mostly about the dark web and how to anonymize Bitcoin transactions.”

  Helen interrupted: “What kind of word is anonymize?”

  “Probably it isn’t a word, but you can guess what it means. You mix your Bitcoins with a bunch of others, so no one can know which is which.”

  “I still don’t understand.”

  “To be honest, neither do I. Not completely. The bottom line seems to be that whatever Foley did, it made it impossible for anyone—not even the police—to prove where the money came from.”

  “So how does Robert know?”

  The server returned. Helen hadn’t touched her wine, but quickly threw it in the metal bucket. “Malolactic fermentation,” the server explained, “and French oak yields a chardonnay with strong notes of vanilla, cloves, cinnamon and a buttery aroma.”

  After going through his tasting ritual, Frank declared, “Too much oak for my taste. Of course, I’m strictly an ABC guy: anything but chardonnay.”

  Usually Helen would agree with him, but that day she wasn’t interested in the wine. When the server left again, she scolded Frank. “How can you possibly be tasting wine?”

  “Isn’t that what we’re supposed to be doing?”

  “Yes, but it’s only for show,” she whispered.

  He whispered back. “And I’m doing a good job at it.”

  “Why are you whispering?” Delyth asked sotto voce.

  “In case someone is listening,” Helen said.

  �
�Don’t you think whispering is more suspicious?”

  The server returned, looking at them quizzically.

  “You’re right,” Helen said in normal voice. “We should enjoy the wine.” She curbed her impatience as she endured two pinot noirs, a zinfandel and three cabernet sauvignons. Frank made the same ABC joke, but this time the “C” stood for cabernet. Helen almost kicked him when he ordered a bottle of the zinfandel. At $85, it was the cheapest wine on the list, but still well above their usual price range. Plus, she just wanted to get out of there and check out what was in the t-shirt package.

  When they left, Delyth was flushed and Frank unusually effusive despite spitting out most of his wine. “I’ll drive,” Helen told him. He handed over the keys without protest, and sat in the backseat.

  Finally ensconced in the car, Helen demanded, “Okay. What did he say?”

  “I told you that Keir Foley paid the ransom to himself, and he did it using Bitcoins that made it impossible to trace the money back to him. But, the payments were converted to dollars using PayPal. In your bag, you have a printout of Foley’s PayPal transactions for the three months following the ransom. They total a little over one million dollars. Robert said the extra was because Bitcoins appreciated during that period.”

  Helen sat silent, trying to assimilate what Delyth had just said.

  From the backseat, Frank said, “That doesn’t prove anything. He’s a rich guy. He could’ve had that much money sitting in a wallet all along.”

  “Why would he keep that much money in a wallet?” Helen objected.

  “Not a leather wallet. A Bitcoin wallet. It’s a software program where Bitcoins are… well, it’s too hard to explain.”

  “How do you know so much,” Helen asked.

  “A lot of people are speculating on Bitcoins lately. I’ve read a few articles. The transfers may have been Foley locking in his profits from some unrelated business.”

  “Why did he bring this to you and not the police?” Helen asked Delyth.

  “I can think of a couple reasons. One, he actually is a drug dealer or something equally illegal. He doesn't want to get close to the police. Two, he probably hacked Foley’s PayPal account, so the police couldn’t use the information anyway.”