“The court calls Sarah McKee.”
Sarah stood up and squeezed past Kelley’s knees to shuffle out to the main aisle. The two of them had chosen seats in the last row so the detective could slip out if necessary. Sarah had dressed in a navy suit, light blue blouse and brown faux alligator pumps, and for the first time in a long time felt comfortable in her clothes. Maybe all the running and walking was doing her some good.
But she had no time to dwell on the state of her health as she was sworn in, given a copy of her witness report, and shown a seat next to the coroner.
From the witness box, Sarah could scan the faces of the audience. Sheriff Bradley, in full regalia, sat in the front row, as the coroner’s office was part of his department, and he was responsible for the investigation. His strong face was both impassive and alert. Near him sat Jean-Paul Harris and his wife Tina, their expressions grim.
Jean-Paul crossed his arms over his chest as he stared Sarah down, making it clear that the inquest was a waste of his time, and she was going to pay for the trouble she had caused.
“Vice versa, pal,” Sarah muttered to herself, staring him down in return before continuing her visual sweep of the attendees.
Behind the Harrises were Charlie Osteen, Ann Woods, and a slew of vintners who had known Landon for years, as well as numerous employees of the vineyard. No one spoke or even whispered. Everyone seemed eager to learn what had happened to their Sonoma Valley friend.
The coroner, a plump man in his thirties, with his pale neck spilling over the white collar of his shirt, seemed too soft and too young for the job. His black blazer had dog hair on one sleeve and the scent of his hair pomade clung to the back of Sarah’s throat in an oily film. He curled his left hand around a pen, jotted something down on a tablet, shoved up his white-framed glasses, and then tapped the microphone.
“Uh, let’s begin,” he said.
Sarah’s confidence in the proceedings slipped a notch.
After the initial summary of the salient points surrounding the case, the coroner asked Sarah why she had instigated the inquest. She testified to what she had filled out in her report, emphasizing her concern about Landon’s last few days, especially the phone call that had been abruptly cut off, the way his health had declined so rapidly, as well as his dying request of her. She kept her “feelings” about the Alice Creek property to herself.
“And have you located this so-called young love yet?” the coroner asked.
“No, sir, I have not.”
“Or the supposed heir.”
“No longer supposed, sir. We have learned of a woman who is Landon Harris’ biological daughter, but we have yet to locate her.”
“There is no documentation for a possible heir in the file.”
“I believe the Ancestry.com verification is forthcoming.”
Sarah glanced at the sheriff, who nodded.
The coroner flashed a brief smile without meeting Sarah’s eye. “Thank you, Ms. McKee. You are dismissed.”
The other minor witnesses gave testimony next—the housekeeper, the new manager Kingsley Adams, Charlie Osteen, Landon’s oncologist, and a handful of employees of Harris Winery. None of them had much to say except for the young manager, who claimed the books at the winery were a mess and would take forever to straighten out. She also suspected embezzlement.
Sarah scowled. Ann Woods had just been publicly criticized with no chance to defend herself, and Sarah didn’t like it. Kingsley had to be lying or was just plain wrong. Plus, according to Ann’s friends still working at Harris, Jean-Paul had flown Kingsley up from Santa Barbara immediately after Ann’s dismissal. Her loyalties lay with Jean-Paul, not Harris Winery.
After Kingsley Adams’ scathing remarks, Jean-Paul Harris was called to give testimony. Once he settled into the box, he grabbed the rail with both hands and looked out at the audience, perturbed but confident that his testimony would be brief.
“Mr. Harris, you indicate that you took care of your father for the past two weeks.”
“I did.”
“And where is your primary residence?”
“Santa Barbara.”
“You came quite a distance.”
“Yes, sir. I did.”
“Was there something that precipitated the visit? Did your father ask for your assistance?”
“No, sir. When he called to tell me he had cancer, I thought I should make a personal visit.”
“And did he mention that you might have a half-sibling?”
“That’s impossible.” Jean-Paul stared at the coroner. “Not my father. He wasn’t the type.”
“Just answer the question, Mr. Harris. Did your father tell you that you had a half-sibling?”
“No, sir. He did not.”
“Liar,” Sarah muttered.
The coroner consulted a paper in the case file. “You say in your statement that you took on the role of primary caregiver of your father. Were you aware of the medications that your father was taking?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Did you oversee the administration of those medications?”
“Why wouldn’t I? My father was becoming extremely forgetful.”
“Just answer the question, Mr. Harris.”
Jean-Paul heaved a sigh, frustrated. “Yes, sir, I made certain he took his pills.”
“Can you read the list of medications that your father took?”
Jean-Paul grabbed the paper he’d been given and read through the twenty-odd prescriptions that his father had taken each day, from baby aspirins to statins.
“Thank you,” the coroner said. “Do you swear that this is the extent of his medications?”
“Yes, sir.” Jean-Paul shook the paper in the air. “I made this list directly from the bottles in his room.”
“To your knowledge, did your father contract COVID-19 recently?”
“Yes. A year or so ago.”
“Did you take care of him then?”
“No. No one could travel at the time. I mean, not easily.”
“Are you aware of any treatment he may have undergone during that illness?”
“We didn’t talk all that much, sir.” Jean-Paul clasped his hands together on top of the railing. “He never called me. He was too busy painting and drinking with his buddies, obviously.”
“Please answer the question, Mr. Harris.”
“No,” Jean-Paul snapped and then caught himself. “No, sir. I did not know anything about his COVID treatment.”
“So, you did not communicate often?”
“No, sir.”
“But he asked you to take care of him in his final illness?”
“No.” Jean-Paul shrugged. “That was my decision, as I have said. I’m his son. He needed me.”
“Mr. Harris, according to the testimony of Ms. McKee, your father tried to call her, and the phone was taken away. Were you in the room during that phone call?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Did you terminate the call?”
“Yes, sir, I did.” Jean-Paul glared at Sarah and then back at the coroner. “My father was very ill. But this thing he had going with Ms. McKee was causing him a lot of distress. He was not sleeping. He wasn’t eating.”
“Did you also take away his computer?”
“Yes, I did. For his own good. I was concerned about his state of mind. He kept blubbering about needing to go to Mexico. I couldn’t let him waste money on travel arrangements. The man could barely walk.”
Out of the corner of her eye, Sarah saw Ann Woods shift in her seat to look back at Sarah. She shook her head, refuting Jean-Paul’s testimony.
“Because of the perceived distress of your father,” the coroner continued, “did you take additional steps, Mr. Harris? In the form of medication? Medication that you did not list in your report?”
Jean-Paul squeezed the rail until his knuckles turned white.
“Mr. Harris?” the coroner prodded.
Jean-Paul let out a heavy sigh.
“Yes,” Jean-Paul admitted, begrudgingly. “I gave him some Xanax.”
“Was he prescribed Xanax by his oncologist or primary physician?”
“No, sir.” Jean-Paul clenched his jaw and shot a glance at the doctor.
“Whose Xanax was it?”
“My wife’s. But we were desperate. We had to calm him down.”
“Mr. Harris,” the corner leaned forward again. “Are you aware that Xanax can have serious side effects, especially when taken with other medications?”
Jean-Paul paled but immediately composed himself. “It didn’t do him any harm. In fact, it helped.”
“Answer the question.”
“Yes, sir, I know that Xanax can have side effects.”
“And that pharmaceuticals are not to be administered without a doctor’s consent?”
“It didn’t hurt him,” Jean-Paul retorted, acidly, barely able to stay in his seat. “And it certainly didn’t kill him!”
“Sir,” the coroner held up his hand. “You are out of order. Another outburst, and I will hold you in contempt.”
Jean-Paul sighed and pressed his lips together as he fought back his fury, enough to continue. “My apologies. But you must know how stressful this has been for my family and me. It’s bad enough losing a father. But to be accused of harming him? It’s too much!”
“No one is accusing you, Mr. Harris. And no one is on trial here. We are simply collecting as much information as we can in order to make an informed decision as to the manner of your father’s death.” The coroner made another note while Jean-Paul watched, increasingly agitated.
“Did your father drink alcohol?” the coroner inquired.
“Of course he did. He owned a vineyard.”
“Were you aware that alcohol and Xanax, or alprazolam, can affect the respiratory system and cause extreme drowsiness, especially in older people?”
Jean-Paul sat back. “No, sir. I wasn’t.” He adjusted the cuffs of his shirt beneath his jacket. “But I don’t believe my father was drinking alcohol the night of his death.”
“Were you with him the entire evening?”
“No, sir. But there was a coffee cup next to his chair. Not a wine glass.”
“And he was discovered in the morning by an employee?”
“Yes, sir. In his studio. By the housekeeper, just like she said. Somehow, he managed to wander out there.”
“Was your father distressed about his illness?”
“Of course. He had cancer. Pancreatic. It’s the worst kind.”
“Do you have reason to believe he would take his own life? Did he ever mention suicide?”
“No.” Jean-Paul shook his head. “Never.”
“But you said he was agitated.”
“About something in his past.” Jean-Paul shrugged. “Apparently that half-sibling he failed to mention to me.” Jean-Paul flung up both hands. “Who knows? But he certainly wasn’t the type to kill himself.”
The coroner nodded and scribbled something on the tablet. Then he settled back in his chair and observed Jean-Paul Harris, his expression impassive.
“Mr. Harris, when you administered medication to your father, where did you get the pills?”
“From his nightstand.”
“Is that the only location where he kept his medication?”
“As far as I know.”
“And how did you feel about your father’s condition?”
“In what way?” Jean-Paul snapped, taken aback.
“Did his suffering bother you?”
“Of course.”
“Would you have wanted him to pass rather than go through the final stages of pancreatic cancer?”
“What are you getting at?”
“Did he ask you to help him end his life?”
Jean-Paul shook his head vehemently. “No, sir. He did not.”
The courtroom filled with hissing whispers. Kelley leaned close to Sarah. “Assisted suicide? Really?”
“Never,” Sarah retorted. “Not Landon.”
The coroner glared at the inquest attendees and admonished them for making too much noise, while Sarah’s thoughts moved on to this new line of questioning. Obviously, the medical examiner had found evidence pointing to a drug overdose. That meant the autopsy and toxicology report had, indeed, revealed something unnatural about Landon’s death. She slumped in her chair, worried and heartbroken that Landon had died prematurely and more than likely at someone else’s hand.
If she had only called him…
Though her reasons for requesting the inquest had been vindicated, she was more unsettled now than ever before. Had Landon Harris died by accident, suicide or homicide? Her gut told her—as it had from the start—that he had been murdered.
Fuming now, Jean-Paul watched the coroner shuffle through papers in the file, his movements deliberate, even exaggerated, as if testing Jean-Paul’s patience. Finally, he drew out a sheet of paper and scanned it. Then the coroner looked over his glasses at Jean-Paul.
“Mr. Harris, can you approximate the value of Harris Winery?”
Jean-Paul straightened and fussed with his tie, “Forty million dollars.”
“Is that market value?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You seem confident of the amount.”
“I am. I had the property appraised recently.”
“This report states that, in fact, Harris Winery has been sold.”
Murmurs of shock and surprise filled the courtroom.
“Order!” the coroner barked, his throat jiggling. “Ladies and gentlemen, we will not continue this investigation if you persist in these disruptions.”
The crowd hushed.
“Mr. Harris?”
“That is correct. It sold the day it went on the market.”
“Can you state your reason for selling the property so soon after your father’s death?”
“I have every right to sell.” Jean-Paul held up both hands, incredulous. “He’s dead. The vineyard is mine to dispose of. And I certainly don’t want that albatross hanging around my neck.”
“Not to mention that you will be relieved of your debts once the sale is final.”
“So? That’s no crime.” Jean-Paul rolled his eyes and added, “Sir.”
“No, Mr. Harris,” the coroner said. “It is not. But had an additional heir stepped forward, you would need their signature on such a sale.”
“No, the winery is in a trust.”
“I see.”
“I’m the only trustee.”
“And when was the trust established?”
“I don’t know.” Jean-Paul thought for a moment. “A few months ago.”
“Was it your idea or your father’s?”
“Mine. The old man was losing it.” Jean-Paul made a circle in front of his ear. “He couldn’t handle the place any longer.”
“Was he tested for dementia?” the coroner riffled though the file again. “I see no history of such an exam.”
“I don’t think so. I don’t know.”
“Then it was your personal diagnosis, Mr. Harris.”
“Yeah. I’m his son. I knew him best.”
“And yet you rarely communicated with each other.”
Jean-Paul had no time to craft a retort before the coroner dismissed him and called Ann Woods to the stand.
Flustered, Jean-Paul stood up, buttoned his suit and stormed toward his seat. Ann Woods walked by him, her back straight and chin high, without a single glance at the son of her former boss.
“Go get ‘em, lass,” Sarah muttered under her breath.