Chapter 8
Honeybee pupae wait to chew through their
wax-capped cells until the color of their
compound eyes and bodies darkens.
—Henny Penny Farmette Almanac
Abby focused on the two-lane road, while Sugar perched on the passenger seat, as if riding shotgun. They were taking the scenic way home from the winery. Troubling questions occupied Abby’s mind, most of them having to do with what Hannah had confided. What had Scott meant by his accusation that Emilio was sidling up to other winery owners? And how did Emilio know Scott Thompson’s drug use was making him unfit to handle the barrel room? And why had Dori Langston claimed to be an interior decorator? Why did Brianna keep a gun within easy reach? What did any of this have to do with Jake’s death? Abby resolved to dig up the answers. And one thing she was very good at was digging.
Paola’s impressions of Scott had been positive. She had told Abby he was a good listener. And yet Abby had witnessed a darker side. What explained it? Maybe Scott sought job security by sidling up to his boss’s wife. It wouldn’t be the first time a man used a woman that way. Abby made a mental note to find out more about Scott when Paola regained consciousness. A sobering thought intruded. What if her lovely Argentine friend never woke up? A wave of sadness swept over Abby as she envisioned Paola lying helpless in a pentobarbital coma, with a skull flap removed to accommodate brain swelling. When and if she did awaken, Paola would have to tell the police what she witnessed that horrible night. Abby could only hope that a member of Paola’s family would be there to hold her hand through that interview.
The hilly road twisted through stands of white birch, red-bark eucalyptus, and manzanita trees. Vineyards, their linear rows like leafy tiling patterns laid out in perfect symmetry, served as backdrops for white farmhouses and tall, open barns set back from the road. In some barns, Abby could see baled hay stacked in lofts under corrugated tin roofs. After the multiyear drought, farmers had raced the early onset of storms this year to harvest their hay fields. Most had put their hay up, but a few fields remained dotted with bales still to be transported.
Passing the old church that the Lutherans and later a sect of Buddhists had once occupied, Abby noticed strange angular pads on a cell phone tower antenna perched atop the building’s roofline. Grimacing at the unappealing aesthetic, she recalled hearing a lot of debate from townspeople about congregations accepting money for a house of worship to be a conduit. Many believed that possible communications transmitted through the tower’s antenna might not be in alignment with the spiritual beliefs and practices of churchgoers.
Abby eased off of the accelerator and let the road ahead unfold as her thoughts quietly drifted. But within seconds, her thoughts zipped into high alert. Her foot hit the brake pedal. Up ahead a drought-stressed western sycamore with mottled bark, dangling brown balls, and few remaining broad leaves collapsed in slow motion, with a heavy thud, over a horse trailer being towed by a pickup. Brakes screeched; horns blared. Abby’s cell phone started ringing. Drivers began to attempt backing up. Some tried to pull off on the shoulder to maneuver away.
Abby glanced at her phone. Seriously, Kat. Can’t talk now. Abby’s heart raced like a runaway train. Her cell continued to ring, even as a siren wailed on approach behind her. Must be Otto. He’d be monitoring the radio traffic and know if dispatch had put out a service call.
Heart thumping and anxiety gnawing at her insides, Abby ignored the phone while she tried to figure a way out of the mess. Looking to her left, at a tree-lined, narrow gravel road, she recalled that it followed Las Flores Creek as it wound through the foothills past the Las Flores Regional Park. There the creek widened into a small lake, mostly visited by fishermen, bird-watchers, and hikers interested in following the numerous trails throughout the local wine region. Abby knew she could take the road and several others that connected to it and slowly make her way back to Farm Hill Road, about nine miles out.
In a split second, she backed up the Jeep and swung left. Even if it did take longer to get home, at least she wouldn’t be stuck in this mess. After she’d rolled out of view down the two-lane gravel road, Abby pulled over and stopped in the shade of a tall pin oak, where she answered Kat’s call.
“About time you picked up,” said Kat.
“Sorry about that.” Abby hit the speaker button on her cell. “I was dealing with traffic backed up behind a horse trailer.” Breathing easier and feeling her anxiety lessening, Abby stared at a low-hanging branch, noticing the way the hue of its leaves shifted in places from sap green to verdigris.
“On Farm Hill Road?”
“No. I’m on Rooster Flats Road.”
“The only thing of note on Rooster Flats Road is the winery. So why are you up there at this early hour?”
“To have a word with Emilio.”
“And that would be what cell phones are for, girlfriend.”
“Yeah, Kat. I get that. So what’s up?”
“I wanted you to know first,” said Kat. “Well, actually, Sinclair was first up in the loop, because the hospital called him. And then he told me.”
“Oh, for goodness’ sake, Kat. What? He told you what? Tell me already.” Kat could be annoying sometimes, but now she had Abby’s undivided attention.
“Paola’s doctors are saying she is wiggling her toes on command.”
“That’s fabulous news.”
“Sinclair’s mood went positively buoyant. He’s headed there now.”
“Is her doctor okay with a cop questioning her? I mean, it’s soon . . . too early, surely. She needs time to—”
“What? She’s got to be interviewed, Abby.”
“It’s not that, but Sinclair will be asking her about her husband’s murder. What could be more traumatic for a woman who’s been through what she has?” Abby swallowed against a small lump that had formed in her throat. She felt unsettled. “Shouldn’t Paola have a family member or at least Father Joe with her for that?”
“Well, if you are there with Emilio, couldn’t you ask him to leave work to be with her?” asked Kat.
“As it turns out, he’s not working today,” said Abby. She quickly added, “But, look, it is possible one of her sisters might be with her already.”
“Ah, not to worry, then. So I’ll see you Saturday. My birthday dinner?”
“I haven’t forgotten. But thanks for the heads-up.” Abby clicked off the call.
Fifteen minutes later, Abby navigated a narrow, winding uphill stretch of the road. From the top, she enjoyed sweeping panoramic views of green valleys and the mountains beyond. Below, the regional park came into view. It sprawled over forty-five acres, encompassing rolling knolls, stretches of woods, and a crystal clear lake fed by Las Flores Creek. The lake’s surface reflected the billowy white clouds dotting the sky. She could see the ranger station and a couple of vehicles parked near it. While the park might not have many weekday visitors during the rainy season—November through April—people came out during weekends and on holidays to see the ducks and other resident wildlife.
Abby negotiated the hill’s descent, maneuvering carefully around curves, until the park entrance emerged again in her line of sight. Rolling past the unstaffed ticket kiosk, which did a brisk business during the summer months, when staffers collected parking fees, she maneuvered the Jeep next to the Buick Regal, one of two vehicles in the lot. Unless she was mistaken, that sedan belonged to Emilio. She glanced out the car window but could see no one inside the Regal. So where are you, Emilio?
After Sugar had bounded out of the Jeep to the ground, Abby snapped the leash to the dog collar and slammed shut the door. She hustled over to the Buick and peered in. Sure enough, a clean chef’s shirt hung on a hook at the rear passenger window. After following Sugar’s eager lead to the ranger station, Abby snooped around, but the place appeared empty. Perhaps the ranger had gone to the restroom.
Next, Abby walked past a row of picnic tables and barbecue pits that dotted the lake’s edge. She and Sugar approached an area of tall green and golden reeds where someone had tied a blue rowboat to the dock. At the farthest end of the wooden structure, Emilio sat dangling his long, jeans-clad legs over the edge, near a stand of brown, fuzzy cattails. He seemed fixated on the smooth liftoff of a sandhill crane on the lake’s far side.
“Hola, Emilio,” Abby called out.
Emilio turned to look at her. His brooding expression registered surprise. “Abby, what brings you here?”
She volleyed the question back at him. “I could ask you the same thing.”
He twisted his head, as if to work out a kink. “I often come here after work or on my days off. I think better in nature.”
“I can see why. It’s peaceful. We’re not interrupting, are we?” She gave Sugar a pat on the head.
“Not at all. Come. Sit with me.”
Abby strolled over to him and dropped down on the wooden surface. Sugar, a leash length away, set about sniffing the air, the dock, the reeds, cattails, and anything else she fancied, yipping now and again at a sudden movement in the rushes.
“Saw you at the winery, Abby. It didn’t seem like a good situation to welcome you into.” His deep-set dark eyes gazed out over the lake’s edge, where a fish splashed out of the water.
“Well, I was there to see you. I didn’t expect to witness that fight. Care to tell me what it was about?” Abby hoped he would feel like talking.
Emilio pushed a shock of jet-black hair behind his ear. Except for that section of hair, he’d secured the rest with an elastic band. “Things got a little heated at the staff meeting with our boss. Now that Jake’s gone, he wants a strategy for the winery’s future. Scott Thompson and I don’t see eye to eye on that issue, so I guess you could say we butted heads.”
“How so?”
“Scott used to listen. These days, though, he’s just reactionary. He shot down every idea I mentioned without offering other options. So disrespectful.”
“Well, what were you proposing?”
“More wine and food events. You know, tie them into the seasons of vineyards and wine making. Better not get me started on all the ways I think we could create special occasions for wine club members and the public. If our events involved music, we could cross-pollinate promo with the participating bands, and so much more.”
To Abby, it seemed like a perfectly reasonable idea. Lots of other wineries in the region already offered events. Some united music from local bands and offerings from food trucks. Abby could see the payoff for Emilio, but how did Scott see that as a disadvantage? “Tell me how your idea would work.”
“So, Abby, you know that all the local wineries do tastings now. But what if two or more wineries joined? Say we had a group participating in something like a port-of-call series of events.”
“You mean like a cruise ship stopping at new destinations? So go on.”
“Yes. Exactly. We could finish a season with an annual competition of some kind. Maybe it could be for the best food and wine pairing for that season in our region.”
Abby smiled. Emilio certainly did not lack enthusiasm or ingenuity.
“Can’t see why Scott wouldn’t like that,” said Abby.
“Me neither. I’d brought these ideas up to Jake, and he’d seemed open to them. But Scott objected to change. Thinks we should stay small and focus on great wine. And that part-timer Gary Lynch, who sometimes helps out doing odd jobs when his cousin Trevor Massey is doing a kitchen shift . . . Well, they are just three guys who haven’t a clue how to think big.”
“What would Scott get out of the winery sticking to the status quo?”
“Who knows? I used to like the guy, but he’s been off the hook lately. Always complaining and shirking. Mood swings with no warning. He went ballistic when I brought up an idea about starting something like the Napa Valley Wine Train. I mean, there’s already a small railroad that runs through the mountains beyond these foothills. Did you know that?”
Nodding, Abby said, “It doesn’t go anywhere except up into the old-growth forest and back down.” She could hear the enthusiasm in his voice and see how his eyes sparkled as he spoke about his passion. He was clearly a man with bold ideas, just like Jake had been. Abby watched an insect on the water’s surface flitting and widening the ripples. “Well, I guess your new boss’s response is what will matter in the end.”
“And I had won him over until Scott started tearing apart every idea. Before Jake died, Scott had been panicking that he was going to get canned. So maybe Scott thinks the way to stay on the payroll is by not rocking the boat. He and that odd jobber Gary Lynch are awfully chummy. Makes you wonder what they have in common.”
“What do you mean?” Abby leaned back on the heels of her hands and looked over at Emilio. His expression darkened.
“I should leave it at that. I’ve said enough.”
She should have anticipated that response. Emilio was ex-military and a crack shot, but not the type of person to criticize or judge others without good cause. But maybe if she hit the question directly on point, Emilio would answer in an equally forthright manner. “So, Emilio, I’ve heard about Scott’s drug use. Maybe that accounts for his mood swings and combative behavior. Any truth to it?”
Emilio shot her an incredulous look, as though she expected him to engage in community gossip. His jaw tensed. He looked away.
By his silence, Abby realized that this was the brother that Paola had called her “moral compass.” He was only thirty-five years old, but in many ways he seemed older and wiser. This character of creative imagination and strong moral compass was whom Paola believed Emilio to be, and whom Abby hoped him to be.
“May I ask a question of you, Emilio, about the night of the murder?”
He cupped a hand over his eyes momentarily, as though trying to make out the species of a hawk circling in the distance. He dropped his hand and gazed directly at Abby. “Sure.”
“Where were you when Jake was killed?”
Emilio’s jaw tensed. “Like I’ve told the police, I was in the wine cellar.” He didn’t blink.
“But no one saw you go down there.” She looked over at Sugar, who’d stretched out for a snooze in the sun on the warm pier boards. Staring at the ripples in the lake, she asked, “Was anyone with you?”
He hesitated. “Why would there be?”
“Look, Emilio,” said Abby. “I don’t have a dog in this fight. It just so happens, I believe you are innocent. And unless you shock me with an admission that you murdered your brother-in-law, not much else you say would surprise me.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Here’s what the police know. You had a motive. You owned a gun that shot a bullet of the same caliber as the one that killed Jake and that they fished out of Paola. No one can alibi you for the time Jake was murdered. And you drive an older-model sedan, like the killer’s getaway car.” Abby inhaled a deep breath. “Now I’ll confess something to you. I believe you were with someone when your brother-in-law was killed. I also think that for whatever reason, you are protecting that person. Why?”
He plucked a broken cattail growing in the swale along the dock. After examining the brown, fuzzy flowering spike, he said, “Can I trust you, I mean, to keep silent about this?”
“Absolutely.”
“Do you know Appleton Wines?”
Abby recalled the local winery’s recent awards from some prestigious competitions. “I do.”
“One of their daughters, Hailey . . . Well, we’ve got a lot in common. She’s about my age and has had some culinary training, too. She believes my ideas fit with their family’s vision for the future of Appleton.”
“And this is connected to the murder how . . . ?”
He started to speak and then stopped himself.
Abby gave him time. She watched him chew his lower lip.
Eventually, he summoned the courage to speak. “The night of Jake and Paola’s party, I invited her down to the cellar. There are some spectacular wines down there, wines even more rare than those displayed upstairs. We talked. She offered me a job. A good offer. One hard to pass up.”
Abby felt the tension leave her body at the realization that Emilio had an alibi. “And?”
“I told her, ‘No. At least, not now.’ Look, Jake was exceptional at pissing people off. Especially me.” Emilio sneezed into a bent elbow. He fished a handkerchief from his jeans pocket and blew his nose. Pushing his handkerchief into his pocket, he continued, “My employment contract runs for another six months. I believe the right thing to do is stay. Help the Winston family move forward, because this is a terrible thing to happen to a winery this time of year.” Methodically plucking brown cattail fuzz and flicking pieces into the water, Emilio seemed resolute.
“Tell the police, Emilio. Take their polygraph. Clear your name.”
He stared straight ahead. “Can’t. My alibi is a woman in a contentious custody battle for her kids. If word gets out that she was in the cellar with me the night of the party and the murder, her husband’s lawyers will crucify her in court. I can’t be the cause of her losing her kids.”
“The police kept everyone there that night. They must have asked her where she was when Jake was shot. Did she lie to them?”
“I don’t know. Hailey couldn’t very well tell the truth. Probably got her girlfriend to alibi her.”
“I see. Lying to the police, Emilio, it’s a bad—”
He threw up his hand. “Discussing this further is pointless. I know you used to be a cop, and maybe you feel like you have to defend them, but I don’t trust them. And I gave Hailey my word.”
“Your conspiracy with her stalls a legitimate investigation and allows a murderer to roam free. Who knows who the next victim might be? Emilio, help the cops find Jake’s killer.” Abby knew her tone reflected her impatience. She tried a final push. “Tell Hailey the truth—you could be facing a murder charge. She wouldn’t want that.”
He brushed the cattail fuzz from his jeans and said nothing.
Abby pressed him no further about Hailey, but it was as good a time as any to ask about Scott. “Would Scott Thompson have a reason to kill Jake?”
“I don’t know. The guy is hooked on prescription drugs for a back injury. He complains about it all the time. Supposedly, he hurt it from a barrel-room accident before we had the place retrofitted for earthquakes. Scott’s got debts, too. But kill Jake? Nah, I don’t see how he’d profit from that.”
“I’m surprised that with a bad back, he’d want to pick fights.”
“Yeah, go figure.”
Abby’s brows furrowed. “What about Brianna Cooper? Did you know about the gun she has stashed in her desk at work?”
He nodded. “Yes. She brought it in after that vineyard owner shot his investor and then did himself in a couple of years ago. You remember that?”
“Yep. The media was all over it.”
Emilio swatted at a gnat near his face. “There’s something slightly off about Brianna, but then, she’s a super-creative type. Likes her guns. Told us she lets off steam by visiting the shooting range at least once a month. ”
“She and Jake get along?”
“Jake and Brianna sparked off each other for a while. If they had a fling, it didn’t last too long. I heard Brianna tell Hannah that she had an insurance policy to make sure he never talked about it.”
“Really? That sounds ominous.” Abby’s interest perked up. “Know what it was?”
Emilio closed his eyes and turned his face to the sun. His look conveyed weariness with the whole affair in general and perhaps her questions in particular. “No.”
Abby flicked a thistle from her jeans. “Emilio, listen to me. Please. Ask Hailey Appleton to release you from your promise of keeping silent. You both have a legitimate alibi.”
His jaw tensed. He said nothing.
Abby reckoned it was time to move on. “I’ve got some good news. Paola is wiggling her toes.”
Emilio jerked upright. His expression brightened. “Really? Oh, thank God.” He tossed the cattail into the water. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” After scooting backward, he quickly climbed to his feet and pulled Abby upward.
“Think about what I said, Emilio. Talk to Hailey. It’s time you put this behind you.”
He engulfed her in a bear hug. Pulling away and still beaming, he said, “I’m not the shooter. Not me . . . So who is it, Abby?”
“I don’t know. At least not yet. But one way or another, I’m going to find out.” She looked him the eye. “Do me a favor, Emilio. Watch your step.”
Tips about Honey and Its Uses
1. Honey is nearly twice as sweet as sugar.
2. Honey contains antioxidant and antimicrobial properties not found in sugar.
3. Honey has a water content, while sugar does not, and therefore, recipes may need adjusting if honey is substituted for sugar.
4. Honey must be accurately measured. If you coat a measuring cup with a spray oil before adding honey, it will be easier to pour out the honey.
5. Honey supplies abundant moisture to cakes and other baked goods.
6. Honey enhances and complements other flavors in a recipe.
7. Honey can be added to beverages, fruit, or yogurt to sweeten them; whisked with oil into salad dressings; mixed with seasonings for basting barbecued meats; or drizzled over pancakes, waffles, and hot biscuits.
8. Honey may be used in homemade soaps and bath washes.