Grenache and Graves Read online

  Joy tilted her head as if calculating math. “Nine degrees is substantial, especially given the height and weight. Even though it tapers, that’s a lot of forward weight.”

  “Exactly. It wouldn’t take much to tip it over,” said Bear. “That’s just what I said in my report. People have been killed by gravestones toppling over. It’s part of the upkeep of any cemetery.”

  Max asked, “So a gentle nudge is all it would have taken?”

  “That’s all,” said Bear.

  Joy asked, “Do you know of the Celestial Moon Circle? They wear black hooded robes.”

  Bear crossed his arms over his broad chest. “Seen ‘em in the daytime once. Dancing and chanting. They’d set up a table. I made ‘em take it all apart and chased them off. They had a knife out in the open! You can’t do that anymore. Is that who was here?”

  “And some high school boys,” added Joy.

  Bear let out a sigh of frustration. “I also recommended installing security cameras, but that request died a long time ago. I’ll hang around to see if they need me. James Summerfield III won’t like this. Not one bit. But he should have fixed that tilt.”

  Max added, “He’s going to like it even less when we inform him Mercy Summerfield’s crypt was opened.”

  Bear threw his hands in the air and his eyes skyward. “What! By the pagans?”

  Joy responded, “We think it was some high schooler kids pulling a prank. They opened her sarcophagus and coffin.”

  Bear shook his head. “Jaxon Summerfield, James III’s son, is here a lot visiting Mercy. Nice kid.” He paused, trying to get his thoughts in order. “He’ll be heartbroken. Any other vandalism?”

  Max said, “Our focus is on the dead guy crushed by the block of granite. But if you see anything else tomorrow, call us.”

  “Have you had vandalism in the past?” asked Joy.

  “Not much. On occasion I find some beer bottles, or, the morning after Halloween a smashed pumpkin or a melted candle. Now I roam the property on Halloween with a flashlight to keep people away. Partiers think it’s amusing to irritate the dead, but it’s disrespectful to dance on someone’s grave.”

  Joy handed him a card. “I couldn’t agree more. Thanks for keeping watch over them. Call us if you notice anything else amiss.”

  Bear took the card. “You know, my people believe that if you disrupt the dead, their spirits become restless.”

  Max added, “So do we, Bear.”

  4

  Sunday morning, Max and Joy met at the station, located in the new civic center, a building with a Spanish adobe façade, including a clock and bell tower. The new civic center brought together the mayor, the chief of police, the city clerk, and various task forces. It held council chambers, the vital records office, the police station, and more.

  The new offices of the Wine Valley P.D., including the squad room, still smelled of paint. Over black coffee, Max and Joy set a schedule of interviews for the day. Max’s desk abutted Joy’s, so they sat facing one another. Around them, officers answered the phones, conferred, filed reports, or punched their computer keyboards to locate records or otherwise develop their cases.

  As a detective, Max had leeway in attire. Where others around him wore navy blue uniforms or the beige and khaki colors of the sheriff’s department, as they worked as a team, his department approved casual wear for detectives, which helped set witnesses at ease. Suits and ties did not fit into the wine country landscape.

  On duty, Max wore 5.11 tactical pants and a polo shirt with the W.V.P.D. logo in gold lettering over his left breast. Today, he wore a white shirt with beige pants. He kept his badge and ID in a case in a pocket. He flashed them when needed, rather than wearing his badge on his shirt or hanging it from a lanyard or attaching it to his utility belt, as others preferred.

  Since becoming a member of the force, Joy had followed suit and gone casual, but with an individualized flair akin to her rebel nature. She wore stretch tactical pants that hugged her slim figure with stirrups that kept the hem of her pants tucked into her tactical boots. With that, she wore a narrow-waisted, short-sleeved cotton shirt or a figure-hugging polo shirt—preferring black on black, or black pants and a white shirt. Her Glock hung from a utility belt with a hip holster.

  Anxious to get to their witness list and dig deeper, Max and Joy gulped back their coffee and headed to the parking structure. They hopped in Max’s silver unmarked car, and Max drove out of Grape Gulch, the affectionate name for the original mercantile center back when Stagecoach Street actually had stagecoaches running through it. Now, chic eateries and quaint storefronts—offering boutique clothing, antiques, candy and ice cream, herbs, jewelry, and souvenirs—lined the street.

  Once on the freeway, Max headed south, eventually exiting at Via Vendage. To the left, the street led to the wineries, over forty of them. Max turned right, heading into the hills where the wealthy built lavish hilltop estates, including James Summerfield III, the patriarch of Mercy’s living relatives.

  The sky could not be bluer or clearer, especially set against the golden grasses, occasional olive-green scrub brushes, and bare patches of dirt and rock.

  As the car would up the curvy road, Joy punched the keys of her laptop and filled Max in on the family history. “The original James Summerfield had two children: Mercy and James Jr. James Jr’s son, James I, started the Wine Valley National Bank, a bank opened with the help of local ranchers.”

  Max nodded. “One of the ranchers, Juan de Flores, the guy who built the hacienda I now live in, helped open that bank.”

  “Ah, yes, Don Juan.”

  “What else?”

  “Stay with me here, Max. The original James Summerfield was a cattle rancher. He begot Junior, who was Mercy’s brother. Junior’s son, James the first, opened the bank. He begot James the second, who begot James the third, who we are going to see now. He’s Jaxon’s father, and Jaxon is James the fourth, technically, but it sounds like he goes by his middle name.”

  “Can’t blame him. Someone shouts ‘James’ at a Thanksgiving meal, and a bunch of heads turn.”

  “Too true. And boring! Besides the bank, the family has real estate holdings.” Joy let out a whistle. “The ranch was originally eighty-five acres.”

  “The main buildings of the original Summerfield Ranch are now a historic park with restaurants, entertainment, a farmer’s market, and special events. Most of the buildings were either preserved or rebuilt. It opened as a tourist attraction and historical preservation area about a decade ago. I was sixteen then, and my high school history teacher took us there on a field trip. Dad and I spent a day there too. Horses and dogs are welcome.”

  “Did you take horses or dogs?”

  “No. But you, me, and Steele—we should totally do that! Ride in on horses. Sal—of Sal’s Saloon in Grape Gulch—opened a small bar and grill there.”

  “Maybe. I like horses. Dad took me riding once as a kid. I’m not sure about Steele. I don’t think they had a posse where he grew up in Los Angeles.”

  “All the more reason to get him on a horse.”

  “For your amusement?” asked Joy.

  “Yep, pretty much.” Max turned off of the main road, entered an open gate, and wound up the road. “How old is Jaxon?”

  Joy found a social media page. “He’s a senior at Wine Valley High School.”

  Max parked the car before a sprawling modern mansion composed of what looked like single-story structures built around a courtyard.

  Max and Joy hopped out of the car and stepped through an excessively tall adobe archway and into a stone-floored courtyard inlaid with terra cotta and colorful Mexican tiles. A water spout filled a brightly tiled fountain. A rock fire pit sat in the middle of the courtyard, surrounded by furniture with plush green cushions and brightly colored pillows.

  Max and Joy approached massive wooden doors, set in another adobe archway. Max pushed the doorbell. A chime like that of a bell tower rang out.

  A maid weari
ng a white shirt, skirt, and tennis shoes answered the door.

  Max flashed his badge. “Detective Max King and Dr. Joy Burton.”

  The maid spoke with a Spanish accent. “Mr. James is expecting you. This way, please.” She led Max and Joy through white rooms with walls textured like thick plaster construction. Colorful, oversized paintings of missions and Indians lined the walls.

  They passed by the main living room, which had open beam construction, a stacked-rock hearth, slab wood tables, and leather seating. They passed by the dining room. A slab-wood dining table and brown high-backed leather chairs could seat a dozen. Tall picture windows allowed light to flood each room and opened to a terra cotta patio and infinity pool.

  The maid led Max and Joy to a sizable home office with built-in cabinets filled with books. Windows behind the desk opened to the hills, which formed a natural backdrop.

  Max and Joy took seats opposite James III. “I’m Detective Max King and this is Dr. Joy Burton.”

  James Summerfield III, near seventy, rose to greet them. He wore a gray sports coat, shirt, and casual slacks. He was of medium height, clean-shaven, and had short silver-white hair. As he sat, he scowled. “I understand that my family’s graves have been defiled by hoodlums.”

  Max met his gaze. “Yes, sir. And a man was killed.” Max paused to let it sink in.

  Mr. Summerfield’s cheeks tensed.

  Max continued, “We’re investigating the matter, and we have a few questions. Have you received any threats of vandalism?”

  “No. Nothing.”

  Joy asked, “Witnesses say four high-school-aged boys, maybe more, ran from the scene. You have a son, don’t you?”

  James III folded his arms across his chest and bristled. “Jaxon has given his mother and me nothing but problems, but he would never defile our family’s graves. He visits them regularly. More regularly than me.”

  “What kind of problems?” asked Max.

  “My wife and I could not have children, or so we thought. We moved on. When she hit forty, and I was forty-nine, she conceived. By then, I had no patience. Still don’t. The boy wears me out. Jaxon is a top student, excellent athlete, and a fine young man. He’s headstrong, that’s all. That’s what I meant.”

  Joy asked, “Did you receive notice from the city about the obelisk-shaped headstone tipping and needing repair?”

  James III paused. “I don’t remember. I’m a busy man.”

  Max raised his voice a notch. “Mr. Summerfield. We’re not attorneys. We’re investigating what might be an accidental death. Posted signs specifically said the Tranquil Heart was closed for repairs.”

  James III folded his hands on the desk and leaned forward. “Yes, I was making arrangements for the repairs. The hoodlums had no right to trespass.”

  Joy asked, “Can we speak to your son?”

  “Jaxon spent the night at a friend’s house, Felix Roberts, son of Dr. Roberts. Wine Valley High School’s freshman quarterback. Fine young man. I’ll get you his address.” James punched buttons on his phone and wrote down the information.

  “I’ve met Dr. Roberts,” said Max, remembering the poison case.

  “Ah, yes,” said Joy. “His receptionist is Nettie. She likes See’s candy.”

  “Bridge mix,” said Max.

  James III handed Joy the address. “Jaxon just turned eighteen, so you don’t need my permission. You think he knows who did this? Someone from his school perhaps?”

  Max handed Mr. Summerfield a card. “Maybe. Call us if you think of anything else.”

  “You can be sure I will. Is the obelisk broken? Damaged?”

  Joy answered, “We’re obviously not qualified to answer your question. It was dark, but it looked like it stayed in one piece.”

  “Too bad. I hate that disgusting thing. I should give the man a proper, more customary headstone. It looks like a big…well, you know.”

  “We know,” Max said. “I’m sure he won’t know the difference if you change it out.”

  “Mr. Summerfield?” Joy used a calm, sympathetic tone. “How did Mercy die?”

  James III’s face carried a pained expression. “Mercy became ill, grew worse over the course of a few months, and passed. Why do you ask?”

  Max informed him. “The obelisk wasn’t the only damage.”

  Joy threw the wrench in the works. “Someone opened Mercy’s tomb. The sarcophagus and her pine coffin.”

  Max added, “The coroner noticed an anomaly. It was necessary to move her body to the forensic lab for further testing.”

  James III waved his arms about and yelled, “Unacceptable! She’s to be returned immediately! I’ll make arrangements with a funeral parlor to pick her up. I will not have that poor girl’s body suffer more indignity!”

  Max maintained equilibrium. He had the law on his side. “The coroner brought her in, and only the coroner can release her. You, sir, have no authority. We have to do our jobs—whether you help us or not.”

  “We’ll see about that! I’m calling my attorney!” James III reached for his phone. “I’ve nothing more to say to you.”

  Joy rose to her feet. “We’ll let you know if we have more questions.”

  James III punched a number on his phone. “This isn’t over!”

  Max and Joy slipped out the door.

  James III screamed into the phone, “Put Hickman on the phone. Now! I don’t care if he’s in a meeting! Get him! Get him now!”

  5

  On the drive back to town, Max turned to Joy. “I didn’t want to upset him by asking about a missing key just yet.”

  “Ya think? He certainly wants Mercy back in her box fast.”

  After a short drive south, Max turned off the freeway and headed down a boulevard, past mini-malls and shopping centers. The eastern hills of the valley drew closer. Max turned in to a gate-guarded golf course. He flashed his badge at the security guard manning the kiosk. The guard granted them access to Wine Valley Golf Club, where acres of custom homes, a blend of Victorian and Tudor architecture, surrounded each hole of the private course.

  Max drove past a newly renovated clubhouse and pool complex. He parked before Dr. Roberts’ home.

  While it was no comparison to the Summerfield estate, Dr. Roberts lived in comfort in an upscale Tudor-styled home on the first tee. The steep gables, leaded glass windows, gray decorative boards imbedded in white stucco walls, and a gray roof with a decorative chimney would sit just as well, if not better, in the English countryside as on a golf course in Wine Valley.

  Max and Joy walked over a white stone path. The garden bloomed with pink and white tea roses. Joy rang the bell.

  Dr. Roberts answered the door. He had short gray hair, a slight bulge at the waist, and wore glasses. “Max? This is a surprise.”

  “Good to see you, Dr. Roberts,” said Max. “We need to speak with Jaxon. His father told us he stayed the night with Felix.”

  “And he just turned eighteen a few weeks ago, so no parental consent needed, I suppose.”

  Joy added, “No, but James III gave us your address.”

  “Come in.”

  Max stepped inside after Joy. The home switched on the inside to a casual golf theme, from knickknacks to wallpaper to artwork.

  Dr. Roberts led them to the family room, which had golf-themed couches—winged chairs and couches covered in a tapestry of men in knickers swinging golf clubs—which told Max that Dr. Roberts had a whimsical side. A sign that read “The 19th Hole” hung over an English pub-styled bar. The windows opened to a well-manicured golf course, where a golfer took practice swings while his friends silently looked on.

  “Wait here.” Dr. Roberts departed. In minutes, he returned with Jaxon, a well-built boy with dark hair, a thick football neck, and broad shoulders. He wore jeans and a white Wine Valley High School T-shirt that said “Red Hawks.” A fierce red bird flew across his chest.

  Jaxon sat in a wing-backed chair, opposite Max and Joy on the sofa.

  Joy relaxed
her posture. “I’m Joy and this is Max. We’re with the Wine Valley Police Department, and we have a few questions about last night.”

  “What’s up?” Jaxon’s voice attempted to signal calm, but his body tensed.

  Max sat forward. “What’s up is that we think you and some friends visited Mercy at the cemetery last night. The lock wasn’t broken. Dead giveaway.”

  Jaxon dropped his head, as if to say to himself, “Dummy!”

  “Was it a prank? You and a few friends?” asked Joy.

  Jaxon leaned his elbows on his knees. “Yeah, I guess. We have a boys’ club within the football team. Some freshmen wanted in.” Jaxon’s eyes fixed on theirs. “What did you find? Anything unusual?”

  Joy tilted her head. “Unusual how?”

  Jaxon hesitated to answer.

  Max and Joy exchanged glances.

  Max informed him, “We’ve taken Mercy to the forensic lab to run a test or two.”

  Jaxon sprang to his feet. “I knew it!” He ran his hands over his head.

  Max prodded, “What did you know?”

  Jaxon sat down but hung on the edge of his seat. “My hands are shaking.” He held them up for Max and Joy to see. “It’s weird, but every time I visit Mercy’s grave, it’s like she’s asking me to find the truth—does that sound crazy?”

  Joy laughed. “That happens to us with each dead body we encounter. What do you expect we’ll find?”

  Jaxon swallowed hard. He opened his hand and pressed down as if to pound his point home. “The story I get is that Mercy got sick—headaches, vomiting, diarrhea, stomach pains, fatigue. She wasted away for a few months, and then she died. Mercy’s father wanted her buried without fanfare. That means she must have disgraced the family in some way. And no one disgraces a Summerfield. I looked up those symptoms. What if they poisoned her?”

  “They who?” asked Max.

  Jaxon’s face became dead serious. “Okay, so I’ve thought about this. A lot. There are only four suspects—her father, an egotistical tyrant; her mother, who didn’t pay much attention, supposedly because Mercy was a knockout; her brother, James Jr., who is nine years older than Mercy but they were close; or Phillis Washington, the family cook, who mysteriously quit working for the family shortly after Mercy’s funeral.”