The Tanglewood Murders. David Weedmark
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smoke made his stomach turn. He clenched his fist and stared at the road ahead.
A dead raccoon lay torn on the gravel shoulder.
“And you’re sure you want to eat?” asked Scotty. “I don’t think I could eat for a week after seeing something like that. You really saw her, right? Was it the first time? I mean, have you ever seen a dead body before?”
Taylor nodded.
“Not me,” Scotty continued. “Just my grandfather and my mom’s aunt. Those were both in a funeral home, and that was bad enough.
I’ll tell ya, I don’t want to go near that end of the orchard ever again.
I don’t like cops, but that’s not why.” He wiped his forehead with his bare forearm. “That’s where she died, ya know? I couldn’t ever go around there again. Not even if you paid me.”
“Why not?” Taylor asked, already suspecting the reason.
“It’s just, I don’t know…all tainted now.”
“Do you believe in ghosts?”
“Nope.” Scotty, annoyed by the force of the wind in the car now, cranked the window closed, his arm vigorously pumping the handle to move the stiff gears. “Never seen one. Never want to.”
Beck’s Tavern was on the edge of Andover, about three miles southeast from Tanglewood Vineyards. Any traces of the farms that had dominated the area here when Taylor was a child had all but vanished in a ten-year frenzy of suburban building. Occasionally the skeletons of a couple of abandoned barns, or the remnants of split rail fences could still be seen from the highway in the midst of vinylclad split-level homes, and the maze of winding drives, streets and crescents, all enclosed by row upon row of cedar privacy fences.
The tavern was generally empty this early in the evening. The pre-dinner crowd had gone home, and the drinking crowd was still finishing dinner. With orange formica tables and vinyl chairs, it felt more like a diner than a tavern to Taylor. The seating area was the shape and size of a boxcar, but without as much character. The walls had been recently dry-walled, painted white, with beer posters tacked neatly between each of the four windows facing the parking lot. Two grey-haired farmers, dressed in green overalls, sat at the bar eating fish and chips. Scotty came here regularly, several times a week, when he had money in his pocket, enamoured as he was by Cindy, the blonde waitress.
The pair had their choice of seats and took the table closest to the door. They ordered two burgers and two beers. Cindy smiled at Ben but refused to look Scotty in the eyes. She either frowned or looked to the floor each time he grinned at her, showing his teeth.
Scotty never realized that she refused to look at him. He averted his own eyes each time she appeared to look in his direction, but he watched her carefully when she walked away. When he noticed Taylor watching him, Scotty huffed and began to slide the salt shaker from left to right and right to left across the table in a self-conscious game of catch.
“Any idea,” Taylor began, “what Caines is up to in that locked greenhouse?”
“Who knows?” replied Scotty. “Who cares?”
“Ever see anyone else in there?”
“Nah.” Scotty shrugged. “Caines is the only one with keys. I think he worked out a deal to have a place to do his own gardening or something. Oh. Carl might have a key.”
Taylor nodded. Carl Avery was the horticulturist and a friend of the Voracci family. He worked only a few hours each week to measure and test the use of pesticides and fertilizers. The hydroponic tomatoes were fully dependant on the chemical fertilizers pumped into them. While Abe Wagner handled most of the care for the vineyard, Carl Avery was the only one who knew how to care for the tomatoes.
“Last year,” Scotty said after some thought, “you know, when they closed it off, I asked Carl what they were doing in there. He said it was just a new kind of grape. Hydroponic grapes, he said.”
Taylor squinted at Scotty. “Hydroponic grapes. For wine? Was that a joke?”
Scotty shrugged and stared back without blinking.
“Soil is important for wine,” said Taylor. “Hydroponics won’t work.”
“But you’ll get more grapes,” Scotty said, staring at Taylor as if he were an imbecile. “They’ll be bigger too. More grapes means more wine. Isn’t that a good thing?”
“No, it isn’t good,” said Taylor. “You want to make the fruit work to get the best taste. You don’t want the vines to be full of fruit. Less fruit means better taste. Why do you think we spend so much time pulling at them? That’s why some of the best wines in the world grow on the soil no one else wants.”
Scotty continued to stare.
“Didn’t that strike you as being a bit odd?” Taylor asked. “I think Carl was pulling your leg, kid.”
“I never thought much about it,” Scotty said, looking bored now. “I don’t go in Michael’s house. I don’t go in his truck, less he asks. I don’t go in Caines’ greenhouse, less he asks. I just work there, y’know?”
Taylor could see this was getting too heavy for Scotty. He nodded until he was certain Scotty’s thoughts had begun to wander.
“I think...” Scotty began to grin, “it’s pot.” He popped with a short, unexpected laugh. “That’s it. They’ll put hash in the wine.
Like…like…Voracci Weed Wine.”
“Tanglewood High Vine.”
“Wonder Wine!” Scotty snorted, putting his hand over his mouth a second too late.
Scotty was still laughing as Cindy set the two plates of burgers and fries down on the table. Scotty abruptly stopped laughing as soon as he saw her. Taylor thanked her and returned her smile.
“Did the cops talk to you?” Scotty asked once she had left.
“Not really. Not yet. They will. They’ll want to talk to you too, I’m sure.”
“Why me?”
“They’ll want to talk to everyone,” Taylor said as he pulled the onions from his burger.
“Dammit.” Scotty shook his head back and forth as he talked.
“I really don’t want to talk to them. I don’t want to. I hate cops. I won’t do it.”
Scotty pushed his plate away, looked at it thoughtfully, pulled it back and began to pick at his fries.
“Why are you upset?” said Taylor. “Something you don’t want to tell them?”
“No.”
“Something you don’t want them to find out?”
“Hell, no!”
Taylor stared at him thoughtfully as he bit into a fry. “You’ve got me curious about something,” he said. “You know, as we’re laughing and joking about all of these things, there’s something that I’d like to know.”
“What’s that?”
“Is there anything else bothering you about this besides ghosts and talking to the police?” Taylor asked.
“Isn’t that enough?”
“For starters,” Taylor said pointedly, “what about the fact that a girl you worked with is dead?”
Scotty shook his head, holding a french fry in front of his mouth, and whispered, “I know.”
“And that someone killed her.”
“I know,” Scotty whispered even more faintly. He did not put the fry in his mouth, but did not put it down. He held it there, poised in front of his lips, forgotten, as he stared at Taylor’s eyes.
“And