Ellen Crosby: The Sauvignon Secret

“So you drove all the way over here to have it out with him?”

“He was dead when I got here.”

“You didn’t answer the question. And unless you’ve been sitting here since, say, midnight, I know he was dead when you got here. It’s cold enough to hang meat in this place.”

“We didn’t actually have an argument. He gave me an ultimatum and I wanted to see if I could change his mind if we met in person,” I said.

“You come by here often since you two do business?”

In spite of the temperature, I felt the heat rise in my face. “No. This is the first time.”

“Great,” he said. “Just great.”

Outside the barn more vehicles pulled up and car doors slammed rapid-fire like gunshots. The barn door swung open, letting two uniformed men and a woman into the studio.

A minute later the door opened again, and before I could turn around someone said, “Hey, Biggie, what’s shaking? Who’s the vic?”

The memory-laced familiarity of that voice was a shot of relief, as if the cavalry had arrived. Bobby Noland was my childhood friend since the time he and my brother, Eli, let me hold the shoe box they used to keep the frogs they caught in our pond. The innocence of our relationship grew strained when I tutored him for honor society service hours in high school because he was flunking almost every subject. He bolted after graduation to join the army, and by the time he came back from two wars he was different, changed, scarred by locked-away stories. Every so often I’d see a haunted look in his eyes and wonder what still tormented him—an enemy soldier he’d killed or a buddy dying in his arms? But he’d returned to the old hometown, and the first thing he did was surprise us all by joining the sheriff’s department. Everyone always figured Bobby would be dealing with the law when he grew up—just from the other side of the jail cell.

Mathis cleared his throat. “Hey, Detective, it’s not shakin’ too good for this guy. Name of Paul Noble. His home, his art studio, apparently. I believe you know Ms. Montgomery here. She’s the, uh, RP.”

Bobby’s eyes shifted to me. “Lucie,” he said. “I know I’m not going to like the answer to this, but how come you’re the reporting party here?”

I told him about my relationship with Paul, and he nodded, none too pleased, as he ran a hand across his military buzz cut. He hadn’t let his hair grow after his latest National Guard tour in Afghanistan. Kit Eastman, his fiancée and my best friend, told me he’d kept it stubble short so it was harder to tell his hair had gone prematurely gray—almost white.

Now he walked over to Paul and looked down at the items on the carpet underneath him. I caught the double take when he recognized the wine bottle.

“So you had a meeting with this guy today, and when you turned up, he was swinging from that rafter?” Bobby asked.

I caught Mathis’s eye. “No meeting. I just came by.”

“To shoot the breeze?”

I answered that question, too, and Bobby looked as thrilled as Mathis had been. One of the uniformed officers appeared in the doorway, the woman.

“House is locked up and the car is in the garage, Detective. The place is deserted.”

“Get a warrant,” Bobby said. “Where’s Jacko?”

A short, dark-haired officer I hadn’t seen before stood in the doorway. Mid- to late thirties, maybe. A few years older than I was. “Here. Who’s the wind chime?”

Bobby’s and Mathis’s faces cracked into small smiles, but my stomach turned over once again. As much time as I’d spent around Bobby, I couldn’t get used to the gallows cop humor that came with his job, but then I didn’t spend my days walking into scenes like this or dealing with the depraved and inhuman things people did to one another.

“Paul Noble. In the wine business,” Bobby said. “How long you reckon he’s been here?”

Jacko walked over to Paul. “Ten, maybe twelve hours. Of course the fact that it’s so cold you could freeze your nu …” He stopped and glanced at me. “I mean, it’s pretty freaking cold in here. My apologies, miss. No disrespect intended. Detective Jackman, CSI. You are—?”

“Lucie Montgomery. RP.”

The corners of his eyes crinkled but he kept a straight face. “Family member or friend of the deceased?”

“We had a business relationship.”

“I see.” He looked relieved not to have offended a grieving relative.

“You were saying, Tom?” Bobby asked him. “About the time of death?”

Jackman set a black case on the floor and pulled on gloves as one of the male officers moved around the room taking photographs. “Well, the room temp’s screwing things up, but the guy’s stiff as a board so lividity’s set, tongue is black, and there are beginning signs of purging.”

“What is purging?” I asked.

“The fluid leaking from his nose and mouth,” he said. “I’d say time of death was anywhere from midnight to two A.M. last night. Maybe earlier, but not longer than eighteen hours.”

Bobby did the math on his fingers. “So maybe as early as yesterday evening around six or eight, but more likely midnight to two.”

“That’s the best I can do. We’ll know for sure after Dolan weighs in.” I’d heard Bobby talk about Dolan. He was the new medical examiner. Jackman added, “Could be a case of coming and going.”

Bobby nodded. “I was wondering.”

“Pardon?” I asked.

“Autoerotic asphyxiation.” Jackman pointed to the vicinity of Paul’s waist. “Sometimes the rope slips as they ejaculate and they can’t do anything to stop it. His, uh, trousers show stains in the right place, though they’re not down around his knees. Maybe a fantasy or something.”

He let that sink in and watched my face turn scarlet as I lowered my eyes and worked out what he had just said.

“A sexual … accident?”

“Yup. Some people are into kinky. You know anything about this guy’s sex life?”

I blushed again. “No. I don’t even know if he had one. He was very private. So you think he did this to himself? How can you be sure he wasn’t strangled?”

“Like I said, the medical examiner will determine cause and time of death,” Jackman said. “But in a hanging you always look at the jawline. If the rope follows it, then it’s self-inflicted. Strangulation would produce a different mark on the neck. The rope would be pulled straight back. Look at his body, the way it’s weighed down by gravity.”

I looked, following the rope line on Paul’s neck as Jackman traced it in the air with a finger. Then he pointed to a large canvas sitting on the floor propped against a beam. “If this painting was an indication of what was going on inside this guy’s head … pretty creepy stuff. Self-mutilation. Cannibalism. Wonder what he did for fun if this was his hobby?”

The canvas—an oil painting—was filled with writhing, tormented nudes in so much misery and agony that I needed to look away. Jackman was right. Paul Noble’s art was the work of a tortured soul.

“Get pictures of those paintings, will you, Smitty?” Bobby said to the photographer.

Jackman turned back to Paul and squatted by the wine bottle and glass.

“The bottle’s from Ms. Montgomery’s vineyard. She says that she didn’t give it to him.” I didn’t know if Mathis was genuinely trying to be helpful or just speed the process of putting more nails in my coffin.

Jackman gave me a sharp look. “And the wineglass?”

“No idea,” I said. “Vineyards give them out all the time as souvenirs. We silk-screen logos to commemorate a special event or the release of a new wine, but I don’t recognize that one.”

“That design reminds me of a painting I saw somewhere,” Jackman said. “You know the one?”