The Wind Will Howl Page 3

  “My name’s Sue Buress,” the woman plowed ahead. “Charlotte’s told me all about you. And since she’s such an old friend, I’ll make you an offer. My wedding venues get booked twelve months in advance, sometimes eighteen. But for you, I’ll make a deal.”

  “Thanks for calling.” I dunked a fry deep into the mayonnaise. “But I don’t need—”

  “Look, I’ll be honest. Okay? The real reason I’m calling is Charlotte said you solve crime. With dirt. Like, real dirt. Not gossip-dirt.”

  She laughed. I bit down on the fry. Then dunked another. If my aunt was involved—anywhere—I would need coping mechanisms. Things like carbs, grease, salt…

  “You can call me Sue,” the woman said.

  “Sue, I’m a little confused about what this is all about.”

  “I’m the victim of a crime,” she said. “And I want to hire you.”

  6

  During the 1990s, high-tech money flowed into Seattle like hot lava—not the exploding kind, but the slow basaltic magma that persistently, fatally smothered a landscape. Thanks to the famous nerds who tinkered in garages and created brains-in-a-box computers, the new wealth spread across the rural landscapes around Seattle and changed rolling pastures into upscale suburbs with sprawling faux rustic-timber frame homes and freshly paved roads leading to brand-new shopping centers where new money could be spent on buying things.

  Things like wine.

  After Sue Buress’s strange phone call, I drove east of the city, crossed Lake Washington, and wound through the spreading affluence until I reached the semi-quaint town of Woodinville. Seattle’s wine country. I parked inside the warehouse district and glanced at the dog lying on the passenger seat, happily digesting her burgers.

  “Be right back,” I hoped.

  In the past decade, Washington state had toppled California’s golden crown as king of domestic wine-production. The state’s eastern side was blessed with porous soils, gentle hillsides, and three hundred days of sunshine a year—with just enough remnants of Seattle rain to plump grapes. The town of Woodinville had cleverly capitalized on the expansion, offering urbanites a place to taste the wines grown on the other side of the Cascade mountains. Even under overcast winter skies, the warehouse district bustled. Bistros, bars, shops. Gaggles of coiffed women toting their shopping bags of wrapped presents, air-kissing friends before gliding inside the wine bars for early happy hour in honor of the holidays. I continued past it all, listening to the music playing on the outdoor sound system. It told us of shepherds in fields where they lay.

  Finally, I found Turtleback Vineyards. It was at the far, far end of the storefronts with no one going in or out. The front window displayed a bottle of Cabernet with a drooping red velvet bow around its neck like a forlorn afterthought. I double-checked the information from Sue Buress, and opened the door.

  A bell rang.

  “In a minute,” muttered a woman standing behind the counter. She didn’t look up.

  I closed the door.

  Except for the two of us, the place was empty. I waited for her to finish whatever she was doing and strolled the retail aisles. Dark wooden shelves held bottles of Zinfandels, Cabernets, Chardonnays. The label for Turtleback Vineyard showed a turtle riding a bicycle and hoisting a glass of wine with one flipper. I picked up a Cabernet, studying the image. It was eerily similar to a bumper sticker on my aunt’s ancient Volvo that said, A woman without a man is like a fish without a bicycle. I put the bottle back and checked my watch. Six minutes had gone by, but the woman behind the counter was still working. I wandered some more, reading the placards that described wines with pear undertones and chocolate finishes.

  Finally, I gave up and walked to the counter, waiting for the woman to look up.

  She didn’t.

  “Hi,” I said.

  “Just wait,” she snapped.

  Since I’d already waited and the place wasn’t exactly jammed with customers, I rose on tiptoes and peered over the counter. She was reading some kind of book, pen in hand. To her left, wine glasses floated in a sudsy sink. With the pen, she circled something on the page and the thin paper crinkled under the pressure. I could only see the title, “Authoritative Guide to WOM.”

  WOM—Word of Mouth?

  I’d used that abbreviation writing up interviews for the FBI. But an “authoritative guide”—really? Then again, WOM was also the abbreviation for Writ of Mandamus, a legal proceeding for court judgements. If this wine business was getting sued, it might explain that phone call.

  I leaned forward. “You seem very focused.”

  The woman looked up. Auburn spikes of hair poked around a pinched face. Her irritated gray eyes threw spears at me. “Do you need something?”

  “Here to see Sue Buress.”

  “And you are…?”

  “The person Sue Buress called.”

  “I need a name.”

  “Raleigh Harmon.”

  “What’s this about?”

  “Sue called me. Remember?”

  With a flick of her wrist, she closed her book and pivoted to a wall phone, snatching the receiver and pushing one button like an executioner making sure the death-row prisoner really got fried. And yet, when she spoke, all the bitterness in her voice was replaced by pear undertones and chocolate finishes.

  “Hi, Sue, there’s a woman here to see you. Says her name’s Rally.”

  Pause.

  “Oh. I heard ‘Rally.’”

  The woman hung up. “It’ll be a minute, Rally.”

  “Thanks.” I dispatched my best Southern smile. “I didn’t catch your name.”

  “Shar.”

  “Shar—like Sharon?”

  “No, Shar.”

  “As in, Shari?”

  “SHAR!” Her fist slammed into the book. “As in SHARYL!”

  “Okay, then.”

  Her gray eyes burned to ash, but before she could say anything else, a door to our right swung open. A short, very pretty woman sped toward us with so much urgency I wondered if she was our referee.

  “Sue Buress.” She extended her hand to me, then turned to the woman behind the counter. “Shar, her name’s pronounced Raw-Lee. Not rally. The woman is not some road race.”

  Shar tried to chuckle. “Thanks for telling me, Sue.”

  “Hey.” Sue Buress reached over the counter and gave Shar’s hand a squeeze. “You’re doing great. No worries.”

  Shar squeezed back and I suddenly felt like a third wheel.

  “Come on back, Raleigh.” Sue was already speeding across the tasting room.

  I followed her through the door, but behind me, I could still feel Shar’s sharp gaze drilling into my back.

  7

  Sue Buress hustled past towering wine barrels that stretched across the cold warehouse space. To keep pace with her, I was nearly jogging. I glanced around but didn’t see anyone else back here, and when she zoomed around a wooden partition, I lost her for a moment.

  On the other side of the partition, bulletin boards squared around a long desk where papers fluttered from the iced air blowing through the warehouse. On the desk, Post-it notes framed an oversized computer monitor, including the note, Call Raleigh Harmon—dirt.

  “Here you go.” She thrust a plastic grocery bag into my hands. “I doused it with water so maybe it won’t die and send me to jail.”

  Baffled beyond words, I reached inside the bag and found a clump of damp newspaper.

  “G’head, open it,” she said. “See what’s running me out of business.”

  I peeled back the pulpy newspaper. The plant stem was yellowing toward death. And when I looked up, questioningly, it was just enough to start Sue Buress’ diatribe.

  “Month ago, maybe two, the state sends me some letter. Says I have to stop building my new vineyard. Are you kidding me? I threw the letter in the trash. But another letter showed up.” She continued talking but started patting down the paper mounds on the desk, using both hands like someone trying to trap a
mouse. “I grow my grapes over in eastern Washington—like every other vineyard in Washington—but I own another two hundred acres just north of here. In the Skagit Valley?”

  I shook my head. She kept going.

  “Not far from here.” She stopped patting, looked at me. “Germans grow their Sauvignon blanc grapes in cold, rainy climates. Did you know that?”

  I shook my head again—and she was already talking again.

  “So I flew to Germany. I spent a long time over there before buying loads of old European vines from a German winery. Cost me a small fortune. We’re talking vines planted before the Weimar Republic. Oh, there it is. ” She whipped a piece of paper from the desk pile. “After the second letter, this man shows up. Walking around my vineyard! He tells me somebody called the state department of whatever—ecology, environment, green stuff—and now I have to quit building my new vineyard on my land because of this stupid plant.” She pointed at the thing in my hands. “Golden Indian Paintbrush. That’s what he tells me. It’s endangered, he says. You know what I told him?”

  I shook my head for a third time.

  “Buddy, I said, you know what’s endangered? Women in business.”

  She stopped talking. As a trained investigator, I decided she wanted a response.

  “Interesting,” I said. “But I’m still not—”

  “I ignored those two first letters from the state so the man came to shut down my operation. The whole thing. Right there! He stapled some idiotic stop work order to my fence. And he said I’d get sued if I kept building my vineyard. Then he drove away in some nice car that my tax money pays for. And all because of one dumb plant. It’s not even attractive!”

  I waited. She was one of those people who spoke with so much passion and purpose you wondered whether it was your fault for missing the point. “I’m not sure what you want me to—”

  “Here’s the deal.” She reached down and shifted the computer’s mouse, provoking another rash of to-do notes to appear on the screen. “This vineyard’s a total game changer for my business. If I can grow grapes this close to Seattle, I’ll gain a serious advantage over my competition. My distribution costs drop to almost nothing. Heck, I could open my own tasting room on my own land and get out of this warehouse, and finally move to Italy. That’s my dream. Move to Italy. Get out of this rain. Never come back and—”

  I held up a hand. “Sorry to interrupt.” Maybe. “But I think you need a botanist. And a good lawyer.”

  She shook her head furiously, her clipped brown hair flying around her pretty face. “I need a geologist.” She grabbed plant from my hands, flipped it upside down, and brandished the roots. “Somebody stuck this plant on my land.”

  “What makes you say—”

  “I’ve owned this property for twenty years. Walked every inch of it. This plant was never there. I’d know. I’d see it. It wasn’t until I started building the new vineyard to blow the competition out of the water and—boom—Golden Paintbrush shows up.” She thrust the plant back at me. “Prove it and I’ll bump every bride off the wedding schedule.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Charlotte says you’re getting married. My condolences.” She gave a hearty laugh. “But it’s your life. She says you need a place to hold the ceremony. My retreat on Orcas Island is booked at least a year out for weddings. Sometimes two years.”

  “Two years?”

  “Hey, brides think it’s their big day. Which, if you ask me, is sad. But I’ll bump anyone off the schedule if you can figure out how this plant got on my property. You just pick the date.”

  Carefully, I wrapped the wet pulp around the plant stem, placed it back inside the plastic grocery bag, and handed it to her. “Thanks for the offer, but I really don’t need—”

  “How much?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Charlotte says you got fired from the FBI.”

  I smiled, tight. “Parted ways, let’s say.”

  “Okay, fine, whatever. But you need work, right? She says you’re just getting started with this private forensic geology business. Start-up costs must be killing you. So what’s your price? What’s your rate? I’ll pay double.”

  “I’m not sure—”

  “Triple.”

  “When do you need me to start?”

  “ASAP.”

  ASAP—this woman probably knew nothing but ASAP. “I can get you a soil profile within a week,” I said. “It might prove whether the plant was transferred.”

  “It was transferred. How about suspects?”

  “Suspects?”

  “Charlotte says you’ve caught murderers with dirt.”

  “I don’t—”

  “Find out who planted this stupid thing on my property and I’ll murder them. Just kidding. Not my style. Too male, so testosterone. It’s toxic, you know.”

  “A suspect list will take longer.”

  “Two weeks,” she said. “Get me suspects in two weeks. My European vines are sitting in cold storage, the building crew’s getting paid to do nothing, and millions are waiting to be made off this vineyard and get me to Italy.”

  She thrust the bag back at me.

  And, God help me, I took it. With a smile.

  “I’ll do my best,” I said.

  Sue Buress smiled back. “That’s exactly what your aunt said about you."

  8

  With the endangered Golden Indian Paintbrush suffocating in its plastic grocery bag and Madame snoozing on the passenger seat, I nosed the Pony back toward Seattle. But our gallop dropped to a trot as we approached the Evergreen Point Bridge. Halfway across the bridge, traffic halted, and I spent five minutes staring at the back of a delivery truck—Need Work? We’re Hiring! After ten minutes, the middle-aged guy in the lane next to me stepped out of his black Porsche, threw his arms up, and climbed back in the car to have a midlife hissy fit. For the next ten minutes, I listened to the winter wind whip off the lake and lash the sides of the Pony like reins that might get us galloping again. Finally, Madame crawled into my lap, and I pulled out my cell phone to call my boss, Peter Rosser—geology’s greatest cowboy.

  “What’s cookin’, good lookin’?” he asked.

  “We have a new case.”

  “Payin’?”

  “Triple our daily rate.”

  “Hot diggity dog!”

  “Don’t get too excited.” The wind punched the Pony in agreement. “I’m not sure about this woman’s allegations.” I described the endangered plant and its “sudden” appearance on land where the new vineyard was being built. And I told Peter about Sue Buress herself. “Nice enough, but she’s got an ax to grind.”

  “Against?”

  “Men.”

  “All of ’em?”

  “Seems like.”

  “She just ain’t never met a cowboy.”

  “Yeah, that’s it.” Traffic started to inch forward. I tapped the Pony’s brakes. “She gave us a retainer check, I’ll deposit it this afternoon.”

  “Raleigh-girl,” he drawled, “we just might make this business work after all.”

  As the state’s forensic investigator for more than twenty years, Peter left the lab earlier this year to open a private forensics firm. In October, when I left the Bureau—or was fired, depending on whose lips were moving—Peter offered me a job. My territory was western Washington while Peter stayed in the Spokane area, near the Idaho border. And as Sue Buress had pointed out, we were like most start-ups—money was thin. The situation provoked Eleanor into paroxysms of Tennessee Williams, all the tragic lines about women without money.

  But in order to drum up business, Peter had made an offer to the state crime lab. Investigators were struggling to keep pace with a soaring crime rate, and the delays had provoked some expensive—and embarrassing—lawsuits. Peter said his private firm would work on cold cases that had geological evidence for free. However, if we solved the case, the state would reimburse us for all time and expenses. Last month, I managed to solve a murder. But we
still hadn’t been paid. Yeah, the government’s check was in the mail.

  The Pony inched forward across the bridge. “Do you know any good botanists over here?”

  “Wesley Mosk.”

  “Who’s he?”

  “She.”

  “Wesley—that’s a she?”

  “Yeah, Raleigh.”

  Point taken. “How good is she?”

  “Nobody better at botany,” Peter said. “Works in the state lab. When you go by, bring ’em our new list.”

  Sixteen dog-years later, the Pony made it back to Seattle. I drove through SoDo, the semi-industrial neighborhood south of downtown Seattle, then navigated the drizzly waterfront. My AM radio informed me of what I already knew—the freeways were clogged with holiday car accidents. It didn’t say how many were triggered by early wine tastings.

  At a manufacturing plant for airplane propeller parts, I turned left and dodged puddles in the decaying pavement until I reached the unassuming office building and its deceptively understated sign, Washington State Patrol Crime Lab. I got out but stayed beside the car while Madame did her own private investigation of the parking lot, leaving her business card on several bushes. When she was done, I wiped her feet with a towel from the back seat and reminded her she was the world’s greatest dog. She curled up on the seat, and I carried my backpack into the building.

  Twelve days before Christmas, the receptionist wore fuzzy reindeer ears and snowflake earrings. The sign-in sheet was decorated with silver foil garlands.

  “Happy Holidays,” she said.

  “Merry Christmas,” I said, since I no longer worked for the government and could forego the political correctness. “I’m here to see Tom O’Brien.”

  She picked up the phone and called upstairs. In the background, a carol softly played about angels bending near the earth. It seemed appropriate in a place where the white hats struggled to catch the black hats.