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  Blood for Wine

  A Cal Claxton Oregon Mystery

  Warren C. Easley

  Poisoned Pen Press

  Copyright

  Copyright © 2017 by Warren C. Easley

  First E-book Edition 2017

  ISBN: 9781464208416 ebook

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in, or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.

  The historical characters and events portrayed in this book are inventions of the author or used fictitiously.

  Poisoned Pen Press

  4014 N. Goldwater Boulevard, #201

  Scottsdale, Arizona 85251

  www.poisonedpenpress.com

  [email protected]

  Contents

  Blood for Wine

  Copyright

  Contents

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Acknowledgments

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-one

  Chapter Forty-two

  Chapter Forty-three

  Chapter Forty-four

  Chapter Forty-five

  Chapter Forty-six

  Chapter Forty-seven

  Chapter Forty-eight

  Chapter Forty-nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-one

  Chapter Fifty-two

  Chapter Fifty-three

  Chapter Fifty-four

  Chapter Fifty-five

  More from this Author

  Contact Us

  Dedication

  For Anita, Dave, Gary, Guida, Judy, Kenny,

  Kent, Larry, Linda, Stuart, and Terry.

  “We few, we happy few, we band of brothers”

  (and sisters)

  —W. Shakespeare

  Epigraph

  In vino veritas

  In wine, truth

  —Pliny the Elder (AD 29-AD 79)

  Acknowledgments

  I couldn’t have written this book without the support, encouragement, and insight of my “in house” editor, Marge Easley, and my sounding board for authenticity and all things millennial, Kate Easley. Once again, I was aided by my intrepid critique mates LeeAnn McLennan, Lisa Alber, Janice Maxon, Debby Dodds, and Alison Jakel. Their honest, perceptive input went a long way toward improving the manuscript. Thanks, guys!

  I owe a huge debt of gratitude to an old Navy fighter pilot named John, who also happens to be a lawyer and a good friend. Without his sage advice, I’m afraid Cal might have lost his license to practice law during the course of this book. In a similar vein, I’m also indebted to Mike Hallock, owner of Carabella Vineyard and maker of fine Oregon pinot noir wines, who tutored me in the art and science of winemaking. The vineyard described in this book is loosely modeled after Mike’s superb family operation. Thanks to Jerry Siebert and Rosann Jurestovsky, who read an early draft of this story and provided exceedingly valuable input. Thanks also to Tom McCauley, who provided insight into the workings of Big Pharma.

  Even with all this support, it still fell to my editor, Barbara Peters, to find and help me correct the remaining weak points in the story. Thanks, Barbara, and the whole amazing crew at Poisoned Pen Press.

  Prologue

  She sat reading a thick paperback, the smoke of her cigarette rising languidly from an ashtray at her elbow. The man sat across the room engrossed in his cell phone. He sat outside the circle of light cast by her reading lamp, so only the small screen illuminated his face. She laid the book down, looked over at him, and sighed. He looked calm, his face almost tranquil, she thought. She liked that about him, the hidden power of a coiled spring. He looked up at her and gave what passed for a smile. “You’re right. It’s time to go,” he said.

  She took a deep drag on her cigarette, ground the butt into the ashtray, and exhaled a plume of gray smoke as she got up.

  He stood and studied her for a moment. “You look nervous.”

  “I’m fine.” She smiled. She could always produce an unforced smile, even in the most stressful situations. “I’m anxious to get on with this.”

  “Get the keys. You’re driving.”

  They didn’t talk much on the drive to the overlook. She was focused on getting them there without incident while he just sat there with that placid look, a duffel bag resting between his feet. The man knew the way since he drove the last time they visited the spot. “Slow down, the turn’s coming up on the right,” and as she wheeled off the highway, he added, “Watch the potholes.”

  The headlights bored a shaft into the darkness, illuminating an ascending dirt road cut into the hillside. They hadn’t gone far when the man said, “Okay, cut the lights. The farmhouse is coming up on the right.” A smear of yellow light through the trees marked the structure at the end of a long drive. They drifted by the driveway, rounded a curve, then pulled off the road and parked at a break in the trees. She shut off the car, and they sat for a while with only the ticking of the cooling engine to break the silence. A lopsided, pale yellow moon had just cleared the horizon, and lights glittered on the valley floor like a reflection of the stars. She felt a stab of guilt when memories threatened to avalanche, but she held herself in check. Stick to the plan, she told herself.

  He unzipped the duffel bag and handed her a prepaid cell phone. “Call him. Make it good, and remind him that this is your little secret.”

  Her eyes had adjusted, and even in the low light she caught something different in his face, a kind of blankness, like he was wearing a mask with nothing behind it. She pushed the unsettling feeling down. What do you expect? He’s got a job to do.

  When she finished the call, she handed him the phone. He smiled. “That was good. Very convincing.”

  She nodded, lit up a cigarette, and blew a stream of smoke out a gap in the window. “He bought it, and no way he’s telling anybody. He’s on his way.”

  The man glanced at his watch. “It’ll take him around fifteen minutes to get here.” They stared out at the valley lights without speaking. A thi
n band of clouds now shrouded the moon like a dirty rag. Eight minutes later the man retrieved a pair of thin leather gloves and put them on slowly and deliberately. When he reached back into the bag, a twinge of excitement stirred in her. She expected him to pull out the handgun he’d shown her, but instead he withdrew a sixteen-inch steel shaft.

  “What’s that fo—?”

  The first blow hit her on the bridge of nose, stunning her. The second blow killed her.

  Chapter One

  I didn’t throw a dart at a map, but it was something damn close that had led me to this spot in Oregon. I came up from L.A. for a weekend just to look around, knowing only that I needed to move somewhere but not having a clue where. Back in happier times, my wife, daughter, and I had passed through the Northwest on vacation and were taken by the natural beauty of the place and the friendly, laid-back attitude of the Oregonians we met along the way. So, I thought, why not Oregon? I found a real estate agent online and flew into Portland without any idea of what I was looking for. The agent looked crestfallen when I announced I could only spare a Saturday for house-hunting. Sunday, I told her, was reserved for a trip to the wine country. I’d heard Oregon was producing some pretty good wines, and I wanted to taste some.

  Between my not knowing what I wanted and the real estate agent’s insistence on showing me suburban bungalows with manicured lawns, the Saturday hunt was a bust. That Sunday I found myself lost somewhere in the hills above the little town of Dundee, a small burg in the heart of the Oregon wine country. I was searching for the turnoff to one of the wineries on my target list when I spotted a for-sale sign at the top of a narrow, unpaved lane named Eagle Nest. Instinctively, I followed the rutted lane and found the advertised property—five acres that sloped gently southward to a fence line below. The acreage was dotted with old growth Douglas firs and featured a vacant farmhouse that stood like a fortress near the southern boundary. I parked at the gate and walked the drive leading down to the house, a turn-of-the-last-century four-over-four with a gabled roof and a high brick chimney. It was roofed in old growth cedar shingles and clad in what looked like the original shiplap siding, painted white with dark green trim, the paint job chipped and faded. Through the windows I spied scuffed oak floors, high, crown-molded ceilings, and a rough-hewn stone fireplace.

  The farmhouse had good bones, but it was the view that sold me. In the foreground, I saw a panorama of rolling hills dressed with orderly rows of grapevines interspersed with stands of conifer and deciduous trees. The valley beyond the Pacific Highway was bounded by the Cascade Mountains and the Coast Range and seemed to stretch all the way to California. It was a study in muted colors, like a Paul Klee painting, and in the distance, lit by the morning sun, the Willamette River wove through the tapestry like a silver thread.

  As I stood there, something welled up in me, a sense of belonging that had no basis in rationality. It came up from the cedar planks I stood on, into the soles of my feet, through my gut, and into my heart. I had found my new home. My daughter suggested I call the place The Aerie, and the name stuck.

  That was nearly a decade ago.

  On the early-October night this story began, I was sitting out on the side porch with my dog, Archie, who lay next to my chair gnawing a bone cradled in his big, white paws. Arch is an Australian shepherd tricolor, large for his breed, but gentle and smarter than any whip. The moon hung low to the east that night, screened by come-and-go cloud cover, and the lights in the valley twinkled in the crystalline air. As a lawyer in a one-man practice, I’d spent the day in court in McMinnville, which bled my energy but not my appetite. I settled for a quick stir-fry made from leftover chicken to which I added some sliced carrots, fresh ginger, garlic, and green onions. I was finishing a bottle of Mirror Pond Pale Ale, and wishing dogs could be trained to do dishes, when my cell phone chirped. I’d had enough of people for one day, but when I saw it was Jim Kavanaugh, a neighbor and good friend, I decided to answer. “Jim, what’s up?”

  “Cal, oh, God, it’s Lori. She’s dead.”

  “What? What happened?” Lori was Jim’s estranged wife.

  “I don’t know. It looks like, oh, Jesus, like someone hit her with something. She’s covered in blood.”

  “Jim, Are you sure she’s dead?”

  “She’s unresponsive, and I can’t feel a pulse. I called 911, and the cops and an ambulance just arrived.”

  “Good. Where are you?”

  “I’m up on Parrett Mountain, at an overlook. Uh, do you think you could come? I, uh—”

  “Do you need a lawyer?”

  He paused. “I don’t know. Just come, okay?”

  “Sure. I’ll be there as fast as I can.”

  He gave me directions and I left immediately, leaving a disappointed Archie on the front porch. As I worked my way down to the Pacific Highway, my heart ached for Lori Kavanaugh, an ex-neighbor and friend. She and Jim had been married, what, three years? It was Jim’s first marriage and her third. I can’t say that I’d gotten to know her all that well. She was an attractive woman, tall and lithe with flowing dark hair and a face that turned heads. The owner of an up-and-coming winery, Jim worshipped her, but Lori seemed to struggle with being the wife of a vintner. Jim was serious about the wine business, and she seemed unable to cope with his absolute commitment to his craft. In any case, she walked out of the marriage about a year ago and moved to Portland.

  As I turned onto Newberg-Wilsonville Road, my thoughts turned to Jim, who was devastated by the breakup and held on doggedly to the hope of reconciliation, as the spurned often do. A fourth-generation Oregonian, Jim had converted the entire family farm—some one hundred and fifty acres of southwest-facing land in the Dundee Hills—into a vineyard with the express purpose of growing grapes and making wine. After suffering insect infestations, frost, mildew attacks, and ill-timed rain, the gamble was starting to pay off. His wines, especially his pinot noirs, were gaining a devoted following, and the entire region was attracting international attention. On the other hand, Jim always seemed to be stressed about money for reasons he never shared with me, another reason Lori may have seen fit to jump ship.

  As instructed, I climbed into the hills loosely referred to as Parrett Mountain. What the hell was going on? What brought them together at this sparsely populated area? Had Jim asked me to come as a friend for support, or did he need a lawyer and was just unwilling to admit it?

  I hoped it was the former, but my gut told me otherwise.

  Chapter Two

  “This is a crime scene, sir,” the uniformed deputy standing watch at the turnout informed me. “If you have no official business here, please go back the way you came in.” The deputy stood next to a line of two squad cars, an unmarked sedan, and an ambulance. Flashing their red and blue strobe lights, the squad cars were parked on the street facing the turnout with their engines running and their headlights on. The scene was bathed in a garish light, stark, like a black-and-white movie.

  “I’m Cal Claxton,” I told the deputy. “I got a call from my neighbor, Jim Kavanaugh. He said he found his wife here. He was upset, asked me to come over.” I decided not to use the L-word.

  “You can wait here on the street, I guess, but it’s going to be a long night. Your friend’s being interviewed right now.”

  “Thanks.” I stepped aside and surveyed the scene. The overlook, an unpaved, semi-circular area, provided a commanding view of the valley and was bordered by a low guardrail that spanned the edge of a sharp drop-off. Two cars sat side by side, facing the view. The car on the right was Jim’s Grand Cherokee. The car on the left looked like the Camry I remembered Lori driving. I could see what looked like a head leaning to one side in the driver’s seat of the Camry, probably Lori’s body. Jim was standing next to his Jeep, flanked on either side by two Yamhill County detectives whom I recognized as members of a major crimes response team. I had some history with their boss, the she
riff, but I knew these two as competent investigators. Jim’s shoulders were slumped and his head slightly bowed as he responded to their questions, gesturing with both hands.

  A panel truck arrived next, disgorging three crime-scene techs in white coveralls and the medical examiner, a tall, balding man named Merv Preston. He looked like he just got out of bed. The processing of crime scenes, particularly murder scenes, always moves at glacial speed, and this one was no exception. I stood there watching the action for over an hour, wishing I’d brought a warmer coat or, better yet, a thermos of coffee. Lori’s body had been examined by the ME but was still in place, the techs hadn’t finished with the cars and surrounding area, and Jim was still being questioned. Finally, one of the detectives, a heavyset man with receding hair named Hal Ballard, began escorting Jim away. I caught up with them just as Ballard was guiding Jim into the back of an unmarked sedan. I nodded to Jim and said to Ballard, “Hello, Hal, I’m a friend of Mr. Kavanaugh. He called me after calling 911. I drove over to see if there’s anything I can do.”

  Ballard straightened up and looked me over. “As his lawyer?”

  “No, no. I’m just a friend trying to help out.”

  “Well, I’m taking him in for processing. He’s got blood on his sweater and hands. His Cherokee’s got blood in it, too, so it’ll be impounded. He’ll probably need a ride home later tonight.” He shut the back door of the squad car and added softly, “If we don’t book him.”

  “Aw, come on, Hal. He called this in, for Christ’s sake.”

  Ballard shrugged and opened the car door. I called in to Jim, “I’ll pick you up in McMinnville.”

  I knew Jim’s bloody clothing would be impounded, so I swung by my place and grabbed a pair of sweatpants, a sweatshirt, and a pair of old slippers so he wouldn’t be forced to wear a county-issue jumpsuit home. Jim emerged in those clothes two and a half hours later. He was a big Irishman with large, calloused hands, broad shoulders, and a full beard that looked rust-colored, almost orange, under the fluorescent lights. His eyes, normally a couple of blue lasers, were dull, red-rimmed, and swollen. He crunched my hand in his massive paw. “Thanks for the sweats, Cal, and thanks for waiting. Jesus Christ, what a night. Let’s get the hell out of here.”