“I suspect you’d want to go up the old way, glass of wine or not. Wait here. I’ve got a cooler with bottles of water on the backseat.”
She watched as he strode away from her. She liked that long stride, the way his hips moved. Something about the way he walked brought two terms to her mind: “alpha male” and “good in bed.” The way he leaped to care for her made her wonder what it would be like to lay her head on his shoulder. . . .
She’d been working too hard.
She needed to get out more.
She’d told her father a hundred times—she did not need a man.
She needed to remember that.
Eli came back carrying her computer case and an icy bottle of water.
She pressed the bottle to her forehead. “I badly need to hydrate.”
With awesome patience, he took the bottle away from her, opened the cap, and handed it back. “Hydration doesn’t occur through the skin. Drink.”
She drank.
“Okay now?” he asked.
“A lot better.”
“Come on.” Eli slung the case over his shoulder and opened the door. “Before we started demolition we didn’t know what held the tower up, so we picked the lock and checked it out.”
Chloë followed him into the cool, dim, basementlike cavity. The dampness made her shiver, and the smell of earth and wood rot rose thick in her nose.
The wooden tank was large, twenty feet in circumference, and rose a claustrophobic eight feet above her head, supported by impressive oak legs set symmetrically around the edge. An old wooden ladder hung from the edge of the tank, and she walked over and looked up. The ladder continued up in the narrow space between the wooden tank and the brick shell, and at the top she saw a dim light.
Putting his hand on the ladder, he rattled it and grimaced, then put his foot on the lowest rung. With his full weight, he swung back and forth. “All right, it’ll hold us.” He descended. “You first.”
So if she fell, he would catch her? Or so he could check out her ass?
She didn’t care why. It was of no importance to her.
She took another swig of water, put the bottle on the floor, and started climbing. The first eight feet felt odd, straight up in the air. Then she reached the side of the wooden water container and slipped into the space between that and the bricks. The fit was tight. The bricks were warm at her back. She grasped the rungs carefully; they were rough, a mass of splinters.
When she was about halfway up the side of the container, Eli called, “Doing okay?”
“Fine.” She paused and glanced up toward the light, then down toward the shadows, trying to absorb the sensations, put them into words so she could later transfer those sensations to paper. She put her hand against the tank. The wood felt dry against her skin. “There’s no water in it?”
“Not for a long time,” he said.
She continued climbing.
“I estimated the tank was twelve feet high.” He was right below her. “So you’ll be at the top soon. If you need help, I’m right here.”
She wanted to snort. She didn’t need help; she clambered onto the flat top of the water tank on her hands and knees. The octagonal roof was ten feet above the floor. At every corner it connected to the wall, and that left vents all the way around between the brick and the metal. There subdued light leaked in; she could see the concentration of soot where the smoke had leaked out.
The best light entered through the small, high hole Eli’s men had broken through the brick; it revealed a thick layer of dust and soot covering the wooden floor. The boards felt sticky to the touch, and as she stood, she wiped her palms on her pants. Directly beside her stood an imposing copper pot as tall as she was, and so wide she couldn’t get her arms around it. Pipes ran from the top to two smaller copper containers.
The still.
As Eli poked his head into the chamber, she offered him her hand and echoed his offer: “If you need help, I’m right here.”
He surprised her by taking it.
She needed to remember the man liked to hold hands.
He came to his feet far too close to her, looked down, and half smiled. “Is it everything you’d hoped?”
It took her a long moment of stupefaction before she realized he meant the still. “Yes, it’s perfect.” A pile of wood remained, half-rotted and waiting to be thrown into the metal fire pit beneath the still. “I’ve got to take pictures.” She rummaged in her computer case for her camera, brought it out, took a photo of Eli standing before the largest tank.
“Look at that thing.” Eli stared admiringly at the tank. “It’s huge.”
She looked at the camera screen to check the photo. Good. The flash had filled in lots of good detail.
She took a picture of the ceiling. Also good.
“The still must be seventy-five gallons,” Eli said.
Stepping into the middle of the chamber, she took a photo of the side that had been hidden from her by the still. Her flash illuminated . . . something. She pulled the camera away from her face and looked.
Her breath caught. “Eli?” she whispered.
“If Massimo was distilling wine into brandy,” Eli said, “he must have been selling the proceeds all over the county.”
“Eli?”
“I believe it, though.” The copper monstrosity consumed his whole attention. “Prohibition made law-abiding citizens into criminals, and—”
“Eli!”
He turned to her. “What?”
She pointed a shaking finger across the room. “If you want to know anything about the still, perhaps you could ask him.”
Chapter 13
The mummified remains of a man reclined on the floor across from the still. His skin was gray. The dirt of the last century and this one covered him like a blanket, like a camouflage.
Chloë pulled a thin LED flashlight out of her bag and pointed it at the body.
The corpse’s head was propped up on a log, and even though his eyes were shut, the sunken sockets seemed to be staring at them, his face twisted in an expression of unending agony.
Eli glanced at Chloë; she was pale with shock, holding the camera clutched tight in one hand and the flashlight in the other.
Reaching out, Eli wrapped his arm around her to tug her close, putting his hand on her head and nestling her against his chest.
Although she remained stiff in his arms, she let him hug her.
That told him a lot.
“He’s been dead a long time.” Her voice sounded detached, empty of emotion. “His clothes date from the nineteen twenties or thirties. Do you think it could be Massimo?”
“I suspect it is.” Keeping an arm around her, he pulled out his cell phone and called 911.
The operator picked up.
He recognized her voice; it was Patricia Greene. He’d dated her in high school. “Hi, Pat, it’s Eli Di Luca. Hey, I’m out here at the old brick water tower—”
“The one with the still?” she asked.
Everyone knew everything in this town. “That’s the one. And it appears there’s more to report crime-wise than a little old bootlegging.”
“Did some kids spray-paint their names on the water tower?” Pat didn’t sound nearly as upset as a righteous employee of the city should sound. “My daughter told me some of the eighth graders were talking about it. You know what kids that age are like.”
“No, and thank God they didn’t. We’ve got a body.”
Pat’s casual voice changed tone. “You’re sure it’s a body? There’s no sign of life?”
“It’s a very old body, Pat. I’m guessing he died eighty years ago. But I promise you, it’s murder.” Against his chest, he felt Chloë nod her head.
Pat’s voice changed again, became official. “I’m sending DuPey a message right now, and he’ll be on his way out in no time. Please stay on the scene. He’s going to want to question you.”
“Will do,” Eli said.
“Are you there alone?”
Pat asked.
“I’m here with a friend.” He could almost hear Patricia biting her lip, keeping the questions at bay.
At last she said, “Keep her there, too, please.” Her. Pat was fishing.
He let her get away with it. No point in doing otherwise. “Right. See you around.” He hung up.
Slowly Chloë pulled away from Eli. “Before law enforcement gets here, can we . . . see if we can figure anything out? Because once they arrive, they’ll take him away, and the way he’s looking at us . . . I think he wants justice.”
Eli let her go, satisfied that she had let him comfort her, that they’d taken a slow, easy step toward intimacy. “What makes you say that?”
“He’s handcuffed. He’s barefoot. His vest is unbuttoned, his shirt is open, and those black stains on his shirt—I’ll bet they’re blood. His sleeves are pushed up, shoved up, but he didn’t do it.” She slipped the camera into her computer case.
“Why not?” Fascinating the way her mind worked.
“He’s a dapper dresser.” She paced toward the body. “Look, off to the side. That’s his hat.”
“It might belong to one of the killers.”
“Every man in those days wore a hat, and this one remains in good condition. So it had to be a quality brand, and nobody else would have left it here, at a crime scene. So it’s Massimo’s, maybe handmade for him.” She glanced at Eli, eyebrows raised.
He nodded. “Keep talking. I’m with you.”
“He’s wearing suit pants. You can’t tell me most men in the Depression could afford clothing like this.” She knelt gingerly beside Massimo and shone her LED flashlight from Massimo’s head to his toes. “No, even if he was in the mood to be casual, he would have neatly rolled up his shirtsleeves.”
“You’re observant.”
She looked back at him. “Not usually. My mom said I always had my head in the clouds. True, but if something captures my attention, I can make some deductions. After all, I not only write mysteries; I’ve read a lot of them, too.”
So. Eli had to get her attention, huh? He could do that. All he had to do was be more interesting than a long-dead corpse.
“Wait a minute.” With a shrug to the waste of badly needed income, Eli pried a piece of pipe from the still and slammed it into the brick wall about a foot below the opening. The brittle mortar cracked along a long seam. Putting the pipe down, he leaned against the wall. Bricks clattered and shattered all the way to the ground, and a flood of sunlight brightened the enclosed space. He did it again, and again, until he’d brought the opening down to floor level and out as far as his arms could reach.
When he turned back to Chloë, she was watching him, eyes wide, and he by God had her attention.
But not for long.
In the distance, he heard the scream of sirens.
“If you want to examine him,” he said, “do it fast.”
She flicked off her flashlight and returned to her observation of the body. “Look at his expression, Eli; he was tortured. Look at the skin on his arms, here on his chest, on the bottoms of his feet. They’re covered with little circles. They used cigarettes to burn him. And right there, there’s one of the cigarettes they tossed on the floor.”
“Really?” Eli walked over and picked it up. He examined it. “Hm.” He put it in his pocket.
She used the handle of her flashlight to push Massimo’s shirt up. “Here’s the reason for the blood. A knife wound. Went in right below the ribs. He was probably already dying and this was the end. Poor guy.” She dropped the shirt. “They killed him in the heat of summer, or he wouldn’t have mummified like this.”
Eli asked the obvious question. “But what did they kill him for?”
The sirens came closer.
“The still?” Chloë suggested.
“Why torture him? Why kill him? Blackmail, yes. If corrupt revenuers found him here, they could have demanded a portion of the profits. This”—Eli waved a hand at the body—“is different. They wanted something, and he wouldn’t, or couldn’t, give it to them.”
Again Eli had Chloë’s attention.
“You said your great-grandmother thought Massimo was involved in crime that had nothing to do with liquor.”
“That’s right.”
“But no one knows what.”
“No one even knows if it’s true.” The sirens were so close to the water tower, Eli stuck his head out to make sure the police weren’t driving among the vines.
Two cars bumped along the gravel access road, one after the other, lights spinning red and blue.
But Bryan DuPey had lived his whole life in Bella Valley. He knew better than to risk Eli’s wrath by driving into a vineyard.
He parked as close as he could, though, cut the siren, and got out on the driver’s side. Some guy Eli didn’t recognize got out on the passenger side.
One of DuPey’s officers and the coroner exited the other car.
Eli turned back to Chloë. “They’re here.”
“I wish they hadn’t been so fast.” She stood and rubbed her hands on her pants, leaving black streaks behind. “I’d like to search Massimo’s pockets.”
“Go ahead.”
She flinched. “I’m not quite thick-skinned enough.”
“Points to you,” Eli said. “No reason to, either. His executioners, whoever they were, ripped the lining out of his jacket. If there was ever anything in his pockets, it’s gone now.”
“So whatever they were looking for was small enough to be kept in his pockets.”
DuPey shouted from below, “Hey, up there!”
“It could have been a key that led to something big.” Leaning out, Eli hollered, “Take the cherry picker up.” He turned back to Chloë. “The coroner is Mason Watson. Don’t tell him you touched the body. He is a fanatic about a pristine crime scene.”
“I won’t,” she promised. “I corresponded with a coroner about bodies and what affects them and how, and she told me to always, always stay back.”
“You didn’t go view an autopsy?”
“If I watch NCIS too close to bedtime, I have nightmares.” She smiled painfully. With soot smeared across her cheek, dirty fingers, and that bright white upstanding hair, Chloë looked like a modern Dickens urchin.
Odd to see her not as a tool he would use to keep his vineyard, but as a woman who thrived on solving a riddle, who sought vengeance for a man long dead, who lived recklessly and with enjoyment.
When Eli put aside the resentment at having to marry her . . . he liked her. More than that, she stirred desire in him. Not the simple physical need, but possessiveness, too, and a shadowy fear.
She gazed at him from such clear, guileless eyes he wondered whether she saw beyond the Eli of everyday life, beneath the iron control he imposed on himself, and into his darkest depths.
Perhaps she was not a simple mystery writer after all.
Perhaps she was not merely his future wife.
Perhaps she was the one person against whom he couldn’t defend himself.
Chapter 14
Chloë thought she and Eli had been, well, not enjoying themselves—discovering a body wasn’t fun, exactly—but finding common ground. They’d been communicating with an ease she seldom was able to savor with another person . . . especially not an available man.
But now he watched her so intently that she asked, “Do you think it’s stupid that someone who writes about murder is too squeamish to view a simple procedure?”
He shook himself like a dog shaking off rain. “Not at all. The sight of an open, bleeding body is not a nightmare easy to shake off.” He sounded so normal, but—
What an odd thing to say.
He was a vintner.
When had he seen an open, bleeding body?
With most people, Chloë would pose the question—she loved to hear personal stories—and most people confided in her.
With Eli Di Luca . . . she just didn’t have the nerve.
Like an alarm, the mech
anical beeping of the lift started, loud and rhythmic.
She tore her gaze away from Eli’s, moved away from Massimo’s body. By the time the men jumped off the cherry picker onto the water tower, she stood off to the side of the still, mouth dry, looking everywhere but at Eli and wishing she had a drink from that water bottle she’d left below.
Four guys leaped through the hole Eli had created.
The guy in the lead was of medium height, wiry, with thinning brown hair and tired eyes.
“Hi, DuPey.” Eli introduced him: “Bryan DuPey, this is my guest, Chloë Robinson. Chloë, DuPey is our chief of police. We went to high school together.”
DuPey shook her hand. “The good thing about my being chief of police is that he doesn’t call me Dopey anymore. At least, not to my face.”
“Not while you’re carrying a gun,” Eli said.
Another sign of humor.
DuPey looked harmless, but he summed up her and the scene with one comprehensive glance. “Hey, Eli, I hope your family isn’t going to make a habit of finding bodies.”
Startled, Chloë glanced at Eli.
“That makes two of us.” But he didn’t offer any further explanation.
The patrolman who stepped up to Chloë was a little older than she was, probably twenty-eight, a little taller than her, probably five-foot-seven, handsome, and clad in a uniform so precisely ironed he made her feel as if she’d shown up for a formal party dressed like an electrician. But when Eli introduced her—“Finnegan Balfour”—Finnegan smiled as he shook her hand a little too long.
So even with her dandelion-puff hair, she knew she could still attract a man . . . or maybe he had a manuscript he wanted her to look at.
Man. When had she become such a cynic?
When she pulled her hand away, he smiled some more, tipped his hat, and headed toward the still. “Oowee!” He had a drawl Chloë couldn’t quite place. “This is a big one.”
The coroner was somewhere in his fifties. He wore jeans, a button-down shirt, spotless white running shoes, and a baseball cap, and he carried two bulging leather bags and looked at the body with an almost spooky gleam of joy in his hazel eyes. “Good to meet you,” he said to Chloë, but she was pretty sure he would never recognize her unless she were stretched out on a slab in his morgue.