PW01 - Died On The Vine (7 page)

Meanwhile, I took the kitten to the vet. Doc Harding is never surprised to see me arrive with a cat carrier. “Let’s see,” she consulted my file, “this must be Rayburn 11.”

“Actually, we’re calling him Tough Stuff. Polly has sort of adopted him, so we’re letting him be a house cat.”

Doc examined Tough Stuff and pronounced him healthy, though a bit undernourished and parasite-ridden. Your typical stray cat. I left her office with worming pills, ear drops, and a flea comb. (Jack had been right on target, as usual.) In the parking lot, I encountered Luther Dawson, bringing in his dog.

Dawson himself is so basset-like that I was taken aback to discover that his dog of choice is a hyperactive Jack Russell Terrier. Holding the squirming, licking little dog, he informed me that the investigation was progressing.

“That new Commonwealth’s Attorney, Albert Long, was all hyped for an indictment, but he really pissed off the sheriff, if you’ll excuse my French. He’s from Northern Virginia and likes to talk down to us country rubes, so the sheriff called him an a-hole, if you know what I mean, and said we had to wait for the FBI computer to give us more background, and that’s where things are now.”

“You mean that he was ready to indict
Jack
?” I was appalled.

“Yes, ma’am, but like I told you, he’s new.” Dawson tucked his dog more firmly under his arm. “There were some partial prints on the murder weapon that could be your husband’s, but of course his prints would be there anyway, it belonging to him, and they were smeared like someone had handled them with gloves. Plus, the sheriff said it could have been you just as easy and he never expected to hear such sexism from a college graduate. Boy, that got old Albert pretty hot!” He grinned at the memory.

I thanked him for the update and drove away disturbed. It appeared that the only thing preventing the arrest of at least one of the Rayburns was the antagonism between the Commonwealth’s Attorney and the sheriff, plus the puzzling question of which one to arrest.

Back on the internet, a flame war had broken out. Cincinnatus started it with a flowery eulogy to Winslow and stating his conviction that the Cong has finally got him. Then he remarked darkly that Cecil had been asking questions about the good Colonel before his death and wasn’t that interesting. Wizard, who is driven to challenge anything Cincinnatus says and is a chivalrous soul besides, leapt to my defense, and trashed the Colonel’s memory in the process. From that point, it was “FLAME ON” and purest vitriol.

I spent most of my time studying my notes and Julia’s timeline, and worrying. It was a Monday morning, four days after I had discovered the body in the vineyard, when the front doorbell rang. I knew it had to be a stranger; folks who knew us always come around to the back.

But when I went to the door, I discovered that this was a long-awaited stranger. A young woman stood on the front porch. She was tall, around five foot ten, and interestingly exotic. While her hair was the blue-black of Asia, her nose and cheekbones were adorned with pure Huck Finn freckles. She was dressed in a neat melon-colored pantsuit and carried a well-worn travel bag and a case I recognized as holding a laptop computer. She smiled when she saw me.

“Mrs. Rayburn?” I nodded. “Pleased to meet you. I’m Mary Nguyen.”

SIX

I sagged against the door frame, exclaiming, “Mary! Thank God you’ve come!”

The self-possessed young woman merely arched an eyebrow at this mode of address. I composed myself and gestured invitingly, “I mean, do come in.”

As she entered the living room, I went on, “Sorry for the melodrama, but if we can’t figure out who killed Colonel Winslow, I’m afraid the sheriff will arrest me or Jack.”

She seemed puzzled. “Who’s Jack?”

“He’s my husband, my second husband, I mean, and no one who knew Jack could seriously believe he would kill anyone for any reason, especially not for something as silly as this.” Oh dear, I was babbling again.

“Perhaps you could fill me in on the background,” Mary suggested soothingly. “The news reports were sketchy. How did you come to know Colonel Winslow?”

“It was the strangest thing, him appearing out of the blue. Look, there’s coffee, if you’d like some.”

Mary grinned. “I live on the stuff. Lead the way.”

We adjourned to the kitchen, which Julia and I had been using as our investigation headquarters. I poured two cups of coffee and set them on the table.

“Look,” I said, “my friend Julia has been helping me out with this, and she’d never forgive me if I didn’t let her know you were here.”

Sipping her coffee, Mary gestured at the wall phone.

I called Julia and told her, “Guess who’s here! It’s Mary! Mary – “ I put my hand over the mouthpiece and asked, “How do you pronounce your last name, dear?”

Mary grinned. “Winn is close enough.”

“That simple!” I marveled.

“Not really, but close enough. I’ll answer to it.” She sipped her coffee and closed her eyes appreciatively. “Ah, I needed that.”

“Mary Winn,” I repeated into the phone. “We’re going to be talking about Winslow and I figured you’d want – “

“I’m on my way,” Julia interrupted, and hung up.

“She’s on her way,” I told Mary. “Let me fill you in on Winslow’s visit. It was a week ago Sunday, and he drove up here and told me my first husband might be alive – “ And I told her the whole story.

“Am I clear on this?” Mary asked. She had produced a notebook and was taking scratchy notes. “Your first husband was reported killed in action, not missing?”

I nodded. “Which makes it so odd. Have you ever heard of him making similar claims?”

“Not at all. Completely contrary to his normal M.O.”

“M.O.?” Julia asked as she breezed into the room. Today she was in claret-colored corduroy with L.L. Bean’s famous waterproof boots. The dry spell had finally broken overnight. “That sounds like a criminal. I’m Julia Barstow, by the way.”

Mary nodded acknowledgement. “Mary Nguyen. And no, I’ve never been able to catch Winslow actually violating the criminal code, and it hasn’t been for lack of trying. Certainly immoral, to my way of thinking. But he’s been very, very careful.”

Julia helped herself to the coffee and joined us at the table. “Where’s Jack?” she asked me.

“He’s hitting a couple wine festivals in northern Virginia. Normally I’d go along to help, but I’ve been keeping an eye on things here.”

“Okay,” said Julia, settling herself comfortably and getting down to business. “Mary, what can you tell us about Colonel Winslow?”

“Obadiah Winslow, born in 1946 in Indiana, son of a shoe store owner, graduated West Point 1967, Viet Nam vet, MIA chaser, social climber, lives in grand style,” Mary reported promptly. “Where should I start?”

She opened her travel bag and pulled out a battered hardcover book. “Here’s his autobiography. It’s out of print now, I think it sold several hundred copies in the bookstores. He’s bought up all the remaindered copies and sells them now at his speeches. Read it sometime when you don’t have anything better to do. According to my analysis, it’s about one-quarter exaggeration, one-quarter outright falsehoods, and one-quarter unverifiable. So there’s about 25% good information in there, but you’d need to be a bona-fide Obie expert to know which 25%. And don’t bother reading it for the writing style, either. He’s hired a staff writer now, which has improved his speeches, but his writing style is both florid and trite.”

Julia blinked. “That doesn’t sound very good.” She reached across the table and spun the book around so she could read the title. “
Guns, Guts, and Glory
? Oh, my.”

Mary grinned. “Gagging, isn’t it?”

“So what exactly does – uh, I mean did – Winslow do for a living?” I asked.

“Technically, he doesn’t have to do anything,” Mary replied. “He inherited his wife’s estate about ten years ago, so he was what even the horse country set would call comfortably off. He founded ‘Lest We Forget’ back in 1980 and has lived more than comfortably on that.”

“What do you mean? If he’s been skimming funds, isn’t that illegal?” But, I thought, I wouldn’t put it past him.

“Not the way he does it,” Mary explained. “Most of the money collected goes to ‘operating expenses’. Unfortunately, only a small amount of those expenses are actually involved in the search for MIAs. Most of it goes to fund Obie’s travels. He’s on the road half the time, going to his speaking engagements, and he travels first class all the way. Private jet or first class, penthouse suites, $200 dinners, all expenses paid by Lest We Forget.”

Julia was outraged. “But when people give the organization money, don’t they believe the money is going to the MIA search?”

“Of course they do, but Winslow always said that his trips, which are really fundraisers for his ongoing lifestyle, are educating the public and promoting the MIA cause. Like I say, he’s been careful. The legal community could never shut him down. I was hoping that journalism could.”

Reaching once again into her travel bag, Mary produced a manuscript. “This is the book I had just finished on Winslow. My editor said they were about to go to press with it. Now, of course, I’ll have to rewrite the ending.”

The manuscript title was “
The Greed and the Glory
”.

As we had been talking, Mary occasionally glanced at the photograph that Winslow had shown me eight days ago. Now she picked it up and studied it closely. “You know, I could swear I’ve seen this somewhere before.”

I leaned forward eagerly. “You mean you’ve met that man?”

“No, but I think I’ve seen this photograph. This exact one, with the man and the doorframe. Now, where was it?” She held it at arm’s length and squinted at it. “I’m trying to remember the context,” she explained.

“On someone’s mantle?” Julia asked.

“In a photo album?” I offered.

“In a magazine?” from Julia.

“Newspaper!” Mary exclaimed. “It was in a newspaper. It was something recent. I can’t remember what the article was about. Damn!”

I said sarcastically, “So it wasn’t smuggled out from behind enemy lines?”

“Hardly.”

“It’s starting to become very apparent to me that Obadiah Winslow was the sort of man who would have lots of enemies,” Julia said.

“You can say that again,” Mary said. “Starting with me.”

I was curious. “And why would that be?”

“The son of a bitch was my father.”

Well! This was a whole new kettle of fish! “I take it he wasn’t exactly Pa Walton.”

“Not quite. The first thing I have against him is that he pretended to marry my mother. It wasn’t until we got out of Viet Nam, past the Thai pirates and the refugee camps and finally got to the U.S. that she learned that he was really married to Priscilla Horse-Country BlueBlood.” Her eyes had narrowed with old bitterness.

“The cad!” Julia exclaimed.

“You can put me on the suspect list if you want,” Mary said. “I don’t even have an alibi; I flew back into Dulles from Europe on Wednesday afternoon. I could have killed Winslow as easily as you or your husband, and a prosecutor could argue that I had as much motive. Maybe more.”

Julia frowned, but sympathetically. “But did you really want him dead, dear?”

“Actually, I wanted him to read my book and watch his donations dry up as people learned what a greedy bastard he was,” Mary replied vehemently.

“The true believers would still contribute,” I suggested. “Look at those people who still send money to televangelists who are in prison for fraud.”

“Yes, but not merely as many. I wanted to expose the man and watch him squirm. I had this fantasy about going on Larry King Live – “ Mary sighed. “Oh well. I’ll have to change my plans. Maybe refocus the book.
Death of a Fraud
, or something like that. Especially if the killer turns out to be a disillusioned MIA relative or supporter.”

“Now, there’s a thought!” Julia exclaimed.

I moaned at the prospect. “My God, the research involved!”

“I’m in for the duration.” Mary stood up and shouldered her bag. “I’ll leave Winslow’s book and my manuscript for you to catch up on the background. In the meantime, I’ll call my office and have my notes sent down here. I have boxes and boxes of interview transcripts and documentary material. This will take a while. In the meantime, how do I find the Washington House?”

The Washington House was Passatonnack County’s best bed and breakfast. “You drive back through town and then take a left onto Washington Drive,” Julia told her. “George Washington really slept there once, you know. They have a wonderful restaurant, too. I hope you don’t have allergies.”

“None that I know of. Why?” I was relieved to see her smiling again.

“The owners have several mastiffs. Charming dogs, quite well-behaved. They aren’t allowed in the restaurant, but you might see them in the bar.”

Mary grinned. “I’m sure I’ll get along with them.”

After Mary left, Julia turned to me and said, “You know, Cissy, we ought to tell Dawson about her. I don’t see that she’s a real suspect, if she was out of the country when the tools were stolen.”