Midnight Harvest (55 page)

“It may,” said Saint-Germain, alarmed at this information. “Do you have the note still, or did you dispose of it?”

“I kept it I plan to give it to Will Sutton when he comes here. He’s supposed to stop by around three.” He lifted his head as if it weighed ten pounds. “I have been trying to decide how to face him.”

“Do you expect difficulties?” Rogerio came from the fireplace to hear the answer.

“Not from Sutton, no. He is a good man, but his hands have been tied, for there are those above him who support the White Legion—in fact, it is rumored that some of them are members—and they will discourage any investigation that works against the White Legion or its interests. If Sutton can make headway, it will surprise me very much.” Pietragnelli closed his eyes as if to shut out all he was thinking. “It is going to be a long time before those of us who oppose the White Legion will feel safe again.”

“Small wonder,” Rogerio remarked.

“And, unfortunately, it is probably wise for those of you who are targets of the White Legion to be on guard more than you have already been, and to be prepared for more trouble.” Saint-Germain held up his hand to stop any outbursts from Pietragnelli. “I know what it is to be hunted, and the need for care in all things when you are. This is not a time for posturing, but wariness.”

“But we’re men with crops to tend and fields to care for. It was one thing when we had to keep the midnight harvesters from making off with our crops, but this—this is much worse, isn’t it? This is an assault, not just theft.” Pietragnelli was beginning to get angry. “What are we supposed to do—hire armed men to escort us to the grocery store and build high walls around our lands, with guns atop them?”

“No; that would be bad for farming,” said Saint-Germain, hoping for an easing in the tension which was building up in the parlor.

Pietragnelli smiled in spite of himself. “You’re right, Signor Ragoczy. So high walls are out of the question.” He rubbed his lower lip. “Then what are we to do? You have made recommendations before—give me the benefit of your experience again.” There was a trace of mulish anger in this, but not enough to keep Saint-Germain from answering.

“By killing Yoshimura, the men who attacked him—whoever they may be—have made a crucial mistake. They have now committed a serious crime, something that cannot easily be ignored, and that is likely to arouse public sympathy for the victim, Oriental or not. It is one thing to threaten and bully, for many will tolerate and even endorse such tactics; it is another matter entirely to take a life. The law may turn a blind eye toward the former, but it cannot afford to disregard the latter. And you have the attention of the press, which can be a formidable ally.” He paused a moment, his demeanor deceptively mild; his dark eyes were luminous with purpose. “On the drive up here, I imagined all manner of trouble that might have befallen you, but this wasn’t one of the possibilities that crossed my mind.”

“Then you didn’t appreciate the problems we face,” said Pietragnelli.

“No, I didn’t.” He regarded Pietragnelli steadily. “And for that, I apologize, although that is insufficient.”

“As you say,” Pietragnelli allowed.

Saint-Germain rose and walked down the room. “I can’t tell you how much I had hoped—” He broke off. “But I underestimated the matter.”

Pietragnelli shook his head. “You weren’t the only one. I never thought it would come to this. I doubt that any of our neighbors did, either, except the Leonardi boys. I wanted to believe that my notice in the
Press-Democrat
would keep the White Legion at bay. It seemed to be working. I knew many of my neighbors were laughing about it, and that the ridicule was doing some good. No one in Geyserville was boasting about being in the White Legion the way they were doing last summer, and that gave me courage to go on—because I thought I was making headway, and I even hoped that we could put an end to the White Legion in Geyserville. But that might have been what made the Leonardis angry, and goaded them into killing Yoshimura.” He got to his feet and walked to the fireplace where the logs were just starting to burn. “I should have been the one they attacked. Not Hiro Yoshimura.”

“But you have workers living on your land, and guards as well,” Saint-Germain pointed out. “You have defenders, and Yoshimura didn’t, not as you did.” He could read the distress in Pietragnelli’s eyes. “Your men did what they could for him, but it wasn’t enough, and it didn’t keep him from harm.”

“And for that, he’s dead,” said Pietragnelli, stifling a sob.

Saint-Germain came up to Pietragnelli and laid his hand on his shoulder. “You are exhausted. Why don’t you get a little sleep now, before Deputy Sutton comes? You’ll be more ready to talk to him if you’ve rested.”

“How can I sleep at a time like this?” Pietragnelli asked indignantly. “What do you take me for—an uncaring fool?”

“You need sleep so you will be ready to take up the fight again. If you’re worn out, Sutton will not be inclined to listen to you, and you will not make a strong case to him. You must prepare your campaign, and Deputy Sutton is your first skirmish in it,” said Saint-Germain reasonably. “The time will not be lost. While you rest, Mr. Rogers and I will speak with your men, to find out if any of them noticed anything going on last evening, or during the day. If any of your men saw anyone going to or leaving the Yoshimura farm, that could help the police. Or if there was anything unusual that caught their attention, they may be willing to tell me about it, and Deputy Sutton, as well. And I’ll speak with the guards. They should have been alert to trouble.” As he said this, he was puzzled why no one had come forward.

Pietragnelli shrugged his big shoulders. “I don’t know; I could drink two cups of strong coffee. That would restore me.” He turned and started toward the kitchen. “It wouldn’t take long to make.”

Rogerio stopped him. “Then you will be up two nights in a row, and that will help no one.”

Saint-Germain looked toward the kitchen. “Where is Mrs. Barringstone? I haven’t heard any noise from the kitchen.”

“She’s taken hot bread out to the men in the winery, for their dinner. They stop work for an hour, to have their dinner. When they’ve finished eating, she’ll be in to start work on supper. If you want to speak with her, she’ll be in the kitchen shortly.” Pietragnelli said this remotely, as if these ordinary events were entirely foreign to him.

“Is there any chance she might have seen something, or her children?” Saint-Germain asked.

“I don’t think so,” Pietragnelli said. “She was in the kitchen when I left for Yoshimura’s farm, and was back in her cabin with her family by the time I returned.”

“And Mr. Barringstone? What of him?” Rogerio inquired.

“He’s at the winery from eight-thirty until six,” said Pietragnelli. “I can’t imagine he’d know anything.”

Saint-Germain managed an understanding nod. “Well, go have a nap. Let yourself rest. You need it. You know, sometimes a little sleep will bring details into the mind that were overlooked before.”

“True enough,” Pietragnelli allowed, and managed to hide a yawn by turning away and hunching his shoulder. “All right, you’ve convinced me. I’ll do it. But I mustn’t nap for more than an hour.”

“We’ll have you up before Deputy Sutton arrives,” said Rogerio. “And a cup of coffee will be waiting for you.”

“Sta bene,” said Pietragnelli, making for the stairs and plodding upward.

“He’s exhausted,” Rogerio said to Saint-Germain as soon as the door to Pietragnelli’s room closed.

“And it’s doing him no good,” Saint-Germain concurred. “Let him rest until two-thirty. It’s not enough, but it’s better than nothing.”

“Yes,” said Rogerio. “Do you plan to talk to the men while they’re eating?”

“It seems as good a time as any,” said Saint-Germain.

“Do you think any of them actually saw anything of use?” Rogerio looked toward the kitchen; “Or Mrs. Barringstone?”

“I don’t know. There are other wives who live in the cabins, and some of them have children in school. We should speak with them, as well.” Saint-Germain paused, deliberating inwardly. “It will probably be best to ask the women to come into the house. If we speak to them one by one, the men won’t like it.”

“No, probably not,” Rogerio said, and glanced toward the window. “You know, for a state with a reputation for sunshine, we’ve seen a great deal of rain and fog.”

“Peculiarities of the region,” Saint-Germain said, dismissing it. “We’d best go out to the winery first, and talk to the men.”

“Shall I fetch your hat?” Rogerio offered.

“No, I’ll do it,” Saint-Germain responded. “But you might want to get an extra tub of butter from the kitchen, to be able to offer the men something they’ll appreciate.” He went and plucked his hat from the rack by the front door and resisted the urge to grin. “We might as well get this done.”

Rogerio nodded and went with him through the kitchen, on to the pantry, where he took a tub of butter from the cooler, and went out the back door into the storm, Saint-Germain half-a-step in front of him. Holding their hats, they walked quickly across the yard toward the winery and ducked into the main door to find Pietragnelli’s workers gathered around three picnic tables, most of them with partially eaten plates of food in front of them. At the far side of the room Mrs. Barringstone was deep in conversation with a man in an old, quilted-denim jacket. Behind them rose three columns of two-story-high barrels; the odor of fermentation pervaded the huge room.

“Good day to you,” Saint-Germain said, looking about at the startled faces; he moved aside so Rogerio could put the tub of butter on the central table. “Please; don’t let me stop you eating. I’m here on Mr. Pietragnelli’s behalf. My name is Ragoczy.” He nodded to Mrs. Barringstone. “A pleasure to see you again, ma’am.”

She offered a disapproving look and went back to her quiet discussion.

Saint-Germain endured the snub with urbanity. “As I’m sure you all know by now, Mr. Yoshimura was severely beaten last night and died this morning at the hospital in Santa Rosa.” He saw the men exchange glances; some of them nodded. “The beating appears to have taken place yesterday evening, between five and six. Deputy Sheriff Sutton is going to be calling here later in the day, and will probably want to take statements from all of you. What I am asking you to do is to cast your minds back and see if you can recall anything that might assist in the identification of the men who beat Mr. Yoshimura.” He noticed another flurry of sidelong glances, and knew that these men had been talking about the murder of Mr. Yoshimura already. “If any of you has anything you’d like to say, either here or privately, I’m willing to listen. If you would prefer to save your comments for Deputy Sutton, well and good. But please, if you know anything, don’t keep it to yourself.”

“The man was a damned Nip,” said one of the workers seated at the middle table, and was supported by a mutter of endorsement.

“Yes, he was. But that’s hardly reason enough to beat him to death,” said Saint-Germain, outwardly unruffled. “You may not like Orientals, but how would you feel if Mr. Pietragnelli were attacked?”

“That couldn’t happen,” said the man Saint-Germain assumed was Mr. Barringstone.

“Do you think not?” Saint-Germain asked, and let the question hang. “You know he has been threatened. Why else are there guards here at the winery?”

“They just want him to shut up,” said another man. “That’s all.”

“He’s making the White Legion look bad,” said a third.

Saint-Germain listened, and when the men fell silent, he said, “From what I can tell, the White Legion doesn’t need Mr. Pietragnelli or anyone else to do that.”

“Hey! They’re sticking up for white men, making sure we don’t get drowned in a sea of foreigners.” This was the third man again.

“Sounds like the usual rhetoric: those other persons—not like us—are taking what rightfully belongs to us as birthright. But who among you was born here in Geyserville? Or Sonoma County? Or California?” Saint-Germain said, managing to sound slightly disinterested. “It’s nothing new. When there are hard times, it’s easy to point fingers at outsiders and blame them for all misfortune. Look what’s happening in Spain and Germany.” He wondered if any of these men knew about the German situation, for America had done its best to ignore Europe since the end of the Great War.

“Bunch of European generals,” said a man of about forty, and spat.

“Yeah,” said Mr. Barringstone. “The men are working, and the country’s on the way to recovery.” This assertion was met by another round of approving grumbles.

“Some of them are,” said Saint-Germain. “Others have had everything taken from them in the name of recovery, and their losses cannot be restored.” He looked directly at Mr. Barringstone. “That isn’t how Americans are supposed to deal with problems. And Mr. Yoshimura was an American citizen, as hard-working as any of you.”

Two men laughed; the rest shushed them, and one, slightly younger than the rest, said, “I’ll give you he worked hard. But what right did he have to be here?”

“The same right you do, I expect,” said Saint-Germain. “As I understand it, all Americans came from elsewhere, except the Indians.”

“What are you—some kind of hoity-toity liberal?” The third man made no apology for his manner or his question.

“I’m an exile who has lost all his land and his people,” said Saint-Germain quietly. “So I know what it is to be a stranger among strangers.”

“Looks like you’ve done all right for yourself,” grumbled the oldest man at the tables.

“Eventually I managed to,” Saint-Germain said, and went on, “Consider for a moment if the situation were reversed, and you had a small farm in Japan, one you had paid for and worked yourself, hoping to better yourself and your family, and some of the locals didn’t like having a white man working their land, and decided to put an end to it—what then?”

“That’s different,” Mr. Barringstone said.

“Is it? In what way?” Saint-Germain said. “Well, all I ask is that you consider Mr. Yoshimura not as an Oriental but a neighbor while you make up your minds what you intend to tell the deputy sheriff.”