Sinfandel (11 page)

Chapter Seventeen

O
bermeyer didn’t want to hear my suggestion that someone might have planted the rifle in Andy’s house, so I gave up playing defense attorney and told him to let Andy know I would take care of the Clydesdales until he could make bail.

It was too early to feed Redford and Newman, but I didn’t mind coming back later.  On the way home, news of the accident on the Bay Bridge played on the radio.  I turned up the volume.  “Six cars were involved in the pile up, closing down all eastbound lanes for two hours,” the announcer said.

My lucky day after all, I thought.  I could’ve been stuck in that mess.

The reporter continued, “There were no serious injuries, but witnesses at the scene report seeing a man in a dark sedan shooting at cars immediately before the accident.”

“What?” I said, turning the volume up even more.

“Investigators believe the incident was gang related.”

As I sat in my driveway, waiting for the gate to open, I replayed the Bay Bridge scene over in my head.  I had been on the phone with Quinn Adamson right before the accident, and remembered checking the cars around me.  A water truck, a van, a few SUVs, a caddy, a couple hybrids like mine—what did gang bangers drive these days?

There was a large box just outside my gate.  Looking at the shipping label, I smiled.  It was the “Happy Horse Automatic Feeder” I’d ordered for the cat food.  I put it in my trunk and drove it up to the barn.

After changing into blue jeans and a tank top, I gathered up some tools and set to work installing my new weapon against the raccoons.  Choosing the ideal location was my first challenge.  The feeder was basically a big plastic hopper with a lid on top and a funnel-like chute at the bottom.  Attached to the chute was an electrical timer that controlled a disc-shaped flap inside the chute that opened and closed.  Another dial controlled the amount of food released at each interval. 

I finally chose a spot where it wouldn’t be in the way.  It needed to be high enough that the raccoons couldn’t reach it but low enough that I could fill it without standing on a ladder.  Installation was simple—though not as simple as it would have been if the cats weren’t underfoot the whole time helping me—and within half an hour, I was pouring the cat food out of the Rubbermaid container into the hopper.  I snapped the lid down, put the cats’ bowl in the correct position under the feeder, checked my watch, and set the timer.  To test it, I scheduled a feeding for five minutes away, then the cats and I stood there and watched.  Right on schedule, the feeder buzzed and a flurry of cat food spewed out into the bowl below like coins from a slot machine.  Startled by the strange noise, the cats panicked and took off in all directions.

“Scaredy cats,” I muttered as I gathered up my tools.

Later that evening, I drove back to Andy’s place to feed the Clydesdales.  They came galloping across the field to greet me, raising a cloud of dust behind them.  Before I headed for the feed bin, I double-checked my work on the fencepost to make sure it was still solid.  Satisfied that it was firmly in place, I headed for the barn.  The boys were already there, watching every move I made with their big root-beer-brown eyes.  Redford stamped his hoof and nickered. 

“I’m hurrying,” I said.  “Didn’t Andy feed you this morning?”

I poured the oats into their feeders then headed for the huge stack of hay Andy kept at the far end of the barn.  Draft horses would go through twice as much hay as normal horses, so I could see the logic in buying it by the tractor-trailer load.  There was no open bale so I’d have to drag one down from the top of a new stack.  After a brief search, I located a pair of hay hooks.  The bale was just out of my reach, so I stood on an overturned five-gallon bucket and stretched as far as I could, snagging the bale with both hooks.

Redford and Newman whinnied, again, from across the barn.

“Give me a break!” I hollered at them, dangling from the bale of hay, which must’ve weighed at least 150 pounds because it wasn’t budging.  I planted one boot firmly against the hay stack and pulled with all my weight.  That effort broke the bale loose but it only moved about an inch.  The boys whinnied again.

“Eat your oats!”

Another yank, and the bale moved a few inches more.  Before long, I had it teetering on the edge, ready to slide to the ground.  That’s when I heard the sound that made me feel sick—rattles, and not the cute little baby toy kind, but the big ugly snake kind.  Unfortunately, the momentum had begun and there was no stopping the bale from coming down over my head.

I tried to get as far away as I could but the hay bale landed on my right shoulder and knocked me to the ground, then pinned me there by settling across my back.

Redford and Newman, apparently disgusted that I had ignored every one of their warnings, stomped their hooves a few more times, then snorted and took off at a run across the field. 

“Cowards,” I whispered under my breath.

The rattling started again.  Turning my head toward the sound, my eyes focused on a coiled snake, about three feet from my face.  Looking at it was like staring down the barrel of a loaded revolver.  I’d never before seen a rattlesnake in person, and this one’s beady eyes conjured visions of Hannibal Lecter—sans the mask. 

I’d heard they were common in our area so I had printed some information I’d found on the internet and stuck it to my refrigerator with a sunflower magnet.  Now, I struggled to remember what the hell I was supposed to do.

Think, Kate.  A bead of sweat rolled down my forehead.  It must’ve been 90 degrees in that barn, or perhaps I was just a tad stressed.  I remembered reading the part about rattlesnakes actually being quite docile and shy, but I doubted that would apply in my current situation, after I dropped the thing from ten feet in the air. 

The fact that it was still rattling and glaring at me like I’d poked it with a fork was not a good thing.  Racking my brain, I tried to remember how far they could strike.  Was it one third the length of their body?  Or two-thirds?  Or twice the length?  I was leaning toward two-thirds.  If my memory was correct, and if my judgment that the venomous creature was in fact three feet away, then it would have to be… crap, I always need a pencil and paper for algebra.  Let’s see, first turn two-thirds into a decimal.  Two into three?  No, dammit.  Three into two.  How many times does three go into two?  Hell, I don’t know.  The damn snake has to be somewhere between four and five feet long to reach me if it strikes.

Coiled the way it was, and me being pinned with my face at snake level, I couldn’t really tell how long it was.  All I knew for sure was that I needed to put more distance between us, and that was not easy with a hundred and fifty pounds of alfalfa on me.  I tried my own slithering move to back away but it was useless. 

If it was going to bite me anyway, how long was I willing to lie there and attempt algebra without a calculator?  Never a mongoose around when you need one.

The seriousness of my situation began to sink in.  This thing could really kill me.  I might never enjoy an early-morning ride in the countryside again, or see my children grow up—if I had any children—and the way this day was unwinding, I wasn’t putting any money on that bet. 

Unable to stand the situation any longer, I summoned every drop of adrenaline my body could produce to raise my butt off the ground, tuck my chin to my chest and roll that damned bale of hay over my head and shoulders.  Hopefully it would land between me and Hannibal.

As the bale tumbled over my head, something pricked my scalp, and my entire being hoped it was a stalk of hay, but I wasn’t counting on being that lucky.  Holding the back of my head, I jumped to my feet and scanned the barn floor for the snake.  Thankfully, the creature appeared to be trapped, squirming from under the same bale of hay that had pinned me.   Karma apparently applies to snakes as well as people. 

Something warm trickled down the back of my neck and when I pulled my hand away from my head, it dripped with blood.

I remembered that 911 calls from cell phones ring directly to the CHP, and that didn’t seem like the best option for me.  Luckily, there was an old rotary dial phone hanging on the tack-room wall in Andy’s barn.  I hoped it still worked.  Ignoring the dust and flyspecks, I picked up the receiver and dialed. 

“I think I’ve been bitten by a rattlesnake.”

“You think it’s a rattlesnake?  Or you think you’ve been bitten?” the dispatcher asked.

“I’m sure it’s a rattlesnake.  The back of my head’s bleeding, so I’m pretty sure—“

“Where?”

“Uh, I’m on Grenache Way, near the intersection—”

“I know where you are.  It bit you in the head?”

“Yes—”

“I’ve got help on the way.  Stay on the phone with me.   Now, remain calm.  I need you to lie down with the affected limb below your heart.”

“Limb?”  He must’ve been reading from a script.

“Right.  Just lie down and keep still.  Are you wearing any rings, bracelets or other restricting items on the bitten extremity?”
       “Uh, no.”

“Okay, good.  Now, apply a light constricting band—strike that.  Sorry.”

Up until then, I wasn’t all that worried, but the way he sounded, you’d have thought I’d partially decapitated myself.  I watched the road for an ambulance but what showed up was a helicopter. 

Before I knew it, I was on a stretcher in a chopper flying to—I didn’t know where.  I expected to pass out at any moment but I seemed to be quite alert.  It wasn’t until then that I realized I’d never given Redford and Newman their hay.  If I made it to the hospital, I’d call Pete to go take care of the snake and the horses. 

If I didn’t make it… “Hey!  Can one of you guys call someone for me?” I hollered over the sound of the rotors.

The medic who was busy checking my vital signs shook his head.  “Not till we land!”

“Then don’t let me die!”

At the hospital, I borrowed a cell phone from one of the ER nurses and called Pete to let him know what happened and to see if he could stop by Andy’s and throw some hay to the horses.

“And watch out for that snake,” I warned him.

“I’ll be fine.  You just take care of yourself,” he said.

Before I gave the phone back, I made one more call, to Detective Obermeyer.

A doctor who looked too young to have finished junior high, let alone medical school, parted the cubicle curtains with a dramatic sweep of his arm and announced, “You are one lucky woman.”

I blinked a few times, waiting for the punch line.

“Roughly twenty-five percent of rattlesnake bites in California are dry, meaning no venom.  Did you know that?” he asked.

I shook my head.  “Should I buy a lottery ticket?”

“I think I would if I were you.”

“So can I go home now?”

He laughed.  “Not so fast.  Dry doesn’t mean harmless.  We still have to earn our money, you know.  Poke you with needles, gag you with Popsicle sticks, make you fill out eight-hundred forms.”

“That’s right.  You probably have a pool payment to make.”

“Mercedes,” he said, then winked at me and turned to leave.  “Yep, one lucky woman.”

Twenty minutes later, Detective Obermeyer arrived.

“You really were bitten by a rattlesnake?”

“Would I lie about something like that?” 

He cringed as I described the episode, leaving out no detail. 

When I finished, he shook his head.  “Unbelievable.”

I nodded in agreement.  “Since when do rattlesnakes climb ten-foot-tall haystacks?”

After a brief moment of thought, he said, “I’ve never heard of it.”

“Someone put that snake on that stack.”

“You think someone is trying to kill you?”

“No!  I wasn’t supposed to be there.  Remember?”

He stared at me for a long time.  “You think the snake was meant for Andy?”

“Who else?”

Chapter Eighteen

T
he ER doctor finally discharged me a little before midnight.  I hadn’t decided which injury caused me the most pain—the snakebite or my new bald spot from where the nurse shaved my hair to clean the wound.  I suppose most women would have been bothered by the indignity, but I’d gotten over myself a long time ago, and have even been known to go to town without makeup and wearing my rubber stall-cleaning boots.  

Obermeyer offered me his Sheriff’s Department baseball cap—which I accepted just so he would feel as though he were helping—and drove me to get my car from Andy’s place.
       I flipped on the light switch in the hay barn and we both stared up at the tall stack of alfalfa.

“No way a snake got up there on its own,” he said, scratching his chin.

I nodded in agreement.

He turned and studied my face.  “You okay to drive yourself home?”

“Oh, yeah,” I said, then swayed a little and lost my balance, falling into him.

“That’s a no,” he said, catching me before I toppled over.  “I’ll drive you home then have someone deliver your car for you.”

“No, I’m fine.  Really.”

“Yeah, right.  Get in my car.”

It was comforting having the friendly Obermeyer back.  I wondered how long his sympathy for my injury would last.

Obermeyer insisted on checking my property and going through my house before he left me there alone.  When he was satisfied all was safe, he headed back to his car, and I waved to him as he drove away.  My Prius, followed by a CHP car arrived minutes later.  I directed the young patrolman to park under the carport.  He stepped out and glanced at the tires. 

“Your tread is nearly gone,” he said.

“What?”

“You’d better get some new tires as soon as possible.”

I stared at the almost-smooth rubber treads and tried to calculate the cost of tires.  “Thanks,” I said.

“I wouldn’t drive it, except to the tire store,” he said as he climbed into the patrol car with his partner.

I’d just have to drive the pickup until I could afford tires.  I’d spend more in gas, but it wouldn’t outweigh the cost of new Firestones. 

As I lay in bed thinking about how lucky I’d been—first for missing the pile-up on the Bay Bridge, then for not being killed by the snake—I made a promise that I’d spend less time worrying about money and work and more time doing the things I enjoyed.  Maybe I’d take my guitar out of its case and start playing again.  Somewhere in storage I had all my art supplies—pencils, paints, brushes—I couldn’t remember the last time I’d even sketched anything.  And of course, getting back to nature on the back of a horse.   

It occurred to me that I hadn’t been in the saddle for two weeks, so I switched on the lamp next to my bed and set my alarm clock.  I’d feed my horses early, then ride Buster to Andy’s to take care of the Clydesdales.  I could follow the dirt roads between the Groom’s cherry orchards and the Holloway’s walnut grove, then zigzag around McAllister’s row crops, which would let me out at the north side of Andy’s place. If he didn’t make bail by dinner time, I’d ride Emlie over for the evening feeding.

When my alarm went off, the sun had just peeked over the horizon.  I climbed out of bed and pulled on some shorts, stuck my feet in a pair of tennies, searched in vain for something to cover my bald spot then figured,
what the hell
, and staggered up to the barn—still groggy from whatever they’d given me in the ER last night.   

Buster and Emlie were happy to see their breakfast, as usual.  I peeked in the cat-food bowl under the new miracle-feeder contraption and saw about a cup of food waiting to be eaten.  Another feeding was scheduled for lunchtime, so I wanted the cats to eat their breakfast.

“Kitty, kitty!” I called.  Three skittish barn cats peered around the corner, eyeing me like I might want to give them all baths.

I kneeled and wiggled my fingers on the ground, coaxing them to come closer.  “Here, kitty.” 

After twenty minutes of wheedling and sweet-talk, Van Gogh finally found the courage to sniff the bowl and take a bite.  After the others saw that he survived, they hurried in to make sure he didn’t eat their share.

Listening to my own stomach growl, it dawned on me that I hadn’t eaten since lunch yesterday.  I scrambled two eggs and filled a bowl with apple slices and a handful of dried apricots.

A brief internet search for any news on yesterday’s gang shooting on the Bay Bridge returned few results.  Investigators had questioned all the usual suspects and no one confessed.  What a surprise.

As I waited for Buster to finish his breakfast, I finished dressing and inspected my new silver-dollar-sized bald spot using a hand mirror in front of the bathroom vanity.  Obermeyer had taken his baseball cap back last night, and I didn’t have one of my own.  After experimenting with several options, I finally put my hair in a pony tail.  That seemed to cover most of the bare spot and would be my new hair style until it grew back in.  I wondered how long that would be. 

 After the horses finished eating, I slipped a halter on Buster and led him into the barn.  Emlie put up the fuss she always did whenever they were separated, but an extra flake of hay put an end to her suffering.

I brushed Buster’s sleek chestnut coat and combed his mane and tail.  Groaning as I stood up straight after being bent almost in half cleaning his left hind hoof, I was startled to come face-to-face with Dash Zucker.  If ever there was a time I wished Buster were an ill-mannered kicker, this was it.  Unfortunately, the best I could hope for was a good dose of horse-gas in Dash’s face.

“What do you want?” I said.

He held a legal-sized envelope in one hand and an official-looking letter in the other. 

“This your doing?” he said, shaking the paper in my face.

Glaring at him, I snatched the letter out of his hand and read it.  It was from the TTB, informing him of an impending inspection of his vineyard to confirm the variety.

“All that talk about you wanting to grow organic grapes was just a load of crap, wasn’t it?”

He inched closer, but I refused to budge.  “You think I’m behind this?”

“Why were you taking cuttings out of my vineyard that night?”

“I told you—“

“Like hell!  The buyer’s not paying me for my grapes till they do this thing!”

His outburst startled Buster.  I patted his hip to settle him down.

“You have it in for me ‘cause I did time.  I know your kind—nothin’ but a pot stirrer and a common liar.”

After making a mental note to get myself a couple of good dogs to keep garbage like Dash Zucker off my property, I put my hand in the middle of his chest and shoved him out of my comfort zone.  With a surprised look on his face, he stumbled backward a couple feet.

“How dare you come on my property and call me a liar.  A common one at that.  If you want to see common, go take a look in the mirror, or better yet, at your progeny!”

He glared at me with the same menace as the rattlesnake, and it struck me that I should have thought this out a little before I allowed my emotions to lead my actions.  For all I knew, Dash Zucker could be the murderer who shot Beth Messina in the back. 

He started toward me, his fists clenched and his eyes nothing but slits on his weathered face.  Quickly, I unsnapped Buster’s halter from the cross ties and turned him in order to put twelve-hundred pounds of horse between me and Dash.  Then I stuck my boot in the stirrup and hoisted myself into the saddle. 

I was now twice as tall as Dash and feeling very empowered.  I turned Buster’s nose toward Dash and began herding him down my driveway like a calf.

“Progeny means your offspring,” I growled.  “Children.  Daphne, the one who’s already on her way to a life on the taxpayer’s dime in some correctional facility.”

Dash swung his arm at Buster’s face, causing him to throw his head in the air.  Luckily, he didn’t make contact, but in order to protect him from further abuse, I cued Buster to swing his hip around so we were parallel to Dash, then kept pushing him as Buster side-passed down the driveway. 

“And you want to talk about liars?  How about the whopper she told about seeing me dump something in my pond?  You put her up to that?  Or is it just hereditary?”

A stream of cursing exploded from Dash’s mouth.  Some of the words he shouted I’d never heard before.

One thing I’d learned from a lifetime of being around horses, if you make the mistake of starting a fight, you’d better make damn sure you win it.

I could scream just as loud as Dash.  “Hereditary means she got it from you, you
common
son-of-a-bitch!  Now get the hell off my property!”

Once I’d pushed him out to the road, I pressed the gate clicker clipped to my belt and closed the gate behind me, then urged Buster into a lope along the grassy shoulder of the road.

For the first twenty minutes of my ride to Andy’s place, I kept looking over my shoulder to make sure Dash wasn’t following me.  I didn’t relax and enjoy the ride until I was comfortable that he wasn’t stalking me.

To make matters worse, Buster spent more time gawking at the landscape than watching where he was going, as usual, so I had to do it for the both of us.  The early morning shadows were still long and in the shade of the orchards I almost wished I’d worn a light jacket, but as soon as we were out from under the shade of the trees, the warmth of the sun soaked into my skin and felt good.

Buster caught sight of a pasture full of Guernsey cows and reacted in his normal “Close Encounters of the Third Kind” fashion.  I allowed him to stop, stare, and sniff the air for a minute before I squeezed him into a slow jog.

When we arrived at Andy’s place, the Clydesdales were thrilled to see us.  I put Buster in the crossties while I fed and watered.  My approach to the hay barn was slow and deliberate.  To my relief, Pete had dropped a couple bales from the top of the stack for me when he fed last night.

I was about to climb back in the saddle to head home when I eyed Andy’s house.  Curious, I wandered over to the front door and tried the knob.  Of course it was locked.  The plantation shutters in the windows on either side of the door blocked any view to the inside.  A quick walk around to the back revealed a large brick patio shaded with an arbor that was covered with wisteria in full bloom.  At least he put forth the effort to keep the vine alive.  As I breathed in the scent from a long chain of lavender petals, I noticed a pair of French doors at the back of the house. 

Like a peeping tom, I checked over my shoulder to make sure no one was watching, then I cupped my hands around my eyes and peered through the glass.  The kitchen counter was cluttered with books and magazines and Chinese take-out boxes.  Dying houseplants wilted in a greenhouse window over the farm-style kitchen sink.  The whole place cried out for someone to care.  At least he took good care of Redford and Newman, but everything else, it seemed, was suffering along with him in the loss of his wife, whether he wanted to admit it or not.  Feeling a sudden twinge of guilt for imposing on Andy’s privacy, I turned and headed toward the barn. 

The sun was higher in the sky and the air was still, so Buster and I were sweating.  I guided us to the shady side of the peach orchard we’d passed on our way to Andy’s and we were both relaxed and gawking at the scenery this time.  I was tempted to pick one of the peaches but decided it would be too messy to eat on horseback. 

As I hummed “Desperado” and imagined all the ways I was like the title character, I took my right foot out of the stirrup to stretch my leg when a sudden, loud boom startled me.  Buster jumped about two feet in the air and I nearly lost my seat since I only had one foot in a stirrup.  Simultaneously, one of the peaches hanging from a tree in the orchard exploded, splattering juice on the side of my face.

It took only seconds for me to figure out that someone had just taken a shot at me.  Buster must’ve had a pretty good idea, too, because he was suddenly on a mission to get home.  Struggling to regain my balance and get my foot back in the stirrup, I grabbed the saddle horn and leaned over his neck.  Once I had my seat again, another bullet whistled overhead like a missile.  I turned Buster into the orchard and kicked him into a full gallop, ducking and swaying to keep from being knocked out of the saddle by low hanging branches.  In an effort to be a harder target, I zigzagged Buster around trees instead of heading in a straight line, which slowed us down, but I figured we stood a better chance dodging a bullet than outrunning one.

The orchard would only give us cover for so long, then we’d be out in the wide open.  Somewhere in the middle of the trees, I pulled Buster to a stop, took a few deep breaths to clear my head so I could think without the burden of fear clouding my judgment, then took out my cell phone. 

Dead battery.  Damn.

Whoever took those shots at us was probably trying to guess which side of the orchard we’d come out on.  Unless he was on foot, he’d most likely circle the orchard until he spotted us.  I tried to form a mental picture of what lay between us and home.  The farms and ranches formed a sort of checkerboard on the landscape.  Groves of trees, like soldiers standing at attention, would give us the most protection.  If my memory served me, there was a large walnut orchard kitty-corner to this one.  I wasn’t sure how far, but some distance north of the walnuts there was a series of almond orchards that would take us all the way to the pastureland across from my place.