“Sure. Before or after breakfast?”
“Before. We can take our coffee. It’s a nice morning for a stroll.”
They waited while the coffee perked, then left through the back door, mugs in hand.
“Barn on the right, gardens on the left,” Lorna pointed out. “Straight ahead is the field, at the opposite side of which is the section of field where the bodies were found.”
“You have any thoughts at all on that?” Regan asked.
Lorna shook her head. “Not a clue. My first thought was that maybe they’d come from the family burial plot somehow, but there’s no sign of the graves having been disturbed.”
“Could that have happened at some other time? Maybe a few years ago?”
“Someone would have noticed. My family has lived here continuously since the mid-eighteen hundreds. If the graves had been dug up, someone would have known.”
“Where’s the family plot?”
“Right down here.” Lorna led the way. They walked several hundred yards, then stopped by the fence. “Grandparents, great-grandparents, great-greats, and several generations of aunts, uncles, cousins, and of course my dad and some of my mom’s ashes are here now.”
“It’s lovely, isn’t it?” Regan leaned on the fence. “All those pretty vines and the wildflowers. It’s just the way I’d picture a small country graveyard.”
“I thought it needed some tending-the grass was getting long-but it looks as if our neighbor, Mr. Compton, came down and mowed. I’m going to have to give him a call and thank him.”
Lorna walked around the back of the small cemetery, Regan following.
“Down here’s the pond and, beyond that, a small orchard.”
“I can smell the apples.”
“Rotting on the ground, no doubt. No one’s been down to pick them for years. I don’t imagine there’s much good fruit anymore.” Lorna stopped at the edge of the pond.
The cattails were tall and straggly, their pods having already burst to release the seeds. A small dark bird took cover on the opposite side of the pond, and from deep within the reeds bullfrogs grumbled.
“I haven’t heard one of those in the longest time.” Regan laughed. “Don’t you love that sound?”
“I do. We used to try to catch them when I was younger, but they’re so fast. And some of them are just huge.”
Lorna stood with her hands on her hips. Someday soon she’d have to come back with that second urn of her mother’s ashes. She’d been deliberately avoiding it, but she knew she couldn’t put it off forever.
“And the area where the remains were found?” Regan asked.
“Straight ahead. Want to see how close we can get?”
“Sure.”
They walked around the pond and through the orchard. At the far end, Lorna grabbed Regan’s arm.
“I forgot. The police have cordoned off the field with yellow tape,” she said. “They want to make sure no one gets close to where they’re working.”
“Probably a smart thing to do, to keep as many people away as possible. Otherwise, this field would be teeming with reporters and cameramen, more than it already is. The police don’t need that when they’re trying to investigate something as serious as this.”
“I wish I had binoculars.”
“Me, too.” Regan raised her hand to her forehead to block the sun. “I can’t see a damned thing.”
“The only good vantage point is the old hayloft in the barn.”
“Well, it could come to that before the day’s over, if our curiosity gets the best of us.”
“Seen enough?” Lorna asked.
“I haven’t seen anything, and I’m not likely to, so I’d put breakfast next on the agenda.”
They started back across the field. They’d gotten halfway, when Regan pointed off to her right and asked, “What’s that wild area we passed?”
“It used to be a vineyard.” Lorna told her the story of her great-uncle Will’s dream of bringing a winery to Callen.
“That is so cool.” Regan grinned. “Can we walk over there? I’d love to see it.”
“I’m afraid there’s not much to see, but sure.” She led the way.
As they drew closer, Lorna said, “I think most of the vines are most likely dead. They haven’t been tended in years.” She paused, then added, “Except for those few rows up there near the cottage. Billie Eagan’s been living there, at my mother’s invitation, and she dug all the weeds out and somehow got the vines to grow up on the trellises again.”
“You said your great-uncle brought the vines from France?”
“Some of them. I don’t know if he planted American varieties as well. No one seems to know much about the venture, except he did cultivate the grapes for a few years and was planning to make wine.”
“He had the equipment here?”
“No, I don’t think he’d bought equipment yet. If he did, it was disposed of before I was born. But he did have a wine cellar dug, and he brought a lot of barrels back from France, so I guess he planned on making a lot of wine.”
“Where’s the wine cellar?”
“It runs under the barn and out below the field a ways. I’m not sure how far. When I was little, it seemed like it went down into the center of the earth, but I haven’t been to the cellar in years.”
“Is there wine down there?”
“Like I said, Uncle Will never actually got to make any before he died.” Lorna grinned. “Which is not to say he hasn’t contemplated it since.”
“What do you mean?”
“He’s still around the house sometimes. If you believe in that sort of thing.”
“I do,” Regan admitted somewhat sheepishly. “I always have. Growing up in England, I had relatives with very old houses. Some of them had unexplained goings-on, so I’ve had some exposure to the real thing.”
“Uncle Will is definitely the real thing.”
They walked toward the house and were almost to the end of the field when Regan stopped and looked back over her shoulder.
“It’s really beautiful, don’t you think? The vineyard?”
“It used to be. Now, overgrown like that, and with all the vines barren and twisted around the trellises, it’s sort of sad-looking.” Lorna paused. “When I look at it, I can’t help but think about how Uncle Will must have felt, after his wife and son died. Back then, the vineyard would have been beautiful, well tended and the vines healthy, but they lost their beauty for him after he lost his family.”
“Have you thought about restoring them? Raising grapes? You have the basic infrastructure already in place.”
“I know nothing about growing grapes, nothing about making wine. It’s probably more complicated than you think. And I have one business to run. I don’t have time to learn another.”
“Too bad.” Regan resumed walking. “It would probably be fun.”
“Sure it would, if your idea of fun is worrying about crop failure and the weather.” Lorna took one last fond look behind her before falling in step with Regan. “But it might be worth mentioning to the Realtor. There are several really fine vineyards and wineries here in the southeastern part of the state. Someone thinking about starting up their own small winery might be interested.”
“So you’re definitely selling?”
“As soon as I can get around to lining up a Realtor and having everything appraised.”
“Where will Billie go, after you sell the property?”
“I haven’t really given it any thought. Actually, I haven’t given selling as much thought as I should have.”
“My dad’s been gone for a year, and I still haven’t had a serious discussion with an agent about selling his place. I’ve had a few out to look, but I’ve never gotten beyond that. I keep meaning to, but for some reason I’ve found myself putting it off.”
“It’s hard to give it up. Especially if it’s your childhood home.”
“Well, I didn’t grow up on Dad’s farm, but I have spent a lot of time there. I feel the same way, though. I don’t know, maybe it’s just an attempt on my part to hold on to my dad.”
“You were really close, I guess.”
Regan nodded. “Especially those last few years when we worked together. I came to see him in a whole new light, as someone other than simply my father. He was a brilliant writer, and was totally devoted to finding the truth and seeing the bad guys pay. He received citations from police departments all over the country. Cops loved him. He treated them with great respect in his books, never blamed them for not being able to solve a crime, even when their investigations had proven to be sloppy or lazy. He had a huge following in the law enforcement community. When he had book signings, the stores would be filled with cops.”