Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 138, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 821 & 822, September/October 2011

Cold War by Cheryl Rogers

“The plot for ‘Cold War’,” Australian fiction writer, former journalist, and vineyard owner Cheryl Rogers told EQMM, “came to me after a discovery made by my husband in our vineyard several years ago. The... Queen of Crime competition provided the incentive to research and write the story.” That yearly competition, sponsored by Partners in Crime, Sydney, New South Wales, yielded a win for Ms. Rogers for “Cold War,” one of two suck prizes she has received from the organization.

Typical. I break all speed records, risking double demerits on a designated tourist route, only to find my favourite cop’s beaten me to the action. Detective Sergeant Rod Gudgeon’s handing out barrier tape to a couple of uniforms as I land the company hatchback beside his unmarked V8. So much for my scoop. While the weather may have been psychotic enough lately to rate as front-page news, my dear readers are over it. And I’m with them. Well, weather’s not exactly murder, is it? The suspicious death of a wine-industry patriarch is quite another story.

It’s early afternoon and a skittish, dry easterly’s teasing up the skirts along a chorus line of casuarina trees edging the drive to this vineyard estate winery. It’s in a semi-rural enclave on the outskirts of the city. A river valley bordered by a northbound arterial highway and the meandering vein I’ve just burned, just a hoot west of the trans-Australian rail link.

Picture-perfect lines of chardonnay, Verdelho, and cabernet sauvignon shimmer lime-green against a hard summer sky and even harder red loam. It’s strong soil here, in the valley where I grew up. Plant feathers and you’ll grow chickens, Stefi. That’s what my dad used to say, God rest him. Sacrilege to think of Saxon Swayne staining this honest dirt with his blood.

“Ah, the weather girl,” the DS says tiredly as I break out of the hatchback to front him. Spaniel eyes roll. Must be the heat. “If I’d known you were going to low-fly, I’d have alerted Traffic.”

The mad, hot wind combines with the roar of an inward-bound British Airways jumbo to whip away my crack about raising revenue. Just as well, maybe. Gudgeon and I have a testy relationship. Made worse by the knowledge that we need each other, professionally speaking.

He says he doesn’t trust journos. Though he’s happy enough to use hacks like me whenever he crawls out from under his rock to appeal for public help.

Not that I can claim any lack of prejudice, either. Specially towards pedants like Gudgeon. We’ve had a bit of a mutual Cold War thing going ever since he put my dad in the slammer.

We watch in silence as the jumbo crab-walks through its descent, in deference to some serious buffeting. I wait for the grit to settle, then get down to business. “I understand there’s been a suspicious death, Sergeant?”

“Nah, Stefi.” Gudgeon’s balled fist indicates the uniform crew taping off a patch of chardonnay near a headland, a couple of hundred metres south of where we’re parked. The skittering tape piques the curiosity of a pair of white Embden geese, which move in, honking slander. “The boys’re just marking out a plot for me to grow vegetables when I retire.”

There’s an afternoon deadline looming and I need to meet it to get this story in the evening edition and stay a step ahead of our morning rival. “Can you confirm the deceased is Saxon Swayne, Sergeant?”

“You know I can’t confirm anything until we’ve run a few tests, made the formal ID.” Gudgeon’s as giving as a clam. Rheumy eyes narrow. “How’d you hear about this, anyway? It hasn’t gone out yet on the scanner.”

“Anonymous tip to the news desk,” I lie. “Local knowledge. Educated guess as to the identity of the victim. Any chance of a closer look at the crime scene?”

“Sure.” Don’t you just hate it when a man’s smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes? “About the same chance as a snowball’s in hell.”

I’m waved away with the promise of a spot at the media free-for-all. That’s several hours away. The smirk on the face of the DS tells me he’s well aware the timing is too late for my deadline.

He’s still grinning as he shuffles off to greet a couple of underlings pulling up in a white Commodore. I recognise my old schoolmate and regular informant, DC Anna Swift, behind the wheel. She’s a fast-talking blonde with a penchant for motors. Got stuck with the nickname “Spanner” in sixth grade and claims to like it. Says it teams nicely with her blue boiler suit and killer heels.

The tall guy unfolding himself from the passenger seat must be her new partner in Major Crime, DC Jack Darwin. Science graduate. Botany major. We haven’t been formally introduced, but it’s another educated guess. He’s wearing a floral shirt. Geeky. Flower child. Even has Tchaikovsky’s “Waltz of the Flowers” as the ringtone on his mobile, for Godsakes! That’s the character assassination according to Spanner. Strange she didn’t mention he’s a dead ringer for the eminently edible Rupert Penry-Jones.

I forgo the introductions and wave a brief hello. Don’t want Gudgeon sussing that Spanner’s the reason I’m here. I console myself by snapping a couple of rear shots as the investigative team marches out to the crime scene.

Then I head to the homestead, where a red-eyed Mitzi Swayne, clad in electric blue Lycra and with a sweatband spiking her red curls, confirms what I already know.

“One of the workmen thought he heard a scream early. Later, when Saxon didn’t show up for lunch, he went to investigate. Found him dead as a... what is it? Ah yes! Donut.”

Mitzi’s being comforted by one of Gudgeon’s guard dogs, who concedes to her demand to let me inside when I offer condolences and a quite plausible line about putting together an appropriate obituary.

If it wasn’t for Mitzi, I’d still be languishing on the social pages of our local rag. Then I started trailing the district’s leading socialite through the courts as she graduated from driving offences to fraud. Public opinion is that she’d be behind bars were it not for a slick-talking lawyer spurred to great heights by the size of Saxon Swayne’s wallet.

“How would you describe your late husband?” I say gently as the WPC busies herself making tea.

Mitzi dabs at her cheek with a tissue before giving her considered response. “Corpulent. Arrogant. Flatulent. Merciless. Unscrupulous. Conscienceless. Dishonest...” she says, sotto-voiced. “Shall I go on?”

My pen hovers and I glance uneasily towards the kitchen, where there’s the reassuring clatter of crockery.

“That won’t look good in print, Mitzi,” I say sympathetically, inwardly marvelling at her command of English. It’s Mitzi’s second language and she’s the fourth wife. Eyebrows shot up in the district when Swayne took off on a trade mission to the Ukraine and brought back the flirty-something redhead, half his age. That was five years back and I guess the honeymoon’s over.

“We both know my husband has... had... his share of enemies, Stefi.” She plucks at that tissue, ripping it to shreds. “Is it any wonder that he’s now lying dead in a field, his skull split open like an overripe melon?”

My heart’s sinking at about the same rate as my stomach’s pitching north. Mitzi’s giving me nothing quotable and I need to advise her to soften her delivery when she makes her statement. After all, she only has a couple of squillion reasons for wanting her husband dead.

“Can you think of anyone in particular?” I prompt.

Mitzi frowns and taps her front tooth with a pink-varnished nail extension. “I can’t think of many...” she starts, but adds “...who didn’t want Saxon eliminated, out of the picture, poof!” Pink extensions spread-eagle.

She names a neighbour prosecuted over spray damage to a patch of the estate’s vines, a couple of disgruntled former employees, a bitter ex-wife. Not to mention the dozen or so grape growers forced out of business by Swayne’s decision to terminate contracts in the face of the growing surplus of wine grapes across Australia.

I take notes as fast as my shorthand speed allows.

Then stop.

“And, of course, there was that dreadful business with your father,” she goes on, echoing my own disquiet. “You must be extremely bitter that he ended up in jail? Then such a tragic end...”

“I’m not quite bitter enough to have killed your husband,” I shoot back.

It comes out a little too loud.

My timing isn’t perfect, either. The WPC’s just coming in with the tea tray and you can bet she’ll be on her hooter to Gudgeon the moment my cup’s drained.

My hand’s shaking as I down the scalding liquid and I notice Mitzi and the Rottweiler exchanging glances.

Then I make my excuses and leave to feed Spanner a few choice facts. It’s the least I can do. She’s a reliable informant and has tossed me a steady run of front-page stories since making the leap from Traffic to Major Crime. The coroner’s van is pulling out onto the casuarina-lined drive leading from the homestead, past the winery complex and out to the main drag, as I emerge into the light. Just in time to zoom in for another pic.

Gudgeon’s V8 has gone, I note with some relief. An unusually pale Spanner and a chatty Jack Darwin are just making their way back to the Commodore.

Darwin’s prattling, something about “Vitis vinifera,” but dries up as Spanner starts the introductions.

Between gulps of air.

“Sorry. Bit queasy.” She shoots her partner a sideways glance and I’m not sure if it’s the crime scene or the conversation that’s turned her. “Jack Darwin, a.k.a. ‘Charlie’ for the obvious. Meet Stefi Flanders. Stef writes for the—”

“The Western Evening Times!” The DC steps forward and clasps my hand. His mitt’s big. And disarmingly warm. Mine tingles. Not unpleasantly, either. Spooky. “What a delight to meet the Stefany Flanders. I’ve been following your in-depth coverage of this crazy weather with avid interest.”

Jack squints skywards and I hear myself prattling like a tweenager. Freak snowfalls in the eastern ranges. Sydney enveloped in a maelstrom of red dust. Not to mention the Category Five tropical cyclone seething just off the North West Cape.

My interest in the weather has undergone a miraculous resurrection. In stark contrast to Spanner, who looks like she might throw up. I pause to consider whether to confide details of a feature I’m compiling on bushfire prediction methods, but the DCs aren’t listening.

“B737-800, Broome to Perth flight. Twin engines. Look, Spanner!” Darwin’s line of sight’s tracking an inbound Qantas flight. And here was me thinking he was squinting at stars.

“Turbofans. One of the most popular engines in commercial aviation.” The colour floods back into Spanner’s cheeks as she warms to her favourite topic. Motors. I swear that girl has engine oil coursing through her veins. “More than four thou CFM56-7B’s in operation. Swept fans. Advanced compressor parts. It’s one of the most modem and efficient—”

“Ahem.” I tap my watch face. It’s almost two. “I’m battling a deadline, okay?” I’m already scribbling names onto a spare sheet of paper. “According to Mitzi, the suspects include a disgruntled neighbour, who I know just happens to be one of a dozen grape growers upset because Swayne had tom up their contracts. Then there’s a couple of ex-employees and a former wife, all of whom wished the wine chief dead. Threats were made. Publicly. There are witnesses. Not to mention Mitzi herself.”

I pause to take in an awkward silence. That’s broken when Spanner clears her throat and speaks.

“And of course, there’s you, Stef.” Vineyard loam puffs to dust as killer heels kick in. “What with your dad and all. The Grudge’ll want us to eliminate you from our inquiries.”

Reluctantly, I admit to my whereabouts since six, when Swayne was last sighted upright. Got up, washed hair, got to work 7:30 A.M. Pity the hairy male who shares my bed can’t act as a character witness. Okay, so Alfie’s a tomcat. And neutered.

Spanner heads off towards the winery complex to check out the suspects so far. I hand Darwin my business card before hunkering down behind the steering wheel of the hatchback to head back to the office and file some copy.

“If there’s a breakthrough, anything at all, you’ll let me know, okay?”

He takes the card, but the smile’s somewhat distant. “Sure.”

Back at the Evening Times, I scramble together just enough of the facts so far and one of the pics to make a score of column centimetres on page three. “Mystery Death of Winery Chief” doesn’t quite carry the clout I’d hoped for, but it’s the best header the chief sub can manage, given the information so far.

Then Spanner rings in. “The neighbour could scarce contain his delight. Said he was working alone in his vines at the time of the alleged offence, but has no witnesses. His wife’s on holiday in Bali. Claims he heard a brief scream sometime after seven, but thought it was someone cranking up an air-blast mister.”

I endure a lengthy explanation of the workings of the air-blast system before Spanner resumes the rundown.

“The ex-employees weren’t exactly grief-stricken either. One was dismissed after some cash went missing. He claims Swayne was hiding the readies and decided to blame someone to claim the insurance. Second guy was given his marching orders after a punch-up with the boss. Claims he didn’t kill Swayne but, and I quote, ‘I’d like to shake the hand of the hero that did.’ ”

“The ex-wife?” I need to know. “Aren’t ‘love, lust, lucre, and loathing’ the four main reasons why people commit murder?”

“Remarried last year,” Spanner supplies. “Purring like a kitten. Says she was at home, in bed... and having seen the eye candy she’s now shackled with, I’m inclined to believe her. But I’ll follow it up.”

“What about Mitzi?”

“Working out with her personal trainer, who backs up her story.”

“Any witnesses?”

“Only the entire aerobics class at...” She names the district’s fanciest and most popular gym.

We terminate the call and arrange to touch bases after the press conference. I’m jumping into the elevator, heading for the car pool, and almost collide with Glenys from the newspaper library.

“Hey... we’ve got the chairman of your fan club... going through the archives,” she says between vigorous assaults on a mouthful of gum.

“Fabulous,” I reply as the doors shush shut. Just what I need. Another nutter. I’ve had my share since I started writing about the seedier side of life.

Gudgeon’s characteristically obtuse when he fronts the media conference, though he does at least confirm the victim’s name. There’s the usual appeal for witnesses who might have noticed anything unusual and the heartening news that police are following several promising lines of inquiry.

“Not so much a whodunit as a who didn’t do it,” Spanner confides after the cameras are switched off and Gudgeon scarpers. She’s hugging an armful of files. “The Grudge wants me to see if I can find a connection between the growers and any of the other people of interest.”

She checks quickly to make sure no one’s listening, but lowers her voice anyway. “Rumour has it he’s got Flower Child checking up on you, Stef. But you didn’t hear it from me, okay.”

Back at the office, I head for the elevator and up to the library. Glenys is stooped, sorting out a copier that’s had some sort of digestion issue with a ream of paper.

“Your fan club’s just gone, if that’s who you’re looking for,” she says, anticipating my question.

“Description?”

My blood pressure racks up several notches when the usually strait-laced Glenys goes all coy. Then starts giggling.

“Well, he was... you know, kinda... well, tall... and a real gentleman... and dammit, Stefi, he just wanted to know all about you. Even read some of your stories, imagine that?”

“And this fruit loop got past Security?”

“Overrode them. The Chief of Security showed him up here, personally. Said he had a police pass.”

Alfie spends a restless night, tormented by my nightmares. Somewhere after 3 A.M. my dad gets busted by Saxon Swayne for taking payment from growers in return for preferential treatment. Then Gudgeon swims into the picture and Dad lands in jail. The worst of it is waking up and remembering it’s all true.

But that’s nothing to the dread I feel next morning when the editor fleet-foots it over to my desk and slams the morning edition of our arch rival on my blotter.

“Ice Theory in Wine Chiefs Death” screams in 48-point Times New Roman from the front page.

The article goes on to congratulate DC Jack Darwin for his scientific approach. He’d come up with the theory that a lump of ice had fallen from an aircraft on its final approach to the airport several kilometres south of Swayne’s estate.

Soil tests had confirmed that a “significant volume” of water had seeped into the red dirt near the body, consistent with the melting of a sizeable chunk of ice.

“Flights from the east were diverted due to the dust storms, and entered air space over the mountain ranges where there’d been freak snowfalls,” the DC says with his usual enthusiasm when I front up for a “please explain.” “It’s reasonable to assume there’d have been an opportunity for ice to form, then drop off as the aircraft began its descent through warm, tropical air. The victim wouldn’t have known what hit him.”

“Then why did Swayne scream? It suggests he was expecting trouble.”

“Chances are it wasn’t Swayne at all. It was more likely the high-pitched whistle that accompanies an ice fall, not unlike a short whine from an air-blast mister.”

Spanner attempts to chip in with some technicalities here, but I stop her. I haven’t quite finished with Darwin.

“You had the gall to steal my stories to come up with this theory, then handed it on a platter to our paper’s rival?”

Darwin doesn’t even blush.

“Least you’re in the clear,” he says.

Gudgeon has the last word.

“Not a crime, is it?” he smirks.

Typical.