Free Out of the Blue: A Pengram Mystery by Scarlett Castrilli Page B

anticipation of their moves. Was there an EXIT sign by the body?”
    “Yeah. It was attached to the fence but fell off when the picking crew came over to see if it was really a body they were looking at.”
    “So he teases them and terrorizes them and finally murders them. But these aren’t rage-fueled deaths,” I said as Halloran checked over the last eggs. “It’s like he’s just done with them by then. He’s gotten what he wanted, so he kills them with a single blow and walks away. The game isn’t about reaching the finish line but the journey of getting there.”
    “Seems like rage built this,” Halloran commented.
    “Rage built it. Rage watches it. But it isn’t rage at the end. He’s gotten his release. The murder itself isn’t much more than a cleanup job.”
    “Think of the gobs of free time this fellow must have. This is true dedication to a craft here. Maybe he doesn’t hold down a job but gets all of his money from mommy and daddy. So he can do what he pleases.”
    Something was niggling at me about the scenery, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. Together we explored the church and birthday party, where I discovered the presents had no bottoms. One lifted to reveal a cell phone. The taunting in its placement . . . the mockery in this entire construction . . . This man was luring his victims along with scenes that looked on the surface to be happy and calming, twisting them in his perversion to lead them ever closer to death.
    We returned to the body, where the assistant ME was bending down. “Did anyone ever tell you how funny it is to have a medical examiner with the last name Grave?” I asked innocently, as I had many times before. Halloran was called away.
    “Oh, shut your shit-hole, Blue-balls,” Harley yawned sourly, shaking her braid over her shoulder. “I knew I shouldn’t have changed my name when I got married.”
    “The original wasn’t any better.” Her maiden name had been Ghole, which was pronounced ghoul .
    A uniform was watching her in appreciation, and then turned away hastily when I noticed him. Harley Grave usually took people aback. A blonde bombshell with an hourglass figure and legs a mile long, she belonged on a movie screen or catwalk. Instead she mucked about in blood and guts and had a fouler mouth than anyone I’d ever met. A total misanthrope, I took it as a point of pride that she loathed me less than most. Looking over the corpse, she snapped, “Well, what the flying fuck happened to you?”
    “He had a bad night,” I said.
    “Sir! Sir! Stop!”
    I looked over the fence to the vineyard. A man was storming past the rows and aiming in our direction. Eller was chasing after him. “Sir, you can’t be in here!”
    Halloran returned to my side. “Well, we’ve got a very angry vineyard manager to speak with,” he said, nodding to the man over the fence, “and an old woman with some dementia back that way to speak with, too.”
    “Dibs on the angry vineyard manager,” I said quickly as Eller caught the guy. “Old ladies always love you, Jake.”
    Harley gave an icy glare to all of us. “Dammit, get that man out of here!”
    “Sir, you will leave or be arrested!” Eller was insisting.
    I shimmied between the boards of the fence and went over to them. The vineyard manager was speaking almost in a shout at Eller. “This block is for a client and we’ve got to pick it now! Since the body wasn’t on this side of the fence, there’s no reason for you to stop us from-”
    “This side may have been used to access the property,” I said strongly. The man had mussed brown hair and his shirt was buttoned wrong. Far in the distance was the road, where the picking crew was hanging around at vehicles parked along the curb. “What’s your name?” I asked.
    In a fit, the man said, “I’m Jerry Gregory and I manage the vineyards for Roman Wines.” He whipped a business card out of his shirt pocket and offered it to me.
    I took it. Scanning the