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But after breakfast, as Luke and I crossed the courtyard, a sweet, heady fragrance stopped me. Following the scent, I drew closer to a blooming tree to inhale the perfume of its delicate, white blossoms. “What’s this?”
“A loquat tree. Won’t be long until these buds develop into fruit.”
Something about the tree sparked a memory, and I stooped to examine the smooth rock beneath it.
“Anything wrong?”
“I dreamt about this stone last night.” Brushing away dead leaves, I leaned closer. “The shape looks almost like a fallen tombstone.”
“Now that you mention it, it does. It’s flaggy limestone from McKittrick Canyon.”
“Which means…?”
“Flagstone’s flat surface would be perfect for etching an epitaph.” He stared at the rock, seeming to peer inward. “And if I recall, the realtor told my grandfather this was an old gravesite.”
“Whose?”
“He didn’t know.” He shook his head as he studied the thin slab. “No one remembers.”
A chill ran up my spine. “If this is a grave, would it have any connection to the odd occurrences lately?”
“Anything’s possible.” He shrugged as he stood and entered the shed. “See you at lunch.”
Still thinking about the stone as I sauntered into the vineyard, I froze. Something’s off-kilter. What’s wrong? Then it registered.
Instead of the neat lines of staked vines, one row lay partially toppled.
My blood ran cold. Did I prune the vines wrong? Accidentally slice them? No…I haven’t started that row yet, so what happened? My heart thumping, I ran to the collapsed vines and saw the slashed roots. Who chopped the vines?
Chapter 11
An hour later, Luke and I walked the police officer into the vineyard. Shaking his head, the man stooped in front of the first severed vine and took the two pieces in his hands. “Think it’s kids? A prank?”
“No, sir.” Luke’s chest rose in a silent sigh. “Whoever did this knew exactly where to cut to do the most damage.” His voice sounded hollow as if he’d had the wind knocked out of him.
I dreaded hearing the answer but had to ask. “Will it kill the vines?”
“No, but it’ll take years until they produce again.” His shoulders drooped. “That translates to lost time and lost income.”
I knew his shoestring budget. Grimacing, I caught his gaze.
“Vandalism in Fort Lincoln. Who’d have thought?” The officer took snapshots of the lopped-off pieces, then began jotting notes. “Any idea who did this?”
His eyes narrowing to slits, Luke glared across the creek. Then he shook his head. “Nope.”
After a few more questions, the officer put away his pad and left.
As soon as he was out of hearing, I pounced on Luke. “You really don’t have any idea who did this?”
“I have an idea”—his eyes hard, he regarded the neighboring property—“but no proof.”
I followed his stare. “Bea?”
****
That night, a crying baby woke me again. I flipped on the light and strained to hear the muffled sound.
After circling the main room’s perimeter, I stepped into the bathroom, but the farther I ventured from the cabin’s center, the fainter the cries. Backtracking, I slowly moved between the pieces of furniture, listening.
