trunk of the cruiser.
Taylor had heard enough. He took a step towards McGrath and positioned himself alongside the two men. He cleared his throat, staring into McGrath’s sunglasses.
“Have you notified the provincial police?” Taylor asked.
“All in due time,” said McGrath. “All in due time.”
“You can’t move her until you’ve notified the OPP.”
“Like I said, son, there’s no one available right now. Step aside.
This isn’t a TV show. Leave this to the professionals.”
Taylor took another step, putting his face within eighteen inches of McGrath’s. He spoke deeply, deadly serious, and intent on getting his point across. “That’s what I’m telling you. Leave this for the professionals. Do not touch that girl’s body until you’ve called the OPP.”
“Okay now! Calm down.” Voracci stepped up and came short of putting his hand on Taylor’s shoulder. “That’s enough, I think. Let the police do their job, Taylor. I’m sure they know what they’re doing.”
“I think I know what is and what is not within my jurisdiction, young man,” McGrath said, ignoring Voracci’s intervention. “Step away.”
Patterson closed the trunk of the car and held up his camera for Taylor to see. “That’s why we’re documenting everything before we remove the body. The rest of this area will not be disturbed.”
McGrath turned angrily to Voracci. “Everyone’s a goddammed authority these days. Doesn’t this man have something to do other than hang around here?”
“Yes,” Voracci replied. “Yes, he does. Taylor, thanks for your help here. You can go now.”
“This is a homicide, Mike,” McGrath continued. “Not just a runaway girl. I’m going to have to make this building off limits to everyone. You and your worker here included. And I’m going to want a list of every worker’s name. And I’m going to want to talk to everyone who had access to this building. That includes your family, the workers, this man here, your father, everyone else you can think of.”
“Of course,” said Voracci. “Taylor, I appreciate your concern, but I told you to go now. Give Scotty a hand setting up the line for this afternoon’s shift. And you better make sure Abe doesn’t come out here.”
“You’re too late,” said Taylor, pointing over Voracci’s shoulder.
Michael Voracci turned around. An electric golf cart was making its way towards them, a sixty-year old man in faded bib overalls behind the wheel. Abe Wagner. His face was ashen. His hand trembled as he pointed at the pump-house.
“Is she in there?” he shouted. “Is she there?” He stepped out of the cart, nearly falling as his foot got tangled in the pedals. “Let me see! Let me see my girl!”
Moving quickly, Constable Patterson set his camera on the hood of the police cruiser and was within arm’s reach of Abe Wagner by the time the man had begun to walk towards the pump-house.
Taylor, surprised by Patterson’s speed, was only a step or two behind him. It took a few minutes for them to gently persuade Wagner to get back in the golf cart and let Taylor take him home.
Taylor had just helped the trembling man sit down in the cart when a black pickup pulled up behind the police cruiser. Michael Voracci’s brother Vic and his famous father, Anthony Voracci, climbed out of the cab. Each carried a tray of coffee. Vic, a shorter, thinner version of his brother, balanced a box of doughnuts on the palm of his hand.
“Coffee and doughnuts?” Wagner said with tears running down his face. “Is this some sort of party?”
Taylor started the golf cart and put it in reverse to turn it around. “No,” Wagner said as he placed his hand on Taylor’s arm. He leaned forward in the passenger seat, watching intently at the action in front of him and at the pump-house. “No. It is all wrong. She wasn’t there.”
The Voraccis had settled against their vehicles as the two policemen continued their work. McGrath was securing the area around the shed with yellow tape. Patterson was testing the flash on the camera. “She wasn’t there last week.”
Taylor eased the golf cart into drive, and just before they rounded the corner at the end of the tree-lined road, he looked back.
The three Voraccis, coffee and doughnuts in hand, leaned against the side of the white Dakota and looked as though they had begun to swap stories. The police disappeared inside the burned pump-house that contained Anna’s body. Wagner, sitting beside Taylor, dropped his arms on his knees and buried his face in his hands. The last of the morning dew evaporated from the grape leaves under the brightening summer sun.
The forty acres of Tanglewood Vineyards, owned by Michael Voracci, and the sixty acres of Tanglewood Farms, owned by his brother Vic, existed side by side, north and south, divided by the lane that led to the river. The river, which curled around the farm, marked the eastern and northern edge of the properties, while the highway marked the southern edge. To the west, a long, thin hedgerow divided the Voraccis’ farms from the cornfields of their neighbour. The hedgerows were the trimmings left behind of the vast forest that had once covered this region before the first Loyalist settlers had arrived from the United States and assumed upon the land the harsh geometry of their farms and their grid of roads dug out mile by mile by mile.
In the centre of the brothers’ farms stood the warehouse, the winery, and the bungalow of Abe Wagner. The warehouse was constructed of corrugated steel, as was much of the winery. Within the core of the winery building, however, one could still make out the architecture of the farm’s original barn, with its foundation of fieldstones and large square timber beams. The migrant workers, all of whom were from Mexico, shared a small bungalow on the far southeast corner of the vineyard, where the highway crossed the river on an unnamed bridge. Ben had been there only once, driving an injured worker home to rest, and had been appalled to find the men slept in bunk beds without sheets, six to a room. There was a stove in the kitchen, but no fridge. The shower did not have a curtain, and the bathroom did not have a door. There was not even a seat on the toilet. When he asked Randy Caines about their living conditions, Caines had shrugged. “I don’t go there. Beats me why they don’t have a shower curtain. They know where the hardware store is.”
While Vic Voracci had kept a portion of the apple orchard intact, most of his land had in recent years been covered with plastic and concrete—hydroponic greenhouses. Vic had begun this construction about eight years before, when the peach orchard had been decimated by a particularly harsh spring freeze. That portion of the orchard was bulldozed out and, with the help of some generous grants from the federal government, Tanglewood’s hydroponic greenhouse operations were launched. Within a couple of years, nearly all of Vic’s portion of the farm was covered with plastic and concrete. Gone were the green fields. Gone were the dark starry nights, masked now by the orange-green glow of the greenhouse lights. Gone as well was the annual Apple Festival, which had been a tradition at Tanglewood Farms for as long as anyone could remember, but which the Voracci brothers had always openly despised.
Taylor parked the golf cart beside the back porch and led Abe Wagner by the arm to his door. Wagner’s burning pain and outrage had exhausted itself within moments of leaving the pump-house, and now there was the
