Blood on the Vine

By JC Simmons

Blood on the Vine (Full Version)

Jay Leicester (pronounced "Lester") is a retired Airline Pilot, retired because he could not stand the bureaucratic web the government spun over the aviation industry, and partly because anyone with the price of a bus ticket could fly on the airlines, which resulted in overbooking, overcrowding, and near chaos on every route. Raised in a family of Judges and police officers, the only thing he knew to fall back on was the law. Opening his own private investigation business was a natural evolution, especially since he had trouble with authority, and could work outside the constraints of legalese. Handling mostly aviation related cases; recovery of stolen aircraft, investigating drug-hauling pilots, and helping set up corporate aviation departments kept him busy.

The crash of a Gulfstream V corporate jet with three of his friends aboard leads Leicester from Mississippi to the Napa Valley wine country in California where he becomes involved with an old world family winery, the investigation of the crash, murder, and a beautiful raven-haired siren who could love him or kill him, and a beautiful blond who almost does kill him. Fine wines, good food, and evil people all come together in a powerful work reminiscent of Ross MacDonald or John D. McDonald. Character driven and plot oriented, this is a must read for the serious Mystery/Thriller 'aficionado.'

There are 10 ebooks in the Jay Leicester Mysteries Series by JC Simmons:

Blood on the Vine
Some People Die Quick
Blind Overlook
Icy Blue Descent
The Electra File
Popping the Shine
Four Nines Fine
The Underground Lady
Akel Dama
The Candela of Cancri

• Language: English
• Publisher: JC Simmons
• Release date: Apr 27, 2012
• ISBN: 9781936377619

JC Simmons

JC Simmons is the author of an Ernest Hemingway biography, several short stories and ten critically acclaimed serial mystery novels, known as the "Jay Leicester Mysteries Series". Included in the series are: Blood On The Vine, Some People Die Quick, Blind Overlook, Icy Blue Descent, The Electra File, Popping the Shine, Four Nines Fine, The Underground Lady, Akel Dama, and The Candela of Cancri, all of which have been recently re-released as ebooks by Nighttime Press LLC.From the Author's mouth:My flying career and writing in general was inspired by a single book titled, Fate is the Hunter, by Ernest K. Gann. Writing specifically as a style was manifest due to a single book titled, Ernest Hemingway: A Life Story, by Carlos Baker, Hemingway’s official biographer. A friend and Emergency Room doctor, Edgar Grissom, who would later publish the definitive bibliography on Hemingway, Ernest Hemingway: A Descriptive Bibliography, loaned me his copy of Baker’s bio one summer back in the early 70s. The rest, as they say, is history.During the next few years, I read everything by and about Hemingway. Never has a writer influenced me more. My first foray into the world of letters was to be about Hemingway. John Evans, owner of Lemuria Books, and my mentor in all things literati, pointed out that there were literally hundreds of bios on Hemingway. However, a scholarly study on the man and his work had never been done in a Q&A format. So was born the “Workbook.”Evans, Grissom, Evan’s store manager, Tom Gerald and his assistant Valerie Sims, all collaborated on the manuscript. It took two years to finish. I learned much on the journey.It was from this endeavor with the Hemingway bio that emerged the Jay Leicester Murder/Mystery series. Even the name Leicester came from Hemingway’s brother, who also published a bio, My Brother Ernest Hemingway, in 1961.Hemingway once said he “learned to write landscapes by looking at the paintings of Cezanne in the Louvre in Paris,” and “that it’s not how much one puts into a book, but what the writer leaves out that makes the story.” From him I learned how to write true dialogue, and how to add the sights, sounds, and smells so that the reader feels he is there. While I did not try and copy his style, thousands have tried and failed, I did take what he offered and used it well, I hope. You the reader will make that determination.J.C. Simmons was born, raised, educated, and stayed in the great State of Mississippi. He is a retired Airline/Corporate pilot and lives with his wife on the family farm in Union, Mississippi where he is working on a autobiographical work detailing his life and times as a pilot.

Book preview

BLOOD ON THE VINE (Book 1 of the Jay Leicester Mysteries Series)

by JC Simmons

Copyright 2012 by JC Simmons

Smashwords Edition

This ebook, BLOOD ON THE VINE, is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. BLOOD ON THE VINE may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each reader. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

PUBLISHED BY NIGHTTIME PRESS LLC

Copyright © 2012 Edition by JC Simmons

All rights reserved

Check out all ten books in

The Jay Leicester Mysteries Series:

Blood on the Vine

Some People Die Quick

Blind Overlook

Icy Blue Descent

The Electra File

Popping the Shine

Four Nines Fine

The Underground Lady

Akel Dama

The Candela of Cancri

Now available at the usual outlets

Blood on the Vine

(Book 1 of the Jay Leicester Mysteries Series)

By JC Simmons

CHAPTER ONE

The new forty million-dollar Gulfstream GV corporate aircraft taxied slowly to the end of runway 36 at the Napa County Airport. On board were the two pilots, the owner, Ben Brooks, and three of his company attorneys. They had, the day before, completed purchase of the famed Novellone Winery in Calistoga, California, and were enroute back to Jackson, Mississippi, headquarters of the Brooks Corporation.

With no air traffic control delay at the end of the taxiway, the aircraft turned onto the runway and accelerated swiftly as the powerful engines reached takeoff thrust. Rotating and climbing like a silver-winged, homesick angel, the big Gulfstream reached for altitude. Exactly two minutes and thirty seconds later the jet plunged straight down into a field of cabernet Sauvignon grapevines, impacting the ground at over five hundred miles an hour, disintegrating into tiny fragments.

***

Napa Valley, California. Rolling hills, fog-shrouded mountains; giant eucalyptus trees with white trunks standing at the margins of immaculate, will-tended vineyards; vines, lush and heavy with ripe, bursting grapes. Where valley floor breaks to become hillside, there are castle-like chateau’s housing caches of aging wine; some buried deep into hillside caves dug a century ago by Chinese laborers. Vineyard workers still carefully select and harvest individual bunches of the ripest grapes for artisans to lovingly craft into complex wines. I stood in the middle of this valley surrounded by unbelievable horror.

The charred, smoldering earth stretched for a thousand feet in all directions, oddly soft and loosely packed, as if freshly prepared for planting. A nauseating smell of burned dirt, grass, grapevine, plastic, paint, kerosene and human flesh permeated the damp air. I turned a small chunk of metal over with my toe. It was black and ugly on one side, shiny and polished on the other. I bent down. The thing was about six inches square, probably the biggest piece left after the cleanup this morning.

Jesus, I said aloud to no one.

The two pilots had been close friends of mine. We had shared the small, cramped cockpits of commercial airplanes for many hours, and not so long ago, either. Such close confinement, under sometimes-stressful conditions forces you to learn about personal smells, habits, abilities, and faults. You learn to admire or detest one another. These men had been knowledgeable, experienced fliers. Now they were dead, and so were the other four people on board, including the owner, Ben Brooks. This was a man who had been my friend for many years; had helped me when I needed it. A man I introduced to the world of wine. He had become, as I, a student of the vine. I felt somehow responsible for him being in this valley of the grape; for his death, and I felt horrible about it.

The early morning fog and smoke hung close to the ground and the dampness began to soak into my skin. I pulled my jacket up close around my neck. Jay Leicester, private investigator; I laughed at that, knowing how I ended up in this occupation. Ex-pro football player; ex-airline pilot; ex-self-taught wine expert. Too many ex’s.

Standing here, alone, in this valley of the seven moons, I felt puny, and a feeling of sadness made me reflect on being here. Or maybe it was the depression from the loss of close friends, and knowing what lay ahead. Raised in a family of Judges and law enforcement officers, and after ending my flying career, all I knew to fall back on was law. Working on the fringes as a private investigator suited me better than operating under the legal restraints placed on sworn officers of the courts. Taking orders from anyone was a problem for me, sometimes a big problem.

At six feet two inches, two hundred thirty-five pounds, I was still in good shape for an over forty guy. I ran two miles every day when not on a case, and worked out with a retired boxer three times a week to keep the reflexes sharp.

The chain of events that brought me to this spot, in this valley, was long and complicated. The common thread was fine wine. Something I knew not a little about.

Off in the distance, over by the tree line near the base of the rolling hills, I noticed the lone figure of a man. The way the faint early morning sunlight played off the fog and smoke gave the figure a ghost-like appearance. I squinted at the man. He looked exactly like Ben Brooks. The form started to move toward me and seemed to be floating across the ground rather than walking. It was eerie. The closer he got, the more the man looked like Ben.

Standing there watching the slender figure approach, I felt a damp breeze caress the back of my neck. My hands were cold and I put them into the pockets of the old, worn flight jacket. In the right hand pocket I could feel the icy steel of an airweight magnum that had become a part of me over the years.

The figure stopped a few feet away. My mind was still trying to make me believe that this apparition was Ben, and it was doing a good job. The resemblance was incredible. The eyes seemed different, though; dark, cold, sunk back in under thick, black eyebrows. The fellow pulled a straight-stemmed pipe out of a holder on his belt and proceeded to light it, the dark bottomless eyes piercing into mine. I met the stare without blinking, relieved, because Ben had not smoked a pipe, or anything else.

Finally: Good morning. I’m Charlie Harrier.

He handed me a slim, black, leather I.D. case that in fact said he was who he said he was and identified him as being a member of the National Transportation Safety Board.

I’m in charge of the investigation. Did you know you’re in a ‘secure’ area?

His voice was deep, much deeper than you would expect from such a small man. He was not short, I guessed around five foot eleven inches, but he could not have weighed over a hundred and forty pounds. His hair was thin and receding, his face sharp, cheek bones high, and a hooked nose. The pipe seemed to be a part of his face. He clasped it between his teeth on the right side of his mouth when he talked, his thin lips opened to show teeth stained to a golden color from many years’ use of pipe tobacco.

Jay Leicester, I said, extending my hand. I’m a private investigator hired by the company that owned the airplane. His grip surprised me. It was strong and firm for such a light man. The pilots were friends of mine and so was the owner, Ben Brooks.

I handed him my I.D. wallet that held my private investigator’s license and my Airline Transport pilot's license. The ATP license has the United States of America written across the top and the seal of the Department of Transportation in the upper right hand corner. Against some that are not familiar, the licenses look of officialdom helps the bluff. They get me into places where I could not otherwise gain access. Some people glance at an official-looking I.D. and just turn submissive.

The ATP license was one I’d had for over twenty-five years. Though I do not fly for a living any more, I keep my licenses current, even my first class medical. It is something I cannot let go of, like an old pair of shoes that still feel good, even though they are worn out, and you wouldn’t wear them in public.

Ah, you’re a pilot, too, I see, Harrier said with a slight grin.

Well, I used to be. Still stay current, but I’ve been away from the line a long time.

Always hate to see the older pilots leave. These new generations coming up…I don’t know? Harrier resettled his pipe. You got some authorization from the Brooks Company?

It’s being wired out this morning. They didn’t get in touch with me until late yesterday. Jumped on the last flight out of Jackson and flew all night.

Harrier nodded. It was a familiar story.

You sure got the wreckage cleaned up in a hurry, I went on.

It was an intense fire, Harrier said. They were full of fuel. There weren’t a lot of big pieces left. Even though the cockpit broke clean and came to rest a hundred yards from the main fire, it was still completely destroyed. The rest of the aircraft was reduced to soot. Most of the bones from all six bodies were burned…

I get the picture, Harrier, I interrupted. I did not need him to tell me about jet fuel and fire, nor about the bones of my friends. You got any idea, so far, as to what happened?

If I did, I couldn’t tell you. You know that.

The man’s eyes stared humorously, and it made me angry.

That’s a bureaucratic crock, Harrier. I’m not in the mood. I’m tired, I’m sleepy, and I’ve just lost three good friends. I don’t want to hear something you’d tell a news reporter who doesn’t know the difference between an airplane and a pelican.

A slight grin formed, just for an instant, on his thin lips, stained teeth, and pipe; the dark eyebrows rose just a touch, and the black eyes sparkled.

Settle down, Leicester. You’re much too big a man to whip this early in the morning.

I almost laughed, because for a moment I thought he might be serious. It was a ludicrous remark, not only due to my size, but Harrier was probably fifteen years my senior.

He broke into a wide grin. Come on, I’ve got some coffee in my car, we’ll talk.

I followed him across the soft, ugly, blackish-brown earth, through the foul-smelling, clinging smoke and fog.

Trailing the lanky, fast-walking Harrier across the vineyard, I thought again about why I was here in this pleasant wine producing capital of the United States, maybe the world. A place where my own enology education was broadened by an old friend, years ago. Jay Leicester former airline/corporate pilot, and now, by choice, a private investigator. A loner.

Wine started out as a hobby, then became a passion. I once took a leave of absence from flying to attend a year at the Mississippi State School of Enology. Thought seriously of making wine a vocation. Probably should have.

Ben Brooks…What were you doing in the Napa Valley?

The car was small; it was gray and had a little government seal on the side of each door. One of a million gray clones driven by a million human clones our government turns out, but the coffee was hot, black, and good. Harrier started the engine and turned the heater on. The warmth and coffee began to take the chill off and I started to relax.

We took everything over to the Napa County airport, Harrier said. They let us have a hangar. We’ll lay it all out and try to find out what we can. I don’t know much at the moment. Your friends took off yesterday morning at three minutes after eight and they were heavy. From what I can determine, they were at max gross takeoff weight, ninety thousand five hundred pounds.

Why would they have wanted so much fuel on board? I asked, more to myself than Harrier. That would give them over six thousand miles range.

Harrier shook his head. I have no idea. It was cool in the early morning, but even so, the weight was pushing the limit for takeoff distance. My rough guess is they would have needed at least six thousand feet of runway to be legal, and Napa’s longest is only fifty nine hundred and thirty-two feet.

Exactly. It doesn’t make sense. These pilots were pros. I sipped the coffee. So, you’re getting all the data? Flight plans, conversations with Departure Control, time of disappearance from radar…?

Sure. How much fuel they took on, testing it in the truck that fueled them, and the fuel in the ground tank at the airport. We’re doing it all.

Sounded like Harrier and his cohorts have a checklist they go through, normally. He was sucking on his pipe, watching me through blue smoke. After a few puffs he continued. Tell you what, Leicester, I’ll help you out on one condition, you agree to pass on everything you discover as soon as you get it. This is a newly certified aircraft, if something is wrong with the design we have to know and we have to know fast. Are we on the same page, here?

It was a reasonable offer, sounded like. Can I see the wreckage?

It’s all in a pile at the hangar. We haven’t had time to separate any of it yet. Why don’t you wait a week, at least until we lay everything out?

A week of standing around? No way. I needed to know where we stood with each other. Thought I’d shove a little, see how he shoved back. Look, I’m here to find out why this airplane crashed. We both know it wasn’t a design flaw, or pilot error. That leaves us with an outside influence. Once you rule out this fuel thing, you’re going to be sucking hind tit. You’re going to need my help because I’m not strangled by all your government red tape. I’m going to find out why three friends are dead, and you can bet your sweet ass it won’t take me the two years it takes you jokers to put out an accident report. So here’s the deal, if something comes up you need to know, I’ll call.

The pipe quivered in Harrier’s jaw. Then the muscles relaxed and a thin smile crossed his face.

You ever thought about going to work with the NTSB? There was a sparkle in those dark eyes.

Right. I’ll follow you to the airport.

***

The fog caused rivulets to run down my windshield as I followed Harrier’s taillights. Remembering him looking over my Airline Transport license suddenly brought

Reviews for Blood on the Vine

[bettesbooks · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

Written by ex-pilot JC. Simmons the airplane scenes feel very real, as the emotions his character Leicester expresses. As a reader I was also given an overview of Napa Valley but didn’t connect with the characters as they seemed too old=worldly for their birthplace, time and location. This reads like a standalone novel there is no cliff hanger or indication that you must read the next in series.

[PeterTurnbull · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

J C Simmonds almost ruined my reading pattern. I had two books on the go, one on here - my laptop - and one on my Kindle. I put Blood on the Vine here ready to read later but the write up intrigued me so I started reading. By the time I was on page 2 I knew I was hooked. The other two books were forgotten. Yes I am going back to them now, BEFORE I get round to starting another in this series.