The Grim Reader

by Kate Carlisle

  And despite the fury I’d felt less than a minute ago, I had to admire my mother who, in the midst of all this drama, cared more about Lawson’s welfare than her own.

  The rest of the members were grumbling and mumbling to each other so Mom picked up a gavel and gently pounded it on the table to draw their attention back to her. “Let’s take a five-minute coffee break to realign our chakras and do a little shake-shake-shake, shall we?” She made a “jazz hands” movement, smiled sweetly to the group, then dashed over to Derek and me.

  Wrapping her arms around both of us, she whispered, “I’m so sorry you had to see that.”

  “I’m just sorry we can’t watch you do the shake-shake-shake,” I said.

  She moved her shoulders up and down. “Sometimes you’ve got to loosen up, change the vibe, right?”

  Derek wasn’t smiling. “Rebecca, who is that man who threatened you?”

  “Good question,” I said. “I plan to hunt him down and kill him.”

  She pressed her forehead against mine. “Oh, sweetie, he’s not worth one millisecond of your energy.”

  “But he was so hostile to you.”

  “Yes, and that wasn’t the first time.” She sighed. “His name is Jacob Banyan and he owns Raging Stallion Winery.”

  “I’ve never heard of it.” I would’ve remembered such a ridiculous name. And I had to wonder: did he consider himself the raging stallion? Ugh. “Is the winery nearby?”

  “Close enough,” she grumbled. “They’re right over the ridge near Glen Ellen.”

  “Why don’t you want him at the book festival?” I asked. “Other than the fact that he’s a bully and a blowhard.”

  “That’s exactly what he is.” She lowered her voice. “Did you hear him say he’s been buying up vineyards all over the valley?”

  “Yeah.”

  “In some cases, he simply goes to the bank, pays off the second mortgage on the property, and kicks out the owners.”

  “That sounds downright criminal,” I whispered.

  “Apparently he’s getting away with it.”

  “He’s a dangerous man,” Derek said, though his tone was mild.

  Mom’s lips were pressed in a stubborn line. “I’m not afraid of him.”

  “Perhaps you should be,” he said. “I didn’t care for the way he spoke to you.”

  “I appreciate that, sweetie,” she said, patting his arm. “But that’s just one of the many reasons why I won’t allow him to be a part of the festival.”

  “Do we know any of the people who lost their land?” I asked.

  “He took over Misty Vineyards, for one.” She scowled. “Changed the name to Rowdy Acres.”

  “What a twit.” Especially when it came to naming wineries. But the news about Misty really hurt. She was a longtime member of the Fellowship and a good friend of Mom’s. “Didn’t Misty win a bunch of awards at the Sonoma County Fair last year?”

  “Yes. Her wines are outstanding. But as soon as Banyan took over, he began watering down what was left in Misty’s barrels and turned it all into box wine.”

  My mouth gaped. “Box wine?”

  “And he did the same thing to Dalrooney Cellars.”

  This couldn’t be happening. “B-but Dalrooney is just up the road from Dharma.”

  “That’s right. He’s getting closer and closer.”

  “Oh my God. That’s hideous.”

  She sniffed. “Thank you, sweetie.”

  “For what?”

  “For your outrage.”

  “Of course I’m outraged! He’s hurting good people.” I took a breath. “Look, there’s nothing wrong with a cheap box wine if you’re going to an outdoor concert where you can’t bring a glass bottle. But Dharma is known for its high-quality wines. If people get wind that box wine is being made here, it could literally destroy our economy.”

  She jabbed her finger toward me. “Exactly!”

  “No wonder you’re pissed off.”

  “You bet I am.” Her fists bunched up and she let out a little shriek of frustration. “He’s such a dipwad.”

  For all my mom’s soft heart and tendency to forgive and forget and turn the other cheek . . . she had a do-not-cross line and I was pretty sure Banyan had crossed it.

  I nodded. “He really is.”

  “Does everyone on the committee agree with your decision?” Derek asked.

  She glanced around, scowled again, and lowered her voice even more. “No.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding,” I said. “Why would anyone support this guy?”

  She sighed a little, in exasperation and pure frustration. “Because he’s wealthy and powerful.”

  I exchanged a quick look with Derek. “Mom, in case you haven’t noticed, you’re wealthy and powerful, too.”

  She pondered that. “I guess I don’t wear my power the same way he does.”

  “That’s because you’re not a dipwad,” Derek said soberly.

  Mom and I both grinned. The word sounded unusually insulting when spoken with a distinguished English accent.

  “Also,” Mom added, “a few of the committee members aren’t wine people, so they don’t know the owners of the affected wineries. And they don’t seem to care that he makes box wine.”

  “They should,” I groused. “Whatever their business is, our local wine industry is what keeps them afloat.”

  “I agree.”

  I pondered her dilemma. “You could always quit the committee.”

  “If I quit, the committee will be taken over by dipwads like Banyan. No.” She gritted her teeth. “I can’t risk Banyan getting an even tighter grip on the local wine industry and what we do here. I’m very proud to be in charge of our first book festival. We’ve all worked really hard to make it happen and it’s going to be awesome. And no dipwads are going to ruin it for the rest of us.”

  “Here, here,” I said stoutly.

  “I’m so glad you two are here.” She glanced behind her as the rest of the committee returned to their seats. “I’d better get back to the meeting. Are you taking me home?”

  “Yes,” Derek said. “Whenever you’re ready.”

  She glanced at her watch. “I’ll wrap this up in about ten minutes.”

  “We’ll be right here.”

  Derek and I sat down and watched Mom return to the table. He took hold of my hand. “I imagine the rest of the meeting will be pretty cut and dried.”

  Mom pounded the gavel. “Shall we move on to new business?”

  “Not quite yet, Becky.” Saffron Bergeron stood up. She owned the flower shop over on Montana Ridge Road, and I’d known her for years and had never heard her say a nice word to anyone. I hated to admit it, but I just didn’t like her. She was mean and sneaky. Yes, Dharma was all about love and peace, but Saffron had never caught on to that concept.

  I watched Mom sigh. “Yes, Saffron. You have a point to make?”

  “I wish to protest your exclusion of Jacob Banyan,” she said. “He’s a resident of the area, just like you and me.”

  “Yes, but unlike me, Jacob Banyan is a predator.” Mom tugged on her ponytail, a sure sign of irritation. “He raids and destroys businesses without a single glance back. He’s hurting our friends and neighbors. Stealing their life savings. He’s not a nice person.”

  “You can say that again.” Winston Laurie slapped his hand on the table. “Many of us will be taking turns serving wine in the Dharma Winery booth, and if Banyan does get a booth, I don’t want him anywhere near us.”

  “Neither do I,” said Jan Yarnell, glaring at Saffron. “If you want to give him a booth, you can sit right next to him and deal with his snotty attitude and rude comments.”

  “And his crappy box wine,” Winston muttered.

  “That’s not the point,” Saffron began.

 
; “It’s exactly the point,” Mom insisted. “We have a responsibility to the other festival vendors as well. When ninety-nine percent of our vendors are upstanding members of our community who are bringing excellent products to our customers, I won’t allow one percent to ruin it for everyone else.

  “Half of our local vintners are scared to death that he’ll drop a foreclosure notice on them and the other half are just afraid he’ll mock them or call them names. The man is like a dark cloud. He treats us all like we’re chum and he’s the shark in the water.”

  “Ooh,” I whispered. “Good one, Mom.”

  Derek patted my knee. “She’ll win this fight.”

  “Her metaphors are killing it.” Despite my concerns, I had to smile. Mom had been a Deadhead, a farmer, a wife, and a mother. She had astral traveled with her spirit guide, Ramlar X, and was the current Grand Raven Mistress of her local druidic witch coven.

  But now she was in corporate mode and I could honestly say that I’d never seen her like this before. She was in charge of an important event that promised to bring thousands of visitors to Dharma less than a week from now and she wasn’t putting up with any nonsense. And dang, she had just totally played that shrew Saffron Bergeron.

  But Saffron just rolled her eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean, Becky?”

  Jan fumed. “It means he thinks we’re all idiots.”

  “It means he’s trying to gobble us up,” Sue added. “Like a shark. Get it?”

  “Banyan’s hurt too many people,” Mom said. “I refuse to allow him to be a part of the book festival.”

  “You refuse?” Saffron mocked. “It’s not your decision, Becky.”

  Mom shot a look at her co-chairman. “The committee elected me and Lawson to make the tough decisions.”

  “Sounds like you’re turning it into a dictatorship.”

  “Don’t be melodramatic, Saffron,” Lawson said wearily, staring at his hands. He looked defeated and I wondered if he was afraid to say anything more about Banyan in front of Saffron, who seemed to take Banyan’s side of the issue.

  Lawson was a nice man, but he was the last guy I’d turn to for any tough decisions.

  “I agree with Becky,” Clyde said. “Banyan is toxic.”

  Mom nodded. “And I’m doing exactly what the committee appointed me to do. Ensuring the success of the festival.”

  “Exactly,” Lawson said.

  “Naturally you would side with Becky,” Saffron said sulkily. She turned to Mom. “Why don’t you let the whole committee vote? See how the rest of us feel.”

  “All right.” Mom stood, still holding her gavel. “All in favor of barring Jacob Banyan from the festival, raise your hands and say ‘aye.’”

  I quickly counted eight people who voted with Mom.

  “Those opposed?”

  Four people waved their arms and shouted “nay.” I tried to see who had voted against my mother. There was Saffron, of course, Professor Dinkins, and the cute blond guy. I couldn’t tell who the fourth arm belonged to. A woman for sure, but it could’ve been either Penny Lewis, who owned the dry cleaners over on Montana Ridge Road, or the woman sitting next to her whose name I’d forgotten.

  “That seems to settle it,” Mom said, and pounded the gavel once. “Banyan’s out.”

  Saffron snorted. “You’ve padded the committee with all of your cult members. I can’t possibly win.”

  “Don’t be insulting,” Mom said. “First of all, people chose to join this committee because they live in Dharma, not because they’re in the Fellowship. And more importantly, we’re not a cult and you know it.”

  “Whatever,” Saffron said with a disdainful flip of her hair. “Your little fellowship”—she used air quotes—“is nothing but a freak-filled secret society. Who knows what goes on in those clandestine meetings you have.”

  Mom looked completely stunned. “What is wrong with you?”

  “She’s just jealous,” Clyde said, “because we don’t invite her to our secret meetings.” Clyde owned the most wonderful used bookshop in town and he had always been one of my favorite people.

  Jan snorted. “Yeah, right. Secret meetings.”

  But Winston was frowning. “The book festival has nothing to do with the Fellowship.”

  “Of course not,” Mom said. “And just because the majority of this committee voted to keep that offensive box-wine jerk from having a booth at the festival, you’re now accusing us of being part of a secret cult? That’s just stupid.”

  “Now I’m stupid!” Saffron was outraged at the implication but I couldn’t figure out why. She’d surely heard it before.

  Mom breathed in and out to calm herself. “I didn’t call you stupid, Saffron. But your accusation was stupid.”

  “I’m not stupid,” she snapped. “You’re stupid.”

  “Enough!” Clyde shouted and stood up for emphasis. “Yes, Saffron, you’re stupid if you think we’re part of a cult. Why don’t you just admit the truth? Jacob Banyan offered you money if you’d get him a booth.”

  “You . . . how . . . he did not!” she sputtered. “How dare you!”

  “Is that true?” Mom asked.

  She huffed. “Of course not!”

  “The lady doth protest too much, methinks,” Clyde said with a smirk.

  Leave it to old Clyde to quote Shakespeare properly, I thought fondly. The guy was a world-class curmudgeon but smart as a whip and snarky to boot.

  Saffron pushed away from the table, clearly affronted. “I didn’t take any money, but even if I did, who cares? What matters is that you’re blackballing him just because he isn’t a member of your hoity-toity commune.”

  Now Mom stood. “That has nothing to do with our decision and you know it.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “That’s too bad,” Mom said, taking a step toward Saffron. “The only reason that man isn’t welcome at the festival is that he’s vicious.”

  “He’s a pillager,” Winston cried.

  “He’s bent on destroying our community,” Jan added.

  “You’re all being ridiculous,” Saffron chided. “Jacob Banyan is a well-respected businessman, pure and simple. He’s pumped plenty of money into our local economy, and even if you don’t agree with the way he does business, that doesn’t mean he should be shunned.”

  Sue sneered. “He might be a businessman, but he’s not well respected.”

  “He destroyed Misty Vineyards!” Jan shouted. “Misty had to take a job as a barista at the Kaffe Klatch.”

  “Oh, cry me a river,” Saffron snapped.

  Mom pounded her gavel for order, then said, “Misty’s not the only one. Dalrooney, Clearwater Winery, and Clayborn Cellars all went belly up, thanks to Banyan. And Oak Road Barrel Company just went out of business.”

  “It’s not Banyan’s fault the barrel company went under.”

  “Oh, Saffron.” Mom’s tone was pitying. “Being deliberately obtuse is just so unattractive. You know as well as I do that there is a clear correlation.”

  The good-looking preppy guy who’d voted “nay” stood up and coughed self-consciously. “Don’t you think that’s stretching it, Mrs. Wainwright?”

  “Not really, Ryan,” Mom explained. “Our community of winegrowers is like an ecosystem. Banyan’s a predatory fungus that’s killing off all the good wine to the point that eventually we won’t need barrels anymore.”

  Okay, maybe she was stretching the theory a little, but I could see her point. Wooden barrels were used to store and age the wine, but wine destined for boxes—or cans—was rarely barreled. If the box wine trend were to continue unabated, nobody would need barrels anymore.

  “Look, Banyan’s not welcome at the festival,” Mom said. “The ayes have it. We won’t reward predatory behavior. That’s my final word.”

  She blew out
a breath, sat up straight, and rolled her shoulders slowly. I recognized her attempt to realign her chakras and I had to give her props. She was hanging in there in the face of all that negativity, mostly coming from Saffron Bergeron, one of my least favorite people ever.

  For someone who worked with beautiful flowers, Saffron Bergeron had a downright ugly disposition. She was desperate, sneaky and suspicious, always thought the worst of people, and clearly hung out with the wrong crowd. She had lived in the area for nearly as long as we had, but she’d never been friendly or neighborly. She had always reminded me of the Wicked Witch of the West in The Wizard of Oz. I didn’t know what her problem was, but I’d had it up to here with her verbal abuse of my mom.

  “Any other comments before we adjourn for the day?” Mom asked calmly.

  “What’s the use?” Saffron whined. “You don’t listen to anyone else’s opinions.”

  “On the contrary, Saffron,” Mom said on a sigh, “we’ve all listened to far too many of your opinions today.”

  “Don’t be a whiner, Saffron,” Jan murmured.

  Winston shook his head. “Poor loser.”

  Saffron didn’t respond, but she looked furious enough to rip the skin off both of their faces.

  Mom ignored Saffron as she checked her notes. “We just have one more item to mention, and it’s good news. Lawson will tell us all about it.”

  She nodded to her co-chair who pushed back his chair and stood. “I’m pleased to announce that Bettina Trimble, our Louisa May Alcott scholar, will be here in a few days. She and I have had several delightful conversations and I can’t wait for you all to meet her. She’s a lovely woman and a true academic. We’re planning a nice reception with tea and pastries and I hope you will all attend.”

  “Wonderful,” Mom said, smiling at Lawson. Her co-chair was a real fanboy. “Won’t that be exciting?”

  “Whoop-de-do,” one of the “nay” men said sarcastically. It was Mr. Dinkins, a professor at the Sonoma Institute of the Arts. I’d thought he was an okay guy when I met him a few years ago while teaching a bookbinding class at the Institute. I wondered what his problem was now. Maybe he had voted against the “girlie” Little Women and wasn’t taking the defeat well.