Midnight Harvest

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “Still, the Count was very specific in his provisions, and I am obliged to tend to his instructions.” Sunbury signaled the waiter to fill their glasses.

  “When do you reckon the guards will no longer be required?” Doña Isabel asked, cocking her head.

  “I can’t say; it will depend on Saint-Germain’s orders. You understand that he is my client, not you, and that I am bound to honor his behests so long as they are legal, and in this case, it is my sincere pleasure to do so. There is no illegality in his current provision for you, and so, no matter what you may think, it is incumbent upon me to do as he tells me.” He looked away, as if embarrassed by his ethics.

  “I do understand that. I only hope you will assess my situation and advise Saint-Germain that his stipulations are overly stringent and need not be followed quite so rigorously as they have been.” Doña Isabel paused to remove her gloves; she laid them down on the top of her handbag. “If that is, truly, your opinion, of course.”

  He gave her an appreciative smile. “I will review your situation as soon as I am assured that you stand in no danger from whoever this Ash is, or may represent. If I find there is still reason for concern, I will say so.”

  “I accept this,” said Doña Isabel. “And if there is anything I can do to assist you in your deliberations, I’ll be pleased to do it. All you need do is ask.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” he said. “Perhaps when you come to London to shop for peppers, we might discuss this further.”

  “That would please me,” said Doña Isabel. She put her serviette in her lap.

  “Then all that remains is to set a date for the expedition,” said Sunbury, and lifted his glass of white Burgundy in pledge.

  She did the same. “Perhaps in the third week of September? That isn’t too distant a time.”

  “That suits me, as far as I can determine,” said Sunbury. “I’ll have to ring you up to confirm, of course.”

  “Of course.” She put her glass down, seeing a waitress approach with a basket of rolls and a ramekin of butter-curls.

  “And any change in your current arrangement rests with the Count.” He said nothing while the waitress put the rolls and butter on the table. “Made at the local bakery,” he said as he selected a roll for himself.

  “They smell fresh-baked,” said Doña Isabel. She chose a roll, broke it in half, and put it on the bread plate.

  “Yes, they do.” He tore off a wedge of bread and buttered it. “Do you have any letters or small packages you want me to forward for you to the Count? I’d be delighted to do it for you, if you like.”

  “Not just at present,” she said, then hesitated. “Would you be willing to send a letter to Ponce for me, or let me use your chambers for my return address? I would prefer not to give him my present direction.”

  “Yes, of course. Is there some difficulty that you feel requires this?” He seemed genuinely concerned.

  “I would simply prefer to have a lawyer’s office for my correspondence with Ponce,” she said. “Ever since I left Spain, matters have been badly strained between us, and I cannot feel it wise to give him too much information. He knows I have moved out of London, but nothing more, and I would prefer to keep it that way.”

  “That is a bit evasive, if you don’t mind my saying so,” Sunbury told her.

  “I know it may seem that way,” said Doña Isabel. “It is not my intention to … I would just as soon Ponce understands that I have the advice of a lawyer.”

  Sunbury nodded. “I can certainly understand your concerns,” he said, although he was baffled. “I will recommend that Alex Carnford handle this for you. I don’t want to present any appearance of conflict of interest, as that might be the case if I do this for you while Saint-Germain is my client.” He stopped talking as the waiter brought them two large plates of soup. Chopped scallions were sprinkled on top, and steam rose from the surface of the plates; the aroma was light but promising.

  “Is there a little pepper I might put into it?” Doña Isabel asked.

  “In the shaker, by the bread-basket,” said Sunbury as he picked up his soupspoon and gently brushed the surface with it. “Just as wonderful as I remember,” he said to Doña Isabel. “I know you’ll like it.”

  She was busy sprinkling pepper into her plate of soup, a bit disappointed at the fine-grind the shaker contained. “I’m looking forward to it. Bon appétit,” she said, and sank her spoon into the pale green liquid. They ate in silence for a short while, then Doña Isabel dabbed her serviette at her lips and said, “A fine dish for a starter.” She put her spoon onto the charger and dropped her serviette back into her lap. “If I have any more, I won’t be able to eat the chicken.”

  Sunbury smiled. “I hope you won’t go away hungry.”

  “I think not,” she said, and sipped her wine, then buttered half her roll and took a bite out of it. “This is excellent.” Spots of her red lip-rouge marked the white roll where she had bitten; they stood out bright as new blood, and seemed oddly tantalizing to Sunbury.

  He almost finished his soup, and used a little bit of his roll to sop up the last of it. “I imagine our English cuisine seems fairly tame to you, Doña Isabel. I know your Spanish dishes are a good deal more lively than ours.”

  “I am becoming used to it,” said Doña Isabel. “The bakery goods are quite wonderful. I particularly like scones.”

  “For afternoon tea,” said Sunbury.

  “And breakfast, with coffee,” said Doña Isabel. “I don’t know how you can face baked eggs and sausage first thing in the morning.”

  Sunbury almost choked on his wine. “There’s more of me to maintain than you, and England can be quite cold, as you’ll find out in a month or so.”

  “I have had some hint of that already. My housekeeper flings open the windows when she thinks the day is warm; that is when I put on my jacket or find a lap-rug.” She touched the stem of her wineglass but did not lift it. “If you could advise me: I think I would like to purchase a pair of dogs—not hunting dogs, companion dogs. There are three cats in the house, and they are all very well in their way, but they are hardly … gregarious.”

  “Did you have dogs in Cádiz?” Sunbury asked, hoping to discover what manner of animal she was used to.

  “No. Ponce dislikes them, and even after he went to La Plata, I never went against his instructions.” She stared down at the soup-plate as if there were answers to be found within it. “But my grandfather had a … I think you call it a lurcher—thin, rough-coated, clever. Others had greyhounds, but not my grandfather. He said his lurcher was worth a dozen greyhounds any day.”

  “A lurcher?” Sunbury repeated, and moved a bit so the waiter could more easily remove their soup-plates. “Would you like me to see if I can find such a dog for you?”

  “Mr. Sunbury, that would be such an imposition,” she said, startled by his offer.

  Four women who had been dining on the far side of the room now rose, gathered up their things, and departed, leaving Sunbury and Doña Isabel more isolated than before.

  “Nothing of the sort. It will be easier for me than for you to find out about it, I dare say. The English love dogs; someone must breed lurchers. I’m sure one of my chums in the dog show circuit can point me in the right direction.” He had only one school friend who actively participated in dog shows, and he had no idea how he might approach George Bridgewarden, but at the moment, he wanted nothing more than to give himself another reason to spend time with Doña Isabel. A warning voice within him reminded him she was a married woman and a Catholic, but for once in his life, he paid no heed to the voice.

  “That would be truly splendid, Mr. Sunbury,” Doña Isabel exclaimed, impulsively touching his hand. “Would you be willing to do that for me? Really?”

  He flushed at this effusive praise. “It will be my pleasure. Do you want one dog or two, puppies or grown, and what training would you like in a grown dog?”

  She held up one hand in mock surrender. “So man
y things to consider,” she protested. “I suppose it would be wiser to have grown dogs—two of them—trained to walk next to me, to sit and come on command, and to stand guard if necessary.”

  “So you have given this some thought,” said Sunbury.

  “For the last two weeks, I have thought about it every day. Country life leads me to think of such things.” She was relieved. “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this. I haven’t the least notion how to go about this, and now—You’re doing so much for me, Mr. Sunbury.”

  “Nothing of the sort. I am doing what the Count would expect me to do, as his deputy.” He fell silent as the waiter brought their main courses, not speaking again until that worthy was out of earshot. “If there is anything you require of me—short of breaking the law—I am yours to command.”

  “I can’t think of a single law I would be likely to break,” she said, “except perhaps the speeding laws.”

  Sunbury laughed softly. “I think I can vouchsafe to find you excellent defense if you should be cited for speeding.”

  “That’s very obliging of you, Mr. Sunbury.” She looked down at her plate, and decided the chicken did not look as uninviting as she feared it might. “I’ll contrive to keep within the limits where they are posted.”

  “I thank you for that, Doña Isabel.” He saw the waiter coming with the baked onions and nodded, indicating that he might approach them.

  She looked at the onions and wished they were prepared with tomatoes and garlic, not just topped with butter. “I wouldn’t express gratitude just yet, Mr. Sunbury; you have no notion what may happen.”

  “You’re very right,” he said, and picked up his knife and fork.

  “Still,” she said, as she, too, prepared to eat, “I am the one who should thank you for looking after me.”

  Admiration shone in his eyes. “It is a privilege, Doña Isabel,” he said with more feeling than he intended. “A privilege.”

  TEXT OF A LETTER FROM CARLO PIETRAGNELLI IN GEYSERVILLE, CALIFORNIA, TO FERENC RAGOCZY SAINT-GERMAIN, CARE OF GENERAL DELIVERY, SALT LAKE CITY, UTAH.

  Geyserville, Sonoma County, California

  September 9, 1936

  Ferenc Ragoczy Saint-Germain

  General Delivery

  Main Post Office

  Salt Lake City, Utah

  Most honored patron,

  I cannot express what delight I feel in learning that you will soon be in California, and will visit my family home and my winery—surely both have much to be grateful to you about Without your investments over the years, our business and our home must surely have failed, as so many others have. As it is, thanks to you, we are thriving when only a few others are just getting back on their feet.

  It seems we will begin the crush at the end of this month if the weather holds, and that will allow you to see us at the peak of our operations. I will take on extra help for this month and next, so that we may harvest, crush, and begin the fermentation for this vintage. It is a most exciting time, which no doubt you will enjoy.

  Yes, we do have a telephone. The number is Geyserville 899; the exchange is open around the clock until November, and from November until March, it is open eighteen hours a day. We are on a four-party line, which is occasionally inconvenient, but it should not keep you from reaching us if you are persistent I’m up until ten, so you can call late, if you like.

  It will also be a great pleasure to welcome Mr. Rogers to our winery. In the years that he has served as your intermediary in our dealings, he has been a steadfast supporter of all we have done, including the purchase of the six plantations on the east side of the town, with the possibility of more to come. I am sorry that my neighbors were so near bankruptcy, but at least I was able to buy half their land and vines for a good price, high enough so they could hang on.

  We have a family dinner on Sundays, at two in the afternoon. They are not the busy affairs they once were, with my children grown and my wife long-dead-may God rest her soul—but they are happy times, for all that I will be glad to see you join us at table on any Sunday that suits you, for as many Sundays as you like.

  I will contact Oscar King in San Francisco, so that, as you suggest, we may know as soon as you arrive there. I hope there will be many opportunities for you to come to Geyserville. The roads are much improved of late, and with the Golden Gate Bridge opening next year, travel into Marin, Sonoma, and Napa Counties should be much easier than it is now, although the ferry service is quite good. All you need do is find Route 101 and drive north; the Redwood Highway, as it’s called locally, goes right through the middle of town.

  Confirmation has arrived from the Bank of America in San Francisco of another transfer from you into my business account, for which I thank you—they also provided me with the address where I could contact you. I am planning to enlarge my winery yet again, expanding south and east into Napa County, where I have three plantations already, and I have just ordered oak barrels from France and an improved bottling machine. These things would not be possible without your investment, which has enabled me to do so much more than I had thought possible twenty years ago.

  I should mention that we have been somewhat troubled by men taking midnight harvest—coming into the vineyards in the dead of night and carrying off large baskets full of pilfered grapes. They sell these to unofficial jobbers for a dollar or so for each basket they bring. A number of wineries have been hit by these thieves, but they are hard to catch and the sheriff doesn’t have the men to patrol all the wineries in the valley. I have given my workers shotguns and put them on guard, which should decrease midnight harvesting, or at least discourage any more than what has already taken place.

  Vineyards are not the only places where midnight harvesters have struck, of course. I have read in the papers that the orchards of San Jose have been raided with some regularity, and there have been rewards offered by farmers in the Salinas Valley for information on the men taking lettuce and tomatoes and squash in the dead of night. It is all due to so many men being out of work, but the thefts only make the situation more difficult for everyone. I know everyone is afraid of Bolsheviks and fear that FDR is leaning in that direction, but if men cannot work, then they will steal, no matter what kind of government they have.

  This does not mean that my business has been deeply compromised. I would rather not have such losses, but they will not bankrupt me, in large part because you have sustained this winery for so long. I know half-a-dozen families who are badly hurt by these raids. I have offered to send my men to the vineyards that have been hardest hit, but so far no one has accepted my offer of help.

  Until the day when I can shake your hand, may your good angel watch over you.

  Sincerely,

  Carlo Pietragnelli

  chapter three

  Lake Tahoe was a startling, vivid blue set in a bowl of deep pine green, the tall peaks rising to the west reflected in the water, mirroring the beautiful, imposing barricade to the hills and valleys beyond. Two motorboats were cutting white swaths across its surface, and even from the road, Saint-Germain and Rogerio could hear the whine of the engines as they swerved closer to the shore.

  “Do you suppose they’re playboys, out there?” Rogerio asked with a gentle smirk.

  “To go with the divorcées in Reno?” Saint-Germain suggested, whose drive through the Biggest Little City in the World had been made memorable by a group of women who had crowded around the Packard at a stoplight, one of them pretending to swoon on the hood and then calling out, “Come back in four weeks—I’ll have my final decree then.”

  Rogerio ignored that remark. “It’s two in the afternoon. Shouldn’t they be busy indoors, or working somehow, if they can?” He held a road atlas open on his lap turned to the Sierra Nevada North page.

  “In this place? This is a playground. There may be loggers in the forest and workers on the roads, but the lake is for entertainment and recreation,” said Saint-Germain, opening the window of the Packard a little wider, fo
r it was hot, and not even the altitude put much of a damper on the clear day. They were east-bound on the north shore of the lake and it was beautiful, warm, and balmy. Although the two-lane road had been graded and oiled recently, there were uneven stretches so that driving required concentration. The Packard was dusty, showing the demands the miles had made on it; the large backseat and the trunk were crammed full of chests and trunks all held in place by broad leather belts, and the enlarged fuel tank showed as a hump behind the rear seat In spite of the dust and grime, the Packard attracted stares, and a few envious glances from those occasional groups of people taking the sun at the water’s edge.

  “It is a fine place for entertainment,” said Rogerio, his faded-blue eyes glinting appreciatively. “They say Hollywood stars come here to relax.”

  “Not you, too,” Saint-Germain lamented with a quirky smile.

  “No, not I,” said Rogerio. “But you saw the sign on the road outside of Reno: Lake Tahoe—where the stars come out to play. There must be some attraction in that.”

  Saint-Germain could not help but laugh. “Thank goodness we found petrol—gas—in Truckee, while we were on US 40, or we might have had to spend more time here than either of us wanted; we were down to three gallons when we filled up. Without the fuel, we would have come to a stop somewhere on this road. Not that this isn’t a pleasant place; and at least there seems to be work for most of the men, unlike what we’ve seen in the cities.” He thought about what he had said. “Or the men without work may have left and gone elsewhere to look for jobs; we’ve seen a lot of that, too. The opportunities here must be limited. At least I haven’t seen any hobo camps in the mountains. I know that doesn’t mean they’re not there. But they may be nearer Truckee, or Reno, or in the forest, at least until the snows come.” He glanced away from the lake toward the pines around it, and the swath of the road ahead of them. “This is the road to Crystal Bay; as soon as we pass King’s Beach, there should be a sign for the Ponderosa Lodge in the next three miles, about a mile from the lakeshore, if what the postman told us is correct. Look for Ponderosa Road. It should be coming up.” As the road meandered along the north shore of Tahoe, he glimpsed the lake again.