“Okay, I get it. He's not like your dad. He's not like us.” she interrupted what could have been an endless litany of Marcus's faults in Charlie's one and only opportunity to catalog them out loud. Normally the subject was out of bounds.
“But you’re in need right now, and he wants to support you. He's working hard at not feeling really hurt that you’ve completely ignored him.”
Syd knew she had a point. Leave it to Charlie to defend someone for whom she is entirely indifferent.
“Honestly, I don't know if he could handle it,” Syd said. “He only met Clarence once, you know. And Clarence was his usual charming self. My life here is so different from my life there. I've worked hard to keep it separate.”
“Oh really? I hadn't noticed,” Charlie said, mocking a British accent. Syd rolled her eyes at Charlie, who got up and disappeared into the kitchen.
“Well, it’s all bullshit anyway, Syd,” she bellowed from behind the liquor cabinet. “They all know who you are. You’re in the wine industry, and like it or not your uncle's fame is going to rub off on you. His infamy too.”
“Well, Marcus didn't even know I was related to Clarence for a long time after we met.”
“And when he found out he was weird about it, remember?” Charlie plopped back down in her chair and opened up a bottle of liquor. She took a swig and set it down.
“That's only 'cause he knows Joe Donner,” Syd said. “And Joe hasn't been exactly quiet in building a case against Uncle Clarence. And how was Marcus supposed to know Joe was such a sycophantic prick anyway?” She grabbed the bottle from across the table and took a thirsty pull.
Charlie clapped her hands in mischievous glee. “Bravo!” she said, pleased at the whiskey pull and Syd's rant. She pointed at the bottle and read Whistle Pig Bourbon on the label. She got up and disappeared into the dark kitchen again, returning a moment later with two snifters. She poured the whiskey out and wiped the lip of the bottle with her sweatshirt sleeve out of newfounded reverence.
Each woman swirled the brown liquid from the base of her snifter and buried her nose in the glass. Syd took a deep sniff while Charlie took her famous triple sniff, taking a deep long draw with the last one. Then they took sips.
“Wow,” Charlie said. “A terpene rye. Clove. Fennel. Fresh caramel. French vanilla bean.”
Syd sucked air into a sip she held in her cupped tongue, aspirating the aromas up into her head before swallowing. “Yeah, I get the rye. Marshmallow. Is it French vanilla bean? Something herbal too,” she said with a sigh. “You were always better at whiskey than me. How do you even smell it through all that oak and alcohol?”
“You've got wine, I've got spirits,” Charlie said with a wink. She cupped her snifter in her hands to warm it up.
But Charlie was excellent with wine too. She had a remarkable nose, even for a sommelier, and she could rattle off unusual attributes without apology. Baby Poop was her nick name in sommelier school, as she called out a particularly stinky Rioja in the first weeks of class. Luckily, it morphed into Baby as the months wore on, taking on a new meaning for the tall blonde rock star sommelier. She and Syd were the pinnacle of their class, and each landed an excellent placement in a boutique Seattle restaurant. Charlie had recently garnered modest fame as a somm who specialized in boutique spirits and extraordinary mixology using her home brew of bitters. However, Syd took the traditional route as a quiet sommelier building a reputation for finding excellent craft wines from the Pacific Northwest. Both young women were part of the up-and-coming talent flooding the industry in urban America.
“This is one that Marcus would like,” Syd said, still swirling and smelling for the mysterious terpenes.
“Really? Why's that?”
“Because it's expensive.” They cackled but Syd felt terrible. She winced at the thought of her unkindness. Why was she working so hard to push him away?
“Just promise me you'll call him tomorrow morning. He deserves a call.” Syd nodded obediently, suddenly feeling very tired. A few minutes later Charlie tucked her fragile friend into bed with a Valium and a few minutes of sobbing into one another's hair. They held each other long after the sobbing had stopped, and each could sense the other's mind working on her own pressing dilemmas.
Syd broke away from her suddenly. “You should have seen him, Charlie,” she said, choking out of her tight, painful throat. “He was purple.”
“Dad told me,” she said, pulling Syd back to shoulder and stroking her head. “Kind of poetic, right? He was always stained with wine.”
Chapter 5
Syd awoke to the whining of a vacuum cleaner somewhere in the house. It was still early, but Rosa must have already started her Wednesday morning routine. Rosa always began downstairs next to her old bedroom at the crack of dawn. It was a memory so deeply lodged in Syd's mind that she often found herself dreading Wednesday mornings. Her first few weeks away at college she slept in late in secret defiance of the tyranny of an early rising house cleaner. This morning she found the sound of the vacuum deeply comforting and dozed back to sleep to the lulling sounds of the living.
A few minutes later a terrible whining din came from somewhere closer by. Syd woke up startled and grumpily shoved herself out of bed. Some kind of heavy machinery was operating in the kitchen, and people were talking in hushed voices. She dragged herself into the well-lit kitchen.
Rosa was shoving whole carrots into an industrial-sized juicer. Olivier was standing next to her, handing her some apples and sliced ginger. Syd could smell kale and spinach too. Olivier leaned down and said something in Spanish, and Rosa smothered a sad chuckle, apparently trying to keep her voice down. Syd laughed undetected. She approached Rosa from behind and put her arm around her.
“There's no need to whisper,” she said. “I'm awake.”
Rosa turned around and gasped. She hugged Syd with a mother's ferocity.
“Mi hija, mi hija. Oh, mi hija!” She trembled against Syd’s chest, squeezing her and patting her back. Syd held her against her and stroked her short black hair. She rocked back and forth with Rosa in slow dance of two women grieving. Syd's nose filled with a deeply familiar smell of Dove soap and bay leaves. Rosa pulled away first and squeezed Syd’s shoulders with her strong hands.
“I make you a juice,” she said in a stiff Mexican accent. She handed Syd a tiny glass of green liquid. Brown foam floated on top of a six-ounce jam jar. Syd grimaced.
“Sí, comprendo. Pero it is muy importante that you eat something,” she shoved the glass against Syd's lips and tipped it into her mouth. Syd had no choice but to drink it. She swallowed obediently while Rosa poured the green-like sludge into her mouth. It wasn't so bad. Still she was thankful that she could finish it in a few gulps.
Olivier stood near the women, watching with interest. He studied their intimacy and was intrigued by the deference that Syd showed Rosa. This tiny Mexican woman had a good deal of influence over her and they clearly cared for each other deeply.
Syd saw him staring and stepped back. She was wearing a black silk slip, which was a little too revealing for the bright light of the kitchen. She blushed, and then grew irritated at her own embarrassment.
“Good morning,” she said coolly.
“Good morning,” he said, looking down. He shifted his weight and reached for a glass of the green goop. His was a pint jar that was filled to the brim. He lifted his glass to Rosa in salutation and downed it without stopping for breath. He gently placed the jar back on the concrete countertop, turned on his heels, and skulked out of the kitchen with feline grace, frowning.
Syd watched him make his way to the winery out the kitchen window. She relaxed. “Thanks, that made my head feel better,” she said to Rosa, who started cleaning the many parts of the juicer. Syd watched Rosa’s familiar plump back in front of the sink. She had missed Rosa, and the sting of her absence over the last few days was fresh.
“Where have you been, Rosa?” Syd asked quietly.
“I have my day off
on Monday and Tuesday and Alejandro came by Monday night. Borracho. I don't have no cell phone. I didn't know. And yesterday I stay home. Alejandro tell me to stay home for one day. Now I am here for you.” She was still crying silently, her tears streaming down her cheeks while she washed the machine parts without interruption. Life rarely intervened with the work of the house. Rosa never stopped moving, even for grief. She poured the remaining juice into a mason jar and pushed it across the counter to Syd.
“Drink it all day. You need the medicine. I make this for the Jefe every day.” Her voice was untouched by the tears streaming down her face. Syd nodded obediently.
“Your life will never be the same,” she said suddenly turning to face Syd. She pushed a flat palm against Syd's chest. “He is here, next to your mother and father. Your heart will always be heavier.” Rosa had a long history of telling Syd the gravest truths with startling brevity. Syd swallowed a knot in her throat.
“It hurts,” Syd whispered, relieved to express the unexpected physical manifestation of grief. “Like someone hit me.”
“You have been hit. We all have. We were preparing but not so soon.” She shook her head angrily. “And I do not believe he did it on purpose.”
“What do you mean?”
“Nada, nada.” She put her hand up and turned away. She held up a jar of green juice. “You drink this today.” Syd watched as Rosa bustled out of the kitchen, lost in a frown and free flowing tears.
Syd stood with her feet bolted to the floor. Rosa's words washed over her in a wave. Her eyes darted to the bowl of heirloom tomatoes on the island counter and the half loaf of bread under a white linen cloth. She stepped toward the kitchen window that looked up at the winery. The giant red doors of the winery were open wide and she could make out the fermenter tanks, even at a distance of nearly a hundred yards. So many wines had not yet finished fermentation; so many still needed pressing. She lingered in the kitchen, looking for proof of Clarence's intentions. Everywhere she looked she found evidence of unfinished business. Still, Rosa's words resonated in her head like a piercing tinnitus. They filled the hole in her chest with sickening doubt.
Chapter 6
Syd sat in Jack Bristol's office cupping a mug of black coffee in her hands. The door was ajar and she could hear his muffled voice while he gave instructions to his assistant, a woman Syd recognized from school. They were not to be disturbed. The voice that she had grown to love as a child – the voice of Uncle Jack – had never held the kind of authority she heard through the crack in the door. She felt unsteady sitting in his office on official business. She was not going to cry, she told herself with resolve. She had questions and she wasn't about to spend another day feeling like a lost child. Surely an adult woman could grieve with dignity.
Jack walked into the room and shut the door quietly behind him. “Syd, I'm so sorry,” he offered and embraced her like an uncle. His familiar smell of expensive cologne clung to his freshly shaven face, which now hovered close to her own. Syd was the first to pull away. She moved to take her seat again and picked up her coffee, wielding it like a shield in front of her.
He took his seat behind his desk, which was an inexpensive Scandinavian light wood office desk, uncluttered and unadorned. In the center of the desk sat a red folio, the kind Clarence used for his official papers. The room was lined with neat bookshelves in the same blond wood as the desk, and the walls were a pale purple. It seemed more likely to be a woman's office. But its smell was distinctly male, permeated by the more subtle aroma of Jack's cologne. A set of golf clubs leaned up against a wall and scattered baseball paraphernalia peppered the landscape of the bookshelves selfconsciously dispelling any misconceptions about the gender of the occupant.
“You redecorated your office,” she said, looking out the window. The only remarkable thing about his office was the spectacular view of the Columbia River and Mt. Hood. His building was prime real estate, poised on the bluffs of White Salmon.
He nodded at the door. “Becky did it,” he said, defeated. He clearly was not on board with the make-over, but he was living with it all the same. He was either a compromising, kind man or a coward. Syd hadn't decided. She was surprised at her need to make an adult assessment of the man. Clarence had sown a seed of doubt earlier in the summer, and she marveled at the power of suggestion her uncle held over her.
“Do your clients like it?” she asked. She wondered how a lawyer could garner confidence in a mauve colored room.
“Most of my clients don't ever come to the office. Farms, wineries, businesses. I mostly make house-calls.” He winked. She didn’t smile. Except me, she thought. Why didn't he meet her at the house?
“I have Clarence's will here, and his important papers,” Jack said, shifting in his chair.
“Uh huh,” she said into her mug. She crossed her legs.
“Have you read his new will, Sydney?” He asked warily.
“No,” she answered. He looked crestfallen. “But he did tell me he was changing it. He visited me in Seattle in August. He said he was making changes.”
“We changed it in August. Honestly, I was against it. In fact, we fought over it. I advised him to go a different direction.” He was distraught now, looking down at his hands. Syd squirmed in her chair. She wasn't going to feel badly for him until she had some real answers.
“Is that why he was so angry with you?” she asked, looking him the eye for the first time.
He looked startled. “No, there’s more to it. Lately his life had become a bit complicated. What do you know about the buyout?”
“Only that it went bad. That the investor was planning to sell out the winery to a big corporation behind our backs. Hell, everyone knows that. Thanks to the weasel Joe Donner. At least we have him to thank for that.”
“Except I'm pretty sure his intentions were anything but noble,” Jack added with surprising contempt for the critic, “I'm certain he intended to out Clarence as a sellout, among other things.”
“Well, that was obvious, Jack,” she interrupted him. She had no intention of discussing the infamous rivalry between her uncle and the insipid pop culture wine critic. She had to work closely enough with Joe Donner in Seattle, occasionally running into him for judging events or openings. His dislike for her was never far from the surface during their encounters. In fact, she discovered that he had gone out of his way to discredit her expertise in Sommelier school, whispering malfeasance in the ears of her instructors. In the end she had to agree with her uncle’s assessment of the man: he was a sycophantic, self-promoting chauvinist. Clarence once had an altercation with Donner years ago when he revealed a nauseating tendency toward misogyny. Clarence was an avid feminist and a vocal believer in the talents of female winemakers. He defended the work of a well-respected, up-and-coming colleague after Joe Donner published a ridiculous review of her wines. Clarence wrote a scathing open letter in the Seattle Times about the review and the nepotism surrounding what he called the “fraternity of bottom-feeders”, people who prey on the talent and hard work of creative winemakers. He pointed out Donner’s history of refusing to review the wines of female winemakers with fairness. Joe Donner countered with a litany of despicable attacks on his blog that were dangerously libelous. However, Clarence accepted the response as being a childish one, and wrote off the critic as a fool. Their rivalry began many years ago, and Clarence paid little attention to it except as the butt of an occasional joke. But Syd suspected that it was at the forefront of Donner's mind and it carried over to herself. While Clarence dismissed him as a fool, Syd saw him as far more nefarious than her uncle ever did.
“The buy-out was all but complete, Sydney.” Jack said. “We had to do some fancy footwork to get your uncle out of it. And frankly, I'm not sure it was such a great idea.”
“His life's work? He was supposed to just cash out and hand over the winery to some corporate label?”
“He was burned out, Syd. He was tired. Didn't the man deserve a retirement? He busted his ass
for thirty years on that winery. And he had no one to hand it to.” She heard the bitterness in his voice.
“That wasn't my fault,” she said through clenched teeth. A surge of anger and guilt rose in her throat.
He threw up his hands. “I know, I know. He discouraged you. And I know why, and I never agreed with it. But you know how stubborn he was. We argued over it for years. As odd as it sounds, it was out of love. And respect for your talent and intelligence. He was in awe of you. He always said you were meant for bigger things.”
“But all I ever wanted was to make wine, like my mother.” She said flatly, the tragedy of her conflict with Clarence staring her in the face.
“I think that was the crux of it. Honestly, Syd, I think you always reminded him too much of your mother.”
“I've always known that,” she said, feeling the old resentment well up in her chest. She strategized a way to take control of a conversation going in a dangerous direction. “Anyway, the buyout? What happened?”
“Well, thanks to Joe Donner, Clarence changed his mind. The contract was tight. I drew it up myself. Clarence was supposed to work as the winemaker and maintain all proprietary decisions for at least another five years, with an option to renew if he had not found a replacement winemaker by that time.”
“What would the investor get? Who is he, by the way?”
“A man named Hans Feldman. He’s fairly new to the area. From New York, but he lives in Hood River. He would’ve had 75% ownership of the winery, and Clarence would be under salary. We included a clause to allow Clarence to live in the house until his death. Clarence would get a big cash out and the winery would get some new equipment and a general manager. Not that Clarence needed the money. He saved everything. He just wanted to make wine and not do the business end of it any more. It was a sound investment for Feldman. The winery’s been fully allocated for decades. But in the end he would’ve almost doubled his money immediately. An easy $20 million.”
A Tainted Finish: A Sydney McGrath Mystery Page 4
