Dying on the Vine (A Gideon Oliver Mystery)

by Elkins, Aaron

  Franco now spoke in Italian. “Nico, si prega di versare il vino.” He gestured at the full bottle, making a pouring motion.

  As Nico poured portions into each glass, Luca caught his arm to get a look at the label. “The 2010 Sangiovese grosso? What are we tasting this one for?”

  Nico answered. “I’m off to the Wine Retailers Expo in Basel in a few days, and I need to know what to tell them about it. Will we be releasing it this year or not? Should I bring a couple of cases with me, or shouldn’t I?”

  “I can give you the answer right now,” Luca responded. “No. It’ll need another year at least. The tannin will still be too high. It’ll be rough.”

  “You’re wrong, Luca,” Franco said. “I tasted it myself this morning. In my opinion it’s ready.”

  Luca raised an eyebrow. “So what are you asking us for?”

  “Because I am sincerely interested in your opinions.”

  “Fine, I just gave it. Not ready.”

  “I suggest you taste it first, Luca. You’re forgetting something. This was the first of our wines to undergo maceration and extraction by means of the new rotary fermenter.”

  Gideon was pleased to see he could follow the conversation with ease. As he’d learned, technical terms were often practically interchangeable (macerazione, estrazione, rotofermenter).

  Luca shook his head. “Rotary fermenter. God.”

  Except for a downturn of his mouth, Franco ignored the comment. “To begin, perhaps we should all have a little bread to clear our palates.” It was hard for Gideon to tell whether it was a suggestion or an order, but they all followed it, including him. He plucked a breadstick from the basket, chewed away, and swallowed. They looked to Franco for further commands. Franco obliged.

  “Nico, you begin. And if you’re not going to be serious, then just stay out of it.”

  “Franco, there’s no need to offend me. All right, let’s see what we have here.” He lifted his glass and went through as thorough a tasting routine as Gideon had ever seen. The glass was slowly rotated a couple of feet in front of his eyes, and then raised higher to study the wine’s clarity and color against an overhead bulb. “Ah.” He lowered the glass, swirled the wine, and stuck his nose as far into the glass as it would go. This was followed by an appreciative nod: so far, so good. At last, his lips were parted to admit half an ounce or so of the Sangiovese. The wine was held in his mouth while air was noisily and wetly slurped through it, then rolled around, from cheek to cheek, Finally, the metal bowl was lifted to his mouth and the wine spat into it. He gazed into the middle distance, down the long racks of barrels, sucking in his cheeks, then expanding them, then sucking them in again.

  “This wine,” he began, “it’s—”

  “Serious,” Franco warned again, but Gideon could tell that Nico had a performance in mind, probably for his, Gideon’s, benefit.

  “. . . it’s elegant and yet . . . rustic . . . subtle yet . . . assertive . . .”

  Franco sighed. “I should have known better,” he mumbled to the walls.

  “. . . a big-hearted wine with overtones of leather and tobacco . . .” He was barreling along now, waving the glass around as he spoke. “. . . on a matrix of mushroom and meat—no, eggplant. But eggplant layered with—yes, cinnamon!”

  They had all surely heard this kind of tomfoolery from him before, but their responses were very different. Severo sighed and looked the other way, but Luca was practically doubled over with laughter. Like old Pietro, he was easily amused, and when he was, he responded with gusto.

  Not Franco. “I said that’s enough,” he said with more force. And to Gideon, with a stiff smile: “Why do I never learn?” Then he turned to Luca. “Luca?”

  “No, seriously,” Nico said, laughing, “it’s all right, Franco, it’s fine. I think I should take some with me. In fact, I would say that its eloquence is matched only by the subtlety of its—”

  Franco waved him down with a disgusted gesture. “Just shut up, Nico.”

  Nico shrugged and poured himself a little more. “It’s really hard not being appreciated.”

  “Luca?” Franco said again.

  Like the others, Luca had already tried the wine, but now he poured a little more, took a piece of bread, dipped it into the glass, tossed the saturated chunk into his mouth, and slowly—very slowly—masticated.

  Franco shook his long, bony head. “How you can tell what the wine tastes like with your mouth full of food . . .”

  “I can do it because I’m not that interested in what it tastes like without food, Franco. For me—”

  “Yes, Luca, yes, Luca,” Franco said, making it clear that he’d heard from Luca on this subject more times than he cared to. “Can we just have your opinion on the wine, please.”

  Luca shrugged. “Not as bad as I expected.”

  “Would you mind trying to restrain your enthusiasm?” Franco said dryly.

  “No, I mean just what I said. It’s not a bad wine. You’re right, it’s not as tannic as I expected. It’s even, in its way, a fairly good wine. But I’ll be sorry to see it come out under our label, this year or any other year.”

  “I don’t agree,” said Severo. “What’s wrong with it? I thought it was fine.”

  “Fine? Maybe, but also impossible to tell from a hundred other Sangioveses. If I put two glasses in front of you, could you tell the difference between this and a reserve from Carrucci? Or Castello Rugate?”

  “Hmm,” rumbled Quadrelli. “Well, now, I’d have to—”

  “It’s those damned cement mixers. They—”

  Franco’s eyes rolled ceilingward. “Not the cement-mixer speech again. We’re in the twenty-first century now, Luca, and we’re not running a little neighborhood family cantina. I have to worry about things you never have to think about: profits and losses and expenses. Efficiency. Effectiveness. Like it or not, those ‘cement mixers’ make it possible to produce our wines on a predictable, consistent schedule instead of waiting around twiddling our thumbs while nature takes its course—slow this year, quick next year. Those devices you hate so much have allowed us to speed up our production by thirty percent, do you realize that? Thirty percent! I wonder if you really understand—”

  Luca put his glass on he table and made a grumpy display of shoving it as far away from him as it could go. “Fine, fine, you do what you want, signor padrone, you’re the boss, only . . . ah, Franco, I would have thought if there was one thing babbo taught us, it was to trust nature to take its course, to help the fruit become what’s in its essential character to be, not to hurry into a false maturity before its time.”

  “You’re scaring me, Luca,” Nico said. “You’re really starting to sound like babbo. Are you channeling him or something?”

  “And for his time, babbo was right,” Franco said, “but he was from another century—the nineteenth, really, even more than the twentieth. I would think you’d understand that, Luca. With the proper application of modern scientific principles, we can force the grapes to—”

  That brought an incredulous laugh from Luca. “Force the grape! How do we force the grape to do what it doesn’t want to do?”

  “We could always try using techniques of enhanced interrogation,” Nico said, pouring himself a little more of the wine.

  “Now, Luca,” Severo put in, sounding like a chuckly, wise old owl of an uncle. “When Franco says ‘force,’ he doesn’t mean literally—”

  “I don’t need you to interpret what I mean, signor lawyer,” Franco snapped, upon which Severo’s jaws clamped shut so hard that his teeth clacked and his jowls jiggled. His neck shrank into his shoulders (very owl-like, but no longer very avuncular) and he stared fixedly at the table, his ears slowly reddening. Apparently, thought Gideon, he wasn’t quite so much one of the family after all, not quite so much the trusted and respected consigliere he’d been under Pietro’s rule. And he still hadn’t gotten used to the new state of affairs.

  “I most certainly do mean ‘force’ in it
s literal sense,” Franco went on. “With today’s methods we can get more from the grape than it started with. Cross-flow filtraters, rotary—”

  Luca made a disgusted motion. “Look, Franco, why are we wasting our time with this anyway? You know we’re going to release it—you already said you liked it—so what are we even discussing it for? Just go ahead. It’s your show now, isn’t it?”

  Gideon was getting uncomfortable. The atmosphere in the Cubbiddu household was another thing that wasn’t quite the same as it had been in Pietro’s day either. Oh, he’d seen a couple of wine and winemaking arguments among the family that were louder and livelier than this one, but the chill in the air, the edginess—that was something new.

  “I’ll let that pass, Luca,” Franco said in his flattest monotone. “And now I’d be interested in hearing from our American colleague. Gideon, what do you think of the wine?”

  “Ah. Well—”

  He was saved by Luca, who exploded out of his chair and into English. “Jesus Christ, it’s after seven! The reception! They’re waiting for us out on the terrace! Franco, let’s go!

  “Hey, don’t worry about it,” Nico said. “Linda and Maria have everything in hand, and the caterers have already set everything up. Your people are very happy, believe me. They’ve got good wine, they’ve got good food, life is good. I don’t think they’re feeling too neglected.”

  But Luca and Franco were already halfway to the staircase, and Quadrelli got up too, more slowly. “I believe I’ll drop in on that myself.”

  That left Nico and Gideon at the table. Nico was looking at him, an inquisitive smile on his face. He wasn’t drunk, but he was happily buzzed.

  Gideon waited for him to say something. “What?” he finally asked.

  “Oh, I was just waiting to hear what you were going to say. What do you think of the wine?”

  Gideon picked up his glass. “Ah. Well—”

  “Yeah, I already heard that part.”

  “Okay, then.” He sipped, swallowed, nodded, put the glass down, and authoritatively considered the aftertaste. “Mm . . . in my opinion, I would say it’s . . . elegant yet rustic . . . leather . . . tobacco . . . eggplant under a layer of . . . of . . .”

  “Cinnamon,” Nico said.

  “Well, no, I was thinking dorrigo pepper and viburnum bark. And maybe a tinge of kokam seed.”

  Nico laughed appreciatively and took a taste from his glass, then reached for the bottle. “Hey, we’ve got time; here, have another shot with me.” He upended the bottle over Gideon’s glass. Nothing came out. “Oops, sorry about that. Now how do you figure that happened?” He seemed honestly puzzled.

  TEN

  GIDEON had been told that eighteen people had signed up for the class, the maximum that Luca would accept. All of them seemed to be at the reception. Most of them were women; all were American. In the slanting evening sun, the porticoed stone terrace that fronted the garden was beautiful. The old marble columns were a buttery gold. Two buffet tables lined up along the wall of the main building held hors d’oeuvres and bottles of Villa Antica wine. Behind them, two tuxedoed young men smiled and expertly filled plates and glasses for the attendees. Another waiter circulated with a tray that held wine and appetizers. Most of the attendees were sitting in twos and threes at round tables that appeared to have been taken from the tasting room, happily shoveling in bruschetta, anchovies, and miniature tortellini, and washing them down with generous swallows of the 2005 Villa Antica Carmignano Riserva and one of their rare whites, a 2009 trebbiano. From the noise level of the conversation and laughter, it was clear that the festivities had gotten going well before the official seven o’clock opening time. And as Nico had surmised, nobody seemed to be the least upset about the late start of formalities.

  Julie, Marti, and John were already there, speaking with a six-foot-tall, formidable-looking woman, who, unlike just about everybody else, already seemed bored. While she spoke, her eyes continued to cast about, as if hoping to find someone more interesting to talk to. Gideon was waved over and introduced.

  His name produced a modest flicker of interest. “You know, I think I’ve heard of you. Aren’t you the Bone Doctor?” She had the kind of voice that goes with a lorgnette, fluty and imperious.

  “Skeleton Detective,” the always-helpful John corrected.

  “Yes. So what is it that a Skeleton Doctor does exactly, anyway?”

  “Skeleton Detective,” said John.

  “Whatever.”

  This unpromising exchange went on for another minute or so and was then cut short by Franco’s taking his place behind a lectern at one end of the terrace and managing to look both dignified and in a hurry at the same time. People quickly found seats. Gideon took the chance of risking Franco’s disapproval by going to get a glass of the trebbiano before he squeezed in beside Julie, John, Marti, and Linda at one of the larger tables. He was the last person to sit, and Franco impatiently, pointedly waited until he was settled.

  “I’m Franco Cubbiddu,” he announced, “the president and CEO of Villa Antica Winery, and I want to welcome you to our facilities and wish you a very pleasant and productive week. Thank you. Luca?” He turned on his heel and headed back into the winery.

  “Short and sweet,” Marti said.

  Linda laughed. “Franco might have a fault or two, but long-windedness isn’t one of them.”

  Luca was now up at the lectern. “I won’t take much of your time,” he said. “You’re here tonight to enjoy a little camaraderie and a few good wines. Tomorrow morning is when we get serious. For those of you who are staying not in Figline but in Florence, the easiest way to get here is to take the train from the Santa Maria Novella station. There is an 8:02 train that will put you in Figline at 8:37. A five-minute walk will bring you here with time enough for a cup of coffee and a brioche before we get started at nine. You’ll find the rest of the logistical details in your packets and I’ll answer any questions tomorrow. For now I would like to very briefly summarize the philosophy of Vino e Cucina.”

  He took a deep breath and surveyed the crowd, smiling and relaxed. He looked happy.

  “This is a guy who likes having an audience,” Gideon murmured to Julie.

  That produced an elbow nudge and a smile. “Takes one to know one.”

  “First, the vino part. Have you ever wondered why Italian wines are so good with food? Because that’s what they’re made for, to go with food, to be enjoyed, and not merely with a meal, but as an essential part of it. It isn’t made for people to spit into a bowl. It’s made for them to drink, and to drink with food, with a meal. Wine is like bread or pasta. Without it a meal is not complete.” He was growing more animated and enthusiastic. His opening sentences might have been prepared, Gideon thought, but now he was speaking spontaneously, straight from the heart. This was a continuation of the argument he’d been having with Franco, Gideon understood. Without Franco’s presence Luca was a lot better at it: less heat, more light.

  “And it’s like anything we love to eat. Would you chew up prosciutto or ossobuco and spit it out? Of course not.”

  People were politely nodding their agreement, and there was some scattered clapping.

  “And the cucina part? It’s simple. You will not learn how to prepare nouvelle cuisine this week. In good Italian cooking, there is no such thing as cucina nuova. When it comes to preparing food, being trendy or innovative is not something we aim for. If a recipe has survived for four generations, handed down from mother to daughter, we figure it must be pretty good, so why would we want to change it? Our goal isn’t to improve or build on grandma’s dishes, it’s to come as close as we can to reproducing them—but with the advantages of today’s modern kitchen equipment and market goods. In fact—”

  He stopped suddenly, straightened up from leaning over the lectern, and his low, husky laugh rolled out over the terrace. “In fact, I see my wife letting me know that it’s time for me to sit down. Well, you’ll hear more than enough from me in the n
ext few days.”

  He had brought a glass of Sangiovese with him to the lectern, and now he raised it in toast to his audience—“Buon appetito, mi amici!”

  • • •

  DINNERS at the winery were part of the Vino e Cucina package on most nights, so when the reception wound down, Luca, Linda, Julie, and Marti went off to the refectory with the others, leaving John and Gideon on their own. Luca had provided them with a few suggested Figline restaurants, but none of them hit the right note with John.

  “You know what I’d really like?”

  “Yeah, but I don’t think you’re going to find a Big Mac in Figline Valdarno. Some Chicken McNuggets, maybe.”

  “Ho, ho.”

  “One of those giant Florence beefsteaks?”

  “Nah, let’s wait till we’re in Florence for that.” Both of them having had a few glasses of wine, they’d ruled out driving to the city. “But how about a pizza? I bet we can find one of those in Figline.”

  A perusal of the phone book turned up Ristorante Pizzeria Mari e Monti a few blocks from Villa Antica, and they walked there in a light, not unpleasant drizzle. It turned out to be a cozy little place with arched brick entryways, rough-stuccoed walls, warm lighting, and a big, ceramic wood-burning oven. Even with his tenuous hold on Italian, John had no trouble with the menu, quickly finding the pizza that struck the deepest chord in his essential being.

  “Pizza carnivora,” he announced. “Mamma mia!”

  Gideon ordered frutti di mare, the seafood pizza. He asked about local beers, and the waiter recommended Birrificio Artigianale pale ale. “Is most same like bitter,” he said, apparently thinking they were British. Gideon said fine, and John went along with him.

  The beers came quickly, and while they worked at them, Gideon explained what Linda had told him at the wine festival about Cesare, the little-known stepson.