Wuthering Kites

by Clover Tate

  “There’s nothing else there now.”

  “Too much slope for hazelnuts. Uncle Gus always liked the buffer between our land and his.” Porky’s sleek black body disappeared into the underbrush. “There’s a shortcut to Orr Cellars through the woods, but it’s steep. The road takes longer but is easier. We share a few workers with the winery, and they use the shortcut all the time.”

  “That’s where your uncle died, isn’t it? On the shortcut.”

  He put his hands in his pocket. “Do you want to see?”

  “Are you all right with it?”

  He took my hand. “Come on.” In a moment, we were on a narrow dirt trail surrounded by scrub oak and ferns. The air smelled of pine needles. Jack pointed to rocks jutting from the path. “Be careful.”

  “There it is,” I said.

  A bundle of wilted dahlias and an empty bottle of beer lay by a sharp piece of limestone at the path’s edge. The forest swallowed the path behind and ahead of us. No one could see us here.

  Jack picked up the bottle. “One of the farm workers, maybe.” He pulled me to the path’s edge. “He must have tripped on this rock. They found him down there.”

  Shrubs, rocks, and trees molded the steep hillside. Nine times out of ten, a person might fall and be fine, if a little beaten up. But fall at the wrong angle and hit your head, and it could be fatal. It had been fatal.

  A bird’s cry nearby seemed to awaken Jack. “Ready to go on to Matt’s?”

  “Yes. Thank you. And”—I pulled Jack close and kissed his cheek—“I’m so sorry.”

  “Thanks, Em.”

  We continued up the hill and stopped at its crest. Through the trees below, a metal-roofed barn and a smaller building with a stone patio anchored the clearing’s edge. Below them, grapevines sloped into the distance. “Look. It’s the winery.”

  “You haven’t said anything about it, but I’ve noticed that you don’t seem overly friendly with Matt. Yet your families have been neighbors for years.”

  “Come on, Porky. Stay close.” The dog galloped to Jack’s side, then darted into the underbrush again. I waited. “I have reasons.”

  “I don’t doubt it. I notice Dustin is friendly with Matt,” I pointed out.

  “He was always good about that sort of thing. They used to hang out as kids. Now, with the seching machine and all, they’re definitely friends.”

  “And Rosa doesn’t seem to have a problem with him.”

  “You’re right.” We walked a few more steps in silence. I caught a whiff of woodsmoke in the air, another reminder that winter was coming. Jack would tell me the rest of the story when he was ready.

  “Supposedly, when Uncle Gus’s father—Grandpa Butler—bought the land next to the orchard, Larry Orr, Matt’s dad—wanted it, too.”

  “Even then?”

  “At that point, Orr Cellars wasn’t a vineyard. It was grazing land. A spring runs through their land and onto ours. I don’t know all the details, but someone sued someone about water rights, and there have been bad feelings ever since.”

  “When was that?”

  “The fifties, probably.” He kicked a rock, and Porky took off after it. “I know. It’s silly.”

  Jack wouldn’t hold someone else’s grudge. “There must be more about it for you.”

  He put an arm around my shoulders as we walked. “You’re right, of course. It’s almost as ridiculous as the old water rights.”

  “And?”

  “We’re at the winery.” Jack called Porky over and clipped a leash onto his collar. He strode ahead. Reluctantly, I followed. Jack wasn’t usually so guarded.

  A Latino man rounded the corner. First, he looked surprised; then a wide grin opened in white teeth over his tanned skin. “Jack!”

  “Edilberto,” Jack said and grasped his hand. “This is Emmy. Emmy, this is Edilberto, the winery’s foreman.”

  “Jack’s girlfriend, eh?”

  “He’s mentioned you,” I said.

  “Got my start in Gus Butler’s orchard and watched him and Claire grow up.” The foreman’s smile vanished as fast as it had appeared. “I’m so sorry about Gus. We’re all—stunned. And Allison.” He drew a boot across the dirt. “I can’t believe it. Have they caught the person who did it?”

  “Not yet,” Jack said.

  Edilberto shook his head. “I suppose you’re here to see Matt. He’s in the tank room.” He walked away a few steps, then turned back. “And tell Rosa my wife and I will be by with some venison roast.”

  “Nice to meet you,” I yelled after him.

  Jack looked at the barn but didn’t seem to want to go in.

  “Come on.” I grabbed his hand and pulled.

  “Wait,” he said. “You asked why I’m not super friendly with Matt. You should know the whole story.”

  “Here?” A few winery workers emerged from the barn.

  He stepped closer. “I should have told you sooner. Some of it has to do with the water rights, but some of it is more recent.” He led me to the side of an outbuilding where it was quiet. “Rosa’s sister used to work at Uncle Gus’s, too, during harvest season. Her whole family did. We swapped farmhands with the winery.”

  “When was this?”

  “Years ago.”

  It was starting to come together. “You suspect Matt’s father didn’t do right by her? Is that what you’re saying?”

  “I never heard the whole story, and no one ever really talked about it. Rosa’s sister went back to Columbia and married and has a whole new family. My mother hinted about it to me and Claire one day as a way of explaining why Uncle Gus didn’t want us to spend too much time with Matt.” He sighed. “It’s not right. I know better than to judge Matt by something his father might—or might not—have done. But there you have it.”

  Jack might not know the details of the long-running divide with the Orr family, but one thing was clear: Gus Butler knew how to hold a grudge.

  chapter thirty

  “Why didn’t you tell me earlier?” I said.

  “I don’t know the details,” Jack said. “It’s ancient history.”

  “It’s enough to put a chip on your shoulder about Matt. Did you ever think to talk to Rosa about it? Or Matt, for that matter?”

  “And say what?” He shook his head. “I know you’re right.”

  “It’s probably for the best. At least for now, until we find out more about your aunt and uncle’s deaths.”

  “Jack. Emmy. I didn’t know you were here.” Our heads shot up to see Matt walking toward us, peeling off a pair of leather work gloves.

  “I wanted to talk with Rosa about arrangements for Allison’s funeral,” Jack said.

  “I’m still in shock.” He shook his head. “To think, right there in Rock Point . . .”

  I shivered. “In my shop.”

  “I’m so, so sorry. But it’s nice to see you. Come with me to the barn,” Matt said. “I was just checking the barrels.”

  We followed him through the open sliding doors into a barn so new it still smelled of raw wood. Toward the rear, toast-colored barrels lay in rows on steel shelves. To the right stood a shiny metal bucket the size of a garden shed with fat pipes running from it.

  I pointed toward the machine. “Is that for crushing the grapes?”

  “No, we use an open machine, that one”—he pointed behind him—“for the crush. This is the seching machine. The prototype, in fact. Gus installed it.”

  Dustin’s invention. I stepped closer. “I thought it was Dustin’s work.”

  “Absolutely. Gus gave him a hand with it, though.”

  I touched the metal drum at its core. “Do you use it often?”

  “Not this year. But it’s saved my harvest twice in the past five years.”

  He showed us around the winery’s main building. We desce
nded a flight of stairs to a cellar cut into the hill. It was cool there, and dim. Rows of barrels, many more than upstairs, lined metal shelves.

  Matt’s conversation ranged from grape varietals to Brix levels to bottling times. I watched Jack. Sometimes he stared at his feet; other times he was absorbed in Matt’s explanations of how the winery ran. I sensed that Jack wavered between wanting to give in to Matt and needing to keep resolutely detached. I understood.

  “Would you like to see the new tasting room?” Matt asked.

  “Please,” I said.

  We climbed the stairs, then crossed the parking lot to a low-slung building situated to take in the view. A couple sat on the deck, even in the cold, and sipped wine. It was a bit past lunchtime now. I was grateful for Rosa’s biscuits.

  “Are we safe leaving Porky outside?” I asked.

  “He’ll play with Edilberto’s dog. He’s perfectly fine,” Jack said. Sure enough, seeing that we were going inside, Porky ran off to touch noses with a German shepherd mix by the tractors.

  We walked toward the tasting room. A fireplace cut from flat stone anchored one end, and a sleek wooden bar faced it with a rough stone floor between them. The scent of raw cedar walls complemented the slightly sour tang of wine.

  Out the window, grapevines trellised the hill like a head of cornrows. To the right, where the western sun would catch the vines, spread Uncle Gus’s woods. Beyond view were the farmhouse and hazelnut groves.

  Matt handed me a glass with a ruby splash of pinot noir in its bowl. “Our reserve.” He leaned against the windowsill. “I see you’re looking toward the farm.” Jack joined us. “You know I’d like to buy it from you,” Matt said.

  “I know,” Jack replied.

  I looked at Jack, maybe a bit anxiously. Claire had been clear she intended to sell. Jack wasn’t so clear.

  Matt seemed to tune in to the situation. “It’s too soon to talk about this now. I’m sorry I brought it up. Let’s drink a toast to Allison.” We raised our glasses just as a log popped in the fire. “I wish you could have met her, Emmy.”

  “Me, too.”

  “She would have loved this room—the stone floor, the fireplace, the view,” Jack said.

  “She only saw it under construction. I always had the feeling she’d be back to the valley. She seemed too rooted here to live out her life in Portland,” Matt said, his gaze on the grapevines on the horizon. “The sheriff came out yesterday asking about where I was when Allison died.” He choked off a laugh. “I think I’m a suspect.”

  “He’s just being thorough, I imagine,” I said, although I mentally high-fived Sheriff Koppen for checking up on him.

  “Told him I was here all day and night. He didn’t have to drive all the way out for that.”

  A tall man with graying hair heaved a case of wine from the granite counter. He waved at Matt as he left, undoubtedly to take it to the BMW I’d seen in the parking lot.

  “And Gus,” I added tentatively. I’d never met him, after all. Which gave me the newcomer’s advantage. “You must really miss him, Matt.”

  To my surprise, he turned toward the fire. “I do.”

  Jack glanced at me. “I didn’t see you at the memorial service.”

  “After the funeral, I didn’t feel much like sticking around.” Matt swirled his glass without paying attention to its contents. “Gus and I . . .”

  The couple from the balcony came in, peeling off their scarves and gloves, and settled near the fire. I wanted to urge Matt on, but I bit my tongue instead.

  “Did I tell you I saw him the day he died?” Matt said.

  I lifted my head and looked from man to man.

  “No. No, I didn’t know that,” Jack said.

  “I know it’s odd. I know we weren’t—we weren’t always friendly, despite being neighbors and the seching machine and all. Dustin was always trying to get me to spend more time at the farm. Then, out of the blue, Gus walked over to the winery that morning.”

  “Oh.” Matt couldn’t have missed my interest.

  He set down the glass once more, its contents untouched. “We were having a photo shoot that day of the new tasting room, so I couldn’t do more than wave hello.” He brushed an imaginary speck of dust from his plaid shirt. “He’d rarely come over in the past, and never just to chat. Then the one day he did, I let him down.”

  Matt seemed upset, but his emotion could have been acting. In fact, the photographer might have been the perfect cover-up. Yet, his grief felt true to me. Not that a murderer couldn’t regret his actions.

  “I know I haven’t always been as welcoming as I could be,” Jack said. “I hope things will be different in the future.”

  Matt shifted on his feet. “What has that been about, anyway? I never understood why we weren’t closer, but it’s always been that way.”

  The men looked at each other. “You know,” Jack said finally. “Rosa’s sister.”

  “Yeah,” Matt said.

  “It’s funny, isn’t it?” Jack said, without explaining further.

  Men, I thought.

  Matt stepped back, and his expression shut down. A more complete reconciliation—should it ever happen—would have to wait for another day when murder wasn’t on the table. “Yeah, well, let’s drink a toast to us, then.”

  The men lifted their glasses and clinked them together. At the last second, I lifted mine, too. This time, Matt drank.

  chapter thirty-one

  Rosa did her best to get us to stay for dinner, tempting us with roast chicken and an apple cake. Porky even whined a bit from his bed by the fire, as if to keep us from leaving.

  Jack and I were both tired, though, and the drive to Rock Point was long. Rosa wrapped up half of the apple cake to take home. We were barely in the car before I was on my phone looking up the Orr Cellars Web site.

  “What are you doing?” Jack asked.

  “Getting the name of the photographer who shot the new tasting room,” I said. “Come on, little phone. Faster.” Hopefully the new photos had been posted. “I want to see if Matt really was around when your uncle died. Maybe the photographer can tell me.”

  “What do you mean? You heard him. He told the sheriff he was. He couldn’t have killed Uncle Gus. Besides, I thought you wanted us to be friends.”

  Jack started the car. Both he and I waved good-bye to Rosa through the windshield. I only saw Porky’s head through the living room window, but by his back-and-forth wiggle, I could tell his tail was wagging.

  “I do, but what else could he say? He wants your land. He’s ambitious. Maybe he doesn’t care if you spend the rest of your years in prison so he can have it. I’m not saying I’m right, but we have to consider it.”

  “Emmy. What’s up with you?”

  At last, the winery’s photos appeared—including those of the tasting room. I lifted my head from the screen only for a second. “Someone is framing you for murder. This is no time to be sentimental.”

  Jack’s mouth tightened, and he backed out of the driveway.

  I returned to my phone. “There’s a photo credit. Ross Bancud. Good. It’s an unusual name.” I applied myself to my phone’s search engine until I found his Web site. I drummed my fingers on my knee. Thanks to all the photos, it was taking forever to load.

  Jack wisely stayed silent. If he wasn’t going to look after his own best interests, someone had to.

  I navigated to the Web site’s contact form and typed in a polite but urgent request that the photographer call me. Then I set my phone in my lap and waited.

  “We should be in Rock Point in time for dinner,” I said. “You want to come over?” I remembered the last time he was at my place and blushed.

  “If you don’t mind, I need some time to think.”

  “Okay.” I tried to keep my tone cheerful, but my heart sank. I turned to watch the scenery�
��spinach fields, a dairy farm, more hazelnut trees—pass by. Jack’s uncle had just died, and maybe not in the accident everyone had presumed. His aunt had been murdered, and evidence pointed toward Jack. Now he owned a hazelnut farm. And I was becoming more of a complication in his life, too. Of course he needed time to think.

  “Thanks for understanding. It’s been a wild week. With my dad, too.”

  “And the farm,” I ventured.

  “Yeah.” He sighed. “I’ll have to talk with Claire about that.”

  I turned toward him. “If Matt goes to jail, you’ll have to find another buyer, I guess. And what about Rosa?”

  He didn’t reply for a moment. “I’m not sure I want to sell the farm.”

  If my heart had sunk before, now it was plunging toward the Earth’s core. Yet, I wasn’t surprised. He loved that farm, and I knew it. I couldn’t even find the words to respond.

  My phone rang. I didn’t look at the caller ID before answering.

  “Ross Bancud, photographer, returning your call.”

  I straightened. “Um, yes.” Get your head together, Em. I could worry about Jack later. “I saw your photos of Orr Cellars. They’re lovely.”

  “Thank you. It’s a scenic space. Are you a winery owner, too?”

  “No,” I said. “I actually have a question about the winery’s owner, Matt Orr.”

  The car’s engine whined as we climbed the highway to the coastal mountain range.

  “Why?”

  “I, um. I may be working with him. I wanted to know if it’s a project I should take on.” Kind of true.

  “Well, he pays on time, if that’s what you mean.”

  I glanced at Jack. He was staring straight ahead at the road. “It’s not that. I wanted to know if he was a micromanager. You know, if he hangs around while you’re working, getting into every detail.”

  “Look, I’m not sure what kind of business you do, but you should really talk to Matt directly.”

  The photographer probably wouldn’t respond well if I told him I made kites for a living. Although I could do a nice wind sock shaped like a wine bottle. “Oh, I don’t want to get personal. I just wanted to know, you know, if he let you do your work. Alone.” I squeezed my eyes shut and hoped for an answer.