by Harvey, JM
“Blake has to account for the auction sales—”
“He always has some excuse. A mix up in a delivery, a restaurant owner behind on his payments, a slow economy. Then, when you’re right on the edge of losing it all, Armand Rivincita shows up with his checkbook. It’s happened a half-dozen times in the last two years. Always to the small guys, like us. The ones too poor to say no. Blake is the setup guy and Armand moves in for the kill.”
I made no reply. My thoughts were too muddled and confused. Blake had said the quality of Angela’s wine had caused sales to drop off and the case-price to plummet. That could be true, but her insistence that something crooked was going on was making me nervous. And Armand had been buying up small vineyards in the two years since he’d arrived in the Valley.
I was so lost in my own thoughts I didn’t notice Angela was crying until she spoke, her voice quavering.
“I’ve had enough,” was all she said, but there was a depth of pain in those words that made my heart race.
“Don’t do anything foolish,” I told her.
She said nothing, just wheezed and sniffled in my ear.
“Angela—”
“Goodbye, Claire. Remember what I said about Becker and Armand.”
The line went dead.
Angela’s parting ‘goodbye,’ innocuous on the surface, had such a chill finality to it a shiver went through me. I hit End Call and started to dial 911 then stopped. Had Angela meant what I thought she meant? That she was ready to kill herself? Had I misinterpreted her? And what if I hadn’t? What if she was looking for a gun, or wolfing down a bottle of pills? Sending in the police if she was only drunk and ranting was just going to escalate her situation, but leaving her alone was unthinkable.
I banged down the phone, ran up the stairs, snatched my purse off the kitchen table and was out the door thirty seconds later, into the chill damp of the morning air, still laced with a tracery of fog from the night before.
Victor was crossing the lawn toward the house, probably to mooch breakfast, but I didn’t pause to talk to him. I gave him a wave as I climbed into my red Jeep Wrangler.
I had taken the Jeep’s canvas top off yesterday and hadn’t put it back on. The seats were dappled with a cold dew that soaked through my pants, turning them clammy as I slid behind the wheel and cranked the engine. I backed around, slammed the Jeep into second gear and shot a rooster tail of gravel from the driveway as I accelerated out to the highway and headed west.
Angela’s winery and home, at the western end of the Valley, was beautiful. The home site had been built on a flat spot cut out of the steeply sloped foothills of the Mayacamas mountains, but the Zinfandel vines rode the slopes in perpendicular rows, undulating across the terrain like green waves until they dead-ended in an almost vertical slope of crumbling shale dotted with scrub brush, brambles, and skinny loblolly pines in danger of toppling in the first high wind. I drove up a concrete drive that curved through a small grove of almond trees whose leaves were already turning brown at the edges.
The house was a substantial colonial, but not ostentatious. It was two stories tall, painted white with a red brick foundation. The large red door was fronted by a wide portico and covered by a shingled awning supported by fluted columns. I parked in the loop of the cul-de-sac drive and trotted to the door. There was no bell, just a large brass knocker set below a fan-shaped leaded glass window. I banged it three times and heard it echo through the house. I waited five minutes and then did it again.
A few minutes later, when I was about to bang the knocker again, my heart pounding in fear I had come too late, Angela Zorn’s face appeared on the center pane of the window. She looked bad. Wild blonde hair and a pair of red and frightened eyes ringed in last night’s mascara. Eyes that narrowed into a scowl when they saw me on the doorstep.
She jerked the door open. Her dishevelment didn’t stop with the ruined makeup and tangled hair. She was wearing the same yellow dress she’d had on at my party Saturday night. It was wrinkled from neckline to hem and sagging at the hips. The bodice was dotted with wine stains and there was a gaping tear at the shoulder. She had a whiskey glass in one hand, amber liquor slopping over the rim. She didn’t say hello, and she didn’t seem surprised to see me.
“You want a drink?” she asked and waved the glass at me. Whiskey splattered the brick porch. She didn’t wait for an answer. She turned and went through an archway on the left, leaving me on the stoop.
It had only been twenty minutes since I had talked to Angela on the phone, and I could see she had used those twenty minutes to get plastered. She didn’t seem so forlorn or sad now - she had a drunk’s surly belligerence. I hesitated for just a moment, considering beating a hasty retreat, but I was still concerned about her. I entered her home and followed in her footsteps.
The interior of the house was as impressive and understated as the exterior. The furniture was tasteful and functional: warm wood and plush seating. The walls were covered in art a bit stodgy by modern tastes – mostly landscapes and seascapes - and every tabletop and surface was covered in silver-framed photos, vases, and bric-a-brac that lent the large space a homey quality. The American dream home circa 1950.
Angela had settled herself on a footstool by the fireplace in the living room. A small blaze was burning, just enough to cut the chill in the air. She looked up as I entered the room.
“Bar’s over there,” she said and waved her glass at the far side of the room.
“No, thanks,” I said as I settled myself on the sofa near her. The cushion beside me was piled with a jumble of paperwork, though the rest of the room was immaculate.
I decided not to beat around the bush. Angela seemed in no mood for pleasantries, anyway. “I was concerned by your phone call,” I told her. “I was worried that you might do something drastic.”
“Like shoot myself?” she asked, giving me a level-eyed stare, though she was having trouble holding her head steady on her neck. Her chin was bobbing and weaving.
There was no backing away from it now. “Something like that.”
She laughed at that, a harsh, bitter sound. “If I was going to start shooting I’d be the last to go,” she said. “There’re six bullets in my pistol, more than enough to do the job.”
“Blake?” I asked.
She waved her glass at the cushion beside me. “It’s all right there,” she said and gave that bitter laugh again. “Read ‘em and weep.”
I looked down at the paperwork and saw the Star Crossed logo on the top page. It was a listing of sales. The amount at the bottom was just over three thousand dollars.
I looked up.
“Ten cases,” she said. “That’s the sum total of last month’s auction sales. I was selling five times that at twice the price with Silus Auctioneers.” She stood and crossed to the bar. Her tread was purposeful and steady, the trait of a well-practiced drunk. She poured more whiskey, came back, and retook her seat. “And with Dimitri’s interview and his whisperings to the wine critics and restaurant owners, I’m lucky I can sell at that price.” She took a huge swallow of her drink.
“Whisperings?”
“Dimitri has been telling everyone I overproduce the vines. That the wine is weak and won’t hold in the bottle. He suggested they sell fast and cheap.”
“How do you know that?” I asked, but I was not stunned by the allegations. Dimitri had seemed to pride himself on his bluntness and cruel honesty. And comments like that from a man like him would certainly have driven the price down into the dirt.
“I have friends too, Claire,” she said. “It’s funny, sometimes you find them in the strangest places…” she trailed off and a crooked grin bloomed on her face.
“You should see an attorney. Maybe your agreement with Star Crossed can be nullified,” I said, but I was thinking selfishly of my own fifty cases of wine. If what Angela said was true, then I had made a very grave mistake in signing an agreement with Blake.
“That would leave me just as broke and just as homel
ess,” she said.
I didn’t say anything to that. It seemed obvious Angela was not going to kill herself, and I doubted she was going to head for Star Crossed with a gun. And placating her as she wallowed in self-pity was not how I wanted to spend my morning. It was time for me to leave.
“Do you need anything?” I asked as I stood and collected my purse. I slung it over my shoulder.
Angela shook her head. She placed her glass down on the hearth.
“Thank you for coming, Claire,” she said in a curiously formal voice. “It was very kind. I’m sorry I worried you needlessly.”
“I’m glad you’re okay,” I replied and went toward the archway. Angela made no move to follow, but she spoke as I exited.
“Claire,” she said, and I turned back. “Be careful of Blake.” The whiskey was gone from her voice - she was deadly serious. “And don’t worry about me. I always land on my feet.” She mustered a brave smile that broke my heart.
I had been dancing on the precipice of financial ruin with Violet for more than twenty years. I didn’t have to imagine what she was feeling; I knew intimately.
“If I can help, call me. I’m just down the road,” I said.
“Goodbye, Claire.”
I waved, feeling awkward and sad, as if I was leaving the sickbed of a dying relative.
But I wasn’t going to get away from Angela’s that easily. I closed the front door behind me and was heading for my Jeep when I spotted Jorge McCullers trudging up the driveway on foot.
“Pancho Villa rides again!” Jorge shouted at me, and I couldn’t help but laugh. It reminded me so much of high school, when Jorge was the life of every party. But as he neared me I saw the broken veins in his face and the hitch in his gait and it wasn’t funny anymore. At some point the party music stops, and you either get off with the rest of your friends or you grab another bottle and continue the party solo. Jorge had chosen the latter, and it showed.
He stopped in front of me and leaned against the fender of the Jeep, breathing hard. He was still wearing the same jeans from the party, but his shirt was gone. He looked pale and cold in his white undershirt.
“What are you doing here?” he asked.
I hesitated, but then told him, keeping it short. “Angela called me. She was upset about Blake. She seemed depressed so I came by to check on her.”
Jorge gave me a sly grin when I spoke Blake’s name. “I don’t think we’re going to have to worry about Blake Becker for much longer.”
“Why?” That grin made me nervous. “I hope you’re not planning on doing anything crazy.”
Jorge opened his mouth to say something and then seemed to think better of it. His smile slipped away and he shrugged. “Let’s just say that when I get done with him he'll be happy to give us our wine back.”
I didn’t want to hear any more of this. I fished my keys out of my bag. “I’m glad they let you go,” I told him, and that was the truth.
“They had to,” he replied. “They tested the blood on my clothes and it didn’t match Dimitri’s blood type. It was mine, just like I said.”
“And the knife?”
He shook his head. “Planted. My prints weren’t on it.” He eyed me from under his wild gray eyebrows and winked. “But the killer’s prints aren’t on it either,” he added, his tone begging me to question what he meant.
“How do you know that?” A cool breeze came through the almond trees, rippling the leaves. Jorge hunched his shoulders against it, but he didn’t lose the smile.
“Because I know who killed him,” Jorge said and gave me another wink.
“Who?” I asked, leaning forward as the breeze intensified into a gust. I shivered, but I don’t know if it was the cold or what Jorge was saying that caused it.
“That’s the million dollar question,” he said. “At least a million.”
“Did you tell Hunter?” I asked, but I already knew the answer. Jorge had no love for the police; he had made that clear.
Jorge lost the smile. “I got nothing to say to Hunter Drake. He spent more than one night in the drunk tank himself,” he added snidely. “A born-again boozehound is still a boozehound.”
“If you know who did it, you have to tell the police, Jorge,” I said.
He laughed. “Fun-killer Falcone,” he said, using my maiden name and dredging up a taunt from high school. “First the teacher’s pet and now the Sheriff’s pet.”
I didn’t join in on the laughter. I hadn’t found his little pun on my name funny thirty years ago and it was even less amusing now. He saw the anger in my face and his smile died.
“Sorry, Claire,” he said.
I let it go, but I wasn’t going to let him off the hook for withholding evidence. “You need to tell Hunter what you know,” I told him.
Jorge shook his head. “I know he’s your boyfriend, Claire, but the guy’s a real bas—” he saw my look of annoyance deepen and changed course, “a real jerk. He never gives anyone an even break. And it’s going to bite him in the butt this time. He should have played nice with me and I would have played nice with him.”
“A man was murdered,” I reminded him. I didn’t correct him about Hunter being my boyfriend. I wasn’t going to discuss my love life with Jorge McCullers.
“And no one deserved it more,” Jorge said. He looked toward the house. “God, I need a drink.”
Suddenly, I was sick and tired of Jorge. I didn’t know what the truth of any of this was, but I was certain it had nothing to do with me. I was just the unfortunate fool who had hosted a party for a murderer. I jerked the door of the Jeep open.
“Angela’s in the living room,” I said rudely. “I’m sure she’ll fix you a drink.”
“Claire—” he began, but I banged the door closed on whatever he had to say. He eased off the fender as I started the Jeep.
“Claire—” he said again as I let out the clutch and went past him. I didn’t look back, but I should have.
It was the last time I would see him alive.
I drove back up the highway, passing spectacular views of the mountainous terrain above and the sprawling green expanse of the valley below, views I normally slowed for and enjoyed, but I saw none of them that day. My sleep-deprived mind was a jumble of thoughts and worries. And I am ashamed to admit Dimitri’s death was not at the forefront. Angela’s accusations had shaken me. I didn’t know who to believe - her or Blake - but I was determined to find out. My livelihood depended on selling wine for a fair price. I’d leave Dimitri’s murder to Hunter and the Sheriff’s Department.
Unfortunately, the facts behind Dimitri’s murder were about to crash right through my life like a wrecking ball ripped off its chain.
Chapter 11
I arrived back at Violet to an empty house and a deserted vineyard. Victor had left a note that he was taking the awning back to the supplier we had rented it from. He had also gathered up a few of the chairs and tables we had borrowed from friends and neighbors and was taking them back to their rightful homes. The note said he would not be back that day, though those errands would not keep him busy until 5:00PM.
Victor being AWOL didn’t surprise me. After the long sleepless nights during the harvest and crush, he was probably sick of the sight of the vines - and of me - but I was surprised Samson hadn’t arrived. Samson never misses work, though I sometimes wish he would.
I dug out my cell phone and called Samson’s cell. Voicemail. I left him a message.
It was almost lunch time, but I wasn’t hungry. Instead I went to the cellar and hunted around until I found an old pair of short-handled trimmers so heavily rusted they were almost impossible to open. I sprayed them down with WD-40 and worked the handles until they grudgingly came unstuck, then took them to the grinding wheel. As a vineyard owner I’ve sharpened everything from axes to steak knives, so I made short work of the process and headed out into the rows.
Victor had made some progress in the vines that morning, trimming away the dead wood and broken canes c
aused by the rushed harvest, but there was a lot left to do. And that wasn’t the only task far from completion. I really needed to inspect the rootstock we had planted two years before. It was time to begin grafting cabernet vines to that stock, an effort that wouldn’t pay off for several years, but just might lift my bank account out of the red. I also needed to till under the clover we had planted between the rows. The clover helps reduce the amount of water the grapes receive, but it was superfluous at that point of the year. All of that would take more energy and focus than I had that day, so I took up where Victor had left off and went to work.
I kept looking toward the cellar to see if Samson had arrived.
At 2:00PM, the UPS driver arrived. I supervised the loading of ten cases of wine I was shipping to the SeaSider Restaurant in San Francisco, then signed the manifest. After he left, I tried Samson again. No answer.
I called again at 2:30, and again at 3:00 and 3:30. Each call went to voicemail. I was getting more worried by the hour. It wasn’t like Samson to miss work or ignore my calls. I felt sure something was wrong. And with one murder already, I had every right to be concerned.
At 4:00PM I grabbed my keys, jumped in the Jeep, and headed down the narrow mountain road toward St. Helena, driving a little too fast for the winding curves where steep cliffs often dropped off into the valley below. Once again I barely noticed the beauty surrounding me – from the wild scrub and the majestic dark ridges of the mountains to the neat, sinuous rows of vines that clung to the rolling foothills below.
As I reached the Silverado Trail, I tried Samson's number once again, risking another ticket for not knowing how to use the hands-free option on my phone. Again, there was no reply.
I drove even faster.
Samson’s home is on Edwards Street in St. Helena, just a couple of blocks from the quaint boutiques, antique stores, gift shops, and restaurants that line Main Street, and not very far from the old Masonic lodge my grandfather had belonged to - now a clothing store catering to the shorts and t-shirt crowd. I took Silver Trail to Deer Park in order to avoid Main Street as much as possible. They call Main Street the 'St. Helena Highway' on Google maps, but it is to a highway what a logjam is to the flume ride at Six Flags Amusement Park. Tourists often pack the sidewalks and overflow the street-side parking and cars dawdle at the lights. But it wasn't that bad on a Monday; it only took me ten minutes to go two blocks. I turned down Hunt Street and took a right on Edwards.
