by Harvey, JM
Blake blushed red to his ears. “I have a lot of satisfied customers,” he said. “But some people are never satisfied. Auction sales are down and so are the prices we get, but the economy is recovering. Prices will go up and so will sales.”
“It's funny you never mentioned that when you were convincing me to sign a contract,” I said.
“We’re all in the wine business, Claire,” he replied stiffly. “I didn’t think I had to explain the industry to you.”
That got me even angrier. “Were you on Edwards Street in St. Helena on Monday?” I asked out of the blue, eyeing him to gauge his reaction, but there was none.
“No,” he said, looking at me warily. “Why?”
“I saw one of your vans. I thought I saw you, too.”
“Not me,” he said. “I have six vans. Three of them made trips to St. Helena yesterday.”
I stared hard at him and he stared back, obviously confused. My shoulders slumped. I believed him. And that put a big hole in my theory. In fact, my conversation with Blake had torn that theory to shreds. Wordlessly, I turned and exited the house, leaving the door open behind me. As I climbed into the Jeep beside Victor, Blake stepped into the open door and stood there, staring out at us.
“He looks a little hot under the collar,” Victor said then slipped back into the Mafioso accent. “Does that mean we are going to the mattresses, Godmother?”
I said nothing as I backed out of the space and turned toward the highway. I looked in the rearview as we accelerated away and saw Blake was still in the doorway watching us.
As I stopped at the end of the driveway, Angela Zorn turned in fast, kicking up a wave of gravel and almost clipping the Jeep’s front fender. She blasted past us without even looking our way.
“She looked even madder than Blake,” Victor said, “Looks like it’s going to be a rough day at Star Crossed.”
I was barely listening to him as I sat at the mouth of the driveway, my foot on the brake. I was remembering what Angela had said about Jorge’s murder. The implication that she knew who had killed him. Jorge had as much as admitted he was going to blackmail Dimitri’s killer. Had Angela taken up the same idea? Was she here to blackmail Blake?
I pinched my eyes closed and shook my head. If I brought that to Hunter he’d just think I was on a witch hunt - that I was ready to believe anyone but Samson was the killer. And he’d be right, I decided with a heavy heart. In fact, if it was Blake who stood accused of the murder I’d probably be just as adamant in my defense of him. After all, I had known Blake his entire life and I had never seen anything indicating he was capable of violence.
“What did Blake say?” Victor asked, jarring me back to the present.
I told him what Blake had said about looking for Dimitri in the cellar.
Victor sat there for a few minutes in silence as he swallowed that down then grudgingly admitted, “He could have stepped inside for a few minutes and I might not have noticed.”
We sat through another moment of silence.
“So what next, Sherlock?” he asked.
“I don’t know, Gilligan,” I replied dryly as I turned out on the highway. And I really didn’t. I needed to talk to Samson, but he wasn’t taking my calls. It was all too tiring to even think about.
Victor reached for the radio knob and I gave him a glare that dissuaded him. I was not in the mood for Led Zeppelin. In fact I am never in the mood for Led Zeppelin. I flipped to an oldies station.
Victor let his head loll against the seat rest, closed his eyes and faked a snore.
I turned the radio off and he opened his eyes.
“The Diablos are playing the Dingos tonight at San Cito’s,” he said, talking about his pool team while he looked at his watch. “Actually in like fifteen minutes. Mind dropping me there?”
“At the moment I’d be happy to drop you anywhere,” I replied. “Maybe off a cliff.”
Victor laughed uncertainly as I made a U-turn and headed for San Cito’s Bar, but he kept his mouth shut for the rest of the ride.
I dropped Victor off in front of the bar. San Cito’s patrons are a younger crowd than I can endure - loud music and the mating rituals of youth lost their appeal for me thirty years ago – but I almost went in anyway. I was dreading returning to my empty and silent house. I waved at Victor and got back on the highway.
Fortunately, the house wasn’t empty when I arrived at Violet. Jessica and Charlie were sitting on the back patio, each with a full glass of wine. An open bottle was on the table between them. A bottle straight out of my private stock of our 2010 cabernet. That was very generous of me…but I didn’t complain. I was happy for the company and the distraction, and also for the opportunity to inspect this new young man my daughter was obviously enamored with.
They were holding hands when I arrived, shoulder to shoulder, foreheads touching, but by the time I reached the table in the shade of the wisteria vines, they had shifted to more neutral positions, though they were still holding hands. Cute. And Charlie was even cuter, with his mop of dark hair and blue eyes.
Jessica smiled at me.
“Hello, Mrs. de Montagne,” Charlie said.
“Hello, Charlie. How are you?” I dropped into a chair facing them.
“I’m great, Mrs. de Montagne,” he said.
“I’m glad you’re here,” I told Jess. “I need a distraction.”
“Where’s Samson?” she asked, “He’s usually a pretty big distraction.”
“No, he drives me to distraction,” I replied. They both smiled, but I didn’t find the observation all that funny at the moment.
“So what’s going on?” Jessica asked. “Hunter doesn't really believe Samson is a murderer, does he?”
“I don’t know what Hunter thinks,” I said. “And I'm too tired to think about it.” I stood and turned toward the house. “I’m going to take a shower and then I’m going to throw a couple of steaks on the grill while you make a salad,” I told her.
“I’ll make the salad,” Charlie said. He glanced at the garden, which didn’t look so hot at the end of the season. “And I have a recipe for a marinade of oregano, peppers, and red wine that’s really fantastic on steak.”
“Sounds great,” I said as I left them, looking forward to the company and the food. It seemed like days since I had eaten.
I took two steaks from the freezer, one for Charlie and a smaller one for Jessica and I to share, dropped them into a Ziploc bag, and put them in the sink in a few inches of cold water. They’d thaw in no time. I headed upstairs, changing my mind from a shower to a bath. It would take longer, but I’m sure Jessica and Charlie wouldn’t mind my absence.
We spent a pleasant evening on the patio. Charlie took over the cooking duties, from the salad to the grill. The steaks came off the fire as the sun was settling on the horizon in a dazzling display of golds and pinks. The night turned cool quickly after that, but we still had supper al fresco as we watched the fog creep in from the coast and up the mountainside.
I cleared the dishes and turned on the dishwasher, giving the kids time to smooch. Charlie left not long after I returned to the patio with a fresh bottle of wine. He begged off on the wine (which I wasn’t going to give him anyway since he was driving). Jessica walked him to his van, a two minute trip that took fifteen with more smooching-time, then returned and poured herself a glass.
It was almost cold by then, with foggy tendrils twisting through the vines, but neither of us suggested going inside. We stared out over the dark valley. It looked almost like a Christmas tree at this height, with its ribbons of well-lit highways and the scattered pinpoints of golden light from business and habitations. Jessica seemed dreamy, but I knew it had nothing to do with the view.
“Charlie is very sweet,” I said and she smiled suddenly, her face lighting up like the valley below, making my heart swell in my chest. I hoped Charlie was as good as he appeared. Jessica was due this happiness. Overdue.
She said nothing in reply. That smile s
aid it all. We drifted back into a pleasant silence. I poured myself another glass, though it would have to be the last. I was feeling just a touch tipsy. But that was okay. I deserved a break.
And then Jessica ruined it.
“You can’t hold this against Hunter,” she said. “He’s only doing his job.”
My smile turned into a brittle frown. “Hunter is being a jackass.”
“Hunter is a good guy,” Jessica said. “This will all work out.”
I didn't reply to that. I turned my eyes back to the view, but the tranquil moment was gone. I sighed and put my glass on the table. I didn’t want the wine any longer. “Hunter and I…” I began and then I didn’t know where I was going with the thought. I started over. “I care for Hunter, but we have…some issues.”
“Winter Harlan,” she said.
I nodded. “And now this.”
We sat there for another ten minutes before I stood and gathered the glasses.
“I don’t want to think about Hunter right now,” I said. “Or Samson.”
Jessica seemed to understand that. God knows, she’s had her share of man trouble.
Jessica followed me inside and went up to her old room, and I went to mine. But even with the wine in my system, it was a long time before I managed to fall asleep.
Chapter 18
I awoke at my usual hour, feeling unrested, a state I was getting used to. I managed to brush my teeth, shower, and brush my hair without looking in the mirror. I felt awful enough already.
Jessica had already left for work and, though it was well past Samson’s usual arrival time, his old Jeep Cherokee was not in its usual spot. I wasn’t surprised. He was probably still fuming, believing I had led Hunter to the StarVista Motel. I thought about calling Samson, but I was already depressed enough. I made coffee and tried to put it out of my mind.
I was on the patio, bundled in a sweater, sipping coffee and watching dawn come to the valley, the darkness brightening toward gold as the fog settled on my rows of vines in a fine dew. It was quiet and peaceful, and I was doing everything I could to maintain that feeling, forcing all thoughts from my mind except for the sensory perceptions of the moment. Reality could wait until the sun had crested the Mayacamas Mountains at the very least…
And then Victor showed up.
My vineyard foreman rolled into the back yard, his headlights cutting across the lawn to hit me full in the face. I held up a hand to shield my eyes and he killed the lights. His truck died with a coughing, vapor-locking wheeze and he climbed down and banged the door closed, a huge sound in the relative silence, echoing off the house and out across the rows.
“Have you heard?” he asked me as he came up the path.
“Heard what?” I asked, feeling a cold dread curdle the coffee and cream in my stomach. There was something in his tone warning me this was going to be more bad news.
“Angle Zorn hung herself last night,” he said, not even attempting to soften the blow.
I shot out of the chair, bumped the table, and knocked my cup off it. It shattered on the tile at my feet, splattering my jeans with coffee.
“Hanged?” I said stupidly. “Hanged?”
“I was driving by and saw all the cop cars, so I called a buddy of mine at the Fire Department. He’s a paramedic. He said they found her in the fermentation building at her place, hanging from an electric hoist.” Victor stooped and began to gather the broken bits of cup.
I sagged back in the chair, my head reeling with guilt and self-recrimination. Angela had been in bad shape the last two times I had spoken to her - drinking too much and wallowing in self-pity - and I had done nothing to help her. But, despite her obvious depression, I still didn’t believe she had committed suicide. This was just one more tragic and too-convenient death. A death that benefited whoever had killed Dimitri.
I went inside and grabbed my cell phone. Victor followed me inside, dumped the broken cup into the trash and poured two fresh cups for us. He followed me back outside.
I punched up Hunter’s number.
“It was a suicide,” he said gruffly without a hello. I guess that meant I was getting predictable. And not in a good way. “There was a note, booze, pills, and a pile of bills a foot high in the office.”
“You’re sure?” I asked.
“Ninety-nine percent,” he said. “And none of this is for public consumption, Claire. We still need to notify the family.”
“What did she say when you questioned her the night Jorge died? Did you ask her who she was talking about when she told me ‘He killed Jorge’.”
Hunter blew out a long sigh. “She said you misunderstood her. She said she was drunk, and that was true enough. She reeked of whiskey.”
“I didn’t misunderstand her,” I said. “What about the note she left? Did it say anything about Dimitri’s murderer?”
“No,” was all he said.
“Maybe she left something in the house. Have you searched it?” I wasn’t going to let it go so easily; Angela had been my one lead.
“We haven’t searched the entire house yet. We’re focusing on the crime scene in the warehouse—“
“Crime scene?” I cut him off. “I thought you said it was a suicide?”
“Suicide is a crime, Claire. And I have to get back to it.”
He hung up before I could reply.
“What did he say?” Victor asked over the rim of his coffee cup.
“He says it looks like suicide.”
“You believe it?”
“No,” I said suddenly and decisively. What Hunter had told me seemed definitive, but it was all just too coincidental so hard on the heels of Jorge’s death. “I don’t.”
Other than coffee, neither Victor nor I were in the mood for breakfast. When Victor headed for the barn, I went into the kitchen where Jessica had left me a note thanking me for dinner. She had signed with ‘I love you,’ which brightened my day, though that didn't last long before my thoughts returned to Angela. I could picture her dangling from one of the hoists used to move barrels and other heavy loads at a winery. There was nothing I could do for her now, but her death would haunt me for a long time, I knew.
I set Jessica’s note aside. Under it was a printout of the offer letter I’d be mailing out next week to our long term retail customers, some of whom had been buying our wine for as long as we'd been making it. The letter announced an offering of our 2010 Vintner’s Reserve, which had been bottle-aging in my cellar since it was racked from the oak barrels two years before. As I scanned the page, my eyes hung up on the price and I felt a twinge of anxiety. The price I had set, eight fifty a case, was far more than I personally could afford, but it was fair based on what my retailers and restaurant owners were selling it for, which was closer to twelve-fifty. But it still made me - a girl raised in the Valley back when most wine was sold by the jug - feel a little anxious. At heart, I suppose, I’m still a small town girl who fears the embarrassment of seeming pretentious.
I put the printout down and poured another cup of coffee. By then the sun was lighting up the room’s kaleidoscope of purple wall hangings, trivets, potholders, and prints. I carried my coffee to the table, and was just sitting down again when I heard the wine cellar door bang closed downstairs. Victor had mentioned he planned to start setting up the bottling line that day, which was a task that would really require both of us.
I groaned aloud. I really wasn’t looking forward to the bottling process with all that was going on, but I wouldn't shirk it. I went down the hall and stuck my head through, but it wasn’t Victor downstairs, it was my obstinate, murder-suspect winemaker. And he wasn’t alone. Alexandra Pappos was sitting at Samson’s desk, looking tired and pale but still stunning, in a linen pant suit and blue blouse. She gave me a brave smile, but I barely acknowledged her as my eyes swept back to Samson, who was hovering over the nearest of the tall tanks, a long handled punch - which resembles a giant potato-masher - in his hands, working it like an oarsman on a Roman Galley.
We regularly punch down the cap of the wine during primary fermentation, with the dual purpose of breaking up the skins and keeping them and the stems in contact with the wine. This might not sound like strenuous activity, but the cap is a thick barrier of knotted stems and skins, and pushing it deep into the bottom of the tank is a backbreaking task.
I didn’t get a chance to say anything before Samson started yelling at me.
“When did you punch this down last?!” he barked, stopping his work, the sweat running down his face. “Three times a day! Three,” he waved three fingers at me. “Must I do everything myself?”
“That’s ridiculous!” I yelled back as I went down the steps. “Twice a day is enough! We’re not making wood stain!”
“Wood stain,” he said. “A wine with body is wood stain? You Americans have a soda pop palate!”
“Get down here!” I yelled up at him. I glanced over at Alexandra. She had her head down. She was staying out of this one. Good idea. I looked back up at Samson. “You’re going to have a heart attack!”
“I had a heart attack when I saw fifty cases of wine had been stolen! Fifty! I have called the police. They like to arrest people so maybe they can arrest the thieves!”
“It wasn’t stolen! Blake Becker is going to auction it for me.”
“Becker! Becker!” He screamed and he really did look like he was going to have a heart attack. He staggered back and almost dropped the punch. Wine and grape stems splattered on the concrete below the tank. “The man is a thief! First he steals Dimitri’s wine collection and now he has stolen fifty cases from me!” His eyes turned to the ceiling and he shook his fist as if cursing an unkind god.
I had no idea what he meant about Dimitri’s wine, and I didn't care. “Get down here!”
The door that led to the yard opened and Victor came in. But he didn’t come far. He leaned in the door frame, one knee crossed over the other, a half-smile on his face. He had been listening to Samson and I go round-and-round for twenty years.
