Sin And Vengeance

by West, CJ

  Through the fermentation room and around the corner, he found the office just as cluttered as he remembered it in his childhood. The production schedule on the clipboard was a month old and most of the computer-generated text was obscured by Sebastian’s pencil scratchings. The best Charlie could figure, the batch in the chiller was a nineteen ninety-four and it had been there two weeks, ten days longer than it should have been. Charlie rushed out to find Sebastian and ask him exactly what he was doing to his family’s brand.

  Only twenty yards separated the barn from the gift shop, but at Charlie’s pace, the light mist coated his clothes with tiny droplets before he made his way through the murk and stepped inside. Lily arranged jars of peach preserves on the counter to keep herself busy on this gloomy morning. When he inquired about Sebastian, she turned and pointed through the far window. Charlie saw two tiny yellow blobs on the hillside over four hundred yards away. Apparently, the sparkling in the chiller was going to wait. Charlie shook his head and slogged back out into the drizzle. His father had always had kudos for Sebastian. He raved about Sebastian’s winemaking and how he had taken over so seamlessly when Charles moved on to other wineries. After Charlie’s first week, he already doubted his father’s judgment.

  Charlie climbed in the golf cart they used for weekend tours and sat in a sheet of icy rainwater. It thoroughly soaked the seat of his jeans and sent a numbing shiver up his back. He stiffened as the cart puttered down the tractor path and around the fringes of the field. On this dreary day, Sebastian worked with just one other man, four short of the normal vineyard crew. They moved slowly down adjacent rows away from the path.

  Charlie abandoned the cart and began the long slow trudge through the wet grass. He was glad to see Sebastian set down his bucket and walk to meet him.

  “Nasty day isn’t it?” Charlie asked when they reached each other.

  “We’re too far behind for inside work. Heavier rain’s coming tonight.”

  Charlie watched the other worker fasten a vine to the guide wire. “You guys aren’t done tying down the vines?”

  “We’re about a quarter done.”

  “It’s mid April. The buds are about to break. Where’s the rest of your crew?”

  Sebastian gestured to the man in the rain. “You’re looking at it.”

  “We have two people for the vineyard?”

  “Three, counting you and that includes production, and the warehouse.”

  “That’s ridiculous.” It was clear now why the wine spent two weeks in the chiller. It wasn’t good for the wine, but the vines needed to be secured and the catchers lowered before the shoots got too high. “What’s going on?” Charlie asked.

  “Like I told your dad, the guys are finding better jobs. I lost two to Acushnet Company last Friday. They liked it here, but they needed more money to survive.”

  Charlie couldn’t imagine how a staff of ten whittled itself down to four, including Lily in the gift shop. He felt awkward asking about the wine now, but he was standing in cold drizzle a quarter mile from the barn and he hadn’t come all this way for nothing.

  “I noticed some cages in the chiller.”

  Sebastian frowned immediately. “My bad. I should’ve done them over the weekend, but I was wiped out.”

  Sebastian had eighty acres of vines to tie down. Charlie couldn’t help them; his knee would never tolerate the strain. The thought of being stuck in the processing room all day to finish Sebastian’s wine was distasteful, but clearly better than standing on water-logged soil and tying down vines. “I’ll disgorge it. Try and stay warm.”

  “You’re a good man, Charlie, no matter what your father says about you.”

  “What about the dosage?”

  “I’ve got some oak-aged Chardonnay in the chiller.”

  “Does it need sugar or anything?”

  A cold wind gusted and Sebastian shielded himself with his hood. “No, it’s mixed and ready. Fire away.”

  “You want to come in and test it?”

  “No. Just work it a little, make sure it hasn’t stratified.”

  Charlie walked to the cart reflecting on the family wine business. All his life he’d heard how well they treated their employees. From the time the Marstons moved in until Charlie went away to school, the staff had been almost entirely the same. Sebastian’s was the only face he recognized now. Sebastian was in charge, so it only made sense to blame him for the problems. He was far from the stereotypical tyrant boss, but Charlie couldn’t help wondering what he was doing wrong. Surely the economy wasn’t that good.

  Charlie shook off his wet windbreaker and locked onto the first cage of upside-down bottles. They were heavier than he remembered. His arms handled the weight easily, but his knee buckled repeatedly under the strain as he heaved the cage over to the freezer. He propped himself up and rested a minute before setting the bottles into the glycol solution one by one. Soon the very top of each bottle would be frozen solid, trapping the sediment in a plug of ice.

  He left them there to freeze.

  The Chardonnay mixture for the dosage was just where Sebastian said it would be. It wheeled over to the disgorger much easier than the cage full of bottles did. Charlie pumped it over itself gently, running the pump at a trickle taking fluid from the bottom and releasing it just below the surface. After ten minutes, he hoisted the dosage tank up to its shelf two feet above the work area and checked on his frozen bottles.

  When the first bottles were frozen, the assembly line began.

  The bottles from the freezing solution came out and were replaced by another group. Charlie fed the frozen bottles right-side-up into the disgorger. It popped off the cap, sending the frozen plug along with the sediment into a can behind the machine. The yeast and sediment were gone, but the expulsion of the ice left the bottle slightly low. As the bottle passed through the next two stations of the disgorger, the dosage was added to refill the bottle to 750 ml. Finally, the machine squeezed in a cork, pressed on a wire hood, and spun it tight. Charlie worked frantically to keep pace, feeding bottles in one end and taking them off the other.

  When the first batch was done, he shuttled a cart full of bottles across the room. The next machine cleaned and labeled the bottles and left them finished at the end of the line. This machine took the entire batch at once, so Charlie didn’t have to rush back and forth. He found a chair tall enough for him to received the finished bottles and pack them into cases as they came off the line. Soon several cases were done and he was back to the freezing solution to start the cycle all over again.

  As he pulled his second batch of bottles from the glycol solution, the wind shifted and the rain steadily pelted the window. It reminded him of the holes Randy had drilled in the attic and the note he should have sent. Soon the water would start leaking into that magnificent house, buckling the flooring, soaking the furnishings, and ruining the artwork. Charlie pictured water dripping through the foyer and running down the faces of the statues, as if the women were crying at the loss. The insurance company stood to lose millions. Randy had slyly taken their address. It seemed Randy intended to blame the owner somehow, but he couldn’t imagine anyone believing someone would drill that many holes in his own roof. Randy was crazy enough to hide fish in the mattresses, urinate in the ventilation ducts, and drive them utterly mad, but he wasn’t smart enough to frame someone for destroying his own house.

  Charlie pictured the beautiful blonde on the lawn. Two weeks had passed since the day he saw her. He could have passed the note and disappeared in ten seconds. She would have been angry, but not nearly as angry as she must be now. The torment of these last two weeks was unimaginable.

  Charlie was ashamed of his cowardice. He’d been afraid she’d discover who he was from the moment she’d opened that door. He’d torn up the note and stayed close to home ever since. What they’d done inside that house was foolish, but going back was doubly so; foolish to let her see his face and more foolish to risk Randy’s ire by trying to intervene.


  He concentrated on bottle-shuffling to try and forget the consequences of his odd friendship with Randy. Arson, vandalism, and grand theft had sent ripples through his life that wouldn’t subside for years to come.

  Several hours, six ibuprofen, and a dozen rationalizations later, Charlie sat in his chair catching the last bottles as they trailed off the line. He packed them into cases and stacked them in the corner behind the bottling line.

  Hours of mindless mechanical operations left him bitterly ruminating about his last three years. The injury had stolen his dream career and limited him forever. He’d worked hard to learn winemaking, to bounce back, and now Randy was threatening to ruin him once again. Charlie was determined not to let that happen. He’d worked hard and his reward was finally in sight.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Randy’s dining room had never held a chair, table, or a single picture. What it did have was an excellent view of the Caulfield home across the street. Randy stood at the window watching through the cascading sheet of rain for signs of mayhem. The day had started with a gentle mist and turned to steadier and heavier rain as the morning progressed. The National Weather Service reported that an inch had fallen by sunset, but the panic hadn’t ensued next door. Surely the attic was saturated. Water must be gushing down on every inch of the third floor.

  Jo had spent the last hour at the piano in the front room as she often did.

  Couldn’t she hear the water?

  Randy stood in full view of the window. He gripped the sill with both hands, agitated by Jo’s tranquility. He couldn’t believe her ho-hum reaction. The holes he’d drilled had to be leaking, but where was her panic? Confounded, he considered sneaking next door to find out what went wrong, but as he watched, lights blinked on all around the second floor. The third-floor lights followed. An instant later, the tell-tale beep sounded in Randy’s study and he rushed to meet it with boyish glee.

  Voices squawked from the speaker as he skidded around the corner.

  “Bill, where are you?” Jo blurted.

  “I’m in a meeting. What’s the matter?”

  “I need you home. Now!”

  Showtime! Randy could hear the clinking of dishes and the murmur of conversations taking place behind Bill. He’d be at White’s or the Pasta House with a client. Either way he was fifteen minutes from home.

  “Relax. Tell me what’s happening. Just don’t tell me it’s another disaster. I don’t think I can survive another one.”

  “This one’s the worst. The roof’s leaking.”

  “Where?”

  “Everywhere. It’s raining inside the house. Everything’s soaked.”

  Bill gasped.

  Randy wished he was sitting across the table to see Bill’s face as he thought about his priceless furnishings getting drenched. Eventually he’d come around and take comfort that he had insurance, but the ropes on that safety net were fraying fast.

  “How can this be happening? The house is only four years old and everything’s falling apart at once.” Bill’s voice trailed off as he realized he was shouting in front of his dinner companions.

  “This isn’t coincidence. Someone is doing this to you. I don’t know who, but you better straighten it out. You can’t pay me enough to live like this,” Jo said.

  Those were the words Randy longed for, a crack, a toehold between them. By nightfall he’d split it wide open and turn her against him.

  Bill and the conversations around him faded away then instantly returned as he uncovered the microphone. “Don’t worry, Jo. I’m coming home right now.”

  “Where are you?”

  “White’s. Cover the paintings. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

  “Yes! Thank you, Bill!” Randy screamed.

  He took a plastic baggie from his desk and bounded down the cellar stairs even before Bill hung up. He stopped at six red cans he’d filled earlier that afternoon. The eighteen gallons of gasoline would deliver his ultimate revenge. The baggie in his coat pocket held a pristine receipt that would implicate Bill.

  He pulled on his gloves, hefted two cans, and slipped out into the darkness skulking along the row of arborvitaes that separated him from his neighbor. Randy had planted them a year earlier to align with the Caulfields’ row across the street. Together they gave him a well-hidden trail from his back door to the Caulfield’s garage. No one saw him hustle across the street through the driving rain. He eased through the back door he’d left unlocked on an earlier trip.

  It was an odd sort of garage. No power tools, no clutter, not even a wrench. Bill paid people to maintain every aspect of the house and this was evidenced by the pristine floor and shelves as tidy as a kitchen pantry. Randy slipped down the wide aisle and hid the first two cans between two antique Fords. As he stood there, he wondered if Bill realized the joy in owning such automobiles was the challenge of restoring them. Not a likely thought for a man with a garage devoid of grease and rags. Across the garage in the bay nearest the stairs sat Jo’s BMW. Bill probably saw all four vehicles the same; something else for him to show off. Bill’s Mercedes would arrive soon to complete the collection.

  Randy slipped out the door more determined than ever.

  The quiet street had only six houses between the Caulfield’s and the cul de sac. No one was out on this dismal night to see Randy slip across the street with the remaining gas cans.

  He settled between the two vehicles farthest from the house. Panting, he sat on the running board with the six cans in a line at his feet. He held his eyes just above window level, riveted on the door. All the while, he prayed Jo wouldn’t lose her temper and rush out too soon. For maximum impact, his timing needed to be absolutely perfect. The next five minutes could turn three years of watching into a roaring success or a miserable litigious failure. Jo’s reaction was the key.

  The garage door opener jolted to life. The light flicked on and suddenly Randy and his eighteen gallons of gasoline were in clear view. Randy lowered his head and confronted the large puddle that had formed between his feet in the darkness. If Bill had taken a few steps toward his beloved antiques, his future would have been drastically different, but Randy’s retaliation was wearing on him. He jerked the car to a stop and slammed the door. Randy counted six footsteps and peeked up in time to see him tromp into the house without a glance in his direction.

  Randy slithered low around the rear of the cars, cautious that Bill might reappear. When he reached the Mercedes, he eased the door open and pulled the baggie from his shirt. Fumbling with gloved fingers, he dumped the receipt and tucked it in the crease between the top and bottom sections of the driver’s seat, as if it had worked its way out of Bill’s pocket and been lost there. There wouldn’t be much left of the house, so the investigators would focus on his office and the car.

  Randy popped the car phone from its holder, stuffed it in his pocket, and eased the door closed. Then he scooted to the passenger’s rear tire and loosened the tiny black cap with gloved fingers. When it finally came off, he pressed down on the valve stem, setting off a violent hiss. The bulge at the base of the tire widened. With luck, Bill would be too angry to notice the pull and drive a mile or two before he blew out the tire on a sharp turn. Randy secured the little black cap picturing Bill stranded on a dark, rainy street with no phone to call for help. He’d probably never changed a tire; certainly not in the last fifteen years anyway.

  Next Randy raced back and forth with the cans, lining them up at the foot of the stairs. He stood back and admired his work, then adjusted the nearest two further into the path up to the door. Jo would either trip over them or carefully step around them. Either way, she’d remember them being here. The overhead light blinked off and Randy slinked back to his hiding place.

  Randy lay on the concrete floor in silent darkness for twenty minutes, second-guessing himself all the while. If they came out together, his plan was ruined. It had to be Jo and Jo alone that saw the cans. Finally, the door swung open and Jo swatted her garage door b
utton. She was alone, lugging two heavy bags down the stairs. Randy lay under one of the Fords, his eyes barely visible beyond the skinny tire. She stopped on the bottom step, looking down at the red cans. She knew they didn’t belong, and she knew they’d shown up after Bill came home. She hesitated. Her eyes moved back and forth from the cans to the door several times, deciding what to believe. The next few seconds were everything for Randy, Bill, and Jo.

  Would she go in and confront him?

  Would she go in and take more of her things?

  The wrong decision would be catastrophic.

  Randy lay breathless watching, waiting, listening.

  The rain blew in through two open garage doors. Jo made her decision. She took a hesitant step around the cans and then hastily made her way to the BMW, hefted her bags in, and drove away.

  Perfect!

  When her garage door closed behind her, Randy retrieved the cans. Bill would never see them. The cans would be the wedge that cleaved them apart. They’d both remember what they’d seen. In court and in their last few private moments, suspicions would spring to life. Each would blame the other for what happened. Trust would never return. Without love or money, there was nothing to hold them together. Randy slunk back to the running board and waited for Bill to leave.

  Soon after Jo’s car disappeared into the slick night, Bill let out a scream that rattled the dishes in the kitchen. Doors slammed inside and he cursed his unseen nemesis. He was louder and angrier than Randy thought the little weasel capable of. Bill stomped into the garage muttering curses. He yanked the Mercedes’ rear door open and heaved his bag into the back seat as if it had offended him. He tromped back inside seething with a lust for revenge he was too blind to exact. Randy considered moving for a better view, and for an instant, he imagined leaving Bill like he left Henri Deudon. But Randy stuck to his plan. A moment later, Bill walked down the steps with a bottle of Grey Goose in hand. He started the car and zipped out in a huff; his angry driving stressing the deflated tire to its limit.