by Dan Alatorre
“Oh, I completely understand.” I said. “You go ahead and take care of that. I’ll be around when you’re ready.” I hooked a thumb at the van. “We aren’t going anywhere for a while.”
The old man and his canes hobbled through the grass and disappeared behind the building. Aside from the winery employee following him, nobody seemed to notice. Everyone’s focus seemed to be on the victims, and rightly so, but . . . With a quick change of clothes, he could practically disappear. The driver of the pickup truck that caused all the carnage could walk right through the parking lot and nobody would be the wiser.
The nausea swelled inside me and my ears began to ring.
“Well,” Taggart said. “Maybe we can call a wrecker for you and have one of our officers drive you to the rental car office in town.”
And get your snooping eyes out of here.
I didn’t hear the words as much as I . . . felt them. The officer was no longer talking. My stomach churned harder and the ringing in my ears became a nonstop cymbal crash.
“A rental car? That would be great!” He had to notice me sweating and my panting breath. “But, do whatever you need to first, with the other folks. I have to call our insurance and see how they want us to handle things.”
“Sure,” he said. “But briefly—what did you see?” So I know which witness reports to file and which to misplace.
It was an overactive imagination run amok. Shock from the sight of the blood. Post-traumatic stress, maybe. I was losing it. The emotional reactions I didn’t have at during the carnage—like Mallory had felt seeing the wreckage—were they going overboard now?
I took another deep breath, trying to calm myself. “Well . . .”
At that moment, I noticed a slight color change in the officer’s face. It was nothing I should have noticed; it came and went in an instant. I could only think of it like a little flash of blue, disappearing as fast as lightning. As soon as I realized I was seeing it, it was already gone.
I shook my head. It was a trick of the light or I was definitely losing it. Like that time we went digging for clams in the Indian River, I stepped on a sting ray and it sunk its barb into my toe. I was convinced I’d been cut by a piece of glass, but it wouldn’t stop bleeding and my whole leg swelled up. I was embarrassed, thinking I was going into shock over such a small cut—especially since I wasn’t excited or upset, like now. But it wasn’t shock, it was the poison. The sting ray stuck a little venom in me, making my leg throb in pain for an hour and balloon up in size. At the time I thought, how ridiculous, to go into shock from something like that. But people do. People die from shock, too. It wasn’t shock, though, and it eventually passed.
This was like that. Some sort of toxin got in my system. A bad piece of cheese or maybe dehydration. I got dehydrated at Disney World once, for Pete’s sake. I threw up five minutes after walking in the front gates. This had to be something like that.
I regained my thoughts. I recounted—briefly—to Officer Taggart the events as I had seen them, trying desperately not to vomit while I did. I explained about the pickup truck’s squealing wheels, the woman being thrown up in the air. I gestured to where things had happened, and how the pickup truck never even slowed down.
When I finished, I summed it up: “It was like a teenager who was pissed off at his girlfriend, the way he squealed his wheels. Just burned rubber, right across the parking lot at those poor folks.”
Poor folks? That wouldn’t do in a statement.
The words seemed as if they were coming from the officer, but his mouth never moved and his face gave no indication he was even thinking such things.
Still, I felt uncomfortable near him.
“Yes, sir.” Taggart smiled. “I’ll have one of my officers come over and get your statement in a few minutes.” He headed off to meet the tow trucks coming up the long driveway and glanced back at me. “Think about a wrecker. We’ve already called two for the other vehicles. A third’s no problem.”
I took the cooler into the winery lobby and felt instantly better, like stepping into air conditioning in summer after mowing the lawn. Relief washed through me.
Mallory was on her cell phone with the insurance company. “No, thank God, none of us were hurt. We weren’t in the van at the time.”
I debated about whether to tell her about the blue lightning. She’d only conclude I was tired from all the excitement, which was probably right.
But she interrupted me before I could broach the subject.
Chapter 7
“Since I did the original rental car paperwork, I have to be the one to go get the replacement car.” Mallory looked away. She knew I wouldn’t like that. On the other side of the hearth, our daughter munched on goldfish crackers and cheese sticks.
“What about their commercials?” I frowned. “Where they drive a car out to you?”
Mallory sighed. “We didn’t rent from that company.”
I stared at the fireplace and rubbed my forehead. What had started out to be such a nice day had really, really turned bad.
“I told the insurance company that our rental van was undriveable,” Mallory said. “We can get another rental—a sedan—in town, or they have another minivan at the airport.”
The airport was hours from here.
“They’ll have somebody from the local rental office drive me to their airport location.” She bit her nail. “What do you think we should do?”
There was only one thing to do. I shook my head. “With all the big suitcases we brought and all of the cases of wine we’ve been buying, it’ll never fit into a regular car. An SUV, sure. But a four door sedan?” I stared out the window at the smashed van. “There’s no way.”
For a moment I thought about mentioning the officer volunteering to take one of us into town, but I decided against it. Something just didn’t sit right about that guy now, and if any other bizarre things were going to happen today, I didn’t want Mallory to face it by herself. “Anyway, I have to give a statement to the cops. Who knows how long it’s going to be before they get around to talking to me.”
The cards were dealt.
“Get to the airport. I’ll stay here with Sophie.” I watched as our daughter carefully inspected the smile on the goldfish cracker’s face. “Maybe I can find a quiet place for her to nap.”
It wouldn’t be the first time she had slept under a tree at a winery. We had to empty the ruined van anyway, and the stroller was in there. That could work.
“Okay.” Mallory waved her cell phone. “I’ll have the local office pick me up. The lady at the cash register said they have a meeting room upstairs where you and Sophie can wait, if you want.”
I grinned at her as she dialed her phone and put it to her ear. She had it all figured out.
“It’s about three hours each way to the airport,” I reminded her. “It’s going to be a long day.”
She walked over and kissed me. “It’s already been a long day.”
I pulled her close. “Ask somebody where I can put all our stuff from the van.” I kissed her again, then I went down the hallway to the front doors.
It took several trips before the winery employees realized I was unloading our van into their lobby. Then, three of them joined in. They carried suitcases, toys, and competitors’ wines from our previous stops into the front hallway. I noticed the drab gray man standing there, as still as a statue, staring out the window. He had been driving the pickup truck.
As I carried the final suitcase inside, I stopped momentarily to address the old man. He seemed like a poor old winery employee who had suffered a mini stroke or something and just lost control of the truck.
He was the same one who had almost run me over in the lobby with the dolly full of wine cases. But I wanted to be sure that the paramedics hadn’t missed anyone who needed treatment. Maybe I wanted to set a good example for my daughter, even if she wasn’t paying attention. I knew from my father that sometimes people can cause a wreck, act fine afterwards, and then
go home and die from a post-trauma coronary. For some reason, I felt compelled to make sure that wouldn’t happen to this poor old guy. A low level employee that was having a bad enough day already, he was surely feeling awful about the wreck he had caused, and the injuries.
“How are you holding up, fella?” I asked.
The old man turned and glared at me. I almost took a step backward. It was a fierce, hateful look. His weathered face was drawn and angry.
I regained myself and persisted. “Are you all right?” It was my friendliest demeanor. “We don’t need a heart attack happening to you, y’know?”
He stared blankly at me.
“You were driving the gray pickup truck, right?”
His eyes narrowed. “Probably just result in another damned lawsuit.”
I blinked, dropping my jaw. “Excuse me?”
“Them tourists.” The old man turned his back to the window, muttering. “Some people need to learn how to leave.”
I was shocked. I expected a sympathetic response. Some remorse, not anger. It was an odd reaction after almost having killed a few people. Need to learn how to leave? What did that mean?
A gray haired woman appeared in the hallway. “I’m Mrs. Hill. Would you like to store your things in our office?” Her southern upbringing and hospitality were as warming as the elderly man’s were cold. “They’ll be safer there.”
It was a nice gesture but also a way to get the suitcases and boxes out of their hallway, where customers might trip over them. And to keep me from talking further with her employees. I accepted.
Mrs. Hill made small talk as I moved our cases of wine. The genuine article, she was a sweet woman. I was in no rush to do anything since I figured I had at least five hours on my hands. Sophie was asleep in her stroller. I had time to chat.
We talked about Mrs. Hill’s grown daughter, and how enjoyable life was when her girl was Sophie’s age. “It’s a lot of fun, and it’s a lot of effort.” She sat back in her office chair, smiling. “But mostly it’s a lot of fun.”
I nodded. “It is. It’s been a lot of fun.” I placed the last box down and found an empty chair for myself. “Does your daughter work here with you now?”
Somehow, I already knew the answer. Of all the wineries we had visited over the years, few were able to interest their children in the business. Almost none. It was the same story every time. The kids slaved away in the winery growing up, and as soon as they were able to get out, they did.
For most winery owners, the winemaking business was something they got into later in life. The fulfillment of a dream. For the kids, however, it was a life of constant drudgery. Millions of bottles to be washed, labels to affix . . . hot days in the fields weeding and pruning and spraying. It was a life of constant work—hard work—with almost none of the benefits. The kids would have to cancel plans and fill in when an employee called out sick or quit, but they couldn’t have a glass of wine afterwards. And the drudgery was never ending. Year round, there was some musty, sticky task to do. Wine was fun for customers, not for the “winery brats” or winery rats, as they often referred to themselves.
“My daughter helps with the register now and then on weekends, but she has her own life.” Gazing at the scowling gray statue in the hallway, Mrs. Hill let out a quiet sigh. “Mostly it’s just me and Mr. Hill.” A pained, remorseful smile moved over her mouth. “As far as family goes.”
It hadn’t dawned on me until then. The drab gray man with the scowl—the driver of the truck—was Mr. Hill, the owner of Hillside winery.
Chapter 8
I accepted Mrs. Hill’s offer to relocate Sophie upstairs to the meeting room while we waited for Mallory to return.
It was a large space, created as an afterthought when they were adding onto the winery’s main building. Its openings looked over the tasting room and down to the front hallway. Conversations below echoed up the steps or bounced off the tasting room walls, landing in the meeting room for any willing ears to hear.
I laid out some sweaters on the floor for Sophie to nap on, then I took a seat and inspected our provisions: goldfish crackers and cheese sticks.
The far window let in the light and the magnificent view. With the sun still high in the sky, the rows of vines lit up like soldiers at attention before me. Tragedy out one window, beauty out the other. What a strange day.
I sat down and gazed at my slumbering daughter. Beauty was here, too—the very picture of a sleeping angel. I closed my eyes and shook my head. My little sleeping angel. How close she had come to becoming one today.
Pressing myself into the chair, I folded my arms and let out a slow sigh. You can do everything right. You can teach them to look both ways when they cross the street. Teach them to study hard and stay away from drugs. And still some guy in a parking lot can take them away in an instant.
I didn’t know it would be so hard, this whole parenting thing. Mallory and I were almost three full years into it, and we were still just starting to figure things out.
Shifting in my chair, I thought about sleep. Then I heard someone on the steps, coming up toward us.
I jumped up from the chair to alert them before they woke up Sophie. She needed her sleep, and even if she didn’t, I needed her to sleep. Five hours of a bored, whining child would be five hours too many today.
A woman appeared, looking to be about thirty, with long hair and glasses. Holding a finger up to my lips, I motioned over to where Sophie lay sleeping on the floor. The woman nodded.
“Do y’all need anything?” she whispered.
“No, we’re fine.” I said. “Thanks.”
“Really, can I get you something to drink? A Coke, maybe, or some milk for your little girl?”
It was going to be a long wait. No reason to make it harder than it had to be. “Sure. That would be great. Thanks.”
The woman smiled and disappeared down the steps, returning a few minutes later.
“If you’d like a sandwich from our floor cooler, or anything in the tasting room,” she whispered, Mrs. Hill would be happy to take care of it for you.”
Mrs. Hill would. Not Mr. Hill, I bet.
“That’s very nice, thank you.” I wasn’t sure what I wanted to do. Tasting wine samples was probably a bad idea at this point.
“You folks weren’t hurt in the accident, were you?”
“No, no.” I cracked the soda can open and licked the spray off my thumb. “We were very lucky.”
She pursed her lips, folding her hands in her lap as she glanced about. She leaned forward like she was holding her breath—or holding in a secret.
She seemed to want to say more, and for some reason, I wanted her to.
I nodded toward my sleeping daughter and gave the woman my best smile. “You know, I haven’t eaten all day. I could really use one of those sandwiches.”
The woman stood. “Let’s move to where we won’t bother your girl.”
At the bottom of the stairs were the offices, but by now they were empty. From there, I could listen to hear if Sophie woke up, and find out what this woman wanted to say. I lagged behind while she walked on ahead to get a sandwich out of the tasting room cooler.
When she returned, I held out my hand. “I’m Doug.”
She cast her eyes downward, blushing. “I’m Janice.”
I took a bite from the sandwich. “Mm, this is good, ma’am.”
She smiled again.
“Do you work here, Janice?”
“Part time. I help out. I’m a friend of the family.”
“You’re a friend of Mrs. Hill?” Janice seemed too young for that. Mrs. Hill appeared to be in her late sixties, maybe older.
“We’re neighbors. I used to babysit for them.”
While I was not usually predisposed to small talk, I was aware enough to know when somebody wanted to get something off their chest. I knew the look.
I always had what was referred to as an honest face, which is, as they say, a blessing and a curse. People would te
ll me things they would never tell anybody else in a million years. That came in handy from time to time. They might expect you to keep those deep dark secrets. That was a little harder. One of my first jobs out of college was as a member of an investigative team of auditors. I was basically a number cruncher, but I sat through the required classes on conducting investigative interviews. It boiled down to this: when somebody wants to talk, shut up and let them.
And Janice seemed to want to talk.
As a friend and neighbor, she had known the Hills for quite a while. As a part time employee of the winery, she was familiar with their work habits. Babysitting gave her more personal knowledge of their home life than most neighbors or friends, and she was on hand to notice when work life crossed over into home life, or vice versa. Like when the winery would experience a mysterious inventory shrinkage—business talk for employee theft of wine—but extra cases miraculously appeared in the basement of the house for a party. Or were sold for cash to friends.
She was also aware of Mr. Hill’s newest habit of coming home for an early lunch, already drunk.
Mostly, she noticed the changes in Mr. Hill’s attitude.
“He got hurt in a car wreck a year or so ago, right?” I asked, wrapping up the crumbs from the sandwich in a paper napkin. “Maybe that—”
Janice’s eyes flashed. “Oh.” She sighed, shaking her head. “It started way before then.”
Peering down the hallway, she folded her hands in her lap again, letting her voice fall to a whisper. “He has been getting worse and worse for years. I noticed it a while back. Years ago. Him being angry all the time, yelling at employees . . . Mr. Hill never used to be like that.”
Her eyes widened. “Yelling at Mrs. Hill! Right here in the winery, in front of everybody. That poor, sweet dear.” She drew a deep breath, letting it out slowly. “Mrs. Hill never did anything to deserve that. She is just the nicest lady.”
I nodded. “And it kept getting worse?”
“Oh.” She rolled her eyes. “It sure did. Every day he was a little more miserable to everyone than the day before. He got so bad people started quitting.” She lifted a hand, counting on the fingers. “The managers, some good employees that had worked here for years . . . Good people. Family friends. They were afraid to be here, afraid of what he’d do.”
