by Linda Barnes
"The ex?"
"Probably not." Grady didn't look surprised.
Spraggue wondered if she lied for the hell of it. "Do you know Mary Ellen Martinson?"
"Only by ill repute. They say her husband's turning her into an alcoholic in the hope it'll cure her of sleeping around. I do know George"
"If you saw the woman who came to your apartment, would you recognize her?"
"Maybe."
"Sit near me when we go back to the tasting. I'll point out Mary Ellen."
"Isn't she sitting next to Georgie?"
"No. Only judges at the head table."
She pouted, wriggled over on her right side in a manner calculated to make Spraggue aware of the green dress's low neckline. "You sure you want to go back downstairs?" she whispered. "It's so boring."
"Why did you come?"
"Phil talked me into it." She grinned, ran her hand lightly along his thigh. "Let's not go back."
"What are the alternatives?" Spraggue said.
"The door has a lock."
"And no one would notice our absence, right?"
"Right." One of the thin straps of the green dress just happened to slip off Grady's shoulder. Damn, Spraggue thought, she's good. He was more impressed with her acting than her sudden show of desire.
He stared down at her wistfully, shook his head. Before she'd made him feel like a naughty kid; now she made him feel old. He slid the strap back on her shoulder. "They'd notice," he said. "I'm at the table with all the winemakers. We're supposed to react to the judging."
"Then go ahead."
"Come with me. I need to know about Mary Ellen."
They weren't quite the last guests to return to their seats. Leider, for one, followed them. Grady found an empty place at a nearby table. Spraggue craned his neck; Mary Ellen Martinson was nowhere in sight.
George was all too evident. He got to his feet, cleared his throat, and waited for dead silence. He would, if not hampered by interruptions, he said, endeavor to deliver the first four ratings, with commentary. Then he would yield the floor to his distinguished colleague from the University of California at Davis. Bottle unveilings to follow.
"Our first wine," he began, "I found quite full in body, dark in color. Not heavily tannic, but with a definite edge. A distinctive wine, with a crisp, almost minty eucalyptus . . ."
Spraggue shut out Martinson's voice and concentrated on more interesting matters. Like Grady Fairfield. Why the sudden come-on from Grady? Not instant chemistry; she'd had him all to herself in her very own apartment just two days ago and hadn't made a single pass. Maybe the velvet cushions turned her on. Or the fear of getting caught. "My colleagues and I agreed that this wine was well balanced, and with a certain amount of astringency .... "
Death by sulfur-dioxide poisoning . . . Spraggue thought of Enright combing the valley for chemical-waste dump sites. Should he clue the captain in, let him know that sulfur dioxide was used in wineries all over the valley? No. Enright wouldn't listen.
There was already plenty of evidence that the two crimes were related: both bodies had been found in car trunks; both in autos belonging to Holloway Hills. The SO2 was just one more finger pointing at a winemaker, a winery owner, a man or woman familiar with the winemaking process.
What was crucial was the identity of X.
Someone linked to a winery. Someone who hadn't been missed, who had access to wineries, no individuality, no personality . . . Spraggue thought back to the frantic scene at Holloway Hills that afternoon, to the nameless young man who'd pointed the way to Howard. Just one of the cellar crew . . .
One of the cellar crew . . . No. Someone would notice . . . Maybe not. The small professional cellar crew that worked practically year-round; the absence of a member of that crew would stick out immediately. But what about the crush crew, with so many temporary helpers hired just for the harvest madness? "What happened to Joe?" one might ask. "Joe? He decided to work over at Domaine Chandon. More interested in the bubbly stuff." End of conversation. End of Joe.
Spraggue leaned to his right to ask Leider, but the man was engrossed in conversation. Spraggue turned to the bearded man on his left.
"Where do you get your temporary he1p?" he asked. "Cellar-crew kids."
"Huh?" One person at least had been listening closely to the pontifications of George Martinson.
"Pardon me?"
"I was wondering where I could hire a few more cellar kids."
"Oh. I deal with the college. You get interested workers, meet the great winemakers of tomorrow. Some of them are going to come back here and toss us out on our ears."
"You mean Davis."
"Sure. Hell of a wine department. Excuse me." He went back to listening.
College student, Spraggue thought. Graduate student. The age was right. The whole damn setup was perfect. Parents would hardly report him missing: safe at school. Classmates, teachers would assume he was down for the length of the crush—or they wouldn't know him at all. Beginning of the term. Not much time to make new friends or renew old acquaintances. A college student . . .
"Thanks," Spraggue said to his neighbor. "Think I'll take a ride out there tomorrow."
The judges finished yapping, ripped the swaddling napkins off the bottles to exclamations and applause. Spraggue checked his score sheet; he'd identified six of the eight correctly. At least he hadn't mistaken Holloway Hills.
The Holloway Hills Cabernet took third place in the tasting, with a rating of 16 on the Davis scale. Good enough to cheer Kate.
Then came question—and—answer time; Spraggue fielded two, grateful for Howard's meticulously neat cellar book.
After the Davis professor delivered the final oration, Martinson got to his feet again. "Thank you all for coming," he said. "Especially at this hectic time." Guests started to shove their chairs back in preparation for departure. "One moment, please" Martinson held up one hand like a policeman directing traffic. "I just want to say that all of us in the valley have experienced a loss in the death of Leonard Brent, a winemaker of skill and knowledge. As we finish this tasting, I raise my glass, and ask you all to join me in a toast to our departed colleague.
Please remain standing for a moment of silence in his memory." Martinson stood and the assembly echoed his movement.
"To Lenny Brent. Rest in peace, dear friend," Martinson intoned. He drank, then lowered his head. The screech of a wooden chair broke the silence, followed by the determined click of stiletto heels.
Mary Ellen Martinson, none too steady on her feet, walked quickly from the room.
Spraggue caught Grady's eye.
She nodded, whispered, "That's the one."
16
A hostile alarm clock clanged at six the next morning. In spite of the quarts of water he'd drunk and the aspirins he'd downed as countermeasures the night before, Spraggue's mouth was as dry as sawdust and his head felt as if it were stuffed with cotton batting. A glass of orange juice and a shower helped. A sizable group of last evenings tasters had sipped and spat into champagne coolers provided for that purpose. Spraggue hadn't followed their lead; he considered himself a drinker, not a taster. Breakfast made him feel almost human. The ride up to Davis wasn't all that bad.
The University of California hadn't splurged on any lavish office for the chairman of the world-renowned enology department at the Davis campus. Sheriff Hughes of Napa County had a larger, more impressive one. The desk and chairs were plain and solid; the venerable Dr. Eustace might have brought them in from home. The windows behind the old man's head were dingy. Dust motes lazed in the pale rays of the morning sun.
Dr. Eustace was more than willing to help. He was a fusser, a pencil-and-paper-clip fiddler. He stepped all over himself in his ineffectual eagerness.
"Spraggue?" He considered the name while extending his hand for a desultory shake. "Spraggue! Holloway Hills! Of course. Fine wine you make up there, good stuff. I'm sure that Davis can be of assistance to you."
Spraggue fo
rced a smile. "I'm searching for one of your students, actually," he began.
"Wonderful!" said Dr. Eustace enthusiastically. "I'm sure we can find you a hard worker, a real up-and-coming star. Unfortunately, you're late. Several of our most promising youngsters have already been snapped up. Some owners use the same students year after year. Hire them before the ink's dry on the diplomas. Never enough students for the insatiable industry. Wasn't always like that."
Finally, the professor took a deep breath enough to warrant interruption.
"I'm looking for one of your students who's already working in the valley," Spraggue said slowly.
The man's mouth opened slightly, into a questioning "Oh?"
"Do you keep a list of work-study students? Where they're employed? For how long?"
"Hmmm . . ." Eustace tapped the desk top with nervous fingers. "That's a problem. All our kids are matched up carefully with the situation, with an eye toward where they'll learn the most, even a view toward eventual jobs. I'd hate to tamper with the arrangements now. Very disturbing for everybody: winemaker, owner, student .... "
Spraggue restrained himself from saying that the student involved would almost certainly no longer give a damn.
"This is somebody my partner worked with on a previous crush," he said. "She wants to get in touch with him, but she can't remember his name."
"Then you wouldn't hire him out from under—"
"Wouldn't dream of it."
"A student who once worked for Holloway Hills. . . . I may be able to help you .... "
As he spoke, Eustace burrowed in his desk, opening and closing a profusion of drawers, rooting through piles of paper, stirring up dust. He resurfaced some five minutes later, triumphantly clutching a leather-bound black notebook in his right hand.
"This is the most current work-detail book. Last year's crush should be in here .... " As he leafed through the pages, his glasses slipped further and further down his nose.
"I'm afraid," he said sadly, "that no one went out to Holloway Hills last year."
"Maybe he worked for someone else," Spraggue said quickly. "Maybe Lavalier Cellars." Not until the name was out of his mouth did Spraggue recall where he'd heard it, remember the unremarkable wine he'd shared with the Martinsons at La Belle Helene.
"Lavalier?" Eustace frowned. "Oh, you mean Landover Valley. Lavalier is their new secondary label. Very confusing, all these secondaries popping up. Not sure that I approve, either. I'm o1d-fashioned. I don't think any winery should turn out a product they're uncomfortable about putting their name on. And old Mr. Finch would have agreed with me. Owned Landover for more years than I can remember. Passed on now. Place went to his daughter, Mary Ellen. She up and married—"
"George Martinson," Spraggue said softly, almost afraid to interrupt the old man's meanderings.
"Right." Eustace pushed his glasses back on his nose and looked up at Spraggue as if congratulating a bright student. "The roving gourmet. Our foremost food and wine critic."
"I didn't realize Mary Ellen owned Landover."
"She doesn't work the place herself. Not like the old man. And I think her husband would just as soon keep the connection in the dark. Conflict of interest, you know."
Spraggue nodded his head.
Eustace ran his finger down a thin-lined page in the notebook. "Let me see. We always send a few kids down to Landover. Sandy Buford last year. Graduating in June. Very talented. And Ken Morton—"
"Either of those kids about five foot ten, a hundred and fifty pounds, slight, dark-haired, unathletic?"
"I'm afraid that doesn't sound like them."
"Does it sound like any of your other students?"
"Really, Mr. Spraggue, I have so many." Dr. Eustace closed the notebook, thrust it back into the drawer. "If your partner recalls the name—"
"How many Davis students are working this year's crush?"
"I don't know exactly . . . maybe twenty. Now . . ."
Spraggue tried one of the menacing stares his movie counterpart, Harry Bascomb, was fond of.
"Do you have a list of those students?"
"I, uh, I can check, if you'd like." Eustace almost disappeared under his desk, came up with the black notebook again. He ran his finger nervously down a column of names, never taking his eyes entirely off Spraggue.
"I'm looking for someone dark—haired, slight, a pale complexion—"
"Mark Jason."
"Jason," Spraggue said easily. "That could be it. Where's he working now?"
"As I said, Mr. Spraggue, I really have very definite feelings about interrupting—"
Spraggue tried the stare again.
"Um." Eustace ducked his head. "Mark Jason is an observer this year, alternating between four or five places, checking out different techniques—"
"Which four or five places?"
Eustace quickly rattled off the names. Spraggue wrote them down with a sinking heart. No winery that had any connection with Lenny Brent, no winery owned or operated by any of Lenny's close friends or enemies. So much for the identity of the dead man illuminating the face of his killer ....
"Would the description I gave you fit more than one of the students on your list?"
"Ummmm . . . let me see. There's—No . . . You said five foot ten? Five foot ten. Dark hair . . .
I'm afraid not."
"Does Mark Jason live on campus?"
"I believe so."
"Would you be able to give me his address and phone number, in case I have trouble reaching him in Napa?"
"Certainly!" Eustace's voice cracked with relief. Anything to get this madman out of. his office. He led the way to the registrar's lair, gave hurried instructions, and departed with a puzzled frown.
Armed with phone number and address, Spraggue walked a few aimless blocks, settled on a phone booth. No sense in locating 25 Delmar Heights if Mark Jason was answering his phone.
He dialed 555-1210 and waited. Six rings, eight, ten, twelve. Someone picked up the receiver.
"Hello?" A high female voice, breathless with just-climbed stairs.
"Hi," Spraggue said.
"Mark! Damn you, I was starting to get worried!"
The joy, the relief in her voice made Spraggue want to hang up, shove the whole business back on Bradley. "When did you get back? Where are you? Is everything okay? Mark?"
"Please don't hang up," Spraggue said. "I'm not . Mark, but I am trying to find him. My name is Michael Spraggue."
"Who are you trying to f1nd?" The words came back after a pause, loaded with suspicion.
"Mark Jason. I've been over at the enology department. Dr. Eustace gave me this number."
"Well, Mark's not home."
"This is important/' Spraggue said forcefully. "Very important" He caught himself, softened his voice. "Have you seen or heard from Mark in the past two weeks?"
More hesitation, a slight gulp. "No."
"Then I have to see you."
"See me? Look, I don't know what you want, but—"
"I'll knock on your door. I'll show you any kind of ID you want. You can have a friend with you. Any conditions, but let me talk to you."
"Talk."
"In person."
A long silence this time. "Okay," came the voice finally, shakily. "Okay."
"Thank you."
"I have a class at one, so—"
"I can be there in five minutes." Spraggue almost started to hang up. "Wait. What's your name?"-
"Carol Lawton. Ring Mark's apartment"
"Fine." He replaced the receiver, drew a deep breath.
His map said he didn't need the car. His shoes hit the pavement hard. Damn. Damn Kate for getting him back into the P.I. game. Damn his own curiosity. He heard Carol Lawton's eager voice and felt his stomach knot. "Stay in the movies," he murmured to himself.
He didn't have to ring Jason's bell. Carol Lawton, ill at ease, waited in the hallway of the narrow four-story building. She had a thin, heart-shaped face and a tall, gawky body, lovely
eyes and a tremulous smile.
"Mr. Spraggue?"
"Miss Lawton?"
She smiled at that, nervously, unused to the formality. "Carol will do."
"So will Michael." They shook hands. She had a tiny dimple in her right cheek.
The hallway was gloomy, uninviting. "Can we talk here?" she said with a hopeless look around.
"I'd like to see Mark Jason's room."
"Not until I know what this is all about." The dimple vanished.
"We could walk around the block while I try to explain."
"Let me see some identification?
Good for you, Spraggue said to himself. Solemnly he displayed both his driver's license and his old P.I. card.
"Mark's in trouble," she said flatly. "I want to know about it."
He held the door open and she walked to the right, as if there were only one correct way to circle the block.
"Don't pretty it up," she said, before he'd decided how to start. "Just say it."
He took her at her word. "A man was killed near St. Helena. The police haven't been able to identify him. I'm operating on the assumption that he had something to do with wine, that his disappearance from the valley wouldn't be noticed, that his absence here wouldn't be reported."
Carol stopped mid-stride. "What did he look like?"
"Early twenties, thin build, dark, unathletic, five-ten."
"My God." She stumbled on a patch of uneven sidewalk. Spraggue touched her elbow and she straightened up immediately. "Mark's been gone two weeks."
"Where did he go?"
She stared at the sidewalk. "He didn't say. He was mysterious about it, mischievous, like he was going to play a big joke on somebody. I should have—"
She tried a laugh, but it came out all wrong.
"I'm sorry," Spraggue said. "I don't even know for sure that it's Mark. If you'd let me see his room—"
She fumbled in her purse, pulled out a battered red wallet. "I've got a picture—"
"I'm afraid that wouldn't help much."
"My God," she whispered again. "What was it? A car crash? He wasn't a very good driver."
"I'm sorry."
They marched the rest of the way in silence, but she made no protest when he followed her into the tiny elevator.
