Bitter Finish - Linda Barnes

by Linda Barnes

  "Damn."

  "What, dear?"

  "Grady Fairfield."

  "Susan Fairfield, you mean."

  Susan. So far Mary Ellen had been right about the pregnancy and the faked name. He wondered if she was right about the dyed hair. "Go on," he said.

  "A Susan Fairfield was admitted for scheduled minor surgery on Monday, August fourth, at the Spring Valley Clinic. It was one of the last places I tried, and they were very closemouthed. I hope no one fires the poor devil I finally bullied into giving out the information. Spring Valley is a very exclusive place. And very expensive."

  Scheduled surgery: an abortion, then. At a ritzy private clinic .... Spraggue recalled Grady's cheap apartment, meager furnishings. Who had paid? George and Grady . . . ? Lenny and Grady . . . ?

  "Michael? Are you still there?"

  Spraggue stared at the phone. "Sorry. What about Baxter at United Circle? Did you talk to him?"

  "There is no Mr. Baxter working for UC. Never has been. Either they're covering up or you've been lied to." `

  "Did you get the sense of a cover-up?"

  "No. Genuine puzzlement, I'd say."

  Kate. Damn Kate.

  "Michael? Are you there?"

  "Yes."

  "Call Alicia Brent"

  "What?"

  "The Brent woman called here yesterday, asking for you."

  "Why?"

  "Wouldn't say. She'd only speak to you."

  "What hospital does she work at?"

  "Providence in Marblehead. Want the number?"

  "Please."

  More papers crackled. "It's 617-555-6718. Ask for the Dialysis Unit. If she's not there, try the house. She sounded panicky."

  "Thanks."

  "Take care. Can I reach you at Kate's?"

  He hung up, gave his candy bar to a startled red-headed five-year-old standing just outside the phone booth. The kid scampered off in search of Mommy.

  For the next call, Spraggue used his credit card. Alicia wasn't at the hospital. No one answered at home. She's in transit, Spraggue thought to himself. She's at the grocery store, at a meeting with one of the kids' teachers. Nothing's happened to Alicia Brent.

  He tried the house again. No answer. The hospital. This time he got a woman who informed him that Mrs. Brent would come on duty at five that afternoon. He checked his watch. No time to waste. Too many other wisps of ideas to chase. He dialed two more numbers, spoke briefly.

  The door-chimes jangled abruptly as he left the store. The station wagon sported a ticket stuffed under the windshield wiper.

  He drove skillfully, but his mind wasn't on driving. He didn't notice a single scenic view.

  Bradley had found him through Dr. Eustace. But how had Bradley known to check U.C. Davis? Kate. Bradley would have asked Kate where to find him. And she'd have mentioned last night's wine-tasting. And someone, anyone, at that tasting could have overheard him say that he planned to visit Davis. He thought about the fire at Mark Jason's apartment. Someone obviously had overheard. Overheard and acted.

  Grady. Susan Fairfield. She'd lied about the miscarriage all right. But what bearing could that have on Mark Jason's death, on Lenny's death? Lenny could have been the father, refused to acknowledge paternity ....

  No. What good was a solution that placed one piece of the jigsaw puzzle while leaving all the others scattered on the floor?

  Kate. Why had she lied about a man named Baxter?

  On the long ride to San Francisco, Spraggue regretted giving away his candy bar.

  21

  George Martinson kept an office in the same Post Street mausoleum that housed the Wine Institute.

  The room itself was small, but what Martinson hadn't spent on rent, he'd more than compensated for on furnishings, from the deep-blue oriental rug to the Kandinsky lithograph over the antique mahogany desk. As Spraggue waited for the critic to finish a phone call, he wondered how much of the office decor had been purchased with Landover Valley money. Enough to keep Martinson contentedly wed to a woman who drank too much and slept around? A woman who desperately desired a memento from the estate of the late Lenny Brent.

  Spraggue's mind wandered back over the contents of that box—the soiled shirts, the rolled socks. What had Mary Ellen been looking for?

  Martinson clicked the receiver down, flashed his white teeth. "You must have called the Examiner," he said.

  "I thought you worked there."

  "I did, but now I free-lance. Keeps me on the phone too much"

  Spraggue nodded, drew the folded, smeared newsclipping out of his pocket. He hadn't come for small talk.

  "Ah, I know!" Martinson stood suddenly, his athlete's frame dominating the room. "I have a bottle, a Fumé Blanc, just dropped off for review. Let's taste it while we chat." Martinson was already active with his cork-puller. "No, don't check the label. We'll see how good you are. I can promise you an interesting experience." He opened the top right-hand drawer of his desk, withdrew two long-stemmed glasses and an enormous white linen napkin. The napkin he wrapped around the bottle, obscuring the label. The glasses he ceremoniously filled.

  "A toast?" he suggested. "Hardly 'success to crime,' eh? How about 'to Kate'? I understand the powers-that-be have given her a full pardon. After our most recent homicide. The valley's getting as bad as San Francisco! I attribute it to the tourists entirely. All that free tasting is getting out of hand! Why, on Saturday afternoons, you can barely crawl at a snail's pace up Route 29." Martinson's eyes fluttered nervously to the clipping. "What's that?"

  "To Kate," Spraggue said. They drank.

  Martinson shuddered delicately. "Needs breathing, of course." He swirled his glass, inhaled deeply, made some quick notes on a gaudily monogrammed pad of paper.

  "Now, what can I do for you?" he said.

  "Can't you guess?" Spraggue responded evenly.

  Martinson squirmed uncomfortably in his well-upholstered gold chair. "Is that one of my reviews you're clutching?"

  "You recognize it?"

  "Newspaper clippings do resemble one another. If I could see it more closely?"

  Spraggue leaned across the desk and placed the review in the center of the maroon leather blotter. He kept his hands poised, so that Martinson could read, but not touch.

  "It's been rather badly kept," Martinson said.

  "But it's yours?"

  "I wrote it. I can make out the G and the Mar. It looks old, but that may just be the care that's been lavished on it. Do you know the date?"

  "I was hoping you could tell me."

  Martinson shook his head. "Let's see what's on the other side. May I touch it? Thank you. If that doesn't help, I'm afraid I'll have to send you off to the public library. They have all editions of the Examiner on microfilm. I'm on a very tight schedule today."

  "But I'm sure you can make time to cooperate with the Napa County Sheriff s Office"

  Martinson pressed his lips together tightly, said nothing. He stared at both sides of the clipping, turning it carefully in strong hands. "Do you mind my asking how it got into this condition?"

  "Fire."

  "Oh." Martinson waited for an explanation, got none. "Can you reach the magnifying glass on the cabinet?"

  Spraggue nodded, obliged.

  "I can't get anything from the reverse side, but if I can pick up even a word or two from the actual review, I might . . . ah . . ." I

  "You recognize it now?"

  Martinson leaned back in his chair. "I wish all these damned things had burned." He centered the clipping carefully on the blotter and went on dreamily. "This is the fatal piece I wrote on my recreation of the 1979 Académie du Vin tasting. A major blow to my reliability rating. Don't smile; this is a very demanding business. Everyone says, ‘I respect individual taste,' but then the readers insist that all the critics agree on the 'best' California wines. If one critic differs from the crowd, no one says, ‘My, he's got an unusual taste in Cabernet.' No, sir. They say he's got no taste, and that's the end of that
career."

  "I'd like to know more about the clipping."

  "But I've already told you! At that marvelous little dinner at La Belle Helene. Remember? Lettuce soup, I believe it was. Extraordinary. I wrote them up for that meal. Got a very appreciative note from the owner."

  "Refresh my memory."

  "I said that I'd had a row with Lenny Brent over a review." He tapped the crumpled bit of newsprint.

  "This is the gem that caused it. I regret ever writing it. To this day I wonder how I could have been so out of swing with the rest of the wine community."

  "Out of swing?"

  "I may have been coming down with a cold. Or maybe my taste buds were just off on a vacation of their own. I mean, there is such a thing as bottle-to-bottle variation, but not to that extent. And the bottle I tasted had certainly been stored under perfect conditions. I can't account for it. Lenny accused me of jealousy, and while I may have briefly, very briefly, harbored some suspicion concerning him and Mary Ellen, I'm quite sure I would never let a thing like that influence my judgment when it comes to wine."

  Spraggue's right eyebrow shot up. "I'm not really following you,"" he said slowly. "Could you start at the beginning?"

  "Sorry. I forget that you're not local. This must be common knowledge around here." He drew in a deep breath. "From the beginning. You must have heard of the French Académie du Vin tastings? Very prestigious. In fact, it was their 1976 tasting that was largely responsible for an incredible upsurge in American wine-buying. Remember that Newsweek article: 'Judgment of Paris'?"

  Spraggue nodded. "The blind tasting where the Americans came out on top."

  "Right. The French were a bit chagrined, to say the least. The market here took off. It legitimized us. Ever since then, the Acadérnie tastings have had a special place in our hearts."

  "So?"

  "Their 1979 tasting was quite intriguing. A 1975 Leider Cabernet came in first, over a Mouton-Rothschild, no less."

  "Good for Phil."

  "G0od for Lenny, you mean. His wine. A beauty. A huge unfiltered giant of a wine. I'd tasted it early on, from the barrel, before bottling even, and I felt in my bones it would win. I predicted the entire tasting accurately in my column."

  "Then why the fuss?"

  "That was an earlier column. A year later I decided to recreate the '79 Paris tasting. To tell the truth, I'd heard that the Los Angeles Times was planning an anniversary tasting, and I thought I'd get the scoop." Martinson paused, raised his wineglass, sipped, scribbled notes on his pad.

  "And?" Spraggue said impatiently.

  "And when I tasted the Leider Cabernet again, right before doing that article, I was utterly disappointed. I believe I wrote something to the effect that, had the tasting been held in 1980, Leider would have been lucky to finish in the top ten. The wine had lost its bite completely. No acid, no tannin. Pleasant, yes. Mellow, yes. But a beginner's wine, a nonentity of a wine. I doubted it could be cellared. Innocuous."

  "And that's what you wrote?"

  "Certainly. I write as I taste. That's what I'm here for. I say what I like; the buyer can spend his dollars as he chooses. The way Cabernet prices are spiraling, you can't expect even the most rabid enophile to taste them all."

  Spraggue shrugged. "I'm sure you've written unfavorable reviews before."

  "But not with this reaction! Lenny hounded me, embarrassed me in public. And then the positively last straw was the L.A. Times tasting!"

  Spraggue waited while Martinson drank.

  "They praised the Leider Cabernet to the skies! I couldn't believe it! I went out and bought another bottle, of course, and I do admit that the second time I tasted it, I felt much more positive about the wine. But could I print a retraction? I'd have looked like a fool!"

  "Could you write down the name of Leider's wine, the entire thing—appellation, vintage, and all?"

  "Certainly." Martinson ripped a sheet of monogrammed paper from his pad with a flourish. "How do you like this wine, by the way? The Fume Blanc?"

  "Clean, crisp, slightly smoky. A St. Jean?"

  Martinson unmasked the bottle triumphantly. "No. But I think it is a very understandable error. The vineyard is very close to the Crimmins Ranch. Landover Valley Fume Blanc, 1979. You're one of the first to taste it."

  "You're planning to review it?"

  "Why not?"

  "Does your wife still own a controlling interest in Landover?"

  "You think that's conflict of interest?"

  "Unless she's planning to sell out."

  "Sell out? Where did you get that idea?"

  "Just a rumor."

  "No substance to it, certainly. Here you go." Martinson handed a slip of paper across the desk top. "Leider Vineyards Cabernet Sauvignon, Napa Valley, 1975, Private Reserve."

  Spraggue read the words over twice.

  "Something wrong?" Martinson inquired lightly.

  "No." Spraggue tapped the memo with his fingertip. "It's just that I'm sure I've tasted this wine .... "

  "Yes?"

  "And I agree with you completely. An absolutely mediocre bottle."

  "Mr. Spraggue, that is excellent! You and me against the world! Maybe you could do a guest column for the Examiner? At least join me for lunch—"

  "I'm sorry." Spraggue was already halfway to the door. "Where can I purchase a bottle of that wine?"

  "The Fume Blanc? I'm flattered! I——"

  "The Leider Cabernet."

  "The '75? I don't think you can. What little was left sold out right after the L.A. Times ran its rave review. When the critics speak, the people buy. I doubt you could find a bottle anywhere."

  Spraggue thought he could. In an air-conditioned wine cellar at Lenny Brent's, two hours away.

  22

  Halfway to Napa, he pulled off at a gas station, used the pay phone. No answer at Alicia Brent's house. The hospital gave him the same routine: Mrs. Brent was due in at five o'cIock. He stretched and got back in the car.

  He tried the radio: scratchy AM newscasts alternated with repetitive disco wails. He tried other frequencies, finally snapped the damned thing off in disgust. Where the hell was Lenny's ex-wife? If she was so anxious to hear from him, why couldn't she stay near a phone?

  He made an effort to put Alicia out of his mind, but the thoughts that took her place were none too soothing. What had Mary Ellen wanted so badly at Grady's apartment? Why had Kate lied about a man from United Circle named Baxter? Why was George Martinson so far off on a wine review and why had Lenny reacted to it so savagely? Why had Grady Fairfield made such a play for him at Leider's tasting? Why had he turned her down?

  Route 29 was bumper-to-bumper, and Spraggue had plenty of time to reflect on George Martinson's dire warnings about the tourist invasion. His favorite stretch of the road, the tree-shaded cathedral near Beringer's, was practically a parking lot. He clicked on his ever—present tape recorder, recited lines from Still Waters, and tried to keep his temper on hold, tried to forget that tomorrow he had to be in L.A. Less than one day left . . . All those questions and no time left to find the answers ....

  Hell, maybe he should call L.A. and cancel. Fake bronchial pneumonia. United Artists would have insurance on him; he wouldn't be hard to replace. They'd have to reshoot the location stuff in Boston. And he'd have wasted all that time spent learning to fall down stairs ....

  Quit. And spend the rest of your life doing what? Watching Mary's investments grow? Clipping the old coupons? Maybe go back to private investigating, lifting up rocks better left untumed, telling clients cold facts they never really wanted to know. . . . He remembered Carol Lawton's childlike face, before and after he'd told her about Mark. L.A. for me, he thought. Fantasy over reality every time.

  He used the same trick as last time on the approach to Lenny's. Once past slowly, scouting for police cars. Then a U-turn to park behind the bushes, hidden from the road. The lights were off, the doors locked—more than locked. Each bore a seal: Napa County Sheriff's Office, Authori
zed Personnel Only. No key under any doormat either. Nobody had noticed the unlocked kitchen window. It was high, narrow, and a struggle to wriggle through, but at least it was around back, out of sight.

  The kitchen stench was stronger. Dusty footprints outlined the path the police had followed on their search. One of the cops must have turned off the air conditioner in the wine room. Spraggue flipped it on again. He'd have to ask Alicia about the wine. If she didn't want it, he'd offer a fair price.

  Spraggue breathed in deeply. The wine aroma hadn't been this noticeable before. He reached up and pulled the dangling string attached to the single light bulb.

  The bottles had been smashed against the far corner of the wall. Deep purple stained the cement floor. Six bottles at least, maybe a dozen. Spraggue picked carefully through the shards, searching for the label, even though he knew what it would say: Leider Vineyards Cabernet Sauvignon, Napa Valley, 1975, Private Reserve. He traced the purple stain with his fingertips: almost dry to the touch. Someone had spilled the wine at least a day ago. Who? And why?

  Lenny's phone was still connected. Spraggue charged the call to Holloway Hills, gave Alicia

  Brent's home number. She answered after eight rings, breathless.

  "Of course I'm all right" She sounded surprised. "Nervous, I guess. Undecided."

  "My aunt said you had something to tell me."

  "I'm not really sure if—"

  "One way to stay nervous is to keep everything to yourself."

  "It's just that-—"

  "Share the had news. It won't have to go any further. Unless . . ." ‘

  "Unless what?"

  "Unless you're planning a murder confession."

  "I'm not."

  "What else could be so bad?"

  She said nothing. Spraggue listened to her breathing. A chair creaked.

  "Are you alone?" he asked.

  "Yes. The kids are out playing."

  "Then now would be a good time to spill it."

  "Okay." She paused. Spraggue counted to ten. "I got a package in the mail. Mailed to Lenny, but at this address. Lenny never set foot in here."

  "But you accepted it."

  "Maybe I shouldn't have. I had to sign for it. The handwriting on the label seemed familiar. I don't know why I took it."