by Linda Barnes
"When did this happen?"
"The day before you came."
Spraggue smiled grimly. That damned parcel on the couch. So that's what she'd been hiding. "Go on," he said.
"When I heard Lenny was dead . . . I don't know, I couldn't bring myself to open it. But then I realized, yesterday, that the handwriting was Lenny's. Why would he mail himself a package and send it here? I opened it."
"And?"
Her voice shook a little. "There's money in it, Mr. Spraggue. So much money that I stopped counting at ten thousand. So much money that I'm scared. How did Lenny get that money? And why did he mail it here?"
"Where did you put it, Mrs. Brent?"
"In the basement. I didn't want the kids to see it."
"Fine. Now listen. While the kids are still out, get the money and put it in a shoebox; use more than one shoebox if you have to, but nothing larger than a shoebox. Save the original box and the wrapping paper; hide them somewhere. Then seal the shoeboxes, tie them up, and call a cab. Go to a bank, not your regular bank, and rent a safe-deposit box. Put the money in there. If you need to rent more than one box, go to another bank."
"But I'll have the keys! If someone comes and Lenny was killed—"
"Put the keys in an envelope and mail it to yourself. Keep mailing it until I call you, until I'm absolutely sure it's safe"
"You don't think I should go to the police?"
Spraggue thought fast. "Not yet. Just get the money to a bank."
"Okay." She hesitated a moment, then her voice came on strong. "I will. I'll do exactly what you said."
"Fine."
"Mr. Spraggue? Do you know who the money belongs to?"
It was Spraggue's turn to hesitate. "I'm not quite certain yet," he said slowly.
He sat on the bed for fifteen minutes, motionless, after he'd hung up the phone.
23
When he got back to Holloway Hills, Kate was gone. Her bed was wrinkled, but empty. The shower stall stood ajar, an irregular drip bouncing off the tile. Spraggue tightened the hot-water handle and cursed. "Stay put," he'd said. Sure.
He lifted the phone and punched the house line that rang at the winery a half-mile down the road. A kid with a lisp answered: Miss H. was not around. Kate's purse, sitting on the kitchen counter, gave him a bad five minutes before he remembered her reluctance to drag it along, her disdain for lipstick and powder and combs. She'd have stuck money and keys in her pockets. Of course.
He carved a hunk of Monterey Jack off a slab in the refrigerator, dropped it on a chipped plate next to a pile of crackers, and sat down at the kitchen table. He ate mechanically, hardly tasting the cheese. He jumped when the teakettle shrieked. She must have gone out to buy a paper. To get a bottle of aspirin. Any damn thing. No sign of a struggle. He opened the door, stood peering at the deepening twilight from the front porch. Called her name. Nothing.
He went inside, locked the door. The dead silence rang in his ears. He took the cellar steps noisily, much too aware of the prickling hairs at the back of his neck.
Holloway and Spraggue's grandiose plans for their wine cellar had never come to pass. The same rotting wicker furniture stood crammed in the same corner it had occupied eight years back. Two rusty bicycles mated under the stairs. Half-strung tennis rackets were mixed in with Kate's old photography apparatus. Instead of track lighting and resplendent cross-timbered, numbered wine-bins, cases and bottles were randomly stacked, elevated on gray cinder blocks, illuminated by bare bulbs.
Spraggue searched for half an hour, getting hot, dusty, and nowhere. Some of the cases were labeled and sealed: all twelve bottles alike. Some cases were mixed; those he examined bottle by bottle. He found dust, cobwebs, irritated spiders, a nickel and two pennies, but not a single bottle of Leider Vineyards Cabernet Sauvignon, Napa Valley, 1975, Private Reserve.
Spraggue swung the lid off yet another wooden crate. Probably French wine; California favored cardboard boxes. Nonetheless he lifted each bottle gently to view the one beneath without disturbing either. Jammed between the layers was a small manila envelope stuffed with 35 mm negatives.
He held one tiny strip of film up to the light, whistled under his breath, slipped it back among its fellows. He examined two more strips before tucking the lot in his inside jacket pocket. He left the lights on, raced upstairs.
Kate's purse, background before, stood out like a target now. He upended it on the table, sorted through used tissues, receipts, stamps, and old parking tickets until he found her checkbook. He sat down and studied the stubs, one by one.
He'd almost finished when the door opened.
Kate hadn't stuffed her cash in her pockets and gone for a casual stroll. The string handle of a small suede bag was twisted around one thin wrist. Its deep-purple color matched her silk shirt, buttoned just high enough to avoid arrest. She wore a cream-colored skirt, heels, even a gold chain around her neck.
She slammed the door and turned gracefully with a "hi" ready on her lips, stared at the array on the table and froze. Color rushed to her cheeks.
"You short of cash?" she asked after a moment, dangerously calm.
Spraggue closed the checkbook, rested his elbows on the table. "I was wondering if you'd been paying any blackmail lately."
"And you couldn't just ask." She unwound the purple strap from her wrist, flung the bag furiously down on a small table. It toppled off onto the floor. "No. Nothing as straightforward as that!"
"If I'd asked, you might have lied."
Her mouth set into two firm lines. "I don't lie."
"You said you'd stay here——"
"You ordered me to stay here! I'm not a child; I can take care of myself. And I'm already out of jail!"
"You lied about Mr. Baxter."
Her heels banged angrily as she stalked over to the refrigerator and jerked open the door. An egg teetered in its nest, hit the floor with a splat. She grabbed a fistful of paper toweling and succeeded in smearing the yolk into the floor. Spraggue waited until she'd tossed the debris in the trash, pulled an apple from the fruit bin. "I can't fight when I'm starving!" she said defensively and took a large bite.
"Did you really get an offer on Holloway Hills? Did you just make up Baxter?"
"Christ, Spraggue, of course I got an offer. And I turned it down flat. I told you—"
"Ever since I came to the valley, people have been asking me when we're selling out. The vineyard owner up the road says that a guy from United Circle practically lives here."
"Don't you have other things to do besides listen to crap?" She reached across the table and took one of his untouched crackers.
"Kate, you're the one who—"
"I know: I asked you to help out. Until I could take over again. Your job's done. I've already been rescued, Prince Charming. Take your damned white horse and ride off into the sunset!"
"This thing isn't over." Spraggue kept his voice low and even. That irritated Kate, the shouter, more.
"It's over for me!" she yelled. "It's over for you! You're a goddamned movie actor with a shooting in L.A. tomorrow. You've got no business playing games with real life! You're not a cop, not even a licensed snoop anymore. You've got no badge that gives you any right to paw through my purse!"
"I had reasons for doing it."
"Want to tell me?" Her voice was low now, too. Cold, polite, and cutting.
"Want to tell me why there's no record of a Baxter ever working for United Circle?"
She stared down at the table. "It's nothing, Spraggue. Take my word for it. P1ease."
"I need an explanation."
"Crap." She leaned wearily back in her chair. "Okay, smart-ass. I'll count it out and you see if you can add it up. One: I'm an unmarried female trapped in a small-town gossip mill. Two: A very attractive guy comes by to talk corporate takeover. Three: I tell him I'm not interested in selling Holloway Hills, but I could be intrigued by other matters. Four: I get thrown in jail and my partner and sometime lover steps in. Five: I try to
keep things discreet."
She reached over to snatch another cracker off Spraggue's plate. He caught her hand and held it. They stared at each other until finally, uncharacteristically, Kate looked away.
"I should have known," Spraggue said flatly.
"Known what? What the hell could you have known?"
"You're not selling out to United Circ1e."
"Brilliant deduction."
"You're sleeping with them."
Kate pulled her hand away. "Not the whole damned company"
"What's his name when it's not Baxter?"
"None of your business."
"None of my business! The entire New York Stock Exchange thinks Holloway Hills is up for grabs."
"David Murray," she said angrily. "His divorce decree is not final, and there are children involved."
"Did you wreck his happy home?"
"Go ahead and ask, Spraggue."
"Ask what?"
"Did I sleep with him today. That's what you want to know, isn't it? Whether I went straight from your arms to his."
"Did you?"
"What difference does it make?"
"I thought you slept around to hurt me."
"Once upon a time I might have," she said. "To let you know I wasn't exactly content to come in after your acting and your aunt and your family obligations. But it's been a long time since wounding you was the focus of my life . . . or loving you."
"You didn't have to sleep with me," Spraggue said.
"I wanted you. I thought you wanted me."
"I did."
"Just not for the long run." She rested her elbow on the table, her chin on her hand, and stared up at him from under dark silky lashes.
Spraggue crumbled a cracker to pieces in his hand. "I ought to be relieved," he said.
"Why?"
"This takes you out of the murder sweepstakes."
"But you're not relieved?"
"No."
"Have you thought about splitting?" she asked. "Selling half the winery, making that clean break?"
"I've thought about it."
"And?"
Spraggue shook his head no.
"Too good an investment?" she said with the beginning of a faint smile.
"Yeah."
Their hands met across the tabletop.
"Do you want a cup of tea?" Spraggue said after a long pause broken only by Kate's straightening up and blowing her nose on one of the tissues lying on the table.
She nodded. On the way to the stove, he pressed a kiss on her forehead.
"Brotherly affection?" she asked.
"The relief is starting to set in."
They held each other until the kettle sang.
"Now what's all this about?" she asked, indicating the scattered contents of her purse. "What about blackmail?"
Spraggue sat back down at the table, sipped from his steaming mug. "Alicia Brent found over ten thousand dollars in a box Lenny sent her just before he died."
"I never paid him anything but his salary."
"I found these in the cellar." Spraggue reached for the manila envelope.
"What—" Kate began.
The phone jangled. Kate's outstretched hand went to her mouth. She turned to him with a look of alarm.
"Dammit, Spraggue, I forgot. I've got messages. There were so many calls, and then coming in like that and seeing you searching my stuff—"
"Shhhhh." Spraggue picked up the receiver.
Captain Enright's unfriendly tenor came over the wire. "Finally home, Mr. Spraggue? Good. I'm sending a car right over to get you."
"Relax, Captain." Spraggue turned away from a frantically signaling Kate. "You want me, I'm on my way. I was hoping you'd appreciate those fingerprints I brought you."
"I'll appreciate them a damn sight more when I know exactly where they came from."
"A match?"
Enright hesitated a fraction of a second, lowered his voice. "Yeah. Now get over here."
So much for Mark Jason, Spraggue thought. He asked, "Have you identified your third victim yet?"
"We've got a tentative. We've turned up a wallet with some promising ID."
"Did he have anything to do with wine?"
"Wine?"
"Did he work at a winery?"
"If the wallet's his, he was just passing through. San Diego on the way to Seattle. Look, can I trust you to get here on your own?"
"I'm on my way."
"Good-bye, then."
Spraggue stared at the receiver, then at Kate.
"Enright's getting polite. Is that a bad sign?"
"He sure wasn't polite when he called before."
"Were you?"
"Rude, more like it. Maybe he's getting some pressure from old Sheriff Hughes. Rumor has it Hughes may come out of hiding and take over the whole investigation."
"No need," Spraggue said absently.
"Then it's solved?"
"Messages," Spraggue reminded her. "Was Enright right the only caller?"
"The phone rang constantly. One of the reasons I fled."
Spraggue surveyed her outfit. "And 'Mr. Baxter'?"
"The other reason."
"Who called?"
"Enright wants you at the station. Your assistant director needs you in L.A."
"Not until tomorrow."
"He kept muttering about costumes and publicity stills."
"Anyone else?"
Kate wrinkled her brow. "A Carol Lawton said to tell you that Jason worked in the valley last Christmas break. She's not sure where, but he stayed at the Calistoga Inn."
Like Howard, Spraggue thought.
"And," Kate continued, "Miss Grady Fairfield called. She wants to go to bed with you."
Spraggue's eyebrow shot up. "That's what she told you?"
"She didn't have to. I got the definite feeling that she'd just learned that you're a real-live movie star."
Spraggue groaned.
"She's out to use your body to further her career. Be warned," Kate sighed. "Damned nice body, though."
Spraggue placed his packet of negatives in the center of the kitchen table. "Very nice," he said under his breath. "Kate, do you still do your own printing?"
"Not for ages. I've got a darkroom, though."
"Look, I'd rather not give these to the police until I know exactly what's on them."
"If it's a rush job, I'll have to pass. I'm delinquent at the winery."
"Howard can handle things."
"Howard's gone."
Howard's gone. Spraggue's lips moved but no sound came out,
"Some job you did rehiring him/' Kate said sarcastically.
"When did he go?"
Kate looked up sharply, puzzled. "Why so intense?"
"When did he go?" Spraggue repeated.
"About noon. He said he'd talked it over with you."
Spraggue paced the length of the kitchen twice, ran a quick jet of hot water over the dirty dishes in the sink. "Kate." He dried his hands on a rag of a towel, placed them on her shoulders. "Listen carefully. Forget the wine for tonight. The cellar crew can take it. Print the negatives. Don't say anything about them to anyone."
"Okay."
"As soon as I leave, call Enright and tell him Howard's gone."
"But . . . aren't you heading for the sheriff's office?"
"Sure." Spraggue opened the front door and stepped out into the gloom. "But first I have to stop off for a bottle of wine."
24
He droned Harry Bascomb's lines into the tape recorder all the way up to Calistoga. Turned left into Tubbs Lane automatically, right on Bennett, then slowed to a crawl. Twice he thought he must have passed the tiny sign.
LEIDER VINEYARDS. NO TOURS. NO TASTING. NO SALES. The placard wasn't more than a single foot square, faded and tilted on its post. Spraggue hit the brakes, backed up to negotiate the sharp turn into the narrow rutted driveway. The gravel track ascended steeply. Spraggue shoved the station wagon into low gear. He'd forgotten how isolated Lei
der's winery was, way up in the Mount St. Helena foothills far from his new Yountville home. No tourist problems at this end of the valley; Leider hardly needed the discouraging sign.
A frown furrowed Spraggue's forehead. It was just past seven; the sun teetered over the western hills. But during crush every winery kept fanatic hours. Leider's parking lot was empty.
The scuffle of his feet on the gravel seemed loud in the stillness. The main doors were locked, the bell out of order. Spraggue started a circuit of the main building. A place that big had to have more than one door.
One of the oldest wineries in the valley, Leider's predated prohibition and then some. The massive stucco chateau was three stories high, the way they built them back then, so gravity could do its part in the wine~making process. The facade was worn to a rich creamy yellow, the brown accent paint streaked with gray gravel dust. Circling the building, Spraggue was struck by its down-and-out air. Around back, a broken window hadn't been fixed or even sealed. The crusher was bone dry, cobwebs in the bottom. An old crusher—probably Leider had a new one around the other side.
But the very air smelled wrong: grass, trees, late-blooming flowers . . . No heavy scent of grape must. No purple stains on the gravel approach. No gondolas ready to roll first thing in the morning. Puzzlement increased Spraggue's determination. He passed two doors, both bolted. The third door was smaller, with a lock so trivial that, after a moment's fumbling, Spraggue found himself inside.
He closed the door quickly, leaned against its cool surface, let his eyes get used to the dim interior while he breathed in the winery's fragrance. No harsh smell of new wine; just the gentle bouquet of wine aging in old oak. He pulled his key ring from his pocket, removed the pencil flash, flicked it on.
The floorboards, old and wide, worn satiny with years, creaked under his feet. He passed through a forest of tall fermentation tanks, jacketed stainlesssteel giants and smaller redwood tanks together.
Out of habit, he checked the tags, the labels fastened to the tiny manholes that spelled out exactly what wine was within, what vineyard it hailed from, what temperature it was kept at, how long it had fermented. Blank. He banged on the side of one tank. An empty echo rolled back.
He passed the centrifuge, the bladder press, both dry and silent. He climbed a few steps, flashed his light along the narrow catwalk, up at the great wooden beams of the ceiling. Spiderwebs. He circled the dusty floor once, then mounted the broad central wooden steps up to the second floor.
