by Peter Lewis
“Why didn’t you tell me he was your brother-in-law?” His voice had an edge to it.
“You left out a few very important issues from the saddlebag you gave me.”
“What issues would those be?” he asked with mock innocence as he scribbled up the chart, not bothering to look at me. Then he handed the clipboard to one of the crew and told him to hang it in the office. I followed him across the vast expanse of the winery floor to a door labeled HOMBRES.
He towered over the urinal and sighed deeply as he pissed. “Jesus, I needed that.”
“That he slammed you twice, nailed you at Tucker and Carneros,” I said.
“Ancient history, Babe.” His tone was genially dismissive as he rinsed his hands at the sink.
“Bear any grudges?” I said.
“Hey, man, life goes on. ‘Keep on truckin’.’”
“Thanks. That’s just what I came for. A little philosophy from Mr. Natural to allay my suspicions.”
He pushed the door open, and we emerged into the quietly humming, refrigerated universe of wine.
“You ever threaten Richard?” I asked. “Charlie Ciofreddi at the sheriff’s department says Wilson received a death threat a few years ago. Seems to think you might know something about it.”
At last he turned to face me. “I refuse to testify.”
“You’re incriminating yourself.”
“A youthful prank.”
“It’s a fucking crime,” I said, my voice echoing in the cavernous space.
He dropped his voice and knelt to retie a bootlace. “I just thought I’d shake him up a bit. He needed to understand that people’s livelihoods are at stake.”
“Ciofreddi’s gonna call you.”
“Whaddya go and tell him for?” He looked up in disgust and walked toward the hangar door.
“I didn’t tell him anything. He told me.”
“So, now what do we do?” I could feel him cutting distance, waiting for my next move, but the assumption of a we who were in this together presumed a complicity I couldn’t share. He rolled one of the two enormous doors shut. I followed him to the other side.
“Look, Bid, I’m not suggesting I think you did this. There are other people with motives.”
“That’s reassuring,” he said disgustedly.
He pulled the second door closed and locked up, walked to his motorcycle, hoisted it off its kickstand, and with one stroke set its engine aroar.
“What do you take me for, man? You think I’m a fucking criminal?” He glared at me from the saddle, revving the bike ferociously.
“You trying to scare me with that thing?” I asked.
“I’m beat, dude. Got one afternoon to crash. I need to be back before dawn.”
He roared off, the engine’s growl fading to a purr in the distance.
I decided to take the long route home. I wanted to soak in the air, the light. With harvest nearing completion, the vineyards looked skeletal, their leaves golden and browned. I took the Rutherford Cross past the Silverado Trail and followed Sage Canyon Road around Lake Hennessey. The wind had picked up. The willows lining its banks shook, and waves broke in tiny whitecaps across its face. The sun played on the hills as I cut through to Pope Valley. The farms were peaceful here, and its tranquility seemed a world away from the monstrous egos and petty vendettas that gripped Napa.
I got back to the trailer and lay down. My head was spinning. I wasn’t sure where I stood with Janie. We seemed to be dancing around each other, not certain whether we were in this together. I was worried about her, and about Danny, and my fears for them kept fighting with my affection for Gio. I couldn’t make up my mind whether to drop the whole thing and declare my undying love for my girlfriend, or if I should tell Gio that I still loved my wife and hoped to return to her, or at least try to. The only thing not in doubt was that I adored my son and regretted having involved him at all. That I had been shortsighted and self-serving. I seemed to be more interested in proving to him that his old man could step up to the plate and hit it out of the park. Who was I kidding? Fat chance, as Fornes had said. Try to make peace with your ghosts and see how far you get.
Teukes was another matter altogether. We had assumed there was a friendship, a shared set of interests and passions, but it ran only skin-deep. I hadn’t really told him much about myself, and he hadn’t opened up to me about the setbacks he’d suffered in his peripatetic career. More than that, the story Ciofreddi had told me suggested that Biddy had a violent streak I didn’t know was there, something bottled up just beneath the surface that threatened to erupt if you crossed him or rubbed him the wrong way. I had felt it on the floor at Tanner.
I thought about canceling the dinner with Jordan Meyer. What was the point? Wilson was dead. Both Ciofreddi and Brenneke had warned me to back off. I was out of my depth, as Ciofreddi put it. But there was something gnawing at me that wouldn’t let me drop it.
It was time for a nap. I put on a Bill Evans CD. At least I’d get a decent meal out of it, I said to myself as I drifted into an uneasy sleep.
12
Jordan Meyer was seated on the edge of the dining room at a deuce on the banquette. I’d remembered the man as tastefully put together, but the image collapsed as I neared the table. He was now huge, his shirt straining across his gut and his jacket tight on his swollen limbs.
“Babe, how nice to see you” he said with exaggerated warmth, looking me up and down, visibly disappointed. Time had worked its sorry magic on us both.
“Nice to see you again, too, Mr. Meyer.”
“Let’s pick something to drink, shall we?” he said hurriedly, hiding behind Bouchon’s oversize carte des vins with relief. “Any suggestions?” he queried. How would I know? I couldn’t see a thing. “So,” he said, settling back and rather too obviously feeling the lurid pleasure of the topic at hand. “The estimable Richard Wilson crushed and fermented. That must have been some barrel!”
“An oak foudre,” I said. He’d obviously already made inquiries and knew at least a few of the details of Wilson’s murder.
“Excuse me!” Meyer called out to a passing waiter. “Get us the grand plateau de fruits de mer! And an order of the caviar. You do like caviar, don’t you? Oh,” he looked up at the waiter he had waylaid, “and a large bottle of Vittel and a bubbly Badoit. I never know what I’m going to want, flat or sparkling, so we’ll have them both. And find the wine steward, pronto. We want to order some wine.” As soon as the waiter was certain Meyer had finished with him, he evaporated.
My companion turned back to me.
“The curious thing about our dear and departed Mr. Wilson is that he thought of himself as the great crusader, the champion of the consumer. Yet, by setting himself up as an arbiter of fine wine, he opened the Pandora’s box of wine scores. Now people cower in fear at ordering any bottle with less than ninety points. I think it’s safe to say that Richard Wilson might be held personally responsible for inflating the market value of wine by at least four hundred percent in the past decade, don’t you?”
His look was challenging, and he expected an answer.
“Your magazine followed suit, didn’t it? You use the hundred-point system.”
“What is one to do? You have to keep up with the Joneses,” he said.
“I can’t say I follow it all that closely anymore. I used to. Back when I first met you.”
“Yes, when was that? I’m sorry I couldn’t place you immediately, but then, I meet so many people.”
“Seattle. At Diva.”
“Ah, yes, of course, of course.” It was obvious he had no recollection of it at all. He sent his eyes to the menu. “So, what do you think? I’m contemplating the gigot. Have the steak frites, and we’ll order a nice bottle of red.”
“I was thinking about the roast chicken. You know what Julia says.”
“Seems a bit pedestrian, but have it your way. And I think we should have a little intermezzo. The salmon rillettes, perhaps. But you’re from salmon cou
ntry, so that would be silly, wouldn’t it?”
“I left Seattle a while ago. I’m living here now.”
A pert brunette approached the table, radiant in her crisp white apron and black vest.
“Ah, our sommelier! Or should I say sommelieuse?” he offered coyly.
“Good evening, Mr. Meyer. What shall it be this evening?”
“Let’s start with the Nuits-Saint-Georges blanc from Gouges. Fascinating wine,” he said, turning to me. “A mutant strain of Pinot Noir that flowered and fruited as white wine. Quite exotic. And slip in a couple flutes of Clicquot for the caviar. That’s a good girl.” He lowered his voice as she left the table to locate the bottle. “Women sommeliers, all the rage right now,” and raised his eyebrows in disapproval. “Garçon!” he bellowed, expecting the waiter to materialize at his beck and call. Which he did. There, just like that. “Eh bien, we’ll have a fish course of the rillettes de saumon. And then I will have the gigot d’agneau, and my colleague, Mr. Stern, will try your poulet rôti. And find the mistress of wine again, would you? We need to have a little chat about Burgundy. Save room for cheese,” he admonished me, leaving the waiter hanging. “Where were we?”
We were nowhere, as far as I could tell.
“Tell me about the crime! Describe it like you would a fine wine: bouquet, color, texture. First impressions, midpalate, finish.” He rubbed his hands together and leaned into the table as the Champagne appeared as if by magic.
I told him as little as I could, just enough of the crime scene to whet his appetite, the forlorn figure of Francisco Fornes, the motives of Matson and Feldman. I was interrupted midtale by the wine ritual and the serving of the first course. He smeared crème fraîche on a slice of brioche and spooned half the caviar in a single heap, stuffing the whole thing into his mouth. I slurped a dollop and was reminded of how long it had been since I had tasted a woman. He ate greedily, wiping a few errant fish eggs from his moustache with his thumb. Then he started in on the oysters. Even so, I couldn’t tell which he was devouring more avidly, the story or the food. One frenzy seemed to feed the other.
“Well, we’ll get to Feldman. That’s a story worth savoring!” Spoken like a tried and tested gourmand, saving the best for last. “You know, Matson’s not the only poor soul Wilson pilloried,” he continued. “There are others. Indeed, there are.”
The waiter cleared the caviar and repositioned the enormous platter of shellfish.
“Slip in a little foie gras before the rillettes. Don’t you think?” he asked me. “You’ll take some foie gras, won’t you? Of course you will. And have our young lady bring us a glass of Sauternes, something simple. We’ll save the last of the Gouges for the salmon.” He stopped momentarily, to catch his breath. “Did you see his reviews of Tucker? Scalding! ‘Thin, dry, putrid, amateur.’ I’ve never read such vitriol. And then there was his treatment of Clos de Carneros! Unimaginable! The lowest scores I’ve ever seen awarded to a winery in successive vintages. I don’t think either ever recovered.”
As he replayed the reviews, his pleasure at seeing a winery taken out at the knees was palpable. The foie gras arrived, and, slathering a chunk on a wedge of toast, Meyer seemed to inhale it in one gulp. Then he dispatched the salmon rillettes, mopping it up with bread and then, when the basket was empty, with his finger, every act of ingestion infused with his innate lasciviousness.
At last he came up for air to order the red wine. The steward stood patiently at the table’s edge as if she had all the time in the world. I felt for her and looked around the dining room. I wanted her to know that I was on her side.
“I’m thinking the Nuits from Arlot. What do you think?” Meyer asked distractedly.
“It’s beautiful,” she said approvingly. “Gorgeous, supple fruit. Elegant but nicely structured, very complex.”
“What else?” he said, scanning down the list. “We could go California. We’re here, after all. Sonoma Coast is hot. The Flowers, maybe,” he proposed, waiting to see if she would endorse his selection.
“You could do that. It’s a wonderful wine,” the sommelier concurred, glancing across the dining room at a man I’d noticed trying to catch her attention, her tone salted with impatience, hoping Meyer would just pick something. I knew the game and felt sorry for her.
“No!” Meyer exclaimed. “Let’s stick with France. Two Nuits. That’s more intriguing.”
He handed her back the list with finality, lapsing into a momentary and uncharacteristic silence. She fled and, after dealing with the guest across the room, returned with the bottle and two enormous goblets. She presented it to Meyer.
“Excellent!” he bellowed. “You’re in for a treat, my boy.”
She carved the lead, expertly pulled the cork, and sniffed it. She poured a splash in Meyer’s balloon and stood at attention.
“Ah!” he moaned, rolling his eyes. “Blood of the gods!”
“Would you like me to decant it?” she asked.
“Oh, let’s dispense with formalities. We’re professionals, after all.”
She carefully poured a few ounces in our glasses, set the bottle on a silver coaster, readjusted our stemware—we each had four wineglasses in front of us, cluttering the table—and disappeared.
We twirled and sniffed and sipped.
“Delicious,” I said. It had been a while since I had tasted this caliber of French juice. The scent of violets rose to my nostrils. The flavors unfurled on my tongue. All the pretentious vocabulary came flooding back and suddenly seemed perfectly appropriate: sweetly roasted game laced with black cherries and chocolate.
“So, what do you know of the desiccated Mr. Feldman?” he probed.
I shared my dossier, which wasn’t much. I told him about the wife’s affair with Wilson—of which Meyer, of course, was already aware—and recounted the story of Wilson’s and Feldman’s tasting in France, which he told back to me in an even nastier version.
“He’s a dry one, Feldman. A great intellect, certainly. Possesses a rare palate. But my God, what a lifeless fellow! As shriveled as a raisin. Where’s the joie de vivre ? I don’t think the man likes food! I mean it. I’ve been at table with him. Don’t tell my bosses,” Meyer said, dropping his voice. “We’re not supposed to fraternize with the enemy. He picks at his plate like an anorexic girl. For me, half the pleasure of wine is having it with fine cuisine. Wine and food. Of course, that’s why I do what I do. Why drink the stuff if you can’t enjoy it with a superlative meal? What’s the point? To taste it and score it and think about it? Wine is a passion of the body as well as the mind. The pleasure is physical. Sensual.”
I could feel his excitement mounting as he spoke. The entire ritual surrounding the wine seemed a kind of foreplay. But, obnoxious as he was, you had to admire his fervor, even if gluttony characterized everything he fixed upon.
“Do you think he hated Wilson enough to have killed him? Would he have the stomach for that?” I asked.
“Well, he’s always seemed utterly spineless to me. But you have to admit, to lose your wife, your job. And you know these murderers. Have you ever noticed that the most notorious ones are these quiet, mousy little characters always lurking in the shadows? No one suspects anything, and then . . . poof ! Somebody’s dead. But if I were you,” he said and dropped his voice to a whisper, leaning over the table, “I’d look at Tucker and Carneros. The winemaker at Tucker lost his job after Wilson reviewed them, then proceeded to Clos de Carneros, and boom, same thing.” He glanced furtively around the room. “You know, Wilson got a death threat once. Right here, while he was in Napa. Fled in horror, but then, who wouldn’t?”
“And you suspect that winemaker who went from Tucker to Carneros?” I asked.
“I have no idea,” he said, his nose disappearing into the wineglass. “What was his name?”
“Teukes,” I said.
“That’s it! So, you know about it? Quite a giant of a fellow, with a firebrand’s disposition. Benjamin Teukes. Got thrown out of Berkeley i
n the early seventies. The man has a huge ego and an indubitably shady past. Wholly unpredictable, in my opinion.”
Just as I suspected, Meyer knew everything. He had it all—a pig with his nose in the dirt, rooting around for truffles.
“You know that Wilson’s mother died recently?” he said.
I shook my head. I thought I’d hear Meyer’s version.
“Robert Wilson, Richard’s father, is reportedly hugely wealthy. But I understand he’s quite ill. Probably not very much time left. The estate must be worth a fortune. Your employer . . .” He paused, his eyes teasing, provocative, the hint of a smile creeping over his lips. “I don’t mean to suggest,” he stuttered.
Sure you do, I thought.
“But families are, as we know, extremely tricky. Ah!” he exclaimed as the entrées arrived. “How marvelous!”
Conversation ground to a halt as Meyer devoured his lamb. Now his comments were reduced to a series of grunts and wheezing sighs of satisfaction. I remained firm in my conviction that Julia Child was right: Roast chicken is the test of a kitchen, and Bouchon’s passed with flying colors.
When the table had been cleared, he opened another avenue. “I’m sure you know that Wilson infuriated our French friends a few years ago when he insinuated that they were showing him wine that never made it to the bottle. Mind you, they’ve never hesitated to fiddle with their wine when it suited the tune du jour. They chaptalize, they blend, fudge their appellations, water down with lesser stuff. But this was something of an entirely different order. He basically accused them—well, one négociant in particular—of arranging scores for the tastings and then bottling and selling a completely different wine for export. Un vrai scandale!”
“There’s a young Frenchman working at Norton.” I was hoping that Meyer might, finally, know something I didn’t.
“Really?” He looked interested. “What’s his name?”
“Pitot, Jean Pitot.”
