One Foot in the Grape

by Carlene O'Neil

  A woman came around the corner of the house, a towel in her hands. I judged her to be about fifty, with sandy brown hair cut short and puffy around her face. She was a tiny thing. Even with high-heeled sandals made from that jute material, she couldn’t have been more than five-foot-two.

  Still on my knees, I continued to hold Dollie.

  “Thanks so much. She loves her bath and usually we play catch for a few minutes beforehand. I just want to skip that part today.”

  “You must be Marilyn.”

  Marilyn walked over and took Dollie’s collar, the question in her eyes.

  “My name is Penny Lively. I was a friend of Todd’s and I wonder if I could have a few moments of your time.” I stood.

  Marilyn looked blankly at me. “You were a friend of Todd’s? I’m sorry, but I don’t ever remember him mentioning you.”

  “I knew him through his work at the winery. I own a winery nearby. Also”—I searched for connections—“I’m good friends with Ross and Thomas. They own the restaurant and gift shop where Joanne works.”

  “Oh.” She was clearly undecided.

  “We can talk and give Dollie a bath at the same time if you like.”

  At her name, Dollie spun her head toward me, straining to come say hello. I reached for the little dog, who pulled away from Marilyn and began running in circles around me.

  In spite of her reservations, Marilyn began to smile. “I’m a great believer in the intuition of animals. Recommendations don’t get much better than seeing that Dollie approves. Come on around back. If you don’t mind watching her, I’ll get us some iced tea and an extra towel. I hope you don’t mind getting wet.”

  I smiled. “I have a dog that hates bath time. He makes sure I get every bit as wet as he does.”

  Marilyn led the way to the rear of the house. It was a big yard, neatly kept, with a side garden and play area. While she went across the patio with its potted geraniums and daisies and through the rear door of the house, I played fetch with Dollie.

  Marilyn came back out, placed the iced tea and towels on the picnic table and walked to the yellow plastic basin at the side of the house.

  “Normally at this time of year I heat water and give her a bath on the sunporch. In the nice weather, though, I like to give her baths outside. It’s easier for me, and then she gets to air-dry in the sun.”

  I looked over at the garden. Autumn crops of squash, pumpkins, cucumbers and late tomatoes were ripe and ready to pick.

  Marilyn saw my interest. “Usually in October I spend two or three hours a day out there and in the kitchen pickling and canning. I decided this morning I’m not up to it this year. I’m taking it all to the food bank.”

  I scanned the back play yard, complete with swings and a slide. “Do you have other children?” I turned on the hose.

  Marilyn squirted eucalyptus-scented doggie soap into the streaming water.

  She smiled. “At my age? Heavens no. Oh, I know the trend now is for women in their forties to have children, but even if I could, to still have children playing on swings at fifty? I don’t have the energy. No, I kept the swings because the neighborhood children like coming over, and then after Joanne and Todd married . . .”

  Her voice broke off and she turned to wipe her eyes on her sleeves.

  I gave her a minute while I turned off the water and set Dollie into the soapy tub.

  “It’s funny,” she reached into the water. “I keep thinking I’ve cried all I can, that at some point I’m going to be empty. I am empty, completely, yet the tears keep coming.”

  She sat back on her heels and looked out at the garden. “Gardening gives you such an awareness of the seasons. You plant, you watch it grow and you reap the rewards of your hard work and loving care. There’s a rhythm, an order to things.” She turned to look at me. “I’m burying my son on Saturday, and my world will never be the same.”

  I massaged Dollie behind the ears. “I’m truly sorry for your loss. Todd was a good man. I’m sure he was a wonderful son.”

  “Thank you.” Marilyn wiped her eyes once more and turned toward the squirming dog. “And now, Miss Dollie, kindly hold still while we rinse off this soap.”

  Dollie was soon towel-dried and chasing the ball I threw from the deck.

  “Have a seat.” Marilyn handed me a glass of the tea.

  “I understand you used to be a vineyard owner as well.” I took a drink of the tea. “Wow, this is delicious.”

  “Thanks. I make it with lavender and lemongrass from the garden. Now”—Marilyn took a deep breath—“vineyard owner. Yes, my husband and I owned nearly one hundred acres of grapes at one point. Pretty land. Out on Colony Lane. Of course, we never ran our own labels, but we took a certain amount of pride in our harvests. We made a good income from them too.” Marilyn paused. “If you know I no longer have the vineyard, then perhaps you also know Francesca Martinelli is now the owner.”

  “I was told she wanted to purchase the property and that you refused at first.”

  “Yes, I did refuse. She offered an extremely low price. Not that I had any intention of selling. As you know, people don’t sell land here. It runs in families. That land was Todd’s. I would have refused at any price.”

  Marilyn poured herself more tea. “But my refusal to sell wasn’t enough to make Francesca go away. Not nearly. After about a year of her calling, insisting and finally threatening, I found out just how much Francesca wanted my vineyards when all of the regular wineries I’d been selling to for years wouldn’t touch my crop. Not at any price.

  “None of them actually said that she was the reason, of course. Some of them loaned or even offered me money outright to help out, but several of them made strong hints I should consider Francesca’s offer. They made it clear they wouldn’t be buying my crop. Not that year or any other.”

  “I know how important the Martinelli family is around here, but why would they refuse to buy your crop just because Francesca asked them to?”

  “She didn’t use her family connections, although I’m sure it didn’t hurt. For one thing, as often as I’ve heard Antonia is tough, I’ve also heard she’s fair. I can only imagine she wouldn’t want her daughter using the Martinelli name in a way that would hurt the family image.”

  “You know Antonia better than you think. If she found out Francesca used her family connection to strong-arm other wineries into refusal of your crop, especially for Francesca’s own gain, she’d be livid.”

  “That’s what I’ve always thought. I suppose I could’ve gone to her at the time, but frankly, I didn’t think of it. I would never have guessed Francesca would sink to the depths she did to get the land from me, and by the time I understood what she was capable of, the damage was done.”

  “What did she do?” I waited. That is, I waited as long as I could. About five seconds.

  “Marilyn?”

  “Let me think how to say this.” She paused. “One of the wineries—I made a promise to keep their name out of this—told me Francesca was telling all of the wineries if they bought my crop, she’d get a court order saying my grapes had been contaminated with DDT. Once the grapes are mixed, it’s impossible to separate contaminated from noncontaminated, and they’d lose their entire year. For a functioning winery, the loss would be insurmountable.”

  “That’s crazy. If one or some of the wineries decided to buy from you, Francesca wouldn’t know who it was and couldn’t touch them.”

  “That’s what I thought, and I was ready to fight, at the urging of some of the winery owners. Most of them are good people who were put in bad position.” Marilyn looked out over the garden.

  “I would have kept fighting, but then one day I got an anonymous letter telling me to have my crop analyzed. Sure enough, they were sprayed with a fertilizer contaminated with DDT. Not a lot, but enough to make my entire crop unusable. It’s easy
enough to find a crop duster to spray. It’s possible to find one willing to spray for money under the table. Or, even more likely, the duster didn’t question the job or the authority of the person asking. Why would anyone fertilize a crop that didn’t belong to them?”

  “Where did the DDT come from? I thought it was illegal.”

  “It isn’t hard to find. It’s still around in small amounts, even though it was banned years ago. At that point, I didn’t have a crop to sell, or any proof of who was responsible.”

  Marilyn took a drink. “She’s an attorney. Something she often reminded me of. Even if I had some way of proving it, fighting Francesca would have taken everything, more than I had. Todd would have helped as much as he could, but when he heard I was going to have to use my house as collateral to raise money to pursue a lawsuit, Todd told me to let it go.”

  Marilyn pressed her hands to her face. I had to lean in to hear her words.

  “Even though that land was really being held for him, he told me to let it go.”

  Nineteen

  THE story I’d heard was that most of the land in Monterey was once owned by a man named David Jacks, a Scottish immigrant who arrived in Monterey in 1850. He obtained work as the county treasurer. Once he got to know the citizens on the delinquent tax rolls, he began to lend them money to pay their taxes, using the land as collateral. When tax payments were missed, he foreclosed. By this and other legal chicanery, he acquired more than thirty thousand acres by 1859.

  I drove through Monterey thinking of the colorful ways people had acquired the land of others throughout the region. I had to admit, in an area known for clever land swindles, Francesca’s, as nasty and rotten as it was, was every bit as clever.

  I headed south and was on the edge of town when I spotted Colony Lane. Marilyn had said her land was out there. I wouldn’t know it when I came to it, but on an impulse, I made a sharp right onto the narrow road.

  The afternoon showed the vineyards at their best; a mixture of purple and russet hues, the rows of fruit ribboned across the rolling hills. Such a contrast to how these same fields would look in a few short months, when the vines were pruned, the plants readied for their winter rest.

  Winding roads like this are where my car is at its best: smooth, tight in the turns and fun to drive. However, it was without a doubt the worst thing to drive when you wanted to go unnoticed. When I passed Francesca at a front gate, padlock in hand, I knew where the land was. Of course, Francesca recognized the car and also knew where I was. I could tell by the way she stopped and stared. The fury that tightened her face wasn’t a bad clue either.

  Since she’d spotted me, snooping was out of the question. I slowed and pulled to the side of the road, next to where she stood. The gravel crunched beneath my tires and sent a soft cloud of dust into the still air.

  “I suppose you were just driving by. First, you happen to find Todd, and now here you are. My, my, aren’t you just the one for showing up at inopportune moments.”

  “I was in Monterey for something else.” I cut the engine and opened the car door. “I do know that Marilyn used to own this land and now you do, so I decided to drive by and take a look.”

  I leaned against the side of the car. “Actually, I’m glad you’re here. I have some questions for you.” It was time for some answers from Francesca, and I had a chip to play.

  Francesca raised her brow. “Now, don’t get me wrong. I like your style, I really do. But, honestly, why would I tell you anything?”

  “Because”—I took a step forward—“if you don’t, I’ll tell Antonia how you got this piece of land.”

  No reaction. She was good, I’d give her that. I could see her as smooth in a courtroom as she was with me.

  “I know the whole story. Marilyn was quite forthcoming. Really nasty, Francesca, even for you.”

  Francesca remained still but her shoulders stiffened. “If there was anything to that old rumor, Mother would have heard about it by now.”

  “From who? The other wineries? Come on. Do you think they’d tell her that her daughter is a thief and a cheat? Antonia, the largest winery owner on the central coast? And at that point, to what end? You already had the land.”

  A small, nervous tic started above her right eye.

  “You’re still part of the Martinelli family. You don’t get the winery but you’re still an heir. You still have access to the family name, to Antonia’s public support. How long would that last if she knew the whole story?”

  I looked over her shoulder. “It’s too late to help Marilyn now. The land is yours, and there isn’t anything to be done about that. Otherwise I wouldn’t be making you this generous offer. If I keep silent, though, I want some answers.” I didn’t like it, but I didn’t have to.

  She studied me. “I’ll give you five minutes.”

  “Fine.”

  “What do you want to start with, this land? Well, here it is.” She swept her arm behind her. “It’s as pretty as my mother’s. Prettier and more productive. At least it will be when I get done. In terms of size, it’s small, but I was never interested in producing a lot of wine. Just the best. Antonia has never given me credit, but I have more natural ability than she does. In a few years, we’ll have vintages to rival anything she and my insipid brother can turn out.”

  I turned at the venom in her voice.

  Francesca smiled. “Oh, come now. I’m sure you know there isn’t any love lost between us.”

  “Sure I know. It’d be hard to miss. I’m just surprised you feel that strongly about your brother. Your mother made her decision. Stephen didn’t ask to inherit the winery.”

  “No, but he sure didn’t protest either. I was born knowing more about wines than he’ll grasp in a lifetime working those hills. But, thanks to my mother, he’ll get a lifetime to find that out.”

  “So now you’ve got your vineyard, but you still need a winery.” I looked beyond the fence. “Marilyn sold her grapes outright. I don’t know how you expect to produce your own label from here.”

  “My, my, Penny Lively doesn’t know something. Amazing.” She shrugged. “I’ve been busy. The buildings are finished, and I’m hoping next year’s harvest will be bottled under my own name.”

  “What name is that?”

  “F.M. Vineyards.”

  “Francesca Martinelli Vineyards. Original. For all your anger at your mother, you still managed to pull in the family name, didn’t you?”

  “I’m not relying on the Martinelli name.”

  “Right,” I said. “I’m sure nobody will figure out what the M stands for. Also, it’s just you. Can I assume Brice isn’t involved in the winery?”

  Francesca’s eyes narrowed. “This is my vineyard. Brice doesn’t know anything about wine. Anyway, it takes money, a lot of money.” She stopped and turned to padlock the gate.

  “Brice must make good money as a cardiologist.”

  “Decent.” Francesca rattled the locked chain. “He also has expensive habits. Very expensive habits.” She looked at her watch. “You have three minutes.”

  She seemed pretty calm about it, and I decided to press. “Well, he certainly has expensive habits when it comes to ordering wine. That was a nice bottle you two shared at Sterling yesterday. Of course, he had to finish the bottle himself after you stormed out of there. I’m sure the wine was much smoother than the conversation.”

  She threw her head back and laughed. “You missed your calling, Penny. Putting the defense attorney on the defensive, are you? You’d have made a decent lawyer.”

  “Now you’re just fighting dirty.”

  Her smile faded, and the red lipstick emphasized the hard lines around her mouth. “Brice and I were arguing about what everyone in this fishbowl town already knows: namely, that my husband can’t keep his pants on and his hands off.” She gave the padlock one final tug and turned to me. “Now t
hat I think about it, we weren’t actually arguing. What’s there to argue about? I’m just sick of hearing it discussed behind my back. At a volume intentionally loud enough for me to hear every word.”

  I wondered if Francesca knew about Brice and her sister. “Hearing the news from others must be very painful for you.”

  “Heard it from others? Is that how you think I learned about his wandering? Oh, no. That implies he took pains to keep it from me. Brice has been coming home with the proverbial lipstick on his collar almost from the day we were married. And, to be perfectly honest, I couldn’t care less about his wandering if only he was capable of being the one thing he isn’t: discreet.”

  Francesca’s voice rose. “We live in San Francisco, damn it! You’d think he’d have enough trophies there, even for a man who likes collecting them as much as Brice does. But no, he has to bring it to Cypress Cove, my town, where I know everybody and everyone knows me and where nobody can keep their damn mouth shut.”

  She continued to talk as she walked toward a silver Lexus parked under an oak nearby.

  I moved with her.

  “The one thing I have in this town is respect, and that’s tough to keep if every available female who lives here has slept with your husband. That’s also where his money goes. Hideaways with views of the Golden Gate Bridge for numerous special friends pretty much keeps Brice low on funds.”

  Not to mention exhausted. “So why not leave him?”

  “Because I like being married,” she snapped. “I like having a ready escort, the well-respected doctor to dress up in a tux and cart around to openings and premiers. And forget him ever leaving me. He wouldn’t be able to afford so much as a postcard of the bridge when I got through with him.”