The sign on the locked iron gate says the tasting room is closed. Rosie and I walk up to the adjacent kiosk, where a uniformed security guard is watching a small black and white TV. The clean cut kid can’t be much older than nineteen. His window is open and he looks up as we approach him. Rosie says, “We have an appointment with Mr. MacArthur.”
“The winery is closed. Mr. MacArthur isn’t seeing guests. His father passed away.”
Rosie gives him a maternal look and says, “We’re relatives.” She pauses and adds, “And we’re the attorneys for his father’s wife.”
The word attorney seems to get his attention. He picks up the phone and punches in four numbers. I hear him say “uh-huh” a couple of times. His head bobs. He gives us a helpless look. Finally, he cups his hand over the receiver and says, “Is he expecting you?”
“Yes.”
“One sec.” He explains to whomever that Rosie and I have an appointment. He emphasizes that we’re Angel’s attorneys. He says “uh-huh” a few more times. Then he hangs up and gives us a relieved smile. I think he’s about to blow us off when we he says, “They’re sending somebody up here to escort you inside.”
# # #
“I don’t understand why you wasted your time coming up here,” Little Richard tells us a few minutes later. “I’ve given my statement to the police and told you everything I know.”
I expected to find him drinking coffee on the patio and perhaps talking on his cell phone. Instead, the guard escorted us past the house and straight to the eight-car garage, which resembles an elegant, if somewhat surreal, auto repair shop and classic car museum. It’s nicer than Phil Menzio’s shop in San Rafael, where I take my Corolla for oil changes and periodic life support. There are six vintage cars in various stages of restoration. Only one of the garage doors is open and it smells of a rank combination of gasoline, paint fumes and motor oil. Little Richard is wearing faded jeans and a MacArthur Cellars t-shirt. He’s putting a new finish on a ’57 Ferrari.
“We’re sorry to trouble you again,” Rosie tells him.
His tone is subdued. “You’re just doing your job,” he says.
I shoot a quick glance at Rosie. “Richard,” I say, “I had no idea you were so interested in classic cars.”
His eyes light up. He pours some thinner into a bucket and says, “There are three things in life that excite me: beautiful women, fine wine and old cars.” He points toward two perfectly restored Lamborghinis and a pristine Tucker. There is great pride in his voice when he tells me, “The Tucker is for Francis Coppola. He’s going to display it at his winery.”
Although his demeanor remains circumspect, the acrimony that we saw on Saturday is gone. He takes us on a tour of a separate building where he gives us a detailed history of a dozen restored cars. His favorite is a ’38 Jaguar that would fetch over a million dollars today.
We return to the garage and Little Richard starts mixing paint. Rosie asks him, “Aren’t you supposed to be doing something relating to the promotion of the movie?”
“The studio can handle it.”
I’m surprised by his lackadaisical attitude. “Are you going to release the film on time?”
“Yes.” He ponders for a moment and adds, “I’m going on the Today Showtomorrow to say it’s what my father would have wanted.”
“Is it?” I ask.
His demeanor takes on an air of resignation. “Probably. It’s what Dom Petrillo wanted.”
Rosie asks him, “Are you going to make another movie anytime soon?”
“I hope so. I like making movies.” He shrugs and adds, “But not nearly as much as my father did. To be perfectly honest, I’m not as good at it as he was—at least not yet. Besides, if the China Basin project moves forward, we won’t have any money to make movies.”
Rosie gives him a puzzled look. She scans the rows of grapevines just outside the garage and says, “Looks to me like money shouldn’t be any object.”
“I know how it looks,” he says, “but it isn’t that simple. My father has always operated right on the edge. The company has a lot of debts. The new movie was supposed to pay some of our bills. He liked to build things. He was planning to tie up the bulk of his assets in the studio.”
I look around the garage and say, “It looks like you like to build things, too.”
“I’m a helluva lot more practical than he was. Movies cost a lot. Intellectually, my father understood it. In real life, however, he chose to ignore the economic realities–or maybe he just didn’t want to deal with them. He left the business side up to me and Marty Kent. We were in charge of trying to keep his films close to budget. It wasn’t easy.” His tone turns somber when he says, “If Marty and I hadn’t watched him like a hawk, he would have been bankrupt years ago.” He shrugs and adds, “I like to build cars and make movies. If you ask me, we would have been better off directing our resources toward making movies than putting up a fancy new building.”
I ask, “Why did you go along with the plan?”
“I didn’t have any choice. I told my father I thought it wasn’t a good idea. He disagreed.” He asks, “Did you and your father agree on everything when you were growing up?”
“Of course not.”
“Who usually won the arguments?”
“My dad.”
He gives me a knowing smile. “Same here. My father wanted to build his dream studio. It was his money. Do you think my opinion on the economic viability of the project carried any weight? He spent his life being told he was a genius. That word isn’t generally used when people talk about me. Now it’s going to cost us a fortune to get out.”
Families. Rosie keeps her eye on the ball. “Richard,” she says, “you told us you left your father’s house around two. Who was still there?”
“My dad, Angelina and Marty Kent.”
“Do you know what time Kent left?”
“No.”
“Do you have any idea what happened to him?”
“I understand he jumped.”
Rosie lays the cards on the table. “Do you think he killed your father?”
He starts mixing paint again. Without looking at us, he says, “I think Angelina killed my father. Then again, nothing Marty did would have surprised me. He was a self-righteous ass. He thought he was the brains behind the operation and my dad and I were just pawns. And he was really ticked off.” The venom in his tone surprises me. He tells us Kent and his father had been fighting about the China Basin project. “Marty thought he was getting screwed,” he says. “My dad went to the other investors to try to negotiate a bonus for him.”
“Did something happen on Friday night?”
“Yes. My dad told him that the other investors had vetoed the bonus.”
This jibes with the information we received from Nicole Ward.
He adds, “There was something else. Marty decided to try to pull some strings at city hall. He hired a consultant to help him get the approvals for the China Basin project.”
I decide to play coy. “Do you know his name?”
“Armando Rios. Some money may have changed hands. Marty never told me about it.” He reflects for a moment and adds, “Marty never told me much of anything.”
“How would your father have reacted if he knew Marty was arranging bribes?”
“He would have fired him.”
“Richard,” I say, “how did you find out about Kent’s deal with Rios?”
He eyes me warily and says, “Rios called me Sunday night. It was the first I’d heard about it.”
I’m not sure about that. “Do you have any idea who was providing the money?”
“It wasn’t us.”
“Could it have been Marty Kent?”
“I doubt it. He was in a tough spot financially. He lost a lot of money in the market and spent a ton of dough on his wife’s treatments.” His demeanor remains calm. This suggests he’s telling the truth. Or he may be a very good liar. “The only realistic possibilities,” he says, “a
re Carl Ellis and Dom Petrillo.”
My mind races. I ask, “Do you have any reason to suspect either one?”
“If you’re smart, you should suspect both of them. They both have a lot of money and they had a lot riding on the studio project. Ellis probably had more to lose than Petrillo.”
“Why?”
“It’s an important project for his firm. They’ve turned down other work to make people available. The deal isn’t as important to Petrillo, except to massage his ego. His company can use the money to make a couple of movies.”
Probably true. I look at Rosie for an instant. I turn back to Little Richard and ask, “Have you talked to the police about it?”
“I told them everything I just told you.”
The good news is that he seems to be coming clean and acknowledging the sordid activities involving Rios. The bad news is that he’s undoubtedly given the police an iron-clad alibi for himself. “Richard,” I say, “what time did you drive up to Napa?”
“Shortly after I got home.”
Not so fast. “Did you have any visitors before you left?”
He puts his brush down and his eyes dance. “Just one,” he says.
“Who?”
“Ellis.”
“You didn’t mention it the other day.”
His left eye twitches. “I don’t remember what I told you.”
He’s lying. “What time did Ellis get back to your house?”
He looks up and thinks for a moment. Then he decides, “Probably around two-twenty.”
“He showed up unannounced in the middle of the night?”
“It wasn’t the first time.”
“What did he want?”
“To renegotiate the terms of the China Basin project. He wanted us to take a smaller piece of the deal and to put up the vineyard as security for our financial obligations.”
“And if you refused?”
“He said he would pull the plug on the deal and sue us.”
“Why did he come to see you instead of your father?”
“I got along with him better than my father did.” The corner of his mouth turns up slightly when he says, “My father was a bit opinionated.”
“So I’m told. What did you tell Ellis?”
“That I’d talk to my father in the morning. He insisted that go to his house. I told him I wasn’t going to wake him up in the middle of the night. The lights were on when we got there. We went inside and talked.”
“Was anybody else there?”
“Marty was still there. I presume Angelina was upstairs.”
“Did you stay for the entire conversation?”
“Just the beginning. Then Ellis told me he wanted to talk to my father and Marty privately. That’s when I walked home.”
“What time was that?”
“Around three.”
“What happened to Ellis?”
“He went back to his hotel.”
“How did he get there?”
He pauses for an instant and says, “I called Eve and asked her to pick him up at my father’s house. She drove him back to the Ritz.”
That may have been the car that Kaela Joy heard at three. “Why didn’t you drive him yourself?”
“I’d had too much to drink.”
Really? “Yet you drove up to the winery?”
“Yes.”
No. I glance at Rosie, who asks, “If you thought you’d had too much to drink, why did you feel comfortable driving yourself to Napa?”
He pauses for a beat. He gives me a sheepish look and says, “Eve drove me.”
This contradicts the story he told us on Saturday. I ask, “Why didn’t you tell us about it the other day?”
“Look,” he says, “I’m getting divorced. My soon-to-be ex-wife is making all sorts of accusations. Eve and I started seeing each other about six months ago. It won’t enhance my leverage in the divorce negotiations if my wife finds out I’m having an affair.”
“Why are you telling us this now?” And why should we believe you?
“Eve told the police,” he says. “They got her phone records. They identified the call I made to ask her to take Ellis back to the hotel. They also identified a call from her cell phone here at the winery on Saturday. They confronted her and she admitted it. Inspector O’Brien told me about it yesterday.”
Little Richard and Eve both lied to the cops and to us about their whereabouts and their relationship. What else? “What’s going to happen to the studio?”
Another shrug. “Petrillo told me they’re going to push ahead.”
“Are you going to stay in?”
“No. My father may have been willing to pledge the winery as security for our financial obligations. I’m not. I’m out. It’s going to cost me something—probably millions.”
I ask him who was still at his father’s house when he left for the second time early Saturday morning.
“Marty Kent and Carl Ellis.”
“Anybody else?”
“Just my father and Angelina.”
If he’s telling the truth, that means Kent and Ellis should become suspects. “Richard,” I say, “I understand your father made some changes in his will.”
His tone becomes guarded. “That’s none of your business.”
“The district attorney showed me a copy of the amendment.”
He swallows hard. “What do you want me to say? He decided to change his will.”
“I’m told you’re going to do pretty well.”
He can’t hide a smirk. “It’s like winning the lottery.”
“Do you have any idea why he decided to change his will?”
“He didn’t tell me. I presume he was planning to file divorce papers.”
He’s so casual about it. I ask him if he knows anything about a fight that may have led to Angel’s miscarriage. He feigns ignorance.
I say, “I understand you invited Daniel Crown to your father’s memorial.”
“We’re friends. He respected my father. I thought it was the right thing to do.”
“Crown is the father of Angelina’s baby.”
“I don’t believe it.” He picks up his thinner and starts stirring again. His voice drips with sarcasm when he says, “Danny and Angelina didn’t get along. They were fighting on the set for six months. Do you think I would have invited him to my father’s memorial service if I thought he was the father? Give me a little credit for having some sense of respect. Your client pointed the finger at Danny to deflect blame away from herself.”
“Who was the father?”
“My dad. I’m prepared to testify to that effect if I have to.”
Somebody’s lying. I give him a cold stare. Then I put the cards on the table. “What happened on Saturday morning?”
“Angelina was upset. The marriage and her career were over. She killed my dad and got to the bridge before the drugs and booze stopped her.”
It shouldn’t surprise me that he’s trying to point the finger elsewhere. For now, Angel is the easiest target. “And Marty Kent?”
“I think he committed suicide.”
I don’t say it out loud, but I think so, too. “And Petrillo and Ellis?”
“They were just in it for the ride. I’ll bet you they’ll have the entire studio project reworked by the end of the week. Danny Crown will be starring in Petrillo’s next movie.”
“Where does that leave you?”
“I may make another movie one of these days. In the meantime, I get to refurbish old cars, make some exquisite Merlot and count the money I’m going to inherit from my father.” He winks and adds, “And I get to go skinny-dipping with Eve. Not a bad deal, if you ask me.”
Not bad at all. “And The Return of the Master?”
He smiles. “The show must go on.”
*****
Chapter 40
All About Eve
“The Return of the Master will ensure Richard MacArthur’s place as one of the great American filmmakers of his genera
tion.”
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