Blood for Wine

by Warren C Easley

  Eddie, Sylvia, Jim, and I stood there, oblivious to the rain, as people made their way to their cars and drove away. Sylvia and I took a look at Eddie’s eye, which was more grazed than smacked. Jim said, “Took one for the team, huh, Eddie? Thanks.”

  “You owe me,” Eddie said, showing the thinnest of smiles. A handsome man by any standard, he had dark hair, deep set, russet colored eyes, and a habit of tugging absently at the small diamond stud in his ear. “What was he thinking, anyway?”

  “You heard him,” Jim said, rainwater dripping off his nose. “He thinks I killed Lori.”

  Sylvia hugged Jim’s arm, her eyes swelling with indignation. “That’s ridiculous. He’s just looking for someone to blame, Jim.”

  “That’s right,” I said. “People lash out when they’re upset. He’ll probably regret this when he has time to think about it.”

  “Yeah, well, Lori’s mother and her hipster stepson both hate my guts,” Jim said. “I shudder to think of what got said at that interview with the cops.”

  Jim had a point. The mother may have reinforced what Ballard and Rodriquez were already uncovering, that Jim and Lori’s marriage hadn’t exactly been a model of harmony. The interview could have quickly focused on Jim and his outbursts of temper. Ballard and Rodriquez wouldn’t have outright accused him of anything, but the inference would have been there, which might explain Abernathy’s violent reaction.

  All they need now, I thought to myself, is to tie a murder weapon back to Jim. That would give them motive, opportunity, and means, and make an arrest a near certainty. But Jim, always the winemaker, had more pressing things on his mind. He swiped rainwater off his forehead, cursed, and said, “I’ve got to get back to Truc, folks. This rain’s sucking the sugar right out of my grapes.”

  I watched him hurry off with Eddie and Sylvia and for a moment found myself envying my friend for having a passion so great it dwarfed everything else in his life, even the death of his beloved wife and the threat of being accused of her murder.

  Chapter Seven

  The temperature dropped and the gray, sodden clouds kept dripping rain. As I drove back to The Aerie, I thought again about the murder weapon. If they were able to tie it to Jim, would that force me to doubt his innocence? As an ex-prosecutor, my cynicism ran deep, but the thought of Jim being guilty hadn’t even crossed my mind. Had he snapped and done something unthinkable? Hell, I’d prosecuted plenty of men who killed their wives in a fit of passion. It wasn’t an uncommon crime. But I just couldn’t imagine it in Jim’s case. Sure, my mercurial friend had a temper, but he wasn’t a violent man, and he worshipped the ground Lori walked on. And sure, he had just hurried back to work on the day of her funeral. But that was Jim.

  I thought of his call to me after he found Lori’s body, his voice like a wounded animal’s, and the depth of his sorrow as we talked that first night. And today at the cemetery—I’d never seen such a grief-shattered face except in the mirror.

  No. With Jim, what you saw is what you got. More evidence might come, but my faith in Jim Kavanaugh’s innocence was unshakable.

  The rain gave way to a brisk wind that blew off the valley, shredding the cloud cover. I strained against it to open the gate at the entrance to my property. Archie greeted me with a muddy tennis ball in his jaws, and I gave him some needed exercise by tossing it as hard as I could. He normally caught it on one bounce, but if I threw the ball high enough, he fielded it like Willie Mays. My arm gave out before his energy did, and by the time we got to the house, I could see more rain in the distance, a diffuse gray mass being towed below a new band of galloping clouds.

  We stood silently on the side porch and watched the new front come in, which announced itself with a sound like distant applause in the swaying firs. I breathed in the smells the rain engendered—musty whiffs of wet earth mixed with the scent of saturated fir bark and needles. Northwest forest smells.

  I didn’t realize I was a pluviophile—a lover of rain—until I moved up here. Clearly, I was cut out to be an Oregonian.

  I fed Arch, started a fire with some kindling and a couple of oak logs, and poured myself a glass of Moulin des Vrilleres, which I sipped while I cooked. I liked the pinot gris from the Dundee Hills well enough, but my favorite white was the flinty, bone dry sauvignon blanc made around the hill town of Sancerre in the Loire Valley. I sipped while I cut up some small red potatoes, slathered them with olive oil and sea salt and popped them in a hot oven until they were crisp on the outside and soft and steaming in the middle. I served them with a slab of broiled rockfish and some steamed green beans. Simple but satisfying.

  The events of the day had hammered me, but after dinner I felt restless and knew sleep wasn’t going to come easily. Still curious about the murdered Hispanic man, I checked the Newberg Graphic for any additional information. There was none, so I tapped out a text to a contact there, a young reporter who’d done a profile piece on me a while back, covering the pro bono work I did in Portland. It was a Saturday night, so I didn’t expect an answer until the next day at best, but twenty minutes later this text pinged in: The man’s name is Luis Delgado. He’s undocumented, from Oaxaca. This came in from an anonymous source, so not official. Police are trying to find next of kin.

  At least I had a name, and I wasn’t surprised that no one had come forward, in view of Delgado’s undocumented status. The local police don’t go out of their way to hassle folks on that issue, but trust was next to zero in the Hispanic community, which supplied nearly all the field hands and many of the field bosses working the Dundee Hills vineyards. I immediately thought of Jim’s field boss, Juan Cruz. He knew nearly everyone who worked the vineyards and most of their families. I would talk to Juan, although my interest in Delgado was nothing more than a nagging hunch.

  ***

  Between clients on Monday, Jim called and invited me to a feast that Thursday to celebrate the end of harvest. “I couldn’t call it off,” he explained. “I owe my crew for a great job this year. It won’t be easy, but I’ll get through it.” He gave me Juan Cruz’s cell number, and I caught Juan out in the vineyards. He thought the name Luis Delgado sounded familiar and promised to see if he could find a contact. Before we rang off he said, “This idea that Jim had anything to do with Ms. Kavanaugh’s death is crazy. Jim has the roar of a lion but the bite of a flea. I have a hard time getting him to buy gopher traps.”

  Jim called me on Thursday morning and told me to come to Le Petit Truc early, if possible. He had some wine he wanted me to taste. Not one to pass up a barrel tasting offer, I got there around two and found him in his largest outbuilding, the warehouse where he aged his wine in sixty-gallon French oak barrels and carried out his fermenting and bottling operations. The air was heavy with the smell of wine, but it was a decidedly sharper and earthier odor compared to what comes from a bottle. Holding a bent glass tube with a large squeeze bulb in one hand and a wineglass in the other, he stood in a narrow aisle with oak wine barrels stacked four high in steel racks on either side of him. “Cal,” he said when he saw me, “wait until you taste this.” I was relieved to see he looked rested, more like himself. He held the tube up. “This is not a turkey baster. It’s called a wine thief.”

  I smiled. “Okay. What are we going to steal?”

  “Some of our reserve from last year. The fruit’s from our Pommard clone. I used a proprietary yeast and whole cluster fermentation.”

  “Whole cluster? What does that mean?”

  “Stems and all. If the stems are nice and ripe they can add structure and complexity to the wine.”

  “How do you judge that?”

  “I taste the stems. Last year they were right for it. This year—even more so.” He removed the stained wooden bung from a barrel, extracted some of the wine, squeezed it into the glass, and handed it to me. He nodded, his eyes expectant. “It’s not ready to bottle yet, but it’s getting there.”

 
I tipped the wineglass at a forty-five and held it up to the light. It glowed like polished ruby. I righted the glass and gave the wine several swirls before closing my eyes and putting my nose to it. The aroma opened up like a blooming flower. “Hell, I could just smell this stuff.”

  “It’s got a great nose, doesn’t it?”

  I nodded and swirled it again, took a sip, and held it for a few moments before letting it flow off my tongue to the floor of my mouth. It was slightly astringent coming in, but full and rich with a finish that lasted longer than the last note on the Sergeant Pepper album. “Damn, this is outstanding, Jim,” I told him. “Wait until the Wine Spectator reviews this. You’ve outdone yourself.”

  Jim allowed himself one of the few smiles I’d seen since Lori’s death. Nothing pleased him more than to have someone like his wine. “I knew it was going to be a good vintage, but I had no idea. And the best is yet to come, my friend.”

  We sampled from a few more barrels, and then I followed him around to the terrace of his wine tasting room, where preparations were underway for the feast. Long tables draped with white tablecloths were being set, and platters of filets, pork tenderloins, and salmon steaks sat next to a barbecue fashioned from a fifty gallon steel drum that had been cut in half and welded end to end. Wearing a chef’s hat, Juan Cruz was busy stoking the charcoal and preparing to lay in a stack of foil-wrapped baking potatoes. The weather was clear, and radiant heaters were in place to keep the chill off.

  “No music this year,” Jim said, his face clouding so fast I thought he might break into tears.

  Candice Roberts, who doubled as Jim’s sales manager and hostess of his wine tasting room, came out carrying a huge bowl of mushroom risotto. She was tall with a shock of bouncy blond hair, slate blue eyes, and a take-charge attitude. She managed Jim’s financial matters like a field marshal, bringing a semblance of discipline to the monetary side of Le Petit Truc. Jim often referred to her as his “secret weapon” and warned me not to make the mistake of calling her Candy.

  “Hey, Cal,” she greeted me. “There’s a big platter inside with the fixings for fish tacos. Would you bring it out, please? And there’s another bowl of risotto that needs to come out, too.”

  I got busy helping out and pretty soon people began arriving—field hands and their families, friends and neighbors of Jim’s, and a handful of customers, big spenders at the tasting room who wanted to be part of an authentic harvest feast. Soon the terrace was buzzing with conversation, although the mood was somber in view of the tragic event. When Candice finally announced it was time to eat, it took her two tries before people started filling their plates and finding a seat.

  Jim got up with a glass of pinot in his hand. “As you all know, I suck at speeches.” He paused to a titter of laughter. “I’d just like to thank each and every one of you for all the support this year.” He turned to the tables where most of the pickers and their families were seated. “And thank God we beat most of the rain.” More laughter and a bit of subdued cheering. “It was a great harvest, the best we’ve had here by any measure, and now all those beautiful grapes have been crushed and are safe and sound in the fermenters.” His looked turned solemn. “Some of you suggested I postpone or cancel this feast, but I know Lori would have wanted us to carry on the tradition.” He raised his glass. “Join me in a toast. To Lori.” His voice cracked as he added, “Wish you were here with us.”

  I found a seat between Eddie and a man named Richard Amis, a psychiatrist practicing out of McMinnville, I learned. Amis had a broad forehead, pale, heavy-lidded eyes, and a faintly patrician bearing. He hadn’t gotten the casual dress memo. “So, Cal,” he said, “I suppose you’re here like me, because you love Jim’s wines.”

  “Right. Jim and I go back quite a few years. I live not too far from here.”

  His smile broadened. “My wife and I just opened one of his pinot reserves we laid down four years ago.” He rolled his eyes. “Oh, my God, what a magnificent quaff. Lush, you know, but silky, with layers of crushed plum, black cherries, and just a hint of cassis. And the finish”—he closed his heavy lids for a moment—“like velvet.”

  Crushed plum? Cassis? What, no pencil lead or essence of leather? Where do people come up with this stuff? I forced a smile. “Sounds great. Was that the 2012?”

  “Yes. Do you have some?” When I nodded, he eyed me expectantly and added, “Have you tasted it yet?”

  “Yeah. It’s good.” I paused for a moment. “I’m, uh, better at drinking wines than describing them.”

  Eddie flashed a boyish smile. “Cal practices law down in Dundee, and he also does pro bono work in Portland.”

  Amis made a face. “Oh, my God, Portland has gone downhill, hasn’t it? I mean, the last time we went to the Schnitzer, we got asked for money four or five times between the parking garage and the theater. It really upset Veronica, and she said never again.”

  Sean McKnight, the pastor at Lori’s funeral, was sitting across from us. He was tall with square shoulders and a mane of long, silver hair. He said, “You know, we’re told the economic crisis is over, but there’s still an awful lot of people out there who are really hurting.”

  “Well,” Amis responded, “if Portland didn’t coddle these people there wouldn’t be such a problem. The city’s a magnet for every lowlife in the country.”

  I started to respond, but Eddie cut me off. The man was a peacemaker, apparently. “So, Sean, you still growing hazelnuts and kiwis at Stone Gate?”

  McKnight smiled and nodded. “Yep, we’re still plugging away. We’re planning to put in a new variety of kiwi that we’ve been experimenting with. No fuzz on the skin, and it ripens on the vine. Looks promising.”

  Amis drank some wine and regarded the pastor over the rim of his glass. “No fuzz and ripens on the vine? Sounds like grapes to me.” He laughed, but nobody joined him. “Seriously, wouldn’t you be better off growing grapes? With your elevation and orientation, the wineries that don’t have enough acreage would beat a path to your door.”

  McKnight smiled as if he’d heard that tune before. “Don’t choose to grow grapes. Wouldn’t know the first thing about it.”

  Amis drank some more wine and shook his head. “Nuts and kiwis. What a pity. The Dundee Hills may be the best place in the world outside of Burgundy—hell, maybe the best place, period—to grow pinot noir grapes.”

  An uncomfortable silence followed Amis’ comments. I got up to build a salmon taco and ran into Jim at the food table. He’d been sitting with Juan and the field hands. He shot me a relaxed smile and said under his breath, “Be nice to that guy, Amis, sitting next to you. He’s a very good retail customer.”

  “That’s asking a lot. He’s a wine sno—”

  “Oh, shit,” Jim interrupted, looking past me. “We’ve got company.”

  I turned around and saw a white Yamhill County Sheriff’s patrol car coming down the drive, followed by an unmarked sedan. “Stay cool. I’ll go see what they want.”

  Ballard and Rodriquez got out of the unmarked. By the time I reached them the laughter and conversation at the feast went silent, and I could feel the gaze of fifty people on my back. I smiled as cordially as I could manage. “Evening, detectives, can I help you?”

  Rodriquez shuffled her feet and Ballard stepped forward, his face tense. “Is your client here, counselor?”

  “Of course, it’s his harvest feast.”

  Ballard nodded. “Maybe you could go get him. That might be the easiest way to do this.”

  “Do what?”

  “We’ve got a warrant for his arrest for the murder of Lori Kavanaugh.”

  I blew a breath and shook my head. “You’re not serious.”

  Ballard shrugged. “We are. We think he killed his wife, and now the D.A. does, too.”

  I waved for Jim to come join us. My heart sank as he approached. His face held an annoyed, what-t
he-hell-now? look. Annoyed was one thing, but having your life turned upside down was quite another, and that was exactly what was about to happen to my friend.

  Chapter Eight

  Jim was escorted to the patrol car. He turned back to me. “Tell Candice to carry on, Cal. There’s plenty of wine and food left.”

  I nodded. “I’ll be at the county jail just as soon as I can. And listen, Jim—don’t talk to them. Name, rank, and serial number. Nothing else.” A murmur went up from the guests like the buzz of a beehive as he was cuffed and loaded into the cruiser. Everyone remained seated except Candice, Eddie, and Sylvia, who rushed up to me. Sylvia’s eyes were wide with confusion and fear. “What just happened, Cal?”

  There was no sugarcoating it. They all saw the handcuffs. “Uh, Jim’s been arrested. I’ve got to go to McMinnville to see what this is all about.”

  “Sylvia and I are going with you,” Eddie said.

  I turned to Candice. “Tell everyone this is just a misunderstanding, that they should continue with the feast.”

  Candice made a brave face. “I’ll do my best.”

  Sylvia and Eddie rode with me to the Sheriff’s Office in McMinnville, where Jim was being processed prior to incarceration in the county jail. As we got underway, Eddie said, “I don’t get it. Jim told us he wasn’t a suspect.”

  “Yes,” Silvia added, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue. “He said all they had against him was the fact that he and Lori had a rocky relationship.”

  “That’s about all I know, too,” I said. “They might claim that gave him a motive, and the fact that he found her very near the time of her death proves he had the opportunity.”

  “Oh, sure,” Eddie shot back. “He killed her, then called the police. That makes a lot of sense.”

  I shrugged. “They might argue that he either lost his temper and killed her in a moment of passion, or he planned it all along. Either way, they’ll say he wanted the police to believe he discovered the body.”