Blood for Wine

by Warren C Easley

We riffed on that for a while, and then I left them to their work and set off to find Candice. “How’s business?” I asked when I found her in the wine tasting room. Her slate blues looked tired, and her hair was piled carelessly on her head, making her look even taller than her six feet.

  She hugged Arch and frowned up at me theatrically. “You don’t want to know. One of our main distributors is dropping us. Just got the word this morning. Haven’t broken it to the boss yet.”

  I sat down across from her, and she closed the lid to her laptop and looked directly at me. “What kind of pills is that asshole using?”

  “Klonopin. It’s an anti-anxiety—”

  She nodded. “Benzos. That figures. They’re popular in the valley these days.”

  “Did you see him taking them?”

  “I saw him take some with his Scotch, but he didn’t think I noticed. They were lying loose in a drawer next to his bed.” She blushed a pale shade of red and looked away. “Jesus, Cal. I’m doing this for Jim, but he’s going to think I’m some sort of harlot.”

  “No, he won’t. He thinks the world of you.”

  “Sure he does,” she said, and then her look turned hopeful. “At least he’s made it a point not to ask me anything about the dates.”

  “Good. I’ll keep him updated,” I said and brought her back to the night before. “So, you took a pill from the drawer. Did you put it back after you photographed it?”

  She pursed her lips momentarily. “No. When I went to put it back, Blake began stirring, so I held on to it.”

  “Hmm. Will he miss it?”

  “I doubt it, but if he does, I’ll just tell him I wanted to try one.” She fixed me with her eyes. “Blake’s popping pills like Lori. Have I found a connection?”

  I shrugged. “It’s certainly a possibility. Klonopin and Xanax are first cousins. Did you learn anything else?”

  A thin smile spread across her face. “Besides the fact that he’s a lousy lover? Well, he did pump me about the case some more. I told him you were lining up witnesses and experts, but that you seemed really worried about Jim’s chances. That seemed to please him, and he warned me again about how evil Jim is, that he murdered an innocent woman. It was weird.”

  I nodded and took her through some more details about the case that she could casually drop, points that weren’t strategic but sounded like inside information.

  “Another thing. He asked me if I ever took my work home. He’s hinting around about Jim’s books.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “Oh, I laughed and said I bring stuff home all the time, like I didn’t catch his drift. I figure he’ll come back to me on that, Cal. He’s grooming me.”

  I turned that over for a few moments. “Let’s do this—tell him I’m asking you all kinds of questions about the business, that you’re summarizing a lot of information for me. Meanwhile, why don’t you and Jim cook something up to show him, like bogus sales volumes, costs, that sort of thing? Make the numbers better than they actually are.”

  She smiled, nodding slowly. “Oh, I like the way you think. We can do that.”

  “Did you get a look in his study?”

  “Couldn’t chance it. Like I said, he was starting to stir.”

  “When will you see him next?”

  She frowned. “Wednesday night. He has tickets to a play in Portland.”

  “Good. Try to find out where he’s getting his pills. If they’re prescribed there might be a pill bottle around.”

  At that point, Jim came in. The three of us kicked around how best to cook the books for Blake Daniels, and when we finished Jim turned to me. “Sylvia and Eddie are having a big bash this Friday night to celebrate Tilikum’s twelfth anniversary.”

  “You should go.”

  He laughed and waved a hand. “Not this time. They’re pulling in all their big investors. You think they want me there?”

  I shook my head. “You’re—”

  “I’m not going,” he cut in. “It’s going to be at some posh hotel downtown. I was thinking you and Winona should go. You know, consider it a perk for having me as a client.” That made all three of us laugh. “Seriously, it’ll be nice. I want you to go and enjoy yourselves.”

  I nodded. “Okay, I’ll see if Winona’s up for it and let you know.”

  I left that day wondering if I could talk Winona into going to the Tilikum party. I had to smile, thinking about what her reaction would be, and I could hear her groaning already. But the smile was short-lived when I thought about Candice’s continued involvement with Blake Daniels. Her work was starting to pay off, and this time I’d encouraged her to stay involved. What if something happened to her?

  I was all too familiar with slippery slopes, and this had all the earmarks of one.

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  “What’s this hospice thing all about, Claxton?” It was the next morning, and Judge Clarence Whitcomb was on the line with Helen Berkowitz conferenced in.

  I explained the situation, and Berkowitz and I reargued our positions. When we finished, I added, “Time is of the essence, your honor. It’s pancreatic cancer.”

  A long pause ensued. I hoped he was looking at his docket. Whitcomb sighed into the phone. “Okay, I’ll issue a show cause for Abernathy and the hospice. We’ll try to hear this sucker on Thursday at three if we can round the parties up.” Whitcomb put his clerk on, and I gave her Abernathy’s home and work addresses and the name and address of the hospice. I smiled to myself at the thought of hipster boy being slapped with a subpoena. Oh, to be a fly on the wall.

  The temperature took a dive that day, and by the time Arch and I headed for The Aerie, a cold rain was trying its damnedest to morph into sleet. I was toweling off Arch at the front door when Sean McKnight pulled up. I invited him in, but he stopped at the foot of the front porch steps and looked up at me, seemingly oblivious to the slush pattering around him. “No, thanks, Cal. I was, ah, just passing by and wondered if you would happen to have Maura Conisson’s phone number or address. She’s unlisted. I’d like to get in touch with her.”

  I thought of the suggestion I gave Maura to call him. Apparently, she hadn’t gotten around to it. I grimaced. “Can’t do that, Sean. I’m bound by confidentiality not to disclose her personal information.” She wasn’t really my client, so that wasn’t completely true. But I was uncomfortable sharing the information. “She knows how to contact you. Give her some time.”

  He nodded and absently wiped a dollop of slush from the bridge of his nose. “Well, okay. I understand. I—”

  “You sure you don’t want to come in?”

  He told me no and drove off as I stood there shaking my head. I understood how he felt; the kind of utter desolation that ensues when your moorings are suddenly cut. Should I have given him Maura’s number? No. You’ve meddled enough, I reminded myself. Still, I worried about the good Reverend.

  ***

  Wednesday night came and went with no surreptitious texts from Candice Roberts. She called me Thursday morning. “It was an early night,” she said. “Blake got a little drunk, and I didn’t see any pill bottles lying around. Like we discussed, I told him I was busy going over Le Petit Truc’s books because of a bunch of questions you asked me. He practically salivated, Cal. He’s going to ask if he can look over my shoulder. I’m sure of it.”

  She told me they were seeing each other again on Saturday night. After she punched off I sat there deep in thought. Was Daniels just a ruthless competitor who wanted an inside track in case Le Petit Truc came on the market? Or was he a stone cold killer? I sighed and looked over at Arch, who tilted his ears forward in a gesture of attentiveness. “One thing’s for sure, Big Boy,” I told him. “I’m going to find a way to make Candice’s next meeting with Blake her last.” The risk was just too great.

  The show cause hearing on Thursday afternoon wa
s a slam dunk. Aaron Abernathy didn’t bother to show, and the hospice’s attorney agreed to the interview, provided it didn’t last more than thirty minutes and a doctor was present to supervise. I argued for a Friday interview but settled for Saturday at noon.

  After a busy Friday at Caffeine Central, Archie and I sped through a shopping spree at Whole Foods before finally finding a parking space three blocks from Winona’s loft in the Pearl District. It was the same story everywhere in town—cars were starting to outnumber parking spaces in significant numbers, one of the prices of Portland becoming a cultural phenomenon and the darling of millennials with means. She greeted Archie, then hugged me and the bag full of groceries I carried. “Come right in. I’m starving.”

  “You only love me because of my vegetarian chili,” I said.

  She laughed. “Not true. I love you for your pork tenderloin with cherry reduction sauce, and anything you do with salmon, too.”

  The plan was to have a quick meal and then drop by the Tilikum party at the Sentinel Hotel. Winona had agreed to go, but, as I expected, only grudgingly. “It’ll be fun and besides, I’m curious to see what the vibe is,” I explained. “When liquor flows, tongues get loose.”

  She made a face. “Okay, but you owe me, Cal Claxton. I find social gatherings of well-to-do white people a little on the soul-sucking side.”

  While we sipped one of Winona’s Sancerres, I cooked and she brought me up-to-date on the precarious plight of the steelhead runs on the Snake River and why the four dams on the river needed to go if the runs were to survive. We kicked that around, and by the time I added spices to a simmering skillet of diced tomatoes, peppers, black beans, and Kalamata olives, our conversation had turned to Jim’s case.

  “I’m on overload at the moment, but I feel like I’m close to something, a breakthrough, maybe,” I said, and went on to tell her Nando had confirmed that Isabel Ruffino was still in Portland, that Blake Daniels had a benzo habit like Lori Kavanaugh, and that I had an appointment the next day to interview Lori’s mother, Irene Halstead, who might know who Lori’s lover was.

  “Even if Halstead can’t remember a name,” I went on, “I’ll have a shot at establishing reasonable doubt in court if she confirms there was a lover.”

  “What about that scumbag, Richard Amis? He could be Daniels’ supplier, and who knows what mischief they might’ve cooked up together?”

  I shrugged and smiled sheepishly. “I said I was close to something. Trouble is, I’m not sure what.” I tasted the chili. “This is ready. Let’s eat.”

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  It was still cold, but the sky had cleared so we walked to the Sentinel Hotel, which was over on SW Eleventh in a turn-of-the-last-century, art nouveau building on the Historic Register. We entered through a set of imposing white marble columns into a lobby with a vaulted, coffered ceiling, intricately patterned marble floors, priceless-looking Oriental rugs, and massive leather furniture. “Figures,” Winona said, looking around at the understated opulence.

  We were directed to the Governor Ballroom, where an attractive young woman at the entry checked off our names. Jim Kavanaugh may have been a persona non grata, but his best pinot noir and pinot gris were flowing freely along with copious amounts of a sparkling wine made by another Dundee winery, Argyle. Sylvia Manning waved from across the room and worked her way through the crowd to greet us. She wore a conservative black dress accented with a silver necklace and, except for a trace of pale pink lipstick, was without makeup. Her smile was genuine, but I caught something in her eyes—worry, maybe, or just nervous tension. “Cal and Winona, so nice of you to come.”

  “We just stopped by to extend our congratulations on year twelve,” I said. “Consider us Jim’s surrogates.”

  Her face clouded over. “Oh, God, I feel terrible about not including Uncle Jim. I wanted to, but Eddie felt it wasn’t a good idea.” She glanced around. “Our biggest investors are here tonight.”

  I nodded. “He understands. You have a business to run. Is Eddie going to speak?”

  She glanced at her watch. “In about five minutes. He has a great message tonight.”

  Eddie Manning took the stage, casually carrying a glass of wine. He wore a finely tailored blue suit, red power tie, and a single stud in his left ear that winked in the overhead lights. After thanking everyone for coming he said, “I’d like to propose a toast tonight to the two groups of people who’ve made Tilikum Capital Management such a success over the past twelve years. First, to our investors. We’ve always said your money is our sacred trust.” He paused, smiled, and opened his hands. “Well, you believed in us, and look what’s happened.” A patter of laughter and applause ensued, and for a moment I thought he was going to tear up. “Thank you from the bottom of my heart.” He raised his glass, took a sip, and went on to toast his employees, whom he praised as “the smartest, hardest working investment professionals in the business.”

  He touched on the business next, which he described at one point as “robust with the prospect of significant upside” and then went on to give a pitch for a new investment fund—The Tilikum Private Client Fund—that was reserved especially for the well-heeled investors in attendance. I glanced over at Winona, who rolled her eyes, and I figured that, like me, she was wondering who would be in Tilikum’s debt collection crosshairs this time.

  Whoever said it takes money to make money got it right.

  Eddie finished to rousing applause, and after a huge cake was cut and shared along with more wine, toasts, and gift giveaways—a bevy of MacBook Pros, iPads, Bose headphones, and the like—he announced that Tilikum had reserved the Jackknife Bar in the hotel for the rest of the night, drinks on the house. I looked at Winona with raised eyebrows, she shrugged a yes, and as we drifted into the bar with the crowd, I bent close her. “Just for a while. Let’s split up, see what’s being said.”

  Winona peeled off with a group of Tilikum employees, I guessed salespersons by their buttoned-down, non-tattooed appearances, and I headed for the bar where a row of silver-haired investors were ordering a first round. Eddie stopped by, greeted them all by their first names and pumped my hand. “Welcome, Cal. Glad someone from Dundee’s showing the flag,” he said, flashing a brilliant smile. He went on to explain to the assembled group that the new investment fund would be based on purchasing medical debt. “We’ll buy it pennies on the dollar with an opportunity to collect the full amount,” he explained. “Exceptional opportunity.” Eddie left to mingle elsewhere, and I listened to the group discuss Tilikum’s prospects. They were all bullish on Tilikum’s prospects, to be sure.

  Since I wasn’t driving, I ordered another drink—a Rémy Martin VSOP—and worked my way down the bar. By this time the crowd was moving off the topic of high finance as voices and laughter filled the room. I was talking to a couple of mid-level managers when I noticed Sylvia enter the bar. She stopped, her hands found her hips, and her look directed me to Eddie, who stood at a small, round table in a corner of the room. His smile flashed as he gestured to two young and very attractive female employees, who seemed enthralled with his every word. Sylvia watched for a few moments, then spun around and left without Eddie even noticing. I set my drink down, excused myself, and followed her.

  She didn’t stop until she was out on Eleventh Street. “I didn’t know you smoked,” I said as I joined her.

  She blew out a plume of bluish smoke and tried unsuccessfully to smile. “Yeah, well I quit but just started up again.” She took another long drag on her cigarette.

  “You seem upset. Is something wrong?”

  She exhaled very slowly as if considering my question, then swung her gaze to me. Her eyes filled but didn’t spill over. “All I ask is that he not be so obvious about it.” She inhaled again before going on, the smoke tumbling from her mouth as she spoke. “I don’t care about a fling or two as long as he’s discreet, you know what I mean?” I nodded. She la
ughed bitterly. “Like John Kennedy or Bill Clinton, he just can’t seem to help it.”

  I nodded, not quite knowing what to say.

  “Then there’s Uncle Jim’s situation.” She inhaled and blew out another cloud of smoke that drifted down 11th Street. “God, what a mess.”

  “Don’t worry about Jim. We’ll get that sorted out.”

  She swung her gaze back to me, her look making it clear she knew I was speaking more out of desire than conviction. “I hope so,” she said, forcing a wan smile before dropping the cigarette and grinding it out on the pavement with a toe of her high heels. “Better get back to the party.” She gritted out another smile. “Appearances, you know.”

  When I re-entered the Jackknife Bar I found Winona laughing uproariously with a group of female Tilikum employees. I waved at her, and after hugs all around she broke free from the group and joined me. I wasn’t surprised that she quickly bonded with those women. Winona’s frank demeanor had a way of disarming people and inviting trust and friendship. I wished she had been out there with Sylvia rather than me.

  Sylvia had joined the high rollers at the bar, and I didn’t see Eddie, so we slipped out of the Jackknife without saying goodbye. The night air held a damp chill, and Winona leaned into me and grasped my arm as we walked down 11th toward Burnside. “So, what do you think?” I asked.

  “Interesting. I want in on that private fund.”

  I laughed. “You can’t afford it. It’s going to be medical debt this time. Lots of that out there these days.”

  “Ugh. How utterly disgusting.”

  “Did you hear anything interesting?” I asked.

  “Not much except that Eddie is going to be the next Warren Buffet. Oh, and he’s quite the womanizer. Did you see him in the corner with those two young women?” I nodded. “And he’s not just a flirt from what I heard.”

  “That’s for sure.” I told her what Sylvia let slip. We walked along in silence for a while.

  Winona said, “Like I said before, Eddie would have been a nice catch for Lori, and now we know the guy’s a serious player.”