by Nadia Gordon
“You holding up okay?”
“I’ll be fine. Harry says he’s hoping to spring me tomorrow morning.”
“Have him call me when you know anything, okay?”
“I will.”
“I brought you lunch, and samples of berries from all eight sections. They’re all labeled. And I made you a Thermos of coffee, but they won’t let you have it. I guess they’re afraid you’ll use it to bust your way out of here.” He shook his head and she smiled. “Rivka measured Brix yesterday around five and I took another reading first thing this morning.” She dug the papers out of her bag and held them up to the glass for him to see. He leaned in and studied them.
“Good. That’s great, Sunny. Thanks for taking care of all this stuff.”
“No problem. Do you want me to come to the arraignment tomorrow?”
Wade sighed and roughed up his hair. “No, you go take care of your restaurant. You have plenty to do without watching me sit around in an orange jumpsuit. I’ll call you when it’s over. Is Farber still kicking?”
“I think he’s more or less living on the roof. He came down this morning and followed me out into the vineyard.”
“The roof’s a good safe place for him, away from the coyotes. He’s a smart cat.” He looked at her, holding her eyes in a steady gaze. “He knows how to stay out of trouble.”
“He may be the only one,” said Sunny.
“I hope not,” said Wade. “You’re in a hurry to get somewhere. What’s going on?”
“Oh, nothing. Just lots to do today. We have a new menu at the restaurant tomorrow, so I need to get in there and make sure I’ve got all the kinks ironed out. We’re doing coq au vin, which I haven’t cooked in about three years.”
Wade said, “Uh-huh,” emphasizing the second syllable, which meant he didn’t buy it.
She sighed. “What do you know about the Campaglia family?”
“You mean Nesto?”
“I mean the whole family.”
“Well, he has two boys. I think they work with him there at the vineyard.”
“No, I mean what do you know about the Campaglias and Beroni Vineyards?”
“Beyond the fact that they work there, nothing. I know Nesto has been winemaker at Beroni Vineyards for as long as I’ve been around.”
“So you’ve never heard of any old rivalry or bad blood between the two families?”
“I know that Nesto and Jack knocked heads on occasion. That’s not that surprising considering that Nesto has been running the winery forever and Jack struts around like he owns the place, which he does, so that probably just makes it worse.”
“Right.” She looked at her watch. “You need anything before I take off?”
“Not a thing. What’s this all about?”
“Just curious.”
Wade scowled. “You made coq au vin not three weeks ago.”
“That was a different kind. Parisian. This one is Provençal.”
“I see. You are a terrible liar, McCoskey.”
She pinched her lower lip. “I need to work on that. Don’t worry, I’ll be careful.”
He frowned. “Careful isn’t enough. Don’t go getting yourself killed.”
They stood up and she trailed her fingers across the glass after him, then left the visiting room. There was just enough time to make it to Monty’s house by eleven-thirty. She stormed down Highway 29, taking a few risks to pass on the two-lane road headed for the Oakville grade. The truck chugged up Mount Veeder, laboring in the steepest section around a tight turn. Sunny downshifted, revving the engine to get the RPMs up on the old engine. Up ahead to the left, Monty’s turnoff came into view. As she pulled into the driveway, Monty opened the front door and came out with his jacket in hand. He hefted himself into the cab of the truck and slammed the door.
“For God’s sake, when are you going to buy a new car?” he said.
“Never. I’m shocked you would even suggest such a thing.”
“I’m sorry, but I guess the turn of the new millennium made me think you might consider an upgrade.”
“The Ranger has twentieth-century-retro appeal. I thought you loved the seventies.”
“It’s completely embarrassing. I love the twenties, but I don’t want to drive a Model T. Do you mind if I sink down as we go through the populated areas?”
“This from the man who suggested we go live in a yurt by the river.”
“I’m sorry, you must be thinking of someone else.” He looked her up and down. “You look nice. Showing some leg and everything. You have a date later or is this for me?”
“Spare me.”
“Showing some nasty-looking bruise, too. And what happened to your hand?”
“Where are we going?”
Monty directed her back across the valley to the Silverado Trail. They headed up into the mountains on the other side, climbing switchbacks and catching slices of the view through gaps in the trees. Monty pointed to a turnoff that took them through a fieldstone gateway and up a blacktopped drive lined with olive trees. The trees were loaded with small green fruit getting ready to turn. Sunny calculated the yield out of habit as she drove, counting the trees and estimating the tonnage. There was enough fruit for a substantial to overwhelming supply of olives even for a restaurant, or a modest supply of olive oil. They parked in a paved oval lot tucked off to the side of the road and hopped out. Sunny fished in her knapsack for the photocopy from the library and folded it up, tucking it into the sleeve of her sweater.
Ripley Marlow’s home was the picture of modern, understated elegance. A combination of white adobe, slate, and dark wood, it gracefully spread out at the top of the hill, its double front doors richly varnished. Sunny smoothed her skirt and tugged at her sweater, feeling relieved that she wasn’t wearing her usual jeans and T-shirt. Monty rang the bell. The sound of heels clicking on wood floors grew steadily louder and a moment later the door opened.
As a fixture of Napa Valley high society, Ripley Marlow had spent years opening her door to guests. Her face showed the easy poise of social skills burnished to a luster by decades of practice. She was probably close to seventy years old, and her face was lovely, with almost no makeup. Her silver hair was combed back and loosely gathered at the nape of her neck, and she wore small, tasteful gold earrings. She was dressed in a chocolate-brown sweater knit of very fine wool and herringbone trousers with wide legs and cuffs. Everything about her bespoke taste, from the simple gold wristwatch to the alligator belt and matching mules. She embraced Monty and held a thin hand out to Sunny.
She stood back and looked at them. “What a lovely surprise, Monty. I’m so glad you called. I can’t remember the last time you came to the house.”
“It was July, for your wonderful midsummer party.”
“Wasn’t that a fine evening! I always enjoy my midsummer dinner.” Ripley smiled warmly at him.
“I’m sorry about Jack,” said Monty. “It must have been a great shock.”
“Yes, it was. I was supposed to have lunch with him just the day before he died. We always had luncheon together on the third Wednesday of the month, you know. He canceled that morning so he could fly to Los Angeles for business, so I didn’t get to see him. And of course now I never will. It hardly seems real.”
She gave them a resigned half-smile and led them through a tile entryway to a sunken living room as big as a football field. Sunny caught a glimpse of kitchen through a far-off archway, enough to tell her it was as big as Wildside’s and full of immaculate stainless-steel appliances. The living room faced a wall of windows overlooking a narrow pool dropped into the stone patio in back. Beyond the pool lay the green expanse of the valley. Sunny sat down on the white couch facing the fireplace with its slab of what she guessed was mahogany for a mantel.
“Sonya, come sit on this side or you will miss the view,” said Ripley. “Will you two join me in a glass of wine? I know Monty will. It’s only just noon, but it is Sunday, after all. We should be allowed.” She smi
led broadly at Sunny. “Monty, you’ve seen the view a hundred times. You come help me and let Sonya enjoy it for a moment.”
They returned a few minutes later with a bottle of Grgich Hills Fumé Blanc and a tray of grapes, sliced pears, crackers, and two kinds of soft white cheese veined with blue and green. Sunny began to wish her visit didn’t involve a lot of nosy questions. She hadn’t thought until now that Ripley might be deeply saddened by Jack’s death.
“To a fine autumn day,” said Ripley. They touched glasses and drank. The Grgich Hills Fumé Blanc was one of Sunny’s favorites, though a Pinot Noir might have made a nicer complement to the cheeses, especially if there were walnuts. She sipped the cool wine. Ironically, the only thing better than a glass of Fumé Blanc was a handful of the Sauvignon Blanc grapes themselves. She’d tasted them once on a visit during harvest. At the time it had seemed a tragedy to crush them so they could rot into wine, but of course the berries last only a day or two and the wine captures the flavor for years. She had always meant to ask for a cutting so she could plant it in her yard. The grapes she’d grow might not taste exactly the same, might not be so delicate and fragrant, since they wouldn’t be pruned and stressed the same way, not to mention they’d be growing in a different microclimate, but it was worth a try if they were willing to give her a cutting—a practice some wineries considered a sacrilege, like sending one’s child to live with the neighbors.
Monty popped a slice of pear in his mouth and loaded a cracker with cheese.
Ripley leaned back into the couch and looked perfectly at ease. “Now, I know you aren’t here just to visit. What can I do for you?” she said.
“I’m interested in the history of the Beroni and Campaglia families,” Sunny said. She paused, considering her approach. “It’s not just a passing interest. If you read the paper this morning, you know that Wade Skord, the vintner whose place is adjacent to Beroni Vineyards, was arrested for Jack’s murder yesterday. I’ve known Wade for years and I don’t think he did it. I do believe that there may be a lead to the actual killer somewhere in the histories of the two families.”
“Wade Skord. I didn’t read the paper today, but I do remembering meeting Mr. Skord, at the wine auction a couple of years ago. If I am thinking of the right person, I remember that he struck me as a man who has weathered a difficult life, which, unfortunately, had robbed him of the finer nuances of manners. To be perfectly honest, I found him coarse, but he did not strike me as dangerous. Not a murderer, if I had to guess. More of a maverick. They’ve never been my type.” She winked at Sunny.
Monty tipped a slab of cheese onto another cracker. “Wade’s finer nuances were stunted long before he experienced any difficulties. But I don’t think he did it, either,” he said.
“I also doubt ancient history is a factor,” said Ripley. “If the Campaglias were going to kill for control of Beroni Vineyards, they would have done so a long time ago.”
“I found this at the library this morning,” said Sunny. She slipped the photocopy out of her sleeve and unfolded it, smoothing away the body heat before handing it to Ripley.
“Sunny always has something up her sleeve,” said Monty, smirking.
While Ripley examined the grainy reproduction, Sunny recounted what she had heard on the tape at the library about Augustus Campaglia dying, Stella Campaglia not knowing anything about business, and “Old Man” Beroni buying the vineyard from her. Ripley looked at the picture for a long time.
Sunny said, “It seems odd that I’ve never heard these stories about Beroni Vineyards. We know the stories of all the other prominent wineries, who owned them and all the changes they went through, and what’s more, this one has exactly the elements of tragedy to it that make it perfect for gossip. You would think it would have become part of the Beroni lore.”
“Hardly,” said Ripley. “Great-grandfather Beroni lived into his early nineties, and he would never have allowed anyone to speak of such private matters. It was strictly forbidden to discuss family matters, not among the family and certainly not outside it. He was a gruff, stern old man. I remember him up in that house when I was a child and he was still running things. He’d sit in his chair on the porch and watch everything that went on at the vineyard. We were all terrified of him.
“To be honest, I don’t know exactly what did happen between him and Stella Campaglia, and I don’t think anyone alive does, or ever will, for that matter. It is true that what is now Beroni Vineyards was once owned—was established by—the Campaglias. It was called the Cortona Winery after the town in Tuscany where Augustus Campaglia had emigrated from. After Augustus died, Great-grandfather Beroni bought the winery and changed the name. Stella Campaglia, Augustus’s wife, was still a relatively young woman then, and her boys would have been children of nine or ten years old. She was dead long before I was born. I always heard that she went somewhat mad after her husband died. Her two boys stayed on, working for Great-grandfather Beroni. I think the younger of the two eventually joined the service. In any case, he went away and never came back. The older boy—that would be Ernie Campaglia’s grandfather—was a very sweet man called Aggie, who everyone adored. I remember him. He would take us swimming, and I remember he once took us to get ice creams in town. A sweet, gentle man. He died when I was about five.”
Ripley massaged her hands, immersed in the summer days of her memory. Her rings caught Sunny’s attention. They sparkled with gold and diamonds, each probably marking a significant moment in a successful life of privilege: confirmation, engagement, marriage, anniversary. Her hands where veined with age, but still showed an inherent beauty.
“I spent summers at Beroni Vineyards throughout my childhood. Al’s mother was my mother’s sister, so Al and I are cousins. We are more or less the same age. Then there was little Ernie Campaglia—everyone calls him Nesto now—who was a few years younger. We were a gang, running around over there. We had a ball. Swimming, horseback riding, hiking. It was a paradise for children.” She sighed and looked at Sunny and Monty to see if there was anything in their experience that would enable them to imagine it. “In any case, all that is irrelevant to recent events. If there was anything sinister about Great-grandfather’s methods of acquiring Beroni Vineyards, they are safely vanished into the void of history.”
“So Al and Nesto got along as children?” asked Sunny.
“Oh, yes. They were fast friends. Al is three or four years older, as I said, and he was completely devoted to Ernie. They were inseparable. Al always looked after Ernie. They grew apart as they got older, mostly because their responsibilities separated them, but I think they have always remained fond of each other. Al’s father was very traditional. He brought Al up to be a cultured, educated member of the ruling class, while Ernie plunged into the nuts and bolts of the winemaking business. When he was about ten years old, Al was sent away to school. I don’t think Ernie even finished junior high. Ernie loved being at the winery from a very young age. He was fascinated by the transformation of grapes into wine.”
“So Al’s and Nesto’s children weren’t raised together,” said Sunny.
“No. You have to understand how the business changed over the years,” said Ripley. “Beroni Vineyards today is ten times the size it was when I was a child. The gulf between the two families widened a great deal between my generation and my children’s. By the time Jack came around, the Beronis had become a very wealthy, very international family. Ernie’s kids went to public school in Calistoga and had summer jobs helping out at the winery. Jack went to boarding school in Switzerland until high school and spent summers yachting on the bay.”
Sunny reached for a cluster of grapes. “And what about now? Do you know of anyone who might have wanted Jack dead?”
Ripley smiled sadly and reclined against the soft white couch, her glass of wine misted over with coolness and sparkling yellow. She sighed. “My dear, so many people might have wanted Jack dead.”
Sunny waited, giving Ripley’s sadness time to be felt. S
he wanted to ask who? And why? But the look on Ripley’s face prevented her. She thought of her own cousin, whom she’d spent summers playing with and who had just had a baby girl. How would it feel to watch that child grow into a young woman, only to meet a fate like Jack’s? She put her glass down. The wine in the middle of the day, without much to eat, was making her head soft. She said, “What about Jack’s girlfriend, Larissa Richards? Do you know her?”
“Yes, I know her quite well.”
“What did you think of her relationship with Jack?”
Ripley paused, then said, “Larissa is a lovely girl from a very good British family, but the fact that she has chosen to live here, thousands of miles from that family, says as much as I could about her background. I think that she and Jack were, in some ways, far too much alike to be really good for each other.” She paused in a way that made Sunny think that she must have smoked at one time. It was the place in a conversation where she would have lit a cigarette before going on, and for a second, she looked distracted, her hand fluttering nervously, as though resisting a pang of chemical lust. It was gone just as quickly, replaced by her practiced composure. She fixed Sunny’s eyes with her own. “Jack and Larissa were both predators. In a relationship, it is better if someone is the prey.”
Sunny felt a chill at the remark. She decided to play one last card. She said, “Mrs. Marlow, who inherits Beroni Vineyards now that Jack is dead?”
Ripley smiled. “I haven’t the faintest idea.”
Once they were driving, Monty asked if it was worth the trouble of going out there.
“I don’t know,” said Sunny. “It was nice to meet her at least. There’s a good spot up ahead for lunch. You want to stop?”
She passed it, made a U-turn, and doubled back, pulling off at an overlook. She grabbed the sack lunch, a bottle of water, and the Thermos from behind the seat and let the tailgate down for them to sit on. Below, the land sloped away steeply, offering a view almost as spectacular as the one from Ripley Marlow’s living room. Sunny divided the egg salad sandwich in two and poured water into the Thermos cup for Monty, keeping the liner cup for herself, then set out the sliced apples and Cheddar cheese. It felt good to be outside in the fresh air.
