by Nadia Gordon
The bearded man turned to the woman keeping notes and said, “Keith Spivy, Rising Star Farms, Yountville. I’d just like to say that I’ve spent twelve years creating an eco-friendly, productive, profitable organic farm run in harmony with the environment, using sustainable agricultural practices that actually improve the soil instead of depleting it. One dose of carbaryl will wipe out all of that in ten minutes. Poison my land, and not only is the land fouled, the fruits of the land are toxic as well.”
A round of scattered applause interrupted him. “Carbaryl kills the honeybees we need for pollination, the ladybugs, dragonflies, earthworms, the good spiders, and all the other beneficials, not to mention the butterflies. Right now my farm can protect itself. If I allow you to spray, it will be as defenseless as the overstressed, chemical-ridden monoculture that’s caused our vulnerability to this problem in the first place.”
He sat down to more scattered applause. Frank Schmidt turned to Charlie. “Charlie, before we get much further into this, why don’t you give us a quick recap of where we stand from the scientific point of view. Outline the situation briefly so everyone knows what we’re talking about here.”
Charlie nodded. “Charlie Rhodes, University of California at Davis, Napa County field research facility resident entomologist. While I haven’t had a chance to examine the specimen or the area in which it was discovered personally as yet, my understanding is that it was a single glassy-winged sharpshooter discovered late on Friday afternoon in a yellow sticky trap located in an olive grove near the vineyard at the Maya Culpa Vineyard on Mount Veeder. I think we are all clear by now on the threat posed by the glassy-winged sharpshooter, but just to review, they’re high-powered xylem tissue sap-feeders, and as such they vector all kinds of plant pathogens, notably the bacterium Xylellafastidiosa, a.k.a. Pierce’s disease. The sharpshooter literally injects the bacterium into the plant as it’s feeding, vectoring it directly into the plant’s xylem tissues. There the bacterium multiplies and produces a gel-like substance that blocks the water-conductive xylem tissue and the plant starves.
“My team and I will be headed out there this morning to assess the degree of infestation and make a recommendation for treatment. It is possible, though frankly not likely, that this is a lone specimen or small pocket colony way out ahead of the general glassy-winged sharpshooter population. If that’s the case, we may be able to take care of this with a localized application. I would urge the board to wait a day or two before taking any action while we gather the best and most complete information possible. We’ve had good luck in that this is a relatively low-activity time for sharpshooters. The cooler weather means less growth and development, and most important, less breeding.”
The suits at the front of the room visibly bristled and Silvano Cruz stood without being called on. “Frank, may I?”
Schmidt looked annoyed. “Go head, since you’re standing.”
“Pierce’s disease is one hundred percent effective at killing grapevines.”
The sergeant at arms interrupted him. “State your name and affiliation or address for the record.”
Silvano introduced himself to the stenographer, then said, “This is not a threat we in the wine business can tolerate. If there is any chance the shooter is here, the county must take immediate action or risk the total collapse of the grape-growing industry. This is an emergency situation requiring decisive, immediate action. We can’t afford to wait around and see what happens. We need to treat the problem first and ask questions later. If the sharpshooter gets a foothold in the valley, we’re done for.”
The room rumbled. Schmidt called on a grape grower who supported Silvano’s position, saying one sharpshooter was one too many and the county owed it to the grape growers to protect them in a time of crisis. A thin, brittle-looking woman stood next. She described how carbaryl caused respiratory problems, nerve damage, nausea, vomiting, and liver problems. Schmidt called on Ben Baker after that. He stood up in his padded flannel shirt jacket and introduced himself as the owner-operator of Hansen Ranch Organic Produce.
“The big wineries call this an emergency and a time of crisis. But is it really? The Hansen Ranch has been home to sharpshooters for millions of years, long before humans came along. The glassy-winged sharpshooter is just the new kid on the block. He’s bigger, but he’s still just a little leafhopper. Healthy vines growing in healthy soil rich with beneficial insects and microbial life can resist them as well as Pierce’s disease, assuming the sharpshooters happen to vector it. Spraying my land would not only put me out of business and destroy the ecology of my farm, it would make the plants that survive that much more susceptible to disease, not to mention poisoning the birds, the reptiles, the fish in the streams, and the land my children play on every day. Short-term economic gain does not justify poisoning the land and all its inhabitants. Killing anything, no matter how small, has to be the very last resort, and I think anyone practicing sustainable agriculture will testify to the fact that we are not in a last-resort situation. Nerve poison is not our only option.”
He remained standing for the boisterous round of applause that followed. For the next hour, Frank Schmidt pointed his gavel at raised hands, hearing testimony from a variety of perspectives, the majority against mandatory spraying. A massage therapist from Calistoga said, “I do not believe that forced spraying will lead to a more sacred and sustainable world,” which provoked both soft laughter and a smattering of applause. The director of the local parks and recreation facilities claimed the host range under his purview alone was too big to spray effectively. “The GWSS,” he said, using the bug’s acronym, “will always find a home in the park system, if not elsewhere. We have hundreds of acres of riparian habitat dense with foliage. No amount of spraying will decimate a population in those conditions.” An attorney from Napa said a forced pesticide application could be a violation of both civil rights and property rights, and a honey producer from Oakville said that the state of California was using $40 million in tax monies to subsidize the already lucrative wine industry’s shortsighted and destructive farming habits, and driving people like him out of business in the process. A resident of St. Helena said door-to-door searches and forced spraying amounted to martial law. Most of what was said was common knowledge in the valley. It was just being repeated for the record. Most people also knew that if the bugs started to proliferate, the guys in the biosuits would not be far off. Finally Frank Schmidt banged his gavel.
“I think we have gained a good idea of the various concerns. We will be taking all of this under consideration as the board reviews its options, whether spraying or any of the other ideas we’ve heard here today. Meanwhile, I’d like to add that Napa County has more than a thousand traps out there collecting samples, and we’re trying to find a way to improve them, using pheromones or scent or what have you, to attract the sharpies to the traps instead of simply gathering them at random. We’ve got close to a hundred California Conservation Corps personnel out there checking traps door to door. One thing we know for sure, the sharpie is coming, step by step. It’s in Temecula, then Fresno, then San Jose and Sacramento, then Berkeley. Now we have our first known glassy-winged visitor here in our midst. We know it won’t be long before they arrive in force. The question is how long and when to take action against them. We know that Temecula and Fresno waited too long. Nevertheless, this is no time to be rash or hasty just because we’re worried. There is too much at stake for everyone concerned. Charlie, I’ll be interested to hear your findings as soon as they are available. Motion to adjourn until eight A.M. tomorrow, when we will reconvene on the same topic.”
Sunny filed out with everyone else, finding herself abreast of Ben Baker as they left the courthouse. She said, “That was a great speech you made in there. I hope they listen.”
“It won’t do any good,” said Ben bitterly. “We lost this battle a long time ago. Everybody shows up when the drama gets hot, but where were they months ago, when the power to make this decision was
handed over to Frank Schmidt in the first place, thanks to the manipulations of Jack Beroni and the big wineries? We’ll see our land poisoned, all because nobody could be bothered to come out and try to protect it. Even you and your friend Skord, two people with such tangible interests in this valley’s environmental well-being, didn’t bother to come down to fight for the land when there was still a chance to save it. Everybody’s too lazy to get off their asses and do something, but they cry plenty when it’s too late. I’m sorry, it just makes me sick.”
Sunny stopped, surprised at his anger. He shook his head and walked away.
PART THREE
Heavy Wine
12
What had begun with a suspicious dwindling of cookies, profiteroles, and candied citrus rinds had escalated to full-scale robbery in the dessert department. Everybody pilfered a shortbread or macaroon now and then, but to make off with an entire batch of almond crisps? Lighten the pantry of a two-pound tub of sugary orange peels? It took malice and daring, thought Sunny; it took a greedy heart. Who would do such a thing? Certainly it was too much for any individual to eat, even assuming a mammoth sweet tooth that persisted over several shifts. Aside from the annoyance, the problem was getting expensive.
Sunny perused the shelves of the walk-in for clues. Nothing else seemed to be missing, and the thief had left neither note nor calling card. Wildside employed a total of thirteen people in various capacities: a wait staff of three; one maître d’ cum sommelier, who also tended the small garden in back; three busboys and girls; three dishwashers; a part-time prep cook; Rivka; and herself. It was safe to eliminate herself and Riv, since they were the ones inconvenienced by the heist. One of the waiters was on vacation during the days in question. That left ten possible suspects, assuming it wasn’t one of any number of delivery personnel who came through on a regular basis, generally unannounced. Perhaps one of them was running a sugar shack on the side and had found a crafty way to slip in and out with the goods unseen. Sunny imagined a makeshift roadside candy stand selling fresh hazelnut cookies and candied orange peels to passing motorists.
The issue touched on three long-overdue items on Sunny’s to-do list, namely install new and better locks for the doors and windows, call a staff meeting to review policy and plan the semiannual field trip, and hire a part-time pastry chef to relieve Rivka and herself of the dessert burden in the first place. Dessert had never been her passion, and she considered it the weak link in Wildside’s repertoire. They made do with the standard fare of cookie plates, crème brûlées with candied citrus rind garnish, and fruit ices, plus her mom’s special rum cake with vanilla bean gelato that Sunny knew was a culinary non sequitur in a restaurant known for traditional Provençal-Tuscan-Mediterraneanstyle cuisine but couldn’t resist offering all the same. Only occasionally was there time to include a fig or pear tart or strawberry-rhubarb crisp, her specialty and Rivka’s, respectively. Maybe this was the push she needed to get organized.
Sunny emerged from the walk-in intending to announce her idea about hiring a pastry chef but decided against it when she saw the look of concentration on Rivka’s face. She was intensely focused on work or engrossed in some thought, or perhaps both. In fact, thought Sunny, she’s been quiet all morning. It wasn’t unusual for them to listen to music and go about their business immersed in the tasks at hand. There was a nice, meditative quality to working side by side without talking. But this morning Sunny had the feeling that something was wrong. There had been a notable lack of goofiness since she got back from the meeting, and Rivka hadn’t demonstrated any of her usual gyrations to the music. She’d walked back and forth to the storage room and the walk-in numerous times without belting out a single lyric. Sunny assumed it would come out eventually; probably a glitch in operations with the new boyfriend. There would be time to hash it over later. For now, they were behind and they only had an hour until the lunch rush started. For motivation, Sunny made herself a double macchiato and dropped in two lumps of brown sugar.
About a quarter after eleven, Wade called to say he’d just walked in the door at home. He’d had to put Skord Mountain up for bail, which “was scary as hell” but wouldn’t amount to anything more than a technicality, “as long as I don’t get myself a one-way ticket to Rio.” They agreed to talk later after he’d had a chance to check on the vineyard and take care of a few things around the house, maybe get some sleep on a bed that didn’t feel like a piece of cardboard on a cement slab.
“To add injury to insult, this whole jailbird scene is costing me an arm and a leg. I don’t even want to think about what Harry’s bill is going to look like. He probably charged me for giving me the ride home.”
“We’ll figure it out later,” said Sunny. “There are ways to make money. We can take Monty up on one of his partnership ideas or auction off coffee dates with Rivka. Get some rest and I’ll call you in the afternoon.”
She hung up the phone and shouted, “He’s out!” to Rivka, who had her back turned as she sautéed a mixture of diced onions, carrots, and celery root for soup.
“Riv? Did you hear? That was Wade on the phone. He’s home.”
Something about her posture set off an alarm and Sunny walked over just in time to see two full-bodied tears run down Rivka’s cheeks.
“R.C., what’s the matter?”
Rivka turned off the fire and hiked up the bottom of her long apron, using a corner to wipe her eyes. She sniffed and retied the apron strings unnecessarily. “Um, I think I need your help.”
“Anything. I am Dr. Freud and your humble sherpa all rolled into one. Want to go in the office and talk?”
“We don’t have time. Besides, it’s not anything to talk about. I have to show you.”
“What do you have to show me?”
“You have to promise that when you see it you won’t wig out, you won’t get all upset or tell anyone or make any loud noises that somebody might hear.”
“What are you talking about? You mean like scream or something? Riv, what on earth is going on?”
“Just promise me you’ll stay calm.”
“Am I always calm? Remember me? I’m the too-calm one. I’m like Mount Tam facing out to sea. I’m so calm I make the Dalai Lama look hyperactive.”
Rivka smiled and cough-sobbed at the same time. “I know. That’s why you’re the only person I can trust with this.”
She led the way out to the parking lot and up to her old Datsun two-door. Its yellow paint job was oxidized to a powdery matte finish, with rust highlights around the brightwork. Its tires, manufactured decades before the age of the SUV, looked far too small to be roadworthy. Rivka cast one last beseeching look at Sunny and unlocked the trunk, letting it spring slowly open of its own accord. Gym clothes, jogging shoes, magazines, Tupperware, an old metal change box, and jumper cables had been shoved back to make room for a rainbow-colored Mexican blanket, which lay neatly folded into a long, narrow rectangle. Rivka drew back half of it. There, stretched out on the blanket as though on display, was the last thing in the world Sunny expected to see. She stared down, struck dumb with shock, at Wade Skord’s canvas rifle case. She sucked in her breath. “Ho-lee crap.”
“You promised.”
“I know. I’m not saying anything. I am very calm. Om mani padme hum. I assume that the contents are what I assume them to be?”
“Uh, yeah.”
“Wade used his cork brander to burn the Skord Mountain emblem into the base of his.”
“It’s there.”
“And the missing cartridge?”
“That, too.”
“Holy crap. Holy friggin’ crap.”
“You promised you’d stay calm.”
“I’m calm. I am very, very calm. I’m breathing, and I’m calm.”
Sunny glanced behind her to confirm that there was no one else in the parking lot, then replaced the blanket and gently closed the trunk. The wait staff and dishwashers had already arrived and customers would be pulling in any second. She stared at th
e horizon behind Rivka and spoke softly. “I think it would be good if you told me where you got it and what it means, but not here. Somebody could be watching.”
“Like who? You mean someone who works here?”
“No. I don’t know. Don’t look around. It sounds crazy, but there is a very small possibility that someone has been following me. Like, I think my house might be staked out. Just in case, let’s casually have a look in the glove compartment, and maybe check the backseat like you lost something. Maybe smile a bit like it’s no big deal. If you can find the something that you were looking for and bring it with you, whatever it is, that’s a nice touch. Then let’s walk back into the restaurant.”
Inside, Sunny checked the front bar station and loudly confirmed that it needed to be restocked with the Cabernet Sauvignon they poured by the glass, as though evil eyes were watching her every move, even in the kitchen. “Better safe than sorry,” she said, leading the way downstairs to the cellar with Rivka following woodenly behind. With a wall of cement at their backs and a clear view of the door, Sunny felt they could talk safely. If anyone came down the stairs, they would be able to hear footsteps long before their words would be audible.
“Okay, now what the hell is going on?” she hissed.
Rivka’s eyes filled with tears and Sunny pressed her wrist. “Riv, this is not the time for tears. We can all have a nice, big nervous breakdown later. Right now you have to tell me exactly what is going on before things get a lot worse.”
Rivka swallowed and took a breath broken by thwarted sobs. “Last night I stayed with, with Alex. He left for work early this morning, around five-thirty. I was getting ready and I dropped one of my earrings and I thought maybe it went under the bed. So I looked under there and there was a big box. Not an old cardboard box, one of those special storage boxes with the little metal piece on the end for the label of what’s in there. I don’t know what I was doing, snooping I guess, but I slid the box out. I probably wouldn’t have done it if Alex kept a lot of junk around the house, but he doesn’t. Other than his clothes and some dishes, his place is practically empty, so I was curious what could be in there. You know, what’s special enough to merit going out and buying a special storage box? I wasn’t going to go all through it, I thought I’d just have a quick look to see if it was pictures or what. I guess I assumed it would be full of photographs and letters. You know, the archives. Well, mostly what was in there were track and football trophies from high school, but I didn’t see that at first because on top of the trophies there was a bath towel, and wrapped up in the towel was Wade’s gun.”
