by Nadia Gordon
She seized up and started to cry again and Sunny put her arms around her. “Poor chicken. Now, don’t go and be a freaker on me. You have to suck it up and deal, at least for a little while. We’re going to figure this out.”
Rivka snorted and sobbed at the same time. Sunny backed away so she could see her face. “So, how did it end up in your trunk?” she asked.
“I put it there. This morning. It seems like a bad idea now, but I didn’t want anyone to find it at his house.” She turned away and fought a losing battle with several wet sneezes.
“Riv, you have to tell me everything. Why was the gun in Alex’s house?”
“I don’t know,” she sobbed.
“You know something. You suspect something. Tell me.”
“I know Alex didn’t do it. He was with me Thursday night.”
“Ah. But Gabe wasn’t. And he wasn’t home watching a movie with his folks, either, was he?”
“No.”
“Where was he?”
She looked up at Sunny. “I swore I wouldn’t tell anyone.”
“Riv, you don’t have a choice. Do you realize that even if nobody we know is guilty of murder, you are already in serious trouble for tampering with evidence? In all likelihood you have the murder weapon out there in your car.”
“I know!” She choked on a violent round of sobs and Sunny stood quietly until it subsided into soft little sniffs.
“You have to tell me so I can help you.”
“Okay! Back off.” She tucked a stray strand of hair back into the baby-blue kerchief tied over her braids and crossed her arms defiantly. “I know Alex didn’t do it, but I don’t know about Gabe. I was worried all along that maybe he did it, and then when I found the gun, it seemed like, like maybe they must have planned it together. I know in my heart that that’s not true, that there is no way either of them could do such a thing, but I don’t know what else to think.”
“And?”
“And that’s it.”
“There’s more.”
“No, that’s it.”
“There’s more. You didn’t drop an earring. You were snooping around. Why?”
“You are such a bitch.”
“Tell me. Rivka Marie Chavez, Wade Skord’s butt is in a sling and so is yours. This is no time to be demure. Why were you snooping?”
Rivka sighed. “Because Gabe was at the Dusty Vine Thursday night getting drunk. He came by the house late, after we got back from the movie. It must have been close to midnight. He was ranting about how his father was a fool and the Beronis wouldn’t own him the way they’d owned Nesto. He said Jack Beroni was never going to set foot in the winery again. Alex took him home and put him to bed. When he came back, he told me that his dad and Jack had had a fight that afternoon in front of everyone, and his dad had gone to see Al Beroni about keeping Jack in line from then on. Then later on after work, Nesto tried to convince Alex and Gabe that Al Beroni would take care of things, but Gabe said it was just lip service and that things would never be the same once Jack took over the operation, that he’d get rid of them as soon as he had control and Al was off golfing at Silverado every afternoon.”
“Was Jack going to take over soon?”
“Probably. Al wanted to retire, but he wasn’t sure Jack was ready to run things. He was trying to ease him into the business. That’s what started the friction between Jack and Nesto in the first place.”
Well, that explained why Nesto had lied about where Gabe was Thursday night, thought Sunny. He must have known that Gabe was drunk and ornery and in the wrong place. She stood quietly for a moment. “Hang on. I thought you didn’t spend the night with Alex on Thursday.”
“I didn’t. After Alex got back he took me home.”
Sunny braced her hands against the back wall and stretched forward until her back cracked. She stood up and met her friend’s eyes. “Riv, I know what we are supposed to do, but we are going to do something very different. Normal, rational people would call the police right now, but we’ve already demonstrated in our own unique ways that we are not normal, rational people, so instead we are going to remove the item in question from your car and transport it here, taking great care that no one sees anything. I will disguise the item and lock it down here in the wine cage. You will then forget you ever saw it until I tell you. Until then, don’t talk to anyone about it, don’t even think about it, it doesn’t exist. Steve Harvey has waited this long for it, it won’t hurt him to wait a little longer. Even if Alex notices that it’s missing, I don’t think he’ll ask you about it; he’ll be too scared. If he does say something, you have to pretend you never saw it and you have no idea what he is talking about. Hopefully he won’t realize it’s gone for a while.”
Rivka nodded. “Okay. Until you give me the word, it doesn’t exist. How long are we talking about?”
“I’m not sure. Maybe a few hours, maybe a day or two. We’ll have to see. One more thing. We have to act like nothing is wrong or people are going to start asking questions and then we’ll have to make up little lies about why we’re upset, and that’s always a mess. Really solid lies, even the minor ones, are more complicated to sustain than anybody thinks. It’s better not to say anything at all. Omission is the key.”
“What makes you the expert on lying?”
“Strict parents and bad-girl tendencies as an adolescent. The combination practically turned me to the dark side before I could grow out of it.”
Rivka closed her eyes in a deliberate blink. “Sunny, how did Alex get Wade’s rifle?”
“I’m not sure yet. For now, let’s just concentrate on getting it in here before we have a bigger audience than we do now.”
By the time the day’s fish delivery arrived, the rifle was safely stowed in the wine locker, and Sunny and Rivka had taken to the refuge of work. Rivka shelled fava beans while Sunny hefted a fifteen-pound side of halibut onto the fish board and went to work running a long, thin knife under its skin. She hacked a sizable worm out of its flesh and sliced the rest into tidy opalescent filets. When that was done, she collected the day’s ducks and a meat cleaver. The cleaver made a blunt, heavy thunk as she removed the legs, wings, and breasts from each one with precision blows. How did Alex Campaglia end up with Wade’s rifle? Chop! Either he put it there or someone else did. Chop! It would only be a matter of time, and not much time, until the police caught up with Gabe Campaglia. They were probably already tracking down everybody who was in the Dusty Vine Thursday night to find out if they saw anybody make that call. If Nesto told the same inadequate lie to the cops that he had told her, Gabe would soon find the inquiring light of justice shining on him. Chop! Chop!
What if Alex discovered that Gabe had killed Jack? Would a drunken Gabe have picked up the spent shell and carried it and the gun back home with him? Or did Alex go to Beroni after he left Rivka and find the gun and the shell in the woods? She remembered Gabe’s face in the moonlight at the gazebo, equally startled as her own when she screamed, and the freshly oiled rifle set out on his coffee table. She thought about how Gabe’s temper had flared for an instant at breakfast when she asked him why he hated Jack Beroni: “I guess I was just born to hate him.” And Gabe had described Larissa Richards as a knockout and a high-society bitch, the only other strong words he’d used in their conversation. Sunny toyed with the idea that there was some other connection with Larissa that accounted for the heat.
Sunny finished with a duck and reached for another. Her imagination played out seductive scenes between Larissa Richards and Michael Rieder, who would not be able to resist telling her about the will that left everything to the Campaglias. She imagined Larissa, empowered by this new knowledge, scheming to get a share of the Beroni fortune using Gabe Campaglia as her agent. She might even have felt entitled to a share of the estate, which would have been hers if Jack had gone ahead and married her, and who knows what promises he made to keep her around for all those years. Gabe had his own motive, if he knew about the will. He didn’t know Wad
e, but he might have heard talk about Al and Louisa’s complaints to the police about Wade disturbing the local peace by shooting his rifle in the evenings. For that matter, Larissa would have heard as well.
Catelina Alvarez shook a finger at Sunny. She wouldn’t like this line of thinking, all these assumptions. When she used to take Sunny with her to the farmers’ market when Sunny was a child, they would select the week’s fruits and vegetables. Catelina would hold up a peach in her gnarled hand and say, “Never trust the color on the outside, Sonya. A golden peach can be as hard as a stone or as grainy as porridge. The smell gives you a hint, but to really know, you have to slice one open and taste what is inside. Until then, you are only guessing.” Then she would hand the peach to the grower and wait while he, grumbling, sliced it open for her. Catelina was the queen of due diligence.
Sunny whacked apart another bird and spun the facts again, despite Catelina’s caution. She imagined Gabe getting lit up at the Dusty Vine, staggering out to the parking lot, calling Jack, stealing the gun, shooting him. But Jack’s murder was far too complicated to be a drunken crime of passion. Plus, Jack wouldn’t have left his party to meet a liquored-up Campaglia. Sunny tugged the last of the ducks onto the chopping block. It was even theoretically possible that Alex and Gabe had plotted the murder together. The timing was right, with Jack about to take over and edge them out. She scrubbed her hands. A couple of two-tops were already seated in the dining room, a party of three was lingering just inside the door, and there was still prep-work to be done. Nevertheless, she had a meeting to arrange. She worked quickly to pull together the last of the supplies Rivka would need to handle things for a little while on her own.
“Riv, would you do me a favor?”
“What’s that?”
“Call Alex and get his brother’s mobile number.”
“Right now?” asked Rivka, glancing at the clock.
“I’m afraid so.”
Gabe picked up his phone on the fifth ring.
“Gabe?”
“Yeah.”
“It’s Sunny McCoskey.”
“Yeah.” He sounded less than thrilled to hear her voice.
“I need to see you, right away. Is there someplace we can meet to talk? It will only take a minute or two.”
“We’re talking now.”
“I need to see you in person.”
She listened to him breathing. He seemed to be walking up stairs or a hill. “I’ll meet you in the parking lot of the Dusty Vine,” he said. “I’ll leave in five.”
“Right. I’ll be there.”
She hung up the phone to find Rivka staring at her. “I’m going with you.”
“He won’t say anything with you there. Besides, I need you to hold down the fort here. I’ll be back in half an hour.”
Gabe was sitting in his truck writing notes in a little spiral notebook when Sunny pulled in. Sunny’s old Ford lurched up next to the late-model Toyota 4 x 4, the sort they seemed to hand out like sack lunches up at the Beroni place. She got out, and Gabe smiled at her like he thought something was funny. She felt suddenly self-conscious not only of the scarred-up old truck but of her checkered pants and white chef’s jacket, an outfit Larissa Richards wouldn’t be caught dead wearing in public.
“You weren’t watching a movie with your parents Thursday night.”
“Nope.”
“You were right here at the Dusty Vine drinking.”
“You’re a smart one.”
“Why did you lie?”
“I didn’t.”
“But you let your father lie for you. You didn’t stop him.”
“It’s his choice. He can do whatever he wants.”
She glanced across the parking lot at the phone booth under a street lamp. “Did you call Jack Beroni Thursday night?”
“No.”
“Did you park your car up on the logging road, steal Wade’s gun, and shoot Jack Beroni as he waited to meet with you?”
“No, I sure didn’t.” He smiled at her.
She watched his face. “You and Jack were about the same age, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Did Jack have a girlfriend in high school?”
“He had plenty.”
“No one in particular?”
He thought about it. The question seemed to interest him. “Yeah, I guess there was one in particular. He seemed especially fond of Claire Hansen all through high school. They broke up when he went away to college.”
“Claire Hansen. As in Hansen Ranch?”
“That’s right. I guess it’s Claire Baker now. She and Jack were always close.”
13
Sunny slid into the truck and fumbled the keys with quivering hands. She had the urge to shout or run. If there had been a river nearby, she would have been tempted to jump in, clothes and all, just to feel the shock of the water. She drummed at the steering wheel, waiting for Gabe to pull out of the lot and go on his way ahead of her. She needed time to get a grip on this new piece of information. If Larissa’s hunch was right and Gabe’s information accurate, the blond woman whom Jack Beroni was having an affair with was Claire Baker, and judging by what Nesto said, it was more than a fling.
She looked at her watch. Rivka was about to get slammed with the full force of a Wildside-sized lunch rush, admittedly minuscule compared with the traffic in the valley’s name-brand restaurants, but it would still give Ms. Chavez a hearty workout handling it on her own. She’d have to survive for another hour or so.
At Oakville, Sunny made a right toward Mount Veeder. The truck chugged up the steep grade not far from Monty’s place. Near the top of the ridge, she eased the truck over the lip of the pavement and headed down a dirt road to Hansen Ranch. Of the wide variety of dirt roads in the valley and the mountains that formed it, Hansen Ranch’s road was perhaps the most picturesque. It was a genteel, pebbly brown roadbed worn smooth as any pavement by a century of use. On one side a white three-rail fence followed the road between sturdy Douglas fir trees with their lower limbs pruned to ward off wildfires. Even in late September, at the pinnacle of the dry season, the top of Mount Veeder was shades of green. No wonder so many people dreamed of rural bliss up here above the valley. If wine really was the expression of the spirit of the land, it was also no wonder that some of the most complex, articulate wines in California were made from grapes grown in the ripples and cul-de-sacs tucked around the mountain, the pièce de résistance and undisputed beauty queen of the Mayacamas Mountains.
The road dipped down and then popped up and rounded a sharp turn. Acres of olive, prune, apple, and pear trees came into view. A fringe of yellow sticky traps hung down along the edges, turning in the breeze. Further on, the trees gave way to a large vegetable garden covering several acres. Hansen Ranch grew at least ten varieties of organic greens, all the usual vegetables, an extensive array of herbs, asparagus, squashes, pumpkins, and anything else Ben and Claire could coax into taking root. Three scarecrows stood watch over the garden, and Mylar streamers, like the ones some vineyards used to keep birds away, flashed in the sunlight. At the end of the road was a white Victorian house with a swing on the porch and rosebushes around the sides. Behind it, parked in front of a separate garage, was a tan mid-eighties Land Cruiser like the one Gabe said he’d seen parked on the logging road near Beroni Vineyards.
Sunny idled the truck in the driveway. This was insanity. Even if it was true that Jack and Claire had renewed their high-school romance, it was none of Sunny’s business. Even stretching “her business” to encompass events and situations vaguely related to Jack’s murder, extramarital affairs of the deceased probably still weren’t justifiably covered. And Claire was very much alive and very much married. On the other hand, Wade was in serious trouble, and now Rivka was involved. Was she going to let good manners stand in the way of helping them? She sat in the car, waffling.
Sunny turned off the engine and got out, praying as she walked up to the front door that Claire would answer instead of
Ben. She had no idea what she would say to either of them, but at least she had a reason for coming to see Claire. She knocked softly, waited, then knocked again like she meant it. When there was no answer and no sound from inside, she made her way around back to the barn and outbuildings, hoping the Bakers didn’t keep a ferocious guard dog who had been temporarily indisposed but would be trotting over shortly.
In addition to the garage, there were three good-sized outbuildings behind the house. Sunny called out and waited but heard nothing. It was a glorious afternoon and she scanned the needlepoint slopes of distant vineyards, wondering where Ben and Claire could be. She walked across the compound to the first building, a sagging white gabled shed just large enough to house a pickup truck. The side door had swung halfway open and she slipped inside. Her eyes took a moment to adjust to the gloom. The smell in there was sweet and musky, like rotting fruit and wet morels, and reminded her of winter days spent in the garage as a child, helping butcher the deer or elk her father never failed to bring back from his annual hunting trip. Sure enough, on a workbench straight ahead lay a possum, freshly skinned. Tacked to the wall behind it were numerous hides in various stages of processing, including a rabbit, a gopher, and a raccoon, its eyes dried to crackled slits. The wall to the left was covered with shelves, each burdened with a row of glass jars containing what looked to be mostly seeds, herbs, and insects, but also eggs of various sizes, feathers, soil mixtures, oily liquids, husks, peels, and bones.
