by Nadia Gordon
Sunny went to the bar and poured cream in a stainless-steel pitcher, steamed it, and fired two shots of espresso. She gave Charlie a look and raised her index finger ever so slightly, hoping to convey a desperate plea for him to say nothing, whatever it was he might want to say. She poured the shots and added a splash of liquid, spooning a blanket of creamy foam on top.
Ben took the cup and sipped. “I need to apologize about this morning, Sunny. You caught hell for no reason. Those meetings set my pants on fire.”
“Don’t worry about it.” Sunny watched his reaction to the cappuccino. The secret to perfect foam is fresh cream from a dairy where they let the cows graze instead of keeping them in stalls and feeding them fish meal. In her head she recited what she told the wait staff. Pour only what you need and hit it once with steam. Cream should never be overheated or reheated unless you intend to give your patrons the trots.
“I was reading an article about biodynamic farming the other day,” said Sunny, seeing if she could lead him to confirm a piece of the Thursday-night puzzle. “It’s pretty interesting stuff.”
“Definitely. I’ve been experimenting with it for a few years now. I have one solution that seems to work pretty well with aphids.”
“But you have to spray that stuff at night, right?”
“You don’t have to, but people tend to think it works better. The plants are dormant at night, so the solution stays on the surface longer, which is where you want it.”
“Isn’t that a huge hassle, going out in the dark?”
“You get used to it, and it’s just every once in a while, mostly at the beginning of the growing season.” He finished the cappuccino and set the cup in a bus bin. “Thanks.”
“No problem. Hey, I’m having some people over for dinner tonight. I’d love it if you and Claire could come.”
He frowned and then caught himself, relaxing his face with an effort. “Tonight? That sounds great, but I’ll have to check with Claire. What time?”
“Around eight?”
“We’ll be there, unless I let you know different after I talk to the wife.”
Charlie watched her with an amused look on his face. When Ben left he said, “What was that all about?”
“Just a sec. Riv, is he gone?”
She glanced out the window. “Yep.”
Sunny exhaled and let her shoulders relax.
“What’s going on?” asked Rivka, looking from Sunny to Charlie.
Sunny held up a finger signaling for them to wait and quickly dug her planner out of her bag. She flipped to the back where she’d written down Michael Rieder’s phone number and dialed.
“May I please speak with Mr. Rieder?” asked Sunny when the receptionist picked up.
“He’s with a client,” said the young man on the other end in a carefully mannered voice.
“I see. Well, maybe you can help me,” said Sunny. “This is Detective Jessica Thompson. I spoke with Mr. Rieder over the weekend in regard to—”
“Jack Beroni?” The young man finished the sentence for her.
“Exactly.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t think I recognize your name,” said the receptionist. “Are you with the Napa police?”
“I’m not local,” said Sunny. “I flew up from Los Angeles Homicide to help out the St. Helena Police Department. They’re officially handling the case. I’m afraid we have a good deal more experience investigating homicide in my neck of the woods.”
“I’m sure,” said the young man.
“I was just having a bite to eat and a thought occurred to me, a small detail I should have confirmed with Mr. Rieder yesterday. Did a man named Ben Baker happen to phone your office last week at any time?”
“Ben Baker? Yes, I spoke to him last week myself. He called to ask about the Hansen Ranch paperwork, but his wife had already picked it up.”
“I see. She had already picked up the paperwork.” Sunny paused. “Do you happen to remember what day that was?”
“It would have been Tuesday—no, Wednesday morning.”
“Got it. Thank you very much for your help, Mr…”
“James. Steven James, with a V. My pleasure. Shall I have Mr. Rieder return your call?”
“No, thank you. That won’t be necessary. I think I have everything I need now.”
Charlie watched her in amazement, his eyebrows crowding his forehead and an incredulous look on his face. He said, “Sunny, what are you—”
“Shh!” She flipped more pages in the planner and dialed Gabe’s cell phone. After several rings he picked up. When she’d persuaded him that he did not need to get some rest but in fact would like nothing more than to come to dinner at her place that night, she hung up and stood thinking, a pencil in hand hovering over her planner. Rivka stopped what she was doing and stood watching her.
Sunny ticked off her fingers, then looked up and pointed at Charlie. “You’ll be there, eight o’clock sharp,” she said. She turned to Rivka. “You, too. With Alex. You have to bring Alex. This is important and I’m not joking. I can count on you to be there tonight, right?”
They nodded, bewildered.
14
Monty Lenstrom was easy. In the five years she’d known him, Sunny couldn’t remember a time when he had turned down an invitation to dinner, especially on a dull Monday night. The last call she placed, made from the semi-privacy of her office, was to Wade Skord. He sounded understandably unhinged from his usual frame of mind. His voice was thin and frayed with anxiety. He said he’d spent the day pacing around the winery, alternately working with a manic fervor and then noticing that he’d been staring off into space for who knows how long. Wednesday would be harvest day, he figured. He said he didn’t feel like having dinner with anyone, that even his friends would stop talking when he came in, and everyone would look at him like he was Charles Manson on parole.
“Maybe, but you have to come anyway,” Sunny said.
“Why?”
“Because I need you there.”
“I don’t get it.”
“Indulge me. Please. Wade, who fed your cat while you were up the river?”
“You.”
“Well, it’s payback time.”
“There’s payback for pouring dry cat food in a bowl? You are a sick woman.”
“Just be at my place at eight and don’t give me no lip. This is about more than dinner.”
“I surmised as much.”
After lingering over a final bite of Mama McCoskey’s rum cake and the dregs of a latte for forty-five minutes, the last of Wildside’s customers waddled out the door at ten minutes to four, followed soon after by the last of the wait staff. By five the dishwashers had gone home, and Rivka and Sunny had restocked the pantry for the next day. Rivka tossed her apron in the laundry and reached for the ceiling, stretching up, side to side, and down. She threw one foot up on a window ledge and executed a deep, lunging stretch.
“You know that nonexistent item we discussed this morning?” said Sunny.
“I’ve been wondering about it.”
“It still doesn’t exist. I’d say it should rematerialize sometime tomorrow morning at the latest.”
Rivka placed her hands on the toe of her cross-trainer and bent forward, her face tucked to the side of her calf. Her voice sounded muffled. “Okay. I hope you know what you’re doing.” She turned her head toward Sunny, looking at her from under her arm. “You do know what you’re doing, don’t you?”
“Of course.”
“Really?”
“No, not really. I’m sort of winging it.”
“Oh, good. That’s a big relief. Because I was a little worried that maybe we were in over our heads.”
“We are, but I have a plan, or at least an idea for a plan. All you have to do is be yourself.”
“Just like Mom always said.”
“And don’t say anything about the item.”
“Right. Be myself but don’t mention the most important thing on my mind.”
They exchanged greetings and Nesto continued with his watering. Sunny waited to see if he would turn his attention back to her. He did not.
“Mr. Campaglia,” she said, “I know Gabe wasn’t with you and Mary here on Thursday night. He was at the Dusty Vine, drinking.”
She waited again, and when he didn’t respond, she went on.
“I also know that you met with Al Beroni on Friday, and he told you about the will he’d written up, specifically that Alex and Gabe stood to inherit Beroni Vineyards if Jack died without any children. This part is just a guess, but my idea is that he suggested you make sure the boys had solid alibis because the will gave them a motive, and when the cops found out about it, it wasn’t going to look good.”
Nesto walked to the side of the house and turned off the water, then came back. His long, antenna-like eyebrows rode together in a somber frown. He said, “Al is a good man. He figured if his own dynasty died out, the Campaglias ought to take over. I don’t think he ever really thought that would happen, of course. The main part of the will makes it clear that he believes the Campaglia family is crucial to the success of the winery. There’s a clause in there about retaining Gabe, Alex, and even their children in key positions, not that it would have held up in any legal way if Jack wanted to do otherwise. Al’s a sound businessman. He knows the value of experience, and stability. I guess he hoped Jack would come around to his way of thinking eventually.”
“I have another guess,” said Sunny. “You weren’t here at home with Mary Thursday night, either.”
“You’re wrong there. I was home all night after about six.”
Sunny expelled a theatrical sigh and dug her hands into the back pockets of her baggy black-and-white chef’s pants. “Mr. Campaglia, your son is in serious trouble. On the night of the murder, he was drunk and belligerent in front of witnesses, to whom he expressed a violent resentment of Jack Beroni. He was at the Dusty Vine at the time when somebody, probably the murderer, used the pay phone in the parking lot to arrange the fatal meeting with Jack. He’s a good shot with a rifle, and he has an extremely compelling motive. And that’s not even all of the evidence against him, Mr. Campaglia. I’ve left out the part that could insure that both he and his brother are sent to prison for a very, very long time. Maybe their whole lives.”
The color came up in Nesto’s face and he began to puff. “I’ve had enough of this. I’ve had just about enough. My sons are innocent. Gabe has never been an easy spirit, but he wouldn’t hurt anyone, let alone kill Jack.”
Sunny looked away and stole a moment to think. She wanted more. It was risky to push him—she was all but accusing one or both of his sons of murder—but she didn’t have many other options. “If that’s the case, tell me why Wade Skord’s rifle was hidden in a box under Alex’s bed.”
“What the devil are you talking about?”
“Wade Skord’s rifle, which I think we can safely assume was the murder weapon, was found under Alex’s bed wrapped in a bath towel in a box, lying on top of a bunch of old high-school trophies.”
Nesto seemed to stagger, and Sunny formulated a quick action plan in her head in the event that he started reaching for his heart right then and there. She fought the urge to reassure him. He had to break. He walked over to the side of the house and leaned against it momentarily, then began methodically re-coiling the garden hose he’d been using. She could see his mind working as he did it, trying to figure out if she was lying, and if not, how Alex could have become involved. He would be asking himself how well he knew his sons, how much they might be capable of. He was probably remembering all the times they’d schemed together as kids and run into trouble, and the times he’d seen the grown-up Gabe drunk. He’d be wondering how sensitive the balance was between passion, anger, and self-control in Gabe, and in Alex for that matter. He knew his boys, but how well did he know them as men? Finally he came to the confused and desperate place she had, regrettably, been hoping to lead him. Assuming she was telling him the truth, and being unable to explain why Alex had possession of the murder weapon, he had no choice but to tell her his entire story in the hope that something he said might somehow absolve his sons. He turned the water back on and rinsed his hands, then wiped them dry on his pants and walked slowly back over to her.
“On Thursday afternoon, Jack and I had a disagreement,” he said. “You know that part already. Jack even threatened me. I was still angry, so I went to see Al about it later that day. We talked about Jack’s position now and in the future, about my role, and about how Gabe and Alex fit in. He seemed to understand my point of view across the board and said he had no intention of allowing Jack free reign until he was confident that he knew what he was doing, that unfortunately he didn’t trust his son’s temper or judgment to date, and it might be years before Jack could assume an independent leadership role at Beroni. He said meanwhile he’d make sure Jack stayed out of the winemaking decisions entirely. From my perspective, we’d come to complete agreement and I was satisfied.
“That evening, the boys came by around six-thirty. I told them what Al had said, assuming it would put their minds at ease, same as it had mine. It didn’t. Gabe in particular was still very angry. He said that Al had his head in the clouds, that Jack told him whatever he wanted to hear, and that Al was getting old and as soon as he retired, which might be any day, Jack would be running the operation and we would have no say about it. He said we needed contracts to guarantee our salaries and positions right away—even the houses we live in. I told him I’ve lived in this house for forty years without a contract and Al’s word has always been good enough for me. I tried to calm him down, but he was upset and he was making me upset. He stormed out and, I’m told, spent the rest of the evening at the Dusty Vine, like you said. Alex stayed and tried to convince me we should see a lawyer, more nonsense in my opinion. Then he went out to see your friend Rivka—she’ll vouch for that, I’m sure.
“After supper, Mary cleaned up and I went into the living room. I sat down and I thought about the whole business. I’m not ashamed to admit I got melancholy thinking about how the Campaglias have always seemed to do all the work and the Beronis seem to reap all the rewards. I thought about my father, and how he worked and worked and came out of it with nothing. He died without savings, without owning anything more than a car. Mary tried to show me the positive side, but the past was all stirred up inside me and I couldn’t think straight. I’d had a couple glasses of wine at dinner, and I opened another bottle after Mary gave up and went to bed. I was ready to wallow in my feelings that night, feeling sorry for myself and my boys, feeling sorry that I hadn’t done more to make sure they had a future. Miss McCoskey, the truth is, I got good and drunk sitting there alone in my living room.” He waggled a finger at Sunny’s nose. “I only do it once in a blue moon, and let me tell you, it’s not a good idea for me or anyone else. You let all the demons out and they start to run around and take over. It’s trouble waiting to happen.”
Sunny held her breath and waited for him to go on. Nesto raked his weathered old hands through the dense turf of gray hair on his head. His eyes flashed.
“I went out and I got in my car. This was maybe ten o’clock. I decided I was going to go over there and give Alberto Beroni what he had coming. I was going to tell him how the Campaglias had live
d long enough as hired hands on their own vineyard. Four generations of Campaglias have worked this land so the Beroni family could get rich. I was finally going to do something about that.”
The force that had propelled Nesto on his tirade seemed to suddenly falter and diminish. He stood quietly, looking at the sky to the west with its canary-yellow and orange streaks fanning out from the mountains.
“I drove over there. I went all the way up to the house and I turned off the engine and was about to get out. Then I noticed that I could see them through the window, sitting in the living room together. Al and Louisa were sitting there just like they had on any night for the past forty years. I could see the back of Al’s head and the newspaper he was reading. Louisa was sewing something, probably one of her embroidered pillowcases. All of a sudden I couldn’t go in there for any reason. I realized that that was their house, not mine. History is history, it’s over, and I had no more right to that house or the vineyard than any other man. They lived in their home, the same way I lived in mine.
“I sat there for a while thinking about things. I thought about being a kid and how Alberto was like a brother to me, and then I turned around and drove right back out of there. I never even got out of the car. Anyway, I must not have been paying much attention to the road because the next thing I know, I just about run over Jack. He’s walking right in the middle of the road, dressed head to toe in black, and the bumper was practically on him before I stopped.”
“Did you talk to him?”
“No. I just gave him a wave and drove on.”
“What time was that?”
“About ten-thirty or quarter to eleven, I’d say.”
“What happened after that?”
“Not a thing. I went home and went to bed. The next day it was just like you suggested. When I got to work, the police were already there. Al was very quiet. Very controlled and very quiet. I’d say he was in shock. He sent word down that he wanted to talk to me right away, and when I went up to the house, he took me into his office and showed me the will. It was the most amazing thing I have ever seen. He said I had always been like a brother to him, and I’ll tell you that made us both cry like a couple of babies. He made me swear not to tell anyone about what he’d shown me, and then he said I’d better be sure the boys both had good, solid alibis because the police were bound to find out about the will. He didn’t want them to have any trouble. He knew they didn’t kill his son.”
