Sharpshooter

by Nadia Gordon

  “Are you sure it was him?” Rivka said.

  “I’m sure. I was out in the orchard Wednesday night doing an application of a treatment that keeps off the leaf curl when I heard that cell phone of his.”

  “At night?” asked Rivka.

  “That’s the best time. His cell phone plays a few bars of ‘O Sole Mio’ instead of ringing. No one else’s phone plays that song. So I went down there, and as I got closer, I heard a car drive off down the service road. There were fresh footprints around the trap, and it didn’t take me long to figure out what he was up to. Sure enough, there was a shooter planted there in the trap.”

  “I saw him driving down Mount Veeder late last Wednesday night,” said Monty with excitement. “Remember, Sunny? I told you about it. I was coming home from dinner and his silver Jag with the ‘Wine Guy’ plates flew by me going about eighty.”

  “Sounds about right,” said Ben.

  Monty shook his head. “What a thing to do. Christ, it seems like Beroni never had an ethical thought during his entire existence.”

  “How can you say such a thing?” cried Claire, her voice trembling with rage. She shoved away her chair and stood up, glaring at Monty. “You didn’t even know him. You’re all vicious. You can’t even be nice to him after he’s dead.” A stream of angry tears ran down her cheeks as she glanced around for her purse and jacket. No one moved while she walked into the bedroom, collected her things, and left without another word. The sound of the doorbells jangling and her heels clicking on the brick steps outside seemed to rouse Ben from a meditative state, and he pushed back his chair, got up, and silently followed after her.

  15

  “I guess I said something wrong,” said Monty nervously. His eyes darted from Sunny to Rivka to Wade, seeking reassurance. “Claire’s right. I didn’t even know the guy. I have no right to come down on him, especially now that he’s dead.”

  “We’ve all been out of line,” said Rivka.

  Sunny held her glass and studied the faces at the table. Alex looked even more gaunt and haunted than he had when he arrived. Ben Baker’s revelation about Jack planting the sharpshooter on Hansen Ranch seemed only to have intensified his distress. Gabe, on the other hand, looked nothing more than slightly bemused by the Bakers’ sudden departure. He eyed the bowl of fettuccine sitting just out of reach, considering seconds. Rivka had her head tipped to one side and was turning the silver post in her ear round and round, a habit of hers when she was thinking. Rivka missed nothing. She knew about Claire and Jack just from the look on Claire’s face.

  Charlie said, “It’s feasible,” as though there had been no break in their conversation. “It’s certainly not difficult to procure a sharpshooter. Half the counties in California are up to their apricots in them. And all you’d have to do is stick one to the trap. That’s not a problem.”

  “He waits until he’s sure everyone is in bed,” said Monty, abandoning his contrite posture. “He drives up there, leaves his car down on the service road, walks up to the orchard, sticks one of those sharpies in a trap, then takes off like a bullet when his phone rings, even though he probably never imagined Ben was around to hear it. Either before or after that, he goes over to the Maya Culpa to put down another bug, in case nobody spots the first one, or in case Baker finds it before Charlie’s people do. He probably figures Baker wouldn’t report it anyway and risk having Frank Schmidt’s minions crawling all over his land. No offense intended, Charlie.”

  “None taken.”

  Wade had been pushing his food around on his plate. He looked at Sunny and said, “And why would Jack want Mount Veeder sprayed if there weren’t actually any sharpshooters”

  Sunny hefted the heavy ceramic bowl of pasta down the table, setting it in front of Gabe Campaglia. He gave her a hint of a smile and dug in.

  “Don’t you get it?” said Monty. “Beroni wanted to make a splash for his pop, do something that would prove he was savvy enough to run things after Al retired. And all of a sudden there is little Claire Baker on his doorstep looking lonely and doe-eyed, with her perky bottom parked on the hottest Cabernet Sauvignon property in the county, and he thinks, Ben Baker won’t sell, but Claire might. She just needs a little nudge. So he gets himself a sharpshooter or two and loads up Charlie’s traps, only he doesn’t count on Baker scooting around out in his orchard at ten o’clock at night like a madman. He also doesn’t do his homework, so he doesn’t know he’s got the wrong sharpshooters.” Monty was about to go on when his eyes settled on Wade. There was a flash of recognition and he closed his mouth abruptly. Sunny watched him, wondering what thought had changed his mind about what he was about to say.

  Alex put his napkin on the table. He’d had as much as he could take. He put a hand on Rivka’s shoulder and whispered something in her ear.

  She said, “You go ahead. Sunny can drop me.”

  “I’ll leave you the truck,” Alex said. “Gabe, you drove, right?”

  “Me? Sure.” He worked his plate while he talked, twirling pasta onto his fork without looking up. “What’s the rush?”

  “I gotta get home and get some rest before I pass out,” said Alex.

  Gabe stared. “You ready right now?”

  “If you are. I have to get up early.” Alex tapped his wristwatch and gave Sunny a sheepish look. “Sorry to eat and run. Dinner was great.”

  Gabe sighed and put down his fork. “Well, I guess I’m ready then.”

  When they’d gone Sunny surveyed the survivors. “Anyone for dessert?” she asked skeptically.

  “Not me,” said Monty. “In fact, I’d better be getting home as well.” Sunny made a token effort to dissuade him, with no success.

  “What’s his problem?” said Wade after Monty had jogged down the front steps and raced out to his car.

  “You want my guess? He can’t quite decide if you’re guilty or not,” said Sunny.

  “What?” said Wade.

  Rivka and Charlie averted their eyes and said nothing.

  “Well, I’d say he was just about to suggest that Ben Baker killed Jack Beroni when he looked at you and remembered Jack might have tried the same trick at Skord Mountain, and you might have decided you’d had just about as much as you were going to take,” said Sunny.

  “Except that spraying my vineyard with pesticides isn’t going to put me out of business,” said Wade. “Probably the opposite. It would be a terrible thing that I would hate to have to do, but it wouldn’t be nearly as bad as looking at a bunch of dead vines with sharpshooters sucking the life out of them. Pierce’s disease will put me out of business long before carbaryl will.”

  “What about Alex and Gabe?” said Charlie cautiously. “They weren’t too excited about staying for dessert. Do they think Wade is guilty, too?”

  “Alex is just tired,” said Rivka quickly. “They get up at the crack of dawn.”

  “Bullshit,” said Wade. “They’re up to something, or at least Alex is.”

  “Such as?” said Rivka, lifting a protective eyebrow.

  “I wouldn’t know,” said Wade. “But I do know that this conversation is giving me heartburn. McCoskey, I will expect a full explanation in the morning or I’m boycotting your dinner parties indefinitely.”

  Sunny started clearing the table, trying not to see the fear and disappointment in Wade’s eyes. She had cajoled him into coming, and just what he’d wanted to avoid had happened: He’d been reminded of his predicament and subjected to scrutiny. She said, “Don’t go yet. Stay and have a cognac with us.”

  Wade emerged from the bedroom pulling on his jacket and headed for the door. “Nothing doing. I don’t know what you’re up to, Sunny, but it’s certainly not helping. I’ll thank you for not cooking up any more schemes.” He closed the door solidly behind him, leaving her standing halfway to the kitchen.

  Rivka looked at her. “What’s he talking about?”

  “He thought tonight was part of some elaborate plan to help clear him.” Sunny struggled to regain he
r own confidence, fighting a wave of fear that he was right and she had been just mixing up more trouble, not even sure of what she was doing.

  “Did it work?” asked Charlie, ruefully.

  She thought about it and smiled for the first time all night. “Yes. Dessert?”

  “Not for me,” said Charlie. “Unless I’m still part of your plan, I think I’ll head home, where at least I know what’s going on. Anyway, I need to figure out what I’m going to tell Frank Schmidt tomorrow morning.”

  “So you believe what Ben said?” said Rivka.

  “I’m not sure. It does explain some things that are hard to account for otherwise.”

  When Charlie had gone, Rivka went to the front door and peeked out, then closed it and turned the bolt. She collected a stack of dirty plates and silverware from the table and came into the kitchen, where Sunny was putting away leftovers.

  “So, Claire Baker was in love with Jack Beroni,” said Rivka.

  “Yes.”

  “And they were having an affair.”

  “Correct.”

  “Which Ben was not aware of.”

  “Not if what he said tonight is true. I don’t think he was covering. He did a good job if he was.”

  “And Jack wanted Hansen Ranch.”

  “I believe so. I think he tried to persuade them to enter into some kind of partnership to grow grapes. A new contract for Mayacamas-grown Cabernet Sauvignon would be a major coup for Beroni Vineyards. It was going to be Jack’s opening act as the new chief. Ben would never agree, but it wasn’t necessarily his decision. Claire inherited Hansen Ranch from her father.”

  “So, being a slimeball, Beroni decides to force the issue. He plants a sharpie on the Baker place, and another on the Maya Culpa to guarantee that they spray the area.”

  “That’s what I’m thinking. But we have to back up a bit to see the whole picture,” said Sunny. “The Bakers are having serious financial trouble. Jack knows this—I’m guessing that’s how he first reconnected with Claire; she came to him asking for a loan—and he takes the opportunity to propose a partnership. Claire tries to persuade Ben, but he won’t go for it. On Wednesday, Ben gets desperate enough to actually consider the idea of going over to the enemy. Or at least that’s my guess, because he called Jack’s lawyer, Mike Rieder, to ask about the deal Jack Beroni had been pushing. Rieder’s receptionist couldn’t be more friendly to Ben. He says the papers are all set, your wife picked them up this morning, all we need is your signatures and we’re in business. Well, Ben didn’t know anything about signing any papers. That’s during the day on Wednesday. That same night, he discovers Jack planting the shooter. Are you okay?”

  “I’m not sure. I just think that if we really believe Ben did it, we need to call the police right now. I mean, the man just had dinner in your house.”

  “We don’t want the police right now, not until we know what happened for sure.”

  “We know what happened. Ben found out what Jack was doing and he killed him.”

  “We can’t prove it. Steve Harvey will just think it’s a crackpot theory of mine to help Wade.” Sunny hesitated and then laid out her alternative theory. “There is also the possibility that Claire did it.”

  “What?!” said Rivka. “You think little blondie Claire with the frosted pink fingernails did it?”

  “Claire may be little and cute, but she’s tougher than you think,” said Sunny.

  “But she was in love with Jack, she wouldn’t kill him.”

  “Love and hate are two sides of the same coin,” said Sunny.

  Sunny rummaged in a cabinet for a bottle of cognac and took down two stemless glasses shaped like smooth, heavy stones with a depression at one end. The cognac was a very good one that Monty had brought back years prior from a summer in Provence. She tipped a thin stream of the amber liquor into each glass and handed one to Rivka.

  “Fortes fortunajuvat,” said Sunny, touching her glass against Rivka’s.

  “What does that mean?”

  “Fortune favors the brave. Somebody wrote that in the sidewalk outside my house in college.”

  Rivka took a few whiffs of the cognac’s fumes and threw the shot back, holding it in her mouth like a delicious medicine. She swallowed and let out a breath with an Ahhh. “Okay, let’s cut to the chase. How did Alex come to possess the nonexistent item?”

  “I’m not sure yet,” said Sunny. “Speaking of Alex, we need to review Thursday night. What time did he arrive at your place?”

  “About seven-thirty.”

  “And what time did you separate?”

  “About one in the morning.”

  “What about all that business with Gabe coming by after his stint at the Dusty Vine? When did that happen?”

  “That was just before midnight. Alex wasn’t gone very long. Maybe twenty minutes max.”

  “Think about every minute of that night up until the time you went back to his place. Was Alex out of your sight at any time?”

  “Only long enough to hit the toilet at the restaurant and buy a box of black licorice and a root beer at the movies. What are you getting at?”

  “I just want to be sure I’ve closed all the loopholes.”

  Rivka yawned. “So what are we going to do about that nonexistent item we made disappear this morning?”

  “Nothing. It does not exist.”

  “I can’t torture Alex like this forever. Did you see him? He’s losing his mind trying to figure out what happened to it. If he gets any paler, I’ll be able to see through him.”

  “He’ll have to survive for a few more hours. By tomorrow morning, the police will have it.”

  “How?”

  “Just you leave that to me.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I’m going to call Steve Harvey. I just have to confirm a hunch first.”

  “What hunch? You’re driving me crazy with all this evasive talk, McCoskey. You never used to keep secrets.”

  “Maybe you just never knew before.”

  Rivka sneered and Sunny poured another round of cognac. Dwight Yoakam sang his heartache songs while they finished the dishes. It was only ten-thirty when Rivka gave up trying to get her to talk and went home, but by then Sunny was punchy with sleep. Could it only have been last night when she was at the restaurant until two-thirty? And this morning when Charlie knocked on her door at six-thirty? It seemed as if days had passed since then, and she longed to lie down on her bed and sink into the sweet oblivion of sleep. She locked her hands behind her and stretched back, then twisted side to side, popping the overworked vertebrae between her shoulder blades. There would be time for sleep later.

  She found her address book in a drawer by the phone and flipped to the Bs, found the number, and dialed. Ben Baker answered on the second ring.

  She put on her firmest voice and said, “I have something that will interest you. Meet me at the gazebo in town, the one in the park, at eleven o’clock sharp. Don’t pretend you don’t know what I mean. I’ll have it with me. And if you think you can just ditch your jacket, I took a sample of it tonight. It’s already in the mail to Steve Harvey.”

  She hung up without waiting for an answer and dialed Steve Harvey’s mobile phone. After a few rings the voice mail picked up. She said, “Hi, Steve, it’s Sunny McCoskey. I hope you check this thing because I need you to meet me at the gazebo in town, the one in the park next to the police station, at eleven-fifteen tonight. Oh, and by town I mean St. Helena, of course, and by tonight I mean Monday. See you there, I hope. Thanks.”

  She grabbed her pea coat out of the closet, winced at the navy-blue wool next to the brown velvet of her skirt, hung the coat back up, considered the other options in the coat and jacket department, remembered what she was supposed to be doing, and grabbed the pea coat again, hoping there was enough cogent thought left in her head to finish what she’d started.

  One light, golden with old age, shone weakly at the entrance to Wildside when she drove up. Sunny g
ot out and crunched around the side of the building and unlocked the back door to the kitchen. Inside, she flipped on the lights, jogged downstairs, and unlocked the door to the wine cellar. She hung the padlock on its hook beside the door and flipped on the light inside, letting the door close behind her. The wine cage was tucked in the far left of the cellar, where the light was poor. The key to the wine cage looked like several others on her key ring and she tried a number of them randomly, didn’t find it, and decided to be more methodical. In her haste she forgot which way she had been working, from the silver key forward or from the bike key backward, and had to start over. It was at that precise moment that she realized she had made a serious mistake in her planning. Ben could guess that she had hidden the gun at the restaurant.

  As if to corroborate her suspicion, a board creaked overhead. She froze. There was another soft creak, then another. This was not her imagination. Somebody was upstairs in the kitchen, moving toward the cellar door. She looked around frantically. The wine cellar was twenty by thirty feet, with tall wine racks lining the back and side walls. Not a lot of options. Three more racks were arranged in rows in the middle, all filled floor to ceiling with sleeping bottles. The wine cage, where the old and valuable wines were kept, stood in the far corner. There was only one way out of the cellar, and unless she planned on edging past the intruder on the stairwell, she was trapped. If only she’d relocked the kitchen door. Or if she had only brought her bag with her cell phone. Now that she thought about it, it must have been obvious: The restaurant was the most natural place for her to hide the gun. Once she revealed that she had it, there would have been little doubt where she would keep it. She flipped through her keys as quietly as she could, listening to each cautious step overhead. She tried one after the other in the padlock on the wine cage. If she could get it out in time, she might be able to use it as a bluff. It wasn’t loaded, but guns didn’t always need to be loaded to be effective.

  She thought she heard the door at the top of the stairs open. There was no time to get the gun now, and besides, it might be better to leave it in there where at least no one else could get to it. It was her only bargaining piece left. Moving as quietly as she could, Sunny slipped up to the door and flicked off the cellar light. The room was pitch black. Feeling her way, she used the struts on the metal wine rack closest to the door to climb up to the bare overhead bulb, imagining with each movement the shattering crash if she pulled a wall of wine down on herself. The bulb was still just out of reach.