They were meeting on the Silverado Trail, a legendary two-lane blacktop that wound through Napa like the aortic artery of California Cabernet. Unless you came by helicopter, you approached the Sturgis House under a long allée of palm trees that ran past visitor parking and the tasting room, the winemaking and bottling facility, then up the hill to the Victorian mansion that the family bought out of a Prohibition bankruptcy in 1931.
Evangeline and the Sturgis brothers were sitting on the veranda, overlooking the golden sea of grapevines that rolled toward Caymus, Mumm Napa, and Joseph Phelps. Six bottles sat on the table, along with a few cheeses, a sourdough baguette, water flask, waste bucket, and three Riedel glasses for each drinker. They had tasted their way from the Chardonnays to the single vineyard Pinot Noir to the three mighty Cabernet Sauvignons.
Manion was playing his best-behavior card. But Evangeline knew it was getting harder for him as the day wore on and the alcohol content in the wine went up.
Where he was expansive and boastful, always aware of his own presence, the balding, pot-bellied George was soft-spoken and distracted, like an accountant planning on nine holes after he finished the morning audit. But he made terrific wines. Evangeline had taken notes on all of them. She had also gotten the brothers to talk, and she had taken notes on that, too, prodding them about their passions and the sources of their fraternal conflict.
Manion had made his fortune on Wall Street and come home to make wines, just as his brother was hatching plans to expand the sales of his lower-end Chardonnays and Pinots. This should have meant a perfect match, the serious older brother and the playboy money manager, wine smarts and business experience, U.C. Davis and Harvard B. School. But the conflict that arose—not for the first time in a California winemaking family—pitted a grand vision for boosting the bottom line against an artisan’s dream of beauty in a glass, or, as George once described it, the “Chardonnay realist” and the “Zinfandel dilettante.”
George and Manion had a younger sister named Rebecca. The three of them had inherited the Napa property from their father, a cousin of Maryanne Rogers. But Rebecca spent her time chasing acting jobs in L.A., seldom visited, and always voted with George.
So, when George decided to go big, Manion went to Rainbow Gulch. George turned to the venture capital firm called Sierra Rock, announcing, “We’ll grow cheap Chardonnay for the guzzlers and Arbella Reserve for the connoisseurs. Let my brother grow Zinfandel. It’s a lowbrow grape, no matter how you grow it.”
From such condescensions were family feuds born, and you did not condescend to Manion Sturgis. When it came to condescending, if anyone was doing it, it was going to be him. But all afternoon, he kept smiling.
Then George said to Evangeline, “What did you think of Arbella House?”
“A home, a museum … beautiful,” she said.
“A pity that the new will mandates a sale,” said Manion.
“Is that why you’re stalling?” asked George. “Because you love the house and want to hold on to it a while longer?”
“Now, boys”—Evangeline tried to keep it light—“Peter Fallon came to California to appraise the Arbella books. I came to taste the wines and—”
“—reconstruct the Spencer journal?” asked George. “That’s what Barber said.”
“Barber.” Manion spit the word but not the Reserve Cabernet. He said the wine was too good to spit, which made him envious. But since he wasn’t driving—he had a designated pilot—he was swallowing, which made him more outspoken, despite his good behavior.
George told Evangeline, “Barber called you the ‘on-again off-again’ girlfriend. If I know Manion, he’s hoping you’re off-again. Why else would he be impressing you with helicopter rides?”
Manion poured himself a little more of the Reserve.
George said, “I’d rent a helicopter to impress you, too.” He was not as smooth as Manion, but he was genuine, perhaps because he was widowed.
Evangeline liked him. She said, “The wine was enough.”
Manion stopped swirling and gave her a look.
She said to him, “Your brother must love you. He pours you his best wines and plays wingman, in case I missed the helicopter come-on.”
“I don’t need a wingman,” said Manion, “and I make my own wines.”
“And you’re very good at both.” She knew it was time to flatter. “But—”
“—I bet you’d love my section of ‘The Spencer Journal,’” said George.
“An added bonus, after the wines,” she said.
“All you have to do is ask.” George excused himself for a moment.
And Manion taunted Evangeline in a high voice. “‘The wine was enough.’ I bet you tell that to all the vintners.”
“Don’t get jealous. Two jealous men is more than I can handle.”
“Peter? Jealous of me? Cool.” Manion finished the wine.
George returned with a leather folder. “My gift to the on-again off-again girlfriend of the famous Peter Fallon.”
Manion said, with sudden anger, “Was she compos?”
“Was who what?” asked George.
“Compos mentis? It’s legalese for ‘Did Maryanne Rogers have all—or any—of her marbles when Barber manipulated her into signing the new will?’”
“Why would Barber manipulate her?” asked Evangeline.
“Because he manipulates everyone,” said Manion, “including Peter Fallon’s son.”
“You got the kid the job,” she said.
“As a favor to you. Against my better judgment.” Manion looked at his brother. “Why did Barber get this codicil into the will? Or was it you?”
“You can blame me because Barber brought Sierra Rock to us and because I brought Barber to Maryanne. But don’t blame me for undue influence. She knew what she was doing. She wanted to divide her cash among her heirs, sell Arbella House and its contents for charity, and reconstitute the journal that tells the creation myth of California. She was planning for all of it, long before Barber came along.”
“And the hit-and-run? Was she planning for that?” asked Manion.
“Drink your wine,” said George, as if he would not dignify that remark.
“Drinking your wines almost makes up for your bullshit.” Manion’s phone pinged. He read: “A text from the pilot. ‘San Francisco fogging in. Need to leave now or unable to land on Alc.’”
* * *
PETER FALLON SENSED THAT someone followed him through the fog from the Tree Hugger to the five thirty ferry. If he hadn’t passed so damn many kids in hoodies, he would have thought it was one of them. But kids like that were everywhere, or so it seemed when you were looking for them … and you were still a little … high.
He texted LJ. “Leaving Sausalito. Know location of Chinese gold.”
LJ popped right back. “Take ferry to Pier 41. Come to SF Maritime Visitor Center. Drinks, answers, more Barber, too. Appearances to keep up.”
Peter hoped they had hors d’oeuvres, because … well, he had the munchies after all, and the aromas from the restaurants on the Sausalito waterfront weren’t helping.
As the ferry rumbled into the fog, he took a seat and checked the link LJ had sent: “Tonight, at the National Park Visitor Center on Jefferson St., Friends of the San Francisco Maritime District invite you to partake of history, cocktails, and conversation.”
A fund-raiser, one of dozens every week in a city like San Francisco. And one of the major sponsors: Van Valen and Prescott. So yeah, appearances.
* * *
EVANGELINE AND MANION STURGIS buckled in, and Napa was soon spreading below them, while the sun steamed into the blanket of fog out beyond the coastal range.
Through the earphones, Manion said, “Sorry I got pissy back there.”
Click. “You’re forgiven.”
“I hoped the pages I gave you would end the questions about ‘Chinese Gold.’”
“They didn’t,” said Evangeline. “The questions multiply.”
> “Such as?”
“If your brother insists there was no undue influence, why do you disagree?”
“Because my brother is in business with Sierra Rock, which is in business with Barber. And I don’t trust Barber.”
“Neither does Peter.”
“I’m surprised he stayed on the case. He seems like a bottom-line kind of guy.”
Evangeline was enjoying the wine, the flirtation, the helicopter rides. But she didn’t like loose talk behind Peter’s back. She said, “I guess you don’t know him very well.”
The pilot clicked on, “Hey, boss, I can’t land in San Francisco, not in the fog.”
“Oh, darn,” said Manion.
“We’re not cleared anywhere else in the Bay Area,” said the pilot.
“Nothing to do then,” said Manion, “but make for Amador.”
“Amador?” said Evangeline.
* * *
THE SAUSALITO FERRY REACHED Pier 41 at 6:05.
The fog lay so thick over Fisherman’s Wharf that it looked like the neon signs were bleeding liquid color into the atmosphere.
Peter glanced at his phone as he came off.
A text from Evangeline: “Fog. Must land in Amador. Back tomorrow via Larry Kwan. Don’t worry.”
He texted back. “DON’T WORRY? Spending night in Amador - with Sturgis? - and don’t worry? WTF?” SEND. He hurried along Jefferson until his phone pinged. He stopped to read under the famous FISHERMAN’S WHARF sign with the big red crab.
Evangeline: “Staying in guesthouse. Locking door.”
Peter: “Make sure he’s on other side when you do.” SEND. Then he pressed her number. Time to talk to her, the way people used to when they had something to say. Talk and walk at the same time because he had to get away from the sights and smells of all the open-air seafood counters—God, he was hungry.
The phone rang five times before another text came in: “I’m in effing helicopter! Wearing ear protection! Can’t hear myself think let alone HEAR YOU on phone! Do. Not. Worry. And Manion says, do not trust Barber. Ties to something called Sierra Rock.”
* * *
ON THE HELICOPTER, MANION said to Evangeline, “‘Do. Not. Worry.’ You never have to worry with me.” His voice was seduction soft.
Thank God for headsets, she thought, or he would have been nibbling her ear.
She turned off her iPhone and said, “Please don’t read over my shoulder.”
She really hoped that the guesthouse had a lock.
* * *
AFTER THAT TEXT, PETER tried to calm down. Not easy to do with low blood sugar and a hyperstimulated olfactory bulb. He hurried past the high-end art galleries and high-tack souvenir shops and—oh, God—the In-N-Out Burger. But all he bought was a bottle of water, which he sipped while Googling Sierra Rock:
“A private equity firm focused on Pacific Rim investments—leveraged buyouts, growth capital, associated investment funds—across a broad range of mineral and resource-based industries.” The article mentioned investments on both sides of the Pacific—mines, vineyards, and other U.S. investments. Most important: Michael Kou was listed as one of the principals. Beyond that: “U.S. legal representation by Van Valen and Prescott, San Francisco, Ca. Contact Johnson Barber.”
The circles were tightening. Peter decided to go into that party with a plan. The best he could come up with: blow things up. But hydrate first. So he drank down the bottle of water and kept going.
* * *
PETER LOVED CITIES THAT loved their history, so he felt right at home walking into the National Park Visitor Center, in the repurposed cannery building on the corner of Hyde and Jefferson. He got a name tag and looked around: a six-foot-tall antique lighthouse lens dominated the space, surrounded by ship models, two bars, and running toward the back, a long exhibit hall.
Over in a corner, appearing to take in the exhibits while taking in everything else from the corner of her eye, was Christine Ryan, of all people. As soon as she saw Peter, she disappeared.
But the power crowd was filling fast: young lawyers and business people, creative types and … in San Francisco, it wasn’t always easy to tell who was business and who was creative. A guy in dreadlocks could be the best software engineer in town. The young woman in the conservative Hillary pantsuit might be working at some cool think tank down by the Bay Bridge. And the Gen Xer in the bushy beard and stocking cap might have access to more venture capital than half the bespoke hustlers in Manhattan. So … not a bit like New York or DC or … yeah, here came a platter.
Peter went after it.
The server, a young Asian woman in a tuxedo shirt and black bow tie, said, “Croque m’sieur, sir?”
Little grilled ham-and-cheese sandwiches with a fancy French name. Peter grabbed two and inhaled them.
“Where’s your girlfriend?” Johnson “Jack” Barber sidled up. “Off-again?”
“Off on business,” said Peter. “And you know, you don’t have much skill at winning friends and influencing people. The minute she met you, she put you on her shit list.”
“I’m on a lot of shit lists. That’s why I have your son working for me.” He pointed to LJ, in the midst of a group of older men, chatting and charming. “Smart boy, nice personality, good looking.”
“Like his father.” Peter grabbed a couple of coconut shrimp from a passing tray and dipped them into the sweet sauce.
Barber said, “Hungry?”
“Starving.” Peter stuffed one into his mouth.
Barber watched like an annoyed prosecutor. “Any luck with the Spencer journal?”
A drink tray was coming—red, white, and sparkling water.
Peter said, “You’re drinking red. Is that a preference or a statement on the white.”
“Sturgis Napa makes a nice Pinot.”
“In that case—” Peter snatched a glass of red.
The party photographer came by, told them to smile.
Barber gave a big fake grin.
Peter held up his glass and said, “Fancy party.”
“This is an important charity for us,” said Barber. “We’re one of the city’s oldest firms. We understand history.”
“I wish I did.” Peter downed half the wine. “And I’ve been studying it all my life.”
The camera flashed a few times, and Peter was sure that at least one shot caught Barber glaring at him, because as soon as the photographer slipped off, Barber said, “You appear to be thirsty, Mr. Fallon.”
“Dry as a bone.” Peter grinned.
Barber took a breath, as if to move past annoyance, as if he hadn’t pegged LJ Fallon’s father for a drinker. “I appreciate that you’ve been working without portfolio. It speaks well of your commitment to your son and to the historical truth of the journal. If we can put it back together, we can liquidate the estate and move on. That’s all I want to do for the family, yet they’re resisting.”
“Why would they resist? As you say in the law, cui bono?”
“Who benefits? From doing what the law prescribes?”
“Who benefits from reading the story of James Spencer and the Chinese with their bags of gold and Michael Flynn with his river of it?”
“Michael Flynn? I don’t know who that is,” said Barber.
Peter didn’t believe him for a second. But here came more shrimp, and Peter couldn’t resist. He grabbed, dipped, ate, but what to do with the tail?
Barber said, “You might use your pocket.”
“Or”—Peter knocked back the rest of the wine—“my empty glass.” He dropped the tail into the glass and grabbed a Chardonnay from another tray. “Let’s try the white.”
“Yes, do … before they run out.”
“Well, you know, Jack—they call you ‘Jack,’ right?”
Barber gave him a thin smile. Peter half expected him to say that only his friends called him “Jack,” but a Boston Book Man could call him Mr. Barber.
“You know, Jack, all this business with wiseass tongsters like Wonton
Willie is driving me to drink. I came out here to help my son, and—”
“Smart boy, as we have agreed.”
“—all of a sudden, I’m in a Chinatown gang war over this journal.”
Barber pretended to laugh, though he wasn’t amused. “A war? I doubt it.”
“Doubt it all you want.” Peter swallowed half the wine and saw that he was getting where he wanted to go—under Barber’s skin. “But Wonton Willie asked me to find the Chinese gold that Spencer writes about, so he can give it to the Dai-lo, the big man from the Hong Kong Triad. You know the Triad, right? Chinese organized crime, like the Mafia.”
Barber sipped his wine. “This worldwide Chinese crime stuff, it’s out of the Nineties. Whatever’s happening on the streets today is local and petty. My Chinese contacts are businessmen. Very important. Very upright. Just look around this room. Many of them are here.”
The noise level was rising. But it swirled around Barber. A powerful man power-talking, even in the middle of a party, got all the power-space he needed.
Peter said, “You seem to know a lot about the Chinese.”
“And you’re learning. But remember”—Barber kept smiling like a baseball fan imagining a World Series between the Red Sox and Giants—“your allegiance is to your son, and his is to me, and ours is to our late client, last great-granddaughter of James Spencer. Help your son, and—ah, here’s the young man now.”
LJ was coming toward them, wineglass in hand.
Peter said, “Back so soon? You can’t be too serious about this Spencer journal if you’re running off to L.A.”
Barber glared into Peter’s glass, then at Peter. “I sent your son to L.A. because we thought the Sturgis sister had one of the notebooks.”
Peter looked at LJ and winked. Play along. “Did she?”
LJ said, “We were misinformed.”
“That’s how I feel right now.” Peter raised his voice a little. “Johnson ‘Jack’ here can’t even give me good information about the local Chinese community.”
LJ’s eyes shifted, as if he was embarrassed at his father’s familiarity. “Mr. Barber is an expert, Dad.”
“Expert?” Peter finished his white wine and grabbed another. He toasted to Barber, who watched disapprovingly as Peter drained half the glass in a single swallow.
Bound for Gold--A Peter Fallon Novel of the California Gold Rush Page 40
