Sinfandel

by Gina Cresse

  The detectives towered over me, looking at their notes. The younger of the two peered above his notebook at me. “Do you own a gun?”

  I shook my head. “No.” It was an automatic response.

  Andy raised an eyebrow at me.

  “Oh, wait. Yes, I just bought a shotgun,” I said.

  The older detective smiled. “Slipped your mind?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact. A lot has happened since I picked it up today.”

  I explained, again, about my mysterious visitor ten days earlier and why I’d purchased the gun. No one asked the obvious question, so I volunteered. “Could a family of vultures eat a body in ten days?”

  The coroner wandered into the conversation just in time to fill me in. “The body is actually quite intact considering the conditions it’s been exposed to. Decomposition is significant, and there is tissue missing, but we should be able to identify her with dental records.”

  “Her?” I said.

  “Yes. Female, early to mid twenties, healthy. Looks like a gunshot wound for cause of death. I’ll know more after the autopsy.”

  “Could it be that missing girl? Beth Messina?” I asked. For a brief instant, the thought of the $20,000 reward flashed through my mind, followed by a twinge of guilt. It dawned on me I had no claim to it anyway. The reward would go to the laborer who found her, and he’d probably quit and take his family back to Mexico, and my crop would never get harvested, and I’d never get paid, and the bank would foreclose, and I’d live, penniless, on the streets of Stockton.

  “We can’t speculate. Let’s wait for the dental records before we jump to any conclusions.”

  By the time the last police car left, it was dark. The Clydesdales were spending the night at my place, so I tossed them more hay and filled their water trough. Andy picked up a pizza box and brought it over to me. “Is your boyfriend coming back?”

  “What b—? Oh, no.”

  He handed me the pizza box, with half a pizza still inside. “Here. You probably don’t feel like cooking tonight.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Tough day, huh.”

  I nodded and headed toward the house. “Tomorrow, would you please park the trucks in the vineyard and get some tractors to speed things up?”

  “You don’t like the big guys?”

  “I love the big guys, but I want these grapes harvested now.”

  “Sure, I’ll take care of it.” He took off his baseball cap and ran his fingers through his hair. “And thanks for putting the boys up for the night. I’ll take them home in the morning.”

  “Who do they belong to?” I asked. “If they were mine, I’d be here making sure they were getting good care.”

  Andy followed me up the porch steps and opened the front door for me. “They’re mine, and I know they’ll get treated a lot better than I do around here.”

  I gave him a startled look, then retreated into the house and set down the pizza box. Andy stayed outside on the porch. “Okay, I’ll see you tomorrow,” he called to me then closed the door.

  I watched the lights of his pickup pull through my gate and drive away, and I smiled. A man with Clydesdales couldn’t be all bad.

  Morning came too soon and I rolled out of bed like a corpse. Squinting at the light like a mole fresh out of its hole, I splashed water on my face, slipped my feet into my old rubber boots and headed for the barn. Lots of whinnies called out to me, anxious for breakfast.

  “Morning, kids!” I called back. All the barn cats tried to trip me as I stumbled to the barn. When I got there, I stood in the breezeway, baffled by what I saw, or, rather, what I didn’t see. My brand new Rubbermaid raccoon-proof cat-food container was gone.

  Chapter Eight

  The cat-food container was heavy and left a trail in the dirt where it had been dragged away from the barn. The intermingled raccoon prints conjured up an image in my mind of how the theft must’ve taken place. When they couldn’t open it, they probably decided to take it back to their place where they could work on the problem without the worry of being caught. It would have taken the whole family of them to move the booty.

  I followed the tracks toward the vineyard, where it appeared they’d encountered some trouble getting the container under the fence. I hoped they didn’t head in the direction of the cave, which had been cordoned off with yellow crime-scene tape. The homicide people had warned me to stay away from it. If a large container of cat food suddenly appeared in the middle of their crime scene, how would I explain that raccoons—my raccoons, I’m sure they’d say—were the culprits?

  The trail led to a small gully where the ground dipped low enough for the container to fit under the bottom rail. I slipped between the rails and continued following the tracks. When the trail took a turn down one of the vineyard rows, I stopped and peered back over my shoulder toward the barn. The harvesting crew would show up any minute. Chewing my bottom lip, I debated whether I should continue the hunt or try again later after I was dressed. Not sure how much of a head start the raccoons had on me, and preferring to retrieve the container while it was still in the vineyard—if it was still in the vineyard—I forged on.

  Tromping through the vines in my cut-off sweat shorts, extra-large Dirty Harry “Go ahead punk… Make my day” T-shirt and rubber boots, I was glad the vines were fully leafed out so no one could see me from the road. When I reached the top of the rise, I spotted the container about 100 feet away. They must have abandoned the task when the sun came up, but I was sure they’d be back tonight for their treasure. I started down the row to retrieve it when the sight of another family of vineyard residents stopped me. Black with white stripes down their backs, a momma and three baby skunks meandered along the row from the other direction, apparently curious about the container the raccoon family had brought into the neighborhood.

  The sound of diesel engines rumbled at my gate. I stood on tiptoe and peered over the vines. The grape trucks were here.

  The container would have to wait. I jogged back toward the vineyard gate, but the big rubber boots weren’t meant for any gait faster than a clumsy waddle.

  Glancing over my shoulder as I shoved the gate closed, I saw Andy’s pickup pull into my driveway. The vertical bar that engaged the latch on the vineyard gate was stuck. I yanked, pushed, and pulled on it but it would not budge. I picked up a big rock and hammered on the bar to break it free, but something was jammed in the mechanism. It was a piece of cloth. Using my fingernails, I tried to pry it loose, all the while aware of Andy’s approach from behind, and the view of me in my T-shirt and rubber boots.

  “Need a hand?” he said. I could hear the amusement in his voice.

  “No!”

  “Sure? Looks like you’re having a little trouble there.”

  “No, I’ve got it.”

  By the time I worked the cloth free, Andy stood next to me with his hand on the lever. He shoved it over and latched the gate closed. “There. That wasn’t so hard.”

  Dangling the strip of red plaid flannel, which looked like someone had accidently caught it on his way through the gate and just yanked free, I said, “You think you can get your pickers to be a little more careful? If I’d been out here in the middle of the night, I might never have gotten it closed.”

  “What would you be doing out here in the middle of the night?”

  “If it was any of your business—“

  “Well, I better get the crew started. Looks like you just crawled out of your hole, so don’t let me keep you.”

  I stuck my tongue out at his back as he walked away, but it didn’t make me feel any better.

  After I showered and ate breakfast, I sat down at my desk to pick up where I’d left off on the grape harvest mystery. Narrowing down the suspects was not as easy as I had hoped. There was no single winery that appeared to benefit any more than the others by having more Zinfandel grapes available. The conspiracy would have to involve them all, and that didn’t seem likely to me.

  It had to be a
grower or a group of growers who were passing their generic grapes off as varietals for the higher prices, but which ones? There were too many pieces missing from the information puzzle in front of me to see the whole picture.

  As I gazed out the window, tapping my pencil on the desk and hoping for the answer to materialize, I watched Andy harness the Clydesdales and hitch them to the buckboard. The man who had driven the team here yesterday climbed aboard the wagon and took the lines, slapping the team into motion. They maneuvered through the gate and down the road as if they’d done it a thousand times. I wondered how far they had to go to get home.

  After they were gone, Andy returned to the vineyard and I could turn my concentration back to my work.

  In California, over half a million acres are planted in grapes. I had to reduce the size of my haystack before I could start looking for the needle, so I decided to look at the data geographically. Since winegrowing regions are broken down into districts and appellations, the most logical next step in my search would be to sort, group, and subtotal the data that way. Studying the results of my query, I felt a sense of pride when I was able to narrow the scope down to the northern San Joaquin Valley. No districts outside that area had any significant discrepancies.

  I composed an e-mail to Quinn Adamson and attached the report I’d just compiled. Now that I’d eliminated a huge portion of the data as suspect, I felt confident I’d be able to pare it down to a manageable list by the end of the week.

  Just after lunch, Detective Obermeyer showed up, looking grim. “They’ve identified the body.”

  It was over 100 degrees outside and I saw a bead of sweat roll down the side of his face. I invited him in and poured some lemonade.

  “It was Beth Messina,” he said, then gulped down the ice-cold drink.

  “That’s what the guy in the white pickup was doing here that night. Dumping her body,” I said.

  “You never got a license number?”

  “No. It was too dark.”

  “So you couldn’t identify the pickup if you saw it again? Nothing distinguishing about it?”

  I shook my head.

  “We’re sending divers to search your pond.”

  “How come you’re working on this? I thought you were narcotics.”

  “We got an anonymous tip.”

  “And?”

  “Guy said Beth Messina was the one watering the marijuana out of your pond.”

  I stared at him, waiting for the punch line.

  “I’m following up on the lead even though the tipster is probably smoking his own dope.”

  “You don’t believe him?”

  He shook his head. “I talked with her parents, her friends, her coworkers. She doesn’t fit the profile.”

  “Why would someone tell you she was watering those plants?”

  “Throw me off track. I did a little checking into your neighbor.”

  “And?”

  “Mr. Dash Zucker. Two narcotics convictions and one armed robbery, back in the early eighties.”

  I felt like all the air had left the room. “Are you kidding?”

  He shook his head again.

  “How does a convicted felon buy a vineyard in California?”

  “The vineyard belonged to his parents. They died, he inherited.”

  “And I moved in next door.”

  “It was over twenty years ago, and he’s kept his nose clean since he got out…”

  “But?”

  “You should be careful.”

  The last grape truck chugged out of sight for the day and there was finally peace and quiet in the vineyard. Dusk was still an hour away. Pete’s pickup rolled to a stop at my gate and he climbed out, looking tired. I walked out on the front porch as he sauntered up the driveway.

  “Almost done,” he said, gazing at the vineyard.

  “Yep. Now that we’re not harvesting the 1850’s way, we should be done pretty quick.”

  He smiled and took off his baseball cap to wipe the sweat off his forehead. “Andy’s a good guy. He’s probably just trying to impress you with those Clydesdales, knowing how much you love horses and all.”

  “Impress me? I think it’s more likely he’s trying to drive me crazy and put me in the poor house.”

  Pete frowned. “Money troubles?”

  “I just need to get these grapes harvested so I can get paid. I’ll be fine once that happens.”

  “I can float you a loan if you need—”

  “I’m fine, Pete. Really. But thanks for the offer. I appreciate it.”

  “Well, we should be done picking by Friday, so you just hang in there.” He scratched his chin and leaned on the porch rail. “Any word on that mess they found in your cave?”

  “Oh, yes. It was Beth Messina, like I thought.”

  Pete’s gaze turned to the toes of his cowboy boots and he shook his head. “Damn shame.”

  “Did you know her? I guess she was an apprentice winemaker over at Venezia.”

  “I’d seen her around. Nice kid.” He cleared something out of his throat that sounded like welled up emotions. “I better get going.”

  Back inside, I turned on the stereo and poured a glass of Merlot to watch what was sure to be a spectacular sunset. The Merlot promised to “open with aromas of ripe raspberry and blackberry with undertones of savory dried spice, sage, and hints of peppermint. Earthy flavors, layered with accents of blackberry jam, toasted oak and vanilla, along with firm tannins balanced by juicy fruit and moderate acidity gave the medium-bodied wine a long finish.” That was according to the label, anyway. I wasn’t sure what a “long finish” meant, but I did like how it tasted.

  The news Obermeyer had told me about my neighbor gave me an uneasy feeling. Closing my eyes, I tried to push the worry out of my head for at least a minute. A familiar smell wafted through the windows that I’d opened for the evening cross breeze. I crinkled my nose. A knock on the door startled me and I nearly spilled red wine down my shirt. When I opened my front door, Andy stood there with the Rubbermaid container at his feet.

  He reeked of skunk.

  I covered my nose and mouth and squeezed the door closed to an inch opening to try to keep the stink out without shutting it in his face.

  “I presume this is what you were after this morning,” he said, pointing at the container.

  I nodded, my eyes tearing up from the smell. “Thank you,” I said in a voice muffled by the sleeve of my shirt.

  “Your skunks don’t like me much.”

  Another nod, then a barely audible, “They’re not my skunks.”

  He backed away from the door and turned to leave.

  “Wait,” I said. “You’ll probably charge me extra to have your pickup de-fumigated. I have tomato juice.”

  Staring down at his feet, he nodded, apparently understanding the offer. “I’ll have to burn these clothes.”

  “I’ll run to town and get you something to wear.” I chewed my bottom lip as I contemplated what I was about to say. “One condition.”

  He eyed me, suspicious.

  “Do you know anything about shotguns?”

  Chapter Nine

  Behind the barn, Andy peeled off his clothes down to his boxers and tossed them in the metal trashcan that used to be a cat-food container. I covered my nose with a bandana, handed him a can of lighter fluid and backed off. Even the cats and horses kept their distance. He doused the clothes then dropped in a match, igniting them in a big poof of flames.

  “I’ll get the tomato juice,” I said.

  “You know it’s a myth about tomato juice. Doesn’t neutralize the smell,” he said as he watched the flames.

  “No?”

  “Just replaces it. You have any hydrogen peroxide and baking soda?”

  “I think so.”

  “And liquid detergent,” he called to me as I headed for the house.

  While Andy bathed in the concoction he’d mixed up, I drove to town to buy him some new Wranglers and a T-shirt. He didn’t ask f
or it, but I picked up a bottle of Stetson cologne, just in case 100 percent stink eradication couldn’t be achieved.

  When I returned, he was sitting on the front porch swing with the towel I’d given him wrapped around his waist. Cautiously, I approached him, waiting for the smell to hit me. Surprisingly, it seemed to be gone. I handed him the bag of clothes and cologne. “Hope you like what I picked out.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” he said. “As long as they fit.”

  While Andy got dressed in the bathroom, I peered in the refrigerator for something to fix for dinner.

  “Are you hungry?” I called to him, but he didn’t answer. The stereo was still on and I figured he couldn’t hear me. In the pantry, I grabbed a couple potatoes and a bottle of Pinot Grigio, which featured “aromas of white peach, nectarine, and spring flowers followed by flavors of lemon, stone fruit, crisp Fuji apple and ripe pear.” Standing at the sink, I scrubbed the potatoes, sang along with the music and pondered what a stone fruit looked like.

  “I can’t stay for dinner.” Andy’s voice startled me and I dropped a potato.

  “Oh,” I said. I hoped he didn’t hear the disappointment in my voice.

  “I’ll pick you up in the morning. You have ammo?”

  “One box.”

  Walking toward my door, he said, “You’ll need more. I’ll bring some with me.” Then he left.

  I stared at the door for a moment, then shook my head and hollered, “You’re welcome!”

  To take my mind off my many fiascos, I decided to dive back into the only predictable part of my life—my work. Feeling so close to figuring out the “who” part of the mystery, I sat down at my computer and gazed at the list of growers who could have misrepresented their grapes. The list, though significantly shorter than it was yesterday, was still two pages long and contained close to 100 entries. At the bottom of the list, a name caught my eye. Dash Zucker Vineyards had supplied Zinfandel grapes to Venezia Winery. I scratched my head and tried to remember what variety was growing in the neighbor’s vineyard. I’d ridden along the fence between our properties but never paid enough attention to know what kind of grapes he was growing.