by Gina Cresse
The aerial photos could be a couple years old, and I supposed it was possible that the orchard had been pulled and vines planted since the photos had been taken, but I wouldn’t expect a vineyard that young to be producing yet. After printing the map with actual street names, I dug a little deeper into Adobe Vineyards records.
There was no principal owner listed, just an office address in San Francisco and a telephone number. I jotted it all down so I could do more snooping in the morning.
After my morning chores, I started out in search of the elusive Adobe Vineyards. Google Maps said the drive would take about an hour and the weather report predicted record-breaking temperatures later in the day, so I grabbed a couple bottles of water on the way.
Driving west toward the flatland of the valley, I rolled down my windows to take advantage of the cool breeze before Mother Nature turned on the oven. The smell of newly harvested onions filled the air and I breathed it in. As I passed an alfalfa field being irrigated with sprinklers on big spoke wheels, the ambient temperature seemed to drop a good ten degrees. I inhaled the smell of freshly watered alfalfa and smiled, but when I drove past a dairy farm, it was time to roll up the windows.
At 10:30 AM, I reached Adobe Vineyards, or at least what my map said was Adobe Vineyards, but there was no vineyard. Instead I stared across a hundred acres of almond, walnut and cherry trees. I dug my cell phone out and dialed the number I’d written down for Adobe. My call was answered by a machine telling me to leave a message. I left my name and number and requested a callback, then I plugged in my GPS, punched in the address and headed toward San Francisco.
When I found the address listed for Adobe’s offices, it was a big concrete and glass building overlooking Fisherman’s Wharf. After driving around for forty minutes looking for a place to park, I finally squeezed into a small spot about three blocks—uphill—from my destination.
Unlike the San Joaquin Valley, the summer temperature in San Francisco was cool and the fog had just started to burn off, exposing Alcatraz Island in the bay. The smell of salt air and fish from the wharf crinkled my nose as I searched for the sweater I hoped I’d left in my back seat, but I hadn’t.
With goose bumps on my exposed arms and nearly tumbling down the steep hill, I reminded myself how warm I’d be later when I’d have to hike back up to my car. When I reached the office building, I pushed through the doors and searched the roster, finding Adobe near the top of the alphabetical list—Fourth floor, suite 420.
As I stepped off the elevator, a woman with bleached-blonde hair and horn-rimmed glasses looked up from her desk.
“May I help you?” she asked. The nameplate on her desk identified her as the “receptionist” but “gatekeeper” would have been just as appropriate. I had the sense that if I ignored her and wandered down one of the hallways, she’d tackle me and call for security.
“I’m looking for suite 420?”
She opened a book on her desk to a page and ran her finger down a list. “Suite 420. That’s Adobe Vineyards.”
“Right,” I said.
“Did someone direct you to this address?” she asked.
“It’s listed as the business address.”
“Well, there’s no actual office here. It’s just a postal box to collect mail.”
“Really. I don’t suppose you can tell me how to reach the owner of the box, could you?”
She pushed her glasses higher on her nose and looked up at me with a bright red lipsticked smile. “You can mail a letter to Suite 420.”
“Can you give me a name?” I leaned over to get a look at the book opened on her desk, but she closed it before I could see anything.
“If you go to the building’s main office on the sixth floor, they can tell you.”
“Thanks for your help,” I said.
The note taped to the door of the building’s main office read, “Closed. We’ll be back Monday. Have a nice day!” Someone had drawn a smiley face on the paper to emphasize the last sentence.
Lunch in Chinatown and a visit to Ghirardelli Chocolate Factory would improve my day immensely. After that, my main goal would be to get on the road home before the rush-hour traffic started.
As I sat in a booth in a little Chinese restaurant overlooking a street bustling with lunch-hour workers, I checked my watch to determine if I had time to use the chopsticks or if I’d have to request a fork. The place was steamy warm, and wonderful smells escaped every time a cook opened the swinging doors from the kitchen, so I opted for the chopsticks.
Outside, a survey crew worked on some project that probably involved the empty lot across from the restaurant. I heard their high-tech tools ring and beep and talk to them in monotone robot-sounding voices every time the restaurant’s front door opened.
Somewhere between the vegetable fried rice and the orange chicken, I called Quinn Adamson to fill him in on my search for Adobe Vineyards, but I got his voicemail. He was probably at lunch, too. I left him a message and asked him if we could meet.
When I finished and cracked open my fortune cookie, the tiny slip of paper inside read, “A conclusion is simply the place where you got tired of thinking.” I was tired of thinking all right, but I’d reached no conclusions yet.
The day was not a total bust. I left San Francisco with leftover Chinese takeout boxes and two bars of Ghirardelli dark chocolate.
My cell phone rang while I was on the lower deck of the Oakland Bay Bridge. Hoping it was Adobe Vineyards, I glanced down at the display—Quinn Adamson.
Risking a ticket for talking on the cell phone while driving, I took a quick glance at the cars around me and, not seeing any police, I answered it.
“I got your message, Kate. Adobe Vineyards?”
“Yeah. I can’t find it, or its offices, or its owner. Seems very suspicious to me.”
“I agree. I’ll notify O’Reilly and Parker over at the TTB and see if they want to get involved.”
“Probably a good idea.”
“I was going to call you today anyway,” he said.
“What’s up?”
“I’m sure you’ve heard about the budget mess with the state.”
I had heard, but was hoping it would miraculously go away, as I’m sure every politician in the state was. “Yeah?”
“I’m sorry, but we’re going to have to issue an I.O.U. for the invoice you sent. Just until we get the budget finalized.”
Trying not to sound as though I’d just been run through a chipper-shredder, I asked, “Any idea how long until that happens?”
“Oh, should be any day now.”
“That’s what I’ve been hearing for the last six months.” I felt a tear well up and my throat constricted. The pressure of my financial crisis was closer to the surface than I realized.
“I know. I’m sorry, Kate. Nothing I can do.”
After a couple of deep breaths, I was able to keep my emotions in check. At least the grapes were being harvested, so I’d have the first of three checks coming in from the winery soon. “Okay.”
Just as I hung up, I heard a loud bang like a car had backfired. Before I could spot the offending clunker, the car next to me began to fishtail and swerved into my lane. I reflexively jerked the wheel and nearly plowed into the van to my right, causing a chain reaction that ultimately resulted in a collision between an SUV and a bottled-water delivery truck. Horns blared and tires squealed and the sound of breaking glass sent my heart racing like a rabbit in the middle of a wolf pack. Adrenaline raced through my veins and events seemed to happen in slow motion as I swerved right, then left, then slammed on my brakes just in time for an opening to materialize between a plumber’s van and a Caddy—like the parting of the Red Sea. I stepped on the gas and raced through before it closed, or worse, swallowed me up.
When I emerged from the gauntlet, thankful that I’d successfully navigated it, I was shaking, so I pulled over and forced myself to take long, deep breaths. After twenty minutes of re-playing the near-disaster over and over
in my head, I finally decided to focus on the fact that if the building’s office workers hadn’t taken the day off, I’d be stuck on the wrong side of the accident behind me.
By the time I reached Stockton, I’d stopped re-living the near-disaster on the bridge and replaced it with last night’s conversation with Andy. I decided to drive by his place to see how he was doing. When I got there, a police cruiser and Detective Obermeyer’s car were in the driveway.
When I parked and got out, Newman and Redford whinnied at me from their paddock.
Before I got to the steps, the front door opened and Andy stood there, handcuffed and being escorted out by a uniformed officer.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
Obermeyer followed the officer out and took me by the arm. “You shouldn’t be here,” he said.
I watched the officer open the back door of the cruiser and shove Andy in the back seat like a criminal.
Before I could ask, Obermeyer said, “Ballistic tests confirmed the rifle we found in his house was the murder weapon.”
Chapter Seventeen
Obermeyer didn’t want to hear my suggestion that someone might have planted the rifle in Andy’s house, so I gave up playing defense attorney and told him to let Andy know I would take care of the Clydesdales until he could make bail.
It was too early to feed Redford and Newman, but I didn’t mind coming back later. On the way home, news of the accident on the Bay Bridge played on the radio. I turned up the volume. “Six cars were involved in the pile up, closing down all eastbound lanes for two hours,” the announcer said.
My lucky day after all, I thought. I could’ve been stuck in that mess.
The reporter continued, “There were no serious injuries, but witnesses at the scene report seeing a man in a dark sedan shooting at cars immediately before the accident.”
“What?” I said, turning the volume up even more.
“Investigators believe the incident was gang related.”
As I sat in my driveway, waiting for the gate to open, I replayed the Bay Bridge scene over in my head. I had been on the phone with Quinn Adamson right before the accident, and remembered checking the cars around me. A water truck, a van, a few SUVs, a caddy, a couple hybrids like mine—what did gang bangers drive these days?
There was a large box just outside my gate. Looking at the shipping label, I smiled. It was the “Happy Horse Automatic Feeder” I’d ordered for the cat food. I put it in my trunk and drove it up to the barn.
After changing into blue jeans and a tank top, I gathered up some tools and set to work installing my new weapon against the raccoons. Choosing the ideal location was my first challenge. The feeder was basically a big plastic hopper with a lid on top and a funnel-like chute at the bottom. Attached to the chute was an electrical timer that controlled a disc-shaped flap inside the chute that opened and closed. Another dial controlled the amount of food released at each interval.
I finally chose a spot where it wouldn’t be in the way. It needed to be high enough that the raccoons couldn’t reach it but low enough that I could fill it without standing on a ladder. Installation was simple—though not as simple as it would have been if the cats weren’t underfoot the whole time helping me—and within half an hour, I was pouring the cat food out of the Rubbermaid container into the hopper. I snapped the lid down, put the cats’ bowl in the correct position under the feeder, checked my watch, and set the timer. To test it, I scheduled a feeding for five minutes away, then the cats and I stood there and watched. Right on schedule, the feeder buzzed and a flurry of cat food spewed out into the bowl below like coins from a slot machine. Startled by the strange noise, the cats panicked and took off in all directions.
“Scaredy cats,” I muttered as I gathered up my tools.
Later that evening, I drove back to Andy’s place to feed the Clydesdales. They came galloping across the field to greet me, raising a cloud of dust behind them. Before I headed for the feed bin, I double-checked my work on the fencepost to make sure it was still solid. Satisfied that it was firmly in place, I headed for the barn. The boys were already there, watching every move I made with their big root-beer-brown eyes. Redford stamped his hoof and nickered.
“I’m hurrying,” I said. “Didn’t Andy feed you this morning?”
I poured the oats into their feeders then headed for the huge stack of hay Andy kept at the far end of the barn. Draft horses would go through twice as much hay as normal horses, so I could see the logic in buying it by the tractor-trailer load. There was no open bale so I’d have to drag one down from the top of a new stack. After a brief search, I located a pair of hay hooks. The bale was just out of my reach, so I stood on an overturned five-gallon bucket and stretched as far as I could, snagging the bale with both hooks.
Redford and Newman whinnied, again, from across the barn.
“Give me a break!” I hollered at them, dangling from the bale of hay, which must’ve weighed at least 150 pounds because it wasn’t budging. I planted one boot firmly against the hay stack and pulled with all my weight. That effort broke the bale loose but it only moved about an inch. The boys whinnied again.
“Eat your oats!”
Another yank, and the bale moved a few inches more. Before long, I had it teetering on the edge, ready to slide to the ground. That’s when I heard the sound that made me feel sick—rattles, and not the cute little baby toy kind, but the big ugly snake kind. Unfortunately, the momentum had begun and there was no stopping the bale from coming down over my head.
I tried to get as far away as I could but the hay bale landed on my right shoulder and knocked me to the ground, then pinned me there by settling across my back.
Redford and Newman, apparently disgusted that I had ignored every one of their warnings, stomped their hooves a few more times, then snorted and took off at a run across the field.
“Cowards,” I whispered under my breath.
The rattling started again. Turning my head toward the sound, my eyes focused on a coiled snake, about three feet from my face. Looking at it was like staring down the barrel of a loaded revolver. I’d never before seen a rattlesnake in person, and this one’s beady eyes conjured visions of Hannibal Lecter—sans the mask.
I’d heard they were common in our area so I had printed some information I’d found on the internet and stuck it to my refrigerator with a sunflower magnet. Now, I struggled to remember what the hell I was supposed to do.
Think, Kate. A bead of sweat rolled down my forehead. It must’ve been 90 degrees in that barn, or perhaps I was just a tad stressed. I remembered reading the part about rattlesnakes actually being quite docile and shy, but I doubted that would apply in my current situation, after I dropped the thing from ten feet in the air.
The fact that it was still rattling and glaring at me like I’d poked it with a fork was not a good thing. Racking my brain, I tried to remember how far they could strike. Was it one third the length of their body? Or two-thirds? Or twice the length? I was leaning toward two-thirds. If my memory was correct, and if my judgment that the venomous creature was in fact three feet away, then it would have to be… crap, I always need a pencil and paper for algebra. Let’s see, first turn two-thirds into a decimal. Two into three? No, dammit. Three into two. How many times does three go into two? Hell, I don’t know. The damn snake has to be somewhere between four and five feet long to reach me if it strikes.
Coiled the way it was, and me being pinned with my face at snake level, I couldn’t really tell how long it was. All I knew for sure was that I needed to put more distance between us, and that was not easy with a hundred and fifty pounds of alfalfa on me. I tried my own slithering move to back away but it was useless.
If it was going to bite me anyway, how long was I willing to lie there and attempt algebra without a calculator? Never a mongoose around when you need one.
The seriousness of my situation began to sink in. This thing could really kill me. I might never enjoy an early-morning ride in t
he countryside again, or see my children grow up—if I had any children—and the way this day was unwinding, I wasn’t putting any money on that bet.
Unable to stand the situation any longer, I summoned every drop of adrenaline my body could produce to raise my butt off the ground, tuck my chin to my chest and roll that damned bale of hay over my head and shoulders. Hopefully it would land between me and Hannibal.
As the bale tumbled over my head, something pricked my scalp, and my entire being hoped it was a stalk of hay, but I wasn’t counting on being that lucky. Holding the back of my head, I jumped to my feet and scanned the barn floor for the snake. Thankfully, the creature appeared to be trapped, squirming from under the same bale of hay that had pinned me. Karma apparently applies to snakes as well as people.
Something warm trickled down the back of my neck and when I pulled my hand away from my head, it dripped with blood.
I remembered that 911 calls from cell phones ring directly to the CHP, and that didn’t seem like the best option for me. Luckily, there was an old rotary dial phone hanging on the tack-room wall in Andy’s barn. I hoped it still worked. Ignoring the dust and flyspecks, I picked up the receiver and dialed.
“I think I’ve been bitten by a rattlesnake.”
“You think it’s a rattlesnake? Or you think you’ve been bitten?” the dispatcher asked.
“I’m sure it’s a rattlesnake. The back of my head’s bleeding, so I’m pretty sure—“
“Where?”
“Uh, I’m on Grenache Way, near the intersection—”
“I know where you are. It bit you in the head?”
“Yes—”
“I’ve got help on the way. Stay on the phone with me. Now, remain calm. I need you to lie down with the affected limb below your heart.”
“Limb?” He must’ve been reading from a script.
“Right. Just lie down and keep still. Are you wearing any rings, bracelets or other restricting items on the bitten extremity?”
“Uh, no.”
