Sinfandel

by Gina Cresse

  “Okay, good. Now, apply a light constricting band—strike that. Sorry.”

  Up until then, I wasn’t all that worried, but the way he sounded, you’d have thought I’d partially decapitated myself. I watched the road for an ambulance but what showed up was a helicopter.

  Before I knew it, I was on a stretcher in a chopper flying to—I didn’t know where. I expected to pass out at any moment but I seemed to be quite alert. It wasn’t until then that I realized I’d never given Redford and Newman their hay. If I made it to the hospital, I’d call Pete to go take care of the snake and the horses.

  If I didn’t make it… “Hey! Can one of you guys call someone for me?” I hollered over the sound of the rotors.

  The medic who was busy checking my vital signs shook his head. “Not till we land!”

  “Then don’t let me die!”

  At the hospital, I borrowed a cell phone from one of the ER nurses and called Pete to let him know what happened and to see if he could stop by Andy’s and throw some hay to the horses.

  “And watch out for that snake,” I warned him.

  “I’ll be fine. You just take care of yourself,” he said.

  Before I gave the phone back, I made one more call, to Detective Obermeyer.

  A doctor who looked too young to have finished junior high, let alone medical school, parted the cubicle curtains with a dramatic sweep of his arm and announced, “You are one lucky woman.”

  I blinked a few times, waiting for the punch line.

  “Roughly twenty-five percent of rattlesnake bites in California are dry, meaning no venom. Did you know that?” he asked.

  I shook my head. “Should I buy a lottery ticket?”

  “I think I would if I were you.”

  “So can I go home now?”

  He laughed. “Not so fast. Dry doesn’t mean harmless. We still have to earn our money, you know. Poke you with needles, gag you with Popsicle sticks, make you fill out eight-hundred forms.”

  “That’s right. You probably have a pool payment to make.”

  “Mercedes,” he said, then winked at me and turned to leave. “Yep, one lucky woman.”

  Twenty minutes later, Detective Obermeyer arrived.

  “You really were bitten by a rattlesnake?”

  “Would I lie about something like that?”

  He cringed as I described the episode, leaving out no detail.

  When I finished, he shook his head. “Unbelievable.”

  I nodded in agreement. “Since when do rattlesnakes climb ten-foot-tall haystacks?”

  After a brief moment of thought, he said, “I’ve never heard of it.”

  “Someone put that snake on that stack.”

  “You think someone is trying to kill you?”

  “No! I wasn’t supposed to be there. Remember?”

  He stared at me for a long time. “You think the snake was meant for Andy?”

  “Who else?”

  Chapter Eighteen

  The ER doctor finally discharged me a little before midnight. I hadn’t decided which injury caused me the most pain—the snakebite or my new bald spot from where the nurse shaved my hair to clean the wound. I suppose most women would have been bothered by the indignity, but I’d gotten over myself a long time ago, and have even been known to go to town without makeup and wearing my rubber stall-cleaning boots.

  Obermeyer offered me his Sheriff’s Department baseball cap—which I accepted just so he would feel as though he were helping—and drove me to get my car from Andy’s place.

  I flipped on the light switch in the hay barn and we both stared up at the tall stack of alfalfa.

  “No way a snake got up there on its own,” he said, scratching his chin.

  I nodded in agreement.

  He turned and studied my face. “You okay to drive yourself home?”

  “Oh, yeah,” I said, then swayed a little and lost my balance, falling into him.

  “That’s a no,” he said, catching me before I toppled over. “I’ll drive you home then have someone deliver your car for you.”

  “No, I’m fine. Really.”

  “Yeah, right. Get in my car.”

  It was comforting having the friendly Obermeyer back. I wondered how long his sympathy for my injury would last.

  Obermeyer insisted on checking my property and going through my house before he left me there alone. When he was satisfied all was safe, he headed back to his car, and I waved to him as he drove away. My Prius, followed by a CHP car arrived minutes later. I directed the young patrolman to park under the carport. He stepped out and glanced at the tires.

  “Your tread is nearly gone,” he said.

  “What?”

  “You’d better get some new tires as soon as possible.”

  I stared at the almost-smooth rubber treads and tried to calculate the cost of tires. “Thanks,” I said.

  “I wouldn’t drive it, except to the tire store,” he said as he climbed into the patrol car with his partner.

  I’d just have to drive the pickup until I could afford tires. I’d spend more in gas, but it wouldn’t outweigh the cost of new Firestones.

  As I lay in bed thinking about how lucky I’d been—first for missing the pile-up on the Bay Bridge, then for not being killed by the snake—I made a promise that I’d spend less time worrying about money and work and more time doing the things I enjoyed. Maybe I’d take my guitar out of its case and start playing again. Somewhere in storage I had all my art supplies—pencils, paints, brushes—I couldn’t remember the last time I’d even sketched anything. And of course, getting back to nature on the back of a horse.

  It occurred to me that I hadn’t been in the saddle for two weeks, so I switched on the lamp next to my bed and set my alarm clock. I’d feed my horses early, then ride Buster to Andy’s to take care of the Clydesdales. I could follow the dirt roads between the Groom’s cherry orchards and the Holloway’s walnut grove, then zigzag around McAllister’s row crops, which would let me out at the north side of Andy’s place. If he didn’t make bail by dinner time, I’d ride Emlie over for the evening feeding.

  When my alarm went off, the sun had just peeked over the horizon. I climbed out of bed and pulled on some shorts, stuck my feet in a pair of tennies, searched in vain for something to cover my bald spot then figured, what the hell, and staggered up to the barn—still groggy from whatever they’d given me in the ER last night.

  Buster and Emlie were happy to see their breakfast, as usual. I peeked in the cat-food bowl under the new miracle-feeder contraption and saw about a cup of food waiting to be eaten. Another feeding was scheduled for lunchtime, so I wanted the cats to eat their breakfast.

  “Kitty, kitty!” I called. Three skittish barn cats peered around the corner, eyeing me like I might want to give them all baths.

  I kneeled and wiggled my fingers on the ground, coaxing them to come closer. “Here, kitty.”

  After twenty minutes of wheedling and sweet-talk, Van Gogh finally found the courage to sniff the bowl and take a bite. After the others saw that he survived, they hurried in to make sure he didn’t eat their share.

  Listening to my own stomach growl, it dawned on me that I hadn’t eaten since lunch yesterday. I scrambled two eggs and filled a bowl with apple slices and a handful of dried apricots.

  A brief internet search for any news on yesterday’s gang shooting on the Bay Bridge returned few results. Investigators had questioned all the usual suspects and no one confessed. What a surprise.

  As I waited for Buster to finish his breakfast, I finished dressing and inspected my new silver-dollar-sized bald spot using a hand mirror in front of the bathroom vanity. Obermeyer had taken his baseball cap back last night, and I didn’t have one of my own. After experimenting with several options, I finally put my hair in a pony tail. That seemed to cover most of the bare spot and would be my new hair style until it grew back in. I wondered how long that would be.

  After the horses finished eating, I slipped a h
alter on Buster and led him into the barn. Emlie put up the fuss she always did whenever they were separated, but an extra flake of hay put an end to her suffering.

  I brushed Buster’s sleek chestnut coat and combed his mane and tail. Groaning as I stood up straight after being bent almost in half cleaning his left hind hoof, I was startled to come face-to-face with Dash Zucker. If ever there was a time I wished Buster were an ill-mannered kicker, this was it. Unfortunately, the best I could hope for was a good dose of horse-gas in Dash’s face.

  “What do you want?” I said.

  He held a legal-sized envelope in one hand and an official-looking letter in the other.

  “This your doing?” he said, shaking the paper in my face.

  Glaring at him, I snatched the letter out of his hand and read it. It was from the TTB, informing him of an impending inspection of his vineyard to confirm the variety.

  “All that talk about you wanting to grow organic grapes was just a load of crap, wasn’t it?”

  He inched closer, but I refused to budge. “You think I’m behind this?”

  “Why were you taking cuttings out of my vineyard that night?”

  “I told you—“

  “Like hell! The buyer’s not paying me for my grapes till they do this thing!”

  His outburst startled Buster. I patted his hip to settle him down.

  “You have it in for me ‘cause I did time. I know your kind—nothin’ but a pot stirrer and a common liar.”

  After making a mental note to get myself a couple of good dogs to keep garbage like Dash Zucker off my property, I put my hand in the middle of his chest and shoved him out of my comfort zone. With a surprised look on his face, he stumbled backward a couple feet.

  “How dare you come on my property and call me a liar. A common one at that. If you want to see common, go take a look in the mirror, or better yet, at your progeny!”

  He glared at me with the same menace as the rattlesnake, and it struck me that I should have thought this out a little before I allowed my emotions to lead my actions. For all I knew, Dash Zucker could be the murderer who shot Beth Messina in the back.

  He started toward me, his fists clenched and his eyes nothing but slits on his weathered face. Quickly, I unsnapped Buster’s halter from the cross ties and turned him in order to put twelve-hundred pounds of horse between me and Dash. Then I stuck my boot in the stirrup and hoisted myself into the saddle.

  I was now twice as tall as Dash and feeling very empowered. I turned Buster’s nose toward Dash and began herding him down my driveway like a calf.

  “Progeny means your offspring,” I growled. “Children. Daphne, the one who’s already on her way to a life on the taxpayer’s dime in some correctional facility.”

  Dash swung his arm at Buster’s face, causing him to throw his head in the air. Luckily, he didn’t make contact, but in order to protect him from further abuse, I cued Buster to swing his hip around so we were parallel to Dash, then kept pushing him as Buster side-passed down the driveway.

  “And you want to talk about liars? How about the whopper she told about seeing me dump something in my pond? You put her up to that? Or is it just hereditary?”

  A stream of cursing exploded from Dash’s mouth. Some of the words he shouted I’d never heard before.

  One thing I’d learned from a lifetime of being around horses, if you make the mistake of starting a fight, you’d better make damn sure you win it.

  I could scream just as loud as Dash. “Hereditary means she got it from you, you common son-of-a-bitch! Now get the hell off my property!”

  Once I’d pushed him out to the road, I pressed the gate clicker clipped to my belt and closed the gate behind me, then urged Buster into a lope along the grassy shoulder of the road.

  For the first twenty minutes of my ride to Andy’s place, I kept looking over my shoulder to make sure Dash wasn’t following me. I didn’t relax and enjoy the ride until I was comfortable that he wasn’t stalking me.

  To make matters worse, Buster spent more time gawking at the landscape than watching where he was going, as usual, so I had to do it for the both of us. The early morning shadows were still long and in the shade of the orchards I almost wished I’d worn a light jacket, but as soon as we were out from under the shade of the trees, the warmth of the sun soaked into my skin and felt good.

  Buster caught sight of a pasture full of Guernsey cows and reacted in his normal “Close Encounters of the Third Kind” fashion. I allowed him to stop, stare, and sniff the air for a minute before I squeezed him into a slow jog.

  When we arrived at Andy’s place, the Clydesdales were thrilled to see us. I put Buster in the crossties while I fed and watered. My approach to the hay barn was slow and deliberate. To my relief, Pete had dropped a couple bales from the top of the stack for me when he fed last night.

  I was about to climb back in the saddle to head home when I eyed Andy’s house. Curious, I wandered over to the front door and tried the knob. Of course it was locked. The plantation shutters in the windows on either side of the door blocked any view to the inside. A quick walk around to the back revealed a large brick patio shaded with an arbor that was covered with wisteria in full bloom. At least he put forth the effort to keep the vine alive. As I breathed in the scent from a long chain of lavender petals, I noticed a pair of French doors at the back of the house.

  Like a peeping tom, I checked over my shoulder to make sure no one was watching, then I cupped my hands around my eyes and peered through the glass. The kitchen counter was cluttered with books and magazines and Chinese take-out boxes. Dying houseplants wilted in a greenhouse window over the farm-style kitchen sink. The whole place cried out for someone to care. At least he took good care of Redford and Newman, but everything else, it seemed, was suffering along with him in the loss of his wife, whether he wanted to admit it or not. Feeling a sudden twinge of guilt for imposing on Andy’s privacy, I turned and headed toward the barn.

  The sun was higher in the sky and the air was still, so Buster and I were sweating. I guided us to the shady side of the peach orchard we’d passed on our way to Andy’s and we were both relaxed and gawking at the scenery this time. I was tempted to pick one of the peaches but decided it would be too messy to eat on horseback.

  As I hummed “Desperado” and imagined all the ways I was like the title character, I took my right foot out of the stirrup to stretch my leg when a sudden, loud boom startled me. Buster jumped about two feet in the air and I nearly lost my seat since I only had one foot in a stirrup. Simultaneously, one of the peaches hanging from a tree in the orchard exploded, splattering juice on the side of my face.

  It took only seconds for me to figure out that someone had just taken a shot at me. Buster must’ve had a pretty good idea, too, because he was suddenly on a mission to get home. Struggling to regain my balance and get my foot back in the stirrup, I grabbed the saddle horn and leaned over his neck. Once I had my seat again, another bullet whistled overhead like a missile. I turned Buster into the orchard and kicked him into a full gallop, ducking and swaying to keep from being knocked out of the saddle by low hanging branches. In an effort to be a harder target, I zigzagged Buster around trees instead of heading in a straight line, which slowed us down, but I figured we stood a better chance dodging a bullet than outrunning one.

  The orchard would only give us cover for so long, then we’d be out in the wide open. Somewhere in the middle of the trees, I pulled Buster to a stop, took a few deep breaths to clear my head so I could think without the burden of fear clouding my judgment, then took out my cell phone.

  Dead battery. Damn.

  Whoever took those shots at us was probably trying to guess which side of the orchard we’d come out on. Unless he was on foot, he’d most likely circle the orchard until he spotted us. I tried to form a mental picture of what lay between us and home. The farms and ranches formed a sort of checkerboard on the landscape. Groves of trees, like soldiers standing at attention, would giv
e us the most protection. If my memory served me, there was a large walnut orchard kitty-corner to this one. I wasn’t sure how far, but some distance north of the walnuts there was a series of almond orchards that would take us all the way to the pastureland across from my place.

  We’d slowed to a walk so I could listen for sounds from the predator. When we reached the corner of the orchard, I stopped Buster and peered down all four avenues of the dirt intersection. I was wrong about how close the walnut trees were. We’d have to cut across a large open field before we’d reach them.

  When we left the cover of the trees, Buster must’ve sensed my fear because I barely nudged him and he took off like a Derby horse. I gave him his head and the Thoroughbred blood he’d inherited from his sire’s side of the pedigree took over. I grabbed a handful of mane and hung on for the ride.

  In a little less than sixty seconds, we were back in the cover of big, beautiful, bullet-absorbing trees. From there we hop-scotched from almonds to apricots, then cherries, and finally made it home.

  Buster was lathered and sweaty and I needed to cool him down before I could turn him back out with Emlie, who was quite happy to see us. My first priority was to report what had just happened, so I put him in the cross ties in the barn, where he’d be out of sight if the shooter had managed to find us here, then ran to the house to call Detective Obermeyer. He promised to come right over.

  Cowering beside my living-room window, I peeked out from behind the curtains to see if anyone was out there. For an instant, I considered taking the shotgun out from under my bed and removing the trigger lock, but the weapon intimidated me so much that I decided to leave it there. Obermeyer would be here soon. When he finally showed up, I quickly unbolted the door and let him in.

  “Did someone put a curse on you or something?” he asked as I slammed the door shut behind him and re-locked it.

  “It would appear so.”

  He looked me up and down. “How’s your head?”

  “Fine.” I felt the back of my skull to make sure my ponytail was still doing its job.