Sinfandel

by Gina Cresse

  “I mailed him a package yesterday and he picked it up today. That’s who I was trying to get you to follow.”

  The two agents exchanged glances, then back at me. They looked a little surprised.

  “That was a good idea, Miss Cimaglia. Too bad you didn’t think your plan all the way through.”

  “Well, a partner would’ve been nice but I didn’t have one and I’m not trained in surveillance.” The light changed and we all hurried across the street, our eyes scanning the sidewalks for the man with the box.

  “Let’s split up,” Parker said. “I’ll take the alley.”

  “We’ll meet you back here,” O’Reilly said. He was sticking with me for some reason.

  “Adamson’s really getting his money’s worth with you,” O’Reilly said. “Was this all part of the agreement?”

  “He hired me to figure out a problem. I go where the information leads me.” I glanced at O’Reilly. “I guess you’re not used to people going above and beyond the call of duty.”

  He didn’t answer for half a block. Finally, he said, “When you work in government, you learn to distrust people’s motives.”

  “That’s too bad.” By this time I was out of breath. We were nearly jogging.

  “I don’t think we’re going to find him,” O’Reilly said.

  Slowing my pace, I nodded in agreement. “I got a look at him when he first came out of the post office. He looked familiar.”

  “Really? That’s good.”

  “But I can’t remember where I’ve seen him before. Or even if I’ve seen him before. He could just be one of those guys who looks like a guy who sells onion choppers on TV.”

  We met back up with Parker, also empty handed, in front of the post office. I gave them the description of the man we were after, but other than that, I was of little help. They asked me to wait while they talked to the postmaster in case they got a name that I would recognize.

  When the agents walked out of the post office, they looked disappointed.

  “Did you get a name?” I asked.

  “Yeah. Joe Smith,” Parker said. “He must’ve gotten some phony IDs to rent the box.”

  Relieved to know the TTB was on the case now, I headed for home. The fence contractor was going to meet me to take a look at the property that afternoon, so I stopped to pick up my mail, then went right home to avoid missing him. My timing was perfect. No sooner did I get out of my pickup than his truck pulled into the driveway.

  I showed him where I wanted the fence and he sketched out a plan, measuring distances with a wheel. I decided on chain link so he took out his calculator and wrote up an estimate. Hoping he didn’t notice my gulp when I looked at the total, I asked, “When can you start?”

  “As soon as you pay the deposit for materials, I’ll pick them up and get my guys out here.”

  I took a deep breath. “Do you take Visa?”

  It had been a long day and all I wanted to do was sit down and relax for a while. I turned on the stereo and eased down in my glider chair and put my feet up on the ottoman.

  Flipping through my mail, I tossed all the junk addressed to “Box Holder” on the floor to throw away later. There was an envelope from Andrew Carmichael. I opened it first. It was a bill for his vineyard management services. I was not surprised. He made it very clear that he would bill me monthly. I just didn’t have the money to pay him yet. One of the envelopes should’ve been a payment for my grapes, but I hadn’t come across it.

  The next envelope that caught my attention was from the TTB. When I opened it, I felt my heart sink into my toes. It was the same letter Dash Zucker had waved in my face the morning he killed himself and Daphne, notifying me that my vineyard would be scheduled for an inspection to verify the variety.

  The next envelope was from Peter Mercado – Grape Broker. Thank God! Finally, my grape payment had arrived. I’d be liquid again and could pay everyone I owed. I tore the envelope open and searched for the check, but there wasn’t one—just a letter. Skimming the words, I stopped when I got to the part that read, “…unfortunately, payment will be delayed until varietal status is confirmed.”

  My heart pounded in my ears. I got up and stomped around the living room, periodically looking out the window, almost expecting to see the sky falling, or funnel clouds forming, or four horsemen approaching in advance of the apocalypse. How long would it take for my vineyard to be inspected? There was no date scheduled that I could see as I searched the TTB letter again. There was a phone number. I picked up the phone and dialed, but was greeted by a recording. The office was closed. Glancing at the clock, I realized it was after six.

  “Don’t panic,” I told myself, and sat back down, taking long, deep breaths. “I’ve been through worse.”

  The last envelope was from the California Department of Agriculture – Accounts Payable Department. I felt a huge weight lift off my shoulders. They’d finally paid me for my last invoice. I ripped the envelope open and scanned the documents inside. The cover letter seemed awfully wordy for a simple invoice payment. With each line I read, I felt the burden pile up again.

  I don’t know why I was surprised. For weeks the news about California’s budget shortfall was the top story of the day. There was no check in the envelope, just an I.O.U.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  All night I dreamed I lived in a cardboard box in the middle of other people’s vineyards—a vineyardless person, thirsty, but with no glass. When I finally woke up, I left a voicemail message for the real estate broker I’d used when I bought my place and asked him to find out about the possibility of buying the Zucker vineyard.

  “I must be nuts,” I muttered after I hung up, but I knew Andy’s idea for me to buy the neighboring vineyard was a good one. My small vineyard was still young, and only produced about five tons per acre. Until my vineyard could produce closer to ten tons per acre, I would operate at a loss. According to Andy, Zucker’s vineyard was already producing close to fifteen tons per acre.

  Why let a little thing like being flat broke stop me from trying to buy the place? I’d just have to convince the bank to have faith. In the meantime, I decided to don a positive attitude and proceed as if the Zucker vineyard was as good as mine.

  After lunch, I saddled Emlie and headed out to check the vines. Harvest was over and it was time for a good deep watering before the fall rains took over. Andy’s crew had repaired all my broken drip lines and my vines looked happy and healthy.

  The yellow crime-scene tape still blocked access to the area around the Zucker house and the meth lab, but a gate between our two properties at the far north corner of my land allowed me access to the vineyard without having to cross law enforcement barriers. I had no idea what Dash Zucker had done for his vines after the last grape truck pulled out, but from the looks of the withered leaves, I was pretty sure he hadn’t gotten around to watering them before he went berserk. While I rode around the perimeter of the vineyard, I kept my eye out for the irrigation controls and any pesky old open wells that might pose a threat.

  After an hour of looking, I found a small out-building close to the center of the property that I assumed was the pump house. I climbed down from Emlie’s back and led her around the structure to find a way in, but the door was closed and padlocked.

  I felt as withered as the poor leaves on the vines surrounding me. Probate could take months, and unless the courts assigned someone to take care of this land now, the vines could be stressed enough to harm them permanently. After a brief self-debate, I untied the coiled lead rope from my saddle and snapped it to the padlock, then looped the other end around the saddle horn and asked Emlie to back up. The hardened steel of the lock held, but the latch and hinges were no match for eleven hundred pounds of Emlie.

  It was dark inside the pump house so I felt along the wall near the door for a light switch. My fingers tangled in a sticky spider web and I jerked my hand back. The last thing I needed was to come face to face with a black widow. Hoping my eyes would
adjust to the dark, I took a cautious step inside and jumped when I felt something brush against my face. As I swiped it away with my hand, I realized it was a string dangling from a light bulb. When I pulled on it, the light came on.

  The room was barely big enough to house the storage tank and all the valves that supplied the drip irrigation system. Why would Dash lock it? Was he worried someone would turn his water on? Or off?

  While I pondered that mystery, I located the main valve and turned it until I heard water running through the pipes. In a day or two, I’d return and shut it off.

  Outside, I heard Emlie snort and hurried out to see what had startled her.

  “What are you doing?” a voice behind me said.

  I spun around. Detective Obermeyer stood there, his hands on his hips, glaring at me.

  “Uh… Watering the vines,” I said, sounding as un-guilty as possible.

  “This your handiwork?” he asked, pointing at the demolished door that had been yanked off its hinges and now laid on the ground next to the pump house.

  “Actually, my horse did it.”

  He shook his head. “So you admit it. Not a raccoon or a possum or a beaver this time?”

  “Nope.” I nodded in Emlie’s direction.

  “You mind enlightening me on why your horse decided to trespass on private property and break into that… that…“

  “Pump house,” I said.

  “Pump house.”

  “The vines need water.” A broad sweep of my hand emphasized the seriousness of the problem. “Look at them.”

  Obermeyer gazed at the withering vines. “I can see that.”

  “No one was showing up to take care of them, and I just couldn’t stand to see them die.”

  “You’ll repair the door when you’re done?”

  I nodded. If I wasn’t mistaken, he was cutting me an enormous amount of slack.

  “You’re working on the investigation?” I asked.

  “Trying to piece it all together.”

  “Do you think Dash planted the rifle in Andy’s house?”

  Obermeyer squinted. “We don’t have any evidence of that.”

  “But that doesn’t mean he didn’t do it, right?”

  “Why don’t you leave the police work to us?”

  “I’d just sleep better if I knew Dash was behind it all.”

  “No, you want me to tell you that you can trust your boyfriend.”

  “Can I?”

  He shrugged. “Come on. I’ll walk you home.”

  I led Emlie as we walked through the vineyard. “Did you notify Dash’s relatives yet?”

  “We called the girl’s mother. Screwed up worse than he was. No wonder the kid was a mess.”

  “Anyone else? A brother or sister?”

  “Far as we can tell, there’s no other next of kin.”

  “Did you find a will or anything?”

  Obermeyer took my arm and stopped. “What are you fishing for?”

  I took a deep breath. “I want to buy the vineyard.”

  He appeared to ponder that for a moment. “With what?”

  “I still have some resources.”

  “Like what? A magic wand?”

  I returned home to find a message on my answering machine. Agent O’Reilly from the TTB wanted me to meet with him and Agent Parker to look at photos that might help me recall where I’d seen the man who picked up my package—if in fact I had seen him before. I called him back and arranged to meet the next morning in their office.

  Looking at the fence contractor’s estimate lying on the kitchen counter, I had a sudden thought that I might be able to cut the cost a bit. Somewhere in my storage shed, I remembered seeing a dozen or so chain link fence posts leaning against the back wall. They were here when I bought the place and I never had any use for them, but they were like new so I just kept them. Maybe they could be used to offset some of the material costs.

  After counting fifteen of the posts, I grabbed one and carried it out of the storage shed. I’d leave it out to remind me to ask the contractor if he could use them. The carport seemed like the best place, since I’d see it every time I walked out the back door to feed.

  I was about to lean the post against the wall next to my car when Van Gogh dashed out from under the Prius and nearly tripped me. I lost my balance and let go of the post as I reached for the corner support of the carport. The metal post fell against the Prius and before I could get the swear words out at the cat, a fireworks display shocked me into silence. Sparks flew like a welding torch where the metal post touched the body of the car. I shielded my eyes and jumped back, my jaw slack from the spectacle.

  “What the hell did you do, Van Gogh!” I finally shouted, but the cat was nowhere to be seen.

  I ran down the driveway, climbed through the closed gate and sprinted toward the Zucker place, hoping that Detective Obermeyer hadn’t left yet. Halfway there, his car came from the other direction and he stopped.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked as he rolled his window down.

  Out of breath, I was only able to point in the direction of my house, then jumped in his car. I grabbed the dash as he shoved his foot onto the accelerator. Within a matter of seconds we were screeching to a stop at my gate. I leaped out and punched in the gate code and he drove through. The sparks were still flying when we reached the carport.

  After studying the situation for a moment, he asked me for a wooden-handled rake, which I immediately fetched for him. He calmly took the rake and knocked the post away from the car, stopping the sparks, then he took out his cell phone.

  While Obermeyer summoned the fire department, I called the dealership where I’d bought the car—Radosovich Toyota, owned by Monica’s brother, Jerry—and asked them to send a hybrid car expert.

  Standing a safe distance away, I chewed my thumbnail as I watched the debate between two firemen and an auto mechanic. The firemen insisted they could use their specially designed version of the “jaws of life”—insulated for use with hybrid vehicles—to cut away part of the car so they could get to the main battery just behind the rear seat.

  “What?” I said, taking a step toward them, but Obermeyer pulled me back.

  “You’ve got insurance, right?”

  “Yes, but I don’t know if it covers cutting the car into pieces!”

  The mechanic, wearing clean blue coveralls and a “Toyota” patch sewed over the breast pocket, held his hand up in my direction. “Don’t worry. I got this covered.”

  He went to his truck and removed a pair of heavy rubber gloves and some thick rubber mats. He dropped the mats at the back of the car and stood on them, then with his gloved hands, opened the trunk.

  I leaned over toward Obermeyer and whispered, “The mats must keep him from being grounded.”

  Obermeyer nodded as we nervously watched.

  The mechanic then disconnected a cable and pulled the trunk floor panel out and set it gently on the ground. While the firemen watched over his shoulder, he worked diligently, unplugging more cables. When he was finished, he removed the gloves and reached to close the trunk. We all gasped until we saw he was fine.

  Obermeyer was the first to speak. “Can you find the short?”

  The mechanic was already under the hood with a small flashlight. “Shouldn’t be hard. All the hot wires have an orange casing—oh man, I just found it.”

  I moved closer, now that it was safe, and peered over his shoulder.

  “See that? Wiring harness has been damaged and exposed the high voltage wire. With the cable resting on the frame like that, it charged the whole damn car.”

  Straining to look where his flashlight was focused, I finally saw the shiny bare wire. “What could’ve damaged it like that?”

  “I’ve seen rats chew through wiring like licorice,” the mechanic said.

  “Rats?” My voice took on a Cruella De Vil quality. “Could it have been a raccoon?”

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Obermeyer wanted the P
rius towed to the station and dusted for prints. He wasn’t buying the “rodent chewed through the wiring” theory.

  Before I could protest, he held up his hand. “Listen. It’s time you faced the facts. Someone is trying to get you out of the picture.”

  “But—“

  “No but. You’ve been bitten by a rattlesnake, shot at, and now almost electrocuted in one of the most bizarre and unprecedented manners I’ve ever witnessed. No one can be this unlucky.”

  “You think I’m jinxed.”

  “No, I think you’re a target—with a big bullseye painted on your back.”

  “But that was all Zucker, right? He took those shots at me. He probably planted the snake on the haystack.”

  “What’s his motive?”

  I shook my head as I grasped for ideas. “He thought I turned him in to the Ag department and delayed his grower payments.”

  “Worth killing you for?” Obermeyer said.

  “Okay, what if Zucker killed Beth Messina and he thought I had some evidence that could prove it? Wouldn’t that be a motive?”

  “What evidence?”

  “I don’t know! Maybe he thought I saw something the night that white pickup showed up in my driveway. We both know Zucker was a lunatic.”

  “Do we?”

  “He killed his own daughter then committed suicide. They don’t come much crazier than that,” I insisted.

  “Allegedly killed his daughter.”

  “Oh my God. Are you serious?”

  “What other close calls have you had lately that I don’t know about?”

  I took a deep breath and let it out slowly, shaking my head.

  “Any unusual packages on your doorstep? Colleague end up in the hospital after swapping lunch with you? Near miss at an intersection?”

  My eyes, which had been focused on a spot on the ground, suddenly shot up and locked with his.

  “What?” he said.

  “I barely missed getting caught in that pileup the other day on the Oakland Bay Bridge.”

  “By ‘barely missed’ you mean—”