Death Revokes The Offer

by Catharine Bramkamp

  The wine did help along the conversation, and Patrick proved to be more knowledgeable than I had initially given him credit for. He had taken the wine business class at Sonoma State and he and Ben indulged in a robust debate on wine marketing.

  I won’t bore you. Carrie and I retreated to the gift shop for a few minutes, then to the rest room.

  By the time we reached Quivera winery, I begged off any more tastes and sat under the pergolas and enjoyed the hot sun. After a few minutes Carrie joined me leaving Patrick and Ben in the tasting room.

  “How is it going?”

  “It’s going good,” she said. “He’s talking to more and Ben is really helping. Thank you.”

  “That picnic basket is just beautiful.” I couldn’t help it; I saw similar versions for sale at Dry Creek Winery, $150.00 for the small ones.

  “Oh, thanks, I found it at Goodwill, five bucks, can you believe it? And I made the napkins.”

  “You know. I underestimate you.”

  “Yes you do,” she said smugly.

  For our last winery, I insisted on traveling further north on Yoakim Bridge road up to Dutcher Crossing because I wanted to finish the afternoon with the perfect winery moment. Plus I love the wine. The wine maker there is a genius, the wine is a bit on the expensive side, but worth it.

  The tasting room at Dutcher Crossing was furnished with comfortable chairs grouped around a wood coffee table. Patrick and Carrie sat together to enjoy their wine flight. I carried my glass outside, not really caring who followed me. I guess if you live alone, sometimes the sound of talking and conversation can become tiring. I searched out the privacy afforded by the outdoor benches grouped under a pergola. An empty stone fireplace anchored one end of the patio

  It was a perfect afternoon, 80 degrees, brilliant blue sky and a serious wine buzz. It was all good.

  I closed my eyes to feel the afternoon surround me. Maybe I can meditate, except it seems to take about five full glasses of wine to help me sit still.

  “Hey.” Ben sat on the bench beside me.

  “Hey.” I didn’t open my eyes, but I could feel Ben breathing next to me. For a moment, I just wanted, well, the moment. I live here for a reason, I talk people into buying here for a reason, and it’s because it can all be so good.

  “Beautiful,” he observed.

  “Yes, isn’t it? I love this place.” I kept my eyes closed. I know I shouldn’t expose my skin to the damaging rays of the sun, I’ve heard that lecture a million times. I smiled remembering how a friend of mine described her last trip to the dermatologist. The very young doctor (he was twenty or so) asked Marilyn, and I quote, “Did you ever get sunburned when you were a kid?”

  And Marilyn just looked at this young thing in disbelief and declared. “It was the sixties, everyone got sunburn.” Apparently back then, kids didn’t have sun block because there was still some ozone left.

  Not for me.

  In our valleys, wine tasting shuts down at 4:00 PM, which leaves wine tasting groups with plenty of sunshine left in the afternoon, a happy buzz and nothing to do with it. A nap came to mind, but it would be kind of awkward to fall asleep in the car. We were shooed out of the winery and made our way back to Healdsburg to wander around the leafy, picturesque central square and poke into picturesque shops crammed with must have candles, yarn and fair trade goods. It’s all here.

  “Oh, Dry Creek Kitchen, I hear it’s good.” Carrie glanced across the square to the modern building anchoring the west end.

  “It’s very good, want to go?” Patrick offered.

  “Hard to get reservations.” I commented. It was almost five o’clock, we could find a bar in town and while away another hour before an early dinner. Patrick and Carrie were even beginning to talk to each other without Ben’s or my help. Things were looking promising, or I was just feeling mellow.

  “I’ll talk to them.” Patrick hiked off to the restaurant and disappeared inside.

  He didn’t leave us much choice, so we waited under the shade trees, shoeing away a duck or two.

  “Isn’t he wonderful?” Carrie sighed.

  “Oh yes.” Ben and I assured her.

  Patrick emerged, waved to someone inside and quickly jay walked across the narrow street to where we all dutifully waited.

  “Done, we’ll have dinner at seven.” Patrick was flushed with triumph, his version of killing a mastodon for his woman. Actually it was pretty impressive, I underestimated the boy.

  Dry Creek Kitchen is located in the Hotel Healdsburg another serious local controversy that, like the De Young, conquered the controversy and the nay-sayers by selling the hotel rooms and in pulling in business for the rest of the merchants as promised. Well, who knew?

  We sauntered over to the restaurant and sat at the self consciously modern bar. The summer crowd filtered in and out of the bar, some people waited for their luggage so they could leave, some stood with their huge rollers and waited patiently for a bell hop to cart away their luggage. The atmosphere was hushed and as sophisticated as any lobby in San Francisco. Sonoma County had arrived.

  Once we were arranged at our table, I realized that it is very good to be Patrick Sullivan. Our service was exemplary; waiters rushed to fill our glasses and cheerfully hunted down a bottle of Palmeri Zinfandel that Ben insisted I try.

  “If you liked the Dutcher Crossing, you should try this, it’s the Damskey’s own label.”

  I had to agree, it was to die for. Ben did not tell me the cost, he just grinned when I expressed my deepest enthusiasm.

  Patrick was also busy during dinner. While I ordered the Ahi tuna Sashimi with rice noodles and ginger soy dressing, Patrick was introducing Carrie to an elderly couple who knew his grandfather. While Ben ordered the organic baby arugula with Dry Creek figs, Carrie was introduced to two middle-aged women who use to dress as the Cooper Chicken, back in the day. By the time our entrees arrived, Patrick had greeted five people in the restaurant and introduced Carrie to two more couples. To her credit, Carrie became more gracious and interested with each introduction.

  Good girl, maybe she can pull this off after all.

  We talked of general things appropriate for dinner, I spent most of my time raving about the wine, Ben was a generous server.

  For dinner, I indulged (when do I not?) in the duck breast with five-bean cassoulet and baby bok choy. Ben ordered the Alaskan Coho salmon and the kids both had the Pan roasted Rosie chicken with black mission figs. While we ate, another couple approached our table, they looked to be headed for Ben rather than Patrick. He shook his head and they moved away.

  “Who was that?” I noticed his gesture.

  “I thought I recognized them, but I was wrong.” He replied easily.

  In the car the “kids” were suspiciously quiet, and I resisted the impulse to look into the back seat.

  I faced forward and gazed at the road.

  “So, ever married?”

  “Yup.” He kept his eyes on the road; his hands were firmly on the steering wheel.

  “Local girl?”

  “Yes. She took everything, kept everything.”

  “That sounds suspiciously ugly,” I said.

  “Not even suspicious, it was ugly.”

  “Long time ago?”

  “A couple of years.”

  I sat back, knowing the conversation was finished. Bad marriage, bad ex-wife. Possibly bad, rich, ex-wife. Poor guy no wonder he didn’t own anything, couldn’t, she had it all. At least he had his grandmother’s house.

  “And you, you haven’t married?”

  “Came close, didn’t follow through.” I summarized. We do that, compress something awful into a solid sound bite so we don’t linger over the situation, open up the pain and parade it before parties who may or may not offer sympathy. That’s why I accepted his terse explanation of his first wife. I would respect him and I was confident he would respect me.

  My only really big question; does he hate all woman or just that particular member of our
species?

  We drove back to the Cooper offices and let out Carrie, the picnic basket, Patrick and a case of wine into the well lit parking lot.

  “Are you good to go home?” I asked quietly.

  She glanced at Patrick and Ben walking the basket and wine to Patrick’s low slung sports car. “I think I’ll be fine.”

  “Be careful.”

  She ignored me and rushed to join Patrick.

  We did not look back and drove to my house. Ben pulled in front of the porch and turned off the ignition.

  “Nice place.” Ben ventured.

  “Would you like to come in?” I offered. It was Saturday night after all.

  “No, I’m good. I figured out what’s wrong with your young man.”

  “Oh really?” I crossed my arms under my breasts; it was much cooler here, closer to the ocean, my light top was suddenly unseasonable.

  “Painfully shy.” Ben continued. “His sisters habitually protect him because of it.”

  “Why do you think he’s so shy?”

  “Well, he admitted he didn’t really date much, probably because the family is careful about keeping him away from gold diggers, like your friend Carrie.”

  “She’s not a gold digger,” I denied on her behalf, even though, really, she was. But I also knew she was beginning to like the guy; she wouldn’t be so frustrated if she didn’t like him. He was like a cat who wouldn’t come when called. The more the cat shied away from her, the more determined she became to win him – the cat, the boyfriend – over. I know, I’ve watched her do it.

  “There’s more to it than that,” I defended her.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Are you sure there’s not?” I countered.

  Well,” he hesitated.

  “Ah ha! You mistrust her because she beautiful don’t you?” I wanted to add, and your ex-wife was beautiful too wasn’t she? But I’m not an idiot.

  “No, no, of course not.”

  “Then lay off my friend.”

  “I’m not laying into your friend at all, I’m just telling you what I see.” His voice raised a fraction.

  “And I’m telling you it’s not true, what you see may not be what is reality, believe me, in my business I know.” My voice rose two, okay maybe three more fractions.

  “Fine then,” he brought the decibel level back down to cold, quiet righteousness.

  I was cold, our heat has dissipated into the deep night – isn’t that poetic? So I opened the car door and slid out.

  He rolled down the window and looked up at me. “So you would give up a night of potentially lethal sex over an argument defending your friend?”

  “Always,” I shot back and marched through my own doors into my own home and slammed the doors after me. I waited for the sound of the car to leave before I could take another breath.

  “So, how was the good night kiss this time?” I could not resist a call to Carrie first thing in the morning.

  “It was,” she was distracted by something. “Good. Don’t. Can I call you back?”

  Well shit, the girl got him into bed. But that didn’t get her out of my new plan. There were more than just disgruntled dudes at that warehouse in San Rafael and I intended to take a look. In the daylight, don’t worry. But I did need to do more than sit around at yet another open house waiting for something to happen. At least Norton’s house was not dangerous. Last I looked, his doors were average and now his interior was average as well. I was still angry that I had given up a lethal night of sex, in defense of her even, and I was pissed at everyone.

  A little sleuthing around would at least make me feel I was accomplishing something. I have no idea what. But I did know I needed an accomplice, the Ethel to my Lucy. And since my Ethel is currently a very happy girl, she was the perfect choice. She wasn’t very big, but she needed to do was work a phone.

  I finally got hold of her at eleven. Eleven? What were they doing? I did not ask. I told her what I needed. She tentatively agreed.

  “Meet me at the Navaho white house at four and we’ll go down together, the least I can do is save you the gas.”

  “Are you sure it’s safe?”

  “Perfectly. Sure.”

  She didn’t ask how my evening finished up with Ben and I did not tell.

  Norton’s open house was uneventful, a few people like the neighbors and people just shopping around. One couple lied and told me they had a realtor. No they did not want to enter a chance to win a gift certificate. No, they weren’t really interested in a home like this, they were just looking. At least this Sunday, no one cringed at the sight of the paint. White is good.

  Carrie arrived promptly at closing time and helped me pick up the open house signs. I, in turn, spent the drive south listening to the new features and benefits of Patrick Sullivan the wonderful. As it should be.

  Me? I got plenty of rest during the afternoon spending too much time ruminating over the insensitive Ben Stone. I really shouldn’t go into my own head alone.

  The warehouse was empty. Which was part of the plan. I parked my car down the street in another parking lot and we hiked back. It was warm; I had changed into shorts and a practical tee shirt with no identifying logos, just in case. Carrie wore shorts as well. On her they looked sexy.

  “What are we looking for?”

  “Evidence.”

  I still had a camera tucked in the glove compartment. I usually use my phone, but sometimes I want a little better angle and lens. I pulled it out, the shutter speed was fast, something I’d need when taking a picture of a dark interior from the bright outside. The plan was to walk up to the warehouse windows, snap a few photos of the coke lying around on tables ready to be counted or something and, voila, we have evidence for the case.

  “What are we doing here again and why should I care?” Carrie marched along beside me, but she wasn’t happy.

  “Because it’s an adventure and you can say you’ve done something interesting. Consider it conversation for your upcoming dinner.”

  And because you owe me. I thought silently, but I wasn’t going to burden her with that. We enjoyed a nice time during the afternoon, Ben and me and that, as they say, was that.

  As we approached the deserted warehouse, I paused. “We need to be quiet. Quiet like a fish.” I quote a line from Chicken Run.

  “You’re weird.”

  A cat mewed and Carrie veered off – “Hey,” I called, forgetting to be quiet.

  “Don’t worry, I still have my finger on the cell phone,” she called back. “Here kitty, kitty, kitty, good kitty, who’s the pretty kitty?”

  I went on ahead and looked for a window. Really, that’s what I thought, that was my whole plan: take a picture through the dirty window and be finished. Sometimes my naivety is flabbergasting.

  There were no windows on the front of the warehouse. How inconvenient. Maybe there were windows in the back. I could hear Carrie cajoling the cat as I walked to the back of the building.

  In the absence of official openings, there were some large chinks in the wood, sloppy workmanship. I pressed my face to one of the larger openings and cupped my hands around my eyes to block the light. At first I only saw blackness, but then as my eyes adjusted I could see. . . a fairly empty room. Some light seeped into the area from another poorly nailed board at the opposite end illuminating a dirty floor and very little else.

  I heard the sound of a truck, but I was too intent on my search to pay much attention, this was an industrial park, there were trucks and heavy equipment all over the place.

  Before I die I want to take a quantity of allergy medicine and operate a piece of heavy equipment. It’s one of my goals.

  And I may not make it to that goal. I heard a crunch on the gravel to my left, lifted my head to see if it was Carrie and yes, got smacked in the head again for my trouble.

  And I was hit directly on the same sore place. Damn and fuck, it hurt like hell. They probably used the tire iron, I should stop thinking up those kinds of option
s, because, according to Katherine, when I do, they manifest in my life. They manifested all right, in the form of a blunt instrument assaulting my poor head.

  I staggered a bit but didn’t really pass out. I just didn’t know where a few of my body parts were located, and I couldn’t seem to gather them all together to perform a coordinated routine.

  I heard a yelp from Carrie and a pitiful meow from the pretty kitty. I slipped down to the ground. Hands roughly lifted me under my arms and dragged me along the pitted asphalt which was shredding my shorts as well as the skin on my thighs. The good news, the pain actually helped clear my head.

  I pretended to be knocked out. I was really pissed by the time we got inside, but all they did was toss in Carrie behind me and slam a big heavy door cutting off all the light from outside.

  “Fuck.” I heard Dude One say. “It’s her again.”

  “Hey,” Dude Two nudged me with the toe of his shoe, very rude. ”Are you a cop or something?”

  I struggled to a sitting position and looked around for Carrie, she was a few feet away, out cold.

  “Look at these shoes,” I gestured to my bright green Tod’s driving loafers. “Would a cop wear shoes like these?”

  They didn’t know what to make of that answer, so they kicked me again.

  “I told you we should have killed her,” said Dude Two.

  “No killing, we don’t’ kill. We just get out. Here, help me with this.” Replied Dude One. I liked him best.

  I tried to get up, but before I could, they noticed and rushed to subdue me. I shrank back down and tried to look cowed but I was still pretty angry, my scrapes hurt like hell, the floor was cold and I was worried about Carrie. Had they taken her phone? They hadn’t taken mine.

  There was just enough light seeping around the edges of the warehouse to show me that one of the dudes, Dude Two who I did not like as well, was pointing a pistol right at me. Oh great, and he probably grew up playing single shooter video games and was far better at the real thing than anyone would suspect.

  I shrank back further.