by Peter Prasad
Wally grabbed the bottle of Fransec, corked it and cradled it under his arm as Jake put a ten dollar tip on the bar. Tanya looked up and called Jake back. She scooped up the money, stuffed it into Jake’s top pocket and pulled him toward the back of the bar.
“What cha doing on Sunday? Want to take me to a picnic? By the ocean at Drake’s Bay? Sonya and her new beau will be there. You’ll like him, retired air force. He’s a kick. Mom just loves him.” She rolled her green eyes toward the ceiling.
Jake grinned. Before he could think, Tanya kissed him. “What’s your cell number, I’ll call you.” Jake mumbled the number and floated out of Sonya’s Tavern. He was already waiting to hear her voice again.
He climbed into the truck and Wally greeted him. “How can people sell this crap?”
The Knight brothers marched under the banner of Sonoma pride. The wineries in Napa might be more famous, but Sonoma had its own reputation to uphold as a cornucopia of cheeses, jams, chocolates and sun-kissed wines. The County had a hundred-year history of wine production, with acres of vineyards and well-regarded wineries, and new plantings every year. Jake and Wally could rattle off the names of hallmark brands like Benzinger, Kenwood, St. Francis and a dozen others. All the locals said their wine was “Sonoma soil and sunshine in a bottle.” Big fruit Sonoma wines kicked butt in blind-tastings in Europe and South America.
The locals complained constantly about new brands like Fransec. Entrepreneurs moved in, buying a pedigree. They skipped the hard work of producing quality and relied on hype.
“We had better wine from Dad when we were kids,” Wally said, as Jake started up the engine and drove toward the freeway.
“Yeah, and Jerry watered it down too,” Jake said. As he remembered it, he had his first glass of wine at ten when Wally was on chocolate milk.
“Fransec is another of these glitz brands in too much of a hurry to make money. Some pirate is probably cooking this crap when no one else is looking,” Wally concluded.
Jake headed north and west by the glimmer of Orion’s belt. Wally would get to the chemical truth of the matter, if there was anything to be found out.
So who was killing goats? He rolled down the window to breathe the evening chill. It was refreshing after a hot day of farm work. Maybe he could get a nice cheese for the picnic from Sandy and let Tanya slice him into tasty little bites with a butter knife. They passed through the drive-up window at a hamburger stand of Highway 101 and sat in the truck in the parking lot to eat dinner. Wally pulled the cork from the open bottle of Fransec to taste it again. He made a sour face. “I can’t believe this swill.”
“So look into it, little bro. You’re the lab rat, you’ll figure it out.” Jake issued a tease and a challenge.
Wally peered at the label. “Tanya said it retails in the forty dollar range. Who’d pay that? I know twenty Sonoma wines twice as good for half the price.”
Wally collected the hamburger wrappers and darted from the cab to the trash can. Jake examined the bottle and looked at the cork. It was plain with no estate stamp—not a good sign for a premium wine. However, any winery is capable of one bad bottle. Jake decided to wait until he had the facts.
When Wally returned, Jake handed him the cork. “No name, no blame. Maybe just a bad batch.”
“I’ll get on the analysis tonight. If I find anything fishy, I’ll send a report over to the wine board in Sacramento. I went to school with a couple of those guys. They’ll verify anything I find.” Wally had a plan.
“Sounds good. If we catch them adulterating wine, I’ll go kick their asses. Maybe there’s a reward for that.” He felt some of his fighting spirit return. Sonoma had a reputation worth defending.
He drove to the dairy and dropped Wally at his lab. Wally walked in with the bottle of Fransec, switched on the lights and went to work. Jake drove down the hill and parked by the cottage. It was a calm night. He sat on a cane chair on the veranda. He could see entire constellations. There was no fog to obscure his view.
His mind drifted over goats, wine, cheese and fading memories of the fight in Afghanistan. He’d had his fill of blood. He was glad to be far removed from the heat and fear that covered everything in-country with grit and anger. Most Afghanis suffered the cold, hopeless fury of a people boxed in by their own brand of fundamental extremism. It would take a cooperative generation of peace and education to evolve that situation and he had no confidence their religious leaders would ever allow it. So much for nation-building.
His mind wandered to the orchids that danced up Tanya’s arm. Once upon a time he had known her almost as a little sister. That had been more than a dozen years ago. Now she was a marvel to look at, country kind with a dollop of disarming charm. A real relationship would be worth exploring. He pondered it all for a while, got up, drank a glass of milk and went to bed.
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CHAPTER EIGHT
“Van-ness-ah, come here please,” Semper called from his desk on the other side of the office. Vannie sat at her new desk. She was reviewing label designs on her computer screen and Dr. Semper awaited her critique. Through tall double-pane windows she looked out on row after row of lush green vines. She felt like she had landed in fairyland. Oh my god, she had the perfect job.
Her work area was minimalist, emulating Semper’s, minus the dozens of half-open bottles. Between them and against the wall opposite the entry was a wine testing lab set-up, an in-sink countertop and under-counter refrigeration. Dr. Semper had walked her through her housekeeping chores as her first duty. She was not to disturb the open wine bottles scattered everywhere. Many had post-it notes and hand-written labels on them.
With Dr. Semper at their morning meeting, she’d tasted three wines—white, rose and red. He instructed her on proper tasting technique. Sip-swirl-hold-spit. He spit but he insisted she swallow. No problem, Doc.
She’d raced to work, skipped breakfast, and had a hangover from Mohitos and Manhattans with her girlfriend at the Tavern last night. In the middle of the night, she had a picture in her head of the dirty fingernails of the scary man that had almost attacked her. Thank god for the guy who flashed his headlights. She was nervous as a cat about her first day in the office. The wine class had been great, but now it was moan-day.
The morning wine had lubricated her day and removed her headache. Hair of the dog, she giggled, and gobbled two aspirin. Her girlfriend at the Tavern mixed strong drinks. They were high-school chums, kinda, but never saw each other socially. In fact, Vannie had no social life at all; she’d been too nervous about graduating on time and watched every dime. It had been fun to catch up with a girlfriend.
Any boss who approved of drinking on the job was a good boss in her book. Her stomach growled. She reached into her carry-all for an antacid. She was learning.
“I’ll take my smoked-salmon croissants, now.” Dr. Semper clapped his hands. It made Vannie blush. “You may bring them with two wine glasses.”
Vannie twirled out of her chair, kicked off her high heels, and hopped to perform. She pulled the ingredients from one of the under-counter refrigerators and layered slices of smoked salmon on his rolls. He sent her back for a dab of mustard. He sent her back for a dollop of mayonnaise. In these intervals, he slipped his panty-dropping cocktail into her wine glass: cocaine, Ecstasy and Rophinol. It had a predictable effect: She’d go limp and wake up while he was deep in her business, feeling sooo groovy about everything... whoo-whoo… and unclear about her choices when she came to.
Semper had a large glass of wine waiting for her when she returned with his croissants. He poured himself a large glass and sipped from it.
“Describe it for me, Van-ness-ah. It’s a Pinot Grigio. Italian. Pairs well with seafood. Some call it a blush wine.” He smiled and looked at her neck. He nibbled his croissants and offered her none. She noticed that several of the open bottles of wine on Dr. Semper’s desk bore tasting notes in black marker. The man must be an encyclopedia, she thought.
H
er wine was fresh, fruity, dry. She explained it that way and crossed her legs. She drank more wine. He studied her over the rim of his glass as he chewed. The wine was delicious. She mentioned hints of oak. It was going right to her head. Wow, it was strong. She needed to visit the Ladies.
Semper watched her squirm. He was enjoying this. She was in full blush now and about to wet herself.
He cleared his throat and adopted a professorial tone: “It’s white or pinkish, of course. A mutation of the more popular Pinot Noir, a favorite in southern Europe. Many American consumers consider it to be the best of the Italian grapes. I find it rather tiresome myself. We harvest early as it has a tendency to drop acid when it ripens fully. It has a nice mid-palate balance with a crisp, clean finish.”
Vannie’s eyes glazed over as she stared into her empty glass. She managed to set it on his desktop without dropping it. She crossed and un-crossed her legs and rocked backward and forward on her chair. She felt flushed. Both sides of her throat were in full blush. Semper stood up, walked over to her, put his hand on her shoulder and asked, “Shall we take a little break?”
Vannie slurred her words. “Oh please, sir.”
Semper squeezed her arm. “You may be excused.”
He returned to his desk and clicked a few keys on his open laptop. He watched her stumble up and hop toward the Ladies. From the mini-camera hidden in the ceiling tile of the restroom, he watched his kewpie doll hike her skirt to her waist and drop her panties. She sat down hard on the seat with a sweet look of relief, leaned against the wall of the stall, closed her eyes and nodded off with her delicate white panties around her ankles.
Semper nibbled his smoked-salmon croissant and stared at her for ten minutes longer. She was just purr-fect. He licked his lips and brushed imaginary crumbs from his natty grey vest. “Oh, Vannie, have we had a little accident?”
***
Vannie woke up in the day bed in Dr. Semper’s private room. She could hear his voice talking to a customer on the phone. She was tucked in bed under new sheets and a feather comforter. The room was air-conditioned and dark. The shades were drawn. She felt okay but had no idea how she had gotten there.
She was desperate for water and poured herself a glass from the carafe on the table beside the bed. She felt cold and disoriented. She was in her bra and panties. Her panties were damp. She might have peed herself. Oh my god.
Her skirt and blouse lay neatly folded on a chair beside her. She gulped her water and poured herself a second glass. Her stomach growled. She remembered she hadn’t eaten anything all day. Then she heard Dr. Semper let himself into the room.
“So good to see you’re back with us, Van-ness-ah. It’s entirely my fault. I let you drink too much wine.” He sat beside her on the bed, patting her forehead with the damp cloth. She closed her eyes and soaked in his attention.
“I’m so embarrassed, Dr. Semper. What happened?”
“Vannie, you fell asleep in the Ladies room. I brought you in here to nap. I had a terrible time getting the door open. But I cleaned you up. How do you feel?” he was stroking her hair.
“I am so sorry, Doctor.”
“Van-ness-ah, it’s our little secret. We’ve had a busy day. And you have done some wonderful work. I’m very happy with you. No pro-blem-o.” He smiled.
She squirmed but did not pull her hand away from his. It was too much trouble.
She had no memory of anything. “Um… I need the Ladies again, Doctor.”
“Of course, Vannie, here let me help.”
She managed to get her bare feet on the floor and he gripped her elbow and guided her up. She was in her bra and panties and he appeared not to notice. He held her arm and guided her to the Ladies. He opened the stall and turned his back.
“Call if you need anything Van-ness-ah. I’ll make you a hot cup of coffee and then take you for dinner.” He left her alone. She gathered her thoughts, or tried to, but it made no sense.
She gave up and decided to make the best of it. God, she was hungry now. She finished and let herself back into the guest bedroom and was fully dressed when he entered with her coffee. It helped clear her head.
“I have a little bistro in mind. Come with me, Vannie.” She allowed him to take her elbow as he guided her across the gravel to his elegant silver Jaguar.
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CHAPTER NINE
“Hey. Picnic today. Remember? Pick you up at nine?” Tanya’s voice darted from his ear to his heart.
“You bet. Make it ten? I’ve got to feed my shaggy milk-maids. I’ll bring cheese.”
She agreed, made kissing noises and clicked off. Was this going fast or was Jake just slow? She didn’t know.
He began breakfast, distracted with visions of Tanya in a bed of orchids. He was flipping ham and pancakes when Wally emerged from his bedroom and put the Fransec lab analysis on the table.
“An all-nighter,” Wally grunted. “Just took a nap.” He moved to the counter to fill a cup.
Jake sat at the table and began chewing as he scanned through the report. It was a four-color print job with a spreadsheet and pie charts, but Jake didn’t know what he was looking at. “So translate this for me.”
Wally rubbed sleep from his face and began slowly. “It’s definitely been adulterated. ‘Cooked’ is the slang term. But they were clever.” He took a big bite of pancake and dripped syrup down his chin.
“My bet? They started with a so-so red wine, added blackberry juice to push the fruit and color, added grain alcohol to boost the proof. Oaked it for tannins. Heat, stir and serve. Maybe spun it to separate out some water.” He continued as he chewed.
“In the lab at Davis we’d make a decent wine in six hours, good enough to fool a professor. We’d stain a cork to show some bottle-age and spout all the snobby adjectives. Modern day bootleggers, we were.” He swallowed.
“We’d go big fruit, big alcohol and hope nobody noticed after the first glass. They never complained. It’s embarrassing if your wine settles out with striations in the glass. So we’d give a big splashy pour and drink up fast. It made us popular at parties with the snob-aholics.”
Jake stood up, walked his plate to the sink and left the report on the table. Wally mopped up the syrup on his plate. “We’d mix juice, alcohol and sugar, a fructose and sucrose combination, and go for a jammy hammer down the hatch.”
Wally laughed. “Tannins hide a lot of sins. They’re acids from grape skin. Leave the juice on the skins for more tannins. Tannins make the sides of your tongue pucker. Tannins tell the snobs to expect the wine to age and soften.”
Wally removed his eyeglasses and cleaned them on his T-shirt. “So, my gut says Fransec is a crook. But I can’t prove it in a court of law. The Sacramento guys can do sophisticated tests. Let’s see what they say.” Jake looked out the kitchen window at the dry acres of pasture and soaked up the information. “It’s a weird business. Wine is a living thing. Then you filter out half the flavor and stabilize it, so nobody freaks over a bad bottle.”
Jake waited for the summation that Wally was working toward. “There are two things wrong with Fransec, if I were a forensic ethnologist. Under a microscope, the alcohol chains look wrong. Fractured and discordant instead of uniform.”
“The second thing… the color signature is off. It’s got layers of colors, not all blended into a single shade. So if you really want to catch these bastards, find their mixing room and ingredients. Look for grain alcohol, juice extract and sugar. Then every Sonoma wine maker will roast the bastard for pissing on the magic and myth of the vintner’s art. Newspapers will have a field-day and Sonoma gets a black eye, big time.”
“So why go to all that trouble?” Jake asked.
“Money. If we’re right, and I know we are, they’re trying to engineer a fifty dollar bottle of wine. The kind you taste at a sampling and buy by the case to put away for a decade. Fransec is designed for first impressions. People don’t taste samples from the same bottle over two or three days
, but winemakers do. Like when they say—the wine really stands up. Consistency means quality. Buy it on faith and cellar it for a few years. A ten-year old bottle, aged properly, can go for a hundred, maybe two-fifty. Most folks don’t wait an hour.”
Wally joined Jake at the sink. “Now don’t go shooting anybody, Jake. This is what I think they did. The lab guys at the wine board can drill down deeper.”
Wally paused and shrugged his shoulders. “And maybe I’m wrong. The analysis shows a fruity red wine with high alcohol and high tannins. It sours on the tongue, tastes like crap the next day, but maybe that’ll age out. Bottle-shock and all that.”
“So you’ll send your report to the wine board?”
“I think I will with the half bottle we have. This whole thing burns my butt.”
Jake turned toward the door. “Tanya is taking me to a picnic at Drake’s Bay. Sonya will be there.”
Sonya had been an even bigger surrogate mother for Wally. Wally wolf-whistled and growled. “Cool. But chill. The analysis is inconclusive. We can’t tell anyone we suspect Fransec is cooking the crush.”
“Could you handle my chores if I’m not around in the morning?”
Wally just smiled.
For the next two hours Jake raced through his chores at the feed barn and dug through a storage locker from his high school days. He found the crow bar, his old black wetsuit, booties and a collection bag. He threw them into a busted gym bag and packed a change of clothes. He unzipped a sleeping bag to air it on the railing.
He remembered his promise of cheese so he ran to the modular unit, looking for Marco or Sandy. She was inside, wearing an apron, her sleeves rolled, bent over a vat of water. It looked like she was bobbing for little white apples. “What are you doing?”
“It’s a brine bath, a tub of kosher salt water, no iodine. We press the curds, drain off the whey and soak the new cheese in the brine. It helps set the rind, Alpine style. Salt is the oldest preservative.”
