“So that limits our suspect pool, doesn’t it?”
“We’re assuming that whoever stole them also knows that their needs are particular. Do you know what kind of rootstock they were grafted to?”
“I don’t.” Megan looked at Toni. “Do you?”
“I speak car, not grapevine,” Toni said. “Let me call Henry though.”
“I’d guess the rootstock is pretty important, right?” Megan asked. “I mean, that’s the part that goes in the ground and has to survive. Would they have used one kind or multiple?”
Henry came on the screen. “Katherine?”
“Henry, I’m assuming you used a Vitis berlandieri variant or two to graft these clones?”
“We used a very common berlandieri stock, but we also tried a berlandieri and riparia hybrid that was developed for alkaline soils that we thought might increase the Poulsard skin thickness just enough to make them more disease resistant.”
“But you hadn’t had any fruit from the vines yet?”
“Correct,” Henry said. “The grafts took to the stock equally well; we were just waiting to see if our hypothesis proved correct on the skin thickness with the berlandieri-riparia cross.”
It sounded like a foreign language to Megan, but Katherine seemed both happy and frustrated with the information Henry was giving her, which meant…
She had no idea.
Megan was hoping Toni had some idea of what was going on or that Katherine felt like translating the conversation into laywoman’s terms.
“So the vines themselves should be quite well-adapted to the climate. The only real danger is their flower set.”
“And they’d just started forming buds this week,” Henry said.
“So in theory, you and Nico might lose the fruit set from this year, but it’s unlikely you’ll lose the vines themselves with basic care.”
“Correct.”
“Thank you, Henry. We’re going to do our best.”
Toni came back on the screen. “Okay, tell me what the hell you were talking about just now please?”
Katherine smiled and looked at Megan. “Do you need an explanation as well?”
“Yes please. That was a foreign language to this girl.”
“Okay, the reason we use rootstock on American vines has to do with our native soil and the diseases they’ve developed resistance to.”
“Ah. So if you take a French vine and plant it here—”
“It will likely die from disease in California, though there are some areas of the country—like the Columbia Valley in Washington where Henry is from—that have less disease and where vines aren’t as at risk, so some winemakers use single-rooted vines. In California, however, it’s unusual.”
“Okay, what does this mean for the vines we’re looking for?”
“It’s both good and bad,” Katherine said. “Familiar rootstocks mean our hostages are more likely to survive without very specific parameters of care. That also means that the number of wineries who can take care of them is far larger.” She paused, checking Megan’s face for comprehension. “Basically, we have more suspects.”
Katherine took out a bag of etched stones from her pocket and set them on the table. “I have the divination stones that Megan bought last year, and I’ve been trying to use them, but so far they don’t seem to be sparking my abilities. I’ll keep trying though. I know that casting stones is a common divination aid in many cultures, so I don’t want to dismiss them out of hand.”
“And, you know, they’re pretty. So there’s that.” Megan hadn’t had any luck with the stones either. It had been a nice idea, but brute practice with large rocks at Toni’s house had done more to hone her telekinesis than anything else.
She was getting more and more accurate sensing the natural energy fields around objects. Things in the natural world were far more “alive” than man-made things, which made them easier to manipulate. Simply put, a boulder was far easier to nudge than a car, though in moments of emergency, object size seemed to matter not one bit.
“Okay, ladies.” Megan pulled a paper from her purse. “I have the list of likely suspects that Nico wrote down for me. There are some familiar names like Sullivan and Baur.” She glanced at the girls. “Fairfield’s fiancée is on there too.”
“Whit Fairfield?” Toni’s eyebrows went up. “You mean the piece of shit who tried to steal Nico’s wine caves and sabotage his winery? Why am I not surprised?”
“Well, he is dead,” Katherine added. “That makes me a little surprised he’s on the list.”
“His winery survived,” Megan said. “And according to what I hear at the club, Angela Calvo—that’s the fiancée—is even better at business than Fairfield was.”
“You’re telling me,” Toni said. “Have you driven by that place on a Saturday?”
“No.” Katherine frowned. “Busy?”
“Lines of cars out to the road,” Toni said. “It’s super annoying. They need to invest in a bigger parking lot.”
“Well, according to Nico, they’re one of the top three suspects on his list because they have some acreage that could potentially grow Poulsard grapes. He cross-checked with Henry too.”
“Toni?” Katherine leaned toward the tablet with Toni’s picture on it. “Can you have Henry call me tomorrow? I’d like to find out what specific soil conditions and composition are ideal for Poulsard grapes. I can ask Professor Njoku if he knows anyone at the university who’s done geological surveys in the area. That might narrow down our search parameters.”
“I’ll ask him.” She was blinking slowly. “Think he already went to bed though.”
“You look tired too,” Megan said. “Are you sure you’re up for this?”
“Are you kidding?” She patted her belly. “Sounds to me like we’re going to be doing a ton of wine tasting for this job. I can’t wait!”
Megan grinned. “We’ll tell them you’re our designated driver.”
Toni snorted. “Good call. Whatever we have to do. Henry is acting like someone stole his favorite toy every time the Poulsard vines come up. Get me in those wineries and hopefully near the owners; I’ll get answers out of them.”
Chapter 7
Fairfield Family Wines was very much a misnomer. The premium acreage along Ferraro Creek had been bought by a venture capitalist from Silicon Valley named Whit Fairfield who was looking for investment opportunities that encompassed both wine and real estate development in Moonstone Cove. When Fairfield had been killed by his foreman, the winery had passed to his fiancée, who’d promptly expanded both the winery and the real estate holdings.
The relationship might have been based on ambition.
Currently, no one connected to the winery was a Fairfield. The Fairfield family had nothing to do with the wines, but that wasn’t evident from the vintage black-and-white family pictures on the walls of the tasting room. Fairfield Family Wines continued to present a carefully curated image of a cozy family winery with a long history on the Central Coast.
Fabrication? Yes. But the tourists didn’t seem to mind. They filled the tasting room and bought the monogrammed golf shirts with FFW on the pocket. They spilled out onto the oak-dotted lawn that lined the creek across from Nico’s wine caves and signed up for the wine club in droves, drawn to the glossy image that Fairfield presented to visitors.
Megan stared at the narrow creek that separated Nico’s vineyard from the Fairfield place, trying to imagine how she could cultivate as devoted a following for Nico’s winery, which was a real family enterprise, even if it didn’t have Silicon Valley money behind it.
Money.
Marketing.
Connections.
Humph.
Katherine and Toni were sitting at the bar, Katherine sipping wine and Toni munching on breadsticks, asking leading questions about the winery while Megan felt the energy in the room. All the wood and metal surrounding her buzzed with a faint, pulsing life. She had the urge to flip over a table or two, just to disrupt
the quiet and understated class of the building.
Instead, she walked back to the bar and turned on her highest-watt smile and her strongest accent. “What kind of grapes do y’all plant?” she asked the young woman pouring their tasting. “Do they all come from different countries? We were at one winery that had mostly Italian wines” —she reached for her glass, which was filled with a ruby-red pinot noir— “but then there was this other one that had Spanish varieties and French ones and even some from Argentina! It was real interesting.”
“The Fairfield family has planted mainly French varietal wines at this winery,” the young woman said. “The soil and growing conditions of our appellation match very well with wines from the Burgundy region. The wines are grown and blended in the French style.”
“Have you heard of the Jura region?” Katherine’s voice was so soft the pourer had to lean forward when she spoke.
“I’m sorry, where?”
“Jura,” Katherine said. “It’s a smaller wine region in France. They have some interesting wines there.”
“I’ve never heard of it,” the young woman said. “Sounds cool though. Have you been to France?”
Megan quickly pegged her as either an intern or an apprentice. She wasn’t going to help them find the vines unless she’d happened to overhear something.
“I have been to France,” Katherine said. “Many times.”
“You’re so lucky,” the girl said. “I’m a student at Central Coast State, but I’m from Petaluma. I haven’t really been anywhere.”
Bingo. Apprentice.
“Don’t worry,” Katherine said. “You have time.”
Megan looked at the girl, remembering what it felt like to be that age, your life an amorphous fog of possibilities and opportunities. Would she go back? Not in a heartbeat. But it was fun to remember when the world had seemed so open and fresh.
“Do you have a winery tour?” Toni asked. “I’d love to look around even if I can’t drink. It’s such an interesting business.”
“We do have a winery tour,” the girl said. “They do three a day on the weekends, but just one in the afternoon on weekdays like this. If you want to hang around until three thirty, you’re welcome to join. I’m sure there’s still room.”
It was nearly three already, so Katherine and Toni decided they could wait for the tour. Megan felt restless. Something was itching at her senses.
“Mrs. Carpenter?”
The sound of her name from a strange voice nearly had Megan punching out. She turned and saw a sleek and polished woman in her midthirties walking toward her. Her hair was long, shiny, and dark brown with tasteful golden-brown highlights. She wore a subdued grey pantsuit with a shock of burgundy at the collar and a pair of heels that made Megan’s feet ache just looking at them.
“It’s Ms. Alston,” Megan said. “Or Alston-Carpenter.”
The woman held out her hand, and Megan shook it by force of habit. There was something about the woman that felt familiar, but Megan couldn’t place it.
“How do you do?” she asked. “I hope you don’t mind my interrupting your afternoon with your friends, but I’m Angela Calvo, the new owner of Fairfield Family Wines.”
Good God, it was the rumored fiancée herself! Megan hadn’t even heard gossip about what she looked like.
“It’s… it’s very nice to meet you.” Megan laughed a little. “This is unexpected. We were just about to take your wine tour.”
“You work with Dusi Vineyards, don’t you?”
“I do.” Awkward! “I’ve heard such good things about your tour though that I wanted to experience it myself.” Which was complete bullshit. She’d heard nothing about the Fairfield tour. “Checking out the competition, so to speak. I hope you don’t mind. We’re revamping our own tour later this year to include the addition of the wine caves, so I’m brainstorming ideas right now.”
“Of course.” Angela Calvo’s expression read as nothing but friendly. “I don’t see us as competition at all. We’re neighbors, Ms. Alston. You and anyone from Dusi Vineyards are always welcome here at Fairfield.”
Megan turned on her thousand-watt smile. “I feel the exact same way. I love what you’ve done with the tasting room.”
“Thank you. I appreciate that; especially coming from a professional like you.” The woman’s voice got softer. “I understand… you were involved in that horrible mess that Whit was a part of last year.” Her tone was conspiratorial. She put a hand over her heart. “I’d like to apologize personally for any trouble you or your family experienced because of Whit’s actions. I hope you can see past it, especially seeing as we’re neighbors, but I completely understand if there are still hard feelings.”
You could have pushed Megan over with a feather. “Ms. Calvo—”
“Please, call me Angela.”
“Of course, Angela.”
The woman was the textbook definition of disarming, with wide brown eyes and an earnest expression.
Megan continued, “As far as I know, you weren’t involved in any of that.” It was true. Drew had been suspicious of Miss Calvo and had questioned her extensively, even though from all accounts, she’d only been to Moonstone Cove twice in her life and that very briefly. “I don’t believe in expecting women to beg pardon for the bad actions of their significant others, so you have nothing to apologize for.”
Miss Calvo looked relieved. “That’s very generous of you. Thank you.”
“It’s not generous, it’s accurate.”
“Still, thank you.” Angela walked to the massive picture windows and gestured toward the creek. “How are the renovations for the new tasting room going? I’ve been waiting to take the tour until everything is complete. My winemaker met with Henry Durant a few months back and was able to take a tour of the caves. The pictures he took were amazing.”
A tour? I don’t suppose that tour included a greenhouse? Megan made a mental note to ask Henry about the specifics.
“Thank you. The caves are very impressive, and I think everyone will be relieved when the new tasting room is open.” Megan looked around. “What made you decide to renovate yours?”
“I think I wanted to put my own stamp on it,” Angela Calvo said. “I wanted to make it a little softer. A little less formal.”
“I like the new tables and the placement; it works very well. I imagine that oak-shaded patio outside is very popular for summer events.” Megan tried to keep her voice even. She was talking with Whit Fairfield’s fiancée, the woman who’d attended Wharton. Her aunt was the governor and her mother was a state representative. And she was chitchatting about table layouts!
“It’s my first summer here, and I’ve been warned about the heat.” Angela Calvo’s smile didn’t move. “Though it’s much cooler by the beach, which is where I live.”
Where had all the rumors of a cold, vicious businesswoman come from? Angela was a bit formal, but far from cold. Megan was starting to think that the new woman in Moonstone Cove had fallen prey to the “accomplished lady must be a ballbuster” stereotype.
“The hills can get warm for sure, but the nights are cool, and it’s always breezy and cool by the ocean. You’re from San Francisco, I believe.”
“Yes. A native of the city. And I hear you’re from Atlanta, is that correct?”
“I am.” Where had Angela Calvo heard anything about Megan? There was something about their entire interaction that felt… off. She couldn’t identify what it was. Was it her mother’s sense of formality battling with Megan’s new California casualness? She kept her smile in place. “Sometimes I really miss Atlanta, but Moonstone Cove is very much my home now.”
“That’s wonderful.” Angela Calvo looked around the tasting room. “I have to confess, I didn’t understand why Whit was so fascinated by this place, but now that I’ve spent more time here, I understand completely. It really does have the best of that small-town atmosphere, doesn’t it?”
“We like to think so.” She spotted Katherine and Toni
staring at them. “Miss Calvo—”
“Again, please call me Angela.”
“Right. Angela.” Megan smiled. “I’m here with a couple of friends, and I’m sure they’d enjoy meeting you. Let me introduce—”
“Before you do that” —she put her hand on Megan’s arm— “I wanted to speak to you privately about one more thing.”
Of course you do. Vine theft, perhaps?
Angela’s voice dropped. “I don’t know if Rodney told you we were seeing each other.”
Megan felt her stomach plunge to somewhere in the vicinity of her feet.
Nope. Hadn’t been expecting that one. Wasn’t even on the radar.
Rodney and… this woman? This gracious professional in the thousand-dollar suit?
That must have been what felt off. Angela Calvo knew about her because of Rodney. Well, that was… awkward. And irritating. Megan hated being out of the loop. “Rodney didn’t tell me. I’m…” She kept her polite smile on. “We don’t really talk about our dating lives much, as you can imagine.”
“Of course. I just wanted to introduce myself because I know Rodney has been trying to find a way to talk to the kids about meeting me, and they haven’t been very open to the idea. I was hoping—”
“Miss Calvo— Angela, sorry. I want to stop you there.” Oh no. Megan was going to nip this one in the bud. “I cannot lie; I am surprised you and Rodney are dating—mostly because of him; nothing to do with you—and you seem lovely. But I don’t get involved in my children’s relationship with their father. We are… wary co-parents, to say the least, unfortunately. So any contact you have with the children will be one hundred percent up to the three of them.”
Angela’s eyes were a little sad but also resigned. “Of course. Forgive me if I overstepped in any way. I know Rodney regrets the mistakes he made, but as I told him, he has to rebuild those bridges with his kids. It’s not anyone else’s job.”
Fate Interrupted: A Paranormal Women's Fiction Novel (Moonstone Cove Book 3) Page 6