by Nadia Gordon
The crowd filled the pews and lined the walls. Sunny stood at the back of the church straining to hear what was being said up front. A priest led the congregation in prayer and Sunny mumbled along with everyone else. The open doors behind her seemed to suck the last of the cool air out of the shadows instead of offering relief from the heat. It became stifling hot. Soon her armpits were slick with sweat and a trickle ran down her side. The black pumps she wore to solemn occasions pinched her toes. She studied what she could see of the pulpit, wondering if her flowers had arrived in time, and if so, which of the arrangements—all of them ugly and unnatural-looking—might be hers. She’d placed the order hastily this morning, right after she looked up Anna’s mother’s number and left her a message saying she would be at the service.
Up near the front, Keith Lachlan was standing against the wall, towering over those around him. Marissa wasn’t with him. Sunny scanned the crowd. She could see Oliver Seth in the front row next to Anna’s mother. The seat on the other side of him was empty, as though no one else dared to go near him. Anna’s father, the grizzled old artist, was slumped at the end of the row. In between prayers and hymns, people stood and spoke about Anna’s childhood and early days in California. Sunny caught a word here and there. She began to feel nauseous. The crowd at the back stirred restlessly and fanned themselves with their programs. Several people slipped out. The congregation was reciting “The Lord Is My Shepherd,” when Troy Stevens inched past Sunny and out the door. She followed.
He walked down a path between palm trees in the dazzling light and sat on a bench with a view of Mount Tamalpais, standing like a sentry to the west. He put his head in his hands.
“Okay if I join you?” said Sunny.
He moved over. “I had to get out of there. What’s the point of all that, anyway?”
“It gives people a chance to grieve,” suggested Sunny.
“Is that what that’s called?”
She shrugged. “It’s not my thing, either, but what else are you supposed to do?”
“Anna would have hated it.”
“Definitely.”
Troy was wearing a black denim suit with pin stripes and his black Chuck Taylors. He took off the jacket. Underneath was a dark gray T-shirt that made his arms look the color of mayonnaise.
“How’ve you been?” he said.
“Okay. You?”
“All right. I’ll be better when I can get the hell out of here.”
“How long are you staying?”
“I’m not sure. The cops asked me to stick around until next week in case they need me. I’ve got the time.”
“You didn’t say anything up there,” said Sunny, looking back at the church. “I thought you might.”
“I wanted to, but her mom wouldn’t let me.”
“Why not?”
“She and Anna had a falling-out a couple years ago. You notice there was no mention of anything in her life since she moved to Europe? Sylvia thinks it’s me who corrupted her. My decadent European lifestyle.” He smiled ironically. “Mama’s little girl can do no wrong.”
“Well, I guess you can’t expect her to be critical of her own daughter, considering the situation.”
“No, but I thought she’d be able to see through Seth. She thinks he’s a gentleman,” he said, marking the word with air quotes. “That guy makes me want to puke. I can’t believe he had the balls to show up.”
He took a bottle of children’s aspirin out of his pocket and chewed a handful of tablets the same shade of pinkish orange as the church.
“You want some?”
Sunny declined.
“I know that bastard killed her, or at least he knows who did,” said Troy.
“You mean because of the fight they had?”
He shook his head. “I don’t know. I don’t know anything. I just want to get out of here.”
“Where are you staying?”
“They gave me the pool house at a youth hostel just outside of Napa. Pretty nice digs, actually. View of the vineyard. All the pastoral accoutrements. Courtesy of the incorporated city of St. Helena.”
People started coming out of the church, squinting in the sudden light. Sunny watched the exodus. Molly Seth walked out with her arm through Jared Bollinger’s. She was wearing a cream-colored suit and a pale gray hat with a veil. Behind her was Marissa Lin in a tight black dress.
“Maybe it was that crazy bitch Molly,” said Troy, watching them. “She hated Anna. Incest between those two if you ask me. Half the time she was sleeping over in the guest room.”
“Why would she hate Anna?”
“She was jealous. Between her and Cynthia, Anna got nothing but dagger eyes around that joint.”
“I need to talk to Marissa,” said Sunny, standing. She dug in her pocketbook for a business card. “I’d like to stay in touch. Call me and let me know how I can reach you?”
He nodded and Sunny walked toward the crowd. She waited until Molly and Jared had moved off before approaching Marissa, who embraced her like a friend.
“Well, at least that’s over,” said Marissa, dabbing at her eyes with a balled-up tissue. “For a while I didn’t think I’d be able to make it. Are you okay?”
Sunny nodded. Marissa looked at something and Sunny turned to see what it was. Keith and Franco had come out of the church and were standing off to the side, talking with Oliver. He turned to the next group of mourners and they continued down the stairs toward the street.
Sunny looked back at Marissa. “Andre explained to me about the other night, and how it wasn’t what I’d first assumed. Did you and Keith have an argument about it?”
Marissa shook her head and smiled ruefully. “It wasn’t that. Sometimes it’s just time to part ways.”
Sunny nodded. “I’ve been meaning to ask you about something Anna mentioned to me the day she died. I can’t seem to get it out of my head. She told me Oliver has hidden cameras all over the house. She’d just found out about them the night before.”
“Yeah, I know about the cameras.”
“From Anna?”
“No, I’ve known for a while.”
Sunny touched her elbow and led her away from the others. “You were friends with Anna. You must want to know what happened to her as much as I do.”
“Maybe even more so.”
“The data from those cameras may still be accessible online. Oliver told me the system gets backed up each night. The question is where.”
“Probably an FTP site somewhere. If he wants to keep it hidden, I doubt you or anyone else is going to find it.”
“Marissa, what are those cameras there for?”
“Security, I guess.”
“Yes, but not exclusively. Some of them are there for entertainment purposes, aren’t they?”
Marissa met her glance and held it. “Possibly.”
“Did you ever see any of it? I mean, have you ever watched any of the video footage that was shot at his house?”
“Yes,” said Marissa slowly. “I have. Keith showed me some footage from one of those cameras once after a party.”
“So he must know how to access it.”
“Probably. It was more than just a clip. We scrolled through a bunch of footage online. I have no idea what the URL was, though.”
“I don’t suppose he’d tell me,” said Sunny.
“Probably not.”
“He might tell you.”
“I doubt it.”
“You could ask him.”
“If I did, I’d have to speak to him.”
The bell on the mission tower began chiming loudly in an up-down peal. “I need to get going,” said Sunny. “If you change your mind, you know where to reach me.”
“Wildside.”
Sunny nodded.
Marissa put her sunglasses on. “Good luck,” she said, and turned away.
17
The cab of the truck was searing hot. Sunny took the fast lane north on Highway 101. In record time, she made th
e stair-step journey across the flats on 37, up 121, across the Carneros ridge on 12, and up 29 to St. Helena. At the restaurant, Rivka was doing her best to keep up with a lunch rush in full fury.
“It’s about time,” she said, without looking up.
“Pull that,” said Sunny, pointing to a ribeye steak. She grabbed a set of tongs and put the steak on a plate. “Smell that? Use your nose to tell when it’s done, not your eyes. Your eyes can’t tell what’s going on inside. Your nose is never wrong. I came back as quickly as I could.”
“You should have gotten a ride with her friends.”
“What do you mean?”
“Check out table nineteen. They were asking for you.”
Sunny walked to the zinc bar, where she had a better view of the dining room. Franco Bertinotti and Keith Lachlan were seated at the second-best table in the house. Franco saw her and beckoned. Sunny smoothed her white jacket and was about to go over when Bertrand appeared at her side, gripping her elbow excitedly. “You see who’s here?”
“Yep, I’m going out to talk with them right now.”
“I sent over une demi-bouteille de Vilmart and some starters.”
“Good. What are they drinking now?” asked Sunny.
“Une demi-bouteille de Vilmart.”
“That doesn’t look like a half-bottle in the bucket.”
Bertrand squinted at the dining room. “They don’t have a bucket. You’re looking at the wrong table. I’m talking about table eight.”
Sunny looked. “I don’t know those guys.”
“The guy on the left is Mike Helton.”
“Who’s Mike Helton?”
Bertrand goggled at her. “Hello? NASCAR. You know, race cars. Zoom zoom. He’s the president. He’s like Enzo Ferrari for Americans. I mean, I guess that would be more like Bill France and that crew, but he’s still racetrack royalty. You’re American. You should try to learn these things about your culture.”
Sunny eyed the party at table eight. “Dude with the mustache? Wade will wish he was here.”
“Magnificent, isn’t it? No one else could wear a mustache like that. Let’s go over and I can introduce you.”
“Let’s let them eat their lunch in peace for a while. We can polish their wingtips and steam their jackets later. Right now I have to interrupt somebody else’s meal.”
She detached herself from Bertrand and approached Franco and Keith’s table wearing her most gracious proprietor’s smile. Their first course had already arrived. Keith was working on baked goat cheese with frisée, his enormous hand dwarfing the salad fork. Franco had already finished his carpaccio. All that was left was a green smear of olive oil, a strip of pecorino, and two leaves of arugula. A bottle of sparkling wine cooled in a silver bucket at his elbow.
“You guys made good time,” said Sunny.
“Always,” said Keith, flashing a confident smile. “Nice place.”
“Thanks.”
“Funerals always make me hungry,” said Franco. “That one in particular. This is such a sad, sad business. One must refresh the spirit. I see you have had to make a repair to your window. Did you have visitors? Perhaps Napa Valley is more like Sicily than I thought?”
“Just a broken window,” said Sunny, looking him in the eye. She took the bottle—J. Schram pink—from the ice bucket and topped up their glasses.
Franco held up a leaf of arugula. “No one in the world has rocket better than this. No bitterness, soft texture, almost sweet. Perfect.”
“That came out of the garden in back,” said Sunny. “It’s largely a matter of freshness. Most arugula you get at the market has been in a box longer than that leaf has been in existence.”
“Still plump with the milk of mother earth,” said Franco.
“You could say that.” She glanced back at the kitchen. A flash of flame shot up. “I’d better get back there before we have to evacuate. Did you order already?”
“Just the starters.”
“Why don’t you let me take care of you. I’ll send out a few different things for you to try.”
“Even better,” said Franco.
She sent out tiny pizzas with caramelized onions and anchovies first. After that came an amuse-bouche of soft-boiled duck eggs with crème fraîche, a dab of caviar, and a finger of toasted brioche. She adjusted the eggs in their little porcelain cups and aligned the brioche sticks. Bertrand carried them out. He came back a few minutes later and paused at the dessert station, watching Sunny plate a couple of fig tarts with honey-ginger ice cream.
“And?” she said, moving with swift precision, adding a spray of golden sugar and a pristine mint leaf to each. “How did they like the eggs?”
“The old guy knows how to eat. He sucked his down.”
“What about the other one?”
“Caribbean mec? No go.”
“He didn’t eat it?”
“Didn’t even touch it.”
“Why not?”
“How should I know? He was probably too busy playing with his little BlackBerry.”
“There goes half an ounce of the best caviar on the continent.”
“I wouldn’t say that.”
She looked at him. “You ate it.”
“Of course. Waste not, want not. Incidentally, the egg was very slightly underdone.”
“It was three and a half minutes exactly.”
“Do three minutes and forty-five seconds next time.”
“The white is supposed to be soft.”
“Soft, but not transparent. It should be just this side of opaque. This was soft and, in places, semi-opaque, even leaning slightly to the transparent.”
“Fine, three minutes and forty-five seconds.” She checked the dining room. “You’re right. He’s got his thumbs on his BlackBerry. That is so rude.”
“His friend doesn’t seem to mind.”
“I mean to us. Can’t he take an hour out of his day to pay attention to something other than a little glowing screen?”
Sunny walked over to the zinc bar for a better look at Keith Lachlan. He’d put his phone down on the edge of the table and was eating again. The waiter came by to pour from a new bottle of wine.
“What are they drinking out there?” she asked Bertrand.
“You know those last two bottles of Kongsgaard Chard? Now there’s only one.”
Sunny sucked in a long breath. “The Judge? Wow, they’re not messing around.” Her eyes ran up and down the kitchen restlessly. “Listen, Bert, let’s show these hot shots what we can do. I want to make sure they have a really, really good time, you know what I mean? We’ve got to keep the ball rolling. Let’s bring out a couple of things they won’t be able to resist. Like maybe a Spottswoode Cab.”
“Gone.”
“All of it?”
“Tout finis.”
“Then a Kistler Pinot. Or a Joseph Phelps. One of the older Insignias.”
“We have a half-bottle of a good Phelps. Not Insignia, but a very good one.”
“Fine. And maybe that Shafer you’ve been sitting on like a mother hen. Keep their glasses full.”
“The ‘ninety-three? I must protest.”
“But I insist.”
Bertrand scowled. “And I refuse,” he hissed, lowering his voice. “Their palates are shot already. They’ll be drunk as skunks, and on our best hooch.”
“That’s how we like it. Besides, if they can’t finish it, that means more for you.”
“If anyone gets that bottle it should be our friends at table eight, not your table of who-knows-who-they-are.” He paused, softening. “Why don’t you let me find something that will please them extremely well without ruining my day.”
“Fine. But make it snappy.”
Bertrand rolled his eyes and went to pull the bottles. Sunny watched him present the first one to the table with just the right amount of reverence. He brought the second shortly afterward. Soon the table was filled with half-empty glasses. Sunny sent out plates of braised duck legs, followed
by risotto, followed by salt cod ravioli. For nearly an hour, she sent out plate after plate until they came back half full.
“They’re done. Wiped out,” said Bertrand, stopping back with a demi-rack of lamb that had hardly been touched. “They are using my fifth-best Sonoma Pinot like mouthwash and cannot swallow another bite of fish, fowl, or mammal. Are you trying to kill these guys?”
“Okay, I guess this is it. Riv, I need your help,” said Sunny. Rivka came over and Sunny pulled her close. “Listen, I’m going out to talk to these guys. You come out right after me and I’ll introduce you. Engage them for a minute, then we’ll both get out of there quickly. Don’t linger.”
“What’s up?”
“I’ll explain later. Just make sure they’re looking at you the whole time.”
“No problem.”
Rivka took off her white jacket and left it on the counter. Underneath was the white tank top and lacy black bra that was her standard work uniform. She took a fresh apron and tied it tightly around her hips. “Distracting enough?”
“Definitely.”
The dining room was thinning out. Just a few tables remained, most of them on the patio, most of those picking at dessert, sipping cappuccinos, or sitting back, finishing their conversations. Keith and Franco had been there for over two hours. Sunny took a deep breath and went out to their table, where Franco greeted her like a returning hero. A moment later, Rivka appeared at her side.
“This is my sous chef, Rivka Chavez. Rivka, this is Franco Bertinotti, the winemaker at Taurus Rising Vineyard I told you about, and Keith Lachlan, Oliver Seth’s lawyer and, I think, business partner?”
“Sometime business partner,” said Keith. “Delighted to meet you.”
“I just wanted to express my most sincere condolences for your loss,” said Rivka. “I can only imagine how difficult this time must be for you.” She put both hands over her heart in a gesture of sincerity.
“My dear, did you have a hand in the meal we have just enjoyed?” said Franco, looking into her beautiful brown eyes with their Bambi lashes, just as Sunny had hoped he would.
“Just these two right here,” said Rivka, holding out her hands coyly. He took them in his and gave them an earnest squeeze.