by Linda Barnes
Spraggue opened a door and entered a different world.
It must have been an enclosed back porch once, added on after the rest of the house was completed. If Lenny had used the back door, kept the door to the rest of the house shut, eaten only in restaurants, he’d never have seen the filthy half of the place. No need. The large pinepaneled back room had a bath off to the right. The gold tile in the bathroom almost matched the shaggy carpet on the bedroom floor. A closet door stood ajar, revealing a generous interior. Lenny’s children, infants so young their sex was indeterminate, smiled out of framed photos displayed on an untidy rolltop desk. Spraggue stopped short of opening the heavy gold-and-red print draperies, pressed the button on the base of a brass bedside table lamp instead. The air, stale with lack of circulation, carried no unpleasant smells. The linen on the double bed was fresh.
He inspected the closet. Row after row of neatly pressed shirts, laundry tags still affixed to collars. Suits in plastic cleaner bags. A pile of luggage on the floor to one side. No gaps where a suitcase had been hastily removed, an armful of shirts quickly packed inside.
The three-drawer bureau by the side of the bed was well organized. No missing piles of folded underwear.
Only in the bathroom was there any sign of planned departure. The mirrored cabinet over the sink was empty. No toiletries, no cold remedies, no toothbrush.
Where do you go with only the clothes on your back? Just your toothbrush? Just your shaving gear?
Spraggue rummaged through Lenny’s desk, taking care not to disturb the piles of receipted bills. A few yellowed letters. No plane schedules. No diary. No appointment book. After a moment’s hesitation, he pocketed a thin black address book.
The four shelves over the desk held an array of camera equipment. No help there.
He sat on the bed while his eyes did a circuit of the room. The back door, the bathroom door, the door to the slum-half of the house. One unexplored door—probably cover for the cellarless dwelling’s hot-water heater. He twisted the doorknob. Locked.
This one was easy. An American Express card did the trick.
Spraggue stared into blackness.
He groped around the inside of the doorframe, left and right. No light switch. He stepped inside, hands extended, touched a cold swinging chain, pulled it. Lenny’s wine cellar leaped out of darkness.
Spraggue closed the door behind him. It was a good-sized cellar, maybe fifty cases in all, stored in the traditional cross-timbered bins. Spraggue lifted a bottle here and there and admired each label. Lenny had stored a selection of California’s finest: rare old Georges de LaTours from Beaulieu, the first of Heitz’s Martha’s Vineyard vintages. More than enough justification for those fancy door locks.
Too warm, Spraggue realized suddenly. Despite insulation-padded walls and ceiling, the air was too hot for a wine cellar—seventy-five, maybe more. The air conditioner built into the far wall was silent. A blown fuse? Spraggue approached, found that the machine had been switched off.
Okay. He leaned against the wall and frowned in puzzled concentration. So Lenny kills a man, reason unknown. He rushes back to his house, takes only his toothbrush and aftershave, no clothes. Leaves in such a hurry he forgets to make sure the air conditioner is on.…
Not Lenny. Lenny would not have turned that air conditioner off. Even if he was halfway to Argentina by now, even if he had no plans ever to return and claim the wine, he’d have left the damn air conditioner going full-blast, and to hell with the electric bills.
Spraggue turned the machine on high. Tampering with evidence. He wasn’t about to let that stuff turn to vinegar, any more than Lenny would have.
A different shape on a lower shelf caught his eye. A large book with a thick leather binding, embossed and showy. Lenny’s cellar book.
Christ, Lenny, Spraggue thought. Live in a pigsty, only clean the bedroom and bath. Come in the back door, never use your own living room. But keep a snobby leather binding on your tasting notes. He hoped no one would ever have to pry through his Cambridge apartment.
The air conditioner pumped away heroically, exchanging warm stale air for fresh cold. Spraggue crouched on the concrete floor and thumbed through the pages of the cellar book.
It was older than he’d thought, a winemaker’s guide rather than a taster’s memories. The first pages dealt with European wines, the wines Lenny had nurtured twenty years ago. His notes were complete and specific, giving grape tonnage, fermentation temperatures, cellar treatment. There was a small section for wines Lenny had drunk, not made. Here the comments were both cutting and colorful, including harsh personal remarks about more than one rival winemaker.
Spraggue flipped to the middle of the book: California, eight years ago. He and Kate had just bought the land for Holloway Hills.
He turned a page and found blank paper, loose blank paper, stuffed in to hide the fact that a third of the regular pages had been neatly sliced out. He read Lenny’s final entry: August ’74. It ended mid-sentence, mid-thought.
Had Lenny removed the pages? Spraggue searched for a second book, found none. Should he take the book back to Holloway Hills for further study? Couldn’t slip this one easily into a pocket. Dust outlined its former place on the shelf. The sheriff’s men might believe that Lenny had left his address book over at Kate’s. His cellar book? Spraggue carefully replaced it on the shelf, turned off the light, closed the door. The steady hum of the air conditioner was audible from the bedroom.
No toothbrush. If Lenny lived here, Spraggue wondered, where the hell did he brush his teeth?
A black push-button phone on Lenny’s bedside table was still connected. Spraggue sat on the bed, pulled the address book out of his jacket pocket, turned to the B’s. The dial tone hummed in his ear. What was Lenny’s ex-wife’s name? There: Alicia … 428 Shore Drive, Marblehead. A 617 area code. Massachusetts.
Spraggue gave the operator his credit card number. Alicia Brent answered on the second ring, crisply, with her name.
“May I speak to Lenny?” Spraggue asked. His voice was deliberately lighter, younger, more hesitant and sibilant than usual. Alicia had only heard him speak once, maybe twice before.
The bang as she slammed the receiver back into the cradle made him jump. His right eyebrow shot up.
Alicia Brent.… They’d met at some wine-tasting publicity brouhaha, united by common disdain for the proceedings. A tiny woman, he remembered, so pregnant she was almost as big around as she was tall. Lenny Brent had ignored her completely, glad-handing his way through the throng. Spraggue had gotten the uneasy feeling that she was present by fiat, that she’d begged to be left at home. He remembered guiding her to a chair, planning a route to the nearest hospital, hoping a doctor had been invited to the brawl.
That had been eight years ago. And now, she hung up the phone when she heard Lenny’s name.
He dialed the number again. It took eight rings before she made up her mind to answer.
Spraggue made his voice sound flustered, gentle, as unthreatening as his normally deep voice could be. “Uh … hello. I think we may have been cut off. I’m Roger Thurlow. You are Mrs. Alicia Brent, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” she said cautiously.
“I suppose you don’t remember me. No. Well, I’m the National Secretary of Les Amis du Vin. We met at a tasting many years ago.…”
“You know that Lenny and I are divorced.”
“Uh … yes … uh … I hope you won’t think this an awful imposition. I, you see, I write the monthly association newsletter, and in this issue I’m supposed to print a biography of our October speaker. Mr. Brent, um, your former husband, is the speaker, but I can’t seem to locate him to get the information I need, and I have to have the article in to the printer by tomorrow. Printing up a newsletter takes such a long time, and I’m really in a quandary. I know that he was born in Hungary and—”
“I am not about to—” she began angrily.
Shit, Spraggue thought. She was going to hang up a
gain. He broke in quickly. “If you could just tell me some domestic details. You have children?”
Her voice was icy, but she stayed on the line. “Lenny has two lovely daughters he never sees. He’s just as crummy a father as he was a husband. Is that the sort of thing you had in mind?”
“Well, uh, I don’t think I could print that, Mrs. Brent. Our membership … I mean … there’s a good deal of respect for Mr. Brent. He’s a great man—”
“A great winemaker, maybe. Not a great man. Now I have to—”
“I really appreciate your talking to me. I was getting desperate. If you’re ever in Napa—”
“I won’t be.”
“I thought you grew up out here.”
“I did,” she said woodenly, “but I won’t be visiting.”
“Well, one more thing then. If I needed to find your, uh, your ex-husband, for this biography thing, would you have any idea where I should look?”
The silence on the phone stretched out so long that Spraggue wondered if Alicia Brent were still there. He waited. If acting taught one thing, it was how to be comfortable with silence.
When Alicia’s voice started up again, it seemed changed, cagey. “What did you say your name was?” she asked carefully.
“Uh … Roger Thurlow.”
“Mr. Thurlow, I don’t know where Lenny is. I don’t care. Now I’m late for work. Please don’t call again.”
The phone clicked sharply. Spraggue jiggled the button and a buzz came over the line. He kept the receiver pressed tight to his ear and replayed the conversation. Such vehemence about not visiting the valley, that sudden change of tone, the unmistakable suspicion toward the end.
He had to be back in Boston Sunday for the shooting anyway. Maybe he could wangle the time to call on Alicia Brent.
5
A yawn tickled Spraggue’s nostrils. Lenny’s bed felt like a mixture of goose down and rose petals. Spraggue moved to a hard straight-backed chair.
Holloway Hills needed a winemaker fast. Kate would test the grapes, monitor the fermentation as best she could. She’d be in the lab now, checking the sugar content of each vineyard sample. But, as she always pointed out, she was still a technician, not a winemaker. Someday a winemaker, but for now, she needed Lenny. Or a Lenny substitute.
So coaxing Howard Ruberman back was top priority. He’d have to visit Howard next.
He appreciated Kate’s reasons for not wanting to appeal to Howard personally. She and Howard didn’t get along. No one got along with Howard. Not that he fought with people. Howard, Spraggue thought, rarely saw people. He treated them as if they were some species of mobile plant, nice enough to have around, but undeserving of words or smiles. Except when he fussed. Every day, something set him off, some piddling occurrence, trivial to anyone but Howard. For Howard, a grape falling on the floor was sufficient cause for a day of lamentation. What if this? What if that?
Kate had stated her reason for firing Howard simply: preserving her own sanity.
Spraggue’s eyes did a quick scan of Lenny’s bedroom. Everything just as it had been, except that Lenny’s address book was now in his jacket pocket. No extra fingerprints, thanks to Kate’s gloves. But there would be footprints in the dust on the living room floor.
He found the broom in the cupboard of the foul-smelling kitchen, slipped the catch on the window over the sink just in case. Then he made his way to the front door, trailing the broom behind him to obliterate his prints. He left the broom leaning against the doorjamb. Captain Enright would realize that someone had been there. With luck, he wouldn’t know who.
Luck held. Spraggue stuck the key under the mat, returned to the car. He didn’t pass another vehicle on his way back to Route 29.
Kate thought Howard had a room at the Calistoga Inn. “Incapable of taking care of himself” was how she’d put it. Spraggue decided to stop by without phoning. Warning Howard would just give him more time to fuss.
Yes, they had a Howard Ruberman as a guest. The pointy-nosed man at the counter seemed surprised, as if requests for Howard were rare.
No, Mr. Spraggue did not want to ring the room. He’d just knock.…
The man shrugged as if he couldn’t comprehend anyone walking up two whole flights of stairs when a simple phone call would suffice.
Howard was home. It took him a few minutes to answer the door, but Spraggue could hear him bustling around inside, muttering “Just a minute” and “I’m coming.” Footsteps finally clattered to the door, then stopped abruptly. “Who’s there?” came Howard’s querulous dried-up voice.
“Michael Spraggue, Howard. Open the door.”
“How do I know it’s you?” The answer came after a moment’s hesitation and a little dance of anxiety tapped out on the floorboards.
“If you’re so suspicious, you ought to have a peep-hole.”
“They won’t let me install one.”
“Howard, have you got a chain? A chain lock on the door?”
“Yes.”
“Well, use it! Open the door a crack and see if you recognize me.”
More hesitation. “Stand back from the door.”
“Okay.”
“All the way across the hall.”
“Howard, come on!”
The door inched open. Spraggue could barely spot the corner of a heavy dark pair of spectacles.
“Oh.” The door closed, the chain jangled.
“That woman’s not with you, is she?” Howard still sounded suspicious.
“I’m all alone.”
“Good.” The door opened. “Won’t you come in?” Howard’s scrawny body blocked the way. “Or maybe you’d rather we went down to the bar. They’ve rather a nice bar here. Not that I go there much, Mr. Spraggue.”
“Michael,” Spraggue corrected him, sidestepped, gained entry. “How are you, Howard?”
“Oh, not bad.” Howard made an attempt at what must have been a laugh. “Not bad, Mr. uh … Michael.”
Howard’s room, the room Kate had sworn he’d lived in since moving to the valley some ten years before, looked as if he’d moved in yesterday. A newspaper was neatly folded on the crisply made bed. Maybe that accounted for the time Howard had taken before opening the door. God forbid anyone should see him with his newspaper unfolded. Or maybe Howard had been reading something else. The cushion on an overstuffed armchair was slightly askew. Was that the corner of a magazine poking out from under it? Had Howard taken to the study of pornography in his spare time? The thought both amused and saddened Spraggue.
Howard exuded nervousness. It came off him in waves, misted his heavy glasses, twisted his awkward hands.
“Instead of going to the bar, why don’t we call down and have something sent up?” Spraggue said, taking charge. “We’ll talk awhile and then I’ll take you out to eat.”
“That is kind. That’s very kind. A good idea, too … only …”
“Only?”
“Let me call down to room service. What is the number? I always call it, but I never write it down, you know. White wine, I suppose. They have a nice Riesling. Château St. Jean. A little sweet, maybe, but before dinner … well … Yes, I think I just dial nine. If I don’t get room service, I’ll get the desk and they can redirect me. Just a minute.”
Spraggue waited while Howard relayed the distracted order, giving the wrong room number, correcting himself, and generally blabbing on for five minutes. Spraggue sighed. The longer he stayed in the room with Howard Ruberman, the more he understood why Kate had asked him to leave. And why he hadn’t had a string of offers since Holloway Hills. Howard was no slouch as a winemaker. As a person …
A hundred and twenty pounds—Spraggue wouldn’t put Howard’s weight at any more than that. Five-four, the weight ill-distributed along a tiny frame with narrow shoulders and a slight paunch. Howard looked even smaller than he was—as if his body were trying to shrink in on itself—stooping his shoulders and ducking his head. He wasn’t old, Spraggue remembered. Maybe late thirties. He lo
oked fifty. A bachelor hermit fumbling away at the phone, complicating a simple request into a conundrum.
Spraggue shook his head sadly. In spite of everything, he had a sneaking affection for Howard, some kind of sympathy for the colorless little man who’d gotten himself tangled in the phone wire. He’d once used Howard as the basis for a character in a play, slid right into Howard at the audition. He’d gotten the part.
Howard made it, a little breathless, over to the bed. He sat down.
“This is kind of you,” he murmured, running his hands through colorless straw hair and realizing how long since it had been combed. “Kind of you, after what happened. I mean, the severing of our connections, our professional ties. Not that I blame Miss Holloway.”
“For firing you?”
“It was that, that Brent.” Howard spat out the name with more venom than Spraggue thought he had in him. “It was his fault.”
“How?”
“Insinuating.” Howard mulled over the word, nodded. “Yes. He insinuated himself with Miss Holloway. Oh, she was happy enough with Howard Ruberman before that. I mean, I’m not Lenny Brent, but I’m not a bad winemaker. I think Miss Holloway could still have learned a great many things from me, I really do. Technically, she has good instincts. Sound training, too. But Brent—”
The wine came, accompanied by a ludicrous routine of identity-proving, setting up a small table in the exact center of the room, tasting the wine, tipping the waiter. Spraggue was almost exhausted when the waiter finally backed out of the room. Howard could make any transaction complex.
When the commotion settled down and somehow Howard was back on the bed with a wineglass in his hand and, miraculously, the bottle safe and sound on the table and no shards of glass on the floor, Spraggue said quietly, “I didn’t realize you knew Brent.”
“Everyone knows everyone here. A winemaker knows another winemaker.”
“How well do you know him?”
“Oh, not well, not well. I know his wine: Leider Vineyards, that is. He created some fine things, fine things. Big, moody wines. Complex. He has a way with Cabernet, a gift. I thought he was happy at Leider’s. I thought he’d stay put.”