by Linda Barnes
“So?”
“Their 1979 tasting was quite intriguing. A 1975 Leider Cabernet came in first, over a Mouton-Rothschild, no less.”
“Good for Phil.”
“Good for Lenny, you mean. His wine. A beauty. A huge unfiltered giant of a wine. I’d tasted it early on, from the barrel, before bottling even, and I felt in my bones it would win. I predicted the entire tasting accurately in my column.”
“Then why the fuss?”
“That was an earlier column. A year later I decided to recreate the ’79 Paris tasting. To tell the truth, I’d heard that the Los Angeles Times was planning an anniversary tasting, and I thought I’d get the scoop.” Martinson paused, raised his wineglass, sipped, scribbled notes on his pad.
“And?” Spraggue said impatiently.
“And when I tasted the Leider Cabernet again, right before doing that article, I was utterly disappointed. I believe I wrote something to the effect that, had the tasting been held in 1980, Leider would have been lucky to finish in the top ten. The wine had lost its bite completely. No acid, no tannin. Pleasant, yes. Mellow, yes. But a beginner’s wine, a nonentity of a wine. I doubted it could be cellared. Innocuous.”
“And that’s what you wrote?”
“Certainly. I write as I taste. That’s what I’m here for. I say what I like; the buyer can spend his dollars as he chooses. The way Cabernet prices are spiraling, you can’t expect even the most rabid enophile to taste them all.”
Spraggue shrugged. “I’m sure you’ve written unfavorable reviews before.”
“But not with this reaction! Lenny hounded me, embarrassed me in public. And then the positively last straw was the L.A. Times tasting!”
Spraggue waited while Martinson drank.
“They praised the Leider Cabernet to the skies! I couldn’t believe it! I went out and bought another bottle, of course, and I do admit that the second time I tasted it, I felt much more positive about the wine. But could I print a retraction? I’d have looked like a fool!”
“Could you write down the name of Leider’s wine, the entire thing—appellation, vintage, and all?”
“Certainly.” Martinson ripped a sheet of mono grammed paper from his pad with a flourish. “How do you like this wine, by the way? The Fumé Blanc?”
“Clean, crisp, slightly smoky. A St. Jean?”
Martinson unmasked the bottle triumphantly. “No. But I think it is a very understandable error. The vineyard is very close to the Crimmins Ranch. Landover Valley Fumé Blanc, 1979. You’re one of the first to taste it.”
“You’re planning to review it?”
“Why not?”
“Does your wife still own a controlling interest in Landover?”
“You think that’s conflict of interest?”
“Unless she’s planning to sell out.”
“Sell out? Where did you get that idea?”
“Just a rumor.”
“No substance to it, certainly. Here you go.” Martinson handed a slip of paper across the desk top. “Leider Vineyards Cabernet Sauvignon, Napa Valley, 1975, Private Reserve.”
Spraggue read the words over twice.
“Something wrong?” Martinson inquired lightly.
“No.” Spraggue tapped the memo with his fingertip. “It’s just that I’m sure I’ve tasted this wine.…”
“Yes?”
“And I agree with you completely. An absolutely mediocre bottle.”
“Mr. Spraggue, that is excellent! You and me against the world! Maybe you could do a guest column for the Examiner? At least join me for lunch—”
“I’m sorry.” Spraggue was already halfway to the door. “Where can I purchase a bottle of that wine?”
“The Fumé Blanc? I’m flattered! I—”
“The Leider Cabernet.”
“The ’75? I don’t think you can. What little was left sold out right after the L.A. Times ran its rave review. When the critics speak, the people buy. I doubt you could find a bottle anywhere.”
Spraggue thought he could. In an air-conditioned wine cellar at Lenny Brent’s, two hours away.
22
Halfway to Napa, he pulled off at a gas station, used the pay phone. No answer at Alicia Brent’s house. The hospital gave him the same routine: Mrs. Brent was due in at five o’clock. He stretched and got back in the car.
He tried the radio: scratchy AM newscasts alternated with repetitive disco wails. He tried other frequencies, finally snapped the damned thing off in disgust. Where the hell was Lenny’s ex-wife? If she was so anxious to hear from him, why couldn’t she stay near a phone?
He made an effort to put Alicia out of his mind, but the thoughts that took her place were none too soothing. What had Mary Ellen wanted so badly at Grady’s apartment? Why had Kate lied about a man from United Circle named Baxter? Why was George Martinson so far off on a wine review and why had Lenny reacted to it so savagely? Why had Grady Fairfield made such a play for him at Leider’s tasting? Why had he turned her down?
Route 29 was bumper-to-bumper, and Spraggue had plenty of time to reflect on George Martinson’s dire warnings about the tourist invasion. His favorite stretch of the road, the tree-shaded cathedral near Beringer’s, was practically a parking lot. He clicked on his ever-present tape recorder, recited lines from Still Waters, and tried to keep his temper on hold, tried to forget that tomorrow he had to be in L. A. Less than one day left … All those questions and no time left to find the answers.…
Hell, maybe he should call L. A. and cancel. Fake bronchial pneumonia. United Artists would have insurance on him; he wouldn’t be hard to replace. They’d have to re-shoot the location stuff in Boston. And he’d have wasted all that time spent learning to fall down stairs.…
Quit. And spend the rest of your life doing what? Watching Mary’s investments grow? Clipping the old coupons? Maybe go back to private investigating, lifting up rocks better left unturned, telling clients cold facts they never really wanted to know.… He remembered Carol Lawton’s childlike face, before and after he’d told her about Mark. L.A. for me, he thought. Fantasy over reality every time.
He used the same trick as last time on the approach to Lenny’s. Once past slowly, scouting for police cars. Then a U-turn to park behind the bushes, hidden from the road. The lights were off, the doors locked—more than locked. Each bore a seal: Napa County Sheriff’s Office, Authorized Personnel Only. No key under any doormat either.
Nobody had noticed the unlocked kitchen window. It was high, narrow, and a struggle to wriggle through, but at least it was around back, out of sight.
The kitchen stench was stronger. Dusty footprints outlined the path the police had followed on their search. One of the cops must have turned off the air conditioner in the wine room. Spraggue flipped it on again. He’d have to ask Alicia about the wine. If she didn’t want it, he’d offer a fair price.
Spraggue breathed in deeply. The wine aroma hadn’t been this noticeable before. He reached up and pulled the dangling string attached to the single light bulb.
The bottles had been smashed against the far corner of the wall. Deep purple stained the cement floor. Six bottles at least, maybe a dozen. Spraggue picked carefully through the shards, searching for the label, even though he knew what it would say: Leider Vineyards Cabernet Sauvignon, Napa Valley, 1975, Private Reserve. He traced the purple stain with his fingertips: almost dry to the touch. Someone had spilled the wine at least a day ago. Who? And why?
Lenny’s phone was still connected. Spraggue charged the call to Holloway Hills, gave Alicia Brent’s home number. She answered after eight rings, breathless.
“Of course I’m all right.” She sounded surprised. “Nervous, I guess. Undecided.”
“My aunt said you had something to tell me.”
“I’m not really sure if—”
“One way to stay nervous is to keep everything to yourself.”
“It’s just that—”
“Share the bad news. It won’t have to go an
y further. Unless …”
“Unless what?”
“Unless you’re planning a murder confession.”
“I’m not.”
“What else could be so bad?”
She said nothing. Spraggue listened to her breathing. A chair creaked.
“Are you alone?” he asked.
“Yes. The kids are out playing.”
“Then now would be a good time to spill it.”
“Okay.” She paused. Spraggue counted to ten. “I got a package in the mail. Mailed to Lenny, but at this address. Lenny never set foot in here.”
“But you accepted it.”
“Maybe I shouldn’t have. I had to sign for it. The handwriting on the label seemed familiar. I don’t know why I took it.”
“When did this happen?”
“The day before you came.”
Spraggue smiled grimly. That damned parcel on the couch. So that’s what she’d been hiding. “Go on,” he said.
“When I heard Lenny was dead … I don’t know, I couldn’t bring myself to open it. But then I realized, yesterday, that the handwriting was Lenny’s. Why would he mail himself a package and send it here? I opened it.”
“And?”
Her voice shook a little. “There’s money in it, Mr. Spraggue. So much money that I stopped counting at ten thousand. So much money that I’m scared. How did Lenny get that money? And why did he mail it here?”
“Where did you put it, Mrs. Brent?”
“In the basement. I didn’t want the kids to see it.”
“Fine. Now listen. While the kids are still out, get the money and put it in a shoebox; use more than one shoebox if you have to, but nothing larger than a shoebox. Save the original box and the wrapping paper; hide them somewhere. Then seal the shoeboxes, tie them up, and call a cab. Go to a bank, not your regular bank, and rent a safe deposit box. Put the money in there. If you need to rent more than one box, go to another bank.”
“But I’ll have the keys! If someone comes and—Lenny was killed—”
“Put the keys in an envelope and mail it to yourself. Keep mailing it until I call you, until I’m absolutely sure it’s safe.”
“You don’t think I should go to the police?”
Spraggue thought fast. “Not yet. Just get the money to a bank.”
“Okay.” She hesitated a moment, then her voice came on strong. “I will. I’ll do exactly what you said.”
“Fine.”
“Mr. Spraggue? Do you know who the money belongs to?”
It was Spraggue’s turn to hesitate. “I’m not quite certain yet,” he said slowly.
He sat on the bed for fifteen minutes, motionless, after he’d hung up the phone.
23
When he got back to Holloway Hills, Kate was gone. Her bed was wrinkled, but empty. The shower stall stood ajar, an irregular drip bouncing off the tile. Spraggue tightened the hot-water handle and cursed. “Stay put,” he’d said. Sure.
He lifted the phone and punched the house line that rang at the winery a half-mile down the road. A kid with a lisp answered: Miss H. was not around.
Kate’s purse, sitting on the kitchen counter, gave him a bad five minutes before he remembered her reluctance to drag it along, her disdain for lipstick and powder and combs. She’d have stuck money and keys in her pockets. Of course.
He carved a hunk of Monterey Jack off a slab in the refrigerator, dropped it on a chipped plate next to a pile of crackers, and sat down at the kitchen table. He ate mechanically, hardly tasting the cheese. He jumped when the teakettle shrieked.
She must have gone out to buy a paper. To get a bottle of aspirin. Any damn thing. No sign of a struggle. He opened the door, stood peering at the deepening twilight from the front porch. Called her name. Nothing.
He went inside, locked the door. The dead silence rang in his ears. he took the cellar steps noisily, much too aware of the prickling hairs at the back of his neck.
Holloway and Spraggue’s grandiose plans for their wine cellar had never come to pass. The same rotting wicker furniture stood crammed in the same corner it had occupied eight years back. Two rusty bicycles mated under the stairs. Half-strung tennis rackets were mixed in with Kate’s old photography apparatus. Instead of track lighting and resplendent cross-timbered, numbered wine-bins, cases and bottles were randomly stacked, elevated on gray cinder blocks, illuminated by bare bulbs.
Spraggue searched for half an hour, getting hot, dusty, and nowhere. Some of the cases were labeled and sealed: all twelve bottles alike. Some cases were mixed; those he examined bottle by bottle. He found dust, cobwebs, irritated spiders, a nickel and two pennies, but not a single bottle of Leider Vineyards Cabernet Sauvignon, Napa Valley, 1975, Private Reserve.
Spraggue swung the lid off yet another wooden crate. Probably French wine; California favored cardboard boxes. Nonetheless he lifted each bottle gently to view the one beneath without disturbing either. Jammed between the layers was a small manila envelope stuffed with 35 mm negatives.
He held one tiny strip of film up to the light, whistled under his breath, slipped it back among its fellows. He examined two more strips before tucking the lot in his inside jacket pocket. He left the lights on, raced upstairs.
Kate’s purse, background before, stood out like a target now. He upended it on the table, sorted through used tissues, receipts, stamps, and old parking tickets until he found her checkbook. He sat down and studied the stubs, one by one.
He’d almost finished when the door opened.
Kate hadn’t stuffed her cash in her pockets and gone for a casual stroll. The string handle of a small suede bag was twisted around one thin wrist. Its deep-purple color matched her silk shirt, buttoned just high enough to avoid arrest. She wore a cream-colored skirt, heels, even a gold chain around her neck.
She slammed the door and turned gracefully with a “hi” ready on her lips, stared at the array on the table and froze. Color rushed to her cheeks.
“You short of cash?” she asked after a moment, dangerously calm.
Spraggue closed the checkbook, rested his elbows on the table. “I was wondering if you’d been paying any blackmail lately.”
“And you couldn’t just ask.” She unwound the purple strap from her wrist, flung the bag furiously down on a small table. It toppled off onto the floor. “No. Nothing as straightforward as that!”
“If I’d asked, you might have lied.”
Her mouth set into two firm lines. “I don’t lie.”
“You said you’d stay here—”
“You ordered me to stay here! I’m not a child; I can take care of myself. And I’m already out of jail!”
“You lied about Mr. Baxter.”
Her heels banged angrily as she stalked over to the refrigerator and jerked open the door. An egg teetered in its nest, hit the floor with a splat. She grabbed a fistful of paper toweling and succeeded in smearing the yolk into the floor. Spraggue waited until she’d tossed the debris in the trash, pulled an apple from the fruit bin. “I can’t fight when I’m starving!” she said defensively and took a large bite.
“Did you really get an offer on Holloway Hills? Did you just make up Baxter?”
“Christ, Spraggue, of course I got an offer. And I turned it down flat. I told you—”
“Ever since I came to the valley, people have been asking me when we’re selling out. The vineyard owner up the road says that a guy from United Circle practically lives here.”
“Don’t you have other things to do besides listen to crap?” She reached across the table and took one of his untouched crackers.
“Kate, you’re the one who—”
“I know: I asked you to help out. Until I could take over again. Your job’s done. I’ve already been rescued, Prince Charming. Take your damned white horse and ride off into the sunset!”
“This thing isn’t over.” Spraggue kept his voice low and even. That irritated Kate, the shouter, more.
“It’s over for me!” she
yelled. “It’s over for you! You’re a goddamned movie actor with a shooting in L.A. tomorrow. You’ve got no business playing games with real life! You’re not a cop, not even a licensed snoop anymore. You’ve got no badge that gives you any right to paw through my purse!”
“I had reasons for doing it.”
“Want to tell me?” Her voice was low now, too. Cold, polite, and cutting.
“Want to tell me why there’s no record of a Baxter ever working for United Circle?”
She stared down at the table. “It’s nothing, Spraggue. Take my word for it. Please.”
“I need an explanation.”
“Crap.” She leaned wearily back in her chair. “Okay, smart-ass. I’ll count it out and you see if you can add it up. One: I’m an unmarried female trapped in a small-town gossip mill. Two: A very attractive guy comes by to talk corporate takeover. Three: I tell him I’m not interested in selling Holloway Hills, but I could be intrigued by other matters. Four: I get thrown in jail and my partner and sometime lover steps in. Five: I try to keep things discreet.”
She reached over to snatch another cracker off Spraggue’s plate. He caught her hand and held it. They stared at each other until finally, uncharacteristically, Kate looked away.
“I should have known,” Spraggue said flatly.
“Known what? What the hell could you have known?”
“You’re not selling out to United Circle.”
“Brilliant deduction.”
“You’re sleeping with them.”
Kate pulled her hand away. “Not the whole damned company.”
“What’s his name when it’s not Baxter?”
“None of your business.”
“None of my business! The entire New York Stock Exchange thinks Holloway Hills is up for grabs.”
“David Murray,” she said angrily. “His divorce decree is not final, and there are children involved.”
“Did you wreck his happy home?”
“Go ahead and ask, Spraggue.”
“Ask what?”
“Did I sleep with him today. That’s what you want to know, isn’t it? Whether I went straight from your arms to his.”