“You look lovely,” Charlie said sardonically, plopping down next to Syd. She offered a tumbler filled with ice and a rare bourbon. Syd took her drink obediently. “I mean, you look like a somm. Or a lesbian. I'd date you.” She lewdly ran her hand up Syd's leg and feigned bedroom eyes.
“You’d date anyone,” Syd said. “Besides, I didn't have anything else to wear. I'm lucky I had this suit. I was wearing it when I got the call and drove down here without thinking about clothes. It's a little big on me right now.” She pulled the Armani suit jacket back to reveal a loose waistband. Charlie reached over and bounced a lock of freshly curled hair that rested on Syd's collar bone.
“No, I mean it. It works. Your hair looks great. You have a kind of androgyny in that suit that you might need today. How you holding up?”
“Well, I'm not going to cry today, Charles. If that's what you mean.”
“This thing might blow up a bit, Syd,” She offered, apologetically. “I called all the key people, but I saw some other folks at Backwoods Brewery last night. They were in town for the memorial. Dad and I went there after Marcus showed up. There may even be folks you don't want here at all.”
Syd heard a bitter note in her voice. “Well, I'm wearing my suit of Armani. I can handle it.” She paused and looked at her. “Who is it you're worried about?”
“Joe Donner, for one. I saw him last night at the brew pub.”
“Figures. Hell, maybe he'll write up a retraction of all of his nastiness? But I bet he won't be the most unsavory guest we have the honor of entertaining today.” Syd drained her glass and got up to walk up into the vineyard, deep in thought.
Charlie watched her make her way up through the vines, absently touching the leaves and inspecting them. She marveled at her friend's strength, but there was something in Syd's behavior this morning that alarmed her. She was in full armor. She was calm and held herself in a suspension of emotion with the kind of brevity she possessed in a crisis. Before tests and during emergencies, Syd was always able to collect herself with a crystal clear head, taking over whenever necessary. Charlie realized she was preparing for battle. She was biding her time. Charlie had been looking at the memorial as the end of something; something to slowly move away from. A day of closure. But she suddenly realized that Sydney was waiting for this day to be over so that she could start something, and whatever that something was filled her stomach with sinking dread.
~
More than 250 people showed up for the memorial service. The street was lined with cars all the way down to the main road, and folks who dressed up in their fine suits and dark dresses walked upwards of a quarter mile to the service. The tent sheltered nearly 150 black satin-covered folding chairs, all lined up in tidy arched rows. Every chair was filled, and the rest of the group stood around the tent, holding their thin coats around their bodies in a solitary embrace. The sun shone brightly. The view of the river was particularly clear, but the air was chilled. The crowd remained somber in spite of Charlie's best efforts to force cheerfulness with color, booze and Vivaldi.
Syd paid little attention to the attendees. She sat still, in the corner up front, bolstered by Jim on one side and Charlie on the other. Many people got up one at a time and spoke of their memories of Clarence. Most of the stories were pleasant and spoke of fond memories. Syd frequently found herself fighting back her emotions when a familiar face offered a story of how Clarence helped or influenced them in one way or another. She thought she had steeled herself for the memorial speeches, but her gratitude for the kind words and obvious grief of so many people challenged her resolve. In the end, she managed to keep herself in check. She knew that if she gave into the emotion of the day she would fall apart. Her grief was a bottomless well that she could stay clear of for the time being. Her grief was also an intensely private thing.
Olivier was one of the last speakers. Syd had been waiting for him to get up and make his way to the microphone. She was aware of his presence, behind her and a few seats to the left, sitting beside Rosa. Each time a speaker left the microphone she noted the stillness in his chair. She was beginning to wonder if he had lost his courage. When he finally got up, she had been distracted by a question from Marcus. She looked up to see Olivier standing at the microphone, his face calm and elegant.
“I have known Clarence Blackwell for my entire life,” he began in perfect English, a formality in his address. “He has always been something of an uncle to me. Clarence taught me to play chess, and to study soils in the vineyard. He taught me how to dance the tango of my own country. He taught me how to love.” He paused and took a breath. “His visits to Argentina were the hallmark of my childhood, although they often gave him grief.” He swallowed and paused again. “He taught me so much. I came here this summer to learn more from Clarence. No longer a child, I was able to learn from the man as a man. I found him to be honorable and steadfast, kind and patient, the best of men.” He paused again, looking down at his hands. “Knowing him has been a great honor.” He locked eyes with Sydney and gave her a quick nod before he turned to leave. The bitterness of his address struck her. She watched him disappear behind the group of nearly one hundred people who were standing in the back of the tent. He vanished.
The remaining speakers regaled the group with personal histories and anecdotes that buzzed around Syd's impenetrable head for the next half hour. She sat mesmerized by Olivier's words. They were simple sentiments told with such remarkable bitterness. She attempted to meet Charlie's eyes as he left the microphone, but Charlie appeared unaware of what he said. The mystery of his relationship with Clarence filled her head, and she dissected his short eulogy in search of hidden clues. The man who had embraced her that morning in a moment of honest grief was a complete stranger to her. And yet Clarence had known him all his life.
Syd was jarred out of her musing when Jack Bristol spoke. He was the last speaker. He talked for a long while, remembering a dear friend with a fondness that quelled some of Syd's misgivings about him lately. He spoke eloquently. He was a natural speaker with a gift for intonation and timing. She wondered if her suspicions were a figment of her imagination or a product of grief that had nowhere else to go. He ended with a call for a toast. The crowd rose at once and moved toward the bar in a quietly buzzing swarm. Clearly everyone was ready for a drink.
~
It took Syd nearly an hour to find the strength to get up and make her way to the bar on her own. Jim and Charlie waited patiently with her in the front row after the service. Marcus was busy fetching drinks from behind the bar, not bothering to wait in line with the rest of the guests. Charlie entertained Syd with an ongoing narration of the guests, pointing out the people she knew and making things up about the people she didn't, sparing no one. Her game of gently poking fun at the mourners wasn't exactly kind, but Syd knew she was just trying to keep her buoyant. Syd suspected that if Charlie came up for air she might be overwhelmed by her own grief. Her incessant chatter was as much for self-preservation as it was for Syd's.
Small clusters of mourners began to form shortly after the first round of drinks, as people searched for their own tribes. Charlie's running commentary didn't fail to mention how odd humans could be in their desire to search out their own people. The winemakers and growers found one another and stood loosely around a few wine barrels, with more space between them than that of other groups. They talked shyly and fiddled awkwardly with their pockets or nervously sidestepped to the classical music from the string duet. Syd knew most of them. They were all men; a veritable who's who of the winemaking world. But these men who she had witnessed for the duration of her life as arrogant and self-assured – these men who hardly noticed her presence other than stealing a look at her face or breasts – now stood stripped of their confidence in the face of a respected colleague's death. Now she was seeing the posture of men who were overtaken by sadness and humility. For once she felt an odd camaraderie with her uncle's peers.
The workers – who were a mix of Sa
lvadorians and Mexican – had gathered on the fringe of the field and perched themselves on the old wood stumps that lined the perimeter of the Green. They talking softly to one another with the unselfconscious intimacy of a family. Alejandro stood among them and occasionally wiped tears from his face. An attractive, plump young woman stood next to him and absently rubbed his back in quiet consolation. Another man, Juan the cellar worker, cracked a joke and brought a smile to Alejandro. Rosa sat on a log in a lovely black chiffon dress and a veiled hat. A small group of young men and women who Syd recognized as vineyard workers hung on her words as she gestured toward the blue sky and shook her head.
A smaller group of stiff business suits stood in the middle of the lawn, holding their drinks woodenly in front of them, each posturing with fixed wide stances and steady gazes. They hardly spoke to one another, and studied the gathering with purposeful analysis. Each man felt the eyes of the mourners with narcissistic selfconsciousness, nodding and shaking hands with the kind of practiced ambivalence of important people. If they were truly grieving, it was lost behind a shield of the fabricated pretense scripted in business magazines and television. Although Syd found these men repugnant, she realized that she was donning a similar kind of mask.
One group of guests who attracted the majority of Charlie's sharp wit was a motley mix of some of Syd's favorite people, and some of the most despised. They had pulled chairs together around a table and a wine barrel and snatched a few bottles of scotch from the bar. A woman Syd knew to be a critic for a Portland newspaper meandered over with an ice bucket she sneaked from the hired bartender, who was quickly losing control of his bar. The group was comprised of writers and critics who were known to Syd at first from her uncle's work. Lately she had grown to know these folks as colleagues and peers, and as an excellent source of information on current events in the wine industry. Although she held her uncle's beliefs about the critics, she was far more tolerant of the writers and bloggers who exploited the more newsy aspects of the industry. There were only a few women. Most were white men who carried themselves with the casual manners of the self-important and entitled. A few men stood around a larger seated group. Syd was certain they had managed to find the best scotch and whiskey at the bar and had not bothered to bribe the bartender for it. This group was used to drinking free liquor. They had no qualms about holding court in the back-yard of a dead man they previously used as fodder for their work over several decades.
“Vultures have to pick the bones too,” Charlie said, leaning into Syd.
“Or maybe they’re honoring him, Charlie,” Jim Yesler said, correcting his daughter's vitriol. He watched Syd carefully.
“And what better way to honor him than by drinking his best scotch and taking notes on who gave a revealing eulogy?” Charlie asked. She pointed out the busy pens and notepads flipped open among the circle of critics.
Syd shrugged. “I better go say hello to Michelle though,” Syd said. “And Joe.” She drained her third bourbon and sucked on the ice.
“What on Earth do you have to say to that weasel?” Charlie said with a thickening tongue. She may have been on her fifth scotch.
“Joe Mitchell, Charles,” Syd said. “He writes for a few magazines. A pioneer in Washington, really. Clarence was good friends with him. A good man.” She looked at Jim, who seemed alarmed by his daughter's outburst. “He's the big guy in the Adirondack chair. The one with the beard”.
Syd’s legs felt heavy when she finally got up. The whiskey had certainly reached her head by then. She steadied herself, aware that a few eyes from each of the tribes were keeping a careful watch on her small posse in the corner. She strode confidently to the bar and waited in line with a few folks, chatting them up and shaking hands. She realized that her performance would be the highlight of the memorial when the energy in the Green changed as she entered the arena. She would have to feign a confidence she didn't feel at the moment, but she knew she could summon it if she needed to.
She approached the group of writers like a queen entering her court. The group parted as she entered their circle as if they had been waiting for her. She knew she had to be careful about what she was going to say. She wasn't going to let them have the last word or leave them to their own devices. All of the side conversations hushed as they waited for her to speak. She stood silently in the middle of the group for a few moments, her face calm. She cleared her throat and made eye contact with each as she spoke.
“Thank you all for coming. My uncle owed a good deal of his success to many of you who took the time to notice his work. A good many of you acknowledged his artistry when it took courage to notice. I’m grateful for your condolences.” She gave a small gracious smile and nodded. A woman next to her stepped forward to hug her. A few other writers approached her, offering a warm hand or an embrace, whispering words of sympathy. When the throng of people dispersed she moved over to Joe Mitchell who sat in his chair, beckoning her.
“Sorry, I’m finding it difficult to get up out of this chair,” he chuckled sonorously, his flushed face wet with tears that landed in his beard. He took her hands in his. “I am so sorry, Sydney. I loved your uncle. He was such a remarkable man. A true artist and an honorable man. I was so shocked to hear of his accident.” He spoke thickly through choked tears and a sad kind of laugh. A young editor friend named Michelle stood at his shoulder and rested a gentle hand on his arm. Joe Donner hovered behind her. His back was to Syd but it was clear that his ears were straining to hear the conversation. She caught sight of the back of his receding red hair clipped close to his scalp and a tweed jacket with leather elbow patches. He had not bothered to turn and face her, or even join the others in offering sympathy. The few others who clustered around Joe Mitchell's chair patted his arm or nodded at his words.
Syd kneeled down at Joe Mitchell's knee. “Thank you, Joe. Uncle loved and respected you too. You were good to him.” She pulled his hands closer to her chest in a kind of embrace and smiled at him. She stood up to leave as the man gave way to new tears. But she stopped and turned to look at him over her shoulder.
“And Joe,” she said softly. “It was no accident. My uncle was murdered.”
She turned and walked through the long stretch of field, over to where Alejandro and Rosa were sitting at the periphery. Alejandro gave Syd a play-by-play of the activity going on behind her once she walked away from the media circle. Complete silence had grown into a buzz. She was anxious to know how the information was circulating. Alejandro pointed to the same group of businessmen he had seen in the field the week before. He had been watching them carefully. He told her to turn around when a man unknown to Syd walked quickly over to the bar. Within a minute, the entire line at the bar turned to look in her direction, heads drawn together in a strange intimacy. Jim Yesler was standing at the bar when news began to spread. He strode across the field toward Alejandro and Syd while a man in the group of suits hustled over to apprise his friends about her announcement. Tribes disbanded and began to mingle with one another. By the time Jim was standing next to her, almost everyone in the field was turning their heads to steal a glance at her.
“I suppose you did that on purpose,” Jim Yesler said, clearly exasperated.
“All the persons of interest are here, Jim.” She turned to look at him and stole a sidelong glance at the crowd.
“Persons of interest?” he asked, eyebrows raised. “We should have talked about this first, Sydney.”
“I know,” she whispered. “But you agree with me.”
He paused before answering her. “Yes, but I would have spared you this drama.”
She turned to observe the field of people, who were now stirred up like bees. “I think someone here killed my uncle, Jim. I’d like to know who.”
Chapter 13
Jim Yesler stood for a full hour observing the memorial guests as Sydney made her way through the crowd, accepting handshakes and embraces. Alejandro told Jim about the meeting he witnessed the previous Sunday after Syd r
equested that he do so. He pointed out some of the same men in suits looking intensely at Syd from across the lawn. The winemakers and growers stood with heads hung low and hands tucked in their pockets. Alejandro and Jim watched an unkempt, portly middle-aged man cross over from the group of winemakers. Jim recognized him as Francois Bertrand and watched him meet up with Hans Feldman, a balding birdlike man in an expensive suit and lifts. Jack Bristol stood next to them. Francois looked nervous and agitated while the other two held their emotions in check. Hans Feldman stood with one hand in his pocket and the other cupping a glass tumbler with scotch. Even from a distance, Jim found his cool arrogance disturbing under the circumstances. His body language was almost glib; he appeared to enjoy the discomfort of the winemaker. Jim wondered what he was saying to match his triumphant posturing. At one point Hans patted Francois on his back and leaned in to say something into the anxious winemaker's ear. Francois then stormed off and left the memorial. Jim could hear the ringing of Hans Feldman's mocking laughter from across the lawn, and he witnessed Jack Bristol bristle with contempt and turn his back on him. It was clear that Hans was enjoying himself.
Soon after, Syd walked away from the group of nearly thirty winemakers and growers, leaving them to stare into the ground. She strayed over to Marcus, who had not left Charlie's side all afternoon. He was clearly inebriated, and his face was flush.
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