“But can Han’s wife give a real alibi?” Charlie asked between bites of a juicy taco.
“Yeah.”
“But what if she's lying?” Charlie asked.
“Yeah,” he answered, taking a large bite of his burrito.
They all sat chewing and swigging beers in silence.
“Does he know Paul’s looking into the medical report now?” Syd asked.
“I didn't say anything about Paul, but I can imagine Feldman has a clue. I kept our conversation to his visit to Jack. The threats he made. I didn't let on that I knew anything about the medical report.”
“Did he tell you about the meeting in Ted's vineyard last Sunday?” Syd asked. “What was that about?”
“Yup. Another investment opportunity. And Jack’s in on it too, you know. Same cast of characters as your uncle's takeover. Another buyout of a vineyard, plus the building of a winery this time. Feldman lined up the same buyer for a different opportunity up here. He seems pretty business savvy.” Jim didn't mean it as a compliment.
“Another corporate buyout in a small AVA. They’re going to own it all soon enough.” Charlie spat out bitterly.
“Well, it certainly explains Feldman's need to keep that insurance policy,” Syd said. “And maybe the urgency to collect. Maybe he needed the cash to fund the investment?”
“I haven't checked into his bank records yet. I've got phone records to check up on too. Airport records from Canada are slow coming.” He shoved back his chair and gathered up the mess of wrappers and hot sauce cups. He left to throw away the trash and came back to collect the plates.
“Airport records?” Jim nodded at her through a scowl. Syd winced. “Thanks for dinner, Jim.”
“Yup,” he answered with a nod and disappeared back into the kitchen. The silence was heavy when he walked back in, his boots scraping the floor.
“You ladies take care tonight. Lock up.” He let out a resigned breath. “I don't think it’s a good idea to have Olivier in the house tonight, Syd. I agree that he’s most likely not a threat to you, but I’ve been wrong before.” He walked toward the kitchen door, clearly reluctant to leave. “Lock this behind me!” He jabbed his thumb at the deadbolt with a dark frown and closed the door behind him, his jaw set in a hard line.
Chapter 29
Her phone buzzed on the table. The vibration moved it into the beer bottle sweat collected on the surface throughout the evening. Syd glanced at the caller ID while Charlie and Alejandro snickered and exchanged knowing looks over their poker hands.
“Maybe you should answer that,” Alejandro said for the fifth time that night. All of them knew it was Marcus. Alejandro’s empathy obviously lay with the jilted lover, Syd thought to herself. But was she really jilting Marcus? She told herself that she was merely waiting until she had a better answer for the question that he asked in nearly every text and email and phone message. She didn't really know when she was coming home or even if she was coming back.
“I replied to his text earlier,” she said defensively. But it wasn’t much of a text; she had only written that she had been ill and she was feverish. She knew it was a lame excuse for her silence over the past three days. She wrapped the quilt tighter around herself.
“Go to bed if you’re cold,” Charlie scolded. She was annoyed at Syd's nose blowing and general sobriety. Syd hadn't felt much like drinking with them, and Charlie was well into her fifth beer. Charlie hated being in a room with sober people when she was tipsy.
“I'm not tired. I took too long of a nap,” Syd answered, lying to them. Really, in spite of her big talk, she was too frightened to go to sleep. It was after midnight and she jumped at nearly every sound outside. She was questioning whether Charlie and Alejandro could offer much protection so far into their cups. She regretted the ban on Olivier, alone in his trailer out there.
“So how does a big white dummy like this Marcus guy get to hang out with our Syd anyway?” Alejandro asked.
“Tsk, tsk, Alejandro,” Charlie said. “Marcus is a very important person. He teaches young people about wine distribution and marketing and stuff. And I've got a straight.” She lay out her cards and reached for the small cluster of quarters and nickels.
“Sounds like an ordinary schoolteacher to me,” Alejandro said, He shuffled again and pitched out the cards.
“Oh, no,” said Charlie. “He rubs shoulders with all the biggies in the industry. He's the golden boy of Seattle. Friends with editors, critics, and somms all over. He was looking mighty fancy last night in his tuxedo. All the cheerleaders were fawning. He looked a little lost without Syd though,” she added, thoughtfully. “None of his cronies were there really. The old guard was all sitting in the other room, and Marcus usually has a way in with Joe Donner. But he wasn’t there either.”
“Why no Joe Donner?” Syd asked from under her quilt.
“Oh, I wouldn't let him go until he finished his homework, Syd,” she answered in a Mom voice. “How the fuck should I know?” The hyperbole was enough to fool Alejandro into a chuckle, but Syd knew Charlie was holding back.
“Joe would never miss a chance to hold court,” Syd said. “That's interesting.” Syd left the bait dangling and she watched Charlie squirm in her semi-drunk state.
“Marcus thought so too,” Charlie broke.
“Why would Marcus think so?” Syd asked.
“Because Marcus said Joe Donner had called him the day before to see if you and he were going, that's why. He told Marcus he might do a piece on females inheriting wineries.”
“Good timing. Three days after the memorial,” Alejandro said. “Wait a minute. Is that the Joe Donner I took a video of last winter? The one taking bribes from Francois for reviews?” He faked ignorance. “What a fucking weasel. Your boyfriend hangs out with that guy, Syd? Never mind. Don't answer your phone.” Alejandro clucked his tongue in total disgust.
“Oh, that's right. I forgot you took that video,” Charlie said approvingly, “right on, ese!” She gave Alejandro a high five, which he reciprocated in an elaborate secret handshake that ended with a fist bump and Charlie's wet fake explosion sound effects, which sprayed all over the table. Alejandro giggled like a girl.
“Great,” Syd said, shoving herself from the table and shuffling into the kitchen. She was going to have to face her dark room alone, but not without one more dose of flu syrup. She looked warily out the window into the darkness.
“Yup,” Charlie said loudly from the other room, her voice echoing throughout the house. “Do you know how Joe and Marcus got to be friends? Joe's dad is a mechanic. Joe grew up in a mechanic's shop. A few years back he helped Marcus in the school parking lot. Marcus drives a classic Jag, some old ‘60s model, but he’s retarded with machines. Kind of useless all around, actually.” She stole a look at Syd. “But Joe can fix anything. Anyway, Marcus and Joe have been buds ever since. Marcus helped Joe get his introductions a while ago. He helped him in his first level somm tests too. For a while they were inseparable. Total bromance. They hung out at ball games, shooting ranges, pool halls, and killing small animals. You know, guy things. Only they got cooler when Marcus started dating Syd. Joe hates Syd.” Charlie fake-whispered loudly.
“Yeah, well, Marcus has shitty taste in friends,” Alejandro said.
“But if you ask me Joe couldn't have found a better friend himself. Marcus is obtuse and enjoys being flattered, and if Joe’s anything he is a sycophant to the right set of guys. The frat boy types all hang out and stroke each other’s egos, a circle jerk of male congratulation. And there’s no better set than a bunch of male winemakers and somms. Joe wanted in on that. He went from a nobody to an honorary frat boy on Marcus's coattails. Marcus is the natural prince of the wine world, all easy and entitled. But Joe had to scratch his way into it all. And now he writes a syndicated column on wine. Syndicated. Someone recently told me he’s one of the most read critics in the country. He’s really risen to the top. I have to give him that.” Charlie pitched her hand in and pushed t
he small pot of coins to Alejandro.
“By taking bribes for his scores,” Alejandro muttered under his breath. Charlie sniggered and collected the cards.
“So why would he miss the launch then?” Syd asked, popping her head out of the kitchen. “He is the most ambitious man in the industry. Why would he miss that launch?” She pulled at the skin on her lip as she leaned against the door.
“And why was he at that meeting with Feldman and Bertrand the day Clarence was killed?” Charlie muttered under her breath to Alejandro. He shrugged, took a swig from his nearly empty beer, and frowned into his cards.
~
Syd slept for five hours without interruption in spite of her fears. She woke up early and realized instantly that she felt much better. Her head wasn't throbbing and her throat was only a bit sore. She was fully stuffed up though. She got up to make a Neti Pot to clear her sinuses.
The house was gray in the predawn glow when she crept into the kitchen to boil water for coffee. She passed Charlie, who lay wrapped up in a Hudson Bay wool blanket on the couch, her long limbs painfully tucked into her body, curled up like a frozen spider. She didn't want to wake Charlie after last night's attempt at guarding the homestead. Charlie needed as much guarding as she did, and she was looking worse for the wear after so many nights of drinking and worrying.
She made the coffee as quietly as possible, finding grinds in a Weck jar. She was grateful to make coffee without starting the noisy grinder and waking up Charlie. Clarence would often grind up coffee and put it in a jar to bring up to the winery for the espresso maker in the lab. He would drink small espressos in demitasse while working on lab samples, puttering mostly. He was always happy in the lab.
Syd ventured back into her room, yanked the quilt off of her bed, and wrapped it around herself. She shuffled out onto the deck with her steaming mug. She let her mind wander to images of Clarence sipping his coffee and managing titrations with one hand. He wore prescription safety glasses in the lab, which made his eyes look huge and buggy. When she was little she would sit on a random plastic crate marked with blue painter's tape as tartaric acid or Potassium Metabisulfite and watch him with awe.
Syd smiled unconsciously while her mind drifted into memories of Clarence. She hadn't thought about Clarence in the lab for a decade. Or Clarence's little rituals of making bread, or his habit of humming to himself while he worked in the garden with his tomatoes. She had spent so much time remembering those things that annoyed her. She had allowed herself to be consumed with resentment that tore a hole in their relationship. Now, she felt a dark hole in her chest while she wondered how a person could forgive herself for such a tragic mistake.
She wandered along the deck this way, lost in her memories and feeling safer with the dawning light than she felt the night before. The air was crisp and smelled of slightly rotting wet leaves. It was too cold to be outside in pajamas and a blanket, but Syd sat down on one of the Adirondack chairs and watched the morning come anyway. She could see her breath and she warmed herself by keeping her face under the blanket. She curled her legs up under herself, sitting like a ball in the Adirondack. She felt oddly like she was floating in a tiny dingy in the damp fog, an insignificant ball of fluff with a head cold. She was sitting perfectly still when she heard the shuffle of feet on gravel a short distance from the house, straining to discern friend or foe. She relaxed after a moment, and let herself breathe again.
She heard Olivier's approach and listened for him opening the kitchen door. She kept her head under the blanket. He went inside for a moment, presumably to get some coffee, and then came out again. He walked over to her and pulled a chair next to her. The creaking of the chair subsided as he got comfortable. He sat silently next to her.
She took several sips of the coffee she nursed under the blanket, warming her face on the steam. He sat silent and still next to her, waiting for her to say something. But she hardly knew what to say or think. She found herself in the rare position of being completely unsure of her instincts. She was usually confident in her judgments, but with Olivier she was constantly lost in a fog. She would rather follow her head and logically deduce her thoughts and behaviors accordingly. And if she did, she knew she'd likely agree with Jim. However, her instincts told her that his footsteps were not a threat to her. Her instincts told her he was here to help her. Her instincts told her he was perhaps her greatest ally. Still, the more she attempted to extricate him from her suspicions, the more he seemed to get tangled up in them. And he remained silent amid all of it. He worked in the winery and held her world together while she crumpled into a million pieces on a daily bases.
“Good morning,” she said. Her muffled greeting emerged from beneath the quilt. He didn't reply. She waited for a response and poked her head out from under the quilt.
“Good morning,” he replied, looking her in the eyes. He gave a succinct nod and turned to look out at the fog on the river.
“You’re up early,” she said, filling the uncomfortable silence. She felt rude and unaccommodating. She could just make out his faint scent, which mingled with the autumn air and the coffee. Her stomach grew nervous. He nodded again and sipped his coffee.
“It looks like it will clear up today,” she said. Oh, god! I’m talking about the weather! She tucked her head back under the quilt, confounded at her awkwardness.
“It will be colder. We will need to heat up the winery,” he said. His chair groaned with his shifting weight. She found it oddly comforting that he moved in his seat. She peaked from beneath the quilt.
“Are we pressing soon?” she asked. “How many ferments do we have left?”
“We will press today. The Zinfandel. We have thirteen tanks left to press off.”
“How’s the Tempranillo?” She knew not much could have changed in less than 24 hours.
“Too early to tell. Heat is on it now. I haven't been up yet this morning.” He sounded weary.
“How long has it been since you had a day off, Olivier?” She grew more embarrassed at her self-centeredness. She searched her memory over the last two weeks and realized he hadn’t stopped working the long hours of Crush since Clarence died.
Olivier remained silent.
”How long?”
“I prefer to work,” he said quietly. He looked over at her. “I wake to find the distraction. And the work needs to be done.”
“I should be helping,” Syd answered, feeling the guilt hit her chest, and a sinking feeling in her lower lumbar.
“No,” he said firmly. His voice startled her and he shook his head. “No, you have lost your parent. You need time to grieve. There is nothing more terrible than losing a loved one and not grieving. Or finding resolution.”
“Grieving is one thing,” she said in her raspy voice. “Resolution? I'm not sure I’ll ever find that.” She heard the words escape her mouth, but they were foreign and sadly bitter; a surrender to a reality she didn’t want to admit to herself.
“You will have to forgive yourself, eventually. Clarence would have wanted you to forgive yourself. He certainly forgave you. He was optimistic that you would come around.”
“But not in time,” she whispered under her quilt. If Olivier heard her, he didn’t let on. He cleared his throat.
“I have made a mistake. With you. I think I should tell you about my relationship with Clarence so that you understand. Clarence made me promise not to talk to you. He wanted to do it himself. I think he wanted to choose the story he would tell you. But my story is different, anyway. Besides I feel that you might trust me more if you knew why I am here.”
Syd peeled the quilt down from her face and looked at him. He was tired but determined. He reminded her of Clarence when she was a teenager and they fought so much. Or more recently of Jim Yesler, trying to make his intentions clear to her and Charlie. She felt badly for these men who worked so hard to communicate their emotions to women they obviously cared for, but who ultimately misunderstood them. Deliberately misunderstood, in some ca
ses. She felt another pang of empathy for Olivier.
“I trust you already, I think,” she said. She would rather he remained silent for the moment. The morning was quiet and gentle, and the fog was more welcome than any clarifying sunshine might be.
He ignored her attempts to dissuade him. “I flew here in June, in my own plane. Well, it's my father's plane.”
“I know all this. Jim told me.” She tried again to silence his confessions. The peaceful reprieve of the morning started to slip away.
“But I wanted you to know it from me.”
“I explained to Jim that your joyride on Clarence's plane was coincidence, and that the will hadn’t been changed yet.” Olivier's eyebrows rose. He clearly had a plan of what to tell her, but he couldn't help his curiosity. “What did he say to that?” he asked.
“He said you could have used the accident as leverage to change the will,” she jeered back at him, making it clear how ridiculous she thought the theory was.
“Risky,” he muttered.
“That's what I said.” They stared out at the river, which was covered in an inversion layer of churning fog.
“I came here because I needed to leave my family for a while,” he began again, choosing his words carefully. “My father, to be exact. I left our winery right after Crush, last March. In South America our season is opposite yours here. I flew around the North region for a while before making it to Panama. I stayed in Panama for a few weeks. Then I made my way up to Mexico. I had to wait a while for clearance to the States. I spent a long time in Oaxaca City and then flew over to the Yucatan. In mid-June I flew into Texas and then flew up here for a short visit. My plan was to make it to Alaska and then come here for a longer visit. But then Clarence had his accident while I was in Canada and I came back here as soon as I heard, albeit two weeks late.”
A Tainted Finish: A Sydney McGrath Mystery Page 17