A Tainted Finish: A Sydney McGrath Mystery

by Horn, Rachael

  “I suspected that too. But then he tried to kill Jack before he came looking around here.”

  “I think he assumed Jack knew about it. But he couldn't let you live after Bertrand had been talking to the police. It was Bertrand's blunder that made you a victim of a murder attempt instead of robbery. Feldman baited Bertrand too many times and Bertrand lost control. Feldman and Bertrand would have stayed quiet to avoid discrediting themselves, but as soon as you learned of their complicity you would have let it out of the bag.”

  “But Bertrand could have blabbed?”

  “Bertrand was no threat. He would never have revealed himself as a fraud. In fact, he would have colluded with Joe Donner to expose Feldman in his new venture as a shady broker with a criminal history if Feldman didn't use him as the head winemaker. Bertrand and Donner were threatening Feldman.”

  “So why did Bertrand attack Feldman?”

  “Bertrand only attacked Feldman when he called his bluff. Feldman was forced to keep them in the loop in the new deal to keep his real identity safe. Donner was just looking for another opportunity, I think. And maybe a reason to be sticking around here. But Bertrand was clearly losing it, not a natural criminal. He was coming unglued, and I imagine Feldman began to play his own hand at blackmail with the bribery. He knew about it.”

  “Or he plotted it himself.”

  “Well, it wasn't until Feldman started talking to the police that you became a threat to Donner. I think he began to care less about being exposed as a fraud and more concerned about having murdered Clarence. He had to remove the evidence of his motive and pin the murder on Feldman while he could.”

  “And remove all of the people who knew about the thumb drive, that he knew of, at any rate.”

  Olivier nodded.

  “But how did he know that the police were talking to Feldman?” Syd asked.

  “He must have run to the shed after shooting you. That might be why he disappeared when Alejandro was chasing him. The shack is only visible from the top of the hill. He waited it out and then he watched the police talk to Feldman in the vineyard from a distance. And then he must have panicked. He already had Rosa, so he. . .uh. . . questioned Rosa again. He was desperate to find the thumb-drive. More motive for murder. Rosa didn't tell him anything.”

  “And then we came home from the hospital,” Syd said, swallowing hard. “He must have been watching the entire time. And he knew that I was alone in the winery. A Jeep, you say? I think I saw him drive down the hill when Charlie was taking me home. I thought I recognized him.” Her voice trailed off and she shuddered at another thought, shaking her head. “He would have had to kill Rosa after he killed me. She knew it was him.”

  “There is not a good deal of logic in the behaviors of a sociopath, Sydney. He was a delusional narcissist. A man who would stop at nothing for his own ambitions. From what I understand from Charlie, he hated you nearly as much as he hated Clarence.”

  “But he never hated Jack or Rosa? Why would he harm them?” She swallowed back the tears of guilt and regret. She and her uncle had unwittingly goaded a sick man into despicable acts by simply acknowledging his grotesqueness and dismissing it. It was the worst offense one can offer a narcissist.

  “He had everything to lose,” he said. “He thought Jack had seen the video on the thumb drive. He thought Rosa would tell him where it was. If he removed the evidence he would discredit possible allegation made about him.”

  “I know all of this, Ollie. I've gone over this in my head a million times. I understand his motives. I just don't understand how a person could do it.” She held her bandaged head with her hands. Her voice was filled with frustration she found difficult to temper in spite of his growing anxiety. His face was nearly purple.

  “Kill someone, you mean?” he whispered hoarsely. He met her gaze with the hard stare of a man lost on a one-way road.

  “Because he had everything to lose,” she whispered.

  Olivier looked down at his open hands for a moment before he slowly closed up the chessboard and walked silently out of the hospital room.

  Chapter 39

  Several days had passed since she left the hospital. Charlie had moved into her uncle's room without much cajoling, and Rosa was back in full force. Syd tried to ask Rosa to take on a more modest role as a mother and friend, but Rosa continued to show up as a housekeeper in spite of Syd’s best efforts to keep her away. Syd tried to fire her, but Rosa just laughed when she did. Syd offered her a room in the house, but Rosa scoffed. She said she had a pending offer on a condo in Hood River.

  The women settled in the house with Clarence's ghost trapped in every object. But the real haunting occurred for Sydney whenever she was alone with Olivier. He had not returned to play chess with her since he told her about Rosa. He spoke to her often enough; about the end of Crush, the last presses, and the current state of malolactic fermentations in barrel. But he continued to stay in the freezing trailer and continued to work the winery for long hours alone. He came in for dinner only at Rosa's request, and he ate silently when he did. Rosa and Charlie shot goading glances at Sydney on the night's he ate with them, but she had no idea how to soothe Olivier's growing angst. He wore the look she knew far too well; the look of a man defeated by circumstances she could neither change nor control.

  One morning before dawn as Thanksgiving weekend neared, Olivier sat out on a deck chair. Syd was up early too and found herself wandering out on the deck with a mug of coffee, shivering under her quilt. He had already pulled an empty chair for her next to him. He was waiting for her.

  The cool mist felt wet and cold on her face. She had covered her head bandages with a beanie. He wore his usual clean work clothes, and he held his mug with long elegant fingers and perfect pink nails. His profile was his best feature, or at least the one she knew the best. His hair was longer now than when she first saw him, which was just six weeks ago. His dark curls fell along his cheek bones, landing near his sharp nose. His mouth was set with obvious intent on remaining silent. Only the new deeper lines near his eyes revealed the weight he labored under.

  She sat down and looked at him. She knew what he was going to say before he said it.

  “I have to go back home soon,” he said quietly.

  She nodded. A hard lump lodged in her throat. She swallowed back hard. “Your mother needs you?” she asked.

  He nodded quietly, still looking away.

  “Is she still at your uncle's?” she asked.

  “She will stay with them for now. My father is fighting it. It's one thing to live without love in a marriage in the same house, but in Argentina you don't live apart.”

  “Not unless you have a backbone,” she whispered. The thought escaped her mouth. Her pent-up resentment toward his mother and her hold on Clarence seeped out of her. Her anger was like a sleeping dragon; a white rage of judgment and condemnation. His mother; she was the source of all grief. This small woman who kept Clarence on a leash his entire life. And now she would take him.

  He stared at her. She felt his hot eyes blazing a hole in her, but she didn't look back at him.

  “It's not like that,” he said through clenched teeth.

  “Are you coming back or do you want me to buy you out?” she asked, surprising herself as she spoke. The ambivalence in her voice was a mask. “You’re welcome either way.”

  “I thought I would come back, but now I am not sure,” he said loudly. She caught a glance of his face. His eyes flashed with fury. His usual self-control was gone. He got up and paced the deck, knocking over his chair. “I am coming back. This place is mine as much as it is yours,” he yelled, storming toward her chair and jabbing his finger in the air. “And you. You will keep this vintage from harm. You will make sure this wine is as good as I left it.”

  Syd rose from her chair, dropping the quilt off her shoulders. She stood inches from his fuming face. “I will make this vintage the best it can be,” she said quietly. “You can trust me. And I don't intend to be
anything but a partner to you. I would never try to force you out of your share. I would never dishonor my uncle that way, Olivier.”

  She sat down again and wrapped herself back up in the quilt. He turned to leave and entered the house. She felt oddly satisfied at having him scream at her. She had been baiting him for days, not sparing his feelings for an answer. He had shut up like a vault, and she needed to know if he was coming back.

  Three minutes later he returned to fill her mug from a french press. He sat down heavy and sipped from his coffee, obviously preoccupied. She waited, and he exhaled in a controlled breathe.

  “I am sorry. I am so–” he muttered, hardly discernible. “I am so ashamed.” His emotion overwhelmed his voice.

  She squinted at him, confused. She didn't hate him, of course, but the alternative was terrifying. “Because you got angry just now?”

  “Yes, of course for that too.” He dismissed the though with a violent wave.

  “And what else then?”

  He struggled. “There are no words for this. No words. At least not in English. Americans don't have this.”

  “I'm pretty sure that all people have the same emotions, thank you very much.”

  “This is dishonor. I caused harm by being stupid. Being a child. Not seeing. You nearly died just feet away from me while I gazed at the stars. Did you know that? A man sat hunting my dearest friend, for weeks maybe, while I was oblivious to the danger. And now he is dead. My own mother spent a lifetime in misery, making misery for your uncle in order to keep me from dishonor. And I sat in the shadow of my own father, afraid.”

  “But then you saved your friend’s winery – his life's work – from ruin while you were being investigated for murder. And then you saved my life. And Rosa's.”

  “By taking another.”

  “We both know you had no choice. That’s unfair.”

  “In the eyes of God?”

  “God? Really? Do you actually believe in God, Olivier?”

  “Not intellectually. But religion is a part of culture where I am from. It is part of who I am. And murder is a sin.”

  “So is this guilt you’re feeling because you killed Joe Donner or because you didn't do it soon enough?”

  He shook his head. His eyes were filled with tears and he smiled sadly.

  “Olivier, bad shit happens. There are evil people in the world who do terrible things. But you’re not one of them.”

  “Sydney, you are so much like your uncle sometimes it scares me,” he said, smiling through his tears. They moved in to embrace and held each other for a long time, until each regained composure. He fumbled in his coat pocket.

  “My mother moved out before Clarence died. I thought you should know. She found out that he was dying and she was on her way here. She was waiting for her visa. Clarence had sent her this.” He handed her a thick leather book. It was hand-bound in tiny perfect stitches with thick, hand-cut paper. She flipped through it. Clarence's writing filled every page.

  “He kept a journal. She sent it back to me to give to you. It's yours now.”

  Syd took the book and held it close to her chest under the quilt. She sat for a while, watching the storm clouds move over the Gorge, threatening rain and wind. She smiled through her tears and remembered how autumn storms were Clarence’s favorite. She sat long after Olivier left her alone, until the rain drops were too large to avoid and threatened to soak her quilt completely.

  Epilogue

  Charlie poured a local sparkling wine in their glasses while Rosa carved the turkey. The table was festive and the guests were enjoying themselves, but in the quiet somber way a family gathers when they have gone through a trying ordeal. Jim's sonorous voice filled the space with the details of Olivier's reprieve, having worked closely with the District Attorney himself to ensure that no charges were filed against him for Joe Donner's death. The others listened respectfully, and the table grew quiet when Jim had finished.

  “So, when are you leaving, man?” Alejandro said, breaking the silence. He sipped his sparkling wine and set his glass down.

  Olivier looked up from his plate and wiped his mouth with his napkin. “Soon. A few days, maybe. I have to run some tests on the plane first. I will hit some rough weather going south and I need to be ready for it.”

  “You go to work your own family's harvest?” Rosa asked, completely unaware of the distinctions she raised in her question. Olivier, however, did not miss it.

  “Yes. My father's winery. I may help my uncle's too. I'm not sure where I will be needed most.”

  “His winery is like this one?” Rosa asked.

  “No. His winery is a production winery.”

  “No comprendo, mi hijo,” Rosa said, raising her eyebrows.

  “We make very large quantities of wine. One hundred times the size of this winery, actually.” Rosa clucked her tongue at him in disbelief. “But my uncle's place is like this. Small craft wines. Blends. A lot like this, actually. Lo mismo.” He smiled at her and took another bite of stuffing. “This is delicious, Rosa.” He winked at her, apparently feeling more buoyant with the talk of home.

  Syd listened with curiosity. Olivier had not mentioned much about his home or his family business and she was shocked to find that he came from a production facility. He was so comfortable in craft wines. He had a knack for it.

  “Are the wineries close together then?” Charlie asked.

  “About fifty kilometers apart. I often go between them in a day. Honestly, I prefer to work my uncle's Crush but my father needs me too. We are always shorthanded, always in need of experienced help.” He looked at Syd across the table, but she was looking at her plate thoughtfully. Charlie didn't miss the hint.

  “Syd and I should come down to help,” Charlie said, startling Syd. “Be sorters or something. We can do anything. Pick fruit, or . . .”

  “Yeah. Gringas picking fruit!” Alejandro said, sarcastically. His girlfriend Sylvia sat next to him and hit him in the arm. “Ouch!” he bellowed, but he clearly enjoyed the beating.

  “Yeah, pendejo. Gringas can pick fruit,” Charlie said, winking at Sylvia. She instantly liked her. Sylvia hit him one more time, for Charlie, and she smiled. They were going to be friends.

  “You're talking about Argentina, Charles,” Jim piped in. He wiped his plate clean with the homemade potato rolls that Syd had whipped up the night before. Charlie nodded wearing her best clueless expression.

  “But you may need some rest. It would be good to recover this winter and, uh, heal, maybe,” Olivier said to Syd, who still had not looked up from her plate.

  Dinner continued with the clinking of forks on plates and the politeness of passing the salt and butter. Syd worked on her meal with sentimental devotion. The meal was important to her and she felt herself filled with emotion. Thanksgiving was always her favorite holiday and she was grateful to have all of her friends around her. At the same time she was deeply saddened at the empty chair and untouched plate set for Clarence at the end of the table. She missed his laughter, his stories, and his warmth. He loved the holiday for what it represented to him; a day of giving thanks for all of one's blessings. Of the many things that could be said about Clarence, he could be humble and grateful as the best of saints. He would toast her mother and regale the group with a story about her, telling a new one each time. It was her favorite part of the day. His nods would be directed at the empty plate set for her, the same empty chair that sat next to Syd now. As a child she would offer perfect slices of turkey to the plate next to her and bits of well-buttered bread. Today she stole glances at the two empty chairs, aching for their conversation. She gave her quiet thanks to the ghosts at the table, asking forgiveness and offering her own. She hardly heard the conversations around her but she didn't miss Olivier’s invitation.

  She had family in Argentina. Her father had people there. And her mother had friends there as well. After all, she was an Argentine and American citizen. She was born there. She raised her fork to her bandaged head
and scratched underneath it while she pondered the prospects of travel. She knew that Olivier was watching her. She avoided his eyes while she assessed her capacity to travel down the rabbit hole of her own secret history. She had been through an ordeal and come to the other side whole, albeit battered. Still, she awoke mornings startled to find a gaping hole in her chest, alarmed at the suffocating weight of grief for her uncle. And her grief was often eclipsed in the nightmares of dark rooms and monsters in the shadows. She might need the quiet of winter to heal. But it was the quiet that frightened her the most. The noise of a busy house – the incessant chatter of Rosa and Charlie arguing over recipes – kept her tethered to reality. She ached for the usefulness of being in a group of people – all working toward a common goal – like the preparation of a meal or a grape harvest.

  She had her answer.

  She looked up from her plate and met Olivier's eyes, smiling.

  ~The End~