“Jenks, you’re supposed to stay safe and sound in Kuwait City, not traipsing around in a war zone.”
“We will not be traipsing, as you call it. Don’t worry, we’ll be perfectly safe, just out of touch. It may be more than a week, so don’t worry if you don’t hear from me.”
"Well, I will worry.”
“I’ll call as soon as we get back to the hotel. I promise. Gotta run. Love you.”
Click.
“Love you, too,” I said into dead air.
“I love you, too,” Craig crooned. He walked to the pony wall, tossed Blue a treat, and cheered when the coyote snagged it in midair. Turning to me, he shook his head. “That Jenks must be a glutton for punishment. He calls, you give him crap. Here’s a little professional advice, in case you ever get another dog. If a dog comes when you call, don’t bite him, praise him.”
“I thought I was pretty danged nice, considering the circumstances. He told me he and his brother are leaving Kuwait City, but not where they’re going. Probably out into the desert, if I know him. When he took this job he said they’d be working in the city, safe and sound. He promised not to go into Iraq under any circumstances, but now this. I’m worried and pissed off.”
“Look, Missy Control, you’ve gotta lighten up. First off, how do you figure he’s going to Iraq? I suggest you call the man back, wish him luck on his trip, and tell him you’ll be thinking about him. What he doesn’t need, in addition to the stress of working in the middle-damned-east, is crap from afar.”
I started to protest, but Craig was right. I grabbed the phone and speed dialed, but only got voice mail. Damn. I left a properly sweet as pie message, and felt better for it. “Satisfied?” I asked Craig when I finished.
“Whoa, someone call channel thirteen so we can make the ten o’clock broadcast. Breaking News! Hetta Coffey actually took advice.”
“Oh, hush. Wanna go on a field trip this weekend?”
“Sure, where?”
“I’ll let you know after I read my email.”
“Oooh, mystery trip. Cool.”
Chapter 16
Turns out Jenks’s old friend, Ted Burns, and his wife, Nanci, operate a ranch and winery north of Arizpe, under a hundred miles south of Naco.
I Googled their label, Vinas Estrellas, and learned their high-altitude Cabernet Sauvignon had beat out both Chile and Argentina in an international competition. That alone was worth the trip.
I emailed them, they e’d back, confirming their invite for Craig and me to come on down. They gave me a phone number, I called, and arrangements were made. I mean, we are talking wine, here. Award-winning wine, at that.
Craig and I pored over a map of Sonora, figured we wouldn’t get too lost, packed, and headed across the border early Friday morning. We planned on a leisurely trip, stopping to check out whatever caught our interest.
As we approached the border crossing, Craig commented on the number of children, walking in groups of threes and fours, crossing into Arizona from Mexico. “Are those kids Mexicans headed for American schools?”
“Yep. I was curious about that myself, so I asked one of the border patrol guys at the golf club. He says some have dual citizenship, others are Mexican nationals who live on the other side, but come over to Arizona for school because their parents or legal guardians own property in the state. They qualify to attend because the family pays county property and school taxes. However, I also heard that no one really checks.”
“So they walk across.”
“Some probably have a ride, or catch buses once they cross, but the elementary school is only a couple of blocks away.” I pointed at a brightly painted, new looking building. “They teach kindergarten through eighth grade, so I guess after that they either have to go to a Mexican school or, like I said, catch a bus or a ride into another part of Bisbee. Maybe even charter schools in Sierra Vista. It’s a controversial subject around here, as you might imagine.”
We rolled through the Mexican crossing, caught a green PASE light telling us we wouldn’t undergo inspection. I slowed anyway, having learned that the green light wasn’t always a free pass. Like I’d told Craig, in Mexico, you just never know. Since I was ignored by the customs agent, we drove through town, out to Mex 2, and on toward Cananea with no further stops. The soldiers from the previous trip had folded their tents and left.
Craig, as copiloto and navigator, guided us to a left turn just before entering Cananea and we were on our way down the Rio Sonora Valley on a narrow, but paved, two-lane road. Somewhere in the back of my mind lingered a half-remembered conversation with one of the mine secretaries on my first day there. Faint warning bells jangled about traveling this road, but I couldn’t quite recall what she’d said. It didn’t take long to find out.
We passed through tiny communities from a time long past, and were it not for the occasional satellite dish, beater pickup, or a microwave tower, we might have expected to meet with a caravan of Spanish soldiers and priests headed north to establish missions, convert the locals, and steal their gold and silver.
Craig, who downloaded all sorts of information about our route before we left, kept up a running commentary on the history of the valley, the names of villagesand the like. If he ever wanted to quit being a veterinarian, he’d make a passable tour guide.
South of the Cananea turnoff, we rolled into Bacoachi, with, according to my guide, a population of two thousand. Downtown consisted of a standard church square and a few small stores. “That church,” Craig pointed, “the San Miguel Arcangel Temple, was founded in 1670, remodeled in the early 1900’s. Their big claim to fame is the nearby ninety-year-old Rancho Sierra Coronado, with twenty rooms on eight thousand acres. Some kind of dude ranch, I guess. Ronald Reagan slept there. Wanna go check it out?”
“Why not? How far off the main road is it?”
“Only a mile or so, according to the Internet.” He gave me the kilometer marker for our turnoff, which led us onto a sandy desert road that was surprisingly well maintained. A half-mile toward the dude ranch, though, a locked gate stopped our progress, as did a big sign telling us to get lost in two languages.
“I thought this was some kind of resort.”
“Well, it was in Ronnie Reagan’s time. Guess they’ve closed, or it could be one of the super exclusive places where you can’t just show up. I thought it might be nice to check out the old hotel, but looks like we’re out of luck.”
We turned around and were headed back for the main road when I spotted, in my rearview mirror, a white vehicle partially obscured by the gate. No one got out that I could see. It just sat there.
“Someone’s back there now, Craig, on the other side of the gate. We could hook a U, but I’m not getting a warm and fuzzy feeling here. I mean, no one knows where we are, and it is my experience that leaving perfectly good pavement in Mexico might be hazardous to one’s health. I’ll leave it up to you.”
“I bow to cognitive content, especially when it belongs to Hetta Coffey, Master of Disaster,” he teased.
I picked up speed while nervously checking the rearview mirror through our dust. When we hit pavement, I hogged the centerline, rolling along at a good clip. I was in the process of bragging about what good time we were making when we sailed over a rise, rounded a sharp curve, and hurtled downward into a foot or so of water. The ford, originally concrete, had washed out over time, leaving rocks, sand, and mud.
A tsunami of sandy water hit our windshield, blinding me and drawing an, “Oh, shit,” from Craig. Tires and shocks threatened to implode. I barely controlled the car as we careened wildly, until the tires grabbed pavement on the other side. The car stabilized and I jammed on the brakes, throwing us against our seatbelts.
For a moment we sat there, both panting, until Craig said dryly, “The Rio Sonora, I presume.”
Realizing we’d survived the near-calamity ourselves, we climbed out to inspect my VW for obvious damage. Everything looked intact. With the engine off, the incredible quiet
of remoteness was broken only by trickling water and bird songs. Oh, and the pounding in my chest. What if we’d rolled over? We hadn’t seen another vehicle or a single house on the main road since leaving Bacoachi.
I shot the low water crossing the finger. Silly, I know, but sometimes taking out anger on an inanimate object just feels good. Assessing our situation, I said, “I’d say we’re pretty lucky, my man, but from now on I plan to slow—” I spotted something that gave my tummy a little hiccup of concern.
Sitting on the other side of the crossing, partially obscured by bushes, sat a white vehicle, probably some kind of SUV. It wasn’t moving, just sitting there. I could barely hear the engine idling above the water’s gurgle. I couldn’t see the whole car, or truck, or who was driving it, but a sting of stomach acid stirred my natural paranoia. Had someone followed us from the Rancho’s locked gate?
Trying to look casual, I took a glug of water and commented loudly upon the bucolic countryside, with its tree-lined, lazy riverbanks where goats and cattle grazed. Craig, who evidently had not spotted our company, was busy snapping photos. Where, oh where, were people when you needed them?
As if in answer, a rattletrap truck laden with farm implements of some kind crested the hill, rumbled past the white vehicle, down to the ford, and crept over to our side of the river. The driver stopped, eyed my muddied VW, and asked if we needed help. I glanced back at what I now dubbed the Idling Ghost, but it had vanished.
Sighing with relief, I told the farmer where we were headed, he said he was going that way, and if we’d follow him, he’d make sure we didn’t miss our turn. What he was much too polite to say was, or get surprised by another ford, you silly Gringa, you. He didn’t know I would have followed him anywhere just then. I was spooked, probably without cause, but unsettled nonetheless.
For the next stultifying, but safe, two hours, we followed him at under twenty miles an hour. Craig dug out a Clive Cussler audio book adventure and we whiled the miles away, lost in someone else’s fantasy.
A couple of pickups charged our bumper, then shot by with seeming attitude that in Arizona would qualify as road rage. In Mexico? Just common passing practice. We dogged the farmer’s bumper, having had all the excitement we needed for one day. When we finally crept to our turnoff, the old man coasted his truck to a stop next to a woman and child standing by the roadside.
Dressed in almost identical traditional outfits more often seen in southern Mexico than in Sonora—loose fitting embroidered blouses, long skirts bound at the waist with a cummerbund-like wrap, brightly colored shawls, and needlework backpacks—the two dark skinned females with shiny black braids made for a National Geographic moment. A tethered burro grazing in the background rounded out the picturesque tableau, which was too good to pass up. I grabbed my camera and snapped off a couple of shots.
The farmer talked briefly with the woman, confirmed this was indeed the winery road, bid us que le vaya bien, waved adios, and clattered away. After he left the woman told us, in very good English, they would appreciate a ride up the hill. Sweet and friendly, she explained they were waiting for a winery staff van, but it was evidently delayed.
The two climbed into the rear seat, settled their skirts and shawls tidily, ignoring the seat belts. After a short distance, I longed for a Range Rover. Twenty rib-jarring, tooth-rattling minutes later, we passed under a massive stucco arch welcoming us to Viña de las Estrellas, Vineyard of the Stars. A quarter mile farther, after bumping along a cobblestone drive flanked by lush, flowering vegetation and towering Eucalyptus trees, we reached Hacienda de las Estrellas, the main house.
The two-storied building was straight out of a coffee table book featuring Spanish colonial design. Stuccoed columns supported a deep red-tiled gallery spanning the first floor. Upstairs, balconies ran the entire length of the building, with French doors and windows flanked by blue shutters. Planter boxes on the balcony rails overflowed with geraniums, and shocking pink bougainvillea vines that also climbed the walls, up onto the roof, then tumbled down the columns in a shower of color.
Craig whistled in appreciation. “Doesn’t anyone around here know it's winter?”
The home’s walls, painted the exact color of the surrounding earth, looked to be hundreds of years old, but in good repair. In the front courtyard, next to where we parked, was a hitching post complete with saddled horse. I felt as though we’d taken a long step back in time.
“Wow,” was my take. The woman in the backseat tittered, the first sound she’d made since climbing into the car. She was either shy, or perhaps terrified with my struggles to keep us tires-side down on the rough road. Now, though, she was obviously amused by my vast command of the English language.
Ornately carved double doors, also painted Colonial blue, swung open to reveal two people I recognized from photos on their website. Nanci, a tiny blonde, and Ted, olive skinned and dark haired, made a handsome couple. Ted looked much more like we Gringos expect a Mexican to look than the fair Nanci, but she was the one with Mexican nationality. From their fit physiques and clear eyes, it was pretty obvious they didn’t overly imbibe their own product.
“You two must be bushed,” Ted said after introductions and handshakes. “By the way, thanks for bringing the gals up. I got a call that our van blew a tire, so the lift was appreciated, although they have the stamina of mountain climbers. I’ve walked that hill with Rosa a couple of times. She breezed up, I wheezed up.”
My two passengers had scurried off behind the house as soon as we stopped. One turned to say gracias, but the kid kept going as if she couldn’t get away from us fast enough.
“Shy little things, aren’t they?” I commented.
“Rosa’s been with us for years, but Sophia, or Sonrisa, as we call her, joined us only recently. They both come from down south, Chiapas.”
“They aren’t mother and daughter?”
“Oh, no. I know, Sonrisa doesn’t look much past twelve, but she’s actually over twenty. Bet she doesn’t top four-five. She’s only recently learned to speak Spanish, but with Rosa’s help we get along okay.”
Craig looked puzzled. “Mexicans who don’t speak Spanish?”
Nanci took over. “Rosa is a Quiche speaking native from southern Mexico, as is Sonrisa. They are Indians, or Indios, as we call them, and the true indigenous people of Mexico, unlike we interlopers, even though we interloped a few centuries ago. Many in that region are very poor. Rosa came to us through an ailing aunt of mine. Poor little thing, as a small child, arrived on Tia Laura’s doorstep, ragged and hungry. She was only ten, but had wandered alone for a long while before my aunt took her in. Rosa said her parents were killed during one of the conflicts down there. Anyway, Tia Laura took her in, raised her, gave her a good education, and now Rosa is part of our family.”
“Such a sad story, but with a good ending,” I said. “Good for your aunt. Rosa can thank her lucky stars she didn’t land on my aunt’s porch.”
Ted gave me a quizzical look.
“I have this aunt from hell,” I told them. “My Aunt Lillian? You ever see the movie, Whatever Happened to Baby Jane? My aunt is the Bette Davis character, only worse. Anyhow, Rosa is one lucky girl.”
“Rosa was luck for us,” Ted said. “She practically runs the irradiation operation of the winery. She seems shy to strangers, but just wait until you see her in action. Hell, most of the men here are scared to death of her, especially if they screw up. Woman has a vicious streak.”
Nanci gave him a look. “Okay, Ted, no more shop talk until we get these folks a welcoming drink. I want to hear more about Hetta’s Aunt Lillian.”
I laughed. “Trust me, you do not, but I’ll sure take that drink.”
Ted gave us an apologetic half-smile. “Sorry, we don’t get many visitors up here. Enough about the winery for now. I’ll get my chance to brag tomorrow, during your tour. Let’s hit the verandah, I have a bar set up.”
I opted for a glass of their house bubbly, which, because of France’s
death grip on the label, cannot be called Champagne, but sparkling wine made in the method Champagnoise. “Hey,” I said after the first sip, “this is really good, and trust me, I know my Champagne.”
“In vino est veritas,” Craig quipped. “And trust me on this one, Hetta has vast wine experience.”
I gave his shoulder a gentle slap with the back of my hand. “Let these fine people find out about my bad habits on their own. Do you sell this wonderful stuff in the States?”
“No, we make it for in-house consumption only. It ain’t, as they say, rocket science. Nor is it made in the so-called champagne method. We cheat.”
“Fooled me.”
“It’s simple, really. We take white wine, add yeast and sugar, re-cork it so carbon dioxide builds up, forcing bubbles into the wine. We only make enough for a summer treat, but since you’re here, we broke out a bottle early.”
“You might want to lock the cellar until we leave,” Craig said, tipping his head in my direction.
“Speaking of summer, Ted,” I cut in, ignoring Craig lest he make me out for some kind of wino, “what’s with the climate here? It feels and looks like spring has sprung.”
“Microclimate, or macroclimate some would call it,” Nanci explained. “That’s why we can grow good grapes and make great wine here, but in our own method. In the Mediterranean region they have rains and a dry spring and summer. We have a dry winter and wet summer, and because of that, we can grow high altitude grapes, then irradiate them.”
“Irradiate?”
“It’s part of our special process. That building over there,” Ted pointed to a large barn-like structure that looked a couple of centuries old, “houses a well-disguised high-tech laboratory and irradiator system. We use spectroscopy and chromatography to evaluate aroma, color, taste and mouthfeel of grapes, then when they reach their peak, we quickly pick them and put the skids to the natural bacterial process by lightly nuking them.”
Just Deserts (Hetta Coffey Series (Book 4)) Page 10