The Lovely Pines

by Don Travis

  “You mean the break-in? That happened at night, and I’m too far from the winery to have heard anything.” He pointed over his shoulder to the larger of the two buildings at the east end of the field. “That’s my house over there. It’s just me and my wife, Margaret. Maggie, I call her.”

  “No children?”

  A look of pain crossed his pleasant features. “Late-term miscarriage. Maggie can’t have any more. Sometimes it weighs her down.”

  “I’m sorry. But she’ll compensate. You both will.”

  “She already has. She’s active in the Healthy Nation. It’s a group of families in the area that works with local children to keep them out of trouble.”

  “Sounds like a good organization. How about your people? What’s the scuttlebutt among them?”

  “The guys who work for me, you mean? There are only two of them, Claudio Garcia and Winfield Tso.” He pointed to two men working among the plants some distance away. One figure towered over the other, putting me in mind of the old Mutt and Jeff cartoons. “I guess they figure the deputies were right. Kids, most likely,” Bledsong added.

  “I don’t know many kids who’d go to the trouble of prying a hasp off a door to a winery without doing damage beyond throwing some papers around and making off with a single bottle of wine.”

  “Yeah, that bothers me too. It’s a puzzler.”

  “Any problems like that in the vineyard?”

  “The lake’s outside the fence, so kids come swim sometimes. We don’t have a wall like they do around the winery, but our cyclone fence keeps wildlife—including kids—out of the field better than four feet of rock. Anybody and anything can get over the wall over yonder.”

  I asked a few more questions before returning to the chateau. On the way I started to change tapes in my little machine before remembering I’d joined the modern world and now used a digital recorder.

  Gonda was still at the winery, but Margot showed me the tasting room—which was empty at the moment—where I learned I’d been drinking wine the wrong way for lo these many years. It wasn’t a soda and shouldn’t be imbibed in the same manner. Then she insisted we have a cup of espresso in the Bistro, where I met the cook, a plump lady with an angel face named Nellie Bright. A local girl introduced as Katie served us at a small, intimate table in the corner.

  “Are you on board with this?” I asked as soon as we were situated.

  “On board? Ah, you mean do I approve? After all these years, your colloquialisms still throw me on occasion.”

  I had assumed she was native-born. She spoke with no appreciable accent. “You’re Swiss?”

  “Oh yes. I come from Bern. Ariel and I met at the University of Zurich, where I was reading finance and he was taking a degree in oenology.” She noticed my frown and came to the rescue. “That’s the science of winemaking. He also holds a second read… what you call a minor… in finance. We were wed in Valois in June of 1988, shortly before he came to the United States. I followed later. But to answer your question, yes, I am on board, as you say. If the incident worries Ariel, then it worries me as well.”

  “Do you have any idea what might be going on? Sometimes wives see things husbands don’t.”

  She spread her hands, palms up. “I am at a loss. I can find no explanation for anyone breaking into the winery. Perhaps the sheriff’s office is correct. It was children.”

  I asked Margot the same question I put to Bledsong earlier about children breaking in without at least stealing a lot of wine.

  She frowned. “Then what could it be?” At that moment I believe the incident became as serious to her as it was to her husband.

  Shortly thereafter, I excused myself and wandered back to the winery. Gonda was in his lab, but I didn’t bother him. I merely walked around the place seeing what I could figure out on my own. I found the press and what I was pretty sure was the primary fermentation equipment. I also figured out the secondary fermentation setup, but beyond that I was lost.

  The cellar beckoned, and I wandered down the long, silent rows of barrels. The temperature and the high humidity raised chill bumps on my arms. When I reached the area against the rear wall that looked like a campout spot, I paused to consider things.

  The two wine bottles—the one disturbed in the rack and the one taken—argued someone gained access to the winery when they were not supposed to. There had been no additional break-ins, and Gonda kept tight control of the keys. That suggested the intruder laid his hands on a duplicate set.

  Whoa, now, Vinson. Don’t get ahead of yourself. Do the background checks and see if anything turns up that suggests skullduggery on the part of an employee. After all, they wander in and out of the place all day long. Gonda wasn’t constantly in his lab, so someone could have entered and fussed with the champagne bottle. Likewise, it wouldn’t be too hard to smuggle a bottle from the cellar during work hours.

  The only way in and out of the cellar was through the winery, and thence to the outside by means of any one of three exits: the main entry at the front, a smaller portal opening to the east, and a large roll-up door giving out onto a loading dock on the west side. All three doors were sturdy and showed no evidence of damage, no appearance of having been picked. Of course, an expert thief would probably leave no such evidence. Gonda assured me all the locks had been changed after he acquired the business from the C de Bacas.

  No, the break-in was not the work of a professional. Professionals did not rip a hasp from the door unless they were doing a smash-and-grab job. And this had not been one of those operations. Stealth. Except for the hasp.

  I made a point of shaking hands with each of the three winery workers. Parson Jones was a black man in his early forties. Bascomb Zuniga looked to be a Hispanic barely old enough to work around alcohol. John Hakamora, a Japanese American, said he came out of the south-central New Mexico lettuce fields. Marc Juisson, the nephew, was away on a business trip, so I would meet him later.

  It was midafternoon before I collected the payroll records from Margot and promised to have Charlie Weeks contact her to come out to fingerprint everyone. Then, with the champagne bottle still in its protective wrapper, I climbed into my white Impala and headed for Albuquerque. I’d tackle the two vineyard workers later.

  Chapter 3

  IN VIEW of my absence from the office the entire previous day, I made a point of arriving early the next morning even though it was Saturday. We do not formally open on weekends, but investigators investigate whenever we can, and that included weekends and holidays. Chances were Hazel and Charlie would stop by sometime as well.

  After dropping the digital recorder containing my interviews and the Lovely Pines payroll records on Hazel’s desk, I left the champagne bottle with a note for Charlie to get it to K-Y Labs on Monday for dusting. I also asked him to go take fingerprints of all the Lovely Pines staff. Our office didn’t do enough fingerprinting to invest in high-tech equipment, but we kept a supply of inexpensive inkless pads. Once finished at the winery, Charlie would run by APD and ask my old partner Lt. Gene Enriquez to send them through the system for us.

  By the time I’d finished reading the transcript of yesterday’s initial interview with Ariel Gonda, both Hazel and Charlie arrived. I was fully invested in their marriage, because now Hazel didn’t expend as much energy on trying to run my life. Apparently tending to Charlie satisfied her mothering gene. Perversely I missed the attention at times.

  Paul was working this weekend at the country club, so I spent the rest of the morning making phone calls on Del Dahlman’s arson case. Firefighters apparently work as much as cops and confidential investigators do. By noon everything was wrapped as tight as it was going to get. My job was to collect and verify facts, not to interpret them. Nonetheless, the data I’d gathered pretty clearly indicated Del’s client was going to end up defending himself in a criminal trial. I dictated my report, brought my time and expense vouchers up-to-date, and dumped them all on Hazel’s desk, instructing her to mail them to Del.
/>
  “It’s that bad, is it?” She knew I would drop it off at Del’s office in the Plaza Tower a couple of blocks away if it weren’t bad news.

  “At least he’ll know what he’s facing when they go to trial. If you’ll give me the Lovely Pines payroll records, I’ll start the background checks.”

  “Gladly.”

  Background checks are a staple for any confidential investigations operation. They are laborious and time-consuming, but not nearly as much so as before the internet came along. Licensed firms like ours have several databases available that private citizens can’t touch. I generally start with social security numbers. If something really sneaky is going on, it usually shows up there first… except for criminal records, of course. But Charlie would check for those jackets after he fingerprinted the Pines staff.

  Hazel got us corned beef on rye at the courthouse restaurant, so I continued working through lunch. My keyboard tends to get messy, but I get a lot of work done during the noon hour—especially weekend noon hours—when the phone doesn’t ring so much. Motor vehicle department records filled my screen by the time Charlie returned from the winery.

  “Man, don’t send me out there very often,” he said as he came through the door. “All that wine tasting can be hazardous to your health. Not to mention your DWI record. They’ve got a bunch of different wines, and they insisted I try them all.”

  “I think you’re supposed to savor the taste and then spit it out.”

  “I don’t spit in polite company.”

  “I thought you’d wait until Monday when everyone would be there.”

  “I called Gonda, and he rounded everyone up. I get the feeling the winery is those guys’ second home.”

  “How did it go? Anyone balk?” I asked.

  “Nope. Gonda and his wife went first, and everybody else followed along behind.”

  “Anybody seem nervous?”

  “No more than usual.”

  “Did you print them before or after the wine tasting?”

  Charlie chuckled. “Before, thank God. Not sure what they’d have looked like if it was after.”

  “Snoop around the grounds any?”

  “Went over the whole place. I’m happy to take the man’s money, but I can’t honestly see how we’re going to help him.”

  I spread my hands over the payroll papers littering my desk. “Me either, unless this reveals something.”

  “Anything so far?”

  “Little stuff. You know, the usual. Gaps in employment records. A neighbor didn’t like this or that. Petty stuff. But I’m not finished checking everything yet. I’d like you to do the criminal records checks.”

  “Start on it first thing Monday. But you know it’s hard to see this as anything serious. No vandalism, no real stealing. Nothing like that.”

  “Even so, someone went to the trouble of prying a hasp off the door.”

  “You have any theories?”

  “Nope. You?”

  “Nope.”

  I resumed my task before the computer screen and spent most of the rest of the day checking out the staff of the winery. By the time I got home, Paul was standing at the door waiting for me, looking expectant.

  “What?” I asked. Whatever it was, he could have it. His special brand of combining his juvenile side with the adult man could charm me out of just about anything. Anytime. Anywhere.

  “I have tomorrow off.”

  “No studying?”

  “Got home early today and did it already. Can we do something special?”

  “What, go to the C&W and line dance?”

  He grinned broadly. “No, really special. You know what I want to do?”

  “What?”

  “Drive up to Los Alamos and spend the night in a motel. And then get up early the next morning and play the municipal golf course.”

  “Okay. It’s an easy drive. Let’s do it.”

  “Second request?”

  “I’m in a generous mood.”

  “Can we come back through Jemez Springs Sunday? I want to spend a little while at Valles Caldera.”

  That was a request easy to grant. The Valles Caldera is an almost fourteen-mile-wide volcanic caldera in the Jemez Mountains between Jemez Springs and Los Alamos. The broad grasslands and rugged volcanic peaks made up one of the most beautiful landscapes I have ever seen. The almost 100,000 acres comprising the National Preserve formerly known as Baca Location Number 1 have a fascinating history.

  “Done. Let me throw some duds in a bag. I assume you’ve already packed yours.”

  He flashed that devastating grin again. “Yours too. If you go relieve your bladder, we can get started. Maybe they’ll serve us a late dinner at the North Road Inn.” I knew the B and B was one of his favorite spots to rest his head for the night.

  I slipped into more comfortable traveling clothes while he loaded the Impala with our bags and gear. My pulse quickened at the thought of having him to myself for the next twenty-four hours. He crawled behind the wheel without asking. That was all right. I was content to watch him rather than the roads.

  WE GOT into the Atomic City—or as it was otherwise known, The Town That Never Was—perched on the Pajarito Plateau too late for dinner at the North Road, but we stopped at the Blue Window Bistro, where Paul convinced me to join him for a duck BLT. Dubious at first, I soon found breast of duck went well with bacon.

  Later in our comfortable room at North Road, he headed straight for the shower, saying he wanted to make an early night of it so we could hit the golf course at first light the next morning. Yeah, right. I no sooner joined him in bed after my own bath than he launched his assault on my body. And a long and vigorous and loving onslaught it was too. I knew well before it was over that getting up early was going to be difficult.

  Paul beat me on the broad fairways of the front nine at the Los Alamos County Golf Course and literally trounced me on the narrow tee boxes built right into the evergreen forest surrounding the back nine. As I usually took him by a stroke or two, I blamed the bedroom calisthenics of the night before for the rout.

  Sunday afternoon found us sitting in the tall grass beside the tiny Jemez River staring out over a great spread of grassland, listening to water trickle by and the flutter of wings and call of wild birds. Small creatures stirred in the nearby weeds. The odd volcanic bubble known as Cerro la Jara—or more fondly, Little la Jara—sat at our left, rising off the vast meadow like a miniature mountain with trees crowning the top. The vast hulk of Redondo Peak loomed in the distance. Paul leaned against me comfortably, adding the final ingredient to total peace and contentment. His touch and the aroma of gramma grass and weeds and wildflowers even quelled my urge to recite the colored history of our environment.

  HAZEL, CHARLIE, and I huddled at the conference table in my office early Monday morning. Charlie opened the meeting. “Got the public record information back from APD. The Navajo, Winfield Tso, has an old disturbing the peace charge. He got probation and hasn’t been in trouble since. The cook, uh… that’s Nellie Bright, filed a domestic violence complaint against her husband a few years back. He spent the night in jail.”

  “They divorced in 2008,” Hazel said. She’d spent Saturday afternoon checking the Sandoval County clerk’s records. “That must be the reason why.”

  Charlie consulted his list. “Parson Jones, one of the winery workers—that’s his real name, by the way—let alcohol trip him up a few years back. Has a record of petty misdemeanors. You know, public drinking, bar fights, and the like. But nothing in the past two years. I’ve not finished checking the records down in Las Cruces and Socorro. Probably be able to complete those today. The California records on the Gondas and the Bledsongs will be touchier, but I should have those results in a day or two.”

  I leaned back in my chair and ran a hand through my hair. “Nothing funny in the social security files. All the numbers appear to be legitimate. So far as I can tell, Zuniga is native-born, as is Hakamora. Garcia was born in Mexico but has
been here for a few years. Legally, so far as I know at this point. The Gondas, the Benoirs, and the nephew—” I paused to consult my notes. “—uh, Juisson, are here legally.”

  “What about the son, Auguste?” Charlie asked.

  “Found his birth certificate in Doña Ana County,” Hazel said.

  “He doesn’t have a criminal or civil record in this state, but I still don’t have results out of California,” Charlie said.

  “New Mexico motor vehicle records show they all have automobiles commensurate with their company salaries,” I said. “Zuniga doesn’t own a car but has a motorcycle. An older model Kawasaki. He’s racked up some traffic violations on it, but nothing serious. No DWIs in the bunch, and that includes Jones, who is or used to be a drinker, according to what Charlie learned. We’re coming up with zilch, folks. We’re going to have to cast a wider net.”

  “Like what?” Charlie asked.

  “Look outside the immediate corporate family. Take a look at the C de Bacas. The old man died before Gonda completed the purchase. Charlie, look into the death and see if there’s anything suspicious there. Call in Tim or Alan for help if you need them.” Tim Fuller and Alan Mendoza were retired cops we called on for help on occasion. “Hazel, check out the rest of the family. Call Gonda and see who he negotiated the purchase with. In fact, get a list of all the immediate members of the C de Baca family, okay?”

  Charlie spoke up. “I knew one of the sons. Diego. Think he’s the same family. At least, he comes from Plácido.”

  “Knew him professionally or personally?”

  “Professionally. He was a hell-raiser and did most of it around here in Albuquerque. Drank. Played around with drugs. Got in trouble with a couple of girls. Some breaking and entering.”

  “He do time?”

  “Just some community service. Paid some fines. Might have spent a night or two in jail to sober up, but as I remember, he didn’t do any serious time. Think he went into the military to get out of his last jam.”