The Hunt Club

by John Lescroart

  "What if? What if? But while we're at it, using the slut word will not help you appear disinterested. The woman, after all, is a murder victim. She deserves a little sympathy."

  "All right. But the point remains, I did hear from George, and then I did place a call to the Parisi woman. That's a lot of coincidence, a lot of interaction with people who are involved in this."

  "Now that you mention it." Ward was still smiling. "If I didn't know better "

  "Don't you dare even tease!"

  "Easy, girl," he said. "There's no call for that."

  She took a beat, gathering herself. "It's far better if we simply stay out of it completely. If we say that the picture doesn't really look like Todd did at that age, that ends it."

  "Carol." His own calm more than matched hers. "You're not exactly some prowling murderer, after all. I think we're both rather above all that, don't you? You're acting paranoid, and that isn't like you at all."

  She shook her head. "I think you're underestimating how badly they want to bring us all down. We are rich and, therefore, evil. Just look at what we're doing today."

  "And what exactly is that?"

  "The auction."

  "Giving six figures to charity? I fail to see the evil there."

  "Paying criminal prices for wine, Ward. Flaunting it for those who don't have it. Paying seven thousand five hundred dollars just to buy tickets to bid. You don't seem to know how our kind of money affects some people, how we feed their envy."

  "No, of course, I understand that. The worst crime a person can commit in some circles is to be successful. But people who think that way are always with us, and they should be none of our concern. They're far beneath us. Even our contempt."

  "Until they smell that we've done something wrong, where they can bring us down. Look at Martha Stewart, in jail over a handful of peanuts. Michael Milken. All the CEOs."

  "But we haven't done anything like any of them, Carol. I say if we acknowledge that the picture might be Todd, and that Staci might well have been his natural mother, we nip any inquiry in the bud. It's likely one of our acquaintances will have called the police, anyway, one of Todd's teachers, somebody. We're just pointing to ourselves as hiding something if we don't come forth." He put a large, gnarled hand on her thigh. "We don't want to appear to be hiding anything, Carol. We don't want to be hiding anything." He patted her leg. "I say we bring the matter up to one of our security people down in the city, who after all are the police, at our first opportunity. Tell them what we know. Answer their questions if they have any and ask them to be discreet as they've always been. Live with what little fallout there may be."

  Carol turned away from him, then faced forward. Her mouth was set, her jaw clenched, the eyes hardened down. She snapped open a pair of sunglasses and put them on, looked at Ward as if she were about to say something, then thought better of it, and lapsed into a brooding silence.

  * * *

  Wine lovers mingled, schmoozed, grazed, and drank on a flawless gem of an afternoon in the elegant expanse of the Meadowood Resort. The croquet lawn/putting-green area was a sea of humanity. Woodsmoke hung in a fragrant cloud amidst the oaks and the pines. Celebrity chefs plied their wares on enormous open grills while equally famous winemakers freely poured their best libations into the Reidel crystal glasses of their colleagues and the other assembled guests—the sports heroes, movie stars, industry captains, and other notables from all over the world who shared both a love of all things grape and extravagant wealth.

  The young couple chatting with the Manions were well dressed, articulate, charming, and obviously very much at home in the rarefied Napa culture. Making their acquaintance at one of the white wine tables under the enormous tent that shaded the first fairway at Meadowood, Ward Manion had taken the gentleman under his wing, and the two were now in deep conversation about the stunning recent popularity of Rhône-style varietals in California—syrah, mourvedre, carignane—and what it all meant to the local industry, which was so heavily invested in cabernet, chardonnay, pinot noir, and merlot. "Frankly, if you would have asked me to name the new hot varietal, say ten years ago," the young man named Jason was saying, "I wouldn't have even looked to the Rhône. My bet would have been on sangiovese."

  Ward broke a satisfied smile. "Don't sell that idea short," he said. "I took that bet just about at that time." Ward was always happy to talk wine, especially in a setting like this one. "Now I've got nearly seven acres of sangiovese to blend with my cabernet."

  "California Super Tuscan," Jason said. "Good way to go."

  "It's hardly original," Ward said, "but it beats ripping out my good vines that are finally producing and guessing wrong on granache or some other damn thing."

  The men clearly would be able to go on in this fascinating vein for a while, but even here and now on her second glass of chardonnay, Carol Manion seemed to be fighting herself to remain engaged, half-smiling in a vacant way, her mind clearly elsewhere, in a self-contained universe of her own.

  At Carol's elbow, her own champagne in hand but untouched, Jason's young woman moved a step nearer to her and spoke in a confidential whisper. "It's really so wonderful to be here. It's our first time, and I must say we feel a bit like crashers, though. We shouldn't really be here at all technically, but we're kind of close to Thomas, and he got us in."

  In this context, it went without saying, Thomas could only be Thomas Keller of the French Laundry, überchef of the valley if not, according to many, of the civilized world. "But if you happen to be lucky enough to get offered a couple of tickets on a fabulous day like this one, I say you go, n'est-ce pas?"

  "Oui. Sans doute." Carol dredged up a smile that for all of its weariness seemed genuine enough. "I'm sorry. I'm a little distracted. What did you say your name was?"

  "Amy."

  The well-bred society manners were kicking in, as Amy had hoped and Hunt had assumed they would. Carol Manion, they both knew, spent a good deal of her time at charity events and benefit dinners. Social patter would come to her as easily as breathing, and now the very banality of it all offered an apparent respite from what they believed would be her overriding preoccupation.

  "Well, Amy," she said, "it's very nice to meet you, even more so if you won't be in competition with us when the bidding begins."

  Amy laughed appreciatively. "I don't think you have to worry about that. We're just regular working stiffs."

  "Are you involved in the wine world? Your husband seems quite knowledgeable."

  "Jason? Actually, we're not married until September. And it's not just wine, he's knowledgeable about everything. It's kind of a curse."

  "I know what you mean. My Ward's a little like that, too. He sees something once, or hears about it, or reads it in a book, it's locked in his mind forever."

  "That sounds like Jason, too. But we're not really involved at all in the wine business, except that we like to drink it." Wu shifted her footing, moving them both back, cutting them away from the two men. "In real life," she said, "we're both attorneys."

  Carol Manion's mouth barely twitched, and so quickly that Wu would have missed it if she hadn't been watching closely. In an instant, the practiced smile had returned, but in that second or less, the older woman also seemed to lose half a step somehow, and a silence held between them, until Carol finally stammered, "I'm sorry?"

  Amy saw no harm in hitting her with it again. "I said we were both attorneys." Chattering on. "We're both so lucky that we work in San Francisco. Jason's with the District Attorney, and I'm about five years now with a really good firm. I love the work, although people say such terrible things about us sometimes. All the lawyer jokes, you know. But I find that my colleagues are generally way much nicer than most people think. In fact," as though she just remembered it, "it's so funny that Jason and I should have run into you of all people here, because I think we have a mutual friend." Wu's face fell, and it wasn't an act. "Or had, I should say, until this week. Andrea Parisi?"

  The surface o
f Carol Manion's glass of wine shimmered as though a tiny temblor was shaking the ground under their feet. "Andrea yes, the television-anchor person?"

  "And one of your own lawyers, wasn't she? If I'm not mistaken. Am I?"

  "No, no. Although we never actually met. I just well, it's such a tragedy, what's happened. I mean, they still haven't found her yet, have they?"

  "No. But I don't think anybody's holding out much hope on that account anymore. It's the worst thing. She was such a great person. We were really good friends." Amy was somewhat surprised to feel real tears begin to form in her eyes. "Oh, I'm sorry. I don't want to put a pall on a nice day like this. But you and she I really was under the impression that you knew her well, too. If she was going out to your house "

  "No! She never did that."

  "Well, that's right. I knew that. I talked to her just after you called her from the Saint Francis and suggested you meet at her office. She was worried it might mean that you were getting cold feet."

  "About what?"

  "Her representing you."

  "But she wasn't representing me. She was " Abruptly, she stopped as another thought struck her. "Did you say she called you?"

  "Uh-huh. Just after she talked to you. She and I were supposed to have dinner together out in the Avenues that night, and we decided to move it to downtown since that's where we'd both be working. God, was that just last Wednesday? It seems like forever ago." As though she'd just realized it, Wu said, "But if you've never met her, that means she must have missed her meeting with you, too."

  Carol Manion's eyes took on a furtive cast. In a quick pass, they scanned the length and breadth of the tented area, then came back to Wu. "Yes. I mean, no, I never did meet with her. I," she paused, stuttered, "I had to cancel at the last minute."

  "That's a shame," Wu said. "I'm sure you would have liked her. I can't believe she's gone. She was just terrific a terrific person."

  "Yes, well " Unsteadily, Carol Manion moved a few steps forward, toward her husband. "I'm sure I would have. Now if you'll excuse me, I think it's getting to be time for us to start looking at these lots. It was very nice talking with you. Ward."

  * * *

  Brandt and Wu went and made themselves invisible behind the flap of the tent and watched them as they walked off, Carol leaning heavily onto her husband's arm.

  "Nice guy," Brandt said. "Ward."

  "She's not. She's a killer."

  "You think so?"

  "I'd bet my life on it, Jason. I thought she was going to pass out when I mentioned Andrea. She didn't deny the call from the Saint Francis, which is huge. I honestly thought she was going to be sick. I know it shook her up."

  "That was the goal."

  "No, the goal was to get her upset enough to leave early."

  "But not too early. Devin's got to have time to get up here."

  Wu checked her watch. "He's had two hours already. He'll make it."

  "He'd better," Brandt said. "Check it out."

  The Manions had stopped in their progress toward their place at the bidding tables, and now Carol had one palm against her husband's chest and the other pressed against her own left breast. Her posture implored. Wearing an unmistakable expression of frustration and anger, Ward looked at the ceiling of the tent for a moment. He took his wife's wineglass and with an exaggerated calm placed it, along with his own, on the nearest table. Then the two of them began walking toward their nearest exit.

  "It's happening," Brandt said.

  Wu nodded with a grim satisfaction. "Looks like."

  33 /

  Tamara and Craig held their wineglasses up above eye level, intently peering into the half inch of red liquid. "What are we looking for?" Craig whispered.

  "I don't know for sure," Tamara said. "Redness?"

  "I see it."

  There were three pourers—two men and a woman—at the Manion Cellars tasting room. All of them were young, knowledgeable, enthusiastic. The person who'd poured their wine was a twenty-something would-be matinee idol named Warren, and he waited expectantly for reactions among the dozen people at the bar in front of him before he continued with his spiel.

  "First I'm sure you'll all notice the amazing clarity, a deep ruby with a just a hint of amber, or even brick, at the edges. That's natural with an older vintage such as this one, especially with the sangiovese. You'll see this a lot with old chiantis, which I'm sure you all know is the same grape. As you swirl, I think you'll pick up the highlights of the deeper ruby red that tends to characterize this varietal in its youth. And then, as the wine settles back into the bottom of the bowl, check out the incredibly beautiful legs "

  Craig backed a step away from the bar, stole a glance downward. "He's right about your legs," he whispered to Tamara, "but how can he see them from where he is?"

  She elbowed him in the ribs, took a small sip, spit it out into the bucket provided, and put her glass down. Warren was rattling on about volatility and alcohol and structure and what to look for, what sensory information to register, when the wine passed the lips and the actual tasting began.

  Tamara leaned over to Craig, spoke in her own stage whisper. "No offense, but give me a margarita any day."

  "I hear you." Craig didn't even bother to taste this particular wine. He'd already tried sips from three or four other bottles, and the education hadn't had much impact on his initial reaction. He and Tamara didn't much care for the stuff. Either that or they just didn't get it. Who cared if the color was ruby or if it was more garnet? What difference did it make? Was color a flavor component? It all tasted pretty much the same to him, in spite of all this talk about forward fruit with a firm backbone of tannins, of cassis (whatever that was), and currant, perhaps with chocolate and tobacco and saddle-leather notes.

  Tobacco? Saddle leather? As opposed to baseball-glove leather? Did Warren think people wanted to taste horse and cigar in what they drank?

  Not Craig. Not Tamara. If they were drinking, pour something cold with a kick. If Craig wanted a citrus overtone, he'd suck a lime, thanks.

  But this morning they had gotten Wyatt Hunt's urgent call and driven up here with him on his last chance, critical and perhaps even dangerous business, and under orders to draw no attention to themselves, they both feigned the kind of interest they were seeing all around them from their fellow tasters.

  Warren was going on. "And now if you'd all like to leave your glasses here, the next part of the tour involves a bit of a climb up to our new caves, but I think you'll see it's worth it. We're incredibly excited about our storage capacity now, almost fifteen thousand barrels, about half-and-half new and old oak, which the limestone holds at a constant temperature and humidity which is the "—blah and the blah, blah—"so if you'd all like to follow me." He led the way out the side of the tasting room and onto an uphill path that met a semi-paved road that swung right around the edge of the promontory and out of sight.

  Their own path continued a bit farther uphill and took them, as promised, to the new caves, which, Craig had to admit, were impressive. Extending for seemingly hundreds of feet back into the solid white rock and lined to the high ceiling on both sides with barrel upon barrel of wine, the caves were a complex labyrinth cut into the core of the limestone hill.

  And apparently it remained a work in progress. At regular intervals, unfinished wings fingered off into blackness. The four primary arteries—one leading in from each of the doors—terminated at a vast, dimly lit, double-wide main chamber that in the next few years would come to house a comprehensive wine museum named Fine Art of the Grape, which the Manions hoped would become a valley destination in its own right. Here also was a private dining area and even a stage for drama and musical productions—the acoustics, their guide assured them, were perfect.

  Warren and fourteen of the sixteen visitors on this morning's tour gathered around the artist's rendering in the center of the chamber that indicated what the space would eventually look like when all the work was finished.

  Two of
the visitors disappeared into darkness.

  * * *

  "Manion Cellars. Can I help you?"

  "Hi. This is Andy with the Oakville Grocery. Is this the kitchen?"

  "No. I'm sorry. You got the tasting room, and we're jamming."

  "Okay. Sorry to bother you. Would you mind connecting me to the kitchen, please?"

  "I can't do that. This is the public line. We don't connect to the house."

  "Perfect. You mind giving me that number?"

  "Sorry again. I'm not supposed to give that out."

  "Jeez. Who am I talking to?"

  "Natasha."