A bizarre heat wave held Vista Valley in its grip, resulting in frayed nerves and short tempers. Like a wad of cotton stuck in the neck of an aspirin bottle, a high, thin layer of clouds sealed the overheated air in our inverted bowl of a valley. And it isn’t our beloved dry desert heat, but a muggy, suffocating, hair-matting, sweat-dripping-off-the-forehead heat.
Grandma reaches over and cranks up the air conditioner. The cold blast of refrigerated air jolts Dodie back into her seat.
“We need a good windstorm to blow this out of here,” Grandma says.
“No,” Dodie says. “We need rain.”
“Don’t wish for rain.” Grandma’s tone is uncharacteristically sharp. “It splits the cherries.”
“Rain doesn’t split the cherries,” Dodie snaps. “The sun makes them swell up and split after the rain.”
“For the love of God!” I yell. “Who friggin’ cares?”
Dodie looks at me and smirks. “Looks like Aunt Flo’s due for a visit. Panty shields up, Captain.”
We lapse into sullen silence until Nick spots a colorful billboard emblazoned with the words What Would Jesus Drink? A larger than life, smiling Jesus cuddles a lamb in the crook of his arm. The other hand holds a cluster of purple grapes.
“There it is. Take the next exit.”
Grandma steers the Olds through open wrought iron gates, punches the accelerator, and we zoom up a long, steep driveway flanked on both sides by rose hedges.
Dodie cackles and points at the small wooden signs spaced alongside the driveway. “Looks like Jesus drinks Holy Light whites, Blood of the Lamb reds, and communion wines.”
From our vista high on the hill, the land stretches out to the west and south, a checkerboard in shades of green and brown. Bright green trellised grapevines bristling with new growth run up against darker hued orchards. The lush foliage of the orchards ends with startling abruptness as irrigated land gives way to patchy sagebrush and tumbleweeds. The soft purple foothills of the Cascades rise in graceful folds to the west.
As we pull into the parking lot, we have our first close-up view of the WWJD visitors’ center. Built of cedar and designed to resemble a mountain lodge, it features stone pillars and overhanging eaves that surround the structure on all four sides. Carefully placed shrubs and trees combine with the overhang to bathe its façade in dark shadows. Even though I know the purpose of such a design—to provide shade on a blistering hot summer day—it gives me a feeling of unease.
We spill out of the car and fall in behind a family of four, the last of a group who arrived via chartered bus. Two women in brown cords, Birkenstocks, and matching backpacks march toward the tasting room. A pair of thin, non-gender-specific twins and a medium-sized boy with a round, merry face and bright blue eyes trail behind the two women.
“Seattle people,” Grandma announces behind an uplifted hand.
I nudge Susan. “Check out the boy,” I whisper. “He looks like David Crosby. I hear you can buy his sperm on the internet.”
Susan snickers but pokes me hard with her elbow. “Don’t start.”
Before the children are allowed to enter the building, one of the women says, “Okay. Whitman, Sinclair, Dawson. You may sample the snacks, but do not consume anything with meat. If you’re not sure, check with one of us first.”
The twins nod solemnly. The little round kid ignores her and darts through the door. Grandma looks at me and rolls her eyes. “Those twins could use a ham sandwich,” she mutters.
We step into an elegant tasting room with oak floors, mammoth exposed beams, open stone fireplace and skylit ceiling. A loft overlooks the main room. The bar is busy as an elegantly garbed hostess whose name tag says, “Hi, my name is Tiffany,” pours a tiny splash of red wine for eager visitors. Behind the bar, a glassed-in area allows visitors a peek into the barrel room. As predicted, two platters of hors d’oeuvres have been set for visitors, one marked vegan, the other unlabeled.
Dodie and Grandma get in line. Susan, Nick, and I sit down on the hearth next to a magnum of Blood of the Lamb red strategically placed at one end. A huge, polished slab of wood that serves as a mantle holds an array of wines featuring the WWJD label.
“Nice setup,” Susan says.
Nick squirms restlessly. “We’re wasting our time in here. Let’s go for a walk.”
“Yeah, okay.” I say, standing up. “Want to go, Susan?”
She looks at Nick, who’s gazing sullenly out the window. “I’ll stick around and keep an eye on those two.” She points at Grandma and Dodie, both sipping wine. Grandma’s free hand inscribes graceful arcs in the air as she gestures and chats up a guy with a long, silver ponytail poking through the back of a Seattle Mariners’ ball cap. I hope she’s not recruiting.
As I turn to follow Nick, my eyes catch a flicker of movement from above. I glance up at the loft and see Gordon Venable, arms braced on the wooden railing, hooded eyes gazing at me. I acknowledge him with a nod and saunter casually over to join Grandma and Dodie. Now is not the time to go snooping around the grounds.
Nick grasps the situation quickly and heads for the snacks. I link arms with Dodie and pull her away from the group. “That’s the guy I was telling you about,” I say, surreptitiously watching Venable’s ungainly passage across the loft and down the stairs.
“Piece of cake,” Dodie says. “Just introduce me.”
I take Dodie’s wineglass and down the contents, seeking to counteract the dank, crawly feeling Venable’s reptilian presence evokes. Though I chatter aimlessly to Dodie, I’m aware of his unwavering stare as he makes his way toward us.
“Ms. Thome,” he says in his strange, rusty voice. “We meet again. Interested in wine, are you?”
“Oh, hi, Gordy,” I say. “Not me. My aunt’s the wine connoisseur.” I make the introductions, take a step back, and let Dodie do her thing.
She places a hand on his arm and gazes at him in wide-eyed wonder. “I’m so delighted to meet you, Mr. Venable,” she gushes. “Can you spare a few minutes of your time? I’d like to pick up a few cases of wine to take home.”
A mottled flush creeps up Venable’s sunken cheeks. He blinks rapidly three times and covers Dodie’s hand with his own. His tongue flicks out to moisten his dry lips. “I’d be delighted,” he says, looking deep into her eyes.
Before you could say “red or white, my dear?” the two are behind the bar with the hostess, who raises an eyebrow but keeps on pouring.
As Nick and I head for the door, I hear a strident voice call, “Dawson! No! We do not eat flesh.”
I turn to see the jolly kid with the vegan parents poised over a snack platter, one chubby hand reaching for the cocktail sausages. He looks at the sausages then at the women, as if gauging time and distance. Mind made up, he grabs a handful of sausages and shoves them in his mouth. Nick and I slip through the side door as all eyes turn to his horrified family moving toward him en masse.
Chapter 27
We step out onto a brick patio crowded with people sipping wine and sweating in the oppressive heat. The back of my neck prickles. I don’t think Venable noticed our departure, but I take a quick peek over my shoulder anyway.
Picking our way through the crowd, we move into a grassy picnic area landscaped with blue spruce, arborvitae, and burgeoning annual beds. Overturned wine barrels are placed in conversational groupings under a gigantic weeping willow, a living reminder of another time, when it graced the front yard of a farmhouse long since demolished and sold for scrap. We stroll past a koi pond ringed by a low stone wall upon which a black and white cat lies dozing in the heat.
A shale footpath winds between the trees and leads to a miniature whitewashed chapel in the distance. On our left stands an eight-foot wooden fence bearing a sign that announces, “Danger. Keep Out.”
“Chapel later,” Nick says. “I’d really like to see what’s behind the fence.”
“Any idea how to get in?”
He gives me a look that says, “Don’t ask,” and takes
off down the path, studying the fence as he walks. I jog a few steps to catch up. Though his face is ghastly pale, his expression is fierce and determined.
I put my hand on his arm. “I doubt he’d keep Sara here. Too many people around.”
He jerks away, stiff with outrage. “You don’t know that! If he’s got her, he’d keep her close by.”
“Don’t get your hopes up.”
“Hope is all I have left.” His voice breaks, and he lifts his glasses to swipe at his eyes.
I want to eat my words. We step aside for a couple walking toward us on the narrow path. The woman glances at us curiously.
“You all right, son?” she asks Nick, glaring at me.
Nick nods and they walk on, the woman still casting suspicious glances my way.
The footpath ends at the chapel. Behind it, the fence veers away to the east.
“Gotta be a gate somewhere,” Nick mutters.
“Probably back the other way.”
“Can’t risk it. Too close to the visitors’ center,” he says.
He squeezes through a thick curtain of shrubbery bordering the chapel and heads for the fence line. I follow reluctantly, my shoes sinking deep into the tilled earth as I step from the manicured lawn. “This is nuts!” I screech. “There’s nothing out here but dirt. And look at us. We’re like deer in an open field.”
I can’t shake the crawly feeling I’ve had since we arrived at the winery.
“Nobody here to see us. Go back if you want. I just want to see what’s around the corner,” Nick says.
“Shit,” I mutter but keep on slogging. Puffs of powdery dust billow with every step, clinging to the white cropped pants I foolishly thought appropriate for a winery tour.
Nick rounds the curve, stops, and pumps a fist in the air.”
“Gate up ahead. Told ya!”
I catch up with him and peer around the corner. A dirt road cuts through the vineyard and ends at a wide, double-hinged gate, its two sides fastened in the middle with a sturdy, brass padlock.
“Guess I’ll have to toss you over the fence,” I say.
Nick studies the padlock. “Combination lock.”
He lifts the padlock so I can see the bottom. Four rows of numbers have to be lined up in sequence before it can be opened. He looks at me and shrugs, a thumb poised over the numbers.
“Wait,” I say. “When you close it, you have to spin the numbers to lock it. If this gate’s not used much, maybe somebody got lazy.”
I take the padlock from Nick’s hand and give it a yank. It falls open.
We open the gate a crack, slip through, and pull the two sides together so from a distance it will appear to be closed. Hopefully we’ll be in and out before a winery employee chugs up in his tractor, notices the unlocked gate, and snaps the padlock shut. The same thought occurs to Nick.
“Hurry,” he says, plucking at my sleeve. “We need to get back before Venable misses us.”
A long, low-slung barn, probably a chicken house at one time, sits at the rear of the property, backed up against a tall chain-link fence topped with razor wire. The rest of the yard contains an assortment of outbuildings and a bewildering array of farm implements. The eerie silence makes the hair on my arms prickle. “Quick look around—then we’re outta here,” I say, trotting toward the barn.
Nick catches up with me. “Why the razor wire?”
I know where his mind is heading. “Expensive farm equipment. People steal it. That’s all.”
The barn door is ajar. I reach out to push it open when we hear the unmistakable sound of an approaching tractor. I freeze. Run for the gate? Hide? What?
Nick reaches around me, opens the door, and shoves me into the dark interior of the barn. Lurching crazily, I lose my balance and sprawl face down on the rough, wooden floor. Sucking in air, I scramble up while Nick slips inside and closes the door.
Dim light filters through a row of dirt-encrusted windows set high along the back wall. The sound of the tractor grows louder. The motor switches off. We dart behind a stack of cardboard boxes and wait. I’m shaking so hard I’m certain the mountain of boxes is vibrating like a mountain about to erupt. I grab Nick’s hand. For once, he doesn’t pull away.
The door bangs open, and a splash of daylight illuminates the interior of the barn.
“You sure you haven’t seen a woman and a kid?” It’s Venable’s voice.
Another man answers. “No way they’d be back here. Both gates are locked.”
“You look around in here. I’ll go check the other end.”
The man grunts an affirmative. I hear Venable walk away. Nick and I crouch behind our cardboard barricade trying not to breath.
The man mutters, “Enough work around this place without looking for some clueless twat who wandered off the path. God damn waste of time!”
His footsteps come closer. He kicks at a loose box. Nick jerks convulsively. I squelch a yip of surprise and wait for my heart to start beating again. A rivulet of sweat drips off the end of my nose. I crouch lower, and the back seam of my pants gives way, the ripping sound magnified tenfold in the silent barn. Nick inhales sharply and rolls his eyes.
Trapped in our cramped, airless space, we hear boots scraping across the wooden floor. Closer or moving away? Then nothing but complete and utter silence, punctuated only by the sound of our raspy breathing and pounding hearts. We wait, frozen in time, as seconds morph into an eternity.
Is he gone? I fight the urge to peek. Finally, after another round of cursing, we hear footsteps moving away and the door scraping across the floor. Thank God for slackers! I know who left the gate unlocked.
Shaking and weak with relief, we continue to crouch behind the boxes until the tractor starts up. Nick pops up, ready to make a run for it. I stagger out from behind the boxes, gasping in the overheated air.
“Not yet,” I whisper. “He’s waiting for Venable.” We wait a full minute after Venable climbs aboard and the sound of the tractor fades into the distance.
Nick tiptoes to the door, pulls it open a few inches. “All clear,” he says and motions for me to join him.
I creep toward the open door and daylight. Nick holds up a hand, and I stop.
“Listen!” he says. His eyes are huge behind fogged-up glasses. “Somebody’s playing a radio.”
Snippets of thoughts boil through my brain. Radio playing. Not good. Somebody close by. Nick points at the far end of the barn. “It’s coming from down there. Must be another room behind that wall.”
“Venable said he’d check the other end.”
We stare at each other. “Somebody’s in there,” I say.
“We gotta go see.” Nick sounds frantic. “It could be her.”
“Or a caretaker who lives on site.” I pull him toward the gate. “No time, bud.”
He digs in his heels, resisting me with every ounce of strength in his wiry frame.
“Nicky, don’t do this! We have to leave now. Sloan will be back this afternoon. I’ll call him. If Sara’s here, he’ll get her out.”
I feel his muscles soften as my outrageous lie works its magic. We dash to the gate and push. It doesn’t budge.
“No!” I wail. “We’re trapped! I knew this would happen!”
“Latch must be hung up,” Nick says, shoving me aside.
He lashes out with a foot, the gate pops open, and we barrel through. Nick padlocks the gate. Without speaking, we head for the chapel grounds and sprawl in the grass, waiting for the shakes to subside.
I take off my shoes, dump out the dirt, and take stock of my personal appearance. The dirt between my toes has turned to mud. White pants stained with dirt and filth. Ass hanging out. Hair frizzy and wild from heat, fear, and sweat.
Other than his dusty shoes, Nick looks none the worse for our ordeal. “So you’ll call Sloan?” he asks.
“Absolutely,” I avoid his eyes and stare at the tree overhead. “As soon as I get home. I don’t have his number with me.”
“Let me
know what he says.”
I nod and stand up. “Chapel next?”
The interior of the chapel is dark, cool, and deserted. The few brave souls venturing out in the heat have hastily returned to the visitors’ center. A center aisle separates six rows of wooden pews on each side and leads to a broad, carpeted step up to the altar and raised pulpit. Soft light pours through a stained glass window set high in the back wall.
“Weird,” I say, looking around. “Too small for a wedding.”
Nick shrugs, clearly disinterested. “Let’s head back.”
I hear the door creak open behind us. I glance over my shoulder to see Gordon Venable framed in the doorway.
I’m not in the mood for Gordon Venable.
“Let’s pray,” I hiss at Nick.
I grab him and we kneel at the wooden railing, heads bowed, hands folded. Surely Venable won’t disturb us at our prayers and, truth be told, it isn’t all pretend. Since I’m already on my knees, I offer up a little prayer of thanks for our narrow escape.
My knees begin to ache after what seems like an hour but is probably only five minutes. “Is he still there?” I whisper.
“Yep,” Nick says. “Looks like he’s not leaving anytime soon.”
“Oh, shit, let’s get it over with.”
Nick snickers. “Bad girl. Swearing in church.”
When I stand, my left calf seizes up in a violent cramp. Muttering blasphemous phrases under my breath, I back away and place my hands on the step, dropping into a runners’ stretch to release the painful knot. I see a flash of silver in the seam of the carpeted step. I scoop up the small object and stick it in my pocket.
Followed by Nick, I limp down the aisle toward the odious Mr. Venable, who perches in the last pew like a bony bird of prey. He stands as we approach, taking stock of my grubby pants, flushed face, and kinky hair. “Are you all right, Ms. Thome? You look a little, uh, disheveled.”
I point at my leg. “Cramped up on me.” I give him a cheery smile. “Nick wanted to walk out into the vineyards. Not a good day for that, with the heat and all.”
Rock and Roll Queen of Bedlam Page 20