Dominic had already left to meet with the family’s lawyer, Francesca told her, and with occasional worried glances at her mother, she explained what had happened the day before to provoke Giuditta’s arrest. Mr. Crowell had asked for another half dozen prunes and lunch, and Giuditta had offered him a glass of wine with her usual intimation that it was from the family’s two hundred gallon supply for their own personal enjoyment. When Mr. Crowell praised the vintage and asked to purchase a jug to take home to his wife, she remembered Rosa’s warnings and cautiously demurred. But Mr. Crowell persisted, promising to pay top dollar and mentioning a neighbor who, he claimed, had assured him Giuditta had excellent wines to sell. Giuditta knew the neighbor he named, and thus reassured, the lure of the astonishing price Mr. Crowell offered proved too great a temptation. Giuditta sold him a jug of wine for five dollars, unaware that his colleagues from the Prohibition bureau were watching the scene unfold through binoculars, awaiting his signal to swoop in and arrest her.
“He said Clifford Clarkston sent him,” Giuditta said numbly when Francesca finished. “He had a name. I believed him. And now we’re ruined.”
They all hastened to assure Giuditta that she should not lose hope, that the judge had shown mercy in allowing Dante to take her place and that he might be more merciful still throughout Dante’s trial. But Giuditta was not comforted, and in the two weeks leading up to Dante’s trial, she sank deeper into despondency.
The proceedings were swift and methodical, retold in exacting detail in the Santa Rosa Press Democrat and followed closely by everyone in Sonoma County—and with apprehension by Dante’s fellow grape growers, many of whom were themselves bootleggers. As testimony proceeded, it came out that Mr. Crowell had not chosen Clifford Clarkston’s name at random merely to lend credibility to his story, but rather that the neighbor had fired off an angry letter to the “lazy” Prohibition bureau to report the Cacchiones and to demand that the department “step on them” and help make Sonoma County dry and sober once and for all.
Arriving home after a grueling day in court, a bewildered and exhausted Giuditta told Rosa that she couldn’t understand why Clifford Clarkston had reported them. Their families had always gotten along well enough, except for one incident about five years before. Clifford and Dante had exchanged heated words after Clifford had let his fence fall into disrepair and his cows had wandered onto the Cacchiones’ property, destroying a half-acre of the Cacchiones’ oldest and most prized Zinfandel vines before the herd could be rounded up. But that had been years ago. Clifford had paid for the damage and the Cacchiones had put the matter behind them. They assumed Clifford had too, but evidently he had nursed a grudge all the while, and had at last found a way to satisfy it.
The Cacchiones’ lawyer put forth a valiant defense, but eventually Dante was found guilty and sentenced to a one-thousand-dollar fine and two years in prison. As the sentence was handed down, the crowds packed into the courthouse burst into catcalls and angry jeers, Giuditta’s anguished cry ringing out above the uproar. Dante merely lifted his chin stoically and allowed the bailiff to lead him away in shackles.
But the family’s punishment did not end there. Two days after Dante was sentenced, Mr. Crowell again led a team of Prohibition agents and police officers to Cacchione Vineyards, but this time someone tipped off the press and a team of photographers and reporters accompanied them. Rosa, Lars, and the children stood with the Cacchione family behind the residence as Crowell led a group of officers and agents to the winery. Flash pans burst and reporters jotted notes. Crowell paused a few paces away from where Giuditta stood at the top of the back stairs and ordered her to unlock the heavy redwood doors.
“I seem to have misplaced my husband’s key,” Giuditta replied in a clear, steady voice.
Crowell squinted up at her. “You sure about that?”
Giuditta nodded.
Crowell studied her for a moment, then craned his neck and shouted to a pair of officers waiting by the cars. “Tell Donaldson to bring the axe.”
Another uniformed officer promptly hurried over, his beefy fists clenched around the thick wooden handle of an axe. Crowell waved him ahead to the winery doors. The officer raised the axe over his right shoulder and took a careful practice swing. He planted his feet, raised the axe again, and—
“Wait,” Giuditta called, digging into her dress pocket and producing an iron key. “I found it.”
Unamused chuckles and mutterings went up from the men gathered in front of the winery. Her chin held high, Giuditta crossed the yard and unlocked the doors, and the waiting officers immediately swept past her into the winery. As the photographers and reporters swarmed near, Giuditta pushed through the crowd and retreated to the safety of the back steps. Rosa put her arm around Giuditta’s waist, and only then did she realize Giuditta was shaking.
The Cacchiones and their employees and children watched, motionless and silent and powerless, as the agents hauled the barrels up from the wine cellar, knocked out the bungs, and poured the rich, red wine onto the ground. At first the dusty earth drank it in, but as thousands and thousands of gallons spilled out into the yard, puddles formed, and then pools, and then a river of wine flowed down the hill. The agents laughed and joked as they jumped out of the way; reporters and photographers, engrossed in recording the scene, cursed as the cascade splashed over their leather shoes and soaked the cuffs of their trousers. Crowell and some of the other agents posed for photographs with the wine barrels before they knocked out the bungs; Rosa knew those photos would run in papers across the country alongside warnings to other bootleggers that eventually the law would catch up with them as it had the Cacchiones.
Suddenly Giuditta choked out a sob, but she caught herself, drew in a quick breath, and watched as the officers brought out a barrel of the Cacchiones’ best vintages, one that could age for ten to thirty years, the wine Giuditta had called their long-term investment. Rosa and Francesca stood on either side of her, their arms around her, keeping her on her feet when she wavered. A photographer turned their way, but just before the flash pan exploded with light, Rosa ducked her head and allowed her hair to fall in her face. She glanced Lars’s way and saw that he had stepped behind Dominic and turned his head just in time. Rosa’s heart pounded as other photographers and reporters crowded around, shouting over one another to be heard as they fired questions at Giuditta, at Dominic, at any of them who might respond.
Francesca shrank back, but Giuditta stood her ground, looking defiantly into the cameras although she did not answer the questions shouted at her. “Would you take the children inside?” she asked Rosa in an undertone. Eager to avoid the cameras, Rosa nodded, gathered the children, and ushered them through the back door into the kitchen.
Just as she was about to follow them indoors, she felt a hand close around her elbow. “Well, Mrs. Ottesen,” Crowell addressed her, a triumphant gleam in his eye. “Were you aware that it’s against the law to lie to a federal officer involved in an investigation?”
“Only if you’re aware that you’re doing so,” Rosa countered, yanking her arm free of his grasp. “Isn’t it against the law to pressure someone else into breaking the law? If it isn’t it should be.”
Crowell smiled faintly. “I asked around, and you want to hear something interesting? I didn’t find any Nils or Rose Ottesen in state or federal tax records going back ten years. Nor do either of your names appear on any voter registration lists, city directories, or the register of live births.” He nodded to the kitchen windows, where Rosa’s children and Giuditta’s alike were peering through the glass, wide-eyed, tearful, and worried. “Your children were born in Oxnard, weren’t they? Mrs. Cacchione said that’s where you’re from.”
Rosa’s heart plummeted. She wondered what else Giuditta might have casually let slip as she had served Crowell his lunch that fateful day. “You must have overlooked something.”
“On the contrary, I was very thorough.” His mouth curved in a mocking grin. “Very thoroug
h.”
“Not thorough enough, obviously.” Rosa yanked open the back door. “You were looking in the wrong place. We’re not from Oxnard. We’re from Stavanger. Since you apparently don’t have anything better to do than to snoop around into other people’s lives, you might as well start digging there.”
“I will,” he assured her, touching the brim of his hat as if to thank her for her assistance.
Without another word, Rosa went inside and shut the door in his smirking face before he could glimpse the dismay in her eyes. She knew he would not let the matter rest.
Another two hours passed before the officers finished emptying the wine barrels in the yard and searching the outbuildings for more. Eventually all the Cacchiones retreated inside, but Giuditta, Dominic, and Francesca were often drawn to the windows, where they would watch the officers and agents at their work, shake their heads bleakly, and turn away. A frisson of apprehension filled the residence as everyone waited for some black-suited agent to stumble upon the footpath to the old wine cellar Vince had concealed behind a pile of brush, which only at first glance appeared to have been arranged by nature. But the searchers did not venture far beyond the outbuildings. Perhaps because they had found so much wine padlocked behind the chicken wire, they assumed that there could not possibly be any more to find. They had spilled more than 120,000 gallons of wine that day in a river that continued to flow from the front of the winery through the grapevines and downhill to the creek. The wine-soaked air was heavy with the fragrance of berries and black pepper, and throughout the yard, empty barrels lay abandoned on their sides as if scattered by a violent windstorm.
Eventually the agents and officers must have decided that their work was done, for they climbed back into their cars and police wagons and drove off. With nothing interesting to detain them, the reporters and photographers soon followed. At last the ranch was still. Dominic and Vince were the first to step outside and survey the damage the men had left behind, but the others soon joined them, except for Mabel, who remained inside to watch the children. The ranch had been thrown into utter disarray. Tools had been torn from their hooks in the barn; the winery was a mess of twisted chicken wire and splintered wood; the yard was a swamp of red-hued mud buzzing with bees drawn by the enticing scent of wine; and the livestock had been neglected all day. Rosa and Lars helped the Cacchiones restore the ranch to some semblance of order, breaking only for a hasty supper of bread, cheese, and prunes. Only the children mustered up much of an appetite.
At dusk Giuditta wearily announced that they had done enough for one day and could finish up in the morning. She blinked back tears, but her voice was steady as she thanked Rosa and Lars for their help. “You’re true friends and loyal neighbors,” she said, embracing each of them in turn, and Rosa couldn’t help thinking of the neighbor who had informed on them. She imagined his narrow, bitter face lighting up with vengeful glee as he pored over the Santa Rosa Press Democrat the next day, his thin lips moving silently as he read each painful detail of the Cacchiones’ downfall, his eager gaze lingering on the photographs of the spilled wine and ruined family.
The photographs. Rosa felt a chill of dread as she and Lars and the children picked their way along the muddy footpath toward the cabin. Although they had tried to avoid the cameras, there was no way to be sure they had succeeded. If they had been captured on film, their photographs might appear in newspapers throughout California and across the nation, divulging their location and their new identities. Anyone could find them—and their pursuers would find an eager accomplice in Crowell if their search led them his way.
As Rosa, Lars, and the children reached the cabin, the forlorn scent of spilled wine wafted on the breeze. Suddenly Ana seized Rosa’s hand. “Look, Mamá,” she cried, pointing. “The creek!”
Rosa halted, transfixed by the sight of red, foaming liquid spilling over the smooth stones of the creek, where clear waters had sparkled only hours before. A river of wine flowed past their cabin home, each drop representing years of toil and patience wasted, as it carried a family’s lost hopes and prosperity to the ocean miles away.
Chapter Seven
Word of the raid on Cacchione Vineyards spread swiftly through Santa Rosa and throughout Sonoma County. Friends and neighbors came by, bringing casseroles and sympathy and offering their support. Clifford Clarkston was denounced by one and all so vehemently that it seemed to Rosa he would have been well advised to pack his bags and leave town, for he had few friends left in Santa Rosa. It seemed to Rosa that everyone wanted to know, but none dared ask, what Giuditta planned to do next.
Alegra and Paulo Del Bene were among the first to visit. Paulo, proving himself a staunch friend, attended Dante’s sentencing and visited him in prison at least once a week. The Del Benes took up a collection to pay Dante’s fine, and Rosa overheard Paulo promise Giuditta that the Del Benes would help the Cacchiones however else they could. Privately, Paulo told Lars that the Del Benes’ sacramental wine permit had not shielded them from Crowell’s relentless scrutiny. Before Crowell had revealed himself as a Prohibition agent, he had come nosing around their place, insisting he had it on good authority that they regularly sold wine to San Francisco tourists and demanding that he be included on their list of trusted customers. Since Giuditta’s arrest, he had inspected their winery every week, determined to find evidence of criminal activity. He so intimidated Alegra that she had taken to hurrying inside with the children whenever she heard a car approach. If business called Paulo away from the vineyard, she would remain indoors all day with the curtains drawn, pretending no one was home. Paulo had complained to the Prohibition bureau, but Crowell’s superiors apparently concluded that the Del Benes wanted him to back off because they had something to hide, and the frequency of his visits increased.
Naturally Lars told Rosa, and Rosa, troubled and indignant, urged Alegra to bring the children to the cabin for the day whenever she felt unsafe at home alone. Or, if Crowell showed up to bother her, Alegra should call the Cacchiones and Rosa would come right over.
To her surprise, Alegra’s cheeks flushed and she demurred. “I didn’t mean to worry Paulo—or anyone else,” she said quietly, her eyes downcast. “I shouldn’t have complained. Mr. Crowell’s a nuisance, but I’m sure he’ll eventually tire of this game and leave us alone. We haven’t done anything wrong. We have a sacramental permit and we sell our wine only to the diocese and not a drop to anyone else. Mr. Crowell can search our property all he likes, he can nag me until he runs out of breath, but it won’t do him any good. He won’t find any evidence against us because there isn’t anything to find.”
“In that case, I wouldn’t put it past him to invent something,” Rosa said darkly, but when Alegra blanched, she quickly apologized, regretting her gallows humor. Alegra managed a strained smile and told her there was no harm done.
A week after the river of wine flowed downhill from the winery and stained the creek red, Rosa received a letter from Mrs. Phillips. She had read about the raid in the San Francisco Examiner, and she had enclosed the article. “I’m sorry to see that your family has been caught up in these troubles,” she wrote. “If you ever need a place to stay, remember that my door is always open to you.” Though Rosa was touched by Mrs. Phillips’s concern, any comfort she might have found in the offer of sanctuary immediately vanished when she unfolded the newspaper clipping. A photograph of Crowell surrounded by his agents as he knocked the bung from a barrel appeared next to a picture of an officer posed in front of the winery doors gripping the unnecessary and unused axe. Beneath those was a photo of the Cacchiones standing behind the residence, stricken and angry as they watched the agents and police at work. Among them stood Rosa, hair in her face and Miguel on her hip, and Lars, half hidden behind Dominic. Although their faces were partially concealed, Mrs. Phillips had still recognized them. Granted, she knew they worked for the Cacchiones and would have made a point to look for them in the photos, but someone who knew them well might be able to identify
them from as little as a casual glance at the newspaper.
But what was done was done. Rosa and Lars could not erase their images from the newspaper. The question that haunted Rosa was what they should do next.
They could continue on with their new lives in Santa Rosa, taking a chance that the people searching for them would never see the photo, or if they did, that they would not think to question the caption that identified those pictured as members of the Cacchione family. Or they could flee without a trace, without telling any of their new friends where they intended to go, and start over somewhere else. Rosa knew that would be the most prudent course, but she couldn’t bear to uproot the children again and she couldn’t imagine where else they might go. Nor did she wish to leave. She cared about her new friends, she found solace in the beauty of the northern California countryside, and, despite the struggles that afflicted grape ranchers throughout Sonoma County, she enjoyed working on the vineyard. The alchemy that transformed luscious grapes into rich wines fascinated her, so whenever she had the opportunity, she queried Dante and Giuditta about winemaking—how variations in sunlight affected the flavor of the fruit, how barrels made from one species of oak or another imparted different tastes and aromas to the wine stored within them. The making of a truly magnificent wine seemed both an art and a science, with a dash of faith and magic thrown in for good measure. Rosa wished she could try her hand at it, and she often thought about asking Dante for cuttings so she could plant a few grapevines on a small plot of level ground east of the cabin. But then she gazed upon the acres of trellises the Cacchiones cultivated, and she considered how generations of their family had plowed their hearts and souls into the arid soil from which their grapevines sprang, and her fond wish seemed an insensitive lark, especially with Dante behind bars for refusing to abandon the vintner’s craft he so cherished. Who was she to think she could fare any better than the Cacchiones had, especially in such troubled times?
Sonoma Rose: An Elm Creek Quilts Novel Page 27