Sonoma Rose: An Elm Creek Quilts Novel

by Jannifer Chiaverini

  Her head ached, and she clasped a hand to her brow and fought to untangle her snarled thoughts. She felt a sharp, unmistakable surge of anger for Sal and Bea. They had seemed so kind, so generous, so weary and thankful to have the vineyard and orchard taken off their hands. Now she understood why they were so eager to sell the estate and be done with it, so eager that until Rosa and Lars had come along, they had been willing to accept less than half their asking price. And now the burden was Rosa and Lars’s to bear, and if Dwight Crowell came snooping around—

  “Why didn’t they tell us?” she said, thinking aloud. “Why didn’t they warn us?”

  “Would you have paid as much as you did if you had known what you were taking on?”

  With a sudden flash of insight, Rosa said, “You made the other offer, the one they almost accepted.”

  Daniel nodded.

  “Did you offer them so little because you knew their secret?”

  “I wasn’t trying to lowball them. I offered them every cent to my name,” he replied. “I’ve worked these acres all my life. Can you blame me for wanting to own them?”

  “No.” Rosa understood all too well what he felt. “I don’t blame you at all. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s not your fault. You wanted the land too, and you could afford it.”

  Silence descended upon them, as cool and deep as the wine cellar itself, but eventually Daniel spoke. “What are you going to do?”

  “I don’t know,” said Rosa. “What would you have done, if the Vanellis had accepted your offer?”

  “I’d have collected the monthly rent, looked the other way, and kept my mouth shut.”

  He answered so promptly that Rosa knew he had decided long before he offered to buy the estate. And if, after he assumed ownership of the estate, the feds had discovered the still on his property, he could have claimed that he had known nothing about it, that he had merely honored a rental contract established by the previous owners. Rosa and Lars could attempt that tactic too, but they were less likely to succeed. Unlike them, Daniel had not made an enemy of Dwight Crowell. He was well known within the community and his people had been in Sonoma County for generations. Not so the Ottesens, for whom no record of their existence before their arrival in San Francisco a year ago could be found.

  What if the gangsters were as curious as Crowell about their new landlords? What would they learn from their associates in Southern California?

  Shaken, Rosa thanked Daniel for his honesty and went back outside to Lars, who was pacing in the yard. When Rosa told him all she had learned, it seemed as if every word etched new lines of worry on his brow.

  “We have to report this to the authorities,” Lars said when she finished. “We can claim—with perfect honesty, I might add—that we recently bought the property and only just now discovered the still. It’s not ours and they’re welcome to haul it away.”

  “We could do that, but as soon as they’ve finished destroying the still, they’ll drive up to Cloverdale and arrest the Vanellis.”

  Lars frowned, kicking at the dirt. He didn’t want to see Bea and Sal prosecuted any more than she did, even though the couple had deceived them.

  “Eventually whoever’s been running that still will come around to make another batch of grappa,” said Rosa. “How would we explain to them that we got rid of it?”

  Lars abruptly stopped pacing. “We can’t make enemies of those people.”

  Rosa laughed, tearfully, helplessly, from the futility of it all. “I know, but what can we do?”

  “For now, let’s do nothing,” said Lars. “Until a few hours ago we didn’t know that contraption existed. If I hadn’t gone to the prune barn today, we still wouldn’t know.”

  Rosa wished they didn’t.

  One rainy morning in late October, Rosa and Daniel were in the winery carrying out a task Daniel called “punching down the cap.” As the juice fermented, grape skins, stems, and seeds floated to the top of the wooden vats and formed a solid skin, trapping in heat as well as some of the active yeasts needed to transform the sugar into alcohol. Three times a day over the course of several weeks, Daniel and Rosa broke up the caps and pushed them back down into the dark juice with a tool that reminded her of an oversized potato masher. Daniel assured her the procedure was essential in keeping the fermentation process going, that it would prevent the growth of mold and add color, richness, and tannins to the wine. When the cap no longer floated to the surface, he told her, it would be time to press the wine.

  They were nearly finished when one of the hands called down the cellar stairs that a man from Johnson’s Bakery had arrived and wanted to speak to the new proprietor. When Daniel shot her a quick, wary look, Rosa remembered the wooden crates she had seen in the prune barn and her heart plummeted. The moment she had dreaded had come, and Lars was off at the Cacchione estate advising Giuditta how to prepare the young, struggling apricot orchard for the winter. Rosa was on her own.

  “I can finish here,” Daniel said, grimacing in sympathy. “Or I could come with you, if you want.”

  “I think I’d better see him alone.” If she didn’t, he might guess how nervous she was, and she didn’t want to give him that advantage. Rosa stripped off her gloves, summoned up her courage, and ascended the cellar stairs. Outside, the rain had diminished to a fine mist that clung to her hair and cheeks, and as the sun fought to burn through the clouds, she spotted a delivery van parked in the yard, its doors and sides adorned with the same logo she had seen on the wooden crates in the prune barn. A dark-haired man in a snappy pinstriped suit and hat strolled through the shade gardens with his hands in his pockets, admiring the late-blooming undergrowth, but he looked up at the sound of Rosa’s approach. Barely keeping the tremor from her voice, she introduced herself and asked how she could help him.

  “I’m Alberto Lucerno from Johnson’s Bakery,” he said, shaking her hand. He looked to be close to her own age, perhaps a few years older, with short, dark hair oiled and parted down the middle. “Perhaps the previous owners mentioned me?”

  “I’m afraid they didn’t.” If only they had…“I—I usually make my own bread. Perhaps they thought I wouldn’t need your services.”

  “We do much more than bake bread.”

  “I don’t doubt it.”

  “I hope you’re as willing to do business with us as the folks who used to live here were,” said Mr. Lucerno earnestly. If she didn’t know better, she could almost believe him to be a salesman hoping to win a new client for his bakery—except no one wore a suit that fine to deliver bread and rolls and pastries.

  “We’ll see,” said Rosa, glancing up at the sky as thunder rumbled. “Would you like a cup of coffee and a piece of pie while we talk things over?”

  He readily agreed, and as heavy drops began to pelt the ground, he quickly followed her inside to the parlor, where she served him a generous slice of prune pie and poured them each a cup of coffee. He accepted cream and sugar and didn’t seem terribly disappointed to learn that the man of the house was not around. “I wasn’t aware the vineyard was for sale,” he said. “Seems the Vanellis moved out kind of sudden.”

  “Well, under the circumstances, it seemed best.” Rosa took a sip of coffee, wondering if her guest had ever killed anyone. “Perhaps you haven’t heard about Mr. Vanelli’s heart attack?”

  Mr. Lucerno’s eyebrows rose. “No, I wasn’t aware of that. How’s he doing?”

  “He’s on the mend.”

  “Good, glad to hear it.” Mr. Lucerno nodded thoughtfully. “I guess it’s lucky for them they found a buyer so quickly. You and your husband aren’t from around here, are you?”

  “No, we’re originally from Stavanger, but for the past year we’ve been working for the Cacchione family in Santa Rosa.”

  Studying her, he finished his last bite of piecrust and set his plate on the coffee table. “Is that so?” He had a sharp, knowing gaze that took in everything, from the way her hand rattled the spoon against her coffee cup to
the way her eyes darted repeatedly to the front door as if she couldn’t wait for him to leave.

  She knew she would be a fool to lie to him.

  “I believe I’ve seen your company crest before,” she said, summoning up every ounce of courage she possessed.

  “Maybe you’ve seen our delivery trucks around town.”

  “No, that’s not it.” She rested her chin on her palm and tapped her cheek with her forefinger thoughtfully. “I saw it on a bunch of wooden crates out in the old prune barn.”

  He sat back, rested his right ankle on his left knee, and studied her with admiration. “Well, aren’t you a cool customer.”

  “Let’s be frank with each other, Mr. Lucerno,” she said lightly, setting her coffee cup aside. “I’m not going to be a customer of any kind, am I?”

  He laughed. “Not unless I could interest you in a good glass of grappa.”

  “It’s too strong for me. I prefer a nice red wine.” She leaned forward and offered him a small, knowing smile. “Since you’re not here to sell bread, and I don’t want to buy any grappa, is there anything else for us to discuss?”

  “One small matter. The gentlemen I work for want to keep renting your prune barn.”

  Rosa smiled thoughtfully as if the idea intrigued her, but her heart sank. Until that moment, she had clung to a slender thread of hope that the gangsters’ prolonged absence meant that they had found a better place to make their grappa, and that Mr. Lucerno had come to tell them when they intended to dismantle the still and clear out of the crumbling firetrap of a barn. “What are your terms?”

  “We’ll pay four hundred a month for exclusive use of the prune barn—and for your discretion.”

  “I understand you paid the Vanellis five hundred a month.”

  “I thought you said they never mentioned me.”

  “They didn’t.” Too late, Rosa realized that might insult him. “I heard it from someone else.”

  “I wonder how that fella found out.” He looked like he meant to say more, but a sudden pounding on the front door interrupted him. Rosa jumped when he instinctively reached for his breast pocket, but she begged his pardon, forced herself to stand, and went on unsteady legs to answer the door.

  Dwight Crowell stood on the front porch, rain dripping off the brim of his hat. “So you didn’t stop with buying the Vanellis’ car, did you?”

  “Agent Crowell,” she managed to say. “What do you want?”

  He stepped forward as if he would walk right through her to enter the house, looming so near she could smell the tobacco and mint on his breath. She drew back as she always did when he came too close, but she kept the doorknob firmly in her grasp in case she had to slam the door shut.

  “I want answers,” Crowell said. “First off—”

  “I can’t bother with your questions right now,” she said. “I’m busy. I have a guest.”

  Crowell drew closer and craned his neck, trying to see past her into the parlor. “Yes, I saw the bakery truck parked in the circle. Do you always entertain deliverymen in such high style?”

  “That’s none of your concern.”

  “I’ll make it my concern, Mrs. Ottesen. Or should I call you Sonoma Rose? I saw the new sign. It led me right to you.” He grinned nastily. “That’s no name for a rancher’s wife. Sounds like the proprietor of a whorehouse.” He fingered the collar of her dress. “What would you show me on your winery tour, Sonoma Rose? Can I make a reservation for a private tasting?”

  She slapped his hand away, barely resisting the urge to slap his face too. “Don’t ever touch me again.”

  “You heard the lady,” said Mr. Lucerno, who had come up behind her unnoticed. He eased the door open wider and eyed Crowell coolly. “I think you’d better leave, mister.”

  Crowell looked him up and down, and Rosa knew that the incongruity between Mr. Lucerno’s fine suit and the vehicle he had arrived in did not escape him. “Says who?”

  “Says the guy who can make you go even if you don’t want to.”

  “This is my cousin, Albert,” Rosa quickly interjected before the argument could escalate. “He often stops by to visit me when his deliveries bring him to Sonoma. Albert, this is Agent Dwight Crowell from the Prohibition bureau.”

  “Cousin, you say?” Crowell’s steely gaze flicked from Rosa’s dark brown hair and eyes and brown skin to Mr. Lucerno’s, but whatever family resemblance he might have discerned, it failed to blunt his suspicions. “You two grow up together in Port Hueneme?”

  “It was Stavanger, actually,” said Mr. Lucerno. “Not that it’s any business of yours.”

  The men stared each other down, the air between them crackling with tension. “Mr. Crowell,” Rosa blurted, “if I answer your questions, would you please leave us alone?”

  His gaze darted to her face. “For now.”

  “Then go ahead,” she said. “And then go away.” Just over her left shoulder, Mr. Lucerno turned a laugh into a cough.

  Crowell indicated the downpour with a jerk of his head. “Aren’t you going to invite me in?”

  “That’s not necessary. My answers will be the same whether I give them to you in the parlor or on the porch.”

  Crowell threw a look of unmasked resentment to Mr. Lucerno—warm, dry, and sipping coffee—and fixed Rosa with a stern glare. “Are you making wine on the premises?”

  “Why, yes, of course,” she said. “What else would we do with our leftover wine grapes? Waste not, want not, as my mother always says.”

  “Good old Aunt Mary,” said Mr. Lucerno with a chuckle.

  “You should go see her more often,” Rosa chided him. “You know you have a standing invitation to Sunday dinner.”

  “You freely admit that you’re making wine?” Crowell snapped.

  “One hundred and sixty gallons exactly,” said Rosa. “Each one perfectly legal. You’re welcome to inspect the wine cellar yourself.”

  “I think I’ll do that.” Crowell turned on his heel and stormed down the front steps.

  Rosa invited Mr. Lucerno to accompany them, but he preferred to wait in the parlor and help himself to another slice of pie. The keys made an angry, impatient jingling in Rosa’s pocket as she hurried after Crowell to the winery, but she didn’t need them. The door was still unlocked and Daniel still inside punching down the cap. Their sudden appearance startled him, but when Crowell pelted him with questions about the crush and how many gallons of new wine they had made, Daniel answered, unflustered, and his responses matched Rosa’s. Scowling, Crowell descended the stairs into the cave and poked around awhile longer, searching for hidden doors or secret stashes until Daniel’s silent but unmistakable amusement became intolerable. Crowell stormed from the winery, nearly slamming the door in Rosa’s face as she followed swiftly after him, and stalked through the rain across the stone footbridge to his car. Thoroughly drenched, Rosa nonetheless lingered in the gravel circle as he drove away, watching and listening until she was certain he would not double back and drive through the vineyard toward the orchard and the old prune barn. Only then did she dash back across the bridge and into the house, shivering, heart pounding, wet hair plastered to her face and neck.

  “He’s gone,” she told Mr. Lucerno, crossing her arms over her chest, chilled through.

  “He’ll be back.”

  She shook water from her dark bob and sighed. “Unfortunately, I’m certain you’re right.”

  Mr. Lucerno looked her up and down as she dripped on the doormat. His gaze came to rest on her face, and in his eyes she saw a respect and grudging admiration that had nothing to do with the way her rain-soaked dress clung to her curves. “Thanks for not ratting me out to your friend the fed, cousin.”

  “He’s no friend of mine.”

  “So I figured.” He stepped around her to get to the door, but he hesitated, his hand on the latch. “You should get into some dry clothes before you catch a cold. And if that fellow lays a hand on you again, you let me know. I’ll take care of it.”
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br />   “Thanks, but I can take care of myself.” As much as Crowell’s innuendo disgusted her, she had endured far worse at John’s hands. “He’s just a bully with a big mouth.”

  “That’s not what I hear. He’s new in town, but he’s already made a name for himself. Just watch yourself. Don’t let him get you alone.”

  The gangster’s concern was as oddly amusing as it was unexpected. “I’ll be fine. My husband’s usually around, and even when he isn’t, there’s always someone within shouting distance.”

  “Glad to hear it.” Mr. Lucerno pulled out a thick roll of bills, counted out ten, and handed them to her. “We owe you some back rent. Circumstances…made it necessary to lie low for a while, but we’re back on schedule. You know how it is.”

  Rosa tucked the bills into her dress pocket without counting them. “Of course,” she said, although she didn’t know and hoped he wouldn’t elaborate.

  “You can expect regular cash payments of five hundred dollars the first day of every month.” Mr. Lucerno smiled briefly and turned to go. “So I’ll see you on the first of November, if not sooner. Usually we work late at night, so you might not even know we’ve been here.”

  “Just as long as Dwight Crowell doesn’t know.”

  Mr. Lucerno’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t worry about that. We’ll take care of him if he becomes a problem.”

  “He seems too prideful to accept a bribe.”

  “Yes, he does,” said Mr. Lucerno nonchalantly, and as much as Rosa despised the agent, she felt a chill. “Thanks for the pie and coffee.” He strode out into the rain, but when he reached the footbridge, he turned and called out, “Give my best to Aunt Mary.”

  “I will,” Rosa called back. She closed the door firmly, shutting out the rain and the sound of the bakery truck driving away. Then she remembered the folded bills Mr. Lucerno had given her, and she took them from her pocket to count them.

  She had accepted ten crisp one-hundred-dollar bills.

  Lars returned home from Cacchione Vineyards just in time to meet the girls at the bus stop and spare them the long walk up the driveway in the cold drizzle. Rosa and Miguel were on the front porch bouncing a ball back and forth when the old Chevrolet rumbled up to the house and the girls tumbled out, giggling and shrieking as they dashed through the puddles to the house. Lars waved a greeting to Rosa before driving off to park in the old carriage house, but he must have had chores to attend to, because nearly twenty minutes passed before he came hurrying across the yard, pausing on the front porch to brush rain from his coat and hat before coming indoors. Rosa greeted him with a fierce embrace and a long kiss, which he returned gladly. “I’m very happy you’re home,” she told him.