by Peter Lewis
“Okay, fine, Mom,” Danny said, sounding surprisingly adult in his irritation.
Instinctively I turned to the desk. On it a computer printout of a calendar, squared neatly on a blotter, was scribbled up. Appointments at Norton, Diamond Creek, Viader, and Turley were penciled in and one at Chateau Hauberg crossed out. The dinner date with Janie had been hastily noted in red ink (JANIE/7:30/DANKO), and a United flight number with departure time and confirmation number was scrawled on a Thursday, one month away. The words RIOJA, NAVARRA, and PRIORAT were printed in bold caps with a scraggly line extending through the following two weeks, growing faint and disappearing as it neared October (PIEMONTE/TUSCANY) and entered November (ME: BORDEAUX/JACQUES: BURGUNDY). What a life, I thought. At the very bottom of the sheet the name FELDMAN was written, carefully shaded with fine cross-hatching as if doodled in the course of a tedious phone conversation.
“Who’s this?” I asked, pointing to the name.
She came up to me and looked at the calendar.
“That’s strange,” she said. “Eric Feldman? I didn’t think they were on speaking terms.”
“Really?”
“He used to work for Richard. They had a falling-out.”
“What’s he do now?” I said.
“He has his own newsletter.”
“The competition?”
“Yes, I suppose he is.” I waited for an explanation. “They parted ways five or six years ago. Basically, Richard fired him, and then Eric went into business on his own. He copied everything Richard did.”
I made a mental note to find out more about Feldman.
A lone file cabinet catalogued past editions of the newsletter, and an assortment of notebooks were meticulously dated by vintage and labeled by appellation: KNIGHTS VALLEY, CARNEROS, STAGS’ LEAP DISTRICT. Nothing there was dated from the current year.
I gingerly picked up the handset on the portable phone with my bandana. I didn’t want Brenneke complaining that I’d trashed his evidence.
“He has messages.” A Post-it taped to the phone listed the voice-mail access number and security code. “Do you mind?” I asked.
“Help yourself.”
I dialed the numbers. Five messages.
The first was Janie, confirming their dinner.
The second was from Carla. “Richard, this is Carla. Hurry. I can’t wait.”
The third was Janie again, aggravated that he hadn’t arrived for dinner and concerned at his having failed to call her.
Next was a woman. The message was cryptic, the voice faintly accented: “You have to talk to me.” She sounded Italian, or Spanish, maybe. I replayed it for Janie.
“Any ideas?’ I asked.
“A wine rep?” she ventured.
“Probably a waitress he was screwing,” I said.
Janie wasn’t amused and glanced at Danny.
“Do you mind?” she said testily under her breath, but Danny wasn’t paying attention. He had unlocked the door to the balcony, had wandered outside, and was gazing at Alcatraz.
The last was another male voice. “Richard, this is Eric. We need to talk, but I’m swamped. I’ll catch up with you in France. I’ll be at the Novotel in Beaune. By the way, your issue on 2007 Rhônes really missed the mark.”
“Who’s this?” I asked her as I punched it to replay and gave her the phone.
“Not positive,” she said, handing it back. “But I think it has to be Eric Feldman.”
“Of course. Tell me about Goldoni,” I said, wandering around the room, looking for a clue I couldn’t identify.
“Nothing much to tell. Italian American father and a French mother. He speaks perfect French. Kind of an asshole.”
“How so?”
“I don’t know. Fat, obnoxious, ambitious.”
“Would he stand to gain anything if your brother suddenly vanished?”
“I suppose he might, but it’s Richard who has the reputation. Jacques basks in reflected glory. I doubt he could make it on his own.”
“Still, he might assume the mantle, take over the Maven.”
“Richard takes very good care of him. Took, I mean,” she said, her tone softening as she changed tenses.
“Speaking of which, I need . . .”
I hadn’t gotten it out before she pulled an envelope from her purse.
“I know you can’t afford to take time away from the bar to look into this. I think that should cover it. For starters, at least.”
It’s humiliating to accept money from your ex-wife. I had refused her offer to pay alimony at the time of our divorce settlement—she probably made ten times what I earned—but, as it stood, I had little choice.
“Very thoughtful of you to anticipate it,” I said, stuffing it, along with my pride, in my pocket.
I opened the door to the closet. A half dozen matching blue shirts straight from the dry cleaner hung beside four pairs of chinos. A suitcase lay open on the small dresser, packed and ready to zip up, a pair of Mephistos at its feet.
I turned my attention to the kitchen. The fridge offered only a jar of Dijon mustard and a half pound of Peet’s French roast. Guys like Wilson ate out every night, usually on someone else’s expense account.
Nothing seemed amiss in the bathroom. A tube of toothpaste, two toothbrushes, deodorant, a hairbrush. The scent of cleanser. And then the merest whiff of something else, a trace, but unmistakable. Floral.
I called out to Janie, who was wandering aimlessly, “What about women? Do you know anyone Richard was seeing?”
She shook her head. Carla Fehr was right: Wilson hadn’t told his sister about her.
Janie suddenly looked overwhelmed, frailer. The place was obviously beginning to get to her.
“Danny! Let’s get outta here!” I called. “Let’s forget the cherchez la femme part,” I said to Janie. “We leave the messages. The cops are probably already on their way here.”
She locked up, and we retraced our steps. On the second landing we heard a plate shatter, then something crashed against the front door. Danny turned to her questioningly, not sure how to react. She wagged her finger and, when we arrived in the foyer, explained, “Psycho. He hurls himself against the walls. Stand here a moment. He’ll start shouting obscenities in a second.”
Right on cue, a stream of expletives.
“Tourette’s?” I asked.
“Who knows? Probably forgot to take his meds this morning. Richard says he’s perfectly harmless.”
As she opened the door to the lobby, I inadvertently crowded her. She turned to face me, the tip of her nipple grazing my arm through her blouse. We were both startled. The familiarity and foreignness of it. I felt as if I had trespassed on my own life.
“Let me buy us dinner,” I said awkwardly, patting the check in my pocket.
“No, I should get back,” she said quickly. “My father . . .”
“You’re right. Me too. The path’s growing cold.” But I knew that the only path that was cold was the one I was trying to beat back to my ex-wife.
“How is Bob?” I asked as we descended to the sidewalk, strangers again. “Danny said he’s weird.”
“You just never know. One minute he’s fine, and the next he’s lost.”
“That’s just what Danny said.” We both looked down at our son, who stood on the sidewalk kicking pebbles into the gutter. “Speaking of which, I’m really sorry that I need to give him up early, but this could get a little tricky. I don’t think it’s really appropriate . . .”
“I don’t think what you’ve already exposed him to was particularly appropriate,” she interrupted.
“Look, you asked me to do this,” I said.
Janie looked at me with the expression of endless disappointment that I seemed to elicit from her with everything I did. I turned, walked down to our son, and gave him a hug.
“Thanks for your help, pal,” I said. “I’ll let you know how it goes.”
“Be careful, Dad,” he said, and I stroked his cheek.
“I pro
mise. You too. And take good care of your mom.”
Janie was still watching me as I plucked the parking ticket from my windshield wiper.
“Don’t worry. That’ll cover it,” she called.
I opened the envelope. It was a check for two grand. I blew her a kiss.
8
By the time I reached the valley, it was dusk. Bats flitted through a grove of eucalyptus. The moon would be full in little over a week. In Provence and the Languedoc, the biodynamique French wackos—the organically minded winemakers who spoke fluently to insects in bug language and timed their every move to the phase of the moon and the ebb and flow of tides—would be picking once it hit full. They’d have to wait another month in the cooler climes of the Loire and Burgundy if they wanted to remain faithful to the credo. They don’t call them lunatics for nothing.
Before I headed up the mountain, I thought I’d stop by St. Helena and see if Brenneke was still around. He and the corporal I’d seen at Norton were going over their notes. He was none too happy to see me, but I thought I might be able to change his opinion by providing a little information.
“Wilson kept an apartment in the city. His sister met me there this afternoon. I didn’t see much, but you should listen to his answering machine. Carla left a message. Confirms what I said about their having an affair.”
“You already gave us that,” Brenneke said.
“I spoke with Michael Matson, a winemaker Wilson trashed in print, but I don’t think he had anything to do with it.”
“Brilliant detective work,” he said. “What the hell are you doing, Stern? Tampering with evidence? Screwing with witnesses? You’re walking a fine line, my friend.”
“You told me to find out what I could,” I said.
“I told you to stand behind your bar and pay attention. We’ve got work to do,” he said, eager to get rid of me.
Two plastic evidence bags of marijuana lay open on the table. He followed my eyes.
“I can see that,” I said. “You could do one more thing for me,” I added.
“And what would that be?”
“Is Fornes still here?”
“Yeah. We’re going to have to transfer him to Napa in the morning. Ciofreddi and the task force want to sit him down in the Blue Room.”
“Mind if I speak with him for a minute or two?”
“Absolutely not. Out of the question.”
“Jesus, Russ, just for a minute. Listen in, if you want.”
He walked into the hallway to make sure the chief hadn’t snuck into his office unannounced, and checked the reception area.
“Okay, but two minutes. That’s it. And I’m right outside the door.”
He escorted me back to the tiny hallway of cells at the rear of the station. He glanced through the peephole and nodded for me to take a look. Fornes lay face up on a bare plastic mattress, his arms folded, eyes wide. Staring into the void of a doomed future. Brenneke unlocked the door.
“Mr. Fornes, you have a visitor. Two minutes. I can’t believe I’m doing this,” he whispered in my ear as he shut the door behind me.
Francisco Fornes swiveled on the steel bed frame and perched on its edge. There was no place to sit, so I took the toilet. I glanced around the cell. The cinder-block walls were the color of a healthy tongue.
“You my lawyer?” he asked.
“’Fraid not. I’m investigating on behalf of Richard Wilson’s sister.”
Maybe it was his baby face, maybe it was the dark brown pools of his eyes, or maybe it was the simple humility with which he looked at me, but if Francisco Fornes was guilty of murder, my name was Bob Mondavi. I knew tomorrow I’d be ashamed to show my face at the bar, to stand opposite his countrymen and serve them beer. I had to break the tension. His impotence was killing me.
“Did you know Wilson?”
“Know him? No. I would see him when he came to the winery.”
His accent was perceptible, but his English was flawless.
“What did you think of him?”
“I am not paid to think of him, and I paid him no thought.”
His smile let me know that he knew perfectly well he’d turned a clever phrase.
“What was he like?”
“Arrogant. He considered himself infallible, like the pope. Except that he treated the campesinos like shit. Maybe worse than shit; we didn’t exist.” He paused and looked up at the filthy grate that covered the fluorescent light fixture. When he returned his gaze to me, his enormous eyes were lit up like a little boy’s. “But kill him?” The question defied comprehension. On its face, it was ludicrous. “For what?” he continued. “I have work to do. My job is to bring in a crop. To keep it as fresh as I can. Keep the grapes from crushing each other until we can crush them. His corpse in a tank? Are you kidding? Why spoil the wine? With a fat pig like Wilson? What do you take me for?”
An extremely intelligent professional, I told myself. Why hadn’t the cops copped to the exquisite logic of this argument? Too eager for a collar, perhaps. They certainly hadn’t exhausted their options.
“Maybe they think you resented his power?”
“I can’t afford myself that luxury,” he volunteered. “I follow the work. And I have been at Norton ten years. Let the gringos look after themselves. Anyway, why would I risk my green card? Have you ever vacationed in Sonora?”
He shot his eyebrows toward the light, a quizzical look that was more answer than question. And then broke into a grin.
“How late were you at the winery the night before last?” I asked.
“I left earlier than usual.”
“Meaning?”
“Maybe six o’clock. Something like that,” Fornes said.
That meant he’d left not long after I had.
“Was Wilson alone?”
“I don’t know. I was in the winery. He was in the tasting room. He didn’t mix with ‘the help.’” Fornes smiled.
“Anyone else around?”
“The crew was cleaning up,” he said.
“The crew?”
“Javier. Pablo. And Jean.” He pronounced the name properly.
“Jean?”
“A French kid. He’s here to learn how we Mexicans make wine,” Fornes said.
The guy cracked me up.
“I thought Jean left to be with his sister. He stuck his nose into the tasting room and told Colin he was leaving,” I said.
He thought a moment, then said, “Maybe. I don’t remember.”
“What about Norton?” I asked.
“Yes, he was there, too. Tout le monde,” he joked. “Nothing unusual. But like I said, I left.” He paused. “So, what do you think?”
“I don’t know. I’m going to do what I can,” I said, unable to convince even myself.
“Gracias,” he said as I rose from the toilet. I turned and saw Brenneke’s eye through the peephole. I nodded and he unlocked the door.
“Stay strong,” I said at the threshold of the cell. “Mucha suerte.”
“Fat chance,” Francisco Fornes said.
Brenneke relocked the cell. We stood facing each other in the narrow hallway.
“No fuckin’ way,” I told him.
“Get the hell outta here,” he said and pushed me down the hall, past the booking station to the rear exit. I glanced at the wall. All the questions for incoming prisoners were printed in Spanish and English on a crib sheet for monolingual cops.
“You’re goin’ out the back. Anybody sees you, I’m screwed,” Brenneke said.
In the parking lot, four squad cars stood in silent formation, awaiting the next dispatch. I stood under a bespangled sky. Brenneke stood in the doorway.
“Maybe you should drop this,” he said, already regretting his call for a little help on the side. “We can handle it.”
“Sure you can,” I said and turned toward Main Street.
Just as I predicted, three television vans were already in town, setting up by Lyman Park, preparing for the morning feed.
“How’d you know?” I said, and he smiled.
“You okay?” he said.
“I’m not sure yet. It’s pretty rough.”
He stood with his hands spread on the bar, his eyes taking in the room. A group of vineyard workers had just gotten off work and had gathered around the pool table. They were laughing and carrying on. Two pitchers of beer stood on a small round, one already three-quarters gone.
Without shifting his eyes, Mulligan said, “Gio called. She’s looking for you.”
“I ticked her off last night. She didn’t know Wilson was my brother-in-law. You can imagine how that went over.”
Jake Watson, a winemaker we knew, walked in, came up to the bar, and ordered a gin and tonic.
“Hey, Babe, Frank,” he said, nodding.
“Hey, Jake. How’s it goin’?” I said.
“It’s a beautiful thing, man. Vendange bliss, baby.”
Mulligan set his drink on the bar, and Jake walked to a booth and fell onto the bench, putting his feet up.
“The man at the end of the bar has been waiting for you,” Mulligan said.
I glanced down the bar. I didn’t recognize him.
“He say who he was?”
Mulligan shook his head. I took the scotch and the bottle of Anchor Steam, walked down the line of stools, and sat down on the one next to him.
“Babe Stern,” I said.
“Daniel Hauberg,” he said, extending his hand.
“My son’s name is Daniel,” I said, shaking it.
The pink-and-green neon ironed out the wrinkles in his face, but I put him close to seventy years old. The great gray bushes of his eyebrows cast his eyes in deep shadow. The light off the Pyramid sign caught them for a moment, and when it suddenly flickered, he looked as if he’d blinked without closing them.
“Michael Matson was at my château last night,” he said, his French accent tempered by a patrician and unmistakably British overlay. Realizing that his statement might not be enough, he added, “He was there all day and spent the night. He slept on a cot in the cuverie and never left.”