Death in a Wine Dark Sea

by Lisa King

  Kyle rolled his eyes. “Everybody’s an editor.”

  “Any luck with him?”

  “Not so far. If his images weren’t so good, I’d hire some kid with a digital camera.”

  “But they are really good, and he’ll work for the pittance we pay,” Jean said. “Hey, listen, I need a favor. Is it OK if I take my vacation now? Diane Wingo wants me to help her with some things relating to Martin’s death.” Jean thought mentioning the name “Wingo” might influence Kyle in the right direction.

  “Let’s take a look.” Kyle typed on his laptop. “OK, I’ve got your Central Coast piece, the Merryvale profile, the California bubbly story, the two restaurant reviews, and five shorts for the news page. How’s the Port story coming?”

  “I’ll finish it today.”

  “When that’s done you can take your vacation. Put a note on your blog that says you’ll be out. And you have to come in early next week when we get the slides from Mr. Stone Age and ID the Central Coast people. I don’t know half those bozos.”

  “I thought you knew everyone in the wine world,” Jean said.

  “Everyone important. These are a bunch of geographically challenged wannabes.”

  “Didn’t you read my article, you snob? They’re making some pretty fabulous wines.”

  “So come in and ID the poor slobs.”

  “All right. Call me when you get the slides.”

  “You got a cell yet or you still living in the Stone Age, too?”

  “Still hate them,” Jean said. “Call my home phone.”

  Back in her cube, Jean did some research on Treadway’s Fine Wines and Spirits and made an appointment with the owner for six o’clock. She then pulled out her handwritten notes and focused on writing up a tasting of two dozen vintage Ports she’d attended recently. Contrary to what most of her friends thought, her job wasn’t all fun and games. She’d sat through more tastings of bad wines than she cared to remember, and writing up a big tasting like this one was a real challenge—she had to convey in words exactly how each wine looked, smelled, and tasted without being repetitive.

  Zeppo called in the afternoon and arranged to meet her at the Wingo-Johansen office after work to pick up the Corolla. He’d decided to leave the Jag home.

  At five o’clock Jean turned in the Port story and was officially on vacation. She took the bus to Martin’s former office, a low modern structure built right on Pier 3. In the spacious reception area, light reflected from the water danced across the room’s surfaces. A dozen architectural models were displayed on Lucite pillars near the big windows.

  Jean went up to the reception counter, where a plump, clean-cut young man answered phones. A plaque on his desk said “Jeffrey Weiss.”

  “Hi, I’m Jean Applequist. You have a car for me.”

  “Oh, sure. Here you go.” He handed her a set of keys. “The cars are in the lot across the street. And Zeppo just called—he’s going to be late on account of his bus broke down.”

  Jean thanked him and wandered over to look at the models. In a nearby alcove she saw one she hadn’t noticed before. The building was off-white cardboard and foam core with tiny fake trees like the rest of the models, but it was a bizarre conglomeration of Greek columns, flying buttresses, Islamic arches, and Russian onion domes. Several little gray gargoyles stared down from a section of pagoda roof. A plaque on its base said “The Martin Wingo Building.”

  In the corridor to her right she spotted Keith Yoshiro carrying an armload of rolled-up blueprints. “Keith,” she called, gesturing at the patchwork model. “What in the world is this?”

  Keith came over, chuckling. “Martin’s forty-eighth birthday present. It was Zeppo’s idea. I drew it for him and the production department built it. That was the kind of thing he did for Martin. I hope you’ve stopped suspecting him.”

  “Yeah, he’s in the clear.”

  Keith glanced at his watch. “Sorry, Jean, I have to run. Good seeing you.”

  He headed down the hall and Jean went back to the receptionist’s desk. She had an idea. “Jeffrey, is there anybody on the staff who was friendly with Zeppo?”

  “He used to hang around the production department.” Jeffrey grinned. “That’s where most of the young single women work. Gwen Lansing is still here. He went out to lunch with her sometimes.”

  “Could I talk to her?”

  “Sure. Go down the hall and turn right. She’s the one who looks like Morticia Addams.”

  The production department reminded Jean of the one at her magazine—a large desk and two smaller ones, each with a large-screened Macintosh computer on it, with a light box on an old drawing table off to the side.

  Jean spotted Gwen right away, a slim young woman with long black hair, a black leotard, raggedy black velvet skirt, and black cowboy boots. Her nail polish, lipstick, and heavy eye makeup were also black. She sat at one of the Macs using Photoshop to sort through images of buildings.

  “Excuse me, are you Gwen?”

  “Yeah.” She looked up.

  “Hi, I’m Jean Applequist, a friend of Diane Wingo’s. Could I have a minute?”

  “Sure. I’ve heard of you—you’re dating Peter Brennan, right? I think he’s a real hunk.”

  “I agree,” Jean said. “So Gwen, didn’t Martin harass you about your look? Even my haircut bothered him.”

  “Oh sure. He complained to the production manager a couple of times, but she told him to butt out. Anyway, I tone it down for the office.”

  Jean tried to imagine Gwen on her day off. “Well, the reason I’m here is I’d like to ask some questions about Jay Zeppetello. I’m going to be working on a research project with him, and I don’t want to end up doing everything myself or getting groped if we’re working late.”

  Gwen gave her a skeptical look. “A research project, huh? You work at a wine magazine. Zeppo doesn’t know dick about wine except that he likes it if it’s red.”

  Jean had a white lie ready. “It’s research for an article on land use in wine country.”

  “OK, ask away,” Gwen said. “There’s not a lot I can tell you, though. He’s a pretty reserved guy.”

  “Did he ever talk about his job here?”

  “Not really. He did research for Martin is all I know. He was out of the office a lot.” Gwen swiveled her chair to face Jean. “Martin was a real asshole, but he had a soft spot for Zeppo.”

  “I guess Zeppo’s sort of a junior asshole, huh?”

  “Nah, he’s a sweetie. We miss him. He was always buying stuff for us—the gals back here in production. Like See’s candy or fresh croissants from that bakery in the Ferry Building.”

  “You know much about him? Like where he’s from?”

  “He never talks about himself. And if you ask him about his family, he tells a different tall tale every time. They were eaten by lions on safari, they drowned when their yacht sank, they committed suicide as part of a doomsday cult. I figure he’s got a nice religious family in the Midwest somewhere and doesn’t want to admit it. You know, lots of normal siblings, Dad coaches football, Mom makes quilts.”

  Jean blinked. That was a pretty good description of her own family.

  “He seems sort of goofy, but he’s really smart,” Gwen said. “You don’t need to worry about being groped, either. He’s always coming on to you, but in a silly way. It was strange. He obviously loved hanging out back here, but he never really got to be good friends with anyone.”

  “Have you gone out with him?”

  “Nah. I like him, but I’m not his type. That boy’s got a type, for sure. My friend Polly dated him, and so did one of the girls in word processing. They’re tall and curvy, like you. They both told the same story: They went out a few times, fucked a few times, but pretty soon he stopped calling and wouldn’t return their calls. They say he’s fun and nice to be with, but kind of distant, you know?” Gwen grinned. “And also that he goes all night.”

  “No kidding,” Jean said.

  “Yeah, they
both said so. Polly thought he was too much. Sometimes when I get an itch I think about calling him. Haven’t done it yet. But every now and then a girl’s in the mood for some serious fun with no strings attached, you know what I mean?”

  Jean grinned back. “Yeah,” she said. “I know what you mean.”

  CHAPTER 14

  Jean got back to the lobby just as Zeppo pushed open the big glass door. He looked almost like a grown-up in a yellow button-down shirt, black slacks, and gray tweed jacket.

  “Sorry I’m late,” he said. “I had to walk from Stockton Street.”

  “No problem. I’ve been keeping busy.”

  “Hey, Zeppo,” Jeffrey called. “What’s happening, dude?”

  “Not much,” Zeppo said, walking over to the reception counter.

  “Too bad you got laid off when you did. There was a hot girl in here looking for you.”

  “Oh yeah? Who was she?”

  “Beats me. She ended up talking to Martin. Skinny little blue-eyed blonde with great skin and an accent. Maybe Russian. I’ve got a thing for natural platinum blondes.”

  Zeppo glanced at Jean. She saw a flicker of something in his eyes and moved over to the counter. “Not my type,” he said. “When was this, exactly?”

  “The last day Martin was here cleaning out his office. He talked to her for twenty minutes or so. Set up the camera and everything.”

  “What else did you notice about her?”

  Jeffrey made a face. “She had a boyfriend waiting for her. I thought of hitting on her until I saw him. Really buff, shaved head, spider-web tattoos all over his arms, one of those guys.”

  “That’s tough. Hey, if you think of anything else about her, give me a call, OK?”

  “I’ll do that. Later, dude.”

  Jean followed Zeppo toward the door. They passed the models on the way out and she gestured at the Martin Wingo Building. “Martin’s building is hilarious.”

  “He liked it a lot, too. Said he was going to take it home with him. I guess he never got around to it.”

  They dashed across the Embarcadero. “Why were you asking about that girl?” Jean said.

  “Remember Simon Emory, the guy who hires illegals? A lot of them are Eastern European. She asked for me first and Martin used the DVD-cam. That means she was selling information. What if she works for Emory?”

  “We should check it out,” Jean said.

  “He’s usually here in town at the nightclub Martin tried to buy. Sputnik.”

  “I’ve heard of it. Supposed to be full of club kids from the Peninsula.”

  “I wouldn’t know. I tried to get in a couple of times but couldn’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Too geeky. They’ve got these fierce bouncers who only let you in if you look cool enough. That’s where you come in, partner—you can get us inside. We’ll go tonight. OK with you?”

  In the lot across the Embarcadero, the parking attendant pointed out a beige Corolla. Jean unlocked the doors and Zeppo folded himself awkwardly into the passenger seat. As his shoulder brushed hers, she thought of what Gwen had said about his sex drive. At least nature had given him something to compensate for his unlovely appearance.

  “What’d you dig up on Treadway?” Zeppo asked as Jean pulled out of the lot.

  “Nathan Treadway moved here from London and opened his shop in the mid-1960s, selling fancy wine,” she told him, navigating through rush-hour traffic toward Union Square. “This was before anybody but the most effete snobs could tell Chablis from Shinola. Nathan knew his wine, and he developed quite a following. He supports good causes, like feeding the homeless.”

  “I guess you can’t complain too much about his high prices. Sounds like he’s robbing the rich to give to the poor.”

  “That’s why his running a phony wine scam sounded so unlikely,” Jean said. “But Nathan retired in 2001 and turned the business over to his son Travis, a former dotcom executive whose company had just imploded.”

  “I get it: High-end wine meets dot-com ethics. What was he selling?”

  “Online dry cleaning, if you can believe it.” Jean zipped across an intersection at the tail end of a yellow light, narrowly missing a city bus. “I told Travis I’m doing a story on fine wine shops in San Francisco.”

  “We can have dinner after we talk to him and then go to Sputnik,” Zeppo said.

  “What about Setrakian?”

  “I don’t want him to know it’s me until we get there. You email him and say you’re an art lover who wants to see the great man at work. We’ll include a photo, so he’ll go for it.”

  “If you say so.” Jean cut off a limousine as she darted around a car turning left.

  Zeppo seemed unfazed by all the honking. “Let me do the talking with him, OK?”

  “What, you think I’m an idiot?”

  “No, I think you might lose your temper. You may be the girl of my dreams, but you have lousy self-control.”

  “And I suppose you have great self-control.”

  “Yeah,” he said. “That’s one thing I’ve got. I’ve had a lot of practice.”

  She looked at him quizzically—he didn’t seem to be joking. “OK, but I’m not going to sit there like a lump,” she said. “I get to ask questions, too.”

  “As long as you stay calm. In fact, you take the lead with Treadway—you’re the famous wine writer.”

  Treadway’s was right off Union Square next to a very expensive florist. Behind its glass front it looked like the inside of a wine cave, with arched ceilings and rustic wooden beams. The shop was cool and smelled faintly of good wine. At a small tasting bar off to one side, a tall, athletic-looking guy poured white wine for a pair of underdressed tourists.

  A man of about forty with slightly protruding teeth greeted Jean and Zeppo. He had wavy brown hair cut in a stylish mop and wore a green Tommy Bahama shirt and dark slacks.

  “You’re Jean Applequist,” he said warmly. “I’ve seen you at a couple of tastings. I’m Travis Treadway.”

  Jean shook his hand. “This is Jay Zeppetello.”

  “Good to meet you. Are you the photographer?”

  “He’s a student intern,” Jean said. “He wants to be a wine writer just like me when he grows up.” Zeppo smiled faintly.

  “He looks pretty well grown to me,” Travis said, winking at Jean. His glasses were trendy narrow rectangles.

  “How about a tour of your shop?” She pulled a notebook out of her purse and pretended to take notes.

  “Well, sure. We’re famous for our extensive offerings of top-notch tequilas. We now have the largest selection of tequila in Northern California. We’re reaching out to a younger clientele, and tequila’s the happening spirit right now.”

  “I’m here from Wine Digest,” Jean said, stressing the word “wine.” Zeppo poked her in the ribs and she forced a smile.

  “Of course,” Travis said. “Step over here.”

  He led them to a long display case of premium California wines. All the top names were there, even older vintages of wines available only through mailing lists. The prices were so high they made Jean blink. She looked closely at the foils on the necks of the bottles but could see no evidence of tampering. “You’ve got all the cult Cabs, I see. Seven Stones Winery, Screaming Eagle, Harlan Estate, Harrison Vineyards, PlumpJack . . . oh, and here’s a twenty-year-old Stony Hill Chardonnay. How’d you get your hands on these?”

  “A lot of it is from auctions and the rest from private sources. I just bought an awesome cellar from a guy in Atherton who had to quit drinking on doctor’s orders.”

  Jean picked up a Carneros Pinot Noir she especially liked. “I saw this for ten dollars less at a wine shop in Noe Valley. Your markups are pretty high, aren’t they?”

  Travis shrugged. “I have to pay the rent on Union Square, not in Noe Valley. I provide free delivery and free consulting. At the end of the day, my customers are willing to pay a little more for a lot more service.”

  “Customer
s like Martin Wingo?”

  Travis hesitated. “He came in here a few times. Terrible what happened to him.”

  “Wasn’t it, though?” Jean said mildly. “Don’t you have a good selection of Bordeaux?”

  “Right over here.” Travis led them to a locked glassfront cabinet that held several top Bordeaux from good vintages—Margaux, Ausone, Lafite, Haut-Brion, Pétrus, and a single bottle of 1998 Le Pin.

  “Martin was particularly fond of ’98 Le Pin, wasn’t he?” Jean asked.

  Travis’s toothy smile faded a little. “That’s right. Like many of my clients, he wanted only the best and could afford to pay for it.”

  The tourists bought a bottle of wine and left, and the tall man went into the back room. The store was empty. “Look, Travis,” Jean said. “I do work for Wine Digest, but that’s not why we’re here. I’m the one who spotted the fake Le Pin last fall. I know all about your arrangement with Martin.”

  His geniality disappeared and he looked around nervously. “Let’s talk in my office.” He led them back to a small storeroom packed with boxes. “Felix,” he said to the clerk, who was shifting cases around, “take over for a few minutes, will you?”

  “Roger that,” Felix said.

  They went into a tiny office in the corner of the storeroom. Inside, Jean and Zeppo squeezed into two uncomfortable wooden chairs facing an old metal desk. On the wall was a framed studio portrait of a pretty dark-haired woman and two equally pretty adolescent girls in braces—they’d probably inherited Dad’s toothy grin.

  Travis sat behind the desk and glared at Jean. “So you’re the wine expert he threatened me with,” he said. “What’s your angle? His widow doesn’t want the case of Le Pin anymore. Should I send it to you?”

  “We don’t want your wine either,” Jean said. “We’re looking into Martin Wingo’s death. All you have to do is tell us where you were when he died.”

  “Why should I talk to you at all?”

  “If you don’t cooperate, I’ll write about your little hobby in my magazine.”