Blood for Wine

by Warren C Easley

  After studying the pictures carefully, I pushed myself away from the desk, put the magnifying glass down, and looked over at my dog. “I’ll be damned, Arch. Maybe we’ve got something here.”

  I spent the rest of the afternoon rounding up Jim’s character witnesses and speaking to several Northwest Jeep Dealers and a helpful young man in customer service at the company that manufactured the Chem Arrow 2000 lubricant. I left the office that evening feeling better than I expected. Proving Jim didn’t kill his wife loomed on the horizon like a mountain to be climbed, but meanwhile it looked like we just might have a shot at bail, a long one, but a shot.

  Chapter Twelve

  “How’s life treatin’ you, Calvin?” It was Bettie James, the first friend I’d made in the wine country. She stood behind the bar at the Brasserie Dundee at a little past noon the next day. The first of several restaurants with serious menus to pop up in town, the Brasserie was owned by Bettie, who did all the cooking.

  “Busy. You?”

  “Oh, I’m gettin’ by.” She cocked her head and eyed me. “You involved in that mess with Jim Kavanaugh?”

  I nodded. “I’m defending him.”

  “Figured you might.” She slid two wineglasses into an overhead rack, folded her arms across her ample chest, and clamped her eyes on mine. You didn’t dare even blink when she did that. “He didn’t do it, did he.” It wasn’t a question.

  “No. He didn’t.”

  She smiled, a flash of white teeth against dark skin. “He’s a big bear, but no way he hurts anybody, ‘specially that wife of his. I’ve known some bad dudes in my day, and none of them were generous.” She racked two more glasses. “Jim extended me a line of credit for some of his pinot when I was getting started. No questions asked.”

  Candice Roberts arrived just as Bettie was called into the kitchen. She wore jeans, calf-length boots, and a loose-fitting cable knit sweater. An ex-tennis pro and at least six feet tall, her thick, honey-blond hair framed an oval face that looked back at the world with a frank, open countenance.

  “Thanks for meeting with me,” I said as she slid into the booth.

  “No problem. How’s Jim? God, I can’t imagine that man confined to a jail cell. And to think, he’s in there having to cope with Lori’s death, too. He really loved that woman.”

  “Yeah, it’s rough on him. I just came from McMinnville. He’s worried about the bail deposit.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Jeeze. Tell him not to fret. We’ll be okay. Just tell me when to make it happen.” She leaned forward, her eyes brimming with concern. “How do things look?”

  “Too early to tell. Right now, I’m focusing on the bail hearing and getting some background information.” I didn’t mention my search for Isabel. Candice didn’t need to know that. We both ordered glasses of Le Petit Truc pinot and the plat du jour— spiced apple and butternut squash soup and a salad with arugula, sliced pears, and hazelnuts. “I was a little surprised that pulling thirty thousand dollars out of the business would be so difficult,” I said. “Why is that?”

  She curled one end of her mouth up and shook her head. “Jim’s a great winemaker but a shitty businessman. We’re digging out of a deep hole. When he decided to grow grapes and make wine on the property, he didn’t just ease into it. He borrowed heavily, you know, to pay contractors to remove the orchards, build the warehouse, and expand the barn. He had to buy winemaking equipment. Of course, he had to have all top-of-the line stuff, French oak barrels, stainless transfer tanks, the best destemmer and bottle lines, forklifts, fencing, the list goes on. The fencing alone cost a fortune. The whole property had to have an eight foot fence around it to keep the deer out. Oh, and then there’s the propane cannons to scare the birds.” She rolled her eyes again. “Sales were slow in the beginning, of course, and he almost went belly up.”

  “How did he survive?”

  “That was before my time. I think he found an investor who bailed him out. But he’s never shared that side of the business with me. Sort of a silent partner, I guess you could say. Someone smart, whoever it is. Jim’s got maybe the best acreage in the Dundee Hills for pinot—soil content, elevation, orientation, drainage, the whole package—the terroir, as the French say. And Jim’s the consummate winemaker, a true artist. That’s a great combination.”

  Our food arrived, and she continued. “Matter of fact, that whole south-facing section Jim’s on is primo.”

  “That would be Sean McKnight’s land and Jim’s?”

  She took a sip of soup and nodded. “And Blake Daniels’ acreage, too. Those three parcels make up a huge swath of land most pinot noir growers could only dream about.”

  “And Sean McKnight wants to grow kiwis at Stone Gate.”

  She nodded. “Right. Jim went to Sean to see if he would grow grapes for Le Petit Truc. Offered him a good deal, but he turned us down. Sean’s pretty set in his ways. I don’t think he wants on the wine bandwagon. And Blake Daniels has been all over Sean to buy his farm outright.”

  I nodded, drank some wine, and regarded her over the rim of my glass. There was nothing delicate about Candice. She ate the way she did everything else, with a kind of gusto, commenting on the flavors and closing her eyes now and then to savor a bite. I said, “What got you into the wine business?”

  She laughed. “I was out wine tasting with a friend. It was just after I quit the tennis tour. We wound up at Le Petit Truc, and I went wild over the pinots. Jim and I got to talking, and the next thing I know, he tells me he’s looking for a marketing manager. Well, I said—and by this time I was feeling no pain—I have a marketing degree from Arizona State, and I’m unemployed.” She laughed again. “He hired me on the spot.”

  “Says a lot about Jim. Smart man.”

  “Says a lot about me, too. I hadn’t even thought about what I was going to do after tennis, and suddenly I had a real job. Anyway, I fell in love with the business, and Jim, of course. He’s the best boss anyone could have.”

  “He tells me you and Lori were friends. Do you know of anyone who wished her ill or might want to hurt her?”

  Candice didn’t hesitate. “No. No one.”

  “What can you tell me about her?”

  Her smile faded, and she chewed her lower lip for a moment. “Lori. Still can’t believe she’s gone. She wanted nice things, she wanted status, and money, of course. I think it had a lot to do with her childhood. Her dad left when she was young, and her mom struggled to make ends meet the whole time Lori was growing up.” She dropped her eyes. “I don’t want to speak ill of the dead—and for God’s sake, don’t let this get back to Jim—but I always felt like she had a dark side.”

  “How so?”

  She raised her eyes and looked flustered. “Oh, I don’t know…that she wanted a lot more than she had, maybe.”

  I nodded. “Married twice before Jim, right?”

  “Yeah. Lowlifes like her dad, I think. You know how that goes. Then she finally wised up and married a decent guy.”

  “But she wasn’t that happy, right?”

  Candice sighed. “No, not really. Lori just didn’t understand Jim.” She rolled her eyes to the ceiling. “God knows I tried to get her to give him some space and be patient. Jim’s playing a long game, I told her, but she just didn’t get it. I heard she was seeing a shrink, too, but that didn’t seem to help.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “Oh, a woman I know in McMinnville. She’s a gossip, but she usually gets it right. The shrink’s name is Richard Amis. He has an office in McMinnville.”

  I nodded. “Wasn’t he at the feast the other night?”

  “Right. He’s a great customer of ours. Kind of a wine groupie, if you know what I mean. Can’t get enough of the lifestyle thing. Knows his wines, though. I think his wife has Napa Valley connections in California.” She sipped some wine and eyed me over the glass. “He’s
Willamette Valley’s Dr. Feelgood.”

  “You mean he writes a lot of drug prescriptions?”

  She nodded. “Exactly. Well-to-do people in the valley go to him for depression, anxiety, that sort of thing. He’s very liberal with the Xanax and Valium, I hear.” She held her wineglass up and smiled. “This stuff works a lot better, and it’s all natural.”

  “Did you know that Jim and Lori were talking about reconciling?”

  “No. That surprises me. I had coffee with Lori several weeks back. She didn’t mention anything about that. As a matter of fact, I got the distinct impression she was seeing someone.”

  I lowered my spoon and leaned forward. “What gave you that idea?”

  Candice gave me a conspiratorial wink. “Women know these things. She looked as gorgeous as I’ve ever seen her, and that’s saying something. Her hair was done, makeup just right, a new outfit, even perfume. I knew she hadn’t dressed up that way for me, and when I mentioned how great she looked, she smiled for just an instant and then said something vague, like, ‘Oh, I have an appointment after this,’ and never elaborated.”

  I thought of Jim’s comment about Lori possibly being restless during the marriage. “Did she ever cheat on Jim?”

  Candice took a sip of wine and paused for several seconds. “I had my suspicions, you know, just picking up on some of her remarks.”

  “Do you know who she might’ve been seeing?”

  “Nope. I never reacted to her hints. I didn’t want to know, to tell you the truth.” Candice looked past me for a moment and chewed her lip again. “A part of me wanted to tell Jim, but, of course, I wasn’t sure, and it was none of my business, anyway.”

  “Could it have been Blake Daniels?”

  Her eyes flared for just an instant and she smiled. “Oh, he’s a player, all right, but what gave you that idea?”

  I shrugged. “Just a wild guess from something Jim mentioned. Would she have told anyone else? Sylvia, for example?”

  “Oh, I doubt it. Sure, Sylvia was sympathetic to some of Lori’s complaints about Jim, but Lori would figure something like that would get back to Jim in a heartbeat. Sylvia loves her Uncle Jim.”

  “What’s she like?”

  “Oh, you know, she’s the devoted wife type, a little uptight for my taste. She and Eddie are all about their investment business. Eddie’s supposedly this financial genius. Sylvia handles the office, I think.” She made a face. “She dotes on Eddie.”

  “What about Lori and Eddie? How did they get along?”

  “Eddie’s supportive of Jim. I think he resented Lori always bitching about Jim and the wine business. But, you know, he’s pretty focused on becoming the world’s next billionaire.”

  “Do you know of anyone who would want to harm Jim?”

  She lowered her wineglass and leaned in a little, her eyes growing large. “You’re thinking Jim’s being set up? I wondered about that.”

  I shrugged again. “Can you think of anyone who would go to that extreme?”

  She studied the tablecloth for a few moments. “No. No one around here. Maybe some wanna-be from California or some crazy Frenchman who lusts after Jim’s vineyard. I don’t really know why, but the wine business stirs strong passions. Sure, it’s an ancient art and there’s money to be made, but there’s something deeper at work, you know?

  No, I didn’t know, but I was beginning to see her point. Winemaking was a hell of a lot more than fermenting grape juice, and the Dundee Hills seemed to occupy a special niche in that world. That was pretty much all I got from Candice, aside from a confirmation that she had neither seen Jim nor heard of him acting violently toward Lori. We split the bill at her insistence and both slid out of the booth at the same time. She reached to shake my hand, took it in both of hers and looked at me. Her eyes were the color of a river in low light. “I’m glad you’re in our corner, Cal. Thanks.” She squeezed my hand and then turned and left, her walk demonstrating that she’d lost none of her athletic tone.

  I popped my head into the kitchen on the way out and thanked Bettie.

  “How’d it go?” she asked.

  “Not bad.” After all, learning that Jim had a silent partner, something he’d failed to mention, and that Lori might’ve had a secret lover, was a pretty good hour’s work. And there was a chance Richard Amis—aka Doctor Feelgood—might know who the lover was.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The first thing to catch your eye in the McMinnville Circuit Court was the large Oregon State Seal above the judge’s bench. The oxen and covered wagon on the seal were reminders of Oregon’s pioneer roots, and the large video flat screen hanging nearby spoke to the state’s arrival in the digital age. The courtroom was wrapped in blond birch paneling and furnished with matching benches, tables, and chairs. Wall-to-wall carpeting helped soften the acoustics.

  We all rose for Judge Clarence Whitcomb, who came in from a side door, took his seat behind the bench, and gaveled James Kavanaugh’s bail hearing into session. The charge was read—criminal homicide—and Jim’s innocent plea noted. I had Juan Cruz and two other character witnesses waiting outside. Whitcomb decided to hear the flight risk arguments first so that the two character witnesses, at least, could be on their way.

  Completely undeterred by the fact that Jim was accused of murdering his wife, Marcy Duncan, chairwoman of the CASA—court appointed special advocacy—program for the county, sang Jim’s praises. “Over the past eleven years, Mr. Kavanaugh has been one of our most reliable volunteers,” she told the court. “He’s changed the lives of a number of kids who needed support while going through the court system, usually as the result of the disintegration of their family from some catastrophic event.” She produced a stack of thank you letters and read a couple of poignant passages that praised Jim.

  “Is he involved in a case at the moment?” I asked.

  Duncan looked uncomfortable. “Well, his, ah, situation here might change things, but yes, he’s been involved—a nine-year-old who’s now in foster care. She lost both parents in that horrific car crash on the Pacific Highway several months ago.”

  The head of the Dundee Food Bank, Clyde Winkler, was clearly intimidated by the gravity of the proceedings but managed to give a decent account of Jim’s work on the board of that organization, noting that he donated, not just his time, but dozens of cases of wine for their annual fundraisers over the past five years.

  Berkowitz was silent through this testimony, and by the expression on her face, unconcerned that I was showing Jim had strong ties to the community. She would focus on demonstrating that her case against Jim was solid. If she did this, Whitcomb would have no choice but to deny bail, even if the Judge were convinced Jim did not represent a flight risk. The Oregon Constitution made that crystal clear.

  I put Jim on the stand next. It was a calculated risk, because it provided Helen Berkowitz a chance to cross-examine him. But I wanted him to tell his story and felt that, as long as he didn’t get angry, he would hold his own and project an air of honesty and even righteous indignation.

  “Tell us what happened the night of October twelfth,” I began. Jim went through his version of the story convincingly and with palpable emotion. When he finished, I said, “Describe for us what you do for a living, Mr. Kavanaugh.” He talked briefly about his winemaking business, and when he finished, I said, “Would you consider fleeing the state or country at any point in time during the winemaking process?”

  “No. I would not.” He looked over at Whitcomb. “Your honor, I’m the one and only winemaker in my operation. My wine won’t get made without me, at least not properly. I wouldn’t think of leaving.”

  I swear I saw a faint crease of a smile on Whitcomb’s face, but when I blinked it was gone. People in Oregon understand the devotion to one’s craft.

  Wearing a dark pants suit with flared legs and standing an inch below five feet, Yamh
ill County Prosecutor Helen Berkowitz was up next. She opened with a cross examination of Jim that went nowhere. I breathed a sigh of relief. My gamble had paid off.

  Sensing a loss of momentum, Berkowitz excused Jim and launched into a graphic description of the murder, which included showing Whitcomb several photographs of Lori Kavanaugh’s bludgeoned body. Then she briskly summarized the county’s theory of the case—that Jim had gone to meet Lori at the turnout, had brutally slain her, and then tried to make it look like he discovered her dead body. She showed Whitcomb photos of the murder weapon, including one showing where it was discovered. “So, you see your honor, we were fortunate that when Mr. Kavanaugh tossed the wrench after this senseless murder, it came to rest against this tree. Otherwise, we might never have found it.” Berkowitz peered up at the judge at this point and squared her narrow shoulders. “And we’ll show that the wrench belonged to Mr. Kavanaugh, that it came from the very Jeep Grand Cherokee he drove to the scene with.”

  Berkowitz put Detective Harold Ballard on the stand, and the veteran cop walked the court through the evidence they had, starting with Jim and Lori’s strife-torn relationship. He read from Lori’s mother’s statement, some of the more damaging e-mails, and then in a surprise move, read an account of the infamous lunch, where Jim upset the table and stormed out. Apparently, they traced the restaurant through Jim’s e-mail apology to Lori and, being good detectives, followed up with an interview.

  From there, Ballard covered the physical evidence linking the murder weapon to Jim’s Jeep, the fact that the lug wrench in said Jeep was missing, and that Jim was covered in the victim’s blood when the Detective and his partner arrived at the scene.