Located southwest of Dundee, off the Lafayette Highway, the house dominated a low hillock that had been meticulously stripped of all native vegetation to maximize the visual impact. The house was circular in design, one story stacked on another with wide eaves, a wrap-around second floor balcony, and spacious bay windows. Lit up from within and silhouetted against the fading light, it looked like it was about to lift off.
I whistled softly. “Jim said the house was avant-garde, and he wasn’t kidding.”
Winona laughed. “I’ll bet the architect had an aversion to blocks growing up.”
The front door was open, and we followed the sounds of laughter and conversation down a narrow hall that opened through a wide arch into a room jammed with people. We worked our way through the crowd, me making introductions and Winona turning heads. Candice was right. Just about every mover and shaker in the Willamette Valley wine scene was on hand. I spotted Jim in a corner, standing alone and gazing out a bay window with a glass of wine in his hand. Not a good sign. Framed by the window, he looked even bigger than he was, like a trapped bear.
“Okay,” I said as we stepped up beside him, “The party starts now.”
He turned and flashed a smile of relief, then pumped my hand and hugged Winona. “Some house, huh? “Come on, let’s get you some wine.”
He steered us to one of the two wine serving stations in the room, hosted by an attractive young woman in a crisp, white coat. “I suggest you start with a white,” he said to Winona, “and since you hang out with Cal, I’m guessing he’s brainwashed you about Sancerres.”
Winona and I both laughed, and she said, “Guilty as charged. My favorite white by far.”
“Okay, I recommend you both try the J. Christopher Sauvignon Blanc that this young lady’s pouring. Made from the same grape as your French Sancerre. A little more fruit-forward than that Loire Valley stuff you’re so fond of, but pretty decent.” After we secured our wine, Jim drew in closer, glanced around, and said in a low voice, “I’m glad you’re here, both of you. I’m feeling about as welcome as a turd in a punchbowl. People seem a little uncomfortable drinking with an accused wife murderer. Can you imagine that?”
“Nonsense,” I said. “You haven’t been convicted of anything.”
Winona leaned in. “I’ve been there, Jim. Stay centered in your innocence. People will sense it. If they don’t, it’s their problem.”
“Thanks, Winona,” Jim said. “Cal told me about your ordeal.” Then he managed a smile. “Hey, enough of this pity party bullshit. Come on, let’s go meet the host.”
Richard Amis stood with his wife in a group of people near a set of French doors that opened onto a large flagstone patio. Outside, I saw a knot of men huddled beneath a radiant heater next to a large swimming pool covered with a blue tarp. I recognized a couple of Dundee Hills vintners in the group. Talking shop, no doubt. Across the crowded room, a clutch of women were circled in animated conversation. I thought of what Candice said about Amis’ practice, and wondered how many in the group were patients of Dr. Feelgood.
Amis saw us approaching and smiled expansively. He was tall and thin, and his attire—a blue blazer, gray slacks, and Gucci loafers—was set off with a crimson bow tie. I guessed he was going for the conservative commentator look, but I thought of Pee Wee Herman instead. His wife, Eleanor, wore an elegant electric blue dress, diamond earrings, and a plastic smile. She struck up a side conversation with Winona and soon after they drifted off together, along with the others. There seemed to be unwritten rules for the circulation of people at cocktail parties, but I had no clue what they were.
After some awkward chitchat, Amis turned his half-shrouded eyes to me. “The arrest was a real shocker. Were you expecting it?”
I sipped some wine, and Jim shuffled his feet. “Well,” I said, “I knew the cops didn’t have much, but it’s almost a knee jerk reaction to charge the spouse in a case like this.”
Amis nodded, looked at Jim, and produced what passed for a smile. “Glad to see you out and about.” Then he swung his eyes back to me. “Congratulations on the bail hearing.”
I nodded and sipped some more wine. I wasn’t about to discuss the case.
To both of us he said, “Well, I’m sure you’re anxious to clear this up. I’d hate to see your business damaged by this craziness.”
Jim shuffled his feet again. I said, “We’re pushing for an early trial date. Meanwhile, I think most people still subscribe to the notion of innocent until proven guilty.”
Amis nodded and replicated the thin smile. “Well, most of the people in this room certainly do, myself included.” He let the comment hang there for a moment, suggesting the rest of the world might view it differently. Then to me, he said, “You’ve got quite a challenge ahead of you for a one-man law firm. I’ve been an expert witness in some murder trials, and I know how demanding they can be.” He swung his eyes through Jim and back to me. “Do you plan to liaise with one of the large firms in Portland?”
“I hadn’t—”
Jim cut me off. “Fuck no, Richard. We don’t need any help from Portland.” He gestured in my direction. “Cal went to law school at Berkeley and was a big time prosecutor in L.A. We’re going to prove my innocence.” Jim, my biggest supporter, just added a couple more bricks to my load. He saw it as a one-man show, and I had yet to disabuse him of that notion. The truth was that if this went to trial I would almost certainly have to add another attorney to the payroll.
Amis smiled. “Well, let’s hope so.”
Two other couples joined our circle, and I excused myself to get some of Jim’s pinot, only to find out the server had just run out. I turned around and there was Amis. I must have looked disappointed, because he said, “Don’t worry, Cal, I have some more of that in the cellar. Come on, give me a hand. I need to bring more wine up.”
I followed him through the archway and down a long hall to a door he unlocked with a key from his pocket. “I keep my cellar locked out of habit,” he said as he switched on a light and began descending the cellar steps. “Some of my most treasured possessions are down here.”
The steps led to a large room with a stone floor and wine racks everywhere. The racks were fashioned from unstained teak, and one wall featured a rectangular alcove with a huge painting of a vineyard. Fully leafed-out and bearing clumps of purple fruit, the vines in the painting faded into a blood-red and gold setting sun. In the corner, a full sized, white marble statue of a young man, bearing a strong resemblance to Michelangelo’s David, stood resting an arm on a stout grapevine dripping with fruit. I felt like I’d walked into a shrine instead of a wine cellar.
“Beautiful painting,” I said. “Looks like the Dundee Hills.”
“As a matter of fact, that’s a westerly view of Jim’s lower acreage. Eleanor snapped a photo one evening, and I liked it so much I commissioned the painting. Came out rather nice, I think.” I nodded my approval and glanced at the statue. “That’s Dionysus,” he went on, “the Greek god of the grape harvest, a second century version. The Romans called him Bacchus, of course.”
Of course. I nodded again and surveyed the scene—bottles precisely arranged, the shelves labeled and numbered like a library, a stepladder on rollers to reach the top shelves. “Impressive, Richard. How many bottles do you have down here?”
He allowed himself a modest smile. “Oh, last time I looked I was north of five thousand.” My God, I thought, he’ll never drink that much wine in three lifetimes. When does a collector become a hoarder? He motioned toward the left wall. “Mostly Bordeaux, Burgundy, Loire Valley, Rioja, and Mosel on that side.” He swung his arm the other way. “Oregon and California wines over there, with a bit of Argentinean and Chilean thrown in. The front’s stocked with wines that are ready to drink, all Oregon tonight.” He extracted four six-bottle carriers from beneath the stairs, handed two to me, and nodded toward the front. The Le Petit Truc�
�s up there.” Grab six if you wouldn’t mind, and three of the Domaine Drouhin and three Carabellas. I’ll get the rest.”
When we were both loaded up, I said, “Ever think of owning your own vineyard?”
His eyes became full for an instant. “Oh, you know, I’m too busy with my practice.”
I nodded and decided to seize the moment. “Lori Kavanaugh was a patient of yours, right?”
He looked at me, his eyes half shrouded again. “You know full well that I can’t respond to that, Cal.”
“I’m wondering if you know the name of the man she was seeing before she was killed?”
His eyes flared again, stronger this time. He tried to cover it with a look of absolute incredulity. “If I knew the answer to that, which I don’t, I couldn’t divulge it.” With that, he turned and started up the stairs.
“Of course,” I called after him, “but a man’s life’s on the line here. All I need’s a name, and no one needs to know how I found out. Think about it, Richard.” He kept walking and didn’t look back.
I knew he’d turn me down but hoped I’d learn something by blindsiding him with the request. I did.
I dropped the wine off and was threading my way through the crown when I ran into Candice Roberts. She wore a killer little black dress and a loose, boozy grin. She grasped my arm and swayed just a little. “What’s up, handsome? Did you bring your significant other?”
“Yeah.” I pointed to her across the room. “Winona. The woman next to the hostess.”
She giggled then made a face. “She’s gorgeous. Crap, and I thought I had a chance tonight.”
I laughed. “I’m flattered. Look, Candice, I only know a couple of those vintners out there on the patio. Why don’t you introduce me around?”
She squeezed my arm. “Okay, but you’re no fun.”
Candice made short work of the introductions, and we all watched as she swayed back through the French doors and disappeared into the crowd, which was becoming thoroughly lubricated by free-flowing wine.
“Smartest thing Kavanaugh ever did, hiring her,” one of the vintners said.
Blake Daniels, owner of the Rolling Hills Winery, laughed. “He better put her full time on damage control.” Daniels was shorter than me and powerfully built with hawk-like eyes, and short-cropped black hair that was just a shade too black to be natural. He regarded me and smirked. “How’s it look for your boy, counselor?”
I leveled my eyes at him and smiled without much friendliness. “Last time I checked I wasn’t representing any boys.”
He held my gaze for a couple of beats. “I’m talking about Jim Kavanaugh. You going to get him off?”
“He never should have been arrested. He’ll be vindicated in court, if it isn’t thrown out first.”
An uncomfortable silence ensued as Daniels and I glared at each other. The owner of Carabella Winery, a former client of mine, stepped in. “Hey, Blake. Cool it. I’m sure Cal didn’t come here tonight to talk about this.”
“I don’t blame him.” Daniels shot back. “Looks open and shut to me.” With that, he turned abruptly and walked back into the party. Two other vintners followed him.
The Carabella owner broke the second silence by launching into a description of his work with native fescues and wild flowers. “We’re planting them to enhance the soil and keep down invasive species without chemicals,” he explained. This kicked off a lively discussion of the pros and cons of organic viticulture.
At a lull in the conversation, I said, “I’ve heard a rumor that outside interests are very keen on acquiring land in the Dundee Hills. Have you guys heard anything?”
They all laughed, almost in unison. The winemaker at Beaux Freres said, “We’ve all been approached by real estate firms. They want to buy our land at top dollar. But that has quieted down, I think. They didn’t find any takers.”
“Any idea who the buyers are?” I asked.
He shrugged and looked around at the group. “I never heard, and they weren’t saying. Probably California types. The drought down there’s hitting them pretty hard.”
Another vintner chimed in, “Or the French. They’ve got their eyes on Oregon as well.”
The Carabella owner said, “Well, it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to know that things are heating up in California, and pinot noir grapes aren’t fond of heat. Lying north of them gives us a huge advantage. We’re at roughly the same latitude as the Burgundy region, and the French are always looking for more prime acreage.” He laughed. “But I don’t think any of us are interested in selling our land. We’re a stubborn bunch.”
When the talk shifted back to winemaking, I excused myself to find Winona. The place was buzzing with conversation and laughter by this time, the wine having done its work. I spotted her in a circle of women that included Eleanor Amis. As I approached, Winona shot me a rescue-me look. I took the cue and pulled her out, explaining to the group I had someone I wanted her to meet. In truth, I wanted her to taste some of the other great wines being poured that night like the Beaux Freres, Carabellas, and Domaine Drouhins. When we finished the 2013 Beaux Freres, I said, “That got ninety-six points on the Wine Spectator scale.”
She nodded. “It was nice, like a basket of Oregon berries, but the Le Petit Truc I tasted had more depth and lingered on the tongue a lot longer. Why didn’t The Wine Spectator rate Jim’s pinot? He would have crushed it.” She giggled. “No pun intended.”
I laughed. “I guess he wasn’t on their radar back then.”
After we finished our circuit, I glanced at my watch and exhaled a sigh. “This is about as much cocktail party as I can take.” We waved our goodbyes to Jim, who had joined the vintners out on the patio. Jim looked a little more relaxed, and I even saw him smile. Amis had joined the circle of women, who seemed to hang on every word of a story he was telling. “They won’t miss us,” I said, then added, “Where’s Candice?”
Winona laughed. “Probably working on her makeup.” She didn’t elaborate until we were outside. “I, uh, went down the hall a while ago to find the lady’s room and opened the wrong door. Candice was in there with that good-looking guy with the dark hair. They were, uh, not discussing the wine business.”
“Which dark-haired guy?”
“He was out there with that group on the patio when we got here. He came back in right after you joined the group.”
“Blake Daniels?” I said. “What the hell’s Candice doing with that jerk?”
As we drove back toward The Aerie, I explained the bad blood between him and Jim that resulted from Daniels’ apparent interest in Lori Kavanaugh. Winona said, “Maybe Candice didn’t know about that. She was pretty drunk.”
“Maybe so, but damn…”
At The Aerie I got out and opened the gate, expecting to see Archie come charging up the driveway. But he was nowhere to be seen. “Archie?” I called out. “Where are you, Big Boy?” Still no sign of him. “That’s weird,” I said when I got back in the car.
I should have known something was wrong.
Chapter Eighteen
I coasted into the garage, switched off the ignition, and handed the keys to Winona. “It’s cold out here. Why don’t you just let yourself in. I’m going to find Arch. He’s probably gone through one of the holes under the fence on the east side where all the skunks hang out.” Using my smart phone as a flashlight, I made my way around the garage and picked my way through the fallen apples I’d yet to rake up. I was almost to the fence line when I heard a scream.
Winona!
I spun around, sprinted for the house and nearly went sprawling when I hit the squishy apples. She screamed again, my name this time. It sounded like it came from the west side of the house. I took the low stone fence bordering the drive like a hurdler, bounded up the front steps, careened around the corner of the covered porch, and nearly tripped over her in the darkness. S
he was groaning and trying to get up on her hands and knees. “Someone was in your house,” she said. “He hit me with something.”
I dropped to one knee, adrenaline flushing through me like a tsunami. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I think so.”
“Where’d he go?”
“Into the backyard, I think.”
I peered into the darkness enveloping the back of the house and then started to get up. Winona grasped my arm. “No, Cal. He hit me with something hard, maybe a gun. Don’t go back there.”
“Okay. Quick. In the house.” I helped her inside, sat her down, and looked at her wound, a burgeoning lump above her right eye with a vertical split oozing blood. I handed her my handkerchief. “Do you need an ambulance?”
“No. I’m okay,” she answered through gritted teeth as she pressed the cloth in place. “I heard a noise on the side of the house. Thought it was Arch. Where is he?”
My chest constricted. “I don’t know. If you’re okay, I’m going to check out the house and then go look for him.”
“Go. I’ll call 911.”
I checked both floors after retrieving and loading the Glock 19 I kept in a shoebox in my closet. The gun was loaned to me by Nando Mendoza, who always rebuffed my attempts to return it. “You live in a lonely spot and have made some enemies over the years, my friend,” he told me. “You need a means of defending yourself.” I wasn’t a big fan of guns, but at that moment the heavy chunk of murderous steel felt damn good in my hand.
Winona’s eyes flared when she saw the weapon. “Be careful, Cal. He could still be out there.”
“I will. Whoever it was is probably long gone. Keep the doors locked.”
Outside, a thick cloud cover blocked light from the waning moon, and the only noise was the faint yip, yip, yip of a band of coyotes down in the quarry. I picked my way back through the fallen apples and went up and down the east fence line calling Archie’s name, the Glock resting in my right hand. Nothing.
Blood for Wine Page 10