Blood for Wine

by Warren C Easley

  Viewing your clients’ interests as a “sacred trust” was admirable, I supposed, although that cut only one way—for the benefit of the investor. No, I didn’t like the way Eddie and Sylvia’s company made its money. But if I was looking for a financial motive to kill Lori and snatch Jim’s property through a frame-up, I sure as hell didn’t find it.

  To be honest, I was relieved.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  On Thursday of that week an article appeared in the McMinnville News Register that was subsequently picked up by the major newspapers in the Northwest.

  Prominent Winemaker Indicted for Wife’s Slaying

  A Yamhill County grand jury has indicted James F. Kavanaugh, owner of the Le Petit Truc winery in the Dundee Hills, for the murder of his wife, Lori Feldman Kavanaugh. According to Yamhill Sheriff Detectives, Mr. Kavanaugh claimed to have discovered his wife’s lifeless body at around 9:30 p.m. on October 3 at a turnout near Parrett Mountain Road in Newberg. She had been bludgeoned to death. The couple, who had been separated for a year, planned to meet at the remote spot to discuss their marital difficulties, according to statements made by Mr. Kavanaugh.

  Lead Prosecutor, Helen Berkowitz, told The News Register that the investigation had uncovered forensic evidence linking Mr. Kavanaugh to a tire iron used as the murder weapon. In addition, Berkowitz stated that the Kavanaugh’s marriage had been strife-ridden and that Mr. Kavanaugh had displayed public outbursts of anger toward his wife in the period leading up to the murder. “When shown the evidence,” Ms. Berkowitz said, “the grand jury made the right call in indicting this man for the cold-blooded murder of his wife. The District Attorney’s office looks forward to a speedy trial and conviction of Mr. Kavanaugh.”

  Mr. Kavanaugh could not be reached for comment, but his attorney, Calvin Claxton of Dundee, said, “James Kavanaugh is completely innocent of these charges, and we look forward to proving that conclusively in a court of law.” A trial date has not been set.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  On the afternoon that news of Jim’s indictment broke, I knocked off early and drove over to Le Petit Truc to check in on my client. The vineyards that had teamed with workers during the harvest were now deserted, the orderly rows falling away to the south and west like columns of marching soldiers. The work had shifted from the harvest and culling of the grapes to their fermentation, an ancient alchemy that promised to enhance the value of the bounty many times over.

  Arch took up his spot at the entrance to the warehouse, and when I entered Juan waved as he drove past me on a forklift carrying a pair of sixty gallon oak barrels. Jim waited for him halfway down a long aisle stacked with barrels on either side. I watched as Juan moved down the aisle and skillfully maneuvered one of the barrels into place high atop three others in a steel rack. Jim saw me and waved. “Getting ready to barrel,” he said as I approached. As I hoped, he was staying busy. Work was the best solace for my friend.

  “I’m glad you have barrels left.”

  “Candice didn’t sell them all. We’ve got just enough left to take care of this year’s harvest.”

  “You told me once you don’t use mechanical pumps, so how do you go from the fermenters to the barrels?”

  He pointed to the forklift. “We pick up the fermenters with that buggy, raise them above the barrels, and then let gravity do the work. Mechanical pumps are bad news. Introduces oxygen.”

  “Then once it’s barreled you sit back and let the magic happen, right?”

  Juan laughed out loud. Jim said, “In this business you never get to sit back. Once it’s in the barrel we start worrying about the next vintage. But, yeah, the next eighteen months or so is when the true character of the wine develops.”

  Juan gave me a thumbs-up. “This vintage will be the best ever. You should pre-order your cases now before the word gets out.”

  “I don’t know, Juan. If the wine gets any better I won’t be able to afford it.”

  Jim allowed himself a laugh. “Only if you win in court, Cal. Otherwise, we’ll be giving the stuff away.”

  I watched them work for a while and then followed Jim over to the wine tasting room in the barn, where, he told me, Candice was working on the books. Archie was right behind us, and after being hugged by Candice, found a comfortable spot in the corner from which to observe the humans.

  Jim looked at me. “We’re short on cash, as you know. I told Candice to pay you out of cash flow, so you need to bill us each month until we get this cleared up. Does that work for you?”

  “Yeah.” I would have liked a twenty-five thousand dollar retainer, but what was I going to do?

  Jim looked at Candice, who sat behind the wine bar with her laptop opened in front of her. “How do we look?”

  She winced. “Well, Struthers and Bidwell both called after your arrest and cancelled big fall orders without any explanation. We lost several smaller distributors, too. I’ve got calls in, but people aren’t calling back. It’s not a good trend.”

  “Jesus, Candice, when were you going to tell me this?”

  She shrugged. “I figured you had enough on your mind.”

  Jim tugged at his beard, then ran a hand through his hair. “Well, if customers don’t like me being arrested, they’re going to hate me being indicted.” He looked at me. “But don’t worry, Cal, we’ll cover you no matter what.”

  I waved the comment off. Candice looked at me, her eyes hopeful. “Did anything useful come out of the hearing?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t really know. In Oregon, grand jury proceedings are not recorded. The only thing I’m entitled to see are the jurors’ notes, which are never very useful. So, to understand their case against Jim, I’m forced to rely on the police reports almost exclusively.”

  Jim shook his head, and Candice looked indignant. “That’s stupid. Doesn’t that give the prosecution an advantage?” she said.

  “Among many, yes.”

  An uncomfortable silence ensued, and I kicked myself for going negative. Jim said, “What’s next?”

  “There’ll be a second arraignment, and we’ll enter another not guilty plea. It’ll be pro forma like the last one. Once that’s out of the way, we’ll get a trial date.”

  “What’s the time frame for that?” Jim asked.

  I shrugged. “I’ll push for an early date, but like I told you, it’s a slow process. Summer at the earliest.”

  Jim shook his head. “Jesus, that long?”

  I nodded sympathetically, but there was no way to sugarcoat it. “Maybe longer. The court dockets are perpetually jammed.”

  Another silence ensued, which was broken by Candice, who turned to me with a mischievous look in her eye. “I told Jim about Blake Daniels.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Why am I not surprised?”

  Candice looked at Jim but spoke to me, her tone earnest. “I wanted him to understand, to trust me, Cal.”

  I looked at both of them in turn. “Look, this is serious business, and it has to stay among the three of us. Agreed?” They both nodded. I turned to Candice. “Any plans to see him?”

  A sly smile spread across her face. “Tomorrow night. His place for dinner. Stay tuned.”

  I glanced at Jim. He was clearly upset but held his tongue. He was right to trust her, I decided. And it was clear he cared about her.

  Changing the subject, I said, “Did Lori use any medications, you know, something prescribed by Richard Amis?”

  Jim scratched his chin through his beard. “Yeah, she was taking something for her nerves.”

  “What was it?”

  “Xanax. I didn’t like it. I think she was becoming dependent on the drug.”

  I swallowed my reaction to that news, nodded and went on, “I talked to Aaron Abernathy, by the way. He told me Lori’s mom had gone into hospice care.”

  Jim winced. “Damn. Sorry to
hear that. She’s probably given up after losing Lori.”

  “You were right about Abernathy—he’s caught up in the cannabis craze. He works at a shop on Division—”

  Jim barked a laugh. “They better watch the cash box.”

  “The man has a temper, and he’s still angry that you and Eddie denied him a loan. He probably feels like he missed the brass ring.”

  Jim’s eyes narrowed as he got my drift. “Where was he the night Lori died?”

  “He told me he was with his stepmom.”

  Jim’s eyes went flat and cold. “Well, that’s shit for an alibi.”

  I left Le Petit Truc that afternoon feeling relieved that Jim was holding up but also feeling queasy about the financial situation. There’s nothing like working without a net. Candice’s date with Blake Daniels was a concern, too. I worried about her being too confident. After all, the stakes for the game she was about to play were a lot higher than any tennis match she’d ever competed in. “Call me when you’re out of there,” I told her, “and don’t try to do too much.”

  News that Lori had been using Xanax was huge. If she was still using it after she and Jim separated, then it followed her lover could have had access to it, and so, too, her prescriber, Dr. Feelgood himself. Okay, maybe the country was awash in Xanax like Hiram pointed out, but the fit was pretty damn good.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  I’d just pulled in and shut the gate at The Aerie when my cell phone chirped. It was Pastor Holquin calling to give me a cell phone number. “This might work for contacting Isabel,” he said. “I didn’t call the number. I was afraid I might frighten her off. She has probably heard enough from me and the church. God go with you, Mr. Claxton. I will pray for you both.”

  I went inside the house, fed Archie, poured myself a glass of pinot, and called the number. What Holquin failed to mention was that Isabel’s English was just slightly better than my Spanish, which wasn’t saying anything at all. We fumbled around trying to understand each other, so I tried to keep it simple. By the time we finished, I wasn’t even sure she understood who I was or what I wanted, but she was surprisingly decisive when I suggested we meet.

  “Okay, Meester,” she said. “You come tonight. Southeast 158th and Martins Street. You can come at nine thirty. We will talk.”

  I agreed to meet her there, pleased that we had somehow communicated. Since I was due at Caffeine Central the next day, I decided to stay the night in the small apartment above my Portland office. I called Winona to see if she wanted to have a drink after my meeting. She agreed. Next, I called Nando to ask him to come with me for the meeting with Isabel to help translate. He didn’t pick up so I left him a message.

  I looked up the meeting place on a map of Portland. Ten miles east of downtown, the intersection of SE 158th and Martins lay between Johnson Creek and the Springwater Corridor Trail, the latter a segment of a forty-mile bike and hiking trail encircling greater Portland that meandered through neighborhoods, industrial districts, parks, and wetlands. The corridor had become populated—some would say overrun—with homeless campers who preferred some semblance of open space to a slab of concrete under a city bridge. She’s probably camping nearby, I told myself. The Springwater Corridor would be a good place to hide.

  In any case, it had come together rather nicely, I told myself. But there was a little voice in the back of my head that said, too nicely?

  While Arch watched with his chin resting on his paws in the study, I slipped my laptop and a couple of files I’d need the next day into my backpack, which also contained a change of clothes. When I put the pack on, my dog scrambled to his feet and beat me to the front door, whimpering and wagging his entire backside. He was always up for a road trip.

  We pulled out onto the main road around 8:50 as a light rain began falling from a low cloud cover that blotted out what was left of the waning moon. I took the 5 to the 205, exited at Foster Road, and followed it to SE 158th. I tried Nando twice more on the way in but without success. I began to worry about my ability to communicate with Isabel, but our date was set.

  I parked along 158th, a half-block before it intersected Martins Road. A single street light provided scant visibility on the deserted street. I sat in the car for a while, just checking the scene out, and then tried Nando again. No luck. I got out after telling Arch to chill and walked across Martins Road in the direction of the Springwater Corridor. I figured she’d be coming from that direction, and, sure enough, I saw the shadowy figure of a woman emerge from a path through the trees. “Isabel Rufino?” I called out.

  “Si,” she said as she drew up close enough for me to see that it was, indeed, the young woman in the photograph. Spiraling mist sparkled in the street light above her, and the only sound was the crunch of gravel under her feet. She stopped, crossed her arms, and looked at me through lashes heavy with mascara. Her face was drawn and had a kind of hardness not evident in the photograph. Innocence lost.

  I gave her the friendliest smile I could summon. “Thank you for meeting me,” I began. “I want to—”

  Her eyes widened, and I heard rapid footsteps behind me before being staggered by a blow to the head. I dropped to one knee and raised my left arm just in time to deflect a second blow. An attacker from the opposite side kicked me hard in the thigh. I toppled over and covered my head as blows rained down on me from both sides. Archie began barking and snarling furiously, and over the din one of the attackers said, “Tell Roberto that we’re keeping the fucking tar, man. There’s no deal. Tell him to stay off our turf.”

  “You’ve got the wrong—”

  Both men began kicking me, and I could hear Arch lunging against the car window in an absolute fury. “There’s no deal, motherfucker. Got that?” a second voice said.

  “Stop it!” I screamed. “I’m an attorney from Dundee. You’ve got the wrong guy. I don’t know anyone named Roberto. I came to talk about Luis Delgado’s murder.”

  My assailants were having too much fun to listen to me. More kicks rained in and one caught me square on the temple. Before I blacked out I heard Isabel’s voice, “Basta! Basta! Don’t keel him.”

  When I came to a few moments later, Isabel and her friends were gone. As I rose up on my hands and knees blood dripped from my nose, and pain ripped through my body like a serrated edge. Archie’s barking turned to a high-pitched whine as he watched me try to stand. I finally made it up and staggered to the car, pinching my nose to staunch the bleeding.

  I got in the car, locked the doors and started it up. If they came back to finish the job, I wanted to be able to get out of there fast or maybe run the bastards down. Archie had jumped into the front seat and was busy licking the side of my face and making little whimpering sounds to calm me.

  I took stock—I had a lump above my left ear the size of an egg from the first blow, a gash on my right temple from that well-placed kick, and a left arm that felt broken above the elbow. My nose throbbed but seemed to have stopped bleeding. Those were the sites that stood out on a body in more or less screaming pain.

  With a clenched jaw, I worked my way over to the Pearl District using the Burnside Bridge to cross the Willamette and found a parking space a block and a half from Winona’s loft. She buzzed me in, and I hobbled up to the second floor with Archie at my side.

  When she opened the door, she sucked a breath and her eyes grew enormous. “Oh, my God, Cal!” she gasped. “What happened?”

  I tried to smile through a thick lip to reassure her. “I met up with Isabel Rufino. It didn’t go well.”

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Winona led me through her apartment—an open plan with scarred oak floors and twenty-foot ceilings lined with exposed beams, ducts, and conduits—to the bathroom, which was the only other actual room in the place. She ran a pan of warm water and as Archie looked on began gently dabbing at my wounds and then applying antiseptic, bandages, and words
of sympathy. “That’s a nasty lump above your ear,” she said after she finished cleaning it. “You could have a concussion, you know.”

  I looked in the mirror. “Doubt it. Both pupils are the same size, and I’m not dizzy or nauseous. I only saw stars with that one.” Pointing to my temple, I added, “But this one caused a supernova.”

  “Ew,” she said as she began to clean it. “That’s an ugly gash. Where’s Hiram Pritchard when you need him?”

  As she nursed my wounds I began recounting what happened. When I finished she looked at me and shook her head. “Why did you meet her alone like that? Why didn’t you wait for Nando?”

  I shrugged and winced from the pain the effort caused. “I tried, but Nando was incommunicado, and I had no reason to expect trouble. I figured I had one chance to see if she knew anything. No way I was going to miss it.”

  “So you think you stepped in the middle of some kind of drug squabble?” The statement caused her to smile. She held up a hand and looked apologetic. “Sorry, but it was such a colossal misunderstanding.”

  “I know. I’ve got to improve my Spanish.” That made us both laugh. A bit of comic relief was apparently needed at this juncture. “The squabble was over black tar heroin,” I went on. “Maybe Delgado was the victim of a drug hit after all.”

  Winona considered this for a moment. “I don’t think so. If he was, they would have killed you in revenge. Instead, they just beat you up to send a message to Roberto, whoever he is.”

  I shook my head in absolute despair. “You might be right, but we’ll probably never know. I have her cell phone number, but I doubt she’ll talk to me now.”

  “Maybe Nando can talk some sense into her. In Spanish.”

  “Yeah, that’s worth a shot. I’m going to see him tomorrow if I can.”

  After Winona finished cleaning up and bandaging my head she said, “Okay, let’s get your shirt off and have a look at that arm.” We both gasped when we saw it was already swollen and turning several shades of purple. I felt a sense of déjà vu and then remembered why. I was in similar shape after a beating from a Russian cage fighter a few years back. A doctor named Anna Eriksen patched me up. I chuckled and shook my head.