by Penny Warner
“Perdóneme, señor…I…I was just…on my way,” Javier stammered, gripping his hat in both hands as if it might shield him from injury. He shuffled out, head down, passing Allison without giving her a glance.
Allison tossed an odd smile to Rob—more like a smirk—then spun around and left the room without shutting the door behind her.
“Sorry about that,” Rob said. “We’re all under a lot of stress with this party. I’ve got the Green Grape people breathing down my neck, JoAnne threatening to call the police, and Napology trying to buy me out. And we haven’t had the best harvest the past couple of years. As for Allison”—he nearly spat out her name—“she hasn’t been with us long. I suppose it’s taking her time to learn everything.” Rob shook his head.
“No problem,” I said.
“And Javier,” Rob went on. “I know he’s worried about work. He was managing several of the boutique wineries in the area, but many of them have been absorbed by Napology.” He took a deep breath, sighed, then put on his happy face again. “Anyway, sorry to vent. Just wanted to explain. Marie and I are both so glad to have you doing the party. Once we debut our new, competitively priced merlot, I think business will really take off.”
“Of course,” I said. I thought about my own crew and their occasional squabbles. Dee was a theater prima donna, happiest in the spotlight, while Berk saw himself as a cinema artiste. It was a combination that often created a lot of drama. Duncan and Berk shared an office, so naturally they had their little spats, mostly during the competitive computer games they played. Rocco had his own cooking show on local TV, so calling him a temperamental chef was putting it mildly. Luckily Brad got along with everyone—sometimes too well. Women found him charming—especially Marianne, the director of the Treasure Island Development Association, to name one. She seemed to find ample opportunities to flirt with him. As for me, my only beef was an occasional sarcastic interchange with Lieutenant Luke Melvin, a detective with the San Francisco Police Department—who also happened to be Brad’s best friend.
“The party is going to be wonderful,” I said. I glanced around my mother’s room, a mirror image of mine, right down to the pillows. She headed for her suitcase, while I made my way back to my own room, via the bathroom, which I noticed had a shower and Jacuzzi, two sinks, and a toilet that included an actual bidet.
Great for rinsing my feet, I thought, should I be stomping any grapes…or putting out party fires.
After setting up a few things for tomorrow’s party—tables and chairs, strings of lights, wine barrel halves—and after much pleading by my mother, we drove up to Calistoga for a mud bath, something she’d been wanting to do. Personally, I prefer clean water and a bunch of bubbles, but she insisted we subject our bodies to steaming hot mud—and even pay for the privilege. I’d hoped to have talked her out of it by the time we finished the half-hour drive, but no such luck. We were headed for muck.
“Wilkinson’s Hot Springs Resort should be just ahead,” Mother said, craning her neck trying to spot the place after we turned onto Main Street in Calistoga, a town famous for its hot springs. We’d already passed several places advertising the healing powers of hot springs, mineral waters, spa treatments, and mud baths, but Mother had insisted on Wilkinson’s.
“I remember going there years ago—sometime in the fifties or sixties—when this one first opened up,” Mother said. “The place was packed with celebrities. I read once that Robert Louis Stevenson and P. T. Barnum used to go to the hot springs, back in the eighteen hundreds.”
P. T. Barnum? He’d probably opened his own place, thinking there was a mud sucker born every minute.
“What’s so great about mud?” I asked, less than enthusiastically. The thought of ooey-gooey sludge swirling around my lady parts really didn’t appeal to me.
“It’s not just the mud,” Mother said. “It’s the mixture of volcanic ash and hot mineral water that’s so good for you. The ash cleanses and smooths your skin and the mineral water is so soothing. They say mud baths not only relax your tired muscles, but they also dissolve your aches and pains, improve your circulation, and even treat arthritis.”
I knew the claim about treating arthritis had been disproved, but I could always use a little help with tension and stress. With the party coming up—and the threats from this JoAnne character—I needed all the mud I could get.
I spotted the classic, three-tiered Wilkinson’s sign, a relic from the fifties that looked like something from The Jetsons TV show. The top one announced “Dr. Wilkinson’s Hot Spring Mud Baths.” Underneath it said “Motel, Vacancy.” And beneath that, “TV. Indoor pool.” I felt like I was on the old Route 66.
A girl in a “Got Mud?” T-shirt greeted us as we entered the small pink-painted lobby. “Here for just a mud bath or do you want the works?”
I answered before Mother could speak. “Just the mud bath, please.” The works—a massage, a facial, and who knew what else—would have cost more than I could afford.
“Great. Well, let me tell you a little about the experience,” the girl said as she began her memorized spiel. “After you change into robes, you’ll get into the mud bath and stay about ten minutes. The mud is pumped through a-hundred-and-twelve-degree water, so it’s going to be hot.”
“Is it cleaned between customers?” my mother asked.
“Oh yes, it’s raked,” the girl said.
Raked? I thought, but didn’t say aloud. What was there to rake? I didn’t want to think about it.
The girl continued explaining the procedure, mostly stuff I’d already learned from Mother about the volcanic ash mixture, the healing powers, blah, blah, blah. Finally she led us to a changing room with curtained cubicles, where we twisted up our hair with clips and wrapped it with a towel, then exchanged our clothes for fluffy white robes—and nothing underneath. Moments later we were led into a private room containing two tubs, side by side, filled with mud. I dropped my robe and modestly stepped into the steaming hot pile of…mud. I made a face as I felt it squish between my toes. Meanwhile Mother entered the sludge, sinking her body down into the oozing primordial mass.
Inch by inch I eased in, inhaling the scent of lavender that filled the steamy room. I felt my muscles let go as the heat enveloped me. After I finally lay back, the girl placed cool cucumber slices on my eyes, then gave me a cup of chilled mineral water to sip while I melted into the mud. After ten soothing minutes, it was time to head for the showers, then into a bubbling mineral tub that felt like a sparkling Jacuzzi.
“Don’t you feel refreshed?” Mother said as we finished toweling off and began redressing in our tiny stalls.
“I’m so relaxed, I feel like a zombie,” I said. I wondered if I could fill my condo bathtub with a bunch of mud and get the same effect. Then again, a glass of wine would probably do the trick.
“I told you you’d love it,” she said, pushing back the curtain. “I’m dressed. I’ll wait for you out in the waiting room.”
“Okay, I’ll be right there,” I said, fastening one of my Mary Janes.
Two women entered the dressing area as I slipped on my other shoe. I heard one of them say something about a party tomorrow night and I stopped for a moment to listen in, wondering if they were talking about the event at the Purple Grape.
“Are you going?” a woman with a high-pitched, breathy voice asked.
“Yeah,” the other woman said, her voice husky, like a smoker’s. “Nick says we have to go, since the Christophers are neighbors.”
“Us too,” the higher voice said. “And we’re going to dinner with them tonight, although I don’t know why they invited us to that. I think he’s trying to score points for being a sensitive neighbor. He thinks just because Dennis used to be the governor, my husband still has some clout.”
“Us too,” said Husky. “But Nick thinks if we show our solidarity against JoAnne, we’ll have a better chance of beating her. Let’s just hope this new wine we’re tasting isn’t as bad as their last batch. Ot
herwise, they haven’t got a prayer against Napology.”
“God, I hope that witch JoAnne doesn’t show up tomorrow night,” said Breathy. “She threatened to, at the last Winegrowers’ Association meeting. I wouldn’t be surprised if she brought her green goons and tried to ruin the whole thing.”
“Well, that’s not our problem. Besides, maybe she’ll leave the rest of us alone if she sinks her pointy teeth into her latest adversary.”
Still in my cubicle, I heard the curtains pull back and bare feet pad out of the room.
“Presley!” my mother called from the lobby. “Did you fall in?”
As a matter of fact, I was wondering the same thing. But what, exactly, had I fallen into?
Chapter 3
PARTY-PLANNING TIP #3
Let your guests know that a wine-tasting party is actually good for their health! Among other things, red wine is beneficial to the cardiovascular system and may even help reduce the chance of getting lung cancer. Of course, too much can lead to alcoholism and liver disease…
Mom and I enjoyed a leisurely drive back through the quaint town of St. Helena, taking in the colorful flowers, budding vines, and enticing smells of Gott’s burgers along the way. Hungry, we finally stopped for an alfresco lunch at Sattui Winery and arrived back at the Purple Grape around four, with plenty of time left to dress for the California Culinary College dinner at seven. I called to make sure Rocco and Gina were ready with their wine-paired amuse-bouche appetizers. From the little French I knew, amuse-bouche translated to “happy mouth.” Too cute.
Speaking of Happy Mouth, where was Brad? I could have used an amuse-bouche about then. I still hadn’t heard from him and still hoped he might make the dinner this evening, but with his job, it was always iffy. You never knew when a dead body might turn up. I left a second message on his cell and promised myself I wouldn’t bother him again.
“Presley dear?” my mother said as she entered from the bathroom that connected our two rooms. “I know you’re counting on my being at the party this evening, but I just talked with my friend Larry and he’s invited me to join him at bingo. Would you be terribly disappointed if I missed your little do? I promise to be there tomorrow night for the big event.”
Disappointed, no. Surprised, yes. My mother rarely missed a dinner party, even for a man. Who was this Larry character and what were his intentions toward my mother?
“What about dinner?” I asked. “You haven’t had anything since lunch.” We’d had fresh French bread, Sonoma Jack cheese, sliced prosciutto, and spicy mustard sandwiches at Sattui and had wolfed them down with a glass of sauvignon blanc for me and mineral water for my mom, who no longer drank alcohol.
“Larry said he’d buy me a hot dog. Isn’t that sweet? Apparently the high school students sell food there to raise money for their band.”
A hot dog? Since when did Mother eat hot dogs? This relationship was beginning to worry me. Mom had become a little naive since developing Alzheimer’s and wasn’t quite as savvy as she used to be. Or maybe I’d become a little overprotective, worried she might wander away or be caught up in a scam. The fact was, we were both still figuring out this puzzling disease.
“Okay, sure, Mom,” I said reluctantly. “But I want Larry’s number. What time do you need to be there?”
“Six. The bingo hall is at the Napa County Fairgrounds. I got directions from Larry. I thought you could drop me off on the way to your dinner at the culinary school.”
Mother gave me a hug and excused herself to take a pre-bingo nap. Sleep sounded heavenly, but I still had things to do before my crew arrived. I spent the next hour double-checking delivery times, unpacking more decorations, and calling members of my staff to make sure they were ready to hit the vineyard running when they arrived the next morning. When I called Rocco at the culinary college, he reassured me that the food would be incredible for both the party and tonight’s dinner and hung up without a good-bye.
I found Rob in the kitchen, reading a wine industry magazine and sipping coffee.
“Hi, Rob,” I said. “How’s the count for tomorrow night? Still expecting about sixty people?”
Rob set down his coffee mug. “Hi, Presley. No cancellations yet. You’ll get to meet a few of the guests tonight at dinner—our neighbors, the Briens and the Madeiras.”
Ah, possibly they were the two women I’d overheard at the mud baths earlier. They seemed less than excited to attend the dinner tonight or the party tomorrow. This would not be fun.
“They own wineries too?” I asked, curious about them.
“Yes, Nick Madeira is a Hollywood producer who prefers producing wine rather than movies these days. He’ll be there with his wife, Claudette. They own Castello de Vino—the winery that looks like a medieval castle. Our other neighbors, ex-governor Dennis Brien and his wife, KJ, will be there too. Dennis retired out here after he left office. He owns the Governor’s Mansion Winery.” I remembered seeing signs for both of the wineries when we’d first arrived.
We chatted a few more minutes; then I returned to my room, where I found a message on my cell phone from Brad. I’d missed his call. He’d explained that another job had come up—no doubt a body—and he wouldn’t make it until late in the evening. Now that Mother had accepted another invitation with some guy named Larry, I was left dateless, the only single among a group of couples.
At a quarter to six, I drove my mother to the fairgrounds. I’d changed into a silky black knee-length dress and black Mary Janes for the dinner party. Mother, however, was dressed to the nines in a lavender silk pantsuit (her favorite style), matching pumps (always matching), and makeup heavier than usual for an evening with an old paramour in a bingo hall. The woman didn’t own a pair of jeans.
“So who is this Larry guy?” I asked along the way.
“Oh, just someone I met years ago,” Mom said, her rouged cheeks turning even pinker. “He used to be in the military—some kind of special forces, I think. He retired up here and works in the tasting room at a big winery. Larry loves his whiskey, but I could always drink him under the table.” She smiled proudly at the memory. When her third husband died as a result of alcoholism, she never touched another drop.
“How did you find him?”
“He found me on the Internet,” she said. “On one of those classmate sites.”
“Well, I want to meet him,” I said, pulling into the crowded parking lot at the fairground. I helped Mother out of the MINI and escorted her inside the large rectangular building to make sure she met up with her date and didn’t wander over to the homeless shelter nearby.
The auditorium-sized room was bright and cheery, well lit, and filled wall to wall with cafeteria-style tables. Most of the seats were already taken, and the spaces in front of the players were covered with fat, colorful markers, quilted supplies caddies, and giant sheets of paper featuring multiple bingo squares. In addition to the paper spreads, many of the players had what looked like electronic bingo consoles resembling minicomputers. And many of the players, mostly female, had brought along little good-luck charms—trolls, Beanie Babies, photos of grandkids, rabbit-foot key chains—to decorate their spots and hopefully give them the winner’s edge.
This was a whole new culture to me. My thoughts quickly began to churn up party ideas with a bingo theme.
Mother scanned the room. “There he is!”
She waved at a large man at a far table who was waving back. He stood and lumbered over to greet her, his potbelly leading the way. Special forces? I found it hard to believe this guy had passed the rigorous physical exam. But age, carbs, and a lot of whiskey certainly challenge the body over time.
“Veronica!” he said, embracing her in a welcoming hug. He pulled her back a stomach’s length and looked her over. “You haven’t changed a bit! Still as beautiful as ever!”
I looked him over as he gazed at Mother. Red faced—high blood pressure? Gin-blossom nose—the whiskey? Audible breathing—heart problems? Raspy voice—longtime smoke
r? He wore a festive Hawaiian shirt covered with pineapples and palm trees stretched over his tummy bulge, high-water khaki pants, and what looked like brown leather bedroom slippers on his feet. Circulation problems?
“Oh, Larry, you were always a charmer,” my mother said tactfully. “It’s good to see you after all these years. I want you to meet my daughter. Presley, this is Larry O’Gara, an old and dear friend.”
He gave me a mini-bow, and I almost saluted him.
“Not so old, Ronnie,” he said. “Presley, nice to meet you. Your mother’s told me all about you.”
I wanted to say “You as well,” but that would have been a lie—I knew almost nothing about this man. Instead I smiled and asked when bingo would be over so I could pick up my mother.
“I’ll bring her home,” he said. “No trouble. In fact, it would be my pleasure.”
I debated whether to let some stranger—a stranger to me, at least—be responsible for bringing my mother home, or to refuse his offer and embarrass all of us. But my mother often suffered from sundowner syndrome, an added condition in which many Alzheimer’s patients feel confused and irritable during the evening hours.
“Maybe next time,” I said. “We’ve got a big day tomorrow with the wine-tasting event.”
Larry stood at attention. “Understood. We should be done around nine.”
“Bye, Mother,” I said, hesitant to leave her, and gave her a hug. I knew that a change in environment could affect her comfort zone and easily disorient her, so I whispered in her ear, “Call me anytime and I’ll come get you!” I turned to Larry. “Take good care of her, Mr. O’Gara.”
“Will do,” he said, offering his arm to Mother. She took it, and he escorted her to his table, where a gaggle of women greeted her cordially while eyeing her cautiously. It appeared Larry O’Gara had a female fan club. No wonder. The women in the bingo hall outnumbered the men something like four to one. Not the best odds for a woman wanting to hook up with a prospective date or future husband. Mother was one of the lucky ones.