by Meg Benjamin
Chapter Twenty
Hilton sat in his office, wondering how to get around the problem of Toleffson and Biedermeier. It was damned inconvenient for Toleffson to have caught the dumper, particularly when Hilton was this close to getting rid of him. Biedermeier’s arrest might come across as a strong argument in Toleffson’s favor.
Of course, whether it was a strong argument or not, Hilton should still be able to convince the council to fire Toleffson. He’d just have to lean heavily on the interpersonal-problems angle and drop the little bombshell Brinkman had dug up in Toleffson’s record. He figured that would be enough to make the council somewhat queasy, particularly if he made some vague references to possible lawsuits. Maybe he wouldn’t call it firing. “Reassigned” had a nice sound. That way Hilton himself wouldn’t have to take any heat for getting a hero fired.
Hilton knew from experience that the city council members would agree to just about anything if it meant going home on time. And people would forget about Toleffson soon enough. They always did.
Still, he really wished there was some way he could give Friesenhahn the credit for catching Biedermeier instead of Toleffson. He wouldn’t mind doing a grip and grin with Ozzie, who always managed to bring along some reporters when he cracked a case.
Hilton’s irritation flared again as his office door swung open. Doralee still needed reminders about not walking in unannounced. He didn’t bother to look up. “Goddamn it!” he snapped. “Didn’t I tell you to knock?”
“Not that I recall, no.” Horace Rankin stepped into the office, his graying walrus moustache bristling.
Hilton swallowed. He’d always been able to deal with the other members of the city council through a mixture of charm, bribery and intimidation. But neither charm nor bribery worked with Rankin, and Hilton wasn’t stupid enough to try intimidation. Rankin might gut him. “What can I do for you, Horace?”
Rankin sat uninvited in one of Hilton’s padded chairs. “What’s this thing about Toleffson? Why is he on the agenda tomorrow night?”
Hilton cleared his throat. “Personnel matter. We’ll be in Executive Session.”
“What kind of personnel matter?” Rankin took off his gold-framed glasses and polished them with a bright red bandana handkerchief. “You know he found out it was Biedermeier doing the illegal dumping out in the hills? Caught him out at the winery.”
Hilton’s jaw tightened. “I know.”
“So you wouldn’t be dumb enough to try to get rid of the man now, would you, Pittman?” Rankin breathed on his glasses and polished them again before replacing them on his nose. He turned magnified eyes on Hilton.
Hilton shook his head. “I’m trying to correct some problems Toleffson has created in his time here. And bring some facts to light about his past record in Iowa. Hopefully, tonight will take care of everything.”
“Problems?” Rankin raised his eyebrows. “What problems would those be? Far as I can see, Toleffson has been the best thing to happen to the police department in years. And Ozzie Friesenhahn said his record was outstanding.”
Hilton managed a chilly smile. “We’ll have to differ on that, Horace. A closer look will show he has some definite problems both now and earlier.”
Rankin settled back deeper into the padded leather chair, studying Hilton over his fingertips. “You’re going to screw this up, aren’t you, Pittman?”
“Screw what up?” Hilton began savagely unfolding a paper clip on his desk to keep from throwing something. “I’m doing my job here, Rankin. I’m running the city.”
Rankin began to push himself up slowly from the depths of the chair. Hilton had never noticed how tall Horace was. Must be six feet or so. Remarkable really.
Horace leaned over the desk, planting his fists on either side of the desk pad. “Listen, Pittman, nobody has messed with you because it wasn’t worth their time. Start screwing around with Toleffson, and it may suddenly become worth my time to do something about you.”
Hilton raised his gaze from the desk to Rankin’s face. His expression was enough to make a timid man recoil, but Hilton was made of sterner stuff. Besides, he knew for a fact Rankin didn’t want to run for mayor. “I’ll take your opinion under advisement, Horace.”
“You do that.” Rankin stood up straight, his eyes never leaving Hilton’s face. “See you tomorrow night, Mr. Mayor.”
Somehow when Horace said it, Hilton’s title didn’t sound nearly as impressive as it should have.
Morgan awoke at seven the next morning and listened for voices in the tasting room. When she’d returned to the winery after dinner, no one had been around. Ciro had stuck his head in to inform her tersely that her parents were staying at a B and B in town. At least her mother and father were back together for the moment.
Every time she thought about the future, she got a stomach cramp. Staying at Cedar Creek under the current arrangement made her insides burn, but going anywhere else, admitting to herself that she’d never be good enough to be part of the winery, hurt a lot worse.
She’d had dinner with Allie and Wonder at Brenner’s, but she hadn’t seen Erik all evening. Maybe he was on duty. Or maybe he’d decided to start easing back on spending time with her. After all, it was beginning to look like they both might be headed elsewhere soon enough.
All in all, the sight of the empty tasting room did nothing to make her heart feel any lighter. She put food out for Skeeter and Fred, along with some cat crunchies for Arthur.
By the time her father stepped onto the front porch, she was seated at the bar with a cup of coffee.
“Morning, Dad.”
Her father climbed onto the stool next to her, narrowing his eyes. “I waited for you last night. You didn’t come back.”
“No.” Morgan took another sip of coffee. “I had dinner with some friends.”
“We need to get this straightened out, Morgan.”
She glanced at his face for a moment, the hard look in his eyes. “I don’t know if we can, Dad. We seem pretty far apart just now.”
“I didn’t mean to imply you haven’t done your work here, Morg.” Her father glanced out the window at the vineyards along the hillsides. “Place looks good. You and Ciro kept it running well.” He turned back to her. In the early morning light, the shadows emphasized the hollows in his cheeks and the wrinkles surrounding his deep-set eyes. He looked older than he ever had.
He leaned forward, covering Morgan’s hand with his own. “Considering how much you had to learn and how hard you had to work, you did a hell of a job, kid.”
Morgan exhaled, suddenly aware of how tight her chest had been. “Thanks, Dad. It’s not just about helping to run the winery, though. Not for me anyway.”
Her father’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”
“I have some ideas about Cedar Creek. About things we can do to increase our sales—to make us better known around the state. And maybe even outside the state.”
The moment of silence seemed to stretch uncomfortably. Her father’s jaw grew tight. “We’re already well-known. Those medals over there show how well-known we are.”
Morgan’s chest tightened again. “Some people know what we do, but a lot more don’t. We’re not as widely distributed as the other wineries around here. And we should be. Our wine is as good as theirs. Better, in most cases.”
Her father shrugged, looking back up at the hillsides again. “Our sales are decent. About as much as our production can support. No point in trying for more sales when we don’t have the capacity. I don’t see that we need to make any major changes.”
“Decent shouldn’t be enough.” Morgan swallowed hard. “We should be looking to the future, building on our customer base so that we can expand.”
Her father shook his head. “We’re fine the way we are. Don’t mess with things you don’t understand, Morgan. Just concentrate on learning the details of production. Don’t waste your energy on all that marketing garbage. We don’t need it. We never have.”
Morgan closed her eyes. The ache in her gut was painful.
“You want me to just go on doing things the way you’ve always done them?” Her voice sounded flat to her own ears. “No changes? No using my expertise? You want me to just be a worker bee and keep out of the way?”
Her father grimaced. “Look, maybe it’s natural for you to think you can come in and make everything bigger and better here. But that’s not why I asked you to come. You’re supposed to be learning the business. Not changing the way we’ve run the winery. It works, Morgan. It doesn’t need changing. We’re a premium winery. We’re known and respected throughout the state. What you want—what you’re suggesting isn’t right for Cedar Creek.”
“How do you know what I’m suggesting, Dad? You haven’t heard me yet.”
“I know what you’ve done so far—trying to release wine too soon just so we can get into some damn restaurant. And trying to have us produce this idiotic pop wine.” Her father grimaced. “Jesus, Morgan! What were you thinking? Haven’t you paid any attention over the past year?”
In the silence that followed, Morgan heard a mockingbird tuning up in the live oaks outside. She took a deep breath. “So that’s it,” she murmured, shaking her head. “That’s how we end it.”
Her father stared at her, brow furrowed.
“When I first came here, I thought I had something to offer. I thought I could take what I learned and apply what I already knew to make things better here. But the longer I’ve worked here, the more I understand—you never wanted me to do what I do best. And you’ll never be satisfied with the way I do everything else. Face it, Dad. I’m lousy at being you. I just hope I haven’t forgotten how to be me.” She folded her arms across her chest, what there was left of it. Maybe she could market the whole experience to the model wannabes—the Slave Labor Diet.
“What you do best?” Her father’s voice cracked. “What you do best is smoke and mirrors. All that useless crap you learned at business school.” He thumped his hand on the oak cask below the counter. “This is real, goddamn it. This is what you should be thinking about. This is what you should be proud of.”
Morgan closed her eyes again. “I am proud of it. But why the hell can’t you be proud of me too?”
“That’s a good question, Cliff. You have any answers for her?” Her mother’s voice sounded remarkably calm as she walked across the room.
Morgan’s head shot up. Her father started so violently that he spilled his coffee, then muttered curses as he mopped it up with a napkin.
“Morning, all.” Her mother smiled blandly at them both. “Any more coffee there?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Morgan couldn’t decide if she felt relieved or worried that her mother had waited until now to walk in, but she poured her a cup of coffee anyway.
Her mother lifted herself onto a stool at the bar beside her father. “Well, this is interesting. I thought I’d be coming here for breakfast, not a Texas version of King Lear.”
Her father narrowed his eyes, but said nothing. Morgan decided that was a good idea.
“So let me see if I’ve got the gist of the argument here.” Her mother took a sip of coffee, gazing at the Cynthiana vineyard. “You, Cliff, want Cedar Creek to stay exactly the same as it’s always been because it’s just freakin’ perfect as is.”
Her father took a sharp breath, but her mother held up her hand to stop him. “And you, Morgan, would like to try to introduce some marketing to the winery because you actually know something about it beyond the blanket assumption that it’s snake oil. Is that about right?”
Morgan nodded slowly. “That’s about right.”
“So what would it take to bring these two points of view together, Clifford? Aside from a miracle?”
Her father started to say something, then stopped, staring down at the floor, his mouth a grim line.
“Morgan? Any ideas?”
Morgan studied her father for a long moment. Raise or fold, Morgan. Raise or fold. “Bored Ducks is due to be released at the Wine and Food Festival this weekend. Use that as a test case. If people like it, if it sells, maybe Dad could listen to some of my other ideas. If it’s a bust, I’ll go quietly.”
Her mother sighed. “Sounds fair to me.”
Her father stared down at the coffee cup he still held, then glanced back up at her. “Okay. If you’ve already printed up the labels, you might as well go ahead. There’s no time to print up more. But if it doesn’t sell, from now on you will accept my judgment on things like this that you know nothing about. And you will never try anything like that again.”
Morgan exhaled, suddenly aware that she’d been holding her breath. “Daddy, if it doesn’t sell, trust me, I won’t want to try anything like that again.”
Erik sat in when the Rangers and Friesenhahn questioned Biedermeier. Not that they got anything new out of him. Erik had the distinct feeling that there wasn’t much new to be gotten from Biedermeier. That well was pretty much dry.
The questioning had taken all afternoon and the drive back from Austin had taken over an hour, given the traffic. By the time he reached Konigsburg, he was hot, tired and more depressed than he had been when he’d left. He headed for the Coffee Corral, parking his cruiser out front.
Inside, he saw Lars and Jess at a booth with their children. Daisy, age three, was industriously coloring. Jack, age one or so, was industriously reducing a French fry to mush by pounding it flat. Jess gave him a distracted wave after he’d left his order with Al Brosius.
He liked all three of his sisters-in-law, but Jess was his favorite. Maybe because she’d known him first as a cop who’d helped her, not as her husband’s slightly sinister big brother. And Lars, like Cal, seemed to have forgiven Erik for all the pain he’d caused when they were young. An evening with Lars and Jess would be low stress, even if they had to talk around the kids.
“Join us,” Lars called.
“Sure.” Erik started to amble their way.
“Chief?” Al stepped away from the front counter. “Got a minute?”
Erik glanced curiously at the kitchen to see who else could be cooking. Kent, the budding juvenile delinquent, was flipping burgers with ease.
“Sure.” Erik followed Al to a table at the side. “What’s on your mind?”
“I found out about Kent,” Al blurted.
Erik waited. He wasn’t exactly sure what to say to that.
Al stared down at his hands, then back again. “I wanted to thank you for giving him a break. He’s a good kid. He’ll keep his nose clean. I’ll make sure of it.”
Erik nodded. “I know. Teenagers. It happens. He’ll be fine.”
“I know you didn’t have to help him. I appreciate it. Let me know if there’s ever anything I can do for you.”
Erik thought of all the breaks people had tried to give him when he was a teenager, and the lousy use he’d made of them. “Thanks. Don’t worry about it.” He clapped Al on the shoulder, then stood. “How did you found out about it? Did Kent tell you?”
Al grimaced. “Nah. Ol’ Margaret angels-are-my-middle-name Hastings. She lives across the street from the school. Saw Kent picking up the cans and bullied him into telling her what was up. Couldn’t wait to call me.”
Erik felt a telltale prickling along the back of his neck. Something about that wasn’t good. “Well, like I say, don’t worry about it. It’s water under the bridge now.”
By the time he got to the table, Lars and Jess had switched into cleanup mode. Jess was swabbing Daisy’s fingers with a wet wipe, while Lars worked on Jack. “What’s new?” Lars grinned up at him. “Other than your heroic capture of the mysterious dumper, that is. At least we won’t have to detour around Biedermeier’s ass at the Dew Drop for a while.”
Erik decided the question of what else was going on in his life at the moment wasn’t one he wanted to tackle right then. “You on your way out?”
Jess nodded. “We’ve got to get these two home before they burn out. Why don’t you come to dinner n
ext week?”
“We’ve got family dinner next Friday,” Lars reminded her. “We can catch up then.”
Jess gave him a grin that showed her dimples, as Lars began unsnapping Jack from his highchair. “I don’t think I ever congratulated you on being chief. Way to go.”
Erik managed to push the corners of his mouth into a passable smile. “Thanks.”
Jess’s grin began to fade as she looked at him. “Troubles?”
“Just tired.”
She studied him a moment longer, then shrugged. “You’re a lousy liar, Erik. We’ll talk about it at the family dinner. I need to catch up on what’s going on in your life.”
By Friday, of course, they’d all know what was going on. Not that he’d be any more excited to talk about it. “Okay. We’ll talk then.”
He watched them stagger out the door, parents with their squirming children. Once he would have bet he’d never be like them. Now…
Now he had other things to worry about.
He headed back to the station and took a quick check through the Wine and Food Festival paperwork. This weekend. He sighed—he might not even be in charge by then. Ham Linklatter walked in a few minutes later, looking like death. Since Ham always looked like death, Erik didn’t think much about it and left him to his night duty.
He pulled into his usual parking spot beside the bookstore, then walked back to the Dew Drop. He doubted Morgan would be there, but it never hurt to check.
And it might be better than calling her this late after not talking to her for a day and half. Even though he was a social halfwit, he knew that was not a good idea, even if he had a good excuse.
The Dew Drop was full of dart players and beer drinkers, but no Cal, no Docia, no Allie, no Wonder.
No Morgan.
Erik sighed. Another fence to mend. No, more than that. Morgan was definitely more than a fence.
He turned back up Main, heading for Spicewood and home. In front of him, the door at Brenner’s opened and Morgan stepped into the street with the sommelier, Ken Crowder.