A Case of Sour Grapes

by Gae-Lynn Woods

  Clever, I thought. Hiring a stud to seat the crusty old ladies. That might explain why more than half of the lunch crowd has double x chromosomes.

  He took me to a table near a window, where I sipped a glass of exceptionally good rosé and nibbled at a plate of cheese and grapes while I waited for Blue, grateful for the opportunity to run through my questions one last time. The sound of shattering pottery came from the kitchen. The diners went silent for only a fraction of a second, and then as if embarrassed they had noticed the commotion, the murmur of conversation resumed.

  My phone chimed with a text and I smiled. It was Simon, a new acquaintance from Fort Worth, asking me to dinner Friday night. A bit cheeky, considering it was Thursday afternoon, but I accepted and started planning what time I’d have to leave Arcadia Friday afternoon to meet him by seven.

  The hunky host appeared and handed me a copy of Texas Eats magazine. A photo of the winery graced the cover, along with an inset photograph of Blue with a man I assumed was Bret Ivey. Blue’s smile was wide and natural; she was a beautiful woman with an affinity for the camera. Bret’s face was mostly obscured by a wide-brimmed cowboy hat, but the flat planes of his cheeks and his chiseled jaw indicated handsome features.

  “Blue apologizes for running late.” His lashes were incredibly long over beautiful gray eyes. I caught myself staring as he refilled my glass. “This was published a while back, but there’s a story about the winery. We’ve had a nice bump in traffic from it.”

  The article recounted the winery’s humble origins when Bret planted the first vines almost nine years ago; his pursuit of Blue after she catered an event for a group of clients; Blue’s pottery and her culinary career; the winery’s exponential growth when they added a full-time kitchen and live jazz; and the awards won by its wines. It was a fabulous love story focused around a unique business. The article also mentioned Bret’s passion for music, hinting that he had once played professionally and was working on new tunes when he wasn’t busy with the winery.

  Bret came off as a serious man of mystery, which surely only heightened interest in the business. In almost every photograph, his face was obscured by the shadows thrown by a hat or the plump grapes ripening on a vine. In only one, the photographer managed to capture Bret and Blue mid-laugh, their faces upturned. The left side of Bret’s face was visible, but I wasn’t sure I’d recognize the man if I met him face-to-face.

  It was quarter after one when Blue emerged from the kitchen and joined me. She was followed by two wait staff bearing plates of sashimi and green salads. Fabulous.

  “I’m sorry for the delay. We’re between white and red grape harvest, which is wild enough, and one of my staff didn’t come in today. I hope you don’t mind that I selected lunch for us. The tuna is incredible,” she said. She was even more gorgeous in person than in the magazine’s photos, even if she looked a little tired. “I have to ask: were there any patrol cars parked out on the county road?”

  I nodded.

  “That man,” she breathed.

  “Who?” I asked.

  “Sheriff Hoffner’s on a mission to shut us down.”

  “Why?”

  “He hates the fact that his dry county has a winery in it. He’s had us inspected from top to bottom again and again. Food prep, health and safety, employment law, you name it. But the weird thing?” She leaned forward and puffed an errant strand of silky brown hair from her forehead. I liked the woman already. There was absolutely no pretense about her. “He comes out here regularly.”

  “And drinks?”

  “Two glasses with dinner. If he’s with someone else, he’ll order a bottle and share it.”

  “That’s a bit hypocritical, isn’t it?”

  Blue raised her glass to me. “That’s Bill Hoffner.” She sipped her wine and blushed. “I’m sorry. I’m so wrapped up in our problems I’ve forgotten my manners.” She held out her hand. “Blue Ivey. Which detective are you?"

  This question caused me no moral dilemmas. I hadn’t misrepresented myself. My potential client had simply assumed I was a private investigator. I handed her a business card bearing only my name and phone number. “Maxine Leverman. It's nice to meet you.”

  “And you. Great shoes. Blahnik?”

  I angled a leg so she could better see my beautiful pumps. “I love them.”

  “Me, too. But I’m on my feet all day. There’d be no hope for my ankles.”

  She picked up her wine glass and I goggled at her wedding ring. “Wow.”

  Blue twisted her hand to give me the full effect. The band was hammered platinum with a huge square cut sapphire surrounded by diamonds. “It’s the one thing he gave me that I love. I’m keeping it.”

  “You should. I’ve never seen anything like it.” I sighed. “At least it’s romantic. My husband gave me implants.”

  Blue looked down at my chest and burst out laughing. “Oh Maxine, I think we’ll work together just fine.”

  The staff served us on blue plates that looked hand-thrown. “These are beautiful. Did you make them?”

  A smile curved her lips and brought her features to life. “I did. Pottery is one of my passions, but I don’t get to work at it much now. Which is a shame, because one of our new waitresses keeps breaking the plates. You heard the crash?”

  I nodded.

  “That was Emily. Only three this time. I don’t know what we’ll do with that girl.” She leaned close as the waitress left. “Thank you for coming. I’m at my wits end about Bret. I hope you can find him because he’s driving me nuts.”

  “I’m sure we can help, Mrs. Ivey.”

  “Call me Blue. I plan to lose his last name as fast as I can get the divorce papers signed.”

  “I understood you’re already divorced.”

  “Sorry. That’s my little fantasy. I’m desperate to get this over with.”

  “Any particular reason?”

  “He keeps spending my money.” She sighed and I saw weariness in the gentle bruising under her eyes. “Technically, it’s our money, but you’d think he’d turned on the tap and left it running. This can’t go on much longer.”

  I digested this and decided to dig into the details later. “What made you call Lost and Found, Blue?”

  She stopped, chopsticks poised mid-air. “I don’t have the capacity to deal with another testosterone-fueled ego. I saw your advertisement and loved the concept of an all woman agency.”

  I ate a bite of tuna and tried not to moan. This wasn’t just incredible sushi; this was otoro, from the under-belly of the blue fin tuna. It melted in my mouth and it was all I could do not to scarf down the whole plate. I swallowed and said, “I read the article in Texas Eats magazine. From that, it sounds like you’re living a fairy tale.”

  “They did the interview and photo shoot last summer. The article came out in the autumn.”

  “Ah. Tell me what’s going on now.”

  “Bret disappeared a few weeks ago. Which isn’t totally unusual. At least not lately. But he always calls to check on the winery.”

  “You haven’t heard from him?”

  “No.” She stabbed a slab of tuna. “I am so over it. My fondest wish is that he’d disappear and let me run the winery. I’ll happily buy him out, as long as he’d just go away.”

  I wiped my lips. “You said Bret’s disappearing act isn’t totally unusual. At least lately. What does that mean?”

  “We’ve always spent a fair amount of time apart. With only two of us to run things and promote, we often travel separately. And to be fair, I haven’t been here much lately, either. My parents live in Florida and I’ve been there while my mother recovers from hip surgery. I have a cookbook in the editing phase, so I’ve traveled to New York. It wasn’t a problem when Bret was around, but I didn’t realize how bad things had gotten until a few weeks ago.” Blue stopped and seemed to compose herself. “He bought a yellow Corvette about a year ago. License plate WINE-O. Who does that?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “That’s when I
noticed. He’d tell me he was going for a drive to clear his head. At the time, the winery was at the tipping point. We were trying to decide whether to shut down or expand. So, when he said he needed some space, I didn’t worry. I thought he was enamored with the new car. But it wasn’t long before he was staying away until the early hours on the few occasions when we were both home.”

  “Did you ask him about it?”

  “Of course. He had trouble with the Corvette. A flat tire. Out of gas. But he came home smelling not exactly like soap, but certainly not like a man who’d changed a tire. That’s when I started to wonder if he was having an affair.”

  I was quiet for a moment, deciding how hard to push Blue. Then I figured that if I wanted to get anywhere as an investigator, I’d have to ask the hard questions. “Would you have thought him capable of having an affair?”

  “Never. Bret’s always been so attentive. I never thought I’d have to worry about cheating.” She toyed with her wine glass. “I don’t mean to discourage you, but it’s my experience that marriages don’t always turn out like we hope.”

  “I understand. I’m recently divorced from the implant purchaser. You were married before Bret?”

  “He’s my fourth husband.”

  I couldn’t help it. I arched a brow.

  She laughed, a gorgeous sound. “Believe me, I didn’t intend to get married after number three. He was the love of my life. But he died when we were in our late thirties. I thought I was done. I’d had my share of happiness.”

  Blue had my full attention, even though there was still sashimi on my plate. “But then you met Bret?”

  “He took my breath away. He’s whip-smart, works like a dog, got a great sense of humor, and,” she leaned close, “he’s awesome in bed. He wooed me like I’ve never been wooed. And I don’t mind saying I’ve had my share of amazing wooing.”

  “How comfortable were you with Bret when you married him?”

  “My libido didn’t totally override my brain. I’ve worked hard to get where I am, and husband number three left me very well off. Bret and I signed a pre-nup, but I do have a reputation to think about. I hired one of those all-men agencies. He’s been married once, to a woman in California. And he was forty when he married her. No criminal history. The agency pulled credit reports, bank statements, searched his assets, and worked up a financial statement. Other than the winery, he has nothing.”

  Bank statements? I thought. Credit reports? I had no idea private detectives had so much power. “How did his marriage end?”

  “Irreconcilable differences, that nebulous catch-all. Maybe I should’ve thought harder about that. But there’s something about Bret. He convinced me he took marriage very seriously, and wanted to find the right woman. Unfortunately, there were serious flaws with the woman he picked. Maybe I’m flawed, too.” She sighed then, a deep weariness seeping across her perfect features. “He made me believe I was the right woman for him. But in the end, I wasn’t.”

  “Do you know who he might be involved with?”

  “Find the woman with the biggest bottom around.” My surprise must’ve shown because Blue laughed. “Part of his job is to be charming, but every woman he flirts with has a massive backside. Some also have a big chest, but it’s the derriere he’s interested in.”

  “Then why...,” I started before realizing I was about to be very rude. Blue’s a beautiful woman, but her figure is more boyish than lush.

  “...did he pick me?” Blue asked, taking my unasked question in stride. “Given the rate at which he’s gone through our money, I can only guess it was for my bank account.”

  “Why are you so sure he’s strayed? If the winery was having problems last year, it certainly seems to be doing well now. You’ve got a beautiful location, the food is superb. Your vines even look good considering the drought. Things can only go up from here.”

  She toyed with her chopsticks. “Bret has an intense ability to focus. It’s always been on me, the business. But over the last year, he’s been distracted. Really distracted. I can’t imagine what would capture his attention other than a woman.”

  I considered that. “You think he’d walk away from all this for a fat bottomed girl, to quote the fabulous Freddy Mercury?”

  “I do.” Blue shrugged. “But at this point, I’m over Bret Ivey. All I want is for him to stop spending so damn much money.”

  A NOT SO PRIM PENTECOSTAL MASSEUSE

  TO TELL THE TRUTH, even after reading the internet articles I was clueless about how to find someone. So I did what every enterprising woman does when faced with a challenge: I had a facial and massage. When at home in Fort Worth, I use a fabulous technician named Jeremy. Handsome and a honey, he’s gooey in love with his partner of the moment, Paul. But that won’t last. It never does. My relationship with Jeremy has survived at least seven partners. I big-sister him through every break up and remind him of the importance of protected sex when each new love comes along.

  Funny, now that I think of it. He does the same for me.

  But my options are limited when I’m in Forney County. The best salon I’ve found is on the Loop around Arcadia, a place called Holy Rollers. It’s run by a family of Pentecostal women and let me tell you, despite their own reluctance to doll up, these gals know hair and skin. Janie took one look and ordered me to strip and assume the position on the massage table.

  “What’s eating you, Maxine?” she asked in a soft voice, covering me with a sheet and placing hot, smooth stones along the back of my left leg and one in each palm.

  “I need to find someone, and I’m not sure how to do it.”

  “Why?” She slicked oil along my right leg and worked the muscles, then gently massaged its length with a hot stone.

  “He’s just somebody I need to find.”

  “Nobody’s invisible these days. Start with the internet. Use a picture and do a facial recognition thing.”

  “No photo.”

  “What do you mean?” Janie finished working my right leg, placed hot stones along its length, and oiled the left leg. I was butter already.

  “He hates having his picture taken.” I pointed at the magazine in my purse, folded open to the shot of Blue and Bret Ivey laughing. “That’s the best his wife has.”

  “Suspicious.”

  I rose to twist and look at her, but Janie pushed me back down. “Why?” I asked.

  “With all the smart phones around? Given that he runs a winery, there are bound to be pictures of him out there in cyberspace.” She hit the ticklish spot on my left thigh with a hot stone and I giggled. “Be still. Google him. See who he’s with.”

  “Pretty smart,” I told her. “If that doesn’t work, all I know is where he lives and what kind of vehicle he drives. I don’t know how to find him when he’s not at home.”

  Janie moved the sheet from my back to my legs and placed hot stones along my spine and on both shoulder blades. The tension in my neck melted away. “Can’t you wait until he comes home and then follow him to wherever he goes?”

  “He’s not coming home, which is part of the problem. And I’d like to be proactive.”

  “Then you’ll have to go wherever he goes.”

  “I don’t know where he goes.”

  “Well, what kind of things does he like?”

  “Leather and Corvettes.”

  “That’s easy,” Janie said. She removed the stones from my back and worked the muscles from my lower spine up to my shoulders. “If he stays around here, he’ll be at The Golden O over the state line.”

  I lifted from the massage table and looked over my shoulder. “The biker bar? How in the world do you know about The Golden O?”

  Her smile was like the Mona Lisa’s, intriguingly unreadable. “I haven’t always done hair and nails.”

  “Janie Chapman. You are full of surprises. You used to strip at The Golden O, didn’t you?”

  “If you won’t be still, turn over.” My prim Pentecostal masseuse lifted the sheet and I rolled to
my back. “I wore a mask and had my hair pinned up until the final spin combo on the pole. I’d pull a clip out, my hair would swing free, and the dollar bills? Honey, they came a-flying.” She laid the sheet over my chest and hips and went to work on my legs. “That’s how I paid for beauty school. Don’t tell anyone. I couldn’t bear for my family to know.”

  “Given everything you know about my life, your secret is safe with me.” I thought for a moment. “I always think of strip clubs as boob focused. He likes big bottoms. Do they have them at The Golden O?”

  “Most of the places hire anyone who hasn’t been overcome by gravity, so you’ll find all shapes and sizes everywhere you go. But try The Bicycle Club. They used to hire women with more Rubenesque figures.”

  I wiped my hands on the sheet and reached for my phone. “Give me a minute. I need to find an accomplice for tonight’s outing.”

  “Unless you want lots of male attention, choose an attractive woman and pretend you’re lesbians.” That Mona Lisa smile returned. “It’ll ramp the men up, but at least they’ll believe you’re unavailable.”

  I stared up at this sweet-faced woman who knew my body almost intimately, and whom I clearly knew not at all. “So how about it?” I asked. “Got any plans tonight?”

  HUNTING A MAN TAKES ENERGY

  CASS TURNED UP AT eight-thirty, right on time. I opened the door and, as expected, she was dressed in her usual casual outfit of Dockers, button-down shirt, and cowboy boots. Which also happens to be her usual work outfit, although her dark red hair was loose tonight instead of wrapped up in a French twist. She stared at my clothes and burst out laughing. I yanked her inside by her good arm, then reflexively stuck my head outside and checked for strangers. All clear. I closed the door and locked up.