Sinfandel

by Gina Cresse

  A woman with a stainless steel cup attached to the end of a long pole stood on a platform and retrieved grape samples from each bin. The samples were used to determine the brix, rot, and MOG, which stood for “material other than grape.” Contracts stipulated the growers had to deliver grapes within specifications and with minimal non-grape material. It wasn’t a big problem with hand-picked grapes, but machine picking sometimes resulted in too many leaves and stems, not to mention the occasional bird nest, jack rabbit, and miscellaneous hardware like vineyard wire and wooden stakes. If the load wasn’t up to par, the grower was charged a penalty.

  “After the truck leaves the scale, it gets directed to a crusher, depending on if it has red or white grapes,” Pete said.

  A truck pulled up next to one of the crushers, a big stainless steel hopper with a corkscrew auger in the bottom of it. Each truck had four separate bins full of grapes, and a cable was attached to one side of each bin, lifting the un-hinged side up until the grapes poured out into the crusher.

  “From here, they get de-stemmed and crushed,” Pete yelled over the sound of the equipment.

  Suddenly, I heard a shriek and screaming from a woman behind the truck. Then a loud BANG, the smell of gunpowder, and people scattered in all directions. Pete and I peered around the truck to see what the commotion was about. A man in coveralls and tall rubber boots, pistol in hand, chased a snake that had fallen out of the grape bin, firing shots into the pavement that ricocheted and threatened to punch holes in truck tires, wine tanks, and heaven forbid, people.

  Pete took off after the pistol-packing worker, screaming, “It’s a damn gopher snake, Leonard! Leave it alone!”

  By the time Pete got hold of Leonard’s arm, the snake had made its escape into the vineyard and would live to see another day. Pete eased the pistol from Leonard’s hand and walked him back to the crusher.

  Leonard kept repeating, “I hate snakes.”

  Pete patted him on the back. “I know, Leo, but gopher snakes are our friends.”

  Pete handed the pistol to a man who appeared to be in charge of the operation. “Tell the grower we’re not paying him for the snake,” he said, laughing, then took a deep breath and waved everyone to get back to work.

  After a quick tour of the scale house, where Pete introduced me to the state inspector who was taking the samples from the trucks, then the lab and tasting room, Pete decided it was time to return to the vineyard.

  “Would you mind stopping at Fisco on our way? I need to pick up some cat food,” I said.

  “No problem. I need to get some boots anyway.”

  Fisco was our local farm supply store where you could buy anything from animal feed to cowboy clothes. While Pete wandered the rubber-boot aisle, I found the dry cat food and searched for some sort of raccoon-proof container. I finally found an odd-shaped plastic box with a hinged door that could be securely closed with a metal snap, which I also bought.

  Pete dropped me off at home, then he returned to the Clay Station vineyard to keep an eye on things.

  I poured a new twenty-pound bag of cat food into my raccoon-proof container and snapped the door shut, proud that I’d finally out-smarted those little masked thieves.

  Chapter Five

  Detective Obermeyer’s car rolled to a stop at my gate and he honked his horn. I never saw him leave the night he staked out the beaver pond, and since I hadn’t heard any rumors of a drug bust, I figured he left empty-handed. He got out of his car and leaned on the fender as I approached the gate.

  “You catch anyone?” I asked.

  “No one showed up.”

  “Maybe he doesn’t water them every night.”

  Obermeyer nodded. “Could be, but those plants are plenty dry today with this heat. If he doesn’t show up tonight, I’ll have to assume someone tipped him off.”

  His accusing look stole the smile from my face.

  “You didn’t tell anyone, did you?” he asked.

  “No.”

  “Your parents? Brother? Sister? Boyfriend?”

  Why does everyone assume I have a significant other? “I told my cats, but I’m sure they didn’t let it out of the bag.”

  Obermeyer remained stone-faced. I don’t know why I attempted humor with him. It went completely over his head. “If no one shows up tonight, I think it’s obvious who the culprit is,” I said.

  “Really. You care to fill me in?”

  “My neighbor, the one who saw your car parked near the bridge yesterday. You guys really should invest in a decent stakeout car. Maybe an old Chevy or a truck if you want to fit in out here.”

  He gazed up the road toward my neighbor’s place. “I’ll watch it one more night, but in the morning we’re going to harvest the crop and impound it. There’s a lot of money under that bridge.”

  “I wouldn’t know. I’m in the grape business.”

  “Yeah, well, some people can’t seem to get enough when it comes to money.”

  “I’m not growing marijuana plants, Detective Obermeyer. I’ve been gracious enough to let you use my property for your investigation, but if you’re going to stand there and accuse me of being a drug producer, you can just go find some other place for your stakeout.”

  Glaring at me, he said, “So, you’re going to impede my investigation?”

  “Oh my God! Are you serious?” I unlatched the gate and swung it open, waving my arm to invite him to drive through like a matador inviting a bull. “Never let it be said that I didn’t cooperate fully in your quest to get your man.”

  “Or woman, as the case may be,” he said, then got in his car and drove through.

  I wondered if Obermeyer’s surveillance of the beaver pond was just an excuse to snoop into my business, since he seemed perfectly willing to connect me with the illicit plants under the bridge. Deciding not to dwell on the possibilities, I went in the house to fix dinner.

  Since my answering machine was beeping, I pressed the PLAY button.

  “Hey, Kate. It’s Dave. I didn’t want you to think I forgot about the Grass Valley sniper and your question about the car. Anyhow, I still don’t have any definite answers. The witnesses aren’t sure of the year, and to be honest, a couple of them aren’t even sure it was a Mustang. The only thing they all agree on is the car was blue and white. If I hear any more, I’ll let you know. Talk to you later.”

  So I still didn’t know if Roger could possibly be the person taking pot-shots at passing cars in the middle of the night. Part of me wanted to call and just ask him if he was that crazy, on the slim chance that he’d tell me the truth, which was something Roger didn’t do very often. As I sliced a tomato, I weighed my options. If Roger denied being the sniper, would I assume he was lying and report him anyway? If he told me he was the sniper, would I write it off as another one of his delusions—like his adolescent dream of becoming a mercenary? I put the knife down and dialed Dave’s number. To hell with Roger.

  “I think I might know who the sniper is,” I said to Dave.

  “What’s his name?”

  “Roger.”

  “He have a last name?”

  “Flake.”

  “Really?”

  “It fits, believe me.”

  “Where can we find him?”

  “I have no idea. He was living in his car somewhere in Nevada but I don’t know any more than that.”

  “Okay, I’ll run his name through the computer. Anything else I should know?”

  “He has a gun.”

  For dinner, I made a salad with Romaine lettuce, avocado slices, marinated artichoke hearts, tomatoes, and red cabbage, and topped it with citrus grilled chicken. I carried it, along with a glass of 2009 Muscato, which promised “a swirl of apricot and peach pie flavors with a dollop of creamy vanilla and crisp acidity for a reviving finish” into the office and placed it on my desk. Another working dinner, which I’d sworn a dozen times to give up, would be my reality tonight.

  There was something wrong with the data I’d gotten fro
m Quinn Adamson. The bottom line figures were in agreement. The total grapes grown in California were in sync with the total grapes harvested, and the total gallons of wine produced, based on a generally accept yield of 175 gallons per ton, more or less agreed with the wineries’ reported production. The problem was with some of the varieties. The Carignane, Grenache, and Valdepena yields were too low, and the Zinfandel yields were too high. The swings between those varieties made me think I’d screwed up somewhere. I checked my conversion tables three times, but still the numbers didn’t add up. Finally, I composed an e-mail to Quinn Adamson and asked him if he had the resources to perform an audit on those varieties against the official documents. I suspected that he was already aware of this variance, and I wondered if it wasn’t the true motivation for hiring me.

  The following morning, banging on my front door jarred me out of an unusually sound sleep. I blinked at the clock, put on a robe and stumbled to the door. Detective Obermeyer stood there, looking every bit as tired as I felt, and shook his head.

  “Nothing?” I asked.

  “Not even the beavers showed up last night.”

  “What now?” I hoped he wouldn’t answer with, “You have the right to remain silent.”

  “As I said yesterday, we’re going to remove the plants, but continue the investigation.”

  “Is this the part where you tell me not to leave town?” There I go again, wasting perfectly good humor on him.

  He handed me his card. “Your cooperation will be helpful. If you see anything suspicious, or think of anything that might be germane to the investigation, please call me.”

  “I will.”

  As he walked toward his car, something came over me—I think they used to call it hospitality in the old days. “Can I make you some breakfast?” I called to him. After all, he’d been up all night watching and waiting for one of the many low-life criminals who lurk under the surface of good society. He was a soldier in the war to protect the law abiding citizens of our community. The least I could do was feed the man. And it couldn’t hurt to get on his good side.

  For an instant, he looked at me as if I’d offered him a kilo of cocaine. But then I saw the hint of a smile. “Depends.”

  “Omelet? Fresh squeezed orange juice? Grapes right off the vine?”

  “You twisted my arm,” he said as he headed back toward my door.

  Obermeyer sat at the breakfast bar and watched as I cracked the eggs and chopped onions and bell peppers.

  “So, tell me more about this neighbor of yours,” he said.

  As I sprayed water over a colander of grapes in the sink, I glanced out the kitchen window in the direction of my neighbor’s place. “All I really know is there is a lot of late night activity. Cars come and go at all hours.”

  He took a drink of the orange juice I’d squeezed for him. “Enough to cause suspicion.”

  “Oh, and last spring I was using my garden tractor to mow the tall grass along the road in front of my property. I ran out of gas near the bridge, so I walked back to the house, had some lunch, then carried the gas can back to the tractor, only it was gone.”

  “Someone took it?” he said.

  “The next day I went to our local gas station and there was my tractor in the back of his pickup!”

  “You’re kidding. What’d you do?”

  “I asked him why my tractor was in his truck. He said he didn’t know it was mine. Said he just found it on the side of the road and thought nobody wanted it.”

  Obermeyer shook his head, incredulous.

  “Mind you, this is a brand new John Deere. Like someone’s going to leave it on the side of the road to be adopted.”

  “So he returned it, I take it.”

  “I used my cell phone to take a picture of it in the back of his truck and told him if it wasn’t back on my property in ten minutes I’d e-mail it to the police, along with my side of the story. He’s been nothing but nice ever since, but I don’t go out of my way to show him my good side.”

  Breakfast was served at the table and I’d just sat down across from Obermeyer when there was another knock at my door. Suddenly I was Miss Popular.

  I opened the door to find Andy Carmichael standing on my porch, holding a gift-wrapped package that looked like it might be a book. He glanced over my shoulder at Detective Obermeyer sitting at my table, a fancy breakfast for two, and me in my bathrobe.

  I swallowed the egg in my mouth. “Andy. Did we have an appointment?”

  He sized up the situation pretty quickly and shook his head. “No, I just wanted to let you know the crew will be out this afternoon to work on the vineyard irrigation. We’ll start picking next week.”

  “Oh. Thanks.” I suddenly felt awkward. “Would you like some breakfast? I was just making omelets.”

  “No, no. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

  As he tried to leave, I pointed to the gift in his hand. “Is that for me?”

  He stopped, looked at the object like it was radioactive, and shook his head. “No.”

  Then he left.

  After breakfast, I walked with Detective Obermeyer to the bridge and watched the fate of the notorious marijuana plants. The harvesting crew looked more like a Hazmat team, wearing coveralls, their hands and faces protected with gloves and masks.

  “What will they do with all these plants?” I asked.

  “They’ll be labeled and stored as evidence, if we ever bring the case to trial.”

  After the plants were cut down, the roots were dug up and yanked out, and a pre-emergent was sprayed on the soil to prevent any re-growth.

  My cell phone rang as I watched the crew work. It was Monica.

  “What are you doing today?” she asked.

  “Watching the police harvest a crop of marijuana they found growing near my pond. How about you?”

  “What?”

  “I’ll tell you about it later. What’s up?”

  “There’s this guy I want you to meet,” Monica said.

  “Name, rank, serial number?” I said.

  After a long pause, she finally said, “His name’s Lucie, but don’t hold that against him.”

  I laughed. “Lucie? What’s it short for? Lucifer?”

  “See? There’s your problem. You always assume the worst. You are the queen of over-correction. Everyone isn’t Roger.”

  “How many ex-wives does he have?”

  “None, you cynic. Now, when can I set up a meeting?”

  “Don’t you have a vaccination to give or gash to stitch?” I asked. “How can you possibly have so much free time to work on my social life?”

  “I can’t help it. You’re my friend and I want to see you happy.”

  “Who says I can’t be happy all by myself?”

  “Oh don’t be ridiculous. No one’s happy alone.”

  I eyed Detective Obermeyer as he supervised the crew. “If you must know, I’m seeing someone now.” I hated lying, but not as much as trying to figure out how to keep Monica’s set-ups from getting too serious.

  “Really.” I could hear the doubt in her voice. “When can I meet him?”

  “Soon. I’ve gotta go.”

  After I hung up, I checked my watch. Morning was almost over. I left the authorities to finish the cleanup, and I drove to town to re-stock my supply of eggs and oranges. Lockeford was a tiny bedroom community populated mostly with commuters, retirees, cowboys and cowgirls, farm laborers, and bikers.

  Traffic on Highway 88 was heavy. It was Friday and people were probably getting an early start on camping or fishing or gambling at Lake Tahoe or Reno. As I waited to make a left turn into the market’s parking lot, a quick flash of light caught my eye in the side view mirror. Sun reflected off the shiny chrome bumper of a big dual wheeled Dodge pickup truck that had just pulled off and parked on the side of the highway. An older man and woman climbed out of the pickup and took a big sheet of plywood out of the back. I lost sight of them when they carried it around the side of the old Lockeford Hote
l, a circa 1880 building that had been for sale—and condemned—for as long as I could remember. I finally made my turn and parked under the shade of an old tree. When I got out of my car, I could hear hammering coming from the direction of the hotel. Curious, I walked down the sidewalk, past the corner of the hotel, where I could see what they were up to. The sheet of plywood was actually a sign, and on it were the words: HELP US FIND BETH — $20,000 REWARD.

  Chapter Six

  On Monday morning, Quinn Adamson called and asked me to meet him that afternoon, not at his office, but at the John E. Moss Federal Office Building in Sacramento.

  “Federal?” I asked as I wrote down the address.

  “I followed your suggestion and spent the weekend auditing weigh tags.”

  “That was fast.”

  “I got the director to agree to overtime for my staff.”

  “So, where did I go wrong?”

  There was a brief pause. “You didn’t. Your calculations are correct.”

  After the War on Terrorism was declared, the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms added “Explosives” to their name and relegated the more mundane business of enforcing alcohol and tobacco taxation to a new entity—The Alcohol and Tobacco Tax and Trade Bureau, or TTB.

  I met Quinn Adamson in the foyer of the Federal building, where he gave me a quick briefing on my role in the upcoming meeting. As requested, I brought my laptop along to illustrate the discrepancies I’d found.

  A young intern led us down a hallway to a conference room where we were met by two men, Agents Sean O’Reilly and Avery Parker. O’Reilly’s red hair was cut in a short flattop, and he had more freckles than the Mojave has sand. Parker was black, his bald head was polished to a brilliant sheen, and he appeared to be the younger of the two.

  Parker pointed at my laptop. “Do you want to connect that to the Datashow?”

  While Parker helped me with the equipment, Adamson chose a seat, leaned his elbows on the long table and laced his fingers together.