by Nadia Gordon
“I went to do Christmas shopping,” said Sharon. “They make marvelous glassware.”
“Then we went home,” said Pel.
“What was he doing when you left?”
“Standing at the bar, talking to Remy, as far as I remember.”
“Was he drunk?”
“Not drunk, but not sober either. We had cocktails before dinner, and a bottle of wine, and Remy came around several times with wines he thought we would like to taste.”
“He didn’t mention any troubles he might be having?” asked Sunny.
“If there had been anything odd about that night, we would have told the police,” said Sharon. “It was just an ordinary dinner. We do it every other week or so.”
Sunny nodded. “So he didn’t seem worried or anxious?”
“Not that I noticed,” said Pel. “I’d say he seemed quite relaxed.”
“What about enemies? Was there anyone angry at him, who hated him, or who had threatened him?”
“The police asked us that too,” said Sharon. “As far as I know, everyone loved Nathan. He was a hoot to be around, always cheerful.”
“But you said Dahlia had issues with him, and there were others.”
“Yes, I suppose that’s true. I never think of estranged lovers as enemies. I still think you’re looking for something that isn’t there. Nathan seemed fine. There were no problems in his life as far as I know. And while I don’t particularly like Dahlia, I hardly blame her for his death.”
“What about people who stood to benefit by his death?”
“Your friend would be at the top of the list,” said Pel. “Andre must have been torn between joy and sorrow when he heard. He would have been out of a job in a heartbeat if it were up to Nathan.”
Sunny frowned. The people who frequented expensive restaurants talked about chefs in that proprietary way other people talked about celebrities, as if they actually knew what was going on in their lives or had any business doing so. “If that’s the case, why did Eliot want to keep him on? If it caused so many bad feelings, why not replace him? Certainly Andre could find another post.”
“It’s anybody’s guess. Mine is that Andre embodies what Eliot imagines a chef ought to be,” said Pel. “You might say he personifies the spirit of Vinifera, or you could be less kind and say he fits with the decor.”
Sunny felt a surge of anger in defense of Andre, which she decided not to indulge. “Surely there were others who stood to gain more directly. Nathan was a wealthy man. Someone is going to inherit all that, aren’t they?”
“We’ll find out soon enough. They’re reading the will tomorrow,” said Pel. “Not that it affects us.”
He glanced at the grandfather clock and Sunny put down her teacup. The interview was over. As they said their good-byes, the Rastburns assured Sunny they would phone if they thought of any significant detail about Nathan’s last night. Sunny felt confident they would not. They didn’t seem in the least suspicious about his death, and she imagined they would not give her visit a second thought.
15
It was about to be one of those magic twilights that made Sunny want to put on a down jacket and a stocking hat, grab a bottle of home-brew No Cal Red, climb a mountain, wait for night, and get to know the stars. A sliver of moon as white as porcelain sat on top of Rattlesnake Ridge already, and Sunny felt the pull of Mount St. Helena.
Instead, she was staking out the Quonset hut of yoga—again. She figured that since Rivka’s romance with Alex Campaglia was on hold, the odds improved considerably that she would show up for the six o’clock yoga class, even though it was a Thursday. Rivka’s compulsion to practice yoga increased dramatically when you took the boyfriend out of the picture. Sunny was parked across the street, watching. Sure enough, Rivka walked up the sidewalk a few minutes before six carrying her mat. Sunny got out.
“Hey, you’re coming!” said Rivka.
“I wish. I just needed to intercept you.”
“I’m intercepted. Now come have a stretch. You’ll feel great.”
“I’d love to, but I have an errand I want to run before it gets any later.”
Rivka frowned. “What errand?”
“I need to see Dahlia Zimmerman.”
Rivka considered. “She’s probably at the restaurant by now.”
“I just called and she’s not working tonight. I was thinking I would try to reach her at home if you have the number.”
“She doesn’t have a land line at her house, and there’s no cell reception up there.”
“So there’s no way to contact her?”
“No. She likes it that way. You can leave a message on her mobile, but she won’t get it until she drives out to the highway.”
Sunny sighed. “Riv, it’s important.”
“Is it?”
“I think it is. Is that enough?”
Rivka nodded. “It is. Still, the only way is to drive out there and hope she’s around. It’s a long way. Do you want me to come with you?”
“You don’t have to. It might actually be better if you didn’t. She might say more if you’re not there.”
“She might say less.”
Sunny didn’t reply.
Rivka looked at her watch and sighed. When she spoke, her voice sounded matter-of-fact, the mock-helpful tone of someone taking pains to make her irritation known.
“Go up to Jimtown and make a right where you would normally make a left if you were going to Healdsburg. I don’t remember the name of the road. You know where I mean? Go for about three miles, until you pass a big white barn on your right. It’s going to be harder to notice in the dark, but it’s not far from the road so you should be able to see it. After that, watch for the first road on the left. It’s not marked, but there’s a row of mailboxes with a red one on the end with a thunderbird painted on it. Take that all the way to the end. You’ll think you’ve gone too far, but keep going. You’re the expert at that, so it shouldn’t be a problem.”
“Very funny.”
“Stay right at all the splits. There are two or three, but just stay right. She lives in the little cabin on the far right once you get to a group of houses. There’s a tent out back that she uses for her painting studio. She might be in there if she’s not home, but you’ll see the light on.”
“Does she live on a commune?”
“I don’t know what they call it, but it’s a cluster of little cabins.”
“Out in the middle of nowhere.”
“Pretty much.”
“Great. You free for dinner later?” asked Sunny.
“I thought I’d call Lenstrom after class. I’ll leave you a message if we make a plan. Hey, beware of the hippie dogs up there. There’s a bunch of them running around all lawless.”
“Wonderful. Ferocious, I assume.”
“All bark and no bite, at least when I was there.”
The drive didn’t take as long as she thought it would. The road marked with the thunderbird mailbox got steep as it headed up Black Mountain. She downshifted to first gear to let the old Ford take it easy. It was just as well to travel slow. The headlights didn’t light up much beyond the immediate road ahead and she was worried she’d drive right past the houses without knowing it. Rivka didn’t say if the road dead-ended or not. She drove on until the pavement dropped off to dirt, giving her that uncertain feeling of having gone too far or the wrong way, just like Rivka said.
The truck crawled ahead over potholes and gullies for fifteen minutes in the pitch black. She checked the cell phone. It was searching for a signal without luck. At last the road dropped down and flattened out, revealing a scattering of identical cabins, small and rugged, the sort hunting clubs used to build. Each had a single window over a tiny front porch, a steep shingle roof, and a black smokestack rising up like a sturdy feather in an enormous cap. There were lights on in three of the cabins. Sunny stopped and killed the engine. An entourage of barking dogs quickly emerged from the shadows to surround the truck, edgin
g toward it with paws braced, as if drawn against their will. The teeth were bared, but several tails were wagging despite a ferocious din of barking. She took this as a good sign and opened the door cautiously. The barking intensified when she stepped out and all five of them surged around her. She stood still, attempting to exude an air of benevolent confidence. Like a pot removed from the flame on the point of boiling over, they subsided.
“It’s okay, dogs,” she said, holding out a hand. “It’s just me.”
That seemed to satisfy them and the barking settled down to afterthoughts and chatter. Tail-wagging and leaps replaced attack mode.
“Who’s there?” called a voice from the darkness.
“Dahlia?” said Sunny.
“Who’s there?”
“Sunny McCoskey.”
“Who?” said Dahlia, walking up.
“Sunny. McCoskey. From Night of Five Stars. Rivka’s friend.”
“Oh, Sunny! My god, what are you doing out here?” She stood still, not entirely inviting.
“I needed to see you. I called the restaurant, but they said you weren’t working tonight. I got directions from Rivka and hoped you’d be here.”
“I can’t believe you found it.”
“Neither can I.”
Dahlia met Sunny’s eyes curiously. “I gave away my shift. I wanted to finish a piece I started late last night. Come on in, I’ll show you.”
Shivering with cold, Sunny followed her down a trail crowded with tall grasses. Now that the dogs were quiet, she could hear the twangy sounds of the Grateful Dead coming from one of the lighted cabins in the other direction. They passed two dark cabins and came to a third, set back from the others and lit by a faint glow through a gauzy orange curtain. Behind the cabin a white canvas tent glowed floor to ceiling with bright light. Dahlia led the way to the tent and held open the door. Sunny stepped into the warmth, the effect of the potbellied stove hissing in the corner.
The tent had been set up on a wood frame with a plywood foundation and a little porch outside. Cozy. Several shop lights, the kind with clips at the base, had been aimed into white photographer’s umbrellas, filling the room with soft, bright light. A large wooden worktable in the middle of the room held dozens of silver tubes of paint, variously dented and folded and rolled down to squeeze out the last of the pigment. An array of jars, some of them filled with brushes like stark bouquets, crowded at one end. In front of the table was a large easel holding the canvas she had been working on, a still life of a knitting project in progress, with two bamboo needles in the foreground over a luxuriously folded heap of scarf, and a large round ball of paprika wool behind it. The background was dark and the project had the feeling of having been abandoned mid-stitch. Behind the easel, the same scene was repeated in a half-knit scarf tossed on a chair.
Other pictures were leaned up several deep against a small desk and sagging armchair. The one in front seemed to be a minimalist landscape rendered in somber shades, but as she looked at it she realized it was a muscular forearm stretched across an erect penis, the hand tucked out of sight between the legs. She looked at Dahlia.
“I have a fondness for male autoeroticism,” she said.
“And the knitting?”
“Female autoeroticism.”
Another worktable set up behind the door was stacked with books liberally decorated with pentagrams and hieroglyphics. The Complete Holistic Herbal Companion, Celtic Rites and Rituals, The New Paganism, Wicca: A Guide for the Solitary Practitioner, Power of the Witch, and The Art of Essential Oils and Aromatherapy. Above the desk several narrow plank shelves held jars of powders, herbs, and seeds, as well as dozens of tiny dark vials with handwritten labels.
Dahlia took a bottle of wine from the table and pulled the cork. “Have a glass with me?”
“Love to.”
She poured the wine into a couple of old jelly jars and handed one to Sunny. Their eyes met for a moment. Sunny thought she detected a hint of bashfulness. Was Dahlia embarrassed by what they shared? Did she know? Dahlia was pretty. Somehow she hadn’t noticed it before. She had a wide, full smile and warm brown eyes set in a golden complexion. She was wearing paint-splattered jeans and an olive green Shetland sweater with a large moth hole at the shoulder. It had obviously been washed many times and was now too small and felted.
“To surprise visitors,” Dahlia said.
They touched glasses and drank. Sunny raised her eyebrows and turned the bottle toward her. It was a 1998 Flowers Camp Meeting Ridge Pinot Noir, hard to find outside restaurants, expensive, and worth it.
“You live pretty well out here,” said Sunny.
“Thanks to Nathan, in several ways. But I’m dying of curiosity. What on earth brings you all the way up the mountain tonight? Not that I mind. Company is always welcome when you live in the sticks.”
Sunny moved toward the worktable where bundles of herbs hung from the underside of the bottom shelf, drying. A stone mortar had been used to prop one of the texts open. A dense foliage of notes had been scribbled in the margins. Papers littered the desk, all heavily marked with fine black writing. Dahlia walked over quickly and snapped the book shut. She scooped the papers into a stack and stuck them in the book, then shoved the whole business into a cardboard box under the table.
“I use this place as my workshop, so I don’t worry too much about cleaning up. This is where I experiment with all kinds of things. Paintings, tinctures, whatever. No inhibitions. I can do anything my imagination can dream up.”
“What is all that?” asked Sunny, motioning to the vials.
“Essential oils, mostly.”
“For aromatherapy?”
“And other things. Lotions, soap, candles.”
“It looks like you made them yourself.”
“I did. My neighbor and I share a distiller out back. You can distill just about anything. Leaves, flowers, bark. Anything that holds moisture will release it when you pass steam through it. Some of that moisture will be water, but mixed in with the water will be the vital essence, what rises up. That’s the essential oil. They’re incredibly potent. People think of fragrance when they think of essential oils, but it’s so much more than that. It is the distillation of the substance, including all its best and worst properties, its fragrance, flavor, everything. It’s the undiluted spirit. If it were a person, it would be the soul.”
Sunny leaned closer. The labels on the little bottles said Pine Needle, Golden Freesia, Farmers’ Market Oranges, Timo’s Pale Pink Roses, Wild Blackberries, Fresh Cedar Chips.
“I’ve been doing it for a few years now. It fits with the way I paint. There’s a certain alchemy to mixing pigment. You can burn and dry all kinds of things, pulverize them, and blend them for different colors. You can press certain juices for color. Beets, pomegranate, and blackberries, for example. Essential oils capture a different aspect of a substance. Not the exterior color, but the interior, volatile nature.”
“You put the essential oils in your paints?”
“Sometimes. Mostly I put them in candles and soaps.”
“So they aren’t edible?”
“They’re mostly too potent to be safe to cook with. It’s all a matter of dosage, and that can be tricky, since you never know how potent the material you start with is. Lots of plants are medicine in one dose and poison in another. Like foxglove. A little bit is good for your circulation and heart function, too much will kill you.”
“My neighbors have foxglove planted all along their fence.”
“Just because it’s poisonous doesn’t make it a problem. Most gardens are full of poisonous plants. Luckily most people don’t go around making tea and salad out of everything they find growing beside the house. It’s like the cleaners under the sink; ammonia is terribly poisonous, but it has its uses.”
“You know a lot about poisons,” said Sunny.
“I know a lot about medicine. Medicine and poison are two sides of the same coin. Same as what you do. Cooking is as much about what
isn’t edible as it is about what is. You know not to use the leaves of rhubarb and potato, for example. And that certain molds on cheeses and meats are desirable, while others will make you sick.”
“Of course. The interesting part is walking a line between what’s good and what isn’t. Steak tartare, for instance.” Sunny studied the wall of vials. “I know a few cooks who are really into infused oils. Everything is brushed with some kind of infused oil. Even vanilla-infused oil for desserts.”
“Andre loves infused oils. He uses them all the time.”
Sunny flinched slightly, and she hoped unnoticeably, at the mention of Andre’s name. “Does he? I didn’t notice.”
“He mostly uses them for the hard-to-please, sensually challenged customers. He has a garlic-infused oil that would grow hair on your chest. He used it on Nathan’s food, because Nathan was always complaining that everything tasted bland. Nathan’s taste buds, like so much of him, were hard to please.”
Sunny tried to recall if she’d seen any infused oils in the Vinifera kitchen.
“Here, sit down and relax,” said Dahlia, gesturing toward the tatty couch. “I’m just going to put the finishing touches on while we talk. If this paint dries it will take me forever to get the color right again.” She added more wine to their glasses, then took up a brush and turned to the painting. “So, you didn’t come all the way out here to talk about my interest in herbal medicine.”
“No, I came to talk about Nathan. To get your opinion.”
“Of Nathan?”
“Of his death. Do you think he died of natural causes, like the police say?”
Dahlia looked at her. “You don’t?”
“I’m not convinced.”