"
You recognize it now?"
Martinson leaned back in his chair. "I wish all these damned things had burned." He centered the clipping carefully on the blotter and went on dreamily. "This is the fatal piece I wrote on my recreation of the 1979 Académie du Vin tasting. A major blow to my reliability rating. Don't smile; this is a very demanding business. Everyone says, ‘I respect individual taste,' but then the readers insist that all the critics agree on the 'best' California wines. If one critic differs from the crowd, no one says, ‘My, he's got an unusual taste in Cabernet.' No, sir. They say he's got no taste, and that's the end of that career."
"
I'd like to know more about the clipping."
"But I've already told you! At that marvelous little dinner at La Belle Helene. Remember? Lettuce soup, I believe it was. Extraordinary. I wrote them up for that meal. Got a very appreciative note from the owner."
"Refresh my memory."
"
I said that I'd had a row with Lenny Brent over a review." He tapped the crumpled bit of newsprint.
"
This is the gem that caused it. I regret ever writing it. To this day I wonder how I could have been so out of swing with the rest of the wine community."
"
Out of swing?"
"
I may have been coming down with a cold. Or maybe my taste buds were just off on a vacation of their own. I mean, there is such a thing as bottle-to-bottle variation, but not to that extent. And the bottle I tasted had certainly been stored under perfect conditions. I can't account for it. Lenny accused me of jealousy, and while I may have briefly, very briefly, harbored some suspicion concerning him and Mary Ellen, I'm quite sure I would never let a thing like that influence my judgment when it comes to wine."
Spraggue's right eyebrow shot up. "I'm not really following you,"" he said slowly. "Could you start at the beginning?"
"Sorry. I forget that you're not local. This must be common knowledge around here." He drew in a deep breath. "From the beginning. You must have heard of the French Académie du Vin tastings? Very prestigious. In fact, it was their 1976 tasting that was largely responsible for an incredible upsurge in American wine-buying. Remember that Newsweek article: 'Judgment of Paris'?"
Spraggue nodded. "The blind tasting where the Americans came out on top."
"
Right. The French were a bit chagrined, to say the least. The market here took off. It legitimized us. Ever since then, the Acadérnie tastings have had a special place in our hearts."
"
So?"
"
Their 1979 tasting was quite intriguing. A 1975 Leider Cabernet came in first, over a Mouton-Rothschild, no less."
"Good for Phil."
"
G0od for Lenny, you mean. His wine. A beauty. A huge unfiltered giant of a wine. I'd tasted it early on, from the barrel, before bottling even, and I felt in my bones it would win. I predicted the entire tasting accurately in my column."
"Then why the fuss?"
"
That was an earlier column. A year later I decided to recreate the '79 Paris tasting. To tell the truth, I'd heard that the Los Angeles Times was planning an anniversary tasting, and I thought I'd get the scoop." Martinson paused, raised his wineglass, sipped, scribbled notes on his pad.
"
And?" Spraggue said impatiently.
"And when I tasted the Leider Cabernet again, right before doing that article, I was utterly disappointed. I believe I wrote something to the effect that, had the tasting been held in 1980, Leider would have been lucky to finish in the top ten. The wine had lost its bite completely. No acid, no tannin. Pleasant, yes. Mellow, yes. But a beginner's wine, a nonentity of a wine. I doubted it could be cellared. Innocuous."
"And that's what you wrote?"
"Certainly. I write as I taste. That's what I'm here for. I say what I like; the buyer can spend his dollars as he chooses. The way Cabernet prices are spiraling, you can't expect even the most rabid enophile to taste them all."
Spraggue shrugged. "I'm sure you've written unfavorable reviews before."
"But not with this reaction! Lenny hounded me, embarrassed me in public. And then the positively last straw was the L.A. Times tasting!"
Spraggue waited while Martinson drank.
"They praised the Leider Cabernet to the skies! I couldn't believe it! I went out and bought another bottle, of course, and I do admit that the second time I tasted it, I felt much more positive about the wine. But could I print a retraction? I'd have looked like a fool!"
"Could you write down the name of Leider's wine, the entire thing—appellation, vintage, and all?"
"
Certainly." Martinson ripped a sheet of monogrammed paper from his pad with a flourish. "How do you like this wine, by the way? The Fume Blanc?"
"Clean, crisp, slightly smoky. A St. Jean?"
Martinson unmasked the bottle triumphantly. "No. But I think it is a very understandable error. The vineyard is very close to the Crimmins Ranch. Landover Valley Fume Blanc, 1979. You're one of the first to taste it."
"You're planning to review it?"
"
Why not?"
"
Does your wife still own a controlling interest in Landover?"
"You think that's conflict of interest?"
"
Unless she's planning to sell out."
"
Sell out? Where did you get that idea?"
"Just a rumor."
"No substance to it, certainly. Here you go." Martinson handed a slip of paper across the desk top. "Leider Vineyards Cabernet Sauvignon, Napa Valley, 1975, Private Reserve."
Spraggue read the words over twice.
"Something wrong?" Martinson inquired lightly.
"
No." Spraggue tapped the memo with his fingertip. "It's just that I'm sure I've tasted this wine .... "
"Yes?"
"
And I agree with you completely. An absolutely mediocre bottle."
"
Mr. Spraggue, that is excellent! You and me against the world! Maybe you could do a guest column for the Examiner? At least join me for lunch—"
"
I'm sorry." Spraggue was already halfway to the door. "Where can I purchase a bottle of that wine?"
"The Fume Blanc? I'm flattered! I——"
"
The Leider Cabernet."
"The '75? I don't think you can. What little was left sold out right after the L.A. Times ran its rave review. When the critics speak, the people buy. I doubt you could find a bottle anywhere."
Spraggue thought he could. In an air-conditioned wine cellar at Lenny Brent's, two hours away.
22
Halfway to Napa, he pulled off at a gas station, used the pay phone. No answer at Alicia Brent's house. The hospital gave him the same routine: Mrs. Brent was due in at five o'cIock. He stretched and got back in the car.
He tried the radio: scratchy AM newscasts alternated with repetitive disco wails. He tried other frequencies, finally snapped the damned thing off in disgust. Where the hell was Lenny's ex-wife? If she was so anxious to hear from him, why couldn't she stay near a phone?
He made an effort to put Alicia out of his mind, but the thoughts that took her place were none too soothing. What had Mary Ellen wanted so badly at Grady's apartment? Why had Kate lied about a man from United Circle named Baxter? Why was George Martinson so far off on a wine review and why had Lenny reacted to it so savagely? Why had Grady Fairfield made such a play for him at Leider's tasting? Why had he turned her down?
Route 29 was bumper-to-bumper, and Spraggue had plenty of time to reflect on George Martinson's dire warnings about the tourist invasion. His favorite stretch of the road, the tree-shaded cathedral near Beringer's, was practically a parking lot. He clicked on his ever—present tape recorder, recited lines from Still Waters, and tried to keep his temper on hold, tried to forget that tomorrow he had to be in L.A. Less than one day left . . . All those questions and no time left to find the answers ....
Hell, maybe he should call L.A. and cancel. Fake bronchial pneumonia. United Artists would have insurance on him; he wouldn't be hard to replace. They'd have to reshoot the location stuff in Boston. And he'd have wasted all that time spent learning to fall down stairs ....
Quit. And spend the rest of your life doing what? Watching Mary's investments grow? Clipping the old coupons? Maybe go back to private investigating, lifting up rocks better left untumed, telling clients cold facts they never really wanted to know. . . . He remembered Carol Lawton's childlike face, before and after he'd told her about Mark. L.A. for me, he thought. Fantasy over reality every time.
He used the same trick as last time on the approach to Lenny's. Once past slowly, scouting for police cars. Then a U-turn to park behind the bushes, hidden from the road. The lights were off, the doors locked—more than locked. Each bore a seal: Napa County Sheriff's Office, Authorized Personnel Only. No key under any doormat either. Nobody had noticed the unlocked kitchen window. It was high, narrow, and a struggle to wriggle through, but at least it was around back, out of sight.
The kitchen stench was stronger. Dusty footprints outlined the path the police had followed on their search. One of the cops must have turned off the air conditioner in the wine room. Spraggue flipped it on again. He'd have to ask Alicia about the wine. If she didn't want it, he'd offer a fair price.
Spraggue breathed in deeply. The wine aroma hadn't been this noticeable before. He reached up and pulled the dangling string attached to the single light bulb.
The bottles had been smashed against the far corner of the wall. Deep purple stained the cement floor. Six bottles at least, maybe a dozen. Spraggue picked carefully through the shards, searching for the label, even though he knew what it would say: Leider Vineyards Cabernet Sauvignon, Napa Valley, 1975, Private Reserve. He traced the purple stain with his fingertips: almost dry to the touch. Someone had spilled the wine at least a day ago. Who? And why?
Lenny's phone was still connected. Spraggue charged the call to Holloway Hills, gave Alicia
Brent's home number. She answered after eight rings, breathless.
"
Of course I'm all right" She sounded surprised. "Nervous, I guess. Undecided."
"
My aunt said you had something to tell me."
"
I'm not really sure if—"
"
One way to stay nervous is to keep everything to yourself."
"
It's just that-—"
"
Share the had news. It won't have to go any further. Unless . . ." ‘
"Unless what?"
"Unless you're planning a murder confession."
"I'm not."
"
What else could be so bad?"
She said nothing. Spraggue listened to her breathing. A chair creaked.
"Are you alone?" he asked.
"Yes. The kids are out playing."
"Then now would be a good time to spill it."
"
Okay." She paused. Spraggue counted to ten. "I got a package in the mail. Mailed to Lenny, but at this address. Lenny never set foot in here."
"But you accepted it."
"
Maybe I shouldn't have. I had to sign for it. The handwriting on the label seemed familiar. I don't know why I took it."
"When did this happen?"
"
The day before you came."
Spraggue smiled grimly. That damned parcel on the couch. So that's what she'd been hiding. "Go on," he said.
"
When I heard Lenny was dead . . . I don't know, I couldn't bring myself to open it. But then I realized, yesterday, that the handwriting was Lenny's. Why would he mail himself a package and send it here? I opened it."
"And?"
Her voice shook a little. "There's money in it, Mr. Spraggue. So much money that I stopped counting at ten thousand. So much money that I'm scared. How did Lenny get that money? And why did he mail it here?"
"
Where did you put it, Mrs. Brent?"
"
In the basement. I didn't want the kids to see it."
"Fine. Now listen. While the kids are still out, get the money and put it in a shoebox; use more than one shoebox if you have to, but nothing larger than a shoebox. Save the original box and the wrapping paper; hide them somewhere. Then seal the shoeboxes, tie them up, and call a cab. Go to a bank, not your regular bank, and rent a safe-deposit box. Put the money in there. If you need to rent more than one box, go to another bank."
"But I'll have the keys! If someone comes and Lenny was killed—"
"Put the keys in an envelope and mail it to yourself. Keep mailing it until I call you, until I'm absolutely sure it's safe"
"You don't think I should go to the police?"
Spraggue thought fast. "Not yet. Just get the money to a bank."
"Okay." She hesitated a moment, then her voice came on strong. "I will. I'll do exactly what you said."
"
Fine."
"
Mr. Spraggue? Do you know who the money belongs to?"
It was Spraggue's turn to hesitate. "I'm not quite certain yet," he said slowly.
He sat on the bed for fifteen minutes, motionless, after he'd hung up the phone.
23
When he got back to Holloway Hills, Kate was gone. Her bed was wrinkled, but empty. The shower stall stood ajar, an irregular drip bouncing off the tile. Spraggue tightened the hot-water handle and cursed. "Stay put," he'd said. Sure.
He lifted the phone and punched the house line that rang at the winery a half-mile down the road. A kid with a lisp answered: Miss H. was not around. Kate's purse, sitting on the kitchen counter, gave him a bad five minutes before he remembered her reluctance to drag it along, her disdain for lipstick and powder and combs. She'd have stuck money and keys in her pockets. Of course.
He carved a hunk of Monterey Jack off a slab in the refrigerator, dropped it on a chipped plate next to a pile of crackers, and sat down at the kitchen table. He ate mechanically, hardly tasting the cheese. He jumped when the teakettle shrieked. She must have gone out to buy a paper. To get a bottle of aspirin. Any damn thing. No sign of a struggle. He opened the door, stood peering at the deepening twilight from the front porch. Called her name. Nothing.