A Tainted Finish: A Sydney McGrath Mystery (21 page)

Jim glared at his daughter across the table.

“But wouldn't that mean that Feldman knew about the bribe?” Syd asked, keeping her own excitement buttoned down.

Jim narrowed his eyes at her. Syd was unsure if he was going to answer her or tell her to butt out of his investigation.

“Not necessarily,” he answered thoughtfully.

“But isn't it plausible that he knew about the bribe?” Syd asked. “Couldn't he have stipulated that Francois get better scores to add him to the deal? I'm not sure Francois would have taken the initiative to do that kind of thing alone. Not in his character.”

“No
cajones
.” Alejandro added.

“And couldn't Feldman have reason to sabotage Clarence's plane after he had assurances that he had a wine maker for the buyout?” Charlie said. “Knocks out the problem of eliminating the partial owner. And he gets a hefty insurance claim.” Charlie bounced in her seat again and Syd glared at her.

“The plane was not sabotaged,” Jim avowed, his voice full of authority. “I talked to the mechanic yesterday. Clarence was simply in a long stall during a trick of some kind and he pulled up too late.” Jim's sonorous tones expounded confidence and finality. Charlie and Syd exchanged glances. Olivier kept his eyes averted, staring at the grease on his empty plate.

“And that nearly eliminates your suspicion too,” Jim said across the table to Olivier. “But don't take off just yet.”

Olivier merely nodded. Silence surrounded the table for a moment. Syd was mystified. Once again, the world of men defied all logic. Here was a resolution to a problem that had weighed heavily for a solid week, threatening Olivier's freedom and credibility, threatening the very existence of the winery. And all of it disappeared with a single subject/verb sentence and a nod.

“Well, I have to get going,” Alejandro said. He slammed both palms down on the table. “Sylvia made me dinner.” He winked at Charlie.

“Another dinner?” Charlie asked. “You ate five tacos.”

“Yeah, I was saving my appetite. She made
rellenos
. She's a really good cook.” He winked at Syd this time. Charlie socked him hard in the arm.

“I'm a good cook,” she pouted.

“Yeah, for a
gringa
,” he muttered under his breath, and got up with a swagger. He was clearly having fun with Charlie.

“I'll meet you in the vineyard at seven tomorrow morning?” Olivier asked Alejandro while he pulled on his jacket.

“So late? Yeah, I guess it won't be light until then anyway,” he said, answering his own question.

“What are you doing in the vineyard?” Syd asked. She felt annoyed that she wasn't included in their plans.

“Red blotch,” said Olivier. “We need samples for testing.”

“But can't you just tell by the color of the leaves?” she asked.

“No. The red leaf is a final symptom. The vine can have the virus for several years before the leaves turn red. We need to pull up the vines that are infected now.” Something about Olivier’s commitment to keeping the vines healthy for future vintages comforted Syd.

“Well, I'm in,” she said.

“Fine,” Olivier said. He flashed a disarming white-toothed smile, which made Syd's stomach sink. His dark eyes crinkled and lit up. Charlie looked at them one at a time. “Not me. I'm sleeping in,” she said with a shrug. She got up and walked into the kitchen with a stack of plates, wearing an enigmatic smile.

Syd found herself underdressed and huffing as she walked uphill to the winery in the early dawn chill. She clung to a steaming coffee mug, wishing she had filled a thermos instead. The morning was clear and frosty; the purple haze of the early light woven in and out of the familiar treeline. The huge doors of the winery were open, and she could hear the muffled voices of men working inside. She knew Olivier would have to do punchdowns before they worked the vineyard. She felt a tinge of guilt for not anticipating this. How was she ever going to run the winery herself when she couldn't remember the basics? She was certainly grateful for Olivier, but his efficiency was an occasional reminder of her own incompetence. She wondered if the men only humored her in letting her tag along today. She thought about how she asked herself along, wondering if they were patronizing her. Or worse, dreading her intrusion.

She was filled with self-doubt when she entered the large red doors, feeling like she didn't belong. The winery was an artifact of her childhood, an iconic symbol of her uncle and all things family. The smells, sounds, and energy of the place drifted down into her deepest feelings of comfort and familiarity. But she doubted she could rightfully claim it as her own.

Olivier stood in a far corner on the edge of a fermentation tank, driving the long punchdown tool into the pomace. He looked like he belonged here. Syd watched silently for a minute, staring at his cat-like grace as he walked along the thin strip of plastic of the tank walls, wielding the punchdown tool for balance. He reminded her of her uncle, absorbed in some kind of zen flow and using every sense at full capacity to understand the wine.

Alejandro sidled up next to her. He silently looked in the direction of her eyes and poured her some steaming coffee from his own thermos.

“Thanks. Morning,” she muttered, lowering her eyes.

“He’s a good guy, Syd,” Alejandro said.

“Not a murderer then, huh?”

“Nah,” he growled into his own mug and shuffled out the huge doors. He disappeared up the path to the upper vineyard.

Syd watched Olivier move to another tank and work the skins down in smooth circular motion. She walked over to the tank he was perched on and peered over the top. The long stainless steel tool never stopped moving. It circled into the dry cap of seeds and skins, pushing the deep purple mass down deep into pink bubbles like sea foam. The tool pierced the cap with relentless grace, slowly and carefully breaking into the mass in a perfect arc. It followed the invisible line of a sphere into the juice below the cap. Olivier did not move like her uncle. His punchdowns were a dance of fluid grace in perfect time. Clarence had jammed and jarred the cap, pulling and pushing with rigid motion and dominating the tank in linear, syncopated jabs. But Olivier rolled the pomace in undulating, churning waves that were inextricable from the next plunge.

“You do that so differently,” she said, staring into the pink foam and feeling the sting of carbon dioxide in her nose. The gorgeous earthy aroma of fermenting Cabernet lingered deep in her nasal passage and made her light-headed.

“Clarence said the same thing,” Olivier said, his head cocked to one side. “He said that I do punchdowns like your mother.” He frowned at her from his perch above her. Syd looked away, unwilling to get swallowed up in emotion so early.

“It was a compliment,” he said. “One of few. Your uncle worshipped your mother as a wine maker. He said she made wine in a sacred dance. A feminine ritual.” He smiled sardonically, amused at her uncle's sentimental theories on women and wine making. He teased her with an intoxicating twinkle in his eye.

Syd raised her eyebrows, taking the bait. She stared up at him. “Wine is innately female,” she touted defiantly. “It was invented by women and for a long time only women were permitted to make wine.” She put her hands on her hips in a mock gesture worthy of Charlie. Olivier laughed.

“It's true!”

“Where did you hear such a thing?” Olivier asked, using a tone reserved for incredulous claims. He squatted on the balls of his feet to get nearer to her, still balancing on the one-inch edge of the tank wall.

“
The Epic of Gilgamesh
,” she said, inching closer. She jutted her jaw near his bent knee. His eyebrows arched. “
The Epic of Gilgamesh
tells of women making wine and beer. It goes back at least 5000 years.” She faked an imperious glare, but knew he was worthy of the education.

Olivier shrugged and straightened his legs again like a spring while balancing gracefully. He plunged the tool in the pomace again, breaking up the cap in his borrowed style. Syd watched him for a few minutes, hoping for more conversation. But Olivier had immersed himself back into his simple task and he ignored her. Syd turned to leave but stopped when he cleared his throat.

“Truth is, I learned this technique from my uncle,” he said, “who learned it from your mother. It prevents bruising the skins and it's easier on the shoulders.” He spoke softly, mesmerized by his own movements. Syd nodded and kept her thoughts to herself for fear of losing her composure. She watched him for a minute before venturing outside into the upper vineyard. Her mind worked to untangle the mess of her mother, her uncle, and the Ruiz family.

Alejandro drove down to her on the steep road between the blocks of vines in an ATV. He had a crate mounted to the front of it that held a box of Ziploc bags, Sharpies, and clippers. He handed her a small crate that held a pair of new gloves and clippers. His own gloves were worn and stained.

“We'll start at the bottom here,” he said, pointing to the starting row on a southern block.

“How do we know which ones to take?”

“All of the vines with red leaves, then the vines next to 'em. Then every other one or so. Mark the grid in rows and count the vines from the start. Like one dash two for this one.” He pointed to a vine, cut a cane with one leaf, and stuffed it into a baggie. He wrote on the bag with his pen.

Syd nodded and set off to work on the vines. The air was still cold and dry, and she was thankful for the leather gloves. The work required her to remove the gloves to open the plastic bag for the samples and the writing, so her fingers grew stiff with cold. After a few moments she noticed that Alejandro was three times as fast as she was, moving through the adjacent block with astonishing expertise. She forced herself to work more efficiently. The sun glared into her eyes as she worked, and she noticed that Alejandro faced west. But she wanted to see Olivier approach when he strode up hill.

After several rows and a few embarrassing but essential breaks to warm up her fingers for fear of cutting one off with the razor sharp clippers, she felt her heart skip a beat at the sound of crunching gravel under boots. Olivier turned into the soft ground cover of the vineyard and silently walked through the grid of vines toward Syd. He stood next to her and inhaled deeply.

“Q
ué bonita,
” he whispered, his gaze fixed eastward toward the sun rising over the river. Syd froze and nodded.

“All of this hell we are going through and the world is still beautiful like this,” he said. “Nature is cruel and indifferent, but beautiful.” He was quoting something that Clarence said often. Syd nodded again, remembering the first time she understood the reverence Clarence held for the natural world. He taught her to marvel at the greatness of nature, to illicit the ultimate lesson of human insignificance. Clarence saw the world through the humble, sad eyes of a poet who believed in no god or master plan. Instead he believed in the profundity of beauty and love. He worshipped the loneliness of insignificance. He drowned dutifully in a sea of nihilism with a passion for human frailty as his lone buoy. She realized now that Clarence understood everything. Tears filled her eyes at the thought.

They stood together for several minutes, staring at the view, each lost in memory of Clarence. Suddenly, a sound from uphill jolted them.

“
Órale!
” Alejandro shouted from the neighboring block, at least twenty rows above them. He stood with his hands up in the air. Syd copied his gesture and turned to Olivier, who chuckled.

“What are we doing, bosslady?” he asked Syd, teasing her lightly.

Syd explained the task, showing him how to label the bags and count the vines out. He smiled while she explained it, and she realized that he must know exactly how to do everything she was explaining. He did not demonstrate his usual forbearance.

“What is it?” she asked as he continued to smile.

“Nothing,” he said, grinning.

“No, what?” She looked hurt.

“You remind me of Clarence, that's all.”

“Oh,” she said, returning to her task. She wondered what he must have meant. She trudged off two rows up from Olivier to give him space. He would have to leap frog her rows, which wasn’t the best system. But she was reluctant to move too far into a block by herself, thinking of her vow to be more careful.

They worked in silence for a half hour. The sun was well above the horizon but their fingers were still frozen. Syd remembered a day in the vineyard with Clarence when she was ten, on a morning very much like this one. There had been a deep frost the night before, and Clarence wanted to check on damage from a freeze so early in the season. Clarence explained what he was doing in a slow, methodical manner. Syd rolled her eyes as he spoke, to which he responded with silence. Of course, he suspected that she didn't care about the vines or what he was teaching her. But her real objection was his condescending tone, and his assumption of her ignorance. With Clarence, the elementary lesson rarely evolved into more depth and complexity while gauging his student's intelligence or understanding. He simply taught lessons according to his own plan. When she was a teenager and she had shouted at him that he treated her like a small child, he was perplexed and sullen for days. Now she realized that his methods for explaining or teaching were a simple means of conveying information. There were no assumptions or room for mistakes. He spoke in the lowest common denominator to ensure accuracy. Just as she had with Olivier.

Syd smiled at her own self-discovery. Her hands moved efficiently over the vines, clipping leaves and canes, and marking the bags. Olivier said she was like Clarence. Just two months before she would have been offended, but today she was proud.

She smiled to herself and took comfort in her thoughts. She bent down to pick up the crate of supplies and heard a buzz of wind rush past her left ear, carrying with it the sharp report of a rifle. She stood up again, confused. Olivier shot straight up and turned to Syd, twenty yards above him on the hill. Another two raps echoed through the vineyard.

“
Sydney!
” he yelled. He ducked to run bent over, taking shelter in the vines.

Syd stood paralyzed. Confused. She searched for Alejandro, who had disappeared. More gun shots. Her legs started to run, and she ducked low in the vines. Another bullet whizzed by her, this time above her head. She sprinted with her back bent and sudden excruciating pain in her left elbow. She stumbled and landed on the crate she was shocked to discover she still had in her hands. The corner pierced her side. She recovered her feet and ducked low. Another bullet whizzed by her right side, blowing her sweatshirt backward.

Olivier met up with her at the edge of the block and tackled her face down. He lay on top of her, his body taut and ready, listening hard. Syd's head rung with echoing shots. Adrenaline rushed through her in massive waves. She tried to focus on the sounds around her, between the swishing in her ears. They lay together on the ground for thirty seconds, holding their breath. It felt like an eternity. He poked his head up slightly when they heard no more gun shots. His shifting weight pressed heavy on Syd and she couldn't breath.

An engine fired up a few seconds after Olivier had tackled Syd to the ground. Olivier got to his knees, straddling Syd's legs, and popped his head up. He saw the ATV racing uphill to the neighboring vineyard and Alejandro's flannel shirt flapping in the wind like a cape. Olivier watched him disappear into the vines uphill.

“Alejandro took off after him,” Olivier said in a hollow voice.

“How do you know?” Syd whispered hoarsely. Her face was still buried in cold clumps of dirt near the base of a vine.

“He must have seen where the shots were fired from up there,” he said. He moved off of her and straightened slowly to get a better look. They strained to hear the sound of the ATV whining at top speed.

After a moment, Syd rolled off of her aching arm, which was wrenched when she hit the ground. It ached deep in the bone, and she wondered if she had broken it in the fall. She cradled her left elbow in her right hand as she turned over on her back, looking down in horror.

“Olivier?” she gasped.

He looked down at her lying on the ground, the front of her shirt covered in blood. She was pale as a sheet.

Olivier fell to the ground next to her with terrible shock on his face, which sent Syd into a panic. Her eyes opened wide as he gently lifted her arm away from her body. She yelped in pain and whimpered. His face filled with despair.

“Is it your belly?” he asked in a husky voice.

“I don't think so,” she whispered, feeling faint. She concentrated on the pain and tried to navigate through the echoes in her head, the whirling intensity of her throbbing pulse. She looked down at her torso.
So. Much. Blood.