Bitter Finish (17 page)

Not until one in the morning did he remember the soaked papers from Jason's attaché case. He handled them carefully. Undecipherable. Except for one news clipping, a wine review. By-line: George Martinson.
 

20

Dr. Eustace peered inquiringly over the top of his glasses. His wrinkled forehead smoothed suddenly.

"
Ah, yes. Holloway Hills! Did you find that boy you were after?"

Spraggue shook the proffered hand, smiled. Dr. Eustace didn't offer, but Spraggue sat in the straight-backed chair across from his desk. The professor gave an almost inaudible sigh and abandoned a stack of computer printout.

"
Can I help you?" he said reluctantly.

"Mark Jason—" Spraggue began.

"Now wait a minute." Eustace stuck his tongue out between his lips, drummed a finger on the nosepiece of his glasses. "You're the man I got that call about yesterday. From some Sheriff Somebody-or-other. Maybe it was wrong of me to put my records at your disposal."

"Not at all." Spraggue used his most reassuring tones. "I assure you, I'm cooperating fully with the Napa County Sheriffs Office. If you'd care to call Lieutenant Bradley—"

"Bradley!" Eustace's forefinger stabbed the air.

"That's the name."

"
He was very grateful for your help in locating me," Spraggue lied. "He thought you might be of further assistance in pinning down some details of Jason's career."

Eustace nodded sagely. "Mark Jason."

"
For example, we'd like to know what his area of expertise is."

"Area of expertise?" Dr. Eustace said blankly, settling himself back in his worn leather armchair and steepling his hands on his chest. "He's a student, Mr. Spraggue, aiming for that master's degree. Now I can tell you that Jason is interested in wine-making rather than vine-growing, but I don't see what business that would be of the Napa County sheriff."

"
What really excites Mark Jason? What facet of his studies does he like best?"

"I'm afraid these days that what the students enjoy has precious little to do with academic endeavor."

"There must be something."

"Mark Jason," Dr. Eustace muttered. "Mark Jason . . ." Spraggue sat up straighter. The old man had dredged up some half-forgotten item.

"Let me check this out," Eustace said mysteriously. "I might have some material for you."

Spraggue waited motionless while Eustace pawed through drawers in an adjoining file room. Maybe, he thought, he could find another professor, a friend, one Jason had confided in. But Carol had named Eustace as the best bet.

The professor reentered the room cradling a stack of pink mimeograph paper. "I've got it," he said proudly. "It was the Jason boy who doled out these bits of propaganda. Idiocy. I mean, how choosy can a young winemaker get? You rule out working for the big guns, it just lowers your chances for employment. Take any job you can and work your way up—that's what I tell the kids."

Spraggue hardly listened. He'd grabbed one of the pink sheets off the stack.

BOYCOTT THE CORPORATE GIANTS, read the boldface headline.
All over California, small wineries are being bought up by huge conglomerates, merged into larger wineries, combined into corporate megaliths!!!

SMALL WINERIES STRIVE FOR EXCELENCE!
CORPORATIONS STRIVE FOR PROFITS

The headline was repeated and underlined at the bottom of the page: BOYCOTT THE CORPORATE GIANTS!!!!!!

"Jason handed these out," Spraggue muttered.

"
That's right," Eustace said. "Mark hasn't gone and gotten into trouble with these little pink sheets of his, has he? I mean, with the sheriff' s office involved. He isn't out trying to organize the pickers or anything?"

 
Spraggue reread the handout. Lenny, the great individualist, was absolutely opposed to corporate takeovers. And Leider, he'd done a nonstop monologue on corporate evil during that wild BMW ride. And Kate had refused to sell to United Circle, to that insistent man named Baxter. Maybe both Lenny and Mark had been part of some organization, some opposition to the corporations.

Spraggue stopped, shook his head. He couldn't see United Circle, Coca-Cola, General Foods sending out hit teams of paid assassins to bump off independent winemakers. Still, he wondered if Aunt Mary had turned up anything shady on that Baxter guy.

Now that his interest was piqued, Eustace stared with distaste at his pile of printout. "I don't suppose I could keep you for an early lunch?" he asked.

"
Some other time," Spraggue said. "You've been a big help."

"Have I?"

Spraggue managed to extricate himself. He found a drugstore, bought a candy bar when they wouldn't give him change for the phone, stuck a dime in the slot and called collect.

Pierce answered with the usual runaround dodge about Mrs. Hillman's not taking any calls until evening.

"
You don't recognize my voice?"

"
Oh. Excuse me, sir—Mr. Michael. I'll advise Mrs. Hillman immediately. She may be angry. She's on to the exchange. I don't suppose you—"

"I can't call back later. Interrupt her. If she yells, yell back. It's good for her."

"
Just a moment, then," Pierce said doubtfully.

Spraggue heard his footsteps retreat down the hall.

Mr. Michael! Pierce hadn't called him that since he was ten years old.

Mary's quavery voice filled his ear. "How do you expect me to keep in touch when no one ever answers at Holloway Hills?"

"
Kate's probably got the phone off the hook. Reporters."

"She's free? Marvelous! You can go right on to L.A. for that film. Your assistant director's making quite a pest of himself, always calling—"

"I still need information. What have you got?"

Papers rustled. The click of the ticker-tape machine rat-tatted over the line. "More activity than I'd expected in the market, Michael. The rumor mills are working overtime."

"Fill me in."

"A major takeover by either Commercial Dynamics or United Circle. Smart money's on United Circle."

"The winery?"

"Hang on. I hope I have the names right.

Landover Valley. Leider Vineyards. And you'll love this one—Holloway Hills. I may have heated up speculation by my inquiries; our connection is not exactly unknown."

"
Damn."

"
What, dear?"

"
Grady Fairfield."

"Susan Fairfield, you mean."

Susan. So far Mary Ellen had been right about the pregnancy and the faked name. He wondered if she was right about the dyed hair. "Go on," he said.

"
A Susan Fairfield was admitted for scheduled minor surgery on Monday, August fourth, at the Spring Valley Clinic. It was one of the last places I tried, and they were very closemouthed. I hope no one fires the poor devil I finally bullied into giving out the information. Spring Valley is a very exclusive place. And very expensive."

Scheduled surgery: an abortion, then. At a ritzy private clinic .... Spraggue recalled Grady's cheap apartment, meager furnishings. Who had paid? George and Grady . . . ? Lenny and Grady . . . ?

"Michael? Are you still there?"

Spraggue stared at the phone. "Sorry. What about Baxter at United Circle? Did you talk to him?"

"
There is no Mr. Baxter working for UC. Never has been. Either they're covering up or you've been lied to." `

"Did you get the sense of a cover-up?"

"
No. Genuine puzzlement, I'd say."

Kate. Damn Kate.

"
Michael? Are you there?"

"Yes."

"Call Alicia Brent"

"What?"

"
The Brent woman called here yesterday, asking for you."

"
Why?"

"
Wouldn't say. She'd only speak to you."

"What hospital does she work at?"

"Providence in Marblehead. Want the number?"

"
Please."

More papers crackled. "It's 617-555-6718. Ask for the Dialysis Unit. If she's not there, try the house. She sounded panicky."

"Thanks."

"Take care. Can I reach you at Kate's?"

He hung up, gave his candy bar to a startled red-headed five-year-old standing just outside the phone booth. The kid scampered off in search of Mommy.

For the next call, Spraggue used his credit card. Alicia wasn't at the hospital. No one answered at home. She's in transit, Spraggue thought to himself. She's at the grocery store, at a meeting with one of the kids' teachers. Nothing's happened to Alicia Brent.

He tried the house again. No answer. The hospital. This time he got a woman who informed him that Mrs. Brent would come on duty at five that afternoon. He checked his watch. No time to waste. Too many other wisps of ideas to chase. He dialed two more numbers, spoke briefly.

The door-chimes jangled abruptly as he left the store. The station wagon sported a ticket stuffed under the windshield wiper.

He drove skillfully, but his mind wasn't on driving. He didn't notice a single scenic view.

Bradley had found him through Dr. Eustace. But how had Bradley known to check U.C. Davis? Kate. Bradley would have asked Kate where to find him. And she'd have mentioned last night's wine-tasting. And someone, anyone, at that tasting could have overheard him say that he planned to visit Davis. He thought about the fire at Mark Jason's apartment. Someone obviously had overheard. Overheard and acted.

Grady. Susan Fairfield. She'd lied about the miscarriage all right. But what bearing could that have on Mark Jason's death, on Lenny's death? Lenny could have been the father, refused to acknowledge paternity ....

No. What good was a solution that placed one piece of the jigsaw puzzle while leaving all the others scattered on the floor?

Kate. Why had she lied about a man named Baxter?

On the long ride to San Francisco, Spraggue regretted giving away his candy bar.
 

21

George Martinson kept an office in the same Post Street mausoleum that housed the Wine Institute.

The room itself was small, but what Martinson hadn't spent on rent, he'd more than compensated for on furnishings, from the deep-blue oriental rug to the Kandinsky lithograph over the antique mahogany desk. As Spraggue waited for the critic to finish a phone call, he wondered how much of the office decor had been purchased with Landover Valley money. Enough to keep Martinson contentedly wed to a woman who drank too much and slept around? A woman who desperately desired a memento from the estate of the late Lenny Brent.

Spraggue's mind wandered back over the contents of that box—the soiled shirts, the rolled socks. What had Mary Ellen been looking for?

Martinson clicked the receiver down, flashed his white teeth. "You must have called the Examiner," he said.

"
I thought you worked there."

"I did, but now I free-lance. Keeps me on the phone too much"

Spraggue nodded, drew the folded, smeared newsclipping out of his pocket. He hadn't come for small talk.

"Ah, I know!" Martinson stood suddenly, his athlete's frame dominating the room. "I have a bottle, a Fumé Blanc, just dropped off for review. Let's taste it while we chat." Martinson was already active with his cork-puller. "No, don't check the label. We'll see how good you are. I can promise you an interesting experience." He opened the top right-hand drawer of his desk, withdrew two long-stemmed glasses and an enormous white linen napkin. The napkin he wrapped around the bottle, obscuring the label. The glasses he ceremoniously filled.

"A toast?" he suggested. "Hardly 'success to crime,' eh? How about 'to Kate'? I understand the powers-that-be have given her a full pardon. After our most recent homicide. The valley's getting as bad as San Francisco! I attribute it to the tourists entirely. All that free tasting is getting out of hand! Why, on Saturday afternoons, you can barely crawl at a snail's pace up Route 29." Martinson's eyes fluttered nervously to the clipping. "What's that?"

"
To Kate," Spraggue said. They drank.

Martinson shuddered delicately. "Needs breathing, of course." He swirled his glass, inhaled deeply, made some quick notes on a gaudily monogrammed pad of paper.

"Now, what can I do for you?" he said.

"
Can't you guess?" Spraggue responded evenly.

Martinson squirmed uncomfortably in his well-upholstered gold chair. "Is that one of my reviews you're clutching?"

"
You recognize it?"

"
Newspaper clippings do resemble one another. If I could see it more closely?"

Spraggue leaned across the desk and placed the review in the center of the maroon leather blotter. He kept his hands poised, so that Martinson could read, but not touch.

"It's been rather badly kept," Martinson said.

"But it's yours?"

"
I wrote it. I can make out the G and the Mar. It looks old, but that may just be the care that's been lavished on it. Do you know the date?"

"
I was hoping you could tell me."

Martinson shook his head. "Let's see what's on the other side. May I touch it? Thank you. If that doesn't help, I'm afraid I'll have to send you off to the public library. They have all editions of the Examiner on microfilm. I'm on a very tight schedule today."

"But I'm sure you can make time to cooperate with the Napa County Sheriff s Office"

Martinson pressed his lips together tightly, said nothing. He stared at both sides of the clipping, turning it carefully in strong hands. "Do you mind my asking how it got into this condition?"

"Fire."

"
Oh." Martinson waited for an explanation, got none. "Can you reach the magnifying glass on the cabinet?"

Spraggue nodded, obliged.

"I can't get anything from the reverse side, but if I can pick up even a word or two from the actual review, I might . . . ah . . ." I