Bitter Finish (7 page)

Martinson's face turned slowly red. "Brent actually wrote to the managing editor of my paper, demanding that I print a retraction! A retraction of a tasting! What was I supposed to do? Alter my taste buds? Suddenly decide, two weeks after the fact, that I'd been wrong? What the hell does wrong or right have to do with tasting? I call them as I taste them, simple enough. But Brent couldn't see that. A conspiracy against him! God, the charges he made!"

Martinson's voice lowered. "He hinted that I'd been paid off. Can you imagine? It got so I was afraid to answer my front door, The man's a menace. Personally, I think you're wise to be rid of him."

"I don't know that I'm rid of him exactly," Spraggue said.

Martinson raised his pale eyebrows.

"I just can't seem to locate him."

"During crush?" Martinson asked incredulously. Mary Ellen looked as if she wanted to take notes, her mouth pressed into a thin line with a parenthesis on each end. "He is missing, then," she trumpeted happily. "And that's why the police—"

The waiter picked that moment to serve soup. The wine was brought and duly opened. The Examiner's wine critic performed the appropriate ceremonies to the hilt.

"Well, I don't understand," Mary Ellen Martinson said bluntly, as soon as the waiter was out of earshot. "Wasn't there a body? I heard there was a body."

"Not Lenny's."

"Disappointed?" asked her husband under his breath. Mary Ellen stared at him coldly, turned her attention back to Spraggue.

"Do they know who died?" she asked.

"I don't." Spraggue sipped his wine. Howard was . right; it was showing well. Fruity, but with acid to spare, and strong varietal character.

"Was it rnurder?"

"Seems likely."

They ate soup. Lines of concentration furrowed Mary Ellen's brow. She tried another giggle and changed the subject. "How long are you planning to stay in the valley, Michael?" She leaned way over the table. Spraggue kept his eyes on his soup.

"Till tomorrow morning," he said, "with luck."

"Then business is all settled?"

"
Ruberman will be back as winemaker. He and Kate can handle the harvest without me."

"
You're not tiring of the wine business?"

"
No." Spraggue decided he'd answered enough questions. "Why do you ask?"

Another giggle. "Rumors. All these sell-outs to conglomerates."

"Nothing like that in the wind at Holloway Hills."

"
If you say so," said Mary Ellen.

"
Glad to hear it," said her husband.

The wine was starting to turn Mary Ellen's giggle into hiccups. "Don't suppose you know where Lenny's off to? Always was unreliable—not as unreliable as some—"

The clearing of soup plates and the advent of poached salmon with hollandaise sauce interrupted her. Then Martinson lead the discussion relentlessly into the topic of wine and insisted on ordering another bottle, a Chardonnay he swore bore some resemblance to Holloway Hills. Not until dessert did Spraggue manage to steer the conversation back to Lenny Brent.

"
Were you and Lenny friends?" he asked Mary Ellen, and was rewarded by seeing George gag on a mouthful of strawberry mousse.

Mary Ellen just giggled.

"Well, where would you look for Lenny if you wanted to find him?"

Martinson tried to answer first, but Mary Ellen jumped in before her husband could lower the napkin from his mouth.

"
Cherchez la et cetera, " she murmured with a grin. "Always, in Lenny's case. I've heard, " she added as  an afterthought, directly to George.

"You know who the woman is?" Spraggue asked.

"It is a small valley." Mary Ellen was enjoying herself, stalling, adding cream to her already white coffee. "Just five miles wide and——"

Martinson interrupted. "There was that beautiful child, wasn't there? With the bizarre name? Remember?"

"Very well," Mary Ellen said. "Grady—something-or-other. A made-up name to go with the bottled hair color, absolutely the most incredible red you've ever seen!"

"A waif, you know," Martinson said, mouth gloomy, eyes sparkling. "Thin, with those big
smudgy eyes, very Hollywood romantic."

"
Thin?" Mary Ellen smiled broadly. "Last time I saw her she was far from thin. Expecting company, I'd say."

"
Lenny's child?" Spraggue asked.

"A girl like Grady—she probably has no idea."

Mary Ellen poured herself a very full glass from the new bottle of wine.

"And you think Lenny might be with her?"

Spraggue tried to catch Mrs. Martinson's eye. Impossible.

"
Do you like this wine?" She held her glass of golden liquid up toward the ceiling, peering at it through one half-closed eye.

Lavalier Cellars. Spraggue read the label, couldn't place the name. The wine seemed raw to him, unfinished, uncouth. No match for Holloway Hills.

"Yes," he lied quickly. "Now——"

Mary Ellen swirled her glass, inhaled deeply. "You're going to be hearing about this wine. You bet your sweet—"

"
I had the distinct feeling that this Grady was in Lenny's past," George Martinson said, "that he'd dropped her."

"
Because of the child?"

"
Who knows? According to the gossip——" Martinson stopped abruptly.

"
According to the gossip," Spraggue repeated painstakingly, "who would Lenny be with now?"

Mary Ellen giggled and sloshed her wine over the white tablecloth. "Rumor is that he's shacked up with Holloway Hills and Valleys—over at your place"

Martinson's shrug took in his drunken wife, the sodden tablecloth, the late hour, and Mary Ellen's revelation. "That's what I've heard, too," he agreed, almost apologetically. "Phil Leider told me he sure couldn't match Kate Holloway's offer!"
 

7

Spraggue didn't escape the Martinsons until La Belle Helene's staff practically threw them out at eleven-thirty. Their party was the last to quit the dining room. Spraggue felt the same relief he saw on the faces of the waiters.

Mary Ellen Martinson was falling-down drunk. George virtually carried her, his right arm viselike around her shoulders. His face had the slow flush of alcohol, but he bundled his wife off into the car in a businesslike fashion, as if he'd rehearsed the routine before. He pulled her red skirt down over her thighs.

"
Ride?" he asked Spraggue.

"
No, thanks. Sure you're okay to drive?"

Martinson's face reddened even more. "I have a great capacity for wine." He gazed discontentedly at Mary Ellen, slack-jawed and faintly snoring in the passenger seat. "Unfortunately, my wife does not share that gift."

The statement needed no confirmation. Spraggue banged Martinson's car door shut with more than necessary force and headed back to his car, glad he'd drunk so little of the wine, sorry that Mary Ellen had felt the need to compensate for his restraint. What game were they playing, those two? A simple round of capture-an-innocent-bystander-for-dinner to alleviate their mutual boredom? Or a deeper charade? And what was Martinson up to, encouraging Mary Ellen to guzzle her drinks like a combat-zone pro, refilling her drained glass the moment she set it down, then lamenting over her limited capacity? The drunker she got, the wider her husband's grin. And now Martinson would chauffeur her home and stuff her into bed unconscious. How many nights a week did they play out that scenario?

A warning bell sounded somewhere in Spraggue's head, cautioning him to back off and leave such speculation strictly alone. Turn on some blaring radio station, it urged him. Memorize those movie lines. Anything to avoid getting snared in the spiderweb of strangers' lives.

How could he ever have been a private investigator? The answer may have puzzled Kate, but it was no mystery to Spraggue, just an outgrowth of the same desire to live other lives that drove him as an actor. How would you play a man like George Martinson? What made people tick and tick and keep on ticking years after the mechanism should have run down?

But acting wasn't life. Three years of delving into reality had taught him that there weren't any pretty painted proscenium arches to frame messy slice-of-life melodramas with meaning. No safe scripts with all the loose ends tied in careful knots. No resolutions, no illusions, no curtain calls. The best you could hope for was to shelter a tiny circle of loved ones from disaster ....

Kate was a throwback to a time before he'd leamed that lesson, a time when he hadn't loved as cautiously.

The engine started smoothly. Spraggue drove carefully, keeping a tight rein. At least contemplating the Martinsons' bizarre relationship delayed thoughts of Kate. Kate and Lenny ....

"Stick around and help me, Spraggue. I'm not sure I can handle the crush all by my lonesome." Crummy dialogue, but better than "Stick around and help me find my lover." How would that line have gone over? Not half as well. Bad taste, begging the ex to find the present. And offering to sleep with the ex to seal the bargain. Shit.

He hadn't believed Howard, old unperceptive Howard. But Mary Ellen and George and Phil Leider .... How many witnesses did he need? So Lenny and Kate had a winemaking spat Sunday night and Lenny ran off. Just like that. God, he wondered what the battle had really dealt with. Hadn't taken place in any kitchen over coffee, either. Not with Kate.

And that was the gossip Lieutenant Bradley wasn't authorized to clue him in on.

Spraggue jammed his foot down on the accelerator, too hard for the narrow twists of Zinfandel Lane. Lights blossomed in his rear-view mirror; he'd picked up an unexpected companion on the usually deserted road. He yanked his foot completely off the gas, let the car creep back to normal speed. Why hurry? He hoped Kate would be sleeping by the time he got back, knew she wouldn't be. Knew she'd be waiting, reading, in the old double brass bed, naked.

Shit. The anger blew out of him like air out of a punctured balloon. What right had he to pass judgment on Holloway's bedmates? He didn't own her, just half the winery. Didn't want to own . . .

The car was handling oddly. The next bump in the road left no doubt about that. When he hit the brake, it grabbed, swerving off to the right. He fought the steering wheel to keep the Volvo aimed down the center strip. That car behind him followed too closely.
 
Damn, Spraggue muttered under his breath. He groped for the emergency flashers, flicked them on, and swung over as far as possible toward the right-hand verge of the narrow road. The other car gunned its engine, whizzed past, roared out of sight.

Spraggue stopped the Volvo dead, got out to check on a visible cause for the car's erratic behavior. The night air was heavy with the smell of ripe grapes. Vines stood thick all around, supported by wood and lashings of rope, bowed with the weight of the purple clusters. Spraggue stared straight up and took a calming, lung-filling breath. So many stars.

The right front tire was flat as Kansas. He'd never make it to Kate's, up that twisty driveway.
Not a car, not a house. That jerk behind him-

Once, years ago, when a car displayed flashers, pulled off the road, the driver behind would stop, offer aid. Maybe Leider was right. Nobody did that anymore. Too dangerous. Better not get involved.

Let there be a spare tire. Kate was notoriously negligent about such petty details. He retrieved the keys from the ignition. At least there were two on the chain. She could have just handed over the ignition key, never dreaming he'd need to open the truck. Maybe she kept a flashlight in the glove compartment. Spraggue circled the car, opened the passenger door. Nothing in the glove compartment but used paper towels and a half-empty bottle of Windex.

Another car passed, didn't slow down even when he waved.

He left the right-hand door open for light. The glow barely reached around to the trunk. He fumbled with his hands for the lock before remembering the tiny pencil flash on his own key ring. He found it, clicked it on, tried the key in the lock. Rusty. He worked it for what seemed like minutes before the key turned and the trunk sprang open.

As soon as he smelled it, he was glad of the darkness, glad the stars were faint, faraway specks. Not masked by embalming fluid now, it was a sickly sweetish stink. He flicked off the pencil flash and turned away. He had no desire to see what was left of Lenny Brent. His knees wobbled and he straightened up with effort. The silence was so intense it seemed to hum.

The hum came closer. This time the passing car stopped. It had flashing blue lights and the sheriff s insignia over the door.
 

8

"When can I speak to Kate Ho1loway?"

Shakespeare mirrored the fall of kings in foul weather. Lenny's death, Spraggue thought, glancing disgustedly around the sheriff' s office in the early hours of Saturday morning, was rendered in stale smoke, filthy ashtrays, and the harsh glare of fluorescent bulbs.

Two hours since the discovery, two hours of hurry-and-wait, hurry-and-wait, punctuated by a
single question, his own: "When can I speak to Kate Holloway?"

She was somewhere around the L-shaped bend, stashed in one of the tiny offices. That much, Lieutenant Bradley had leaked. Captain Enright wasn't communicating; he'd given it up with a satisfied smirk the moment Spraggue had identified the body.

Bradley barged out of the inner office. "Coffee?" he said, before Spraggue could gear up for the question.

"Thanks. Black" Spraggue stood and fumbled for change in his right-hand pocket.

"
I'll take care of it. Seeing as you're an unwilling guest."

Spraggue wished Enright were the flunky they sent out for coffee. He tried a variation of his request when Bradley returned with two steaming cups balanced precariously on a cardboard tray.

"
Can I see Kate Holloway?"

"
I doubt it. But hang around, by all means. Enright gets a charge out of knowing you're still here fuming."