Cantina Valley (A Ben Adler Mystery Book 1) (5 page)

5

The next morning Ben got up and did his chores—feeding his animals and collecting eggs from his chicken coop.
 
He decided to hold off on smoking fish until he knew he had all day to keep shoving alder into the smoker.

Then, with two dozen fresh eggs, he drove down the road to one of his closest neighbors.

Maggi McGuffin had given him a folder on her brother, Tavis—everything from a list of old friends to information on his last known address.
 
Of course that meant nothing now, since she had already gone to his old place in the Portland suburb of Beaverton and found out Tavis had moved out more than a month ago, leaving no forwarding address.
 
The last time she had talked with Tavis he had mentioned something about a particular winery in the Southern Willamette Valley a few miles from Ben’s house.
 
Technically the Springdale Winery was on the southern edge of Cantina Valley, whereas Ben lived in the northwest of the valley, where the Cantina Creek came down out of the Coast Range.
 
Ben recently traded geese for a few cases of wine for a festival.
 
They cooked a high-priced meal for rich folks from Eugene and Salem.

But before Ben went to the winery, he needed to talk with his neighbor.
 
Ben pulled up to a locked gate and pressed a button, smiling for the high-tech camera.
 
Without hearing anything from his neighbor, the gate clicked and slowly opened.

Ben put his truck in gear and spun his tires a little until they went from the unpaved county road to his neighbors newly-paved long driveway.
 
The road was divided on both sides by ponds.
 
The house was nestled into the hills of the Coast Range much like Ben’s place.
 
But unlike Ben’s modest place, this two-story monster could have been featured in
Architectural Digest
.
 
It was constructed of shiny logs with a second-story deck that wrapped around the entire upper level.

Standing at a covered entrance on the first level, Marlon Telford waved at Ben.
 
The man was wearing only his underwear, his skinny body probably freezing with the temperature hovering around 32 degrees.
 
The man’s most distinguishing feature was a long gray beard to his collarbone, tied off at the end in a tight braid.
 
His head was shaved or naturally bald.
 
Ben had once saw a picture of the man from his years as a college professor, where Marlon had hair like a mad scientist doing electrical experiments.

Getting out from his old truck with the two dozen eggs, Ben walked up to his neighbor.
 
“I’d ask you how the hell it’s hanging, but I can see that from here.”

Marlon looked down and tucked himself in.
 
“Sorry about that.
 
I just got up.
 
I was out Squatch hunting late last night.”

Marlon Telford was the area expert on everything Bigfoot.
 
Not many knew how the man acquired all of his wealth, but he had plenty of it, considering his place and the fact that he owned a full section of land.

“Any luck?” Ben asked.
 
Although he wasn’t a true believer, he liked to keep his mind open just in case someone found one of the beasts.

“I got a few calls returned,” Marlon said.

Ben passed the two dozen eggs to Marlon.
 
“Are you going to actually eat them this time?”

“You know I’m a vegetarian just like Bigfoot,” Marlon said.

“Then what do you do with the eggs?”

Marlon smiled and said, “I trade them for information.
 
People in this area really like your eggs.
 
Better than money.”

“I see.
 
Tell me about a pretty redhead who came by in a black BMW yesterday.”

“I’m sorry about that, Ben.
 
But I’m a sucker for a hot young lady.”

“She could have been someone from my past, Marlon.”

Marlon knew only as much about Ben as others in the area, with the exception of Jim Erickson, who had known Ben in his youth.
 
Others only knew that he had done some covert activity in the military for more than 20 years.
 
The truth was that Ben had made enemies with those under his investigation in the Air Force, as well as foreign bad guys.
 
As a result, Ben liked his privacy.

“I know.
 
I’m sorry, Ben.
 
It won’t happen again.
 
I forgot.
 
What did she want?”

Ben wasn’t sure he wanted to share that information.
 
Instead, he said, “She’s a friend of my old Air Force commander.
 
Turns out my friend had a stroke and she wanted to inform me.”
 
The truth without telling everything.

“I’m sorry.
 
That’s a shame.”
 
Marlon paused and then vectored.
 
“Hey, when would you like to go on the hunt with me?”

“I’ve gotta smoke some fish and finish canning,” Ben said.
 
“I’ve still got a deer tag to fill also.
 
Let’s head out soon.”

Ben started to leave, but then stopped and pulled out a small photo that Maggi had given him.
 
He showed it to Marlon and asked, “Have you seen this guy?”

Marlon squinted his eyes at the photo of Tavis McGuffin still with short military hair.
 
Whereas Maggi’s hair was an auburn red, her brother’s hair was nearly black and flat on top.
 
Or at least it had been.
 
It could be as long as Ben’s hair by now.
 
The former soldier was attempting to smile in the snapshot, but it came off as more of a knowing smirk.

“Never seen the guy,” Marlon finally said.
 
“A friend of yours from the military?”

Before speaking, Ben slid the photo into a pocket inside his jacket.
 
“No.
 
A friend of a friend.
 
I hear he’s come into an inheritance, so I’m tracking him down for that.”
 
A little lie never hurt, Ben thought.

He wandered back to his old Ford pickup and sat for a minute gazing at the massive log house.
 
Ben had never been inside, but he imagined it was just as impressive as the exterior.
 
Although he didn’t expect Marlon to have seen Tavis McGuffin, few people slipped by without notice in this small community.
 
Cantina Valley was like a living and breathing Italian mother.
 
But where he was going next was a different story.
 
Local wineries depended on mostly tourists for their living, although a staple of locals never hurt either.

Springdale Winery was another mile or so down Cantina Valley, set high on a hill with a view of both the vineyards below and the rolling green hills to the west.
 
On a clear day the snowy peaks of the Cascades were also visible in the distance to the east.
 
This was not one of those days.

Rain started to slap down on Ben’s windshield as he pulled into a nearly empty parking lot.
 
Being a weekday in November, the tasting room was not open.
 
But Springdale did maintain a small shop with wine and other related items available for purchase.

He sat and watched wispy clouds of fog roll over the tops of the green mountains to the west, as if apparitions on the haunt.
 
Ben thought now about what he was doing.
 
Did he really care about the IRS?
 
They could be a problem for him, since they had no concept of his life.
 
Yet, being an orphan was a freeing prospect for him.
 
He no longer had parents to disappoint.
 
And, perhaps, that had been his real reason for remaining in the military for twenty years.
 
At least there he was not a failure.
 
He had finally succeeded at something in the eyes of his superiors.
 
Now, if things got to the point of total no return, he could end it all with one bullet.

As Ben stepped out of his truck, he adjusted his jacket over the handgun on his right hip and gazed down the mountain at a large flock of turkeys, the rain wetting his hair.
 
Yeah, turkeys were dumb enough to not get out of the rain.
 
But he guessed hunger would do that to any creature.

Ben was dating on and off a thirty-five-year-old woman who worked the wine trade, pouring to the masses during the summer and fall.
 
Sonya had trained in Italy and France as a sommelier.
 
When she spoke of wine Ben’s eyes glazed over.
 
Either he liked it or he didn’t like it.
 
No need to explain if he tasted pepper or the earth or the type of oak barrel.
 
But Sonya was passionate about her work, and Ben liked anyone with passion.
 
Especially when it came to beautiful women like Sonya.

He scurried into the retail shop to the side of the tasting room and shook off some rain from his jacket before wandering in deeper.
 
The tasting room was an impressive rendition of an Italian wine cellar, with thick wooden ceiling beams and an oak bar fashioned from wine barrels past their useful life.
 
The walls were textured and painted with a burnt cream like a Tuscan farmhouse.

An older woman, the co-owner of the winery, came out from the back and smiled at Ben.
 
“How ya doing, young man?
 
You looking for some wine or some Sonya?”

Coming in closer, he got a big hug from the owner.
 
She was Italian and a big hugger.
 
Then Ben pulled out his photo of Tavis McGuffin and showed it to her.
 
But she hadn’t seen the man before.
 
A lot of workers at wineries were hired under the table.
 
Many were illegal.
 
Some could have been hiding from their former lives.

“Who’s this man to you?” the owner asked him.

He decided to stick with the lie he had told Marlon, in case they ever compared notes.
 
Then he added, “He’s not in trouble.
 
A former soldier.”

Just then Sonya came out from the back office.
 
She was wearing yoga pants and a green Oregon Ducks sweat shirt.
 
On her feet, as always, were Nike running shoes.
 
Besides her passion for wine, Sonya was also a big-time runner.

“I thought I recognized your voice,” Sonya said.
 
“Were we supposed to do lunch?”

“No,” he said.
 
“I was just delivering some eggs and thought I’d stop by and see you.”
 
Not a total lie.
 
He figured if anyone had seen Tavis out this way it was Sonya.