Drip Dead (20 page)

He waved her away with supreme confidence she’d return. I doubted it was misplaced. She looked like the kind who always came back to the source of a wad of bills.

“Sweet kid,” he said, ogling her backside as she sashayed away.

“Now if you girls want to sit right here with us”—he motioned at a couple of seats at his table—“I’d be glad to give you a few pointers.”

“Oh, no.” Paula sounded genuinely alarmed.

I didn’t blame her. The idea of spending the rest of the evening in the company of this windbag gave me a severe pain.

“We couldn’t impose on you,” she said. “Although I did have a question . . .”

“It’s no imposition, I assure you.” He smiled, his mouth drawing into an almost sneer of superiority. “Ask away.”

“I’ve been hearing about a wine group in Pine Ridge,” she said. “I think it was called Veritas.”

I watched Wilson closely when she said the name. I thought I saw the jolly persona slip for a split second, but Heather returned with two glasses of champagne at that moment, and I couldn’t be sure of what I’d seen. Maybe he just wasn’t that happy to have her back.

She handed a glass to Wilson and tapped her glass against his. “Cheers,” she said and took a big sip. She was staking her claim and making sure we knew we were most definitely not welcome to join them.

Paula and I both moved back a step, but Wilson wasn’t going to let his date run us off that easily.

“Never heard of them, but I’ll keep an ear out and let you know if I do.” He shook his head. “Small town for any kind of wine investors.”

Paula hadn’t said anything about investors. I wondered if Wilson’s denial was for the sake of his companion, or if there was a darker reason.

Wilson quickly shifted back into salesman mode, as though anxious to put the discussion of Veritas behind him.

“You sure I can’t get you to come down and look at a car?” He fished in his pocket for a business card, grabbed my hand, and pressed it into my palm. “Make you a good deal on your trade-in, too.”

“’Fraid not.” I gave him my sweetest smile. “I have a vintage Corvette. No way am I trading him in on anything.”

The intelligence flashed in his eyes again, and I could almost see the gears turning as he regarded me. I wasn’t what he had originally thought.

“A woman who appreciates the classics.” There was a hint of something in his voice. Once upon a time, I was sure, this man had loved cars. All cars. Not just the ones that represented money in the bank.

But not anymore.

“If you ever change your mind, you bring it to me,” he said. “We’ll treat you right.”

I believed that even less than I believed the other things he’d told me.

Paula and I made polite excuses and moved away from Philly and Heather. They made a perfect couple, and we left them to it.

I felt like I needed a shower after just a few minutes in the man’s presence, and judging from Paula’s expression, she did, too.

“Geor-gee,” she whined, her voice too soft to carry, “I need some champagne.”

I looked at her and we broke into giggles.

The auctioneer took the podium and rapped a polished wooden gavel against the top of the podium. Conversation died, and the few people who were standing quickly found seats.

I moved to the back of the room, in order to have a better view, and Paula moved with me. From our vantage point against the wall we were able to watch everyone.

The auctioneer recited a list of rules that took several minutes. Many of them boiled down to “If you don’t want to buy it, don’t bid on it.” People around the room nodded and looked solemn. A few even seemed to be mouthing the words with him, as if they knew them by heart.

This was serious business to the buyers and the auctioneers.

It was completely unlike the unclaimed storage auctions at the Pine Ridge Stor-It-Urself. That was the only auction I’d ever been to.

The people, though, were familiar types. I’d met people like them when we were raising venture capital for Samurai Security. I knew how to adopt the protective coloring necessary to move in this crowd.

We watched in silence for more than an hour, as each lot was brought out, lovingly described, and then sold to the highest bidder. Wilson’s bidding followed a pattern. He only bought expensive cases.

The auctioneer called a break after about ninety minutes. He had been sipping regularly from a water bottle as he worked his spiel, but his voice was beginning to thicken and sound scratchy the last few minutes before he stopped. “Fifteen minutes,” he announced as he left the stage.

People moved slowly in all directions—some to the rest-rooms, some to the refreshment table, some formed small clots of conversation, and a few headed for the exits.

I tried to watch Wilson, to see who he might talk to in the intermission. A large man stopped directly in my line of sight, and all I could see was a broad expanse of dark wool. When he stepped away, Wilson was no longer in sight.

I scanned the crowd, and finally spotted him—with Heather clinging to his arm as though he might float away at any moment. Wilson was deep in conversation with a man who looked vaguely familiar.

I nudged Paula. “Who’s that talking to Wilson?”

She looked in the direction I indicated. “That’s Taylor Parkson. Has a weekend place in Pine Ridge. Do you think he’s part of Veritas?”

I shook my head. “Wish I knew. Don’t think I’ve ever met him, but he looked kind of familiar. Maybe I’ve seen him around town.”

“Could be,” Paula answered. “He lives in Portland and he travels a lot, but he comes out every month or two for a weekend.” She sighed. “Must be nice to be able to afford a house you only use a few days every other month.”

“Yeah.” I didn’t tell her how close I’d come to being one of those people, too busy to enjoy what they had.

We watched as the two men exchanged handshakes. They both smiled politely, the way people do when they run into someone they don’t know well.

The whole encounter only lasted a minute or two before Parkson nodded and moved on. He had barely turned his back when another man approached Wilson.

My mouth formed a little O of surprise and I turned to Paula. “Isn’t that William?” I asked. “Did you know he was here?”

She shook her head, glancing over to confirm what we had both seen. “It’s him, all right, but I’d swear he wasn’t here when the auction started.”

The two men moved back toward a corner of the room, like they were seeking a private spot for their huddled conversation. William kept his back to the room, and Phil Wilson kept glancing around as if he thought someone might be trying to eavesdrop.

“What can that be about?” Paula asked the question that was in the front of my mind.

“I’m not sure,” I answered. “William sure gave me the impression that he didn’t like Phil Wilson and he said he turned down an invitation to be part of their investment group. So if Wilson is part of Veritas, why is William Robinson having such an intense private conversation with him? At a wine auction?” I shook my head. “It doesn’t make sense.”

There were only a few minutes of the break left. We made our way to the refreshment table and each got a bottle of water. They had several wines available by the glass, but I passed. “I’m the designated driver,” I joked to the girl in the caterer’s uniform behind the table.

“Good for you!” she said, giving me a perky smile. “Wouldn’t want to have to card you.”

Given that the only thing being sold tonight was alcohol, it hardly seemed likely the caterers were checking ID, but she was trying to be friendly. I smiled and dropped a buck in the tip tray.

“Thanks,” I said, lifting the bottle in a tiny salute as I walked away.

Paula and I went back to our places along the rear wall as the buyers began to drift back into their seats. There were a few chairs left empty by early departures, and I noticed William Robinson take a seat at the far left side. No one sat next to him.

The auctioneer returned to the stage and lifted his gavel. Within the first few minutes it was clear we were into more expensive lots. A couple bottles went for hundreds of dollars, and several cases were north of a hundred bucks per bottle.

When the first bottle crossed the four-figure mark, Paula gasped. Fortunately we were alone in the back of the room so no one heard her but me.

“Can you imagine,” she whispered, “
drinking
a bottle of wine that cost that much?”

I had to admit it surprised me, too. I’d heard stories on the news about million-dollar bottles, but it was far different to watch someone actually bid, even at a thousand-dollar level. Especially someone you knew.

At the front of the room, Phil Wilson’s paddle punched the air like a triumphant fist. I had the distinct impression that the people at the nearby tables pulled away from his outburst. It looked like Wilson had violated some auction etiquette rule that hadn’t been on the list the auctioneer read.

The next-to-last lot was presented about half an hour later. Wilson had paid top dollar for a couple more cases. I could imagine him bragging to his golf buddies at the country club about how much he had spent. I wondered uncharitably how much he spent on Heather, and if he bragged about that, too.

This lot was three bottles of Burgundy, and it was instantly clear that William wanted the bottles. His posture went from relaxed to alert, and his eyes darted around the room as though assessing the competition.

A few more people had drifted out as it got later, but the remaining buyers were treated to an actual bidding war between William Robinson and Phil Wilson; a battle between the connoisseur and the cowboy.

The bidding rose quickly, then slowed. Robinson hesitated several times before bidding, and you could see him muttering to himself before each bid. I couldn’t actually read his lips, but I imagined him saying, “One more bid. Just one more bid, and I quit.”

Wilson won of course. Not surprising, considering he had way more money than sense. I ignored his victory antics and concentrated on William’s reaction. He was obviously unhappy and disappointed. As soon as the auctioneer brought the gavel down for the last time, William reached for his coat draped across the empty chair next to him.

Before Wilson had finished celebrating, William was headed out the door.

The last lot was anticlimactic. Wilson wasn’t interested and he created a minor disruption when he grabbed Heather and headed for the door. He paused just long enough to tell Spiky Hair to “make the usual arrangements” for payment and delivery.

Paula and I took our time. We watched how the other buyers went through the protocol of paying for their purchases and arranging delivery. Some of them had come prepared, and auction staff members helped them load carts or bags with their purchases.

The line for the parking valets began to grow. Paula drew my attention to a discreet sign to one side of the valet stand, “Vehicle Only, No Merchandise.”

There was no one in the line.

It still took a few minutes for the Corvette to appear, as I watched a steady stream of Land Rovers and upscale SUVs pull to the curb to accept their cargo.

A young man in a valet uniform handed me the keys and I slipped a bill into his palm. “I feel like I ought to tip you.” He grinned. “Driving that beauty is the most fun I’ve had all night.”

I grinned back. That Corvette made me feel that way, too.

We pulled away from the curb and I pointed the ’Vette toward the freeway. It was late and I was anxious to get home.

“Do you believe that girl?” Paula asked with undisguised glee.

“Heather?” I said.

“Cheers.” Paula mimicked Heather perfectly, and I started giggling as I made the turn into the on-ramp.

Beside me, Paula’s laughter welled up. “And did you see the way the people around them kept moving back?”

I accelerated into the light traffic and headed out of Portland. This late, the drive should only take fifteen or twenty minutes max. I might even get home early enough to spend some time combing through Gregory’s e-mail files I still hadn’t unlocked.

Paula had clearly enjoyed the evening. We compared notes on the people we’d seen, laughed at Phil Wilson’s antics, and speculated on exactly what was going on between Phil Wilson and William Robinson.

“What was that bidding war all about?” Paula wondered aloud.

I shrugged and downshifted for our off-ramp. “Phil Wilson wants to own the wine and show off how much he paid for it. William Robinson wants to drink it. And I have the distinct impression that Wilson hates to lose.”

“That’s not exactly news,” Paula said. “There was quite a flap a few years back when his sons took over the dealership. It was while you were gone, I think. One of the boys—well, he wasn’t a boy, really, he was in his thirties—anyway, he got into drugs and started having financial trouble that threatened the business. Phil came out of retirement and started throwing his weight around.