Sharpshooter (14 page)

She pulled the first tray of cookies out and slid another in, then went up front for another glass of wine. On the way back she heard a sound like a shoe scuffing against stone outside the window, and when she looked up she caught a glimpse of a face pulling away from the window. Her heart pounded. She put the wine down and went to her bag, found her cell phone, and checked the signal and battery. She turned the lock on the back door and slipped into the dining room to check the front door. When she came back into the kitchen, she took a ten-inch knife from the rack, placed it on the counter beside her, and stood still, listening and waiting.

Wildside, for all its virtues, was not a secure building. Fortresslike security had never been a priority. The windows were low and accessible, with antique closures designed to discourage a breeze, not a crowbar. Even the bolt on the main door was screwed into soft wood. One good shove would pull it away.
The back door actually sported a hook latch, like the one on the screen door at her grandmother’s house. The handle locked, but that was not much security.

She pulled the second tray of golden brown cookies out of the oven and put the orange peels into their final sugary boil. She looked at her watch. Ten minutes after two. Suddenly the insanity of what she was doing struck home. Why was she baking cookies and boiling orange peels at this hour of the morning? Had she lost her mind? She thought of what Wade would say in a phony West Texas drawl when he was pretending not to be scared. “A coward dies a thousand deaths, a brave man dies but once.”

She speed-dialed Rivka on her cell. Rivka’s phone rang four times, taking what seemed like an eternity between each ring, then the voice mail picked up. Sunny hung up. Normally she would phone Wade at a time like this. She could call Steve Harvey, but he’d give her a speech about staying out of police business. Charlie? She thought for a moment and then hit the number for Monty, who answered in a groggy voice.

“Hello?” he said.

“Monty,” whispered Sunny.

“Sunny? What time is it?”

“Late. Or early, depending. Listen, could you just stay on the line with me for a couple of minutes?”

“What’s the matter? What’s going on?” Sunny heard Annabelle in the background, asking who was on the phone. Monty said, “It’s Sunny. Something’s wrong.”

“Nothing’s wrong. I’m at the restaurant and I thought I saw someone creeping around outside.”

“You what? I’m calling the police.”

“No, don’t! They’ll make a big fuss. Just stay on the line while I get out of here.”

“I’m coming down. I’ll be there in seven minutes.”

“You don’t have to do that. I’m just going to close up and get out of here. I’m going to put the phone in my pocket so you can listen. If you hear a thud or a shriek and the line goes dead, would you send somebody over here?”

“Right. Will do.”

Sunny turned off the orange peels, looked at the cookies sitting out on their trays with regret, made sure all the lights were on inside and out, and then threw open the back door. She ran hunched over like a Green Beret to the truck, just in case whoever was out there was a shooter. She managed to slide the key into the ignition, roll up the window, lock the door, start the engine, and hit reverse in one fast, smooth motion. She put it in first and hit the gas. Crunching and throwing gravel, the truck bounded out of the parking lot. A few bounces and a slight fishtail and Sunny was on the road.

She found the cell phone in her pocket. “You still there?”

“Way to burn rubber!” said Monty.

“You could hear that?”

“You bet. Listen, say ‘I’m fine’ if you’re okay and ‘I’m okay’ if you need help.”

“I’m fine.”

“How do I know there’s no one holding you at gunpoint, telling you to say that?”

“Monty, there is no one holding me at gunpoint. I’m okay now.”

“What—is that code or really?”

“Monty, enough cloak-and-dagger! I’m safe. Thanks for talking me in.”

“Okay. Call me when you are inside your house.”

“I will.”

“Don’t forget, or there will be a SWAT team breaking down your door in about ten minutes.”

“I won’t forget. Thanks, Monty. Um, you and Annabelle won’t…”

“Tell anyone? No, we won’t. I’m getting you sleeping pills for Christmas, McCoskey.”

“Thanks.”

Sunny got out of bed
automatically and staggered to the front door, wondering who was knocking at six-thirty in the morning. She peeked through the hole and opened the door. Charlie Rhodes stood on the stoop looking fresh as a new daisy in sport sandals and outdoorsy shorts. His silky brown hair stuck up in front and he had an exhilarated smile on his face, as though he’d just ridden down a big hill on his bike. The collar of an olive-green microfiber shirt showed under a slate-blue pullover made out of some trademarked descendant of fleece designed to wick away or ward off everything from excess personal moisture to rain, sleet, and dead of night.

Sunny stood in the old gray sweatshirt and baggy drawstring pants she’d gone to sleep in and ran her hands over her hair, smoothing her bangs to one side and tucking the loose ends behind her ear. She ran her hand over her face and rubbed discreetly at what must be a crust of drool near the corner of her mouth. Any chance she might have had at a romance with Charlie Rhodes was in serious jeopardy. She frowned at the navy-blue sky behind him and said, in what turned out to be a froggy voice, “When I said let’s have coffee at six-thirty, I’m pretty sure I meant let’s have coffee at nine-thirty.”

“Huh, I guess I missed that part. You want me to come back later?”

“No, no. I just want to complain about it. Get in here, the draft is freezing my toes.”

“Are you okay?”

“Mm. Dandy. Why?”

“You seem tired and, uh, grouchy.”

“Tired. That makes sense. The grouchy part should wear off in a sec. Don’t be alarmed.”

She padded into the kitchen with Charlie trailing behind her and put water on for coffee, loaded glossy black-brown beans into the grinder, gritted her teeth against the coming noise, and pushed the button. The roar of grinding assaulted her tender sleep-deprived ears. It was a painful introduction to the day, but unavoidable, and at least it would soon be counterbalanced by the smell and taste of fresh coffee. She took a pair of clunky ceramic mugs down from the cabinet and handed one to Charlie. They stood staring at the teakettle and blue flame, mugs held like sepulchers in front of them. Sunny struggled to stay in the conscious world. Charlie had woken her in the middle of a dream and she kept tumbling back into it. She was at Skord Mountain, walking in the vineyard. The vines were lush with green leaves and heavy with plump fruit, the way they were now. As she walked through them, pushing their reaching arms aside, they began to wither and crumble under her touch until all around her the vines were brown and dead. She looked around in alarm and saw that the entire vineyard was dying. Soon all the leaves and berries had shriveled and fallen off, and the vines themselves were desiccated and brittle. She started to run back to the house to tell Wade, and as she ran, the vineyard turned from brown to ghostly white. When she looked back from
the porch, the hillside was an ashen white graveyard of dead vines and stakes sticking up like markers in a wide cemetery. She recited the dream to Charlie.

“It’s the kaolin clay. I told you about that on Friday night at dinner,” said Charlie. “Down in Temecula, they sprayed the vineyards with clay to keep the sharpshooters from getting to them, but it didn’t work. They just ended up with acres of dead vineyard painted white.”

“I remember,” said Sunny, staring dully into space. “That must be it.”

“There’s news on the sharpshooter front, as a matter of fact.”

She glanced up at him. “Good news?”

“Well, I guess I’d have to say it’s bad news. They found one late Friday afternoon.”

“You mean inside the valley?”

“It was in one of the yellow sticky traps up on Mount Veeder. In an olive grove near the vineyard at the Maya Culpa Vineyard.”

“The Maya Culpa. That’s up by Monty’s house. And Hansen Ranch. Don’t tell me they’re going to spray up there.”

“Not yet. There’s an emergency meeting this morning to decide what to do about it.”

“But it’s a possibility?”

“Absolutely.”

“Oh my God, they can’t do that. That’s where most of Wildside’s produce comes from. And they’ll put Hansen Ranch completely out of business.”

“It’s not decided yet. And it might not be the end of Hansen Ranch. They passed a law that says in case of emergency, organic produce can be sprayed and still be called organic.”

“Oh, that’s comforting. So now
organic
is a euphemism for
pesticide-flavored.
Does this situation really qualify as an emergency? One bug?”

“We’ll see. I’m going to suggest we have a good look around before we do anything. It might actually be a single rogue specimen, just some lone sharpie off on his own, way out ahead of the pack. Frankly, it’s not likely, but it’s worth taking the time to be sure. Unfortunately, the Conservation Corps intern who identified the specimen on Friday didn’t tell anybody about it until yesterday, or we might have started checking out the area over the weekend.”

The kettle piped and Sunny poured boiling water into a French press and stirred the grounds. While it brewed, she stood on a chair and rummaged in the cabinet over the refrigerator. She took down an unopened bottle of drinkable Merlot, nothing fancy.

“That’s just terrible news,” she said. “I was really hoping they would be able to keep it out of the valley for a few more months by being super vigilant at the inspection stations. I assume the Maya Culpa people are freaking out.”

“I don’t think they know yet,” said Charlie. “I tried to reach them last night, but I kept getting the machine and I didn’t want to leave that kind of information in a message.” He held up his fist by his ear as if he were holding a telephone. “‘Hey, just wanted to let you know that your vineyard is probably infested with sharpies and about to die of Pierce’s disease. Even if it’s not, we’ll be by to bomb it tomorrow or the next day.’ I’ll try to reach them again this morning. They’re going to want to be at the meeting.”

Sunny hunched over the coffeepot and pressed the filter down slowly with both hands. “I’d like to be there, too. If they spray Hansen Ranch, it will have a direct impact on Wildside. I can’t serve food that’s been treated with carbaryl even if Sacramento says it’s organic. We’ve built our reputation on genuinely organic food and wine.”

“Right,” said Charlie. “That makes sense. You’re more than welcome to attend. In fact, everyone is welcome. It’s a public meeting. Has to be because they’re talking about putting together a countywide mandatory initiative.”

“You mean spraying land from here to Calistoga whether we like it or not.”

“Well, yeah. Probably more localized than that.”

Sunny cranked the corkscrew down and squeezed the bottle of Merlot between her thighs. The cork made a throaty
ponk!
when she pulled it out, a sound that always cheered her up. She unscrewed the cork and laid it neatly beside the bottle, then poured them coffee and added a splash of red wine to hers. She held the bottle over his cup. “Do you like it this way?”

“I’ll skip. I generally try not to start drinking until lunch.”

“It’s not drinking. It’s just a splash for flavor. Robert Mondavi does it.”

“So does the pope, but that doesn’t make me Catholic.”

She grinned. “No need to get sassy about it. If you don’t want to be cool like me and Robert, that’s fine. Suit yourself.”

They went out the kitchen door to the patio and settled into a couple of splintery old redwood deck chairs Sunny kept out there for just this sort of occasion. Come to think of it, it was just the sort of occasion she’d been hoping for: namely, Charlie Rhodes putting his feet up in her house, or at least on her patio. She smiled to herself. It was still cold, but the first of the morning light promised another beautiful day. Even sitting down she had that dizzy feeling insomniacs know so well. Pinpoint lights danced in the periphery of her vision. Sleep deprivation was unpleasant, but being an altered state, it had some enjoyable aspects to offer, assuming you didn’t need to get anything done that day. She pulled her legs up under her and huddled over her coffee.

“So when and where is this meeting taking place?”

“Eight o’clock. At the new courthouse. The room number will be posted on the bulletin board as you walk in.”

They sipped quietly.

Charlie said, “It should be interesting. Jack Beroni has been the strong arm of the pro-spray contingent for a while now. With him gone, it’s hard to say how the debate is going to go.”

“The big wineries must have had more than Jack representing them.”

“Yeah, they send a cadre of suits to most of these things. But Jack was leading them. He had the most clout because he’s a Beroni, and he was charismatic. People listened to him. They’ll still have plenty of representation without him, but it’s not going to be as credible or persuasive. This could be a real battle for the big wineries. They’re big employers, so some people may support them to protect their jobs. I expect the organic contingent to come out in force, and a lot of the public is going to be behind them. The down-valley residents don’t want their yards sprayed with chemicals just so the corporate wine baron on the hill can make more money. It’s going to be a tough sell.”

“Were you there when Wade and Jack got into it recently at some meeting?”

“You mean when he said he would shoot anybody who got near his land without his permission? Yeah, I was there. I’ve been going to the Vintners Association meetings for a while now.”

“I was hoping the account I heard was exaggerated, but I guess not.”

“He popped off pretty good, but I don’t think anybody thought he was speaking literally. At least I didn’t. It was just something you say. You know, ‘I’ll kill the bastards!’”

“Well, it certainly hasn’t helped his case.”

“No, I guess it wouldn’t. It’s just his luck that Jack had to really go and get himself shot. I’ve definitely seen worse behavior, especially at the ag board meetings. I saw a guy throw a chair at a county supervisor once. It was like watching the Incredible Hulk with everything happening in slow motion.” He held up his arm as though warding off a flying chair and demonstrated a slow-motion grimace of shock and horror. “Everybody gets all bent out of shape at these meetings. Their businesses are at stake. What one guy needs to stay in business forces another guy out of business.”

“It’s crazy when you think about it. All this fuss over grapes. They’re just little globes of water and sugar.”

“Yep, and money is just little rectangles of paper,” said Charlie.

Sunny scrubbed her eyes and succumbed to a forceful yawn. Charlie tugged on her little toe. “What’s your story? You seem wiped out. Late night?”

“Very. I couldn’t sleep, so I went down to the restaurant and did way too much baking and then scared myself silly thinking the boogeyman was going to get me. Finally I came home and passed out, but by then it was about three in the morning.”

“I didn’t know you had the boogeyman at Wildside.”

“Normally we don’t, but last night I could have sworn someone was following me.”

“Are you serious?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Probably it was nothing.”

“It’s not nothing if you thought somebody was following you. Did you see somebody?”

“No, not really. Actually, I’m sure it was my imagination, but I thought I saw a face at the window of the restaurant. But I was tired and it was late, so it probably wasn’t really there. I hope.”

Charlie gave her a look. “I can’t believe you went to work in the middle of the night in the first place. What about reading a book or taking a warm bath?”

“It’s easier to understand if you run your own restaurant. Manic compulsive disorder is part of the job description.”

Charlie nodded slowly, studying her face. He looked at his watch, a plastic and Velcro job that looked like something GI Joe would wear. He tipped back the last of his coffee. “I better get going. I’ll see you at the meeting. Eight o’clock.”

“Right. I’ll be there.”

Sunny walked behind him to the door, seizing the opportunity to ogle his calves, which were nicely shaped, with a strong swath of tendon running up each side. She watched him climb into a white pickup truck with the gold Napa County insignia on the door. She waved as he drove away, then went back into the kitchen for more coffee.

She was late for work.

When Sunny pulled up at the restaurant at a quarter to eight, Rivka’s car was already there. Sunny got out and scanned the gravel parking lot, hunting some unknown sign that would reveal whether or not a stranger had trespassed the night before. The sharpshooter wanted poster was still there, staple-gunned to the fence that ran along the property line. Somebody had penned a handlebar mustache on the bug’s mug shot. Sunny walked toward the entrance to the restaurant and then turned off on the little trail that led around the side. She stopped at the window where she thought she’d seen a face. She felt certain it had been a man. There didn’t look to be any fingerprints on the window, nor in the fine layer of silt covering the ledge of the window frame. She crouched down. Beneath the window, in the soft soil beside a bushy growth of lemon verbena, was a large, deep,
complete footprint of some kind of work boot, about a men’s size ten, if she had to guess.

Inside, Rivka had the music cranked up while she prepped for lunch. Sunny turned it down on her way in.

“Hey, R.C., I have to make some calls in the office. Mind if we don’t rock out for a sec?”

“No problem. Happy Monday. Hey, it looks like the orange peel fairy came last night.”

“Wow, really? That’s great.”

“And the cookie fairy. But she left all the lights on and everything sitting out. Very unusual behavior for a kitchen fairy.” Rivka looked at Sunny.

“I’ll explain later.”

Sunny went into the office. She closed the door behind her, then moved a heavy stack of mail off the chair and sat down.
Note to self: Must open mail sometime this decade.
She grabbed a notepad and penciled out a list of questions, then picked up the phone. She put the phone back down and looked around the desk for Steve Harvey’s business card with no luck. She dug in her knapsack. Finally she called the police station. After a few transfers and a wrong number, she reached him on his mobile.