Bitter Finish (20 page)

A frown furrowed Spraggue's forehead. It was just past seven; the sun teetered over the western hills. But during crush every winery kept fanatic hours. Leider's parking lot was empty.

The scuffle of his feet on the gravel seemed loud in the stillness. The main doors were locked, the bell out of order. Spraggue started a circuit of the main building. A place that big had to have more than one door.

One of the oldest wineries in the valley, Leider's predated prohibition and then some. The massive stucco chateau was three stories high, the way they built them back then, so gravity could do its part in the wine~making process. The facade was worn to a rich creamy yellow, the brown accent paint streaked with gray gravel dust. Circling the building, Spraggue was struck by its down-and-out air. Around back, a broken window hadn't been fixed or even sealed. The crusher was bone dry, cobwebs in the bottom. An old crusher—probably Leider had a new one around the other side.

But the very air smelled wrong: grass, trees, late-blooming flowers . . . No heavy scent of grape must. No purple stains on the gravel approach. No gondolas ready to roll first thing in the morning. Puzzlement increased Spraggue's determination. He passed two doors, both bolted. The third door was smaller, with a lock so trivial that, after a moment's fumbling, Spraggue found himself inside.

He closed the door quickly, leaned against its cool surface, let his eyes get used to the dim interior while he breathed in the winery's fragrance. No harsh smell of new wine; just the gentle bouquet of wine aging in old oak. He pulled his key ring from his pocket, removed the pencil flash, flicked it on.

The floorboards, old and wide, worn satiny with years, creaked under his feet. He passed through a forest of tall fermentation tanks, jacketed stainlesssteel giants and smaller redwood tanks together.

Out of habit, he checked the tags, the labels fastened to the tiny manholes that spelled out exactly what wine was within, what vineyard it hailed from, what temperature it was kept at, how long it had fermented. Blank. He banged on the side of one tank. An empty echo rolled back.

He passed the centrifuge, the bladder press, both dry and silent. He climbed a few steps, flashed his light along the narrow catwalk, up at the great wooden beams of the ceiling. Spiderwebs. He circled the dusty floor once, then mounted the broad central wooden steps up to the second floor.

The aging room was cool, with stacks and stacks of small cooperage piled upto the high ceiling. The barrels formed a mountain, peaking far out of sight. Over to the right stood a row of huge German ovals. Spraggue ran a hand admiringly along one barrel, checked for a tag, found none. A fine cask, practically new, imported Limousin oak. He found the bung, carefully removed it: empty. He tapped several others: hollow.

The pile of cardboard cartons way across the room caught his eye only because it was under one of the rare high windows, a dirty rectangle of glass that caught the last beams of the fading sun. A tarp obscured the lowest crates. He lifted it.

"
I doubt you could find a bottle anywhere." The sudden memory of George Martinson's parting words was so vivid that Spraggue whispered them aloud. Beneath the tarpaulin huddled case after case, all labeled: Leider Wineyards Cabernet Sauvignon, Napa Valley, 1975, Private Reserve. Each case had a sticker slapped on the side: 1979 Grand Prize Winner, L'Acadérnie du Wn Tasting, Paris, France.

His key-ring corkscrew was old-fashioned, adequate. Spraggue ripped open a carton, freed a bottle from its corrugated cardboard cocoon, knelt on the floor to open it.

The cork slid out smoothly. Spraggue pressed his nose against the bottle top, inhaled. He looked around for a glass, a cup, tilted the bottle to his mouth, drank. He sloshed a sipful of wine around his mouth, spat it out on the wooden floor.

His mind was still clicking, still sorting and revising, when he heard the main doors yawn open downstairs, then clang shut. He replaced the open bottle in the case, covered it with the tarp. Cautiously, he made his way to the very back of the cavernous room, behind the barrel mountain, his rubber-soled shoes almost silent on the treacherous floorboards.

Downstairs, the footsteps were heavy; no effort was made to stifle their pounding rhythm. They traced a slow, determined circuit around the periphery of the fermentation room, strolled up and down each row of tanks, then paused. Spraggue held his breath, willed them toward the door.

Instead, they started to climb, steadily, inexorably, creaking ever closer.
 

25

Spraggue pressed deeper into the crevice between two stacks of barrels and held his breath. He fought the impulse and forced himself to inhale while he peered through the mountain of barrels, straining to find a peephole that would give him a glimpse of the head of the stairs. The footsteps ascended regularly.

Spraggue drew a mental map of the huge room. Plenty of hiding places: behind the barrels, under the tarp, in shadowy corners. But only one way out: the stairs. There must have been another window once, a double window dating from the days when the winemaker's art needed the assistance of gravity, when the grapes would have been hauled up to the second and third floors of the old stucco building. Spraggue remembered pictures in books of the cranes leaning out of the huge windows. He stared at the wall behind him, realized that the ornamental framing was just a blind. The windows had been boarded over long ago. He pried at the edge of a plank with his fingers. Sound, strong slabs of wood. No way out.

He glued his eye to a likely crack between barrels and saw a cone of artificial light appear on a corner of the landing. He no longer needed to keep his eye focused on the spot to learn the identity of Lenny's killer; he kept it there in the faint hope that the beam issued from the flashlight of some law-enforcement official.

A familiar face and then a rotund body made their way into his field of vision. Philip Leider stood on the top step. The flashlight in his left hand outlined the gun clasped in his right.

Well, old Harry Bascomb of Still Waters would surely have had a gun in a situation like this,
Spraggue thought. Even when he'd been a bona fide private investigator, he'd never carried one. He didn't even like to think about cold steel cylinders and bits of flying metal and what the combination could do to fragile human skin and bone.

"You may as well come out, Spraggue? Leider's voice was low, but it easily filled the room.

It wasn't what Spraggue had expected. He cursed under his breath. Leider was playing it safe, not tricky. In Spraggue's preferred script, the wine-maker would have sneakily pocketed the gun, called out his old friend, Michael, for a friendly chat about possible misunderstandings, and attacked when he'd spied the chance. Maybe Leider realized too well that the empty winery was a confession of guilt, that Spraggue was more than a match for him in close combat. The fat man was doing things right so far: commanding the only exit and keeping his gun ready to fire. Great.

Spraggue wondered how long they'd have to play standoff before Leider's flashlight battery failed. It was probably good for the night, and there was every reason to expect the sun to rise on the morrow, although he wouldn't necessarily be around to witness the event. Spraggue replayed his parting from Kate. "Stop off for a bottle of wine" was all he'd said. Nothing about Leider. So when Enright, infuriated, phoned Kate and demanded his whereabouts, she wouldn't know. Leider had infinite time for his cat-and-mouse game. No hope of the cavalry to the rescue. The cavalry was probably eagerly charging off in a totally different direction.

If he stayed quiet, would Phil assume that he'd gone up to the third level? Would Phil be dumb enough to climb one more flight and let him escape?

"I know you're here," Leider said. Spraggue heard a faint creak and, to his dismay, Phil settled himself on the second step leading up to the third floor, a perfect vantage point. Because the wooden steps had no risers, the vintner could, with a turn of his head, keep the whole room under surveillance while blocking off exit from either floor.

"
You've got us both into quite a mess," Leider said conversationally. "Why not come out and talk about it?"

Why not? The comers of Spraggue's mouth twisted in a bitter smile as he framed a silent answer: one automatic pistol.

"Did Lenny come out when you called?" he asked.

Phil Leider stood abruptly. A slow smile spread over his wide face. "Lenny was a fool," he said. "A conceited ass. There he was, absolutely bleeding me dry, but when I begged him, ever so humbly, for his exalted opinion of my '80 Cabernet, he trotted right over like the proverbial lamb."

"Didn't he realize you weren't crushing this year? The smell—"

"Not until it was too late," Leider said. "I had everything prepared—the empty tank, a heavy stick . . . I had all the right pipes connected."

"
Was Lenny conscious when you poured the wine in on top of him?" A pretty question; Spraggue wrinkled his mouth in distaste, but Leider seemed pleased by the opportunity to talk. And talk held off action. So talk, Spraggue thought bitterly. Do what an actor does best. Talk.

"
Not at the beginning," Leider said calmly. "But the bastard knew what was in store for him at the end. When I opened the valves and the wine came rushing in, he knew. Practically skinned his fingers trying to crawl up the side of the tank. No tingerholds in those tanks, you know. Sheer sides, completely sheer."

While Leider spoke, Spraggue took inventory. He emptied each pocket in turn and itemized the contents. Right front pants pocket: keys to the distant car. Had Leider bothered to disable it? In an analogous situation, Spraggue knew that he would have removed the distributor cap before entering the winery. Would Leider have done the same? Change and a few crisp bills, a leather packet of credit cards, none apt to be overly useful again. Left front pants pocket: knife with various attachments, including corkscrew and pocket flash. The knife was an ornamental two inches long, not enough blade to frighten a child. Considering Leider's bulk, it was an almost futile weapon, one that would have to be aimed at the neck in order to hit a vital spot. And getting within reach of Leider's neck was a remote possibility as long as he clutched that gun. Spraggue found Lenny's address book in his back pants pocket. The breast pocket of his shirt had an alligator on it and nothing inside.

The fat man peered cautiously around the room, did a slow spiraling search, then settled down to flash his beam through the barrel mountain's cracks. Spraggue crouched behind the lowest keg he could find. Sharp metal pressed against his ribs and he hastily withdrew the tape recorder from his last unexplored jacket pocket. He punched the record button and flicked it on, smothering the soft whirring noise in his shirt. It sounded like overhead aircraft, but Leider didn't seem to note anything amiss.

The machine recorded silence, broken by Spraggue's steady breathing. It wiped out all the carefully studied lines and cues from Still Waters. And what did that matter, Spraggue thought, when he wouldn't be around to recite them? If he could tape Leider's confession, hide the tape, at least— At least what? Where would he hide it? Who would think to look? If his body was found afloat in a vat of Pinot Noir, would the acid have eaten away the cassette? What he needed was an escape plan, not a recording.

"Why don't you tell me the gory details, Phil?" he said. For now, keep Phil talking, keep him from doing something irrevocable. "All about Mark Jason. Then maybe I'll come out."

 
Leider laughed. Hell, Leider ought to feel comfortable enough to laugh; he was holding all the cards. "A fairy tale?" he said. "Before you go to sleep?"

"A horror story," Spraggue said, hoping the recorder was picking up both sides. "About a berserk winemaker."

"
I don't know that one. How about the 'Three Little Pigs'?"

"
I'll prompt," Spraggue offered. "I know almost every line."

"Bragging?"

"
Maybe. Check it out. Aren't you curious?"

"
Not particularly."

"
When did you first decide to sell the winery?" Spraggue asked.

"
Come out where I can see you."

"
Come in after me."

"
Go ahead and tell your horror story," Leider said.

Spraggue inched over to a new barrel, peered through the crack. Leider wanted to keep him talking, too, so he could pin down the sound. Great. With each of them trying to get the other to talk, he might have a long—playing album on his hands.

"Once upon a time," Spraggue found himself saying in a nursery-calm voice. The "Three Little Pigs" reference must have stuck in his mind. "—There was a big fat piggy who got fed up with the wine industry."

"No crime in that."

"
He mismanaged his winery," Spraggue said, "blew all the cash that should have gone into upkeep and repairs on fancy cars and a monstrosity of a house"

"
You don't like my taste," Leider said. "Pity."

Spraggue stared up at the wall of barrels in front of him. The wood-frame barrel rack resembled a jungle gym. Spraggue considered the similarity. His eyes narrowed. He tucked the tape recorder back into his jacket pocket, shifted his weight to his left foot, untied one shoe.

"
Keep talking," Leider demanded.

"
Well, this ingenious swine doped out a plan to skyrocket the net worth of his winery before offering it to a corporate hog. United Circle, right?" The floor was cool under Spraggue's stockinged feet. He shoved one shoe under his arm, abandoned the other.

Leider chuckled as the flashbeam pried closer. "How on earth did he manage that, the clever pig?"

Spraggue placed one foot on the wooden barrel rack, tested the strength of the supports.

"
Why, he decided some of his swill would look better in classier bottles. Bottles labeled 1975 Cabernet Sauvignon, Private Reserve." The rack was solid.