Drip Dead (17 page)

In person he was overweight and bearded, with a polo shirt a couple sizes too small. His dark eyes held a quick intelligence behind heavy-framed glasses.

I introduced Robinson to Wade, reminding him—and Wade—that Wade was there as my financial advisor. I wasn’t sure why I felt the deception was necessary, but I didn’t know who to trust, and even though Paula had introduced me to Robinson, how much did she really know about him?

The waitress returned and took our order. Apparently Mr. Robinson believed in a hearty breakfast—especially when someone else was picking up the tab. My stomach thought eggs and bacon would be good, but my wallet said oatmeal.

Oatmeal won.

“Mr. Robinson,” I said once we were alone, “I appreciate your taking the time to come and talk to us. Ms. Ciccone tells me you’re quite knowledgeable about wine?”

I swear the man simpered. His mouth pursed into a tiny rosebud and he cocked his head to one side. “I’m merely a student of enology, Ms. Neverall. A grateful recipient of the winemaker’s gifts.”

I kept my expression respectful, though it took an effort. False modesty never impressed me, especially when it was so blatant. “Ms. Ciccone did say you were well read in the field, Mr. Robinson.” I smiled in what I hoped was a disarming way. “When I asked her if there was a wine expert in Pine Ridge, you’re the one she thought of. Of course,” I amended quickly, “she didn’t tell me who you were until after she called you.”

“Please, call me William.” Robinson lifted the corners of his mouth in a tight-lipped imitation of a smile. “I like to think I have some knowledge, but I’m hardly an expert. I have so much to learn—more than I could hope to gain in a single lifetime.”

Who really talked like this? Paula was absolutely right; the guy was definitely a character. I’d have used a stronger word.

“Do you know anything about investing in wine?” Wade went right to the point. “I understand that’s become quite popular in recent years.”

“Wine has always been considered something of an investment,” William preached, clearly enjoying the chance to parade his knowledge. “There are several varieties that are simply undrinkable for ten years or more, and they improve with age. In order to experience the full mastery of the winemaker, you must be willing to wait, sometimes for decades. You must be willing to invest the time, to buy in
anticipation
, to have the patience to wait until the wine is ready.”

He continued to expound on the topic for several minutes, while I waited patiently for him to reach a conclusion. An end didn’t appear to be in sight. When William paused for breath Wade slid into the second of silence.

“Do the wines increase in value during that time?” he asked, trying to pull William’s diatribe back to the questions we needed answered.

William’s pedantic display of knowledge disappeared, replaced by scorn and derision. “What you really want to know is whether it increases in price, correct?” he sneered. “As though that’s the measure of a wine’s value. The wine’s value increases, yes, and often the price reflects that. But a true enophile doesn’t care how much or how little a bottle costs. They only care about what is inside. Does the bouquet entice you to sip? Does it please the tongue? Is the flavor as expected? Price is nothing compared to the pleasure a good wine can provide.”

“That makes sense,” I said. “But aren’t there people that speculate in wine? I’ve heard people talk about filling their wine cellar and they say it’s a good investment, as if it’s going to increase in”—I almost said
value
, but I stopped myself—“price and they’ll make a profit reselling it.”

William snorted and looked down his nose. “Yes, there are people like that. I am not one of them. They buy wine as though it were a barrel of oil or a share of stock. To them it is only a thing to buy and sell.

“I buy wine to drink.” He shoveled a bite of eggs and potatoes into his mouth. He chewed so hard his jaw clicked with each bite and his face reddened. The intensity of his feelings was very clear.

“Oh, no,” I said. “We don’t want to invest like that, and I certainly didn’t mean to imply you did. Heavens, no! We’re just looking into some existing investments, trying to find the parties involved. We thought you might know where we should look, who the reputable dealers are, that sort of thing.”

The clicking eased and the angry glow receded from his face. His expression turned thoughtful. “There are a few wine merchants who might be able to help. A lot of higher-end wine is sold at auction, however. Those might not be so easy to trace.”

Wade stepped back in. “Have you heard about a local group of investors, William? I understand someone put together a group several months back. I believe it was called Veritas.”

“I was approached,” he said. “I declined the invitation. It may be the same group, it may not. When I realized what they planned to do, I refused to have anything to do with their so-called investment group. I never knew what they chose to call themselves.”

“But it might have been them?” I asked.

“Possibly.”

“Who approached you?” Wade asked.

William didn’t hesitate. “Phil Wilson, the car dealer. That’s the only name I know for sure.”

Phil Wilson was a local institution. He’d owned a string of auto dealerships on the eastern edge of Portland before he retired to a twenty-room “cabin” on the edge of Pine Ridge. His sons ran the dealerships but Phil was still the spokesman for the Wilson Auto Group, with his picture at the top of the display ads in the Saturday classifieds and his booming voice proclaiming, “If you don’t come see me, I can’t save you money” on late night TV.

Phil Wilson seemed a bit crude next to the too-smooth image of Gregory Whitlock, but they were both self-made men who seemed to have a lot of money. It that respect they were a perfect fit.

“Did Mr. Wilson give you any indication who they were buying from?”

William swabbed his plate with the last bite of toast as he considered the question. He popped the toast into his mouth and shook his head.

“No. I got the impression they hadn’t actually bought anything yet when he talked to me. In fact, he asked me for recommendations as though they were just getting started. I didn’t pay a lot of attention, to tell the truth. I made it clear I thought it was a dreadful idea, and dismissed the scheme from my mind. I hadn’t thought about it since.” He nodded in my direction. “At least not until your friend the librarian called me.”

William pulled a business card from his wallet and handed it to me. “My office number is on there, if you think of any other questions.”

I glanced at the card before I put it in my pocket. He was the payroll department manager for a truck manufacturing plant in Portland. It seemed an odd place for a connoisseur of fine wine. Then again, you didn’t expect to find a Caltech computer scientist under a sink.

William was on his feet, shrugging into his jacket, when he snapped his fingers and looked at me. “You might try Vendage in the Pearl. I gave Phil Wilson their card.”

Our check arrived and I dutifully hauled out my credit card. It hadn’t been a cheap meal, thanks to William’s appetite, but it had given me the next link in the chain. Now I needed to talk to Phil Wilson and ask him about Veritas.

Easier said than done.

We left Franklin’s in separate cars with the same destination: Wade’s office. His friend David Young was meeting with my mother and he had promised to call us as soon as they were through.

I stopped at the house to change cars and let the dogs out. Much as I loved driving the ’Vette, I didn’t want to park it on Main Street on Sunday afternoon and advertise my presence at Wade’s office.

The Beetle was a little more discreet.

Wade left the door unlocked for me. He was at his desk with a mound of file folders, several of them bulging with computer printouts. He already had his computer on and was typing rapidly.

“Behold the paperless office,” he joked. “Weren’t you computer types supposed to save us from all this?” He gestured toward the piles on the desk, nearly toppling one precarious stack.

“And weren’t you accountant types supposed to give up your paper files and trust the electronic ones?” I shot back. I knew Wade could have cut the paper files in half, or more, if he was willing to trust the electronic backups he made with regularity.

Instead he kept paper and electronic copies of all his files, which threatened to overwhelm his tiny storefront office. He was constantly culling his files and putting boxes into the bulging storage unit he maintained nearby.

Judging from the stacks of cartons lining the back wall it was about time for another storage run. And probably time to rent another unit.

He registered the laptop case slung over my shoulder and waved me toward his clerk’s desk. “Use Karen’s desk if you want,” he said. “You have the passwords for the wireless if you need it.”

“Thanks.” I sat down, booted up Mom’s laptop, and went back to work on the Veritas folder. I was determined to find out what was in there.

The spreadsheets were easy. In the locked folder Gregory had obviously assumed the files were safe and there were no passwords or locks on the files themselves.

The contents, on the other hand, were going to take some translation.

“Wade?”

“Um-hmm?” Wade looked up, startled. He had been deeply engrossed in his papers, and it was as if he had forgotten I was there.

“Can you take a look at this with me? I have no idea what some of these fields might mean.”

Wade rolled his chair over to where I sat and peered at the laptop screen over my shoulder. Maybe Gregory knew what the various rows and columns meant, but his labels were cryptic to the point of being indecipherable, though some could be guessed from the content.

I connected to Wade’s wireless network and negotiated the security system so I could search wine terminology.

Wade was one of the few people in Pine Ridge that didn’t need the Samurai Security standard lecture. Everything he did was hidden behind firewalls and password protected.

Like I said, he took his clients’ privacy seriously.

Which was why I was startled when he dropped a file folder on my desk.

I glanced at the tab and did a double take. “Whitlock, Gregory” was printed on the file tab in Wade’s precise block lettering.

Wade put his palm down on the folder, holding it against the desktop. “You said your mother made you read the prenup agreement. Prove it. Tell me what you know about Whitlock’s finances.”

It took me several minutes to remember and piece together all the things I had read in Mom and Gregory’s prenuptial agreement. There were houses and cars and rental property—I’d been surprised to learn Mom had acquired several small houses around town and grateful I hadn’t ended up with her for a landlord.

Gregory had Whitlock Estates, of course, and he also had interests in a couple commercial developments. There had been a long list of personal property, including some art and collectibles that had surprised me. They shouldn’t have; they were all pieces acquired with an eye to appreciation in price, not appreciation of aesthetics.

He had included the purchase price of all the major pieces and their current appraisals. Either he was very good at picking pieces that increased in value, or he regularly pruned anything whose market value wasn’t growing fast enough. I suspected the latter. In Gregory’s world, everything was expected to turn a profit.

Mom’s financial acumen had caught me by surprise. She had allowed my father to handle the finances when he was alive and it had nearly bankrupted her when he died. In the years since, she had learned a lot about money and it showed clearly in her part of the prenup.

I said as much to Wade.

“She’s a very smart woman, Georgie. Don’t underestimate what your mother is capable of when she puts her mind to it.”

He lifted his hand from the file and flipped the folder open. “I don’t think there’s anything in here you don’t already know,” he said. “But let’s go through it and see if there’s something we missed.”

The stack of receipts and statements in the folder was huge, and we each took a portion of it and began flipping through the pages. I finished my stack and reached for another handful, and Wade did the same.

I was near the bottom of the second stack when I found the first clue. On a credit card statement from early in the spring there was a charge for seven thousand dollars to Vendage, the wine merchant William Robinson had told us about.

I held it out to Wade. “Look.” My hand shook with nervous excitement, making the paper tremble. “Maybe this will help.”

Wade took the paper from me. “Right there.” I pointed to the line. “He used his own credit card.”

Wade studied the line for a minute, then scooted over to look at the screen of the laptop where the enigmatic spreadsheet was still displayed.