Plum Gone: A Sonoma Wine Country Cozy Mystery (Sonoma Wine Country Cozy Mysteries Book 2) (12 page)

Jack looked over Emma’s shoulder and squinted as though he were thinking. “I just don’t think the old guy did it, Emma. Last time I saw him, which was only two weeks ago, he could barely lift himself out of a chair.” He shook his head emphatically. “Nah. Something else is goin’ on.”

“That’s exactly what Piers thinks,” Emma agreed. “Lots of people hated Gomez. Including the husband of the woman he was seeing and the cousin that Piers says Gomez tried to blackmail...”

“By the way,” Jack interrupted. “I did some poking around myself the other day. About Rob Peters. Curt’s nephew.” He lowered his voice. “The one who’ll lose a bundle if Curt changes his will. It seems Rob’s borrowed a lot of money. On the assumption that he’s the sole heir. Now I hear Rob’s investments are belly up. Some big wine venture that failed. People at the club say he’s goin’ around town bad mouthing Curt. I guess Rob tried to borrow money from him and Curt refused.”

“So you think that’s why he was at the rally? Because he’s mad at Curt?” Emma asked.

“Maybe,” Jack said.

“That doesn’t explain Gomez, though,” Emma replied.

Jack shrugged. “Look. If Peters really
is
the sole beneficiary of Randall’s estate, he couldn’t have been too happy about the Gomez suit. A judgment in a class action could cost Randall millions. Not to mention attorney fees. Suddenly,” Jack snapped his fingers, “there goes the estate. Depending on how desperate Peters is for money, who knows what he might do?”

Emma nodded. “You mean, kill Gomez to stop the lawsuit, and then frame Curt for the murder?”

Jack threw his hands up. “As far as I can tell,
someone
is trying to frame Curt. Hey, by the way,” he changed the subject. “You’re on Facebook now.”

“Kicking and screaming,” Emma laughed. “Lexie insisted I join. Nice of you to friend me.”

“I like the photo. From the auction, right?” Jack asked. “That night I met you.”

“Glad you like it.” Emma paused. “Let me ask you something, Jack. Why are
you
on Facebook? I don’t get it. Why do you want to know all those dumb things people post about themselves? Does a busy guy like you really have time?”

“Not that busy anymore, Emma,” Jack rolled his eyes. “For me, it’s a good way to keep up. With my daughter. With business. With organizations I support. With friends I left behind on the East Coast.” He laughed. “I’m a sociable guy. My daughter said it would be good for me. And guess what? She was right. Now I’m in touch with people I haven’t seen in years.”

“People you haven’t seen in years,” Emma repeated. “Let me ask you something else,” she paused.

A little voice in the back of her head told her to stop, but she ignored it.

“Did you ever hear from someone…I don’t know…someone out of the blue? Someone from your past that really surprised you?”

Jack was draining the last of his cappuccino. He put down his cup. “Whaddya mean? What kind of surprise? Like a good surprise? Like someone from my past I’d been…I don’t know…hoping to hear from? Like an old girlfriend kinda surprise? You hear of that happening when people go on Facebook. Is that what you mean?” He cocked his head, stared into her eyes and squinted. Like he was trying to read her mind. Then, before she answered, he shook his head. “No, that never happened to me.”

Alarms started ringing in Emma’s ears. She dropped her eyes and blushed.

“Did it happen to you?” he asked.

“What? What do you mean?” Emma stammered. “Did what happen?”

She guessed, by then, her face had turned three shades of red.

“Nothing,” he smiled perfunctorily. “I mean it as a compliment. I’m guessin’ a nice woman like you, divorced for many years, probably has some guys in her past. You never talk about them, that’s all.” He nodded slowly. “You talk about a lot of other stuff. But not that. So I wondered…Me, I was married for almost fifty years – to the same woman. I got nothin’ to talk about. In polite company that is. Nothing except a few one night stands.”

Jack signaled the waiter to bring the check. They sat in silence for a minute while he paid. Then he cast her a sheepish grin.

“I know that wasn’t fair, Emma,” he said. “You got secrets. I got secrets – well, not secrets. Just things I never told you. Like,” he shrugged. “Like about Johnny. That’s not a secret. It’s just,” he sighed. “It’s just something that. Well, let me put it this way. It’s something that, when I moved here, I realized I no longer had to explain.”

The same pained expression crossed Jack’s face that she’d seen the week before. He blew out a big sigh and then continued.

“After Johnny died, Frannie and I spent thirty years with people avoiding us. Like it was just too hard to watch our pain. It wasn’t their fault. People just didn’t know what to say. Frankly, when I moved, it was kind of a relief to be with people, like you, who just didn’t know. But I see now I was wrong. You’re too good a friend not to have told you.” He plastered a smile back on his face and stood up. “Let me know if you need some help over the next couple of days. You know, shopping for the party. I’ll give you a call.”

That’s when Emma remembered. She hadn’t told him she was leaving town.

In spite of herself, she winced. “Speaking of the Gomez murder investigation. I just promised Steve I’d drive down to Coachella with him. He’s set up interviews with some people Gomez worked with there. He wants to answer some questions about the murder – satisfy his mind about who did it before he files the wrongful death suit. He needs me to help.”

“Isn’t that kinda hard?” Jack asked. “What will Piers say?”

“Oh,” Emma stammered. “Steve said they’d waive any possible conflict of interest. Frankly, I’m hoping I can dig up some evidence to prove that Curt Randall didn’t do it. Piers can’t object to that!”

Jack looked skeptical. “When do you leave?”

“Tomorrow,” Emma replied. “We’ll stay Thursday and Fri…”

Emma stopped. All of a sudden, she realized that she was in a bind. If she and Steve stayed in Coachella Thursday and Friday there was no way she’d be back on Saturday in time to make dinner. She’d have to convince Steve to drive back Friday night.

“I mean,” she corrected herself, “we’re going down tomorrow and staying just one night.”

“Kind of a long trip for one night. You driving?” Jack asked.

“Steve doesn’t have the budget for anything else,” Emma explained.

“You sure about getting back on Friday?” he added. “I mean, aren’t you cutting it kind of close? Isn’t there an awful lot to do?”

Emma tried to put on a confident face, meanwhile wondering how on earth she could drive to Coachella and still prepare that dinner on time.

She nodded her head. “No problem. Really. Don’t worry. I’ve done it a million times. Saturday’s great. I’ll have plenty of time.”

“OK,” Jack replied, but he didn’t look convinced. “If you’re sure. You’re the boss. Just let me know if there is anything I can do.”

“Don’t worry. I will,” she waved. “And thanks, Jack. Thanks so much for the lunch. For everything,” she added. Then wished she hadn’t. It sounded too final. It sounded like she was telling him goodbye.

The reception desk was empty. And the office was filled with its usual diverse population of clients: Hispanic workers trying to get a break, moms with children on their laps seeking restraining orders or trying to secure benefits, runaway teenagers seeking everything from welfare to divorces from their parents, dads trying to get to visit their kids. Emma’s heart went out to them. Unlike her ex-husband, these folks had no money to hire high-priced lawyers to get them off the hook.
Thank goodness,
she thought as she walked past the sorry parade into her cubicle.
Thank goodness
for people like my boss, Steve Zimmer.

Once in her makeshift office, it took but a few minutes to locate the Gomez files. They went back quite a few years to when Santiago Gomez first visited the legal clinic to request help with a pay dispute he had with a former employer. A landscaping firm for whom he worked as a gardener. That suit resulted in a small settlement in Gomez’s favor. It was followed, Emma soon realized, by more suits. An assault charge, later dropped, brought by a co-worker at the winery where Gomez worked after the landscaping stint. A suit against an insurance company for medical benefits in connection with the birth of his son. A suit against the winery for more back pay.

After that Gomez got a job at Curt Randall’s plum ranch. That’s when things appeared to settle down. For a while. Until Gomez’s address changed to Coachella, California. There, Steve managed to hush up a harassment suit filed by a woman who worked in a local bar.

Then, only about a month ago, Gomez filed the unfair labor practices lawsuit against Curt Randall. The lawsuit alleged that Gomez worked as a fruit and vegetable picker at Randall Enterprises under conditions that violated both California and federal law. Specifically, the complaint stated that Randall Enterprises failed to provide Gomez with adequate water, shade and housing.

Eventually Steve hoped to file a class action representing all similarly situated workers on Randall’s vast Coachella farms. But he’d had trouble getting workers to join the suit. Few were willing to jeopardize their low paying jobs.

And who could blame them?
Emma asked herself as she read through the file.
Who wanted to risk their paycheck for years of litigation with no guarantees?

Emma skimmed pages of Steve’s “memos to the file” detailing Gomez’s frustrating quest for support among his co-workers in Coachella. And, more recently, up north where a few Randall Enterprises seasonal workers, like Gomez’s cousin, had resettled to find better work.

Then she quickly scanned Barbara’s notes of every contact Gomez had with the legal clinic.

The last entries were dated the afternoon before the murder. Gomez had called the BFLSC around 3:00 p.m. and asked to talk to Steve. But Steve was in trial in Santa Rosa that day.

According to Steve’s notes from later that night, he’d tried twice to return the call. But Steve didn’t get through. His final note read, “into voicemail. L/m to call me back on cell.”

That was the very last entry into Gomez’s file. Gomez never did call Steve back.

Emma couldn’t help wondering what Gomez called about the afternoon before he died.

It was almost 4:00. Steve would be back soon. Emma checked to see if Barbara was back from the Western Romance conference. She was. That day, her ample figure was stuffed into black stretch jeans and a tight fitting purple sweater.

“Barbara,” Emma approached the reception desk gingerly. There was something about the bullet casings Barbara wore around her neck that put Emma on edge. “You know Santiago Gomez?”

Barbara’s face looked stricken. She placed her hand on her heart. “Know him!” she sighed. “Honey, I may actually have been the last person to talk to him alive.”

“Do you think someone talked to him after he was dead?” Emma replied.

Barbara swatted her hand. “You’re so funny. You know what I mean. I asked Steve. He never reached him. He tried two or three times that night. So, maybe I was the very last person to talk to the poor guy before he was murdered. Kinda gives me the creeps.”

“Did he say anything when he called?” Emma asked. “Like what he wanted?”

“Just that he wanted to talk to Steve,” Barbara shrugged. “I wrote it down in the log. He wanted to talk to Steve and I told him Steve was in court all day, but that he’d call him back as soon as he could. You know Steve,” she rolled her eyes. “24/7. It’s like he’s married to this place. I feel sorry for the wife. Frankly,” she added, cupping her hand around her mouth, “just between you and me, I’m not sure things are exactly ‘quiet’ on the home front, if you know what I mean.”

Emma winced. She’d been worried about that. “Thanks. I was just wondering what that call was about. Probably the class action, but you never know,” Emma paused. “I thought it might shed some light on the killer. I know the police are focused on Curt Randall, but…” she shrugged and turned to go.

“Curt Randall,” Barbara repeated the name. “Wait a minute. Now I’m remembering. Gomez
did
mumble something about Curt Randall. Right before he hung up. I wonder if I mentioned it to Steve…”

“What? What did he say?” Emma asked.

“Something about talking to Curt. Either he
had
talked to him or he
was going
to talk to him. I forget. Anyway,” she batted the memory away with her hand, “he hung up the phone before he said what it was.”

Steve had just walked into the office. He stood beside them, his head cocked to one side. “Who hung up?” he asked.

“Santiago Gomez,” Barbara replied. “That’s why I don’t know what he called about the afternoon before he died.” She shivered. “It really does give me the creeps. To think, I was the…”

“What do you mean?” Steve said. “Did he say something else before he hung up the phone?”

“Just about Curt Randall,” Barbara shrugged. “I think he said he had talked to him. Or maybe that he needed to talk to him. Yes. That was it. He said he needed to talk to him. And I thought to myself – of course I didn’t say anything because it’s not my place. I’m not a lawyer. So, I thought but didn’t say,
he’s a plaintiff. Plaintiffs don’t talk to people they sue. Their lawyers do that.
That’s why I said he should talk to you, Steve, and that you’d call him back as soon as you could.”

“Which I did,” Steve replied. “But I never got through. And he never returned my call.”

Steve’s face assumed the snide scowl that Emma was familiar with. “Anything else you forgot about the call?”

“No,” Barbara replied. Her face still as stone. “I didn’t ‘forget,’ Steve,” she added making quotation marks with her fingers. “I assumed that whatever he was calling about, he’d tell you himself. I’m a receptionist, not a mind reader,” she added.

Even Emma could tell there was nothing more forthcoming. Steve jerked his head in direction of his office.

“What was that all about?” he asked, taking a seat behind his desk and motioning to Emma to sit down on the other metal chair crammed into his room.

“I reviewed the Gomez file,” Emma answered. “You know, before our trip. To get up to speed. And I noticed that Gomez called the office the night before he died. After that, it didn’t look like you reached him. It looked like he never called you back. Next thing, he was dead.”

Steve nodded. “Exactly. I assume he called about the class action. He wasn’t having much luck signing people up. People up here were afraid to join the class. Afraid they’d lose their jobs.”

“That’s what I assumed, too,” Emma answered, “until I saw Barbara’s note about his call. Then I started to wonder. What if he had something else on his mind? Something that might give us a clue. About his murder. So I asked Barbara what she remembered…”

“She said he wanted to talk to me,” Steve cut in.

“That’s what she told me, too,” Emma answered. “At first. Then I mentioned Curt Randall. That I didn’t think he murdered Gomez…”

Emma watched Steve’s eyebrows knit into a frown.

“Steve, you know I don’t think Curt’s the killer. He’s old and sick. He can barely pull himself out of a chair. I agree with Piers.” She didn’t mention Jack. “You have to live with that.”

“OK. OK.” Steve made a circle with his hand for her to go on with her story.

“Anyway,” Emma continued, “when I mentioned Curt’s name, Barbara remembered that before he hung up, Gomez said he wanted to talk to Curt. That he needed to talk to Curt. Barbara remembered because, like she told you, she thought it was not kosher for Gomez to talk to Curt without his lawyer. That’s why she said you’d call him back as soon as you could. Which you did.”

“That’s it?” Steve asked.

Emma nodded her head.

Steve sat back in his chair and blew out a deep breath. “It sounds fishy,” he finally said. “Why would Santiago need to talk to Curt? They hated each other. And Santiago’s been through enough litigation to know not to contact the other side.” He thought for a minute. “So maybe Santiago was on his way to talk to Curt,
not
his cousin, when he was killed.”

Emma shrugged. “About what?”

“Beats me,” Steve said. “That’s a question for you to ask the cousin. What was on Santiago’s mind. You’re going tonight, right?”

Steve looked at his computer screen and almost jumped out of his chair. Jees! It’s almost five. I gotta run. If I don’t get to that restaurant in Rohnert Park by 5:45, I really think Jesse will divorce me. In front of twenty of her best friends. Sorry Emma, do you can think you can manage?”

“What?” Emma said.

“The Diaz interview,” he answered. “Santiago’s cousin.”

Emma drew her breath in sharply. The idea of confronting Jose Diaz made her nervous.

“What if he’s the killer, Steve?” she said.

“Don’t worry,” Steve replied. “I thought of that. You’re meeting him at a bar out Blissburg Ave. It’s called the
Hasta la Vista
Lounge…”

Emma shuddered at the name.

“The place will be rocking,” Steve laughed. “If Diaz is the killer, trust me, he’s not going to put a knife into you in a crowded bar.”

Emma wasn’t convinced.

Steve reassured her, “The bartender’s name is Poncho. Poncho Lopez. He’s my friend. If anything looks fishy go tell Poncho. Better yet, check in with Poncho when you get to the lounge. I’ve done Poncho some favors. He’ll watch out for you.”

Steve then listed a series of questions he wanted Emma to ask Diaz. She copied them down on a legal pad.

“Call me right after you finish with Diaz. OK?”

Steve didn’t wait for Emma to reply.

The
Hasta la Vista
Lounge was located on the south end of Blissburg Avenue right before the turnoff to 101. Emma passed it a hundred times on her way to San Francisco. It was the small, squat building next to the Mexican grocery with the barbecue outside. The one where the chicken always smelled so good. Emma remembered the barbecue all right; but whenever she passed, the lounge looked deserted.

At 8:00 p.m. when she parked her car across the street, the place was mobbed. A crowd of men wearing dark jeans, checked shirts and straw cowboy hats milled around the front of the building.

Emma had always liked the broad cross section of Blissburg’s citizenry – old hippies, young San Francisco professionals with weekend wineries and $10,000 bicycles, farm families who had worked the land around Blissburg for years, and, of course, the Latino workers. That night, however, as she got out of her car the crowd of young men in front of
Hasta la Vista
made her pause. Collectively, they looked tough.

Emma crossed the street and made her way through a wall of men. Some of the old ones whistled at her and yelled words in Spanish she didn’t understand. She was embarrassed to admit that she found the attention flattering.

The first thing she did when she entered the lounge was approach the bar. A short, burly, dark-skinned man served drinks. Emma noticed that with his long nose and full lips he looked like he’d stepped out of a Mayan ruin.

“Is Poncho here?” she greeted him nervously. The name Poncho didn’t sound flattering.

The man tilted his head back and poked his chest with his forefinger. “I’m Poncho,” he answered not looking at all offended. “Who’s looking for me,
mamacita
?” the man asked.

Emma cleared her throat. She wasn’t sure what
mamacita
signified, but like Poncho, she decided it wasn’t offensive.

“Me, Emma Corsi,” she said. “Steve Zimmer, who I gather is a friend of yours, suggested I talk to you about a situation.”

Poncho squinted at her and nodded slowly. “Steve. OK. Steve’s my friend. What’s the
situation
?”

Emma cleared her throat again. “I’m meeting someone here named Jose Diaz. To ask him some questions about the Gomez murder. Steve represents the Gomez family in connection with the murder.” She hastened to add, “He couldn’t come. He had to attend his wife’s birthday party.”