Sinfandel (15 page)

Chapter Twenty-three

O
bermeyer wanted the Prius towed to the station and dusted for prints.  He wasn’t buying the “rodent chewed through the wiring” theory. 

Before I could protest, he held up his hand.  “Listen.  It’s time you faced the facts.  Someone is trying to get you out of the picture.”

“But—“

“No but.  You’ve been bitten by a rattlesnake, shot at, and now almost electrocuted in one of the most bizarre and unprecedented manners I’ve ever witnessed.  No one can be this unlucky.”

“You think I’m jinxed.”

“No, I think you’re a target—with a big bullseye painted on your back.”

“But that was all Zucker, right?  He took those shots at me.  He probably planted the snake on the haystack.”

“What’s his motive?”

I shook my head as I grasped for ideas.  “He thought I turned him in to the Ag department and delayed his grower payments.”

“Worth killing you for?” Obermeyer said.

“Okay, what if Zucker killed Beth Messina and he thought I had some evidence that could prove it?  Wouldn’t that be a motive?”

“What evidence?”

“I don’t know!  Maybe he thought I saw something the night that white pickup showed up in my driveway.  We both know Zucker was a lunatic.”

“Do we?”

“He killed his own daughter then committed suicide.  They don’t come much crazier than that,” I insisted.

“
Allegedly
killed his daughter.” 

“Oh my God.  Are you serious?”

“What other close calls have you had lately that I don’t know about?”

I took a deep breath and let it out slowly, shaking my head.

“Any unusual packages on your doorstep?  Colleague end up in the hospital after swapping lunch with you?  Near miss at an intersection?”

My eyes, which had been focused on a spot on the ground, suddenly shot up and locked with his.

“What?” he said.

“I barely missed getting caught in that pileup the other day on the Oakland Bay Bridge.”

“By ‘barely missed’ you mean—”

“I mean I was right in the middle of it.  It was a miracle I made it through.”

Obermeyer took his notebook out and scribbled in it.  “When’s the last time you touched your car?”

“I don’t—”

“Think, Kate!  Was it before or after Zucker died?”

I racked my brain trying to remember.  “I haven’t driven it since the snakebite.  It needs tires and I don’t have—I haven’t had time to get it to the tire shop.”  I watched his expression for some indication of what he thought.  “That means it must’ve been him, right?” 

“No, it means it could be anybody.”

On my way to meet with O’Reilly and Parker, I stopped to fill up my pickup’s gas tank.  Obermeyer had won the argument and impounded my car to look for evidence.  I talked him out of putting me in protective custody by agreeing to have a security system installed immediately.  He made the arrangements with a security company that he’d used in the past, and all I had to do was pay the bill.  Hail to the credit card.

When I arrived at the TTB office, Agent Parker met me at the receptionist’s desk and led me to a conference room.  As we walked, I handed him the TTB letter I’d received.  “Can you do anything to help me out with this?” I asked.

Parker glanced at the letter and handed it back.  “Nope.”

I stopped walking.  “Nope?  That’s your answer?”

“Miss Cimaglia.  We can’t appear to show favoritism.  How would that look?”

“If I were trying to sell counterfeit grapes, why would I be here trying to help you find the guy?”

Parker pointed at the letter in my hand.  “That’s no big deal.  Just a formality.  An inspector will show up and take a look.  He’ll confirm your vineyard’s variety and everything will be fine.”  He started walking again.

“When will this inspector show up?” I said, trying to catch up to him.

“As soon as possible.”

“Next week?  Next year?”

He stopped and opened a door to a conference room and motioned for me to enter.  “Soon.”

“You do realize I’m not getting paid for my crop until this is cleared up.”

“Don’t worry,” he said, pulling a chair out for me.

Just as I sat down, Agent O’Reilly came in with an armload of magazines—about fifty issues of
Wines and Vines
.  He took one off the top and handed it to me.

“Take a look at these and see if you recognize the man who picked up your package,” he said.

Flipping through the pages, I said, “I thought you’d have mug shots or something.”

Both men chuckled as if I’d made a joke.  “You’re thinking of the FBI,” Parker said.

“This is going to take all night,” I said, gazing at the stack of magazines.

O’Reilly left the room and returned with another stack.

“Really?” I said.  “Are you going to at least feed me for my effort?”

“We can order in some Chinese if you want,” O’Reilly said.

I rolled my eyes.  “I’d rather you take care of this,” I said, waving the TTB letter at them, which resulted in more chuckles.  I had no idea I was so funny. 

They left me alone to look at magazine photos.  The glossy pages were crisp and appeared unhandled.  My task was to only look at pictures but I kept stopping to read interesting articles about who the core wine drinkers are and how baby boomers’ drinking behaviors compared to other generations when the economy dipped into a recession.  At the rate I was going, I’d never get through the pile, so I flipped the page and tried to focus on the task at hand.

Every hour, either Parker or O’Reilly would poke his head in the door to see if I needed anything.  Each time I waved my TTB letter at them and said, “I need this cleared up—today,” and each time my request went ignored.

About halfway through the first stack, my eyes stopped on a full-page ad for The Landscape Financial Group, a lending institution that specialized in financing vineyard properties and promised to beat any lender’s rate by a full percentage point.  I started to fish through my purse for a pen so I could write down the phone number, but instead I decided to rip the page out.  Why should I worry about keeping the magazine intact when the TTB was holding my vineyard hostage?  I folded it up and slipped it into my purse just as O’Reilly walked in with a bag full of Chinese takeout.  I was in for a long night.

By the time I started on the last magazine, it was nearly midnight.  Parker and O’Reilly sat across from me at the conference room table, picking at leftover chow mein with chop sticks, and looking more and more discouraged each time I flipped a page.

“I’m sorry, guys, but I just don’t see him in any of these photos.”

Parker rested his face in the palms of his hands.  “The guy’s probably not an industry insider.”

“We’re sorry we kept you up so late,” O’Reilly said as he cleared the takeout boxes from the table.  “Let me see that notice that’s got you in such a tizzy.”

I handed him the letter I’d been nagging them about all afternoon.  O’Reilly read it over and handed it back.  “This is no big deal.  You’ll be fine.”

“I just want to know
when
I’ll be fine.”

“Soon,” they both said in unison.

The next morning I was awakened by the sound of a horn honking like a goose in heat at my front gate.  The clock said eight.  I’d overslept because I didn’t get to bed until nearly two.  Peering out the window, I saw the Armor Home Security truck waiting to be let in.  I dragged myself out of bed and slipped on a robe, then found the automatic gate opener. 

A pair of security specialists began their assigned task of installing motion sensors, cameras, and whatever else Obermeyer had ordered.  They even placed devices outside in the carport and the barn.

While they worked, I put a kettle of water on the stove for tea and fixed breakfast.  As I ate, I studied the ad I’d torn out of O’Reilly’s magazine for
The Landscape Financial Group.  They were located in Foster City, just south of San Francisco.  After breakfast, I Googled the name and found no complaints posted against them.  Then I checked their website and found that they financed not only vineyard property, but also hotels, casinos, and a range of other commercial and residential real estate properties.  I picked up the phone and called their number.

“Hi.  I’d like to talk to someone about financing a vineyard,” I said to the woman who answered the phone.

“One moment, please.”

As I listened to elevator Muzak, I wondered if I should just hang up and forget the whole idea, but before I could, the music stopped and a voice with a heavy British accent said, “This is Arthur.  How may I help you?”

I slid down into my glider chair and cleared my throat.  “Hi.  I’d like to find out about getting a loan to buy a vineyard.”

“Fantastic!” Arthur said with more enthusiasm than I felt comfortable with.  “How much do you need?”

“Well, I don’t know.  The property hasn’t been listed yet.”  I explained that the vineyard would most likely be sold in probate and that I just wanted to be prepared.

“Very good.  I can send you a packet that explains the process and you can have a look-see.”

“I was mostly interested in your ad that says you’ll beat any lender’s rate?”

“Yes, of course.  We absolutely will.  Just show us the good faith estimate and we will take off one percent.”

“That’s fixed?”

“Of course,” he said, sounding offended that I suggested he might work for one of those lowly vulture institutions.

“How about refinancing?  I currently own a vineyard.”

“What variety?”

“Zinfandel.  The vineyard I want to purchase is half Zin and half Chardonnay.”

“Excellent.  All we need is a signed grape purchase contract—preferably five years or longer—and of course an acceptable appraisal of the property.  We loan up to seventy percent of the appraised value.”

“Seventy percent,” I said, feeling the wind in my sails die.  Where would I come up with thirty percent?

“I just need your address and I’ll send you the packet.”

I gave him my information and hung up. 

Before I lost my nerve, I called Pete and asked him about the possibility of getting my year-to-year contract extended, and how I could increase the contract acreage from twenty-five to seventy-five if I was able to purchase Zucker’s land, and if I could add Chardonnay to the agreement.

“What’re you up to?” Pete asked.

I explained my plan to acquire Zucker’s vineyard.  Pete thought it was a great idea and said he’d find out and get back to me.

With my hope returning ever so slightly, I had one more call to make.  As I pressed each button on the phone, I listened to the argument going on in my head.  There were so many unanswered questions.  Who killed Beth Messina?  How did the gun end up in Andy’s house?  Was he just a charming, handsome killer?  Another Ted Bundy?  Did his wife really die of cancer?  Or was there something more sinister going on in their marriage?  Then, the defense team began arguing the case.  Why would a killer keep the murder weapon in his house where it could be so easily discovered?  Andy wasn’t that stupid.  Finally, the closing argument: Ted Bundy probably never saved a puppy in his entire life. 

Andy answered the phone on the first ring. 

I took a deep breath.  “How’d you like to go in partners with me on Zucker’s vineyard?”

Chapter Twenty-four

T
o my surprise, Andy didn’t jump at the chance to partner with me to buy the Zucker vineyard.  He wanted to think about it first.

“Are you going to be home this afternoon?” he asked, sounding cheerful and completely unaware that I had slumped into a wilted heap in the middle of the living room floor.  He didn’t want to be my partner?  What was wrong with me?

“Kate?  Are you there?” he said.

“Yeah, I’m here.  I’ll be home most of the day.”  I tried to hide the disappointment in my voice, but I must have failed.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“You sure?  You sound—”

“I’m fine.  Really.  I have to go.”  I pressed a button and ended the call.  What was I thinking?  After enduring the Roger chapter of my life, I’d learned not to put my hopes into anything that involved relying on a man—on anyone, for that matter.  Even though my suggestion was for a business partnership, the looming rejection already hurt as if we were a couple on the verge of breaking up, and he hadn’t even told me no yet.

“Are you okay, ma’am?” a voice from above me said.  I looked up to see one of the home security specialists hovering over me with a look of concern on his face.

“Oh, yes.”  I stood up and put the phone back in its cradle.  “I’m fine.  I’m just… I, uh… how’s it going?  Are you almost finished?”

“No, ma’am.  We’re going to be here a while.”  He couldn’t have been older than nineteen, with a mild case of acne tormenting his otherwise flawless face.  “Where should I place the keypad?”

I snapped out of my poor, pitiful me mode and focused on his question.  “I use the back door most of the time, so I guess right there,” I said, pointing to the wall next to the washing machine on the back porch.  “I’m getting a dog.  How will the system work if I leave him in the house?”

“These systems are immune to pets.  They work off of two motion sensors, so unless your dog is a moose, he won’t set it off.”

“What about a doggie door?”

“We offer an RFID pet door.  You just put the key tag on the dog’s collar and it will only open for him.”

“And not raccoons?”

“Right.  It’s a little pricey but if you put in any other kind of pet door, you may as well not waste your money on this security system.”

Pricey.  That translated to ‘more than I could afford’ but I had to ask.  “How much?”

There were two prices: one for the door, and one that included installation.  I decided I could put it in myself to save money. 

After the team finished installing the security system, they gave me a brief lesson on how to use it.  I’d have to make sure all doors and windows were closed tightly, then arm it before I left the house.  Video feed from cameras located in the carport and barn played on my computer screen, and if the motion sensors detected anything larger than a barn cat—or a raccoon—out there, it would send a text message to my cell phone, alerting me to the activity.

It was time for me to turn off the water next door, and to repair the pump-house door that I’d broken.  I grabbed the hardware and tools I needed, then armed the system, locked the door and headed outside.  As soon as I shut the door, I realized I didn’t have my cell phone with me.  Unlocking the door, I planned to just run in, grab the phone and run right back out before my forty-five seconds were up.  Halfway to the kitchen, the alarm let out a scream that could wake half the county.  Covering my ears, I raced to the keypad and tried to punch in the code to disarm it, but I kept fumbling and pressing the wrong buttons.  Finally, after the third attempt, the blaring sound stopped, though my ears were still ringing, making it hard to hear my phone, also jingling for my attention.

Out of breath, I picked up the phone.  “Hello?”

“This is Armor Home Security.  Please identify yourself,” a man’s voice said.

“Kate Cimaglia.  I accidentally—”

“Please provide the security passphrase.”

My heart was still racing from the entire fiasco, but apparently it wasn’t sending enough blood to my brain, because I could not immediately recall what I was supposed to recite in the event I needed it.

“Hang on,” I said, taking slow, deliberate breaths.  “Um… okay.  ‘Raccoons are evil creatures.’”

“Thank you, Miss Cimaglia.  This is your first day with the system, right?”

“Yes.  I’m sorry.  I thought I could make it before the alarm went off.”

“No problem.  Happens all the time.  You’ll get the hang of it.”

With my adrenal system jolted into hyper-mode, I started again on my mission to the neighboring vineyard.  This time, I made sure I had everything I needed before I re-armed the system.

I’d purchased new hinges and a latch to replace the ones I’d mangled breaking into Zucker’s pump house.  As I finished tightening the last screw, I heard voices wafting up from the direction of the road.  I peered over the vines and spotted a dark gray cowboy hat heading in my direction.  Ducking behind the pump house, I strained to hear what was being said.  There were at least three different voices, but they weren’t close enough yet for me to make out their words.  Leaning against the small building, I closed my eyes and concentrated on listening. 

The voices stopped for a long time and I thought they’d gone back in the direction they came from, until someone said, “Who are you?”

I opened my eyes to see a very tall, skinny man in the Stetson I’d seen earlier.  Next to him stood a couple, apparently married by the looks of the enormous diamond the woman had on her left hand.  She appeared to be quite a few years younger than her husband.  Both were well dressed.  My first impression was that they had money.  Lots of it.

“I live next door.  I’m taking care of the vineyard.  Who are you?”

The cowboy held his hand out to me.  “Jake McPhearson.  Premier Real Estate.”

I shook his hand.  “Didn’t you see the crime scene tape?”

Jake cringed.  “Oh, we stayed away from the house.  Don’t want to mess with any of that.”

“What are you doing out here?” I asked.

Jake nodded toward the couple.  “My clients wanted to see it.”

The pair paid little attention to me.  They were busy trying to get a dirt clod out of her Gucci shoe.  She clearly hadn’t dressed to traipse through Mother Nature’s terrain.

“It’s not listed,” I said, hoping I was right. 

“Yet,” Jake said.

I nodded.  “True, but until then, you’re actually trespassing.”

Mr. Cradle Robber and Mrs. Gold Digger perked up at my accusation. 

“I’m going to buy this place,” the husband said.  “Always wanted to be a gentleman farmer.”

His wife gazed at him as if he’d just promised her the entire inventory of Nordstrom’s.

I had not planned on competition for Zucker’s vineyard.  This could only serve to drive the price up.

“It may be a long time before the EPA clears this place for human habitation,” I said, then went about checking the new latch on the pump-house door.

“EPA?” Jake said.

“Don’t you know?”

“We’re aware of the murder-suicide.  My clients are fine with that.  They plan to bulldoze the house and re-build.”

“Oh, so you haven’t heard.”  I leaned against the pump house for support in case my quivering knees gave out on me.  “They were running a huge drug manufacturing operation.  Marijuana.  Meth lab.  It could be years before it’s all cleaned up.”

The young wife chewed on her long, fake thumbnail.

“Don’t worry,” her husband assured her.  “I can pay to expedite the cleanup.”

“Oh, sure.  You’ll just have to truck your water in,” I said.  “Unless you don’t plan on having any children.”

“We want kids, right honey?” the wife said.  Her face showed an inkling of concern.

“Then you better not drink the water.  Birth defects, you know.”

She cringed.

“Don’t worry, honey.  I’m sure it won’t be a problem.”

Oh, that’s right.  You can probably afford to buy your baby new arms and legs
, I thought, but caught myself before I allowed the words to escape from my mouth.  Instead, I decided facts and figures would be a better tactic.  “I read that meth has a half-life of up to sixty years.”

She let out a small whimper and Mr. Big Shot led her a short distance away to comfort her.

“That was uncalled for,” Jake said, gazing at the couple’s back.

“I’ll let the detective in charge of the investigation know about your complaint.”

He turned his gaze toward me.

“He’s a friend of mine,” I added.

Jake nodded his understanding.  “Let’s go,” he called to the couple.  “There’s another place I want to show you before lunch.”

“Watch out for open wells!” I called to them.  “They’re everywhere out here!  Don’t want to fall in!”

I felt little relief as I watched the trio scurry back toward the road.  If Big Jake from Premier Real Estate knew about the Zucker vineyard, then it was just a matter of time before every real estate agent in the county got wind of the potential commission.  I wouldn’t be able to scare them all away.

 Now that I’d set my mind on buying Zucker’s vineyard, I needed to come up with a plan.  Since it didn’t seem likely that Andy would join me, I called Pete for some advice.  He knew practically every grower in the state.  Maybe he’d know someone willing to be a silent partner in the vineyard.

As I explained my predicament to Pete over the phone, a horn honked outside at my gate.  Peering out the window, I could see that it was Andy.  I found the gate opener and clicked it while Pete explained the complications of partnerships—as if I didn’t already know.

“Why do you want a partner, anyway?” he asked.

“I told you, Pete.  I don’t have the money for the down payment.”

“Well, I’ll put some feelers out.  Don’t get your hopes up, though.”

Too late, but I didn’t tell Pete that.  I thanked him and hung up, then opened the door for Andy and a very excited puppy.

“Tony!”  I scooped him up in my arms and hugged the wiggling bundle of fur.  He managed to lick my nose, cheek, eyelids and forehead before I set him down.

“You ready for your new addition?” Andy asked.

“Almost.  The contractor will be here tomorrow to put up the fence.”  I led them both into the kitchen.  “I have his food and water bowls right there, and in here,” I said, moving to my bedroom, “I have his dog bed and all these great toys I found.”

Andy gave Tony a serious look.  “I believe you are going to be one spoiled puppy.  Maybe we better re-think this.”

“Maybe you just better leave him and go right now.”  I was only half kidding, and apparently Andy sensed it.

“Let’s talk about the Zucker vineyard,” he said.

“No, that’s okay.  You don’t want to get involved with it, and I don’t want to pressure you.”

“Who said I didn’t want to get involved?”

“You did.”

“When did I say that?”

I picked up one of Tony’s toys and carried it out to the living room.  “When you tell someone you have to think about something, what you really mean is you have to think of a way to say no.”

“On what planet did you learn that?” he said.

“Oh, come on.  It’s right up there with ‘I still care about you,’ which really means, ‘Please don’t tell your friends I’m a jerk.’  And everyone knows that ‘It’s not you; it’s me,’ is code for ‘It’s not me; It’s you.’”

He gaped at me for a long moment.  “Are we talking about the same thing?”

I tossed the toy for Tony to fetch.

“Because I thought we were talking about partnering up on Zucker’s vineyard.”

“We are,” I said, playing tug-of-war with Tony.  “But it’s clear you’re not interested so I’ll just find someone else.”

“Really.”

“Yes.  You don’t think I can find someone else who’d be interested?”

“I’m sure you can.  Maybe you already have.”

“What are you accusing me of?”

“The hell if I know.  It’s like I walked through your front door into a parallel universe.”

“Maybe you should go back to your universe where everything is comfortable for you, then.”

“Maybe I will,” he said, then he picked up Tony and left.