Authors: Nadia Gordon
“Oh, I was a boy. Must have been 1895, 1896, 1897. All in there. We used to run around like wild things all through those orchards, and when they were gone, through the vineyards, too.”
She advanced again, then hit PLAY. The interviewer’s voice said, “—lived on the Beroni Vineyards Estate?”
The old man coughed and cleared this throat. “Back then we still called it Cortona. The Cortona Winery. My father went on calling it Cortona his whole life, and he worked there for ten more years after Old Man Beroni changed the name. He never thought Beroni should have had the vineyard in the first place.”
“Why was that?” asked the interviewer.
“I don’t know exactly. People didn’t talk to children about grown-up matters in those days. It was none of our business. We never heard much about what was going on. But I would find out. I was interested in everything having to do with wineries when I was a kid. Well, my whole life, I suppose. I think I got the impression that my father didn’t trust Old Man Beroni. He always liked Stella Campaglia, and he felt sorry for her after her husband died. Stella and Augustus were the ones who started Cortona. My father said Stella didn’t know how to run a winery, and after her husband died, Beroni came around to help keep the operation going. The next thing you know, Beroni owned the place and moved Stella and the boys to the housing for the hired hands, which was a house like the one we lived in, nothing fancy,
and moved his own family into the Cortona mansion. My father resented that. He said on a number of occasions that it wasn’t right to move a widow and her children out of her home. He always said Beroni was a swindler who took advantage of a young widow who didn’t know any better. When I was older, my mother would send me up to see Mrs. Campaglia—that was Stella Campaglia—with a fresh pie or a basket of bread or a bag of vegetables from the garden. I knew her sons pretty well. I was a good deal younger than they were and I looked up to them quite a bit. I’d hang around the winery and try to help out, tapping down the must with a big stick during fermentation or taking a turn at cranking the old press. Those old crank presses were work. The Campaglia boys were running that whole operation even then—the winery, the vineyard, the cellar, everything. I figure they couldn’t have been more than sixteen, eighteen years old at that time.”
Sunny rewound the tape and returned the setup to the librarian, then made a photocopy of the photograph of Augustus and Stella Campaglia. Outside, she sat down on a concrete bench facing a gurgling fountain and called Monty Lenstrom on her mobile.
“Sun.”
“Monty.”
“What’s up?”
“What do you know about the history of Beroni Vineyards?”
“Not much, just the usual dross. Established at the end of the 1800s, owned and operated continuously by the Beroni family, legacy of decent Cabernet Sauvignons and above average Pinot Noirs, recent tendency to cash in on a recognized name by releasing grotesque quantities of mediocre Merlot sold for about double what they’re actually worth by any reasonable standards.”
“Who would know more?”
“Like about what, the winery?”
“Mostly about the Beroni family.”
“I guess Ripley Marlow might.”
“She’s related, right?”
“Al’s cousin.”
“Listen, Monty, how would you like to go pay her a visit? Like, for example, this morning.”
“This is about Wade, isn’t it? Sunny, why are you getting all mixed up in this stuff?”
“I’m not mixed up in anything.”
“You can’t go around grilling Jack’s extended family. Ripley is a very gracious person, but I think it’s a bit much to assault her on Sunday morning, especially when she is probably upset about Jack and not in the mood for company.”
“But it’s important. I’m sure she would like to know who killed Jack as much as I would.”
“It’s insanity. You’ve lost your mind.”
“Just call her and be ready. I’ll pick you up in an hour.”
She slipped the phone into its pocket in her bag and headed for the police station, which was only about four blocks away. St. Helena had put on its best Mayberry face for a glistening Sunday morning, and the tourists in their ironed khakis and cotton blouses had come out in force, strolling past the quaint shops looking for ways to spend their money. Sunny marched up the street, making a list of points she needed to cover with Wade.
He looked tired when he came out of the holding area and shuffled into the metal chair across from her. The dark print of a sleepless night showed under each eye.
“You holding up okay?”
“I’ll be fine. Harry says he’s hoping to spring me tomorrow morning.”
“Have him call me when you know anything, okay?”
“I will.”
“I brought you lunch, and samples of berries from all eight sections. They’re all labeled. And I made you a Thermos of coffee, but they won’t let you have it. I guess they’re afraid you’ll use it to bust your way out of here.” He shook his head and she smiled. “Rivka measured Brix yesterday around five and I took another reading first thing this morning.” She dug the papers out of her bag and held them up to the glass for him to see. He leaned in and studied them.
“Good. That’s great, Sunny. Thanks for taking care of all this stuff.”
“No problem. Do you want me to come to the arraignment tomorrow?”
Wade sighed and roughed up his hair. “No, you go take care of your restaurant. You have plenty to do without watching me sit around in an orange jumpsuit. I’ll call you when it’s over. Is Farber still kicking?”
“I think he’s more or less living on the roof. He came down this morning and followed me out into the vineyard.”
“The roof’s a good safe place for him, away from the coyotes. He’s a smart cat.” He looked at her, holding her eyes in a steady gaze. “He knows how to stay out of trouble.”
“He may be the only one,” said Sunny.
“I hope not,” said Wade. “You’re in a hurry to get somewhere. What’s going on?”
“Oh, nothing. Just lots to do today. We have a new menu at the restaurant tomorrow, so I need to get in there and make sure I’ve got all the kinks ironed out. We’re doing coq au vin, which I haven’t cooked in about three years.”
Wade said, “Uh-huh,” emphasizing the second syllable, which meant he didn’t buy it.
She sighed. “What do you know about the Campaglia family?”
“You mean Nesto?”
“I mean the whole family.”
“Well, he has two boys. I think they work with him there at the vineyard.”
“No, I mean what do you know about the Campaglias and Beroni Vineyards?”
“Beyond the fact that they work there, nothing. I know Nesto has been winemaker at Beroni Vineyards for as long as I’ve been around.”
“So you’ve never heard of any old rivalry or bad blood between the two families?”
“I know that Nesto and Jack knocked heads on occasion. That’s not that surprising considering that Nesto has been running the winery forever and Jack struts around like he owns the place, which he does, so that probably just makes it worse.”
“Right.” She looked at her watch. “You need anything before I take off?”
“Not a thing. What’s this all about?”
“Just curious.”
Wade scowled. “You made coq au vin not three weeks ago.”
“That was a different kind. Parisian. This one is Provençal.”
“I see. You are a terrible liar, McCoskey.”
She pinched her lower lip. “I need to work on that. Don’t worry, I’ll be careful.”
He frowned. “Careful isn’t enough. Don’t go getting yourself killed.”
They stood up and she trailed her fingers across the glass after him, then left the visiting room. There was just enough time to make it to Monty’s house by eleven-thirty. She stormed
down Highway 29, taking a few risks to pass on the two-lane road headed for the Oakville grade. The truck chugged up Mount Veeder, laboring in the steepest section around a tight turn. Sunny downshifted, revving the engine to get the RPMs up on the old engine. Up ahead to the left, Monty’s turnoff came into view. As she pulled into the driveway, Monty opened the front door and came out with his jacket in hand. He hefted himself into the cab of the truck and slammed the door.
“For God’s sake, when are you going to buy a new car?” he said.
“Never. I’m shocked you would even suggest such a thing.”
“I’m sorry, but I guess the turn of the new millennium made me think you might consider an upgrade.”
“The Ranger has twentieth-century-retro appeal. I thought you loved the seventies.”
“It’s completely embarrassing. I love the twenties, but I don’t want to drive a Model T. Do you mind if I sink down as we go through the populated areas?”
“This from the man who suggested we go live in a yurt by the river.”
“I’m sorry, you must be thinking of someone else.” He looked her up and down. “You look nice. Showing some leg and everything. You have a date later or is this for me?”
“Spare me.”
“Showing some nasty-looking bruise, too. And what happened to your hand?”
“Where are we going?”
Monty directed her back across the valley to the Silverado Trail. They headed up into the mountains on the other side, climbing switchbacks and catching slices of the view through gaps in the trees. Monty pointed to a turnoff that took them through a fieldstone gateway and up a blacktopped drive lined
with olive trees. The trees were loaded with small green fruit getting ready to turn. Sunny calculated the yield out of habit as she drove, counting the trees and estimating the tonnage. There was enough fruit for a substantial to overwhelming supply of olives even for a restaurant, or a modest supply of olive oil. They parked in a paved oval lot tucked off to the side of the road and hopped out. Sunny fished in her knapsack for the photocopy from the library and folded it up, tucking it into the sleeve of her sweater.
Ripley Marlow’s home was the picture of modern, understated elegance. A combination of white adobe, slate, and dark wood, it gracefully spread out at the top of the hill, its double front doors richly varnished. Sunny smoothed her skirt and tugged at her sweater, feeling relieved that she wasn’t wearing her usual jeans and T-shirt. Monty rang the bell. The sound of heels clicking on wood floors grew steadily louder and a moment later the door opened.
As a fixture of Napa Valley high society, Ripley Marlow had spent years opening her door to guests. Her face showed the easy poise of social skills burnished to a luster by decades of practice. She was probably close to seventy years old, and her face was lovely, with almost no makeup. Her silver hair was combed back and loosely gathered at the nape of her neck, and she wore small, tasteful gold earrings. She was dressed in a chocolate-brown sweater knit of very fine wool and herringbone trousers with wide legs and cuffs. Everything about her bespoke taste, from the simple gold wristwatch to the alligator belt and matching mules. She embraced Monty and held a thin hand out to Sunny.
She stood back and looked at them. “What a lovely surprise, Monty. I’m so glad you called. I can’t remember the last time you came to the house.”
“It was July, for your wonderful midsummer party.”
“Wasn’t that a fine evening! I always enjoy my midsummer dinner.” Ripley smiled warmly at him.
“I’m sorry about Jack,” said Monty. “It must have been a great shock.”
“Yes, it was. I was supposed to have lunch with him just the day before he died. We always had luncheon together on the third Wednesday of the month, you know. He canceled that morning so he could fly to Los Angeles for business, so I didn’t get to see him. And of course now I never will. It hardly seems real.”
She gave them a resigned half-smile and led them through a tile entryway to a sunken living room as big as a football field. Sunny caught a glimpse of kitchen through a far-off archway, enough to tell her it was as big as Wildside’s and full of immaculate stainless-steel appliances. The living room faced a wall of windows overlooking a narrow pool dropped into the stone patio in back. Beyond the pool lay the green expanse of the valley. Sunny sat down on the white couch facing the fireplace with its slab of what she guessed was mahogany for a mantel.
“Sonya, come sit on this side or you will miss the view,” said Ripley. “Will you two join me in a glass of wine? I know Monty will. It’s only just noon, but it is Sunday, after all. We should be allowed.” She smiled broadly at Sunny. “Monty, you’ve seen the view a hundred times. You come help me and let Sonya enjoy it for a moment.”
They returned a few minutes later with a bottle of Grgich Hills Fumé Blanc and a tray of grapes, sliced pears, crackers, and two kinds of soft white cheese veined with blue and green. Sunny began to wish her visit didn’t involve a lot of nosy questions. She hadn’t thought until now that Ripley might be deeply saddened by Jack’s death.
“To a fine autumn day,” said Ripley. They touched glasses and drank. The Grgich Hills Fumé Blanc was one of Sunny’s favorites, though a Pinot Noir might have made a nicer complement to the cheeses, especially if there were walnuts. She sipped the cool wine. Ironically, the only thing better than a glass of Fumé Blanc was a handful of the Sauvignon Blanc grapes themselves. She’d tasted them once on a visit during harvest. At the time it had seemed a tragedy to crush them so they could rot into wine, but of course the berries last only a day or two and the wine captures the flavor for years. She had always meant to ask for a cutting so she could plant it in her yard. The grapes she’d grow might not taste exactly the same, might not be so delicate and fragrant, since they wouldn’t be pruned and stressed the same way, not to mention they’d be growing in a different microclimate, but it was worth a try if they were willing to give her a cutting—a practice some wineries considered a sacrilege, like sending one’s child to live with the neighbors.
Monty popped a slice of pear in his mouth and loaded a cracker with cheese.
Ripley leaned back into the couch and looked perfectly at ease. “Now, I know you aren’t here just to visit. What can I do for you?” she said.
“I’m interested in the history of the Beroni and Campaglia families,” Sunny said. She paused, considering her approach. “It’s not just a passing interest. If you read the paper this morning, you know that Wade Skord, the vintner whose place is adjacent to Beroni Vineyards, was arrested for Jack’s murder yesterday. I’ve known Wade for years and I don’t think he did it. I do believe that there may be a lead to the actual killer somewhere in the histories of the two families.”