Sonoma Rose: An Elm Creek Quilts Novel (43 page)

Mr. Lucerno’s eyebrows rose. “No, I wasn’t aware of that. How’s he doing?”

“He’s on the mend.”

“Good, glad to hear it.” Mr. Lucerno nodded thoughtfully. “I guess it’s lucky for them they found a buyer so quickly. You and your husband aren’t from around here, are you?”

“No, we’re originally from Stavanger, but for the past year we’ve been working for the Cacchione family in Santa Rosa.”

Studying her, he finished his last bite of piecrust and set his plate on the coffee table. “Is that so?” He had a sharp, knowing gaze that took in everything, from the way her hand rattled the spoon against her coffee cup to the way her eyes darted repeatedly to the front door as if she couldn’t wait for him to leave.

She knew she would be a fool to lie to him.

“I believe I’ve seen your company crest before,” she said, summoning up every ounce of courage she possessed.

“Maybe you’ve seen our delivery trucks around town.”

“No, that’s not it.” She rested her chin on her palm and tapped her cheek with her forefinger thoughtfully. “I saw it on a bunch of wooden crates out in the old prune barn.”

He sat back, rested his right ankle on his left knee, and studied her with admiration. “Well, aren’t you a cool customer.”

“Let’s be frank with each other, Mr. Lucerno,” she said lightly, setting her coffee cup aside. “I’m not going to be a customer of any kind, am I?”

He laughed. “Not unless I could interest you in a good glass of grappa.”

“It’s too strong for me. I prefer a nice red wine.” She leaned forward and offered him a small, knowing smile. “Since you’re not here to sell bread, and I don’t want to buy any grappa, is there anything else for us to discuss?”

“One small matter. The gentlemen I work for want to keep renting your prune barn.”

Rosa smiled thoughtfully as if the idea intrigued her, but her heart sank. Until that moment, she had clung to a slender thread of hope that the gangsters’ prolonged absence meant that they had found a better place to make their grappa, and that Mr. Lucerno had come to tell them when they intended to dismantle the still and clear out of the crumbling firetrap of a barn. “What are your terms?”

“We’ll pay four hundred a month for exclusive use of the prune barn—and for your discretion.”

“I understand you paid the Vanellis five hundred a month.”

“I thought you said they never mentioned me.”

“They didn’t.” Too late, Rosa realized that might insult him. “I heard it from someone else.”

“I wonder how that fella found out.” He looked like he meant to say more, but a sudden pounding on the front door interrupted him. Rosa jumped when he instinctively reached for his breast pocket, but she begged his pardon, forced herself to stand, and went on unsteady legs to answer the door.

Dwight Crowell stood on the front porch, rain dripping off the brim of his hat. “So you didn’t stop with buying the Vanellis’ car, did you?”

“Agent Crowell,” she managed to say. “What do you want?”

He stepped forward as if he would walk right through her to enter the house, looming so near she could smell the tobacco and mint on his breath. She drew back as she always did when he came too close, but she kept the doorknob firmly in her grasp in case she had to slam the door shut.

“I want answers,” Crowell said. “First off—”

“I can’t bother with your questions right now,” she said. “I’m busy. I have a guest.”

Crowell drew closer and craned his neck, trying to see past her into the parlor. “Yes, I saw the bakery truck parked in the circle. Do you always entertain deliverymen in such high style?”

“That’s none of your concern.”

“I’ll make it my concern, Mrs. Ottesen. Or should I call you Sonoma Rose? I saw the new sign. It led me right to you.” He grinned nastily. “That’s no name for a rancher’s wife. Sounds like the proprietor of a whorehouse.” He fingered the collar of her dress. “What would you show me on your winery tour, Sonoma Rose? Can I make a reservation for a private tasting?”

She slapped his hand away, barely resisting the urge to slap his face too. “Don’t ever touch me again.”

“You heard the lady,” said Mr. Lucerno, who had come up behind her unnoticed. He eased the door open wider and eyed Crowell coolly. “I think you’d better leave, mister.”

Crowell looked him up and down, and Rosa knew that the incongruity between Mr. Lucerno’s fine suit and the vehicle he had arrived in did not escape him. “Says who?”

“Says the guy who can make you go even if you don’t want to.”

“This is my cousin, Albert,” Rosa quickly interjected before the argument could escalate. “He often stops by to visit me when his deliveries bring him to Sonoma. Albert, this is Agent Dwight Crowell from the Prohibition bureau.”

“Cousin, you say?” Crowell’s steely gaze flicked from Rosa’s dark brown hair and eyes and brown skin to Mr. Lucerno’s, but whatever family resemblance he might have discerned, it failed to blunt his suspicions. “You two grow up together in Port Hueneme?”

“It was Stavanger, actually,” said Mr. Lucerno. “Not that it’s any business of yours.”

The men stared each other down, the air between them crackling with tension. “Mr. Crowell,” Rosa blurted, “if I answer your questions, would you please leave us alone?”

His gaze darted to her face. “For now.”

“Then go ahead,” she said. “And then go away.” Just over her left shoulder, Mr. Lucerno turned a laugh into a cough.

Crowell indicated the downpour with a jerk of his head. “Aren’t you going to invite me in?”

“That’s not necessary. My answers will be the same whether I give them to you in the parlor or on the porch.”

Crowell threw a look of unmasked resentment to Mr. Lucerno—warm, dry, and sipping coffee—and fixed Rosa with a stern glare. “Are you making wine on the premises?”

“Why, yes, of course,” she said. “What else would we do with our leftover wine grapes? Waste not, want not, as my mother always says.”

“Good old Aunt Mary,” said Mr. Lucerno with a chuckle.

“You should go see her more often,” Rosa chided him. “You know you have a standing invitation to Sunday dinner.”

“You freely admit that you’re making wine?” Crowell snapped.

“One hundred and sixty gallons exactly,” said Rosa. “Each one perfectly legal. You’re welcome to inspect the wine cellar yourself.”

“I think I’ll do that.” Crowell turned on his heel and stormed down the front steps.

Rosa invited Mr. Lucerno to accompany them, but he preferred to wait in the parlor and help himself to another slice of pie. The keys made an angry, impatient jingling in Rosa’s pocket as she hurried after Crowell to the winery, but she didn’t need them. The door was still unlocked and Daniel still inside punching down the cap. Their sudden appearance startled him, but when Crowell pelted him with questions about the crush and how many gallons of new wine they had made, Daniel answered, unflustered, and his responses matched Rosa’s. Scowling, Crowell descended the stairs into the cave and poked around awhile longer, searching for hidden doors or secret stashes until Daniel’s silent but unmistakable amusement became intolerable. Crowell stormed from the winery, nearly slamming the door in Rosa’s face as she followed swiftly after him, and stalked through the rain across the stone footbridge to his car. Thoroughly drenched, Rosa nonetheless lingered in the gravel circle as he drove away, watching and listening until she was certain he would not double back and drive through the vineyard toward the orchard and the old prune barn. Only then did she dash back across the bridge and into the house, shivering, heart pounding, wet hair plastered to her face and neck.

“He’s gone,” she told Mr. Lucerno, crossing her arms over her chest, chilled through.

“He’ll be back.”

She shook water from her dark bob and sighed. “Unfortunately, I’m certain you’re right.”

Mr. Lucerno looked her up and down as she dripped on the doormat. His gaze came to rest on her face, and in his eyes she saw a respect and grudging admiration that had nothing to do with the way her rain-soaked dress clung to her curves. “Thanks for not ratting me out to your friend the fed, cousin.”

“He’s no friend of mine.”

“So I figured.” He stepped around her to get to the door, but he hesitated, his hand on the latch. “You should get into some dry clothes before you catch a cold. And if that fellow lays a hand on you again, you let me know. I’ll take care of it.”

“Thanks, but I can take care of myself.” As much as Crowell’s innuendo disgusted her, she had endured far worse at John’s hands. “He’s just a bully with a big mouth.”

“That’s not what I hear. He’s new in town, but he’s already made a name for himself. Just watch yourself. Don’t let him get you alone.”

The gangster’s concern was as oddly amusing as it was unexpected. “I’ll be fine. My husband’s usually around, and even when he isn’t, there’s always someone within shouting distance.”

“Glad to hear it.” Mr. Lucerno pulled out a thick roll of bills, counted out ten, and handed them to her. “We owe you some back rent. Circumstances…made it necessary to lie low for a while, but we’re back on schedule. You know how it is.”

Rosa tucked the bills into her dress pocket without counting them. “Of course,” she said, although she didn’t know and hoped he wouldn’t elaborate.

“You can expect regular cash payments of five hundred dollars the first day of every month.” Mr. Lucerno smiled briefly and turned to go. “So I’ll see you on the first of November, if not sooner. Usually we work late at night, so you might not even know we’ve been here.”

“Just as long as Dwight Crowell doesn’t know.”

Mr. Lucerno’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t worry about that. We’ll take care of him if he becomes a problem.”

“He seems too prideful to accept a bribe.”

“Yes, he does,” said Mr. Lucerno nonchalantly, and as much as Rosa despised the agent, she felt a chill. “Thanks for the pie and coffee.” He strode out into the rain, but when he reached the footbridge, he turned and called out, “Give my best to Aunt Mary.”

“I will,” Rosa called back. She closed the door firmly, shutting out the rain and the sound of the bakery truck driving away. Then she remembered the folded bills Mr. Lucerno had given her, and she took them from her pocket to count them.

She had accepted ten crisp one-hundred-dollar bills.

Lars returned home from Cacchione Vineyards just in time to meet the girls at the bus stop and spare them the long walk up the driveway in the cold drizzle. Rosa and Miguel were on the front porch bouncing a ball back and forth when the old Chevrolet rumbled up to the house and the girls tumbled out, giggling and shrieking as they dashed through the puddles to the house. Lars waved a greeting to Rosa before driving off to park in the old carriage house, but he must have had chores to attend to, because nearly twenty minutes passed before he came hurrying across the yard, pausing on the front porch to brush rain from his coat and hat before coming indoors. Rosa greeted him
with a fierce embrace and a long kiss, which he returned gladly. “I’m very happy you’re home,” she told him.

“Had I known I’d be greeted like that,” he remarked, “I would have come home sooner.”

She had much to tell him, but it had to wait until hours later, after supper and baths and bedtime stories for the children. Until then they chatted about the news from the Cacchione family and the sapling apricot orchard Lars had left behind. As soon as the children were tucked into bed, Rosa led Lars into the parlor where only a few hours before an armed gangster had enjoyed prune pie and coffee. Lars stared in disbelief as the story spilled from her, anger darkening his face when she told him what Crowell had said as he fingered the collar of her dress. “If I had been here—”

“You probably would have punched him,” she interrupted, “and he would have hauled you off to prison, so it’s very good you weren’t here. Anyway, I was never alone with him, except while we walked from the house to the winery and back.”

“I don’t like the thought of a gangster coming to your defense.”

Rosa stood and went to the window, glancing apprehensively out into the rainy night. “Better to have him on our side than against us.”

“I doubt he’s on anyone’s side but his own.” Lars sighed and leaned forward to rest his elbows upon his knees. “So it sounds like we’re keeping the Vanellis’ tenants on.”

“For now. I don’t see that we have much choice.” She took the bills from her pocket and handed them to Lars. “I’ve already accepted their first payment. This is for the past due rent they owe us for September and October.”

Lars quickly counted the bills. “A thousand dollars.”

“And five hundred more due to us the first of every month.”

“That’s hardly worth the risk we’re taking.” Lars shook his head, folded the bills carefully, and passed the bundle from hand to hand as if he wasn’t sure what to do with it. “I thought our plan was to convince them that they should find a better place for their still.”

“It was, but then Crowell showed up, and—” Rosa sat down heavily on the sofa, her hands clasped together in her lap. “I never had the chance to explain to him how dangerous the prune barn is, for them as well as us, and the next thing I knew—”

“It’s all right, Rosa. You did the best you could under the circumstances.”

“No, it’s not all right. We can’t give gangsters the run of the place, especially with Crowell snooping around. It’s only a matter of time before he stumbles upon the prune barn, and then what will we do?”

“Crowell never found the Cacchiones’ old wine cellar,” Lars reminded her. “He doesn’t seem to be one for long walks. He might never venture much farther than the winery.”

“Maybe not,” Rosa replied uncertainly. She hoped Mr. Lucerno and his associates had other, better things to do than make grappa, and that they would visit the prune barn only rarely. As long as the still remained on their property, she would live in fear of its discovery—something that seemed inevitable as long as the suspicious, spiteful Crowell lurked nearby, watching and waiting to catch them in a crime.

More than a year had passed since Rosa, Lars, and the children had fled the Arboles Valley. Sometimes it seemed to Rosa that ages had gone by since she lived in the small adobe on the mesa,
watching her children suffer and perish; other times it felt as if they had only just escaped the flooded canyon. Some mornings she woke gradually, her mind and body keeping pace with the sunrise, and in those strange moments between sleep and wakefulness she believed herself to be lying beside John in the bedroom they had once shared. As dread and hopelessness welled up in her, she would close her eyes and wish herself back to sleep, lying perfectly motionless so she would not jostle John awake, annoying him and provoking a sullen temper that would last the rest of the day. When sleep did not return, she would open her eyes, blink confusedly at the unfamiliar patterns of sunlight and fine cracks on the ceiling until she recognized her new bedroom and remembered where she was. Then she would sigh with relief, pull the quilt up to her shoulders, and snuggle closer to Lars, hoping with all her strength that John would never find them.