The Hunt Club (38 page)

“Oui. Sans doute.”
Carol dredged up a smile that for all of its weariness seemed genuine enough. “I'm sorry. I'm a little distracted. What did you say your name was?”

“Amy.”

The well-bred society manners were kicking in, as Amy had hoped and Hunt had assumed they would. Carol Manion, they both knew, spent a good deal of her time at charity events and benefit dinners. Social patter would come to her as easily as breathing, and now the very banality of it all offered an apparent respite from what they believed would be her overriding preoccupation.

“Well, Amy,” she said, “it's very nice to meet you, even more so if you won't be in competition with us when the bidding begins.”

Amy laughed appreciatively. “I don't think you have to worry about that. We're just regular working stiffs.”

“Are you involved in the wine world? Your husband seems quite knowledgeable.”

“Jason? Actually, we're not married until September. And it's not just wine, he's knowledgeable about everything. It's kind of a curse.”

“I know what you mean. My Ward's a little like that, too. He sees something once, or hears about it, or reads it in a book, it's locked in his mind forever.”

“That sounds like Jason, too. But we're not really involved at all in the wine business, except that we like to drink it.” Wu shifted her footing, moving them both back, cutting them away from the two men. “In real life,” she said, “we're both attorneys.”

Carol Manion's mouth barely twitched, and so quickly that Wu would have missed it if she hadn't been watching closely. In an instant, the practiced smile had returned, but in that second or less, the older woman also seemed to lose half a step somehow, and a silence held between them, until Carol finally stammered, “I'm sorry?”

Amy saw no harm in hitting her with it again. “I said we were both attorneys.” Chattering on. “We're both so lucky that we work in San Francisco. Jason's with the District Attorney, and I'm about five years now with a really good firm. I love the work, although people say such terrible things about us sometimes. All the lawyer jokes, you know. But I find that my colleagues are generally way much nicer than most people think. In fact,” as though she just remembered it, “it's so funny that Jason and I should have run into you of all people here, because I think we have a mutual friend.” Wu's face fell, and it wasn't an act. “Or had, I should say, until this week. Andrea Parisi?”

The surface of Carol Manion's glass of wine shimmered as though a tiny temblor was shaking the ground under their feet. “Andrea…yes, the television-anchor person?”

“And one of your own lawyers, wasn't she? If I'm not mistaken. Am I?”

“No, no. Although we never actually met. I just…well, it's such a tragedy, what's happened. I mean, they still haven't found her yet, have they?”

“No. But I don't think anybody's holding out much hope on that account anymore. It's the worst thing. She was such a great person. We were really good friends.” Amy was somewhat surprised to feel real tears begin to form in her eyes. “Oh, I'm sorry. I don't want to put a pall on a nice day like this. But you and she…I really was under the impression that you knew her well, too. If she was going out to your house…”

“No! She never did that.”

“Well, that's right. I knew that. I talked to her just after you called her from the Saint Francis and suggested you meet at her office. She was worried it might mean that you were getting cold feet.”

“About what?”

“Her representing you.”

“But she wasn't representing me. She was…” Abruptly, she stopped as another thought struck her. “Did you say she called you?”

“Uh-huh. Just after she talked to you. She and I were supposed to have dinner together out in the Avenues that night, and we decided to move it to downtown since that's where we'd both be working. God, was that just last Wednesday? It seems like forever ago.” As though she'd just realized it, Wu said, “But if you've never met her, that means she must have missed her meeting with you, too.”

Carol Manion's eyes took on a furtive cast. In a quick pass, they scanned the length and breadth of the tented area, then came back to Wu. “Yes. I mean, no, I never did meet with her. I,” she paused, stuttered, “I had to cancel at the last minute.”

“That's a shame,” Wu said. “I'm sure you would have liked her. I can't believe she's gone. She was just terrific…a terrific person.”

“Yes, well…” Unsteadily, Carol Manion moved a few steps forward, toward her husband. “I'm sure I would have. Now if you'll excuse me, I think it's getting to be time for us to start looking at these lots. It was very nice talking with you. Ward.”

Brandt and Wu
went and made themselves invisible behind the flap of the tent and watched them as they walked off, Carol leaning heavily onto her husband's arm.

“Nice guy,” Brandt said. “Ward.”

“She's not. She's a killer.”

“You think so?”

“I'd bet my life on it, Jason. I thought she was going to pass out when I mentioned Andrea. She didn't deny the call from the Saint Francis, which is huge. I honestly thought she was going to be sick. I know it shook her up.”

“That was the goal.”

“No, the goal was to get her upset enough to leave early.”

“But not too early. Devin's got to have time to get up here.”

Wu checked her watch. “He's had two hours already. He'll make it.”

“He'd better,” Brandt said. “Check it out.”

The Manions had stopped in their progress toward their place at the bidding tables, and now Carol had one palm against her husband's chest and the other pressed against her own left breast. Her posture implored. Wearing an unmistakable expression of frustration and anger, Ward looked at the ceiling of the tent for a moment. He took his wife's wineglass and with an exaggerated calm placed it, along with his own, on the nearest table. Then the two of them began walking toward their nearest exit.

“It's happening,” Brandt said.

Wu nodded with a grim satisfaction. “Looks like.”

Tamara and Craig
held their wineglasses up above eye level, intently peering into the half inch of red liquid. “What are we looking for?” Craig whispered.

“I don't know for sure,” Tamara said. “Redness?”

“I see it.”

There were three pourers—two men and a woman—at the Manion Cellars tasting room. All of them were young, knowledgeable, enthusiastic. The person who'd poured their wine was a twenty-something would-be matinee idol named Warren, and he waited expectantly for reactions among the dozen people at the bar in front of him before he continued with his spiel.

“First I'm sure you'll all notice the amazing clarity, a deep ruby with a just a hint of amber, or even brick, at the edges. That's natural with an older vintage such as this one, especially with the sangiovese. You'll see this a lot with old chiantis, which I'm sure you all know is the same grape. As you swirl, I think you'll pick up the highlights of the deeper ruby red that tends to characterize this varietal in its youth. And then, as the wine settles back into the bottom of the bowl, check out the incredibly beautiful legs…”

Craig backed a step away from the bar, stole a glance downward. “He's right about your legs,” he whispered to Tamara, “but how can he see them from where he is?”

She elbowed him in the ribs, took a small sip, spit it out into the bucket provided, and put her glass down. Warren was rattling on about volatility and alcohol and structure and what to look for, what sensory information to register, when the wine passed the lips and the actual tasting began.

Tamara leaned over to Craig, spoke in her own stage whisper. “No offense, but give me a margarita any day.”

“I hear you.” Craig didn't even bother to taste this particular wine. He'd already tried sips from three or four other bottles, and the education hadn't had much impact on his initial reaction. He and Tamara didn't much care for the stuff. Either that or they just didn't get it. Who cared if the color was ruby or if it was more garnet? What difference did it make? Was color a flavor component? It all tasted pretty much the same to him, in spite of all this talk about forward fruit with a firm backbone of tannins, of cassis (whatever that was), and currant, perhaps with chocolate and tobacco and saddle-leather notes.

Tobacco? Saddle leather? As opposed to baseball-glove leather? Did Warren think people wanted to taste horse and cigar in what they drank?

Not Craig. Not Tamara. If they were drinking, pour something cold with a kick. If Craig wanted a citrus overtone, he'd suck a lime, thanks.

But this morning they had gotten Wyatt Hunt's urgent call and driven up here with him on his last chance, critical and perhaps even dangerous business, and under orders to draw no attention to themselves, they both feigned the kind of interest they were seeing all around them from their fellow tasters.

Warren was going on. “And now if you'd all like to leave your glasses here, the next part of the tour involves a bit of a climb up to our new caves, but I think you'll see it's worth it. We're incredibly excited about our storage capacity now, almost fifteen thousand barrels, about half-and-half new and old oak, which the limestone holds at a constant temperature and humidity which is the…”—blah and the blah, blah—“so if you'd all like to follow me.” He led the way out the side of the tasting room and onto an uphill path that met a semi-paved road that swung right around the edge of the promontory and out of sight.

Their own path continued a bit farther uphill and took them, as promised, to the new caves, which, Craig had to admit, were impressive. Extending for seemingly hundreds of feet back into the solid white rock and lined to the high ceiling on both sides with barrel upon barrel of wine, the caves were a complex labyrinth cut into the core of the limestone hill.

And apparently it remained a work in progress. At regular intervals, unfinished wings fingered off into blackness. The four primary arteries—one leading in from each of the doors—terminated at a vast, dimly lit, double-wide main chamber that in the next few years would come to house a comprehensive wine museum named Fine Art of the Grape, which the Manions hoped would become a valley destination in its own right. Here also was a private dining area and even a stage for drama and musical productions—the acoustics, their guide assured them, were perfect.

Warren and fourteen of the sixteen visitors on this morning's tour gathered around the artist's rendering in the center of the chamber that indicated what the space would eventually look like when all the work was finished.

Two of the visitors disappeared into darkness.

“Manion Cellars.
Can I help you?”

“Hi. This is Andy with the Oakville Grocery. Is this the kitchen?”

“No. I'm sorry. You got the tasting room, and we're jamming.”

“Okay. Sorry to bother you. Would you mind connecting me to the kitchen, please?”

“I can't do that. This is the public line. We don't connect to the house.”

“Perfect. You mind giving me that number?”

“Sorry again. I'm not supposed to give that out.”

“Jeez. Who am I talking to?”

“Natasha.”

“Well, look, Natasha, I got a problem. Carol Manion called here for something like sixty people coming by the house up there after the auction, and we've got her very expensive and rather particular order all together, but I need to talk to the kitchen to see what we've got to have completely cooked here and what you guys can handle up there. But this number here we're talking on; this is the number Carol gave us.”

“I believe it. She is so distracted lately.”

“Who isn't? It's nuts week here, too. Anyway, if we're not there on time and with everything cooked just so, the fallout from the explosion is going to render our lovely valley uninhabitable for the next two hundred years, and then where will you and I be? So could you please, just this once, give out the home number? I promise I'll burn it up, and then swallow the ashes twice as soon as I'm done with it.”

Natasha gave a little chuckle. “Once ought to be enough, Andy. Hold on a sec. Okay, you ready?” She gave it to him.

“That was too easy,”
Mickey said. “It can't be that easy.”

“Sometimes it is.” Hunt wasn't in a joking mood. He had the Manions' phone number, and that's what he'd needed, and now he had his cell phone back at his ear, on with Juhle.

“What is this place?” Devin asked him. “Disneyland? The Epcot Center? I didn't know they made this many cars all told in history, and they're all here right now. I haven't moved a mile in fifteen minutes.”

“Where are you now?”

“In traffic.”

“I guessed that. You've got to get out of it. I just got word from Amy and Jason. Carol Manion all but admitted she made the call from the Saint Francis.”

“What's that mean? All but admitted.”

“Didn't deny. Amy mentioned it specifically.”

“If that's true,” Juhle said, “it may be our first real break.”

“It might be,” Hunt admitted. “But you've got to hustle. Carol and Ward are on their way home.”

“They'll be in this parking lot, too.”

“Yeah, but coming from the other direction, and maybe a lot faster. Where are you now?”

“On some freeway somewhere. Twenty-nine.”

“Are you through the town of Napa?”

“I think so.”

“Okay. You're going to make it. Take your next right.”

“Any right? You don't even know where I am.”

“You're north of Napa, I don't care. Take your first right, and every chance you get keep going right, toward those hills you see out your passenger window. Got it? The next big road you'll hit is the Silverado Trail, where you'll hang a left. I'm on it now, and the traffic's moving both directions. You'll see Quintessa Vineyards on your left—it's huge, you can't miss it, slow down. Manion Cellars is next on your left, but Mick's got his green Camaro parked on the right side of the road a few hundred feet up, and that's where you'll find us. You shouldn't be another ten, fifteen minutes, which ought to do it.”

“Do what?”

“Get you here before they get home.”

“And why is that important?”

“Maybe it isn't. But since you wanted to talk to her anyway, humor me, all right? I'm delivering her to you. Maybe badly shaken up and maybe ready to break.”

“In spite of your promise that you weren't going to talk to her.”

“I never did.”

“But you got her shaken up. How did that happen?”

“Magic. I'll tell you the secret later, but for now, your job is to drive, okay? I know you're a cop and it flies in the face of your every belief, but speed if you have to.”

“Fat chance,” Juhle said.

Juhle drove up
the winding driveway, past the “Open to the Public” tasting room and its parking area and continued uphill until he stopped and pushed the button on the box by the wrought-iron gate that straddled the private road. Identifying himself as a police inspector with the San Francisco homicide detail, he waited another five minutes or so until a young man in a dark suit appeared, let himself out of the compound area through another gate in the fence, and came to Juhle's driver's window to verify the credentials.

“But I'm afraid you may have driven up here for nothing. They're not home right now.”

“That's all right. I'll wait if you don't mind.”

“It might be a while. They're down at the auction.”

“What auction?”

“Auction Napa Valley.”

“Sorry. I don't know it.”

The guy didn't know if he believed Juhle, but he said, “Well, it's a big event up here, and it's been known to go late, with parties afterward.”

“Are you telling me you're not letting me come up?”

Long pause. “Sir, you can come up the drive, but I can't let you into the house without explicit instructions from the Manions.”

Flashing a smile, Juhle nodded. “Thanks, then. I'll take my chances.”

The security guard punched a code into the box, the gate opened, and Juhle drove through. The road climbed steeply for fifty feet and then forked immediately as it leveled slightly, one lane going off to the right, winding through vines, before it disappeared around the side of the promontory. Juhle waited at the fork until the man who'd let him through got to the car. “You want a lift to the top?”

“Sure, thanks. It's farther than it looks from the road.”

“Left or right.”

“Left.”

They drove in silence over another rise, dipped to the right in front of the new caves with their impressively carved heavy oaken doors, climbed a last time and leveled off on a large, gravel-strewn circular parking area with a working fountain in the center and bounded by olive trees in front of the ornate structure of the château itself. Juhle passed two parked dark SUVs and an old Honda Civic and continued around the circumference until he caught up with some shade and stopped within it, telling his passenger that he'd wait in the car.

“It really could be some time.”

“If I get stir-crazy, I'll walk around. How's that?”

“Your call, sir, but please don't leave this area in the front of the house.” He walked around the car and paused by Juhle's window. “Excuse me, but it just occurred to me. You're with homicide? Is this bad news? I mean, for the family? I do have a number to reach them, but only in an absolute emergency.”

“Just routine.” Juhle offered nothing else.

After a second or two, the young man shrugged and walked away.

Juhle sat in the car with the window down for a short while, enjoying the warmth and the sunshine. From his vantage point up here, he could see for miles in both directions up and down the valley. The green of the budding vines against the reddish soil, the jagged peaks studded with granite on the eastern slope, the cerulean cloudless sky with a lone turkey vulture circling in a thermal. It was a stunning panorama.

Closer in, he noticed that while the traffic wasn't exactly thin on the Silverado Trail below him, it was moving. If Hunt was correct in his assumptions—and he had been so far—Carol and Ward wouldn't be long.

It eventually got too hot in his seat, so he opened the door, slid out, and walked to the front edge of the parking area where the promontory fell off steeply below him. Here, with the foreground up close, the view wasn't as magical. With something of an effort given the grandeur of the rest of the setting, he reminded himself that vineyards, after all, were basically just farms that grew grapes as their crop.

And, indeed, in a little hollow to the side of the new caves, Juhle caught the jarring note of a truly dilapidated ancient redwood barn surrounded by what seemed to be an inordinate amount of rusting old farm tools, as well as some of the newer heavy machinery that had obviously been used in the recent excavations, gradings, and plantings—a couple of tractors, backhoes and rotary hoes, huge bits and drill parts, shovels and spades, mattocks and rakes. Some were glinting in the sun; most had fallen into hopeless, permanent disrepair. The land itself around the cave entrances was still scratched and stripped of its soil, the bare limestone shining like animal bones in the bright sunshine.