Taylor could have walked the mile to the Grubenmacher Mansion, which was on the property adjacent to the North Faire vineyards, but she was excited about her planning session with Charles Marchand and didn’t want to show up late or out of breath. Dr. Marchand had, after all, contributed ten thousand dollars to help sponsor the event. When she arrived ten minutes early for her four o’clock meeting, she was pleased to see that the guest of honor and primary sponsor hadn’t yet arrived. That would give her time to compose herself.
She pulled the van into the semicircular driveway and parked in front of the mansion, knowing the mere sight of the North Faire logo would fluster Martin Grubenmacher. She had gone to grade school with the funny-looking little man, and could vaguely recall how she and the other children had teased him unmercifully about his roly-poly shape. To this day, he couldn’t be around her without dithering like a fool.
Still, it would be easier putting up with Martin’s agitation than the shrewish behavior of his mother. The old woman gave Martin a figurehead post in the family business, a lucrative chain of gas station mini-marts, but she was the one who’d built the family fortune. She had trouble remembering that she was simply loaning out the mansion to be used for the Gala, and wasn’t the one in control. That was precisely why Taylor had intentionally planned the meeting for four o’clock on Monday, after her confidential source at Edie’s Beauty Salon had informed her that was when Florence Grubenmacher always had her hair done.
Taylor closed the door of the van just as a white Lincoln Town Car with a rental agency sticker pulled up and parked behind her. She took a deep breath, reminded herself how good she looked, and walked over to the door as Charles Marchand stepped out. “Doctor Marchand, how good to see you again.” Her words were demure, but her tone flirtatious. “Your flight was smooth, I hope?”
“A little turbulence, but just enough to remind me how much I like flying.” He smiled and took her outstretched hand, then kissed her politely on the cheek. “You look wonderful, as always, my dear.”
“As do you.”
Dr. Charles Marchand was the type of man one expected to see pictured in a Dewar’s profile. He had retired at fifty from a lucrative medical practice in the Bay Area, and now spent his time and money devoted to his two passions—airplanes and wine. He divided his time between his homes on the Monterey Peninsula, the San Juan Islands, and Lake Coeur d’Alene, flying himself in his private Cessna between the three destinations, with trips in between to buy, sample, and collect fine wines. It was a lifestyle most men his age could only envy.
“Is this your first chance to see the mansion?” Taylor asked.
“Yes, as a matter of fact it is. I was warned, of course, but now, seeing it in person, it’s… uh… something to behold.”
Taylor laughed. “Few people can find the right words to describe it. Step back here, where you can get a better view.”
The Grubenmacher Mansion, which had the year before been placed on the state’s register of historic homes, was a cross between a delight and a monstrosity. Taylor explained to Dr. Marchand that it had been built in 1890 by Hilda Grubenmacher, the eccentric (some said crazy) widow of the town’s first banker.
“Hilda was born in Bavaria,” Taylor explained, “where she must have been influenced by the style of the nineteenth-century hunting schlossen. But by the time the home was being built, the widow was half-blind, and her English had never been very good. The architect who designed it was a young man who’d never traveled farther than Oregon.”
They both looked up at the house, which was largely Victorian in style, but with gables, gewgaws, towers, and balconies added everywhere imaginable. The structure itself would have had a certain chaotic charm, but for the intense yellow ocher paint, with burgundy trim. “I can see that something must have been lost in the translation,” Dr. Marchand replied. “Why does she keep it that detestable color?”
“Florence insists it’s the original color, and that Hilda was following the Bavarian tradition. Everyone else thinks the widow was simply color-blind. Do you see the tower in the comer?”
“Yes, how tall is it?”
“I’m not sure in feet, but it’s the equivalent of four stories. It was probably built as a watch tower, because the only door opens to the outside, but it got to be called the Widow’s Perch after Hilda started going up there on a daily basis to converse with her dead husband. They say that as a result of all that exercise, she lived to be ninety-eight!”
Taylor’s knock on the front door was answered by a very small, round man in plaid pants and a red polo shirt, who couldn’t have been over five foot three. Whenever she saw him, Taylor was reminded of the three little pigs. This officious little character would have been the pig with the brick house, taunting his poor, ill- prepared brothers.
“Oh, T-Taylor, it’s you. I wasn’t expecting you so… Uh, hello, Dr. Marchand.” Martin nervously looked at his watch. “Oh, my goodness. Is it four already? Silly me, I guess I lost track of the time. Er, come in, I guess.”
Taylor and Dr. Marchand exchanged glances.
“Mother and I are really so terribly pleased that you chose the Mansion for the Gala. We sometimes feel guilty that we get to enjoy it all to ourselves.” He showed them first into the ballroom, which jutted out on the west side of the house, forming an L-shaped wing. The floor was polished hardwood, the ceiling looked about twenty feet high, and there were tall leaded glass windows lining three of the four walls, with French doors leading out to the garden. “This room is r-really the sh-showpiece of the house,” Martin stammered. “There’s enough room for all fifteen of the participating wineries to have their own display.”
“Lovely,” said Dr. Marchand. “I can see why you chose it, Taylor.”
She blushed. “We thought it was more elegant than a hotel ballroom. And with fifteen of the twenty-two local wineries agreeing to participate, we needed a lot of space.”
“Indeed.”
Martin hurried them along to the next room. “This is the dining room. We’ll have the buffet set up in here.” The room was approximately half the size of the ballroom, with a heavy table and sideboard that looked antique. Mahogany paneling and a somber green rug made the room seem dark and somewhat funereal. Heavy velvet drapes hanging from brass rods looked like they’d keep out the brightest sunlight. The artworks, following a hunting motif, were as dark as the walls, with oil paintings of dogs retrieving pheasants and horses chasing foxes.
“The kitchen is through there. It’s not large enough for the caterers to prepare the hors d’oeuvres, but they will have plenty of work space to get organized.”
“Good, good. And the guest list?”
“We’re sold out, of course,” said Taylor. “Counting the invited guests, the total head count comes to two hundred and fifty. Each participating winery and the Grubenmachers were allowed six invitations, and thirty invitations were sent to prominent individuals in the wine community—connoisseurs, dealers, critics, and restaurateurs. The rest sold very quickly.”
“Well, I must say, Taylor, it looks like you’ve done a tremendous job. I’m expecting a flawless evening. Uh, has a final guest list been prepared? I’d love to see who’s expected to come, if I may.”
“Martin has the list, I believe.”
“Y-yes, I’ll get it right away, Taylor. Hold on.” The small man scurried into the kitchen, and returned in a moment. “Here it is. I hope you can r-read my writing.”
Marchand took the list, and Taylor looked on over his shoulder. The names were written in columns and grouped according to which winery had sent the invitation. Taylor noted the total number of guests, and quickly scanned the list. Her gaze stopped abruptly on the last name on the list of guests invited by Martin and Florence Grubenmacher. It was her husband, Steven Vick.