Annie woke up Thursday morning feeling hungover, but it wasn’t from drinking too much wine. This case was moving too quickly. It had all started with her wish to help Taylor, to make up for what had happened in the past, but now Annie wasn’t sure she was up to the task. If Shibilsky were telling the truth, Taylor was about to be charged with her husband’s murder, and Annie had nothing in the way of a defense. Self-defense would be hard to prove, as Steve had no weapon, and there were no witnesses to say that he assaulted her. Harry’s version of events—a mysterious stranger in black appearing from the shadows—would probably leave a jury snickering, not to mention the fact that any prosecutor worth her salt would destroy Harry’s credibility on cross-examination. Annie’s only other theory—a battered-woman’s-syndrome defense—would only work if Taylor could come up with convincing evidence of a pattern of abuse. Corroboration from third parties and Taylor’s medical records would be critical.
Annie placed herself in the prosecutor’s shoes for a moment. What evidence would the State present to make its case? There was significant circumstantial evidence linking Taylor to the crime—she was found at the scene in a distressed state, cradling in her lap what could be proven to be the murder weapon. Then, shortly after the body was discovered, Taylor took an overdose of medications, in an amount easily sufficient to kill her. The State’s attorney would want to supplement that evidence with motive, which would not be hard to do. Steve and Taylor were separated, and the wife had just that day retained an attorney to stop the husband from harassing her. But here was the clincher, Annie thought. With few marital assets except the winery, a divorce with its division of community property would almost certainly destroy the business Taylor had worked so hard to build.
If she had been analyzing this case as a prosecutor, Annie would have predicted that the chance of a conviction was high. But Annie wasn’t prosecuting this case. She was trying to defend a friend, whom she believed in her heart should not go to prison for striking back at the husband who tormented her. Knowing Steven Vick as she did, Annie had no doubt that he had made Taylor’s life a living hell. The problem was, she didn’t know how to prove it.
Annie telephoned the hospital and learned that Taylor was much improved physically, although they still wouldn’t know for a day or two about permanent kidney damage from the overdose. Her mental state was another question. Her memory was still gone for the night of the Gala, and she was confused and listless. There was no possibility that she would be released for at least a week, but she would be able to see visitors briefly that evening.
Annie next tried Detective Shibilsky’s office, to find out the progress of the arrest warrant. She was able to learn from an assistant only that Shibilsky had been called out of town for a few days, and had not left any written instructions regarding the Steven Vick investigation, or any arrest warrants. Annie was relieved. That gave her at least a couple more days to follow leads before Taylor was officially charged.
The one person Annie hadn’t talked to since the murder was Celia Vick, Taylor and Steve’s daughter. She had said in a news interview that her father was a violent man, and that she, herself, was afraid of him. Celia might be an important witness if she could back up the rumors that Steve had abused Taylor.
***
The two cottages were located on the gravel drive between the main house and the road, and looked like they had once been outbuildings to hold farm equipment or supplies. The smaller one, where Celia lived, was about the size of a two-car garage. Seeing a light on inside, Annie knocked.
Celia Vick opened the door with a ready smile, then looked surprised, as if she had been expecting someone else. She wore a skin-hugging maroon turtleneck and pleated wool slacks, a conservative outfit that nevertheless showed off her slim figure. “Oh, Annie… hi.” Her voice was tentative.
Annie noticed Celia’s purse and keys on a chair by the door. “I’m sorry, were you on your way out?”
“Um, yeah, actually. But you can come along if you like. Galen Rockwell is going to be giving Dr. Marchand a tour of the winery. I was just going to tag along. Why don’t you come?”
Annie agreed, not sure if she was doing so because the tour might provide her with relevant information, or because she would enjoy seeing Galen Rockwell again. Then it occurred to her that if Charles Marchand were seriously interested in investing in the winery, that would have lessened Taylor’s financial motive for killing Steve. A substantial investment from Marchand might have given Taylor the resources to buy Steve out.
Annie walked with Celia back down the gravel drive to the bam that housed the winery. The only car parked in front was a white Lincoln rental car. Charles Marchand was waiting just inside the barn.
“Ah, Celia.” His eyes lit up when he saw her. And from Celia’s similar expression, Annie surmised that it had been Charles Marchand that Celia had been expecting when Annie knocked on her door. Annie wondered if Celia had revealed her true age to the doctor. He had to be in his early fifties, a bit old for a seventeen-year-old, even one who could pass for twenty-five.
From his appearance, Annie concluded that Dr. Marchand had sufficient money to invest as much as he pleased. He wore a large but tasteful gold and onyx ring on his right hand, his shoes were Italian leather loafers, and the sweater thrown casually over his shoulders looked like cashmere. The hat he wore to ward off the chilly October air was a stylish tweed. He was an attractive man, with closely cropped black hair and a neat, perfect smile. But Annie was cautious. In her experience, wealthy doctors often made up in arrogance what they lacked in social graces.
He turned to Annie, and looked like he was struggling to remember her name. “I believe we’ve met…” His deep voice had a hint of residual east-coast accent.
“Yes, at the Wine Gala, but very briefly. I’m Annie MacPherson, a friend of Taylor’s.” She held out her hand, and he shook it.
“Yes,” he nodded. “I believe she mentioned you. The attorney from Seattle. Are you going to join us on our little tour this morning? I’m told it will be very enlightening.”
“Yes, if I’m not intruding. I’m afraid I don’t know very much about winemaking.”
“I know only as much as I have to. It’s much more interesting studying the final product. Ah, here’s our guide now.”
Galen Rockwell entered the building, brushing dust off his jeans. He looked like a man who had better things to do than give potential investors a tour of his operation, but knew where his paycheck was coming from. The corners of his mouth went up slightly when he saw Annie.
“You were such a good wine-tasting instructor,” she said, “I thought I’d follow up with the advanced course.”
“Well, I’ll see what I can do to make it interesting for you.” He looked at Marchand, then at his watch. “I’m afraid that all I can spare this morning is about an hour for a really quick overview. You understand this is our busiest time of year.”
“Of course.”
“Well, then. Let’s see if we can get this show on the road. Why don’t you all step outside here to start with.”
They walked back down the steps and outside of the barn. To one side was a fenced yard containing a variety of steel tanks and equipment. To the other side was an unobstructed view of the vineyards, rising in front of them on the gentle south-facing slope of a ridge.
“I wanted to start out here,” Galen said, “because my job really doesn’t amount to much unless I start with the best grapes I can get my hands on. Here at North Faire, we own the vineyards, and hire a vineyard manager to do the farming. But as winemaker, my job is to tell him what to do—pruning, watering, fertilizing, spraying—you name it. I make the call.”
“Excuse me if I sound a little dense,” Dr. Marchand said. “But this is the first winery in the Northwest I’ve been interested in. All my other holdings are in Napa and Sonoma. You understand that most of us Californians believe that no other growing region can rival California.”
Galen laughed. “Don’t I know it. I trained at UC Davis, and worked for years in the Napa Valley, before coming up here. But the fact, is, Dr. Marchand, you’re just plain wrong. California wines have a lot going for them, but now that I’ve worked up here for a while, you couldn’t pay me to go back.”
“Oh, really. But I wouldn’t think it’s hot enough this far north to grow really superior grapes.” Dr. Marchand had a slight smirk on his face, but Galen didn’t miss a beat.
“That’s a common misconception. Fact is, if it’s too hot, the vine shuts down, and the grapes don’t mature properly. Up here, the grapes ripen slowly and develop more acidity and a more intense varietal flavor. And that,” he looked Marchand in the eye, “makes for better wine.”
Annie could tell that Galen was warming up to his topic. “It is my personal belief, Doctor, that the thousand-square-mile area that makes up the Yakima Valley is perhaps the most perfect place on the face of the earth to grow quality wine grapes.”
Marchand laughed. “Next to France, I assume you mean.” Galen shook his head. “No, I don’t. France has a few drawbacks of its own. Bordeaux, which I would consider France’s prime wine-growing region, is a maritime province, which places it at the mercy of the weather. Here, we’re in the rain shadow of the Cascade Mountains, which means we get about three hundred days of sunshine a year, and very little rain. You don’t have to worry about offshore storms ruining the crop. Yet, there’s enough water for irrigation. What we have in common with France is a long growing season and extremely long days—two hours more sunshine per day than your beloved Napa, I’d like to point out.”
Galen walked over to a vine, pulled a knife out of his back pocket, and sliced off a cluster of darkly colored grapes. “Here’s a grape you won’t be familiar with from California, Doctor. It’s called lemburger, and it prefers a cooler climate. Makes a delicate, well-balanced wine, a little like a pinot noir, with a lot of character. With all this geographic variety, instead of a bunch of flat farmland, we can select whichever variety of grape is suited to a particular microclimate.”
“What’s a microclimate?” Celia asked. She had been following every word, and seemed eager to learn.
“It just means all of the factors that combine to influence a particular location. It might be the way a certain slope catches the sun, or the way a ridge rises above the frost level. Or the drainage, or the soil type. In this region, the same vineyard can have sand, silt, loam, or gravel within a few dozen feet of each other. You really don’t want soil that’s too rich for grapes. Otherwise, the vines get too woody. To keep the quality of the grape up, you have to starve the vine just a little. Believe it or not, the topsoil here is only a couple of feet deep. Below that is broken basalt that provides drainage.”
Marchand was starting to nod, showing a keen interest. He crouched and picked up a handful of dirt. “Now, as I understand it, you don’t have a problem with phylloxera in eastern Washington?”
“What’s that?” Annie asked.
“It’s a bug,” Galen replied, “sort of like an aphid, that infests the roots of the vine, sucks ’em dry. There isn’t any way to kill it. You just have to rip up the vines and replant with a more disease-resistant root stock. Then it takes four or five years before the vines are producing a wine-quality crop. Problem is, the damned bug keeps mutating and attacking the stock that was supposed to be resistant. It’s a helluva problem in California right now. They say it’s affected twenty thousand acres in Napa Valley alone.”
“But it hasn’t affected the vineyards here?” Annie asked.
“Not so far.”
“Why is that?”
“There are a number of different theories, but the soil type is a good guess. Our soil is gravelly or sandy, and phylloxera likes more of a clay-like soil. Maybe it’s because the winters are colder, or the vineyards are more spread out. California’s been so devastated, I can sure understand why you’re looking at Northwest wineries.”
“Hmmm.” Dr. Marchand tossed aside the dirt, and wiped his hands together. “You mentioned water earlier, and I’m concerned about that. I understand that North Faire is part of the Roza water district? Isn’t that junior in priority to the Sunnyside District?”
Galen looked at Marchand warily. “It sounds like you’ve been doing your research.”
Marchand returned his look and said quietly, “Water rights are very important to me.”
“Well, then you probably already know that North Faire supplements its irrigation supply with well water. We have the deepest wells in the county, and have never had a problem with water.”
“Yes,” Dr. Marchand said with a smile. “I did know that. Shall we move along?”
“As you wish.”
Galen explained how the grapes were picked by hand, then led the group into a fenced yard next to the barn to explain the various pieces of equipment. He took them up some metal steps to a machine on a raised platform that had a metal conveyor belt leading up to it. “This is the crusher-stemmer. The fruit comes up the conveyor belt and into the opening in the top of the machine.” They peered over the side and saw a tubular contraption that contained a center axle with numerous wicked-looking spikes. The tube was perforated with holes about a quarter inch in diameter. Galen turned on the power, and the axle started spinning. “This part doesn’t really ‘crush’ the grapes, but just breaks the skin. Centrifugal force pushes the pulp, seeds, and juice through the holes, where a large hose leads to a tank. The stems and leaves are pushed out at the end and used for compost.”
Galen led them back down the metal steps, explaining the fermentation process for both red and white wines. He then took them back inside the barn and up onto the catwalk near the top of the steel tanks. One vat was open, and Annie could see a layer of foamy pulp. “When the red wine is beginning its fermentation process, the skins and pulp of the grapes rise to the top. This cap traps the heat, and would eventually kill the yeast, unless we punched it down, or pumped the wine over it.” The winemaker demonstrated how to punch down the cap with a wooden implement that looked a little like a rake.
Dr. Marchand was smiling, gazing around the inside of the barn. “One can really see the whole operation from here. I like it. What’s there, in the back?”
“Oh, that’s just the loading dock. The distributor comes by twice a month to pick up the cases we have ready for shipping. Our production is so small, most of what we sell goes to restaurants and select wine merchants. You won’t see a lot of North Faire wine in the supermarket, and we like it that way.”
Marchand noticed the stacks of white boxes. “It looks like quite a large shipment to me.”
“This is our busiest time of year.”
Galen then led them into his laboratory, a small room near the back of the barn filled with glass pipettes and flasks, test tubes, a rack of wine glasses, a Bunsen burner, and other scientific-looking objects. The winemaking process itself wasn’t as complicated as Annie had imagined. What made wines so different seemed to be the decisions the winemaker made—how much and what kind of yeast to use, how long to leave the juice in contact with the skins, what temperature to use for fermentation, when to stop the fermentation process, whether to filter the wine, how to blend the wines to complement their flavors. Listening to Galen Rockwell, she could tell that he knew what he was doing and loved his job.
Galen finished by explaining the racking process, where the wine would be separated from the lees, barrel-aged, and bottled. Annie’s head was spinning from all the information by the end of the tour.
“Well, I must admit, Rockwell, I’m impressed by your operation. What I see here is a professionally run establishment with excellent potential for growth.” Galen accepted Dr. Marchand’s compliments as stoically as he had accepted his earlier barbs.
Marchand continued, “I understand you’re, uh, not under contract here, is that correct?”
“That’s right,” Galen replied sternly. “I’m just an employee.”
“And I’m sure Taylor told you that I like to, uh, renegotiate all employment relationships when I take over an interest in a winery.”
“She said that, yes.”
Marchand picked up a long glass tube, and seemed to be examining it.
“That’s used for taking samples from a barrel,” Galen said, taking the fragile item from Marchand’s hands. “It’s called a ‘thief.’ ”
“How appropriate.”
Galen stiffened. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”
Marchand smiled like a chess player about to make his final move. “That winery you used to own in the Napa Valley made a nice little cabernet, as I recall. Too bad you couldn’t keep it going.”
“If you’ll excuse me, Doctor, I really need to be getting back to work now. It doesn’t seem like there’s anything I can tell you about North Faire that you don’t already know.”