twenty-eight

pairing suggestion: bordeaux—bordeaux, france

A red wine constructed from a blend of five grapes:
Cabernet Sauvignon, Merlot, Cabernet Franc, Petit Verdot, and Malbec.

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I went over the last-minute advice from Jenny as I drove along I-80. I had one chance to get this right and I didn’t want to mess it up. When I made the transition onto Highway 29, I dialed Dean’s number. His phone rang three times and went to voicemail.

“Dean, it’s Katie. I know who killed Mark and I know how to prove it. The answer is in the wine cellar. I’m heading to Frontier right now. I know you don’t believe me, but please meet me there. It will all make sense, I promise.”

I ended the call and dialed Vanessa’s number. It rang, was answered, and went dead. I tried again. This time the call went straight through to voicemail.

“Vanessa, it’s Katie. I know you don’t want to talk to me, but I know who killed Mark. I’m on my way to Frontier. Meet me in the cellar so I can show you. I know you don’t trust me, but you can. I’m here to help.”

I put down the phone and gripped the wheel, my fingers turning white. I would be at Frontier Winery in about fifteen minutes. Everything was in place, I just needed it to work. If it didn’t, I could lose more than just my job.

A tractor blocked the road as I approached the winery and cars came from the other direction, making it impossible to pass. I sat back and waited as it crawled up the street.

When the tractor finally passed the driveway of Frontier, I was able to make the turn, stopping in front of the gates and pressing the call button. It rang once, twice, three times, and then went silent. I pressed it again, but the sequence repeated.

The gates were locked and I looked around, glancing at the stone wall that lined the property in both directions. I calculated the height of the wall and the height of Bill’s car. It could work. I moved the car alongside the wall, two of the four wheels on the small strip of grass that separated the property from the road.

I stepped up on the tire and onto the roof of the Lexus for two steps before jumping for the top of the wall. My forearms and elbows barely reached the top, my legs dangling below.

I hoisted my right leg up on the wall and pulled myself up, the round stones digging into my knees. I cringed at the damage I was doing to Jenny’s white pants, especially after she had been so helpful. I would buy her a new pair. And a bottle of wine.

I stared at the drop into the vineyards below me, the ground seeming much farther away than the side I had just climbed.

Not a problem. Knees bent then stick the landing. I jumped off the wall, my feet striking hard into the ground as my knees absorbed the force of the fall. I nearly fell forward, but managed to stay standing. I was about to put my arms in the air like a gymnast, but thought better of it and started running up the gravel driveway.

The sprawling oak trees cast misshapen shadows on the dirt and everything seemed drearier than before. I stopped when I reached the winery. No one was in sight, even on a Tuesday, when workers should have been milling about. Instead the entire property was vacant, an eerie emptiness surrounding it.

Vanessa must have heard my phone message, or at least the call from the front gate, but she was nowhere to be seen. I gave up waiting and ran to the wine cellar.

I pulled one door open, the cool air smacking me in the face as I stepped inside.

The door slammed behind me, making me jump. The lights were on in the cellar, but there was no one there, at least not that I could see. “Vanessa? Are you here?”

I made my way deep into the tunnel until my feet crunched on broken glass, signaling that I had reached my destination.

I crouched down, positioning myself so I wouldn’t block the overhead light illuminating the broken bottles that had been thrown at me yesterday. Using my pointer finger and thumb, I carefully pulled up a label, large pieces of sharp glass attached to it. I held it up to the light, studying the paper square still damp with wine. Bingo. I had my answer.

The sound of a gentle click came from the tunnel to my left. Judging by the proximity of the sound, it was only about three feet away. It might not have been recognized by anyone else, but I knew the noise well. I had heard it multiple times throughout my life and could remember each instance.

When I was five, visiting my dad at the station. When I was seven and tin cans were lined up on the brick wall in the back garden. When I was twelve and my dad decided I should learn how to protect myself.

One doesn’t forget the gentle yet haunting sound of a gun being cocked.