The sky settled down as we topped the hills and headed into the Valley, but Bernie’s eyes did not. They kept blazing away until we hit the morning traffic jam near the airport and came to a stop. Then, when all the drivers around us were ramping up inside, Bernie started ramping down. He turned to me.
“You must be famished, big guy.”
Bernie, on target as usual. Was there a stronger word than famished? If not, then we needed one. Food! Now! Food! Now! F—
The phone buzzed.
“Hello,” said a man, an old man with a scratchy voice, an old man I knew. “Is this Bernie? Bernie Little?”
“Hi, Diego. This is Bernie.”
“Oh, good. You gave me your card. I’m calling the number.”
“What can we do for you?” Bernie said. “You sound upset.”
“I am upset,” said Diego.
“About what?”
“Can we talk in person?” Diego’s voice sank to a whisper. “I don’t trust the phone.”
“Where are you?” said Bernie in a normal voice.
“My office,” said Diego, still whispering.
“Can you drive?”
Diego’s voice rose back up, maybe now on the high side of normal. “Of course! Been driving since I was eight years old.”
“That’s not what I—” Bernie stopped himself, started over. “Come to our place. We’re on Mesquite Road.” Bernie gave him the house number.
“Mesquite Road on the west side of Settler’s Canyon?”
“Yes.”
“Family name of Little used to own that whole stretch.”
“A long time ago,” said Bernie.
We drove home. There was a package on the front step. Bernie picked it up and we went in. He carried the package into the kitchen and started unwrapping it. I walked to the corner by the fridge and stood over my food bowl. You can stand over your food bowl in a way that no one notices. I chose the opposite kind of way. Bernie stopped what he was doing.
“How does kibble mixed with Slim Jim slices sound?” he said.
Yes!
“Or would you prefer—?” Bernie started laughing, possibly because I had shifted position slightly, was now standing on my hind legs, front paws on his shoulders. “I get it,” he said, and got that kibble poured out and the Slim Jims sliced up and pronto. Bernie could be something of a tease at times. The fun we have!
Bernie went back to the package, opening it and taking out a bottle of bourbon. “Heard of this one but never sprang for it.” He read the note. “‘Bourbon reminds me of Billie Holiday. This particular make reminds me of her at her very best, singing “If You Were Mine,” for example. We should catch some music one day—Gudrun.’”
Bernie glanced up. Billie Holiday singing “If You Were Mine” was our favorite, although the very best part came at the end, when Roy Eldridge started up on his trumpet, doing things to my ears I can’t possibly describe. But right now there was a look on Bernie’s face I’d never seen before. Confusion was part of it, and surprise, and other things I didn’t have a chance to understand, because all at once I was very sleepy. That can happen when you’re up all night, as you learn pretty quick in a job like mine.
A knock on the door. A knock on the door, and I hadn’t even heard anyone coming! Me, Chet, in charge of security! Asleep on the kitchen floor? I bounced right up. My tail drooped. I forced it back up and ran to the door, ready to do who knows what to whoever was there. Who knows what to whoever—I kind of liked that. Was there a way to add it to our card?
Bernie came down the hall, rubbing his eyes. He opened the door. This wasn’t anyone I’d even consider doing who knows what to, just Diego, an old man, anxious and upset, reminding me for some reason of a child, despite him being so wrinkled and bent.
Bernie led him by the hand. “Come in.”
Diego entered the house, took a look around. Bernie was taking a look around, too, but at whatever was going on up and down the street, which happened to be nothing at all. Except … except old man Heydrich had his sprinklers on? In the middle of a hot hot day? Bernie glared at all that sparkle and shut the door.
“Nice place you got here,” Diego said.
“Nothing fancy,” said Bernie.
“That’s what I’m saying,” said Diego. “It’s connected.”
“Connected?”
“To the land it’s sitting on. A common thing at one time, not so common now.” Diego licked his lips. “I’m a bit thirsty, if you don’t mind.”
Thirsty and not too steady on his feet. We got Diego settled at the kitchen table, a glass of water in front of him. He sipped, closed his eyes, sipped again.
Diego opened his eyes, put down the glass. “You have good water here.”
“Regular city water,” said Bernie.
“I’m making allowance for that,” Diego said. “Did you know that in the old days we’d toss pennies and dimes into the water barrels?”
“Because the ions kept the water fresh?” said Bernie.
“Fresh and clear,” Diego said. “Although we didn’t know the reason at the time. We just did it because that was always the way.” His eyes got a bit watery. He took a deep breath and they dried up. Diego had a nice smell, reminding me of old saddles, minus the horse part. “Everything changes, no matter what you do. I wouldn’t wish death on myself, Bernie—that’s a sin—but if the changes just could have waited till I was gone I’d have been thankful.”
“Are you talking about specific changes?” Bernie said.
“Yes, sir. We’re selling out. Jimmy and I had a long talk last night. Did you know we bought the land in 1806?”
Bernie nodded.
“But the fact is there were Torrezes working it for two centuries before that, even more.” Diego took another sip of water.
“So it’s not an easy decision,” Bernie said.
“Yes and no,” said Diego. “That land is part of me, just like my arm or my leg. Yet a land without water is dead, like a body with no blood running inside.” He looked about to say more, but did not, gave his shoulders a little shrug instead.
“I get that,” Bernie said. “But is there any hurry?”
“The very question I asked Jimmy. How can I argue with the answer? It’s a good offer—better than good—and no offer may ever come again, not with the aquifer squeezed out dry.”
“Which hasn’t happened yet,” Bernie said.
“But the scientists say it’s certain to,” said Diego.
“What scientists?”
“The ones who wrote the report.”
“The report was written by Hoskin Phipps,” Bernie said. “Have you ever met him?”
“No.”
“Has Jimmy mentioned him?”
Diego shook his head.
“Why don’t you trust your phone?” Bernie said.
Diego hung his head. “I didn’t really mean that. We’re family. But Jimmy doesn’t want me interfering in things, messing up the deal.”
“Is your phone tapped?” Bernie said.
Diego looked up, more than surprise on his face, maybe even shock. “Oh, no, never. He’s my son.”
“Drink some more water,” Bernie said.
Diego picked up his glass and drank more water.
“Who’s the buyer?” Bernie said.
“Some Swiss outfit—didn’t I tell you?”
“You didn’t say the name.”
Diego thought. “It’ll come to me,” he said.
We waited. Hot summer days could be very quiet on Mesquite Road. I heard the faint swish swish of Heydrich’s sprinklers.
Diego rose, went to the window. “Did I tell you I was going to walk away with enough money to live comfortably for the rest of my days?” he said.
“Good to hear,” Bernie said.
Diego turned. “Jimmy ran the numbers. He—” Diego broke off, distracted by something on the fridge door. He went over and peered at the photo of Wendell and the girl with the goat sitting on her feet. “What’s this?” he said.
“It was on the wall in Wendell’s RV,” Bernie said. “I took it after the police investigation was over.”
“Why?” Diego said.
“No reason,” Bernie told him. “I just liked it.”
“You don’t know Tildy?”
“She’s the girl?”
Diego—his back to us, his eyes still on the photo, nodded. “But what’s going on? It looks like they knew each other.”
“Why would that be a surprise?” Bernie said.
Diego leaned closer to the photo. “Well, I suppose it makes sense if…”
“If what?”
“If this photo was taken in Dollhouse Canyon.”
“That’s where Wendell had the RV.”
“I guess that explains it,” Diego said.
“Not to me,” Bernie said. “Who’s Tildy?”
Diego turned. “A fine kid. Her family helps out from time to time.”
“Meaning they work for you?”
“Seasonally, more or less. Harvest, pruning, plus caring for the animals. Tildy loves animals. She’s very good at teaching the goats to stay away from the grapes.”
“How does she do that?”
“She just talks to them in Spanish—now, now, no grapes, none of that you little scamps—and for some reason they get the idea.”
“Can she speak English?”
“Perfectly. But she talks Spanish to the goats.”
“I’d like to see her,” Bernie said.
Diego shook his head. “They were supposed to be here for most of the summer, but we got a tip last week and they went home.”
“Home to Mexico?”
“Sonora,” Diego said. “Her and her mom. The dad stayed down there this year—too sick to travel.”
“Where in Sonora?” Bernie said.
“I don’t know, exactly.”
“Who would?”
“Juana—she’s the cook.”
“We need to talk to her,” Bernie said.
“Sure,” said Diego. “I can set that up.”
“Now would be good,” Bernie said. “And not at the winery—somewhere else.”
Diego gave Bernie a long look. Then, under his breath, maybe to himself, he said, “The grapes are still juicy.”
“Stall,” Bernie said. “Stall for as long as you can.” He took the photo off the fridge.
Outside Diego got in his pickup and we hopped in the Porsche, ready to follow him, unless there was some other plan I’d missed. But before we could get started, a commotion got going over at the Parsons’s house, Mr. Parsons shouting, “No, Iggy, back!” and Iggy doing his yip yip yip. Their front door opened a crack and somehow Mr. Parsons squeezed out backwards, blocking Iggy with his walker. I caught a glimpse of Iggy trying to dart his way through. Once Bernie said, “Imagine if Iggy was Chet’s size.” I realized now what a scary thought that was. Then the door closed and Mr. Parsons came stumping over.
“Bernie! Been trying to catch a moment with you—you haven’t been around much.”
“Is there a problem?” Bernie said.
“On, no, no problem. Edna just wanted me to ask if this is true.” He took a rolled-up newspaper from his back pocket, straightened it out. “Right here above the fold, as they say. Prominent Valley Journalist to Wed.”
Bernie took the paper. There was a pretty big picture of Suzie and Jacques, holding hands and smiling. Bernie gazed at it. I gazed at Bernie.
“Says they plan on starting some new venture out here,” Mr. Parsons said.
Bernie didn’t answer. His eyes stayed on the picture.
“Is it true?” said Mr. Parsons. “Bernie?”
Bernie turned to him. “Is what true?” Perhaps he spoke a little sharply. He said, “Is what true?” again, this time more gently, which was how he usually spoke to Mr. and Mrs. Parsons.
“About the venture?” Mr. Parsons said.
“It is,” said Bernie.
Mr. Parsons sighed. “Well, I wish them luck, of course.”
“Me, too,” said Bernie, handing back the paper.
We got in the car but were hardly out of the driveway when Charlie called.
“Dad! I made a shoestring catch! In a real game!”
“Good job!”
“But it’s not on video.”
“No problem. Just remember it in your mind.”
“Okay. Dad?”
“Yes?”
“What’s chin music?”
Bernie’s eyes got an inward look. “It’s when a pitcher throws high and tight to back you off the plate. Why?”
“Timmy—that’s the counselor in case you forgot—”
“I—”
“—stood in the batter’s box and we all got a chance to pitch to him. He said I was throwing chin music.”
Bernie laughed. Had I ever seen him look so happy? They said goodbye. Bernie stopped looking happy, glanced at me. “But what’s the response to chin music, big guy?”
Wow! The toughest question that had ever come my way. I waited for the answer. It seemed to be taking a long time. Then, quietly, maybe to himself, Bernie said, “You hit the next one out of the park.”
I’d never have guessed.
“My goodness!” said Juana. “What a big dog!”
“If you’re uncomfortable,” Bernie said, “I could put him—”
Juana interrupted before I learned where Bernie was planning to put me. Would it be better to think of it as trying to put me? Possibly, but we never got that far. “Oh, no,” Juana said, “I’m fine with dogs.”
No news to me. I’d known Juana was a fan of me and my kind from the moment she’d stepped down from the cab of her pickup, an older, bigger one than Diego’s, and not dusty, like his, but sparkling and polished. Human fear has a smell—actually a number of them, depending on things we can’t go into now—that I don’t miss. Juana, a short, wide woman with one of those very smooth skins you see on female humans from time to time, was mostly about kitchen smells, particularly sausages frying in the pan. I liked her from the get-go.
We sat at a shady picnic table behind the big truck stop off the highway on the South Pedroia side of town, Diego and Juana on one side, me and Bernie on the other. Bernie laid the photo on the table.
“I understand you know this girl,” he said.
“Sure,” said Juana. “It’s Tildy. And that’s the poor man who got killed.”
“You knew him?”
She glanced at Diego. “Mr. Diego says you’re a private detective?”
“I am,” Bernie said. “A suspect is in custody but there are some loose ends.”
“You can trust Bernie,” Diego said.
“Okay, then,” said Juana. “I did not know the man but I met him once.”
“When?” Bernie said.
Juana pointed to the photo. “Then.”
“You took the picture?”
“Sí.”
“How did that come about?”
Juana folded her hands on the table, very nice-looking hands, in my opinion. “It began with some goats, I think, going over the ridge into Dollhouse Canyon. Tildy went to get them and so she met Doctor Wendy. That’s what she called him. She kept going there, helping with his work, she said. Then one day Dr. Wendy called Pepita—that’s Tildy’s momma—and said what a bright girl Tildy was and when the day came he would make sure she went to college. I thought, well, maybe I should meet this gentleman. Tildy is a smart kid, very responsible, but … twelve years old.”
“You didn’t trust Wendell?” Bernie said.
“And I did not not trust him. I just wanted to be sure. And he was a very nice man, no problem, teaching her all about the land.”
“What did she mean by helping with his work?”
“That’s what she told Pepita.”
“What do you know about the roll of papers under her arm?”
“Nothing.”
“Diego says she and her mom went back to Sonora because they got a tip,” Bernie said.
Juana turned to Diego. “Tip?”
“Isn’t that the usual thing?” Diego said. “A warning about la migra?”
Juana shook her head. “Pepita was worried the sheriff would learn Tildy had been helping Dr. Wendy.”
“And would come to question her?” said Bernie.
“That’s right,” Juana said.
“Amounts to the same thing,” said Diego.
“We need to talk to her,” Bernie said.
“Because of the loose ends?” said Juana.
“It’s more than that,” Bernie told her. “They’ve got the wrong man.”
Juana thought about that but stayed silent.
“And possibly,” Bernie added, “Diego can keep the vineyard.”
Juana turned to him.
“Maybe you don’t know,” Diego said, “but there’s a water problem so we’re going to have to—”
“I know,” Juana said. “We all know.” She took a notepad from her bag, wrote on the top sheet, peeled it off, and gave it to Bernie.