When you run a vineyard, you never know who is going to walk through your front door and ask to try your wine, maybe stick around for a couple of drinks. We get all denominations: friends, lovers, families, the rare single guest who sits alone. They arrive in varied states of sobriety or inebriation, especially if they’ve been touring the local vineyards all day, to drown sorrows, celebrate victories, find a new love, get over an old one, or maybe just to kick back and relax. Thankfully, what we don’t usually get are troublemakers looking to pick a fight.
Until today.
To begin with, we were closed. Then there was this guy’s attitude, the way he barged into the barrel room—the place where we perform the alchemy of turning grapes into wine—like a gunslinger bursting into the saloon through a pair of swinging doors. I looked up from helping Quinn Santori, my winemaker, who was filtering wine into bottles with a glass thief, as the man’s eyes connected with mine across the room. I knew then that even a KEEP OUT: EXPLOSIVES sign on the door wouldn’t have been a deterrent.
But what surprised me more was that I knew him. Not personally, but I would have recognized Gino Tomassi anywhere. He was California winemaking royalty, the grandson of Johnny Tomassi, one of the pioneering winemakers who had emigrated from Italy to California in the early 1900s and planted some of the first grapevines in the Napa Valley. Later, after Prohibition ended, Johnny, along with Louis M. Martini, Cesare Mondavi, and a few other iconic names transformed the region into a winemaking empire some called “the American Eden.”
What I didn’t know was what Gino Tomassi was doing in my winery at ten-thirty on an early-February morning. But before either he or I could say anything, Quinn cleared his throat and set the thief down on top of a wine barrel.
“Well, well, well,” he said in a deadpan voice, “look what the cat dragged in. What are you doing here, Cousin Gino?”
Cousin Gino.
I was used to Quinn’s secretiveness about his past life in California—he seemed not to have one—so the idea that he was related to the Tomassi wine dynasty was about as likely as, say, discovering he was also a long-lost member of the British royal family and potential heir to the throne. Quinn almost never spoke about his family, except for his mother, who had passed away nine months ago, and once, with bitterness, about a father who had abandoned him and his mother shortly after he was born.
All I knew about his mother was that she was Spanish and that when she died last spring, Quinn had returned to the Bay Area for several months to take care of her estate, pack up her things, and sell her house in San Jose. If he was related to Gino, it was on his father’s side.
Gino gave Quinn a grim smile, like the two of them shared a secret they wished they didn’t know. “What else would I be doing here? Come to see you, Quinn. Introduce me to the pretty lady, why don’t you?” His eyes roved over me.
Gino’s nickname in the wine business was “the Silver Fox,” as much because of his luxuriant silver hair as his shrewd—some would even say predatory—business acumen building the Tomassi Family Vineyard from a prominent California winery into a nationally known brand. I’d also heard a darker story about ties to the Mafia, thanks to an old childhood friend who was now the biggest mob boss on the West Coast. So far, it was all just rumor and unsubstantiated claims; Gino claimed it was a personal relationship and nothing more. But as the saying goes, when you lie down with dogs, you get up with fleas.
He was standing there watching us, like a stage director casting a critical eye over actors who have just fumbled their lines. In person, he was shorter than I’d expected and stockier, but maybe that was because his flamboyant personality projected an image of someone tall and commanding. He wore an expensive-looking cashmere camel overcoat over a double-breasted navy pinstriped suit and had a white silk scarf draped around his neck. Quinn and I had on faded jeans, old wine-stained sweatshirts, fingerless mittens, and down vests to ward off the damp chill of the room. I wondered how long it had been since Gino had gotten his hands dirty in the barrel room like we did. Just now he seemed miles out of our league.
But he had baited Quinn, using me as the pawn, and I resented it. “I’m Lucie Montgomery, Mr. Tomassi. I own this winery.” I glanced at Quinn. “You didn’t tell me you had family.” I paused and gave him my sweetest smile. “In town.”
Quinn’s mouth twitched, but he turned to Gino and said with contempt, “That’s because the last time we spoke was—what, Gino, twenty years ago?” Before Gino could reply, he added, “How’d you find me?”
Though I think what he really wanted to know was why.
Gino looked around the room. By California standards, certainly compared to the vast empire he owned, which sprawled across Napa and Sonoma on either side of the Mayacamas Mountains, my entire operation in the charming, bucolic village of Atoka, Virginia—population sixty—must have seemed like very small potatoes to him. Thirty acres of vines planted on a five-hundred-acre farm given to one of my ancestors in appreciation for service during the French and Indian War, Highland Farm sat at the foot of the Blue Ridge Mountains in a region better known for raising thoroughbreds, hunting foxes, and playing polo than for making wine.
“I’ve always known where you were,” he said to Quinn. “You didn’t think I wouldn’t keep track of you, did you? I offered you your first job, remember? Tried to give you a hand up. Bring you back into the family business.”
Quinn snorted. “You’ve got a hell of a nerve, Gino. It stopped being my family’s business after your father screwed my grandmother out of her share of it. You couldn’t have paid me enough to work for you. Not then, not ever.”
Gino’s face looked like thunder, but he kept his voice level. “Your grandmother came to my father for help because she was desperate after your grandfather lost his shirt on a bunch of lousy business deals. My old man was struggling, but he took out a loan to bail her out and she gave him her share of the vineyard in return. My father helped your grandmother, Quinn. The same way I tried to help you.” He shook his head and tapped his forehead with his finger. “Testa dura,” he said to me. “Bull-headed. Always thinks he’s right. Always has to do everything the hard way. His way.”
I didn’t disagree with him about Quinn’s stubbornness, but I wasn’t about to say so—at least not to Gino Tomassi. “What does bring you here, Mr. Tomassi? Surely it’s more than a family reunion, or that you just happened to be in the neighborhood. Atoka’s not even on most maps.”
This time his smile showed a lot of teeth. “Call me Gino.”
“Gino,” I said, “to what do we owe the pleasure?”
“You’re clever, Lucie Montgomery. Smart. I’ve been keeping an eye on you, too. You run a good vineyard.”
So he already knew who I was. The compliment about my vineyard shouldn’t have pleased me as much as it did, especially since Quinn was obviously upset by Gino’s out-of-the-blue appearance. Even I knew by now that Gino hadn’t dropped by to say “How’s every little thing?”
He had an agenda and he was doling out information in small bits.
“I have an excellent winemaker,” I said.
“I know you do.” His eyes held mine, a penetrating stare, but then he swiveled his gaze to Quinn. “Okay, Quinn, you’re right. I didn’t just happen to stop by. I wanted to see you about something, ask you some questions.”
Quinn’s expression hardened. “You must be in a lot of trouble if you came all the way from California to find me.”
“A bit of trouble.” Gino inclined his head like he was conceding the point. “I was wondering if you knew anything about it.”
“About what?”
“About why I’m being blackmailed.”
Quinn had been about to pick up the wine thief and begin filling another bottle. He set it down and said, “I have no clue. The Tomassi family has enough skeletons in the closet to fill a cemetery. Which one did someone decide to rattle?” He paused and added, “This time.”
“No,” Gino said, “this is something different.”
“Explain ‘different.’”
Gino walked over until he was standing in front of Quinn and me. He dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, although there was no one but the three of us in the barrel room. “I got an e-mail a few days ago. Whoever sent it called himself—or herself—‘an anonymous friend.’ Said they knew something about Johnny. My grandfather … your great-grandfather.” He watched Quinn carefully, and I realized he was waiting for some reaction, for Quinn to give away that he knew what this was about.
Quinn glanced at me, his face as expressionless as a poker cardsharp. “His real name was Gianluca Tomassi, but everyone called him Johnny.”
“I know who Johnny Tomassi was,” I said. “But I didn’t know that he was your great-grandfather.”
Gino looked dumbfounded. “Are you kidding me? You never told her who you are? Never told her about the family?”
“No. I did not tell her about the family.” Quinn banged his fist on the wine barrel and the thief jumped. I grabbed it before it could hit the floor and break.
“Why not?” He still seemed stunned.
“Because I didn’t. Get to the point, Gino.”
For a moment I thought Gino was about to reach over and grab Quinn by his shirt and tell him to show some respect for his elders. Then he shrugged. “It’s a long story. And it’s … how shall I say? Complicated.”
Quinn folded his arms across his chest. “I don’t know anything about any blackmail. And I’m damn sure I don’t want to get involved with family problems.” He gave Gino a hostile look. “Your family problems. Especially complicated ones.”
“Let me make something clear.” Gino stabbed a finger in the air, punctuating his words. “I’m not asking if you want to get involved. I’m telling you that you are. Better you hear this from me, Quinn. I’m doing you a favor by coming here myself.”
“Before this goes any further,” I said, shooting a warning glance at Quinn, “maybe we should find a warmer place to finish this conversation.”
The two of us had been there filling bottles for a staff meeting at the end of the day, where we would decide the blend for a new wine—a sparkling white like champagne. By definition, anyplace you make wine needs to be cool and dark because heat and light destroy it. But this was early February and the bitter cold of the outdoor temperatures, in the teens, even more frigid if you factored in the windchill, had seeped into my bones in spite of several layers of clothing, heavy boots, and the fingerless gloves.
“Fine,” Gino said, “but this is between Quinn and me, Lucie. No outsiders. You understand.”
Quinn shook his head. “Forget it. You’re the outsider, Gino. Lucie owns this vineyard. Either she stays or we don’t talk. You brought her into this the minute you walked through the door. Besides, whatever gets said, I want an impartial witness. You know how I feel about the Tomassi side of the family keeping their word.”
Gino’s face became a mottled shade of red. “This better not get out. I mean it.”
Quinn shrugged. “Apparently, it already did get out and someone does know, or they wouldn’t be blackmailing you. Whatever it is.”
Gino turned to me. “I want your word you won’t discuss anything about what I’m going to say. You understand?”
“I know how to keep my mouth shut,” I said. “As long as you’re not asking me to do anything illegal.”
He shot me another penetrating look and I had a feeling this was probably going to come down to splitting hairs and semantics. Define illegal.
“Let’s go upstairs to the office,” Quinn said. “And get this over with.”
I reached for my cane, which was propped behind a wine barrel, and caught the flicker of surprise in Gino’s eyes. But he said nothing, just followed Quinn and me to a staircase that led to a mezzanine where our offices and the winery laboratory were located. At the bottom of the stairs, my bad foot buckled and I grabbed the railing. Instantly, I felt Gino’s hand under my elbow, the chivalrous gesture of a gentleman helping a lady.
I froze. “Thank you, but I can manage. You don’t need to do that.”
“Sorry.” He withdrew his hand. “What happened?”
Most people don’t ask. An old person using a cane is someone who needs a little extra help and you don’t give it a second thought. Someone young like me is a different story—maybe a debilitating disease or a birth defect, possibly an accident. Either they don’t want to talk about your disability because it makes them uncomfortable or they figure you don’t want to talk about it because you live with it.
Gino Tomassi wasn’t most people. “Eight years ago I was a passenger in a car that took a corner too fast in the rain and hit one of the pillars at the entrance to the vineyard,” I said.
“I’m sorry. Tough break.”
“My doctors told me I wouldn’t walk again, but I did. So it could have been a lot worse.”
Gino glanced sideways at me and I could feel him studying me and taking my measure. There aren’t many women in my profession, so we have more to prove. A woman with a disability in my profession has a hell of a lot more to prove. “You’re tough, Lucie Montgomery. I’ve heard that about you.”
“Thank you.”
We climbed the stairs together in silence, Gino slowing his pace to match mine. I guessed him to be in his mid- to late sixties, with the Santa Claus potbelly of someone who relished his food and drink. Up close, I could see old acne scars and a lived-in, deeply lined face, his hooked beak of a nose, strong mouth, and a ship’s prow forehead that set off that combed-back mane of silver hair. More than any physical characteristic, though, what came through was his force majeure personality, a combination of ego, charm, cunning, and—so I’d heard—ruthlessness. A man who enjoyed the limelight, high-stakes games, and the adrenaline rush of anything. Whoever was blackmailing Gino had rattled his fortresslike sense of security, intruded into his inner sanctum. I wondered what he was hiding.
Quinn reached the office first and opened the door. After the raw chill of the barrel room, the warm air blasting at us as we walked inside felt good.
A few years ago, Quinn and I had nearly doubled the acreage we’d planted in vines, which required remodeling the winery to accommodate our increased production. One of the biggest changes involved moving our offices from the villa to the winery so they’d be adjacent to the lab, which saved a lot of running back and forth. The new, larger space was L-shaped, with the lab on the long side and our desks on the short side, along with a sofa bed, coffee table, and two club chairs. A full-size refrigerator took up the far corner of the room; two long counters contained a sink, a microwave, racks of test tubes and beakers, and enough opened bottles of wine to make you think we’d had a hell of a party the night before. Picture windows on opposite sides of the room looked out on the interior of the barrel room and the outdoor crush pad, so we could always see what was going on, inside and out.
It was obvious whose desk was whose. Mine was immaculate; Quinn’s looked like something had exploded on it. I had made a stab at domesticating the place by hanging a poster of one of our summer festivals on the wall next to our desks and one of my mother’s oil paintings—the vineyard in spring, when it was lush and green—above the navy blue sofa.
Gino pulled a pair of reading glasses out of his inside breast pocket and peered at the signature at the bottom of the painting. “Chantal Montgomery. A relative, I presume?”
“My mother,” I said. “My sister designed the poster.”
“Do they work here, too?”
“My mother was killed twelve years ago when her horse threw her jumping over a stone wall on our property,” I said. “Mia works in an art gallery in Manhattan.”
“I’m sorry about your mother,” he said in a surprisingly gentle voice. “How old were you when she died?”
“Twenty.”
He slipped his glasses back into his pocket, and I noticed his hand trembled a little. “I lost my beloved mother when I was sixteen. It was devastating.”
Quinn pulled the club chairs up to the coffee table so that they faced the sofa. “Have a seat, Gino,” he said. “Take the couch.”
Gino shrugged out of his beautiful coat and carefully laid it across the arm of the sofa. He sat and said, “I could use something to wet my whistle.”
“White or red?” Quinn asked.
“Red. One of yours, of course.” Gino indicated the collection of bottles on the counter. “How about that open bottle of Cab?”
Quinn walked over and picked up the bottle of our Cabernet Sauvignon Reserve. “We brought it up from the barrel room yesterday to see how it’s developing.” He cleared his throat. “I wouldn’t mind knowing what you think.”
I knew it cost him something to say that. Pouring wine for customers in the tasting room is one thing. They don’t want to know what strain of yeast you used or the type of fermentation or how long you let the fruit hang on the vines. Pouring wine for a winemaker means you’re going to get a critique of everything, from obvious flaws to acidity, the characteristics of the fruit, any off aromas, tannins, overall balance—technical stuff.
Gino stretched out an arm along the back of the sofa and regarded Quinn. “I speak my mind; you know that. How long has it been in your cellar?”
“Three years.”
Gino raised an eyebrow. “I know left-bank Bordeaux producers who would jail you for infanticide if you opened a Cab after only three years.”
Quinn turned red. “Yeah, well this is Virginia, not the left bank of Bordeaux. Three years is nothing when you’ve been producing wine for centuries. Virginia resurrected what was left of its wine industry in the eighties, after the Civil War and Prohibition. The 1980s. Do you want to try it, or give me a lecture?”
“You don’t need to be defensive. Pour already.”
Quinn filled a wineglass and gave it to him. “I don’t like to drink alone,” Gino said.
It was 11:00 A.M.
Show me a winemaker who drinks at all hours—I’m talking about drinking, not tasting and spitting—and I’ll show you someone on the road to alcoholism. It’s something we’ve got to guard against constantly in our profession. But this seemed different, more like liquid courage before he explained why someone was blackmailing him, so Quinn filled two more glasses and handed one to me. We sat in the chairs across from Gino.
He lifted his glass. “Cent’ anni. May you have a hundred good years.”
If you’ve ever witnessed a winemaker sampling a wine, it’s like watching someone swish mouthwash in his mouth once he’s finished examining the color, swirling the liquid furiously in the glass to release the aromas, and burying his nose in the bowl. We waited while Gino performed the familiar ritual and finally swallowed the wine.
When he was done, he nodded as though he approved, and I felt Quinn start breathing again next to me. “It’s got a good balance and I can see where it could be in a few years, once the tannins settle down,” Gino said. “Good fruit, but the acid is still there, as I’m sure you know. More Bordeaux-style than California. When did a paesan like you start making French wine?”
I answered him. “My mother was French. She came from a family of French winemakers.”
Gino set his glass down on a file cabinet next to the sofa. “Family,” he said. “It always comes down to family.”
“What does?” Quinn asked. “Why is someone blackmailing you about Johnny?”
Gino leaned back against the sofa again and crossed one leg over the other. “I don’t know how much you know about your great-grandfather,” he said. “Really know about him. Other than the story of the poor young immigrant arriving in America with nothing but the shirt on his back and managing to save enough money to buy land in Napa and plant some of the first vines. He kept the place going during Prohibition by making sacramental wine for the Church, instead of ripping out his vines and planting orchards like so many others did. That’s what saved his bacon. Sacramental wine. After that, he and Louis M. Martini and Cesare Mondavi and a couple of others from the old country waited it out until repeal. It took a while—Americans had developed a taste for the hard stuff, not wine, during Prohibition—but eventually things started picking up.”
Quinn waved a hand, dismissing him. “I don’t need a history lesson about how hard Johnny worked to make California wines respected. Practically carried the industry on his back, according to family legend. Him and Nonna Angelica.” He winked at Gino. “I heard other stories, too, how Angelica could be a testa dura herself. Run the vineyard as good as Johnny could. In fact, some people thought she did once they got married.”
Gino gave a so-what shrug. “Maybe so, but she loved Johnny more than anything in the world. Did everything she could to burnish his legacy and sideline anyone who got in his way. She was tough, your great-grandmother was.”
By now it was obvious why Gino was being blackmailed. “Someone found out something about Johnny that you don’t want to get out,” I said. “Or Angelica. They’ve been dead for what, sixty years? Seventy? It must be pretty bad for you to want to cover it up after all this time.”
“Lucie’s right. What could matter so much now? What happened?” Quinn asked. “Don’t tell me they robbed a bank and now the money has finally turned up somewhere?”
Gino punched his fist into the palm of his other hand. “Dammit, don’t joke about this. Johnny was a good man, a good father, a good businessman, a good friend.” He kept emphasizing good with more fist smacking. “Plus, he was devout, did so much for the Church, gave thousands of dollars to Catholic charities, but never wanted anyone to know. And Angelica … she was always all about the family. Everything was for the family. She was a good woman, too. Went to Mass every day of her life.”
He hadn’t answered the question, just danced around it. It seemed to me Quinn had struck a nerve, or come close to it. And like they say, going to church every day doesn’t make you a saint, any more than standing in a garage turns you into a mechanic.
“Why don’t you tell us what it is?” I said to Gino.
He picked up his wineglass and drained it. Without asking, Quinn found an open bottle of Valpolicella on the counter and showed it to Gino, who held out his glass for a refill.
In just about every language or culture, there is a maxim about the relationship between wine and what it does to inhibitions. In the Talmud, it’s written that when wine enters, secrets exit. In Russia, the proverb goes that what a sober man has on his mind, the drunken man has on his tongue. And of course there is the Latin platitude everyone knows: In vino veritas. In wine, there is truth.
Gino drank the Valpolicella, a moody, troubled expression on his face. Finally he looked up. “Did you know Johnny was married to someone else before he married Angelica?”
Quinn’s stunned look answered his question. “It must not have been for long. I never heard about it.”
“It wasn’t,” Gino said. “Barely two years, less as an actual marriage, if you know what I mean. Her name was Zara, and as soon as she came to Bel Paradiso, she was nothing but trouble. Angelica forbade anyone to speak about her after she died.”
Bel Paradiso, I knew, was where the Tomassi estate was located at the foothills of the Mayacamas Mountains outside Calistoga. It looked like an Italian castle, complete with turrets and towers and crenellated walls, even a picturesque drawbridge that pulled up over a small man-made moat. The label of every bottle of Tomassi Family Vineyard wine was emblazoned with a watercolor painting of Bel Paradiso that made it look as though it were floating above the clouds like a distant fairy-tale kingdom.
I figured Zara must have passed away, since divorce was such a taboo in the Catholic Church in those days, especially among the devout Italian and Irish immigrant communities.
“Why didn’t Angelica let anyone mention Zara?” I asked. “Was she jealous?”
Gino played with the stem of his wineglass. “Jealous wasn’t the half of it. Angelica was Johnny’s sweetheart since they were kids. Their parents grew up in the same village in Italy. When Zara came along—she was a knockout, a real stunner—Johnny fell hard for her, and it broke Angelica’s heart. It didn’t take long before he realized what a mistake he’d made. Zara, who was a city girl from the East Coast, hated being on a farm in the Napa Valley. After Zara died, Angelica was still waiting,” he said. “But this time she had conditions. When she married Johnny, she banished Zara and any memory of her from the Tomassi family history. No photographs, no nothing.”
“So this blackmail has something to do with Zara?” Quinn asked.
Gino nodded. “She went and got herself pregnant.”
“And Johnny wasn’t the father?” I asked.
He looked uncomfortable. “No one really knows. You see, Zara died in an accident at the farm. She went out for a walk by herself one afternoon and didn’t come back. By the time they found her at the bottom of a ravine, she was dead. She must have fallen and hit her head on a rock. The baby didn’t make it, either.”
“How awful,” I said.
“Downstairs in the barrel room, you said it was complicated,” Quinn said to Gino.
“The e-mail I got from the blackmailer claims that the baby lived. And that there’s a birth certificate to prove it.”
“I don’t understand,” I said.
Gino drank more wine, and this time, Quinn refilled his own glass and topped off mine. “Zara was cremated and Johnny scattered her ashes somewhere on our land in Sonoma,” Gino said. “There’s no marker, since Angelica wouldn’t have it. If the baby was still alive, then—”
“Johnny covered it up.” Quinn finished his sentence.
Gino nodded.
“Why would he do that?” I asked.
Another coded look passed between Gino and Quinn. “Two reasons,” Gino said. “Either the baby wasn’t his, or it was and Angelica wouldn’t allow Zara and Johnny’s child in her home.”
“Angelica sounds like a very tough lady,” I said in an even voice. “That’s heartless.”
“How’d you find out all this?” Quinn asked. “If no one ever talked about it.”
Gino gave him an ironic smile. “One day when I was about ten, I was out in the woods by the family chapel at Bel Paradiso. I tripped over a tree root and ended up in a little clearing I’d never seen before. It looked like someone had tried to conceal the remains of a bonfire, maybe even a funeral pyre. Some of the trees were singed, too. When I got back to the house, I asked Angelica about it. She told me some cockamamy tale about burning old vines, which I knew wasn’t true, and later I overheard her arguing with Johnny, telling him to make it go away, talking about Zara. The next time I went back, all the burned trees had been cut down and you’d never know there’d been a fire.”
He looked out the window to the crush pad, and I followed his gaze. In the distance, the hazy purple silhouette of the Blue Ridge Mountains faded into the bleak winter white sky. “Eventually, I got the rest of the story from my father, one of those deathbed confessions,” he said. “Angelica had taken all of Zara’s things out to the woods and burned them. He told me to look closely at the exterior of the chapel and I’d find the places where the wood was still charred from the heat.”
His gaze returned to Quinn, whose mouth was set in a pinched, grim line.
“What?” Gino said.
“You actually thought I knew about all this, didn’t you? Is that why you came straight to me after all these years?”
Gino didn’t answer right away, and then the penny dropped.
“Why, you—” Quinn’s hands balled into fists and he started to get up.
“Quinn, calm down.” I tugged on one of his arms and pulled him back into his seat. “Don’t.”
He shook me off and leaned in toward Gino. “You think I’m the one who’s blackmailing you, you son of a bitch, don’t you?”
Gino didn’t flinch. “Your grandmother was my father’s sister, my aunt. If he knew, it stands to reason she knew, too. And maybe she passed that information on to your father. We both know there’s no love lost between our families.”
“You have a lousy memory, Gino. My old man walked out on my mother and me right after I was born. We didn’t share any father-son confidences.” There was a lifetime of bitterness in his words, which broke my heart. “It’s not me. I’m not blackmailing you, though I’m almost sorry I’m not. And now that you’ve found out what you’ve come for, I think you should go.”
Gino held up a hand. “Not so fast. You know I had to ask. In my place, you would have done the same thing. Besides, you’re not the only person around here I’ve come to talk to. Zara’s father was a big-shot congressman from San Francisco, Ingrasso his name was, who kept getting reelected—thirty-eight years I think it was—so Zara never really lived in California. She grew up here. Plus, her family had money, a lot of money, so Johnny had married himself an heiress. That’s how he kept the Tomassi Family Vineyard going. Anyway, Zara’s grandnephew—her brother’s grandson—still lives in D.C. I’m meeting him, too, after I leave here.”
“I don’t understand,” I said. “If Zara’s baby survived, so what? Maybe you have a long-lost relative you never knew about. Big deal. Why the blackmail?”
“Johnny left the vineyard in equal shares to his heirs,” Quinn said. “Meaning my grandmother and Gino’s father. Angelica’s children. If there’s another heir, someone potentially can claim part ownership of the Tomassi Family Vineyard.”
“After all this time?” I asked. “That’s two—or three—generations ago, depending.”
Gino put a hand to his forehead as if massaging a migraine. “California isn’t like other states when it comes to inheritance laws and estate settlement. Our heritage is Spanish, not English, and our legal system reflects that. In California, there’s no statute of limitations on probate.”
“Are you saying the will was never probated?” I asked.
The look in his eyes answered my question, but he responded anyway. “The only asset in Johnny’s estate was the vineyard, so my father and Quinn’s grandmother decided not to bother with probate just to clarify the title on the deed. Save themselves a bit of money.”
“Oh,” I said in a faint voice.
“What if the kid wasn’t Johnny’s?” Quinn said. “Problem solved, right? There is no third heir.”
Gino leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and clasped his hands together. “Yeah. If it wasn’t his, problem solved.”
He didn’t sound convinced.
“You believe Johnny was the baby’s father,” I said.
“I don’t want all this ancient history stirred up. It’s family business. It’s private.” There was an edge in his voice. Once again he hadn’t answered the question, just danced around it.
It seemed to me there was something else Gino didn’t want to talk about. Something worse than the scandal of an illegitimate child that still haunted him after all these years.
I chose my words carefully. “Whatever happens, the blackmailer is indirectly bringing up the circumstances of Zara’s death. Is that what’s really bothering you? That maybe it wasn’t an accident?” Gino’s eyes met mine and I knew I’d guessed right. “You said Zara and Johnny’s marriage wasn’t a happy one and Angelica wanted her out of the picture.”
“I will not discuss that subject,” he said with icy finality. “Don’t even bring it up.”
“Wait a minute.” Quinn sat up, frowning, and looked at the two of us. “Hang on. What are we talking about here?”
“Murder,” I said.