Dead in the Dregs by Peter Lewis Read Free Book Online

envied and resented him, too. He had become too famous, too iconic, too controversial.
    “In a tank?” Biddy asked incredulously, as the news sank in. “How do you get a big guy like Wilson in a tank?”
    “In the middle of harvest,” I added. The whole thing seemed impossible.
    “No simple thing to waltz into Norton unseen,” Biddy mused. “So many people running around . . .” I could feel him trying to puzzle it together. “Gotta be someone at Norton,” he concluded.
    “I read a bunch of Richard’s old newsletters last night. He liked Norton.”
    “In a tank,” Biddy repeated. “Jesus, Colin’s a goner. Poor sonuvabitch.”
    “Okay, assume for the moment that Norton’s cleared; who else in the valley might be gunning for him?” I asked.
    The line was silent, and then he said, “Well, sure. Wineries, mostly. But if you’re looking for an individual, the only guy who comes to mind is Michael Matson. Great winemaker. Quiet, soft, a lovely cat. Very delicate style that could never stand up to the fat, tannic shit that shows so well when you’re tasting a hundred wines at a crack. Wilson took him out at the knees. Anyway, he basically lost the ranch. He’s a little bitter, but he holds his own. He splits his time between Chateau Hauberg and struggling to get his own thing going again. It’s an old pig farm—just a barn and a couple of outbuildings on White Cottage Road. Low, brick red, under a giant weeping willow. You can’t miss it.”
    Hauberg was virtually in my backyard on the eastern slope of Howell Mountain. I’d driven by it dozens of times but didn’t know its owner or anyone there.
    “Thanks, that’s a start.”
    “No problem. Look, I’ve got to get back. The Cab is piling up.”

    “Do me one favor: The only Wine Maven s I have are from years ago. Bring me some recent stuff to look at after you get off work.”
    “ Bueno ,” Teukes said.
    I returned to my reading. The magazines I had just bought leaned to favorable reviews—the formulaic run-through of color, bouquet, and extraction, their high marks always falling on the side of big, overly ripe fruit. I knew such verdicts came on the heels of extensive tasting: sixty, seventy, a hundred wines in one sitting. No surprise that any juice characterized by delicacy would get lost in the shuffle. But I knew most of these wineries could stomach a low score. Their pockets were deep and their production sufficiently extensive to sustain a slam or two each season. Hell, most of the boutique wineries had been bought up by giant liquor conglomerates anyway.
    I turned back to the out-of-date Maven issues. It took me a while to dig through what I’d marked the night before, but I finally turned up Wilson’s treatment of Matson’s adolescent efforts. It was scathing, more devastating than anything I had read in the glossier rags.
    Maybe Biddy was right, but it was hard to imagine that Matson would feel an ancient if injurious review so acutely as to plop Wilson in a fermentation tank, if he were able to get into the winery at all. Then again, who was I to say what a person whose life Wilson had ruined might do? Revenge is funny that way.

6
    I sat down across from my son at the picnic table.
    “I need your help,” I said.
    Danny closed the book. “Help with what?”
    “A little investigative work.”
    “Okay,” he said, his eyes lighting up. He picked up the cereal bowl and sucked the milk noisily through his lips.
    “Don’t slurp it, drink it. It’s not wine, you know.” I paused. “This is serious. Something happened to Uncle Rich.”
    He put the bowl down and looked at me warily. “What happened?”
    “He’s dead, Danny. I’m really sorry. I thought you should know.”
    His face shriveled in pain. He looked at me, then his features relaxed. “What happened?” he repeated, his hands dropping to his sides.
    “I’m not sure. But your mom asked me to find out. Will you help me?”
    “I guess.” He looked down at the empty