Dead in the Dregs by Peter Lewis Read Free Book Online Page B

to get out.
    I told them what I knew. Danny stopped sorting. It was the first time he’d heard the story of what had actually happened.
    “Pretty weird time to visit the valley,” Matson said.
    “He was probably polishing copy or something,” Gretchen suggested tentatively.
    “Exactly. The revised edition of his book on California was about to go to press. He wanted to retaste a few things. That’s what he said, anyway. I was with him late yesterday afternoon.”

    “Do you know . . .” Matson started.
    “All I know is that they lined up a few bottles for him and left him to his own devices. He was heading back to the city, then off to New York.”
    Jesús, Matson’s assistant, now arrived, and the three of them got to work sorting.
    “Sorry, but I’ve got to get the Chard done today,” Matson said. “I’m back at Hauberg first thing tomorrow morning.”
    “One question before we take off?” I asked. Matson nodded, then looked down at his hands as they flew through bunches of glistening grapes. “Can you think of anyone who hated Wilson enough to kill him?”
    “I’ll be honest with you,” he said. “After he wrote what he did about me, I stopped paying attention. Look at this,” he gestured across the pint-size barn. “We’re pretty marginal here. Hangin’ on for dear life. Last year we bottled three hundred cases. If we’re lucky this year, we’ll get three fifty, maybe four. I don’t want to take on any more than I can handle. This is about as boutique as it gets. I’m sorry Richard is dead. He was a serious person. But all I really care about is my wife, my children, and my wine.”
    He looked at me. Gretchen smiled wanly as she plucked two brown-tinged grapes and dropped them on the ground. I had no reason to disbelieve Matson and excused myself.
    “You’re a good worker,” he said to Danny. “If you’re around this week, feel free to come by and give us a hand.”
    I decided to run through St. Helena and stop by the cop shop. When we got there, I stood in the waiting room, examining the police department’s patch collection while Mary, the dispatcher, buzzed Brenneke. She said he’d just arrived with some suspects or witnesses, she wasn’t sure. As she waved us back, Danny pointed to a teddy bear in a cop’s uniform perched on a boom box above her desk.
    “His office,” Mary said.
    Brenneke looked up when we walked in.
    “I thought I told you I’d catch up with you later,” he said. “I have no time for you.”
    “Russ, this is my son, Danny.”

    Brenneke nodded.
    “Who’d you just bring in?” I asked.
    “None of your fucking business,” he said, then realized that a child was present. “Sorry,” he said to Danny, and turned to me. “A few of the Mexicans. Two of ’em fled. Probably halfway to Baja by now. All they need to see is a radio antenna, and they take off. We have another two of the seasonal guys locked up. They materialize every year to help bring in the fruit.”
    “There was a third. He seemed more important. I saw him talking to Norton yesterday when Danny and I were at the winery. What is he, the foreman?”
    “Fornes, the vineyard manager. He’s back there, too.” Brenneke paused. “You were at Norton yesterday?” he said, his eyes drilling into me.
    “Yes. And the day before. Wilson dropped by the bar and asked me to go out there with him.”
    He put the report he held in his hand on the desk, rose from his chair, and walked to the door.
    “Don’t go anywhere,” he said.
    “What’s going on, Dad?” Danny asked.
    Brenneke returned a moment later with Mary.
    “Son, would you mind? I need to talk to your dad a minute. Mary’ll take you out front.”
    Danny looked at me as if everything had suddenly gone terribly wrong.
    “Don’t worry,” I said. “It’s fine. I’ll be right there.”
    He glanced at me over one shoulder while Mary placed her hand on the other and led him down the hallway.
    Brenneke closed the door and took his seat,