Spraggue raised an eyebrow; the Martinsons had already chalked up at least one bottle of St. Jean Fumé Blanc. The waiter placed the empty on his tray.
"Then I'll have the salmon. Soup to start." It was cream of lettuce, not watercress.
The waiter bustled off and the din of conversation closed around him.
Mary Ellen giggled and hid her heavily lipsticked mouth behind a ring-upholstered hand. "We actually ordered a bottle of your Chardonnay, the '77.
And then I recognized you as soon as you walked in. I said to George, 'Isn't that Michael Spraggue? I wonder what he's up to here in the valley?" Her mouth feigned innocence, but her eyes said that she knew exactly why he was here. Spraggue thought that Kate's brief imprisonment had probably served the Martinsons as appetizer. Damned if he'd be the main course.
He smiled. "I hope you like the wine. I'll be interested in your opinion."
"Interested?" Martinson laughed, showing off half a yard of glistening teeth. "Interested? My boy, you'll be reading my opinion. No punches pulled, either."
Spraggue's smile glazed over. Another joy he didn't feel up to right now was an in-depth wine rap. He loved drinking it, hated talking about it, and that was that. Holloway Hills was a damned successful investment, a product he liked that made money. It wasn't exactly the Home for Little Wanderers, but it wasn't like owning half of Consolidated Warheads either . . . and there'd been Kate ....
"A little on the oaky side," Martinson led off. "I'm with Louis Martini on that score: ‘If you like oak, go chew a toothpick."
Mary Ellen giggled on cue. "Oh, George, he was talking about Zinfandel." She patted her dark hair and forced a smile. "What kind of oak do you use, Mr. Spraggue? Michael?"
Spraggue regretted joining them. A take-out burger and a plastic shake would have been preferable. "We age the Chardonnay in Limousin oak, the Cabernet in Nevers."
Mary Ellen grinned archly. "No American oak at all?"
Spraggue shrugged. "Holloway Hills goes for a classic French taste—"
Martinson ended his sentence, "—And Mr. Spraggue, dear Mary Ellen, wouldn't have to worry about the cost of those barrels. Three hundred, three hundred fifty dollars apiece these days."
" So they tell me," Spraggue said flatly.
"Howard Ruberman was your winemaker for the '77, wasn't he? That explains the oak." Martinson patted Mary Ellen's hand. "You know Howard and oak."
"Howard may be coming back to Holloway Hills."
Spraggue dropped the bomb lightly. He could have sworn Mary Ellen's ears twitched.
" Then it's true!" she said, raising her voice in case any other diners were interested. "Lenny Brent is dead—and they've arrested—"
"All a misunderstanding, Mrs. Martinson."
Spraggue's voice topped hers easily.
Her mouth closed and opened twice, like a goldfish feeding in a tank. "He's not dead," she said softly. "Oh." She drew in a sudden breath and Spraggue saw her husband's hand tighten abruptly over hers, pressing the rings into the soft flesh.
Martinson chimed in quickly. "Then you're tired of the great Brent already?" There was a sneer in his voice.
Mary Ellen giggled. She had quite a line in giggles; this one had no mirth in it. "George and Lenny didn't exactly see eye to eye . . . on wine." She caught her husband's glance, released her hand and ‘ quickly slipped it under the table. The red marks were plain.
" Everyone's entitled to his own opinion," Martinson said breezily, suddenly fascinated by one of the landscapes on the far wall.
"Well, Lenny wanted to offer far more than his opinion." Mary Ellen winked at Spraggue, an unmistakable wink.
" Really?" said Spraggue, following along, wondering if Brent had crossed swords with the entire valley. He thought back to his own meetings with the haughty vintner; it was possible.
Martinson's face turned slowly red. "Brent actually wrote to the managing editor of my paper, demanding that I print a retraction! A retraction of a tasting! What was I
"Then I'll have the salmon. Soup to start." It was cream of lettuce, not watercress.
The waiter bustled off and the din of conversation closed around him.
Mary Ellen giggled and hid her heavily lipsticked mouth behind a ring-upholstered hand. "We actually ordered a bottle of your Chardonnay, the '77.
And then I recognized you as soon as you walked in. I said to George, 'Isn't that Michael Spraggue? I wonder what he's up to here in the valley?" Her mouth feigned innocence, but her eyes said that she knew exactly why he was here. Spraggue thought that Kate's brief imprisonment had probably served the Martinsons as appetizer. Damned if he'd be the main course.
He smiled. "I hope you like the wine. I'll be interested in your opinion."
"Interested?" Martinson laughed, showing off half a yard of glistening teeth. "Interested? My boy, you'll be reading my opinion. No punches pulled, either."
Spraggue's smile glazed over. Another joy he didn't feel up to right now was an in-depth wine rap. He loved drinking it, hated talking about it, and that was that. Holloway Hills was a damned successful investment, a product he liked that made money. It wasn't exactly the Home for Little Wanderers, but it wasn't like owning half of Consolidated Warheads either . . . and there'd been Kate ....
"A little on the oaky side," Martinson led off. "I'm with Louis Martini on that score: ‘If you like oak, go chew a toothpick."
Mary Ellen giggled on cue. "Oh, George, he was talking about Zinfandel." She patted her dark hair and forced a smile. "What kind of oak do you use, Mr. Spraggue? Michael?"
Spraggue regretted joining them. A take-out burger and a plastic shake would have been preferable. "We age the Chardonnay in Limousin oak, the Cabernet in Nevers."
Mary Ellen grinned archly. "No American oak at all?"
Spraggue shrugged. "Holloway Hills goes for a classic French taste—"
Martinson ended his sentence, "—And Mr. Spraggue, dear Mary Ellen, wouldn't have to worry about the cost of those barrels. Three hundred, three hundred fifty dollars apiece these days."
" So they tell me," Spraggue said flatly.
"Howard Ruberman was your winemaker for the '77, wasn't he? That explains the oak." Martinson patted Mary Ellen's hand. "You know Howard and oak."
"Howard may be coming back to Holloway Hills."
Spraggue dropped the bomb lightly. He could have sworn Mary Ellen's ears twitched.
" Then it's true!" she said, raising her voice in case any other diners were interested. "Lenny Brent is dead—and they've arrested—"
"All a misunderstanding, Mrs. Martinson."
Spraggue's voice topped hers easily.
Her mouth closed and opened twice, like a goldfish feeding in a tank. "He's not dead," she said softly. "Oh." She drew in a sudden breath and Spraggue saw her husband's hand tighten abruptly over hers, pressing the rings into the soft flesh.
Martinson chimed in quickly. "Then you're tired of the great Brent already?" There was a sneer in his voice.
Mary Ellen giggled. She had quite a line in giggles; this one had no mirth in it. "George and Lenny didn't exactly see eye to eye . . . on wine." She caught her husband's glance, released her hand and ‘ quickly slipped it under the table. The red marks were plain.
" Everyone's entitled to his own opinion," Martinson said breezily, suddenly fascinated by one of the landscapes on the far wall.
"Well, Lenny wanted to offer far more than his opinion." Mary Ellen winked at Spraggue, an unmistakable wink.
" Really?" said Spraggue, following along, wondering if Brent had crossed swords with the entire valley. He thought back to his own meetings with the haughty vintner; it was possible.
Martinson's face turned slowly red. "Brent actually wrote to the managing editor of my paper, demanding that I print a retraction! A retraction of a tasting! What was I
Similar Books
