supposed to do? Alter my taste buds? Suddenly decide, two weeks after the fact, that I'd been wrong? What the hell does wrong or right have to do with tasting? I call them as I taste them, simple enough. But Brent couldn't see that. A conspiracy against him! God, the charges he made!"
Martinson's voice lowered. "He hinted that I'd been paid off. Can you imagine? It got so I was afraid to answer my front door, The man's a menace. Personally, I think you're wise to be rid of him."
"I don't know that I'm rid of him exactly," Spraggue said.
Martinson raised his pale eyebrows.
"I just can't seem to locate him."
"During crush?" Martinson asked incredulously. Mary Ellen looked as if she wanted to take notes, her mouth pressed into a thin line with a parenthesis on each end. "He is missing, then," she trumpeted happily. "And that's why the police—"
The waiter picked that moment to serve soup. The wine was brought and duly opened. The Examiner's wine critic performed the appropriate ceremonies to the hilt.
"Well, I don't understand," Mary Ellen Martinson said bluntly, as soon as the waiter was out of earshot. "Wasn't there a body? I heard there was a body."
"Not Lenny's."
"Disappointed?" asked her husband under his breath. Mary Ellen stared at him coldly, turned her attention back to Spraggue.
"Do they know who died?" she asked.
"I don't." Spraggue sipped his wine. Howard was . right; it was showing well. Fruity, but with acid to spare, and strong varietal character.
"Was it rnurder?"
"Seems likely."
They ate soup. Lines of concentration furrowed Mary Ellen's brow. She tried another giggle and changed the subject. "How long are you planning to stay in the valley, Michael?" She leaned way over the table. Spraggue kept his eyes on his soup.
"Till tomorrow morning," he said, "with luck."
"Then business is all settled?"
" Ruberman will be back as winemaker. He and Kate can handle the harvest without me."
" You're not tiring of the wine business?"
" No." Spraggue decided he'd answered enough questions. "Why do you ask?"
Another giggle. "Rumors. All these sell-outs to conglomerates."
"Nothing like that in the wind at Holloway Hills."
" If you say so," said Mary Ellen.
" Glad to hear it," said her husband.
The wine was starting to turn Mary Ellen's giggle into hiccups. "Don't suppose you know where Lenny's off to? Always was unreliable—not as unreliable as some—"
The clearing of soup plates and the advent of poached salmon with hollandaise sauce interrupted her. Then Martinson lead the discussion relentlessly into the topic of wine and insisted on ordering another bottle, a Chardonnay he swore bore some resemblance to Holloway Hills. Not until dessert did Spraggue manage to steer the conversation back to Lenny Brent.
" Were you and Lenny friends?" he asked Mary Ellen, and was rewarded by seeing George gag on a mouthful of strawberry mousse.
Mary Ellen just giggled.
"Well, where would you look for Lenny if you wanted to find him?"
Martinson tried to answer first, but Mary Ellen jumped in before her husband could lower the napkin from his mouth.
" Cherchez la et cetera, " she murmured with a grin. "Always, in Lenny's case. I've heard, " she added as an afterthought, directly to George.
"You know who the woman is?" Spraggue asked.
"It is a small valley." Mary Ellen was enjoying herself, stalling, adding cream to her already white coffee. "Just five miles wide and——"
Martinson interrupted. "There was that beautiful child, wasn't there? With the bizarre name? Remember?"
"Very well," Mary Ellen said. "Grady—something-or-other. A made-up name to go with the bottled hair color, absolutely the most incredible red you've ever seen!"
"A waif, you know," Martinson said, mouth gloomy, eyes sparkling. "Thin, with those big
smudgy eyes, very Hollywood romantic."
" Thin?" Mary Ellen smiled broadly. "Last time I saw her she was far from thin. Expecting company, I'd say."
" Lenny's child?" Spraggue asked.
"A
Martinson's voice lowered. "He hinted that I'd been paid off. Can you imagine? It got so I was afraid to answer my front door, The man's a menace. Personally, I think you're wise to be rid of him."
"I don't know that I'm rid of him exactly," Spraggue said.
Martinson raised his pale eyebrows.
"I just can't seem to locate him."
"During crush?" Martinson asked incredulously. Mary Ellen looked as if she wanted to take notes, her mouth pressed into a thin line with a parenthesis on each end. "He is missing, then," she trumpeted happily. "And that's why the police—"
The waiter picked that moment to serve soup. The wine was brought and duly opened. The Examiner's wine critic performed the appropriate ceremonies to the hilt.
"Well, I don't understand," Mary Ellen Martinson said bluntly, as soon as the waiter was out of earshot. "Wasn't there a body? I heard there was a body."
"Not Lenny's."
"Disappointed?" asked her husband under his breath. Mary Ellen stared at him coldly, turned her attention back to Spraggue.
"Do they know who died?" she asked.
"I don't." Spraggue sipped his wine. Howard was . right; it was showing well. Fruity, but with acid to spare, and strong varietal character.
"Was it rnurder?"
"Seems likely."
They ate soup. Lines of concentration furrowed Mary Ellen's brow. She tried another giggle and changed the subject. "How long are you planning to stay in the valley, Michael?" She leaned way over the table. Spraggue kept his eyes on his soup.
"Till tomorrow morning," he said, "with luck."
"Then business is all settled?"
" Ruberman will be back as winemaker. He and Kate can handle the harvest without me."
" You're not tiring of the wine business?"
" No." Spraggue decided he'd answered enough questions. "Why do you ask?"
Another giggle. "Rumors. All these sell-outs to conglomerates."
"Nothing like that in the wind at Holloway Hills."
" If you say so," said Mary Ellen.
" Glad to hear it," said her husband.
The wine was starting to turn Mary Ellen's giggle into hiccups. "Don't suppose you know where Lenny's off to? Always was unreliable—not as unreliable as some—"
The clearing of soup plates and the advent of poached salmon with hollandaise sauce interrupted her. Then Martinson lead the discussion relentlessly into the topic of wine and insisted on ordering another bottle, a Chardonnay he swore bore some resemblance to Holloway Hills. Not until dessert did Spraggue manage to steer the conversation back to Lenny Brent.
" Were you and Lenny friends?" he asked Mary Ellen, and was rewarded by seeing George gag on a mouthful of strawberry mousse.
Mary Ellen just giggled.
"Well, where would you look for Lenny if you wanted to find him?"
Martinson tried to answer first, but Mary Ellen jumped in before her husband could lower the napkin from his mouth.
" Cherchez la et cetera, " she murmured with a grin. "Always, in Lenny's case. I've heard, " she added as an afterthought, directly to George.
"You know who the woman is?" Spraggue asked.
"It is a small valley." Mary Ellen was enjoying herself, stalling, adding cream to her already white coffee. "Just five miles wide and——"
Martinson interrupted. "There was that beautiful child, wasn't there? With the bizarre name? Remember?"
"Very well," Mary Ellen said. "Grady—something-or-other. A made-up name to go with the bottled hair color, absolutely the most incredible red you've ever seen!"
"A waif, you know," Martinson said, mouth gloomy, eyes sparkling. "Thin, with those big
smudgy eyes, very Hollywood romantic."
" Thin?" Mary Ellen smiled broadly. "Last time I saw her she was far from thin. Expecting company, I'd say."
" Lenny's child?" Spraggue asked.
"A
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