Dead in the Dregs by Peter Lewis

rolling it out from behind the desk to within a foot of me.
    “You mind telling me what’s going on?” he said.
    “Janie, Wilson’s sister, is my ex.”
    “You’re just full of surprises.”
    “When he failed to show for dinner the other night and didn’t return her calls, she asked me to poke around.”
    “You being a well-known wine guy and all,” Brenneke smirked.
    “Wilson and I were close when we were just starting out. That’s
how I met Janie. He got me my first few jobs in Seattle, around the time you and I met.” He waited for a more detailed explanation. “He looked me up the day before yesterday. There was something he wanted to talk to me about. He asked me to follow him to Norton.” Brenneke still wasn’t satisfied. “But we never got around to it,” I continued. “There were people around—Colin Norton, a woman who works in the office, a young French kid who’s doing a sort of apprenticeship—so we couldn’t talk. It was something private, and we didn’t have any privacy there.”
    He fished a notebook from the clutter on his desk, folded one leg over the other, and jotted some notes.
    “Let me get this straight: He never told you what he wanted to tell you.”
    “Correct.”
    “So, what happened?”
    “I left.”
    “What time was that?”
    “I don’t know, five, five thirty, maybe.”
    “What was he doing when you left?”
    “Tasting with Norton. In a room off the reception area.”
    “Anybody else around?”
    “I couldn’t say with any certainty. The French kid took off. Fornes was probably still there, along with the crew. Their workday runs late this time of year, needless to say. Carla Fehr, the office person, may have been there, but I don’t think so.”
    “Oh yeah, why’s that?”
    “Because she and Wilson were having an affair.”
    Brenneke looked up from his notebook.
    “You know that for a fact? I thought you said that you and Wilson didn’t have a chance to speak in private.”
    “Call it an educated guess. I know him pretty well. And when I called Ms. Fehr to ask if she’d seen him, she said he was supposed to come over for dinner and never arrived.”
    “And what about you? What did you do that night? Go back to work?”
    “No, Mulligan had the bar. I went home to get ready for my son’s visit.”

    “Anybody see you?”
    “No, I was alone the whole night.”
    “And Wilson never called?” Brenneke asked.
    “Not even the next morning, when he said he might drop by the bar,” I told him.
    Brenneke’s gaze was steady. He rubbed his cheek with the butt end of his pen.
    “Jesus, Stern,” he said, shaking his head. He was trying to make up his mind about what he should do next. “Look, I know your kid’s sitting out there waiting for you. He’s probably scared to death.” He thought a moment. “I’m gonna type this up and show it to Jensen. But you should know right now, he’s going to want a formal statement.”
    “I realize that,” I said as if I had fully expected it. I hadn’t.
    “Okay, get the fuck outta here,” Brenneke said, rolling his chair to the desk without looking at me. “Just stay behind your bar and keep your eyes and ears open. You hear anything you think I should know, you call me.”
    Danny was sitting in the waiting room on the edge of his seat. The teddy bear seemed to be gazing down at me. They were both waiting for an explanation.
    “It’s fine, pal,” I said, ignoring the bear. “Don’t worry about it.”
    Easy enough to say to your child, but a little tougher to convince yourself of. It hadn’t occurred to me until Brenneke said he’d need a statement that I’d inadvertently set myself up as a suspect.

7
    We stopped at The Diner in Yountville and grabbed some lunch.
    “These tacos are better than yours, Dad,” Danny said.
    “I’m not surprised. The food is great here. See if you can figure out how they do ’em, and you can tell Ernesto.”
    While Danny deconstructed his taco, I considered my history