Sharpshooter by Nadia Gordon Page A

sounding cautious. “You never really know the ramifications of releasing a new predator into an ecosystem. Gonatocerus triguttatus didn’t seem to cause any problems in Florida and Texas, but the researchers need to take a closer look to be sure. And they’re going to need time to test it locally, release it in a controlled area and watch what happens. Plus there’s more than one wasp option, so they’ll want to look at which one will have the least impact on the environment. There’s one kind of parasitic wasp, for example, that paralyzes the sharpshooter, then buries it and lays its eggs on top of it. When the baby wasps hatch, sharpshooter breakfast is waiting for them. That’s okay. Then there’s the other tiny one, the GT they’re using down in Florida and Texas, that’s a little guy about the size of a grain of polenta, that lays eggs inside the sharpshooter’s eggs. When they hatch, they eat their way out.”
    “Ugh,” said Rivka. “The sharpshooters alone are bad enough. They’re so ugly. But I hate wasps.”
    “Better to have wasp babies eating sharpshooters than sharpshooters eating grapes,” said Wade.
    “And the viticulture and enology people are going to need years to get anything genetically engineered to market,” said Charlie. “That’s not really an option for a long time. Like a decade or so.”
    There was a pause in the conversation as people concentrated on eating and drinking. Sunny kept looking over at Wade to see how he was doing. She was trying to convince herself that there was nothing to worry about, but the look on his face wasn’t helping. He was eating, but he seemed worried, and a few times when she looked over he seemed lost in some unpleasant thought. Yet it was perfectly reasonable for the police to question Wade. After all, he was the Beronis’ closest neighbor. It was also perfectly reasonable for them to question her, since she was with Wade on the night of the murder. He probably wasn’t even a suspect. Probably they were just covering their bases. She pointed her fork at Monty. “Lenstrom, you know everybody who’s ever set foot in this valley. Who do you think killed Jack Beroni?”
    “Who says it was someone in the valley? It was probably a random psychopath on his way through town,” Monty replied.
    Sunny shook her head. “No, it’s gotta be a local. Who else is even going to find that gazebo way out there in the sticks, let alone in the middle of the night with Jack standing in it. I say it was somebody from the valley, somebody he knew, maybe even somebody he agreed to meet out there in the gazebo. Think about it. Who’d stand to gain from his death?”
    It was the question they’d been avoiding all night, or at least some of them had. Now that it was on the table, Monty wastaking it seriously, judging by his expression, which resembled that of an oracle priest mulling over a question of state. He put down his knife and fork and ran his fingers over his shaved head thoughtfully. He’d developed the habit of smoothing his fingers over his scalp when he was perplexed, perhaps because he’d recently switched from keeping what was left of his hair very short to shaving it entirely. Rivka poked at a puddle of wax developing under one of the candles.
    “Plenty of people disliked Jack,” said Monty slowly, as though delivering an impromptu eulogy. “I didn’t particularly like him, but of course I didn’t hate him, and I certainly never thought of killing him. He was simply not pleasant to know. He was born to privilege, and he used that privilege in the most self-aggrandizing manner. He was Napa royalty, and he was unapologetic and even arrogant about what that entitled him to. He was handsome, intelligent, rich, and poised, but he was not a gentleman, and he didn’t even go to the trouble to behave badly enough to be a scandal, which might have been interesting to watch at least. He was intimidating and generally considered to be dishonest. Where