A Tainted Finish: A Sydney McGrath Mystery (3 page)

Sydney asked Jim in for lunch when they got back to her uncle's place. She busily gathered the ingredients for something easy and found enough prosciutto and cheese to make a grilled sandwich. The last of the garden tomatoes sat in a bowl on the island in the middle of the kitchen. Clarence was an avid gardener and grew obscure and delicious heritage varieties. These were brown, purple, and yellow tomatoes, the size of baseballs. A delicious loaf of Clarence's famed country bread sat on the counter, donning a crumbling black crust nearly a quarter-inch thick.

In fifteen minutes, Syd set a table with open-faced grilled bruschetta, fresh tomato slices, some fermented vegetable pickle, and pear slices drizzled with blue cheese crumble and honey for dessert. She served a local bottle of semi-dry Gewurztraminer. She smelled it as she opened it, reflexively-grapefruit, lemon peel, and a hint of lychee.

Jim paced the deck outside, grunting in a low tone into his cell phone on official business. She popped her head out the kitchen door. “Soup's on!” she said, feeling surreally cheerful.

Jim ate like a big man with a purpose. She knew he was hungry. It was already past 2 pm and he was a man sized to make every meal count. Charlie used to joke about her dad being a perpetual teenage boy in his appetite. The man consumed 4000 calories each day. She watched him thoroughly enjoy two giant slices of bruschetta with melted triple cream brie, prosciutto, and fresh mayonnaise piled high with the veggies. She silently poured him another glass of wine when he had drained his. She noted that he had never been much of a drinker; at least he certainly never drank wine while in uniform.

He eyed the other two bruschetta on the plate and looked at the nearly empty plate in front of her. She had been chasing the same battered slice of tomato around her plate since they sat down.

“You need to eat, Siddy-biddy. When was the last time you ate?”

“Um, Sunday night at work, I think,” she said. The last 48 hours were a broken jigsaw puzzle of distant events.

He moved to put food on her plate, but she refused it, pushing her plate away. Preparing food made her almost happy just now, but the thought of eating brought on a new wave of nausea. Instead, she reloaded his plate. He gave up and tucked in to his seconds.

“Charlie will be here around six tonight,” he said, dabbing his mouth with the yellow cloth napkin she gave him. He stared into her with his large dark eyes. He had deep purple circles under his eyes, dry skin, and deep creases beneath his bushy dark eyebrows. He was getting older too, she thought. His thinning brown hair stuck up off of his head in tufts, an occupational hazard of his sheriff’s hat. He looked completely worn out. He had a dollop of honey on his stubbled cheek. She took his napkin and wiped it off.

“Charlie and I’ll make the arrangements with Jack Bristol. Don't worry about anything. Get some rest.” He spoke with paternal force, his giant hand pressed on hers. For a medium-sized woman she could feel tiny next to him.

“I will,” she lied. He frowned at her.

“You don't need to get up to the winery, Sydney. I've talked to Olivier. He has it covered.”

She pulled her hand away and rose to start cleaning up.

“No, Sydney. Go rest. Now!” He escorted her to the back spare bedroom and stood at the door.

“I have to go. But I'll be back tonight. Charlie and I’ll bring dinner.” He raised his eyebrows at her and she surrendered with a nod. She felt grateful for his concern, but his mothering was overbearing and she suddenly wanted to be alone. She smiled weakly and hugged him. He held her and rocked her for a few minutes in silence before she moved away.

“Thank you,” she said, feeling weak and tired. She moved her feet slowly to the room she left so abruptly that morning.

The room was cool and dark. It smelled like some kind of wood resin and tobacco. The mixed leathery smells of Jim and the woody smells of her uncle's reading room made Sydney feel safer than she had felt in as long as she could remember. She climbed into the daybed as Jim watched.

“Jim,” she said, stopping him as he turned to go. “There will be an autopsy?”

“Oh, yes,” he nodded. Something in his voice revealed his determination. She fell asleep almost instantly, knowing that he was as puzzled about her uncle's death as she was.

~

Syd stirred as Charlie climbed into bed with her. She rolled to spoon Charlie, wrapping her legs around her and burying her face in Charlie’s think blond hair. She smelled like Charlie; a mix of cumin and applesauce, a comforting smell from their earliest sleep-overs when they snuggled together and whispered over dreams of becoming queens and sorcerers in their own fantasy land. Syd moaned and rocked Charlie when she felt sobs take over her long body. Her best friend spilled her sorrows onto the soft feather pillows covered in Belgium linen.

~

It was past 9 pm when Syd woke up again. She crept out of the room and into the bathroom. Her pants were sticky and wet, and when she peeled off her jeans, her underwear and pants were completely covered in blood. She felt heavy and weak. She moved in slow motion as she stripped and got into the shower. She was so weak she could barely lift her leg over the edge of the clawfoot tub. She let herself give way to the gravity trapped in her throat and muscles, reflexively sobbing while the hot water beat against her head and back. The full force of grief surprised her not for its weight so much as for its inexplicable continuity; a slow leak of an ethereal substance into her cells, and her lungs and her being. Her body pulsed in a slow gyration with sobbing. But with no relief from the crushing pull. She understood in a moment of despair that crying would not relieve the pain at all. She got out when the water began to run cold, feeling more light-headed than before. She wrapped a towel around herself just in time. The bright blue walls of the bathroom rapidly faded to darkness in the midst of twinkling stars. She frantically grabbed the side of the tile counter to ease herself onto the floor when she lost consciousness.

She woke with the sensation of cool tile on her cheek. Then she felt a throbbing pain on her head above her right ear. She sat up slowly, using her arms to push her body from the floor. She felt the bump on her head with her fingers and brought them to her face. No blood. She stood up carefully – feeling only a little dizzy – and filled a glass of water. It was deliciously cool and almost instantly improved her fuzzy head. She drank another and another, sitting on the toilet, assessing what happened, feeling foolish.

She wrapped herself in the thick white terrycloth bathrobe hanging on the back of the door that smelled like Clarence. She threw her long wet hair into a towel knotted on her head. She shuffled into the dark kitchen, lost in an eerie thought. Losing consciousness and falling onto the floor gave her a large knot on her head.
But if you lost consciousness and fell into a tank of wine, what would happen? How would someone dislocate a finger?
She had no time to ready herself for impact when she fell, but she was able to avoid hitting the counter. If Clarence had fallen during a heart attack he would have avoided the tank altogether. But what if the CO2 overcame him?

She was so lost in thought that she was unaware that the kettle was already on. Steam spurted out of the pot and began to whistle. Olivier bounded into the dark kitchen and they both jumped, startling each other. He moved to turn on the light.

“Good evening,” he said in polite formality. Again, she almost expected a bow. She stared unabashedly at him and he grew uncomfortable. He was remarkable. He had deep blackish eyes and black hair curling to his chin that looked wet in the kitchen light. His nose was high-bridged and straight above full lips. He looked larger than she remembered, more than six feet tall, but she had been feeling small all day.

“Tea?” he asked her politely, retreating from her deliberate eyes. He brushed by her, smelling like sandalwood and lemongrass.

“Yes,” she answered, wanting to help get mugs, but her feet felt like lead.

He moved with cat-like grace and in a vaguely familiar way that disturbed her. She watched dumbly, transfixed. The bump on her head began to pound.

“Chamomile?” he asked. She nodded as he filled the tea pot with loose-leaf from an ancient tin canister. He dragged the cast iron kettle off the stove with industrial scraping and filled the tea-pot. He found a creamer pot in the mug cabinet and filled it with half and half. He set the two mugs on the table, along with some sugar, honey, and the creamer dish. She watched him gather napkins. He finished with a flourishing gesture that resembled a bow. She smiled and sat down. Apparently, they were having tea together.

“Clarence and I did this every night,” he said to her after he fixed her tea to her liking. Honey and cream.

“High tea?” she asked, pretending to look baffled.

“We discussed the winery operations. Yes, sometimes over tea.” His English was perfect tonight. He sat up straight and brushed his longish hair back behind an ear. She saw that it
was
wet. He had just showered.

“Clarence discussed winery operations with you?” she asked, narrowing her eyes. “
You?
” She knew her uncle well enough to know that he was secretive and elusive when it came to winery operations. She watched Olivier stiffen and realized she had offended him yet again. Touchy ego, she thought to herself. Apparently the intimacy of the night before - her sobbing in his arms - was a thing of the past. She found herself thankful for his memory loss.

His face grew expressionless. “I want you to know that I am taking care of everything in the winery. You do not need to worry about Crush while you do the funeral business.” He was cutting to the chase again. Not a man for small talk.

“How gallant of you,” she muttered into the steam of her mug.

He looked at her sharply. “Jim Yesler told me it would be best this way.”

“Jim Yesler thinks I'm a fragile wilting flower right now,” she said. He looked at her with eyes filled with concern and pity, but offered no argument.

“
I'm alright
,” she shouted back at him, furious at his expression.

He visibly jumped and raised his eyebrows with a nod.

“Sure, sure.”

She could tell he was confused and perhaps in over his head. She watched his face change with every thought, working his way through her outburst. She softened her frown a bit, feeling bad for yelling at this stranger in her childhood kitchen.

“We can still have these meetings every night, okay?” she said with a nod. He nodded back at her. “You do the winery work. Just keep me informed. If there’s a problem–anything from an off-nose on a ferment to a vineyard sample–keep me informed, right?” He nodded again and she half smiled. “We’re almost through harvest?”

“Yes. We have only the Petit Verdot and Mourvedre from Rattlesnake Hills left. We are at the end,” he said quietly. This woman was worse than Clarence or his own father. He would need to handle her carefully, but he was no stranger to navigating the inner workings of a complicated mind. For now he would do things her way.

He proceeded to fill her in on the details of Crush; issues with growers, schedules, and trucking problems. Thus far, they had no equipment failure, which was an unusual blessing. Olivier had an astonishing memory of Blackwell Winery's general operations, which surprised Sydney. He recalled the names of vineyard managers, last week's Brix reports from growers, and row numbers of contracted fruit in specific vineyards. He recalled the yeast strains used in ferments, even the yeast blends.

“I used to collect data on our yeast blends,” she said absently. Memories of working next to Clarence over petri dishes and five-gallon buckets of fermenting grapes in test batches seared in her head.

“I know,” he said with quiet respect. “I've read your data.”

“You knew I experimented with yeast blends?” she asked. She had published an article on her findings when she was only 19.

“Yes. You are famous for it, apparently. Francois Bertrand told me about it first.” He looked down at his folded hands on the table.

“Ah,
him
,” she said, smiling. Bertrand was her uncle's famed rival winemaker from across the river, “I'm sure he was all praises.” She followed his eyes to his forearms. They were long, brown, thinly muscled, and covered in silky black hair.

“No, he was derisive. But with men like that the source of contempt is often the source of envy as well. I knew he was on to something so I asked your uncle for the data.” Olivier rubbed his stubbled chin and looked away. His fingers were long and brown, with lovely long nail beds miraculously white for a winemaker. She caught herself staring at him and shook her head.

“So you and Francois are tight? Go out for beers? Maybe troll for local yoga babes? Or are you more into the board head type?”

“Francois courted me when I first arrived here in July. He isn't subtle. Apparently he is used to buying favors and information from assistant winemakers and interns with beer. We had
one
beer.” He held up a finger.

“Thanks for that. Uncle never saw him as a real threat, but he’s always up to some mischief. Something recent too. Uncle alluded to it on his last visit to see me in Seattle. That was in August.” She frowned and thought about her cryptic lunch with Clarence that day. “Funny, he didn't mention you that day.” She lied.