Just Deserts (Hetta Coffey Series, Book 4) (10 page)

Nanci gave him a look. “Okay, Ted, no more shop talk until we get these folks a welcoming drink. I want to hear more about Hetta’s Aunt Lillian.”

I laughed. “Trust me, you do not, but I’ll sure take that drink.”

Ted gave us an apologetic half-smile. “Sorry, we don’t get many visitors up here. Enough about the winery for now. I’ll get my chance to brag tomorrow, during your tour. Let’s hit the verandah, I have a bar set up.”

I opted for a glass of their house bubbly, which, because of France’s death grip on the label, cannot be called Champagne, but sparkling wine made in the method Champagnoise. “Hey,” I said after the first sip, “this is really good, and trust me, I know my Champagne.”

“In vino est veritas,” Craig quipped. “And trust me on this one, Hetta has vast wine experience.”

I gave his shoulder a gentle slap with the back of my hand. “Let these fine people find out about my bad habits on their own. Do you sell this wonderful stuff in the States?”

“No, we make it for in-house consumption only. It ain’t, as they say, rocket science. Nor is it made in the so-called champagne method. We cheat.”

“Fooled me.”

“It’s simple, really. We take white wine, add yeast and sugar, re-cork it so carbon dioxide builds up, forcing bubbles into the wine. We only make enough for a summer treat, but since you’re here, we broke out a bottle early.”

“You might want to lock the cellar until we leave,” Craig said, tipping his head in my direction.

“Speaking of summer, Ted,” I cut in, ignoring Craig lest he make me out for some kind of wino, “what’s with the climate here? It feels and looks like spring has sprung.”

“Microclimate, or macroclimate some would call it,” Nanci explained. “That’s why we can grow good grapes and make great wine here, but in our own method. In the Mediterranean region they have rains and a dry spring and summer. We have a dry winter and wet summer, and because of that, we can grow high altitude grapes, then irradiate them.”

“Irradiate?”

“It’s part of our special process. That building over there,” Ted pointed to a large barn-like structure that looked a couple of centuries old, “houses a well-disguised high-tech laboratory and irradiator system. We use spectroscopy and chromatography to evaluate aroma, color, taste and mouthfeel of grapes, then when they reach their peak, we quickly pick them and put the skids to the natural bacterial process by lightly nuking them.”

I was somewhat familiar with irradiated food. “Like they do milk in Europe?”

“Pretty much the same, but less is more. We’ve found that low-level irradiation and refrigeration of grapes before they’re made into wine magnifies the healthful aspects of drinking red wine, making it a good source of antioxidants two or three times more potent than regular reds.”

“Aha!” I pumped my fist in the air. “Wine as health food. There is a god.”

“Please,” Craig pleaded dramatically, “don’t encourage her, Ted.”

We all laughed, then Nanci said, “Unfortunately, most Americans freak out when they hear the I-word, thinking they’ll glow in the dark if they consume irradiated products, but lots of countries, including Mexico, use the process to ensure a bacteria-free food source. Works especially well with poultry and dairy.”

“I guess too many Americans remember Three Mile Island,” Craig said, “I know I do. I was a teenager and very impressionable. California already had San Onofre on line and it was scary to think we’d all be zapped by Gamma rays. Set nuclear power back a hundred years.” He faked a frightened look at the barn.

Nanci patted his hand. “Trust me, you’re safe here. The food irradiation facilities themselves do not become radioactive, and don’t create radioactive waste.” She went on to explain that Cobalt 60, which is what they use, is manufactured in a commercial nuclear reactor. The small radioactive pencils, which have a shelf-life of five years, get re-activated, and that’s done by shipping them back in special hardened steel canisters that are designed to survive the worst roads without breaking.

“Designed to survive even your road?” I quipped.

Ted faked indignity. “Keeps the riffraff out.”

Craig smiled. “Evidently not, Hetta made it.”

“Yeah,” I scoffed, “but I could have used a Hummer.” Revisiting Nanci’s lesson on transporting the steel canisters, I added, “What if the truck carrying the pencils crashes into something?”

“No danger. Even if they did break open, which is doubtful, Cobalt is a solid metal and will not spread through the environment under normal circumstances. However, I would not advise picking one up with your bare hands.”

I rolled my eyes. “No worries there.”

“Tomorrow we’ll give you the Viña Estrella grand tour, but for now, let’s get you two into your rooms so you can freshen up for dinner. Hope you’re hungry, because we serve fantastic meals around here to go with our fabulous wine. Not to brag, of course.”

On the way upstairs, I muttered under my breath, “Craig, there will be no counting of calories, nor glasses of wine tonight. We are on vacation.”

He held up his hands in surrender. “Who me?”

We gathered for dinner at eight, each of us dressed in our own version of casual chic.

I’d draped myself in a long, loose, gauzy, rust-colored number that set off my hair color and covered a multitude of sins. Craig wore a sports jacket and jeans, Nanci was elegantly attired in basic black, and Ted sported a black linen Mexican guayabera wedding shirt,  as did his two ranch foremen. Rosa, in a stunningly colorful huipil—pronounced wee-peel—a traditional, richly embroidered top from her homeland, added a splash of Mayan chic.

Soft candlelight bathed the room, strains of classical Spanish guitar set the mood.

I felt ever so urbane, which, after living on a boat for so long, awakened fond memories. There was a time when I jet-setted with the fast crowd thanks to a big fat expense account and the company of men with murky backgrounds, panache, and endless wallets. The ambiance at Hacienda de las Estrellas was reminiscent of starry nights in Aix-en-Provence, a villa in Italy, or a seaside balcony on Mallorca.

Before  serving their prize-winning 2002 Cabernet Sauvignon, Estrella Sirius, named after the brightest star in the heavens, Ted, with hammy flair, repeated one wine connoisseur’s review. He swirled the wine in his glass and held it to the candelabra. “Brilliant ruby color.” Sniffing loudly he declared, “Forward, fragrant aroma of spice and berry.” He took a sip. “Ah, firm tannin laced with,” he paused dramatically, “flavors of spicy oak.” He swallowed and announced, “Impressively lengthy.”

We applauded his act, then Craig said, “So, what does that all mean in English?”

Nanci smiled. “It’s wine snob speak for looks good, smells good, tastes good. Hey, it works for us. This wine retails for fifty bucks a bottle, and beats others twice the price.”

“Bravo,” I said, raising my glass. “To good wine and good company.” The wine was, as advertised, fantastic.

Ted stood again. “To Jenks. Wish that rascal was here, but at least he’s sent us new friends.”

“To Jenks,” we toasted, which gave me a moment’s fleeting sadness, quickly banished when I dove into savory roasted lamb, freshly dug and boiled fingerling potatoes, salad laced with local goat cheese and, for the grand finale, flan to die for. Call me two-faced, but old Jenks just faded into the background.

A fabulous Cabernet Sauvignon complemented the main course, and for dessert they broke out a bright blue bottle of ice wine they named, Estrella EV Lacertae, after a cold star. I was not only getting a lesson in wine here, they also dispensed a dollop of astronomy.

During dinner I asked Nanci. “How long has your family been making wine?”

“The original vines arrived with my great-grandfather in the 1850’s. We’ve made wine for our own consumption for generations, but I was the first family member to actually get a degree in both viticulture and enology with intent to sell our product.”

“My turn to buy a vowel,” I quipped, getting a laugh.

“The culture of growing grapes, and the art of wine making,” she explained.

“Where does one go to learn such stuff?”

“UC Davis.”

“There’s a wine school? Where do I sign up?” I asked. “Heck, I’ve already done my lab work.”

Craig shook his head at me and smiled, then turned his attention to Nanci. “You were a Caggie too? I was in Vet Meds.”

They talked about their mutual university, we drank more, discussed our backgrounds, the usual chitchat. It was my kind of meal: long, delicious, good conversation, great wine.

Rosa and other management employees sat with us at an ancient hand-hewn dining table that probably decimated a goodly portion of a cedar forest. The employees didn’t add much to the conversation until asked a direct question, but it was obvious they all spoke English, which, in deference to our presence, was the only language spoken. On another night, I suspected they stuck with Spanish.

Kitchen help came and went, the diminutive Sonrisa among them. Dressed in the simple white blouse and skirt favored by campesinos, or country folk, for eons, she wore her jet black hair in two shiny braids that reached past her waist. She glided in and out with various dishes and, at one point, while filling my water glass, raised her head and, for the first time I made eye contact with her. I opened my mouth to say thanks, but was shocked by pure hatred in those cold, black eyes.

Rattled, I quickly turned toward Nanci, who was recounting the story of an ancestor, a Prussian mercenary hired by the Emperor of Mexico, Maximilian I.

France’s Emperor, Napoleon III, sent Maximilian I to rule over Mexico when the Mexican government refused to pay up on debts. The whole venture was ill fated, certainly for old Max, who was put to the firing squad by Benito Juarez. Nanci’s ancestor, however, was a little more far-sighted than the ill-fated Austrian archduke, for he deserted the Emperor’s army and beat feet for the Texas border in time to save his own hide.

“Thus, Cinco de Mayo,” I said, “the holiday commemorating the liberation of Mexico from France.”

“Mostly celebrated in East LA,” Nanci quipped. “In Mexico we don’t pay it much attention.”

“So then, your ancestor hit Texas around 1867, if memory serves me. What was his name, and where did he end up?” I asked, my interest piqued. As a member of the Daughters of the Republic of Texas, and a tenth-generation Texan, I’m always on the lookout for new potential relatives, no matter how many cousins removed.

“His name was Paul Reineke. He married into another Prussian family who had immigrated to Texas in the early 1850’s. It was their daughter, also named Nanci, who scandalized the family by marrying a Spaniard. They ran off to  Mexico, to the Spaniard’s ancestral land, where we sit today. So, here I am, all these years later, making wine.”

I love stories like this, but have to admit I’m green-eyed jealous. If my family had held onto even a smidgen of what they owned during the Republic, I’d hold the deed to most of downtown Austin.

We chatted on about history and the fates left us by our ancestors. After dinner, Nanci, Ted, Craig, and I sat on their verandah, finishing off the ice wine. Ted lit up a Cuban cigar and, to my amazement, Craig accepted one as well. Once Ted found out Craig was a veterinarian they talked horses, cattle, and all manner of farm animals.

When Craig talked about the pet tracking chip he was working on, Ted wanted to know, “Where can I get some? We have a lot of acreage here and hundreds of livestock to track. I could save countless man hours—” he caught a look from Nanci, “uh, person hours, hunting down stray animals.”

“Actually, I have a few chips and a tracker back at Hetta’s house, but they aren’t really approved for use as yet.”

“Approved in the United States, right? Hell, man, we’re in Mexico. Sell me a few, I’ll be your test ranch.”

“Deal. I can let you have five chips and a radio tracker unit, but I have to hang onto my more sophisticated toy, the one that uses satellite tracking, to show off to potential investors.”

“I’ll take what I can get. What do you say, Nanci? Let’s cyber-brand some cattle, especially Booger Red, that badassed longhorn of yours. Knowing where he is might save someone from a having a really crappy day.”

I perked up. “You have longhorns? We Texans love longhorns.”

“Not this one,” Ted told me, “he’s meaner’n a fire ant.”

Now, that is
mean
. I hate fire ants, having stepped into the little bastards’ nests and had them swarm up my legs. First they  bite, just to get a good hold on you, then they sting. Not only do they attack en masse, every sting leaves a festering reminder for weeks. “Uh, just in case, what do we do if we run into this Booger Red? Kiss our butts
adios
?”

“Actually, once he’s introduced to you everything is okay, but until then, if you see a big ugly dude with a six-foot horn span, sit tight. You’ll be riding one of our horses and so long as you stay in the saddle you’ll be fine. Not that he won’t threaten, but he knows our stock and, so far as he’s concerned, you are the company you keep. Whatever you do, though, don’t dismount.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll hang on like a fly on a fresh bull patty.”

Ted grinned. “Jenks said you had tenacity.”

“Oh, yeah? What else did he say about me?”

He threw his hands up. “Nothing. Honest.”

“I’ll just bet. Did he by any chance tell you where and what he’s doing that sent him out on a secretive mission to God knows where?”

“No, but knowing him, he’s probably somewhere no one else will go. We left a few unsettled scores in that desert. Why, when we were in Desert Storm we forayed into enemy—” he stopped dead when Nanci shot him a searing side glance. Caught mid-sentence he tried backpedaling. “I’m sure things have changed a lot since we were there,” he said weakly.

Not to be deterred, I demanded. “Scores to settle? And you forayed into enemy what? Or more importantly, what enemy? He’s supposed to be installing software, for God’s sake.”

“Oh, that’s just me, reminiscing about the bad old days like old military farts do. Forget it. Times change, and software guys like Jenks probably don’t go out on clandestine missions anymore.” If he was trying to redeem himself, he failed miserably by putting in that
probably
.

Nanci chuffed in disgust. “Ted, do yourself a favor and just shut up. And don’t ever go into politics.”

Ted gave her a
what’d I do
? look and tried once again to weasel out. “I was just telling war stories. You know how we old vets love to relive the so-called glory.” He was almost home free until he added, “Like I said, I’m almost sure Jenks isn’t doing that stuff anymore,” earning him, once again, the hot seat.

I pushed. “What stuff?”

Nanci, done with the direction of this conversation, stepped in. “Hetta, why don’t we leave it to Jenks to share his and Ted’s military adventures with you. More wine?”

Nice diversionary tactic, Nan. I accepted the wine and the not-so-subtle suggestion to drop the Jenks subject, but my mind flew thousands of miles away, where I pictured Jenks, dressed like Lawrence of Arabia, under attack by keening terrorists dead set on a beheading. For some reason this conjured up the white SUV we’d seen earlier in the day, first at the ranch gate and, to my mind, by the river. Was it the same vehicle?

“Hetta?”

I realized everyone was staring at me. “Uh, you were saying?” I asked to cover my embarrassment. I hadn’t heard a word.

Craig waved his hand in front of my face. “Ted was telling me they make a commissary run to Fort Huachuca in Sierra Vista occasionally, and maybe they’ll drop in for a visit. We can pick them up at the Bisbee Airport.”

Brought back to this continent, I asked, “They have flights into the Bisbee Airport?”

“Not hardly,” Ted said. “I have a couple of aircraft. When we go grocery shopping in the States, or down to Hermosillo, we take the Baron. Around here, for running down livestock, I have a nifty ultralight.”

“Great. Just let us know when you’re coming. Bring your clubs if you’d like to play golf.”

“Oh, we will,” Nanci said “We love Turquoise Valley Golf Course. Do you play?”

“Not no, but hell no. I have way to much self-regard.”