Sour Puss (5 page)

It remained a science and an art to create the right medley of sensation on a discriminating palate.

Harry, a foxhunter, evidenced a bit of the slyness of the fox herself. “Hy, surely Toby didn’t threaten to knock you off the stool because of pruning grapes. What exposed nerve did you touch today?” She smiled flirtatiously, since Hy believed himself attractive to all females worldwide.

“Ah, yes.” He leaned forward conspiratorially. “Vincent Forland. I said I thought both those men at the panel gave everyone a blueprint for bioterrorism. Irresponsible!”

“Hy, I didn’t think of that at the time. It was so fascinating, but you know, you’ve got a point there,” Harry said.

Hy shrugged a Gallic shrug, one imitated but never perfected by those not born to the greatness of France. “Mark my words, ladies. It will all come to a bad end.”

“Why would that set off Toby?” Susan knew Toby had a short fuse, but he seemed extra agitated.

“Ah, Toby, the morally superior Toby. When I suggested to him that Professor Forland and Dr. Jenkins might as well work for the terrorists given that they’d told us too much, he cursed me and swore that was ridiculous. I said, no, smart. The two experts appear to be warning us, but they’re scaring people. Plants as lethal agents, common enough plants, such things could be distilled by someone who knows less than Professor Forland.”

“Toby seems to have a volatile relationship with Professor Forland,” Susan said.

“Toby likes him, but I guess he’s never really gotten over not being hired by Tech,” commented Harry, who in her typical fashion didn’t believe there would be emotional repercussions in her life because of Arch’s return.

“He takes things so personally,” Susan said compassionately.

“And now Arch is here, a partner to Rollie Barnes. That grates on Toby’s high-strung nature,” Harry said.

Hy nodded gravely. “This is so. You have a big heart, Susan. First, Toby lost his temper when I suggested that his esteemed Professor Forland might as well give terrorists a blueprint if he’s not already in their employ. Then when I said Professor Forland could also work for Homeland Security or some other agency, he erupted. He shook his finger at me and declared Professor Forland would never stoop to cooperating with our right-wing government.”

“Is that what he called our government?” Susan’s cheeks reddened.

“Alas, madam, he did.”

“Toby prides himself on being an anarchist.” Harry felt the warmth from her cup on her hands. “But you know, irritating as he can be about stuff like that, it’s good we hear it. Otherwise, we’re just a bunch of sheep.”

“Still, can’t a man be amusing?” Hy held up his hands in bafflement.

6

R
ollie Barnes touched a stock; it surged upward. His gorgeous wife, twenty-two years younger than Rollie, prudently hid her intelligence from him, for he was not a man comfortable with formidable females. For all his brains, Rollie was rather a weak fellow emotionally. This in turn made him aggressive, a quality not appreciated in its raw form in the South.

Born on the wrong side of the tracks in Stamford, Connecticut, Rollie slogged through the local community college. Yet once he found his gift, to his credit he made the most of it.

“Periosteal elevation.” Rollie pronounced this with finality.

Fair, who had delivered the foal, tried not to smile. “An invasive procedure, Mr. Barnes. This little fellow doesn’t need a P and E.” He used the shorthand version for the procedure, one known to horsemen.

Mim would have known instantly what Fair was discussing—surgery required on the knee of the foreleg.

“I want this foal to have straight legs.” Rollie folded his arms across his chest as he stood, legs apart, under a completely unnecessary chandelier in the stable.

“Honey, he likes me.” Chauntal put her blonde head down to the colt, who nuzzled her as his mother turned to look.

Fair smiled. He liked Chauntal. He didn’t envy her. It’s easier to make money than to marry it.

“Mr. Barnes, this colt has carpal valgus: knock-knees. I think he’ll straighten out in time. Right now I wouldn’t do anything restrictive. I wouldn’t even put a splint on him, because it’s not that bad.” He didn’t say a P and E would be the wrong thing to do, because, being a sensitive man, Fair didn’t want Rollie to take offense.

“Well, it looks bad to me.” Rollie’s lower lip jutted out.

“I’m sure it does, but it’s a mild case. Truth is, you don’t want a horse with straight, straight legs. A truly straight leg actually promotes knee problems.”

“But I read that this stripping is used on knock-kneed foals.”

“I guess some vets do it, but I’d really only do a P and E for an ankle problem or badly bowed legs. It really will take care of itself. This little fellow will be just fine.”

Chauntal couldn’t keep her hands off the lovely bay colt. “Dr. Haristeen, what is periosteal stripping?”

“It’s pretty interesting, ma’am. You make a small, inverted T-shaped cut through the periosteum, right above the growth plate. You lift the edges of the periosteum, and in most young foals the leg will grow straight after four to six weeks. What the surgery really does is allow the slower-growing side of the leg to catch up. The cut releases the tension on the membrane that covers the growth plate—that’s what’s called the periosteum. Guess I should have said that in the first place.” He smiled reassuringly.

“Well, I’m going to ask Dan Flynn.” Rollie mentioned a nationally famous equine vet who lived in Albemarle County.

“Sir, you won’t find anyone better. You can also call Reynolds Coles or Anne Bonda or Greg Schmidt. They’re all excellent vets. Dan, as you probably know, is so famous he’s in demand all over. I’m surprised one of those Saudi princes hasn’t offered Dan and Ginger,” he mentioned Dan’s wife, a small-animal vet, “a million to practice in Dubai.”

That Fair hadn’t been insulted surprised Rollie, who imagined every exchange with another man as a contest of wills, wits, and, of course, money.

Chauntal, often embarrassed by Rollie, tried not to show it. Born poor in Mississippi, she was raised by people with beautiful manners, people who respected other people. Her mother, father, and sister didn’t rejoice in Rollie’s wealth. They thought him rude and unfeeling. They prayed their beautiful girl would have a good life. That her husband would respect her. Not that they showed anything to Rollie but pleasantness. He tried to buy them things, which they refused.

Rollie understood only money. He was a poor man for all his wealth.

“You tell me what you want to do, Mr. Barnes, and if you want to go ahead with surgery, I’ll step aside for another vet or assist, if you choose. As I said, any of those folks are excellent. You can’t find better.”

“I’ll have my secretary call you after Dr. Flynn has a look.”

“Fine.” Fair reached over and patted the colt.

The little fellow had a lovely eye.

“Heard BoomBoom’s got a mule.” Rollie smirked.

“Mules are good animals.”

“Is she really going to train it? That’s what Paul said.” Chauntal was surprised.

“When did you see Paul?” Rollie grilled her, because Paul de Silva was handsome and sexy.

“When I went down to Tazio’s to see how she was coming with the plans for your wine-press building.”

This pleased him. “Ah, yes, they’re an item.” He turned to Fair. “She’s easy to work with, and since she’s at the beginning of her career, I’m getting good value for my money.”

Fair thought the world of the young architect. “You made a wise choice.”

This puffed up Rollie. His sandy hair, thinned a bit on top, retained its color. A bit weedy, he at least didn’t sport a big potbelly like Hy Maudant. When he first made money, Rollie hired consultants to teach him how to dress, consultants to teach him what fork and knife to use. He’d mastered these intricacies.

As they walked outside the brick stable painted a soft peach with white trim, dark-green shutters on the windows of the office, the breeze ruffled Fair’s thick hair.

Chauntal skipped along, slipping her arm through Rollie’s. “Honey, show him your latest.”

Rollie pointed down to the south side of the farm. “Merlot.”

Arch could be seen walking along the straight rows of vines.

“Heard you planted them last November.”

“Twenty acres of Merlot. Fifteen in Pinot Gris. And that’s just the beginning.”

“Arch will know just what to do,” Fair noted.

“Veritas Vineyards wanted him, but I offered a partnership and that closed the deal. He’s thirty-four, his best years ahead.” Rollie smirked.

Fair bit his tongue, then replied, “Arch has a lot of hands-on knowledge and ambition. Those years in the Napa Valley gave him a lot of experience.”

“Chauntal and I intend to make the best red wine in the state of Virginia. Great design on the label, too. ’Course, we’re still in the creative stage.” He pulled drawings out of his pocket. They were pretty.

Fair thought of Hy Maudant’s white square label, with a gold fleur-de-lis underneath the simple logo “White Vineyards.” He murmured about the colors.

“Dr. Haristeen, can we get you anything to drink, a sandwich perhaps? You’ve had a long morning, I’m sure.”

“No, thank you, Mrs. Barnes. My next call is at St. James.”

“Alicia Palmer.” Rollie’s eyes widened. “I’ve seen her, but I’ve never met her.”

“She likes her solitude, her horses, and her Gordon setter, Max. She’s a thinker.” Fair wasn’t one to gossip.

Before Rollie could open his mouth and put his foot in it regarding the legendary Alicia, Chauntal said, “Congratulations on your marriage.” She’d heard that Harry and Arch once had an affair, but Chauntal would never mention this—not even to Rollie. Let him hear it, which he would eventually. She’d pretend surprise, which would please him. Then, too, the longer Rollie didn’t know, the longer she had before he blurted out something inappropriate.

“I am a lucky devil.” Fair’s eyes twinkled.

As he drove down the long drive lined with blooming Bradford pears, he thought how lucky he really was, how exquisite spring could be in central Virginia, three months of color and coolness that finally surrendered to summer’s warmth.

He also thought that Rollie Barnes would be eventually disappointed in Crozet. In their first year, the Barneses had succeeded in being invited to the big parties but had yet to be asked to the small, intimate gatherings, which were far more important. People liked Chauntal. They had more difficulty liking Rollie. At least his new interest in making wine aligned him with the great powers in the county.

Fair turned right on Route 810, headed down toward Crozet. St. James was a little closer to town.

7

C
arter’s Ridge, like a slender rib off a fish’s spine, runs northeast–southwest from the Blue Ridge Mountains from which it has become detached over millennia. Eppes Creek slides into the north fork of the Hardware River near the northeast ridge of Carter’s Ridge. The old bridge, washed out many times since Europeans arrived this far west in Virginia, was replaced with a trestle bridge a stone’s throw east of that confluence. Route 20, a snaky, dangerous road, rolled over the bridge.

Turning left at Carter’s Bridge, if one had originally been traveling south on Route 20, estates such as Red Mountain were hidden from view. One mile and a half down the road, the land opened and a beautiful valley impressed itself on the viewer. James Monroe had lived on this road at Ash Lawn, a simple, yellow, gracious Federal home at the end of a curving tree-lined drive. Morven, once home to Thoroughbreds and those who loved them, was also situated on the northern side of the road, as was Albemarle House, the center of Kluge Estate Winery and Vineyard, established in 1999.

Professor Forland luxuriated in the lavish hospitality of Patricia Kluge and her husband, Bill Moses. During the days, chauffeured in Patricia’s much-used Range Rover, he inspected her Chardonnay grapes along with the rows of Cabernet Sauvignon, Merlot, and Cabernet Franc. He counseled her on using three shoots off the main stem even though two was safer.

“That third one is your insurance policy,” he declared.

Given her legendary generosity, Patricia made certain that Professor Forland had an opportunity to visit other practitioners of the art. In her mind and in Bill’s, it wasn’t enough for her or for Felicia Rogan of Oakencroft to flourish; all should flourish. Throughout the week, she personally drove him to the vineyards of Hy Maudant, Rollie Barnes, and Arch Saunders. She also stopped at smaller places where a farmer nursed scarcely an acre under cultivation.

Patricia believed in the theory that you can give a man a fish or you can teach him to fish. She thought teaching someone to fish was by far the greater service.

The good professor made many a suggestion, and the recipients were suitably thrilled. None more than Toby Pittman.

Toby prided himself on the types of grapes he was growing. One, Barbera, a red from Italy’s Piedmont region, did quite well in Virginia’s Piedmont. Toby aggressively promoted the grape. Barboursville Vineyard also used Barbera. The Italians, according to Toby, pushed their grapes, and the Barbera was suffering a loss of quality. He asserted that he was doing a better job of it. When Professor Forland sampled one of Toby’s casks, he agreed, with reservations.

“Be wary of too much spiciness, Toby.” Professor Forland spat out the small tasting on the ground, as one was supposed to do; otherwise the small fellow would have been drunk as a skunk by the end of the day. “Now, mind you, my strongest suit is under the canopy,” he alluded to his expertise being in the actual growing itself, “but I have an educated palate.”

Toby waited while Patricia sampled his wine. “Medium-bodied, and I love the hint of tobacco flavor. You’re an artist, Toby.” Her smile dazzled him.

Patricia had that effect on men.

“As I said, mind the spiciness.” Professor Forland then sampled Toby’s newer type of grape, which was a Petit Verdot. “Mmm. Yes. I assume you’ll be blending this with Cabernet Sauvignon when all is ready. Growing that, too, are you?”

“No. Tried. I don’t like what I get. I buy from Dinny Ostermann when I can. He cultivates five acres of Cabernet Sauvignon over in Crozet. Just the right combination of sun, rain, and soil.”

“For all our studies, I sometimes think Dionysus smiles on one man and not another, all things being equal.” He paused, beaming at his hostess. “We know the gods smile on you, but none has smiled more than Aphrodite.”

“Professor, you’re very kind.”

Toby, not smooth enough to have thoughts of mentioning Aphrodite, scowled. “You know how I know I’m succeeding?”

“Your wine tells you that,” Professor Forland said.

“Yeah, but the way I really know is that Arch offered to buy Rockland. ’Course, it’s all Rollie’s money.” He laughed. “If Rollie and Arch ever got their hands on Rockland it would fry Hy Maudant’s last misshapen brain cell. They can bid against each other. I’m not selling one acre. I know what I’ve got.”

Later that evening, another extraordinary dinner was hosted where Bill had wisely sprinkled the guests with politicians from all levels of state government who could or should help the wine industry along with local growers. Since he was a worrier by nature, Professor Forland felt for the first time that the hard years for Virginia vintners were behind them at last.

In the interval between dessert and cards, he stepped outside to gaze at the gardens, answering to spring. Up the hill, he beheld a statue beckoning in the night, a focus for the eye. Everywhere he looked he was seduced by a powerful aesthetic sensibility.

Bill, cigar in hand, joined him. “Cohiba? I needed a respite.” He offered him a cigar from his leather carrying case.

“Gave up smoking,” Professor Forland said as Bill pocketed the extra cigar—a nice fat gauge, too, so the draw would be deliciously smooth.

“Thank you for serving on the panel, for visiting our compatriots,” Bill graciously said. “Virginia has two hundred fifty vineyards. You can’t visit them all, but I’m delighted you’ve visited the ones here.”

Professor Forland inhaled the fragrant cigar odor as Bill prepared his. “Like Galileo, I recant.”

“Ah.” Bill smiled, pulling the extra cigar from his blazer pocket, cutting off the nub end for the professor with a sharp mother-of-pearl cigar cutter. Then he carefully held the flame a bit away from the tip so Professor Forland could light the treasure. “A little bit of heaven, isn’t it?”

“Nicotine serves a purpose,” Professor Forland good-naturedly remarked. “You know, when your wife and I were out today we saw Toby’s operation.”

“Very opinionated.”

“There are worse characteristics, but, yes, he can be difficult. What surprised me is his idea for a wine he hopes to bottle this year. He buys the Cabernet Sauvignon from—let me remember—”

“Dinny Ostermann.” Bill nodded with admiration. “He’s one of those people who can make a purse out of a sow’s ear.”

“The usual mix of Petit Verdot, and Toby’s got the Verdot right, too, but the usual mix is eighty percent Petit Verdot with twenty percent Cabernet Sauvignon. The Petit Verdot plays the dominating role. He wants to reverse it.”

“Linden Vineyards Aeneus 2001 does that.” Bill’s studies showed themselves, although he wasn’t a bragging sort of man.

Then again, if you catch a big fish you generally don’t go home by an alley.

“Yes, yes, I know, but what really surprised me was Toby’s aggressiveness. He says he can do it better.”

Bill laughed. “In his own way he’s as arrogant as Rollie Barnes. What’d you think of that operation, by the way?”

“Too early to tell. Spends money like water. Arch Saunders was one of my students, you know. Even taught for two years. Not as brilliant as Toby in the classroom, but a more balanced person. And sounds like Rollie is buying or renting any land with the right soils and drainage. Very competitive. Arch, too. They’ll upset people, those two.” Professor Forland drew deeply on the heavenly cigar. “Despite the conviviality of tonight’s dinner, every now and then Toby glares at Arch and Rollie. Toby’s worked so hard, alone, and here Arch comes back from California and snags a plummy partnership.”

“Heard that Rollie is building his own bottling facility. And the first grape hasn’t appeared on the vine.” Bill exhaled a blue plume, changing the focus of the conversation.

“Optimism.”

“Mmm.” Bill shrugged. He endured Rollie.

Bill was a secure man with a bubbling, effervescent humor. Bill’s quiet confidence and, worse, his social grace infuriated Rollie, who felt clumsy.

“Did you know that Hy Maudant bought a mobile bottling line?” Professor Forland closed his eyes as he took a deep drag, the orange glow of the cigar tip shining.

“When did he do that?”

“Today. We stopped at White Vineyards first.”

“Patricia and I haven’t had a minute to catch up. I’ll be interested to hear what she says. Those units cost $350,000. Hy is a good businessman, the French usually are. Instead of sinking all his money into his own bottling facility, he buys the mobile unit. He already has the huge tractor to pull it. He’ll use it himself and then hire it out to other vintners. Shrewd.” Bill made note of the fact that Hy, a guest this evening, didn’t brag about his acquisition.

“Very, as long as you have someone who can service it.”

Bill turned as he heard Patricia call from inside. “Be right in.” He turned to Professor Forland. “Hy will have someone who can fix it. I know Hy. By the way, I’ll put together a small box of different cigars for you to take home. Unless you have a favorite.”

“Ah, your sampler will tell me more about you than my poor tastes.” He stopped a moment. “But I have to say the best cigar I ever smoked in my life was a Diplomaticos, Cuban.”

“Yes. I like them very much, although I tend more toward Cohibas, at least after dinner. Romeo and Juliet and Dunhill make a good cigar even if the tobacco isn’t Cuban. But you know, the Cubans really do have the perfect conditions for cigar tobacco. Funny, isn’t it, cigars are as unique as wine and just as difficult to produce. Another fine art,” he sighed. “Damned fool embargo. Hell, when the embargo was declared, President Kennedy had humidors stuffed with Cuban cigars. That’s what raises my blood pressure more than anything—hypocrisy.”

“The hypocrite honors morals or the law by pretending to obey.”

Bill laughed, appreciating the fine point. “Another brandy?” As they walked inside, Bill draped his arm over the professor’s narrow shoulders. “I married Patricia, but you know when I knew I was completely, totally, eternally in love with that woman? When she dragged me out of bed at four-thirty in the morning for weeks our first year to pick the grapes. She spared me nothing. We did much of the physical work ourselves, and I am not an early riser. But, you know, the happiness on her face, the shared goal—for the first time in my life I have a three-hundred-sixty-degree relationship with a woman, the most remarkable woman I have ever known.”

“You are a fortunate man, because she’s one of the most beautiful women in the world.”

Bill puffed his last puff. “Beauty may bring you to a woman, but it won’t keep you. She has to have beauty from within.”

“Ah, like the vine. It, too, must express the beauty from within.”

“Poetic.” Bill smiled as they rejoined the guests in the den, where a lively discussion was in progress about the spiritual difference between baseball, football, and basketball.

Professor Forland knew little about sports, but the sight of women as impassioned about sports as the men was not unique to him. In Blacksburg, football was a religion both genders appeared to worship equally.

However, the true achievement of Virginia Tech lay in its vibrant social life. It was once written in a national magazine when rating the best party schools in America that they couldn’t include Tech. It would be unfair to pit professionals against amateurs.

As the guests left, Toby and Arch fell in step some distance behind Rollie and Chauntal.

At the bottom of the curving outdoor stairs, Toby abruptly asked, “Why’d you leave Tech for California? Being a professor is a soft job, a good one.”

“Hands on. Classroom’s not for me, but I didn’t know that until I taught for two years.”

“Didn’t have anything to do with Mary Minor?” Toby used Harry’s true Christian name and her maiden surname.

They reached Toby’s truck, parked well below the great house. “A little, I guess.”

Toby leaned against the door, crossed his arms over his chest. “What was it like working out there in Napa Valley?”

“Different world, a totally different world. But the people who have been hired by the rich people—the movie stars’ people and all that, those Italians and French that actually run the vineyards—they are something. They are true blue. They had to adjust to a different climate, soils, rainfall, and a whole different way of living, but, boy, look what they are producing.” He paused a moment. “Good as it is and beautiful as it is, too many people in California, even in Napa Valley. They’re like locusts just eating everything up.”

“Never happen here.”

“Oh, yeah? Toby, Charlottesville came in as the number-one place to live in America.”

“Ah, just a poll. The rest of the country, outside the South, I mean, thinks we’re all a bunch of dumb rednecks.”

“Hope so.” Arch laughed.

Toby laughed, too, a rarity for him. “Yeah, keep ’em out. Hey, want to see what I just bought?”

“Sure.”

He opened the truck and pulled down the raised center console/armrest. He popped open the lid and removed a handgun. “Isn’t this something? Brand-new. A Ruger P95PR. Bought two boxes of ten-round magazines, too.”

“Hey, that’s nine millimeter. You going to shoot targets with that?”

“Sometimes.”