Imperfect Strangers

CHAPTER 14

Sandy stood in the dusty soil of a Napa Valley vineyard and listened to Mario Scotti, its owner, extoll the virtues of his latest vintage.

"I tell you, Sandy, it is the best I have ever made!" Mario was saying.

Mario said this every year, of course, in his slightly accented English. He had been born in Tuscany and had come to California as a child, but he had never entirely lost his accent. Sandy bought Mario's wines each year, and in increasing quantities, but this year he had come for advice, as well. "Mario, I will increase last year's order by twenty percent if you will find me a vineyard to buy." Sandy knew that if there was a vineyard in Napa to be bought, Mario would know about it, and he was not disappointed.

"Larsen," Mario said.

"Lars Larsen?"

"What would a Swede know about wine? Vodka, maybe, but not wine."

Sandy knew the property: it was a few miles south, well located, pretty. "Why does Larsen want to sell?"

"The same as anybody else; he's spent all his money. The difference is, Larsen has spent it replanting with phyloxera-resistant vines."

The phyloxera parasite, scourge of European vineyards, had come to California, and every vineyard was faced with the huge costs of planting and maturing new vines that would resist the pest.

"What's his equipment like?"

"Beautiful. The man is obsessive about having the best this, the best that; always has been. Larsen was never one to make do the way I have to."

"I've drunk a bottle here and there, and it was good."

"He makes a pretty good cabernet and a pretty good merlot. Larsen is a technician; I think he believes that if he could reduce the best wine to a chemical formula, that he could duplicate it endlessly, like ink. He has a good, young winemaker over there; an artist, if he wasn't working for a chemist."

"You know how much he wants?"

"I can find out."

"Find out."

Sandy sat in the walled garden of the restaurant, Tre Vigne, and sipped the Larsen cabernet. Larsen sat across the table from him, watching for his reaction.

"Very nice," Sandy said.

Larsen's face fell. "That's all? Very nice?"

"It's excellent," Sandy admitted.

"It's superb," Larsen said. "You won't get my price down by bad-mouthing my wines."

Sandy shrugged. "So why isn't the merlot living up to its potential?" He knew he had struck home by Larsen's expression.

"So, I haven't been making it as long," Larsen said grudgingly.

"Tell you what I want to see, Lars-the books, the machinery, the figures on replanting, the lot. I want you to put a package together and send it to my bankers in New York." He wrote down Sam Warren's name and address. "And in a couple of weeks I'll get back to you. If we like what we see, we'll make you a substantial offer-I'm not out to steal you blind, I just don't want to pay a dime too much."

"I guess I can live with that," Larsen said. "I'll introduce your banker to my lawyer; we'll see what happens. And now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go and labor in my vineyard." Larsen shook hands and left.

When Sandy was sure he had left the restaurant, he whipped out his portable phone and called Sam Warren.

"How are you, Sandy?" Warren asked.

"I'm wonderful, Sam; I've found a property in Napa, and it's a gem."

"So soon?"

"My contacts are good." He told Sam about Mario Scotti.

"So why doesn't Scotti buy it himself?"

"For the same reason nobody else around here can afford it at the moment-they're all investing heavily in replanting. I've asked Larsen to send you a complete package on the place, and I'd like you and your people to go over it as soon as possible."

"Of course. We'll research what other Napa and Sonoma properties have brought recently, too, and if you can get us the package quickly, we'll have a ballpark figure for you within a few days."

"That's what I wanted to hear," Sandy said. "Scotti could be of help to you in setting a price. Talk to you next week." He hung up and addressed the remains of his pasta; he could not believe his good fortune in locating such a good property so quickly. He looked up at the trees shading the garden and at the blue sky beyond. That particular bit of sky was the roof over one of the world's premier wine-growing regions, and soon he would own a piece of it-his life-long dream.

Then he remembered what he had agreed to do that night, and it was as if the sun had left the sky. He forced himself to consider going to the police. He could call Duvivier right now, from his table, and spill the whole story. After all, the concierge at the Pierre would back him up on the message he had given to Martindale.

And that was all. There wasn't another person in the world who could substantiate his story. Martindale could simply deny the whole proposition, laugh it off as the rantings of a madman, and Sandy could prove nothing. And he would still have Martindale to deal with.

The man was ahead of him all the way; he had known that Sandy would come around to thinking of killing him, instead of his wife, and he had taken precautions-or, at least, said he had taken precautions. It was a bluff that Sandy could not afford to call. Martindale had the upper hand all the way-he could incriminate Sandy, but Sandy could not touch him.

Suddenly, Sandy had lost his appetite. He passed up dessert and asked for his check. It was a ninety-minute drive back to his hotel, and he had a decision to make. He had to decide just what he was capable of.

On the way back, he stopped at a men's store in Napa and bought a lightweight, reversible raincoat, a tweed cap, and a pair of thin driving gloves.