Imperfect Strangers

CHAPTER 44

Sandy spent his first day at his new vineyard touring the plantings, inspecting machinery and meeting staff.

"I'm surprised at the small number of people," Sandy said. "When I read the list of employees it occurred to me that you might be understaffed."

Bernini shook his head. "I run a pretty tight ship, and Larsen was tight with a buck. The only disagreement we had about staffing was his objection to hiring very young people. He claimed they couldn't pull their weight, but it was my view that we need to build from the bottom for the long run."

"I agree with you," Sandy said. "Find us some young people. You ought to have an understudy, too; somebody who could replace you when you're too old to make wine."

"I hope that's a long way off," Bernini said, laughing.

"I hope so, too, but if you should get hit by a bus at harvest time, I'd hate not having somebody here who could make wine."

"Good point. I'll scout around. Are you comfortable in the house?"

"Yes, quite comfortable. Cara is up there now measuring and making notes. It'll be more comfortable soon. Oh, we're having our first guests this weekend."

"Do you need anything?"

"Some wine, I think."

"Shall I root around in the cellars and see what I can find?"

"Thank you."

"Larsen only had the place for eleven years and made wine for only nine. There's some older stuff that the old Italian made- the one he bought the place from. He knew what he was doing."

"Let's try a few bottles; I'll trust your judgment."

Saul Winner made a beeline for the Wylie oil. Standing there, his bag still in his hand, he laughed aloud. "The fucking charlatan," he said. "He'd never have tried this on in San Francisco; he'd have been exposed in a minute. I guess he thought Larsen was a hick, and since he was out of town, too-"

"Would you testify in court to that effect?" Sandy asked.

"In a minute; I'd love to see the bastard squirm while I discuss the points of technique that any remotely knowledgeable person would spot as deficient."

While Winner and his young companion, Nicky, were changing for dinner, Sandy called Larsen.

"Hello, Lars," he said. "How are you?"

"Very well, Sandy. Are you settling in?"

"We're very comfortable," Sandy said. "I had a question for you. You bought some pictures from a man named Peter Martindale, in San Francisco, didn't you?"

"Yes, a Wylie oil and a small landscape; I forget the other painter."

"Did you ever have them authenticated?"

"No, but Martindale gave me a certificate of authenticity."

"Oh, good; where might I find it?"

"I think it's in one of the drawers of the dining room sideboard," Larsen said.

"Did anyone ever mention to you that the Wylie might not be authentic?"

"No," Larsen said emphatically. "Do you have some reason to believe it's not?"

"Actually, I do. We have a houseguest who's an eminent painter, and he says Martindale rooked you."

"Well, I'll be damned," Larsen said. "I don't know anything about painting; I just trusted the fellow."

"What, may I ask, did you pay for it?" Sandy asked.

"Forty thousand; Martindale told me a few weeks ago that it's worth seventy-five now. Sandy, if you're convinced it's a fake, I'll be glad to reimburse you for its value, as stated in the inventory I gave you."

"Thank you, Lars, but I'd prefer it if Martindale reimbursed me. Will you join me in a lawsuit?"

"Damn right I will, and I'll share the costs, too. This really makes me angry. I'd like to knock that man's teeth down his throat."

"Please don't have any contact with Martindale," Sandy said. "Let me handle it from this end."

"Whatever you say, Sandy; tell the lawyers to send half the bills to me."

"Oh, I think we'll let Mr. Martindale foot the legal bills, Lars. I'll talk to you soon."

"I'm a closet representationalist," Saul Winner said over his third glass of cabernet. "For God's sake, don't ever quote me on that; they'd throw me out of half the museums and galleries in the country."

"Why?" Sandy asked. "I mean, lots of other modernists did representational work, especially in their early years."

"I've made sure that nobody can find something like that of mine," Winner said. "I'm on record as abhorring that sort of work, you know. Maybe in my golden years I'll shock the market by doing a landscape or two." He drank some more wine. "Are you really going to sue Peter, Sandy?"

"I am, and Larsen, to whom he sold the painting, is going to join me in the suit. Tell me, Saul, do you know somebody at the newspapers to whom we could leak the story?"

"Oh, boy, do I! I can promise you half the front page of the Sunday arts section!"

"Oh, good," Sandy said.

They were getting ready for bed when Cara spoke up. "Sandy, I don't understand; why do you want to get involved in a public brawl with Peter?"

"Because I'm sick of his threats," Sandy said. "He's said he would do all these things to me-harm my son, ruin my business, harm you. His threats carry weight, because we're not supposed to know each other-he could do these things without being suspected. When I drag him into the papers, he'll have a legitimate grudge against me, and that will neutralize at least half of his ability to hurt us. If something should happen to me or to you, he'd be the first suspect."

"It seems risky to me," she said, getting into bed. "Peter can be very vindictive.

"So can I," Sandy said.