Illusions

11

Clouds were forming a low, dark overcast and there was a sharp ground-hugging wind when I reached the junction of Alexander Valley Road and Highway 128. It was only two-thirty but shadows were already long in the folds and hollows of the hills, among the thicker stands of oaks that flanked 128. Rain later on, I thought. Maybe even a good-size storm. I could smell the ozone in the air even with the windows tightly shut.

The public parking area at Silver Creek Cellars was deserted. For the most part, wine-tasting is a fair-weather, weekend pursuit. The tasting room was still open, though; small wineries can’t afford to pander to the vagaries of weather or to make blanket assumptions about human nature. I parked as close as I could to the smaller stone building and let the wind hurry me inside.

The tasting room had two occupants, the blond hostess I’d talked to last Thursday and the heavyset, red-haired woman who’d complained about too much residual sugar in one of the fermenting vats. They were having a conversation in a small office behind the counter. The blonde noticed me as I entered, came out smiling and saying “Welcome to—” Recognition put an abrupt end to both the greeting and the smile. “Oh,” she said in chilly tones, “it’s you again. The liar.”

“Me again.”

“You have a lot of nerve coming back here.”

“I know it. Is Sondra Nelson—”

“I’m not going to talk to you,” she said, “not after what you did, the way you lied to me. Why don’t you go away? You’re not wanted at Silver Creek.”

“Look, miss—”

“What’s going on, Paula?” That from the redhead, standing in the office doorway. She moved forward to join the other woman and I had my first good look at Gail Kendall. A nametag pinned above the pocket of her white smock read “Gail,” so I assumed that was who she was. Late thirties, solid and big-boned rather than overweight, with a wedge-shaped chin and a generous mouth. Homely, but in an appealing way. The old saw about opposites attracting sometimes applies to same-sex friendships, too: she was nothing at all like the woman in Ira Erskine’s photographs.

The blonde, Paula, said, “He’s that detective, the one who found Sandy for her pig of an ex-husband.”

The look Gail Kendall fixed on me would have clabbered milk. Except that in her anger-hot eyes I was a different and much darker substance, the kind you detour around when you spot it dirtying the ground. “What the hell do you want?”

“To see Sondra Nelson. Or James Woolfox, if she’s not here.”

“Why?”

“I’d rather tell her personally.”

“More trouble, is that it?”

“No, ma’am. Not from me.”

“You know what you almost did, siccing that son-of-a-bitch on Sandy? You have any idea?”

“I do now. I didn’t last Thursday.”

“That’s no excuse. Couldn’t you see what he was? Or didn’t you care?”

“I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t care. And yes, I should’ve seen what he was but I didn’t.”

“Why didn’t you at least talk to her, give her some warning? What right does a man like you have to poke into people’s lives without them knowing anything about it?”

“I made a mistake, Ms. Kendall, and I’m sorry for it.”

“How do you know my name?”

“Sheriff’s Lieutenant Battle.”

She made a spitting mouth. “I suppose he’s sorry, too. Everybody’s so damn sorry. You think that makes it all right, being sorry?”

“No. But it’s all I have to offer.”

“Leave Sandy and Jim alone. You’ve caused them enough grief.”

“No more grief, just a few minutes of her time, or his. Is either of them here?”

“No.”

“At his ranch?”

“They’re not anywhere in the valley right now, thanks to you. Not anywhere in the state.”

“Come on, Ms. Kendall. The lieutenant wouldn’t have let them leave the county, much less the state, with his investigation still open.”

“...Did he tell you that? He’s still investigating?”

“Yes.”

“Why, for God’s sake? Erskine shot himself. It was an accident, how could it be anything else?”

“Nobody’s saying it’s anything else.”

“Then why isn’t the goddamn subject closed?”

“I think you’d better ask him.”

“I will, if he comes here again. Sandy’s had enough, more than one person can take. Enough, you hear me?” She shook an angry finger a couple of inches from my nose. “Get off this property or I’ll call some of the workers and have them throw you off. Now!”

I said mildly, “That’s quite a temper you have.”

“When I’m provoked. Keep standing there and provoking me and see what happens.”

“No, thanks. I’ll be going.”

“And don’t come back. Ever.”

Hard-shell woman, I thought as I left the building. Full of fire when it comes to people she cares about. That was admirable, but I couldn’t help wondering how far she’d go to protect a friend. How explosive her temper was when she was really provoked.

At the crossroads store up valley I had a look into the Sonoma County phone book. Erskine had managed without much difficulty to find out where James Woolfox lived, which probably meant that Woolfox had a listed number and address. Right: 10116 Chalk Hill Road. I put gas in the car, asked the store clerk for directions to Chalk Hill Road — it was back the way I’d come, past Silver Creek Cellars — and pulled out again onto Highway 128.

Number 10116 was about three miles along Chalk Hill’s twisty course. An asphalt drive led in under a wrought-iron arch set into pillars, the words “JSW RANCH” in the center of the arch. The drive hooked around the brow of a low hill planted in grapevines; more vineyards stretched away on the opposite side. A quarter of a mile in, the vineyards ended and pastureland opened up — rough terrain full of rises and dips, carpeted in bunch grass and spotted with craggy outcrops, ancient oaks, several grazing horses. Beautiful setting, unspoiled by the ranch buildings arranged in the lee of the hill in such a fashion that they seemed almost part of the landscape. Aspens flanked the drive leading in to the ranch-yard and more oaks shaded house, stables, and other outbuildings. Judging from this place and the winery, James Woolfox had both taste and an affinity for nature.

The house was an old two-story frame, brightly whitewashed and trimmed out in dark greens and browns that matched the oak colors. An arbored area the size of a football field extended out in front and to one side; grapevines grew thickly over its trellised roof and supports. Underneath was a garden and a lot of wrought-iron outdoor furniture, and on one of the benches a man sat alone, bundled in a heavy wool jacket. He stayed put, watching my approach, until I reached the end of the drive where it widened out into a parking area. Then he stood and came out to meet me.

Average size, average features enhanced by a symmetrical, silvering beard neatly barbered. Hair darker, thick and wind-tangled. Crowding fifty, but youthful looking and in good shape. His face was drawn, the eyes sad and carrying heavy baggage underneath.

“Mr. Woolfox?”

“That’s right.” Hoarse voice, as if he had a sore throat or incipient laryngitis. I had the impression he was one of these self-contained, quiet men who speak only when they have something to say — and that he’d had to do a lot more talking than he was used to the past couple of days. “Which breed are you?”

“I’m sorry... breed?”

“Newspaper, TV, radio.”

“Oh, I see. I’m not a reporter, Mr. Woolfox.”

“No? Then—?”

“But I am here about Ira Erskine,” I said. “I have some things to say to you and your fiancée.”

He’d stiffened a little. “Things?”

“I’m the detective Erskine hired, the man who found Ms. Nelson for him.”

I watched his face harden, set tight. But he remained silent for half a minute or so, staring at me without blinking. The wind gusted around us, cold and moany, rattling the tree branches and arbor vines. It was no more frigid than Woolfox’s stare.

He said finally, “Say what you came to and get off my land.”

“I’d like Ms. Nelson to hear it, too. Is she here?”

“She’s resting. I won’t disturb her, not for you.”

“It’ll only take a couple of minutes—”

“No.”

“All right.” The wind, gusting again, made me say then, “Can we at least talk inside? It’s pretty cold out here.”

“You’re not welcome in my house.”

“The porch, or inside my car? Out of the wind.”

The porch suited him; he said as much and led me up there. It girdled the ground floor on two sides, the part facing the open pastureland enclosed in glass. Woolfox stopped as soon as we were protected by the glass and turned to face me again.

“I’m listening,” he said.

I said, “It wasn’t easy for me to come here like this, but I felt I owed it to you and Ms. Nelson. Myself, too. I want you both to know I had no idea Erskine was stalking her. If I had I’d’ve notified the authorities immediately. He told me a pack of plausible lies about having a son in Santa Fe who was dying of leukemia, wanting to locate his ex-wife to give her the news about the boy. I swallowed his story whole. That’s not an excuse; I don’t have any excuses to make. I should’ve checked on him and I didn’t. At least I should have talked to your fiancée before I told Erskine where to find her and I didn’t do that, either. I can’t undo the damage. All I can do is tell you and her I’m sorry.”

“Cold comfort,” Woolfox said.

“I know it. But cold comfort is better than none at all.”

“Is it?”

“I’d like to think so.”

“The last honorable man.”

“You don’t strike me as someone who sneers at honor, Mr. Woolfox.”

The long, silent stare again. To one side of him I thought I saw the curtain move at an inside window, the blurred shapes of head and arm and shoulder behind it. A second later, the shapes were gone and the curtain hung motionless again.

Woolfox blinked, let breath hiss out between his teeth; some of the rigidity seemed to leave his body, and along with it, some of his hostility. He said, “I can’t forgive you. Your carelessness could have brought harm to a woman I love deeply.”

“Forgiveness isn’t an issue,” I said.

“No, I suppose not. You were right before, I’m not a man who sneers at honor. But for you to come here like this—”

He broke off, glancing past me. That and the whisper of footsteps turned me sideways. A woman had come out through the front door and was approaching us in stiff, deliberate strides. Her age and the short, brown curly hair would have identified her even if there hadn’t been a strong resemblance to the photographs of Janice Durian Erskine. The first thing that struck me about Sondra Nelson in the flesh was how much she’d matured in five years, how much more attractive at thirty-something she was despite the effects of fear and stress. In her twenties her near-beauty had been the fragile kind; over the past few years it had solidified and strengthened, as if a fine steel mesh had been added in layers beneath the skin. Janice Erskine would have crumbled and run scared again as soon as her former husband showed up; Sondra Nelson was all through running and had been for some time.

Woolfox said, “You shouldn’t be out here without a coat,” and stepped past me to her side. “You shouldn’t have come outside at all.”

She smiled tenderly at him. “This sweater’s warm enough.” The sweater was a bulky-knit, black like the slacks she wore; but it was a safe bet the color choice had nothing to do with mourning. Her crimson smile flattened out before she said to me, “I overheard part of what you were saying a minute ago.”

“I meant every word, Ms. Nelson.”

“I’m sure you did. I can’t forgive you any more than Jim can, but I don’t hold you responsible. Ira’s dead, that part of my life is over — it’s all that matters.”

“For your sake I’m glad it turned out that way. But the fact is, I hold myself responsible.”

“We all suffer for our sins.”

“Some of us more than others.”

“Yes. Before you go, will you answer two questions for me?”

“Of course, if I can.”

“How did you find me? The sheriff’s lieutenant wasn’t clear about that and I’d like to know. Something to do with the Silver Creek label...?”

I explained about the photographs, Ms. Weissman, the Salishan Gallery connection.

“That damn label,” Woolfox said. “I should never have insisted you design it.”

“You didn’t know about Ira then, sweet.”

“You should’ve told me then, instead of letting me push you into doing the design.”

“I wasn’t sure of us or myself two years ago. I did the label to please you, because you wanted it so badly. And to please myself, because I was ready to paint again. It seemed safe enough. A small winery, estate-bottled vintages mostly distributed in California... and Ira neither drank nor had any interest in wine. If it hadn’t been for...”

She let the rest of it trail off, so I finished it for her. “If it hadn’t been for me, chances are he’d never have found you that way.”

“You must be a very good detective,” she said.

“Not in this case.”

“Well.” She asked then, “When were you sure Sandy Nelson and Janice Erskine were the same person... last Thursday after you’d been to the winery, was it?”

“Yes.”

“Why didn’t you come back on Friday and talk to me? That’s the second thing I’d like to know. Why didn’t you at least call and give me a chance to tell you my side before you went to Ira?”

“I don’t have a defensible answer, Ms. Nelson. I should have talked to you first, no question. All I can say is that I had some personal matters on my mind that may have clouded my judgment. Anyhow, I still believed Erskine’s lies about a son dying of leukemia. It didn’t seem necessary at the time to contact you myself.”

“And of course Ira asked you not to.”

“Yes, but that’s not an acceptable excuse, either.”

She looked away, out over the wind-rippled landscape. “He was always such a brilliantly devious liar when he wanted something badly enough. I’ve never known anyone who could manufacture lies the way Ira could on the spur of the moment. Or who could hate as intensely as he hated. He claimed to still love me, but he really didn’t, you know. Love turned to hate the day Karen died, but both emotions were so violent even I couldn’t tell the difference right away.”

“Karen... your daughter?”

She nodded. Old pain moved like a current behind her eyes, beneath the surfaces of her face. “A crib death, one of those terrible tragedies no one can prevent. But Ira blamed me. Blamed me and beat me...” Headshake. Slow, labored breath. Then, “He would have killed me eventually, no matter what I said or did. It was only a matter of time.”

Woolfox said, “He was a monster,” and tightened his protective embrace with enough force to make her wince.

“A monster is exactly what he was.”

“But he’ll never hurt you again. No one will ever hurt you as long as I’m alive.”

She favored him with another smile and he kissed her cheek. Very much in love, those two; genuinely deep and abiding affection can’t be feigned or mistaken. It was the kind of closeness Kerry and I felt toward each other. I’d kill to protect her — almost had once, not long ago — and I was pretty sure she’d do the same for me. Woolfox and Nelson, too?

As far as they were concerned I was already gone, but I mumbled something about wishing her peace and happiness, repeated how sorry I was — a run-on exit line that I ought to’ve swallowed instead — and left them clinging to each other. They were already inside out of the cold by the time I finished turning the car around.

Now it was a closed case for me, I thought as I drove out to Chalk Hill Road. I’d done my penance, made my lame apologies, and they could proceed with their marriage and their winemaking and their life together in rustic Alexander Valley, and I could get on with my work and my life and try to profit from the foolish mistakes I’d made.

Right?

Sure, right.

So why did I feel dissatisfied and vaguely cheated, as though I’d run into new layers of deception — and more illusion — this afternoon? And why did I have a hunch I wasn’t quite rid of the Erskine case after all and that it wasn’t over for any of the principals except Erskine himself?