Illusions

6

The Alexander Valley is a nearly two-hour drive northeast of San Francisco, some distance above its more famous neighbors, the Napa and Sonoma valleys. Twenty-four miles long, gradually broadening toward its southern end, it lies between the small towns of Cloverdale and Healdsburg. Highway 101 runs along its western perimeter; so does the Russian River, the valley’s main irrigation source, for two-thirds of its length. The most fertile sections are below the hamlet of Geyserville, where the river veers eastward and meanders down the center of the valley. That part is flat, bordered by low, rolling hills whose slopes and clefts are clotted with oak and madrone; the topsoil is so thick and rich, the weather so vineyard-perfect the whole year round, that the cabernet and zinfandel grapes grown there are considered to be among the best in the state.

Until the past decade or so, the Alexander had only a couple of resident wineries. Most of the vineyards were owned by absentee landlords and after harvesting, the grapes were hauled off to wineries located elsewhere. That began to change in the eighties, when northern California underwent its wine-production boom. Dozens of new, small wineries whose emphasis was on quality rather than quantity opened for business, most in the Napa and Sonoma Valleys; but Dry Creek Valley, the Russian River Valley, and the Alexander each got their share of the entrepreneurial newcomers as well. Nearly twenty wineries now operate in the Alexander Valley, the best of them producing what is known in the trade as signature reds that rival any made elsewhere, including the overly aggrandized Napa Valley. Even I had known that before my talk with the wine shop clerk, which is testimony to how far and wide the word has spread.

The Alexander is a little too far north and a little out of the way to attract the volume of visitors from San Francisco and the East Bay cities that Napa and Sonoma do. The resident wineries might not like this fact, but I was all for it; if I were going on a wine-tasting outing I’d want to do it at a leisurely pace, without having to fight traffic and crowds or pay tasting fees or be limited to two or three in the number of types available for tasting at a given winery. In any event, at noon on Thursday the traffic was light all along Alexander Valley Road to its intersection with Highway 128, another two-laner that follows the north-south course of the river. I turned south on 128. Not many cars along there, either. A pleasant, relaxed drive in the country, past vineyards and oak groves, an occasional winery and small cattle ranch.

Silver Creek Cellars was at the southern tip of the valley. A sign at its graded but unpaved entrance lane said that the tasting room was open from ten until four-thirty daily. The winery buildings weren’t visible until you’d gone a hundred yards or so along the lane; then the trees that screened them opened up and I saw two stone structures set some distance apart, the larger one on slightly higher ground. Both were built back into notches cut in the hillside and shaded by live oaks; a section of the creek that had given the place its name ran through the trees to the south. The buildings figured to be no older than Silver Creek Cellars itself, but they were so artfully made that they not only blended into the landscape but looked as though they’d been there half a century or more.

There was only one car in the parking area. I put mine alongside it. Unlike the fogbound city, the day up here was sunny and dry and mostly windless; the air smelled of the oaks and of the rich scent of fermenting grapes. The building higher up was probably a storage warehouse; a guy on a forklift trundled a pallet-load of oak barrels out through a doorway in its side as I crossed to the smaller building.

Inside, the temperature was ten degrees cooler and the dank cellar aroma twice as rich. The tasting room was at the far end of an aisleway between rows of huge oak and stainless-steel vats. A heavy set, red-haired woman in a white smock and a lean man in overalls were bent alongside one of the metal vats — conducting some sort of test on the wine it contained, judging from an open kit full of vials and other apparatus. The woman said, “There’s too much residual sugar, dammit,” and the man answered, “I just don’t see how that’s possible, Gail,” as I passed.

The tasting room was small, filled with stacked cases and racks of bottles on display, the counter L-shaped and taking up most of two walls. Absent were the T-shirts and crest-embossed wineglasses and other tourist items most wineries peddle along with their vintages these days. Limited space may have been the reason, but it might also mean that James Woolfox cared more about making and showcasing premium wines than he did about ringing up a few extra bucks. The bottle of ‘95 Century Vines Zinfandel last night had been pretty wonderful.

Only two people occupied the stone-walled room, a woman behind the counter and a male customer in the process of buying half a dozen bottles of Chardonnay. I pretended to browse among the racked wines, waiting for the transaction to be completed and the customer to leave. Most of the bottles wore the distinctive silver, black, and white label, but there were a few 1994 vintages that carried a different and inferior label. That told me the new one had been designed sometime in ‘95, for the ‘95 bottling.

The man left as I was reading the label description on a bottle of ‘94 Sauvignon Blanc, which some neo Bulwer-Lytton had rhapsodized as being “ripe, soft, plump, a passionate delight to the tongue.” Wine people get downright orgasmic about their product at times, as if you ought to be making love to it instead of drinking it.

When I stepped up to the counter, the woman — taffy blond about forty — greeted me with a bright smile and said, “Welcome to Silver Creek Cellars” as if she meant it. She gestured to a blackboard on which half a dozen whites and reds were listed. “Our current selections. Would you care to start with our Reisling?”

I explained that I wasn’t there to taste and asked if James Woolfox was on the premises. No, he wasn’t. “You’re a day early,” she said.

“Early?”

“He’s still in Los Angeles. Due back tonight. Is it business or—?”

“Not exactly. As a matter of fact, you may be able to help me.” I tapped one of the bottles in the service well. “I’m looking for some information about this label.”

“...Our merlot?”

“No, the label itself. Can you tell me who designed it?”

“Why, yes. Sondra Nelson. It’s wonderful, isn’t it?”

“That it is. Is Sondra Nelson a local artist?”

“She isn’t an artist. Well, not professionally.”

“That sounds as though you know her.”

“I ought to. She works here.” The woman smiled again and added, “But not for long. At least not full-time.”

“Oh? Why is that?”

“She and Mr. Woolfox are getting married.”

“Is that right? Good for them.”

“In July. They’ve been engaged nearly a year.”

“You seem pleased about it.”

“Oh, I am. Sandy’s a nice person, and Mr. Woolfox... do you know him at all?”

“I haven’t had the pleasure.”

“Well, he’s quite a catch. In every way.”

“How long has Ms. Nelson been employed here?” I asked.

“Let’s see... she came about six months after we opened.”

“About two and a half years, then.”

“Closer to three, actually.”

“Did she know Mr. Woolfox before that?”

“No. He hired her through a newspaper ad.”

“What sort of work?”

“Back then? Same as my job — tasting-room hostess.”

“What does she do now?”

“Mr. Woolfox calls her our woman-of-all-trades. You know, PR work, advertising, special-events planning.”

“Is she here today?”

“No, she went to Los Angeles with Mr. Woolfox. Why are you so interested in Sandy?”

“I think she may be a woman I’ve been trying to locate.”

“Locate? Why?”

“Has to do with her past life.”

“Oh, God, you mean something bad—?”

“Nothing like that, no. It involves a child from a former marriage.”

“...I didn’t know Sandy was married before. Or that she had a child.”

“Not one to talk about her past?”

“Not much. Hardly at all.”

I handed her the photos of Janice Erskine. “Is this Sondra Nelson?”

Pretty soon she said, “Well... Sandy has dark hair. Short and curly.”

“Facial resemblance?”

“I suppose so. Yes. How old are these pictures?”

“Four or five years.”

“Sandy’s about thirty, so that seems right...”

“Try to imagine this woman with short, curly, dark hair. Or Ms. Nelson with long, ash-blond hair. The same person?”

It took her another fifteen seconds to decide, but when she did she sounded positive enough. “Yes. That’s Sandy.”

“And you say she and Mr. Woolfox are due back tonight?”

“That’s right. Originally they were going to stay until next week, but Sandy has jury duty starting Monday.”

“Will she be here at the winery tomorrow?”

“As far as I know she will. Are you coming back to see her?”

“Probably not.”

“Should I tell her you were here?”

“Not necessary. Someone she knows will contact her.”

“Are you sure it’s nothing that will hurt her or Mr. Wool-fox? They’re so much in love...”

“It won’t affect her relationship with him,” I said, and hoped I was right. If Sondra Nelson was Janice Erskine, then it seemed she had in fact kicked her drug habit and built a clean new life for herself here. She deserved as much happiness as she could find after she faced the imminent loss of her son.

Outside again, I noticed that the workman on the forklift was still bringing oak barrels out of the warehouse. By the time I walked up there, he and the lift were back inside. I waited until he reappeared with another load and set it down alongside the others, then approached him.

“Excuse me. Talk to you for a minute?”

He was a fortyish, burly guy wearing Levi’s and a white T-shirt with purple lettering across the front: “I Heard It Through the Grapevine.” He looked me over, shrugged, and switched off the lift’s engine.

“What can I do you for?”

“I’ve got a couple of photographs here. Mind taking a look at them and telling me if you recognize the woman?”

“Woman, huh? What kind of photos?”

“One portrait, one snapshot.”

“So she’s got her clothes on? Too bad.” He laughed at his own wit. “Okay, let’s see ’em.”

I passed them over. He took a good look at one, a shorter look at the other. “Sure,” he said, “that’s Sandy. Sandy Nelson. Boss’s fiancée.” He pronounced it “fee-ahn-cee.”

“You’re sure?”

“Positive. Hair’s different now, brown and curly, but that’s Sandy.” He favored me with a man-to-man grin. “I oughta know. I’m her best friend’s main man.”

So. She’d designed the label, all the dates seemed to check out, and now I had double corroboration on a photographic ID. Good enough for me. I could go to my client with reasonable assurance that I’d earned my fee and leave the rest of it up to him.

On the way back along Highway 128 I called Tamara on the car phone and told her what I’d found out. She already had a bare-bones report on the Erskine investigation in her computer; she said she’d add the new information and have a printout ready by the time I got back. Then I rang up the St. Francis. Ira Erskine wasn’t in his room, and a hotel page didn’t turn him up; I left a message for him to contact me between four and five-thirty today or first thing in the morning.

At the crossroads I stopped at a deli store for a quick sandwich. What with that and midafternoon freeway traffic, it was three-forty before I walked into the office. And Erskine was there waiting for me. Had been waiting for fifteen minutes. He’d come straight over, he said, as soon as he got my message.

Tamara had already given him the printout. She’d tried to have him wait for me, she told me later, but he’d wheedled her into obliging him. When he saw me he hopped up from one of the clients’ chairs and grabbed my hand in a quick, hard grip. The direct eyes were almost hot with excitement. The pain still burned there, but unless you’d seen it before, felt its intensity as I had on Monday, you might have taken it for a different emotion — something close to joy.

“You’re amazing,” he said. “Three days. I was sure it would take longer... a week, two weeks.”

“Well, we got lucky.”

“The wine label, yes. Of all things. I never dreamed she’d make a mistake like that.”

“Mistake?”

“Commercial art, I mean. She was so serious about her painting.”

“She probably designed the label as a favor to Woolfox.”

“Who? Oh, the winery owner. My God, a winery, of all places. We seldom drank wine, neither of us had a taste for it. But that was the whole idea, of course.”

“What was?”

“Her new life. A completely new existence.”

I sat down at my desk. Erskine remained standing, clutching the report the way a man might hang on to a lifeline. I hadn’t expected him to take the news with this much feeling; he’d been under such tight control during Monday’s interview. He was practically quivering.

“The important thing,” I said, “is that she seems to be off drugs. Straight again.”

“You didn’t see her, did you?”

“No. Doesn’t the report say she’s returning tonight from a trip to L.A.?”

“Oh, that’s right.” He dragged a pack of Marlboros out of his shirt pocket, saw the look on my face, and put it away again. A nicotine hit was the last thing he needed right now. “I’m just wondering how she looks. Did anyone you talked to say how she looks?”

“Only that her hair is brown now, short and curly.”

“Brown. Curly. She had such beautiful blond hair. So soft... Jesus, it was like satin...”

Almost sexual, the way he said that, as if bed memories were dancing in his head. He was beginning to embarrass and bother me a little. I asked him, “Did Ms. Corbin put in the report that Sondra Nelson and James Woolfox are being married in July?”

“Married?” His smile straightened into a flat line. “No, that’s not in here.”

“They’ve been engaged nearly a year. The person I talked to says she’s very happy.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Erskine said.

“Doesn’t matter to you that she’s happy?”

“No, the engagement. I don’t care about that.”

“Look, Mr. Erskine, I realize you still care for your ex-wife. But if you have some idea you can talk her into a reconciliation after all this time, I think you’re letting yourself in for a serious disappointment.”

He said “That’s my business” with an edge to the words.

“And your son’s.” Edge in my voice, too. “That’s the primary issue here, isn’t it? The only reconciliation that really matters right now?”

He stared at me for a count of five; then the fire in him seemed to bank a little and he sat down abruptly. “I’m sorry,” he said. “You’re right. Absolutely right. I shouldn’t let myself get so worked up. Tommy... of course Tommy’s the primary issue. But I love Janice, now as much as I ever did, and the prospect of seeing her again... oh Christ, sometimes I feel as though I’m on a roller coaster and I can’t get off. Have you ever felt that way?”

“More than once. But either you manage to stop the ride and get off under your own power, or it’ll end up going so fast it’ll throw you off.”

He nodded. “I know. I’ll be all right. I just need to see her again, talk to her about the boy, and then I’ll be fine.”

“Sure about that?”

“Yes. I’m sure.”

“I’d hate to think you’d try to interfere in Sondra Nelson’s wedding plans. Sondra Nelson now, not Janice Erskine or Janice Durian. Clean and happy in her new life.”

“I won’t interfere,” he said. “I’ll leave for Santa Fe after I see her. Whether she comes along to be with Tommy or not is up to her.”

“That’s the right attitude.”

He nodded again, folded the report in careful thirds and tucked it into his coat pocket, and took out his folder of traveler’s checks. “How much do I owe you?”

“If you’re running short we can send an invoice...”

“No, finances aren’t a problem. I’d prefer to settle now.”

I gave Tamara today’s handful of expenses; she entered them and prepared and printed out a final bill. Erskine signed over another batch of checks, thanked Tamara, thanked me and shook my hand again, and was gone.

“Tell you something,” Tamara said, “I’m not sorry to see the back end of that dude for good.”

“That makes two of us.”

“You got the strange hit off him, too, huh? This time?”

I shrugged. “Too much weighing on him,” I said. “His emotions are all out of whack.”

“Yeah. But no matter what he said, he cares more about seeing his ex again than about his kid dying and he’s not gonna just talk to her once and leave her alone. Man’s carrying a torch big as a house.”

I didn’t answer, but I was thinking the same thing. And wishing now, too late and despite their son’s terminal illness, that I hadn’t found Sondra Nelson and sent Erskine on his way to the Alexander Valley.