Imperfect Strangers

CHAPTER 18

Sandy sat in Sam Warren's office at Mayfair Trust and listened to the presentation prepared by a younger associate at the bank, on the acreage, buildings, equipment, replanting and stock at the Larsen Winery. When the young man had finished, Warren took over.

"Here's where we are," the banker said. "Larsen wants twelve million for the property."

"What's it worth, in your opinion?" Sandy asked.

"Like anything else, it's worth what somebody will pay for it. Fortunately for you, because of the costs and uncertainties involved in replanting with phyloxera-resistant vines, the industry is in a period of retrenchment, and there's not likely to be a lot of bidding on the property. Our research has uncovered what Larsen actually has invested in the property, and, of course, what he owes, and I think what we need to come up with is a maximum amount we're willing to offer that would get him out of the business without a loss on his investment; actually, a small profit."

"And what is that number?"

"Eight million eight; we think that's about right."

"I see."

"I'd suggest offering eight, then working your way up in negotiations. It's important for him to understand right off that you're not going to pay anything near his asking price."

"I agree."

"There's another important consideration," Warren said.

"What's that?"

"Larsen employs a man who is, by all reports, a very fine winemaker. His name is Bernini, Italian-American, forty-two, good track record. He and Larsen have not hit it off, Larsen being so technically oriented, and in order for the vineyard to be worth the eight million eight, you're going to have to be able to sign him to a long-term contract at very good money We feel that Bernini is very important to the operation."

"Has anyone talked to him?"

"Not yet. I think it would be best if you did that personally. We can structure an earnings and stock option package for him that would make it attractive for him to stay, if you can offer him a lot more freedom to pursue his own methods."

"Did you say stock options?"

"Yes. He's going to have to have the prospect of participation down the line somewhere. It's manageable, and we recommend such a course of action. The autocratic, one-hundred-percent owner is a thing of the past; if you want good people you're going to have to allow them to buy in."

"All right."

"My suggestion is that you contact Bernini, tell him you're interested in buying, then hand him off to us; we'll talk with his representative and structure an offer to the man, then we'll be in a position to negotiate seriously with Larsen." Warren handed him a slip of paper. "Here's his phone number; it's your call as to whether to go out there and see him, or just talk to him on the phone."

"Okay, I'll think about that," Sandy said. "If I pay eight million eight for the property, is that going to leave me enough capital to expand into San Francisco and operate the combined businesses?"

"We feel you can do it without incurring debt, but we think that we should set up a line of credit, just in case. We don't want you to feel pinched. Personally, my advice would be to acquire the vineyard, consolidate the operations and identity of the London and New York stores to the maximum extent possible, then establish good cash flow and operating profits before going into San Francisco. We're only talking about a period of a year, possibly two, before you make the San Francisco move."

"That sounds like good advice," Sandy said. "I'd want to devote some time to bringing the vineyard up to speed in terms of the quality of the output and reidentifying it with me and my company. Opening in San Francisco at the same time might be too much to bite off."

"That's our view," Warren said.

Sandy stood up. "Sam, thanks for your recommendations. I'll give all this some thought, contact Bernini, then get back to you in a few days." He shook hands with his bankers, then left.

He walked over to Fifth Avenue and took a taxi down to Fifty-seventh Street, then walked a few yards west to the Rizzoli bookstore. In the rear of the shop was a newsstand that handled foreign and out-of-town newspapers, and he picked up a San Francisco paper.

He went to a deli across the street, ordered a sandwich and iced tea, then opened the paper. The story was still on page three. It began:

GALLERY OWNER FOUND

Peter Martindale, owner of the Martindale Gallery, where a killing took place earlier this week, was located in Los Angeles by detectives from San Francisco Homicide. Mr. Martindale had left for Los Angeles on the day of the shooting to make a scheduled speech at UCLA on nineteenth-century English art, and the gallery owner was speaking at the university at the time the murder occurred in San Francisco.

Well, thought Sandy, he certainly covered his own tracks well enough. But what the hell happened at the gallery? He read on.

Police theorize that the killer entered the gallery through an unlocked rear door, shot the woman, and stole the cash box and a pistol from the desk. The cash box was recovered from a street wastebasket two blocks away and is being examined for fingerprints and other evidence; the pistol has not been recovered. Police believe it may have already been sold on the street.

So it was simply a run-of-the-mill crime? Some street kid had gone into the gallery and, unknowingly, had done Sandy's work for him? It seemed too good to be true, Sandy thought, and when he read the next paragraph, he knew his intuition was correct.

The murdered woman has been identified as Sally Smith Fleming, the gallery's assistant manager for four years, who had remained after the usual closing hours to meet a client from New York, who has not been identified. Mr. Martindale told the police that he received a telephone call from the client the day before and had asked his wife, Helena, who co-manages the gallery, to stay late and meet with him. Mrs. Martindale had apparently passed on the assignment to Ms. Fleming. Police have been unable to locate Mrs. Martindale to speak with her about the incident.

C

Sandy nearly choked on his iced tea. The woman wasn't Martindale's wife? He broke out in a sweat and had to mop his face with his napkin. Feeling dizzy, he pressed the cold tea glass to his forehead and tried to think. He had come within minutes of murdering the wrong woman.

And Helena Martindale was still alive.