The Sauvignon Secret

Chapter 13

Once we passed the high-tech Silicon Valley corridor, Quinn turned south at Los Gatos onto Highway 17 and we began climbing through the Santa Cruz Mountains. He knew the road well enough, but the sharp zigzag turns with their blind curves as we sliced through pine and redwood fog-shrouded hills meant he needed to pay attention to his driving. Our conversation ground to a halt. When we passed a sign warning motorists to turn off the air-conditioning to prevent engine boil over, I finally asked if the road was as treacherous as it seemed.

He nodded. “Lots of accidents, especially at one underpass where drivers are so busy navigating the steep curves they don’t expect a nearly horizontal switchback turn until it’s too late. It’s called the Valley Surprise.”

My own surprise was Santa Cruz itself. Quinn started talking about it, reminiscing, actually, after we left 17 where it joined Highway 1, which ran north-south along the coast. I don’t know what it was—the jaunty tilt to his chin or the sentimental softness in his voice—but I could easily imagine him as he used to be, growing up in this place that had been his idea of paradise, a well-muscled, good-looking sun god with windblown blond-flecked curls, a surf-board under one arm and a cute girl in a bikini named Tammy or Kimberly hanging on the other. The Byrds were singing “Turn, Turn, Turn” on the radio and I felt a queer tug of nostalgia for a time and place I never knew, the sun-drenched, free-spirited, live-andlet-live California of all the era-defining, generation-shaping songs that caused Penelope to become Harmony nearly half a century ago and never go back.

We’d left the mountains and the swirling marine layer behind and now were on flatter terrain, a palm- and cypress-lined street of low-rise sand-colored motels advertising cheap beach weekend rates and cable television. Quinn pulled over and reached for his phone.

I raised an eyebrow and he said, “Allen told me to call him when we were about ten minutes away from the Boardwalk.”

Their conversation lasted all of ten seconds. “Why the Boardwalk?” I asked. “Does he work there?”

“No,” he said. “I don’t know where he works. The Boardwalk’s where the amusement park is located, too. I guess that’s his way of making a joke.”

I saw the looped silhouette of a roller coaster framed between a couple of palm trees and set against a hazy, blue-white sky as we drove closer to the water.

“That’s the Hurricane,” Quinn said. “At the other end of the park by the San Lorenzo River is the Giant Dipper, the oldest wooden roller coaster on the West Coast. It’s a historic landmark now.”

“How old is it?” I asked. “If it’s a historic landmark.”

“Old, 1907,” he said. “The Boardwalk had its centenary a few years ago. The roller coaster was built in 1924. The Looff Carousel is even older—1911.”

“It looks like something from an old postcard or a sepia photograph.”

He smiled. “They’ve done a good job of keeping the vintage feel about the place. Brings in lots of families looking for something wholesome to do.”

He pulled into a municipal parking lot across the street from a gaudy Moorish-style building with a toothy shark and bright red octopus painted on either side of the arched entrance and NEPTUNE’S KINGDOM written above it.

“That’s the arcade,” Quinn said. “We’re meeting Allen at the burger place under the colonnade. I had to promise him breakfast and a beer.”

I stared at him and he shrugged.

We crossed the street and walked under a sign welcoming us to the Santa Cruz Boardwalk. Framed by dusky purple mountains, Monterey Bay gleamed silvery blue, the water calm except for a froth of surf lapping at a long expanse of beach. The amusement park, on two levels, was the retro throwback Quinn had promised, with its famous carousel, along with a Ferris wheel, pirate ship, sherbet-colored sky glider cable cars disappearing into the mist down the beach—and the Giant Dipper.

“Turn right,” Quinn said. “No rides for us today.”

The burgundy and pale gold colonnade, with its carnival-like rows of flashing lights running along the ceiling, seemed relatively quiet for a Monday morning in the middle of summer. Only a handful of the small metal tables lining the arcade railing were occupied. Quinn picked one that had a checkerboard painted on it and we sat down on two of the low welded-on bar stools to wait. The sunlight made perfect half-moon circles of each arch on the concrete walkway, the Beatles sang “Love Me Do,” and the fronds of the scalped-looking palm trees growing a few feet away in the sand rustled in the cool ocean breeze.

Quinn had taken the seat facing the Boardwalk entrance, as I’d guessed he would do. Thirty seconds later Allen Cantor came into view. I knew at once because of the tiny tightening in Quinn’s eyes and the way his body tensed—like a fighter waiting for the opening bell so he could get into the ring and demolish his opponent. His gaze flicked back at me, a coded message not to turn around. I wondered, as I suspected he did, whether Cantor had been watching us from somewhere on the upper deck of the amusement park and Quinn somehow missed seeing him. Advantage, Cantor. Quinn stood up and held a hand out. I took it and he pulled me up.

“Showtime,” he said under his breath.

He had never physically described Allen Cantor to me, and for some reason I’d pictured a short, wiry man with scrimshawlike tattoos, a bandy-legged swagger, and a nervous tic in one eye so that he never looked right at you. In my mind, he’d always been as sleazy as a snake-oil salesman, a liar, a cheat, a thief—so obvious that I’d often wondered why Quinn hadn’t seen it coming when Allen finally got caught, even though in public I defended his innocence, saying he’d been blindsided, just like I told Mick Dunne the other day. But deep down I’d pegged Cantor as the kind of guy mothers told their daughters to keep away from because he was nothing but trouble, that one.

He was trouble, all right, but in the beautiful, dangerous way a lot of women had found irresistible. Quinn should have warned me, but I understood at once why he hadn’t. Allen Cantor looked me over the way some men look at women who come into a bar alone. I couldn’t stop staring back into those hypnotic blue eyes.

Physically he could have been Quinn’s older brother—the same fit, taut build, same salt-and-pepper curls, though Cantor wore his hair longer, the same deep crow’s-feet laugh lines around the eyes. It even looked like they’d broken their noses in the same place. But there was something in Cantor’s don’t-you-want-to-know-more? stare that gave me goose bumps and dared me not to look away.

“Allen,” Quinn’s voice was sharp. “Knock it off, will you? This isn’t a singles’ bar. Stop trying to put a move on her already, goddammit.”

Cantor tore his gaze from me. “Just appreciating a beautiful woman, buddy. Nothing wrong with looking.”

He’d done more than that. He’d mentally undressed me.

“Keep it that way,” Quinn said.

“Nice to see you, too, Quinn. What do you want? I haven’t got all day.”

“Oh, yeah? Where you working these days, buddy?” He emphasized buddy. “Who are you making wine for?”

Cantor stood up. “Screw you, Santori. I was just trying to do you a favor because you asked. I don’t need to take your crap. I’m out of here.”

“No.” I reached for his arm. “Please, don’t go. Both of you, can you please not do this right now?”

Allen Cantor looked down at my hand on his arm and sat down. “What do you want? Lucie, isn’t it?”

I removed my hand and nodded. “Yes. Quinn, are you all right?”

“Yeah.” He jerked his head in a nod and looked out at the ocean. “I’m just frickin’ fine.”

He sat, too, but I could feel his leg shaking violently under the table. I nudged him with my knee and he stopped. Cantor noticed.

“Maybe we could all use some coffee,” I said. “I’ll get it.”

“I’d like a beer,” Cantor said. “And some eggs.”

“I’ll take care of this.” Quinn dug in his pocket for his wallet. “That was the deal. Beer and breakfast in return for information, if you’ve got it.”

There was an edge in his voice when he got in that last faint taunt and I glared at him. “That would be great,” I said.

He walked across to the restaurant. Cantor looked at me again, steadily.

“I heard about Nic,” he said. “Sorry for Quinn’s loss, but she was trouble for him from the day he put the ring on her finger. You his girl now?”

He meant Nicole Martin Santori, Quinn’s ex-wife, a raven-haired beauty I’d met briefly once, long after they’d split and shortly before she was killed by a jealous lover. Allen, as I recalled, had also been one of her paramours and now that I knew him, the two of them getting together seemed as inevitable as night following day.

I gave him a brittle smile. “I’m not anybody’s ‘girl.’ ”

He didn’t flinch. “You should be.”

Quinn set down the beer and some fries. He went back for coffees for the two of us and sat down again next to me. “Talking about the weather, are we? Your eggs and sausage will be ready in a couple of minutes.”

I opened the coffee and found that Quinn had already put cream and sugar in mine.

“We’d like some help,” I said to Cantor.

“Information about a winemaker who used to work in Napa. Outside Calistoga,” Quinn added.

“I don’t know much about that anymore,” Cantor said. “Don’t keep in touch with many people … I think that’s my order over there.”

He got up and walked across to the restaurant counter, picking up a bottle of ketchup. After drowning whatever was on his plate, he joined us again.

“What makes you think I’ll know this dude?” he asked through a mouthful of eggs. “It is a guy, isn’t it?”

I wondered how regular his meals were these days and what he did now for a living. Then I wondered why I was wondering.

I nodded. “Yes.”

He looked from Quinn to me. “I get it. He’s dirty, isn’t he?”

“I … no. I mean, we don’t know,” I said. “He might be someone who changed his identity, is all.”

“Or it might just be blowing smoke and someone got their wires crossed.” Quinn shrugged. “Set Lucie up for something they want to know, asked her for a favor.”

That was shrewd, making me the damsel in distress and being purposely vague about my anonymous favor. The two of them exchanged more testosterone-laced looks.

Cantor took a long swallow of beer. “Who is it?”

“Teddy Fargo. Owned a vineyard called Rose Hill up in Calistoga,” Quinn said.

“Rose Hill.” Cantor slapped a hand down on the table so hard it made his plate jump and shook his head, flashing a knowing smile. “Well, I’ll be damned. Small world isn’t it, Quinny? You know who owns it now, don’t you?”

Quinn glanced sideways at me. “Brooke.”

“Yup.” He wiped his mouth with a paper napkin and set it on the table. “You keep in touch with her?”

“Nope. You?”

“You must be kidding. But I do keep an eye on her. Graduated top of her class from Davis. She’s a smart winemaker, did it right, starting small. She wants to control everything. Not let anyone pull the wool over her eyes, the way I did with her old man.” He paused, a shadow crossing his face that could have been remorse, or maybe regret. Then it was gone and his eyes glittered. “So you haven’t seen her, then?”

“I said no, didn’t I?” Now Quinn was the one who sounded edgy.

“Well, well,” Cantor said. “Are you in for a surprise. She turned out to be quite a beauty. Guess she got all her mother’s looks. A knockout, man.”

“Is that so?”

Cantor drank some more beer. “You ought to pay her a visit. You know she always had a thing for you.”

“I didn’t notice.” A slow flush stained Quinn’s face. “I was married, remember?”

“Could we get back to Teddy Fargo?” I brought my hand down hard on the table and Cantor’s plate jumped a little. “Before you two wander any further down memory lane and someone kills somebody.”

They both gave me an astonished look, and Cantor burst out laughing.

“I like you,” he said and licked his lips.

“Moving on.” I held up a finger to silence Quinn before he could open his mouth. “Teddy Fargo.”

“I don’t know him personally. But I heard about him.”

“Heard how?” Quinn asked.

“The guy was a good winemaker, really smart. He used to be a chemist or something like that before he got into wine.” Cantor rattled off the facts so easily that I knew he still kept up with what was going on in Napa and Sonoma more than he had let on. “He had kind of a boutique winery. Only made a couple thousand cases a year and sold it all in his tasting room.”

He paused.

“And?” Quinn said.

Cantor picked up his beer glass and stared into it, waving it back and forth.

“Want another one, Allen?”

“I wouldn’t say no.”

Quinn got him a second beer. “So what else about Fargo?”

“Just a rumor.”

“Goddammit, Allen, stop messing with us.”

“Quinn,” I said. “Please. Don’t.”

Cantor drank his beer, but I noticed his hand shook and he sloshed some liquid on the table. He wiped it with his fist.

“He had a little operation up in the hills behind his winery. Grew some stuff up there and apparently had the knowledge and background to get some very fine results, if you know what I mean.”

“Are you talking about roses?” I asked. “As in exotic roses?”

Even Quinn flashed me a look of surprise.

Cantor laughed. “I’m talking about marijuana, honey. Supposedly the guy had quite a booming business. Growing it, selling it. He’s lucky he never got busted. I figured that’s why he sold his place all of a sudden and split town. Rumor is that he torched the evidence before he took off. No one’s seen him or heard of him since. He vanished.”

I felt like I’d been sucker punched. So Charles had been barking up the wrong tree, after all. Even if Teddy Fargo were Theo Graf—and who knew, now?—the reason he disappeared had to do with drug dealing and probably fleeing the law, not some ancient grudge that had to do with the Mandrake Society.

Quinn reached in his back pocket and pulled out his wallet again. He threw a twenty-dollar bill on the table.

“Thanks, Allen,” he said. “Get yourself something else to eat. Or a couple of beers. I think we’re done here.”

He stood up and waited for me.

“That wasn’t the information you were looking for,” Cantor said to me as I got up. “Was it?”

“No,” I said, “it wasn’t.”