Free Sinfandel by Gina Cresse Page A

down the road as if they’d done it a thousand times.  I wondered how far they had to go to get home. 
    After they were gone, Andy returned to the vineyard and I could turn my concentration back to my work. 
    In California, over half a million acres are planted in grapes.  I had to reduce the size of my haystack before I could start looking for the needle, so I decided to look at the data geographically.  Since winegrowing regions are broken down into districts and appellations, the most logical next step in my search would be to sort, group, and subtotal the data that way.  Studying the results of my query, I felt a sense of pride when I was able to narrow the scope down to the northern San Joaquin Valley.  No districts outside that area had any significant discrepancies. 
    I composed an e-mail to Quinn Adamson and attached the report I’d just compiled.  Now that I’d eliminated a huge portion of the data as suspect, I felt confident I’d be able to pare it down to a manageable list by the end of the week.
     
    Just after lunch, Detective Obermeyer showed up, looking grim.  “They’ve identified the body.”
    It was over 100 degrees outside and I saw a bead of sweat roll down the side of his face.  I invited him in and poured some lemonade.
    “It was Beth Messina,” he said, then gulped down the ice-cold drink.
    “That’s what the guy in the white pickup was doing here that night.  Dumping her body,” I said.
    “You never got a license number?”
    “No.  It was too dark.”
    “So you couldn’t identify the pickup if you saw it again?  Nothing distinguishing about it?”
    I shook my head.
    “We’re sending divers to search your pond.”
    “How come you’re working on this?  I thought you were narcotics.”
    “We got an anonymous tip.”
    “And?”
    “Guy said Beth Messina was the one watering the marijuana out of your pond.” 
    I stared at him, waiting for the punch line.
    “I’m following up on the lead even though the tipster is probably smoking his own dope.”
    “You don’t believe him?”
    He shook his head.  “I talked with her parents, her friends, her coworkers.  She doesn’t fit the profile.”
    “Why would someone tell you she was watering those plants?”
    “Throw me off track.  I did a little checking into your neighbor.”
    “And?”
    “Mr. Dash Zucker.  Two narcotics convictions and one armed robbery, back in the early eighties.”
    I felt like all the air had left the room.  “Are you kidding?”
    He shook his head again.
    “How does a convicted felon buy a vineyard in California?”
    “The vineyard belonged to his parents.  They died, he inherited.”
    “And I moved in next door.”
    “It was over twenty years ago, and he’s kept his nose clean since he got out…”
    “But?”
    “You should be careful.”
     
    The last grape truck chugged out of sight for the day and there was finally peace and quiet in the vineyard.  Dusk was still an hour away.  Pete’s pickup rolled to a stop at my gate and he climbed out, looking tired.  I walked out on the front porch as he sauntered up the driveway.
    “Almost done,” he said, gazing at the vineyard.
    “Yep.  Now that we’re not harvesting the 1850’s way, we should be done pretty quick.”
    He smiled and took off his baseball cap to wipe the sweat off his forehead.  “Andy’s a good guy.  He’s probably just trying to impress you with those Clydesdales, knowing how much you love horses and all.”
    “Impress me?  I think it’s more likely he’s trying to drive me crazy and put me in the poor house.”
    Pete frowned.  “Money troubles?”
    “I just need to get these grapes harvested so I can get paid.  I’ll be fine once that happens.”
    “I can float you a loan if you need—”
    “I’m fine, Pete.  Really.  But thanks for the offer.  I appreciate it.”
    “Well, we should be done picking by Friday, so you just hang in there.”  He scratched his chin and leaned on the porch