Hare Today, Dead Tomorrow (10 page)

But Nick was waiting for an answer. As I was teetering between “Sure, why not?” and “Help!” he suddenly said, “You know, Jess, we could consider this a trial. Decide that we’ll try living together for three months— let’s say until the New Year. At that point, we can step back and reevaluate. You know, look at all our options.”

It occurred to me that Nick was already starting to talk like a lawyer—even though he’d only been a law student for a few weeks. But what mattered here was that he recognized my apprehensions and, even more important, that he was leaving me a way out. An escape clause, for lack of a better expression.

That alone was enough for me to say yes.

“Nick,” I told him, putting down my chopsticks, “I think it’s a great idea. Let’s do it. On a trial basis, the way you suggested.”

A big grin spread over his face. He put down his chopsticks, came over to my side of the table, and put his arms around me.

“I love you, Jess.”

“I love you, too, Nick.”

I meant it. I really did. But that didn’t mean I wasn’t picturing a giant calendar in my head, with the pages for October, November, and December looming in front of me.

At least there was an upside to my deep feelings of apprehension: they made focusing on a murder investigation a whole lot easier, by comparison. And while I was already exhausted by all the ground I’d covered that day, not to mention a little overwhelmed, it was clear to me that I was going to have to dig even deeper into the details of Cassandra Thorndike’s life.

My “To Do” list already had two items on it. The first was taking that long, hot shower I’d been fantasizing about and the second was enjoying a good night’s sleep cuddled up next to Nick. But I’d just added a third: visiting the wineries that dotted Long Island’s North Fork.

And I knew exactly where I’d start.

Chapter 5

“The cat, having sat upon a hot stove lid, will not sit upon a hot stove lid again. Nor upon a cold stove lid.”

—Mark Twain

As I drove out to the island’s wine region Saturday morning, retracing my steps of the day before, I was once again struck by how beautiful this part of Long Island was—especially on a sunny, crisp fall day like this one. There was one major difference between my last foray and this one, however: the traffic. Even though it was barely 11 A.M. on a weekend, a steady stream of cars was heading east along Route 35, a strange twist on the rush-hour concept.

At first, I thought there must be road construction up ahead. Then I realized the reason for the congestion was that plenty of other people had discovered the East End wineries. While I was seeking information, however, they were driving to the North Fork on a quest for the perfect chardonnay—or at least a relaxing day of tasting wine and enjoying the scenery.

For today’s expedition, I’d opted to take my van. The 26-foot white monster had everything I needed to treat animals right inside. Stenciled in blue on the door were the words,

REIGNING CATS & DOGS
Mobile Veterinary Services
Large and Small Animals
631–555–PETS

During the other murder investigations I’d found myself involved in, being a veterinarian who traveled around with her own office-on-wheels had enabled me to gain entry to people’s homes, meanwhile sneaking in a few questions without being too obvious. Since that was precisely what I hoped to do today, I figured I might as well come armed with everything I had.

I recognized the entrance to Thorndike Vineyards by the huge white sign at the edge of the road. In the center was a large gold T surrounded by a ring of dark-green vines. I pulled into the parking lot, where sightseers were already vying for parking spaces. Of course, the two big tour buses that took up a good chunk of the pavement didn’t help. I lucked into a spot when a couple who’d just filled the trunk of their BMW with two cases of wine backed out hurriedly, probably rushing off to the next winery on their list.

The day was surprisingly cool for early October. I was glad that, once again, I’d remembered to bring my navy-blue polyester fleece jacket. I was equally glad the Thorndike Vineyards Visitor Center was just a few steps away. It was a large, barnlike building that looked at least a hundred years old. At least on the outside. Stepping inside, I saw that the interior had been completely renovated, with high white walls and sleek wooden fixtures that gave it the look of a Manhattan boutique—one that just happened to have a bar running along one wall. Even though it wasn’t yet noon, it was lined with wine lovers who were taking advantage of the opportunity to taste.

All manner of wine-related paraphernalia was displayed on tables and shelves. Bottle stoppers topped with bunches of purple grapes or chubby sommeliers. Glittery gift bags designed to hold a single bottle of wine that would serve as a hostess gift. Fancy snack foods like paper-thin English crackers and obscure French cheeses, along with ceramic plates hand-painted with vines to serve them on. Most people were just browsing, although a few were filling the straw baskets the shop supplied with the frenzy of last-minute Christmas shoppers.

Then there were the wines themselves. Two of the room’s walls were lined with shelves, displaying bottle after bottle of Thorndike wines. I saw chardonnays, pinot noirs, merlots, and a half dozen other varieties. Every label had the same elaborate letter
T
in shiny gold, encircled with dark-green vines, that was on the sign outside.

A large white sign proclaimed that Thorndike Vineyards had been named
Winery of the Year
at the previous year’s
New York Wine Classic,
along with winning gold medals for its 1999 Merlot Grand Vintage and its 2002 Barrel-Fermented Chardonnay. Pretty impressive, especially to someone like me, who had always thought there were basically two varieties of wine: white and red.

“The eleven-thirty tour is about to get under way,” a woman’s voice announced, cutting through the din. “We still have one or two places available, if anyone is interested in touring the winery.”

I thought you’d never ask, I thought, heading over to the small group gathered by the back door.

“...Six, seven, eight,” a pleasant-looking middle-aged woman, whose blouse had the familiar
T
embroidered on it, counted aloud. “I think that should do it. If you’ll please follow me . . .”

Our tour guide—Marian, according to her name tag—led us through double doors at the back of the tasting room. We were suddenly in a warehouse-type area, except that it was very well ventilated, with walls that didn’t quite reach all the way to the roof. Every inch was immaculate, from the huge, shiny vats that lined one long wall to the concrete floor.

“Thorndike Vineyards started twenty-five years ago with the first planting of vinifera,” she began after shepherding us into a cluster. “They’re the grapes that are planted in France and California. We began with only forty acres, then acquired more land in the years that followed. Today, we plant a total of ninety acres and produce nearly twenty thousand cases of wine annually.

“The key to making good wine is using sweet grape juice,” she continued, “which means starting the process with ripe fruit and good sugar.” She pointed to the wall of vats. “We begin the process by crushing the fruit in these vats. We use stainless steel because, unlike wooden vats, they don’t impart any flavor to the wine. We use wooden barrels at this stage only if we specifically want to flavor the wine.

“Inside each vat, there’s a membrane that inflates and deflates like a balloon, pressing the fruit against the outer wall and causing the juice that’s released to drip down into a receiving container. From there, we use a hose to pump the juice into a different set of stainless-steel tanks that hold two to three thousand gallons. At that point it’s still fleshy, because it’s filled with protein particles. We let it sit for twenty-four hours to allow the solids to settle at the bottom.”

Marian led us farther into the drafty room. “Fermentation is the next stage,” she continued. “We put the juice into wooden barrels, and we inoculate it with a special strain of yeast we get from a wine lab. Basically, the yeast feeds on the sugar in the juice, and when it digests it, it creates carbon dioxide—which escapes into the air—and alcohol.

“The winemaker’s task is to create just the right conditions so the natural process can occur. The ideal temperature for fermentation is fifty-five degrees Fahrenheit for white and eighty degrees for red. This is the point when the yeast begins feeding on the sugar in the juice, and yeast cells soon line the barrel. The result is a harmony between the fruit and the oak.”

“How long does the wine fermentation take?” a man in a New York Islanders T-shirt asked.

“From ten days to three weeks,” the guide replied. “The sweetness or dryness of the wine depends on the sugar content of the grape and whether the winemaker arrests fermentation before all sugar is converted or just part.” Pointing at the plastic tubes protruding from the top of each barrel, she added, “These tubes are called ‘fermentation locks.’ They let the fermentation gases escape. In the beginning, we stir every two days, but eventually we stir only once a week.”

“What about all those crazy adjectives people use to describe wines?” another man asked. “Do those words mean anything or are they just showing off?”

A few members of the tour group chuckled. “The wooden barrels are made of French oak,” the tour guide explained patiently. “The wood, which is made of starch, has its own distinctive flavor, which it imparts to the wine. For example, if someone describes a wine as having ‘a hint of vanilla and butterscotch,’ that comes from the barrel.

“By the end of May or early June, we return the wine to stainless-steel tanks for blending. We use sterile filtration to get it into bottles, and then we cork it, cap it, and label it. The wine is loaded onto pallets and moved to a separate building out back. Until it’s sold, we hold it there in a separate temperature-controlled building that’s kept at fifty-five to fifty-six degrees. By the way, it’s also called the ‘tax room,’ because state or federal agents are free to inspect it. Wineries pay tax on every bottle of wine they produce, so it’s important that we keep good records.”

“How many grapes does it take to make a bottle of wine?” a teenage girl asked.

“One ton of grapes yields seven hundred sixty bottles of wine,” she replied. “If you do the math, that translates to roughly two and a half pounds of grapes per bottle.”

“I thought you were supposed to serve red wine at room temperature,” a woman interjected, “but I read somewhere that the French keep their rooms cooler than we do. What’s the best temperature?”

With our guide distracted by questions, I figured it was a good time to do a little touring of my own. I was anxious to find out whatever I could about Cassandra Thorndike’s family and their flourishing enterprise. I edged my way toward the back of our group, then slipped behind a giant vat. I headed back into the main building but this time found myself in a different section.

No tourists here. In fact, the hallway was blocked off by a sign atop a freestanding metal pole. It read,
Employees Only.

After glancing from side to side to make sure no one was watching, I ducked down the private corridor. When I reached the end, I found myself in a cavernous room that looked like a gigantic wine cellar. It served as a foyer, with several doors leading off it. From the name plates affixed to most of them, I surmised that they were offices. The walls were made of red brick, the temperature was cool, and there was only one lighting fixture, hung high on the back wall.

As soon as my eyes fully adjusted to the dim light, I saw that the lamp had been placed so that it illuminated a huge oil painting, over six feet high, in an ornate gilt frame. It faced the entryway, making it the focal point for anyone who entered.

The painting was a portrait of a tall, slender young woman with pale, luminescent skin and large blue-green eyes, their startling color emphasized even further by her thick, dark eyebrows. Gleaming, straight black hair spilled down her back, the ends curving gently around her shoulders like a shawl. She stood erect, her chin held at a slightly defiant angle, as proud and as graceful as a gazelle.

She wore a long gown made of rich purple velvet and flowered gold brocade. The theatrical garment gave her the not-quite-of-this-world look of a woman in a pre-Raphaelite painting. The wreath of white and lavender flowers that encircled the crown of her head made her appear even more ephemeral, as if she were a goddess or an angel that some artist with an overly developed sense of drama had conjured up.

“Can I help you?”

I whirled around, surprised by the unexpected sound of a sharp voice. I hadn’t realized that anyone else had come into the foyer, probably because I was so absorbed by the painting.

The man glowering at me looked as if he was in his late sixties or early seventies, with a deeply lined face but a full head of thick silver hair. He appeared to be of medium height, although his slightly stooped posture made it a bit difficult to tell. He was also portly—a word that suited him well, not just because of his slightly rotund build, but also because he seemed as old-fashioned as the word. He was dressed in a well-worn, slightly faded blue plaid flannel shirt that stood in sharp contrast to his pants, a pair of those crisp, brand-new-looking jeans that older men tend to wear even though they emphasize how flat their behinds are.

“This is a private area,” he added, using the same cross tone.

“I was looking for the restroom,” I lied, resorting to my favorite fallback excuse.

He cast me a skeptical look. All right, so maybe it was hard to believe that a grown woman couldn’t tell the difference between a sign that read
Employees Only
and one that features male and female paper cutouts, the international symbol for people who have to pee.

“Okay, that’s not exactly true,” I admitted. “The truth is that I noticed this portrait as I was walking by, and I just had to get a better look.”