Sharpshooter (7 page)

“Probably nothing, just a long shot. Nesto is the winemaker at Beroni, supervises the entire production from harvest to blending, been doing it his whole life.”

“What would he know about Jack’s death?” asked Sunny.

Silvano took his feet down and leaned toward them. “Listen, I never had any problem with old Skord. He keeps to himself, but there’s nothing wrong with that. And you can’t blame him for knocking horns with Jack now and then.” He leaned back again and pulled on his beer, mulling over his words. “Let’s just say that Nesto and Jack were never on friendly terms.”

“Did they have a fight?” asked Sunny.

Silvano looked pleased that she had guessed, giving him the freedom to elaborate. “They had some words. On Thursday morning, Jack came by the winery. He was pretty steamed up because he’d told Nesto he wanted to start harvesting on Wednesday and be finished by Friday or Saturday, but it wasn’t happening because Nesto didn’t agree. Nesto wanted to wait until the weekend, said the grapes weren’t ready. They argued about it for a while and then Nesto said as long as he was winemaker at Beroni Vineyards, he would damn well decide when to bring in the grapes. Jack said if that was the case, then he had just decided for the last time. Then he stormed off. Nesto didn’t show it much, but he was upset.”

“And Jack was killed that night,” said Rivka.

“I’ll tell you, there’s a lot of water under the bridge between those two families. There’s always some kind of a catfight going on up there.”

“Between the Beronis and the Campaglias?”

Silvano nodded.

“And what about you? Did you get along with Jack?” asked Sunny.

“I kept out of his way. Luckily, he didn’t pretend to know anything about my business. Anybody who can lift a glass might convince himself he’s a wine expert, but you can’t fake viticulture. Either your vines produce the right amount of grapes at the right time in the right condition, or they don’t. That whole crew—Nesto, Jack, Al—keeps their distance from me. I just take care of the vines and stay out of the dramatics.”

“And that’s the way you like it,” said Sunny.

“That’s the way I like it,” said Silvano with a smile. He stood and showed them out. At the door he said, “One more thing. You might ask Nesto where his son Gabe was Thursday night.”

They bounced back down the dirt road to the highway. “What do you think he meant with all that stuff about Alex’s family?” asked Rivka.

“I don’t know. I was hoping you did.”

“I met his father. He seemed like a nice guy. I don’t know Gabe that well. And I don’t know anything about any problem with the Beronis. If they don’t like each other, why would the entire Campaglia family work at the winery? Alex’s mom even comes in to cook for their tastings. And they all live in staff housing on the vineyard.”

“It’s worth checking into.”

“Great. We’ll get Wade out of jail and then they’ll arrest someone in Alex’s family.”

Sunny nosed into the weekend traffic. As they inched along she took in the view of the mountains to the east. Beyond the first ridge, nestled in the hills that surrounded Howell Mountain,
Wade Skord’s vineyard was waiting for her. “Do you have plans for the afternoon?”

“Nothing specific,” Rivka said.

“Would you mind going over to Wade’s place and testing the Brix? You know how to do it, right? You just take a sample from each section and write down the results on one of the charts in the workshop. The sections are numbered on metal stakes. You could just fill it out and leave it there. I’ll swing by later tonight and take it to Wade first thing in the morning.”

“Meanwhile, you’re going to go see Nesto,” said Rivka.

“I was thinking about it.”

“I’d like to come along.”

“And when Alex finds out you’ve been questioning his father about whether or not he killed his boss, you’ll say…?”

Rivka wrinkled her nose. “Right. Could be awkward. I’ll be out taking crop samples at Wade’s.”

Sunny rolled down her window and surfed her hand through the warm air.

Rivka said, “Do you suppose I’ve been making out with the killer’s son?”

“I don’t think so. And probably not the killer’s brother, either. But it’s nice to know you’re making out.”

Nesto Campaglia’s home, a pretty Edwardian, sat on the west end of a large parcel of Beroni vineyard situated several miles to the northwest of the winery and main house. The smoothly packed dirt driveway wrapped around a giant oak tree that was surrounded by a puddle of sparse lawn. Another square of lawn lay between the driveway and the screened-in front porch. Overgrown hydrangea bushes, loaded with blooms, grew on either side of the door. Their petals had faded to shades of lime,
eggshell, pale blue, rust, and lavender, which Sunny thought were prettier than the uniform periwinkle they were in spring. The house itself looked well maintained and was freshly painted squash-yellow, with trim the color of oregano leaves and paprika. An aging BMW coupe, a well-worn station wagon with faux-wood side panels, and a homemade trailer for hauling firewood were parked around the side under a sixties-era carport.

Sunny pulled to the side of the driveway and turned off the engine. Her steps crunched on the pebbly dirt as she walked up to the door. White wicker chairs and potted plants sat on the porch. She rang the bell. No answer. She listened. The day was perfectly quiet. She could hear faint sounds of activity from the backyard, a door opening and closing, someone talking softly as though to a cat or a dog. She followed a narrow path that led around the side of the house, past a supersized lilac bush, and called out, “Hello? Anyone home?”

“Out back!” came the gruff reply.

Sunny walked around the back of the house in time to see a man she supposed to be Nesto Campaglia emerge from a green metal garden shed, the kind advertised with other farm and garden equipment on billboards in Napa. He pulled off his work gloves and tucked them in his back pocket, frowning as he scrutinized Sunny up and down.

“Mr. Campaglia?” she said.

He nodded.

“I’m sorry to interrupt you.” She glanced into the shed out of habit and was surprised to see an impressive array of pesticides, fungicides, herbicides, defoliants, and poisons lining the shelves. The rest of the space was filled with garden implements and a riding lawnmower. Nesto followed her glance to the wall of poisons.

“We attract plenty of pests around here. Luckily, there’s no shortage of ways to get rid of them.” Behind him a thriving garden spread out over a half-acre or more. “The tomato worms are the ones that really tick me off. Nothing’s too bad for them. When I find them, I put them out in the driveway for the birds to peck,” he said with a nod in the direction of the road.

Nesto wore the loose trousers and cardigan sweater of a man approaching seventy. His eyes were bright and his handshake was strong and steady when Sunny introduced herself. His gray hair was cut short in a dense nap. Bushy salt-and-pepper eyebrows overshadowed his dark eyes. He had a dignified, intelligent, stern look to him. She guessed there was a stint in the military somewhere in his past. “Sonya McCoskey,” he said. “You own the restaurant where my son’s girlfriend cooks.”

So Rivka was Alex’s girlfriend now. That was fast, thought Sunny. She smiled. “Rivka’s been working with me for about two years.”

“My son Alex seems to think a lot of her. I’m not sure about that nose ring, not to mention those birds tattooed on her arms. I’m old-fashioned, but it seems a bit daring for a young lady.”

“I guess they were all out of anchors,” said Sunny.

He chuckled at that. “I guess so. What brings you out here?”

“Mr. Campaglia, I’m interested in finding out a couple of things about Jack Beroni.”

“You’re not helping the police, are you?”

“Not exactly. I’m trying to help a friend.” She hesitated. “I was wondering what Jack’s relationship with the rest of the Beroni crew was like. I mean, did the employees like him?”

“Like him? Hell no, I wouldn’t say that any of the crew liked him. Too big for his damn britches, not that he deserved to be killed for it. I’ve known him his whole life. For a while, it looked
like he was going to grow into a fine young man, and he might have yet if he hadn’t run into trouble. He wasn’t very old in the grand scheme of things, and his only real fault was arrogance. Spoiled rotten. That was his dad’s fault, mostly. Sometimes a person will wear through that given enough time. Unfortunately, he didn’t.”

“You must have worked closely with him. Did the two of you get along?”

“Ah, I think I see what you’re getting at. Better to just come out and ask. Yes, Jack and I had a fight on Thursday. It’s no secret, there were plenty of people around and it was good and loud, and it wasn’t the first time, either. Jack liked to come up with ideas for improving the way we do things at Beroni. The trouble is, he’s never spent more than twenty-five minutes in the vineyard at one time, let alone the winery. He wanted us to harvest and I told him that there was only one good time to harvest and I would be the judge of when that was. I have no idea why this was suddenly so important to him, unless he was trying to show off to his father about being in charge.” He looked over his glasses at Sunny. She guessed he was taking a reading of how much she understood about the nuances of father-son relationships. He went on, “I told the police all about this, and about meeting with Al afterward. I was hopping mad and I went to Al to tell him that the next time his son threatened me, I would quit and take my boys with me. We’ve had plenty of offers to set up shop on our own. This valley knows who makes the wine at Beroni Vineyards.”

“What time was that when you talked to Al?”

“About five, I’d say.”

“And what was his response?”

“He told me he would take care of it, talk to Jack.” Nesto smiled at some private thought, nodding to himself. “Al and I go way back. He’s been like an older brother to me. There’s just four years between us. He’s always looked after me, and now my boys.”

“Then what did you do? I mean after you talked with Al.”

“I went home.”

“And you stayed there all night?”

“I did.” He thought for a moment. “Who is this friend you’re trying to help?”

“Wade Skord.”

Nesto stared off at the row of blue mountains edging the view to the west, taking in this information. The day was getting late and Sunny could tell that Nesto was thinking he’d better get back to work before the light died on him. He said, “Skord didn’t like Jack any better than anyone else who had to deal with him on a regular basis. There was that fight they had about that drainage line a few years ago, and just the other day they got into it at the Vintners Association meeting. Skord said outright that he’d shoot Jack or anybody else if they came near his property without his permission. I assumed he was speaking figuratively, of course.” He looked over his glasses at Sunny again, probably wondering if she’d heard that story yet.

That must have been what Steve Harvey was talking about, she thought. “What was the context of that remark?” asked Sunny, keeping her face neutral.

“They were talking about the glassy-winged sharpshooter. Jack was insisting, on behalf of the larger growers, that the board members support him in his recommendation to blanket the area with a ground application of carbaryl or even an airdrop
of chlorpyritos. Skord and a number of others were against it, even though they couldn’t offer a better solution.”

While Sunny listened, she decided that he was right. It was better to just come out and ask. “Mr. Campaglia, where was your son Gabe on Thursday night?”

“Gabe?” He hesitated, his eyes widening.

He’s going to lie, thought Sunny. Or he’s going to tell me to mind my own business.

“He was here at the house with us. With me and his mother, Mary.”

“Until when?”

“Oh, midnight or so.”

“I’m surprised he would stay that late. I’d imagine you get up pretty early.”

“We do, but we were watching a movie.”

“Which one?” She looked at Nesto, silently confirming that she was calling his bluff.

“I’m not sure. I didn’t see the beginning,” he stammered. “To be honest, I didn’t pay that much attention to it. I had other things on my mind.”

Sunny glanced at her watch. Close to five. “I don’t want to keep you from your gardening,” she said, “but I do have one more question.” As a matter of fact, she had three more questions, but two of them would have to wait. For the moment, there was no point in asking why he’d never left Beroni. His reasons were no doubt psychological—fear or loyalty, and neither explanation was likely to provide her with more facts about Jack’s murder. She was also tempted to ask his opinion on who would inherit Beroni Vineyards now that Jack was dead, but with both Louisa and Al alive and in good health, it was anybody’s guess. Al could divorce Louisa or outlive her, remarry, and start a new
family. Stranger things had happened. She ran her hand through her bangs and squinted at Nesto. “Can you think of any reason Jack’s girlfriend might have wanted him dead?”

“His girlfriend? I don’t know that he had what I would call a girlfriend.”

“What about Larissa?”

“Whenever there was a fancy banquet to attend or a cocktail party to go to, Larissa Richards would get dressed up and stand next to him, but I don’t think there was much else there.” He paused, mulling over the next bit of information that came to mind, deciding what to say about it. Sunny held her breath. Nesto fixed her with his over-the-glasses stare. “This part I didn’t tell the police, though I guess I’d better, now that I think of it. I didn’t think it was anybody’s business when they came by before, but who knows, maybe it’s important. Jack was seeing somebody else, somebody other than Larissa. Larissa has long red hair. This other woman was blond. I saw them walking under the trees out behind his place a couple of times. You feel like no one can see you back there because you can’t see anybody, but from the vineyard on the adjacent slope, it’s a straight shot. If you’re standing up there, like I often am, you can hardly avoid seeing somebody on the other hill.”

“Do you know who it was?”