A Tainted Finish: A Sydney McGrath Mystery (8 page)

Jim walked through the door holding a greasy paper bag. He wore a red plaid Pendleton button-down flannel, jeans, and old Danner mountain boots. His out-of-uniform attire made him look like a handsome lumberjack. He strode across the kitchen in two steps and embraced Syd in a protective embrace.

“Hey, Pop,” Charlie said from the open fridge. She tossed a beer bottle at her dad. He caught it in his huge hand and released Syd, who looked as lost in thought as ever.

“You're late.” Charlie added. She lunged for the bag in her father's hand. He dodged her and held it high over her head, nearly touching the ceiling. He dwarfed his very tall daughter.

“Hold your horses, little piggy!” he yelled back at her, spinning his giant body in the cramped kitchen.

“Where you keep the plates, Syd?” he asked, opening random cupboards. “If I don't find plates now the vulture will eat over the kitchen sink!” He jabbed a thumb in Charlie's direction.

Syd navigated a path between a father/daughter game of keep-away to gather the plates and utensils they needed for dinner. She grabbed a few beers from the fridge and walked into the dining room to set the table, smiling to herself. Sometimes these intimate father/daughter moments filled her with envy. But today she was simply grateful that she could be near it. They had a loud, rough-and-tumble kind of love.

It was soon apparent that Charlie had gotten hold of the greasy paper bag. She hopped into the room and jumped into a chair at the table triumphantly, where she began divvying out burritos and rationing containers of hot sauce. She glanced with purpose at Syd and nodded at the red folio that was pushed aside for their plates, still waiting to be read.

“You might want to read that soon,” Charlie said, ripping the paper off her giant burrito. “Before tomorrow?”

'I can't right now,” Syd replied, feeling a tinge of shame. She was going to have to find the courage to read the will and face all the secrets inside another day. Her grief was enough to bear, and yet she was still bombarded with information that tore away any sense of closure she could have about her uncle's death. Her head was still spinning from her conversation with Paul. She knew she needed more time to process it all. She knew she would have to talk to Jim about it. After the memorial, she told herself.

They were all hungry and they tore into dinner in relative silence. Syd had very little to eat in almost a week, and her appetite was returning to her. She was ravenous. The burritos were her favorite, and the beer was cold and delicious. She looked up to see Jim watching her, his eyes filled with tears. Syd looked down, unable to bear his naked empathy and grief.

“Pop's sad to see his girls eat like wild women,” Charlie said, noticing the looks they exchanged.

“Well, at least Syd
chews
her food,” he joked. He wiped his own mouth and his eyes with the crumpled napkin in his lap. He paused, looked at Syd, and took a deep breath.

“I've got the autopsy report,” he said, soberly. “We should talk about this, Sydney.”

“I think I need to talk you too, Jim. But maybe after tomorrow.”

They were all startled when the kitchen door slammed a second later.

“Sydney?” a man yelled into the darkening kitchen. They all exchanged looks. “
Sydney?
” The voice called again, louder this time.

“In here!” Charlie yelled back. A moment later a good-looking, tall, toothy blond man filled the doorway.

“Sydney!” he said in something like an exasperated sigh. Syd slumped down in her chair. He moved to hug her in an awkward embrace while she stayed seated.

“Marcus,” she said into his shoulder. Her voice was muffled in his death grip of a hug. She shrugged at Jim, who took a cue and got up to leave. Charlie cleared the table and left them to work out their troubles alone.

The day of the memorial was filled with a gorgeous, crisp, autumn sunshine. Syd awoke to the sound of trucks driving around the house to the lawn on the north side of the property. A stream of bright light filled the guestroom upstairs Syd now claimed as her own. She lay listening and followed the sound of the trucks around the house, up past the lower vineyard to the Green. The Green was a half-acre of flat field, the only flat ground on the property. Clarence called it the Green, as he was not inclined to maintain a lawn. But he did mow the wild grasses when they browned in the summer and cast out meadow seed mixes every spring for a gorgeous wildflower field in June. Now it was clumpy and brown, and would endure a good many feet later in the afternoon.

The first truck delivered a fancy vault toilet in the far north corner of the field. The second was noisier and delivered a giant tent along with four loud and burly young men who set to work quickly on erecting the large white structure.

Syd got up, made some coffee, and watched the tent go up from the deck. She wore an old oilskin coat of Clarence's over her black silk nightie. The tinny clanking of mallets driving in tent stakes sounded thin and far away.

“Good morning,” Marcus said as he dragged a heavy Adirondack chair next to her.

“Morning,” she said, flashing a lazy smile. “Looks like a good party.” She said ruefully, gesturing with her mug at the scene in front of her.

Marcus looked uncomfortable. He had slept in her old room downstairs and she knew that he was feeling untethered from her. He had wanted to sleep with her, but she couldn't bear the closeness. She needed to steel herself and she knew his clumsy empathy would only soften her and make the day more difficult to bear. But he looked miserable now, and she felt sorry for him in spite of herself.

“I met Olivier,” he said. “Any reason why he waltzes into your bedroom like he owns it?”

She stared at him. “Beats me.” She said, trying to stifle a smile.
Jealous
. She was barely holding it together and Marcus was jealous?

Olivier walked out of the kitchen door a moment later holding a bundle of dark cloths. He walked over to them and nodded formally.

Syd raised her mug to him. “Good morning,” she said, flashing her friendliest smile. Olivier blushed with embarrassed and nodded again. Marcus's eyes narrowed.

“My apologies,” Olivier said. “I had to get my clothes for today. I assumed Sydney was using the room upstairs.”

Syd looked at each of them. “No problem,” she said with a wave. She could see Marcus's shoulders relax at Olivier's sense of formality and submissiveness.

Olivier inched closer to her chair and spoke softly “I was planning to speak a little today. I wasn't sure if Charlie told you. Do you mind?”

She felt an immediate lump in her throat.
Oh god
. “Why would I mind?” She answered flippantly and swallowed hard. She looked back at him and saw that he was hurt. “I appreciate your consideration. Really.”

Olivier looked defeated. She felt a deep stab of empathy for him, comprehending for the first time how much he must have loved her uncle. She knew now that he was devastated. And perhaps confused. Maybe even as confused as she was. She was a little ashamed that she was only now figuring out that he had been living in her old bedroom until her arrival. He must have moved into the old Airstream for her comfort, and she was clueless about it. He was close to Uncle Clarence, close enough to be living in the house. His grief was obvious. And she had only been thinking of herself in her own grief. She realized how strange and uprooted his situation must be, and how much he must despise her. She had been self-important, petulant and rude to him. And he held her when she sobbed. He held the winery together through his own grief. He even dry-cleaned the suit she would wear today, for lack of anything else. She thought of the Alka Seltzer and the glasses of water by her bed.

She grabbed his hand and squeezed it tight. “Thank you,” she croaked out of a dangerous throat, not sure of what she was thanking him for. He looked away and stepped back, looking for an escape route, but she jumped up and embraced him. Tears streamed down her face. They stood in quiet agony together, letting the tears flow freely. When they finally broke apart, they smiled at each other and averted their eyes.

“No more tears today,” she said, wiping her nose on the stiff sleeve of the old coat. “I promise.”

“No,” he said, nodding. He took a sharp breath. “I have work to do.” He turned on his heels and strode across the deck to his trailer in the vineyard.

Marcus strained to watch him walk up the vineyard path and enter the trailer. He sat and stared at her in confusion.

“Who is that guy?” The suspicion in his voice betrayed his feelings, though he kept his hands in his pockets in the practiced relaxed posture of a confident man.

“Honestly, I don't really know,” she answered. Marcus looked alarmed. “He is the working winemaker now. From Argentina. An old friend of Uncle's.” But she knew she had no idea who Olivier really was or why he was here.

Charlie had outdone herself with the flowers. There were huge urns of sunflowers and dahlias in a cacophony of color at every corner of the tent. Each table was adorned with a tall vibrant centerpiece featuring brown, black, orange, yellow and red sunflowers, more fitting for a wedding than a memorial. But Clarence had always loved sunflowers, and she had chosen his favorite things to theme the memorial. It was fitting that these blooms were the last of the season from his own garden. Sydney sat in a black satin-covered folding chair that looked out over the sea of empty chairs and tables under the tent. A young man was working on the PA system in the corner, but the scene was otherwise deserted. Clarence would have hated the fuss of this day. But he would have understood the ceremony, the rites of passage a death facilitated, in a philosophical way. Clarence was always fascinated by the human need to mark important events in life in a form of social acknowledgment. He loved to study wedding traditions, birth traditions, and death ceremonies. But Clarence was an atheist, and he had no spiritual traditions of his own to follow. He always told Sydney that he would like his wake to be a bawdy party, featuring loud music and drunken souls. It was not an easy recipe to deliver for a man who was something of an eccentric recluse. Charlie's answer was a superbly stocked bar and a classical guitar and cello duo. She knew that Clarence's fantasy was more hyperbole than genuine desire, and as usual, she was dead on.

“You look lovely,” Charlie said sardonically, plopping down next to Syd. She offered a tumbler filled with ice and a rare bourbon. Syd took her drink obediently. “I mean, you look like a somm. Or a lesbian. I'd date you.” She lewdly ran her hand up Syd's leg and feigned bedroom eyes.

“You’d date anyone,” Syd said. “Besides, I didn't have anything else to wear. I'm lucky I had this suit. I was wearing it when I got the call and drove down here without thinking about clothes. It's a little big on me right now.” She pulled the Armani suit jacket back to reveal a loose waistband. Charlie reached over and bounced a lock of freshly curled hair that rested on Syd's collar bone.

“No, I mean it. It works. Your hair looks great. You have a kind of androgyny in that suit that you might need today. How you holding up?”

“Well, I'm not going to cry today, Charles. If that's what you mean.”

“This thing might blow up a bit, Syd,” She offered, apologetically. “I called all the key people, but I saw some other folks at Backwoods Brewery last night. They were in town for the memorial. Dad and I went there after Marcus showed up. There may even be folks you don't want here at all.”

Syd heard a bitter note in her voice. “Well, I'm wearing my suit of Armani. I can handle it.” She paused and looked at her. “Who is it you're worried about?”

“Joe Donner, for one. I saw him last night at the brew pub.”

“Figures. Hell, maybe he'll write up a retraction of all of his nastiness? But I bet he won't be the most unsavory guest we have the honor of entertaining today.” Syd drained her glass and got up to walk up into the vineyard, deep in thought.

Charlie watched her make her way up through the vines, absently touching the leaves and inspecting them. She marveled at her friend's strength, but there was something in Syd's behavior this morning that alarmed her. She
was
in full armor. She was calm and held herself in a suspension of emotion with the kind of brevity she possessed in a crisis. Before tests and during emergencies, Syd was always able to collect herself with a crystal clear head, taking over whenever necessary. Charlie realized she was preparing for battle. She was biding her time. Charlie had been looking at the memorial as the end of something; something to slowly move away from. A day of closure. But she suddenly realized that Sydney was waiting for this day to be over so that she could start something, and whatever that something was filled her stomach with sinking dread.

~

More than 250 people showed up for the memorial service. The street was lined with cars all the way down to the main road, and folks who dressed up in their fine suits and dark dresses walked upwards of a quarter mile to the service. The tent sheltered nearly 150 black satin-covered folding chairs, all lined up in tidy arched rows. Every chair was filled, and the rest of the group stood around the tent, holding their thin coats around their bodies in a solitary embrace. The sun shone brightly. The view of the river was particularly clear, but the air was chilled. The crowd remained somber in spite of Charlie's best efforts to force cheerfulness with color, booze and Vivaldi.

Syd paid little attention to the attendees. She sat still, in the corner up front, bolstered by Jim on one side and Charlie on the other. Many people got up one at a time and spoke of their memories of Clarence. Most of the stories were pleasant and spoke of fond memories. Syd frequently found herself fighting back her emotions when a familiar face offered a story of how Clarence helped or influenced them in one way or another. She thought she had steeled herself for the memorial speeches, but her gratitude for the kind words and obvious grief of so many people challenged her resolve. In the end, she managed to keep herself in check. She knew that if she gave into the emotion of the day she would fall apart. Her grief was a bottomless well that she could stay clear of for the time being. Her grief was also an intensely private thing.

Olivier was one of the last speakers. Syd had been waiting for him to get up and make his way to the microphone. She was aware of his presence, behind her and a few seats to the left, sitting beside Rosa. Each time a speaker left the microphone she noted the stillness in his chair. She was beginning to wonder if he had lost his courage. When he finally got up, she had been distracted by a question from Marcus. She looked up to see Olivier standing at the microphone, his face calm and elegant.

“I have known Clarence Blackwell for my entire life,” he began in perfect English, a formality in his address. “He has always been something of an uncle to me. Clarence taught me to play chess, and to study soils in the vineyard. He taught me how to dance the tango of my own country. He taught me how to love.” He paused and took a breath. “His visits to Argentina were the hallmark of my childhood, although they often gave him grief.” He swallowed and paused again. “He taught me so much. I came here this summer to learn more from Clarence. No longer a child, I was able to learn from the man as a man. I found him to be honorable and steadfast, kind and patient, the best of men.” He paused again, looking down at his hands. “Knowing him has been a great honor.” He locked eyes with Sydney and gave her a quick nod before he turned to leave. The bitterness of his address struck her. She watched him disappear behind the group of nearly one hundred people who were standing in the back of the tent. He vanished.

The remaining speakers regaled the group with personal histories and anecdotes that buzzed around Syd's impenetrable head for the next half hour. She sat mesmerized by Olivier's words. They were simple sentiments told with such remarkable bitterness. She attempted to meet Charlie's eyes as he left the microphone, but Charlie appeared unaware of what he said. The mystery of his relationship with Clarence filled her head, and she dissected his short eulogy in search of hidden clues. The man who had embraced her that morning in a moment of honest grief was a complete stranger to her.
And yet
Clarence had known him all his life
.

Syd was jarred out of her musing when Jack Bristol spoke. He was the last speaker. He talked for a long while, remembering a dear friend with a fondness that quelled some of Syd's misgivings about him lately. He spoke eloquently. He was a natural speaker with a gift for intonation and timing. She wondered if her suspicions were a figment of her imagination or a product of grief that had nowhere else to go. He ended with a call for a toast. The crowd rose at once and moved toward the bar in a quietly buzzing swarm. Clearly everyone was ready for a drink.

~

It took Syd nearly an hour to find the strength to get up and make her way to the bar on her own. Jim and Charlie waited patiently with her in the front row after the service. Marcus was busy fetching drinks from behind the bar, not bothering to wait in line with the rest of the guests. Charlie entertained Syd with an ongoing narration of the guests, pointing out the people she knew and making things up about the people she didn't, sparing no one. Her game of gently poking fun at the mourners wasn't exactly kind, but Syd knew she was just trying to keep her buoyant. Syd suspected that if Charlie came up for air she might be overwhelmed by her own grief. Her incessant chatter was as much for self-preservation as it was for Syd's.

Small clusters of mourners began to form shortly after the first round of drinks, as people searched for their own tribes. Charlie's running commentary didn't fail to mention how odd humans could be in their desire to search out their own people. The winemakers and growers found one another and stood loosely around a few wine barrels, with more space between them than that of other groups. They talked shyly and fiddled awkwardly with their pockets or nervously sidestepped to the classical music from the string duet. Syd knew most of them. They were all men; a veritable who's who of the winemaking world. But these men who she had witnessed for the duration of her life as arrogant and self-assured – these men who hardly noticed her presence other than stealing a look at her face or breasts – now stood stripped of their confidence in the face of a respected colleague's death. Now she was seeing the posture of men who were overtaken by sadness and humility. For once she felt an odd camaraderie with her uncle's peers.

The workers – who were a mix of Salvadorians and Mexican – had gathered on the fringe of the field and perched themselves on the old wood stumps that lined the perimeter of the Green. They talking softly to one another with the unselfconscious intimacy of a family. Alejandro stood among them and occasionally wiped tears from his face. An attractive, plump young woman stood next to him and absently rubbed his back in quiet consolation. Another man, Juan the cellar worker, cracked a joke and brought a smile to Alejandro. Rosa sat on a log in a lovely black chiffon dress and a veiled hat. A small group of young men and women who Syd recognized as vineyard workers hung on her words as she gestured toward the blue sky and shook her head.

A smaller group of stiff business suits stood in the middle of the lawn, holding their drinks woodenly in front of them, each posturing with fixed wide stances and steady gazes. They hardly spoke to one another, and studied the gathering with purposeful analysis. Each man felt the eyes of the mourners with narcissistic selfconsciousness, nodding and shaking hands with the kind of practiced ambivalence of important people. If they were truly grieving, it was lost behind a shield of the fabricated pretense scripted in business magazines and television. Although Syd found these men repugnant, she realized that she was donning a similar kind of mask.

One group of guests who attracted the majority of Charlie's sharp wit was a motley mix of some of Syd's favorite people, and some of the most despised. They had pulled chairs together around a table and a wine barrel and snatched a few bottles of scotch from the bar. A woman Syd knew to be a critic for a Portland newspaper meandered over with an ice bucket she sneaked from the hired bartender, who was quickly losing control of his bar. The group was comprised of writers and critics who were known to Syd at first from her uncle's work. Lately she had grown to know these folks as colleagues and peers, and as an excellent source of information on current events in the wine industry. Although she held her uncle's beliefs about the critics, she was far more tolerant of the writers and bloggers who exploited the more newsy aspects of the industry. There were only a few women. Most were white men who carried themselves with the casual manners of the self-important and entitled. A few men stood around a larger seated group. Syd was certain they had managed to find the best scotch and whiskey at the bar and had not bothered to bribe the bartender for it. This group was used to drinking free liquor. They had no qualms about holding court in the back-yard of a dead man they previously used as fodder for their work over several decades.

“Vultures have to pick the bones too,” Charlie said, leaning into Syd.

“Or maybe they’re honoring him, Charlie,” Jim Yesler said, correcting his daughter's vitriol. He watched Syd carefully.

“And what better way to honor him than by drinking his best scotch and taking notes on who gave a revealing eulogy?” Charlie asked. She pointed out the busy pens and notepads flipped open among the circle of critics.

Syd shrugged. “I better go say hello to Michelle though,” Syd said. “And Joe.” She drained her third bourbon and sucked on the ice.

“What on Earth do you have to say to that weasel?” Charlie said with a thickening tongue. She may have been on her fifth scotch.

“Joe
Mitchell
, Charles,” Syd said. “He writes for a few magazines. A pioneer in Washington, really. Clarence was good friends with him. A good man.” She looked at Jim, who seemed alarmed by his daughter's outburst. “He's the big guy in the Adirondack chair. The one with the beard”.

Syd’s legs felt heavy when she finally got up. The whiskey had certainly reached her head by then. She steadied herself, aware that a few eyes from each of the tribes were keeping a careful watch on her small posse in the corner. She strode confidently to the bar and waited in line with a few folks, chatting them up and shaking hands. She realized that her performance would be the highlight of the memorial when the energy in the Green changed as she entered the arena. She would have to feign a confidence she didn't feel at the moment, but she knew she could summon it if she needed to.